Tag: writing

Rallying support for Heartbeat jamboree

It’ll be emotional when I am reunited with my dad’s old Jaguar at the Heartbeat Vehicle Rally in June. I’ve not seen it since 2017. If you’d like to help me by sponsoring the event in some way, please get in touch with this paper or through my web page.

A couple of weeks ago I was looking for information about a needlework sampler that featured York Minster, as well as information about a group of girls creating samplers around the village of Lastingham. I’d been contacted by Sarah Duce whose great aunt Hannah Stonehouse completed a different sampler in 1808 and which was one of four about which Sarah was trying to find out more. “I believe one might have been by a Mary Wilson who was born around 1791 in Hartoft, and wondered if there might have been some sort of connection…I believe my Great Grandma x5, Sarah Harding (nee Smith), may have been the teacher of these girls…She was schoolmistress of Lastingham following the death of her schoolmaster husband from consumption at the young age of 30.”

The Minster sampler was sewn by a girl called Ann Raw and I wondered if she had actually been sitting in front of the building to create it. Reader Gillian Hunt contacted me to say: “The York Minster sampler – same motif on another sampler, which suggests the girls were following a design by someone else – maybe by their needlework teacher?” It means they probably did it in a classroom setting.

Gillian specialises in researching samplers like this, and two years ago was very helpful in relation to helping me understand the significance of the needlework motifs on one that hung in my mum’s kitchen by a young girl called Hannah Raw. Is she related to Ann Raw? We don’t yet know.

Gillan informed me in 2023: “Hannah’s sampler has two sets of initials after the date – MR and what looks like ER…If ER is in dark thread, they are most likely to have died before Hannah completed her sampler.”

Gillian discovered that the initials represented Hannah’s parents Matthew and Ellis Raw. Ellis’s initials were in a dark thread and further research confirmed she had indeed passed away. Matthew Raw died a few years after the sampler was created, when Hannah was still a teenager.

Gillian’s help, among others, led us to being able to fill out much of Hannah’s life story. Best of all, we found a living relative, a direct descendant of Hannah’s brother John Raw. My ultimate goal is to find a living relative of Hannah herself.

On another note, I took a trip up to Goathland last weekend to meet the posse who are responsible for organising the annual Heartbeat Vehicle Rally. This year’s event is scheduled for the weekend of 27th and 28th June.

The rally has boomed over the years, and last time attracted around 6,000 visitors over the two days. They flocked to the village to meet star guests and to study the collection of wonderful vintage vehicles, some of which appeared in the TV show. The local businesses do a roaring trade, with hotels, B&Bs and holiday homes fully booked many months in advance. The local cafes and shops are overflowing, and with the car parks bursting at the seams, some prefer to arrive by steam on the North York Moors Railway. It brings a huge financial boost into the area, and yet those who organise it don’t make a penny from it (And, for the record, neither does my family!).

It’s a truly wonderful, family occasion, and those involved in its planning put in hours of hard work, as well as their own money, all for the love of Heartbeat. Any profits raised are donated to Goathland Primary School.

As the event grows in size, the work and challenges, both financial and practical, increase. This year we are looking for sponsorship to help with the mounting costs involved. Please contact me via this paper or my web page if you are willing to help. I will also be knocking on a few business doors over the coming weeks as the event looms.

This year there is one particular vehicle that I cannot wait to see. It is my dad’s very own vintage Mark II Jaguar. That car had been part of our family since I was a child, but sadly we had to sell it in the wake of his death in 2017. I thought I’d never see it again. But now it’s been found and is coming to the rally.

It’s going to be one heck of an emotional reunion!

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 March 2026

Keeping up with the post

 

 

The picture of a witch post sent to me. By Stanislav Stefane

 

I never know who is going to contact me, nor where they come from, and so I was intrigued when I received the following message from a gentleman called Stanislav Stefane:

“Will you be publishing your father’s papers on the so-called witch posts? There is limited information available online, and I find them fascinating. I am also interested in one that is for sale, dated 1667. Is there perhaps an example with this date mentioned in your father’s papers?”

I replied to him that Dad had composed a whole book about them but sadly died before the final draft made it into print. At the moment there are no plans to publish it, but his extensive historical research is still there in his study. Dad had a very strong Catholic faith and his findings prompted him to believe that many so-called witch posts were not connected to witches at all, but were in fact related to the famous Catholic Martyr of the Moors, Father Nicholas Postgate.

