- Joined
- Dec 2, 2005
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- 71,441
I made a flying visit to the small West Yorkshire town of Otley again this afternoon. I haven’t been for a while, but it hasn’t really changed since my previous visits (http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...be-a-Richards-Return-To-Otley-(now-with-pics)! and http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...-The-Otley-Run-Giveaway-(The-Run-is-now-done) ). Crochet Woman was still in residence, batty as ever, but quite chirpy, particularly when I mentioned a recent visit to Nidderdale Museum and its display of vintage packaging (which she enthusiastically collects – my Granny always reckoned there was someone going through her bins). She was however, a little put out that, unlike her, I had not been prevented from taking photographs. Perhaps she had wanted to take photographs of all the packages individually or something. Crochet Woman also told me, for the third time now, about her romantic break-up. Not that it sounded as if there was much romance involved, either before or after – “Ah wer dumped. Hi wer fed up o’ mi”
. Her repeated discourse on this rather personal matter would disturb me, if I wasn’t pretty certain that she bored nearly every visitor to the shop with it.
Crochet Woman oversees a domain of display cases, which are rented out to others for a weekly sum, and one of her shelf-tenants was dusting or re-arranging her display items when I arrived. I immediately noticed a slip-joint on display, which was modestly priced, and as the case was already unlocked, I asked if I could have a look at it. What I was handed was a pretty beat-up old knife, the off-centre blade was ground away to a shadow of its former self, it had a good five degrees of side-to-side play, and worst of all, it carried absolutely no mark or stamp whatsoever. I handed it back and went to look elsewhere. There were two small knives in another cabinet, but they were sealed up with Selotape, and the price affixed under the tape was laughably high. Crochet Woman joined me in pouring scorn on the seller and his silly prices, and we both opined that we didn’t think he’d sell them. I had a good look round, but there were no more knives, and nothing else caught my eye.
On a whim I decided to buy the used and abused old Swayback, which I kind of felt sorry for. Crochet Woman affects to have a degree of terror about the knives she has on display, “Ooo, they’re nasty things!” she’ll say. “I don’t like ‘em.” While going through this same pantomime, she nonetheless snatched up the half-open slip-joint and began waving it about her head, and then at the woman who at that point it still belonged to. I was concerned she’d end up hurting herself or someone else, but she was so busy trying to remember how the music from Psycho went, that she didn’t even hear my admonitions. Not being able to recall that particular score, she settled on vocalising the Jaws theme, while stabbing the air with the half-open blade. It was a bizarre sight, even for Otley.
I didn’t have long to tarry in Otley, not even for a pint at The Old Cock, so I hurried down to a similar shop a few hundred yards away. This is run on much the same basis as Crochet Woman’s shop, but by someone who seems perfectly normal. Sadly the display shelf that holds a few knives had the same sorry and overpriced selection it has held for at least the past year. A gentleman was just in the process of renting a shelf in one of the cabinets, and as I was leaving I collared him about whether he would be displaying any pocket knives. He seemed a little disturbed by my question.
There’s a record shop in Otley, where the proprietor has an arrangement whereby a pal of his puts some items on display in his window, old coins, a few postcards, general bric-a-brac, and makes a contribution towards the rent of the shop. Inside, the friendly, middle-aged, music-loving gentleman who runs it, was busy flirting with 3 ageing tourists who were on a trip from Ireland. Between them, they crooned various Country tunes and he seemed in his element. I spotted a small Richards tourist knife in the window, the sort of thing the singing ladies might have purchased for their mother on a school-trip long ago. Without dropping a note, the proprietor breathed a price through the side of his mouth, and I handed him the coins from my pocket. The knife was a tiny thing, of the sort Richards produced by the thousand, and it had a picture of a lady in traditional Welsh costume, Jenny Jones. The quartet covering Dolly Parton had not heard of her, and my ‘Janey Jones’ reference was lost on the middle-aged Irish ladies, but apparently appreciated by the proprietor, who was just leading the ladies in a slick leap from Nine To Five to Jolene as I left the shop.
Back in Leeds, I began to clean the knives. The swayback wasn’t giving up its maker, but it wasn’t entirely mute. It has clearly seen a great deal of use, and been used hard, carried by a man who worked in a factory I dare say, with access to grinding-wheels but little skill in using one. The shortness of the blade seems to indicate a point that has broken, perhaps through leverage, which might also account for the blade play. The knife yielded a handful of pocket detritus, the remainder of an old tram ticket by the look of it, and silver foil from a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk perhaps. Apart from its age, it really doesn’t have a lot going for it does it, but I bet it could tell a few tales?
