TO BALDLY GO...

THRESHOLD OF WINTER: FINDING ÁLFABLÓT

2026-10-31T17:30:00.000+00:00

odern culture makes a big deal of this time of year—as I’ve chronicled in recent posts—but beneath all the noise, traditional Pagan practice sees it for what it truly is: a time of quiet reflection and honour.

Veneration of ancestors and the spirits of the land is central to this threshold. In days gone by, it marked the end of the harvest and the start of the long, hard road of winter survival. Most of us (myself included) have no real concept of what harvest time actually meant. Unless you live in a deeply rural setting, you probably barely notice it passing.

Imagine having to gather and store an entire season's food and fuel, then sitting back to hope you had enough to get through a potentially deadly winter. There was no post-Iron Age Tesco to rely on if the cupboards ran bare in February.

This is where Álfablót comes in. It’s a time of thanksgiving and seeking the strength to endure the dark nights ahead—thanking and honouring those who walked the path before us and acknowledging the land spirits around us.

I’ll be performing a quiet ritual over the coming nights (the 31st isn't a nailed-on date, after all). Nothing fancy or elaborate—just a few unspoken or spoken words, a quiet pause, and a simple offering.

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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ENGAGE. A TRIBUTE TO SIR PATRICK STEWART

2026-10-30T10:03:33.645+00:00

tar Trek has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I remember watching the original series on BBC2 back in the 70s. It has always filled me with pure joy. Then came the films, epic versions of the small screen treasures - I just lapped it all up.

Back in the late 80s when I was a naive and shy teenager, I heard that there was going to be a follow-up television series called The Next Generation. Initially sceptical, I finally got to see it when it arrived on UK television a couple of years after (as was the way in those days).

I was blown away. It was so different, yet still Star Trek. And leading this new crew was a very different kind of captain...

Captain Jean-Luc Picard.

A French captain with an RP British accent. He was performed with the expertise of the Royal Shakespeare Company actor that was Patrick Stewart.

And this is why today I find myself writing this post. Just a few hours ago at the time of writing, I learned that Sir Patrick Stewart passed away. I am devastated. Jean-Luc Picard was a steady anchor and an absolute legend. Sir Patrick was a craftsman, advocate, and a gentleman.

He passed away at his home in Los Angeles following a brief and poignant journey with Alzheimer's Disease and Lewy Body Dementia.

A son of Mirfield in the West Riding of Yorkshire, he travelled from the Royal Shakespeare Company to an equally acclaimed career spanning six decades on Broadway, the silver screen, and television.

The news came just days after the death of Original Series star Walter Koenig.

Thank you for everything, Sir Patrick. From one Yorkshireman to another...

"Make it so."

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TWO DECADES OF SERVICE

2026-10-23T10:30:00.000+01:00

don't tend to talk about work online. It usually leads to bother if I do, and besides, there are strict rules I have to be careful around. As a rule, I keep my work life and home life completely separate. Having said that, there are times when those worlds collide and something at work affects me personally—and I'm facing a milestone right now that I simply can't ignore or leave undocumented.

Some people know what my day job is, others don't—I work in a uniformed police staff role, something I wrote a bit about the back in 2022. I am proud of what I do, and sometimes it guts me that I can't write about it more openly, but "them's the rules".

It's just that I'm facing a serious long-service milestone this very weekend. On 30th October 2006, I started my current job. If you have basic maths, you can see that today marks a full 20 years of service.

I've been digging through the site archives and pulled out what I wrote back when it all started in late 2006...

(Extracted and slightly polished from the 2006 archives—mostly to remove the worst of my old formatting and protect the innocent!)

From the Archives: October – November 2006
30th October 2006: Started training today—two classes of 15. Standard icebreaker sessions to begin with, but the group seems like a proper good bunch. By the afternoon, we had the welcoming talk from the Assistant Chief, and within a couple of days, things really kicked up a notch.

By the end of week one, I asked myself the big questions: Am I enjoying it? Is it what I expected? Did I do the right thing?

The answer to all three was a massive YES. I loved it. It was more than I’d hoped for, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged. Early days, of course—we hadn't even left the classroom—but I was properly happy.

A week later, postings came out. My assigned patch had a bit of a reputation, but I wasn't bothered in the slightest. I was paired up with an ex-soldier from the other training group. It suddenly started feeling very real.

Huge thanks to our trainers—they gave us the solid foundations to be the best the force had ever seen. Good luck to the whole group. Here’s to the Class of November 2006!
27th November 2006: First official day at my posting. It started creditably disastrously. I had two massive, ridiculously heavy bags of kit to haul around on public transport, and true to form... I missed the bus.

The next one was 20 minutes later, which meant I’d have exactly 10 minutes to sprint from the bus stop to my new workplace. I walked through the doors with about 30 seconds to spare—the absolute last to arrive, with everyone waiting for me.

The rest of the day was the usual induction whirl: kit issue, building tours, meeting endless new faces, and trying to memorise a hundred different corridors. A lot to take in, but I was in.

So, after 20 years, am I still as passionate about what I do? Absolutely—though perhaps with a little mild cynicism for the internal politics that can sometimes get in the way. Mind you, I suspect that happens everywhere in both the public and private sectors. These days, I'm armed with heaps of experience and knowledge, which hopefully makes up for the creeping age and the occasional drop in youthful enthusiasm!

That initial feeling from week one—that I was where I belonged—has held true through all the ups, downs, and everything in between.

Two decades down. Here's to the next chapter.

Is there a medal, you ask? Well, the short answer is no. Official long-service medals are governed by Royal Warrants that currently fall short of covering my role. There is an active campaign to get that warrant updated to include us, but those wheels turn famously slowly. Maybe retrospectively I'll get one one day, but I certainly won't be holding my breath! I believe we get an internal token of service from management to recognise the event, though, which is a nice gesture all the same.

Now, working in an organisation where quite a few staff reach retirement in their mid-fifties, it sometimes feels like that’s how I’m viewed these days—as if I'm on the final countdown to the finish line. In reality, I’m still about 10 years away; early retirement simply isn't on the cards as things stand. I’m completely fine with that, though it doesn't stop the comments (as tongue-in-cheek as they usually are) from a largely younger workforce! Retirement isn't in sight for me just yet, and I have no idea what this next chapter holds. All told, I've served the public for over 30 years now—including 11 years as a bus driver before joining the force—and I hope I get the opportunity to carry on for a good while yet.

Mind you, if I ever win the lottery, I'll be off to Wales before the cheque has even cleared!

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 VEILED SEASON Vs AN OVERSIZED SQUASH

2026-10-21T20:20:34.939+01:00

o many, this time of year is their absolute favourite. The festivals, the traditions, the rich explosion of colours, and the beginning of the long lead-up to the biggest celebration of the year.

If anyone had asked me in the past if I liked autumn, I’d probably have said yes. And I do love the colours—the deep browns and fiery oranges are beautiful. Plus, Halloween is the one time of year when everyone else decorates their houses with the sort of stuff we keep on display year-round. What’s not to like?

Then again, autumn usually brings the damp and the drizzle. It’s getting darker as the nights draw in, and of course, it's getting colder.

Autumn is really about preparing for the long winter ahead. It’s an important, meaningful time—as the veil between realms grows thinner, I find myself drawn to working with Hel and Arawn. It isn’t just a time for cheap thrills or dressing up as vampires and ghosts (though I do enjoy the spectacle). It’s a sacred opportunity to honour our ancestors: to speak their names, tell their stories, and let them live on through us.

But important doesn't always mean pleasant.

Especially as I’ve gotten older, I struggle with this time of year. I miss the light. I much prefer the rebirth of spring and feel a far closer connection to Cernunnos, finding him to be a much brighter, cheerful presence to walk alongside.

And don't get me started on the modern obsession with pumpkins! The oversized orange squash is a relatively recent transatlantic import to our shores. Most of the commercialised traditions we observe today are fairly fresh arrivals from across the pond. When I was a kid, we didn't have easy-to-carve pumpkins—we carved our Jack-o'-lanterns out of turnips, risking a broken spoon and a bruised thumb in the process!

On a final, unrelated note, I can't let the 60th anniversary of the Aberfan disaster pass without mentioning it. For those who might not be aware, back in October 1966, a waterlogged colliery spoil tip collapsed and slid down into the Welsh village of Aberfan, engulfing Pantglas Junior School. It claimed 144 lives, including 116 children. It’s a grief the community still carries to this day. The thought of it always fills me with immense sadness—not just because of my love for Wales, but simply because it remains one of the most heartbreaking tragedies imaginable.

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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LOST LEGACY: HOW CORPORATE POLICY KILLED THE BRIDGE INN

2026-10-16T20:00:00.000+01:00

efore you get to the bus station in Rotherham town centre you'll probably see a grand old stone built public house building called "The Bridge Inn" so called because it sits next to Chantry bridge that crosses the Don. If you fancy a pint in there you'll be disappointed to learn that it is closed permanently.

Its history spans over two centuries, starting out as an 18th-century coaching-era pub. Earliest Records for a public house on or near this site date back to at least 1778, the original pub would have served travelers, traders, and local workers crossing the River Don into the town.

In the early 1930s, major civil works took place to widen and rebuild the medieval Chantry Bridge. As part of these works, the old pub was demolished, and the owners built the current premises right alongside the riverbank.

To many generations of locals, the pub was affectionately known simply as "Nellie Denes". During the mid-to-late 20th century, it was renamed in honour of a famous music hall song "Nellie Dean", cementing its reputation as a lively community pub famous for live music, singalongs, and local social gatherings.

It is under this name I first encountered the pub. By the time I visited the place had become run down. It was a bit of a dive that I wasn't that keen on.

Following years as a traditional Old Mill Brewery pub, the venue was taken over by independent operators who rebranded and ran it under the joint identity The Bridge Inn / The Hive. It opened in difficult times, right in the middle of the Covid pandemic. I was an early patron and was treated to a behind the scenes tour of the improvement works including two performance areas and an outdoor courtyard.

While relatively short, the "Bridge / Hive" era remains one of the most vibrant and talked-about modern chapters in the pub's centuries-long timeline. It marked the pub’s transformation into a prominent regional hub for the local alternative and grassroots live music scene. I was drawn in and loved the nights spent here discovering new bands, new music and a close welcoming atmosphere.

The pub was restyled with a distinct goth/alternative decor inside, carving out a dedicated niche as an unashamed live rock music venue. We loved it's look with its vibrant red walls and coffin tables.

It became an essential destination for original bands, underground heavy metal, doom, punk, and goth acts across the region. Events like the multi-day Heaven & Hell Fest and regular Doomlines metal showcases drew touring acts and dedicated fans from across South Yorkshire.

These are photos I took on many nights out

The venue hosted midweek open mics, local art events, and monthly cultural meetups, themed quiz nights serving as a sanctuary for local creatives and musicians.

The Hive era came to an abrupt and unexpected end two years ago when freehold owners, Old Mill Brewery, decided the pub didn't fit its portfolio and put the building on the market.

The management announced the sudden closure via social media. The news was met with widespread sadness from the local music community, as it removed one of the very few dedicated grassroots original music venues remaining in South Yorkshire. The managers poured their absolute hearts, souls, and personal savings into transforming a run-down building during the absolute worst possible time to open a venue, built a fierce and loyal following from scratch, and as soon as it became a vibrant success, the brewery pulled the rug out from under them.

Although short-lived, the Hive era gave the historic building a distinct, loud, and passionate last act before closing forever as a public house.

I just heard that the building has been granted planning permission to be converted into a convenience store. This is a sad end to the legacy and to the venue it became.

Turning a landmark building—with over two centuries of heritage and a killer live music legacy—into yet another generic convenience store feels like a genuine insult to the town. Rotherham doesn't need another chain shop selling vapes and energy drinks; it needed the culture, the noise, the sanctuary, and the community that The Hive gave people.

I still miss it; nothing has come along to take its place. It's disappointing that big business feels that if a place doesn't fit their idea of what the public want, it has to go. The Bridge / The Hive was a busy, well-loved, and well-frequented pub and venue that should never have closed.

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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DOORS AND DAUGHTERS

2026-10-09T20:18:19.743+01:00

ags is my youngest, but even she has clocked up a fair few birthdays now. Last Sunday she turned twenty-five, which leaves me asking the age-old question: how on earth did I end up with a thirty-year-old and a twenty-five-year-old?

There was no grand party, but I always enjoy it when the whole family gathers under one roof. Since Rags didn’t have any specific plans and Harley was coming over, we decided to cook a proper traditional Sunday dinner. I’ll admit to a brief pang of guilt, as I found myself enjoying Harley’s presence just a bit more than the actual birthday celebrations. But I suppose that’s only natural—Rags still lives with us, whereas I don't get to see Harley anywhere near as often.

Besides, Rags has plenty of her own reasons to celebrate at the moment. She’s starting a new job soon (more on that in a future post), so it feels like a genuine new beginning for her.

Speaking of new beginnings and entrances, a portal is defined as a gate or doorway—particularly one that is grand, imposing, or visually distinct. Nobody would argue that if you want to travel from one space to another, a portal is essential. Which brings me to a rather significant upgrade in my own life: I bought a new portal.

