Saturday 3 October 2015
Travelling discrimination
Times of TW
Why is it OK
to persecute this ethnic minority?
by Kent Barker
There was an unusual email circulated recently around parish councils.
One paragraph read: “They have been very
polite… children are delightful… two little ones have been going to the Elm
Tree [pub], alone in their pyjamas to use the toilets after bedtime.”
“They” referred to a group of travellers who had pitched up at Elm
Tree Fields in Paddock Wood. And promptly had eviction proceedings started
against them.
Now, as a precursor to what I am about
to argue, let me say that I understand the concerns of people, secure in their
homes, who regard travellers as a threat and a nuisance and feel they must
forever be ‘moved on’. I understand it
but I do not share their sentiment.
I’ll quote another paragraph of the
email: “there is a sadness I feel that we
have this conflict and misunderstanding between cultures and way of life… I was
reminded symbolically of the plight of American Indians.”
Shortly thereafter another email
appeared, this time from the Community
Safety Manager for Tunbridge Wells Borough Council:
“Paddock Wood Town Council today were granted a summons requesting the Travellers
appear at Sevenoaks Magistrates’ Court tomorrow… we expect the court to approve
the removal of vehicles from the playing fields – hopefully within 24 hours of
the court appearance. The Travellers insist that they are in the borough for the
Horsmonden Horse Fair.
We fully expect the Travellers to depart before any vehicles or property
are seized, but where they land next we do not know. And when they will leave
is also not known.
So, once again, can I ask
that all landowners ensure that their land is made as secure as possible
against vehicle incursion.”
I’ve put the last paragraph in
bold because it was this that particularly incensed me.
Let’s look at some facts. Statutory
responsibility for councils to provide sites for Travellers was removed in 1994
leading, unsurprisingly, to an increase in unauthorised encampments. So, in
2012, the Government said provision of Gypsy and Traveller sites must be met by
local authorities in their development plans.
A study published later by the Traveller Law
Reform Project found that just four out of 115 surveyed authorities have
implemented the policies. (TWBC was not one). Sites tend to be situated in environmentally
deprived areas—on wasteland, floodplains or under motorway flyovers. This has a
negative effect on physical and mental health that’s compounded by a lack of
access to services geared to Traveller needs.
In August this year, the Government brought in
new legislation clearly designed to make it more
difficult for Gypsies and Travellers to obtain planning permission for sites in
the Green Belt and open countryside. This, and other parts of the legislation,
are likely to be challenged as discriminatory and a breach of Article 8 of the
European Convention on Human Rights.
The Government’s own studies say “Gypsies and Travellers are believed to
experience the worst health and education status of any disadvantaged group in
England. Research has consistently confirmed the link between the lack of good
quality sites… and poor health and
education. The provision of more authorised sites will help contribute to
better health and education outcomes in the area”.
What we are talking about is an indigenous minority ethnic
group that’s been part of Irish and British society for centuries, with a
distinctive way of life, values, culture and traditions. And yet, as a society, we seem to be doing our
utmost to wipe them out.
Let’s return to Paddock Wood where the evicted Travellers
were apparently assembling for the Horsmonden Horse Fair—a 400 year-old Kentish
tradition. (This year’s was a shadow of its former self, swamped with police
and officials, and having been banned altogether in 2000.)
Could the town council not have waited a few days until
after the Horse Fair before evicting them from Elm Tree Fields? Could not our
borough council live up to its responsibility and provide sufficient good
quality official sites? Could not every
parish council—including mine—seek out some land where Travellers could stay
for a period as the pass through? Could not the Government provide peripatetic
teachers and health workers to help with illiteracy and deprivation? Could we
not celebrate this ethnic and cultural group as an important part of Britain’s
heritage?
Instead we have the council’s own Community Safety Officer
perpetuating stereotypes and demonising an entire minority group and their way
of life by warning landowners to secure their property against “vehicle
intrusion”.
And who was the author of the enlightened email saying how
polite had been the Traveller children and how she was reminded of American
Indians ? Why it was the chair of
Paddock Wood Town Council. The very body that evicted them from the field in
the first place. Oh dear.
Tory Badger Huggers?
Times of TW
Blue Campaigners Badger Government
By Kent Barker (with apologies to Kenneth
Grahame)
I must have been dreaming, for
winter had come early and I was lost in the Wild Wood with a thick blanket of
snow covering all about. I was fearful, not just at being unable to find my way
home, but with an inchoate anxiety over the path we, as a society, were following.
I stumbled in the snow barking my
shin. On close inspection, I discovered a boot scraper. Ah, thought I, where
there is a boot scraper there is likely to be a door. And so it transpired. A
low wooden affair giving access, apparently, into the side of the hill. I
knocked loudly, begging succour.
It was dark in the hallway when the
door opened and I could not properly see the figure that beckoned me forth
until we entered a small parlour with a fire crackling in the grate and candles
in sconces round the walls. So, imagine my surprise when he threw off his cloak
to reveal a long furry face with a white stripe up the centre of his muzzle,
twitching whiskers and sharp bright eyes. But the most singular aspect of his
appearance was a blue velvet smoking jacket with a Conservative Party rosette
on the lapel.
