fiction – The Countryman's Daughter

Baby naming keeps us on our toes

Rob Ainsley’s mum Barbara holding a 1961 photo of her sons John (left) and Rob. She was so convinced Rob was going to be a girl she didn’t have a boys’ name ready when he was born.

Rob Ainsley and his mum Barbara at a recent family wedding.

Not since I wrote about the highly controversial topic of Yorkshire puddings back in 2019 have I received as much reader feedback as I have about family names. It has been fascinating to hear all your stories.

Mary Harrison wrote: “My husband and I were reminded of the time we were teaching in Western Kenya. One of the workers on the compound rushed round to ask John to take his pregnant wife to the hospital…John says he had never driven so quickly as she was already in labour. A few hours later we had a visit from the proud father to tell us his new son had been called ‘Mr Harry’ (after Harrison) – in recognition of John’s help.”

When I was pregnant with my first child, I used to refer to my baby as ‘he’ for no other reason than ease. By then, the mid-1990s, you could find out the sex at your 20-week scan, but we had no desire to know in advance. During one examination, as my midwife felt around my large bump, we were discussing the imminent arrival. When I used the word ‘he’, she stopped, looked up and said: “You mean she.” I was shocked, and a little upset, because she knew I wanted to experience that ‘Ahhh, it’s a boy/girl’ moment when you meet your baby for the first time. But how could she tell? Was it the shape of my bump? Or was she using some midwifery magic to determine the sex?

From then on, I was convinced I was having a girl, although we made sure we had both female and male names ready. Of course, if you were paying attention in previous weeks, you will already know that my first baby was not a girl at all, and we called our little boy Oliver. It would have been Hannah had he been a girl.

Rob Ainsley contacted me to say: “My mum was so confident I was a girl, she’d decided on ‘Joan’. It was 1960, so way pre-scanning. When I popped out I clearly was a boy, so there was some hurried rethinking. Mum tried ‘Robin’, but Dad thought that wasn’t strong enough, so they compromised on ‘Robert’. I’ve never especially liked it, but I suppose ‘Joan’ could have been problematic for me in 1960s Britain. Not that it stopped the artist Joan Miró, of course.”

I’m intrigued as to why his mum was so certain he would be a girl when there was absolutely no proven way back then to know what sex your baby was going to be. Was it some old wives’ indicator, like a small neat bump meaning it was a going to be a boy, and a more spread-out bump was a girl, as I was told.

Clare Proctor says: “My mum was so convinced my eldest brother would be a boy that she refused to choose a girl’s name.” As Rob’s mother discovered, that kind of conviction is not always accurate, but in this case, Clare’s mum was spot on, and Peter was born in 1950. He made a rather exciting entrance into the world as Clare describes: “My dad had to deliver him in the back of a Land Rover with my mum (a trained midwife) telling him what to do, in between asking if it was a boy. He just said, “Let’s get it out first, then check!””

I asked Clare if he’d been nervous: “Apparently, he was surprisingly calm, but then he had been chased out of Burma (literally) by the Japanese army when he served in WW2, so I guess delivering a baby was a doddle!”

My first-born is now 29, and his partner Gigi messaged me on the subject of names: “Have you heard of nominative determinism? It’s a phenomenon where people with certain names end up in professional fields relating to the name, such as John Bones ends up a doctor, or Olivia Sweet becomes a pastry chef. It’s so interesting!”

My childhood ballet teacher was called Miss Toes and it always makes me giggle (it was probably spelled Toase but I didn’t know that when I was little!).

I bet some of you have some cracking examples of such names, and by now you should know the drill – get in touch using the methods below.

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 7th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 5th Nov 2025

The tale of the fox kicking the Bucket

A picture of Tom Boyes whom reader Dorothy Jackson knew well, taken from one of poet Bill Fall’s books

One of Tom Boyes’ greyhounds, sketched by Bill Fall. Is this Bucket?

Last week, I thanked reader Bill Filer who put me in touch with Dorothy Jackson from Helmsley, whose family knew Tom Boyes. Boyes, born in Castleton in 1882, was well-known as a horse breeder and dealer and member of the Farndale Hunt, as well as being a good friend of the Danby poet William E Fall (Bill) who wrote dialect verses under the name Erimus. His poems highlighted the quirky characters he came across and several readers have already been in touch with recollections about Bill and his family.

