I simply cannot be alone in my opinion that there are just too many lawyers and accountants in the world.
It may have always been the case.
Just look at great Civilisations at the peak of their dominance and just behind an enigmatic, charismatic or downright tyrannical and despotic leader there will have been lurking a man of the law and a bean counter.
Disputes in law and cost cutting by my respective nemeses are likely to have contributed to the downfall of dynasty's, empires, regimes and states but the professions concerned have always been able to escape criticism or have been cunning enough to find a scapegoat, hence their ability to remain in positions of power and influence to this day.
I have, for much of my own working life ,conducted a veritable if not an actual crusade,a subversive campaign and guerilla action to encourage the younger generation to take up Surveying or at least anything other than a career in the law or accountancy.
My main strategy has been to willingly take on school age students for periods of work experience when that time of the year calls for a week or two in business and commerce.
In every one of the last 20 years out of a total of 24 in self employment I have been able to host one or two male and female students from local state and funded schools. The process of being an approved work experience provider is quite involved with visits from careers teaching staff, the local authority and an occasional parent to ascertain the appropriateness of the job, that suitable insurances are held, issues around child protection are fully satisfied and that the placement will be safe, non-contentious and mutually beneficial to all parties.
I have found the hosting of students to be rewarding and encouraging in my own work as it presents an opportunity to revisit practices and perceptions that may have become a bit weary or just taken for granted. There is nothing more challenging than talking a student through a methodical approach to the survey of a building in the face of pertinent or inquisitive interrogations on what, where, why, how and when for every element of the inspection.
My first question to every young person on placement with me is "What interested you in Surveying".
The answers have been varied from a text book response, perhaps learnt word for word the night before from Wikipedia (there are other sources available) to a stunned silence.
I do not blame the youngsters but full squarely my own Professional Institution for not making the business known to the public on a wider basis. We are a key player in the property and landed market and yet are always relegated behind estate agents, those pesky lawyers, more bean counters and just about everyone else who blags a share of the work involved in related transactions.
Other responses have referred to relatives or family friends in the same sphere of work, perhaps coming across a surveyor doing a job for parents or just a curiosity about what they do.
The one or two weeks of work experience does of course mean 10 days out of the school environment for those participating. Some may exploit this and opt for any vaguely unusual sounding placement rather than double maths, english and the sciences.
I did hear of a student expressing to the careers department an interest in working with animals. Whether the school misunderstood the lad or were plain lazy he ended up being sent to the premises of a local butcher.
Those sent along to accompany me over the last 20 years included stand-out students who had a good attitude, a willingness to learn and were personable and also a few ignorant, stuck up and downright unfriendly types who obviously regarded my livelihood as a lowly and demeaning thing.
There has been a big contrast between pupils from large comprehensive schools and those from public, fee paying establishments but on rather an alternating basis proving to me that shelling out for an education is no guarantee of producing a good, rounded and decent individual.
I do remember, for all the wrong reasons, one student who was introduced to my colleagues in the office and then, after asking to use the toilet, disappeared never to be seen again. His mother later rang to say that the placement was not what he had expected. I often wonder what became of him. Another lad did not want to go out to survey properties being more than happy to just help the typists and clerical staff. He sometimes appears in my thoughts and I have been a bit fearful about what life has thrown at him .
I am pleased to report that my quest to skirmish with those who would possibly become lawyers and accountants has had some success in the two decades.
To my knowledge, out of the 40 students on placement, around 6 have actually pursued a career in surveying and have become fully qualified. That is a half dozen saved following my intervention from a life of power, influence and affluence. Result!
Tuesday, 14 July 2015
Monday, 13 July 2015
Top of the World
Check fuel gauge, tyre pressure and condition. Stock up with warm clothes even though it is mid July and have a good supply of water, chocolate, oatcakes and crisps. Sensible precautionary preparations for any intended road trip and even more so when the route is through the most sparsely populated area in Europe.
It was a further leg of the journey across the very top of mainland Scotland from Wick on the east coast down to a book-a-bed ahead at the herring port of Ullapool on the shore of Loch Broom. In actual miles not too great a distance but on narrow single track roads with a steady contraflow of local and tourist traffic it was certainly expected to be a long start stop sort of day.
Thurso is a major regional town and supplies were replenished , not so much lashed to the roof rack in true adventurer style as shoved into the glove-box. As with the majority of travelling in the northernmost parts of Scotland there are stretches of excellent wide and smooth red-tarmac'd highways boding well for a decent constant speed. The slip roads onto such routes have large timber braced notice boards acknowledging funding for the scheme from Highlands and Islands, and a blue starred flag expressing recognition of a large regional grant from the European Economic Union. Evidently the funding is restricted because as soon as vehicles attain speeds of 56mph the brand spanking new road suddenly tapers sharply down from up to 4 lanes to little more than a loose gravelled farm track. It is though a bit of a show is being put on for dignataries and official delegations who would be flown into town by helicopter anyway. The landscape beyond Thurso is scattered with crofts and farmsteads and what remains of the now decommisioned Dounreay Nuclear Power Station which by 2033 will have been whittled down to a brownfield site for luminous green rabbits.
