Round Yorkshire With A Knife: The Wizard’s Quest Part 7

[Jack Black]

Round Yorkshire With A Knife: The Wizard’s Quest Part 7 - Ninety-Six Hours in Yorkshire

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/s...kshire-With-A-Knife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-5

Part 6: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...kshire-With-A-Knife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-6

Standing Alone

We’ve had some miserable weather over here this year. It’s barely stopped raining since December, and there have been high winds too. Hilly Yorkshire has escaped relatively lightly compared to the low-lying south-west, but the weather has still been unpleasant and had its effects. Thursday was yet another rotten day, and when I arrived in Leeds market, I could quickly see that the number of stalls was very much depleted. Misery Guts has not stood for a fortnight, and the Odd Couple have taken six weeks off. I made my way around the lesser junk stalls, hoping I might spot a stray penknife or an old carving set, but there wasn’t a sausage. Chris the Fireman had a couple of straight razors, but not a thing in the way of pocket-knives. The friendly chap who had sold me the bag of scrap knives the other day was chatty as ever, he asked after my previous purchase, and I replied with some diplomacy. He joked that I should “get into modern knives”, pointing out a tacky boxed folder, replete with Spitfire picture, and packaged with a tinny pocket-watch.

I made my way to Big Paul’s tool-stall. He was particularly pleased to see me as his oppo Ray was off badly after a weekend beano involving a fried breakfast, a ride on a steam train, and a lot of beer, as the old Teddy Boys said farewell to one of their mates who was moving south. “Ah pulled a bird an’all”, confided Paul, still a little surprised. Paul had a couple of questions to ask me, and one or two other regulars soon turned up to share in the conversation, which ran from brands of razor-blades to old British motorbikes to the price of scrap metal. There wasn’t anything on the stall that interested me this week, and after half an hour of rabbiting, I departed to scour the few remaining market stalls. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be had.

I had hoped to be able to travel further afield, but work commitments meant I had to return home.

Hubble, Bubble, Toil & Trouble

Friday saw the sun poking through the clouds, and since I had worked the previous afternoon and evening, I did not feel too guilty about deciding to spend another day committed to the Wizard’s Quest. I made a flask of coffee and boarded the bus to Otley, the West Yorkshire market town where I’ve had many successful hunting days in the past.





Upon my arrival, my first port of call was the second-hand record shop. The owner lets out space in the window to a pal of his for a share of the rent, and there are often interesting finds to be had there. I had a quick look in the window and spotted a couple of old spirit-levels I thought might be worth a look at. Inside, the owner sat on his chair in the corner with the bemused expression he seems to permanently wear. We exchanged pleasantries, and I reached over a stack of vintage vinyl to fish the spirit-levels out of the window. The first, the least expensive of the two, appeared to be without spirit, so I put it back and then examined the other. It was a trifle pricey, but nice enough, and made by Rabone & Chesterman of Sheffield. I bought it and popped it in my bag, bidding farewell to the quietly jovial proprietor.

Outside the small Victorian shopping arcade, which contains around ten independent shops, I paused to briefly admire a Chinese tea-set. A woman who must have been 70, wearing a thick mask of white powder, appeared at my elbow. She turned out to be co-owner of the shop, and told me she had bought the tea-set while in China herself. We chatted for a few seconds before her colleague, built like an all-in wrestler, and one of the ugliest women I’ve ever seen, brashly interrupted us. She was ranting about something, and since her eyes were each looking in opposite directions, I wasn’t sure whom she was speaking to, if indeed she was speaking to anyone. I tried not to stare at the heavy stubble she was sporting, not wishing to cause offence and be forced into a Full Nelson or even a Boston Crab.

I made my way up the slope of the arcade, resisting the temptation to purchase salt liquorice from the old-fashioned sweet shop, and moving on to Crochet Women’s ‘collectibles’ shop. I’m a bit of a regular here now, so I chatted casually with Crochet Woman and her visiting pal from Leeds, who I’ve also met before. The shop has a range of cabinets which people rent out for a small weekly sum, and in which they sell various vintage items. An old lady in her nineties lovingly restores old British tools, of which she has an incredible knowledge. Each item, always inexpensive, bears a hand-cut ticket, bearing a price and description. She has the most lovely handwriting this side of Pertinux. I noticed another couple of old spirit-levels, there seem to be lot about at the moment. I spotted an Eclipse magnet, made by James Neill tools of Sheffield, and still in its 1970’s packaging. My father and uncle worked for the firm most of their working lives, and I bought it as a souvenir. I also purchased a small ball-pein hammer to add to my collection!



