In search of the golden egg

Somewhere in the British Isles,
Set apart by many miles,
Twelve caskets lie beneath the ground,
In each - a scroll with ribbon round.
Upon each scroll to you is told
That you shall own an egg of gold.
If you carefully read this book,
It will tell you where to look.


Conundrum 1983 (The Cadbury's golden egg treasure hunt)


In 1979, a very eccentric artist by the name of Kit Williams, wrote a book called Masquerade. This book was no ordinary book. Within it's pages were a series of riddles and clues, which if unravelled, would lead to the location of a golden, jewel encrusted hare. The book sold 2 million copies worldwide, as the whole nation and beyond went treasure hunt mad. The treasure hunt lasted for 3 years until 1982, when the location of the hare was discovered by 2 teachers from Manchester. It was later revealed that a former girlfriend of Kit Williams had alerted the hare's discoverers to it's approximate location.


Masquerade, became the inspiration for a genre of books known today as "Armchair treasure hunts". In 1983 Cadbury's published their own armchair treasure hunt called "Conundrum". Within it's pages, the location to 12 golden eggs worth £10,000 each, was revealed. I was now 14 years old and eager to find treasure of any description. The publication of Conundrum could not have come at a more appropriate time in my life. Even more exciting, was the fact that one of the eggs was reported to be buried in Lancashire. When the local newspapers printed an article stating that there was an enormous amount of treasure hunting activity around the Holcombe Hill area, I could contain myself no longer. I had to have this book, and one of the golden eggs would be mine.


Conundrum was the talk of the school and just like the Rubik cube, a couple of years previous, everybody owned it. For a period of time in 1983, there was very little work getting done at my school because every student (and teacher), was totally absorbed in the search for the golden egg. However, only one page of the book was ever on view, for that was all that mattered in our neck of the woods. Indeed some of the kids had ripped this page out so that it could be less conspicuously scrutinised during class. The page in question was entitled "Easter Monday" and the picture depicted a typical Lancashire mill town scene, with smokey factory chimney's in the background, whilst in the foreground, children rolled eggs down a hillside whilst their parents watched on in admiration. Somewhere in the clues, was a sentence about "left over mutton", which whilst appearing to relate to leftovers from the previous days meal, many thought alluded to the Shoulder of Mutton pub. The Shoulder of Mutton pub being the only pub in the Village of Holcombe is located at the foot of Holcombe Hill. For many hundreds of years at Easter time, it has been a tradition for children to roll hard boiled painted eggs down Holcombe Hill. All in all there seemed far too many clues relating to the area for the golden egg not to be buried there. By the time my accomplice Mark Galbraith and I would arrive at the treasure hunt scene, Holcombe Hill was pock marked with the labours of a thousand speculative spades.


Due to our mutual love of reading, adventure and treasure hunting, my classmate Mark Galbraith and I were drawn together by the hunt for the golden egg. In the previous 3 years that we had been classmates, we had barely spoken 2 words. But this was it, our time had come. Our zealous minds, somehow managed to come together to create a mass of energy that (in our minds) would unearth an egg of gold. With this quest in mind we arranged to meet at my house the following Saturday morning.


Mark arrived around 9 am and we immediately began to ponder over "the book". In retrospect we were two complete imbeciles, without a hope in hell of unearthing anything apart from our own stupidity. The only reason that we were heading for Holcombe Hill, is because the local rag had informed us of extreme treasure hunting activity in that area. Beyond that, we could add no further impetus, apart from my own interjections at annoyingly regular intervals, of "yeah, but it says left over mutton and there's definitely a shoulder of mutton pub there". I just sort of assumed that we would arrive at our destination, stand in the car park of the Shoulder of Mutton pub and look left over the roof of the building. The precise burial point of the golden egg would then be miraculously presented to us by a ray of light from the skies, like a some divine intervention. I mean, if it happens to Indiana Jones then it can happen to me, right? Quite why we decided to take a metal detector with us, is therefore beyond any logic that I can now offer some 28 years later. If we had bothered to pay more attention to the rhyme at the front of the book, it would have been quite apparent that the eggs were never actually buried. With an infinite amount more pragmatism than Mark and I, Cadburys had only buried a casket containing a scroll of ownership to the golden eggs.


