The Countryman's Daughter

Out on a limb for leeches

242322A0-0D4B-4DD7-ABEA-008FC8E9CF1E — Dad loved his garden pond. Here he is feeding the fish a couple of years ago.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 2nd February 2018, & the Gazette & Herald on 31st January 2018.

I went through the ‘frogs and snails and puppy dogs tales’ phase with each one of my three boys when they were at primary school. They were fascinated by ‘minibeasts’, which was a new word to me, but referred to what we would have called creepy crawlies. They had no squeamishness about picking up spiders, worms, slugs, snails and wood lice and presenting them to me with great glee.

Even more excitement was to be had whenever we came across a pond, as there were more fascinating minibeasts to found in and around it. When my oldest was a toddler, we lived in house with a pond in the garden and I can’t forget the noise the frogs used to make, and the undulating surface of the water, during mating season. The females are attracted to the males with the loudest croak, hence the cacophony! They also lay up to 2000 eggs, so soon our pond would be teeming with tadpoles, although not all would make it to adulthood, and those that did risked a messy confrontation with the lawnmower if they ventured far from the water.

My brother was also fascinated with such creatures in his youth, and in his February 4th 1978 column, Dad recalls the occasion when he built his own pond. Finding that a hole in the ground lined with polythene was no good, my brother resorted to using an old, Belfast sink, sunk into the rockery outside Dad’s study window. He filled it with with plants and pond life gathered from a local disused swimming pool and nearby lakes. He was very proud that soon his family of great crested newts had started breeding. He wouldn’t have known that 40 years later, if he disturbed the habitat of a great crested newt, he’d face up to six months in prison and an unlimited fine!

Alongside newts, frogs, sticklebacks and minnows, he also unwittingly rehomed a number of freshwater leeches, thankfully a small variety which were harmless to humans.

In medieval times, doctors were called ‘leeches’ due to their custom of treating all manner of ailment by bleeding their patients with the sluglike bloodsuckers. For many centuries, it has been one of the most effective treatments for a number of reasons, and this medical practice continues to this day. There is a farm in Wales which breeds medicinal leeches for this purpose, which is known as hirudotherapy (from the Latin name for these leeches, hirudo medicinalis). As well as supplying the NHS, the company sends them all over the world for use in surgery. The leech, which is about three and half inches long, is particularly effective in treating areas of poor circulation, especially in parts of the body with delicate soft tissue, for example when surgeons are trying to repair or reattach a severely injured limb. They clean up the wound by removing the clotted blood that is inhibiting blood flow, and then encourage circulation to restart.

It is the mechanics of mouth of the leech, a curious biological triumph, which makes it so effective for medical treatment. It has a circular, overlapping lip, and then three jaws, shaped a bit like the Mercedes-Benz logo, each with a row of 100 tiny teeth, perfect for making clean incisions into the skin at exactly the right depth. As they bite, they secrete a local anaesthetic, making the bite painless, alongside another substance, known as a vasodilator, which stimulates blood flow. Once the leech has filled its boots with blood, it then simply drops off to digest it. However, it leaves behind two important chemicals called hirudin and calin, which prevent further clotting and continue to stimulate blood flow for up to 48 hours after the leech has dropped off, which is so important when when it comes to success in treating these kinds of injuries. Although it all sounds a bit gruesome, it is one of nature’s amazing accomplishments, far more effective than many other medicinal treatments, and in fact the leeches only consume a relatively small amount of blood before they become full, around 15ml.

Incidentally, trials have shown that the anti-inflammatory and anaesthetic properties of leech saliva have been shown to be effective in treating pain and tenderness in the joints of people suffering conditions such as osteoarthritis. Vets are also finding them useful during surgical procedures on animals.

Now my question is, how would you feel with a leech let loose on your injured limb?
(Sources: biopharm-leeches.com, guysandstthomas.nhs.uk).

Know Your Onions

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This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 26th January 2018, & the Gazette & Herald on 24th January 2018.

There is something about slow-cooking onions that is always mouth-wateringly tempting. Whatever dish they ultimately end up in, a pan of chopped onions gently sweating in butter just smells so divine.

As well as possessing substantial nutritional value, onions are reputed to possess remarkable healing qualities, some of which have been backed up by proper science.

In my dad’s column from January 28th 1978, he recounts the story of a friend who had visited the doctor with heart problems, and the doctor recommended that he eat lots of onions served any which way, be they boiled, raw or pickled (perhaps they didn’t ‘sweat’ onions in the 1970s!). It seemed to Dad that what many people saw as an ancient Old Wives’ Tale was being proved to be true through modern science.

