Foretelling spring…

The trick with many a National Trust property (if not all…) – whether or not you want to nip into the restaurant for a sneaky coffee and breakfast flapjack (which I did…) – is to get there early. At Charlecote Park, this morning, just after opening time, there were definitely more gardeners than walkers; and most other visitors were confined (sensibly) to the Orangery: which was doing a steady trade in warming drinks.

Out on the paths, the few fellow hardy souls I encountered – weathering the chill wind; wishing for the uncertain sun to stumble through the scudding greyness – were far between: a brace of well-insulated toddlers, with their dad, viewing the heavily-pregnant Jacob sheep with awe, before pouncing through the frequent puddles to collect freshly-fallen twigs; and a couple of sensibly-dressed folk with walking sticks, making light work of the soggy trails through West Park (so damp that the frequent imprints of cloven hooves were remarkably deep and distinct – see photograph – with only the occasional evidence of a surprised skid). Even those responsible fallow deer were somewhat somnolent; and the journeys there and back were also notable for their curious (rapturous) insufficiency of traffic – which enabled me to slow down, just a tad, momentarily, to observe the mini-murmuration of starlings that currently flows between Oxhill and Lower Tysoe.

¶

Such quietude, of course, is my delight: and I was able to meander around the extensive parkland at my own, slow, pace; relishing the peace, and the resultant almost-springtime alertness of the wildlife around me – obviously unafraid of the solitary, plumped-up, quilted figure concealed by bush-hat, dark glasses, and fleece-lined trousers; my dirty boots the perfect camouflage!

On the edge of the Wilderness, a solitary, slender robin – the front of its folded wings painted with a fine streak of almost-white – called sporadically from one of the rungs of a zinc-coloured garden obelisk. Only after a few minutes – and a wary, querying stare that probed my very soul – did it then hop up onto the finial to carry on its territorial (or perhaps lovelorn) conversation with an echo from across the Avon.

The river, too, although still coloured with silt, flowed less ferociously than the last few weeks’ torrents – the only evidence of which (apart from the spongelike squelch of the lower ground) was a continuous contour of broken reeds, wooden splinters and miscellaneous dreck, strewn sinuously along the grass (and most noticeable in Place’s Meadow: whose two inhabitant swans sat within necking distance, lazily tugging at the circle of moist, green blades within a beak’s easy reach).

¶

Later, in West Park, sadly – whilst having a one-sided conversation with the deer (mostly sat, ruminating; and mostly unbothered by me: only the youngest scurrying for shelter under the nearby lime trees) – I disturbed a kestrel (perhaps the one I had witnessed earlier, wafting above the Avon, on the other side of the house?) from its stump-of-a-dead-tree perch: but even this normally guarded falcon only flapped sluggishly to the nearest hanging branch, its beadiness now focused on this rude intruder, rather than hunting for its lunch.

So I wandered on. Past the tag-playing rooks, chatting and chauntering; occasionally flapping short distances en masse for no reason I could fathom, before resuming their prattle. And my incidental stealth was thus rewarded with a sight that still stops my breath: the gentle bobbing of a green woodpecker (my eye caught by its startling red mohican and glowing underbelly, as well as that signature, inverted arc), swinging low across the river, before finding a suitable branch for rest. The heron, rigid beneath, glanced momentarily at this harmless interloper – fish-spear of a beak temporarily raised in salute – then resumed its fluvial gaze, deep into waters that were opaque to my eyes.

A good day for wildlife, then – especially for espying birds of all sizes (frequent paired blackbirds; the exasperated mallards on the Dene; an overheard wren shrilling from inside a hedge; blue and great tits feeding on the few remaining nuts by the hide…) – and a feeling that a week of prophesied sunshine may well herald a new season (as well as the wearing of lighter clothes).

The hazel-blooms, in threads of crimson hue,

Peep through the swelling buds, foretelling Spring,

Ere yet a white-thorn leaf appears in view,

Or March finds throstles pleased enough to sing.

To the old touchwood tree woodpeckers cling

A moment, and their harsh-toned notes renew;

In happier mood, the stockdove claps his wing;

The squirrel sputters up the powdered oak,

With tail cocked o’er his head, and ears erect,

Startled to hear the woodman’s understroke;

And with the courage which his fears collect,

He hisses fierce half malice, and half glee –

Leaping from branch to branch about the tree,

In winter’s foliage, moss and lichens, drest.

– John Clare: First sight of Spring

Och, av sinnit worrse…

It was one of those typical, lowland Scottish summer days. Yesterday, I was stripped to the waist, ruddy as the tilled earth, basking in the physical labour, smell of fresh manure, and sweat-stuck with chaff from the harvest. Today, though, peering from the milking shed, just after dawn, listening to the Agincourt-like barrage constantly beating the corrugated roof, piercing the silence, churning those fields to slush, it was time to bring in the coos. My yellow, rubberized cagoule was as much use as muslin in that gale; my socks already sponging in my boots. And that’s when Robbie uttered those immortal words: “Och, av sinnit worrse!” So out we went. It was quite bracing, really. And I actually love the rain. (Or I did when I was young. Today my arthritic neck is not so fond – unless it is warm wetness.)

