One of the immediate things that attracted us to Rock HQ was the fact that the kitchen has a Rayburn. As we drove away after our first viewing we imagined pot roasts slowly cooking while we worked in the garden, sickly lambs in boxes recovering in the warmth radiated from the cooker or leaning on the rail drinking coffee warming ourselves after being out in the winter cold feeding the animals. Since we moved in all these have happened, and much more, the Rayburn is without doubt the heart of Rock HQ.
It’s a very warm heart; we haven’t had to have the central heating on as the heat it generates is enough for the whole house. On the coldest winter days we have a wood burning stove to assist, in fact the only times we have had the central heating on is when the orphan lambs moved in.
It’s central to the work at Rock HQ, it’s our only cooker, it dries our clothes, heats our water and keeps the cats happy. So you can imagine the problems caused if it doesn’t work. Fortunately it’s very reliable and the only time it has ever let us down is when it ran out of heating oil. First indication that this was happening was that dinner took an extraordinary long time to cook. The following morning I opened our bedroom door and didn’t receive the customary gust of hot air from the top of the stairs. Final clue was no hot water. This problem was easily resolved by pleading with the fuel oil company to make an emergency delivery.
Since then we have kept a close eye on the level in the tank. So it was a bit of a surprise the other day when it took over an hour to get a pan of water warm enough to boil an egg. We are used to the foibles of the Rayburn, like having to talk to it nicely, turning it on about twenty minutes before you need it, keeping the pan in the centre on the left where its hottest and so on, but this was not right. Tracey was convinced she could smell oil so we shut it down. In today’s PC climate it was crystal clear what we needed, we needed a repair person, fast!
The valley we live in is a very old valley, there have been settlements here for centuries where folk have lived, farmed and died. For generations farms have been owned and passed on to family members. This changed slightly in the early 1900’s when the railway brought a much needed communication link with the outside world. People left, people came, the roads were improved, the railway was dismantled and the valley life continued pretty much unchanged. As consequence of this stability a lot of the families local to us have the same name. In fact it’s not uncommon for the men of the household to have the same first and second name, which is the same as those on the next farm. This can lead to some confusion, especially if you are new like us. To get round this they refer to each other by their surname followed by the farm or the occupation. Without actually naming people perhaps an example is needed.
Let’s take a fictional John Smith, he might have a son called John Smith, Smith might be the name of the neighbour who may also be a Jim with a son called Jim, so when they are spoken of they are Smith of Sunnyside or Smith of Brookside. Smith might not be a farmer so may have an occupation making him Smith the Butcher or Smith the Bus and so on.
With increased mechanization and diversification most farms have developed from small operations that provided for families immediately connected with the farm and selling the surplus at local markets to large farms that just about scratch a living on the hillsides. It’s not unusual now for farms to be over 300 acres and only farmed by a father and son. This has meant a lot of houses have been sold to new people in the valley like us. Quite a few are smallholders who work full time and farm part time in an effort to be a bit more in touch with what eventually arrives on our dinner plates. This has meant that quite a few new trades have arrived in the valley, plumbers, carpenters, mechanics, or professionals such as doctors, pilots and social workers.
What’s particularly interesting about this valley is that the old school farmers seem to have welcomed us amateurs in and that most of the new inhabitants with the exception of ourselves are called Steve.
Without our Rayburn we were in a fix so had to get professional help. This was immediately apparent when I shut it down; I decided to take a quick look at the fire box on the front carefully opening the door. The nine foot flame that shot upwards left and interesting mark on the kitchen ceiling next to the one caused by an exploding bottle of Elderflower Champagne. This is a fantastic drink and simple to make but I advise body armour if you are next to the bottles for any length of time as the contents are highly volatile and explode with exciting regularity.
Never having needed a Rayburn repair person we had no idea who to call. A quick scan through the Parish Magazine and we were none the wiser, no one listed. I spoke to the Oracle, our neighbour, no he didn’t know anyone, but I might try Steve, Steve the Plumber.
I phoned Steve, he didn’t fix Rayburns, but he knew someone who did, phone this number and ask for Steve, if you’re lucky he can help. I phoned and spoke to Steve, Steve the Answerphone, and left a rambling message and waited developments.
That evening Steve the Rayburn made contact, how desperate were we, desperate enough to eat takeaway food, that bad eh, right I will be around tomorrow afternoon. Fantastic. No more sandwiches and cup a soups, no more huddling around a candle for warmth, ok so I exaggerate but you get the picture. The following day Steve the Rayburn arrived in his gleaming white van which he parked in front of the Stable Sprites chariot. It turned out that Steve the Rayburn knew the Stable Sprite, who is also, unsurprisingly, called Steve.
