King of the Road by Susie Field

Who is King of the Road? The motorist versus the cyclist.  Many cyclists would have us believe the motorist is the bad guy, forcing them off the road at every opportunity and, of course, this sometimes happens, but not in the majority of cases. New updates state cyclists should cycle in the middle of the lane on quiet roads, in slow-moving traffic, or when approaching junctions or road narrowings. The code also says cyclists should maintain a distance of 0.5 metres from the kerb edge when cycling on busy roads or with traffic that is moving faster than them. Mmm. In theory this may work, in practice, I am not too sure. When cyclists are going straight ahead at a junction, they have priority over traffic waiting to turn into or out of a side road, unless road signs or markings indicate otherwise. Really!! How ridiculous. Of course, the motorist must abide by these rules, yet cyclists seem oblivious to some basic rules which also apply to them. In my hometown, they constantly cycle on the pavement at high speed, with no respect for pedestrians, and no bell to warn of their fast approach. Red lights are often ignored, and the one-way system does not apply to them.  Cyclists are only allowed to travel the wrong way up a one-way street where the road is two-way for riders but one way for motorists. If the street is not designated two-way for cyclists, then it is illegal to ride the wrong way. Very confusing! Many side streets are too narrow for cyclists to ride safely against the traffic flow, but who cares, not the cyclists.

I recently travelled approximately five miles along a B road behind a group of cyclists, who I felt deliberately blocked the way rather than move into single file to allow the traffic behind to flow freely. Childish and petty behaviour to say the least, and I felt they were just trying to make a point. It’s a good way to explore our countryside, but not at the expense of others.

Motorists pay to use our roads, cyclists do not. I have no objection to this, although many do.

Other road users are, of course, pedestrians. They are not always in the right. Watching them crossing a road at busy junctions without looking, is quite alarming, and dashing across the road when a red man is clearly visible, is somewhat annoying and I admit, I have been guilty of this at times, but usually I do check to make sure the coast is clear before making this dangerous manoeuvre.

A pleasant walk along the canal bank is fraught with danger for the poor pedestrian. One would think much safer than our busy town centres, alas, this is not the case. Although the signs clearly state - Pedestrians have Priority, cyclists race along the banks and there is no escape.  A quick movement to the left, and the water beckons. To the right, and one is forced straight into the nettles and brambles. No sooner has one dusted oneself down, then another cyclist hurtles past, and the vicious circle continues.

I have a solution. Pedestrians, motorists and cyclists should respect each other and abide by a few simple common-sense rules as well as those stipulated in The Highway Code, as surely there are faults on all sides. Maybe then we could all get along.

Grounded Inspiration by Vivien Teasdale

Sometimes, inspiration is a long time coming. We get bits of ideas, odd sentences that flit across the mind, that could be turned into …

The Calderdale Grid Project provides just the spark we need. Photographers and writers from the area were assigned to a particular map location to photograph the landscape and find inspiration there to produce a written response to the places.

Lasting until 26 February, the project was first launched before lockdown in 2019, but has only recently come to fruition. It was also only recently that I came across the idea and thought oh, that looks interesting, and went to see it at the Smith Art Gallery in Brighouse.

The Art Gallery and Library are housed in a nineteenth century mansion, built originally as a home but gifted to the council, becoming a Free Library in 1898. In 1907, Alderman William Smith bequeathed his art collection. As well as the art, various exhibitions are held throughout the year.

The Grid Project exhibition includes were photographs, from all the seasons, of towns, villages, wild landscapes and pleasant vistas. Many were in Nature’s colours: peaty green moss; grey, lowering clouds; cerulean blue skies and sparkling white water. There were blackened stone walls, sombre farmhouses and shimmering green leaves.

A photograph of an old cobbled track running downhill into Luddenden village conjured up clogs sparking on the stones, mill girls clutching their shawls closer as they raced to reach the mill before the sound of the dreaded bell echoed across the valley and shut them off from half a day’s pay.

“Widdop” by Clare Shaw admirably reflected images over the craggy rocks, the bleak heathland and the long stretch of water reflecting the dying sun.

But the ones which really caught my attention were the black and white photographs. Sharp contrasts across umbrous moors and valleys, carving stark sculptures in the landscape. They conjured an uncanny, unsettling atmosphere in views both familiar and new.

Alongside the illustrations, were poems, short stories and reminiscences inspired by writers who walked, visited or lived in the area. Sounds, smells, visions were evoked by their contemplation, their understanding of the land. Words brought the roughness of millstone grit, sheep bleating on the misty moors, the bright colours and rhythms of celebratory gatherings by the people of Pellon.

One of my favourites was the poem “Switchboard” by Gaia Holmes, ostensibly about a wind phone, but also inspired by the heights above Pellon in Halifax, by its wildness, its loneliness and the feeling that you’re so close to the veil between now and then. The spirit and style of the poem itself first drew my attention but afterwards I read the definition of a wind-phone.

This is, apparently, an unconnected phone in Japan where visitors can hold one-way conversations with the dead. The idea of being able to ring up and have a chat with some of my ancestors fascinated me. I’d love to try it. Perhaps then I would get some answers to the many family history mysteries that I have never been able to resolve.

