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Malton, along with Norton, is one of two twin towns, which sit on either side of the River Derwent to the north of York, not too far from Stamford Bridge, where in 1066, one of England's most important battles was fought. The two towns were both founded in the Bronze Age, 5000 years ago, and settled by the Romans in AD70. Today, Malton, is an attractive market town, with plenty to explore, both in and around the town.
I had been to Malton only once before, and while it is rather a long journey for me, I found it a pleasant place to visit. So, in the endless hunt for the sharp and pointy, I embarked once again for Ryedale and old Malton town.
After breaking the journey in ancient York, I eventually arrived in Malton, and set out to explore the weekly market. Unfortunately, there was nothing for me here, apart from a bunch of locally grown red onions, which even came with the name of the man who grew them! Thanks Colin, they were very nice
After a visit to the new premises of the local Brass Castle brewery, which has recently relocated to Malton, I walked up the hill to The Shambles, a small thoroughfare, leading to the cattle market, and lined with small antique shops and a traditional cobblers.
I had a look outside the first shop I came to, where various items were piled up, and spied through dirty windows into the cramped interior. There was barely space for the door to open as I entered. In the corner sat the elderly proprietor, in fact all the small antiques stores on The Shambles are hers. All are piled high with vintage items of various types. In one corner of the first sits a great pile of walking sticks, in another there are horse brasses, in a third there are ships in bottles and an old model yacht. Stacked high in the window are dozens and dozens of bundles of table cutlery, held together with elastic bands or lengths of string. The cutlery prices are high, several times what I usually pay. I remark to the woman that she seems to have half of Sheffield here, and she tells me that cutlery sells like hot cakes, that a day doesn't go by without her selling at least one or two bundles. I ask about pocket-knives, and am surprised, and a little sceptical, when she says she doesn't come across them.
After leaving the first premises, I enter some of the other doorways. The interiors of some are so small it is barely possible to turn round. A few of the items inside are worth a glance, but there is nothing I want to purchase, and certainly nothing in the way of slipjoints or sheath knives.
I return to the foot of The Shambles and cross the square to the attractive frontage of Woodall's traditional hardware store. Woodall's is a long-established Malton institution. Sadly, it fell on hard times a few years ago and was bought out by a wealthy gentleman of Russian descent (rather distant Russian descent, if his plummy accent is anything to go by). The new owner has fortunately retained the old shop's look and character, but has certainly brought his own character to the place.
Woodall's sells a lot of interesting items, including a fairly good range of knives. I previously visited the shop during the Malton Food Festival, and had been looking forward to visiting again at a quieter time. The shop would indeed be quiet if it were not for the constant braying of the proprietor, an odd man, with an even odder manner, who seems to be rather full of himself, and overly fond of his own voice. He appears to have affected a Fawltian 'eccentricity', which quickly grates. I compliment him on his shop, and say that it was packed the last time I came, but he is not slow to voice his contempt for these time-wasting sight-seers who had the temerity to clutter up his shop. I attempt to ask about his cutlery stock, but get increasingly bizarre and indifferent responses. Another customer leaves the door open on exiting, and he begins ranting about that as if I am myself responsible. There are a few knives in which I have an interest, including several Spanish Joker knives, which I would like to try as an alternative to the now discontinued Aitor Castor Pequena. I ask the proprietor if he has any of the carbon-steel models, and rambling, he gets out a box and hands me one marked 'Inox' with plastic scales. Noticing a carbon-steel model in the display case, with scales of what look to be bubinga, I ask the man if he has another like that. He tells me that is the only one he has, and I buy the display model.
I would like to buy one or two others knives, but at this point, a woman enters the shop to enquire about a bag, and the proprietor, who has been behaving very oddly throughout, is quite rude to her, for no reason I can see. She leaves the shop, and I immediately follow her, glad to be away from the wittering idiot within, if a little disappointed not to have had the sort of interaction one would normally expect in a shop, namely a polite conversation about the wares on display, and the purchase of some of those which met your approval. Perhaps I caught Woodall's owner on a bad day, but it certainly didn't seem that he needed the custom, nor indeed that he wanted customers.
The strange experience leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth, and after exploring the nearby high street, I decide to go for a pint to clear it away. Unfortunately, a number of Malton's old pubs seem to have gone out of business, along with hundreds of other British pubs nationwide, but I eventually find somewhere to park my backside and slake my thirst.
Over a pint of local ale, I examine the Joker knife I have purchased, and find it very satisfactory. It has many of the characteristics of my beloved Pequena, with decent fit and finish, and a good edge. I'll see how I go on with it and report back.
After my pint, I explored Malton a bit more, and then made my way back down the hill to an establishment even older than Woodall's, which sells everything from tools to compost, and from country clothing to camping gear. It stocks a few knives aimed at the farmer and gardener, decent enough working knives at low prices, but nothing caught my eye.
I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon in York, where I toured my usual haunts, the hardware stores and antique shops, but wound up buying nothing more. So with the Joker in my pocket, and the wittering of the fool still in my ears, I set off on the journey back home.
The Hunt Continues!
Jack
