Saturday 10 November 2007
Sunday 4 November 2007
This Must Be The Plaice
- a brief encounter at the chip shop
It was not going to be a cordon-bleu meal, but after exploring the hills all morning I was ready for something to eat, and while waiting for my meal to arrive at the table (plaice and chips, mushy peas and a mug of tea - all for £3.50) I took stock of my surroundings. The fish-and-chip café was convenient, and fitted the popular tourist advice to ‘eat where the locals eat’, so I decided to give it a try.
About half a dozen women, outnumbered by small children, were huddled in the smoke-filled section of the dining area but the non-smoking end where I sat was almost empty. Outside, across the small market square, a crowd of men, glasses in hand, stood at the doorstep of the White Swan, a pub bedecked with the flag of St George and a banner proclaiming ‘Live Football Here.’ Possibly the husbands/fathers of the cafe customers, I thought.
This was Bolsover in the heart of the once thriving North Derbyshire coalfields. The last time I was here, in the 1950s, it was the centre of a bustling community. Not so since the local pit closed, together with most of the UK coal industry, in the wake of the disastrous miners’ strike of the 1980s. It was a human tragedy and, many agree, a serious mistake, both by the unions and the Government of the day, which led to our current fuel crisis, almost entirely dependent on imported gas and oil.
My reverie was interrupted by a female voice, very close. ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ it asked. It was a rhetorical question, to which I replied ‘Be my guest.’The voice belonged to a presentable woman in her middle years, and while she was at the counter ordering her meal I was thinking about that accent. Derbyshire, certainly, but somewhat mellowed. Perhaps she, like I, lived elsewhere now but was on a nostalgic return visit here today. Perhaps we might have a conversation. Perhaps she could add to my memories.
Returning to the table she took her seat and gave me a quizzical look. ‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’ she asked. I smiled, somewhat bemused by the question. ‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.‘I’m a people-watcher,’ she confided. ‘Did it as part of my PGCE’. It was said with an air of confidence which seemed to assume that I would know that she was referring to the Post Graduate Certificate in Education.
‘So you’re a teacher, are you?’ I returned, quite happy to play the question-and-answer game with this total stranger who had chosen to sit at my table although there were other seats available.
’‘No,’ she replied, are you?
‘I’ve been retired for some years now,’ was all I said in reply, deciding that she was not going to get too much information out of me without working for it.
It became clear that she wanted to talk, to relieve some pent-up cares, and seemed comfortable using a stranger as a confidante. She had grown up near here, she told me, but moved away in her early 'teens, married and raised a family, and was now on a brief return visit to see her sick mother who was in a nursing home and had a limited life expectancy. I was happy to lend her my ear, and chipped in with a few comments of my own. It was like talking to an old friend; we each had a ready response to counter the other’s remarks.She told me tales of her childhood visits with her father to the castle on the hill, and other incidents in her life, some of them quite personal, almost as if feeding me with material for an article.
‘I knew you were a writer as soon as I walked in,’ she said, quite suddenly. ‘Books or newspapers?’I hadn’t answered her initial question, so why did she assume?
‘Yes’, I replied, determined to maintain the enigma.
She went on to say that her late husband was a writer. 'He died a little over a year ago. I recognized the expression on your face as soon as I walked in.’If this was a chat-up line it had a compelling tone of innocence about it.
It was true that I had already started writing this article in my head before she walked in, but could it have been so obvious? Perhaps, to a ‘people-watcher’, it was.More was to follow
‘He was a keen photographer too,’ she told me, and he just loved photographing steam trains‘.This was getting eerie. Too close for comfort. She had just described another of my interests, and when the conversation turned to genealogy, and her current use of the Internet to trace her ancestors, bells started ringing in my tiny brain. Everything she had said could have been gleaned from notes posted on several websites and discussion groups. My photograph also appears in several places. Had she recognised me and was that what prompted her to play this delightful game. For a split second I felt like voicing my suspicion, but it was more enjoyable to play it this way.
We talked for an hour and a half and then, as if hearing a ghostly colliery hooter announcing the end of shift, we rose simultaneously from the table, smiled and said in unison ‘It’s been nice meeting you’ and walked off in opposite directions, both smiling. Two strangers who shared an unplanned meal and exchanged confidences and will, I know, both treasure the memory of this brief encounter.
