TO BALDLY GO...

BONES OF THE EARTH: WALKING ANCIENT FOOTSTEPS

2026-09-18T17:30:00.000+01:00

ery long ago, the lands beneath my feet were held by the Brigantes—a Celtic confederation who lived, fought, and died on the very soil I walk today. Long before modern borders defined the landscape of Northern Britain, this formidable alliance held sway over vast tracts of rugged moorland, rolling dales, and dense woodland, carving out a life governed by the cycles of nature, ancient traditions, and a fierce, unyielding independence.

Named after Brigantia—the "High One," goddess of dawn, craft, and sovereignty—they were a sprawling network of clans that mastered mountain and valley alike. To walk their territory now is to tread upon the quiet remnants of their hillforts and sacred springs, standing upon the earth that once sustained a culture deeply connected to the natural world and the spirits of place.

On Sunday, that is exactly what I set out to do. I’m usually mindful of the land beneath my boots and the ancestral presence lingering in the landscape, so when I saw an organised walk along the Roman Ridge, I signed up without hesitation. The only catch was that it fell the day after returning from our trip to Wales. Ideally, I’d have spent the day resting, but the pull of the land was too strong to miss.

"The mysterious "Roman Ridge" (probably not Roman) ran from Bridgehouses in Sheffield to Swinton and Mexborough. It is thought to be Iron Age, but re-used in Roman and Anglo Saxon Times. It claims to be the longest pre-Roman earthwork in England.

Its purpose (or purposes) is not known but it seems to have been a boundary between The Tribe of the Brigantes and the Romans, and later between the British Kingdom of Elmet and the advancing Anglo Saxon Northumbrians. It is set in an interesting landscape. It is close to Wincobank Fort and Caesar's Camp, in Kimberworth Park, and passes Kimberworth Castle and Mexborough Castle. A Romano- British track running from The Peak district to Pontefract runs behind it on the North West side."

- www.heritageopendays.org.uk

We gathered at quarter past ten on Sunday morning—nine strangers united by a shared curiosity. Magnus came along for the trek, proudly representing the canine contingent as the only dog in attendance. Our guide, Jeremy, modestly described himself as an enthusiast rather than an expert. I’d met him previously when he gave a talk on the history surrounding Thundercliffe Grange, a place we visited two years ago and plan to return to for their next open day. Rather than a rigid guided tour, the walk unfolded as a roaming discussion, with ideas and theories shared freely as we walked.

We talked of the Brigantes, the immense physical effort involved in constructing the ridge, and the mystery surrounding its ultimate purpose. Was it a defensive rampart, a territorial marker, or perhaps something sacred—a physical boundary separating the known from the unknown? We traced how it cut across the geography, how the Romans likely repurposed it, and how the local Celtic tribes negotiated life alongside an invading empire.

The rig cut through for farming and industry

Along the route, we saw where old industrial progress had sliced through the earthwork, only for nature to slowly reclaim the stone and soil. We marveled at sections running right through suburban gardens—what a remarkable thing to have ancient history guarding your back lawn—and watched as the ridge snaked through quiet woodland, hiding in plain sight, unnoticed by the modern world rushing past.

The footpath through Wath Wood
on the top of the rig

The rig as seen from the side

An ancient well (possibly Roman)

There is a grounding, almost animist power in walking these ancient lines. Beneath the layers of industrial heritage and suburban sprawl, the bones of the old land remain intact. To trace a boundary built by human hands thousands of years ago is to feel a direct line of continuity back to the ancestors who stood on the embankment, watching the horizon, keeping watch over the realm of Brigantia.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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ART, ACTION, AND THE LIFEBOAT

2026-09-16T09:21:31.963+01:00

he lifeboats are an absolute essential along our coastline. We live on a series of islands, so having an emergency service capable of rescuing those who get into difficulty at sea isn't a luxury—it’s a necessity. We have the RNLI: dedicated volunteers who risk their lives to save others.

This post owes its existence to a comment on my last entry by the Lord High Chamberlain of the Great Pudding of Eborakon - friend of the blog Neil - you can catch his blog here. He mentioned my artwork for the campaign to save the New Quay Lifeboat. Looking back through the archives, I realised I’d never actually documented this particular milestone in my artistic journey.

Back in 2017, New Quay’s all-weather lifeboat was facing a potential axing following an operational review of the area. A passionate community campaign was born to fight the decision. As a firm friend of New Quay, I was asked to create a festive card in 2018 that highlighted the potential, dangerous delays in response times should the cuts go ahead.

Looking at the artwork now, I know I could do a much better job with today's tools and experience, but the campaigners were thrilled with them, and they went down a storm (no pun intended).

The cards were reissued in 2019 and sold out all over again. Then, in 2023, came the news everyone had been fighting for: the RNLI officially reversed the decision. Instead of losing an all-weather capability, New Quay was allocated a brand-new Shannon-class lifeboat to replace the ageing Mersey-class vessel.

It was only a very small part I played in the grand scheme of saving the station, but I'm proud to have contributed. The real heroes, as always, are the lifeboat crews who put everything on the line to save lives without fear or favour. They deserve nothing but our utmost respect and support. I honour them, and I’m deeply humbled to have had the chance to lend a hand. As I documented in my previous post the volunteers and staff of the RNLI have been getting a hard time from right wing protesters - I stand with these brave people and support them in the excellent work they do.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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CYMRU ANWYL A FFRINDIAU DA

2026-09-13T10:43:00.000+01:00

eaving this place is always so hard. The pull of this land is powerful, but real life eventually calls us back. I need to keep working to finance these escapes—early retirement isn't looking particularly viable at the moment—so home we must eventually go. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, though, and I know I’ll never tire of this coast.

Before we packed up and headed back, we still had the best part of the week ahead of us. Here’s how Wednesday through Saturday unfolded, right up to the journey home...

Wednesday saw us return to Aberaeron, where we discovered we’d just missed out on an Over-50s Tuesday meal deal at the Prince of Wales pub.

Since when did I fit into a category that qualified for a senior meal deal? I genuinely thought I had at least another five years before reaching that milestone! Age existential crisis aside, it was a beautiful day, and we both adore Aberaeron.

We sat out on the terrace at the Harbourmaster Hotel. The Harbourmaster is a bit posh, and some of the clientele can lean towards the pretentious side. I overheard one chap trying to describe a local spot he’d visited as "something starting with a Y"... seemingly unaware that Y is simply Welsh for "the".

On the flip side of pub conversation, we got talking to a doctor who had only just discovered the area, and later chatted with a lovely couple who run a pub over in Llanddewi Brefi. They told us to pop in the next time we were down. Llanddewi Brefi was made famous years ago by Little Britain—the home of Matt Lucas’s "Only Gay in the Village" character—though the show has since fallen out of favour for its outdated humour. We’ve actually been to the village years ago, but having the kids with us at the time meant pub visits were off the menu. A quick search later confirmed they run the Foelallt Arms, the oldest pub in the village. It’s now firmly on the must-do list for our next trip (and I just hope they weren't simply being polite when they offered to buy us a drink!).

We spent the rest of the evening close to home. Walking back in the dark around Pencnwc is wonderfully quiet, with the sky full of stars. The water on the little lake in front of our caravan glistens in the soft light of the surrounding vans—it really is an idyllic place to be.

A rainy day meant nothing to us—we had planned a relaxing day anyway before welcoming old friends to the caravan. Whilst Morticia prepped things, I took Magnus for a walk. He practically insisted on popping into the Penrhiwgaled for a swift one, and who am I to argue with the dog?

