MENTION of the roadside gravestones on the side of the A64 between Sherburn and Potter Brompton prompted Bob Cass of Birdsall to give me a call, for he knew about this, and over an hour later we were still chattering about it and other things. Octogenarian Bob has a remarkable memory for the little interesting things that all go together and make up a lifetime, and I could have listened to him for another hour! I had previously mentioned the various tales which encompassed this gravestone, and throughout his life, Bob has always understood this to be the last resting place of a huntsman's horse which died on this spot, and whilst I was under the impression that I was giving the definitive answer, Bob feels that we shall only really know what lies there if we dig it up to see which, as he says, won't ever be done. Thus are old local legends perpetuated which is a wonderful thing about the countryside.

He tells me of another hunter buried at Birdsall, being the mount of the late Lord Middleton, by the name of Raggy, and which lies just beyond the estate office. I know not if there is a stone to mark the spot, but no doubt locals will know the exact place.

Always a joker, he told me of the huge beech tree on the roadside facing Birdsall House. A tree with a twisted trunk due to a heavy branch which, blown incessantly by the prevailing wind, has gradually caused the trunk to twist. Two 'gentle-ladies' stopping to admire this old tree were quite taken-up with the twisted trunk, and wondered why, and Bob who just happened to be on the spot at the time told them, that as children he, and his pal knew the tree as a sapling, and one day, just for fun, twisted the branches together, "... and that's why it's like it is today" he told them. They were very impressed, and he left them, still gazing at it with interest, especially in view of the knowledge they now possessed.

There is a general feeling throughout the country that the government and the judiciary have let the people down by cow-towing to the EU. The latest travesty is that of the market traders who sold fruit by the 'pound', instead of kilos, and have lost their case. The way we are going is in utter disregard for the desires of the average man and woman in this island, many millions of whom put their lives on the line to save our way of life, and many millions gave their lives in the same struggle, yet here we are being 'sold out' to foreigners who all at once become our masters. This is no longer an English, or British way of life, but more of a subjugated nation, and who is to stop this avaricious steam-roller on its ill-conceived journey which continues to line the pockets of the thousands who heap on the coal. Many fortunes are being made out of this horrendous affair, for which the man-in-the-street provides the finance. Stop the world! I want to get off.

From happier days come a memory from 'Uppabackadoonyonda, Besomdale'. Which of course just has to be Willy, for I had mentioned that I hadn't heard from him for a while, and it's great to know he's alive and kicking.

He tells me the legend of Willie fra Stape which appeared weekly, pre-war, and which I can even recall my parents reading each week. There was a bread shop in Pickering, so Willy tells me, run by a gent named Charles Headley. A 'hole in the wall' sort of shop says Willy who earned many a penny fetching bread from there. Mr Headley himself, wearing his white pinny and bowler hat, would deliver bread, which he carried in a large wicker basket over his arm, and it was a sort of open secret that he was the 'proper' Willie fra Stape. No proof, says Willy, but just ask the few folk left who remember him, and they will agree.

Willy (fra Besomdale) is really today's successor to the other Willie and his dialect letters, all of which I have saved, are a delight to stumble through, and when I see that address at the top I know I'm in for instant pleasure. Another character. He and Bob Cass should get together.

Charles Headley's shop had a sloping roof, and the site remains to this day at the junction of Potter Hill and Westgate.

And just for a bit of verbatim from Willy's letter I give you: "Ez thu can see, ah can't write ower weel dutit fingers clenchin up a bit. Ah can't type ower weel eartha bit leark ont. Ooiver, ahve typed it slowly cos maybe thus can't read over fast." Thanks Willy - lovely to hear from you.

Just a thought: "This is a court of law, young man, not a court of justice" Oliver W Holmes Jr. (1841-1935)

Updated: 12:03 Thursday, March 07, 2002