Tunnels of Change?

Courier Countryside Column for 20^th December

Celebrating the speed of change

Why is it that, as a nation, we are so resistant to change?

I was reflecting on the question as we were zipping under the Channel from Kent to the Pas-de-Calais in order to do some Christmas shopping and stock up the wine cellar.

It’s so easy.  A short drive to Folkestone.  A wait of just a few minutes before putting the car on the train. A journey just long enough to write a shopping list, and before we knew it we were having lunch in one of the many restaurants in Calais.  It’s only been open 20 years, but it seems almost impossible to recall when the Tunnel wasn’t there.

But do you remember the fuss and opposition to the building of it?  Arguments ranging from national security to desecration of the English countryside were deployed.  Long parliamentary speeches were unleashed. Newspapers were bombarded with letters. And that was in 1802 when it was first mooted!  Very little had changed by 1986 when the British and French governments finally approved it.  I remember numerous stories propagated by the naysayers before its eventual opening in 1994.  Of course I was sympathetic to those few people whose homes would be affected by the construction.  And, yes, the concrete hideosity of the Folkestone terminal, where before had been green fields, was to be lamented.  But millions of people annually benefit from the service. And it brings millions of euros into rural Kent.  Increasingly I hear French spoken in our village as Gallic tourists sample our cuisine and beverages and stay in our B&Bs.  Sure, some might have come on the ferries, but the speed and ease of the tunnel has undoubtedly attracted many more visitors.

I also appreciate the convenience of boarding the Eurostar in Ashford and arriving in Paris just 1 hour and 52 minutes later.  And from Paris the TGV high-speed network rushes you throughout the country. In England it stretches only from the coast to St Pancras.  And that was hard enough to get built. But now it’s there I really don’t feel we’ve lost anything.  In fact I like watching the trains snaking through my county and leaving the M2 traffic standing.

So when asked if I’m in favour of HS2 to the Midlands and the North, I say ‘bring it on’.  In 20 years we’ll wonder what all the fuss was about.

A tractor that’s hard to Afford

Courier Countryside column for 13 December

A tractor that’s hard to Afford

We’ve had our tractor stolen.  One day it was in the Community Orchard waiting to move the last of the season’s apple crop, the next day it wasn’t. It’s strange.  You do a double-take and wonder if, perhaps, you’d forgotten that you’d put it somewhere else.  But my memory isn’t that bad. Then you think another committee member must have shifted it.  But only the chairman has a key and one phone call quickly established he hadn’t touched it.  So you have to conclude it’s gone.

The police officer who came to my house to take the details wasn’t particularly surprised.  Old ones like that are very desirable, he told me. They usually get shipped out to Eastern Europe.  They’re cheap to run, easy to maintain and extremely simple to pinch.

The insurance loss adjuster said exactly the same thing. They fill a container with them and ship them out. Makes economic sense, especially if they didn’t pay anything for the item in the first place!

None of which is of much comfort.  Though the insurance man did agree to pay out the full sum.  Trouble is replacing it for that amount will prove extremely difficult as we got rather a good deal when we bought it.  And we’re certainly not going to get back the money we’ve spent on it.  Like replacing the clutch. Or overhauling the brakes.  Or buying it a brand new £100 battery the week before it went.  Which is doubly galling because the thieves wouldn’t have been able to start it if we hadn’t just renewed it.

This year we had a bumper harvest and this old – 1966 – Ford 4000 proved essential to lift the great cubie bags of apples off the ground and onto the extraordinary assortment of car trailers we were using.  So although I’d never used a front loader (the big hydraulic arms that reach out over the front of the tractor, usually with a bucket or spikes on the end) I quickly discovered we couldn’t do without one.  Trouble is now we may have to.  It looks as if we can replace the tractor itself for the money we have, but getting a front loader as well looks out of our price range.

So if you come across an ancient battered blue tractor with freshly painted front arms and roll bar, registration JPN 46D, please let the police know.

The Hungry Crocodile

Courier Countryside column for 6 December

The Hungry Crocodile

            Passing through our village during term-time you can’t help but notice the lines of primary school pupils marching around the green and across the main road.  At first it appears a charming reminder of a local education tradition stretching back centuries.

