Muddle and Get Nowhere

In my native Norfolk in 1893, a number of small railway companies that over the previous fifteen years, under a variety of names, had linked communities in equally varying combinations, were amalgamated to form the Midland and Great Northern Joint Railway Company.  This was operated jointly by the Midland Railway and the Great Northern Railway; it was universally known as M&GN, and affectionately as 'Muddle and Get Nowhere'.  Although having no connection whatsoever with railways, this week for me fits that title admirably.  It's been quite enjoyable in parts, I have to admit, but not greatly productive.

As an example, at the start of the week, I presented my new insurance certificate, which was copied and submitted to the driver admin people.  On Thursday an e-mail was received, pointing out that the word 'Courier' didn't appear on it, so could I provide other evidence confirming that this was indeed the intended meaning of '... and the policyholder's business'.

On Tuesday morning, I was supposed to collect one tyre from a local company at 8.30 to be taken to Kent.  I was given another job - 'available at 9.30, but perhaps you can get it earlier' - to go with it.  After nearly an hour's investigation, interrogation, and numerous phone calls, it was finally established that the tyre was supposed to be collected from the company's depot in another town, and I was left with the second job, which by then I had picked up at a nearby factory.

As I began this present stretch of three weeks of work, I realised that the MOT on the motorhome would expire before my next week off, so I arranged for this to be done, along with an annual service, on Monday.  After (as I thought at the time) dealing with the van insurance, I took the motorhome to the garage, saying that I'd collect it between jobs later in the week.  I eventually collected it after returning from the Kent delivery on Tuesday afternoon.  It had failed the first test, simply because the horn wasn't working.  Once the electrical contacts had been cleaned, it passed second time around.

Both Wednesday and Thursday mornings were spent at home, as I waited for work.  Although not actually wasted, because I managed other things, it was frustrating, especially as I looked back to such full and flowing days only a few weeks ago.  There was more frustration when I picked up a job on Thursday afternoon which should have had borne a bar-code.  This would require different treatment with my hand-held device, and the job had been set up that way.  With no bar-code to scan, this was extremely difficult; although I eventually managed to record that I'd got the box on board, there was no way it was going to accept a signature for it when I made the delivery.  I had to phone the office with the name of the recipient, and get them to enter it.  However, the job still lingered on my screen, so more time was wasted on Friday morning as I attended the office once more to get it sorted ... not to mention also the insurance!

There were, however, four highlights of the week.  On Monday after returning from taking the motorhome for its MOT, I was sent for another 'practical Welsh lesson', going to the Rhondda, to Ysbyty Frenhinol Morgannwg, or the Royal Glamorgan Hospital.  On Thursday, during my absence dealing with that box, some leads were delivered that I had ordered only the previous morning, enabling me to fit up the screen I had saved from my old computer, so I can now sit in the comfort of my armchair and watch i-Player TV or a DVD, instead of sitting at the desk.  I also benefitted from the exercise of emptying a bookcase and shifting it in order to plug the screen into a socket behind it, and then putting all the books back again!

Yesterday's only job was to a private hospital in Sheffield, to get to which I had to pass through some areas I had first encountered almost twenty years ago, when I had run away from home and spent a couple of weeks tramping around in the February snow trying to find work there.  It seemed strange to be there many years later in autumn sunshine; yet at one point I could almost feel the damp and smell the snow ... more ghosts layed!

And finally, today was the annual autumn outing of the bellringers' group. Along with friends from other towers, we visited five churches in south Cambridgeshire, enjoying the challenge of ringing other bells, the fellowship of people we don't meet every week, and the fun and laughter of an away day together.

St Mary Magdalene, Ickleton

Preparing to ring at Trumpington

All for the Best

I've often spoken here about a week being made up of distinct parts, each with its own - often totally different - characteristics.  Despite being a 'non-working' week, this one has been the same.  It fell into four distinct sections, but each of them had an element of pain, and an element of good despite the pain.

Take Monday, for example.  I took the van to the garage for a service, thinking that, while this was being done, I could concentrate on my preparations for a trip in the motor-caravan later in the week.  It wasn't even mid-morning when they rang to give me a whole list of things that needed doing ... in addition to the growling noise that I had complained of.  In the event, they attended to most of the other items on the list but, having decided that the noise was probably caused by the baffles in the silencer coming loose, but not being legally or mechanically essential just yet, this was parked for another time, 'to spare my bank balance'.  How thoughtful.

Also on the list was severe wear on all four tyres, which were now sadly in need of replacement.  I dealt with this in the afternoon and, while I waited for it to be done, I checked on the miles the old ones had done for me.  One pair had served for nearly 47,000 miles, and the others over 59,000, so I feel they've deserved their place in the heavenly tyre-mountain (or wherever they go to retire).

In the evening I enjoyed bellringing as usual, and afterwards came further pleasure as I thought to join the usual handful in the pub.  This week, however, one was tired, one hadn't had his tea after working overtime, and so on.  There finished up being just me and one other.  We had non-alcoholic beverages, and an intimate conversation about family life in a great many aspects.  Perhaps the most telling moment was as we parted outside the door: she had bought the drinks, but it was she who thanked me! I think it had been a useful time for each of us to unload some 'stuff' that clogs up clear thinking from time to time.

Tuesday was the first of a three-day visit to Sussex.  I had planned it to accommodate a visit to a motor-caravan centre near Hastings, where I had arranged to have a C-rail fitted to my vehicle enabling me to fit a drive-away awning when required.  They also provided a suitable awning, and the bits that fit in between.  While I was there, their workshop also overcame a problem I'd noticed earlier with an over-active cooling fan so, although of course I had to pay extra for this service, I was nonetheless satisfied.

I then drove just three miles down the road to an exclusive campsite (I say that because of the fees, rather than the facilities, which were good, but not outstanding).  Here I was able to try out my new purchase, managing after two hours of trial and error to erect it and fit it to the vehicle.  The most significant lesson learned was not to pitch it too close to the motorhome; by so doing there wasn't sufficient room to stretch the full 'tunnel' between the two, so there was an awful lot of flapping fabric to catch every passing breeze, never mind actual wind!

Wednesday was beautifully sunny from the word 'go'.  I had come equipped with all sorts of things that needed to be done, or which could fill an active mind while training the body to relax and enjoy tranquility, and during the course of the day, I managed to devote a little time to most of them, including picking up once more the 'Teach Yourself Welsh' course that I abandoned ... gosh! over forty years ago!  I wonder how long before it gets abandoned again?  I also went for a short walk in an attempt to discover why SatNav had taken me such a long way round, and through narrow lanes to get to the site, which was only about 200 yards off the main road.  I decided that it just didn't like the idea of turning from an A-road directly onto an unclassified road when there was a B-road within yards of the junction.  Unfortunately, the required route meant turning off this B-road after a short while when it bent in the opposite direction!

Late on Wednesday afternoon, I decided to take the awning down and attack the 'packing-it-away' challenge, which I knew might be difficult.  However, after only a minor struggle (and no more than I'd expect with things to be rolled up with air inside them) I fitted each part in its proper container and found space for the fabric in the rear locker and the poles in one of the inside cupboards.  This early effort eliminated the need for a delay yesterday morning waiting for it to dry, and then the time to dismantle it.

Thursday thus began with a leisurely tidying of the vehicle ready to travel, and a look at the map to see what other attractions might be nearby.  I found a preserved railway that, according to the internet, was 'in steam today'!  I got there in comfortable time to sample the fare at the refreshment room, purchase a small souvenir from the gift shop and then take a trip to the end of the line and back.  Here, I found the bonus.  As a Norfolk boy, I had undertaken a school project about our own WWI heroine, Nurse Edith Cavell, who was shot by the Germans in 1915 for helping allied soldiers escape from occupied Belgium.  Now at Bodiam station, I found preserved the goods wagon which had been used first to convey her body from Dover for a formal funeral at Westminster Abbey before it was buried at Norwich Cathedral, and then in two other similar repatriations, including the famous 'Unknown Soldier'.  Although the train only stopped long enough to move the engine from one end to the other, it was long enough for me to satisfy my photo album!

And today ... it's been a wet day.  My day began with a quick trip across the road to a convenient car spares store to buy a replacement bulb: not for either of my vehicles as such, but to provide the correct illumination for reading in bed when I'm using the motorhome.  I had noticed that the light fitting above the bed had two 'on' positions, but only one that worked. Investigation revealed that the source of light within was a simple 'stop and tail' bulb such as would fit an ordinary car.  Remedy was the work of minutes ... and then the rain started, leading to a day indoors, tidying loose ends ready for work again next week.

What's in a Community?

I've been thinking a lot this week about communities.  It all started on Saturday, as I returned from watching a football match in a nearby town. During my eight-mile drive home, I thought about how much I'd enjoyed the game, and then recalled that the winning team - like many these days - was drawn not from the local community but from a pool of known talent that is transferred from team to team as finances and careers in the sport rise and fall: as skills wax and wane.  By then I was passing through a large village, and passed a couple of men outside the pub, chatting over a late afternoon drink.  I remembered the meal I'd shared with my son a couple of weeks ago, while watching another football match on TV, and I realised what a place sport has in community life, whether it is live, as I'd just enjoyed, or secondary as we'd experienced on that occasion.  I found myself regretting what seemed to be the single shortcoming of my present lifestyle: the absence of a village ambience.

After a relaxing bank holiday weekend (made more so by typical bank holiday weather, which greatly discouraged any going out!), on Tuesday morning I found myself once again in that mid-Bedfordshire countryside, passing through two villages on my way to deliver in a third.  In one, I saw a large open space where, on sunny summer weekdays, as well as at the weekend, it's quite likely there'll be a cricket match in progress.  My delivery was to a pleasant cottage opposite the church; I've been there a number of times, and always marvel at the many antique items that clutter the yard.  It would be a little boy's exploratory heaven!  I wondered about the owner and his history, presuming him to be a former businessman, now able to indulge a passion for such things while spending his retirement in these very pleasant surroundings.

A particularly straight road led through the third village, and from some way off I could see a postman walking from house to house with his deliveries. There was no one else to be seen; it was calm and the quiet was interrupted only by my passing van.  And yet, was this place the idyll I had first imagined? I could see no shops; the nearest doctor was probably some miles away, and for someone without a car, what public transport would be available?  I had seen no school, but towards the end of the school holidays, I hadn't seen any children either.  Without children, where was the vitality of the village?  I noticed some building going on at the edge of the village, but would these be executive dwellings for wealthy people seeking a country retreat in their middle age?  Or would they be the affordable homes that would make it possible for the village's own young people to remain there to strengthen the community?

Today I was offered the chance of a delivery in Norfolk - something I rarely turn down - and loyalty to my native county earned its reward.  I found myself driving through Breckland's narrow lanes (with passing places!) between high hedges, with an occasional gap through which you can see for miles across arable land, meadows, and in the distance are more hedges. Between the few market towns are lots of villages, one after another, each with its shop, a pub sometimes indicating a declining clientele by its need for a lick of paint, its medieval church, and the houses: some of red brick, some of flint, but many more built of a combination of the two.

The former station at East Rudham,
which saw its last train in 1967 after
closing to passengers 2nd March 1959

Many a village has a Station Road which shows no sign of station nor relic of railway, until suddenly, in the middle of the countryside a steep incline is encountered and here is a house by the site of a level crossing, showing those unique characteristics that denote a former station, that served a number of villages and yet wasn't really in any of them.  Some of these sites have retained one or both of the original platforms, but between them now is a footpath instead of sleepers and rails, and in the middle distance a barred gate, beyond which is someone else's section of the former railway.

Two by Two

In Celtic cultures St Brigid's Day, 1st February, is celebrated as the first day of spring and, writing this with the sun streaming through my window, that seems almost believable.  Not so the last few days, however.  Although I haven't been to the worst-hit parts of the country, I can be forgiven, I think, for yesterday mistaking a lake for 'just another flooded field'!  I fear much is to be done before we can justifiably think of a warm spring day, with summer just around the corner!

So what of this week in the courier's life?  By Wednesday I felt it had fallen off a cliff, but now on reflection I can think of it more as a bagel, or a Polo mint - a week with a hole in the middle.  Monday started off with good news, when I rang in after my return from the church breakfast to be told that I was no.2 on the list!  Sometimes, despite earlier postings here, it's a mystery to me how that list works.  But avoiding the dental inspection of a donated equine (a 'translation' of a well-known proverb that a few years ago had one of my cousins scratching his head!), I sat back at my computer, confident that the day would soon unfold.  To my amazement it took until the late morning before this no.2 driver was summoned.  It was worth the wait, however, because I was soon off to take an item to Ormskirk General Hospital, calling on the way at two railway engineering firms in Derby for another customer.

