Tag: travel

Home is where the heart is

I was pleased to see some old customs still persist when I stayed in my home village recently, such as leaving home-grown apples on a  doorstep for passers-by to help themselves

My mum still lives in the village where I grew up and although I visit her regularly, I don’t often get the chance to leisurely wander around, to take the time revisit the places and spaces that I used to walk past every day in my childhood.

A couple of weeks ago, I was lucky enough to do that when friends who have recently moved there asked me to house sit for a full week while they went on holiday. It gave me that opportunity of time, time to amble about in a place that is so familiar, and yet parts of which I’ve not visited properly for years.

I don’t know why I still expected to recognise almost everyone I met, or for them to recognise me. Of course they didn’t because, like me, the village has moved on and people have moved in. It’s one of those increasingly rare rural spots that is fortunate to still have a village shop and post office, a doctor’s surgery, two pubs, a café and a primary school. And yet, when I think back to everything that used to be there, so many amenities have vanished – a baker, a butcher, a petrol garage, a school, a grocery store, a chip shop and a quirky habadasher-cum-clothes-cum-shoe shop. It was a unique establishment run by an elderly lady from what was her front room. She sold a bizarre array of merchandise which never seemed to shift, and yet, if you needed a pair of wellies in a hurry, she was your woman.

I still class the village as my home, and myself as a member of its community, having been brought there as a baby in 1967 – nearly 60 years ago (good grief). Dad had been the bobby of the neighbouring village since 1964, but in 1967 was offered a new post from his boss alongside a new mortgage from his bank manager. It meant we could move out of the police house and into our very own cottage with a lovely long garden at the back where fun games were played while fond memories were made.

There are plenty of people who have been residents for as long, or even longer, than my mum. And yet, as you’d expect, there are plenty of ‘newcomers’ who I don’t know and who have no idea who I am nor my connection to the old place. I feel a sense of ownership, and yet a slight pang of indignation at the thought that these residents probably think I am the stranger.

One evening as the sun was setting beneath a lilac sky, I began my 15 minute walk back to my friends’ cottage after having had tea with my mum. I took the opportunity to dawdle, to absorb all the sights and sounds around me. The background music of a village settling down for the evening accompanied me – somebody trying to finish cutting their hedge in the fading light, others chitchatting behind closed doors, and actors’ voices, sound effects and theme tunes drifting through windows amidst the flickering glow of TV screens. The main street was still so familiar, largely unchanged apart from a few more parked cars lining either side. It was relatively traffic free as the evening light faded into darkness and the streetlights came on. As I walked past one of the pubs, I was pleased to see that it was busy with drinkers at the bar and diners in the restaurant. Like many such establishments, these hostelries have not had it easy in recent years, but these are still going, and hopefully will do so for many years to come.

As I pottered on, I felt the village still possessed its essential character, despite the fact that where were once open spaces, new houses now stood, but they were built with golden yellow stone under pinky-red pantile roofs, charming and cozy, as traditional Yorkshire cottages were meant to be.

Most heartwarming of all was to see echoes of customs past; on one doorstep sat a basket of eating apples with a ‘Help yourself’ sign (I did!). There was another selling free range eggs, while one more offered home-grown courgettes and squashes alongside honey & jam, with honesty boxes for you to deposit the small fee. 

I felt very much at home.

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 9th Oct and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 7th Oct 2026

 

Fishing for the answer

 

The aggressive and non-native signal crayfish with its distinctive flash of white at its claw joint. This voracious beast is driving our native species towards extinction. Picture from the Non Native Species Secretariat website.

As I mentioned last week, I came across a reserve for the white-clawed crayfish on a recent walk near Threshfield Quarry in the Yorkshire Dales where information boards explained the threat from its foreign cousin, the signal crayfish. The reserve was a small pond designed with the specific needs of the crayfish in mind such as places to hide from predators, the right food, and of course, no sign of the dastardly enemy.

This problem was mentioned by reader John Aston from Thirsk who listed it among a number of invasive plant and animal species affecting our waterways. He’d read my columns about the troublesome invader, Himalayan Balsam, which prompted him to get in touch.

