We broke our long journey to Orkney by calling in on the Lady of the North. She promised so much, a naked, voluptuous goddess sprawling erotically across the Northumbrian landscape. You don’t see one of those every day, do you? But, if I’m honest, there’s much less to the Lady than meets the eye.
The Lady, who is also known as Northumberlandia after the county in which she resides, is the work of American landscape designer Charles Jencks (1939 -2019). He created this effigy of a recumbent naked woman, 400 metres long with grassy breasts 34 metres high, between 2010 and 2012.
To achieve his goal Jencks used spoil from a nearby opencast coal mine – some 1.5 million tonnes of rock, clay and soil – shaping it carefully into the improbable form we see today. Most spoil heaps are an ugly blot on the landscape, so it was good to come across an example of one being put to creative use.
The Lady is the centrepiece of a freely accessible Community Park. Criss-crossed by around 6km of paths, the park is good as a place for a countryside stroll, somewhere to listen to birdsong, to walk the dog or to let the kids run wild. It’s clearly an asset to local people, but for me is doesn’t quite work as a piece of public art.
A view from the Lady’s forehead, down along her nose towards her breasts
The problem with Northumberlandia is that it’s just too big to appreciate from ground level. From the right angle the Lady’s head, which sports a prominent nose, is unmistakeable. Her breasts are also stand-out features, but would you know what they’re supposed to be if you hadn’t seen the site plan? And as for the rest of the body – the arms, the torso and the legs – Mrs P and I strode happily over them, but to be honest we could have been anywhere.
Northumberlandia is an ambitious project, but really needs to be viewed from the air to be fully appreciated. If only we’d had access to a helicopter for an hour or two. Or better still wouldn’t it be great to be able to grow some wings and fly, and so enjoy a birds-eye view of the lovely Lady!
Almost 100 years ago, a despairing woman gave her husband an unwelcome ultimatum. I’ve had enough of your wretched model railway cluttering up the house, proclaimed Roland Callingham’s weary wife, either it goes or I go! Roland may have been an accountant, but he was no fool. He concluded that Mrs C had to be humoured, but no way was he willing to give up his much loved hobby.
The only solution was to compromise, so Roland determined that his model railway should be dismantled and relocated to the garden where it could blossom without spousal interference. And thus was born the mad but marvellous project that eventually became Bekonscot Model Village and Railway, residing in the market town of Beaconsfield a little way north of London.
Bekonscot Model Village and Railway occupies a garden covering 6,000 square metres (1.5 acres). These photographs show just small parts of it.
Freed from the limitations imposed by the size of his house and the scrutiny of his wife, Roland Callingham let his imagination run wild. Assisted by his loyal gardener Mr W. A. Berry, he set about building a model village through which his 1:12 scale model railway could run; a fantasy village full of happy villagers living in picturesque cottages and drinking in typically English pubs; a fantasy village in which the streets were spotlessly clean, the roads had no pot-holes and the trains always ran on time!
The Bekonscot Model Village and Railway first opened to paying members of the public in August 1929. It quickly became popular with tourists. Roland did not need the money it generated – he was an accountant, after all! – so the entrance fees were donated to the Railway Benevolent Institution and the Queen’s Institute of District Nursing. Today the attraction is operated by the Roland Callingham Foundation Charity, which continues supporting local charities. Its website proudly declares that, to date, it has raised over £21m (USD $28m) for various worthy causes.
In the early decades of its existence the attraction reflected changes in the world surrounding it, but in 1992 the decision was made to focus exclusively on life around the period that Bekonscot Model Village and Railway was originally created. Today Bekonscot is a snapshot in time, an ambitious representation of English life in the 1930s that includes several distinct villages linked by the railway, as well as a colliery, an airport, a zoo, a cathedral, a castle, a windmill, a horse race and a cricket match. The railway features no fewer than 12 stations, with colourful steam locomotives chugging happily between them.
I wonder what Mrs Callingham would have made of her husband’s legacy, almost a century after it all began? Would she have been annoyed that he had the last laugh, building an even bigger model railway – as well as several model villages – after she clearly instructed him to get rid of it altogether?
Maybe so, but I’d really like to think she would be proud that, in creating Bekonscot Model Village and Railway, her hubby successfully captured the essence of English eccentricity. It is a rare example of perfection in miniature, set in 6,000 square metres (1.5 acres) of garden. Mrs P and I spent a happy couple of hours there, but could easily have stayed much, much longer. Time for a return visit, I think.
Wordless Wednesday is a simple blog post featuring a photo. It seeks to convey a message, but speaks for itself without using words. Mrs P took this photo of some cheerful chairs, with Parrsboro Lighthouse in the distance beyond, in Cumberland County, Nova Scotia in 2015.
Magpies are unmistakeable. Members of the crow family, seen from a distance they are long-tailed birds with distinctive black and white plumage. Up close, however, the colouration is more subtle. In the right light a Eurasian magpie’s wing feathers take on a purplish-blue iridescent sheen, while the tail bears hints of a subtle glossy green. It’s a handsome bird, and also – in some circles – a controversial one.
Some people dislike magpies because they are noisy, raucous birds that posture and strut around gardens, parkland and fields, apparently believing themselves to be top bird. Others object to their omnivorous lifestyle, which can include raiding the nests of smaller birds and carrying off their eggs and chicks. And their reputation for stealing jewellery and other bright, shiny objects wins magpies few friends amongst their human neighbours.
