A Geordie song about a dead tree ...

SAIR FYELD HINNY
Sair fyeld hinny, sair fyeld noo.

Sair fyeld hinny, sin' aa kenned thoo.

Aa was young and lusty, aa was fair and clear.

Aa was young and lusty many's a lang year.

Sair fyeld hinny, sair fyeld noo.

Sair fyeld hinny, sin' aa kenned thoo.

When I was five and twenty aa could lowp a dyke.

(… I was brave and bold)

Noo a'm five and sixty aa can barely step a syke.

(…I’m but stiff and cold)

Sair fyeld hinny, sair fyeld noo.

Sair fyeld hinny, sin aa kenned thoo.

Thus spoke the owld man to the oak tree:

Sair fyeld is aa sin' aa kenned thee!

Sair fyeld hinny, sair fyeld noo.

Sair fyeld hinny, sin aa kenned thoo.

A surprise found on a long-forgotten EP of Louis Killen, (Northumbrian Garland; Topic 75; 1962). Apparently published by Bruce and Stokoe in Northumbrian Minstrelsy (1882). The refrain, 'Sair fyeld...', translates as 'sorely felled since I knew you'. 'Hinny' is, of course, a Geordie term of affection - 'mate'(?) To 'lowp a dyke' is to jump a stream. To 'step a syke' means 'take a step', and the whole thing is a lament about getting old.

These lyrics were found by scrolling through http://www.sedayne.co.uk/northernstar.html
The parenthesised words are those transcribed from Louis’ recording. When I have discovered how to include audio in blogs, I'll post that.

The song brings to mind the profound tragedy of my birth in Wallsend ...

Swan Hunter shipyard - likewise 'sair fyeld'!

I was born in what is now a domestic garage somewhere nearby.

Perhaps there's a near-Biblical precedent for this, but they couldn't find any wise men or a virgin in Northumberland!

Wilf Paish - RIP ...

I have been reminiscing today about my teenage school years.
I thought to 'google' some of my erstwhile mentors.
The name Wilf Paish came to mind. I don't know why.
I always found him rather intimidating.

Here he is ...

Mr Paish, (or Wilf, as we called him behind his back,) was an authoritarian teacher of physical education in the early 1960s at my school. He could be abrasive. Often he resorted to sarcasm. He entertained no nonsense, and we pupils found him difficult to like.

Nevertheless, he knew that teaching is not a popularity contest.
He always encouraged the best out of those he was teaching.
Well, that's good, isn't it?
That's teaching!

He left the school to take up a post as coach with the British Amateur Athletics Association in 1964.

To my sadness I found a tribute to him in the Yorkshire Post ... http://www.yorkshirepost.co.uk/obituaries/Wilf-Paish.6028371.jp
Apparently Wilf Paish died on 28th January.
Below, I quote ...

He guided Tessa Sanderson to an Olympic javelin title in Los Angeles in 1984 when she prevailed over her great rival Fatima Whitbread, the reigning world champion.
Four years later, he coached Rotherham-born Peter Elliott to a silver medal in the 1,500 metres in Seoul.

Mr Paish also taught javelin thrower Mick Hill, a stalwart of Great Britain athletics for many years, but his legacy is about so much more than big- name stars.

From his base at the Carnegie Sports Centre in Leeds, he taught all-comers the finer points of track and field, be it a university student wanting to learn the art of middle-distance running or a junior picking up a shot put for the first time.
 Mr Paish was highly regarded for his knowledge of the sport, his enthusiasm and his unselfishness. When top-class athletes tried to pay him to spend more time with them, he refused, mindful of the other not so glamorous names under his tutelage.


In many respects, he was ahead of his time on coaching practices and nutrition. He was also a respected writer and a broadcaster.
Away from his first love of athletics, Mr Paish was well-respected in the world of rugby league, football and cricket thanks to the fitness and sprint sessions he conducted with some of Yorkshire's leading clubs. In 2005, he was made an MBE for his services to sport.
 When not coaching, he was a teacher in Essex and Slough where he met Margaret, his wife of 52 years, before moving to Leeds in 1964 when he was appointed national athletics coach for the north of England.
 He retired from international coaching in 1996 but was still coaching youngsters two weeks before his death yesterday morning.

He used his state pension to enable him to teach young athletes on a voluntary basis at the Carnegie Sports Centre and could be seen there two to three times a week, his enthusiasm still self-evident to all those he helped to inspire in his latter years.


His career was not without controversy.
He upset the athletics establishment with his views on performance-enhancing drugs and his willingness to make those opinions heard.
Having spent much of his career coaching clean British power-performers to compete against eastern Europeans aided by a cocktail of steroids and hormones, Mr Paish eventually suggested there was no point in British athletes being drug free if their opponents were not.
 After such distinguished service for British sport, he had earned the right to have his opinion.

His finest hour came in the Los Angeles Coliseum 26 years ago with Sanderson's surprise gold medal.
Mr Paish was born in Gloucestershire on July 29, 1932. He was raised in Stow on the Wold and attended Northleach Grammar School.

 He trained to be a teacher at Borough Road College in London and furthered his education at the Carnegie College of Physical Education in Leeds – the precursor to Leeds Met.
 Mr Paish died of pancreatitis and kidney failure. He is survived by his wife Margaret, their two daughters and twin granddaughters.

I have some afterthoughts ...

Sometimes, (too often with hindsight,) I realise how privileged I am to have shared this world with good people.
Wilf was intimidating, abrasive, sarcastic, authoritarian and difficult to like.

He was also a good man, and a credit to the teaching profession.

The Latest Instrument ...

A couple of weeks ago a friend, a regular participant at our folkie-gathering, indicated to me that she had a musical instrument for which she had no further use. She said that she would generously give it to any member of the club who might like it. I eagerly responded by saying, “I might be interested.” (I omitted to specify exactly what I was interested in.)
“You shall have it,” she said.

So, one Friday night I wobbled home from the club bearing a large and heavy black box. To my chagrin, Jane, my wife was still up and about.

“What’s that?” asked she.
“Just something I’m looking after,” I calmly replied.
“Till when?” she asked with a terrifying look of suspicion in her eyes.
“Just until it’s better,” I confabulated.

The following morning I arose early, thinking that Jane was still asleep.
Ever so quietly, I ventured downstairs.
I gently opened the aforementioned box.
I beheld a vision of sheer delight.
“Oh, joy! You are such a pretty thing!” I was moved to exclaim.
Little did I know that Jane was not asleep; she had heard my declaration of ecstasy from the bathroom.

“I knew it,” she cried, “You’ve got a woman in there!”
“Oh no, dear,” I replied, “It’s just a piano accordion.”

“THAT’S EVEN WORSE!”

Those Verdant Braes ...

We are so privileged.
I usually listen to, and take note of, the BBC Radio 2 Folk Awards.
I missed the original broadcast this year.
Never fear; this is the twenty-first century!
It's all there on the wonderful web!

Here's Cara Dillon.
Isn't she lovely?! ...



Thanks, BBC.

The song is a romantic piece of reportage about failed seduction.
It can be summarised by a punch-line wherein the fair maiden says,
"I'm not getting a wet arse by sitting on the grass next to you. BOG OFF - I'm going to climb a tree!"