            But in fact it disguises fundamental problems with the village school.  It’s desperately overcrowded and in urgent need of renewal. The main building, possibly adequate when built 400 years ago, is today bursting at the seams.  The school office is housed in a corridor. Year One is accommodated in a roof space – freezing in winter, baking in summer, and so low in parts that adults cannot stand upright. 

The reception class is in another building altogether, several hundred metres away.  But that’s shared with the school dining facilities. So the picturesque crocodile lines of children are in fact walking, come rain or shine, to have lunch; at the desks of the reception class; which is evicted outside for the duration; come rain or shine. Currently there are two sittings but that will increase to three next year when all infants get free school meals. So lunch will start at 11.30 and finish sometime after 1.45.  At which point the reception class will be allowed back to resume studies.

            Science lessons are conducted in the cricket pavilion; PE and drama in the village hall; assembly in the Church.  Sure, they’re all reasonably close, but overall about one fifth of total learning time is spent walking between locations. 

Around the turn of the century Ofsted condemned the accommodation as totally inadequate and KCC put plans in hand for a brand new building. Earlier this year – after, it’s true, much disagreement over location – planning permission was granted for a superb new school.

But last week our county councillor informed us there would be no money to build it. The £31 million available for education projects had been allocated to other schools with “more urgent needs”.  We were flabbergasted, upset and, frankly, pretty angry. 

Now, to add insult to injury, they’re actually proposing to reduce the current budget! No longer will schools receive funds for accommodation beyond the main premises. If your building is so old and decrepit it can’t house your children – too bad.

And this is a Conservative Education Authority under a Conservative led government. I hate to think how those of a different political hue are faring in the current climate.

The tail that wags the law

Countryside column  29 November

The tail that wags the law

Watching Myrtle’s tail wagging nineteen to the dozen as she runs round the fields, I’m always saddened to think of dogs who’ve been docked.  It seems so cruel to deprive them of this natural method of expression.  And the law agrees with me.

The Animal Welfare Act 2006 banned all tail docking for cosmetic reasons.  However there remains an exemption for working dogs, including gun dogs.  I was discussing this with a neighbour and fellow dog lover just the other day.   Unlike me she’s into shooting and has trained her Lab to pick up dying birds.  And she’s adamant that not only is docking desirable for working dogs but it can be cruel NOT to dock.  When you’ve seen as many tails mangled on brambles or gorse as I have, she argued, you’d change your mind.  Hmm. Possibly.

Amazingly there’s a pressure group, the Council of Docked Breeds, opposing the legislation.  Their website claims there could be 16,000 tail injuries a year. This is based on a 2010 survey of 52 vets who reported 281 injuries. (Though if those 52 vets were largely in rural or hunting areas, the extrapolation would be pretty meaningless.)

Anyway, let’s accept that SOME working dogs do injure their tails and so the docking exemptions may not be wholly unreasonable.  Which leads us to the safeguards.

The law insists docking must take place within 5 days of birth. The owner must certify the dog is likely to work and a Vet must have seen specific written evidence that the dog is genuinely likely to work. 

So how on earth can breeders be advertising docked puppies for sale in my local classified ads?  They couldn’t possibly have known whether the dog is likely to work or not. And it’s wholly fanciful to suggest they wouldn’t sell a puppy if they knew it wasn’t going work – assuming they even asked.

The RSPCA agrees. If there is no proof, then it’s an offence under the Act a spokesman told me.

Papers advertising dogs for sale often carry warnings about puppy farms. Surely they should refuse to carry classifieds for docked dogs.

So buyer beware. If you see a docked puppy advertised for sale, it can’t logically have been done legally, whatever the seller says. And Vets beware too.  If the puppy is subsequently offered for sale on the open market you will have connived at an unnecessary, cruel and illegal practice.

The wind that rocked the community

Countryside Column 22 November

The wind that rocked the community.

On the bottom of our Parish Council planning agenda for the past several months has been notice of an appeal against refusal to allow a wind turbine on land just outside the village.

The original application, considered before I became a member, was for a single 18-metre Gaia turbine that can produce around 11kW of electricity. It’s about twice the height of a two-storey house, has a double blade and is mounted on a tubular frame.

The idea was not popular among local residents, who quickly got up a sizeable petition, arguing it would have a detrimental impact on an area of outstanding natural beauty, the setting of listed buildings, tourism, amenity and wildlife habitat.