During Maths lesson, Mark and I had eagerly thrown a checklist together of all the things that we would require for a busy days treasure hunting. The list comprised of food (cheese and pickled onion sandwiches, Monster Munch crisps and biscuits), beverages (Vimto), an OS map of the area (which never got removed from its sleeve) , a compass (although none of us knew how to use it), a spade (which was overly used in an arbitrary manner) and last and very much least (useful), a metal detector. Like a demented monkey I rushed up and down the stairs to retrieve these items, whilst Mark waited. Being a person who is plagued by allergies and with summer fast approaching, I also grabbed a bottle of Olbas oil from my bookcase. For those that are not aware of the powers of Olbas oil, there is but one rule - DO NOT,repeat DO NOT , get this shit in your eyes. This stuff, is industrial strength. It will clear any nasal blockages. Get the stuff in your eyes however and you can say goodbye to your eyesight for at least an hour. Once again, there is therefore no logical explanation as to why I would tell Mark, upon his enquiry, that the Olbas oil would refresh his eyes if he were to dowse them in it. In actual fact it only proved to delay our start time by some considerable margin and instill a deep sense of mistrust in Mark to anything I would ever say again. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see that blindness and mistrust are not two of the key skills required in the art of treasure hunting.


So, off we set, in the direction of Holcombe Hill some 5 miles away, as the crow flies. Unfortunately, the crow would not be flying on this day. The path that we elected to take, would partly follow the route that the pilgrims took in the 12th century, whilst on their way to Whalley Abbey. Dropping down through my parents estate, we took the snicket to the old railway lines, before descending to the area known as Snig Hole. From here we walked through Alden Vale, past the site of the old Porritts mills and then up through Sunnybank to the ancient landmark of Robin Hood's well. The well is rumoured to have been used by everyones favourite villain, as he passed through the area - no doubt robbing the rich and giving to the poor. Just beyond Robin Hood's Well, we chanced upon a small cairn with a badly eroded face etched into it. I instantly knew that this was a memorial to Ellen Strange. Ellen Strange, a local girl was murdered in 1761, as she walked back from Haslingden fair. The stone that we were now examining was placed on the site of her murder in 1978. During my lonesome wanderings, I had often searched for her final resting place to no avail. Was this to be an omen that today I would find the egg of gold?


We were now on Holcombe moor, a barren expanse of land which is also used by the army for training purposes due to it's hostile environment. The moor in this area was punctuated with markers telling us where we could and could not walk. This all added to the excitement of the day. By this point I had begun to realise that I had underestimated the length of the journey to Holcombe Hill. Mark was also becoming suspicious that the duration of our hike was going to be much longer the 2 hours that I had predicted. By the time we reached our destination some 4.5 hours later, I was still trying to convince him that I was right. The mood of the day was beginning to change.


"So, where do we start looking"? asked Mark.


Now wasn't that the million dollar question and one for which I did not really have an answer?


"Shoulder of Mutton", I hastily replied.


"But that's at the bottom of the hill and we are at the top".


"Shoulder of Mutton", I repeated with increased volume.


Twenty five minutes later, we were standing in the Shoulder of Mutton car park and contrary to my strong beliefs, there was to be no rays of heavenly sunshine prompting me where to dig. Trying to appear undeterred, I inform Mark that we must walk back up the hill from whence we just came. I also try to make him think that I know where to hunt with the metal detector, which we unsuccessfully do for the next hour whilst creating a multitude of shallow holes (boredom always set in before the holes got too deep). With fading optimism our digging becomes less frenetic with each new hole and eventually grinds to a halt. With an air of defeat, we decide to climb to the top of Holcombe Hill. Perched on the summit of the hill, is Peel Tower, which is named after Sir Robert Peel, a local boy that made it big. Sir Robert Peel was prime minister of England between 1841 and 1846 and is famed for passing the bill which would lead to the creation of the first British police force, known somewhat inaffectionately as Peelers.