Steve the Rayburn prepared himself. I briefed him on what to expect, one casualty in the kitchen, not sure what type, never been serviced since we moved in. This news was greeted with incredulity by Steve the Rayburn, apparently Rayburns have to be serviced regularly and we should phone a Rayburn engineer every time we want to fry an egg. As we spoke Steve the Rayburn equipped himself with the tools necessary for the mission ahead, snapping on a utility belt that would have made Batman envious. By the time he had finished stuffing his pockets and pouches and checking his huge black torch he looked like a member of the SAS about to end a siege. We watched as this brave man knelt and whispered a brief prayer before entering the kitchen to tackle the wounded Rayburn single handed. We gathered nervously around the kitchen doorway and waited unable to look each other in the eye, the friendly banter now gone. If Steve the Rayburn remembered his training he would survive, if not we might have to call Steve the Paramedic.
After what seemed like an eternity Steve the Rayburn emerged blinking into the daylight, it was obvious by the lines on his face that it had been a tough mission but a successful one. The Rayburn had filled with soot blocking the heat to the hotplate; this had then fallen into the firebox making matters worse. He had also fitted a new control panel as the one we inherited when we moved into Rock HQ had never worked. Steve our Savior packed his kit and left us to play with the refurbished Rayburn promising to return one day and service it for us.
Steve the Stable Sprite finished his creation yesterday and bid us farewell. Left to our own devices we decided that last night was the night for our first bar b que of the year. Sat in the sunshine we waited for our home produced meat to finish sizzling. A white van drove slowly up the lane and a man got out. He waved and opened the back door fetching out a large white sack. Apparently Steve the Post had dropped our seed order off at a house across the valley along with his, the driver of the vans rabbit hutch. Steve the Post doesn’t feel the need to deliver to the actual address on the item, he just aims to get it in the vicinity, and you get used to it.
Thanking the driver profusely I asked what he did, I’m an electrician, of course we had met Steve the Electrician, he looked at me over the top of his glasses, no Paul, my names Paul. I shook my head, sorry mate that’s going to get confusing if you’re not Steve.
I showed him around the Stable Sprites creation, he would put the necessary electrics in but we would have to wait a while, no problem Steve, Paul, that’s right Steve thanks. He went to his van and got me a business card and promising to return in July left us to our bar b que.
I showed Tracey the card, she is the organized one of the two of us. She put Paul’s card safe in the Rock HQ phone book so we would know where it was later in the year.
It’s filed under Steve the Electrician so we don’t get confused.
It’s a very warm heart; we haven’t had to have the central heating on as the heat it generates is enough for the whole house. On the coldest winter days we have a wood burning stove to assist, in fact the only times we have had the central heating on is when the orphan lambs moved in.
It’s central to the work at Rock HQ, it’s our only cooker, it dries our clothes, heats our water and keeps the cats happy. So you can imagine the problems caused if it doesn’t work. Fortunately it’s very reliable and the only time it has ever let us down is when it ran out of heating oil. First indication that this was happening was that dinner took an extraordinary long time to cook. The following morning I opened our bedroom door and didn’t receive the customary gust of hot air from the top of the stairs. Final clue was no hot water. This problem was easily resolved by pleading with the fuel oil company to make an emergency delivery.
Since then we have kept a close eye on the level in the tank. So it was a bit of a surprise the other day when it took over an hour to get a pan of water warm enough to boil an egg. We are used to the foibles of the Rayburn, like having to talk to it nicely, turning it on about twenty minutes before you need it, keeping the pan in the centre on the left where its hottest and so on, but this was not right. Tracey was convinced she could smell oil so we shut it down. In today’s PC climate it was crystal clear what we needed, we needed a repair person, fast!
The valley we live in is a very old valley, there have been settlements here for centuries where folk have lived, farmed and died. For generations farms have been owned and passed on to family members. This changed slightly in the early 1900’s when the railway brought a much needed communication link with the outside world. People left, people came, the roads were improved, the railway was dismantled and the valley life continued pretty much unchanged. As consequence of this stability a lot of the families local to us have the same name. In fact it’s not uncommon for the men of the household to have the same first and second name, which is the same as those on the next farm. This can lead to some confusion, especially if you are new like us. To get round this they refer to each other by their surname followed by the farm or the occupation. Without actually naming people perhaps an example is needed.
Let’s take a fictional John Smith, he might have a son called John Smith, Smith might be the name of the neighbour who may also be a Jim with a son called Jim, so when they are spoken of they are Smith of Sunnyside or Smith of Brookside. Smith might not be a farmer so may have an occupation making him Smith the Butcher or Smith the Bus and so on.
