Farewell

This will be my last post to this blog. 

It was meant to be a group effort to enable the group to try blogging for themselves, but looking  back on past posts will reveal that apart from a few occasional exceptions, I seem to be the only person who can be bothered to post here.

In fact some people who seemed enthusiastic to begin with, despite promising to post here, have proved that they just can't be arsed.

I have my own blogs and rather than waste my time here, I've decided to dedicate my efforts there instead.

To those of you remaining here, the best of luck. I'll leave it up to you whether you leave my earlier posts in place or delete them. They're yours to do with as you will.

Goodbye.

Clarity Begins At Home

Apologies for the awful pun in the title, but to be honest, you wouldn't think that was the case when it comes to communication in my house. So many disagreements are caused in my family either because of avoidable misunderstandings, or because of one of us not listening to what the other is saying or trying to say.

Scenario One: My son is currently doing the third of a number of part time counselling courses at the university. He's otherwise unemployed, (following in the family business?) and so has a fair amount of spare time on his hands at the moment. He's currently into playing the computer game "Assassin's Creed" on the PC. I say 'into' but recently it's been more like 'obsessed with'. On Wednesday, he sat down at the PC around mid-afternoon and fired up the game.

Me: Don't stay on there too long David. Try to limit it to only about an hour.

Him: What?

Me: You were on there for about four or five hours yesterday. Restrict yourself to just an hour today if you can.

Him: (logging off) Oh fine! I won't bother going on then.

Me: Don't forget you have your prep work to do before your course tomorrow night. 

Him: Exactly!

Me: What?

Him: I need to be getting on with my work for uni..

Me: EXACTLY!

Him: Well how can I do it if you won't let me on the PC?

Me: It was you who logged off. I didn't tell you to.

Him: You did. You said I could only have an hour.

Me: I was talking about the game.

Him: So what happens if I can't finish my work in an hour then?

Me: I was talking about the GAME.

Him: I need the PC to do my prep work.

Me: I was talking about THE GAME!

(at this point Mrs B walked in from the kitchen to find out what all the hassle was about.)

Him: Mum! I need to do my work, and dad won't let me go on the PC!

I'm such an unreasonable parent!

Scenario Two: Mrs B firmly believes that she knows exactly what I'm going to say next in any given situation. She won't admit as much, and of course she couldn't possibly know that unless we had some type of telepathic link between us; but my wife is so convinced she possesses this special ability, that most times during a conversation, she'll forego the unnecessary chore of actually listening to what I say, and will instead use her special power to predict my next words, and thus she'll formulate her responses even before she's heard mine. The other day, we embarked on the fascinating discussion of what we should have for lunch.

Her: If you're going out, you could get some mayonnaise for tuna mayonnaise sandwiches.

Me: Do we have any tuna?

Her: Yes, I looked in the cupboard; we have three cans left.

Me: Three cans left? How many cans did you buy?

Her: I can't remember; about three weeks ago, I think.

Me: No. How many cans did you buy?

Her: Either Asda or Netto - Not Tesco, their tuna's always too expensive.

Me: (giving up on that line of enquiry) Can I have chopped gherkin in mine too, if we have any?

Her: You can get some if you're going to the shops.

Me: So we don't have any gherkins then?

Her: Someone will have to go; we've run out of mayonnaise.

Me: What about gherkins?

Her: No, I've got tuna. I have three cans from a multi-pack of five.

Me: Will you PLEASE just listen to what I say before you answer what you think I'm going to say?

Her: So don't you want tuna mayonnaise sandwiches then? Are you still going to the shop?

I went to the shop, if only to escape the madhouse!

Country Diary II (getting to be like a 'real' diary this!)

[See 'Country Diary (or as near as you'll get from a townie)' first]

On Friday, two days after my encounter with the handbrake horse, I went walking up toward Cottingham again, mainly to see if I could get photographic evidence of those roe deer I told you all about, (I really wanted to prove that not all the wild life around Hull is the kind with ASBOs.)

I had even worse luck than on Wednesday to begin with, but at least the horse who was responsible for my muddy fate the other day trotted over to say "hello," (if she'd have done as much as a canter, I'd have legged it, just in case,) I'd like to think she was saying "sorry" too, though she was probably just investigating to see if I had any food about my person. At least she looked sorry.

I'd forgotten to bring any carrots or apples with me, to bribe the horses. I'd passed a sweet shop on the way, but I'm afraid I'm still not quite at the polo mint stage yet. With my lack of 'booty' I knew she wouldn't stay long, but I overcame my terror and stroked her head a little; I was able to take a quick snapshot of her before she galloped away, and even managed to dodge the mud from the kickback.

