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This spurred me to look up "English Musical Instruments" and the wiki article gave me this;
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:English_musical_instruments

And I was encouraged to see that the 'Hurdy Gurdy' is listed as an English invention, based on other European stringed instruments.
Which now seems obvious to me. Where else in the world would come up with something so ridiculous, with such a daft name?
"....a dance instrument....used for medieval raves...." is probably over-egging the pudding somewhat.
I had included a clip here of a demonstration but have to link to it instead - 2 minutes long.
link to youtube of a hurdy gurdy in action
Gurd your loins & have a listen to this for more modern hurdy gurdyage, from the Ancient Instruments thread.

https://forums.forteana.org/index.php?threads/ancient-instruments-music.55582/page-3#post-1711430
 
The most significant June snowfall in recent memory was on 2 June 1975, when snow fell in many parts of the country. The Essex and Kent cricket match in Colchester was interrupted, while the match between Derbyshire and Lancashire at Buxton was called off after 2.5cm (1in) of snow settled on the outfield.
Buxton. No surprise there.

Where I went to school…

I think it was a weekday, as I seem to recall being at (primary) school. I can't remember if we were sent home (the town served a large rural area, and got cut off quite regularly - so getting sent home was not uncommon) but it certainly wasn't just a freakish light flurry:

Snow Buxton.jpg


Being so high up, Buxton can have quite savage weather - but that day was a bit of an exception, even for us.

For context: Using Google Earth as a reference - Pitlochry Town Hall is around 118 metres above sea level, and the main road around about the middle of Aviemore town centre (there isn’t a town hall as such) is around 216 metres. Buxton Town Hall is 312 metres above sea level - only a hillock below the combined total of those two Highland towns (and Buxton town hall is some 35-40 metres lower than the highest parts of town). The cricket pitch is itself is only a smidge lower – at 311 metres.

I work in Scotland around half the year – and given the general assumption that south of Berwick-upon-Tweed there are no such things as either geography or weather no Scot ever believes the above without having to check it out. (The difference, of course, being that we don’t have proper mountains all around us.) Actually, that's not entirely fair. The experience of grinding up through the hills on runs to the Peak District quarries was the reason why a Scottish ex of mines lorry driving brother and dad referred to me as the highlander.

Highlanders, quite sensibly, tend to live in the glens and valleys, and along the coast – whereas the founders of Aquae Arnemetiae opted to camp out in a bit of a dip in a rain and wind blasted moorland eyrie. (Flash – the highest village in the UK, is a couple of miles south of Buxton; Wanlockhead, it’s close Scottish rival, is not even close to the Highlands.)

It's a not so well known fact that, for a couple of years, the moors just south of town hosted possibly the most unlikely - or at least most misjudged - outdoor rock festival ever organised in the UK (I always thought the episode would make a great basis for a British comedy movie: possibly, Saxondale – The Early Years).

400 metres above sea level, in sight of Axe Edge – which is the source of five rivers – the name Axe possibly derived from aquas; just a little bit of a clue as to the type of conditions up there. Aside from the lack of penguins, pictures of the festival look like they might easily have been taken in the middle of the Falkland Islands – possibly during the actual conflict. Seriously, they really do:

Booth Farm 1.jpg


Booth Farm 2.jpg


Rock Fest 1.jpg


Rock fest 3.jpg


My old English teacher – a Quaker – used to delight in telling us about rescuing a load of Hell’s Angels in his Volkswagen camper, and bringing them back to a local Methodist church that had been set up like a refugee centre – where they, along with various other shivering, patchouli bedrizzled and Afghan coated waifs and strays were ministered with hot tea and bacon sandwiches by mildly disapproving local biddies.

I think the festival took place in two different months – one year in September, the others in July. Allowing for confused memories, reading some of the background indicates that the particularly savage year could have been the July one; given the mercurial nature of the weather up here, it really wouldn’t surprise me. It’s worth reading some of the comments on the site dedicated to the events – it really did seem to be a rather character building experience for many.

Couple of related links, with reminiscences here and here.

Glastonbury is clearly for blouses.
 
