It’s close to the moors, but so unmoorlike.

It’s a working farm with fields (and animals) running all the way down to the North York Moors Railway, hidden in the valley.

They do beef. This [...]]]> A few miles north of Pickering in North Yorkshire, well away from the road, lies Farfields Farm.

It’s close to the moors, but so unmoorlike.

It’s a working farm with fields (and animals) running all the way down to the North York Moors Railway, hidden in the valley.

They do beef. This is one of the mummy cows shortly to give birth. (She’s the one on the right).

And this is a nosy boy born a little earlier.

They used to also breed sheep, and some are still around. Steve forgot to tell Liz he was switching to just beef, so when you look at their web site just overlook the bit about sheep lambing in early spring. Not this year. The lambing barn has been taken over by swallows.

Ah, there’s one.

Follow the back lane a couple of miles to reach Lockton, one of a couple of charming villages way off the beaten track. The road doesn’t go anywhere but Lockton, and then, Levisham.

Well, okay, it goes on to one of the stations on the NYM Railway. More of that after our return visit next week.

While you’re in Lockton stop at The Pantry, buy something in the shop, then go upstairs for a cream tea (great!) and browse their small but perfect art gallery. Some of the work there is by Helen, who may well have served you. Her work is fun, unusual, and valued by fans of Darwin. Much of it I found highly attractive. Hopefully she’ll start selling some reasonable sized prints soon – we had to make do with post cards. Must ask her if I might show one or two of her pictures here. They’re at: http://www.thepantrylockton.co.uk/

Fancy something to eat? There’s a good pub in Levisham which we’ll try next week, or pop over to Whitby for some fresh sea food.

Then back to the farm for a really comfortable night, a great breakfast, and warm and helpful hosts. Look them up at http://www.farfieldsfarm.co.uk/index.htm

Oh, and for the photography nerds out there, all photos were taken without a tripod using a zoom lens operating at up to 436 mm – swallow at full zoom, kneeling in middle of farmyard a camera’s throw from our room. The only modifications to the images are to brightness and contrast – no cropping or colour changes.

Next time: North York Moors Railway Artist in Residence Chris Ware who does great water colours, and will make visitors very welcome (providing they don’t try to take photos of his paintings of course).

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hey

STOP !

there’s a soundtrack

to

this

stroll

Platform Two by Seas of Green

got that playing in another window?

great

hey

STOP !

there’s a soundtrack

to

this

stroll

Platform Two by Seas of Green

got that playing in another window?

great

now

stroll with me through Leeds on a sunny April day in 2011

a centre for business, growth and finance

a haven for riches and redundancy

mindless striving

and

despair

in the north of England

stroll gently

with your eyes open

don’t rush

because

there is much rush around you

but

not

all

take a while

look at things in new ways

consider your desires

and your ways out

and

here is Robert

i don’t know his Surname

we chatted for some time

people walking past gave us strange looks

Why

?

we’re both human beings

we’re both a bit scruffy

we both have problems

we’ve both had bad luck, though perhaps Robert more so than me

who can say how I might have handled Robert’s life

or he mine

and we like it when people accept us as we are

and maybe just chat

Oh yes

and

thank you

Robert

for giving

permission

for me

to

use

your

photo.

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Over recent weeks I’ve had the camera with me on walks, and some results are fun. I love each season, but I love Spring.

Between winter and spring lies a season of confusion and hope

And then yesterday [...]]]> Every season is special, but Spring has the edge. It heals the failed memories of Winter.

Over recent weeks I’ve had the camera with me on walks, and some results are fun. I love each season, but I love Spring.

Between winter and spring lies a season of confusion and hope

And then yesterday I had BBC Radio 4 on as I was preparing our meal. No idea who was showing the interviewer round his garden, but he said something that gave me pause. “I may have only ten or fifteen Springs left, and that makes me appreciate them all the more.”

Gruesome thought? Not at all. He said it with no trace of sadness, and quite right too.

If we knew we’d never die then, the way we are, we’d never quite get round to appreciating the beauty of our world.

It would be like only seeing local attractions when we’re showing visitors round.

But we know our time here is limited, and one of the joys of growing old is the realisation that each moment is to be savoured.

The good things about each season are to be enjoyed to the full, new and slightly different each year, and the aspects we find less pleasant are to be valued and respected as part of the incredible backdrop against which we live out our lives.

Here are a few more recent photos. They’re not traditional chocolate box, but each has something to say.

Sun still weak, grass still pale, but it's warm enough to sit out and enjoy the daffodils.