Later on, as planned, our dear friends Mike, Chris, Sam, and Alice came over for chicken sandwiches and nibbles. I love listening to Mike's stories; he's led a very interesting life and is deeply interwoven with New Quay—everybody knows Mike. He often brings gifts, knowing how much I appreciate Welsh culture, so it’s usually something with a local theme.

This time, he gifted us a candle holder featuring Y Ddraig Goch. He also passed along a Teach Yourself Welsh pack straight out of the 1980s, complete with a textbook and two audio cassettes. You know what, though? I’m going to get those cassettes converted to MP3—it’ll make the perfect companion for dog walks. I know Mike is probably just having a bit of a clear-out, but I’m always genuinely happy to receive these things with love.

I finished the day back in the Penrhiwgaled with the dog, surrounded by friendly strangers. I was just about to call it a night when the landlord persuaded me into an extra half before heading back to bed.

The last full day always comes too quickly. It’s hard not to feel a twinge of sadness, but I reminded myself how important it is to stay in the moment—after all, we still had a full day ahead, right where we wanted to be. We went down to the quay for a walk along the pier, followed by fish and chips from the Lime Crab. Sitting overlooking the harbour in the glorious sunshine was absolute bliss, before Morticia headed off to get her tattoo topped up by Dylan from Ink Cymru.

We spent our final evening in the Pencnwc bar surrounded by friends. Sitting with Andy and Kelly, alongside Mike and Chris, was the perfect way to wrap up the week. Sam even popped in to say goodbye, as she was working the next day. Later, as I walked Magnus under the night sky for the last time this trip, I bathed in the ancient energy of this land. It was truly bittersweet.

But I did win a pig on the grabber.

And so, the time came to leave. We said our goodbyes to dear friends and, after taking one last long look around, set off on the drive back home. The rain came down hard on the journey—almost as if the Welsh sky was reflecting our own feelings.

The last thing I want to do on a post like this is to get political, but the recent hostility aimed at the RNLI by far-right agitators—both online and at actual ports—is utterly disgraceful. The Royal National Lifeboat Institution is an independent charity crewed by brave volunteers who put their lives on the line to save anyone in distress at sea. They operate without prejudice, guided by a single, humanitarian mission: to save human life. To attack volunteers for preventing people from drowning is appalling, regardless of your stance on immigration. I stand firmly with the crews of the RNLI. Back in 2018, I designed a charity Christmas card for the New Quay station that raised funds over a couple of years, and my support remains as steadfast today as it was then. To the crews who go out in all weather: thank you.

As I wrap up this post, that familiar, quiet melancholy begins to settle in. My hiraeth for this land runs deep—a pull that goes beyond just loving a favourite holiday spot. But as always, there is a plan to soften the departure. We will return next year. The wait will feel long, and our plans still hinge on the usual real-world confirmations—locking in the accommodation booking and securing leave from work.

We already have a growing list of ideas and places to visit for the next trip, so stay tuned. Until then, Caru Cymru.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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DOLPHINS, DRINKS, AND WELSH CAKES ON FAMILIAR SHORES

2026-09-09T09:53:33.371+01:00

ei Newydd as I go on about regularly on about is my home within my soul. And our return although inevitable is so needed. A rest and cleanse is what we both need right now.

The journey on Saturday was pretty standard. I was full of unsubstantiated worries and apprehension but that all melted away as the miles passed. We unpacked into the caravan at Pencwnc Holiday Park and were welcomed by a flock of geese that had taken residency on the pond just off the veranda, Magnus wasn't too happy about these aqua-avian interlopers but he's just a grumpy little dog. Hopefully he will relax over the coming days.

First night we popped over to the club bar, there we met Andy and Kelly. A couple from the valleys who we got talking to and shared our love of Yorkshire terriers (they had two and we have Magnus) and this place. It turned a quiet drink into an unexpected friendship. We also caught up briefly with old friend Sam, she was working so a swift hug and a few words were all we could manage.

Sunday started with us getting up late and indulging in a hearty breakfast—something of a holiday tradition—around dinnertime. We were in no rush to be anywhere. Later, we popped down to the seafront and were treated to the sight of a pod of dolphins feeding out in the bay. Cei Newydd never disappoints.

That evening, we reunited ourselves with a firm favourite of mine, the Penrhiwgaled Arms.

On Monday, we called in at the Afon Mêl Meadery and Honey Farm. We’ve been visiting this place for many years, but for almost as long, I resisted the urge to try mead. The main reason was the Viking stereotype—I didn't want people thinking that just because I have an interest in Viking stories and Norse culture, I’d naturally be into mead. That all changed a few years ago when I was finally persuaded to sample a few, and my opinion completely flipped. While mead isn't something I could drink in large quantities, it's a wonderfully sweet alcoholic treat for special occasions or socialising with friends. I’ve since built up a small collection of Afon Mêl meads and added 'Grimnir' to the shelf today. A sophisticated mead with an amaretto finish, it’s essentially liquid Battenberg for grown-ups.

After finishing at the honey farm, we drove over to Aberaeron to walk the harbour wall, just like we did back in June.

We also dropped into a new/old favourite, Tafarn Y Cadwgan, before heading back to Pencnwc for our tea.

Just as we were planning to finish up for the evening and head back to the caravan, the heavens opened and the sky chucked down a proper deluge. Thankfully, the gods smiled on us and granted a brief respite long enough to get home relatively dry, though the weather did mean putting off a second visit to the Penrhiwgaled.

On Tuesday, we popped down to the quay and dropped into a few of the shops. Some of the shopkeepers even recognise us now from our many visits—something that’s happening more and more as the years roll on. I like it; it gives me a genuine feeling of belonging, even more so than back home. There's a warmth and pace here that's completely missing from the urban sprawl I usually find myself stuck in.

A swift pint in the Seahorse Inn was as welcome as ever—it’s been a firm favourite since I first came here. Later, we had our tea at the Penrhiwllan Inn (Budgie, the landlord, always looks after us), followed by the pub quiz back at Pencnwc. If you recall, we came second in the very same quiz back in June; this time, despite a much larger crowd, we managed a respectable third place. Pretty happy with that.

I couldn't wrap up the first half of the trip without sticking to a bit of an old tradition. Before the days of instant photos and group chats, you always sent postcards to family and friends to mark the occasion. So, as I did on my last trip, here is my own modern-meets-classic contribution to the genre, complete with the usual local seaside banter.

At the end of the week I'll post my remaining tales of Welsh ales, relaxing walks, and fish & chips—I might even sneak in a Welsh rissole too. Until then, mwynhewch from Cei Newydd.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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RAINS, RELUCTANCE AND RENEWAL

2026-08-31T17:30:00.000+01:00

ow that the heatwave has broken, this land can return to the damp, cool summer to which we are all accustomed—the very weather everyone complains about, despite secretly craving its return. The lush greenness has begun to return to the realm, slowly reclaiming the scorched yellow grass that has blanketed the soil these past weeks.

The rain finally fell, and even Thor himself turned up with a hearty thunderclap to banish the unbearable heat. I know full well there are folk across this world who endure—and likely even enjoy—far higher temperatures, but on these modest isles I call home, the recent heat has been sheer torment. Working in extreme heat is far from ideal, especially after a run of sleepless nights and sweltering days.

As if to mark the end of this stifling stretch, the heavens put on one final spectacle: a partial lunar eclipse across the Sturgeon Moon. Sitting out to watch Máni slide through Earth’s shadow, painted in a low, coppery crimson, felt like a cosmic sign—a quiet shift in the sky signaling the end of the sweltering spell before the rains came.

This week's full moon taken with my smartphone

Every nine weeks, my shift pattern delivers a week of pure ordeal: fifty-eight long hours of toil. Years ago, I would gladly take on mountain loads of overtime, but this older, wiser Viking simply cannot manage those extra hours these days. Besides, overtime always carried a bonus element that regular scheduled shifts don't. Last week was that grueling marathon, and this week I am utterly spent.