I realised I'd also forgotten to bring my glasses with me. I used to wear them all the time, but have had the need for bifocals or varifocals as I've got older. I broke my varifocals about a year ago, and could only afford to replace them with single vision jobbies, so I tend to leave my glasses off most of the time, unless I particularly want to see something at distance; consequently, I often forget to pick them up before I leave home.

This particular day of course, I particularly wanted to see something at distance, to wit: the elusive roe deer, but with my limited eye sight, I didn't stand much of a hope. There certainly weren't any stood in the middle of any of the fields this time, and there was no way I'd be able to pick them out amongst the distant trees with these eyes.

I chatted with an old chap out walking his dog, who said (the old chap, not the dog,) that he'd occasionally seen the deer in the fields on the opposite side of the road, so that meant that there was either more than one bevy (impressed eh? I've been swotting up on my collective nouns,) or that they sometimes crossed the main road. He also told me that there was a bridle path back the way I'd already come that led down the side of the fields toward the trees. I was surprised I hadn't spotted it, but decided to give it a try.

I found the bridle path. I set off to walk along it. It was long. It was muddy, and by the time I'd passed the trees at the back of the fields there was still no sign of the deer. Beyond the trees were more fields, as the path led on past farmland. After a while, squinting, I looked out over one of the fields, and thought I saw a few dark spots poking out from behind the raised earthworks alongside a drainage ditch.

Using the zoom on my camera as makeshift binoculars (or more accurately, a makeshift telescope,) I confirmed that it was indeed, roe deer sitting in the distance, partially obscured so that not much more than their heads were visible.

I took a photograph anyway, though I knew that even at full zoom, there wouldn't be much detail, but I also knew that once I got home, I could enlarge it digitally and even possibly enhance it.

I walked a little further, trying to get a better view of the deer, and after a time, they started moving around a little and I was pleasantly surprised to see that there were a lot more of them present than I'd previously thought. It looks like my local roe deer are surviving the winter well. Here's to seeing a lot more of them when the warmer weather arrives, though they're so elusive I think I'll need someone to lend me a really good telephoto lens.

Country Diary (or the nearest you'll get from a townie)

Nobody would ever claim that where I live is suburban; nevertheless only fifteen to twenty minutes walk to the north leads me to open fields. It's the road to the nearest village to me, Cottingham, and that's where my walks often lead to for various reasons.

Priory Road, caught when the traffic was quiet

First, because they have a 'proper' old fashioned butcher, where I don't have to buy pre-packed meat like they have in the supermarket. It's a little bit pricey for some things, but at least the range is better than the standard, chops, sausages, mince and chicken legs at most of my local outlets.

Secondly, because Cottingham has a number of very nice pubs, selling very nice beers and at times when I'm in the market for alcoholic refreshment, it helps to have places like that in the vicinity. Also, it features my nearest branch of 'Rythym and Booze' (wines and beer store,) and that's the only place I can buy Barnsley Beer Company's range of competitively priced bottled ales. Now you may say that walking nearly four miles there and then the same back again just to get beer, makes me some kind of piss artist, but I look on it as devotion to a hobby; and of course you'll know that if you've visited my beer blog. What do you mean, you didn't know about it? Get over there and check it out.

The horses do have access to grass at some times of the year

Third amongst my many reasons to walk up to Cottingham has a lot to do with the horses contained in the fields I pass on the way. Since my early twenties I've had a fear of horses. Now that may seem irrational to you and maybe it is, but I'm trying to deal with it. I've got to the point where though I'm still certain that a horse would have the ability to rip me apart, I'm coming to terms with accepting that it probably wouldn't have the inclination. I've got to this level of near fearlessness by occasional visits to the horses on the road to Cottingham, to stroke their  massive fearsome heads (over the fence, but no sudden movements please, horses) and to feed them, first carrots, shaped so you can just poke them toward the horse's mouths, and later apples, which require a little more open handed, close up courage. I can just about manage that now. I've heard that horses are also partial to polo mints, but that requires full flat handed confidence while the beast picks up said sweetie with its teeth. My problem is that since horses have teeth just like chisels, I can't discount the possibility of losing a finger, so no polos for the horses, just yet, but maybe one day.

Humberside Police Headquarters
(where the cars slow down!)

My route to Cottingham takes me along Priory Road, this is one of the main routes from West Hull to Cottingham and the traffic along there is very loud, very busy and very fast (though not quite so fast on the bit of the road that passes  Humberside Police headquarters for some reason.) There are times though when the traffic will die off for a while, the road will be clear and a near silence descends. At times like these, I can hear the birds singing, the wood-pigeons cooing; the light somehow seems a little brighter & the air smells a little cleaner for a time, and if I stop and close my eyes, I can imagine that I'm in a better place, a happier place.

