A Postcard from the City

Bentham Station

"We need to get out, have a change a scene!"

My wife's words rang true for all of us.  We've had a a fairly stressful time of late and so a day out in Leeds we agreed, was just the thing.

We boarded our train for the 90 minute journey to be greeted by the tale tale signs of Football Supporters.  Their white, yellow and blue Leeds United scarves wrapped tightly round their necks gave them away.  Fortunately these were fairly calm examples of the species.  More late middle aged than young, with no lager cans in sight.  The journey was uneventful aside from the steam gala attracting crowds at Keighley station.  Families and spotters braving the snowy conditions, with their cameras preparing to take the KWVR to Haworth for a look around the Bronte parsonage.

Leeds was busy.  It was a Saturday with the usual shopping crowds rampaging through Trinity Shopping Centre. The queues in Primark were snaking around the reductions displays.

We repaired to a well known bakers for a pastry covered snack.  Eldest sons steak bake was filled with magma.  He fought a valiant battle between agony and hunger and eventually it was consumed.  Time for a drink.

First we indulged in a brief cocktail.  An expensive pastime for those of us more used to drinking pints.  Next on to a standard pub, if of course we could find one.  The city centre pubs were rammed with shoppers and football supporters.  In some places we couldn't even get near the bar.  We ended up standing shoulder to shoulder with many others in a tiny historic city centre hostelry.  

Whitelock's Ale House is apparently the oldest pub in Leeds.  Tucked away between Briggate and Lands Lane, it retains an original wooden panelled Victorian interior, with plenty of stained glass and a copper topped bar.  The beer was good and there was a friendly atmosphere.  Trouble was there was barely enough room to raise a glass to the mouth.  We would love to have stayed longer but we couldn't move.  We fought our way to the exit and moved on.

The Old Luncheon Bar Whitelock's Ale House

The Italian restaurant we had chosen was Riva Blu.  This was once a Gino D' Acampo restaurant, but was rebranded, against the TV chefs wishes, in January 2022.  The food was good and the service attentive but not intrusive.  Some reviews have said that the food is overpriced for the quality, but for a city centre restaurant we felt the price was reasonable, and the quality very good. My steak was beautifully cooked and cost £25 which is pretty much the going rate.

As crowds thinned we tried a couple more pubs, but soon enough we had to head back to the station for the train home.  Living in the wilds means the last train leaves just after 7pm.  We had a quiet trip back and decided to stop for a nightcap at the local.

Here we were welcomed by our fellow locals and sat quietly in the corner reflecting on the day.  We were approached by some visitors.

One of these was someone that had once worked with my wife's father.  They happily chatted about Preston and memories of her late mum.  His companion was different entirely.

The gentleman in question was in his late forties.  Bald with a large bushy beard.  His eyes were like pinpricks and he spoke at a breath taking rate.  I suspected he may have taken some sort of stimulant, legal or otherwise.  His first words were a poor start:

"Why do you live in a place like this?  There's nothing going on its s***!"

I smiled and explained that having lived in London, and in other big cities, living in the country side was a much nicer proposition, particularly for our children.

He ignored the answer and continued to criticise our town, its people and the caravan site on which he was staying.  He made sure to point out that he was fantastically well off and that the caravan his husband had taken their three children back to was about half the size of the kitchen in his six bedroom mansion north of Manchester.

He then started a character assassination of someone who is a good friend of ours.  According to this arrogant soul everyone in town hated our friend.  He and his wife were the lowest sort of scum and the fact they had moved away was good riddance.  He was then at pains to point out he didn't know the guy personally, but it was a joke that he had been profiled in the local paper.

I pointed out that I had written the article.

He continued claiming more and more outlandish things about our friend.  He owed large amounts to money to dodgy people.  He couldn't run a bath let alone his business.  The lecture was getting very tiresome.

My wife snapped first.  She pointed out that if he didn't know the man in question, why was he spreading unsubstantiated rubbish about him?  There was certainly no truth to the accusations that were being levelled at our friend.  Moreover the name dropping of other people we know well to support his baseless claims were a nonsense.

He then called my wife mad and continued his diatribe against our friend.  At this point I'd had enough.  I stood up and told him that I would not tolerate him talking to my wife that way.  I said that I found his tone arrogant and offensive.  That he should not be spreading baseless rumours about someone he didn't know and that my wife and I would be going as we'd had enough of his company.

He stood up and started poking me in the chest.

"You're erratic, don't start on me, why are you starting on me?  Sit down, sit down or you'll regret it!"

As I stared him down, the barman stepped in and took the guy to one side.  We left and went home.

Having survived the dangerous bright lights of the city, it was ironic that I should have to come home to get threatened by a drunk.  To be fair it's the first time since 1993, so I'm happy with a once in 30 year record.

Oh and the Leeds result?  They drew 1-1 with Brighton.

A Postcard from Down South

This past week has been half term.  Well partly; it was for our youngest son.  Eldest son being at college in Yorkshire was on half term the week before, but since he's in Monday to Wednesday, we made a flying visit to the south coast for my Mothers birthday.

Like most seaside resorts Bexhill on Sea doesn't really suit the winter.  We normally visit for a week or so in August.  Now in late February, without the light and warmth of the summer sun, the windblown streets are quiet.  The cafes and restaurants that usually buzz with the activity of the city day-trippers, are dark and quiet.  They wait for the better weather along with the ever present Herring Gulls, circling on the strong sea breeze, mournfully calling to each other, denied the scraps of food provided by the careless summer tourists.

None of this bothers our Border Collie of course.  The chance to chase her ball on the beach is a rare treat.  She leaps in and out of the waves with careless abandon.  So much so youngest son has to wade into the water to retrieve her ball before it is carried away by the retreating tide.  He curses the dog, she wags her soggy tail, shakes out a mixture of water and damp sand and urges him to throw the ball once more.  At least he's finally cleaned his dirty shoes.

On Friday we make the pilgrimage to see my Nan.  Soon to be 97, living independently in the same house my Mother and her siblings were brought up in.  We have a birthday lunch with her and my aunt who lives a few miles down the road.  Nan is slowing down a bit, but she insists she's definitely not deaf as I have shout our family news to her.  She doesn't get up to the church as much as she used to, but the priest now comes to her once a week.  Almost everyone that walks past the house waves at her.  The old lady in her window is a fixture of Rye for so many, not just our large family that live nearby.

We take the chance to walk around the ancient town.  I have been coming to visit family here all my life.  The town has changed out of all recognition.  The shops are now catering for tourists more than locals.  As a kid, my cousin and I would frequent several of the shops on the High Street.  Woolworths, long since gone is a council office and library.  The banks have gone, as has Lipton's Grocers and Freeman Hardy & Willis shoes.  The bookshop remains, as does Adams.  When she left school, Nan got her first job working for the printers that was attached to Adams.  The shop with its large oak framed windows is a newsagents, stationers and most important for me growing up, a toy shop.  Walking in I remember the smell of the place.  It is almost the same as it has always been.  Copies of the national and local papers, magazines, pens, paper, envelopes and up the worn wooden staircase lots of toys.  I'm suddenly distracted by a family from the Midlands, clearly on their own half term holiday.  The children are running rings around their parents, wanting all the toys and threatening to combust if they don't get their own way.  Mum is trying to restore order with a mixture of threat and compromise in her broad Brummie accent, while Dad is wondering if it's worth trying to bribe the kids with ice cream from the kiosk across the road.

Adams of Rye

We wonder down to the Landgate, the surviving fortified entrance to the Town.  It's twin Strandgate was demolished in 1815 after falling into disrepair.  Where there was once a public toilet on the corner of Ropewalk is a Micropub.  As the drizzle begins to fall we hurry inside to find a spacious and busy interior.  It would be rude not to sample some local ale, and we are not generally considered rude.

Landgate, Rye

We walk back through the Market Carpark and past the railway station.  Further on is the Pipemakers Arms, favourite watering hole of my late Grandad, quiet on this damp Friday afternoon.

Saturday finds us visiting Hastings.  We decide to take advantage of the £2 bus fare cap and catch the 99 from the end of the road.  The top deck affords a glorious view of the sea.  Grey outlines of ferries and container ships can be seen on the horizon.  Boulogne is 45 miles away across the channel, tantalisingly out of reach.

Hastings is busier being a weekend.  Youngest son and I go in search of a Saveloy.  This bright red sausage has always been a firm favourite of mine but you just cant find it here in Yorkshire.  My wife and eldest son are less keen on them and visit a well known bakery chain for lunch instead.  We enjoy a drink at a what appears to be an Elizabethan Inn, but was in fact built in 1947 using bomb damaged materials.

Returning on the bus we are reminded why we usually drive.  

Now I like buses.  Growing up in London I would travel on a Routemaster almost everywhere.  You could happily watch the world go by from the top deck, even if the smokers made the view a bit foggy.  The conductor selling purple ink tickets from his Gibson machine.  The mothers prams tucked in the cupboard below the stairs.  The bell string along the cabin ceiling.  Nowadays of course buses only have drivers, there's no smoking thankfully and you pay by contactless card.  The quality of some of the passengers however leaves something to be desired.

AEC Routemaster the backbone of London's Buses from 1956 to 2005

A father and his friend join us with their small children on the top deck.  They swear continuously at the children for not being grateful enough for the day out they've enjoyed at the seaside arcades.

"I'm not f*****g taking you anywhere again."

"Don't eat all them sweets, you'll have f*****g dodgy poos all night."

Meanwhile a teenager in the front seat with black hoodie over his head and his feet up on the rail gets a phone call.  He puts it on speaker of course, it's his Mum:

"Where are you?"

"What?" he shouts.

"I said where are you?"

"What?" louder this time.

"Where are you!?"  Mum is exasperated.

"Glyne Gap."

"I'm going to Eastbourne so I won't be at home."

"Are you driving?" The lad is after a free trip with Mum.

"No I'm catching the train."

"Oh, right never mind."  He hangs up.

The more respectful passengers roll their eyes.  Thankfully we arrive in Bexhill and escape the circus.

We spend our last evening in Sussex drinking wine and enjoying a good laugh with Mum.  She'll miss us when we go, the boys particularly, but my Brother and family are booked in for Easter which is only six weeks away.  She needs that time to recover.

We returned on Sunday evening, a six hour drive unusually for us not disrupted by traffic.  

Arriving home we discovered that the bathroom drain was blocked.  We should have stayed on the coast.

The Ultimate Driving Machine?

Bavarian Motor Works

Growing up in the later years of the twentieth century and being a bit of a car nerd, I can fondly remember the glossy adverts for the latest models.  Each brand seemed to have their own identity.  

Everyone knows Audi was vorsprung durch technik even though we had no idea what it meant, progress trough technology apparently.  My Grandfather made a fleeting appearance in an ad for the Audi 80, as the hapless ships captain dropping the car from a millionaires yacht into the Mediterranean.  Audi's boast of the car being made from galvanised steel meant it wouldn't rust, was offset by my Grandfather reporting the car was ruined by the time they'd fished it out, off camera of course. 

Ford had a catchy jingle to go with Everything we do is driven by you.  Volkswagen had the famous Changes advert.  A recent divorcee played by model Paula Hamilton, throwing away her possessions until finding her car key.  She smiles and drives off in her Golf to the caption: If only everything in life was a reliable as a Volkswagen.

Land Rover has been The best 4x4 by far for as long as I can remember and Fiat's Hand built by robots slogan was cheekily rewritten by the comedy show Not the Nine O'clock News to: Designed by lasers, built by robots, driven by Italians accompanied by a picture of a motorway pile up.

BMW, with their rear wheel drive saloons have always marketed itself as The Ultimate Driving Machine.  Adverts would be testosterone filled speed fests, with chiselled males and beautiful girls in exclusive parts of the world.  These adverts appealed to a certain type of person which according to YouGov is:

"Male, aged 40-59, lives in East Anglia. They’re likely to hold right wing political views and work in the business, finance or consulting sectors. Your typical BMW driver is interested in motorsports and motoring, and enjoys dining out."

I think we might all add that BMW drivers tend to view indicators as an unusable optional extra but I digress.

So with this owner profile you may be surprised to learn that when we had to replace my wife's rusty Honda HRV, given that it had gained the structural integrity of a lace doily, we went for a BMW X3.  The reasons were eminently sensible.  It's a 4x4 SUV, it's a comfortable drive, it's an automatic, and most importantly it was cheap.

