If Only They Could Talk.

Nothing very intellectual this week. Stand up the man who said 'How do you mean this week!' I sat wondering what to write about, I never find it easy. People who find something to say every day amaze me. But good luck to them although its not for me. But I digress. I looked round my room where I work for inspiration. And there it was. My latest addition to my collection/museum. One knife cleaner, circa 1880 I reckon, bought from a car-boot in Castleton a week or two ago. The sort of thing that would be used by servants in the 'big houses' many years ago. And I got to thinking, what a story it could tell if it could talk. Where did it come from. Where's it been for the last few years. Who used it over the years. What's happened to the people who used it. It's got a Manchester inscription on it but that doesn't mean it's always been in the area. (Although Castleton isn't that far from Manchester.) So many questions, so few answers. Any suggestions.
Also near my computer, another of my treasures. (Nothing ever gets put away, but it brightens up my little unimportant life !) A butter churn, marked with the name 'Blow'. Funnily enough e-bay is full of them! I reckon its around a hundred years old but I might be wrong, I'm just a daft old collecter, not an expert! Again where's it been, who used it; I'm sure it could tell a tale. I keep meaning to give it a try, it might amuse the grandchildren. Anybody any experience out there on what to do. I've only got a rough idea. Grumpys blast from the past. Next week, two old toys that might amuse!

It Made Me Think.

I don't normally 'do' political or topical in this blog. Too many others to compete with who do it better. Plus I don't normally concern myself with matters I can't really change. (My paltry readership figures suggest perhaps I ought to change. Is my blog in need of a shake up I wonder.

There have been millions of words written concerning the Osama Bin Laden affair, but not by me. Then at the weekend something happened that made me think.

We, my wife and I happened to be in Castleton at the weekend. Situated in a wild unspoilt area in the Peak District, I am so in love with the place I have a large picture of it on the back of my motorhome. (Even though the powers to be in their infinite wisdom have innundated parts with parking meters. Yet there was NOT ONE single vehicle now parked in the areas in question where previously there would have been dozens.) Exactly the place to 'chill out' and many do so, particularly at weekends, including our new found friends parked alongside.

Five youngsters, ages twenty to twenty five, three male, two female. In the course of the next half hour I learnt four were Pakistani, one Moroccan. I also learnt all were well educated, being either at university or in jobs of some standing, banking, teaching, computing. They were also exceedingly well turned out, very modern, very western, but not sporting the hiking paraphernalia normally associated with the Peak District. They were noisy, verbose, outgoing, seemingly unaware of the attention they were getting from less than impressed, often elderly visitors to this area. But they were also courteous, polite, respectful to my wife and I, intelligent and humorous. Their offer of strawberries and cream was unneccessary, but generous and accepted.

It was obvious the group had little comprehension, understanding or experience of the area. (They are city dwellers, Birmingham and Sheffield.) The visit was to be short, for the pull of city life was strong. The talk was of visiting Leeds, presumably to experience the night life or Sheffield, to buy shoes. (On a Saturday evening, surely not viable, my friends!) Eventually they left and quiet returned to Castleton. But why should our chance meeting have any political implications?

Our new friends are young. They are respectful of their parents, in spite of behaviour at odds with their upbringing; (They were in Castleton to get away from 'their own'.) At least one talked of arranged marriage without rancour or particular apprehension. We are old, not of the Muslim faith, pursuing a British way of life; trips to the great outdoors included. We had little in common, but then again the parents of our friends are old. Herein lies the crux of the matter.

The likes of Muslims like Bin Laden has caused the world much misery and fear and the terror is ongoing. Fundamentists amongst the old are probably entrenched beyond redemption. That you can convince some young that virgins are on offer in return for suicide bombing appeals evidently to the brainwashed, particularly the uneducated. But my new friends have the advantage of education. Plus they are at odds with the older generation of whatever political political or religious persuation. Perhaps, only perhaps, the peaceful future of the world depends on the young, my new friends included. Concerning Pakistan,

David Aaronovitch posed the question in The Times last week, 'Whether over time Pakistan will become more like us, or we'll become more like them'. Not a thousand miles removed from our trip to Castleton. You were great, my friends, I hope we meet again. Next time hiking boots and rucksacks at the ready?

