Scrooby

St Wilfrid's Church, Scrooby earlier today

Out in Nottinghamshire, close to The Great North Road, there's a village called Scrooby. Back in the sixteenth century, a family by the name of Brewster lived in Scrooby's Manor House - not far from St Wilfrid's Church. 

For whatever reason, William Brewster (1568-1644), stopped attending the local church and held alternative puritanical services in The Manor House. It was part of a regional movement - away from The Church of England that had itself broken away from Catholicism under the reign of King Henry VIII.

William Brewster and other puritans attracted unwelcome attention that began to give out the aroma of persecution. In those days The Church of England was all-powerful and crossing it was a dangerous thing for anyone to do.

Brewster and his adherents headed to The Netherlands where they lived for almost ten years, enjoying what they saw as greater religious freedom. Then in September 1620, with his wife Mary and a hundred other puritans, he set sail for the east coast of America via the Devonshire port of Plymouth. Their aim was to establish a puritan colony in The New World.

The puritans were aiming for Virginia but bad weather and wretched conditions aboard "The Mayflower" saw Brewster and the rest disembarking near Cape Cod on the coast of Massachusetts. 

Elder William Brewster and The Pilgrim Covenant. This picture is in The US Capitol building.

For twenty four years William Brewster played key roles in the successful but difficult establishment of The Plymouth Colony. The first governor was William Bradford from Austerfield in South Yorkshire - a village that is just five miles from Scrooby. Brewster was Bradford's right hand man and adviser. Together you might say that they were the architects of  The Plymouth Colony - the true "pilgrim fathers".

I was in Scrooby earlier today. St Wilfrid's Church - the church that Brewster disavowed is still standing. However, the old manor house where he grew up and held puritanical services is no more. It was razed to the ground in 1636/37  as ordered by King Charles I.

After Scrooby, I set off along farm tracks to the village of Mattersey. Later, walking by the B6045 that leads to Ranskill, I was nearly killed by  the driver of a speeding 4x4 vehicle when he overtook two slower cars. I must have been no more than ten inches from him as he flashed by. I hope he looked in his rear view mirror to see my two-fingered salute.

Starlings on telephone wires near Mattersey

American

I received the following supportive comment from "Terry" in response to yesterday's blogpost:-

It's nice to have an observant reader like Terry who notices the small detail of one's humour.

Terry's remark reminded me of  certain encounters I had in the state of Ohio when I was a summer camp counsellor there in the mid-nineteen seventies.

One night I fell into conversation with a couple of local redneck guys (English: Conservatives) in "Skip and Ray's Bar" (English: pub) by the road to Burton, east of Chagrin Falls.

They had noticed my English accent. One of them asked where I was from so I told them. They seemed a little puzzled to learn that other countries existed beyond the shores of The United States.

I informed them that they in fact spoke the English language and that it originated in England.

One of them - let's call him Bob - visibly bristled and protested, "I don't speak English. I speak American!"  

His pupils enlarged dangerously. He was clearly a proud patriot, affronted by the idea that the very language of his land of sidewalks (English: pavements) and cottoncandy  (English: candyfloss) was borrowed from another country.  

Who was I to persuade him otherwise? Just a cleverdick limey bastard ordering another pitcher of beer, hoping that Bob did not have a rifle  in his pick-up truck (English: a small vehicle with an open part at the back in which goods can be carried).

Of course, I am aware that  the kind of Americans who visit this lil'ol' blog tend to be better educated and  more knowledgeable about the  wider world than Bob  appeared to be. As I recall, he and his buddy (English: friend)  worked in land drainage, moving earth and digging trenches from dawn to dusk.  The salt of the earth. You have to respect people like that. We need them.

Pipes

The picture shown above appeared in "Shadows and Light" this morning. It was taken in Golders Hill Park, London by the blog's owner, Steve Reed. Steve thought it was some kind of pipe joint until research indicated that it is in fact an artwork called "Gazebo" by Wendy Taylor.

Let us hope that when googling her name, Ms Taylor does not stumble across Steve's blog. It would be quite traumatic to discover that one's finest artistic achievement has been dismissed as a mere concrete pipe joint. 

Steve's photograph reminded me of a picture I took several days ago at Booth Farm on the Staffordshire/Derbyshire border. Two massive concrete sump pipes were just lying in a field. The farmer may have got his order wrong or maybe I am also being philistinic. 

Perhaps it is another art installation by Wendy Taylor. I could go back to Booth Farm and make the farmer an offer before having the pipe ends transported to our garden. I doubt that they would fit in my rucksack so I would need a great big lorry (American: truck) with a crane. If the sculpture is by Wendy Taylor, I wonder what she might have called it? 

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling...

Blogging

The Blogging Song

Of what shall we blog today my friend?

Of what shall we blog today?

We’ll blog of kings and the homeless too

Of oceans deep and skies so blue

Of dogs and frogs and flying things

The changing moods that winter brings

The way you feel when a cuckoo sings

Of that we shall blog today.

 

Of what shall we blog today my friend?

Of what shall we blog today?

We’ll blog of stuff seen on TV

Of threats to human liberty

Of dishes we’ve prepared to eat

The boots and shoes upon our feet

The president’s ordained defeat

Of that we shall blog today.

 

Of what shall we blog today my friend?

Of what shall we blog today?

We’ll blog of plants and blooming flowers

Of minutes that turn into hours

Of memory and days gone by

The hopeful sound of a baby’s cry

"The End" that comes on the day we die

Of that we shall blog today.