BMW X3

The X3 when launched in 2003 was the first mid size premium SUV on the market.  It was designed in conjunction with Magna Steyr, the Austrian tractor manufacturer who also built them until 2010.  

So from an ownership point of view I was expecting a relatively easy time, and yet the Ultimate Driving Machine is at times a royal pain in the behind.

With my mechanical skills best described as enthusiastic amateur, I have tackled the following jobs:

• Full Service and Oil Change.  Relatively simple and the car ran much better afterwards.
• Replacement of faulty Air Bag Sensor.  A real pain having to disassemble the passenger B-Pillar trim.  The part is discontinued and took a while to source.
• Repair Vacuum Leak 1.  The rubber intake boot split allowing unmetered air into the engine.  This caused the car to run rich with poor fuel consumption.  I ordered a new part from the BMW dealer and dismantled the engine ready to replace it.  I then discovered my own car had an oil leak and I couldn't drive to pick the part up.  I got the train which took three hours, I had to change at Carnforth and then had a three mile walk from the station in the rain to collect the part.  I got very wet, but the car got repaired.
• Repair Vacuum Leak 2.  A rubber pipe at the bottom of the engine perished causing high fuel consumption again.  This time I ordered a part to be delivered from a specialist.  Trouble was it never came.  I managed to find one from a motor factor 50 miles away in Leeds and had to drive there to collect it.
• Replace front brake pads.  A simple job, that caused no drama.

These repairs were relatively simple, just time consuming.  However by far the worst job on this car by a distance is the rear screen washer.  This is without doubt the stupidest piece of design in the history of the automobile.  I know that might seem a bold statement.  You might say what about the Austin Allegro and its square steering wheel?  What about the Saab 900 you could drive with a joystick?  What about the Morris Marina and its Trunnions?  Or even the G-Wizz or Suzuki X-90? There have been a lot of poorly designed and built cars over the years but, all of those pale into insignificance because the rear washer on a BWW X3 is Premier League stupidity.

Let me explain.

The car has a screen wash reservoir in the front under the bonnet.  It has two pumps, one for the windscreen and one for the rear, so far so standard.  The rear washer jet is supplied by a 6mm pipe that runs from the reservoir to the rear through the car under the carpet.  Again nothing too unusual in that except, BMW in their infinite wisdom decided to make the pipe in two sections.  The joint is on the drivers side of the transmission tunnel and is a push fit.  

So what? I hear you ask, well the problem is this.

When there is cold weather, the rear jet freezes.  When the rear screen wash is activated the pressure forces the joint apart.  As the now broken pipe is lower than the reservoir the entire watery contents leak into the rear footwell, where it soaks into the foam sound deadening material and rots the carpet.

Moreover, this pipe cannot easily be reached, that would be too sensible.  No, no, instead you must remove the rear seat, the drivers seat (remembering to disconnect the battery so the airbag system doesn't fault), and all of the surrounding plastic trim.  You then peel back to sodden carpet to reveal a small lake and the gushing joint.

The Offending Joint

Repair is the next problem.

The first time, I spent hours drying the carpet with a halogen heater and the hairdryer.  I simply pushed the joint back together.  It clicked and I thought no more of it.

Two weeks later it broke again.  This time I glued the joint.  That repair lasted a month.

This time I meant business.  I taped with PTFE tape, glued and for extra piece of mind clamped another larger hose over the top.

Summer came, the car dried out and I felt I had cured the problem, until this week when the weather went cold and the screen wash disappeared.  Yet again we have a leaking joint.

So what is the solution?  Ultimately a new piece of pipe from pump to jet without a joint.  That would involve removing the interior of the car completely and in the current freezing temperatures is not appealing.  I could send it to BMW who charge £500 to effect a repair without a guarantee it won't do the same again once the weather goes cold.  Instead I'm going to use a coupling that is used by water dispensing fridges.  They use 6mm pipe and it is possible to get a fitting to join two pieces of pipe together.  You have to order online as no one appears to stock them, believe me I trawled the local plumbers merchants and DIY stores.  I event went to a shop that sells fridges.

The Solution?

