Scrumpy Nights

Last night was another few hours of my life lost to the lure of scrumpy down at the Hope and Anchor, our local rhyming slang inn. I think I was with the proverbial Farmer Giles, who regaled us with many of his tales.

I vaguely remember discussing recent news about proposals to cut sentencing, before becoming a bit befuddled in a slowly turning grey mist streaked with orange and large droplets of what seemed to be vodka. It was as though I was caught in a twister, but in the end it turned out to be a screwdriver. Anyway, we was debating the effects these changes in sentencing - in a legalistic sense, rather than grammatically-speaking - would have on the local sheep dog trials, when he told me about his new arrival. No, it wasn't another piglet - he has put all that behind him -, he was referring to his new sheep dog. Apparently, Shep (the proverbial Farmer Giles is not one of life's creative thinkers) tends to be a bit emotional, a bit unpredictable, and has a morbid fear of being left behind on the high moors. I think he has found himself one of those borderline collies.

Spanish coastline tipping into sea

In my wanderings up and down the Costa Blanca and Costa Calida, I’ve noticed that many residents are worried that the Spanish Costas are sinking, possibly because of all the concrete being used in the construction industry along the southern and eastern coastlines. However, this is not happening along western coastlines, which seem instead to be rising slightly. And now international scientist Dr Sheema Enshake is rocking the world with her break-through research on the 'see-sawing' Costas.

Dr Enshake has always been interested in tectonic and seismic tremors and shudders (according to her three ex-husbands). However, she's also fond of wearing high heels when she's at work - and some scientists reckon she doesn't always take that into consideration in her measurement calculations.

Nevertheless, her recent observations are interesting, and the 'tipping' theory she proposes has a lot going for it - according to her colleagues in the Department of Theological and Physical Geography. They also reckon the 'tipping see-saw' effect is the most likely explanation. In which case there must be, under the middle of Spain, some huge 'fulcrum' over which the peninsula plate see-saws. And hence, as is often the case, we end up with a theological/architectural explanation.

"God left His big pencil underneath the width of Spain when He was designing Earth," said one of the religious geologists. "That would also explain why Norway is such an odd shape," added an even more religious architect. "Having lost His pencil, God never did any rough sketches first: He just made it up as He went along."

According to some very old, local geologists, there were, in previous centuries, extensive lead mines right across central Spain. So I took a trip out to the middle of the country to have a look. Sure enough, recent excavations have revealed many samples to be engraved with the symbol '2B'. So there may be some evidence for 'God's Pencil Fulcrum' - and hence further support for the 'see-saw' effect.

Burnsall, in Wharfedale, is a nice place – and quite posh. I saw this bloke shovelling horse manure into a trailer. But he was wearing very smart, neatly pressed trousers and a pristine shirt and tie. I stopped to ask him why he was dressed up so smart.
“Well, I’m off to a wedding, so I put ma newer clothes on.”
“But what about the smell?” I asked. “Well, the bride and groom wanted orthodentic stuff – real country smells and all that.”
“Don’t you mean ‘authentic’” I pointed out.
“Naw,” he said. “If I can chew it with ma teeth, then it’ll be allreet for guests. They ‘ave it with wedding cake round these parts.”
PS. This story stinks. I wrote it with one of ma newer pens.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

You get a real buzz walking about in the countryside on a lovely warm, sunny day. And that’s what we heard as we passed this garden and saw a bee-hive and bee-keeper in full protective gear. We stopped to talk to him, and asked how many bees he had. “Seven!” he shouted, “I’m only a beginner!” “Pardon!” I shouted back (because we couldn’t hear him properly). “I’m on-ly a bee-ginn-er!” he shouted again, slowly, before taking off his head protection. “But my bees are gorgeous, aren’t they? Just look at these little beauties,” he said proudly, as he cradled them in his hands.
Whilst I was getting my camera out, one of them buzzed up into his eyes. I captured the scene in a quick snapshot. “So there you are,” I said to my wife. “Beauty is in the eye of the bee-holder.”

Later on, we called in at the pub for a pint. Sitting outside in the sunshine, I was just about to raise the glass to my lips when my wife whispered “Look at me!” So I did. “You look lovely.”
“So there you are,” she said, “beauty is in the eye of the beer-holder.”

Helena Haycartes - new documents unearthed.