Interestingly, the then Parish Council remained neutral on the application. And I’ve been wondering how I’d have voted. On the one hand I strongly believe we should be doing everything possible to reduce our reliance on burning fossil fuels with the concomitant carbon dioxide ‘greenhouse gas’ emissions. I remain fearful of nuclear power and unconvinced we have the solution to radioactive waste. So that leaves renewables - largely sun, wind, water and biomass. But the truth is they produce relatively little heat or power for the investment or, in the case of wind, for the impact on the landscape.

The view from Rye towards Dungeness over the Romney Marsh is now littered with wind turbines. Some may find them beautiful; others awful, but none can deny they have significantly altered the topography.

Individual units in your paddock or back garden though? I recently wrote about the number of windmills he had around here. Now we love them. Yet they’re significantly more obtrusive that the Gaia. Could we not learn to love wind turbines? Or solar panels? I know of at least one local farmer considering covering acres of pasture land with solar units. Sheep may safely graze beneath and around them, but they will change our perception, and the colour, of the landscape. But then I suppose so did oilseed rape when it was first introduced.

One suggestion would be for every household in the land to move towards self- sufficiency. Financial incentives or discounts on other fuels could help every one of us install solar panels, or photovoltaic cells, or biomass boilers, or heat pumps.  Or even small wind turbines. Though I anticipate the latter might garner a flurry of objections from neighbours!

Hidden Enterprise

Countryside Column for 15 November 2013

Hidden Enterprise

I never cease to be amazed by the scope of rural industry – small units tucked away in obscure corners of the countryside.

A year or two back I needed some oak for a new kitchen work surface.  I searched around online and in local papers and came across a firm pleasingly named Plankee in Westfield.  I drove down to collect the wood from a small industrial estate and, after loading it on the car, spotted an old mate sitting outside another workshop on a break.  Turned out he was with a vintage aircraft restoration firm in the next unit. He showed me the wooden fuselage of a 1917 de Havilland DH.9 - a very early (and apparently somewhat unreliable) WW1 British bomber that they were recreating.

Really, who’d have thought you could find a firm deep in the Sussex countryside that stocked parts for 100 year-old Sopwith Camels?

Then in a tiny workshop rather nearer to me, a friend builds the most extraordinary chopper motorbikes.  At first I thought that taking apart a perfectly serviceable Harley and reconstructing it on an extended and lowered fame with long forks and acres of chrome, was tantamount to sacrilege. But when you see the results you realise they are real works of art.  Often he’ll scour junk yards for parts he can reuse: a 2CV headlight here, a tractor seat there, and incorporate then into his creations.

Travelling to visit my dentist the other day, (there are only two NHS practices left in the entire area and mine is about 15 miles away) I came across an outdoor clothing manufacturer.  Well, actually the clothing is mainly manufactured in Bogotá, Colombia, but the company’s headquarters are distributed across various buildings in this East Sussex village.  From small beginnings in the 1980s, the firm is now internationally renowned for its premium products.

A recent survey identified nearly a hundred small businesses operating in our parish alone.  But it also found many believe the biggest factor preventing their expansion is poor broadband speed.  Modern business just cannot function without a fast internet connection.  And, by and large, that means replacing the old copper cables with fibre optic.  It doesn’t have to be the whole way to the consumer, but upgrading needs to spread from the exchange to intermediate boxes.  In rural parts, despite frequent promises from government and county council, there’s little sign of that happening.

Hawks From Handsaws

Countryside Column for 8 November 2013

Telling Hawks From Handsaws or Pigeons

A kestrel died on my doorstep the other day. I thought it was a pigeon (I am, self evidently, not much of an ornithologist), and I couldn’t work out what it was doing there. At first I blamed the dog. She’d been acting oddly ever since the clotheshorse collapsed on her in front of the Aga the previous day. She clearly thought it was her fault and that I was cross: she ran upstairs with her tail between her legs and stayed there all night, which is extremely unusual. Anyway I couldn’t really leave it – the pigeon/hawk that is - to decompose just where visitors would have to step over it. So out came the rubber gloves (am I alone in being a bit squeamish about picking up dead animals with bare hands?) and I scooped up the corpse. 

Now, however pathetic I am at identifying bird species, even I realised what I was holding was probably not a dead pigeon. To start with, it had wonderful brown feathers with black squares or diamonds on its back, long tail feathers and yellow legs with talons. But the real giveaway seemed to be a small but sharply hooked beak. A quick internet search confirmed it was, or had been, a common kestrel.