I'm writing this whilst I wait for my Amazon delivery.  Hopefully this is the permanent solution.  Anyway I've cut a hole in the carpet, just in case I need to repair it again.

The Battle of the Somme: The Terrible fate of the Newfoundlands

Barbed Wire on the Battlefield at Beaumont-Hamel

The Battle of the Somme is arguably the most infamous battle of the First World War.  Considered as perhaps the definitive battle of the war, the images of mud and death are some of the most powerful in recalling the horror and futility of the conflict.

On the first day alone, the British Army reported 57,000 casualties, still the deadliest day in its history.  By the battles end some 141 days later, over 3 million men would have fought along the 25-mile front.  Over a million would be killed or wounded for an Allied advance of a mere 7 miles into German territory.

There are many museums and memorials along the Western Front.  The multitude of cemeteries, are a stark reminder of the human cost of the war.  One particular memorial, at Beaumont-Hamel, just north of the town of Albert, tells the story of the Newfoundland Regiment and their tragic contribution on that sunny summers Saturday morning of July 1^st 1916.

Newfoundland Memorial Beaumont-Hamel

Newfoundland in 1914 was a Dominion of the British Empire and not yet part of Canada.  The population was rural and numbered just 240,000. The largest settlement as it is today was St. Johns with just 32,000 inhabitants.  Nevertheless, showing the same sort of enthusiasm as found across the British Empire, the Newfoundland Regiment was formed shortly after the outbreak of war.  After training in Britain, the 1000 troops were posted to support the Gallipoli campaign.  Then following a period of leave they were posted to The Somme.

The battle itself began at 6am with a prolonged artillery barrage which continued for an hour.  At 7:20am a mine was detonated beneath the German defensive position on Hawthorn Ridge, just to the west of Beaumont-Hamel, creating a 40-metre-wide crater.  Ten minutes later at 7:30am the troops went over the top.  The 10-minute delay had given the German defenders time to prepare for the advancing troops, and their advance faced a fierce barrage of machine gun and artillery fire.

Due to confusion, Allied commanders believed the advance had been successful and ordered reinforcements to push forward.  The Newfoundlands were given the order to advance at 8:45am.

Finding it impossible to advance along the communication trenches due to the number of wounded men, the order was given to advance on the surface.  German guns cut most of them down before they had even reached the front-line trench.

Survivors tried to push on.  The initial allied artillery barrage had destroyed any cover for the advancing men, save for a petrified Apple Tree, later to be christened “The Danger Tree.”  As men made to use the meagre cover, they were easy targets for the German gunners and many died beneath its branches.  Those that made it further were to find the German positions heavily fortified, and would perish in the barbed wire defences.

The Danger Tree

By 9:45 the attack was abandoned, and the few survivors made their way back to the Allied front line.  One man, Private James McGrath, spent 17 hours in No Man’s Land before managing to make it back to the safety of the allied trenches.  Badly wounded he had crawled a mile across the battlefield.  In an interview by the Newfoundland Quarterly he recalled that “The Germans mowed us down like sheep.”

He was one of the lucky ones.  The Newfoundland Regiment had gone into battle that morning with 780 men.  In just an hour 670 were killed or wounded.  At roll call the next morning only 68 men answered.  The regiment had been effectively wiped out, suffering a casualty rate in excess of 85%.  Indeed, only the 10^th Battalion West Yorkshire Regiment suffered greater losses in their attack at Fricourt, just to the south of Beaumont-Hamel.

In the aftermath, Beaumont-Hamel became a quiet part of the front.  Commanders had realised that the German positions here were too well fortified to be attacked successfully.

In 1921 the battlefield was purchased by the government of Newfoundland in order to build a permanent memorial to the fallen.  In 1925 the Newfoundland Memorial Park was opened by Field Marshall Earl Haig.  Since the confederation of Newfoundland with Canada in 1949 the site is maintained by the Canadian Government.

The centrepiece of the memorial park is a Bronze Caribou statue that looks across the battlefield.  It stands on a mound of Newfoundland Granite, imported specifically for the memorial.  Additionally, there are three cemeteries inside the park, containing the bodies of 700 of the fallen.  There is also a memorial to the 51^st Highland Division that fought here in the later years of the war.

