August 1st is Yorkshire Day, but also marks the Battle of Minden in 1759. The 51st Foot (King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry), now part of The Rifles took part, and subsequently wore a white rose of Yorkshire in their cap to commemorate the day.
Now, some mysterious person sends 6 roses (to mark all the British regiments taking part) to the British Consulate General in Chicago every 1st August. Nobody knows who…
The game’s afoot!
A thorny case for Sherlock Holmes – UK in USA.
It’s Thursday today.
I’ve tried to do the Grouse Grind regularly on Thursdays, after work. Today was my fifth time this season. Tenth since I paid for the timer chip and started officially recording my ascents last August. The first time I ever got officially timed (last year) I did it in an hour and 20 minutes. Not especially quick but I was quite pleased with it. You may recall that last April I did the Sun Run for the first time, and so by August I was arguably reasonably limber. Well – compared to my former self. The other timings of the year didn’t bear that out though, and on average I was a round 1:30.
If you have the timer chip, your time is displayed on a wide screen monitor at the top of Grouse in the chalet. It’s quite scary to see. There are plenty of people with times in the 30-40 minute range. There are also plenty of names that appear multiple times – meaning the person has ascended the Grouse multiple times that day alone. Last week a name was there TEN times. The slowest time was still less than an hour! It’s only about 3km, but it’s 1,231m high… and there’s a lot of steps. Some natural, some man-made to minimise the erosion.
I began this season reasonably well with an hour and 26. The next couple of times I was within a few seconds at around 1:24. Things were looking up. I might even be getting fitter, and might get back to last year’s all-time best! (I’m also trying to lose some weight and generally try and not die any time soon).
Then came last week. I was 30 minutes slower at 1:56. Weird! A whole half hour slower?! It was really humid though, and the top of the mountain was actually shrouded in cloud. I’m not making excuses you understand… I just couldn’t figure out how I could suddenly be so much slower. I was actually overtaken by the “sweepers” – a couple of super-fit Search and Rescue lads whose role is to amble up the Grind after the gate is locked and nominally nobody else is ascending that day. (In practice people circumvent the fencing, so plenty of people popped out at the top even after I made it up there). I did question the benefit of having sweepers at all if they actually left stragglers (me) behind, but I guess that given the fact that there was no practical way (due to fence hoppers) of telling who the last person actually was, it made no difference.
Anyway tonight it rained. A lot. I ummed and ahhed about whether to go at all. Nominally my son was going to take the SkyRide and wait at the top taking photos until I burst magnificently into the late sunshine out of the woods at the top of the Grind. He bottled out due to the bad weather. Or maybe because his girlfriend made him a better offer. Not sure. It may be a pertinent fact that as I write this at 11:45pm he has yet to come home.
Anyway – I got decidedly wet on the Grind. It’s a tough call for appropriate clothing. You want to travel light, typically in running gear with rugged trainers, contrary to the usual scout “be prepared” preference I’d have – carrying a 75l rucksack with stuff that would allow me to live comfortably on the mountain for a week no matter what happened. I tend to actually carry a small day sack – primarily to hold a 1l water bottle and leave my hands free. I also carry a lightweight fleece jumper in case I meet a nasty accident and have to wait for an extended period waiting for the embarrassing rescue that hopefully would arrive eventually.
(When hiking or going into the back-country ALWAYS tell someone where you’re going and when you expect to be back in contact. Nobody plans to have an accident…).
Today though – I half expected it’d still be raining, so I also took my super lightweight running shell. It’s not really that waterproof, but it cuts the wind and helps keep you warm if you need it.
And a cap. I’m not big on caps, but I wear glasses. Glasses are really good at correcting faulty vision… unless they steam up or get rained on (I wore contacts for many years purely to avoid steamed up glasses when I transitioned from wet dales hikes in Yorkshire to the “prize” of a pub at the end). A cheap peaked cap does wonders to keep the bulk of the “liquid sunshine” – as we call it Vancouver – off your glasses. I set off in reasonable time (i.e. I wasn’t caught up by the sweepers this week), but by the half-way mark, I was already at an hour, and it was obvious that I’d be logging another poor time. And this started me thinking of an earlier conversation I’d had about the psychology of challenges.
