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Lincoln A2Z Bb2 The Joiners Arms

Saturday, April 27th, 2013

I’ve only ever been to the Joiners Arms the once but that was only a couple of weeks ago and you can be sure that I’ll be going again. I was late home on a Friday night having been to Derbyshire to drop the kids off on their Duke of Edinburgh Silver Award expedition. It’s not my idea of a good time, driving to Derbyshire and back on a Friday evening!

I didn’t get to the pub until 8.45. That’s unusual for me on a Friday night. I normally like to get a few in early doors and then get home for dinner with Anne at a sensible time. On this occasion it was too late for dinner so I called the boys to see if they were still around. They were, at the Joiners Arms.

The Joiners Arms is on Victoria Street, near the copshop on West Parade in Lincoln. You will have probably seen the Burton Arms without noticing the Joiners Arms further up the street on the left.

I’ve got to tell you it’s a gem. When I got there the boys were playing killer on the pool table. Miss three pots and you’re out. Pound in winner takes all. They had been drinking since five o’clock so the party was in full swing by the time I got there. I had half an hour before picking up my takeaway from the Newport Arms Chinese Restaurant up the hill so I nursed a pint but still had a good chat.

The thing about the Joiners Arms is that it is a simple proper pub. No pretensions. There is a wide selection of real ales behind the bar at very reasonable prices. There was no juke box, just a CD player which people used to play their CDs of choice.

The game of killer eventually finished, someone loudly took his winnings and the boys began to move on to the Tap And Spile down the road. I set off for my takeaway and home. The Joiners Arms deserves success. I shall return.

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juice-shot by KLM

Wednesday, April 17th, 2013

Ration pack issued by KLM in case the plane has to make a forced landing in the North Sea en route from Humberside Airport to Amsterdam. There are a number of scenarios when this happens.

Scenario #1

Plane lands in sea and breaks up and sinks without trace or at least long enough and deep enough to drown all the passengers before they have a chance to put on their lifejackets and slide down the emergency escape chutes which haven’t deployed in any case.

Result: Unless the passengers in question have managed to consume the rations on their way down, which does seem unlikely, the said rations remain uneaten due to the untimely demise of all concerned.

Scenario #2

Plane lands in sea but doesn’t break up. Passengers either remain on board, benefiting from the buoyant nature of the airframe or exit down the chutes and then stay afloat by treating the chutes as life rafts.

Result: Passengers scoff the snack and the drink and are probably rescued in reasonable time because it is a major air disaster and every ship in the North Sea will divert to the crash location. Some passengers may die as a result of not securing a place on the life raft but worse things happen at sea these things happen.

Scenario #3

Plane has drifted way off course and is not actually over the North Sea. Fortunately the captain has managed to find his way to a remote desert island and brings the plane down safely in the water close enough to land for the passengers to all wade ashore. Those in business class make their way to one end of the beach where they establish their own little enclave complete with business class rations that include nice little salt and pepper sets though still only plastic cutlery due to safety concerns following 9/11. The captain joins the business class passengers, ostensibly as part of the service but in reality because given the choice between their food and the c&@p dished out to everybody else he opts to look after himself. The rest of us are allowed to wander off aimlessly to look after ourselves and find shelter wherever we can off the beach.

Rations of both classes of passenger are soon consumed including those in business class and despite the reality that their food too was not particularly edible.

Result: The rest of this story follows a number of possible well trodden paths that include massacre of all concerned by the cannibal tribes of the area, slaughter of most of the survivors by internecine war or the kicking in of a survival instinct along the lines of Swiss Family Robinson whereby everyone works as a team and builds a cosy shelter from the elements that serves as home until they are all rescued by a freighter that was also well of course and was putting in at the island to refill its water tanks.

Scenario #4

There is no scenario #4. That’s it…

PS the pen is superfluous to the story. It just happened to be in the photo.

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Something’s brewing (this May bank holiday…)

Wednesday, April 10th, 2013

History of brewing is intertwined with the culture and architectural past of the United Kingdom.   It was back in the 1550’s when be magistrates began to control brewing, but not until the 18th century until London saw some of the first industrial breweries to serve the mass market.  Some of those power houses of increasing automation and labour saving techniques produced some wonderful buildings which still exist around the national and London landscape – the lovely Hole’s Castle Brewery (now offices) in philosopher-in-cheif’s own Newark, or the wonderful and equally grade II Truman’s Black Eagle Brewery in Brick Lane, Spitalfields.

