The cricket game

A gaggle of boys walked down the road from the nearby village carrying a small amount of cricket gear; a couple of bats, a tennis ball and sticks for stumps. Led by Alf Weston they were a motley group, several Weston brothers, my distant relative David Simons, and an assortment of other boys aged mainly 11 or 12 ranging up to Alf who was 14.

In this summer afternoon of 1954 I realised immediately their objective. They were visiting me but far more important they were looking for a pitch for a game of cricket. As I was the boy down the lane I was recognised as an authority on the options near my house. I soon picked the field opposite my house. This had latterly been used for cattle grazing but was now empty. Climbing over the gate we set about locating a suitable spot. This was not as easy as it sounds. Apart from avoiding new cowpats we also had to select somewhere without the tussocks where luxuriant coarse growth had occurred at the site of old cowpats.

 On this beautiful summers day I have been out and lain on my back watching a distant skylark with its wonderful song.. My mother always said this was her favourite bird because of its elegant song.

After some discussion a pitch in this large field close up to the road with back to the hedge was selected. It was set up with wicket at one end only, the other end just marked with a stick.

We did pick sides although this was almost immaterial as everyone had a turn batting, bowling and fielding as it was individual performance which counted. The picking of sides followed the usual practice: two captains were chosen and they then chose in turn from the players. Usually I was among the last to be picked as my uselessness at sports was well known. However in acknowledgement that it was “my pitch, my rules” I was declared a team captain. Unhesitatingly my first choice was Alf, who not only was the eldest, but also my well established friend.

Playing commenced; underarm bowling of course with a wicket keeper whose main job was to stop the ball going into the hedge behind him. There were no bails for him to whip off. The batter faced the interior of the field which gave plenty of scope for big hits. There was no boundary as such with fours or sixes awarded by general acclamation. In fact a four was difficult because of the pockmarked tussocks in the field. Skying the ball was easier for the inexperienced batters and made for more exciting fielding.

Our bats were a rather weird miscellany. Mine, probably inherited from my cousin, for some strange reason had a hole about an inch wide in the middle. Rather than tapering towards the handle it had a constant cross section below the handle. I’m not otherwise left handed except as a batsman- it just felt more natural that way.

Without an umpire close decisions were the subject of some good natured wrangling. As I said positions rotated. Because there were only maybe ten or a dozen players anyone not batting, bowling ( or wicket keeping who was effectively a fielder ) was in the field. It was expected that fielders did their best regardless of whether it was their side batting or not. Because everyone was really looking to their individual performance this worked

After a couple of hours in the sun energies wilted. I don’t recall that any decision on the winning team was ever made; we had all played for the enjoyment of playing. We then sat on the grassy verge outside my house while I got drinks. This was orange juice. Well it was orange in colour at least, made up from water added to a spoonful of crystals. Whatever the taste it satisfied young thirsts. They all set off to walk home while I went in to tea.

The cricket game

A gaggle of boys walked down the road from the nearby village carrying a small amount of cricket gear; a couple of bats, a tennis ball and sticks for stumps. Led by Alf Weston they were a motley group, several Weston brothers, my distant relative David Simons, and an assortment of other boys aged mainly 11 or 12 ranging up to Alf who was 14.

In this summer afternoon of 1954 I realised immediately their objective. They were visiting me but far more important they were looking for a pitch for a game of cricket. As I was the boy down the lane I was recognised as an authority on the options near my house. I soon picked the field opposite my house. This had latterly been used for cattle grazing but was now empty. Climbing over the gate we set about locating a suitable spot. This was not as easy as it sounds. Apart from avoiding new cowpats we also had to select somewhere without the tussocks where luxuriant coarse growth had occurred at the site of old cowpats.

 On this beautiful summers day I have been out and lain on my back watching a distant skylark with its wonderful song.. My mother always said this was her favourite bird because of its elegant song.

After some discussion a pitch in this large field close up to the road with back to the hedge was selected. It was set up with wicket at one end only, the other end just marked with a stick.

We did pick sides although this was almost immaterial as everyone had a turn batting, bowling and fielding as it was individual performance which counted. The picking of sides followed the usual practice: two captains were chosen and they then chose in turn from the players. Usually I was among the last to be picked as my uselessness at sports was well known. However in acknowledgement that it was “my pitch, my rules” I was declared a team captain. Unhesitatingly my first choice was Alf, who not only was the eldest, but also my well established friend.

Playing commenced; underarm bowling of course with a wicket keeper whose main job was to stop the ball going into the hedge behind him. There were no bails for him to whip off. The batter faced the interior of the field which gave plenty of scope for big hits. There was no boundary as such with fours or sixes awarded by general acclamation. In fact a four was difficult because of the pockmarked tussocks in the field. Skying the ball was easier for the inexperienced batters and made for more exciting fielding.

Our bats were a rather weird miscellany. Mine, probably inherited from my cousin, for some strange reason had a hole about an inch wide in the middle. Rather than tapering towards the handle it had a constant cross section below the handle. I’m not otherwise left handed except as a batsman- it just felt more natural that way.

