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Round Yorkshire With A Knife: The Wizards Quest Part 11 Never Trust A Hippy!
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/s...e-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-9-Lost-in-Yorkshire
Part 10: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...d’s-Quest-Part-10-Vikings-and-Thieving-Varlet
Once upon a time Hebden Bridge was just a small mill town situated somewhere between the large English cities of Leeds and Manchester, but a few decades ago it began to change. There was an influx of outsiders, who brought an alternative lifestyle with them, and their influence grew to the point where the high street is today lined with organic food shops, vegetarian cafes, a vegan bakery, and shops selling dream-weavers and Peruvian hats. Hebden Bridge is also the Lesbian capital of the UK, and this group were the vanguard of the changes. What caused the attraction to sleepy Hebden was that high above the town, up an improbably steep hill, is the small village of Heptonstall, where the feminist icon and poet Sylvia Plaith gave her last wave and was subsequently buried.
Along with all the hippy shops, Hebden Bridge has a couple of antique shops and a small weekly fleamarket, so I thought Id better pay a visit.
I stepped off the train at a smartly kept old world railway station, and exited past the cafe advertising vegan bacon butties. I crossed over the bridge spanning the canal lined with pastel-shaded narrow-boats, with names like The Hobbit and Pendragon, walked past the restored independent cinema, and into the centre of what is actually a quite pretty and scenic town.
I walked along the first section of the pedestrianised high street, crossed over the ancient packhorse bridge, and strolled to the marketplace. There were about twenty stalls, a few selling fruit n veg, another selling homemade jam and chutney, others selling second-hand baby clothes and childrens toys. I found some old table cutlery on one stall and purchased a couple of items, which surprisingly, turned out to be made in the West Yorkshire town of Bradford rather than Sheffield. I also bought an old church-key.
On a stall selling glassware and fine crystal, I spotted an open box of Joseph Rodgers dessert knives in pristine condition. The price was quite high, but since I had promised to acquire some Sheffield flatware for a friend, I bought them. The stall-holder was a friendly and talkative Italian gentlemen, and when I mentioned that I was looking for pocket-knives, he told me that he had a box of them behind the counter and invited me to have a look. He said that he had told a friend, an American collector, that he would sell the knives, but didnt put them out on the stall in case they were stolen, apparently unaware of any irrationality in his business practices. As he sorted through some cardboard boxes behind the stall, where I had joined him, he continued to chat animatedly, and having found the box in question, proceeded to unpack the newspaper-wrapped contents.
On the rear of the stall, he placed a John Watts dagger in a leather sheath, it had composite rubber grips, and I imagined it was from the period of WW2. Next he produced a very large folder, with covers he said were ivory. Smaller ivory handled penknives were then produced along with some sturdier bone-handled Jacks. As I stared in amazement, the stall-holder continued to produce more and more knives, a clasp knife here, an advertising knife there. His favourite he told me was a MOP-handled penknife. Most of the knives were in very good condition, and all were of interest. I had £100 in my wallet and I asked him how much he would accept for the lot. Incredibly, he then told me that he did not want to sell them until he had researched their value on the internet. I made offers in relation to a few individual knives, but he wouldnt sell, though he was very keen to have my opinion on them all. I looked at a few, but I felt like the kid whose just been told that Santa Claus doesnt exist. The man told me that this was the only market he did, and that hed be there next week.
Feeling frustrated and barely unable to contain my excitement, I left the market with my head in a whirl. I wondered into a small hardware shop, then realised I was just staring at things randomly, and left again. I walked along the pretty river, past several organic cafes, walking up the hill until I was almost out of town. A bus shunted slowly up the steep cobbled street, bound for Heptonstall, and I hopped aboard. The engine revved as the vehicle ground its way up the ridiculously steep hill, and I had to wonder why anyone still lived there.
At the summit, there was even less to Heptonstall than I remembered, a shop, two pubs, and the churchyard of course. I waved to Sylvia.
I decided to have a pint and walked into the first pub, asking for a pint of Timothy Taylors Landlord, before sitting in the corner to mull over the mornings events. I was still stunned at the collection I had seen, but incredibly frustrated at being able to purchase nothing. The market-trader seemed very pleasant, but he had an odd way of doing business. I determined to be on an early train out of Leeds next week, when hopefully I could claim my prize, and possibly a Grail knife for the Wizard.
As I brooded, the pint was soon sunk, and I resisted the temptation to slide another down my gullet. I stepped out of the pub with my head only a little clearer than when Id entered, so decided to walk back down the precipitous hill in the hope of settling my thoughts. With aching knees, but with fine views of the valley below, I descended the cobbles and stone flags, eventually making my way back down into Hebden.
Feeling peckish, I called in at the vegan bakery, which was surprisingly inexpensive, and more like an ordinary bakery than I had imagined. I purchased a pasty and a scone, and took them down to the river, where I ate them sat on a bench.
I had the address of an antiques centre, and managed to get directions from a helpful passerby. Inside the prices were high, and I saw little of interest.
