It pays to advertise

How about this for a timely advertisement, which I spotted on a local newspaper website?

Look at the subject of the news story, then check out the bottom of the page for the ad.

Still waters

Here's something that's really impressed me recently, and I'm surprised that Marks and Spencer haven't given it some publicity.

You're probably aware that some brands of canned beer have a temperature sensor, which indicates when the contents have been chilled sufficiently for optimum enjoyment.

M&S have used an offshoot of this technology to sample the purity of their bottled water, in case it becomes contaminated, or to prevent accidental poisoning, if the bottle is re-used.

I knew nothing about this until a friend drew it to my attention.

Unlike other brands, M&S bottles aren't labelled "spring water" or "table water".

Instead, they are reassuringly branded "still water".

It's so simple, yet so ingenious.

I had the same unopened back-up bottle with me during a recent walking holiday.

Each day before setting out, I checked the integrity of the bottle top, although I should have had more faith in the technology, as the sensor kept a constant check, and displayed the fact that the content was still water.

When we returned home, I couldn't resist testing the system properly.

I drank the water to confirm its purity, then refilled it from my wife's vodka bottle.

Within 30 seconds - as you can see from the photograph - the sensor had registered the presence of a foreign substance.

Amazing!

And the technology, I understand, is 100% British.

Blaze crew in ring mercy drama

The Scarborough Evening News once surprised me with a headline that read:

Man found in street

"Whatever next?" I thought.

Leaves found on tree?

Sand found on beach?

Whatever...a signet ring that I have worn since our engagement almost 34 years ago has become rather tight recently, and a sore developed on the finger.

This afternoon, I went into Scarborough fire station, and one of the men very kindly cut the ring neatly from my finger.

As I was about to leave, he said he needed my name and address.

I do trust I won't find myself featured in T'News tomorrow. Stranger things have happened in sensation-starved news rooms.

Yes all right. I'll be there when I've finished my crossword.

I see that Scarborough Borough Council are advertising for a "casual lifeguard".

Just how laid back are they allowed to be?

I think we should be told.

Woefully wet

It's difficult to convey the unremitting awfulness of our 8.5-mile walk today.

The summary in our North York Moors book was very inviting, following the scarp of Reasty Bank for a mile or two, with views over scenic Harwood Dale, then a descent to the River Derwent, whose bank was to be followed for a couple of miles..

Finally, lanes and tracks would take us through the enticingly named Whisper Dales, returning us to our starting point.

First of all, the weather forecast, which promised a bright morning after a dampish start didn't actually work out.

Mist obscured much of Harwood Dale as we tramped along the edge of Broxa Forest, but it wasn't really unpleasant - it kept us refreshed.

The descent to the Derwent was a trial, however, as we squelched through a muddy morass of a path that dropped us about 300 feet in the course of a quarter of a mile.

The route beside the river through Langdale varied between soggy and usefully firm over the course of two miles, but the pervading gloom robbed the walk of the charm it must hold in sunny weather.

We had to pass through a couple of fields, only to find that the exit from one stile was obstructed by cattle, several of which were crowned with horns.

I persuaded the most inquisitive of the beasts to retreat far enough for us to pass, and we trod gingerly around the edge of the field, watching the cattle for any signs of aggressive intent.

In a succeeding field, we suddenly found ourselves calf deep in the most appalling mud, which we suspected might have been augmented by the digestive tracts of local cattle.

Maureen's misery was completed when she slipped and coated a high proportion of her clothes in the suspect substance.

At Broxa Banks, we were directed to climb 200ft through soggy heather, but we rebelled at that and stuck to the minor road for a mile, taking the opportunity to have lunch while perched on a North Riding County Council grit bin.

Progress did become much easier for a time, although one lane, remarkably, shared its passage with a stream.

Finally, our guide advised us to "join a gravel track that climbs more steeply into forest." Well yes, that's accurate as far as it goes, but the reality is that an extreme gradient is maintained for a good half-mile, so we were very pleased to complete this, and be re-united with our car.

Waterproofs were used to protect the car's upholstery as we drove back, and on our return, I used a hosepipe to remove the worst of the mud from our socks and boots.

Maureen was soon hard at work scraping sticky layers of evidence of our muddy passage from our clothes. To ensure that the washing machine was not clogged with silt, trousers were first rinsed in the bath, which gained an impressive coating of grit and mud.

I washed the socks, with six rinses of clean water before actually starting the main task, which was followed by two further rinses.

