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Who was the Countryman?

 

One of Dad’s ‘Constable’ books
Dad in ‘Aidensfield’
Another of my Dad’s books featuring the last Heartbeat bobby. Joe McFadden
Dad on set talking with the orginal bobby, Nick Berry
Dad at work in his study in the 1960s while he was also a bobby in Whitby
One of my favourite last photos of my dad, taken the summer before he died
My late father, Heartbeat author Peter Walker (aka Nicholas Rhea) in his study. He used to paste rejection letters to his walls to spur him on
Dad in the 1970s when he was press officer for North Yorkshire Police

The Countryman was my dad, Peter N Walker (aka Nicholas Rhea), who died on 21st April 2017 from prostate cancer.

He was a full-time writer for more than 35 years, and before that, wrote in his spare time from his job as a policeman. He wrote stories based on his experiences and they were turned into the hugely successful TV series Heartbeat. But he also wrote much more, including crime novels, detective novels, short stories, local history books, collections of folk stories and tales, and also columns for local papers.

When he was younger, he used to read the Countryman’s Diary in the Darlington and Stockton Times by a well-known writer and local history expert, Major John Fairfax-Blakeborough. The Major had always been an inspiration and source of encouragement to my dad, who dreamed of taking over his column, so when he passed away, Dad was thrilled to be invited to take over. He continued that column for 41 years, and another (Rural View) for around 30 years in the Malton Gazette and Herald. Despite his success, he had a huge sense of loyalty and would not give up the weekly columns, continuing right up until a couple of weeks before his death, although towards the end, they were a struggle for him.

After his death, I began to wonder what would happen to his columns, and felt it would be a shame for them to simply disappear after so many years. With support from my family, I called the editors of the papers who readily agreed to my taking them over, even though I don’t have Dad’s writing pedigree, nor his extensive knowledge of all things country and Yorkshire. But, as my brother pointed out, I do have access to my dad’s archive, 40-plus years’ worth of columns to draw upon.

So I decided to take each column from the same week 40 years ago and see what I could use to inspire my column for today. What I have found is not only a wealth of material, but that it is bringing back some memories that were long-since forgotten, memories of my dad, and of our family, of which he was so proud. And it feels like I am getting to know my dad in a way I never expected nor thought possible. It’s an honour to be able to do it and, step by step, week by week, it is helping me make my way along the long road of grief that his passing has left behind.

Sarah xxx

Rallying myself for a special reunion

L-R Me with my niece Eleanor and her baby, Annabelle, my son Joey, my sister Janet  and my mum Rhoda reunited with my dad’s beautiful Mark 2 Jaguar at the Heartbeat Vehicle Rally in Goathland


I’m just home from a very special weekend. We were finally reunited with my dad’s beloved Mark 2 Jaguar.

 

Dad had always dreamed of owning a Mark 2, and bought one in the early 1970s. However, it failed its MOT in 1979 and languished in the garage for the next 15 years until, following the success of Heartbeat, he was able to get it fixed in time for my wedding in 1994.

As a family, we loved that car, and it stayed with us for more than 40 years until Dad’s death in 2017. We made the heartbreaking decision to sell it then because we feared we could not give it the kind of care it deserved. We thought we’d never see it again.

But, like a knight in shining armour, Jaguar fan Richard James came to the rescue. He’d found the car about a year ago and it had been reduced to a rusty old heap. Only after he bought it did he discover who the previous owner was. He tracked me down through social media, and pledged to bring the car, fully restored, to this year’s Heartbeat Vehicle Rally on the last weekend in June.

The anticipation of seeing it had me in tears even before I’d set eyes on it because it was so tied up with my dad, the treasured memories and the devastating grief at his loss. I know the same goes for the rest of my family too, and so the reunion was made extra special by the fact my mum, my sister, my son, my niece and my six-week-old great-niece – four generations of our family – were at the rally to greet it.

 

Watching my mum’s face as she saw it come into view is something I’ll never forget – surprise, joy and raw emotion all bundled into one expression. She couldn’t wait to sit in the driving seat and once there, was reluctant to leave it. She recalled that, at five feet tall on a good day, she could barely reach the pedals when she used to drive it to work. She’d perch on the edge of the seat, pushed as far forward as it could possibly go, peeping over the steering wheel and long bonnet, barely able to see out.

 

She worked at Ampleforth College, and remembered how the schoolboys would gather round the classroom window to watch as she manoeuvred the great thing into a parking spot, bewildered at how a diminutive secretary had such a large fancy car.

 

What they didn’t know was that the Jaguar guzzled petrol and so it was more economical for Dad to drive our small Ford Anglia the 20 miles to police headquarters in Northallerton while Mum’s journey was just one mile.

 

Richard had done a remarkable job of the restoration, the paintwork and chrome gleaming as if new. The interior was equally impressive, and the stunning walnut dashboard for which Jaguars are known had been painstakingly crafted back to life. If I am honest, it was in much better condition than when we had it! But then, it was a family car, and with four squirming kids squished into the back on trips out, it perhaps wasn’t given quite the respect it enjoys now.

 

My dad used to complain about its reliability, or rather, lack of it, and it was renowned for conking out so I was very relieved to hear that it had completed the 350-mile round trip to the rally and back to Richard’s home again without missing a beat.

 

The best moment was when we got to have a ride in it, with mum in the front passenger seat, and we girls in the back. The familiar low chugging of the engine took me straight back to the last time I had heard that noise, the day it had left us forever. I could quite happily listen to that sound for the rest of my life.

 

I had a lump in my throat at the end of the day as it sailed off down the road back towards its new home. But Richard has given us a very special memento – Dad’s Jag in miniature mounted on a plaque with a special dedication to honour him.

 

I don’t think I could have asked for much more.

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 10th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 8th July 2026

Wood you know this?

Marks on a beam in an old house I visited recently

Marks known as ‘Cats’ paws’ on some kitchen cupboard doors

I wonder if this beam had a previous life?

As the writer of a weekly column, I am always on the lookout for topics, and am often the cause of long delays on walks or trips out as I pause to take pictures and investigate something that has caught my eye.

It could be a flower in the grass, a bird in a bush, a crop at the side of the road or a door in a building –  if the moment takes me, I can be distracted by just about anything!

This week my attention was drawn to the varieties of wood found in a house I was visiting that had beautiful exposed beams and a hand built kitchen. The house was constructed in the 1800s and every piece of timber had its own unique character.

The kitchen was the first to captivate me because it was built from a rich sandy-gold timber with distinctive patches of what I assumed were small knots in the wood. Looking more closely, I could see they were really rather beautiful, each a little cluster with its own distinct patterns, colours and characteristics, the sort you only find in material crafted by nature. Obviously this kitchen was much younger than the house’s supporting beams and struts, but it nevertheless fascinated me.

A bit of net surfing when I got home led me to discover that this particular wood is known as ‘cluster elm’ and the patches that I was looking at are sometimes referred to as ‘cats’ paws’ thanks to their resemblance to a paw print. The clusters are actually dormant buds that have been prevented from growing for some reason, such as an injury to the tree or a disease. Elm is prized for the beautiful patterns created by the swirling nature of the grain which, alongside the cats’ paws, can become a stunning feature on a piece of furniture.

I then spent some time looking closely at the various oak timber beams, A-frames and Y-frames that were holding this lovely old house up. As I mentioned, each piece had its own unique character, with some carved in asymmetrical shapes, and others marked with a series of nicks or puncture marks all over the beam. I wondered why these were created, because it seemed to me that they had been done with purpose, although I was not sure what that purpose was. Were they to allow the wood to breathe, for example? I have since seen other more modern pieces of oak that have also been marked in a similar way. Perhaps a timber expert or someone who works with wood can enlighten me!

I do know that back in the old days, salvaged materials were commonplace, and wood from shipwrecks would be rescued and used in the construction of houses. Some of these beams appeared to have come from one such misfortune, and I could visualise the aged interior of an old sailing ship or the mast upon which the giant sails would be hoisted. I wondered about the tales they could tell and from what kind of ship they had come – was it a trade ship, carrying precious cargo that had perished in a storm, or perhaps a pirate ship, causing havoc on the high seas until karma came a calling, despatching it to a dreadful end on our coastal rocks?

In the 19th century, the North Sea was one of the most perilous stretches of water to sail upon due to frequent storms and scant interest in safety. Shipwrecks were commonplace and if you visit some of the old houses in places like Whitby, Staithes and Robin Hood’s Bay, you’ll see that residents were not shy about reclaiming the timber that had once sailed proud upon the ocean wave.

However it would take an expert to correctly identify where these beams were from, because the house is some way from the coast. Useful timber was also salvaged from buildings that had collapsed or burned down and from what I have read, the style of the markings and the types of joints will tell us more about the original place from which they were salvaged.

I have more photos, but sadly there is not enough room for them all to fit on this page, so if an expert out there is reading this, please get in touch and I will send them on to you!

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 3rd and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 1st July 2026

 

Does this ring any bells?

 

I always make sure my bicycle bell works to warn people that I am approaching


I had a bit of a ‘to-do’ yesterday when I was walking a dog on a path that was shared between pedestrians and cyclists.