I recommend going to see this exhibition while it lasts. Then take walk around the town, down by the canal. Gaze at the legacy of its industrial history or wander round the market. Take yourself off for a day into the countryside near where you live.

See it all, smell it, feel it, touch it, hear it. Then try to reproduce whatever it stirs inside you – the desolation of the moors or the empty shops that line the high streets; the kestrel battling, or perhaps enjoying, the wind under its feathers as it searches for food; the sun setting over the hills, the church spire or some bleak lake where monsters may lurk beneath the surface.

And then share it with us, here on the blog.

‘There’s Something I Have To Do’ by Dave Rigby

 

We’re sitting around a couple of tables that have been pushed together in a dimly lit corner of The Spark. A sea of empty glasses covers most of the table tops. Gerry the Collector is off duty. Visiting a friend in hospital, somebody says. His red plastic glass carrier is in full view on the right-hand end of the bar, next to the jar of pickled eggs. But nobody else can be bothered to use it.

Tan decides it’s time to get another round in and takes a token empty with him to the bar. With an obligatory stop at the smoking shelter, it’ll be a while before he’s back.

We’ve been mainly talking rubbish, but now and then there’s a gem in the dross. Roke’s story about his shoes being nicked in a restaurant and Fletch’s account of cycling home one night on a bike fitted with stabilisers.

Tan eventually returns carrying three pints with shaky hands. Packets of tomato sauce crisps tumble from the many pockets of his parka. Someone clears a space for the new arrivals.

    “You can fetch the rest of the ales yourselves!” he says. “I’m in need of a sit down.”

We shuffle up to the bar and back, moaning about Tan’s lack of service.

Just as I sit down, my burner rings.

    “Change of plan. We need to exchange now!” The same Geordie voice I heard before.

    “I’m a bit tied up just now,” I tell Geordie. “Let’s stick to the original timetable.”

    “Look, pal! It’s now or never. Suit yourself.”

I’m four pints in, mellow and looking forward to the next couple. But … it’s good business. I’ll just need to bring forward the French trip.

    “OK, but you’ll have to give me a lift. I’m over the limit.” A grunted, reluctant agreement.

    “Pick me up at the Market Cross. You know it?” He does. “I’ll be there in ten. Six/two, beard, black jacket, black baseball cap.” I cut the call.

    “One of you lot will have to down my pint,” I say. Incredulous looks.

    “C’mon Kip. You never leave a drink!” Tan says. “We’re nowhere near ready to wind up yet. And you won’t get a refund!”

    “There’s something I have to do,” I say. But that’s all I tell them, despite the flood of questions. They know I’m in sales, but I’ve always been deliberately vague about what the product is.

A quick thumbs up to Roke as I leave.

Out on the street it’s sleeting. Collar up. Hands in pockets. It’s a five-minute walk. I buy a paper from the old feller on the corner and scan the sports news.

A 22 plate, green SUV pulls up on the double yellows. The window slides down, without any of the screeching I’m used to. A good-looking woman tells me to get in.

    “I was expecting Geordie boy,” I say.

    “I’m here instead,” she says. “Get in!” Fair enough. I walk round to the passenger side and do as she says.

    “Where’s the bag?” she asks, obviously not into small talk.

    “In a barn. You drive and I’ll give directions.”

    “That wasn’t the deal!” A sudden change of tone.  

    “Today wasn’t the deal either. We’ve both changed the rules. Take a left here and head for the ring road.”

    “I can smell drink on you. You’re not going to throw up in my car, are you?”

    “Relax! I never throw up.” Well, it’s almost true.

She drives at speed along quiet roads, following my directions. The trickle of houses finally gives way to open country. A left turn, up a stony track. Her speed drops, but not by much.

The old barn stands, surrounded by waist-high nettles, at the side of a freshly ploughed field. No trace of the urban sleet. She stops on a gravelled verge.

    “Is the bag in there?” she asks, putting a heavy emphasis on the word there. I nod and get out into the cold.

    “Fetch it,” she says from the warmth of her SUV.

There’s a knack to using the padlock key and luckily, I have it. I open the big, timber, left-hand door and drag it across loose gravel. My torch beam bounces off dark walls in the windowless barn as I climb the ladder to the platform above, which is stacked with straw bales. Heaving on baler twine, I move three of them to one side. It’s a relief to see that the rucksack is still there underneath. I put it on and shin down the ladder.

A quick check of my phone which is on silent. This is the point at which it could all go wrong. But Roke’s text tells me his vehicle is in position. The benefits of being a non-drinker! Doc’s orders.

As I close and lock the barn door, a silver pickup bounces along the track. Geordie boy I assume. Must have been tailing us. I’m getting slack.

I open the rucksack, place it on the edge of the nettlebed and stand back. Geordie drops a second bag alongside and opens it so I can see the contents. It’s what I ordered. He inspects my bag, nods and takes it to the pick-up. The two vehicles turn and drive off.

I light up and think about Paris.

Roke’s call comes five minutes later. He has the rucksack from the pickup. No real hassle.

They know nothing about me – or Roke. The burner will disappear.

And I’ll be in France by the morning.