Without an umpire close decisions were the subject of some good natured wrangling. As I said positions rotated. Because there were only maybe ten or a dozen players anyone not batting, bowling ( or wicket keeping who was effectively a fielder ) was in the field. It was expected that fielders did their best regardless of whether it was their side batting or not. Because everyone was really looking to their individual performance this worked

After a couple of hours in the sun energies wilted. I don’t recall that any decision on the winning team was ever made; we had all played for the enjoyment of playing. We then sat on the grassy verge outside my house while I got drinks. This was orange juice. Well it was orange in colour at least, made up from water added to a spoonful of crystals. Whatever the taste it satisfied young thirsts. They all set off to walk home while I went in to tea.

Hard or soft?

There has been much discussion recently in the press about hard or soft Brexit so it is worth examining what these mean. There is no precise definition but roughly a hard Brexit means leaving the EU with no trade deal and soft means leaving with some access to the single market. The business at stake is simply described by the fact that about a half of UK exports go to the EU.

A hard Brexit means that we trade with the EU on the same minimum terms as any other country. A whole lot of service sector trade would effectively be closed. A soft Brexit would preserve some access to the single market although it is unclear what that access would be. At its best it could be pretty similar to the current situation.

The essential problem with Brexit is clear; the single market access demands free worker movement and accepting EU regulations. EU regulation will apply irrespective for any trade with EU countries whether in the single market or not. Hard Brexit with border control and limits on migrants means no single market access. An unfortunate Brexiteer illusion is that migrant limits will be acceptable to the rest of the EU which seems very unlikely.

Brexiteers have been boasting of success, which is keeping up the delusions they harboured in the referendum. Inconvenient facts such as the plunge in the value of the pound are ignored while the fact that the UK economy hasn’t fallen off a cliff is trumpeted. Again the fact  this is before Brexit is implemented is ignored.

The much boasted  trade deals haven’t yet arrived and it would be wholly unreasonable to expect them so soon. Discussions on a trade deal with Australia are underway although a deal with the most anglophile country in the world, and a small market at that, isn’t the grounds for post Brexit success. The TV talk of a Chinese deal amounted to a doubling of airline routes and some sweet talk.

One of the great ironies of the post Brexit world is that far from sweeping away bureaucracy a whole new machine has to be created employing thousands to deal with changes.

The brutal fact is that anti-EU fanatics don’t care about the economy. To them the single market is something to be shunned. Business doesn’t agree, loss of single market access could be a huge blow. The problem is that the slow slide in the economy won’t be apparent until it is too late. A very unpleasant straw in the wind is the likely closure of the Yeovil helicopter plant. The Italian owners faced with scaling back as the market has decreased make no bones about their political decision to refocus in Italy although there is no particular economic reason. The issue now is that with no UK helicopter manufacture in the UK there is no possibility of selling anywhere no matter what trade deal is concluded.

It is often said that the UK is good at selling services but bad at selling manufactured goods. However it is precisely those export services which would be hit outside the single market. For example UK financial sector at present under so called “passporting” can sell any product approved in the UK to any other EU member. If passporting is lost then each country would need to approve individually, not to mention the tariff barrier imposed.

Theresa May is sending out rather mixed signals which have been interpreted as veering towards hard Brexit- certainly not very business friendly. This is the reason why the pound has slumped even more. Inflation in the UK seems certain to rise although my feeling everything else but Brexit will be blamed. The increase in fuel prices has been shrugged off.

Uncle Bill

My Uncle Bill was killed in 1917 during WW1. He had joined the Leicestershire Regiment under age at 17 as did so many others in the big 1916 recruiting push. Then in 1917 came the dreaded telegram to announce his death, something which hung over his family for the rest of their lives. His brother, my Uncle George, was also in the army but such were the fortunes of war that he served in India and later after the war’s end in Ireland. I don’t think he was ever called upon to fire a shot in anger.

My mother, the youngest of the girls in the family, was at the opposite end of the age scale to Bill who was the eldest. Her main memory was being teased by Bill. She kept his cap badge all her life and it is an enduring regret that it was lost when her house was sold. George, who was close in age to Bill, felt his loss keenly. He named his son Bill in memory of his dead brother. It was his lasting regret that as Bill had no known grave so he couldn’t visit it and mourn.

There the matter rested. We knew only that Bill had been killed, presumably by a shell, while on a mission as battalion runner. Battlefield communication was difficult in WW1. Radio was primitive and cumbersome. Telephone had its wires cut with great frequency. The common method was to use a messenger which was the role Bill was in when killed.

I was shown Bill’s name on the Coalville war memorial but as with the rest of the family I thought this was the nearest we would come. In the nineties basing ourselves at some friends in Castrol France who lived in the Somme valley we spent several days touring the battlefield. In France Castrol was based at Peronne which is on the Somme. There a castle has been converted into a museum of the war. Locally it is called the historial. Their presentation takes exaggerated care to treat German, French and British alike

The cemeteries are immaculately kept. All British and Commonwealth have a simple headstone noting name, rank and unit with a small section for families to add anything they wish. Most moving are the headstones where the identity is unknown. Rudyard Kipling composed the simple inscription “Known unto God”. It is a slightly eerie experience on a calm summers day to pass along a track by fields of waving wheat to come across a small walled cemetery of war dead.