Technology has been the boom industry for the past 30 years, with great big monolithic datacentres peppering the docklands and other cities around the world.  Strangely akin to the growth at the heart of the English brewing industry in Burton upon Trent, where their output and employment trebled every 10 years between 1850 and 1880.  What lies within the aforementioned Trueman’s site now is in fact a datacentre of a company called Interxion.  Maybe we can find some good datacentre sites to turn into breweries in a few hundred years time… let’s not get going on “built to last”.  Keep with me, I’ll get to the point…

So in London, only two of the original 18th century breweries from yesteryear still produce beer – Fuller’s Griffin Brewery in Chiswick (anyone driving out of London via the M4 can’t fail to spot that one!), or Stag Brewery over in Richmond.  They’re both fine sites, but they’re not the only brewers in town…

The London Brewers Alliance, a relatively recent loose association of anyone commercially brewing in London, counts 44 brewers in town.  They’re in their Chiswick palaces, hiding under railway arches (ah ha, the photo finally makes some sense!), or in converted timber yards.  No space is seemingly inappropriate to brew in, but we are entering a period of craft, small batch, and authenticity in what we as consumers want to spend our money on.   What’s more, and here’s the point of the three hundred or so words you are reading… they’re showing us what London can do, all in one place – a railway arch in Hackney, this May bank holiday (3-5th) http://londonsbrewing.co.uk.

Thanks to English Heritage for some pointers on history [1]!

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Road closed

Sunday, April 7th, 2013

There is no way forward. The road ahead is closed, the way is barred to vehicular traffic. You cannot get through. The barrier is insurmountable and there is a steward stationed there to guard the junction. It is unlikely in the extreme that you would be able to get your car past the barricade.

That isn’t to say that the defences would keep out a marauding attacker, a belligerent invader hell bent on an objective on the other side of the thoroughfare. A brigade of storm-troopers would I’m sure find the obstacle not to be an obstacle, what is actually a piffling plastic moulding to indeed be piffling and no match for a platoon of size thirteen boots stomping forwards with violent aggression, a contemptuous sideways glance the only recognition that there had once been an attempt at a roadblock.

Do not feel that you can treat this as a behavioural role model. The rule of law is there for the benefit of all. It is what makes this country civilised and safe and a thoroughly pleasant place to call home. Be assured that marauders will be kept at bay by the full defensive might of the forces of law and order, themselves no shrinking violets nor pansies blown around in the light prevailing winds of uncertainty.

Stop. The road ahead is closed, until it reopens.

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Lincoln A to Z D13 Birchwood

Wednesday, February 27th, 2013

When I were a lad my first proper job, in 1984, was at Marconi on Doddington Road in Lincoln and Dave Hopkins and I used to nip home to his place at midday for a spot of lunch. Things were pretty easy going in those days and lunch wasn’t typically an hour. We would pop to the Birchwood to buy some fresh crusty bread from the bakers together with a bit of ham and maybe some cheese and swing by his place to eat it.

Hopkins was a dab hand at making tea and I was happy to be the good guest and wait whilst he warmed the pot and made a proper cuppa. Dave was more conscientious than I was and was usually the one to call time and drive us back to the factory.

There used to be a pub on the Birchwood called The Wildlife and on Friday afternoons we would repair there for a few pints, often not returning until 3pm at which time we would go straight to the canteen for afternoon tea. It wasn’t much of a pub but we were fresh out of college and our standards weren’t that high.

They were pretty halcyon, those early days at Marconi. The company took on around 50 graduates over a two year period and it was a happy go lucky environment with almost every night being a party or a night out in the pub somewhere or another.

The Wildlife was the venue for one of the more memorable activities of the Marconi days which was “star stiff”. Star stiff was a competition whereby 200 celebrities, selected for their likelihood of keeling over and dying over the following twelve months were divided up into 20 “stiff portfolios” of ten names. Twenty engineers from Marconi took part, each carrying one stiff portfolio.

The names of the celebrities were contributed by all the contestants and a computer programme was written to randomly allocate the celebrities across all the portfolios. Each person had a seed which was a celeb highly likely to die over the year of the competition. The seeds were usually made up of Formula One racing drivers, which in those days was a far more dangerous sport than it is today, rocks stars known for their high living and drug abuse, and other famous people thought to be already at the edge of the abyss.