For too long now, Helena Haycartes has gone unrecognised for her contributions to filosophy, over- shadowed by her husband Irene Haycartes (see "First Thoughts"). This week, an exclusive report in "Farmchair Filosophy Fortnightly " (published by Alliterative Al and Associates) finally demonstrates how she shaped her husband's thinking and presaged existential nihilism and a TV satirical panel game. The evidence was found amongst a series of intimate letters they wrote to each other during periods of estrangement - Irene of course led a double-life, laying the foundations of what has become known as Haycartesian Dualism.

One can only guess what Irene may have done to provoke this angry response:

Dear Irene,

I have had enough of you thinking you are the big "I am". Have I got news for you! You are nothing!

Ship Design

Another enjoyable evening supping pale ale under a pale moon in the local rhyming slang inn, The Hope and Anchor. My good friend Peter Pun joined us for a couple of rounds, recounting his days as a master ship designer. He was in good form, obtaining a personal best of 508 before losing count. If anyone mentions his short attention span, he gives a detailed account of a major design error in which the rigging of a tall ship had been installed too loosely and the customer cancelled their order. This is known among his friends as the tale of the tension deficit disorder.

We listened to the torrential rain, laying down a furious and intricate rhythm on the metal dustbin lids, the kind of rhythm than you can still hear even when the rain has stopped. The late evening ale-inspired talk turned to treacherous voyages across The Solent and floods of recent and distant times. Peter entertained us with humorous descriptions of his designs for various types of ark. That's Peter Pun for you, forever Jung.

The Filosopher's Daughter - Postscript

Felicity stood on the brow of the hill thinking about her new-found cowculus. A young farmhand, who happened to be born under the sign of the ram, asked her what to do with the field stretched out before them.

"You till it, arian" was her insightful reply.

Cowslips

Today has been a nice sunny day, so I wandered out for a pleasant stroll in the countryside. Crossing this lovely field full of cowslips, I stopped to admire them. But then I noticed a nasty bit of random litter – a dirty cup full of old Twix wrappers.
As I was reaching down to pick it up (and ‘Keep Britain Tidy’), this ugly youth leapt out from nowhere (they often do, these ugly youths). Shouting obscenities, he wanted this horrible Twix-laden cup to stay there. “Leave it!” he shouted, his top lip curling aggressively.
I tried to reason with him, but all I got back from him was a load of lip. The cheeky bugger. I feared he would attack me, so I gathered handfuls of cowslips (well-known for their peace-giving properties) and hurled them at the foul-mouthed yobbo. Most of them fell short and landed near the discarded cup.
So take heed. There’s many a cowslip ‘twixt Twixxed cup and lip.

We went out for another lovely walk today. In bright sunshine we wandered over the Upson Downs. After a while the footpath led us into Ply Wood (which used to be full of tradesmen practising). You could still hear some of their groans amongst the dark undergrowth, so we headed onwards to Balsa Wood, where it was a bit lighter. Then I saw this footpath sign for 'Edward Woodward Wood' and we thought it would be a good idea to have a look. But by the time we'd wandered through Edward Woodward Wood, we'd had enough of woods (well, you would, wouldn't you?). Finally, we reached what used to be an old hospital, set in its own grounds - which were now carefully tended gardens. And as we strolled hand-in-hand amongst the daffodils, I was so happy I asked my wife for a kiss. But she declined. And that's the first time I've been turned down on medical grounds.

The Filosopher's Daughter

Last week I was supping ale in our local rhyming slang inn, The Old Ship and Anchor, with the proverbial Farmer Giles. We talked about the old days when I sailed back and forth across the Solent with my trusted crew. I recalled one evening when they sat down for their well-earned meal after a day of splicing the mainbrace and other nautical things I was never too sure about, only for there to be unrest among the men. The ship's cook had prepared his signature dish of roast leg of lamb with rosemary, on account of his name being Rosemary Lamb and the crew pulled his leg about it. This dark and stormy night, both literally and metaphorically, he had rather overcooked it. The events of that night became part of local folklore, referred to in hushed tones as the episode of muttony on the Isle of Wight ferry. How I survived the night cast adrift on the seven sisters is a story for much later.

Not to be outdone, the rather competitive proverbial Farmer Giles told me how he could trace his family back to that great fellow filosopher Farmer John Stuart Giles. John had a beautiful daughter called Felicity who often helped him tend to the cattle. She was very concerned about their welfare and worked hard to maximise the happiness of the cattle. To achieve this, she realised that sometimes a cow had to suffer in order for the herd to benefit as a whole. She thus gave her name to the Felicity Cowculus, although some of the less kind villagers spoke of Felicity's Proclivity - her interest in maximising happiness in the hay when the sun shone.