As signs of habitation are left behind the course of the road runs inland but closely paralell to the rocky promontories and coves with intermittent but glorious views to the cold bluey green bays and white wave crested breakers. Bettyhill and Tongue are small quaint settlements of stone kirks and cottages and a few shops and facilities. The history of the area is dominated by invasion, conflicts and rampaging by Gaels, Picts and the Vikings with many ruins of fortified houses and small castles. The seaviews disappear on the road across the A'mhoine peninsula a bleak upland moorland area and the group of houses nestled together and called Hope on the far west descent is aptly named and does stand out from the otherwise heavy Norse derived titles of places and landmarks. By now into the journey there is some form of connection with other vehicles in what is a fixed convoy. The only prospect of moving up in the order of traffic is when someone pulls off the road in a gateway, next to a mound of gritting salt or has first dibs on a one car space viewing area for a particularly striking outlook of hills or sea. The convoy travelling west is mostly of UK registered cars, a good proportion with small badges of car hire firms likely to be driven by overseas visitors doing the grand tour in a huge loop with the pick up and drop off points being Glasgow or Edinburgh airports. Main obstacles impeding traffic flow include kamikaze sheep, very photogenic Highland cattle, unrestrained streams and piles of boulders or gravel which have fallen unchallenged from a rocky outcrop above or have washed out of a watercourse. The other main interruption is from what gives the impression of the mass migration of the Germanic tribes going east, probably home, in large gawdily coloured motorhomes. These take up a full width plus part of the passing bay and panic ensues when confronted by a columm of these bike and boat covered monsters from a blind summit. The atmosphere is jovial with waving and a thumbs up in gratitude. As the vehicles cruise past there is usually the grinning face of a small child sticking up through the sunroof.
Durness is the absolute most northerly point of the journey. The road executes a tight sweeping bend after a signpost for the tourist attraction of Smoo Cave before reaching the town. This is a popular destination and there is a community of crafts folk and a Youth Hostel. It is only a further 19 miles to the next change of road but it feels like 190 at snails pace. The remarkable scenery slowly upstages itself and rolling rocky outcrop moors become lower slopes for some sizeable mountains with the switchback road between. The right turn onto another barely 'A' class road is almost overlooked but leads to Scourie and the appearance of palm trees is quite a shock although these are in fact a hardy New Zealand species very much at home and thriving. Through the village the route is again in view of the now Gulf Stream warmed west coast. Badcall Bay, between Upper and Lower Badcall prompts thoughts on trying to find out the reason for the strange and rather self defeating placenames. The next right turn is onto a 'B' class road. The shading in khaki and white on the Ordnance Survey map is a bit ominous being the first such designation on the road trip to date. Even the pioneering pedigree of the Deutsche Dormobilen is intimidated by what lies ahead although the tightly packed arrows signifying a steep course do give some indication to a former Boy Scout.
The hamlets gripping the sides of the minor road have very evocative and romantic names or are very harsh.
Nedd, Drumbeg, Clashnessie, Rienachait and Clachtoll, the latter two being almost french and german in pronunciation. The town of Lochinver, by comparison, appears huge. A genteel place and the second largest fishing port in Scotland. The reason for the journey is now close at hand.
Soon in full view is the distinctive north west buttress of Suilven, a striking, bulbous policemans helmet of a mountain. It would easily serve as a stunt double for The Devils Tower in Wyoming which featured in Speilbergs Close Encounters movie. Even from a rather tame viewing point from the nearest road, for those not wanting a strenuous 9 hour walk and climb to the 731 metre summit, the appearance of Suilven is dramatic and quite haunting. It looms above and dominates the surrounding peaks and bogs and yet from a distant view of its flanking slope and most popular ascent route it appears almost sphinx like in profile. The mountain stays in view for some time but is a major hazard to the road user as the eye and imagination is drawn to and fixated by its image rather than giving due care and attention to navigating the now wider, much busier and well funded main road now frequented by refridgerated fish transporting HGV's and recklessly speeding locals.
The mountain surpassed expectations after a long and draining but fantastically scenic road trip- something to tick off that ever expanding list of 'things to do before the end of the world'.
It was a further leg of the journey across the very top of mainland Scotland from Wick on the east coast down to a book-a-bed ahead at the herring port of Ullapool on the shore of Loch Broom. In actual miles not too great a distance but on narrow single track roads with a steady contraflow of local and tourist traffic it was certainly expected to be a long start stop sort of day.
Thurso is a major regional town and supplies were replenished , not so much lashed to the roof rack in true adventurer style as shoved into the glove-box. As with the majority of travelling in the northernmost parts of Scotland there are stretches of excellent wide and smooth red-tarmac'd highways boding well for a decent constant speed. The slip roads onto such routes have large timber braced notice boards acknowledging funding for the scheme from Highlands and Islands, and a blue starred flag expressing recognition of a large regional grant from the European Economic Union. Evidently the funding is restricted because as soon as vehicles attain speeds of 56mph the brand spanking new road suddenly tapers sharply down from up to 4 lanes to little more than a loose gravelled farm track. It is though a bit of a show is being put on for dignataries and official delegations who would be flown into town by helicopter anyway. The landscape beyond Thurso is scattered with crofts and farmsteads and what remains of the now decommisioned Dounreay Nuclear Power Station which by 2033 will have been whittled down to a brownfield site for luminous green rabbits.
As signs of habitation are left behind the course of the road runs inland but closely paralell to the rocky promontories and coves with intermittent but glorious views to the cold bluey green bays and white wave crested breakers. Bettyhill and Tongue are small quaint settlements of stone kirks and cottages and a few shops and facilities. The history of the area is dominated by invasion, conflicts and rampaging by Gaels, Picts and the Vikings with many ruins of fortified houses and small castles. The seaviews disappear on the road across the A'mhoine peninsula a bleak upland moorland area and the group of houses nestled together and called Hope on the far west descent is aptly named and does stand out from the otherwise heavy Norse derived titles of places and landmarks. By now into the journey there is some form of connection with other vehicles in what is a fixed convoy. The only prospect of moving up in the order of traffic is when someone pulls off the road in a gateway, next to a mound of gritting salt or has first dibs on a one car space viewing area for a particularly striking outlook of hills or sea. The convoy travelling west is mostly of UK registered cars, a good proportion with small badges of car hire firms likely to be driven by overseas visitors doing the grand tour in a huge loop with the pick up and drop off points being Glasgow or Edinburgh airports. Main obstacles impeding traffic flow include kamikaze sheep, very photogenic Highland cattle, unrestrained streams and piles of boulders or gravel which have fallen unchallenged from a rocky outcrop above or have washed out of a watercourse. The other main interruption is from what gives the impression of the mass migration of the Germanic tribes going east, probably home, in large gawdily coloured motorhomes. These take up a full width plus part of the passing bay and panic ensues when confronted by a columm of these bike and boat covered monsters from a blind summit. The atmosphere is jovial with waving and a thumbs up in gratitude. As the vehicles cruise past there is usually the grinning face of a small child sticking up through the sunroof.
