ramblingrybo

[ramblingrybo]

Can I have a word with you?

Claxby Pluckacre is such a wonderfully rustic place name that I am sure it cannot be beaten. Certainly not in Lincolnshire it can’t. Mind you, there are one or two which come close. Take Bag Enderby and Hagworthingham for a start. Then there’s Hogsthorpe and Scremby. When I was a teenager, we used to travel in the back of a van to a disco in Scremby. Even before we got there, the name suggested somewhere seamy, dodgy, even dangerous. And, fortunately, it lived up to its name.

For really down-to-earth place names, however, you need to travel further south to the fens below Boston to enjoy the delights of Cowbit, Dogdyke, Pinchbeck, Clenchwarten, Tongue End, Bicker and, my all time favourite, Whaplode. As a fourteen year old, I knew these words intimately. They were on a map which was displayed on the back wall of my fourth-year form room at secondary school. They were as magical to me as the names of the sea areas on the shipping forecast. I would chant them like a litany under my breath. When I started going out with a girl from Moulton Chapel (between Cowbit and Whaplode), it felt preordained. A weekend bus journey to meet her at the cinema in Spalding allowed me to see all of these places in the flesh. It was like a dream come true.

At about this time, an interest in the sounds of words was also a requirement when it came to making up names for pop bands. Inspired by ‘Dip Dazzle and the Indicators’, we came up with ‘Steve Pebble and the Cliffs’ and ‘Plinth and the Magic Things’ but it wasn’t until Dave, a friend, came up with ‘H Bomb Ferguson and the Fall-Outs’ that we knew we were onto a winner. In fact, I didn’t think that this name could be beaten until another friend, Steve, came up with the following only this week: ‘Doppelganger and the Hidden Ears’. Now, isn’t that a corker?

Some words are so suggestive that they are like invitations. Take ‘Catskin Lane’, for example, a small lane between Walesby and Tealby. Who would not be tempted to seek this out on first finding out about its existence? It is so delightfully macabre and brings to mind a vision of hedges strewn with cat pelts like articles of clothing on a pre-industrial wash day.

A similar thing happened to me recently when I heard someone on the television talking about wood sorrel. They had been foraging in a wood and had picked some wood sorrel leaves. ‘They’re marvellous in a salad’. That’s what they said. ‘Really zingy.’ That was temptation enough. I had to go to find some. And now, having tracked some down in Willingham Woods, I can confirm how ‘zingy’ wood sorrel leaves really are. They have a sharp and sour taste like apple peel and lemon. Which, of course, accounts for the flower’s country name of wood sour. 

I recently went on a circular walk which took in Claythorpe, Tothill and Authorpe and I was reminded when I went through the final village of my favourite word, Aubade. Wow. Not only is this word a stunner to look at, but it is also a beautiful sounding word, ‘Owe-bad’. Yes, of course, its Frenchness adds to the romanticism but also its meaning as well. It is variously a morning love song, a poem about lovers separating at dawn or an instrumental composition evoking daybreak. In fact, the tradition of aubades goes back to the troubadors of the Provencal schools of courtly love in the Middle Ages. 

My second favourite word comes near the end of the day, not at dawn but at dusk, gloaming. How about that for suggesting comfort? Aurally, it is like being cocooned in a duvet. Visually, it is a very relaxed word and reminds me of a divan. As to its meaning, it is an evening twilight and makes me think of a pink after-glow in a slowly darkening sky, one anticipating mystery and adventure.  Indeed, just like ‘aubade’, it is a word associated with courtship, none more so than when it appears in the song by Harry Lauder, ‘Roaming in the Gloaming’.

Some people do not have a favourite word which I think is a pity. Perhaps it is an oversight. I am sure that, gently encouraged, most people could come up with a word which they favour. Just in case you find yourself in this category and need some inspiration, here are some favourite words I have gleaned from friends over the past week: gazebo, clarion, myrrh, wedge, chortle, stultiloquent, aurora, whinberry, dimple, quartz and marsupial. There. Now it’s your turn.

But before we go, a final word about Claxby Pluckacre. These days you won’t find a finger-post bearing its name on the main road between Scrivelsby and Revesby. Why? Because someone keeps pinching it and the County Council have decided not to replace it. If you want to see the name, you have to go down a gated track to an obscure lane where another finger-post has managed to remain in place. But, perhaps, I shouldn’t have told you that.

Next time: Walking with the poets

[ramblingrybo]

In the Right Gear

Lockdown has given me massive thighs. Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration. All right then, not massive but far more substantial than they were in March. It means that I can no longer wear the suit I bought for my daughter’s wedding two years ago. The trousers, already limb-hugging, are now as comfortable as a tourniquet. The creases have disappeared and you can see the veins throbbing underneath the material.

Yes, it’s biking that has done it and hill climbing in particular. Living in Tealby is not like living in Boston or Spalding. Tealby is seriously inclined. Any venture into the Wolds means a blood-vessel bursting ride northwards towards Thoresway or eastwards towards Binbrook. Without the aid of a battery pack, it is punishing. I worry that sometimes I must give the impression that my bike is powered by swear words - the steeper the incline, the coarser the word. However, you soon get to learn that the punishment is short-lived whereas the exhilaration is long-lasting. The sense of achievement I feel having conquered Walesby hill in one go and without stopping is something which I could have inscribed on my gravestone. 

But back to the beginning of lockdown. I began regular biking for two reasons. First, because it allowed me to explore further afield and, secondly, it was relatively pain-free. With my dodgy knee and arthritic hips, walking for more than five miles these days leaves me with a hobble for the next twelve hours whereas I can cycle for twenty fives miles and suffer little more than an aching bottom and disheveled hair. Consequently, I have been able to cycle on roads and lanes as far as Hainton, Binbrook, Wold Newton and Swallow in the last few weeks. Not only that, I have ventured off-piste on many occasions, following bridle ways and footpaths across fields and through woods. 

Take this morning, for example. I was on a mission to find some bee orchids. Having slogged up the hill next to the ruins of Bayons Manor, I crossed Caistor High Street at Kirmond Top, near the springs at Far Dickey Crook, and was soon driving a flock of sheep in front of me as I descended through the fields into Kirmond-le-Mire. By this time, it was raining which meant my trousers were soaked from a crop of rape and an avenue of meadowsweet. Taking the track past St. Martin’s church, I headed uphill out of the village towards Stainton-le-Vale, slip-sliding in the channels of gravelly mud. Once on level ground again, I could now head back towards Tealby and a grassy track where we had spotted bee orchids last year (or humble-bee orchises as they were known in the late sixteenth century). But, alas, when I arrived at the hedgerow where they should have been, not one of them appeared, even when I whistled for them. Mind you, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Not only do they have a very short flowering season, bee orchids are also very unreliable, often disappearing for a couple of years just for the hell of it. 

Even though I was disappointed, I was lucky enough to see many other wild flowers en route. There were fine displays of ox-eye daisies, field scabious, hedge woundwort and lesser knapweed on many field edges with tufted vetch, meadow vetchling, red clover and self-heal clinging to the ground beneath them. 

I think clumps of mauve field scabious are amongst the finest sights of high summer. An old country name for them is gypsy roses. As for knapweed, another name for them is hardheads. This refers to the globular flower heads on the plant out of which grows a display of red flowers making it look like a blousy thistle. In days gone by, knapweed was used to treat bruises, scabs and wounds. In fact, much like hedge woundwort whose oil, once extracted, has strong antiseptic properties.

Tenous link coming up...

So now you know which plants are the best ones to land near when you next fall off your bike, something I have experienced several times in the past few weeks. Most embarrassing moment? Falling off a stationary bike on the top of Claxby hill. It was the same hill where a few days later I got stuck in a deep rut created by a monster off-roader and had to fling myself off my bike before I was swallowed up into the bowels of the earth. Yes, there have been many mishaps. I have run the gauntlet through corridors of nettles and throbbed for the rest of the day, skidded into hedges, been chased by more than one Dalmatian and frightened stiff by boy racers as they have scared me out of my daydreams while speeding past me on a narrow lane. 

My bike is only a hybrid, so I have been asking a lot of it, particularly when I have ventured into all-terrain or mountain bike territory. Perhaps one of the most painful injuries I have suffered is trapping a finger as I have lifted my bike over a stile. I have learned that front wheels have a habit of biting back when you are least expecting it. 

Of course, there have been the common problems suffered by bikers. I have had one puncture which occurred on the way to Walesby leading to an awkward walk home. Then I have had slipping gears when a hard push on the pedals has led to a painful meeting of chin and handlebars. Also, the chain has come off several times and got stuck in the gear wheel more than once, leading to black hands and oil streaks on cheeks, nose and forehead. 

No wonder then that I needed to get a new chain and gear wheel fitted last week. So now I am set up for another three and a half months of rustic byway adventures. 

While we are on the subject of bikes, let me leave you with a fantasy I have been having for the last few weeks. It involves a butcher bike. When I was a teenager, my friend Rick used to ride his butcher bike to our grammar school every day. As an act of rebellion it couldn’t have been bettered. It was so anti-establishment. Imagine then joining the army of elite cyclists on the roads these days mounted on such a bike. Even better if you were wearing the right gear.

