From Pyrenees to Pennines

Anyone for footie?

We were over in Bolton for the night – Daughter Number One played on of the lead roles in ‘The Nerd’, with the Marco Players. It’s a play which deserves to be far more widely known: it’s clever, funny and a grand night out.

But being over in Bolton on Friday night means being over in Bolton for Saturday morning. And Saturday morning, for twin grandsons nine years old Alex and Ben, means only one thing. It’s match day for their footie team. They play for Turton Tigers. Parents, grandparents and associated hangers-on play at being supporters.

The thing about being a supporter is that it involves being cold. We knew that only too well when Daughter Number Two played away matches for a hockey team in Harrogate. Nowhere is colder and windier than a hockey pitch made from a reclaimed slag heap somewhere outside South Elmsall. Except perhaps a community football pitch somewhere in Bolton. It might be May at the moment, the tail end of the season, but wrap up warm. Find your woolly socks. Don’t forget your hat.

Football is a closed book to me. I can’t tell which shots are amazingly good, and which ones might be astonishingly bad. I can’t understand why it seem to be OK when the ball goes off the pitch. It was never allowed in netball I seem to recall. I can’t tell when a ball has even half a chance of getting between the goalposts. I can’t join in those conversations which Malcolm is able to initiate on the lines of how very much the team has improved and matured since last we saw them play a few months ago. I try hard not to clock-watch.

It's half time. That's why nobody's looking at the pitch. — It’s half time. That’s why nobody’s looking at the pitch.

It’s lovely to see the boys giving it their all, to see their enjoyment, determination and sheer physical fluency. I just wish I knew what was going on

But I’ve realised we may have a get-out clause. Last Saturday was their first defeat in an unbroken nine week run of success. The time before when we watched them play they lost as well. And the time before that. I think the boys are beginning to observe a pattern. Next time we visit, we may be forbidden from watching. Oh dear.

It’s OK, Alex and Ben. I don’t mean I don’t enjoy watching you two. But you hit the nail on the head a few weeks ago Ben. You’d been talking animatedly and without pausing for breath for several minutes about (of course) football. Suddenly you stopped and regarded me pityingly. ‘Granny’, he said, ‘You haven’t understood a word I’ve been saying, have you?’. And I’d been trying so hard…..

Corrina and friends

Do you fancy coming out to lunch with me? I know a nice place we could go – it’s only been open for a few days. We tried it out on Monday, and we’ll be back.

Corrina and Friends Community Café is no ordinary caff, though you might think it’s just another cheerful addition to the high street when you spot its bright blue facade and funky decor. Friendly staff will greet you as you walk in, and present you with a menu.

But what’s this? There are no prices mentioned. That’s because you’re invited to ‘pay as you feel’. You’ll slip the sum you decide to pay into an envelope, and nobody will be any the wiser about how much you think your meal was worth. Those staff who welcomed us were all volunteers, and so were the cooks in the kitchen. This is why, according to their website:

‘With no set prices, customers pay what they feel the meal is worth or what they can afford. At the end of each day the café will open its doors to Harrogate’s homeless and vulnerable – all produce left over at the end of the day will be given away to those in need. All profits will go back into helping Harrogate District’s homeless and vulnerable people.’

Corrina's partner up-cycled these catering-sized tins into up-to-the-minute lampshades. — Corrina’s partner up-cycled these catering-sized tins into up-to-the-minute lampshades.

Corrina Young and her friends make a redoubtable team. They’ve persuaded businesses to give their surplus food, or food which is still fresh at the end of the day, but has reached its sell-by date, to the cafe. Individuals have donated dry goods, tinned goods, storage space, kitchen equipment and white goods. Local groups have organised whip-rounds and raffles. Others have donated paint and their skills as painters and decorators to make the place look clean, smart and inviting. Corrina herself raised money last month by getting people to sponsor her when she spent 72 hours in a skip outside her business premises (yes, she has a day-job as well)

Corrina seems to have endless energy and enthusiasm. Wanting to do something worthwhile, in December 2013, she and her family and friends provided a Christmas meal for the homeless and vulnerable. The idea developed and quickly became a weekly two-course meal. Yes, Harrogate, prosperous and successful spa town, contrary to appearances, knows all about poverty and homelessness.

By then, people were beginning to talk about The Real Junk Food Project in Leeds. Alarmed by increasing food waste, a chef, Adam Smith, developed a café in Armley that uses exclusively food destined for landfill: all that stuff that food retailers, especially supermarkets, are legally obliged to junk because it’s reached its sell by date, but not the end of its life. Corrina was inspired by his work. But her motivation is slightly different. She wants to help prevent food waste. But above all, she wants to help the homeless. Getting a good hot meal inside someone who hasn’t the means of cooking is only the first step. But a very important one.

