I’ve tried walking sideways…

Figures often beguile me, particularly when I have the arranging of them myself; in which case the remark attributed to Disraeli would often apply with justice and force: “There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics.”

– Mark Twain

Despite the Tysoe Parish Plan 2010 only incorporating a smattering of “suggestions” and “requests” tied to each section; over five pages of comments were included as an appendix in the 2012 Tysoe Housing Needs Survey; and, although I am not suggesting that these form some sort of substantive precedent, I do think that – considering that other aspects of our village’s governance (e.g. submissions to planning applications; as well as most county, district and parish council decisions) are subject to full disclosure – the Neighbourhood Plan has to follow suit: and allow residents to ascertain the current ‘mood’ of the village; and to understand how their peers feel about both the status quo and our possible futures.

I believe, therefore, that the preliminary version, released online a few weeks ago, is unfit for purpose, because of its astounding brevity. And, if we are to take comfort from the final version; have confidence in it; and be convinced that we have been listened to (and understood), it is a prerequisite of such a significant publication that – rather than simply jumping straight to the answer – it shows (as many maths teachers have instructed) its ‘workings out’, line by line by line. This means that any future – and certainly the final – version of the Neighbourhood Plan, to gain validity, must be extended to include both the full quantitative results (i.e. the selections made against each question) and the full qualitative results (i.e. all the views expressed pertaining to specific questions; as well as those freeform ones under Other comments at the end of the survey). This is not a request – it is surely a democratic obligation.

¶

The Survey Results publication dropped through letterboxes – which was described as a selection of “Highlights” – was itself quite parsimonious (and more than by definition, I suspect); and the large font used meant that very little information was included. It would therefore be interesting to learn what the criteria used for selecting the contents – “results [chosen] where 70% or more of respondents expressed the same view or similar preferences, together with the highest scoring elements” – actually signified (as it is natural to suspect a strong element of subjective sifting); as well as how the full dataset of responses was transmuted into the draft Plan.

As I have said before, “I know how difficult it is not to ‘reflect’ your own loves and hates… – especially if you are not aware of your own innate biases; and these are not caught in the review process…” – and I am concerned that such presentational bias has crept into (or perhaps invaded?) the analysis of survey results; how this is promulgated; and how it is used in an attempt to drive (rather than gently guide) the village forward. Not only do I worry that the analysis is “prescriptive” – but also quite selective (and not just because of its meagreness…).

¶

Looking at this from the other side, for a moment: perhaps it doesn’t help that, according to this first draft of the Plan (on page 37), the “next steps consultations” that were arranged at the end of November were so poorly attended (only seventeen people at the first; and thirty-five at the second). Were these merely held at inconvenient times, or (more likely, at this time of year) without enough notice; or do they reflect the same apathy that resulted in only a 43% response rate to the survey? And what is at the root of this? Is it that – with this being the third such exercise in four years – like me, many people wonder “how much meaning… the [Neighbourhood] Plan will have; and for how long”? Or – having seen, for example, very few of the Parish Plan “Actions” come to fruition (for a multiplicity of reasons) – are people not only survey- and action plan-weary; but also – witnessing how a bunch of privileged toffs currently run national government purely for the sake of themselves and their monied chums – demonstrating little or no faith in any kind of establishment or authority (earned or not); and doubting that it has their best interests at heart, anyway…? Or, is it just a simple side-effect of poor local Internet access? [As I write this, an email pops up – and a flyer pops through the letterbox – with notification of another meeting on 5 January 2015. Will more of the same make any difference, I wonder?]

I honestly don’t know the answer to any of the above; and it doesn’t seem worth (jumping to conclusions) polling the village to discover if this is true…! All I know is that the people I discuss this with have very little faith in the Neighbourhood Plan realistically achieving anything meaningful – especially with suspicions already emerging that, whatever the outcome of the planning inquiry, Jabba the Cut will just rubber-stamp Gladman’s plans, with no regard for the village’s needs and wants – which returns me to what I said earlier: that this appears solely to be “yet another time- and money-consuming exercise: designed to keep us ‘plebs’ occupied”. What looks like an open consultative process, on the surface, appears – on paper, leastwise – to be producing discriminate and, not unjustified, but perhaps slightly opinionated, or (sub)consciously desired, conclusions. I can’t put my finger on it, yet: but something, somewhere, seems awry.

¶

“Full disclosure” would remove many – if not all – such suspicions. It would certainly, notwithstanding my scepticism, lead to the Neighbourhood Plan – even if it doesn’t fulfil its core, designated purpose – being valuable in other ways: even if that is only to capture the Tysoe Zeitgeist, as do the previous Parish Plan and Housing Needs Survey – thus contributing to an expanding and evolving picture (modern history, even) of village life.

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf III

New morning…

It was very late the next morning when the Mole awoke – startled to find himself actually in bed for once! The seduction of the now head-shaped, indented goose-feather pillow; the snug mattress with just-enough give; and the embracing eiderdown he had cocooned perfectly around himself, almost smothered his natural instinct to rise. But then, as his whiskery nose slowly started to twitch – entertained by a streel of smoked bacon, a babble of buttered toasted teacakes, and a cascade of coffee, severally wiggling energetically under his bedroom door, before linking arms for a feisty, literally in-your-face collective smiting – the piquant temptation pull of a full, and filling, brunchfast, quickly waxed utterly irrepressible. (“The lure of Morpheus wanes; and smitten I most certainly am by the sweet-and-savoury odours of Tantalus!”) It therefore did not take long for him to shamble unthinkingly into his slippers, before interleaving what remained with the dressing-gown dangling from the door-peg. Lifting the latch, those persuasive pungencies were completed by all the necessary sizzles, frizzles, spits, sputters, hisses and crackles that should always accompany the assembling of the model first meal of the day: food fit for fighting whatever it has to fling at you.

In the kitchen stood the Mouse: intent on prodding, stirring, checking, tasting, brewing, frying, grilling, buttering, pouring… – but, above all, singing!

Oh to be a mouse,

In a loverlee house,

By the kitchen stove,

With a pan, by Jove!

Oh to be a mouse,

With tons of nous,

A side of ham,

And pots of jam!

Oh to be a mouse,

And not a louse,

La-di-da-di-dee,

Tuddly-ump-tum-twee!

Oh to be a mouse…

For a moment, all the prodding, etc. stopped. “What ELSE rhymes with mouse?” he implored, looking to the ceiling for inspiration; and scratching his head with the wrong end of a wooden spoon (well, the right end for scratching, considering the other right end had been used to stir a pan of warming milk). “Howzabout ‘grouse’?” chuckled the Mole, quietly into his ear: causing the poor, startled Mouse to drop the spoon on his foot. “But THAT will have to wait for dinner!”

“Oh, Mister Mole, sir: I didn’t know you were there!” “I’m not – I’m HERE!” he replied, mischievously, taking a couple of steps back. “And ready for all of that FANTASTIC food! Well, when I say ALL, what I mean is that I’ll have a little bit of EVERYTHING, please!” And with that, he wandered over to the rarely-used dining table – which, today, pulled away from its usual resting place next to the wall, and both leaves extended, groaned with cutlery and crockery; pots of homemade raspberry jam and ginger marmalade; and piles of toast and currant teacakes – and dropped into a chair, after plumping up its gingham cushion. “But where’s Ratty?” he asked, looking at the two other chairs. “He NEVER misses breakfast, brunchfast, OR brunch.”

