Fourth series, episode 16
All 148 episodes are available here on the HebWeb.
In this late August episode, there's a room with a view and a flight from fleas, Portillo's second coming and a cultural clash (with plenty of cash), Chintan and Madhuri, late nights and rare singles, Hitler run over and garden slugs despatched.
A room with a view
I write in the upstairs sitting room of a converted mill house. In summer, it's easy to get distracted by the large stretch of wooded hillside rising beyond the river and railway embankment and also by the frequent aerial traffic of birds. At dawn, I see close ups of the local cormorant, with its short, built for submersion wings, hear the wild squawks of the Canada geese, as they fly past the windows in V shaped formation and watch the stately flight of the 'Concorde cockpit headed heron', as my late friend Gerard Benson described the imperious king of the river. Then at dusk I observe their return flights to their nests in Mytholmroyd and Brearley.
A fledgling, tatty headed magpie hopped about on our balcony in early summer, but there's been fewer swifts wheeling above the gardens and trees than in previous years. They must have made soaring vesper flights above the clouds during our prolonged wet spells, or maybe their numbers were diminished by a lack of midges and other insects to feed on.
This year, I've seen fewer bats fly out from beneath the eaves of the original lock keeper's cottage. A few years back, more than four hundred pipistrelles were recorded at that roost. Across the nation, there are fewer insects for bats to feed on, and round here there's too much light pollution from gardens, barges and Burnley Road streetlights for successful hunting.
Fleas, however, have been on the rampage. A vet told a friend of ours that fleas have grown immune to Frontline, the traditional cure for flea bitten dogs and moggies. Our cats have taken to staying outdoors, and if we try to lure them in they hiss, 'Unclean! Unclean!' and stalk off. So we get bitten instead.
I've been getting my steps in, mind, trundling round the house with the heavy Henry vacuum cleaner, which takes a fair bit of lugging upstairs. I tell myself it's good strength endurance training. We take turns for a speedier dash round with the Dyson after lunch. This is a selfless act on my part, as fleas don't care for my blood. I can easily pick them off my lily white legs and drown them in the sink, whereas PW has been wearing impenetrable clothing, with trousers tucked into her socks. Fleas are besotted by her intoxicating odour.
Eventually, we got a man dressed like one of those chaps who walked into Elliot's house in ET to spray the whole place whilst we fled to Harrogate to celebrate our 51st anniversary. We came back to a flea free house. And thankfully, our ancient, born in a barn sibling cats, Fred and Midge have chosen to sleep out under the stars in these few last warm days of summer 24.
Great railway journeys
We watched Michael Portillo's return visit to Hebden Bridge. First time round he met local historian and barge owner Diana Monaghan, who I interviewed on HebWeb, and this time he chatted with Happy Valley Pride organisers, including Helen Baron, who was just as sparkling and thoughtful as when I interviewed her.
The rest of the Northern line mini-series was great too. Who'd have known that Shipley Railway Station was built round a nature reserve, where rare butterflies, including the (once) Common Blue, and rare species of moths can be found?
Culture clash
On social media some locals complained about the short term closure of Albert Street to allow filming of the latest Sally Wainwright series. Some asked who benefited from such dreadful upheaval. As it happens, there are lots of financial gains from such cultural events.
According to a Calderdale Council News Report (13th March, 2024) tourism in Calderdale is "worth an estimated £431 million, supporting nearly 9000 jobs." Besides which, it's fun to see brilliant actors when they nip into our pubs or shops. Loitering for a moment on the corner of Albert Street, I almost got to rub shoulders with the redoubtable Daphne Sparrow from Sherwood, aka Lorraine Ashbourne, who often makes me laugh at her dry wit on Celebrity Gogglebox.
Chintan and Madhuri
In Leila's Kitchen one lunchtime, I met Chintan, a former New Yorker resident who now makes his home in Upper Calder. He gave me a copy of To hills and waterfalls, a Californian in Calderdale, (2023) a brilliant collection from Madhuri ZK Akin, a well-established West Coast writer who prefers our Pennine climate and moved here in 2012. For a few years she lived in the hills above Hebden Bridge, before becoming temporarily homeless... Here's what she wrote about round here:
Lost Magic
Jubilance knows, and longing acquiesces. Only Lament is learning
Still, nymph of the weeping spring. – Rainer Maria Rilke
Standing on tiptoes, I stretched out my arms
and these Pennines filled them
like an adopted child I knew
was really my own;
a light child, nearly see through.