Although it was a beautiful day, to begin with, following the track of the Avon, yesterday, readily ushered forth Robbie’s exclamation, over and over again, in my head. Although the river had gently overflowed, it was nowhere near as bad as Autumn 2012 (when the Greenway appeared a little like Lyme Regis’ famous Cobb – twisted and isolated above the newly-formed lakes and tributaries); and those buffers – such as the Rec and the fields beyond Seven Meadows Road; as well as the scrub behind the Holiday Inn – although readily saturated, had done their job as flood plains, and helped protect the main town. (We are so fortunate that these areas have not been built on; and that Stratford’s ‘centre’ is all on one side, above the river.)

I had watched the gauge peak overnight; and thought I would explore – especially as I had a mild migraine that had not responded to bed nor med. I thought the chilly breeze might help. There is also a deep beauty to be found observing nature (although probably egged on by man’s atmospheric pollution) reclaiming the land; frolicking beyond its usual bounds – especially at the confluence with the troublemaking Stour. (Although I do feel sorry for the farmers’ flooded fields; and the owners of properties suffering yet again.)

However, a short walk – like the river itself – evolved into a longer meander: with none of my usual crossing places readily accessible. (I should have known better, and worn wellingtons – and not my wonted walking boots.) Even the footbridge beyond Holy Trinity was isolated: water flowing steadily past each end of its steps. Continuous lines of wrack showed that the water, thankfully, was already in retreat (and has further dropped a couple of feet in the last day).

It was good distraction, though – yet no cure – and, hopefully, the resulting tiredness will bring well-earned sleep. (It didn’t.)

The long and winding road…

After a day trapped inside, ambushed by the deepest, dankest monsoon, Sunday’s dawning brought with it a spectacularly clear sky: and only the northern Pennines, morphing into the majestic Howgill Fells, just waking, to my right – constant, lumbering, reclining colossi – were still snugly covered beneath the cotton-wool-drifted quilt of rising dawn moisture, softening their sharp bulk.

Leaving the motorway, and arriving in the Lake District proper: as I passed Scales on the main road, those majestic mountains reared up in front of me – Blencathra almost friendly, welcoming – glowing a glorious rich russet; with their own topping wisps of remaining cloud floating away, lazily and gently, on the surprisingly lethargic breeze.

All the way, I had followed the sentinel just-past-full moon – a guardian and a guide – the low, bright lunar globe leading me to the turning I wanted at Braithwaite; before descending to its own long orbiting sleep behind the north-western summits.

Hugging the Derwent Fells, the familiar narrow road leads to a small, ancient bridge just before Birkrigg – but mouldered now into the grown-riverlike Rigg Beck beneath – the first vestige of the struggles I had, thus far, only seen in the news. Fortunately, the gushing ford that ran next to the footbridge was passable – but only with immense care and forethought. Had I not a vehicle designed to conquer such challenging terrain (and the knowledge to go with it), I would have mourned my annual return to “the lake by the dairy pastures”; but, surely, in this small paradise, readily found another delightful destination. (Cartmel – which my iPad’s autocorrect decided should be “Caramel” – which seems apposite – Priory, again, maybe; or “old man’s mountain” Gummer’s How – surely, on such a glorious day, one of the Lake District’s more achievable, and far-seeing, vantage points? (In August, visibility had been minimal; the ascent and descent treacherous; the weather then damp, belligerent, and bitter.))

Having waded through this first obstacle, still I went on with deep trepidation. At points – especially the final descent, beyond Newlands Hause – torrents of water rendered the 25% inclines deceptive, untrustworthy waterways. Landslips had mostly been cleared; but the surface of the road was littered with debris: mud, wrack, tangled branches, scree. My 4x4 was as sure-footed as a mountain goat, though: enabling me to concentrate with long-held breaths, and steer slowly and cautiously to my morning’s destination.

I was the second to arrive at Buttermere: chatting for a while with the seasoned, hardy soul about to set off to reconquer Haystacks and the ridge along Seat, High Crag, High Stile, Red Pike, before returning via Dodd and Old Burtness.

His love for the mountains was obvious: as was his preparedness. He, too, had arrived via challenges and setbacks – but also would not be thwarted in his goal!

I parked next to Mill Beck, which feeds into Crummock Water. It bubbled and frothed with a rabid anger that had not only destroyed the fences which usually ran alongside, but filled me with a foreboding that I would not be able to complete my planned circuit.

No snow remained: although torrents poured down from every crevice. Water, water everywhere – turning roads and paths into rivers, streams, and sometime waterfalls.

The walk itself was more hazardous than in previous years: well-trodden ways now well under water; sodden ground; routes blocked by serried, toppled, shallow-rooted pines. At one point, I had to scramble along a short rockface: hunting with amazed joy (and the memories of long-forgotten youthful climbing) for hand- and foot-holds – true crag-hopping (albeit in extreme slow-motion) – before descending to the remains of the eroded, slate-pebble-dashed path below. (My damaged body will take weeks to recover from this punishment, I know. But my mind will leap forever with joy at each similar memory.)