We would all gather on a day in July in the pub and eagerly wait to see who the computer had allocated us for our stiff portfolios. As I said the competition lasted twelve months. The deal was of one of the names on your stiff portfolio died you were given a pound by each of the other contestants. This may sound a little macabre but in reality if a particular celebrity looked like popping off you might have one person willing him or her to die but nineteen people doing the exact opposite and willing them a long and happy continuation of life.

The competition made for some tense moments. Salvador Dali was burned in a house fire but it took him months to actually die. Richard Burton actually went and died the day after the twelve months was up. Jim Patterson, who had him in his portfolio was gutted. Nineteen pounds was a reasonable wodge in those days when a pint probably cost 50 or 60 pence. Richard Burton, being known for his fondness of the sauce, was almost certainly a seed. I don’t think any of the racing drivers died during the competition.

When the twelve months were up we would reconvene in The Wildlife, replace the deceased with new prospects and start again with a totally new random allocation of celebrities.

After three of four years the original gang at Marconi started to focus on their careers and went their separate ways. Life was never the same again though I do look back very fondly at what might be called the star stiff days.

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Lincoln A to Z Q12 St Swithens Cemetery and Canwick Park Golf Course

Saturday, February 23rd, 2013

The question on today’s lips is whether anyone has ever been killed by a golf ball on Canwick Park Golf Course and subsequently cremated and buried in St Swithen’s Cemetery.

Being killed on the course but not buried in the cemetery over the road does not form part of this discourse. Neither is death by other means such as heart attack, being run over by a golf cart or, as happened on 5 occasions in the good ole u s of a between 2001 and 2006, being killed on the golf course as a result of a plane crash1!

Heart attacks are the most common cause of death on golf courses which is understandable as golf does tend to be a pastime enjoyed by those of more advanced years. Death by plane should not be totally discounted in Lincoln due to the history of aviation in the county but whilst there are many records of aircraft related fatalities in Lincolnshire I am not aware of any specifically associated with a golf course and certainly not Canwick Park. I may be wrong about this as there is scant information available on the subject.

Before getting back on track here it is also worth clearing up some confusion that may exist in some folks’ minds regarding the subject of “sudden death” and golf. Sudden death is a means of deciding a winner if a game is drawn after the final hole has been played. The golfers involved play on until a hole is won outright, the loser or losers being deemed to have suffered sudden death.

Whilst being hit on the head by a golf ball is also likely to lead to sudden death this is not the same sudden death.

There is very little data in the public domain on death on golf courses in the UK, at least not on the first page of a Google search result and it isn’t really worth looking beyond that. The previously referred to statistic from the USA does come from a source with additional data that could inform our debate.

Event

Fatalities
Overturned vehicle (nonhighway)

19
Other nonhighway incident (excluding overturned vehicle)

14
Fall to a lower level

8
Highway incident

7
Homicide

6
Trench collapse

6
Struck by falling object

6
Suicide

5
Drowning, submersion

5
Airplane accident

5

Apologies for the spelling and use of un-British vernacular such as “Homicide” and  “nonhighway”. Whilst I realise that these terms are probably used and certainly understood in the UK I personally would use “murder” and “non road” as alternatives.

It should be noted that the above statistics which cover the period between 2001 and 2006 pertain to work related deaths and not to golfers themselves. However they do help us to understand the general trends where causes of death on a golf course are concerned. There is no specific reference to being hit by a golf ball but “being struck by a falling object” would cover this scenario and for the purpose of this argument I am going to assume that that is what is meant when describing this particular form of death.

Wikipedia tells us that in 2008, just after the period under examination, there were 17,672 golf courses in the USA and 2,752 in the UK, representing 50% and 8% of the total number of courses worldwide respectively.

If we take these data and extrapolate we come up with a figure of 0.934 deaths by golf ball in the UK over the six years, or around one death every seven years. In any given year therefore in the UK there is a five thousandth of one percent chance that someone at Canwick Park will be killed by a golf ball. Whilst the science behind the calculations used here is not exact I can apply some real world data to the discussion by saying that in forty years of playing golf (I know, I can’t be that old) I have never known anyone to be killed on the golf course, any golf course.

