Is this now My Hill…?

As far as I am concerned, the only thing that can be achieved, when both my mind and body are suffused with deep, thick, viscous torment (echoed by repeated, random interference in both ears: stereophonic sussurations of spite…) – as I have stated so many times before – is walking. Apart from summoning lurking asthma, I know there is little worse I can subject my aching frame to. Plus, of course, my depression will ease, the further my journey. And on a morning like this – clear skies and concomitant summer balm; goldfinch twinkling in the hedges; chaffinch in the fletching oaks; buzzard and skylark floating above; sheep lazily grazing (heavy in their winter coats); and cattle uniformly resting in the shallow corrugations of ancient fields – what else am I to do? It is too generous a day to be shackled by sheets and shocking stair-rods of pain.

The first mile is hard: as if battling through stacked mattresses. But, reaching the sown fields, resistance fades, and my limbs begin to move with supernatural ease. Through my second gate, the path flowing beneath me, last week’s fresh cowpats have been grilled by the new heat, drilled by flies; but fudged treachery lies beneath the further stampede of hoof-prints, incised as the cattle migrated to new pasture. Despite the surface-split soil, moisture lurks. I wonder for how long.

Rape and pillage; rinse and repeat…

“Those stupid yokels in Tysoe won’t be up for another fight,” says Fat Greedy Bastard No.1 (FGB1) to FGB2. “We almost won, last time,” is the reply, between loosely-gritted teeth; “and I’ve already noticed that there are a lot fewer objections”. “Perhaps it’s because no-one can be bothered to fight anymore… – just as we planned. I certainly haven’t seen any of those notices we had, last time, pinned to trees, fences and lamp-posts; nor any of those huge village meetings.”

“It’s in the can, then, isn’t it?” gloats FGB1. “Instead of eighty houses in one place, splitting them over two fields seems to have done the trick.” “I think you’re right,” smirks FGB2. “Those on the Oxhill side won’t give a flying duck about those in Middleton Close; and vice versa. Divide and conquer. That’s what I always say. Divide and conquer.”

“I do think it’s wonderful that we’re allowed to simply walk in to – and walk all over – a field that cost thousands to defend, and just do it all again. Attrition – that’s my keyword. Grind the buggers down; and they’ll just roll over, and let you do whatever you want. Attrition. That’s the beauty of brass!”

So, where are the leaflets, hand-delivered by the “neighbourhood champions”? Are the People’s Front of Tysoe – or whatever they called themselves (The People’s Front of NoIdea?) – still so pissed-off at being found out (or having the Riot Act read out to them) by the Parish Council, that they’re cutting off their noses to spite their faces… (apart from the Great Tew: from whom I must beg forgiveness…)? Or are all we so happy/pissed-off (delete according to political nous) ourselves at #Brexit that we just haven’t noticed? Great timing, innit?! Chilcot, anyone?

The deadline has passed for the planning application that would literally flood Middleton Close were it to come to fruition – which, to a cynic such as myself, just looks like trying to build houses for thirty families who could then traipse their children up the hill to the nearest nursery, raising even more cash for its progenitor. But, we still have until next Wednesday to object to Gladman Mk.II.

All the previous reasons for not granting this permission, last time, actually apply to both applications; and, if you can be bothered, most of the points made in the following comprehensive document (about a 20 Mb download, I’m afraid) – which I produced, with the help of several others, thirty months ago – actually still also therefore apply to both. Copy and paste as much, or as little, of it, as you wish into the links above; and then barrage your local councillor – and of course, Chris ‘Teflon’ Saint, with as much vitriol as you want. (By the way, has anyone seen our MP, recently… – apart from in this week’s Herald, looking rather fetching in one of George Osborne’s high-vis jackets and matching hard hat…?)

That the planning laws are a whole herd of mega-donkeys, in allowing us to keep having to defend the same parcel of land from rapacious invaders again and again, is in no doubt. But, last time, we showed what we were made of; and I pray we can do it again… rather than slip in it.

I am far too disabled to go through what I went through last time – not sleeping for days on end – continually researching the law; producing leaflets; collating contact details; starting this blog, even… – but we would be just as stupid as the two FGBs above assume if we were not to fight back; and we would just get what we deserve. So that’s me done. Sorry.

Joseph Ashby, my much greater and more virtuous predecessor, must be rolling in his grave. Me, though, I’m off to have my head scanned. Literally.

A canal (or two) runs through it…

The construction of the Abbeys is a marvel to behold, for in a day when fresh water was a concern, the Cistercians had plenty. They always sought out locations that were secluded and on a running river or stream. The monks would dam sections to create enough flow to carry water to every portion of the Abbey. Water would flow through kitchens, to basins for washing and they even had indoor plumbing where waste would drop into the river and be carried away from the Abbey.

– TemplarHistory.com: The Cistercians

I remember the venerable (and much-missed) Mick Aston once, during an episode of Time Team, describing the Cistercians as “God’s plumbers”: due to the way they so perfectly tamed their surroundings…

…clearing woodland and scrub, draining marshes and building canals, mills and fishponds. Even though such activities by Cistercians may have been over-emphasized by researchers in the past, and such landscape changes were in any case widespread by the twelfth century, [knowledge of engineering skills in building and water control, together with the means to use it] was nevertheless a major aspect of early Cistercian monasteries to modify dramatically the landscape in which they were built.

– Michael Aston: Monasteries (Know the Landscape)

His soubriquet came to mind whilst pootling along the short section of the Heart of England Way between Baddesley Clinton and the junction, at Kingswood, of the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal with the Grand Union Canal (the latter, one of the pinnacles of mankind’s “hydrological innovation”; and – one could say, with ironic tongue in sardonic cheek – the HS2 of its day… – although I will always prefer the Leeds and Liverpool for its infinite variety, and the cherished memories formed walking along many, many miles of its towpaths during my youth).

There may be no obvious Cistercian-required “running river or stream” in this Warwickshire locale – but I believe that the monks would be impressed, looking down from their quiet version of heaven upon these now-generally-peaceful “motorways of the 1700s”, to see their “knowledge of engineering skills” (evolved from those of the Romans, of course) put to such elegant use (and so very well‑maintained).

Back at Baddesley, survey work carried out for the National Trust in late 1994 confirms just how much “water control” has been instituted during its long and engrossing existence:

A wooden sluice was exposed near the south-east corner of the moat. This is probably the finest example of its kind recorded systematically in the United Kingdom. Survival of such features in wood is extremely rare, and the author knows of no other intact example archaeologically recorded….

     The sluice structure appears to be a very well-preserved example of a sluice type commonly in use today, and known as a ‘monk’. The name implies monastic invention, but the association between monasteries and hydrological innovation is not now so readily supported by more recent research than was once considered. The slotted area in front of the back wall was probably intended to take removable wooden boards, which were inserted to hold the water in the moat, and removed when the moat needed draining. These wooden boards would be fitted loosely initially, but on swelling from contact with water would have made a waterproof fit. The ‘monk’ sluice is extremely efficient when used on water features that require regular draining and maintenance. They are the most popular sluice type in use today amongst fish-farmers, and are of an ancient design that probably dates back, in its simplistic form, to at least Roman times…. It is not possible to give a date on present evidence, but there is no reason why such structures should not be medieval in origin. The present example, however, has probably been replaced on a number of occasions, and is probably the latest example of a long succession of similarly designed sluices used to control water in this particular moat.