With increased mechanization and diversification most farms have developed from small operations that provided for families immediately connected with the farm and selling the surplus at local markets to large farms that just about scratch a living on the hillsides. It’s not unusual now for farms to be over 300 acres and only farmed by a father and son. This has meant a lot of houses have been sold to new people in the valley like us. Quite a few are smallholders who work full time and farm part time in an effort to be a bit more in touch with what eventually arrives on our dinner plates. This has meant that quite a few new trades have arrived in the valley, plumbers, carpenters, mechanics, or professionals such as doctors, pilots and social workers.
What’s particularly interesting about this valley is that the old school farmers seem to have welcomed us amateurs in and that most of the new inhabitants with the exception of ourselves are called Steve.
Without our Rayburn we were in a fix so had to get professional help. This was immediately apparent when I shut it down; I decided to take a quick look at the fire box on the front carefully opening the door. The nine foot flame that shot upwards left and interesting mark on the kitchen ceiling next to the one caused by an exploding bottle of Elderflower Champagne. This is a fantastic drink and simple to make but I advise body armour if you are next to the bottles for any length of time as the contents are highly volatile and explode with exciting regularity.
Never having needed a Rayburn repair person we had no idea who to call. A quick scan through the Parish Magazine and we were none the wiser, no one listed. I spoke to the Oracle, our neighbour, no he didn’t know anyone, but I might try Steve, Steve the Plumber.
I phoned Steve, he didn’t fix Rayburns, but he knew someone who did, phone this number and ask for Steve, if you’re lucky he can help. I phoned and spoke to Steve, Steve the Answerphone, and left a rambling message and waited developments.
That evening Steve the Rayburn made contact, how desperate were we, desperate enough to eat takeaway food, that bad eh, right I will be around tomorrow afternoon. Fantastic. No more sandwiches and cup a soups, no more huddling around a candle for warmth, ok so I exaggerate but you get the picture. The following day Steve the Rayburn arrived in his gleaming white van which he parked in front of the Stable Sprites chariot. It turned out that Steve the Rayburn knew the Stable Sprite, who is also, unsurprisingly, called Steve.
Steve the Rayburn prepared himself. I briefed him on what to expect, one casualty in the kitchen, not sure what type, never been serviced since we moved in. This news was greeted with incredulity by Steve the Rayburn, apparently Rayburns have to be serviced regularly and we should phone a Rayburn engineer every time we want to fry an egg. As we spoke Steve the Rayburn equipped himself with the tools necessary for the mission ahead, snapping on a utility belt that would have made Batman envious. By the time he had finished stuffing his pockets and pouches and checking his huge black torch he looked like a member of the SAS about to end a siege. We watched as this brave man knelt and whispered a brief prayer before entering the kitchen to tackle the wounded Rayburn single handed. We gathered nervously around the kitchen doorway and waited unable to look each other in the eye, the friendly banter now gone. If Steve the Rayburn remembered his training he would survive, if not we might have to call Steve the Paramedic.
After what seemed like an eternity Steve the Rayburn emerged blinking into the daylight, it was obvious by the lines on his face that it had been a tough mission but a successful one. The Rayburn had filled with soot blocking the heat to the hotplate; this had then fallen into the firebox making matters worse. He had also fitted a new control panel as the one we inherited when we moved into Rock HQ had never worked. Steve our Savior packed his kit and left us to play with the refurbished Rayburn promising to return one day and service it for us.
Steve the Stable Sprite finished his creation yesterday and bid us farewell. Left to our own devices we decided that last night was the night for our first bar b que of the year. Sat in the sunshine we waited for our home produced meat to finish sizzling. A white van drove slowly up the lane and a man got out. He waved and opened the back door fetching out a large white sack. Apparently Steve the Post had dropped our seed order off at a house across the valley along with his, the driver of the vans rabbit hutch. Steve the Post doesn’t feel the need to deliver to the actual address on the item, he just aims to get it in the vicinity, and you get used to it.
Thanking the driver profusely I asked what he did, I’m an electrician, of course we had met Steve the Electrician, he looked at me over the top of his glasses, no Paul, my names Paul. I shook my head, sorry mate that’s going to get confusing if you’re not Steve.
I showed him around the Stable Sprites creation, he would put the necessary electrics in but we would have to wait a while, no problem Steve, Paul, that’s right Steve thanks. He went to his van and got me a business card and promising to return in July left us to our bar b que.
I showed Tracey the card, she is the organized one of the two of us. She put Paul’s card safe in the Rock HQ phone book so we would know where it was later in the year.
It’s filed under Steve the Electrician so we don’t get confused.
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