Research by the University of York reveals that “According to the Office of National Statistics, there were 493,242 deaths registered in England and Wales in 2010, compared with 491,348 in 2009 and 537,877 in 2000. In England, in the vast majority of cases, deaths are followed by cremation: in 2010, the current cremation rate was just over 73 per cent. However, in a significant and growing number of cases, cremations are themselves followed by the formal burial of cremated remains at cemeteries, crematoria and churchyards.”

Departing for a moment from scientific facts and methodology the chances are that if someone was killed by a golf ball at Canwick Park they would end up in the crematorium over the road with some degree of likelihood that they would subsequently be buried in the cemetery. We can’t be more exact than this because the ONS doesn’t tell us what percentage of cremations are subsequently buried. The problem is exacerbated further by the fact that there are other cemeterial options in Lincoln. I assume here that cemeterial is a word. If it isn’t either I have invented a new one or, well you knew what I was trying to say really.

In conclusion, and to put everyone’s mind at rest, especially the members of Canwick Park Golf Club it is unlikely that anyone has ever been killed by a golf ball on their golf course and subsequently cremated and buried in St Swithen’s Cemetery.

It’s quite nice to be able to quash rumours of this sort before they begin to take hold thus causing a stampede for the car park of golfers no longer wanting to risk playing at Canwick Park. Such a mad dash for the exit in itself is more likely to cause death than the golf balls now locked safely up in bags in the boot of the car.

Fore!

1 Source United States Department of Labor, Bureau of Labor Statistics http://www.bls.gov/opub/cwc/sh20080416ar01p1.htm

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Lincoln A to Z Q9 maternity unit, Lincoln County Hospital

Friday, February 22nd, 2013

Christmas Day 1991 was a quiet affair. The two of us had Christmas lunch on our own at the house in Greetwell Gate. Anne was heavily pregnant and now two weeks overdue.

We went out pretty much every night in the weeks running up to Christmas, determined to make the most of our last days of freedom. Six weeks earlier we had been in the Prince of Wales pub in the Bailgate. In those days it was a proper local. Small cosy rooms and good for a lock-in in the days before licensing laws became more liberal. I used to play rugby with the landlord Wayne.

At some point during the evening the conversation came round to the baby’s due date.  Officially this was the 12th December but of course these things are never certain. For a bit of fun we decided to have a sweepstake, pound in and whoever guessed the actual birthday right took all the cash. The only rule was that nobody was allowed to choose Boxing Day as this would be the day she would have to go in and have the birth induced had the baby not yet arrived.

We came out of the pub that night with the twenty quid sweepstake cash in our pockets. The whole pub had taken part. On the way home we passed the Raj Douth Indian Restaurant (now the Saffron) so we stopped off and blew the lot on a curry. I had planned to replace the cash at the appropriate moment before handing it over to the winner.

Winding the clock forward six weeks and the baby still hadn’t arrived so it looked very much as if we would be going in to the hospital on Boxing Day for the birth.  After the Christmas lunch I fell asleep on the sofa and Anne set to clearing away the table. When I woke up a few hours later the whole house was spotless. The nesting instinct had kicked in and the big moment was obviously about to arrive.

The contractions started early evening but were not close enough together for us to go in to hospital. I started recording the intervals on a bit of paper on the bedside table.  We didn’t get much sleep that night and by the morning had a complete record of the contractions which gradually got closer and closer together.

By 10am it was time to go in. The hospital was only a few hundred yards away and it took minutes to get there. For much of the time I paraded around the ward chatting to the nurses and availing myself of the huge supplies of chocolate that had been donated by grateful patients. It was a lot easier for me than for Anne who, this being her first child had a pretty hard time of it. We went through three shifts of midwives until finally, twelve hours after our initial arrival at the hospital, Anne gave birth to a fine baby boy who we named Thomas Alun Davies.

It was too late to celebrate as the pubs were by now all shut and I went home to bed a tired but ecstatic parent.

The next night I was back in the Prince of Wales with my mates to wet the baby’s head. The subject of the sweepstake was brought up and of course there was no winner. I told the boys that I had spent the cash on flowers without mentioning the fact that really we had spent it on the curry that same night.

In fact I did buy the flowers, from the Shell Garage on Burton Road. It being the day after Boxing Day the flowers were getting past their best but the woman in the shop, understanding their purpose, picked through all the bunches and gave me a huge bundle of the best she had which were fine. Back on the ward in the hospital Anne’s bed was surrounded by colour making everyone else’s look a little pathetic by comparison.

