Thrills and Spills

There is a lot of industrious activity in a field about one and a half miles north west of the village of Walkington , East Yorkshire.

I first came across it on a longish detour cross-country to avoid the 12 months of frustrated, miserable motoring on account of works in progress of widening the approach road to the Humber Bridge.

Normally, the back road to North Newbald and with a turn off down into Cherry Burton is quiet and not at all busy, more likely to be frequented by gals on horses, strutting cock pheasants, a slow moving piece of agricultural machinery and, if travelling east to west, a labouring elderly cyclist tackling the gradient, which, whilst not severe is one of those tiresome constant inclines that sap the energy and cause aches to any age range of knee joints.

The first signs of something taking root in the field, or rather a rectangular section of the field directly in from the road, was the scraping of the surface  of the chalk strewn soils by a lone operator of an excavator to form a bund and a ditch to three sides, the fourth being the hedgerow and verge itself.

At this stage the purpose could have been anything from somewhere for a farmers steaming silage stash, one of those Highways Authority stockpile of granite chippings ahead of the usual summer for motorists of chipped windscreens and bodywork from the haphazard resurfacing of country lanes or my favourite, a large pile of potatoes, sugar beet or turnips.

On subsequent passings of the field there seemed to be no new activity although the flat area had been compacted down and overlaid with a bright, virgin white chalk base aggregate in evident readiness for something shortly to arrive. Being a Town Dweller  I could only speculate what may be there on my next trip out. In my perception, and in my travels around the county, a lot of large agricultural type buildings just seem to appear in the middle of nowhere and for no tangible purpose, perhaps a stipulation to tap into EU Funding, a means of reducing taxation liability at the end of the financial year or another form of incentivised development.

Within a couple of weeks the south side of the site was largely covered by a mini-village of portable office buildings, all neatly labelled ,as though enforced as good practice rather than voluntary, to indicate their active role in something.

A Mud Engineer's Office had the Prime spot in terms of overall view of any forthcoming activity on the remainder of the site which seemed to be waiting expectantly for something big. Adjacent was a Toolpushers Office, to me appearing to be a subservient role but nevertheless quite important in the scheme of things. The respective occupants of these two huts probably envied and hated each other through the perspex safety glazing. In the second avenue of buildings were those with the signage of some or other vaguely attributed Service Company, Health and Safety and Logistics and at the back a Mess Room, Toilet block and a Changing Room.

The whole complex, if it had been complimented by a performance stage would have led me to speculate on a forthcoming outdoor festival or rock concert. I made a mental note to check the local press for any ticket releases. In the open, rolling countryside with clear distant views and on dark seasonal nights even the sweeping flash of the Flamborough Lighthouse discernible some 30 miles away that location would, in my opinion, rival any of the worlds great venues. A majestic back-drop , the definition of God's Own Country- Yorkshire.

On my most recent evasion of traffic cones and the 30mph speed restrictions on my normal route I was quite taken aback to see how chewed up and potholed the verges and minor road had become up towards what I now knew as Crawberry Hill.

I had taken the time to consult an Ordnance Survey Map in a bookshop in an idle moment in town on the basis that if there was to be  major rock and roll event outside Walkington village then it would, logically take its name from the location. Walkington, no disrespect to the place itself, would sound more like a convention for mobility aids. Cherry Burton, the next closest hamlet was cutish  but with no long term credibility a la Woodstock, Knebworth, Glastonbury or even Leeds.

The topography around the spine of the minor road is a great expanse of productive fields, compact copses of broad leaved trees, hillocks and shallow broad dry valleys. The position is quite valuable in strategic terms commanding a good vantage point for many miles around. The map did corroborate this with the symbols of an underground bunker from the second world war.

The name Crawberry Hill, for the south west facing slope, had iconic potential. I could imagine a Chuck Berry style raking guitar anthem about getting some thrills up there and that intention or feeling being endorsed by a few thousand strong crowd under the stars.

The semi-destroyed roadway clearly indicated that something large had come that way and quite recently.

An array of caution signs and a speed limit, otherwise ridiculous in the middle of nowhere, and the muddy margins of the carriageway prompted me to slow down as I approached the field. The rectangular area was now fully developed and the dominating feature was a large drilling rig.

Around the mass of pipes and generators was a small army of high-viz wearing crew engaged in a frantic process of swinging in and connecting up the drilling lengths before they were thrust deep into the ground. The drilling rig is of a type capable of a workable depth of over 14,000 feet. It was an unexpected and totally incongruous activity for such a beautiful stretch of countryside. The oil men had arrived to explore and exploit the natural resources but at what cost?

The locals had put up a bit of resistance in correspondence, some quite authoratative and knowledgeable about oil exploration, to the original proposals and one landowner had apparently reneged on the deal with the Oil Company at the last moment on another tranquil spot a few miles away. The Planning Application, for my former corner of Yorkshire heaven, that I now felt that I had to see was biblical in its scope.

The scanned documents for public digestion from the exploration company, their environmental and ecological consultants, archaeological team, geo-physicists, ground water specialists and public relations spokespersons did stipulate their use of recycled materials and double sided printing which was nice but the sheer volume of paper will have been made from a small forest of trees, ironically a very, very distant ancestor of the fossil fuels now being relentlessly pursued for profit. As for that term 'fracking' it could not be ruled out as a future operational practice to coax the oil and minerals out of the secure custody of Mother Nature.