A lot of these old Methodist tunes are much better than the awful dirges that make up the standard hymn book. I think in the 19th century the church made a conscious effort to get rid of the 18th century stuff as it was all a bit too rousing and worldly, with its little gallery orchestras and conductors and the like. Get the plebs singing soberly along in unison to an organ, that was more the Victorian attitude.
The music teacher at the Methodist school I attended wrote the words and music to a few modern (at the time) Methodist hymns. He was a really great bloke, unlike most of his colleagues.
 
Where I went to school…

I think it was a weekday, as I seem to recall being at (primary) school. I can't remember if we were sent home (the town served a large rural area, and got cut off quite regularly - so getting sent home was not uncommon) but it certainly wasn't just a freakish light flurry:

View attachment 54409

Being so high up, Buxton can have quite savage weather - but that day was a bit of an exception, even for us.

For context: Using Google Earth as a reference - Pitlochry Town Hall is around 118 metres above sea level, and the main road around about the middle of Aviemore town centre (there isn’t a town hall as such) is around 216 metres. Buxton Town Hall is 312 metres above sea level - only a hillock below the combined total of those two Highland towns (and Buxton town hall is some 35-40 metres lower than the highest parts of town). The cricket pitch is itself is only a smidge lower – at 311 metres.

I work in Scotland around half the year – and given the general assumption that south of Berwick-upon-Tweed there are no such things as either geography or weather no Scot ever believes the above without having to check it out. (The difference, of course, being that we don’t have proper mountains all around us.) Actually, that's not entirely fair. The experience of grinding up through the hills on runs to the Peak District quarries was the reason why a Scottish ex of mines lorry driving brother and dad referred to me as the highlander.

Highlanders, quite sensibly, tend to live in the glens and valleys, and along the coast – whereas the founders of Aquae Arnemetiae opted to camp out in a bit of a dip in a rain and wind blasted moorland eyrie. (Flash – the highest village in the UK, is a couple of miles south of Buxton; Wanlockhead, it’s close Scottish rival, is not even close to the Highlands.)

It's a not so well known fact that, for a couple of years, the moors just south of town hosted possibly the most unlikely - or at least most misjudged - outdoor rock festival ever organised in the UK (I always thought the episode would make a great basis for a British comedy movie: possibly, Saxondale – The Early Years).

400 metres above sea level, in sight of Axe Edge – which is the source of five rivers – the name Axe possibly derived from aquas; just a little bit of a clue as to the type of conditions up there. Aside from the lack of penguins, pictures of the festival look like they might easily have been taken in the middle of the Falkland Islands – possibly during the actual conflict. Seriously, they really do:

View attachment 54410

View attachment 54411

View attachment 54412

View attachment 54413

My old English teacher – a Quaker – used to delight in telling us about rescuing a load of Hell’s Angels in his Volkswagen camper, and bringing them back to a local Methodist church that had been set up like a refugee centre – where they, along with various other shivering, patchouli bedrizzled and Afghan coated waifs and strays were ministered with hot tea and bacon sandwiches by mildly disapproving local biddies.

I think the festival took place in two different months – one year in September, the others in July. Allowing for confused memories, reading some of the background indicates that the particularly savage year could have been the July one; given the mercurial nature of the weather up here, it really wouldn’t surprise me. It’s worth reading some of the comments on the site dedicated to the events – it really did seem to be a rather character building experience for many.

Couple of related links, with reminiscences here and here.

Glastonbury is clearly for blouses.
Brilliant! Cheers for the links. I'd never heard of this.
 
A lot of these old Methodist tunes are much better than the awful dirges that make up the standard hymn book. I think in the 19th century the church made a conscious effort to get rid of the 18th century stuff as it was all a bit too rousing and worldly, with its little gallery orchestras and conductors and the like. Get the plebs singing soberly along in unison to an organ, that was more the Victorian attitude.
Although some of the Victorian stuff is pretty rousing. Your actual Rock Of Ages, as anthemised by the splendidly-named Augustus Montague Toplady, is actually not far from you, BS3 (or me, in BS4) in Burrington Coombe. Toplady sheltered there from a storm and was inspired.
1280px-Rock_of_ages.jpg


I've indulged in various activities there over the years but have never yet been inspired to that degree. The view on a clear night of the city in one direction, the sea in another and mountains in yet another is well worth it though. When the steelworks were still operating on the south Welsh coasts you'd see plumes of flame in the night. Very Tolkein.
 
