Sneaton Church and the Stones That Tell Stories

My blogger friend Jean, over at A Very Grand Pressigny recently shared her wanderings through some of Brittany's towns and villages. Her posting stirred a memory of my own: a visit last month to Sneaton, a village perched just two miles south of Whitby, where stone, sea, and legend entwine. 

From the churchyard, the view sweeps down to the coast, Whitby Abbey's silhouette as brooding as the myths that cling to its ruins. Sneaton’s church has its own stories to tell. 

The present building, dedicated to St Hilda, is the third to stand on this ground, raised by James Wilson in the 19th century. Yet the place feels far older—as if the layers of prayer, folklore, and memory linger in the very air. 

By happy chance, our visit coincided with the church’s bicentenary. The nave was filled with floral displays and tributes—joyful balloons mingled with tender memorial bouquets. 

Among them, I paused at white lilies dedicated to Frank and Jane Parker and Reginald Perrett—quietly beautiful, touched with reverence. 

But one arrangement drew me close: a tribute for Sally Peacock, with balls of yarn amidst the flowers. What a perfect, personal gesture for someone whose life was twined with craft. I found myself wishing I could have met her, to share stories and laughter over wool and the meditative rhythm of crochet. 

And here rests the font—an immense Norman stone carved in 1108. Astonishingly, when it was removed for the rebuilding, it was left to languish in a garden before Thomas Chapman rescued it and returned it to its rightful place. Its zigzag carvings of Norman artistry, and ammonite spirals echoing the cliffs and fossils of Whitby. 

The ammonites carry the legend of St Hilda herself. Folklore tells how the saint, faced with a land overrun by serpents, turned them into stone with her prayers. The cliffs around Whitby yield their fossil coils as if to prove the tale, serpents forever frozen in time. Even the town’s coat of arms shows these petrified snakes—a reminder of faith interwoven with the land’s geology. 

This striking stained glass window was created by Alan Davis of Lythe to mark the millennium. It celebrates “The Song of Caedmon,” the oldest surviving English poem, born in Whitby Abbey where Caedmon found his voice. The window glows with story and song, a bridge across a thousand years. 

Just down the road is The Wilson Arms. Sadly, the pub wasn’t open when we visited but I took a photo of the times so we can plan it better next time.

I have a feeling we’ll be back at Sneaton soon. Between the sea views, the stories, and the sense of history wrapped up in this little church, it’s a place that lingers with you.

Blogging Isn’t Dead — It’s Just Waiting for Us

Lately, I’ve found myself frustrated with social media. Reels, influencer noise, and clickbait seem to drown out the things I’m genuinely interested in. Everything feels louder, faster, and more cluttered than I want. 

I don’t always love the way technology insists on “upgrading” my life. Half the time, it just leaves me relearning things that used to be simpler. What I really want is something easy, calm, and familiar. That’s why I’ve wandered back here. 

In Bloggerland, the pace feels slower. Yes, the interface has its quirks (hello, photo upload issues), but at least it doesn’t change every five minutes. I feel a little more in control here — and a lot less bombarded.

Hardly anyone blogs anymore, which makes this feel a bit like opening a time capsule. It’s nostalgic, comforting, and a reminder of how online spaces used to feel: more personal, more thoughtful, more… human. 

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if blogs had a little renaissance? If you’ve been toying with the idea of dusting yours off, consider this a gentle nudge. I might be standing here alone in the quiet … but honestly? 

I don’t mind.

It’s peaceful. 

And to me, that’s exactly the point

A Room With a Bruise

Downstairs in our home has steps. Lots of them. All over the place. Our abode moulds itself round an incline. The ground floor is where all changes in level are accommodated with these steps. Steps are very tricky when you're on crutches. Steps are why I'm in this mess. 

Due to the quirky layout of our home, a former blacksmith's forge, our bedroom is downstairs. Consequently I've decided to temporarily base myself upstairs in the spare bedroom while my foot heals. With its ensuite shower room on the same level, it's much easier to get to the loo without resorting to undignified bum shuffling. 