Dorothy revealed she had seen the photo of the 1927 Danby wedding in my previous column and it jogged her memory of having one of Bill Fall’s books, ‘Tom Boyes, Deealsman’. Dorothy has a lovely old moors accent, and explained: “When I saw your column I wondered if I still had that book…I went to the cupboard and it was the first thing that came out, so I hadn’t to look very long for it!” Considering she’s had the book for many years, that was some bit of luck.

She was given it by the Bonas family, who were good friends with Tom Boyes. Dorothy is still in touch with their daughter, now 97 years old. “We’ve always kept in touch and so I was interested to know if she remembered Tom Boyes. I talked to her and straight away she said, ‘Oh yes, Tom Boyes came to our place time and time again!’ He dealt with horses and ponies and her father was the same…At 97 she remembered him straight away!” It is clear Tom Boyes was a memorable character.

Dorothy revealed that during the 1939-1945 war years her family was friendly with the Palmers who owned Grinkle Hall Estate near Danby (now the Grinkle Park Hotel). They got to know them through the Glaisdale Hunt and Dorothy’s father, John Bell Sokell (known as Jack), was on the hunt’s committee.

Mark Palmer, heir to the estate, had gone to fight in WWII as an army captain, and Myrtle Palmer was his sister. Although from a well-to-do family, Myrtle wanted do her bit and registered to support the Home Front.

Dorothy explained: “They came to an arrangement where she would go to Tom Boyes. He had a smallholding and she would work there through the day and return to Grinkle Hall at night time. That went on all through the war years…She was a very hard-working person and very particular with horses,” Dorothy remembered. She also recalled that the Grinkle Hall horses were always very well kept and turned out and that they still had a beautiful old coach in one of the stalls, left behind from the days before motor vehicles.

Dorothy explained that Myrtle had some wonderful scrap books full of photographs documenting her life and the people she had met along the way, including a lot of Tom Boyes. “Myrtle passed away some years ago and I’ve often wondered what happened to those scrap books,” she said.

Mark Palmer married after the war, never returning to the estate, and it was sold to a hospitality group in 1946 which turned it into a hotel, and that is how it has remained ever since. The tenants living in estate properties were offered the chance to buy their homes, which many took up, although Dorothy’s family had already bought a freehold farm at Borrowby, near Staithes, in 1943.

Dorothy remembered a funny story about Boyes that Myrtle had told her: “He always had a greyhound and called it ‘Bucket’ and in one of Bill Fall’s poems, Bucket comes into it.

“One day Tom Boyes was sat on his shooting stick and his terrier went down this fox hole, and the fox came out and knocked Bucket over!” Dorothy chuckled at the memory. “Bucket was just sat there so sackless just looking around and it knocked him over!” Sadly I could not find the poem she refers to in the three books I have.

It was lovely to hear Dorothy use the old northern adjective ‘sackless’ which I’ve not heard for a long time. It has fallen out of common use, but means ‘innocent’ or ‘guiltless’.

I adore hearing first-hand memories like these of times gone by, and am now wondering where Myrtle Palmer’s scrapbooks ended up. Perhaps someone reading this might know?

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 Aug and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 27th Aug 2025

We are getting stoned again

The photograph sent to me by Peter Sotheran of a horse with cart on Lythe Bank out of Sandsend. It was taken between 1905 and 1907 and a copy of it is held at the Teesside Archive, accessed via the Dorman Museum in Middlesbrough

A couple of weeks back, along the continuing theme of troughs and boundary stones, I asked what the holes in the bottom of a carved stone that I found on one of my local walks might be. Once again, a kind reader has jumped to the rescue.

John Buckworth explains: “Hi Sarah. The holes in your stone are probably lifting holes, or dimples, on each side to which they attached a lewis.”

I had no idea what a lewis was and had to look it up, which is no effort for me because I love learning new stuff! For those of you as ignorant as me, a lewis is a device used by stonemasons to lift heavy blocks of masonry and is fitted into pre-drilled holes to evenly distribute the weight of the block, allowing safe and accurate movement from one place to another. John explains: “It has a scissor action, and the curved points stick into the holes and the block and tackle tightens them whilst being lifted. Some of these holes can be on buildings and railway bridges. However, most are concealed because they are covered by the adjacent block. I am still enjoying your articles thank you. Tek care lass.”

Incidentally, I was furnished with even more knowledge that I did not previously possess, namely that the term ‘Lewis’ is also used in the mysterious world of freemasonry. This essential tool symbolises strength and the ability to lift weighty burdens. A freemason’s son is known as a ’Lewis’ because he is meant to support his father and the brotherhood in whatever ways are deemed necessary.

