A while ago we went back to Hawes ( in a lovely part of North Yorkshire in case you didn’t know).

Years ago, we had ended up staying there in a last minute booking in a pub which took dogs. 

When we came downstairs ( after that delicious moment when you take your boots off after a good day’s walking) we found the bar was fully carpeted in dogs.

Bigs ones, little ones, working ones, mutts, proper sheepdogs, waggy tails, bored resignation faces and all with waitresses adeptly stepping over them with full plates in their hands.

The Best Beloved loved it, so our recent trip was a bit of a pilgrimage – though we actually stayed in a rented cottage nearby.

The pub has moved on since we were there – something the BB always disproves of as everywhere should stay as he fondly remembers it.

There was real carpet, and fewer dogs. Ah well.

Anyway, we decided to play by ear where we should stay heading back down south, after all last minute Hawes (those many years) ago had worked out fine……

So, I booked a room for the following night in South Yorkshire hotel. 

Should have read the reviews, taken just a bit more time in sussing it out and where is was, taking good note that it didn’t serve food, mention of karaoke, the website saying it had been recently re-furbished in 2015…..

But we had a rendezvous with a pilgrimage pint, so I was not as assiduous as I should have been – not by a long chalk.

We arrived and parked on the run down road in the run down town, and heard the music from quite a long way away.

I went in to find it very, very busy given that it was early evening on a Sunday. No one seem riveted to the four large sky screens in the bar which was strange as trying to have a conversation over the music was impossible.

Suffice it to say in order to hear what I was saying to her ( ‘sorry we are not staying’), the nice young woman behind the bar had to usher me down a corridor into the function room…..

But then we got lucky.

Sitting in the car madly Googling dog friendly pubs with rooms nearby with immediate availability, the BB found the Dog and Partridge in Flouch ( no, I had never heard of Flouch either which is probably not surprising as it seems to be in the middle of nowhere but with the A628 to Manchester running directly outside.)

Inside, it was wood floors, log fires, a herd of young farmers, a walking group, nice good, comfortable room (the last one they had – phew) and effective double glazing so the A628 was like a film backdrop.

And out the back is moorland as far as the eye can see. 

Imagine Daphne Du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn only in the North and run by thoughtful, kind, efficient, nice people.

We were sitting doing some of the back catalogue of Wordle, when a couple stopped and proffered a semi-drunk bottle of wine. 

They were on a tour of the country as part of a significant wedding anniversary celebration and had had more champagne than meant they could finish the wine.

Oh well, it would have been a shame to waste it. And of course, we got chatting.

In one of those amazing coincidences, he had been brought up in a village three miles from us.

Anyway, the next morning the view was not evident on account of it lashing with rain, wind and cloud so low you could touch it.

I didn’t have to, but would have been willing to beg to be allowed to stay another night instead of facing hours of driving down the ever-unlovely M1 dealing with lorry spray, lane-hogging, windscreen wipers on fast.

So, there we stayed.

Walkers had about an hour’s worth of discussion about whether they should abandon that day’s leg of their walk. They did and left.

The anniversary couple set off for Scarborough with (a vain) hope that the weather would be better over there.

And the three of us had the place to ourselves only being interrupted to ask if we needed more tea.

Bliss.

It is rare to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon looking at a potential murder scene – well in my life it is.

I went to the local horticultural society’s summer show. The first time I had been as it happens.

Yes it is a village event but runs to rather strict Royal Horticultural Society rules which can cause some upset.

(When I entered a quiche in spring show, I was marked down for my edges not being neatly enough crimped. Just saying.)

Anyway there it was.

An Agatha Christie novel in the making.

The village were all there. New vicar complete with dog collar and firm handshake, and the vicar’s wife. Ladies in their florals talking coyly about their winning dahlias or roses, or floral decorations, or jams.

There was apparently severe annoyance at the disqualification of a bunch of onions because they were tied together with an elastic band, not raffia, allowing someone’s arch rival to steal the gold.

Children eating ice creams, dogs, men in blazers and panama hats, women running the tea stall and tombola.

