life – The Countryman's Daughter

Don’t call me Nanny!

My boys with their Dutch grandparents, who were known as Opa (Grandad) and Oma (Grandma). At home, we used Nonny and Grandad to refer to their English grandparents.

A couple of weeks ago I discussed the subject of nominative determinism where a person ends up in a career that reflects their surname. My ballet teacher was called Miss Toes, and my son reminded me that his boss, who was a joiner, was called Mr Stick. Such names sound like characters from Roger Hargreaves’ Mr Men books, with famous examples including Mrs Berry the Baker (Mary), Mr Bolt the Sprinter (Usain), Miss Stepanova the Hurdler (Marina), and Mr Crapper the Sanitary Engineer (Thomas)

Lynn Catena used to know a music teacher called C. Sharp, and Deborah Steed revealed: “My husband worked at a bank with a guy called Nick Money and I used to refer clients in need of a medical to Dr Death.”

I’m not sure how I’d feel being sent to see Dr Death! I am sure there are many more wonderful examples out there, so do get in touch if you have any to share.

I was contacted by Mary Harrison again after she’d read my column featuring her story about a new baby named ‘Mr Harry’ after her husband, who’d raced the expectant parents to hospital in his car.

“Great amusement among my family to see my name in print!” she says. “Since our 55-year-old son was four when we left Kenya, Mr Harry will probably be 51. Sadly, we have no photographs of him; but if he went on to secondary school he would probably have changed his name. Pupils had to confirm their names when filling in the forms for their final exams, and were told they would not be able to change them again afterwards…thank you for all the interesting articles you write!”

I also revealed last week that my sister and husband are due to become grandparents in May next year, and are wondering what they might be called when the time comes.

Alison Davies got in touch to say: “I’m plain old Grandma but love it. I have two beautiful grandsons. I think you refer back to what you called your own grandparents. I’m not a fan of Nanna – just personal preference…My mum as a great grandma is known as GG.”

She is not the only GG I’ve come across. Mary Raynar says: “I’m Granny. My granny was Nanna and my mum was Granny Marie to my children and GG to her great grandson.”

In my own case, we referred to my grandparents as Nana and Grandad Walker and Nana and Grandad Smith, which seems quite formal. By the time my own children were born, Nana Walker was the only remaining great grandparent, and they referred to her less formally as Nana Mary.

Billy Goode states firmly: “It’s Granny and Grandad. If you’re another name you’re the secondary grandparents.” He’s saying that tongue in cheek, of course, and clarifies: “I’m just making the point that everyone thinks what they say is the right one! My mum had a nana not a granny. I’ll ask Dad what he had!”

I wonder if there is competition between the opposing ‘grands’ as to nabbing the preferred term first. For my children, the boxing gloves were not needed because their paternal grandparents were Dutch, and thus Oma and Opa.

Janet Pearce has a lovely name: “I am Bibi, which is Swahili for grandmother because I was born in Tanzania and my daughter suggested it.”

A friend suggested it should be up to the children to decide what they want to call their grandparents (which is how my mum came to be Nonny). But of course, these names only come about once your baby can talk, and so a decision does need to be made before that. Some grandparents can be quite determined, as Clare Proctor discovered: “My maternal grandmother was something of a snob and said she was Grandma, not Nanny, because “Nannies are people you pay to look after the children!” I became a Grammy in April – my daughter suggested it as an alternative to Granny, which I thought I would hate (so aging, darling!) but actually I am so besotted with my beautiful granddaughter that I don’t care what she calls me!”

And that is a sentiment that I am sure I will share if I am ever fortunate enough to experience grandparenthood.

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 28th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 26th Nov 2025

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

A conventional name?

Reader Clare Proctor’s siblings in a photo taken in 1950s Tanzania, where they lived at the time. L-R: Janet (J.A.P), Michael (M.A.P) and Peter (P.A.P.).

My dad holding my eldest son Oliver Sebastiaan on the day he was born in April 1996. We had chosen names that we liked rather than ones passed down the family.

My middle son Jasper Marcus was named using the same initials as his Dutch father Johannes Marcus, and his grandfather, Jan Marie, seen here meeting him for the first time in 1998.