Many years ago, I was a Venture Scout Leader in the UK. I took a group of teenagers on a challenge hike – 40 miles overnight around the moors around Sheffield. The route passed various TV aerial masts, and was called The Masters Hike. It snowed. A couple of the teens wanted to drop out and despite my cajoling them through one more checkpoint, they finally quit. I exited the event at the same checkpoint. As we waited the 10 minutes or so for the “body wagon” – a long wheelbase Landy – to pick us up with the other folk exiting at that checkpoint, I got my second breath. Too late – I was already marked as “out”.
It was a huge lesson to me. I was about 25 at the time, and I vowed I would never quit such an event again purely on “mental grounds”. After that I went on to do many other challenge hikes including “Endurance 80” – an 80km (50mi), 24hr hike through the night. Glad to see that one’s still going strong.
So every time I start up the Grind, I have these little arguments in my head.
“Are you mad?
Eh?
Are you mad? You’re nearly 50!
So?
You’re pre-diabetic and have a heart problem.
Again – so?
Well this is just asking for trouble. You’ve barely started and you’re panting.
It’s good for you. It’s called “cardio”. The doctor said I should do more of it…”
And so it goes on – often all the way up to the halfway mark, at which juncture I point out to myself that even if I were to give in, it’s as far to the start as it is to the end, so I might as well continue. But behind it all is the memory of that terrible feeling I had as a young pup when I gave in for no other reason than a weak mental moment.
And so I keep going.
One. More. Step.
That’s one closer to the end. Well – do it again then!
And so on. Despite often sounding like Thomas the Tank Engine when I finally emerge at the top, I am rarely achy or physically exhausted. It’s way more a mental challenge than a physical one.
And the point of all this diatribe, you might ask? Having taken 1:50 tonight, I initially thought “You’re getting old. Slowing down. Everyone passed you. You’re last”.
But then I thought:
“Yes. But I finished. That’s 10 Grouse Grinds since I started logging them. Probably about 15 altogether. All these people were faster than me today. But what about all those who are at home watching TV? Or who caught the SkyRide up to the top? How many of them have even done it once?”
And I smiled. And I ordered my usual cup of tea and fruit scone in the café. And I felt smug as I rode the SkyRide back down… 20 years the senior of everyone else who was muddy and in shorts.
I hope to keep winning the arguments with myself.
Not a climber myself, and not one to sit and watch other people climbing as a rule.
But THIS video is different. You see… it’s in God’s Own County. Lots of it in my old stomping ground in and around West Yorkshire. Shipley Glen, Embsay, Brimham Rocks.
As soon as the video starts, the tone and texture of the rock instantly transported me back to the countless hours I spent camping and hiking through that terrain.
The maker (Dan Turner) asks that you consider donating to Climbers Against Cancer if you like his video which sounds like a reasonable request.
<Beware loud music from muzo.tv when clicking the link below for full story>
Ben Cox of the Star @ Sancton with his prize Yorkshire Puddings
Believe it or not, the UK has “National Yorkshire Pudding Day”. I shit you not! First Sunday in February. Honest – check here, if you (wisely) don’t find it easy to believe what you read on these pages.
It’s hard for me to admit this… but I believe it’s a French invention. Allegedly came over with William the Conqueror. He supposedly beat the English National Conker Team, lead by Harold, in 1066.
One in the eye for him, you might say.
Harold: Ow! I’ve got something in my eye! (Wikipedia)
Some who know me have remarked less than pleasantly about my love of rain. I was born and raised in Yorkshire and now live in Vancouver BC. It rains occasionally. Sometimes.