Onions, which like leeks and garlic are members of the allium family, have been renowned for their health-giving properties for centuries. In 1653, the notable English herbalist and physician Nicholas Culpeper wrote in his book, The Complete Herbal (1653), that although onions increase flatulence, they also eased the bowel, increased sperm, helped soothe bites from dogs and venomous creatures, and killed worms in children. Inhaling the scent would also help clear a fuzzy, cold-ridden head. He added: ‘The juice of onions is good for either scalding or burning by fire, water, or gunpowder, and used with vinegar, takes away all blemishes, spots and marks on the skin: and dropped in the ears, eases the pain and noises of them.’

The ancient Egyptians raised the status of the humble onion to that of a god because if it’s health-giving benefits. Onions feature in paintings on the walls of the pyramids, and symbolised eternal life due to their circle-within-a-circle structure. Mummies have been found with onions hidden within their pelvic regions, suggesting they were associated with fertility, and King Ramses IV, who died in 1160BC, was entombed with onions in his eye sockets.

That onions help you live a long life is a common belief in folklore, as is the theory that it promotes hair growth. It is also supposed to be an excellent slimming aid, as this quote (unsourced) that my dad mentions: ‘You who are fat and lymphatic, eat raw onion; it was for you that God made it.’ (I am hot-footing it down to the grocer’s to buy a kilo right away!).

Last year, in a Canadian study quoted in the journal ‘Food Research International’, extracts from a certain type of red onion were shown to be able kill bowel cancer cells by producing an environment in which they self-destructed. But according to Dr Justine Alford, Cancer Research UK’s senior science information officer, results in a lab setting do not always make it into an effective treatment.

“If scientists can tease out which molecules in onions have these apparently beneficial effects, then perhaps they can be investigated as a potential drug in the future,” she said. (Source: prima.co.uk)

With all these reported health benefits, it is no surprise that Dad’s archives contain many ancient recipes, including white onion soup, brown onion soup, French onion soup, pickled onions, onions for keeping, roasted onions, stewed onions and even onion wine. They can also be used to clean leather, brasses, windows and knife blades.

The raw version is meant to be the most beneficial, but if you can’t tolerate it, then it is suggested that you roast it whole, within the skin like a baked potato, to keep the goodness in. Of course, the problem with eating too many raw onions, apart from the inevitable indigestion, is the anti-social smell they leave on your breath and hands. It is well-known that chewing fresh parsley is meant to lessen stinky breath, but you can also try chewing mint leaves or drinking warm water with lemon or diluted apple cider vinegar. To remove the smell from your hands, rub your skin all over and under the nails with either lemon juice or vinegar. Let it dry, then rinse off with clean water.

If you find that any of these methods works, I’d be delighted to know! And if anyone has ever made or tasted onion wine, please tell me if my current taste for prosecco is under any threat of being usurped?

The Mystery of the Disappearing Chestnuts

F9A9518C-92CE-4D9B-9E1C-45A8A175B392 — Marmalade the cat

555EB19F-21C0-46F1-B7E0-2A2067E9A7CD — Sweet chestnuts

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 19th January 2018, & the Gazette & Herald on 17th January 2018.

You may remember that in my column from the Gazette & Herald on 6th September 2017 (‘Dad’s swift actions stop a catastrophe’) and the D&S Times from 8th September 2017 (‘Saved from catastrophe by Dad’s swift action’) that I talked about the various family cats, both tame and feral, that lived in and around my childhood home.

Dad recounts a lovely story about our longest-surviving cat, Marmalade, in his January 21st 1978 column. She had wandered into our garden as a very young stray and never left, becoming a much-loved part of the family. She had come from a nearby farm, but the farmer had no interest in the cats that frequented his hay barn and was more than happy when they took up residence elsewhere.

Mum and Dad had been stumped by the mystery of the disappearing chestnuts from the windowsill. What was a full bowl a few days earlier, was now no more than half full, and no-one confessed to having eaten any.

Then one day, Dad saw the cat jump on to the ledge and scoop out a chestnut with her paw, which then fell to the ground. She leapt after it in an uncharacteristically energetic way, and chased it across the floor, flicking it up into the air and batting it from paw to paw, as she would had she caught a mouse. Once the chestnut had disappeared under the furniture, she went back again for another one. What was it about the chestnut that ignited this new obsession? Dad had no idea, and my own searches have shed no light on it.

It brings to mind the effect of catnip, often used to scent pet toys. Catnip is a plant from the nepeta, or catmint, genus in the Lamiaceae family, and there are many varieties. In an article by the appropriately-named Kat Arney on the Royal Society of Chemistry website (www.chemistryworld.com), she explains that catnip contains a chemical called nepetalactone, which in cats induces behaviour similar to a person having taken drugs. They act with languid abandon, brushing their bodies against the leaves or rolling around among the stems. If they chew or eat it, they soon become what one might call ‘out of it’. For us humans, the plant can be infused to make herbal tea, and in times gone by small doses were used as a mild sedative. It is not recommended to be taken in large quantities, even though hopeful hippies gave it a go in search of a cheap high. All they ended up with was a painful headache and an upset stomach.