Another reader, Peter Sotheran, also contacted me with a very interesting stone-related story.

“Your paragraphs on moving large blocks of sandstone brought to mind Canon Atkinson, author of ‘Forty Years in a Moorland Parish’.

“After serving as Curate at St. Mary’s Church in Scarborough, Atkinson was appointed Vicar of Danby where he served for 50 years. In his ‘Forty Years’ book Atkinson describes the two-day journey on horseback from Scarborough to Danby. After breaking his journey with an overnight stay in Whitby, Atkinson describes the second leg to Danby.

‘I was told I should find but few on the road I was to pursue, and I might not see a passenger or traveller for miles and miles together. Nor did I.

‘Then the solitude of my way was broken. I was no longer the sole traveller on this rugged lonely roadway; for here I encountered a cavalcade such as I had never before imagined…I met a stone-wagon with a team of no less than twenty horses and oxen, half of either kind. They were drawing a huge block of freestone up the terribly steep bank.’ “

Peter adds: “From other clues in his ‘Forty Years’ book, this would appear to be Lythe Bank, leading up from Sandsend. Atkinson continues:

‘At the foot of the bank were standing four other wagons similarly loaded. The full complement of animals dragging each ponderous load – five tons’ weight on average – in succession to the top; and then, when all were up, the cavalcade re-assembled and proceeded on its slow march again.’ ”

If any of you have ever walked up that notoriously steep bank out of Sandsend, as I have VERY slowly with very little in the way of a heavy load, you will be able to understand just how difficult it must have been to get the horses and oxen and their huge boulders up. I can’t help but feel sorry for the poor animals! Peter sent me a copy of a lovely old postcard of a horse and cart labouring up the hill, which I have included with this article. Peter says: “The picture of the cart and single horse is not from Atkinson’s book. It was a postcard that I picked up in Whitby some years ago. Unfortunately, Atkinson does not mention where the stones are from or where they are destined for.”

Peter told me that over the years he amassed a collection of more than 2500 old local pictures and postcards which he donated to the Teesside Archive, accessed via the Dorman Museum in Middlesbrough, from where this picture comes. It was taken between 1905 and 1909 by a chap called Tom Watson.

I wonder here the stones will lead us next?

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 11th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 9th July 2025

Do you know your boundaries?

The second carved stone that is on my regular walking route. Are these drilled holes marking where it was meant to be split, as described by Andy Brown? Could it be a boundary marker, as suggested by Beryl Richardson?

Mike Broadley’s stone trough that has been in his garden for more than 70 years

When I first started writing about stone troughs back in April I had no idea that these seemingly overlooked lumps of rock would lead to so many memories and stories coming in from readers, some of you with direct knowledge of the history and processes involved in making them.

Andy Brown got in touch with the following: “Early in my career I was taught how to cut large sandstone blocks for building work by the stonemason at Shipley Quarries near Barnard Castle. Sandstone is known as a freestone as it can (fairly) easily be split and shaped both along and across its bedding plane (the layers in which sedimentary rocks are deposited). Small blocks can be split using hammers and chisels by chasing a groove all around where you intend to split the stone and gradually widening this out into a crack. Feathers and wedges are used to split larger blocks by hammering them into a series of holes drilled along where the block is to be split. The blocks are then further worked with hammer and chisel into the desired shape and finish.”

Feathers and wedges are tools used to help shape and split stones. A recent trough-related column of mine mentioned a carved stone that I passed regularly but to which I had previously paid no attention. It was about two and a half feet long, one and a half wide and about a foot deep, but the basin part (if indeed it had been intended to be a trough) had not been hollowed out. It seemed too big to have been a stone intended for a building, so I wondered how it got there, when was it placed there and why was it left unfinished.

Andy answers the question as to how it may have been transported: “Skilled quarrymen and masons could ‘walk’ sizeable stone blocks by pivoting them on their point of balance, but for large blocks, rollers or sledges would be used to transport short distances. For transporting longer distances both fixed and portable windlasses (winches) would be used to load and offload large blocks into sturdy carts…I imagine your trough is a drinking trough for cattle or horses and would be filled by bucket or positioned by a pump.”

