A bone of contention to start with this time, just need to get something off my chest. I don’t actually know when the rule on this changed. When I was at school, I was always under the impression that words ending in f would change when pluralised.

I was, quite frankly, nonplussed when trying to do a Facebook post when recently away on a short break in Yorkshire. I was describing how King Henry VIII had gone down as one of the biggest vandals in history.

He had a rare penchant for taking the tops off things. Not only did he like to knock the top off his dippy egg, after wolfing down his coco‑pops each morning, he liked to see the removal of heads from fellow humans, especially wayward wives.

He was also responsible for the Dissolution of the Monasteries meaning that, in some cases, he would render them unusable by taking off their rooves. That was it, Facebook wasn’t having any of it, rooves was misspelt, it should have been roofs.

When did that happen? Somewhere along the line it passed me by. I stomped my feet a bit, slammed my fist into the cushion on the sofa, and vented my rage at this unknown rule change to the English language. Perhaps it ought to be King Henry VIII and His Six Wifes.

Jane, sensing my anger, proceeded to look it up. “Rooves,” she said, “is an archaic spelling of roofs.” “When did that happen?” I demanded. “It doesn’t say. Although,” she continued, “it seems to have its origins in American English.”

Why am I not surprised? “Oh, does it indeed! I suppose it renders me archaic as well because, I tell you for nothing, I am not going to change.” “No, my dear! Don’t fear, it doesn’t render you archaic, you were born archaic.”

One could take offence, but I didn’t, I simply harumphed and went for a shower. What needs to change to fit in with these modern times?

Wolverhampton Wanderers must change its nickname to Wolfs, and poetry must now read “The sound of thundering hoofs.”

Finally, the famous Brothers’ Grimm tale shall now be known as “The Elfs and the Shoemaker.” And do you know what, I don’t think anyone will even care. Well, to me, I think that is sad. Is it now taken that arbitrary authorities in spelling will be Facebook and Apple?

Not sure I approve. And by the way, don’t get me started on the spelling of WhatsApp! A three‑night break in Yorkshire was called for, primarily because Jane is an avid collector of letters in the parkrun Alphabeteer challenge, and wanted a “Y.”

After an arduous journey in 35°, that’s 95 in American, we arrived just in time for dinner. We were held up by at least three broken down jalopies on the A1, each with a gormless teenager sitting outside, baseball cap on back to front.

No mate, if you don’t mind me saying, you didn’t plan for your journey. Which bit of it’s going to be hot did you not get? On a more serious note, it made my driver a most intolerant lady.

I do not remember our own children making such stupid driving decisions...

The only reason for that is that we brung them up right!

After taking our bag to the room, showering and freshening up as best as possible in an unairconditioned environment, we made our way to the restaurant, only to find our way blocked by prom‑night traffic.

No‑one told us about this. I was sure it would get messy. And that is how it would prove, except not in the way I expected. Cars with so much grunt shook the ground as they accelerated away, burning more fuel than we used in our entire trip from Norfolk.

One particularly annoying individual was driving a tractor. He had probably dropped a younger sibling at the prom and then proceeded to do laps of the hotel grounds, sounding his horn which woke the dead in the adjacent graveyard.

Jane suggested he might have dropped a newly acquired girlfriend off and was trying to impress her. Well, if she is attracted to oiks who show off their charms by blasting their hooters, he might be onto a winner. I hope she called a cab and left him squeezing zits!

Once we got to our table we sat near a group of six women who claimed to be responsible adults keeping an eye on the ballroom. I am too old to have experienced a prom, but like all bad things they eventually found their way across the Atlantic.

The ladies reminisced about their own prom days. Much younger than me, but not really old enough to have grown up, even the dead were crawling back into their coffins. As prosecco flowed, they became more raucous, exchanging stories that would make sailors blush.

One of them observed that their children were probably doing exactly the same thing this evening. At last, we got away from their entertaining babble and returned to the room. Like all prime athletes we know the importance of sleep before a big day.

No sooner had our heads hit the pillow than mature female giggling started up again, interspersed with the occasional tractor horn reverberating across the meadow, encouraging a cacophony of bird squawking from the nearby treeline.

Jane took a peek through our window and espied our six friends on the lawn below. Three were sitting on a bench with wine glasses guarding open bottles of wine. The other three, not in their first flush of youth and of advanced mass, were rolling down a grassy hill.