Catmint is a lovely garden plant, but to avoid delirious kitties flattening your borders, it is recommended that you place a small crop of nepeta cataria, the most potent catnip, in a place where you don’t mind them being mauled by frolicking felines, and then they will ignore the other milder varieties you have planted in pride of place. I have no idea if this distraction tactic works, and would be delighted if any readers can tell me!

After Marmalade arrived, she was soon followed by her sister Eric (my brother chose this name. He was outnumbered by females of both the human and feline variety, which might explain why!).

Eric remained feral, and we could never get close enough to tame her. After she had been with us for about a year, she produced a litter of kittens. We’d known she was pregnant and, due to her sudden change in appearance, that she had given birth, but we couldn’t find her litter anywhere. Then, on Christmas Eve 1977, she produced her own feline nativity scene in a very prominent position near our back door. Of course when we found the kittens, we instantly fell in love, and they were named (again courtesy of my brother) Alfred, Rodney (both girls) and Jackson (a boy).

But Eric would never be able to live indoors, and so Dad found the little family a cosy place in our disused henhouse, ensuring they had plenty of straw to keep them warm. We carried the kittens up to the henhouse ourselves, and lured Eric with some cat food on a spoon. She stayed there for about a week, before bringing her kittens back down to the back door on New Year’s Eve. So we repeated the process again, and this time she stayed. The young kittens thrived, and although they never became household pets, they became very much a part of our family history.

Get them to the church

5409A3A5-DE47-4828-A1D2-6D3216557F00 — Mum and Dad were married at St Hedda’s Church, Egton Bridge, on 10th January 1959

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This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 12th January 2018, & the Gazette & Herald on 10th January 2018. It was written before my sister’s death on Monday 8th January 2018.

Wednesday 10th January would have been Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary, not an easy day for my mum, nor for the rest of the family, as we are still getting through our year of ‘firsts’ since Dad died last April.

They married at St Hedda’s Roman Catholic Church in Egton Bridge in 1959, and there had been heavy snowfall the night before. Many guests were unable to get through, although thankfully the Middlesbrough train was still running and stopped at several villages in the Esk Valley, including Dad’s home village of Glaisdale. The prize for most effort went to my intrepid Aunty Muriel who walked for four hours through the snow to make it, while Mum, in fur-lined boots, plodded with her bridesmaids from their home to the church up the road. The ushers set to shovelling snow from around the church, while the registrar was rescued from a drift en route by the photographer.

My dad used to recount a funny story about this registrar, and I hope you’ll indulge me as I retell it here.

Dad joined the North Riding Constabulary as a cadet based at Whitby Police Station at the age of 16. His inspector was a terrifying character who lived in a house next door. After an overnight snowstorm the police yard and paths were covered and he ordered Dad to clear it. When he had nearly finished, the inspector turned up and gave him a ferocious dressing down for not also clearing the paths to his private house. And so my weary young Dad went and did that too.

Seven years later, it was 10th January 1959. When the registrar arrived courtesy of the photographer, Dad noticed that he wore a distinctly miserable expression. He also recognised that distinctly miserable expression. Yes, it was was the same inspector, retired from the police but now a registrar, who had bellowed at him for not clearing snow to his own house. So when an usher gave the man a shovel and said, “Can you give us a hand?” Dad felt more than a little satisfaction. Although he would never confirm or deny it, I do believe that grumpy inspector was the inspiration for the character of Sergeant Oscar Blaketon from Dad’s Constable books (and TV’s Heartbeat). What goes around, comes around, I say!

Egton Bridge stands on the River Esk, which flows from its source high on the North York Moors for about 28 miles until it enters the North Sea at Whitby. In his column from 14th January 1978, Dad talks of another river, the Greta, which flows through Teesdale and into the Tees before it reaches the North Sea.

He says many of our northern rivers, like the Greta, owe their names to the Norsemen of old, for whom the letter ‘a’ meant ‘river’. In Old English, the ending ‘ea’ also meant ‘river’, and over the years, it has evolved into a number of endings, including ‘ey’, ‘ay’ or simply ‘y’, and in turn, these have evolved according to local dialect and pronunciations. For example, the Yeo in Devon and the Eye in Leicestershire would likely have the same roots in their names.