Durness is the absolute most northerly point of the journey. The road executes a tight sweeping bend after a signpost for the tourist attraction of Smoo Cave before reaching the town. This is a popular destination and there is a community of crafts folk and a Youth Hostel. It is only a further 19 miles to the next change of road but it feels like 190 at snails pace. The remarkable scenery slowly upstages itself and rolling rocky outcrop moors become lower slopes for some sizeable mountains with the switchback road between. The right turn onto another barely 'A' class road is almost overlooked but leads to Scourie and the appearance of palm trees is quite a shock although these are in fact a hardy New Zealand species very much at home and thriving. Through the village the route is again in view of the now Gulf Stream warmed west coast. Badcall Bay, between Upper and Lower Badcall prompts thoughts on trying to find out the reason for the strange and rather self defeating placenames. The next right turn is onto a 'B' class road. The shading in khaki and white on the Ordnance Survey map is a bit ominous being the first such designation on the road trip to date. Even the pioneering pedigree of the Deutsche Dormobilen is intimidated by what lies ahead although the tightly packed arrows signifying a steep course do give some indication to a former Boy Scout.
The hamlets gripping the sides of the minor road have very evocative and romantic names or are very harsh.
Nedd, Drumbeg, Clashnessie, Rienachait and Clachtoll, the latter two being almost french and german in pronunciation. The town of Lochinver, by comparison, appears huge. A genteel place and the second largest fishing port in Scotland. The reason for the journey is now close at hand.
Soon in full view is the distinctive north west buttress of Suilven, a striking, bulbous policemans helmet of a mountain. It would easily serve as a stunt double for The Devils Tower in Wyoming which featured in Speilbergs Close Encounters movie. Even from a rather tame viewing point from the nearest road, for those not wanting a strenuous 9 hour walk and climb to the 731 metre summit, the appearance of Suilven is dramatic and quite haunting. It looms above and dominates the surrounding peaks and bogs and yet from a distant view of its flanking slope and most popular ascent route it appears almost sphinx like in profile. The mountain stays in view for some time but is a major hazard to the road user as the eye and imagination is drawn to and fixated by its image rather than giving due care and attention to navigating the now wider, much busier and well funded main road now frequented by refridgerated fish transporting HGV's and recklessly speeding locals.
The mountain surpassed expectations after a long and draining but fantastically scenic road trip- something to tick off that ever expanding list of 'things to do before the end of the world'.
Sunday, 12 July 2015
Conflict and Bicycle clips
I am not sure thought process led to the role that bicycles played in the First World War (1914-18) being seen as an important means of transporting troops to the battle zones and as a support for regular infantry. It may have just been the pure economics, a cheap mode of movement or the realisation amongst recruiters that enthusiasts on two wheels could just continue their activity but in a war zone and on the front line. The poster below was typical of those appealing for cyclists to fight for King and Country.
There is a very strange use of words linking a fondness for cycling to a potential killing role in war.,
The first bikes in military use were just ordinary shop-bought types very much of the sit up and beg style of the time.They would be painted in camouflage khaki green and taken back to bare essentials in order to be used by quick response battalions to engage the enemy in skirmishing and in scouting for main operations. The machines were easily dispensed with in a conflict situation being just thrown down to release their riders for immediate action.
In the early period of the First World War with roads and byways not yet churned up by heavy artillery or the deep ruts of gun carriages and supply wagons the bike could be used for patrols, field exercises and to compliment the mounted divisions. Other roles included two wheeled messengers, signallers, runners and the Military Police.
As the workload of cycling soldiers increased it was necessary to develop purpose built bikes and these were by design more robust and adaptable. The standard equipment that had to be loaded up consisted of great coat, mess tin and rations, blanket and kit, waterproof cape, webbing and of course a gun and ammunition. These were mounted on a series of fitted carriers and racks making a heavy payload that only a more solid and robust bike could cope with.
A handbook was brought out for the wheeled regiments with such practical advice as push the bike up hill to save on wear and tear and make sure the mechanical parts were well maintained. The theatre of war was dominated by heavy trench fighting and mud and it soon became impractical for bikes to play anything more than a support and logistical part .
The Second World War saw a return of cycling soldiers, particularly in the Wehrmacht or German Army in its rapid over-running of much of Europe. The Low Countries were of ideal flat terrain for bikes to be used in the occupation and this was down to great effect, often with the element of surprise. However, the increasing use of heavy weapons, tanks and the new found dominance of aircraft in warfare sounded the end of cycling soldiers, somewhat primitive as military equipment in comparison.
Those fortunate enough to return in one piece from the savagery of the First World War resumed their two wheeled leisure and recreational pursuits and cycling went from strength to strength in the inter war period which was the halcyon period for the activity. In the post war years there was the same trend of a resurgence in riding bikes for pleasure and any association with warfare and killing was confined to the history books and a sizeable library of grainy black and white photographs.
Saturday, 11 July 2015
Two Timing on Two Wheels
I felt like I was cheating on Loretta.
It felt like it because I was.
I should explain.
Loretta is the name I gave to my custom made racing bike, a Langdale Lightweight back in 1982 when I collected her from the bike shop ( funnily enough called Langdale Lightweights) in uphill east Nottingham.
I was an impoverished student at the time but a generous bequest from my maternal Grandfather was ring fenced for a true-bred machine on which I could pursue my interest in competitive cycle racing. So me and Loretta began our love affair and me and she are going pretty well for our respective ages and physical/mechanical composition.
She has had a couple of overhauls in the last 33 years although much of the original equipment, being top of the range Campagnolo Super Record of that era is running smoothly and efficiently as only master-crafted Italian bike transmission and braking equipment can.
Most of the modifications have been prompted by my age related loss of fitness, so a wider range of gears has been necessary, or sorry to say where comments from fellow riders on Loretta's somewhat antique components have been hurtful but have goaded me into an upgrade.
She has been much admired all the same and those who are of my own generation and with a genuine interest in and knowledge of cycling have been besotted with Loretta as much as I continue to be.
So what is all this about my two-timing?
Well, Loretta has been in the bike shop this week for some essential work and a check-up ahead of a big Sportive Ride in a couple of weeks time. My resurgence of fitness from a shedding of a couple of stones, gym training twice a week and a regular 60 to 100 road miles a week has given me confidence to enter some events. It is a major step given that my last competitive event was in the late 1980's.
I was planning to ride the course of the forthcoming event today, to find out what I had actually signed up for, but the bike shop informed me late yesterday that they were still waiting for the delivery of a main part and Loretta was still stripped down in readiness but unrideable.
Time was running out to reccy the route and topography due to work and family commitments and it had to be this or next saturday or not at all.
My son and I decided to postpone for 7 days but needed to get in a good training session anyway.
I cheekily asked if I could borrow my son's spare bike in Loretta's absence. He said yes but with a qualifying comment that I might be too heavy for it.
It is a gun metal grey Giant Defy model, about two years old, very light in oversized aluminium tubing, high specification and critically with 18 gears to choose from to make any terrain manageable. It is just a bike but rested up against Loretta in the garage where they live I would say that they are as different as a steam engine and a bullet train.
The geometry of the Giant is radical in comparison. Cables are concealed. Brake levers and gear levers are integrated. The ride is reassuringly taut but responsive. Handling is crisp and reactive.
In just dwelling on these things I have betrayed Loretta but what is even worse is the fact that I took the Giant out for a 50 mile romp and I enjoyed it. Not only that but I returned home remarkably refreshed and re-invigorated in everything cycling.
I will not be able to face Loretta with a clear conscience when I pick her up from her make-over during the week. She will be able to sense my unease and will certainly notice that I have topped up my typically Neapolitan sun tan on arms and legs on a ride in her absence not to mention that tell tail residue of three in one oil on the inside of my right leg from the chain-drive of another.
It felt like it because I was.
I should explain.
Loretta is the name I gave to my custom made racing bike, a Langdale Lightweight back in 1982 when I collected her from the bike shop ( funnily enough called Langdale Lightweights) in uphill east Nottingham.
I was an impoverished student at the time but a generous bequest from my maternal Grandfather was ring fenced for a true-bred machine on which I could pursue my interest in competitive cycle racing. So me and Loretta began our love affair and me and she are going pretty well for our respective ages and physical/mechanical composition.
She has had a couple of overhauls in the last 33 years although much of the original equipment, being top of the range Campagnolo Super Record of that era is running smoothly and efficiently as only master-crafted Italian bike transmission and braking equipment can.
Most of the modifications have been prompted by my age related loss of fitness, so a wider range of gears has been necessary, or sorry to say where comments from fellow riders on Loretta's somewhat antique components have been hurtful but have goaded me into an upgrade.
She has been much admired all the same and those who are of my own generation and with a genuine interest in and knowledge of cycling have been besotted with Loretta as much as I continue to be.
So what is all this about my two-timing?
Well, Loretta has been in the bike shop this week for some essential work and a check-up ahead of a big Sportive Ride in a couple of weeks time. My resurgence of fitness from a shedding of a couple of stones, gym training twice a week and a regular 60 to 100 road miles a week has given me confidence to enter some events. It is a major step given that my last competitive event was in the late 1980's.
I was planning to ride the course of the forthcoming event today, to find out what I had actually signed up for, but the bike shop informed me late yesterday that they were still waiting for the delivery of a main part and Loretta was still stripped down in readiness but unrideable.
Time was running out to reccy the route and topography due to work and family commitments and it had to be this or next saturday or not at all.
My son and I decided to postpone for 7 days but needed to get in a good training session anyway.
I cheekily asked if I could borrow my son's spare bike in Loretta's absence. He said yes but with a qualifying comment that I might be too heavy for it.
It is a gun metal grey Giant Defy model, about two years old, very light in oversized aluminium tubing, high specification and critically with 18 gears to choose from to make any terrain manageable. It is just a bike but rested up against Loretta in the garage where they live I would say that they are as different as a steam engine and a bullet train.
The geometry of the Giant is radical in comparison. Cables are concealed. Brake levers and gear levers are integrated. The ride is reassuringly taut but responsive. Handling is crisp and reactive.
In just dwelling on these things I have betrayed Loretta but what is even worse is the fact that I took the Giant out for a 50 mile romp and I enjoyed it. Not only that but I returned home remarkably refreshed and re-invigorated in everything cycling.
I will not be able to face Loretta with a clear conscience when I pick her up from her make-over during the week. She will be able to sense my unease and will certainly notice that I have topped up my typically Neapolitan sun tan on arms and legs on a ride in her absence not to mention that tell tail residue of three in one oil on the inside of my right leg from the chain-drive of another.
