Northern Soles: a coast to coast walk

Nother Soles_FINAL Cover Proof (5)

Blog 79:

Northern Soles: a coast to coast walk

Regular followers of this blog will know that it undertook a 200 mile sponsored walk in 2016 from Mersey to Humber as the basis for a book, initially titled “The Road to Hull is Paved with Good Intentions!” but published last month as “Northern Soles”.

The dedication reads:

To the charity volunteers and staff striving to save the social and environmental soul of your communities. The nation owes you thanks. To all of you this book is dedicated.


The cover and content carry kind words of support from: Polly Toynbee, Journalist and writer on social affairs:

This delightful road trip from Liverpool to Hull takes us along the way through history and present day, from industrial revolution to good works, art works, environmental wonders and remarkable people. Exploring multitudes of unknown highways and byways, Steve Ankers’ journey bristles with insights into how we live now and how history shapes our present and our future


From Helen Pankhurst, international development and women’s rights activist:

“Travel writing with good humour and a welcome attention to issues of equality and social justice”

From Fiona Reynolds, Environmental campaigner and writer: I so enjoyed this witty, somewhat serendipitous adventure led by our guide from Liverpool to Hull; and enriched by memories, encounters with stalwarts of the voluntary sector that is the beating heart of England, and enlivened by the truth that walking in the countryside isn’t always the sublime experience it’s cracked up to be. Do read it.


From travel writer Mark Elliott:

“… a wisecracking travelogue, liberally peppered with British rain, bunions and endlessly curious factoids from the recipe of ‘blind scouse’ to how Adam Ant found his stage name in a Liverpool urinal.



 If all this sounds a bit too serious, then I’m misleading you. Pl see this flyer for a neater summary.

Northern Soles by Steve Ankers (1) (1).pdf


 And thank you to all those whose who supported me on the walk and in the writing. Many of you kindly sponsored me along the way for the British Heart Foundation. We made it!  If you enjoy what you see, pl feel free to give wider circulation!


Meanwhile, I have just embarked on a very different journey of which the outcome is less certain. Having been diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumour in the last few weeks, I will have a battle on my hands and am very lucky to enjoy the total love and support of my family and a wide network of friends and colleagues. If fortune permits, I look forward to blogging successful progress! Fingers crossed!


The Play’s the Thing


Mrs Blog and I like to take in the occasional play. Nothing too challenging, mind. We don’t do thought provoking. Or, heaven forbid, contemporary. More, a nice bit of Shakespeare or something with a few tunes. We like to write it on the calendar in the kitchen so that visitors think we have a social life. (We fill out the calendar with “recycle”, which happens on alternate Thursdays, our dates with the men who come round to fix things that they should have sorted last time, and reminders of neighbours’ holidays so we know when we have to feed their cats.)

September’s looking quite busy already…

But looking back through the July entries reminds me that recent planned “encounters with thespians” have not been working out well.

A fixture in these parts is the annual tour by the Rude Mechanicals. Eastbourne based and loosely described as commedia dell’arte, the Rudes produce a clever, funny new play each year and perform it in the grounds of stately homes, in parks and on village greens across the south east. They were founded in 1999 and Family Blog has seen about 15 of their plays. But not when it rains. When it rains the actors’ white facepaint runs and you remember why you’ve thought about retiring to Spain.

This year we booked with friends to see the Rudes perform The Commercial Traveller in Lewes. It rained. The company acted decisively a mite too quickly, took the decision at 4 pm to cancel the evening performance and watched it turn out fine and dry. We transferred our booking to a performance in Alfriston, a village nearby, taking place tonight. Today it has poured all day. Mr Mechanical himself – it’s all excellent, personally tailored customer care – has just phoned (you don’t get Cameron Mackintosh doing that) to tell me it’s off again. We’ve rebooked for the last evening of the summer run in another village in Sussex. Fingers crossed, and where is that Spanish property brochure….

Why would you want to see an outdoor performance anywhere else?