Walking back to the high street, I called in an old-fashioned looking hardware store, partly contrived, which used to sell everything from carbolic soap to mothballs. It still had a few items like this, together with a display of straight razors, which were not for sale, but the shop appeared to have undergone a transformation since my last visit, and mainly sold kitsch gifts and postcards.
I re-crossed the packhorse bridge to go to a charity shop near the marketplace, and couldnt resist passing the stall where Id seen the treasures only a couple of hours previously. Are you sure you dont want to sell me a knife or two? I asked, trying to sound light-hearted rather than desperate. What transpired next though left me open-mouthed. It turned out that only five minutes after my previous visit, another gentlemen enquired about the knives, having seen me inspecting them. The stall-holder had changed his mind and let him purchase a number of them, at the prices Id suggested. I listened to the tale trying not to look too much like a goldfish, but I was astonished.
Cheerfully, the trader told me that there were still some knives left, but of course the previous visitor had cleared out all the best ones. Contrary to the end, when I asked how much he would take for the knives, I was requested to name a price, only to have him put a fiver on top when I did so. I put the knives in my bag and headed back to the train station, feeling like someone had just pinched the presents from under my Christmas tree.
Back at home, I went through the strangers leavings.
This World War Two pattern British Army clasp knife was made by Richards of Sheffield in 1944. Richards are of course best known for their cheap Imperial-style slipjoints, but despite the aggressively cleaned blade, this is quite a nice example of the pattern I think. The blade is very sharp, but unfortunately the tip sits a little proud of the liners due to over-sharpening.
This big old Sheffield Hawkbill has also been very aggressively cleaned, which has taken away some of its character, and possibly its provenance. Only Sheffield above England can be discerned on the tang. Its also very sharp. A shame about the cleaning as its quite a nice knife I think.
This characterful old Whittler has seen some wear and tear, and not all of it in the distant past. If there was ever a makers etch or tang-stamp, it is long gone unfortunately.
The small elegant Taylors Eye Witness penknife in stainless appears unused. Its a simple knife, but nicely built, and sharp.
Last, and certainly least, is this travesty, which I should really have left behind. It is probably one of the last knives made under the great Wostenholm name, but the parts were actually made by Camillus, and it was assembled in the Richards factory in Sheffield, before it was shipped back to the US. Despite its slightly dodgy provenance, this huge heavy Stockman did not deserve to be treated in the way some clueless idiot did, by putting it to the grinder, taking away most of each blade, and leaving it an absolute mess.
The Rodgers flatware was probably the best find of the day.
Somewhere out there, someone has some very nice knives, which I very nearly had myself. And hes probably munching on a bloody vegetarian sausage roll. Never trust a hippy!
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/s...e-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-9-Lost-in-Yorkshire
Part 10: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...d’s-Quest-Part-10-Vikings-and-Thieving-Varlet
Once upon a time Hebden Bridge was just a small mill town situated somewhere between the large English cities of Leeds and Manchester, but a few decades ago it began to change. There was an influx of outsiders, who brought an alternative lifestyle with them, and their influence grew to the point where the high street is today lined with organic food shops, vegetarian cafes, a vegan bakery, and shops selling dream-weavers and Peruvian hats. Hebden Bridge is also the Lesbian capital of the UK, and this group were the vanguard of the changes. What caused the attraction to sleepy Hebden was that high above the town, up an improbably steep hill, is the small village of Heptonstall, where the feminist icon and poet Sylvia Plaith gave her last wave and was subsequently buried.
Along with all the hippy shops, Hebden Bridge has a couple of antique shops and a small weekly fleamarket, so I thought Id better pay a visit.
I stepped off the train at a smartly kept old world railway station, and exited past the cafe advertising vegan bacon butties. I crossed over the bridge spanning the canal lined with pastel-shaded narrow-boats, with names like The Hobbit and Pendragon, walked past the restored independent cinema, and into the centre of what is actually a quite pretty and scenic town.
I walked along the first section of the pedestrianised high street, crossed over the ancient packhorse bridge, and strolled to the marketplace. There were about twenty stalls, a few selling fruit n veg, another selling homemade jam and chutney, others selling second-hand baby clothes and childrens toys. I found some old table cutlery on one stall and purchased a couple of items, which surprisingly, turned out to be made in the West Yorkshire town of Bradford rather than Sheffield. I also bought an old church-key.
On a stall selling glassware and fine crystal, I spotted an open box of Joseph Rodgers dessert knives in pristine condition. The price was quite high, but since I had promised to acquire some Sheffield flatware for a friend, I bought them. The stall-holder was a friendly and talkative Italian gentlemen, and when I mentioned that I was looking for pocket-knives, he told me that he had a box of them behind the counter and invited me to have a look. He said that he had told a friend, an American collector, that he would sell the knives, but didnt put them out on the stall in case they were stolen, apparently unaware of any irrationality in his business practices. As he sorted through some cardboard boxes behind the stall, where I had joined him, he continued to chat animatedly, and having found the box in question, proceeded to unpack the newspaper-wrapped contents.