Having made me welcome with a plate
of cold meats and a glass of port, he took up a copy of The Telegraph and pointed to an article whose headline proclaimed
‘Badger Cull to be extended to Dorset’. “Shocking”, muttered my host. “I have
friends and relatives there. Whatever will become of them? And after one
thousand eight hundred and sixty-one senseless deaths in Somerset and Gloucestershire two years ago. What
is the world coming to?”
Perhaps made argumentative by the
port wine, I ventured an opinion that, sad though this undoubtedly was, 260,817
cattle had been slaughtered since 2008, having in all likelihood contracted bovine
TB from members of his species, and this placed an intolerable burden on dairy
famers.
My furry friend rose to his full
height (which it must be allowed was not great) and proclaimed vehemently:
“There is absolutely no evidence, no evidence whatsoever, that bovine TB is
caused by TB among badgers. It’s even possible that my friends the fallow deer
could be responsible. And, anyway, what is all the fuss about? An independent
survey commissioned by the Government’s own Department for Rural Affairs
concluded that ‘bTB control in cattle is irrelevant as
a public health policy. In the UK, cattle-to-human transmission is negligible.
Aerosol transmission—the only probable route of human acquisition—occurs at
inconsequential levels when milk is pasteurized…Furthermore, there is little
evidence for a positive cost benefit in terms of animal health of bTB control.
Such evidence is required; otherwise, there is little justification for the
large sums of public money spent on bTB control in the UK.’ That’s the Government’s
own independent analysis!”
He sat back in his armchair and put
his kerchief to his face. I could not tell if it was to mop his brow or to wipe
away a tear. “Surely”, I ventured, “something must be done for the poor cattle.
They, after all, are fellow creatures too.”
“Yes, of course I grieve for them. But,
don’t you see, their deaths are as senseless as those of my kind. Cattle no
more need to be culled than do badgers. Infected cattle have little probability
of developing the disease and seldom show symptoms during their (often short)
economic lives. Bovine TB can remain dormant in an animal for many years, or
indefinitely. If an animal reacts to the skin test this does not mean that it
will go on to develop symptoms, be infectious, or become ill. And if you really
want to stamp out bovine TB, then vaccinate against it. If you really want to
attempt to prevent TB in badgers, vaccinate against it. Do you know that not
one of my eighteen hundred murdered friends in the last ‘cull’ (what a horrible
word) was even tested to see if they carried the disease!”
We sat in silence for a few moments before
I pointed to his rosette and asked how, given his views, he could support a
government that was undertaking such slaughter?
“Ah, well, I’m a member of the Blue
Badger Campaign—it’s an offshoot of Conservative Animal Welfare. There’s also a
Blue Fox group. We’ve got to combat the farming lobby and change opinion in
government.
Perhaps the brandy wine fuddled my
brain, but I cannot recall how I got home that night. I just remember waking in
my own bed clutching a piece of paper from the Independent Scientific Group on Cattle TB which read: “Culling can
make no meaningful contribution to cattle TB control in Britain.” Could it be
it was not a dream after all?
Roundup - the culprits
Times of TW
Countryside Chemicals
Conceal Rural Divide
By Kent Barker
Myrtle and I love our country walks at this time of year. The bines
in the few remaining hop gardens are being loaded onto trailers. Grapes which
have replaced so many of the hops round here are still on the vine waiting for
the harvest. The friendly foreign fruit pickers are working their way through
the orchards, while ancient tractors scuttle about with bins of ripe apples.
Most of the arable harvest is in and the fields have yet to be
ploughed so it’s easy to walk or, in Myrtle’s case, run over them. Soon we’ll
have to wend our way round the edges to avoid the furrows. But I have recently discovered
some extremely scary facts about arable production.
It began when I volunteered to write a regular feature on farming in
our revamped village magazine. To be honest, I don’t know a huge amount about
the subject, despite having lived in the country on and off for half a century,
and being a habitual Archers’
listener. But, as a parish councilor, I’ve found there is a huge disconnect
between residents of the countryside and those who make their living from it.
It’s most keenly felt on planning matters. A farmer wants a new barn
or an anaerobic digester or an array of solar panels and there is an outcry
from other rural residents—mainly, I have to say, from those who have most
recently relocated from the city. So, the job of my column will be to try to
bridge the divide and get both sides to see the other’s point of view. It will
not be easy, as I am about to demonstrate.
Talking to one farmer, I discovered that arable land is no longer
ploughed every autumn. Instead, they adopt a minimum cultivation technique or
Min-Till. Essentially, instead of
turning the earth over with a deep plough, they use discs which do not
penetrate nearly so deeply and which anyway, leave up to 30% of crop residues
on the surface. This method is designed to be friendlier to the soil. But is it
friendlier to us?