I kept both the piece of paper with the details of the contractions and the beer mat with the sweepstake guesses in my bedside table for years.  Sadly they were lost during our house move but the story remains a nice little memento of what was a big moment in our lives.

We visited the maternity unit another three times before settling on four as the ideal sized brood. None of the others took as long to come out as the first and there were no further sweepstakes involved though I’m sure I must have felt it appropriate to wet the baby’s head each time.

I have since been to the Prince of Wales on many an occasion but never again to the maternity unit.

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Lincoln A to Z V5 North Greetwell – one horse town and no pub

Friday, February 22nd, 2013

Part of the ancient Lawress Wapentake (apparently Lawress is Old English for “lark”) the village of North Greetwell lies on the Roman highway the A158 Wragby Road heading in a North Easterly direction towards the Lincolnshire Wolds. The village comprises perhaps a hundred residential dwellings, an Indian restaurant and a roadside filling station.

Note it is my firm belief that a village is not a village without a pub. It may well have an Indian restaurant, which is a big plus and which is certainly a step up from the Little Chef that was its predecessor but a pub it is not. The petrol station, which is useful and probably ok to nip out to for a bottle of wine or a sixpack of lager is also not a substitute. I will say no more on this subject other than it can’t be that much of a lark living there.

In 1801 North Greetwell had a population of 31 people. This was quite convenient because the parish church could only accommodate 35. The population grew steadily and by 1891 reached 93 persons. Ten years later this had dropped to 51 which must surely have represented some calamitous happening in the village. By 1911 this had risen to 75 but by 1921 had only grown another by four souls to 79. The Great War had taken its toll.

The nineteen twenties saw a rapid expansion and by 1931 the population was up to 253 which from the local parish priest’s perspective would have been a nice problem to have.

We do not know how he dealt with this problem and an examination, hitherto unperformed, of the church records might well shed some light on the issue. That degree of research does not however lie within the remit of this work and the church itself lies in V9, a couple of clicks south of V5 which seals it for me. Marriage records for the Lawress Deanery do go back to the year 1700 and the Anglican parish register dates from 1723 so we could probably find out what was going on.

Perhaps they had a marquee in the garden to accommodate the extra people or maybe market forces and the availability of better transport meant that some went elsewhere for their spiritual guidance. It’s amazing the lengths people will go to for a better quality biscuit to dunk in their post sermon cup of tea or coffee. I’m only speculating here. I don’t know for sure. For all I know all the local parish priests had a pact to buy the same sort of biscuits so that this sort of thing didn’t happen. It only takes the lure of more ten bob notes in the collection plate to make a difference though…

The village does possess a Manor House which in 1912 was the residence of William Bowser but that too lies outside square V5 and so is also not being given much airtime here.

In 2005 an archaeological dig was undertaken in the area ahead of some new houses being built. Disappointingly absolutely nothing of interest was discovered beyond some medieval furrows. We could probably have guessed that.

At the time of writing there are eight properties for sale in North Greetwell four of which are bungalows.  Prices range from £110k up to £250k. That seems to be a fair percentage of the housing stock on the market if you ask me and possibly down to the fact that there is no pub or maybe because it is on a busy main road. Who knows.

A quick online scout for what’s on in North Greetwell reveals nothing. So that means either they are all watching the TV, on the internet or out at the garage or the Indian restaurant. One little surprise is that the BT speedchecker shows that the residents of the village are blessed with pretty fast fibre broadband. There again BT has been known to be wrong about these things.

That’s pretty much it for North Greetwell. It would appear, and I may be wrong here, that the MP for the area is Edward Leigh (Conservative) who has no doubt made himself known to the residents in a doorstep campaign at some time or another. I note that Mr Leigh has three sons and three daughters and was President of Durham University Union. Fair play.

I will finish with the consideration that the title of this piece is “Lincoln A to Z V5 North Greetwell – one horse town and no pub”. I have no idea of the origin of the saying “one horse town” and although it seems to me it should apply to North Greetwell I am ok if someone comes back and tells me that they have a couple of horses stabled at the back of their house. I can believe it. Some of the gardens are quite big and equestrianism is a good hobby that provides one with exercise and a bit of healthy fresh air, as long as you stay away from the main road.

