Pendle Hill. Famous for witches and Quakers.

Marigold Says…

Did a run on the charity shops. Lots of bargains. Best was a duvet cover and pillow cases never opened for 2.00. It was surprisingly tasteful and didn’t have a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it.

Then went for coffee, Costa of course. Two girls about 16 in front of me. They were ordering some evil concoction with marshmallows, squirty cream and chocolate sauce bunged on top. Looked yummy. Made my latte look very boring. Cost twice as much though.

Their conversation about ‘doing A levels’ next term was fantastic.

1st girl.

‘I am thinking of doing either geography or history as a real one. I need to pick what my dad calls one proper subject at least or forget about Uni. I told him nobody else in my class is bothering about that so it doesn’t matter. Thought about doing photography but Melanie is doing that and she does my head in.’

2nd Girl.

‘Hate geography and history is sooooo boring.’

1st girl. ‘I was going to do history, and they said there was going to be a visit to Auschwitz, (she pronounced it Oozwitch). I said I didn’t know what or where that was. They told us a bit about it, so I have switched to geography as I said to my mum don’t want to go on a history holiday to Germany with the class and have to listen about all that stuff. Mum said, you should do what you want.’

Hope in geography she learns where Germany is as it appears she hasn’t got the faintest idea. It may also be a good idea to look up Poland as that’s where Auschwitz is, not in Germany.  I counted 20 repetitions of ‘it was like’ between the two of them.

Back home, the fridge-freezer started to get frosted up and has been acting up for a while. It’s not much colder inside the fridge than in the rest of the house, which isn’t much use. Decided it must be at least 10 years old as we inherited it and may have come to the end of its usefulness. I defrosted it, quite a performance as usual, but it just laughed at me.

First port of call was an electrical shop to see about replacing it. Wanted to go local, support local businesses, etc. What a performance. We were told it would be expensive because it was integrated, blah, blah, blah, and that the one they recommended was a Bosch, would be £700 or £800, plus another £100 or so for fitting as ‘our’ fridge is awkward to get to and there were none to be had till next year anyway.

So why bother telling us, or should I say telling G as I had lost the will to live and was watching one of their big screen t.v’s? Price for that was £2,800. One electrical purchase at a time I decided.

We were also half heartedly told about cheaper models we could possibly get within a week or two but weren’t frost free, but were able to do things I had never heard of or as usual understand. When he started going on about the marvellous top of the range fridge he had at home I gave up. I seem to have lived without instant cold water and ice making machines in my fridge. We have bought cars in the past for less money. I just want a working fridge!

Had a coffee, moaned about fridges for half an hour. Went back home and savagely de-frosted freezer again by removing everything but the nuts and bolts holding it together and so far it seems a bit better. Admittedly this is not a frost free model as the floor was swimming. G was lying on the floor aiming a hair dryer at the inside of the freezer part, moaning his head off about icebergs, and looked as if he had been out in the rain. I just closed the door and put some music on.

We went out on an adventure to cheer us up. Got lost on the outskirts of Clitheroe, although G said only temporarily, and I said I would ask a window cleaner for directions. By the time I had got out of the car he was right at the top of his ladders, but he must have heard me groaning in frustration as he came down again.

‘Do you know how to get to the Bowland Food Hall?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. I waited for ages, but as he didn’t say any more I asked, ‘Can you tell me how to get there?’

He thought about it for quite a long time, then put down his bucket and said, ‘are you the driver?’

‘No.’

‘Shift out of me road then, woman and I’ll go tell the driver.’ He went round to have a ‘blokes’ chat’ with G, gave him directions and we drove straight there.

G said he was ‘helpful.’ I said, ‘well, he was to you.’

Over to G next. 

G Says…

I read recently the geographical centre of Great Britain is to be found near Calderstones Hospital just outside Clitheroe. I offer this as an extra bonus fact, as confirmed by those clever scientists who undertake precise measurements on our behalf. I mentioned it to Marigold who failed to show any great interest.

She told me once that she always ignores all forms of ‘lists and measurements’ on principle. This prejudice certainly extends to map reading or any navigational tools.

There was a mist hanging over Pendle Hill, of Pendle witches fame, which ruled out any possibility of us striding to the summit to view great swathes of Lancashire. Mist can be very handy at times.

In 1652, George Fox had a ‘vision’ on top of Pendle Hill which suggested a future in which ‘a great people shall be gathered.’ Fox went on to found the Quakers Movement. If he’d been deterred by a bit of mist, we’d never have heard of James Cadbury or Joseph Rowntree, both eminent Quakers, so the confectionery world would have missed out. I was convinced the late James Dean had also been a follower and a little research confirmed it. The juxtaposition of great philanthropists and a Hollywood legend always struck me as surprising.

On a previous visit I parked up between a Maserati and a freshly minted McLaren, being extra careful not to scrape either of them. Today we were in humbler company; the venerable Mini we parked alongside looked ready for the scrap yard and it was my turn to worry about anyone scratching our new (ish) car.

The town of Clitheroe actually dates back to Saxon times so by the time the imposing 12th century Norman castle that towers over the town had been built, Clitheroe had already been a community for nearly 1,000 years. That castle, supposedly the smallest Norman castle in England is wonderfully situated, but as yet we haven’t found the energy to climb up to view it at close quarters.

We went to Holmes Mill food hall first of all. Marigold loved it last time we were here and when we saw the old Citroen van was still a fixture I begged Marigold to pose for a photo, as she had done on our last visit. Marigold was far more interested in finding a toilet than posing for pictures and the subsequent photograph showed that all too clearly.

A previous visit.

Marigold has other priorities.

We waved to a woman who was waving at us, just to be polite as we didn’t know her. She came over and said, ‘sorry, it’s Paula, you looked like my cousin, but everyone looks the same now with those masks on, don’t they?’ This was slightly confusing as we weren’t wearing masks and neither was anyone else. She then said, ‘I can tell it’s not you now,’ at which I didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried.

Paula turned out to be very useful, not only directing Marigold to the ‘Ladies,’ but adding, ‘don’t use the cubicle at the end, even if it’s empty.’ Marigold departed looking slightly concerned.

Paula wasn’t finished with me yet. She wanted to know, my views on ‘why television people think unless it’s a programme about Yorkshire we won’t be interested. The Yorkshire Vet, All Creatures Great and Small and that one about the shepherd woman who’s had about twenty children, what’s wrong with farmers and vets in Lancashire, why does it have to be stuffin’ Yorkshire?’

I shook my head in sympathetic agreement, hoping Marigold would be back soon, but the diatribe continued a fair while longer ending with, ‘don’t get me wrong, I still watch ’em all.’

There’s your answer then, I thought. Marigold returned, didn’t even mention the end cubicle, and insisted we left at once as there was a traffic warden outside.

‘I could see from the way you were standing you needed to get away,’ she explained as we went back to our car, still parked in the free for two hours car park and not a traffic warden in sight. Who needs facial expressions with Marigold’s expertise in body language?

Clitheroe town centre is a bit of a throwback to former times with its specialist shops. Lots of them. Byrnes Wine Shop boasts of a vast underground storage cellar containing thousands of wine bottles. At one time this would have been an irresistible attraction, but as I no longer drink much wine I didn’t bother. I no longer eat sausages either – another pleasure done away with; there have been so many downsides to plotting a recovery from heart failure, but we pressed our noses against the glass frontage of Cowman’s Sausage Shop with great interest. A placard stated, ‘Our sausages contain no slurry, slurp or goo, just quality meat.’ Well, that’s good to know.

Well, that’s good to know.