 

The dog (lets call him Fido) is young and led by his nose which means that he is genetically programmed to not walk in a straight line. He zig zags with every fascinating scent that lands in his nostrils, which is about once every 10 seconds. He is also strong, so I am dragged about on the end of his lead like a ribbon hanging from a kite (Please note, I walk other people’s dogs, so am not responsible for the lack of doggy decorum).

 

Yesterday, captivated by an irresistible whiff, Fido suddenly pulled to right, and of course I went with him. At that, the noise of screeching brakes and skidding tyres came from behind as we stepped into the path of a bicycle.

 

Thankfully no-one was hurt, and because it was raining and I had my hood up, I had not heard him coming.

 

As a cyclist myself, if I am approaching a dog walker, I slow down, ring my bell several times and as I pass, thank the thoughtful owners for bringing their hounds under control. If we respect other path users, then we can all enjoy our outing, however we may be transporting ourselves.

 

Sadly not everyone thinks the same, with some cyclists pedalling as if they are trying to win a sprint at the Tour de France, and walkers who believe that their dogs running dangerously loose in front of them is a hazard not of their making.

 

I like to think I am a responsible walker, and make a point of gathering in loose pooches at the approach of anything on wheels. Dogs – and animals in general – are unpredictable, and can be spooked into bolting by things unseen or noises unheard.

 

I have to admit that I was a in a bit of a grump yesterday and one of my bugbears is cyclists not using bells to warn you they are approaching from behind. I did apologise for stepping into his path, but explained that I did not hear him coming. When he grumpily moved past us, I mumbled “If you’d rung your bell, I’d have heard you.”

 

Seconds later, he stopped again and gave me such a dirty look that it lit a touch paper within me. “He’s a dog, he moves about! How can I move out of your way if I can’t hear you coming?” I asked angrily.

 

That sparked a heated debate about whether it was a cycle path or a footpath (it was both) and why he should he get a bell when he said most people can’t hear him anyway, and why I was being so miserable.

 

The funny thing is, I started to giggle inwardly at the ridiculousness of it all, and chastised myself for my rash response that triggered the confrontation. If I had said nothing, he would have simply cycled on, and we both would have been a bit annoyed, but that’s all.

It reminded me of a course I was sent on for work many years ago. The tutor asked why, when we get behind the wheel of a car, we transform from calm, rational individuals into reactive, fist waving banshees.

 

She reminded us that the person at whom we are gesticulating could have a machete in their glove box. If someone annoys you, it is much safer to curse inwardly at them and send them a choice manual greeting from below the cover of the dashboard.

 

This was in the late 1990s, around the same time that the ruthless gangster Kenneth Noye was convicted of the fatal stabbing of 21-year-old Stephen Cameron after a road rage incident on an M25 slip road. Whatever happened to spark the fight, it cannot have been worth a young man losing his life. It demonstrates that you have no idea who the opposing driver might be.

 

Thanks to that tutor’s wise words, I became far more tolerant behind the wheel. I was forced to admit to myself that I am not a perfect driver, that I too make mistakes, and occasionally might annoy other road users with a selfish manoeuvre.

 

Despite that, I always make sure my bicycle bell works.

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 26th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 24th June 2026

Mutual response to TB epidemic

The 1910 postcard sent to his wife Lolly from Benenden Sanatorium patient Gilbert showing snow on the floor and on his bed thanks to the windows in his room being left wide open, no matter what the weather. It was the prescribed treatment for TB in the days before antibiotics became widely available. Picture from the Benenden Health archives.


I was at home chatting to my mum recently, and she was reminiscing about days gone by.

One story she mentioned was very sad indeed. A local family’s 10-year-old son had fallen over while playing and he suffered a nasty graze due to the rough road surface. He developed an infection and died. Mum is not sure exactly when it was, but thinks sometime in the 1930s when antibiotics were not readily available.

It’s startling to think that something as everyday as a child falling over could lead to a family losing their child. Now, if a wound becomes infected, your doctor will prescribe you antibiotics which should quickly clear it up. Today’s parents rarely need to worry if their child has a minor mishap in the playground.

Although some forms of antibiotic were discovered earlier, it was Alexander Fleming’s discovery of penicillin in 1928 that led to a revolution in healthcare. Antibiotic use really took off in the 1940s after chemists Ernst Chain and Howard Florey developed a way to purify penicillin enabling it to be mass produced.

Initially it was strictly rationed and during World War II was restricted to the military, but once the war was over, it became available to the general public via their local doctors. However, it would still have only been available to those who could afford to buy it. Not until the introduction of the National Health Service in 1948 was the whole population able to benefit.

