Sheffield, England: 7 degrees, cold, and unsettled weather.
I had sensed before going to Sheffield that there might be some trouble or stress. I had even joked with pupils and friends beforehand that there could be confusion, and precisely this occurred.
We had arranged last night for 10:00 this morning to go to a shopping centre, another shopping centre. I went to two shopping centres with Steven yesterday. My brother, whom I had gone to see, was absent the whole day, and now I’m going to another shopping centre today. No museums, galleries, cultural centres, or the Moors, just shopping centres until now.
I got up at about 9:00 a.m. and went downstairs to have a tea with Steven. He was already up, I was wearing shorts and a jumper, not ready to go out yet. I just needed a minute to change into a pair of jeans, boots and put on a coat.
Steven and I were having our teas in the back kitchen and talking when my brother came around with his son Luke. He asked me if I was ready, I said just two minutes and I would be ready, he then called me a ‘dick’ which I thought unnecessary and I turned round to him and immediately told him not to me call me that. I think he was suddenly shocked at being called out in front of his son, as he stopped, surprised, and I could see him processing what I had just said, as if it were a slap in the face for him.
He began to get angry, waving his arms around and shouting. Again, I told him to lower his voice this time. This was like throwing petrol on a bonfire; he stomped out of the kitchen and into the back garden, shouting, screaming, and cursing. Unfortunately, his son, a metre away, was watching everything. Then suddenly, he came closer in front of me and said to me that I was lucky he hadn’t slapped me.
In a fraction of a second, understanding what he was implying, I approached him, the opposite of backing away or bowing my head. I looked into his eyes, showing him that I was ready, but I wouldn’t hurt him. The sudden movement of approaching him so quickly, and demonstrating that I was not scared, literally called his bluff, caught him off guard; he didn’t know how to react or what to do.
When my brother and I were boys, we always fought, especially if we were alone together. Our grandmother would complain that she couldn’t leave us alone in the same room for more than 5 seconds without us starting to fight.
Russell stomped off, shouting and swearing, saying he didn’t want to see me anymore that day. It was like he was trying to punish me for facing up to him; we had arranged to go out for the day, and now not anymore.
Because I had called him out, I had to be punished by staying at Stevens’ home for the rest of the day doing nothing. Poor Steven, whom I felt sorry for, for witnessing all this confusion and trying to understand precisely what had happened.
When my brother had gone, the first thought that came to my mind was to return to my mother’s house in Wordsley. I looked up the possible train times on my cellphone’s app. I almost bought it at that moment, but Steven asked me to think about it first and stay one more day.
So, what comes into play now?
I’m in the north of England to visit my brother, and we have just had a fight; I don’t feel welcome here. I’m in someone else’s home, even though he’s very lovely and hospitable, and I’m being received very well. Steven is Russell’s neighbour and friend, but not family, and I feel a little out of place here.
My brother is trying to punish me for calling his attention. Am I going to wait for him? No, I have to go. Why stay in a place where I’m not welcome?
This is referred to as creating boundaries or setting limits.
When I called his attention to him calling me names, and now looking back and thinking about it, I can see that there have been other situations during the short time I’ve been here where my brother has often crossed my boundaries. On some occasions, I tried to confront him, but he just acted like a spoiled brat or a victim.
I want to leave; I no longer want to stay. I can see myself feeling down for the next few days, all the way through New Year’s, and then having to go back while still feeling bad. Why would I choose to remain in such a toxic situation, especially when it’s likely to get worse rather than better?
Steven had to go out to resolve a problem quickly, but after that, he would like to take me to the Yorkshire Moors. When Steven had left to do his thing, I opened the train app on my cell phone and swapped the tickets of the 2nd of January for tomorrow, the 30th of December. I only had to pay an additional £13 using my credit card for changing the date on the return ticket.
When Steven returned, I told him that I had already bought a return ticket for tomorrow morning. He seemed sad because he said that he had been enjoying my company.
We took his car, as it was raining heavily and very cold, and drove out of Sheffield and into the Yorkshire Moors, where we found open, barren fields with heather, ferns, and long grass. Although it is very beautiful, it is also very hard. The weather in these open, barren areas is unforgiving for anyone. The rain had stopped, but it was painfully cold outside, with the wind cutting through you as you left the car due to the dampness and the cold.
The Yorkshire Moors, primarily the North York Moors, are a large expanse of open, uncultivated land in North Yorkshire, England, known for their heather-covered hills, deep dales, and dramatic coastline. They were designated a National Park in 1952 and are characterised by a diverse mix of geological formations, habitats, and a rich history.
Although it is quite barren, with ferns, heather, and long grass, and the cold, in some ways, it represents England’s beauty at its best. I always say that natural beauty exists everywhere in the world. Still, I also believe that England showcases many diverse forms of contrasting beauty, and the Yorkshire Moors are a prime example of that.
For some reason, all the parking spaces along the side of the roads were filled with cars. Despite the cold and rain, people had ventured out to walk along the numerous natural paths that cut through the Yorkshire Moors’ landscape.
Eventually, we found a parking spot, and just down the road was a coffee shop. We parked the van and walked to it, which was about a kilometre away. We had to pass through two fields to get there; it was bitterly cold yet again, but the coffee shop was an old barn building that had been refurbished and transformed into a delightful stop for people on their walks to enjoy a hot drink and a sandwich.
We had to wait because the queue was long, and the place was completely full. Eventually, we were able to get some hot drinks and sandwiches to take outside since all the tables inside were occupied. We spent about half an hour there before walking back to the van. Since it was only about 3:00 p.m., Steven didn’t want to go home just yet, so we decided to drive around some small neighboring villages scattered across the vast Moors.
In a quaint village with a single main street and just a few side streets, it can be challenging for two cars to pass each other in opposite directions. The houses in this village are constructed from a soft, porous sandstone native to the area, which gradually turns green with moss due to the frequent rainfall.
I find the light green, moss-covered houses to be beautiful and very English in a photogenic way. However, upon reflection, I question whether they are truly comfortable to live in, considering the stone floors, the region’s topography, and the harsh weather conditions.
On the way back, we stopped to buy fish and chips to take home. The fish was perfectly battered and cooked, and the chips were just right. I watched TV with Steven until about 10:00 p.m. Since there was no sign of my brother, I decided to go to bed so I could return to Wordsley the next day.
In bed by 11:00 p.m.
Thank you.
Thanks for reading this blog post. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments section.
Richard