Me: Morning. Nice set of wheels. Fancy a swap.

Elite cyclist: Er.

Me: Only kidding, mate. I’m about to pick up my mum. Church starts in ten minutes. Bye.

Elite cyclist: Er...bye.

Perhaps I should paint it in gold. No, keep it to dull black. Such an annoying colour. 

Next time: ‘Can I have a word with you?’ 

[ramblingrybo]

On the Verge of Orchids (and nappies)

My expertise in wildflower identification lies at the approximate level which is why three weeks ago we had to rely upon the Lincolnshire Wildlife Trust to sort out a difference of opinion regarding some orchids we had found. We were in Wickenby Woods. 

‘Early purple?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Could be pyramidal.’

‘Pyramidal? You’ve got to be kidding. Ah, what about heath spotted orchid?’

‘Heath spotted orchid? What are you on?’

‘Don’t be so rude.’

That was when we called in the adjudicator or rather sent a message and a photograph to the nice woman at L.W.T. who got back to us a few days later. 

‘Oh, that’s what they were.’

‘What?’

‘Those orchids.’

‘The ones in Wickenby Woods?’

‘Yes. They were common spotted orchids.’

‘Well, I never.’

There you are. Isn’t life full of pleasant surprises? But getting back to Wickenby Woods. We hadn’t been there for ages. We had chosen it as a place to meet our daughter, Alice, and grand-daughter, Athena, for a socially distanced picnic. Before they arrived, we had a quick recce of the different trails. They were empty of people but home to swathes of ragged robin and water avens. I have always liked water avens. It is a delicate plant with nodding, bell-shaped flowers in soft, pastel shades of purple, pink and orange. It is also known as Billy’s button, chocolate root or cure-all. In the past, people used to boil the root and add it to milk and sugar to produce a remedy for diarrhoea.

However, we soon forgot about wildflowers and stomach complaints when the others arrived, ecstatic at seeing them in the flesh for the first time in twelve weeks. It was a hot day and we ate our picnic in a shady clearing on picnic blankets, mesmerised by the simple sight of Athena eating her sandwiches, crisps and hard-boiled egg. It was while we were stretched out, waiting for our food to digest that I remembered that in the dim and distant past we used to visit Wickenby Woods to seek out a rare plant, herb-Paris. If I handled this properly, this could be turned into an adventure.

‘Heh, who’s up for some intrepid exploring?’

Athena took the bait.

‘I am. What are we looking for?’

‘It’s a rare plant called the true-lover’s knot. And guess what? It’s highly poisonous and it used to be used to ward off witches.’

Perhaps ‘highly’ was a bit of an exaggeration but the rest was true. It is a strange-looking plant. Above a crown of broad, green pointed leaves, a whorl of smaller yellowish leaves at the top of the plant hold a flower which looks like a black leather coat button. 

Unfortunately, we didn’t find it but we did spend a happy forty minutes scaring each other, avoiding anything which looked vaguely wicked like a gnarled tree trunk or an oddly shaped bush. Let us hope it is somewhere within the woods and that on a further visit it might reveal itself. 

Someone who was luckier than us was Paul Evans, naturalist and author of ‘Herbaceous’ whose ‘Country diary’ in today’s paper describes his recent discovery of herb-Paris on Wenlock Edge in Shropshire. He was clearly excited to have found it in an old limestone quarry, referring to it as the elusive ‘trewelove herb’, a relic of ancient woodland. 

Another wood which we have visited twice in recent weeks is Swinn Wood near Aby. It is a small wood but teeming with a variety of wild flowers along its woodland rides and around its ponds. 

On our first visit, we were amazed at the number of bugle plants on show along with cuckoo flower, ragged robin, yellow rattle, bristly oxtongue, yellow pimpernel and silverweed. Silverweed is a low, spreading plant which has glossy, silvery leaves and small, rose-like yellow flowers. In the past, herbalists used the roots of the silverweed to treat sore throats and mouth ulcers. On our second visit, three weeks later, we were thrilled to discover that the bugle plants had been replaced by an array of common spotted orchids.

Finally, we come to the verge at Worlaby which we visited last week. It is the one we look after for the Lincolnshire Wildlife Trust. We couldn’t have been more excited because this time the grass was dotted with pyramidal orchids, between eighty to a hundred of them. This orchid is what Leif Bersweden calls ‘a glorious pink beacon’ in his book, ‘The Orchid Hunter’, referring to the densely packed, pyramid-shaped spike of pink flowers on the tall, unbranched stem. It is the county flower of the Isle of Wight and its tuber when dried and ground produces a sweet, white powder called salep which makes a very nutritious drink and has been used medicinally as a restorative for convalescents. 

As well as the pyramidal orchids, we also found yellow rattle, hedge woundwort, crosswort, tufted vetch, wild oregano, herb robert, hogweed, greater knapweed, self heal, birds foot trefoil, speedwell, tail-of-dog grass and common restharrow. Restharrow is a small, attractive plant. It is low-growing with hairy stems, greasy leaves and pink and white pea-like flowers. It gets its name from its thick roots which spread in a dense network underground and which could stop or arrest a harrow in the days of horse-drawn cultivation. 

On the down side, we also found a fair bit of litter which had been thrown out of passing cars including crisp packets, pizza boxes, cans, polystyrene trays and, would you believe it, a used nappy. What possesses someone to pollute a roadside nature reserve with a used nappy beggars belief. It is irresponsible. If only we and the pyramidal orchids could get our own back. I imagine pouring the contents of our bin-liner into the culprit’s car and shouting, ‘How do you like it, eh?’

Actually, wayside rubbish is one of the subjects Clare Balding deals with in her book, ‘Walking Home’, which I have just finished reading. In a chapter entitled, ‘Walking Rubbish’, she describes a day spent with the author and comedian, David Sedaris, who by his own admission is obsessed with litter. ‘I live for litter’, he says to her. He picks bags of it daily in Pulborough, West Sussex, using the activity as a form of exercise and therapy. Having told Clare of some of the things he has found, like a half-full bottle of vodka, a twenty pound note and a rear-view mirror, he confesses that the one thing he would really like to find is a dead body. 

I have to say that this is not something on our wish-list. I think we’ll stick to the wildflowers and the occasional crisp packet. 

Next time: ‘In the Right Gear.’

[ramblingrybo]

Hyacinths? You’ll need some hair lacquer

I have an intimate knowledge of hyacinths. The same can be said of strawberries, potatoes and cocktail onions. It was what we picked or sorted in the fields and factories of Boston when I was young. In those days, most casual work was connected to agriculture and there was plenty of it. It might have been mind-numbing but it guaranteed a ready source of income with which to buy comics, records, guitar strings or cigarettes, depending on your age.

I started working on the land when I was ten. A double decker bus would pick us up after school from the scout huts near Skirbeck church and take us to the fruit fields of Frampton, four miles away. The bus would be crammed with hyper-active school children, harassed young mothers and short-tempered grannies with ill-functioning hearing aids. Nobody talked; everybody shouted. This was punctuated by the odd slap and scream. It was pure bedlam.

When we were finally released from this uproar upon our arrival, all you could see were endless rows of bobbing rumps. All you could hear was the distant growl of a tractor and the trilling of skylarks in the vast skies above us. Within minutes, we were picking our own row, filling a bucket in exchange for a few pence and then repeating the process, more slowly each time. At first, you would start to pick with fast pecking hands. Very soon, however, any sense of urgency would disappear, quickly replaced by a mechanical lethargy until finally a state of paralysis set in. This was reflected in the shape of the body, from bent to crawling to completely inert. Some people, however, took this one step further. One summer, we found Gonk’s younger brother, Rabbit, curled-up asleep in one of the furrows. However, for the rest of us, three hours of routine picking left us with an aching back, knees covered in mashed strawberries and glazed eyes. 

All soft fruit work was piece-work but at least with raspberries and gooseberries you didn’t have to stoop so far. That was the good news. The bad news was that you had to pick with prickles or thorns for company. Raspberries were bearable although the fruit was so delicate, it was like picking soft meringues - easily squash-able. Gooseberries, on the other hand, were savage. Trying to pick gooseberries quickly while only wearing a pair of Marigolds, was like feeding your hands into a factory loom. It was only the regulars who made any money. They could strip a bush within seconds and fill a wicker basket within minutes. I was so impressed the first time I witnessed it. 

‘Wow, that’s amazing. I just tried to do that and left a lot of skin behind.’

‘You know why they’re so good, don’t you?

‘No.’

‘It’s the gloves they’ve got. They have metal palms. You could strip the barnacles from the bottom of a boat with a pair of those.’

