In the realm of home ownership and in the relentless attempt to maintain and improve your abode in order to meet your own requirements and tastes but also to try to maintain demand, value and saleability it is likely that you will have subscribed to at least one of a succession of trends and fads over the last four to five decades.
These may originate from being featured on a TV programme, either fictional or fact or in the pages of a style magazine. Celebrity figures may have had the interior designers in and a certain theme or feature has caught the imagination and fascination of those who should have more sense.
I remember my parents buying a brand new house in the early 1970's and a major selling point was a 23 foot long through lounge. In many ways those having a weekend trip out to a new housing estate in the 1970's, and it was seen as a valid form of free day out, may have been seduced by such a revolution in living created by a through lounge or a lounge/diner combined. Many homeowners aspired to this attribute for their own places but if living in an old pre-war built terraced house the creation of such would be problematic because the dividing wall between a typical two room ground floor arrangement would be substantial and load bearing.
The cost quoted by a time served builder may have caused such plans for alteration to be shelved but in the minds of the masses what could be easier than knocking a hole through as long as a good bit of the wall was left above head height. The old parts of town where the densely packed terraced houses were found were soon shrouded in a mist of plaster and brick dust, a reddish layer, all pervading as though the Martians had landed and spread their choking, red mist everywhere.
The vast amounts of debris, transported by a human chain of family members using hand held buckets found its way to the street to be deposited in a skip, in the back of a hired flat bed truck or just into the boot of the trusty saloon car to be ferried in multiple journeys to the local tip, or failing that into the ditch on the nearest, quite country lane.
The fashioned often off rectangular hole would be framed in an architrave and left as a flat arch opening or as the position for a pair of doors, hinged full, sliding or those wild west saloon style half doors in louvred pine. It would not be too long before the doors (if fitted) became incapable of closing as the wall above slowly strained and sagged in the absence of any loadbearing support.
The through lounge had arrived as a mainstay in UK lifestyles. In a couple of decades everyone would be keen to reinstate the wall and restore the two rooms as separate identities.
The next big things were a joint assault by Yorkstone and timber panelling. These were rustic type materials and were in demand where homeowners sought to turn their modest houses into cottages, manor houses or Ye old Vicarage although many soon resembled the inside of a medieval themed public house.
The Yorkstone bricks could be made into expansive shelving and display areas along a full inside wall and then sweep around almost to the centre of the room as a TV plinth. I did see a few examples that actually took up half of a room. The weight of the stone where built directly off the original floorboards would soon cause the floors to buckle and sag.
Panelling, either in tongued and grooved Wainscot style or large pre-formed sheets was able to cover up and conceal flaws, irregularities, blemishes, old plaster and that terrible damp and mould which afflicted many older solid wall built properties. A firm thump on the panelling gave a good clue as to the condition of the wall behind as following this physical impact a steady cascade of powder and lumps of masonry would be heard.
Polystyrene products were also popular. Being light, easily handled and requiring only dollops of adhesive to fix to a ceiling or wall their use was well within the amateur DIY capabilities of most. The square ceiling tiles had become established in the 1960's and 70's being a combined decorative finish and also with professed insulation benefits. What the manufacturers and suppliers failed to state was that in the unfortunate occurrence of a domestic fire the melting polystyrene just dripped down onto the helpless occupants to cause additional peril.
The mock Manorial theme was reinforced by the availability of polystyrene ceiling beams and ancillary attachments. Some of these were wholly realistic with a distressed texture, grain effect surface, knotting and even down to woodworm holes or trails. At a distance these wonders of man made materials could easily fool most and it was only through actual touching that the warm and artificial composition was evident.
We may think that we, in the 21st century are more discerning and sophisticated in home décor and styling. We are for sure better informed with dedicated Good Home publications and a many hours of TV broadcasting, daily, being dedicated to house improvements and betterment.
The current top five "must have's" are rooted, again in the often aggressive marketing ploys by new house builders who are the trend setters or where championed by the likes of Beeney, Spencer, Allsop and Barker amongst many.
In fifth place is the bid to buy and mount up the largest flat screen television at a height on an inside wall that can be seen by those passing by on the public pavement or on the bus. It is a tangible sign of being civilised although I would be interested to see the statistics for strained necks from what is a totally uncomfortable elevation and angle for viewing.
Fourth place goes to one wall in a habitable room being decorated in a very plush and exotic patterned wall paper and in as much contrast as possible to the remaining décor.
In third place, although not always apparent is underfloor heating. It is a given in any new house project or even in the decision to relay or tile a floor in any age of house. Of course, the Romans were keen on it in a hypercaustic system if the slaves could be motivated to keep the furnace going but modern systems are complex and technical. Padding about in bare or stockinged feet may be the ultimate in a casual lifestyle but the same effect can be had with a good pair of slippers at a fraction of the cost.
Runner up goes to bi-fold doors. This is where the whole of the rear gound floor external wall can be concertinaed open like the cheap vinyl folding doors of the 1960's but in a pleasing calm swishing sound. This allows the outdoors to become an extension to the main living space, a bit like a fancy awning on a touring caravan.
King of the pile is the use of Travertine tiling on every surface in a bathroom, kitchen or hallway. In its authentic form it is, granted, a beautifully warm grained material with hues and tone, rough and worn textures and a uniqueness in each slab. The B&Q or cheaper versions are just khaki coloured squares, cold and uninviting.
The Travertinees must be laughing all the way to the Bank.
Thursday 30 April 2015
Wednesday 29 April 2015
The Hold Up
The folder of building diagrams has a very curious smell to it. The main odour is a bit musty although not dissimilar to the loose mushrooms on the veggie display in my local supermarket.
I am not sure where the book came from in the first place but for the last 30 years it has followed me in my employment as a Surveyor often being the first item to be packed up when moving office, room, desk or on the rare occasion when I have a bit of a tidy up so that the stack of files and papers do not fall on and trap anyone getting too close.
I have had cause to refer to the wonderful architectural cross sections when I have come across a bit of baffling detail on an actual building. They are of a certain era showing true craftsmanship, quality materials and depicting repairs which would last and not just be a stop-gap measure.
The diagram shown here is for a recommended scheme by which to stop a building from falling down. The practice of shoring is rarely seen today for a number of reasons such as lack of physical space to erect the supporting frame, unsuitability of modern unseasoned timber, cost of timber and lack of knowledge and expertise of the form.
It may be a simple decision in economic terms to just let the building collapse. The structure could be irrevocably weakened by a fire or from ill thought out removal of load bearing elements through a poorly designed conversion or just heavy handed alterations.
In my home city I am aware of only one property with this type of support. I take students to have a look and many, even a few years into a Building Surveying Degree or otherwise with experience in the built environment express amazement at the scale and substance of a classic shoring system. The property in question is end of a terrace over three floors, a private house but with fantastic structural distortion to the side elevation as a consequence of the subsidence of clay soils. The side garden is at the foot of a railway embankment, therefore of made up ground and exposed to regular waterlogging from the natural drainage.
The shore is in the classic form with railway sleeper dimension supports angled from a huge sole plate and with an arrangement of hoop irons, folding wedges, vertical props, gusset nailed boardings and iron dogs.
The "crooked house" as it is locally known will never be occupied by an owner but does have a value and economic viabilty having been subdivided into small bedsit type flats.
I have never seen anyone coming or going on the almost daily passing of the property on my way to and from work but like to think that its residents are ex-seafarers, those with one leg shorter than the other or with inner ear problems. These three groups would feel well at home in an out of true environment and indeed may not actually sense that anything is at all unusual or slightly off horizontal.
I am not sure where the book came from in the first place but for the last 30 years it has followed me in my employment as a Surveyor often being the first item to be packed up when moving office, room, desk or on the rare occasion when I have a bit of a tidy up so that the stack of files and papers do not fall on and trap anyone getting too close.
I have had cause to refer to the wonderful architectural cross sections when I have come across a bit of baffling detail on an actual building. They are of a certain era showing true craftsmanship, quality materials and depicting repairs which would last and not just be a stop-gap measure.
The diagram shown here is for a recommended scheme by which to stop a building from falling down. The practice of shoring is rarely seen today for a number of reasons such as lack of physical space to erect the supporting frame, unsuitability of modern unseasoned timber, cost of timber and lack of knowledge and expertise of the form.
In my home city I am aware of only one property with this type of support. I take students to have a look and many, even a few years into a Building Surveying Degree or otherwise with experience in the built environment express amazement at the scale and substance of a classic shoring system. The property in question is end of a terrace over three floors, a private house but with fantastic structural distortion to the side elevation as a consequence of the subsidence of clay soils. The side garden is at the foot of a railway embankment, therefore of made up ground and exposed to regular waterlogging from the natural drainage.
The shore is in the classic form with railway sleeper dimension supports angled from a huge sole plate and with an arrangement of hoop irons, folding wedges, vertical props, gusset nailed boardings and iron dogs.
The "crooked house" as it is locally known will never be occupied by an owner but does have a value and economic viabilty having been subdivided into small bedsit type flats.
I have never seen anyone coming or going on the almost daily passing of the property on my way to and from work but like to think that its residents are ex-seafarers, those with one leg shorter than the other or with inner ear problems. These three groups would feel well at home in an out of true environment and indeed may not actually sense that anything is at all unusual or slightly off horizontal.
Tuesday 28 April 2015
The Russians are Coming
It is good to have a plan.
This can range from a mental checklist of what needs to be done on a daily basis, perhaps a week's worth of places to go, people to see, menu's to prepare,others may have a month to month schedule for larger projects around the home or in a working environment, even a years worth of aims and ambitions and further beyond. I have personally had a ten year plan agreed with my wife for improvements around our house but I am not sure when it actually started or by definition when it is due to finish. In my mind it is decade of fluidity, not necessarily on a real time basis and not as contractually binding as it is made out to be. Most plans within these contexts can be scribbled on scrap pieces of paper, the back of a used envelope, on a fancy wall chart using coloured stickers and chinagraph pens, in a diary or journal or are etched deep in consciousness. Be prepared however for some element of disappointment as even the best laid plans can be subject to review, postponement and abandonment.
The Voyenno Topograficheskogo Upravleniya are a prime example. With an estimated 51,000 armoured and light tanks at its disposal the former Soviet Union required and amassed an astonishing amount of mapping intelligence to facilitate the potential for a strategic move westwards through Europe and to their, at the time, number 2 nemesis the British Isles. In quite recent years the back catalogue of Soviet Military Maps has been slowly revealed and to date over 90 large scale and very detailed maps of British towns and cities have emerged in the public domain. These were produced during the main Cold War years from the 1950's and even after the break up of the USSR in the 1990's as part of a very extensive global project masterminded for the purposes of world domination but secretive and often intended to mislead the enemy. This is perfectly understandable on the basis that maps of the Russian mainland and home territories were not considered to be truthful until 1998 when otherwise invisible and undetectable Top Secret Installations and locations of strategic importance began to appear on the new editions.
It is important, vitally important when planning a military campaign to have accurate information. The Soviet maps did not spare the necessary detail. The distance between trees in a forest is a good example of useful data, for example when determining a path for armour, artillery and troops .Spot heights are shown for the bridges in the mapped British Cities in addition to sizes of tunnels and even the composition of the road surface. The basis of the maps has been the subject of controversy and legal proceedings in that it is beyond reasonable doubt that they are grounded on the work of the Ordnance Survey. The emergence of the Soviet Maps has been held in contravention of Copyright and the OS, backed up by the legal system, appealed for any such maps to be surrendered for disposal. These are however still available for viewing and purchase on what appear to be legitimate commercial web sites.
There is a clear indication, however, that the mapping is a combination of a number of intelligence streams, again illustrating the large commitment of personell and resources to the project. Aerial views from satellites or spy planes would of course be available to a Super Power of the time. Annotations show references to Trade Directories in that businesses and industrial sites are named, pocket street atlases have been acquired in order to update records but there is also the scale of information that could only be sourced from quite large numbers of persons on foot and with strong local knowledge and connections. This street-level intel was pioneered to great success in the build up to the Second World War by Germany and Japan. Some anomalies have been indicated through the many academic research papers and presentations on the mapping sheets. Data on railway lines is significantly out of date with depiction of long since grubbed up routes within and between the featured towns and cities. The descriptions in English have sometimes been misinterpreted. A Nature Reserve has been misconstrued as somewhere 'Reserved' or of secret military importance. A sign for a Lorry Park hs been transcribed into Russian as an order to 'Park Lorry'. The maps were produced over the peak years of doctrinal conflict between Communism and Capitalism. This may explain why Racecourses, wide open spaces with racing tracks for the frivolous enjoyment of the privileged have not been recognised as such and have been depicted as airfields. The use of 'Court' in a typical British street address is translated as being part of the legal establishment. Roads appear on the Soviet Maps where none exist on the ground. This has been attributed to the misinterpretation of leafy lanes and access paths to back gardens which is a very characteristic feature of the suburban housing areas in this country.
The ninety or so British towns and cities in detailed relief include the obvious capital and main regional centres but also a few small, and at face value, not very remarkable places. These are however mentioned for strategic value including Barrow in Furness (Submarines), Chatham (Naval Docks), Milford Haven (Refineries), Billingham (Steel) , Rhondda (Mining) and Doncaster (Railways). It is apparent that there existed a higher echelon of mapping of Top Secret sites and installations such as the Aldermaston Research Facility, GCHQ at Cheltenham and the old golf ball early warning station at Fylingdales. I am mightily disappointed that my home city, Hull is not on the list given its size, regional importance and value as a shipping and freight port and Gateway to Europe.
The whole subject is fascinating to anyone remotely interested in topography, Cold war and modern history and military campaigning. So just men then.There may be more yet to emerge. The first realisation that what had previously been whispered rumour and hearsay actually existed and in vast quantities was when a printer in Latvia purchased a pallet of scrap paper from some army types who had been instructed to destroy the sensitive documents.
This can range from a mental checklist of what needs to be done on a daily basis, perhaps a week's worth of places to go, people to see, menu's to prepare,others may have a month to month schedule for larger projects around the home or in a working environment, even a years worth of aims and ambitions and further beyond. I have personally had a ten year plan agreed with my wife for improvements around our house but I am not sure when it actually started or by definition when it is due to finish. In my mind it is decade of fluidity, not necessarily on a real time basis and not as contractually binding as it is made out to be. Most plans within these contexts can be scribbled on scrap pieces of paper, the back of a used envelope, on a fancy wall chart using coloured stickers and chinagraph pens, in a diary or journal or are etched deep in consciousness. Be prepared however for some element of disappointment as even the best laid plans can be subject to review, postponement and abandonment.
The Voyenno Topograficheskogo Upravleniya are a prime example. With an estimated 51,000 armoured and light tanks at its disposal the former Soviet Union required and amassed an astonishing amount of mapping intelligence to facilitate the potential for a strategic move westwards through Europe and to their, at the time, number 2 nemesis the British Isles. In quite recent years the back catalogue of Soviet Military Maps has been slowly revealed and to date over 90 large scale and very detailed maps of British towns and cities have emerged in the public domain. These were produced during the main Cold War years from the 1950's and even after the break up of the USSR in the 1990's as part of a very extensive global project masterminded for the purposes of world domination but secretive and often intended to mislead the enemy. This is perfectly understandable on the basis that maps of the Russian mainland and home territories were not considered to be truthful until 1998 when otherwise invisible and undetectable Top Secret Installations and locations of strategic importance began to appear on the new editions.
It is important, vitally important when planning a military campaign to have accurate information. The Soviet maps did not spare the necessary detail. The distance between trees in a forest is a good example of useful data, for example when determining a path for armour, artillery and troops .Spot heights are shown for the bridges in the mapped British Cities in addition to sizes of tunnels and even the composition of the road surface. The basis of the maps has been the subject of controversy and legal proceedings in that it is beyond reasonable doubt that they are grounded on the work of the Ordnance Survey. The emergence of the Soviet Maps has been held in contravention of Copyright and the OS, backed up by the legal system, appealed for any such maps to be surrendered for disposal. These are however still available for viewing and purchase on what appear to be legitimate commercial web sites.
There is a clear indication, however, that the mapping is a combination of a number of intelligence streams, again illustrating the large commitment of personell and resources to the project. Aerial views from satellites or spy planes would of course be available to a Super Power of the time. Annotations show references to Trade Directories in that businesses and industrial sites are named, pocket street atlases have been acquired in order to update records but there is also the scale of information that could only be sourced from quite large numbers of persons on foot and with strong local knowledge and connections. This street-level intel was pioneered to great success in the build up to the Second World War by Germany and Japan. Some anomalies have been indicated through the many academic research papers and presentations on the mapping sheets. Data on railway lines is significantly out of date with depiction of long since grubbed up routes within and between the featured towns and cities. The descriptions in English have sometimes been misinterpreted. A Nature Reserve has been misconstrued as somewhere 'Reserved' or of secret military importance. A sign for a Lorry Park hs been transcribed into Russian as an order to 'Park Lorry'. The maps were produced over the peak years of doctrinal conflict between Communism and Capitalism. This may explain why Racecourses, wide open spaces with racing tracks for the frivolous enjoyment of the privileged have not been recognised as such and have been depicted as airfields. The use of 'Court' in a typical British street address is translated as being part of the legal establishment. Roads appear on the Soviet Maps where none exist on the ground. This has been attributed to the misinterpretation of leafy lanes and access paths to back gardens which is a very characteristic feature of the suburban housing areas in this country.