– Christopher K Currie: A watching brief on service trenches at Baddesley Clinton, Warwickshire

Poring over the Ordnance Survey map for the area, as is my wont, it is readily apparent that the Baddesley Clinton estate is as much defined by the amount of light-blue ink – despite that lack of a major indigenous waterway (although the water table appears to be quite close to the surface, in places…) – on the page, as by its remarkable, beautiful, historical and welcoming architecture. In fact, a comparison with neighbouring Wroxall Abbey – “In medieval times… a small Benedictine Convent” – although this is probably due to the manor-house’s more recent and continual habitation – demonstrates just how “dramatically” the local landscape has been sculpted. (The Poor Clare Community – their convent still visible on the road to Baddesley – was a much more modern establishment.)

For instance, there is an apparent leat – or, at least, a diverted and enlarged brook – heading down a hollow towards the manor from the direction of Hay Wood; and a well, not far off, in Church Field – although this may have been part of “a small village, possibly never very large”: as there are evident remains of ridge-and-furrow, despite several centuries of grazing and hoof-trampling. And then there is, of course, the famous “Moate” (originally one of a pair): connected to the Great Pool (with its twin islands), Long Ditch, and brace of “stew ponds”.

There are also other notable (but relatively diminutive) bodies of water between the aptly-named Mill Meadow and New Wood; as well as a more obvious pair (probably also fishponds) feeding towards this, at the junction of Lime, Barn and Little Church Fields. As Aston writes: “often fishponds were linked to systems of water supply, drainage and mill complexes in elaborate water control and management operations”; and it is nigh impossible, therefore, to believe that the coincidence of the supplying streams and ditches with the unbending field boundaries that join these bodies of water together is natural – a suspicion confirmed by the National Trust’s earlier appraisal (also quoted above):

One of the most interesting items in the medieval deeds, relate[s] to the recording of a mill associated with a fishery in the 1440s. Roberts records three demesne ponds in Baddesley Clinton between 1443 and 1448. These are called Lydgate Pool, Black Pool, and Milne Pool. It is probable that the Milne Pool is the fishpond recorded associated with a mill. The 1699 map records two fields adjacent to the Great Pond west of the moated site, as Mill Meadow and Mill Field, thus seeming to establish this pond as the site of the medieval mill. The mill is recorded in a number of later documents extending from 1531 through to 1668, after which date it is not recorded again….

     There are at least a dozen ponds of reasonable size shown on the 1699 map. Any one of these could have existed in the medieval period, either as a purpose built pond similar to the Mill Pond, or as quarries that later filled with water, and were subsequently used as fishponds.

– Christopher K Currie

There are many fascinating and picturesque (as well as beautiful and sublime) walks in the area around Baddesley Clinton, Hay Wood and Rowington Green – as well as nearby Packwood House. But simply ambling around the grounds can be its own reward – especially as the sun can be observed, through the day, streaming around the three extant wings of the manor, glinting in the moat and pools, during the generous opening hours – time easily occupied in admiring the wonderful gardens (the Walled Garden’s dahlia border – despite my dislike of the individual blooms – is stunning at this time of year; and it was sad to see some of their ‘dead heads’ discarded on the array of Vegetable Garden compost heaps); resting on the many surprisingly secluded seats (where the lesser-spotted Bard may be found: gazing at some drama’s text; or into the distance, chortling quietly at the squabbling ducks); meandering along the winding, easily-traversed, paths – and, of course, savouring the superb, freshly-cooked food and -brewed coffee (Bard-fuel) in the airy Barn Restaurant.

You could even – should the fancy take you – wander across some of Warwickshire’s most pleasant green fields and byways (including alongside both canals) to Packwood itself; and there are many local hostelries in the area at which to quench any resultant thirst (including the wonderfully-named, slightly quaint, The Case is Altered – also, coincidentally the title of a play (partly?) by Ben Jonson…).

You don’t even need to take the car: as Lapworth Station is a mere thirty-minute walk away (from both National Trust properties); and only nineteen minutes travel from Stratford-upon-Avon on the rare-as-hen’s-teeth direct London Midland service (although the more frequent London Midland/Chiltern Railways journey is around fifty minutes – with around half of that time spent sitting on the platform at Dorridge Station, waiting for the all-of-three-minutes second leg…). And even the railway line is as scenic as one could ever hope for….

By now the sun of afternoon

Showed ridge and furrow shadows

And shallow unfamiliar lakes

Stood shivering in the meadows.

Is Woodford church or Hinton church

The one I ought to see?

Or were they both too much restored

In 1883?

I do not know. Towards the west

A trail of glory runs

And we leave the old Great Central line

For Banbury and buns.

– John Betjeman: Great Central Railway, Sheffield Victoria to Banbury

Things are looking up… (or ‘That’s Entertainment’…)

Once, in a particularly insalubrious pub, an old man with a face like a wet leather satchel gripped my forearm, locked his milky blue eyes on mine, and enunciated very precisely: “Never forget to look up, son. Never forget to see what’s around you.” The utter drunken seriousness with which he imparted these pearls of wisdom gave me pause. I remember staring blankly at velveteen wallpaper and a middle-aged barmaid with a wide smile and a deep cleavage, and thinking that the oracle of the Nag’s Head had probably had enough votive lager. At the time, it sounded trite. [Now] it makes more sense than ever. I feel like I’ve rediscovered my own country, found a series of secret rooms in a house I’ve lived in for my entire life. The reality is that England has some of the most inspiring countryside and driving in Europe, if not the world. We have every type of road, and far too much weather. We have excitingly stupid wildlife, and views that make your jaw hit the floor while your brain struggles. But, best of all, we have the freedom to enjoy them, as long as we make the effort…. Put simply, we should heed the advice of small, drunk old men in pubs, and remember to appreciate what we’ve got on our doorstep. We should look up, and look around. And get out there and do it.

– Tom Ford: Top Gear magazine

You meet some funny (meaning ‘strange’; and sometimes ‘unusual’) creatures when out on walks – and not just in Tysoe, either. Earlier in the week, on this “slow-time Monday” – but not for the first time – I came across a group of Ents having what my dad would call a ‘confab’ (more properly, of course, an ‘Entmoot’).

The few, sparsely scattered, other folk following the park walk trails at Hanbury Hall appeared totally oblivious – were in too much of a rush to complete the course, their goal; or, even in their leisure, just weren’t interested in the “unhasty” nature of the discussion. And, to be honest, I would have passed them by, too – intently admiring the restoration of George London’s early eighteenth-century landscape; and listening to the busy birdlife and the sheep’s echolalia – were it not for the assembled young cattle, all singularly rapt in ruminative attention. There was obviously wisdom to be imparted, and to be absorbed.

If I had not “looked up” – habitually concentrating on avoiding bard-traps in the ridge-and-furrow, and putting my already-soiled boots once more unto the the copious amounts of sheep and cattle droppings – I would not have spotted the Ents’ wise and friendly faces above me: looking down (but not in the patronizing way that implies), welcoming all who would stop and tarry a while, as is their wont. We should therefore be grateful to “the Elves ‘curing the Ents of their dumbness’ [and] that it was a great gift that could not be forgotten”: for, if there are to remain guardians of this fragile planet, it is to them we should look and listen, and take great heed.

