Longdale Stiper

Photo of where Ruth grew up. (Photo taken Sunday 17th March 2013)

“And you were born and brought up, around here. Like, just down there?”

“Yep, in between where this hill...”

“Long Mynd?”

“The Long Mynd, yes, this hill – that stretches all the way into the distance – about 6 miles I think, in between here and that outcrop over there...”

“Which is called?”

“The Stiperstones. Yes, look,” she takes his arm, “look down there, those few houses. That’s where I lived.”

“Wow. And the valley, it's stunning. What's it called?”

“Umm, nothing.”

“Nothing? The valley doesn't have a name?” He is incredulous.

“No, don't think so, no, definitely not.”

“You were born in a valley with no name? That's amazing. Ha, no wonder you're so chippy about it. You were literally born nowhere, in the middle of nowhere. Seems unfair though. For it not to have a name. It should have a name. Everything should have a name. What was that rock called again? The Stiperstones? Let me see. The Stiper? No. The Stiper Mynd. The Long Stiper. Stiperdale.”

“Stiperdale, I like that.”

“No, got it. Call off the search. The Longdale Stiper! The Longdale Stiper. Brilliant. Big. Grand. Sweeping.”

“It sounds like a breed of dog.”

“Of course. Shropshire's finest. The Longdale Stiper. A hunting dog, obviously. Broad of back and long of leg. Bred to fight injustice and bring joy to all whom sail in her, or something. Here Benj, I hereby anoint you the first and finest of the breed. Next time anyone calls you a mere Staffy, or Staffy cross, or Heinz or mongrel or whatever, I shall say, ‘no, you're quite wrong’. I shall draw myself up to my full height and say: ‘For your information, this here's a Longdale Stiper; a Shropshire Longdale Stiper, have you not heard of them? A fine breed. A very fine breed indeed.’