Family Blog have been Friends of Shakespeare’s Globe for almost the twenty years it’s been open. (I’m sure our friendship is appreciated but he’s written nothing of real merit since we joined.) Twenty years ago we bought cheap tickets and stood in the pit. Now we book seats under cover – at least, twelve inches or so of unyielding wood – and watch the groundlings get wet. In July we had seven tickets for a Saturday evening performance with friends and neighbours but both Mrs Blog and I went down with something nasty and were obliged to bail. I wouldn’t have minded if there had been some decent murdering on TV. But “talent” shows? Give me strength.

Longer term (longsuffering?) followers of this blog will know that it is also a big fan of Mikron Theatre Company who tour plays of social and economic verite around the canals and rivers of England and, less romantically, along the M62 corridor. Mrs Blog and I travelled far to the north – to a marina near Oxford – last summer to see them perform Pure: the Business of Chocolate with a storyline embracing Quakerism, overbearing industrialists, aggressive marketing, a tightfisted landlord and the deserving poor over two different time periods. This year we booked to see In at the Deep End: An RNLI Story which promises tales of “choppy emotional waters”, uncompromising management, “eccentric fundraising” and, no doubt, some deserving poor. We arranged to see it at the lifeboat station in Selsey, along the coast in West Sussex, on our way home from the Oxford area where we were to visit old colleagues of mine, with Mrs Blog’s fellow clan member from our northerly territories also joining us.

It was a highly successful trip – in an “apart from that Mrs Lincoln, did you enjoy the play” kind of way. After a jolly wander round the Oxford colleges and DCI Morse’s favourite hostelries and blood spatter scenes (I spent three years there at uni and discovered hardly any corpses, though perhaps I wasn’t up and about early enough), we were royally dined by our chums in their splendid garden running along the Kennet and Avon Canal. Unfortunately, at the point when dusk’s tentacles (tendrils? dark bits?) began to stretch across the garden and we gathered up the debris in order to continue being witty and enchanting indoors, Blogcousin tripped badly on the decking and impaled herself on a shattered jug of Pimms.

This proved to be both more and less worrying than it might appear. On the one hand she lost serious quantities of blood and was taken swiftly by ambulance to A&E in Reading; on the other, there was plenty of Pimms in another jug.

We were booked for three nights in the Travelodge at Reading Services — westbound. (No, seriously, we’re OK with that.) The patient was staying in hospital overnight and at around 2.30 a.m. Mrs Blog and I returned to the service station which we shared only with a chapter of Hells Angels from Wales and one young man from eastern Europe serving coffee.

The next day was an odd one for all concerned. While Blogcousin lay in hospital recovering from surgery (careful removal of cucumber, fruit and sprigs of mint) and  our hosts reported unusually erratic behaviour amongst (no doubt alcohol fuelled) hedgehogs while they were working to remove all traces of the previous night’s incident from the decking. We all had plenty of the victim’s blood and DNA on our clothing and might reasonably be considered suspects.

With cousin laid up it would have seemed highly inappropriate for us to head off to some local National Trust property, funfair or pleasure dome and we needed to be nearby for hospital visiting and potential discharge purposes. Happily our hotel of choice lay delightfully handy for the facilities of a full-blown service station – with all the culinary charm and comforts which that conveys.

We took breakfast there. We wandered about, admired the array of confectionary, remaindered CDs and extensive selection of bottled tap water in WH Smiths; we people watched, studied the news of traffic holdups on the overhead screens (strangely, dated several weeks earlier) and discussed which outlet deserved our custom next. After a long drawn-out lunch we set off again round the “food” court, Mrs Blog looked at some phone accessories (I preferred the out of date traffic news) and we wondered why there are so few attractive people hanging out in service stations these days. Have those glamour days gone for ever?

After visiting the hospital we were keen to get back to our by now favourite seats in the service station to check how the hold up on the M5 near Bristol in June had resolved itself. At this point I started to worry that CCTV might have picked up on the sight of this peculiar couple and their idea of a cheap pensioners’ day out. Indeed, when cleaning staff started to greet us like old friends, I began to see myself as Viktor Navorski (think Tom Hanks in The Terminal), trapped forever in a daily round of the West Cornwall Pasty Company, Greggs and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.