Tuesday started with an early collection that needed to be in Haverhill by 8.0, and a succession of three other jobs finished with a delivery in north Kent, after which my return through the Dartford tunnel caused my prepayment tag to beep, indicating that it would like a financial transfusion.  Wednesday was the hole in the week's bagel (or Polo, if you prefer); I did one job to Cambridge and later in the day another to Watford General Hospital.  By now, the week's theme of 'doubles' had been established, some in their entirety, others in their completion.  Let my continuing story explain.

Early on Thursday morning, I collected two boxes in Stevenage for delivery in the Norwich area.  This was only the second time in my career I'd been to the small industrial estate in Rackheath, to two different premises, for two separate customers.  It was also a rather unusual assignment; I felt like a fish out of water as I followed the signs for 'Goods in' and entered what appeared to be a conventional engineering machine shop . . . with two boxes of asparagus!  As I looked around me, trying to distinguish some semblance of a goods receiving area, I took heart from the sight of a score or so of apples laying on one of the benches.  I had in fact come to a factory whose product is food-packing machinery.

Another 'second' was scored on Friday morning, as I visited Fortnum & Mason's warehouse in Cambridgeshire.  For security reasons it carries no outside identification, and I was glad to recall my earlier lengthy searching experience, and know exactly where to go this time.  By now the week had been quite productive and, given the incessant rain, I would have been quite content to sit at my desk uninterrupted by the phone.  This wasn't to be, however, and before long I was sent to the tiny village of Cople, near Bedford, where I visited - not on this occasion for the second time, but the first time for some while - a back-garden workshop, to collect goods for Loughton in Essex, another place that I've not visited for several years.  Along with this, I also took two items for delivery in Hoddesdon, and the week finished with one in Gillingham, my second visit in three days to Kent, and another reminder from my rapidly expiring Dart-tag as I returned.

Now, with a happily replete Dart-tag, and all kinds of other admin cleared up, I can relax in anticipation of going to a quiz this evening to celebrate the 90th anniversary of the opening of St Paul's Church in this fine Garden City.

All up One End

My cousin recently observed that her uncle (my father) possessed a skill that neither of us has ever seen anywhere else.  He would stand the loaf on its end, butter the open surface, and then cut off the buttered slice, without changing the orientation of the loaf.  This operation would be repeated, almost mechanically, until the required number of slices had been achieved.  In this same vein, I recall an early attempt, under his tuition, to make a sandwich.  He presented me - aged about five or six - with two of the aforementioned buttered slices, together with a knife and a jar of mum's homemade jam.  After watching my efforts for a minute or so, he seized the knife and, with a mixture of amusement and frustration, commented, "Ya'r got it all up o' one ind, boy!"  And looking, I could see with shame that he was quite right, for at one end of the slice was a thick layer of jam, while at the other there was naked butter, just as it had left his skilled hand a minute earlier.

That's a fair reflection of the last week.  I have often commented that one aspect of the courier life that I enjoy is its unpredictability.  This is nearly always the case.  The exception is when a day comes when nothing happens: the phone is dead.  I commented recently on just such a Tuesday.  This week began with a standing start: after my ferry trip the previous Friday, I rang in on Monday, tongue in cheek, to say I was 'back from Belfast and could I go on the list, please.'  About an hour later, the controller rang to say that, since I was at the bottom of quite a long list, he was giving me a fairly long local job to keep me busy while I waited.  I was sent to the village of Manea, in Cambridgeshire.  More accurately, I was sent to March, but found that my destination was not even in this nearby village, but to somewhere out in the wilds of fenland, that just happened to claim Manea as its postal address.

Once I saw the address, I recalled having gone there once before, so I knew at least the nature of the building I would be visiting, instead of spending - as I had on the earlier occasion - half an hour driving up and down the road looking for an almost invisible name, before driving up to a luxurious modern house, to deliver to the garage conversion in the back garden. I can justify describing this job in some detail, because it proved to be my one job, not just for Monday, nor for Monday and Tuesday, but for the first three days of the week!

On Wednesday afternoon, I was sent soon after lunch to collect a parcel to be taken to Nottingham but, when I was within a mile of our customer, they rang to say that, in their opinion, it would be too late to get it there that day, and could they have a call at 9.0 the next morning, please.  Muttering grimly to myself about their estimate of how long it would have taken me to get to Nottingham, I returned home.

So it was that on Thursday, bright and early, I collected this parcel and sped northwards.  I won't deny my pleasure at being called when just over half-way there to be told that there was another job I could run onto afterwards, and when I called in having made the delivery, I was delighted to learn that this second job involved a cross-country journey to Cannock to collect something for one of our customers in Luton.  I was home early in the afternoon, feeling that this day at least had been quite reasonable.

After catching up on my iPlayer tele-viewing, I was relaxing at bedtime when the phone rang.  "I don't know what sort of week you've had ... ," began the night-controller.  I immediately thought, "You fibber, you know fine well that it's been a very quiet week!" but quietly waited for him to continue.  "How do you fancy going to Swansea ... now?"  I rapidly recalled Wednesday and Tuesday, and told myself there was only one answer.  I dressed once more in my uniform, and set off for this Bedford customer, who had an urgent consignment for DVLA.  Having been up since early the previous morning, I realised soon after passing Ross-on-Wye that if I didn't stop soon for a nap, I might not reach my destination at all, but not much more than an hour later, I resumed my journey, and made the delivery at 4.50 am.

Friday's breakfast was an absolute joy.  I knew there was a café somewhere on the northbound side of the A40 near Monmouth, but wasn't sure exactly where.  In fact there are two, but I stopped at the first one, bearing the unusual name 'High Noon'.  The place has just changed hands; the shop has been modernised and now it's the turn of the restaurant.  Half the eating area has been screened off, and the remainder is partly cluttered with rolled-up carpet, stacked chairs and tables.  However, the food was great, freshly cooked before my eyes, and as I sat by the window in the morning sunshine I could look at the brightly-lit hillside on the opposite side of the road.  I later discovered that this is called the Doward, and beyond it runs the River Wye, which there forms the boundary with Wales.

I returned home at midday, and went straight to bed for as long as my body needed.  Not much more than an hour had passed before I was awake again - daytime sleep is an art I've never acquired - and trying to decide whether I wanted to work again or not.  I think the fact that I was aware that there was a decision to be made was evidence that the answer was 'no'.  This was supported by the fact that, by the time I'd pottered around for a couple of hours I was feeling distinctly more awake, and decided to call the office after all.  I was asked if I would be OK for another job should one come up, to which I replied, 'nothing too far,' which was quite acceptable.  About an hour later, I was asked if I'd like to go and collect a job for delivery yesterday morning in Lancashire, which suited me fine, giving me the rest of Friday to unwind, but at the same time providing further compensation for the 'lost' days earlier in the week.  I'd just returned from this collection when another call invited me to pick up something for delivery on Monday, and gave me further instructions for a job to be collected on Monday morning as well, so next week will at least set off on the right foot.

My journey to Heywood was not without incident.  I'd been given a 9.0 - noon delivery window, and set off soon after 6.0, thinking to get some breakfast at the Markham Moor truck-stop on the way.  To my surprise, this was closed, and as I'd already noted, there were no roadside burger vans operating either.  I had spotted one café open on the southbound carriageway, and had almost resigned myself to making my delivery first and having 'brunch' there on my return, when a flag-flying burger van loomed into view at Barnsdale Bar.  Thus sustained, apart from SatNav's route not quite coinciding with what I had researched the previous evening, there were no further snags until the final crossroads, when I almost collided with a car coming at right angles to me to the junction.  Fortunately, there was no impact, no screeching of brakes, and no damage apart from to my nerves.

On my return I followed up a brown tourist sign I'd spotted as I entered the town, marked East Lancs Railway.  This proved to be a viable preserved railway, offering a public service as well as a tourist/enthusiast attraction.  Had it not been for a darkly clouded sky and a desire to catch up with things on the home front, I might well have stayed longer, and taken a £13.50 return trip to the other end of the line.  It was as well that I'd also decided against a detour to watch a football match (the new season started yesterday for most leagues), for there were road problems to contend with too.  I diverted from the A1 in order to avoid one significant delay, but a road closure on the alternative route sent me on a wild trek through the Nottinghamshire lanes before eventually regaining my route after a longer delay than I'd tried to avoid. 

I was glad to return to my weekend domesticity, and I'm now wondering whether the next week will be quite so lop-sided!