On that note, you may remember that it was the appearance of Anna on The Great British Sewing Bee TV programme that sparked a whole series of columns on this particular invasive species. Anna had highlighted the issue by featuring the pretty pink bloom on an outfit she had created and I was rooting for her because not only was she exceptionally creative, but she came from our very own York. I watched the final last night and guess what? She won! Go Anna!

The white-clawed crayfish is our only native species of crayfish and populations have been decimated by its bigger and brasher American counterpart. This vicious marauder was brought over from the north-west USA in the 1970s and 80s to become a delicacy on fine dining restaurant menus.

Demand led to commercial farms breeding them, but what they did not take into account was that, unlike salmon and trout which, due to a distinct lack of limbs, obligingly remained confined to their ponds, these crafty crustaceans had legs and therefore were able to climb out of the ponds and amble to freedom. If they couldn’t escape over land then, thanks to their scarily big sharp claws, another option was to burrow into the muddy banks until they were beyond the boundaries of the farm. Failing that, option three was to scuttle into the water pipes feeding the pond (which they did to protect themselves from predators) to find that these pipes led somewhere, and so they kept on scuttling, ultimately finding themselves at the opposite end. With one splash they were frolicking in open water.

Once liberated, these prolific breeders began to make whoopee, kicking the smaller, more passive and less randy native white-clawed crayfish out of their homes, leaving them exposed to hungry otters and that other ‘liberated from breeding farms’ pest, the mink. But that was not all – the poor white-clawed crayfish were left with very slim pickings for food, as the greedy Yanks were always first to the table, and just for good measure they also infected their British counterparts with the delightful ‘crayfish plague’ for which they had no resistance due to the fact they’d never been exposed to it before. It was a crayfish calamity which is still having repercussions today.

Round of applause then for those short-sighted idiots who brought signal crayfish over here without a thought for the potential impact on our one and only native species. The scientific blinkers were on, wilfully ignoring past disasters caused by introducing invasive species into the country in the vain hope that all would be OK; that a crayfish wouldn’t think to use its legs to simply crawl to pastures new. How could that be? The American mink catastrophe was still at the forefront of many people’s minds too (brief summary – American mink were imported and bred for their fur. They also escaped their farms through inadequate security and a few well-meaning but dim anti-fur campaigners who thought setting them free was a good idea. Our now almost extinct native water vole would beg to differ).

There are some very hardworking organisations and volunteers who are desperately trying to help these threatened species survive, but unless the invasive predators are brought under control, it is highly unlikely that our freshwater crayfish or our water vole will ever recover.

So if on your travels you see a white-clawed crayfish reserve, also known as an ‘ark’, then stop a while and take time to read those information boards explaining what the conservationists are trying to do. And hopefully, one day, we will learn from our past mistakes.

One day.

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 September 2026

Mark my woods

In the 19th century large timbers shipped across from the Baltic and would have come into ports such as Hull. The marks are a code for where and who supplied and shipped the timbers, but their meaning is still not known. Pictures by John Buglass

Following my column about ancient reused timbers in house construction a few weeks ago, I’ve been contacted by a couple of experts who kindly took the time to put me straight on a few points.

Marine archaeologist and timber expert John Buglass was the first to correct an oft-repeated story:

“I am afraid that the reuse of ‘shipwreck’ in old buildings is a long held belief that has very little or no actual evidence. Several things to consider about ‘shipwreck’ timbers: firstly they are a wreck so are often badly damaged and salt affected (and often in remote locations); secondly if it was from a broken up ship at the end of its working life…then that is 30-40 years in a marine environment; thirdly, why would you go to great expense and time to haul timbers from the coast to an inland site when other closer sources would be available? That is not to say there aren’t some coastal buildings that have reused ships’ timbers but they are very few in number.”

So the romantic story that I have perpetuated is a load of old cobblers. How disappointing! I have a feeling my dad would be raising an eyebrow at me from above for not having dug a little deeper. I am always happy to be corrected by people with more expertise than me though!

