Laceby

Journeying over to Shepherd's Crook Farm on Saturday morning, we stopped off in a Lincolnshire village called Laceby. As Shirley nipped into the village shop to buy some edible gifts for our friends, I mooched around and snapped three pictures. 

The first of them is shown above. It was on the door of the Laceby Chinese Takeaway. Sadly, the business was not open at the time so I could not test out the shockingly loud door. Mind you - at the age of sixty seven - I may have counted as an "elder customer". Perhaps the "vey loud" din would have caused me to collapse in a heap - denying me the opportunity to purchase some sweet and sour pork balls with Shanghai noodles. How kind of the proprietor to leave two kisses after the "Thank you".

Above, the little market square in Laceby. I doubt that  a market has been held here since the second world war. Just around the corner it was sad to see that the main village pub - "The Nag's Head" was all boarded up and like the market, will probably never do business again. 

Below is  the delightful twelfth century village church - dedicated to St Margaret and built from stone derived from the quarries at Ancaster - some fifty miles away. Imagine that - in the middle ages - transporting many tons of stone  by cart or coastal barge to build a church.  It's really quite amazing in my estimation. I often think about that when viewing an old church. Where did the stone come from, how did they get it there and at what cost? Another relevant question might be: Why?

I wonder if the application of a little oil might have reduced the noise of the shockingly loud door?

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The Wind In The Trees

It’s Sunday morning and my first lie in for ages.

I watched YouTube and Tictok videos with Dorothy’s head on my chest until the twentieth ping of my phone galvanised me into action. 

I knew who was pinging messages, it was answers to The Velvet Voiced Linda, who runs the community Wardens group. Her weekly check ins during lockdown have been a constant during cloudier times 

And it’s fitting that the warden group no longer needs such a sweet natured manager.

I had bagels and eggs for breakfast with lots of coffee, and after watering them, I put some of the house plants out into the sun for a warm

I’ve been listening to the delightful Amanda Khozi Mukwashi on Desert Island Discs and one of her childhood memories sparked an old one of mine.

Her memory, so eloquently told, was of her grandfather who allayed her childhood  fears when walking in a wood by saying the noises of the trees in the wind was of them joking to each other about how she jumped to their “voices”. 

When I was a staff nurse on the mother and baby unit at Bootham Park Hospital in York, I remember a patient called Zara who was incredibly poorly with Postpartum psychosis.

She was heavily medicated , slept for long, long periods and had to be supervised when caring for her newborn daughter at all times , but , daily, and in all weathers , she would ask to sit outside on a small bench where she would enjoy a cigarette and look out on the long , tree lined drive leading to Bootham Bar , one of the ancient Roman gates to the City of York.

I took my fair share of sits on that bench. 

Trying to engage Zara’s waxy, and frozen countenance with snippets of small talk and bland efforts at reality orientation.  

But she would stare at the giant horse chestnuts and take a draw on her cigarette and say little to nothing as her arms grew stiffer under the surges of phenothiazines as they kicked in.

One afternoon, after crying silent tears on the ward, Zara Sat with me on the bench without her cigarettes, it was breezy and the wind through the trees had made several conker cases fall onto the grass field in front of the hospital.

I caught her half smiling as they did so and I asked her what was on her mind

The trees know I’m so sad and are sending me gifts to help heal me she told me seriously and her face sort of lit up beneath the drug mask

I watched her smile and was moved.....

And for once I wasn’t going to divert her from her delusion 

As comforting as it was

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East

Covenham Reservoir - like a fragment of The Pacific Ocean

More news from the jet-setting, high rolling, limelit existence of your friendly host - Lord Pudding of Holderness.

Yesterday, the silver South Korean chariot Sir Clint kindly carried Lord and Lady Pudding eastward - along the M180 motorway  before cutting south on the A18 towards Louth - beyond The Lincolnshire Wolds.

It was a perfect day. Crystal clear beneath a blue canopy and at Shepherd's Crook Farm near Covenham Reservoir we met old friends Tony and Pauline where they had set up their caravan (American: trailer) for the weekend. In celebration of our arrival Tony prepared a fine brunch of bacon, eggs and mushrooms with the obligatory English breakfast tea.

Naturally I boasted about my yacht, my stocks and shares, the racehorses I have just purchased from Saudi Arabia and my intention to replace Clint with a banana-coloured Lamborghini. When Tony and Pauline began yawning with jealousy. I knew it was time to set off on our country walk. 

Navigation Warehouse by The Louth Canal at Austen Fen

Down by the side of The Louth Canal to Austen Fen and then across to Covenham St Mary and its sister village Covenham St Bartholomew before taking a look at the blue waters of a mini-Pacific Ocean - Covenham Reservoir.

The other three were utterly knackered by the time we got back to the caravan though I remained as strong as an ox and as fresh as a daisy. I could have easily walked another six miles. We had only been plodding for three hours.

St Mary's Church, Covenham St Mary

After dousing him with a bucket of canal water, I instructed Young Tony to prepare a barbecue meal of pork loins, kebabs and sausages with green salad, coleslaw, French bread, tomatoes and suchlike. I checked the wine list but there was  nothing that appealed to me and besides - at just after seven o'clock I knew that I would be steering Sir Clint back to our luxurious home - Sheffield Castle which stands proudly on a suburban hill overlooking the humble dwelling houses of the peasantry.

It had been a grand day out in unfamiliar territory with familiar friends. And this morning, as I survey my realm from the west turret, I realise that I caught the sun in spite of the factor 30 cream I applied. My legal team have already been informed.

Pauline in Covenham St Bartholomew churchyard

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