Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Crakehall. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Crakehall Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including David Hewson,Daniel Defoe,Alfred The Great,Horatio Nelson,Raphael for you to enjoy and share.
Surprisingly few outsiders know about the Cuckmere Valley, and it is not uncommon for people to confuse Alfriston with Alfreton in the Derbyshire Peak District.
This town of Sheffield is very populous and large, the streets narrow, and the houses dark and black, occasioned by the continued smoke of the forges, which are always at work: Here they make all sorts of cutlery-ware, but especially that of edged-tools, knives, razors, axes, &. and nails
He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
I am a Norfolk man and Glory in being so.
Cricket? Nobody understands cricket! You gotta know what a crumpet is to understand cricket!
Norfolk would not be Norfolk without a church tower on the horizon or round a corner up a lane. We cannot spare a single Norfolk church. When a church has been pulled down the country seems empty or is like a necklace with a jewel missing.
Whatever your tastes, Magrathea can cater for you. We are not proud.
That part of Rostrevor which overlooks Carlingford Lough is my idea of Narnia.
So Crake never remembered his dreams. It's Snowman that remembers them instead. Worse than remembers: he's immersed in them, he'd wading through them, he's stuck in them. Every moment he's lived in the past few months was dreamed first by Crake. No wonder Crake screamed so much.
Youngstown - the place where, you know, we were told, people got killed.
you curdled clot of whores piss
See anything interesting out there in the woods of King Hall?
Gilly Gilleshpee
Over the bowls of memory where every hollow holds a hallow
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
town. In the back of his
Ring a ding dillo del! derry, del, my hearties! If you come soon you'll find breakfast on the table. If you come late you'll get grass and rain-water!
My whinstone house my castle is, I have my own four walls.
Hickory dickory dock my daddy's nuts from shellshock.
The heart of Casterly Rock. Remember the fate of Rhaegar's children." She saw the fear in his young eyes then, but there was a strength as well. "Then I will not lose,
I'm crepuscular.
The Two Pilgrims in the Slough
Jon Snow, you know nothing.
Manchester, one of the greatest, if not really the greatest mere village in England.
SANE ASYLUM Ed Shank
Up the well known creek
Clay Blaisdell Western
There was something immensely comforting, I found, about a crumpet - so comforting that I've never forgotten about them and have even learned to make them myself against those times when I have no other source of supply.
I come from south Wales. A place called Aberbargoed.
Whose house is that, Constable?
I miss Manchester, especially the apple crumble and custard they served at Carrington after training.
The wind's on the wold And the night is a-cold, And Thames runs chill Twixt mead and hill, But kind and dear Is the old house here, And my heart is warm Midst winter's harm ...
on the outskirts of Johnson
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me
And tune his merry note,
Unto the sweet bird's throat;
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Winter crescent resting in the high pine bough - you fly through the woods like a lone snow bird ...
CASTLES IN THE AIR Laurie
The Norfolk landscape sends a shiver through my soul ...
Shropshire, the fatlands of Gloucestershire,
There's only one head bigger than Tony Greig's - and that's Birkenhead
It is that word 'hunny,' my darlings, that marks the first place in The House at Pooh Corner at which Tonstant Weader fwowed up.
Lord Chiltern Rides His Horse Bonebreaker
Is John Motson still wearing his shepherdskin coat?
Whither thou goest...
with thick stone walls and high, slitted
I don't ever want t' leave this cave, Jon Snow. Not ever
THE KING IN THE NORTH!
Come up fish. Come to Quint.
Come, ye cold winds, at January's call, On whistling wings, and with white flakes bestrew The earth.
NEIL GAIMAN near Kinsale, County Cork 15 January 2001
Julian of Norwich,
Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
You are cryptic,' said Philip.
'I am drunk,' answered Cronshaw.
I promptly forgot about him and prepared a blend of Creativi-Tea, since I had some fantasy role-players coming in for their weekly dungeon crawl, and the DM always wanted a little something extra to keep him on top of his players.
Our Welsh teacher thinks he is young. He tells us that the Welsh for skiving in town is 'mitchio yn y dre'.
Where are you from, Hadrian?" "Hintindar originally - a little village south of here in Rhenydd." "Originally? What's that supposed to mean? You got yourself born someplace else recently?
Originally I wanted somewhere to set my short stories about the sort of people I recognise having grown up with. Carnbeg was staring me in the face all the time, only I had somehow failed to see that. Not seeing the wood for the trees, I suppose.
