There's something out of time about inspiration midget Ellen MacArthur's voyage. It was a journey through time as well as across distance, her trimaran cruising along the borderline between brand positioning and therapy jargon. All very 1990's. The TV news even welcomed her homecoming with a snatch of the emetic M People, whose bland sales conference soul remains a permanent disgrace to the cultural honour of Manchester.
As we watched her cavort around on deck with lighted distress flares, face lit up with the happiness of a Woman who has Achieved Her Goals and offered us the Inspiration to Change Our Lives Forever, Mrs Treasure and I were struck by the same thought: She doesn't just come from Derbyshire. She really is Derbyshire.
Mrs T and I hail from Staffordshire, and the pocket yachtswoman fits every Staffordian's cliche of what the folk from the next door county look like. Thick neck. Pink cheeks. Squinty eyes. Just look at the picture by the linked article. She's a proper stumpy little troglodyte from a limestone cave somewhere outside Doveholes.
Maybe that explains the out of time feeling. Moorland folk never were that quick on the uptake.