I am, of course, talking about our front door—arguably the most important portal in anyone's daily routine. We moved into this house when it was a fresh new build, just before Rags was born. It had watched the children grow up, seen pets come and go, and welcomed a quarter-century’s worth of deliveries. But Tuesday was its final day in service. In its place stands a proper, solid new door, complete with a high-security lock and a smart new Welsh slate house number plaque to finish it off.

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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DEITIES AND DIARY DATES

2026-10-03T10:42:00.000+01:00

oddess of the earth, giver of life, and bestower of nature. Virtually every culture throughout history carries a reverence for an earth deity—a single, living presence gifted many names, yet responsible for the beauty of the world around us.

Back in June, I wrote about the statue of Gaia—the winning installation from the Chelsea Flower Show—becoming a permanent resident in the Park Hill area of my home city. I said at the time that I’d keep an eye on her progress, and I have. She’s definitely looking more settled now, looking amazing set against the brutalist backdrop of the 1960s flats. I’m guessing the plants will need time to establish themselves before she is truly ready, but she is looking so much better already. It seems great minds think alike, as I noticed local blogger Neil over at Yorkshire Pudding was just writing about her too!

My own pantheon recognises her as Jörð (pronounced Yord), the personification of the uncultivated Earth—an ancient giantess and, with Odin, the mother of Thor. While Norse tradition grounds you on the solid, unyielding foundation of Jörð—the wild, enduring earth that stands timeless beneath gods and mortals alike—Celtic paganism connects you to the sentient, living spirit of the landscape. Where the Norse path offers a deep reverence for the raw physical realm underfoot, the Celtic tradition invites a sacred, personal relationship with the soil, treating the land not just as a backdrop, but as a sovereign partner to be respected, walked alongside, and honoured in every step. I like to think that I mesh these two ideals together, free from confusion or conflict.

Whatever name you give her, however you view or revere her, she is just like nature itself: beautiful.

I’ll keep popping past to see how the changing seasons treat her, and I for one am glad to welcome her to our city. Fingers crossed she remains safe from any acts of vandalism or destruction; while the area she is sited in is currently undergoing redevelopment, there remains a bit of an unsavoury element that might seek to ruin what has been crafted here.

On a somewhat smaller scale than ancient deities, I’ve also been busy honouring my own sacred personal traditions—mainly because I am an absolute creature of habit, and planning ahead is its own kind of magic.

Next year’s diary is already taking shape. I’ve booked our hotel for the Jorvik Viking Festival 2027, which has officially become a non-negotiable staple in our calendar. Closer on the horizon, we’re off to a good friend’s wedding later this year. That involves a stay in a properly posh hotel—incidentally, the very same establishment where Morticia used to work back when we first got together, so no pressure on them to impress!

And finally, the big one: our next trip to Wales is officially locked in. Granted, June feels like a lifetime away, but there is a massive silver lining... this time, it’s for two whole weeks.

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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MONETISING THE AWEN

2026-09-28T12:21:00.000+01:00

arking is an emotive issue, and usually I have little sympathy for people who get caught out. If you park somewhere, you make sure you’re allowed—simple as that. But what happens when the rules change under your feet, and a place you’ve trusted for two decades becomes a trap?

I am a creature of habit. I enjoy certain things being fixed. Don't get me wrong, I love new experiences, but not at the detriment of my comfort spots. The biggest regular thing I do is my trips to West Wales—probably the greatest pleasure in my life. Only recently we came home from our latest journey. Everything was as normal as it always has been, until it wasn't.

One of the early visits, several years ago

One of the most beautiful places on our route is Llyn Tegid in Bala. It's a spiritual place that is deeply important to our journey, intrinsically linked as it is to Ceridwen and the Awen. We take time there to let the atmosphere wash over us—just for a short while. We usually eat our pack up by the water and make use of the facilities. We've done this for more than twenty years.

On our return from our most recent trip, we stopped by the lake as usual. It was only by pure chance I noticed a small addition to the parking charges board: Blue Badge holders were now required to pay. Morticia is disabled, and for the entire twenty years we’ve been stopping here, blue badge holders parked free. The new signage gave no clear warning of a major policy shift—just a list of tariffs quietly posted where a regular, seasoned visitor wouldn’t think to look. The fee was a bit steep for the brief time we spent there, but I duly paid. It was then I noticed the ANPR cameras by the access road, and a sudden feeling of dread set in. How long had those been in operation? They definitely weren't there in June when we came last.