The park also contains the preserved remains of the Allied and German trenches, and a reproduction “Danger Tree” in No Mans Land.  It is possible to walk across the battlefield and remember those men who lost their lives during the battle.  Perhaps the most haunting experience is to stand in the German trenches looking back towards the Allied front line.  From here it is possible to imagine how easily the Germans were able to inflict such devastating losses on the advancing troops.  There is a clear view across No Man’s Land, and as you watch other visitors emerge from the Allied trenches, they are easy targets for the machine guns that defended the position.

The visitors centre contains displays describing the history of the Newfoundland Regiment and their role in the Battle of the Somme.  From here it is possible to arrange a guided tour of the park.  These are provided by Canadian students that spend a year in France as part of their studies.

Access to the Newfoundland Memorial Park is free and the park is open at all hours.

Restricted opening hours apply only to the Visitor Centre as follows:
Open Mondays 11.00 - 17.00 hours; Tuesday - Sunday 09.00 - 17.00 hours

For information or reservations for guided tours contact:

Address: Beaumont-Hamel Newfoundland Memorial, Rue de l'Église (route D73), 80300 Beaumont-Hamel, France

Telephone: +33 (0)3 22 76 70 86

Email: beaumonthamel.memorial@vac-acc.gc.ca

Website: www.veterans.gc.ca Beaumont Hamel

"I Didn't Realise They Were So Good"

Revival of the Fittest at Victoria Hall, Settle.

Does it ever happen to you?  You know, you can be sitting minding your own business in a public place and you become aware that someone is staring at you.  You look towards them, and their eyes dart away uneasily.  After a few moments, the braver ones start staring again.  Eventually they might go further with an "Excuse me... was that you singing the other night?"

Now of course you smile and respond warmly.  They say how much they enjoyed the gig and once they leave, your wife laughs and says how much she loves being married to a 'real' rock star.

Back at University this used to happen a fair bit.  You would catch a glimpse of some students from the corner of your eye, whispering to each other.

"It's them... no can't be... yes it is."  They would point and nod at each other.

Now all this is very flattering, and as a performer it is a thrill to know that the effort that you put into rehearsal and performance is appreciated by the audience.  However I do sometimes get a little irked.

There is a certain type of person.  Not a friend as such but an acquaintance perhaps.  A person you talk to from time to time.  In the course of your various conversations it comes up that you are in a band.

"Oh really?" they say.  "That's pretty cool!"

You then talk modestly about the band and the sorts of music you play and the conversation moves on to other topics.  Some while later, that same person may happen upon you playing with the band by accident.

They sit, somewhat open mouthed at the performance.  Too ashamed to speak to you directly they will talk to your wife and utter the immortal phrase:

"I didn't realise they were so good."

Well excuse me for just a minute.  Exactly what did you expect?  Did you really think I'd be like a reject from Britain's Got Talent?  Maybe you expected me to sing like a drunk Japanese businessman at a Karaoke Bar?  Or that I'd mime to a backing track like Madonna at the Hacienda?

I've been playing in bands for over 30 years and I currently play in three:

1. Revival of the Fittest: A five piece Rock and Roll covers band.  We play a selection of songs from the 1950's up to the 2000's, based in Settle, North Yorkshire.
2. Dad & The Lad: My son and I play covers and some original material, based in Bentham, North Yorkshire.
3. Project Amen Brother (The Band formerly known as Cotton): A five piece band playing original material based in Manchester.

For each one of these we practice.  We practice together and we practice alone.  We work hard to ensure that when we play on stage we are as professional as possible.  That is, in my book at least, the absolute minimum expectation if you are being paid to perform.

Lets be clear here, I've written before about performers that don't prepare enough for performances and do a lousy job.  That annoys me with a passion because of the hard work and attention to detail that my bands have.

But people who expect you to be as bad as that are frustrating.  I can only hope that having heard us play they have their expectations reset at the very least.

Now who needs a professional band for 2023?  You've a choice of three so get in touch.

Revival of the Fittest

Dad & The Lad

Project Amen Brother

A Summer Scene: Bexhill-on-Sea

 

The sun shines. The midsummer heat is moderated by the strong wind blowing in from the south west. It blows constantly, flapping the torn flags atop the lifeguard station. The people here all carefully socially distanced wear their summer clothes and bask in the English definition of summer. Two women walk into the teeth of the breeze. Their long blonde hair streams behind them as they bend to make progress along the shore path.

