Yorkshire Ramblings

Walks and Thoughts complete with a few photographs and some laughs.

[olwog]

So Peeps, we learn that people walk the Camino for a variety of reasons but they all have a story. We’ll learn that Carolyne is recovering from cancer and I’ve had a major operation on an Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm so making the most of our allotted time is important. So here’s my tale.

Last November, we went for a walk…

The Camino del Norte is about 800km (500 miles) long and stretches from Irun to Santiago de Compostela. It takes about 37 days but we don’t have to do it all in one and my first walk is less than a week and the next one a full week.

You can start from virtually anywhere…

      But we’re walking The Norte..

  This walk is reported to be tough and at 25 kilometres/day it certainly matches any of the walks I do in Yorkshire, the difference is in height and the stones and there’s plenty of both.

We leave the pension  (hotel) and are almost immediately challenged by steps, about 60 of them! It’s at this point I remind myself of:

I am now recovered from an Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm otherwise affectionately referred to as a Triple ‘A’ but still need to be sensible!

My Achilles injury, whilst not an issue in itself has left me quite unfit.

The fact that we’re carrying our worldly goods on our back will make a difference and I’m grateful for the advice willingly offered by the Pilgrim regarding keeping the weight down. (To explain…the Pilgrim is my close friend and partner Cecilia Kennedy, she’s on her third Camino and well experienced in the ways of the ‘peregrino’ and hence the tongue in cheek nickname).

  I’m gratified that The Pilgrim emerges at the top of the steps a little out of breath; however, her recent Camino activity will stand her in excellent stead I’m going to be good for 20 km (12.5 miles) then, in fairness, the last 8 (5 miles) is beautiful and probably more so than the first 20, but it is tough.

We walk towards what is purported to be “the way” but it’s some time before we see the first yellow arrow.

Click on any of the images and you can page through them at full size…

The guy on the Spanish weather site is not in the same league as Carol and seems more interested in the Costas than this northern Basque area. No matter, there’s no cloud so that’s a bonus.

We need some sustenance so we call in at a tiny fruiterers on the outskirts of Irun. He’s very helpful and gives The Pilgrim an opportunity to practice the Spanish she’s been learning. We buy water, Gatorade, a baguette and enough jamon de York to fill it. It all comes at a price just over 4 euros, it really pays to do your shopping on the outskirts of town.

As we’re preparing to leave they point at The Pilgrim’s stick which has been left in the aisle. She swings her rucksack around jeopardising cans of fruit, jars of pickles and a number of items of Spanish meat in varying degrees of aging but missing all by parts of a millimetre, the stick is retrieved and as she returns, oblivious to the recent potential for disaster, I note the shopkeeper’s eyes are firmly closed and the other shopper is standing with arms outstretched in what would have been a vain attempt to catch them. We leave the shop to a duet of buenos dias and a significant sigh of relief with a sensible balance of sustenance and liquid which needs to be enough to satisfy our expenditure of calories but not too much to be cumbersome or heavy, we have over twenty kilometres in front and some of them are seriously ‘up’.

The Pilgrim props the sticks up in a pot in the door to readjust her rucksack and ensure the purchases are distributed evenly to ensure comfort and fit.

About three hundred metres along the road and we stop, “I’ve left my sticks”, she says and makes a return sweep of the shop to retrieve them. When I asked if they’d said anything she responds with, “I snook in and just grabbed them”.

We’re at the outskirts of town and the green of the countryside is a welcome substitute for the concrete and tar of the roads. The pilgrim points at some cabbages in the allotments to our right, it’s like walking with Barbara Good. I have to say her observations are valid though, the cabbages are like giant hogweed and devoid of the grub eaten filigree leaves that we tend to find on organic land back in the UK. This could be down to sneaky use of pesticides or lack of herbivores, they’re so clean I go for the former then feel cynical but either way, they look great.

The Camino is beginning to rise now and the yellow arrows that declare “The Way” are reassuringly closer together. Although we’re still on tarmac the gradient is becoming more acute and where the road ‘hairpins’ it becomes even more inclined. This is both challenging and a welcome early workout to get get us in the mood for the track into the woods.

After half an hour we take a short break to catch our breath and look around. The scenery is what I would expect in Switzerland and before I can say anything The Pilgrim vocalises my thoughts, we laugh! There’s the sea and beaches in the distance and in the foreground, meadows and woods with chalet type houses of various sizes and above all that, a blue sky, this is a great day to be introduced to Del Norte. It has a challenging reputation but the weather is in our favour.

Another half hour goes by and I have a feeling that we’re being followed. Not a sinister feeling and I’m sure it’s not ESP. My belief is that you spot something or someone in the corner of your eye but don’t consciously register it. You then process it and it becomes that feeling and I’ve had it for 5 or 10 minutes when I spot another peregrina a few metres behind. We greet. She’s French and started her Camino North of Paris. She’s been on the road, track and mountain for 42 days and, to her credit, looks like she started yesterday. She gives her name as Caroline and pronounces it the English way, the final syllable rhyming with pine, and then she repeats it saying in France we say Caroleen. As we walk she tells us her story. At only 22 she was diagnosed with a malignant lump and underwent surgery. Following that she decided to spend some time with herself and reassess her life hence the Camino. I’ve got to say, not only has she chosen a long one, it’s also seriously arduous.

Caroline walks with us and we exchange thoughts as we pass along very stony tracks between 800 and 1200 feet.

The views vary from colourful pathways strewn with leaves and bordered by trees with every type of leaf all in autumn colours to dappled glades that are almost silent save the bird calls and even then only very occasional.

We walk along a path that follows a contour for the best part of 10 kilometres but forwards the end, when you expect it to start to descend it challenges you by suddenly going up.

As we begin to descend it’s a relief and relatively easy but as the decline becomes more acute it pulls on the muscles at the front of your legs and on your calf muscles and becomes even more challenging as we reach some steps.

Pasai Donibane and Pasai Pedro are the two sides of a delightful port very much like Whitby. We stop for a drink and a bite to eat at a local cafe and Caroline decides to go on. Our other agenda is to decide if we stop in this lovely town but after discussing it with the ferryman who takes us across the harbour and being told there are no hotels or pensions in this area we have no option than to take on the next 9km.

So off we go towards the estuary and past a small boat building company that’s in the process of repairing an old steamer and also building some kind of schooner which you’re invited to go and see. As the time is quarter to three and we have at the very least two and half hours of walking we carry on to the steps.

The steps skirt the entrance to the harbour and rise some three hundred feet in a zig zag fashion. My legs are aching from the exertions so far and this is a real test but the views take my mind off the challenge and we stop from time to time to make photographs and savour the moment.

Towards the top, there are some picnic tables and bench seats which we take advantage of. We had passed a German guy in his twenties towards the bottom and he’s just made it to this viewing area. Like Caroline, he has a great command of English and asks us about albergues along the route. We tell him that our aim is for San Sebastian; his is a little more modest but we think that the place that he’s got plans for is shut and tell him that. The Pilgrim lets him photograph the page that has the address of the albergue in San Sebastian and I tell him he’s welcome to walk with us but he holds back, perhaps he’s a little shy or more likely, some people walk this to be alone.

This leg of the walk hugs the coast and the views are really quite spectacular with each turn offering a new angle on a bay or cove all heavily wooded and with spectacular cliffs that the Atlantic has eroded over many years. It’s easy to imagine the huge waves and spectacular storms that occur in all seasons but especially during the winter when the jet stream moves north. Today is placid, there is little or no wind and on the odd occasion that we see a house with a wood fire, the smoke rises vertically.