It was in almost perfect condition. No rigor mortis or sign of any wound. But its head lolled around, so I could only conclude it had a broken neck. It was all rather sad. I love watching hawks hovering or gliding round and round on the thermal currents. We’ve had a family of buzzards living next to the orchard recently, soaring and circling majestically over the trees and mewing like cats. 

But is a kestrel actually a hawk? What would we do without Google? The answer is, technically, no. A kestrel is a falcon which is a different genus, though both are classed at raptors along with eagles and owls and even vultures. The main difference is that falcons tend to catch their prey in flight, while the others dive bomb them on the ground. Except vultures who, being lazy birds, wait for them to die first. 

What I also discovered is that kestrels can get up to amazing speeds in order to overtake their prey. If mine hit the door at his top velocity of 200 mph, it’s no wonder he broke his neck.

Dancing with Dylan

Countryside Column for 1st November

Dancing with Dylan 

It’s 7.30 on a Sunday evening and the joint is rocking. They’re only a two-piece band but the rhythms from the Ghanaian percussionist get right under the skin, and the guitarist is putting heart and soul into Lou Reed and even Eminem covers. Dylan is dancing down at the front. With his mother. And his grandmother. And just about every other customer in the pub. And, once again, I give thanks that our little village has such an enterprising landlord, prepared to give his main bar over to excellent music every month. 

On other nights you’ll find the Rotary Club there, or a darts match, or a group discussing books or media matters. It means that just about everyone feels they have a personal connection with their local, and so go out of their way to choose it over rival hostelries. 

Not all publicans have that magic touch though. The second village pub, once the only place to go, now languishes.  And many other country pubs are closing -nationally the figure is around 25 a week. In this area a few have managed to buck the trend. The old Bull in Sissinghurst has just reopened, if under a silly new name, while the Queens in Hawkhurst will soon be back following major renovations. 

Restaurateur Marco Pierre White recently argued that pubs could only save themselves by providing truly “excellent” food. For which I read truly “expensive”. In the same article, a local was quoted as saying he’d much prefer simple pub grub to posh nosh: “I couldn’t pronounce half the things on Marco's menu let alone eat them,” he told the Telegraph. 

I have some sympathy with that view. I know it’s costly employing a chef, but I can seldom afford up to £20 for a main course.  Whatever happened to old-fashioned bangers and mash, or liver and onions, or fish and chips that didn’t describe itself as local line-caught, sustainably sourced, white fish, cooked in a handmade beer batter, served with chunky potato wedges? 

And don’t get me started on the outrageous mark up on wine in most pubs. A hundred percent is just acceptable. But three or four times that is simply fleecing the customer. Which, along with an overly expensive menu, will surely just serve to keep people at home and contribute to the slow decline of the village pub.

Wandle Mill in all its glory

The Mill awaiting restoration!

The Boon of Mills

Countryside Column for 25 October

The Boon of Mills

One of of the joys of living in the country is surveying the various historic agricultural and industrial buildings scattered about:  a crook barn here, an oast house there and, of course, the many mills.

I’m lucky to live opposite a magnificent Georgian watermill.  It’s a local landmark, now converted into flats.  But for a long while it was touch and go whether it would survive.  

It ceased work around 1930 when my grandfather bought it for a store. I remember playing in it as a child, gingerly avoiding the wheels and cogs and pulleys and open chutes. Then thieves stole the lead from the valley roof, rain rotted the floors and joists and the building slowly became derelict. Many schemes were mooted to save it but the cost appeared prohibitive.  Finally my father found someone who sunk a huge amount of money into a restoration project.  I remember the excitement, as it neared completion, of seeing lights switched on for the first time in living memory.

Other mills nearby have also been narrowly saved from destruction.

One of the most poignant tales is the Rolvenden windmill. It was lovingly restored by the parents of an 18 year old boy killed in a road accident in 1955, and stands still as a memorial to him.

Recently I found a local windmill I’d never seen before. It’s a huge five-sailed affair dominating the ridge across the valley in Sandhurst. But how could I have missed it?  The reason is that the main wooden part, the “smock”, was demolished in 1945, leaving just the low brick base.  Then, a few years ago, they constructed a replica, based on original photographs.

