A short diversion, dear listener. We’ve had a lot of weird books here recently, so we’re lurchering today. We’re going east, in fact, to the North Sea and the long sands of the Holderness coast. And you get longdog photos, as well as some pontificating about folklore in the Wolds. Huzzah! Puppies…

Though it’s not exactly puppies, only Django and Chilli charging around (all pics are clickable for a larger size, by the way). Every summer we let them loose on the shores and in the rolling fields of the Wolds, where we rarely see another dog and they don’t need their muzzles. Nidderdale, where we normally like to go, is sheep country. The longdogs are fine with stationary or ambling sheep, but start to look over-excited if a sheep runs, and we don’t risk things like that. The car-boot isn’t big enough to smuggle large quantities of mutton.

Much of the coastal Wolds is straightforward agricultural land – wheat, barley and potatoes, and there are so many sandy stretches and coves that there’s always somewhere free. We also go there for the hundreds of caves and strange rocky formations. This is partly for the editor-in-chief to take photos, partly because we assume that one day we’ll find a bearded thug dragging a case of old rifles out of a cave. Then we’ll be in the newspapers, with a quote saying that he’d have got away with it if it wasn’t for those meddling dogs.

Chilli has some sort of internal switch – as soon as her paws hit sand, she goes wild and charges around, trying to get Django to run and play immediately. And Django is a doofus. He sniffes bushes, clumps of grass, potters around and only later realises that he could be playing cavalry.

But he does like the sea, even though he still can’t work out why it tastes funny. He’s a happy splasher, not an Olympic swimmer, running after bits of seaweed, throwing water up in the air with his long muzzle and generally being Djangoid.

Cliffs are the editor-in-chief’s other delight. This is handy, as greydog himself is severely acrophobic and has fits just watching other people teeter on the edge of 300 foot sheer drops. So dogs and old man hide in the long grass whilst Eagle Scout One careens around near edges.

“Oooh, look, I can see seals! Is that a seal right under this crumbling cliff edge with huge warning notices on it?”

“Maybe. Yes. I don’t know. Aaargh.” the bold writer replies, cowering on his knees.

As Chilli also likes climbing cliffs, and does so every time we look in another direction, it is clear that only two of the four of us have any real sense. Or, looking at Django upside down in his chair, perhaps one and a half of us.

We went to view the Gypsey Race as well, the river which spells doom or great events to come when it rises in full flood. Often a lot of it is underground, but then it rises suddenly and covers its whole run for a while. JLG himself mingled blood with the ‘Woe Water’ when he was a child, impaling his foot on a spike on its bed, and is thus destined to sink down every so often and almost disappear – although this may be something to do with his slipped disc.

“(The Gypsey Race) ran as a flood before the Black Death, before the Civil War, at the execution of Charles the First, in 1861 the year of the bad harvest, the two World Wars and also the bad winters of 1947 and 1962.

“But in 1530 it was lucky for Prior Willy from Bridlington when he was chased by wicked fairy types at Willy Howe because he managed to jump his horse over the stream and escape his pursuers (fairy folk can’t cross over fast-flowing water!) The stream also gave a good fortune to Queen Henrietta Maria when she sheltered in its banks at Beck Hill from cannon balls whilst in Bridlington in 1632.”

Bridlington Free Press

The Prior above would presumably have been William Browneflete, who was confirmed in his office in 1521. Willy Howe is a fairly well-known tumulus/barrow mound in the area, though no conclusive remains have ever been found in it, and some suggest that it might have been used as a ceremonial spot or meeting place rather than for a specific burial. There are many tales about it – this one’s from William of Newburgh’s 12^th Century History of English Affairs (a good source for all sorts of weird lore)

“A certain rustic… going to see his friend, who resided in the neighbouring hamlet, was returning, a little intoxicated, late at night; when, behold, he heard, as it were, the voice of singing and revelling on an adjacent hillock, which I have often seen, and which is distant from the village only a few furlongs. Wondering who could be thus disturbing the silence of midnight with noisy mirth, he was anxious to investigate the matter more closely; and perceiving in the side of the hill an open door, he approached, and, looking in, he beheld a house, spacious and lighted up, filled with men and women, who were seated, as it were, at a solemn banquet.

“One of the attendants, perceiving him standing at the door, offered him a cup: accepting it, he wisely forbore to drink; but, pouring out the contents, and retaining the vessel, he quickly departed. A tumult arose among the company, on account of the stolen cup, and the guests pursued him; but he escaped by the fleetness of his steed, and reached the village with his extraordinary prize. It was a vessel of an unknown material, unusual colour, and strange form: it was offered as a great present to Henry the elder, king of England and then handed over to the queen’s brother, David, king of Scotland, and deposited for many years among the treasures of his kingdom; and, a few years since, as we have learnt from authentic relation, it was given up by William, king of the Scots, to Henry II, on his desiring to see it.”

Sadly the Race was low, and somewhat odiferous around Beck Hill where Henrietta Maria sheltered, so we let it sink again and went off with the longdogs to find more sand, most of which came back in the car.

We have urgent reading and writing to do, so must stagger off. See you in a couple of days with curios and curiosities, but no cats…