The River Greta means ‘river of stones’, and Yorkshire has a number of rivers with this name flowing through its limestone countryside. The word ‘Esk’ comes from the Celtic ‘isca’ which means ‘water’, and the word ‘whiskey’ has the same root too (I wonder how many people wished our rivers flowed with whiskey rather than water?). Interestingly, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word ‘esker’ means a long winding ridge of gravel and other sediment deposited by melting water from a retreating glacier, and one of the villages the Esk flows through is Glaisdale, whose name comes from the word ‘glacier’. There are several other River Esks, including one in the Lake District, and a few in Scotland.

The reason Mum and Dad had chosen such an odd time of year to get married was because Dad had heard there were some smart new police houses being built near Whitby. If he and my mum were married, they might be in with a chance of securing one. Sadly, it didn’t quite work out like that, and they instead ended up in a poky little flat – but only for a few months until a house became available. Although the reason for the timing of their wedding was more pragmatic than romantic, Mum and Dad remained happily and devotedly married for more than 58 years.

You Goat a Friend

1A4729DE-1688-468C-89AA-982F648CF95A — Foinavon and jockey John Buckingham after winning the Grand National in 1967

31DAC7C5-62E3-430D-B7C6-6362FB58F7C1 — Regimental Goat Mascot Shenkin III with the 3rd Batallion of the Royal Welsh

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 5th January 2018, & the Gazette & Herald on 3rd January 2018.

So the new year has begun (Happy 2018!) and I have put away the last column from Dad’s 1976 archive, his first year of writing Countryman’s Diary. I’ve now moved on to 1978, exactly 40 years ago, which is how I had originally started last June, i.e. using a column from the corresponding week in 1977. But I had to change tack when I discovered that a strike at the Darlington and Stockton Times meant that Dad hadn’t contributed any columns for the latter part of 1977. So I moved back 12 months to his very first year, which seemed the most appropriate choice as it was my first year in the job too.

So now we move forward to 1978, and in his first column of the year, dated 7th January 1978, Dad talks about having to pull over to the side of the road to make way for some cows that were returning to their field after being milked. He was curious that they were accompanied by a little donkey, who seemed to behave as if she was a cow herself, and so he presumed she must have been raised with the herd.

This strange companionship brought to mind the story of 1967 Grand National winner Foinavon who had his own unusual special friend. Through good luck at the expense of others’ misfortune, Foinavon won the race despite being a 100-1 outsider. There was an almighty pile-up at fence 23 after a horse refused it and unseated its own jockey. Other horses followed suit, crashing into the fence and throwing off their riders, or turning tail and running back the wrong way. It was a complete catastrophe and affected every horse, apart from the fortunate Foinavon, who was so far off the pace that he managed to avoid the melee, jump clear and into an unassailable lead from the few who managed to remount and carry on.

He became instantly famous, and so too did his odd little chum, a nanny goat called Susie. Susie travelled everywhere with Foinavon, and they were practically inseparable. She was brought along because she had such a calming influence on the highly-strung thoroughbred. She even walked alongside him in a parade before Buckingham Palace to ensure he behaved himself in front of the Queen.

As I discovered, goats are pretty well known for their calming influence on skittish racehorses, and to this day can often be seen wandering around yards and sharing stables with their equine buddies.

According to some sources, it is where the phrase ‘get my goat’ comes from, which means to irritate or annoy someone. Apparently, unscrupulous rivals would steal the goats the night before an important race to unsettle the horse in the hope it would perform badly the next day. However this might not be true, as there seems to be no firm evidence to support it, and according to historical English linguistics expert Professor Tim William Machan in a 2015 Huffington Post article, there is no etymological evidence to support the theory.

I began to wonder if the reason why goats were chosen as military mascots was because they were believed to have the same calming influence on soldiers going into battle. But it seems not. Apparently, most regiments and battalions have their own mascots and traditions, and animals chosen include not only goats, but rams, ponies, dogs, and even antelopes and ferrets.

Possibly the most well known would be the goat mascots of 1st Battalion of the The Royal Welsh regiment. The tradition dates back to 1775 when a goat ran on to the battlefield during the American War of Independence. He was adopted by the soldiers and led the regimental colours off the field after the Battle of Bunker Hill. Since then, a goat has always served with the regiment and in 1884, Queen Victoria presented the Royal Welch Fusiliers (as they were then called) with a Kashmir goat from her own herd. It is a royal custom that continues to this day.

Military mascots are considered serving soldiers and given a ranking and a title. Lance Corporal William ‘Billy’ Windsor became quite famous, but not for the right reasons – he was demoted in 2006 after he disgraced himself during the Queen’s birthday parade by breaking rank and trying to head-butt the drummers. Thankfully, according to the National Army Museum website, after a period of good behaviour, Billy was restored to his original rank and retired with full honours to Whipsnade Zoo in 2009.

