The
track took them over the ridge and zig-zagged down the other side to cross the
River Ashop at Haggwater Bridge, in a picturesque and heavily wooded glen. Having crossed the narrow
stone-built 18th Century packhorse bridge they passed beyond the
lower end of Jaggers’ Clough and were soon at the YHA establishment of Lady
Booth House. As the company
dismounted and began to tend to their horses the warden came bustling out of
the towering, grey edifice.
“I
fear that we are unable to cater for such a large party as yourselves, just at the moment.”
Subcommandanté
Slasher remained firmly in the Spanish saddle of his grey. He looked down at the fit, but
ageing supervisor.
“Fear
not, we are totally self contained.
We merely intend to camp for the night in your grounds.” Slasher’s voice was a little
muffled through his balaclava mask and neither the feigned Mexican accent nor
the Dunhill bulldog briar clamped between his teeth made his diction any the
clearer.
The conversation was punctuated by squeals which came from an adventure playground fenced off in front of the
House. Children in hard
hats, knee protectors and safety-harnesses were learning the fundamentals of
teamwork around a zip-wire structure.
“What
is all that?” enquired Boz as Snowdrop unharnessed the three horses from the
techanka.
“Outdoor
activities.” Replied the warden.
“In
a playground? You have
Kinderscout just up there.”
Boz indicated the escarpment above and behind the house.
“Take
them on the moor, are you mad?
Health and safety; their parents would have kittens. No disrespect,” he added quickly
as Boz scowled.
Ginsbergbear
joined them.
“If
you ever met The Kittens you would reconsider your cliché.”
Undeterred,
the warden continued to address Subcomandanté Slasher, “And if you could please keep your
animals away from the kids too.
Any contact and they’ll all go down with Escherichia coli, come out in a rash, or worse.”
As they talked a colourful encampment of tents, pavilions, yurts and
flags had risen up around them.
The Snake Pass Zapatistas really liked their flags. Smoke was already issuing from stovepipes
that projected through the canopy of a large field kitchen marquee and the
guerrillas were in the process of erecting trestle tables and laying them for
supper.
A Digression
The Festival of Britain, on the south bank of the London River, had
been a triumphal two-fingered salute to brutalist reality, a barely bridled
moment of joy sandwiched between a bleak past and an even bleaker future. The sole survivor of that forlorn
gesture against the post war gloom was the Festival Music Hall, now standing in
solitary majesty amidst a spiritual wasteland of reinforced concrete. Sam and Consuella regularly
performed there, though it had so far avoided the misfortune of a staging of
the Kittens of Chaos’ Giselle.
They are, however, booked in for a short run during the post-panto season in 2013
– tickets still available.
Some weeks before Slasher McGoogs’ appearance at the penthouse bedsit Boz
was visiting the South Bank for a lunchtime concert in which Sam was to play
alongside Jools Holland - and after the set he took a stroll along the
embankment. The wide promenade
is a venue for second hand bookstalls and he was idly fingering through various
shop-soiled tomes when a thin, red cover caught his eye. It was an Ordinance Survey, One
Inch to the Mile, Series Seven map of the Southern Pennines and Derbyshire Dales,
Sheet 111. Printed on almost
indestructible fabric-backed paper, it dated very much from the time of the
concert hall's inauguration and seemed irresistible – red AND indestructible. His purchase was to prove
serendipitous in ways he could not have foreseen.
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