I’ve had some lovely messages on the subject of family names. A few weeks ago, we heard from Brian Reader who had ancestors called Rocious, Fera and Ellengor. Last week we also heard from David Severs, whose family passed down the biblical name ‘Lot’, and whose great grandfather James Foster was the boilerman at the local brewery in Thornton Le Moor. James’ employers had a daughter named Ethel Carlotta which is where David believes his great aunt Ada (the boilerman’s daughter) came across the fancy name ‘Carlotta’ which she chose for her own daughter and which handily incorporated the family preference of ‘Lot’. She called her son ‘Lancelot’, which she perhaps snaffled from the Arthurian legend for the same reason.

Vicky McDonald got in touch to say: “I have just read your article entitled “There’s a Lot in a name”. How fascinating and how strange that I should stare back at a photo of my Great Great Uncle Lance (or Lancelot as he is referred to in the article)! Lancelot married my maternal grandmother’s aunty (my Great Great Aunty Gladys). I have fond memories of them both.

“I would be grateful if you would be able to pass my email address on to David Severs mentioned in the article as it seems we are related. It would be lovely to get in touch with him.”

How wonderful that my little column is bringing families together! I have passed on Vicky’s email address to David and will let you know what transpires.

I also heard from Wendy Sissons: “Leedham as a middle name was passed down to the eldest son in my dad’s family. My dad’s dad was Ernest Leedham, his eldest brother was Eric Leedham and Eric’s eldest son, my cousin, is Paul Leedham.

“Funnily enough although my grandfather was Ernest, he passed that name onto my dad who was the third son after Eric and then Dennis. Presumably they didn’t like it enough to give to the eldest!”

Wendy is not sure where the name Leedham came from, but guesses it was the surname of an ancestor and adopted by their descendants at some point as a middle name to commemorate them.

Clare Proctor has an interesting story on the theme: “We don’t have unusual names in our family, but my Dad’s initials were A.A.P. so his four children were all given ‘A’ middle names. We are M.A.P., J.A.P., P.A.P. and C.A.P. Funnily enough, as my sister and I both married Ps, we remain so! Our two daughters have family names, but we chose them because we liked them, then made the link afterwards.”

Clare’s eldest daughter is Molly Paget after her mother’s name and mother-in-law’s maiden name. Her younger daughter is called Lily Alice-Rose which is a combination of both her and her husband’s grandmothers’ names.

Clare adds: “My friend knew a family in the USA with five daughters all named Mary, so there was Mary Jane, Mary Sue, Mary Ann etc!” Unless both parts of the name were used, it must have been very confusing when the postman delivered letters!

Is it something peculiarly American that we regularly see numbers after their male names? For example, former president Bill Clinton’s name at birth was William Jefferson Blythe III (i.e. the Third – he took his stepfather’s surname Clinton later in life). At birth, actor Will Smith was named Willard Carroll Smith II (i.e. the Second). This use of patronymic suffixes is considered a bit pretentious by we Brits because here, the convention is reserved for the Royal family and nobility only. Imagine if your relative started to refer to himself as ‘John Smith the Second’? We’d laugh him out of the building for getting ideas above his station wouldn’t we?

When it came to finding names for my own children, we did use some family names, although not with my eldest whose first and middle names were chosen simply because we liked them. Our second son had the same initials as his father and paternal grandfather because that was a tradition on that side of the family. Our youngest was named after my godfather and my dad, who were two of my favourite men of all time.

Do you have a story of an unusual way of choosing children’s names? Do 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 17th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 15th Oct 2025

Trusting your instinct

Joey, centre, with his girlfriend Tasha and good friend Harry Howells.

I’ve had some super feedback from readers following my column about the sepsis that affected my son Joey when he was a toddler. The memories of that traumatic event were sparked by a humorous line he had written to me in a birthday card: “From the bottom of my heart, thank you for giving me toilet paper when I come over.”

The sepsis was triggered by Meckel’s diverticulum, a pocket of excess tissue that in rare cases can become entangled with the bowel, cutting it off. This led to an infection which in turn led to Joey’s sepsis. Sepsis can turn fatal within hours, so we were extremely lucky to catch it in time, despite the doctors missing it initially. He was rushed to Leeds General Infirmary for emergency surgery which saved his life. Today Joey lives with an upset stomach every day, and hence the witty line he wrote in his card. Despite awareness campaigns, sepsis is still the UK’s second biggest killer disease and is still being missed by both medical professionals and the general public.