I discovered that Stanislav was based in Slovenia, and asked him what sparked his interest.

“I collect carved oak antiques from the 17th and 18th centuries, mainly pieces that have a carved date and the initials of their owners. By chance, I came across a reference to the so-called ‘witch post,’ which also occasionally bears a carved date. I find the story surrounding them most fascinating. There is one currently for sale, and I thought that perhaps it might have been known to your father. I am not sure whether the post is even original, but if it had been seen by your father, there would be no doubt about its authenticity. I hope you will publish your father’s findings on them. They are probably among the most mysterious and misunderstood of British oak antiques.”

It sounds like Stanislav may have caught the ‘witch post’ bug which affected my dad in the later years of his life, and he would certainly agree with Stanislav’s use of the term ‘misunderstood’. Having started to research them, Dad became more and more fascinated, and began to believe that many of these ‘witch posts’ were not to ward off evil but to indicate ‘safe houses’ for persecuted Catholics.

Even though the full book has not been published Dad did produce an interim pamphlet in 2008, in which he explains why he became so captivated by the topic.

“I began my research more than a year ago but the subject has developed so greatly and produced so many surprises that I have still not completed my investigations…The task is almost complete and it has proved a most enjoyable and enlightening experience.”

Among his files I found a letter to an interested party in which Dad admits that he made mistakes in earlier writings due to the existing information upon which he was relying being incorrect or inaccurate, of which he was unaware at the time. He only realised this once he’d embarked on his own quest to find out more.

“My research into witch posts has revealed quite a lot of errors on my part (and on the part of earlier writers). I hope my recent efforts will rectify some of those – I relied too heavily on earlier works by authors I thought were infallible!”

As yet I have been unable to find Stanislav’s particular post in my dad’s files, but I will keep looking. It has made me think that I ought to do something about all this information that Dad put so much time and effort into researching.

On another note, Katherine Hill has been back in touch after attending a reunion of the Bean family. Katherine contacted me after reading a column where I mentioned Peep o’Day Farm near Husthwaite. She thought her grandfather, Samuel Bean, may have been born there.

A posse of Beans gathered on Sunday March 1st, including her 99-year-old aunt Sylvia, who was a Bean until she married in 1953. “It was a very enjoyable time reminiscing about our childhood at Burton Garth, Knapton.”

Thanks to the endeavours of some very helpful readers, particularly Rex North, I was able to pass on much more information about the Bean family history to her. I wish Katherine all the best with her continuing research and hope there are more Beans yet to be discovered!

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 20th  and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 18th March 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

Homing in on Hamer

 

The 1989 Malton Gazette and Herald article about Hamer House sent to me by Howard Campion. Do you know who wrote it?

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that reader Howard Campion was sending me a copy of a 1989 article that talked about Hamer Inn that once stood on the road between Glaisdale and Rosedale Abbey on the North York Moors. Also known as the Lettered Board, all that now remains is a pile of stones on an expanse of smooth grass surrounded by heather. It used to be a thriving inn providing rest and sustenance for weary travellers and workers from the coal mines operating nearby.

 

Howard wondered if the article had been written by my dad (there was no writer’s name attached to it) and now that I have had a chance to read it, I think not. The writing style is a little different and because my dad was not an employed ‘reporter’ as such, he rarely conducted interviews like those that are featured. Unless the writer recognises his work and gets in touch, we might never know! I have attached a picture of said article, so that you can see it for yourself. It is a fascinating piece!

 

The article features first-hand accounts from those who remember it before it became derelict, which is highly useful when putting together a historical record. What I found really interesting is that this inn of many names had yet another, according to writer Joseph Ford, who was born there while his father, also called Joseph, was licensee in the mid to late 1800s. Joseph Ford junior, who died in 1944, was the great great uncle of David Ford, the reader who first contacted me, setting off this whole chain of Hamer-related columns.

 

The article states: ‘Ford, who said Hamer was then called the Wayside Inn, described how wagoners leading lime from Cropton would rest their tired horses at Hamer and feed them bags of clover while they partook of beer and egg-and-bacon pie.’

