Tuesday, 29 November 2016

A Three Reservoir Walk In May - 3. Turton and Entwistle, Lancashire

Moving on up, we're moving on up, moving on up ...

The path from the Jumbles Reservoir led me uphill.  After crossing the main road it led through a one person wide tunnel under the railway, across a muddy field and then into the woods up the hill.  At this point the path became almost indistinguishable from the rest of the wood.  But that was fine.  The way forward lay at the top so getting lost would have been difficult.  Difficult but not impossible.  I have a talent for getting lost even when closely following a map.  I once got lost on a mountain ridge.  With only one logical choice for my route to get down.  Yet I found myself in totally the wrong place, half way down a wet bank in thick clouds, knackered, and not knowing quite how I got there.  If only I had carried a camera back then - the Carneddau are beautiful even in cloud.  Is it always cloudy on the Carneddau?  Probably not, but I never once had a view from the summits of Llewellyn and Dafydd.

That was a day ten years ago.  I had carried a decent OS map and a compass.  If only I had remembered to use them before striding out confidently from the summit towards a handy cairn, just visible through the gloom.  If only.  It's okay.  No one died!  I got it sorted and eventually found my way out of the clouds and down to the falls above Abergwyngregyn.  Hey, they get a mention in my blog two posts in a row.

On my reservoir walk I journeyed without useful navigation tools.   All I had was a single sheet of A4 paper with some printed directions and a rough outline map with a route line across it.  My outline map showed the relative positions of the three reservoirs I was visiting.  But not much more.  So far the directions hadn't led me astray.  That would come later, just as an added bonus before finishing the walk.

The woods let out into open country and the warmth of the sunlight.  The route crossed fields before leading onto a track.  The views were good, the air felt good on my face, the light made me smile and it was too hot for a jumper.  Yeah, life was excellent.  I had to feel a bit sorry for my friend.  I had a conversation with her via WhatsApp while I stood and looked at the view.  She was stuck at work.  A necessary thing but I would much prefer to be in open countryside than stuck in a workroom in Manchester.

The view speaks for itself, even in photo form, which can never compare with the reality - even when people are clever with lighting and have super-snazzy cameras and then edit their photos carefully and fiddle with colour and contrast and everything else.  I'm afraid my pictures aren't like that.  They're all just point and click with a pretty cheap phone camera that I hadn't learned to use.  None of the pictures in this post have been edited in any way.  Not even a bit of judicious cropping.

These pictures won't win awards.  Nevertheless, some shots from the track:

Eventually the track descended back down to the road and from there it was just a short walk down to my third reservoir of the day, the Turton and Entwistle Reservoir.  The dam at the end of the reservoir was once the highest in Britain.  The water flows out and down to Wayoh Reservoir - the first I had visited - and then on to Jumbles Reservoir - the second reservoir of the day.

More pictures.  The path round Turton and Entwistle feels very different to the route round the other reservoirs.  Maybe it's due to the tall forest rising up around most of the lake.  Maybe it's due to the entire path being flat and very well made up.  Maybe it's due to the bigger car park and the popularity of the place.  Maybe it's just that my unfit legs were getting tired and hoped that they would be back at the railway station soon.  Whatever the reason, it was a contrasting experience.

A couple of reservoir views.  I think six months on I'd probably take slightly different photos.

Quiz.  What types of evergreen trees are native to the UK?

This reservoir felt large because I was tired.  But it isn't really very big.  The water in Kielder Water would fill the Turton and Entwistle Reservoir nearly thirty times and my entire walk length that day was a couple of miles less than the length of the perimeter of Kielder.  Next year I must see if there's any way I can get to Kielder.  It's tantalisingly close to home but public transport is almost non-existent and we have no car.  Does anyone want to volunteer to take me out walking there? 

Now.  I had a choice.  Should I continue to follow the reservoir path?  A nice, flat, easy, well made path.  A path that led to another easy path through the wood and back to the railway station.  A path I could follow with no difficulty whatsoever.  All I had to do was to cross one of the bridges over the stream feeding the reservoir.  And then follow that easy path.  That's all.  God in his infinite wisdom had given me a second chance to be sensible knowing that it was unlikely that I'd be sensible straight away.