In the early 2000s, I was commissioned to write the history of the Benenden Healthcare Society, a mutual health organisation originally established to combat high rates of deaths from Pulmonary Tuberculosis among postal workers. My research on that book taught me the devastating consequences TB had on the service and its employees.

In the late 1800s, Post Office clerk Charles Garland was appalled at the plight of his many colleagues who were contracting and dying from tuberculosis. In 1900, about 300,000 people nationally were suffering, but only 22,000 a year could be treated. The dusty, cramped offices in which sorting clerks and telegraphists worked were ideal conditions for the airborne disease to flourish. These employees earned just a few pounds a week and could not afford to pay for healthcare. Even if a worker did take time off for treatment, it meant no income for their family, so there was enormous pressure for them to return to their jobs, which they often did before they were fully cured. This meant they would continue to infect co-workers, and would likely die from the disease anyway.

Garland suggested a ‘mutual’ way of helping his colleagues. If he and the thousands of his fellow Post Office employees each contributed a small amount of their wages into a fund, they could raise enough money to help those who contracted TB.

His idea took off, and his new society was able to fund the building of a sanatorium near the village of Benenden in Kent which welcomed its first Post Office patients in March 1907. It was long before an effective cure for TB was found, so the main treatment was rest, fresh air and hope. Patients would be wheeled outside in their beds every morning, no matter how cold it was, and doors and windows remained open day and night. In 1910, one long suffering patient wrote a postcard to his wife: ‘Dear Lolly. This picture shows the result of the snow storm I told you about some time back. I did not sleep so cold as you might think it was, colder last night than I have ever known it to be here. With fondest love from Gilbert.’

Receiving treatment at the sanatorium meant employees did not return to work until they were fully cured, and thus infection rates reduced. However it was not until the early 1950s that fewer patients meant empty beds and the effectiveness of antibiotics on TB were finally being felt. The Society refocussed its core services away from TB and towards things like cancer and diagnostic consultations.

TB is still around today, although much less prevalent in the UK. It used to be known as the ‘artists’ disease’ thanks to fact that several writers, painters and composers succumbed to it, most notably Emily and Anne Bronte, Franz Kafka, Chopin, Modigliani and George Orwell.

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 19th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 17th June 2026

A cheep of faith

A black crow stole a chunky piece of wood from a neighbour. Would he use that to build a nest? Picture by Mick Gisbourne

I was at an appointment recently standing at the window waiting for a client.

Suddenly, a big glossy crow swooped into view flying at my eye-level across the front of the house before disappearing around the corner. A few seconds later it flew back the way it came with something chunky in its mouth. It looked like a piece of wood, or even a piece of masonry. There was building work going on, so perhaps it had been skip diving? It seemed to know exactly where it was going and what it wanted. But what it would be doing with such a hefty piece of rubbish? It was surely too big for nest building, and definitely not edible, so what would a crow need it for? I welcome suggestions from you bird experts out there.

On the walk there, I’d seen a pigeon fly up off a drive to perch on a roof. It had been standing by something on the ground, and as I drew closer, I realised that sadly it was a deceased baby bird. I wondered how it had ended up there, because it was too young to fly and too far away from any nest to have fallen out. Had it been dropped by an airborne predator perhaps? The pigeon stayed close by, and I have a feeling it may have been its parent, which sparked a pang of sadness. But at this time of year we see a fair amount of avian casualties, such as sickly chicks flung out of nests by parents or siblings. Sometimes fledglings test their wings too soon and end up marooned on the floor.

I’ve mentioned this before, but if you find a young bird on the ground, the RSPB advise to not interfere unless absolutely necessary. Its parents will likely be watching unseen, or off gathering food. To remove a fledgling from its environment has to be a very last resort, and then only if it is injured, in immediate danger, or you have established that it has been abandoned or orphaned.

Another day, I heard a commotion in a nearby fig tree. It was a posse of five or six little black and white birds, all chattering excitedly away. They started off on a low branch, then one hopped to the next branch up, followed by the others, and then seconds later they all hopped up again and so they kept on going up the tree, cheeping away, until they were almost at the top. They stayed there for a few more seconds, before one leapt off, followed by another, and then the rest all at once.

Well, almost the rest. There was one wee chick still left on the tree. It was as if he was plucking up the courage to leap into the unknown, a little afraid of what was to come. Then he did it, jumped off the branch, dropped alarmingly before recovering and following in the direction of his buddies. My guess is that they were fledgling pied wagtails out on the town for the first time.