The ninety or so British towns and cities in detailed relief include the obvious capital and main regional centres but also a few small, and at face value, not very remarkable places. These are however mentioned for strategic value including Barrow in Furness (Submarines), Chatham (Naval Docks), Milford Haven (Refineries), Billingham (Steel) , Rhondda (Mining) and Doncaster (Railways). It is apparent that there existed a higher echelon of mapping of Top Secret sites and installations such as the Aldermaston Research Facility, GCHQ at Cheltenham and the old golf ball early warning station at Fylingdales. I am mightily disappointed that my home city, Hull is not on the list given its size, regional importance and value as a shipping and freight port and Gateway to Europe.
The whole subject is fascinating to anyone remotely interested in topography, Cold war and modern history and military campaigning. So just men then.There may be more yet to emerge. The first realisation that what had previously been whispered rumour and hearsay actually existed and in vast quantities was when a printer in Latvia purchased a pallet of scrap paper from some army types who had been instructed to destroy the sensitive documents.
Monday 27 April 2015
Rainy Day Words
Some quotes about bikes and cycling
From those who race as a job.
“It never gets easier, you just go faster.” Greg LeMond
“The bicycle is a curious vehicle. Its passenger is its engine.” John Howard
“When my legs hurt, I say: "Shut up legs! Do what I tell you to do!” Jens Voigt
“It is the unknown around the corner that turns my wheels.” Heinz Stucke, German long-distance touring cyclist
“Crashing is part of cycling as crying is part of love." Johan Museeuw
“Don’t buy upgrades, ride up grades.” Eddy Merckx
“As long as I breathe, I attack.” Bernard Hinault
From others;
“Learn to ride a bicycle. You will not regret it if you live.” Mark Twain, American author and humourist
“Life is like a 10-speed bicycle. Most of us have gears we never use.” Charles Schultz, creator of the Peanuts comic strip
“Life is like riding a bicycle. In order to keep your balance, you must keep moving.” Albert Einstein
“Bicycles are almost as good as guitars for meeting girls.” Bob Weir, Grateful dead
“Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of riding a bike.” John F Kennedy
“Whenever I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the human race.” HG Wells, English author
“As a kid I had a dream – I wanted to own my own bicycle. When I got the bike I must have been the happiest boy in Liverpool, maybe the world. I lived for that bike. Most kids left their bike in the backyard at night. Not me. I insisted on taking mine indoors and the first night I even kept it in my bed.” John Lennon
“When man invented the bicycle he reached the peak of his attainments.” Elizabeth West
“Melancholy is incompatible with bicycling.” James E Starrs
“The bicycle is just as good company as most husbands and, when it gets old and shabby, a woman can dispose of it and get a new one without shocking the entire community.” Ann Strong
“Think of bicycles as ridable art that can just about save the world.” Grant Petersen, bicycle designer
“The bicycle is the noblest invention of mankind.” William Saroyan, Nobel prize winner
“The sound of a car door opening in front of you is similar to the sound of a gun being cocked.” Amy Webster
“Whoever invented the bicycle deserves the thanks of humanity” Lord Charles Beresford
and my favourite, the one I wish I had written....
“You can't buy happiness, but you can buy a bicycle and that's pretty close.” Anon
(Source; Bike Radar, com April 3rd 2015)
From those who race as a job.
“It never gets easier, you just go faster.” Greg LeMond
“The bicycle is a curious vehicle. Its passenger is its engine.” John Howard
“When my legs hurt, I say: "Shut up legs! Do what I tell you to do!” Jens Voigt
“It is the unknown around the corner that turns my wheels.” Heinz Stucke, German long-distance touring cyclist
“Crashing is part of cycling as crying is part of love." Johan Museeuw
“Don’t buy upgrades, ride up grades.” Eddy Merckx
“As long as I breathe, I attack.” Bernard Hinault
From others;
“Learn to ride a bicycle. You will not regret it if you live.” Mark Twain, American author and humourist
“Life is like a 10-speed bicycle. Most of us have gears we never use.” Charles Schultz, creator of the Peanuts comic strip
“Life is like riding a bicycle. In order to keep your balance, you must keep moving.” Albert Einstein
“Bicycles are almost as good as guitars for meeting girls.” Bob Weir, Grateful dead
“Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of riding a bike.” John F Kennedy
“Whenever I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the human race.” HG Wells, English author
“As a kid I had a dream – I wanted to own my own bicycle. When I got the bike I must have been the happiest boy in Liverpool, maybe the world. I lived for that bike. Most kids left their bike in the backyard at night. Not me. I insisted on taking mine indoors and the first night I even kept it in my bed.” John Lennon
“When man invented the bicycle he reached the peak of his attainments.” Elizabeth West
“Melancholy is incompatible with bicycling.” James E Starrs
“The bicycle is just as good company as most husbands and, when it gets old and shabby, a woman can dispose of it and get a new one without shocking the entire community.” Ann Strong
“Think of bicycles as ridable art that can just about save the world.” Grant Petersen, bicycle designer
“The bicycle is the noblest invention of mankind.” William Saroyan, Nobel prize winner
“The sound of a car door opening in front of you is similar to the sound of a gun being cocked.” Amy Webster
“Whoever invented the bicycle deserves the thanks of humanity” Lord Charles Beresford
and my favourite, the one I wish I had written....
“You can't buy happiness, but you can buy a bicycle and that's pretty close.” Anon
(Source; Bike Radar, com April 3rd 2015)
Sunday 26 April 2015
Turn of the Century
Riding 100 miles is, by all accounts, quite a feat.
It holds a certain mystique amongst cyclists and can sometimes seem elusive even when the required fitness, stamina, determination, time and nutrition comes together, which for someone of my 51 years is not really that often.
It is best to have a definite plan as just setting out and combining a few favourite circuits and routes lacks certainty. So, accompanied by my son, yesterday we set off to ride out and back from Hull to York.
It is a well worn route, traversed in history by, amongst many, the Romans, Scandinavian Invaders and even a well known Highwayman, albeit in his case just one way as he ended up on the York Gallows for his crimes.
The idea of that route had been brewing in my mind for, well, about 35 years.
I took to serious cycling in 1980 and would venture out for hours at a time. It was usually a foolish exploit with either a puncture, mechanical failure or hunger causing me to cut short a ride or, in the days before mobile phones, try to find a telephone box to summon help from a parent. On one such adventure I was suffering badly from fatigue and energy depletion just near Thirsk, having set off from Beverley in East Yorkshire much earlier in the day. The ailments associated with "hunger-knock" creep up on you very quickly and by then it is too late to regain strength without a drastic cramming down of food and drink.
I was aware of the wise words of sportsmen and women that you should, in order to maintain optimum performance, drink before you are thirsty and eat before you are hungry.There are , of course, more scientific principles involved behind this advice but being young, foolish and combined with a sense of invincibility and resilience I carried on regardless.
It was a case of having to eke out my remaining funds on the nourishing foodstuffs that would fuel the efforts to cover the 60 miles or so to home. I bought, from a pharmacy, a packet of Complan (a branded powder which replaces lost minerals, vitamins and electrolytes after particularly violent diarrhoea), a bottle of Perrier with which to rehydrate it and a Mars Bar.
That epic ride, of some 130 miles stood as my personal daily best until yesterday.
I did, with my younger brother embark on a more reckless ride in 1984 when we, after little preparation, embarked the Channel Ferry at Dieppe in the dark on a July morning and set off to visit my sister at Rambouillet just to the west of Paris. I am not sure how many miles we actually did cover in the following 12 hours because the map we were relying on, a proper Michelin, covered most of Europe and England at some ridiculous scale which was not able to show any features other than major towns and cities and trunk roads.
Our return journey after the visit took two days as an indication of our folly.
I recently read a few articles on how to prepare for a 100 mile ride by renowned cyclists and sports-psychologists.
They tended to work on key aspects from training regime and bike set-up, efficient pedalling to conserve energy, how to tackle hills, what food to take along and the importance of carving the route into bite-sized sections to give mental encouragement.
I was relying on three factors. No punctures, enough Kit Kats and the hope that the weather would be favourable.
We could be accused of cheating in that our York stopover was at daughter Alice's place where we could be revived with coffee and home made buns but I would, given the choice between a warm flat and a draughty bus shelter as a venue for refreshment, staunchly defend our plan.
We set off at 10am from Hull.
In avoiding the main roads as much as possible ours would be a zig-zagging trek on lesser category and minor roads. The forecast was showing a 30% chance of rain but this seemed a bit optimistic given the cloudy skies, strong head wind and plummeting temperatures (snow had been expected in Scotland).
It was a case of skirting along the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds with a few short climbs in order to get to the flatlands of the Vale of York.
This was quite tough for me with my gravity averse body weight and non-streamlined form and not helped by a 10 minute shower of fine rain. It was quite nice for keeping me cool and no doubt I will have left a vapour trail in my wake as my body heat wicked away.
The pastoral River Derwent bisects the Vale and there are scarce few crossing points.