The first bridge was large.  The second smaller.  Here's Blob Thing sitting on it.  He was trying to tell me to be sensible.  He said, "We've got to cross this bridge so we might as well follow the obvious path."  Would I listen to my friend?  Of course not.  The directions on my piece of A4 paper didn't say to follow the reservoir path.  They said to cross the bridge and turn left.  Head up into the hills again.  I had my directions and I had to follow them no matter what a reasonable soft toy was telling me.

My route - our route - rose steeply along an obvious path.  It then became less obvious.  It then became invisible.  I stood in the fields and all I knew was that I had to get to a stile I couldn't see.  Somewhere in the rough direction of over there.  Did I just go back down to the reservoir and follow the sensible route?  Of course not.

I would persevere.  My route directions governed me.

My route directions had guided me well.  But now they didn't.  Now they became quite useless and my map was of no use.

I made it though.  To that stile.  Across mud.  Across bog.  Across the unknown.  It wasn't at all pleasant.  But I made it to that stile.  Success.

The path then led downhill from that stile.

Back to the reservoir.

About a hundred yards from the bridge.


From there it was an easy stroll along the remainder of the water - I walked most of the three mile perimeter - and up to the station.

Entwistle request stop.  It's not the busiest of places.

The walk was over.  And I was happy.

We arrived back at the Manchester home and sat back on the sofa.  Content.

We rested and gave ourselves three rewards:

Tea.  Cake.  And memories.

Monday, 28 November 2016

A Three Reservoir Walk In May - 2: Getting In A Right Jumble

Onwards and downwards!

That was my immediate future.  I didn't mind.  Life has its low moments and it has its high moments too.  There is meaning in both and there is often more life in the valleys than on the hill tops.

I had reached the south end of Wayoh Reservoir, part way through a day of walking between three reservoirs on the border between Bolton (Greater Manchester) and Lancashire.  It was proving to be just the kind of day I needed.  My own company, hardly seeing another person.  To be among nature - even though in this case nature included three man made lakes.  To see the open sky and to be blessed by the light.

My path from here took me through the little village of Edgworth, Lancashire, and then along the stream running from Wayoh until I reached the Jumbles Reservoir.  Before leaving Wayoh I took another look across the valley at the view.  My immediate future was down.  But I knew that later in the day I would be standing on the hills I could see.  I looked forward to the up.  And to the down.

There's not much to be said about Edgworth, at least not as it pertains to this walk.  I passed through as quickly as possible, following the busy road.  I was momentarily tempted to change my plans completely and catch the bus that was due - a rare sight in the village - and explore somewhere unexpected.  My soft toy Blob Thing was amused by the names of places we passed that day.  He liked Wayoh.  He liked Jumbles.  But the highlight of his day was that before leaving the main road we had passed from Edgworth itself and into Turton Bottoms.  Blob Thing is easily amused.

On reaching the bottom of Bottoms we crossed the water before leaving the road behind to follow the water.  A signpost ahead told me in big letters that the footpath was closed due to a broken bridge.  That wasn't pleasing news.  The road route would be less than ideal for a quiet day and I knew that I had missed the infrequent bus.  Fortunately the signpost was a lapsed signpost.  It had lost its meaning just like the church no longer has relevant meaning for a lapsed Catholic.  Fortunately the path had officially reopened a few days earlier.  The bridge had obviously been repaired or replaced.

The way ahead was clear and we were soon in quieter surroundings - this water was only a few metres along the path.  I wonder where it all is now.  How far have the different molecules travelled in six months?  How many still swim in Jumbles?  [Can a molecule of water swim in water?]  How many have passed beyond to the sea?  And how many evaporated and dropped elsewhere as rain?  The life of a molecule is unpredictable.  It has many highs and lows.  But do you hear it complain?  Even in the death of the molecule, its transformation into another form, it is silent.

The surroundings improved further. This nicely paved path was a joy to walk along.  Everything was calming.  The reflections smiled and the trees sang their songs and chants.  Birds and insects followed their lives and somewhere out there, unseen, there may have been mammals hiding or sleeping.  The path buzzed with electric life and I breathed in a touch of freedom.

Continuing the walk, lest I were to end up reprinted in Pseud's Corner in Private Eye, I encountered this:

I suspect that the bridge had not been sufficiently repaired while the path had been closed!

Fortunately there was a pipe across the little stream so crossing was easy.  The main waterway is to the right of the photo.  It was only a little stream - without the pipe I'm sure I'd have found a jumping across point.  Or just used the broken bridge.  It looked safe enough.  Just broken.