That’s all folks…

Oh and PS I know I said I wouldn’t say any more about the no pub bit but I did – sorry

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V3 Mulsanne Park – sporting triumphs and utter dejections

Thursday, February 21st, 2013

When our third child was quite young he went along to Saturday morning football at Mulsanne Park. We were never sure whether Mulsanne rhymed with frying pan or window pane. I was of the former camp but others in the family claimed the latter. Being of all seeing all knowing disposition I am of course right though the argument was never truly settled and I doubt that anyone cares or even realises it was an issue.

The boy was never going to make it as a footballer. I recall a beautiful spring day when the sun was shining and for once it was a pleasure to have to perform parental duties and take him and his pals out to Nettleham. There have been other times when the icy blast of a gale blowing across from the Urals  made me wonder why he wasn’t more interested in jigsaws as a hobby but this was not one of them. It was a perfect day for football.

Conditions that are right footballing are also ideal for other activities. At Mulsanne Park these conditions are, where the parents are concerned, good for sipping a cup of tea purchased from the pavilion and chatting with other parents. Some people are more interested in following the on field activity and I must say that to some extent I fall into this camp. However I do feel that I can with a degree of concentration adequately multitask and also drink tea and chat. I know not what the chat is about – as far as multitasking is concerned “remembering” is one task to far.

You should know I am not one of those competitive parents who shout instructions from the sideline and remonstrate with the ref when he thinks that a decision has not gone the right way. Still I do like to celebrate the on-pitch success of the boy. I can be very loud in my appreciation. No wilting lilly I.

This brings me to the other point about ideal footballing conditions and that is what is good for football is also good for spring growth. In the case of Mulsanne Park this might be a renewal of activity in the hedgerows and also on the playing surface itself. We like the new growth in the grass even though it means work for the lawnmower.  Unfortunately grass isn’t all that grows on a football pitch. Daisies also flourish.

On the beautiful day in question the lad was dawdling in the outfield and his attention was caught by a certain daisy. This daisy must have been a fast grower because the pitch had not long been mowed. The daisy clearly merited closer inspection.

Now one of the aspects of the game of football is that people run around the field kicking the ball this way and that and there is a good change if you stand in one spot that the play will eventually come your way. On this occasion with daisy inspection in full flow the opposition winger came thundering towards my lad who was totally oblivious to anything other than the daisy. The winger shot past and with only the keeper between him and stardom made certain of his place on the scoresheet and no doubt of lasting fame in the history of Nettleham Under 6’s football.

The boy looked up and trotted over to some other part of the pitch, neither jubilant nor utterly dejected.

 

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Lincoln A to Z – G10 the problem seed

Thursday, February 21st, 2013

a stroke of the pen,

global game

empire and politics

arbitrary decisions

divided peoples

straight lines

far off rulers

hewing of nations

fields of Fen Farm

North Kesteven Lincoln – Lincoln North Kesteven

just like that

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Lincoln A to Z J3 – Griffinwood

Wednesday, February 20th, 2013

“WARNING – GRIFFINS NESTING”

Entry to this wood is at your own risk. The Department of Magic recommends that only groups accompanied by a certified magical creature expert proceed beyond this point. Whilst under normal circumstances griffins are known to be harmless they are fiercely protective of their young and may attack anyone coming within one hundred yards of a nest.

Under no circumstances should anyone enter during the hours of darkness.

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Lincoln A to Z G8 transportation links

Wednesday, February 20th, 2013

It all started when us Romans built the Fossdyke. That was the old navigation between Lincoln and the river Trent. It was revolutionary in its day. Represented a dramatic cut in travel time and had a huge effect on trade. You could feel it in the streets around you on your way to the Temple of Minerva. Lincoln was a vibrant place in those days. Plenty of bars and cafes. You could even get wine from Rome and not have to depend on the sweet muck the locals around here liked.

The original Foss Way didn’t go through G8. It wasn’t G8 in those days either. It wasn’t anything really. We didn’t need maps. There weren’t all that many roads and usually you knew which one you needed. It was easy enough to ask if you got lost. If you want to see the original Foss Way it is still there on B21, K16 and L16. Take a look.

The Foss Way got called the A46 some time ago. Could well have been when they started drawing up these maps. I suppose they must have had their reasons. The new road would have been built fairly recently. Progress eh? The old one was good enough for us if you ask me.

Sometime before that they built the railway. Now that did cause a stir and a half. Objections everywhere. We didn’t have that problem when we dug the Fossdyke. Who was going to argue? None of this planning permission nonsense that gets in the way of progress, slows down the economic development of a place. No no no.

