Something is rotten…

It used to be so good

On 25 October 2014, an article entitled Report gives a snapshot of life in the district appeared in the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald, discussing the State of District 2014 Report, presented to Stratford-on-Avon District Council (SDC) on 20 October.

Two of the sections in Preston Witts’ summary piqued my curiosity – one on employment; and one on population…

There has been a drop of more than 5,000 jobs in the Stratford district between 2006 – before the recession – and 2014. Figures presented to Stratford district councillors… showed that eight years ago the number of jobs in the district stood at 71,495. At the end of June this year it was 66,161, a fall of 7.5 per cent.

The projected population for the district in 2037 is 134,500, an increase of 11.5 per cent in the 25-year period from 2012.

…and one just made me laugh (as I banged my head repeatedly against the keyboard, in continuing desperation):

At least one statement in the report has triggered political controversy. This is the claim that the district council’s planning core strategy has been “delivered to timetable”.

No doubt I must have frowned

Being a wannabe investigative reporter, I decided to get hold of the complete document – as I couldn’t (unusually) find it on the council website (and still can’t…) – and eventually got in touch with Simon Purfield, Consultation & Insight Manager in the Chief Executive’s Unit: who was the Lead Officer for the report. (And, no, I don’t think I really understand that job title, either.)

The full report he kindly sent me contains expanded data for the predicted population growth…

The Quality of Life in Warwickshire 2013/2014 Key Messages, plus other reports from the Warwickshire Observatory had concluded that: The estimated population for Stratford District in mid-2013 was 120,767. Stratford-on-Avon was the only district to see deaths exceed births, largely due to its older population structure. Population growth here is therefore accounted for by net in-migration. The projected population for Stratford-on-Avon in 2037 is 134,500, which represents an increase of 11.5% from 2012 to 2037.

… as well as this paragraph on housing affordability:

The ratio of lower quartile house prices to lower quartile earnings reflects housing affordability, (25% of all house prices are below the lower quartile, likewise lower quartile earnings are those of the lowest paid 25%). In 2011, the lower quartile property price was on average 6.8 [9.8] times the lower quartile annual wage for a full time employee working in Warwickshire; but significantly, the ratio for the Stratford-on-Avon District in 2011 was 9.6 [13.54] – in 2001, the ratio for the Stratford-on-Avon District was 6.55.

(Some of these numbers were revised downwards in an addendum supplied with the report – “as the source of the data cannot be verified” – and the original figures are therefore in [square brackets].)

There is also information in the report on poverty and “fuel poverty” that may well bring tears (of sadness) to your eyes; as well as a blank statement that “The rate of road injuries and deaths is worse than the England average” – but no indication as to how this could, or would, be remedied.

Additionally, feedback from “The Stratford-on-Avon District Customer Satisfaction Index undertaken in March/April 2014” concludes that, for residents of the district, three of the five “Top priorities for improvement for the Council” are all, unsurprisingly, to do with planning – explanation of a decision made; the amount of information the Council provides on the future development of the District; and keeping promises and commitments. (Please stop laughing. Now.)

In a rich man’s world

So, taking this all into account – and shortly after the over-optimistic crystal-ball gazing that led the SDC Cabinet to be told on 2 December 2014 that there should be an “increase [in] the figures for housing supply in the Core Strategy from 10,800 to 11,300” – you do wonder if any of those present had actually read this State of the District report, and taken note of (or cared for) its implications; or had any knowledge of (or cared for) the wider world – especially when you consider that the act of buying a house (or renting a flat at a legally-defined ‘affordable’ rent) is becoming increasingly difficult (if not impossible) for a large portion of our society – especially locally (as the numbers above demonstrate).

As it said in The Guardian, earlier this week: “British workers may have to wait a decade to see their pay recover to pre-crisis levels”:

Wages are now rising faster than inflation for the first time in six years, according to official data, but the TUC – the umbrella body for Britain’s trade union movement – is warning that workers will have to wait until 2024 before they make up lost ground.

     Frances O’Grady, the TUC’s general secretary, said: “What is clear is that it will take a decade for wages to catch up in real terms to where they were before the crash. There are a lot of people who are now dipping into their savings – or, worse, getting into debt, to try to maintain a standard of living.”

     TUC research says the real value of the average full-time employee wage fell by £487 in 2014 and has fallen by £2,509 since 2010 – a decline of about £50 a week.

The gods may throw a dice

Now, let’s lob another – important – number into the mix. According to the Office for National Statistics, at the last census (2011), “The average household size in the UK was 2.3 people per household, compared to 2.4 in 2001.”

Therefore – even if you assume that this occupancy figure carries on falling to as low, say, as 2.0 during the period of the Core Strategy (or slightly longer) – if the population growth in the State of the District report is as accurate as it can be (and, remember, this is for six years beyond the remit of the Core Strategy: 2037 vs. 2031) – these 13,733 ‘new’ people will only need just under 7,000 houses: many fewer than SDC’s guesstimation; and yet very much in line with the conclusion of the Campaign to Protect Rural England (CPRE) of “6,000 at most” (which I keep coming back to – but at least I now understand, and can justify, its origins).

In light of this, I would so love to see the justifications (and original(?!) calculations) of the “developers [who] claim the figure should be over 20,000”. I can only assume that they have special greed-incorporating devices which multiply any sensible and logical result by some special X (for excess) factor – a lesser (or perhaps hand-me-down) model being in the hands of our local district councillors.

And, of course, we mustn’t forget that there are several hundred empty homes in the district: which should reduce the total build requirement even further…. You would think that SDC would have an incentive to make these available as quickly as possible: as, according to the State of the District report, “the [net] average cost (staff time and any grant awards) of returning each of all [33, this year] (BVPI 64 qualifying and other lower level intervention) empty properties to use” is only £423.02; and yet the “Income generated by new homes bonus as a result of empty properties being brought back into use [over a six-year period] is £2,304,624” – an average profit of over £11,000 per house for the council (and that’s just using a bog-standard calculator…). Multiply that by the 543 that had been empty for over six months, as of last March, and you get over £6 milllion. If that isn’t an “incentive”, then I’m not sure what is.

The loser standing small

The sad thing, of course, is that none of this matters one jot if local people don’t have the jobs and incomes that enable them to buy or rent in the first place… (and the properties they require and desire haven’t been snaffled by the inbound, asset-rich retirees: whose numbers probably compensate(?!) for the loss of offspring from the district, as they disappear on a quest for property they can afford…). A situation that will not be improved in the austere dystopia that will overtake us if the current Government is re-elected later this year; and continues with its objective of plunging us back into the Dark Ages.

Vote blue, go mean.

¶

No more champagne

And the fireworks are through

Here we are, me and you

Feeling lost and feeling blue

It’s the end of the party

And the morning seems so grey

So unlike yesterday

Now’s the time for us to say…

Happy new year

Happy new year

May we all have a vision now and then

Of a world where every neighbour is a friend

Happy new year

Happy new year

May we all have our hopes, our will to try

If we don’t we might as well lay down and die

You and I

Sometimes I see

How the brave new world arrives

And I see how it thrives

In the ashes of our lives

Oh yes, man is a fool

And he thinks he’ll be okay

Dragging on, feet of clay

Never knowing he’s astray

Keeps on going anyway…

Happy new year

Happy new year

May we all have a vision now and then

Of a world where every neighbour is a friend

Happy new year

Happy new year

May we all have our hopes, our will to try

If we don’t we might as well lay down and die

You and I

Seems to me now

That the dreams we had before

Are all dead, nothing more

Than confetti on the floor

It’s the end of a decade

In another ten years time

Who can say what we’ll find

What lies waiting down the line

In the end of eighty-nine…

Happy new year

Happy new year

May we all have a vision now and then

Of a world where every neighbour is a friend

Happy new year

Happy new year

May we all have our hopes, our will to try

If we don’t we might as well lay down and die

You and I

– Abba: Happy New Year

I’ve tried walking sideways…

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

– Mark Twain

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

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

¶

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

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

¶

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

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

¶

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

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf III

New morning…

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

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

Oh to be a mouse,

In a loverlee house,

By the kitchen stove,

With a pan, by Jove!

Oh to be a mouse,

With tons of nous,

A side of ham,

And pots of jam!

Oh to be a mouse,

And not a louse,

La-di-da-di-dee,

Tuddly-ump-tum-twee!

Oh to be a mouse…

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

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

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

Hither, page, and walk by me…

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, morning, at the brown brink…

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

– Alfred Wainwright: Memoirs of a Fellwalker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

     It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

     It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

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

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

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

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

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

– Gerard Manley Hopkins: God’s Grandeur