It was in the evening, just before the sun fell and dusk set in, that i packed my bags and went. A
short jaunt to the cemetery, to see some old friends.
I never knew my great-uncle and -aunt, but their name still holds some worth; their middle name and
surnames i was bestowed at birth. I searched fruitlessly through the old graves, filled with fallen
war-time knaves, but finally, by a bench and basket of waste, i found the coupleâs resting place.
I didnât think it would affect me so much, but just at the sight i felt the touch of a salty trickle
running down my cheeks. I knelt and felt i could weep for weeks. As evening turned to dusk and dusk
turned to night, i jotted down the words inscribed in white:
We often think of bygone days when we were all together
The family chain is broken now but memories live forever
I recently had some downtime and, since âtis the season, watched Censor, a small British
horror film about a film censor during the âvideo nastyâ panic who investigates a strangely familiar
scene.
Itâs tense, stylish, and scary â all the more impressive coming from its first-time director, Prano
Bailey-Bond â becoming more and more surreal the further it progresses. Give it a watch, why donât
you?
The family and i went to a local food-and-craft market at Pontelandâs garden centre this morning. I
thought iâd send letters of recommendation for some of the stalls.
Urban Bakery, from Gateshead, make the most decadent cinnamon buns iâve ever had.
Mrs Bâs Kitchen, from Durham, sells jams, conserves, chutneys, honey, sauces â all the things you ever need in the
top drawer of your fridge. (I got the rhubarb and raspberry.)
Hops and Dots, of Bishop Auckland, make âaccessible craft beerâ with Braille on the labels.
Wilde Farm, of Ponteland, are ostensibly running the whole thing, and sell... you know, farm things. Carrots,
veg, burgers, sausages, turkey â you get the idea. Theyâre currently taking
orders for the winter holidays.
MÄłn oma was een enthousiaste maker van plakboeken en collageâs. Samen met de schilderijen, antieke
kasten en kitscherige hondenstandbeeldjes droeg de muren van haar huis kleine collagetjes van grote
momenten in haar leven en de mijne.
Ik heb het gevoel dat we iets verloren hebben. De topresultaten voor âminimalist livingg roomâ op Google Afbeeldingen, bijvoorbeeld, vertellen je bijna niks over de persoon die daar woont:
Vergelijk die met deze meer rommelige zaken, gevuld met boeken, tapijten, foto's en dergelijke, en
het verschil is als dag en nacht:
Tja, misschien ben ik gewoon chagrijnig en nostalgisch. Wat denken jullie?
When i was just a bairn, my oma was an avid scrapbooker and collage-maker. Dotted around the walls,
alongside the paintings, antique cupboards, and kitschy statues of dogs, were little collaged images
of every important moment in her life â and mine.
Just by looking around her house, you could instantly get a sense of who she was, and what she cared
about. (Her dogs. She cares a lot about her dogs.) It was disorganised, it was a wee bit cluttered â
but it was hers.
Todayâs trends are rather different. Some time after the great recession (when it became,
understandably, somewhat gauche to display how much Stuff you owned), the style
du jour turned to blank, white walls, with spare tables and maybe (if you were lucky) the
occasional potted plant. As this bareness took over, i canât help but feel something was lost.i
The top results for âminimalist living roomâ on Google Images, for example, tell you almost nothing
at all about the person who might be living there:
Compare with these more cluttered affairs, filled with alkin books, rugs, photos, and the like, and
the difference in the amount of personality that shines through is like night and day:
I donât know. Maybe iâm just grumpy and nostalgic. What do you think?
TIL that subwoofers are just the bottom end of a whole range of
animal-noise terms for speakers. Subwoofers are the biggest and bassiest, but then you have woofers,
squawkers, tweeters, and even
supertweeters! Neat.
Last time on The Garden: A strip mall turns out to be a place of immense historical curiosity, i am interrupted by a
rude troupe of boy racers, and find myself caught up in the lyrics of a pro-union folk song.
Leaving Seghill, going past a house with a conspicuous
Northumbrian flag, the
landscape once again slips swiftly back into ruralia â a common occurrence on this leg of the
journey. No sooner had i left behind the station house than i found myself on a dirt path which i
wasnât quiiiite sure i was meant to be on.