It reminded me of days in the school playground where there was always a ringleader surrounded by hangers on trying to be cool by association. Then there were those on the periphery trying to fit in but not really managing it, lacking in confidence and battling their demons to try to keep up with the cool kids. If only they realised then that being different and individual is a good thing. Just ask Bill Gates!

The bird’s wobbly flight path also reminded me of the time as a young reporter I had to leap off a cliff for a story. I was strapped to the pilot of a hang glider and needed to gather all my courage to do it. When we took off, I expected to drop like that little chick, but instead, we were lifted upwards on a thermal, which was quite spectacular to experience.

Unfortunately, the thermal soon disappeared, the wind dropped and instead of landing back on the top of the hill as we were meant to, we floated lower and lower down, eventually crash landing at the bottom! Thankfully, we were unhurt. The glider, however, was stuck nose down in the ground.

Let’s hope the brave little chick didn’t end up the same way!

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 12th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 10th June 2026

Hog your ground for good weather

Burying a sausage is supposed to bring good weather for your wedding. Where did this idea come from?

I am at that stage in my life where I have to admit that I am too old and too lazy to keep myself up to speed with all the new stuff with which my kids’ generation busies itself.

My children are at the age where their peers are getting married and having babies and the trends that were around when I married and started my family are now considered prehistoric. They don’t know how lucky they are not needing to be a contortionist to get a squirming screaming toddler strapped safely into a car seat in the cramped space in the back of the car. Instead of facing towards the seat in front, they are now mounted on a pivot enabling them to be swiftly swivelled to face you at the car door. Why it took so long for us to work out that was a sensible idea baffles me. Having said that, I’m pleased for all the physiotherapists across the world who benefitted from the extra work the old seats created.

It’s coming up to wedding season and I wonder if certain traditions we used to embrace have bitten the dust too, such as not seeing your groom the night before, or making sure you wear something old, new, borrowed and blue. Do Gen Z still do theses things? Gen Z refers to anyone born between 1997 and 2012, the first generation to have had access to the internet, social media, and smart devices for their whole lives.

For those of us startled by that fact, we can be comforted in the knowledge that one thing has remained constant – the unpredictability of our weather. I know that global warming means we experience more severe weather events than we used to, be it days of torrential rain, or days of hot sun. But we still cannot be certain that it won’t pour down when we plan an outdoor occasion.

But fear not. There is a tried and tested method to be sure of fair weather for your nuptials; for brolly-free wedding photos, you have to bury a sausage.

Yes. Bury a sausage.

I’m sure dozens of questions are right now flashing through your head, such as does it matter what kind of sausage? Is it cooked or raw? Does it have to be a particularly big sausage to give yourself a better chance of success? Where are you supposed to bury the sausage? And how long in advance of your wedding should you put it in the ground? Who should bury the sausage? Bride? Groom? Celebrant? And lastly, has anyone measured the success rate of sausage burying?

To find out more, I went straight to an expert, my Gen Z niece, who was married three years ago at a very risky time of year, October, where you’d think the chance of adverse weather put it firmly in sausage-burying territory. But the day was really beautiful, with the golden autumn sunlight providing a stunning backdrop for the photos. Had they concealed a fortuitous frankfurter to achieve it?

She replied: “We did not…I’d actually never heard of it until last week – my friend was at a wedding and they did it.”

Apparently it is the social media platform TikTok that is responsible for the viral trend, and its origins are shrouded in mystery. Google tells me that German-speaking countries, famous for their plethora of porky delights, are responsible, but when I asked my Bavarian friend about it he said he had never heard of such a custom.

As for the dozens of questions you might have, some sources say it has to be a raw sausage, others cooked. Some say bury it at the bride’s home, others at the wedding venue. Some say conceal it the night before, others a week before. As for the kind of sausage, I think you have free rein from chunky bratwurst to skinny chipolata.

I did find one source that suggested it descended from the tradition of Groundhog Day, where the beaver-like mammal comes out of hibernation to predict the weather for the coming months. The connection is that a hog is a kind of pig, which is the source of most sausages, and putting it in the ground means you bury it. Hence groundhog.

Personally, I think everything I’ve just written is a load of old groundhogwash.

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 5th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 3rd June 2026

Growers forcing the issue

Bell-shaped terracotta pots are used to ‘force’ rhubarb in the kitchen garden at Rudding Park Hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant ‘Fifty Two’.

I’ve been lucky to have another short trip away, this time to the swanky Rudding Park Hotel near Harrogate for a spa break with my best friend. We started doing this in 2021 when we realised we had been friends for 50 years. We felt that was something worth celebrating, and ever since have made sure just the two of us get away once a year for a weekend of pampering somewhere nice.