So….. a café for the cash-poor homeless then, using where possible the food that’s had to be discarded by other shops. That’s not sustainable. But a café that attracts a wider paying public? That might just work. It brings the project to life. A paying public have a jolly good meal, see what the project’s achieving, pay what they feel for what they’ve just eaten, maybe make a donation. And at 5 o’clock, the café closes….and immediately re-opens its doors to the homeless and vulnerable.

These non-paying customers choose what to eat by looking at this board, covered in post-its.

People who’ve donated money write a ‘serving suggestion’ on their post-it, and the café users who come in at 5.00 chose a couple of these, and hand them over in lieu of payment. They’ll eat what’s listed on the post-it. Here’s what some people have written:

‘Soup and a toastie, Hannah x’

‘Coffee and a cake, George.’

‘Something hot and tasty. Love, Alison xx’

‘Eat what you fancy. Enjoy! Lee x’

We didn’t want a big meal, so Malcolm and I had home-made soup. Then we shared a cheese and ham toastie, and after that, we thought the cakes looked nice…… We’d had a great time, and Corrina made time to talk to us. She’s found 2 more supporters in us. She’s got 47 people begging to be considered as volunteer waiting staff. All the profits that the café makes will be ploughed back into helping the target community. The long-term aim is to resource, help and empower those people who are so vulnerable in today’s harsh economic and political climate.

Here's Corrina, in her bright pinny, ready to welcome customers. — Here’s Corrina, in her bright pinny, ready to welcome customers.

Congratulations, Corrina and friends You’re an inspiration.

The Marmion Tower

Not much more than a mile up the road is West Tanfield. It’s an ancient village that already existed when the Domesday Book was written in 1086. Its inhabitants might say though that the most recent chapter in its history was written only last year, when the Tour de France passed through the village. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge dropped by in a helicopter to watch the riders hurtle down the hill from Masham, over the old bridge and on to Ripon. They took the time to walk through the village talking to as many people as they could. It’s a memory many locals treasure (I’m thinking of you, Penny!)

As you walk through the village yourself, you’ll notice a tower next to the 13th century parish church. That’s the Marmion Tower. It’s a 15th century gatehouse, and is all that is left of a vanished manor house that belonged to the Marmion family. As the direct line of this family ended, the succession passed first to the FitzHugh family, then the Parr family. You’ll have heard of them. William Parr was brother to Catherine, the sixth and last wife of King Henry VIII.

The Marmion Tower with its oriel window.

It took me till yesterday to go and explore the remains of this tower. It might look like a castle, but there’s no evidence that it was ever designed to offer real protection. There’s no portcullis to the gatehouse, no narrow windows through which to loose offensive arrows. It’s a three-storey tower, which provided accommodation of reasonable comfort for the time, though the extremely narrow twisting staircase is a bit of a challenge. Although large, the rooms are domestic in scale. They offer splendid views over the River Ure and the fields and woods beyond, and on one side, over the village itself. One of the windows is a beauty in its own right. It’s an oriel window – a kind of bay window – projecting from the first floor of the tower.

The church seen from the tower

West Tanfield seen from the tower,

It’s ‘worth a detour’. And afterwards, you can go and sit in the gardens of the pub next door, the Bull, and relax over a drink in the picturesque surroundings of the river with the church and tower beyond.

The deer of Studley Royal

Once upon a time, if you had a country house, you had to have deer too. At Studley Royal, part of the Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal World Heritage Site, there are deer and a deer park….. but no country house.

There was a medieval manor house once. That burnt down in 1716. John Aislabie, who inherited the site, and was responsible for the magnificent water gardens here, rebuilt the site as a Palladian mansion. That burnt down too, in 1946. There is no house any more. But there are some 350 deer.

And on Saturday afternoon, we went to see them, and to find out more. We’d been promised a grey but tolerable day. In fact, it was grey and intolerable, with drizzle turning to driving rain. But if the deer – some 350 of them – could manage, so could we.

Some of them are red deer, the native species of the British Isles, and the largest.

Some are fallow deer. These were introduced to Britain by the Normans, and became prized as ornamental animals, and for hunting. They’re smaller than red deer, and perhaps seen as prettier. They can come in two shades of tan with spotted coats, or in some cases black, or even white. Look at their antlers: quite different from those of the red deer.

And some are sika. They look a little like darker versions of fallow deer (not the antlers though), and were introduced from China and Japan in the 19th century.

