Pickering is Not a Participle of the Verb To Picker

Had you asked me last week whether I liked Pickering, I would probably have replied that I didn't know: never having pickered. That was last week; and at the end of last week Mrs C and I spent three nights in our country residence (pictured) just outside the North Yorkshire town of Pickering.

Despite trying to dispense with its sleepy market town image - according to some websites - Pickering's entire charm is exactly that: sleepy Yorkshire market town. It has one supermarket and many real shops: a fishmonger with its own smokery at the back, a greengrocer, butcher and baker all selling local produce; it also seems to have a quaint barter-type economy between local traders: I witnessed the petshop owner exchange a pint of maggots for three bags of Lamb's Lettuce with the greengrocer (who was a fisherman, just in case you were wondering).

The fish lady (and I was tempted to say fish-wife) was a typically blunt (to the point of being ascerbic) Yorkshire woman. Whilst I was choosing from the fabulous range of home smoked fish she said to me,
"Are yer just looking or are yer going to buy summat lad, only I want to get this fridge cleaned out".
I bought summat; and it was lovely.

There's something restorative about clean country air; as Mrs C, the dog and I sat sipping a glass of wine outside our temporary home in the twilight surrounded by candles, I wouldn't rather have been anywhere else.





P.S. Sorry I didn't let my loyal readers know we were going away, only I didn't want our local burglar William (Billy to his friends) calling round and have him feel the wrath of my two burly sons.

Are You This Angry Man?

Listening to Saturday Live on Radio 4 this morning, I was impressed by the poet Elvis McGonagall's use of his art to purge a bad holiday experience from his system. It occurred to me that I might do the same with my blog. So if you are the large man, in his sixties, with a big white beard and a lovely head of pure white hair, who alighted from his vehicle to shout across the road that you considered me to be a thick, bald - headed, b***ard - or was it a thick headed...no, I'm sure it's the first one - then this is for you.

Had you allowed me to get a word in edgeways, before getting back into your M prefixed, Maroon Rover 216 with a National Trust sticker in the rear window, I would have explained that the reason I pulled my vehicle forward blocking the path from your junction preventing you from crossing the stream of traffic, was that you hadn't, no couldn't have seen, the ambulance that I had spotted in my mirror overtaking the stream of vehicles you were about to cross. You couldn't have seen the ambulance because your view was blocked by the big white van behind me. I can only presume that you didn't even notice the ambulance pass, because you were busy gesticulating at me and operating your audible warning instrument in an aggressive manner. Had you emerged across the stream of traffic you would have pulled into the path of the ambulance.

There now, deep breaths Crofty, that feels much better.

Oh, one more thing, I consider myself to have a mature attitude to my gradually receding hairline; but, I am most definitely not yet bald. I consider that insult to have been particularly barbed coming from one with such an obviously lush growth of hair.

Amsterdam - Philosophy, Art, War, Sex and Aching Feet

I'm going to have to write about our trip in instalments - there's a lot to write. But first - having read my heading - let's get the bit that everyone who knows us wants to know: yes we did investigate the red light district and no, the sex and the aching feet are not the result of some adventurous new position discovered as the result of our investigations.

Amsterdam is a fabulous city: easy to get around and easy to just be in; everyone speaks English - willingly; and the public transport system would make John Prescott blush (remember his cunning plan for a ten year integrated transport system? - the one he hastily dumped on Stephen Byers when he realised it couldn't be done). Famous for its liberal culture the city has a generally relaxed feel; Amsterdam's citizens are neither gushily friendly nor stand offish, more that they are simply happy to share their space with you no matter who or how you are.

I know you probably won't believe this, but our sojourn into the red light district was actually to visit a church. De Oude Kerk is Amsterdam's oldest and grandest church with burial records dating back to 1300 but, as if that wasn't enough, it also has a magnificent organ (that is not an invitation to skip ahead to the smut, by the way) and, at the moment, contains the World Press Photo of the Year exhibition. This is an international annual contest to do exactly what it says on the tin: find the best press photo of the year. The winning pictures in a variety of categories then go on a world tour.