I was one of those objecting to the railway. After they built it I changed my tune. Marvellous it was. You could get to Newark or Retford in half an hour. Used to be a day’s march. Wow. If we’d have had it in Lindum Colonia we could have got to Newark on the train and spent the rest of the day playing cards or dice or whatever we used to do in those days.

I especially liked the old steam trains. They had character. Not like the modern diesels they have these days. Ok I know the diesels are more practical but the day that steam came to an end we lost something. Change isn’t always for the good. Choo choo.

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Lincoln A to Z V3 Mulsanne Park – sporting triumphs and utter dejection

Saturday, February 16th, 2013

When our third child was quite young he went along to Saturday morning football at Mulsanne Park. We were never sure whether Mulsanne rhymed with frying pan or window pane. I was of the former camp but others in the family claimed the latter. Being of all seeing all knowing disposition I am of course right though the argument was never truly settled and I doubt that anyone cares or even realises it was an issue.

The boy was never going to make it as a footballer. I recall a beautiful spring day when the sun was shining and for once it was a pleasure to have to perform parental duties and take him and his pals out to Nettleham. There have been other times when the icy blast of a gale blowing across from the Urals  made me wonder why he wasn’t more interested in jigsaws as a hobby but this was not one of them. It was a perfect day for football.

Conditions that are right footballing are also ideal for other activities. At Mulsanne Park these conditions are, where the parents are concerned, good for sipping a cup of tea purchased from the pavilion and chatting with other parents. Some people are more interested in following the on field activity and I must say that to some extent I fall into this camp. However I do feel that I can with a degree of concentration adequately multitask and also drink tea and chat. I know not what the chat is about – as far as multitasking is concerned “remembering” is one task to far.

You should know I am not one of those competitive parents who shout instructions from the sideline and remonstrate with the ref when he thinks that a decision has not gone the right way. Still I do like to celebrate the on-pitch success of the boy. I can be very loud in my appreciation. No wilting lily I.

This brings me to the other point about ideal footballing conditions and that is what is good for football is also good for spring growth. In the case of Mulsanne Park this might be a renewal of activity in the hedgerows and also on the playing surface itself. We like the new growth in the grass even though it means work for the lawnmower.  Unfortunately grass isn’t all that grows on a football pitch. Daisies also flourish.

On the beautiful day in question the lad was dawdling in the outfield and his attention was caught by a certain daisy. This daisy must have been a fast grower because the pitch had not long been mowed. The daisy clearly merited closer inspection.

Now one of the aspects of the game of football is that people run around the field kicking the ball this way and that and there is a good chance if you stand in one spot long enough that the play will eventually come your way. On this occasion with daisy inspection in full flow the opposition winger came thundering towards my lad who was totally oblivious to anything other than the flower. The winger shot past and with only the keeper between him and stardom made certain of his place on the scoresheet and no doubt of lasting fame in the history of Nettleham Under 6’s football.

The boy looked up and trotted over to some other part of the pitch, neither jubilant nor utterly dejected. Sorry if the title was misleading. I set out to write an imaganitive piece of on pitch excitement but that’s not what came out 🙂

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Hywel Harris and Mrs Evans the cleaning lady

Tuesday, February 12th, 2013

When I was a younger man and full of the joys of spring with no plans for the future I lived at Coleg Y Bedyddwyr Bala Bangor. Bala Bang was a Baptist church hostel in Bangor and part of the University. There came a time when the final test of my knowledge of the subject to which I had devoted the previous three years of study began to loom large.

This was a matter of concern as much of the time allocated to the study itself had been squandered. The essential life skills such as how to drink ten pints of beer and how to go at least five pints without breaking the seal would serve me well as I set out, suitcase in hand, to make my fortune. However it did little for my chances of achieving a level of performance in the final examination that would satisfy those deciding what class of degree I should receive, if any.

So there I was, sat incongruously on my own in the small but excellent library of the hostel, surrounded by theological works and my own small pile of engineering books trying to remember Laplace transforms and communication theory when in walked Eurig.

Eurig was a second year theological student. He wasn’t destined for a life of the cloth but was an aspiring teacher of Religious Education. This doesn’t mean that he wasn’t made of the right stuff. It can’t be easy teaching RE to kids, most of whom have at best no interest in the subject and at worst even less than that. You need to be of strong moral character to do it.