Following the water downstream.  Isn't it gorgeous?  Don't you wish you were there.  It would feel very different of course right now.  Bare trees.  Cold air.  And starting to get dark as an early night falls across Lancashire.  I would still like to be there.

A little weir.  Enough said.  The sound helped clear my head further.  It wasn't like the torrent of a waterfall, where I would like to sit and just be still with that one sound in all it's variations.  I love the clarity of the waterfall and the way it excludes all other sounds.  Just that one noise.  A life noise.  Not the thousand death noises of the city streets.  I'm the same with the sea.  The noise and appearance of the sea is life for me.  It doesn't matter whether it's calm or a raging storm.  It's life for me and the moods of the ocean lift me whenever I allow them.

Next year I must see if I can seek out some excellent waterfalls.  When we lived in North Wales we had waterfalls I could get to relatively easily - and my mental health was such that I didn't grab hold of the opportunities enough.  To be exact, I grabbed them rarely.  Which is kind of a vicious circle.  Poor mental health leading to not going to the place that's good for my mental health leading to poor mental health.

This year has been a promising start to escaping from that cycle and I've been aided and abetted by my bus pass.  I've been able to go out more and not worry about spending the money we don't have.  It's been fantastic.  I still don't always grab hold of the opportunities.  There are still days on which I can't get out of course.  That's one thing.  But there are others on which I don't get out even though heading off on some wild adventure on a bus would be the best thing for me.  This year though I've seen more of the area in which I live than in the five years previously.  And I'm eager to see more.  To see it all!

Walking onwards from the weir that I wasn't going to say anything about, the water widened.  A rock face appeared opposite.  I was now at the north of the Jumbles Reservoir, opened in 1971.  The rocks opposite had once been a quarry.  The reservoir also covered a large complex of mills and some bleach works that didn't do much for the water quality.

The reservoir.  Very pretty.  I am told that it's even prettier in the autumn.  Maybe next year I'll find out for myself.

One distinct bonus of Jumbles Reservoir is that near the car park at the southern end - which is in Bolton, Greater Manchester - is a cafe.  I was very tempted to buy some lunch there even though I was carrying a smattering of food.  Tempted.  But I wanted to eat by the water instead.  I did treat myself to an ice cream though.  It was good - though not as good as the home made blackcurrant and liquorice ice cream sold in a shop in Southport.  There cannot be many ice creams as good as that one.

The path led across the water leading out of the reservoir and then my downward route came to and end, being replaced by an upward route.  As you might expect.  As the path rose back to the level of the water I was greeted by a tree.  A rather lovely tree.  And, as any regular reader will know, it doesn't take much to get me to take a photo of a tree.

The path then led along the other side of the reservoir.  I found a quiet spot to sit on a bench by the water.  Very quiet.  Nobody passed by as I ate.  I was happy.  Who could possibly complain about their life when it contained moments like these?  [I'll tell you who could.  Me.  That's who.]

Part way along the water my route took me away from Jumbles.  Wayoh and Jumbles had been life giving.  And the day wasn't over.  There's a third post to write about the day.  A third set of photos to make me smile with memories.

Onwards and upwards!

Friday, 25 November 2016

A Three Reservoir Walk In May - 1. Wayoh Reservoir, Lancashire

Yes.  I was staying in Greater Manchester again.  Perhaps not again, because my last post was about the same visit.  Friday had arrived and when I'm in Manchester and Friday arrives I know that I have to fend for myself.  That's not much of an issue as there are plenty of places to explore in dry weather.  And when visiting recently I discovered a great way to spend a day when it's pouring with rain.

Six months ago the day was going to be dry and I spent a while with online walk guides and planned myself a walk.  The idea was to catch a train to Entwistle, a request stop that doesn't feel like it's near anything particularly.  I would then walk down from the station to Wayoh reservoir, walk from the far end of that reservoir to the pleasingly named Jumbles reservoir, and from the far end of there over the hills and down again at the Turton and Entwistle reservoir which I would walk round before returning to the railway station where I had begun.

That's a longish walk for someone as unfit as me.  But I was as confident of completion as I was of having a stunning day walking (nearly) alone in (mainly) peaceful places.  Accompanying me would be my soft toy Blob Thing.  He wrote at that beginning of July about his experiences on the walk.  Now it's my turn.

