Fourth series, episode 23
All 155 episodes are available here on the HebWeb.
The latest episode includes green washing, getting mortal, a meeting with the Queen, the King's Head off and on, family trees, a Christmas Market, mini breaks and TV favourites
Greenwashing at Walshaw
The application to build a giant windfarm on our precious peat bog has always seemed a wilfully perverse idea. It smacks of an embattled owner looking for a fight, the giant size and number of turbines presumably computer generated to beat the figures put forward by the green lobby for 'blanket bog which stores twice as much carbon per hectare'.
So why despoil the bog when surrounding moorlands provide opportunity for erecting turbines on more solid ground? Then there's the effect the windfarm would have on the local economy, from the loss of visitors to an area made famous by the Brontës whose works inspired renowned writers such as Ted Hughes and Syvia Plath.
The whole project seems to be the vengeful act of people looking for a knockout punch after the annual rounds of fighting with lobbyists over the desecration of moorland to facilitate game bird shooting. Most of all, why cause more run off by drying out an area that collects and retains and slows the flow of rainwater, our biggest 'leaky dam' of all?
Well, there might of course be a financial incentive, as the scheme is backed by funding from a Saudi Arabian government attempting a high profile greenwash before hosting the 2034 World Cup. Don't they know that this scheme would have the opposite effect? Ring them up, Ed Milliband!
In George's Square, I chatted to protestors and signed their petition, but defended the Labour councillors and our MP, formerly a councillor, by explaining that, when formally considering the Walshaw application, councillors must be seen to impartially weigh its merits and demerits, otherwise their decision might be subsequently thrown out in the courts, which would be an expensive outcome.
I think the green lobby, RSPB, tourist boards, Ban the Burn and eloquent, moor loving writers will win the day; but, it would be nice if the Environment Minister publicly signalled his defence of the peat bogs in our fight against climate change.
Getting mortal
It's 40 years since I got mortal. As it happens, I'd only had 4 pints at The Alma in Cottonstones, whereas these days we share a bottle of red three or four times a week. But back then, I hadn't put in the training. Weirdly, I woke up in the spare room and then was violently sick in the garden under a flowering currant.
That morning, I was startled by PW's lack of sympathy. She'd caught the jogging bug back then and she'd hung her sports bra and Union Jack shorts over the radiator in our room. She told me, she'd been woken by a drumming noise on the bedroom floorboards during the night. I'd mistaken her sports bra for a urinal and her cup had runneth over, so to speak. Hearing this, I got a flashback of her swearing and chasing me from the room. She said the colours had run on her Union Jack shorts.
Amanda meets the Queen
At the start of the month, The Queen, being a vocal advocate for the right of women not to be physically or mentally abused by male partners, summoned our neighbour Amanda to a gathering of likeminded women. Amanda works for refuge services. On social media, she recalled her meeting with Camilla.
"So I met the queen. I asked her for more money for frontline services in the north and said I would tip her upside down for cash on the way out. Now get me back up North. Job done."
Thematic shift: the wonders of travel
The first train through Calder Valley
Here's a painting by local poet, diarist and painter Joy Edwards. She also helps to keep Sowerby Bridge station looking attractive. Here she captures the chaos created by an unlimited sale of tickets. Some passengers stood on the carriage roof, and proceeded to duck under the bridges and through the tunnels on the journey from Brighouse to Todmorden. To prevent a recurrence of this behaviour the organisers put on an extra carriage, but quietly uncoupled it moments before the next departure.
Mini breaks
At the fag end of last year, I was invited to write a poem for travellers or commuters to be exhibited at the station. I imagined a couple who haven't managed an overseas holiday for years, but make the most of their short breaks.
Eva and Adam
The Thompsons are off on a mini break,
Just look at his thousand yard stare
Down the tracks to the Vanishing Point.
Doesn't he know it's not there?
She's made the arrangements, I reckon,
Not one for illusions is Eva,
Wit' tickets tucked safely inside her bra.
While Adam's more like a school leaver.
Sometimes they tour round Cathedrals,
Where folks pray to a guy who's not there.
Perhaps she might light up a candle,
That's the closest they get to a prayer.
Or happen they'll go to the seaside,
Where he might dip his toes in the sea,
But as it's t' backend of November,
Why he bother's a complete mystery.
Truth be told, it's hardly Majorca,
Three nights in a boutique hotel.
But when they get back from their travels
You'd think they were under a spell.
They look like they're still on a holiday.
That's one thing I can never quite fathom.
And if I chose which drugs to be on,
I'd say "Same stuff as Eva and Adam."