There is a silver lining, however. Following my days off this week, I only have two shifts to conquer—even if they are ten-hour slogs. Come Friday, my annual leave begins, bringing long-awaited plans for rejuvenation, rest, and sharpening the axes for the next adventure.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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REFLECTIONS, ROBOTS, AND A WELSH COUNTDOWN

2026-08-25T16:02:47.599+01:00

ormally I like to focus on things that directly affect me—my own experiences and daily observations—but today I can't help but share something that has saddened me to my core.

This week’s news of two serving police officers killed in an RTC involving a car full of youths is a massive tragedy for the Cleveland community and the wider policing family. Seven people, including two Cleveland Police officers, died in a horrific head-on collision on the A66 near Middlesbrough on Saturday, 22 August. A vehicle travelling the wrong way struck a marked police car.

While no one wants to speculate on an ongoing investigation, details of Saturday’s awful events in Middlesbrough are starting to emerge.

Five young men – some still in their teens – were driving suspiciously in the early hours of the morning in a car believed to have cloned number plates. Following a police chase, just ten seconds later, the vehicle smashed head-on into another police car responding to the scene.

What makes this even more devastating is that it isn't an isolated incident. Just days earlier in Ireland, five teenagers were killed on the M9 in Kildare in another horrific wrong-way motorway crash—part of a deeply disturbing pattern on Irish roads in recent weeks that authorities suspect is linked to a reckless social media trend.

While human behaviour on the roads leaves you despairing, the steady roll of automation in the background continues uninterrupted.

Back in March, I wrote about the robots delivering food around the streets of Sheffield (you can catch up with that post here). It felt like the 21st century had finally arrived up north, signaling the start of the "rise of the machines." Sadly—or perhaps not—those little chaps have now been withdrawn from our streets, with the company behind them citing that the trial has ended.

But fear not, the robot revolution isn't over just yet. I spotted this absolute job-taker mopping the floors in my local Tesco Express.

On a personal note, it's just a couple of weeks until our next visit to the soul-cleanser that is Cymru. Preparations haven't started yet—I'm guessing panic-packing will commence a few days before we set off. The countdown has officially started.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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SPOKE TOO SOON

2026-08-20T10:17:40.390+01:00

f all my hobbies and passions, cycling has been the one constant that’s pulled me through the dark days and bad times. Of course, it’s also caused a few of them. Having only recently got back on the road with a new bike back in January, I had hoped for a brief period of reprieve, but the gods of the road clearly had other plans.

A while back, I noticed a broken spoke on the rear wheel. In over twenty-five years of adult riding, I’d never actually encountered this particular failure. I did my homework, watched a few instructional videos, and set to work in the workshop. Spoke replaced, wheel back on. Job done, right? Of course not—that’d make for a very short, very boring tale.

A few weeks later, the ride started feeling off. The rear brakes were working, but there was a distinct, rhythmic hesitation. Pulling over, I saw the wheel had gone wobblier than a drunk in a tavern. Despite being unable to keep clean contact with the pads, I limped home carefully. Closer inspection confirmed the bad news: another spoke had snapped. Recognising that trueing up a wheel properly takes a master’s touch, I surrendered the rim to a trusted local bike shop. A week later, my iron steed was fully restored, and I slotted the wheel back into the frame, ready to ride. Having spent a full week grounded, I was itching to get back into the saddle. That excitement was short-lived.

Halfway through the morning commute, I heard a sound that made my heart drop—a sharp, unmistakable ping. A quick roadside inspection confirmed the worst: spoke number three had relinquished its life. Being well past the point of no return, I carefully completed the journey to work and limped back home that evening, the wheel once again fighting against the brakes.

Time for a proper tactical review. I began researching the root cause and quickly landed on a possibility: total load capacity. Now, I’m not saying I’ve put on weight, and my gear certainly hasn't grown—if anything, I’m carrying less cargo than usual. But a light-duty 20-spoke setup just isn't built to endure the brutal, cratered battlegrounds that pass for our local roads and cycle paths.

The verdict? Retirement for the old wheel.

In its place, I’ve mounted a heavy-duty, 36-spoke war wagon wheel built to bear the load and absorb whatever punishment the terrain throws at it. Should being the key word. As an eternal pessimist with these mechanical trials, every unfamiliar rattle, ping, or bump in the road still makes my arse twitch.

I’ve logged a couple of test rides so far, and the new wheel is holding strong. Hopefully, the curse is broken—but as always, time will tell.

A Heavy Heart on Two Wheels

It’s impossible to talk about the simple, everyday trials of fixing wheels and tackling local roads without acknowledging the stark, devastating realities of the sport we love.

As many in the cycling community will already know, the tragic news broke last week of the passing of Finlay Tarling. At just 19 years old, the immensely talented Welsh rider was taken from us following a tragic collision while competing in the Volta a Portugal.

Finlay was a fierce competitor, a rising star with a brilliant future ahead, and a warrior on the tarmac—a true rider taken far, far too soon. When a young life is cut short doing what they loved, it puts my mechanical frustrations into sharp perspective.

My battlegrounds on the roads are small and mundane compared to the grand stages of the peloton, but we are all bound together by the same love for the open road and the freedom of two wheels.

To Finlay’s family, his brother Josh, his teammates, and everyone who knew and loved him—my deepest thoughts are with you.

Rest in peace, Finlay. Raise a horn in the Great Hall of Valhalla.

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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A MAN’S GREATEST ACHIEVEMENT

2026-08-11T16:22:00.000+01:00

rom the birth of civilisation, man has looked for a place to rest his tired bottom. A place to relax and yet protect his domain—a place to call his. No matter the social status of the man, he can be master here, even if that authority only extends as far as the seat itself.

Some of the best examples can be found in entertainment. The greatest would be from the American sitcom Frasier: Martin Crane's battered armchair is more than comfort, it's a statement. When everything has been stripped away, it's all he has left. You can't leave out Captain Kirk's command chair either; its comparison to a throne is well established.

We shouldn't forget that Odin sits on Hliðskjálf to survey all of creation. The high seat is something we all yearn for.

I know it's a bit of a cliché, but it’s a trope that has been earned through sheer, unadulterated hard work. While it might seem like a standard rite of passage through middle age, the transition to a designated favourite chair usually comes down to a couple of practical reasons:

Eventually, we all need proper back support, high armrests, and the exact right angle for reading or watching the telly.

It's a great thing to have a spot reserved for winding down, having a quiet cup of tea or even a beer, and decompressing without having to adjust to someone else's seating preferences.

It's less of a stereotype and more of an inevitable, well-deserved upgrade to the daily routine. Which is why I'm keen to share with you my own new (to me) high seat. A place to rest, unwind, and survey my kingdom whilst watching the telly or drawing.

This isn't just a sudden whim, either. It’s something I’ve wanted for many years: a signature chair, a true statement piece. It may have taken a long time to get here, but finally, the high seat is mine.

I've always appreciated having a space that feels like my own. My shed has become that place for me — somewhere I can escape to, tinker with the bikes, pursue my hobbies or simply sit quietly for a while. This chair feels like the indoor version of that (obviously without the bicycle maintenance).

It is such a wonderful feeling to know I've finally achieved a man's greatest achievement: the favourite chair.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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THE WOMAN BEHIND THE WINGS

2026-08-04T23:01:57.698+01:00

elma Furniss might not be a name you know, but in the North of Sheffield, she was a legend. Community stalwart and dance teacher to hundreds of people, she touched so many lives in a positive way.

