Fourth series, episode 22
All 154 episodes are available here on the HebWeb.
In the latest episode there's memories recalled, Storm Bert batters staunch defences, there's Satnam home and away, Jay Rayner and PW on food, a cautionary tale and a local folk hero.
Eye check and Hi Tec
A leisurely retirement morning, until my phone pinged, 'Eye test: 11.00.'
I checked the clock. 10:59. Then ring the optician to apologise.
"That's alright, Sir. Your eye test's not till Wednesday."
"Phew! … So … what day is it today?"
Tried ordering two tickets online. Took 20 minutes to fill in our details but had just completed it when the 20 minute bastard time limit expired. PW, examining her cuticles, said she'd do it.
Went out into the real, rainy November world. Life back in the slow towpath lane, the way I like it. No need for so called help from smartphones. Waiting at the crossing, I was contemplating reading the papers and enjoying a cappuccino and toasted teacake combo, when the phone pinged.
A message from PW brought me out of my reverie. "You've left your wallet at home."
Storm Bert
Not long ago, I saw Fred, our brown tom cat, curled up like a Davey Crocket hat, basking in the warm autumn sunshine on top of PW's shed, but forward a fortnight or so and Storm Bert was raging towards us across the Atlantic. We got 'cold but variable winds' and warnings of 'snow on Pennine hills'. The trains stopped running and Fred and Midge came indoors and curled up cosily by the radiator … but there was anxiety in their snoring.
The snow arrived overnight, and in the morning on Facebook, pictures appeared of white landscapes, photographed by hardy locals in possession of long lenses, who'd trudged uphill at sunrise to capture the scene from the heights. I opened the blinds and saw several inches of snow on the decking and garden furniture, on the garden trees and Crow Nest woods, then two cats, one brown, one black, plashing bad temperedly towards me (when we got the new flood door we got rid of the old cat flap).
Jude was overnighting and late morning I offered him a lift into town. But, no doubt hearing warnings in his head of our car sliding off into the canal, he decided to walk it, pulling snow grips onto his shoes just to be on the safe side. I got the car into a higher gear for the dash up the slight incline in the lane above the masons yard, following the twin brown tracks where our neighbours Andrea and Nicola had strewn sand and grit, and waited for my son at the top of the lane. When he finally got there he climbed inside and apologised, explaining that one of his grips had worked loose and got lost in the snow.
That afternoon there were warnings of heavy rain on the way. So I went below the decking to shut the cellar floodgate, although the cellar (actually just a dark unlit void) was already partly flooded by the recent leak from the canal. Coming out into the light again, I discovered Sue, Andrea's partner, walking towards me arm and arm with Jude, who she'd patiently helped to descend down the treacherous lane. Her shop had closed early, due to the mournful droning of the town's recycled war-time siren.
Overnight, the rain pelted the Velux windows at the back of the house and the downpours continued in fits and starts throughout the day. The art galleries I'd promised to attend stayed shut. Gradually, the rain and snowmelt merged and turned the usually calf deep Calder into a speeding head high torrent. The round eyed arches below Crow Nest Bridge became squints. I drove our car through the surface flooding on Station Road to the railway carpark, just to be on the safe side. Then we avidly followed the local online news.
The road was awash at Callis Bridge, the Stubbing Wharf cellars were flooded, the river level was one foot below record levels, but was expected to decline. We worried each other on the street's WhatsApp with memories of Boxing Day 2015. But this time round our gardens weren't flooded, our lane didn't collapse, and parts of the town were not cast into darkness. The speeding river didn't break its banks. In Mytholmroyd some people got their feet wet, plodging through surface water near the shops, but the flood defences, a varied mixture of leaky dams, controlled reservoir run off and the sodden peat bog up on the moors just about kept us and our homes safe.
Satnam at the base camp
Before the flood sirens sounded, when there was just pretty snow on the hills, I joined a packed audience in the Town Hall to enjoy local hero Satnam's witty and relaxed account of his trek to the Everest base camp with his teenage son, and their smiling, bag toting porters. All this effort was in aid of our local hospice.
Walking home after the talk, I felt quite intrepid as I braved the dusting of snow in George's Square. I thought back to Satnam's HebWeb interview, his charity runs and his wife's informed and practical assistance after the Nepal earthquake in 2015, when she linked up with the Sikh Khalsa Aid Charity. It was later that year, that the same aid group drove into town and helped locals clear up after the Boxing Day flood.
In the HebWeb interview, our sub postmaster Satnam had covered for the apparent losses revealed by the Horizon computer system.
"The Horizon system has been responsible for untold hours of stress and anguish, resonating through the workplace as losses and misbalances would occur on occasion, this over time has an impact on one's self confidence and your own ability to run a business, with bouts of self-doubt and also hinders progression to push the business further. While all the time I was keeping a straight face and not allowing the public to be aware.
"I am hoping that the outcome of the enquiry will force the Board of Directors, along with the current government, to pay back all the money that was taken from Sub Postmasters, and compensate us for the pain and anguish the system has caused.