Retired nurse Janet Pearce said: “A parent instinctively knows when something is wrong…Even as a nurse I was in situations where I knew something was wrong, but not what, told the doctor and persisted, to find I was right. Nurses call it our sixth sense. More than one contact with services should be a red flag…. NICE (National Institute for Health and Care Excellence) have guidelines for assessing children, but…there are no substitutes for parental and professional gut instincts and high standards of diagnostic ability…. At the heart of all medical situations is communication. That is the most important skill of all. I am so glad your lovely boy made it!”

We saw doctors twice before Joey was admitted, as well as calling the out of hours phone service. And Janet is right about parental instinct. Joey was my youngest of three and I hardly ever called the doctor but those I spoke to ignored my experienced maternal voice. I am now far more assertive where health is concerned. I’d rather harass a doctor and be proved wrong than stay at home and be proved right!

Janet adds: “You are absolutely correct about being proved wrong. Better to be safe than sorry. I used to send patients to A&E and tell them if the doctor had a go at them to get them to ring me…It really should not be a battle, but sadly it often is.”

It sounds like any patient would be very lucky having Janet fighting their corner! Liz Davidson, who has two boys herself, puts it rather well when she says: “What would sons do without Mam?”

Her sentiments are echoed by Neil McBride: “Proof that a mother’s instinct is not to be ignored.” And Joe Micheli adds: “Great story Sarah. You never stop being a parent.”

Jane Reed-Thomas is right too when she says: “What a story Sarah. Glad you trust your instincts now!”

Lynn Catena, who lives in Canada but is originally from Yorkshire, says: “So glad they finally recognised he needed help. I have nothing but praise for the NHS after my 2019 visit to the UK turned into a stay in intensive care (3 days), then a week of observation. I credit my sister (who passed away in February this year) with her determination at her doctor’s office to get me looked after. I am happy I always travel with medical insurance because you never know what can happen.”

I’m extremely glad Lynn got the service she needed, and in lots of instances the NHS works brilliantly and the staff are excellent. I simply want to highlight the lack of awareness about sepsis and its symptoms, despite it being such a huge killer in the UK.

One of Joey’s close friends Harry Howells saw my column online and got in touch to say: “This is a beautiful article, Sarah. And I’m sure I’m speaking on all of his friends’ behalf when I say we’re so happy he’s with us and healthy!”

Yes, Harry, it makes me very happy 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 25th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 23rd July 2025

The oldest are the best

My old school photo taken in 1981 using a camera on a rotating stand

If you moved, you ended up blurry like the boy in the middle of this picture

When I was visiting my mum the other day, who still lives in the house where I grew up, I found an old school photograph that I had forgotten existed. It was taken in 1981 and was a rare ‘whole school’ image. My school used to do this every few years and it was quite a feat to get everyone – pupils, teachers and other staff – to all sit still and and smile (or grimace) at the same time.

To get 450 or so of us in shot, we were arranged in rows of about 80 on a tiered platform. The photographer had to mount the camera on a tripod in the centre of the playground which then rotated from right to left. We were warned sternly that we had to stay as still as possible because if we were moving as the camera scanned us, we would end up out of focus in the final photo. One of the boys did not listen and is forever immortalised as a blurry blob. Another boy, whose ingenuity I rather admire, decided to try and appear on the final picture twice. He started off at one end, then planned to run behind everyone and get to the other end before the camera had finished its journey. Unfortunately for him, he was caught mid-run and unceremoniously plonked in between some much younger boys. He is easy to spot on the final image thanks to standing a good head and shoulders above those around him.

Because the photograph is more than three feet long, it never made it on to any wall, nor into a photo frame, and has remained curled up in a cupboard since 1981.

One of the joys of finding it has been to scan the faces to spot people I knew then, and people I still know now, while laughing at our fabulous 1980s hairstyles. I’m pleased to say that I am still good friends with quite a few of them.

Old friendships are very special, and a few weeks ago I asked if any of you had friendships longer than reader Gurli Svith from Denmark, who told us she had had the same best friend for more than 60 years.

Mary Raynar contacted me to say: “Not quite…Me and Janet met. 59 years ago! I can’t believe I’m saying that!” Mary is my sister Janet’s best friend and they met at primary school in April 1966.

Liz Davidson, who is 78, has the record so far. She still has pals from when she started school at age 5, which adds up to 73 years of friendship. Very impressive!

