#Killinghall

[leicamoments]

A Night at the Cricket

I'll be honest, it wasn't our first choice destination on Wednesday...but as I turned into the entrance of the chosen game, we were confronted by a roller sitting in the middle of the pitch and not a sight-nor-sound of leather on willow.

So, there was a quick re-evaluation of our destination and the decision was made to go to Dacre Banks for their crucial game against Killinghall - both teams finding themselves in danger of relegation on this last day of the Harrogate & District Amateur Evening Cricket League.

Now anyone reading these few words wanting a match report - I'm sorry, that's not what is going to happen here. Huge spoiler alert - Killinghall won to retain their Division Two status, and Dacre Banks had the ignominy of ending the season at the bottom of the table.

Sorry about that...but I didn't want to bring you here on false pretences. So why the words?

Well, I think that after about 14 years of covering the local leagues, I have to admit that the HDAECL is probably my favourite league to cover.

Why? It isn't taken that seriously...well, that's probably a little unfair. It is taken seriously, but it is the league that is probably enjoyed the most by the players that take part.

They seem to enjoy it more partly because it isn't one of the Saturday leagues, or Sunday cup games...the teams can relax and enjoy playing cricket, for playing cricket's sake.

That's how it comes across to people sitting on the boundary - there are smiles, jokes, friendly goading, players winding each other up, and generally fun being had.

So it is with some sadness that this last Wednesday evening was the final round of games for 2024. Roll on 2025.

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[cocteautwinslyrics]

Yorkshire is mad bro there's a place called Killinghall

[cyanpeacock]

Agh. It is morning. I am awake.

Don’t feel so hot. Lots of guilt and shame. Also fury. Trying to like... feel it without hating it and getting into that whole spiral.

I’m tired and struggling with like, reasons my body is worth caring for? 

I feel kind of like... I’m ungrateful. Why would I cut all contact with a family that would accept me. They say they love me. They let me go to their houses. They’re alright... right?

But they didn’t fucking accept me. 

OK this got long and furious under the cut wow. Apparently that’s why waking up was such a cunt this morning. Well. It’s out now. 

They wanted me to be amazing in school, and got upset and/or angry and/or disappointed and/or guilty when I wasn’t achieving those kinds of grades. Punished for it. Means of social contact taken away from me, when I was already so fucking lonely. Constantly being fucking watched through a hole in the door. What the fuck kind of house just has holes in all the fucking doors? Why the fuck do you think that’s okay? Do you have any idea how much that fucked with my sense of privacy, how long I felt permanently observed for? Are you even aware how much your other kids hate it?

They wanted me to be a girl, and told me I was ‘just confused’ when I came out, got my name and pronouns wrong like they assumed it was going to pass in the next month, every fucking month. I wasn’t allowed boys’ clothes because “they wouldn’t fit me,” when being a “tomboy” was absolutely fine. Uh, I’m pretty sure ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ children do share dimensions? They’re both humans? I wasn’t even allowed to cut my fucking hair for years, because my mother wanted control over how my body wore my hair, and she wanted it long and blonde and pretty like the perfect working-housewife-to-be. She didn’t see me as a fucking man until after testosterone, and her eyes are still fucking looking for her “little girl.” Fuck off. She died ten thousand times living with you. She was one of those creepy dead-eyed dolls Sheila keeps on the landing in Killinghall. It drives me insane. 

Okay this is pretty pointedly at my mother now so yeah.

“You’ll always be my baby” NO I fucking WON’T. Jesus fucking christ woman, I am not a baby any more. You might remember a tiny child and get all misty-eyed. I’m sure it’s reassuring to some adult children. How that feels to me? Oppressive. Like it’s a trap. All-consuming. Like if I go, and actually express and deal with all my rage, I’m going to destroy your world. Because that’s how it fucking worked at the beginning. If I expressed I was hurt, or angry, or upset, or hungry, or in need, I’d get fucking yelled at, I’d get yanked around, I’d get smacked. I’d get ignored. I’d get told I don’t deserve food. I’d get shut inside a lonely dark dirty disgusting fucking room and you’d pretend I didn’t exist. 