Mike Broadley has had a stone trough in his garden for as long as he can remember: “On reading your column about stone troughs I thought I would tell you about one in our front garden. It is still in situ, and I have been here for 70 years. It was fed by a hand pump from a well under the lawn. The pump has long gone but the lead pipe that supplied it is still present, sealed off at ground level. The well is one of a chain linking the houses either side of us in High Ellington village and I think they date back to the time before water mains…I can remember the pump being used when the mains were off.”

Beryl Richardson had another theory about my stone: “The measurements suggest it could be part of an ancient gate post or boundary marker. Some similar to this are on the North York Moors and relate to the boundaries between landowners’ estates. Each stone mason would have their own ‘signature’ marking. My late father from Loftus spent many days looking for these boundary stones which he then included in his local history talks to various groups and students…My dad’s name was John Robert Verrill Carter but was known by everyone as Bob Carter. He was a friend of Tom Leonard who started the museum at Skinningrove and he also knew your father’s column’s predecessor Major Jack Fairfax Blakeborough.”

Beryls’ comments prompted me to return to the stone to see if I could spot a signature, but it was covered with ivy and I couldn’t make anything out. What I did spot, though, was another stone nearby, slightly hidden by a tree. It was smaller and had holes drilled into it, possibly indicating a line along which the intention was to split it (as described by Andy above). Maybe Beryl is right and these stones were deliberately placed there many moons ago to mark the boundary of a local estate now long gone.

I wonder if we will ever know?

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 27th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 25th June 2025

A close call for my son

Joey on his third birthday, just three weeks before he fell ill

Joey in Leeds General Hospital after an operation that saved his life after he contracted sepsis

Joey and I on a recent walk around York City Walls 20 years after he contracted sepsis. He lives with the after effects every day, but it’s a small price to pay compared to the alternative.

As I write this, I am basking in the glow of lovely bank holiday upon which it also happened to be my birthday. My boys came over with their girlfriends and yet again I was blessed to receive cards from each of them with words inside that touched my heart.

My older two would be embarrassed if I publicised what they had written, but my youngest, Joey, has given me his blessing to share his message, which had me crying from both laughter and emotion.

He wrote: “From the bottom of my heart, thank you for giving me toilet paper when I come over.

“Thank you for all your sacrifices over the years to make sure we boys were happy and healthy. We don’t forget what you do for us (car insurance, my new bed, pancakes on Sunday, cooking, washing, cleaning, new toothbrush heads, lifts, supporting our choices, and an infinite amount more).”

These are simple things that his words demonstrate he doesn’t take for granted. I need to explain the first line though, and why that hilarious sentence stems from something far less amusing.

When Joey was a toddler, he became ill on a visit to my mum’s. He could not stop vomiting and I assumed it was a stomach bug. I was not too worried at first, but by the evening was getting concerned and took him to the out-of-hours doctor. He advised me that it was likely a bug and to come back if it didn’t clear up.

By the following day, things had not improved. Joey was gulping down beakers full of water, yet did not pass any urine all day. My unease was mounting, and by the evening, I was really worried. Joey would lie down on the sofa, then stand up and run to another seat, as if he could not get comfortable. I called the out-of-hours doctor, and she asked me some questions:

Did Joey have a temperature? I felt his forehead and it wasn’t hot. “No,” I replied.

Was he alert? Yes, he was running from pillar to post.

Was he drinking? “Yes, loads,” I replied, but informed her that his nappy had been dry all day.

She suggested to give it another night and call back if he hadn’t improved by morning.

It was the worst advice she could have given me. What I had unknowingly described were classic signs of septic shock, but she didn’t pick up on them. I spent a sleepless night with a child who would not settle, who was vomiting a dark brown substance (I now know were dried specks of blood called ‘coffee grounds’), and I STILL did not call an ambulance because I trusted the doctor’s advice. I ignored all my instincts screaming at me to get help (I have never done it since).

I took him back to the doctors first thing and we were very soon in an ambulance speeding on blue lights to Leeds General Infirmary for emergency surgery to save Joey’s life.

He made it through the operation in which a large portion of his dead small intestine had to be removed. He’d had a Meckel’s diverticulum, which is a pouch-shaped piece of excess tissue many people have from birth. In rare cases like Joey’s, it can become entangled with the bowel, cutting it off. This led to an infection which in turn led to the sepsis, the UK’s second biggest killer after cardiovascular disease. Many kinds of infection can lead to sepsis, so knowing the signs is extremely important. Despite awareness campaigns, it is still being missed, 20 years after it happened to Joey.