We stop from time to time for a pee or just to listen to the silence or occasional bird, it’s a great day.

About half way through this last leg there is an aqueduct with several arches. The guide suggests that pilgrims with a head for heights may wish to take this as a shortcut. It saves about three metres but I decide to give it a go anyway for the photo experience and The Pilgrim does the honours with the camera.

The path is now tacking back inland and we arrive at a tarmac road with a lot of shouting going on behind a wood. It turns out that there is a football field hidden by the trees which would have been the way that E. Walker and Chris Lennie describe in their guide. We follow the yellow arrows and the map on the phone which, whilst being the designated way, is a singularly challenging route that involves another 500 feet of ascent albeit in stages.

We take a break on a large stone and 5 minutes later the German passes us with a smile but his demeanour is really grim, he’s looking quite all in.

In another half kilometre we meet him again with a guy that’s offering accommodation to pilgrims free of charge. He looks like an elderly hippy and whilst we are tempted we decided to carry on and find a place in San Sebastien as planned.

The route is beginning to descend now and the gradient is steep. The muscles in the front of my legs are now complaining but I’m happy that we made the decision to go to San Sebastien even if the accommodation issue in Pasai Pedro made it a no brainer!

We’re descending at a great rate now and the Camino is signposted through a wooded park where the trees are carrying leaves of every colour. This is a great bonus and the soft layer of leaves makes it even more of a bonus as it cushions our steps.

The Pilgrim asks me to stop and listen so we do. It’s surreal how wonderful the lack of traffic noise, or any noise for that matter, and it soothes the soul. We do hear a lone bird calling but even that softens as it glides its way into the distance and all we’re left with an occasional sound of a leaf as it drifts down from its host.

We emerge from the wood onto a track overlooking the cove and sea whilst they sun is beginning to set and we’re hoping to get a glimpse of the big moon as we descend into the town.

    The last part of the walk descends some 300 feet and we emerge into San Sebastián complete with traffic noise and bustle.

A coffee is called for in a local bar whilst we use wifi to arrange a hotel.

What a walk. Bien Camino. Enjoy the snaps…G..x

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This is life after an Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm open repair. Don’t be afraid of the operation, it set me free. Please be encouraged and inspired to walk, it’s liberating…G..x

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    Camino Test So Peeps, we learn that people walk the Camino for a variety of reasons but they all have a story.

[olwog]

Catbells This is what a bunch of 70-year-olds do when not being supervised...G..x  

[olwog]

Molly's Bain

Molly’s Bain

Sometimes you find something akin to gold and mine was in the form of a cassette and one of the tracks moved me to tears so much so that I asked the artist if I could use it on FB but I didn’t tell him how and this is it.

I’ll be putting the rest of the tracks on here as I process them… Enjoy…G..x

View On WordPress

[olwog]

Snowy Wood

View On WordPress

[olwog]

So lovely peeps of Whitby and beyond.

I’ve regaled you of the wars and momentous rescues but I stopped before the greatest threat to my existence that came I the 1950s when the government passed a law that made money available for slum clearance.

“That’s good”, I hear you say!

Well, it is if the buildings that you intend to demolish are not representative of the life of the town and they are in real disrepair.

If we use the latter criteria then the last decade would have seen me off. There are no grants for listed buildings, we need someone with cash, love, enthusiasm and with the tradesmen on board with what is meant to be achieved.

Church Street

Let’s go back to the Victorian age gave way to the Edwardians and Adalina Patti wowed the listening masses with,” The Last Rose of Summer” through the trumpet of the gramophone (well the odd few who could afford them) I, along with the beautiful houses on Boulby Bank were in our prime.

There was much in front of us of course, Church Street was flanked with houses and businesses on both sides. There were wonderful communities that thrived and supported each other in close knit units that occupied the houses in ‘yards’ where sometimes even the toilets were communal and I’ll come to that a little later.

    The Esk flowed as a tidal river some two hundred yards from my door with cottages, wharves and ship repair yards on the one side complemented with pubs, forges, shops, the odd bakery and lots of cottages stretching up the bank on the other side of the street. All was well, trade and development were brisk and people happy.

  As the century progressed there were wars, wrecks (and rescues), flooding, good times and Church Street went from being the beating heart of Whitby to a neglected element as money was spent at the other side of the Esk to cater for visitors on West Cliff and along that side of the river. 

As the fight between demand and money tussled with the whims of those making the decisions there was much redevelopment in the area between Church Street and the Esk which resulted in the loss of many of the buildings. The harbour swallowed up the houses and businesses as it edged towards my front door. At one time there were planks to my front that acted as a walkway over the dark water of the dock. At this time there was a high risk of flooding and my occupants would be ready with sandbags and buckets, sometimes sitting through the night ready to pale the seawater back into the dock. It didn’t happen often but I could feel the anxiety as they discussed the line-up of the moon and planets together with the crude sailors’ predictions for the weather. They knew fairly well when the tide would be high but there was less certainty with the wind direction. If the wind was strong and from the North and the tide predicted to be high then the combined pull of the planets and the push from the seaward fetch of the water combined to create major floods along the low-lying streets of Whitby.

If the gods were really angry and storms had been drenching the moors above the town for a few days or a sudden thaw was melting the snow at such a rate that the heather would generously release it together with all of the water that it had sponged and frozen throughout the winter; then the real cataclysmic floods would happen as moon, planets and wind contrived to push the sea up the Esk and the Esk countered by attempting to deliver the contents of the moors to the sea.

There’d be foam and brackish water blowing along the streets and frantic efforts by occupants to dam its path. For many, it would be futile and the following weeks would be filled with mopping, drying, removing sand, replacing wooden floors and, in some cases, looking for the source of the stench which would usually be related to the rotting corpse of some sea or river life that had been deposited under a floor or behind a wall.

When Church Street was re-established, it was made much higher to reduce the likelihood of floods and I now have three steps down to my living room. Traffic returned. In the early part of the century, it was hand-carts, horse-drawn carts, and horse-drawn carriages but they gave way to motorcars, vans, wagons and charabancs with visitors craning their necks to see the jawbones on the cliff and excited children desperate to be the one to get the first glimpse of the sea.

Boulby Bank

Boulby Bank cottages were built at a ninety-degree angle to Church Street and rose at quite a rake up the bank. They were brick built with pantile roofs and were accessed via wooden stairs and verandas. As the Victorian period became the Edwardian years the row was in good condition and the allotments in front of them were either used for food and, where they were overgrown, the children would play hide and seek in the grass and bracken.

 In the 1940s and 50s they were neglected and the weather had taken its toll but a more enlightened period may have taken a different approach to what happened in 1958. The wrecking ball was sent swinging against the two-hundred-year-old bricks and within a few days the rubble was ready for carting away.

  I managed to escape the swinging ball of destruction by virtue of a water closet. Apparently, one of the criteria for the decision to demolish was whether the building had mains sewage and as I had been a pub, I did meet the criteria and was saved. Many of the cottages had a plank with a hole cut in it.