I had caught a train to Entwistle once before, with Amanda.  We had taken a short walk and seen the first of the three reservoirs before returning to the station by another route.  That had been a good day - even though I suspect she further damaged her knee when we left the path.  The other happening when we left the path was that I gained a very long green scarf.  I saw something along a branch that looked like some kind of netting and I pulled it, discovering a very pretty but quite dirty garment.  I lifted the whole thing and put it in a bag to take home.  It was only then that I had noticed the remains of lots of candles around the scarf.  I reckon it was left there in some kind of ritual by some type of witches unknown.  I don't seem to have drawn down any curses upon myself for recovering something that must have been left to nature or the goddess as an offering.  I think I'm safe.

As I began my walk I remembered that earlier day and the laughter and joy we had shared together.  I like to remember glorious days.  And I like to experience more glorious things to remember, as best as I am able to go out and gain experiences.

I set off from the station.  The weather was an improvement from my first visit.  When we stepped off the train that day it was snowing.  No snow in May.  And no rain either.  I walked down the track and looked down the hill towards Wayoh reservoir.

The memories returned to me and I smiled.  At the bottom of the hill I followed the path once again towards the reservoir, crossing over the stream that feeds the lake.  I remembered that previous day and the joy on Amanda's face as she stood by that water and felt the elements on her face and hands and as she listened and watched everything and how the noise of the city seemed to fall away from her manner.  This time I had Blob with me instead, and his face is always a smile - and I'm not posting photos of him because he's already done that.

The path continued and the sky and the trees and the ground exuded wonder.  This morning I was experiencing the noise of central Newcastle.  The many people living their lives.  I passed a cafe where a group from the local philosophical society were meeting.  What would they say about the many people living their lives?  Would they cast doubts on that living?  Would they ask whether the many people were living examined lives?  Perhaps.

All I can say is that I have discovered that for me there is more life in walking along a path like this than there is on that city street.  There's nothing wrong with that street.  But the path and the air and the light and the lack of city noise vivifies me.  I have learned that - or relearned that - this year more than in any year previously.  And that gladdens me.

And so the path reached the reservoir.  That open expanse of water, artificially created to serve the needs of a city.  Artificial but no less beautiful.

I walked a little and sad for a moment on a bench.  It was there that Amanda and I had shared a simple lunch and noticed a card pinned to a tree with the inscription "This is NOT a cemetery."  I went and stood by the water.  Three ducks and a goose suddenly swooped down and landed at my feet.  Unless they were just happy to bask in my presence, an unlikelihood, they would have been disappointed.  I had little to feed them.  I had little to feed myself and it was well before lunchtime.

From that picnic site - a bench - my path deviated from the one I had taken before.  I continued the walk along the reservoir and where possible stopped and looked at the water and breathed in the life and light from my surroundings.

The path rose and rising up further from it was a broad field with the most wonderful display of yellow flowers.  A nearby noticeboard announced that this type of grassland is one of the rarest habitats in Britain.

Inevitably, I found another tree to take a photograph of.  Someone on facebook asked the other day whether tree hugging is a real thing.  I think it had been mentioned on a programme on television that I have never seen.  The answer?

Yes.  It is.  I do it.

I didn't hug this tree.  But I have been known to hug trees.  It's an amazing feeling to hold close to a tree and to be united with (or imagine it) the energy it possesses and to become more firmly rooted into the earth and into the life and wisdom and spectacular cycles of nature.

And so I approached the end of Wayoh reservoir.  The day was already being as much as I dreamed it would be.  I looked back across the water and forwards to the dam.

And both ways in a panorama of the scene.  The photos do not express the reality.  They are just pixels on a screen.  Pretty pixels hopefully.  But just pixels.  The reality transcends the pixels as much as a cube transcends the depth of a square.  I love to look back on my days.  But the days are where the source of life is to be found.

It's tempting to go off on one of my wild tangents about God - or the divine, source, Being - here.  Because for two decades I often fell into the temptation of seeking to find and know God (whatever that concept means) in a book or a belief.  God was not to be found there.

The book is like the pixels.  Whether that book is The Bible, The Qu'ran, The Bhagavad Gita, The Tao Te Ching, or any other sacred book.  It's like pixels.

As I share my days in posts on this blog I can use words to try to express what they meant to me.  I can give facts about the days.  I can give information about the places.  And I can try to use phrases to express a little of what it was like to live those days, a little of what those days did and do within my mind, my heart, my spirit.  And I can happily share some of the photos taken during those days.

But in the end they're all just combinations of letters and pixels.  They're not life.