Memories are Made of This. (Dean Martin)

Some of my readers will remember that I have been involved in an autobiographical work for some considerable time. Sixty thousand words later a torrent of words have become a dribble.

Now I honestly believe everything we have ever experienced is stored in our minds, for the human brain is cleverer than any computer. The problem is how to recall a lifetime's 'happenings'.

I have lived for well over twenty five thousand days, perish the thought. But how many of those days can I honestly recall. For someone who can rarely remember what he had for breakfast, quite a thought! In life's journey what do we actually remember.

We usually remember births (our children, not our own), weddings, funerals, serious illnesses, some holidays, and very occasional special days in a lifetime in employment. Schooldays, some at least stay in the mind though actual dates are often gone forever. We often remember 'firsts'. Our first television, new furniture (when poor and first married), and as we prospered, first and subsequent cars, houses and so on.

We remember days from decades; in my case the forties, fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties. (Strangely I remember less of the nineties.) We can often recall a day or days at the age of ten, twenty, thirty, forty and so on. (I often suggest to elderly groups who 'hire' me as a speaker that they all write a day in their life and publish it as a fundraiser, the end products often dwarfs my efforts.)

We sometimes remember great moments in history and exactly what we were doing at the time. The assassinations for instance of J F Kennedy and John Lennon. (I remember a school teacher coming into the class room and announcing that a man called Gandhi, of whom I had never heard had been assassinated in a country that I knew not of, called India. I suspect many of our most entrenched memories are the result of trauma.

Both my wife and I are ardent fans of Derby County and seldom miss a home game. (Please, no rude comments though messages of sympathy are acceptable.) Over the years I have probably watched nearly a thousand football matches. That would account for over 90,000 minutes of my life if my maths are right. (I was an English teacher, not maths!) Yet I remember one match in detail, at Wembley Stadium and bits and pieces of a few others. The details of whole seasons I cannot recall.

I have just had a wonderful relaxed, pleasant overnight stay in our motorhome in Castleton, Derbyshire. Weather, perfect, company, perfect, experience, perfect. As I said earlier I am absolutely sure such memories are stored in the mind forever more, but more important, will I be able to recall such a tiny part of my life in five years time. (For the religious amongst you, where do our memories go after we are dead?) Mine hopefully will in part be written down, but, realistically, from a cynical point of view, who else cares.

I kept a diary of sorts for one year as a child. (See blog dated Diary of an Adolescent, 1953 dated 11th April 2009.) I also kept a diary in far more detail for the year 1985. I'm no Samuel Pepys but it is of value to me in that it records unimportant details of my life that year. (It seems to be around 70,000 words long.) It also details for only the second time in my life what I did on given days. (It does not record every single day, even I recognise the sheer mundanity of my life at times.) But it is useful in showing the minuscule nature of daily life.

June 16th 1985

Woken at 5.00 am by children in an adjoining tent! On Saturday evening a family arrived complete with shining Mercedes.The camping field contained only four tents. Our new neighbours promptly pitched tent within feet of our tent! How strange is it that we are conditioned to live in close proximity to our neighbours. Are we therefore almost frightened of the wide open spaces offered! ( In actual fact, when the minor irritation of the close proximity wore off the family proved to be pleasant, outgoing neighbours.)

Skegness is again visited, fish and chips, that most staple of diets again sampled. We return home mid afternoon happy and relaxed. Who needs the Costa-Bravo!

Now, dear readers, what do you remember from your journey through life.

One, a memory from childhood.

Two, a memory that highlights for you a certain decade.

Three, something of world shattering importance.

Four, something of importance to you only.

Finally, a happy event you will remember forever.

Don't believe it, that's the Spirit!