Although some of the Victorian stuff is pretty rousing. Your actual Rock Of Ages, as anthemised by the splendidly-named Augustus Montague Toplady, is actually not far from you, BS3 (or me, in BS4) in Burrington Coombe. Toplady sheltered there from a storm and was inspired.
View attachment 54414

I've indulged in various activities there over the years but have never yet been inspired to that degree. The view on a clear night of the city in one direction, the sea in another and mountains in yet another is well worth it though. When the steelworks were still operating on the south Welsh coasts you'd see plumes of flame in the night. Very Tolkein.

Yes, you're not far from me at all.

There's some lovely places up in the Mendips. Disappointingly I have probably the only house in the south of the city that doesn't have an amazing view in one direction or the other (I can see Brandon Hill from a corner of the kitchen, that's about it)
 
Where I went to school…

I think it was a weekday, as I seem to recall being at (primary) school. I can't remember if we were sent home (the town served a large rural area, and got cut off quite regularly - so getting sent home was not uncommon) but it certainly wasn't just a freakish light flurry:

View attachment 54409

Being so high up, Buxton can have quite savage weather - but that day was a bit of an exception, even for us.

For context: Using Google Earth as a reference - Pitlochry Town Hall is around 118 metres above sea level, and the main road around about the middle of Aviemore town centre (there isn’t a town hall as such) is around 216 metres. Buxton Town Hall is 312 metres above sea level - only a hillock below the combined total of those two Highland towns (and Buxton town hall is some 35-40 metres lower than the highest parts of town). The cricket pitch is itself is only a smidge lower – at 311 metres.

I work in Scotland around half the year – and given the general assumption that south of Berwick-upon-Tweed there are no such things as either geography or weather no Scot ever believes the above without having to check it out. (The difference, of course, being that we don’t have proper mountains all around us.) Actually, that's not entirely fair. The experience of grinding up through the hills on runs to the Peak District quarries was the reason why a Scottish ex of mines lorry driving brother and dad referred to me as the highlander.

Highlanders, quite sensibly, tend to live in the glens and valleys, and along the coast – whereas the founders of Aquae Arnemetiae opted to camp out in a bit of a dip in a rain and wind blasted moorland eyrie. (Flash – the highest village in the UK, is a couple of miles south of Buxton; Wanlockhead, it’s close Scottish rival, is not even close to the Highlands.)

It's a not so well known fact that, for a couple of years, the moors just south of town hosted possibly the most unlikely - or at least most misjudged - outdoor rock festival ever organised in the UK (I always thought the episode would make a great basis for a British comedy movie: possibly, Saxondale – The Early Years).

400 metres above sea level, in sight of Axe Edge – which is the source of five rivers – the name Axe possibly derived from aquas; just a little bit of a clue as to the type of conditions up there. Aside from the lack of penguins, pictures of the festival look like they might easily have been taken in the middle of the Falkland Islands – possibly during the actual conflict. Seriously, they really do:

View attachment 54410

View attachment 54411

View attachment 54412

View attachment 54413

My old English teacher – a Quaker – used to delight in telling us about rescuing a load of Hell’s Angels in his Volkswagen camper, and bringing them back to a local Methodist church that had been set up like a refugee centre – where they, along with various other shivering, patchouli bedrizzled and Afghan coated waifs and strays were ministered with hot tea and bacon sandwiches by mildly disapproving local biddies.

I think the festival took place in two different months – one year in September, the others in July. Allowing for confused memories, reading some of the background indicates that the particularly savage year could have been the July one; given the mercurial nature of the weather up here, it really wouldn’t surprise me. It’s worth reading some of the comments on the site dedicated to the events – it really did seem to be a rather character building experience for many.

Couple of related links, with reminiscences here and here.

Glastonbury is clearly for blouses.
Talking of altitude, did you ever go here spook?
 
Disappointingly I have probably the only house in the south of the city that doesn't have an amazing view in one direction or the other (I can see Brandon Hill from a corner of the kitchen, that's about it)
No, we're the same. From the top of the road we get the whole city centre panorama, but from our house? The houses across the road. Nightingale Valley from the back though, so that's nice .
 
