Cool waters at Lady's Well

I first found out about Lady's Well at Holystone in Northumberland from a TV programme on BBC4 a few years back, about Britain's holy places. Ever since, I've been keen to go and see it, and finally managed to do so in June. I love to seek out mysterious places and enjoy their special atmosphere. I wasn't disappointed.

Holystone is a tiny place in the foothills of the Cheviots, west of Rothbury and further up the valley of the River Coquet. The Well is reached by taking a footpath from the village.

Having parked Fiona, I had only to follow the signs. It's a National Trust property, and therefore it would be well cared for, with straightforward access. My only concern might be that a lot of other people would be there too, dispelling the tranquillity I was hoping for. But fortunately the Well is just a bit too far into the hill country to be easily accessible for casual tourists, certainly not to coach parties, and I found myself alone. Good.

I was nevertheless noticed by a barking dog as I set off from where I'd left Fiona. Shhhh! My walking route clearly led past some pretty cottages, but where was the next finger-post saying 'Lady's Well this way'? Aha...

I climbed over a style (the only one, thankfully) and set off up a well-defined track across open countryside with trees in the distance.

It was a lovely sunny afternoon, and a pleasure to be ambling along. The only disturbance was a regular clanking sound from up ahead. At first I thought it must be workmen, or a farmer, using a metallic tool to pummel something into the ground - a stake or fence post, perhaps. But it was too regular and sustained for that. The noise grew louder as I approached. I still couldn't see what was making it though. Then I had a notion what it might be. On older Ordnance Survey maps at the 1:25,000 scale there had been, in some country areas, references to 'H ram' or 'Hydraulic ram'. When young I'd often wondered what a 'hydraulic ram' was. Surely not a mechanical male sheep? More likely a fixed heavy-duty machine for farmers to use, though for what was a puzzle. With my teens left behind, the question became unimportant and I never went out of my way to find the answer. But now, in 2018, it looked as if the idle curiosity of decades would be satisfied at last.

I looked into the little stream, where indeed the clanking noise seemed to be loudest. And there it was, inside a brick housing. A hydraulic ram, in the flesh. Clank...clank...clank...

Its purpose must clearly be to pump water, or perhaps regulate the flow of water.

There you are: 'Blake's Hydram' on the plate. How did it work? I thought of household cisterns, but it presumably functioned on different lines, and it wasn't very obvious what might be making that loud metallic clanking noise. But at least the source of it was explained. (While writing this, I've found a Wikipedia article on hydraulic rams, which gives all the information an ordinary person could possibly want - see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hydraulic_ram)

The noise receded as I walked on. The hoped-for serene atmosphere at the Well wouldn't be spoiled after all.

I reached the trees. There was a low stone wall topped by a wooden fence, with a wooden gate, and an NT sign close by.

I stepped through the gate and into an enclosure with a quiet rectangular pool at its centre. It was very peaceful and very shady, a good place to spend time pondering over life in general. I walked slowly towards the pool.

It was an ancient spring, but the Celtic cross erected in the centre was fairly modern. So was this chappie, presumably intended to be the St Ninian referred to on the NT plaque:  

I festooned myself about him, in case he was lonely. Ninian and me, yeah. 

I dipped my hand into the water. It was deliciously cool. And so clear.

Then I walked around the pool. The scene changed as I moved. It really was a nice spot.

I discovered a posy of small flowers left at the base of a tree. Somebody had come here to think of a loved one.

The atmosphere of the place would soothe away any worries or concerns. I had nothing on my mind, but still didn't want to leave. But I couldn't linger too long. I had more exploring to do in these parts!

The Long Goodbye

So it looks as if the end game is at last approaching for Brexit.

As I understand it, a deal must be finalised in October, or the whole negotiating process will fold. That's only three months away. Even if something is hammered out, it must be approved by Parliament. And that means that all the various political factions who have a particular interest in how it affects them will want their point of view to prevail. I don't think there can possibly be general agreement. The result of the final vote in Parliament looks incalculable. As incalculable as the result of a second referendum would be, if one took place.

Personally, I will now be very surprised if there is a Tidy And Smooth Brexit, with everyone satisfied, and all sides willing to implement an agreed procedure in an agreed timescale. I'm expecting a Hard Bumpy Brexit by default.