 

A lady called Annie Turnbull was born at Hamer in 1906, after the Ford family had left. ‘The pub was run by her father and mother, James and Elizabeth Eddon, and Mrs Turnbull was the second youngest of 11 children. They supplemented their income by farming a few acres adjoining the inn, and when last there, Mrs Turnbull could still trace the paddocks.’

 

Annie remembered: “On the Glaisdale side of the house is a beck (Bluewath) and I can remember going down to the beck with my mother to wash clothes. We took a big cauldron and lit a fire under it to boil the water and clothes.

 

“We had a pump in the pub yard but in summer it ran dry and we had to carry water from the beck. For reasons I can’t remember, one of the paddocks was called Pig’s Lug. One of the outbuildings was used by my father for making besoms from heather, and on Mondays, Mother would ride a pony to Pickering market to try to sell them.”

 

Annie’s sister, Lily Boddy, took over from her father in 1914, and it remained an inn for some time thereafter. Wilf Turnbull, Annie’s husband, recalled visiting Hamer in 1943: “All the outbuildings had been pulled down. Only the old pub was still standing and it was being used as a shooting house.”

 

Terry Ashby has also contacted me about Hamer: “At school in the early 1960s I discovered the delights of the one-inch OS maps and having moved to the North York Moors, I bought ‘Sheet 86 Redcar & Whitby’. There was Hamer House clearly marked. I wondered what it was and I probably pestered my dad to drive there to have a look. There wasn’t much left of it even then. I found out later that it had been an inn and later still I found it mentioned in an historical novel. I can’t remember the title or the author. I find these old ruins fascinating and quite poignant as they always pose questions about who lived there and when and why they were abandoned.”

 

Does anyone know the novel Terry refers to? And don’t forget, David Ford is still  searching for a photo of the inn before it became derelict. Do any of you have one lurking at the back of a drawer somewhere? Maybe it’s time to have a clear out. You never know what you might find!


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 Feb 2026

That ol’ chestnut

My son Jasper in an old photo that reappeared on Facebook recently. I have since discovered that disposing of house spiders outisde might not be the most humane thing to do after all!

I’ve had a couple of interesting spider-related experiences this week. The first was in a lofty old house which had vaulted ceilings, beautiful mature oak beams and hanging chandeliers.

The owner was apologising because she had noticed the amount of cobwebs dotted around the high beams and light fittings. She explained that the webs had quickly reappeared thanks to fact she had removed the bowls of chestnuts she usually kept around the house to deter spiders from setting up home.

“Are you sure it works?” I asked. She nodded emphatically and said the cobwebs had been absent while the chestnuts were in situ yet materialised very quickly after they’d gone. She believed the nuts emitted a pungent smell that was repugnant to our arachnid housemates.

I became very excited at the prospect of reducing my household dusting burden by the mere introduction of a few nuts, and checked whether she meant plain chestnuts or horse chestnuts. She used the plain chestnut and I vowed to find out more.

What I discovered was that whole, fresh chestnuts are surprisingly difficult to get from your local supermarket after Christmas. Thankfully, they are available online and I’m sure you could pick some up at a wholefood shop too.

The recommendation to use chestnuts to deter spiders has been around for a long time. The following was published in Nature magazine in May 1874: “Can any of your readers establish the truth of the following assertion? Spiders’ webs are never found upon beams from the Spanish or sweet chestnut tree, even when the timber is several centuries old. The keeper of the ruins of Beaulieu Abbey, in Hampshire, asserts that this is a fact, and the buildings of the Abbey, where beams of Spanish chestnut are used, are free from the invasion of spiders. His attention was drawn to this four years ago, and since then his observations have not thrown any doubt upon its accuracy.”

I could not find the answer to the writer’s question, but I have found several sources that say the claim has never been scientifically proven and is just an old wive’s tale. Some Cornish schoolchildren did their own experiment a few years ago with spiders and conkers which, along with walnuts, are also said to posses spider-repelling properties. However, the critters trotted merrily over the conkers, none the worse for being in contact with the noxious nuts. I will put some chestnuts around my house and see what happens. I’d love to know if you have tried it – or anything else – to keep your home spider and cobweb free.