Sadly, she passed away this week leaving a long, beautiful legacy. My mother was a student with her—part of her wonderful seniors class—and so were my daughters. I spent so many hours in the parents' room or in halls helping with rehearsals and shows. Loads of happy memories that have become a key part of our family story.

She was apparently a poorly child; her mother worked hard to put her through dance school to build up her strength—something that would shape the rest of her life. Her faith was also very important to her, a lifelong Methodist who was always very active within the church.

That early determination paved the way for a remarkable life of community service. By 1950, at just sixteen years old, her deep roots in local youth work were recognised when she was crowned Queen of the Sheffield and District Band of Hope at Hanover Street Church. Even as a young woman, dressed in her ceremonial gown on the church steps, she was already becoming a central figure in Sheffield’s civic life.

That passion for nurturing people through dance naturally grew into the Velma Furniss School of Theatre Dance. While she initially taught out of local spaces like Hatfield House Lane Methodist Church, the school eventually found its permanent home on Oaks Lane, operating directly alongside her own residence. Over more than half a century, she taught ballet, tap, modern jazz, and theatre craft. Her classes weren't just for young kids; adults were just as welcome, stepping back onto the floor for the joy of movement.

Remarkably, all of this was on top of her day job as a teacher at Shiregreen Infants School, as well as her ongoing work as a Sunday School teacher. Long before modern community centres existed, Miss Furniss built a safe, welcoming haven where people of all ages could learn discipline, build confidence, and find their rhythm.

Miss Furniss finally closed her doors five years ago at the grand old age of 88. She suffered a stroke last year and finally gave up driving.

Mum and dad saw her regularly; they took her out for a Costa on a consistent basis. She was a very active lady and loved to visit the coast, catching up with friends. She kept in touch with all her former pupils, sending out hundreds of Christmas cards every year, every child - every parent—it's something we'll certainly miss.

She has a niece, but apart from that, I'm not aware of any other extended family, except for the hundreds of kids and adults who went through her school. She never married.

She passed peacefully in her sleep on the morning of Tuesday 4th August 2026.

Given the monumental impact she had on generations of families across North Sheffield, I don't think her story should end here. The Sheffield Legends Walk of Fame outside the Town Hall honours those who have made a lasting mark on our city. While it usually goes to household celebrities, true legends are people like Miss Furniss, who devoted her life to our children and our community. I intend to write to council leaders and the Mayor to nominate her for the recognition she so richly deserves, and I’d encourage anyone whose life she touched to do the same.

I'll close this post with words from my eldest daughter that she posted to social media:

"Miss Furniss...

Thank you for everything you did for every single child and adult that ever crossed paths with you. You were a legend to us all and you never forgot a single one of us dancers and we will never forget you!

Rest easy, you deserve it! R.I.P."

PROJECT HIGH-CONTRAST ARMOUR: READY FOR THE ROAD

2026-08-01T10:24:28.127+01:00

arlier this year, I embarked on a quest to renew my old cycling vest. The brief was simple: merge the aesthetic of the motorcyclist with the practical demands of the road bike. I’m not going to be the judge of whether I’ve been successful—time will tell—but the project has finally reached the point where it's ready to unveil.

The old vest was a proper cycling garment that I’d sewn various patches onto over time. Its worn, knackered look was part of its charm, but when the zip finally broke, I decided it was time to take things to the next level.

You can read about my initial thought process and planning in my previous post: Project High-Contrast Armour.

Back in March, I ordered the base vest. As planned, I decided to go down the high-visibility route, but with a twist—opting for my favourite colour, orange, instead of standard hi-vis yellow. I’m sure once it’s properly worn in, it’ll look the business.

Conveniently, I already had some waterproofing spray to hand. Morticia had bought it for our grandson’s shoes, so that will keep off the lighter showers (I still wear a proper rain jacket on the worst days).

When the base item duly arrived, the supplier had accidentally sent the wrong size. They sent out a replacement and kindly let me keep the original, which turned out to be a stroke of luck—it gave me a donor garment to solve my rear-pocket dilemma. Using fabric from the smaller vest and relying on my 'excellent' hand-sewing skills, I fashioned a very serviceable cycling pocket that should be plenty robust enough to hold my gear without failing.

Next came transplanting the patches from the old vest across to the new one and adding iron on reflective strips.

And here it is: road ready. I know I don’t look like your everyday cyclist—I might even turn a few heads. But then, who wants to look like everyone else anyway? Of course a jacket/vest like this is never finished, it will evolve and develop as time goes on. I already have a few new patches and mods in mind. But for now it's time to unleash it to the world.

Although I’ve already put it through a few road tests, I’ve decided to officially launch the vest today—on Yorkshire Day. It feels entirely appropriate to unveil a piece of gear built on quiet independence, grit, and doing things your own way. Proper Yorkshire craftsmanship—even if it's just me with a needle and thread.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

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PEDAL POWER IN THE PEACE GARDENS

2026-07-25T09:24:53.593+01:00

treet-level speed, cobbles, and crowd noise — the Sheffield Grand Prix is easily one of the big dates on my South Yorkshire calendar. No, this isn't a car race; it’s all about the bikes. Whilst the mighty Tour de France thunders its way towards Paris, a very different kind of cycling race rolls into town.

The Sheffield Grand Prix is an annual, high-octane city-centre cycle race that transforms Sheffield’s historic streets into a fast-paced criterium circuit. Serving as a flagship round of the British Cycling National Circuit Series, the event brings elite professional racers face-to-face with thousands of cheering spectators. From cobbled climbs past the Crucible Theatre to a lively event village in Peace Gardens, it combines world-class sport with a vibrant, family-friendly community atmosphere.

Since launching in 2012, the Sheffield Grand Prix has earned its rep as one of the hardest and fastest street crits in Britain. Over the last decade-plus, its technical cobbled circuit has played host to some of the biggest names in British cycling before they hit the world stage — including Olympic champions Tom Pidcock and Katie Archibald, double World Champ Lucy Garner, and local legends like Dean Downing and Graham Briggs.

Rags at our first race in 2014
(She was 12)

I first attended back in 2014 and, save for a couple of missed years, it has been an annual pilgrimage for me together with my youngest daughter, Rags. Last year she brought her son, my grandson Atreus, for his first cycle race. He joined us again this year, firmly cementing this as a proper multi-generational family tradition.

Things were a bit of a rush this time around — Rags had only just landed back from a trip to Spain, and I was working during the day. We caught the X2 bus, which dropped us off right at the edge of the action. The city was absolutely buzzing, packed with crowds waiting for the night's racing to kick off. The main highlights were the Women’s Race (Schwalbe Women’s Grand Prix) followed by the Men's Open Race (Grasscrete Open Grand Prix). Atreus got straight into the spirit of it, clapping and cheering the riders on every lap.

The Women's Race was taken by Katie Scott (DAS–Hutchinson), who launched an early break to claim a massive solo victory by 37 seconds. After that, we shifted closer to the finish line by the Peace Gardens — landing right opposite the VIP area where triple Olympic Champion (and local Barnsley lad) Ed Clancy was standing.

Women's race flying up Surrey Street

The Men's Open race was a relentless, fast-paced affair, with a four-man breakaway quickly pulling away from the main peloton. The win went to Ollie Wood (Rapha Cycling Club), who outsprinted the break to reclaim the Sheffield crown, seven years on from his previous victory here back in 2019.

The Men racing on Pinstone Street into
Peace Gardens

With the racing wrapped up, we were running dangerously close to our bus home. We made a mad dash for the stop with a very tired Atreus in tow and just managed to leap on board.

I was still buzzing by the time we got back home to a very patient dog waiting for his evening walk. What an amazing night of live sport — we’re dead lucky to have an event like this right on our doorstep. I can't wait for more next year!