However, while their fondness for scavenging and their bully-boy tendencies on the bird table make them unpopular with squeamish bird lovers, it is their alleged association with Satan that upsets others. Yes, that’s right, folklore tells us that magpies are in league with the Devil. According to this tradition, magpies refused to join the other birds in mourning at Christ’s crucifixion, thus marking themselves out as the Devil’s own.
The magpie’s supposed indifference to Jesus’ crucifixion is just one of a huge number of tales and superstitions that surround this striking bird. In the UK, one of the first nursery rhymes many children hear is about magpies. The rhyme references the birds’ association with prophecy, and is found in countless variations up and down the country. Here is just one of them:
One for sorrow Two for joy Three for a girl Four for a boy Five for silver Six for gold Seven for a secret never to be told
So, according to this piece of folklore, the future that awaits you is indicated by the number of magpies you see. It’s a compelling part of our oral tradition, and I must confess that one day a little over a year ago – when a new baby was expected in our family – Mrs P and I happily counted the number of magpies we could see in order to predict the gender of the new-born. On the day in question we spotted three together in a field, and the baby, when born, was indeed a girl. Spooky!
The same nursery rhyme indicates that spotting a single magpie is a harbinger of bad luck. Again, this belief is deeply embedded within our culture. I clearly remember a former work colleague revealing that, when out for a drive in the countryside, he and his wife would wave vigorously to any lone magpies they spotted, because in so doing they were bidding farewell to ill-luck.
Alternatively, to dissipate the impending misfortune associated with seeing a single magpie, you should point it out to someone else, presumably on the basis that bad luck shared is bad luck halved. And if there’s nobody else around to take on the burden, the best course of action is to salute the magpie with a cheery ‘’Good morning Mr Magpie, how is your lady wife today?’ in the hope that he will take pity on you!
How did a single magpie become associated with bad luck? One theory is that, as magpies mate for life, seeing one by itself may suggest that its partner has perished. The surviving magpie has therefore suffered bad luck, and associating with it may cause its bad luck to transfer to the observer. However, by asking after the welfare of the lone magpie’s wife you demonstrate your belief that his partner is alive and well, which, if true, means no bad luck awaits you.
As well as waving to a lone magpie, or asking after the health of his wife, there are other ways in which the bad luck might be avoided. These include raising your hat to the bird, spitting three times over your shoulder, blinking rapidly to fool yourself into thinking you’ve seen two magpies rather than one, and flapping your arms about wildly and cawing loudly to mimic the magpie’s missing mate. But be warned: most of these activities, if undertaken in public, are likely to result in ridicule, arrest or an enforced appointment with a psychiatrist.
This post barely scratches the surface of the superstitions surrounding magpies. Variations on the theme include the following:
In Scotland, a single magpie seen near a window warns of an impending death. However, in the county of Sussex a magpie perched on a house roof is a good sign, indicating that the roof isn’t about to cave in.
In Wales, if you see a magpie moving from left to right when you set off on a journey, that journey will be hazardous.
Yorkshire folk associate magpies with witchcraft, and when seeing one (a magpie that is, not a native of Yorkshire!) you should make the sign of the cross to ward off evil spirits.
According to tradition in the county of Dorset, if a fisherman sees a magpie before he sets sail he won’t catch any fish that day.
In Somerset it is advised that you carry an onion with you at all times to protect you from the bad luck a magpie may bring. (As an aside, while I cannot testify as to the veracity of this advice I will readily admit that during my working life I sometimes kept a bulb of garlic in my office to ward off the accountants. I’m pleased to say it seemed to work!)
Regular readers of my blog will know I have a passion for folk music, and it’s therefore a pleasure to share with you below a link to a song about magpies. The harmonies may be challenging, but the story told is highly relevant to this post. It was written around 50 years ago by a guy called Davey Dodds. The story goes that one day Davey gave an old lady a lift in his new car. Davey was bemused, and probably a little horrified, when the lady insisted on shrieking “Devil, devil, I defy thee”, and spitting on the floor of his Jaguar every time she saw a magpie.
Intrigued, Davey looked into the mythology of magpies, and this song is the result. Its lyrics* reference some of the magpie superstitions I’ve written about in this post, and others that I haven’t had space to include. This version on YouTube was recorded in 2014 by a trio of singers called the BlueBirds.
At first glance, magpie mythology is totally out of place in our rational, comfortable, well ordered 21st century lives. I mean, it’s all a load of nonsense, isn’t it? Of course it is! But on the other hand, the mere fact that humans embraced these stories for millennia tells us a lot about our species. Our ancestors believed that magpies were the Devil’s disciples. Gullible, weren’t they?
Today, large sections of society enthusiastically embrace the conspiracy theories and other vile lies peddled relentlessly on the internet. Their need to feel good about themselves, their quest for certainty and their desperate desire for simple answers to complex questions leads them to believe stuff that is patently ridiculous, often downright dangerous and occasionally evil. Gullible, aren’t we?
* * * * * * *
* The complete lyrics to Davey Dodds’ song are as follows
Chorus (after every other verse) One for sorrow, two for joy, Three for a girl and for for a boy, Five for silver, six for gold, Seven for a secret never told, Devil, devil, I defy thee. Devil, devil, I defy thee. Devil, devil, I defy thee.
Oh, the magpie brings us tidings Of news both fair and foul; She's more cunning than the raven, More wise than any owl.