“I’m HERE!” came the distant reply. And a hint of an echo was joined by a crescendoing squelching and sprinkling of drips and drops: as the Water Rat – true to his name – made his way in from the passage that led to the front door in his stockinged feet, carrying a very muddy pair of Wellington boots in one paw, and a beading Stetson in the other. Water drizzled from his overcoat onto the stone slabs. “I take it that it’s still raining, then!” chortled the Mole, absentmindedly spreading his sleeve with butter.

Hither, page, and walk by me…

Christmas walking seems to be what an American friend of mine would call a “thing”, nowadays: an increasingly habitual, or even traditional, way of burning off some of those excess seasonal calories; or just escaping from the usual rituals and infinite complexities. I even noticed that the wonderful Stratford Town Walk – a very useful and entertaining introduction to “Shakespeare’s Stratford-upon-Avon” – organizes a “Christmas Day festive guided walking tour”.

However, realizing I had not attained its lofty 184 metre summit even once, this year, I decided, bright and early, to ascend the north face of Windmill Hill. So I dug out a pair of fleece-lined walking trousers; clad myself in many, many layers; pulled on a fresh pair of woollen socks, and my still-Buttermere-soiled leather boots; donned my habitual hat; and set off – fortified by a hearty breakfast – companion staff in hand.

Forth I went, through the rude wind’s wild lament, treading boldly, etc.… – and, my goodness, it was bracing! (Once I reached the top, I measured the temperature at just over 2°C; and later learned that there was a windchill factor of at least 4°C!) But I am a hardy northerner: so was not deterred – not in the slightest… – especially as the sky was a beautiful rich blue gradation, and there was hardly a cloud (nor other foolhardy soul) in sight; and it felt that you could see forever. However, the large amounts of sticky Warwickshire tilth clinging to my soles must have increased my burden (and height) quite significantly!

Looking back from the achievement of the Windmill – being moithered by a pair of squeaking blue tits (the only wildlife I saw…) – it was so easy to be proud of our three little hamlets of brick and stone, slate and clay, peeking out between the many trees below, and guarded by the Edge Hills: a sight which should make the heart of any resident beat faster (although, if I am to be totally honest, this symptom may have been fuelled a little by the climb…), and care deeply about their future. I therefore lingered a while, until my face began to freeze; and headed back – albeit a little reluctantly – for home, and a well-deserved large mug of hot coffee.

Then, last night, as the Feast of Stephen faded, typically not being able to sleep, I went on one of my regular dark patrols of Upper and Middle Tysoe – suitably attired again. No snow lay round about, as in other areas of the country: but, as the church clock chimed half-past two, it did begin to sleet from the north-west. Luckily, I had then turned my back on the prevailing weather. The night was dark as Erebus, though, and the wind blew even stronger; but, having supped a preparatory dram or two of ‘Leapfrog’, I certainly found the winter’s rage froze my blood less coldly. Still, I was immensely grateful for the oak-logs flaming in the hearth, when I returned.

Oh, morning, at the brown brink…

All I ask for, at the end, is a last long resting place by the side of Innominate Tarn, on Haystacks, where the water gently laps the gravelly shore and the heather blooms and Pillar and Gable keep unfailing watch. A quiet place, a lonely place. I shall go to it, for the last time, and be carried: someone who knew me in life will take me and empty me out of a little box and leave me there alone. And if you, dear reader, should get a bit of grit in your boot as you are crossing Haystacks in the years to come, please treat it with respect. It might be me.

– Alfred Wainwright: Memoirs of a Fellwalker

The north-western fells of the Lake District have a very limited colour range at this time of year: the dark green of the conifers; the almost-lime green of moss and grass; the rust of dying bracken, fallen leaves and pine needles; the grey-green of slate; and dark grey of the peaks, silhouetted against the steely sky – or, if you are lucky, glowing gold beneath emerging patches of blue – tinting the choppy lakes…. Green; orange; grey – with the occasional silver glint of vertiginous streams, or streak of snow. A gift to screen-printers; and absolutely beautiful to behold – even in a howling gale, when the sleet is battering your face at over 40 mph…! (I’m a northerner by birth, and by inclination: so am allowed such masochism.) Fortunately, the wind was blowing towards Wainwright’s beloved Haystacks: cradling Innominate Tarn, as it should… – but adding my face to to the local palette: a glowing, windburnt ruddiness.

Such was an almost deserted Buttermere, early last Saturday (when everyone else – if the roads were anything to go by – was out, manically Christmas shopping). Pottering around a small lake is much more preferable, to my mind – whatever the weather: especially when you can count the like-minded people you meet on the fingers of one necessary glove. And my perseverance was rewarded. Even though the wind never dropped, it did clear some of the clouds away from the majority of summits – revealing their true glory, transforming threatening giants into warm-hearted friends: especially the “fell with the prosaic name”, Robinson.

The Buttermere valley is robbed of winter sunshine by a rugged mountain wall exceeding two thousand feet in height and of unusual steepness, its serrated skyline seeming almost to threaten the green fields and dark lake and homesteads far below in its shadow. No mountain range in Lakeland is more dramatically impressive than this, no other more spectacularly sculptured…. Here the scenery assumes truly Alpine characteristics, yet without sacrifice of the intimate charms, the romantic atmosphere, found in Lakeland and nowhere else….

As I walked, I found myself humming the perfectly-ambling-paced Prelude from Holst’s Brook Green Suite – used as the theme music for Eric Robson’s television series of walks with “A.W.” – and it’s difficult to think of a more appropriate accompaniment, even in such challenging conditions (although Brook Green, as a place, itself couldn’t be more different).

On a better day – better for my health, as well as the weather – I might even have hauled myself up Buttermere Fell through the welcoming Scarth Gap (as did one lonely, better-equipped soul – aiming to descend later past Green Crag… – who I met at the southern end of the lake, crossing Warnscale Beck at Peggy’s Bridge) to pay my respects to the man himself at Innominate Tarn. But the granite crest of Haystacks, today, and from this perspective, never looked anything other than its usual forbidding self: a suitable sentinel for such a private – and great – individual. As the man himself wrote: “The Buttermere aspect is the better known, although this side is often dark in shadow and seen only as a silhouette against the sky: here, above Warnscale, is a great wall of crags…. The only advice that can be given to a novice lost on Haystacks in mist is that he should kneel down and pray for safe deliverance.”

Once up there – and it isn’t that tough a climb, really, at around 400 metres – as I know from a youth filled with fellwalking: you will find nothing other than a rewarding, but tough, beauty – the perfect definition of grandeur – that will never leave you (and that you will find very tough to leave – as did Wainwright…).

Writing this, a few days later, on Christmas Eve, supping a pint of Wainwright “exquisitely lovely” golden ale, I can remember almost every step taken: beginning with the walk from the car park behind the Fish Inn; Rannerdale Knotts (“a mountain in miniature, and a proud one”) a perfect backdrop… – not just because the ground beneath your feet varies so much, in level, texture, solidity: ranging from smooth, manmade paths; the damp cushioning of moulding leaves; false friends of less-than-stable slabs of slippery rock; tree roots almost fossilized by the frequent tread of boots; and temporary waterfalls rushing across where the trail once was… – but also because of that allure: every short stride bringing a new perspective (as well as a new photo opportunity… – even with my iPhone battery dying halfway round, I took over one hundred photographs…!).

As I turned, at the far end of the lake, approaching Gatesgarth Farm, I had a real feeling of déjà vu… – Fleetwith Pike rising majestically above a small group of trees… – “Ah: so that’s where the cover of Wainwright’s The Western Fells is!” [And that’s where the majority of the quotations come from (being his last Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells: “Thus a 13-year plan was finished one week ahead of schedule…”) – along with a smattering from The North Western Fells – as he uses the valley of the Cocker, “jewelled by the lovely lakes of Buttermere and Crummock Water”, as a convenient boundary between the two books.]