Before being drilled (seeded) for
next year’s crop, quantities of herbicide are used to kill off ‘volunteer’
plants or weeds. And the herbicide of choice is Roundup, and the active
ingredient of Roundup is—glyphosate.
Now the news may have passed you by
earlier this year that the World Health Organisation deems glyphosate to be a
‘probable human carcinogen’. Which is to
say that it can or does cause cancer. Which is bad. But possibly not as bad as
all the other things that glyphosate does.
Just last month, the august if unfortunately
acronymed body ISIS—the Institute of Science in Society—launched a campaign to
ban all levels of spraying of glyphosate. Why? Because it has also been linked,
among other things, to: coeliac disease, autism, diabetes, birth defects,
increased levels of aluminum in the brain and to arsenic in the kidneys
resulting in acute renal failure.
And this is the herbicide that you
quite probably use in your garden. Come
on. Hands up who’s got a little bottle of Roundup spray in the shed? And don’t
look smug because you don’t have a garden. Most local councils use it routinely
to kill weeds in public parks and spaces near you.
Now, for the sake of balance, I
should say that the manufacturer of Roundup, the chemical giant Monsanto,
denies these links and repudiates the scientific studies that established them.
But it’s worth noting that around a third of the company’s earnings come from
Roundup and the associated GM seed business. And since, in 2014, Monsanto’s
revenue was $3.14 billion, that makes Roundup worth more than a billion dollars
a year to them, so you can draw your own conclusions.
Dig a little deeper and you find just
how deeply embedded glyphosate is in agriculture. A number of farmers use Roundup
on their crops immediately before harvest as a ‘desiccant’ to get more even
ripening and to reduce moisture. Something like 75% of all oilseed rape in the
UK is subject to this regime. But it means that greater quantities of the
chemical are likely to remain on the plant as it enters the food chain.
And then there are the superweeds. These are glyphosate-resistant
plants that seem to be spreading at an exponential rate in the US, South
America and South Africa. How long before they appear in Britain?
The question is, though, how am I going to raise this all
with the farming community round my village? I just have the feeling that few
divides are likely to be bridged if I start telling them they should return to
bio-diversity and crop rotation as the non-toxic way to control weeds.
Armageddon?
Times of TW
Mammon,
Jehovah and the Witness of Armageddon
By Kent Barker
I fear I may have been a bit rude.
I mean, once I knew who they were I virtually slammed the door in their
face. It’s true I was in a bit of a
hurry. But what I wish I had found time
to say was this: “Look how would you feel if I turned up at your house on a
Saturday morning and tried to persuade you that your beliefs were wrong and
there was no God, or supreme being, or single deity, and no Jesus Christ and no
heaven or hell? In fact, in short, you
ought to convert to Humanism or Atheism pronto.”
A friend pointed out, they’d probably actually engage in the debate
and keep me arguing for ages. But my
general point holds good. Surely it’s a
tad arrogant for them to think that their ‘beliefs’ are better than mine and that
they have a duty to persuade me to adopt their view? It’s the proselytising
nature of so many religions that causes half the problems and has led to
religious wars down the ages. Arguably
it’s what’s behind the current rise of militant Islam. (Though before we rush to condemn, perhaps we
should remove the mote from our own eye and remember the nine Crusades
Christians launched on Islam between 1095 and 1272).
Of course the strife is not only between different religions, but
often between branches of the same religion.
Catholics and Protestants down the ages and still evident in Northern
Ireland. And what about the poor Cathars? A couple of weeks in the Languedoc and you
realise just how brutal the Roman Catholic armies of the early 13th
century could be. Not content with
subjugating Muslims in the ‘Holy’ land they rampaged round southern France
maiming and slaughtering families and entire villages for no other reason that
they followed different branch of Christianity.
Anyway I didn’t have that conversation with the Jehovah’s Witnesses at
my door and, instead, rushed off to Hastings with my anti-TTIP petition and
posters and leaflets to try to persuade the good citizens that they were in
error if they believed that the proposed transatlantic trade agreement was a
good thing.
What depressed, if not entirely surprised, me was that so
few people had even heard of TTIP. Come
on, put up your own hand up if you know that it stands for the Transatlantic
Trade and Investment Partnership. Mind
you if you didn’t know about it, it’s not unduly surprising– that’s the way
they want it. TTIP is a series of trade
negotiations being carried out, mostly in secret, between the EU and US designed
to hugely reduce regulatory barriers to trade for big business. Things like
food safety law, environmental legislation, banking regulations health
provision and the sovereign powers of individual nations.
So I harangued Saturday morning
shoppers about the dangers of deregulation that TTIP would bring in. I told them how I was convinced it could end
effective food labeling, and allow the use of Neonicotinoids
which would kill the bees and that the government wouldn’t be able to do
anything about it because the pharmaceutical corporations would be able to sue them
if they stood in the way of their profits.
But as I handed leaflets to people quietly lunching al
fresco in George Street I did see some parallels with that couple who’d knocked
at my door earlier in the day. Jehovah’s Witnesses believe that destruction at Armageddon is
imminent, and that the establishment of God's kingdom over the earth is the
only solution for problems faced by humanity.
