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- Dec 2, 2005
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I was planning to go over to York today on a Lambsfoot hunt. A friend had some business there and we were going to drive over together. When his business got cancelled, I decided to go elsewhere looking for pipe-tools instead. The local town of Dewsbury has a flea-market on Fridays, and there was also a market on in nearby Ossett, a place Id never been to before.
I headed over to Ossett on the bus from Leeds. Its a small town, very small, but a nice enough place. There was a small second-hand and craft market in the Town Hall, but there was nothing of even passing interest, the stalls were mainly selling homemade jewellery. In front of the Town Hall was the regular market, selling everything from fresh fish to cheap biscuits, but again absolutely nothing in the way of cutlery.
I went in a second-hand bookshop, where a spotty youth, preoccupied with his phone, presided over a domain of paperbacks of every sort. Strangely in among the tomes, was a small display of Heavy Metal memorabilia for sale.
I walked up to a fish & chip shop which ScruffUK had kindly recommended. It was a nice down to earth place, a bit like Ossett as a whole. Portions of chips were sold unpretentiously as bag of chips, and thats how they come, in a traditional small paper bag and newspaper, rather than the polystyrene trays seen elsewhere. There were a couple of tables in the chippy, allowing customers to eat in at no extra cost, and as I waited for my chips, a diner approached the counter and placed a knife and fork ceremoniously upon it. She spoke to me, but I had absolutely no idea what she was saying, it sounded like, Its better than em being recycled in your cows. I smiled and nodded. The small squat woman, colourfully dressed, was clearly mad. She said something else about cows, then about Wakefield, the large town nearby. I humoured her. As she left, she told me, And theyve chucked eggs at him.
Oh, I replied vaguely.
Do you want bits? asked the pleasant woman behind the counter. At last, something I understood.
I ate my chips outside on a bench, it was very pleasant. I walked to the end of the high street, which didnt take long. Time to move on I thought.
Back at the bus station, they had started playing ambient music over loudspeakers, apparently it deters teenagers. The coma-inducing sounds oozed out of the speakers like largactyl-laced treacle, so syrupy that they made the Mantovani of One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest sound like Death Metal. As the sound droned on and on, it began to feel almost sinister, like the score for a low-budget slasher movie, where the camera pans across a scene of indescribable horror before settling on the dimly-lit and sinister visage of a demented overweight clown, gazing blankly upon the slaughtered innocents before him, his pancake make-up smeared with streaks of blood and sweat, and a large crimson-dripping butchers knife gripped tightly in his pudgy hand. And all the while the wretched music carried on!!
I told ScruffUK all this by text! But as I did so, the bus to Dewsbury arrived, and I knew a place of indescribable horror awaited me, a ten minute bus ride away.
It is hard to believe that two towns, so close geographically could be so different in every other sense. The North of England is full of small towns that have seen better days, but Dewsbury is a town with its pockets hanging out, in fact it is a town with the backside hanging out of its trousers. It is famous, or infamous, nationally for two things; racial conflict, and a case where a young child was kidnapped by members of her own immediate family in the hope of securing reward money. It is a grim downtrodden place, where teenage girls push prams and petty criminals skulk in shop doorways. While the large Town Hall demonstrates Dewsburys better past, it is hard to look at the more recent statue in front of it without thinking of a man encouraging his fellow drunk to vomit.
The market too has seen better days, and at least two-thirds of the stalls lie empty. I have only been here twice before, and only found one knife, but it was a 19th Century Abram Brooksbank. From the same vendor today, I ended up purchasing three knives, and I paid a great deal more than I would usually spend, mainly for the first one, which is the Taylors Sheepsfoot photographed below. These old Sheffield knives really are something, despite its age, it has great walk and talk, and a solid lock-up, the blade is perfectly straight and solid. What a pity some fool had to take a grinder to the edge.
The blade is stamped with an eye motif with Witness underneath, and the words Real and Knife on either side. The tang stamp appears to say no more than Taylor above Sheffield.
My apologies for the photographs, which are taken in my kitchen this evening.
I also bought this large clasp-knife made by J.Nowill of Sheffield. Like many such knives, it has clearly spent a lot of time in a tool-box, and was so filthy there was practically stuff growing out of it. Ive not seen a knife quite like this before, and I took it to be a naval pattern, but the spear-point surprised me. It features a can-opener (no bottle-opener) and a marlin spike. The comfortable handle scales appear to be some sort of rubber composition, though they feel almost like leather. While the action of the knife does not seem to be affected, the cover and pivot are raised slightly on one side. Pulls are fairly light. Be nice to see this knife properly restored.
Ill let the last one speak for itself. I dont often buy Opinels, but this customised No7 was part of the deal.
With my wallet haemorrhaging badly, I also bought this handmade walking stick, one of several similar ones that are made by an old local man. I searched among them to find the one I liked best, a veritable shillelagh! Hard to photograph it properly. The old fellers signature is a strip of copper, and every stick appeared to have it run into the wood in a different place.