We had an afternoon in the spa followed by some relaxing treatments and ended up with a delicious meal in the restaurant. It is a very impressive place, and the staff are clearly well trained, doing everything to make sure your stay is as trouble free and relaxing as possible.

The next morning we were not in any hurry to leave, and decided to have a potter about the grounds. This time of year is hands down my favourite, and we admired the magnificent horse chestnut trees swathed in blossom candles and the rhododendron and azalea shrubs resplendent in their floral frocks of pink, orange, yellow and purple.

There was also a kitchen garden where they grow a huge variety of produce to supply the Michelin-starred restaurant, Fifty Two, which sits just next door. Guests are welcome to wander round and jealously marvel at how healthy and robust the 500 varieties of fruit, veg and herbs look. I’m impressed by people who can grow things. I manage to kill every green specimen that crosses my path, even the herbs that you get from the supermarket. As soon as I put a pot of coriander on my kitchen windowsill, it keels over and dies.

We were intrigued by some strange elongated bell-shaped terracotta pots dotted about the growing beds, and discussed what we thought they might be. In the end we asked one of the gardeners who was busy weeding. Turns out we were speaking to head gardener Emma Pugh, who is extremely knowledgeable about all things horticultural and she explained it was for forcing rhubarb. I’ve heard of ‘forced’ rhubarb and know that in Yorkshire we have the famous Rhubarb Triangle where commercial growers produce rhubarb in huge sheds that do not let in the sunlight. However, I hadn’t before stopped to think about why they might do that.

Emma explained that by restricting the light, the rhubarb is ‘forced’ to grow quicker in a quest to find the sun, and this produces a much sweeter, flavoursome variety than those left to grow au naturel. The stems are longer and thinner, and less stringy too. The lack of sun also means it has a bright pink stalk as opposed to the more bitter red-green ones we associate with the rhubarb from our back gardens. The dark environment also means rhubarb leaves are yellow rather than green.

The terracotta domes were replicating the forced atmosphere so that the chef can create prettier, sweeter and tastier desserts for his diners. The pots are placed over the rhubarb ‘crowns’ in January, and the plant behaves as if it is still underground, forever reaching up towards the daylight. However, a rhubarb plant should only be forced for one season before it is rested, as it really takes it out of the plant having to put so much effort into trying to find something it never will. So the pots are moved around, with the same plant only being forced once every few years.

Emma also explained that the chef had asked her to experiment with forcing other vegetables to see if it improved their taste too. Other commonly forced vegetables include chicory, sea kale and asparagus, and the technique was popularised by the Victorians who wanted to grow produce out of season. Forcing does not just refer to the lack of light, but also to creating warmer temperatures, such as in greenhouses, to encourage plants to grow more quickly, or out of their normal growing period. And it’s worth remembering, for your next pub quiz, that rhubarb is not a fruit, but a vegetable due to its lack of seeds. 

Do you remember a while back I tried ‘wilting’ dandelion leaves in the way you would cook spinach, after reading a column my dad had written suggesting it? It was awful, chewy and bitter.

I wonder if forced dandelion leaves would taste better?

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 29th May and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 27th May 2026

Water engineering marvel

19th century Thirlmere Aqueduct is the longest gravity-fed aqueduct in the country, ending almost 100 miles away in Manchester

I spent a wonderful weekend with friends in the Lake District recently, staying a cottage near the beautiful Grasmere. It’s a lovely, though very small, village and we took time to visit the graves of the famous Wordsworth family found in St Oswald’s churchyard. We walked around the peaceful shores of the lake and also managed a challenging climb up the short but steep Grey Crag to Alcock Tarn.

On the way down the fell, our route guide told us to look out for Thirlmere Aqueduct, a gravity-fed pipeline built in Victorian times that takes fresh water all the way from Thirlmere Reservoir to the city of Manchester. This reminded me of hydro engineer Joseph Foord whom I wrote about in this column a couple of years ago. In the mid-1700s, Foord came up with a groundbreaking system of channels that used gravity to feed fresh water to remote villages high on the North York Moors.

The aqueduct was easy to spot, and took the form of a grass-topped masonry bridge over one of the many streams that tumbled down the hillside. I assumed the stream formed part of the aqueduct, providing plenty of gravity as it raced down the hill, but I was confused about how the system worked. In my head, an aqueduct carries water over or through an obstacle, and upon first sight, this little bridge went over the stream but was not connected to it. Another question was why was it called Thirlmere Aqueduct, when Thirlmere was a good six miles away.

Of course, my column-writing brain kicked immediately into gear, and once I got home, I set about finding out more about this engineering conundrum.

It turns out that what we were looking at was indeed the aqueduct, but the water that was being transported to Manchester was inside the bridge, not running underneath it. The ‘bridge’ was not a bridge at all, but a tunnel.