Had the doctor worded her questions differently, I believe she would have realised he was in an urgent situation. Joey had low body temperature, which we rarely look for. I now have a thermometer to take accurate readings rather than relying on my hand. Agitation and lack of urination are also signs of the body entering septic shock, the advanced, life-threatening stage of sepsis where the vital organs start to shut down.

The long-term effect is that he lives with the discomfort and inconvenience of an upset stomach every single day. Hence, Mum supplements his higher-than-average loo roll costs.

But that is a very small price to pay to still have my beautiful son in my life.

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 13th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 11th June 2025

Learning brick by brick

The carved stone I spotted on walk which I believe is an unfinished trough

The Railway Pond which used to be near a brickworks

Do you remember a few weeks ago I talked about an abandoned millstone above Kildale, while at the same time observing that once I began discussing stone troughs, suddenly I was seeing them everywhere?

Well blow me, I was on a dog walk this morning, and there nestled in the undergrowth was a big, carved lump of stone. I must have walked past it dozens of times and not paid any attention to it. But this was the first walk there since I started writing about stone troughs and so, finally, I paid it some attention. Instead of wandering past, I stopped and was immediately able to recognise that it had been deliberately carved by a stone mason at some point, thanks to the chisel marks all over it. Also, thanks to the useful information that came in from readers like John Buckworth, Mick Garratt and Stan Willis, I guessed that, like the Kildale millstone, it was another unfinished piece of masonry.

It was about two and a half feet long, one and a half wide and perhaps a foot deep, but the basin part (if indeed it had been intended to be a trough) had not been hollowed out. Having been gratefully educated by Stan, I now know that the hollowing out part would only have been done once it had reached its final destination. If hollowed out beforehand, it would become weaker and therefore more prone to the disaster of cracking on the bumpy horse and cart journey across dodgy road surfaces, and hours of painstaking work would have gone to waste.

This one seemed too big to have been a stone intended for a building, but how did it get there, when was it placed there and why was it left unfinished? Or is it not a trough at all?

The interesting thing is that it lies near a small pond, which suggests there would be no need to place a trough there because water is already plentiful. Also, compared to the original huge trough that sparked my interest in the topic, this one is relatively modest, and therefore would have served smaller animals rather than cattle or horses. But what? Poultry? Dogs? Your theories are most welcome!

The pond in question is called ‘Railway Pond’ because it is not far from the East Coast Main Line, although I am uncertain as to its connection to the railway. What I do know is that in the late 19th century, there used to be a brickworks nearby, and this pond was fundamental in the brick making process.

As bricks were handmade using clay, having a pond nearby was essential. Water was used to cleanse the clay of impurities, such as small stones and other debris. If left in, the end product would be weakened and therefore not be suitable for building a sturdy house. Once released, the impurities would sink to the bottom of the pond, leaving behind clean water which would then be drained off and used for the final clay-mixing process. Once the bricks were shaped (initially by hand, later using moulds), they would be fired at extremely high temperatures to drive out any moisture, hardening the bricks and rendering them resistant to water. The pond water was also used at the end of the process for cleaning equipment and tools.

One thing to note though, bricks are not totally impervious to moisture, as I’m sure you will know if you’ve had problems with damp in your home. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting a musty cellar that has not been protected from damp, just touching the bricks will demonstrate how absorbent they can be if exposed to enough moisture. There are ways to mitigate against this, such as ‘tanking’ and other methods of damp proofing, but I’ll leave that fascinating topic to a more expert column writer!

You may have noticed that old bricks are sometimes coated in a white powdery substance, as if they are going mouldy. It is actually salt crystals that have been left behind when moisture inside the brick evaporates, driving the crystals to the surface. This is called efflorescence, and is generally harmless, if a bit unsightly. If it bothers you, the best way to remove it is to scrub it with a wire brush.

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 6th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 4th June 2025

Difficult fact to swallow

Swallows chatting on overhead lines above me, as if they were scoping out the property’s conservatory to set up home

A swallow feeds its young in a nest under the eaves. Photo by Alastair Smith

I was conducting a house viewing recently where the potential buyers had come for a second look before deciding whether they were going to make an offer or not. It was a lovely stone cottage in the Hambleton Hills with a gorgeous garden and wonderful views at the back.

Because the viewers had been before, I allowed them some privacy and selected a sunny spot outside to sit and wait until they had finished their visit. At the back of the house was a beautiful oak-framed conservatory, and I had opened up the bifold doors to make the most of the wonderful weather.

