Yorkshire Water Quotes

She took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling for a long moment. A raindrop moved slowly down her neck; he watched as it turned down the slope of her breast to disappear inside the collar of her shirt. He was seriously contemplating becoming jealous of a droplet of water. Yorkshire was obviously damaging to his sanity.

And soon I'll return to the white rose of Yorkshire, where the sky bathes my soul with a watering can.

Rage flooded through me like a draught of strong spirit. The right thing to do, of course, would be to get up, tip the bucket of bloody water over Uncle’s head, run down the hill and drive away; away from Yorkshire, from Uncle, from the Dinsdales, from this cow.

It had become a disease with both nations, he reflected, this discussion of Britain vs. America; this incessant, irritated, family scolding. Of course back in the cornfields of the Middlewest, people didn't often discuss it, nor did the villagers on the Yorkshire moors, nor Cornish fishermen. But the people who traveled and met their cousins of the other nation, the people who fed on newspapers on either side the water, they were all obsessed.

In 2004 the British government’s official advisers, the Royal Commission on Environmental Pollution, proposed that 30 per cent of the United Kingdom’s waters should become reserves in which no fishing or any other kind of extraction happened.58 In 2009 an environmental coalition launched a petition for the same measure – strict protection for 30 per cent of UK seas – which gathered 500,000 signatures.59 Yet, while some nations, including several that are much poorer than the United Kingdom, have started shutting fishing boats out of large parts of their seas, at the time of writing we have managed to protect a spectacular 0.01 per cent of our territorial waters: five of our 48,000 square kilometres. This takes the form of three pocket handkerchiefs: around Lundy Island in the Bristol Channel, Lamlash Bay on the Isle of Arran and Flamborough Head in Yorkshire. There are plenty of other nominally protected areas but they are no better defended from industrial fishing than our national parks are defended from farming.

Have you written to Emmie?” “I write to them both,” St. Just replied, chugging some cold lemonade. “Emmie chided me to observe the proprieties, so I have not written to her, precisely.” “If you did write, just to her, what would you write?” St. Just sat back, more relaxed than he’d been in days for having had a good gallop. “I would tell her I miss her, that I am scared of being around people all the time, but only marginally less scared when alone. I’m afraid of the next rainy night, still, and I miss Winnie more than I thought I would. Winnie is just… good. Innocent, you know? I would tell her I am not sleeping as well as I did in Yorkshire, but I am managing not to drink much, so far. I would tell her—” “Yes?” Douglas cocked his head, no doubt surprised at the raw honesty of these sentiments. “I would tell her I was better when I could smell fresh bread in every corner of my house and know she was busy in my kitchen. I would tell her there are no stone walls here for me to beat my head against, and I miss her.” “Emmie is a stone wall?” Douglas eyed his water, his expression perplexed. “In a sense.” St. Just grinned ruefully. “A good sense.” Douglas rose to his feet. “If I were you, I would start writing.” “I’m not passing along such drivel to such a sensible woman.” St. Just rose, as well, and eyed Douglas a little uncertainly. “She’d think my wits had gone begging.” “It isn’t your wits,” Douglas said sternly. He pulled St. Just into his arms, not for a quick, self-conscious, furtive male hug, but for an embrace, full of affection and protectiveness. “It’s your heart, you ass. Now listen to me.” He put a hand on the back of St. Just’s head, effectively preventing St. Just from doing aught but remaining pliant in his arms. “I love you, and I am proud of you. I am grateful for the years you spent defending me and mine, and I will keep you in my prayers each and every night. Write to me, or I will tattle to Her Grace, Rose, and Winnie.” “A veritable firing squad of guilt,” the earl said, stepping back. He turned his back on Douglas and reached for a linen napkin on the tea cart. “Damn you, Amery.” Douglas stepped up behind him and offered him one last pat on the shoulder. “You’ll be all right, Devlin. Just keep turning toward the light, no matter how weak, shifting, or uncertain. Write to me, and know you are always welcome in my house, under any circumstances, no matter what.” St.

I don’t mind being snowed in, but when the pipes freeze, watering the animals as well as the humans can seem like an unending task.

Lacking a pot, Pepys “shit in the chimney” twice one night, whereas the Yorkshire laborer Abram Ingham used his “clogg” [shoe] to “make water in.” If all else failed, an Italian adage instructed, “You may piss a bed, and say you sweated.”38

Meantime, British organizations such as the London Business School and the Yorkshire Water Company have established artist-in-residence programs.

sunk into my memory like rotten wood, the roaring flame of some elongated fabled and knightly dream in the rain, a little Yorkshire harangue, a belfry overwrought with gloomy moss and sick with stillness, the clouds never to part the fair river and reduce with teardrops the writer beneath the storm, the excellent twisted ode to the Lady of solitude knocking her knees together, slowly climbing her ribs, like an antithesis of an orgasm, in self-psychoanalytical sympathy for what nobody in the village canny figure, the story of John of Woodmansey whose feat on the water on old hallows eve with a glass of port in one hand singing ‘The Whitby Lad’. For when one has reached the bottom, one is inclined to look furthermore towards much greater depths thought not possible, and to marvel at the mystery of the furies and the chastened colours below and empowering it be to not heed the saving hand over whom calleth you a name a long since unraveled.

There was never any peace. There were never any quiet, family moments. They were always working. All of them, all the time. For some reason Michael saw an image of the sitting room at the house in Yorkshire. The TV was on, but there was no one watching it. The terrier was polishing off a plate of dinner that had been abandoned on the arm of the couch. That was the way their lives were. They hadn't sat down to a meal once since they arrived in Scotland. They were a dealer's yard, not a family.

As it began, rain ended quickly in Yorkshire. There was no gradual waning of water, no silent mist to ease the way from heavy drops to dry skies. Instead, there was a simple change, like the snuffing of a candle. One moment, there was pounding rain, and the next...silence.