After mutual introductions had been made – at length; and in a relaxed-but-formal fashion very much to my liking (“Decided? No, we’ve only just finished saying good morning…”) – and after being complimented on dressing appropriately in raindrop-repellent ’roo bush-hat and showerproof fleece (there was a threatening Edward Seago sky: which would soon deliver on its dark promises) – the tallest of the Ents asked me if I had yet visited the last of their nearby wards: the black poplars, on the edge of the old deer park. I responded that I had; and that I had wondered – admiring them, their solitude and fortitude – what supernatural presence had protected these unfamiliar beings – “the most endangered native timber tree in Britain” – from prevailing destruction. Now I knew. And was thankful.

These trees, although commonly seen during the middle ages, found it difficult to adapt to modern agricultural and woodland management methods. Today they are rare so we hope to plant more using cutting from these trees.

– National Trust: Hanbury Hall park walks

As is their modest way, the Ents – as “Shepherds of the Trees” – regretted that their efforts had not been more successful, more numerous; but were pleased that – albeit almost too tardily – we humans (at least some of us) had finally begun to appreciate what lay around us; how such life – “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower… that blasts the roots of trees” – was precious beyond jewels, beyond anything man-manufactured. “Would that the trees might speak on behalf of all things that have roots, and punish those that wrong them!”

Eventually, I had to leave them to their concerned contemplations, and continue on my way. Their leader bowed from his great height, and held me gently by the hand – his bark much gentler, less craggy, than its sight would imply – and thanked me for my time. I replied that it was freely given; that I was grateful for their involvement; and that I would soon – by their measure – return. It was time well-spent, I said; and most, most valuable.

Noticing, as I moved on, that they were not marked on the provided map, scrumpled into my jeans pocket (and now lying before me, as I write), I wondered where I would next encounter them. I was sure that, whatever their ubiety, the poplars would be well within their sight; and that, if necessary, they would find me.

Passing through the burgeoning woodlands, after skirting Goodwins Hill Coppice; and before ascending the grassy slope to St Mary the Virgin Church – beautifully situated, with gorgeous panoramas (over the Vale of Evesham, back towards the Cotswolds), and backed by the dense Church Coppice – the conversation stayed with me: and I viewed all the trees I encountered (the older ones often acting as shade and shelter to the estate sheep and their now well-grown lambs) with fresh vision. I wondered, though, if the Ents would approve of the beautiful decorative carpentry within: much of it – including a pair of eye-feasting, neck-breaking, barrel-vaulted chapel roofs – originating from the Vernon family’s (the founders and then residents of Hanbury Hall) major restoration of 1840. The land is now well-managed and -loved; but, all those years ago, were the originating woods replanted to replace those toppled in the name of creed and craft…?

¶

It was only upon leaving the church that the foreshadowed rain finally fell. As I reached the bottom of the hill, just before I reached the avenue of fortunate oak trees (almost sold for timber, in the early 1960s, by Doris Vernon, the widow of Sir George Vernon, “to raise some extra funds”; but saved by the National Trust on “a surprise but well timed visit”), I walked into a grey wall of wetness. An unfortunate couple in lighter clothing had to be rescued by the farmer, who had been herding the sheep from field to field – bouncing the poor, drenched souls back to the comfort and respite of Hanbury’s servants’ hall tea-room, in his covered John Deere Gator (a vehicle I am still trying to persuade my dear Lady Bard to buy me for my birthday…!).

Was it purely coincidence that the trees saved me, with such perfect timing – like a lamb to the water… – from being soaked…?

You say offsetting; I say upsetting… (12A)

I have written before about the derisory gesture, made by Gladman Developments, to assuage (or even compensate for – and no, this is not the time or place to discuss Eric Pickles’ continuing dilution of Section 106 powers: yet another brick in the wall…) our concerns about the wiping-out of hundreds of years of our cherished heritage, with an offer of “public open space” – meaning, really, of course, that they are going to take a large field, and transform it into a pond; a couple of swings; and some “lumps and bumps” (the miniaturization of ridge-and-furrow…?). “Honey, I shrunk the meads.” (Sorry, it’s the best I could do. Although there’s probably also a joke in here comparing pitch-and-putt courses to St Andrews, given the prevalence of windmills in such places.)

And, of course, this plan is just one of the modern ‘remedies’ (and, yes, I am writing this with my ‘sardonic’ face on) that make up ‘biodiversity offsetting’: as if planting a couple of new bushes… (“plant a tree instead of seventy-three”) – or even scooping up all the ickle bunnikins and the itsy-bitsy newties (which we’re not supposed to give a shit about in the race for progress) in a bulldozer’s craw, and dumping them… – a couple of miles away: where the habitat is completely different; the topography completely alien; there are no badger setts next door; or copses of trees; no ancient hedgerows; and, ooh, look, a completely unbridgeable stream, completely full of steaming sewage… (a synecdoche of this Government’s environmental policies and attitudes) – will somehow make things better.

According to the weasel words of the NPPF, paragraph 118:

Where an adverse effect on the site’s notified special interest features is likely, an exception should only be made where the benefits of the development, at this site, clearly outweigh… the impacts that it is likely to have on the features of the site…

…but that, to my simple mind, could mean anything. It’s no different to using the word ‘sustainable’ (i.e. in its barefaced capitalist sense), when what you really mean is ‘profitable’.

¶

To put it another way: just imagine, if, one night, some huge unfriendly giant picks you from your bed – however gingerly (although I imagine more Roald Dahl-style) – and, instead of “gobbling up” this particular “human bean” – plonks you down, from a great height, into the middle of a Scottish glen; the top of a Lakeland fell; deep in the Sahara; or at the North Pole…. I don’t think it would have a great “outcome” (never mind “measurable”), do you? “Two rights don’t make a left.”

And, even if you somehow manage the long trek back home, and can then locate the site of your former glory, you will find that you didn’t actually have a home any longer. Any trace of it has been obliterated by someone plonking a ruddy big factory (for living?) in its place: spewing out all sorts of noxious rubbish; and anything natural has been thoroughly concreted over. All that is left as refuge is the little forgotten hedgehog house that used to hide in a far corner of your back garden, covered in several years’ leafmould, lying cracked, on its side. Even the tiny patch of ground where there is now substitute astroturf has been churned to hell – such giant-size make-up being slapped ingloriously over tonnes of wanton rubble (hence, no doubt, those phrenologic “lumps and bumps” Gladman seem so darned proud of).

Not nice – is it?

¶

Well, now, “biodiversity offsetting” has a new, technical, sibling – “mitigation translocation” – which, I suppose, is meant to make us all feel better, all warm inside, in a sort of science-y, tech-y way; without, again, understanding its definition or implications. But, to me it’s really just the the same ugly child, rechristened: no different to renaming that thing rusting away in your shed a “horticultural excavation apparatus”. It doesn’t truly make it any more efficient – or even less rusty. (Go and get some oil out, now; and give the thing the love it deserves. No, not your other half… – the blummin’ spade.)

And, guess what – it doesn’t work! “The relocation of animals to make way for land development rarely succeeds and could be driving some species towards extinction….” What a complete and utter surprise. I am truly shocked. (Sorry, my mask slipped: revealing my increasingly habitual ‘bitterly-sarcastic-where-the-fuck-did-common-sense-disappear-to’ rictus grimace. In fact, I appear to have morphed into the bastardized lovechild of my hero George Monbiot, and Al Murray’s Pub Landlord. Apologies to both.)