John added: “We are only too familiar with the claim of many historic property owners that their house is made from ships’ timbers, despite the fact that it is located many miles from the nearest navigable waterway, let alone the coast. But this does little to dissuade the long held and cherished belief…This even extended to an inspection of Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage which could plausibly have had timbers from boats operating on nearby Grasmere, but sadly this was not the case. There are, of course, the exceptions which prove the rule. Probably the most extensive example is Chesapeake Mill on Bridge Street in Wickham, Hampshire. This Grade II* listed building is substantially built from American longleaf pine from the dismantled remains of the American warship Chesapeake which was captured in 1813 by HMS Shannon and dismantled in Portsmouth in 1819.”

He continued: “Hauling large timbers from the coast into the Dales is true in some cases…some large timbers in 19th century buildings have what are known as Baltic timber marks. These are from large timbers shipped across from the Baltic where the forests still had large trees that could be used for substantial buildings. They would have come into ports such as Hull and been hauled inland on oxen carts. But these are new timbers, not reused ones. The marks are a code for where and who supplied and shipped the timbers, but I’m not sure how they are decoded.”

John agreed to look at the marks on the timbers I featured in my article, but I will save his comments for a future article.

Jim Coulson is a wood scientist and member of the International Wood Committe of the International Council On Monuments and Sites. He has a spent more than 30 years working with timber and backed up John’s comments:

“The reuse of old timbers is a common thing to have done, but almost never from ships – that is just an Old Wives’ Tale. Most ships’ timbers were the wrong dimension and shape for building houses, and it was far more common to reuse timbers from barns or other disused buildings.”

He added: “Reused beams are found in many older properties, but it is usually impossible to say where they came from…Identification of such beams is possible as to wood species, but their origins would be almost impossible to pin down without some sort of documentary evidence.”

As for the marks I noticed on the beams in ‘my’ house, he states: “The marks…are usually carpenters’ marks, often used to identify the particular craftsman, but sometimes, in very old mediaeval buildings, they were used to ward off evil, and known as ‘witches’ marks’.”

I’ve written about witches’ marks myself, and my dad was an expert, his theory being that some were connected to Catholic martyr Father Nicholas Postgate.

Were they, as Dad believed, a decoy to fool Catholic persecutors into thinking that a safe house was occupied by pagans rather than treasonous Catholics?

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 24th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 22nd July 2026

Wood you know this?

Marks on a beam in an old house I visited recently

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

I wonder if this beam had a previous life?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Hog your ground for good weather

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. Bury a sausage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Water engineering marvel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those Victorians weren’t half clever.

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

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

Is it Written in the Stars?

A rather blurry old photo of the Corkseller’s Grave. But the shape of the hills in the background might help us identify the location. Can you recognise it? (Picture: Paul Grantham)

I am constantly surprised by how far and wide my columns are read.

Chris Starfire contacted me with the following: “Hello, I’m far away in Oregon in the USA but fascinated by your story of the Corkseller’s Grave.” Chris, I am fascinated how you found me – and by your surname too! Where does an exotic name like Starfire come from?

Chris read the piece a few weeks ago in which I described trying to find the grave with the help of my son Joey. We were unsuccessful, and Chris got in touch with a couple of helpful ideas: “Poking around online, I noticed that there are two sets of instructions to find the grave and they differ in 30 yards.”

He spotted that in my piece I said ‘…you will find the grave on the road between Glaisdale and Rosedale Abbey. Stop by the small bridge over Bluewath Beck and walk for 50 yards heading east along the south bank of the stream.’

But he found an further piece written by Paul Grantham, other than the 1990s article of his which I had used for my column. He noticed that it said: ‘The isolated grave lies just south of the road junction one mile north of Hamer House, at a point where the road crosses the beck. Park on the bridge and follow the stream east for about 20 yards.’

There was a small photo accompanying the article, and Chris pointed out: “The photo is quite small on the Grantham website, but could be useful for a sight line on the surrounding hills… Best of luck finding the grave if you go looking again!”

I have tried my best to improve the image, which I’ve included with this piece, and it’s not the best quality, but indeed the shape of the background hills can clearly be seen in the distance. Could this be useful for identification? Someone who knows the area better than me might be able to recognise it. If so, please do get in touch!