Sometimes when I was a teacher I’d be stuck for a lesson or a lesson would finish early. In which case I’d only have to say, “What do you know about ghosts?” and we’d be away. (I know, I know lesson plans are important but nobody’s perfect!)
“My granny says the Old Post Office is haunted and she knows ‘cause she’s old.”
“My mum says she saw a girl in odd clothes and a funny hat in her bedroom when she were a girl.”
(How many times have I told you, Trixiebell, it’s ‘you were, she was,’ not ‘you was, she were.’)
“Granddad often sees strange things on his way home from the pub.”
(I’ll bet he does!)
There’s no doubt many people believe in the supernatural and motorhomers are no different to anyone else. Plus the fact that they, motorhomers have the capability to visit places most likely to foster an unearthly presence. And though most of our metaphysical experiences can be explained, sometimes, just sometimes experiences are not so easily resolved.
I remember camping near Cromer many years ago when our children were very young. We, adults and small children wandered in the severest of fogs from the campsite towards the town. I seem to remember the weather often being foul, howling gales, or dense fog being the norm. (Which accounts for a proliferation of holiday photos showing anorak clad families braving the elements year after year.) Suddenly the ghostly sound of galloping horses echoed through the mist, becoming louder and louder, ghostly yet terrifyingly real. And real they were indeed, a group of runaway horses appeared out of the mist and fled past us at high speed to we knew not where.
I remember too food mysteriously spirited away nightly from our awnings in a park in Southport. Very strange, except that ghosts and apparitions have no need of our pork pies and treacle tarts, whilst tramps forced to sleep rough on the seafront definitely rate such culinary delights.
In the selfsame park on a late night walk our English Bull Terrier Buster became very agitated, at the same time doing my already high blood pressure no favours. I continued our walk, alone in the eerie darkness, a spooky experience guaranteed to set the heart pounding. Suddenly a large boxlike object came into view. Some sort of electrical substation, it emitted a persistent buzzing noise which could be heard only when you were very close indeed. Yet Buster had picked up the noise from some considerable distance. No ghostly cause then, but food for thought.
We have stayed in our trailer tent days inside the RAF Museum at Cosford. It is reputed that one aircraft, the Avro Lincoln RF398 is haunted. In the evenings when the public has gone home the place has an eerie mystique not easily dismissed. Whilst we cannot claim to have even fleetingly glimpsed a ghost, we did meet a volunteer who adamantly claimed an unearthly presence regularly misplaced his cleaning clothes as he worked on the aircraft.
Often we associate history with haunting. My wife and I visited Culloden on a cold, miserable morning. Culloden of course is the site of the last battle to be fought on mainland Britain. The date, April 16th 1746 when the army of the Jacobites were defeated by British Government troops.
We found the site fascinating and informative yet one thing stood out. The place had a chilling presence not easily ignored. And, though it was early summer, surprisingly not a single wild bird’s song could be heard; the silence was shattering in the extreme. Coincidence, perhaps, a fluke situation, maybe, but if ever a place deserves to be haunted, it’s Culloden.
Similarly Hadrian’s Wall is awesome yet, on a dull day at least, foreboding. Built by the Romans between AD 122-30, it is a stone and turf fortification built to keep out the Pictish tribes. It takes no great imagination to picture Roman soldiers marching the wall tops, weapons at hand to deter the warring Pics. And when the wind howls and the snow falls, who can be blamed if they hear the sound of caligae (military sandals) tramping the wall or the shouts of those in command urging on wet, cold soldiers.
A visit to Naseby is somewhat disappointing. The site of the most important battle in England, its importance in English history is unsurpassed. Here on June 14th 1645 Royal troops led by Prince Rupert fought Parliamentary troops under the command of Sir Thomas Fairfax. There has been little attempt to market, if that be the right word so important a place in our British heritage. Contrast the wonderful, informative modern displays at Culloden and Hadrian’s Wall. Staying in the area we visited the site of the battle, its presence almost grudgingly acknowledged by the local authority. A monument, open fields and that’s about it. Yet shut your eyes and the sound of battle can be heard by anyone with a feel for history. In the daytime just fields that could be any old fields. But at dusk an indefinable presence takes over and the sound of battle cries are never far away.
We have wild camped near Castleton in the Peak District, an area particularly steeped in murder and ghostly happenings. Particularly famous is the tale of the young couple on their way to be married, who were waylaid, robbed and their bodies flung unmercifully down a nearby mineshaft. We regularly park up overnight within a hundred yards or so of the site of the grisly deed. It’s not for the faint hearted of a stormy night yet we never seen sight of the merest apparition I’m sorry to say. My wife, by the way is not so sorry.
There you have it. Goulies and ghosties are for believers or those wanting to believe. Old sceptics like myself have little time for such silliness. I used to say, ‘think ghoul, think fool.’ That is until a strange experience challenged my entrenched beliefs.
Some years ago we visited Lindisfarne, a favourite haunt if you’ll forgive the pun. It was a bright summer’s day, not a cloud in the sky or ghosts in the air. We had by then a new, all white English bull terrier by the name of Sam. The churchyard contains several thought provoking graves and I was keen to see them.
We walked down the path and through the lynch gate. That is, my wife and I walked, Sam refused point blank to enter the churchyard despite being coaxed gently then pulled less gently on his lead. Bystanders thought it hilarious, I was somewhat embarrassed. The result being my wife and Sam sat on a seat at the lynch gate whilst I wandered alone round the churchyard and adjoining abbey ruins.
Holiday over we returned home and the holiday memories faded. Come Christmas and I was present hunting. I espied the Atlas of Magical Britain by Janet and Colin Bord; an inspired choice for a son in law interested in apparitions, phantoms, spooks and sprites.
I happened to read the book prior to it being gift wrapped (My wife says I’m a cheapskate, too mean to buy two copies) and there it was.
By tradition the ghost of St Aiden is said to still haunt the abbey and the Island. Plus the amazing statement that a ghostly white dog is also said to haunt the abbey ruins.
Coincidence, maybe; perhaps dogs are more perceptive than humans or merely one daft dog wanted a rest. Whatever the answer, this is one old cynic who’s not so sure about it all as he used to be. What do you think?