During the summer months, if I stand at the fence by the horses' fields, I often detect movement amongst the trees, far away on the other side. If I stand around long enough and look carefully enough, I can see a number of roe deer wandering amongst the trees. On my last few trips up that road there has been no sign of them. Admittedly it has been winter, but I'm certain that roe deer don't hibernate; I can only assume that they've flown south for the winter or disappeared to some other mystery place by some other mystery method. Today though, I looked across the field and there were the tell-tale snow white arses of roe deer; not amongst the trees: they were actually grazing in the field, (a little too far away to photograph with my phone camera, or this post would have been a little more interesting.) They seemed bigger than the usual roe deer I've seen there; they're normally no bigger than a small sheep, but these seemed to be much larger, (and YES, I am taking into account that they were standing much closer!) Perhaps the ones I see in summer are younger ones; I hope that means that there are baby deer on the way.

Winter still seems to be holding onto the fields. The only signs of grass are the odd tufts around the edges, mainly under the fences, and the odd green blade standing up through the mud like a bit of discarded Christmas tree. The fields themselves are mainly mud; I say mainly mud, because vast areas of them have been given over completely to water. Walking past the fields, they all seem to be flooded but to varying extents, each new field I pass will be of either 'marsh', 'swamp' or 'quagmire' quality, but every one of them could only laughingly be described as a field, which is a shame, because the poor bloody horses still have to stand out in them.

The horses seem to have taken to the idea of spring a lot more than the fields have. Some of them have become very sprightly. One particular field I passed had nine horses standing there, well away from the fence; there were nine, but technically only six of them were standing there: the other three had taken to galloping around the field, paying no heed to the deep mud or to the great pools of water that they stormed through as they went.

Now I've never seen a horse do a handbrake turn before. Of course not: horses don't have handbrakes. But as I stood by the fence watching the three horses galloping around, they turned toward me. Whether they remembered me and associated me with carrots and apples from the past I don't know, or perhaps anyone who stands still at the edge of their field for more than a couple of seconds is associated in their minds, with the possibility of free food, but as I stood there watching, all three came galloping toward me. 

One of them veered off quite early and turned to continue its journey back across the field; the second slowed to a stop as he approached and stood there watching his companion who seemed to increase speed as she came closer and closer as though she was about to smash through the fence. At the very last minute, this horse seemed to turn through a hundred and eighty degrees, seemingly without reducing speed. Oh, I know she must have stopped, as she turned, but then she seemed to gallop away at the same speed she'd approached. There seemed to be no deceleration before the turn, and for some reason, no need for acceleration after it, just fast then turn then fast again. I can't relate it in any other way than to describe it as a handbrake turn.

As she turned, her hooves skidded sideways into the mud between her and the fence, the mud just on the other side of the fence from where I stood. I recognised what the outcome of this would be, but there wasn't much I could do about it. I'd already turned away at the prospect of the horse smashing into the fence, so all I could really do was to step away slightly. What I hoped this was going to achieve, I'm not sure, but the effect it had was for the entire left hand side of my body to be splattered with big gobs of wet mud.

Now the thing about mud, is that it's a lot easier to get off when it has dried. Trying to remove it while still wet is only asking for trouble, so I continued my walk to Cottingham. A guy standing by a land rover on the opposite side of the road called out to me "Hee hee, did it get you then?" I wondered why he had to ask, not realising that he could only see my right hand side as I passed. This became plain to me as I turned toward him to answer him and he rolled over onto the bonnet of his car laughing. I continued. I managed to remove most of the mud from my face and my coat as I went, but I'm sure I knew exactly why I got those strange looks in the butchers and in the off-licence. "Bugger it," I thought, "I'll go for a pint."

I decided to sample whatever ale the King William IV had to offer but avoided the lounge bar, where what seemed like all of Cottingham's population of pensioners were tucking into their lunches, opting instead for the slightly 'rougher' public bar; not rough enough, it would seem, to ignore someone still semi-clad (at least down one side) in drying mud though, because as expected, I got the same strange looks in there as I had done while shopping, but at least I got a table to myself.

I made my way home via Shropshire and Warwickshire, (that's Shropshire Close, and Warwickshire Close. This is after all, only a lunchtime walk!) then I made my way down the cycle path that goes under the flyover and emerged at the southern end of Lowdale (Close, again) into Rosedale (Grove) so now I'm almost home again, back in town. I'll get home and hand over the kidney I bought for Mrs B to use in tonights mega pie (steak, kidney, mince, onion AND potato) then I'll sit down to pick the remains of the mud off my coat, then think about a way of cooking the thin rib of beef I bought for tomorrow night's tea. Who knows, tonight, I might open one (or more) of my bottles of Barnsley beer, (all in the interests of reviewing it, of course.)

[See also: 'Country Diary II (getting to be like a 'real' diary this!)']