We don't usually open a bottle on Mondays, but on this occasion, we decided we deserved a stiff gin and tonic.

Over and out

Next month I shall have been a qualified and active football referee for 30 years.

In that time, virtually anything that can happen to a referee has certainly happened at least once.

Yesterday, I was knocked out by the ball for the second time in my career, when a defender, trying to clear the ball from his penalty area, kicked it straight into my face from about five yards.

I managed to blow my whistle as I sank less than gracefully to the ground, and recovered (as I was told) less than a minute later.

The first words I heard were: "Wow! I've killed a ref!" (That's local football for you.)

As we were only five minutes from half time, I revived myself with a splash of water over my head and pressed on, despite feeling groggy, and with very little clear vision in my right eye.

Another 20 minutes' action in the second half had me feeling almost normal and seeing almost normally.

On the previous occasion that I was knocked out, almost 20 years ago, my young son had become the only member of my family who, to this day, has attended a match that I have refereed.

I recovered to find him standing over me, looking down anxiously at his dazed dad.

More miles

Our walks are usually about eight miles long, but a week on Monday, we're going to Richmond to take part in the annual walking festival.

We're not being too ambitious - three seven or eight mile trogs, and one of ten miles, on successive days.

We decided, however, to stretch ourselves a little today in preparation, so we drove to Robin Hood's Bay for a 13-mile round trip to Whitby, following the Cleveland Way along the cliffs on the outward leg, then the former railway track for the return.

I carried my flashy new daysack for the first time.

The day went very well. We made such good time into Whitby that we decided we could even give ourselves the treat of visiting Beckett's excellent café in Skinner Street, presided over by the charming Julie Curry.

It was the first really reliable fine day for several weeks, and there were a goodly number of people walking the trails.

We saw blackberries aplenty, but decided not to stick to sampling them until the final hour, when we began collecting them for tonight's pud.

A wonderful day out, surrounded by superb views.

Breaking up is hard to do

One big problem of living in a flat is separating frozen sausages.

It was easy at the house.

I just used to wait until Maureen wasn't watching, then hurl them onto the tiled kitchen floor.

I could just pick them up off the floor, put as many as I needed into the pan, and bung the others back in the freezer.

Unfortunately, that wouldn't work on a wooden floor two flights up.

I suppose I could throw them out of the window onto the car park, 60 feet below, but would I be able to get down before a dog or a seagull snaffled them all?

In case anyone else faces this quandary, I've found the perfect answer.

You hold the six frozen sausages in one hand and hit them with a hammer.

No probs.

Works with chicken breasts as well - but don't tell Maureen.

Trust me

There will probably be a few puzzled look when T'Scarborough Evening News publishes a photograph of the 40th anniversary celebrations of Scalby Village Trust.

I went to the parish hall in Scalby tonight, as a talk on Scarborough Renaissance had been advertised.

A few of us milled around while a couple of people from the borough council set up a screen at the front.

Then two ladies produced an iced cake and began opening wine bottles.

It was clear from snatches of muffled conversation that I overheard that something had gone wrong.

The pair from the borough council were persuaded to dismantle their screen, as a film on Scarborough In Bloom was definitely NOT required, and they beat a retreat to their van.

One woman seemed to have some grasp on the purpose of the proceedings, so I approached and said: "Excuse me - I understood there was to be a talk on Scarborough Renaissance."

"Yes," she said puzzlingly. "Scalby Village Trust."

A News photographer then appeared, and it transpired that the trust's members had assembled to mark the 40th anniversary.

I was instructed to join the group for the photographs outside, while Boss Lady said: "Try to make it look as though there are more of us."

Having obliged, I let everyone else precede me back into the hall, then sneaked away.

Songs and cemetery

We had a 90-minute guided tour of part of Scarborough's Dean Road cemetery this afternoon, under the Heritage Open Days scheme.

Originally, we heard, the cemetery was tended by 11 men and an apprentice. Now there's just one man, who does a wonderful job against the odds.

He made a special effort to tidy the grave of one of Scarborough's war heroes, Flying Officer WH Coverley, whose Spitfire was shot down in the Battle of Britain, so that it could be properly appreciated during our visit.

Unfortunately, the cemetery is plagued by drunks, drug addicts and feral children, who were creating a disturbance and smashing bottles while we were there.

The former chapel is now boarded up, fast deteriorating, and used only by pigeons.

The previous evening, someone had placed a mattress against the chapel door, set fire to it, and scrawled a swastika on the war memorial.