Under this wonderful toilet seat there would be an oblong tin about the size of a tin bath. It was housed in a small, unheated brick building at the end of the yard and may well have been shared with the other houses. This was clearly the reason for the pot under the bed (sometimes referred to as a guzzunder) after all, who would want to leave the house in the middle of a cold and snowy winter night in a dressing gown with a storm lantern to light the way! Even a gentleman of generous dimensions would find it difficult to find his object of attention in temperatures of minus ten with snow and sleet blowing in under the three-quarter length door. I would add that the more sophisticated of these planks had two holes cut in so that both you and a friend could sit together and chat whilst errr, ‘sitting’, well I think that’s how it’s spelt! At least it would cut down on queuing.

  Anyway, I’m still here in 1959.

…and still enjoying life in this picture with the shop next door and Majors Bakery next to that this time in the 1960s.

  During that decade and after another change of hands I had a new fireplace fitted with a back boiler and the family now had hot water on tap, so to speak. There was also a lot of activity on my interior walls when plastic and cement were used to try to stem the moisture that was beginning to permeate what had been an internal wall but after the demolition of the forge next door it was left exposed to the elements.

  The temporary cement fix had the desired effect but only for a short period of time as the cement stopped my walls from breathing and the plastic hid the smell for many years. There was also a fashion for the use of plywood faced with a fake wooden veneer that gave the impression of stylish and sophisticated wood panelling, all of this combined to hide what was becoming an issue especially after the new apartments were built next door.

During the 1970s more building happened and demolition seemed to abate and I get new neighbours.

To be continued…

Please feel free to share or comment, I love comments.

With love, The Little Yellow Cottage xx

  Little Yellow Cottage – Update 17 – Demolition and the Value of the WC So lovely peeps of Whitby and beyond. I’ve regaled you of the wars and momentous rescues but I stopped before the greatest threat to my existence that came I the 1950s when the government passed a law that made money available for slum clearance.

[olwog]

Applegarth School Play – Oliver Not sure when this was presented, if you know or can identify any of the participants please let me know.  

[olwog]

Applegarth School Nativity 1993 The Applegarth nativity with carols and accompanied by the 'Orchestra and chorus'. See how many faces you recognise. Please feel free to comment with names and share...G..x Click here to run Applegarth School Nativity 1993             

[olwog]

Visitors

The people of who pass my door seem to be of three varieties. There’s the visitor that’s read some of my missives here and have come to search me out and take some photos, there are the passers-by who happen upon me and look surprised that the planners should demolish all around me and build a couple of brick boxes with no architectural merit as my bookends and there are the concerned locals who are interested ensuring that whatever is happening it needs to be right. They all have one thing in common, they’re interested in every stage of my renovation. George encourages them to call in and Lee always makes some time for them unless his work is time-critical. Some of the tasks over the last few weeks have been just that, very time-critical. My floors under the kitchen and to a lesser extent under the stairs had been affected by a collapsed drain. It’s all sorted now of course but the re-laying of the limecrete, once mixed, had to be done fairly rapidly. Lee had sent the lads out to acquire three mixers and they were all running side by side in the yard. They looked like hungry cows chewing the cud and working in parallel to produce the amount of material required to fill the carefully prepared kitchen floor.

I’m pleased to say that we get concerned faces at the window and, when the front is open, a ‘Hello!’ at the door. George or Lee (Waring) invite them in.

Mary and Glen Portier dropped in when Lee was laying the limecrete floor and he showed them around. They’re from Houma, Louisiana although Mary’s maiden name was Dixon and she hails from The Ropery, a street that runs parallel a couple of hundred metres behind me but they’ve been in the States for 50 years and follow the updates – Hi Mary and Glen, I like the colour of your top!

    Many others have called in over the summer and they all have a story. I really enjoy listening to them. They seem to have lots of questions especially about when I was built and how I got into the semi-derelict state that was caused when the roof caved in. It wasn’t noticed for several years and the furniture and other soft furnishings absorbed the rain. Sadly, once wet, they retained the moisture and fed it back into my floorboards, joists and walls over many months even when the weather outside was dry or even warm and that’s what caused the rot. That’s in the past though.

A few weeks ago George showed two ladies and their lovely little girl around the ground floor and he was told about granddad who spent some happy childhood years growing up here. They told him about the bakery next door and George showed them a little hatch in my southern wall with a message written in pencil during the 1970s.

    I’ve had the first coat of lime plaster on my walls and it feels good. For many years when the concrete sucked the life out of my bricks but now they’re breathing again and will continue to do so under this beautiful, lime based, blanket. The electrician’s been busy too and George has been investigating electric heaters to keep me warm as winter sets in.

They’ve been listing the snagging jobs and I’m looking forward to an outside step at the back so that the rear door can be fitted.

Martyn Cana is doing that and it’s interesting what thoughts contribute to the planning. On the face of it, it’s a simple task. i.e. how many steps, size of step, how big the landing area should be, dealing with rain and snow, leaving a fall for the drainage of water so it doesn’t enter the cottage, there’s lots to take into consideration and they’re doing that in detail.

  Martyn Canna

  The plan is to finish the plastering then the final fix electrics then do the painting so there is no necessity to cover the floors, they’ll be fitted after the painting then the skirting boards. There is still lots to do but we’re getting there.

George has been using local labour and suppliers where it’s been possible and I’d say that’s been about 90% of the time. They have pride in their work and are often family members. It’s also handy when one trade needs to call on the services of another at short notice. On the odd occasion one trade or another has been able to come at short notice and alleviate a hiatus that could have caused a complete halt for the initiating trade.

Initially, there was some surprise at being asked to repair stuff rather than replace it but everyone is working on that principal now although a lot of the plumbing and all of the wring were exempt from that clause. 

Tim of ‘Barn Antiques’ dipped my doors and did a sterling job on them. He was also professional enough to advise against dipping some of the others as he thought it wouldn’t work and I’m happy with that. He and his lovely wife Elizabeth have a business out on the Scarborough Road which is worth a visit if only for its quirkiness – boy is it quirky. George has included a few photographs of the yard. All towns should have things like this, nothing is wasted and if you need a ‘widget for a whatsit’ there’s every chance you’ll find a second hand one there and if you can’t then Tim or Elizebeth will. He dipped my internal doors and removed seven layers of paint off one of them; if they could talk you’d get a tale, but then, you’re getting that from me anyway!

    Mark, Luke and Nathan Storr have been busy with the lime plaster. They’re family; Mark is dad and Luke and Nathan, his sons. They work as a close team and seem to know what the others need or are thinking. I listen to their interaction as the first coat is ‘thrown on’ and thrown on it is. The idea is to get the base layer into all of the tiny cracks and porous elements of my 250-year-old bricks to form a key; however, the idea of the lime base is that my walls will still breath. The last 50 years or so have been very difficult when my inner walls were rendered in concrete. My bricks were suffocated and my walls, particularly the ones exposed to the elements were drawing moisture in but not able to release it due to the cladding.

All of that stopped last year when the concrete was removed by Lee and Ash Waring and team. Some hold-ups inhibited work for several months and in the case of my brickwork, it worked in my favour and allowed natural drying to take place so my walls are now ready for the luxury of proper lime render and this is where we are.

        Mark, Nathan and Luke are now working on the second coat which is much finer and you can see some of the results on the photographs of my top dormer floor. I’m looking and feeling good!

George is in the process of ordering the kitchen which should be here in about a month. My ground floor still has a lot of first fix stuff to take place especially the electrical work prior to plastering. I’m hoping it will take place over the next couple of weeks so that Mark can return and complete the plastering downstairs as he has with the upper two floors.