Crochet Woman had also got a bag of knives for me, £5 for the lot. There was a Richard’s pipe knife, a Richards 3-blade key-ring knife, a small Richards Spearpoint with lacklustre covers, a similar and even more humble Jowika knife, and a larger anonymous Spearpoint. Nothing special or exciting, but worth a fiver.

While exchanging banter with Crochet Woman and her friend, I perused the other cabinets, admiring some old Russian pocket-watches and one or two other items. One of the cabinets contained a modern far-eastern folder with a silly price tag. We joked about the seller’s lack of sense.

With my purchases in my bag, I was soon on my way, and headed to another shop on the other side of the market-place, which is a similar set-up to Crochet Woman’s place. Prices are a bit dearer here, but I sometimes find a knife or two. On this occasion I spotted a tiny MOP-handled Penknife and bought it for a few quid.







I had hoped to stop for a pint in ‘The Old Cock’, but since there was a bus I wanted due, I forwent the pleasure. The bus runs between Otley and the North Yorkshire town of Harrogate, following a particular impressive route along the banks of the River Wharfe with fine views of lofty Almscliffe Crag and one of several impressive stone-built railway viaducts in the area. From the bus, I could see the results of the recent rainfall in flooded fields and the high-running river. Since the bus passed an antiques centre I alighted there.

I looked around inside, spotting perhaps as a many as twenty folders, and a large Bowie knife. None of the folders were up to much, and all were very overpriced. The Bowie was nearly £400! I spotted yet more spirit-levels, one similar to the one I had in my bag, but in a slightly damaged state, and priced at seven times the price I’d paid! As the place was as bereft of bargains as I had anticipated, I didn’t tarry long, and soon left to resume my journey.

At the bus-stop, I chatted to an old lady about the place I had just left. She had also been there, and not been impressed with the prices. She told me about some auction rooms where the prices are fair and penknives may be found. I filed the details away for another time.

The bus soon came and I resumed my journey to Harrogate, quickly changing buses there for another, which was bound for Knaresborough. At the nearby village of Starbeck, a crazy-looking old crone boarded, sporting a wild grey mane and heavy stubble. I found myself transfixed and minded of the Ogre of Otley, as her ugly sister headed towards me down the aisle of the crowded bus, and then sat down next to me. As we approached Knaresborough, the crone rang the bell and alighted outside Mother Shipton’s Cave, the ancient home of one of Knaresborough’s former residents, a mad old witch who prophesized the end of the world, and now a minor tourist attraction. Such was my erstwhile fellow passenger’s hag-like appearance, I could not help wondering if she was perhaps employed at the place as Mother Shipton’s doppelganger.



The bus crossed the river, passing the World’s End pub, and making its way into the centre of ancient Knaresborough, which regulars here will already be familiar with. Opposite the small bus –station, I noticed that Gi-Gi’s junk emporium was open, and was hoping to snap a pic of the Brian May lookalike to post here. Madame Gi-Gi however, did not seem to be there.





While the fine weather was still holding, I headed to the town’s ancient castle to take some photos of the knives I had with me, and then doubled-back to visit another junk shop, which was the real purpose of my visit. I had a good root around all 3 floors, but on this occasion could find no knives. I did however find a few things of interest, a miniature kaleidoscope, a couple of old magnets, a nice paperweight, and some poker dice, each item costing only £1.



As I was returning to the market square, a bulky leather-jacketed figure bore down on me like an angry woolly rhinoceros. Scowling and snorting, the beast drove forward on its powerful thighs. As I suddenly recognised Madame GiGi, I was transfixed, had she seen me photograph her shop, had she been reading these posts, was I about to be trampled to death beneath her hulking form. With her head down and her elbows swinging, GiGi strode right past me, so close that I rocked in her wake. I breathed a sigh of relief, I was not to be the victim of the demented Brian May lookie-likeie’s ire. But someone in Knaresborough was about to be the subject of her fury!

