Estate of Mind

It is a lovely field.

The stubble is freshly cut and there is that warm, dusty odour that you get just after the combine harvesters have worked through.

I stood in the entrance to the lane, the classic five bar wooden gate having been left open and marvelled at the wide open space.

The thought of buying my own field returned once again after a long absence but as strong as ever.

Just imagine owning your own tract of land and the possibilities that it opens up. You could just run about in it fully or partially clothed, pitch a tent at will, lie on your back and wonder at the stars in the night sky on a whim , keep a few bits of livestock, grow some vegetables or just revel in the idea of being a custodian of nature.

This particular bit of land stretched into the distance to a mature hedge and a few well established trees, too far away to give a name to their species.

Just beyond were a couple of farmsteads with well weathered stone and brick buildings under faded pantile roofs.

It was quite late in the afternoon and so I did not expect to see the sights and sounds of cavorting rabbits , hares or foxes who would be long gone into the cool depths of their respective warrens, burrows and dens. There were no pheasants or other game birds doing their erratic runs or kamikaze flights at car windscreen height. 

A few cars passed me at the gateway and seemed to slow down as though curious about why I was there. It was a quiet lane and they would no doubt be locals.

Perhaps they too were admirers of the field or in some way felt a vested interest in it as though it had featured in their own lives as a childhood playground, a place to walk a dog or go for a countryside ramble.

The topography was interesting.

The roadside verge was a bit of a high point in the landscape as it undulated gently away in a westerly direction.

Taking in that scene was one of those moments when you appreciate the big sky above. There was no real encroachment on the eyeline. It was just an idyllic rural outlook.

So what was I there for?

Well, the field had a long southern boundary onto a housing estate with a typically 1970's style of dwellings. The back gardens of the houses and bungalows terminated at what was the very edge of the town, in effect bordering onto the Greenbelt.

That particular population centre, a traditional market town in North Nottinghamshire and close to the county line with Lincolnshire had seriously outgrown its predetermined confines drawn up by the Planning Authority some 40 years prior.

It was a bit of an isolated settlement but add in the fact that it had a mainline railway station within about 90 minutes commuting time of London and reasonable access to the A1 and M1 motorway corridors and you have a targeted area for justifiable residential expansion.

Across the bonnet of my car, in that pleasant environment, I unrolled a large scale plan of that field.

On it was superimposed a network of roads and a representative layout of 165 houses from large 5 bed executive detached to rather more modest and less ostentatious 3 bed semi's and town houses.

That rolling meadow would certainly make for an interesting development and I could visualise a rooftop vista from my vantage point.

Those existing properties, for the last 50 years enjoying an open aspect would soon have the prospect of neighbours.

The distant farmsteads would become overlooked not by cereal crops but multiple windows and a mass of red brick structures.

The gated entrance would soon be a full splay in kerbstones and tarmac.

The rolling acres would become manicured gardens, hard paved driveways and just another fairly featureless streetscape.

I felt sad and ashamed about being implicated in the scheme, or rather the crime of stealing away that field.

Gra££iti

Carrying on the art theme from yesterday this is a bit what I wrote back in 2015..............


Art is meant to be a supreme expression of the soul, well, that is what I think but then again there i
s nothing like art to excite equal feelings of emotion and controversy.

Take the medium of graffiti-it can be a beautiful thing unless of course it is your building or property that has been the subject of the spray-can Tag obsessed perpetrator.

Just this year, two Chancery Court judges in the UK had cause to examine the case of an artwork attributed to the  equally celebrated and notorious Banksy, namely "Art Buff" which formed a legal dispute between the commissioning Charity, The Creative Foundation and the occupiers of the building on which it had been mounted and spray-painted, one Dreamland Leisure.

It was not a very involved dispute, in fact a bit boring and boiled down to the respective positions of a landlord and tenant and who had the legal ownership  of the mural.

Alledgedly, during the night of 28 September 2014, during the Folkestone Triennial, a public art project organised by the Creative Foundation, the Bristolian Banksy spray-painted a mural on timber boarding attached to the external flank wall of an amusement arcade occupied by tenants, Dreamland.

Such is the clamour for Banksy works and the prospect of a good capital gain from the sale of one that at the beginning of November 2014, presumably marking the end of the Festival,  Dreamland decided that the section of the wall with the wood backed mural was to be removed and shipped to an art fair in Miami with the intention of selling it for the best possible price.

Whether the lot number for "Art Buff" at the Auctioneers did not get enough publicity, there was some doubt as to its authenticity or people, simply, did not like or appreciate it wood backed painting went unsold and as a fallback it was transferred to the Keszler Gallery in New York.

In legal speak (which is a mystery to me) it appears that "having taken an assignment of the causes of action relating to the mural from Dreamland’s landlord, the commissioners of the piece, Creative Foundation sought an order declaring that it owned the mural and requiring it to be delivered up, pursuant to section 2 of the Torts (Interference with Goods) Act 1977"

There were two issues for the judiciary to resolve in the case.

The first was that Dreamland argued that it was entitled to remove the mural (because it was graffiti) in order to comply with its repair obligations as covenanted with the landlord. This in my mind represents a bit of an hypocrisy in that Dreamland had been keen to capitalise not on a bit of vandalism but a work of art.

Secondly, Dreamland contended that, having undertaken repairs to the building, it owned the chattels removed as part of such repair works. Talk about reducing art to an obligation!

As to Dreamland’s repairing defence, the presiding judges accepted it was not fanciful to suggest that the spraying of the mural rendered the wall on which it was sprayed ‘out of repair’. Thus, despite the mural not adversely affecting the repair or condition of the wall, and there being no obligation upon the tenant to repaint or redecorate during 2014, Dreamland’s repairing obligations were said to be engaged.

A key factor in the case, however, was in the way by which Dreamland exploited the whole situation.

Normal procedure for nuisance graffitti removal would be scrubbing down with a prescribed chemical solution or sealing and applying a fresh coat or multiple layers of paint so as to obscure the damage. There was a difference though in that the picture was on a sheet of boarding affixed to the masonry. Dreamland however chose a significantly more invasive method of dealing with the graffiti, which involved an interference with the fabric of the building. This, the court held, could not be justified as reasonable compliance with Dreamland’s repairing obligations. Who were the Defendants trying to kid as it was abundantly clear that Dreamland’s actions were not wholly motivated by a need to repair the building.

More interesting, though, was the Court decision about ownership of the mural.

It is common ground that it is necessary to have covenants in a commercial premises lease to address the question of what happens to parts of the building (whether they be structural, decorative, or landlord’s fixtures) which are removed or replaced as part of repairing obligations.

What was in issue was whether such chattels should be regarded as the landlord’s or the tenant’s.

On the one hand, the Creative Foundation accepted that if the chattels were of no value, Dreamland was both obliged and permitted to dispose of them. But, on the other, the Creative Foundation said that if the chattels were of more than negligible value, Dreamland ought to deliver them up to the landlord.

Although the Judges acknowledged that tenants ought not to be required to obtain valuations of parts removed during repairs (here comes more of that gobbledygook legal-eese) or to negotiate with landlords over disposal of such parts, they did not find that these considerations assisted Dreamland. They found that the default position was that every part of the building belongs to the lessor. It was therefore for Dreamland to justify any implied term that finally transferred ownership of some part of the building. While it was possible to justify an implied term permitting Dreamland during the course of repairs to remove (and possibly dispose of) items formerly forming part of the building, this did not necessitate a term transferring title. Certainly, no officious bystander would say that a chattel with substantial value removed during repairs would obviously belong to the tenant.

Accordingly, it was ruled that the Creative Foundation owned the mural and was entitled to its return.

There has, after meeting no doubt the exhorbitant legal costs of the action, been something of a happy ending for campaigners for public art.

The legal owners, Creative Foundation, are planning to publicly display in its Folkestone birthplace the six foot square "Art Buff".

For a bit of plywood it appears to have survived its forcible removal to Miami for material gain, art collector snub ,temporary exile in New York and repatriation to Kent, UK, pretty well.

That bodes well for a lot of Banksy's expansive catalogue of works be they on wood,  plaster, brick, plastic or any other material to survive to be appreciated by future generations. Now what was that about someone selling a door with a Banksy picture on it..........................................................?

(Inspired by a conversation with my Uncle David-incidentally not that far from Banksy's Bristol)

Alan Boyson Muralist and Sculptor

I wrote this during the campaign to try to get National Protected Status for this great urban mural. Sadly, its creator, Alan Boyson died on August 19th 2018 without getting the reassurances of the preservation of his work on this landmark Hull building.


A trip to Hull City Centre during the 1970's from the family home in Beverley, some 11 miles north, invoked two very different emotions. The happiest was when the purpose was to spend the gift tokens received at Christmas in the likes of W.H Smith, Boots and HMV, the less so to go to the British Home Stores (BHS) to buy uniform and equipment for the dreaded return to school particularly after the longer holidays. 

Centrally located in Hull the BHS was originally purpose built and opened in 1963 as a large store for the Co-Operative Society, the Mutual enterprise which awarded a Dividend to its signed up Members. The philanthropic charter of the Co-Op included a desire, with available funding, to enrich the lives of the wider population and one way to achieve this was in the commissioning of works of art to adorn the exteriors and interiors of their retail premises. 

In my usual teenage moodiness on the periodic "back to school" jaunts to Hull I would keep my head down, shuffle along and have very little inclination for interaction with my parents, siblings, the general public and certainly not the built environment. 

Adopting this attitude, which I realise now in my senior years was ridiculous and not a little bit cringey , I completely missed out appreciating the beautiful mural that dominates the main western elevation of the BHS building. 

Designed by celebrated Wolverhampton artist and sculptor Alan Boyson, the large iconic mural is in Italian glass mosaic. 

The intricate nature of this material is not on first impression obvious from street level or the usual fleeting glance of pedestrians as they try to negotiate the busy road crossing and avoid double decker buses as they sweep through with great regularity. 

It is an expansive piece of work by Boyson, very much an upscaling of his previous works which prior to 1963 had included decorative features and the font of a church in Corby and perhaps his best known mural- the Tree of Knowledge  on a school in Salford, Manchester. 

The face of the Hull Co-Op mural  is fixed to a 66ft x 64ft concrete screen, itself a technical revelation for the post war construction era and is composed of 4224 slabs of one imperial foot square size. Each of these panels is made up of 225 tiny glass cubes. 

In all, a mind boggling total of just over 950,000 coloured pieces. 

The brief of the artist from the Co-Operative Society will have been to celebrate Hull and its people and what better than in the depiction of a maritime theme, on which the city had grown and thrived - specifically the fishing fleet.  

The inwardly curved facade is the by far the best part of an otherwise plain and boring functional, no frills multi storey building. 

The mural is of three, two masted stylised ships, the cross rigging resembling the silhouette of the crucifixion of Christ on the hill at Golgotha, perhaps an homage by Boyson to the ultimate sacrifice made by so many Hull trawlermen and seamen in pursuit of deep sea fishing and global ocean trade over previous centuries. Below the ships is a tempestuous looking mass of waves and the latin motto testifying to the effect of prosperity through work. 

The Co-Op building also became known as the Skyline Department Store with upper floors providing a cafe and other parts operating as a dance hall and a well known discotheque. 

In refurbishment works in 2011 the stripping of a panelled wall deep in the heart of the premises revealed another mural by Boyson of exaggeratedly large and expressive fish. It just seems to have been buried and forgotten and yet is complimentary to the main and very visible external masterpiece.

The mural is for the whole of the City being an excellent example of its kind from the post-war era which was a time of tremendous experimentation and exuberance for public art – as well as architecture. 

However, murals still tend to be regarded as fleeting, transient and unimportant although paintings and sculpture from this same period and often by the same artists are seen as fit subjects for gallery display and academic study. Many are still frequently ignored and even destroyed.

Post-war murals are an endangered species and the fate of Hull's iconic landmark is now in the balance. 

The very publicised and shameful demise of BHS saw the end of their forty year residency in the city centre and the building is, on and off, a matter of much speculation as to redevelopment or demolition and clearance. 

In 2016 Hull Civic Society applied for the mural to be Listed under the criteria of being of local significance and a nationally important historic structure. Such a designation affords greater protection under planning law. 

Precedent already existed with Boyson's "Tree of Knowledge" mural in Salford attaining Listed Status in 2009 with the reasons cited being;

• the high level of aesthetic and artistic quality represented in a bold and striking composition
• the clever use of colour, incised decoration, textures and mixed media, including ceramics, concrete, tiles and pebbles
• that it is a rare surviving example of a bespoke 1960s ceramic mural produced by the successful and prolific artist, Alan Boyson
• that it is a good example of the integration between art and architecture, and the 1950s/60s policy of enhancing communities through the incorporation of public art in the public realm.

Shockingly, the decision of Historic England, who have responsibility for Statutory Listing, was that the Hull Co-Operative mural did not reach the standard compared to other examples.

It is bad enough to contemplate that Hull could lose such a great example of muralism. 

Britain’s fine stock of murals is diminishing fast, as changing fashions, weather, vandalism and commercial pressures take their toll. 

Alan Boyson- muralist and sculptor

Previously blogged as "Mural Dilemma"

Ladders and Snakes

It was a nice house, occupied by a modern nuclear sized family of two adults and two small children.

The accommodation was ideally arranged on three floors with a kitchen diner on the entrance level, toilet and integral garage. The first floor had a living room and the first of three bedrooms, the others and a bathroom being located at the top of the house.

Looking out to the back of the garden from the elevated height I could see a nice bit of dense woodland and the shimmering, on what was a scorching hot day, of a sizeable stretch of water.

The occupants explained that the land beyond the rear fenced lawn was in fact a fishing lake in a forest setting.

I could think of nothing more idyllic than trees and the possibility of the gentle sound of a lapping on the shore.

That must be a real bonus for the children when playing out I said, all of that fresh air and nature.

This comment met with an ominous silence from the parents before they told me that they in fact discouraged any outdoors play because the forested scene was the home of a nest of Adders, the UK's only poisonous snake.

The young and older snakes were often seen in the undergrowth and also making their way across the house garden as though on an ancient route long pre-dating the housing estate.

I have been fortunate enough to see this species albeit a dead, shrivelled up one on a cycle path alongside a local canal but even that spurious observation still puts me in a minority of those who have witnessed an Adder at all.

It is indeed an elusive creature steeped in myth and often much maligned on the basis of more anecdotal tales than fact.

That carcass, a bit ragged from partial congestion by a Buzzard or another rather unlikely predator, a pheasant, was striking and vivid in its colours and markings from an olive grey to brown, with that distinctive dark zig zag and a dressing of diamonds shapes.

Dedicated nature lovers have documented unique head markings of the Adder making it possible for the same creatures to be identified and followed for year upon year in their local habitats. In this way a longevity of around 30 years has been proven.

As for size, the male can reach up to 60cms and the female slightly longer although it can take 15 years to grow to full size.

There was no chance to dissuade those parents from their fear of the snakes which is not surprising given the bad press surrounding the Adder.

In fact, only around 10 fatal cases of a venomous bite have been recorded over the last 100 years and these were no doubt down to the snakes being disturbed or deliberately antagonised by their eventual victims. A bite can be painful however and requires anti-venom serum at the nearest hospital.

The Adder is of the Viper strain and this designation is convincing enough a deterrent to many and add to that the less than endearing references in popular literature, culture and folklore and you can appreciate the public perception of the animal.

They are commonly found throughout North and Central Europe, as far east as Asia and are one of the few species to be hardy enough to survive and breed in the Arctic Circle.

In the UK their common habitats include as diverse environments as sand dunes and clifftops, moorland and heath, woodland and meadows.

That micro-climate behind the back fence of the family house was undoubtedly suited and before being built on will have been part of the extensive peatlands that are a characteristic of the pan flat landscape in that part of Eastern England.

In stories and fables the Adder similarly comes off poorly.

Early writings attested to the practice of adult Adders swallowing their young for protection before regurgitating them up without any apparent harmful effects. Crossing the path of one of the species or dreaming about them were portents of ill fortune or mishap. The mating ritual, often carried out by males and females apparently oblivious to any human observers comprise an hypnotic type sequence of moves giving a rather demonically possessed demeanour.

The Adder were sacred to the Druids in early history and to add yet more fear and suspicion there was a general consensus that the Adder and the Dragonfly were one and the same and shape-shifted between these forms.

Actually, having read a bit more about Adders I can sympathise with those parental fears to some extent. The fear they engender is obviously deep rooted in the human psyche from all of the back story..

As for that day at the house, I declined an opportunity to go into the garden myself giving some feeble reason about not wanting to damage the lawn or tread dust or debris back into the carpets.

What a coward!..or you could say that I made a calculated decision.

A Little Potty

An interesting scam was worked into the script of a recent BBC 4 Extra broadcast of the classic comedy duo of Steptoe and Son.

The original production entitled "The Three Feathers" was from February 1972 in its radio from but from two years earlier on TV featuring the trademark sarcasm, wit, back biting, profanities, insults and wonderful political incorrectness portrayed by Wilfrid Brambell as Albert, old man Steptoe and Harry H Corbett as his long suffering but self defeating son, Harold.

The crackly and variable sound quality only adds to the authenticity of the characters and the Oil Drum Lane location. Even though I remember watching the TV shows they are, in my recollection, always in stark black and white. This, I realise was down to the fact that my parents did not give in to getting a colour television until about 1985. Nevertheless the entertainment value was in no way diminished.

The plot in this episode centres on the return to the Rag and Bone Yard by an excited and very enthusiastic Harold. On his rounds he has bought a commode at a knock-down price of seven pounds from a seemingly naïve housewife plus a few balloons as sweetener for her children.

Harold's attendance at a Greater London Council Nightschool class on identifying antiques has paid off as he recognises the quite modest piece of furniture as having a significantly higher value than he shelled out. Old man Steptoe also recognises a quality piece but he is aghast to be shown a glazed ceramic piss pot under the exquisitely upholstered seat. The potty has a fleur de lys motif and Harold speculates that it must have belonged to the Prince Regent, possibly from the Brighton Pavilion residence. His paltry outlay is expected to be rewarded with a pay day at auction of at least £200.

Harold is a dreamer and in his mind he has already spent the windfall on a selection of haute couture and goods as befitting the perception of the gentleman what he is.

There is a knock at the door and an irate man enters the scruffy living room. He is the husband of the duped housewife and furious at the disreputable business practice of the scrap traders. Harold is adamant that he will not give the commode back and so the visitor offers to buy it back for £150. A cheque is written out for that amount. The man insists that he will send specialist furniture removers within a couple of days rather than Harold attempting to return it directly to his home.

The departure of the man and the beneficial deal done results in considerable mirth and celebration from Harold although his Old Man is strangely quiet as he disapproves of the whole affair.

Another caller at the door announces himself with a double barrelled name as a Rome based antiques dealer touring the area to acquire stock to crate up and sell to the Italian market. He looks around nonchalantly dismissing the Capo de Monte and Clarice Cliff before focusing in on the Regency Commode. He is in raptures over it claiming it as one of the best examples he has ever seen.

There is no question that he must have it. The offer is £600 if no-one else is interested. Harold comes clean by disclosing that it is sold but the other party are not really that keen and are highly likely to pull out. The offer stands but dependant on it still being available in a couple of days time and subject to provenance as to its use under a royal bottom. Handshakes appear to seal the transaction.

The episode tracks forward over 48 hours which have been eventful in the Tatters Yard. Harold has placated the angry husband by handing over £300 but in the knowledge that he already has £150 in the bank so he is only £150 down. The promise of a £600 receipt is still enticing and even though the affluent dealer has not returned to honour the purchase Harold remains buoyant and confident of carrying through the coup.

The only downer comes from Old Man Steptoe. His world weary experience has made him uneasy of everything that has transpired and his own investigations have revealed a number of critical issues. The cheque for the £150 is bouncing around the bank account. An independent furniture expert has declared the commode to be a very recently crafted reproduction and indeed one of 14 similar he has seen in as many days.

Harold is understandably incandescent at being the victim of a scam where the perpetrators have included the housewife, her kids, the alleged husband and the toff dealer. He sets off from the premises clutching the potty determined to exact mischief with it on the GLC on whom he attributes all of the blame for his misfortune. Cue the theme music and raucous applause from the live studio audience. A real classic.

Every Little Helps

I am not sure if I expected any sort of accolade, fanfare, award or even a parade in the street but it appears to be a bit of a milestone in that we, as a family, have just completed our 100th home shopping order with Tesco Supermarket.

In terms of whether this is a high or low number of uses of this service I have nothing to go on.

Is this a conversation opener with friends, neighbours or strangers in the bus queue?

Is the subject a bit like the most recent valuation of your home, the cleanliness of your car engine or local area crime figures?

Actually, I have mixed feelings about it.

One the one hand you could say that we are doing a little bit towards saving the planet in that

a)we are making use of a Tesco delivery van on multiple delivery runs 

b) therefore avoiding expending fuel and emissions on making our own trip to the shop and

c) mitigating collateral damage that goes with it such as traffic congestion, parking issues, noise pollution and so on.

But against this is a lack of support for the small shops and services in my own local area.

The whole ethos of Internet Shopping and Home Delivery is not, as you may think, a modern phenomena.

Well, I mean in the pre- internet age some shops and businesses offered and, for those that have survived in the cut throat.cut price market that is today's retail environment , still continue to offer a personalised service of this type.

I can, from my early years, remember red faced boys in aprons labouring along on a huge basket fronted and heavy framed bike to deliver the order of meat from the butcher in the town.

Those Deliveroo riders in contrast have it pretty easy on their lightweight racers and hybrid cycles in comparison.

Other shops in the places that I have lived had a small van for local delivery purposes usually a Mini or Morris Minor all nicely sign written on the sides. The fruit and veg shops, or using the now rather neglected term, Greengrocers, would have boxes and wooden crates out on the forecourt awaiting loading up to take around to regular customers.

All of this effort, and at no small cost to the Proprietors who were typically one-shop sole traders, was of course not passed on to the customer in the form of a separate charge or a few pennies on a pound of sprouts or freshly cut runner beans.

The actual delivery task was a source of employment and a pocket money income for those of school age where having a drivers licence was not a requirement.

A saturday job doing deliveries for a local trader was a matter of great pride although it was very hard to get motivated on a weekend after a long week enduring the rigours of an education.

Yes, the use of a Corporate giant does not sit well with me. The statistic that was mooted a few years ago that Tesco receive £1 in every £8 spent in the UK by consumer is quite a startling and concerning one.

Yes, I could be accused of being a bit lazy in not physically going shopping but a defence on environmental grounds appeases my conscience to some extent there.

I could argue that I am providing opportunities in the retail sector as, after all, someone has to pick the order items off the shelf, put them in plastic or paper bags and do all of the admin aspects even before the delivery vehicle is loaded up. This assumes that the whole process remains a manual one and not carried out by automation/robots/a warehouse stock control algorithm.

On another justification  basis I even accept that Tesco (there are other supermarkets and home shopping services) may make up my order with foodstuffs at or close to their "Use By" date and thereby I am helping to reduce items being needlessly dumped in a hole in the ground.

The whole experience, all things being considered, has the appearance of a "Win-Win" situation for all concerned and humanity in general.

So, perhaps we will, as a family, have a bit of a celebration at having reached our 100th home delivery.

I will just pop out to the local shop, interact and buy a few things for the party.

No, there is no guilt there whatsoever.

Misdirection in a Slater's Suit

I am sometimes a bit reluctant to display the contents of the boot of my car to the general public, be they casual passers-by, householders or, heaven forbid, enthusiastic members of the local neighbourhood watch. 

The items are legitimate tools of my daily business but to many observers they may give the impression that I am up to no good whatsoever. 

First out for use is always my set of folding ladders. In compact aluminium they are light and strong giving me the option of a pair of steps or a fifteen foot just off the vertical means of accessing loft spaces, clambering onto a roof, looking over high walls and getting up close and personal to windows and upper parts of a building. They are very good for unfastening a garden gate, for example, by clambering up and leaning over to loosen the bolt or catch. All of the above could be witnessed as suspicious behaviour. 

Second up is a large heavy duty crowbar or wrecking bar. If hung over the rungs of the ladder when walking from car to job there can be an ominous sound of clanging and clattering which is enough to cause the net curtains of surrounding properties to twitch in interest and mobile phones to be reached for with the speed dial lined up to call the police. The bar is very good for prizing up the awkward and often corroded edges of drain hatch covers, easing open painted up doors and windows and teasing up floorboards to get a look underneath. 

Other essential equipment from the car includes a torch, double pronged damp tester, 2 metre spirit level and a briefcase carrying smaller but equally important equipment such as screwdrivers, hammer, stanley knife, plumb line, mirror and a bit of French chalk. 

In the main definition of a specific piece of  current criminal legislation I could be seen as fulfilling most of the criteria of "going equipped".

I quote........

The offence of going equipped for theft can be a serious allegation linked to accusations of burglary or theft. Going equipped is an offence defined by section 25 of the Theft Act 1968.

If you accused of going equipped, the Prosecution must show that you:

• Had a tool or other article in your possession,
• That tool was intended for use in the course of a burglary or theft, and
• You were not at your home

Going equipped is an offence where the key issue relates to what the suspect intended to do with the tool in his possession. People frequently carry the tools during the course of their business or trade, but what defines the offence is the purpose for carrying out a theft or other dishonesty offence.

Common items that cause suspicion of going equipped are crowbars or bolt cutters. When considering the strength of an allegation, it is appropriate to look at the full circumstances of the incident such as whether the accused was carrying out a trade, or the time of day and location of the accused having such an item.

In mitigation I do wear a business suit (Slater Menswear's Best for under £100) and smart shoes and this has given some reassurance to those who might feel that I am up to any mischief. In all of my 30 or so years of going equipped I have only been challenged and called to explain myself a couple of times.

It may be a case of fooling the inquisitive and well meaning with misdirection of a formal appearance because they just do not seem to notice that I am wearing a mask and carrying, over my shoulder, a large canvas bag marked "SWAG".

You can keep your Posts and Wires...........

A typical streetscape or rural scene from the Victorian Era was remarkably uncluttered with man made objects other than the obvious structures for industry, commerce and habitation.

In contrast today's views of town and countryside are a mass of what is loosely called street furniture at normal eye level and then above that an array of masts, pylons, satellite dishes and slung cables.

It is difficult now to appreciate that proposals for an increase in the number of simple wooden telegraph poles in the early to mid 1800's were seen as intrusive, sinister and something to be feared.

They were required for the large scale expansion of the electrical and Morse telegraph system, very much the technological marvel of that age but that needed the consent from landowners and other interested parties for their physical siting across the nation.

There was of course an existing network which had for convenience and practical reasons just followed the railway lines in a co-operative agreement with the Railway Companies. In return for running poles and wires parallell to main rail routes the likes of the GNER, LNER and LMS were able to use them for signalling purposes.

However, this very linear form did not serve towns and villages which were in areas off the rail network. Much of Scotland, parts of East Anglia and Cornwall had very poor coverage under the old systems.

The major problem with the telegraphic network in  Great Britain and Ireland which persisted until 1868 was that it was in private ownership and run by a multitude of individual businesses.

Their prime motivations were profit and the interests of their shareholders rather than providing a public spirited and widely affordable service.

For example, a 10 word telegram to be sent within a 100 mile radius cost at the time two shillings and sixpence or in todays money £80.

The telegram was not, as popular literature of the Victorian era would have us believe, the method of communication for every use and purpose however small or insignificant.

In fact the cost of a telegram was beyond the budget and means of the bulk of the population.

The system was very much the domain and almost exclusively for the likes of businesses, stockbrokers, mining companies, merchants, those indulging in betting, speculation and the trading in perishable goods.

The duplication of services by the many telegraph operators was seen by the Government as wasteful and not at all to the benefit of the general public.

In an unprecedented, for that time, move a State Budget of £8 million pounds was allocated for Nationalisation of the Telegraphic system. This was opposed widely as State interference and a means for Government Departments to probe into the everyday dealings of the individual but in 1868 a Bill was passed to that effect.

The first action of the new central management was to cut the cost of sending a telegram.

As a bit of a nod towards the future it was decided that a limit would be placed on the number of words used. In this way a 12 word message cost a shilling. The opting for 12 words had come from a detailed study which revealed that between 10 and 15 words was sufficient for most purposes. In reality it appears that 4 to 5 words could convey everything in most circumstances as in "Send Money, in dire need", "Arriving by train next tuesday" and "Aunt Ethel passed away yesterday".

The cost was seen as acceptable by the public and this was more than illustrated in useage figures after Nationalisation.

In the first year, 1869, some six and a half million telegrams were sent and in the next 12 months this went up to ten million. By 1880 the thirty million telegrams sent represented one for every head of the population. In 1900 the annual number was around 90 million.

Technology had been embraced and championed by the Victorians.

This was in spite of reports of spinsters fearing that the new telegraph wires would bring the electric juice into their bedchambers and villagers tearing down the newly erected telegraph poles in a forerunner of a "not in my back yard" campaign.

The nationalisation and rationalisation of the Telegraphic network was a huge success but had been at a huge cost to the State, at todays prices around £900 million.

However, it's contribution to the wealth, prestige, power and influence of Britain and Ireland and its citizens in the 19th Century was perhaps beyond calculation.

The Curse of Scotland

I had not heard of it before but the intimation of "The Curse of Scotland" conjurs up all sorts of things in my mind.

I should say that I have some Scots credentials on my late Father's side and so the following list is given in the best spirit of self mockery.

The Curse could be those horrible winged insects, the midges, that give misery and annoyance to natives and visitors alike in the Auld Country.

It could as easily be any major football tournament where the National Team has just failed to perform anywhere near their potential.

I could speculate on it being a character trait to drink heavily and eat badly but then again that is quite a wider British flaw.

Those responses will certainly generate some conversations and arguments and no doubt put me on a blacklist should I feel the need to apply for a Scottish Passport a such time as there is such a thing in existence.

On a more populist note "The Curse of Scotland" is the label given to a playing card, specifically the Nine of Diamonds.

There are a few fables,  myths, urban legends and nonsensical ideas about why this would be the case.

None of them really take well to a detailed and probing investigation and reference to hard facts about dates, events, personalities and on issues of authenticity but I have found them to be most interesting.

There may be, and I have my conspiracy theory hat on, some political advantage to be had for Scottish Home Rule in perpetuating the stories in that they attest to the maltreatment of its peoples at the hands of, yes, the English as well as giving some focus of blame on other things such as religion and economic difficulties.

Actually the many different versions of the tales vary in key details giving a very inconsistent and unreliable basis to the whole thing but again, there is some fascination in the cloudy and opaque historical eras from whence they came.

The first literary mention of "The Curse of Scotland" is to be found in 1708 and so straight away the alleged origins of it are open to scrutiny.

For example, just before the Battle of Flodden in 1513 the Scottish King, James the Fourth is said to have been obsessed so much with finding a lost playing card, the Nine of Diamonds, that he failed to prepare adequately for the subsequent stand off with the English under the Earl of Surrey.

The infamous Glencoe Massacre of 1692  is also cited as the contributor to the fable.

One of the instigators of the ethnic cleansing of the McDonald Clan in Glencoe in the Scottish Highlands was Sir John Dalrymple whose family flag bore an emblem closely resembling the Nine of Diamonds. The outrage and scandal of the heinous execution meant that the image on the Dalrymple Standard was forever to be a reminder of it.

The Curse emerged in 1746 in an association with another dark day in Scots history, the Battle of Culloden.

The English Commander, the Duke of Cumberland is reputed to have verbally authorised that no prisoners were to be taken in the forthcoming pitched battle but a subordinate Officer wanted something in writing in order to authenticate the order. Cumberland, obviously a bit annoyed at the questioning of his authority by an underling is said to have grabbed the nearest bit of writing material and on it confirmed his order. The piece of paper was a Nine of Diamonds from a deck that just happened to be to hand.

Other links have included the theft of nine diamonds from the crown of  Mary Queen of Scots whereby the population were taxed to subsidise the loss. Thereafter the proud subjects were tormented by taunts that the crown remained with only nine precious stones because the country could never afford a tenth.

A popular game of cards was called Pope Joan where the Nine of Diamonds was the most powerful card thus inflaming inter-religious tensions and fuelling discrimination and the occasional tit for tat murdering of respective members of the Catholic and Protestant or Prebyterian persuasions. On a simpler level the addiction of many of the Scottish Landed Class to gaming with cards led to many family fortunes and estates being lost and with all of the shame and collateral damage to servants and dependants that followed financial ruin.

Every ninth monarch of Scotland seems to have been a bad-un in terms of tyrannical rule and the causing of Civil War and upheaval and so the playing card came to be an aide memoir of the well founded pattern in Royal despotism.

You can see and appreciate that there are tall tales and other incredulous speculations around the Curse of Scotland.

If I were to be pushed to give my strongest answer to what it is then I would probably have to say that it is the fact that Scotland is physically joined on to England.

Time and Tide

It is an historical fact that the County of Yorkshire has always been on the front line where the intention of others has been to invade or just attack and pillage England.

To be more geographically explicit it is the Yorkshire coastline, a broad swath of mixed landscapes onto the North Sea that has received the brunt of conflict and warfare.

The Romans used the Humber Estuary as a maritime gateway to their major garrison and administrative centre at York and beyond the northernmost reaches of their Empire.

There followed the insurgent forces of the mixed Germanic Tribes including Jutes and Frisians under their collective name of Anglo Saxons and then the Vikings.

After a bit of aggression and mayhem these peoples largely settled and became the ancestors of a good proportion of the modern day British population.

In the Middle Ages powerful families vied for control of the coastline and fast forward to the relative near history of the 18th Century and even a squadron of Franco Americans took on the British Navy at the Battle of Flamborough Head.

Towns were targeted by naval bombardment in 1914 with fatalities suffered but serving as a rallying cry to recruit to the British Armed Forces in those opening months of the First World War.

Adolf Hitler saw Yorkshire in an important strategic role in any post invasion subjugation of the nation.

It is speculated that he thought that the Grand Hotel in Scarborough would be suitable for his Northern Area Command HQ and if he also took the major Port of Hull he could drive a wedge across to Liverpool and split the country into manageable parts.

If you study any map of the Yorkshire Coast your eye is immediately drawn to the majestic sweep that is Bridlington Bay.

It stretches from the north and the chalk promontory of Flamborough Head all of the way South before the great curl of Spurn Point at the Humber mouth.

I have always thought that this would have been an ideal WW2 invasion site and it must have been considered by the Nazi military alongside or as an option to Operation Sealion which was the codename for the planned amphibious invasion across the English Channel.

Such intentions were easily second guessed by British commanders and a formidable string of observation and gun posts were constructed all along the cliff line to the full extent of Bridlington Bay.

Other defences comprised huge coarse concrete obstacles to, hopefully, impede the progress of Nazi tanks and vehicles and prevent the establishing of a workable bridgehead from which to strike inland.

The structures to be manned were substantial reinforced concrete blockhouses and bunkers with narrow slit openings to give line of sight and line of fire coverage of the sands or emplacements to lay down a cover of shells and bullets.

Large numbers of such Pill Boxes or "Baddies hideouts" as we used to call them (although incorrectly as they housed home defence troops) survive to this day although many have become associated with impromptu lavatories or for fly tipping.

Unfortunately for the Bridlington Bay structures the fragility of the cliff line, composed of boulder clays and amongst the fastest eroding in Europe has resulted in the rude depositing of the buildings onto the beach itself where they have, over the last few decades, been attacked by the tides.

Salt water and metal reinforcement are mortal enemies and the onset of corrosion has fractured and dispersed the cast elements across a wide distance.

I took these photographs just this morning of one of the main emplacements which is now well out in the tidal zone.

I recall visiting the beach as a teenager back in the late 1970's and seeing the same Pill Box and its neighbours well back on the crumbling cliffs and seemingly impregnable against time and tides as they were intended to be versus the Nazis.



The low ridge in the background is the current position of the cliff line onto a narrow footpath and agricultural fields. This shows fast pace of erosion.


The whole mass of concrete has taken a bit of a journey and rather than face out to sea is now with a north eastern orientation looking towards Bridlington.

This will have been a rough representation of
the outlook of an observer or sentry in the wartime years.

The wide expanse of the beach resembles the 1944 D Day images of the main Normandy Landing Sites of the Allied Forces

The inside-out view was startlingly bright on this August morning.

The interior was basic but functional for its occupants.

It must have been a bleak post in the winter months and at the time of the Spring Tides when onshore winds would chill to the bone with the Arctic air.

Under Blackout restrictions there would not even be any sparkling, welcoming lights from Bridlington nor the comforting sweep or booming foghorn from the Flamborough Lighthouse,

The marine growths have firmly taken to the concrete shell.

It is no coincidence that the shoreline around the old Pill Box and tank trap blocks was today a graveyard of the shells and limbs of crabs who have sought refuge in and under the mass of concrete sections only to be picked off by seagulls at the change of the tides.

The bunker is a very sad sight at low tide being lopsided and twisted and destined  to deteriorate further into an unstable and potentially hazardous structure for the holidaymakers and day trippers who frequent the Bay.

It may take some considerable time for the bunker to reach the same stage as its immediate neighbour.

This similar sized structure is in a precarious state and something to avoid although still excites considerable interest and curiosity even now.

Buzz Stop

I am not really sure what has happened to all of the wasps this year. 

I can honestly say that I have not seen a single one so far this year , nor anyone in the Park outside my window doing that panicky dance and swatting movement that usually announces the curiosity of a Jasper. In recognition of the service of the wasp to mankind here is a bit of an old piece from a few years ago....when there was an abundance of the stripey insects.

I told the prospective buyer of a house that he had a wasps nest in the void under the floor of his sitting room.

A few months later after he had purchased the property he rang me up and confirmed that yes, he had found it.

It had been active and had taken all the expertise of an exterminator to get rid of the nuisance.

He then expressed amazement at how I could possibly have known about it given that there had been no loose boards or other means of access. The contractor too had been mystified about a call out on the basis of the unqualified hunch of a third party.

I was reluctant to disclose my secret.

I could have spun a fantastic yarn about being a wasp-whisperer. Perhaps I was actually in tune with nature. A hyper sensitive ear could allow me to detect the faintest of insect noises and interpret them as an indicator of the nesting intentions of a swarm. In my youth, having been stung numerous times by a persistent wasps I may have developed a super-hero trait. My favourite jumper had been a black and yellow striped one giving me the instincts and behavioural characteristics of the species. I was a fan of The Police after all.

I managed to maintain an aloof air out of modest professionalism and my inquistor finally gave up. I wallowed a bit in his parting comment that I was just " a bloody good man for the job".

Between you and me I had stumbled across the whole thing more out of accident than a determined investigation.

If you simply stand still for a few minutes outside a house, as I often do, in order to observe the construction and condition, chances are that you will blend into your surroundings and so assume a degree of relative invisibility to the creatures of nature.

This has been the case where a cat has not seen my static form until the last moment when wandering nonchalantly around the corner. The panic and horror is a sight to behold. I am sure it is the same for the cat as well.

I have had a similar experience with birds in flight who have been genuinely shocked to find a human being just stood motionless in a particular position on a regular flightpath around a property.

On this particular occasion I just happened to be in the right position at the exact moment that a swarm of wasps returned from harassing a family picnic or the queue at an ice cream van.

After a brief period of reconaissance they duly filed, in some semblance of hierarchical order, through the regular holes in a clay airbrick, just one of many similar vents around the lower courses of that particular house.

On the basis that they did not re-emerge led me to speculate that they resided there as a permanent home. I may have thought about placing my ear at the perforated hole to confirm my hunch but recollections of those very painful stingings in childhood remained very strong. I just scribbled down a note and in such a simple act established myself as a living legend, at least in the perception of one impressed client.

Take a Bowie

There is a certain timelessness in classic rock and pop music.

It is a quality, an endearing and emotional one that is completely lacking in the over-produced anthems by talentless wannabees and one hit wonders of more recent years.

I can recall immediately, upon hearing a certain intro to a song from my youthful years in the 1960's and 1970's the exact situation and circumstances that I was in when I heard it for the first time.

My earliest memories revolve around such pop tunes as The Beatles and Penny Lane, Petula Clark's Downtown and the hits of The Seekers such as The Carnival is over.

Of course I could have heard them second hand rather than upon their respective releases in the mid to late 1960's although I firmly believe that as I was brought up in a very musical family, particularly on my Mother's side it is entirely possible that they will have been audible to my very infant ears.

Such great pieces of music and accompanying lyrics are deeply rooted in my hard wired memory and can be reactivated at the smallest prompt or by a familiar sight, sound, smell, taste or touch.

I am now in my mid 50's and to my own children let alone anyone younger I will be regarded as a bit of an oldie and yet there can be expressions of surprise when I take on the common subject of music and show what is a reasonable depth and breadth of knowledge and appreciation.

Some artists from my own teenage years are being listened to by the current generation largely as a consequence of parental influence and raids on record collections of their own parents and even grandparents.

I can reel off an impressive list of gigs that I have attended over the last 40 years including Bowie in 1983, U2 in 1981, The Stranglers 1980, The Jam 1979 and many, many more. I still attend now but principally to see performers before they pop their clogs.

For all of my own experiences of rock and pop I must admit that I was mightily confused by a conversation that I had with a 70 year old lady a couple of weeks ago.

To me, 70 has always been an ancient age.

Grandparents were always that age and there existed an enormous gulf in culture, tastes, etiquette, outlook, politics and musical genres across such a wide age difference and this mindset, for all of its ignorance and insensitivities persists with me even now,

I think our chat started off with the weather which is always a safe and non-contentious subject before suddenly turning to David Bowie.

I cannot remember the sequence of niceties and generalities that brought us around to Bowie.

I suppose it could be the new thing to replace that assumption that whatever topic you start out to discuss with someone it always ends up with Adolf Hitler.

The lady, a small frail figure but very heavily nicotine based, told me about her love of the artist and how she had been to many concerts in the 1970's and on one occasion had actually met the man.

I had a strong image of her in a hat and smart but modest attire and clutching her handbag when coming across Bowie in one of his creations such as Ziggy or The Thin White Duke.

In my minds eye she was then as she appeared in front of me now, an old lady.

That was of course completely disrespectful on my part.

If I had bothered to do any arithmetic to put some sense of time on my imagined scenes then I would have realised that, yes, the lady and Bowie were in fact born only 1 year apart.

His first commercial album release in his own name rather than David Jones was in 1967 when he was twenty years old.

At the peak of his first phase of performance perhaps his greatest fan had been and still was this senior citizen.

I came away from that brief meeting with a strong note to myself to be less quick to make judgements and sweeping assumptions about people and especially those of such unquestionable credibility in rock and pop.

Flares make a comeback

Yes, I was promised a Jet Pack. I have mentioned this before.

That was way back in my youthful years but such was the pace of technology then, the 1960's and 1970's ,that I fully expected to at least have daily use of one for business and leisure use by the time I was a fully grown adult.

Other inventions, gadgets and gizmo's were still in the fertile minds of Science Fiction and Fantasy writers but many of these have subsequently emerged or are pending as viable commercial products such as the mobile phone, driver-less cars and drones to name but a few.

There were doubts and second thoughts amongst scientists, philosophers, humanitarians and politicians over the development in the 1940's of the Atomic Bomb. Oppenheimer who was the Director of the Manhattan Project issued his ominous warning over the sheer power of the weapon repeating the words from Hindu Scripture " Now, I am become death, the destroyer of worlds".

There is no doubt that humankind has meddled with nature and natural forces and thrown in a few terrifying self made concoctions as well.

The overriding intentions, generally, have been to benefit the human race and there have been great leaps forward in medical practices, food production and education but as yet not in some instances distributed equitably.

We are now firmly in the realms of science fiction becoming science fact with talk of the first manned missions to other planets in our solar system. This is an indictment of the natural curiosity of the human race although cynically it may be a chance to have a quick look around for another host planet as we are proving to be very poor custodians of the one we live on now.

I do not want to sound like an enemy of progress and betterment but there are still many aspects of Earth and its immediate environments that we have not really studied in detail or physically explored.

Much of the ocean floors remain unfathomed and recent dramatic changes in climate and weather patterns have yet to be researched and explained as to cause and effect.

The launch, just a few days ago, of a NASA Solar Probe is a dedicated project to try to find out more about the electrical and magnetic fields and waves of our Sun.

The Probe itself, about the size of a small car, is to carry out 24 fly-bys of the Sun in the next seven years.

It will, when in position, be at some 3.83 million miles distance from the Sun's surface setting a new record for a projectile from Earth. It will also attain the highest ever velocity by a man made object at 430,000 miles per hour or the equivalent of seventeen orbits around the earth per hour.

The behaviour of the sun, and in particular the phenomena of solar flares or massive ejections of geomagnetic solar energy is of concern to scientists.

Coronal eruptions from the sun even from its 93 million mile separation can create magnetic storm conditions in the magnetosphere above the Earth. These have been regular events in documented history and there are tell tale indicators of other similar occurrences in pre-history.

The first real observation and measurement of a solar storm was in 1859 and this was named after one of the main scientists who realised the significance and potential of this to the Earth.

The Carrington Event was first seen in the formation of dark spots on the surface of the Sun from terrestrial telescopes. From August 28th to September 2nd in that year there were Aurora's visible globally giving a spectacular light show and in some parts of the world turning night time into day.

The bursts of geomagnetic energy caused the main communication system of the era, the wire telegraph to fail with Operators suffering shocks down the equipment and pylons and wires connecting up the stations were seen to emit sparks. Even after the power supplies to the telegraph network had been disconnected for safety reasons the Operators were still able to send and receive messages because of the absorption of geomagnetic waves.

Fast forward to the present day and our reliance, in many aspects of daily life wholly, on electrical equipment and you can appreciate the impact of a Carrington magnitude event on everyday existence on Earth.

Solar Storms in 1921 and 1950 caused disruption to radio signals and in 1989 the power supply to the Canadian city of Quebec failed from such an occurrence.

In 2014 the Scientists at NASA revealed that a Carrington sized eruption from the Sun just missed Earth some two years earlier.

The recently launched Parker Solar Probe will be able to shed some light on this solar phenomena but by the time we know about it we may already be hunkered down in our caves catching up on some long overdue contemplation by candlelight and bemoaning the frazzling of our phone, lap top, microwave and just about everything else upon which we had previously relied.

Herring Aids

It is very much the summer holiday season in the UK.

The sudden invasion of coastal resorts by those taking their annual week or fortnight at, or just day trips to,  the seaside brings with it a welcome boost to many a struggling seasonal economy.

An unwelcome side effect however is the aggressive and quite frightening behaviour of seagulls towards the visitors which always gets a lot of coverage in the media with the poor birds receiving extremely bad press indeed.

The main point of conflict appears to be the clash between the British tradition of eating out in the open spaces of the seaside and the very natural instinct of the seagull to seek out sources of food in its natural environment.

A newspaper wrapped or polystyrene tray of chips and sauce makes for a very good target for the attentions of large herring and black headed members of the species who spend their own summer vacations in our main resorts.

Us humans do tend to relax and be off guard on our hols and so whilst strolling alongside the quayside, harbour or on the Promenade enjoying a fish and chip takeaway the last thing to be expected is a swooping attack by a lone predator or Hitchcock-esque flock.

The gulls are fearless or, as is more likely to be the case, entirely disrespectful of people and their sensitivities.

In a roundabout way that preamble brings me to a very popular bit of seaside related humour.

The joke is very well known in its own right but also in a particular genre revolving around male and female names.

It starts off with the question "What do you call?" followed by insertion of a man's or woman's name and then a seemingly random connection that ties back into the name mentioned.

For example, what do you call a man who is always there to help? Andy. What do you call a man with a spade in his head? Doug and what do you call a man in a pile of leaves? Russel.

The formula is very, very clear isn't it.

Well, returning to the seaside and pesky bird theme the joke is as follows;

"What do you call a man with a seagull on his head? "The answer, the most expected one is a little too obvious although none the less funny for that.

I have come up with a few alternative answers which give a bit more depth and breadth to the comic effect.

If you think on the subject of seaside attractions, sights and sounds you could come up with the splendid answer of Piers.

Thinking laterally you also come across huge numbers of seagulls around waste tips and other dumping grounds so you could answer the question with Phil- as in Landfill.

The are around the UK a number of Estuaries that spill out into the sea such as the Humber in my own part of the world, the Thames and on the western side of Scotland that historic watercourse that passes by Glasgow .

A seagull in that particular location might be sat on the head of a man called Clyde.

That river is famous for many things but mostly for a great history of shipbuilding. The skyline of the towns along the Clyde will have been punctuated by the grey metallic skeletal features of cranes above the dry docks and slipways and so it would not be unusual in such sites of human activity and therefore opportunistic possibilities for seagulls to have one such bird sat on the head of a man called Derrick.

Celebrity heads are not immune to be used as a perch and so you could expect to see the likes of Rock Hudson and River Phoenix under the scrawny legs and distinctive plumage of a sizeable herring gull.

That succession of rather cheesy, tenuous and cliched associations I can only apologise for and if it is any recompense I will leave you with the best and most traditional answer to "What do you call a man with a seagull on his head?"

It is of course, Cliff.

No joking matter

A grubby faced coal delivery man in our street was always a bit of excitement for us youngsters.

This emotion was partly down to the sights and sounds of a labouring, gear crashing flat back lorry as it crawled its way down the residential cul de sac laden in a methodical way with stacked and overlapping sacks of coal but mainly as we thought that the character of our attentions was the embodiment of the Bogey Man. 

You could easily see why, what with the bright whites of his eyes staring out from the soot strewn skin above a good set or pearly teeth amongst demonic red fleshy lips. 

His clothing also marked him out as something a bit unworldly. 

There was a flat cap, rakishly offset and with streaky stains of perspiration in the tweed thread, heavy trousers with patches sewn on where the abrasion of the coarse sacking had ripped the heavy duty denim, steel toe capped boots which sparked as the metal Blakey shoe protectors did their job and of course the trademark uniform of a leather blouson or as it was more commonly referred to- a jerkin. 

A jerkin was a down to earth practical garment giving an almost armoured thickness of animal hide between jagged lumps of coal and the body and yet its tailored shape, even if roughly fashioned by a tailor's shop gave the essential freedom of movement to stretch, twist, heave, lift, support and carry and then eject the contents of the sack into a fuel bunker or shute. 

You never saw a new, unblemished  jerkin although they must have been at some time. They were standard military issue in the two world wars and so there will have been many finding their way into army surplus stores or simply not handed in by the combatants to whom they were given out. 

Our coalman had a well matured and deeply hued one which had seen good service for many years and in all weathers. The ex army origin was therefore likely.  

The leather had a beautiful patina, almost like a grainy fingerprint in spite of a dusting of fine carbon.

As for warmth and waterproofing qualities, well, there must have been some although not evident from our scrutiny as the blackened figure would sweep by from lorry tailgate and up the driveway to the side of the house. I suspect, looking back, that there was a woollen lining and if the donor of the leather, a cow, can tolerate from drizzle to a torrential downpour in the open meadow then there must have been natural resistance to airborne moisture.

My description so far may have conjured up a monochrome image of a distant past but I am hearkening back to the near history of the late 1960's and early 1970's. 

Mine was not a Lowry-esque upbringing amongst dark satanic mills, matchstick men and matchstick cats and dogs but a tidy housing estate with neat semi detached houses in a Suffolk market town. 

The deliveries were not of the best quality anthracite, bituminous, lignite or subbituminous coal but the derivative smokeless coking coal or just coke for the Parkray solid fuel fire and back boiler in our living room. 

Those delivery days were certainly an event in the street and sadly, long since gone what the convenience, lower cost and infinitely better environmental connotations for natural gas which is piped silently and efficiently directly into our homes. 

But what of  the classic jerkin? 

You could say that the emergence of the gilet or padded sleeveless jacket is the modern equivalent of the jerkin with the emphasis on style, comfort and lightness rather than sheer durability and longevity. 

The jerkin is still around but now as a fashion item with some very well crafted and by definition expensive versions available to the market although you would not find one within a few hundred miles of the contents of a  mucky old coal scuttle.

Corridors to nowhere

There are a few clues as to their previous existence. 

The sudden sight of a straight line amongst the randomness of nature, a functional building or structure somehow out of context in a modern urban environment, a severed former bridge span over a neighbourhood road, the shaped stones of what looks like a low wall which stretches for some distance, a dominant copse-like group of Japanese Knotweed and an abundance of well used cycle and pedestrian routes where it would not otherwise be practical or financially viable to create them. 

These are all features attributed to and inherited from the railway lines which fell to the scything cost cutting measures of Beeching in the 1960’s. 

I like to study archived maps of my local area and what is most evident is the huge former network of what would be called branch lines founded by the great old railway companies such as the London and North East, Great Northern and many others prior to coming into State ownership. 

I can take a bike ride from just across the road from my own doorstep all the way to the seaside which is a linear distance of only 12 miles when the same car journey is close to double that distance. 

The old lines give a unique view into the inner city environment before passing suburban back gardens and out into the Greenbelt . 

There are some sad sights of abandoned and derelict factories and warehouses although still retaining the scale and a ghost of their grandeur and contribution to the wealth of the city. 

Ironically there are more people using the course of the old coast line for their leisure and exercise than those pitiful numbers that gave Beeching his justification for ripping up the rails on purely economic criteria. 

For all those now benefiting from the amenity of a national cycle and footpath access network along the old lines there are countless more who have been deprived of a cheap and easy transport link to what are now rather remote and parochial towns and villages out in the rural hinterland. 

The seaside towns are worse off for not having a railway link to the population centres where their most loyal and frequent visitors and patrons reside for the other 50 or 51 weeks of the year. 

The halcyon years of the steam railways were intrinsically linked to the bloom and affluence of seaside and coastal resorts and in their disappearance heralded bleaker and more austere times. 

There is some talk of reviving these mass transit systems in a few locations and enthusiasts and entrepreneurs have taken a few initial steps in the right direction but it may already be a lost cause. 

So I will continue to make use of the old rail corridors, perhaps sit on the worn dressed stone of a stranded former platform, ride my bike and gawp into back gardens and thoroughly enjoy the shallow gradients and shortest routes possible between points A and B.

I think that the lyrics of the song “Slow Train” popularised by the crooners Flanders and Swann are a poignant tribute and lament to the ripped up rails. It was written in 1963.

Miller's Dale for Tideswell
Kirby Muxloe
Mow Cop and Scholar Green

No more will I go to Blandford Forum and Mortehoe 
On the slow train from Midsomer Norton and Mumby Road
No churns, no porter, no cat on a seat 
At Chorlton-cum-Hardy or Chester-le-Street
We won't be meeting again 
On the Slow Train

I'll travel no more from Littleton Badsey to Openshaw
At Long Stanton I'll stand well clear of the doors no more
No whitewashed pebbles, no Up and no Down 
From Formby Four Crosses to Dunstable Town
I won't be going again 
On the Slow Train

On the Main Line and the Goods Siding 
The grass grows high 
At Dog Dyke, Tumby Woodside 
And Trouble House Halt

The Sleepers sleep at Audlem and Ambergate
No passenger waits on Chittening platform or Cheslyn Hay
No one departs, no one arrives 
From Selby to Goole, from St Erth to St Ives
They've all passed out of our lives 
On the Slow Train, on the Slow Train

Cockermouth for Buttermere ... on the Slow Train
Armley Moor Arram 
Pye Hill and Somercotes ... on the Slow Train
Windmill End


As a footnote the song may have had a protest and populist impact in that out of the lamented stations and connections listed in 1963 some nine remained open and still continue to do so, to my knowledge, in the current national rail network.

These are Chester le Street, Openshaw, Formby, Ambergate, Selby, Goole, St Erth, St Ives and just up the road in my local area, Arram.