I’ll also remember the meal: the fish was a thin, tasteless, frozen fillet. I have enjoyed an abundance of fresh fish since living near the coast, and forgot that this café was about as far away from the sea as is possible in England. But the mushy peas were a real treat and brought back memories of a different time.
It was not going to be a cordon-bleu meal, but after exploring the hills all morning I was ready for something to eat, and while waiting for my meal to arrive at the table (plaice and chips, mushy peas and a mug of tea - all for £3.50) I took stock of my surroundings. The fish-and-chip café was convenient, and fitted the popular tourist advice to ‘eat where the locals eat’, so I decided to give it a try.
About half a dozen women, outnumbered by small children, were huddled in the smoke-filled section of the dining area but the non-smoking end where I sat was almost empty. Outside, across the small market square, a crowd of men, glasses in hand, stood at the doorstep of the White Swan, a pub bedecked with the flag of St George and a banner proclaiming ‘Live Football Here.’ Possibly the husbands/fathers of the cafe customers, I thought.
This was Bolsover in the heart of the once thriving North Derbyshire coalfields. The last time I was here, in the 1950s, it was the centre of a bustling community. Not so since the local pit closed, together with most of the UK coal industry, in the wake of the disastrous miners’ strike of the 1980s. It was a human tragedy and, many agree, a serious mistake, both by the unions and the Government of the day, which led to our current fuel crisis, almost entirely dependent on imported gas and oil.
My reverie was interrupted by a female voice, very close. ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ it asked. It was a rhetorical question, to which I replied ‘Be my guest.’The voice belonged to a presentable woman in her middle years, and while she was at the counter ordering her meal I was thinking about that accent. Derbyshire, certainly, but somewhat mellowed. Perhaps she, like I, lived elsewhere now but was on a nostalgic return visit here today. Perhaps we might have a conversation. Perhaps she could add to my memories.
Returning to the table she took her seat and gave me a quizzical look. ‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’ she asked. I smiled, somewhat bemused by the question. ‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.‘I’m a people-watcher,’ she confided. ‘Did it as part of my PGCE’. It was said with an air of confidence which seemed to assume that I would know that she was referring to the Post Graduate Certificate in Education.
‘So you’re a teacher, are you?’ I returned, quite happy to play the question-and-answer game with this total stranger who had chosen to sit at my table although there were other seats available.
’‘No,’ she replied, are you?
‘I’ve been retired for some years now,’ was all I said in reply, deciding that she was not going to get too much information out of me without working for it.
It became clear that she wanted to talk, to relieve some pent-up cares, and seemed comfortable using a stranger as a confidante. She had grown up near here, she told me, but moved away in her early 'teens, married and raised a family, and was now on a brief return visit to see her sick mother who was in a nursing home and had a limited life expectancy. I was happy to lend her my ear, and chipped in with a few comments of my own. It was like talking to an old friend; we each had a ready response to counter the other’s remarks.She told me tales of her childhood visits with her father to the castle on the hill, and other incidents in her life, some of them quite personal, almost as if feeding me with material for an article.
‘I knew you were a writer as soon as I walked in,’ she said, quite suddenly. ‘Books or newspapers?’I hadn’t answered her initial question, so why did she assume?
‘Yes’, I replied, determined to maintain the enigma.
She went on to say that her late husband was a writer. 'He died a little over a year ago. I recognized the expression on your face as soon as I walked in.’If this was a chat-up line it had a compelling tone of innocence about it.
It was true that I had already started writing this article in my head before she walked in, but could it have been so obvious? Perhaps, to a ‘people-watcher’, it was.More was to follow
‘He was a keen photographer too,’ she told me, and he just loved photographing steam trains‘.This was getting eerie. Too close for comfort. She had just described another of my interests, and when the conversation turned to genealogy, and her current use of the Internet to trace her ancestors, bells started ringing in my tiny brain. Everything she had said could have been gleaned from notes posted on several websites and discussion groups. My photograph also appears in several places. Had she recognised me and was that what prompted her to play this delightful game. For a split second I felt like voicing my suspicion, but it was more enjoyable to play it this way.
We talked for an hour and a half and then, as if hearing a ghostly colliery hooter announcing the end of shift, we rose simultaneously from the table, smiled and said in unison ‘It’s been nice meeting you’ and walked off in opposite directions, both smiling. Two strangers who shared an unplanned meal and exchanged confidences and will, I know, both treasure the memory of this brief encounter.