It was straight out of the 1930s only with serried ranks of four x fours parked round the cricket pitch – yes of course there was a cricket pitch.

A few friends, having a drink a few days later, started plotting the story. That will keep us going every other Tuesday through the winter.

You may, or then again may not, remember that I had a boat stolen from the Oxfam window display.

I set out to find a replacement. Given that these model boats were individually handmade and each was different, it was never going to be an exact replacement but I did hope I could find one which would look as nice – in our sitting room I hasten to add, need again would I risk something as valuable to me in the Oxfam window.

Anyway, I needed to find the shop in Corfu where we had bought it – along with a pair of earrings and icky had kept the earrings in their box which had a hone number on it.

But the number rang and rang and though I tried to leave a message, there was no response. I also sent an email having got what I hoped was the right email address – but nothing.

So, I went the old-fashioned way of hunting – the stuff I did as a young journalist many many moons ago when typewriters were the order of the day.

I would have contacted the ex-pat English ‘speaking’ newspaper – bound to be one on an island like Corfu, so long popular with the British.

These days though it was online.

So I contacted them to ask if they knew about these boats and how I might get in touch. They didn’t but suggested I posted something on the facebook group Corfu Grapevine.

So much for old-fashioned hunting then.

I did and was hugely gratified by the response.

There were people who thought they knew the shop, to those offering to hunt around in the old town to find it, to someone who said she was going to Corfu for five weeks and would bring back a boat if one was located.

Then I got an email from the very nice Elli who said the boat-maker had retired and stopped making boats for sale but that he had a few left and would send me some photos.

He apologised for the delay in replying but said there had been a few English people coming in and asking about the boats for someone back in England who had had one stolen.

My lovely Corfu expats basically nagged him into action.

The Best Beloved and I decided on a boat and within a week, Elli had it packed up into a box which would have practically contained a life sized boat, and sent it to deepest Sussex.

And with thanks to complete strangers who restored my faith dented by the Oxfam thief, here she is.

I got a bit interested in churches, monasteries and similar stuff whilst on Sifnos – not least because there are a lot of them.

But it turns out that accurate and consistent information on them is hard to come by.

Not least just how many there are – Wikipedia says 360, and rather inaccurately, the author says, ‘as per days in the year.’ 

Whilst the Sifnos website says there are 237.

Anyway, both agree that is more than any other island in the Greek Cyclades.

If you are already bored, please do feel free to leave.

I had it on shaky authority that there are only four full-time priests on the island but my informant, by his own admission, takes very little interest in all things religious.

The local bar owner, however, said, ‘Maybe about 10 priests.’

(Given that a significant proportion of the population leave the island once the season is over – to travel, put their feet up in Athens, shake the dust of tourists off their heels – perhaps four priests are enough and the other six can also put their feet up.)

Both my informants, along with many, many others will be at the famous church in Chrysopigi on Thursday – sadly the day after we have left – to welcome the icon of Panagia (Mary) who arrives by boat from the island’s main port, Kamares.

I had imagined a decorated traditional boat with a band of the faithful bringing it into the Chrysopigi, but apparently, and more prosaically, it comes on a ferry making a detour before heading back to take passengers to Piraeus.

The traditional ritual which is followed is kept unchanged throughout the years and the custom is guarded with great respect. Each year, a member of the church has the fortunate fate of being selected to keep and preserve for one whole year the sacred illustration of Panagia; this is considered a great honour and a blessing for that person, who is in charge of taking care of the picture and making sure that it is maintained in the best way possible. And when the day that the name of Panagia is celebrated comes, he/she has the responsibility not only to undertake the whiting and the adornment of the church, but also the expenses for the whole panigiri, including the food and the wine, offered.

So, just to be clear, that is the responsibility and cost of a meal of traditional chickpea stew, then lamb and sweet things, plus wine and etc etc. and for a lot of people…..whitewashing inside and out and putting up the bunting.

The food part of the event is called ‘the love table’.

I’ll bet it is.

Apparently, there is a long waiting list for this honour…….