Robinson had a servant even better than Friday: His name was Crusoe.
Yorkshire is so much part of me.
Ireland, Ireland. That cloud in the west, that coming storm.
Lake Winnipesaukee, he
In winter, when the dismal rain
Comes down in slanting lines,
And Wind, that grand old harper, smote
His thunder-harp of pines.
Like Johns, I am one of the little men, not interested in ideologies, tied to a flat Cambridgeshire landscape, a chalk quarry, a line of willows across the featureless fields, a market town
his thoughts scrabbled at the curtain
where he used to dance at the Saturday hops.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
our cabin in the woods in Clare.
You know nothing, Jon Snow!" "Who
This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great.
Hyacinth. Please forgive me.
Sing a song of Tar Ponds City, party full of lies! Four and twenty liars, seventeen hands caught in pies! When the pie was cut, Hugh Briss began to sing! Wasn't that a stonewall rat to set before the Fossil's ding?
Good gracious, Arthur, - I should say Mr Clennam, far more proper - the climb we have had to get up here and how ever to get down
The flannelled fools at the wicket or the mudied oafs at the goals ...
West Yorkshire is quite dramatic and beautiful, the crags and things.
If you were going to choose a way of making your way in this world and a place to start from, you might not choose poetry and you might not choose Huddersfield.
Some genius of the South
With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.
Places: a cold, bleak, lonely day on the rim at Muley Point, Utah. And the heart-cracking loveliness of the blood-smeared, bitter, incomprehensible slaughterhouse of a world ...
Castles are Forrests of stones.
Doverey, no proverey - Trust but verify.
Shut the door, Wales.
Scotland: That garret of the earth - that knuckle-end of England - that land of Calvin, oatcakes, and sulfur.
Creff was visibly agitated by the stranger's appearance at our door. Memory calls to mind the anxious wringing of his hands, resembling two furless pink badgers wrestling for each other's throats ...
This is Ireland, Finley. It's rough. It's wild. And it is holy.
For all the prizes, recitals and honours that grace Gordon Walker's glittering career, he still likes nothing more than coming home back to play. "I do like my Burns Suppers in Ayrshire. I've piped in the haggis, addressed it and then piped it back out again.
Jockey Wilson, he comes from the valleys and he's chuffing like a choo-choo train!
How many crumpets, at a sittin', do you think 'ud kill me off at once?" says the patient. "I don't know," says the doctor. "Do you think half-a-crown's wurth 'ud do it?" says the patient. "I think it might," says the doctor.
The Raynbowe bending in the skye,Bedeckte with sundrye hewes,Is lyke the seate of God on hye,And seemes to tell these newes:That as thereby he promised,To drowne the worlde no more,So by the bloud whiche Christe hath shead,He will oure health restore.
This tottered ensign of my ancestors
Which swept the desert shore of that dead sea
Whereof we got the name of Mortimer,
Will I advance upon these castle-walls.
Drums, strike alarum, raise them from their sport,
And sing aloud the knell of Gaveston!
To Meath of the pastures,
From wet hills by the sea,
Through Leitrim and Longford,
Go my cattle and me.
Poor Craw?" Ben retorted. "Poor Rory! Craw and Ari curse worse than a trucker shagging a sailor.
Dean Walker, my brother. The man that's well on his way to earning the proud title of town drunk.
Thanks for saving me back there larten
errmm thats mr crepsley to you - darren shan and larten creplsley - the vampires assistant
No one knows what it's like ... to be a dustbin ... in Shaftesbury ... with hooligans ...
Rockaway? That's my special place with Gage - was anyway. Now it'll 'forever' be marked with gluttony and vomit - sounds about right.
This isn't about you, Skeeter. It's about me, and I need you here. If we lose Crutchfield, we'll get him another day. If I lose you...
I am Crone, eldest of the Moon's Great Ravens, whose eyes have looked upon a hundred thousand years of human folly. Hence my tattered coat and broken beak as evidence of your indiscriminate destruction. I am but a winged witness of your eternal madness.
Park hill staten island seal, rock the reel to reel we high hills deep
Turn, gentle Hermit of the Dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.
posters of Simon Snow on the wall.
My name is Jerrod Ross, Squire from Pendern Hall. And who might you be, madam?"
"I? I am Sandra Cranston, Mistress of the walk-up second story flat," she replied coldly.~Timeless Heart
How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall.
I grew up in Ditchling. It was an idyllic village at the foot of the South Downs. In those days, the village was full of artists and sculptors.
Nincompoops. (Quincy,