Soft fruit piece-work was for the beginners. If you wanted to guarantee full time work for the holidays and enjoy a weekly pay packet, you needed to join a gang. I was lucky. As a fourteen year old, I found Maggie. She was an experienced ganger who didn’t suffer fools gladly. A strict disciplinarian, Maggie hated lateness, sloppy work and anybody answering her back. She had an acid tongue, skin as leathery as an old saddle-bag and a forearm smash that could stun a mule. If you toed the line, working for Maggie was a cinch. If you didn’t, you could be harangued, physically assaulted, summarily dismissed or, worst of all, find yourself walking all the way home from Spalding, a tedious and exhausting trek of fourteen miles. Work could be anywhere in the south of Lincolnshire. We would get picked up at 7a.m. in Boston and be working in the fields of Bicker, Pinchbeck, Dogdyke, Cowbit or Moulton Chapel by 8. The van which picked us up was held together with bits of bailer twine and wire - a description which could also be applied to some of  the regular workers whose company we kept every holiday. Moose was one of them. He was a huge, kindly man with the strength of a cart horse but the brain of a child. Poor thing believed anything we told him. His trousers were always at half-mast, he sported a basin haircut and lived in a shed behind his mum’s council bungalow.

Most of the work was picking potatoes which is back-breaking and relentless. We prayed for the tractor with its plough to break down. When it didn’t, we had to pick two-handed to keep up although heel and toeing could lighten the load considerably. This entailed stamping on the potatoes to bury them with the heel of your boot and then scraping back with the toe to cover the evidence with soil. Well-practised proponents of this skill could tap-dance a whole row of potatoes out of existence. Many of the best workers were women who could work for hours without a break. As most of them smoked and kept their cigarettes in their mouths while picking, many of them sported nicotine stains on their upper lips. As a result, lunch times in the van could be a bit of a trial for the rest of us. Watching a nicotine stained woman eating a fried egg sandwich was not an appetising sight. Many a slice of pork pie was returned to a lunch box, uneaten.

Sometimes we were released from the retches and furrows to work on tractor-drawn potato harvesters, machines which harvested the crop and allowed sorting to be carried out on a mobile conveyor belt. A line of us would pick out the rotten or damaged potatoes. Once again, it was relentless work but at least we were standing up. The only problem came in really hot weather when the fields were dry. The harvester would create dust storms which meant that we had to wear hats, goggles and scarves to protect heads and faces. Looking like flying aces from the First World War, we baked, lost all sense of hearing and dreamt of ice-cold drinks.

Promotion came at the age of sixteen when we moved from the fields to the factory. Thinking we had finally made it, we got jobs at Johnson’s Seeds, working in the bulb packaging department. Little did we know, however, of the suffering which lay ahead. At first, our daily routine was a doddle. No rain, decent breaks, a canteen, good pay. And the work? Undemanding, if a little dull. My job was to load crocus bulbs into a mechanical hopper which vibrated back and forth and graded them. It wasn’t difficult -  a bit of lugging, pushing a couple of buttons and some prodding. And repeat. But then we switched to hyacinth bulbs and for the next few weeks our lives became a living hell.

We should have heeded Beryl’s warning on the Friday afternoon. 

‘Hyacinths on Monday. You’ll be needin’ some hair lacquer, lovey.’

I waited until she had gone before turning to Gary.

‘Hair lacquer? What’s she on about?’

‘Search me. It’s probably the medication.’

‘You reckon she’s off her trolley?’

‘Must be.’

A further clue was provided first thing on the Monday morning when we arrived at the hoppers. Eric, the manager, was positively buoyant. Chortling to himself, he winked at Stuart, the foreman, and both of them began to rub their hands together like two football supporters eagerly anticipating a cup final. 

‘Come on, then, what are yer waitin’ fer? Git them machines runnin’ and them hyacinths tumblin’.’

And we did. And five minutes later, we were scratching crazily at our necks, throats and scalps and emitting high-pitched wails like the noise cars make when they are being crushed slowly in a scrapyard with a giant iron claw. Very quickly, any exposed skin was red raw and nasty welts had been scored by fingernails into our flesh. We jigged and flailed like members of a religious cult while Eric and Stuart rocked with laughter from the safety of their office. 

And what was to blame for this sudden change of behaviour? Sounds implausible I know but it was the waxy skin on the hyacinth bulbs. You see, it breaks down into small flecks when it is tossed about in a hopper. These flecks become airborne and alight on the open pores of necks and throats and cause extreme irritation. The only way of preventing this is to apply a thick coating of hair lacquer to the skin to block the pores. Rather than being off her trolley, Beryl had been trying to protect us. What we took to be the mutterings of a mad woman were, in fact, the kind words of a co-worker.

We didn’t make the same mistake twice. On our way home, we called in at the chemist’s.

‘Five tins of hair lacquer, please.’

‘Blimey, young man, it’ll set like cement if yer use that much.’

If it was possible to protect against the effects of hyacinth bulbs, the same could not be said of cocktail onions. These were what we ended up sorting and grading in the factory job which took us through our college years. It wasn’t that they made your eyes stream. We soon got used to that. No, it was what lingered afterwards which was the cause of much embarrassment. You see, the smell of cocktail onions stays for days, not only on your clothes but on your skin as well. Baths, deodorant, after shave, all were useless in the struggle to remain fresh and wholesome. A weekend trip to the cinema with your girlfriend could be a fraught affair. In the warmth of the auditorium, the smell of onions returned with a vengeance, seeping out of bodily pores and crevices. 

‘What on earth is that smell? It’s not you, is it?’

‘No, of course, not.’

‘Have you had a bath today?’

‘Yes, I had a long soak.’

‘Can you lean away a bit?’

‘That OK?’

‘Actually, can you sit over there?’

Even when we had left the job for good, we were haunted by the odour. Working in a cocktail onion factory might have been good money but it didn’t half play havoc with your love life.

So, there we have it. The trials and tribulations of working in the fields and factories of Boston as a pupil and student in the late 60s and early 70s. And its legacy? A life-long admiration for anybody working on the land and an appreciation of the choices which were made available to me in my own life.

Next time: ‘On the Verge of Orchids (or Where did I put that Herb Paris?)’ 

[ramblingrybo]

Blossoms - stage, page and hedgerow

We should have seen Blossoms at the Bonus Arena in Hull on 21st March. The tickets were my Christmas present from Jane. I couldn’t wait to see them perform all of the tracks from their third album which came out in January, ‘Foolish Loving Spaces’. 

I don’t know if you know the band. In case you don’t, let me tell you about them and how I solved the problem of attending one of their concerts. But to the band first. They are an indie pop quintet from Stockport who were formed in 2013.  When I first heard the single, ‘Charlemagne’, from their first album, ‘Blossoms’, I was captivated by it - it was like junior Suede only better. Since then they have improved with each album. They are led by a flamboyant front-man, Tom Ogden, who is a fine musician and an exceptionally good singer and lyricist. As for the rest of the band, they form a tight and well-balanced ensemble and include a brilliant bassist, Charlie Salt, whose playing reminds me of Alex James of Blur.

Now onto to a spot of problem solving. Luckily, I discovered on YouTube that  you could watch a pre-lockdown concert from their abandoned tour. It was their album launch from the Plaza theatre, Stockport in February. Knowing that I could now view this on the television, I began to think of all of the ways in which a concert-attending experience could be replicated in our kitchen. You might like to try this yourself so I will write it like an instructional manual. 

First of all, you need a dark room, which means watching it at night with the lights off and the curtains drawn. Secondly, and this might sound a bit daft, you need to purchase and customise a good quality dog cone, you know, one of those protective collars to stop a dog scratching, biting or licking itself when it has a medical problem. Wearing this will limit your peripheral vision, thus allowing you to concentrate on the band without getting distracted by the chipped tile behind the kettle or the bunch of over-ripe bananas on top of the fruit bowl. O.K. so far, so good. Next, you need to find a couple of bedside lamps and place them on the table between you and the television. These are there to represent the heads of audience members who invariably get in the way and force you to duck, dive, jerk and lurch throughout the evening’s performance. Nearly there. Right, you now need to go on a swift sprint around the front garden and execute ten press-ups in the hall on your way back. This will echo the experience of having to dash from the car park to the venue when you have been caught up in the traffic and are late. Five minutes to go. Out of breath, it is time to drink a pint of warm beer or a sour glass of Sauvignon Blanc as quickly as you can and pour half a cup of coffee down your trousers or dress. If you are a woman, next you must stand outside your downstairs loo for fifteen minutes. If you are a man, you must wait impatiently in the living room, looking at your watch every thirty seconds or so. OK, with your remote, peep round the kitchen door and start the concert. Wait outside and only enter the kitchen when the band are onto their second number of the night. There we are. I hope you enjoy it. We certainly did. I had lost my voice and was sweating buckets by the end.

That’s the stage bit - but what of the page? One of the songs on the first Blossoms’ album is called ‘Blown Rose’. It is written by Tom Ogden and is about a blighted dream and romance. I was intrigued by Tom’s use of the word ‘blown’ because it is not a word you often hear these days. Yes, you hear ‘fly-blown’ but not blown. It means ‘gone over’ as in ‘it has blossomed and is now going to seed’. In fact,  Shakespeare uses the verb, to blow, in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ in Oberon’s line to Puck: ‘I know a bank where the wild thyme blows’. Here, the thyme is blooming or blossoming and blowing its perfume into the air. Tom’s rose, on the other hand, is no longer blossoming and has finished blowing its perfume.