Not long after I sat down, I noticed a pair of swallows chattering on an overhead power line not far away. I had seen them on an earlier visit, and it had lifted my spirits knowing that the swallows had returned from the southern hemisphere, a portent of the summer soon to follow.

They seemed to be observing the conservatory, nodding to each other and chattering excitedly. It looked as if they were considering it as a suitable place to make a home. To a swallow, it would seem perfect, with sturdy timber y-frame struts and beams offering a selection of nesting sites under the vaulted ceiling, the slate roof providing safety, warmth and shelter.

Soon the birds left their spot on the overhead line, and performed a couple of ‘fly-bys’, sweeping round in wide circles, getting closer to the doors each time, then landing back on the power line to resume their excited chatter.

Moments later, they disappeared into a small shed in the neighbouring garden with a gap at the top of the door. Soon, they were back on the line, resuming their conversation.

Having studied the Swallowish language, I can tell you that the conversation went like this:

“Look at that spot Rita! What a fancy des res. So much light and and space, and with direct access to a bounty of food supplies.”

“Yes, it really is the dream home, isn’t it, Bertie. Imagine bringing up the children here, the garden is to die for. It is so much nicer than that pokey little shed you’ve made us move into. Dark and dingy, and only a wall for a view! The kids will be miserable there, whereas here…”

“I know dear, but then again it is so big, it could be a bit draughty…”

“Draughty? Nonsense! It’s south facing which is exactly what we need – all that sunlight! That grotty shed is north facing, and the roof has holes in it. The kids will be freezing, as will I! I didn’t fly 6000 miles from Johannesburg to spend my summer in a dingy old shed. I need warmth and a view while I bring up the kids, Bertie, and I deserve it after surviving that bloomin’ journey.”

“I suppose you are are right, Rita. I wonder if anyone else is interested in it? I wouldn’t want any dodgy neighbours.”

I kept my beady eye on them the whole time I was there, because anyone who has had swallows resident in their garden knows just how quickly they can dive into an open shed, garage or barn, and then get locked in. We once had to leave our own garage open for a day or so, keeping our eyes on it to see when both swallows had popped out so we could shut the door and prevent them from completing their nest. It felt a bit cruel, but they soon moved on to a more suitable nesting site.

Swallows fly south for the winter because the insects they rely upon for survival are no longer available. Before the 20th century, we didn’t even know they had left the country, and some scientists believed they hibernated, with one bizarre theory suggesting they survived at the bottom of ponds.

It was in 1912, after the introduction of bird ringing, that a swallow was found on a farm in South Africa bearing a ring that had been placed on its leg 18 months earlier by amateur naturalist John Masefield from Staffordshire.

However, more recently, with milder winters becoming commonplace, some swallows have been found to stay in the southern UK all year.

Is it just me, or does news unsettle some of you too?

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 30th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 28th May 2025

Friend thrown a life jacket

Stefan’s expensive work jacket was accidentally sold at the school fair

Last year I wrote several columns about things people had lost, things they had found, and about St Anthony to whom the faithful pray if they need help finding a misplaced item.

That subject cropped up again recently when I was on a ramble with my friend Jane and she told me a couple of remarkable stories that I felt I had to share.

Jane and her neighbour Aisling get on with each other very well, attend each other’s parties, exchange birthday gifts and such like. They also swap items of clothing, if they find they are not wearing something but think the other might like it. One such item was a jacket that Aisling gave to Jane several years ago. Although Jane liked the jacket and placed it in her wardrobe, it stayed there unworn for a long time. Finally, a few weeks ago while planning for a night out, Jane remembered the jacket and thought it would go very well with what she wanted to wear. She dug it out and tried it on to see if it suited. Instinctively she put her hands in the pockets and to her surprise, found there was something left inside one of them.

Pulling it out, she discovered it was a pair of beautiful diamond earrings. Astounded, she immediately took them round to show Aisling. Her neighbour was also astounded – and delighted. She revealed that they were the pair of very expensive earrings she had worn on her wedding day and which had been lost for at least 10 years.

Aisling and her family used to live in Singapore, and while there, they employed a cleaner. She explained to Jane that after a while, they began to suspect the cleaner of pilfering things. They had no evidence to prove it, but to be on the safe side Aisling began to hide her most precious pieces of jewellery in the pockets of the clothes hanging in her wardrobe. The problem was, over time she forgot what she had put where, and by the time they moved back to England a few years later, she had completely forgotten that she had hidden her wedding earrings in a jacket pocket. For more than 10 years, she had lived in the belief that her treasured earrings had been taken by the cleaner and that she would never see them again (to be fair, the cleaner had almost certainly stolen other items, so it was not an unreasonable assumption to make). To get them back after so long was an absolute and unexpected joy.

