My earliest recollections of Malton,
an idyllic market town in the old North Riding of Yorkshire where my
semi-retired grandfather was once the editor of local paper the Malton
Messenger, are still very clear.
I would have been about eight years old when I visited his thatched cottage and watched him compose his weekly column about the personalities and issues which made this community unique.
Later, I would sit in my mother Betty’s antique shop, the Corner Cupboard, and watch her trying to suppress a laugh as the rough-hewn local farmers peered through the window, giggling at the Victorian underwear on display.
My father, Charles, was Chairman of Ryedale District Council, which is the authority governing Malton. Read More
I would have been about eight years old when I visited his thatched cottage and watched him compose his weekly column about the personalities and issues which made this community unique.
Later, I would sit in my mother Betty’s antique shop, the Corner Cupboard, and watch her trying to suppress a laugh as the rough-hewn local farmers peered through the window, giggling at the Victorian underwear on display.
My father, Charles, was Chairman of Ryedale District Council, which is the authority governing Malton. Read More
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