For she brings us news of the harvest Of the barley, wheat and corn. And she knows when we'll go to our graves And how we shall be born.
She brings us joy when from the right, Grief when from the left. Of all the news that's in the air We know to trust her best.
For she sees us at our labour, And mocks us at our work. And she steals the egg from out of the nest, And she can mob the hawk.
The priest, he says we're wicked To worship the devil's bird. Ah, but we respect the old ways And we disregard his word.
For we know they rest uneasy As we slumber in the night. And we'll always leave a little bit of meat For the bird that's black and white.
Today, Sunday 14 May, is World Topiary Day. Who knew? Not me, obviously, but Mrs P stumbled across a reference somewhere and thought it might make for an interesting post. For the uninitiated, topiary is the art of shaping shrubs and sculpting compact trees and hedges into ornamental representations of birds and animals, as well as various decorative architectural forms. It is believed to have originated in ancient Rome, was revived in Renaissance Italy, and became a big hit in 17th century England.
Tatton Park Italian Garden, Cheshire, UK (2018)
Today, if you look hard enough, you can find examples of topiary just about anywhere. We see it frequently when visiting grand stately homes in the UK, but have also encountered it in parks, gardens and other horticultural settings as far apart as Costa Rica, Australia, the US and Singapore.
Felley Priory, Nottinghamshire, UK (2017)
At its best topiary is great to look at, and you are left wondering “How long did that take?” or “How did they manage that?” and, just occasionally, “Why on earth did they bother?” It’s an art form, and I can’t help admiring people with the imagination, skills and dedication needed to turn a few random bushes and trees into something so spectacular that “Wow!” is the first thought springing to mind when you encounter their creations.
Westbury Court, Gloucestershire, UK
Of course, the trouble with living things is that eventually they die, and one of the saddest sights is to see topiary creations disfigured by the ravages of time and disease. Unfortunately, it’s a particular problem right now in topiary fashioned from the box tree. Box is a compact, slow-growing evergreen tree that is ideal for topiary work, but a fungal disease called box blight causes leaves to turn brown and drop off, leaving behind unsightly bare branches. This, sadly, is ruining and sometimes killing off many otherwise attractive topiary creations.
Trentham Gardens Italian Garden, Staffordshire, UK (2018)
Some places go mad for topiary. Zarcero, for example, is a totally unremarkable little town situated in the mountains of Costa Rica, roughly 80km from the capital San Jose. Unremarkable, that is, until you visit the park, where cypress trees have been painstakingly shaped into arches, dinosaurs, birds, dogs and sundry other shapes. Not at all what we expected on our 2008 trip to Costa Rica, but loads of fun!
Zarcero, Costa Rica (2008)
And what about Railton? Although wildlife viewing was the main purpose of our only visit to Australia – as it had also been when we went to Costa Rica – how could we resist a visit to Tasmania’s “Town of Topiary”? Looking back to my blog of that trip I see I had a lot to say about Railton, not all of it very complimentary. I observed that “Many of the living sculptures have seen better days and are apparently suffering from die-back, or neglect, or both. A few are plainly still tended and the “topiary park” has some reasonable figures, but others have clearly been abandoned to their fate and nature is taking its inevitable course.” That was back in 2016. Hopefully things have improved since then, and the Town of Topiary is back on track..
Railton, Tasmania (2016.) The horse and jockey is probably the best single piece of topiary I’ve ever seen.
Our experience at the Green Animals Topiary Garden in Portsmouth, Rhode Island, was more positive but equally unexpected. There are plenty of good reasons for visiting the smallest state in the US, and topiary isn’t one of them. However Green Animals offered a welcome distraction from the endless extravagance of the Gilded Age mansions, and was definitely worth the side-trip we made to see it in 2007. It claims to be the oldest topiary garden in the US with more than eighty sculpted trees, including teddy bears, a camel an elephant and even a person in a peaked cap.
Green Animals Topiary Garden, Portsmouth, Rhode Island (2007)
Our own garden is large enough to accommodate a piece of topiary – indeed, our neighbour, who is a keen and talented gardener, has done just that – but it’s not something I’ve ever been tempted to try. In my view, life’s way too short to consider turning hedge cutting into a hobby. The wretched things needs clipping regularly, or they quickly become unkempt: look carefully at the photos, and you’ll see that many of the living sculptures we’ve seen over the years were badly in need of a trim!
The Flower Dome, Singapore (2019)
So instead of creating my own piece of topiary I’ll have to make do with appreciating other people’s efforts, like those shown in the photos taken from Mrs P’s extensive archive of our travels. Who would have believed you can achieve so much with just a few trees and a hedge trimmer? The way I see it, topiary is definitely worth celebrating, so long as it’s someone else who’s doing all the hard work. Have a Happy World Topiary Day, guys!
Art comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes it’s very surprising, occasionally awe-inspiring. Take Raging Bull, for example, the 10 metres high sculpture that starred in the Commonwealth Games opening ceremony earlier in the year. Weighing in at 2.5 tonnes the armoured bull has a massive wow factor, so when we visited Birmingham a few weeks ago to see Chris de Burgh in concert we were determined to spend a spare morning tracking down this modern masterpiece of mechanical public art.
The sculpture is made mostly out of machinery sourced from factories in and around Birmingham, and is intended as a symbol of the city’s journey through a turbulent past to the present day. It was designed, built, and mechanised by a team of around 60 people from UK-based special effects company Artem. The head, legs and tail can be manoeuvred by a crew of puppeteers and technicians, aided by a tractor unit cunningly concealed beneath the body. It can also breathe smoke and flash its eyes red. It is, as today’s kids would probably tell you, proper awesome!