TTIP opponents believe that it could effectively lead to the
destruction of democracy by the multi-nationals. As Lee Willams pointed out in
the Independent recently: “One of the main aims
of TTIP is the introduction of Investor-State Dispute Settlements (ISDS), which
allow companies to sue governments if those governments’ policies cause a loss
of profits. In effect it means unelected transnational corporations can dictate
the policies of democratically elected governments.”
One of the results of TTIP would be to open up public
health, education and water services to free competition. But that would mean that US companies could
effectively take over – and privatise – cherished European institutions like
the NHS. And there would be nothing the Government could do about it without the
risk of being sued.
After witnessing the recent rapaciousness of the Banking
sector, is it entirely fanciful to argue that TTIP, the multi-national corporations
and and the forces of capitalism are the very things that are leading us to
destruction? Perhaps we could do with
something like an Armageddon to beat them back and establish a new world order
based on people rather than profit. But
I am not sure I’m prepared to give up my Saturday mornings to knock on doors to
proselytise these beliefs.
Knole Nothing?
Times of TW
Give me a toy
dog over a sofa in Perspex.
By Kent Barker
I’ve been having problems with the roof recently. I won’t bore you
with the details. It’s nearly as dull as asking someone how they are… and
having them tell you! But I will say that, inevitably, the latest firm of
roofers blamed the previous ones: “Cor, whoever did this didn’t do you any
favours. What they should have done is….” And ten minutes later your head is
reeling with valleys and flashings and holing gauges.
But mine is a pretty modest roof so,
as you can imagine, I was more than a little sympathetic to the homeowner who
has 7.5 acres of roofing to maintain. No, that’s not a misprint. Seven-and-a-half
ACRES – that’s 326,700 square feet.
However when I say ‘home’ owner, perhaps I should have added the prefix
‘stately’, for this is Knole—an extraordinary medieval edifice of (at least)
365 rooms, 12 entrances, 7 courtyards and 52 staircases—very few of which, as
Horace Walpole opined in 1752, lead where you want to go!
The homeowner in question is the
National Trust. Knole was handed to it by the fourth Lord Sackville in 1946—presumably
after an estimate for roofing repairs. (“Cor guv, you’ve got a job on here and
no mistake. Even for cash it’s going to set you back a bob or two….”). And the
National Trust has recently embarked on a series of repairs, including
recreating a massive pitched tile roof to a barn which has been missing since a
fire in 1887.
Now, I’m a fan of the National Trust
and have been a member for many years. And, because of the building works, I
may not have seen Knole at its best. But, even so, I have to say the visitor ‘experience’
that I did have was pretty dispiriting. To start with, the whole place is so dark.
I sort of understand that 400 year-old fabrics fade in bright sunlight, but
that means that there are blinds down over most of the windows. This has the
added disadvantage of preventing you gazing out over the magnificent deer park
or into any of the seven courtyards. So murky
is it that the enthusiastic volunteer guides are issued with powerful torches to
show you some intricate piece of frieze or moulding.
Thus, one gloomy corridor leads to another, each lined with
threadbare furniture and vast, melancholy, portraits. Everywhere were roped-off
sections and exhortations not to touch any of the exhibits. So extensive were
the exclusion zones that it came as a real shock actually to be invited to walk
on a carpet—though it turned out this was merely a cheap imitation rug. One
prize possession—the Red Knole Sofa—was entirely encased in ugly, utilitarian
and anachronistic Perspex to keep wandering hands (or tired bums) off it. Mind
you, it was we, the visitors, who were confined to a glass cage when entering
the splendidly ornate ‘King’s Room’ lest, presumably, we should sully the
exhibits with our foetid breath.
And don’t get me started on the portraits. Room after room, wall
after wall. So many dead people it felt like a mausoleum. I was so turned off I
missed the nine by Sir Joshua Reynolds. And, although I understand that a cartoon—or
even a copy of a Raphael Cartoon is not, in fact, a cartoon as the Disney generation
understands it, but rather a preliminary drawing for another work of art (in
this case tapestries in the Sistine chapel)… although I understand that, I’m
not at all sure that everyone else would. Nor was there anything that readily
explained it.
But, before this becomes a complete rant, let me get to my main
point. The problem is that nothing at
Knole suggests any sense of FUN. Dusty, dry, academic, worthy, yes. Where,
though, is the human touch? Who lived here?
What did they do? How did their lives differ from ours? I’m not always
in favour of audio-visual displays or actors talking to you from cobwebby
corners. But, heavens above, there must be something
the Trust can do to make a tour round these rooms more exciting. How about a
few holograms or some modern interpretation boards or signage? Build me a
reproduction red Knole sofa and let me sit on it. Put it next to its precursor,
the wooden settle and its successor, the overstuffed DFS jobby, so I can see
the progression.
The most exciting things in any of the rooms are small toy Dalmatian
dogs hidden in corners for children to spot and tick off on a list. Initially I
thought them ludicrously out of place and time. By the end I came to enjoy searching
for the fluffy dogs more than looking at the dull old exhibits.
Corbyn – Radical or Reactionary
Jeremy Corbyn – Radical or Reactionary?
Former BBC political reporter, Kent
Barker, questions whether Labour’s most left-wing leadership candidate
could ever prove an asset to the party at the next General Election.
Let me take you back 30 years. Neil Kinnock is giving his leader’s
speech to the Labour Party Conference in Bournemouth. The battle between left
and right in the party has been raging since Thatcher came to power six years earlier.
The hard-left Militant Tendency controls
Liverpool City Council. Kinnock rounds on: "The
grotesque chaos of a Labour council… hiring taxis to scuttle round the city
handing out redundancy notices to its own workers.” Left-wing Liverpool MP Eric Heffer leaves his
seat in protest and marches towards the exit. Which is where I am sitting. I
grab my tape-recorder and run down the steps to intercept him, microphone
thrust out in front. It isn’t a great interview. In fact he doesn’t say much at
all, but his anger tells the story. Also in the hall, at his first Party
Conference as a newly elected MP, is Jeremy Corbyn who almost certainly supports
Heffer’s stance.
Today’s internecine battle within the Labour Party is eerily
reminiscent of the years leading up to that Bournemouth conference in 1985. On
the left then, as now, are people who believe the party can only win the next
election if voters are given a proper socialist alternative. On the right are
those who believe they will never get back into power unless they can attract
the swing voters in the centre with moderate, City-friendly policies. The first
group looks back to how Attlee trounced Churchill in 1945 and ushered in probably
the furthest left administration in history. The second look to how, after
beating John Major in 1997, Tony Blair produced Labour’s longest period in
power with centrist ‘Tory-lite’ policies.
I remember Jeremy Corbyn from his time on Haringey Council
in the 1970s. Back then, calling yourself a ‘socialist’ was a badge of honour
not a recipe for electoral suicide. And the left within the party were dominant—angry
at what they considered the ‘betrayals’ of the Callaghan Government. The left-wing
Michael Foot beat centrist Denis Healey in the 1980 leadership race. Militant
members started to infiltrate and dominate local constituency parties. In 1981
the ‘Gang of Four’ split off to form the SDP. Later that year Tony Benn ran for
deputy leader with Jeremy Corbyn working on his campaign.
Just look at the parallels. Labour’s left (and some not so
left) are angry at the ‘betrayals’ of the Blair Government. A leftish leader is
elected over a centrist candidate—Ed rather than David Milliband. And, when Ed
resigns after being trounced at the polls, the left of the party in the
constituencies start to flex their muscles to get another—even further
left—candidate elected. The only bit of history that hasn’t yet been repeated
is a mass defection and formation of a new centrist party (though there are those
who predict that could happen if Corbyn does become leader).
Later in the 1980s, Kinnock reformed the party, moving it
towards the centre, but he still couldn’t get elected. Only when Tony Blair
arrived on the scene and tore up Clause Four—the symbolic socialist backbone of
the party’s constitution—did electoral success follow.
So, today, the party member faced with the leadership ballot
has an unenviable choice. If they vote Corbyn and ride the momentum of discontent
with the Blairite old guard and the regressive Cameron Government, they risk
annihilation at the 2020 election. If they vote Burnham, Cooper or Kendall they
risk gaining an Opposition leader relatively indistinguishable from the
Conservative incumbent, but one who, most statistics and psephologists say, has a far greater
chance of being elected than a self-proclaimed socialist candidate.
I have a friend who’s been a Labour Party member for forty
years and who is instinctively left-leaning. He agrees with almost everything
Corbyn says or stands for. Yet he knows the wider electorate does not. “My
heart says vote for Corbyn, my head says don’t. The tragedy is that Labour has failed
to convince the voters that an austerity-driven, banker-friendly, greed-based
government is downright unfair and unjust, deeply divisive and, ultimately, damaging
for society and the country.”
Perhaps what Labour requires is a radical overhaul of the left
v right debate. Could a new philosophy not espouse a caring capitalism with the
market tightly regulated, working for people not shareholders? Where
‘not-for-profit’ organisations are favoured for public service contracts? Where
the state might own, but not run, public services?
So what my friend, along with other party members, has to
decide is: could Jeremy Corbyn as Labour Leader provide the catalyst for such a
revolution in thinking, or is he just too wedded to the old and now discredited
state-centered socialism of the 1980s? In short, is he really a radical or a
reactionary and, perhaps more important, is there any way he could prove an
electoral asset instead of a liability?
Exploring Decaying Buildings
Times of TW
The art of Exploring
Decaying Buildings
By Kent Barker
It’s amazing what you can discover if you only ask. Though sometimes it’s a question of what you
ask and of whom. My father was famous
for getting access to unlikely places or events. As a cub reporter for the Evening News he was
sent to cover a royal birth and found himself corralled with the rest of the
press at the gates of the residence.
Determined to get some colour for his report he went back into the
village and found a van that was due to make a delivery. A word with the driver (and quite possibly
the passing of a ten bob note) secured him a ride in the passenger’s seat. “As I drove up to the front door at
Sandringham …” he began his report,
doubtless to the fury of his rivals.
On another occasion he noticed the local manor house in our village
was up for sale. He’d always been
interested in its history so he called the estate agents for an appointment. I think they were a bit surprised when the
entire family plus dog arrived in an elderly Hillman Minx and, after viewing
the property, proceeded to picnic on the croquet lawn.
Anyway this is a preamble to a recent adventure I had with my son,
Titus. He’s become fascinated with
redundant buildings and has hooked onto a number of ‘urban explorer’ websites where
people gain entry to some of these premises and photograph the ongoing
decay. Often graffiti artists have got
there first and so there may be intricate murals to view.
And they are not always urban.
He found a Victorian mansion just a few miles from my village that had,
apparently, been a girl’s school but had been left to rot since closing in the
1990s. I am, of course, keen to
encourage any interest in history or architecture in my offspring, but am a tad
cautious about trespass and possibly more alert to the dangers of decrepitude
in ruins that a 19 year old may be.
This could go back to the old mill my grandfather owned opposite our
house. The glass in the windows had long gone and the floorboards had rotted
where rain had entered. I had been
taught to walk only on the joists but may have failed to pass on this advice to
an elderly aunt whom I had persuaded to explore with me. I’ll never forget the sight of her leg
dangling through the broken board in between two floor joists as I went to
summon help.
So I approached the local Victorian pile with some caution. I’d been vaguely aware of its existence as I
passed by on the road, but I’d never been up the long drive and seen its true
splendor. The trouble was, ours was not
the only vehicle on the drive. There
were several white vans and a dumper truck.
Clearly it was no longer deserted and, by the look of it, no longer a
romantic ruin.
Titus was all for giving up, but somehow my father’s genes kicked in
and we walked up to a workman on his tea break.
A long conversation ensued about the house’s history and the restoration
project, cumulating in our asking if we might possibly have a quick look
round? Frankly I thought the request
most unlikely to be granted. Health and
safety would be cited, or the need to refer to someone else who wasn’t
immediately available. But no, the man
seemed proud of the work and happy for us to see it.
So we had a thoroughly enjoyable fifteen minutes examining the
partially completed building work. Titus
was particularly thrilled when he found traces of graffiti that hadn’t yet been
plastered over. I was thrilled to see
that someone was putting in the time and energy and above all the money to convert
a redundant mansion rather than knocking it down and starting again. It’s being turned into fourteen flats, but
the main architectural features, towers and turrets, arches and bay windows,
stairs and cellars, are all being retained.
It turns out that it had been built by a banker, Colonel Edward
Loyd, in 1853 who also created a lodge, a stable block and a kitchen garden, as
well as making ‘improvements’ to the
estate including ornamental lakes, an ice house and even a gas works. By 1867 the mansion was described as ‘replete with every comfort which wealth,
good taste, and judicious arrangement can ensure’‘. But the colonel died in 1890 and by the First
World War his home was being used as a hospital for wounded soldiers before,
later, becoming a school.
What luck that we were able to see it arising from
the ashes of decay -thanks to a kind builder who we’d had the temerity to ask!
Birthday Surprises
Times of TW.
Big is
Better for Birthday Surprises
By Kent Barker
Oh dear, it’s birthday time again and I’ve no idea at all what to
get her. It’s the same problem every
year only it gets more difficult as we get older. After all we’ve got pretty
much everything we need – along with a huge amount of stuff we don’t.
Last year I was abroad and ordered something online for the
kitchen. When I got back she demanded a
pound from me. I was puzzled. It’s bad luck, she told me, unless you
include money with it. I must have
looked a bit surprised because she told me she loved the knife set and she
would give me back the pound (which I don’t think she’s actually done
yet). When I looked up this strange
superstition I discovered that there’s believed to be a danger that the gift of
a knife runs the risk of severing the
friendship. Well worth a pound to
prevent, I thought, except that it’s supposed to be a penny. But then that’s
inflation for you.
I’m aware that the Sabatiers set – along with a number of my gifts
to previous partners – have rather lacked that personal touch. By far the worst example of this was when I
gave my first wife a dishwasher for her birthday. I thought it was rather a good gift. It was
going to be extremely useful and would save us both a lot of hard work with an
irritating chore.
It was certainly rather a big gift.
Now this may be a boy thing but, to me, big equals good when it comes to
presents. I mean who wouldn’t want a
parcel more than a cubic meter in size to open on their birthday? It is true
that wrapping it proved a bit of a challenge as did ensuring she didn’t see it
until the day itself. I mean there was
this bloody great cardboard box clogging up the hall making it almost
impossible to hang up your coat or get through to the living room. As I recall I simply put a blanket or bedspread
over it with a little note on to saying “no peeking”.
I can’t actually remember her reaction when she opened it. Certainly surprise and quite possibly muted
anger at the sheer effrontery of such a utilitarian present.
