A load of cobblers…

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

– Blackadder: Blackadder II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A walk on the mild side…

Hi,

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

Kind regards and keep up the good work,

Tom

Dear Tom –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The wheel of heaven turns above us endlessly

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

– Mark Knopfler: Our Shangri-La

Further comments…

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

¶

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

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

Green crap

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

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

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

¶

Money’s too tight

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

¶

Stone the crows

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

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

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

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf II

Walk out in the rain…

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

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

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

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

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

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

¶

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

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

¶

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In memoriam Joseph Ashby…

If this field…

If this field could cry, then it would;

If this field could cry, it would cry

For hare, for badger, for silence,

As the owl cries, but not for care.

If this field could weep, then it would;

If this field could weep, it would weep

For unity, for history,

As the cloud weeps, but not for rain.

If this field could grieve, then it would;

If this field could grieve, it would grieve

For tilth, for furrow, for the plough,

As the horse grieves, but not for ease.

If this field could pass, then it would;

If this field could pass, it would pass

For myth, for symbol, for tribute,

As the days pass, but not for night.

What once was plenty was all our fathers’

And our mothers’ too; was shared in labour

And enjoyment; was permanent and firm

As the ridges and footsteps they planted:

Knowing never to cry, weep, grieve, or pass

By this field that grew them, formed them entire.

If this field could cry, then it would;

If this field could weep, then it would;

If this field could grieve, then it would;

If this field could pass, then it would;

But it will not lie easily

Entombed beneath base usury.

If this field could live, then it would;

If this field could live… it would live.