May by the Broads

Wild wet and windy and infinitely fragile.

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Covehithe in May

Divide by Zero – Tales from the Yorkshire Dales

Precis:

“Now youngster, I’ve said I’ll have you, I know your secret, you’re mine …

anytime you want…”

Pepper Scott hides a secret.

The world is not what it seems in the Yorkshire Dales. Everyday Pepper Scott sees the colour auras around people she meets, talks with the dead and is increasingly detached from the reality most people enjoy. She is lonely, isolated, and drinks herself into oblivion every night to escape.

A chance meeting with a Barghest and with the enigmatic Gabriel changes her life. As thoughts of both Gabriel and the Barghest fill Peppers waking and sleeping hours, she begins to start living again. So begins one of the strangest love triangles of the modern world. Divide by Zero is a novel of human emotion, possession, obsession, passion, addiction and love. A walk over the moors will never seem so safe again…

‘T were a dree neet, a dree neet,

For a sowl to gan away,

A dree neet, a dree neet,

Bud a gannin’ sowl can’t stay.

An’ t’winner shuts[1] they rattled sair,

An’ t’ mad wild wind did shill,

An’ t’  Gabriel ratchets[2] yelp’d aboon,

A gannin’ sowl to chill.

A Dree neet, Traditional Yorkshire Dialect Poems, F.W. Moorman

[1] Window Shutters

[2] Hounds of the dead

 

Sorry, I really am too ahead of myself now; I’ll start where it all began. Where my life began and ended.

The landmarks named here are real, here in England, any map of the Yorkshire Dales will tell you. Journey west from the town of Bedale and as you get further up into the green wide valley of Wensleydale, you’ll soon find the steep heather-clad grey and purple moorland hills and narrow winding rough roads where this tale takes place.

The Askrigg village public houses? (Pubs for short). The New Inn was once here, full of joviality and a stream of smiling young faces that never stayed long. Long gone, it’s now just an ordinary house lived in by people getting older. The other public houses are still here, family run, steeped in history, soaked in tales, rooted in tradition, warm, inviting, all waiting to be savoured and explored.

And the people? The people and their names are my fiction and resemblance to any living humans is purely coincidental. I have to say that because it’s true. Except for me. Maybe the figure sitting at the end of the public bar, a pint of cider balanced on the polished, worn wood counter and a bowl of steaming, fat, crisp chips smelling faintly, sharply of vinegar, dipping them leisurely into thick tomato sauce, is me. Maybe buy me a drink if you see me and ask?

And what of the events, are they true? In every rural village and town there is an undercurrent behind closed doors, things that are seen out of the corner of your eyes, there and gone when you take a closer look. Perhaps it’s best not to ask me that question.

I am a reader, an aura reader, I see the truth of things. I know all that might be known about the past, present and future of humans. Or I would know, would see the truth if I looked. I try not to. I lock the doors on what I see, hide in the warm muzziness of alcohol and deep sleep; or at least I used to for such a long time. I blocked it all out just in case it was as raw, scary and awful as I suspected it may be. Perhaps it was also just a fear that insanity is here in me, hidden in hereditary memory and what I see really isn’t here. You can decide for yourself if it is all padwackery.

There are no rose tinted happy ever after endings and there are no hero’s or heroines in this tale. Even good people do bad things.

Some legends are just beginning.

 

The Spanish Kitchen Day 2

Going well. Pinchos (titbits on sticks from the basque country), with Remojon – Tuna and orange salad. Should have been salt cod – not easy to get in the middle of the Yorkshire Dales.

Pinchos were lush – anchovies, Manchego cheese, crunchy peppers and serrano ham.

The Remojon has a marinade of balsamic vinegar, paprika, olive oil, garlic and spring onions. Not that hard to do after all 🙂

And it’s blowing a gale in the Yorkshire Dales, the becks are full of rushing moorland water and we may have to put the heating on. Eating these tapas brings a smile and a touch of sun – enjoy!

Finding a sense of direction

It’s been 2 weeks since my youngest son left home for University. I’ve got a full time job, however it’s not stopped me feeling just a tad depressed. Then I gave myself a mental shake – it’s just another marker, another chapter in life beginning. And I got over myself, which I am proud of. I visited a farmer who is starting to make raw milk cheese. In the course of looking for my old cheese recipes for him, I came across The Spanish Kitchen, Pepita Aris. So I’ve carted this book across the country, moved at least 4 times with it, and have never cooked so much as a soup recipe from it. Bear with me, this is linked to my son leaving home. Suddenly mealtimes have gone weird – I don’t have to cook what someone else wants, or cook around what someone else wants to eat. I like lots of things that I’ve rarely eaten for yonks because no-one else liked them. So I decided I would work through the book – a recipe a day, just for fun. And if at the end, I haven’t liked many of the recipes, I can pass the book on, knowing I have at least tried!

So – tapas are the first section. Calls for a glass of wine and I can feel the sun already!

aceitunas alinadas – marinated olives. I can’t eat them for another week according to the recipes, but how cool do they look!

Weeping Angel update

A very special hello from Seawitch Tales  at http://www.pennygarthcafe.co.uk/live/ at  on the occasion of my half century birthday! For Dr Who fans I’m sorry I can’t show the full show as it’s not in proper format yet – a taster is below 🙂

The Yorkshire Dales Barghest

And long ago when Christian churches were very young and many religions abounded, the first person buried at a new church was tasked by the priest to stay and guard it and its yard against evil. As time passed, maybe to save the human soul for a possible heaven rather than a possible eternity of being a guardian, a large black dog would be buried at the north of the churchyard to be its guarding spirit. And so, in churchyards, at crossroads, along the corpse roads and in the dark lonely places that give some people an involuntary shiver, the north England legend of the black dogs began. Fed by frightful fears, howling moorland winds, the precariousness of humanity, on snow clad winter evenings, before the Internet, television, radio, it was the age when communities took entertainment at neighbours firesides, holding “sitting nights” to swop tales and stories. And the legends grew. Bear-sized, supernatural, ferocious animals haunting lanes and stiles, with large glowing saucer sized eyes, gleaming white teeth and sharp white claws, with many names, in many sizes and shapes and colours. The church-Grims, barghest, hell hounds, goblin dogs, Gabriel hounds, harbingers and companions of death and dead people; the tales of old world dog like apparitions were handed down through the generations.

“They shook to watch them as they sped

All black against the sky;

A horseman with a hooded head

And great hounds padding by.” John Masefield 1878-1967

(please do not reproduce without asking 🙂 ) A nice link can be found here: http://www.mysteriousbritain.co.uk/england/north-yorkshire/hauntings/ivelet-bridge-black-dog.html and here: http://www.information-britain.co.uk/loredetail.php?id=87

Hunting Legends?

Why not visit Ivelet Bridge, dating from 1687 this was an important crossing point on the 16 mile Corpse Way from Muker to the Churchyard at Grinton. The bridge is said to be haunted by a black headless dog, which runs up the bridge, jumps the wall and into the River Swale below.

Appletreewick, the barghest of Trollers Gill – as large as a small bear, yellow tinted coat with glowing red eyes as large as saucers. Said to like following travellers.

Grassington – A rainbow eyed black barghest haunts the fields – and makes a rattling noise!

And at Skipton a large horse sized black hound wanders the fields around the town.

And as you leave the Dales on the A684 go carefully between Leeming Bar and Northallerton, where a large shadow like black dog with no features was last seen crossing the road in 2001.

Where did the last year go?

No excuse for dropping out – it’s been a weird year. However for entertainment enter …

Divided by Zero: Tales from the Yorkshire Dales

(This first is an “oldie” and very well known in this part of Yorkshire.)

Of local Legends
All the local folks in Wensleydale have heard some form of variation on the legend of Semmerwater Lake.

It goes something like this; long ago, way beyond living memory,(well, back in AD 45 to be precise. How do I know? All will become clear.), an old man was travelling through the Yorkshire Dales. Legend says he was an old man. Depending upon who you ask he was a beggar, a witch, an angel, Joseph of Arimathea, St Paul or even Jesus himself in the form of a poor old man. At dusk he reached the city of Semmerwater, through which ran a small mountain rivulet. The wayfarer sought rest, food and shelter in the city. He was refused help at every house, knocking, getting no answer or just cries of “pass on by”. And the sky got darker and darker.
Along the east side of the valley, just without the bounds of the city, stood a small hut, lived in by an old poor couple. The old couple inside did help the traveller, giving him the best that they had to offer; oat cake, ale, cheese. When he left the hut the following day, presumably replete, refreshed and grateful, he bestowed blessings upon the old couple. They and their descendants for many generations became the richest people in the valley. But the city to the west, the “sodom of Wensleydale”, he cursed to be drowned and the mountain stream overflowed. Thereby he created the lake that is there today, minus the city of Semmerwater. Locals who live here will also point tourists to a tumbled down stone ruin still standing on the south side of the lake as the dwelling place of the aged couple who so generously helped the stranger and were spared from the flood. In the soft twilight they do say the roofs of the drowned city can be glimpsed in the limpid waters, and quiet tolling from unseen bells can be heard from the drowned church.
Now the punishment is a bit harsh by anyone’s standards, I’m sure not all the inhabitants deserved to be made homeless.
(Though I doubt I’d let some random stranger into my house.)
Maybe he was turned away from a couple of places, but I’m sure someone would have invited him to use a barn or outbuilding.
(If I had one I would have… He could have used the camper van in the garden.)
Who knows, legends grow over time, memories are elusive and humans down the centuries haven’t got any kinder to one another. Other, older folklore relates a similar tale of a city that once stood where Semmerwater lies, renowned for its pride and selfishness, and the Carlow Stone is one of the many that were hurled upon the city in an attempt to destroy it. It’s been made immortal in Turners painting of “Simmer Lake”. And it’s still there. The stone I mean.