It was stunning; I'd already seen the wining picture in The Independent, but the large scale photos really take your breath away. The subject matter is often grim and I take my hat off to the art of photographers who have the gift of composition and can use it under circumstances that would leave me diving for cover. If you get five minutes click on the link to see an on-line gallery of the winners; but, even better, if you get chance to go to the exhibition, do.

The irony of the juxtaposition of stark media images, a beautiful place of worship and window brothels not 15 metres from the rear wall of the the church, was not lost on me as we stepped out onto the Voorburgwal, the canal that bisects the dark alleys of the Red Light district. We had chosen our moment carefully, not wanting to get our pockets picked in the crowds of lascivious lads later in the day, mid afternoon was sufficiently daring for our sex tour. Even then though ladies in windows plied their trade to passing men - it's always men - who bargain shamelessly for a better deal on their desired method of having their snake milked. I'm sorry if that is a little blunt, but my overriding opinion is that that is all it amounts to; even our Rough Guide warns unwary young men not to expect the romantic encounter they hope for: it is an extremely practical service.

In the interests of journalism I assiduously studied the lady window occupants, though was made to suffer for my art with a hasty clip round the ear off Mrs C. She needn't have worried; the whole thing was unappealing and seedy. The alleyways are liberally peppered with live sex shows and DVD bars with private cabins: I had to explain why someone, who might not be able to afford the fifty Euro fee for a window visit, might opt for a cheaper private DVD cabin.

All that said, once we'd agreed on our joint moral stance, there was great fun to be had giggling and snorting at some of the more extreme sex aids offered for sale:

"Good Lord, you'd put your back out with that thing!"

Our moral stance? The other notable inclusion in this legalised leisure centre for the lonely, was a large number of sex health centres and other centres offering support for people involved in the sex industry. The Dutch view seems to be more pragmatic than liberal: deal with the world as it is rather than sweep the unseemly bits beneath the carpet and hope they will go away. I admire the Dutch approach.

Into the Hands of God and Physics I Place Myself

Did I mention that I'm not a good flier? "Amsterdam here we come" I gleefully cheer on the one hand; whilst on the other I'm a bit of a sweaty palmed wreck.
"Who's afraid of flying?..." sang the insightful Loudon Wainright III, "I'm just afraid of crashing..." he reassuringly continued.

So, give us a thought at around 8.15 tomorrow morning as we embark on our KLM white knuckle ride!

See you all soon.

There's Culture Up North Tha' Knows...Our Perfect Weekend

Grand opera and grand gardens – it could have been any of Europe’s cultural capitals; but it wasn’t, this was Yorkshire, England. Celebrating a significant birthday for Mrs C, we gambled on the English summer weather with tickets for an outdoor performance of La Boheme. After dropping bags at our B and B, Watergate Lodge, Knaresborough, we set out into a perfect summer afternoon and enjoyed the town’s riverside tranquillity before dressing to impress, picking up our picnic and heading to the hauntingly beautiful Cistercian ruins of Fountains Abbey.

Opera Brava are a small company who specialise in pared down performances; accompanied simply by a pianist they manage to distil the essence of grand opera into exquisite miniatures. Their performance was punctuated by Tawny Owl calls lending a fittingly sad note to Puccini’s tragic tale of love and loss in Bohemian Paris. Cynics say that plots like La Boheme have about as much depth as Coronation Street, their distant detergent relative; but as poor Mimi coughed her last tuberculous breath into the hankie held in her tiny frozen hand, assembled picnickers took an extra sip of Chardonnay to disperse the lumps appearing mysteriously in their throats.

The following morning, replete with culture and Peter Guest’s excellent Watergate Lodge breakfast, we headed to the RHS Gardens at Harlow Carr. These are gardener’s gardens where people won’t glance askance at you for talking about mulch or compost. There is a gorgeous floral array, a stunning kitchen garden, woodland walks and the national rhubarb collection - fabulous. We also benefit from the knowledge that the growing conditions are not dissimilar to our home patch: ‘if it grows at Harlow Carr, it will grow at home’, our motto.
Opera and gardening: not to everyone’s taste – but this was our weekend and we loved it.