As a footnote to this interesting little piece of history, Felicity was known to suffer from a profound lisp. When she told visitors that she worked in ethics, they often misunderstood that she worked in Essex. It is a small world, with the makings of an oxymoron for those who know.

Ramblings

We went out on Saturday. Just as we were about to cross this cattle field, we met this farmer, looking sternly at us. "I'm the herdsman," he shouted. "OK" we replied, "What have you heard?" He frowned at us sternly again. I frowned sternly back at him . One good stern deserves another.

Hordes of non-Vikings Pillage Village

Although I like hiking, I am not a Viking. I'm not that old - I'm not even Cromarty yet (which I noticed that Thomas Crabapple had niftily by-passed). As for the so-called 'horns' on my head, they were simply ice-cream cones. Thomas failed to mention that it could have been a very hot day (anything is possible if you think hard about it), and we countryfolk often cool our heated brows by applying a couple of ice-cream cones upside-down on our foreheads.

Anyway, I didn't fancy sharing my ice-creams with him, even though he was trying to thrust two-pence into my hand. So I wandered off on my own. About 3 miles from Skipton, my map showed a place called 'Sod Hall'.  I went to see it but, alas, there was absolutely nothing there.

Oh, by the way, here's a cutting with some up-to-date news:

Wharfedale News

Hordes of visitors bring chaos to Grassington

Following all the publicity arising from the filming of Channel 4’s Reality TV show in the village, Grassington is being inundated with thousands of visitors and inquisitive tourists.

   Nearly all of them are completely oblivious to the dangers of moving traffic and cobblestone roads. Many have had to be air-lifted out of the over-packed square. Rescue helicopters have been on 24-hour alert.

   Most of those flocking to see the delights of Grassington have found nowhere to stay. All hotels and B&Bs are jam-packed – many squeezing in 10 to a room.

   Hordes of displaced refugee tourists are forced to sleep on the outskirts of Grassington in tents brought in by the relief section of the Parish Council.

“Fortunately, the tents are very cheap,” said one councillor. “We got them from our local camping and outdoor gear shop, where the manager had proclaimed: ‘This is the winter of our discount tents.”

[This is a proxy post by Joe Leff]

New post

I've been wandering around for ages, opening this, that and the other , and closing things behind me. Every time, I kept coming across a flock of sheep looking at me as if to ask "What the hell are you doing here?" Eventually I came across a 'new post' (which is a rarity in this rugged countryside). So I leant my weary body against it, whilst I had a good ponder.

Some days are better than none.

A Story with a Number of Turns - Part II

This story of wrong turns comes from my seafaring days, navigating the shark-infested, treacherous waters of The Solent. We supped our special Captain Jack seafarer's ale in the warmth of Old Ma's secret tavern. They said it gave you "sea legs" even on dry land, and many a night I would make my way on board to captain the night crossing like a gyroscope - my head spinning, but body beautifully poised. Or was it the other way round? On this particular night, there was hushed talk of a coming storm. We sea folk are superstitious, we don't want to tempt the fates. We chewed our tobacco and spat on the saw dust floor, telling ourselves to remember the matches next time. Someone got out their dominoes, we were allowed to do that without reprimand in those far off days. No-one minded, every crossing could be our last. In time, I had to make my gyroscopic way to my ship. My men depended on me. I had a sense of foreboding, this was going to be a tough crossing. The wind was starting up, but I put that down to the pizzas. To add to our woes, a glutinous fog was curling across the black water like a blanket.

We made good progress to the edge of the harbour but once clear of her protection we were at the mercy of wind and waves. There was no moon, no stars, no hope, but my survival instinct kicked in like a wild horse and I screamed "Which way?!". There was no answer from the elements and I turned to starboard in a desperate attempt to seize control of ship and destiny. Hours passed by with no sight of land or light, long dark hour after dark hour of a journey that normally took one hour, There was much sickness and hunger among the crew, and the passengers were none too pleased either - the last of the sandwiches had gone. As dawn, er, dawned, we were in wide open ocean. Much consulting of enigmatic and cryptic charts - I told the navigator to get a simple nautical A to Z - revealed that we had crossed many sea areas during that fateful night - from Wight, to Thames, to Humber, to Dogger, Forties and finally Viking.  Bloody Viking, bloody Joe Leff! What a mess. When all hope seemed to have vanished, a graceful seabird alighted on the prow of the ship. It seemed to have a spiritual presence. We seafolk are superstitious, maybe this was our salvation. The bird took flight, looked back at us and dipped its wings as if to say "look, I can fly" or "follow me". I trimmed the sails and did  a number of other nautical things, and eventually we reached the safety of port in Cowes. We had been at sea many days, far more than normal for the Isle of Wight ferry,  and we truly had sea legs without the aid of ale. Our saviour was exhausted and richly deserved her reward. I contacted the Proverbial Farmer Giles whom I knew of old and arranged for the hungry bird to to be suckled by one of his cows. After all, one good tern deserves an udder.

