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- Dec 2, 2005
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Round Yorkshire With A Knife: The Wizards Quest Part 14 - Withering Heights
Background: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-to-Jack-Black
Previous instalments -
Part 1: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-Knaresborough
Part 2: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-2
Part 3: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-3
Part 4: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-4
Part 5: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-5
Part 6: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-6
Part 7: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-7
Part 8: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...re-Be-Monsters
Part 9: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...t-in-Yorkshire
Part 10: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...hieving-Varlet
Part 11: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-Quest-Part-11
Part 12: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...99t-Tell-Titus!
Part 13: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...nife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-13-–-Settle-Down
When I was a young boy, there was a briefly popular song sung by an English comedian, very much of his time, but whom my Polish neighbour still regularly asks about (But Jack, why is he not on the TV now, slapping the little man on his bald head and the nurses running around with the stockings, it was so funny?). The song, Ernie by Benny Hill, told the tale of a simple milkman and his love-rival, who drove the bakers van. Ultimately after a High Noon style showdown the milkman came unstuck, and in the words of the song: A stale pork-pie hit him in the eye, and Ernie bit the dust. If you feel inquisitive, no doubt the Tube will reveal all, and you can gasp in amazement at a time when the sight of a leering porcine character slapping a small bald man on the head was considered British comedy gold.
Anyway, like Ernie, on the eve of my latest Quest trip, and only 24 hours before my birthday, I too was laid low by a pie, and it wasnt very nice. After a night spent saying goodbye to said pie, I was feeling rough, as Saturday morning, and the start of my birthday weekend, arrived. In retrospect, I should have cancelled the days activities and slumped on the sofa, but instead, like a fool, I struck out for the pretty Yorkshire village of Haworth, home to everything Bronte, and hopefully to a slipjoint or two as well, perhaps Id find Heathcliffes lost Barlow!
For those of you not of a literary bent, or simple not interested in the sisters Bronte, something for which in my opinion, you can hardly be blamed, let me say that Haworth is the Yorkshire village where old man Bronte, the literary sisters pop, had his parsonage, and where their maudlin brother, no luckier in love than his siblings, boozed away his days in the local pub. Howarth has more Bronte tat and more Bronte tea-rooms than you can shake a stick at, and so many Bronte-obsessed Japanese tourists that, right out onto the windswept moors, there are bilingual signs in English and Japanese, pointing to this or that rock or waterfall where one or other of the Bronte sisters paused for a moment to contemplate some fictional bodice-ripping. Of course Im being terribly unfair.
The plan was a trip out to Haworth by train and bus, with a picnic lunch, a walk on the local moors, a few pints, and a hunt for some slipjoints in the village antique shops. Lunch, beer, and the walk went out of the window as I lurched around feeling positively dreadful, but I did visit the antique shops perched on Haworths precipitous old high street. Unfortunately, there were no knives to be had in the overpriced junk shops, so after a pot of tea in one of the villages numerous tea-shops, myself and my compadre headed back to Keighley by bus.
Despite the lurching of my stomach and the lacklustre shopping experience, I kept an eye peeled as the bus wound its way along, and was rewarded by the sight of a right-looking junk shop on the edge of Keighley. Alighting from the bus and entering the old-fashioned looking shop, I asked a crusty-looking old cove if he had any pointy treasure for me. The shambling figure rummaged around in a drawer and laid down the two knives you see here.
Nothing special, nothing worthy of the Wizard, but not an entirely wasted day out. Like my ailing stomach, I hope that my good fortune for the knife hunt returns to form soon.
The Hunt Continues!
Jack
Background: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-to-Jack-Black
Previous instalments -
Part 1: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-Knaresborough
Part 2: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-2
Part 3: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-3
Part 4: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-4
Part 5: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-5
Part 6: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-6
Part 7: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-7
Part 8: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...re-Be-Monsters
Part 9: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...t-in-Yorkshire
Part 10: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...hieving-Varlet
Part 11: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-Quest-Part-11
Part 12: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...99t-Tell-Titus!
Part 13: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...nife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-13-–-Settle-Down
When I was a young boy, there was a briefly popular song sung by an English comedian, very much of his time, but whom my Polish neighbour still regularly asks about (But Jack, why is he not on the TV now, slapping the little man on his bald head and the nurses running around with the stockings, it was so funny?). The song, Ernie by Benny Hill, told the tale of a simple milkman and his love-rival, who drove the bakers van. Ultimately after a High Noon style showdown the milkman came unstuck, and in the words of the song: A stale pork-pie hit him in the eye, and Ernie bit the dust. If you feel inquisitive, no doubt the Tube will reveal all, and you can gasp in amazement at a time when the sight of a leering porcine character slapping a small bald man on the head was considered British comedy gold.
Anyway, like Ernie, on the eve of my latest Quest trip, and only 24 hours before my birthday, I too was laid low by a pie, and it wasnt very nice. After a night spent saying goodbye to said pie, I was feeling rough, as Saturday morning, and the start of my birthday weekend, arrived. In retrospect, I should have cancelled the days activities and slumped on the sofa, but instead, like a fool, I struck out for the pretty Yorkshire village of Haworth, home to everything Bronte, and hopefully to a slipjoint or two as well, perhaps Id find Heathcliffes lost Barlow!
For those of you not of a literary bent, or simple not interested in the sisters Bronte, something for which in my opinion, you can hardly be blamed, let me say that Haworth is the Yorkshire village where old man Bronte, the literary sisters pop, had his parsonage, and where their maudlin brother, no luckier in love than his siblings, boozed away his days in the local pub. Howarth has more Bronte tat and more Bronte tea-rooms than you can shake a stick at, and so many Bronte-obsessed Japanese tourists that, right out onto the windswept moors, there are bilingual signs in English and Japanese, pointing to this or that rock or waterfall where one or other of the Bronte sisters paused for a moment to contemplate some fictional bodice-ripping. Of course Im being terribly unfair.
The plan was a trip out to Haworth by train and bus, with a picnic lunch, a walk on the local moors, a few pints, and a hunt for some slipjoints in the village antique shops. Lunch, beer, and the walk went out of the window as I lurched around feeling positively dreadful, but I did visit the antique shops perched on Haworths precipitous old high street. Unfortunately, there were no knives to be had in the overpriced junk shops, so after a pot of tea in one of the villages numerous tea-shops, myself and my compadre headed back to Keighley by bus.
Despite the lurching of my stomach and the lacklustre shopping experience, I kept an eye peeled as the bus wound its way along, and was rewarded by the sight of a right-looking junk shop on the edge of Keighley. Alighting from the bus and entering the old-fashioned looking shop, I asked a crusty-looking old cove if he had any pointy treasure for me. The shambling figure rummaged around in a drawer and laid down the two knives you see here.
Nothing special, nothing worthy of the Wizard, but not an entirely wasted day out. Like my ailing stomach, I hope that my good fortune for the knife hunt returns to form soon.
The Hunt Continues!
Jack