It is, of course, the right time of the year to be discussing roses and blossom because the hedgerows are full of dog roses at present. They thread themselves through the hedges and their delicate pink, yellow or white petals exude a subtle scent. This morning in Claxby I was lucky enough to see a hawthorn hedge covered in dog roses next to an elder bush in flower and above a verge of blooming meadowsweet. That is surely the perfect picture of summer.

So, there we have it, with as many tenuous links as I could muster, summer Blossoms for the stage, page and hedgerow  

Next time: ‘Hyacinths? You’ll need some hair lacquer.’

P.S. I will be serialising my novel, ‘Well and Truly Stuffed: Sebastian Scattergood’s Lincolnshire Diary’ on my Grumpy Grandad blog on WordPress very soon. Sebastian, the writer of the diary, is an innocent retiree from the pharmaceutical industry, trusting, well-intentioned but a disaster-magnet. Whatever project he touches is doomed to failure, even his marriage. The question is, will Fate deal him a better hand in the New Year and can he win his wife back? You will just have to follow the blog to find out. I hope you enjoy it.  

[ramblingrybo]

Encounters with Cows (and a Bull in Belleau)

Every year I get chased by cows. Except for one occasion when I was with my daughter, Alice, in South Ormsby, I have been on my own when this has happened. Obviously, without anyone to corroborate my stories I could be tempted to exaggerate but let me reassure you that what follows is the truth, cross my heart and hope to die. I will limit myself to two incidents. The first is a clear case of bullying, the second, one of mistaken identity. The first occurred three years ago in South Thoresby, the second, two years ago in the Swaby valley. 

There is a meadow in South Thoresby which has a boggy area next to the Calceby beck where you can find cuckoo flowers and ragged robin, two of my favourite wild flowers. If you have never come across ragged robin, it is a delicate, leggy plant with rose-red petals which often look torn and sometimes arthritic. Three years ago, I visited the site in May and spent a good half an hour squelching through the bog, taking photographs of these flowers. The sun was out and the birds were singing. I couldn’t have felt happier. Deciding that I’d had my fill for the time being, I slung on my backpack and began to walk across the raised boards and sleepers which provide a route through the bog and back onto the higher and drier part of the meadow. Glancing up, I could see a couple of cows idly munching at the end of the boardwalk. Thinking that they would shift as soon as I got nearer, I continued to amble towards them. But they did nothing of the sort. I could see one of them turn her head to look behind her. Within seconds, more cows, this time with calves, had trotted across to join the original couple, meaning that a small troop of them was now blocking my exit. I hesitated and then stopped. By now the cows had bunched together presenting an impenetrable wall. I stared at them and then waved my stick, making rustic shoo-ing noises as I did so. Nothing. They just shuffled en masse to the right,  then reshuffled en masse to the left. I stamped my foot in anger and I am sure at this moment, the ring-leader in the middle of the group winked at me. It could have been a fly, of course, but I sensed a swagger in her bearing. It reminded me of a group of bullies at school blocking the entrance to the toilets. 

‘Where do you think you’re going, eh?’

Annoyed with myself for being such a coward, I turned tail and retraced my steps across the bog to the edge of the field. If I was to get to the stile in the far right hand corner of the field, I would have to skirt the boundary and follow it all the way round, trying to keep out of sight of this herd of recalcitrant cows which seemed intent on delaying my progress. As I adopted a crouching run, trying to keep any hillock or bush between me and the cows, I couldn’t help feeling how ridiculous I must look. Here I was, a grown man in his sixties, trying to out-Commando a herd of cows. But worse was to come.

I had just started to follow the top fence which led directly to the stile, when I could see the cows start to turn away from the boggy area and begin to trot into the middle of the field. Diving for cover behind a sizeable tussock of grass, I caught hold of my breath and peered over. Instead of just scattering, the herd had now regrouped and were accelerating diagonally across the field towards the stile. It was now a race to see who could get there first. Jumping to my feet, I began to sprint, stumbling into the dips and flying over the mounds in front of me. In the distance, the cows were picking up speed. Please, please, let me get there first.

The cows won, of course, crowding in front of the stile which provided access to a bridge and the next part of my walk. Not only that, they were making one hell of a racket, mooing and bealing and, yes, I am sure of it, roaring with laughter - that was the cows, and giggling - that was the calves. Defeated, all I could do was stamp my foot again and think of what I could do next. Jump over the fence? Yes, that would do for a start. But then what about the brook? I would have to wade over. Would you believe it? I was being forced to jump across a brook by a herd of cows. Well, luckily I managed it but only just, suffering two wet feet and a plastering of black mud in the process. 

Did I give those cows a piece of my mind? Of course, I did. I spent a full five minutes pouring venomous scorn upon those bovine bullies. I had never been so humiliated. ‘What have I done to deserve all this? ‘ I wanted to shout when I had calmed down. But then I thought of slaughter houses and savoury mince and concluded that they might have had a point.

The second incident occurred a year later on a beautiful June walk through the  Swaby valley. The track is bordered on one side by a fence next to a chalk stream, on the other, by a steep slope covered in grass, bushes and punctuated by chalky outcrops. I was walking from the village of Swaby to Belleau. Happily listening to the reedy song of a robin in a hawthorn hedge, it took me some seconds to realise that my path was being blocked by a fawn coloured cow which was standing sideways on. As the path was quite narrow at this point, it was impossible to skirt around her. I advanced cautiously, making soft, cooing sounds, trying to get her to shift in a calm, peaceful manner. At first, she just shivered but then turned her head towards me and stared. It wasn’t aggressive. No, nothing of the sort. It was a mournful, melancholic stare. I stood still and that was when she took a step towards me and pushed her head at my side and tried to lick my hand. I began to back away slowly but she followed. Oh dear. I knew that I shouldn’t run but I also knew that this cow was getting a little too close for comfort. She nuzzled me again and that was all that was needed to spur me into action. If I couldn’t pass her or sprint away from her, I could climb above her. Yes, that was what I would do. I began to scramble up the slope, grabbing handfuls of grass to aid my ascent. But when I looked back, she was following me. This slope was as steep as Bully Hill in Tealby and she was still coming. 

‘Look, just go away. You’re giving me the creeps.’

It was only as I was nearing the top of the slope, having scratched my arms on brambles and blackthorn, that she finally stopped and skidded back down the slope onto the track again. Once at the bottom, she looked up at me and mooed, awaiting my return. For the moment, I was stuck. Regaining my breath, I realised that there was only one thing that I could do. I would have to edge along the top of the slope and only descend once I was near enough to the gate. It took ages and I kept praying that the cow wouldn’t try to keep me in her sights and stay level with me. Thankfully, she didn’t and I was finally able to make a dash for it. On the other side of the gate, I was able to relax and reflect upon my recent experience. This is what I came up with. I think the cow was lonely, perhaps missing her calf. I think she had transferred her affections onto me and I had become her baby. My initial fear had been replaced by feelings of tenderness towards her. After all, it is not every day that you can say that you have been loved by a cow.

So, bullied one year; loved the next. But what of this year? Well, I haven’t been chased yet but I have been bellowed at by a bull in Belleau. It happened last week. I was walking with Jane from Claythorpe Mill to Aby. We had just got to the stile near Belleau church when we noticed the bull on the other side. He was a muscular beast and clearly not in the mood to negotiate our safe passage through his field. He groaned, growled, bealed and bellowed. We hummed and harr-ed and then skedaddled. But, luckily for us, we soon found another track back to Aby, one which led us past the crystal clear waters of the Belleau spring and took us along the banks of the Great Eau. Strangely enough, we have a bull to thank for a brand new and beautiful part of the walk.

So, keep walking those fields if you want to be bullied, nuzzled or bellowed at. Who says that the Lincolnshire Wolds aren’t dramatic?

Next time: ‘Blossoms - stage, page and hedgerow’

[ramblingrybo]

‘Mum, can I have a plastic Beatles wig?’

I was sad to read of the death recently of the German photographer, Astrid Kirchherr, who was best known for her photographs of the Beatles at the beginning of their career. She first met them in Hamburg in 1960 when she was a twenty two year old art school graduate. Her boyfriend, Klaus Voormann, took her to see them at the Kaiserkeller in Hamburg’s red-light district. Afterwards, she invited them to a photo-shoot at a fairground in the city. One of the photographs she took on that day accompanied her obituary. It shows them as a rock and roll quintet, in leather jackets, winklepickers and quiffs, with George, John and Paul flanked by a very shy looking Pete Best on the left and a very cool looking Stuart Sutcliffe on the right. You can see straight away why Kirchherr was attracted to Sutcliffe. He soon became her boyfriend. Kirchherr was the one who created a ‘moptop’ hair-style for him which was adopted by the rest of the band and which they wore in the photographs she took of them for their first Parlophone single, ‘Love Me Do’ in October 1962.