The second spider-related incident came when I opened up Facebook and at the top of my feed was a picture of my son holding up his mobile phone upon which sat a huge eight-legged monster. It was a photo I had posted 18 months ago after having an unsettling encounter with the beastie. For some reason, a friend had recently commented on it which set off a whole new chain of reactions and comments from friends, some of whom hadn’t realised it was an old post, and that they had already commented when it originally appeared in 2024!

Despite the fact it was old news, it was fun to revisit it and read all the comments of horror, with some people suggesting that an arachnid of such proportions must have hitched a ride from a distant land. Our native house spider can grow surprisingly large and yet is harmless, while being really good at keeping down the population of other annoying pests like flies and mosquitoes.

During my research, I read something that made me quite distraught. We do not kill spiders at home, but capture them and deposit them outside on the assumption that it is the most humane way to deal with them. 

Apparently not. According to what I have read, house spiders cannot live outside for very long, so unless they are able to find somewhere warm and sheltered where they can spin a web to catch food, they will die.

If there is a spider scuttling about my bedroom, I will never be able to sleep, and yet, if I chuck it outside like I have been doing, I might be sentencing it to a lingering death.

So what the heck am I supposed to do now?

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 23rd and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 21st Jan 2026

Hamer Home a family story

A 1955 photo of the ruins of Hamer Inn, previously known as the Lettered Board. David Ford’s ancestors lived there. Do you have a photo of the inn before it became derelict? Photo: P.W.Hanstock

 

I received an interesting message from reader David Ford: “I’ve just spotted a picture of the ruins of Hamer House on Facebook…My great grandfather Robert Ford was born there, along with several of his siblings. He emigrated to the USA as a young man seeking a better life, and tried gold mining. However he did not find it any easier over there and returned to Glaisdale. His brother Joseph wrote a book about life and times in Danby Dale…I would like a photo of Hamer when it was open as an inn.”

Although I’d heard of Hamer House, I didn’t know much about it. The first article that came up on Google was a piece written 15 years ago by none other than my dad. It jogged a memory of seeing it in one of his books and sure enough, on my very own bookshelf was a copy of Dad’s ‘Murders & Mysteries From The North York Moors’ with a whole section on Hamer.

Dad wrote: “It is believed the licence of this old inn continued until 1929, although it did survive as a private house into the 1930s. The last family living there was called Boddy, and I recall the old house still standing when I cycled past as a child.”

The building had a colourful past, and no doubt makes David’s family history research intriguing. The reason the inn was featured in the ‘Murders’ book is because there are three separate tales of deaths associated with it.

The inn stood at one of the highest parts of the moors, on the road between Glaisdale and Rosedale Abbey at the point where an old monk’s trod, or path, crossed it (where the Lyke Wake Walk traverses that road now). All that remains is a pile of stones, and yet the inn’s ghostly silhouette can be detected in the form of a wide expanse of smooth grass amongst the rough heather, hinting at what was once there – a busy, thriving coaching inn providing rest, warmth and succour for weary travellers. There were active coal mines nearby which drew men to the moors for work, and Eskdale farmers would send wagons of coal to supply places like Cropton, Hutton-le-Hole and Kirkbymoorside.

Although known by many as Hamer Inn, its previous name was the Lettered Board, and my dad believes it had been there for around three centuries. He talks about David’s ancestors in his book:

‘Hamer’s role as an inn declined after 1870, the year a local writer called Joseph Ford was born at the remote house. His father was landlord and I have a copy of a licensing application dated 1858 in which the liquor licence of the Lettered Board was transferred to Joseph Senior.

‘The younger Joseph Ford, who died in 1944, has left behind some stories of Hamer and they provide a vivid picture of the windswept and snowbound inn. He relates how elderly travelling salesmen would trek onto these moors, even in the height of winter, to sell trinkets.’

One sad story concerns a cork-seller who supplied local inn keepers and farmers, and Joseph Ford’s mother knew him well. He succumbed to the ferocious winter weather, and his skeleton was found much later not far from the Lettered Board Inn, his basket of corks lying nearby enabling his body to be identified.

The three cases of deaths at the inn include that of two apparently healthy guests retiring to bed, only to be found dead the next day with no apparent wounds or obvious cause. They may have been poisoned by noxious fumes resulting from recent replastering of the room, but no-one was ever sure.