I had briefly consulted, in the days preceding the ride, an old map to locate bridges but inevitably out on the road got lost in the maze of lanes. We had to backtrack from two dead ends and found ourselves in villages or rather hamlets, we had never heard of. The aptly named Sutton upon Derwent or Sutton over Derwent was eventually tracked down and we sprinted fast but relieved over the traffic light controlled hump-backed single carriageway bridge before seeing, on the horizon, the unmistakable profile of York Minster.
Three hours from departure we reached central York and Alice's pop-up cafe.
I was in a bad state for the exertion. Legs raised up the wall of the living room gave some relief from toxins and cramps. My damp clothing was draped over the back of a chair against a storage heater. Washing my face with cold water gave me a distinctly salty taste from sweat and road grime.
The thought of the return ride was intimidating although actually getting to York after 48 miles was a matter of self congratulation and immense surprise.
The home leg was to be due south to Selby along the tarmac surfaced course of the old railway line before a westward turn. This went well under the influence of caffeine and sugar but nearing Selby the skies darkened and it started to rain promising to sap our energy.
It rained for the next three hours, heavily and with standing water creeping across the carriageway we became speckled with mud and thoroughly soaked.
Oncoming cars with their headlights on meant the downpour was not moving away anytime soon.
We were now back on what we would call home turf and this was reassuring although we were under no illusions that we had a further 60 minutes or so out in the weather.
Lucozade Sport at 79p a bottle is cheap and cheerful and a shop purchase at the 15 miles to go point helped me limp back to the house in reasonable physiological condition.
We knew we had gone some distance in our cumulative 7 hours on the saddle. It certainly felt so on buttocks and legs but the achievement of 100 miles gives a feeling that surpasses all bodily pains.
It holds a certain mystique amongst cyclists and can sometimes seem elusive even when the required fitness, stamina, determination, time and nutrition comes together, which for someone of my 51 years is not really that often.
It is best to have a definite plan as just setting out and combining a few favourite circuits and routes lacks certainty. So, accompanied by my son, yesterday we set off to ride out and back from Hull to York.
It is a well worn route, traversed in history by, amongst many, the Romans, Scandinavian Invaders and even a well known Highwayman, albeit in his case just one way as he ended up on the York Gallows for his crimes.
The idea of that route had been brewing in my mind for, well, about 35 years.
I took to serious cycling in 1980 and would venture out for hours at a time. It was usually a foolish exploit with either a puncture, mechanical failure or hunger causing me to cut short a ride or, in the days before mobile phones, try to find a telephone box to summon help from a parent. On one such adventure I was suffering badly from fatigue and energy depletion just near Thirsk, having set off from Beverley in East Yorkshire much earlier in the day. The ailments associated with "hunger-knock" creep up on you very quickly and by then it is too late to regain strength without a drastic cramming down of food and drink.
I was aware of the wise words of sportsmen and women that you should, in order to maintain optimum performance, drink before you are thirsty and eat before you are hungry.There are , of course, more scientific principles involved behind this advice but being young, foolish and combined with a sense of invincibility and resilience I carried on regardless.
It was a case of having to eke out my remaining funds on the nourishing foodstuffs that would fuel the efforts to cover the 60 miles or so to home. I bought, from a pharmacy, a packet of Complan (a branded powder which replaces lost minerals, vitamins and electrolytes after particularly violent diarrhoea), a bottle of Perrier with which to rehydrate it and a Mars Bar.
That epic ride, of some 130 miles stood as my personal daily best until yesterday.
I did, with my younger brother embark on a more reckless ride in 1984 when we, after little preparation, embarked the Channel Ferry at Dieppe in the dark on a July morning and set off to visit my sister at Rambouillet just to the west of Paris. I am not sure how many miles we actually did cover in the following 12 hours because the map we were relying on, a proper Michelin, covered most of Europe and England at some ridiculous scale which was not able to show any features other than major towns and cities and trunk roads.
Our return journey after the visit took two days as an indication of our folly.
I recently read a few articles on how to prepare for a 100 mile ride by renowned cyclists and sports-psychologists.
They tended to work on key aspects from training regime and bike set-up, efficient pedalling to conserve energy, how to tackle hills, what food to take along and the importance of carving the route into bite-sized sections to give mental encouragement.
I was relying on three factors. No punctures, enough Kit Kats and the hope that the weather would be favourable.
We could be accused of cheating in that our York stopover was at daughter Alice's place where we could be revived with coffee and home made buns but I would, given the choice between a warm flat and a draughty bus shelter as a venue for refreshment, staunchly defend our plan.
We set off at 10am from Hull.
In avoiding the main roads as much as possible ours would be a zig-zagging trek on lesser category and minor roads. The forecast was showing a 30% chance of rain but this seemed a bit optimistic given the cloudy skies, strong head wind and plummeting temperatures (snow had been expected in Scotland).
It was a case of skirting along the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds with a few short climbs in order to get to the flatlands of the Vale of York.
This was quite tough for me with my gravity averse body weight and non-streamlined form and not helped by a 10 minute shower of fine rain. It was quite nice for keeping me cool and no doubt I will have left a vapour trail in my wake as my body heat wicked away.
The pastoral River Derwent bisects the Vale and there are scarce few crossing points.
I had briefly consulted, in the days preceding the ride, an old map to locate bridges but inevitably out on the road got lost in the maze of lanes. We had to backtrack from two dead ends and found ourselves in villages or rather hamlets, we had never heard of. The aptly named Sutton upon Derwent or Sutton over Derwent was eventually tracked down and we sprinted fast but relieved over the traffic light controlled hump-backed single carriageway bridge before seeing, on the horizon, the unmistakable profile of York Minster.
Three hours from departure we reached central York and Alice's pop-up cafe.
I was in a bad state for the exertion. Legs raised up the wall of the living room gave some relief from toxins and cramps. My damp clothing was draped over the back of a chair against a storage heater. Washing my face with cold water gave me a distinctly salty taste from sweat and road grime.
The thought of the return ride was intimidating although actually getting to York after 48 miles was a matter of self congratulation and immense surprise.
The home leg was to be due south to Selby along the tarmac surfaced course of the old railway line before a westward turn. This went well under the influence of caffeine and sugar but nearing Selby the skies darkened and it started to rain promising to sap our energy.
It rained for the next three hours, heavily and with standing water creeping across the carriageway we became speckled with mud and thoroughly soaked.
Oncoming cars with their headlights on meant the downpour was not moving away anytime soon.
We were now back on what we would call home turf and this was reassuring although we were under no illusions that we had a further 60 minutes or so out in the weather.
Lucozade Sport at 79p a bottle is cheap and cheerful and a shop purchase at the 15 miles to go point helped me limp back to the house in reasonable physiological condition.
We knew we had gone some distance in our cumulative 7 hours on the saddle. It certainly felt so on buttocks and legs but the achievement of 100 miles gives a feeling that surpasses all bodily pains.
Saturday 25 April 2015
Labour Manifesto for Children
I was born in 1963. Thank goodness.
According to the childrens book of "Helping at Home" brought out in 1961 any child capable of standing up, of reasonable mobility, co-ordination and upper body strength was destined for domestic servitude at the beck and call of their Mummy and Daddy. I have seen and carefully studied the book after having come across it stashed away as though intentionally hidden from subsequent generations out of shame and fear of retribution. By my calculation those children most exposed to the inhumanities described in great detail and accurate English grammar will now be in the age range of 59 to 63. If you know of any survivors of his period please approach them and give them a warm hug and some words of genuine encouragement and support for they are a forgotten and downtrodden generation.
You will recognise them easily in the street. Smartly dressed, well groomed and with impeccable manners and politeness. Look deep into their eyes however and there will an empty void where, otherwise, the fond memories of a proper childhood would twinkle through.
The 1961 servitude apparently began very early in the day. The little boy and girl are already washed and dressed in shorts, cardigan, shirt and elasticated tie and a bight yellow knee length dress with white bobby socks respectively. Their Mummy is in a classic little black number and pearls, immaculately made up even though it is dark outside. " We are helping to lay the table" is the footnote for this scene. It does not state or imply that a hearty and nourishing breakfast was had. A turn of the page shows the children now in the kitchen, well at least it looks like a kitchen comprising an enamel sink unit, single cupboard and a freestanding dresser in the alcove. "We are helping to wash up". Tidy hands that do dishes look red raw.
Upstairs next on the list. "We help Mummy to make the bed", an antiquated and unnecessarily labour intensive arrangement of multiple layers of sheets and a thick eiderdown, lumpy with poor distribution of feathers. I now appreciate how liberating the arrival of the continental quilt must have been some years later.
Physical graft is a major theme of the book. "We help Mummy to dust" and "polish" follow on rapidly with no intervals for orange squash. It is then back to the kitchen "We help Mummy to do some cooking". Presumably this marks the entrance of Daddy who has been very noiceable by his absence so far with expectations of his cooked start to the day. It is now evidently dawn and daylight has arrived. "We help Mummy to hang out the washing". Tasks are very much arranged on a sex and gender hierarchy in this typical household.