¶

As the “sixth mass extinction” accelerates down the ten-lane motorway of doom; and as the fog of self-defeating stupidity grows ever thicker; how many more defenceless creatures will we notch up on the crumbling bedpost of humanity? How many more triumphal tally stickers (yes, really) of thoughtlessly slaughtered trophies will we attach to the flanks of our machines of mess and mass destruction… before we realize it’s not just too late – we should have stopped being so bloody arrogant, as a species, centuries ago?

Never mind. At this rate, it won’t be long until we drive ourselves out of existence – a good thing for what’s left of Gaia, hopefully… – and Tysoe reverts to its Jurassic past. (Huzzah! Bring back the dinosaurs!) Sorry for that rude interruption. What I meant to say was… if Cameron wins in May, will the last person to leave the planet please turn out the lights?

Fly me to the moon…

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

– William Shakespeare: Julius Caesar

In yesterday’s Guardian, Timothy Garton Ash asks “What is Britain?” – particularly with regards to the structure of government, as defined by the forthcoming General Election (the willy waving of which already bores me…). He writes that “A serious response must involve devolving power, not just sideways but also downwards, to English local government.” But I would go one step further – in an attempt to bring real meaning and purpose to the currently hollowed-out, insincere concept of localism – and continue that devolution to village level: strengthening the remit (and budget) of the Parish Council; and introducing more accessible and democratic processes for making the decisions that affect only those who live here.

Obviously there has to be a flow of communication (information and legislation) both up and down the levels of legislature – “European, federal (British), constituent nation (England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland), regional, city, local” – to and from the parish; but we are not the same as other villages (however the current strata of government try to lump us into meaningless classifications such as “local service village”). Our relationships – geographical, personal, organizational, environmental, social… – are also different: in the way that no two people are alike, however many surface characteristics they may share.

¶

So the question I would ask is “What is Tysoe?”; and the only people who can answer this, fully, are those who live here – although it is also fundamental that this question be asked of our nearest and dearest: our neighbouring villages; the next layer up in this devolved form of government; those who we may work for; and the businesses that provide us with services, or are based within the parish.

And there is only one way of discovering the reality, the truth – both objective and subjective (otherwise, we might as well just be lumped in with other similar locales) – and that is to go out and ask. You cannot expect people simply to come flocking to you, just because you have been given some form or remit of power – you have to govern collegiately, govern by walking around: actively asking; actively listening; bouncing ideas around, and letting others add to them, criticize them, praise them, ridicule them. After all, your constituents should be your greatest asset – you wouldn’t be there without them (or not for long, anyway).

If you hide behind a desk – or even a customer service counter – people will only come to you with their (and maybe your) problems; or when they are in trouble and need your help (if they believe you can…). If you act as if you know better than they do, and have all the answers, without (valuing) their input, they may not even think about dragging themselves in your direction: and you will never learn what they think of you and your patronizing form of power. Only if you share your authority (however elected) with them, trust them, offer them transparent decision-making, will you know; and it will not come as a surprise, next time they have the opportunity (presuming you haven’t truncated their rights) to choose who will next have your power, that they do not choose you.

¶

You can probably see where I’m going with this – although my thoughts could also apply to all the higher levels of administration, of course… – especially following my recent post on the strange definition of “consultation” currently being practised by those producing the Neighbourhood Plan. This time, though, I was inspired to put stubby index fingers to keyboard (as well as croaky voice to microphone) by the sage comment (of which the following is an edited version) left on my freeform response to the original survey – not just to criticize (unless you take that in its wider, more positive, more constructive definition of simply observing and analyzing), but to demonstrate an alternative future – a third way, even – coloured by my experience of many years of finessing corporate (internal, as well as external) communication.

Is it worth it, this Neighbourhood Plan? Is it worth the effort…?

     Probably not if it’s dull, tedious hard work. Probably not, if it’s just to satisfy a remote government whim, or a local government box ticking exercise, or to indulge a few individuals’ theories. Probably not if we leave it to a few people wearily going through the motions of what they think should be done. Probably not if no-one asks you for your ideas, or listens when you offer them. Probably not if it is just another argument about what should be built here, or there, and everybody knows that ‘the planning department’ will decide anyway, whoever ‘the planning department’ is. Probably not if it doesn’t inspire us, however worthy.

     On the other hand, it doesn’t have to be like that. It doesn’t even have to be the Neighbourhood Plan. It could simply be OUR plan. A plan for Tysoe.

     It could be a plan for the village as we want it to be; how we want to be in it; what we want to keep and what to change; how we would look after ourselves and each other; how we could adapt it to the world around us; how we could feel we belong to it; how we could make it a wonderful place to grow up, and grow old in; how it could look, and work for us.

     It could be a plan that could outlive the political and economic winds that blow around us. It could be sensitive to, but not dependent on others – on officials and policies and obscure irrelevant impractical things that might otherwise be imposed on us. It could be a plan for our village to enable it to survive and thrive even in troubled times.

     It could be a plan that we would all enjoy playing our part in creating. It could be a plan of which we are all proud. It could be a plan created by grownups and children alike, a game for the whole family to play. It could be a plan made by fully sentient human beings, with extraordinary capabilities, and loads of common sense. It could be a model of how people can work together for a common cause.

     Is it worth it? I think so.

     Do we have the will? Dig a bit deeper and I’m sure we will find it, bursting to get out.

     Can we overcome the obstacles? No doubt, if we are strong and resolute.

     Is it possible? Yes.

     Now, I wonder what all that could look and feel like? Let’s start here.

     It’s not that hard. A lot easier than waking up tomorrow and it’s all gone. That would be really hard.

I find this utterly inspirational. It really defines what a Neighbourhood Plan could and should be – far removed from the “time- and money-consuming exercise: designed to keep us ‘plebs’ occupied” defined in the 2011 Localism Act: a definition which is at the root of our current woes (which you and I both need to get past before solutions are posited).

¶

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen.

– Douglas Adams: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

At the moment (and I could not attend last night’s meeting, because of my continuing ill-health; and, to be honest, cynically only expected more of the same – despite valid proddings and protestations from various parts of the parish; and despite the fact that my urge is to keep on doling out chunks of doubting benefit…), all we are getting (being given) are dribs and drabs of information that appear to be made up on the fly. There is no visible strategy; no detailed schedule of events that we are all privy to. Something this important (which could refer equally to the Plan, the parish, and its residents) requires regular updates that say “This is what is going to happen”, and when; and how well the schedule is being kept to, or if it needs revising. The parish should also have been asked how it would like the ‘consultation’ to take place. The Plan (as the anonymous poster above points out) is not one person’s, or one group’s, document – it belongs to (and is made by) every single resident.

I think we should be receiving detailed (at least) monthly bulletins (a blog, maybe?!), containing this sort of information. There should be regular (weekly, fortnightly, monthly?) surgeries, at times and places convenient to different sectors of our population’s needs. Ideally, the ‘street champions’ would have been given the chance to demonstrate more skills than simply leafleting: so that everyone really understands what is going on in a way that can be communicated with and by those villagers involved, as well, of course, with those who aren’t (or currently don’t feel themselves to be). As a villager, do you know/feel/believe that you can ask questions, or give input, and that the reply will be constructive? If we have little faith in the process, and the people pushing it forward, it is because they have so far demonstrated (consciously or subconsciously) that they have little faith in the outcome if they involve us too much.