Our recent stop at llyn tegid

I came home and half-forgot about the whole thing until an invoice dropped onto our doormat. The cameras at Bala had snapped us on the way through and charged us £100, reduced to £60 if paid within 14 days.

The parking invoice
(in welsh, provided alongside English
which is required by welsh law)

You might expect a story about a heroic fight—a principled stand in court for what’s right. But I know when to fight and when to retreat. These parking enforcement companies are ruthless; they design their systems around panic and short deadlines. By the time the £100 ‘invoice’ hit our doormat, seven of the fourteen days for the reduced £60 rate had already elapsed in the post. I paid my £60.

The real loss won't just be ours; it will be felt by the town of Bala itself. Our financial contribution was modest, but we always enjoyed dropping into the local shops—there's a great gift shop and a fantastic pagan bookshop in town. We won't be the only regular visitors now choosing to drive straight past.

But the deeper crime is the commodification of a sacred space. For centuries, people have come to these shores to pause, breathe, and commune with the spirit of the water. Handing the banks of a sacred lake over to solar-powered ANPR cameras and private ticket merchants doesn't just drive tourists away—it drains the sanctuary out of the landscape.

Print by J.E.C. Williams in the book 'Y Mabinogion',
trans. J.M. Edwards (Wrexham, 1901)

Legend has it that Gwion Bach accidentally tasted three drops from Ceridwen’s cauldron here and gained absolute enlightenment before fleeing across the Welsh hills. I fear if Initial Parking had been operating back then, he would have been slapped with a £100 charge notice before Ceridwen even had the chance to give chase.

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

THE HOUSE ON GRANGE LANE

2026-09-24T10:22:00.000+01:00

bout halfway up Grange Lane sits the reason this quiet road connecting Sheffield and Rotherham gets its name. Many locals don't even know the house is there, and those who do are rarely sure of its purpose. The house is Thundercliffe Grange, an impressive estate set in 22 acres. I've been here before, but I'm back on another history mission—and I'm not sorry.

When I visited back in 2024, I focused on the incredible story of the group who turned it into a ground-breaking co-living success, I blogged about that here. This time, I wanted to dive deeper into the history of the building and the land itself—a site sitting right on the ancient border territory between Roman Britain and the Celtic tribes, the very same ridge line I walked along just last week.

That history stretches right back to the 13th century. In 1261, following the death of a local hermit named Robert Le Cras, the lands were granted to Kirkstead Abbey. The Cistercian monks established a grange near the stream to mine and smelt iron, an industrial operation that ran until the 15th century. When ironworking ceased, the land was leased to the Rokeby family, who eventually bought the estate outright from the Crown in 1539 following Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries.

Over the generations, the estate passed into the hands of the Earls of Effingham. The core of today's grand mansion was built in 1777 for Thomas Howard, the 3rd Earl. Originally two storeys high, it was expanded around 1854 with a third floor and extra wings. Tucked away in the woods lies one of its most unusual surviving Georgian features: a subterranean, spring-fed plunge pool—or 'Russian bath'—built for aristocrats to shock their systems for health benefits long before cold-water swimming became a modern trend.

The Effinghams stopped using the Grange in the late 1860s, opening a new chapter for the house. In 1872, it was leased by Dr Atkinson, who established a private asylum for women on the estate. With its grand interiors and sprawling grounds, it was at least an opulent place to be confined.

It was later taken over by Dr Clapham and Dr Mould, who continued running it as a medical facility right up until the Second World War.

In 1948, with the dawn of the NHS, Sheffield City Council acquired the Grange, turning it into a specialized care facility for disabled children and those affected by thalidomide. Comedian Bob Monkhouse’s son, Simon, was famously cared for here before the facility closed its doors in 1978.

Two years later, a group of friends bought the estate, converting it into 12 private apartments while keeping the grand ground-floor state rooms and 22 acres communal.

Stepping back onto the grounds for this return visit, you can feel every layer of that past. This time I was accompanied by my youngest daughter Rags, who has a keen interest in history, and her son, my grandson Atreus. We loved wandering through the main house, checking out the old estate outbuilding ruins, and tracking down that plunge pool in the woods—it really brought the timeline to life. It’s rare to find a single spot on the Rotherham border where a 13th-century hermit, Cistercian monks, Georgian Earls, Victorian doctors, and modern community pioneers all left their mark on the same land. If you're ever in the area and fancy visiting, though, it's important to know that the estate is private and access is only allowed on these special open days.

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

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:

Instagram ● Threads ● BlueSky

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.

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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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.

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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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.

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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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.

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

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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.

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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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.

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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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.

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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