At the back of my mind is a suspicion that, for many in this country, nothing much will change - or at least there will be no great surprises. The price of anything imported from or through the EU will certainly increase. That in time can be mitigated by finding alternative sources, and having facilities to deal with them direct. Let's say that a new port the size of Rotterdam were built somewhere on the west coast of Britain, with road and rail links to take the goods fast and efficiently to where they are needed. The price of holidays in EU countries will increase, and the rigmarole of getting through customs controls will be more drawn out, but I don't suppose any of that will deter people going to France, Spain, Italy or Greece for their sunshine or cultural holidays.

Britain will no longer be a presence in the decision-making chambers of Europe. We will choose our own course. Our priorities and policies will begin to diverge. The atmosphere in Britain will be not quite the same as the atmosphere in Paris or Prague.

But there is the now-clear time bomb of climate change to face. It won't just affect Africa. Everywhere there will be the marginalisation of agriculture, and the loss of coastal land to rising sea levels, perhaps sooner than anyone dare think. Increasingly all governments will have to co-operate for the common good, although no doubt some will decide to fight for the best of what is left. I am sure there will be food and water wars, here and there around the world, in my remaining lifetime. Forget oil. Water, and green land to live on, will eventually be the key assets to have.

So I can't see that cutting the mooring-ropes will make the good ship Britannia drift very far away from the European Continent. Nor reawaken historic unrest in Europe. We will all have to stay in touch, and consult, and jointly take the lead in whatever planet-saving endeavours need to be put in hand. I dismiss the notion of 'Fortress Britannia', with a moat all around it. Unless a party committed to protectionist and isolationist policies gets votes and takes charge. It's absolutely in our long-term interest to remain not only international in outlook, but firm friends with the countries on the Continent and elsewhere. I voted Brexit to keep the soul of Britain intact, and not to alienate the rest of the world.

Still, the personal question arises, what preparations can I make for a Hard Brexit? What ought to be done? Can anything be done?

It seems to me that in many ways my own life will go on much as before, with just minor changes to what I can buy in the shops. I don't holiday abroad, so I escape the possible extra inconveniences and costs associated with that. My income won't suffer, although I expect to pay more tax. That's about it, I think. A lot less change than what will come, willy-nilly, from new technologies and shifts in social attitudes in the years ahead.

Will the population start to shrink? British people emigrating in large numbers, seeking an EU lifestyle, and immigration slowing down across the board? We will not know for a while. I think Britain will continue to be a magnet for people in other countries, but for different reasons.

Meanwhile those Brexit negotiations will go on in the Last Chance Saloon as if something worthwhile can still be achieved. You almost feel like telling them to stop the show now, and create extra time for a decorous and less breathless Goodbye.

At least there is the prospect of opting out of the annual farce called the Eurovision Song Contest!

A social club at Seaton Sluice - and Old Tyme Music Hall

Seaton Sluice is less than a mile from the Club site at Hartley, on the Northumberland coast north of Whitley Bay. It's a sea inlet with a narrow entrance that widens out into a small harbour for fishing boats and leisure craft. This shot of mine gives you the main idea:

The entrance really is very narrow. I wouldn't like to try it in any kind of sea, when (if need be) it might be better to aim for an easier target - for instance, the commercial harbour at Blyth, which you can see in the distance in this next photo.

On a sunny day in early June (which is when I was there) Seaton Sluice looks rather pretty. Here are some more views.

As you can see, there is always a breeze! A mild one on the day, though. The harbour is actually the tidal part of the Seaton Burn, with nature altered to turn it into a rectangular-shaped dock for small vessels. The tidal part extends under the A193 Whitley Bay-Blyth road bridge and then into a sort of riverside park, with more sheltered moorings. 

I was there for two reasons. First, the pleasant couple on the pitch next to mine had strongly recommended the fish and chip shop there. I had just arrived, and was booked in for eight nights. Although fish and chips wasn't a regular part of my diet, I thought it highly likely that I'd indulge while staying at Hartley, so I wanted to check it out. 

Second, this was a classic Vera location. The production team had clearly considered that it would make a distinctive (indeed, iconic) background to any episode that involved a murder on the Northumberland coast. Tynemouth Harbour was another such location, and I planned to go there, too. (I had a whole programme of Vera locations to work through, on and off, during my stay!)