Towering over Birmingham’s Centenary Square
As the following video shows, Raging Bull made a huge impression when he entered the arena at the opening of the Commonwealth Games, striding majestically across the running track towards the centre of the stadium.
But what is surprising, however, is how those in positions of power totally failed to predict the likely public impact of this colossal mechanical sculpture. No provision was made to put it on permanent display after the Games had ended, and Raging Bull was destined for the scrapyard.
Looking down on Raging Bull from one of the upper floors of the Library of Birmingham
However, when Brummies – that is, the people of Birmingham – learned of his intended fate there was an outpouring of protest, in part no doubt because the city has a long association with bulls. Birmingham’s primary retail complex, the Bullring, is built on land where – between the 16th and late 18th centuries – bulls were baited prior to slaughter in the erroneous belief that this would tenderise their meat. Thankfully this barbaric practice is now outlawed, but echoes of it survive in the name of the modern shopping centre (mall) and in the bronze bull statue that was erected there in 2003.
In addition, Raging Bull was widely seen by locals as a positive symbol of their – and, indeed their city’s – qualities of determination, persistence and strength. Brummies felt they could relate to him and perceived him as something to be proud of, to treasure even. So, when more than 10,000 people signed up to a campaign to save him, it became clear that a rescue mission was required.
To buy a bit of time while a plan was worked out, after the Games ended he was moved temporarily to Centenary Square. This was where Mrs P and I were able to see him, albeit as a static work of art rather than a walking, smoking, glowing monster. Never mind, he was magnificent just the same.
Behind Raging Bull is the Hall of Memory, a war memorial completed in 1925 that commemorates the 12,320 Birmingham citizens who died in World War 1
At the time of writing a final decision on just where Raging Bull will spend the rest of his days has yet to be made. It appears that his huge bulk, as well as the need to protect him from inclement weather, is presenting a few challenges! An indoor home of generous proportions is clearly required.
Raging Bull gazes out across Centenary Square towards the magnificent Library of Birmingham, the largest public library in England. It opened in 2013.
Raging Bull was removed from Centenary Square at the end of September, and for now languishes in an abandoned carpark next to a portable toilet, under the watchful eye of a security guard! Things may currently look bleak, but the city authorities are adamant that his future is assured. They’d better be true to their word. Although a bit unconventional, Raging Bull is a wonderful work of art, an inspiring creation that we simply cannot afford to lose.
UPDATE – 27 July 2023
Great news! We saw it on the BBC news last night…the Raging Bull has a new home. Now known as Ozzy, in tribute to Ozzy Osbourne (of Black Sabbath fame) who was born and raised in Birmingham, this magnificent piece has been moved to New Street station. He lives on, hopefully for decades to come!
I have been in reflective mood this week, looking back on a road-trip around Newfoundland, Canada exactly five years ago. We were there a month, covering the length and breadth of what the locals fondly refer to simply as “The Island,” driving around 6,500 km (4,000 miles) in the process.
The icebergs were impressive
I wish I could tell you it was the best holiday we’ve ever had, but sadly it wasn’t. Although the icebergs were impressive and most of the people were friendly, many of the roads were cratered with pot-holes that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the moon. The food was largely uninspiring, and while there were some undeniable scenic highlights, we had to drive past one hell of a lot of tedious fir trees to find them. And, to make matters worse, I got a spectacular (positively Vesuvian!) dose of food poisoning.
There’s a lot about our visit to Newfoundland that I’d rather forget, but reading back over my blog of the trip there was plenty of good stuff too, much of it quirky and some of it pretty damned memorable. So today I thought I’d share some of the better moments with you, the readers of Now I’m 64.
Quirky Newfoundland (1): Bilbo Baggins and the Warhol Prophecy
Andy Warhol famously suggested that in the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes. By extension it might be argued that everywhere will be famous too, that each and every place under the sun will become known for something, albeit most probably something rather insignificant.
A case in point is Huntsville, Alabama. Passing through the city a few years ago we were surprised to discover that Huntsville is, according to the people who decide these things, the Watercress Capital of the World. Now, pleasant enough as watercress may be in a mixed-leaf salad, it seems rather desperate of the city elders to fly their colours from this particular mast, not least because the same city boasts an outstanding space museum, including a genuine Saturn 5 rocket.
Elliston doesn’t ‘do’ modesty
Huntsville’s dubious claim to fame came to mind again yesterday when we drove into the small town of Elliston, which, as signage at the side of the road indicates, styles itself as the Root Cellar Capital of the World.
For the uninitiated, and I guess that’s just about everyone other than the good burghers of Elliston, a root cellar is an underground vault in the garden in which you can keep your root vegetables, and other produce, cool and fresh. The British aristocracy had their ice houses and, not to be outdone, Elliston folk built rutabaga (turnip) larders that work on a broadly similar principle. It is a must-have garden accessory around these parts; every home should have one and indeed, in days gone by, most of them did.
There are hundreds of root cellars dotted about the town
There were hundreds of root cellars in this area of Newfoundland at one time, and although most have fallen into disrepair some are lovingly maintained. The best look as if they’ve come straight off the set of a Lord of the Rings movie, giving the impression that at any moment the door will open and a hobbit will emerge, puffing contentedly on his pipe. ‘Hello’, he says, ‘my name’s Bilbo Baggins, pleased to meet you I’m sure.’
