An Alternative Dimension...

This the Cottingham Railway station on the Hull to Scarborough line. A steam train is just about to come in from the Beverley direction - well it did in 1908.

Listening to the rain on the windows this quiet Sunday morning took me into a reflective mood. A trip to Cottingham in East Yorkshire yesterday (Saturday) to take some photographs for our latest hobby assignment brought back some memories of the village where I was brought up. I even parked outside the house I lived in for the first half of my life as my middle son and I wandered around with a book of old photographs of the village.

We took some photographs from the exact position that the original photographer used and my son merged the old with the new, a couple of which I've put on here. You should be able to click on any of them to enlarge them.

This is the shopping street in Hallgate, Cottingham. The ghostly images of horses pulling tree trunks transforms this scene. Cottingham was once said to have every species of European tree within the village boundaries due to having some keen collectors as residents. Those horses would have been heard clip clopping down the street about 1912.

The memories came back more so when we went to the railway station. I spend many happy pre-teen years hanging around the station watching the trains and at one point can clearly remember standing on the bridge over the lines being covered in smoke from the steam trains passing underneath on the Scarborough to Hull line. The line escaped the Beeching cuts of the late 1960s and I remember doing a petition in my school to save the line.

The flower beds were tended, coal fires raged in the waiting rooms, one for ladies and one for the gentlemen. Linoleum covered the floors producing squeaks from your shoes. As diesel trains took over from steam, the pervading smell of oil from the tracks would fill the air most days. I recall one porter, Ernie, a small rotund man who used to disappear down the lines every afternoon to replace the oil lamps on the signals, so the train drivers could see whether the signal was a go or stop after dark. Red fire buckets with sand lined the platform in the case of fire and wooden trolleys for luggage stood idly about.

This is St Mary's Church in Hallgate, where I was married 31 and a half years ago. This is a really spooky photograph in so many ways and I guess that none of the boys in the photograph from 1906 are alive today.

Racing pigeons would arrive at the station in lorries once a week and dozens of baskets of birds would be off loaded, fitted with rings and they would be let loose from the platform and dozens of birds would fly up, circle the station a couple of times and head off for home - a miracle of nature.

Porters would signal to the train guards with green flags when the train was safe to set off and off loaded passengers would wend their weary way home.

I used to help the porters when it became time to turn on the gas lamps on the platform and over the bridge on darker nights. The hiss of gas and bright flame on the mantels comes back to me as clear now as it was then.

Fun to look back over more innocent and simpler times.

My sincere thanks to John who put these photographs together for me. It's been a real pleasure to bring these photographs to life - enjoy.

Chat soon

Ta-ra.

The Sixties - real or imagined?

I've had the laziest day I've had in weeks. Shopping this morning at Sainsbury's, bought some pastels from Hobbycraft in Hull to help me in my portrait drawing and paid the paper bill at the newsagents (I wouldn't care, it's for magazines and none of them for me!) Other than that, I had a snooze this afternoon after lunch and watched a bit of the England versus Bangladesh cricket this afternoon - I know how to party!

It's a long while since I did a memory test on here which is a great exercise. I was thinking this morning that while I love music, I know little about it. That became obvious at the end of course 'disco' at the bar at the psychic college in Essex a couple of weeks ago. Everyone was singing along with the words to the songs as I made some strange awkward alleged dancing movements, and all I knew were some popular one-liner choruses. I wondered what happened to the sixties?

You would imagine as a child in the formative part of his life in the sixties, that I would be very knowledgeable about the music of the time bearing in mind the legends that were at the height of their popularity but frankly, I haven't got a clue. I remember my mother listening to Radio Caroline - a pirate radio station on a small portable radio. I had to look this up, but Radio Caroline had its heyday between 1964 and 1967 broadcasting to Ireland, Scotland and the north of England from a ship in the Irish Sea and was eventually towed off because of alleged debts in 1968.

I can recall little from that era strangely, I joined three schools in Cottingham, the Infants (4 to 6 years of age), the Juniors (7 to 10) and the County Secondary School (11 to 16). I loved school but left with just one O'Level (Ordinary Level, yesterday's equivalent to today's GCSE - General Certificate in Secondary Education) which by today's standards would be considered a failure. The one qualification in English has never, in truth, opened any doors for me, but my love of school and education clearly has. There were many inspirational teachers for whom formal qualifications were not the main objective, just making the experience enjoyable was their main aim in life - God bless them. All of my few academic achievements have been obtained in the workplace.

