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Late Doors

Heath

Strange village on the Donny road out of Wakey. Part Brideshead part Trumpton, it's majestic and elegant Georgian mansions, sprawling green plains and neat old cottage servant houses blending perfectly for an idyllic picture of ye olde England.

MrsD wasn't even aware of its existence but it used to be a regular stop over point for our trips to Fev Rovers back in the day. The kings Arms on the village green with every inch of its ancient oaked confines being the archetypal classy village pub. The village was created by the mill owning elite of yore and is still governed by some self-preservation society doctrine thereby keeping its unspoilt but slightly sinister charm.

A little walk around the green brought us face to face with a guy looking like he'd wandered out of the village fete or possibly out of the 1920s such was the somewhat bizarre sight. One hand cupping a glass of red wine as he nonchalantly waved with the other. You do get a better class of pre noon drinker round these parts.

We ambled our way through bluebell infused woods under the railway line to the bank of River Calder winding around the village. A little further downstream  the Calder and Aire navigation canal  leaves the river to go north towards the M1 near Normanton perilously close to the Sodom and Gomorrah towns of Ponte Carlo and Cas Vegas.

Barges lined the broad straight canal, bikers and walkers perused along the ample tow path whilst the odd fisherman (is there any other kind?) sat with patient eyes fixed on the water. Butterflies skitted about performing their brief seasonal courtship frolic whilst awkward  youths straddled on the benches and attempted their sulkier version.

We could have carried on such was the pleasantness but the ugly confrontation of the M1 hanging across the canal with its incessant white noise  sent us  retracing our route back to Heath and the panelled snug of the Kings Arms. Now run by Ossett Brewery the pub is not quite the stuffy formal oasis for the area's gentry it was but still carries a country club  elegance .   A van load of hi viz concrete crusted motorway workers on the adjacent table  debated the Tory-UKIP dilemma the new gentry face whilst a young chap in tweed waistcoat and flat cap downed three pints of bitter in rapid succession.  

A splendid pint of Clarkes blonde was all i chanced as Mrs.D relinquished driving duties but it was quite memorable and touched the spot nicely to round off a lovely afternoon. Here comes the Summer  
Forest

It's an odd place, like somebody misplaced a posh Surrey village and left it on the arse end of Wakey.
bearing

I've heard It's an odd place, like somebody misplaced a posh Surrey village and left it on the arse end of Wakey.
Dock

bearing wrote:
I've heard It's an odd place, like somebody misplaced a posh Surrey village and left it on the arse end of Wakey.


Where'd you here that?

Back on topic: Not aware of the place. Good post though LD, I'm intrigued.
Forest

bearing wrote:
I've heard It's an odd place, like somebody misplaced a posh Surrey village and left it on the arse end of Wakey.


I'd heard that too.
Sir Bulldog Craggwood

the very word puts me in mind of Ted Heath - the long dead PM and now suspected paedophile and child killer (depending where you like to get your conspiracy theories from). Ted was rumoured to be a former cottager and importuner of young homeless boys in 1950s london. He was also a pal of Savile and it is rumoured took boys from the Haute La Gaurenne childrens home in Jersey for little trips on his yacht 'the Morning Cloud'

Theres loads of stuff out there about him. But there is one bizarre little story about him in the new Jonathan Meades memoir. He goes to Heath's house to interview him for some such publication (something to do with music and conducting) and the functionary who leads him in leaves him waiting for an age for Heath in the front room of Ted's palatial abode. Jonathan desperate for a piss goes looking for a loo and finds an obscure smallest room to use. He writes of his shock to find the toilet is 'like an abattoir - blood flecked and streaked all over the walls and floor'
Heyho

I'm sick of all these allegations about people. I mean we had a music teacher at Grammar School whose nickname was Puff Cook. The fact that he used to take naughty boys into his little office and make them wear a gas mask means nothing.
Sir Bulldog Craggwood

Heyho wrote:
I'm sick of all these allegations about people. I mean we had a music teacher at Grammar School whose nickname was Puff Cook. The fact that he used to take naughty boys into his little office and make them wear a gas mask means nothing.


Heard about him - he made a class mate of our wear a wet suit and gas mask while doing housework for him
Heyho

Sir Bulldog Craggwood wrote:
Heyho wrote:
I'm sick of all these allegations about people. I mean we had a music teacher at Grammar School whose nickname was Puff Cook. The fact that he used to take naughty boys into his little office and make them wear a gas mask means nothing.


Heard about him - he made a class mate of our wear a wet suit and gas mask while doing housework for him


Luckily I was to big for the wet suit.

I think I had to wear the gas mask once after failing to impress when playing with his moracas
Grind

Conservative Prime Minister turns out to be an evil twat.

Shocker.

Every Morning Cloud has a silver lining.

* Ew! *
Sir Bulldog Craggwood

Anyway lovely bit of writing from Late Doors here spoilt by me diverting off about possibly murderous PMs and paedo piano teachers (a lot of them do seem to be piano teachers)
Late Doors

Yes Quite    thank you kindly, a couple of pictures, see if photobucket does the trick





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