You never saw how mental I went. You never saw me chewing the bedframes. You never saw me clawing at the walls. You never saw me picking the paint off the plaster, just the aftermath. You never saw me hurling my toys and books around in a rage, you just assumed I was ‘making a mess’. You never saw me beating my skull and body with my fists. You never saw me beating up Hank the teddy in complete rage then sobbing and apologizing to him like he was alive. You never saw me standing in the window crying wishing somebody, maybe the nice man Jeff down the road, would help me. 

You never saw how I learned to imagine characters and stories so hard I began hallucinating them in my attempts to escape that ‘home.’ You never saw me wishing the ‘scary’ pedophiles in the white vans would come and take me away, because then maybe somebody would love my body for something different, and that I wouldn’t have to think so hard any more. You never saw me wish that mummy would just kill me so it would all be over. You never saw the help notes I wrote and tore up and posted outside, in the hopes somebody would put them together, and realize I was so scared of being caught asking for help that I destroyed my attempts to get it. 

I’m fucking furious. Again and again you’d say bullshit like “imagine how I feel!” when you were the grown fucking adult in the dynamic. And I know-- Christopher comes into the equation, so does Sheila, who - man, that’s just, why would you still see that almost-murderer - I understand why, but holy fuck, I can’t watch myself start living like that - but this, right now, is about you and the child you did not protect, but transferred pain onto. 

You got so fucking far inside my head I believed I was ungrateful, disgusting, a brat, just whining, that I had no reason to be so upset. That I should just buck up, and go to school, that I wasn’t doing good enough. I still don’t fucking feel good enough, because you’d go from essentially calling me worthless, to calling me a genius or a prodigy when I did something academically remarkable. It was the only way to convince you I had value. 

So I learned to escape through school. I learned to just do the work, even though I still wanted to die right there. Easier to do an exam with an invisible gun to my head than to go home in the evenings, more fun, actually, because at least there was a chance of success in the exam. You didn’t see all the dark fucking nights I lived through considering suicide, wishing desperately that I could just kill myself, but feeling like my utter desperation to get away mattered less than your happiness. Awake all night trying to get away from the thoughts that told me to just stab myself, just go out in the cold, just rot away, because I felt responsible for holding the family together. And I also felt like I was the one destroying it.

I felt responsible for that, especially with how PISS fucking poorly you and David both handled that relationship. Neither of you are emotionally healthy people. You both used emotional manipulation on the children involved in attempts to achieve the same ends: harm the other party, gain power and control.

You know, I want to be a nice guy. I want to give happy happy endless love to the universe. Why do you think I was capable of moving in with a self-declared sadist, a man who’d shot men? Because I’d already lived with somebody who was wounding me every fucking day. In insidious, nasty little ways. That the David cunt only observed and copied. From you, Claire.

Your literal gibbering about “brainwashing!” and “mind control!!” - literally, what the fuck, woman. You’re not immune to propaganda either. You were literally making up your own. You two thought you were the entire fucking universe. He was the Right, you were the Left. It was the Tories and the Labour party, the Axis and the Allies, and the unwitting, dumb voters, with no experience in politics.

This is literally how you framed it to me.

That is literally how you two IDIOTS thought it was appropriate to navigate a breakup.

You know what? I’m done with it, again. You’re different to him in how you throw your shade, and that’s all. He’s alright, in moderation. You’re alright, in moderation. I could tolerate a serial killer, in moderation; I almost fucking was one, with how hurt I’d become, and how little trust in and respect for human beings I’d developed. All just meat to me. It’s all I’ll be in the end, anyway. It gave me a sense of power to stalk strangers at night, and observe their weak points, and consider how fucking easy it would be to get a rush that way. 

And I can’t have these conversations with you, these furious fucking conversations, because I am conditioned to box up every bit of my rage when I even THINK of your face. You show up in my mind with your eyes all watery blue and bloodshot from drinking, and your lip and chin all tight like you’re going to cry, and it convinced - and still sometimes convinces me - “pack it in, you can’t destroy her like that, the world will fucking end, it’ll come back on you and your siblings. There will be punishment, there will be blood, and it’ll be yours, and you’ll be left all alone cleaning it up with no fucking support. The only eye that sees your blood will punish you for making a mess with it.”