I remember being bollocked as an eleven year old after moving to senior school for using a pencil in my school books and being told to use an ink pen and I can recall the move from shorts to long trousers. I often had a second hand school jacket because they were so expensive for my parents. I get quite moved because memories are so thin, just random snippets, mainly of people drift across the radar as I struggle to cast my mind back. Yet the over riding feeling is that I loved my childhood.

What did I miss in the swinging sixties? Well swinging for a start which has a different connotation today. Hippies, the Beatles, drugs, sex and rock and roll (I was too young to experience that first hand), JFK, the Cold War, Berlin Wall and I have absolutely no first time around memory of man landing on the moon. Burning the bra and Telstar, and the list of famous bands of the sixties is just too extensive to list. Notable films from the sixties which I still like are Pink Panther; the Good, Bad and the Ugly; Midnight Rider; Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid and many more I daren't admit.

Television was delivered by a small black and white set (actually more a dark green and white set.) Bewitched with the dishy Elizabeth Montgomery, the Flintstones and the Beverly Hillbillies. Doctor Who (William Hartnell) used to frighten me with the dreaded Daleks and Cybermen.

Bizarrely, I do remember the theme to the Tokyo Olympics in 1964. I remember going to Blankenberge in Belgium for summer holiday in 1966 and watching England win the FIFA Jules Rimet World Cup on TV with a Belgian commentary. The mascot for the England side was World Cup Willie!

All of a sudden, the memories don't seem so distant after this little cathartic exercise, forgive my indulgence and for being patient.

Today's story has nothing whatsoever to do with the sixties, but it made me giggle.

Fred walked into a crowded doctor's waiting room and approached the desk. The Receptionist said, 'Yes sir, what are you seeing the doctor for today?'
'There's something wrong with my dick', Fred replied.
The receptionist was shocked and said 'You shouldn't come into a crowded waiting room and say things like that.'
'Why not, you asked me what was wrong and I told you,' said Fred.
The Receptionist replied; 'Now you've caused some embarrassment in this room full of people. You should have said there is something wrong with your ear or something and discussed the problem further with the Doctor in private.'
Fred walked out, waited several minutes, and then re-entered.
The Receptionist smiled smugly and asked, 'Yes?'
'There's something wrong with my ear,' he stated.
The Receptionist nodded approvingly and smiled, knowing he had taken her advice. 'And what is wrong with your ear, Sir? '
'I can't pee out of it,' said Fred.

Chat soon

Ta-ra.
The photograph above is a non copyrighted photograph from Wikipedia, author unknown of The Beatles in America, 7 February 1964.

Chim-Chiminee

The last Bank Holiday today and it's all passed so quickly. Hope you had a good weekend and for those of you suffering because of the unseasonably cold, snowy winter weather, keep warm and cosy, there's more to come apparently.

For most of us in modern houses, open coal fires are a thing of the past, gas (in my case) is so convenient and clean. I can remember at my childhood home having an outhouse with two doors, with an outside loo on one side and the coal bunker on the other side had to be divided into two to cater for the different types of fuel. This was because the posh front room was coal fuelled and the back room fire in the Victorian three storey house we had would only run on coke fuel and would take ages to get going with a gas poker. Eventually, that fire was replaced with a gas fire.

Black filthy sacks of coal were delivered by a soot faced man on the back of flat back lorry which pulled down the back tenfoot.

Sacks of logs were bought from wherever we could get them from at about ten shillings or 15 shillings, (50 to 75 pence) a bag, in today's money, about half a Euro. The dog grate was cleared out in the morning and the ash scattered over the tenfoot which was a mud track, not metalled. A mixture of newspaper and kindling sticks were laid out and pieces of coal strategically placed. The paper was ignited with a match and you hoped that it would catch. Occasionally it needed a hand. A huge piece of newspaper (a broadsheet in those days) was placed over the fireplace and the draught it created was phenomenal - many is the sheet of paper that ended up disappearing up the chimney!

The fires were always great to watch and picture in the fire was a favourite pastime. Logs crackling and coal spitting meant the carpet in front of the fire had a few burn marks in it despite having a spark guard. The trouble is that they did create dust, mainly from the cleaning out in the morning.