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

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WHEELY HOT TICKET

2026-07-18T16:57:22.410+01:00

or weeks now, we’ve been basking in record-breaking temperatures—well, probably. While everyone else is out enjoying the endless summer, I’ve been busy trying to find ways of just coping. It’s great when I'm off the clock, but wearing a thick, heavy uniform in a building with a distinct lack of decent cooling turns a shift into a sticky, sweaty test of endurance.

Usually, a heatwave like this would find me eating up the miles on warm, dry roads. Instead, a broken spoke and a subsequently buckled wheel have left me grounded, depriving me of my iron steed for a week.

In its place, my commute has fallen to the bus—a mode of transport that far too many people look down their noses at. I’ve always been an advocate for public transit, though. I genuinely enjoy the whole experience, watching the world go by from a different vantage point. Well, except when they run late, of course. Fortunately, the bike shop has worked its magic, the wheel is returned, and next week should see me firmly back on two wheels..

Another big fan of buses is the country's next Prime Minister. Andy Burnham takes over the top job on Monday, replacing Sir Keir Starmer. I'm absolutely delighted with the new leadership and have high hopes of real change and progress. Hopefully, he can scale his success as the Mayor of Manchester into new prosperity for the entire country.

Away from the national stage and back on the home front, there is big news on the domestic scene. After twenty-five years of faithful service, we will soon be saying a final goodbye to our old front door. It has done a stellar job of keeping out the nasty weather, ne'er-do-wells, and general ruffians, but its watch is ending.

A shiny new frontage will soon be tasked with security duty (and keeping the Jehovah's Witnesses at bay), complete with state-of-the-art locks and a letterbox flap that promises not to rattle and flap every time the wind picks up. The order is officially in, and the grand installation should happen in a couple of months. To accompany it—and because I absolutely refuse to screw or stick plastic numbers into the new door—I’ve ordered a proper Welsh slate house number plaque to mount on the wall beside it. A little piece of Cymraeg magic to set it off.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

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THIRTY YEARS OF HARLEY

2026-07-12T23:09:04.317+01:00

years ago, my life changed forever. I became a father for the first time. I wasn't prepared for the sheer scale of how it would change me, but looking back, I feel incredibly fulfilled and a better man for the experience.

It was a Friday, and as I remember it, the weather was hot and sunny. Yet, we were operating under a dark cloud. Just a week earlier, we had been dealt devastating news. Following what we assumed was a routine scan, we met with a doctor who bluntly stated he had concerns that the baby's head hadn't developed properly, and told us survival was unlikely. Then, he simply left the room. No one else came in. There was nobody to answer our frantic questions, and no one to help us process a bolt from the blue that completely shattered our world.

We went home in shock. After a few desperate phone calls, we were finally invited back to speak to a specialist nurse who tried her best to reassure us. Morticia was booked in for an induced delivery on the Friday, which was the scheduled due date. Following a C-section, our little girl came into the world—perfectly healthy, and completely normal. That same doctor briefly popped his head in later to see mother and baby, muttered that "sometimes scans aren't all that clear," and left. We never saw him again.

We raised our little girl who, despite some incredibly difficult, far-from-ordinary teenage years, has grown into a beautiful woman.

Today Harley celebrates thirty years, right here in the house where her mother celebrated her own 30th all those years ago. Of course, she's visiting today; Harley is married now and lives over near Hillsborough, but she still comes home often for those vital home comforts.

She started her day on the east coast with her husband, watching the sunrise on the very first morning of a new decade of her life.

Later on, they both came over to us, where we hosted a home-cooked family tea to celebrate. She had requested one of her absolute favourites for the occasion: Morticia's homemade minced-beef pasties.

It was a simple family get-together, the kind of afternoon we all value and cherish deeply. To mark this milestone, we had wrapped thirty individual gifts for her, ranging from a nostalgic bottle of Lucozade (something she was absolutely mad about as a teenager) to a classic signature leather jacket she'd had her eye on. It was great fun, and hopefully a day she will remember fondly for many years to come.

Happy birthday, Harley. x

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

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GIVING THE RODS: A HISTORY OF TRUE DEFIANCE

2026-07-09T14:30:00.000+01:00

ery long ago, the preferred offensive hand gesture in Britain was the classic V-sign, otherwise known as 'the rods'. It carried so much more oomph than the American-influenced single digit that dominates today.

It is often mythologised as originating at the Battle of Agincourt in 1415. The legend goes that English and Welsh archers would flick the rods at the French, who had threatened to chop off the draw-fingers of any captured bowmen. This, of course, is utter bollocks.

In reality, it is a fiercely defiant gesture born from the grit of the industrial North at the turn of the 20th century. Brilliant as it is, the first ever documented use of the offensive V-sign was actually caught on film in 1901 right here in Rotherham, where I live. It occurred when a local worker flicked it at a camera to show he didn't want to be filmed.

The footage was filmed at Parkgate which is now sadly a large retail park. You can see the full short film here.

From those local streets, it went on to cement itself as a staple of working-class culture from the 1960s right through to the 1990s.

The gesture has always carried a bit of confusion with it. For the V-sign to be offensive, the palm must face inward; reverse this to palm-out, and the meaning changes completely to peace. But it wasn't this identity crisis that caused its demise. Instead, it was the steady influence of American media, with their single-finger 'bird' gaining traction and cementing itself into the minds of younger people around the world. Now, I know I'd get picked up on this if I didn't mention it: the Americans didn't actually invent the 'bird'. Instead, they repackaged a 2,500-year-old Greco-Roman phallic insult—one that likely arrived on US shores via Italian immigrants—and exported it back to the rest of us. Finally, when the global emoji standard was created, that single digit was included, but our classic palm-in, two-finger salute was completely omitted, effectively denying that old Northern grit a place in modern text messaging.

Finally, I had hoped we could all join together in giving a collective set of rods to the grifting political stain that is Nigel F*rage when he vacated his seat this week. Instead, in a desperate bid to outmanoeuvre the parliamentary watchdog investigating his dodgy finances, he announced he would immediately contest the very by-election his resignation caused. He even had the cheek to claim his stunt was a chance to 'stick two fingers up to the establishment'.

In a beautiful twist, the major parties have completely refused to give him the grand battle he wanted, choosing not to stand against him and turning his calculated distraction into a total farce of his own making. With the mainstream parties stepping aside, Farage's only true adversary on the ballot is Count Binface. Hopefully, watching a man who views himself as a political titan reduced to trading barbs with a satirical space knight will finally show his idolaters the absolute joke that he really is.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

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LIVING THE DREAM (APPARENTLY)

2026-07-04T08:55:26.641+01:00

esterday was our 27th wedding anniversary. So, did we spend the day guzzling champagne and scoffing down some posh nosh? Of course not.

The day was just a normal day. Ordinary. I went to work, and later we watched a bit of telly before finishing things off with a nice cup of tea.

Of course, there were cards. I made one...

Some people might think it portrays us as a bit dull, but I think it captures that quiet companionship we have perfected over thirty-plus years. A completely ordinary, shared stillness, as I sketch away and Morticia dives into her favourite mobile game.

Today is the first day of the Tour de France—easily one of the highlights of my year. I previously wrote about the Tour disappearing behind a paywall, but thankfully the megalomaniacal broadcasters have thrown the fans a small bone. Channel 5 will be showing a one-hour highlights programme every evening at 7pm. It's not perfect, but I'm thankful for small mercies.

Again, I'm working, so I'll have to catch up when I get home. I will definitely miss those days off spent soaking in the full stages, though.