We learnt to distinguish one from the other by looking at their size, their antlers, their coats, their markings, their tails. We learnt that deer are responsible for the very neat way in which the trees in the park are finished off. Deer graze the leaves they can reach, thus leaving all the lowest branches and twigs at exactly the same height. They’ll all happily munch bramble, gorse and nettles too: stinging leaves and prickly thorns don’t worry them at all.

At this time of year the males are losing their antlers. They lose and re-grow them every year, which is a terrific drain on their energy, so they tend to take things fairly easy while this is happening in the early summer. Each year until they’re aged 10 or so, they’ll grow larger antlers than the year before, and with more points. New antlers are velvety, so stags will spend time rubbing this soft coating off by scraping their new accessories against the dead wood that’s deliberately left lying in the deer park. They’ll want them to be good and ready for the rutting season when they’ll wrestle other males in the quest to be the females’ Top Stag.

They’ll also enjoy a wallow. We saw muddy depressions here and there where deer have lain down to have a good old scratch and bathe in thick oozy mud. At this time of year it’s to help free themselves of their winter coat as they moult. But it’s a different story in the breeding season. Males urinate into the earth to make it even muddier. Then they’ll roll round in the resulting muddy soup. Their splendid appearance and smell as they rise up, magnificently coated in sticky earth and bits of vegetation makes them thoroughly alluring to the females they hope to attract.

On Saturday, the deer were edgy, a little spooked. Nobody knew why. The large groups we saw were always at a distance, always ready to bolt away. The three varieties of deer don’t really mix, but neither do they feel the need to place real distance between themselves. We didn’t get to see them at close quarters. But we saw them well enough to distinguish one species from another with increasing confidence. A good day then, despite the increasingly dirty weather. We’ll be back when the sun shines, to visit the deer again.

Fallow deer.

Fallow deer. There’s just one white one in their midst.

Sika.

Young red deer.

Deer highways in the grass.

You can see moulted hairs in this recently used wallow.

Thanks to members of the volunteer Wildlife Team at Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal for our afternoon with the deer.

From Jervaulx to Jervaulx

Yesterday was the day when Malcolm was to have done his first ‘proper’ walk since his operation. But life got in the way, and at the last minute, he had to wait in for a workman. I went anyway, because I was ‘recce-ing’ the route ahead of leading the Ramblers on the same route in 10 days or so: and it’s a busy 10 days.

The route I was checking was a walk full of only charm and delight:

– because, unusually, I could get from door to door (not that walks have doors) courtesy of the bus that passes the end of the road. There are only 3 buses a day, mind you, so some planning is necessary.

– because it follows paths in the gentle sweeping valley of Wensleydale: a tranquil, lush and gently wooded area.

– because the walk begins and ends at one of Yorkshire’s ruined Cistercian abbeys – Jervaulx. It’s even more ruined than Fountains and Rievaulx, but it’s a peaceful place to meander through; to sit quietly; or to explore for flowers clinging to ancient architraves, or topping off columns which no longer have any roof to support.

– because the path I took leads through English parkland which at this time of year is home not only to sheep, but to their young lambs, busily feeding, playing ‘I’m the king of the castle’, and having lamb-races, before cuddling up with mum for another little sleep.

– because Thornton Steward, a quarter of the way through the walk, is a picture postcard of a village. There’s a green where you can rest for a while whilst looking beyond the cottages to Wensleydale beyond. Even better, there is a village hall. You won’t find anyone there, but the door is open. The villagers encourage you to come in, make yourself a drink, help yourself to a biscuit, and have a ‘comfort break’. Whilst relaxing, you could browse the books on display in two large bookcases. Swap one of your own if you have one, or if not, make a donation and take a book away.

Thornton Steward Village Hall, all set to welcome weary walkers.

– because just outside Thornton Steward is the charming, tiny, isolated church of Saint Oswald. Mainly Early English, it still has fragments – parts of the nave wall and the porch door – dating from before 1066.

– because at the edge of a field quite near the church, some lucky child’s dad, or granddad has made a very special tiny secret den from an ancient hollow tree. Just look at this:

– because I passed Danby Hall, as well, begun in the 15th century and finally finished in the 19th century. Danby Hall was once the home of the Scrope family, a Catholic family of some influence who hid priests, attended clandestine masses and somehow survived the turbulent times of Tudor-Elizabethan England.

– because most of the second half of the walk is along the River Ure. On one side, it’s all woods, wild garlic and wood anemones. On the other, open views across the river itself, and Wensleydale beyond.

– because the route was so well way-marked that I barely needed a map to find my way round.

