ABSTRACT
Sheffield, centre once for steel and cutlery, industry and grime, but surrounded by moorland and the beautiful Derbyshire Peak District, was on the cusp of a makeover when I loaded my old blue panel van with goods and chattels for a planned three years stint once again as a student. I stopped off briefly in the centre of Mold, the market town closest to my parents’ cottage high in the ranges near the beautiful Vale of Clwyd, after a last nostalgic look back at the far Clwydian range defining their skyline. I had suddenly realised that I had no crockery or cutlery for my new home, wherever and whatever it may be, and it was Mold’s market day. More than half a century later I still have one of the heavy yellow plates I bought on that first day of a new life.