A further visit to the hospital confirmed that the patient would be enjoying another night of institutional catering and we went back to the service station for dinner. And, a bit later, supper. And breakfast the next morning. Then elevenses.

At which point we received the all-clear to collect Blogcousin and head northwards to deliver her into the arms of fellow clan members.

Which has been a roundabout way of telling you that we didn’t make Selsey lifeboat station for the play about the RNLI so I can’t confirm that it features any deserving poor. But it’s a decent bet.








Theatre, Travel

Small is Beautiful, but not Little England



Drive down the M40 past Beaconsfield approaching the junction with the M25 (apologies already to my readers in Kazakhstan) and you will pass a brown and white tourist sign to a “Model Village”. Neither a collective of photographers’ muses nor the kind of settlement where residents are contracted to live to the highest standards, complete with neighbourhood watch, sugar borrowing and shared garden fence repairs, this sign points to Bekonscot.

Last seen – in my case – on children’s TV nearly 60 years ago, Bekonscot has a fair claim to being the original and still the best miniature village in the world. It’s probably also the biggest, but that just seems confusing.

I like to show Mrs. Blog a good time, provided it doesn’t cost much and she can save it out of the housekeeping. (It’s ok, she won’t see that bit.) The last time I saw Bekonscot it was in black and white and two young princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret, were enjoying a private viewing. Neither of those things applied when we went this week. I suppose, if that’s how QE2 has always seen the world – empty of other humans and made up of tiny, tiny houses – it must give her some strange perspectives on the issues facing her subjects.

Give or take one or two concessions to the changes taking place in Britain over the past decades in the form of a handful of non-white figures, Bekonscot is essentially England in the 1930s. Or UKIP land as it is sometimes known. Or, as I suppose we should now learn to say, Brexitland.  It’s certainly popular in the sense that attendances average around 600 a day through the year – or over 15 million since the village opened in 1929.


Bekonscot is in fact in very good heart, which is where any similarity with Brexitland ends. Rather than trying to reflect the changing world, a decision was taken in 1992 to restore the village to the 1930s (feel free to add your own comment about the referendum). The airport (and what village in the 1930s didn’t possess its own airport?) has been reconstructed in art deco style and there is a zoo (precisely what village is this?) with a chimps’ tea party and exotic animals like lions kept in compounds which would be regarded nowadays as horribly small —  and not just because they’re in miniature. The travelling circus is heavily animal focused – how things have changed – with the “dancing elephants” a particular favourite, and not one acrobat supporting four others dangling from bolts through his tongue…

The village has proper shops bearing typical Anglo names like Chris P. Lettis, the greengrocer, and Ivan Acks, the timber merchant, and not a Lidl or Aldi in sight. The impressive model railway has trains every few minutes, stopping at even the smallest halts, with a refreshing absence of “wrong sort of leaves on the track” explanations through the P.A. system for interminable delays. If we can’t have our mainline railways renationalised, then at least the government could invite Bekonscot to submit a tender.


The hundreds of little ones at Bekonscot were clearly enjoying the whole thing nearly as much as Mrs. Blog and me, and there is (just occasionally, though Mrs. B disagrees with me on this) something rather sweet about kids at this age before they switch to iPads, video games and rioting. But I do think there is something of a lost opportunity here, a chance to flag up some of the aspects of modern life which the wee ones will soon enough encounter. Things like a protest against a planning application for fracking below the village green, or a windfarm in the churchyard, or a parking offender being tasered.

It suddenly occurs to me just why Bekonscot looks familiar. When a would-be house builder submits a “visual impact assessment” to accompany a planning application for a new housing estate, this is how they manage to give the impression that their new development would be largely invisible from local vantage points and public footpaths – it’s Bekonscot that they photograph…


Bekonscot was also handily located en route to our second destination of the day, a performance by Mikron Theatre Company at a marina and waterside café just south of Oxford.