I have also been contacted by yet another arm of the Eddon family, who you may remember were at one time the licensees of Hamer Inn. James and Elizabeth Eddon took over from the Ford family at the end of the 18th century, and had 11 children. Lily, took over the running of Hamer Inn in 1914 when her parents moved on.

“Following on from your articles about Hamer House, I am David Turnbull grandson of Elizabeth and James Eddon. My mother was Annie Eddon, daughter of Elizabeth and James, and she married Wilfred Turnbull. She was sister to Lily Boddy. Annie was one of 11 children and was born at Hamer Inn. The family moved at some point to run the Black Bull pub on the Pickering/Malton Road where James was unfortunately kicked by a horse and killed. We presume Lily was left behind to run Hamer. My sisters think Lily died quite young but we have no dates. I hope this information is of interest to you.”

It certainly is of interest, David, and I am very grateful to you for getting in touch. I was very sorry to learn about the way James died, which Paul Grantham had mentioned in his 1990s article that I featured. It must have been in 1923 because my research shows that Annie, who was born in 1906, was 17 at the time.

As for David’s question about how long Lily lived, I think she reached a fair age judging by the photos that I published a few weeks back, but I’m not sure how long, or the year that she passed away. Perhaps one of her many relatives out there will be able to tell us?

In the meantime, I have another mystery that has landed in my lap. I was invited on a trip into the Yorkshire Dales last weekend, and on a lovely walk, I spotted a cave in the side of a hill.

I was informed that the legendary Grassington murderer Tom Lee used the cave to hide from his pursuers.

Grassington murderer? Of course that set me off on another quest to find out who the heck Tom Lee was, and what had happened. If you are reading this and know that story, I’d love to hear from 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 24th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 22nd April 2026

Mark of respect for lowly corkseller

The corkseller’s grave near Bluewath Beck, high on the North York Moors , in a photo taken by reader John Severs in the 1990s.


I’m am getting some wonderful extra information coming in from you brilliant readers on topics I have covered in recent weeks.

 

If you recall, I’ve been writing about Hamer Inn, which was a thriving coaching stop on the North York Moors on the high road between Glaisdale and Rosedale Abbey. It had a number of previous names including the Lettered Board, and the Wayside Inn, ultimately ending up as Hamer House before it became derelict sometime in the late 1930s we believe. All that remains now are a few stones on a patch of smooth grass.

 

I first mentioned the inn thanks to reader David Ford, who is trying to trace a picture of it before it became derelict. Sadly we have yet to find one, but his message led me to re-read what my dad had written about it, including three stories of mysterious deaths at the inn. In the first, two apparently healthy guests retired to bed, only to be found dead the next day with no apparent cause. The second was a licensee who killed his wife, and the third involved a fight ending with a man being bludgeoned to death with a poker.

 

There was another sad story that occurred not inside the inn itself but nearby. A corkseller was a regular visitor, and David Ford’s ancestors, who were licensees, knew him well. One ferocious winter, he succumbed to the elements and his body was found much later not far from the Lettered Board Inn, his basket of corks lying nearby enabling him to be identified.

 

Reader John Severs got in touch and said: “After reading your article…I rummaged in my documents and photos to find something which may interest you. The photo that I took approximately 30 years ago shows the corkseller’s grave.”

 

The corkeseller’s grave? I was astounded, because I never imagined that such a thing existed, nor that it is still visible to this day. My dad did not mention it in his book and I don’t recall him talking about it to me, which might explain why I remained in ignorance.

 

I wonder if you agree with me, that it is quite a moving and remarkable image, showing the full length of the grave, marked out in stones in the unmistakable shape of a human body.

 

John also sent me a copy of an article written about the same time (1990s) about unconsecrated graves, with a focus on this particular one. The text, written by Paul Grantham, is an extract from the North Moors Association magazine and describes how well received itinerant tradespeople like the corkseller were:

 

‘As well as plying their trade they would bring news of the outside world, provide an extra pair of hands for heavy jobs and when necessary, act as entertainer and confidante…such was the prevailing attitude that they would generally receive, at the minimum, some sustenance and overnight shelter.’