Returning along the northern shore of the lake (including the unique Hassness tunnel), you certainly look more down than up – and I never once forgot to watch where I was putting my feet, as Wainwright often prompts… – although Whiteless Pike, once cleared of cloud, was a great target: and stood as encouragement to keep up the pace (although I must admit to flagging terribly at Wilkinsyke Farm: using the excuse of a young border collie’s eagerness to stop and rest my legs, before the wobbly charge of the last few hundred metres; a change of boots and socks; and a final peeling of layers…).

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

     It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

     It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

     And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

     And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

– Gerard Manley Hopkins: God’s Grandeur

Carol for Christmas Day…

Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!

The Lord is born today.

Come on, rejoice,

With heart and voice,

The Lord is King for ever.

Be happy and glad,

Be joyful, not sad;

He’s come to save us from our sins.

Hurray! And let us sing

Our praises to the King.

Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!

Sing hymns for Christmas Day;

Of shepherds and kings,

Of ox and ass,

Of Bethl’em’s lowly stable.

The star, on high,

Lights up the sky,

And welcomes Jesus to this Earth.

Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!

Sing hymns for Christmas Day!

Set to music by Stephen R Ward (child genius), for unaccompanied SATB; dedicated to Keith Bond (the church musician’s musician); and first performed by the astoundingly accomplished Blackburn Cathedral Young People’s Choir (YPC) at Matins on Christmas Day 1976.

Merry Christmas!

And sweet to remember…

“We are nearer to Spring

Than we were in September,”

I heard a bird sing

In the dark of December.

– Oliver Herford: I Heard a Bird Sing

I first came across redwings (Turdus iliacus – and therefore a member of the thrush family), when I lived in Gloucestershire: where, not only were we on the edge of the countryside (I couldn’t abide anywhere else, of course), but we had an extremely large holly tree in the front garden – which, every winter (usually after we had taken some cuttings for a wreath for the front door, thankfully!), would get stripped of all its berries in a matter of days. It wasn’t difficult to identify the culprits: flashes of cream-and-brown mottling, then a lovely wine-red, as they flapped their wings for balance; accompanied by the occasional “tseep”, when the guilty parties had momentarily ceased packing their beaks, or were moving on (quite frequently at night). They were even more obvious as they gathered, each evening, in the bare apple tree in the back garden – oftentimes mixing with other similar-sized birds, if the night was going to be frosty – before huddling together in a neighbour’s large pine.

Where I grew up, in a large Victorian house in Lancashire, our front garden was a veritable forest of different sorts of holly: but I cannot remember them being ransacked quite so thoroughly, or picked at by anything other than mistle thrushes and blackbirds. According to the British Trust for Ornithology (BTO), this is probably because “their [UK winter] distribution is far from even. Key counties in the southwest, the Welsh borders and the Midlands support high numbers of birds and are probably very important to the conservation of the species.”

Sadly, despite their large winter gatherings (of up to a million) in the UK, these beautiful birds are on the RSPB’s Birds of Conservation Concern (BoCC) Red List because we have a very small, and decreasing, breeding population (of around a dozen), restricted to the north of Scotland. However, our local rural environment – as with our neighbouring county – is certainly to their taste for the winter fruit and shelter it provides: as each year, around Christmas, I have witnessed large flocks of them, in their Yuletide-appropriate plumage (much more subtle than a robin’s), plundering the local hedgerows; as well as feasting under our many apple trees on fallen fruit – gradually moving from the A422 down Tysoe Road, through Lower Tysoe, then through the rest of the village – before eventually devouring any berries on Upper Tysoe’s bushes; and, finally, relying, as winter worsens, on any earthworms they can find in the fields.

They seem to have touched down here early, though, this year (they generally arrive in the UK from Russia and Scandinavia in October: working their way across the country) – maybe prompted by the increased size (and appetite) of their cohort, caused by “more food than usual at their breeding grounds”; or, perhaps, in parallel, the premonition of a harsh winter?

Three years ago (at 15:00, on 17 January 2012), I wrote this in the family Birder’s pocket logbook…

A flock of redwings has arrived: flitting between the rookery, the oak tree, and the holly tree – stripping it rapidly of all its berries! (I so love redwings: there is something particularly appealing about their transience and gregariousness; not to mention the fact that they also seem to attract other similar companions….)

…so they are currently a month ahead of their previous schedule (when the winter wasn’t as cold or as snowy as in previous years); and, this time – explaining some of the augmentation in numbers – they are accompanied by fieldfares (also now at risk in the UK) – going by the colloquial “clacks” that accompany the group. This has made their presence all the more obvious – and somewhat more clamorous. I will be sad to see them move on.

Postscript

I had hoped that, somehow, the Redwings Horse Sanctuary Oxhill Visitor Centre – headquartered at Hapton in Norfolk – would have a connection with these winter visitors; but it seems that its name comes from another bird entirely!

Redwings was originally named by our founder, Wendy Valentine and actually has no equine connection at all, being derived from the type of chickens that had been kept on the site where Redwings was established!

A load of cobblers…

Oh shut up, Balders. You’d laugh at a Shakespeare comedy.

– Blackadder: Blackadder II

It’s been a long time since I’ve not been utterly gripped by a night at the theatre – the last occasion being a production of The Tempest, with the late Richard Briers (who had been one of my favourite actors until then…) as a somewhat wooden and uninvolved – and therefore quotidian and non-magical – Prospero. Sadly, it was also my young son’s introduction to live-staged Shakespeare (although he loved the retelling of the story in Forbidden Planet, with Walter Pidgeon) – but it doesn’t seem to have caused him any lasting harm!

But, at the Swan, this weekend, I found myself sniggering occasionally, rather than guffawing frequently; and clapping politely, rather than enthusiastically, before leaving the theatre less engaged, excited and involved than I usually am – and it wasn’t for lack of effort from either the actors, designers or musicians: all of whom gave their all (sometimes over-enthusiastically…).

To be honest, the play itself was probably the thing at the root of my disenchantment: especially as I had tried hard to read it beforehand; but found it laborious. Usually such a problem is then remedied by an imaginative production suspending any remaining disbelief – but I’m not convinced that this is possible in this case. Unlike the majority of Shakespeare’s dramas (and, it has to be said, all of the previous contemporary plays in the Swan, this season: including The Roaring Girl, co-authored with Thomas Middleton) – which somehow manage to stay permanently relevant – “One of the most popular Elizabethan plays”, The Shoemaker’s Holiday, by Thomas Dekker (this time solely (sorry)) – just opened, and on until 7 March 2015 – appears, to me, to have aged (and therefore dated) rather badly. (As it overran by nearly twenty minutes, perhaps things will have improved later in the season: and it will be panned in – as my mother would say – rather than simply panned….)

The production itself, though, was – as it was designed to be – gloriously staged: “full of modish costumes: not only fine shoes, but also hoods, farthingales, and periwigs”, as its latest editor, Jonathan Gil Harris, points out, underlining “how the commercial playhouses relied on expensive stage properties… to lure spectators”; and this was exemplified by the foppish Hammon: wonderfully, beseechingly, played by Jamie Wilkes. The RSC’s wardrobe department (under costume supervisor Nicky Fitchett) certainly and skilfully went to town (a bawdy very, very late 16th-century London): at one point dressing the nouveau riche David Troughton’s Falstaffian Simon Eyre as Henry VIII; complemented by Vivien Parry, as Mrs “Lady Madgy” Eyre – the twin of ‘Queenie’ Elizabeth I, from Blackadder II.