If there were effective communication channels in place – and an effective communication strategy – we wouldn’t have been taken by surprise; and we would have known that the current draft of the Neighbourhood Plan was the first, not the last, chance for consultation; and that the Plan isn’t being rushed to the implied premature conclusion. Being told this after the fact, though, is way, way too late. Before last night, all we had been told was that there was a deadline of 15 January. How, therefore, were we supposed to know any different? Were we supposed to guess that we might have a second or third chance to offer our opinion? (Sorry, my crystal ball has suffered one of its frequent power outages.) And why number those chances, anyway? We should be (and I am sorry to keep banging on about this) continually involved: not just when the spirit moves; not just by saying anyone can attend a meeting – but in any way that anyone wants to be. “Tysoe: how would you like to be involved in your plan? When would you like to meet up, and where, and how?” For goodness’ sake, ask people what they want, and then bloody well give it to them. Don’t act like another arm of the establishment that has led to current voter apathy/powerlessness, and expect us to be grateful in return. All you will do is split us into raging, revolting peasants (Russell Brand-stylee) and the silent, peeved majority, who think anything vaguely political is a waste of their time.

¶

Do you really know what the Plan’s purpose is? Do you agree with it? Or would you rather have something that meshes perfectly with all our area’s residents’ varied needs and wants – as described above? My guess is that the village (as I have said before) is survey- and plan-weary; and may think this is just being done to boost the egos of a few, rather than serve the many. Couch “the Plan’s purpose” in the terms of the above comment, and, soon, I predict, villagers will start to experience an emerging ownership, and feel properly involved; feel listened to – that this is something important and concrete that they must partake in, for the sake of Tysoe. At the moment, it just looks like a bureaucratic exercise, with the appeal of a dead slug garnished with bird droppings.

I don’t want to fill in a feedback form. Neither, I would guess, does anyone else. (They are only convenient for those issuing them.) This is too important to be a paper-shuffling exercise. It is personal; it is about our human futures, tightly tied in with the village’s future. It is not about bureaucracy. It is about people talking, discussing – shouting, if necessary – until their voices are hoarse, and they need a pint or three in the Peacock. I want to be listened to, appreciated, understood – my views, however individual, however off-the-wall, noted, incorporated, available for others to debate. I want an open – not closed – reiterative – not finite – honest – not obfuscated – collegiate – not selective – inclusive – not exclusive – process; one that belongs to us all, is participated in by us all… equally. What I want – what we need to succeed – is trust and transparency. Great bloody steaming dollops of both, please (and hold the slug).

¶

During the last few days, it has emerged that the “initial” draft of the Plan had not been seen (vetted, edited, approved) by anyone than a very select few – not even most members of the Neighbourhood Plan group; and certainly not any of our Parish Councillors – before being circulated (although I have been told several times, by several people, that actually getting hold of a physical or digital copy is not as easy as I had thought…). This is ludicrous. And, although apparently democratic on the surface, to me it shows that those élite involved in producing it either thought that their own efforts didn’t need such policing; did not understand the consequences of not having defined editorial/production processes in place; or were trying to rush the thing through (confirmed by the similarly ludicrous response deadline we have been given).

This is neither “democratic” nor fair. If the Parish Council – who are ultimately responsible for the document – had reviewed it, they (instead of Keith Risk) could have pointed out the flaws in it before the midden hit the windmill.

As I have said before, the workings-out must be highly visible. If you go directly to a fait accompli, then people will assume, rightly or wrongly, that things are being hidden from them. Where is the correlation between what 43% of us said on our survey forms and the now circulating (like treacle through a straw) extremely rough (for content, but glossy in appearance: looking like a final) draft of suggested policy?

I feel, personally, as if I we are being treated like children: children who don’t know what’s good for them (in the way that David Cameron usually addresses ‘his’ electorate). That we’re too stupid to understand all this technical planning stuff: so we’re not going to be told, or given the chance to learn about it, and comment on it, and discuss its merits. This has probably not been done on purpose; but, without “having defined editorial/production processes”, and a broad selection of reviewers, it was bound to happen. Wouldn’t it have been far better to say “this is what we’re thinking of doing – what do you think?”

People, generally, want leadership that listens to them; not bossiness that hides away, secretly machinating like some rural version of the KGB. What we really need, therefore, is another Joseph Ashby – certainly not the Wizard of Oz, manipulating things with no substance from behind the curtain. You can’t make decisions unilaterally. If we had all been treated like adults, and communicated properly with, from day one, our expectations would be realistic, and we would know what was going on.

When people who have our future in their hands make a decision, then they should tell us that they are about to make it; and how; and why. Not afterwards. And they must ensure that the village is a stakeholder in that decision. This is how conspiracy theories emerge. People fill in gaps in the paucity of information to try and mend it; make sense of rupturing gaps in the process. They are not the failings of those who try to listen; but those who are not listening. Openness and honesty at the outset – even stating that there were some key processes that would need refining later: “We’ve never done this before” – would have been readily and willingly accepted, I am sure.

The Tories’ desire to take the country back to the 1930s is beginning to look tame, compared with the current assertions of feudalism within the village – risking taking us all back to the 1330s. (At least, I suppose, our fields of ridge-and-furrow would be intact.)

[I was tempted to apologize for my anger – but others I have discussed this with feel similarly disenfranchised (and perturbed). I started this blog because I love and cherish dearly this unique place my partner and I have found to spend the rest of our lives in: and therefore want to help protect it, and its residents, in any way I can, from deliberate or accidental harm (my main weapon of defence, being disabled, being the gift of articulacy). I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and find “it’s all gone”. That would not only be “really hard”, it would be extremely painful. (And I have already known more pain in my life than many would know in ten of theirs.)]

¶

So… why does the first draft look so like a final draft (even though there are gaping holes in it)? Perception is everything; and only a constant two-way flow of information will quash that. Communicating effectively is blummin’ hard work, though; and requires valued expertise. As I keep saying, everything I plea for should all have been communicated in advance. I understand that this is the first time the village has done a Neighbourhood Plan; but we’re not the first place to do one. Why have there not been presentations to the village from others that have? Have there been visits to other areas further along in the process? I doubt it. But, if there have, then they should have been publicised, and open to anyone vaguely interested in getting involved.

Having received only 43% of the residential surveys back; and not having a full set of business responses; instead of producing a glossy document, the Neighbourhood Plan group should have taken the time to interact with that missing majority – to find out why they didn’t respond/weren’t interested, and address this. It would have improved their standing in the village; would have shown they were listening as well as telling; and would almost certainly mean that we wouldn’t now be in the situation we are in.

Communication. Communication. Communication. It is at the centre of any successful organization; and lacking from those that fail.

¶

This thing needs doing properly. I think the comment on my post, above, should be the manifesto (‘Manifestysoe’?!) that drives the Plan, drives the village. It could include all the things that the Parish Plan didn’t achieve. And, whatever its designation, it could be – as a Neighbourhood Plan is supposed to be (every five years) – a rolling document that captures the developing Zeitgeist and genius loci. It doesn’t need to be governed by external law. It can be the repository of all of Tysoe’s massive and deep wealth of knowledge, desires, needs and dreams – a sort of collegiate ‘Tyseaux Tapestry’ (or even Magna Carta) for the Internet age.