A style, a signpost, an easy route to find.

– and because of honesty boxes. That’s how you know you’re not in the city. Park at Jervaulx Abbey and there’s an honesty box so you can pay the parking charge. Visit the Abbey itself, and there’s another one. And at Thornton Steward they encourage you to make a donation for your refreshments: but no-one checks up: it’s up to you to do the right thing.

Thornton Steward advertises its'comfort break' facilities. — Thornton Steward advertises its ‘comfort break’ facilities.

On the walk, I thought of poor old Malcolm, stuck at home whilst I enjoyed one of the very first summer days, bright, fresh, and really rather hot. I thought of one of my fellow bloggers, Sharon, whom – very exciting, this – we’re going to meet in a fortnight or so when she comes to visit Yorkshire: she might like this walk. And I thought of another fellow blogger, Kerry, an American , who’d probably love to use the wool all those lambs and sheep are busily growing in one of her weaving projects, even though wool isn’t usually her chosen medium.

The path ahead, seen from the churchyard at St. Oswald's. — The path ahead, seen from the churchyard at St. Oswald’s.

Daffodils in the Dolomies

Anyone who knows me even a little bit must be aware that I consider daffodils to be the main reason to be in England in the spring. We have wild daffodils of course. Think Wordsworth tramping through fields of flowers in the Lake District: think Farndale’s charming walk through the daffodils crowded along the River Dove in Yorkshire. But it’s the vibrant displays planted along roadside verges, in urban parks and on village greens, in garden tubs and along dual carriageways that grab my attention, every day.

Today though, I was thinking of a walk in France, just two years ago, to see the astonishing display of wild daffodils, in hills not so far from Foix. I thought you might like to remember it too.

From Pyrenees to Pennines

Yesterday, we walked in Les Dolomies, which you could confuse with the Dolomites with its craggy pillars and rocky outcrops: though actually it’s a small area between Lavelanet and Foix, just along from Roquefixade. After a few days of hot sun and blue skies, it was disappointing to have the threat of rain, but the slight mistiness brought its own beauty to the landscape, softening the distant views, and enhancing the vibrant greens of the springtime meadows. Everywhere, blossom and flowers.

We walked upwards through the woods. Anny and Maguy had a surprise for us. And quite suddenly, there they were. Daffodils. Thousands and thousands of them, extending upwards over the hillside, tumbling over rocks, leaving not an inch of path for us to walk along. The weather cleared. The sun came out. We were entirely happy.

Come and share the walk with us, along blossom-laden paths, through the daffodil…

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What a difference a year makes

We’re just back from France. Specifically, we’re just back from Laroque d’Olmes, the town which we left exactly a year ago, and which for six and a half years, we called home.

We felt anxious about this trip. What would we feel? Would we find we’d made a horrible mistake in leaving Laroque? Would our now rusted and un-exercised French measure up to a week or more of more-or-less constant use? Would people want to see us as much as we wanted to see them?

On a stroll near Laroque with Francis and Tine, we meet one man and his (five) dogs

What actually happened was that for the first few days, we barely had time to think at all. As soon as we got there, we were launched into A Social Diary. We’d have lunch here with one set of friends, our evening meal there with another. We’d slot other friends in for morning coffee, or afternoon tea. One morning we even commandeered the local bar and held court there, in order to catch up with people whom we couldn’t see in any other way. We started to flag. We simply couldn’t keep up the pace.

And luckily, we didn’t have to. Saturday was the day the walking group had suggested we set aside for them. The planned ‘rando’ had to be kicked into touch because of the promise of rain and wind. Instead, a dozen or so of us walked for a couple of hours whilst Jean-Charles, as clerk-of-works, organised a team to transform a roofed shelter outside the church in nearby Fajou into a banqueting hall. As ever, this turned into a magical occasion in which home-made tarts and pies, home-cured sausage, cheeses, bread, wine, more wine, cakes and puddings of every kind were crowded onto picnic tables for us all to feast upon as we gossiped and sang and reminisced, trying not to notice the cold and wind only inches away from us. It felt as if we’d never been away. Part of our time was spent making plans for the group to visit us here in Yorkshire. Watch this space!

Malcolm’s been lent an Ariegeois beret, and here we both are with our friend and hostess, Tine at the end of the feast.

It’s the south of France, it’s Easter Saturday, it’s freezing… but really, we ARE having fun.

The walk home afterwards. It’s suddenly got sunny.

After that, life became so much more leisurely. Lunch in Foix on Easter Sunday with friends, then a lazy Easter Monday with our hosts, getting sunburnt in the garden, cooking and eating the traditional Omelette de Pâques.