Even now many dud shells and other ordnance are being found. These are dumped at the roadside for bomb disposal teams to remove and blow up. At various places mementoes are sold. I bought a shell cap and Annette the rusted remains of a rifle for use at school for drawing practice. I declined an itinerant selling a pair of “genuine” German binoculars as I doubted their provenance.

During our tour we visited Thiepval where the gigantic memorial to all the soldiers with no known grave is situated. To my surprise Bill Baker wasn’t listed in the many thousands of names. On my return to Britain I mentioned this to my cousin. He has the original War Office telegram and this gave Bill’s army number. Armed with this I approached the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. They quickly not only answered the puzzle but located Bill’s grave. He had been reburied after the war and the cemetery where he had been originally, closed. My family had lost track during this move. He is buried near Lens. The cemetery is less picturesque than the Somme valley being located in a former coal mining area where pit mounds are all around. I thought this was grimly appropriate for a boy from Coalville.

We visited on a grey day and I took photos for my cousins while reflecting it was a desolate place to end up. I also thought what a pity it was that Uncle George had never managed the small consolation of a visit.

Whitby town

Although this feels like writing a travelogue I promise it is largely my observations. Whitby is surprisingly small with a population just over 13 thousand. This must be getting on for doubled by visitors. Tourism is the main business and one which we hope to benefit from by letting our flat in the future. Daughter-in-law Lindsay, who feels their existing holiday let is successful, is keen to manage it for us.

Bisected by the river Esk the land rises steeply away from the river. The river is tidal and there is some fishing activity and one surviving boat builder. Although this looks fairly sophisticated with floating dock and covered construction yard I would think they are building quite small vessels, hundreds rather than thousands of tons. Most of the river activity is recreational. There is no marina as such but I would guess several hundred small vessels moored at various parts.

The river is crossed in town by a swing bridge and roughly half of the town is on either side. It is rather a strange mixture. There is a very small ( thankfully ) area devoted to slot machines and arcades but much of the towns many shops are individual with few of the national chains.

Particularly on the south side many of these shops are selling jewellery made from jet, a hard black mineral which polishes well. Jet is found on the beach locally and is subject of much secrecy on good locations. Some of the shops are quirky capitalising on the town’s connection with Dracula.( the novel by Bram Stoker )

One feature is the many small cafes and plenty of fish and chip shops. As this is my favourite meal I’m well pleased..

The main local son is James Cook who is coupled in the museum with the name of William Scoresby another seafarer who I had never heard of before. The rather nice museum north of the river devotes quite a bit of space to these two. Generally the north is the rather more genteel side with many fine Georgian and Victorian houses while the south tends more to smaller terraced housing.

Parking is a major issue. While I was working on Teeside thirty years ago I remember visiting, drove around, couldn’t find anywhere to park, and on a wet day, left. Particularly in the centre streets are narrow

At low tide Whitby has a large beach on the north side which is completely covered when the tide is in. The beach is backed by a very steep banks so that the promenade is at least a hundred feet above beach level.. On its landward side are some fine large houses some arranged in a crescent. At the end of the promenade are whale bones in an arch plus a large statue of James Cook. When I was in Sydney last year I went aboard a replica of Endeavour, Cooks ship. I was surprised how small and cramped it was. Some areas below decks were less than five feet tall.

There hasn’t been much modern development in Whitby. All modern housing has to be built on the moors side of the town. The national park extends to the town boundary and planning constraints are severe.

The big local news is a large new potash mine planned south of Whitby. There is already some potash mining but this new mine has much increased land values in the area inland of Robin Hood’s Bay. This is to my son’s disgust as he originally planned to buy a goodish area of land which has increased in value by nearly a quarter of a million pounds. He narrowly missed it. The increase is such that land now tends to be sold without mineral rights.

The moors inland from Whitby are spectacular with some vast areas of heather covered land. Amid this is a strange pyramid structure which is the ballistic missile early warning radar at Fylingdales. I well remember the furore aroused when it was first installed in the early sixties. Back then the radars were in three giant spheres. There was a lot of comment about the four minute warning. However it was all part of the deterrent system which kept the peace. One has to be fearful now with Putin ever more threatening and a dangerous Donald Trump as serious American presidential candidate. The only consolation is that Ronald Reagan sounded belligerent but actually oversaw the end of the Cold War. I’m afraid Trump is far worse with a slippery grasp of reality.

Generally Whitby is surprisingly good on transport links for somewhere many miles from anywhere of note. There is a rail terminus with its main claim to fame that it is shared between national railways and the North York Moors Railway. This latter is a heritage railway which runs south to Pickering. The NYMR has some fine loco’s including the famous A4 “Sir Nigel Gresley”. Both Martin and Alex are volunteers on the railway which runs for some twenty miles across the moors. Every NYMR hold a “1940’s” weekend. We went last year and hope to again this.