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.