The frocks they wore could well have been the same ones they wore to their own proms. Flesh was falling out of the dresses. Once at the bottom, they tucked themselves in, returned to the top and did it all again. The giggling reached a crescendo.

Little things please little minds. This puerile entertainment kept them spellbound for an hour. I reckon I had seen less meat on a side of beef. Do you know what, I think their offspring would have been proud of them, oblivious to their mothers’ carry on.

I think I would have been damaged for life had I suspected my own mother of such behaviour. It probably isn’t their actions that bothered me, it is the uncontrollable laughing which continued incessantly, known as the Pseudobulbar Affect.

We’ve all known people with the condition, and I’m sure they can’t help it, but they can be a touch irritating.

NEW PATHS, NEW GUIDES AND A PERFECT MORNING

We arrived nice and early at York Community Woodland parkrun. What a mouthful that is. Fortunately, they have a shortened version, YoCo. Oh no, I hear you cry, not another portmanteau. You know the ones, BoJo, SuBo, Bennifer and ReSt.

The last one could be restart or the full word. Whichever, it appears the couple are headed for a restart or an enforced rest. By the way, did you see what I did there, Yoko Ono. Mind you, when you have to explain, you have lost the room. IMAGINE that!

YoCo parkrun is very fresh, this was only event number 22. It is run on a course constructed from a base of course aggregate topped with fine aggregate, all compacted. The paths can support maintenance vehicles, bikes, horses and walkers.

I asked what it performed like in wet conditions. The truth is nobody knows, not having had a sustained wet period since its inaugural running. The park itself has only been opened since 2024. The woodland is still in its infancy.

It is a joint project taken on by City of York Council and Forestry England. One fact I learned is that the authorities are planting one tree for each York resident, 210,000 in all. I like that. If I lived there, I would claim one as my own.

A plus for a biodiverse project such as this is that they ruled out plastic tree guards. Whilst I acknowledge the need to rewild natural habitats, I am concerned with the loss of prime agricultural real estate. I hope this land was thin soil with poor yields.

That is the case of a couple of rewilding sites near us and it has led to well managed assets for local communities. Another cause for the loss of fertile land near us is its loss to Solar Farms. What an insulting term that is to rural Britain.

At least when we are all starving, we can say we are warm and have nice trees and flowers. I don’t mean it, of course, I want it all. Jane and I carried out a reccy and were blown away by the newness of it all. The paths were generously wide.

In the bright late‑June sun they appeared dazzlingly white, rendering sunglasses essential for the sighted. They cambered away to drainage channels either side, neither of which should provide a problem should I maintain a central line.

Let’s get onto the run itself. I had asked for another local VI Guide to step forward and met Mike McGrath at the start line. He was my 15th VI Guide. Mike was not formally trained but, as a former high school teacher, he knew how to deal with a recalcitrant blind runner.

3… 2… 1… we were off. Not the surging charge you might expect, we had positioned ourselves too far back and initially had a splendid view of other participants’ backs. Never mind, it soon began to thin out.

As a blind runner, running side‑by‑side with my guide, we need double the space to thread our way through runners when overtaking. I still find it frustrating that some individuals insist on wearing earphones. We can only communicate by voice.

I have seen the result of an unexpected tap on the shoulder. Skins are left in tatters on the ground as the occupants head for the sky. May I ask you to refrain from using them when VI runners and guides are taking part. It would be an enormous help.

The course was novel in that it was so new. I reckon it was four metres wide, consistently so, with gentle curves and pretty level. YoCo do use the “f” word, flat, one of the most inaccurate terms in our language, but my children told me to get over myself.

As the field thinned under a very unforgiving sun, VI Guide Mike used his teacher voice to great effect. Runners moved aside like the Red Sea under the command of Moses. The course looks like a misshapen lollipop when viewed from above.

Out we went along the stick until we reached the base of the icy bit. Then we embarked on two laps of the irregular shaped ice cream before a final sprint back down the stick to the finish. We think we were lapped but were not 100% sure.

It might have been one or two supreme athlete types starting late but reeling in the rest of us. I have to say, if I could, I would roll this one up, put it in the boot of the car, take it home and bring it out every Saturday morning.

I would also make sure I found room for the weather. It was just about perfect. Well, that’s my opinion anyway.

White Cane Ratings* ©

Car Park: very good; free - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Welcome and Briefing: good; enthusiastic - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Atmosphere: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Course: excellent; hardpacked gravel paths – 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (5)
Marshalling: very good; concise - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
*These ratings are how the event suits this particular blind person and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.