A mass farewell to 2017

293F25DD-002F-4E85-B2BB-530C3A7B5545 — Dad’s column from this week in 1976 was dated Christmas Day itself

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8B5B267F-9D3B-418B-B69B-4F80B47C7F0F — My Dad pulling a cracker with his grandson Joseph in 2006

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 29th December 2017, & the Gazette & Herald on 27th December 2017.

I can’t quite believe that here we are already at my last column of 2017. Writing it every week has been an absolute pleasure, giving me an excuse to spend some time alone with my thoughts, and some time alone with my Dad’s thoughts from long ago.

I was surprised to find that the column I planned to work from this week is actually dated Christmas Day itself, and as that day was a Saturday in 1976, I wondered when the day of issue for the Darlington and Stockton Times changed to a Friday. I’m sure someone somewhere knows and will tell me! In it, Dad talks about our family tradition of attending Midnight Mass at the local catholic church. At first, I was too little to go, and would get frustrated at being the only child left behind in bed while my three siblings would totter off with my dad at the excitingly late hour of 11.30. There is an oft-repeated family story that one year, one of us fell asleep on the kitchen table while waiting to go, but to this day we debate which one of us it was. My mum says it was me!

Eventually, I was old enough for my parents to have confidence that I wouldn’t nod off half way through, or fidget and whine noisily. Poor misguided fools! I lost count of the amount of times I was ‘shushed’ due to my habit of sighing very loudly. And as long as I maintained contact between bottom and pew, then I classed that as sitting still. Arm folding and unfolding, feet tapping and swinging, or bum shuffling and shifting were all perfectly acceptable to me. Otherwise, how does a five-year-old get through an hour-long Catholic mass led by an elderly priest? It’s a lifetime, especially when all you really care about is the moment when you emerge excitedly from church, knowing it is finally officially Christmas Day, look up into the night sky and try and spot Santa on the way to your house with all the presents. You also hoped that by some miracle, while you were in there, the snow fairy would have paid a visit and sprinkled a little bit of her Christmas magic around for your walk home (sometimes she even did!).

Our family tradition continued for many years, and there were countless moments of light relief, including the time when our friend’s little boy, dressed as a shepherd near the altar, proudly held up his hand and shouted, “My tooth’s come out!” And another time, when a little boy was sitting next to his friend and both of them had taken their hands out of their jumper sleeves. One bumped the other and they both toppled over like weebles (they wobbled and they did fall down).

When we were young adults, Midnight Mass was where we ended up after the evening in the pub. Some of us were guilty of being slightly north of sober, which we thought we hid very well, until one of us (not me) became very unwell in a pew. It must have been so annoying for everyone else (sorry!) and drunkenness was cited as one of the reasons why the service ended up being moved to 8.30pm in recent years (which must have come as a relief for many parents of young children!).

But enough of Christmas, that’s all over – it is nearly the New Year now! Dad’s last column of 1976 was published on New Year’s Eve, and in it he pays tribute to his predecessor, Major Jack Fairfax-Blakeborough, who died almost exactly one year before. As those who’ve been reading my columns since I began in June will know, Major JFB wrote the Countryman’s Diary for 54 years, and my dad took it over in 1976 until his own death in April this year.

JFB was a very special influence in Dad’s life, and I hope that it would fill him with pride to know that 41 years later, the words of his tribute to the Major could very easily be applied to him.

‘His individual contribution to the understanding of country life and lore will never be forgotten. He was a man of immense knowledge, industry and faith.

‘The Grand Old Man now lies buried at Lealholm but his work will live on forever in the libraries of the world.’

I want to thank you all for being so understanding and supportive in reading my columns thus far, for all the wonderful letters and feedback, and for putting me right when I go wrong!

I wish you all the very best for 2018.

All Spruced Up For Christmas

65C13E61-244F-4BEF-9925-0CCBBB4664CB — Christmas selfie with my dad and mum last year, 2016. We didn’t know then that it would be Dad’s last one.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 22nd December 2017, & the Gazette & Herald on 20th December 2017.

As a child, I used to nag my parents to get our Christmas tree early, but they steadfastly refused to buy one until the very last minute. I’d see trees going up in windows all around the village and looked on with envious frustration. Some people even had those trendy new artificial silver ones, whose shimmer and sparkle were mesmerising to those of us eagerly awaiting December 25th, which always approached at the pace of a sloth on a slow day.

Finally, around 23rd December, when I was about fit to burst, Dad would go to buy a real tree and out would come all our decorations that had seen many, many years of use. Back then, the round baubles were nearly all made of wafer-thin glass, so we’d usually lose one or two mid-decorating. We also had more ornate metal baubles which varied in shape from the conventional, like yellow bells and red santas, to the more bizarre, like pink bunches of grapes (why?), green minarets, and those with the front scooped out to reveal the shiny innards (well that’s what they looked like to me).