So, what’s to do? Well, quite a lot really. All of the above plus the fitting of the kitchen, rear door, step, floors and heating and there’s a fair amount of work for Jack Atkinson, my joiner as he works on my stairs and floors. Jack is another local tradesman from Goathland. I think I heard him say he’s sixth generation and married to a lady that’s fifth-generation from Goathland so he really knows the area and understands old buildings. He’s clearly proud of his work and this was underlined when George asked him about a particular panel under the stairs that has some damage on one of the frames. George asked him if we need to replace the frame and his answer was music to my ears, “No”, he said, “I can repair that” and he explained what he could do. I like tradesmen that are craftsmen and I’m delighted with the team that I have.

I’ll tell you a little bit more about all of the people that have worked on me in a few weeks,

More to come…LYC..x

  Please feel free to share.

Little Yellow Cottage – Update 16 – Local Trades People, Visitors and Progress Visitors The people of who pass my door seem to be of three varieties. There’s the visitor that’s read some of my missives here and have come to search me out and take some photos, there are the passers-by who happen upon me and look surprised that the planners should demolish all around me and build a couple of brick boxes with no architectural merit as my bookends and there are the concerned locals who are interested ensuring that whatever is happening it needs to be right.

[olwog]

Getting There

I’ve missed the last few rambles so today is something of a bonus. We’re heading for Rosedale to do a walk that I’ve fancied for some time. I did a shortened version of this a couple of years ago after a visit to the ‘Seated Man’ and it was quite boggy. Today, the weather is perfect for walking. The skies are a deep blue with some careless brushes of cirrus cloud although there is every possibility that it will change a little later and there are threatening signs of some deeper cloud over the Pennines in the far distance. 

    I’m enjoying the ‘now’ though. I’m in Postman Pat country on winding roads that are little more than tarmac enhanced lanes that have been here for centuries. They twist and turn as they follow the edge of fields, woods, rivers and ancient boundaries. 

I’m driving across the tops and can see the road gently but ominously dropping towards a ford and the water is in full flow from the rain overnight; in fact it’s been raining heavily for over a week so there is more than the usual amount of water flowing in the tiny stream that is currently impersonating a river.

This ford is normally dry and the stream ducks under the road through a small culvert. Not today though, there is a strong current running over the road although the marker that’s been established at the side suggests that it is no more than a foot (30cm) deep. There’re no cars in front or behind me so, in a fit of adolescent fun I welly the car and wash the underside quite nicely with the residue of the water flushing the top of the car and removing the gull shit that I acquired in Whitby yesterday quite effectively.

I stop at a small lay-by at the other side to take some photographs and just as I’m about to get back in to the driver’s seat another car appears, it’s the rest of the team, bar one, and they can see the results of my new, low tech, car wash. After some minor interrogation regarding what I’m doing we’re off again heading out of Westerdale into Rosedale passing some well known stones on the way.

I visited some of these with Pete a year or so ago and they’re well worth getting of the car for if you’re in this neck of the woods. See next section…

Tracks and Ancient Stones

There are tracks across these moors established by drovers, traders and religious people many centuries ago. The evidence is in the form of crosses, monoliths and smaller stones. Some of these were placed where they are for a known reason i.e. way markers or commemoration of an event (usually gory, or at the very least, scary!) and the ones that don’t have folk lore attached, but they all have a story and you’ll find a couple here:

Old and Young Ralph’s Crosses

Actually there are two that are well known along with Fat Betty and various lesser-known but equally fascinating markers and stones.

    Young Ralph is the one you’ll pass if you’re on the moor road. Old Ralph is about 320m (350 yds) west i.e. if you stand next to Young Ralph with your back to the road you can just about see Old Ralph on the horizon. Although it’s a relatively short distance, at the time of writing there had been significant rainfall and this has created numerous boggy areas so the actual walk whilst avoiding them is nearly 800m (half a mile) either way.

Young Ralph stands just under three metres (9 feet) and was restored by three local men who deserve a mention here as the work they did was considerable. 

First recorded in the 12c or 13c although the current one is probably from the 18c. It was vandalised in the 1960’s and again in 1980’s when three dedicated men restored it. 

*In 1985 the cross was lovingly restored and re-erected by some local men, Mr Robert Dixon, Mr Tom Rudd and Mr Michael Smith, at the English Heritage Commission’s stone masonry workshop at Mount Grace Priory.  The middle section of the cross was made from new stone from nearby quarries; the top section was not badly damaged, but a section of delta metal was inserted inside the shaft to make a secure link between the sections and the cross-head.  The cross is a listed monument. *Acknowledgements and thanks to ‘The Northern Antiquarian’

I couldn’t find anything to differentiate Old Ralph from Young Ralph in terms of the folk tales so here’s a synopsis that could apply to either or both!

A nun from Farndale and a monk from Rosedale who would meet there for an ecclesiastical chat followed by a romantic liaison! The latter could have been a medieval euphemism and given the steep paths from both directions I have a lot of admiration for them if they went beyond the chat…

A local man called Ralph found a penniless traveller who’d starved to death here and was so moved that he erected a cross to mark the spot and commemorate him. He then had a hollow carved in the top to enable passers by to add small coins to share so that other desperate travellers would be able to buy a simple meal at one of the nearby inns and no-one else should suffer the same fate. Given the fact that the average hight of a tall man in those days wouldn’t be much more than five feet I think the only poor starving travellers that would be able to avail themselves of the bounty would needed to have been carrying a step ladder!

A medieval way marker. They stand at a point where there are at least two contemporary roads and possibly three paths or tracks in years gone by.

…and connected to 3 above, they have a groove in their tops where money could be left for destitute travellers so that they would have some small change for a meal when they reached the next hamlet or farmstead.

Fat Betty

        Is a four foot piece of stone that has the impression of a head at the top. The upper part is painted white and the myths and legends that surround it are numerous…

Two nuns and their attendant were lost in the fog and were eventually found dead and the stone is there to commemorate another is that it is named after a nun called Margery and it was originally called ‘Margery Cross’ and another that a local farmers wife didn’t return from a trip to the local hamlet and he found her here dead. The stone is a memorial!

The bottom line is that nobody knows, but they’re good tales and tick all of the boxes of intrigue, mystery, bit of supernatural, suffering and death; what’s not to like?

Rosedale

We’re passing all of this to drop down into Rosedale Abbey for the start of the walk. It’s a beautiful little village and there’s plenty fo parking space, there’s also facilities for those of us of an age and five minutes later we’re ready to rock n roll – well walk.

    Our route follows the stream which is swollen but not at risk of flooding. There are numerous boggy areas that need a little bit of care and I complement myself for choosing the heavier Gortex boots for this walk, they’ll keep me dry provided I don’t step into anything that’s going to see my foot disappear under more than six inches of mud or water.

    We’re through a couple of fields now and rising all the time so the boggy areas are becoming less frequent and the view down Rosedale more spectacular. We stop and look back as we cross Knott Road. The sun has made an appearance and we can see the shadows of the clouds scooting down the dale. They’re moving apace and it would be impossible to keep up with them on foot, inf= fact, it’s only when you see this kind of evidence that you appreciate the strength of the wind that’s driving the culprits across the sky.

We enter Knottside Plantation and walk for twenty minutes in the shade and protection of the wood. The blustery wind can still be heard and the tops of the trees are flexing as it looks for easier routes and leaves us in a quiet corridor that undulates and gently twists with the land, it’s not difficult in here but there are plenty of boulders and stones so care is needed at each step.

