Future Imperfect

I was in a long queue of traffic awaiting my turn to creep through the traffic lights.

The narrow single vehicle clearance was alongside a deep excavated gash in what would normally have been the other lane but now heavily bounded by a line of horrendously purple coloured plastic barriers. No doubt some bright spark in the marketing department of the civil contractors Trench, Trench, Ramp and Trench had cottoned on to the idea of making their presence even more apparent to motorists, cyclists and pedestrians in a trademark colour to match their vans, diggers and also the faces of their labouring labourers. That sort of consideration explains why they are called civil, I'm sure.

In a sad but very practical way I had timed the average wait at what was indicated as a three way controlled road works at two and a half minutes. Given the backed up traffic and those anti-social motorists who insisted on playing follow my leader even on a long displayed red light the actual allocation of time to squeeze through the purple haze was but a few seconds. At best three of four vehicles, only, made it through and to freedom from each direction.

I therefore had plenty of spare time on my hands.

After fiddling with the radio, wiping down the dashboard with my oversized cleaning mitten, playing around with the electronic settings on my seat and gathering up empty drinks cans and sweet wrappers so as not to become wedged under the brake pedal I was bored.

Looking right out of the car window I noticed a large rectangular sign board in the entrance to an unremarkable piece of scrubland. The marine ply had been whitewashed and supported on two substantial wooden posts driven into the hard clay soil. There were just four words thereon in large and clear script, evidently painted through a hand cut stencil rather than being left dependant on a steady hand and the judgement of an eye. The words were more prophetic than descriptive ' Land for Future Development'.

I let my mind and imagination wander over this prospect.

Future Development. At last someone was trying to meet the expectations that I have had since I was 6 years old and got excited that Neil Armstrong in 1969 was setting the foundations for my pending residence on the moon.  I became very distressed when in the TV series Space 1999 the moon was blasted out of earth orbit which seemed to me to put an end to my lunar house plans. I would have to settle for a more earthly abode however and would dream about a glass domed world of tropical plants and a controlled climate against the ravages of an earth at risk from something whispered about at that time as global warming or something like that. The threat of nuclear war in the 80's got me thinking about having to live underground for a long time before being able to emerge into a post atomic winter landscape.

Perhaps the hoarding was a form of instruction to aliens but then again anything was possible. A civilisation proficient in intergalactic travel would possibly be a bit insulted by an invitation by earthlings to set themselves down and have their future developed. The initiative and experience would be ours to learn from visitors from outer space rather than the other way round. We presume too much when we have little or no comprehension of things beyond our own atmosphere.

The signboard could be part of an exchange project with the inhabitants of Mars. After all, a wheeled exploration craft has just been set loose on their planet and they may have intentions to reciprocate or even extend their portfolio of planets by taking an interest in or control of ours.

I started to muse in the queue about what sort of other developments I would like to see in the future. These were more consistent with my older and hopefully wiser outlook on life.

Free energy for all would be a nice gesture followed by unrestricted access to fresh water. Getting the economy going on a national and global basis would be helpful to assist in full and meaningful employment and all the social spin offs that arise when people have their self belief and wellbeing boosted by contributing to their families and neighbourhoods.

Respect for others and a few words of encouragement also go a long way as we all know from that swelling of targeted pride and emotion during the Olympic Games on our shores. Housing needs a bit of sorting out so as to be affordable and manageable without fear of fuel poverty or deprivation.

We could all do with extra leisure time as I seem to remember getting excited about the prospect of working less hours and taking early retirement many years ago but these two enticements seem to have gone the same way as the paperless office and the Dodo. As a bonus how about a world at peace.

I was fascinated by the prospect of what that piece of scrub-land could contribute to mankind if indeed its owners plans came to fruition. I will certainly maintain a watching brief over that inconspicous few acres and hope to be at the front of the line when indeed the future arrives

A problem with wind

In polite terms we called it a bothersome wind.

It is the sort of thing that can take the edge off an otherwise perfect day of cycling.

It was sunny and not too uncomfortably warm for the last weekend in August and importantly it was dry and with a good chance of it staying that way for the duration of our planned ride.

The wind however, was its own master.

I am of that age when the weather forecast can be the most interesting part of the daily news broadcasts. I suppose the obsession with all things climatic comes from an enhanced sense of making the most of time and in the UK a major factor for most activities, although mainly those of an outdoor pursuit type is of course the weather.

It had rained heavily during the night which had been a predicted occurrence for the latter part of friday in our area and there were a few large pools and puddles in the roadside gutters and in the otherwise unnoticed slight depressions in the carriageway.

The morning TV programmes showed a clear map in the middle of the country and I was encouraged by the weather-person saying that it would be a few unlucky people only who may see a short, sharp shower in the daylight hours. I took that to be a good portent for a good cycling day.

What I had failed to notice and in my defence they were not mentioned were the tightly packed arrows coursing across the map from north-west to south-east. We set off for a 5 hour ride, the rear pockets in our jerseys packed with spare parts, mobile phone, cash and, yes, rain jackets just in case the weather-person was after all drastically wrong. Within just a few minutes that wind became very intrusive and for the rest of the day we were battered, buffeted and blown about from every angle.

There was just no chance of respite even in the deepest, tree shrouded lane bottom which only acted in the role of a wind tunnel. The worst parts were in the cresting of an easterly slope to meet the full strength of the wind as it enjoyed an unfettered journey across the Vale of York and up the slopes of the Yorkshire Wolds. Our progress was difficult and slow, even with a downhill stretch which would in calmer conditions be a most enjoyable thing.

It was even worse as we swept down to ride along the base of the hills with any slight gap in the dense hedges funneling the power of the breeze to try, again to throw us off our bikes. The lanes and byways twisted and turned along the edges of the ancient field and meadows and to compensate for the changes in direction and the influence of the strong wind on our progress we had to work our gears hard whilst struggling to stay upright.

Even our much anticipated tack and turn to the south east and the hope of feeling the wind pushing us along effortlessly was a big disappointment. We continued to be thrown around like a paper bag in a back alley breeze.

That was the tone of our whole day under the cosh of that bothersome wind but we persevered and eventually rolled back into our street exhausted but content that we had made it in one piece.

Mythical Mythter Griffin

Peter Griffin, the head of the Griffin Family and the Family Guy is a bit of a hero.

Here are a few of his selected words of wisdom or at least the ones that can be published openly.


 Lois, when I'm through with them, our kids will be so smart, they'll be able to program their own VCRs without spilling piping hot gravy all over myself.


 Chris, everything I say is a lie. Except that. And that. And that. And that. And that. And that. And that. And that.

　
Lois Griffin: Peter! You're bribing your daughter with a car?
Peter Griffin: Aw, c'mon Lois, isn't 'bribe' just another word for 'love'?

　
Peter Griffin: Oh my god, Brian, there's a message in my Alphabits. It says, 'Oooooo.'
Brian Griffin: Peter, those are  Cheerios.

　
Lois Griffin: Peter tell Chris that women are not objects!
Peter Griffin: Your mother's right Chris, listen to what it says.

　
Peter Griffin: I've had a good life. And you can always be proud of your father and all of his accomplishments.
Meg Griffin: What accomplishments?
Peter Griffin: Go to your room.

　
Peter: I'll handle it, Lois. I read a book about this sort of thing once.
Brian: Are you sure it was a book? Are you sure it wasn't nothing?
Peter: Oh yeah.

　
Lois: You're drunk again.
Peter: No, I'm just exhausted 'cause I've been up all night drinking.

　
Peter- Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Lois, this isn't my Batman glass.

　
Lois: I guarantee you a man made that commercial.
Peter: Of course a man made it. It's a commercial Lois, not a delicious thanksgiving dinner.

　
Peter: Lois, um, go get the medical dictionary and look up "fork" and "lung."
Lois: Why?
Peter: Time is a factor, Lois.

　
Peter: The deep south? Isn't that the place where the black guys are really lazy and all the white guys are just as lazy but they're mad at the black guys for being so lazy?

　
Peter: Sorry Meg. Daddy loves ya, but Daddy also loves Star Trek, and in all fairness, Star Trek was here first.

The Perks of Werk

 

 

Scarborough Panoramic

 

Thanks to a loft window and a bright, clear and sunny day

 

 

 

                                                 Competition Time. Count the chimney pots

 

The Castle Ruins

 

 

A distant view of the sea

Naughty Children in God's garden

Mother Earth really tries to keep things in balance but we, Mankind, as her tenants are an unruly, selfish lot who insist on regularly exploiting the terms of our tenancy agreement and to the very point of mutual destruction.

We would certainly have been evicted a few centuries ago if I really push the landlord-tenant analogy. Various plunderings have gone on in the past. Individual nations or a concerted effort by successive affluent and influential world powers have stolen the silver, washed and filtered or chipped and blasted out the gold nuggets, prised out the prized precious gemstones, extracted the fossil fuels, drained the oil, eroded the goodness from the soil, pillaged the fruit of the seas, barbecued the forests, bottled the fresh waters from the depths of filtering rock, punched holes in the ozone layer and altogether have caused a bit of annoyance and thereby provoking an increasing regularity in violent reactions from a reasonably co-operative and generous benefactor.

As resources become rapidly depleted there is an ever more frantic search for more rich seams of energy and wealth .No area of the world is now safe from what is innocently called preliminary and non invasive investigation .Thanks to satellite technology, ultrasound and sonar it is not necessary to puncture, excavate or blow up the ice caps, scour and degrade areas of great unspoiled natural beauty or poke about on the sea bed. This is however just the first step in a determination to go and get any pockets of oil, gas or valuable minerals and at any cost to the topology and environment.

It is common knowledge that there are actual and potentially vast amounts of resources to be had but mankind has used all of these up in the, by contrast, easily accessible locations and only the inhospitable or sacred areas of the planet are left. The cost to extract everything from the previously disregarded areas of the globe will be wholly disproportionate even with the possibility of premium prices to the end user. It would appear cheaper and technically more feasible to go to the moon and dig about on that barren landscape to find resources to burn.

It is now the situation, in the corporate quest for wealth, that old and what were thought to be economically unviable deposits of coal, oil, gas, metals are being re-visited and like a dry sponge found at the back of the cupboard given another mighty squeeze to extract a few drops more. Take the escalation of the price of tin on the world markets. This has led to a renewal of activity in the Cornish mines even allowing for a century or more of neglect, collapse and flood. Open cast mining is back on the agenda and causing a great dilemna with destruction of a landscape mitigated by the potential for employment  in some areas. That makes for a difficult moral choice amongst hard pressed communities who will never have recovered from the decline of their traditional industrial base.

There are ever increasing technically challenging procedures for the extraction of the last drop of goodness from the earth. One of these which has caused concern is Fracking. A morsel of business speak and a throw away piece of terminology, not too offensive and even quite benign, sounding a bit like Fraggle Rock, that loveable institution.

The practice of Fracking is already well established. Hydraulic Fracturing is as aggresive as it sounds and is used to persuade Mother Earth to relinquish her deposits of gas trapped in the beds of shale. It is a bit like using a water cannon to rob an old lady of her life savings but only after her home and possessions have been ransacked.

In the United States there has been an noted increase in seismic disturbances linked to the Fracking activities in certain areas. In the UK a number of locations have been considered for the practice including beneath the Pennines, mountainous areas of Wales and Scotland and even in the genteel Home Counties although it is fairly safe to predict the order in which any determined effort will take, farthest away from London first.

Out of sight, out of mind is a good business mantra and selling point but Fracking is one move too far. The use of water at high pressure is something most householders do regularly with their Karcher products on the pathways and decking surfaces but in the confined compressed subterranean parts of the planet it is infinitely more sinister. It is not just water as we would be led to understand but a cocktail of chemicals as well to drug up and dull down the sensitivities of Mother Earth so that her handbag of goodies can be pilfered.

There is a sufficient difference in opinion amongst engineers and seismologists over whether Fracking is safe or not to cause me plenty of concern as a co-tenant of planet earth. Any mention of the word 'risk' in a press release about anything is enough for me to err on the side of caution. Fracking is certainly a risky process.

However, people want plentiful and cheap energy to heat their rooms and cook their meals and may not actually be that interested in where that nice blue tinted burning flame on the pilot light or the hob comes from. That is until we are sat, head in hands, in our ruptured gardens watching our beloved homes crumble and fall in a massive and indignant earthquake from a previously patient and forgiving Landlord. Notice to Quit was served a while ago.

Centre-Parcs. The iron age years

Planning a holiday can be a stressful time, a self fulfilling prophecy whereby you become so exhausted in the booking and logistical process that you just need a holiday to recover.

The package holiday of the 1970's was revolutionary in that it required very little organisation apart from spending monies, clothing, flip flops and getting to the airport or point of departure on time and either sober or not. The saturation of short haul flight European Resorts between June and August by the English caused a reaction to this form of recreation and fellow countrymen, wanting to give the impression of being a bit more cultured and adventurous looked to other parts of the globe. The Spanish Riviera was too much like Clacton and sights were set on a 5 hour plus flight time which encompassed the Greek Islands, Egypt and Turkey or to arguably more exotic destinations such as Dominican Republic, Mexico and South East Asia.

 Travelling in itself was a sophisticated experience and demands were made for a luxury holiday in all senses of the word. The more grading stars and features of an exclusive calibre the better. The bubble of cheap and spontaneous travel would soon be set to burst and in more recent years austerity, recession and even ecological concessions have had an impact on our annual jaunts to distant parts. We now have to consider our own carbon footprint and how to offset the environmental impact of jet travel, yet more cause for anxiety and soul searching.

I have just come across the perfect antidote to this dilemna.

How about a weeks vacation as a member of an Iron Age Village in Denmark?

The venue is Sagnlandet Lejre translated as 'Land of Legends'  a cultural centre which, in addition to the main Iron Age Village has in remaining ascending date order, a Stone Age Camp, Viking Market and 19th Century Farm setting.

It is not a case of just booking a place but having to apply and meet specific criteria in order for what is in effect a socio-economic experiment to work.

It must be one of the few holidays where you do not need to take a full suitcase because everything authentically stone age is provided. The village is a group of seven wattle and daub and thatched houses and a Smithy set amongst what is described as the sacrificial bog. Each house takes between 4 and 8 persons and priority is given to a full household from the same family group as long as there is a sufficient age range from young children to seniors. Occupants, not termed as guests are required to undertake daily tasks as part of a co-operative covering grinding flour, fetching water, forging iron, chopping wood and gathering wild plants. Hours are not that authentic being 10am to 5pm rather than dawn to dusk. The activity only takes place during the summer months so as not to expose sensitive and cossetted 21st Century folk to other seasonal hardships.

Those going up for the experience are more than likely to have an idea what they are to encounter. Otherwise Customer Services would be extremely busy explaining the absence of Wi-Fi, sachets of instant coffee and a trouser press in the mud huts. Some may attend out of genuine empathy with the period , others as some form of purge or detox from modern life.

A degree of weight loss may be expected from the tone of the Welcome Pack consisting of cereals, milk, cream, meat, beans, apples, nuts, onions and mushrooms.

It is not however all chores and smelting. Those Iron Agers obviously knew how to enjoy themselves in the great outdoors and on offer are fire making, fashioning iron implements, rustic baking and if an exchange visit could be arranged with the Stone Age Camp much fun could be had with competitive stone pulling and striving to make the best dug out boat from a tree trunk.

Who says that different cultures cannot live and thrive in perfect harmony?

Don't be sheepish

Be a Citizen of the World.

Forget the traits of your own nationality, even though they are firmly embedded in your own identity and outlook.

Embrace the cultures and customs of lets face it, our neighbours and fellow passengers of this planet.

We may feel that we have played our part by the action of immersing ourselves in a bit of local life whilst on our annual holidays abroad or even the simple act of enjoying a meal from one of the many world food takeaways that are firmly established in our home areas. All good stuff in its own way.

I am not belittling what may be an integral part of the lives of many families in this country. You only have to look at the top ten most popular menus in the UK to see the diversity and fusion of multi-culturism.

I am not looking either to score points but this weekend a friend of our family from the Middle East introduced us to a mainstay of his own diet in the form of a cooked sheep head.

I admit that the very idea , at first, seemed very strange and our own deep rooted affection for all things sheepish was going to be challenged and more. From our formative years we have been brought up with sheep and lambs in nursery rhymes, on television and most of us will have snuggled up in our tiny beds with a knitted woollen or shop bought cuddly version.

A field full of frolicking spring lambs never fails to produce an expression of delight and the sights and sounds associated with the farming of sheep are an integral part of our experiences in the UK countryside. We have out of nostalgia disassociated such a scene with a roast leg of lamb, grilled chops and mince in a shepherds pie.

The sheep head arrived in a plastic carrier bag through friends of our friends sister. A couple of days prior it was, yes, frolicking somewhere in Wales or the West Midlands before being despatched in the traditional way. For a price of £10 a head, you get the head but also five? legs and the stomach lining.

We should not be aghast at the very thought of such ingredients. Our ancestors knew the value of everything that came from their livestock and it is only our generation brought up in a plentiful but ultimately wasteful society that shun the economic use of every piece of a farmed animal.

My Gran took great pride in producing a beautiful ox-tongue as part of our visits to her bungalow for sunday tea.

My mother in law regularly cooked stuffed hearts and choice bits which I would challenge anyone to now try to find in their local butcher's shop or supermarket meat counter. Stomach lining or good old tripe still appears now and again in cookery books and as a retro-dish by a celebrity chef keen to champion it.

After resting overnight in the fridge our forthcoming lunch was carefully prepared by our host.

The large pasta pan was ideal to accommodate the constituent parts and with seasoning in turmeric and saffron, good old British onions and Yorkshire "watter" the lid was battened down with a couple of heavy tins and the cooking process commenced.

The head was already skinned and the lower jaw complete with a good set of teeth had been detached.

As the temperature rose the kitchen became effused with the aroma of that far off country. We felt privileged to have the special experience although our friend described that many of his countrymen, including his father, took the same for their breakfast every day of the working week.

Slow cooking over four hours gave an opportunity to talk which is often a rarity in a busy lifestyle. The time passed very quickly under the very sociable atmosphere.

Serving up was all part of the main event.

To the table came a platter with dark and succulent meat from the cheeks, a lighter texture of brains, a tight curl of tongue, a wonderful honeycomb matrix on the stomach lining, fine meat off the bone of the legs, bowls of rich broth and the surrounds of the two eyes. The only other item on the laden table was sesame topped flat bread.

Eating with fingers was essential to savour the textures of the different meats.

When faced with a new eating experience it is often necessary to relate the taste to what we are familiar with and "it's a bit chickeny" or "umm beefy" are common.

To use these as a means of reference is, in the case of a sheep head, completely inappropriate because the tastes are unique.

We all tried a bit of everything and the order of preference varied between us but perhaps rooted more in our pre-conceived ideas than what was exciting our taste buds.

Our friend had promised that we would be besotted with this offering from his home country and he was not disappointed with our murmurs of satisfaction at clearing our plates and indeed in the rather disgraceful scenes arising from a frantic dash of us Brits into the kitchen to scrape out the pasta pan in case any delicious morsels had been missed.

Stinking Industry

The decline in the UK manufacturing and industrial base has been dramatic and alarming over the last 15 to 20 years or longer and we just did not realise it. Frankly, we do not really make anything anymore in this country. I accept that it is the turn of the emerging countries to have their industrial revolutions and all the trappings of materialism that go with that. There is, however, a very high price to pay for industrial decline. Human cost for loss of employment, income and self worth. Regional losses where identity with specific sectors has gone for ever. Landscape loss with the skyline devoid of chimneys, pit winding towers, flare stacks and the bulky buildings of production.

What I have missed, however are the smells of industry.

My childhood was accompanied by the over-riding odour from sugar beet factories. Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk and Brigg in Lincolnshire had two such factories and with a westerley wind there was the sweetish scent of rooted beet being crushed, boiled and processed into the best Tate and Lyle granulated, caster and icing sugars. The plant must have been one of the most productive in the UK for many years based on the constant sickly smells coursing through the town. Brigg also had a marmalade producer and on some days such was the combination of sweetness in the air that you just craved for something savoury or sour.

Our family moved to the Hull area in the late 1970's. Hull at that time was just starting to lose its fishing fleet of any tangible size following the Cod War with Iceland which negotiated itself to a conclusion in the mid 70's. The decline had been in progress even well before that. The smell of fish being cooked, processed, frozen and packed was however an assault on sensitive Lincolnshire noses. It was a standing stereotype of course but also a matter of pride for a thriving fish processing industry and a large bulk market frequented by suppliers,merchants and traders from all over the UK and the world. The traditional smoke houses were, by my time, very much an endangered species and many were demolished before their heritage value was really appreciated. At least two of the distinctive steep pitch roofed smokers still survive but only as ghostly hulks. Such buildings do not lend themselves to alternative or economic use.

The Eastern Docks were also a hive of activity and raw materials including cocoa beans arriving by freighter from exotic parts had only a short road journey to a processing plant in the Wincolmlee industrial area. The smell of chocolate wafted around the eastern suburbs and, windows wound down, the car soon filled with this pleasant aroma. Unfortunately that business closed down in 2010.

My first job in 1985 was in the city centre close to the former Hull Brewery on Silvester Street. The first industrial sized brewery was founded on the site in 1866 and carried on until Mansfield Brewery ceased operations in the late 1980's. The malty and hoppy smell also sat well on the taste buds and may even have contributed to the fairly laid back attitude of the few residents around Kingston Square just opposite the brewery.

Needlers sweet factory was a major source of emissions into the urban air of Hull. I would not have thought that the manufacture of such favourites as Blue Bird Toffees and Sensations boiled sweets would involve as complicated a production process to justify the plumes of smoke and steam from the imposing brick buildings.

The few surviving smells in Hull are high tech processes rather than hard graft and full scale manufacturing. Sutton Fields industrial estate some 4 miles to the north of central Hull has a heavy Yeast influence and at the eastern end of Leads Road we have Jane Asher to thank for a light sponge cake induced atmosphere from the vast factory, itself shaped like a large slice of victoria sponge.

The established residents of Hull will, like me,have noted the absence of the smells of industry. If you blindfolded a younger resident and asked them to identify, by smell, what the essence of Hull was today I would not be surprised by the answer of latte, twelve inch Sub and whatever has just escaped from the large water authority sewage treatment plant at Saltend.

For whom the bridge tolls

I would like to own a Toll Bridge (See 'Wishful thinking at Christmas'- December 24th Blog) .

A fanciful and vague notion you may think.

An actual opportunity to get involved with the day to day running of a bridge may be rare enough but to have a chance to buy and own one outright may be virtually impossible. This is because of

1) the strategic importance of crossing points nationally,
2) where old Toll bridges have been by-passed by modern structures and road networks and are no longer viable for income generation ,
3) the perceptions of potentially prohibitive costs of repair and maintenance costs, and
4) the inevitable insurances and liabilities.

I would hazard a guess that, in the UK, there exists only a single figures number of bridges that could even be marketed for sale.

A recent high profile example was the 1779 built and 1797 rebuilt Whitney on Wye Toll Bridge in Herefordshire which a couple bought, funded by the sale of their own house for £400,000 in January 2012.

The initial motivation for the acquisition appears to have been an instant emotional connection with a romantic setting, a beautiful piece of 18th Century civil engineering of Grade II Listed status, a 2 bed toll-keepers cottage and a landed area, including riverbank, of 1.1 acres. The bridge has had comparatively few owners in its history and one family managed to hold onto it for 180 years. The sellers, a company, had spent around £300,000 on restoration and overhaul of the single carriageway crossing point following their takeover in 2002 which will have been of major reassurance to the buyers. There is little threat from competition in that the nearest other crossing points are 4 and 6 miles up and downstream respectively.

What brought the case to the attention of the media was the financial return from the ownership of a Toll Bridge.

The unique circumstances of Whitney on Wye gave it the profile of perhaps one of  the best investments of all time.

An Act of Parliament in 1774 established a framework to encourage Private Investment in the road and transport infrastructure of England. The Prime incentive, sweet and sugar coated was a complete exemption from taxation to any individual or consortium who funded a project which would benefit a local, regional and national economy. Any and all taxation was included.  A wise strategy for a Government of the time but now very much a massive loophole for the current administration some 233 years later.

The Wye bridge crossing is used on average by around 200 vehicles a day, mostly local traffic movements but in a tourist area and with a wide and fluctuating seasonal volume. The tariffs were at the time of acquisition 10p per bike, 20p for a motorbike and 80p for cars and light good vehicles. In the summer months the income levels were reported at £2000 per day.  The gross income is reputed to be around £100,000 per year and with the concessions from 1774 still in place, the only outlay is for maintenance and man-power.

The investment returns speak for themselves putting many Buy to Let propositions and schemes which seem too good to be true- (because they are) into the category of a reckless gamble.

Having to continuously leave the cottage to collect tolls could constitute a down-side for the business of owning a bridge unless sit-ups,  meeting people and accounting are three particular life-skills to be enjoyed. The previous owners did bring the operational side into the 21st century with an automatic coin operated barrier leaving more opportunity for the subsequent incumbents to enjoy the notion and location of their small, idyllic and cash-cow empire.

Over the top

The first battle of Ypres took place on the 11th November 1914, incidentally a wednesday.

The First World War was in its infancy having started just a few months before in the July.

British Society would never be the same again given the loss of life, upheaval and revolution from that great war.

On the Home Front there was a semblance of normality in spite of the appetite to fight amongst the young males of the nation.

A case in point was the Sale by Auction of Contractors Plant at Louth Sewerage Works in Lincolnshire on that very same day.

The sale, by the local auctioneers Dickinson, Riggall and Davy was to start at 10.30am at the Out-Fall Works of the Sewerage Plant and with a secondary venue for the afternoon, from 2pm in the Corporation Yard, Upgate, Louth.

The town was a typical centre of commerce and business for an English rural area being some 20 or so miles east of the county town of Lincoln and equidistant from the North Sea Coast. On the edge of the rolling Wolds countryside the town was important for a regular market economy of produce and livestock. The population had expanded rapidly in the pre-war period from the older street frontage  cottages around the town centre into the middle class areas of villas with gardens and a view of the sky and hills beyond.

With urban growth and development came the need for Utilities including sewerage being provided by private enterprise, wealthy investors or the Borough.

The sale was on behalf of the executors of the late Orston Wright Esquire, no doubt an important benefactor and servant of the townspeople. The advertisements for the Sale were targeted as being an opportunity for farmers, contractors, engineers and local authorities to acquire ' Effects of the utmost utility and of standard quality'.

Such an event would no doubt be the highlight of the day for the resident population given that it would take some time for the telegraph wires and press to bring the news of the momentous troop and military movements of the War to the town.

On offer was a wide range of buildings, goods, chattels, materials, tools and instruments. Amongst the structures were an excellent and well built Stores Shed with two windows and a corrugated roof of dimensions 30ft by 18ft since dismantled and re-erected at the railway station goods yard. In addition, a cement shed, Pay Office (in sections) with a desk and Solar Stove, Engineers Office on wheels and 2 watchmans boxes.

Materials cnsisted of a large amount of timber, pitch pine posts and sleepers to appeal to contractors and farmers. Galvanised and other tanks, iron piping, cement and ballast guage boxes may also have been of interest to the well informed.

The apparatus of the sewerage works was also to be sold including smoke testers, brass inflating pumps, Avery brand weighing machines, a portable bellows, 3 ton blocks and pulleys, Diaphragm Pumps by Bastin & Co and a hose pipe.

The goods up for grabs were extensive with many leading and well known brands, Bamfords and Jim Crow amongst them.

The Auctioneers had structured the day to work from the largest items downwards. By about midday there was a huddle of interested parties around the display of small plant, tools and effects. Many bidders went away happy given the surplus of barrows (20), Tool Boxes (6), shovels (250), picks (150) and hammers (30). Those attendees in more formal attire than overalls and work clothes were in waiting for the specialist items under the broad heading of 'Engineers Instruments'. These ranged from drawing boards and the rudiments of a fully equipped office to surveying equipment, a 100 feet steel tape on a drum and a 14ft staff pole.

The sale was by all accounts well attended and with a good level of revenue generated. For some in the crowded venues it may have been a welcome distraction from the looming pressures to enlist and take the Kings Shilling to participate in the war on foreign soil. Given the acceleration of the conflict it is likely that many of the goods and chattels purchased that day may not have enjoyed an extended lease of life in the hands of  those who had volunteered only their hard earned cash to acquire them on that November day in 1914.

Time Travel in bricks and mortar

I thought that I had seen everything in terms of styles, trends and fashions in the new build housing market.

Going back into the 1970's it was the through lounge replacing the traditional best parlour and back sitting room. In the 1980's the breakfast bar appeared in domestic kitchens. The 1990's saw the emergence of the en suite bathroom. After the millenium it was a case of those fancy fruit bowl hand basins and wet rooms. Current fads are for high tech control equipment, under floor heating and moves towards energy efficiency or self sufficiency. These things are of course all to do with the interior design and specification.

There has over the years been an equivalent transformation of exterior styles and house types. The modern semi detached went from a large brick built box to a more pleasing but still brick built box. The terraced house, once the domain of the working man and woman became trendy and a bit retro although heaven forbid the old practices of neighbours wandering in and out willy-nilly and leaving doors unlocked would be strongly resisted. Executive detached houses have just got larger and more tacky with electronically controlled gates across the cul de sac, private security patrols and heated all weather private estate roads. Three storeys have also become commonplace on the sprawling residential estates that ring most of our larger towns and cities.

A few brave or is it foolish souls do their own thing along the lines of those properties featured on Grand Designs and other cult programmes but to be successful you have to be a bit ruthless and have pots and pots of cash.

Most purchasers of a brand new house would probably prefer that older property but it is just so easy to buy new what with incentives and favourable purchase schemes.

In the last few months the house builders have seen a huge upsurge in demand for their products mainly down to the availability of  "Help to Buy" and an improvement in consumer confidence about taking on what is still a major financial commitment.

The larger national builders have responded to the demand by resuming development of sites that had lain half built and dormant since the credit crisis.

The houses actually seem to be getting smaller and more compact and today I came across a throwback house type from the grainy sepia tint period of the late 19th and early 2oth centuries. On a site in a popular commuter town they are building a back to back terraced house type.

I was initially confused by the concept during an walk around the interior and somewhat shocked by the absence of any windows on what would, in a conventional house be the rear outlook. I had to go back outside and take stock.

The house was one of 8 in a long block and yes, there were eight front doors, four on each aspect. It would be easy to be fooled on that first impressionable viewing thinking that you were buying a normal property with its own front and back doors.

Whatever is next in the mindset of the house builders?

The return of the slum? wattle and daub? A wooden stockade around an earth mound or even the return of the cave dwelling?

Worn Out

If you are a fan of the big cult movies of the 1970's the following scene may seem familiar to you. 

It is a bleak landscape, windswept. 
An eerie silence. 
A line of men and women in red bomber jackets prepare to leave the comfort of their environment and set off for the unknown. 
They are lean and healthy in appearance and would certainly have a steely look of determination in their eyes if they were not hidden from view by mirrored sunglasses. 

Hold on a minute. 

I will introduce a few edits to that particular action in order to make it more representative of the subject of today's writing. 

It is still a bleak landscape, windswept but with the noise, albeit eerie of a waste compactor at a Civic Refuse Tip. 
There is a line of men and women but they are of secondary school age. 
Funnily enough, they are all wearing the same red coloured jackets, not quite bomber style but those types marketed as ski jackets but not at all suited to comfortable or warm use on a ski slope. It must have a been a clearance sale offer from a discontinued line or perhaps salvaged or liberated from the aforementioned rubbish dump for fear of the poor quality garments burning out the motor on the waste compactor. 
The group are far from lean and healthy looking. 
The males are surly and stand hunched up and with slouched shoulders. 
Most have a halo of thick cigarette smoke swirling about in the sweeping wind. 
The females huddle together as protection against the unwanted attentions of the male contingent. 

In their eyes there is a collective lethargy, a reluctance to do anything strenuous or exciting.

It is the usual queue of pupils awaiting in the hamlet of Wawne for the monday morning school bus to the seats of learning, the Grammar and High School in nearby Beverley, East Yorkshire. 

I was a regular spectator at the gates of the Grammar for Boys for the arrival of the red clad Wawne mob. 

They would spill out of the bus as though a carpet of lava, such was the density of colour of a dozen or so persons clad in those plasticky and no doubt highly combustible jackets. In a further mass of red they would make their way up the drive like a giant ladybird but one with a sore head, a bad temper, muttering obscenities and still surrounded by a cloud of ciggy smoke. 

The group only dispersed to go to their respective year classrooms but it would not be too long before they would congregate again and make the same lurching movement back to the bus stop. 

The individuals were not at all related in spite of the genetic disposition towards the same outer garments. 

That point was however contested by the rest of the school and there were regular jibes about "who was looking after the village whilst it's idiots were all in Beverley?", "just look what happens when cousins marry" and many others which are just too offensive to mention in polite company. 

Granted, they did have some similar visual characteristics and personality traits but that was generally attributed by us normal kids to their having been born and brought up downwind of a Waste Compactor, what with all of the potentially harmful emissions and all that. 

We did not ever have a desire or compulsion to go to Wawne itself although I was a regular visitor with my Father to the tip with garden and household waste which was within site of the settlement. 

Apparently it consisted of about fifteen properties being a mixture of Council Houses, executive detached, some self build ,a few farmsteads and a couple of barn conversions. 

The vacating of the hamlet by its teenagers during term time will have seen a 60% to 75% decrease in the population turning the place from a sleepy hamlet into an even more sleepy one. 

They did speak the Queen's English, or at least a version of it that we could understand without reverting to an interpreter or sub-titles. 

What did come to the attention of the teaching staff as a common problem amongst the Wawne-ees was a terrible standard of handwriting upon presentation each day of their set homework projects. 

It was at best an undecipherable scrawl, erratic, clumsy and with no pattern or structure. (I do not think that any of them made it into the Medical Profession whose practitioners are renowned for spidery handwriting). 

The strange thing was that if the group were asked to present their writing after a classroom session then it was almost normal. 

This phenomena took some time to fathom. 

The explanation, when revealed was more than obvious. 

The reluctant pupils pooled their intelligence in the pursuit of completing their homework on the short bus journey into town. The road to Wawne was notoriously bad being potholed, rucked and with a nasty camber to the grass verge, The road was regularly hammered by the movement of the large refuse trucks travelling to and from the waste depot and it was deemed by the Council to be best policy to only resurface when enough complaints had been received at County Hall. 

The laying down of a lovely smooth carriageway always coincided with a good set of test marks for the Wawne pupils but with a gradual decline in acheivement as the road deteriorated. 

One year the usual local bus company lost the contract to a slick new operation. Their brand new coach with super-duper hydraulic suspension  (gas filled)  and with a similar floating system to the passenger seating was able to nullify the influence of the awful road surface and consequently the academic results for the students of Wawne reached an unprecedented high. 

The service of the new luxury vehicle was short lived due to budgetary constraints and normality returned to the hand written scripts with the resumption of the school run by the old boneshaking post war coach. 

The Wawne lot just seemed a lot happier, in their own way, as a consequence. It had been a Close Encounter for them with a good education.

The Simple Life

A poem has been introduced to me today which I would like to share with you.

The context in which it was given is not important, rather the sentiment behind the words and the feelings that they induce in the reader.

It is by Kenneth Steven, a contemporary Scottish Poet and Author.

Remembering the Amish of Alma, Michigan

And I have seen them coming home on summer nights
Or bent above the wash bowl in the kitchen
Haloed in the window by the low sun's leaving;
Soft voices in the fields of gentle men with horses.

And in the town they walk their own way,
As though a reverence for what lies beneath their feet
Is in their shoes, and in their eyes a peace
No man can buy and few have ever found.

And sometimes when I meet them I feel like him who went away
With all of his father's wealth and lived in laughter far away
And woke one day to find he'd nothing left.
I feel like turning just like him for home -
That I may also start again.

Jack Bauer and misappropriation of Government Property

Very few people get to live out their fantasies. 

It does not have to be anything elaborate or even fantastic but in the mind of the individual it can be the most crucially important thing in their lives. 

I am fortunate in that I can assume the role of one of my heroes in the simple act of wearing a single item on my person. No, I do not cavort around with my pants over my trousers imitating Superman, well it was just the once and charges were not pressed on the basis that it was an aberration of my otherwise unremarkable character. 

I cannot stand the feel of even a pair of sunglasses perched on my nose and so a Batman mask is out of the question. There are just too many in the Superhero category to mention along with their own costumes and traits. 

My bit of hero worship is a simple thing, a drab-olive coloured khaki shoulder bag. 

It has the full title of a Tactical Gear Bag and many an army quartermaster would be able to reel off what items could be reasonable carried amongst the two large front pouch pockets, two slimmer flanking pockets, cavernous main part, inner zipper compartment and in two loop fasteners on the front flap. 

The versatility and durability of the TGB came to my attention when used by the Counter Terrorist Unit (CTU) operative, Jack Bauer (played by Keifer Sutherland) in the long running and cult TV series of "24". 

Of course he used it in its proper role in the carrying of an arsenal of weaponry, communications equipment, surveillance devices, his PDA by which his team at CTU headquarters kept him up to date with latest intelligence and many other classified bits of kit. 

Anyone who has followed "24" through its nine series will know the capabilities of Jack Bauer. 

He is, at heart, a family man but when faced with a credible threat to the Yoo-Ess-of-A from whatever source he can leap into action and you have just feel sorry for the baddies who dare to menace, attempt to extort or just mess about with the nation and people he is sworn to protect. 

Getting hold of a Tactical Gear Bag was a bit of a mission in itself. 

There are plenty of them available through the massive media and merchandising arm of the "24" franchise, even bearing the distinctive emblem of CTU but they are a bit sanitised and only a pale imitation of the real thing. 

I was not persuaded to part with the $30 plus shipping for what was nothing more than a gimmick. I could see that such a bag would easily fall apart when loaded with anything more than a pack of mints. 

I trawled the internet for something more genuine and authentic. 

It had to be military issue, army surplus or a second hand trade from a serving or demobbed member of the US Forces. 

It took some time to track down a prospective purchase. Jack Bauer would be proud of my dedication to the task of sourcing the item, but of course he would not show it. He might get his assistant Chloe to send me a congratulatory text by proxy. I would be perfectly happy with that. 

From my PC I communicated with a Seller deep in the heart of America. I could imagine a dark back room in a dark backwards town where white supremacists and survivalists obtained whatever they required to feel supreme and survive. 

It would be a seedy little spot or alternatively, a slick hypermarket type operation with daily Manager's Specials on ammo, personal protection, tinned goods and radiation sickness pills. Children would be enticed to join the National Rifle Association with six free shots using a handgun at the outline of an obvious but not openly mentioned Black President. 

I was pleased not to have to make verbal or other contact with my source in placing the order for my very own TGB. It was the equivalent of £12 including shipping. If price were an indicator of quality I should be worried, very worried but when the package arrived some 7 days later I could not have been more pleased with the service provided. 

I did not leave an endorsement to that effect in case it put me on a 'watch-list' of the FBI or my details were traded with our home based security organisations. 

I have had the bag for some 6 years now and it has never failed to perform beyond the call of duty. The sturdy shoulder strap is rivetted as though part of an aircraft wing structure. The 100% cotton covering, made in India, looks as good as new even though it has been in many a tight situation in terms of weather, crowds and stuffed under the seat of a train or bus.

Whilst eminently practical it is a piece of fashion history, well I think it is although others have scoffed and asked if I knew that the war had ended some years ago and carrying of a gas mask was no longer compulsory. 

I often dip back into Season 5 of "24" for tips and hints on wearing and making best use of the TGB and Jack Bauer is a good role model for this. 

The bag and me are inseparable. 

I used it just this afternoon on my mission to get the shopping in for tea. 

It easily swallowed up two packs of steaks, a garlic bread, a four pack of ginger beer, bag of stir fry, two fishcakes, two punnets of mushrooms, can of lucozade fizzy orange and a 2kg bag of spuds. 

Not that he would ever misuse the bag for his own domestic purposes but I can well imagine the gravelly tones of my hero Jack contacting base with the message "Chloe, send me a recipe on my PDA".

A Milestone

They hide in the roadside verges, many of them are forgotten, more are neglected and some are so badly weathered that they have no recognisable features. No, not tramps but old milestones.

In the days of limitless Local Authority budgets for grass mowing or when farmers and homeowners regarded it as a civic duty to maintain the verges without fear of prosecution for health and safety or highways violations, the milestones were very prominent landmarks on any trunk road journey.

In modern forms of transport we may pay little attention to the passage of the miles unless keen to preserve some residual value and  not rack up too much on the odometer. However, on foot or on horseback in bygone days the milestone was the equivalent of a sat-nav and essential to guage when to stop for human refreshment or to water or change mounts.

If average walking pace today is, what, four miles per hour on metalled pavements then I estimate this would be perhaps two miles per hour or less for someone with poor or no shoes, on rough potholed or waterlogged tracks and with cumbersome clothes notwithstanding carrying work tools, baggage or all their worldly possessions tied up in a brightly coloured hankie on the end of a stick. A journey on foot from Hull to York on roughly the same route as current roads would take a minimum of 20 hours or if confined to a daylight passage in winter, 3 days or on Midsummers Eve, the whole day with no stops for Druidistic type events. Under such duress ticking off the passing milestones would be very important. Spot a white horse, 10,000 points but carve your initials on a milestone 1 million points.

A few years ago I had a wonderful contract to track down milestones in East Yorkshire and report on their condition as they were Listed Structures. My brief included a few vague grid references or equally patchy physical descriptions of where I could find a specific marker. The actual task of locating 17th and 18th Century roadside artefacts was very difficult and time consuming, not helped where new roads and by-passes had left the original course as a picnic area ,cul de sac or an overgrown spur in the verge.

The stonework of a milestone had evidently been striking originally although utilitarian and functional. Recorded distances were etched in fine italic script under usually two bolder carved town names or with an affixed  metal tablet with cast text performing the same role. 

There were two main types of milestone, a basic almost headstone type and the grander two-tier examples which served as a step for mounting and dismounting a horse on the opportunity for a short rest. The stonework, weathering accepted often showed battle scars from modern vehicle impact. I expect that being caught short on a long journey would entail a quick swerve up and stop on the verge only to encounter a hidden mass in the long grass causing grounding or worse to the car and further discomfort to the already desperate motorist.

A number of the landmarks were just plain missing. I can imagine many rougher 18th and 19th century buildings in villages just off the old coaching routes having unusually good quality dressed stonework above the hearth or in an inglenook feature. Stones on the softer verges, at risk from splashing from passing traffic or now stuck in a gully or drain-off area had settled out of true and were a sorry sight. Perhaps there is a case to go out and retrieve these relics of bygone travel as they are obsolete and redundant as far as the modern road user is concerned.

I advocate that in a post apocalyptic world the milestone will become a surviving memorial to the way we led our hectic lives .Pilgrims in the future will marvel at the intricacy of the wording and pass on the folklore of such inscriptions as Hull 20, Leeds 40 and what a marvellous game of rugby league that must surely have been back in the day.

Poo Poo the old ideas

There are many new technologies being marketed to homeowners or those, in particular thinking of building their own house on the unique selling points of being Ecological, Environmentally Friendly and Ethical.

The magazine displays at WH Smith are crammed full of such publications under titles appealing to  architectural uniqueness, green and enviro homes, use of re-cycled materials, building with straw, barn conversions and the key element, admit it, making a big stack of money upon resale.

I do get the feeling from watching TV's Grand Designs that the featured couples are undertaking a back breaking and potentially financially ruinous project because their lives are unfulfilled in so many other areas. I cite the Eastern European model where young and in love partners build a house during their courting years, finish it, get married and then upon immediate divorce they split the reasonable accrued proceeds and start again. Human Society mimics the birds and the bees.....discuss.

Solar Panels are beginning to sprout on south facing roof slopes in my area. A very obvious commitment is expressed, by the array of smoked glass rectangular frames, to benefitting the environment but again the best intentions come down to money issues. Currently there are very significant incentives to turn a perfectly good roof into a power plant. Free electricity to the homeowner and a financial return over the long term from selling surplus to the National Grid.

Anyone north of Nottingham may struggle to meet the marketing claims for the benefits of photo-voltaic cells. There are organisations who will consider paying rent for your roof to mount panels to exploit for commercial gain the subsidies and grants for solar installations, that is if you live south of Nottingham.

I have also come across heat source and air source heat pumps in new build housing. The former involves drilling into and tapping the natural heat in the ground to provide a warmer inflow of water requiring less energy from normal gas, electricty or oil fuels to boost to conventional temperature. The latter can be likened to a windmill in a box and absorbs heat from the outside air.

People north of Nottingham, again, do not get too excited by this alternative technology.

Under floor heating is in fashion again after 1500 years of limited uptake. I am not convinced of it's longer term acceptance by the English who really like radiators as bum-warmers and impromptu clothes dryers.

All of these innovations relate to heating.

Perhaps the greatest benefit to the environment would come from a similar level of sales and marketing for disposal of waste and effluent. The Chinese have a very healthy approach to disposal of human waste. It is spread on the fields to fertilise crops and enrich the soils.

Historically, the night soil from our own towns and cities was removed by cart to be deposited beyond the built up area. Muck Garth is frequently shown on old maps. In this country, the first whiff in the air of anything less than the fragrance of rose petals causes uproar and complaint whether originating from farming activities or a freak wind blown odour from the local sewage works.

A truly ecological approach would be for every house to have a reed bed system for cleansing and dissipation of effluent into the environment. However, this will never happen. Density of new housing is increasing as is an exponential growth in the number of toilets in each house. I must get around to buying shares in Kimberley Clark, the worlds largest loo paper manufacture particularly as even the smallest 2 bed new house has three WC's- cloakroom, bathroom and en suite. This can increase easily to 6 WC's in a bog-standard 4 bed executive calibre detached house if all are en suite.Homeowners also have some firm views on not shitting in their own back yards.

Alternative foul disposal includes a worm based system. Basically, the poop is done into an organic mulch inhabited by worms who naturally degrade the waste leaving an aerated residue. If this can then be put on the garden I am all for it. If the worms are then useable for fishing I will sign up immediately to this system. Perhaps commercial companies will rent out the worms to you and then farm them for sale to angling shops, even if you do live north of Nottingham.

My global answer to the problem of the disposal of human effleunt is borrowed with little or no requirement for tweaking or technological change from an old farmstead way out in the rural areas between Hull and the coast. The two seater earth closet meets all requirements for eco and environmental criteria. The twin holed seat is fashioned from one plank of wood, renewable and sustainable. The compartment is externally housed with ventilated space above and below the door so very healthy and naturally heated. The soil in the bottom of the closet is just soil , nothing fancy and naturally soil fragranced. The closet, being 2 seated can be shared with economies of scale for time spent in the dunny.

I could imagine two farmworkers passing many hours of the day in close conversation and shared humility from the experience. After the business is done a fresh spadeful of soil covers the waste. Newspaper sheets, draped over a piece of string on the back of the door will satisfy a recycling ethic. When the closet is close to capacity the contents can be shovelled out and by the late summer there will be a fantastic crop of rhubarb in the garden.

It is a win, win proposal on all counts. Of course the well tried and tested operation will have to be sugar-coated for wider acceptance today. The 2 seater could be housed in a small, tasteful shed like structure in the garden or with a link corridor from a conservatory. Dwellers in high rise flats could have the same secured to the outside wall with a shute arrangement down to a ground level collection point. House-boat occupiers would require a small floating dinghy. Of course, those living alone by choice or circumstance can opt for a single seater version.

I can see endless possibilities and distinct advantages for the environment through these measures. Of course, there is always the chance that the Intellectual Rights for this innovation may be purchased by those with vested interests in seeing it fail. I fear a backlash, in particular from rhubarb growers faced with a plummeting unit price when everyone grows their own.

Chess; Explanation to an Alien

It is a game played on a chequered coloured board of eight squares by eight.

No, there is no significance to the dimensions, just regular and constant.

I am not sure if there is a hidden meaning or whether it represents a secret code to unlock the secrets of the universe or a portal into another dimension.

Each side has an equal number and range of playing pieces.

I accept that in the real world of intergalactic gamesmanship this is never the case and there is, as you allude to, always a dominant and superior master race keen to put down lesser beings.

The front line of pieces is taken up by the pawns, ok, I suppose you can call them puny underlings. They are the foot soldiers, no, unarmed apart from their range of movement which admittedly is a bit limited to two and then one forward step at a time. It is advisable to try to keep them on the board, well if you want to call them cannon fodder and expendables then that is you own view. These pieces are useful to mix it up amongst the higher value pieces and they can often sneak in and take them by surprise. No, they do not have any special powers such as invisibility, stealth, transportation or inter dimensional travel.

They may be a concept you find difficult to grasp.

If you have happened to see Star Wars, which is a must for any alien culture seeking to take over the Earth and its peoples the pawns, yes pawns not an aquatic species from the shallow oceans, are the same as the Imperial Forces.

Alright they do seem pretty dispensable. You have a point there.

Behind the pawns are the main and influential chess playing figures.

At the outer flanks are the castellated pieces. They can range up and down the board in straight lines in both dimensions (yes, just the one overall dimension) and are good at covering longer distances in any game.

Adjacent are the knights represented by a horse head figure. The move in a horsey motion which is two forward and one aside. Yes, it is a bit random and unusual but you would be surprised how many combinations and how much versatility that gives in a game situation.

Sitting next to them are the bishops. They are, on a conventional set of chess pieces quite alien looking in their own right. I will not get into an explanation on the role of the church in world history at this stage as it may be difficult for you to grasp. It is complicated at the best of times. They can move diagonally across the board and are quite a potent force.

In the middle of the back line are the King and Queen.

It is a monarchy which again you may not be able to comprehend if your own culture has evolved to a much higher plain of intelligence and social composition.

The queen is the most mobile of the pieces and can range about the board generally at will. Yes, the king figure is a bit dead and lifeless but the crux of the game is to protect the king from being trapped and eliminated.

There are, as you intimate, simpler ways to kill a king but the game of chess has been around for centuries and the art of acheiving that final winning move has evolved into a very extensive sphere of tactical study, let alone involving philosophical, social and cultural aspects of human existence.

Who plays chess? Well, it is open to all ages and children used to be encouraged to learn from an early age but that has tended to be supplanted by video games which are more stimulating and, I accept, violent and manic. Typical players do tend to be those with a bit of time on their hands and it is a pleasant way to pass an afternoon or an evening. It is a game of strategy, deception, bluff and bluster and so in my mind does somewhat reflect many traits of our species here on earth.

As an invading force you would be best advised to study the game of chess as a microcosm of humanity. Some of the world's greatest leaders and minds were chess players and their mental agility and broad thinking will have been nurtured by the challenge of the game. Indeed if you look through momentous political events in history there will be signs of tactics similar to those at the heart of chess. At various stages in mankind the figures represented by the pieces have come to prominence in the form of military, feudal, religious and monarchical power and the consequences have been fundamental in shaping how society is today.

Fancy a game?

The prize?

How about complete control over Planet Earth........

A-maize-ing !!

It is just not that amazing, this years Maize Maze.

The growing season has been poor for that particular crop in our local area. I am not sure why because everything else in the farmers fields has sprouted, flourished, thrived and borne much produce. It has, by all accounts, been a year of bumper yields for the soft fruits and the usual UK grown fare but not for Maize.

It may be the climate which will be quite different in this country from the main and traditional growing areas in other parts of the world. The very wet June may have done for the new sprouting shoots causing them to tread water rather than reach up to the leaden and heavy rain sodden cloudy skies.

It may be the soil composition. In this area it is mostly heavy clays which may not suit the temperament of a crop found more extensively in the mid west and southern United States.

It will certainly be the lack of nourishing sunshine but then again that is not at all surprising for a typical British summer.

The posters and hoardings advertising this years Maize Maze up the road on the way to Beverley did get me all excited because I am not too old or boring to appreciate the combination of a challenge and a terrifying experience amongst a crop that always seems to feature heavily in movies about aliens or strange cults and phenomena.

If I happen to drive past a thickly planted field of Maze I half expect to catch sight, in my headlights of a lizardy textured limb clad in a metallic sheen suit either stepping back in or stepping out with equal potential for horror and disbelief on my part. However, the disappointing growth of this years crop negates any rational or irrational feelings because the maize in question is only two feet high.

One parent was reported in the local newspaper as being a bit surprised by the stunted size of the maize but nevertheless was pleased that his young children could enjoy the intricacies of the pathways, cul de sacs and the overall disorientation but yet be in full, continuous and plain sight of their supervising adults or responsible persons.

I can sympathise with this feeling because Me and The Boy suffered a mutual panic attack a couple of years ago in a Maize Maze. The crop was fully developed to a height of about eight feet and as dense as a blackout curtain. It was also a very hot and stifling day and getting separated from those whom we had followed at first we realised that we were hopelessly lost.

Of course, with a head down charge in any direction we would have reached the car park, ice cream tent or the periphery of the maze with no particular difficulty apart from , that is, the chance of stumbling across a family of leathery skinned aliens engaged in some form of activity which may be commonplace on their planet of origin but considered anti-social or nefarious on ours.

Kev and Billy have a barney

The English football season is starting to re-emerge from its summer break, even allowing this year for the World Cup and the seemingly endless early rounds of pre-competition games for the seemingly pointless lower echelon of european tournaments. The press agencies are spinning stories which have had difficulty in getting column inches and airtime in the close-season. The hype has begun again.

The realisation that a new season is upon us comes with the Charity Shield Match. It is taking place today. This was always a bit of a non-event. From memory during my childhood it was rarely televised and also poorly reported. Apart from the participation of the winners of the League and FA Cup from the previous season I am not sure what role, function or purpose it served. Even the Charitable aspect was never really explained at any time.

I was, in my 11th year, absolutely obsessed with football. It had really started as an all engrossing thing in 1970 with the World Cup and my quest to fill up the book of collectors cards for all of the main squad members. It was the Brazil team of that time that caught my imagination and fascination. An exotic mix of skillful, athletic and charismatic players which was so much in contrast to the dour, drab, characterless and, frankly, old looking contemporaries of the English teams. I lived, breathed, talked and dreamed football.

I did follow Chelsea at that time but I think my main motivation was the playing kit, especially the white stripe flash on the side of the team issue shorts, again a burst of colour in a black and white world. My first ever kit was however Liverpool and I recall the oval profile cardboard container which my parents bought from the town sports shop containing the bright red Umbro made kit. It was very, very red with only the thinnest dog collar in white, a bit  like our vicar's. I lived in that strip for weeks and months. I could soon reel off the full Liverpool team from Clemence, Lawler, Lindsay, etc through to Smith, Lloyd, Heighway, Hall, Toshack and of course Kevin Keegan.

As a tenuous link with Kev we had moved, as a family to a town close to the Steel Manufacturing town of Scunthorpe. Kevin Keegan had been discovered as a talent on the playing field by Scunthorpe United and spared a working life down the coal mines of South Yorkshire around Doncaster.

Keegan was a mini-powerhouse. A bustling, frizzy permed haired striker of a style not really seen in British football. It was not surprising that a good part of his career was spent in the German Bundesliga where he fitted in well in all aspects of a fast paced game and fashions of the period. He was a prolific talent, play-maker and goalscorer.

Imagine my shock and horror when Keegan my hero was sent off for fighting in, of all things, the 1974 Charity Shield match.

The match was being broadcast on the radio as our family were driving down to Somerset for our summer holiday. It was a hot, sultry day. The whole family sweltered in the VW Estate Car.

Liverpool against Leeds United was always going to be a niggly, competitive game. It must have been difficult for the 22 players to get motivated for a Wembley game after a long, lazy summer break and the match was labouring on throught the first half.

I could not believe my ears when the commentator described the boxing match, scuffle or handbagging between Keegan and the equally diminuitive Billy Bremner. Both of them were respected figures in the game but all was forgotten in the melee. The two players did not stop at the fisticuffs. They both took off their shirts and threw them down on the pitch. The double sending off was headline news at a quiet time in the sporting calendar but had significant after-tremors in football and through the media and public. An 11 match ban and a fine was imposed on the miscreants.

It was a very ugly incident. Over the next decade there followed equally disgraceful behaviour by so called fans and followers in the English game as though the foundations holding up the beautiful game had been blown apart on that sunny afternoon in august.

Ghost Story

It had been twenty years since I had stepped over the threshold of the old cottage.

Back then the building had been completely derelict.

Even before I could recall the building had been in an advanced stage of decay with skeletal roof frame exposed to the elements and the tumble down gable brickwork just that, tumbling down. The rest of the main walls, in local warm sandstone were cloaked in choking creeper and systematic saturation by rain had left greenish streaks and hues in ugly form.

It had obviously been a very quaint residence and in the Pevsner Guide to the Buildings of East Yorkshire it had drawn a notable comment as being at one time a very fine example of an early 18th Century artisan dwelling.

In 1994 someone had taken on the brave task of renovation and my visit was to report to the Bank as to whether the plans and projections were viable.

In spite of the daunting scale of the project I could see the potential to restore the place to habitation.

It would take a lot of money, time and dedication to rebuild the fallen walls, shore up and underpin in places, reconstruct a roof framework and make watertight along with the multiple other issues required.

All of this would be under the close scrutiny of the Conservation Officer keen to preserve as much of the original fabric and materials as possible.

The west gable was extremely distorted and with a very precarious inward lean. It was however stable and it was an insistence that this character feature be retained, warts and all. Earth floors were replaced and a traditional sliding sash style window adopted for the main openings.

In the absence of a modern kitchen and indoor sanitation it was permissible for a new extension to be constructed but in faithful masonry and tile.

An old gypsum floor to a bedroom fell apart in the stripping out process. This was a common flooring form for an upstairs where domestic beasts were often sheltered in the front room over the winter. Steam from a large cow was not able to permeate and rot away the plaster.

Over a twelve month project period I returned to the cottage on a regular basis. I looked forward to the visits as I had been completely besotted by the character of the place and upon each trip out to the village location good progress had been made.

I did not however see the scheme through to full completion as my workload took me in another direction when I would otherwise have been called upon to carry out a final inspection to confirm full and satisfactory completion.

I did pass through regularly in the following years and even noted a couple of periods of the cottage being up for sale.

There was however unfinished business between me and the cottage.

This was finally addressed today when I returned to carry out a survey for yet another prospective owner.

It was as though I had never left.

The property was so very different from two decades ago but it had not lost any of its essential spirit and ambience. It was like being reunited with an old friend and I felt very much at ease and happy in tramping through the rooms and grounds.

I could finally sign off my involvement.

I stood in the hallway to conclude my inspection and announced to the seller that I was about to leave.

In an eerie silence, at that point, the front door, completely unassisted by man or draught swung open.

I was initially shocked but then felt ultimately calm in the realisation that the cottage was,in its own way, signing me off too.

Romans and the Free World

What have the Romans ever done for us?

Well, for my family they have certainly provided a lot of free stuff over the years and to my parents with five children and my own three wonderful youngsters that has been, on many days-out, a deity send.

I am a firm believer that there is some educational content and value in everything. This could be a strong material fact, an anecdote or just, my speciality, an unverifiable piece of urban mythology. It is little wonder that my children, when growing up, became a bit confused when, on what they thought was just an enjoyable day trip out they would be bombarded with some useful and some not so useful fact about things we drove past. That could be a building, a type of tree, a funny shop name, a rare car, a very distant aircraft or even a strange or suspicious looking pedestrian.

In most instances, through the speed we were travelling or the lateness of my actual noticing of the interesting item, the children would have nothing to see as the essential illustration of my fact or statement. This would involve some complex explanations for the ensuing 10 minutes involving frequent hands off the steering wheel. Everything was, without the visual explanation, totally out of any context.

Roman things are, by design, the perfect free educational resource. A Roman road, wonderfully straight and some good miles long provides the opportunity for me to have a rolling brief on its engineering, logistics and purpose. I will intentionally plan a long journey to include a stretch of Roman road. Sometimes I may be surprised by an arrow straight trunk road which just appears after a particularly car-sickness inducing series of bends, rises and falls. This starts my contention with the children or indeed any passengers at the time as to whether we are on a true Roman road or just a concession to a modern by-pass or much needed overtaking opportunity to clear a backlog behind labouring juggernauts and caravans.

Gradually, by such subversive indoctrination my children, now all adults, have come to recognise the trademarks of a Roman road and I swell with pride if they identify such before I have had a chance to remark.

I will pay the often extortionate entry fee to visit the best surviving artefacts of the Romans.

Vindolanda in Northumberland is well worth the large amount of denarius' that are handed over to the youth dressed most unsuitably for the chill of the north-east in sandals and body armour. Actually, the latter is very useful for a night out in Newcastle. Hadrians Wall is also a good free resource but any educational content has to be paid for by a bit of a hard long walk across rough terrain and we have only tended to do this on the way back from a holiday in Scotland or well out of season if we have managed to get away for autumn half term or a spring break.

We are very regular visitors to the City of York which has an abundance of free stuff from the walls and defensive buildings to fragments of stone pilfered after the Roman abandonment and then used in later construction. Unwittingly, the period may well have been remembered not so much for the architecture, engineering and culture as the greatest for the supply of hardcore, rubble and dressed stone for Anglo-Saxon housing and patios.

My favourite feature in York is the incongrous pillar of very mixed materials which stands close to the Minster. It was found in flat pack kit form in an early excavation and subsequently re-assembled. If you get to see it you will understand that there were no actual instructions provided. It may even be upside down which, from my own experience of self assembly, can easily happen.

I spent a year of an internship in Lincoln, another great Roman garrison and cultural centre. More free stuff around the Cathedral and Castle, a stone gateway,some spa baths. One of the partners in the firm I worked for had a house built on Roman foundations and I was invited to see them having expressed an interest in such things. The stonework was perfectly preserved and accessible from the cellar. The craftsmanship was beautiful to behold. Of course the labouring will have been done by slaves with their Roman Masters getting all the glory.

My strongest memory of Roman artefacts also emphasised to me the cruelty and hardship of that period of, lets face it, occupation by a mighty foreign power. In the mid 1970's my father took me to the site of an archaeological dig in a field just adjacent to the busy A15 or better known Ermine Street, the M1 of the invaders. Maps of the locality between Lincoln and the Humber crossings on the way up to York showed many villa sites. Prime real estate for those qualifying for freedom from military or civil service. Early retirement at 35 but with a life expectancy of not much more.

The field was quiet after the working party had left. The site had been throwing up bits of mosaic tile and pantile fragments for many years under the farmers plough or from treasure seekers. A large rectangular shape had been revealed after careful removal of tons of topsoil. I could make out detail from my school projects on villas, some hypercaust pieces from the underfloor heating, labelled pieces of pottery still partly embedded in the ground and short stretches of partly intact but largely jumbled up tessera (Resource book; The Romans in Britain for ages 8 to 11. Published in 1970).

Then, in the four outer corners of the excavation I saw four metal collection trays, upturned as though to protect or hide something being worked on. Ever curious and a bit nosy I lifted up one of the trays. Huddled in the corner was the skeletal remains of a small baby. This was the same for the other three corners. I was shocked but also a bit morbidly fascinated by this discovery.

My father explained that the babies would have been sacrificed for a favourable blessing for the villa by the deities. I was already following the train of thought about who would supply babies for this barbaric practice. The field was soon returned to the farmer after meticulous recording and removal to a local museum of the most important items.

I hoped that the babies had received a suitable and respectful memorial if they had been left where they had been put to the sword.