The evocative stage design (by Max Jones; lit beautifully by Tina MacHugh) took many of its cues from Westminster Hall (and the rose window from Westminster Abbey?) – suiting the Swan’s wooden galleries and brick walls extremely well; although the deep, stained turquoise flagged floor seemed a little out of place.

Although there were true moments of great comedy (and occasional farce – which I’m not a real fan of…), these, to me, were spread too thinly, and too far apart, and some of the jokes – such as Josh O’Connor’s scripted over-Dutch-accented disguise (in the mould of Officer Crabtree) of Hans the shoemaker; and obvious puns on journeyman Firk’s (Joel MacCormack) name – too repetitive. It also felt (my hearing aids were turned down two notches) like much of the dialogue was shouted, rather than projected – as if the actors (and director Phillip Breen), in trying to authentically recreate the periodic effect, were aiming for the rafters of the original Rose playhouse. For something billed by artistic director Gregory Doran as a “a glorious festive comedy” (featuring the poem The Merry Month of May…!) there was, sadly, very little whole-audience-involved mirth.

The acting (apart from being frequently loud, like a lot of the garb…) was of a uniformly high quality: with many of the company making their RSC debuts. The star of the show, though – from perfectly and authoritatively delivering the prologue to actively taking part in some very vicious morris-dancing – was young Sebastian Dibb: who was a lot more than incidental to the play, and seemed to be on stage as much as any member of the shoemakers’ gang: helping them party like it really was 1599. You could say, I suppose, that they really gave their awl.

I can’t stand all that shouting in the evening.
– Patrick Troughton

A walk on the mild side…

Hi,

Just a quick email to say how useful I've found the blog, particularly as a prospective Tysoean (or Tysoenese, I defer to your experience in such matters). I’m moving your way, you see, and was wondering if you had any tips on where to wander first, what to look out for etc? Local intelligence and any advice much appreciated. No obligation, of course, but my wife and particularly poorly behaved collie want to put the right foot first, if you see what I mean.

Kind regards and keep up the good work,

Tom

Dear Tom –

Many thanks for your wonderful email – which I’m pretty sure is the first piece of ‘fanmail’ that I’ve received, in a year of writing (mostly) about the place I live; the place I love. You’re obviously possessed with excellent taste – both in writers and in villages – so feel free to give yourself a pat on the back; and why not treat yourself to a pint, the next time you find yourself in one of our local pubs!

Seriously, though, I’m glad the blog is both useful, and being read by people who don’t already live here (“Tysoeans”, I think – although that makes us sound vaguely mythical or mystical; inhabitants of an almost 21st-century Shangri-La: which, of course, isn’t too far from the truth…). I’m also pleased that it hasn’t dented your attraction to the place.

You may have to go elsewhere for “local intelligence”, though… – but, as to “advice” on where to wander: well, you’ll be spoilt for choice! When we moved here, we ordered an OS Select map from Ordnance Survey, centred on our new home: and we immediately discovered that there are footpaths galore spiralling out from the village, connecting us like a beautifully-designed walker’s web to our neighbouring villages, and beyond. Alternatively, you could grab yourself a copy of the local OS Landranger Map (151: Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwick & Banbury) – which will give you a wider range of places to explore.

So, where to go first? Well, although it currently lacks both its sails and its stocks, the windmill – on the appropriately-named Windmill Hill, between Upper Tysoe and Compton Wynyates – is an obvious landmark; and it’s up a hill (d’oh): so good exercise for all three of you! At 181 metres above sea-level, it is also a great place to survey your new domain – with wonderful views particularly north (overlooking the three Tysoes) and west (towards Shipston-on-Stour and Chipping Campden) – or, on a warm day, to have a leisurely picnic. (What do you mean: you left the wine chilling in the fridge?!)

Should you wish, instead of returning to the village, you can then wander over the far side of the hill – with your rucksacks lightened and tummies filled – down past the stunning Compton Wynyates house (sadly no longer open to the public), and across the fields – on the flat – to Whatcote or Oxhill: both of which have the requisite pub – the friendly Royal Oak and my favourite (especially for fine food), The Peacock, respectively.

If you take the path to Whatcote, you will eventually join the Centenary Way (which leaves Upper Tysoe via Tysoe Manor, one of the village’s many listed buildings). This path is well worth exploring in both directions: and, if you don’t mind the odd gradient, clambering up by Old Lodge Farm is the best way to get to our nearest National Trust property, Upton House – which has wonderful gardens, a great restaurant, and one of the best interiors of any stately home I know (especially if, like me, you’re a fan of interesting art and comfortable chairs!) – or even further along the Edge Hill ridge (famously overlooking the first pitched battle of the English Civil War).

Depending how new you are to the wider area, it contains a plethora of local National Trust properties (although not many will welcome a “particularly poorly behaved collie” I’m afraid – otherwise I would have raved about Charlecote Park: which is home to a herd of fallow deer and a flock of Jacob sheep); and Stratford-upon-Avon itself is good for gentle strolls down by the River Avon, or up into the Welcombe Hills. (Have a look at my online Warwickshire photo gallery, if you need further inspiration; or take a peek at my list of Local links.)

But you don’t always have to leave the village (Mrs Bard particularly enjoys exploring the area around the Epwell Road): as there are byways through, and connecting, all parts of it – and all pretty much on the flat – so, when I’m feeling less energetic (which is pretty much my default mode, at the moment), I’m happy just to toddle along the back lanes to the church and back; or, following the footpath beyond the church and primary school, stretch my legs as far as Lower Tysoe. As I’ve said before, “the three hamlets – from Tysoe Manor to Lane End Farm – are less than two miles from end-to-end (and that’s using the roads; not cutting corners with our frequent footpaths, or as the numerous crows fly…)”: so it’s no great strain, and there is much to be enjoyed (including a wide selection of wildlife) – whichever direction you head in!

Hopefully, this will have given you a few ideas, for once you’ve settled in (or just can’t be bothered unpacking the twentieth box of the morning…). Welcome to Tysoe! I hope the place brings you many happy times and memories.

The wheel of heaven turns above us endlessly

This is all the heaven we got, right here where we are in our Shangri-La.

– Mark Knopfler: Our Shangri-La

Further comments…

Like many others in our village, I was initially delighted to see that the surveys, carried out during the summer, have already begun to morph into a concrete first draft of our Neighbourhood Plan. I really do hope that this itself continues to evolve, though, as is promised – “to reflect the ongoing feedback we receive from further consultation” – before a final version is issued; and that the opportunity is taken to reflect more of the three Tysoes’ special character, arresting qualities, distinctiveness and realities – their true “spirit of place” – rather than producing something almost generic: that could apply to any such group of hamlets, anywhere in the country, as it currently stands (well, apart from self-righteously demanding that “All new dwellings must contain an element of local stone” – which is, of course, impossible, as I have stated before). I also hope that, in its final form, it will pay more than lip service to environmentalism and sustainability – especially with regards to energy and its generation – and not continue to be so proscriptive.

¶

Before I go into these issues in more detail, I do think that one of the two most obvious problems with the Plan, as it stands, is that it only captures – as with most modern voting systems – the views of a minority of the parish’s residents; and it would be worthwhile, I think, therefore, to use the street champions in one of the rôles they were originally created for – that is, going door-to-door – to discern the views of people who didn’t respond to the survey; as well as perhaps ascertaining why they didn’t respond. This may also help to gain stronger ownership of, and investment in, the Plan (if that is what people want); and, subsequently, to deliver a more substantial and decisive vote in the referendum – scheduled for early next year – which decides whether or not villagers accept its recommendations, and allow it to come into force as a statutory instrument.