Lynn Catena, who is originally from Bradford but now lives in Canada, says: “When I visit the UK, I still catch up with friends from the first day of infant school in 1962.”

Artist Neil McBride adds: “It’s 63 years since I became a lifelong friend of my art teacher from secondary school.” I asked Neil if he still sought his mentor’s advice. He replied: “We talk in general terms about art, particularly painting. Where my paintings are quite commercial, his are very purist in contrast so any mutual advice is usually limited to painting technique as any questions arise during discussion. We have some strange discussions about how paint behaves due its physicality, if that makes sense.”

Michale Kilmartin’s comment demonstrated the important role long-term friends can play when you are going through a difficult time: “I’ve known friends since starting school at St George’s Primary in York in 1965. My friend Sean started with me. I became his best man in the 1980s. He supported me through chemotherapy and is still on the end of a phone.”

Lastly Clare Powell has many friends she has known for years, and she wrote me a message explaining her relationships with them from early childhood and into parenthood, where they became godparents to each other’s children. Then, as an afterthought she added: “Oops! I forgot to mention my most important lifelong friend – my husband! We met at school when we were 13 and were part of a gang that are still in touch today. We didn’t get romantic till we were 23 though and now have been married for 42 years.”

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 23rd and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 21st May 2025

Having presents of mind

Reader Clare Proctor, seen here 2nd left with her family, says choosing her favourite day of the year is like choosing between her children – impossible!

Do you remember a few weeks back I asked about your favourite day of the year and mentioned that I treasure the greetings cards that I receive from my boys on special occasions like my birthday and Mother’s Day? They write really lovely things, expressing their feelings in a way that they are unable to do face to face. I commented that in general, girls and women find it easier to talk openly about their deep emotions than men and boys and are far more likely to share their difficulties with close friends and family, who can then offer crucial emotional support.

A few readers got in touch on those two topics. Caroline Newnham says: “We’re not too good as a family at writing heartfelt messages in cards, though one daughter is developing the habit of doing this and I’m not going to discourage it! I asked them not to spend any money on Mother’s Day this year as they’d been very generous for my birthday in February. Some flowers arrived with a message that said succinctly “We have chosen to ignore your silly instruction.”

I loved that, because it sums up what we parents are like. How many of us, when asked by our children what we’d like for our birthday, say: “Oh, you don’t need get me anything!” And do they listen? Of course they don’t, because for them, the pleasure comes from the giving of gifts as much as the receiving of them, and it is a chance to express their love and gratitude.

Having said that, if your relationship with your loved ones is not harmonious, could gift giving be a chance to express that too? Have you ever received a terrible present? Or one that is laced with spite? I have a friend who received a book for Christmas from a relative with whom they had had a recent spat. The book was called ‘S**t Happens, Get Over It’. It ended up in the bin. Another of my friends puts enormous thought into buying special presents for loved ones, not to mention a lot of money too, but she does not always get the same in return. One year, on receipt of a dreary book, she tossed it across the room in disgust at the person’s lack of effort.

It makes me wonder why some people are so good a finding just the right present, knowing exactly what the recipient would like, while others are plain rubbish. I’ll admit that for some of my male friends, I resort to buying them the same thing every year because I don’t know what else to get them. I often rely on the tried and tested – an expensive bottle of wine or, for my brother-in-law, a voucher for his favourite artisan bread shop. I initially apologised for getting the same thing again but much to my relief he replied: “Don’t stop, I love it and use it all the time.”

As for favourite days, Janet Pearce writes: “Our Mother died when we were very young, so Mother’s Day was not a thing in our house. My special day of the year is 13th April, which is the anniversary of my first date with my beloved late husband. We went to Laugherne in South Wales, home of Dylan Thomas whose work we both loved. I still go on the same date each year like we did when he was alive. It is my happy place.”

And Clare Proctor adds: “I don’t have a favourite day of the year. I enjoy every day! It’s like picking your favourite child – impossible because each one is unique and you love them all. As for greeting cards, I have been known to waffle a bit, or write a rhyme, but never too emotional. I’m far too British for that. As for Mother’s Day, I’m a bit of a Scrooge, in that I don’t really believe in it. I tell my girls every day is Mother’s Day in our house. But I do like a card from them, usually humorous rather than sentimental, and being taken out to lunch. But again, they can do that every day as far as I’m concerned!”