A similar story involved Jane’s husband Stefan. Jane’s and my own children went to the same primary school which held regular fairs and jumble sales. These occasions were good excuses to declutter our wardrobes and pass on any unwanted toys and bric-a-brac.

One year as one such fair was approaching, Jane had a good declutter and filled up the car with jumble, putting a pile of unwanted coats on the back seat before dropping them off at school.

A few days later, her husband was preparing to leave for a business meeting, and asked if she had seen his smart jacket.

“Where did you last have it?’ asked Jane

“I left it on the back seat of the car.”

You can imagine Stefan’s choice response when he discovered that his expensive tailored jacket had been sold for a song at the school fair. Jane had unknowingly scooped it up with the other coats on the back seat and handed it over with the rest of the jumble. They both assumed Stefan would never see his jacket again, and Jane was banished to the dog house.

But the story does not end there. Later that week, tempers having cooled, the couple were out for a walk when they noticed a stranger walking towards them. He was wearing a very familiar item of clothing.

Stefan, being a lot braver than I would have been, stopped the man and asked about the fine jacket he was wearing. The man confirmed he had picked it up from the local school fair for 50p.

With a bit of astute negotiating, and offers of giving the man back the 50p, Stefan and his jacket were happily reunited.

Do you have any stories of unexpected reunions?

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 28th Feb and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 26th Feb 2025

Time to make decisions

Horacio Romeo’s beloved antique mirror has to stay in Buenos Aires, Argentina, because it is too big to bring to his current home in Brazil.

Following my column about the Hugh Pannell clock owned by Arkansas-resident Sandra Parkerson, David Severs has been in touch. David is a descendant of the 18th century Northallerton clockmaker and was able to provide some useful historical context about it. If you recall, the grandfather clock has been in Sandra’s family for more than 200 years, but she is looking to find it a home because it will be too big to take to a new apartment.

David is compiling a record of Pannell’s work and explains that it is unusual to find ‘CLOCK & WATCH-MAKER’ engraved on the name boss. “This is very rare indeed and to find yet another Pannell example is exciting,” he says.

He explains that Sandra’s walnut case is not original: “I have found well over a hundred Hugh Pannell clocks and not one is in a walnut case.” Most of Pannell’s clocks were in cases of mahogany, oak or pine. David has found only one pine example due to the wood not being durable, and mahogany is also quite rare because he would have had to transport it by cart from west coast ports such as Liverpool, which was far more costly than a readily available oak case. Mahogany cases were the preserve of the wealthy, and housed Pannell’s finest pieces. They became more common once the rail network reached Northallerton in 1841, well after Hugh Pannell’s time. Oak cases with mahogany veneer were known as ‘typical Yorkshire cases’ in 1774 when Pannell was working.

David says about Sandra’s clock: “The decoration on the pediment is not something I have seen over here and the split trunk door is also new to me. It is possible that the clock mechanism alone was sent to the USA and then placed into Sandra’s mahogany case upon arrival.”

David adds: “I have found that some 30% of Hugh’s surviving clocks are now marriages which is perhaps not surprising given that it is 236 years and more since he was making clocks…I am aware of his clocks in California, Florida, New Orleans and San Francisco as well as this one in Arkansas. Clocks by his son Joshua…have found their way to Iowa and California and one of his watches to Florida.”

This brings me on to the subject of what to do with meaningful objects you have collected in your lifetime.

Regular reader Clare Powell says: “I inherited my dad’s grandfather clock…and decided to sell it later on. You get nothing for them at auction, nobody wants or has the room for them, even old ones. But I discovered it was handmade by a company in Somerset and he had paid £3,500 for it. I couldn’t bring myself to sell it for £150, so I am still stuck with it!”

In a previous column I mentioned a small wooden box my grandad gave me which I hope one of my sons will keep. Clare explains that the thought of what to do with all her family heirlooms keeps her awake at night: “I am not sure we should burden the next generation with all our ‘stuff’. If you tell them why everything means so much to you, will they feel ridden with guilt if they are not able to keep it all? Then again, if you don’t tell them, then they may wish they did know the story of certain items, like you and your box.”