Finding an excellent book entitled ‘The Mills of Man” by George Long has sparked my interest.  My copy itself has an eventful history. Published in 1931 and acquired by Swinton and Pendlebury Public libraries, it did not prove popular. No borrowings are recorded before it was discarded two years later.  Next the Shoreditch Training College Library owned it. Possibly when the college moved from Hoxton to Englefield Green in Surrey in 1951, it was offered for sale at £2.00. Which, I assume, is when my father bought it.  But it’s a wonderful read, full of the romance of mills and dire warnings of their imminent demise.  And that was eighty years ago.

From the sublime to the cor blimey!

Courier Column 18 October

From the sublime to the cor blimey!

Among my friends in the village, there seems to be an informal competition to see who can run the most absurd vehicle.  And, with my latest eBay purchase, I think I’m about to take the lead.

For a while it was old Land Rovers, where Fergie – my disreputable 1970 model – rather set the benchmark. Then, last winter, a mate got his van stuck in the snow and Fergie effortlessly pulled him out. A fortnight later the friend appeared at the pub in a green Series Three Land Rover probably no more than 30 years old. However, the snow melted, and I’m not sure he’s used it since.

Meanwhile a community orchard colleague decided his Subaru wasn’t butch enough and also went shopping for a Landy. He came home with the body of a Series Two, packed with a modern Defender engine.

By complete coincidence, both these new Land Rover owners had previously run Morris Minors around the parish. So both, I contend, lost competition points in the change over – the 1960s BMC vehicles clearly being more absurd than the practical 4x4s.

Coming up pretty quickly on the inside, is our tennis club friend. He’d tried to compete with a pair of Porsches but, while eccentrically expensive, they just couldn’t cut true competition absurdity.

But his next purchase, a 1937 Rolls Royce, did. This is undoubtedly a magnificent beast – gleaming paintwork, sparkling chrome, luxuriant leather. As a mark of his dedication, he got his garage extended (though even now I’m not sure he can open the door wide enough to get out once he’s parked ‘Little Ethel’).

So, although she surely rates highly for absurdity, it’s not, I contend, high enough to beat my Jeremy (aka Clarkson’s Despair). After the sublime Roller, Jeremy is the embodiment of ridiculous. He’s a 1993 blue hatchback with an 848cc engine, and taxed as a tricycle. Got it yet? Yes, Jeremy is a Reliant Robin.

Now why, you ask, would any right thinking person want a Robin? The answer: to convert it to electric! I reckon that 90% of my journeys are less than five miles from home. Expensive and unecological to crank up the family car each time. Better by far to go electric. Trouble is I’ve yet to work out precisely how to do the conversion, but when I do – look out Ethel – Jeremy’s on your tail and surely unbeatable in the absurdity stakes.

See photo of Jeremy Robin below.

Courier Cutting

Jeremy Robin awaiting conversion

Political Correctness?

Courier Countryside Column 11^th October 2013

Coming to the table with Clean Hands

The Secretary of our Community Orchard Association got an unexpected phone call the other day.  It was from the Environmental Health Officer at Tunbridge Wells.  They’d somehow heard we were having an orchard open day with a BBQ, apple picking and juicing and produce for sale. And they were worried.

“Your volunteers and visitors are at risk from harmful bacteria such as E.Coli 0157 which can cause haemolytic uraemic syndrome and has been associated with unpasteurized apple juice,” she told us in a follow up letter. “I suggest signage to encourage visitors to wash their hands before eating, drinking and smoking.  I have enclosed a poster on how visitors should wash their hands.”

And she had. It had six diagrams of Hand Washing Techniques ranging from (1) Palm to Palm, to (6) Rotational rubbing, backwards and forwards, with clasped fingers of right hand in left palm and vice versa. (I particularly liked the addition of a little Latin.)

Now don’t get me wrong. I am as keen as anyone to avoid food poisoning. Apart from anything else it’s bad for business. But reading through the literature I began to wonder if perhaps this wasn’t all going a bit far.  I mean, I DO KNOW how to wash my hands.  I’ve been doing it for around half a century.  And the enclosed 30 page glossy booklet from the Food Standards Agency on food hygiene for businesses also had the habit of stating the blindingly obvious: “It is extremely important to make sure that food is cooked properly.” Er.  Yes.  I think we knew that. 