Neither of you can see shit about what I really feel, unless you’re reading it here, like fucking omnipresent surveillant operatives of Big Brother, which I suspect at least one of you might actually be fucking doing. 

Sure, things changed when I came back, still going through active trauma, desperate for something, some illusion of healthy family. Was that healthy? No. Was I actively going through unhealthy, traumatic times? Yes. We do unhealthy things in unhealthy times, and afterwards, while we process the feelings we went through but were numb to. It happens. I understand this, it’s why I kept making fucking excuses, why I thought ‘explanations’ of behaviour meant anything when you’d hurt somebody. It’s why I boxed up all this fucking rage. It’s why I thought my pain was meaningless compared to yours.

I’ll give this to you, you got nicer. You drink less. I appreciate it, for your other kids. They’re doing better than I was, but they’re still not well. 

When did that change?

After your first fucking child ran away, because of the sheer amount of pain you were transferring onto them. Because of the toxic fucking environment of emotional manipulation and infantilization you’d continued to foster. Because it was easier to live with a racist opioid addict murderer for a while than to stay in that shithole city any longer. I had to force you to realize how fucking unhealthy that place was.

I’m not being kind right now, because I don’t know how to express all this fucking fury in a kind way. I don’t know how to soften the blow. Maybe there’s no fucking way, maybe that’s why I’m doing it on my blog. I still don’t believe you’re grown enough to handle this shit. You shut me down in every difficult conversation about feelings, and you don’t even mean to. Why do you think I cried on you so fucking much, but you could never fucking console me? Because you fucked up at the start. Because you didn’t establish a secure attachment between yourself and your child. Because you couldn’t provide for me.

I don’t blame you for being unable to provide for me. Circumstances align this way, often, and it’s inevitable. 

I can’t go back in time and re-establish that attachment. There’s always this lingering fucking, waiting for the stab in the back. Waiting for trouble. Those moments where I go completely blank and convince myself it’s always been happy, it’s always been nice, I really am imagining things, I really do just overreact... there’s something wrong with me, why am I so ungrateful? Why can’t I feel joy here? Why is it always bittersweet? 

It’s fucking me up. It really hurts me, every day. Every god damn day when I’m living with myself, and actually working on acknowledging and expressing what I really feel, in as healthy a way as I can muster. I still wake up thinking I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to smile today. I’ve ruined the world. I’ve fucked up so badly by making the decision not to speak to you again. 

I have to stop doing that to myself. 

I went psychotic from the amount of repressed trauma I’d been burying by smoking pot. My brain had to show me all that pain and instability I’d been avoiding, in the form of hallucinated symbols. 

It was terrifying. It was also incredibly helpful. The doors of perception, as it were. Thanks for that one - I’m off making my own Brave New World, and it’s on the island, far away from the rest of them, with their neatly chemically controlled babies in fucking jars.

I needed to drug myself to function, for a while. I needed my meds to function. To do the only thing I’d ever been truly worth anything for, the only thing that was going to get me out and away. I’m coming to doubt that it was ever really my choice to be an academic. Between ability and unhealthy amounts of pressure, I was forced this way, like that fucking rhubarb you were growing. 

So I suppose that’s why I woke up this morning and thought about staying in bed all day, hiding from the rest of the universe. I wanted to go back to sleep, so I didn’t have to feel how fucking angry and hurt I am. I can’t avoid feeling angry and hurt, now nothing’s actually hurting me in my daily life, now I’ve got people who respect my every word for what it is. 

And I have to do this every day. Every fucking day, I’ve got to have these conversations with myself. Sometimes I write them. Sometimes I sing them. Sometimes I have to talk through them, slowly and haltingly, trying to understand why something apparently small hurts like something much bigger. 

Why am I ‘doing this to myself’? So I don’t do it to anybody else. Not again. So I can come to a place where I feel worthy, and deserving, and like I can connect enough to my feelings and body to function without damaging myself even more. 