The aqueduct was the brainchild of engineer John Frederic La Trobe Bateman who was a big name in hydroengineering and established the foundation of today’s British water industry. As the Industrial Revolution took hold, Manchester grew increasingly important as a commercial centre and as a result, the population rapidly grew too. To continue to be successful, the city would need far more water that it was currently getting.

Bateman identified the Lake District as a potential source because it had more far more water than its inhabitants needed, and also plenty of rainfall to ensure a continuous supply. After deliberating over which lake was most suitable, Thirlmere was chosen. There was plenty of opposition from locals understandably wanting to preserve it just as it was. But they were overruled.

I’m a little confused as to the date the ambitious project began, as some online resources suggest it was Queen Victoria who gave the go-ahead in 1890. But I found an obituary published in the year of Bateman’s death (10th June 1889), in which it states work had begun by 1880.

The initial stage involved increasing the size of the lake. Bateman calculated that they had to raise its height by 56 metres to provide the 50 million gallons a day needed, and, which they would achieve by building a dam at one end, and flooding the valley behind it to create a large reservoir.

The next engineering feat was to transport that water across 96 miles and 28 valleys using gravity alone. A series of tunnels totalling around 50 miles were dug out of the rocky hills, some large enough to fit a small car through. The ‘cut and cover’ method was used whereby a ‘D’-shaped trench was dug, lined with brick, and covered with earth. Cast iron pipes were used for the remaining 46 miles and a gentle gradient of 1 in 3000 ensured  a consistent southerly flow of water.

In various places, they had to cross fast-flowing streams tumbling down the fells, some of which ran below the level of the aqueduct. In such cases, the tunnels were constructed within small masonry bridges built over these streams, which is exactly what we saw on our descent from Alcock Tarn.

Thirlmere Aqueduct remains the longest aqueduct in the country, and continues to provide Manchester with its supply using gravity as its main mode of transport.

Those Victorians weren’t half clever.

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 22nd May and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 20th May 2026

The Grassington Murder explained by one who was there

Dr Petty’s body was dumped in the River Wharf

The book, The Grassington Murder by Mark Bridgeman, has arrived! Tom Lee was executed in 1768 for the killing of Dr Richard Petty after he had already been tried in 1766, but acquitted for lack of evidence. It includes the deposition of John Burnup, Lee’s manservant, whose testimony led to the conviction two years after the murder itself.

First, I must clear up a little confusion. Last time I mentioned John Burnup, one newspaper account gave a different name, that of John Bowness. In fact, Bowness and Burnup were two different people, both involved in the dastardly plot. Further confusion arises thanks to varying spellings of people’s surnames. ‘Burnup’ is sometimes spelled ‘Burnap’ and ‘Bowness’ is also spelled ‘Bownass’ and ‘Bownas’.

As Bridgeman explains, Burnup’s testimony is published in the 28th July 1768 edition of the Stamford Mercury. It explains that Burnup was Tom Lee’s servant, but left his employment a couple of months after Petty was killed, going into service in Durham. It’s the closest we are ever likely to get to a contemporaneous version of what took place on that fateful night in April 1766:

‘On that day two years on which Mr. Petty was murdered he mentioned it to his then Master, who took him before a Justice of the Peace, to whom he related the particulars of the murder, whereupon Lee was committed a second time’.

There follows a fairly graphic and fascinating description of what happened, which reveals Lee did not act alone, and that his wife Jane was also involved. Here you go:

‘John Burnap deposed that Thomas Lee kept a public House at Grassington, and used to work in the Lead Mines; that he, Burnap, lived as a servant with him; that on Easter Eve, 1766, his Master, John Hully, John Bownas, and himself were in company at his said Master’s house; that they discoursed about Horse stealing and scarcity of Money; that Bowness said it was no crime to murder somebody and then take his money; that Lee said there would be money enough stirring at Kettlewell Cockings on the Tuesday following…on the morning they went to the Cockings, where Lee got into company with Mr. Petty, and it was concerted among them that Hully and Burnap…should place themselves at Grass Wood Gate, and bar it with a large Stone, to prevent any person passing that way; that Lee and Bownas were to make a noise to apprise Hully and Burnap of their approach; accordingly about Eight at night…Lee as had been concerted, quarrelled with Petty, or at least pretended so to do, and when he came near the Gate gave him a blow on the head with the thick of his Whip; that Hully thereupon came and pulled him off his horse, and held him by the throat till he was dead; that he, Burnap, rifled his pockets, and took thereout three Guineas and two half Guineas, wrapt in an Advertisement for Cockings; that they then removed the body, and laid it among some Reeds at Grass Wood; after that they removed the body three different times, and lastly, about five Weeks after the murder, threw it into the River, and dropped his Gloves by the water side, in order to make it be believed he was drowned; that Lee’s wife, Bownas and Hully always assisted in removing the body; and that he, Burnap, was threatened by Hully and Bownas, when Lee was first committed to the Castle, to be served in the same manner that Petty had been, if ever they said anything about it…Lee behaved in the most obdurate manner, denying the crime for which he suffered to his last moment. He is to be hung in Chains near the place where the murder was committed.’