Talking of altitude, did you ever go here spook?

Back in the 80's and 90's there was a well-known rock venue called the Highwayman - somewhere south of Leek. It was a bit of a cult venue for rockers for many miles around, and I believe there is now a Highwayman night at the pub you linked to - The Winking Man, which is north of Leek. I went to the actual Highwayman with friends once or twice, but it was full of spandex wearing poodle rockers, I was a punk and it was very much the period when you could still get in an awful lot of shit for looking wrong. I knew one of the doormen quite well - he was an older guy who had lived close to me before moving to Leek.

I've been to the Winking Man a couple of times - a long time ago, and when it was just a simple boozer.

I'm getting the voices again. They're telling me that somewhere on the board is a Winking Man or Highwayman related spooky story. I'm off for a rummage.

Edit: Well - that didn't take as long as I expected...

Stone throwing ghosts?

For the record, I'd obviously got the two pubs mixed up in that thread. It's The Winking Man at Upper Hulme, not the old Highwayman - which was in Cheadle (Staffs not Ches).
 
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So did l, until it was heavily used in the soundtrack of the serial killer film Zodiac.

Now? Not so much.

maximus otter
Well and that's why I love it all over again!
Makes the movie.
And I love the movie 'Zodiac', a real gem. Though there is recently another Zodiac suspect.
 
Back in the 80's and 90's there was a well-known rock venue called the Highwayman - somewhere south of Leek. It was a bit of a cult venue for rockers for many miles around, and I believe there is now a Highwayman night at the pub you linked to - The Winking Man, which is north of Leek. I went to the actual Highwayman with friends once or twice, but it was full of spandex wearing poodle rockers, I was a punk and it was very much the period when you could still get in an awful lot of shit for looking wrong. I knew one of the doormen quite well - he was an older guy who had lived close to me before moving to Leek.

I've been to the Winking Man a couple of times - a long time ago, and when it was just a simple boozer.

I'm getting the voices again. They're telling me that somewhere on the board is a Winking Man or Highwayman related spooky story. I'm off for a rummage.

Edit: Well - that didn't take as long as I expected...

Stone throwing ghosts?

For the record, I'd obviously got the two pubs mixed up in that thread. It's The Winking Man at Upper Hulme, not the old Highwayman - which was in Cheadle (Staffs not Ches).
These buildings used to scare me as a child Spook- just as you come out of Buxton on the A6. I always wondered what they were for.
https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@53.2...4!1s1fQY5j89DtfhXrfxr7GycQ!2e0!7i16384!8i8192
 
These buildings used to scare me as a child Spook- just as you come out of Buxton on the A6. I always wondered what they were for.
https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@53.2...4!1s1fQY5j89DtfhXrfxr7GycQ!2e0!7i16384!8i8192

Although they look like remnants of some ancient culture with a penchant for brutalist architecture, those are part of the old lime works (the Cowdale works, I think).

One of the notable things about the area is that, despite it's rural nature, it is dotted with remnants of an industrial past. And, in fact, the quarries are still major business concerns.

They do look spooky - especially at night. There are sections of the A6 where the densely wooded steep sides look like rainforest, are effectively inaccessible, and are dotted with odd remnants of old structures. They act like unofficial nature reserves, and who knows what calls them home.
 
These buildings used to scare me as a child Spook- just as you come out of Buxton on the A6. I always wondered what they were for.
https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@53.2...4!1s1fQY5j89DtfhXrfxr7GycQ!2e0!7i16384!8i8192

Found this video on the YouTube - with those very buildings as a jump off point:


From around 19:27 you can get an idea of how steep sided and overgrown those valley sides are - and I'm really not exaggerating when I say that this is a relatively accessible bit.

Many years ago I related an experience which took place on the A6 further towards Bakewell, but where the road passes through pretty identical conditions. We were driving (very slowly) towards Buxton, at night and in blizzard conditions when - in a sudden but temporary pause in the heavy snowfall - we picked out an unfamiliar animal in our headlights.

What it was I cannot say with any real certainty. All I can say is that, if someone was to tell me that we actually really did see an errant wolverine bumbling along the A6, then I wouldn't fall off my chair in surprise. Still, to this day, when I look up at those sheer, thickly forested and very densely undergrowthed valley sides, I wonder what might be peering back at me.

