Police Station...

This is the old Police Station, of 1843, on the outskirts of Howden: worth a photograph in its own right. Then I read the blue plaque, to discover that the architect was co-designer of the Saltaire Mills...

Thorne...

The Stainforth & Keadby Canal at Thorne, South Yorkshire...

Cartmel...

Licensed today: a trio of ladies in the Cumbrian village of Cartmel (best-known export: sticky toffee pudding)...

"Alexa"...

I’ve treated myself to a ‘smart speaker’, the Amazon Echo, which plugs into the mains and operates via wifi. The unit ‘wakes up’ at the sound of her own name - “Alexa” - and a blue glow, rippling around the top of the gadget, indicates that she is listening for instructions. She’s very helpful, able to play most of my favourite music (though she’s confused when I ask for songs by Jorma Kaukonen). She can access the cricket commentary on Radio 5 Live, and give me a very localised weather forecast (“The weather in Asselby…” is how she begins). Alexa can answer questions - naming, for example, the six wives of Henry VIII. She can spell ‘diarrhea’ and tell jokes. Ask if she is married, and she says she is “happily single”. I have refrained from asking her anything more salacious than that, because, well, I am a sentient adult and ‘she’ is a machine.

The sound quality is amazing, especially for a gadget that’s not much bigger than a beer can. There’s really no more need to ‘own’ music in any physical sense, when I can call up any song I want to hear (unless it’s by Jorma Kaukonen). With Alexa and the satnav lady, I suspect I now have all the female company I need, especially since they are so undemanding. “Alexa”, I wondered, “are you happy?” “I’m always happy when I’m helping you”, she replied, though I’m almost sure I heard a small sigh of exasperation...

Everest...

The photo which illustrates this article in yesterday’s Guardian fills me with dread… for a dozen different reasons. It gives me vertigo and it’s ridiculous. These climbers are queueing - in the ‘death zone’, at a height of 8,000 metres - to reach the summit of Everest. In the search for the ultimate experience, people are dying on the way up, people are dying on the way down. Having paid as much as £50,000 to achieve the dream of a lifetime, a lot of climbers simply don’t know when to quit...

Bridgegate House, in Howden...

A quiet corner of Howden...

The more I see of Howden, the better I like it. This is Churchside, a thoroughfare which skirts the minster and opens into the marketplace...

Sporting summer...

What a summer we have in prospect, now that football has taken a back seat for, oh, about six weeks… starting with the cricket world cup next week. England are favourites, apparently, which sets us up nicely for disappointment (and the recriminations which are bound to follow). And when it’s all over, Brexit will still be nothing more than a vague idea. Let the games begin!…

Last licence of the week: Belton House, near Grantham...

Condiments...

Paris has its tower, Blackpool too. Goole has these water towers, known locally as the ‘salt and pepper pots’. Goole has also been called the ‘Venice of the North’, presumably by someone who has never been to Venice. Hull people, glad to have at least one place they can look down on, have another name for Goole: ‘Sleepy Hollow’…

House-cum-windmill...

A house in Reedness, one of the 'marshland villages', on the southern side of the River Humber...

Traffic warden...

Licensed today: a traffic warden in Hebden Bridge who probably won't be getting a free 99...

Jehovah’s Witnesses...

I opened my door yesterday, on hearing a knock, to find a mother & daughter combo of Jehovah’s Witnesses: one of the hazards of becoming a householder, I suppose. They ducked my usual question: “What do you believe will happen to me, an atheist, when I die?” I said I found almost every kind of religious beliefs reprehensible, but retained a soft spot for Quakers. They’re not evangelical and are never tempted to knock on doors. I didn’t set the dog on the Jehovah’s Witnesses, because, unlike almost everyone else in the village, I don’t have a dog.

Shot today: a "prime opportunity" in Hull...

Shock win expected...

I only go to the BBC website for the weather; it seems to be nothing more than clickbait these days. And how the hell can a "shock win" be "very likely"?...

Black Swan...

There was a ‘village meeting’ a couple of nights ago, with just one item on the agenda: what to do about the village pub, which is currently closed. Though I wasn’t able to get to the meeting, subsequent entries on the village’s Facebook page - Asselby Talking - made reassuring noises. According to the pub’s owner, the Black Swan will reopen… as soon as a new landlord or landlady can be found. Fingers crossed that the village will have its pub back very soon.

The Rectory in Epworth, where Charles and John Wesley grew up...

Hallerton...

Licensed today: the buttercross in the village of Hallerton, Leics...

Potteric Carr...

Another splendid and bucolic day out yesterday, at Potteric Carr, a nature reserve managed by Yorkshire Wildlife Trust. Like many other reserves in Yorkshire (especially South, East and West Yorkshire), it’s a post-industrial landscape, having been mined for coal and criss-crossed by railway lines. Each of the many hides overlooks a different pool or scrape, though most of the action was taking place in the sky rather than on the water. The highlight, for me, was seeing three hobbies (unless it was one hobby that I saw three times), hawking for insects. I’ve never before seen these beautiful raptors - amazingly agile in flight, like big swallows - in Yorkshire, which must represent the most northerly extent of their range.