I stumbled upon this page quite unexpectedly. It’s awesome (if you’re not too demanding about your awe.) On a PC, the video is a little boring – a simple loop of DIVX AVI, but the audio soundtrack seems to be much more lengthy and varied.
I LOVE IT! I could close my eyes and easily drift to sleep.
Using WordPress to get a graphic from the page to help you link, I see all manner of Apple, Android and other icons. I suspect that no matter what device you reach the page via, you’ll be left feeling wet and refreshed!
So if you’ve no idea who Nora Batty is, firstly check out a few classic episodes of Last of the Summer Wine. It’s based in Holmfirth, a lovely little place in West Yorkshire.
Kathy Staff as Nora Batty. Source Jane, over on Noisy Shoes
Anyway, apart from the inherent value attributed to it simply because it’s a mention of Yorkshire, the reference is entirely irrelevant. If you’ve already been and checked out Last Of the Summer Wine – I apologise. It’s not very funny, is it? But the scenery is worth it. I have no idea how they found so many non-raining days to film the series!! I can attest that a great way of upsetting your spousal partner is to frequently interject with “I’ve been there”. It works wonders at whittling away marital stability it seems.
Anyway, now we’re safely back from that cul-de-sac (Literally “bag’s bum” in French), on to the real tale…
I often have lunch at Murchie’s in Richmond, near my office. It’s actually their distribution centre, but they have a little café on the side which sells lovely salads and of course their luxuriant range of tea. The lovely serving wenches there (I jest – no comments thank-you. I wouldn’t DARE call them wenches to their faces. Or bottoms, for that matter) are very friendly and pleasant. To the extent that the whole point of having a salad at lunch seems lost on them. I often have a serving so large that it cascades apologetically over the tub (designed to standardise the portions!) and onto the paper plate added to the ensemble for the purpose. I always have Russian Caravan to drink. I am reportedly the only person to have it, yet am teased frequently with questions of whether I’m having “my usual green tea” or the Earl Grey.
Anyway, where was I? Holmfirth, Murchie’s, tea, ah yes…
So Murchie’s often have the radio going just to add a little ambiance to the otherwise rather stark room. They’ve done their best with the addition of a (non-functional) pot-bellied stove and some half-hearted Welsh dresser thing as a display cabinet, but when all’s said and done… it’s an industrial unit. And it looks like it!
But the music helps. I’m normally trying to read some book or other, and the music helps set the mood. Usually it’s Sirius satellite radio (why do North Americans pronounce it “serious”?!) The time of day I’m there, it’s some acoustic programme, and they often have classic songs being re-imagined either by the original artist or someone covering it. There’s no commentary (cheap radio production), but thanks to Shazam, I can usually figure out who is singing any songs I like, and I can acquire a version when I get home.
There was one tune on pretty frequent rotation, and it really hooked me. I used Shazam, and it turned out to be Norah Jones – Say Goodbye, from her brand new album Little Broken Hearts.
Bring me back the good old days,
When you let me misbehave.
Always knew, it wouldn’t last,
But if you ask, I’d go again.
Yeah, I’d go again.
Here she is performing it live
So anyway, I duly ended up getting the whole album, which is moody and opulent. There’s some boppy yet thoughtful tunes like Happy Pills
And the downright creepy Miriam. Ms Jones is plainly not someone to cross in matters of love!
Anyway, I now listen to this album on rotation in my car, alongside Regina Spektor, Coldplay, Mother Mother, Lloyd Cole (who was VERY cool and personally messaged me the other day!) and a bunch of other equally eclectic tunesmiths. And then I hear the other day that Ravi Shankar has died.
Wikipedia: Ravi Shankar
I confess that I was only vaguely aware of his work, and that was strictly in the orbit of George Harrison and the Beatles. A tiny fraction of his work and influence. And those two threads might have stayed forever blowing independently in the breeze until this evening. This evening (after watching Life of Pi), Mrs E casually mentioned that Norah Jones was his daughter! Turns out her full name is Geethali Norah Jones Shankar. Her half-sister Anoushka Shankar took after their dad and is an accomplished sitar player too.
Music it seems really does flow through your blood!
Autumn is an odd time of year for me.
The scents can be warm and heady – spices, mulled wine, bonfires, burning leaves, weed (this is BC and there’s a lot of teenager-infested parks around here! 🙂 )
The colours are stunning of course. Back in the UK they were predominantly yellow/brown, but here the large-leafed North American oaks and of course the many maple varieties bring a wider gamut including some astounding reds and peach/orange hues.
I sometimes still feel unaccountably melancholy, and enjoy time alone, walking in the rain, splashing in puddles, and thinking my thoughts without the judgement or influence of others.
Yesterday treated us to steady rain – oh and a Tsunami warning late in the evening (why should the East Coast have all the drama?) I particularly enjoy steady rain. I am well equipped for it, being originally from Yorkshire, and most people are far more sensible and stay indoors. This leaves the entire neighbourhood exclusively to me and my camera. The hood on my waterproof is ample to protect my camera with its 50mm lens, and off we go…
So a few days ago, I learned (via the ever reliable BBC) of a blog chronicling the migration of British English into the day to day American English usage. I recommend it if you have even a passing interest in language and its changing usage. Innit (Which alarmingly didn’t trigger a spell-check error with WordPress!). Not One-Off Britishisms is its locale.
So anyway, I liked what I saw, and signed up as a groupie, er – I mean “follower”. The reward for which is the occasional notice of there being a new posting. The other day, I was rewarded for my herd behaviour with a notice of a posting called “Rubbish” moves south. This tells of a semi-official notice from the City of Philadelphia informing its citizens of a change in their refuse collection schedule.
“Rubbish” it seems is becoming used as an alternative to the more usual Americanism “garbage”. This is made fun of in my circles by saying it Frenchified as “ga-Barj”. In the same way we ridicule the popular US chain store Target, by calling it “Tar-jey”. How did I get here? Ah yes… refuse collection!
So, I live in Surrey, BC. The city started a wide-spread advertising campaign months ago to pre-warn its tax-payers that they would be rationalising and simplifying household refuse collection. This was done under the auspices of reducing the amount of rubbish entering the landfills by being smarter about recyclables – organics as well as the more usual glass/paper/metals/plastics. No problem there – all for it, in fact.
Then, the new bins started to arrive. In order to simplify (there’s that word again – take note… it’s important) the collection, every household was issued with three bins, colour-coded for (you guessed it) simplicity to differentiate waste, organics and recyclables. These bins are pretty large (240L) and in the UK would have been referred to as “wheelie bins”.
They’re massively over-engineered so that the special (and therefore presumably EXPENSIVE) dustbin lorries can automatically pick up the bins and tip them into their innards. Having witnessed the collection of similar bins during our holiday in Victoria my observation was that this automation came at the expense of much manual set-up on the part of the dustbin men. Instead of just picking up a dustbin and lobbing its contents in the back of the lorry, they now had to load up the special bins onto the proper hooks at the side of the lorry, wait while they were hydraulically lifted (slooooowly), tipped, shaken and returned to the ground for wheeling back into position.
There were lots of apparently friendly statements saying not to bother writing your address on the bins as they were all uniquely embossed with a number so they can be identified with the correct address. We occasionally have gusty winds, and it’s always an amusing game trying to retrieve your bin lid out of a neighbour’s tree. These city-provided bins have flip-tops and presumably are immune to that particular problem. Not least because they weigh about the same as a minor continent even when empty. It remains to be seen if the raccoons can figure out the new challenge.
Anyway, the 1st of October arrived – “first day with the new bins”. We dutifully wheeled out our bins, and equally dutifully measured out the requisite 1m spacing between them (well – not really, I’m not that anal!), facing the specified direction (they’re embossed with arrows for the hard-of-thinking) and not under any offending trees, all as per the simple instructions (All 4 pages of them. This is a rubbish bin we’re talking about!).