As a young boy, this was when I first became aware of them but it wasn’t until a year later when ‘Please, Please Me’ was released that I became a fan. Not that this meant a lot because we didn’t have a record player at home and I wasn’t allowed any merchandise, other than a postcard from Woolworths which featured a photograph of them performing in a TV studio. The only time I listened to them was when their records were played on the radio. Most of the time my enjoyment was vicarious, lived through my next door neighbours’ daily involvement with the band. Stephen was four years older than me and had the records, record player and clothes. Lyndis was two years older and had the magazines and posters. Nicky was one year older and pretended he had a half share in everything. In fact, it was Nicky who greeted me one day over the garden hedge wearing his brother’s black plastic Beatles waistcoat and black plastic Beatles wig.

‘What do you reckon? Cool, eh? Yeah, Stephen lets me wear this whenever I want. I’m just off to the shop. Coming?’

He swaggered off down the road in his plastic moptop, stopping to pose, nose in the air, whenever a bicycle went past. I stumbled after him in my short back and sides, consumed with jealousy but trying to gain some kudos through association with this cool cat. On returning, I immediately rushed into our kitchen to collar my mum.

‘Mum. mum, can I have a plastic Beatles wig? Nicky’s got one.’

Her decision, when it came, was blunt and final.

‘As always, Keith, yer in my way. Yer dad’s liver’ll burn dry if I don’t get it out of the oven this minute. Plastic Beatles wig? What on earth do yer want with a plastic Beatles wig? Whativer next? Of course, yer can’t, yer daft ha’porth.’ 

I might have known. Just like my Nana, my mum was a true Methodist. In her eyes, the Beatles were part of a plot conceived by the Devil and Nikita Khrushchev to undermine Western civilisation. Cliff Richard was exactly the same. His film, ‘Summer Holiday’, was designed to turn every British teenager into a sex maniac. 

My mum’s rejection of the plastic moptop set the pattern for the next five years. Fashionable clothes were dangerous fripperies. If I wanted a pair of jeans, I could have some - but not Levi’s.

‘There. What’s wrong with them? They look exactly like Nicky’s.’

They did. But only for one wash. After that, I looked as if I was walking about in a couple of light blue pillow cases which had been sown together. 

No, I had to wait until I was thirteen to take my first steps into the world of teenage skinhead-influenced fashion. It was when my next door neighbours took pity on me and gifted me their cast-offs. First to arrive was a pair of Doc Martens, one size too big and a threadbare pair of Levi’s, too big all over. After that, all I needed was to persuade my Nana to part with one of my grandad’s old vests so that I could tie-dye it.

‘Whativer fer? Yer’ll be wantin’ his braces next.’

‘What a good idea. Nan, You haven’t got any red and white striped ones ones, have you?’

To complete my wardrobe, I had to save up my fruit-picking and paper-round money to buy a fawn coloured Campari cord jacket. And that was it. I was set up for everyday, casual wear with the rest of the teenage population. Smarter clothes would have to wait for another couple of years.

When that day arrived, my friends and I raided the more sophisticated edges of youth culture. Even though we were growing our hair, we felt that there was nothing smarter than a Ben Sherman shirt and Two tone Sta press trousers. It was what we wore for our very first gig at the Railway Club, our version of the Beatles’ collarless grey suits. We even had our own photographer, Clarkey, who got in free because he wore his ‘Press’ badge which Boston United had issued him with for home matches on a Saturday afternoon. The images he captured were sharp and well-defined. Unfortunately, the music wasn’t.

Next time: ‘Encounters with Cows (and a Bull in Belleau)’

[ramblingrybo]

Going Wild with Tennyson (in a high vis vest)

How wonderful to be back in the heart of the Wolds. With the easing of lockdown restrictions, I have been able to drive to two of my favourite locations and ramble in the beautiful countryside around Tetford and Burwell. But, alas, walking fifteen miles in two days with a titanium hip and a dodgy knee has left its mark. I am now moving like the Tin Man from ‘The Wizard of Oz’. I am even having to use a litter-pickup stick to help me tie up my shoe laces.

But getting back to last Friday before my joints rusted up. I was parked in front of St. Mary’s church in Tetford by eight thirty. Just down the road is the White Hart inn where Tennyson used to drink, play skittles and hob-nob with the local gentry. Tetford is also the village famous for Charles Richardson, the Methodist Preacher, known as the ‘Lincolnshire Thrasher’. He was an uneducated farm labourer in the 1820s who late in life discovered a gift for evangelical preaching. Some of his services could go on for hours. I think my Nana would have liked him.

The walk starts in the fields behind the church and follows the route of an old Roman road out of the village. It was a still, bright day as I walked between the hedges of hawthorn and beneath the pink and white flower-candles on the horse chestnut trees. Within twenty minutes I was climbing up Warden Hill to Willow Bank Wood. To the right of the path, the hedge foamed with garlands of almond-scented, white-cream May blossom while below it the red campion fizzed through the cow parsley. In the field to the left, a sprinkling of delicate mauve cuckoo flowers showed their heads above the grass. This flower, one of my favourites, grows in damp meadows and is also called ladies smock, milkmaids or Lucy Locket. In the past, it was used to combat heart ailments and epilepsy. But it was also considered unlucky as it was known as the favourite flower of adders.

On the far side of Warden Hill, the path descends towards one of Tennyson’s ‘silent woody places’, a large copse which was carpeted with bluebells. They looked particularly striking at the edge of the copse on the banks of a stream where they grew next to an old moss-covered trunk in the company of yellow lesser celandine and white greater stitchwort. Leaving the copse, I joined a track to Bag Enderby and was soon passing the old hollow tree trunk where Tennyson played as a boy. Talking of which, fifty three years ago I cycled to Bag Enderby from Boston with my friend, Greg, and we buried time capsules near one of the fords to the south of the village. The only object I can remember offering as my gift to the future was a signed photograph of Nobby Stiles, the 1966 World Cup hero. 

From Bag Enderby, it is a short distance to Somersby, Tennyson’s birthplace, where I encountered problems next to his brook. But let’s start with the church of St Margaret’s where his father was the vicar and where there is a display of artefacts which once belonged to Alfred, including a couple of clay pipes and a quill. There is also a fact sheet in the display cabinet which informs us that he was addicted to apple pie and ate one every day. Virtually opposite the church is the Georgian vicarage where Alfred was born in 1809, the fourth of twelve children. Now to the brook. As I was walking out of the village and over the bridge which crosses the river Lymn, I suddenly remembered that wild garlic grew there. I climbed down onto the banks of the river and grabbed handfuls of the leaves and stuffed them into a cloth bag before zipping them into my back-pack. Oh dear, big mistake, because this was a particularly pungent batch which seemed to be living up to one of its country names, stink plant. As I began to walk back towards Tetford, I immediately recalled the experience of carrying a baby on my shoulders, one with a leaking nappy. You could smell it from miles away which is how I came to have an embarrassing conversation with a dog walker. I was on the last track into the village when I stepped aside to let the man pass. Instead of walking past, however, he paused.

‘Wow, that’s a powerful smell.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it’s me.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ve been picking wild garlic.’

‘Is it to ward off the plague?’.

The journey back to Tealby was a painful experience. It was like chauffeuring a party of French cuisine enthusiasts. I had to wind the windows down. When I finally got home I wasn’t allowed to put the wild garlic in the fridge.

‘Last time it made the milk taste funny.’

It ended up outside the back door - and then on the lawn - and finally at the bottom of the garden where Kev the pheasant gave it a wide berth.

And so on to Saturday. This time I was with Jane and we walked the Burwell/ Swaby/ Belleau circuit before venturing on to the Bluestone Heath Road in our hi vis vests for a spot of wayside wardening. But first, the walk, which is truly exceptional - from the valley in Swaby with its chalk stream and terraced fields to the village of Belleau with its church bench and magnificent sycamore tree. Best of all, however, is the wood at the very beginning. Entering it in May is like venturing into a wildflower paradise. On Saturday, the bluebells were still there along with one or two surviving wood anemones but it is the rest of the flowers which make this place so special. Immediately we found ourselves walking between swathes of sweet woodruff, speedwell, forget-me-nots and crosswort before suddenly coming to an abrupt stop in front of hundreds of orchids. They are early purple orchids, most of them a purply-pink but some white, pretending to be butterfly orchids. Even though we had been here before, such profusion was startling. Inspired, we resumed the walk with an added spring to our step.

Eight miles later, however, we finished with a hobble, having negotiated the last few stiles with a technique which we christened ‘the diving swallow routine’. This entailed a lurch, a hand crawl and a leg drag. It was slow, awkward but, as a spectacle, strangely riveting. Back at the car, we took a few moments to catch our breath before making our way to the section of verge on the Bluestone Heath road which we look after for the Lincolnshire Wildlife Trust.

The Bluestone Heath road is an ancient drove road which follows the 320 metre high ridge across the spine of the Wolds. Our quarter of a mile of verge is at Worlaby, just down the road from South Ormsby. Every three weeks or so it is our job to pick up the litter from this wayside piece of land and carry out a survey of the plants, animals and birds which it supports. Owing to lockdown, this has been impossible recently so we were visiting it for the first time for two months. 