This was the small hamlet of Mare Close, essentially a farmhouse surrounded by a few cottages. I
have a sneaking suspicion that everyone living there has been friends since primary school, though
i'll never know for sure. Opposite the cottages, by the next leg of my route, lay a
small village church and
graveyard which i dared not enter. Onwards.
Seaton Delavalα sits at the heart of the valley. Turning
one way, there lies a charming local coöperative store, a
genuine lordly manor (owned by
the townâs namesake De la Val family, who came over after 1066), the
previously-blogged village of Holywell, and, eventually,
the seaside settlement of Seaton Sluice.ÎČ Unfortunately, weâll be turning
the other way, by where once stood a colliery.
The former site of Delavalâs station can hardly be considered a sight for sore eyes. Cars and
lorries pass by, horns blaring, trying to weave their way between those turning into the nearby
petrol station.Îł The location of the station itself is an uninspiring gravel
pit on one site with an overgrown nettle-filled path on the other; next door is a chain pub whose
car park will be getting embiggened to accommodate the extra traffic once the railway reopens.
16 January, 1862. Itâs half past ten â or, at least, it might be. Youâve been labouring
away in the coal pit since two in the morning, and youâve not seen the sun since. The shift is
almost over, and itâs time to swap over with the next group.
One by one, your comrades file in line to get out. A huddle of people enter the rusting lift. The
familiar ketter-ketter-ketter shudders through the cave â but then, for a fraction of a
second, all falls silent.
Your heart races. A drop of water falls from the ceiling. Nobody makes a sound.
And then, all of a sudden, it is as though Thorâs hammer has crashed
into the ground. The earth around you shakes in terror, lets out what can only be described as an
otherworldly scream, as ten tonnes of blood-red steel smash into the floor.
This was the
Hartley Pit disaster, and its shockwaves can still be heard across town.
Just across from the telltale jackhammers and yellow tape of a housing estate so new Google Maps
hasnât caught up yetΔ sits a lovely memorial garden, explaining the story of
the tragedy, with a poem to contemplate as you ramble along the path.
In terms of stations, the town has had two â Hartley and Hartley Pit â both right next to each
other, and neither seeming to have any chance of reopening.
I was a bit anxious about continuing on, because there were several serious-looking men in hard-hats
and high-vis jackets, but they didnât seem to mind. They really, really should have tried to stop me
from going to where i was going next.
Coming up on The Garden: your author tries not to disturb some horses, desperately tries to avoid going to fucking
Blyth, and accidentally sneaks in a brief trip to Durham. I promise, it makes sense in
context.
Tja, volgens mij zal datums op een dag dubbelzinning worden. âEhhh â waren die de links van 27
oktober 2021, of 27 oktober 2032?â Het is tijd om de telling opnieuw te beginnen. Welkom, iedereen,
bij het Internetassortiment!
Look â reader, i understand this about as much as you do. It just popped up in my recommendations
one day. I watched the entire series of videos this is apparently a part of, and i still donât feel
like i get it. Something about James Dean and evil national landmarks?
This is one of the better-done things in the recent wave of âanalogue horrorâ that has been
circulating the interwebs â short, spooky videos taking inspiration from late-night public
television or other media of the past. I just think it's neat. Anyone else want to go through the
WASHINGTONWORMHOLE?
I've decided that the only people who are allowed to do the Youtuber voice are the
Vlogbrothers. Everyone else has to learn to talk like a normal human being.
It often feels like, as soon as the calendar ticks over from 22 to 23 September, that autumn, having
hidden its face for months upon months, all of a sudden decides to come out all at once. Auburn
leaves begin to fall, telling the time until winter like an hourglass; the days get shorter and the
nights come earlier, the air gets that particular autumn crispness, and, of course, it begins to
rain.i
Not that iâm complaining. Autumn is, in my view, the most wonderful season of the year: yes, summer
is nice and warm, and winter is the time for comfort and gezelligheid with family and
friends, but autumn is when our festivities are perhaps the closest to how they were millennia ago.
Echoes of the last harvest festivals of the year still ring (school assemblies for the young,
pumpkin spice for the jaded), and whatever you want to call it â Halloweâen, All Hallowsâ Eve,
SamhÂain, Day of the Dead â the atmosphere about that midautumn celebration
beats even Christmas for the best time of the year; for a whole month, the western world lets itself
get a little morbid for a changeii, and the celebrations have the good sense
to get out of the way quietly once November shuffles along.
So. Happy autumn, everyone! Enjoy it while it lasts.