It was just as well I arrived in Dewsbury with a fat wallet, but I left with my pockets hanging out, much like the town.
Any thoughts, information, advice on todays purchases much appreciated as always.
Jack
I headed over to Ossett on the bus from Leeds. Its a small town, very small, but a nice enough place. There was a small second-hand and craft market in the Town Hall, but there was nothing of even passing interest, the stalls were mainly selling homemade jewellery. In front of the Town Hall was the regular market, selling everything from fresh fish to cheap biscuits, but again absolutely nothing in the way of cutlery.
I went in a second-hand bookshop, where a spotty youth, preoccupied with his phone, presided over a domain of paperbacks of every sort. Strangely in among the tomes, was a small display of Heavy Metal memorabilia for sale.
I walked up to a fish & chip shop which ScruffUK had kindly recommended. It was a nice down to earth place, a bit like Ossett as a whole. Portions of chips were sold unpretentiously as bag of chips, and thats how they come, in a traditional small paper bag and newspaper, rather than the polystyrene trays seen elsewhere. There were a couple of tables in the chippy, allowing customers to eat in at no extra cost, and as I waited for my chips, a diner approached the counter and placed a knife and fork ceremoniously upon it. She spoke to me, but I had absolutely no idea what she was saying, it sounded like, Its better than em being recycled in your cows. I smiled and nodded. The small squat woman, colourfully dressed, was clearly mad. She said something else about cows, then about Wakefield, the large town nearby. I humoured her. As she left, she told me, And theyve chucked eggs at him.
Oh, I replied vaguely.
Do you want bits? asked the pleasant woman behind the counter. At last, something I understood.
I ate my chips outside on a bench, it was very pleasant. I walked to the end of the high street, which didnt take long. Time to move on I thought.
Back at the bus station, they had started playing ambient music over loudspeakers, apparently it deters teenagers. The coma-inducing sounds oozed out of the speakers like largactyl-laced treacle, so syrupy that they made the Mantovani of One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest sound like Death Metal. As the sound droned on and on, it began to feel almost sinister, like the score for a low-budget slasher movie, where the camera pans across a scene of indescribable horror before settling on the dimly-lit and sinister visage of a demented overweight clown, gazing blankly upon the slaughtered innocents before him, his pancake make-up smeared with streaks of blood and sweat, and a large crimson-dripping butchers knife gripped tightly in his pudgy hand. And all the while the wretched music carried on!!
I told ScruffUK all this by text! But as I did so, the bus to Dewsbury arrived, and I knew a place of indescribable horror awaited me, a ten minute bus ride away.
It is hard to believe that two towns, so close geographically could be so different in every other sense. The North of England is full of small towns that have seen better days, but Dewsbury is a town with its pockets hanging out, in fact it is a town with the backside hanging out of its trousers. It is famous, or infamous, nationally for two things; racial conflict, and a case where a young child was kidnapped by members of her own immediate family in the hope of securing reward money. It is a grim downtrodden place, where teenage girls push prams and petty criminals skulk in shop doorways. While the large Town Hall demonstrates Dewsburys better past, it is hard to look at the more recent statue in front of it without thinking of a man encouraging his fellow drunk to vomit.
The market too has seen better days, and at least two-thirds of the stalls lie empty. I have only been here twice before, and only found one knife, but it was a 19th Century Abram Brooksbank. From the same vendor today, I ended up purchasing three knives, and I paid a great deal more than I would usually spend, mainly for the first one, which is the Taylors Sheepsfoot photographed below. These old Sheffield knives really are something, despite its age, it has great walk and talk, and a solid lock-up, the blade is perfectly straight and solid. What a pity some fool had to take a grinder to the edge.
The blade is stamped with an eye motif with Witness underneath, and the words Real and Knife on either side. The tang stamp appears to say no more than Taylor above Sheffield.
My apologies for the photographs, which are taken in my kitchen this evening.
I also bought this large clasp-knife made by J.Nowill of Sheffield. Like many such knives, it has clearly spent a lot of time in a tool-box, and was so filthy there was practically stuff growing out of it. Ive not seen a knife quite like this before, and I took it to be a naval pattern, but the spear-point surprised me. It features a can-opener (no bottle-opener) and a marlin spike. The comfortable handle scales appear to be some sort of rubber composition, though they feel almost like leather. While the action of the knife does not seem to be affected, the cover and pivot are raised slightly on one side. Pulls are fairly light. Be nice to see this knife properly restored.
Ill let the last one speak for itself. I dont often buy Opinels, but this customised No7 was part of the deal.
With my wallet haemorrhaging badly, I also bought this handmade walking stick, one of several similar ones that are made by an old local man. I searched among them to find the one I liked best, a veritable shillelagh! Hard to photograph it properly. The old fellers signature is a strip of copper, and every stick appeared to have it run into the wood in a different place.
It was just as well I arrived in Dewsbury with a fat wallet, but I left with my pockets hanging out, much like the town.
Any thoughts, information, advice on todays purchases much appreciated as always.
Jack
