- Joined
- Dec 2, 2005
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- 69,570
As regulars here will know, the Wizard of Oz has sent me on a quest (see http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/showthread.php/1132966-I-hereby-issue-a-challenge-to-Jack-Black ). I know I dont need to sweat it until the New Year, but I didnt get to be where I am today by sitting on my backside typing well I sort of did, but I have little to show for it apart from typing calluses and a bad pension plan! The Meakster had thrown down the gauntlet, but hopefully I can pick up that gauntlet and run with it in my broken teeth like a spaniel with a freshly-killed pheasant! If you read my posts, you probably think I come across a lot of old knives, thats because I put in some shoe leather. For me, the hunt started a long time ago. So packing a few victuals into my bag, and knives into my pockets, I headed off to ride the Yorkshire Range or rather the number 36 bus - to Knaresborough.
Ive posted about Knaresborough before. Its a historic market town in North Yorkshire, with a castle King John stayed in. Yes, THAT King John, King John The Rotter, camply stomping round Hollywood sets in bad tights and a devilish beard, stopping only to invent Magnesium Carbide at Runmymede or something or other. Being as Meako is originally from Nottingham, where everyone and their dog reckons theyre direct descendants of Robin Hood, I thought Knaresborough might be an auspicious place to start my quest
The journey from Leeds to Knaresborough is normally extremely picturesque, but today there was a thick fog. We do not say, Its a real pea-souper guv in Yorkshire, but it was a bit like that. After changing my bus at Harrogate, a characterless town full of posh old widows with blue-rinsed hair and seemingly little else, I arrived at Knaresborough and its bustling market.
There was no sign of the ill-fated town-crier who old-timers may remember was suspended from his position after becoming embroiled in a local scandal involving the German team in Knaresboroughs annual bed race competition. Believe me, I am really not making this up! His position at the market cross appeared to have been taken by a scruffy little man in a fluoresecent waistcoat, who was busy moaning to passers-by about something too unimportant for me to recollect.
The market had about 40 stalls, selling everything from pork pies to paperback books. The tool stall I sometimes purchase items from wasnt there, and had been replaced by an odd stall run by two latter-day snake-oil salesmen punting expensive jars of secret formula gunk which would supposedly clean everything from spectacles to TV sets, removing static, and rendering them impervious to misting, along the way. They seemed to be conning people out of their hard-earned cash at an alarming rate.
Having looked round the market, spending some time perusing a stall which sold wooden toys, and eventually purchasing two childrens books for my granddaughter from the adjacent stall, I decided to go to the High Street. Theres a junk shop there with the unlikely name of Madame Gi Gi. It is run by a deranged middle-aged (to be kind) woman who dresses like a the sort of teenager who walks round with a copy of Poes works under their arm and stays out of the sun in case they crumble to dust. Of course, she actually calls herself Madame Gi Gi, and she probably SHOULD stay out of the sun. Indeed out of the light altogether.
Madam Gi Gis emporium is a junk shop so cluttered with tat that it looks like someone has bombed a bin wagon (I think you say garbage truck )! She supposes everything to be of extremely high value, even though, for the most part, it is worthless rubbish. Still the contents of her shop/tip are so eclectic that you never know what you might find there, and the last time I had the courage to cross the threshold of Madame GiGis, she did have a young man helping her sort the mess into some kind of order. I can imagine Madame Gi Gi affecting that the callow youth is some kind of bewitched slave, but hes probably just her grandson, or someone else who feels sorry for her. The poor woman probably has a back bedroom stuffed with cobwebbed wedding-cake and suchlike afterall.
Lest my nerve should fail me, I rushed the door of the shop and was swiftly inside. A bell signalled my entrance and Madame Gi Gi separated herself from the pile of tawdry clothing she had been picking through like a black cat on a dumped chicken dinner. The thick lipstick on her powder-caked visage moved, and in a bizarre Yorkshire-French accent, Madame Gi Gi asked if I was looking for anything in particular. I replied that I was simply browsing, and she eyed me suspiciously, warning me about breakages needing to be paid for and telling me that some of our things were very expensive.
The shop had been made cramped by an abundance of tat, and despite wearing a corset on top of her clothes, it has to be said that Madame Gi Gi makes a small crowd on her own. As I looked around it felt quite claustrophobic, and I couldnt see anything whatsoever of interest, least of all any knives. Since I knew there was more clutter downstairs in the cellars of the shop, I asked if I might look there. As this was permitted, I descended the narrow stone steps to the labrynth below. The last time I had been in the shop, Madame Gi Gis young acolyte/assistant had been sorting through what looked like years of accumulated junk, and trying to put it into some sort of order. He had succeeded to some extent, but there was still nothing of interest on display, As I went back upstairs, I boldly asked Madame Gi GI if she ever had any pocket knives in. Her brow furrowed, cracking the plaster of paris pancake, then grumpily, and enigmatically she said, Sometimes, before turning back to the pile of dark old clothing she was picking through.