‘Well, hi there,’ replies Andy Warhol, ‘that’s a fine root cellar you have there. I’m pleased to tell you, Mr Baggins, that one day you’re going to be famous. But only for 15 minutes.’
Quirky Newfoundland (2): When did you last see a vegetable?
You’ll be familiar with the painting. A small boy dressed in blue stands in the centre of the picture facing to the right, where his inquisitors are seated at a table. His family look on, anxiously. The canvas depicts an imaginary scene from the English Civil War, and was painted by British artist W. F. Yeames in 1878. Its title is “When did you last see your father?”
“When did you last see your father?”, by William Frederick Yeames, (Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)
Skip to Newfoundland, July 2017, where a new interpretation of the painting has been commissioned. The venerable Platypus Man stands in the centre of the picture, facing his inquisitors. His head is bowed, his shoulders hunched. Tears flow from sunken eyes, cascading down his deathly-pale cheeks. Mrs P watches, her face contorted with pain and suffering. The title of the painting is “When did you last see a vegetable?”
You see, vegetables are in short supply around here. To be fair, we’ve eaten up-market two or three times during the trip, and on these occasions veggies have been available. Although at those prices I should bloody well think so.
Mostly, however, we’ve eaten “cheap and cheerful.” Until yesterday this meant that just about the only vegetables we’ve eaten have been potatoes of the chipped persuasion. Newfies apparently feel the same about healthy eating as Roman Catholic bishops feel about contraception – they’re vaguely aware of the concept, but have decided it’s not for them.
Yesterday, however, we experienced a bona fide miracle. We ate “cheap and cheerful” again, and got both broccoli and carrots. Now you have to understand that I’m not a big fan of broccoli. I once heard a comedian on television refer to it as Satan’s Fart-weed, but didn’t even crack a smile – I mean, what’s funny about the patently obvious? But yesterday, so grateful was I for something – anything – green, that I ignored the ghastly intestinal consequences and wolfed it down ravenously.
And as for carrots (also not my favourite veggies, on the grounds of being too orange to be taken seriously … a bit like Chris Evans and Ed Sheeran, I suppose), Peter Rabbit himself couldn’t have made quicker work of them.
However, we’ve discovered in northern Newfoundland over the last couple of days that some locals have seen the light and taken matters into their own hands. They’ve fenced off areas of land by the side of the road, miles from the nearest town or village, and planted veggies there.
Around here settlements are invariably on the coast, where neither climate nor soil are conducive to the growing of vegetables. But by moving inland along the main roads, conditions for horticulture are improved. Every weekend the “owners” drive out to tend their little allotments, lavishing love and care on them that would put celebrity gardener Alan Titchmarsh to shame.
Apparently anyone living here can, quite legally, drive a few miles out of town, put up a bit of fencing to keep out the moose, and claim a parcel of land to set up a vegetable patch. Ownership of the roadside gardens is respected – no Newfie would dream of nicking his neighbour’s carrots – and nobody pays rent or tax on the land that has been thus acquired.
This all sounds wonderfully progressive, and could work well in the UK. I think I’ll drop Keir Starmer an email and suggest it for inclusion in the Labour Party’s next election manifesto. I have my eye on a nice patch of ground next to the A38, slightly north of Derby, that’s just crying out to have vegetables grown on it. I won’t even have to worry about the moose.
I will, however, definitely give broccoli a miss when sowing my crop. After all, a man should follow his gut instinct.
Quirky Newfoundland (3): Ticklish names and monstrous squid
With apologies to Lewis Carroll ("The Walrus and the Carpenter")
Today we ventured to the coastal village of Leading Tickles. Yes, that really is a place, not a dubious seduction technique that I once employed in my pursuit of Mrs P! In these parts a tickle is a narrow strait, so narrow in fact that it tickles the sides of your boat as you sail along it. There are plenty of other tickles to be had in this neck of the woods, including Dark Tickle and Thimble Tickle. Boringly, the latter is now known as Glover’s Harbour. Less boringly, it’s a place of world renown…if cephalopods are your thing, that is.
In 1878, the world’s biggest known squid, weighing in at two tons, 17m (55 feet) in length and with an eye that had a diameter of nearly 41cm (16 inches), was washed up here. It has received the official stamp of approval from the Guinness Book of Records, so we can be sure it’s kosher. Given that there is absolutely nothing else that a tiny, isolated place like Glover’s Harbour is going to become known for, the locals have latched on to it. The squid has achieved celebrity status; there is a decent interpretation centre, and a life size model which really does bring home what a monster it was. Although, sadly, climbing on it is strictly forbidden!
On the way to visit Squiddly Diddly we took time out to visit the Grand Fall Salmon Interpretation Centre, and view the salmon ladder. Historically, salmon were unable to progress upstream beyond the 30m (100 feet) high waterfall located here, meaning that less than 10% of the entire watershed was available for breeding. However a fish ladder comprising 35 steps has now been constructed, enabling them to by-pass the falls and continue their journey upstream to the spawning grounds.
Watching the fish leap up the steps was mesmerising; some got it right first time, others failed multiple times before finally perfecting their technique and progressing to the next level. We were also able to watch from a glass-walled underwater viewing deck, enabling us to see them from side-on at very close quarters. Some carried flesh wounds caused by mishaps on their journey upstream, though others were unblemished and beautifully marked.
While some of the salmon were modest in size, others were huge. These have probably done the journey multiple times before. Unlike Pacific Salmon, the Atlantic Salmon does not die after breeding, so most of the fish we saw today will return to the sea after mating, and will hopefully make the same intrepid journey again next year. Here’s wishing them a safe journey.
Memorable Newfoundland: Picturesque places, beautiful birds and wonderful whales
For the past week we’ve been in the far west of Newfoundland, but this evening at 4.30pm, we’re booked on a whale watching trip departing from the town of Bay Bulls on the east coast. We therefore have a hard day’s driving ahead of us, hundreds of mind-numbing kilometres in which to contemplate the majesty of the fir trees lining our route. We can hardly contain our excitement [overseas readers please note that the English are famed for their ironic sense of humour! A man can see too many fir trees, and today this man will.]
The pretty fishing village of Salvage
At least it’s no hardship to leave our current accommodation. We suspect the innkeepers received their training from the Basil Fawlty school of hotel management, from which they were evidently expelled for failing to meet the required standard. They don’t say goodbye when we leave, but this isn’t really a surprise as they didn’t say hello when we arrived either (although they did get their assistant to collect our money pretty damned quick).
As soon as breakfast is eaten we’re on our way, whistling the theme tune from The Great Escape as we drive out of the car park. Within a couple of minutes we’re on the Trans Canada Highway (TCH), Newfoundland’s equivalent of the M1. Joy of joys, just like our own M1, the TCH is being widened and chaos is therefore in the air, which doesn’t improve my mood. It’s a nightmare, but after much misery we finally leave the mayhem behind us. I slip the car into cruise, settle back and prepare to watch the kilometres sail past.
A couple of hours later I’m going stir crazy. We decide to leave the TCH for an impromptu side-trip to the coastal village of Salvage. It’s an inspired decision. Salvage turns out to be one of the most picturesque places we’ve visited all trip. The fishing shacks and associated paraphernalia are particularly fine, hinting at a way of life that it is completely alien to us. Mrs P loves photographing them, and snaps away happily until it’s time to hit the road again.
Puffins are unmistakeable, and understandably popular with everyone who spots them
Suitably refreshed by our unscheduled visit to Salvage I put my foot down, and we reach Bay Bulls in good time for our whale watching trip. The boat takes us first to a small offshore island where seabirds nest in their thousands. The skipper brings us in close to the shore, giving us great views of the birds on the cliffs and rocky outcrops. Gull Island boasts a colony of handsome guillemots. There are also some puffins to be seen on the island, while others swim past our boat or fly overhead with beaks full of little fish with which to feed their chicks.
Bird watching over, we move on to Witless Bay, reputedly the best place in Newfoundland to get up close and personal with humpback whales. For once the hype is fully justified, and within a few minutes we find ourselves surrounded by a group of between 15 and 20 humpbacks, all gorging themselves on fish that congregate here to breed.
The skipper kills the engine and we sit still in the water, mesmerised by the whales all around us. The humpbacks patrol the bay, breaking the surface as they swim sedately along, then diving suddenly in pursuit of their quarry, then surfacing again with a loud “blow” of exhaled air and water-droplets.
Squadrons of gulls feed on fish scraps left by the humpbacks
A couple of times we see them lunge-feeding, exploding from the deep with huge gaping mouths that have, in this single manoeuvre, made short work of thousands of tiny fish. Occasionally we spot one spy-hopping, raising his head slightly above the water’s surface to watch what we’re up to. They approach within metres of the boat, sometimes lying motionless at the surface like floating logs, as if winded by the sheer volume of fish they’ve just swallowed. Encrustations of barnacles are clearly visible on their skin. The humpbacks are compelling, awesome creatures, and time seems to stand still as we revel in their majesty.
Today could have been a pretty miserable day, but it turns out to be one of the best we’ve had in Newfoundland. Yet this is a strange place, and Newfies march to the beat of a different drum. After the whale watching is over we retire to a nearby restaurant that specialises in fish. The waitress welcomes us warmly, says we can sit anywhere we like and have anything on the menu…except fish. Unsurprisingly perhaps, in a part of Canada where Basil Fawlty sets standards that some locals find unattainable, it appears that the fish restaurant has completely run out of fish.
Farewell, my friend
* * * * *
POSTSCRIPT: If you’ve enjoyed these random memories of our trip around Newfoundland, why not check out my 2017 blog of our holiday. There are a few laughs, plenty of surprises and loads more excellent photos by Mrs P, like this one of picturesque Quidi Vidi harbour.
Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, a three-door, five-drawer solid pine wardrobe in which to store my suits and shirts and socks and stuff. It was a big beast, to be sure, but we liked the look of it, and never gave much thought to how we’d get it up the stairs and into our bedroom. And anyway, it wasn’t really our problem: the guy at the furniture warehouse said they could deliver anywhere, and we took him at his word.
In the event it took a four man lift, and a lot of colourful cursing, before my new wardrobe made it to the top of the stairs and could be coaxed into its final resting place in a corner of the bedroom. And there it remained, unmoved and unmoveable, for more than a quarter of a century. Until we decided to redecorate.
Mrs P said in no uncertain terms that the time had come: the time for a new carpet, new curtains and a decent paint job. She looked at me meaningfully: painting is my territory, though I rather wish it weren’t. I said that I agreed – and I did agree, honest! – but in order to do a decent job we first needed to move the wardrobe. And that wardrobe was, as I explained, way too big for a man of my age, with my bad back, knackered knees and history of hernias, to contemplate moving.
The wardrobe-shaped elephant in the room
So there we left it for a year or two, the wardrobe-shaped elephant in the room. Until, one day about three weeks ago, Mrs P suddenly announced “I’ve had an idea!”
My heart sank. Don’t get me wrong, Mrs P’s a lovely lady (I married her, after all) but whenever she says “I’ve had an idea”, I know that my life’s about to get more complicated.
“And what idea is that?” I asked innocently, hoping fervently she’d already forgotten.
“Simple,” she replied brightly, “the bedroom desperately needs redecorating. If the only thing preventing it is that wardrobe, you’ll have to get rid of it and treat yourself to a new one.”
“Of course,” I responded in a flash, “but aren’t you forgetting something? Before we can buy a new wardrobe we’ll need to get rid of the one we’ve got now. And, as I may have mentioned previously, we can’t move the bloody thing!”
“No worries, we’ll offer it to a charity. They’ll collect the wardrobe. No problemo!“
I had to admit, her idea sounded like a good one. Charities are always on the look out for quality items of furniture that they can sell, thereby raising much-needed cash to support their good causes. The wardrobe seemed like it was worth a bit, and local charities would surely be queuing up to take it away.
* * *
And so, just 24 hours later, we’re in the local offices of a big health charity, agreeing the deal. I whip out my mobile phone, and show the lady on duty a photo of the wardrobe.
“Ooh, how lovely,” she purrs, “we’d be pleased to take it off your hands.”
“And you’ll collect, of course? It’s a wee bit heavy and awkward to manoeuvre,” I caution, with a degree of understatement that verges on the criminal.
“Our guys will do their very best,” she responds, “but they have the right to refuse if they think it’s impossible or unsafe to proceed.”
“Oh, that’s OK, I’m sure they’ll manage just fine,” I lie. She smiles, plainly convinced by my reassurances. I just wish I felt the same.
* * *
A week later, the collection crew arrives. It’s a modest outfit, just two blokes and a van. “We’re doomed!”, I mutter to Mrs P as we usher them up to the bedroom.
They inspect the wardrobe from all sides. “Big, isn’t it?” one of them says unnecessarily, his voice trembling ever so slightly.
They then check the route they must take, the impossibly tight 180 degree turn needed to get the thing out of the bedroom and on to the landing, the limited vertical clearance of the stairwell, the narrowness and steepness of the stairs.
There is much scratching of heads and furrowing of brows. Finally they agree they’ll give it a go, and manage to drag the wardrobe a short distance away from the wall, unscrew the top half from the bottom and lift it off before waving the white flag.
“Sorry,” the head honcho says “can’t be done. I don’t know how the hell anyone managed to get it up here, but it ain’t going back down.”
And then they depart, leaving our hopes in tatters and the wardrobe, now in two halves, abandoned in the middle of the bedroom floor. So Mrs P and I have no option than to spend the rest of the afternoon dismantling the thing completely, taking it apart bit by bit and dragging the wreckage downstairs to dump in the garage. Even the individual pieces take a monumental effort to move, and we are left in awe of the crew that successfully delivered this monolithic piece of furniture all those years ago.
So the good news is that, after much heartache, we now have a new, wardrobe-shaped space in the bedroom. But the bad news is that I now have absolutely no excuse not to get on with the painting. Woe is me!
Popular culture tells us that horseshoes bring good luck. If this is so, then Rutland should be the luckiest county in all of England. A tradition dating back hundreds of years requires nobles visiting Oakham, Rutland’s biggest town, to present the local Lord of the Manor with a horseshoe. All horseshoes thus gifted to the Lord are displayed on the wall of his Great Hall at Oakham castle. As we discovered when we visited Oakham earlier this year, the horseshoe collection numbers over 200 and continues to grow.
Ornate horseshoes big and small adorn the walls of the Great Hall of Oakham Castle
But in a cruel twist of fate, Rutland’s horseshoes may not be lucky after all. Traditionally, British people believe that horseshoes can only be lucky if they are hung with the closed cup at the bottom, and the two open ends pointing skyward. But in Rutland they do it the other way round. Are these people crazy, or have they got a point? Read on, and I’ll tell you more.
Why are horseshoes considered lucky?
To begin, however, let’s explore why horseshoes are considered to be lucky. In times past the blacksmith was regarded as something of a benevolent magician. Here was a man who could, with only fire and brute strength to assist him, conjure from useless rock a valuable metal with a thousand useful applications. If blacksmiths were magicians, then iron and the wares they fashioned from it, such as horseshoes, must be imbued with good fortune too.
Added to this was the fact that horseshoes were traditionally secured with seven nails. Within our culture seven is regarded as the luckiest number, and this – combined with the good fortune attached to blacksmith magicians – confirmed the association between horseshoes and good luck.
The horseshoes quickly became status symbols, intended to show off the wealth, good taste and fine breeding of the people presenting them.
There’s also a religious dimension, dating from the 10th century. Before becoming Archbishop of Canterbury, Saint Dunstan worked as a blacksmith. One day the Devil appeared before him and asked the future Archbishop to shoe his horse. Although recognising his visitor, blacksmith Dunstan said nothing, while secretly hatching a cunning plan.
