A little herd of England’s timorous deer…

The National Trust’s Charlecote Park is one of my favourite places to wander around: especially West Park – home to the main breeding herd of fallow deer. There is a grandeur in the mature tree-lined avenue down to the west gate, on the Stratford Road; and, the last time I was there, a great deal of mystery, until the fog – that had covered everything in a damp monochrome shroud – eventually lifted.

The contrast between West Park, and the rest of the estate, is quite marked; and is exemplified by the two groups of deer that populate each. In the main grounds, the deer are less timorous, and even quite approachable when in the right mood (usually during or after feeding); whereas those to the west – where the ground is more natural and wild – retain more of their essential character: especially as the presence of fawns makes the mothering does protective, and the fathering bucks permanently on-guard. Should the presence of the occasional human get too much – and they are a much rarer sight than the deer, on this side of the park – the herd also has the deer sanctuary to retreat to.

In the more visited areas, to the east and north of the house, the deer – bucks of all ages: kept, I think, mostly for decoration; and to make flesh of the legend of Shakespeare’s supposed poaching (and supposed retribution in his portrayal of the fusspot, Justice Shallow) – are outnumbered by both visitors and the wonderful flock of splotchy Jacob sheep. The sheep behave as sheep always do: grouping stochastically together, mimicking and following each other’s actions, intent on munching on as much grass as they can. Whereas the deer have become more domesticated: the presence of those strange upright creatures who seem intent on photographing their every move not being quite so alarming.

If you sit on a fallen tree, for instance, close to the ground where food has been scattered by their keepers, even the younger ones will quite happily – although occasionally glancing at you with barely concealed forbearance – wander within feet of you: not at all bothered by the constant clicking of your shutter; their simple minds intent, like the companion sheep, on filling their gullets.

Approach them when they are sated, or basking in the sun, and you will soon know when you have overstepped their boundaries. The less brave will rise, stand and stare – getting to their hooves in reverse order of fearlessness. The last to do so, though – if he can be bothered; and with a disdainful eye aimed towards your camera – will always be Boris: a large leucistic buck, with a face that bears witness to many rutting duels and skirmishes.

Why “Boris”? Well, with his pure white coat, and obvious leadership status – combined with his slightly ‘interesting’ facial features – there was no real alternative! He also seems keen on communicating; and I have seen him lower his head, ever so slightly, and walk purposefully, but slowly, towards those too curious to appreciate his personal space. It’s a message that is always read loud and clear (I believe that he is actually pretty chilled – he’s just become accustomed to bossing others about…); and I have never seen him concede the smallest amount of ground, unless he, and his cabinet, are majorly outnumbered – and then they will saunter away, prompted more by a desire to be left alone, rather than any concern for their safety. (If you have Boris defending you, there is probably very little that bothers you!)

The thick fog appeared to have left me with the park to myself – although, as the sun emerged, a scattering of other visitors appeared. However, I was alone, initially, when I popped into the Orangery Restaurant for my usual brunchfast of warming soup (which is always served with a very large chunk of fresh bread), moist treacle flapjack (there is none better), and steaming Americano.

The previous time I was here, I had the company of one of Charlecote’s resident, and characterful, cats: sitting, nuzzling, on my knee: occasionally staring intensely at his image, reflected back, on my iPhone. “Is this me?” However, Jasper – who had been an almost permanent gatekeeper for the restaurant: often trying to sneak in for warmth, company, or food (when, really, he knew better…) – died, a few days later; and the Orangery is a sadder place for his absence.

It is such individuals that make Charlecote – the humans: volunteers and staff alike; as well as the wild- and not-so-wild-life – as much of an attraction as it is the landscape and architecture. And they are a large part of the reason I return again and again: watching how the seasons affect them; making each visit different – whether a quick stroll to and from the restaurant, or a longer walk around the parkland. And, if I leave, with venison in my bag, like young Will, then it is probably only in the form of sausages, acquired legally, from the local produce shop in the Pantry!

Politics, politicians, and political service…

A bad politician disappoints his constituents; a good politician disappoints himself.

I’m sure this has been said before – and in many different (and possibly cleverer) ways – but, after an (ongoing) discussion with my wise friend, Duke Senior, about what we should expect from those that we – a decreasing minority, it seems – elect (supposedly) to serve us, it seemed a pithy way of encapsulating everything I feel about the ‘service’ I have received – compared to the service I have idealized, expected, wanted, needed – from various professional politicians over the course of my mid-length life.

Had I not a condition that makes everyday existence a challenge, I would seriously have considered (local) politics as an option in my enforced retirement: as I have more than enough causes to propel me (from disability, to housing design and distribution, and the meaning of modern democracy). I would, though, have been more in the mould of Tony Benn or Jack Ashley than Tony Blair and Jack Straw – i.e. motivated by sincere and heartfelt principles; and of a conviction that would serve others, rather than any attempted scurry up the ladder of power and infamy. (Cue Kenneth Williams.) In summary: either completely unelectable; or, once elected, in a completely powerless minority of one.

I want my questions answered by an alert and experienced politician, prepared to be grilled and quoted - not my hand held by an old smoothie.