Jenny Jones, I discovered on the internet (http://www.martyngriff.co.uk/jenny/), is a minor Welsh icon - unlike Tom Jones, who’s a miner Welsh icon! (Sorry!) Mrs Jones was at Waterloo with her husband for three days, that’s the Battle of Waterloo, not the London railway station, where many people have also had lengthy waits. No doubt this wee knife was bought in some Welsh gift shop by a Yorkshire visitor many years ago. While it’s made from the famous 1960’s Richards’ Rust-Overnight steel, it doesn’t look like it’s been used at all, just a trinket to give your mum or granny, and it probably spent most of its life in a drawer. I have to confess that Jenny looked better before getting a misting of WD40, since some staining appears to have resulted. Sorry Mrs Jones.
. Her repeated discourse on this rather personal matter would disturb me, if I wasn’t pretty certain that she bored nearly every visitor to the shop with it. Crochet Woman oversees a domain of display cases, which are rented out to others for a weekly sum, and one of her shelf-tenants was dusting or re-arranging her display items when I arrived. I immediately noticed a slip-joint on display, which was modestly priced, and as the case was already unlocked, I asked if I could have a look at it. What I was handed was a pretty beat-up old knife, the off-centre blade was ground away to a shadow of its former self, it had a good five degrees of side-to-side play, and worst of all, it carried absolutely no mark or stamp whatsoever. I handed it back and went to look elsewhere. There were two small knives in another cabinet, but they were sealed up with Selotape, and the price affixed under the tape was laughably high. Crochet Woman joined me in pouring scorn on the seller and his silly prices, and we both opined that we didn’t think he’d sell them. I had a good look round, but there were no more knives, and nothing else caught my eye.
On a whim I decided to buy the used and abused old Swayback, which I kind of felt sorry for. Crochet Woman affects to have a degree of terror about the knives she has on display, “Ooo, they’re nasty things!” she’ll say. “I don’t like ‘em.” While going through this same pantomime, she nonetheless snatched up the half-open slip-joint and began waving it about her head, and then at the woman who at that point it still belonged to. I was concerned she’d end up hurting herself or someone else, but she was so busy trying to remember how the music from Psycho went, that she didn’t even hear my admonitions. Not being able to recall that particular score, she settled on vocalising the Jaws theme, while stabbing the air with the half-open blade. It was a bizarre sight, even for Otley.
I didn’t have long to tarry in Otley, not even for a pint at The Old Cock, so I hurried down to a similar shop a few hundred yards away. This is run on much the same basis as Crochet Woman’s shop, but by someone who seems perfectly normal. Sadly the display shelf that holds a few knives had the same sorry and overpriced selection it has held for at least the past year. A gentleman was just in the process of renting a shelf in one of the cabinets, and as I was leaving I collared him about whether he would be displaying any pocket knives. He seemed a little disturbed by my question.
There’s a record shop in Otley, where the proprietor has an arrangement whereby a pal of his puts some items on display in his window, old coins, a few postcards, general bric-a-brac, and makes a contribution towards the rent of the shop. Inside, the friendly, middle-aged, music-loving gentleman who runs it, was busy flirting with 3 ageing tourists who were on a trip from Ireland. Between them, they crooned various Country tunes and he seemed in his element. I spotted a small Richards tourist knife in the window, the sort of thing the singing ladies might have purchased for their mother on a school-trip long ago. Without dropping a note, the proprietor breathed a price through the side of his mouth, and I handed him the coins from my pocket. The knife was a tiny thing, of the sort Richards produced by the thousand, and it had a picture of a lady in traditional Welsh costume, Jenny Jones. The quartet covering Dolly Parton had not heard of her, and my ‘Janey Jones’ reference was lost on the middle-aged Irish ladies, but apparently appreciated by the proprietor, who was just leading the ladies in a slick leap from Nine To Five to Jolene as I left the shop.
Back in Leeds, I began to clean the knives. The swayback wasn’t giving up its maker, but it wasn’t entirely mute. It has clearly seen a great deal of use, and been used hard, carried by a man who worked in a factory I dare say, with access to grinding-wheels but little skill in using one. The shortness of the blade seems to indicate a point that has broken, perhaps through leverage, which might also account for the blade play. The knife yielded a handful of pocket detritus, the remainder of an old tram ticket by the look of it, and silver foil from a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk perhaps. Apart from its age, it really doesn’t have a lot going for it does it, but I bet it could tell a few tales?
Jenny Jones, I discovered on the internet (http://www.martyngriff.co.uk/jenny/), is a minor Welsh icon - unlike Tom Jones, who’s a miner Welsh icon! (Sorry!) Mrs Jones was at Waterloo with her husband for three days, that’s the Battle of Waterloo, not the London railway station, where many people have also had lengthy waits. No doubt this wee knife was bought in some Welsh gift shop by a Yorkshire visitor many years ago. While it’s made from the famous 1960’s Richards’ Rust-Overnight steel, it doesn’t look like it’s been used at all, just a trinket to give your mum or granny, and it probably spent most of its life in a drawer. I have to confess that Jenny looked better before getting a misting of WD40, since some staining appears to have resulted. Sorry Mrs Jones.