I can see out of a window from my perch, where I rest my ankle. There are sheep in the far field wandering about grazing on brown grass. The farmer delivers barley, dispensed from his trailer. The sheep start to run, eager to greet it. 

The morning light today is clear and bright. A breeze is teasing extremities on the trees which sway gently as if waving good morning. It makes me smile. Occasionally they stir with more vigour, as if they have caught the drift of a new piece of exciting gossip they must urgently pass on. 

The spiky silhouettes of my dracaena houseplants stand to attention from their spot near the window, a hauty salute to the new day ... we accept the generous radiance you bestow even if we can't get out to enjoy it.

It's all kicking off, Sue

I had an accident going down some steps. This is maybe the fourth time I have hurt myself there. I rush about, distracted by something else I'm thinking about. Consequently, I don't pay sufficient attention to what I'm doing. 

There are four steps from my kitchen going down into the utility room. They go down on a curve turning a left handed right angle. The steps are therefore narrower on the inside of the curve than the outside. My foot missed the final tread and I ended up in a groaning heap on the floor. 

The last time I did this, it was only a twisted ankle but on this occasion, an x-ray revealed a broken bone on the top of my foot. It doesn't hurt when it's immobile but moving about causes some pain. I've got this snazzy new boot to wear which keeps it still, it's very helpful. 

Putting weight on it is excruciating, I have a pair of crutches to help me hobble about about. I'm waiting on a call from the Fracture Clinic who will want to x-ray it again after a few days. The doctor in the Urgent Treatment Centre thinks I may get away without having to have an operation. I remember breaking my toe way back in the 90s, that was the same, you just have to wait for it to heal.

I had great treatment from the UTC at Grantham, Doctor Henry, nurses Julie and Karen, the receptionist ... all were fantastic. The NHS is full of caring, helpful, valuable people like them. I am in their debt.

Wild fires in North Yorkshire

 

This is a screenshot of NASA's satellite FIRMs surveillance. It shows areas where thermal activity is taking place.

I've marked where our caravan is with a small black X (half way down, to the left). This shows the pass the satellite made on 28 August after the Fire Brigade put in fire breaks only 1,000 metres away to stop the fire spreading further North.

This photograph was taken from the static caravans on the other side of the road, our caravan is located just beyond the security barrier you can see at the top of the image. The Fire Brigade evacuated the site, roads around the site were closed whilst a "farmy army" of volunteers joined them and worked around the clock to keep settlements safe. It must have been a frantic time moving livestock to safer areas. At the time of writing, roads re-opened closest to our site only yesterday.

The fire stops worked and we're glad to say they halted the fire's progress. The Fire Brigade, farmers, National Trust rangers and volunteers have done an amazing job of preventing the fires from destroying settlements. We are very thankful. 

Moorland, which will regenerate, has been scorched over a large area. We know many trees have been lost, some ancient woodland also destroyed, which is the most upsetting outcome, given how much wildlife it supports.  I hope all the creatures were able to escape, inevitable that there must have been casualties. If we had lost the caravan - it can easily be replaced. 

Only a few days before we heard about the fire, we had been up there walking on the moors. This is a photograph taken looking towards the alum mine which was also evacuated. The fire went right up to it, only halted on the opposite side of the road running by it due to the tireless good work of everyone involved.

There was a small fir tree we passed, close to the path. MTM joked about it. It was so small, less than 2 ft tall. If someone cut it down and took it home, he wondered if it would become known as Christmas Tree gap(!)

I know ... it's in very poor taste, he has a dark sense of humour but it made me laugh. I resolved to take a photograph of it as we came back to remind me but ... I forgot. 

Isn't it daft of me to be upset over that little tree every time I think of it now?

The heather was out and everything was looking quite beautiful. Our thoughts and good wishes are with everyone who lives and works permanently in the area.