The second major issue is how much meaning – presuming it actually gains a majority vote – the Plan will have; and for how long. As the current draft states (on page 4): “…all Neighbourhood Plans must be in line with… local policy, in particular Stratford [sic] District Council’s Core Strategy.” But how can this be? In all probability, the Plan will be completed well before the Core Strategy sees the light of day (if it ever does). And I remain to be convinced that the Localism Act (which this Neighbourhood Plan is derived from) will ever hold much sway, anyway – in a political climate where the goalposts seem to have discovered how to thwart the impossibility of perpetual motion – especially when previous surveys and plans produced by the Parish Council have been superseded again and again (through no fault of their own). I am concerned that this could just simply be yet another time- and money-consuming exercise: designed to keep us “plebs” occupied, and therefore from being able to interfere in, or protest against, Tory diktats.

Green crap

Under Getting Around, on page 5, the draft states that “The Plan… looks at a wide range of issues, including: encouraging Tysoe to become a ‘greener’ village [and] how we should protect our natural and built heritage assets” – but I don’t see much evidence of this, even under Environment & Sustainability (on page 13). For example, on page 7, it says: “Now, being one of the most remote settlements in the county, residents have to rely heavily on private motor car usage” – but I do not see much in the draft that addresses this. It even mentions, on page 8, that “Cycling is possible…” – and yet it was strongly argued, when fighting Gladman’s proposals for Oxhill Road, that cycling to local employment was almost impossible because of the distances and gradients involved: something I would concur with. We are not all Bradley Wiggins or even Lance Armstrong!

I also find it astonishing that the draft states that “Wind turbine generators that require planning permission will not be permitted unless it is possible to demonstrate minimal impact on the amenities of the village of Tysoe” (repeated on page 22). Why so draconian and narrow-minded? What are the reasons for this: when it has been proven that onshore wind power is one of the cheapest and most sustainable forms of energy; does not impact nearby house prices; and can be used to create meaningful UK-based employment? How are we “to ensure that developments which include affordable homes do not contribute to future fuel poverty; given Tysoe has no mains gas…” if we do not consider all forms of power? When we are supposed to be drastically reducing our dependence on fossil fuels, this seems extremely short-sighted and prescriptive. I presume, under these rules, that Tysoe’s most famous landmark – evidence that wind power is also quite reliable in this area – would never have been allowed? We are no longer living in the 17th century… – but perhaps the authors will change their tune when we suffer from frequent and regular power cuts. (Wind power could also provide the village with great financial returns, as well as cheap electricity, were we to invest in modern equivalents to the windmill – as I have previously written.) This, to me, smacks of politics and authoritarianism, rather than aesthetics or common sense; and is in direct contravention of the draft Plan’s own “Objective ES2: Encourage energy efficient and sustainable development”.

It is also stated, in this section, that “Residents can access the local services by walking. The services are within an acceptable walking distance of the majority of dwellings.” So what is to be done to dissuade people from – or penalize them for (as this is where we really need a little proscription) – driving half a mile (or less) to the shop, to collect their morning paper or a loaf of bread; from driving their ill-exercised children short distances to the school or pre-school; or even, astonishingly, from transporting their dog in their 4x4 – which I have witnessed far too many times – to a nearby field for a short walk (and so that their pet can defecate all over some poor farmer’s crops, as well as the local footpaths), as they currently do…? I am quite badly disabled, and yet make the effort to walk – albeit much slower, and in much more pain, than the “average person” – far beyond the distances outlined on page 20 of the draft: including regularly from Upper Tysoe to Lower Tysoe and back.

¶

Money’s too tight

Under the Housing objectives (page 12), I do not see any mention of affordable housing (although it appears, in passing, under Environment & Sustainability, on page 13; and again on page 19) – either as defined by law, or – preferably – as defined by local salaries. Prioritizing “1, 2 and 3 bedroom dwellings to encourage younger households to locate in Tysoe” is all well and good – but our local house prices are well above average for the region; and certainly not truly affordable to young people who would wish to stay here. (I know that the previous, superseded, Housing Needs Survey showed that there wasn’t much demand: but that is, I believe – from talking to residents with older children – only because they are conscious of the fact that “affordable” is a label, and does not reflect their, or their children’s, financial reality.) Do we not want to encourage local families to stay together? Surely the Town Trust could set an example, here…?

¶

Stone the crows

In Development Strategy (on page 15), the draft states that “All new dwellings must contain an element of local stone”. Why? The current village contains a wide mixture of building media; and such variety is a big part of its aesthetic and vernacular. Again, I state that “We are no longer living in the 17th century” – and modern building materials can be much more environmentally-friendly and cost-effective than stone; as well as ensuring that the village does not end up full of unimaginative, identikit buildings (which is the direction it is currently heading in). They can also “contribute to local character by creating a sense of place appropriate to its location” – providing, of course, that we think of “sense of place” much more widely than the materials delivered on the back of a lorry from the local builders yard.

What is “an element”, anyway? Will a foundation stone, suffice, or a doorstep? And what is “local”? The nearest ironstone – as I have written before – now comes from over the border, in Great Tew.

Finally – although going back to the Foreword, on page 3 – the draft states that “The development of the Tysoe Neighbourhood Plan, being led by the Parish Council, started back in February 2014.” This is not correct: as the initial meeting with regards to the establishment of Tysoe’s Neighbourhood Plan was between a representative of the Tysoe Residents (Neighbourhood Planning) Group and “Fiona Blundell and Simon Purfield at SDC”, and was held on 14 November 2013 – as part of that group’s sterling work (which also included, of course, defeating Gladman Developments at the initial planning hearing). But this, to me, is just another attempt to disassociate the perceived success of the still-nascent Neighbourhood Plan from Keith Risk’s Tysoe Residents (Neighbourhood Planning) Group – which, as I say, kicked the whole process off… – an act I think both sad and unnecessary; and which speaks volumes about its purveyors. It would seem that not only do the draft’s authors seek to write our future, but that they also wish to rewrite our past.

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf II

Walk out in the rain…

And one young mouse was so much braver than the rest; although only just as wise. However, what drove him to such courage, currently, was so much more than a need to protect his brethren – he was in love! Every week, therefore, he left his country burrow behind, and trekked the miles – so very far, for such tiny legs – to the nearest village, to ply his favours. But such distance only added fuel to his avidity: and he always reached his destination stronger, and more vital. (“Oh, to have a BUSHY tail!” he exclaimed, one day, upon arrival.) The long walk home seemed dreary in comparison.

Until one day, after his habitual trudge through the fields, roadside ditches, and then back gardens, he had been rewarded, not just with the embrace from his beloved, but her leading him by the paw to a room not unlike the Mole’s study – only on a much grander scale. “Why have you brought me HERE?” he asked, impatiently. “Well,” she responded: “wouldn’t YOU like to know!”

And soon he did. For on the circular table that filled the room lay the same heavy, dark-blue sheets that decorated the Mole’s desk – but plastered with stuck-on notes in a squiggly script that was, as yet, hard to unravel. “We haven’t got long. The Master will be back, soon. I just wanted you to see them; and see if they could help.”

He held her harder and longer than ever before, leaving her cheeks a becoming shade of rosy perfection. “What a wonderful, wonderful mouse you are!” he almost sang. “A genius above ALL other mouses… – as well as the most BEAUTIFUL, of course…” he added, hurriedly. “Why, I could…” – and then they perceived, over the tapping of the rain on the window, which wanted to come in and share the warmth with them, the sound of heavy boots, slightly muffled by the thick wooden door and threadbare kitchen rug, growing, growing, until the handle of the door was turned, and a slightly round, authoritative-looking giant of a man entered, with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand. By which time, of course, they had concealed themselves hurriedly in a dark corner of the room, under a tired, leather, tub-shaped chair.

“I must go home and tell Mister Mole”, whispered the young mouse, torn between staying and going, going and staying. “This might be important….” His already quiet voice faded, as he realized the sacrifice he must make. But he knew his partner’s discovery was BEYOND important. “Come with me. PLEASE…” he pleaded: holding her fading face in his outstretched paws. “I can’t. But you’ll be back soon. You HAVE to be. For me; and for the sake of your home.”

He knew she was right. And sooner than soon, he was deep in the Wild Wood, yoyoing up and down on that familiar bell-pull with all the might he had left, both feet well off the ground, listening to the deep-toned knell responding far, far away. This was no time to be sneaking in through the back, that was for sure.

¶

“Not AGAIN,” said a weary and suspicious voice. And the heavy door creaked open, slowly, followed by the appearance of a stern-looking cudgel (not that there are many friendly ones), and then a sleepy-looking, shimmering, candlelit Mole, in his oversized dressing-gown and shuffling slippers.

“What, Mouse, my dear little fellow!” exclaimed the Mole, now brighter and awakening.“What ARE you doing in such foul weather? You look EXHAUSTED – and look at the state of your feet, all muddy and sore. Well I never! Ratty – it’s MOUSE!” he called, down the long corridor. “Come in with you,” he encouraged his young visitor, turning back to face the doorway. “Come IN with you; and have a wash and a warm-up. And then you must tell us why you are out on such a HORRID night. Ratty – put a pan of water on, won’t you, good fellow; and see what we have to eat…!”

¶

An hour or so later, the Mole was lying back in his snug chair, next to the revivified fire, still chuckling at the appearance of their young guest; and the Water Rat and the Mouse were together on one of the settles in front of it, scarfing down the remains of some hastily assembled cheese, chutney and gherkin sandwiches, crumbs flying everywhere. The Mouse had not taken well to the proffered whisky: coughing like a dying steam train; and, therefore, a cooling mug of half-finished hot chocolate sat next to him, adding to the interlinked and overlapping circles branded into the ancient varnish: evidence of many previous toe-toasting callers in many previous storms.

“So, what brings you here, on such a terrible night?” asked the Rat, turning to his young friend, his eyes glistening with the reflected flames. “It’s the plans, sir; the PLANS.”

As the lightbulb switched on inside the Mole’s head – with remembrances of absent dust and thoughts of present tidiness – its glow emerged in his eyes as a bright tickled twinkle. “The PLANS?” he proclaimed, raising himself up a tad, and trying to sound as stentorian as possible for such a small furry animal (“and one with creaking bones”, he thought) – whilst looking a great deal less serious than he had intended: as that twinkle spread to his whole face, and the corners of his mouth began to curl. “The PLANS? WHAT plans?”

“Oh, sir, sir, just like the ones in your study, sir….” The Mouse’s voice faded as his shoulders drooped: realizing what he had revealed. But the Mole was desperately trying to stay in character, and thoroughly enjoying the sensation of power. “Do you mean to say – young Mouse – that YOU have been in MY study?”

But it was all too much: and, catching sight of the Rat – almost bent double, trying to suppress the shaking that comes with deep-seated laughter, then looking up, with tears of joy streaming down his face – the Mole let go of the last vestiges of pretence, and both he and the Rat exploded with paroxysms of shared merriment.

Knowing that he had been found out, and that this was Not A Bad Thing, the Mouse finally relaxed; and, when they had all wiped their faces of tears, and their small earthquakes of glee had subsided – and after being told never to call either of them “sir”, ever again, or to suffer the extremely ill-defined consequences – the Mouse explained – his words and phrases tumbling over each other in his haste to get the story out – how his family had been cleaning Mister Mole’s study (“we couldn’t ENDURE leaving it…”); found the blueprints; realized their significance; then their mistake in cleaning them; then their mistake in leaving them dusty; then seeing the same plans (“the same numbers in the corner, Mister Mole; the same strange shapes…”) at the old man’s house (“…and he’s as hairless as a newborn!”), where he had been visiting his umpteenth cousin, so many times removed; how very clever she had been; and how he had realized this was important, as well; and that maybe the two of them had chanced upon some sort of help, or ally; and then that he had rushed here to tell them. Immediately. Of course.

“Except I don’t remember anything between leaving her, and ringing the doorbell,” said the Mouse, bemused. “It didn’t even go by in a rush, like sometimes. One moment I was there; next, I was here. All I could think of was Mister Mole. I didn’t know YOU were back, sir… – sorry, Mister Water Rat, sir, Mister Rat, Mister RAT…. I’m sorry if I woke you both up…. But… did I do the right thing?”

“Of COURSE you did,” replied the Rat, soothingly, placing his paw gently on the young animal’s shoulder, and a big comforting grin on his own increasingly happy face. “You did BRILLIANTLY!”

“Although I’m not quite sure”, pondered the Mole, stroking his chin, “what to make of it all. A little cogitation; a little more sleep; and, when the sun rises, maybe it will shed a little light on it all. We… shall… see….”

In memoriam Joseph Ashby…

If this field…

If this field could cry, then it would;

If this field could cry, it would cry

For hare, for badger, for silence,

As the owl cries, but not for care.

If this field could weep, then it would;

If this field could weep, it would weep

For unity, for history,

As the cloud weeps, but not for rain.

If this field could grieve, then it would;

If this field could grieve, it would grieve

For tilth, for furrow, for the plough,

As the horse grieves, but not for ease.

If this field could pass, then it would;

If this field could pass, it would pass

For myth, for symbol, for tribute,

As the days pass, but not for night.

What once was plenty was all our fathers’

And our mothers’ too; was shared in labour

And enjoyment; was permanent and firm

As the ridges and footsteps they planted:

Knowing never to cry, weep, grieve, or pass

By this field that grew them, formed them entire.

If this field could cry, then it would;

If this field could weep, then it would;

If this field could grieve, then it would;

If this field could pass, then it would;

But it will not lie easily

Entombed beneath base usury.

If this field could live, then it would;

If this field could live… it would live.

Ignorantia iuris nocet…

…or one rule for us, and six for the others…

Men’s hearts ought not to be set against one another, but set with one another, and all against evil only.

– Thomas Carlyle

When Keith Risk first stood up, in the village hall, just over a year ago, to ask for help in fighting the proposed development on Oxhill Road, one of his themes was unity: uniting the village residents in opposition; uniting with our neighbouring villages; and uniting with – and supporting – our Parish Council in their crucial and central gubernatorial rôle.

As with all councils or governments – national, regional, district, town, parish – Tysoe Parish Council only achieves its aims, its many successes, through longstanding rules and procedures: which define how it works, what its remit is, how meetings are held – i.e. due process. Surely, the only way we can win this battle is by playing by the rules?

However, it has become increasingly apparent over the last year that some people – perhaps because they live in big houses, and they feel this makes them important, and gives them an unearned (high) status: enabling them not only to flout these rules, but to render subservient people and regulations that stand in their way… – somehow believe that They Are The Law; and that What They Say Is Always Right; and that they can selectively pick and mix whatever legislation suits them; or just ride roughshod through anything that gets in their way. It seems that people who live in big houses do sometimes throw stones – but not necessarily in the right direction, or for the right reason. Did we really need to show a divided face to the Planning Inspector? Two faces do not make anyone more appealing.