I have some sympathy for the Mummy at this stage. Even more so as the two children then "help to feed the animals". These appear to be simple domesticated rabbits but as a source of fresh meat or husbandry training exercise is not specific. Ancillary chores include helping "to sweep the floor". Perhaps Daddy has actually been at work, killing and skinning the rabbits prior to hanging them up to cure.
Into the garden for more hard work. "We help to pick some flowers" and in the interests of sustainability "We help to plant some bulbs". By now the childrens clothes, hands and faces are dirty and sweat streaked but in true propaganda style their demeanour is bright, sparkling and smiley happy. Inside however they are crying.
Surprisingly there is a full public display of the modern day slavery as Mummy, still a Chanel model, takes the children to the town. Daddy comes along in a gaberdine mac, hat, chequed golfing trousers and a bad fashion choice of brown brogues. The images in the book do not show any more of this scene.
Back at home there is a flurry of jobs. "We help to clean the shoes", ".......carry the logs", ".....pick the apples" and "dig potatoes". This illustrates the culture instilled after many years of post war austerity measures. The look on the faces of the boy and girl is one of uniform determination to harvest a good crop and avoid punishment or perhaps being sold to another Mummy and Daddy gangmaster.
Daddy is a stickler for social status and the children next "help to clean the car". He anticipates the comments and admiration from his peers in the office car park for his gleaming saloon car.
At this point in the book there are strong hints that the children are split up on a task basis. The little girl disappears for her indoctrination in the skill sets of womenfolk whilst the boy bonds with his Daddy as he "helps to mend the fence", a sizeable enclosure around the residential compound, "...paint the gate", "....rake the leaves" and ".......tidy the shed". The reward for the young lad is a bonfire but he stands downwind of the smoke and his eyes become red and watery.
The final page in the book of "Helping at Home" is an attempt at normality. The boy and girl sit on a bus in a change of clothes as they head off for school. It has already been a very, very long day.
As the morning sunlight streams into the top deck front seats their worldweary faces appear to be calm and serene. They are in fact in a deep, exhausted sleep and in their dreams they are at play and happy as all children should rightly be.
According to the childrens book of "Helping at Home" brought out in 1961 any child capable of standing up, of reasonable mobility, co-ordination and upper body strength was destined for domestic servitude at the beck and call of their Mummy and Daddy. I have seen and carefully studied the book after having come across it stashed away as though intentionally hidden from subsequent generations out of shame and fear of retribution. By my calculation those children most exposed to the inhumanities described in great detail and accurate English grammar will now be in the age range of 59 to 63. If you know of any survivors of his period please approach them and give them a warm hug and some words of genuine encouragement and support for they are a forgotten and downtrodden generation.
You will recognise them easily in the street. Smartly dressed, well groomed and with impeccable manners and politeness. Look deep into their eyes however and there will an empty void where, otherwise, the fond memories of a proper childhood would twinkle through.
The 1961 servitude apparently began very early in the day. The little boy and girl are already washed and dressed in shorts, cardigan, shirt and elasticated tie and a bight yellow knee length dress with white bobby socks respectively. Their Mummy is in a classic little black number and pearls, immaculately made up even though it is dark outside. " We are helping to lay the table" is the footnote for this scene. It does not state or imply that a hearty and nourishing breakfast was had. A turn of the page shows the children now in the kitchen, well at least it looks like a kitchen comprising an enamel sink unit, single cupboard and a freestanding dresser in the alcove. "We are helping to wash up". Tidy hands that do dishes look red raw.
Upstairs next on the list. "We help Mummy to make the bed", an antiquated and unnecessarily labour intensive arrangement of multiple layers of sheets and a thick eiderdown, lumpy with poor distribution of feathers. I now appreciate how liberating the arrival of the continental quilt must have been some years later.
Physical graft is a major theme of the book. "We help Mummy to dust" and "polish" follow on rapidly with no intervals for orange squash. It is then back to the kitchen "We help Mummy to do some cooking". Presumably this marks the entrance of Daddy who has been very noiceable by his absence so far with expectations of his cooked start to the day. It is now evidently dawn and daylight has arrived. "We help Mummy to hang out the washing". Tasks are very much arranged on a sex and gender hierarchy in this typical household.
I have some sympathy for the Mummy at this stage. Even more so as the two children then "help to feed the animals". These appear to be simple domesticated rabbits but as a source of fresh meat or husbandry training exercise is not specific. Ancillary chores include helping "to sweep the floor". Perhaps Daddy has actually been at work, killing and skinning the rabbits prior to hanging them up to cure.
Into the garden for more hard work. "We help to pick some flowers" and in the interests of sustainability "We help to plant some bulbs". By now the childrens clothes, hands and faces are dirty and sweat streaked but in true propaganda style their demeanour is bright, sparkling and smiley happy. Inside however they are crying.
Surprisingly there is a full public display of the modern day slavery as Mummy, still a Chanel model, takes the children to the town. Daddy comes along in a gaberdine mac, hat, chequed golfing trousers and a bad fashion choice of brown brogues. The images in the book do not show any more of this scene.
Back at home there is a flurry of jobs. "We help to clean the shoes", ".......carry the logs", ".....pick the apples" and "dig potatoes". This illustrates the culture instilled after many years of post war austerity measures. The look on the faces of the boy and girl is one of uniform determination to harvest a good crop and avoid punishment or perhaps being sold to another Mummy and Daddy gangmaster.
Daddy is a stickler for social status and the children next "help to clean the car". He anticipates the comments and admiration from his peers in the office car park for his gleaming saloon car.
At this point in the book there are strong hints that the children are split up on a task basis. The little girl disappears for her indoctrination in the skill sets of womenfolk whilst the boy bonds with his Daddy as he "helps to mend the fence", a sizeable enclosure around the residential compound, "...paint the gate", "....rake the leaves" and ".......tidy the shed". The reward for the young lad is a bonfire but he stands downwind of the smoke and his eyes become red and watery.
The final page in the book of "Helping at Home" is an attempt at normality. The boy and girl sit on a bus in a change of clothes as they head off for school. It has already been a very, very long day.
As the morning sunlight streams into the top deck front seats their worldweary faces appear to be calm and serene. They are in fact in a deep, exhausted sleep and in their dreams they are at play and happy as all children should rightly be.
Friday 24 April 2015
Out for a Duck
After all, the ducks were there first.
They are an integral part and common sight in the city park congregating around the very green, rancid looking lake and frequently found venturing out beyond the park bounds into house gardens and daring to attempt to cross path and busy routes causing panic and mayhem amongst drivers and commuters.
I felt, at 6am, like an intruder as I pedalled around the circuitous road within the greenspace. It had been an impromptu decision on my part to get a bit of exercise. If there had been the faintest indication of wind or precipitation it would have been very easy to hit the snooze button on the alarm and resume my fitful dream of getting up and going out on my bike for a bit of exercise.
The early morning was in fact beautiful. Calm, bright, no breeze to speak of and, for an inner city location, remarkably quiet.
I was a bit sleepy as I collected together my cycling gear but felt excited about the prospect of a rare ride out.
My workload usually confined my two wheel activities to a saturday (with sunday for essential recovery from exertions) or an infrequent afternoon during the midweek if I could manipulate my diary and so this dawn adventure was a bonus.
I edged out of the estate road and made for the entrance to the park which is, conveniently, just around the first corner from my house. The first sensation of cool air on my legs woke me up nicely and I soon found myself in a good pedalling rhythm in an easy low gear.
The road around the park is well worn, even for its non-through road status and I had to dodge the usual deep and abraded potholes but with no oncoming traffic this could be achieved by swerving across to the opposite carriageway.
Although quite early there was already a steady flow of joggers of various shapes, sizes and stages of fitness. I had seen them regularly over a period of months and their progress had been slow but sure. A large black dog running free meant that its owner was out for his usual run. The sight of such a large dark hound could be startling to a first time observer but to me it was quite comforting.
There are two hazardous sections on the 0.7 mile lap of the park.
The first is a left hand bend just past the bowling green which hugs the dense hedge line. Unsighted there can be an oncoming pedestrian to avoid but on this morning it was a succession of private hire cars which cut the corner on their way to pick up a fare.
The second is the unpredictable activity of those resident ducks.
On more than one of my laps they attempted to fly through the spokes of my wheels only just pulling up in time and disappearing into the lower boughs of the park trees.
It was thereafter a pitch battle between me and the ducks.
I had strayed onto their territory and was now paying the price.
My determination to complete at least 20 laps before breakfast was at odds with their own intentions of maintaining control of their patch.
They took to waddling across my path with a very well practiced innocent look about them.
Individually they are manageable but in a combined group there is a certain amount of intimidation. I thought that on a later lap the dry tarmac of the road looked suspiciously soiled and slippery.