After my close shave, I needed a drink, but Knaresborough’s best pub, Blind Jack’s, was not yet open, so I decided to quickly return to Harrogate in the hope of avoiding the Friday afternoon traffic, and any fallout when GiGi found her target. On my way out of Harrogate, I had spotted a pub in the train station that was new to me, the Harrogate Tap. The company, which I was familiar with from their hostelries in the stations of Sheffield, York, and Euston (London) specialise in beautiful restorations of old train station waiting rooms and railway offices, and always have a vast and interesting selection of ales. On spotting the place as I left Harrogate, I had already made a mental note to visit it on my return, and I was glad to do so and quench my thirst (and re-steady my nerves) with a fine ale before returning to Leeds.

 

[Jack Black]

A Cuckoo Waltz

I generally go for a walk in the countryside on Saturdays, but the weather has been so bad this year, my routine was interrupted. The weather forecast for this Saturday was quite horrendous, but I awoke to a sunny day, albeit with a bitingly cold wind. I decided to hedge my bets and go to Huddersfield, where I could perhaps get a walk, and if the weather changed for the worse, there are plenty of good pubs to dive into. Either way, I intended to make Huddersfield market my next Quest destination.



As on my last trip, the train was packed with suitcase-toting travellers on their way to Manchester Airport. At least, we did not stop in Dewsbury, so the train made good time and there was no accompanying mischief. Huddersfield station was quiet, and I quickly made my way to the market, which was very busy. I wound my way round the stalls, seeing little of interest, even my pal the old sailor had nothing but conversation for me. Eventually I spotted a couple of folders, and since the price was right, I purchased both.

The first was a very ordinary Sheffield penknife, with black synthetic covers, solid enough but uninteresting and with unreadable tang stamps. The second knife, made in Solingen, is a little more interesting. It carries the name of the pharmaceutical company Sandoz, both on the mark side and on the removeable (and presumably replaceable) blade. Photos of both knives in uncleaned condition are shown below.





















The weather was still fine, so I decided to head for the bus-station and onto the village of Slaithwaite, which is pronounced (and sometimes written) ‘Sla’wit’. Like many small places in the area that grew up around the woollen mills, time has passed Slaithwaite by to some extent, indeed the high street would have looked old-fashioned in the 1970’s. There’s not a great deal for the visitor to do there, but it’s a pleasant enough place. My reasons for stopping there were two-fold, because it’s a pleasant walk from Slaithwaite to the nearby village of Marsden, and because there’s an independent charity shop there I wanted to visit.









I got off the bus and walked down the hill and into the charity shop. I had a quick look through the books and bric-a-brac, and spotted a new bird-watching box-set with a book and DVD for £1. As I paid at the counter, I broached the subject of penknives with the middle-aged woman serving me, asking if they ever had any in. The dame reacted in absolute horror, “No! We would never have anything like that, nothing against the law!” I tried to reassure her, telling her that penknives were still perfectly legal, but it was no good. “No! Anything could happen! Anything could happen!” I tried once again, telling her I only meant small penknives, but she was approaching hysteria. “Anything could happen!” she kept repeating. I left.

Next door to the charity shop was a place that was new to me, ‘Slaithwaite Emporium’, which at first looked to be an Aladdin’s Cave that might contain a slipjoint or two. On closer inspection though, it wasmore like someone was regularly raiding the charity shop next door for tat, and then inflating the prices by 1000%.

I know someone who was born and raised in Slaithwaite, and he has always referenced it as unpretentious to the point of being dull, and proletarian to the point of parody. Low house prices and a place on a good rail line however, means that even Slaithwaite has some signs of gentrification. Just a couple of hundred yards along the canal is the Handmade Bakery, and on entering I found a hot-bed of Guardian*-reading 30-somethings washing down organic snacks with fancy coffees, while Jacintha and Jocasta ran about the place trailing wholemeal flour in the wake of their Hunter wellies. The coffee was good though.