Almost over now

Well, the holiday is almost over, and it's time to draw things to a conclusion.  Although I'm not actually going home until Tuesday evening, I've already started packing: somehow it won't seem such a wrench that way.  Not knowing what the weather would be like, I came prepared for both sightseeing and sitting indoors, so there are a number of items that I know by now I'll not be needing ... and there's that big heap of books to find a home for ...

On Friday, I decided to bring forward my planned visit to "twisted spire" country.  It was as well I did, for yesterday most of the day was wet, and not a good day for visiting anywhere.  Chesterfield in the sunshine was delightful, and not only did I wander around the many market stalls, and in and out of charity shops galore, but also look around the magnificent parish church with 'that' spire.  There are, apparently, many theories about why it is twisted, from a lack of the right superstructure, to the use of unseasoned wood.  No one, so far as I have heard, has suggested correcting it, however.  Let's face it, that would surely be a retrograde step from the fame viewpoint.  I know that I'd heard of it long before I ever knew where the town was, let alone got to see it!

Saturday wasn't quite a write-off, because the railway theme that seems to have invaded the whole holiday surfaced again.  My route home from getting some cheap diesel for the van took me past a convenient vantage point for a picture of Bennerley Viaduct.  This is one of only three surviving examples of this particular engineering construction, and is the subject of a preservation order.  Not so the railway for which it was built, which has long since disappeared, leaving it deserted and almost derelict in the middle of nowhere.

And this afternoon was a time of shower-dodging too, as I paid a visit to the one-time home of Lord Byron, Newstead Abbey.  This is a pleasant combination of extensive gardens, monastic ruin and stately home, and also incorporates a neat cafe that isn't over-expensive either.  Admission to the house, which has been greatly improved and extended since Byron's day, is by taking part in a guided tour.  There are three tours each Sunday afternoon and one of the first announcements to be made to those joining was that any photographs may be taken at will.  Did I need any further encouragement?

All too soon the adventure will have come to an end, the demands of a normal courier life will reclaim me, and those pictures will be my only memory of a most enjoyable time.

Costa del Engineering

It's time for another holiday bulletin.  On Monday I took a proper excursion - a bus trip to market day at Bakewell.  Rather like the once-a-week buses of my own childhood, bringing villagers in to the markets, this afforded only a short while actually in the town, taking almost as long to get there and back again.  In the modern day, however, the distances covered are much greater.  The market was heaving, with stalls of every kind and countless stalls and shops offering a wide variety to eat and drink, including of course the 'original' Bakewell Tart - from at least two competing outlets!

I had time to visit the parish church, which has an immense south transept, but no matching one on the northern side.  I was taken by the use to which this has been put.  Completely partitioned off - probably noiseproof - it now forms a large schoolroom.

After a day's rest on Tuesday, leading up to a football match in the evening, yesterday found me back on the railway trail, with a visit to the Great Central Railway at Loughborough.  One of the outlying stations was 'set' to wartime, the era of 'make do and mend', 'digging for victory' (with vegetables replacing flowers beside the platform!) and so on.  The boards carried suitable public information posters, luggage was piled up in those big brown suitcases, and all the windows carried cross-tapes to minimise damage from flying glass in the event of a bombing raid - it was all very convincing!

The main station contained the refreshment room, and the inevitable book- and gift-shop, but also - even worse from the point of view of my holiday budget - there was an 'Emporium' of railway and steam nostalgia, to soak up yet more hard-earned pounds!


Today's expedition to find the Notts. section of the GCR was less fruitful, for not only is it less developed than the Loughborough prservation, it wasn't open to the public today.  Instead I was thrilled to find the Ruddington Framework Knitting Museum.  If you've read Margaret Dickinson's book 'Tangled Threads', you can imagine what this place is like.  For me, it brought her descriptions vividly to life.  A demonstration of one frame-knitter at one-sixth speed gave a good indication of how deafening a score of them must have been all running full-bore in a small room for fouteen or sixteen hours a day!  The courtyard, with its workshops, privies, and four knitters' cottages - and even the erstwhile Methodist Chapel across the road - was saved from demolition in the late sixties by a group of villagers who wanted to preserve something of their own heritage.  This yard, at its peak would have accommodated about 35-40 machines; in 1881 the whole village recorded around 400 people involved in the industry, at least half of whom were Framework Knitters, other associated occupations being given as seamers, hosiers, frame makers and so on.

And the holiday isn't over yet.  What else will I discover?