Car Sickness!

Courier Column for 23 January

New Roads Ruin Pub Sign Cricket

It was my grandparents who bought the house I live in now, and my earliest memories are of motoring down from London to visit them in deepest Kent . It was something of an undertaking. There was no M25; no by-passes at Sevenoaks or Tonbridge or Pembury or Lamberhurst. A journey that might take an hour now could, back then, consume a large chunk of the day. The A20 was little better with the massive queues through Swanley (until it got its by-pass in 1968) and there was always the danger of a race at Brands Hatch which would hold up traffic for hours.

            So you might think I’d wholeheartedly applaud all the improvements to the roads since the 1950s and be right behind this newspaper’s campaign to extend the ‘dualling’ (ugly word!) of the A21 from Kiplings Cross to Lamberhurst.  And I am. Sort of. In fact you could argue that it’s inexcusable that there is no dual carriageway or motorway all the way from London to Hastings. There is to Brighton, and that’s marginally further away. Yes, it would make life much easier for drivers and, possibly, aid commerce. But on the other hand...

            Anti-roads campaigners are adamant that new or improved highways simply generate new traffic and produce more carbon monoxide. Generally the faster the traffic the greater the noise pollution. And what about the trees you’ve cut down and the countryside you’ve concreted over? Surely we should be discouraging car journeys and you’ll not do that by building better roads!

            In Hastings you sometimes hear another argument. The very remoteness of the town is what makes it so special. People may grumble that the railway journey to London takes up to two hours, but it certainly discourages commuting. And that, with the slow and winding road up the A21, means the town remains relatively cut off. Which keeps property prices down and enables a flourishing artistic community.

            I know it’s a difficult line to sustain, and heaven forfend that anyone should think I’m against progress or change. But there was something rather wonderful about sitting in the back of our ancient Austin A40 and playing pub-sign cricket (a run for every leg on the sign and a wicket if no lower limb was shown--making the fox and hounds a batsman’s delight) as we meandered though various villages back to London. But then I wasn’t doing the driving…

Dung Beetles, really?

Courier Column for 16 January

The Beetle That Saves Us From Ordure

Here’s a health warning.  This column is going to be about intestinal worms and dung beetles. So if you are of a particularly sensitive disposition you may want to look away now. But here’s another warning, if you do, you’ll miss an extraordinary tale of nature resplendent.

To begin at the beginning. The sheep are back in the orchard. I couldn’t quite understand why they’d been away so long--nearly a year. When I spoke to the farmer, I discovered it’s all about the worms to which sheep are particularly susceptible. Ordinary flocks are simply treated with chemical drenches on a regular basis. Organic farmers, though, have regularly to rotate their sheep pasture and, if the worms still take hold, keep them off the land for up to twelve months.

If you bring in cattle, they eat the grass too close for the worms to survive. But, in our orchard, they’d also eat or knock over the trees. The Soil Association does allow infrequent use of certain chemical wormers but our farmer told me he doesn’t hold with them: “Kills the dung beetles, doesn’t it.” 

I looked at him blankly: “Erm, isn’t that a good thing?” The expression on his face was one to behold--a cross between amazement that anyone could have asked such a daft question and pity that someone could have reached my advanced years in a state of such ignorance.

After only a relatively short lecture, I was allowed to go away and look them up on the internet. First search elicited a site called ‘Dung Beetles Direct’ (honestly it’s true, try it yourself). It informs you that Britain has more than 40 species of “these all important insects” which decompose animal dung.  And is that so vital? Apparently yes. An average sheep produces 800 kg a year and a single cow up to nine tons! Without the beetle to break it down, feed on it, or bury it deep underground, we could lose nearly 5% of all permanent pasture-- and that’s equivalent to an area the size of London. So the dung beetle effectively prevents us from drowning in animal poo. But, and here’s the rub, dung beetles are on the decline. Livestock wormers and other parasiticides are highly toxic to them so you seldom find them on pasture where sheep drench has been used.  Which is yet another good reason to insist on organic!

Early Morning Dogging

Courier Column for 9 January

Two Balls Best in Winter Wonderland

The advantage of living with a dog is that you HAVE to go out together every day whatever the weather. Myrtle and I have a routine. In the morning the kettle goes on the Aga and we go out of the back door. At this time of year it takes some preparation. Wellington boots, overcoats, scarves, hats and gloves have to be donned. And I have to put on winter clothing too! 

No, I jest. I’m not the sort to dress up my dog. Though we’ve seen some canines in pretty natty Christmas coats out and about recently. Myrtle, however, wouldn’t allow even a ribbon to be tied round her neck in to make her a bit more festive. In hindsight, perhaps, the attached large gold balls may have put her off.

As I robe up she stands impatiently at the door as if to say: “What IS the delay? Why don’t you keep your fur on permanently?” And I have to remind her of those blazing hot summer days when she lies panting in the shade while I strip down to shorts and T-shirt and lap up the sun. 

But that’s for then and this is now: it’s cold as a polar bear’s paws outside and the frost crunches underfoot as we walk into the field. It looks magic with the early morning sun rising over the hillside and the trees parading leafless limbs.

I fling the tennis ball high in the air and Myrtle rushes to retrieve it. We have to adopt the ‘two-ball strategy’ as she’ll never relinquish the one in her mouth. If she hasn’t spotted exactly where the second one landed, she does little gazelle-like leaps to give herself extra height. Then the collie in her takes over and she shepherds the ball between her front paws, sometimes dribbling it like a centre-forward before finally standing aside to await a new throw.

The trouble is that, every time I stop to take in the majesty of the winter scene, I lose sight of the ball and have to scour the ground. It’s worse in autumn with carpets of leaves to conceal it. If I’m really stuck, I can summon the hound who sniffs round in demented circles until she locates it. On frosty mornings like today, it’s a joy to be alive and you hardly regret leaving your warm bed at sunrise at all.

Rating a Headache

Countryside Column for 2^nd January 2015

Rating the Rates

If you want to give yourself a real headache, start the New Year by getting to grips with local authority finance. 

Why ever, you may reasonably ask, should I want to do that?  Well it’s actually quite important.  The state of the roads, schools, refuse services, street lighting etc all depend on our councils having enough money to pay for them.  Traditionally about a quarter of that spending came from the ‘rates’ or Council Tax and the remainder from national Government grants or centrally collected business rates.

            But national government has been busy cutting those grants – up to 9% this year and a whopping 27% reduction over the next four years. Can the shortfall be made up from council tax?  No, it can’t. Rises are effectively capped at 2% unless the local authority holds a cumbersome and expensive referendum.   So County, Unitary and District or Borough councils have less and less money available to provide services.  And that reduction in resources is trickling down to Parish Councils like mine. 

            Each of our 800 village homes pays a small precept for the extremely local things we run, including the village green, public toilets, bus shelters, recycling and services for young people.

Tunbridge Wells Borough Council has withdrawn about 6% of various funding streams from the parish’s modest budget of around £40,000 a year. So we have a choice of cutting services or increasing the precept.

No one wants to increase taxes.  But we do want to maintain, and preferably improve, services.  So at out last meeting we had a choice: effectively stand still and increase by £1.67 the middle, band D, bill for each home. Or, alternatively, increase our budget by roughly £6,000 and up the median precept by £9 per house per year.  Since we ask for far less than most neighbouring parishes, and as £9 a year seems relatively little, we took the second choice.

However even that modest increase looks bad when translated into a percentage – it works out at a 26.3%. So we have two problems.  First to explain it to our electorate.  This I am fairly confident we can do.  The second could be trickier.  The government is complaining about “inflation busting” settlements for parishes, and is considering imposing referenda on increases over 2%. 

In an election year I rather doubt any party will be supporting us by advocating higher spending in any tier of local government.

Dear Dear?

Countryside Column for 26 December

Reining in Dear Deer?