The weather had turned a little by this point, but I decided to walk along the canal to Marsden, a pleasant easy walk that I know well. Along the way there are constant reminders of the area’s early industrial heritage, not least the giant old mill buildings and chimneys. It turned out to be quite a muddy walk, but was nice enough, even if the weather continued to deteriorate. No mention of Marsden would be complete without a quick reference to the village’s locally-famous cuckoo legend, which tells of how the local folk, associating the coming of the cuckoo with spring, tried to capture the bird, hoping to keep spring there forever, only to have the cuckoo escape due to some bad building work. You can read all about it on tinternet if you want, but my reading of it is that Marsden is generally a pretty wet and miserable place, and about the last that spring comes to.







So, as I arrived in Marsden, it was fitting that it was now raining. After fruitlessly inspecting another couple of charity shops, and checking out the Mechanics’ Institute and Public Library, where a sign eerily seemed to predict my coming, I made my way to the pub, a very ‘local’ local (some filming for the dark BBC comedy series ‘The League of Gentlemen’ was done in Marsden).



After a pint of excellent brewed-on-the-premises ale at the Riverhead Brewery Tap, I ran for the bus and headed back to Huddersfield. After a bit more poking around as part of my seemingly endless Quest, I decided to reward myself with more beer. However, being it was a Saturday afternoon, pub after pub turned out to be packed with soccer fans, and in some cases the policemen who were overseeing them. As I headed back to the station, I had to step aside to make way for the traditional British small-town spectacle of the police frog-marching rowdy football supporters through the streets.

* A notoriously liberal broadsheet newspaper

 

[Jack Black]

Operation Snowflake

I met Russian Alex in a Leeds bar we both frequent (me less so these days), and we had known each other casually for a while before we discovered our shared interest in fine cutlery. Despite actually being a mild-mannered chemistry teacher, Alex, sporting his trademark leather jacket and goatee beard, is every inch the Russian, and he regularly attends arms and militaria fairs, to which he’s invited me in the past. I’ve never been able to make it before, but on Sunday we had arranged to meet in Leeds train station and travel together to a militaria fair in a rotten local town called New Pudsey.

I arrived in the station promptly as always, and was soon joined by an equally punctual Alex. We’d not seen each other for a while, and we excitedly swapped tales about our recent acquisitions, so excitedly in fact that we accidentally got on the wrong train and ended up in the Leeds suburb of Garforth, which has no business being a suburb of Leeds at all, being as it took the train 30 minutes to get there. Having eventually made it back to Leeds, we were in a hurry to make up lost time, but we looked to have just missed a train. On getting to the platform though, the train was just about to move off and the good-natured woman guard kindly let us on, joking that she’d be getting told off for doing so.

It’s been years, possibly 30 years, since I last went to a militaria fair. In truth, I generally don’t like them, here they tend to be full of neo-Nazis and Chocolate Soldiers, boring little men unfit to glorify the wars in which better men died. Alex had assured me that there would be some knives there, but I was somewhat sceptical. When we arrived at the venue, there was an admission charge of £5, and our hands were stamped with an unlikely snowflake symbol. Maybe they’d lost the stamp with the death’s-head and the dodgy runes, or maybe the snowflake symbol has meanings unbeknown to me. It was certainly cold enough to snow outside, even if Russian Alex thought it rather Spring-like.

Inside, at the first table in the first room we entered, there were several fixed-blade knives on sale, including an unusual Damascus piece. We chatted to the stall-holder, and were surprised to learn it had been made in Denmark. The seller had at one time had a shop in Durham and accepted 4 or 5 identical knives as part-payment in a transaction, intending to keep this last one for himself. He wanted £90 for the knife, but Alex was particularly taken by it.

Among the rifles, sub-machine guns, swords, and pistols of all periods, I spotted more knives. Most were fixed-blades, mainly Bowies, of varying quality, and with price-tags of hundreds of pounds. In the corner a stall combined Nazi paraphernalia with racist statuettes from a bygone age. An adjacent stall had two small baskets, one containing army clasp knives, the other old slipjoints, but the front of the stall was blocked by the sagging belly of vile corpulent man from the other stall, who was whining at length about not being able to use the ‘N’ word (which he used liberally) in his advertising, and how this supposedly infringed his ‘human rights’. I picked up the baskets and moved them closer towards me, quickly seeing there was nothing of interest there, and sickened by what I was having to listen to beside me.