Mikron have received deserved plaudits from this blog before. Based in the former Mechanics Institute in Marsden, West Yorkshire, where I was able to visit them on my coast to coast walk when I was more or less passing the door, they tour bright new plays every year, full of songs, humour and slightly (?) lefty sentiments, round the waterways of England with a gorgeous 80 year old narrow boat. My first experience of Mikron dates back to the 1970s when I hugely enjoyed a performance in a pub beer garden (what other sort of beer garden is there?) and it’s brilliant that they’re still prospering and bringing their own particular flavour to the English summer.

I suppose, over the intervening four decades, they may be running low on canal based themes but newly penned plays are commissioned each year. To give a flavour, we saw “Pure”, all about chocolate and, you know, how its story of course encapsulates love, death (or pretend death), a melodeon, alcoholism and the evils as well as opportunities of capitalism. I complained in my last blog post about a musical I had just seen on my trek where the mini-orchestra played so loudly that the singers had to shout throughout and you still couldn’t hear the words. Well, Mikron’s four excellent young performers are presumably conditioned to compete with the background hubbub of food and drink orders being placed and consumed, and every single word, spoken or sung, was clear as a bell. Now, call me old-fashioned but I do like to hear what’s going on, and losing those great lyrics would have been a crime. Authenticity, or mumbling as I prefer to think of it, may have its place but that place is preferably somewhere that I’m not.

Catch Mikron when you can – one of the true joys of summer.



Entertainment of a different kind two days later in the form of Lewes’s “Proms in the Paddock”, our annual mini-Glastonbury. Only without the mud, wellies, disposable tents and Kate Moss, and we finish at ten o’clock so as not to disturb the neighbours and so we can all be home and in bed with our cocoa at a reasonable hour. Held each year by Commercial Square Bonfire Society, to which Mrs. Blog, Blogdaughter and I all belong, this year’s event, blessed with glorious sunshine, featured the Evacuettes (“a 1940s close harmony trio”), the Lewes, Glynde and Beddingham Band, and Die Dorf Fest Kapelle Oompah Band who did what it says on the tin. The fact that the Evacuettes and a German band can perform together shows we’ve come a long way…


Not Mrs. Blog’s cup of tea



Festival, Sussex style. Rio, eat your heart out…

I love the occasion, the music, the fireworks, the craic, but I worry nowadays about the flagwaving while we’re singing about our spears, chariots and setting our bounds wider. In recent years it seems to me that the Union Jack, and particularly the St George’s one, have been largely taken over by people and organisations that I suspect I wouldn’t like very much. Seeing them draped out of car windows during the run-up to the EU referendum certainly didn’t fill me with pride. I suspect there may have been fewer flags than usual being waved at our Proms in the Paddock this year, a fair number of which were upside down. With the town of Lewes producing one of the larger Remain votes in the country you could probably have sold plenty of EU flags on the way into the Paddock to be waved — perhaps with a Union Jack in the other hand. When did life get so complicated?

Mrs. Blog has never been a member of the W.I. and doesn’t know the words to Jerusalem. Being unwaveringly Scottish she’s never been enthusiastic about the verse in God Save the Queen about rebellious Scots being crushed and their sedition hushed. In fact, Mrs. B is not above a spot of sedition herself when circumstances are propitious. But, if there’s one anthem she’s happy to give voice to (I hesitate to use the term “sing”) it would be Sussex by the Sea. Her opportunities during the year to give forth are limited by noise abatement legislation and good taste. (She found the recent film about Florence Foster Jenkins truly inspirational,) She had set her heart on giving it a bash during the closing stages of Proms in the Paddock, the words were set down in fuzzy black and white in the programme — and the band didn’t play it.

Perhaps the programme was overrunning. Perhaps the band got wind of the fact that Mrs. B was present and decided not to risk it. Whatever, she was a broken woman. Words were said. Worryingly she is now practising hard for when it comes up on bonfire night.

Here, for Mrs. B to practise, and so that those far away will learn a little about what Sussex folk are made of, are the words. I just hope there isn’t a flag to go with them.


 Now is the time for marching,
        Now let your hearts be gay,
    Hark to the merry bugles
        Sounding along our way.
    So let your voices ring, my boys,
        And take the time from me,
    And I’ll sing you a song as we march along,
        Of Sussex by the Sea!