Other times I danced in the arms
of this creviced country
and over its head spied Bridget
up at Bridestones,
walking on air.
She welcomed me
With lyric notes beneath my door.
That charmed air filled us
this country and me
so that we breathed one breath.
When I was notified courteously
that I was to be loosed
from my house here,
the whole land sat down
and gazed about it like a toddler,
and its face fell in
and stuffing vanished from it
till it was paper, a kite
after Hand-Made parade
settling into the wet grass of the park,
Who knew that a beloved landscape
could turn away
become
just what it had always looked like –
stone and sky –
and yet with its whole insides
all dug out –
only the skin left.
My heart is soft and aching
For that which I so loved
only yesterday.
Rare Singles
I don't read many novels, but I enjoyed the latest volume from literary star, Benjamin Myers. Reading reviews of the book, I wished, from the point of view of a non-academic late night reader, that style was more celebrated and examined in responses to novels.
Up in the air above the Atlantic, challenging us to keep our wits about us (and stay awake), the author shells clues about one time soul singer Buck in a slow release fashion, keeping our plates spinning. Buck's internal monologue is captured in four clause rhythmic sentences, till short conclusive statements jerk us out of drowsiness, synapses firing as the clock passes midnight, before we finally reach for the bookmark, glass of water, Nightol and the light switch.
Ok, that's what award winning authors and our half-awake brains can do, although AI might find it a challenge (I fell for Dinah in those silent nocturnal readings). One thing a TV version might bring to life more readily than words on the page: the Northern Soul, Bobby Soxer and braces, spin and lift dancefloor responses to those rare imported singles.
Noted in despatches
In The Times obituary for Baroness Howard de Walden, whose family own most of Marylebone, in London, the writer noted that her father, who was studying German in Munich in 1931, whilst 'driving an unfamiliar car' accidentally knocked down Adolph Hitler, who survived the collision. The obituarist did not venture to suggest that the crash was more than an accident, and that the Baroness's dad was, just possibly, a British secret agent.
Finally, there has been some discussion about whether gardeners should despatch or remove slugs from their gardens. Titchmarsh and Don are in favour, but some naturalists point out that slugs are part of the food cycle for birds and amphibians and help to dispose of other garden pests, and should be left alone. Well, let the experts slug it out …
Our neighbour came back as a slug
Chorus
Reincarnation is making a comeback.
You might return as a whale or a bug.
Most hope to come back as a human.
But our neighbour came back as a slug.
When we moved in next to Keith and Maeve,
It didn't take us long to discover,
That they had a love hate relationship;
They both loved to hate one another.
Now, Maeve worn't renowned for sobriety,
And booze and accidents go hand in glove,
But after she fell, down their garden well,
People asked, "Did Keith give her a shove?!"
Well, he took in a London offcumden,
Who told us secrets of their final fling.
In a hectic sex bout, as Keith's heart gave out.
He said, "O Death, where is thy sting?!"
Chorus
In our garden, the following summer,
In protecting two rows of brassica,
I sprinkled our slugs with some table salt -
And our path worra scene of a massacre.
But one slug survived my offensive,
And, in spite of a lack of false teeth,
Though it might seem odd, that gastropod,
Wor an absolute dead ringer for Keith.
So, hoping to hear his little slug voice,
I crouched down a bit closer to t' ground.
And twiddling a knob on my hearing aid,
I heard him proclaim, "It's your round!"
Chorus
He said, "I'm not a slug, I'm just sluggish.
And I think beer is t' best way to go.
Be of good cheer, bring a saucer of beer,
My life as a slug is too slow."
I wor thinking, 'Wor it really my round?'
When I noticed, on our crazy paving,
Wor a hedgehog with a look of Maeve,
And to prove it, Maeve started waving!
I wor thinking, 'Would it hold up in court,
If they gave me sole use of their shed?'
But before I could ask, Maeve had legged past,
And proceeded to bite off Keith's head!
Chorus
Reincarnation is making a comeback,
You might return as a whale or a bug,
Most hope to come back as a human,
But our neighbour came back as a slug.
Bye!
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