"With findings showing there was knowledge of flaws in the Horizon system on initial install, and certain members lying in court to falsely convict innocent Sub Postmasters, and strip them of their investments and livelihood. I think all the parties involved in the scandal should get apprehended and charged.
"In my case, I have been in the process for over 3 years trying to claim my money back, the time delays and the offers made to me were terribly low."
Jay Rayner and PW at the Martlet
There were no papers delivered on the Saturday of that Storm Bert weekend, but on Sunday I read Jay Rayner's Observer review of The Martlet restaurant at Rochdale's magnificent gothic revival town hall. He was smitten by both the building and the food which "draws on the heritage of Greater Manchester in a smart, witty and generous way."
When I mentioned the item, PW reminded me she'd been there with two friends from her former SEN team in Rochdale after the town hall reopening. She loved the food, but said the town hall is a good ten minute trek from the station and the local shops were not worth a visit.
She reckoned it made sense to reserve a table, as the restaurant gets packed, even at lunchtime. Apparently, the guided tour is as good for the soul as the food is for the palate. In the Observer piece, Rayner describes some of its attractions, "… finely chiselled stonework, stained glass windows, and wood panelled chambers with intricate foliage-strewn wall coverings recalling the work of William Morris. Ceiling panels are decorated with branch and leaf, upon which perch fully plumed peacocks and illustrations of the martlet, a mythical bird that was forever on the wing."
The Martlet is at The Esplanade, Rochdale Town Hall. If you drive put OL16 1AZ in your Satnav. The fine dining is good value at Lunch plates for £10 with main courses between £14 and £21 and desserts £5. Three course dinners are £35.
Birthday bash
We marked PW's achievement in reaching three quarters of a century upon this earth with Sunday lunch with our extended family at the White Lion. Apart from Yorkshire puddings, I'm not keen on traditional Sunday lunches, so I chose fish and chips. Thankfully the chef has reverted to mushy peas, or 'Manchester caviar' as Jay Rayner would have it. Both fish and peas were excellent, but I'm not keen on the new trend here and elsewhere for large cut blond skinned chips. Next time I'll ask for skinny fries.
Stubbing Wharf
The pub cellars were flooded by Bert, and the pub reckoned it had lost £300 in takings, but they stayed open, although they only had bottled beers to offer.
I'd given a copy of Hippy Valley to a new writer friend, who the day before the Shaggy Dog Storytellers gig, sent a note: "Loving your book! My favourite of yours is the dog poo one. Laughing out loud!" Well, I hadn't used that Cautionary Tale for several years. I remembered that my initial motivation was the reaction of friends from Shropshire who went for a walk over the old road from Crow Nest Bridge to Mytholmroyd one fine spring day in the twenty teens and were astounded by the number of dog poo bags that were decorating the trees on either side of the lane, even though one local had provided a receptacle for poo bags: a clearly labelled wheely bin.
When hearing the report, I reimagined Houseman's famous lines from A Shropshire Lad …
Loveliest of trees the cherry now
is hung with poobags along the bough.
So it was that I performed my dog poo poem to the loyal and appreciative gathering at the Stubbing.
Michael, who always made a mess but now his family are one less
Michael, like some other Boys,
Never tidied up his Toys,
And outside when eating sweets,
Threw his wrappers down in t' streets.And he became an Uncouth Youth,
His sweetheart Vickie wor far more Couth,
But country walking, her pet Lulu,
Made a pile of Doggy Do Do!With special glove on, swift and deft,
She scooped it up till none wor left.
But in a test of Michael's love,
She handed him that special Glove!Now some way off there wor a bin,
For putting Doggy Do Do in,
But Michael hoped for a canoodle,
Not Doggy Do Do from a Poodle!So he reached up, and brazenly,
Hung that Do Do from a Tree!
This act wor seen by Farmer Kath,
Who said, "That Michael's having a laugh!"Now on patrol it wor Kath's habit,
To take a gun to shoot a Rabbit,
She didn't want young Michael dead -
But FIRED A SHOT above his head!Then back downhill ran little Lulu,
And Vickie raced to catch her Poodle,
But Michael ran and jumped in t' Bin,
For putting Doggie Do Do in!When by a Great Coincidence,
(Odds on which wor quite Immense),
Bin Men drove up. Big and Strong,
And didn't hang about for long.For they'd been parked up, reading t' Sun,
And thought Kath fired at them wit' Gun!
They hoisted t' Bin up Double-Smart,
And tipped its contents in their Cart.Then they drove off past t' Dog and Vickie,
Who shouted, "Stop! You're taking Mickey!"
In t' back o t' Dust Cart, Michael stirred
And shouted t' English word for Merde!But in that Dust Cart, high spec kit
Chewed up Michael, BIT by BIT,
And at a Land-Fill, where they recycle,
Dumped three parts Do Do to two parts Michael.His parents said, we're one lad fewer,
But at least he'll make a good manure.
As Night Follows Day
And finally … Home after a lengthy tour, but still in fine voice, local folk legend, Steve Tilson posted a song from his latest CD.
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