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POW! WHACK! The Circus Returns to Town
On this day in 1966, the campy spectacle of Batman made its debut on American television. Adam West donned the cape, Burt Ward chirped as Robin, and Cesar Romero refused to shave his moustache to play the Joker. Although by the time it hit British screens, I was too old, but I remember it well.…
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Bilsdale and the Curious Journey of Road Salt
Another thrilling morning on the North York Moors. Freezing temperatures, frost blanketing the valley, and snow still stubbornly clinging to the high ground. How enchanting. This is a view of Bilsdale from Hasty Bank. For days now, the gritters have been tirelessly scattering salt as if the very fate of civilisation depends on it. It…
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The Bullfinch: Bouncer, Thief, and Reluctant Songbird
Ah, the Bullfinch. Black-headed Bullies. Blood-Olphs. Whatever you prefer to call them, here they are, battling the winter like pint-sized gladiators. The sun, feeble and disinterested, barely filters through the foliage as I trudge back to the village along the River Leven. A few shrivelled leaves cling stubbornly to the trees, while dead Dock stalks…
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Teddy’s Nook: Where Facts are Optional
Working with the National Trust at Old Saltburn, tucked away in Littledale—a predictably small valley with a narrow view across to the new town. The place has some flora worth noting, though you will be mostly clawing your way through Blackthorn, Gorse, and Brambles. Today’s thrilling task was hacking back this jungle. Perched smugly on…
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Winter’s Teeth
Sometimes, one stumbles across a so-called fascinating photograph in the most banal of places. I happened upon this forest of icicles whilst driving into Middlesbrough. On the return journey, I abandoned the car in a field entrance and voila. There is an aesthetic beauty to ice-shoggles, as they were once called in the Cleveland dialect,…
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The Hag-Mare’s No-Show: A Snowbound Trudge Across Urra Moor
A circuit of Urra Moor—Orrah, as it was once called before the Ordnance Survey decided to tidy up. The moor was generously blanketed in snow, looking superb The witch that supposedly roams this moor as a horse—the illustrious “hag-mare of Orrah”—was nowhere to be seen. A shame, really; she would have made an interesting subject…
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Wellies, Floods, and the Debate over Captain Cook
Billy Connolly once sang about the virtues of wellies: “Cause they keep out the water, and they keep in the smell.” This morning, I was rather pleased to have followed his wisdom, as the path to Little Ayton was a sodden mess thanks to the rain and snowmelt. Here is a photo of the path…
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Sliding into Oblivion: Adventures in Cliff Rigg Quarry
Ah, Twelfth Night at last—perhaps now we can be rid of those garish Christmas lights for another ten months, though no doubt someone will cling to their festive cheer until next month. After all the news programmes whipped themselves into a frenzy last might over the impending snowstorm and freezing rain, waking up here in…
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William Mudd: Lichens, Legacy, and a Whiff of Whisky
There I was, trudging along the escarpment of Great Ayton Moor this morning, mulling over what I might post about today, when a patched-up bit of dry-stone wall caught my eye. Naturally, my thoughts turned to how many times one can repair a wall before it ceases to be the original. Yes, I am aware…
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The Beck, the Inn, and the Blizzard: Histories of Slape Stones
I quite like this photo. It captures the sweeping valley of Slape Stones Beck, leading—predictably enough—to the hamlet of Slape Stones. The scene positively drips with tranquillity, and after the boisterous festive season perhaps a reminder to pause and simply be. How very profound. The name Slape Stones, unlike the beck, has fallen out of…
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