Kettling chips not protesters

Countryside Column for 27 June

Protest in danger of missing the picture

What with all this talk about water cannon and kettling I was a bit nervous.  I mean I hadn’t been on a demo for years and things have changed.  But in the event there were no police in evidence, and not a baton or riot shield in sight.

The location may have had something to do with it.  We were high up on the East Hill of the Hastings Country Park, just above the stunningly beautiful Ecclesbourne Glen.

For several years this has been one of Myrtle’s favourite walks.  She bounds up the steep paths pausing only to greet doggy friends while I follow at a more sedate pace.

But a year ago one of the upper paths closed and last winter a large landslide shut three others, rendering an entire section of the coastal footpath impassable.  Since then nothing seems to have happened.  This public right of way remains resolutely barred to all.

So you’d imagine the demo the other Sunday was to demand that Hastings and East Sussex Councils pull their finger out and REOPEN OUR FOOTPATHS! NOW!  Or Sooner!

But not a bit of it.  The ire (if you can call it such) of the couple of hundred people on a picnic protest was directed against a relatively attractive modernistic building that has appeared by the Rocklands Caravan Park. 

In my view this entire enterprise  - an “owner-occupied static caravan park” – is an appalling blot on the landscape and an anathema in a nature reserve and Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.  That it originally got planning permission is quite extraordinary.  But as it’s been there for years no one seems unduly bothered.

However when developers allegedly exceeded their approval for the house and added large balconies overlooking the sea, concerned locals erupted and are campaigning for the council to refuse retrospective planning consent.

Meanwhile a report on the landslip - which some believe may not be unconnected to development at Rocklands – says the cost of re-instituting the paths would be prohibitive and recommends relocating them completely.

So as I sat in the sun I wondered if the focus of the protest campaign might be slightly misdirected. Important as the planning issue may be, the bigger issue surely is the presence of the caravans and the closure of the footpaths.

At least the only kettling we experienced related to the brand of crisps we were eating.

A fete better than the rest?

Countryside Column for 20 June 2014

The Fete of the Country

It’s village fete time of year again.  We visited a most singular one in Devon the other week-end. We’d gone west for the birthday of my step-grandson.  Having only just arrived in Britain from Nashville and being only three he wasn’t too sure what he wanted to do to celebrate the occasion.  So first we drove up onto Dartmoor and he played on his new scooter while his dad played with his new kite and the rest of us walked Myrtle along the South Devon Way.  Well, not all 26 miles of it, but what felt like a reasonable portion, with fabulous views out over the Lyd valley and the route of the South Devon and Launceston railway line (1859 – 1962 RIP).

But what to do next?  The choice seemed to be between a local dog show and a tractor rally. Grandma vetoed the dogs so we set off for the rally.  It wasn’t the best advertised event. In fact there was only one hand painted sign pointing towards the church at the tiny settlement of Marystow (so tiny that the last population census seems to have been in 1901, showing a mere 255 inhabitants).

Which may explain the lack of tractors.  Though it did seem curious that the headline attraction was so spectacularly missing.  But what the event lacked in agricultural equipment it made up with the fete.  Now I don’t want you to be thinking in grand terms of Maypole dancing or Morris-men. There were no children’s games, no opportunity to dunk the vicar in a tub of bubbles.  In fact there were just three stalls and a tombola.  But the church hall was open offering bacon butties and tea and coffee.  So we sat in the sun on plastic chairs and ventured to explore what was on offer.  We came away with fresh eggs, a lemon drizzle cake, a pair of nearly new Italian court shoes, and half a dozen greetings cards from a charming local artist.  Everyone was wonderfully friendly as were the local canines (of which there were at least one to a person).  And in the church itself was a stunning exhibition of photographs of Devon scenes – as if to remind that photography remains a serious art form even in the age of Photoshop and mobile-phone cameras.

I expect that the forthcoming Benenden Village Fete will be a more extensive affair, but nothing will dent the modest charm of Marystow’s.

Uncle Tom's Auction

Countryside Column for 13 June.

Outbidding Uncle Tom Cobley and all

It was a scene straight out of rural history.  Gnarled old men leant on long sticks. Younger ones sprouted bushy beards and unkempt hair under greasy flat caps. Dungarees and steel toe capped boots were the apparel of choice.  Collie dogs strained on leads. Children played on ancient farm machinery.  Here and there a group gathered in a tight circle and over the hub-bub a voice could be heard: “Five pound.  Who’ll start me at five pound.  Come on you must have a five pound note in your pocket.  Thank you sir. That five I’m bid.  Who’ll say six?”

Then, suddenly, out of the morning sunshine, came the roar of a powerful engine.  A light aircraft dropped from the skies and skidded across the grass just a few feet away, reminding us that we were at an aerodrome in the 21^st century rather than at Widecombe fair in the 19^th. (Okay, I know  Widecome fair was for livestock not farm equipment, but it certainly felt as if we had Uncle Tom Cobley and all with us at Headcorn so I think my analogy holds good.)

I’ve always loved auctions, but am rather nervous of them.  Not because I fear an inadvertent blink will be mistaken for a thousand pound bid. No, more because I can’t resist a bargain.  Which means I usually come away with a load of things I really didn’t need  just because they were cheap – or at least they were when the bidding started!

Anyway I’d gone along to the Sale of Machinery and Equipment after seeing a tractor mounted log splitter in the catalogue. If I could get it for, say, two hundred it would be well worth it. Well, of course I didn’t. The man in the T-shirt with the logo “Mobile Log Splitting” ended up bidding nearly five hundred for it.  But as compensation I secured a trailer drawbar and jack for only a tenner.  I didn’t actually need them, but it was too good a deal to resist. 

As I was leaving two old and rather rusty drive shafts for a tractor mower were being sold. As I didn’t need them either I kept my hands firmly in pocket and didn’t blink once.

The following day in the orchard the topper hit a hidden log and the drive shaft snapped in half.  If only I’d had a spare…

Riding East for Puffins

Countryside Column for 6 June.

Puffin’ Over The Cliffs of East Riding

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a Puffin in the wild, and since they were on the menu I thought it would be worth a go.  No, no, not food menu, rather the list of touristy things to see in the East Riding.  We’d gone for a couple of days ostensibly for an old school-friend’s birthday.  But Myrtle made it perfectly clear that if she was going to endure the five hour car journey then she would want some pretty strenuous cliff walks as recompense.

She was fine at the immaculate B&B in Filey but we didn’t find elsewhere in the town terribly canine friendly. By-laws demanded dogs be kept on lead.  Understandable, perhaps, around manicured municipal flower-beds on the Crescent, but quite unnecessary in the big open space of Glen Gardens. 

A short distance out of town, though, the Cleveland Way sets off along the coast from the country park.  This got Myrtle’s seal of approval while giving me kittens.  I have a fair head for heights and enjoyed looking over the vertiginous cliffs to the sea pounding the rocks below.  But enjoyment for a lively Springer/Collie seemed to consist of running full pelt as close to the crumbling edge as possible.

It was here that I first sighted a species relatively rare in Kent and Sussex but ubiquitous in Yorkshire. The female usually sports bright Goretex-like plumage of red or pink while the male is in dark green and invariably carries powerful binoculars or a long monocular mounted on monopod.

They are gregarious creatures often found in groups excitedly chattering about obscure sightings. Certainly there was no shortage of them at Flamborough Head where I’d been told I’d also find plenty of Puffins.  It’s true there were thousands if not millions of seabirds clinging precariously to ledges and crevasses on the high cliff faces. But Puffins there were none.  I eventually plucked up courage to ask a Greater Goretexed Twitcher where best to see one, expecting scorn at such a touristy question.  But he happily advised taking the path in completely the opposite direction.  It proved a fruitless sojourn however and later we were told Bempton Cliffs a few miles further up the coast was THE place for Puffins. Even Myrtle was too tired and wet to venture further.  But in the car park a youngster posed for a picture with a large fluffy toy Puffin.  So all was not lost.