But this, above all – as wot the wise person wrote – requires imagination and graft. It also requires skill, leadership, and a willingness to acknowledge that wisdom can be found in the smallest and darkest of places. But, only by opening the process up to every single sentient thing that resides within the Parish boundaries, will that wisdom be found. It cannot be decided by kings in castles, lords in manors, monks scratching away at their parchments in ivory towers, separated from the seething, unruly masses by a moat of superiority. It needs an extremely personal touch – and, if necessary, walking around, getting mucky, wearing wellies: even talking to the farmers who steer the local agricultural-based economy: which, so far, hasn’t been given its central starring rôle in the Plan. It needs involvement, as well as hard work and cleverness. Intelligence that stems from without as well as within. This is a collegiate document, not one that is handed down from Mount Sinai, finalized, to be thoughtlessly obeyed. It requires your input to start it – which is partly what the comments section below is for; and what my email address is for. It also requires your input to ensure that it never ends.

We choose to produce a Plan for Tysoe and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too.

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.

Only sensible in the duller parts…

In October, last year – exactly (and coincidentally) thirteen months ago – I wrote what I hoped was an encouraging email to fellow members of the then Tysoe Residents (Neighbourhood Planning) Group; and, as a result, was asked by David Sewell (also a member) if he could reproduce a shortened reading of it in the Tysoe & District Record. I was more than happy to oblige: as we were in the midst of the opening stages of our skirmish with Gladman Developments, and I thought it might act as a rallying call to the village. However, precious as I am of my words (and the effort it takes to produce them), I also felt that the full version deserved a proper repository.

Initially, I linked it to a photograph of Tysoe, taken from Windmill Hill, in my longstanding online gallery. But so many words, in a repository of images, seemed to jar. (I usually accompany my photos with just a couple of sentences, at most.) And so, an idea that had been bubbling under, somewhere in my subconscious, for many a year – of starting a blog (although I had no particular theme in mind: which, happily, shows to this day!) – rose to the surface, and began to be made concrete: and, on 20 November 2013, I launched this site. (Although, sadly, not a single bottle of champagne was hurt in the process.) And, so that my original post wouldn’t feel lonely, and there would be a hint of progression, and of great(?!) things to come… – one foundation stone does not a building make… – I added a recently-completed poem, to keep it company.

But what to call it?

Keith Risk – who was then chairman – had, good-humouredly (because of the length and content of my many emails and other (public) writings for the Group; as well as my growing addiction to Shakespeare – currently the fifth most-used label on the blog…), christened me “The Bard of Tysoe”. And, for want of any other name (Holofernes may have been as apposite…) – and giving me a sort of core theme to riff on (particularly as I was so heavily involved, at the time, in that “skirmish” for what was left of a small field of ridge-and-furrow on Oxhill Road…) – it stuck. And has been stuck at the top of every post, and every page, ever since. (I’m quite attached to it, now, thank you.)

I also hoped that such a moniker would (maybe; modestly) hide my true identity from most readers. Although, at a celebration following the village’s first victory – at the Stratford-on-Avon District Council Planning Committee (East) meeting, on 8 January 2014 – an acquaintance sidled up to me, and said (with a big grin on his face): “Are you the Bard of Tysoe?” Admittedly, he could have asked this of everyone he met, reverse Spartacus-style: but, having stumbled onto this website looking for information on “planning in Tysoe”, he had put two and two together, and there I was: unmasked! (Darn it.)

In a way, though, it truly doesn’t matter who I (really) am: the version of me that I present, and that you read (and therefore infer), on here – and my varied thoughts on various topics: from Charlecote to Shakespeare; torment to Tysoe (of course!); the windmill to The Wind in the Willows – are all that are important (in the tiny, dark corner of the Web that I inhabit…). I just hope that they are also of interest to someone other than myself – although, as James Joyce declared:

It is my idea of the significance of trivial things that I want to give to the two or three unfortunate wretches who may eventually read me.

As Michael Foley says, as well, in his entertaining book Embracing the Ordinary – well worth getting hold of: especially for phrases such as the sublime “by the sweaters of Benetton I sat down and wept” –

[Proust and Joyce] both understood the crucial paradox: if you write for yourself it will be relevant to everyone and if you write for everyone it will be relevant to no one.

So I wrote for myself – quite happily – wondering how long I could keep the words flowing; hoping to give them some sort of relevance to something; fully expecting to quickly run out of ideas (and split infinitives on which to clumsily hang them…), and therefore last a month at most; and for only “two or three unfortunate wretches” to stumble upon my words (and (occasionally) convoluted grammar).

Which would have done, to be honest.

But, twelve months on (exactly to the day), after over a hundred posts of extremely varying length (and, some would say – including me – quality…), the site has been visited nearly 6,000 times – and by people from all over the globe.

You would think that I would be speechless at such numbers. And I am. (Why are they so low…?! And why, with so many page hits, have I only got three subscribers…?!) But my fingers are obviously connected to a different part of my verbal cortex, it seems (and, yes, I have just made that term up… – but, as always, the link does go to somewhere relevant – although I am unsure as to how many readers actually venture out into the wider realms of the ’Net: hitting on, and trawling for, my various references, side-swipes and Easter eggs…). So, the written words continue to flow. And will do so, for as long as I can hold a book, a thought, a virtual pen, and a glass of single malt. (Although maybe not all at the same time.)

Look at it this way…

A man walks into an empty bar. Gathers up all the darts he can find; can hold. Just. Turns his back to the board, and walks to the oche. Stops. Throws all the darts in his hands, in one go, over his shoulders. Luckily – but then the bar was empty, remember – no-one is hurt. Unluckily, most of the darts either clatter to the floor: directly; or after bouncing off the brick wall. One even pierces a wooden ceiling beam; and hangs there, quivering for a while. Amazingly, two hit the sisal. One, outside the metal ring. The other, double top. The perfect finishing score.

No different to putting a needle in a map, blindfold, really.

So why Tysoe? Apart from an available and willing landowner eager to make a few quid (aren’t they all); and a field large enough to hold enough identical boxes (boxed in); what makes our village such an attractive target? Why not Hook Norton, for instance? Oh, sorry.

¶

I spent most of my working life in some form of marketing; and we would not even think about thinking about bringing a product to market without a great deal of research – about its viability; about its likely customers; about the relevant competitors. But, above all, we would be creative: rather than simply producing the Mk1 Grommet in eternity; and hoping that enough people would carry on liking it, or learning to like it, as it always was, that we would make money from it. You have to innovate to accumulate. As they say.

Perhaps, though, in the property world, it’s not like that. Find enough fields; apply the same layout, the same whatever-the-word-is-for-the-opposite-of-design; prepare to repulse nimbys; throw a lot of money at the planning process; and, hey presto, you’ll have launched so many darts that it doesn’t matter if so many of them miss their target. One success will easily pay for a handful of failures. Rinse and repeat.

It doesn’t matter if there’s no gas to heat your brick estates efficiently in a world of oil and stone; nor that you will eradicate centuries of vital heritage (you can always offset the ridge-and-furrow somewhere, can’t you); or create flooding; jam the roads; remove productive land from the foodchain; not fit the local vernacular. Soon enough, so many examples of your commoditized crap will stick out of rural communities like sore thumbs, that no-one will notice that the original, manicured fingers are withering to bloody gangrenous stumps; now that this subtopia has become the norm. No more opposing digits: just interlocking hurt.