That said, I do love watching the final stage in full, and I have found out selected stages will be shown live and free on S4C, the Welsh language channel. I'm not entirely sure if my Duolingo Welsh will get me through the commentary, but this is definitely a win.

Will Tadej Pogačar make it five GC wins, or will Vingegaard deny him? Let the race commence.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

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HOT, LONG AND STICKY

2026-06-28T10:02:09.951+01:00

atch up time. I’ve left things a bit long since my last two posts, mostly because they were quite substantial pieces. Now that I'm back at the keyboard, I suppose there’s not much choice but to talk about the weather.

Some say the inhabitants of these isles talk about the meteorological outlook a lot. We do. Our weather is famously changeable, so there is always something to natter about.

This last week, it has been all about the heatwave. It’s been sweaty, uncomfortable, and thoroughly tiring—and this particular scorcher happened to coincide with the longest week on our shift pattern. Consequently, I’ve endured long, hot days at work with precious little let-up. Air conditioning isn't universal here, except in cars, so we've all been perspiring profusely, enduring sweaty bits, and struggling to sleep. The scientists say this is going to be more 'normal' in the future. Perhaps investing in the air-con industry would be a clever plan?

The other major event dominating the landscape is the football happening over in North America at the moment. I’m not a football person, so the vast majority of this is sailing clean over my bald head. It is all anyone is talking about, especially at work. I wish everyone’s team well, but to save us all a bit of time, here are the answers to the inevitable questions:

No, I didn't see last night's match.
I have zero knowledge of the people or teams you are talking about.
I have absolutely no opinion on tonight's or tomorrow's match.

Enjoy your sport, folks. Mine starts very soon. The Tour de France is here in just a few days.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

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THE BLOODLINE AND THE SUN

2026-06-21T14:57:31.424+01:00

onouring two very different things is what today is all about. On one hand, we honour the role of fathers in our families; on the other, some of us will be honouring the Sun.

Today is Father’s Day, marking my 29th year being honoured as a dad. So, did my daughters lavish me with opulent gifts or treat me to a traditional, predictable slap-up meal? Of course not—that would be ordinary and boring. Instead, we paid a visit to Molly, their tattooist friend, to get matching ink to honour our relationship. I know permanent body art isn't for everyone, but it is definitely us. Thank you to my girls for the treat.

It is also a day to honour all fathers. I visited mine yesterday, armed with a stash of diabetic sweet treats. Because of our recent travels, I hadn't seen the parents for a few weeks, so it was fantastic to properly catch up.

Yesterday also marked a much quieter, but deeply profound anniversary: 19 years since Morticia’s life-saving heart surgery. Without it, she wouldn’t be here today. It’s a fierce reminder that the greatest gift we ever get is simply time.

The Peak of Sol

Alongside the dad duties, today is Midsummer—the longest day of the year. It's a sacred time to celebrate life and the peak power of Sól. Shortly, I shall be lighting a fire in my fire pit, giving offerings to the gods, and spending some quiet time meditating and contemplating.

Whether you're raising a glass, raising a fire, or getting some fresh ink—blessed Solstice and Happy Father's Day.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

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OUR SECOND HOME: FINDING HIRAETH

2026-06-16T09:05:36.917+01:00

ew Quay in West Wales is our special place, and for the last 10 days we've been enjoying everything it has to offer. In my previous post, I highlighted the first part of our trip. In this post, I'm going to share the final part of our most recent visit.

So, we ended the last part with a nighttime thunderstorm and hailstones, which briefly knocked out the power and plunged us into darkness. Thankfully, it was short-lived.

The next day was bright and sunny, so we took a trip to neighbouring Aberaeron. It's the first time we've had the chance to walk along the new coastal defence breakwater walkway.

A visit to the famous Harbourmaster Hotel (Jeremy Clarkson recently visited and wrote nice things) for a drink was a welcome break. Dogs can only go on the front terrace, so we sat overlooking the harbour with our drinks. A lady came by and asked if dogs were allowed inside. We advised her on the terrace policy, and since she was alone with her dog, I offered to hold his lead whilst she went inside to order. Afterwards, she told us about the struggles she faces being alone with a dog; she had lost her partner last year, so now finds navigating certain venues a bit of a challenge.

Following that, and after a bit of shopping, we had a swift one in the Tafarn Y Cadwgan—a wonderful little pub we discovered a couple of years ago.

Later on, we went for tea (the meal not the drink) in the Penrhiwllan Inn. It was fully booked, but the landlord, Budgie, managed to squeeze us in. We've known him for many years and we're always well looked after. The food was wonderful, as always.

The rain returned on Thursday with an almost constant downpour. But that has never got us down, and a visit to the seafront for fish and chips was certainly not going to be put off. We ate them in the car overlooking the bay. We managed to get around some of the shops too; Morticia treated herself to a new fleece, and we also found a cool one for our grandson, Atreus, too.

That evening, we got together with our old friends Mike, Chris, Sam, and Alice. It's always good to catch up. We chatted over wine and beer whilst nibbling on crisps and Haribos. After they left, I took Magnus for his evening walkies and cheekily slipped into the Penrhiwgaled Inn (not to be confused with the Penrhiwllan, which is a mile down the road).

The Penrhiwgaled used to be a pub with unrealised potential before the current landlord and landlady took it on. They've transformed the place into a vibrant community pub without losing its soul. I always enjoy the friendly atmosphere, and I fully blame the dog for dragging me in.

One tradition that we always stick to is the walk along the beach to Llanina Point. Friday had the best-timed low tide of the week, so we set off. It's a beautiful walk, looking back at "the cliff-perched, toppling town" in all its glory.

Llanina Point was once the location of a lost church—or perhaps several—taken by the ocean over the centuries. St Ina's current church lies further back, hidden behind trees at the side of Afon Llethi. Legend has it that King Ina of Wessex was shipwrecked on the Ceredigion coast near New Quay and was rescued by the local community. As thanks, Ina arranged for a church to be built right on the coastline, which was later dedicated to him after he was canonised. However, this story is likely a bit of a myth created for Victorian tour guides. History suggests the church was actually founded by Ina, a 5th-century Welsh princess and daughter of Ceredig ap Cunedda, the king who gave his name to Ceredigion.

Our walk took us past the church and the ruined outbuildings of Plas Llanina. It's a stunning woodland pathway that goes past "Majoda"—the site of the bungalow where Dylan Thomas stayed and wrote the first draft of Under Milk Wood.

The walk ended at the Seahorse Inn. It's another favourite hostelry of mine—nothing fancy, just an honest, old-fashioned pub.

And then Saturday came. But just like last year, we have bonus time here. Instead of packing up and heading home, we are here until Monday!

It was the weekend, so the town was filling up. The weather was glorious, and we just had to get amongst it—spending time on the pier and soaking up the atmosphere.

That evening was the big Saturday night out, so we headed to the park club. Morticia was keen to see the Welsh Elvis impersonator who was headlining the entertainment. I'm not usually one for that sort of thing, but she really wanted to go, so of course, we did. Before the night was over, I managed to win this guy (picture below) from the grabber machine—a perfect gift for our grandson, Atreus.

On Sunday, our final full day, we returned to Aberaeron for a mooch about. We had a sandwich in one of the cafes, followed by a swift one in my favourite pub there, Tafarn Y Cadwgan. Whilst sat outside, we ended up talking to a local lady who told us all about her grown-up kids, her ex and current husbands, and her dodgy knee! Everyone here is so friendly, and because life is so laid-back, people actually have the time to just stop and have a chat.

Once again, with great sadness, we packed up the car. After saying goodbye to our friends, Mike and Chris, we drove down into New Quay to have one last quick look around and to listen to the sea before our long journey home to South Yorkshire.