          As we’re exiting the wood George mentions some evidence of an industrial past and almost on cue we see a small yard of abandoned ‘stuff’ the highlight of which is a very old wagon of indeterminate vintage and make. One of its lights seems to be a slit light that were evident in the last war and it’s a left-hand-drive, beyond that, it’s a mystery.

  As we walk I realise that we’re now on the bed of a disused railway track. It was opened in 1861 as an extension of the ingenious funicular that serviced the needs of the mines above Battersby Junction. The wagons on that section would be pulled up the slope using the weight of the full ones going down and with the help of various braking systems the speed was held at about 20 mph which would be pretty rapid in those days. The 10 mile extension over the moors enabled the iron to be transported initially from the east side of Rosedale but in later years a further extension was added and more iron could be extracted by mines to the west at Blakey.

The views along and down the valley change as we walk and the weather adds a damp threat to the atmosphere bit doesn’t come to anything.

As we round one of the gentle bends some brick structures come into view. They’re like a multi arch bridge but they were built to be part of the processing of the ore and are listed as calcining kilns. They’re semi derelict now but there is work being done to restore them or, to be more precise, make them safe.

    It’s fascinating that this little dale was host to such an industrial heritage with miners injecting life and money into the local economy. Wikipedia suggests that this dale is heavily financed by holiday cottages and, whilst this keeps the dale alive it does mean that local workers will have difficulty raising the funds to buy even the most modest of properties.

After a brief encounter with a mini-Striding-Edge we take a narrow track down towards the valley base at Dale End where the aptly named Dale End Farm promises shelter, coffee, tea, scones and various beautiful cakes all home cooked and all financed by an honesty box and suggested price list. It’s quirky and wonderful with various types of seats that vary between normal tables and chairs to comfortable armchairs and settees many of which have a lovely view that comes as standard. 

    Forty minutes later we’re well fed and ready for the return leg which is mostly road bound but still offering lovely views and we get another angle on the Kilns that stand out well in the sun and from this distance not as dilapidated.

    As we make our way down the long descent to Rosedale Abbey we pass Bell End Farm and stop to revert to adolescent humour and numerous photographs – to paraphrase – “You can grow old with dignity but you can’t take the boy out of a man!”

    This walk is about 13km (~8 miles) and whilst there are some quite testing ‘ups’ it’s easy and fascinating in equal measure.

Thanks to George Renwick, George Preston (Tracker George), Peter Hymer, Dave Rider and Dave Bowman.

Wonderful friends and excellent company. G…x

Fabulous walk around the Rosedale and the industrial past - fabulous...G..x Getting There I’ve missed the last few rambles so today is something of a bonus. We’re heading for Rosedale to do a walk that I’ve fancied for some time.

[olwog]

Today we learn that this section of the Cleveland way is ‘up’, that not all cairns are cairns and Bronze Age burial grounds should be given the same respect as modern ones.

    There’s only a couple of serious gradients but the rest of the ‘up’ is continuous and challenging. It drains you but the camaraderie helps to combat the breathlessness and the knowledge that its good for the heart is encouraging.

I’m heading to Swainby from York so its a relatively early start. The weather is on our side though and the summer rain that had been making the ground slimy through the night has stopped but the evidence is still there.

    The walk is about 5 miles and beautiful. As it turns out we missed the intense colours of the heather by about 10 days. I’ve been fortunate in that I’ve caught it as I’ve travelled to Whitby over the previous three weeks and it has been a magnificent display. No matter though, the ridge and the track take us along one of the most picturesque in Yorkshire with clear views of the Vale of Mowbray stretching out like a patchwork quilt of fields and hedges towards the Pennines. The damp ground has attracted a slight mist that doesn’t obscure the spine of the country but it does soften the detail.

    The beautiful, rural idyll, so peaceful now has seen some pretty dire times only a few hundred years ago. In the 11th century, William had been having some trouble with the natives in this region. It should be noted that all the counties north of the Humber where referred to as Northumberland and the language in Yorkshire would have been hard to understand in the South (a bit like today really!) Anyway, the aristocracy and landowners in the region below us were of Scandinavian origin or certainly with Scandinavian genes and were pretty unimpressed with William and his French cronies thinking he could take the Northern tribes so he needed to prove his point and he did it with a vengeance. He sent his armies north with orders to ‘raze the towns and villages to the ground’. This they did and threw in a scorched earth policy to boot. They tortured, raped and murdered as they looted the villages then set fire to buildings and crops. There was mass starvation for those that temporarily survived and managed to get their wives and children into the forests and hills and all of this happened a thousand feet below on the tranquil plane that’s currently bathed in sunshine.

That’s only in our time though. Millions of years before that it was a huge lake that stretched down to York and beyond, hence the flat plane that we now recognise. It would be populated with all kinds of prehistoric animals and fish together with woods and vegetation that’s rotted down to produce the wonderful fertile land that our farmers use to such advantage.

All of the above is buzzing through my head as we make our way up through Live Moor Plantation. There are rugged steps through the wood and the rise is over 300 feet in only a few hundred yards so we stop a couple of times to catch our breath.

Through the gate and onto Live Moor proper takes us on a much less steep path carefully paved by volunteers and stretching up into the distance. The ferns have definitely been busy through the night catching and storing the rain so that an accidental brush past their fronds results in heavy wet patches across our jeans. A little further up and it’s rocky moorland largely covered in the heather that we’re looking forward to seeing but sadly, has just gone over although there is still evidence of what it was like a couple of weeks ago.

    Down to our left is Whorl Hill carefully planted with conifers in 1953 as Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor was being transformed from Princess to Queen as the final words of her vows were being uttered in the Abbey Church of St. Peter:

”The things which I have here before promised, I will perform, and keep.” 

…and she did!

There is a secret on Whorl Hill’s eastern side where, in winter, when the larch have dropped their needles, the letters ‘E – R’ reveal themselves via a number of spruce trees carefully planted by the foresters who were responsible for the wood.

We’re halfway through the walk now and the terrain is flattening when we arrive at a cairn that’s not really a cairn and a small sign asks us to treat it with respect as it is a bronze age grave so we’re not to add stones to it. It feels odd to be up here in the middle of nowhere reading about bronze age men who were burying their dead in this bleak place thousands of years ago.

    The rest of the track has been well maintained and the views continue to delight although the wind has certainly begun to make its presence felt; however, it has encouraged the clouds to vacate our part of the skies and reveal some beautiful, welcome blue after an hour and half of grey. 

A half-hour from Lordstones and we split into two groups. One takes the right fork that will steer them around the trig point and onto a less demanding lane to the rewards of the cafe.  We take the higher route to the trig point where we can wallow in the views of the Vale and onwards to Teesside and the long panorama of the Pennines. We also get the delightful silhouette of Roseberry in the far distance.

    We make our way down the steep steps towards the top of Carlton Bank and see the other group well in front but the trig point route is by far superior and I would recommend it unless you have issues with heights or steps.

    Lordstones Cafe is well worth a visit. We tend to find ourselves here as a start point, endpoint or middle point and the latter two cases, usually end up with an excellent bacon bun. Recommended.

Feel free to share or comment, I love comments…G..x

  A fabulous walk from Swainby to Lordstones. Today we learn that this section of the Cleveland way is ‘up’, that not all cairns are cairns and Bronze Age burial grounds should be given the same respect as modern ones.