Alex and I passed onto another stall, which had around 20 large and expensive Bowie knives. Many lacked provenance, some were modern, but I spotted one by Fred James of Sheffield and chatted to the stall-holder about it. I can recall seeing such knives on sale for a few pounds instead of hundreds.

We stepped into the large main hall, which was heaving with stalls and visitors (I wouldn’t say customers because I saw very little actually being bought). There was a lot of WW2 Nazi stuff, and a lot of tat, along with plenty of items such as gravity knives and sword canes, which are illegal here. There was plenty to interest the serious firearms aficionado, with deactivated guns of all types and ages. Swords and armour were also in abundance. We saw more large knives, but little I regarded as quality, and everything was priced quite outrageously. On one stall I saw a Schrade Sharpfinger and a few Puma and Boker knives, but prices were high. I noticed the seller also had a few folders, there were a couple of Case Trappers, a Buck 110 clone, and three old Sheffield knives. One of the latter was a Horseman’s knife, but badly damaged. I asked about a Sheepsfoot, which was quite worn and rusty, only to be told it was priced, laughably, at £50. Alex looked at a folding Bowie, which turned out to be broken, it was priced at nearly£300! Another stall had a lot of modern fixed-blades with lower prices, but there was nothing worth having.













Eventually we went upstairs, where there were a few more stalls, and prices were a little more reasonable. Alex looked at a couple of Navajas, but his heart was set on the damascus-bladed knife we’d seen when we first arrived. I found this interesting key-knife, the like of which I’ve only heard about before. I think it’s a Sheffield knife, but the stamp is impossible to fully make out.

I was also tempted to purchase this dagger, which I’m quite pleased with for £12. An interesting bit of history, but there’s no indication of provenance.









We set off to return to Leeds like two wandering assassins, but as we approached the station we saw that a train was already at the platform. We groaned in anticipation of a long wait, but then saw that the guard was the kindly woman who had helped us before, so we decided to give it a try. We managed to run the couple of hundred yards to the platform, with our new-found friend jokingly chiding us as she held the train.



Back in Leeds, we had a thirst for beer, and left the station to walk to our favourite bar. On the way though we spotted a new tools emporium, the only independent one in Leeds, and we had a quick look. They had a few knives, of the type commonly carried by workmen, but a more welcome sight than some idiot squawking “Anything could happen!”

Across the road was a new bar, part of the same chain that owns the Tap bars I mentioned earlier, but being entirely different. It was furnished somewhere between a restaurant and one of those pit-stops they pull into in TV programmes like Star Trek, where creatures with two heads sip blue juice through a straw. They had a good range of beers, but all the taps were hidden away, very strange. We sat in the corner, furtively fingering our purchases, and hurriedly necking a well-earned pint.






We decided to repair to our usual haunt, where they know us and wouldn’t be at all perturbed by a bit of knife appraisal. I took these pics of Alex’s knife discreetly at the rear of the bar, hampered by spot-lighting and a reflective table-top. Any information on this knife would be particularly welcome.

Alex and I were chatting with a few friends when a bearded young-man in a daft-looking hat entered with a group of other people. We wondered if they were on some kind of themed outing at first, and then learned they had asked to do a performance. Cynical speculation followed, were they bloody Morris Dancers, or was the orange of the ribbons they wore of some other significance. In time, after downing shots of Jaegermeister, the group prepared to perform, being composed of a fiddle player, accordion player, and a troupe of female dancers in hard-soled shoes. As readers of Carl’s Lounge will already know, the black and orange of their costumes paid homage to Sheffield’s famous condiment, Henderson’s Relish, mentioned by me many times in the past. The group had originally wanted to reference Henderson’s in their name, but having being rebuffed by the quirky old company, whose product is rarely seen outside Sheffield, they settled on the name Sheffield Steel Rapper.