I checked this out with the local bar owner and she said yes indeed there was a list. The numbers were picked by something like a tombola and if you ‘won’ you could say thanks but no thanks, ‘ I do no have the economy to do that.’ or yea bring it on.

The icon of Panagia Chrysopigi, which is a true treasure for the Sifnians, was found in the sea by fishermen during the Iconomachia period and was transferred to the holy rock where her Temple was built on the site of a pre-existing temple. It is even said that as many times as they tried to transfer her to another temple, the Virgin became unliftable like a pencil. 

I am certainly not in any position to challenge anyone working in another language but a pencil? (Perhaps the lead of the pencil?)

And, in case you were wondering about why you didn’t recall the Iconomachia period: 

The term originates from the Byzantine Iconoclasm, the struggles between proponents and opponents of religious icons in the Byzantine Empire from 726 to 842 AD.

Iconoclasm was largely an Eastern Christian conflict. Western Christianity never became seriously concerned with it, to the delight of art historians.

So, as the patron saint of the island Mary splintered her little promontory from the headland the prevent pirates of some sort ‘attacking’ devout women.

She stopped the plague twice and in 1927 after her icon procession, the locusts plaguing in the island upped and left.

And, she is responsible for ‘many miracles of healing from incurable diseases, but above all miracles of spiritual rebirth and moral regeneration.’

But enough of the glam Panagia.

On my morning walk there is a church, of course there is, on a headland but it is shut like so many others dotted across the landscape, and not one of the many monasteries has a monk to be found.

I am told, that each and every one of these churches are maintained by volunteers (according to one source ) or diocese-paid workers ( according to another.)

My bar owner said each church, however remote, was looked after by one family, and ‘my’ church was looked after by the Stavros family ‘they live in the big houses up the road.’

Given the immaculate state of ‘my’ church, they do a good job.

And each church has to have one service every year to remain registered as a church.

Never mind Chrysopigi, I’d love to be here when the tiny gem of ‘my’ church had its annual service, but I get the feeling these services might be locals-only events.

One of the great things about working at the Garden Shows is the birds of prey.

( There are lots of things actually: enticing ways to spend your wages on everything from bulbs to handmade jewellery, clothes, sausages made by ex-offenders and I recommend the fennel ones. The great group of crew and organisers, the many nice stallholders and the generally appreciative visitors in their hundreds and on a good day, thousands.)

But it is a special delight to watch these amazing birds in action.

So, they are housed for the day in mesh tents and you can go and learn about them from their trainers/keepers.

Then they fly.

Once, just once as it happens, we had a stallholder who had a wedding business bringing a flock of doves to fly around your ceremony. When he mentioned that he let them out so potential customers could see them in action, I had  to make sure he knew when it would be a very, very bad time to do that.

And once one of the birds of prey went awol and her tracker ran out of battery. She was only located in a nearby village when someone posted on Mumsnet, ‘does anyone know what this really big bird on my bird feeder is?’

Mostly though they are very well behaved, not worried by an audience – indeed quite pleased to show off it seems.

Luke who owns the centre where they live, and flies them, is knowledgeable, assured, gives a really interesting running commentary on what they are doing, how they fly and their habits.

He is a man who knows what he is doing.

This year he brought a sea eagle along.

‘She is new to all this,’ he said, ‘And at the moment not at all sure she wants to be involved.’

‘She’ll fly to the gauntlet but if she’s not amused a cross bird of that size, flying at speed, onto your arm makes her point.’

Over the three days of the show, he let her out first on a leash and just let her survey the crowd.

On the second day, he let her fly on a long leash – though he did have to ask the parents of a small child running across the grass to ‘remove temptation.’

And on the last day, he let her fly free though I have to say it was a rather sulky flight and she spent a bit of  time ostentatiously sitting in a tree looking anywhere but at either Luke or the rest of us.

On the Saturday, Luke said to me he needed to get away promptly as he had to go to a hen party.

‘Wow,’ I said, ‘ birds of prey at a hen party – that’s novel.’

Luke said, ‘ Oh you don’t know do you? My other life is as a drag queen.’

Well you could have knocked me down with a falcon’s feather.