Eurig, who I remember was from Ystalafera in South Wales, came in to the library and proceeded to arrange his books tidily at one end of the single long table in the library. Having done his preparation Eurig proceeded to lean back, hands behind his head and stare into space. This was a bit off-putting for me. I desperately needed to learn all the stuff I had neglected over the previous year and couldn’t concentrate with Eurig there just staring into space.

“Thinking Eur?” Eurig continued to gaze at the light fitting and replied in the affirmative.

“What are you studying?”

“Hywel Harris” said the light fitting.

Now most of you will know that Hywel Harris was a famous Welsh Methodist cleric from the 18th century. He was effectively the founder of the Presbyterian Church of Wales. Google him.

“Ooh I know a lot about Hywel Harris” which was a bit of a fib.  I had barely heard of him but Eurig wasn’t to know and raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

“Go on ask me something about him”. Quiet descended while Eurig gave this some thought.

“Ok how about this then? Who was the woman that most influenced Hywel Harris in the formation of his theological stance?”

“Oh that’s easy” I said confidently. “It was Mrs Evans the cleaning lady.”

This took Eurig completely by surprise. “But wasn’t it…?” citing a name I have long since forgotten.

“Ahah that’s a common misconception” says I. “In actual fact Mrs Evans used to come in to his study to empty his waste paper bin whilst he was beavering away on one tract or another. He threw away a lot of drafts of his stuff.  He and she would hold long conversations about life, the universe and matters Presbyterian.”

“Are you sure?” said a now totally bewildered Eurig.

“Completely, I know my Hywel Harris.”

Eurig fell for it hook line and sinker. The joke had worked so well I struggled to keep a straight face and had to leave the library before I gave the game away. Upstairs I went to the common room and told its occupants the story.

A minute or two later in came Eurig and I had to leave discretely. The risk of breaking into laughter was too great. As I left I hear him ask the other students the Hywel Harris question to which they of course replied “Mrs Evans”.

Exam revision carried on and the day came when some of the results were published. Eurig had completely failed one exam. He had swotted up five essay subjects for an examination that required him to write five essays and not a single one of them came up. He can’t have lasted more than ten minutes in the room. Just enough time to write his name and for panic to gradually take over his system.

Poor old Eurig. To the rest of us this was hilarious and I can only be glad that the Hywel Harris question didn’t come up making me partly responsible for his predicament.

We don’t need to worry too much about Eurig though. The religious establishment kicked in and looked after it’s own. He was given an opportunity to resit the exam and this time passed. Phew.

I moved on from Bangor and have never seen him since. I should look him up one day for a chat about our subject of mutual interest.

Postscript

January 2024

Coincidentally I am just reading the History of The Welsh Methodist Society – The Early Societies in South West Wales 1837 – 1750 and in it Hywel Harris features large. Turns out old Hywel’s story was quite juicy. The woman was married and her name was Madam Sidney Griffiths. Apparently his wish was for his own wife and her husband to die so that they could become an item.

Whodathunk!

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Lincoln A to Z S seven, legendary plot

Sunday, February 10th, 2013

Did Roman legions march up Bunkers Hill, battling their way through traffic to Skegness? As they left the safety and confines of their city was it understood they were passing a special place? Maybe.

Did St Hugh tending his stone-carrying flock of Cathedral builders stand atop the quarry spreading his spirituality wide. He might.

This place is special. You feel it as you walk the grid. The names stand out.  Stukeley Cl, Ross Cl, Alexander Wlk, Warren Ct, Exley Sq. Take them in, roll them off the tongue, digest.

No heart of empire can compare. Howe Ct, Novona Ho, Olsen Ri, Olsen Ct, Stark Wy. Badges of history, worn with fierce communal pride.

Onwards to Putnam Wy, Pitcairn Av, Palatine Ho, Padley Rd, Pigot Wy; the five pioneering ps personified, lack nothing, dream of adventure.

Reed Dr, Venables Way, Marrat Cl, Carlton Sq. Memory sticking, ship launching handles of twenty one gun salutes and squadron leaders’ flypasts.

Then the great names: Outer Circle Road, Wolsey Way, Carlton Blvd and, of course, again, Bunkers Hill.  Great corpuscular arteries, commercial lifeblood, food and drink.

And finally, the Carlton Centre. Grand central market, bread basket, meeting place, holiday booking point.

Go there. Spend time. See life happen. Be.

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