During the winter of 1990/91 myself and a friend were working in Sheffield at night. This involved driving in some pretty severe weather conditions as that particular winter was one of the last “proper” winters we’ve had in the Peak District for years. (I always find it ironic that in those days before every bugger and his wife had a Chelsea Tractor most locals made do in far worse conditions with a shovel and two bags of something heavy in the boot). At night the roads were more or less completely deserted of traffic and we would see badgers and foxes regularly - even deer some nights, which aren’t that common in the Peak.

One morning at about 2am we were travelling along the A6 towards Buxton from the direction of Bakewell. The snow had stopped but we were driving very slowly as the road was more or less invisible. Between Ashford in the Water and Taddington the road winds for part of its way through a steep sided and heavily wooded valley and it was while driving through this that our headlights caught an animal that neither of us was familiar with. It was walking on the road and moving in the same direction as we were so we could only see its rear end but as we were driving slowly and it seemed completely unperturbed by the presence of our car we had a while to observe it. It was stockily built with short legs and a gait similar to that heads down, shoulder-rolling, hard-man walk that a badger has. In fact from the rear it was similar to a badger only heavier looking and with a slightly shaggy brown coat. After around half a minute the beastie turned to the left and disappeared into the trees.

For years I shelved this particular experience under “just one of those things” until I read an article recently suggesting that many of the traces left behind after attacks on livestock and at places where carrion had been scavenged were more reminiscent of wolverines than the big cats some people believe have left them.

I'm nowhere near sure enough to claim that I've actually seen a wolverine pottering along the A6 on a winters night but I have to say that on doing a little research the similarities to the animal I saw are remarkable. It also appears that wolverines would be far more suited to leading a sustainable existence in the wilder bits of Britain than most big cats.

I am familiar with the UK’s meagre stock of native mammals and all I can say is that the animal I saw wasn’t one of them. At the time we both thought the animal looked like a cross between a badger and a heavy-set dog, which frankly sounds more ridiculous than it being a wolverine. However the former option would give zoologists the task of deciding whether to call the hybrid a bog or a dodger - which has got to be worth a laugh or two.

The above from the Wolverines in the UK? thread (quoted there from an even older thread).
 
Narrowest street in England.
"Nestled along the side of Greggs Bakery on Exeter’s High Street lies the narrowest street in Britain.
Once known as Small Lane, it was renamed Parliament Street sometime between 1651 and 1832.
It measures just 25 inches at its narrowest point and 45 inches at its widest, and has a length of about 50 metres."


View attachment 54356
Huzzah! I know this place. Even been up it a couple of times in the last twenty-odd years. Don't try to get a pushchair up there. This picture is taken from the non-High Street end, which is the wider part, as I recall.
 
Found this video on the YouTube - with those very buildings as a jump off point:


From around 19:27 you can get an idea of how steep sided and overgrown those valley sides are - and I'm really not exaggerating when I say that this is a relatively accessible bit.

Many years ago I related an experience which took place on the A6 further towards Bakewell, but where the road passes through pretty identical conditions. We were driving (very slowly) towards Buxton, at night and in blizzard conditions when - in a sudden but temporary pause in the heavy snowfall - we picked out an unfamiliar animal in our headlights.

What it was I cannot say with any real certainty. All I can say is that, if someone was to tell me that we actually really did see an errant wolverine bumbling along the A6, then I wouldn't fall off my chair in surprise. Still, to this day, when I look up at those sheer, thickly forested and very densely undergrowthed valley sides, I wonder what might be peering back at me.



The above from the Wolverines in the UK? thread (quoted there from an even older thread).
Excellent. Cheers @Spookdaddy
 
'Pook,' another name for Stook, a small stack of grain sheaves/hay etc. Also, elf, sprite, or goblin!
Yep, the (former) dialect word for fairy in Sussex and Surrey at least. There are (or were) apparently two Pook Lanes close to Chichester, and at least one of them was said to be haunted by fairies. It may well have been this one.