_______________________________________________________________________

Esteemed visitors to "Yorkshire Pudding" are cordially invited to create their own alternative verses.

Negative

Shirley and I were randomly chosen to  participate in our national "Covid-19 infection survey" run by The University of Oxford in partnership with The Office for National Statistics.

The Sunday before last, a  phlebotomist arrived at our house in a shiny 4x4 vehicle and we had swabs and bloods taken on our doorstep.

On Thursday we received our swab results and yesterday our blood results arrived. We were  "negative" on both counts. No current COVID infections and also no anti-bodies indicating past infection.

Now that is a little strange. As you may remember, Shirley is a part-time practice nurse working at a health centre. She undertook identical tests at her workplace a couple of months ago and her blood sample indicated that she did have anti-bodies. 

Was the initial test faulty? Have the anti-bodies left her blood system? Perhaps it simply tells us that testing is not 100% accurate.

There will be other tests for us in the future - more swabs and more blood letting.

Why, you might ask, have I agreed to participate in this survey? Perhaps it's from a sense of civic responsibility as our nation wrestles with the invisible monster in our midst? Not at all. My reason is purely mercenary.

The initial tests provided me with a £50 e-voucher that I spent yesterday at Cole Brothers (John Lewis) in the centre of our Tier 3 Yorkshire city. Future tests will earn me £25 a time. We should make £300 each over the next year. Who said there wasn't money to be made from pandemics? Incidentally, we are also contributing to a laudable scientific study.

With my £50 I bought a pack of new "Canon" printer cartridges. Why the hell do printer cartridges cost so damned much? Maybe that is a subject for another blogpost. To our esteemed leaders I might well say - forget COVID-19, just reduce the cost of printer cartridges!  I am sure that I would once again receive a negative result.

Piggish

The meal at "The Robin Hood" down at Millhouses went better than expected. Shirley and I sat at one table while Frances and Stewart sat at another table - two metres apart. Fortunately, we were  the sole occupants of a large alcove and were able to talk freely. We were attended to by a lovely waitress whose friendly demeanour enhanced our dining experience in these strange times.

You were meant to order from a smartphone app but I told our nice waitress that I don't own a mobile phone so she kindly brought paper menus for us. 

After my long walk in Nottinghamshire I was hungry. I had only had a banana and an apple for my lunch. I checked out the menu and noticed this:-

MIXED GRILL  Grilled rump steak, chargrilled chicken breast, thick-cut gammon steak, two British farm-assured pork sausages and two fried free range eggs.

Upgrade to 8oz rump steak for an extra £2.00

All of our steaks are expertly aged for depth of flavour and served with seasoned chips, grilled tomato, flat mushroom, garden peas and crispy onion rings.

Well, I hadn't eaten a mixed grill in years and I was so sorely tempted that I confess I submitted to the temptation. My apologies to any disgusted vegans  (i.e. our son Ian) who may be reading this post. It was a plateful I can tell you and towards the end of my  gluttonous munching  I admit that I regretted going for the larger steak. Uncharacteristically, I even  failed to clear my plate.

All four of us enjoyed our meals and drinks so much that we booked a return visit next week. By the way, we also had desserts. Mine was a Belgian  chocolate brownie with vanilla ice cream.

It was nice to catch up with the beloved daughter and her handsome husband. Being in Tier 2 has been difficult enough but today South Yorkshire begins its phase in Tier 3 . We do not know for sure how long Tier 3 restrictions will last but I guess we will be in it throughout November.

What  the hell will Christmas be like this year? Remember Christmas 2019? We had absolutely no idea what lay ahead of us - just round the corner. Will we ever get back to something resembling the old life - the life that we knew before and often forgot to love? We took it for granted.

Eaton

Doorway of The Old School House in Eaton

What did my father Philip say to me before he died? Oh yes. I remember. Go east young man!

And so I did. Late yesterday morning aboard my South Korean travelling machine, Lord Clint of Seoul, I travelled once more into rural Nottinghamshire. There were notices everywhere: "Tier 3 KEEP OUT!" and "Death to Tier 3!" but we snuck into the village of Eaton, south of Retford and parked opposite All Saints Church. I was not challenged by any of the roving red-faced COVID vigilantes armed as they were with pitchforks and burning torches.

Sad Sack Johnson and his fish-faced health minister are considering tattooing all residents of Tier 3 areas but it would be very easy to conceal the big "3" on one's forehead with theatrical make-up. Consequently, I doubt that their evil plan will ever see the light of day.

All Hallows Church, Ordsall

Off I went by the idly meandering River Idle. Soon I was in Ordsall to the south west of Retford. Inside All Hallows Church I could hear the congregation singing, "If you hate Tier Three clap your hands!" Ooo err! Time to skedaddle.

Clouds began to cluster like worries in one's mind. I passed through Retford Golf Course where several men of a certain age were pulling golf trolleys or clouting their little white balls. Then I cut south to Morton Grange.

Breck Plantation

I saw countless little stones in the fields - all rounded by the erosive actions of ancient seas long before human beings emerged blinking into the light of our existence. Those fields are fifty miles from The North Sea but geology is a very, very, very long story. So long it would make our lifetimes seem like mere milimetres on a ruler that could reach The Moon.

Redundant pub sign in Retford

I needed the exercise. Plodding for almost three hours without ceasing - all the way back to Clint. I was relieved to discover that Tier 2 vigilantes have not yet  employed number plate recognition to root out Tier 3 lepers like me. By the way, there is no relationship between the Nottinghamshire village of Eaton and Eton in Berkshire where our current prime minister idled away his school days.

The River Idle