I recalled that there was one episode (involving the murder of a retired police detective) actually set in Seaton Sluice - and in particular, at a social club there. You saw sequences inside and outside that club. When contemplating the harbour from the A193 road bridge, I spotted the club building. It stood out. It's the building you can see in the picture above that shows the road bridge railing on its right edge. Follow the railing upwards in the shot, and it leads your eyes to the club. 

Naturally I had to take a closer look! 

But first I explored some of Seaton Sluice on foot. Away from the main road, it was attractive, with a wide greensward between the houses and the cliffs overlooking the sea. There were a couple of intriguing buildings, like this round stone turret, which now accommodated an art gallery, but must once had an official use:

The social club I wanted to see was just around the corner.

It was a big place. Many social clubs are single-storey affairs, just a couple of lounges with perhaps a snooker room too, but this one looked as if it might have many rooms and quite possibly a large function room for discos and stage performances. It was all neat and tidy. Even the shelter outside for die-hard smokers looked salubrious. It was mid-morning and nobody was about, not even delivery people. I made a closer inspection.

There you are. It welcomed visitors. Temporary membership was available. I wondered whether the couple on the pitch next to me had joined, so that they could have a friendly place to go to in the evening. 

I didn't know what the procedure might be for getting into a club like this. Why would I want temporary membership at all? Well, it would be an alternative to venturing into a local pub full of men. If they were open at lunchtime, and surely they would be, perhaps I could drop in for a friendly coffee and sandwich, and chat with the locals, relaxing with them in their space? A slice of straightforward, down-to-earth North-Eastern life. I wouldn't be interested in the low-cost drinks. Nor the evening entertainment, unless it was a quiz. 

Did you just walk in and fill in a form? Or did an existing member have to introduce you, and speak for you? What reception might a single lady expect? Would it matter, my not having a Geordie accent? 

This was silly. Belonging to a club like this wasn't my style. Was I simply curious to step into a real-life TV backdrop? Because an episode of Vera had been filmed in there? It wasn't a good reason to test the reality of that 'Welcomes Visitors' on the side of the building.  

I did have some past experience of social clubs. But it was all long ago... 

The only members' club I ever entered as a member was the Civil Service Club in Southampton, which I went to now and then, with colleagues, during the years 1971 to 1978. I didn't go for cheap drinks, nor for snooker. I went there to play lighthearted skittles or darts as part of an office team. 

The CS Club always seemed a bit old-fashioned, set in its ways. There were retired old codgers on the door, who seemed very suspicious of me, scrutinising my membership card every single time. I found this anything but friendly. The trouble was, I think, that I went too infrequently to get known. And for all I know there might have been something about me that jarred with these narrow-minded old codgers, set off warning bells in their heads. This was the 1970s. Prejudice was rife. Women were talked down do as if simpletons. The men on the door would feel within their rights to quibble about letting you in. Gay men and black persons might not get in at all. (I suppose lesbian women were off their radar) If they didn't approve of what you were wearing, or your presumed attitude, they'd keep you out. So punkettes with spiked hair, boots, and a few piercings might well be refused entry. I imagine it was the same with social clubs everywhere at that time. If your appearance was in any way unusual, or your face didn't fit, or they didn't like your accent, or if you seemed unlikely to share their prejudices - or laugh at their jokes - they didn't want you, and would find a Rule to keep your out. These were very tribal places.

Occasionally - from time to time up to 1980 - I entered these clubs as a guest. It was exactly the same - instant suspicion, excessive scrutiny, stony faces as soon as they saw me, or when I said anything. 

I remember going to a club in Redbridge in Southampton. It was mid-1977 and I was still twenty-four. I admit I looked young for my age, but surely not juvenile? I had just dropped off my friend and her son and girlfriend, before finding a parking space. 

When I arrived - unaccompanied - at the entrance, I expected merely to say that I was 'with Edwina' (my friend was a club member) and I'd be let in. But no. The old man guarding the place from undesirables looked me up and down with cold eyes and snarled 'How old are you?' He'd never heard of my friend. He was going to refuse me entry unless I proved who I was, that I was a club member, and convinced him I was old enough to enter the premises. It was the Rules. 