I lived the life.  Just as you live your life.

The holy book is like this blog post.  It's not life.  You will never know from reading this post what it felt like to see the joy on Amanda's face.  You will never truly know what flowed through me as I watched the water and the sky or walked up a path and felt such passion upon unexpectedly discovering those fields of yellows and greens.  If I had the eloquence of Shakespeare or Wordsworth or Rumi you would still never truly know from my words.  If I had the brilliance to win photographic awards you would love my photos but would still not fully grasp them.

You will never find life by reading my words or looking at my pictures.

Just an echo of it.  Imperfectly expressed.

And you will never find God by reading a holy book.

Just an echo of the divine.  Imperfectly expressed.

Whatever the divine is, whoever the divine may be, you will only find clues in a book set down by other people.

Whatever the divine is, you will never find it until you live it.

God is eternal life, eternal energy and fire.  Not fragile paper and words from the mouths of dead people.

The divine is love and wonder and passion and the infinite.  Not a piece of paper.  Not a skilfully crafted poem.

God is THE WORD, not words.

Drat.  I fell into that temptation.

I will make amends by sharing one more photograph of Wayoh.

That's me that is!  No.  It's not me.  Of course it isn't.  It's just pixels and an approximation of my appearance.

Amanda complained about this photograph that I wasn't smiling brightly enough, too focused on trying to take the picture.  We have a way in which I am guaranteed to smile a very real smile for photographs.  It concerns Jesus.  And that's all I'm going to say about that!

Next time I'll share photographs of the walk to and around Jumbles Reservoir.  There will even be another photograph of me.  And another photograph of a tree.  Have I mentioned that I like trees?!

[1706 words]

Thursday, 24 November 2016

A Short Walk On The Manchester - Salford Border, 25th May 2016

It was the twenty-fifth of May.  Six months ago.

I was staying in Manchester at the time and on that day I would be heading off with my friend there to see the excitements of Southport, a place that we both appreciate.  It's a bit like our kind of Blackpool.  A Blackpool without so much noise and haste.  A much quieter tourist town with a much better variety of ice cream.


Much better.

We have walked through Blackpool together, past many of the tourist stalls on or near the sea front.  They sell ice cream.  It's true.  And they show off about how many varieties they sell.  Obviously each stall is content to not try to outdo any other stall in choice.  Because they will proudly display signs about their eight varieties.  Eight.

In Southport there are places with thirty varieties of ice cream and the whole set up feels a lot more clean too.  And there are places that sell liquorice ice cream and the two of us are great lovers of the black stuff.

So on that day we were going there again.  It was a great day.  We took many photos of the things we saw.  We took many photos of each other.  And our faces are full of smiles.

Our day of adventuring in Southport couldn't start at the start of the day though because my wonderful friend had to work for a while in the morning.

We arranged to meet up at Salford Central railway station and catch a train there and I dutifully caught a bus to meet her.  But this is me.  I catch buses early.  Giving plenty of time.  In cast something goes wrong.  Which with Manchester buses and Newcastle Metros isn't an unheard of situation.

I didn't want to be late.

I wasn't.

In fact I was a little over half an hour early.

What to do?  I could sit inside the station and try to read a book.  Or I could take my over-promptness as an opportunity.  To explore just a little more of the centre of Manchester.  I wouldn't be able to explore much - and six months on there is a vast amount I haven't yet seen or experienced.

But I could see something.  And something might be better than nothing.

So I didn't cross the road from the bus stop and enter the station.  Instead I turned a different way towards the view from the bus as it heads up from the station into the centre of Manchester on its sometimes slow route to Piccadilly or Shudehill.

I only had minutes.  And these photos are from the fruit of those minutes.

The Left Bank.  Here you will find the People's History Museum which is worth visiting, some odd architectural combinations, and a cafe that looks promising for a drink sometime.

Heading out of frame to the left of photo you would find the law courts before reaching the junction with Deansgate, a very busy shopping street to the left and a slightly quieter street to the right - a direction that will also take you to some roman ruins, the current tallest building in the city, and to one of the canals and the start of a most excellent walk.

The statue - which I'd been wondering about since first passing it in October 2015 - is of Joseph Brotherton who was a social campaigner in the first half of the 19th century.  He was also a prominent vegetarian and started the first vegetarian soup kitchen.

A photo below is of a Brotherton quotation, found in a nearby office doorway.

I'm sure the political and moral theorists among you could discuss the quotation at length.