What I’d like to know is, what was the worst gift you’ve ever received, and what was the best?

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 16th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 14th May 2025

A little means a lot

My boys always write beautiful and meaningful words in the cards they give me on special occasions

Spring has sprung in earnest now, and as I write this, the sky is cloudless blue and the sun is beating down. Trees and flowers have burst into life, and the chattering birds are furiously building nests in preparation for the arrival of their young. Life is good!

It has been like this all week and is set to continue well into next. In the UK, because our weather is so unpredictable, we are extra grateful when we get a sustained patch of good weather and never take such things for granted.

A few weeks ago I mentioned that my favourite day of the year is the Spring Equinox because it represents a beacon of hope for good weather after a long, miserable winter. It also heralds the arrival of shorter nights and longer days, which cheers me up no end. I also tried to explain the difference between the well-known Spring Equinox and the lesser-known Spring Equilux which resulted in me declaring afterwards that I needed a lie down.

These two annual milestones are determined by scientists who use the rising and the setting of the sun to calculate the length of daytime versus night. They are each measured slightly differently, which is why we have the two.

Alastair Smith, whose wonderful photograph of a sunrise over Runswick Bay accompanied the column, contacted me to say: “Thank you for the credit Sarah. Your explanation of the difference is deserving of a lie down, however make sure it is in the Spring sunshine. Wishing you a great year!”

And Caroline Newnham said: “It’s all a bit mind boggling for me…I need to lie down after reading it. I understand the Latin but that’s as far as it goes!”

I asked if any of you also had a favourite day and for Karl Lynch it is December 25th: “To me Christmas Day is about sharing and creating memories with loved ones. I believe there’s a child in every one of us, and it brings back memories of feeling safe triggered by the smell of Christmas dinner. Merry Christmas, Sarah,” he says.

Although I do love Christmas Day, the fact that it is such hard work for hosts and ridiculously expensive means it lies further down the ‘favourite day’ rankings for me.

Mother’s Day has not long gone, and that too rates highly on my list because it gives me an excuse to lounge about while my boys pamper and spoil me. They also send me cards in which they write really lovely things, expressing their feelings in a way that they are unable to do face to face. In general, girls and women find it easier to talk openly about their deep emotions than men and boys.

That is a sweeping generalisation, but nevertheless it is a fact that suicide is the biggest killer of males under 50, and three quarters of all suicide victims are men. Not unburdening themselves of their innermost struggles is given as a major contributor.

Undoubtedly women can struggle too, but we are far more likely to share our difficulties with close friends and family, who can then offer crucial emotional support.

One thing I taught my boys when they were very little was to say how they felt when they wrote a greetings card. It was a way to get them to express themselves without the embarrassment of doing it out loud or face to face. For example, instead of the simple ‘To Granny, love from Ollie’ I’d ask them to think of something they really liked about their granny to write down, and so the contents of the card would be more meaningful to her.

They continued to do that into their teens and adulthood, and now, with all of them in their 20s, they write truly heartfelt comments in the cards they send to me and their closest loved ones.

I cannot say if it has helped them in terms of expressing their feelings in other areas of life, and they certainly have not escaped their mental health ups and downs, but I do think it has given them a little leg up in the ability to talk openly about their states of mind.

And sometimes, it is the little things that matter.

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 18th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 16th April 2025

No stone unturned

The huge stone trough I spotted in someone’s garden. How did it get there?

The deliberate diagonal markings of the mason’s tool can clearly be seen

Do you remember a while back I wrote about stone masons, and the incredible skills that went into creating the distinctive masonry that features in many homes on the North York Moors? Masons had their own particular way of marking, and the ‘posher’ homes often featured the more labour-intensive herringbone pattern, while more basic patterns were used for less fancy constructions.

I was reminded of those stone masons the other day when I came across a magnificent trough in the back garden of a home near York. I was so captivated by it that it distracted me from the job I was meant to be doing. Thankfully, the clients were interested in hearing what I knew about the markings on the trough. Until I turned up, they’d not considered much about its past and how it had got there.

What initially struck me was the size of the thing. It was between five and six feet long, and about two to three feet wide and the almost same in depth. The internal and external surfaces all featured the distinctive markings made by the stone mason’s tool in a uniform and deliberate diagonal pattern.