To our disappointment we realise that there is no way of ascending the tower. The sour smell of defeat now permeates the air, so we decide to go for an amble to the rear of the tower in a last gasp attempt to spot any blatant treasure hunting clues. Spotting some rather large rocks, we sit for a while and discuss our route home. After, a few minutes, the mischievous imp inside me has kicked in and I decide that it would be a good idea to roll the gigantic boulder down the back of Holcombe Hill, in the direction of the mosque below. With all our strength, Mark and I try to heave the rock out of the position that it has remained in (possibly since the ice age). This rock is enormous though and definitely does not want to budge. With increased force, we build up some momentum and get the boulder rocking quite vigorously. It is only when the rock begins it's descent down Holcombe Hill, that we realise that this is indeed a very bad idea. By the time the remnant of the last ice age has demolished the first dry stone wall and vaulted a herd of petrified sheep, we realise that we could actually be in for a lot of trouble. Tentatively we watch as our bouncing bomb, either flattens or leaps over the top of each dry stone wall that it encounters. We live in hope that there is at least one immovable object to stand in the path of the disaster of killing a bunch of Muslims (although given the racist climate of the times, to some we would be heroes).
Just when we thought that it could not be any worse, we see notice that there is a red car approaching, on a road that we never even noticed was there. "Shit", we shout in unison. It really looks like the rock is on a collision path with the car.


In panic, we elect for the most cowardly option. With lightening pace, we both hotfoot it in the direction of what we think is home. In actual fact we have no idea what we are doing and any rational thought has been shocked right out of us. Driven by the possible consequences of idiotic actions, I run faster and further than I have ever run before. Unfortunately for us, we are running in the wrong direction. By the time we eventually stop running, we have no clue where we are and are about to find out that the compass is about as much use as the metal detector. Fortunately for us, Helmshore has a volcano shaped hill, called Tor, which serves as a fantastic landmark. Unfortunately for us, there is a similar shaped hill on the opposite side of the Rossendale Valley. By the time we reach the wrong volcano shaped hill, it is dusk. By the time we arrive back in Helmshore it is night time and my mum is about to call the police. We are still convinced that the police are searching for us and need a few days to fully believe that they are not. There are no reportings of occupants of a red car getting crushed to death or a mosque being flattened by a rolling rock.


By the time that the Lancashire golden egg is discovered, a few weeks later, in Billington some 25 miles from Holcombe Hill, Mark and I have totally lost interest.

Early adventures

The Mittons arrived in Helmshore in the early Winter of 1976. Our house, a 1930's, semi-detached ex council house, did indeed possess, the fabled indoor bathroom, and central heating to which we had been promised. I also now had the luxury of my own bedroom, a front garden, a side garden and a back garden. OK, so the house was a wreck, which had to be stripped down to the bare essentials but that in itself was an adventure for a 5 year old. I mean, which 5 year old, would not enjoy crawling underneath uplifted floorboards on a journey to the centre of the Earth. Even more interesting to me, was Rossendale golf course. As far as I was concerned, this was miles of undiscovered territory. Situated in the foothills of the Pennines and possessing such features as ponds, woods, trenches, mounds and streams. It was a young adventurers dream. It soon became apparent that the uppity golfers did not share my enthusiasm, as they launched their missiles in my direction. My friend Darren Bell was actually hit in the chest by one of their whistling obes, as I sat next to him. One second we were talking about young boys stuff and the next he was howling like a werewolf, clutching his chest, whilst gasping for air in an attempt to breathe. In the distance, we could hear the launcher of the belligerent sphere, shouting his obscenities, whilst swinging his club around in anger. From here on in, it was war. The hundreds of golf balls in my bedroom cupboard were testimony to this fact.


For the next 15 years I was to spend almost everyday on the golf links in some context or another. If I wasn't adventuring, I was hunting for golf balls, taking a shortcut to school or from the age of 13 to 15, legitimately playing golf, as I rested my morals and joined the enemy. This was a failed coup, I hasten to add. I never have had good balance and this was clearly evident, as I swung my club, missed the ball and ended up on my arse, more often than not. As my friends seemed to improve on a daily basis, I regressed from bad to downright awful. The only shot that I ever got credit for, was a shot from a particularly deep bunker. Somehow I managed to emulate the sound of a ball being hit, as I picked it up and lobbed it at the green. Miracurously, the ball trundled across the green and fell into the hole, to the amazement of my friends to whom I had become a golfing burden. Within a few years, I had conceded, sold the clubs and immersed myself in the video game generation.