Having parked, we pulled on our hi vis vests, tested our litter pickup sticks and began our inspection, limping from one end of our stretch to the other and back again. As motorbikes and white vans roared past, I silently mourned for the undisturbed silence of recent weeks. We were pleasantly surprised to find that there was very little litter but even happier to discover the array of plants which had appeared since the last time we were there. These included a carpet of cowslips and large patches of yellow rattle and bird’s foot trefoil. The yellow rattle was just coming into flower. It is a small, erect plant which looks like a very smart yellow nettle and is an indicator of old pastures and hay meadows so it’s a healthy and welcome sight. The unusual name refers to the fact that when ripe the seed rattles in its case as the plant blows in the wind. As for bird’s foot trefoil, it is a low-growing plant with bright yellow and orange flowers which has led to its nickname of eggs and bacon. 

Within three quarters of an hour, we were finished. We had logged our final plant and bagged our final crisp packet. It was time to return home - to a hot bath, Bio-Freeze, Ibuprofen gel, paracetamol, hot mustard poultices and a bottle of wine. As I groaned out of the car and hobbled to the back door, I am sure I heard a voice. ‘That’ll learn yer.’ It sounded like my Nana. Perhaps she had just taken time out from one of Charles Richardson’s celestial sermons. ‘Gallivantin’ about with a manky knee and gittin’ all poetical with yer wild flowers this and yer wild flowers that. I don’t know. I’ve a good mind ter give yer a slap. Pull up that trouser leg, Keith.’

[ramblingrybo]

Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac - The Green Manalishi (With The Two Prong Cr...

[ramblingrybo]

Happy Birthday, Green  Manalishi

Fifty years ago today, on May 15th 1970, one of the most haunting singles ever to appear in the British charts was released. It was ‘The Green Manalishi (with the Two Prong Crown)’ by Fleetwood Mac, written by Peter Green, a brilliant singer-songwriter and blues-rock guitarist. I can remember the first time I ever heard it. My next-door neighbour, Nicky, played it for me on his Dansette record player. It made me shiver. There was something dark and disturbing about it. Both the lyrics and the manner in which they were sung suggested pain and paranoia. As soon as it had finished, I asked him to put it on again. I was possessed and have been for the last fifty years. It was one of the first times I had ever been transported by the the words of a song or, to be more precise, by three lines of a verse. They have inspired a love of language ever since.

Before 1970 I have very little memory of literature. I hated reading at primary school and found writing difficult. In fact, I was one of the only children not to feature in the June 1963 edition of ‘Around Our School’, the St Nicholas School Newspaper. I have the evidence in front of me. ‘The Owl’ by Judith Cunnington appears, as does ‘My Budgie’ by Michael Parkinson. Likewise, ‘What I have seen’ by Gregory Swain. Even an appalling untitled two line poem by DW is there. But I am conspicuous by my absence. I hate to think what I had produced that was so bad it had led to my exclusion.

It was much the same in the first three years of secondary school. I think I perked up twice. Once was in the second year when our English teacher read us ‘The Thirty Nine Steps’ by John Buchan, and the next was in the third year when the same teacher read us ‘Christabel’ by Coleridge. It was just one image I remember, a single leaf on an old oak tree in the wood which Christabel visits in April late at night: ‘There’s not wind enough to twirl/ The one red leaf, the last of its clan/ That dances as often dance it can’. That’s all there was until the Green Manalishi came along.

So, here they are, the first three lines: ‘Now, when the day goes to sleep/ And the full moon looks/ The night is so black that the darkness cooks’. How about that for an introduction to a song? ‘The darkness cooks’ is so ominous. It makes me think of witches’ cauldrons or blood boiling or a mind melting. Even better, the words are reinforced in performance by the chugging threat of the guitar riff and Peter Green’s soulful, tortured voice which is as smooth as polished leather.

Unfortunately, after these first three lines the lyrics become less clear but seem to describe Green’s fight against the demons of addiction. Sadly, this was the case. Eventually, his experimentation with LSD led to a mental breakdown and he left Fleetwood Mac on 20th May, five days after the release of ‘The Green Manalishi’. He had been with the band for three years. During that time he had written some truly wonderful songs which are still firm favourites with many people today, ‘Black Magic Woman’, ‘Albatross’, ‘Oh Well’, and ‘Man of the World’. 

Nevertheless, if the man was gone, we still had his songs. Inspired by this flawed genius, I joined a rock band eight months later. We were called Curiosity Morgue and advertised our gigs with cardboard coffins. We also wrote our own songs influenced by the likes of Uriah Heep, Ten Years After and Led Zeppelin. Many of the songs expressed our anger at the constraints placed upon teenagers by parents and teachers or the woeful inability of governments to tackle such problems as poverty and pollution. Occasionally, we even made personal attacks on members of our own families. I remember one gem. It was a vituperative assault upon the toupee-wearing father of our lead guitarist. And for what reason? Because he regularly turned off the electricity when we rehearsed in his lounge. Meanwhile, at school, we led the crusade against stuffiness, trying to persuade our music teacher that listening to the album,’Paranoid’, by Black Sabbath was an infinitely more pleasurable musical experience than having to endure yet more hours of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’ Fantasy Overture. In the end, he relented for one lesson and I remember him squirming as we played him ‘War Pigs’, urging him to listen carefully to the lyrics. Ah, happy memories.

After that came A levels and a degree and since then I have enjoyed a literature-fest on a daily basis. But do not worry. I am not going to treat you to an endless list of my favourite writers. I will just mention one, Holly McNish, and an incident when I was suddenly transported back to the realms of teenage fandom. First, you have to know that Holly McNish is a performance poet so that you can only fully appreciate her when she is performing live. Two years ago, I had a chance to see her at the Theatre Royal in Lincoln. I went with my friend, Lynn. When we were taking our seats in the auditorium, I recognised Holly immediately. She was talking to some local poets. Desperate to tell her how much I admired her poetry, I attempted to leave my seat. Unfortunately, I was paralysed by embarrassment and remained stuck where I was, wringing in my hands a copy of ‘Plum’, her latest work. I made my excuses, ‘It would be rude to interrupt her’, vowing that I would try to catch her at the end of her performance, ‘I’ll catch her in the foyer. If I’m quick enough, I’ll be the first in the queue’. I was and she was there. But I hesitated, tongue-tied, so by the time I had plucked up enough courage to speak to her, somebody else had stolen her away. ‘Shucks’, I thought, ‘maybe next time.’

It was different with Peter Green. I have never seen him so that I have never had the opportunity of thanking him for writing ‘The Green Manalishi’. But, why not now? Come on, courage, you can do it...

O.K. here goes. Thank you, Peter Green, wherever you are. Oh, and while we’re at it, can I have your autograph, please? 

[ramblingrybo]

There’s a Mad Monk in the Garden Shed

Last Thursday morning at seven o’clock, I was shaving and looking out of the bathroom window. I was still numb from sleep but awake enough to appreciate the rich translucent light which bathed the garden below. Just beyond the pergola, the pantiles of next door’s outbuilding were splashed with the first colourful flushes of honeysuckle. The thatch of green leaves which covered the roof was dotted here and there with pink, yellow and cream flower clusters. I could almost smell them. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly caught a flash of white. Yes, beneath the gloom of the damson trees and behind the shadowy glass of the garden shed, a form materialised. I stopped shaving. My neck prickled. Then, to my horror, the shed door opened and in an instant I was looking down upon the hooded figure of a monk. The belted habit, bare calves and sandals merely confirmed it. What the...? A host of alarming possibilities presented themselves, all of them frightening. Was this a squatter monk and if so how was I going to get rid of him? Or was he a mad monk bent on establishing a new holy order in Tealby? Perhaps he was neither of these and just a ghost or a figment of my imagination. But what was I thinking? Just a ghost? Was I going to be haunted for the rest of my life? And, if a figment of my imagination, what did this suggest about my sanity? Because I could swear this figure was real. 

It was only then, a full five seconds after its initial appearance, that the figure turned to gaze into the pond and I could see that the mad monk was in fact my wife. Feeling stupid, I covered my embarrassment by tutting angrily. What right had she to be in the garden at this time of the morning? What right had she to scare me in this way? Who in their right minds wears a dressing gown outside?Wasn’t she supposed to be in the kitchen eating her breakfast? Gruffly patting my face with the towel, I quickly turned on the shower and stepped under the drilling water to try to forget this annoying breach of my early morning routine.

Why am I telling you all this? Perhaps because this episode illustrates two weaknesses in my character - that I scare easily and that I don’t like dressing gowns. Let us start with the first of these. As a child, shyness and a vivid imagination meant that I could suffer the jitters in any social gathering. Fairs, circuses, zoos, children’s parties, school fetes, all had the potential to overwhelm me. Then there were the specifics. Clowns’ feet, ventriloquists’ dolls, beards and the coal house were truly frightening closely followed by incisors, swimming, tomato sauce and toy sharks in the bath. As I got older, I would carry out nightly rituals in my bedroom to ward off evil - looking under the bed three times, sniffing the gas tap six times and so on. Then came the crucifix on a chain dangling from the bedhead. Thankfully, by the time I went to college, I could control the urge to scream every time I saw a bearded man eating a hot dog. But watching ‘The Exorcist’ was a big mistake, leaving me virtually catatonic for weeks afterwards. Nowadays, I still scare easily but the fright soon dissipates which is why the mad monk quickly transformed from nasty shock to source of irritation.