[olwog]

Update 15 – Smuggling, Press Gangs and Pub Closures

I’ve been a tiny cottage in a terrace, a pub, also in a terrace then a cottage again only now I’m squeezed between two modern buildings which, paradoxically, shows off my lovely antiquities even more.

Press Gangs

In 250 years I’ve seen it all. During my early years there was huge activity regarding the ‘recruitment’ of unfortunate victims to man the fighting ships. As 50% of the crew would die of scurvy, dysentery, various poxes or from wounds sustained in storms and day to day work before you consider the terrible wounds sustained in battle, it’s not surprising that it wasn’t first choice for the able-bodied menfolk of the Whitby or any other town. There are stories of Press Gangs who would drift into pubs and buy a beer for some unlucky victim and a shilling (5p) coin would be dropped into the bottom of the tankard. It was alleged that once the man had taken a sup he would be grabbed and the liquid emptied to reveal that he’d accepted the ‘King’s shilling’ and thereby had become a serviceman fighting for King and Country. The hapless individual would then be dragged off without any return home, to fight for his King against Spanish, French, Portuguese or any other country that was deemed to be an enemy. If he was lucky and didn’t show any signs of making an escape he ‘may’ be allowed home once or twice every couple of years on the other hand, if he tried to escape then he was treasonous and would be hanged in front of his fellows for cowardice. Grim times for the victim! A hundred and fifty years ago seamen could be recruited into the Royal Navy by simply being told that this was going to be their fate. He would often be ‘encouraged’ to volunteer by being offered a couple of months pay as an advance. This wouldn’t go far though as they would take it back as payment for clothes and equipment including a hammock, the fact that he was a volunteer; however, did have some perks over being a ‘pressed man’ and he would be treated more favourably.

  So pubs were important. Not just for ‘recruitment’ but also trading and a bit of recreation. After I was built there were times when I was a simple dwelling as I am now but there were other times when I was a pub; now those were interesting times! I was known as The Steam Packet, The Greenland Fishery and The Steamboat Inn. I had enjoyed a hugely successful trading life in the late 1800s but ended up being de-licensed in the cull of pubs following the 1904 licensing act. This legislation was enacted to enable compensation for the redundant landlords and encourage magistrates to reduce the number of pubs.

Pubs and Smuggling

You don’t need to be a dreamer to imagine the bar layout of my living room. The beams and supports defined the bar and I have a hatch that was used to dispense the beers and porters until, of course, my landlord succumbed to exhaustion.

  At that point, the hatch would close and the ‘clientele’ would wobble their way out of my tiny front door, now restored, and stagger down Church Street singing their way to their homes and wives. They were a hard community in many ways but were always ready to make the ultimate sacrifice to save the lives of seafarers and passengers who were compromised by the vicious storms that could materialise in the North Sea well before weather forecasting and the Shipping Forecast became a mariners aid and, it has to be said, an institution to the rest of the listeners of the wireless that would become ubiquitous in coming years. Saving lives as part of a team in an open rowing boat in a North Sea Storm was astonishingly brave but taken as part of what Whitby seamen did. They do it now in a rather better-equipped boat but the nerves of steel and bravery are still the base requirement and they have that in buckets. God Bless them all, I’ve seen them leave and I’ve seen them come back and occasionally the conversation around my dinner table would be sombre and sometimes silent. Our part of the North Sea can be cruel and if that’s mixed with heroism then there’s a recipe for tragedy and I’ve seen my fair share of that.

The men from the key-side would call in at all times of day and night. Licensing hours hadn’t been invented in those early days so ‘calling time’ was a matter of exhaustion for the landlord. In Whitby, there was much merriment and hard-drinking after a busy day on the docks and there was always the opportunity to buy goods at ‘special’ prices. If lorries had been invented the ‘goods’ would have fallen off them. Smuggling was very nearly a profession and the yards and alleyways of Whitby would give cover for furtive meetings or, when chased, a means of escape from the excise men.

I remember many nights of noisy, drunken talk of the “The King of Smugglers”. He was John Andrews, the Landlord of the Ship Inn up the coast in Saltburn. His pub was the distribution centre for contraband goods that were moved from town to town via horse and cart, inshore boats, donkeys and mules and even strapped to the body; usually of women as intimate searches of women were almost non-existent. The women of Whitby would leave their home looking slim and healthy and return to ‘certain’ bars and houses looking rather more, shall we say, ‘plump’. Their undergarments had been augmented with pockets and pouches that accented what they’d already got and may well have induced an element of disappointment for their lusty husbands when they returned to normal size; however, the disappointment would be mitigated with the knowledge that they’d generated more money in a one day extended walk from Saltburn than two weeks fishing in the wildest of conditions off Greenland. Most of the ‘goods’ were wines, spirits, tobacco, teas and coffee. All fairly innocuous stuff with minor involvement in drugs which were largely opiates and used by all strata of society but thought of as no worse than alcohol at the time. 

Mrs Gaskell, who lived in Whitby at the time, commented “There was a clever way in which certain Whitby women managed to bring in prohibited goods. In fact, when a woman did give her mind to smuggling, she was full of resources, and tricks, and impudence, and energy more so than any man”

  Horizontal Jogging

My rooms as a pub would be filled with workers from the shipyards and harbour; however, the sailors were, by far, the most colourful. Beer would be strong and flat and in the early years safer to drink than water. The atmosphere in my bar would be thick with smoke and there’d rarely be a woman unless she was touting for trade as a ‘personal trainer’. There’d be considerable interest in horizontal jogging especially from the sailors who’d have spent many weeks at sea looking forward to some amorous adventures in one of my rooms hired on an hourly basis.

I still have the hatch through which the beer would be served. It was converted to a window in later years but became the victim of rot caused by the damaged roof eight years ago. It’s one of the few wooden structures that couldn’t be repaired so it’ll be replaced as a hatch over the next few weeks.

  Slum Clearance, Renewal and Renovation

I heard an interesting tale from a passing ‘oddball character’ earlier this week. He was talking about the slum clearances that happened a few decades ago. He said that the criterion for demolition was the lack of a water closet, I do have one and survived whereas the premises either side were more commercial and suffered the ultimate ‘improvement’ i.e. they were demolished and rebuilt with modern bricks to a design that was more to do with cost than architectural merit and I remain squeezed between them happy in the knowledge that my team are renovating where possible and renewing only if it’s really necessary.

I’m pleased with my new and renovated windows and George has done a lot of work on my door and surrounds. The wrought ironwork has been reapplied following shot blasting and repainting together with a lick of paint both outside and in.

There’s still a lot to do inside, especially on the floors and walls but plans are afoot for bathroom and kitchen and the top floor is ready for the lime plaster and floor boarding.

I’m still listening and I have more to tell, especially regarding some wonderful coincidences regarding Lee (my builder) and family members from way back.

I’ll let you know.

With love from The little Yellow Cottage…x

Feel free to share or comment. I love comments…LYC..x

Little Yellow Cottage – Update 15 – Smugglers, Press Gangs and Pub Closures Update 15 - Smuggling, Press Gangs and Pub Closures I’ve been a tiny cottage in a terrace, a pub, also in a terrace then a cottage again only now I’m squeezed between two modern buildings which, paradoxically, shows off my lovely antiquities even more.

[olwog]

ESH

I hear a conversation in the street outside my front door. George has been working on my front windows and numerous people had stopped to pass the time-of-day as they admire my scaffold-free front. There’s still lots to do of course but the outside is looking up and the door surrounds will add to that when they’re finished.