It appeared to have been formed out of a single piece of rock because I could not see any joins. I guessed the trough was at least a couple of hundred years old, maybe more, and we all wondered how this huge, heavy beast had got there, if indeed it had ever been transported from elsewhere. The owners said their house was at one time a farm, built in the 1700s, and so it is possible the trough has been in that spot in their garden for up to 300 years.

This is the point where I appeal to those among you who have grown up on ancient farmsteads, or who are familiar with the history of such troughs. I have some questions for you.

– Would the trough have been built from a single piece of masonry?

– If so, how long would it take to hew out all the stone to make such a trough?

– I understand pickaxes were used. Is that true?

– Would it have been built onsite? Or transported from elsewhere? If it was moved, how did they do it in the days before mechanisation?

– This trough has no outlet for water to drain out, so what would it have been used for (It is very deep, so only suitable for big livestock, if indeed that’s what it actually is)?

– Could it be anything other than an ancient water container for animals?

It is one of those occasions where I wish my dad was here, because I am certain he would have been able to answer all those questions. In fact, ancient horse troughs feature heavily in one of his series of books, the Inspector Montague Pluke collection. The eccentric inspector’s hobby, between solving murders, is to seek out and catalogue long forgotten drinking troughs on the North York Moors. I’m sure my dad would have done plenty of research into these often ignored but common features of the landscape. Next time I go home, I will be rifling through his old files!

Before I took over these columns eight years ago, I would have barely given the trough a second glance. But I have learned so much about the lives and traditions of our part of the world, thanks to having to sit down and write them each week, that I’ve found myself appreciating the world around me in a lot more depth. The history, folklore, traditions and skills of our wonderful neck of the woods mean so much more to me now. It really is a blessing, and I must not only thank my dad (for if it wasn’t for his passing, I would not be doing this), but also all of you who continue to read my columns, and who get in touch to help me solve my little mysteries. Your contributions play such an important role, for without them, much of this stuff would be forgotten. Who knows if the following generations will ever be interested, but unless we put our memories down in writing, they will be lost forever.

So, from me to you, please accept a great big THANK 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 11th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 9th April 2025

Who’s going to watch over us?

Dad signing books in the garden wearing his silver watch

Dad having a cuppa a few years later wearing his smart gold watch

Following my story a couple of weeks ago about some friends who were reunited with lost possessions, Michael Brown from Stokesley got in touch with his own tale. If you recall, one friend, Aisling, thought her diamond wedding earrings had been stolen, only to have them given back to her 10 years later after they’d been found in an old jacket pocket. Another friend, Stefan, was reunited with his smart suit jacket after it had been accidentally donated to the school fair and sold for 50p. Stefan bumped into the new owner wearing it on the street who sold it back to him for 50p.

Michael’s story centres around a Christmas party for members of the National Federation of Retail Newsagents. As District President, Michael was invited to the Newcastle branch’s party in Ponteland one year. He’d been planning to drive back home afterwards but was worn out after a long and tiring journey and on top of that, the weather was awful. Having learned that the pub did not have accommodation, the evening’s host, Richard, offered him a room in his home for the night.

Richard and his wife Karen were very warm hosts and provided Michael with most of what he needed for the night, including a dressing gown.

Michael explains: “The next morning, I slipped on the dressing gown and discovered a watch in the pocket. Reaching the kitchen, I presented my find to Karen. She was overjoyed. Although not hugely valuable, the watch held a lot of sentimental value as it was her grandmother’s and had been missing for quite some time.”

Whenever Michael sees Richard and Karen now, they reminisce about the occasion and Karen’s unexpected reunion with her grandmother’s long lost watch. “That evening has created a special bond between us,” says Michael.

What a lovely tale, with serendipity playing a vital part, as it so often does in stories like this. So many variables had to slot into place to enable Stefan to get his jacket back, for Aisling to recover her earrings and for Michael to discover Karen’s watch. She may never have otherwise found it had she not offered the dressing gown to Michael on his impromptu stopover. Perhaps from above, Grandmother had been influencing the way all the chips fell so that her watch and her granddaughter could be happily reunited.

It makes me wonder how many people still wear watches? I haven’t had one for years and have not missed it because there are so many clocks surrounding me, on my phone, in the car, on household appliances. Having a clock hanging on the kitchen wall that the whole family rely on is no longer necessary thanks to the electronic gadgets at our fingertips.