On the rear of the stall, he placed a John Watts dagger in a leather sheath, it had composite rubber grips, and I imagined it was from the period of WW2. Next he produced a very large folder, with covers he said were ivory. Smaller ivory handled penknives were then produced along with some sturdier bone-handled Jacks. As I stared in amazement, the stall-holder continued to produce more and more knives, a clasp knife here, an advertising knife there. His favourite he told me was a MOP-handled penknife. Most of the knives were in very good condition, and all were of interest. I had £100 in my wallet and I asked him how much he would accept for the lot. Incredibly, he then told me that he did not want to sell them until he had researched their value on the internet. I made offers in relation to a few individual knives, but he wouldnt sell, though he was very keen to have my opinion on them all. I looked at a few, but I felt like the kid whose just been told that Santa Claus doesnt exist. The man told me that this was the only market he did, and that hed be there next week.
Feeling frustrated and barely unable to contain my excitement, I left the market with my head in a whirl. I wondered into a small hardware shop, then realised I was just staring at things randomly, and left again. I walked along the pretty river, past several organic cafes, walking up the hill until I was almost out of town. A bus shunted slowly up the steep cobbled street, bound for Heptonstall, and I hopped aboard. The engine revved as the vehicle ground its way up the ridiculously steep hill, and I had to wonder why anyone still lived there.
At the summit, there was even less to Heptonstall than I remembered, a shop, two pubs, and the churchyard of course. I waved to Sylvia.
I decided to have a pint and walked into the first pub, asking for a pint of Timothy Taylors Landlord, before sitting in the corner to mull over the mornings events. I was still stunned at the collection I had seen, but incredibly frustrated at being able to purchase nothing. The market-trader seemed very pleasant, but he had an odd way of doing business. I determined to be on an early train out of Leeds next week, when hopefully I could claim my prize, and possibly a Grail knife for the Wizard.
As I brooded, the pint was soon sunk, and I resisted the temptation to slide another down my gullet. I stepped out of the pub with my head only a little clearer than when Id entered, so decided to walk back down the precipitous hill in the hope of settling my thoughts. With aching knees, but with fine views of the valley below, I descended the cobbles and stone flags, eventually making my way back down into Hebden.
Feeling peckish, I called in at the vegan bakery, which was surprisingly inexpensive, and more like an ordinary bakery than I had imagined. I purchased a pasty and a scone, and took them down to the river, where I ate them sat on a bench.
I had the address of an antiques centre, and managed to get directions from a helpful passerby. Inside the prices were high, and I saw little of interest.
Walking back to the high street, I called in an old-fashioned looking hardware store, partly contrived, which used to sell everything from carbolic soap to mothballs. It still had a few items like this, together with a display of straight razors, which were not for sale, but the shop appeared to have undergone a transformation since my last visit, and mainly sold kitsch gifts and postcards.
I re-crossed the packhorse bridge to go to a charity shop near the marketplace, and couldnt resist passing the stall where Id seen the treasures only a couple of hours previously. Are you sure you dont want to sell me a knife or two? I asked, trying to sound light-hearted rather than desperate. What transpired next though left me open-mouthed. It turned out that only five minutes after my previous visit, another gentlemen enquired about the knives, having seen me inspecting them. The stall-holder had changed his mind and let him purchase a number of them, at the prices Id suggested. I listened to the tale trying not to look too much like a goldfish, but I was astonished.
Cheerfully, the trader told me that there were still some knives left, but of course the previous visitor had cleared out all the best ones. Contrary to the end, when I asked how much he would take for the knives, I was requested to name a price, only to have him put a fiver on top when I did so. I put the knives in my bag and headed back to the train station, feeling like someone had just pinched the presents from under my Christmas tree.
Back at home, I went through the strangers leavings.
This World War Two pattern British Army clasp knife was made by Richards of Sheffield in 1944. Richards are of course best known for their cheap Imperial-style slipjoints, but despite the aggressively cleaned blade, this is quite a nice example of the pattern I think. The blade is very sharp, but unfortunately the tip sits a little proud of the liners due to over-sharpening.
This big old Sheffield Hawkbill has also been very aggressively cleaned, which has taken away some of its character, and possibly its provenance. Only Sheffield above England can be discerned on the tang. Its also very sharp. A shame about the cleaning as its quite a nice knife I think.
This characterful old Whittler has seen some wear and tear, and not all of it in the distant past. If there was ever a makers etch or tang-stamp, it is long gone unfortunately.
The small elegant Taylors Eye Witness penknife in stainless appears unused. Its a simple knife, but nicely built, and sharp.
Last, and certainly least, is this travesty, which I should really have left behind. It is probably one of the last knives made under the great Wostenholm name, but the parts were actually made by Camillus, and it was assembled in the Richards factory in Sheffield, before it was shipped back to the US. Despite its slightly dodgy provenance, this huge heavy Stockman did not deserve to be treated in the way some clueless idiot did, by putting it to the grinder, taking away most of each blade, and leaving it an absolute mess.
The Rodgers flatware was probably the best find of the day.
Somewhere out there, someone has some very nice knives, which I very nearly had myself. And hes probably munching on a bloody vegetarian sausage roll. Never trust a hippy!
The Hunt Continues!
Jack
Ray Winstone also had his lowest moment in Hebden Bridge! 
:thumbup:
