Rallying against the petrol heads

Courier Column for 21 February

Rallying against the petrol heads

There was a fashion a few years back for holding treasure hunts through country lanes.  Motorists with clipboards of clues would screech to a halt outside rural buildings and interrogate locals for a missing answer.

Some years earlier my grandfather had constructed a rather fine sundial which he placed prominently on the front of a converted oast house. He inscribed it with the legend: “nunc id fac.”

In case your Latin isn’t up to scratch (or you can’t immediately access your online translator) this means “do it now”.  Advice the then resident of the oast rather took to heart as we shall see.

I have some sympathy with him.  It was a sunny afternoon.  His windows were wide open. The first car pulled up and the driver shouted up enquiring about a Latin tag. Our friend pointed to the sundial. The driver noted it on his schedule, and drove off.

But seconds later another car pulled up.  Then another.  And another. Some spotted the inscription without having to ask.  But after half an hour and 20 or so ‘treasure hunters’, he’d had enough.  Leaning precariously out of the window, he threw a sheet over the whole dial, and retired to the back garden.

If anything this exacerbated matters. Now cars were pulling up and puzzled people pursuing the missing words milled around moaning in loud voices about killjoys spoiling their day out.

Ultimately it was deemed prudent to remove the sheet and let nature (or at least the treasure hunt) take its course. But copious complaints were later made to the organisers.

I was put in mind of this story when I noticed the number of rallies being planned for the spring.  Classic cars, motorbikes, even veteran tractors, all take to the lanes, chundering through the countryside around me. They may not be noting classical inscriptions, but nonetheless I do find the activity curious. 

Call me a grouch, but should we really be burning fossil fuels and pumping carbon monoxide into the atmosphere merely to follow other drivers round on ‘rallies’? One advertises itself as a charity tour through picturesque villages.  But they’ll pretty quickly cease to be picturesque if inundated with vehicles. Anyway surely there are better ways to raise money?

And have not the days of  ‘motoring’ for its own sake long gone?  If you want to see unfolding countryside, perhaps you might do it by bicycle?

Carpeted for piling on the mud

Courier column for 14 February.

Carpeted for piling on the mud

The more observant among you may have noticed we’ve had the occasional shower recently.  Well, alright, more than occasional.  And more than a shower. Pretty much unrelenting, unremitting and unprecedented precipitation.  The wettest January since records began. And up to three times the average rainfall for the time of year.

In short it’s been rather wet.  And out here in the country wet means … mud! Lots and lots of inglorious mud.  In fact it’s so muddy that getting the Land Rover in and out of the orchard is an increasing challenge.  Only yesterday we squelched slowly to a halt, wheels spinning hopelessly, spraying a thick layer of the gooey stuff all over the bodywork, the windscreen, passing sheep, and the assistant pruner.  Fortunately we were pointing up hill, so I bunged it into reverse and slithered back, narrowly avoiding trees.  The tyres finally found some purchase and we picked up speed so I drove backwards up to the top of the slope.  Then it was a question of heading back down as fast as possible so we had enough momentum to get through the boggy patch and up to the gate where, perspicaciously or even presciently, last year we’d laid some hardstanding.

The problem is not just getting home.  It’s getting indoors without importing most of Kent into the kitchen.  And don’t tell me to take my boots off outside.  I am not going to stand in the pouring rain doing battle with the wellies and then pad through puddles in my socks.  No, it’s easier to clean the brick floor from time to time after the mud has dried. You can see, though, why the country etiquette of removing footwear at the door arose.  One farmer I know habitually wears boots three sizes too big to facilitate this. 

What I can’t understand, though, is rural people who have cream carpets. I mean, they’re just asking for trouble.  I visited someone’s smartly carpeted house recently to view a second-hand sofa on the top floor. On the way back I spied a large dollop of mud on the landing.  Concluding I must be responsible  I tried to kick it aside and out of view. While this might have worked with a dry cake, all I succeeded in doing was smearing a muddy trail over a wider area, and deeper into the pile. I rather doubt I’ll be invited back.