Conditions could have been so much worse: recent wrack-marks demonstrated how much higher the mere had lapped – obliterating any chance of traversing its shoreline.

Just past the obstacle course of fallen trees, I encountered a toddler (with justifiably proud mum) entranced with my reflective sunglasses, bush-hat and fingerless gloves. This was one happy child – with an even better outfit than mine! – determined and communicative; and aiming to complete the circuit with a big grin that warmed the heart. I truly hope they succeeded. They deserved to on such a day; and with such spirit.

But, of course, everyone I encountered said hello. Some stopped to chat, as well; and there was a comradely courtesy – holding gates open; advising about obstacles ahead; suggesting diversions… – but all of us glorying in the sunshine hovering above us.

At this time of year – even when all the sun can do is paint the sky a vivid cobalt, and tint the surrounding, cradling peaks with gold flames, without ever reaching the mere itself – this remains such a beautiful, yet sometimes harrowing, place: the true definition of the ‘picturesque’.

I must have been born without the traditional-English-stiff-upper-lip gene: and, as a result, there is a direct line drawn from external, ineffable beauty – whether that be music, art, poetry, sculpture, landscape… – to the core of my creative, sensitive, romantic soul.

Standing once again on Peggy’s Bridge, at the entrance to the Scarth Gap (I expected orcs), gazing back towards my starting point below High House Crag – Haystacks and Fleetwith Pike glowering menacingly dark behind me…… – dear reader, I admit that, silently, I cried.

The overwhelming assault of magnificence flooded my senses. (There was no room, today, for music.) Truly, this is a place where there is a surfeit of glory and grandeur – enough to emotionally sustain one for a lifetime.

I do not believe in any deity – yet this felt like an epiphany, a conversion (albeit on the path to Gatesgarth Farm).

As I returned to the sanctuary of my car, I was rewarded with one of my favourite sights: four keen Border Collies, expertly controlled with the subtlest of commands, manoeuvring a small flock of muddy Herdwicks to less waterlogged pastures.

Such skill; such innate teamwork; corralling them seamlessly and cohesively through a series of gates along narrow tracks. The oldest dog had a withered rear leg – but this was no impediment – this was an independent, sharp spirit, tugging at the boundaries of control, and obviously gleeful in its well-earned freedom.

Later, with such perfect weather for wandering – although, returning to my hotel, I would discover that my cheeks and forehead had been sanded rough and raw by the prevailing wind – the car park behind the Fish Inn grew full; and the paths and roads around the mere grew busy with companion walkers and cyclists. (Last Christmas, I departed as only the second car of the day arrived – such was its peace.) Such busy-ness, this time, made the place safer, though – essential when each turn of a corner presented unexpected vistas and occasional risks.

Not wanting to repeat my morning’s daring adventures, I returned to the A66 via the Honister Pass (which I had been told by my earlier associate was clear and dry) – pausing below the rugged, stunning Seatoller Fell to wonder at the surrounding might. Beautiful Borrowdale (I expected hobbits) glowed golden and welcoming, below, bathed in a beautiful, warm, umber light. But, beyond, yet more stark evidence – an almost infinite sea, where Derwent Water had once lain peacefully: at some points reaching out to stroke the road’s edge. In Keswick, the worst-affected households were marked by cairns of damaged white goods and furniture – and yet the town was very much buzzing with life.

This had been Buttermere at its very best: not as placid and tranquil as perhaps it can be (and is often imagined). But the Lake District as a whole is still struggling: and needs as many visitors, as much help – along with Lancashire, Calderdale, etc. – as it can get. Go visit! Cumbria is open! (But please – with Storm Frank on the way – be careful out there.)

Ooh, ooh, my ears are alight…

True satire is not just posturing, in a cosily collusive middle-class milieu, as “anti-establishment”. It is freedom laughing in the face of tyranny. That takes courage of an order demonstrated by the assassinated journalists at Charlie Hebdo, whose slain editor simply stated that he would rather die than “live like a rat”.

– Hugh Hetherington: The Guardian

Free speech comes at a price; it even costs human lives. The bottom line for an open and free democracy seems to me to be that I have to accept that someone, somewhere, sooner or later, will say something that offends me. But I have to live with my feelings, and not assuage them in any violent way at all. In fact, we can all have a “right” to cause offence, if we do not also demand the “right” to take offence too. It is likely that some of those who reject this principle, whatever their religion, or lack of it, will continue to make martyrs of those who practise it.

– Fr Alec Mitchell: The Guardian

Editor’s note
This morning, I received an email purporting to be from a certain Charlie Tyso, and his esteemed colleague Xavier O’Duss. I here quote it in full, for your edification and, I hope, amusement…

And it came to pass on the third day in the evening, at the seventh hour, that there were thunders and lightnings, and a thick clod upon the hill, and the voice of the strumpet exceeding loud; so that all the people that were in the House of Words trembled. And Supposes brought forth the people out of the House to meet with the Great Lord Sod, who must be obeyed in all things; and they stood at the nether part of the hill, in the Parish of Tysoe. And the Hill of Tysoe was altogether in a smoke, because the Great Lord descended from His moated mansion upon it in a rusting diesel 4x4: and the smoke thereof ascended as the smoke of a fire of damp, unseasoned logs, and the whole hill quaked greatly.

And when the voice of the strumpet sounded long, and waxed louder and louder, Supposes spake, and Sod answered him by an angry voice. And the Great Lord Sod graced the mass of people with his almighty presence, coming down upon the Hill of Tysoe, on the top of the hill; and the Great Lord cast his shadow over Supposes and summoned him up to the top of the hill; and Supposes went up. And for Supposes there was much going up, and much going down: because the Great Lord is obeyed in all His contrivances.

And the Great Lord said unto Supposes, Go down, charge the people, lest they break through unto the True Plan to gaze on its reality, and many of them get pissed off thusly: Give them in its stead this Tablet of Sand, which showeth well my Word and its Meaning, even though it appeareth as the Word of Supposes, all guised as the Law of the Land: And let the parish priests also, which dare to approach near to the Great Lord, pacify themselves, lest the Great Lord break forth wind upon them. And Supposes said unto the Great Lord, The poor mass of people, thy humble and obedient servants, cannot come up to the Hill of Tysoe: for thou chargedst us, saying, Set bounds about the hill, and protect it from wind power.

And the Great Lord said unto him, Away, get thee down, and thou shalt come up, thou, and thy servants; those who trade with thee: the candlestick-maker, who stands high with his candles but sheds but little light; and the baker, who produceth humble pies of puff pastry and filled with fluff. But let not the parish priests and the mass of people break through to come up unto the Great Lord, lest it be to dance at His bidding of a summer’s day in the grounds of his moated mansion. So Supposes went down unto the people, and waffled unto them. And they considered that they saw much light in his endless words; and believed those words bright, and gave much praise: although, verily, the words were dull and hollow to their simple minds.

¶

And Sod spake all these words, saying, I am the Lord thy Sod, who knoweth everything, which have brought thee out of the land of Braveheart, out of the house of porridge, and into the mire at the foot of the hill, where floods and pestilence cometh at my whim. Thou shalt have no other Lords before me. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven bloggage, or any criticism of any thing that is in the Tablet above, or that is in the footnotes beneath, or that is in the water under the earth (even when it rises above the earth): Thou shalt not bow down thyself to mine enemy of mine own making that is Braveheart, nor serve the critic that is but Bardolatry, nor yet even the parish priests: For I the Lord thy Sod am a jealous Sod, visiting the iniquity of all that is written in the Tablet of Sand upon the common mass of people unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; And shewing insincerity unto the two or three of them that can abide me, and keep my suggestions.

Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy Sod in vain; for the Great Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain. Remember the Tablet of Sand, to keep all that is written therein holey, for it ticketh all the boxes that be in the land: And disavow all that might be espied within any True Plan, lest it bear the false witness of base common people. Six months shalt thou cheweth upon the Tablet of Sand, and be all thy flummoxed at its meaning: But the seventh month is the Referendum of the Great Lord: In it thou shalt not vote “No”, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates; nor thy badger: For in six months the Great Lord manufactureth great policies and rules, through His servant Supposes, as the Tablet of Sand, and all that in it is (and then buggered off to the pub in his 4x4: wherefore the Great Lord blessed the pub, and drained it dry as the sand from which the Tablet was made).

Honour thy compost bin and thy rainwater butt: that thy days may be long upon the New Tysoe which the Great Lord giveth thee, and all the lands therein which He shall order according to His Word that is a fathomless Algorithm. Thou shalt not question. Thou shalt not commit bloggery. Thou shalt not oppose. Thou shalt not bear witness against the Tablet of Sand. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s ironstone cottage. Thou shalt not query thy Supposes’ spreadsheets, nor his solar panels, nor his checklists, nor his calculations, nor his assets, nor any thing that is thy Supposes’, or his servants the candlestick-maker and the baker and all that they serve and that serve unto them. Thy shalt build thy noddy-houses out of stone, and render them identical, as unto ticky-tacky, and exceeding ugly unto the eyes of the Bard.

¶

And all the people saw the thunderings, and the lightnings, and the noise of the strumpet, and the hill smoking: and when the people saw it, they removed, and stood afar off. And they said unto Supposes, Speak thou with us, and we will hear: but let not the Great Lord Sod speak bollocks with us, lest we perish of tedium. And Supposes said unto the people, Fear not: for Sod is come to prove to you the Tablet of Sand is great, and that His fear of censure may be wiped from your trembling faces, that ye oppose not. And the people stood afar off, and Supposes drew near unto the thick darkness where the Great Lord was. And the Great Lord saw that it was good, and saw that the Bravehearts and Bards that slithered upon the face of the earth were as fork-tongued serpents: creatures crafted by the very claws of Beelzebub.

