Rhubarb Slippers
The Man behind the Nab (with the rhubarb slippers)
From my Mum and Dad’s bedroom window, I could see the Eston Hills clearly; on the Nab stood the beacon, built of stone from the old Napoleonic watch tower – I would use this as a focal point for my new telescope. Often with friends, I would walk to the Nab, then on to Roseberry Topping and Captain Cook’s Monument. ‘Nab’ is the name given to a rocky outcrop but it conjures up more than just a windy ledge at the top of a hill – historians say folk were living there back in 700BC.
My Dad would come out with many stories, and often just one-liners; funny ones of course, but leaving you with thoughts and questions. Dad said one day, “Have you heard of the man behind the Nab with rhubarb slippers?” Of course I hadn’t, and I don’t recall ever hearing anything since; this didn’t stop me wondering: Dad’s know everything, but prefer us to find out for ourselves. There is often a lot of truth wrapped up in a story, but most of us just take it as a story and miss the ‘t’ completely.
The man behind the Nab sounds very much like a solitary figure, living out of reach of the town’s folk below. We would probably refer to him as eccentric, in his choice of living garments and abode. Teased and made fun of, this man of no name, would not want to venture far from his original choice of isolation, lost in the many descriptions of his nature.
I am listening to the echo in the town square, so many years ago; he is over six feet tall and has never cut his hair, living on berries and wild honey. I hear he talks to animals and trees – he is totally mad. The man can cast spells and at night turns into a hare. He has forgotten how to speak, but can be heard screaming at the moon. His home cannot be seen, it is covered by magic.
Blame would be placed at this man’s feet, for all manner of misfortune, sickness or disaster. Today, our man behind the Nab might be deemed an eco-warrior; it seems that those who make most out of life – make the most out of what they have.
The Eston Hills brought forth iron ore, and those who came from many a mile, created this ‘ironopolis’ and all that was to follow. The iron ore has long gone, and much more besides; the people who remain are of good stock and remember the stories of old. Our choice now is still related to our man behind the Nab (with the rhubarb slippers) – is he to be ridiculed and blamed, or modelled as an eco-warrior, that we might make the most out of what we have now?
Not to be disillusioned by how we see things now, but to realise one opportunity after another; digging deep inside to find a different ore. The word ‘ore’ simply means rock, containing minerals; a mineral is something of value, a natural substance of an ordered structure. Our mineral has never left the Cleveland district; it has been held in stories and is ready to emerge again.
The final ingredient is belief.
