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...