Rabbit pie, catkins and a ghost called George
Poor weather when I get up - doesn’t bode well for my jaunt. I dither, will I won’t I, will I won’t I? before settling on going to Guisborough’s Farmers’ Market. The market is monthly, and this is the first this year. The sky is overcast but it is dry when I set off. Passing Swan’s Corner I see the Cleveland Hills on my right, with Roseberry Topping. The cloud is low over them, obscuring their summits. I’m not too surprised when the bus windscreen wipers start going, click clack, click clack.
The bus unloads me onto Guisborough’s cobbled High Street. On one side is the regular weekly market, on the other the farmers’ stalls. I dash down the farmers’ side and buy my rabbit pie before they’re all bought up. The farmer’s wife apologises for the limited selection – “I had to bake them all myself, then load them into the van” she explains. The pie is quickly joined by a local cheese.
There is a coffee morning on at Sunnyfield House. In front of it plays the “Old Glory Band”, a 4-piece brass band. The trumpeter plays enthusiastically. Ta ra,ta ra,ta raaaa! I saunter in and sit down to a cup of tea and cake and shortbread, courtesy of the ladies of the church. They’re trying to raise funds for the church choir. The cake is delicious – it melts in my mouth.
Refreshed, I go out once more. The “Old Glory Band” has been replaced by a tall well-built gentleman in a smart business suit. He is Professor Robanti – the Punch and Judy Man! He has his booth set up on the front lawn of Sunnyfield House. Several rows of wooden chairs have been set up for his audience. They are full and overflowing – crowded with small boys and girls and their Mums and Dads. He has a big bell in one hand and a large drum in the other. “Who’s going to play my drum for me?” he asks, “Who’s going to play my bell?” A forest of hands answers him, with cries of “Me! Me!” The children dance up and down as they wait for their turn. Eventually the Professor explains that he’s going to have a little sleep in his booth. Mr Punch and the policeman take a turn, with a variety of squawks, on the stage.
Realising I’m blocking the view for some of the smaller children, I go back to the market. Behind me, loud and clear, is the penetrating voice of Mr Punch, “That’s the way to do it! That’s the way to do it!” It follows me all the way down Guisborough High Street. I browse round the stalls. One of the farmers is selling hot meat sandwiches – the aroma is glorious. How I regret the cake and shortbread! I potter round one of the bookshops – and succumb to temptation. The woman is front of me sighs, “I really shouldn’t come here.”
I head for lunch in a small café. I have soup and a roll. The soup is home-made, root vegetables, hot and sweet. I share a table with a couple. Soon I discover they are keen walkers and we are nattering away like nobody’s business!
I look outside at the weather, light rain. But I’m well wrapped-up. And there are plenty of walks round Guisborough. I decide to brave the elements, once I’ve got some farmers’ eggs.
First landmark is the Market Cross. I peer through the rain at my walker’s pamphlet. Ah, Bow Street, that’s on my right. I pass the Fox Inn, with its mounting block. This is an old coaching inn. Or rather the site of one. It was rebuilt in the 1900s. A plaque on its wall gives its history. Apparently they have a ghost; he appears to be friendly and they have called him George.
Down Rectory Lane and up the footpath past the Rugby Club. The rugby pitch has some stretches of mud, but a couple of sides are playing regardless. Up the steps and onto the Old Railway Line. Last time I was here was a glorious autumn day, the path was a flurry of activity as walkers enjoyed the autumn sunshine. Today it is deserted. Apparently lifeless. I stop for a moment and listen and watch. The hubbub of Guisborough fades. On either side of me are small trees and hedges. And they are brimful of small birds singing their hearts out. Tits, finches, blackbirds, robins, sparrows. A robin perches on a tree to the left of me. An impudent blackbird crosses the footpath in front of me while his mate stabs the long grass with her bill, Finches flash stripes of white as they fly from bush to bush. Snowdrops glow in front of a bench. Daffodils are in bud. In another week or two they will flower.
I stride along the old railway line. Normally there is a good view of the Cleveland Hills from here, and Guisborough Forest. Today it is hidden by cloud and mist. But at least the rain has stopped. I turn down Butt Lane. On my right a flock of pigeons wheels and turns. A duck quacks in the distance. Further down Butt Lane I can see a flash of yellow. Here are lambs-tails, the catkins of the hazel. They shake gently in the wind. Near the end of the path I see mounds of brown scattered liberally over the pasture land. The farmer has a happy band of moles!
I turn onto Whitby Lane, and pass by the side of the fast-flowing Chapel Beck. Across it I get a good view of the farmer’s field. He must have dozens of molehills, no, maybe hundreds! The beck gurgles busily. Here the hedge is in flower. Tiny white-petalled flowers froth over the bare stems.
I cross over to find the Cleveland Street kissing gate. Here is an ancient track through the woods. I catch the scent of pine, and leaves and fern and all things woody. The wood is small but ancient. The trees are bare – looking up I see the sky high above me. A couple more kissing gates and I leave the wood, and go on the Applegarth Path. On either side here are fields of root vegetables. Ahead of me is the ruin of Guisborough Priory. A heavy mist has come down – the priory appears as some sort of wraith. I look behind me to the old wood. The mist has eaten it up. All that remains is the faintest outline of it.
I pass by the Priory, and then by the old church. The bells toll. And coming out at the old church I see the Market Cross again. I have come full circle.
Back on the High Street I browse in a walkers’ shop. I get directions for a future walk. Then I go to a bistro and enjoy tea and toast. Write a postcard, then it’s home on the bus. The rain has returned. It lashes down my window. But I don’t mind – I’ve been on my jaunt!
This message was edited Feb 16, 2004 2:45 PM
Rabbit pie, catkins, and a ghost called George
I've never been to Great Britain.
Here in Northern New York, we are still in the depths of winter, where night time temps go to -30 C. The ground is deeply carpeted in white, and Spring is still far away.
Thank-you for making it possible for me to go on an imaginary jaunt. You paint lovely pictures with words.
Thank you Newbie! I'm pleased you enjoyed it! I've never been to the States. You've painted a pretty good picture as well. I love hearing about other places!
Welcome to the forum. Do stick a round!