Birds return, the cycle of life continues

I was trying to focus on the fresh bud of our weeping willow, but this accident has its own beauty

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Saturday 23 November 1963 and we were excited. A brand new series was to start on BBC1. It was science fiction. It was hyped before we’d heard of the word.

At 5.15 that afternoon I was helping out at a Scout jumble sale and wishing I could be at home watching Dr Who. Pretty [...]]]>

Saturday 23 November 1963 and we were excited. A brand new series was to start on BBC1. It was science fiction. It was hyped before we’d heard of the word.

At 5.15 that afternoon I was helping out at a Scout jumble sale and wishing I could be at home watching Dr Who. Pretty sad for a fourteen year old.

And then a shock that thrilled. So many people had missed the first episode that the BBC decided to show it again the next Saturday, followed by episode two. That was a long week.

We loved it. We didn’t know it would become the most successful TV SF series of all time, but if the good Doctor had dropped by and told us we’d not have been at all surprised. A DVD set of that first series arrived a few days ago and we’re looking forward to watching it.

In 1963 I lived in Bristol, which added an extra thrill. The theme tune was billed every episode as having been created at the BBC Radiophonic Workshop which was in Bristol, not far from my school. Sometimes I’d walk past the building in a dream. Like I said, sad.

Dr Who was part of the fabric of my teenage years, along with Top of the Pops (Beatles, Stones, Beach Boys, Cat Stevens), sunny days at Scout camps in Somerset, running, writing science fiction (none published).

Little did I know.

In September 1972 I started my teaching career at a successful but slightly stuffy old school called Northampton Town and County Grammar School. I was not a good teacher, but I did have fun. The school has a marvellous location at the crest of a gentle slope leading down to the river. During the war the slope had been tiered into three levels of playing fields with a spinney at the foot. We were on the edge of town. It was a marvellous area for running, and there were many wise and gentle people on the staff at the school who guided me through a bad beginning made worse by chronic depression.

Then, as I knew would happen, the school became comprehensive: it could no longer choose it’s pupils on the basis of an entry exam but had to take whoever the local council chose in their wisdom to send. We’d also change from being an 11-18 secondary school to a 13-18 upper school. And sadly we’d remain the one boys only school in Northampton.

We didn’t technically change till 1974, but in early 1973 we heard that they’d identified we had spare capacity for that September and they’d be sending us an extra sixty boys unfiltered by any exam. Rumour had it that the education office hand picked the sixty to impress on us we were no longer a grammar school. If it’s true, it worked. We were re-branded as Northampton School for Boys.

Being me I asked to teach one of the new-type year 9 classes. That’s when I really began to understand the meaning of stress. The kids were great people, but nothing like I’d experienced at Bristol Grammar School or Durham University. I had that class four days out of five every week, and believe me the first thing I thought of on waking up each day was whether it was my day off. A contrasting class springs to mind. They were old grammar school. I was a few minutes late for one lesson and they were in a mobile classroom where no one would notice if they messed around a bit, yet when I arrived they were sitting silently with their books open ready. Creepy.

What’s this to do with Dr Who?

Come 1979 I moved on to another school. Three years later Matt Smith was born, and he later went to Northampton School for Boys. I know that because for once on Saturday I was bored enough to follow up the latest episode of Dr Who – starring Matt Smith as the eleventh Doctor – with ‘Dr Who Confidential’. It included highlights of the tour he made last Easter (?)with Karen Gillan promoting the new series. They visited his old school, and I was delighted to be shown what had changed and what had stayed the same. Nice place to grow up eh Matt? A good school.

Also shortly after Easter Jenny and I visited Northampton, as we do from time to time. It is a beautiful town, and we still have friends there. The five pictures above were taken on our stroll round Abington Park which is a few hundred yards from the first house I owned. The park’s a great place to run, and site of the school cross-country course.

Do I wish I’d stayed at Northampton? Kind of, but if I had I’d never have met and married Jenny, so actually no. Not a good idea to dwell on what-ifs, though tempting

Oh and some of my facts may be inaccurate, but that’s how I remember it. Feel free to correct me but I don’t really care.

And Cat Stevens? Now he is my real (and sad) claim to fame. Jenny used to sit with a student called Steve Georgiou in her first year at Hammersmith Art College. She didn’t know him well, but she remembers him with his guitar. The next year he was Cat Stevens and busy elsewhere. Now of course he’s Yusuf Islam and still performing, though I hope enjoying it more.

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