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!

High Hopes for Home Hopping

Countryside Column for 12 December

Here’s Hoping Home Hopping Isn’t Mad

I got a call to say my hop plants have arrived. I ordered them a few weeks ago and still don’t know what variety they are. Apparently there are more than 20 different strains available. I rather fancy Boadicea. The name has a pleasing ancient Briton ring. Sadly, though, they turn out to be an aphid resistant hybrid produced by Wye College just 10 years ago.

Round here I think Fuggles were more traditional. They were released in 1875 by Mr Richard Fuggle of Brenchley from a seedling selected a few years earlier from a strain found growing wild.

In my youth a Fuggles Garage dominated the centre of the village. Now a group of houses stands where our ancient Hillman was serviced. There’s still a Fuggles undertaking in a town nearby, though they are funeral directors so I have no idea if there’s any connection to the hop.

Which is a little tangential to my tale. The thing is I like hop bines. They smell lovely and look decorative over the inglenook. But they need replacing every year or two and, skinflint that I am, I resent paying £10 a throw. Plus I had a couple of hop poles over from a summer project and so thought a bit of GYO (grow your own) might be in order.

It may well be that, within a few years, the only hops left in England will be grown in back yards. In 1870 there were 77,000 acres under cultivation.  Today it’s a mere 2,400.  There are still a few isolated hop gardens round here but a large one nearby was recently grubbed up and replanted with vines.

I’ve often wondered at the economics of the industry. Within half a mile of me there are at least five Oast houses - big brick affairs which would have cost a packet to build. But it was calculated that one acre of hops could make as much as 50 acres of arable farming so the profits must have been substantial.

 And it all came about because of a dramatic change in taste in the 17^th century. Before that the English had drunk ale - a brew made without hops. But then they acquired the taste for the type of bitter beer brewed in Germany and the Low Counties. 

No, I wasn’t planning to take up home brewing. Though I suppose if my bines do particularly well…

Vigilantes? Not in My Village

Countryside column for 5 December

Village Vigilantes with Pitchforks or Speed Cameras?

A storm is brewing between our County Councillor and the Kent Police and Crime Commissioner, Ann Barnes. “Thank you for your letter declining to meet local representatives about the vexed question of speeding through our rural areas,” Cllr Sean Holden wrote to her. “I am writing in the hope that, as the people's Police Commissioner, you might review that position to allow those who speak for the people the chance to come and present their case.”

The ‘case’ concerns the difference between Community Speedwatch equipment and the SL700 laser speed meter used by police to catch speeding motorists.

Our Parish Council recently contributed a few hundred pounds towards a Speedwatch monitor and display. Volunteers set it up by the roadside in the village and note cars doing above 30mph. If a particular vehicle exceeds the limit by more than 10% on several occasions, they can report it to the police who can write to the registered owner to point this out. But drivers cannot be prosecuted on evidence from it.

The SL700 provides accurate enough data for use in court. But currently only the police are allowed to operate it. Cllr Holden wants its use extended to village volunteers because, as he told Mrs Barnes, “There is a strong sense among those people that Kent Police have all but abandoned enforcing the law on speeding.”  

She, however, supports her senior officers’ arguments that: “the SL700 is considered too ‘confrontational’ and ‘potentially aggressive’ for use by civilians and could provoke unwanted hostile responses from passing motorists.”

It’s an interesting debate. Speeding through our villages and down our lanes is a major source of aggravation and danger. We are campaigning for a 40mph limit throughout the parish, but KCC seems wholly unresponsive. It’s true you never see police ‘radar traps’ any more, and there are none of the remote speed cameras that are so effective in towns. Thus the ‘citizen volunteer’ model has some superficial attraction.

But, as a logical conclusion, if ordinary people take over one area of police work, how long before village vigilantes are marching with pitchforks and flaming torches on homes of suspected miscreants or child molesters? I exaggerate for effect, but the point is real. We have established a police force to uphold the law on our behalf.  Perhaps we should make sure they have the resources to do it before handing responsibility to the ‘people’.

Turner-ing in his Grave

(from The Hasings Independent) 

Turner Turning in his Grave at Open Captioning?

By Kent Barker

It seems that almost everyone in Hastings is involved in the arts. In our small crescent there’s a musician, at least two painters, a weaver, a photographer and a book designer  - and he has a fine art degree.  Hardly a week goers by without a private view or gallery opening. One evening we walked from an excellent new photographic exhibition to a cavernous gallery at the back of a pub, exhibiting half a dozen terrific local artists.

Which is why it was so surprising that the new film Mr Turner wasn’t showing anywhere in Hastings.  You’d have thought that they might have calculated a film about probably our greatest Victorian painter would have attracted a sizable local audience.  But no.  We had to traipse all the way to Eastbourne and do battle with the Labyrinthine roundabout system to see it.

To understand what I am about to tell, you have to realise the sheer sumptuousness of the cinematography.  Every scene was like a painting itself, beautifully composed with ravishing colours aping Turner’s own palate. One shot started close on a mountainside and pulled slowly down.  I was convinced it would reveal itself to be one of the artist’s works. But, no, it was a landscape the film was depicting, into which walked Timothy Spall as the grunting porcine painter.

In short it demanded to be watched as surely director Mike Lee intended, without distraction.  Yet, at our showing, almost every frame was overlaid with subtitles.  And not just dialogue, but everything on the soundtrack. Thus “Bells ring in the background. Indistinct conversation in Dutch” would pop up even if no one was actually speaking.

Now, I bow to no one in my respect for, and wish to assist, anyone with a disability.  Being deaf must be a dreadful burden.  And I can see why a cinema might want to hold showings with open captions.  But it did strike me that anyone at that main evening showing who was NOT deaf had the film all but ruined for them.  I wonder if the cinema had actually surveyed its audience to find out what the demand for this service was? And then asked whether a captioned showing at a different time of day or a hearing loop system would not serve equally well? I’ve written to ask the chain but, so far, without response. I shudder to think what Mr Turner would have thought.