Why the area cannot be properly policed is beyond me.

We moved on to Peasholm Park, where an event called the Acoustic Gathering was taking place.

I would guess that about 1,000 people were sitting beside the lake, enjoying the music.

One of the singers commented that it was the most surreal gig she had ever attended.

You could see her point.

The performers were ferried by rowing boat to a bandstand about 20 yards from the bank.

They performed as people in gaily coloured plastic dragon boats pedalled between them and the audience. The backdrop was an island surmounted by a fake pagoda and an equally fake waterfall.

We heard a couple of solo singers and an excellent Irish band before walking round the lake, up Peasholm Glen and back to the car.

Open house

This morning, we went to the open day at St Andrew's Church, Ramshill Road, which was completed in 1865, a year before the house that now forms the block of flats, The Wick, in which we live.

St Andrew's is a huge building with a spire, and it gives the impression of being the local parish church.

However, it's a United Reformed church, with many features, such as stained glass, its dedication to a saint, and a side chapel, that are highly untypical of the non-conformist movement.

Our host, Tricia, told a fascinating story about its establishment and subsequent history.

One visiting church elder, she said, remarked: "I've been in smaller cathedrals."

It could originally hold 1,200, but with the creation of a glazed lobby and the construction of a central aisle, that has been reduced.

We learned later that 21st Century services there attract about 40 people, on whom now falls the burden of maintaining one of Scarborough's landmark buildings.

The front three rows of the gallery, we were told, had been declared out of bounds by the health and safety brigade, for fear that someone would fall, jump, or be pushed over the balcony.

On display was a photograph, taken in 1964-5, that I had not seen before.

It showed the area in which our flats would one day be built, and Tricia kindly agreed to arrange for her husband to make a copy of it for our collection.

Pedal power

The Tour Of Britain cycle race passed through Scarborough this afternoon, and we wandered along to Ramshill Road to watch the pedallers pass through.

It wasn't in the event, much of a spectacle as far as the cyclists were concerned - just five chaps whizzing past so quickly we almost missed them, then a couple of minutes later, 50 or so going through in a pack.

More remarkable was the squadron of police motorcyclists who shepherded the cyclists through town.

There were dozens of them, from several forces, clearing the way and holding up traffic.

The next time the police explain that they have to prioritise their time, and that they are therefore too busy to attend a burglary, assault or theft, I shall remember the sight of the arrogant, shouting escorts, who were clearly revelling in their involvement with the televised race.

I do hope that, at the very least, the race organisers are being charged for police time, as are football clubs, so that the cost does not fall on the taxpayers for whom a policeman in uniform is normally such a rare sight.

Berry enjoyable

We persuaded ourselves that the rain would hold off, and drove to Filey, then strolled along the seafront to start a six-mile circular walk across fields via Hunmanby.

We took a bag for blackberries, but ignored the early ones, so that we wouldn't have to carry them too far.

On the return leg, we started picking them, and were surprised that there were still so many.

Don't people go blackberrying nowadays? To my mind, they are one of the tastiest of fruits.

We saw some people catch a bus near Filey. When we walked past the bus stop, I saw blackberries by the dozen hanging from the hedgerow. How do people resist them?

Woman In Mind

We went to the first night of Woman In Mind at the Stephen Joseph Theatre, Scarborough - the play is Alan Ayckbourn's latest revival.

The house was packed, as it was for at least the next three performances, we learned, and it was a great show.

The SJT was wholly responsible for our decision to buy our flat in Scarborough almost five years ago, and for our full-time move here at the end of May.

On Saturday evening, we went to the annual Griddle Gathering held by the theatre's Friends group at the Clock Café on the South Cliff. Unfortunately, the rain meant that the event - burgers, hot dogs, drumsticks, salad, and bring-your-own wine - was held inside, but it was a very sociable evening nevertheless.

Our daughter Dr Lou and her boyfriend Dr Paul were with us for the weekend, and they saw Woman In Mind while we were at the nosh-up.

The picture was taken by Paul at the Holbeck car park.

Weedy performance

So it's true. As I was tipped off in a phone call a couple of weeks ago, when Nottinghamshire County Council resurfaced a road in a residential street, they carefully laid the new surface around weeds that were growing in the gutter.

Here's the evidence, which I snapped on Saturday.

One witness said that when he challenged the workmen, he was advised: "We just do what we're told."

The location, incidentally, is Queen Street, Balderton.

