The World according to Carp

I didn’t hear it myself but during the widespread and shocking flooding of the City of Hull in June 2007 , it is said that an appeal went out on the radio to get down to a local Asda Supermarket. It was not for a bargain clearance or sales promotion but to claim and retrieve a shoal, or whatever the collective name is, of ornamental Koi Carp that had been seen swimming around freely amongst the water filled car park. 

The washing out of garden ponds in the inundation of the summer of 2007 inadvertently released many a prized and pampered Koi into the streets of Hull along with the wider contents of plant life and vegetation. 

As well as the hardship and stress imposed by the damage to their own homes and possessions by the brackish and sewage polluted flood waters this loss of carefully nurtured fish will have hit hard emotionally and financially. 

Residents in the worst affected areas of the city also reported that when wading calf deep to salvage furniture and fittings or directing traffic so as not to cause an even more destructive bow-wave of water they could regularly see distinctive Koi passing by.

The task of an actual owner to recapture their involuntarily liberated fish, unless confined to their actual waterlogged gardens, will have been near impossible. 

The flood waters did rapidly recede in the majority of residential areas and yet I am not aware of any stories of Koi carcasses being found high and dry in the following days. 

So what happened to those that were never found? 

It is widely thought that the Koi, a non-native species to the UK ,will not have been able to survive in the local rivers and streams. The combination of intolerance to water temperatures, oxygen levels and scarce availability of suitable food may have been too much. The level of contamination from release of sewage into the water will also have been a major threat. 

Natural predators from the voracious Pike to vigilant Heron, rarer Mink and Otter will have enjoyed a welcome variation in their normal boring diets. In shallow pools and puddles the fish may have been devoured by the fox or even domestic cats. Carp is supposed to be quite a tasty fish and although is not now widely eaten by the population of this country it is a popular dish in parts of Europe.

A few fish will have found their way into neighbourhood ponds either privately owned or in Corporation Parks and become easily acclimatised although having previously relied on regular feeding a further number will have perished. 

In the recent flood hit city of Carlisle three Koi were found lurking around in the goalmouth of the football stadium and were returned to captivity. 

More hardy species previously safely managed in ponds such as catfish and even the exotic Piranha have been spotted in the wild, or rather their presence has been indicated by the decimation of native fish stocks. In the case of the carnivorous South American Piranha the hooking of one by a local angler must have been an unexpected surprise and a big shock.

As well as the introduction of Koi and other fish breeds into the local ecology another identified problem has been the rapid growth of alien species of pond vegetation in rivers and streams. 

Although controllable in a domestic pond the Environment Agency has issued alerts over thriving plants such as Pygmy Weed, Parrots Feather, Floating Pennywort and the most prolific in terms of speed of spread and choking surface coverage, the Curly Waterweed.

As well as preventing the reaction of sunlight with the flora and fauna of a watercourse the density of the weeds has caused livestock fatalities. Sheep and cattle have mistaken the verdant appearance to be an indication of solid ground and have not been prepared for the reality of the ditch, dyke or waterhole concealed beneath. 

The statistics arising from the Hull flood of 2007 are hard enough to comprehend. Notwithstanding the incalculable tragic loss of a life in West Hull some 6300 of the population were forced into temporary accommodation and a further 1400 took to caravans, mainly in the front or rear gardens of their flooded homes. Many endured a long and difficult time until it was possible to re-occupy. 

The equivalent of two months rainfall fell in a two hour period and across a wider Yorkshire region some 17,000 homes were affected. The cost of insurance reinstatement is estimated to have been around forty one million pounds. 

By comparison, the loss of a few fish may seem trivial.

Wildlife in the working day

It's been a day of confrontations with wildlife today. 

That might not sound too remarkable but I cannot recall having experienced such a sequence of events and certainly not in the course of a single day. 

The first was a stand off with the Peacocks who reside on a Business Park. 

I was dropping off a bundle of reports at the branch of a banking client when the birds, a mixture of pompous males and rather scruffy hens just wandered out across the car park blocking my way. I sat quietly in the car until they allowed me to move. Of course they repeated their picketing on the return leg of my journey. 

A bit later on in the day I was charged at menacingly by a bay horse. 

Granted, it was in a fenced off paddock but being a Townie at heart I was naturally fearful of the beast clearing the rather flimsy fence and actually causing me physical harm, either directly or in the course of my taking of evasive action such as jumping into the nearest ditch. 

After the threat from ornamental fowl and four legged mounts You would think that I would be on peak alert for any further potential encounters. 

You would think. 

So, why did I confidently push open the garden gate which bore the prominent signage of "Warning- goose on guard". 

I can explain. Just along the house path in a small fenced enclosure was the figure of a lone goose. I laughed at the sentiment of the sign as the animal in question was a static fibre glass one. 

I could see those callers to the property with mischief or mayhem in mind might be deterred by the very lifelike image but my visit had been pre-arranged , I was expected and on time and so just breezed on by. 

After seeing the homeowner at the back door he motioned for me to move quickly through a further gate and intimated that I should not, at any cost, look behind. 

Above all of this subterfuge I could hear a sound within earshot, a sort of aggressive but monotonous honking. Safely in the house kitchen the owner told me that I had been the only person ever to have outwitted the very large and fierce goose that had been taken on as a domestic pet but had soon developed the self appointed role of sentry and guard within the boundaries. 

I laughed nervously but not at what I had evaded but now from the new attentions of a very hyper-active Border Collie. The dog was a proper working one and its owner explained that it had to pretend to round me up and then give me a good sniff to familiarise and assess me. 

That was in addition to the uncomfortably close proximity of canine teeth to my groin. 

After passing that particular test the actual meeting at the property went well. 

As I made to leave the grounds the owner placed himself carefully between me and the dutiful goose whose patrolling included a few random and unpredictable movements and a rather rude spitting action.  I can appreciate why the people of Rome placed so much trust in the species as sentinels and guardians of the Seven Hills. 

I was mightily relieved to get to the kerbside and away from the marauding goose but then....just up the country lane where I had parked the car I saw that the scatty horse was looking in my direction with malicious intent. 

At the end of the Pier

Hornsea is a small and genteel seaside town in East Yorkshire. 

In the mid 1800's it had a resident population of just 1685 but a few of its wealthy occupants had great ambitions for the place in terms of promoting growth and prosperity. 

An important starting point was a railway link to the City of Hull and this opened in 1864. Hornsea became the favourite watering hole for the urban masses who came to the coast for leisure and recreation. 

Those holding tracts of land in and around Hornsea saw an opportunity to develop for housing and the amenities that an emerging resort would require to compete with towns further north such as Bridlington, Filey and Scarborough. 

Often referred to as The King of Hornsea, Joseph Armytage Wade was a prominent advocate for change. 

He had been the instigator of the rail link as well as bringing gas and civilised facilities to what was still little more than a small crab fishing town at that time. 

In 1865 Wade had the idea of building a Pier or Pleasure Palace of 1200 feet length into the North Sea and at a provisional budgeted cost of £10000 which is in excess of £800000 in todays money. His vision did not however secure the imagination of the townspeople and it was not until eleven years later that a Pier was again on the horizon. This was through the Hornsea Pier Bill of 1876.

Unfortunately the hype and speculation was not that of Wade but a consortium of out of town developers and speculators headed by the rather grandly titled Pierre Henri Martin du Gillon. His background seems to have been in West Country Ship Building and Repairing but he apparently had a connection with Leeds. He had bought land at South Cliff in Hornsea and had plans drawn up for a large housing estate . Du Gillon and his fellow Promoters of the Hornsea Pier Bill proposed a mixed development including, as well as a pier, a new road and tramway from the railway station to an area of reclaimed land behind an embankment and sea wall. They claimed that the civil engineering works would solve the regular tidal surge flooding of the area and also give an opportunity for fishing boats to land their catches and then utilise the rail link to Hull. This would save sailing time from the fishing grounds to Hull as well as generate jobs and money for Hornsea. Local support came from the Coastguard Chief and fishing boat owners. 

The scheme would be costly, the wall alone was estimated at £10000 to establish but the Promoters would cover the cost in return for the Compulsory Purchase of the land it required. 

That is where Du Gillon became unstuck. The land was in the ownership of Joseph Wade and a Mr Botts who were naturally opposed to the plans and indeed Wade himself founded and fronted The Hornsea Pier Company in 1877. 

This prompted Du Gillon to propose another scheme, the South Pier, and the small, sleepy town was faced with the prospect of having not just one, but two of these iconic structures on the seafront. 

Wade's was the first of the projects to commence but only to the extent of sinking ten piles which the locals referred to as The Ten Virgins. 

As for Du Gillon and his grand vision the burden of financing and legalities soon brought about bankruptcy and they were quickly out of the running. 

Wade and The Hornsea Pier Company recommenced work in 1878 on a 2 year build on the 327 metre (1072 feet) structure but from the start they became bogged down in costly disputes. Actions were brought against Wade's Company by Engineers, Contractors and there is also reference to the Paris Skating Rink Company on the grounds of non-payment and with counter-suing for poor workmanship and performance of contracts. 

These legal setbacks were settled or resolved but in the Great Storm in October 1880 a distressed sailing brig, Earl Derby, was thrown onto the Pier destroying some 91 metres (300 feet) of the newly built structure. 

The Pier did open for the Hornsea Regatta in 1881 with pricing for public use at One Penny or for a Day Ticket at Tuppence. However, costs continued to rise and in 1882 strengthening and repairing works whittled away at any prospective income stream. The day trippers and holiday makers were not evidently prepared to fork out for what was a disappointing attempt at a Pier and debt began to mount up. 

Advertisements and promotions tried to drum up business. 

In 1892 Tenders were invited for renting and use of the pier. Concerts and Performances were held but again not to the level of public participation expected by the Pier Company. A report of 1896 described a scene of semi dereliction and abandonment with dangling gas lamps resembling the hat of a drunken man. 

There was no option available to the  Directors than to place the company into voluntary liquidation in 1897.

Although the failure had been anticipated after the long years of struggle it must have caused considerable stress and anxiety to Joseph Wade. It is not too much to speculate that the chain of events may have contributed to his death in 1896 albeit at the good age of 79 years old. 

The appointed Official Receiver did offer to sell the pier to Hornsea Town Council for £300 but the holders of the public purse did not feel it appropriate to purchase. 

The inevitable point was reached and the pier was broken up for scrap in the same year after only 16 fitful seasons. A building associated with the pier did survive in use as a cake shop until 1912 but otherwise only memories remained. 

The idea of a pier seems to have been merely slumbering in Hornsea and in 2018 there was talk of a project featuring a wind turbine as the virtual "end of the pier" feature for the 21st Century. 

The Lost Trophy of Sean Kelly

 I have two trophies from my years of competition in cycling.

Well, in reality they are just a couple of plastic shield shapes with metal plates affixed on which are etched my achievements namely fastest 25 mile time trial and most points from placings in a single season.

I was presented with some proper silverware in each category but of course they had to go back to the Cycling Club for the awards ceremony for the following season.

They are from the same year which means that I had time on my hands to dedicate to a bit if serious training and participation.

I am quite proud of them even though, unfortunately, my surname is incorrectly spelt on both. I could have made a fuss at the time and had them returned to the promotions shop from whence they came for correction but I never got around to doing that.

For a few years they stood on any spare bit of window cill, shelf edge or cabinet space but progressively became relegated in prominence so that they eventually ended up in my tool box in the garage.

1980's plastics have subsequently proven to be prone to fatigue and the by now tarnished plaques fell off as did the hinged mount at the back and before long each of them were in pieces and beyond salvage.

At least, and this is a small mercy, I know at this very minute where they are but the same cannot be said for perhaps the most prized trophy of my cycling favourite, Sean Kelly who in the 1980's ranked as the best all rounder in the elite pro ranks.

His own trophy collection is vast from his endeavours in his peak years from the European Classics to prestigious Stage Races but one is most noticeable in its absence, the top prize for La Vuelta, The Tour of Spain which Kelly won in 1988.

It was, remarkably, his only Grand Tour win even though he had come close in the previous year's event only to be forced to drop out because of a complications over a saddle sore.

Photos of his celebration on the podium in Madrid after the final stage of 20 across the Iberian Peninsular, show a large silver bowl, embossed with feather like motifs, supported on elegant swans neck legs and with handles as though the bows of an Egyptian galley.

Kelly is holding the jet black plinth with the care and attention of a father cradling his newborn child.

It is a large piece of commemorative bling and destined, you would expect, for pride of place in the Kelly home in Carrick on Suir, Ireland. It never made it.

In the post-Vuelta round of dinners and speeches that come with the obligations to team mates, management and sponsors that trophy will have been relentlessly handled and passed around, with or without a champagne filling.

The main squad sponsors, KAS, a soft and fizzy drinks manufacturer and long time supporter of Spanish Pro- Cycling Teams had the distinctive prize on display at their factory in Vitoria Gasteiz in the Basque Region of Spain.

It may have been in the reception area, on the factory floor, in the staff canteen or in the Boardroom but somehow it became misplaced.

The sale of KAS to Pepsi Cola in 1991 is likely to have led to a rationalisation of the business, possible redundancies and closures of the Vitoria premises and in the process and inevitable confusion it may have been put in a box and into storage or even taken away, for protective reasons by an employee.

The sense of Basque pride in the winning of that National Tour in 1988 meant that the trophy would be revered and respected and with every intention for it to be seen in public.

It seems that it emerged in a Cafe Bar in the town.

Kelly meanwhile continued his illustrious career on the road.

I slapped him on the back at the finish line of the Wincanton Classic one day race in Newcastle in 1989 as he wheeled through the crowds to collect his third place prize. I like to think that even in his exhausted state he was thinking of the whereabouts of his Vuelta Trophy.

In successive years the bit of silverware was passed around amongst businesses in Vitoria including Restaurants and Pizzerias.

Every few years the word reached Kelly that it had been sighted and although friends and contacts tried to follow up on the speculation, hearsay and rumour it remained elusive.

Retrieving the trophy is still uppermost in Kelly's mind and he spoke about this is in a Podcast just a few days ago at the 2018 Vuelta where he is a commentator for Eurosport.

He has pursued, as much as possible, more recent leads but to no avail.

I thought I might help out and have posted a question through the on-line enquiries of the websites of a dozen or so Vitoria located pizza places.

The preceding questions on the respective sites are all about what is on the menu's, whether dishes are vegetarian, vegan or gluten free or if an establishment can take a wedding party of 150 persons, or so I have translated from Spanish.

Whilst I await any responses, although I do not hold out too much hope, I may go and try to stick together the bits and pieces of my own trophies and remember how I won them, all of those years ago.

(Inspired by the Lionel Birnie, Cycling Podcast feature and interview with Sean Kelly, Sept 2018)


Footnote; Two of the Vitoria Restaurants were kind enough to respond to my enquiry and although they had no information they were sympathetic to the situation. 

Short Story. Tall Tale

 My summer vacation of 1978 was going to be miserable.

I had just left Senior High School with a very poor set of results and prepared myself for yet more cramming if only to get to where my Education Counsellor had said I should be for my age and "with obvious aptitude but abysmal attitude" . 

My friends were looking forward to a long, hot lazy New Jersey summer. A time to let loose before parental pressure and conscience kicked in to acheve something at University or a reputable College.

Their raucous and crude intentions free from any semblance of moral supervision did not include me. I had no money or get up and go, so they got up and went without me.

I had tried to line up a job for the duration. The usual menial tasks at the diner, pumping gas and packing bags at the Seven-Eleven  had long since been promised to others. That left, frankly, only hanging about around the house dodging criticism and cloaked remarks from Mum and Dad , or succumbing to what I had been trying to avoid but what looked inevitable - voluntary work in the Sunny Oaks Retirement Castle complex or chancing it and offering my services for odd jobs in the neighbourhood. Out of all of the horrible options I chose the latter. 

At a cost of a dollar a month I rented a small section of the window space at the nearest General Store to my home. The postcard with details of what I was prepared to do and at what competitive hourly rate sat amongst well crafted, thought out and printed advertisements for dog grooming, mobile chiropody and baby-minding services.

My card in stark contrast was amateurish and childish in style and I did not hold out for a response any time soon. 

No sooner had I returned home that my mother answered a phone call and, hand over the speaker, yelled for me to come down and have words. She rolled her eyes when I took the receiver, "It's a woman, a mature woman for you. She says you put a card in Mr Johannson's window". I tried to raise my enthusiasm for what could be my first and only customer. I pronounced the word "Hello" in my best neutral but efficient sounding tone. The voice in response was firm but kind. " I would like to take you on to clear out the garage. My husband has continually failed to do so and now that he has left to teach at summer school in Wichita I am going to get on with it and surprise him".I enquired about her name and the address. I had signed up Mrs Stolz as my first customer.

The next morning I cycled across town past the University Campus and into a quadrangle of smart colonial houses. I had never noticed them before because they were the tied properties for the main Princeton lecturers and luminaries. The attached garage mentioned had no actual room for a car because of a clutter of accumulated boxes, files, cabinets, various pieces of medical looking equipment and dusty volumes of anatomical books.

Mrs Stolz had on stylish dungarees and her hair in a tight scarf but that was the full extent of her participation other than providing lemonade and shop bought cookies. She was obviously not a grafter in the domestic sense or, disappointingly, no Mrs Robinson.

I was instructed to assemble five piles from the garage stored collection. 

1) Obvious rubbish for collection by the refuse department 
2) Possible garage sale items although I doubt Mrs Stolz knew how to conduct one 
3) Charity for the Projects downtown 
4) Medical stuff for her husband to sort out on his return.
5) Scrap metal for special disposal.  

Within this broad remit was the necessity to move everything from its obviously longstanding positions and I had soon generated  a wheezing dust bowl atmosphere even with the up and over door in the up and over position. 

The boxes were easy to put into category 4). They were sealed up with stencilled legend of Dr T S-H which I thought might mean Deliver to Some Hospital but later and to my embarrassment I realised they identified Mr Stolz under his professional practising name. 

Categories 1) and 2) involved a bit of head scratching and the reluctant involvement of Mrs Stolz who gestured to the effect that I should decide on my own. Her perception of what the Project Dwellers could benefit from amongst category 3) was hilarious. The pile included a fondue set, boxed crystal wine glasses, scatter cushions and some very grand chandeliers. I could imagine these going down well as collateral for a drug deal rather than gracing a damp , cramped apartment. The scrap metal in the last category covered the largest area but comprised the fewest items being mainly old battered cabinets, clunky looking electronic monitors and what I recognised from the school science block as a centrifuge. 

There was a sub-group amongst the metal stuff for used surgical equipment, scalpels, clamps and saws which I handled reluctantly and with caution. They were not themselves a source of squeamishness in me, just the thought of where they might have been. 

After some 6 hours of work I could make out the back wall of the garage which had previously been well concealed. 

Shifting of the last cabinet was impeded by a dead weight inside. The metal door was simply pegged through on the catch and I could pop it out with a swift toe-poke kick. Swinging open, the door revealed a large bell shaped glass vessel with a stagnant, cloudy yellowish liquid.

My father had a similar item from a long forgotten home brewing session which had stunk the place out like a skunk. I agitated the container and , startled, stepped back almost falling over the scrap pile. What looked like a cauliflower ebbed and flowed against the glass. Looking closer after recovering my composure I could make out more detail. The actual shape was more like a giant pickled walnut in texture. No sooner had the thing shown itself to me it disappeared back into the murky solution. 

A strange feeling came over me then. I had had enough of manual labour and sweating for a few bucks. Mrs Stolz was reasonably grateful for my efforts and in polite small talk enquired about my plans going forward. I told her in determined voice that I was going back to school to improve my grades and prospects. She nodded in middle aged approval but I sensed she was not really listening. I accepted a check as she said she had no cash in the house. It was in the name of Stolz-Harvey but I was too tired to even worry if I was being blatantly scammed.

Many years later I read a story of how a disgraced practitioner at some Eastern University had taken, without consent, the brain of Albert Einstein after landing the job of performing the autopsy on perhaps the greatest scientific mind of all time. Apparently the brain had languished in a preserving jar, somewhere in his house, for about 40 years before being driven in the back of a pick-up to be presented to family and beneficiaries for the furthering of mankind. 

My curiosity was raised with my recollection of that sole, soul destroying summer chore and I investigated the story. The internet summary of the facts were hazy and clearly open to interpretation of reputations and events. The displayed image, however, of Einsteins brain as repatriated after its absence, did clearly resemble a yellowish stained pickled walnut. 

(Reproduced and re-worked from some time last year. It is, I stress a work of fiction based on something I heard on the radio and fabricated from this kernel of a fantastic tale)

Ten Elite Brains

These are a few quotes from the genius Albert Einstein. Try speaking these wise words in t' broad 

Yorkshire accent and t' trials and tribulations of the world will gradually fall into place and 

make ultimate sense....

"T'magination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving birth t' evolution."

"I, at any rate, am convinced that He (God) does not throw dice."

"The important thing is not t' stop questioning; curiosity has its own reason for existing."

"Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind."

"Two things are infinite: t' universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about t' universe."

"Falling in love is not at all the most stupid thing that people do — but gravitation cannot be held responsible for it."

"T' most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science."

"Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new."

"Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value"

"The secret to creativity is knowing how t' hide yer sources."

"The difference 'tween genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits."

"Weakness of attitude becomes weakness of character."

"Pure mathematics is, in its way, t' poetry of logical ideas."

"Nature shows us only t' tail of the lion. But I do not doubt that the lion belongs to it even though he cannot at once reveal himself because of his enormous size."

"Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile."

"Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds. The mediocre mind is incapable of understanding the man who refuses to bow blindly to conventional prejudices and chooses instead to express his opinions courageously and honestly."

"It's not that I'm so smart, it's just that I stay with problems longer."

"My religion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble mind."

"Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding."

"I never think of t' future. It comes soon enough."

"Do not worry about your difficulties in mathematics, I can assure you that mine are all greater"

"In order to form an immaculate member of a flock of sheep one must, above all, be a sheep."

"The most incomprehensible thing about the world is that it is comprehensible."

"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one."

"Truth is what stands the test of experience."

"Life is like riding t' bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving"

"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

"Human knowledge and skills alone cannot lead humanity to a happy and dignified life. Humanity has every reason to place the proclaimers of high moral standards and values above the discoverers of objective truth."

"Few people are capable of expressing with equanimity opinions which differ from the prejudices of their social environment. Most people are even incapable of forming such opinions."

"Common sense is nothing more than a deposit of prejudices laid down by t' mind before you reach eighteen."

Skye's the Limit

The approach of a holiday involves some serious thought on what reading matter to take along. 

Those who have fallen for electronic book formats have no need to browse their bookshelves for a new or familiar creased spine or distinctive and friendly sleeve artwork. That is a terrible shame. In support of real books in texture and substance and the thrill of their actual volume, weight and density I tell the following tale. 

The book; A Summer in Skye. The Grid Reference 57.149464N, 5.940463W

It was a strange experience to actually sit and read a book in the very house in which it had been written back in the 1860's.

We had rented Ord House, a fine 1750's built gentrified farmhouse for two full weeks in August much to the dismay of our three children.  It was very remote in the lap of 20% inclines out of the loch shoreline and with, it is argued, one of the best sites for a private house in all of Scotland. 

The nearest mobile phone signal involved an 8 mile round trip on a poorly geared city bike across bleak moors under the constant disapproving gaze of sheep and Highland cattle who had no sense of the highway code and would loom or skit across your path oblivious of  impending impact risk. 

The nearest bright red telephone box was only about 100 feet away from the front door but of course that would never be considered for communication purposes. 

Under wet weather holiday house arrest for just about the full fortnight I retreated into the world of books. I had some inclination that I was close to one of the main settings for the book from Alexander Smiths superb detail on the physical landscape but it was not until a brief conversation with an islander in a gift shop that the true fact emerged. 

An impulse bid on-line for this hefty work left me with a copy withdrawn from a municipal library stock with hard cover and an ominous message on the inside cover not to return the book to the lending library if there was a contagious illness in the household. Perhaps a standard sticky insert for the 1950's library service. 

The text starts in Edinburgh with highly descriptive scenes of a bustling city and some not very complimentary remarks about the rougher residents of what are now the prime tourist spots. Well worth a read if you are in Edinburgh for any period of time.

The journey across Scotland has some general interest mainly reliance on horse and carriage and frequent stopovers at Inns. I was shocked by the bleak and poverty stricken life of the Skye islanders whose reliance on the produce of land and sea was regularly interrupted by the inevitable rain around seven feet over one extended and persistently wet period (in excess of 200 days continous). 

Alexander Smith was confined to his hosts house through much of his stay on Skye because of the rain and there are some excellent narratives on the experience of watching the incessant influence of moisture and its power in shaping life on the island. 

The book is very broad in its coverage of the history of Skye and a few chapters comment on the many legends and superstitions from a race of giant warriors to witches with stories of local fatalities amongst fishermen and the crofters. This sort of deep rooted folklore is very believable on a dark and stormy night in a holiday cottage miles from anywhere and with no points of reference or the comfort of streetlights or traffic noises. 

Any slight rattling of slates or rustling of trees is very foreboding in such a location. 

Anyone looking to actively walk in the Cuillin Mountains would be interested in relevant parts of the book as long as they are not travelling alone as some of the valleys and remote spots are evidently full of lost souls or the dispossessed. 

Some of the chapters are a bit tedious and heavy going very much in the style of Fennimore Cooper (who is mentioned) and can be speed-read without spoiling the best bits of the book. 

After my two week stay on Skye and faced with the prospect of a long motoring journey home I really enjoyed the description of Alexander Smiths own journey by slow boat which operated like a local bus service carrying boozy passengers, freight and livestock. 

An epic journey in itself. 

The man himself was deeply moved by his time on the island and this is infectious. It was a good holiday for relaxing with a book. I'm not sure if the rest of the family shared that sentiment.

Slate Tales Least Stale

In what has only felt like the blink of an eye, or at least since the 27th May this year, I have now covered the first 10,000 miles in the Tesla Model 3. 

The sturdiness of the car was a primary concern. After all it was built in America. 

I rely on my mode of transport so heavily in my daily workload that any time spent off the road would be a real problem. Not that I have had too much trouble with the previous succession of internal combustion engined vehicles. 

In fact the benchmark of Volkswagen reliability over the last three Passat Estates is the one against which the new Tesla will always be compared. These previous cars accounted for, in aggregate, over 200,000 miles of local and motorway motoring and with no hassle or major outlay for mechanical or other issues. 

I can honestly say that the Tesla miles have all been pleasurable mostly because of what is a very different driver experience. 

The automatic transmission has been a re-education from a Volvo quite some years ago now for me although the single pedal operation and the regenerative braking action of the Model 3 means that I only need to use the actual brake pedal if I momentarily lose concentration in decelerating traffic or need to take evasive or make an emergency type manoeuvre in a typical inner city scenario of wandering pedestrians, stray dogs and wobbly bike mounted Deliveroo workers. 

The noiseless acceleration and general movement of the car is wonderful. There is none of the noisy revving soundtrack and so no unwanted drama. I have never had so much fun from a standing start in any previous vehicle and in the Tesla it comes from zero to just 30mph. 

The driving position is radically different to what I have been used to. 

I am slowly getting used to the large touchscreen which performs the function of standard dials and switches. The key information is concentrated on the nearest column of the screen clearly in line of sight and any swipe and move to operate other functions is not a major distraction from watching the road ahead. 

The Model 3 bristles with cameras giving an excellent quality of image to front, rear and door pillars which helps with general road positioning and when trying not to scrape the wheel rims when parking at the kerb. 

I have written over recent weeks on the very polarised reactions to the car from other road users and members of the public in general. These have, to recap, ranged from vociferous verbal abuse from a certain age group and calibre of petrol head motorists to the knowledgeable and excited shouts of approval from the younger generation. 

I am also regularly quizzed on the logistics of charging and electricity costs by random passers by whenever I am retrieving my work gear or PPE from the very useful front boot ( a bit like the classic VW Beetle) or just getting into or out of the drivers seat. I do make time to give information on such subjects based on my own experiences as there is certainly a lost of misinformation and misunderstanding for potential electric vehicle buyers to get to grips with. 

Many of a curious nature are genuinely surprised that the Tesla is fully electric as they seem to have been convinced by the large car makers and the media that only Hybrids are available or worth having. 

There is a nervousness from those perhaps considering a change to an EV, which I can appreciate, about becoming stranded with a depleted battery charge. This "Range Anxiety" is something I still get in the Model 3 and although the network of rapid chargers in my geographical coverage for work remains thin on the ground they are well positioned if only to top up to get me back to my charging point at home. It is a happy coincidence that my regular charging stations out on the road are at Lidl Supermarkets or adjacent to a Starbucks Coffee Shop.  

The Tesla I have is the Long Range Model which gives, on full charge, over 300 miles. The screen data continuously updates on my driving efficiency and with the conscientious and, according to my passengers, rather slow driving habits that I have I have mastered in my 40 years on the road the maximum range is always achievable. There is little or no loss of range and that is in on every kind of road and in all weathers which can all affect performance. I take it as a matter of principle to try to achieve from 4 to 5 miles per Kilowatt which for the 75 kWh battery gives even more potential range. 

I am closely monitoring the charging costs on a spreadsheet to give a valid comparison against the vast volume of data from my diesel miles over the last decade and more. If charged at my home on an overnight session the total cost is £9.75 for a 280 mile range. In the Passat the same range in diesel costs was £30. 

The economics alone make sound sense to switch to full electric although there are many other issues to consider before deciding if it is the right choice for you. 

Down the Drain

The Beverley and Barmston land drain was quite a feat of engineering in its construction from 1798 to 1810.

Its importance in the environment remains valid to the present day  Starting at Hempholme Lock close to the village of North Frodingham it makes its way cross country receiving water from some 40 subsidiary drains and protects around 12600 acres of some of the most fertile agricultural land in East Yorkshire. 

Under the supervision of Chief Engineer William Chapman, William Settle the Resident Engineer and Thomas  Dyson the scheme included 23 miles of drainage cuts, 20 miles of embankments, 11 tunnels and 27 bridges. 

After taking a rather anonymous route through a good chunk of North Hull the Beverley and Barmston discharges into the River Hull from a sluice gate not far from the Whalebone Public House. 

Inevitably the drain came into close contact with, in the inter war period, the back gardens of the new Corporation and Privately built residential suburbs of Northern Hull.  It was however in the industrial corridor of Sculcoates that earlier working class housing fronted onto the bank of the watercourse. 

These included terraces with the names of Richmond, Irene, Northumberland, Victoria and Barmston. 

At the best of times the drain was a brackish backwater, a dumping ground for debris and also, for the local population, a major hazard to life from drowning either as a consequence of a tragic accident or an intentional act of despair. 

The pages of the Hull Daily Mail Newspaper carried regular reports of such incidents from the late 1800's which coincided with the growth and establishing of the urban areas close to the course of the drain. There were of course the accompanying investigations and formal Inquests which took up more column inches in the local press. There are no traceable records of fatalities amongst the more dispersed rural population in the upstream waters although undoubtedly there were some. 

Deaths and disappearances were quite common and the total to date is thought to be around 100 persons including a love struck couple on a suicide pact. 

One particularly tragic but all too familiar event was in 1938 and marked the thirteenth drowning over the preceding 4 years. 

The waters of the Barmston Drain, for all of their insanitary condition, had always been a major attraction to local boys as a venue for swimming and larking about. One popular spot was where warm water, a by-product of the Sculcoates Power Station was returned into the drain making for a much more comfortable temperature than could be expected elsewhere. 

In normal times the depth was regularly between 10 and 13 feet. 

My late Father in Law, George was one of these youngsters who diced with the risk of succumbing to the waters or to the subsequent development of diseases from inadvertently ingesting the contaminated water from industry or rodents. 

The Police in 1938 admitted that they had little jurisdiction over boys and young men who just behaved to type and there was discussion in Hull Corporation for the recruitment of a Lifeguard although any costs would have to be met by the Drainage Board and not the Council. 

The unfortunate victim on this occasion was an 8 year old, Richard Thomas Jackson who lived in Ripon Terrace just of Liddell Street.  This was in mid May in the evening and so the artificially warm waters close to the Power Station were the critical element in making bathing possible at that time of the year. 

Young Richard was one of a large group in the Barmston at that time although he was a non-swimmer. 

His pals were sure that he had left and gone home until they later found his clothes on the embankment. Their search led them to recover his body and the authorities were called to take him to the Infirmary. 

There were further tragedies involving young boys and in 1939 at the Inquest of a 7 year old proposals were put forward to make bathing in the drain illegal giving powers to the Police to take all necessary action in what was a scandalous and perilous situation. 

Unfortunately the unnecessary loss of life continued for decades after. In recent years those foolish enough to take a swim have developed Weils Disease or skin rashes. In local folklore and myth there have been reports of a Werewolf-like Beast  preying on domestic pets along the course of the Barmston Drain but with no firm evidence to support this. 

Such has been the misery and tragedy around the unfortunate fatalities in the waters that there must be the presence of trapped and wailing souls. 

What they would make of the discarded bicycle frames and half submerged Asda shopping trolleys is a another matter entirely.

                                 

Tricks of the Trade

This passage from Robert Tressell's 'The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists' is where one of the characters outlines how the use of money under Capitalism enriches Capitalists and exploits the working class. The scene takes place as the building labourers take a hard earned break from their tools whilst renovating a large mansion for a wealthy local businessman. They are a very mixed bunch for all of their social standing. The dialogue starts with the enlightened character Owen seeking to show to those assembled that "Money is the cause of poverty because it is the device by which those who are too lazy to work are enabled to rob the workers of the fruits of their labour."

 I’ll show you how the Great Money Trick is worked.’, starts Owen focusing on his three closest workmates.

He opened his dinner basket and took from it two slices of bread but as these were not sufficient, he requested that anyone who had some bread left would give it to him. 

These pieces of bread represent the raw materials which exist naturally in and on the earth for the use of mankind; they were not made by any human being, but were created by the Great Spirit for the benefit and sustenance of all, the same as were the air and the light of the sun.

Now,’ continued Owen, ‘I am a capitalist; or, rather, I represent the Landlord and Capitalist class. That is to say, all these raw materials belong to me. It does not matter how I obtained possession of them, or whether I have any real right to them; the only thing that matters now is that all the raw materials which are necessary for the production of the necessaries of life are now the property of the Landlord and Capitalist class. I am that class: all these raw materials belong to me.’

You represent the Working Class: you have nothing and for my part, although I have all these raw materials, they are of no use to me . What I need is the things that can be made out of these raw materials by Work: but as I am too lazy to work myself, I have invented the Money Trick to make you work for me. But first I must explain that I possess other things beside the raw materials, these being the machinery of production; the factories, tools, railways, without which the necessaries of life cannot be produced in abundance. And these coins’ – taking three halfpennies from his pocket – ‘represent my Money Capital.’

It is most important that you remember that I am not merely “a” capitalist. I represent the whole Capitalist Class. You represent the whole Working Class.’

Owen proceeded to cut up one of the slices of bread into a number of little square blocks.

These represent the things which are produced by labour, aided by machinery, from the raw materials. We will suppose that three of these blocks represent a week’s work. We will suppose that a week’s work is worth one pound: and we will suppose that each of these ha’pennies is a sovereign. 

Now this is the way the trick works..................

You say that you are all in need of employment, and as I am the kind-hearted Capitalist Class I am going to invest all my money in various industries, so as to give you Plenty of Work. I shall pay each of you one pound per week, and a week’s work is you must each produce three of these square blocks. For doing this work you will each receive your wages; the money will be your own, to do as you like with, and the things you produce will of course be mine, to do as I like with. As you have done a week’s work, you shall have your money.

The Working Classes portrayed by his three workmates set to work, and the Capitalist class sat down and watched them. 

As soon as they had finished cutting up the bread, they passed the nine little blocks to Owen, who placed them on a piece of paper by his side and paid the workers their wages.

These blocks represent the necessities of life. You can’t live without some of these things, but as they belong to me, you will have to buy them from me: my price for these blocks is one pound each.’

As the working classes were in need of the necessities of life and as they could not eat, drink or wear the useless money, they were compelled to agree to the kind Capitalist’s terms. 

They each bought back and at once consumed one-third of the produce of their labour. The capitalist class also devoured two of the square blocks, and so the net result of the week’s work was that the kind capitalist had consumed two pounds worth of the things produced by the labour of the others, and reckoning the squares at their market value of one pound each, he had more than doubled his capital, for he still possessed the three pounds in money and in addition four pounds worth of goods. As for the working classes having each consumed the pound’s worth of necessaries they had bought with their wages, they were again in precisely the same condition as when they started work – they had nothing.

This process was repeated several times: for each week’s work the producers were paid their wages. They kept on working and spending all their earnings. The kind-hearted Capitalist consumed twice as much as any one of them and his pile of wealth continually increased. In a little while reckoning the little squares at their market value of one pound each he was worth about one hundred pounds, and the working classes were still in the same condition as when they began, and were still tearing into their work as if their lives depended upon it.

After a while the rest of the assembled group began to laugh, and their merriment increased when the kind-hearted Capitalist, just after having sold a pound’s worth of necessaries to each of his workers, suddenly took their tools ,the knives or the Machinery of Production away from them, and informed them that as owing to Over Production all his store-houses were glutted with the necessities of life, he had decided to close down the works.

Well, and what the bloody ‘ell are we to do now?’ demanded the workers

That’s not my business,’ replied the kind-hearted capitalist. ‘I’ve paid you your wages, and provided you with Plenty of Work for a long time past. I have no more work for you to do at present. Come round again in a few months’ time and I’ll see what I can do for you.

But what about the necessities of life?’ demanded the workers in unison. ‘We must have something to eat.’

‘Of course you must,’ replied the Capitalist, affably; ‘and I shall be very pleased to sell you some.’

‘But we ain’t got no bloody money!’

‘Well, you can’t expect me to give you my goods for nothing! You didn’t work for me for nothing, you know. I paid you for your work and you should have saved something: you should have been thrifty like me. Look how I have got on by being thrifty!’

The unemployed looked blankly at each other, but the rest of the crowd only laughed; and then the unemployed began to abuse the kind-hearted Capitalist, demanding that he should give them some of the necessities of life that he had piled up in his warehouses, or to be allowed to work and produce some more for their own needs; and even threatened to take some of the things by force if he did not comply with their demands. 

The kind-hearted Capitalist told them not to be insolent, and spoke to them about honesty, and said if they were not careful he would have their faces battered in for them by the police, or if necessary he would call out the military and have them shot down like dogs, the same as he had done before in similar situations of civil unrest in the country.

(This is a slightly abridged version from the original text)

Sunday Best

 At the best of times I found cycling, especially competitive cycling, very difficult.

I knew early on that I lacked that all important mental strength to get through the pain barrier which was an absolute necessity for those who progressed to great things and so that left me with just sheer energy and a desire not to be too embarrassed as main motivations in the sport.

Those rather weak and feeble qualities did however give me a memorable time on two wheels with a couple of trophies (my surname spelt wrongly on both), brief mention in the event reports of local newspapers (if they had any interest in the minority sport as it used to be) and all importantly an appearance in bold type in the pre-eminent Cycling Weekly for my sole career victory, albeit yet again misspelt.

I was late to cycling having bought my first decent race-ready bike when aged 23 and it was not until I joined a racing club in Nottingham in my student years in the early 1980's that I applied myself to serious participation and all of the fitness, diet and equipment that it entailed.

I happened one dark winter night to attend at a Scout Hut on a main road in the Mapperley area of the city where the owners of a bike shop had mentioned that a local cycle racing club had meetings on a weekday evening.

It could have turned out badly given that I was a student well away from home, a bit of a geek and with a tendency to speak with a clear, neutral if rather southern accent even though I had lived in the north of England for most of my life.

It was film night for the club members and I arrived just in time to see the grainy opening frames of a 1974 movie called "Stars and Watercarriers".

At face value not the most powerful or engaging title but its subject matter, the previous year's Tour of Italy stage race really captured my interest and I was immediately hooked on cycling and it would become an overriding passion for the rest of my life. My short period at that club ranks amongst my best for friendship and support.

That inspirational film was by the Danish Director, Jorgen Leth who established himself as a leading figure in experimental documentary film making.

In 1977 he released what is widely regarded as the most admired cycling documentary of all time- "A Sunday in Hell" which covered in exceptional and revolutionary detail the 1976 Paris Roubaix one day classic cycle race.

Even to those with no interest in two wheeled pedalling the event will be familiar in name although for all of the wrong reasons. 2018 saw the tragic death of a young Belgian Professional rider, Michael Goolaerts after a crash on one of the cobbled sections of the epic 160 mile Monument Status event.

Leth was able to capture the spirit and meaning of the race in a style and real time format that had just never been seen on the big screen before.

It was an accurate representation of the pain, anguish and suffering of the riders over the six or so hours of racing but also depicted the mundane preparations of the pro-teams and the excitement of the crowds on the roadside along its route. Anything going before it on celluloid was in comparison a bit staged, stagnant and over-edited and lacking any sense of reality.

Leth had to plan his filming meticulously and on that day in April 1976 he mobilised some 27 cameramen who were mounted as pillion on motorcycles, in team cars accompanying the race, at static positions on the route and using the relatively new method of airborne filming from a helicopter.

There is a very low key opening sequence to the documentary with a lone team mechanic working on one of the racing bikes. The rattle and hum of the chain being run between the rear sprocket and the rings of the crankset is at first strangely and hypnotically calming but as a foretaste of the racing ahead it is strangely ominous.

The key riders are then shown arriving with that year's main protagonists including Merckx, De Vlaeminck and Moser sporting either casual suits or functional trackies.

There is no intrusion into the concentration of their race preparations by a microphone wielding reporter but just the reserved and enigmatic tone in voice over of the commentator, David Saunders.

Leth's race coverage is vibrant and the footage is able to capture moments which would otherwise be too fleeting to be even noticed.

The faces of the riders are gritty and graphic in their exertions over the wide roads and treacherous farm track cobbles. Two road blockages during the race by demonstrating print workers are fully detailed from piles of discarded newspaper on the carriageway to the riders being forced to make their way through the picket line in single file and to have protest stickers slapped on the backs of their jerseys.

Spectators are candidly shown having a picnic as they wait for the race to pass or congregating in bars and cafes along the route. It is as much a community and social event as a classic bike race.

That years event was in dry weather and instead of the slippery quagmire that is usually associated with the early April running the film has sequences shrouded in choking dust clouds so that the dispersed field of riders can be identified over miles of distance in the wide panning helicopter shots.

We may feel that in today's TV cycling  coverage we are seeing the absolute pinnacle of technology and presentation but the combination of Leth's artistic treatment and skilful cinematography are for the era well ahead of their time.

In all some 35 hours of film made it to the editing suite and with the 6 hour real time racing condensed into the one hour and fifty one minutes of a masterpiece.

I find myself drawn every few months or so to "A Sunday in Hell" as it is compelling viewing.

The bikes are old school with narrow metal tubing, prominent handlebar sprouting cables, downtube gear levers and copper studded saddles. The riders are wearing wool mix trade team jerseys and shorts and just simple cotton caps rather than hard shell helmets.

The efforts of the riders are no less mythical and heroic.

Put aside some time and catch this amazing film, perhaps for the first time............

A Sunday in Hell (Jorgen Leth 1977)

Sods Law

Sourced from the digital site of the New York Public Library is this interesting reference to a Turf Maze which existed just to the East of my home city of Kingston Upon Hull, Yorkshire. 

As the name suggests it is a form of labyrinth of simple shallow excavation and yet the best documented and even fewer surviving examples today depict complex geometric and symbolic shapes. 

The record of the Hull Turf Maze comes from a publication entitled "The Repository of Arts, Literature, Commerce, Manufactures, Fashion and Politics". The date of the issue was April 1815 which in terms of context was just a couple of months before the pivotal Battle of Waterloo on mainland Europe.

The contributor is only initialled but evidently it was quite an honour to have a submission or article accepted as he or she is quite star-struck in their tone of writing. 

The Hull Turf Maze was called "Walls of Troy" which will have hearkened from the famous Ancient City whose defences were designed to thwart and confuse attacking forces. 

The location was only identified as being some four miles east of Hull and nestled close to the bank of the River Humber. In 1815 the area will have been perceived as quite lonely and remote amongst agricultural land and tracts being reclaimed from the boggy estuary. There will have been a few dispersed farmsteads and workers cottages and an early fortification at Paull to defend the approach to Hull against the then threat of the navy of Napoleon. 

The Maze was described as a duodecagon some forty feet in diameter. 

Within these parameters were twelve circumscribed grass walks each of a path thirteen to fourteen inches wide and dug out to a depth of six inches. The correspondent made it 320 ordinary paces to negotiate. 

They were a popular feature of village fairs and festivities from the 17th Century onwards although earlier Medieval versions are thought to have served a religious purpose to simulate the tortuous route of a Pilgrimage or if crawled on hands and knees as a form of penalty for sins. 

As a living natural thing many mazes if not regularly tended and maintained just disappeared or just fell out of fashion under the depopulation of the countryside with the onset of the Industrial Revolution and Urbanisation. 

It is not therefore surprising that to the present day only 8 turf mazes have survived in England and even fewer in Europe or wider afield. 

One notable Turf Maze is at Alkborough on the edge the Lincolnshire Wolds overlooking the convergence of the Rivers Trent, Ouse and Derwent. As the crow flies this is just 20 or so  miles from the likely Hull location in the Marfleet and Paull area. 

Julians Bower is meticulously kept and well worth a visit to appreciate the workmanship and symbolism. As with many such Mazes there are fabled tales of their origins. Julians Bower has a legendary link to a Knight who formed it as a Pennance for his involvement in the murder of Thomas a Becket in 1170 but it is actually thought to date from around 1670. 

Julians Bower at Alkborough, Lincolnshire 

The Hull maze has an even more hazy provenance although the 19th Century contributor claimed to have met a passing countryman who claimed credit for it. 

The illustration below may be the closest representation of the Hull Maze

Unfortunately Walls of Troy was either neglected and reclaimed by nature or intentionally destroyed under the plough some time in the mid 1800's. 

I wanna say it now for now is today

 It's a typical photograph from just about any family album from the 1970's.

 If taken by my Father it is likely to have remained undeveloped for a couple of years if there were a few exposures left on the roll of 35mm film. This always made for a great surprise when the pictures were eventually developed.

 

It was a long process in those days, none of this 'while you wait' printing, no presentations on a CD or just inserting a photo card into a coin or credit card operated self service machine. A loose collection of completed rolls of film would have to be either left at Boots The Chemists or sent away in a brightly coloured pre-paid stick down envelope to Bonusprint, wherever they were located.

 

The potential for this latter arrangement to result in lost or damaged films was tremendous and I expect many family albums still have blank pages from that period eagerly anticipating long overdue return of the photo's to mount on corners above the already scrawled description of what you should be looking at.

 

Father was a keen photographer and in his youth he would develop and print his own work. The resulting snaps were small and black and white but very evocative of his formative years. There are some very glam photo's of Mother in their courting days, to be expected of such a stunner and rightfully trouncing the competition to become Miss Electrolux. 

 

The chemicals and bulky equipment followed our family in successive house moves over 50 years, always being carefully secreted away in the attic spaces as though with some forlorn hope that us siblings would have a go one day. There was just too much science and time involved so we tended to leave that part of the process to the likes of Maximillian Spielmann and his contemporaries.

 

The single picture below shows me as a gawky, scrawny kid lacking confidence, with a very unfashionable hair style if it could at all be described as a style, dodgy swimming trunks and sandals and with a sticky vinyl camera case on my bare torso.

 

If not entirely clear, yes, it is me on the right of the pair. The small child is my younger brother Mark, he must have been about 3  years old at the time which would date the picture to 1978.

 

I can confirm this because on the same family holiday I remember sitting on the steps of the caravan and listening to the Chart Countdown and 'If the Kids are United' by Sham 69 was playing. Some of the lyrics of that Punk Rock classic form the title to this bit of writing. 

 

The photo is now a bit jaundiced around the edges but then so am I some 42 years older. In the background is a house that was owned by my Father's cousins. The fields in between were part of the same farming estate in a beautiful part of Somerset, complete with rolling hills, woodland, a stream with fishing rights and a small encampment containing a group of squatting distant relatives (us).



  

It was an idyllic holiday and I remember having a complete strop with my parents when they explained that it was not really possible for me to stay on in the caravan in that grassy meadow and become a farmhand rather than return to do my O' Levels at school. I sulked for the entire journey back to Lincolnshire when it was time to pack up and go back to normality. 

After about a week at home I forgot about becoming a farmer and tormented my loving parents with an announcement that I was going to join the Army. 

I was, it is clear to see from the album snap , not obviously cut out for a vocation in a field, either agricultural or battle. 

Perhaps I was always destined to be a Chartered Surveyor....discuss.