Mr Jones was the chimney sweeper; he was also the council street lighting man. He would lay out his dust sheets all over the room, get his rods out and the one with the big brush at the end and set out on the very physical job of bringing all the soot down. It was always hard work for him, pushing a brush up three storeys and it was my job to go outside and tell him when I saw the brush poking out of the top of the chimney. We even had a cat once who sat on the ledge at the back of the fireplace up the chimney, when it wasn't lit of course, presumably because it was nice and warm.

The daytime weather isn't too bad today, clear, chilly but thawing slightly, but the road still has ice on it. Off to the tip this afternoon so I can make room in the garage to get access to the treadmill which is under several black bags of something I have to take to the council depot to recycle. I noticed that Sainsburys car park was absolutely chocker-block this morning, I don't think I'll do any shopping until tomorrow when it's hopefully quieter.

Well that's my rabbiting done for today. Here's a list of unusual words and their meanings from the past for people who like to rabbit on. Thanks to 'The Wonder of Whiffling' by Adam Jacot de Boinod.

Macrology (1586) much talk with little to say;
Clatterfart (1552) a babbler, a chatterer;
Chelp (Northern and Midlands 19th century) to chatter or speak out of turn;
Blatteroon (1645) a person who will not stop talking;
Clitherer (Galway) a woman with too much to say.

Chat soon

Ta-ra

Glad Tidings of Comfort and Joy?

There's a sort of buzz around the workplace as people talk about Christmas, or rather, exclusively their preparations for the event. Some have wrapped presents, some have yet to buy them, "I've been sooooo busy." Some are having their families round to share a Christmas meal, others "nice and quiet, just the two of us." Some are having turkey, some "Can't stand the stuff, we always have steak." One or two are panicking that the cards will need a first class stamp now because they've only just got round to writing them.

Some have a heavy calendar of social events (generally but not exclusively, the younger set,) others just have the one special 'do,' and some don't do anything.

None of them have talked about the reason for Christmas.

Yet in their own way, there is something of the ethos of the day about their activities. My line manager said today that he enjoyed giving presents more than anything else and seeing the joy on his children's faces. Others have families visit for the day and cater for those less able to do it themselves. People send prezzies to the troops fighting abroad and others give to charities to help those most in need. There is a general air of goodwill, fewer crimes are committed on Christmas Day and there are thoughts of those no longer with us but who live in our memories.

Yes there is hardship and that's the flip side with pressure to buy things, pressure on finances, unhappiness for those alone or in combative relationships, depression as years move along at a pace, sadness at opportunities missed, missing any hope of things improving - a world apart from what they would like to experience and a huge contrast to the commercial view of an ideal Christmas and what should be a wonderful and joyful time of year.

Christmas with my family and children (my other half doesn't celebrate Christmas) is very important for me. I do all the prep: cards, buying, decorations, cooking etc., and it's worth every second of effort.

Ghosts and shadows of Christmas Past for me are not like those experienced by Ebenezer Scrooge, rather they are full of happy memories living in our large (tall) Victorian house with my parents, frustrated that I never got out of bed early on Christmas morning. Lovely presents, simple, inexpensive (they hadn't much money) nevertheless lovingly given with coal fires in the background, a real tree and paper chains, glass baubles, tinsel and old fashioned wall decorations of silver and gold coloured leaves.

We always had turkey, sometimes quite a large one and I can even remember one being cooked upside down one year (it still tasted good) followed by Christmas pudding cooked with sixpences covered in silver foil in the middle. Home made mince pies with real cream really completed the stuffed experience. Afternoons were listening to the Queen's speech, a walk if it was crisp and cold and them a buffet tea followed inevitably by Morecambe and Wise shows.

This year, my mum and dad are round and we'll all stay in all day with an afternoon film, with tea around 5 pm consisting of a traditional turkey roast, followed by playing board games and NO television unless there's something VERY special.

Looking forward to the snow in the next couple of days, forecast by the BBC which will give the Christmassy feel.

I had the good fortune of being asked to day to do a Tarot reading for someone at work (who I know hardly at all) which went very well indeed and I have another one planned for Sunday afternoon. I trained about three years ago and have just renewed and refreshed my acquaintance with the cards, something I really enjoy doing. A charitable donation of the sitter's choice means the reading was not only done for a good reason but a charity benefited as well.

Hope the rest of your week goes well; don't feel too stressed and take care with the white stuff.

Chat soon

ta-ra.