All that fucking denial of my physical pain. All that denial there was anything medically wrong with me. It got inside me, man. 

But - I have to accept my borderline. I have to accept that I have an intense emotional range, that causes me problems in meeting the societal standards of daily life, because I’ve been through an emotionally intense past. 

I also have to accept that it’s not normal for this (almost) 22 year old body to click and crack and pop and grind and ache so much I have to literally limp around. My hips should not be audibly thunking when I go to sit down in an office chair to check my emails. My shoulders should not be sliding out of place steadily over the course of the day. I should never have gone so physically numb that I didn’t notice my binder warping my ribs. 

I said I thought I had Ehlers-Danlos. You said I read too much, and that I was paranoid. Where am I now? Six years later, facing the possibility that that really is what’s wrong with my cartilage, the reason my skin is so soft, the reason my ribs bent so easily, the reason my vertebrae slide over each other audibly, the reason the only joints I have that don’t hurt are my elbows. And I’ve got to do it alone, because I can’t deal with looking right at your guilt every time I bring it up, because I know that you know now that this really isn’t normal, and you ignored it at a time so much damage could have been prevented. 

I know why it went down that way. I do and don’t blame you. I just have to get angry, so I can fucking do something with my day that isn’t pure escapism, something constructive. 

So now I’m wrapping this one up. I’m not fucking “packing it in” any more. I’ll wrap it up, at a time and place of my choosing, considering every body and mind my actions are affecting in the moment. Right now? This is for me.

[halt-the-road-blog]

The Nidd Gorge is home to a family of otters, who returned to the area after 2014.

To stop the road, complete the NYCC Harrogate congestion survey. and:

‘Strongly disagree’ with Question 15:  How strongly to you feel that we should construct a relief road between Harrogate and Knaresborough including a Killinghall Bypass to reduce congestion in Harrogate and Knaresborough?

Use the comments section at the end of the survey to ask for better public transport measures, including a park and ride that is notlinked to the relief road option.

Source: Nidd Gorge Community Action https://www.facebook.com/niddgorge/

[deeisace]

my only goal tonight was to figure out the parents of the tanner who grew up in a workhouse

which is tricky cs like obvs the workhouse I’ve none their records apart from the census, and they split everyone up into men/women/boys/girls/infants, and so the census record is wrote like that too

which is horrendous cs it means that - on top of the fuckin awful conditions of the place anyway - parents can’t see their kids, and if the kids are on their own then they often don’t have their siblings with them

In this case, what had happened was, the mum died in spring 1870, and so the dad was left his own, and by spring of 1871, the dad, I imagine he couldn’t cope some way - I’ve no poor law records for this part of Yorkshire, unfortunately, but the older kids were away to work as different kinds of servants, the dad was a farm labourer, not in the least well-paid, along with what grief can do to people

And in that year, somehow we’ve got the youngest kids of the family being moved to the workhouse

It’s not a big workhouse, this, though I’m not sure how that would’ve affected conditions - I should imagine conditions would be better than the crammed-full ones of London, just for having the space, but I’m not sure by how much. Slightly less horrifying illnesses as did the cities have, maybe, but the workhouses in Victorian times were purposefully made unpleasant so that they were the very very last resort for people to go to - you have put yourself in the shameful position of needing help, and now you must work your way

At least for the adults, I fully don’t know what conditions were like for the kids, except that they would generally be split by age/gender

This workhouse, however, lists in an order I wouldn’t always expect?

Not for the ones I’ve seen before in London, anyway

The staff come first, and then there are blocks of men, boys, men, women, men - but it seems like the families are together, generally - here is a woman with her two toddlers, here is a confectioner with her three under-10s, so on - but the family I’m looking at are split - two brothers on one page (the eldest one is the one I’m looking at), and on the next page, a sister and two brothers

So. Are they two different families of the same name, then - I can’t imagine another reason they’d be split, unless one or the other set was ill somehow, in the infirmary

You get a great deal more information from London, it’s a bit frustrating at times

Aha. They were each born in different villages - one set in the cheerfully named Killinghall Moor, and one in Hampsthwaite