Instead of fixing the shoe to the horse’s hoof he nailed it to the Devil’s own foot. The Devil howled with pain and rage. He probably swore a bit too, and demanded to be released. However Dunstan stood firm, and only agreed to remove the shoe after receiving Satan’s solemn promise that he would never enter a dwelling with a horseshoe nailed to the door. And so, according to the story, horseshoes are so imbued with good fortune they can even keep the Devil at bay.
The traditional British way of hanging horseshoes, with the cup nearest the floor, is said to ensure that the good luck will be safely stored there, and will not spill out to be wasted. Rutland folk, however, believe that nailing a horseshoe to the wall with the open end at the bottom will ensure that good luck falls onto those passing beneath it. This way of hanging it is also said to prevent the Devil hiding in the cup of the horseshoe, from where he might otherwise orchestrate mischief and mayhem.
Horseshoes presented by two members of the family of wartime Prime Minister Winston Churchill
So which way of hanging up a horseshoe is correct? Who knows?…I certainly don’t, but anyone of a superstitious disposition may be wise to have two horseshoes, one hanging with the cup at the bottom and the other with it at the top. It’s called risk management, guys!
Rutland’s historic obsession with horseshoes
Anyway, moving swiftly on to Rutland’s obsession with horseshoes, which dates back many hundreds of years. At the time of the Norman Conquest, one Henry de Ferrers was Master of Horse to the man who became known to history as William the Conqueror. Henry’s coat of arms featured six black horseshoes (with the closed, or cup, end at the top!) on a silver background. Later, as a token of his gratitude, William rewarded Henry with many grants of land, including the manor of Oakham, where the de Ferrers family later built a castle with a Great Hall.
Prince Charles and the Duchess of York have both presented horseshoes
The de Ferrers family name is a corruption of the word French word ferrier (farrier – a person who shoes horses – in English), and therefore hints at the family’s long association with the iron industry. So at some time in past, probably after too much ale had been consumed, some bright spark in the family came up with the crazy notion of demanding that all noble visitors be required, on their first trip to Oakham, to acknowledge their host’s heritage by presenting the Lord of the Manor with a horseshoe.
It tells us something about the power of the de Ferrers family that visitors went along with this daft demand. But typical of the aristocracy, before long they’d turned it into a contest, visitors trying to outdo one another with the size and extravagance of the horseshoes they presented.
The oldest horseshoe remaining in the castle collection was given by King Edward IV in the late 15th century, and is decorated with the royal coat of arms. From the late 18th century onwards the practice emerged of donors decorating their horseshoes with coronets to signify their rank within the British peerage system. In a stroke, therefore, the horseshoes were turned into status symbols, showing off how wealthy and “well-bred” the donors were.
Oakham castle’s Great Hall dates from 1190. It is believed to be the earliest and best preserved aisled hall in northern Europe
Although there are approaching 250 horseshoes on display in Oakham castle’s Great Hall, this is only a fraction of the number that have been presented over the centuries. In the early days of the tradition, horseshoes were displayed on the castle gates rather than the inside wall of the Great Hall, making them vulnerable to theft. Also, over the years, some of the less impressive donations have been quietly “mislaid” and forgotten. And in the early 20th century great numbers of horseshoes were melted down as scrap metal to help the war effort during the First World War.
Despite all of the losses, the collection remains mightily impressive. The internal walls of the Great Hall are festooned with the good, the bad and the ugly of the horseshoe world. And yet it’s still possible to find room for a new one when a member of the Royal Family comes calling: in 2003 Prince Charles, heir to the British throne, presented a horseshoe. Eleven years later his wife Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, followed suit.
Rutland’s horseshoes come in all shapes and sizes!
Rutland’s obsession with horseshoes is quintessential British quirkiness. You couldn’t make it up. But it’s also strangely endearing, a bit of harmless fun. I just wish they’d hang their horseshoes the correct way up. In these troubled days of pandemics and wars, climate crises and mass extinctions, mankind needs all the good luck it can muster. Carelessly allowing good fortune to leak out and blow away by hanging your horseshoes upside down just isn’t good enough, Rutland!
Well, not magic really, but definitely quirky. The roundabout on the children’s playground at the Isle of Man’s Silverdale Glen is powered by water flowing from the nearby boating lake. Shifting the lever releases water which drives a waterwheel, which in turn powers the carousel. The roundabout is the only working example of its kind in the British Isles.
Silverdale Glen was developed as a visitor attraction in the last years of the 19th century. The site included a boating lake, café and a park for games and walking as well as roundabouts, and is a legacy of the Isle of Man’s growth as a tourist destination.
The waterwheel that drives the carousel originally came from the nearby lead / silver / zinc mines at Foxdale. When the mines were closed in 1911 the wheel was transported to Silverdale and reinstalled near the lake to provide the power needed to drive the ride-on horses. The link below will take you to my short YouTube video of the roundabout in action.
The roundabout has undergone numerous renovations in the century since it began operations. In 2007 the wooden horses – which were acquired second-hand from a steam-driven funfair in England – were removed and replaced with fibreglass gallopers and rowboats. One of the originals has been restored and deposited at the excellent Manx Museum. You can view the catalogue image here.
Postscript – while researching the history of Silverdale Glen’s magic roundabout I came across this fascinating post by WordPress blogger Pat English. Written way back in 2010, when we were younger, more innocent and had never heard of Coronavirus, Pat’s post explores the history of roundabouts. It includes lots of colourful carousel horse designs, one inspired by Siouxsie and the Banshees. Definitely worth a look.
Now I'm 64 