“Excuse me sir, is that your cottage? It’s quirky I really like it”, it’s the man from ESH, impeccably mannered and very friendly.

    Greeting over The Years Things have altered over the years with regard to courtesy and greeting. Today’s little exchanges would have been a little more formal in the 1750s. There was a lot of action on that road. It was a time when there was a lot of activity in the harbour too.  There’d be warehouses and boat builders along the dock. The harbour edge moved towards me then away from me again over the years and the road that is there now varied between narrow boarded walkaway to the wide thoroughfare that is current. In those days there would be horses and carts, horses and carriages, horses and riders and pedestrians. There’d also be handcarts and barrows employed to shift materials and goods from ship to warehouse and thence to traders who would put the goods for sale locally or arrange for their distribution in-land via horse and cart or more ships and boats. Everything was labour intensive and necessitated a protocol for greeting.

The man working on the anti-flood scheme would probably have doffed his hat prior to the polite greeting at the head of this update. The workmen outside are politeness personified and are a credit to ESH, the contractors who’re digging the footpath. There’s a lot of noise and dust but the workmen explain their objectives and when there is a mention of painting the door there is an offer to start a little further down the road but George wouldn’t hear of it; however, the point is that these guys are the manifestation of a caring company and the image they project is exactly that.   I like these guys; they’ve even made provision for us to get delivery vehicles in and for the next-door neighbour and his disabled son to get out at times throughout the day. They’re also quick to move barriers if they see George or Lee dropping stuff off. Well done ESH and your excellent staff, you get my vote.

Back to My Renovation The boys have moved up a gear stripping the last of the concrete from my walls. There’s a fair amount of pointing necessary on my walls but my fireplace is now complete and reinforced. The holes for the rear windows have now been cut and the bricks have been set aside and cleaned for use in other parts of my interior.

    The Window Tax In the mid-1700s as I was built there would be great care taken over the number of windows that I was allowed to have. There was a window tax and it varied according to the number installed. It was meant to be levied only on people that had larger homes and, by inference, were deemed to be able to afford it. Income tax had been invented but not applied as it was deeply unpopular because it meant that people would have to disclose their income and that, at the time, was deemed to be too intrusive. From what my walls pick up from conversations and the wireless, the big earners still manage to hide what they earn, they just launder it and set it off-shore so nothing changes!

The Brick Tax In 1784 George 111 imposed a brick tax. Fortunately, the majority of my building had been completed but some of my bricks appear to be bigger than others and may well have been used for repair work during the period of its imposition. Later in the 1800s the rules were refined to stop the practice of creating larger bricks by doubling the tax on any brick bigger than 10” x 5” x 3” but not before some brick manufacturers had become quite creative by producing real beasties, in fact, Joseph Wilkes of Leicestershire was responsible for a particular size called “Wilkes’ Gobs”, whether you sympathise with these ‘creative’ ways of avoiding tax you must agree, it’s a great name!

Now I have Windows Lee has been up to Jack Hallam’s to pick up my dormer windows and the two rear ones.

    They’re excellent quality and weigh heavy. He’s been talking about how to get them up to my openings that have been carefully prepared when the dormers themselves were re-leaded and made watertight. My wooden, spiral staircase isn’t conducive to getting anything but humans between floors and after some deliberation, he’s come up with a cunning plan. The floors are temporary and only there for safety. I remember years ago when builders would dance about on my joists before laying the permanent flooring, that doesn’t happen any more and that’s a good thing. They’ve managed to re-roof me, re-dormer me, refurbish my joists, restore my walls, remove the damaging concrete, rewire me and add insulation all without mishap and that’s due to the temporary flooring that Lee laid many months ago. It’ll be going soon but in the meantime, the new windows will be lifted through the bottom of the front window then up between the joists to the top floor, ingenious eh?

    Lee and the team have worked wonders today. The cunning plan was a complete success and not only did they manage to install my dormers, but they also managed the other two windows as well. Now there is light in my rooms my plasterer will be able to work his magic using specially prepared lime plaster that will not destroy my hand made bricks as the concrete did over the years. Apparently, it can be tricky to use but I have every confidence he’ll deliver the goods. In fact in all of these wonderful tradesmen have treated me with respect, incredible skill and, most importantly, care.

 View from the Middle Floor Front

  View to the Back

  New Vehicle George has got rid of the Jag and bought an old X-Trail so that he can carry stuff to aid my restoration, he’s been busy burning old paint off and I’ve managed to surprise him with evidence of seven layers of paint on one of my windows. 

Numerous people have stopped and passed the time of day with him and all, without exception, have wished him luck with my completion, I’m pleased with that; the love of the people of Whitby and beyond is reassuring and I look forward to you on some open days to let you see what’s been done, George will keep you informed.

There’s a bit to go but I think I’m beginning to look good!

  Flooring is next…I’ll let you know.

With love from The Little Yellow Cottage…x

Little Yellow Cottage – Update 14 – Taxes & Greetings ESH I hear a conversation in the street outside my front door. George has been working on my front windows and numerous people had stopped to pass the time-of-day as they admire my scaffold-free front.

[olwog]

George has been busy stripping my door, refitting my windows in the front and doing a lot of painting but there’s a huge amount yet to do. Lee Waring, my builder, has been revealing my original fireplace and chimney and renovating them using reclaimed bricks and Danny has removed the last of the concrete that was having such a disastrous effect on my old bricks and Lee will get them ready for the lime plaster that will be used to bring them back to the condition that they were in when I was built all those years ago. I’m feeling optimistic and delighted that work has re-started.

    People have been stopping to talk to George as he’s been working on my front, they’re a friendly bunch here in Whitby. I overheard talk of Whitby Hospital refurbishment and George had a couple of wonderful anecdotes illustrating the pricelessness of the NHS and the caring nature of the Whitby people.

I remember telling you of the establishment of the hospitals and the caring staff that make them work. When Princess Margaret opened the Cottage Hospital she mentioned that the hospital was for the people of Whitby and all the visitors who make this beautiful town what it is.

Recently, I overheard a conversation regarding a lovely American lady called Kathy who, along with Otto from Canada, had just finished the Coast to Coast walk. That, in itself, was a credit to them as Kathy was 76 at the time of the walk and Otto a mere youngster at 66.

George and Cecilia had picked them up from Robin Hoods Bay and were intent on taking them back to York but became concerned about Kathy’s face. She’d taken a fall on the last day of the walk and was quite bruised around the eye socket and there was a deep gash below it which Kathy had treated with some Elastoplast. Things were not right and they persuaded her to allow them to take her to the Accident and Emergency unit at Whitby Hospital.

Even through the trauma of the injury, they were captivated with Whitby as they passed through and were promised a little tour together with a look at me after the visit to the hospital.

They took Kathy into the A&E Unit and were being booked in by a kindly person who needed her address together with name and nationality. Kathy, in the meantime, was opening her purse and thumbing through credit/debit cards ready to pay. She was asked to walk a very short distance to the waiting area where she was looking around the room for the ‘Accounting Office’ where she could pay. Within a couple of minutes, a delightful nurse came to her and she asked him where to pay but the response was a smile and reassurance that the important thing at the moment was to get her patched up then worry about payment. 

Otto was smiling in gratitude and Kathy was perplexed at the concept of ‘being patched up’ before taking a credit card imprint whilst George is just proud and delighted with such priceless NHS service and promises himself in the future to not take it for granted. 