Friday, 10 July 2015
Its a faulty rat
There is nothing like a rat to instill panic, fear and hysteria amongst the wider public. Given the statistical and anecdotal evidence on the physical numbers and therefore the strong possibility of one crossing your path on an hourly or daily basis this is quite understandable. The fear of rats is therefore somewhat akin to our perception of the fear of crime. I have had a fascination with the creatures since early childhood and have enjoyed moments of casual observation from a distance, sheer terror on a very close face to whisker basis and wrenching sadness as I maintain that a rat borne disease did for our dog, Toffy the German Pointer.
The rat has struggled for any semblance of good publicity. Carrier of plaque, scavenger capitalising on human hardship, deserter of a sinking ship, association with dirt, sewers and love cheats. I can think of perhaps one positive connotation being the British fighting forces in the North African desert. Even the good natured and intentioned although ultimately mercenary Pied Piper was done over by the supposed Civil minded Burghers of Hamlyn because he hung around with rats. Saying that, and with no names mentioned to protect the downright ugly, is it true that those in the rat catching and indeed broader rodent and pest control sector do have a resemblence, facially and in mannerisms to rats?
A particularly interesting rat kept me quite engaged as a young child.
It was just about discernible as a member of that species because it had been killed on the road and thereafter subjected to targeted running over by motorists across the full range of vehicles from bicycles, motorbikes, private cars, light vans, buses and large commercial trucks. In off peak hours of road use the tastier organs, chewy tendons, deep black eyeballs and fleshy parts provided sustenance to other members of its family and a wider range of carrion and just downright opportunists in the natural world .
Over time, the camber of the highway working with intermittent surface water run off and splash from tyres had eased the pulverised carcass over to the gutter. After some natural drying out in the sun the now hairless cadaver, flat and leathery assumed a certain lightness and was blown around like a dead leaf in the slipstream of the traffic. A combined vortex of HGV's and a light westerly breeze deposited the now almost transparent representation of a rat on the wide verge and that was where I came across it.
At first it took some staring to identify what indeed the curious item was. I thought at first that it was the insole from a shoe, the mocassin of a passing Sioux or one of those gristly dog chews made from gelatine or cow horn. With the aid of my faithful stick I was able to rearrange the exhibit. It was definitely a rat. It looked as though careful insertion of a bicycle pump would restore the thing to a more natural shape and recognisable form. I toyed with it out of morbid interest using the pointed end of the stick. It was so dry that there was no prospect of extruded materials and certainly nothing to keep maggots or insects at all engaged.
It could have endless possibilities for mischief and mayhem and I imagined secreting it away in a desk at school, leaving it around the house or on practical grounds it would make a nice bookmark to be left amongst the pages of a popular read in the municipal library. The combinations of fun that could come from that single object gave me a headache. For a few moments I assumed ownership of the artefact. I stood over it as though jealously guarding the discovery from other claimants. The face of a small child, pressed up in a snotty haze on the passenger side window of a passing car, displayed complete approval and a bit of envy at my good fortune. I was the intrepid explorer and seeker of treasure trove even though it was only the A15 trunk road.
As with most young lads of my age I soon became distracted by more interesting things on that very productive verge. A popped out catseye, the tail light from a Morris Marina, part of a number plate that was almost a full rude word but was good fun for that anyway and a used prophylactic which, when looped over the stick end, could be catipulted into someones back garden on the route home for tea. The implications arising from that subsequent discovery could be quite far reaching.
I can imagine that dried and dessicated rat being preserved for Millenia in that very spot and perpetuating the desire of small boys to challenge and frighten themselves until the next wave of boredom sets in.
The rat has struggled for any semblance of good publicity. Carrier of plaque, scavenger capitalising on human hardship, deserter of a sinking ship, association with dirt, sewers and love cheats. I can think of perhaps one positive connotation being the British fighting forces in the North African desert. Even the good natured and intentioned although ultimately mercenary Pied Piper was done over by the supposed Civil minded Burghers of Hamlyn because he hung around with rats. Saying that, and with no names mentioned to protect the downright ugly, is it true that those in the rat catching and indeed broader rodent and pest control sector do have a resemblence, facially and in mannerisms to rats?
A particularly interesting rat kept me quite engaged as a young child.
It was just about discernible as a member of that species because it had been killed on the road and thereafter subjected to targeted running over by motorists across the full range of vehicles from bicycles, motorbikes, private cars, light vans, buses and large commercial trucks. In off peak hours of road use the tastier organs, chewy tendons, deep black eyeballs and fleshy parts provided sustenance to other members of its family and a wider range of carrion and just downright opportunists in the natural world .
Over time, the camber of the highway working with intermittent surface water run off and splash from tyres had eased the pulverised carcass over to the gutter. After some natural drying out in the sun the now hairless cadaver, flat and leathery assumed a certain lightness and was blown around like a dead leaf in the slipstream of the traffic. A combined vortex of HGV's and a light westerly breeze deposited the now almost transparent representation of a rat on the wide verge and that was where I came across it.
At first it took some staring to identify what indeed the curious item was. I thought at first that it was the insole from a shoe, the mocassin of a passing Sioux or one of those gristly dog chews made from gelatine or cow horn. With the aid of my faithful stick I was able to rearrange the exhibit. It was definitely a rat. It looked as though careful insertion of a bicycle pump would restore the thing to a more natural shape and recognisable form. I toyed with it out of morbid interest using the pointed end of the stick. It was so dry that there was no prospect of extruded materials and certainly nothing to keep maggots or insects at all engaged.
It could have endless possibilities for mischief and mayhem and I imagined secreting it away in a desk at school, leaving it around the house or on practical grounds it would make a nice bookmark to be left amongst the pages of a popular read in the municipal library. The combinations of fun that could come from that single object gave me a headache. For a few moments I assumed ownership of the artefact. I stood over it as though jealously guarding the discovery from other claimants. The face of a small child, pressed up in a snotty haze on the passenger side window of a passing car, displayed complete approval and a bit of envy at my good fortune. I was the intrepid explorer and seeker of treasure trove even though it was only the A15 trunk road.
As with most young lads of my age I soon became distracted by more interesting things on that very productive verge. A popped out catseye, the tail light from a Morris Marina, part of a number plate that was almost a full rude word but was good fun for that anyway and a used prophylactic which, when looped over the stick end, could be catipulted into someones back garden on the route home for tea. The implications arising from that subsequent discovery could be quite far reaching.
I can imagine that dried and dessicated rat being preserved for Millenia in that very spot and perpetuating the desire of small boys to challenge and frighten themselves until the next wave of boredom sets in.
Thursday, 9 July 2015
Turning Japanese
It has become a subject of polite but anxiuos conversation amongst homeowners that has replaced the old mainstays of dry rot, mould, property values and school catchment areas.
Whether conversations are had over the garden fence, in the pub, coffee shop or in the old fashioned way at a dinner party they will, without fail, turn to the subject of Japanese Knotweed.
I have written before on the origins and wildfire spread of this plant species which was introduced by the Victorians as an attractive, Himalayan foothills bit of planting for a conservatory, urban or country setting. It was a popular bit of vegetation in the 19th Century with its willowy, bamboo-ey stems with red speckles and broad veined leaves. Its spring emergence in flower beds and borders resembled rhubarb shoots and indeed upon the realisation that the young growths could be eaten it became known colloquially as Donkey Rhubarb.
Other prettier ornamental trees and shrubs soon pushed Japanese Knotweed into obscurity and many would have expected that it would die off and disappear into remote pockets.
In fact it continued to thrive on industrial wastelands, building clearance sites and on railway embankments and by the sides of canals seeking space and nutrition at the expense of all other competitors.
It did not get much publicity in the UK until the run-up to the London Olympics when vast tracts of land earmarked for the infrastructure and iconic arenas and Games Village were found to be firmly in the grip of this virulent, invasive species. Natural evolution had made it highly resistant to herbicides and other chemicals. A slash and burn approach to clearance only served to highlight the prolific ability of the plant to germinate from any fragment making it virtually impossible to destroy.
If buried under concrete as in foundations or ground slabs the relentless survival instinct allowed knotweed to simply penetrate through to reach sunlight and rain. The Olympic sites required multi-million pound expenditure on a clean up scheme which delayed the schedule to a significant extent.
Publicity in the media and a bit of a paranoia amongst homeowners looking out over their own gardens put the species firmly in the perception of the public as something very nasty and hellishly expensive to get rid of.
There is lot of the particular plant in my local area being characterised by favoured habitats such as active and disused railways on raised courses through the city and a large student population who have no interest whatsoever in that huge green growths in the back yard of their shared house accommodation which seems to be getting closer and closer at an alarming rate.
The well-to-do avenues on the fringes of the inner city, once the prime residential location for an emerging middle and entreprenurial class over 100 years ago, began a hate campaign against Japanese Knotweed after a few very unwelcome outbreaks in back gardens.
Leaflets were distributed to homes and every other lamp post carried a sobering warning of attack with a grainy black and white photograph illustrating a typical offending growth.
One hapless resident panicked upon a discovery amongst his rhododendrons and promptly dealt with it by ploughing up and down with a hired mechanical rotovator. This was the worst action possible given the ability of Knotweed to sprout new growths from the smallest splinters and fragments.
I was passing a few minutes today with a local in the avenues area who happened to be a maintenance gardener for the University.
He had recently been called upon by his Manager to attend at a student house close to the main campus upon reports that the dreaded Knotweed had been spotted.
The forecourt to the street was a bit overgrown and littered but clear of any rampant vegetation. In the rear yard, accessible through a shared covered passage in the terraced block, there was a mass of foliage but all fairly tame and placid.
A quick peep over the fence into the flanking properties did not indicate any outbreaks.
It appeared to have been a wasted journey caused by mis-identification or even a hoax.
Knocking at the back door to try to get more information from a student who was, with bleary eyes, in the kitchen making a cup of tea the gardener noticed a bit of greenery sticking out through the cabinet doors below the sink and drainer.
The student, in filling up the electric kettle carefully negotiated the growth and although the size of a small tree it did not obstruct this process. A few further journeys to the fridge for milk, pantry for bread and a top storage unit for Marmite spread saw a repetition of the strange waltzing movement of man in relation to the plant.
It was definitely of the Knotweed genus and quite at home in this warm, humid environment which must have closely resembled the foothills of Tibet and Nepal especially when all of the windows were shut, cooker and hob in use and extractor fan left switched off.
Why it had not been reported was a mystery but then again it appeared to be able to peacefully co-exist with lazy and messy students quite nicely.
Investigation revealed that the main stem originated from the pipework at the very back of the sink unit. A plumber was called out and in dismantling the services it was clear that the plant had come in by following the underground waste pipe system from some considerable distance beyond the immediate boundary.
It took a good deal of effort and expense to remove the alien intruder.
For a few weeks afterwards the students in residence continued to take a roundabout route to the kitchen taps as though somehow indoctrinated and under the influence of the all-pervasive invasive species.
Whether conversations are had over the garden fence, in the pub, coffee shop or in the old fashioned way at a dinner party they will, without fail, turn to the subject of Japanese Knotweed.