Great crested grebes were in full breeding plumage, buzzards were finding the thermals, marsh harriers were quartering over the reed-beds and warblers were singing everywhere: willow warblers, chiffchaffs, sedge warblers, blackcaps and whitethroats. The locals were friendly (amazing how the accents change to South Yorkshire merely by driving for half an hour down the M18). I’ll be back. There may be more hobbies there in dragonfly season.

Symmetry at Potteric Carr...

Thrushes... and Quakers...

A song thrush is singing from a tree outside the Old Sunday School, and, remarkably, he seems to sing by day and by night. When I woke up this morning, at dawn, his song was all I could hear. When does he sleep?

Though I don’t know many poems by heart, I have a soft spot for Home thoughts from abroad, by Robert Browning, and these lines in particular:

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!

I see, in the Guardian, that a lot of Quaker meeting houses are being listed. That’s good, in the sense that a lot of these buildings, though modest, are rather special (I could argue that they are special because they are modest). The listing also suggests, sadly, that Quakerism belongs to the past, and the more characterful buildings need saving before they become unwanted anachronisms.

I’ve used Quakers, in my book, to illustrate my contention that not all religious beliefs - and their consequences - are the same. For example, an extremist Quaker would never be tempted into violence (which isn’t a claim that applies to many other faiths).

A meeting in progress at Swarthmoor, in Ulverston: the only Quaker meeting house donated to the movement by George Fox, who lived nearby in Swarthmoor Hall...

Products for the third age...

A brochure fell out of my copy of the Goole Times yesterday. Not the Innovations catalogue (which bit the dust years ago), but “everyday solutions” from a company called Easylife. It took me a few moments to realise that all the products are aimed at older folk like me… and what a dismal picture the brochure paints! A “copper infused support” eases aches and pains around knees and ankles. A “titanium magnetic bracelet” helps to “reduce neuropathic pain, fatigue and muscle tension” (at least among those in the gullible hypochondriac community).

A walking stick features a “pivoting light”. There’s a device to remove ear wax. A 14-day pill wallet keeps your medications organised. A self-cleaning toilet brush “prevents stubborn residue from sticking to the bristles”. You can refresh your oven, the brochures gushes, with a “shelf make-over” (which just means buying another shelf). And it’s good to know that “urine stains and odours simply spray away” with a product called ‘Urine Destroyer’. Now, where did I put my credit card?

Recently licensed: Pentre Ifan, a neolithic dolmen in Pembrokeshire...

Last orders...

Blimey... that didn't take long. The moment I arrive in the village, the pub closes. Just seen a note on the door. "Until further notice" has an ominous ring to it. I was aware of the problems; it was impossible to sit on a bar stool and not be aware of them. I heard complaints, but, hell, complaining is easy. All I know is that it’s a thankless job, in 2019, to try and make a living by running a village pub. I hope someone else takes the pub on, and I hope that locals will offer their support by turning up in greater numbers… but I’m not very optimistic.

Another sale of this shot of cricketers in Hartley Wintney...

Asia Bibi...

In June 2009 Asia Bibi, a Roman Catholic from Lahore, Pakistan, was accused by her Muslim neighbours of insulting the prophet in a row over a cup of water. She was first dragged from her home and beaten by a mob, then arrested by police and charged with blasphemy. Having been sentenced to death, she subsequently spent eight years on death row.

When her case was re-examined, the court found she had no case to answer, though her release sparked off violent protests. For days Pakistan was brought to a virtual standstill, with protesters vowing to block the roads until Asia Bibi was hanged. Two of the politicians who had helped her were assassinated; her lawyer, and the three Supreme Court judges who quashed her sentence, received death threats. Bibi herself remained in custody, for her own protection, until yesterday, when she was flown to Canada to be reunited with her family. They will have new names and identities, and, hopefully, the opportunity to live in freedom. 

Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end there, because Islamic fundamentalists are threatening to hunt her down and kill her. In the current febrile atmosphere that is no empty threat, especially with a bounty on her head of 500,000 Pakistani rupees (about £3,000). One survey has reported that around ten million Pakistanis had said they would be willing to kill her out of either religious conviction or for the reward money.

Some of these fanatical fuckwits will no doubt be seeking a new life, perhaps in Britain, where, for dozens of reasons, their prospects will be brighter than in Pakistan. And, of course, they will demand that their religious beliefs must be “respected”.

Licensed today: market day in Ulverston...

Doing the impossible...

It must be twenty years since I last owned a TV, and - like son Chas - have no plans to get another. From the little I see, the quality of the programming seems to have fallen even further in that time. I understand the urge to ‘switch off’ and stare mindlessly at a screen in the corner of the room, but I am convinced that the broadcast output is stealing our brain-cells. I can hear them popping… like bubble-wrap.