Which are a stone’s throw from each other, and in birth records of the time are both ignored in favour of only listing Harrogate

And my one fella I’m looking at has called himself as both from Killinghall and Hampsthwaite, so that’s entirely no help

And the birth records at this time in Harrogate just list [kid’s name] born [quarter of year], there isn’t any baptisms I can see, which is also completely devoid of aid

Well, he didn’t have his parents by him, this poor little 10 yo, but at least he had his little brother - I do think the other set must’ve been cousins of a kind, or else Martha’d be on the previous census with our John, and she’s not - she’s a whole 40 mile away in Batley, on a street that now seems to be a football stadium, and anyway there’s only 6 months between them in age

I’m glad this rural workhouse seems more humanely run than the stuffed-to-the-rafters ones in London and the like, at least the mums are allowed to keep their kids with them

Anyway. I’ve done the step I set to do tonight, I’ve added our John’s parents to the tree and I will do more in the morning when hopefully my brain is less work-fried

It’s a good surname, so now I’ve found this next generation it should go quick I think. Quick-ish. This sort of name, there’s usually one thread to follow or nothing at all, and I’ve got to be careful of the ones from the next village - it’s probable they’re all the same family, but I’ve still to keep them straight, is there two of the same name next, y’know

It is very late at night and I don’t half talk when I needn’t, I’m going to sleep now

[tenniscourtcontractorsuk]

Tennis Court Air Domes in Killinghall #Sports #Court #Air #Domes #Killinghall https://t.co/hqAi8Z19ou

Tennis Court Air Domes in Killinghall #Sports #Court #Air #Domes #Killinghall https://t.co/hqAi8Z19ou

— Tennis Contractors (@tenniscourtuk2) October 21, 2020

[totalsoccer]

Yorkshire-born player leads from the front in Sunday’s final as she aims to win a trophy to boost a city hit by the Covid-19 pandemic

Rachel Daly has always been a pioneer. As a child, Houston Dash’s captain stood out as the only girl playing for Killinghall Nomads, a junior boys’ side in a village just outside Harrogate, and now she is at the vanguard of a groundbreaking American sporting experiment.

On Sunday, at a virtually empty Rio Tinto Stadium in the shadow of Utah’s Wasatch Mountains, Daly will lead Houston Dash out against Chicago Red Stars in the final of the National Women’s Soccer League Challenge Cup.

Continue reading... via Football | The Guardian

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Play Area Painting Specialists in Killinghall #Play #Area #Paint #Designs #Killinghall https://t.co/y1dEW7n5cA

Play Area Painting Specialists in Killinghall #Play #Area #Paint #Designs #Killinghall https://t.co/y1dEW7n5cA

— School Playground (@playareapaint) July 23, 2020

[primaryschoolresources]

Den Making Kit in Killinghall #Den #Building #Resources #Killinghall https://t.co/snjaGOhs7O

Den Making Kit in Killinghall #Den #Building #Resources #Killinghall https://t.co/snjaGOhs7O

— Primary School Resou (@eyfsequipment) July 22, 2020

[leicamoments]

Theakston Nidderdale League Gets Hawkeye

A couple of weeks ago, I was watching planes fly low over the Rufforth game, this weekend it was the feathery kind of flight that was swooping low over Killinghall's ground.

A majestic sight flying less than 30 feet above our heads as the visitors Masham CC tried to chase down the total set for them.

Perhaps the title is a little bit of clickbait...apologies! But this hunter was keeping a keen eye on all of us as it went about looking for lunch!

Rain had delayed the start of this game and ultimately reduced the total number of overs played at this small, intimate ground positioned in the heart of the village.

The home team had set about their batting task with some gusto, reaching 194 for nine in 30 overs before a quick turnaround to try and beat the rather inclement conditions.

Masham looked in the mood to overhaul the total, but found it more difficult to reach the boundaries, and there weren't as many searches for the ball in the surrounding bushes and trees during the second innings as there had been during the first.

Unfortunately, a prior engagement meant I had to leave with ten overs remaining - apologies, this isn't a normal thing I do - but it was dawning on the spectators that the visitors would fall just short and so it proved.