So here’s the dilemma.  If you are cooking anything whether in your kitchen, or on a BBQ you must surely be aware of basic food safety rules.  They’re taught at you mother’s (or father’s) knee.  Without knowing them you and your family would have spent an awful lot of time being ill.  So do we really need nannying exhortations from national and local government? How much tax-payers money are we spending on these reminders which appear to treat us as morons?  How could the human race have survived and, indeed, flourished over the millennia without such advice having been proffered? 

Oh dear, I fear I’m sounding like a crusty Colonel complaining about “political correctness gone maaaad”!  Perhaps anything that helps keep us healthier and safer is well worth the price.

Season of Mists and Malodourousness

Courier Countryside Column 20 September

Less than sweet smell 

that sours autumn enjoyment

Ahh … the smells of autumn. Loamy aromas rising with the morning mist. Damp leaves rotting on the ground. Sweet-scented apples on the trees. Woodsmoke curling from chimneys on chilly evenings.  And, above all, the pungent stink of muck spreading!         

A neighbour who’s lived in the depths of the country for many years was sounding off on the subject the other evening. The gist of his argument was that farmers who create such smells should be dunked in their own slurry pits.

I was surprised by his vehemence. After all, spreading manure on fields is a well-established farming practice.  It’s good for the land, gets rid of quantities of waste, and is wholly organic.  But, yes, it does smell a tad unpleasant for a day or so.

Then, while in the Parish Council office, it became clear my neighbour was not alone. Others too were complaining about the smell and demanding action.  I had assumed that the problem was chicken manure which is widely used hereabouts. But no. A farmer friend told me the current smell was from spreading human waste – more usually knows as sewage sludge or biosolids.

A quick check on-line shows that this is not only perfectly permissible,  but common throughout the country - though there are recommendations about ploughing it in to reduce the pong.

And thinking about it, biosolids might be preferable to chicken manure. This autumn marks the tenth anniversary of the Great Benenden Fly Plague. So extensive were the swarms that both village pubs and the shop had to shut for days. Elderly residents of a care home were shipped off to a hotel in Eastbourne, and local children evacuated to distant relatives.  The source was traced to a local farm and mountain of chicken waste waiting to be spread – though the farmer denied responsibility.

So again farming, the very industry that sustains the countryside, comes into conflict with those who live here. One sometimes wonders if a dose of public relations might not go some way towards healing the image of agriculture.  Certainly the current suggestion from some farmers that stubble burning should be reinstituted (it was banned exactly 20 years ago) does little to reassure their detractors.

But I see the NFU president recently praised an alternative use of sewage sludge – as fuel for engines.  Sounds good - though I do worry a bit about possible emission smells.

Mellow Fruitfulness for your Diary

Courier Countryside Column  13 September

Enjoying the Fruits of a really fun autumn

I hope you didn’t think I was being disparaging about village events in Britain while extolling the delights of those in the south of France.

Back home, and the diary is already filling with excellent autumn activities.  First up is the joyful jazz and blues evening my little hamlet hosts, with people picnicking on the grass, supping real ales and Pimms and enjoying the music.

Meanwhile nearby Cranbrook is preparing for a rather more ambitious music festival this weekend taking over churches, halls, pubs and clubs and turning streets into pedestrian only areas from mid-day on Saturday. 

It will be followed next month by the town’s annual Apple and History Fayre which always brings out the more eccentric townsfolk who provide street entertainment in zany costumes.  But be warned, it’s hard to get away without having samples of strong cider thrust into your hand.

Which reminds me, I must get onto the people who make the cider from our community orchard apples and find out how much juice they want this year.  We’ve been delighted to find a market for a few of our apples – for years they all just rotted on the ground - but the actual logistics involved are daunting.

Because they are all on old-fashioned full standard trees, picking is difficult, often requiring ladders which makes it uneconomic to employ professionals.  But even if we can find enough volunteers, we then have to transport tons of apples in large bins several miles to the people who press them for us. And then we have to bring the juice back to the local cider maker.  It would be fine if we had a fork-lift and capacious flatbed truck – but instead my little overloaded car trailer has to suffice.

Another problem is that we’ve never been able to identify all the old apple varieties we have, which makes selling direct to shops or supermarkets difficult. And there’s no one on the management committee who has the time needed to market them.  Anyone fancy a commission-based opportunity?