I wrote this article for Motorhome Monthly. I think in view of this weeks 'ghostly happenings' it is worth revisiting!

Weekend Wind Down

We all have our favourite places, but how many have six feet pictures of it on their vehicle. Sad, maybe and you may even scoff but as Lauren is prone to retort, 'Am I bothered?'

On the back of our motorhome, is the constant reminder of Castleton, Derbyshire and in particular Mam Tor, otherwise known as the Shivering Mountain; a favourite overnight stop, always eagerly anticipated, seldom disappointing. The attraction after a week at home in downtown Derby immediately apparent. The scenery, breathtaking, the pace of life, slower, a weekend 'wind down' often after a weeks 'wind up'. Yes there are those who energetically rush around the place; mountain bikers abound; quad and scrambling bikes disappear over rocky ridges at intervals. Determined hikers of all ages and sizes, some striding, others staggering are viewed, sometimes with admiration, occasionally with amusement by locals and ourselves alike.

However our energies tend to be reserved for the constant cooking of bacon and eggs and leisurely short walks usually ending in a favourite public house, where we are inevitably greeted with friendly banter and an excellent choice of beers, though a connoisseur real ale snob I am not.

Castleton is always full of overnight visitors of a weekend and combined with local trade the mix is always interesting. We talk with a group of, dare I say it, elderly visiters from Hull, seven in number, one having gone to bed early; perhaps the pace was too much. Excellent company, humorous and outgoing, designerware on display. (definely bling bling, and why not, why should the young 'uns have the monopoly on life.) They are an excellent advert for retired living in the 21st century. I think back to the fifties and the drab tired people; My mother, worn out at forty, dead before fifty. Thank God for life today.

I talk also to three equally delightful young ladies who are local and 'doing the rounds'. ( My wife winces at my tendency to 'chat up' all and sundry.) The girls attractive and vivacious, drink via straws what I take to be soft drinks but am informed is a mixture, Jack Daniels being only one of the ingredients mentioned. In search of young men I fear they are destined to be disappointed, a dearth of similarly aged young men seems inevitably apparent. We talk of the lack of excitement at least for lively young ladies. I suppose everywhere on earth has a drawback for someone, somewhere. Strangly enough I remember on a previous occasion a young man from a Midlands city who had brought with him two young ladies for a night in a nearby hotel. He was almost tingling with anticipation, he could not hide his excitement. Never underestimate sleepy little villages like Castleton.

We leave, eventually, park up outside the village (my wife is conveniently a non drinker) and so to bed. Much as we love the place we have no real desire to live in Castleton, for where would we go for weekends of pure pleasure; we are indeed blessed.