Although, the video game age, gripped me in it's time wasting grasp, I never lost my sense of adventure and the golf course provided this arena for many years. As my peers fell by the wayside, lost to such boring ativities as girls, I continued to surround myself with balls - golf balls. These days, I love to travel alone, unimpeded by other peoples whims and follies. Those solitary days on Rossendale golf course could well be responsible for this. Donned in a pair of Wellington boots and armed with an abundance of time, that never seems to be available in older age, I would wander the links, before heading off down the abandoned railway line or along the river bank to Irwell vale and beyond. Depending on which option I took, I would either look up and marvel at the Ravenshore viaduct or look down from this engineering masterpiece and gaze at the river Irwell. Here, at a place known by the locals as Little Blackpool, due to it's attraction as a place of leisure during times gone by, I would fantasise about entering Helmshore caves. In retrospect, the caves are not all that impressive, the water sluice, a legacy of the industrial revolution. However, in my mind they were a place where adventures were made, if I only dared to enter them. This, I never did, too scared to do so because I had watched "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" on tv and was scared that there was an angry Indian in there.


I was told that a box had been buried under the first brick of the Ravenshore Viaduct. This box was to be a time capsule, capturing artefacts of the time it was built. God, how much I wanted this box and would often puzzle myself over which brick was the first in this gigantic structure. Sometimes I would take a spade and make a futile attempt to find it. To me, that would have been a treasure trove worthy of any young boys dreams. Unfortunately, I never struck gold. In later days, when puberty had taken control of my body, the treasure I longed to find took on a more seedy edge. I seemed to have a nose to find porn magazines. I was famed amongst my friends for having an extra sense, which told me which bushes to look in, as if my erection were a divining rod. My adventures remained the same, only I was driven by different goals. It was during in these sexually confusing times, that I became all consumed in the thoughts of stumbling upon a porn shoot. I have no idea why, but an inner force told me that this would happen one
day. It was my fantasy that once I found my crock of sexual gold, I would be invited to join in the saucy shennanigans. Upon reflection, I am uncertain of what role they would have had for a snotty nosed, teenager, in wellington boots with pockets full of golf balls. But then again there seems to be a category for all these days. It is with a certain irony that 20 years later, whilst walking across England with an ex girlfriend, we would stumble upon a porn shoot, and no we were not asked to join in.

Mental photography

People that are close to me often puzzle themselves over the fact that I remember past events with accurate precision, whilst I forget what I am saying during most sentences. Well, there is a reason for this! My mind is generally so awash with thoughts that I can never finish one sentence before the next thought has evolved into speech. This was later diagnosed as ADHD. Call it ADHD, call it mild autism, aspergers, OCD, or whatever the fuck you like. I think that it makes life infinitely more interesting and I would not change it for a normally functioning brain, not for all the brain cells in Mensa. My memory on the other hand is an extremely well functioning machine, which I constantly challenge with little mind games. From a young age, I developed (of my own accord), a number of little practices to help me remember experiences with all the vividness of the actual event.

The most effective of my memory techniques, was first used in January of 1976 and is something that I have used periodically throughout the rest of my life so far. Let me explain.

After almost 6 years of being the poorest and coldest family in the hamlet of Osbaldeston, my dad informed us that we were moving. We would spend one last Christmas in Sykes Cottage and then head to the Borough of Rossendale soon after. More specifically we would be heading to the village of Helmshore where my dad would have a job working for somebody that he had recently met. As you can imagine, this was all very upsetting for a 5 year old. My little world of Oak trees,hay stacked meadows, babbling brooks and wild adventures in Sykes Cottage garden, was about to be shattered. Not even, the promise of a house with a real bathroom could raise me from my inner sadness, although it helped to soften the blow.

I remember that last Christmas of 1975 with great fondness. As if it were a parting gift from Mother Nature, the snow fell with a whiteness, crispness and beauty that I don't recall ever experiencing again. I sat on the living room window ledge and watched as the snow engulfed all in it's wake. First the path disappeared, next the grass, followed by the surrounding hedge, the garden gate and finally the garden sheds. Like a sponge I soaked it all up, in the knowledge that this was the last time that I was ever going to experience these particular emotions. I expanded upon this thought and decided that I would turn my brain into a camera to capture this moment in time forever. From my window ledge perch I focused on the snow covered wonderland, that was Sykes Cottage garden. To add to the tangibility of this mental process, I then blinked my eyes, as though they were the shutter of the camera. The image was instantly captured and I knew would remain with me for the rest of my life.

Using this technique I have built up an ever increasing photograph album in my mind. Every time I think that I am in a unique location or a time of my life that I wish to capture, I take a snapshot with my mental camera and the image is confined to memory. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can recall that moment with the clarity of the event itself. However, with these pictures comes a depth of reality that a photograph could never capture. I am unsure how you would call this in terms of dimensions, i.e. 3D, 4D, 5D or 6D, but what I do know is that this technique has played it's part in enabling me to relive key moments of my life, whenever I require.