After a quick look in the army stores and in a specialist leather-goods retailer, I headed to another shop, where Ive had a knife or two before. As I entered, Debussys Clare De Lune was playing in the background. The shop occupies 3 floors, filled with cut price bric-a-brac and general odds and ends. On the ground floor, the more expensive items are kept, but most are priced below a fiver, with everything on the upper floors costing a mere £1. I looked around, not seeing anything of particular interest, until I spied an odd item, which looked a bit like a set of nutcrackers, but not. I asked what they were, but the proprietor didnt know either, and so I left them and ventured upstairs. Here, a group of middle-aged ladies were buying cheap ornaments for the empty nooks and crannies in their respective homes. There were certainly plenty of bargains, but no slipjoints, the nearest thing was a wooden letter-opener, and thats really not very near is it? I spotted an old crown cork opener and bought that, but it was my only purchase.
Slightly disheartened, I decided to walk to the castle and take some photos of the knives I had in my pockets, the old Boker Jack Paul Hilborn sent me recently, and a Wostenholm Stockman I received from Lyle only yesterday. From the castle, there is usually a spectacular view, looking to the River Nidd down in the valley and the impressive railway viaduct which spans it. Beyond the castle walls today though, there was just a thick swirling mist, through which the river could only be heard. It was certainly atmospheric, but not much of a view. At least, for once, I was alone, in this spot which is usually crowded with tourists and day-trippers, and despite the gloom, I could at least photograph my pocket-knives without interruption.
As I walked along the ancient castle walls, there was a sudden whoosh, and a large black bird flew past my left ear. I looked, expecting to see a crow, but the bird was a large raven. Perhaps Madame Gi Gi had transformed I mused. Then I spotted another, and then a third, this one flecked with white at the throat and wearing jesses (now I only know what jesses are because I have seen the film Kes, and if you havent seen it, you should ) I took a few photographs of the birds, then turned to photographing one of my knives. As I looked through the ruins of the castle though, I was stunned to see a figure clad in mail, wrapping a cloak about them. I stared and began to raise my camera, but as I did so, the strange figure strode towards me. Not the bloody Knights Who Say Ni I thought (that's all this thread needs!), self-consciously lowering my camera. The mail-clad figure was almost upon me, shield in hand, it bore down upon me like I wasnt there. Only at the last moment, as I noticed the daft dressed-up wazzock was wearing steamed-up spectacles and was blinder than a bat, did I say something to cause them to avoid a collision. The knight who stepped out of my way turned out to be a batty middle-aged woman, who it seems has taken to dressing up in pantomime fashion and haunting the battlements of Knaresborough Castle with her pet ravens!
Now I know you suspect Im making this up, it sounds like utter nonsense I know, and I left without taking a proper photograph of the demented crone. However, fortunately, I did take a couple of more pics of the ravens from a distance, and while cropping them, I spotted the daft old bugger in the distance, menacing two American tourists by the look of it! I dont know if they found it strange, or just thought its what happens here.
So no knives in Knaresbough I'm afraid, but whod have thought Id manage to get a castle, ravens, a deranged knight, and a mad old witch into my first quest report?!
And of course, the hunt continues!
Jack
Ive posted about Knaresborough before. Its a historic market town in North Yorkshire, with a castle King John stayed in. Yes, THAT King John, King John The Rotter, camply stomping round Hollywood sets in bad tights and a devilish beard, stopping only to invent Magnesium Carbide at Runmymede or something or other. Being as Meako is originally from Nottingham, where everyone and their dog reckons theyre direct descendants of Robin Hood, I thought Knaresborough might be an auspicious place to start my quest
The journey from Leeds to Knaresborough is normally extremely picturesque, but today there was a thick fog. We do not say, Its a real pea-souper guv in Yorkshire, but it was a bit like that. After changing my bus at Harrogate, a characterless town full of posh old widows with blue-rinsed hair and seemingly little else, I arrived at Knaresborough and its bustling market.
There was no sign of the ill-fated town-crier who old-timers may remember was suspended from his position after becoming embroiled in a local scandal involving the German team in Knaresboroughs annual bed race competition. Believe me, I am really not making this up! His position at the market cross appeared to have been taken by a scruffy little man in a fluoresecent waistcoat, who was busy moaning to passers-by about something too unimportant for me to recollect.
The market had about 40 stalls, selling everything from pork pies to paperback books. The tool stall I sometimes purchase items from wasnt there, and had been replaced by an odd stall run by two latter-day snake-oil salesmen punting expensive jars of secret formula gunk which would supposedly clean everything from spectacles to TV sets, removing static, and rendering them impervious to misting, along the way. They seemed to be conning people out of their hard-earned cash at an alarming rate.
Having looked round the market, spending some time perusing a stall which sold wooden toys, and eventually purchasing two childrens books for my granddaughter from the adjacent stall, I decided to go to the High Street. Theres a junk shop there with the unlikely name of Madame Gi Gi. It is run by a deranged middle-aged (to be kind) woman who dresses like a the sort of teenager who walks round with a copy of Poes works under their arm and stays out of the sun in case they crumble to dust. Of course, she actually calls herself Madame Gi Gi, and she probably SHOULD stay out of the sun. Indeed out of the light altogether.