The good, bushy tinsel would have pride of place, front and centre, while its sad, threadbare relatives, now barely more than straggly string, would be relegated to a lowly position round the back (We all know the unwritten rule of Christmas is still ‘Thou Shalt Not Dispose of Old and Tatty Decorations but Keep Them Forever Even if They Will Never Again See the Light of Day’).

Our plastic Christmas fairy, in a faded net tutu, would go on top last of all. She wasn’t the smartest or prettiest fairy, but we never thought to get rid of her until one Christmas, when we were all grown up, we came home to find she had been replaced with a rather fancy star.

The mood of 1970s glam rock was reflected in the baubles and tinsel, a glittery assortment of styles and colours which now would be considered the polar opposite of taste and sophistication. But we loved it all, and were prepared to suffer the pain of a thousand Norway Spruce needles in our fingers to make sure we covered the tree in just about every decoration we owned. There was no such thing as too much tinsel back then. Today’s kids, with their poncy soft-needled, non-dropping, fire-retardant Nordman Firs will never understand the kind of dogged determination needed to decorate a Norway Spruce.

In his column from 18th December 1976, Dad explains that the Norway Spruce was by far the most popular real tree of the day, and the reason he and Mum were so reluctant to put one up early was its propensity for shedding. We did keep it up, as tradition dictated, until the Epiphany on January 6th though, which was when we regretted our decorating zeal, as removing them was like rolling your arms along a hedgehog over and over again. Then Dad would carry this bone-dry fire hazard outside, followed by a thick trail of browning needles.

Many people think Queen Victoria’s husband Albert brought the Christmas tree custom over from Germany. But according to Her Majesty the Queen’s own website, http://www.royal.uk (possibly the finest web address on the planet), it was Queen Charlotte, consort of George III, who first introduced a Christmas tree into the royal household in the late 1700s. But the popularity of Victoria and Albert was the reason it became a national institution.

The association of royalty with Christmas trees still persists, and every year, the Queen gives trees to Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s Cathedral in London, as well as to St Giles’ Cathedral and Canongate Kirk in Edinburgh. She also donates trees to schools near the Sandringham estate where the Royal family spend Christmas.

As we decorated our tree this year (a Nordman Fir put up nice and early!), it was with more than a little sadness that for the first time, Dad wouldn’t be here to share the festivities with us. But we have enjoyed many lovely Christmases with him, and were very lucky that last year, we had a wonderful family celebration with no idea it would be his last. So I want to pass on my good wishes and thoughts for the season to all of you who are missing loved ones at this special time, and ask you to spare a thought too for those who are spending Christmas with no-one at all.

One less Christmas stress

187BAD10-0245-40D1-A2CE-016FC50E81D5 — My dad Peter Walker heading towards my house to celebrate Christmas on a snowy December 25th in 2010.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 15th December 2017, & the Gazette & Herald on 13th December 2017.

As a mother of three children and host to family at Christmas, I often had so much to do that one year I decided to put sending cards at the bottom of the priority list. Each year leading up to this decision, I would envision an evening where I’d be sitting cozily by the fire, a glass of mulled wine on the side and Christmas music gently wafting in the background as I lingered over meaningful festive sentiments to express to friends near and far.

But that imagined evening would never materialise. Instead I’d end up at the last minute furiously scribbling the same short bland message in each one, race to our post office to queue for ages under its horrible fluorescent lights, before gasping incredulously at the ever-increasing cost of the stamps.

So I relegated the chore to the bottom of the pile, and of course, it never got done. Amazingly, my friends didn’t disown me, so the following year, I did the same, until eventually I stopped thinking about it altogether. Now, I don’t post any at all except to hand-deliver a few to people I see regularly. Some might see it as a sad diminishing of a well-loved tradition, but I’m just glad to have one less thing to stress about on my festive ‘to-do’ list.

That’s not to say I don’t enjoy receiving them, and am very happy for people who want to carry on the tradition to do so, just as long as they don’t expect one from me. Nowadays, it is so easy to share your good wishes through social media that sending cards is less necessary.

When I was a child, only posh or rich people sent fancy cards worth keeping to turn into gift cards for the following year (Yes, I actually do that!). The rest of us were content with sending those you bought in a box of 50 for a couple of quid, and extravagances such as glitter, embossing and cards thick enough to stay upright were few and far between.

In his column from 11 December 1976, Dad mentions a splendid example from one such posh friend which featured a coach and horses galloping through the snow.

He says: ‘It all looks so cosy and romantic, but in truth it was far from the case. After one coach trip, Queen Elizabeth I confided to the French ambassador that she was unable to sit down for several days.’