Booted up at last

For anyone who has been following the saga of Maureen's boots, she finally has a pair.

Nevisport, who took the money for them on August 13, excused their failure to deliver them on the grounds (in chronological order) that....

(1) Our address was not clear.

(2) They had been very busy because they had a sale in progress.

(3) The parcel carrier was incompetent.

They promised to deliver them....

(1) In two to seven working days. FAILED.

(2) On August 26. FAILED.

(3) On August 27. FAILED.

I then told them that if they weren't delivered by August 29, the order was cancelled, and that they should refund my payment.

I have never heard another word from them, and nor have they yet (9pm, September 1) refunded the money to my credit card.

However, Maureen does have her boots. We diverted from a trip to Leicester on Saturday and bought a pair over the counter.

Today, both of us gave our new boots an outing with a stroll over the cliffs to Knipe Point.

The Cleveland Way has been diverted to the road in this area because of a landslip. I ventured past the "footpath closed" sign for three-quarters of a mile without finding any hazard, and it was clear from the nature of the track that many people had resumed using it.

We picked about a pound of blackberries, which made an excellent crumble tonight.

Yet more high drama in Scarborough

The Scarborough Evening News just keeps these dramatic stories coming...

Flat oven fire

By Susan Stephenson

FIRE crews were called to an oven fire at a flat in Westborough during the early hours of yesterday.
The incident happened at 2.30am. There was no damage to the property.

Lazy days

A fairly lazy last few days, with just a few strolls into town, along The Esplanade and on the beach.

After a gap of a year, we've decided to hold our fourth charity music event at the Sunnyside Inn, Northampton, next year. (Read all about it on the website) so quite a few hours have been spent on the computer.

There have been a few maintenance jobs to sort out around the flats, and we're now enjoying our penultimate free weekend before local football starts again.

I've had a good gripe at Nevisport. We ordered a pair of boots for me, at a 50% discount from another supplier, and a pair for Maureen, at only 35% discount, from Nevisport, as the other supplier doesn't stock the women's range.

My boots arrived three days later, but after a further week, we're still waiting for Maureen's. Nevisport have made the pathetic excuse that they've been busy because they have a sale in progress.

Round trip (several times)

Today's walk was planned to fill in the next segment north in our gradual progress along the coastal cliffs.

We left the car in Ravenscar and started walking south towards our last finish point, a mile or so north of Hayburn Wyke.

This provides very easy level walking alongside amazing seascapes, until we turned inland along the same path that took us (eventually) to the old railway line last week.

Today, however, we were to turn right along the access road to holiday cottages at White Hall Farm, continue for a couple of hundred yards, then cut a corner to the railway line.

All went well for a while, then both waymarking and a clear path line ran out.

"Look, we're opposite that church on the map - all we have to do is follow the field boundary round the bend and we're there," I said.

And that's how it worked out for a few minutes, until we ran into some impenetrable woodland bordering a ravine that left us frustratingly short of the old line by about 100 yards.

We doubled back along the field boundary, searching for a way through, then realised that we had wandered into a game bird area, and pheasants started taking flight all around us.

We splashed and trudged up and down fields and gullies until we admitted defeat and made our way back the way we had come, past White Hall Farm.

A muddy lane offered a short cut to the railway line, but this quickly deteriorated into a very wet squelch down to a footbridge over the stream leading to Hayburn Wyke, then an even stickier, steeper climb up.

But there was the old railway line at last, offering a brisk 2.5-mile walk back to Ravenscar. In all, we covered eight miles.

Back home, it was frustrating to look at the satellite image of the area on Google and see how close we had been to an easy escape on several occasions.

I volunteered for boot cleaning, which was accomplished with a hose, a washing-up bowl and a toothbrush in the car park at our flats.

Tarred with the same rush

Can it really be true that Nottinghamshire County Council workmen who have just resurfaced Queen Street, Balderton, decided to spread the tar neatly around weeds that had grown in a turning head, rather than shovelling up the sediment that had accumulated there through poor drainage?

When challenged, they reportedly said: "We just do what we're told."

I've just had a phone call that assures me it is so.

Grump, grump, grump

Lots of grumps today.

The Times, in its main story, is lamenting the fact that Britain's "Olympic heroes" will be scrambling for handouts - oh, sorry, "funding" is the current polite expression for scrounging.

Does the signal a switch from lamenting the soaring cost of the London Olympics?

If people want to play sport, good luck to them. I don't understand
why we should be pouring money into their pointless hobbies, while people are dying of cancer because the NHS says the drugs that will save them are too expensive, and others are dying of kidney failure because we don't have enough dialysis machines.

Should old folk who can't afford to heat their homes properly have to scrimp to pay their taxes, in the hope that it will help some guy from Willesden to cycle round a track faster than another guy from Pyongyang?

What's next? Well I see that David Beckham's
publicity people are managing to place him in some impressive locations. Becks to lead Olympic handover, Becks coaches toddlers, etc.

We're probably being softened up for the news of his knighthood.

What sort of message does that send to modern youngsters? How can we make a role model of a tattooed buffoon? Should we really telling young people that it's praiseworthy for them to deform themselves?

Damp day

We dodged the showers today, taking a stroll for 90 minutes or so on the beach, where a surprising number of people were defying the weather.

Small tragedy in Scarborough - not many dead

Here's my favourite story this week, from the Scarborough Evening News

Garden shed blaze drama in Cromwell Terrace

FIRE crews were called out to a garden shed blaze.

No-one was injured in the incident which took place in Cromwell Terrace at around 9.40pm on Friday.

It's the way they write them.

There are limits

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I don't mind Google placing ads on my blog, but they might at least make sure that they are gramatically correct.

"It's own toolbar"? PLEASE. That's the limit.

High spot

I was due to take a friendly fixture again today, but it was bucketing down this morning, and the match was called off.

After a lazy morning, we decided to walk up Oliver's Mount, the local viewpoint.

Just a three mile stroll up and down in the afternoon sun, but very enjoyable.

The view from the top is great for giving new visitors an idea of the geography of Scarborough.

My boots have arrived, incidentally, and they are so comfortable.

I very nobly decided that I wouldn't wear mine out of doors until Maureen received hers.

Dim drivers

The law, the Highway Code and common sense all dictate that in reduced visibility drivers should use dipped headlights, so that other road users become aware of their vehicles' presence as soon as possible.

I can understand that some people are too stupid to follow this rule, but I've never understood when so many switch on their sidelights.

Do they want to be seen, but not too clearly?

Yesterday, I was driving into Scarborough in bucketing rain when someone in an old blue Audi (no lights of course) started tailgating me. It's a 30mph zone, and I was driving up to the limit, which was certainly the fastest advisable speed given the conditions.

Suddenly, he overtook me, in the face of oncoming traffic. All he achieved, of course, was to move one space further ahead in the line of traffic, and he turned right into The Green only half a mile further.

What is the point of this sort of aggression?

I read once that the impulse to overtake is fuelled by a driver's feeling that another car has entered his own personal space, and that the psychological imperative to escape from the intruder could be satisfied just as easily by easing off the throttle and falling back, as by overtaking.

I tried it, and it does actually work. Saves stress and fuel as well.

Chilling out

There are times in the depths of winter when we don't need to turn on the central heating in our flat, thanks to the borrowed heat that seeps up from the three floors below.

Last night, however, was so chilly that we turned on the boiler for an hour or so. This, remember, is mid-summer.

Wyke ways

We had a brisk eight-mile stroll along the clifftops and the old railway north of Scarborough yesterday, resuming where we left off a week or so ago.

There was persistent drizzle, but no heavy rain, so it was invigorating rather than misery-making.

After a slab of fruit cake for lunch in Cloughton Wyke car park, we climbed the cliff footpath and headed north, tackling some very slippery stone steps en route.

Hayburn Wyke and its nature reserve were soon reached, with very few other walkers encountered, then after about three miles of spectacular scenery, we turned inland along the permissive path from Petard Point.

After discovering that a watchful farm dog was more nervous about us that we were of him, we missed the short footpath from Plane Tree Cottage to the old railway line, we stuck to the surfaced track and soon joined the line at a bridge.

Three miles of easy walking followed, until we left the line at Newlands Lane, Cloughton and returned to our starting point, rather damp.

Maureen and I are both waiting with great anticipation for our new walking boots, Berghaus Pro Rush Mid XCRs, to arrive. At present, we're both using walking shoes that we bought from Cotton Traders a couple of years ago -- the inners of Maureen's have deteriorated badly, while mine aren't too kind on my toes after the first six or seven miles.

We've been getting lots of tips from an amazing, authoritative web site, http://v-g.me.uk/GearTech/GearTech-Footwear.htm

National Homeliars

In common with many people, we are trying to sell a house at a very difficult time.

It's a four-bedroomed detached house, which was valued by different estate agents at up to £200,000, but we decided not to be too greedy, and placed it at £185,000.

The market had ground to a halt, and the people who showed interest in our house were dependent on selling their own properties, so our sale was in the doldrums.

I told our estate agent, Winkworth, that we accepted that we were prepared to take a heavy cut on the price, and I asked if it would help if we did something imaginative, such as handing over £20,000 in cashback immediately after the sale.

That way, I thought, we could help someone to find the deposit, or simply give them a cheaply financed loan via their mortgage.

I was told that this wouldn't work, and that I should cut the price by £5,000.

At this time, I also circulated the housebuying companies, including National Homebuyers, that were advertising heavily. We received some silly offers (including one that sounded distinctly shady from a gentleman in Bradford) and some that we certainly didn't dismiss out of hand.

Predictably, cutting the price by £5,000 was a pointless gesture, so within a couple of months of going on the market, we made a dramatic cut to £157,000.

Naturally, this did attract new interest, but with no money available for finance, no one was in a position to proceed.

Then out of the blue came a written offer from National Homebuyers for £150,000. I checked their website, which said that they made offers after a property had been subject to a drive-by by a chartered surveyor, and that unlike other housebuying companies, they didn't try to hold vendors to ransom by suddenly reducing their offer.

We decided to bite the bullet, wrote accepting the offer, and sent the deeds to our solicitors.

A few days later, we had a call from National Homebuyers, asking us, susprisingly, for all of the details that we had already given them in writing about the house.

The caller told us we would hear from them later about the details of how the sale would proceed.

The follow-up, however, was of a very different complexion.

National Homebuyers said they were dropping their offer to £107,000 - take it or leave it.

I kept my temper, but I was, excusably, very angry. I can imagine the effect that an experience of this nature would have on some desperate couple, who thought that for a tolerable sacrifice, they had found an escape through National Homebuyers.

Dampener

Later this year, I will reach the 30th anniversary of the first day that I stepped onto a field as a football referee.

Officially, the new season starts locally in September, but yesterday, I received a telephone call asking if I would step in and referee a friendly fixture this afternoon.

"Of course," I said.

With an hour to kick off, it's bucketing down and there's a gale raging.

Naturally.

Several soggy hours later: We had a great time in the rain. Everyone was soaked within seconds, after which it didn't really matter.

The rain stopped five minutes from the end of the match.

Naturally.

Clifftop stroll

We had a super seven-mile stroll today, setting off along the disused Scarborough-Whitby railway line from Scalby.

We'd intended to have a coffee at the old station cafe in Cloughton, but discovered that its opening days had changed since we last visited. It's now Sunday to Wednesday (I think). we've managed to find this place open only once in three calls.

Another half mile took us to our exit point from the old railway, at the lane leading to Cloughton Wyke.

As usual, someone was sitting on the solitary bench above the wyke, so we had to postpone our lunch stop.

The walk south was one of those episodes that recalls those summer days of long ago, the idyllic times that seem so improbable that you begin to doubt your memory. (Left, approaching Cloughton Wyke.)

The sun shone, but a cool breeze made it ideal for walking, as the sea crashed at the foot of the cliffs. The scenery here must be rate among the most glorious in the country.

We stopped for a granary bar, an apple and a gulp of water for lunch before our muscles started to seize, then continued to the track leading to the coastal road opposite Scalby Manor caravan park.

A final three-quarters of a mile along the minor road beside the site returned us to the Panda.

(Looking north from Long Nab.)

Privet - no entry

A council official in Scarborough quite properly insisted that the owners of a privet hedge bordering West Street must cut it back to the boundary of their property.

Unfortunately for the owners, 40 years ago the hedge was planted too close to the street, so the surgery prescribed by the council involved cutting into old wood, rather than just trimming soft growth. This, I understand, cost the owners about £800, as they had to hire a specialist contractor.

The hedge looked awful for a few weeks, but it's greening up nicely now.

However, only 100 yards away is another property, bordered on three sides by a privet hedge. This one is even more intrusive onto the street, to the extent that people have to walk in single file.

The owners? Scarborough Borough Council.

The hedge borders the gardens in St Martin's Square, on which National Lottery money was recently lavished with the supposed intention of creating a wildlife garden.

As this plot has not, for the last few years, been used as anything more than a dogs' toilet, that's a laudable intention.

I do have to wonder whether any research was first done on the feasibility of attracting wildlife, as it remains devoid of any living creatures other than dogs and the people who occasionally pick up their deposits.

DFS - Decidedly Frightful Stools

We spent a couple of months looking for just the right leather footstools for our flat.

Finally, we spotted ones that seemed ideal in DFS, Scarborough. They are cubes that could even double as emergency seating.

They were fine for about a year, then each one suddenly subsided while someone was sitting on them.

Last week, I turned one upside down, removed the feet and the bottom cover, and exposed the guts.
I found that there was a layer of foam under the seat, but under that, there had been nothing more than something that resembled very stiff cardboard. I wasn't impressed.

Despite the fact that I'm the world's most cag-handed d-i-yer, I managed to do a better job that DFS's workforce, by stuffing a layer of shredded paper under the foam, then securing a sheet of plywood with a couple of battens.

We now have two serviceable and attractive leather footstools. It's just a pity that DFS couldn't have made an honest job of them in the first place, instead of saving pennies by cutting corners.

Budget break

We took a three-night break (actually a summer holiday suitable for our new impecunious status).

On Saturday morning we set off to see The Lad (Richard) in Liverpool, on the opposite side of the country.

Our newly-acquired Panda was packed with the remains of Richard's stuff, which he had left at the house when he left home ten years ago.

Richard is pictured left with his mother (the one on the right) and what passes for wildlife in Liverpool (the one in front).

We looked around the huge new shopping complex, Liverpool 1, before going for dinner at Eddie Rocket's in Bold Street.

Maureen and I then drove to Burton in Kendal Travelodge on the northbound M6 for a three-night stay. Say what you like about Travelodge (and I'm just about to) but for £19 a night, you can't beat them.

HOWEVER, I think I was provided with the most badly maintained hotel room I have every slept it. It just beats the Day's Inn in Atlanta, Georgia, where the police were sorting out the aftermath of a knife fight in the lobby when we arrived, and we were shown to a room that had a door giving access to a balcony, and which had a four-inch gap at the bottom to provide an easy means of access for any passing rats.

Burton Travelodge made an early bid for the title by failing to admit us to the room for some time, as the key was so reluctant to turn. This was a recurrent problem throughout the stay.

We discovered that the sofa cover was badly slashed (see left) and alarmingly, one section of the bathroom floor seemed to be rather precariously attached (see below left).

Yes, we could have asked for another room, but on the way in, we saw a couple being turned away as the place was full...and we'd never find anywhere else at £19 a night on the edge of the Lake District.

Having said all of that, we enjoyed it. The weather was warm enough for us to keep the window open throughout our stay, the television worked after I'd been given two new remote controls to try, and the kettle worked. (I did, however, have to go to reception on the two succeeding days to ask for more coffee, tea and soap, as the supplies in the room hadn't been replenished.)

On Sunday morning, we drove to Lake Windermere, and parked on the western shore.

We took the ferry (below left) across to Bowness and we pleasantly surprised to discover that the operator couldn't be bothered to collect the 50p-a-head from foot passengers.

We walked around Bowness (what a tip!) and bought some Dales Way books from the National Park office, as well as leaflets on local footpaths.

Back on the western shore (free ride again) we followed footpaths for a couple of miles uphill to Beatrix Potter's old home. After a cooling lager at the local pub, we retraced our steps, then drove into Kendal, where we redeemed a 2-for-1 meal voucher at the Pizza Express.

And so, back to the Travelodge.

Monday took us to Ulverston, attracted by publicity for the Stan Laurel museum. What a waste of time and money. There were just three rooms on the ground floor of a house. One was the reception area. This and an adjacent room had hundreds of tatty cuttings and other bits of paper stuck to the walls and strewn around, among various pieces of obscure memorabilia.

There was no attempt at explanation, or any concept of display. In the third room, 20-minute films were being shown.

We escaped, and followed the map in a leaflet in search of Stan's birthplace. The map marked the road two streets away from its actual location, which didn't help, and the plaque was just an inartistic lettered piece of plain metal. I think the Blue Plaque people need to get involved.

We struck lucky in the tourist office, however, as we picked up some walks leaflets. We covered about six miles in the countryside around town, and made a three mile return walk beside the disused canal, to a pub at the sea end, where we felt we had earned a couple of glasses of lager.

The King's Arms in Burton in Kendal (only about a mile from the Travelodge if you use the escape road) provided a very good dinner at an excellent price from their early bird menu.