The view from the bus.  Or at least from the path passed by the bus.

I'm not going to talk about most of the following pictures.  They're self explanatory.  Views up the river.  Views down the river.  Views of bridges.  Views from bridges.  There may be plenty more of them.  Blob Thing is currently posting about a walk we took along part of the course of the River Irwell - this same river.  Not far downstream from here the river runs into the Manchester Ship Canal and that's that.  It forms an important division here:

On your left, the city of Manchester.

On your right, the city of Salford.

Returning to the road running past Salford Central, I was still too early to meet my excellent friend.

So I walked the other way, through Spinningfields.  Pedestrianised streets filled with bars and cafes and offices rising above.  All quite normal and sociable.  Plus there was this.  Crazy golf.

And back to the Irwell again, crossing by another bridge.

I was glad to have walked along and crossed there because I looked down.  To a section of path that had been closed, I think in consequence of the flooding at the start of the year.  When walking along the Irwell in places you can still see rubbish carried by the flood, metres higher than the waterline stuck in the trees and bushes above.

And on the section of path I saw a couple of artistic endeavours that brought me some cheer.

Finally it was time to meet my friend.  She was on time.  So it was fortunate that I wasn't late.

We bought our train tickets and walked into the station.  The view back down to the road is a good one.

There was a time that Salford Central had more platforms and more tracks.  Any railway enthusiasts may know the story of the lines.  Looking across the barriers at the station you can still see the course of the old lines.

So my spare half an hour had been filled profitably.  There is often a great deal to see if we would just look.  I was glad to have seen a little more of the two cities, Salford and Manchester.  Just a very little.  Six months later I have not walked along those paths again for there are so many more paths and roads to walk in the area.  I am really only at the very beginning of my exploration.

Monday, 21 November 2016

A Photographic Trip Round Saint George's Church, Jesmond, Newcastle Upon Tyne

Blob Thing has been writing about his trip to see Saint George's Church in Jesmond, Newcastle.  The first half of his account can be found here.  Though he's written about it today the trip actually took place at the end of June.  I'm really not quite sure why we were walking through Jesmond past the church but I'm pretty sure that Blob's theory about the streets changing their configuration to confuse us wasn't what really happened.

I'd often heard that St. George's is an attractive church, full of interesting things, but I'd never got round to visiting it.  On that day, since we were passing, we decided to go in.  Or were we intentionally passing it?  Five months later I have no idea.  But I do have lots of photos of the place.

Five months ago I also picked up a leaflet telling me about most of what you'll see in these pictures. 

Do I know what happened to that leaflet?

Of course not.

So can I manage to give you any useful information about the church and its contents?

Of course not.

If you want to know what anything is I can only suggest that you pay a visit to the church and find out for yourself.  I'd recommend the trip.  And from there it's only a short walk either to cafes or to the prettiness of Jesmond Dene, a beautiful spot paid for by Lord Armstrong who provided employment for many in and around Newcastle and got extremely rich too.

Much of that wealth was obtained in the traditional British manner:  Arms dealing across the world.

His company even kept up that lofty tradition of selling arms to both sides in a war, in this case the American Civil War.  A true Brit!

Lots of people died through the use of Armstrong's weaponry and warships.  And he had no qualms or worries about making the tools of death.  He wasn't worried that making the weapons of war would cause the interests of humanity to suffer.  Did arming the Japanese against the Russians cause such suffering?  Did arming the Americans against each other cause such suffering?  I'll leave you to make up your own minds or to argue the outrageous slings and arrows of history.

On the plus side - at least for people here - his ship yard employed 25,000 people, he founded Newcastle University, helped fund the Hancock Museum and pushed for the use of renewable energy.  His heir coughed up the cash to build the Royal Victoria Infirmary.  The proceeds of death bringing life.

And he gave us a couple of parks that I like to walk through.

But none of that is pertinent to this post.  All I have for you here are photographs taken at the end of June at Saint George's Church, Jesmond.  The church has been a worshipping community since 1888 and is a parish of the Church of England with worship in the catholic (high church) tradition.  The building was paid for by Charles Mitchell, a member of the parish, who was a business partner of the above mentioned Lord Armstrong.  There is glass by T. R. Spence and the altar is by Ralph Hedley.  There is a blue plaque commemorating Headley in Spital Tongues.  Something for me to go and see one day and to create a little adventure round.

With no further delay, let the photographs commence.