I was shocked. He completely wrong-footed me. I didn't know what to do. I was seriously thinking that I'd have to slink away, defeated by this implacable person. (This was twenty years before mobile phones were commonly available: I couldn't ring my friend, and ask her to come to the entrance and rescue me) Fortunately Edwina then appeared, wondering where I was, and vouched for me. Grudgingly the old fool let me in, muttering. I suppose he knew deep down that he had been too officious, and hated having to back down and let me in. 

But that kerfuffle at the club entrance spoiled my afternoon. I felt embarrassed, awkward, unwanted, out of place, even though Edwina's family - son, girlfriend, mum and dad - people I'd known for a while, and 'on my side' so to speak - were all there. I felt unable to move away from our table. I didn't go to the loo, just in case somebody thought I was an intruder and showed me the door. 

To cap it all, the club had a guest that day, a famous cricketer called Barry Richards, then playing for Hampshire, and every adult there had to pop a five-pound note (big money in 1977) into a bowl that was going around. Apparently he'd just pulled off some amazing cricketing feat - I don't know, ten thousand runs in a game against Nottinghamshire or something - and the club had organised this collection. He was going from table to table, smiling broadly and accepting the fawning congratulations. Clearly he felt himself very worthy of all the adulation. I knew nothing about cricket, and grew acutely worried that, when he came to our table, he'd ask me something that I couldn't reply to. I'd look a total idiot. But more disastrously, my ignorance of who he was and what he had done would seem insulting. Luckily for me, my status as a moron from another planet wasn't exposed. He had time for brief conversation with Edwina's dad only, then to my great relief he moved on. 

But making a forced donation, for somebody I couldn't care less about, just intensified the bad feeling left by the sour incident at the club entrance. I'd never felt comfortable in social clubs; now I was minded to avoid them completely in the future.

That reluctance to go near clubs soon had to be put aside. A job transfer to London saw me serving under a boss who in his leisure time was Chairman of the Chiddingfold Ex-Servicemen's Club. Chiddingfold was a Surrey village for well-heeled commuters. Perhaps a world away from Redbridge and Seaton Sluice. The Chiddingfold Club was much more than a local social centre. It functioned as a performance venue for very well-known entertainers down from London and elsewhere. It drew audiences from many miles around. It was smart, and on performance nights - perhaps any night really - you'd dress up a bit to go there. It may be that it was a bit too posh for the working men of the village, and wouldn't have kept going without these acts coming in - singers, comedians and so forth. 

There must have come a point when putting on these sophisticated performances stopped being profitable. The Club must have gone into decline, and it closed down some years ago now. But in the late 1970s it was doing well, and my boss was a big figure there. 

He was constantly inviting his staff to come down and see this or that performance at the Club, or perhaps the Village Hall, and I attended more than one Old Tyme Music Hall evening in Chiddingfold, with perhaps Leonard Sachs, who was the Master of ceremonies on the TV version, The Good Old Days, introducing the acts one by one. The audience, would, of course, all be dressed up in Victorian or Edwardian costumes. Whether authentic or improvised, the standard of dress was high. Here, for instance, is my friend Edwina in my London flat, all ready to go to a 1978 event:

And here is Mum, Dad, friends Rose and Les, and another friend of mine Deborah, all dressed up for another evening in 1980 (Dad's captioning, not mine):

Ah, the Good Old Days! Well, perhaps not. 

I pleased my boss very much by buying tickets and turning up with friends and family, and it may well have helped my career. By 1980 he had recommended me for the prized Final Course Technical Training that would project me towards higher things in the Revenue, if I passed excruciatingly difficult exams and possessed the ability and ambition to pursue that golden career path. (I didn't have what it took) 

But none of this dressing-up stuff was really my cup of tea. And certainly not regular visits to any local club. After 1980 I reinstated my policy of staying away from these places. And for most of the ensuing thirty years I have kept to that. The closest I've got in recent times is being part of a team on Quiz Nights at the Mid-Sussex Golf Club in Ditchling.

All this flashed through my mind as I contemplated the Seaton Sluice Social Club. Temporary membership? No, not for me.    