Now we come to the subject of dressing gowns. Obviously, when I was young everyone wore a dressing gown because in those days houses were freezing and bedrooms didn’t have carpets. But as soon as I could make a choice, I gave them up entirely. As a teenager, dressing gowns made me think of those line drawings by Spike Milligan of soldiers wearing voluminous shorts out of which protrude a pair of thin, hairy legs and knobbly knees. In my mind, I had reduced them to items of clothing you might find in a fancy dress box. An illustration of this occurred when I was a student in London. I was staying with a friend, Andy, in Southgate for the weekend and on the Saturday night we went to the pub wearing nothing but dressing gowns and slippers. Any details of the evening have been lost in the mists of time. I can’t remember the reaction of the clientele or how we got home but I suppose we must have thought it was funny or else we wouldn’t have done it. A further episode, this time involving another friend, Dave, also springs to mind. We were on holiday in a house in Newton Abbott when he suddenly started to dance to ‘Kung-Fu Fighting’ in his girlfriend’s kimono. Unfortunately, he wasn’t wearing any underpants so that every time he executed a high kick, he revealed himself. It is an image scorched on my memory and one which I will always associate with dressing gowns.

 It was only when I was sixty that I was finally forced to bite the bullet and buy a dressing gown and slippers. I was going into hospital for a hip replacement operation and these items of clothing were considered mandatory. Not wanting to spend a lot of money, I bought a navy blue towelling dressing gown for £5 from Primark and a pair of moccasins for £6. After one wash in the washing machine and a stint in the tumble drier, the dressing gown was shorn of its fluffiness and resembled a hessian sack. The moccasins looked like smoked kippers. Six weeks later, after a period of rest and recuperation, these items were abandoned and now lurk in some darkened corner of our house.

Isn’t it amazing where a sudden shock can take you? Who would have thought that a vision of a mad monk could lead us via a bearded man eating a hot dog to a dodgy dance in a kimono? And that was just the short journey. I didn’t have time to tell you about Derek, the ‘Slipper Man’ who gained entry into the Guinness Book of Records in 2007 for wearing his slippers non-stop for twenty three years. Now, I thought I had problems. 

[ramblingrybo]

                                         Come into the Garden, Kev

Kevin, the pheasant, has been with us now for seven weeks. To honour his continued presence we have taken to calling him Kev which, unfortunately, has coincided with the sad disappearance of his tail feathers owing to a cat attack. Consequently, we now have a pheasant with a short name and a short body. The lack of tail feathers, however, has not curtailed his daily behaviour. Despite looking like a stubbed-out cigar butt, he still crakes like a band-saw and struts about the garden, nodding to the worms. When he needs a rest, he stands on one leg underneath the bird feeders and blinks, innocently. 

Kev’s lack of tail feathers brings to mind an incident from my past in which a pheasant featured strongly. I had better keep my voice down because it ended tragically. Think of me whispering the next bit. i was twelve and I was bush-beating at a December shoot in Swineshead, near Boston. We were just finishing our last drive of the morning. The guns had stopped firing and we were walking to the end of the field. Directly in front of me, however, twitching in the furrow, was a cock pheasant with a broken wing. It had congealed blood on its chest. Now, there is an unspoken rule in game-shoots that if you come across an injured bird directly in your path then it is your responsibility to finish it off. I stopped and gulped. I knew what I had to do. Reluctantly, I picked up the bird, its head cupped in my hand. The technique was to spin the body round, then jerk it to a stop, thus snapping the neck and putting the bird out of its misery. Unfortunately, I was a little too energetic in my attempt. Having closed my eyes, I spun the body then jerked, only to hear the bird’s body fly through the air and land in front of me. Opening my eyes, I could see the body bounce then roll to a standstill, the tail feathers flapping violently against the ground. However, my fist was still clenched, squeezing something hard like a golf ball. Through squinting eyes, I peeled back my fingers one by one. Nestling in the cup of my hand, a pheasant’s head, vividly green, white and red like the Italian flag. I froze. But then it winked at me. Flinging the head behind me, I jigged on the spot, flailing the air to rid me of the horror. In the end, I had to be held fast by my friend, Mick, and force-fed a Mars Bar to counter the shock. Naturally, I suffered nightmares for weeks afterwards.

But that is enough about decapitated pheasants. Let us get back to the garden. For the last three days, I have been involved in a concerted bout of weed destruction and cutting back. With Kev’s dissonant crakes to keep me company, I have de-mossed the pantiles on the study roof with a hoe, fought a fierce battle with a Mermaid rose, scraped ivy from three walls and savaged yet more ground elder, this time from the edge of our new wild bit of garden. In the process, I have been able to appreciate some of the wild flowers which we or the birds have planted in the last few years. And I am going to tell you about four of them. Now, before you start yawning and saying things like, ‘Wild flowers? That’s about as interesting as poetry’, let me reassure you that you can forage for all of them in our country lanes and that all four are edible. Even better, one can ward off the plague and two are noted aphrodisiacs. Interested now? Yes, I thought you might be.

Right, let’s start with Bistort which we have growing in our pond. It has pink spikes and heart shaped leaves and it is also known as Snake Weed, Pudding Dock or Passion Dock. These last two names refer to its use in Easter Ledger Pudding which is a favourite in the Lake District and Yorkshire. The young leaves can be boiled and made into a puree which is then added to butter, chopped boiled eggs and boiled barley before being pressed. It looks like stuffing and is served with roast lamb. There, that’s something for you to try at home.

Much more common, however, is Garlic Mustard aka Jack-by-the-Hedge, Poor Man’s Mustard, Sauce-Alone or Penny Hedge. It has small white flowers and heart-shaped, tooth-edged leaves. This can be found on most roadside verges at this time of the year. The edible leaves which taste of garlic can be used in a salad. Furthermore, the flowers can be steamed like broccoli as a vegetable and the root makes an excellent substitute for horse-radish. ‘Wow,’ I can hear you purring, ‘that is some larder-filling plant.’ ‘I know,’ is my reply, ‘but that’s not all...’ It is also the major food plant for caterpillars of the orange-tip and green-veined butterflies and, when mashed up, can provide a disinfecting poultice. 

Still with me? Good, because we now come to a couple of racier individuals. The first is Sweet Woodruff aka Kiss-Me-Quick, Ladies In The Hay or Wild Baby’s Breath. It is a ground-hugging, shade-loving plant with rich green leaves and flowers like small bright white stars. The whole plant is vanilla scented and when dried the leaves smell like new mown hay. In the past, it was strewn on floors or stuffed in pillows or mattresses. Nowadays, it is steeped in Rhine wine in Germany to make their Maibowle or Maybowl. It is also considered slightly aphrodisiac. 

More potent still is Sweet Cicely which is related to Cow Parsley but has creamier, denser flower heads and delicate, fern-like leaves. It is also known as Garden Myrrh or Sweet Chervil. The whole plant smells and tastes of aniseed. The strongest flavour comes from the root which in the past has been used to ward off plague, given as a tonic to drooping teenagers and chomped on a daily basis to increase the lust of old people. Sounds like a plant for these desperate times, don’t you think? As well as its reinvigorating properties, the leaf of Sweet Cicely can be used in a salad or cooked with sour fruit, like rhubarb, to get rid of the tartness. But this is a plant which keeps on giving because later in the year the large brown seeds can be used as a spice or sucked like a sweet as an alternative to an aniseed ball. I think you’ll agree, this is certainly one multi-purpose plant and perhaps the most versatile of all of them. 

So, happy foraging. But before I go, I have some breaking news. The first swifts are back which means that Kev will soon have to compete with groups of them screaming in their death-defying races around the rooftops and treetops of Tealby. I’m sure he will give as good as he gets. 

Finally, happy birthday to my youngest daughter, Hannah, all those miles away in Lockdown Highgate. Have a great day.

[ramblingrybo]

‘Hi, girls, this is Pongo and that’s Slasher.’

Ever had a nickname? Of course, you have, particularly if you are a boy. Even if it’s just been Thommo or Smithy. It’s human nature to give and receive a nickname. It is given as a term of endearment, to signify the membership of a group or as an insult. Some of us have the same nickname for the whole of our lives while others have ones which change with the times.

My first nickname was Nuts and Bolts. Heck of a mouthful, I know. It was given to me by our next-door neighbour, Stephen (aka Spinach), who was the leader of our gang. His dad was the one who had provided him with his nickname. Why? We never knew but there were several theories: that he liked the mashed-up vegetable as a baby; that he was inordinately strong; that he had looked like Popeye in his high-chair. Whatever the reason, it was universally agreed that it was a splendid nickname. It also turned out to be dynastic because when his younger brother Nicky was born, he was nicknamed Spinach Juice. Now that is what I call inventive. 