Fuel topped up—petrol for the car, a sausage roll for me, a cheese and onion roll for Morticia—and we were off. We stopped at the Corris Craft Centre (a spot I’d nipped into last year) for a cup of tea and a slice of bara brith, before continuing the long drive back.

Before I close up this rather long post, I'd like to address something. I occasionally get a bit of stick for returning to the same place year after year. Well, to be honest, it works for us. If someone owned a brick-and-mortar second home and visited it regularly, nobody would bat an eye. I'm not a man of means, and a second home—even owning our own caravan—is out of reach. But we think of this place as our second home, and we use whatever means we can to get here. It just feels right. I hope I'm able to return here for many years to come, or perhaps even live here permanently one day.

The good news is that we are already planning our next visit to this place. We hope to return in September.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. Join him on a Welsh adventure.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

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CYMRU, CEI NEWYDD AND CROSSOVERS

2026-06-10T00:15:31.162+01:00

ei Newydd is a constant in my life. A place that gives us so much pleasure. Some people are well-travelled and that’s great; I’m not, and that’s fine too. The time had come to return to this place which means so much to me.

The journey started a bit later than usual, though with the usual stops. The weather brought showers and a bit of a chill compared to late. Leading up to the trip, I had a feeling of dread that I just couldn't shake off. Then it happened: a warning light appeared on the dashboard—a stop/start system fault. After checking a load of online resources, it looked like some sort of sensor glitch. At least, I hope that's right. We had no choice but to keep going and hope for the best. The car is still driving fine, so I have no option but to trust it, though it still gives me flashbacks to last year's issues.

Magnus at Llyn Tegid

Magnus finding true relexation
in our caravan

We've taken it slow for the first few days, as trying to switch off has been challenging this year. Our first proper outing was a visit to Dylan the tattooist on Sunday morning at Inc Cymru, whom we met last year, for a bit of Welsh body art. This year, I decided to go for a symbol of Welsh folklore—the Mari Lwyd.

The Mari Lwyd is a striking and slightly eerie Welsh winter custom with deep, ancient roots celebrated around Yule. The ritual centres on a horse's skull decorated with colourful ribbons, bells, and glass eyes, mounted on a pole and carried by a person hidden beneath a white sheet. A troupe of revellers takes the Mari from house to house, engaging in pwnco—a lively, improvised battle of rhyming Welsh poetry and witty insults with the inhabitants through the locked door. It's kind of like an ancient rap battle. If the householder loses, the Mari gets invited in to drink all the beer.

Morticia opted for a dolphin image to celebrate the more popular inhabitants of this bay. Whilst she was in the chair getting hers done, I ended up chatting to Dylan's friend Barry about dogs, local issues, and music—turns out he had been a musician in a death metal band back in the day. With both of our new tattoos sorted, the rest of the day was taken up dodging showers, catching up with old haunts, and sampling the local Welsh ales.

Morticia's friend was travelling around Wales and decided to pop in and see us, which felt quite strange for me. You see, I always feel like home and this noddfa exist in two entirely separate realms; when anyone crosses over from the other, it feels like a bit of a glitch in the matrix—odd and out of place. Maybe I'm just a bit over-protective of this place because it is so special to me? But it is always interesting to see how others react to our happy place.

Me outside Afon Mêl

Morticia on Dolau beach

We took her first to Afon Mêl, the local honey farm where the best bees in Cymru hang out. It's also famous for its mead. If you've been to any Viking festivals or events, there's a good chance Afon Mêl were there selling the best meads around.

Then we headed down into the bay for some beach fun with our respective dogs, a drink in the Quayside bar, and chips from the excellent Lime Crab. Following a bit of a break, we went out in the evening for a few drinks in the park bar.

So, does she get it? I think she probably doesn't quite get the appeal, but that's ok. It's the thing about this place—there isn't much in the way of mainstream entertainment, and we don't get up to much while we're here. For us, though, it’s definitely not about that. The sheer quietness of it, the relaxation, and the chance to completely unwind and disconnect from our 'other' life is where the true magic lies.

Once we were back into our own swing, we dropped in on the Penrhiwgaled Inn for a quiet afternoon sup. Later on, we had tea (the meal, not the drink) in the Pencwnc club, followed quite unexpectedly by their weekly quiz.

We came second—not a bad result at all, if I do say so myself!

Thankfully, we had made it safely back to the caravan before the weather changed and a deluge started. It is still going strong now. I always love the sound of rain on a caravan roof, but this has turned into a massive thunderstorm with heavy hailstones. Thor is definitely making his presence known tonight.

Before I close off this first part I made a promise, so here it is...

...the postcard I promised. A bit of original illustration superimposed on a genuine vintage card. I'll hopefully be covering the second part of my trip next week. Until then I have fish and chips to eat, Welsh ales to drink and relaxing to do.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. Join him on a Welsh adventure.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

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THE MISTRESS IN THE WEST

2026-06-05T18:00:00.000+01:00

ear Yorkshire, I have a confession to make.

I’ve been seeing Wales behind your back.

It’s not you, it’s me. Well, alright, it’s a bit you. Don't look at me like that; I’m not leaving. I couldn't afford to, even if I wanted to. But I’ll be visiting my mistress again soon, and I think it’s time we were honest with each other.

I still love you. You’re in my blood, you’re in my voice, and you’re the soil I’ll likely end up in. But Wales? Wales has something you don't. While you’ve got the grit and the "broader" industrial heart, Wales has that ancient, Celtic call that pulls at the other half of my soul.

As a Norse Pagan with a fair few Celtic leanings, I find there’s no battle for space in my head between the two. Odin feels right at home amongst our dales and urban sprawls but there’s a different kind of magic in the Welsh hills that doesn't need to compete. It’s just... different.

If Yorkshire is my home—the place where I fettle my bike, grab my snap, and defend the mighty Yorkshire Pudding —then Wales is my escape. It’s where the mountains don’t care about my modern problems and the air feels a millennium older.

I’d leave you if I could afford the move, Yorkshire. I’d be over the border in a heartbeat, settling into a place by the sea with a name as long as the history. But even then, I’d definitely be seeing you on the side. I’d be sneaking back across the Pennines for a bit of proper grit and a "reyt" brew, because once you’ve had the Viking hammered into you, you can’t ever truly walk away.

So, I’m heading West very soon. This Urban Viking is going on a raid, but I'm not looking for gold or silver—I'm hoping to find a bit of Celtic peace before the modern world catches up again.

Yours, but only until I hit the M56,

The Captain

I'll be sending you all a post card, pop back mid-week to catch it.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. Join him on a Welsh adventure.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey across the country and my time in my happy place over on social media. Join in:

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THE GODDESS OF PARK HILL

2026-06-02T10:00:00.000+01:00

niversally most pantheons have a Mother Earth, it is something that continues into general beliefs and as a concept transcends religion.

There are many names for earth goddesses; depending on your leaning, you may favour Prithvi, Ki, Phra Mae Thorani, Etugen Eke, Papahānaumoku, Asase Afua, Mama Pacha, Trengtrengfilu, Cybele, Bhum, Zonja e Dheut, Žemyna, Cel, Maaemä, Mat Zemlya, Papatūānuku, Terra, Danu, Jörð, or finally, Gaia.

Gaia, primordial goddess of the earth. She was one of the earliest elemental deities, having been created at the beginning of time. It was thought that all creation is descended from Gaia, the great mother of all things. According to Greek mythology, she was the creator of the universe and was responsible for the birth of both humanity and the first race of gods, the Titans.

But why would I talk about Greek mythology when everyone knows my interest is in Nordic and British Celtic (Jörð and Danu)? Well, primarily it's because of the winner of the Chelsea Flower Show this year.