That left the fish and chip shop to check out. I couldn't spot it at first. Then realised that it must be the posh-looking establishment across the road, that was also a coffee shop, and other things.

Fit for the Queen. So assuredly good enough for me! I resolved to give it a whirl one evening.

But I never did. I'd booked eight nights at Hartley, but stayed only three. I would explain why, but this post is already long enough.

They live to ride again

Not much more than two weeks ago, I had a 'computer corner' in my study, which looked like this:

A bulky corner desk, great for a desktop PC but useless for anything else and taking up a lot of space; an eleven year old Dell PC and screen bought in May 2007 and still running the defunct Windows Vista; and an Epson scanner (left) and Epson printer (centre right) bought in September 2007. Out of view, bookshelves crammed with books and maps on every wall of the room. Bookshelves more than crammed - for some time I hadn't had enough space for everything. And things on the floor, such as big plastic boxes full of folders for my papers.

I'd had it in my mind for months to clear that corner, and buy myself some extra bookshelving.

The moment came to put that plan into action. By the end of June, the PC and its desk had gone. And the things on the floor elsewhere in the room had (temporarily) been shifted into the empty space now made.

It looked very strange at first, but I'm used to it now. I haven't yet done anything about new bookshelving. But I will during August.

In the picture above you can see the scanner and printer. Even though of the same ancient vintage as the PC, they still work fine. So they should. They were at the time Epson's finest offerings for the amateur photographer. They cost me a fair bit of money: £331 for the scanner (an Epson Perfection V700) and £253 for the printer (an Epson Photo Stylus 1400). I was reluctant to part with them, if they could be made to work with my Microsoft Surface Book laptop, Verity. I was fairly confident these Windows Vista devices would cope with Windows 10, but I couldn't be certain they would work with full functionality. It might have to be just a generic affair, with no bells and whistles.

If they didn't work with my 2016 laptop, then I'd have to consider whether I would replace them. And that would be a difficult decision. There was no point in having a run-of-the-mill scanner that couldn't give me great results when scanning old prints and transparencies. And there was still a lot of that to do. But the cost! Oh dear... And the printer. It was rare now for me to produce a photo print - the ink cost was high, and I preferred viewing my vast photo collection on a screen. I'd produced a set of prints a few months earlier, to fill some IKEA picture frames that I'd discovered in the attic and wanted to hang in my lounge - almost the only physical evidence that I did any photography at all. But since then? One or two letters typed, printed, and posted? It wasn't enough to justify spending big bucks on a new printer. That said, could you really do without one entirely?

These difficulties did not arise if the scanner and printer would work with Verity.

It all depended whether Epson still provided dedicated drivers for them that were compatible with Windows 10. I visited their website. Ah, I was in luck. I downloaded the drivers for these particular machines and installed them on Verity. Now to plug the USB cables in, the scanner first. I switched the scanner on, tapped the Epson scanning app on the laptop screen, and crossed my fingers.

Hurrah! I was in business. I chose the 'Home' setup, and went on to scan no less than seventy-one prints from Mum and Dad's photo albums, containing shots from the 1980s of their doings while on holiday, their bowling club activities in Liphook, and sundry get-togethers with friends. Some of these pictures showed me, when I was married and visiting them from London. There were many shots of my late brother and his (then) very young family. Shots I hadn't seen before. How strange and distant it all seemed. Was that really me in those pictures? It all looked sunny and happy. Were we all putting on a brave front, or what? Well, I didn't remember any sharp disharmony: everything of concern was in the background, slowly building up to a crisis, but meanwhile easily hidden.

And the scanner was clearly working well. The results looked very good, and - this was most welcome! - the scanning process (at 300 dpi anyway, perfectly appropriate for 1980s prints from Boots) was much swifter than before. Those seventy-one scans took me less than two hours on and off, including extraction from the albums and tidy replacement. In the 'old days', with the desktop PC, it would have taken twice the time.

The printer, essentially a simpler device, worked beautifully, just as before.

Well, that was a buying decision sidestepped, and a big replacement expense avoided! Big and bulky they might be, but I'd been unhappy about making do without a high-quality scanner and printer.