¶

So it is that, at tomorrow evening’s Parish Council meeting, a hare-brained scheme to somehow win over Eric Pickles, the current Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government – more “rapacious” even than the developers that our hard-working MP has christened – will be thrust forward: and without any warning whatsoever being given to our beleaguered Parish Councillors. There are rules for how much notice must be given for such things; and there are also the mores of common decency and politeness, of course. But none of these seem to matter to those who come across as thinking themselves above such things. In fact their actions give the impression that they envisage themselves as puppet-masters: attempting to take control and untangle the strings of what they must consider a hapless Parish Council – twisting their necks into agonized positions so that they can actually manage to look down on a peerless and humble group of people who work extremely hard in looking after this village extremely well.

“Due process” of course, also includes the fact that our Parish Council is democratically chosen, and involves the residents in its decisions. It is not self-selecting, dictatorial, or arrogant.

¶

What has prompted this anger is the following email: which has been sent under the guise of helping the village, when, to me (and many others) it shows obvious signs of self-promotion. (I have therefore removed the name at the top to protect both the guilty and the innocent.) It went flying around certain quarters of the village early today (fuelled by bigheaded petrol?); but appears not to have been sent to Parish Councillors (certainly not the PC’s chair), or those who are known to be democratic, or even, in my case, somewhat anarchistic (in that people have to earn their respect from me – admittedly not easily won – rather than expect me to get down on one knee and tug where my forelock used to be, just because they've told me that they are important).

…the rule 6 group intends to go to the parish council meeting on Monday to ask that the Gladman planning application be recovered by the Secretary of State. This would mean that the appeal inspectors decision, due by January 20th, would become a recommendation and the Secretary of State would then decide on in due course. The appeal can be recovered in the case where the site is “greater than five acres and would significantly impact upon the governments objective to secure a better balance between housing supply and demand and create high quality, sustainable mixed and inclusive communities.” Given the state of the neighbourhood plan which shows that the Gladman site is the least popular in the village, the village is not in favour of such a large scale development and the village wants more local involvement in development [the group] would argue that the Gladman application should be recovered.

[The group] would like the parish council to ask for the application to be recovered so as to add weight to any individual requests. A recovery would also buy more time for the neighbourhood plan. The Neighbourhood planning group [sic] would welcome any support on this matter at the parish council meeting on Monday.

There will be more information and explanation at the parish council meeting.

¶

There are many things wrong with this email – primarily that Eric Pickles (once nicknamed Jabba the Cut) is infamous for gobbling up little villages such as ours (the tragic case of our neighbour Hook Norton should be warning enough); and drawing his attention to our little corner of Warwickshire will do nothing to improve matters. In fact, with the Corporate Strategy on permanent hold – possibly until Councillor Saint or Sinner is held to account – then any attempts to delay a decision being made re Gladman’s desire to carpet-bomb us with little houses made of ticky-tacky will simply be futile. It is the modern-day equivalent of Oliver Twist asking the master for “some more”. (And eighty houses is much more than enough, thank you.)

Secondly, as stated above, as the Parish Council has not been notified of this agenda item in advance, how will there be time for “information and explanation”? If past meetings are anything to go by (and they usually are), this looks suspiciously like agenda-hijacking: with self-inflated egos launching their inflated hyperbole from their inflatable pulpits. It is high time someone took a ruddy big needle to puncture such people’s self-seeking narcissism. Living in a palace does not make you a king.

Thirdly, if you actually read the relevant legislation and recent associated guidance, it says:

A “recovered inquiry” is basically a planning appeal (against a local authority’s decision) which the Secretary of State can decide to determine himself, rather than allowing a planning inspector to take the final decision, as is the normal process. The law stems from section 79 of the Town and Country Planning Act 1990.

But the “local authority”, Stratford-on-Avon District Council (SDC), is on our side – isn’t it? So this is not against its decision… – unless, of course, you are in favour of, or even backing, the development: which would mean that the final nail has been driven into the coffin not only of unity itself, but also the pretence that there ever was any.

It is also hectares, not acres, by the way:

…proposals for residential development of over 150 units or on sites of over 5 hectares, which would significantly impact on the Government's objective to secure a better balance between housing demand and supply and create high quality, sustainable, mixed and inclusive communities…

…and, although the application site itself comprises approximately 5.4 hectares, the “potential developable area” is only “3.9Ha (approx) for up to 80 houses” – so I do not know if this is relevant (surrounded as it is by Tory doublespeak).

Finally, the ‘note’ I am quoting from allows for the “Use of neighbourhood plans and housing”:

On 10 July 2014 the Secretary of State announced that he would like to “consider the extent to which the Government’s intentions are being achieved on the ground”, in relation to the neighbourhood planning regime introduced under the Localism Act 2011. For a period of 12 months the recovery criteria has now been amended to include: proposals for residential development of over 10 units in areas where a qualifying body has submitted a neighbourhood plan proposal to the local planning authority: or where a neighbourhood plan has been made.

But how is the email’s claim that “the village is not in favour of such a large scale development and the village wants more local involvement in development” going to sway Eric Piggles – when he has a track-record of paying lip-service to localism and treading roughshod over what villages want or need? And how is it going to “add weight to any individual requests”? And who are these individuals? And what are they requesting? More poppadoms…? You cannot appeal to a fellow dictator, and expect them to suddenly change their tune because they see their own arrogance reflected in your eyes. Do we really want to make a pact with the devil?

¶

The reason why the world lacks unity, and lies broken and in heaps, is, because man is disunited with himself.

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

This is not a decision for anyone to make but the Parish Council. And there is a good reason they have not proposed it themselves – not because they are unaware of it (their knowledge of the current planning régime is demonstrably excellent), but because they believe that it is the equivalent of tilting at windmills: pointless and self-defeating.

There is currently a great deal of apathy with regards to politics: and, sadly, it seems to have seeped to its very grassroots. This does not mean that we should just let ourselves be bossed around though, by usurpers, without questioning the motivations and knowledge of those who would claim to represent us. Instead, we should support the Parish Council: because they represent us. We should support them because they know what they are doing and are not in it for the glory. We should support them because, as a body with true power, they have the true needs of the village seared into their hearts and brains. We should therefore support them because they know what is right, and do the right thing.

There is more power in unity than division.

– Emanuel Cleaver

On a line to nowhere…

On the day I started writing this, there had been no trains from Birmingham to Stratford-upon-Avon for four days; and the ongoing grumbling over Chiltern Railways’ revision of their London-to-Stratford service seemed to have been going on for months – although, as an astute anonymous letter writer to the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald (20 November 2014) pointed out: “The majority of tourists travel in and out of Stratford either as part of a coach party or by car, probably hence the congestion everywhere.”

But that’s about as ‘green’ as David Cameron, isn’t it – i.e. capitalism at its typical, selfish, evolved worst? And, with nearly (or “at least” – depending on your greed) 11,000 homes pencilled in to be dumped on the (wrong parts of the) district by 2031 – even though logic would dictate just over half this number – surely it’s time we had a more joined-up public transport system?

Sadly, though, such a system would require some joined-up thinking – and the only thoughts driving (ahem) such issues at the moment appear to be of self-aggrandizement and profit – although it also seems that, atypically, the public purse is being left unopened – even if that purse is logarithmically tighter, the farther you get from London. On top of this, national government investment in (sensible and appropriate) large infrastructure projects is declining. So, common sense and localism would both appear to have died a nasty, excruciating death – probably joining the mountain of both animal and human roadkill mauled by the wheels and bumpers of illegally speeding vehicles tailgating and overtaking on blind bends and summits on our many twisting country lanes.

¶

Apologies for tub-thumping bombastically like the worst sort of tabloid columnist: but, as someone who increasingly uses public transport – because of my (currently) intermittent and (hopefully, staying that way: at least until we have a better (more frequent, more targeted) bus service) occasional inability to drive – and believes that it is the most sustainable option (especially as – rather than “even though” – the district is largely rural: with many pockets of isolating poverty) – this is (and, to be honest, always has been) of great concern to me.

