Our acquaintance Toby is something of a scavenger, the sort of person who will go through the skip outside your house and in five minutes retrieve from it a range of interesting items that you had no idea could be found within. What he has in mind for these various 3-D puzzles, who knows — but I do not think it involves simply putting this one back together.
While I believe there might be a different version of football still going on somewhere in the US, here at home we are in the realm of the Pre-Season Friendly. Malt Shovel FC — the name being that of a nearby pub — play in Selby, a place which thereby becomes the 536th different one to appear on this blog and makes its debut with this quite impressive factory backdrop. And it smelt good, too: whatever was being cooked up in there wafted extremely pleasant, and hunger-inducing, scents over the pitch in the second half. It finished 2-1 to visitors Brighouse, in green, but that’s an irrelevance.
If you find yourself in Hebden Bridge on a Friday afternoon and in need of some cheap DVDs, this market stall is the place to come, believe me. I’d spend more money here except that most of the films stocked that I do want to see, we already own. “Nordic Noir” is a new genre on me — but I think it just means that in this box can be found a couple of copies of The Bridge.
Whatever happened to its other leg it didn’t stop it soliciting donations of food this morning — not that I had any. There’s a guy regularly seen in Hebden who has only one leg but even he needs a crutch to get about, and as later evidence proved, this pigeon can still take off, propel itself through the air, and land perfectly competently. Its ASNs are therefore not too extensive.
If I was 23 years younger, looked like Rhian Teasdale (vocalist and general frontperson of the band Wet Leg), could play the guitar and sing, I’d probably be seeking a career in rock stardom too. She seems to be making a pretty decent job of it.
It’s only ten days since I depicted the loganberries, but the fruit on the neigbouring jostaberry plant just looks so succulent at the moment, and there’s lots of it. I think I will try making jam with it. Jostas are a cross between blackcurrants and gooseberries and, according to the Bible (OK, Wikipedia), were first cultivated in Germany and first made available to the public in 1977. The original scientists can be assured that in the climate of Hebden Bridge their creation is doing very well.
“Alma Mater” doesn’t seem to get a translation out of Latin to English, it just comes up the same on Google. “The place where one went to university” is the windier but more colloquial version. It’s been a while since I have been back to the campus of the University of Leeds, which guided yr. humble blogger through two, or was it three, degrees (astonishing!) and then five years of employment (staggering!) between 1993 and 2005. And, yes, I put in my time in the rooms behind the doors to the right of this shot. I like the red lines to top right, which contrast the No Smoking sign and is the only reason I might get away with the latter blemish.
Some Sundays are eventful and interesting days. This was not one of them, although neither was it unpleasant. But photographically there wasn’t much to look at, so 5/7/26 will have to be marked by a study of drainage. Important stuff, though — you try living without it for a while.
Having celebrated Hebden’s attractive qualities yesterday I am also permitted to be relieved that the football season has restarted so I have excuses to leave it on Saturdays, when it becomes too full for its own good — and go drink in some other town’s pubs instead. Like Wrexham in North Wales, for example. Which, this being taken in a Wetherspoons (if you have ever drunk in the UK surely you know of these places), looks much the same as anywhere else, of course. But I don’t mind them.
Having exchanged contracts the day before, it was on 3rd July 2001 that Clare and I moved into our house in Hebden Bridge: separately, I recall, as on the day I came in from our previous place in Leeds with the help of my Dad while her family brought her over from Morecambe with stuff from there. And we’ve been there ever since. I’m not sure we expected to stay for a quarter of a century — but it’s how things have panned out and right now we have no plans to move out.
It seemed appropriate to get a shot of the town and of the house within it for today, so here you are: as seen from the little, overgrown graveyard at the top of the Buttress. Our place is pretty much in the middle of the shot, part of the ‘castle walls’ that line the Keighley Road. Hopefully they’ll still be standing in another 25 years, or indeed another 125: maybe we’ll still be there after the first span of time, but not the latter.
Being 42 