The second case was a licensee who killed his wife, and quickly moved elsewhere in the dale. He was never prosecuted or imprisoned. The third story tells of a fight breaking out in the bar, and a man being bludgeoned to death with a poker.

Dad writes: “The only remnant of that tale was a heavy iron poker that was chained to the hearth to ensure this sort of thing never happened again. That poker was still there within the memory of my grandparents, but I never saw it.”

Can any of you reading this help David Ford track down a picture of Hamer Inn before it became derelict?

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 Jan 2026

Building family foundations

One of the buildings on the Hanging Stones Walk in Rosedale that Nick Harland helped to construct (that’s my friend Dave in the window, looking down at his confused dog Frank).
Andrew Goldsworthy gave Nick Harland this signed book with a hand-drawn picture of the Hanging Stones

 

I’ve been contacted by readers Ian and Catherine Wilson who had a great titbit about middle names. They wrote: “We would like to add an important advantage to ancestors having maiden names as middle names. When doing family history research the inclusion of a maiden name has often helped to confirm a link.”

I had never thought about that aspect before. They add: “McLaren is an ancestral name that is extremely common in Perthshire not helped by William passing through the generations. Thankfully one generation included Sorley as a middle name and it unlocked our research.”

It makes me think of all the hard work put in by my dad’s brother, Charles Walker, who spent huge amounts of time compiling our family tree. His side of the family had the common name of Walker, and my mum’s side had the even more common Smith. Trying to trace the correct members to create an accurate family tree was extremely tricky, especially when there were first names that were very popular among families of the North York Moors with the same surname. There were dozens of Johns, Henrys and Williams, and Mary’s, Hannahs and Helens too. Uncle Charles’ job was made slightly easier because some of the descendants were given maternal maiden names for middle names. My mum’s eldest brother, was Henry Harland Smith after his paternal grandmother, and her second brother was John Lacy Smith, from his mum’s maiden name. The name Lacy was passed down the next two generations to Henry’s son Richard, and on to his son Charles.

I don’t think this tradition was followed on my dad’s side of the family though, and tracing the Walker line did prove tricky as Uncle Charles wrote back in 2004: “I have a number of possible Walkers living around Lingdale/Skinningrove/Hinderwell. Can Peter remember any names of brothers/sisters of our Grandfather Walker?” He then lists a number of names of possible ancestors. Clearly, trying to sort out who was who was quite the task.

Funnily enough, I was contacted not long ago by Nick Harland, and we discussed whether we might be related through my mum’s side. As mentioned above, her paternal grandmother was a Harland – Edith Richardson Harland. Edith’s parents were William and Ann Harland, and as you might have guessed from Edith’s middle name, Ann’s maiden name was Richardson. Are you keeping up? This is just one tiny segment of our family tree, and I can imagine how mind-boggling it must be when you go down the rabbit hole of trying to piece it all together.

Nick and I didn’t know off the top of our heads if we were related, but that was not the reason he was getting in touch. He wrote: “My father Dennis Harland has often spoken about your dad over the years and I when I first started work, Mary Walker (my dad’s mother) often got me to do little jobs for her as she lived opposite the Glaisdale Institute…my dad’s parents used to live in Brinkburn, the house above where Mary used to live, opposite the institute.”

Nick has a link to the Andrew Goldsworthy ‘Hanging Stones Walk’ in Rosedale about which I wrote a couple of years ago. “All the ten Andy Goldsworthy projects which have been put together have been done with the help of our building firm,” he said.

The Hanging Stones Walk is an amazing feat of creativity, engineering and construction so I am hoping some time to chat more to Nick so he can explain how they did what they did. It is really an art project, rather than simply a walk, and is sponsored by the Ross Foundation (an organisation that supports initiatives related to art, community, sport, music and education) which commissioned sculptor Andrew Goldsworthy, famous for his spectacular pieces of land art. He transformed tumbling down agricultural buildings into amazing pieces that blend seamlessly into their moorland surroundings.

Nick finished by saying: “Another thing you touched on a while ago was about making stone troughs. I make a lot of stone troughs, up to five foot long. There is an easy way and a hard way but it is good fun seeing one completed.”

I think if Nick and I meet, we will have an awful lot to talk about!

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

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 19th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 17th Dec 2025

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

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