I have written before on the origins and wildfire spread of this plant species which was introduced by the Victorians as an attractive, Himalayan foothills bit of planting for a conservatory, urban or country setting. It was a popular bit of vegetation in the 19th Century with its willowy, bamboo-ey stems with red speckles and broad veined leaves. Its spring emergence in flower beds and borders resembled rhubarb shoots and indeed upon the realisation that the young growths could be eaten it became known colloquially as Donkey Rhubarb.
Other prettier ornamental trees and shrubs soon pushed Japanese Knotweed into obscurity and many would have expected that it would die off and disappear into remote pockets.
In fact it continued to thrive on industrial wastelands, building clearance sites and on railway embankments and by the sides of canals seeking space and nutrition at the expense of all other competitors.
It did not get much publicity in the UK until the run-up to the London Olympics when vast tracts of land earmarked for the infrastructure and iconic arenas and Games Village were found to be firmly in the grip of this virulent, invasive species. Natural evolution had made it highly resistant to herbicides and other chemicals. A slash and burn approach to clearance only served to highlight the prolific ability of the plant to germinate from any fragment making it virtually impossible to destroy.
If buried under concrete as in foundations or ground slabs the relentless survival instinct allowed knotweed to simply penetrate through to reach sunlight and rain. The Olympic sites required multi-million pound expenditure on a clean up scheme which delayed the schedule to a significant extent.
Publicity in the media and a bit of a paranoia amongst homeowners looking out over their own gardens put the species firmly in the perception of the public as something very nasty and hellishly expensive to get rid of.
There is lot of the particular plant in my local area being characterised by favoured habitats such as active and disused railways on raised courses through the city and a large student population who have no interest whatsoever in that huge green growths in the back yard of their shared house accommodation which seems to be getting closer and closer at an alarming rate.
The well-to-do avenues on the fringes of the inner city, once the prime residential location for an emerging middle and entreprenurial class over 100 years ago, began a hate campaign against Japanese Knotweed after a few very unwelcome outbreaks in back gardens.
Leaflets were distributed to homes and every other lamp post carried a sobering warning of attack with a grainy black and white photograph illustrating a typical offending growth.
One hapless resident panicked upon a discovery amongst his rhododendrons and promptly dealt with it by ploughing up and down with a hired mechanical rotovator. This was the worst action possible given the ability of Knotweed to sprout new growths from the smallest splinters and fragments.
I was passing a few minutes today with a local in the avenues area who happened to be a maintenance gardener for the University.
He had recently been called upon by his Manager to attend at a student house close to the main campus upon reports that the dreaded Knotweed had been spotted.
The forecourt to the street was a bit overgrown and littered but clear of any rampant vegetation. In the rear yard, accessible through a shared covered passage in the terraced block, there was a mass of foliage but all fairly tame and placid.
A quick peep over the fence into the flanking properties did not indicate any outbreaks.
It appeared to have been a wasted journey caused by mis-identification or even a hoax.
Knocking at the back door to try to get more information from a student who was, with bleary eyes, in the kitchen making a cup of tea the gardener noticed a bit of greenery sticking out through the cabinet doors below the sink and drainer.
The student, in filling up the electric kettle carefully negotiated the growth and although the size of a small tree it did not obstruct this process. A few further journeys to the fridge for milk, pantry for bread and a top storage unit for Marmite spread saw a repetition of the strange waltzing movement of man in relation to the plant.
It was definitely of the Knotweed genus and quite at home in this warm, humid environment which must have closely resembled the foothills of Tibet and Nepal especially when all of the windows were shut, cooker and hob in use and extractor fan left switched off.
Why it had not been reported was a mystery but then again it appeared to be able to peacefully co-exist with lazy and messy students quite nicely.
Investigation revealed that the main stem originated from the pipework at the very back of the sink unit. A plumber was called out and in dismantling the services it was clear that the plant had come in by following the underground waste pipe system from some considerable distance beyond the immediate boundary.
It took a good deal of effort and expense to remove the alien intruder.
For a few weeks afterwards the students in residence continued to take a roundabout route to the kitchen taps as though somehow indoctrinated and under the influence of the all-pervasive invasive species.
Wednesday, 8 July 2015
Undercarriage
I rode about everywhere on my bike in my early 20's.
This was partly out of necessity because I did, not at that time, have use of a car nor in fact, and of more relevance, had I taken a driving test.
At that age when there is an overwhelming sense of immortality and invincibility and with a bit of fitness it was no problem just setting off with a water bottle, spares and a rain cape stuffed into the back pockets of my racing jersey and seeing where the roads and prevailing winds would take you. Fully loaded up to cope with most eventualities I did resemble the hunchback of Notre Dame.
For recreation and what I loosely termed 'training' as I did participate in competitive cycle racing I could be quite ambitious in the distances covered although my common experience of being at the farthest possible point from home with no food, drink and a handful of loose change many might call recklessness.
Still, I did not have to make that phone call to my Father to be rescued or cadge a lift from anyone. It was just a case of fighting the hunger knock, hallucinations and fatigue and getting into a bit of a pedalling rhythm to cover the miles.
The proud boast about not calling for assistance is not strictly true.
I rode back to East Yorkshire from Nottingham where I was a student on a regular basis and in good calm weather I could do this in around 4 hours which, for a distance of 90 miles by the back roads through Newark, Lincoln and Brigg was surprisingly good.
I attempted the same journey on a Saturday during mid February. Leaving the Trent Bridge area of Nottingham in conditions of light snow and sleet I was soon battling a strong and persistent head wind from the north east. I can cope with heat and rain when cycling but an unfavourable wind is horrible.
After ten hours of what can only be described as frantic, desperate and inadvisable head down riding I had only reached the Humber Bridge crossing. The wind had turned more to the east and increased in speed to a level that caused the Bridge Board to close the carriageway to high sided traffic.
In order to cope with the now cross-wind I had to dismount and push my bike up the gradient of the bridge from the south bank. The wind was so strong that to proceed on foot and brace against being blown over involved walking and holding the bike at an acute angle so that I resembled an inverted 'V'. T
There was brief respite behind the large concrete blocks into which the suspension cables were secured and in the shelter of the main towers although on leaving the lee-side I was catapulted forward in the full, swirling maelstrom of the gale force.That was quite unnerving.
This last two miles of elevated road finished me off and I had no energy left to cope with the final 8 miles to Beverley. It was also getting dark and I had not accounted for the need to bring lights for what had always been more of a short hop than a long slog. I had after all reckoned that with an 8am departure I would be home for a late lunch.
The arrival of my Father in the car park of the visitor centre was a most welcome sight. I however was certainly not much of a pleasant sight. My face was red raw with the wind. The exertion over the previous hours had caved in my cheeks and my eyes were deep set, in shadow and looked as though I had been in a fight. Dried salt from the sweat of effort caked my forehead, cheeks and chin. The family dog would later revel in licking my face and so address quite efficiently a sodium deficiency.
My clothing was baggy and damp. I can recommend a ten hour cycle to those looking to lose weight but perhaps attempting it in a single action is not the healthiest way to do it.
A hot bath awaited me at the house. As I lowered myself in to the welcoming warm bubbles I felt a mixture of emotions and bodily sensations. I found myself weeping with relief at getting through the self imposed ordeal.
My feet and toes were numb from cold and insertion into the steaming water caused a great deal of discomfort. Even more alarming was my observation that my genitals had somehow disappeared into my scrotum and I was only reassured some hours later when they popped back out again at room temperature.
Apparently, I had inadvertently discovered a genetic trait amongst the male human species whereby the undercarriage retracts when faced with peril, stress or adversity. I could empathise with my distant ancestors although I appreciate that I had only been on a tough bike ride on a cold day and not, as may have been the case in pre-history, chased down by the likes of a sabre toothed tiger or similar carnivore with a blood lust.
This was partly out of necessity because I did, not at that time, have use of a car nor in fact, and of more relevance, had I taken a driving test.
At that age when there is an overwhelming sense of immortality and invincibility and with a bit of fitness it was no problem just setting off with a water bottle, spares and a rain cape stuffed into the back pockets of my racing jersey and seeing where the roads and prevailing winds would take you. Fully loaded up to cope with most eventualities I did resemble the hunchback of Notre Dame.
For recreation and what I loosely termed 'training' as I did participate in competitive cycle racing I could be quite ambitious in the distances covered although my common experience of being at the farthest possible point from home with no food, drink and a handful of loose change many might call recklessness.
Still, I did not have to make that phone call to my Father to be rescued or cadge a lift from anyone. It was just a case of fighting the hunger knock, hallucinations and fatigue and getting into a bit of a pedalling rhythm to cover the miles.
The proud boast about not calling for assistance is not strictly true.
I rode back to East Yorkshire from Nottingham where I was a student on a regular basis and in good calm weather I could do this in around 4 hours which, for a distance of 90 miles by the back roads through Newark, Lincoln and Brigg was surprisingly good.
I attempted the same journey on a Saturday during mid February. Leaving the Trent Bridge area of Nottingham in conditions of light snow and sleet I was soon battling a strong and persistent head wind from the north east. I can cope with heat and rain when cycling but an unfavourable wind is horrible.
After ten hours of what can only be described as frantic, desperate and inadvisable head down riding I had only reached the Humber Bridge crossing. The wind had turned more to the east and increased in speed to a level that caused the Bridge Board to close the carriageway to high sided traffic.
In order to cope with the now cross-wind I had to dismount and push my bike up the gradient of the bridge from the south bank. The wind was so strong that to proceed on foot and brace against being blown over involved walking and holding the bike at an acute angle so that I resembled an inverted 'V'. T
There was brief respite behind the large concrete blocks into which the suspension cables were secured and in the shelter of the main towers although on leaving the lee-side I was catapulted forward in the full, swirling maelstrom of the gale force.That was quite unnerving.
This last two miles of elevated road finished me off and I had no energy left to cope with the final 8 miles to Beverley. It was also getting dark and I had not accounted for the need to bring lights for what had always been more of a short hop than a long slog. I had after all reckoned that with an 8am departure I would be home for a late lunch.
The arrival of my Father in the car park of the visitor centre was a most welcome sight. I however was certainly not much of a pleasant sight. My face was red raw with the wind. The exertion over the previous hours had caved in my cheeks and my eyes were deep set, in shadow and looked as though I had been in a fight. Dried salt from the sweat of effort caked my forehead, cheeks and chin. The family dog would later revel in licking my face and so address quite efficiently a sodium deficiency.
My clothing was baggy and damp. I can recommend a ten hour cycle to those looking to lose weight but perhaps attempting it in a single action is not the healthiest way to do it.
A hot bath awaited me at the house. As I lowered myself in to the welcoming warm bubbles I felt a mixture of emotions and bodily sensations. I found myself weeping with relief at getting through the self imposed ordeal.
My feet and toes were numb from cold and insertion into the steaming water caused a great deal of discomfort. Even more alarming was my observation that my genitals had somehow disappeared into my scrotum and I was only reassured some hours later when they popped back out again at room temperature.
Apparently, I had inadvertently discovered a genetic trait amongst the male human species whereby the undercarriage retracts when faced with peril, stress or adversity. I could empathise with my distant ancestors although I appreciate that I had only been on a tough bike ride on a cold day and not, as may have been the case in pre-history, chased down by the likes of a sabre toothed tiger or similar carnivore with a blood lust.
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