Now it’s the norm, all the rage, there’s no need to fight anymore. Acceptance. And from carpet bombing. Woot.

And all in the middle of nowhere. Now. here.

¶

So why Tysoe? Because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter where. It doesn’t matter why, how or who. We are the faceless giants who will come in the night and eat up your tiny little dreams. We are omnivores. Grizzling and horrigust. We have no taste (except for money). We have no senses, no sense at all. Feed me, Seymour.

Might as well come quietly, then.

¶

A man walks into an empty bar. It used to be called the Peacock, you know. They’re turning it into apartments, next spring.

Taking arms against a sea of troubles…

As most villagers will know by now, Gladman Developments’ (13/02515/OUT) planning appeal, re their proposed desecration of Oxhill Road, will be heard at a local inquiry: which will be held on 16 September 2014 starting at 10:00. This will take place at Ettington Community Centre; and is expected to last up to five days.

In the light of SHAPE’s recent victory (in battle, if not in war) – partly because of the need for a five-year housing supply finally being met by Stratford-on-Avon District Council… –

At April 2014 [albeit announced on 12 August 2014] there is considered to be a supply of 3,951 new homes in the pipeline. This is the equivalent of 5.4 years’ supply.

…does this render the inquiry moot – even without the Core Strategy (which will be submitted for consideration in September or October: which will, of course, be too late for us…) in place?

Or do we still need to rely on the NPPF – especially with regards to the heritage aspects of the Parish Council and Tysoe Residents (Neighbourhood Planning) Group’s original objections?

Section 12 of the NPPF – at paragraph 128 – states that…

In determining applications, local planning authorities should require an applicant to describe the significance of any heritage assets affected, including any contribution made by their setting. The level of detail should be proportionate to the assets’ importance and no more than is sufficient to understand the potential impact of the proposal on their significance.

…although it has never been clear – to me, anyway – who decides on “the assets’ importance” or “their significance”: despite, of course, English Heritage – as the relevant statutory body – having made their views very clear with regards to the ridge-and-furrow adjacent to Tysoe Manor.

However, a landmark ruling in February – now widely considered an NPPF test case – may have helped clarify this: when deputy high court judge Robin Purchas QC ruled against an application for an 86.5 metre/284 feet-high wind-turbine at Pond Farm, Bodham, Norfolk. He stated that the consideration of “setting” needed to be set at a high threshold, due to the desirability of preserving the context of local listed buildings – including “the Grade I listed Barningham Hall, which is of Jacobean origin; Baconsthorpe Castle, also Grade I; and a number of Grade II* churches” – in the local landscape; and this had not been correctly assessed by the inquiry inspector who had given the go-ahead for the turbine. According to The Guardian…

Judge Purchas ruled the inspector did not comply with section 66(1) of the Planning (Listed Buildings and Conservation Areas) Act, which required him to have special regard to the desirability of preserving the settings of listed buildings.

With such decisions being made, it does seem that legislation – and I am a strong believer in the NPPF, when applied correctly… – may yet come to our aid: although I am still unsure how we ensure this; or if it is even practicable. FORSE “is working with a planning expert and a specialist Barrister” in contesting the possible (probable?) GLH development of thousands of houses. But all this demonstrates to me is that to fight on an equal footing with the developers – and a government that appears to have vested interests in the harrowing of the shires (despite our MP’s lone protestations) – requires digging deep for resources (both time and money) that are probably beyond Tysoe’s means.

Even with the district council’s supposed/stated support, this still feels like a version of David and Goliath where the little guy has no rocks for his sling. Outrageous fortune, indeed.

My submission to the Planning Inspectorate…

I know that others are capable of addressing this inquiry more objectively. This, however, is a personal statement: that is, therefore, slightly more subjective. However, I think it is important that those making the final decision regarding this proposed development understand why Tysoe is so deeply valued and loved (and therefore why so many residents have objected vehemently to this proposal); what it feels like to live here; and why it should be protected from this mass onslaught of unsuitable and unsustainable development.

I have only lived in Tysoe for a few years, but have become so attached to the place, its people, spirit, identity and community, that I now write a blog, online, as The Bard of Tysoe – covering many aspects of village (and local) life, in an attempt to capture the unique spirit of the place. It is three of those “many aspects” that I would like to address here:

1. its personal attachment (i.e. the attraction of the village to both incomers and long-time residents);
2. the threats the cohesion of this community faces, were it to expand rapidly, rather than continue evolving, as it has done for centuries; and
3. the total lack of sustainability such an expansion would force on the village and its heritage.

Before I continue, though, I must stress that I – along with all the other villagers I have spoken to – would not want to deprive others of living in this wonderful place. We know that we have to grow. It is just that the proposed development is too large, too sudden, too concentrated; would remove a crucial part of our heritage; and would be damaging for future generations, because of the lack of regard it has for the negative impact it will have on the earth we live on.

¶

About three-and-a-half years ago – on our way to somewhere-else – our car broke down in Stratford-upon-Avon. Whilst the car was being repaired, we wandered into town, and spotted a picture of the house we now live in, in the window of an estate agent. Objectively, there is little that is remarkable about our home. Admittedly, for a building of its age, it has a bit of character – but the garden is smaller than we would have liked; and it doesn’t have a garage. One thing it does have going for it, though, is that it is in Tysoe.

Having lived in a small village, before, I knew how important the post office and shop would be; how fundamental it is that there is a pub, a village hall, a doctors’ surgery; how you soon get to know your neighbours – and trust them. What I hadn’t expected was the amazing strength and sense of identity and community the three villages that make up Tysoe jointly possess – something that continues to become more apparent (and amaze) with each passing day.

The campaign to fight this proposed development of eighty houses on Oxhill Road – which started last September – typifies this; and I must admit to being overwhelmed by the sense of purpose, unity and duty that drives those motivated to ‘do something about it’. It seems I am not the only one who finds this place so very special.

For health reasons, I spend as much time as I can walking – whether it be by Shakespeare’s Avon; or through his supposed poaching ground of Charlecote. But, whatever the undoubted attractions of those places, I prefer just to wander around the local byways – maybe up to the windmill; to Upton House; or across the fields to Oxhill. But I am at my most content just sitting in the churchyard, knowing this is my village – and that this is where I will stay. To paraphrase Touchstone, in As You Like It – “When I am at home, I am in a better place.”

¶

When I write my blog, I keep coming back to two words: “community” and “identity”. They (like sustainability – which I will talk about in a moment…) can be hard to define; yet are, at the same time, utterly recognizable…. But my largest worry at the moment is that the village’s community and allied identity will be unsustainable in the face of the onslaught of such an overwhelming, and dense, addition to the local built environment (and probably in a style more suited to the urban than the rural), as well as the consequent huge population increase (again, probably more suited to the urban than the rural).

Every time I pass, or walk through, that field on Oxhill Road, therefore, I cannot help but imagine the huge carbuncle that would result from this development: a terrible scar being opened in the ancient earth; followed by horrendous ‘surgery’ – taking place over two or three years – polluting the village with noise, dirt, congestion, and perpetual, unsustainable, damage.

The proposal is utterly disproportionate in scale; utterly unsuitable in design and density; and would increase the number of houses in Middle and Upper Tysoe by over 20%; and the population by around 30%… – causing undue harm to the local landscape, its important environmental and historical assets, and the people who live here: now, and in the future.

In a council district where a sizable proportion of the houses are holiday lets and bed-and-breakfasts – and where the average house price is amongst the most expensive in the region – it seems ludicrous, to me, to build such a concentration of houses that will be unaffordable to those who truly want and need to live here (for example, our children…); and so far away from any centres of employment – especially as Tysoe is served poorly by public transport. There are also over one thousand empty houses in Stratford District that could contribute to the council’s five-year housing supply – reducing the perceived need to build on valuable agricultural land.

¶

Because of all this, I have a feeling that this ‘fourth Tysoe’ would never truly integrate with the rest of the village – not because we are unwelcoming: after my short time here, I feel a true part of the community (although the new residents would soon become aware of our fight – which they would then, of course, perceive was against them…) – but because it will not have evolved from what already exists. It would not be a true, integrated part of the village – even though directly connected – but stuck on badly: like some young child’s blindfolded attempt at pinning the tail on the donkey. It is completely without context and suitability.

It would, however – whilst imposing its lack of sustainability on all of us – rely on its connection with the rest of the village (its ‘better half’) for its infrastructure and services; its prosperity and survival (although I do not believe it would contribute much to the local economy…) – even though it had caused the village such irreparable harm.

In contrast, fifty to seventy-five houses being developed over the next seventeen years – as envisaged in Stratford District Council’s draft Core Strategy – will be more manageable; and will – with Tysoe’s Neighbourhood Plan in place – build sensibly and meaningfully on the way the village has grown, over the centuries, with just a few new houses appearing every year.

¶

As we keep being told:

At the heart of the National Planning Policy Framework is a presumption in favour of sustainable development, which should be seen as a golden thread running through both plan-making and decision-taking.

What people seem to gloss over, though, is an understanding of that word “sustainable”; and, in my experience, for many, sustainability can be somewhat difficult to describe.

However, the dictionary defines it as…

…that which is capable of being sustained [which is a little circular in its reasoning]; and, in ecology, the amount or degree to which the earth’s resources may be exploited without damage to the environment.

In a way, both of these aspects are important when it comes to assessing how a new, large housing development will affect the village – which is why they are (when read carefully, and understood properly) at the heart of the major legislative requirements for development in this country.

Using this definition, there are immediate and obvious grounds for refusing Gladman’s proposals:

1. The council’s draft Core Strategy states that developments should cause no significant increase in traffic on rural roads: and yet a sudden influx of eighty households will mean that most of those will work outside the parish; which, in turn, means a large increase in commuting and service traffic – through both Oxhill and Tysoe. Anyone who uses these roads will tell you that they are narrow and unsafe, and are already blocked at peak times. This increase in the number of cars will not only affect existing traffic – which includes a large number of agricultural vehicles, crucial to the local economy – but cyclists, horse-riders, and pedestrians: including parents and small children on their way to and from Tysoe Primary School and Tysoe Pre-School.


2. The village’s surgery is already at full capacity: and, therefore, there would be no healthcare facilities for the large number of incoming residents.


3. As is well-known, local sewage and surface water management facilities are already over-capacity; and the part of Tysoe under consideration – like much of the village – is already subject to frequent flooding.


4. Not only will the new houses be visible from the Edgehill escarpment – which is part of the Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty bordering the village – but it will form a major incursion across the village boundary into the countryside – in contravention of the council’s Core Strategy policy: which states that any development proposals should avoid such high-quality land as the ridge-and-furrow field the development will eradicate: land that is of ecological and archaeological value, locally and nationally.

¶

It is not hard to spot, as you wander around the parish, that Tysoe is blessed with a relatively large number of remaining ridge-and-furrow fields. However, there is only one field that is still directly attached to Tysoe Manor – itself a Grade II* listed building… – and that is the field currently under threat.

Why is this important?

Well, in the Middle Ages, this field would almost certainly have been owned by the lord of Tysoe Manor; and farmed by his peasant tenants, using the open field system. Each such farmer would ‘rent’ a number of strips (by giving a proportion of his crops to his lordship) – although probably not together, but scattered around the manorial fields – his medieval plough (probably shared with others) turning the soil over and over, year in, year out. And, with his neighbours ploughing in the opposite direction, over time, this gradually moved the increasingly fertile earth inwards, from the edge of the strip (the furrow), causing it to build up in the middle (the ridge). And, as this creates such regular ditches, it seems likely that this process was also used to improve drainage for the farmers and their crops. 

These great open medieval fields were worked by the peasants as a community, though; and, at certain times of year – such as harvest – the whole village would come together. Although, in the end, of course, little could be done against the powers of the plague, and then enclosure – where landowners, with the full backing of the Government, could ‘enclose’ their land, and bring it into profitable use – profitable for them, anyway.

This field has not changed in hundreds and hundreds of years. It is living history. And it is a sobering thought that our ancestors would have seen what we see now. There are powers, though, now, to stop our heritage suffering more vandalism – and they are enshrined in the NPPF and other planning laws.

¶

When Joseph Ashby – Tysoe’s most famous son – was alive, the Act of Parliament that was passed in April 1796 “for the enclosure of the open fields of Tysoe” – almost the last parish in the area to succumb: and, therefore, with little apparent resistance… – was a recent and living memory; the end of an era. Many of the pre-enclosure rituals were still enacted at harvest, therefore; and many villagers were still aware of the location of their family’s ‘lands’, or ploughing ridges – a passive, subtle, but behindhand rebellion against “a visible sign and symbol that rampant family and individual power had gained a complete victory over the civic community.”

How sad it would be if the present villagers were to have similar memories for such a vital piece of our heritage – even though we had resisted its eradication so strongly; and we had known that the law should have been on our side.

¶

One last thought on sustainability. Sustainable development (which is what we obviously want for our village – as we know we have to keep on growing, as I have said…) is itself defined in many ways – but probably the most frequently cited is from Our Common Future, also known as the United Nations’ Brundtland Report:

Sustainable development is development that meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.

Apply this to the proposal – and it fails at every step.

¶

I don’t know if every resident feels the same way – I know that many do… – but I chose to live in Tysoe partly because of the lure of its isolation. (For some, I know, such isolation can be a ball-and-chain around their ankles: a threat to their physical and mental health.) However, I choose to stay here because of that isolation; the village’s utterly wonderful, large moat of countryside; and its intrinsic, unique sense of community and identity. (Those words again.)

I don’t know if it really is “the most rural village in Warwickshire”, as has been claimed – it certainly feels it, sometimes (thank goodness). What I do know is that I don’t want to be walking down Oxhill Road, with a future small grandchild in hand, explaining what the field that then holds eighty houses was; what it meant.

This may sound, to some, like that dreaded word ‘nimbyism’ – but I hope that the reasons I have outlined in my speech (and the evidence others have – and will – put forward) confirm that this is not the case.

There are so many better ways of dealing with the current – albeit slowing – rates of population growth than simply dumping eighty unsuitable, unsustainable, urban-style boxes of ticky-tacky in a field far removed from anywhere where people work and shop.

I have seen villages that have stagnated, and have therefore lost their hearts. I have seen villages rapidly transformed into towns, and therefore lose their identity and sense of community: fragmenting into places where residents neither know – or can rely on – their neighbours. I want neither of these fates to befall Tysoe – or any other village – nor do I want its growth to be part of the ruination of this planet, and its environment, that threatens the wellbeing of our children and grandchildren, and their children and grandchildren.