As for the noise, their incessant, agitated quacking was actually drowning out the usually all dominating sound of traffic.
I decided to call it a day and head back to the house. As though wallowing in a moral victory there were two of them waiting for me on the entrance to the estate. As I passed them I was sure they grinned as only a duck can.
They are an integral part and common sight in the city park congregating around the very green, rancid looking lake and frequently found venturing out beyond the park bounds into house gardens and daring to attempt to cross path and busy routes causing panic and mayhem amongst drivers and commuters.
I felt, at 6am, like an intruder as I pedalled around the circuitous road within the greenspace. It had been an impromptu decision on my part to get a bit of exercise. If there had been the faintest indication of wind or precipitation it would have been very easy to hit the snooze button on the alarm and resume my fitful dream of getting up and going out on my bike for a bit of exercise.
The early morning was in fact beautiful. Calm, bright, no breeze to speak of and, for an inner city location, remarkably quiet.
I was a bit sleepy as I collected together my cycling gear but felt excited about the prospect of a rare ride out.
My workload usually confined my two wheel activities to a saturday (with sunday for essential recovery from exertions) or an infrequent afternoon during the midweek if I could manipulate my diary and so this dawn adventure was a bonus.
I edged out of the estate road and made for the entrance to the park which is, conveniently, just around the first corner from my house. The first sensation of cool air on my legs woke me up nicely and I soon found myself in a good pedalling rhythm in an easy low gear.
The road around the park is well worn, even for its non-through road status and I had to dodge the usual deep and abraded potholes but with no oncoming traffic this could be achieved by swerving across to the opposite carriageway.
Although quite early there was already a steady flow of joggers of various shapes, sizes and stages of fitness. I had seen them regularly over a period of months and their progress had been slow but sure. A large black dog running free meant that its owner was out for his usual run. The sight of such a large dark hound could be startling to a first time observer but to me it was quite comforting.
There are two hazardous sections on the 0.7 mile lap of the park.
The first is a left hand bend just past the bowling green which hugs the dense hedge line. Unsighted there can be an oncoming pedestrian to avoid but on this morning it was a succession of private hire cars which cut the corner on their way to pick up a fare.
The second is the unpredictable activity of those resident ducks.
On more than one of my laps they attempted to fly through the spokes of my wheels only just pulling up in time and disappearing into the lower boughs of the park trees.
It was thereafter a pitch battle between me and the ducks.
I had strayed onto their territory and was now paying the price.
My determination to complete at least 20 laps before breakfast was at odds with their own intentions of maintaining control of their patch.
They took to waddling across my path with a very well practiced innocent look about them.
Individually they are manageable but in a combined group there is a certain amount of intimidation. I thought that on a later lap the dry tarmac of the road looked suspiciously soiled and slippery.
As for the noise, their incessant, agitated quacking was actually drowning out the usually all dominating sound of traffic.
I decided to call it a day and head back to the house. As though wallowing in a moral victory there were two of them waiting for me on the entrance to the estate. As I passed them I was sure they grinned as only a duck can.
Thursday 23 April 2015
Rhubarb on the Roundabout
There are those who will always garden- for food, for pleasure, for the feeling of productivity, for health and exercise, for nutrition, for love of the outdoors. There are thousands of reasons why people find a relationship with plants important.
It is also true that some people need gardens and seek them out wherever they are, while others do not feel that pull.
City-dwellers are not fundamentally different from those who live in less populated areas, in that they too want healthy food and a chance to spend time outdoors in lush, green spaces.
Cities draw people for many reasons- be it potential for financial success, access to knowledge, art, literature, other human beings, a desire for a close community with little need for transportation, the list goes on and on.
On May 23, 2007 for the first time in human history, the world population became more urban than rural. That is, more people live in cities and towns than in less inhabited areas. Between now and 2030 nearly all population growth will be in urban areas of developing nations, where some cities are growing two or three times faster than the country’s overall population. This trend is equivalent to adding a city of one million residents every week (UN-HABITAT 2004).
Gardening has been in and out of style throughout history and culture. Sometimes it is integral to survival as in the gardens of the Jewish ghettos of Europe in the 1930s and 40s. Sometimes it brings simple pleasure as in the lush gardens of the Roman and Arabic cultures and before in ancient cultures.
Since the settlement of nomadic peoples into settlements and communities, cities have been inextricably connected with the crops that sustain them. Food production had to take place close to cities because transportation was slow and food was perishable. Food was grown either within or directly bordering the limits of the town. Many civilizations had complex and efficient forms of growing and transporting foods to sustain cities.
In ancient Sumer, said to be one of the first agrarian civilisations in the fertile cresent, about 90% of the population, living in cities ,were food-producing peasants working in the surrounding well irrigated fields.
Large cities are not new. More than a thousand years ago, Baghdad was home to in excess of one million people and the floating islands of Mexico city fed its population of 200,000. These were the megacities of the past. Archeologists frequently find sites with incredible earth and water works in and around ancient cities.
Machu Picchu, the ancient Incan city in what is now Peru was well known for supporting its self on terraced and irrigated fields surrounding the mountain city.
There were frequently kitchen gardens and orchards within the walls of medieval fortesses.
In Pompeii each household had its own gardens used not only for food but also as a central place for the family to socialise.
Arabs grew beautiful gardens full of fruit trees and ornamental irrigation in the form of pools and streams throughout their towns and cities, and spread these gardens to every place they moved around the Mediterranean and into Europe.
Historically, people have used urban agriculture for more than just supplying food.
Excrement and wastewater may be bad for human health, but they can be excellent for fertilising crops. In nineteenth-century Paris, gardeners found an excellent way to turn unwanted horse manure from all over the city into valuable salad greens that were available year-round. Every year they turned over one million tons of stable horse manure (the city’s transportation service) into 100,000 tons of out-of-season salad, harvested 3 to 6 times a year. So much salad was produced that every person in paris could have eaten 50kg per year. The production was biggest in the last third of the 1800’s. Today there is a Marais district, but the name is all that is left of the expansive market gardens that covered a sixth of the city.
War gardens played an important role in the nation-wide effort in both the two world wars. These victory gardens made gardening a patriot activity and introduced gardening as an activity for everyone, not just those too poor to buy their own food.
Later, in the late 1960s and 1970s, community gardening started to make a comeback as a hobby. Organic gardening and community farms became popular and many cities around the country started community garden schemes for their residents. Not only were urban gardens important for food, but also to bring pleasure and and create a community space in the community.Urban allotments have also sprung up in many urban and metropolitan areas.
Urban agriculture can be done in a wide variety of places: vacant sites, back yards, rooftops, window containers, city parks, roadside verges, steep slopes, river banks,beneath high tension lines, beside railway lines , in schoolyards, hospitals, at the boundary of cities, even underground or up the sides of buildings.
So what are you waiting for. Get Digging.
(Source; Gratefully acknowledged- Sprouts in The Sidewalk Blog 2008)
It is also true that some people need gardens and seek them out wherever they are, while others do not feel that pull.
City-dwellers are not fundamentally different from those who live in less populated areas, in that they too want healthy food and a chance to spend time outdoors in lush, green spaces.
Cities draw people for many reasons- be it potential for financial success, access to knowledge, art, literature, other human beings, a desire for a close community with little need for transportation, the list goes on and on.
On May 23, 2007 for the first time in human history, the world population became more urban than rural. That is, more people live in cities and towns than in less inhabited areas. Between now and 2030 nearly all population growth will be in urban areas of developing nations, where some cities are growing two or three times faster than the country’s overall population. This trend is equivalent to adding a city of one million residents every week (UN-HABITAT 2004).
Gardening has been in and out of style throughout history and culture. Sometimes it is integral to survival as in the gardens of the Jewish ghettos of Europe in the 1930s and 40s. Sometimes it brings simple pleasure as in the lush gardens of the Roman and Arabic cultures and before in ancient cultures.
Since the settlement of nomadic peoples into settlements and communities, cities have been inextricably connected with the crops that sustain them. Food production had to take place close to cities because transportation was slow and food was perishable. Food was grown either within or directly bordering the limits of the town. Many civilizations had complex and efficient forms of growing and transporting foods to sustain cities.
In ancient Sumer, said to be one of the first agrarian civilisations in the fertile cresent, about 90% of the population, living in cities ,were food-producing peasants working in the surrounding well irrigated fields.
Large cities are not new. More than a thousand years ago, Baghdad was home to in excess of one million people and the floating islands of Mexico city fed its population of 200,000. These were the megacities of the past. Archeologists frequently find sites with incredible earth and water works in and around ancient cities.
Machu Picchu, the ancient Incan city in what is now Peru was well known for supporting its self on terraced and irrigated fields surrounding the mountain city.
There were frequently kitchen gardens and orchards within the walls of medieval fortesses.
In Pompeii each household had its own gardens used not only for food but also as a central place for the family to socialise.
Arabs grew beautiful gardens full of fruit trees and ornamental irrigation in the form of pools and streams throughout their towns and cities, and spread these gardens to every place they moved around the Mediterranean and into Europe.
Historically, people have used urban agriculture for more than just supplying food.
Excrement and wastewater may be bad for human health, but they can be excellent for fertilising crops. In nineteenth-century Paris, gardeners found an excellent way to turn unwanted horse manure from all over the city into valuable salad greens that were available year-round. Every year they turned over one million tons of stable horse manure (the city’s transportation service) into 100,000 tons of out-of-season salad, harvested 3 to 6 times a year. So much salad was produced that every person in paris could have eaten 50kg per year. The production was biggest in the last third of the 1800’s. Today there is a Marais district, but the name is all that is left of the expansive market gardens that covered a sixth of the city.
War gardens played an important role in the nation-wide effort in both the two world wars. These victory gardens made gardening a patriot activity and introduced gardening as an activity for everyone, not just those too poor to buy their own food.
Later, in the late 1960s and 1970s, community gardening started to make a comeback as a hobby. Organic gardening and community farms became popular and many cities around the country started community garden schemes for their residents. Not only were urban gardens important for food, but also to bring pleasure and and create a community space in the community.Urban allotments have also sprung up in many urban and metropolitan areas.
Urban agriculture can be done in a wide variety of places: vacant sites, back yards, rooftops, window containers, city parks, roadside verges, steep slopes, river banks,beneath high tension lines, beside railway lines , in schoolyards, hospitals, at the boundary of cities, even underground or up the sides of buildings.
So what are you waiting for. Get Digging.
(Source; Gratefully acknowledged- Sprouts in The Sidewalk Blog 2008)
Wednesday 22 April 2015
Hello Me!
There is something very scary about the thought that you may, for all your uniqueness, actually have an identical twin somewhere in the world with whom you have no familial or other link whatsoever.
The term Doppelganger refers to this phenonema which, through popular fiction and in particular the horror genre, has come to take on a very sinister aspect.
I remember the offerings of The House of Hammer in the 1970's which featured the nightmare scenario of being pursued ,tormented then supplanted by something with your own face and physique but otherwise, hopefully, no real depth of character or personality.
Science Fiction movies were also strong on frighteners of bodysnatchers and clones or where aliens just morphed into your skin and took over your life.
I have, on occasion, attracted a second glance from a passer-by who thought I was Alan Titchmarsh or Harry Enfield but if actually accosted on the street and asked about it I know it is the time to go on a serious diet and health drive.
I was once, but admittedly with no real commitment on their part, told that I could make a bit of extra income as a celebrity look-a-likey as the aforementioned celebrity gardener and presenter but only if I could find a buxom, ginger woman to make up the old televison double act.
There is ongoing debate as to whether there is such a thing as a Doppelganger and if so is it just coincidence or a matter of scientific proof.
To this end , three University Students in Dublin, Eire recently started a challenge between themselves to find what they called "Twin Strangers".
The task involved using the internet to track down and make contact with potential candidates and all to be done within one month.
Scientists in the forensic and facial recognition sphere are of the opinion that the existence of Doppelgangers is highly unlikely although we may feel a close affinity to others because of the way the brain perceives facial features. Others may not see any resemblance at all because we all process main facial features in a different way.
Bombarded with thousands of submissions from all over the world the Twin Strangers Project realised one match at the halfway point and to date three more females have been contacted.
The project has excited considerable media interest and is sure to continue to do so for many years to come as the thought of a Doppelganger both thrills and scares in equal proportion.
https://youtu.be/L4jv1Vafpgo
The term Doppelganger refers to this phenonema which, through popular fiction and in particular the horror genre, has come to take on a very sinister aspect.
I remember the offerings of The House of Hammer in the 1970's which featured the nightmare scenario of being pursued ,tormented then supplanted by something with your own face and physique but otherwise, hopefully, no real depth of character or personality.
Science Fiction movies were also strong on frighteners of bodysnatchers and clones or where aliens just morphed into your skin and took over your life.
I have, on occasion, attracted a second glance from a passer-by who thought I was Alan Titchmarsh or Harry Enfield but if actually accosted on the street and asked about it I know it is the time to go on a serious diet and health drive.
I was once, but admittedly with no real commitment on their part, told that I could make a bit of extra income as a celebrity look-a-likey as the aforementioned celebrity gardener and presenter but only if I could find a buxom, ginger woman to make up the old televison double act.
There is ongoing debate as to whether there is such a thing as a Doppelganger and if so is it just coincidence or a matter of scientific proof.
To this end , three University Students in Dublin, Eire recently started a challenge between themselves to find what they called "Twin Strangers".
The task involved using the internet to track down and make contact with potential candidates and all to be done within one month.
Scientists in the forensic and facial recognition sphere are of the opinion that the existence of Doppelgangers is highly unlikely although we may feel a close affinity to others because of the way the brain perceives facial features. Others may not see any resemblance at all because we all process main facial features in a different way.
Bombarded with thousands of submissions from all over the world the Twin Strangers Project realised one match at the halfway point and to date three more females have been contacted.
The project has excited considerable media interest and is sure to continue to do so for many years to come as the thought of a Doppelganger both thrills and scares in equal proportion.
https://youtu.be/L4jv1Vafpgo
Tuesday 21 April 2015
Cycling; Guide to Etiquette
One of the greatest experiences in cycling is riding out in a big club group.
This is rarely seen nowadays being an inevitable consequence of working and family commitments which prevents even the keen and like minded bike enthusiasts from getting together and just enjoying each others company out on the road.
Most clubs have a regular midweek and weekend ride appealing to, in this area, those who call themselves "The Geriatrics" and the younger ones, respectively, with ambitions to progress to competing in races, either mass start or against the clock.
I joined an active cycling club way back in my student days in Nottingham and being away from home I was soon adopted by its members and appreciated their friendship and hospitality which often included hot food and use of a washing machine.
Much roadcraft and tactical sense was learned in the club peleton on the sunday endurance ride either the hard way by being left exhausted and grazed or by listening intently to the oldies who were hard cases when it came bike riding and knew every trick in the book.
There was a defined hierarchy and social order in the ranks of paired riders, some 12 or more rows deep as we made our way from the Market Square in Nottingham out to all points of the compass. It was quite a climb out from the city going north and west heading for Mansfield or The Peak District and slightly less to Grantham in the east. South to Loughborough started off fast and flat but with a few gradients and drags later on.
If we met another large club group, which in a strong cycling area was quite common, there would be a good deal of banter in the process of overtaking or general abuse if crossing on a particular route. Everyone knew each other anyway from years of mutual enjoyment of the sport and all things cycling.
The emphasis on the ride was training but the sweetener was always a stopover at a popular greasy spoon cafe for a huge steaming cup of tea or hot chocolate and a hub-cap sized plate of something in tomato sauce, baked beans typically or spaghetti hoops if feeling euphoric.
After the break the pace usually hotted up and the peleton would ebb, flow and fracture as those feeling fittest raced for any small excuse of a landmark such as a town or village marker or the crest of a hill. Gradually, back in the city boundary people would go their own way and the number would dwindle down to nothing.
It was a hard few hours but amongst most of the enjoyable I have ever experienced on two wheels.
The week could not pass quick enough until the next run.
I recently came across some guidance on how to ride in a peleton in the web pages of a club from British Columbia, Canada - the Sidney Velo.
These include the following;
Avoid hard braking – brake as lightly as possible to not crash the riders behind. Remember – you are responsible for the safety of the riders behind you.
Avoid sudden movements – move slowly when going left or right or slowing down.
Always signal your intention to turn, move sideways, slow down, or stop with hand signals and verbally. Never assume that the rider beside you knows that we always turn here. Signal early enough to give those following time to react.
Do not overlap wheels in a paceline – unless you enjoy group road rash and rage!
Do not even think about using aero bars – they are for fast solo riding only.
Stand to climb at the top of a pedal stroke to keep your bike from slowing suddenly and crashing the riders behind. Saying “standing” doesn’t hurt.
Warn the riders behind of obstacles such as glass, gravel, debris, potholes, parked cars, pedestrians, and oil slicks with hand signals or verbally. Be aware that at high speeds the lead rider may not always be able to point out obstacles in time for you to avoid them.
Warn other riders or pedestrians when you are overtaking them. Call out “on your left” or “on your right”. Ride at moderate speed on trails when other trail users are present.
Warn other riders of vehicle traffic. “Car up”, “car back”, “car left” and “car right” are the usual warnings.
Stay to the right of the roadway in a single or double file, depending on the width of the road and the amount of traffic. Blocking the road is a sure-fire recipe for motorist road rage.
Do not sprint through on-coming traffic at stop signs, left turns, and roundabouts. It makes us look like irresponsible clowns and leaves the rest of the group struggling to catch up. Stop and start together as a group.
Yield at stop signs, stop at red lights, and wait for your turn at 4-way stop intersections.