Buzzing Off - and On

Countryside Column for 30 May.

A Swarm in May is worth a Bale of Hay

It was so frustrating. The swarm of honeybees settled on inaccessible metal railings beside the house. What you hope is they will collect on an easy branch so you can place a cardboard box beneath them, carefully snip the branch and quickly cover the box with the bees inside.

  Then you prepare a new hive, upturn the box at its entrance and watch a little miracle occur. First one, then another, and finally a whole line of bees will emerge from beneath the box and, attracted by the smell of beeswax comb foundation in the hive, will walk up a ramp of wood or cardboard into their new home. Within an hour they’ll all have entered the hive with their queen, ready to start a new colony.

But you can’t snip a metal railing so there was nothing I could do but wait for the small swarm to fly off to find a new home. But they didn’t. Three days later they were still there. What was going on? When a swarm leaves a hive it normally settles nearby and sends out around 50 scout bees to find suitable permanent accommodation. The scouts return and do a modified waggle dance to tell the cluster where a prospective new home might be. The more enthusiastic the dance the better the prospect. Other scouts go off to check it.  When enough have agreed, they lead the entire swarm off. It’s an extraordinary ritual. But it wasn’t happening and they were in danger of starving. So I thought I’d help. I positioned a nucleus box with four frames of wax foundation upside-down over the cluster and hoped they would simply move up into it.  A few workers went to explore. I went off to do some gardening.

An hour later the sky was thick with bees and a loud buzzing filled the air. The ungrateful little insects had clearly ignored my offer and gone elsewhere.

The next day I was checking old hive parts stored round the back of the shed when what should I see but a stream of bees flying in an out of a spare hive.  The little darlings had eschewed my nuc box but settled into far superior accommodation nearby. The scouts had done their job well. Now I have to nurture the nascent colony and by next year they may provide honey for my tea.

Bureauocracy with a Welsh Accent

Countryside column for 23 May 2014

Rejection renders tractor barely legal

I’m used to rejection.  Writers have to inure themselves to it.  But I confess that when the bulging brown envelope arrived in the post I was a bit downhearted. This wasn’t another manuscript being returned by an agent or publisher.  No, this was worse. 

            Regular readers may remember a while ago I bought a red tractor.  It was about 40 years old – which is relevant as we shall see. It had been happily rotting away in a field when, in a fit of excessive enthusiasm, I parted with a fistful of readies and got it taken to my local garage.  The thing about John is that I don’t think he really likes cars that much.  But tractors, that’s a different matter. The older and rustier the better. So only few months later he had it going and, more importantly, stopping and delivered it back to me. Now to make it legal…

            Tractors are an anomaly. They don’t require an MOT.  Nor do they need Tax if used only on private land.  There’s even a ‘limited use’ exemption for journeys of up to 1.5 kilometres on public roads.   But I wanted my tractor fully legal so I filled in the requisite forms and sent them back with my cheque. That’s when it all started to unravel.

            I’m a sucker for a Welsh accent so I may have been listening to the cadence rather than the content. But what I think the lady from the DVLA told me was that, because my tractor was imported from Czechoslovakia, VAT may be due. “But I didn’t import the tractor.  It’s been here for 40 years.”  “Doesn’t matter you need a Notification of Vehicle Arrivals - NOVA -  before we can register it.” 

            OK, another set of forms.  No problem.  Except that I didn’t have most of the information.  Particularly the year of manufacture.  But the 4718 model was only made between 1972 and 1978. Good enough surely?  Well yes and no.  Good enough for Customs and Excise who gave me the NOVA and certified no VAT was due.  But not for the DVLA who sent back my application and cheque. For the second time. 

So how to find the vital date? Online at the Zetor owners club perhaps.  But the website is mainly in Czechoslovakian.  I’ve posted a plea for help. Will I get an answer?  Will it be in English?  Watch this space.