But, lo, even as he understandeth them not, the Great Lord thought mightily that he could smite them from the height of His New Tysoe which bore the yester imprint of His great boot; and trample the serpents’ tongues before and beneath. But he was mistaken sorely. For, verily I say unto thee, he had no true power within or without, except that which the mass of people could remove from him in the twinkling of an iPhone, obliterating the very ground beneath His boot. And the serpents’ words were not as He opined; nor even were they serpents, but mere twine; and their words mere leaves of multitudinous colours, blowing in the winter wind. And when they saw this, the people trembled, and quaked, and spoke many tongues of Babel and Stratfordonavondistrictcouncil.

And then the people, renewed with great hope, girded their loins with vast mornings of coffee, dunkings of biscuit, ravings of music, and growing rumblings of mutiny throughout the parish and in all the places thereof that were increasingly hidden from the Great Lord. And thence the people saw a yet brighter light and rose up with joy, and with it manufactured the True Plan.

At this, the Great Lord raged, giving off a furious roaring as big as to a whining mouse. But the people and the parish priests had grown deaf and blind to the Great Lord Sod. And when the people looketh past the smoke, and behind the glass of looking, that kept shrouded so much and yet so little, the Great Lord was no more to be set eyes upon, verily nevermore, until the end of time. And, in the place of the Tablet of Sand, which crumbleth and vanisheth as it shifteth and moveth with the desert wind, came forth the True Plan which they had made, and bound with the golden twines of Veracity and Desire. And it was good; and truly had concrete meaning unto them all, and even to their neighbours, and the strangers within the parish and without. And the mass of people rejoiced greatly for seven days and seven nights; and went forth sustainably: lo, unto the fifth generation, and the sixth, and for evermore.

¶

Here endeth the lesson. Clays be to Sod. Amen.

Eroding the cliffs of pain…

The more we learn about climate change and its effects, the more we realize – simply put – that…

1. we still have a great deal to learn (as with most – if not all – areas of science);
2. it’s not just about “global warming”;
3. it’s already here;
4. what were acute once-in-a-century events – such as flooding, large coastal storms, widely fluctuating seasonal temperatures – are becoming more and more frequent – if not the norm; if not chronic (you only have to look at the record of flooding in Stratford to see evidence); however,
5. once the effects of these “events” wear off, we carry on as if the crisis were over – seemingly, we learn nothing from the experience.

A recent article by George Monbiot sums the situation up perfectly:

Sustaining interest in this great but slow-burning crisis is a challenge no one seems to have mastered. Only when the crisis causes or exacerbates an acute disaster – such as the floods – is there a flicker of anxiety, but that quickly dies away.

Why is it so difficult to persuade people to care about our wonderful planet, the world that gave rise to us and upon which we wholly depend? And why do you encounter a barrage of hostility and denial whenever you attempt it (and not only from the professional liars who are paid by coal and oil and timber companies to sow confusion and channel hatred)?

I have hinted before that, as well as the persistent pain (described as “background pain”) I experience, on top of it I then have “breakthrough pain” events) – which are akin to the usual, acute pain that most people experience. Dealing with these is a lot more difficult than the constant, thrumming discomfort: because of its suddenness and unpredictability – but there are precautions (and medications) I can take to lessen their impact: although, sadly, unlike preventative measures for unusual weather events, they do not work long-term; and only (if I am lucky) take the edge off my pain. (I sometimes think a sharp knife is preferable to such a blunted one – usually because of the accompanying side-effects.)

However, for most people, when you cut yourself, suffer a bruise or even a broken leg, you understand – from experience, or from your mum kissing it better… – that its impact on you will be finite; that you may end up with a scar (visible and external; or invisible and internal), but the pain will recede, then disappear; and you may well even forget what caused that funny mark on your left shin, or that cut on your finger. Was it the dog? A foul, when playing football? A careless collision with the furniture? A paper cut, perhaps?

For me, though, obviously, the pain has never gone away; and, after nearly eighteen years, it is still with me, getting microscopically worse with each passing day. The British Pain Society, defines such “chronic pain” as…

…continuous, long-term pain of more than 12 weeks or after the time that healing would have been thought to have occurred in pain after trauma or surgery.

The funny – if that’s the right word… – thing is that, eventually, you do learn to live with it (although it has taken me a very long time to accept this…). You can’t ignore it, but you can cope with it. Turning this back to our climate, though, we don’t seem to be coping at all; but we are ignoring it extremely well – now that the floods have dissipated; and the crisis is over… – and I struggle to understand why we (meaning government, as well as the majority of individuals) seem so keen on keeping our empty heads buried so deeply. A little (relatively) long-term (preventative) investment, now, would be a lot more effective – but less expensive – than dealing with each individual weather event, piecemeal, as it occurs (with repeated (cosmetic?) surgery, if you would...), in the future.

When we discuss climate change – the chronic pain we cause our planet – we’re not really talking about saving the Earth, though, are we? Just as I care more about ameliorating my experience of inhabiting this body; we only care about our experience of living on this planet: not the planet itself. As James Lovelock has posited, it can probably get by quite well – if not better – without us; and I have wondered, for a while, if my body would be better off in the long term if I stopped trying to make my life easier for myself in the short term….