The Great Airmiles (bit of a) Con

OK, I'm over my introspective period now, you'll be glad to hear. In fact Mrs C and I have a bit of a spring in our step at the moment: we are going away - properly away, abroad, alone: sans sons - for the first time in nearly nineteen years. We have planned a trip to coincide with a special birthday for Val and because our sons were eighteen in the same period - expensive - we have saved Airmiles thanks to the true rulers of our fine land: Tesco.

The trip we planned was four nights in Rome, direct flights from Manchester in a hotel recommended to us by the well travelled Reverend Richard. The reality is that we are going to the equally interesting - I'm sure - Amsterdam. Here's why: despite the hype, you are very limited to where and how you can travel with your hard earned Airmiles, unless you live in London. Yes, I know that lots of airlines fly direct to Rome from Manchester but with your Airmiles you can only fly via Gatwick because Airmiles only deal with a limited number of companies. So, Amsterdam it is, leaving on Monday on a jet plane; and despite our initial disappointment we are very excited and currently spending evenings poring over our Rough Guide to Amsterdam.So don't plan your world trip based on Airmiles before checking where you can go first.

While we are on the subject of travel I'm quite excited about the new Fuel My Blog competition which involves a blog post about my best weekend. The prize is a trip to Austria which might just compensate for the lack of a trip to Rome so watch out for my next post.

My left foot on tour

When I wrote the post 'Saturday a game of two halves: second half' I hadn't downloaded the photograph. Here is my foot on tour:

Saturday, a day of two halves: second half

Seeing how fed-up I was of being stuck inside V. staged a logistical coup - on top of all the other things she is doing in the house, because I can't do my share - she got me, the dog, and a folding stool ( with a green plastic seat) in the car and out into the beautiful afternoon.

A ten minute drive, north up the A62, left behind suburban Oldham for the Pennine countryside; the cultivated green meadows soon giving way to bracken-brown, and olive hues of moor grass and heather. We drove through the carved 'V' in the sandstone Standedge cutting, beneath which the engineering miracles of the rail tunnel and canal tunnel join Lancashire and Yorkshire. Constructed during the industrial revolution, the building of the canal tunnel brought V's ancestors across the Pennines from Hull; they arrived as labourers and after the tunnel was completed in 1811 settled in the Saddleworth area.

At Marsden we turned and climbed back over the Pennines to park up at the Castleshaw reservoir. I perched on a picnic bench with my leg on the stool while V. and Max walked down to the reservoir. The afternoon was crisp and crystal clear, both refreshing and relaxing. I was happy just to be out with my binoculars; not even the sound of off -road motorcycles from somewhere on the other side of the valley could spoil the moment. Simply by being still I was visited by a Robin, Wren and Dunnock who were completely oblivious to my presence. I reflected on a metaphor of the moment: that we see more if we take time to be still.

I was too far from the actual water to see many birds in detail, but made out a Coot, a Great Crested Grebe and Little Grebe together with a flock of mixed gulls.

Before the reservoir existed this site had it's place in history: the remains of a Roman fort still exist, it was an important staging post for Roman traders on route between York and Mancunia (Manchester). Although it was a beautiful afternoon I couldn't help thinking that it is a bleak and desolate place to live - especially if you have to wear a toga. There is a local story of a ghostly Roman centurion who still rides the area; looking down at one of the few houses in the valley, I wonder whether there are other hauntings, the date stone on the house marked 1713.

This morning on one of the other blogs I like, Urban Cowgirl, I read an account of a fabulous wilderness trip she took in New Zealand around the volcanic scenery that Howard Shaw used for Lord of the Rings. I don't think her stunning adventure could have made me any happier than my own Castleshaw expedition.

Take a look at the Urban Cowgirl site if you get chance, there are some fabulous photographs.

Blackpool - Welcome to the house of fun

Poor Blackpool, beaten by Manchester in the great casino race. So sure were the media that either London or Blackpool would win, that no camera crews had been dispatched to Manchester. The unseemly haste with which they abandoned Blackpool to its winter-time desolation just about summed it up: they wanted glitz and glamour not a bleak northern beach.