Fifteen minutes later, Kathy re-emerged with clean wound, clean dressing and a management plan together with a quick word to her friends, “If she becomes ‘odd’ or unconscious, then take her to A&E wherever you are and explain the situation”. None of this is necessary as it turns out but the most wonderful moment was on leaving. Kathy asked once again where she should pay and the nurse said, “There was no scan or expensive equipment involved, please enjoy your stay in the Whitby and the UK, there’s no charge”. We love the NHS…

The conversation went on to talk about the ‘good old days’ when ‘proper food’ would be served from the big casserole on my fire grate and everyone was so much healthier from being exposed to germs and bacteria that, in turn, produced all the antibodies.

Hmmm, I remember before vaccinations pre-1970s when my upper rooms would be darkened with heavy curtains as youngsters with measles were sent to bed.  The room was in darkness because their eyes were sensitive to light. George remembers going to school with friends who were suffering from the effects of Polio. If they were lucky they’d have leg callipers, the unlucky ones were in iron lungs hoping that they’d recover their ability to breathe unaided. There were adolescent boys walking like John Wayne if they contracted mumps and young girls with their own version of discomfort nursing swollen ovaries or meningitis for the unlucky few. I remember the day one of the youngsters came home from school and announced that his teacher thought he had German measles and would he take a few days off school. I had the lovely lady from next door not long married and excited about the rest of her life, she paled and announced, “I’m pregnant” before running out in terror. Rubella rarely leaves the victim with much in terms of side effects but it can have disastrous consequences for an unborn child rendering it with blindness, deafness, mental disorders and heart defects. There was whooping cough leading to weeks of serious discomfort or worse for the child, diphtheria with the possibility of nerve and/or heart damage. Before that Tuberculosis (TB) was rife and only became managed after the formation of NHS and the widespread use of antibiotics; however, it’s still around and certainly hasn’t been eradicated like some of the childhood diseases.

Most of the above were well on the way to being just an unpleasant memory when warnings were issued about the combined vaccination causing or contributing towards autism and many parents decided against having their children immunised not only exposing them to the dreadful diseases but destroying the firebreak that had emerged due to the vaccination programme that had been established. I heard that Dr Wakefield had been struck off for the inaccuracies and contrived ‘evidence’ in his paper and the subsequent suffering of children due to the lack of immunisation. 

However, nothing compares to the horrifying diseases that were rife in the 1700s when I was being built, and Whitby, being a sea-faring town, witnessed some diseases that were quite rare and exotic. I remember the ‘Quarantine Bible’ being used well after The Plague had done it’s worst. I heard my occupants talk of a quarantined vessel being moored 3 miles off the coast and a Boarding Officer being assigned to go out and demand the Master (Captain) of the vessel to swear on the Bible that, 

“…neither he, nor any member of his crew were suffering from the Plague or any other malady that would prejudice the health of the people of the town”. 

The Bible was referred to as the Plague Bible as it was encased in copper and passed to the master on the end of a long pole then dragged through the salty sea on the way back to the cobble to cleanse it of any infection. The whole process was reliant on: 

A) the master being a Christian  B) that he was being honest

Neither of the above was guaranteed as the boat would be full of cargo and quite often perishable so the necessity to unload may have influenced the process.

I’ve seen huge change during my 250 year lifetime and heard many stories of tragedy and triumph around my dinner table but the tales of Kathy and Otto. Two lovely people from the New World being treated so well at Whitby Hospital warms my soul.

    Next up is my dormer and rear windows and more restoration on my walls.

With luck and a fair wind, all of the loving restorations should see me good for another 250 years! 

Take care.

With love from The Little Yellow Cottage…x

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Little Yellow Cottage – Update 13 – Health and Disease George has been busy stripping my door, refitting my windows in the front and doing a lot of painting but there’s a huge amount yet to do.

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10 Easy Stress Reduction Methods

10 Easy Stress Reduction Methods

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To Eastbourne and beyond. It’s not often that I leave London by train heading south but the life of an evangelist is never easy. Today we learn that Kent is truly a beautiful county, they even have trees and fields.

I’m travelling to Eastbourne where I’ll be dicing with the man with the scythe as I’m told that old people go there to die and since I’m no spring chicken my plan is to head South West as soon as the station ticket barriers wave me goodbye with a Star Trek woosh.

It’s raining in Eastbourne although it’s warm rain. The droplets that hit me are the size of a beach bucket and I’m thinking, how appropriate. So I’m wet but warm and cannot be bothered with my wet weather stuff which is well down in the rucksack having been conned by the forecast which was for blue skies and sunshine.

I’ll not go into great detail save to say the walk from Eastbourne to Beachy Head is pleasant enough but damp and slightly challenging as I go from sea level to 450 feet in about a mile. The challenging bit is not to do with exertion, it’s the humidity, rain and sweat combining to make things uncomfortable. I had, by this time, relented with regard to my wet weather gear and I’m certainly being kept dry from the outside but extremely wet with sweat on the inside. I’d been looking forward to the view at Beachy Head but there isn’t one! The low cloud is eerie as it blows from somewhere ‘down there’ i.e. off the Channel and eddies over the cliffs, it might not be pretty but it’s certainly fascinating.

The track is well defined and there’s no danger along the cliffs although I’d have preferred a view. It is nondescript in the strict sense that there’s nothing to describe and the next three miles maintains this level of riveting interest. I did read something as I tested a coffee before I began the incline and there’s a mystery associated with this part of the coast line. In 2017 over 200 people were treated in hospital for the affects of some kind of gas. Initially, chemical-works on the French side of the Channel were blamed but the Met Office advised that it would be highly unlikely due to prevailing winds at the time. Others thought it may have been the final throws of a ship that had been mined in the First World War and carrying a classified cargo!

As I approach appropriately named Cliff End ready to turn inland and into the Downs proper I meet a couple who’re intent on the whole walk but they’re struggling with the weather and are contemplating an extended stop at the Youth Hostel which is no more then a couple of miles away. I treasure them that rain is usually a transient thing and that when the sun shines they’ll be bouncing along and not to get disheartened. We’re met by a ranger who’s on his way down. He greets us with a smile and informs us that there are rolling thunderstorms on the tops and adds that we should consider not going much past the Youth Hostel and to assess the situation there. I’m astonished at the coincidence and tell him about our recent conversation. I walk with the couple to the YH and as they enter I decide on a coffee with them until I see a bus with Brighton in bold LED on the front. So Brighton it is then…

It’s forty years since I’ve been to Brighton and I’m looking forward to it as I page through TripAdvisor and hotels.com for a reasonable placed to stay that lives in the same financial world as me.

I alight at the SeaLife Centre and take the opportunity of a dry walk along the Prom passing the current pier followed by the skeleton of the old one that burned down in 2003, yes you read that right, it’s fifteen years since the fires that saw it off. English Heritage had it as a Grade 1 listed building and there are still question marks over the two fires both of which were deemed to have been arson.

Brighton’s well worth a visit but I don’t think I could handle more than a couple of days although with a bit of energy and imagination there are some nice buildings to visit and some wonderful stories that sit behind the architecture.

One such is St Martin’s Church that looks like a huge council house from the outside but the inside is magnificent. Wagner himself dedicated himself to the poor and established support systems including food and education. Definitely worth a visit and all credit to the man who was wealthy but generous in both time and money.

…and so to ‘Battle’

Enjoy the snaps. G..x

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Blog To Eastbourne and beyond. It’s not often that I leave London by train heading south but the life of an evangelist is never easy.