Sarah Eberle won the top honour at the RHS Chelsea Flower Show for her Show Garden, "On the Edge," created for the Campaign to Protect Rural England (CPRE). The design celebrated the wilder, often-overlooked countryside on the fringes of towns and cities that connects urban areas to nature—rather than traditional, manicured gardens. A colossal, dramatic wooden sculpture of Gaia appears to rise directly out of the earth among silver birch trees and grasses.

The big takeaway from all this is that the statue and a recreated garden are to receive a permanent home right here in Sheffield. In fact, the statue has already arrived and is in the green space in front of the Park Hill flats, which will soon be her new home. This week, I went along to visit her.

I can't wait to see the finished garden. I'll be back to check on progress and look forward to seeing the completed creation. It’s an incredible asset for the city to land, and having a massive, ancient elemental figure sitting right in front of the iconic, concrete brutalism of Park Hill is going to look absolutely stunning.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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SUN BAKED AND SWEATY

2026-05-29T17:00:00.000+01:00

eather is a constant conversational subject if you live in the United Kingdom. Too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry—there’s always something to talk about when there’s nothing else to say. But this May is different, yet becoming all too regular.

We are in the grip of a record-breaking heatwave that is rewriting the history books. For over eighty years, the highest temperature ever recorded in May stood at 32.8°C. Bank Holiday Monday obliterated that, hitting 34.8°C at Kew Gardens, only to be completely usurped the very next day.

I was working on that Tuesday, and it was incredibly uncomfortable and sweaty. While the Met Office was clocking a staggering new all-time May record of 35.1°C, I was dealing with a building that is notoriously hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. Even the night before had offered no relief, tracking the warmest May night the UK has ever seen.

Sadly, this heatwave has also brought a stark reminder of the hidden dangers of the British summer, claiming the lives of several young people across the country—including one right here in South Yorkshire. Open water has a deadly draw when the mercury rises, and tragically, it is often the young who fall victim to its hidden currents and sudden, freezing depths.

Learning that emergency services had been called to a fatal incident at Rother Valley Country Park this week stirred up a distant memory from my own school days in Killamarsh. I vividly remember being told the sobering news that someone had died swimming in the flooded remains of the Shand open-cast mine. That treacherous, water-filled crater was the industrial precursor to Rother Valley, long before it was landscaped into the country park it is today. It seems that no matter how much time passes, the perilous temptation of these waters remains exactly the same.

At the end of my shift, I was prepped for a hot, sticky ride home on my bike when Thor spoke. Thunder cracked above me, accompanied by a sudden, heavy downpour. I set off surrounded by the booms and flashes, but just a mile down the road, it was gone. The tarmac was bone dry, and it was as if the storm had never happened.

Later in the week, I was back out on my bike, cycling along the canal towpath between Meadowhall and Rotherham—a route made all the better by the glorious sunshine. Unfortunately, the reality of the earlier tragedy hit home when I observed a number of children playing on Jordans Dam Weir, where the canal briefly meets the River Don. They were completely ignoring the stark warnings currently flooding the media about the perils of open water. It is frustrating to witness, but it shows just how difficult it is to break the lure of the water on a hot day.

As the week progressed, the weather finally cooled to a much more tolerable level, though the temperatures still remained high for the time of year. I'm not sure what the long-term outlook holds for the coming weeks, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we get a nice, dry spell for our upcoming trip to Wales.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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CELEBRATING ATREUS

2026-05-26T10:38:00.000+01:00

treus is my beloved grandson, and the boy has changed my life in ways I could never have imagined. He has only been around for two years, but already I can’t picture life without him. This weekend marked his second birthday, and we celebrated the occasion with a simple gathering in our garden.

As I’ve mentioned before, Atreus lives with us, along with his parents. It is a bit of a cramped situation at times, but that’s just how things are right now. The party was put together by his parents, bringing together a close circle of grandparents, aunties, and godparents. Plus Magnus, of course, who wouldn't miss it for anything.

There was plenty of fun in the sun, great food, and, of course, cake. As for me? I’m always happiest spending time in my shed, and Magnus was more than happy to keep me company out there while the birthday chaos unfolded.

Two years of pure joy. Happy birthday, little man.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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THE EXCRUCIATING WAITING GAME

2026-05-23T09:25:27.834+01:00

ne of life’s scariest moments can be heading into a spider-filled basement, climbing a shaky ladder, or trusting a fart after a curry. But I’ll raise you: waiting for your car to get through its annual MOT is a tension like no other.

I'm certainly not against the MOT. Checking vehicles' roadworthiness is vital for the safety of all, especially when you spend as much time on two wheels as me. As a cyclist, I know the value of good brakes and solid components, but as a driver, waiting for the call is excruciating.

So this is Ozzy, our Nissan Qashqai.

We've had Ozzy for almost a year now (you can read about how we acquired the car here). Ozzy has been an excellent vehicle so far, but I can be a bit negative when it comes to automotive matters; last year's experience with our previous car tainted me, and I'm probably not fully over it. But...

The good news is Ozzy passed!

I don't use the car daily, as I prefer to cycle to work (with the bus as a backup option). Usually, the car is there for Morticia, giving her vital mobility and freedom. But in two weeks, Ozzy has a massive job. It'll be Ozzy's responsibility to take us down to Wales—to our happy place—for a well-earned and much-needed break.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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CRUNCH TIME

2026-05-15T14:00:42.801+01:00

t's time to come clean. To admit to everyone and myself that I have a problem. Addiction is something that creeps up on you. It starts with a taste, then a bit of recreational consumption and before long its a habit. I have to admit that it's become a problem. My consumption has become an issue and is threatening everything.

I am of course speaking about my love of crisps and savoury bagged snacks. Doritos, Wotsits, Nik Naks plus regular crisps are so delicious. I love them. But I'll happily demolish a so called 'sharing bag' in a single sitting and it has to stop.

It turns out my lack of willpower is actually a triumph of modern engineering. I’m not just a man with a bag of Doritos; I’m a biological system being dismantled by 'Vanishing Caloric Density' and a perfectly calculated 'Bliss Point.' I’m not weak—I’m just outgunned by food scientists.

But before I tackle the problem I feel I must rank those tasty delights...

Created using AI

I need to deal with my problem, but I have to be honest: cutting them out completely isn’t realistic. They are far too delicious for a total exile. Perhaps the answer, then, lies in moderation rather than banishment. From now on, crisps will become a weekend treat—something to be savoured and respected rather than demolished on autopilot. I’ll still allow the occasional mini multipack offering in my snap tin* for a bit of mid-shift morale, but beyond that, I must exercise restraint. It is a difficult path, certainly, but every warrior must eventually face their trials—even if that trial is flavoured with chilli heatwave.

*In Yorkshire, “snap” means food taken to work, and the “snap tin” is the sacred vessel that carries it.

This week, I headed over to my physiotherapy appointment for my back. I haven't mentioned my recovery from the cycling accident back in November for a while, but I’ve been attending private physio sessions for some time now. I’m making solid progress, and the treatment is definitely getting results, though I never imagined I’d still be feeling the effects six months later.

This week’s session was a bit of a departure for me: I had acupuncture. My physio did say I might feel a little prick but I said that's usual for me (didn't happen). It was a completely new experience—painless, surprisingly—and while it hasn't eliminated the pain entirely, it has made it far more bearable. The effects only last a few days, so it’s vital that I keep up with my exercises too.

A Birthday Shout-Out

Thursday saw Magnus, my beloved four-legged companion, celebrate his 5th birthday. He has been such a source of comfort, fun, and companionship over the years. I am so glad we have him in our lives.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

Instagram ● Threads

BlueSky ● TikTok