 

Grantham believes our corkseller would have been active on the moors in the 18th century, trekking between isolated farms and inns peddling his wares. He would have been a familiar face and his arrival expected by local farmers and licensees.

 

Sadly, his threadbare clothes were not enough to protect him from one particularly savage winter, and he perished, his body being discovered some time later with his meagre belongings nearby.

 

At the time, no-one would have wanted to take responsibility for transporting him to the nearest church for burial because of the costs involved and so, as was perfectly legal at the time, they would have buried him where he was found.

 

Although this tale was passed down by word of mouth, there are no official records revealing the man’s name or anything else about him. But over the years, passers-by would realign the stone markers and someone occasionally placed a wooden cross at its head (the previous ones being ruined by the elements).

 

I would like to pay my respects next time I am over that way, and if you do too, you will find the grave on the road between Glaisdale and Rosedale Abbey. Stop by the small bridge over Bluewath Beck and walk for 50 yards heading east along the south bank of the stream.

 

I’m not sure if anyone still places a cross there, but if you know anything at all, do tell!

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 Feb 2026

A festive labour of love

For myself and others the marathon task of preparing Christmas dinner is an expression of love for those about to eat it

 

I’ve had some interesting feedback following my highly controversial column suggesting Yorkshire puddings belonged on the Christmas dinner table, while cauliflower cheese did not.

Reader Mary Raynar says she always makes everything from scratch for Christmas lunch, and adds, startlingly: “And yes to both Yorkshire puddings and cauliflower cheese! It’s a real labour of love and I always joke that next year it’ll be beans on toast, but of course it never is!”

I will forgive Mary’s lapse in judgement on the cauliflower cheese, because, like her, all the hassle and work that I put into that one lunch is my expression of love for those about to eat it. The lengthy preparation is an essential seasonal ritual, capped off by the other ritual of photographing the banquet laid out in all its glory on the festive table.

Yorkshire-born Lynn Catena lives in North America and says: “We didn’t eat Yorkshire puds this Christmas (I wasn’t cooking), but they’re usually on the table. We prefer prime beef rib over turkey because we often celebrate Canadian (October) and US (November) Thanksgiving holidays with turkey.” Lynn didn’t completely miss out on her beloved Yorkshires though: “I did make a few, days before, with beef stew.”

I can understand how Lynn would be all turkey’d out by Christmas after the double Thanksgiving, and some would argue that there are far tastier meats to grace the table than the traditional big bird, which can be quite dry and tasteless, depending on how it is cooked (or who is cooking it!).

Judith Barber is not a fan of roast dinners generally and says: “As someone who hates gravy, I like cauliflower cheese with Christmas dinner. Yorkshire puddings we rarely eat, and I have no preference to their presence at Christmas.”

She adds: “But KFC, I would never, ever eat because of the way their chickens are treated – as a mass commodity – which is why local farmers are so important. And fresh, not fast, food.”

Judith is right about the importance of local farmers and fresh food, and is referring to the Japanese custom of eating Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC) on Christmas Day, which I also discussed in my column.

The popularity of KFC at Christmas boomed in Japan in the 1970s after branch manager Takeshi Okawara overheard some foreign customers declaring they missed turkey so were ordering a bucket of chicken for Christmas instead. In the blink of an eye Colonel Sanders was dressed in a Santa suit and adverts were being rolled out showing families gathered around a festive bucket of the crispy delicacy. ‘Kentucky at Christmas’ was an instant hit, and 50 years later, four million customers across Japan queue around the block to pick up their Christmas party barrels.

According to KFC’s UK website, the company will only work with suppliers committed to good animal husbandry and welfare standards. They also say they support the global ‘Five Freedoms of Animal Welfare’ which are as follows: 

1. Freedom from hunger or thirst by ready access to fresh water and a diet to maintain full health and vigour.

2. Freedom from discomfort by providing an appropriate environment including shelter and a comfortable resting area.

3. Freedom from pain, injury or disease by prevention or rapid diagnosis and treatment.

4. Freedom to express normal behaviour by providing sufficient space, proper facilities and company of the animal’s own kind.

