10 Weeks in a Box - Day 22

Father to Son - 30/07/2007



Having breakfasted, I roused my son Corey from his slumber with a quick text, and told him to meet us in town around lunchtime. I figured even a 15 year old could summon enough energy by then to get up and catch a bus!

Arrangements made, Miki and I headed into Wakefield to do a bit of second hand book searching. It was strange, Miki, my present and future, here in Wakefield, a symbol of my past, it was like two worlds colliding. We had fun, though, finding a number of books for her. (She was getting a bit narked that our Boomobile library was favouring me 90%)
A text on my phone informed me Corey was nearby, he came down Cathedral walk, now standing over 6 feet tall, quite astonishing. It was wonderful to see him. We spent the afternoon together out at Pugney’s Water Park, Miki painting, and Corey and I chatting easily. Both Miki and I were impressed and amazed at his emotional maturity, his self-awareness. He has, Miki says, a very clear mind. He’s performed and improved well at school. He played me his band, Jilambis, new demo. His drumming is becoming very accomplished. Our relationship could have been fraught with difficulties, what with my divorce, then his move to Spain and back, then MY permanent move to Spain, but through all this, and despite the fact that we don’t see each other enough, he is laid back and takes life as he finds it. He seems well balanced, and the pride I feel for him is so strong I can almost touch it. I don’t know if sons ever realise it, but to make their Fathers proud is the most precious gift they can give. I’m not sure I managed it with my Dad, but Corey has most definitely done it for me. I think he’s heading up the right path.
That night, we headed up the A1,
the road I had travelled incessantly in the 80’s, gigging every single weekend, mostly in the North-East of England. Pulling into the services near Dishforth, we chanced our arm at an overnight stay in the Little Chef car park, and, I have to say, although they charge you ten quid for a bowl of soup, we enjoyed an unencumbered, on the house stay, even topping our water supplies with the sweetest water you can imagine, incongruously supplied from a grotty tap on the side of the Petrol Station. Tomorrow, Scotland beckons….




Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 21

Youlgreave and Plague Graves - 29/07/2007



The next morning, I even had time to help Dad put together a garden bench I’d bought for him back when God was a lad.
We had spent the night on the driveway, very odd somehow, but we used up Dad’s yearly water allowance by filling our tanks, and had the lunatic fridge on mains hook up during our stay, so things were looking good.
The afternoon saw us take a beautiful, if somewhat challenging on the driving front, route through Derbyshire and the Peak towards Yorkshire. We stopped off in the beautiful tiny hamlet of …… where Miki set about sketching the surrounding area, rich in motifs, a babbling brook, an old stone bridge, and delightful cottages and gardens on the riverbank.
Then, we visited Youlgreave, and Miki located my Grandma’s grave in All Saints Churchyard there. It was a poignant moment, and we collected some wild flowers to leave by her headstone as it enjoyed the newly appeared summer sunshine.
Then it was on to the fascinating village of Eyam, the inhabitants of which selflessly sacrificed themselves by voluntarily quarantining themselves off from the rest of the country, after a resident contracted the bubonic plague from a bolt of cloth delivered to the village from London. Only 85 of nearly 400 inhabitants survived. 1666 seems a long time ago, but when you see the plague cottages and the names and ages on the headstones in the churchyard, this extraordinary village’s bravery in the face of certain death is heart rending and seemingly only yesterday. Some of the graves are in other places in the village, near the houses of those who succumbed, and their simple headstones have been walled off with dignified reverence, creating tiny, sad, little graveyards.
As you walk through this village, you can plainly see that it wears its heart, and its past, proudly on its sleeve.

Nearing Wakefield, I was racking my brains trying to think of a safe place to lay over for the night. We tried the services on the M1. They only wanted £14 for the privilege of occupying a piece of their shoddy tarmac. Instead we gave them two fingers. I suddenly remembered the Wakefield Junction 41 industrial estate, situated quite near where I used to live. It had a myriad of
service roads where lorry drivers would sleep for the night before their journeys. We found a nice quiet corner, made the “Spag Bol”, and the night was ours!



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom