Irony and the Evil Empire

Saturday morning. Last day of March 2012. Somewhere in the UK.

After a few very bright and warm starts to the day I awoke this morning to more of a typical Spring chill. Overcast, a light breeze and a coolness in the air that sets your senses alive. The downside is that there is a compulsion to do some chores. I filtered through the main criteria. a) Something that could be done indoors and in my pyjamas. b) Not too challenging to prevent watching TV c) An activity done standing up  d) High satisfaction level.  The ticking of the respective boxes of all the requirements brought me to one conclusion only; a bit of ironing.

Men should really relish the task of doing some ironing. It involves some technical skill in operating a complex and sometimes unruly apparatus, an eye for detail, problem solving when trying to create smooth and regular surfaces, application of controlled strength and the ultimate achievement of taking a task over from her indoors with the earning of some brownie points and potential domestic credits to go towards the assuaging of guilt when attending a football match or similar activity. Confronted with a basket full of clothes for ironing can be intimidating but with careful pacing and progress this can soon be tackled. This encourages discipline and patience.

There is also the opportunity to catch up with a backlog of TV or a DVD from that list of "intended movies to watch but never have the time". The choice of viewing for this mornings session was easy. Star Wars-Return of the Jedi.

Now, when ironing, the powers of observation, perhaps lacking in the male of the species, are accentuated as are all of the senses . Even after having watched that film on countless occasions since it came out in 1983, at least once or twice a year , I began to notice a number of fairly schoolboy errors that the Empire unwittingly exposed itself to which led, ultimately to its downfall. Of course, hindsight is a wonderful gift but there were very serious flaws in the design and administrative functions of the Empire which should have been picked up by at least Darth Vader if not the Emperor himself. In no particular running order these include;

1) Fitting of rear view mirrors to Imperial Speeders
The speeder is a wonderful piece of kit. A cross between a dragster and a Harley Davidson. Good riding position and with  a long reach and upright handlebar and primary control set up. It is very manouvreable in forested areas such as Endor and fast. However, when battling with the Rebel Alliance there can be a tendency to physically turn and glance back at a vanquished foe leaving a significant risk of careering into an upturned clump of tree roots. The reasonably straight forward task of bolting on rear view wing mirrors would allow a degree of gloating for a chalked up death of an enemy whilst ensuring safe, high velocity forward movement. 

2) Secondary entrances to underground control bunkers.
The large complex to generate the defence shield for the new Imperial Space Station was safely secreted below the surface of the forests of Endor. It was very well guarded and nigh impregnable by rebel forces. That was until an Ewok happened to mention to Han and Leia's assault team that there was a back door. The reason for this is not at all clear or explained. Furthermore, the master control to the door could technically be susceptible to infiltration by an R2-D2 Unit, widely known to be sympathetic to the rebel alliance.

3) No anti- Ewok measures on Imperial equipment.
The Ewok's, cuddly to look at but no doubt determined flea infested and smelly creatures were wholly underestimated and indeed ignored by the Imperial Forces in their occupation of Endor. As small as children the Ewok's could have been easily contained using many items purchased from Mothercare such as anti-child door catches, stair gates, reins, by confiscation of bows and arrows, slings and an embargo on using logs and tree trunks as improvised weapons.
The ease in which an impulsive Ewok stole one of the Speeders and others got into one of the AT-ST's was easily preventable with a stout locking mechanism.

4) Better familiarisation for Stormtroopers on Ewok ways
As covered in point 3) above the Ewoks were not considered to be a danger. With ignorance comes fear and even with the battle on Endor seemingly winnable by the Imperial Troops they were seen to be running away in a blind panic when confronted by a rowdy, visually intimidating but still disorganised and silly counter attack. A Stormtrooper placing a firm hand on the top of the head of an Ewok at arms length has effectively subdued and frustrated his enemy. I was frankly surprised that the Ewoks were carniverous on the basis of their attempt to barbecue Han Solo. A determined approach by the Empire to winning the hearts and minds of the indigenous Ewoks with food parcels and improved cooking utensils will have paid dividends very quickly. Remember, the Ewok nation only sided with the Rebels because Leia happened to have a snack bar as an offering and the little creatures clearly associated food with friendship.

5) Improved armour for troops and equipment
The ease in which rocks, boulders, vine woven ropes, arrows and timber crafted weaponry decimated such an accomplished military force was worthy of an enquiry at the very highest level. The emphasis on lightness and speed in the design and assembly of vehicles and body armour which had served the Empire well in their other theatres of war was not appropriate to Endor. The installation of a simple roll cage in the AT-ST will have served to deflect a double trunk attack. Kevlar vests and groin guards worn underneath the distinctive white uniforms of the Stormtroopers will have prevented piercing by the crude airborne armaments. A heavier grade of helmet would deflect the sticks and stones hurled by the furry attackers.

6) Forward Planning
A single shield generator without a back up and when the new improved Death Star was not self sufficient in shield generation was a major oversight. The Emperor is clearly to blame in that his own Imperial State Rooms were fully completed and furnished with no expense spared and yet other primary functions were behind schedule. There is invariably trouble when a Despot takes charge of projects because they often lack the managerial and organisational skill to prioritise issues. beyond those required to satisfy a massive ego.

Engrossed in the combination of film and ironing the time flew by.

The Ministry of Sound 1915

It can be found at OSGB36 TA 410166 or WGS84 53:37.6264N 0:7.9113E

In the early weeks of autumn the clifftop path and surroundings between Kilnsea and Spurn Point are soft, organic and natural.

In the unfettered coastal winds anything not firmly rooted, bedded or bolted down is at risk from displacement. The abrasive effect of whipped up sand gives a premature ageing appearance to timber, brick and the hardy human residents of the narrow spit of land between Humber Estuary and North Sea. The farmers fields,harvested, cleared and freshly ploughed provide the rarity of harsh and regimented unnatural lines but an apt backdrop for the high concrete structure of the Kilnsea Sound Mirror.

An alien apparatus in style but with the appearance of a fifteen foot high severed and mounted big toe sticking out of the ground and with an indented nail as though hammered into smoothness with a heavy blunt object. It must have been cast in situ as transporting it overland would have involved the logistics of an Egyptian stone cutter and considerable forced and strained labour. The footings must have been dug deep and packed solid as the heavy loading of the superstructure remains pert and erect to this day.

The device was a crude manual forerunner of later radar systems with the concave surface of the dish acting as a receiver for the sounds of Zeppelins or other enemy aircraft approaching the mainland from hostile europe. The acoustic sensitivity was magnified by a microphone in the form of a trumpet head within the radius of the sound mirror which was hard wired to a Listener huddled in a slit trench in the damp clay soils surounding the installation.

This duty roster must have been feared and loathed given the perceived remoteness of the location and poor shelter from inclement conditions. The return trip from the garrison in Hull was around 60 miles and with only small villages and hamlets in between for sustenance, shelter and conversation. In the absence of technological aids the headphone wearing soldier would have to interpret the distance and bearing of any attackers on their own initiative and based on confidence in their aural powers. This role was not in vain as there were frequent Zeppelin raids along the East Coast during the 1914-1918 conflict. The ensuing damage to, and demoralisation of , the population may have highlighted some shortcomings in the communications from headset to interceptors.

The structure remains now almost part of the natural landscape. Either by intention or luck the physical positioning of the Sound Mirror has prevented collapse and loss of the war relic over the fast receeding cliff line.

If records are lost in the future I wonder what the historians of that time will make of this strange object?

(Previously published in 2011 under different title- ok, I have writers block)

Beehavioural Science

I have unwittingly released the bees in my front garden.

The first cut of the year has opened up the lawn surface for the return of the solitary bees. I think that they must have been waiting patiently just for me to get organised with a hired lawn mower. Perhaps loitering in a temporary refuge such as a crack in the boundary wall and, amongst themselves divvying up the best locations. In bee terms the few square metres of grass in front of my house must be sought after because every spring, for a few weeks, they take up residence under the surface to excavate their nest cells.

In the first few years of my ownership of the bee garden with a house on it I was mystified by the appearance of small mounds of finely excavated soil. These were so carefully sifted that each constituent particle was cleanly separated from the next. The mounds, only about a dozen of them were a 1 millionth scale version of Mount Vesuvius, beautifully graded slopes with miniature scree and smoothed contours. In the central peak a large regular aperture forming the sole access to what I can only imagine to be a labyrinth of corridors and chambers.

The front lawn is always very dry and parched, even in winter because of the proximity to a large and thirsty Plane tree on the roadside verge. In full canopy there is no potential for moisture to reach ground level. Ideal conditions for a safe and damp free subterranean nursery. Far from ideal to support and sustain the growth of the magnolia that we planted a few years ago.

The well documented decimation of the wider population of bees will have explained the comparative lack of attendance in recent years but numbers and vigour appear to be somewhere close to revivalist proportions. I know this from an idle couple of minutes of informal census taking.

On a warm day the activity of the bees is quite exhausting to watch. Frequent comings and goings in search of pollen. The species allowing me to live in their territory are the Tawny Mining Bees or Andrena Fulva. Their foxy red bristly bodies are unnervingly attractive . No they are not gingers!.

I soon came to welcome the arrival of the bees and whilst they are engaged in their important procreation phase and also perpetuating the viability of the human race on this planet the front lawn slowly deteriorates into a unkempt toupee.

I can appreciate that proud and diligent gardeners may feel hysteria at the micro-mining taking place but I feel honoured and humbled to host the annual event.

Horse Play

The horses were straining, struggling for oxygen but raring to go.

It was the first cut of the year and the grass was thick, unruly, matted and, at that time in the early afternoon of a Spring day, still damp with dew. In the half shade thrown by the hedge to the south side of the garden it was very much wetter. These conditions had persisted over the winter and the lawn was flatter and mostly of heavy moss.

The horses were fired up and I turned them westwards. I was equidistant from the boundary and garage to start the first run. I was determined to reward my endeavour with a regimented straight lined cut. The cutting edge of the machine hesitated briefly as it engaged with the grass. A snort of bluey white vapour as the horses dug in, took hold and wrenched the blades out of the soil. The very gentle, almost imperceptible upward incline of the back garden assisted in the slow progress towards the flowerbed which separated the two lawned areas like a lush island in a coral green sea.

The first furrow-like incision released the natural smell of the grass and in the slowly warming air of the day made me giddy, elated and very reflective on past occasions when the aroma of freshly mown ground had been present. It was the smell of school sports day, snogging a girl at the local recreation ground, a pleasant chore to do for extra pocket money, seeing an etched and patterned football pitch as you emerge through the turnstiles and up through the tunnels at the stadium.

The first turn was a time for caution. The blade could snag and abrade a bald patch. The horses took some manoevring into a course paralell to the first bright green trench of a cut.

Up and down, up and down, up and down.

The chunky weight of the machine left the imprint of its tyre dressed wheels. The rivulet lines made a pleasing darker border for the slowly emerging pattern of stripes. Streaks of severed grass under my feet ,as I drove the horses on another tramline, indicated a collection box full and overflowing. The damp grass was a lush mass of green fragrance. I admit that I held a handfull to my face and inhaled.

I was in harmony with the machine and its relentless but efficient operation on the lawn and was surprised and not a little bit disappointed to find that I was on the final turn and run to complete the first cut of the year. As I overan the lawn and pulled up on the paving slabs of the path the engine spluttered and the horse power diminished to a nothing. The tank of unleaded fuel had been exactly enough to achieve as close to perfection as possible for a deckchair stripe lawn.

With regret I returned the Honda to the hire centre but considered the £20 charge to be perhaps the best value for anything in the world.

I gazed out this morning on my handiwork. Entirely convinced that the grass had indeed grown some more overnight I looked forward to harnessing up the horses again before the weekend.

England Caps

It appears that toy guns, weapons, armaments and other items to mimic warfare and conflict have returned to the shops. The stand taken by the likes of Early Learning Centre to ban the sale of weapons may have been for nought and if they are now losing out on market share then their convictions have certainly back fired on them.

In my childhood the receiving of a toy pistol, usually a cowboy six shooter model, was joyous. They were however quite dangerous to use, not so much from the actual firing process but getting your fingers trapped under the hammer or in the hinge if the gun was of a rotating barrel type. The noise from the pistols was two-fold. The loudest noise was the whooping and a-hollering which accompanied just holding the gun. The other but most important sound came from the ammuntion.

Within pocket money range were the small strips of gunpowder spots know as caps. These could be purchased singularly or in a tight packed multi-roll from the local toy shop. A sixpence seems to be a recollection of the price but in those days everything for a child to buy was that amount. They came in small round cardboard packets, rather grainy and coarse with upper and lower sections squeezed together. Inside was a tightly wound roll of paper with perhaps 50 explosive dots. This was carefully transferred into the chamber in the gun and like an old reel to reel tape the leading edge was run up and rested under the open hammer.

Usually the roll would fall out of the container but it was always fun to gather it up and restore it to its tight compact form. A squeeze of the trigger would bring the hammer down to cause a concussive impact on the explosive with a loud bang, a flare of fire and a wonderfully addictive and evocative odour of cordite, sulphur and mischief. If flush for cash then a rapid firing sequence could easily deplete a full strip of caps. There was very little wastage after the combustive process although a few spots of gunpowder did get through unscathed. It was not always possible to wedge these leftovers into the gun so next best was to set them off by banging it with a hammer or scraping it with a nail. Without the confined spaces of a gun chamber the reaction was usually a soft sounding "phut", a puff of smoke and a momentary flash of fire.

The other form of ammunition was what my big sister always referred to as riggamorses but  I think were called ringamorses although even Wikipedia cannot source this as an actual word. It may even have been a brand name back in the 1960's and early 70's. These were the next generation from caps although more likely a cynical way of extracting more pocket money from gun happy kids. The system comprised a red plastic moulded circle, like a bicycle wheel but with the equivalent spoke bed to the rim having a small round form filled with an explosive charge. The whole thing was pushed onto the rim of a rotating barrel of the toy gun and the firing hammer hit the back of each to produce the noise of a shot. Compared to caps these were limited to between 10 and 20 shots only.

Typically, the increase in the number of moving parts on a toy gun had a direct and proportionate relationship to what could break off, seize up or just not work for the desired effect. 

Some of my schoolmates progressed to actual air pistols and rifles but the temptation to stray from a static bullseye target to a perching bird, next doors cat or the passing traffic was often just too much to resist. The gradual build up of fatalities in the garden was soon noticed by the grown ups leading to inevitable confiscation. Nowadays the reporting of a weapon in the hands of a minor would certainly arouse the interest and response from the tactical weapons group of the local police force with potentially dire consequences.

My own subsequent lethal weapon was very much home-made but for a short time in our street was the most popular plaything for all ages and genders. The nearest that I have seen to this has been a pipe bomb used as a terror weapon in many newsworthy conflicts.

There was always a good supply of nuts and bolts around the workbench in Fathers garage. My first assembly of a weapon from these components was quite modest being a short stubby pair of bolts with a single cap charge eased into the nut before tightening up both ends. When thrown up in the air the impact from hitting the ground would set off the explosion with a very satisfying noise and the accompaniement of cascading metal fragments as the force seperated the three constituent parts. The next logical step in the keen mind of a schoolboy was to scale up the operation.

I assembled a dozen or so of the smaller nut and bolts and threw these up in the air before taking cover around the corner of the house. The process did confirm a number of the laws of physics, such as:

a) What goes up must come down and together if of the same thing
b) noise is directly proportional to setting off the neighbours dog,
c) a loud explosion will always generate interest amongst adults,
and
d) glass in a window is not very naturally resistant to high velocity metal -well that was my explanation if challenged.

Of course there was considerable scope to ramp up both the size of the bolts and the number of cap charges. A very substantial coach bolt was eventually purchased outright from the local ironmongers and packed with almost a whole reel of caps. I threw it high into the air in the street outside the house. Running for cover I heard the extremely loud and echoing sound wave from the detonation but could not afterwards, as the smoke and cordite cleared, find any trace of the pieces anywhere.

That concluded my interest in home made bombs.

Pondspiracy Theory

It plays a very lowly secondary role to the 17th Century magnificence of the Hall at Burton Agnes but I am very worried about the village duck pond which appears to be rapidly evaporating. The resident ducks and geese along with any visiting migrating fowl stand around bewildered and anxious.

The authoratative work by Pevsner and Neave on the buildings of York and the East Riding is a bit gushy about Burton Agnes calling it "One of the most rewarding settlements in the county". This is largely because of the buildings found there including, in addition to the 1601 built Hall, a  Medieval Manor house from around 1170 AD and , by comparison quite a modern Church with 13th Century but possibly earlier origins.

This remarkable collection of intact and indeed inhabited and accessible buildings has for centuries been complimented by the pond on the south side of the road to the east coast. As you drive from Driffield, the self professed Capital of the Wolds, and after the 2 or 3 mile straight of trunk road that must have taken much of the regions road building budget at the time, the A614 becomes very interesting.

At the north eastern edge of Nafferton a small traffic island is signposted with a scenic route to the left which goes up an over the shallow rolling hills. I have never seen this recommended route in much use because travelling straight on you do tend to be part of a regular convoy which started off from the large urban conurbations in West Yorkshire at quite an unsociable hour picking up further heavy laden vehicles of drowsy occupants but mildly excited at the prospect of a daytrip to the resort town of Bridlington, also known as Leeds on Sea.

From Nafferton, I really like pronouncing that place name, the road reverts to a typically hazardous British carriageway now unsuited to high volumes of fast moving traffic with inattentive drivers and distracting passengers. After a short incline there follows a switchback hairpin into a steeper sided valley with an unsightly chalk quarry contributing to a whitened tarmac surface before a left hander which requires a drop down into third gear to do it justice. Over the crest is the forelorn sight of a dead forested area. This is a large wooded copse but for as long as I have used the road, now over 25 years, it has always been devoid of green shoots and fresh growth. I speculate if it is a tax fiddle or a more worrying consequence of acid rain, another visitor to the area from the industrial conurbations of West and South Yorkshire. It is important to speculate on such matters but paying very careful attention to the road as the Bracey Bridge lay-by causes panic as a few car loads always abruptly halt mid carriageway and turn in for a stop-off, leg stretch, wee-wee or a cuppa from the catering caravan.

The more familiar motorists know that there is a MacDonalds on the outskirts of Bridlington and continue quite smugly in possession of this insider information.

Burton Agnes is soon in sight and the straightening out of the road and a good view ahead makes for an opportunity to  reshuffle the convoy with a few mad overtaking manoevres to relegate the caravans to the rearguard. From in excess of 60 mph the upward slope to the village sign gives just enough rolling resistance to get to or acceptably close to the 30mph limit. It is however painfully slow and a severe test of heavy feet on accelrators and less so for a car fitted with cruise control. The first houses are a mixture of modern executive detached, inter and post war Villas and the Old Police House enjoying an open south aspect to fields before approaching the core of the village with the Pub, colour washed rendered cottages and frontage farmsteads. The houses with doors directly onto the pavement are rather grubby from the dirt and grime raised by the constant through flow of traffic. A few have small forecourt gardens poviding a splash of colour from bedding plants and shrubs.

The main street snakes sharply left and right and then steeply down. Into view comes the display signage for Burton Agnes Hall. There is always something going on from the much frequented snowdrop and bluebell walks to classic car rallies, flower festivals and craft markets. If you ignore the opportunities to expend cash and glance to the right hand side of the road you will see the pond.

Thanks to the diligence of civic minded persons there is a very good photographic record of the pond over the last 2 to 3 years and it is not in my imagination nor natural flair for exaggeration that it is disappearing.

Dr Patty McAlpin's photo taken in July 2009 shows a good water level, if rather algae tinted, with only a short depth of bouldered shoreline. Thanks to the picture taken by Pauline Eccles as recently as February this year the dramatic reduction in the level is more than illustrated. She goes on to say that the pond is fed by a spring and Mill Beck but is also concerned that the pond is disappearing. Across the width and breadth of this feature there appears to be in excess of a 1 metre or more deficit in water. We have just had an unseasonably dry winter and the climatic trends for this to persist more regularly may herald the complete retreat and eventual demise of the pond. The conspiracy theorists who have shelled out a tidy entry fee for the landscaped grounds of the Hall which include a water garden have remarked that their water levels are not compromised or depleted.

The dire situation can either be left to nature or action can be taken. My personal quest is to replenish the water level every time I pass the pond by emptying a bottle of Evian or the locally sourced mineral water into the murky shallows. Alone it will be a long project but if the population of Leeds and Bradford willingly participate in a determined effort as they wend their way to and from Bridlington I can see a happy outcome for all concerned, especially the disgruntled ducks.

Peoples Car and Minor matters

My Father was a nervous instructor and with me, at 17,  just getting used to the whole driving thing from scatch I can entirely understand why. A formal course of lessons was a big expense. I was not in a position to fund it myself being still in full time education so had to rely on the goodwill, patience and nerves of steel of my Father.

From a very early age, certainly five or six, I was really into cars. I could, I have been told, identify every make of car on the road just by shape, radiator grille or the passing glimpse of colour of the makers bonnet badge. In the mid to late 1960's this will not have been that difficult an exercise as the British car industry dominated the home market and it will have been very rare to see an exotic european make apart from a VW Beetle or a french marque such as a Renault or Citroen.

I loved to be out in the car as a young child. In the days pre-seatbelt laws it was usual for cars to be full to the headlining with unrestrained and unruly kids as passengers. I would, if out with Father on my own, sit up front and closely study the interaction of operating the pedals and gear changes, steering and indicating. I always wanted one of those dashboard suction fixed toy steering wheels and consoles that allowed a child to imitate the driving actions but I had to make do, but was perfectly content, with a very good imagination and what I suppose could be called an "air steering wheel" consisting of just loosely moving hands held in a 10 to 2 position. The making of engine and gear change noises was very authentic in my own head but was quite a messy thing with spit spray and chin dribbles of saliva.

Two things I vividly recall involving me and Father and cars was a trip to the London Motor Show in 1969 at Earls Court and a test drive through Suffolk in a VW1600 Fastback. The former started off my collection of all things motoring. The Motor Show Guide for that year was as thick as a bible, paperback and with that very cheap sort of paper, quite coarse in texture and yellowy in colour. I was fascinated and enthralled by the publication at the age of 6  in spite of it having no pictures or photographs. It was entirely arranged alphabetically and covered everything at the event from Abrasive Papers for panel beaters through to stuff beginning with Z. The sections for each car manufacturer were most interesting with a full list of models and their technical details from engine size to brake horse power and all selling points in between. I remember seeing and marvelling at the fantastically expensive brands of Ferrari's and Aston Martins and the iconic Jaguar E-type. The American cars were always very luxurious and glossy but "huge and not very sensible or practical" as my Father often commented. I left the show a very tired but thrilled little chap. As a further souvenir of the day I was bought an aptly titled childrens picture book entitled "Peter's Happy Day".

The Test Drive was shortly after the Motor Show, perhaps the Fastback had been on the VW display stand. I cannot recall where the car was picked up from but I do remember we went to Lowestoft on the coast and definitely had fish and chips. The Fastback, now extremely rare as a sight on UK roads due to chronic corrosion problems common to that era, was large but sporty and very striking amongst the dour and predictable British competitors on the market. I expect that Father may well have aspired to that particular model but being a family man and with a still growing array of kids he opted for the much more "sensible and practical"  Estate Car version.

As well as the family friendly estate cars Father had also bought a VW camper van. This was, I think, either pre-registration or a C or D which was 1966 or 1967. It was white with green piping and an olive green coloured flat front bonnet in classic style. The vehicle had a large sliding side door which to young kids resembled climbing in and out of a helicopter. Although not very comfortable were the large removable cushioned seats as big as a lounge sofa but best of all was the ability to have a cup of tea and warmed-up food on the small built in gas cooker in the galley area. It was a home from home for a young family on the move. The air cooled VW engine sound, if heard even today, takes me straight back to my childhood. On a trip out to the seaside the camper was a mobile changing room and beach hut. The carpets were always covered with dry sand and collections of shells and interesting pebbles could be found in the cupboards, on the shelves and under the upholstery. After a particularly wet family boating activity at one coastal resort my Father had to drape his soggy pound notes around the rim of the huge, bus sized steering wheel to dry them in the warm, late summer afternoon sun.

The car that has always been present in my life is a Morris Minor Convertible. My parents purchased it just before I was born in 1963. It had been built in 1957. A light drab green colour with a grey canvas hood. It was the car that I took my first tentative driving lessons in accompanied by Father at age 17. After some basic familiarisation lessons on a car park in the town I was let loose on the public roads. For the duration of my first few learner sessions Father held tightly onto the handbrake. In studying his technique and driving style I confidently used the indicators at every appropriate change in direction. However there was a serious flaw in this. My main observations had been in a Volkswagen which was the main family car. The indicator stalk on this German made car was on the opposite side to the Morris and so I was consistently confusing and exasperating other road users by indicating the wrong way at every opportunity. It was after some considerable time during my first lesson on the open road that we both realised my error. The knuckles on Fathers' right hand were almost translucently white as he increased his grip on the handbrake for the duration.

Suffice to say as a parent now of provisionally licenced chidren I have adopted and maintained a strict rule not to take them out for a driving lesson. It may seem a bit harsh but I can recommend it in the interests of sanity, safety and making sure that your kids still talk to and respect you on an ongoing and workable basis.

All hands on deck

The man behind the counter at the timber merchants yard was oversized. His sawdust speckled clothes hung around his bulky form, a grubby and stained red and white rugby jersey with a long since expired sponsor logo emblazoned across the chest. Working denim trousers showed his hairy belly and bum crack in equal measure as he went about his business. His feet were clad in obviously brand new rigger boots, bright mellow fawn coloured like a partly ripened banana. Perhaps the Sales Rep had just been with incentives to push Caterpillar products. 

I had popped into the sales counter straight from work and my suit seemed to aggravate him as though I was wearing the strip of the rugby team from the other side of the city. He came directly at me, a bit threateningly even with a melamine worktop between us and said,  "You need decking". 

Without a ? at the end this statement could be taken as a confrontational opener. "Thick as two short planks" was his usual following joke as he pointed out some timber deck samples at the end of the counter. I was looking indeed to purchase a fair amount of decking for what was a fledgling and secret project in which I would be the self appointed foreman and with my three young children as labourers. My wife was going away for a long weekend on a Grand Tour to Florence, Italy and in that window of opportunity the germ of an idea to makeover a part of the dismal back garden would take root and hopefully, continuing the analogy, grow to fruition.

The double external doors overlooking the garden were certainly a positive feature. If stood at about the mid point of the room all that could be seen through closed doors was the green of the lawn, herbaceous borders, the pear tree and the gable end of Mrs Murphy's detached house. This was a pleasant outlook, well apart from the last thing. However, the nearer you got to the doors a frightful scene came into view of an expanse of black tarmac, gently inclined to meet a course of plain concrete paving stones and the straggly edge of the lawn. Frequent use of the doors, as was unvoidable with young children and dogs had gradually led to the transfer of the sticky bituminous surface from outdoors to indoors and we were forever having to sweep out and deep shampoo the whole of the ground floor of the house and up the stairs. We had decided to invest, well using the word invest does make a large financial outlay a bit more palatable and justified, in real wood floors in our heavy use areas of hallway and dining room. It was therefore important to tackle the horrible tarry pit.

In my mind, not the most practical or multi-task proficient, I had already sketched out a design. In a freak of maths, science, architecture and geography the upward slope of the scraggy yard was the exact depth and gradient from the back of the house of a standard shop bought length of 4" x 2" timber. Against all the odds this depth was also made to measure for decking planks laid across the anticipated skeletal frame. This meant that the need to cut any timber would be much reduced but still the greatest source of misgivings to me. The project appeared to be destiny because the contractor putting down the wood floors in the house left all his wonderful tools, including an accurate and foolproof power saw for what would be the duration of the family endeavour. Timber decking was all the fashion at the time and I had seen the worst excesses of full garden coverage and quite overwhelming structures complete with balustrades, steps and hot tub enclosures. I had a more subtle and tasteful scheme on the mental drawing board.

The design was also, with the input of the children, to include a couple of reclaimed railway sleepers,  a pond and some plum coloured slate fragments. My tendency to grossly overload the car and put my offspring in harms way was continued as we picked up the entire supply of timber materials and fixings from now my best mate at the Merchants.We took quite a roundabout route across town to avoid the attentions of the police. The tailgate on the car had to be tied up half open and the children insisted on waving out of it at what started to resemble a slow moving funereal procession convoy behind. With the car unloaded the suspension seemed to return to normal settings. Within a couple of hours a large tipper truck had dumped half a ton of slate and two very authentic bits of railway heritage on the driveway. When ordering the slate I had not really thought about what half a ton would look like. I had also neglected to allow for the sheer weight of the sleepers compared to the upper body strength of the children to shift them.

Work progressed well, happily and in complete harmony between the four of us. Hannah, the eldest seemed to have an eye for the architectural concepts, Alice (middle child), a flair for creativity and the youngest, William was good at methodical disciplines. The smell of efficiently and freshly cut wood was wonderful. The weather, which could have been a big spoiler was just right, not too hot or cold and above all, dry.

The decking was bright, clean and almost white in colour. This contrasted well with the deep hue of the slate. The water feature, originally intended as a polythene lined pond was revised, after a frantic trip to the DIY store for more decking nails, to an ex- display moulded plastic surround into which sat a submersible pump under a lid which the children dressed with our collection of stones gathered from family holiday trips. The sleepers, dragged into position finished off the whole thing nicely. The pump and fountain actually spouted into action on the first almost ceremonial switch on. We all cheered.

Standing back, we were all proud of our hard work, Even my neighbour, himself a very able and accomplished domestic craftsman, gave a just perceptible nod of approval as he was watering his Azaleas at the joint boundary fence.

On my wife's return we played it cool. "No, we had not done much." "It had been a lazy Dad and kids time",
"The children had the splinters, abrasions and lacerations before you went away"." Yes, there does appear to be a spillage of slate bits under the badly parked car". "No, we haven't seen the dogs for a couple of days".

Whether a combination of travel fatigue, the emotion of seeing Michaelangelo's David in the Galleria dell Accademia , the beautiful sights of Florence or our completed project my wife did have tears in her eyes as she stood in the doorway and looked out down the grden.

NCC-170 and 1

I was just listening on the radio to an interview with a man from the Midlands who has created a replica of the Starship Enterprise, or very tiny parts of it given its intergalactic cruiser status, in his very tiny bedsit flat.

It had started off as a project to take his mind off his marriage break up and soon became something of a) an obsession and b) the fulfillment in adult life of a childhood fascination with all things sci-fi.

The reporter was a bit flippant in his approach to the interview and persisted in a line of questioning which, in a nutshell, was trying to force the Trekkie to admit that he had completely wasted his time over the last 2 years of assembling an authentic control panel for the Transporter Room and in the pursuit of an endeavour which was of no sense, function or logic.

In fact the exercise had proven to be completely therapeutic and to a certain extent calming and reassuring. This would be a stark contrast to the usual responses to the trauma of a break-up of getting drunk, buying a motorbike, having a Tattoo and subscribing to a dodgy website promising imminent delivery of a mail-order bride from parts east.

Undertaking such a project does call for a very high degree of accuracy and authenticity not to mention potential cost for materials. The approach was on the basis that if the original TV series props were fashioned and fabricated by joiners and model makers then what was to stop a DIY enthusiast from acheiving much the same outcome. First stop was the home improvement warehouse for the timber and fixings for the main frame and surfaces. The bedsit flat at only 50 square metres will have contravened many regulations for safe working practice and I feel a bit sorry for neighbours , either adjoining or above and below who may have felt they were living with a construction site.

I can vaguely remember the actual control consol from watching the TV series. It was a  large desk, which with lights, paddles , switches and those big handle type mechanisms resembled a keyboard or organ. It was usually an expendable crew member on duty in case any undesirables were beamed aboard or with Scottie in control if the landing party were returning having destroyed a planet and were a bit upbeat and quite well humoured even with that dour Spock.

The interviewee did say that he had to send off for the circuit boards and dials in the interests of getting the scale, appearance and sights and sounds  just right. I cannot imagine what sort of business would be sustainable if their main product range consisted of knobs and things as seen in the movies. I am convinced that an internet search along those lines would place a number of images on the hard drive of your computer which may be difficult to subsequently explain away on a convincing and plausible basis.

The interviewer was intrigued about the practiciality of actually living amongst the replicated Enterprise. In order to accommodate the fittings there appears to have been some surrender of basic comforts. A window to the main bedsit room had been boarded over to give additional display space with the consequence that there was now no view of the Midlands or natural light. Given the occupants obviously spatial imagination this will not have been an issue. The delicate subject of sanitary arrangements was raised. I cannot ever remember Kirk or the crew taking a toilet break or fidgeting about from leg to leg if caught short on the surface of a hostile planet. The dark,glistening stain of fresh urine up a galactic landscape was never an artistic issue in the programme. The Trekkie's response was to purchase a WC with a push button flush operation which he considered to be the closest thing to his imaginations for the bathroom facilities on the starship. Other domestic apparatus were not mentioned but it would be interesting to see what was used as a kitchen sink.

The downside of the whole enterprise was that the guy was still single. Apparently his return to the dating game had not matched him up with anyone who could appreciate his dedication and enthusiasm. I find that a bit disappointing but not in any way surprising. There was genuine sadness with the disclosure that the offer of the console to the London Science Museum and later the UK Space Centre had not been taken up. The options left after this frankly narrow minded attitude were either to dismantle the thing, not however a serious option, or go full ahead with creating more props. It was not necessary to always dress up as James T. or a crew member in order to enjoy the diorama in the bedsit. The chap did admit to having a few homemade uniforms but these were only worn for interviews from what was evidently a global interest in what he had created.

As for his estranged wife and four children they sincerely hoped and prayed that it was just a phaser he was going through.

Crushed

Against the backdrop of the Cuillin Mountains with their dark rocky shadows, across the bluey green waters of the tidal seawater loch and during the couple of hours, only, per day in which the horizontal driving rain or the bone chilling mist ceased to conceal everything from view I caught a brief glimpse of a shining jewel in the bay below the house.

After a good soaking on such a regular and rather monotonous and predictable cycle- a.m. Rain, p.m. Rain, the colours of the land, sea and sky are fresh and vibrant. At some distance the mountains show depth and contour when fleetingly scanned by a column of sunlight which manages to find a break in the dense cloud steaming in from the Atlantic Ocean. Then, the shaft of golden rays is switched off abruptly and the peaks and slopes return to a rather flat, one dimensional silhouette.

On the line between sea and sky the white crested bay waves are broken by the large and strangely regular angular profiles of the islands of Rhum and Eigg- an interesting combination and no doubt a staple diet at some time in maritime and naval history. The sheer volume of water running off the land mass is constant and persistent in eroding and sculpting the silica embedded rocks, washing away the lighter soils and peat deposits and giving a rusty tint to everything in between.

The far shore of the bay of Loch Eichort is just a vertical cliff. At night there are no signs of habitable dwellings and the absence of even a single glinting light from a porch or window is strange and eerie when we expect such things for comfort and reassurance. The night sky, with no dilution from sodium lighting, is simply spectacular and the Milky Way appears close enough to touch.

If the wind dies down for a few seconds the sound from waterfalls and cascades over and down the precipice is just audible. The combination of sights and accompanying soundtrack are captivating and I found myself regularly running to the window of the holiday house just to check on what was coming in on the next weather front.

It was in a short bright spell of weather and at low tide that a glaringly crystal white causeway appeared in the inlet of the bay. I had not noticed it before. Perhaps a particular lunar phase was in play dragging the tide to a swelling peak far out in the Atlantic.. The colour was dazzling and beautiful. It ran from the loose rocks of the shoreline out across the pale sand and terminated on the golden beach of a small tufty grassed islet. As though a revelation I had to go and see the thing for myself. It was as if the mythical sirens were summoning me to the rocky outcrop. I was totally drawn towards the sparkling tantalus and was soon clambering down the cliff to the start of the newly emerged pathway.

The closer I came to the causeway the less glimmering it began to appear. After enjoying the sights and sounds of the bay a third influence came into play- the smell. It was a pungent mix of peaty acidic soils, sheep droppings and the unmistakable odour of seaweed, kelp and sea salt. In the absence of a breeze the stagnant air caught between sea and mountains was slowly warming up and the cocktail of sealife was partially stewing in is own juices. My shoes and socks came off on the first sandy part of the beach.A large boulder povided a reasonably safe place to leave them. A bit risky as I had no idea of the tide times and levels. With trouser legs carefully rolled up and held in place by my kneecaps I was crossing the shallow course of a stranded stream. The water was cool and then tepid in alternate sequence dependant on the depth and the ability of the sporadic sunlight to provide radiant heat to the briney solution.

I reached the recently exposed pathway. The decision to shed footwear rather than let them hang by intertwined laces over my shoulder had been poor judgement. The causeway and its distant sheen was now fully explained. The composite parts were the remnants of a billion or so shells and corals, blended and interlocked in a jagged carpet pile which threatened to lacerate and mutilate my bare feet. I had stumbled not across a wonder of nature but a mollusc and crustacean graveyard. The multitude of creatures had over millenia come to this specific place to curl up, die, decompose and leave their mother of pearl and mineral remains as the only indication of their prior existence.

I retreated back to the shore and properly shod made good speed over the ground.  I did not glance back until reaching the dry stone wall which bounded  the kitchen garden of the house . In that short period the tide had rushed in and again concealed the causeway. In my mind it had been a bad experience and for the rest of the stay on Skye I only looked westwards and out to the far horizon.

Getting around to it

There are tasks, chores and projects that demand immediate attention. These are where delay or lack of conviction and resources can make things considerably worse even to the extent of putting persons or possessions in harms way. There are other things that can be put off indefinitely or just conveniently put  into the category of ' I might just get around to that'.

In our house such items are on a list somewhere and I seem to remember tentatively agreeing with my wife on a grand five year plan to attend to bits and pieces of domestic maintenance. This has at some time included clearance to the local tip of at least 10 years worth of shrivelled up Christmas Trees from my compost heap at the far end of the garden, painting of the external woodwork and fitting a new doorbell. In a frenzy of activity I actually completed these three particular tasks in one single afternoon. Unfortunately, my smugness and self congratulation was marred by the addition of three new items as my wife had taken the opportunity to review and supplement the grand plan.

A few years ago I was required to inspect a property to draw up a list of recommended repairs and improvements. The house was a semi detached just on the edge of one of the commuter villages. In its early years in the 1930's there was no doubting it will have been a desirable residence. Open field views to front , rear and north side. Pebbledash render to the walls, rosemary clay tile roof and possibly a rambling rose trained up the front wall. The front gable was in a black painted half timbering and with a faint distortion of the a few leaded paned windows from some 80 years of expansion and contraction in sunlight and the chill of the evening. At the time of my inspection it was a wreck. The occupants were local farmers and the house had been in the same family from around 1938 after a short few years of being rented out as an idyllic country cottage.

The appearance of the garden or rather its close resemblance to a farmyard did not bode well in my mind for the rest of the property. The front hedge was straggley and had obviously been driven through a few times in a tractor or other heavy machinery. There were no real open areas of the site beyond deposits of chicken coops, fencing and posts, dismantled sheds and plenty of corrugated asbestos or corroded iron sheeting at various precarious angles. It was a mess but everything and anything was in its place and readily accessible for potential use in the course of running an agricultural business.

The exterior of the house was in quite a sorry state. There were holes in the tiled roof. Large chunks of the pebble dash had fallen away exposing the powdery brick beneath. The gutters, if actually still affixed to the rotten fascia boards, were quite impressively populated by growths of grass and saplings. More windows were partially boarded than glazed or with the skilfull application of coloured fertiliser bags by way of draughtproofing. Paintwork was largely absent from remaining woodwork.

It was however someones sole residence.

A very old, toothless gentleman met me at the house gate having seen me admiring, or so he thought, his abode. He wore a large black trench coat which swamped his slightly built frame. He appeared to live in the garment permanently. The reddish bailer twine kept the flaps of the coat closed which was a blessing for the neighbourhood given the anticipated state of the rest of his demob suit. I was provided with a guided tour of the grounds but was fearful for my welfare amongst various sharp edges , protruding barbed wire and what would easily have passed for booby traps in a combat zone. I resorted to a tip-toeing action following my guide. The chap certainly enjoyed the company of others and chatted away on all manner of subjects which may not have been a regular occurence due to the appearance of the house and indeed himself. I was not at all looking forward to the materialisation of his offer of a nice cup of tea when we would eventually get indoors.

The front door was just about hanging on by its hinges. I closely followed the occupant because he well knew what floor joists remained capable of bearing someones weight when the majority had just plain given up and collapsed into the sub floor. This was the general tone through the ground floor area. A coal fire was well alight in the grate and may have been so from perhaps 1939 from the sooty and grimy deposits on what may have once been quite nice wallcoverings and paintwork. The kitchen consisted of a deep glazed ceramic sink and a freestanding pantry cupboard. I had glimpsed a similar arrangement, I think, in Hello magazine in the pad of some celebrity less the thick veneer of cooking fat, grease and mould. The living room doubled up as a bedroom for the gent whose outdoor working had contributed to arthritic and other conditions impeding any sprightliness up the stairs. He left me to check the first floor rooms. I had been prepared to be presented with a demand to sign an injury waiver for attempting the ascent. It transpired that he had not been upstairs for some considerable years. This explained the subsequent and undisturbed annexation of the three bedrooms and stained bathroom by a large number of pigeons.

Returning to the living/bedroom I was shown a large patch of willow lathes in the ceiling, close to the raggedy polythene clad window, where the horsehair bonded plaster had long since fallen away.

This state of affairs was explained away as being the fault of the Luftwaffe. A stray wartime bomber had decided to jettisone its sole remaining bomb into the darkness over a supposedly empty rural area of Yorkshire coming back from a raid on Leeds. Relieved of this load there was a better chance of running the gauntlet of night fighters and anti-aircraft guns to return to the Fatherland.

Given that it was now 2010 I felt absolute admiration for the old man in that he had successfully put off repairing that ceiling for , to date, 67 years. I am not really sure if he still half expected a cheque and apology in the post as part of long overdue war reparations. Respect.

March Madness

There is a first time for everything and I have  been very privileged to have seen an ancient, primeval ritual in progress that puts a true perspective on nature, life, existence and being.

Yesterday, according to my office work appointments diary was the first day of Spring. The consensus is that it could even be today. Some will not accept the change of season until the clocks change to British Summer Time. The diary announcement  may have just been a page header required by the editor because it appears that nothing momentous or remarkable happened on the 19^th March in history apart from Winnie and Nelson, Andrew and Fergie getting divorced , Phoenix in Arizona got its own area code and the Japanese cooked the largest omelette made out of 160,000 eggs.  It is not that sort of diary, to encourage gossipy speculation, tittle-tattle and to give recipe ideas.

 The arrival of Spring is represented by many things. New green shoots also symbolic of optimism and hope for the economy, yellow headed daffodils, catkins and early blossom amongst the otherwise dormant looking treelines, Council Tax Bills, the next personal commitment to exercise and healthy living, a thorough purge of homes, material possessions and clutter in a frenzy of cleaning.

The first alleged day of Spring as we shall call it started quite normally. The early mornings are much better in mid to late March with the emergence of natural light at around 6am. It is now more likely to leave for work and return home still in daylight although dependant on the brightness of the sky, cloud cover and prevailing weather. This extension to our perception of the day gives energy and determination to do more after the dismal and depressing days of the two preceding months.

 Moving about the house in the early hours so as not to wake the rest of the family is so much easier. Given a general increase in temperature I look forward soon to starting my day with that first and best cup of coffee sat with the patio doors open and with a view down the garden. I can well imagine the same reception being given to the new season by our very distant ancestors. Perhaps more from a viewpoint of not being afraid any more of the dark , foreboding times when even a solar eclipse or strange shade of colour or size of  moon would cause much anxiety and thoughts of doom. Just substitute the mouth of a cave and primitive landscape for my more comfortable, sheltered and heated back living room. 

Everything has more optimism in the Spring- I am writing this just before the UK Budget announcement so reserve the right to change my mind- and this is no more apparent than in nature.

As I completed my work appointments in the City Centre and suburbs I looked forward to a nice long drive up through the rolling Wolds countryside to a job in Malton. The route is one where it is quite possible and indeed normal to meet or catch up with very little other traffic apart from large leather clad  bikers and a few army driving school lorries. With no significant disturbance or perceived threat from humans you do tend to come across unsuspecting wildlife enjoying the freedom of the open fields, verges and country roads. My favourites are the stoats which shoot out of the hedgerows as though attached  to a piece of elastic stretched across the carriageway from the opposite side. In recent days a fox has stared me out from it’s vantage point on a traffic island, a deer has been caught briefly in my headlights, rabbits have grazed on the verges nonchalantly as though they feel they are invisible to man.

Just north of Wetwang I came across the wonderfully stirring sight of three large Hares cavorting about  towards the middle of a cultivated field. As one of their number separated from the group the other two stood up on their hind legs and started to throw punches at each other. They were wholly engrossed in the combat , not knowing why but assured that it was something they just must do. I was shocked to learn that the life expectancy of a Hare is only 3 to 4 years. In March they are perfectly entitled to be understandably mad.

Angry Nation

I am not even sure if they do it nowadays. It's just downright mucky and you would not want to return home after doing it clearly showing signs of  having done it. My Mother was always shocked when sorting through my laundry  and finding the badly soiled and stained smalls. They usually had to be boil washed perhaps more than once. As for my plimsolls there was nothing worse for their sparkling Meltonian whiteness than taking part in cross country running at school.

It was a major part of the winter P.E Curriculum at our Grammar School but would not today get through what is called a Risk Assessment. The implications for insurance premiums, litigation and letters from parents would just be too much for most fully staffed admin departments in our larger educational establishments. It was regarded by the hierachy of the very traditional school founded in the 17th century as being character forming. Not surprising as its Founder is attributed with the symbolism of the Red Hand of Ulster in that he severed off his own limb simply to be able to claim to be the first to landfall in that part of Ireland in those early colonial times.I wonder if he appreciated how much trouble would ensue from the choice of a bloody lopped off appendage as livery on flags and banners in that part of the world. Other Old Boys of the school no doubt rode with the Light Brigade, fought at Rourkes Drift, paddled about in the first world war trenches and went on any number of ill fated expeditions and interventions. Just because it was peace in our time it was deemed that we should not miss out on an activity clearly intended to kill or at least maim us.

The whole thing ran on complete trust between 50 of us pupils and 2 Games Masters. We would be let loose in a mass start from outside the changing rooms before a mad dash down the school driveway and then as soon as we were out of sight of the supervising staff we would slow to a leisurely jog seeking to prolong as much as possible some time out of the claustrophobic classrooms and back to back lessons. There were a few very enthusiastic types who just disappeared over the horizon for the prestige amongst themselves of completing the course first. They gave the rest of us a bad name.

The sheer lung busting effort of the driveway dash would cause a few undignified cases of retching and dry vomiting . The first hundred yards or so would expose the smokers and asthmatics in our number. The former group would later be visible in the rearguard of the run or rather recognisable by a haze of cigarette smoke in the distance. A bit like the effect produced by a steam engine approaching on full pelt. The latter usually had to give up and were often taken back to school in a Masters car or by ambulance to the town infirmary. Conscientious Objectors were not recognised even those in possession of a note from their mother although this attitude displayed would now, no doubt ,constitute a matter for the Court of Human Rights.

The tried and tested route for a cross country session took us past the local bakery and a chip shop and the training regime of some of our group, those of larger bodily frame included stopping off and stocking up with supplies. We would soon be past the council estate and then into open country. Leaving the outskirts of the town we would have to cross from nicely surfaced roads and footways onto an old muddy farmtrack. This was very heavy going and after only a quarter of mile, even on a slightly moist day, we would soon resemble escapees from a swamp. A few quagmire patches would not only suck out our resolve to get around the course but also claim our footwear and it was necessary to frantically grovel about in the mud looking for the odd plimsoll. Reduced to a stockinged foot these would becoming increasingly matted and heavy with the clay and the necessary hopping action would only make things worse.

As the lane came to an end we would swing right back to resume on a footpath. This ran alongside the very busy main road into the town . Fortunately the only crossing requirements were residential driveways as otherwise there was good potential for mayhem and carnage with gasping, red faced, wheezy boys having no regard for basic road safety. Damn you Tufty.

We had about a quarter of  a mile to compose ourselves before passing the High School for Girls. The transition from being close to deaths door to super cool athletism was a sight to be appreciated. There were always groups of female students hanging about the gated entrance either waiting for a bus or chatting to older lads who sat astride their little Yamaha motorbikes. Those of us left on the run would cruise by with as much ease as we could pretend. Again out of sight farther down the road we would revert to an exhausted , sweaty and wholly unattractive bunch of adolescent youngsters.

The final approach to school was invariably reminiscent of a zombie movie with the almost dead crawling and struggling back to the prospect of a tepid communal shower. The cross country run was usually the last session of the day . Hoping not to be seen I would just collect my clothes and bags and set off home and avoid the obsessive behaviour of the duty Master to see a lot of boys naked.

My mud caked legs would make it difficult and uncomfortable to even walk home but by the next morning most of it had fallen off in my bed and through the rest of the house.

Some Mothers do 'ave 'em

The traffic has been unusually heavy even for a bright and almost warm sunday in March.

A few clumps of daffodils that I noted and admired during the week on the verges and traffic islands appear to have thinned out a bit leaving clear bald patches of disturbed soil and divots but I might be mistaken.

There are additional hazards on the main routes with last minute decisions for drivers, encouraged by their pointing passengers, to swing violently into a lay by to see what is on offer from the flower seller who for much of the year looks extremely under employed and bored. The stock on display has been swelled with some extra racks of early season pansies and bedding plants and some tropical species of orchids and other exotics visibly cowering at their rude awakening to an English spring.

Garage forecourts are temporarily missing the seasonal offering of logs, bagged fuel and kindling in favour of racks of brightly wrapped bouquets at quite exhorbitant prices. These are however selling very well to single men in gawdy last season Paul Smith blazers, moleskin slacks and non matching formal shoes. Older ladies, bearing a faint facial resemblance to the fashion victims of the out of town designer outlets , squashed into the bucket seat of an open topped sports car look cold, embarassed and petrified by the experience although this is well concealed by a smart, classic chiffon headscarf and sunglasses. "Surely the Volvo would have sufficed for a trip out" they mutter.

The car parks to the large dining refectory public houses, better calibre restaurants and the occasional self styled carvery are heaving to capacity but with a few loitering vehicles trying to get a space as close as possible to the main entrance. Frustrated drivers who did not think it necessary to book a table edge out into the flow of traffic and mentally route map their next journey to get a sit down meal and a drink.

At the cemetery just on the old main approach to town , now a cul de sac following construction of the new link road,  a number of badly parked cars straddle the muddy chewed up verge. A loose arrangement of visitors pass through the wrought iron Corporation liveried gates, all in respectful silence. Some carry tightly bunched fresh cut flowers or a bucket and gardening trowel. The individual groups hang onto each other for part of the long walk amongst the headstones.

The ice cream van on the Common has a long queue shuffling along to keep in any warmth of the afternoon sun and maintain position as the Farmhouse Organic Vanilla visibly runs low. The front near side seats of many of the stationary cars have elderly passengers wrapped up against the breeze and pleased not to have cast out their clout till at least March is out. At the prospect of a single cone '99 there is a slight resistance to this very modern trend when, as tradition demands, a nice hot cup of tea would have done very nicely, thank you..

Children just about visible in the rear of cars, hunched over their electronic games module, have been scrubbed up a bit and are in the throes of sullen behaviour at being dragged out into the daytime atmosphere when T4 on Sundays is just getting good. One of the front seat occupants looks like their annual duty has been done, is noticeably relaxed and showing some good humour. The other, still to undertake their obligation, although grudgingly willing remains nervous as though just getting ready to sit an oral examination.

Yes, it is Mothering Sunday.

History of a Family in six objects. Part 6

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 6. Marmite

After my comments in a previous blog about the origins of one of the ingredients for fruit gums from the leather tanning process you may be entirely justified in expressing surprise that the subject of my last family history series is another substance dredged out of an industrial process.

Although often associated with a meaty and beefy taste this is as far from the actuality as could be imagined. Marmite is a yeast extract. The original producers, long since absorbed by an American Corporation were based in Burton upon Trent, logically and logistically the ideal location just downwind in terms of proximity to the large commercial breweries that provided considerable employment, wealth and celebrity to the town. As a student, when it was not practical to otherwise cycle from Nottingham to home, some 90 miles or so, I would take the train and the line ran through and paralell to the huge operational plants. The hop silos, stainless steel vat and pipes proudly bore such British institutional brand names as Carling, Worthington and Bass and later Marstons and Coors. I was always aware of the approach to Burton upon Trent because it was soon in view  after passing through Tamworth where the Reliant car factory was and in the open ground close to the lines it was always interesting to see the fibre glass shells of the three wheeler Robins but incongruously next to the aggressive and quite well regarded Scimitar sports coupe.

The success of Marmite, also the french name for a large cooking pot as depicted on the classic label, also launched the Bovril product. In my mind it is an insult to Marmite to include that other stuff in the same breath and sentence. I had a bad experience with Bovril whilst holding a jar above head to try to see how much was left. The same exercise with Marmite holds no hazards but I did not allow for the looser, runnier composition also encouraged by inappropriate storage in a warm pantry cupboard and the grainy, bovine
derivative took some effort to wash out.

Through my teenage years I began collecting Marmite jars. I should qualify that these were not empty, washed out and clean but still each contained perhaps half a teaspoon. I was sure that yeast extract was indestructible and so with a tightly fitting old style metal lid there were no concerns over the nurture of a globally contagious bio-plague. I proudly had on display in my bedroom a full set of the different sized jars and a good number of spares behind the best example in each category. The collection went everywhere with me at key stages in my life.

Marmite went well with everything. Not just the fundamental toast topping but complientary on top of cheese, with scrambled egg, stirred into gravy or direct into a meat pie. A generous knife edge was required to thickly cover a slice of bread for a packed lunch sandwich and with enough left to be lavishly licked off the blade. I am aware that there are those who may feel a bit nauseous at this stage if they have not been brought up proper to love Marmite.

I was very upset by the sellout of the brand but ultimately reassured by the fact that there is little scope to spoil such a perfect taste. There has been an attempt to broaden the product range by packaging changes and collaboration with other brands. Most ridiculous has been a squeezy tube effect jar- what were they thinking. Most exploitative was the Guinness venture with limited edition production runs with jars traded on E-Bay rather than opened up and spread for enjoyment. Most trendy was its addition as flavouring on rice cakes. The commercial possibilities are potentially endless and no doubt there is a whole department within the Unilever skycraper dedicated to the infiltration of Marmite into the emerging economies. What next- Marmite flavoured rice, poppadoms and noodles? I was amused to hear that Stateside super and hypermarkets stock the product in their ethnic foods section.

My own children are fans of Marmite and the association with our family appears to bode well for continuation of this love affair into the future. My Mother has told me that on our return to the house from a night out on the town, as young adults, she and Father could only really relax and get to sleep in the early hours to the sound of the front door being locked and the noise and smells from the production of cups of tea and marmite on toast permeating up the stairs from the kitchen.

The Filey X Files

The flags currently missing from their seasonal vigil over the beach at Filey are expected back from the dry cleaners any day now. In the stiff March breeze there is a just discernible sound from the freshly white painted poles as they oscillate. A spinning dinner plate would not look amiss on the very pinnacle. When dressed in the colours of the Yorkshire rose, a Union flag and miscellaneous emblems from tourist awards the same poles will give the right impression to the expected car loads of day visitors and guests who will flock to the town as the warmer weather approaches at Easter

The beach huts are securely padlocked. In sequence the wooden door fronts are brightly painted in yellow, red, green, blue and in that repeating sequence resemble a long line of jubilee bunting. It is strange to see the doors firmly closed when for the main seasonal months they will be wide open and welcoming almost on a 24/7 basis. The concrete path on Royal Parade is clean and clear which is a departure from the sandy residues of a hundred or more flip flops which form a small raised dune in the peak weeks of summer.

One of the kiosk owners has shown confidence and optimism by opening up on the third friday in March. An elderly couple from Leeds expend part of their winter heating allowance on their first ice cream of the year. A few brave souls stretch their tendons as they struggle down the steep Crescent Hill and rest briefly and breathlessly on the slatted benches just above the cobble stone slipway. The large colourful tourist information board displays black and white photographs from the halcyon days of the Edwardian period. Bulky bathing machines on cast iron wheels have been left stranded from the retreating tide in one of the pictures. The bathers have more clothes on than the well attired visitors on the beach road. Seeing this a young family from Pontefract firmly zip up their cagoules having been reminded that it is actually quite a cold day.

In the distance on the western crescent edge of Filey Bay the eye catches the bright white edifice that is the former residence of Billy Butlin. The art deco building is looking quite healthy following a number of years of neglect during which the paintwork had tarnished to yellow like plaque and nicotine stained teeth. Under its progressively stepped flat roofs it resembles the superstructure of a battleship in a commanding position.

The public loos have also been spruced up for the approaching season. Visitors with prostate problems or just an over indulgence on pots of tea hesitate at the doorway and peer into the dark void beyond. They have to discover that a few further footsteps activate the new sensor operated light as part of the Borough Council commitment to reducing  energy costs. The newly painted surfaces have covered up the last 12 months of vandalism and graffitti although an early visitor has etched his mark on the inner face of a cubicle door.

It is prime time for every conceivable breed of dog to claim the narrow strip of sandy beach as the tide turns. They have until the 5th May when the ban is introduced to confine them and their confused senses to a walk on the lead on the pathway above that interesting and easily excavated playground. Well at least until the end of September shockingly equivalent to nearly three and a half dog years.

The proprietors of the seafront cafes and tea rooms look busy in footing the lower rung of ladders on which their staff or the town handyman lubricates the canvas sun canopy, or under instruction apply a lick of paint to the flaking fascias and signage. A few couples hang around the forecourts of the B&B's or holiday flats having arrived a tad early to kick off their shoes and roll about giggling on the king size bed, sea view or no sea view.

Jon and Kerry look out of their kitchen window on the early season activities and comings and goings. They have enjoyed the relative downtime of the winter months but it is nearly time to accept that they are firmly back on the front line. The spreadsheet for bookings for the holiday apartments is quickly becoming full with names, numbers and payment details. The persistent ringing of the telephone is like the whistle to signify that it is indeed time to go over the top into the incessant battleground that is Filey awakening to another onslaught of a spring and summer season. They, and the town, are more than ready.

Ladybird, Ladybird...........

To some extent I am continuing and expanding upon yesterdays blog on the subject of  fires but today concentrating on actually setting things alight.

There is a certain thrill in childhood of being allowed to strike a match, in particular that first ever one almost like a rite of passage in being trusted with hazardous things. This may be to light the advent candle in church at Christmas or multiple candles on a celebratory cake. In the days pre-electronic ignition of cookers it was necessary to use a match and judge when to move the naked flame into the spouting forth gas. Too soon and there was not enough to react with. Too late and there was the prospect of a large explosion and a burnt hand or equally from a rapidly diminishing handhold on the wood below the sulphurous tip. Both outcomes involved panic and anxiety from child and supervising parent in varying degrees.

Of course there was experimentation with other cruder methods of starting the combustion process.

The clashing together of two flinty stones was a sure way to get a spark. However, transferring this to an actual flame was more difficult and involved very close proximity to a process that could blind or scar permanently. If not suffering injury there was a distinct possibility of passing out from all the huffing and puffing if there appeared to be even the faintest smouldering of dry grass and foliage under the stone fragments.

If time and effort were not an issue then rubbing two sticks together could be fruitful. This could be done by cutting out a small niche in a flattish piece of wood which we will call A) and whittling the other , henceforth known as B) with the trusty pocket knife into a sharp point. A pile of dry vegetation we will  call C). Then by swiftly rotating B) between the palms of the hands whilst nestling in A) sufficient friction could , in theory, be produced to cause a combustion reaction with the hastily distributed C). A high tech version to reduce blisters and splinters would be using a stick with string like a violin bow to generate the spinning action. I tried this method on a few occasions but with no actual success.

On a day of strong solar activity, ie the peak of summer, a magnifying glass was always a sure-fire way of getting a sure fire. What better way to wile away a few hours in the holidays by burning through a few leaves on a bush, tormenting an insect or trying to scorch your initials into the sole of your bovver boots. For the record, I was nowhere near the allotment when it was burnt to a cinder on a very sunny afternoon one July.

Familiarisation with the physics behind the creation of fire was very useful in the pursuit of Scouting and many a warming, sustaining and useful blaze formed the highpoint of a camping expedition.  In later years there was no intimidation in the igniting of a barbecue under the watchful eyes and rumbling stomachs of dependants, relatives, friends and neighbours. There is no greater thrill to an adult male than having a marvellously smokey and ultimately anti-social bonfire in the garden. In such ways setting fires has positive and happy associations.

To a youngster with a sense of right and wrong and a Jiminy Cricket inner conscience all of the initial exhilaration of playing with fire can easily be rationalised and dismissed as being anything worthy of obsession or unhealthy fascination. That is not the case with some individuals.

Take the dilemna of many a budding property developer. A beautiful and historic building is acquired with a view to renovation and refurbishment for maximisation of gross development value and by definition, profit. Unfortunately the entreprenurial proposals fall foul of the Town Planners, Conservationists, Civic Society and a few meddling and misguided doo-gooders. The project may not now be viable and the prospect of being lumbered with a liability, a cross between a dinosaur and a pale coloured pachyderm and a money pit becomes a looming reality. This is where the small boy who has not been able to rationalise and process the setting things on fire thing becomes a developers best friend.

In our town one such historic and architecturally splendid former warehouse fettered by the fact that it was purpose built as a warehouse and not a block of high value apartments myteriously burnt down to its footings, casually, gleefully and alledgedly observed by a small, twitchy and excitable lad on the latest and most expensive Raleigh Chopper bicycle.

Somewhat cynically but ultimately predictable was the fact that the new purpose built residential block which emerged on the prime site was named 'Phoenix Court'.

The Smoking Pot

It is not sad, geeky or anything compulsive  but I regularly count chimney pots.
It is something I have actually been trained to do in my job and not a working day usually goes by without me staring up above roof height to observe and account for the number, type, style and apparent condition of the objects, not always traditional clay pots, which are sat upon the flaunching and corbelled brickwork of a chimney stack.

Most houses built well into the 1950's relied upon internal fireplaces for room heating, hot water, cooking and general amenity such as laundry. In the course of my work I can assess what has gone on structurallly in a property by backtracking from the number of external pots down through the course of chimney breasts through the house and matching these up with what remains of the original hearths.

The Readers Digest Book of Home Improvements is to blame for the upsurge in disastrous Do-It-Yourself projects over the last 40 years and after sledge-hammering out supporting walls (not helped by that nearly educated Rita), boarding over beautiful panelled internal doors and ripping out anything remotely antiquated and characterful a popular candidate for removal through severance has been the chimney breast.

Not an easy task on many fronts. Bedroom fireplaces, once quaint with a cast iron surround, grate and mantelpiece soon fell out of favour with the demise of live-in labouring domestic staff and the emergence of electric blankets, heavy duck down quilts and central heating. The actual archived statistic for fatalities from a hot coal bursting out of a bedroom hearth in the wee small hours would make for interesting if rather morbid reading. Such redundant features can be dismantled but generating surprisingly large volumes of mansonry rubble, dirt, grime, soot and other chemical residues accumulated in the flue from many decades of the burning of fossil fuels. It would be logical to simultaneously remove the corresponding ground floor breast with some economies of scale and physical effort.

What my experience shows however is that the lower section often goes first out into the skip, the back garden or simply stashed under the floorboards and with no subsequent regard for any support for what can be a tangible tonnage of brickwork left suspended just within the first floor joist level. Some years after this work and following some enjoyment of a slightly wider reception room the small rectangle of plasterboard inserted in the hole vacated by the masonry starts to develop a hairline crack to its perfect outline as an indication that the unrestrained structure above is causing some problems.

Options are available but all are costly and again labour intensive. The first floor chimney breast can be removed in the same process all over again but with more effort required to remove further tonnage from the property, either in a human chain of buckets full of rubble up and down the stairs and leaving a mucky and persistent trail through the house, or thrown out of the window into a flower bed. Of course the same problem is repeated as the residual breast is invariably through the roof void on the basis that it is out of sight and out of mind. I have seen some very sagging ceilings at bedroom level and in some cases this has been a cause for concern particularly if directly over a childs bed or an infants cot.

If you, as owner of an older house are lucky enough to have retained one or more fireplaces then there can be potential for these to be restored to working use. Coal fires have had a bit of a resurgence in recent years on a wave of part nostalgic and part energy saving feelings. I do fear for the woodlands and roadside coppices of this country with the tremendous revival of log burning stoves and have more than on a few occasions witnessed whole families scavenging amongst plantations of trees and emerging with armfuls of timber. There also appears to be , at face value, an increase in the kind offers of neighbours to help clear those large overpowering species of broadleaved trees from gardens but it is surprising how many charitable endeavours involve a chainsaw and the rapid removal of logs and boughs off site.

Many of the log burners are quite a feature but would be more efficient as red-wine warmers than actual room heaters because of the 60% loss of the hot air directly up the flue. Old fireplaces and flues are often beyond reasonable use because of the likelihood of loose bricks, bird nests, bird carcasses and soot residues somewhere far inside the course between hearth and pot.The opening up of a longstanding hearth, just up the road from my house, revealed the remains of a snake- either a native in some form of hibernation or a former pet that made a break for freedom. The services of a traditional sweep, if not attending weddings on a full time basis, are back in demand and there is a certain thrill in the thrusting emergence of  a brush out of the pot and the clatter of the contents of the flue being collected in the grate and the dust sheet of the room below.

We have one coal fire left out of a total of 6 from when the house was built in the 1920's. The others are either venting out toxic gas fire fumes or have been blocked up and ventilated. The operational fire is brought into use in the weeks up to and after Christmas. It is an expensive luxury as opposed to its original basic necessity. I purchase a bag of washed and sorted coal or curiously shaped nuggets of man made moulded substances from the forecourt of the petrol station , an almost gift wrapped string bag of beautiful logs and a plastic shrink wrapped packet of kindling from Sainsbury Homebase for a total cost of around £15. This will do about two fires at an average cost well above, probably, having the gas fired central heating on at 30 degrees for the commensurate period. It is nice though. Our Christmas Eve would not be the same without the children, or almost the young adults now, releasing their letters to Santa into the warm rising air with a wish and a prayer. My subsequent duty over the next few Festive Days is to check the empty hearth for the return, on the cold heavy air of any bits of the notes and for these to be whisked away in the interests of maintaining the magic of the season.

The flue is periodically swept and checked but only because one of the houses opposite had a very spectacular but devastating chimney fire culminating in the local brigade clambering up the roof and emptying half a reservoir of hose-delivered water into the pot. The liquid boiled and was hissing and steaming when we next saw it pouring out through the front door and almost reaching its source in the Fire Tender as though in a perpetual cycle.

We do still get some soot falls, for example, following the permeation of heavy rain at pot level or a particularly violent vertical gust of wind and for some days the house does have a smell reminiscent of a holiday cottage. Those currently viewing our house, which is up for sale, go a bit dewey eyed and romantic when they see the open hearth and I do nothing to dampen their enthusiasm for this great and convenient amenity of our time.

Scrapheap

It was a thing of great beauty and a symbol of both reconciliation and shared suffering.

All that now remains is a tall, slim stone pedestal, some 3 metres high looking forlornly towards the River Humber. It used to support and elevate a bronze statue, 'Voyage'  which leaned into the windswept landscape and represented a call out over the sea in memory of British sailors who perished in the bleak Icelandic waters over past centuries.

Significantly the statue was commissioned by the people of the Icelandic town of Vik who were often called upon to rescue and provide sustenance to crews which ran aground or foundered in the North Atlantic waters. The sister statue by the sculptor Steinunn Thoraninsdottir remains at vigil on the Icelandic mainland.

The gesture does warrant considerable admiration in that our two seafaring nations were in a conflict in the Cod Wars of the 1970's with Icelandic gunboats mobilised against the British deep sea fishing fleet in a protectionist move over fishing stocks. In more recent years the collapse of Iceland's banking institutions caused a major loss of confidence and trust with the evaporation of the savings and long term financial security of private individuals, Local Authorities , Charitable concerns and many others from the British Isles. The hardships suffered by the Icelanders themselves are no less devastating to lives and livelihoods but have not been acknowledged, such has been the clamour for action and compensation from these shores.

The statue arrived in 2006 and became a major focal point and landmark for the river frontage, itself undergoing a major transition from industrial scale trawling and shipping to residential, business and leisure uses. Out of the corner of its left eye the statue will have been aware of the thrusting pinnacle of The Deep, the worlds largest submarinium, amd now a thriving tourist and research destination. The right eye will have seen families promenading about on the old Ferry Pier in front of the now converted ticket office building and enjoying an ice cream or a bag of chips from the small cafe.

The gradual and natural tarnishing of the bronze figure blended in well between the old Horsewash slipway, the brown waters of the River and the far Humber Bank in the distance. The weathering from spray and wind did not however diminish the symbolism or the statue. Unfortunately, it did not either serve to disguise the net value of the statue as scrap metal and overnight on the 24th July 2011 it was wrenched away from the plinth to disappear for good in the back of a van.
The theft was captured from some distance on a grainy CCTV system. The projecting figure is seen to waver under unforeseen forces and then fall from sight into the dark skies over the river.

At first the incident was thought to be a prank. Such prominent figures do disappear from time to time but return after being photographed in a holiday setting, discovered in nearby undergrowth or under the bed of a hungover student. Two men were arrested out of what was thought to be an involvement of 5 persons on that night. The statue is now believed to have been sold to be melted down for a paltry sum of £1500.

The Roll of Honour for the Lost Trawlermen of Hull currently extends to over 200 pages and in excess of 3000 untimely deaths in what has been regarded as one of, if not the most hazardous occupations.

On a purely materialistic calculation, completely disregarding the human element and all that a seafaring family life entails, the thieves of Voyage have attributed a nominal value of 50 pence on each and every lost soul and their memory to the scrapheap.

Waste not, probably want not now.....

For well over 100 years and certainly longer there was a thriving industry in our town for the tanning of animal hides.

The leather will have graced the most luxurious of furnishings and later in the plush and cosseting upholstery of prestige motor vehicles to name but a few end users. The tanning process was very labour intensive from start to finish and certainly a bit unpleasant in the use of cyanides and mercury based substances.

The last surviving Tannery in the town was closed in 1986. As a long lasting legacy of the toxins and heavy metals the large former site of the factory was encased in a thick concrete cover to contain the contaminants. It was then developed for some expensive executive detached housing. In subsequent years the homeowners found that they were expressly prohibited from extending their properties if it involved any prospect of breaking into the tomb like lid. This caused a bit of anxiety amongst the owner occupiers and considerable amounts of litigation work for solicitors seeing whom was to blame for the lack of information or cautionary advice about what lay beneath the now rather less attractive and value diminished dwellings. Of course, most of the purchasers of the housing were out of towners or new arrivals to the area. The locals were very well aware of what had gone on for the century and more of activity on the site.

As a teenager and in the years leading up to the closure of this particular tannery I was often witness to the arrival of a large road tanker to the premises.

This was a very regular sight. Not that a lorry was a rare visitor but because the approach roads to the factory were quite narrow and congested and such a vehicle only contributed to the urban chaos. If walking to and from school the build up of traffic was always interesting along with the frustration of drivers and all that went on in what later became known as road rage. After squeezing down the streets of tightly packed terraced housing the tanker would swing majestically through the Tannery gates and disappear from view behind the main buildings. I liked to gawp into the yard because there was always something interesting going on from piles of newly delivered unprocessed  hides lying around like so many deflated animals to the ant-like movements of the fork lift trucks, from an assembly of white clad workers on a ciggy break to the escape, whether intentional or accidental of thick and noxious smoke, fumes and odours into the air from innocent looking stainless steel stacks and flues. The road tanker would after a couple of hours re-emerge, somewhat heavy around the axles and straining into the flow of traffic to cause more mayhem.

The lorry cab and large cylindrical trailer bore no hauliers name or branded markings. The destination for the full to capacity tank was the City of York and specifically the Rowntrees sweet factory.

A waste product of the tanning process was gelatin. The substance forms part of the complex composition of the collagen found in animal skin and bones and of the total volume of gelatin production some 28% is derived from bovine hides. It is a transluscent material, colourless, flavourless and when dry very brittle. The main quality which makes it commercially viable is its ability to act as a gelling agent. As such it is very useful in food, pharmaceuticals, photography and cosmetics. Here is the scientific bit. As an irreversibly hydrolysed form of collagen it can be classified as a foodstuff and does qualify for an 'E' number. It is a mixture of peptides and proteins. With water it forms a semi solid colloid gel. That's enough of that stuff.

I was aware of the usefulness of gelatine for Mother's baking process and with a very ancient packet gracing the kitchen cupboard shelving for perhaps a decade or more. It really pushed hard for the award for the oldest inhabitant of the pantry but was no competition for the post war tin of chestnuts in water.

The application of gelatine can still be found from a capsule around a medical pill to wallpaper sizing solutions and it is the reason why crepe paper retains its wrinkled appearance.

So what use did Rowntrees have with for such a regular and large volume of the waste from our tannery?

It went into the making of the fruit gums. In the distance I can hear the sound of frantic spitting.