For the last eighteen years, I have fought this pain – and my disability – daily; but it was a war that I always knew (if I was honest) I could never truly win. There have been some landmark victorious battles – for instance, eight years ago, I could barely move, or feel, the left-hand side of my body; or move my neck to the left: but a major operation resolved these problems (now, inevitably, returning slowly). Occasionally, medication, or physiotherapy, would help – usually temporarily – with a particular symptom. But the fighting has caused problems of its own – quite frequently a hefty dose of disappointment when I have set my goals unrealistically high (my theory having been that aiming high, stretching myself, was the only way to achieve anything); or raising my blood pressure with a self-defeating rant of blame at the people responsible for the accidents I was in.

Now, though, I have finally accepted my plight; I have come to terms with it; signed a truce, a peace pact. In a way, it’s similar to the last stage of grieving: and I feel a huge weight lifting from my shoulders. I’m not quite there, yet: but, instead of concentrating on the things that damage my quality of life, the things I can’t do, I shall – as Christopher Reeve once wisely said – think about all the thousands of things I can still do.

In a way, it’s not just about tolerating and understanding my situation, or even ignoring it – especially as I know, as with old age, that continuing deterioration is inevitable… – it’s about focusing my energies elsewhere. Yes, there may be medical advances in the future that could help me (the operation I had would not have been possible, twenty, thirty years before…) – but there’s no point constantly stressing about something “possible”, vague and intangible.

The thing is, though, when you consider the status of the health of the planet we live on, there are things that we could (should) be doing (or doing at much larger scales) to make things better; to improve our stay; things that are worth “stressing about”. But we are ignoring them – we have passively drifted far too early into that “acceptance”… – and relying on the fact that “things” will not get much worse during our lifetimes. What about those who follow us, though? They will not thank us for abandoning them and their planet when there were so many proven ways of stopping the damage we have caused; so many ways of even turning things around.

The breakthrough weather events are becoming chronic; and a lot of damage has been done. Now is not the time to stand idly by, or just throw our arms in the air in desperate acceptance; or in the hope that someone else will ride to our rescue.

What is needed is a collective decision as momentous as my personal one feels to me (and those close to me). As a rule, most people don’t like change (I know I am an odd exception…) – but change is already here; and will only get worse… unless we change our attitudes, our behaviour, the way we live our lives. Instead of accepting the status quo, we need to start fighting with all our might, hearts, minds, actions; rather than just vacantly mumbling about the weather, and attributing the liability elsewhere.

Joseph Ashby’s submission to the Planning Inspectorate…?

A few days ago, I wrote that I could “only imagine” what Joseph Ashby – the agricultural trade unionist; and Tysoe’s most famous son – “would make of… the threats [the village] faces from developers”:

I believe he would have fought such menaces, though: as he always did so keenly for the causes he so strongly believed in – with “an economy of indignation… saved up for the big things and kept turned in the right directions.”

Well, reading Joseph Ashby’s Victorian Warwickshire, edited by Anne Langley – which features extracts from “a series of delightful articles” from the Warwick Advertiser – I began to uncover his views, and make some of those imaginings concrete. (I therefore hope that a visit to Warwickshire County Record Office, where Anne is a volunteer, will help me fill in some of the gaps, and build a more complete understanding.)

Heritage

His description of Tysoe – echoing his daughter’s; and demonstrating the love he had for his own village (although attempting to be objective and fair…) – sets the scene:

The village of Tysoe, seen from the Edge Hills, forms part of one of the finest landscapes in Warwickshire. There below us ancient farm homesteads and cottages have been nestling among the old elms for which the village is famous, for centuries. The village, though scattered over a mile of road and greensward, is seen from end to end from the Edge Hills. It is such a picture of quiet beauty and peace that but little fancy is required to make the scene before us a pastoral Utopia. How rudely such a conception is dispelled when one is face to face with the life and struggles of people.

It is a shame that the heritage (and environment) represented by the old trees that so characterized our village – especially the “great hollow tree in which a dozen men can stand” in Upper Tysoe – disappeared with the invasion of Dutch Elm Disease; but we should be proud – however intent this present Government seems to be on reversing the process… – that “the life and struggles” current villagers face are no longer, on the whole, as dangerous, squalid, or poverty-stricken as those then “lived by the labouring poor in the villages of Warwickshire” (as well as remembering, of course, that Ashby himself contributed a great deal to such improvement…).

Discussing “The enterprise and industry of the villagers of Broadwell”, Ashby also – and we must remember that he was the very model of a nonconformist, working-class, autodidact (not unlike myself!) – explains why he thinks some villages are so successful:

I am inclined to attribute [the enterprise and industry] to the activities generated by the healthy rivalries of the different, though tolerant, convictions and opinions by which they are actuated. There can be no mistake as to the fact that activities of thought, however seemingly opposed, have a desirable effect upon the material condition of any village. It is those villages in which independent thought is suppressed, or upon which the evil spirit of apathy has settled, and those villages only, where the general condition of the people is not improving.