..and this was our view, as we cooked and ate our omelette de Pâques on the hillside above Francis and Tine's house. — ..and this was our view, as we cooked and ate our omelette de Pâques on the hillside above Francis and Tine’s house.

It’s memories of all those moments with friends that we bring home with us. Memories too of the much-loved scenery of the foothills of the Pyrenees. Would we return there to live? Not a chance. Laroque itself is going through very tough times, and it shows. The shop, the once-thriving music centre, children’s services – all are struggling. Some of our French friends commented that perhaps we could have made our lives easier by not getting ourselves involved in day-to-day life there, and they could have a point. We plugged into the local networks that talked and acted against corruption here, services closing there, money talking somewhere else, when instead we could have been sitting in our little bubble on a sun-dappled terrace drinking wine and sun-bathing. But by getting involved, we hope we made friends for life, and understood a little more about the society we briefly became part of. But never fully part of. Our very different background, our lack of real understanding of certain basics of French culture left us always feeling to some extent outsiders, however much we were accepted and made to feel at home. It feels as if this is the right time to be involved in life in England once more.

A moody sunset seen from the supper table chez Francis and Tine, with the sloe trees in full blossom.

And anyway, who could bear to be anywhere else but here when the daffodils are in bloom?

Daffodils in Snape, the village along the road.

Sprung Spring

A picture is worth a thousand words and all that… so here are some shots taken in the garden of a few spring time moments. Happy Easter!

From Pennines to Pyrenees

We’ve crossed the Pyrenees again. To visit our daughter in Barcelona.

And then we shall cross them back again. To visit our friends in Laroque d’Olmes.

A view of the Pyrenees from between Laroque and Foix

We’ll be in touch when we get back to England again.

ArtisOn

ArtisOn? ArtisOn? Never heard of ArtisOn? Well, that’s your bad luck, is all I can say. Just six miles from here, outside Masham, are some studios. These belong to ArtisOn, who provide programmes of day workshops that will unlock your creativity in ways you might never have thought of.

I’d fancied doing some print-making. Back in the dark ages, when I was at school, I’d enjoyed the odd chance to do lino cuts. Something about simplifying objects back to their very essence, seeking to capture their vitality using simple materials, simple cutting tools, choosing papers to print my images appealed to me then and appeals to me now.

I spotted one of ArtisOn’s courses – Printing without a Printing Press. This promised the chance to re-visit now rusty skills and have a go at one or two more. And Malcolm promised to enrol me on it as an early birthday present

What a fantastic day. Only six students, and one most motivating teacher, Hester Cox. You can see her work, largely inspired by the rural environment in which she lives, here. She showed us collographs: we added to and removed layers from thick card, adding scraps of textured paper, dried leaves, sand and small found objects to make simple textured images. My resulting stylised flower looked OK, I thought, but when I tried printing it later, I was disappointed.

Collograph sample board.

My collograph, ready for printing…..

… and post-printing

Lino cutting went better. I enjoyed choosing the best cutter for achieving different effects. I enjoyed choosing which parts of my design to leave in relief, and which to gouge away. What a satisfying time that was, carefully cutting away at the lino until it revealed something like the effect I was after.

I've just finished hacking away at my sheet of lino. — I’ve just finished hacking away at my sheet of lino.

Then it was time to eat. I’d been told – several times – that the real motive for going to ArtisOn is to have lunch. I can confirm this is an excellent reason. Pasta bake and bowls full of different salads may not sound exciting, but when a simple dish is crammed full of varied vegetable tastes and textures, there is really nothing not to like. Berry pudding, tiramisu, juicy fruit salad… it all slipped down very easily, as did a quite sensational parsnip and ginger cake with our afternoon tea.

Hester rolls paint on her image: ready to print.

Then she shows us how to work with two colours.

These are Japanese barens, used to apply pressure to the the back of the paper to transfer the image.

After lunch it was time to get printing. We learnt how to prepare our paint for action with rollers, how to mix colours within a single print, how to apply pressure to our papers to get the image to ‘take’. And we had the excitement of seeing our efforts come to life. We got so involved that we had little time for our final activity of making simple stamps from wood blocks and easily-worked soft polystyrene ‘funfoam’. I shall enjoy making stamps such as these to label my pots of marmalade, or to make hand-stamped wrapping paper. Here’s my first effort.

This was a great day. I was buzzing with ideas on the way home, and I know I’ve been equipped to begin to develop my long-forgotten interest in print-making. If you’re on my Christmas card list – you have been warned. Limited edition print on its way to you in nine months time. Blame Malcolm. He paid.