Scraps of memory, memories of scraps

No one would raise an eyebrow if you said you'd bumped into a man from Delhi while in an Indian restaurant in Richmond, or Darlington or Shildon (unless they knew the only "Indian" restaurants in the town in question were actually Pakistani or Bangladeshi).

A chance encounter in Delhi with a couple from Swaledale, when ushered to their table for dinner, is slightly more unusual, especially if you then discover mutual acquaintances and even friends.

But what are the odds against sitting on the back of a bus in Jaipur and finding that the woman nearest to you not only comes from the same small North Country town but lived in the next street to your own?

Heather Shipp was Heather Robinson in those long-off days when we'd queue at her parents' fish and chip shop at the top of Diamond Street, one of the roads leading from Byerley Road down towards the bowling green and, beyond that, recreation ground.

We lived at the bottom where Diamond Street curled left and became Drybourne Avenue. Robinson's fish and chips were a prized part of growing up.

The bags of chips, from memory, came in two sizes, priced at thruppence and fourpence, or maybe it was sixpence for the bigger one. And a piece of battered cod could be had for a shilling or so. If my figures are slightly out - we are talking about the late 1950s for heaven's sake - it will not be by a mile. You could certainly have your fish supper for well under two bob.

And how big we were on healthy eating in those days. What was the best part of the meal? The scraps! Heather's parents would generously sprinkle, all over the chips, bits of batter that had fallen off while the fish was frying. I have gone on in life to appreciate lobster, langoustines, Coquille St Jacques and all manner of other fruits de mer. But there is nothing in the world to match the delights of fish and chips with scraps.

I do not specifically recall Heather or her sister, Marion, from childhood, though I did know their brother, John, who may well have been in the same Tin Tacks class as my sister. John is a renowned climbing and Martial Arts ace who is occasionally called the "Barefoot Crusader", as you will see if you patiently scroll down this link to the Shildon and District Town Crier.

Back to India. Oddly enough, Heather Shipp and her husband, John, an Evenwood lad (that's them in the first photograph, captured in suitably inquisitive mood), do not much like curries and tandooris.

I know that because, for one week of a fascinating if intense holiday, we were brought together in the same little Kuoni group. But if we differed in culinary tastes, Heather and I found plenty of common ground as familiar names - from Mike Amos, my friend and journalistic mentor, and Pete Sixsmith, friend and fellow Sunderland sufferer, to Madge Thwaites, who had the corner shop opposite Mr Corner's corner shop, as it were, peppered our conversations.

Like me, Heather naturally attended Tin Tacks - Timothy Hackworth Junior Mixed and Infants. She sailed into Bishop Auckland Girls' Grammar School at the 11-plus and, unlike me (I went next door to the boys' grammar, King James I, of which more another day), made the most of a superb educational opportunity to become an English teacher, finishing her career as head of her department.

Heather is also not much of an internet person. Perhaps someone she knows will stray into Salut! North and come across these snippets from her childhood and mine.

If so, tell her the Randalls will raise a glass in Abu Dhabi to the Shipps of Cockerton in honour of their week exploring the mosques, temples, forts and street life of northern India in the company of Victor, their witty, learned and warm Brahmin guide.

We may also revive a holiday habit and drink to the health of Ian and Bella Scott, the couple from Swaledale who offered further proof of what a small world we live in.

Comments

[Dumdad]

Incredible coincidence and a fascinating trip down memory lane.

I spent my early childhood in Yorkshire and I well remember the divine taste of a bag of chips splashed with salt and vinegar bought for a few old pennies on my way back from the Wolf Cubs (as Cub scouts were then called). Nothing has really matched it since.

[Colin Randall]

Sad to relate, another coincidence....after passing on news of the encounter in India, I discovered from Mike Amos (a mutual friend) that John Robinson is rather ill. Having been in the close company of John's sister, I can do more than extend my warmest best wishes to them, and express the hope that better news may come.

[silversmoggie]

Fish and chips with scraps on can still be had in the north eastern nether regions, Colin. Lovely.