That wasn’t the largest parcel I’ve had to wrap though. I decided to surprise my ten year old son
with a snooker table one Christmas. It
was duly delivered by two strong men and placed on its side in the dining-room. I bought a job lot of seasonal wrapping paper
and covered it as best I could. We
didn’t use that room much except for formal occasions so there was no reason it
should be spotted. But what my boy did
notice was a large gap under the tree where he might have expected his present
to be. He was pretty stoical about it,
but on Christmas morning he was clearly getting worried. “Haven’t you got me
anything?” his expression seemed to say.
Finally I could bear it no longer.
“Why don’t you pop into the dining-room an see if there’s something
there?” A few moments later he was back
with a bewildered expression. “Can’t see
anything, dad”.
We went in together and I sort of nodded towards this massive great
shape taking up most of one wall. “Oh that!” he said with a huge smile of
relief, “it was so big I didn’t see it.”
In the end I probably choose to give the sort of presents I would
like to receive myself. The electronic gizmos I buy usually go down reasonably
well – even if I have to set them up and explain, endlessly, how they work. But I’ve found over the years that sets of carpentry
tools are not so popular.
I did actually make a romantic gesture once. I was living in New York, a few blocks from
Central Park where horse-drawn carriages trot tourists around in some
splendor. After a good deal of argument,
and the offer of large wads of dollar bills, the driver reluctantly agreed to
leave the park and drive to our apartment block at the appointed hour.
As the intercom buzzed on his arrival I was able proudly to announce
to my then wife: “Your carriage awaits.”
I think it was appreciated, even if driving back to the park through the
rush-hour Manhattan traffic was a bit of a trial!
They don’t have horse-drawn carriages where my partner lives now. The nearest thing is one of those bicycle
rickshaw things. But I very much doubt I’ll be able to persuade a rider to bring
it up to her house at the top of a steep hill.
Perhaps I’d better get her some flowers to go with the new set of
saucepans.
Read more at: KentCountryMatters.Blogspot.com
Horsing around in France
Times of TW
Horsing
around in France – by Kent Barker
We are sipping wine with an excellent meal in a
restaurant in rural France and get to discussing why the English can’t do food this
well. After another glass or two, we decide that we could really clean up if we
opened a truly excellent French Bistro in, say, Tunbridge Wells.
“Yes”, says my partner, “but there are already
restaurants offering French cuisine.
What would make us special?”
“Well,” I reply gesticulating expansively, “we
need a USP”.
“A USB?” she queries, “what, to plug into the
computer?”
“No, silly, a USP – a unique selling
point. Something that would make us
stand out from the crowd.”
“OK, well let’s restrict ourselves to just one
type of meat and do it in lots of different ways, each one bursting with
flavour and herbs and garlic.”
Later, wandering through the market, we come
across a Boucherie with various joints of succulent red meat lined up. We choose two thin steaks.
After cooking them rare with new potatoes and
French beans we agree that this is the very heaven that we must import to the
South of England. After a couple more verres du vin we fall to discussing names
for our restaurant. My suggestions are quickly side-stepped. But I’m finding hers a bit bizarre. I mean who’s ever heard of a Bistro called
Dobbin? Or Shergar or Seabiscuit come to
that?
Then she has a eureka moment and leaps into the
air shouting “Je l’ai”, by which I think she means “I’ve got it”.
“Yes?”
“Well it’s obvious, it just has to be GiGi.”
“Erm, GiGi?
Why?
“Well obviously because of the name itself, but
also because the film starred Maurice. Maurice Cheval-ier!”
To be honest, I don’t really get it, but it’s
not a bad name so I keep quiet and start considering the staff. After all, the
chef must be French.
“We’ll advertise for a Chef de Cheval out here,”
she says.
Perhaps I misheard, or perhaps my French isn’t
quite up to it … but why, I queried, would we want a cook that specialises in
Hare? Aren’t we serving Beef?
“No you fool, cheval, not cheveux. And anyway cheveux is hair - like on your head.
Not a hare as in big bunny. That’s un Lièvre. Cheval is a horse. That’s what
you’ve just eaten. That’s why GiGi is so perfect for the name. D'oh”
I decide it’s best to say nothing. But I have to admit the steaks were delicious
– though I’m not sure if Tunbridge Wells is ready for a horsemeat restaurant - yet.
If we can’t import Gallic gastronomy to the UK,
then perhaps the only answer is to export ourselves to France. So we look estate agent’s windows. There are
certainly bargains to be had. House
prices have been coming down over the past few years – a concept pretty much
unheard of in Britain. But this means that you can’t rely on your holiday home
being any type of investment – except perhaps a bad one!
The trouble also is that, while you can buy
something habitable in a tiny remote village for fifty or sixty thousand euros,
why would you want to be in a remote village?
Anything near the sea or a river tends to be a lot more expensive.
