Corbyn's coronation...

A quiet day today… having spent yesterday drinking beer in the sunshine, at Headingley, as England won, to level the five-match ODI series at 2-2. The decider is tomorrow, at Old Trafford.

I saw Corbyn’s coronation this morning. There was a tear in my eye, as he gave his acceptance speech. Since this result was seen as “impossible”, just a few weeks ago, I wonder how many more impossible things will happen in the months to come…

Blea Tarn and the Langdale Pikes…

Broughton Mills...

I’m sitting outside the Blacksmith’s Arms in Broughton Mills, which sounds like it should be in Calderdale, West Yorkshire, wedged between Mytholmroyd and Hebden Bridge. There should be smoke-blackened mills, and chimneys, and rows of terraced houses. But no… Broughton Mills is an idyllic little spot, so compact, so secluded, that you could drive past without noticing anything except a rather appealing pub. Anyway, you’d probably be lost, and looking for directions.

Broughton Mills isn’t really on the way to anywhere. The gated road to the north delivers you into the Duddon Valley; the road south leads to Broughton, which, for the people who live round here, in the Lickle Valley (yes, really), is ‘town’. In a few minutes I’m meeting a fellow writer who has found a new career, post-retirement, as a chronicler of life in Broughton Mills over the last 80-odd years. His three memoires, published locally, are both funny and true; volume four - Whisky with Mother - will be out “soon” (when you’re publishing for pleasure, rather than profit, you can watch deadlines come… and go).

The last swallows are circling overhead, before their long flight south. There’s a nip in the air and the nights are drawing in (as I’ve heard on three separate occasions today). Summer’s almost gone…

The author of Whisky with Mother, hard at work...

Rooney...

The nomadic life frees up a lot of time because I don’t commute. I don’t go somewhere, then go home; I go somewhere… and then go somewhere else. According to the statistics, I’m gaining three or four hours every day, simply by not watching TV. I’m vaguely aware that celebrities are made to eat grubs in the jungle (why do they do it? Oh, I see…). I know that people get famous - briefly - by being voted the winner of singing contests. I know that people are locked in a house, so they can flirt, bicker and get drunk live on TV. The ghost of Andy Warhol is watching, and saying “I told you so”…

I save more time by taking no interest in Wayne Rooney beating Sir Bobby Charlton’s record of goals for England. It’s such a long process, starting months ago with breathless conjecture, “Will Wayne Rooney break the record?”, then yesterday’s pronouncement that “Wayne Rooney’s broken the record!”, then the reflective aftermath: “Is Wayne Rooney really better than Bobby Charlton?”. There’ll be those who question the validity of comparing sportsmen who played fifty years apart, suggesting that football is very different in 2015 to what it was in 1966 (we won the World Cup then. No-one remembers it now… but we did. We really did!). There’ll be others who say it simply doesn’t matter, in a slightly superior kind of way… and use their time more effectively by visiting branches of McDonald for cups of tea, bacon rolls and free wifi…

Langdale...

Resuming my football career...

At 11.15 this morning I was kicking a football about with a young woman called Hannah, on the astroturf football pitch at Ulverston Leisure Centre. It’s not how I’d planned to spend my morning; I’d only gone there for a shower. ”Are you here for the walking football?”, she asked, when I arrived. I said no, just a shower, but then thought… why not? It was something new they were trying, she said, though I’m not sure the word had got round to many of the old geezers in town, as nobody else turned up.

Undaunted by the poor turnout: Hannah had me passing, dribbling and belting the ball into the back of the net. She took a video of me dribbling the ball - with no detectable skill - between a line of cones. "For the website", she said. By noon I was panting. Walking football will be a regular date - every Tuesday, 11.15am - and if a few people turn up, it could be fun, and a bit of exercise. I’ll be back for another go…

Stoat... or weasel...

A pretty good day, starting off with getting a new wheel… and getting it under warranty. Good job, Citroen. Did a couple of drives, which means driving the miles, writing up the route and taking pix.

I spotted either a weasel or a stoat dashing across the road. I must have learned this rhyme about 60 years ago…

The stoat is easil-
y told from the weasel
by the simple fact
that its tail is black,
and its figure slightly the bigger…

No help on this occasion…

Brough...

Parked up in Brough last night. It must have been a busy spot at one time; now, though, the traffic rushes by on the A66, and nothing Brough has to offer encourages people to slow down. There must have been plenty of coaching inns too; now there are only two pubs left. One is rough and ready, for locals; the other, bizarrely, has lurched upmarket. It’s now called The Inn at Brough (written in a curly script on the wall), with pretentions to become an upmarket eatery.

Before I was able to tuck into my pie and chips, the waitress slid a piece of slate in front of me. “An amuse bouche” she said, “with the compliments of the chef”. On the slate were two smears of something pale and translucent - wallpaper paste or, just possibly, chef’s ejaculate - plus a bit of greenery and, the piece de resistance, a piece of damp toast about the size of a postage stamp. An early night beckoned…

Brough Castle...

Joseph Heller...

After a morning editing pix, I’m in Carnforth. Had a look round the charity shops and added to my collection of DVDs with Bill Forsyth’s Gregory’s Girl. I found one of Joseph Heller’s novels, Closing Time, but I left it on the shelf. Catch 22 must be my favourite novel, and I don’t want to ‘revisit’ that same cast of characters many years later, when death isn’t something that may happen on a bombing raid over Ferrara… but is a grim inevitability. I wouldn’t read Closing Time, for the same reason that I wouldn’t read Go Set A Watchman, by Harper Lee: for fear it might diminish the original.

I've been reading a memoir by Joseph Heller, about growing up in Coney Island. It was pretty poor, considering. He managed to produce one literary tour de force, Catch 22, but maybe he had nothing left to say after that. He was troubled, in old age, by the fact that he hadn't produced anything else of real quality.  I read one of his other novels - Good as Gold - and can't remember a thing about it. Catch 22 is, in contrast, unforgettable...

The garden terrace at Muncaster Castle...