Infrastructure has always mattered. The industrial revolution was not just the story of cotton mills and iron foundries. It was about canals, railways and tarmacadam roads. Big changes to the way people and goods could move around the country boosted growth and transformed the economy.

     …there needs to be a recognition that the investment that matters is not always on prestige projects. As Stephenson proved 184 years ago [with the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway], it is sometimes the local schemes that make the difference.

– Larry Elliott: The Observer

After a public survey in 2011 that supported the redevelopment of the Avon Rail Link; two years ago (in October 2012), responding to an invitation to tender, a report by Ove Arup & Partners – Stratford to Honeybourne Railway Reinstatement – Business Case Study: seeking “to establish the feasibility of reinstating this link” – was presented to the Cabinet of Stratford-on-Avon District Council. A summary leaflet was also printed around this time, compiled by the Shakespeare Line Promotion Group – “which aims to promote travel along… the railway line between the City of Birmingham and Stratford-upon-Avon.”

Here are a few excerpts from the executive summary of the Arup report:

Since the old line to Honeybourne junction was closed in 1976, the Town has suffered from the lack of a rail connection to the east-west Cotswold Line (providing rail links to Oxford and Worcester) and onward to Cheltenham, Gloucester and the South-West. A further impetus for consideration of the reinstatement of the Stratford-Honeybourne link has been the significant growth in Cotswold Line traffic…. In a climate of national rail passenger traffic growth exceeding 7% p.a. and increasing awareness of the environmental sustainability arguments for rail, this Study was commissioned to examine the outline business case….

     …the rationale for the scheme would be to improve rail links, centred on Stratford, for local and regional demand, with potential to cater for longer distance movements…. There has been a long standing aspiration to improve the service between Stratford Upon Avon and Leamington Spa. Its provision as an extension to a Worcester to Stratford service was considered to have potential….

     The majority of benefits (almost 90%) are passenger time savings arising as the new line would provide a faster means of travel for existing rail passengers and those transferring from car. Movements between Worcester-Stratford, Evesham-Stratford and Stratford-Oxford provide the main sources of these benefits… (including reduced waiting time)….

     Additionally, there would be important economic benefits arising from rail freight, additional tourist spend and improved rail network resilience… especially when sections of the regional network are undergoing periodic maintenance….

     Overall, the results of the economic appraisal indicate that the Line is a promising candidate for reinstatement.

A later, more specific section on benefits adds:

To the extent that the new rail line generates more tourists, rather than a change in the choice of travel mode, it will contribute to additional indirect jobs. It will also provide a choice in travel mode for day visitors to the town, particularly those who live close to a station.

     A reopened Stratford-Long Marston-Honeybourne line could also attract heritage steam train services and visitors to/from the Gloucestershire Warwickshire Steam Railway when the planned extension northwards from Broadway reaches Honeybourne.

     The Global Gathering music festival takes place at Long Marston Airfield and via Long Marston station, many of the 40,000 attendees would be able to utilise train services to and from this summer weekend gathering. Participants in other events at the Airfield could also use the train service. This would relieve traffic congestion on local roads.

     In addition, with the new line completed, it will be possible for travellers to make a round trip following the Snow Hill-Stratford on Avon-Worcester-Snow Hill route.

I am not quite sure what has happened to this proposal – as it does not appear in the council’s latest Schedule of Infrastructure Projects appendix to the Core Strategy (which is obviously biased towards the greenfield Gaydon Lighthorne Heath “masterplan”, rather than the alternative, more appropriate, brownfield Long Marston development) – although an “enhanced business case” was produced in June last year, which details reduced capital costs for reinstating the railway line.

However, as well as the Shakespeare Line Promotion Group’s keen and organized support, there is also some brief evidence of sporadic online opposition – but this leads with a designed-to-dismay picture of a level crossing for Evesham Road suggested in a previous, outdated report (Halcrow Fox, 1996): which its 2012 successor details as unfeasible (because of delays to traffic), and therefore recommends another, more appropriate route (videos here and here). This is actually acknowledged on another page of the NoAvonLine opposition site – which then, of course, goes on to raise new arguments, whilst leaving the old, irrelevant image in pride of place. (Oh, the joys of nimbyism.)

I am sure you can tell where my support lies – particularly between the Gaydon Lighthorne Heath and Long Marston Airfield developments – especially as I have previously made no secret of it. But I also feel that, to disregard the proposed railway line reinstatement would be to ignore (I nearly said “play fast and loose with”) a key solution to many of Stratford district’s transport (and other animal) ills. But, as I wrote above, this “would require some joined-up thinking” – especially with regards to public and private transport – and I haven’t seen much evidence of that recently in government circles (local, regional or national). But then, how would I: when current politics is all about the parallel finance and power races to the top, rather than serving the (few) people who elected you…?

This post was initially prompted (as you may have guessed from the photographs) by my habitual trek across one of my favourite local landmarks, Stannals Bridge: which I seem to be watching rust into the Avon. The immense craftsmanship of brickwork, steel, bolts and rivets is hard to ignore, but easy to admire. (It is a skewed or staggered girder, truss, or ‘open web through-type’ bridge – a design so successful, it continues to be built all over the world.)

I can no better voice my concerns for it than local resident David Goodman did, way back in 2001:

Previous governments sought to reduce the rail routes and to this end sanctioned the closure of even major links. This left the old trackbeds with no rails but much of the civil engineering infrastructure in place, for example, the bridges and embankments.

     Fortunately many of these were purchased by the local authority for use as cross-country recreational trails suitable for cyclists and walkers. However this left the local authority with a major problem – how were they to find the funding to maintain those bridges and embankments? Certainly their recreational budgets were not designed to cope with this kind of expenditure.

     Now comes a major problem. Today there is developing a need for these rail routes to be restored but until such time as firm plans to do this are in place whose responsibility is it to maintain the bridges and embankments for possible reuse – a reuse which, as far as the local authority is concerned, may never happen? You and I may well say that it will, but one can see the point of a local authority refusing to sanction such expenditure.

     There is a prime example of this near here where the old Great Western main rail route south of Stratford crosses the River Avon on the steel girder bridge, known as Stannals Bridge. It is the property now of Warwickshire County Council and is in dire need of maintenance. If it is left, it will fail and be a total loss. Minimal regular maintenance now could keep it in a fit state for the line to be restored at a future date but the funds required are being denied. Should this be so?

Although it is an utterly beautiful sculpture in its “increasingly rust-ridden” state; as a usable structure, I fear it will soon lose its integrity, and therefore its ability to provide safe passage – for pedestrians and cyclists, never mind a railway line. However, imagine traversing it, rebuilt or restored to its former glory (as is posited in Arup’s report), in a steam train, overlooking the river, on your way into “Shakespeare-on-Avon” station. What’s not to love?

And, with only a single line being proposed between Stratford and Long Marston’s existing freight depot (or maybe even as far as Honeybourne), there is a chance that you could still walk and cycle over it, as you do today. You might even have fewer cars to contend with, as you then explore the town centre.

Personally, I think reopening the line to a large, new residential development at Long Marston (and beyond) is a solution from the School of the Bleeding Obvious. Which means, of course, that it will never happen. What a shame. What a travesty. What a wasted opportunity…. Just wait for the Herald to run it as its lead story, though, when our town becomes completely gridlocked; and Stannals Bridge succumbs to neglect: crumbling into the Avon, and injuring some innocent, holidaying bargee.