Masham finished on 163 for nine in their allotted 30 overs, with the home team winning the Theakston Nidderdale Division One league game by 30 runs.

I haven't been to this ground since before Covid...in fact it was one of the last grounds I visited in the summer of 2019 and is certainly one that I would recommend visiting.

Over the few years preceding 2019, the open views of fields from the pavilion have been replaced by a new set of houses and mean that the ground is now closed in on all sides.

One of the new neighbours has even got their own window 'impact protection system'...and I spent a few minutes watching him installing it as the Killinghall batsmen stroked the ball around the ground.

I suppose the few minutes it takes to put up the metal guards over the windows is rewarded by not having the cost of replacing broken glass on a regular basis.

The only real downside about visiting the ground is parking - which can be a challenge. I usually end up leaving the car in one of the roads nearby and walking up to the ground, but that is a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.

Another good, if not slightly wet, Saturday afternoon of local sport.

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[halt-the-road-blog]

‘Relief’ road? No thanks.

If you want to stop the proposed ‘relief’ road through the Nidd Gorge area,  complete the NYCC Harrogate Congestion Consultation survey and:  

'Strongly disagree’ with Question 15:  How strongly to you feel that we should construct a relief road between Harrogate and Knaresborough including a Killinghall Bypass to reduce congestion in Harrogate and Knaresborough?

Use the comments section at the end of the survey to propose better solutions, using your local knowledge. It is also possible to ask for a Park and Ride that is not linked to the relief road option.

Your voice matters, and you can make a difference. For more information, email handkhalt@gmail.com.

Why should we all say ‘no’ to this road? 

The ‘relief’ road has been put forward as a solution to Harrogate’s congestion problems, but it is more likely to make things worse. 

The so-called ‘indicative route’ also shows that the Harrogate bypass would cross both the Nidd Gorge conservation area (part of the Woodland Trust) and the Nidderdale Greenway, and that the Killinghall bypass would cut across the Greenway a second time, destroying everything that makes this an oasis of tranquillity for wildlife and the thousands of walkers and cyclists who visit every week.

Harrogate area county councillors voted to drop the roads by 14-2, but key figures at North Yorkshire County Council ignored them and insisted on including them in the consultation. Harrogate and Knaresborough MP and Transport Minister Andrew Jones, said the road would attract more traffic and create ‘the north’s biggest rat-run’. See his full statement below.

More homes, more traffic

The road would potentially open up the area adjoining the route for the development of hundreds of new homes, on green belt land that is currently inaccessible. More homes will further add to local congestion. 

A new road through in this peaceful haven for Harrogate residents will damage Bilton Fields and beyond, including parts of the Nidd Gorge conservation area - particularly the area upstream from where Bilton Beck joins the Nidd. The noise, and lack proper access to the Nidd Gorge, will be a huge loss to Harrogate residents and visitors. 

The historic Nidd Gorge - once part of the royal hunting grounds - provides a habitat for a wonderful variety of trees, flowers and wildlife - including otters, deer, badgers and 80 bird species.

For more information, visit the Woodland Trust. https://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/visiting-woods/wood/4650/nidd-gorge/

The Nidd is home to 80 species of birds, including kingfishers.

Source: Nidd Gorge Community Action Group https://www.facebook.com/niddgorgeca/

[vehicleleasingspecialists]

Car Finance Company in Killinghall #Killinghall...

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— Car Finance Company (@ukautofinance) February 10, 2019

from Car Finance Company http://carfinancecompany.tumblr.com/post/182712759303 via IFTTT

[bradfordzone]

Local Headteacher honoured in national awards

Local Headteacher honoured in national awards

A Bradford headteacher has been honoured in a national celebration of exceptional teaching.

Gillian Edge of Killinghall Primary School was awarded a Silver Teaching Award in the Lifetime Achievement category of the prestigious Pearson Teaching Awards.

Selected from thousands of nominations, Gillian is one of just 65 winners who were celebrated on the special ‘Thank a Teacher Day’ in schools and…