Horacio Romeo from Brazil, who contacted me through my web page (countrymansdaughter.com), has a similar problem to Sandra in that he has a beautiful mirror that is too big for his current abode: “I love it and enjoy looking at it when I go to Buenos Aires (Argentina) but bringing it here is out of the question.”

Leni Ella says: “My nana used to say, ‘If you want it, put your Monica on it’, the only way you could bagsy something in her house.” (I am assuming Nana meant ‘moniker’ and ‘Monica’ is a family joke!).

My aunt, Liz Davidson, revealed that she has a family heirloom: “I have a crocheted white bedspread that came from my dad and one of his aunties I think. It’s very heavy when you put it on the bed.”

There is only so much the following generation will want to keep so what, I wonder, will happen to grandad’s bedspread?

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me via the ‘Contact’ tab at the top right of this page.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 17th Jan and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 15th Jan 2025

Finding a silver lining

I now have a Silveroid teapot stand thanks to a clear out at my mum’s house

The stamp on the bottom reads ‘National Products England’ and ‘National Silveroid’

A couple of challenges for you this week which will hopefully prove that real people can still be more useful for factual information than the seemingly omniscient internet.

Just over a year ago I was invited to give a talk at Rosedale Reading Room and while there Linda Chambers from the Rosedale History Archive asked me if I could find out anything about King Henry’s Night. “I was told about this some years back by an elderly gentleman (now dead) who lived at Thorgill, just along the dale side,” she wrote. “It apparently centred around young people going out on a particular night and meeting up with likely suitors. Not sure what their parents thought but no doubt it was eagerly anticipated!”

I had a look in my dad’s collection of cuttings and files but could not find anything labelled King Henry’s Night. I also looked in a few of his books, Folk Tales from the North York Moors, Folk Stories from the Yorkshire Dales and Yorkshire Days, but again nothing. He did write about occasions where young men and women would go out and perform certain charms and spells in the hope of attracting suitors, but I don’t recall him ever mentioning King Henry’s Night.

I then resorted to that most useful source of miscellaneous information, the British Newspaper Archive, but again, came up empty handed. So, I’m turning to you, dear readers, in the hope that one of you can explain exactly what it is. Perhaps you went out yourself on King Henry’s Night and found your one and only?

The second mystery might be more straightforward to solve. We were having a clear out at my mum’s house when I came across what looked like an old pewter teapot stand that had been abandoned on a windowsill for years. I asked Mum if I could have it. As regular readers know, I drink tea using a proper pot, and a recurring conundrum is how to avoid it scalding whatever surface I place it upon. Now I need worry no more!

Mum couldn’t remember how she came by it, but it was either used at home when she was young or picked up at a jumble sale. There is a stamp on the reverse labelled ‘National Products England’ and ‘National Silveroid’. It brought to mind the war effort and the ‘National Loaf’, but it turns out Silveroid appeared much earlier than that.

The stand looks a bit like pewter, which is an alloy consisting mostly of tin mixed with small amounts of other metals such as copper, lead or antimony. It has been used for making household items since Roman times and in the 17th and 18th centuries it would have been found in every household in the form of plates, cutlery, cups, jugs, buttons and the like.

Pewter was rather soft and prone to dents, and in the late 19th century, Silveroid started to appear. It was far more durable and yet mimicked the stylish look of pewter along with the shine of silver. It was patented in the USA where it was often used for watch cases. I did find a few references to it in the newspaper archive, the earliest of which appeared in the Daily Gazette in September 1878 and read: ‘Silveroid is the name of a new metal which has just been introduced in America in the manufacture of tableware. It has a fine texture, is susceptible of a high finish, and can be supplied at much less cost than anything heretofore used as a substitute for real silver.’

I also found the exact same paragraph in a number of other newspapers in subsequent years, so I did wonder how long it had to be around for it to be no longer considered ‘new’.

Six years later in 1884, there were adverts extolling the benefits of the product, but they now tell us that Silveroid is ‘the cheapest substitute for silver yet introduced, which being of a uniform white colour throughout, renders Nickel or Silver Plating quite unnecessary. This Metal is specially adapted for Steamship Fittings, Railway Carriage Furniture, and Art Metal Work. Specimens and price on application.’

So what do you know about Silveroid, what happened to it, and what are ‘National Products England’? Do get in touch via the usual channels!

I’d love to hear from you about your opinions, memories and ideas for columns. Use the ‘Contact’ button on the top right of this page to get in touch. This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 7th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 5th June 2024.