And I don’t think it is too far a leap to claim that it is our lack of – or emergence from – that “evil spirit of apathy” – combined with (as I have said before) our fortune to have so many knowledgeable, independent-thinking, and hard-working residents – that has helped Tysoe develop its unique community feel and spirit; and has so far helped us fight the current spate of “speculative development”.

Suitability

In some ways, though, nothing changes. (And then, nothing changes again.)

The change, it had to come

We knew it all along

We were liberated from the fold, that’s all

And the world looks just the same

And history ain’t changed

’Cause the banners, they are flown in the next war…

Meet the new boss

Same as the old boss

– Pete Townshend (The Who): Won’t Get Fooled Again

Describing new houses being built in Stockton by “the Lime Burning Company of Nelson and Co”, Ashby writes:

These cottages are of the usual size of modern cottages, and built in the usual manner in which new cottages are built in the villages. The great fault of these cottages is that they are placed too near each other. In the case of many of them they are placed in a long row which must always be a most objectionable feature in the erection of new cottages.

And of Ryton on Dunsmore – hinting strongly at ‘subtopia’ (as well as the issue of commuting…), almost sixty years before Ian Nairn coined the word:

There is no glare of the modern red brick which somehow or other is one of the leading evidences of “the march of progress,” which, taking the whole of Warwickshire villages into consideration, means for most workmen a daily “march” into the bowels of the earth, or the stone quarries.

I think Ashby would have been more concerned with the conditions of the insides of any new houses, though, than their architectural aesthetic (however important); and the facilities they provided for his (as he saw them) kindred village folk – especially those less fortunate. His strong hint at the lack of “greensward”, though, and the density of new housing – because of its effect on “the whole social surroundings of the rural community” – is still relevant over 120 years later (as well as being the driving force in the delivery of ‘The Promised Land’ of allotments, which Ashby himself fought so hard for); as is the obliteration of productive agricultural land.

Sustainability

From the following excerpt (and many others – often to do with the affordability of rents, and the attitudes of landlords), it is obvious that Ashby – as an extension of his deeply-felt concern over villagers’ living conditions, and the local environment – was also extremely conscious of (and concerned with) both “social well-being” (a term he uses in his description of Southam) and sustainability (a word only adopted in the late twentieth century): echoing our current anxieties with flooding, drainage, water treatment and capacity. And it is sad that nothing much has changed in this respect, either. [It will take another wet winter, I fear, to see whether Severn Trent Water’s latest works, at Oxhill – I was going to say “attempt at a solution” (sorry) – have been successful.]

The most painful aspect of life in the village of Oxhill is that of the water supply. Passing through the village a few days ago I was informed that, excepting the water gathered out of the holes of a brook, which passes near the village, which have been scooped out by the changes in the course of the stream… there is no water in the village for man or beast. Of the quality of such water I need not stop to speak…. Whether the water be as clear as a stream can be in April, when the excess of winter’s rainfall has rippled in tiny streamlets and rolled with increasing force in its progress to the sea, and before the cattle, driven by flies and heat, have converted it to a stream of mud, or whether incessant rainfalls give the stream an almost dangerous volume, or drought dries the bed of the streams bare, this stream alone appears to be the only available source of water. I am bound to say, too, that not two miles away, is the village of Tysoe, a village of 900 inhabitants, the whole of the sewage of which comes into this stream. To put the matter briefly, the sewage of about 250 houses, and perhaps half as many pigsties, and several farm yards, directly or indirectly, flows into the water which the people of Oxhill have to drink.

Access

Travel – and the condition of what passed for local roads – of course, wasn’t such a problem in the 1890s. Most villagers rarely strayed from their place of birth; with only occasional forays to the local market town. Even Joseph Ashby – with his extensive tours of the local villages for his Warwick Advertiser articles “by train, penny-farthing bicycle and on foot”; and as a travelling lecturer in one of the English Land Restoration League’s ‘red vans’ – didn’t venture much beyond the county boundaries.

Regardless, Joseph Ashby’s life was remarkable – in many ways. We should therefore be prepared to learn from him, his beliefs and his actions, as we gaze out at Tysoe from atop his erudite giant’s shoulders. Like him, we must build on our history, our context, our roots. We must defend those causes we know he would also have fought for. We must therefore not lay down our arms easily, assuming – as some did with the initial planning hearing – that – because Gladman have appealed (although they in no way can be described as actually being ‘appealing’), and a public inquiry is being held – all is yet lost. Instead, we should respect his memory, as well as the village he left behind, by championing his values, as they apply to our times.

The return of the Night Wasteman – Sustainable Tysoe?

By Mike Sanderson

Tew sat on the ridge and furrow outside the manor. This site was now the infamous site of the first battle of the second English Civil War, or War of Localism. Ironic, really, as you could see the first battle site in the first civil war from here. Tew couldn’t decide whether he was a goody or baddy. Hence his contemplative mood.