Madam Gi Gis emporium is a junk shop so cluttered with tat that it looks like someone has bombed a bin wagon (I think you say garbage truck
)! She supposes everything to be of extremely high value, even though, for the most part, it is worthless rubbish. Still the contents of her shop/tip are so eclectic that you never know what you might find there, and the last time I had the courage to cross the threshold of Madame GiGis, she did have a young man helping her sort the mess into some kind of order. I can imagine Madame Gi Gi affecting that the callow youth is some kind of bewitched slave, but hes probably just her grandson, or someone else who feels sorry for her. The poor woman probably has a back bedroom stuffed with cobwebbed wedding-cake and suchlike afterall.Lest my nerve should fail me, I rushed the door of the shop and was swiftly inside. A bell signalled my entrance and Madame Gi Gi separated herself from the pile of tawdry clothing she had been picking through like a black cat on a dumped chicken dinner. The thick lipstick on her powder-caked visage moved, and in a bizarre Yorkshire-French accent, Madame Gi Gi asked if I was looking for anything in particular. I replied that I was simply browsing, and she eyed me suspiciously, warning me about breakages needing to be paid for and telling me that some of our things were very expensive.
The shop had been made cramped by an abundance of tat, and despite wearing a corset on top of her clothes, it has to be said that Madame Gi Gi makes a small crowd on her own. As I looked around it felt quite claustrophobic, and I couldnt see anything whatsoever of interest, least of all any knives. Since I knew there was more clutter downstairs in the cellars of the shop, I asked if I might look there. As this was permitted, I descended the narrow stone steps to the labrynth below. The last time I had been in the shop, Madame Gi Gis young acolyte/assistant had been sorting through what looked like years of accumulated junk, and trying to put it into some sort of order. He had succeeded to some extent, but there was still nothing of interest on display, As I went back upstairs, I boldly asked Madame Gi GI if she ever had any pocket knives in. Her brow furrowed, cracking the plaster of paris pancake, then grumpily, and enigmatically she said, Sometimes, before turning back to the pile of dark old clothing she was picking through.
After a quick look in the army stores and in a specialist leather-goods retailer, I headed to another shop, where Ive had a knife or two before. As I entered, Debussys Clare De Lune was playing in the background. The shop occupies 3 floors, filled with cut price bric-a-brac and general odds and ends. On the ground floor, the more expensive items are kept, but most are priced below a fiver, with everything on the upper floors costing a mere £1. I looked around, not seeing anything of particular interest, until I spied an odd item, which looked a bit like a set of nutcrackers, but not. I asked what they were, but the proprietor didnt know either, and so I left them and ventured upstairs. Here, a group of middle-aged ladies were buying cheap ornaments for the empty nooks and crannies in their respective homes. There were certainly plenty of bargains, but no slipjoints, the nearest thing was a wooden letter-opener, and thats really not very near is it? I spotted an old crown cork opener and bought that, but it was my only purchase.
Slightly disheartened, I decided to walk to the castle and take some photos of the knives I had in my pockets, the old Boker Jack Paul Hilborn sent me recently, and a Wostenholm Stockman I received from Lyle only yesterday. From the castle, there is usually a spectacular view, looking to the River Nidd down in the valley and the impressive railway viaduct which spans it. Beyond the castle walls today though, there was just a thick swirling mist, through which the river could only be heard. It was certainly atmospheric, but not much of a view. At least, for once, I was alone, in this spot which is usually crowded with tourists and day-trippers, and despite the gloom, I could at least photograph my pocket-knives without interruption.
As I walked along the ancient castle walls, there was a sudden whoosh, and a large black bird flew past my left ear. I looked, expecting to see a crow, but the bird was a large raven. Perhaps Madame Gi Gi had transformed I mused. Then I spotted another, and then a third, this one flecked with white at the throat and wearing jesses (now I only know what jesses are because I have seen the film Kes, and if you havent seen it, you should
) I took a few photographs of the birds, then turned to photographing one of my knives. As I looked through the ruins of the castle though, I was stunned to see a figure clad in mail, wrapping a cloak about them. I stared and began to raise my camera, but as I did so, the strange figure strode towards me. Not the bloody Knights Who Say Ni I thought (that's all this thread needs!), self-consciously lowering my camera. The mail-clad figure was almost upon me, shield in hand, it bore down upon me like I wasnt there. Only at the last moment, as I noticed the daft dressed-up wazzock was wearing steamed-up spectacles and was blinder than a bat, did I say something to cause them to avoid a collision. The knight who stepped out of my way turned out to be a batty middle-aged woman, who it seems has taken to dressing up in pantomime fashion and haunting the battlements of Knaresborough Castle with her pet ravens!
Now I know you suspect Im making this up, it sounds like utter nonsense I know, and I left without taking a proper photograph of the demented crone. However, fortunately, I did take a couple of more pics of the ravens from a distance, and while cropping them, I spotted the daft old bugger in the distance, menacing two American tourists by the look of it! I dont know if they found it strange, or just thought its what happens here.
So no knives in Knaresbough I'm afraid, but whod have thought Id manage to get a castle, ravens, a deranged knight, and a mad old witch into my first quest report?!
And of course, the hunt continues!
Jack
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