Thursday 13 March 2014

Haunting Holloway


I didn't buy two things yesterday, and I regret not buying just one of them.

The picture above (which is so bad that it should not rightly be posted on this international showcase) is of the original Assembly Rooms of Bath, before they were demolished because they were not big enough to hold the throngs of water-takers who flocked to the city later on in the 18th century.

I nipped into a charity shop here and found three framed, hand-tinted engravings. The other two were of Widcombe church and manor and the Maudlin Chapel on Holloway, and still appear pretty much as they do now, since they were not demolished.

I stared at them for quite a while, during which time I took the photo for reference, then - for some reason - I decided not to buy them, even though they were only £5 each. Yesterday, I realised that I would be an idiot not to, so I went in again to get them and - yes - they were already sold to someone who does not think twice when confronted with an obvious bargain. Back to being an idiot again.

The picture below is for John's benefit, and shows the recent addition of black-pudding Scotch Eggs to Waitrose's already bewildering array (sorry about the cliche, but it is accurate enough) of animal by-products on offer. I don't feel idiotic for not buying one of those.

John is busy burying his Uncle today (no, not a euphemism), so I don't know if he will have the time to pop out and consult his iPad to see the morsels, and I don't know if he will have the time to catch up and do the same when he gets home - he is, as you know, a busy lad.

The chapel at Holloway is a very ancient one, and is situated on a road with pre-historic credentials, close to Beechen Cliff and overlooking the railway station. Holloway is such an ancient road that it has a row of prehistoric standing-stones set in to the wall which forms the high pavement above which it was built. Many old chapels were placed on or near ancient holy sites, and the name 'Holloway' actually means 'holy way' (and sometimes 'hollow-way' for more defensive cut-outs). I have a particular affinity with this place, partly because of the event described below.

Many years ago, I attended a boring party high up on Beechen Cliff, and I left it - and H.I. - early, to walk down into town on my way home.

It was about 2.00 in the morning, and the night was warm and perfectly still, with a thickish, Summer mist which hung motionless in the yellow light of the street lamps illuminating the pathway down.

I stopped next to the chapel and the ancient tree to read a little notice board about the history of the place, and let out a largish fart.

I have to say for the purposes of this tale, that this was one of the worst farts I have ever emitted in my long career of flatulism, and a truly appalling and almost indescribably intense miasma of hellish, rotten cabbage began to surround me in the thick, still air.

I had not noticed a young couple walking down the hill behind me, and by the time I did, there was nowhere to hide. To run away would have been futile, so I tried to bury my face in the notice board.

As they strolled past on the narrow pavement, they entered my zone of influence (or effluence) and both simultaneously and involuntarily shouted, "EEEUUURGH!!!!", and did not say another word as they passed through.

And I bet you thought this was going to be a ghost story.




19 comments:

  1. I think I might join John in a black pudding Scotch egg fest.

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    1. I forgot to say that I did actually buy a whole, Bury black pudding right next to them. Much better value.

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  2. As Molly would say, "What's the worst fart YOU have ever done?"

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    1. Well you've admitted yours. Mine is a secret.

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    2. I wish mine had remained a secret too Moll, but - like I said - I didn't see them coming until it was too late.

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  3. Oh Tom …… you silly billy, schoolboy error …… you broke the golden rule of charity shop buying …… you hesitated. It's hardly ever there when you go back for it….. but, then, you know that. I'm teaching my Grandmother to suck scotch eggs !!
    I don't fart …. I'm like the Queen and have injections !!!! haha XXXX

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    1. The Queen Mother didn't fart - in later years. She had a footman do it for her.

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  4. I found your farty story very funny - and yes, I did think 'not another ghost story'. As for the Black Pudding scotch eggs - I really can't think of anything worse covering hard boiled eggs - I suppose John will adore them - anything surrounding an egg seems to send him into ectasies.

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  5. I expect John will be salivating in the expectation of the package you will be sending him, won't you?

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    1. It's his turn to send me something - the tight bastard hasn't sent me anything yet.

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  6. The six Scotch eggs in the front look different than the ones in the back. We need a Scotch egg expert pronto to figure out what's going on here.

    You remember a fart that many years on? You either have a superb memory or it was really a historical occasion. ;)

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    1. The ones at the back are normal, the ones at the front are blood-stained.

      You would remember it if you had been there - you might need therapy to forget it, or at least put it behind you, like I did...

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    2. Now I'm worried what happened to that young couple.

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    3. They were still walking when I last saw them, but they looked like they wanted to run.

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  7. I wonder how much actual black pudding is involved in 'seasoning' that sausagemeat.

    Always happy to wander down your flatulence memory lane with you. Keep them coming....

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    1. Blood is cheap - no need to skimp.

      I can't stop them coming, Em.

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  8. oh Tom this has made my day. nothing funnier to me than toilet humour.

    I am now going to Bath on Sunday. some of those lovelies. I cant wait to try a black pudding scotch egg!

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    1. Takes all sorts. There may be a lingering memory on Holloway which could still be detected.

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