I’ll also remember the meal: the fish was a thin, tasteless, frozen fillet. I have enjoyed an abundance of fresh fish since living near the coast, and forgot that this café was about as far away from the sea as is possible in England. But the mushy peas were a real treat and brought back memories of a different time.
Hurrah for the MTGGs
I have fond childhood memories of dear old Dobbin, the Co-op milkman’s horse, enjoying his oats from a nosebag at the kerbside every morning while the milkman enjoyed a leisurely cuppa with Mrs Wotsit, the lonely lady living at No 21. So patient, those old gee-gees, ever willing to get back to work when the master returned with a new spring in his step to continue the workaday round. They seemed to operate on auto-pilot, needing only an occasional whispered ‘giddy up’ or ‘whoah’, and were efficient recycling machines too: food entering at one end emerged at the other partially processed into fertilizer for the roses and delivered right outside the customer’s door, where a young child with a bucket and shovel would be eagerly watching and waiting to collect it. Sometimes there would be a bit of a tussle as two youngsters decided who had the rightful claim to the coveted substance, but it was all part of the pleasure of living in suburbia.
Those were the days when the greengrocer, the baker, the coalman and all the other tradesmen also plied their wares from horse-drawn carts, ambling along at a leisurely pace, keeping Mums happy and their children fed and warm. No fumes, no damage to the environment and no parking problems then, when the sight of a motor vehicle was something of a rarity and we kids could happily play marbles in the gutter all the way to school.
I am reminded of those days by the name of one of my favourite economy eating places - the ‘Hungry Horse’ pub restaurant chain, famous for such exciting delicacies as The Meatiest Ever Cow Pie Ever (They used to call it ‘Desperate Dan Cow’ Pie but have now dropped the 'Dandy' comic reference) served on a 17” plate and, by way of contrast, a confection for afters modestly described as ‘probably the smallest dessert in the world’ which I can confirm is no exaggeration.
Man or beast, we all have to refill our empty stomachs, and a bit of humour with our food can aid digestion. The prices are laughable too, and the over-60s can choose two courses for £3.99 inclusive from a menu which includes prawn cocktail, bangers and mash, sticky chocolate pudding and ice cream - with tea and coffee at no extra charge. Not cordon bleu but ‘cor blimey', at that price, so bring on the empty gee-gees and let them bring a little joy into our hearts and stomachs at the same time.
Those were the days when the greengrocer, the baker, the coalman and all the other tradesmen also plied their wares from horse-drawn carts, ambling along at a leisurely pace, keeping Mums happy and their children fed and warm. No fumes, no damage to the environment and no parking problems then, when the sight of a motor vehicle was something of a rarity and we kids could happily play marbles in the gutter all the way to school.
I am reminded of those days by the name of one of my favourite economy eating places - the ‘Hungry Horse’ pub restaurant chain, famous for such exciting delicacies as The Meatiest Ever Cow Pie Ever (They used to call it ‘Desperate Dan Cow’ Pie but have now dropped the 'Dandy' comic reference) served on a 17” plate and, by way of contrast, a confection for afters modestly described as ‘probably the smallest dessert in the world’ which I can confirm is no exaggeration.
Man or beast, we all have to refill our empty stomachs, and a bit of humour with our food can aid digestion. The prices are laughable too, and the over-60s can choose two courses for £3.99 inclusive from a menu which includes prawn cocktail, bangers and mash, sticky chocolate pudding and ice cream - with tea and coffee at no extra charge. Not cordon bleu but ‘cor blimey', at that price, so bring on the empty gee-gees and let them bring a little joy into our hearts and stomachs at the same time.
Sur le twinkle d'Umpty
(or Pardon my French)
“Sur le pont d’Avignon . . .”
The tune was ringing in my head as I visited Colchester this afternoon looking for any visual evidence of the ‘twinning’ of The UK’s oldest recorded town with France’s famous Papal residence. “Well, it is mentioned on the road signs as you enter the town,” the lady in the Tourist Information Centre told me, “and we have a garden dedicated to Wetzlar, our German twin town, if you‘re interested.”