I can count myself fortunate in the nicknames I have acquired over the years as I have always felt comfortable in answering to them. Nuts and Bolts was followed by Bolly, then Bol. In the Sixth Form, it was Gladys, a name given to me by my English teacher as a comment on the length of my hair. Since then, I have been Boggart, after a part in a play, and latterly Rybo, following my marriage and also because it is a lot easier to shout on a football pitch. I have also known many friends who were similarly pleased with their nicknames. Steve Baxter’s ‘Baccerash’ is my all-time favourite but I think Scratch Thatcher, Daddy Pearson, Tank Bates and Donkey Bray all deserve a mention. Likewise, my dad had some friends with creative nicknames: Sugar Swaddling, Bisto Browning and Digger Docherty.

Some boys, on the other hand, inherit a nickname at birth because they have a particular surname which requires it, for example Spud Murphy, Chalky White, Stormy Gayle, Taffy Jones and Bunny Warren. If these names are predictable, at least they are inoffensive. Unlike the next group of boys and men I wish to mention who have been marked for life by an unfortunate physical attribute.

Who hasn’t known somebody called Fatty, Wobble or Pudding? Then there’s Titch, Beanpole or Wingnut. Even Monk, Lurch or Wart. You may have noticed that I haven’t chosen Four-Eyes. Well, it’s only because we had our own version in Boston, Three-Eyes Addison, who had lost an eye in a freak conkering accident but still had to wear a pair of National Health spectacles with one of the lenses blanked out with a pink sticking plaster. Unlucky or what?

Of course, there are those individuals in any town who are immediately marked out as dangerous by their nicknames. Killer Fountain comes to mind. When I was a boy in Boston, just the mention of his name could strike terror into our hearts. ‘Want ter come ter Ted West’s fer some chips?’ ‘No fear, Kenny sez he’s just seen Killer Fountain ovver that way. I think I’ll have a drippin’ sandwich at home instead.’

Mind you, there were others who sounded terrifying but turned out to be friendly and generous when you got to know them. Take my dad’s mate, Mangler, for instance. We used to meet him in the stands at Boston United’s York Street ground. He used to crunch walnuts in his jaws and hand me the nut to eat while we were watching the game. The same man who worked as a bouncer at the Gliderdrome. He had been known to hold up a Mini by its front end and push it out of the way when it was blocking up the entrance to the stage door. In fact, the kind of man you liked to say hello to as you were walking down the street with your friends. 

Finally, we come to those individuals who didn’t stand a chance once they were provided with their nicknames. I am of course referring to Slasher and Pongo . Both were gentle giants. Slasher was muscular and athletic, Pongo, wide and meaty. Slasher Spalding had been given his nickname ironically. You couldn’t find a less savage human being if you tried. Pongo had been given his nickname because of his surname, Reeks. Imagine, then, what it was like for the both of them when they attained their teenage years and tried to attract girls. 

‘Hey, Bol, can you introduce me and Neville to them two girls over there?’ ‘Who, Sharon and Kate? Of course I can, Slasher.’ ‘Yea, but don’t call me that.’ ‘No worries, leave it to me...Heh, Sharon, come here. I want you to meet somebody. This here’s Slash, I mean Dave, and this is his mate, Pongo, I mean Neville....They’re great fun once you get to know them...Sharon? Where are you going, Sharon?’

Could it get any worse? Of course, it could. Poor Slasher finally lived up to his nickname some years later when he was drunk in charge of a bike. Head down, pedalling like fury, he was unaware of the car parked in front of him at the side of the road. Hitting the bumper head on, he was catapulted over the bonnet and through the windscreen into the car, mashing up his face and scarring him for life.

Now I come to think of it, I suppose I should count myself lucky that I was never named after the delivery round I did as a teenager on a Friday night after school. It was on a lorry delivering bottles of Corona pop.

Can you see me? Back row, first left. I’m surprised they didn’t call me Big Ears. 

[ramblingrybo]

I was in a right frumerty sweat

[ramblingrybo]

I’m a Rasher of Bacon in a Frying Pan

[ramblingrybo]

Ditch Walking, Mud Larking and Becky’s Dive Bar

In my Spanish class recently, our tutor asked us to write about what we had liked to do in our childhood. I was immediately transported back to my favourite activities, ditch walking and mud larking. Let me tell you about them and explain why I have always been fascinated by mud and muddy water.

I was born in Boston where there were lots of ditches, a rustic grid system which provided a secret highway for the adventurous child. They were below the level of ordinary life, beneath cars and bikes on the road and beneath sheep and cows in the fields. It was possible to disappear into them for hours and travel unseen for miles. But not only were they secret, they were dangerous and exciting as well. Who knew what lurked beneath the toxic-green pond weed? Or what had died there. The black mud tugged at your wellies, the chill of the water made you catch your breath and the rich smells of decomposing matter warmed your nostrils. Then, of course, there were the rats, alerting you with a plop, or a grass snake, a blur of green and yellow on the bank. Like any underground highway, there were tunnels to negotiate, some dark and dripping under a bridge, others dappled archways through April blackthorn or hawthorn in May. Or, perhaps, we would come across a watering hole for cattle, where the mud was at its most glutinous. A gang of us knew every inch of that ditch system. We could draw you a map which would take you from Skirbeck to Fishtoft, three miles away. We were guides to a secret underworld.

Similarly, we could take you creek jumping on the marshes or, even better, mud larking on the banks of the river Haven, a mile down river of the Docks and St. Nicholas’ church. Now, if you’ve never been on the banks of a tidal river, you need to know what you are missing. It is the mud. Not just any mud. This is quality, tidal mud, the kind of mud you see in London when the river Thames is at its lowest. It is smooth, shiny and brown, a brown that can look like hot chocolate one minute and then turn as chestnut as a conker the next. But once it is disturbed by a dog, a seagull or a stone, it instantly turns to black, sometimes grey-black, at others, jet-black. This is the kind of mud I loved as a child. With my friends, we would build a den at a turning tide as close to the water’s edge as possible. We would use any wood or rope we could find for the walls, and stone from further up the bank for a base. Then we would wait for a timber or cattle boat to glide past, sucking the water away from us as it approached and swamping us in its wake as it passed. If our den had been made water-tight, we remained dry, if not, we got drenched.

Of course, mud larking also meant searching for any jetsam of interest which had been washed up onto the bank – old tins, bottles, shoes, dead animals, and, alarmingly, condoms. We never found any old coins or anything of historical interest. It was the search in itself which was the most important thing. Just to be near oozing, salty, slippery mud was enough because it was mud that smelled of the sea and the marshes and, just like the mud of ditches, it promised adventure.

        These days all I can do is look wistfully at ditches when I pass them on my bike rides as I did the other day to Claxby. However, there might be a flicker of hope. Only recently, I took my seven-year old granddaughter, Athena, for a stroll around Tealby and she insisted on walking through the watering hole where the river Rase crosses Sandy Lane. Not only did she get stuck in the mud the first time she went paddling but enjoyed it enough to get stuck in it again. Promising signs, I thought. Now, all I need to do is to choose my ditch.

        As for tidal mud, every time I visit my daughter in London, I try to catch a glimpse of the Thames and get near enough for a sniff. It has occurred to me that perhaps I need to investigate mud larking more seriously. Consequently, I have carried out research which has led to the discovery that you can apply to the Port of London Authority for a licence and become an official mud lark. Now, there’s a thought. Perhaps my granddaughter might also be interested.

        What has all this got to do with Becky’s Dive Bar? Well, I’ll tell you. It was while I was doing my research that I came across the name, Shad Thames, a riverside area of the south bank near Tower Bridge which was famous for its mud larks, slums and seedy characters like Dickens’ Bill Sykes. Seedy characters got me thinking. Then unhealthy places. Finally, the south bank provided the missing ingredient. ‘Yes,’ I exclaimed, ‘Southwark Street near London Bridge, the year 1973, my first visit to Becky’s Dive Bar.’

        For those of you who never experienced this cellar pub, let me tell you about it. It was, and remains, the seediest pub I have ever visited. It was on several floors, each like a different level of hell. Below ground, after a short flight of stairs, was the main floor, with two rooms, one being the saloon bar, where I sat with my friends on barrels. The beer, Ruddles County, Shepherd Neame and so on, was served out of casks which were propped on the bar. Becky was an eccentric woman, old, nearly always inebriated. She was plastered in make-up and red lipstick, a dyed black beehive balanced on her head, often standing next to Harry, the massively beer-bellied barman, who offered greasy fried food to those of a strong constitution.

        The toilets were on the next level down and were the dirtiest, smelliest toilets I haveexperienced, and approached by the narrowest staircase I have negotiated. It was rumoured that cells which once belonged to the Marshalsea debtors’ prison were below the toilets. I don’t remember anybody ever investigating this.

        I kept going back for the next two years. It had everything going for it. It was an underground watering hole, dangerous, full of rich, warm smells and decomposing matter. Much like ditch walking and mud larking, in fact.

Footnote: Becky’s Dive Bar was closed down in 1975.