‘Rapper’ is apparently both the style of the dance they were about to perform, and the name of the two-handled knives they waved about (yes, how cool is that?!). The dance comes from the North-East of England, and according to some, the rappers were used to scrape the muck and sweat from Geordie pit-ponies, which I think sounds like a load of cobblers, and which is hotly disputed even in rapper circles.

















Anyway, in this small bar, the troupe had certainly got our attention, and the wild rapper-wielding jig which followed was great fun to watch. You can find the ladies on the Tube. I should point out however, that as r8shell duly noted when I posted some of these photos in Carl’s Lounge, we may have actually been witnessing a satanic ritual, so beware of subliminal images and ‘voices’ from within the music if you should seek the ladies out. Black masses aside, together with another couple of pints and some good company, having some Sheffield ladies dance around a bar with large knives seemed a fitting, if unlikely end, to a hectic few days of Questing, ultimately unsuccessful, but certainly interesting.

The Hunt Continues!

Jack

 

[silenthunterstudios]

Wow, sensory overload! I need some time to absorb this.

Sounds like the woman that flew into a panic over pen knives is what you call a nutter over there...

 

[pmew]

Good grief, I don't know how you have the energy Jack! Good effort my friend, keep it going

 

[sitflyer]

:thumbup::thumbup:

 

[Jack Black]

Sounds like the woman that flew into a panic over pen knives is what you call a nutter over there...

Definitely Dan!

Good grief, I don't know how you have the energy Jack! Good effort my friend, keep it going

Thanks Paul, I hope I can keep it up next month when I'm living on beans on toast due to doing so little paid work!

 

[nphelps4130]

This is a fantastic thread-series! Thank you for sharing the fun: Excellent, entertaining reading

 

[InTheSticks]

Round Yorkshire With A Knife: The Wizard’s Quest Part 7 - Ninety-Six Hours in Yorkshire

a bulky leather-jacketed figure bore down on me like an angry woolly rhinoceros. Scowling and snorting, the beast drove forward on its powerful thighs.

I love some of these descriptions.

Thanks again for this series.

 

[Peregrin]

Most enjoyable, Jack! An interesting chapter in your ongoing quest.

 

[I.N.F.K]

fun, I must say in the six years I spent growing up in England I never went to Yorkshire. Still love the buldings there though, not something you see in Roanoke Virgina that's for sure.

 

[screened porch]

Anything could happen, indeed. Anything but a dingbat hear a little common sense.
I've been watching your weather with some dismay. My relatives are still dry, the ones I still know, but criminy, enough all ready.

 

[Jack Black]

Thanks a lot folks Hope your people stay dry Jer :thumbup:

 

[waynorth]

Dances with knives!!

That alone was worth the trip, I am sure!!
Thanks again for the Fun, Jack!!:thumbup:

 

[Old & In The Way]

I wonder if the the rapper-wielding troupe at your local pub was what the dame from the charity shop in Slaithwaite had in mind when she opined that 'Anything could happen"? Thanks for bringing us along on your quest.

 

[kimsalls]

I thoroughly enjoyed this installment. I would love it if you shared the names of the ales you sample. I had a pub with 50 taps and hundreds of different bottles near me in my twenties, and "drank my way around the world." I started and ended with British ales. I am always looking for a new one to try. We get quite a few here in Texas.

 

[Gevonovich]

Fantastic leg of the quest, Jack!! I saved the read for this evening and it was very enjoyable with my coffee. Stay dry, my friend.

 

[hunter s thompson]

Very nice Jack! Well written as usual, nice score on the key knife by the way, I have been searching for one (not very hard mind you) off and on for years. I originally wanted one for my house key but after installing keypads on both doors it is no longer necessary but that doesn't keep me from wanting one. I am looking forward to the next installment.

 

[harronek]

I'm waiting for the day you meet a countryman walking his Lurchers down a country lane with ferrets in his trouser .
Then I'll really know its Yorkshire


Ken

 

[r8shell]

A nice read, as always.

It's funny to think of you and your friend quietly looking over your purchases in a booth in the back, trying not to attract attention. And in comes half a dozen dancers, swinging swords around everyone's heads.

Just remember: "Anything could happen."