Wetzlar. Yes, that rang a bell. It was famous before the second world war as the home of the Leitz company, makers of Leica cameras. I have a pre-war Leica, as it happens, with the excellent Elmar lens and my current camera, a digital Panasonic Lumix, has a Leica Elmarit lens.
But I digress: I didn't come here today to talk about cameras, so I continued my walk in search of souvenirs d’Avignon and by chance was introduced to another French folk song, "Ah! Vous dirai-je, Maman" set to a melody by Mozart which was immediately recognizable as that adopted for the English nursery rhyme “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”.
I was standing in West Stockwell Street, outside Nos 11 & 12, which bear a plaque marking the one-time home of Jane and Ann Taylor, authors of children’s rhymes, including “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” published in 1806, which was remembered in a bicentenary celebration last year in the Castle grounds. Colchester was also the supposed inspiration for another nursery rhyme: Humpty Dumpty was a giant Royalist cannon atop St Mary at Wall Church during the English Civil War and “had a big fall” when hit by Parliamentarian cannon fire. The rhyme appears in Lewis Carroll’s “Through the Looking Glass”.
Lovers of the Alice books may also recall the parody, “Twinkle twinkle little bat,” sung at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party in Alice in Wonderland.
Phew! That was a bit of a ramble. It's amazing what can crop up when you let your mind wander as well as your feet, isn’t it?
“Sur le pont d’Avignon . . .”
The tune was ringing in my head as I visited Colchester this afternoon looking for any visual evidence of the ‘twinning’ of The UK’s oldest recorded town with France’s famous Papal residence. “Well, it is mentioned on the road signs as you enter the town,” the lady in the Tourist Information Centre told me, “and we have a garden dedicated to Wetzlar, our German twin town, if you‘re interested.”
Wetzlar. Yes, that rang a bell. It was famous before the second world war as the home of the Leitz company, makers of Leica cameras. I have a pre-war Leica, as it happens, with the excellent Elmar lens and my current camera, a digital Panasonic Lumix, has a Leica Elmarit lens.
But I digress: I didn't come here today to talk about cameras, so I continued my walk in search of souvenirs d’Avignon and by chance was introduced to another French folk song, "Ah! Vous dirai-je, Maman" set to a melody by Mozart which was immediately recognizable as that adopted for the English nursery rhyme “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”.
I was standing in West Stockwell Street, outside Nos 11 & 12, which bear a plaque marking the one-time home of Jane and Ann Taylor, authors of children’s rhymes, including “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” published in 1806, which was remembered in a bicentenary celebration last year in the Castle grounds. Colchester was also the supposed inspiration for another nursery rhyme: Humpty Dumpty was a giant Royalist cannon atop St Mary at Wall Church during the English Civil War and “had a big fall” when hit by Parliamentarian cannon fire. The rhyme appears in Lewis Carroll’s “Through the Looking Glass”.
Lovers of the Alice books may also recall the parody, “Twinkle twinkle little bat,” sung at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party in Alice in Wonderland.
Phew! That was a bit of a ramble. It's amazing what can crop up when you let your mind wander as well as your feet, isn’t it?
Wednesday 31 October 2007
A 'Nothing' Kind of Day
Life can be boring if you try hard enough . . .
I had nothing planned for today, so I went out for a walk to see if anything interesting was happening, but nothing was. Had I really achieved the impossible and found a day so boring that I would have nothing to write about? Surely not, but it was worth trying, so instead of my usual walk by the River Deben near my home I used my old age pensioners bus pass to go into the county town of Ipswich, and from there got another bus across the River Orwell for the journey down the Shotley peninsula to the mouth of the Stour where it meets the Orwell in Harwich harbour. Nothing worth writing about because there was nothing to see on the way except green fields bordering a tree-lined river with white-sailed yachts reflecting in the water and gulls soaring overhead against a deep blue sky with powder-puff clouds.
At high tide in Harwich harbour there was not a ripple on the water. Six swans sat motionless in line-astern formation about 50 metres from the shore, watched by a lone cormorant perched on the top of a tall mooring post. They made an excellent subject for a picture, but as I reached for my camera in my shoulder bag they suddenly took off and flew over my head, in line-abreast formation this time, reminding me of a squadron of Spitfires scrambling for action in the Battle of Britain.