That was when coaches had no suspension to speak of, and it must have been incredibly uncomfortable on our appallingly uneven, muddy and pot-holed roads. Springs were introduced in 1754, and by 1775 there were 400 commercial coaches operating, with one running from Leeds to London in 39 hours. As they travelled at an average speed of eight miles an hour, they would have stopped at the various coaching inns along the route to rest, change horses and take on refreshments (and no doubt to rub ointment into sore bottoms!).

The late 1700s became known as the ‘golden era of coaching’ until they were superseded by the ascension of the railways early the following century. One of the most famous coaches was the Wellington, which travelled a route between Newcastle and London. One of its drivers was a Northallerton man called Thomas Layfield, who was reputed to be one of the finest, and a favourite of the Duke of Northumberland. But he realised the days of coaches had come and gone when he set off one day from Newcastle, stopping at Darlington, Northallerton and Thirsk, without collecting a single passenger. By 1830, the railways had become firmly established in our region, reaching speeds of thirty miles an hour.

I’d like to say thank you to readers Frank Boocock and John Woolway who spotted an error in an earlier column (One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes…splat! November 17th). They pointed out that the Lion Inn, Blakey Ridge, is not the highest point in the North York Moors National Park, but that that honour goes to Urra Moor which stands at 1489 feet above sea level (454 metres). The pub lies at a mere 1325 feet (404 metres). Perhaps someone can tell me if instead it’s the highest point accessible by road?

It’s one of those questions that had Dad still been here, he’d have known the answer to immediately. Clearly, I still have a way to go!

Who put the snail in the mail?

63F85F17-D774-4E2C-B843-29C8C998BA32 — The post box near Eden Camp, Malton, with its adapted slot to deter hungry snails

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 8th December 2017, & the Gazette & Herald on 6th December 2017

Now that it’s December, I’ve lifted my embargo on all things Christmas. I no longer shut my eyes when the festive John Lewis TV advert comes on and am less irritated by Christmas music. Talking of the John Lewis ad, hasn’t that become such a ‘thing’? Although they’d been making cutesy adverts for years, Monty the Penguin really captured our imaginations in 2014. Set to Tom Odell’s tender version of the Beatles’ Real Love, it was a perfect storm of fluffy snowflakes, twinkling lights and festive coziness enveloping the heartwarming story at its centre. When the little boy found a longed-for friend for Monty, it had the nation reaching for the tissues before we hurried out to the shops to stock up on cuddly Monty’s for our little ones. Every year, we await the new John Lewis advert with great anticipation. What a marketing triumph it has been, and other retailers must look on with envy. Most have tried to emulate it, but it is still John Lewis that sets the bar for Christmas TV advertising.

I love Christmas, but hate the way the build-up has crept forward over the years, diluting the excitement while increasing the stress. I blame the supermarkets who put up ‘Back to School’ displays before the children have even broken up for the summer holidays, and then when they go back in September, out comes the Christmas stock. And no sooner have you finished singing Auld Lang Syne than the Easter Eggs are on the shelves. The supermarkets say its down to consumer demand, but I don’t believe it. I don’t know anyone who buys their Easter eggs in January unless they are posting them to Outer Mongolia via snail mail.

Talking of snail mail, do you know when that term first began to be used? Although it had been heard sporadically before, it is American tech entrepreneur Jim Rutt who is credited with being the first to use the term when comparing the speed of surface mail to email.

I know for certain it wasn’t in common use when Dad wrote his column on 4th December 1976, as he would never have passed up the opportunity for a pun when naming this story, which he instead called ‘Snails in the post’.

Apparently, a recent decision to stop postal collections on a Sunday lay behind a new problem. According to Dad, some rural areas became plagued with the arrival of snails in their pillar boxes over the weekends.

Instead of heading for their usual feeding grounds, namely our vegetable patches and flowerbeds, they would slither up and into the postbox and feast upon the missives within. A snail’s tongue comprises thousands of rasp-like teeth, which they used to gnaw through the defenceless piles of post.

But what was making the mail so attractive to these ghastly gastrpods? It turned out that the gum used to seal the envelopes contained something akin to snail catnip. As the last collection was lunchtime on a Saturday, the snails had all weekend to sniff out the letters and feast to their hearts’ content. Come Monday morning, the poor postman would open the box to find it full of replete snails lounging on beds of mutilated mail.

Despite Dad highlighting the problem 41 years ago, it still hasn’t been solved. I’ve found articles in the national press from 2001, 2009, 2012, 2014 and 2016 (most of whom by then, of course, were using the ‘snail mail’ pun in their headlines!). The most recent was a case near Eden Camp, Malton, in April this year.

Various deterrents have been implemented, including leaving slug pellets in the pillar box and adapting the posting slot by either fitting bristles to it, or by reducing its size. So far, no-one has come up with a definitive solution, and it leaves a challenge for all you ingenious thinkers out there.