The rest of my 'computer equipment' was now reduced to this minimalist collection:

The scanty line-up:
# My laptop Verity
# A case to put her in (containing also various small accessories, including a small hard drive for post-processing backups)
# Two larger but still easily-portable hard drives A and B, between them holding my entire photo and document archive.

The only thing missing on the table above was a powered huge-capacity hard drive for six-monthly backups of everything, that I could securely stow away somewhere. I'll get one before the next General Backup is due.

My phone Tigerlily - really a little computer, of course - is also part of the 'computer equipment'.

Now it's done, I'm glad that I got rid of the 'computer corner'. It had been a relic of when my house was in Mum and Dad's hands. Here is a picture from Christmastime 2007, showing the corner desk already in position, with Dad's PC on it and his diminutive printer off to the left. The people are my nephew Michael and Dad himself, with a blurred reflection of my niece in the oval mirror.

I'd been reluctant to dismantle anything my parents had created. But lately that reluctance has started to abate, making change possible.

So what kind of shelves shall I put in? Something posh from John Lewis. or something cheaper from B&Q or IKEA that I'll need to assemble? I'm inclined towards John Lewis, or a similar kind of store. And I will look at second-hand furniture warehouses, of course. But I can't see myself investing in flat-pack shelving, and puzzling over hard-to-understand assembly instructions. I certainly don't want blisters from screwing the bits together, assuming they are all there.

Some might say: why don't you redecorate the room first? No, let's not go there.

St Mary's Island

When I arrived at Hartley Caravan and Motorhome Club Site on 6th June I was very pleased to see how close it was to the low cliff edge. It was a sloping site, and you would probably have a view of the sea from every part of it; but I was able to get onto a pitch that had a really excellent prospect of not only the sea, but St Mary's Island just offshore.

To some extent, the small, old-fashioned pitches on the site - laid out donkeys years ago, and too small now for many of the largest modern caravans and motorhomes - worked in my favour, as my little caravan (seen above) can get on any sized pitch. The site was in fact almost full, and only these smaller pitches were still available on the day.

The sky was a bit grey on arrival, but sun and blue sky soon broke through. Then I could appreciate the Island in all its splendour! I could see it through my door window, from the pitch, and if I sashayed down to the perimeter fence next to the cliff-edge public path, I got a particularly impressive view. 

As you can see, there is a prominent lighthouse on the Island, plus some houses. It's linked to the mainland by a short causeway, which is submerged at really high tides. I imagine that, at least in calm weather, it's possible to wade out to the Island, or wade off it, in most states of the tide.

I very much wanted to go and see St Mary's Island and stand on it. My plan that evening was to drive first into Whitley Bay, then cut back to the Island car park, walk out along the causeway, and see if I could catch the last of the sunset from next to the lighthouse.

The sun was sinking fast as I parked, just before 9.15pm. It was in fact getting tangled up with the trees overlooking the local nature reserve - and likely to quench itself in the nature reserve lake at any moment.

There was not a moment to lose. I hastened down to the causeway. The lighthouse was like a pink candle, set in a pink-blue sea.

Oh no, a hitch in my plans! The causeway was partly under water! More accurately, lazy little waves were creeping over it, not all of them going all the way across. Perhaps an agile and determined person could, with care, make their way onto the Island without necessarily getting wet shoes. I stood and watched a bit: was the tide coming in, or going out?

Now supposing I tight-roped along that raised length of concrete - and kept my balance all the way? Could I do that? I needed to make my mind up fast, because, looking sideways towards the cliff, I could see that the sun had very nearly set.

If the tide were still coming in, then the result of negotiating that narrow length of concrete and reaching the Island would most certainly be wet (and ruined) shoes on the way back, as by then the causeway would be at least ankle-deep in seawater. And the thought of wading barefoot in semi-darkness was not appealing. No, I must return another day. I gazed at the Island one last time. So near, yet so far!

Back at Fiona, I watched a scene that must unfold nightly. One by one, cars driven by young people drove in - some in a spirited manner - and parked in what seemed to be pre-arranged spots. Clearly this was where girls and boys met up. 

I felt that I might be cramping their style, so I fired up Fiona and departed in a blast, just to show them that oldies can be spirited too. 

As it turned out, I didn't get another chance on this holiday to take a low-tide look at St Mary's Island. Something for next year then.