Like everyone else he had been suffering the fallout from the banking crash of 08. Things were changing though. The bankers had placed a jet stream or flying island over the Vale of the Red Horse and blocked out the sun. They’d done this because they didn’t think the inhabitants had made enough PPI claims, which was the only way bankers could lend money after the government got on their case. Like many other government inspired initiatives this produced unintended consequences. The deployment of the flying island meant it had started raining heavily in 2012. Flooding was rife in the vale. Ridge and furrow (aka SuDS) had been ploughed out and what were SuDS? Anyway some investment bankers who weren’t in the PPI scam had turned their hands to speculative development (SD), as allowed under another government initiative (the bumPF). These bankers were known as Flashmen (hence the term, FSD). Flooding was bad for FSDs.

The field he was sat in was the site of an FSD. FSDs would lead to increased flooding in the vale. Now Tew knew about these things. His original role had been to recycle night waste. But now the speculators needed to dispose of the bumpf a different way because there weren’t enough SUDs. He could be back in business and move over to the dark side. All he needed was for black bins to be designated as night waste bins and the disposal of such waste to become a section 106 reserved matter.

– Originally published in the Tysoe & District Record (February 2014: no.741)

One rule for one; another rule for many…

The Countryside Code is a set of recommendations (or rules) for all visitors to rural – and especially agricultural – regions of England and Wales. It has its roots in the 1930s: although was only really formulated, as the Country Code, in the 1950s; and was last updated in 2012 (the version quoted below, and linked to above).

A strong case can be made that Gladman Developments are only visitors to Tysoe. Once – or, should I say, if – they obtain the planning permission necessary to destroy a centuries-old field of ridge-and-furrow, they will then sell the land on to the company who will actually build the estate. Then their brief, virtual sojourn will be over: replaced by those who will only stop – albeit for three years (akin to Dante’s vision of all three divisions of hell) – to desecrate that field with concrete, bricks, and tarmac; and reap further profit in the process. They then too will leave… – and, in the process, leave a massive urban scar as memento.

Imagine, for a moment then, that the code covered not just individuals, but also such corporate leviathans. How would its rules apply? How would they be broken…?

The first part of the code is entitled Respect other people – and asks visitors to “Please respect the local community and other people using the outdoors. Remember your actions can affect people’s lives and livelihoods.”

It’s hard not to laugh with weary resignation when it comes to this request. Gladman have shown us, as a community, absolutely no respect whatsoever; have ignored the huge amount of registered objections we posted; and were, consequently, quite condescending (and ramshackle) in their representation at the planning hearing. Their actions will, in one fell swoop, wipe out not only a field soaked in history (and, quite frequently, deep, semi-permanent puddles), but the picturesque and popular pair of footpaths that run through it – one of the best places within the parish to observe the sun setting over Oxhill (sometimes perfectly in alignment with Oxhill Road).

The second section – Protect the natural environment – is, to my mind, a reference to sustainability: stressing that “We all have a responsibility to protect the countryside now and for future generations”; and asking that visitors make sure they “don’t harm animals, birds, plants or trees and try to leave no trace of [their] visit.”

Considering the damage that will be done to the local ecology – not just the birds that feed there, and the hedges they live in; but the badgers whose setts border the plot, and whose domains will therefore be blighted not just by excavating and building, but the continuing activity of its new residents – this is insult and injury combined. The development will also, of course, remove a large and productive grazing field from the local agricultural supply.

Finally, Enjoy the outdoors…

Even when going out locally, it’s best to get the latest information about where and when you can go. For example, your rights to go onto some areas of open access land and coastal land may be restricted in particular places at particular times. Find out as much as you can about where you are going, plan ahead and follow advice and local signs.

The only “advice and local signs” I can think of, that are pertinent here, will either be villagers’ placards, or more basic ones involving the holding up of one or two fingers. In a way, this goes back to the developer’s lack of respect, their arrogance… – but the development would also ignore the large number of objective reasons outlined in the briefing paper prepared by the Tysoe Residents (Neighbourhood Planning) Group: of heritage, sustainability, access, and suitability.

The only “enjoyment” of course, is one I keep coming back to: that of profit, of counting the readies made from “pure speculative development”. (I must admit that I really struggle with the use of the word “pure”, here; and would like to suggest that a few antonyms would be more appropriate….)

By turning that “outdoors” into eighty boxes of indoors, though, “enjoyment” will be removed from those who walk regularly through the field (and I count myself amongst those people) – and for future generations… – our open-air routes now fenced in; forced to plod along the tarmacked cul-de-sacs and pavements; views narrowed, framed, or even removed, by unsustainable, unsuitable, modernity.

Sadly, though, the recommendations of the Countryside Code do not apply to money-grabbing corporate entities: those who have no feeling, sympathy – or empathy – for the nature and community (far removed from their doorsteps…) that they would destroy; replacing it instead with yet more contributions to the climate change currently flooding our fields, roads and houses.

The Countryside Code, of course, is a set of moral and ethical principles – but there are too few moral and ethical (or principled) companies (or governments) in existence to deliver the transformations we should all be working towards.

“Respect. Protect. Enjoy.” Three words that, in an ideal world, would be at the heart of the way we all lead our lives. Three words, though, that are complete anathemas to a government and capitalist system that would tell us how we should live.