The King's Head
We had a few nights away in Chester, staying in a small courtyard cottage behind the former Gamul Palace. Chester was a royalist stronghold during the Civil War, and King Charles stayed at Lord Gamul's place in the lead up to the famous battle.
To view the conflict, the king and his entourage walked round the city's defensive walls to watch his army being routed on Rowton Moor. More people died in that war per head of population than in the First World War, and soon enough the King joined their number.
During our own, thankfully less eventful stay, we met up with our extended family in a cosy corner of the appropriately named King's Head.
Frank, Joe and Margaret
These days there's always a few members of the Murphy and Mason clans who share their latest research into our family trees. On the Murphy side, my dad had two siblings who married a Mason. In all he had four brothers and a sister. My older sister gave me a handsome photo album and I asked Sue which of our dad Frank's brothers she visited when she was young. She said some weekends she'd stayed with Uncle Joey, "He's the one who was the dead spit of our dad."
So I told her this: when Kath's dad Tommy died, up in the North East, her distraught mum Margaret was taken into the local psychiatric hospital whilst they weaned her off her drugs habit. Margaret was an inadequate woman and over the years local GPs had prescribed her mother's little helpers, till she ended up swallowing 19 tablets per day.
Also in rehab was a recovering alcoholic who apparently looked identical to our dad Frank and his name was Joe Murphy. When she recovered and went back home, Joe came out of rehab and stayed with her. He soon got to know the neighbours and one couple allowed him to babysit. Which led to Joe discovering some Christmas booze. When they found Joe had necked down their Christmas booze, Margaret's neighbours weren't best pleased. So Margaret sent Joe packing. Kath and I went up there a few days later.
Apparently, when Joe packed he took with him a pair of two toned shoes I'd bought at Harry Fenton's menswear shop in Chester but had gormlessly left in Margaret's little mining cottage during our last visit. So we went round to his social services provided flat in the new estate in Bowburn to collect them. He cowered when he saw us, like a man who must have experienced violence over the years. We reassured him. But Margaret was right. Joe Murphy was the dead spit of my dad Frank. Our Sue said, "That must have been Uncle Joe then." But when we separately mentioned this to Joe and my dad, they clammed up, as that generation was wont to do.
Christmas Market
Back in Hebden, despite threatening skies and occasional showers, the town was packed on the Saturday of Christmas Market weekend. Sunday was less thronged, although the weather was kinder, and I managed to have a chat with a stallholder I know, who told me he made over six thousand pounds the day before, despite selling small priced items. As it happens I am currently resting my cuppa on one of those items as I type.
This is it
On 9th December I aged a year overnight and thought, "Devouring time blunt thou the lion's paws," or words to that effect. I looked out of the window and thought, "This is it then. They warned us about it and now it's happened. The world has warmed and in our little bit of it, there's going to be more storms and floods. We better get used to it."
On my birthday, we ate at The Old Gate and I got a prime seat beside the blazing fire. I heartily recommend the chicken with the dauphinoise potatoes and broccoli, the well-kept ales and the attentive staff. If you want to avoid prowling dogs on long leads try the vividly decorated and dog free restaurant upstairs.
Why the North?
I'm periodically reading Brian Groom's Northerners; a history (2022) in which he explains that the Industrial Revolution 'transformed northern England and the world's image of it.'
From the 1780s onward, there was massive internal immigration to the north and by 1871 more than half of England's thirty largest towns were in northern England. After the potato famine many of the immigrants came from Ireland. The Murphys amongst them, and their menfolk were ironically nicknamed 'Spud.'
In 1835 French social commentator Alexis de Tocqueville was shocked and awed by what he saw in fast-growing Manchester in 1835:
"From this foul drain the greatest stream of human industry flows out to fertilise the whole world. From this filthy sewer pure gold flows. Here humanity attains its most complete development and most brutish, here civilisation works its miracles and civilised man is turned back almost to a savage."
TV favourites …
After the Party – Kiwi drama, with a remarkable leading performance by Robyn Malcolm, revealing the difficulties of outing paedophiles in a community where people don't want to hear the truth.
Black Doves – Keira Knightly stars on Netflix in a spoof spy movie, which looks like having a second series.
The Queen of Sheba – written by the late, great Caroline Aherne, a pitch perfect, Royle family episode from Christmas 2006, with great period music and ensemble acting, that delivers both comedy and pathos. As one Norma died another one arrived.
And finally …
Look out for a collection of interviews in celebration of our friend and neighbour Peter Riley, from Shearsmith Books, his poetry publisher, including my HebWeb Interview back in 2021.
Murphy's Lore, the book, is available to order here
If you would like to send a message about this piece or suggest ideas, email George Murphy
More Murphy's Lore
See the Murphy's Lore home page for all 154 episodes.