In my life time of travels, when keeping my rucksack to a bare minimum is of up most importance, my mental camera is always packed and ready to go and adds no weight to my journey.

Polly Parrot School

Hailing from a hamlet in Lancashire, more than likely played a part in my desire to travel. Located, 5 miles to the North East of the grimy mill town of Blackburn, Osbaldeston could not be further away in terms of an idyllic setting to bring up your children. Higher Commons Lane, was home to some of the richest folk in Lancashire, our family were (fortunately) not amongst them. How different my life would have been, had that been the case! The Mitton's were possibly the poorest people in the hamlet, residing in a 16th century rented cottage "Sykes Cottage",at a cost of £6 per week (although this was waivered because my mum did the milk round for the neighbouring farm). This may sound fantastic, and probably would have been if the toilet were not outside and the house actually had a bathroom, instead of a sink in the kitchen that lifted up to reveal a bath.


From outside, the cottage looked just perfect and the large front garden certainly made up for the lack of heating and consequent dampness. The garden and the lane that fronted our house were our world. My sister and I would venture up and down Higher Commons lane, passing such landmarks as Lassie the farm dog on her wall top perch, the oak tree that I once got stuck up for hours (although the lowest branch was only 3 ft from the ground), and the hedge where my sister was bitten by a bat (which we nurtured and later released, only to find it upside down drowned in the paddling pool the following morning). If we went in the opposite direction, we would cross the babbling brook, where I painfully saw my toy hovercraft drift from my grasp, and beyond to the shed where I drank liquid from a very old bottle and caused a panic in the Mitton household resulting in the doctor rushing to our house. I only lived in Sykes Cottage for the first 6 years of my life, but these were the formative years and hold extremely fond memories for me.


During those 6 years, the sheer isolation of the place taught me many things. First and foremost, it taught me to be alone, as I wandered around the garden creating my own entertainment. I learnt to find pleasure in the intricacies of life. The joy of watching the seasons change, each season providing new attractions for an inquisitive young mind. Maybe, it was loneliness, that led me to the pleasures of twiddling. A strange yet, hypnotic habit that I taught myself at an early age and continued well beyond the age that it should have ceased. Twiddling, was a name conjured up by my overactive imagination. In the beginning, I would take a blade of grass and split it in two. Not any old grass mind, it had to be exactly the right colour, width and length, which is why only I, could ever pick it. I would then place the grass between my forefinger, thumb and index finger and manoeuvre it in a controlled manner. The pace of the twiddler, determined my mood or was the other way around. At times, the blade of grass would hardly be moving at all and I would feel calm and serene. The next moment the grass would be moving at a ferocious pace and I would feel ecstatic and full of the joys of the world. With twiddler in hand I would spend hours in a hypnotic state of pure zen bliss. Over the years, the twiddler evolved from grass to Iris leaves, Iris leaves to strips of plastic, strips of plastic to Christmas tinsel and finally to rubber bands. Rubber bands, of a certain thickness, were my preference for many years until I finally forced myself to kick the habit well into my twenties.


Of course, my twiddling habit did not go unnoticed and believe it or not other kids at my school wanted in. Maybe they saw the look of ecstasy on my face as I sped up and slowed down with twiddling precision. Jealous of my trance like state and oblivion to the world around me. For my habit was not confined to the privacy of my own space. My twiddler accompanied me everywhere I went, the school bus, the classroom, the playground, the dinner hall. You name it, my twiddler was there. In fact, you can safely say that my twiddler played it's part in me leaving school aged 16 with a very low level of educational achievement.

Such was their persistence to learn the art of twiddling, that I finally gave in and set up my own school of twiddling excellence. Even at a young age, I knew that this was an exercise in futility because twiddling was not something that could be taught, it was an innate feeling -a gift that only I was born with. But what the hell, Claire Mather wanted to learn and I would do anything to impress, the love of my infant school life. So it was, that a bunch of wannabe twiddlers gathered in Sykes Cottage garden, behind the newly constructed shed and the twiddling lessons commenced. The twiddling school was even given a name, a name which only the logic of a 5 year old mind could possible come up with.

Polly Parrot school, may have only run for two 15 mintute sessions over a period of a week but it will forever live on in my memory and hopefully the memories of all that attended.