Apparently a pattern needs a minimum of three repetitioins to qualify, so my second visit to Richmond, North Yorkshire, has not become a tradition. Ellen Eyewater, my little pirate queen, had thought an itinarary with a bit more than last time walking; on my first visit my boots had rendered me hors de marchons. That had also been after a dander along Hadrian’s northern border, back in May, and left me hobbling with ricked – and wrecked – ankles and blistered feet.
Her very large and very ancient Alsation dog is not up to stomping, yomping or much beyond a gentle amble. Hence Saturday was a gentle stroll around a derelict abbey and a defunct railway station with him in tow. As we took part in a pub quiz on Sunday with her social group we would have got the, “what is the similarity between Henry The Eighth and Dr. Beeching?” answer; it was a shame the question wasn’t asked.
The abbey remains a relic from the past
but the station has been resurrected as a vibrant community centre. Power to The Fat Controller!
Despite the proximity of Richmond to Catterick Garrison the town seems to have avoided the ‘wild west’ atmosphere of many such places (why did Aldershot spring to mind, I wonder, and I once spent a night akin to an anthropolgical field trip sleeping on a park bench in Plymouth, where the provost shore patrol seemed to think that they were Provos, attacking anyone who might have been connected to the British military machine. But then, seeing how our matelots have been enriching USian cultural life just recently perhaps they have a point to make). Considering how close Richmond is to the badlands of the border country it is quite genteel but the folly built to celebrate the last great English away win and called Culloden in honour of ‘Butcher’ Cumberland’s result and resultant excesses still stands:
as does the grand country house in whose grounds it was built:
After traipsing up hill and down dale following the wall it was such a pleasant change to traipse up hill and down dale following a non-wall path that we did it again on Sunday, but this time a bit further and a bit more energetic as the Venerable Woof did not accompany us.
As seems de rigeur when walking in these parts, we passed another decomissioned religious place, this time now used as an outdoor centre.
By far the most interesting object on the walk had to be this testament to the hardy people of the north east –
I am aware that Geordie people consider going outdoors in the depth of winter in anything warmer than a thin cotton shirt or dress is only for southern softies but this does seem to be taking au naturel a tad far. The Northern ridiculing of Southern Softies was a misnomer at Leeds festival, where those objects of unbridled masculinity would arrive and make a dash for the Oxfam tent where they would buy second hand wedding dresses in which they would stroll about all weekend… Masculinity, it would seem, is culturally specific – like so much else in life.
What with a long drive on Monday as well as starting out even earlier than silly o’clock I was happy enough to meet Geo. for a (very stupidly named) planning meeting but going on to RV with TOO and RtBoM would have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. In older age comes greater wisdom (supposedly).
Ms. Ringing, of WVM, had requested my early attendance on Tuesday and I managed to comply. My contention that time given to charity is easier accounted than money was born out. With Deborah (I so nearly started singing the T. Rex song which rhymes her name with a zebra), a new regular volunteer, we fought through heavy traffic but still reached the penultimate delivery with 45 minutes before we could deliver the last consignment (a mere five minutes away). Thus we rang both base and the venue for a collection to be told that we were needed to go there – from Islington to Paddington. Rather than sit for 3/4 of an hour we shot across… to find that there was nothing to be collected. And back, only half an hour after the earliest time; oh the joys of volunteering. According to current thinking I may be driving that route for the next two Tuesdays; I am sure that improvements can (and will) be made… Or I won’t be needing a megaphone for the whingeing to be heard far and wide.
Recently I was informed by a close friend that my slowing down over the last couple of years had become evident – when WVM fist moved to Deptford I would walk from station to depot, now I can always find an excuse to catch a bus but only infrequently think that walking is a good idea. The long week of gallopping (even metaphorically) plus dashing about on first re-entry has taken its toll; letting sleeping logs lie has resulted in more untruths than the House of Commons over ‘Brexit.’
Of the jobs which have not been completed (or even started) was not clearing out the camper. With ten days, many of which were spent using it as its name implies, and another weekend coming up a good clear out was becoming urgent. At least my bike is now back where it lives and all of Mattie’s out-of-date beer has been relocated to await ‘disposal’. SBD, my walking companion for this weekend, will be taking her tent but the cooking facilities in the camper could well be put to good use. Just in case the weather turns I also managed to change tarpaulin over the stern deck; the old one was beginning to resemble a row of Buddhist prayer flags spreading requests for forgiveness across the four winds.
Mattie being an excellent sounding board for my sicker comments and views on the world I have taken advantage and asked him if being administered Novichok by men from Russian military intelligence was meeting a GRUsome end. I await his reply with interest, being far too well brought up to even consider using such a line to any other audience.
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