What we certainly do need is help with picking.  We have a big push on our Apple Day, 6^th October. It’s a great afternoon out in the countryside with a BBQ, a chance to try last year’s cider and the opportunity to take home a large bag or two of excellent organic produce.  Another date for your increasingly busy autumn diary perhaps?

Stop Signs Run Riot in Village Confusion

Courier Column Friday 6 September under headline

Vive la difference ...except on the roads

            Driving into small towns or villages in this part of the French countryside can be something of a challenge.  Traffic calming measures have been taken to such extremes that you can face half a dozen stop signs, a few mini-roundabouts, a couple of chicanes and a brace of traffic lights before you even reach the village square. If you ever do.  Because chances are cars will have been diverted away from the centre entirely.

            I’m all for slowing down traffic in populated places, and in my home village of Benenden we have just acquired a portable speed monitoring system that will inform drivers if they are exceeding the limit.  But only inform them. Our parish council has no powers to institute other measures.

            French communes, by contrast, can do almost whatever they like as they own all but the main roads. Thus stop sign are positioned on junctions with tiny alleys from which no vehicle could possibly emerge, and mini-roundabouts and speed bumps spring up seemingly overnight to confuse and irritate drivers.

            The Town Hall here in Abeilhan recently tried to impose a one-way system through the narrow streets of the village. It was widely ignored, and the Mayor and councillors roundly abused wherever they went until they reversed their decision.  Other towns have not objected so vehemently and are stuck with equally absurd schemes. It’s now impossible to get to the café, restaurants and shops in centre of the nearby hilltop town of Magalas without taking a circuitous route via the lower roads and entering from the opposite side.  And even this supposed ‘by-pass’ contains three stop signs and two mini-roundabouts to dismay drivers.

            One area where the French seem to have got their transport right is with buses – or at least bus fares.  You can travel anywhere within the Hérault Départment – roughly twice the size of Kent – for a maximum of 1.60 euros (about £1.35). In another Départment we took a fabulous bus trip along the coast road near the Spanish border, stopped for lunch and then continued our journey for just one euro each.  An increasing number of local train lines also offer a flat one-euro fare almost regardless of distance.

            Sadly, though, even if the price is right, the frequency of rural bus services doesn’t seem much better than around the villages of Kent and Sussex.

Wild River, Cool Dog

Countryside Column for 30 August

Wild River, Cool Dog

            After a long tiring day sleeping in the shade, Myrtle likes nothing better than an evening swim.

            Mostly we walk down from our village to the river that gives the local wines, Cotes de Thongue, their name.

            In summer it’s not much more than a trickle, but there’s a large hollow next to a popular barbecue spot that is full of water all year round. Here human bathers are banned but canine ones tolerated if no one is fishing. Myrtle rushes into the water, paddling vigorously in chase of sticks, and then delights in shaking herself over everyone nearby.

      Often we have the place to ourselves, but at weekends there are parties enjoying the shade of the dense trees that line the river as it flows slowly south to join the Hérault and enter the Mediterranean at Agde.

            A larger and more exciting local river, also much favoured by Myrtle, is the Orb which rises in the hills above Bédarieux and flows 145 kilometres past Béziers. The Orb is still largely sauvage or wild, which means there are rapids to provide thrills and spills for canoeists around Roquebrun and Cessenon.  One moment you are floating lazily downstream admiring the majestic countryside, the next you are fighting to keep your craft upright as it’s rushed over rocks in the white water sections. A photographer at the most hazardous points later offers overpriced prints of you and your companion coming a cropper.  I have several from over the years!

            A little further downstream is the wonderful river beach at Réals, reached by clambering down a long steep path. There, for perhaps a kilometre, the river widens and deepens so you (and the dog) can swim peacefully in the cool water - as long as you avoid youths flinging themselves off surrounding rocks. At one point, huge boulders restrict the flow and the brave or foolhardy can body-surf through the torrent.           

            The water level in the Orb is partly controlled from a reservoir in the hills. And so many French rivers have been altered by dams that there is now an entusiastic movment to protect wild rivers. A long protest actually persuaded the authorities to remove a damn on the Allier, a major tributary of the Loire, enabling salmon to spawn in its upper reaches after a gap of more than a century. It can all make the Medway seem a bit tame somehow.