This Unkind Cut

Courier Countryside column for 7 February

Let my (Apple) Trees go

I’ve become rather possessive.  Generally it’s not a trait I find terribly attractive.  But when it comes to my apple trees I think it’s understandable, even forgivable.

But there I go.  They’re not MY apple trees at all. They belong either to the Community Orchard or, legally, to the owner of each plot on which they stand.

Perhaps a brief recap would help.  Around 1970 the 50 acre fruit farm was land-plotted – divided into 300 parcels and sold off. Since most plot owners tended to live far from the village, few cared for their trees. Soon it had gone to rack and ruin.

An owners’ association set about reviving existing trees and replanting thousands of new ones. Over the years, many of the original plot-holders disappeared or died and the remaining members formed the Community Orchard, and persuaded me to become orchard manager.

So for a number of years now it’s been my job to prune the trees, all planted on old-fashioned, full-size rootstock.  Originally this wasn’t so difficult.  You could reach even the top branches relatively easily.  But now they’re nearing maturity it’s increasingly problematic. Ladders, long handled pruners, pole chain saws, all have to be pressed into action.  Over the seasons I’ve tried to train them into the shape I want: that elegant traditional apple profile with a clear centre or crown, and branches dipping over and down in to give a sort of umbrella appearance.

This is partly for aesthetics, but more for practical purposes. First you want the light to get into the centre of the tree to ripen the fruit and secondly apples are much easier to pick if they’re within reach.

Which brings us back to possessiveness.  I need assistance with the pruning, but can’t help but get upset when I see volunteers slashing away at ‘my’ babies.  It’s a fine line: take off too little and the tree loses its shape and the quality of the fruit suffers; take off too much and you get no fruit.  There are other considerations.  I need to be able to drive tractor and mower along the rows, so overlong branches have to be cut back.  But by how much?

I suppose I have to remember that, when I started, I had little idea of what I was doing, yet the trees survived and even prospered.  Now I have to let others learn by experience.  But it’s not easy!

Bringing Eastern Europe to the lanes of Kent

Countryside Column for 31 Jan 2014

 Classic Vehicle or heap of old metal?

Oh, no, I’ve done it again. Talk about impulsive. What is it about old vehicles? Perhaps it’s in the genes. My grandfather was famous around the village for driving his 1934 Austin 12 right up until his death in 1963. My father evidently inherited this love of old cars and courted my mother in what I think was a pre-war Riley Lynx tourer. I say ‘think’ because I don’t remember much about it. Subsequently, as a baby, my carrycot was placed insecurely on the rear bench seat. Father resolutely refused to put the hood up unless in midst of a monsoon but mother appeared unwilling to leave her firstborn to the mercy of the elements. She insisted the tonneau cover had a plastic window inserted so, although I was covered, they could occasionally check I was still alive.

The arrival of my sister rendered Riley impractical and so an early ‘50s Austin A40 convertible was bought. This continued to do sterling service well into the ‘70s, by which time it was completely knackered and embarrassingly anachronistic.

For my first car I was offered grandfather’s Austin which had been gently rotting in a garage. I remember winning first prize at a vintage car rally – for the worst bodywork and shabbiest interior! But it did have STYLE! Girls loved it – until they climbed on board and found springs protruding through seats, the roof leaking like a sieve and no heater of any description.

Sadly, when I started my first job, it had to be replaced by a more practical 1972 Triumph Herald which I ran for nearly two decades. I won’t recite the succession of boring modern cars that followed but, alongside them, there has also been a mid-‘70s VW camper van, a mid-‘80s Citroen 2CV, a mid-‘90s Reliant Robin and, of course, my old faithful 1970 Series 2 Land Rover which is still doing daily service.

Now the stable has been enlarged by the addition of a Zetor tractor from about the same era.  I saw it advertised in the local freesheet and couldn’t resist its sturdy Czechoslovakian lines. It came with a topper and cost less than many sit-on garden mowers. It’s regarded as the Skoda of the agricultural world and is destined to provide hours of fun and, I suspect, frustration as I strive to improve its dented, battered and bent bodywork. New Year’s Resolution: must stop acquiring decrepit old vehicles!