It’s been an emotional rollercoaster for me this week as today is my final Northamptonshire Telegraph column.
It’s been over four years since I first put quill to paper (I have an inkwell at home you know) and wrote about our best friends’ wedding (they’re still together) and now, as Sinatra said, the end is near.
Now while I’ve always tried to avoid writing about anything controversial, there have been a couple of occasions where I have faced the wrath of you, the readers, and ended up with an RSVP in the hallowed Telegraph letters page.
The first of which came about a year into my tenure when I had to gall to comment on the BBC’s cancellation of Last of the Summer Wine.
I wasn’t protesting, however, I was arguing that it should have finished much, much sooner.
The response (I still have it, pritt-sticked in my scrapbook) said that I should appreciate comedy from a bygone era rather than the lewd, rude, boundary-pushing stuff of the twenty-first century. I do.
I just don’t see how men going down a hill in a bathtub is funny.
While I admit defeat in the whole comedy-is-subjective thing, the one topic in which I never understood the negative response I received is championing the local area.
I know that Northamptonshire isn’t perfect. Of course it isn’t – there’s no city centre, no major stadium, no Premiership football team – but what it lacks in big attractions it makes up for in quiet, unassuming treats.
The villages are fab – I still argue that the view from the top of the hill as you enter Rockingham is unbeatable – and the hidden gems (such as the Eleanor Cross, Stanwick Lakes and everything in the middle of Rothwell) are superb.
I’ve been proud to write about my life in Northants over the past four years, and I thank you for reading when you’ve had the chance.