A Story with a Number of Turns - Part I

I used a period of enforced leisure to go wandering through my favourite landscapes, clambering stylishly over stiles and tripping inelegantly over exposed roots. I had a lovely afternoon of ponder dipping, my little net capturing some strange creatures from the lower depths.

I also took a number of funny turns and found myself lost in a meadow, in as far as one can find oneself at the same time as being lost. At the edge of the meadow, as it dipped towards a neglected hedge where cowslips, buttercups and primroses gathered in collaborative yellowness like lumpy custard, I espied a pair of horns moving slowly along the grass line. I was going to say "peeping over the ridge", but horns don't really peep. Also, I assumed that the horns were part of something larger, a part of the whole, rather than an entity in their own right. Hence my wariness. Although if I had thought they were an entity in their own right, I might also have felt a bit wary then as well. A number of possibilities flashed through my finely- tuned mind, the survival instinct kicking in like a wild horse. Could it be a bull? Could it be a ram? A goat? Pan? The devil himself? Rhinoceros? An hallucination caused by tripping on the roots? The answer was more unexpected than any of the fine possibilities I had created in my mind, for in slow motion - it was quite a steep bank - a man appeared beneath the horns. As is the way in country matters, it seemed natural that we should start up some sort of conversation, although it was hard to find common ground beyond the fact we had ended up in the same meadow, and it was difficult not to mention the horns - the rural equivalent of the elephant in the room.

It seemed that fate and a series of open gates had led us both to this moment, there could have been no other outcome. I had met Joe Leff, the hiking Viking, mythologised throughout the region but manifest here in a meadow. It also transpired that Joe Leff was a fellow field filosopher and he readily agreed to share some of his wisdom in the weeks and months to come. He will tell his own story, possibly in revenge for the tales I regaled him with regarding my adventures on land and sea, beginning when I once took a wrong turn...

Second Thoughts

This is not "second thoughts" in the sense of having doubts about the wisdom of this venture - although of course I have doubts - but is a natural continuation from the title of the first post. I may not proceed to "Third Thoughts" - perhaps something more eloquent for then - but I reserve the right to revert to this titling at random.

I made an impulsive journey to Cowes the other day, or as impulsive as one can be while depending on a means to cross The Solent. I think deep down it was an attempt to recapture my seafaring days, but the fare was significantly higher than it was all those years ago. While my shipmates at the time could boast of their exploits sailing the seven seas, they often joked about me sailing the Seven Sisters. They were not renowned for their jokes. Nor for their sailing. Anyway, the destination reminded me of the Proverbial Farmer Giles, for that is how we referred to him down on his farm. He often recounted his milking exploits over a pint or two of scrumpy down at the Proverbial Village Pub, because that was what was written on the sign swinging gently on its rusty hinges. One of his favourites was the time he had his new-fangled electric milking apparatus repaired by the blacksmith, so-called because he was not very good and often got himself burnt on account of not fully understanding electricity. On this occasion, his improvised re-wiring meant that the machine was on "blow" rather than "suck", with humourous consequences for Daisy who rose slowly to the roof of the barn as she inflated. Daisy the Dirigible was a sight to behold. Anyway, her fame spread far and wide and she became a popular part of various pantomimes over the years, so no hard feelings.

Anyway, the moral of this story is that to err is human, but to forgive is bovine.

First Thoughts

I think it was Aristotle who said that we are best described by what we do most. I owe my existence to sheep, for what is a shepherd without sheep? This is the kind of thinking that keeps me awake at night after I have been counting sheep all day. I live a kind of paradoxical life.

I leave you with the first of my re-workings, from that great French philosopher Irene Haycartes - "I think, therefore I lamb".