Despite the testimony suggesting that it was Hully who actually killed Petty, both he and Bownas were acquitted at a later trial. For giving evidence, John Burnup was ‘discharged by proclamation’ and allowed to walk free. Lee’s wife Jane was never penalised for her part in the crime.

York Castle records explain that the murderer was to be ‘hung in chains at Grassington Gate’, i.e. displayed in a gibbet hung near the site of the murder, not only as as a deterrent to others, but also to heap posthumous shame upon Tom Lee.

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 15th May and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 13th May 2026

A Petty Crime?

When I sat down today, I’d planned to do more research on the case of the Grassington Murderer Tom Lee, then write my column.

Well, four hours later, I’d still not typed a word, yet had written almost 12 pages of notes! I’d fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole, getting lost in the British Newspaper Archives (BNA), and reading as much was immediately available in an online excerpt from the most definitive recent account of the case (The Grassington Murder by Mark Bridgeman). I then had a long convoluted discussion with ChatGPT, and finally ended up ferreting around the National Archives where they hold witness depositions from the time. Mr Bridgeman features one such deposition in his book. I have ordered a copy which has yet to arrive.

Because my deadline is looming, I cannot wait, so in the meantime, I will outline the sorry tale, with thanks in particular to Mr Bridgeman, and a flamboyant account from 21st July 1876 from the Todmorden and Hebden Bridge Advertiser. Although the account is detailed, it was written more than 100 years after the murder, so is it reliable?

My impression from talking to people on the ground is that they ‘sort of’ know the story, but that it has reached almost mythical status. It will have been embellished and exaggerated with each retelling, and yet at its heart is an actual murder and father who was hanged for it.

It may surprise you to know that in 1766, 35-year-old Tom Lee was a well established businessman in Grassington while Richard Petty was the local doctor aged in his 30s. On the surface, Lee was respectable, married to Jane and father to three children. By the mid-1750s he was running the Blue Anchor Inn, and employed a manservant named John Burnup (also called ‘Bowness’ in the Todmorden Advertiser version). It was Burnup who would be the witness to come forward with the crucial evidence that led to Lee’s demise.

Lee had dodgy reputation though, and seemed to have more money than he could have earned from his regular business. It is also true that highway robberies and property break-ins surged once Lee had landed in the village. There was plenty of money flying about, thanks to the increase in mining in the area, and workers being paid in cash that was transported on horseback by a brave bank couriers.

Lee’s favourite pastimes were drinking and gambling at cock fights, and it is these that brought him into the path of Dr Petty who also enjoyed the cock fighting scene.

Lee’s downfall began when he tried to rob a bank courier on the road to Grassington. The courier was carrying a pistol and shot Lee in the leg. Badly injured, he fled, and the legend suggests he hid in the cave I mentioned when I first wrote about this story a few weeks ago. The severity of his injury meant that he needed help, so he turned to Dr Petty. Although Petty patched him up, he knew how it had occurred, but kept quiet – for the time being.

But when he had too much to drink, he would drop hints as to his secret, holding it over Lee’s head. At the time, such crimes incurred the death penalty, and Lee feared that the doctor’s loose lips would send him to the gallows.

After one drunken evening, the pair rode towards home, but only one made it back. Petty’s body was found later in Grass Wood, and although Lee was the main suspect, no-one had seen him do the deed. He was therefore acquitted at his first trial, but two years later his manservant John Burnup, came forward with new evidence. And it is that evidence that I am awaiting to read in Bridgeman’s book.

In the 1876 account, Lee is described as: ‘diabolical’, ‘avaricious’, ‘wicked’ and ‘revengeful’, while Dr Petty is ‘noted for his talents and his benevolence, and was held in great respect throughout the whole of Upper Wharfedale’.

But real life is never that black and white, is it? Both men were, it seems, avid gamblers and drinkers, and according to the same account, Petty taunted Lee about the secret he held, which belies his ‘benevolence’. I’m not saying Tom Lee was a saint, but there may be more to it that simple wickedness.

What do you think?

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 8th May and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 6th May 2026