My only regret is that I miss a lot of sporting occasions. Which is why I went to a pub last night, in nearby Howden, to watch Liverpool get trounced - again - by the might of Barcelona. Already 3-0 down from the first leg, in Spain, Liverpool were reckoned to have no chance of making it to the final of the Champions League. A glorious defeat was the best-case scenario. But Barcelona didn’t turn up, Messi was kept quiet, and, one by one, the goals went in. Ten minutes from the end of the game, Trent Alexander-Arnold took a cheeky corner, catching the Barcelona defence flat-footed, which Divok Origi diverted into the roof of the net. Liverpool had done the impossible - winning 4-3 over both legs - and now they’re in the final!

Another busy day, down at Goole Docks...

Hell awaits...

A few weeks ago, Israel Folau, an Australian rugby player and devout Christian, took to Instagram to proclaim that “hell awaits drunks, homosexuals, adulterers, liars, fornicators, thieves, atheists and idolators”. Folau urged them to "repent of their sins". In response it seems likely that Rugby Australia will now tear up his four-year, $4m contract. I hope so. This is no way to built a civilised and pluralist society. Telling people they are going to suffer conscious torment in hell for all eternity is a horrible thing for anyone to say… even though it is, of course, nonsense. I’m only surprised that such sentiments aren’t called out more often for what they really are: “hate speech”.

I feature in Folau’s list as an atheist, but would also have to plead guilty to the occasional lapse into drunkeness, adultery, fornication and thieving… otherwise I would be a liar as well. My homosexual phase was short-lived and school-based, and I don’t think I’ve ever been tempted into idolatry.

Why do so many religious people feel the need to judge their fellow humans… and judge them so harshly? The hateful notion that we are all sinners is integral to Christian faith, but that doesn’t make it any less reprehensible. Demands for their religious beliefs to be “respected” is a demand too far, as long as Christians are busy consigning so many people to the fires of their imaginary hell.

The Old Hall, Knedlington, built by Stephen Arlush about 1660, is on the cul de sac which leads to both Asselby and Barmby on the Marsh. The house is described in Nikolaus Pevsner’s architectural guide as "the finest small manor house in the East Riding"...

Taking offence...

Some Muslim voices have been raised in protest at the exhibition of a couple of paintings at the Saatchi Galley which incorporate the text of the shahada, one of the five pillars of Islam, in Arabic script, juxtaposed with images of nude women in the style of the US flag. The images, according to the complainants, are “blasphemous”. Well, we no longer have a blasphemy law in England; we give no particular protection to religious beliefs… beyond the freedom to worship any god, or no god at all.

Instead of being “offended” (a permanent state, seemingly, for too many Muslims) they should just stay away from the gallery. Instead of resisting this attempt to superimpose sharia on the law of the land, the gallery has capitulated... by covering up the “offending” paintings with sheets. I don't care to be told (by Muslims... or anybody else) what I should or shouldn't be able to see in an art gallery.

Licensed last week: Eric Morecambe's statue in the town from which he took his stage name...

The road to Wetwang...

Another visitor...

Had another visitor today... though I didn't know it at the time. A tortoiseshell cat padded silently down the stairs a few minutes ago, having presumably been asleep on my bed for most of the afternoon. The moggy used to live here, apparently, before moving in with a neighbour.

Licensed today: the gardens at Great Dixter in East Sussex...

Montagu's harrier...

What a brilliant morning! Up early, so I could spend an hour or two at Blacktoft Sands, and get back home before the Tour de Yorkshire started (the cyclists would be coming through Howden… at speed). I’d read, on the reserve’s website, that a female Montagu’s Harrier had returned… as it has for the last five years (though not, alas, a male). It’s a bird I’ve never seen… or ever expected to see: possibly our rarest breeding raptor.

I had the hide to myself as I scanned the reedbeds. I saw marsh harriers passing food to each other in flight: one of the highlights of springtime here. I saw spotted redshank, ringed plover, avocets and ruffs coming into breeding plumage. I heard a bittern booming and then saw it fly across the open water. A heron was holding out its wings to dry.  I heard reed warblers, sedge warblers, blackcaps and whitethroats. I saw the first swift of the summer. And then I saw a bird: definitely a harrier, but lighter and slimmer than a marsh harrier. The wings were longer and narrower, the tail straight rather than fanned. The flight was very different to a marsh harrier. My book says “a bit like a tern”, and that’s exactly right. Sort of ‘bouncy’… whereas a marsh harrier can be ponderous as it hovers over the reeds, before dropping down to catch a mouse or vole. Yes, I’d found the montagu’s harrier, and without any help!

I walked back to the Romahome in a hailstorm, and failed to see any cyclists: a result, I think.

Blacktoft Sands (the bird is a marsh harrier)…

First cuckoo...

Had a springtime walk today around Skipwith Common, a rare example of lowland heathland: a habitat which was once typical of the Vale of York. In addition to the songs of chiffchaffs and willow warblers, I heard my first cuckoo of the year…