The sea a constantly shifting blue and green patchwork sparkles in the afternoon light. It crashes driven by the wind against the shingle shore. Away on the horizon sailing yachts make slow progress from right to left passing the Sovereign Light, its grey outline looking like an old railway semaphore against the cloudless blue sky.

Conversation and laughter drift across the browned grass. A terrier chases a ball and returns it to its family. It looks betrayed when its owner pretends to throw the ball, and it runs off anticipating its prize only to be disappointed for a moment as the ball has vanished. It bounces looking around for its toy until it is eventually thrown again. It retrieves the reward and returns to repeat again.

Cyclists weave between the strolling walkers frustrated at their lack of faster progress, whilst a group with freshly bought, fast melting ice creams, hold them at arm’s length like live hand grenades trying to avoid the drips that are running down the cones.

A young couple, with bronzed bodies walk hand in hand laughing. In the centre of the scene she trips and falls on her untied converse shoelace. They laugh harder, she is in hysterics on lying on the grass as her partner tries to help her up. He helps her to her feet and then lifts up her leg to tie her lace as she hops about enjoying his attention.

Being lunch time couples sit and enjoy their fish and chips from cardboard recyclable boxes. They keep the lids tightly closed between mouthfuls. Here is the domain of the herring gull. They float in the sky, circling, cruising looking for food. They land in the grass and try to look disinterested in the bounty they seek. They stalk the unwary diners, like ninjas in the darkest of nights.

A family throw a few chips at the gulls to get them to pose for a photograph. They arrive in numbers, calling for the senior gull to come and eat first, he arrives, larger and meaner than the rest to calm the cacophony. He eats his fill and his minions fight over the scraps. Presently the carnage ends and all that remains are small white feathers that flutter with the grass in the breeze.

A middle-aged couple walk past. They are very earnest, discussing some vital issue with great passion. The man with his flat cap and round horned rimmed glasses nods sagely as they walk, wearing a T-Shirt that proclaims the legend “Only elephants should wear ivory.” His leather shoes creak slightly.

Meanwhile the smile of the one I love encourages me.

Baking for Lockdown

During the enforced COVID lockdowns, interest in baking reached fever pitch. Now as a cook I must admit to being no more than just about competent.  I can follow a recipe if its simple, and can manage passable Roast Potatoes when the need arises.  As things get complicated though and as the amount of washing up increases, I will invariably reach for a take away menu, or something easily microwaved. 

However as the summer days stretched on I began to look back through old cook books looking for something a little different to try.  Buried deep in a box at the back of a garage lurked a slim volume from the dim and distant past, a cookbook sold by my primary school in London to raise funds for a swimming pool that was never built.  Parents and staff contributed their finest recipes and the books were sold out from what I remember.  The cover features an illustration by the famed Willie Rushton, who was a local resident.

The extremely rare Bousfield Cookbook

I flicked through classic recipes from the 1970’s dinner parties the cosmopolitan parents of an inner London school were making at that time.  Homemade delights such as Taramasalata, Spanish Prawns and Tabouleh, which for the uninitiated is Lebanese Parsley Salad.

Tucked away in the pudding section is a recipe for Crundle Pudding, which was submitted by my mother.  The origins of the recipe are lost in the mists of time, but it was made by my paternal grandmother and was passed down through her family.  It’s really quick to prepare, and is very filling.  So, for some 70’s nostalgia, courtesy of the long forgotten Bousfield Cookbook give this a try!

Ingredients:

1 ½ oz Margarine

2 oz Self Raising Flour

½ Pint Milk

2 oz Sugar

1 Egg

Jam or Syrup Sauce

 

Method:

Cream the margarine and sugar, then add the egg and beat into the mixture

Add the flour and mix well

Add milk just before baking

Pour the mixture into a greased dish (it will be slightly lumpy)

Cook for 45 mins at 190 °C

Serve with Jam or Syrup

If you're brave enough to give the recipe a go let me know how it was in the comments.  If any of you are really keen I might even share some of the other recipes from the book.  Let me know below.