– William Safire

What I’m trying to get at – always naïvely hoping that others will try and live up to the expectations I have of them: because I would expect nothing less of myself (i.e. the curse of the idealistic perfectionist) – is that those curiosities (or nonpareils) who are voted in because they really do want to deliver what their constituents want and need, will always feel that – whatever public and private good they actually deliver – they are not doing enough; and what they are doing is not to a high-enough standard. Whereas, with those who are in it for fame, glory, money, power – and with the passing of Tony Benn (possibly the last great conviction MP), I fear this is now both the majority and the accepted fashion; and that we are suffering a pandemic of only thinking of (and paying lip-service to) the hoi polloi when an election approaches (and where there isn’t an insurmountable majority); leading to the making empty, populist promises: often with a vicious undercurrent of hidden agendas (that fail ever to be fulfilled…) – it is the electorate which feels that insufficiency.

It is no wonder, therefore, that, currently, so many people feel so disenfranchised – especially when such is the level of engagement shown by the elected with the electorate.

Are you a politician asking what your country can do for you or a zealous one asking what you can do for your country? If you are the first, then you are a parasite; if the second, then you are an oasis in the desert.

– Khalil Gibran

In The Guardian, on 20 March 2014, Esther Addley described how Hilary Benn paid loving tribute, in parliament, to his late father:

[He] had loved parliament, but not idealised it, said Benn, taking his inspiration from the words of a Salvation Army hymn his own father had sung to him as a child: “Dare to be a Daniel, dare to stand alone, dare to have a purpose firm, dare to make it known.”

“If we are not here to do that,” asked Benn, “what are we here for?”

In the past, when I was having to fight for my disability benefits, I was fortunate that the two MPs in question didn’t just take an interest in my plight; but took action – either directly, or through delegation to well-trained and expert staff. Although, initially, I was surprised at both the amount of involvement and the amount of contact, I know that this is what I should have expected – and not just in an idealized world, but in the pragmatic, real one… – as it is in their job descriptions. I know, from talking to others, though, that I was extremely “fortunate”. Many people – and in need of much more help, more support, than I – have been fobbed off, or simply ignored.

If politicians – at all levels: from parish councillors to prime ministers – want (and they should…) to be held accountable, then they should not either need – or mind – being reminded of this, from time to time. They also should not act as if any contract they have with their voters ends the moment they gain power.

In order to become the master, the politician poses as the servant.

– Charles de Gaulle

Bard & Tew (Part 2)

With Mike Sanderson

The skies were leaden again. Rain teemed down. Again.

“See, it’s the climate changing!” said Tew. He was dashing, head down, and ran smack into the Bard. “That’s the trouble these days: everyone’s always rushing. Where has that timeless quality gone that you see in the pictures in the Tysoe oral history project? These qualities only flow from having a link to events and associations with other times,” muttered the Bard, emptying his wellies. “So what can we do about it?”

A mischievous wrinkled grin (much like a smiley) spread across Tew’s face. “Well, it’s simple really. We’ve known since there were only 3.6 billion people on the planet, that diversity makes our environment stable. This ’ere Neighbourhood Plan gives us our opportunity. We can designate things that are important to the village consciousness, that give us our diversity (the well-heads in the centre de ville, the allotments, playing fields, churches). We can also state that the design and form of buildings must have an alternative heating source to oil. Oh, I forgot, and be faced with local stone.”

“You’re suddenly very eloquent,” replied the Bard, with a frown. “But I agree. If we’d used our collective noggins, all those years back, then maybe we wouldn’t need an FSD! I know solar panels aren’t everyone’s cup of tea; but they could have made such a difference, long-term, if everyone had them. Even if some think it’s now too late, we should do our best to have a low-carbon future; and insulation, triple-glazing. In the long run it would help with people’s bills, too.”

And the moral of this tale? Well, unlike the NPPF ministerial foreword, which focuses on making our lives better, now: “we can be optimistic about providing our children with a way of life psychologically, intellectually and aesthetically more satisfying than our present one” (Ecologist, 1972).

– Originally published in the Tysoe & District Record (April 2014: no.743)

Architecture with heart and brains…

Do you believe that art has the power to move? Do you believe that architecture is art? If no, please leave now (and don’t forget to turn the lights on, on your way out). If yes: can it therefore move you to tears…?

Opening the ‘Properties’ section of this week’s Herald, I was astonished and delighted to find a house listed there – although not yet built – that so captures the essence of imagination and environment; that is so sensitive to the ideas of suitability and sustainability; that I actually cried, with joy.

This is what the architect, David Sheppard, has to say about his creation – inspired by the historical fabric of the place it will soon (I hope) become a key part of:

We aspired to make Hedge House to be both exceptional and innovative in terms of the material choice and how it is made: a holistic approach using only two materials, wood and brick. This means, in the literal sense, using wood and brick as our only palette of materials; to all walls, floors, ceiling, inside and out achieving a rigorous consistency and longevity to the building fabric. We see the building evoking a sensual almost sacred atmosphere within, with the purity of line, geometry and simplicity of space with natural light enhancing these material characteristics.

Are we, as a village, as a community, brave and intelligent enough to learn from this?

That’s all he wrote…

Thank you for your communication.

I shall be arguing strongly for Gladman’s Appeal to be dimissed.