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BB2537 : A
Right Royal Cock-up?
Thursday
16th October 2025
Could it have
been an
expression used by poachers when startling a cock pheasant that
made a squawk and flew off? Or a reference
to the cocking of a flintlock pistol as, if not cocked up, there was likely to
be a disaster when the trigger was pulled?
That doesn’t sound right to me because the cock-down would be the cock-up! Or vise-versa.
These were
the sort of thoughts that were occupying me as we
climbed Farleton Knott.
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Cock-ups had
not been top of mind
when we parked at the 1818 Auction venue for a Café Ambio coffee before
walking. The site was heaving
with farmers who had brought their trucks and trailers, buying or selling sheep.
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As we set off we noticed a sign that
informed us that parking was limited to the period of visiting the café or
whatever. Hmm. We’d never had a problem before so we thought
we would risk it.
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After a pleasant stroll along
the canal, we turned up towards the Farleton hamlet where we realised that not only could we have
parked there without challenge, we could have saved ourselves 1½ miles. Cock-up?
Possibly but what was the origin of the term? It
was something on which to ruminate as we climbed the Knott.
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Stan recalled that the arrows
of traditional English long bows had three feathers, one of which was called
the cock feather. This had to be
positioned away from the line of the bow stave, otherwise it would hit the bow
stave and affect the flight of the arrow.
Would that have been the original cock-up?
More of a cock-off, perhaps?
The day was a light murky grey;
pleasant walking but the distant views were not great.
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We followed the path marked on the map across
Holmepark Fell. This gave us a more
extensive view of the quarry than I had previously noticed but wasn’t quite the
way I had intended to reach the road to cross over to Uberash. Maybe a bit of a cock-up on my part.
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TV Mike remembered that when a
fermented barrel of wine is ready to be run-off for bottling, a stop-cock is
driven into the barrel and a sample is tasted to check for quality. If the wine
has turned sour, the cock is twisted to show that the barrel is not
to be used. Cock-up?
Sounds plausible.
We marched on through the
woodland that grows through the limestone payment, eventually climbing the
rocks up to the Hutton Roof trig point.
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We had been making progress and were confident of reaching the pub in
Burton on time to meet our non-walking chums. So confident that we took longer that we
should have done over lunch. No further comment
needed!
Having dropped down through
Dalton Crags and past the “natural” burial ground we had another minor
you-know-what where we missed a footpath and lost a little more time. Next
was the Home Park Business Centre. Oh dear.
Another cock-up but not one of our making. The tower clock at the business centre was
quite wrong. Not a good advert for the efficiency
of the firms based there.
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We reached Burton-in-Kendal
about five minutes behind schedule. Not
too bad considering, I thought, as I entered the pub, newly refurbished after
many years of dereliction. I was puzzled
to see Stan and Mike heading in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To the King’s Arms, as intended,” they replied. “You are at the Royal Oak.” Oh, what a right royal cock-up.
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Waiting for us at the recently
re-opened and under new management Kings Arms, amidst sinister Halloween adornments,
were Mike B and Stephen.
“Where’s Tony?”
we asked. No-one knew.
A message came through. It was from Tony. “Where are you?” it asked.
”Where are you?” we responded.
Yes, dear
Reader, you know where he was. Sat
right where I might have been. In the bar of the Royal Oak.
It was what you might call another Wrong
Royal Cock-up!
Don,
Thursday 16th October 2025
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