Nice little article on Sussex fairy lore
 
Yesterday, early evening, since I was up in London, I decided to walk along the Thames Path from the southern cable car terminus in Greenwich to the Cutty Sark. It seemed a particularly desolate section, with no-one else around for most of it, and was strangely evocative of days gone by when it would have been a busy port. Relics of a bygone era dotted the waterfront, long areas of hoarding blocking areas of construction, demolition or abandonment, a stark contrast to the high-rise capitalist temple of Canary Wharf, prominent across the river. In one place it was positively spooky, by a cut off section of boat and an overgrown jetty, where the sound of the water slapping against the hull, combined with the generally desolate surroundings and overcast sky to create a sombre atmosphere crowded with memory. In some places, the struggle of nature against the moldering cityscape created surprising spots of beauty, such as the overgrown jetty, or an unexpected patch of verdant willows growing along the shore. Occasionally I would be passed by a jogger or a cyclist and had to refrain from my natural country-boy greeting (definitely not the done thing - it would have gone Crocodile Dundee in New York very fast). At one point I saw four gangstas in a huddle and had the option of turning off into a nearby alley but thought "what the hell, I've survived Mexico City, Guatemala Ciy and Tegucigalpa (just)" and passed them buy. They completely ignored me, engrossed in some conversation about "blooding" which I sincerely hope doesn't mean what it sounds like it means. And then, after this strangely wonderful walk, I was spat out into the heart of tourist Greenwich at the Cutty Sark. A few photos that I hope go some way towards capturing the atmosphere:

20230427_065947.jpg


20230427_070018.jpg


20230427_070135.jpg


20230427_070227.jpg

20230427_070253.jpg

20230427_070324.jpg

20230427_070342.jpg
 
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Yesterday, early evening, since I was up in London, I decided to walk along the Thames Path from the southern cable car terminus in Greenwich to the Cutty Sark. It seemed a particularly desolate section, with no-one else around for most of it, and was strangely evocative of days gone by when it would have been a busy port. Relics of a bygone era dotted the waterfront, long areas of hoarding blocking areas of construction, demolition or abandonment, a stark contrast to the high-rise capitalist temple of Canary Wharf, prominent across the river. In one place it was positively spooky, by a cut off section of boat and an overgrown jetty, where the sound of the water slapping against the hull, combined with the generally desolate surroundings and overcast sky to create a sombre atmosphere crowded with memory. In some places, the struggle of nature against the moldering cityscape created surprising spots of beauty, such as the overgrown jetty, or an unexpected patch of verdant willows growing along the shore. Occasionally I would be passed by a jogger or a cyclist and had to refrain from my natural country-boy greeting (definitely not the done thing - it would have gone Crocodile Dundee in New York very fast). At one point I saw four gangstas in a huddle and had the option of turning off into a nearby alley but thought "what the hell, I've survived Mexico City, Guatemala Ciy and Tegucigalpa (just)" and passed them buy. They completely ignored me, engrossed in some conversation about "blooding" which I sincerely hope doesn't mean what it sounds like it means. And then, after this strangely wonderful walk, I was spat out into the heart of tourist Greenwich at the Cutty Sark. A few photos that I hope go some way towards capturing the atmosphere:

View attachment 65712

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View attachment 65714

View attachment 65715
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Apparently, 'Blooding' stands for some kind of initiation ceremony!!! (i.e. As is termed in the Fox Hunting Cult)
 
Did they film Ashes to Ashes round there? Some of those river scenes look familiar.
 
Thought I recognised the spot.

Found one in my files that I took in not far off the same position as @SimonBurchell would have been when taking that final image, but facing the other way...

Actually, checking street view - I think they were taken literally a few metres apart. The path (Olympian Way) performs a little diversion inland around the Greenwich dry dock. Both shots were taken (I think) very close to where it returns to the shore south of the dock.
 
It's actually an art installation.

"The washed up remains of a shipwreck? The answer in short: it's art. Slice of Reality was created by sculptor Richard Wilson, as part of celebrations for the opening of the what was the Millenium Dome, back in 2000. What you see is the remaining 15% of the 240-foot-long Arco Trent"

https://londonist.com/london/art-an...-reality-ship-cut-in-half-greenwich-sculpture
This boggles my brain. So they make an art installation of something that looks as if it should be there anyway?

I'm just going out with the dog to create my art installation 'two sticks and an inadvertently dropped dog poo bag'. I reckon it will pull in the crowds.
 
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