            For we’re the men from Sussex, Sussex by the Sea.
            We plough and sow and reap and mow,
            And useful men are we;
            And when you go to Sussex, whoever you may be,
            You may tell them all that we stand or fall
            For Sussex by the Sea!

    Oh Sussex, Sussex by the Sea!
    Good old Sussex by the Sea!
    You may tell them all we stand or fall,
    For Sussex by the Sea.



I’m heading back to Goole later this week to start the next stage of my coast to coast journey.

And, in case you’ve not spotted it before, here’s a link to my sponsorship site on behalf of British Heart Foundation. We’ve reached nearly £1200!






Summer sun, something’s begun But, uh oh, those summer nights (Well-a, well-a, well-a, uh!)

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We have our summer rituals. Newspapers carrying pictures of girls at Glastonbury in muddy wellies. The declaration of undying love by a ludicrously remunerated footballer for his current employer and supporters, followed by his transfer to a club willing to pay him even more – “always been my dream to join the team I supported as a boy”/ “realising my life long ambition to play in front of the world’s most passionate and knowledgeable fans”. Boris Johnson making it clear that he has no desire whatsoever to become Prime Minister.


One international footballer “kisses the badge”, just before departing for a better paid post elsewhere. 


For me the summer ritual is realising that the only bit of gardening I actually like is lighting the barbecue and chimineas and obliging our long suffering neighbours to huddle around them on the chilliest of cool evenings. (Note that plural, chimineas – reminds me that once, during a house move, I labelled one cardboard box “Spare wok”. Very Posy Simmonds.)

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Mrs. Blog and I enjoying a summer evening on the patio. In my dreams.


Then there’s outdoor theatre. Mrs. Blog and I don’t “do” music festivals. And certainly not battle re-enactments. But we do outdoor theatre – only to watch, you understand, not to act. Mrs. B says she’d rather eat her own liver than perform on a stage. (I was surprised she didn’t insist on an understudy at the register office.)

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There are so many reasons Mrs. Blog and I don’t do battle re-enactments…


You wouldn’t necessarily expect a nation with weather systems like ours to major on the alfresco play but they seem to have been an essential ingredient of our culture for longer than even I can recall. I’m not thinking here of Punch and Judy, though why not – other than that the first one I saw frightened the bejasus out of me. I was a sensitive child. (This predated me going to university.)

No, this is about proper plays. Or, as proper as you can get when the dialogue has to pause for each overflying aircraft, as I recall from one that my parents took me to many years ago on Richmond Hill, under the flight path to Heathrow. Perhaps it was Boeing Boeing, I can’t be sure.

Despite the uncertainties of the summer weather, taking in a homespun but highly professional production (which is what they usually seem to be) in a gorgeous setting has been very much part of my summer since I don’t know when.

It’s been nearly 50 years since I first saw Mikron Theatre Company perform in the beer garden of a canalside pub in the Midlands and I’m delighted to see that they’re still going strong, with their blend of social, environmental and historical stories, told through words and music by a small, enthusiastic cast of relatively unknown actors.

Now it seems that, all over the country, in the grounds of stately homes and hotels, on village greens and anywhere that might make an attractive backdrop, on any given summer evening there will be dozens of performances taking place, from Shakespeare to self-written – preferably nothing too heavy, and nothing that might be spoiled if it has to compete with a downpour or two, lowing cattle or the odd low flying bat.

Why do so many of us take the risk of getting soaked, of dodgy acoustics, of long interval queues for the only toilet in the village hall, of a vertiginous drop in temperature during the second half, after arriving in shorts and sandals on a hot afternoon?

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Well it beats sitting on the sofa in front of the telly…


Because indoors you can’t see the trees and the stars, that’s why. Because open air theatre can put you close to the performers, at the very heart of the action. Because, before the light goes completely, you can check out what everybody else has brought as their picnic – and wondered why your slice of gala pie, cheese and onion crisps and bottle of ale looks a tad miserly compared with the spread that Pauline always puts together. Because it’s what we do.

It may be that we do more of this in the south, I don’t know. Moving to Lewes in East Sussex  with a daughter of primary school age, the plays that took place in the Gun Garden of the castle soon became a fixture for us. With the promise of a picnic, the possibility of being able to whisper without upsetting those around, and the ability to move about if necessary, this just had to be a great way of introducing a young child to live theatre – as well as having a good time.

And so it has proved. The daughter, now in her twenties, has developed a love of theatre much more sophisticated than ours and no longer has to be tempted to a play by the prospect of chicken drumsticks and cheesy straws – though it helps. And we can still be guaranteed to take in at least one outdoor production with chums during the course of the summer.

Any regular readers of this blog may be aware that I have been known to have “constructive dialogue” with those who insist on talking, or singing along, during outdoor classical concerts but, in truth, I have not found this to be an issue with plays. To date, performances of Romeo and Juliet or The Importance of Being Earnest have proved mercifully free of audience members chanting along with the punch lines. Altogether now, one two three, A Handbag?? A Handbag???

I did wince last weekend as the play began and a number of iPads were immediately raised to record the proceedings, but I’ll live with it. There was a time when you went to an art gallery to look at the paintings, not to take your own self-portrait in front of it. And a time when a play was to be experienced and enjoyed “in the present”, rather than being inflicted afterwards on friends (real or facebook) who, frankly, couldn’t care a….

I’m not saying that all of our open-air play experiences have been plain sailing. If arriving early, for example, at the play venue and having been asked by friends to “save us some space near the front for our picnic”, I have never found it comes easy, defending acres of green sward on my own, armed only with an assortment pack of crisps to spread thinly around as the crowd presses in on all sides. I think this reluctance goes way back – to when my mother used to drag me to the old fashioned Sainsbury’s where you got put in the queue for the loose packed butter to “save a place” while she went for the sugar. By the time I reached the front of the queue, still searching anxiously for a returning parent, I was spent.

For one memorable production of The Tempest at Lewes castle (you’ve guessed it) we turned up with the rain already torrential and were supplied on arrival with binliners to wear as ponchos. That wouldn’t have cost them much – only a few perverse idiots had made it to the starting line, this blog and blogdaughter amongst them. (We will draw a veil over Mrs. Blog’s response to being asked if she intended to come with us and just say she didn’t make it.) The dialogue was tricky to pick up in competition with the rainfall and intermittent thunder and the action wasn’t easy to track between the umbrellas, but the effect of all that water on some of the skimpier costumes provided a diversion.

At the interval, with audience numbers having continued to dwindle throughout, the company manager announced that anybody who wanted to throw in the towel, as it were, would be welcome to exchange their tickets (or papier mache, as they might by now reasonably be described) for another performance, but that the troupe was prepared to soldier on if wanted. Well, call me dogged if you will (I suspect the actors may have had another word) but, as true patrons of the arts, and being by now far too wet to care, we held our ground and the six of them continued to perform to an identical number of us. Churchillian? I think so.

We are fortunate to have seen a few different touring troupes in Sussex but one we never miss, year on year, is the Rude Mechanicals (the “Rudes”), whose final performance of their summer tour we thoroughly enjoyed last weekend. Named for the manual labourers and amateur actors in Midsummer Night’s Dream, and touring the south of England since 1999, the Rudes bring their own version of commedia dell’arte, a style that uses large comic and often acrobatic movement and physical humour, with white faces, bright costumes and liberal use of the “slap stick”. Hard to describe but huge fun to watch. And bawdy. If you’re easily offended, make sure you see them!

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The Rude Mechanicals get to grips with the Wife of Bath


Like many other arts groups, the Rudes struggle to make ends meet. Not because they’re expensive to run – they’re not — but just because that’s the way it is, with public and private funding harder and harder to come by. You may take the line that, if the customers won’t pay enough for the product, it’s tough – market forces and all that. Somebody will no doubt tell me that most other forms of entertainment have to pay their own way. Funding for the arts isn’t really my field (come to think of it, I’m not sure what is), but I, for one, would find my world a sadder place if there were no Rude Mechanicals, no Mikron. Go see!

It turned colder; that’s where it ends…

…Summer dreams, ripped at the seams

But, oh, those summer nights