But is Manchester the better place? The proposed location for the super-casino is only a fifteen minute walk from the socially deprived area of East Manchester that is the home of Channel 4's Shameless; there is no doubt of the need for investment. The Bishop of Hulme, Stephen Lowe, said as much but summed up his view of social investment based on excessive gambling saying "Can't we do better than that?".

Blackpool's image is based on fun and excess, whether it's the adrenaline rush from an experience on the Pepsi Max roller coaster, a big night out in one of the many clubs or bars or a stroll along the prom taking in the cheesy novelty of it all. On our own visit in October we spotted tourists simply enjoying watching others having fun. One Japanese tourist actually took a photograph of our favourite bright orange and blue, plastic-fronted chip shop, the inside characterised by its purely functional, vinyl bench seating and Formica-topped tables.

I would have preferred to have had no super-casino; but Blackpool's front of fun, plastic and tat surely makes it the better place to put one.

A Grand Day Out

This coming Monday, January 22nd is, according to experts with calculators, the most miserable day of the year. A whole host of factors combine to create a day that's fit only for staying home, shutting the door and eating chocolate/drinking wineand or watching old films; or maybe, we could have a day out together. Regular readers will know that I have been stuck indoors for a while so let's share a day out in London without leaving our computer chairs.

First, we'll visit the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, we'll spend a good hour taking in our favourite painters or group of painters. We can take a look at the impressionists, for example, or read more about the one pictured, the Wilton Diptych. But best of all, we'll wander round the collection learning, without the need to put on one of those funny Walkman things that give a guided tour; then next time we go in person we can show-off: talking knowledgeably about the paintings we have learnt on our day out.

After the National Gallery we'll have a cup of tea or coffee and imagine we are in the tea room at Fortnum and Mason. Lets pretend that our cup of Fair Trade tea is actually Fortnum's reasonably priced Irish Breakfast Tea at £6.95 a tin. Their website really is posh, it has a very tastefully animated home page, but the best bit is that they deliver, just like Tesco.

The next bit of our day out is to take the tube to St Pancras (not to be confused with St Pancreas the patron saint of diabetics) and while we are travelling we can enjoy one of my favourite bits on our jaunt, Poems on the Underground. This scheme has been running for twenty years and is responsible for the brilliant posters on the underground of famous poems. They also produce an anthology of the poems that, in my view, is worth every penny; but for today we'll have a look at some of the current posters by clicking here. This is the website of the London Underground where you can click on the 'random poem' feature or just learn more about the scheme.

OK, next it's the British Library; we're only going to look at a couple of things here to give us plenty of time, there is far too much to see otherwise. The British Library is pretty much like your local library except you get into an awful lot more trouble if you don't take your books back - in fact you'd get into an awful lot of trouble if you tried to take books out in the first place.

The link will take you straight to the on-line gallery; here you can see some real page-turners, no joke, you can actually turn the pages of some of the world's rarest books: including William Blake's notebook, the Lindisfarne Gospels, Mozart's musical diary (with audio excerpts) and, thoughtfully, there's even an exhibition of London's historic maps in case we get lost. That's only just scratched the surface of this site, you'll see time disappear!

(note: you may need to download Macromedia Shockwave to do the page turning thing but it's worth it)

Finally, as our day out draws to its close you have a choice, we're going to split our group into two because there's only time to do one more visit and I know that there will be arguments. Half the group can go off on a tour of Buckingham Palace and the rest can come with me for a much more interesting tour of Highgate Cemetery.

The Buckingham Palace link will take you to the official website of the British monarchy and you can actually visit other royal residences while you are there too. The Highgate Cemetery link takes you to the Sexton's Tales site where you can learn heaps about the people buried there, this one is another site where you can lose significant chunks of time. Incidentally did you know that the murdered Russian ex-agent Alexander Litvinenko is buried there in a lead-lined coffin?

Well that's it, all back to Euston Station for the train home, tired, happy and skint. Hope you enjoyed your day and are feeling much more cheery than at the start.

By the way our day out is a good way for web-virgins to get an idea of how to navigate round a website (mum!), so pass it on if you know any (it's probably not a good idea to enter 'web-virgins' as a search term in Google though).