And so we spent our third night in an M6 service area, before setting off on Tuesday morning.

We stopped in Hawes to stock up on cheese at the Wensleydale creamery, and arrived back in Scarborough that afternoon after a really enjoyable break.

Sweet thoughts

When Labour came to power, Robin Cook said they were going to have an ethical foreign policy.

Years before, I'd decided to have an ethical domestic policy, but my principles have lasted (in the main) longer than theirs.

My stand of conscience is to avoid Nestlé products, because of their policy of financing health care workers in the Third World, on condition that they plug Nestlé's formula milk for babies.

Unsophisticated mothers are persuaded that their babies will do better on formula, which..

• helps to impoverish the families
• prevents the babies from getting nourishment and antibodies from their mothers' milk
• leads to sickness because of the difficulties of guaranteeing a clean water supply

A campaign called Baby Milk Action in Cambridge provides a handy list of Nestlé products, but as I've been observing the boycott for years, I'm pretty well sussed up on them now.

My big problem is condensed milk, which I adore, as it's impossible to get a non-Nestlé product in the UK, as far as I'm aware.

To the woods, to the woods

We've been spending some time exploring Raincliffe Woods, which run between Throxenby Mere and Forge Valley. (My wife Maureen is pictured emerging into the sunlight from one of the paths.)

A couple of weeks ago, we followed one of the trails waymarked by the woods' friends group - at least, we started following it, but we missed one of the markers, and walked rather further than intended.

There are two walks of about three to four miles, for which the guide suggests allowing a couple of hours. We found that even with a couple of stops for a lunchtime sandwich and a chat, that's a very generous allowance.

Our latest waymarked walked was a figure-of-eight, which included a couple of steep climbs, including the one from Green Gate car park to the rim of Forge Valley.

Our only concern when we're out in this area stems from the risk of leaving our car unattended in a lonely car park, but there's no easy solution.

During the first mile or so, we encountered quite a few dog walkers, but from that point, we had the woods to ourselves.

It's a marvellous time of year to be in the woodland. Two months ago, we were walking in Canadian forest, following local advice to whistle, sing or chat loudly, to warn any hungry bears of our presence. In Raincliffe, however, rustling in the undergrowth was a cause for interest, rather than alarm, but we never did spot any of many creatures we disturbed.

Had these woods been on my doorstep when I was a boy, I would have spent much of the school summer holidays there, building dens, and playing adventurous games with friends. I would have been nagging my parents constantly until three or four of us were given permission to sleep out, under a home-made shelter.

What on earth do youngsters do nowadays to let off energy and develop their senses of adventure and imagination?

In any event, Raincliffe Woods will certainly be on my schedule for future walks.

It's all happening

What a wonderfully rich week we've just had.

Monday (21st July) evening was spent on an excellent walk around South Cliff sites, organised by Scarborough Archaeological Society.

We saw the work of the celebrated borough surveyor, Harry Smith, who was responsible for the first Town Hall extension (not the appalling 60s-style ones that vies with the purple-fronted amusement arcade to be the most offensive feature of the twonscape viewed from the beach).

He also laid out St Nicholas Gardens, was responsible for widening The Esplanade, , for the development of South Cliff Gardens and the construction of the outdoor pool.

On Tuesday, we attended a concert by a German chamber orchestra in St Martin's.

Wednesday afternoon saw us at the Stephen Joseph Theatre for a cream tea in the restaurant, where Alan Ayckbourn and director Richard Derrington were interviewed. For the second successive event that we have attended in the restaurant, we sat next to Heather (Lady) Ayckbourn. The poor lady really deserves better company than I can offer.

On Thursday, we finally managed to see Life and Beth at the SJT - the most accessible of the trio of plays in the Things That Go Bump season. We'd been due to see it a week earlier, but a family crisis meant that our seats were unfilled.

Friday should have seen Maureen attending the reading group at Scalby Library, but when she arrived, she discovered it had been postponed for a week. M isn't having much luck with reading groups. She tried to join the one at Scarborough Library, but was told she couldn't attend, as they already had too many members. The ladies at Scalby, however, proved to be very friendly and welcoming.

Saturday saw us eating out at Tuscany Too on Ramshill Road. The food, as on the previous occasion we dined there, was excellent, but I did object to them trying to seat me nextto the serving hatch, where I would have the kitchen clatter in my ear, and where the waiters would be forever brushing against me. However, the waitress helped me to move the table and my chair without any drama.