The house we were renting in Fanjeaux near Carcassonne
was on the market for a very reasonable €80,000 – about £56,000. It had two
bedrooms and a huge attic with roof lights that could easily be made into
further accommodation. I’m sure the plumbing
could have ben sorted so that water in the sink did, eventually, flow away and
the bath and WC basin didn’t flow directly onto the floor. No, the real problem was that there were
times when we thought the entire village population (about 600 souls) had been
abducted by aliens so quiet was it. The noisiest activity seemed to be compline
at the local Dominican lodgings.
Then, on our last night, they were setting up
for a pre-Bastille day village meal.
Trestle tables were erected under the trees, vast paella pans were brought
out and a small stage set up for the music.
We paid our 14 euros and arrived at the appointed time, 7.30pm, to find
the place …. absolutely deserted.
However by around 9.00 people were tricking in. And then the trickle turned to a flood and by
10.00 its was positively raucous. The
entire village it seemed, along with most the neighbouring ones, were drinking
and dancing and singing sentimental French songs in a sort of mass karaoke
effort.
The next morning the entire place was again eerily
silent. The aliens had clearly only
released the inhabitants for the one evening.
We decided we’d need somewhere just a little livelier – or lively a
little more often than once a year.
Carte Postale de France
Times of TW
Carte Postale de
France
By Kent Barker
I have a theory that
Facebook has killed the holiday postcard.
I mean, who sends them anymore? These days all you see are people
wandering around with their pads and phones desperately looking for available
Wi-Fi - or as they call it here in France Wee-Fee - in order to update their social
media sites with holiday snaps.
So I decided
to break this modern habit and send some post cards. Poor Aunt Agatha, she’s not been well
recently, and I thought she’d appreciate hearing from us. The trouble is I have just come across the
pile at the bottom of my suitcase having failed to post them. However Agatha’s loss is your gain for here is
what I meant to send:
Tuesday, somewhere south of Le Mans.
Dear AA, just a quick PC to let you know we’ve arrived safely
and are overnighting at a wonderful old chateau in a little village around the
Loire. It has ivy covering all the walls
and most of the windows. Madame greeted
us in bare feet and took us down some dusty corridors to a room in the East
Wing which looked like a store for all their redundant furniture. The bathroom was magnificent though, covered
from floor to ceiling with marble tiles. In fact I think it was the only room
that had been updated in this, or probably the last, century. Trip Advisor described it as quirky. We loved it.
Thursday, a little village South of Carcassonne.
Dearest Aunt, we’ve now arrived at the house we are renting
in this hill-top village with wonderful views to the Pyrenees. I’m not sure Les Anglais are very popular
round here. In the 13th
Century the 5th Earl Of Leicester, Simon de Montfort, came for a
visit and started slaughtering the locals.
In the nearby town of Bram he rounded up every Cathar, put out their
eyes and cut off their noses! It’s sad
to think that religious tolerance hasn’t advanced much in 800 years. The house is nice even if the plumbing is a
bit suspect. Every time you empty the bath it floods the bedroom. Sorry to hear
about your fall. Yr affectionate nephew, K.
Sunday, on the Canal du Midi.
Went for a drive and stopped at a
café on the canal. It was blistering hot
with no shade as nearly all the 42,000 magnificent Plane Trees that used to
line the banks have died and been cut down.
It’s a terrible tragedy and makes our Ash dieback pale in comparison.
(By the way whatever happened to Ash dieback you hardly ever hear of it any
more?). The canal though remains a stunning achievement – built in just 15
years it’s 240 kilometers long, linking the Atlantic with the Mediterranean. In
Beziers it flows up 9 locks in a row and across an aqueduct over the river Orb.
Poor old Pierre-Paul Riquet who engineered
it died eight months before it was completed in 1681. Some people just don’t have any luck. Hope your leg is getting better. Love K
Tuesday
on the Aude
Hello
Auntie. Us again. In Limoux this time. A
town that has seen better days. Like
quite a few round here! Apparently they invented bubbly but then the nasty
vignerones in Champagne stole the idea and named it after their region. The dog was funny. I tied her to a sign outside a shop while I
went in to buy bread and she dragged it down the street! The baguette lady said
to bring her in next time. They’re odd
about dogs here. They’re allowed into
restaurants and food shops but no one ever picks up their mess. In fact you don’t seem to be able to buy poo
bags at all. And they cut off their
tails. Myrtle’s been having a wonderful time swimming in the rivers. People think she’s an otter. Bad news about the operation on your leg.
Still the sawbones are awfully good these days. Yr affct nphew. K.
Thursday
on the Mediterranean.
Hello
again. We’re at the seaside now and watching the water jousting. Funny sort of sport. Two men with shields and
lances stand on raised platforms on the backs of boats and they have to knock
each other into the water as they pass.
The games go on for hours and sometimes they get quite badly hurt. S says it’s a bit like cricket to which I replied,
yes but without the offside rule! You
know I’m not sure she got the joke. We’ll be home in a few days and will come
and visit you in hospital. Rotten luck
about the amputation. Still I hear
prosthetics are remarkably good these days.
France has been … well, rather French.
Lv fm yr nphw. K.
Now to
find some Wee-Fee to deliver this column!
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