Having missed this photo opportunity I decided to drown my sorrows in 'The Shipwreck' club house at the yacht marina, and cheered up somewhat when I found that they served 'Spitfire' real ale - my favourite - brewed in Kent, where the real Spitfires saw action during the Battle of Britain, of which I was a spectator from my parents' garden. Kentish ale is not widely available outside its home county, so I was lucky to find it here. I had the privilege of serving at the famous Kent fighter station at Biggin Hill shortly after the war. Much to my dismay the Spitfires took off for the last time on the day I arrived there, and I spent my National Service working with those new-fangled record-breaking flying machines, Meteor jet fighters. Now, even they are history.
Shotley is in Suffolk, just across the water from Essex, and Kent is still further south, across the Thames. It's all rivers on the east coast and I love it here. Perhaps I'm easily satisfied, however boring it may be.
After finishing my drink and watching two more giant Chinese container ships coming into the Port of Felixstowe, with goods that would once have been made in the now-closed mills and factories of the industrial north of England, I had an hour's walk along the river bank before getting back to the bus stop for my journey home, stopping off in Ipswich on the way for a late lunch.
I finally arrived home at dusk, pleasantly tired after my walk but happy with my time out in the fresh air and sunshine on a bright November day when nothing happened.
And that is why I will not be writing a column today.
Life can be boring if you try hard enough, can't it? I sometimes wonder , if I try REALLY hard, will it cure me of this urge to write?
I doubt it, but I'll keep trying anyway.
This column first appeared in Wordsweb Magazine, which has a section for guest writers and regular columnists. New contributors are welcome: please e-mail me to request a page of your own or visit Wordsweb Forum to post an individual item.
I had nothing planned for today, so I went out for a walk to see if anything interesting was happening, but nothing was. Had I really achieved the impossible and found a day so boring that I would have nothing to write about? Surely not, but it was worth trying, so instead of my usual walk by the River Deben near my home I used my old age pensioners bus pass to go into the county town of Ipswich, and from there got another bus across the River Orwell for the journey down the Shotley peninsula to the mouth of the Stour where it meets the Orwell in Harwich harbour. Nothing worth writing about because there was nothing to see on the way except green fields bordering a tree-lined river with white-sailed yachts reflecting in the water and gulls soaring overhead against a deep blue sky with powder-puff clouds.
At high tide in Harwich harbour there was not a ripple on the water. Six swans sat motionless in line-astern formation about 50 metres from the shore, watched by a lone cormorant perched on the top of a tall mooring post. They made an excellent subject for a picture, but as I reached for my camera in my shoulder bag they suddenly took off and flew over my head, in line-abreast formation this time, reminding me of a squadron of Spitfires scrambling for action in the Battle of Britain.
Having missed this photo opportunity I decided to drown my sorrows in 'The Shipwreck' club house at the yacht marina, and cheered up somewhat when I found that they served 'Spitfire' real ale - my favourite - brewed in Kent, where the real Spitfires saw action during the Battle of Britain, of which I was a spectator from my parents' garden. Kentish ale is not widely available outside its home county, so I was lucky to find it here. I had the privilege of serving at the famous Kent fighter station at Biggin Hill shortly after the war. Much to my dismay the Spitfires took off for the last time on the day I arrived there, and I spent my National Service working with those new-fangled record-breaking flying machines, Meteor jet fighters. Now, even they are history.
Shotley is in Suffolk, just across the water from Essex, and Kent is still further south, across the Thames. It's all rivers on the east coast and I love it here. Perhaps I'm easily satisfied, however boring it may be.
After finishing my drink and watching two more giant Chinese container ships coming into the Port of Felixstowe, with goods that would once have been made in the now-closed mills and factories of the industrial north of England, I had an hour's walk along the river bank before getting back to the bus stop for my journey home, stopping off in Ipswich on the way for a late lunch.
I finally arrived home at dusk, pleasantly tired after my walk but happy with my time out in the fresh air and sunshine on a bright November day when nothing happened.
And that is why I will not be writing a column today.
Life can be boring if you try hard enough, can't it? I sometimes wonder , if I try REALLY hard, will it cure me of this urge to write?
I doubt it, but I'll keep trying anyway.
This column first appeared in Wordsweb Magazine, which has a section for guest writers and regular columnists. New contributors are welcome: please e-mail me to request a page of your own or visit Wordsweb Forum to post an individual item.
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