As I was only nine when Sunday collections ceased, I’d forgotten all about them, but Dad was pretty miffed, especially as it was the first time since the reign of Charles I that this country didn’t have a Sunday mail collection. So miffed, in fact, that he included in his column the address where you could send a note of protest to the Post Office.

He advised people to send their letters before the weekend, or risk it becoming a snail’s breakfast.

Grassington ramble takes the lead

With friends Hayley and Jane at Linton Falls. The power of the current made the bridge shake

10AF6F7B-34F8-46A3-A8FE-9D24F5020D3E — Walking alongside Hebden Beck

9408218F-7672-45C5-8552-CC8F717003A5 — The best thing to see on a long stenuous walk is a pub with a sign reading ‘Dogs and muddy boots welcome’. Me with friends Stefan, Jane and Hayley

8ABFC387-4F90-4555-B5FB-E92486345C4C — Dad’s maternal grandparents owned a pub in Glaisdale called ‘The Three Blast Furnaces’. Dad’s Mum is the little girl seated at the front, taken in about 1919

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 1st December 2017, & the Gazette & Herald on 29th November 2017

We’re very fortunate that a kind friend regularly allows us to descend on him and his house near Grassington up in the Dales, a spectacular part of the world, and a magnet for lovers of countryside rambles. A bunch of us went up very recently on one very wet and foggy weekend.

Thirteen of us, five adults, six kids and two dogs, set off on a walking route that took us along the River Wharfe. The river was severely swollen, and had burst its banks in several places. The speed of the current was formidable, and when we stopped off at Linton Falls, we could feel the bridge trembling beneath our feet as the raging current thundered just a few feet below. I was glad to get off that bridge, which seemed so flimsy compared to the immense power of the water surging against its struts.

Thankfully, our local friend knew a number of alternative routes as the path ahead was totally flooded. We detoured to higher ground towards the village of Hebden where we happened upon one of the finest sights you can hope to witness on a long, strenuous walk – a pub with a notice saying “Muddy Boots and Dogs welcome”!

After essential sustenance (aka a pint and pork scratchings) we then headed further up into the Dales, following Hebden Beck. Now, as us Yorkshire folk know, a beck is a small, gentle, trickling stream. But not this day, oh no. It had morphed into a raging torrent twice as wide as usual, and so the normal crossing points were impassable. But, like a posse of Bear Grylls protégés, we were undeterred. The health and safety police might have had words with us, especially if they’d witnessed our less-than-safe methods of traversing rapids that were strong enough to sweep away one of the dogs after a mistimed jump. Thankfully he managed to scramble out further down, but it was a hair-raising (and dog-drenching) moment.

Despite the poor weather, the route was still stunning, and it skirted the remains of some abandoned lead mines. Remnants of blast furnaces and old mine entrances lay dormant and long-forsaken. We wondered at the difficulty of that kind of labour, and how they managed to carry the lead for significant distances across difficult terrain.

Lead mining is one of the oldest industries in the Dales, and in his column from November 27th 1976, Dad reveals that, amazingly, it probably began in the Grassington area as long ago a 300BC. The Romans excavated around there, leaving behind ingots of lead dating to around 70 to 100BC. The Saxons and Danes continued to mine, and when the Normans began their programme of building in the 11th century, demand for lead grew enormously, especially for their castles and monasteries. It was transported by pack-horse to markets in Richmond, Darlington and Ripon.

The early methods of mining were exceptionally laborious, and involved hacking out the veins of lead ore and smelting over a fire, or another way was to wash out the ore by diverting moorland streams to where they were needed. These practices barely changed for 1500 years, and early Swaledale farmers were known to supplement their income through mining. That all changed abruptly with the advent of the industrial revolution in the 18th century when new engineering techniques enabled the creation of very deep shafts and pumps to extract surplus water. Massive tunnels were dug, and smelting mills were built with huge chimneys to remove the fumes. At its peak between 1821 and 1861, more than 20,000 tonnes of lead was extracted from Grassington Moor. Lead mining drew to a halt around Grassington in the late 1800s when deposits of iron ore deeper in the ground turned out to be much less fruitful than expected.

In 2010, Grassington Moor received a £50,000 preservation grant from English Heritage and was listed as an ‘at risk’ ancient monument due to the underground erosion as a result of the mining.

North Yorkshire was a rich source of mineral ore, and over the other side of the county on the North York Moors, Dad’s maternal grandparents owned a pub in Glaisdale called the ‘Three Blast Furnaces’ after the smelting operation that was established near the village following the discovery of a rich seam of iron ore in nearby Rosedale in 1854. The pub was renamed ‘Anglers’ Rest’ after the Rosedale mine closed down in 1926.