(please do not reproduce without asking 🙂 )

Lovely thorough link here on the Legend in full : http://h2g2.com/entry/A10995320

Wandering Whernside with a low joe

Fabulous day yesterday wandering up and over Whernside with my eldest before he starts phase 1 training as a para. For that read, I was 1/4 mile behind him all the way and sounded like a steam train in a tunnel…talk about fit, I don’t think he broke a sweat!

Timed perfectly so that we hit Station Inn, Ribblehead for a well deserved lunch and a pint of Thatchers cider. Not withstanding the low cloud, sparrowhawk, owl, negotiating sheep, the strangest sight ever to be seen was that of two people purposefully striding along the three peaks path by Blea Moor signal box, with a suitcase on wheels!!

The week earlier in blazing sunshine I’d done a similar trip with the other half – Whernside, Pen y Ghent, abandoning the idea of Ingleborough as dusk was falling fast!

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Dropped said number one son off at the training centre; he’s worked very hard to get in and I am immensely proud. We’ve had a week of eating out, favourite meals, and as we drove there I saw this through the driving rain.

Castle Bolton in the rain

Hard to feel sad with such a good sign 🙂

A Yorkshire lass trips down to Tenby

Now I don’t want to give the wrong impression. This was a work related trip. But it was so full of amazing experiences, so full of amazing new people I met (and sadly may never meet again as it was so far away), that I just had to share.

I didn’t mean to drive the long way…I’m not even sure it was the long way…but 7 hours later – here was my view…

North bay from Giltar Hotel

Wow. And if that wasn’t enough – I had another window!

North Bay

With bare minutes to spare I rushed back downstairs for a tour of Miltary projects. And met John Brock at the Carew Control Tower  I seriously recommend a visit, or a donation to help the project along into it’s next phase in the restoration of an Avro Anson. The guys who showed us around are so enthusiastic that it is infectious! We all got dressed up – here is Goronwy (another amazing guy from Conwy) dressed as a home guard with John. We are all so much bigger nowadays – the control tower was tiny, the doorways low, the clothes definately too small!

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Goronwy and John

I’ll have to stop -more later!

Getting creative and keeping memories with outgrown clothes

Our bean bags were resembling pancakes. Everyone is complaining the wooden floor is hard. And yet again the dreaded words “chairs”, “settee” and “sofa” were creeping into the conversation. Something had to be done.

I’m uninclined to waste money on furnishings, I’d rather be out walking the hills than parked on my backside. So I had a look around the house for what we did have that might be re-used. I came across a pile of out-grown T shirts, too good to give away, some with great pictures on them, lots of memories of holidays past when a favourite T shirt was worn by my boys almost until it was standing up all by itself and had to be prised off their backs to be washed. And I have a bag of washed rough sheep fleece that I was making into felt items, but had gone off felting as last time I did it I got very cold and wet.

So I made a giant long sausage cushion – about 9ft long – that can coils around and act as a lovely comfy coily chair.

The completed end

It’s warm, the T shirt designs bring back happy memories for everyone, and we’ve recycled things that were just lying around into something that is needed. Win, win. And the conversation about chairs and sofas can cease…until the next time.

So – the pattern-

Cut any number of material pieces, about 30 inches wide and any length you like (mine went from 9 inches to 18 inches). Tack together on the width, sew leaving a 1/2 seam (use strong cotten or double sew it). Join the long length to make a long tube. Turn right side out, stuff from both ends with about 16 lbs of scrap material, (waste wool in my case) or 16lb of polyester fibre (used for stuffing cushions/soft toys – you can get about 10kg of this from ebay for c £31).

Using button thread, several strands, gather 1 inch from the end and pull the gathers as tightly together as possible, tucking raw edges under the inside of the cushion. Knot securely.

The Tassels: Cut cardboard 9 inches by 12 inches. Lay a 2 yard length of doubled yarn across the 9 inch width of cardboard (for tying). Wind the 40z skein of 4 ply or double knitting yarn lengthwise around the cardboard, using all but 2 yards of yarn. Slip loops off board, tie securely with doubled length of yarn.

Wind remainder of yarn around tassel, 2 inches from the top. Tie securely. Clip the loops. Knot top (tied) ends together about 4 inches above tassel “head”, trim end and sew knot securely into end of cushion. FINITO!! Tis but the work of a few hours!

And it worked so well I dug out an old hammock (that we can’t use anymore as there is no where to hang it), sewed that together and stuffed that too!!