5. Freedom from fear and distress by ensuring conditions and treatment, which avoids mental stress.

All very noble, and yet a 2022 undercover investigation showed that these standards were not being met at one of KFC’s main suppliers. The chain undertook to investigate and promised to ensure practices improved. I haven’t been able to find out whether that has happened or not.

The thing is, fast food is enjoyed by so many people in this country, including me on occasion, that it is not going anywhere anytime soon, and therefore the best way forward is to keep putting pressure on giants like KFC and other fast food chains to maintain standards and they in turn will put pressure on their suppliers to maintain good animal welfare practices too.  

I think Liz Davidson echoes the thoughts of many a traditionalist Brit when she says simply: “ I don’t really fancy KFC for Christmas lunch.”

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 9th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 7th Jan 2026

For the ones who never came home

Lynne Catena’s uncle, Arthur Pearce, who was killed in WWII during the North Africa campaign in 1941. This picture was taken before the war, in his early 20s, and proudly dressed for a military tattoo.

A few more responses have come in on recent topics. Maxine Gordon contacted me about the convention of incorporating a maiden name into a child’s given name: “Both my sister and I and my best friend from Kirkcaldy have this tradition. We have our grandma’s maiden names as our middle names…I think it was unusual and raised some eyebrows at school etc, so probably dying out even in the 1970s. We might have been a last generation – my mum doesn’t even have a middle name.”

Maxine mentioned something which had not before occurred to me: “As kids you don’t want to stand out, so when they read your name at primary school and people laughed, that wasn’t so nice.” An unusual name certainly could make you a target for mockery among your childhood peers.

Until Fiona White contacted me, I had only come across the maiden name used as a middle name. But her family did something different: “My brother was given my mum’s maiden name as his first name – Innes.” Like Maxine’s family, the name Innes is Scottish. Are there more maiden names given as first names in that part of the world I wonder?

A couple of weeks ago I told the story of Lynn Catena’s Uncle Arthur, who was killed at age 24 while serving in the North Africa campaign in WWII. The war generation are notably reluctant to talk about their experiences. While Clare Proctor was watching the recent Remembrance commemorations, she was particularly captivated by the recollections of a veteran who, like her own father, had served in Burma (now Myanmar). “This veteran was saying that when returning from that war zone they were instructed by their superiors not to go home and talk about their war, because the people of Britain had suffered enough! So, he said, they never talked about it. My father certainly didn’t.”

She adds: “My cousin (30 years older than me) said our family did not celebrate VE Day because her Uncle Allan was still at war in the Far East. Their big day was VJ Day.” It’s satisfying to see that VJ Day is now being suitably commemorated, considering how many of our soldiers fought and died out there.

Robert Carter contacted me after seeing my piece about the Alamein Memorial a couple of weeks ago. Robert visited the Commonwealth, German, and Italian memorials and the Al Alamein Military Museum.

He says: “I was particularly interested to see the number of joint graves which were the last resting places of mainly armoured vehicle crews who presumably could not be separated because of the circumstances of their deaths. As a former soldier I thought it very apt that as they had fought and died together that they should be buried together.”

He adds: “The German and Italian memorials were built in the fifties which involved collecting the bodies from both nations that were widely distributed across the former battlefield and as a result many are listed as ‘Unknown’. The Italian memorial is, as you might expect, a tall very elegant building whereas the German is more sombre and fortress-like. Interestingly, inside the German building is a ring of sarcophagi, each one dedicated to each of the German states, ie Brandenberg, Mecklenburg, and so on, with a list of the servicemen from that state who died during the course of the battle…The museum was an excellent tribute to all of the nations involved with each being given equal status and range of exhibits.”

It is a sombre reminder that ordinary families on both sides of the conflict suffered equally with the loss of their loved ones.

When Lynn told me the story of her Uncle Arthur, I was saddened that I didn’t know what he looked like and assumed that I was unlikely to ever see a picture of him.

But I was wrong. Lynn found a photo and explains: “This is an old photo of Arthur Pearce that I took from my mum’s collection. She told me he wanted to be a career soldier. I believe, in this photo, he’d taken part in a military tattoo. RIP to the uncle I never met.”

Using his picture here is my small tribute to just one of the many young men who never came home.

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

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 5th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 3rd Dec 2025