I went to work, safe in the knowledge that despite the city now requiring me to hang on to my rubbish for two weeks instead of one, it was all so much more simple, it would be worth it. Doing my bit. Community spirited citizen. Yeah – all that bollocks.
And then I came home. Initially I had my usual irritation at my teenage offspring having not bothered to retrieve the bins from the side of the road. There used to be one rubbish bin (plus or minus the lid depending on the Beaufort Scale) plus a couple of blue recycling bins – upturned to indicate they were empty and not available for filling up with rainwater today, thank-you very much. I know it all sounds incredibly complex, but it seemed to work pretty well.
Now there were three minor industrial installations to be moved, but same difference – teenagers could walk past a writhing hydra without noticing it. So, having deposited the car in the garage (pronounced ga-ridge, me being from Yorkshire), I went back to the street to retrieve our lovely new bins after the loss of their virginity. Ask how it went. Tell them the next time would be less awkward. Maybe suggest that perhaps that dustbin lorry wasn’t the right one for them. That kind of thing.
And then I stopped dead.
I’d been “written up”!
It turns out that this simple collection actually involves only putting 2 of the 3 bins out each week. To put out the wrong bin results in the binman having to go to the trouble of writing up a citation and sticking it on your bin. A badge of honour, I reckon. I wonder how many I can collect before the bin gets so ridiculously heavy that they stop adding them.
A violation?! Are you kidding me? For putting out the wrong bin? Notice numbers 3 and 4 on the list! 
They can refuse to collect your rubbish because you didn’t space it out correctly… or someone (presumably from out of Surrey, or is that Airstrip One?) inadvertently parks within 2m of your bins, no matter how carefully you yourself space them. I have a good mind to park next to the mayor’s bins on collection day. See how universally the rule is really applied.
So – you can imagine this put me in a bit of a strop for the rest of the week. I hate bureaucracy, and particularly when it has been justified in the name of simplicity.
As I came home on Friday, I noticed one of those large electronic notice boards they use to warn of impending roadworks. This one was informing residents that bin collection would be on Monday as usual (it’s Thanksgiving here in Canada), and specifically which 2 bins to put out. Needless to say – I forget which they were. Since then I’ve noticed two more such electronic noticeboards on major ingress routes to White Rock/South Surrey. (I still can’t remember which 2 bins are the ones to put out).
It’s nice to know that it’s so simple the city has to pay for such “in-yer-face” (yet apparently ineffective) reminders to its taxpayers.
Maybe they just ran out of violation stickers last week…
20 years ago Mrs Elephant and I went on honeymoon to the island of Madeira. It’s a Portuguese possession, and this stonework was beautifully represented there too. I sat for ages watching the workmen carefully size and position each piece as they repaired a stretch of pavement. Much more recently I visited Belo Horizonte in Brazil – a former Portuguese colony and was surprised to see the tradition had even crossed the Atlantic.
As a child, I remember the pavements in Yorkshire being constructed of great slabs of sandstone. They blended in perfectly with the other local stone in the houses they served. Now… it’s all a monotonous black tarmac. Quick to lay down. convenient. And soulless.
“The idea was simple; Launch a QR code, one of the most innovative technologies of the XXI century, made by Portuguese cobblestones, one of the most ancient Portuguese traditions.
From the fusion between technology and historical traditions a new and innovative way was born to promote Portugal abroad and to provide relevant cultural content for tourists visiting Chiado.”
I actually think they look quite cool, the cobbles definitely gives them a different feel to them, it’s also interesting to see how they cut the stones to size and how much work goes into it.
Must have been a slow news day at the BBC…
I’ve already blogged about Yorkshire’s Olympic successes, but I wasn’t aware of Sark‘s until I read this article.
BBC: What a lovely White Rose flag!
BBC News – Olympic counties: Does it matter where medal-winners come from?.
Quieter Elephant 