Now, who can name the eight reindeer that pulled Santa’s sleigh?  Anyone who says “Rudolph” gets a raspberry--or that horrible klaxon sound from QI.  The red-nosed one is a modern interloper who only appeared on the scene in 1939 in promotional material for a chain of US department stores.

No, as everyone should know, they are Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Dunder and Blixem.  Immortalised in the wonderful 1823 poem by Clement C. Moore known as The Night Before Christmas (you remember it – “nothing was stirring, not even a mouse…”).

Well, Mr Moore has a lot to answer for.  Since he put pen to paper, reindeer have become THE animals associated with Christmas (apart from that donkey obviously). And it’s given rise to something of an industry around here.  Ads from a local farmer in our free sheet enjoin you to  ‘rent a reindeer’ for that special festive occasion – though, at £500 a pair for two hours, it seems a tad on the pricey side. Especially as you could buy your own animal for just £1,900.  Think about it, for the equivalent of less than eight individual reindeer rentals you could have your own Rudoph (or Dasher, Dancer etc) to keep in your field or back garden to the delight of your children and the envy of your neighbours.

Except that – and you just knew I was going to spoil the whole fantasy didn’t you? – except that keeping reindeer in Britain can be extremely damaging to their health. According to the Veterinary Deer Society, they are herd animals and pine if kept singly or in pairs. In the wild they range over thousands of miles and so captivity is bad for them. As is a diet of grass, so don’t leave them grazing on the lawn. And they’re used to Arctic winters, so it’s rather too hot round here.  Plus, they are prone to parasites and excessive hoof growth. Oh yes, and there’s the little problem of avoiding those dangerous antlers when your new pet is feeling a bit boisterous in the rutting season.

Despite all this, apparently we have been importing reindeer in ever increasing numbers since quarantine for them was relaxed a few years back.  They may look picturesque in Christmas tableaux, but overall they are probably not the best choice of pet. So please remember, a reindeer is not just for Christmas!

Charities? Bah, humbug.

Countryside Column for 19 December

Charitable giving – a bit of a jolly?

It may be the season to be jolly, but it’s also the time we think about those who can’t afford to stuff their faces with unnecessary calories nor accumulate things they neither need nor want. Certainly the charities are busy promoting appeals, and playing on our guilt or goodwill or a combination of both.

But, for various reasons, charitable giving makes me slightly uncomfortable.  First, the invidious choices. How to differentiate among so many good causes? And how is it that certain organisations get to the top of the visibility tree. 

I have no doubt that St-Martin-in-the-Fields is a terrific organisation and that its Christmas Appeal does a huge amount to alleviate hardship.  But just why is this particular campaign supported so assiduously by our national broadcaster?  The BBC wouldn’t dream of concentrating on one political cause at the expense of others. It would contravene charter obligations. So why does Radio 4 promote St Martin’s rather than, say, the Salvation Army which I’m sure does equally excellent work among the homeless and hungry. 

Annually, we suffer the embarrassment of celebrities making asses of themselves for Children in Need. Every week a new ‘good cause’ is featured on the airwaves. But what about all the other equally worthy appeals that don’t get this free advertising?

Then there’s the question of ‘personal choice’. It seems a given that we should do what we want with our money. And if that means animal sanctuaries over starving children, then that’s OK? Well not for me. In a civilised country neither--and certainly not the latter--should need charitable aid. It’s the job of society (‘the state’) to ensure that children are not starving or abused. And that medical research into childhood disease is adequately funded. Better, surely, to pay a penny or two extra on our taxes and obviate the need to subscribe to charity? Or for all our charitable giving to be put in a pot and distributed according to some rational criteria rather than lachrymose images.

In villages such as mine rural poverty is often hidden. But what to do when you are confronted by homeless people? Does your pound in the ‘begging bowl’ disincentivise? Preferable, perhaps, to support the busker or street artist or Big Issue seller who is offering something back?

There are no easy answers. Now, lest you dub me Scrooge, I suppose I’d better look out my chequebook!