There’s a fair few of us who will have watches that have been passed down through the generations though. My dad used to wear his own dad’s timepiece, although in later life, a smart gold one replaced it.

A couple of weeks ago, I asked you which is the one item you’d save from a fire and wondered if you’d be practical – like a passport; or valuable – like jewellery; or sentimental – like photos. If I had to choose one of the two watches I mentioned above I’d probably save my dad’s rather than Grandad’s because I remember him wearing it with much pride and therefore has more sentimental value to me. It is a hard choice, though, and I have no doubt that I wouldn’t get rid of either unless I really had to.

Harbouring of items of sentimental value is the reason I have a garage that is still full of boxes I have not unpacked; boxes that contain a load of stuff I cannot bring myself to throw away and yet cannot face sorting out either. How does one make the decision to throw away hundreds of letters sent between myself and my best friend, or my parents, or my siblings? They become even harder to let go once the writer has passed away. But they are in a box, and unlikely to be read by anyone except me, and only now and then. What the heck do I do with them?

It makes me ask again, what you might save from a fire if you had to choose but one item?

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 21st March and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 19th March 2025

Out of the fire

Betty McDonald on holiday in Southern Spain last year. She has kept diaries since she was young

I’ve had some more feedback from readers on the subject of photographs. Betty MacDonald, who will turn 90 this year (I hope you don’t mind me mentioning that, Betty!) writes: “I have many photographs from years gone by, and memories of sending them off to be developed and printed, and especially onto slides…we used to have many an evening watching a slide show.”

She adds: “I’ve kept diaries for decades, which I enjoy writing, and call my ‘reference library’. I can look up what I did 50 years ago on any given date. These are for me only. I have mentioned to my daughter when the time comes to find a spot in the garden and burn them all, although this might not be possible as I fear the fire brigade might have to be in attendance!

“Queen Elizabeth kept a diary and at 6 o’clock every day she sat down to write in it. So I feel as though I have been in good company…I’ve enjoyed my time with all of my collections of stuff over the years, but nothing is forever.”

Betty’s daughter send me a sweet note about her mother too: “She’s a fantastic mam and nana, always has an interesting story to tell and has such a happy outlook on life.” And at the end she added: “P.S. I won’t burn the diaries!”

Do many people still keep daily diaries? My gut tells me not, because everything is so ‘visual’ today that it is rare to find someone who takes the time to sit down and write about their day. I did it when I was a teenager, and when I was away on a gap year in the mid-1980s. I also wrote diaries when I went travelling in South-East Asia because my dad said I would regret it if I didn’t. They came in useful on my return when the newspaper I worked for asked me to do a series of travelogues about each country I visited. It would have been impossible without the diaries, and so I was very grateful for my dad’s advice.

I occasionally look back upon them now with an understanding of why it was so important to keep a contemporaneous record. There is so much detail that I would never have remembered, and they take me back to a time when I was young and carefree. The 1980s don’t seem that long ago, and yet so much has changed since then that they make a fascinating read. They may not mean much to anyone else, but perhaps my children will one day find them interesting.

Alan Graham also got in touch to say: “I always read your piece and was interested in the recent topic of printing photos. Like others I rarely if ever print photos nowadays but I do print and enlarge those that are good, clear and of lasting interest…and mount them in a traditional photo album, the sort with blank pages and a sheet of tracing paper between…Double-sided sellotape is all that’s needed on the back and they never come adrift, even decades later. A short typed label under each photo (who, where, when) adds a permanent memory.

“I’ve got precious pictures of my daughter growing up, my wife, even my cars and motorbikes going back 40 years and these albums are the things I’d save – as they say – in a fire.”

And that prompts me to ask, what would you save from a fire? Would it be something practical like your passport, or something valuable, like your jewellery? Or like Alan, would it be pictures of your loved ones?

For me, the material stuff means nothing, but there are certain things that cannot ever be replaced, such as signed copies of my dad’s books, handwritten letters from loved ones from years ago. I also have a large collection of birthday and Mother’s Day cards that my children have sent me every year since they were able to write and in which they have written very special messages that I never want to lose.

But, as Betty says, we cannot take everything with us, can we. So if you had to choose just one item to save, what would it be and why? Do get in touch via my contact page to let me know.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 14th March and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 5th March 2025