Left turn protocol – lead rider signals intention to turn – last rider moves left into the turning lane when it is safe – then the group moves into the turning lane. Lead rider makes the left turn when the gap in the traffic is sufficient for the whole group to cross.
Keep track of the riders behind you – if someone has a flat or mechanical, stop the group and render assistance. If you have a flat or mechanical, let the riders ahead know. If someone has been dropped due to the speed of the group, slow the group, drop back to pull the rider back up to the group, or divide into faster and slower groups. No one should be left alone on a group ride.
Ease up at the tops of hills and after sprints to allow dropped riders to rejoin the group.
Don’t sit in the group for kilometres, enjoying the draft created by the riders on the front, and then attack. If you have that much energy, go to the front and tow the group for a few kilometres.
Take a steady pull when you get to the front of the group, maintaining the same speed while the rider coming off the front recovers. If you are strong, accelerate slowly to raise the speed of the group. Look back occasionally and ease up if you are dropping the group – unless you would really rather ride alone.
When you want to come off the front, signal the rider behind and pull to the left and slide back so that only one rider (you) is in the traffic lane.
Wet weather group riding requires a rear fender with a rigid flap extending almost to the ground to avoid spraying riders behind with water and mud. Stand about 1.5 to 2 metres behind your bike; if you can see any part of the rear tire, the fender/flap is not adequate.
Ensure that no riders are in the firing line when you spit or blow your nose – out is better than down. Move away from other riders and account for the wind!
Do not listen to the radio or music while riding in the group, as it may prevent you from hearing warnings from other riders or traffic or be a distraction. Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss any of Willi’s jokes!
Be courteous when there are disagreements with other riders or road users – anger only makes things worse. Acknowledge courteous behaviour by motorists with a wave – we need all the friends we can get.
This is rarely seen nowadays being an inevitable consequence of working and family commitments which prevents even the keen and like minded bike enthusiasts from getting together and just enjoying each others company out on the road.
Most clubs have a regular midweek and weekend ride appealing to, in this area, those who call themselves "The Geriatrics" and the younger ones, respectively, with ambitions to progress to competing in races, either mass start or against the clock.
I joined an active cycling club way back in my student days in Nottingham and being away from home I was soon adopted by its members and appreciated their friendship and hospitality which often included hot food and use of a washing machine.
Much roadcraft and tactical sense was learned in the club peleton on the sunday endurance ride either the hard way by being left exhausted and grazed or by listening intently to the oldies who were hard cases when it came bike riding and knew every trick in the book.
There was a defined hierarchy and social order in the ranks of paired riders, some 12 or more rows deep as we made our way from the Market Square in Nottingham out to all points of the compass. It was quite a climb out from the city going north and west heading for Mansfield or The Peak District and slightly less to Grantham in the east. South to Loughborough started off fast and flat but with a few gradients and drags later on.
If we met another large club group, which in a strong cycling area was quite common, there would be a good deal of banter in the process of overtaking or general abuse if crossing on a particular route. Everyone knew each other anyway from years of mutual enjoyment of the sport and all things cycling.
The emphasis on the ride was training but the sweetener was always a stopover at a popular greasy spoon cafe for a huge steaming cup of tea or hot chocolate and a hub-cap sized plate of something in tomato sauce, baked beans typically or spaghetti hoops if feeling euphoric.
After the break the pace usually hotted up and the peleton would ebb, flow and fracture as those feeling fittest raced for any small excuse of a landmark such as a town or village marker or the crest of a hill. Gradually, back in the city boundary people would go their own way and the number would dwindle down to nothing.
It was a hard few hours but amongst most of the enjoyable I have ever experienced on two wheels.
The week could not pass quick enough until the next run.
I recently came across some guidance on how to ride in a peleton in the web pages of a club from British Columbia, Canada - the Sidney Velo.
These include the following;
Avoid hard braking – brake as lightly as possible to not crash the riders behind. Remember – you are responsible for the safety of the riders behind you.
Avoid sudden movements – move slowly when going left or right or slowing down.
Always signal your intention to turn, move sideways, slow down, or stop with hand signals and verbally. Never assume that the rider beside you knows that we always turn here. Signal early enough to give those following time to react.
Do not overlap wheels in a paceline – unless you enjoy group road rash and rage!
Do not even think about using aero bars – they are for fast solo riding only.
Stand to climb at the top of a pedal stroke to keep your bike from slowing suddenly and crashing the riders behind. Saying “standing” doesn’t hurt.
Warn the riders behind of obstacles such as glass, gravel, debris, potholes, parked cars, pedestrians, and oil slicks with hand signals or verbally. Be aware that at high speeds the lead rider may not always be able to point out obstacles in time for you to avoid them.
Warn other riders or pedestrians when you are overtaking them. Call out “on your left” or “on your right”. Ride at moderate speed on trails when other trail users are present.
Warn other riders of vehicle traffic. “Car up”, “car back”, “car left” and “car right” are the usual warnings.
Stay to the right of the roadway in a single or double file, depending on the width of the road and the amount of traffic. Blocking the road is a sure-fire recipe for motorist road rage.
Do not sprint through on-coming traffic at stop signs, left turns, and roundabouts. It makes us look like irresponsible clowns and leaves the rest of the group struggling to catch up. Stop and start together as a group.
Yield at stop signs, stop at red lights, and wait for your turn at 4-way stop intersections.
Left turn protocol – lead rider signals intention to turn – last rider moves left into the turning lane when it is safe – then the group moves into the turning lane. Lead rider makes the left turn when the gap in the traffic is sufficient for the whole group to cross.
Keep track of the riders behind you – if someone has a flat or mechanical, stop the group and render assistance. If you have a flat or mechanical, let the riders ahead know. If someone has been dropped due to the speed of the group, slow the group, drop back to pull the rider back up to the group, or divide into faster and slower groups. No one should be left alone on a group ride.
Ease up at the tops of hills and after sprints to allow dropped riders to rejoin the group.
Don’t sit in the group for kilometres, enjoying the draft created by the riders on the front, and then attack. If you have that much energy, go to the front and tow the group for a few kilometres.
Take a steady pull when you get to the front of the group, maintaining the same speed while the rider coming off the front recovers. If you are strong, accelerate slowly to raise the speed of the group. Look back occasionally and ease up if you are dropping the group – unless you would really rather ride alone.
When you want to come off the front, signal the rider behind and pull to the left and slide back so that only one rider (you) is in the traffic lane.
Wet weather group riding requires a rear fender with a rigid flap extending almost to the ground to avoid spraying riders behind with water and mud. Stand about 1.5 to 2 metres behind your bike; if you can see any part of the rear tire, the fender/flap is not adequate.
Ensure that no riders are in the firing line when you spit or blow your nose – out is better than down. Move away from other riders and account for the wind!
Do not listen to the radio or music while riding in the group, as it may prevent you from hearing warnings from other riders or traffic or be a distraction. Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss any of Willi’s jokes!
Be courteous when there are disagreements with other riders or road users – anger only makes things worse. Acknowledge courteous behaviour by motorists with a wave – we need all the friends we can get.
Monday 20 April 2015
Shameless Plug
Calm is restored, there is order in the chaos at last.
If only the current troubles in the wider world could be resolved so simply.
I have been anxious and stressed about this particular thing.
Every time I have passed through my garage (integral) or when it has been necessary to retrieve something from the plastic tool storage box I have been reminded of my act of betrayal.
I cannot actually recall why I did it.
One reason may be that my collection of tools is very old. Some I have purchased for a particular domestic exploit. Others I have acquired by roundabout means or where contractors have left them behind.
They all have a common factor and that is they connect to the power supply at the socket by a wired up plug.
This may sound a bit strange but not so when you consider that more modern and current appliances have a moulded, fitted plug that cannot be tampered with.
I was taught at an early age how to wire up a traditional plug.
This was in days of black and red sheathing ( usually without an earth connection) and latterly in blue and brown, possibly with a green and yellow wrapped earthing. It is a fiddly thing to do requiring some dexterity and nimble hands and often complicated by the need to strip back the plastic cover to get enough copper wire to make a contact in the terminal.
Over time, when it has been necessary to throw away something with a wired up plug I have always taken it off either by carefully dismantling the screws or just cutting through the flex. They have become important and valued things to wick away in the tool box in readiness for future use.
However, some time ago I found that my stock of loose plugs had been depleted and I needed one to replace one damaged in use attached to a much loved radio.
I scoured the house for a donor appliance, thinking that the least used example could be plundered.
Not being a great exponent of DIY many of my smaller power tools have lain dormant for long periods and with changing fads and fashions domestic appliances have become redundant and so I compiled a shortlist of potential candidates.
These included a wallpaper steamer (living in a 1970's house I do not have any papered walls), coffee grinder (I just cannot be bothered to grind whole beans), old juicer (it is cheaper and easier to just buy boxed fruit juice) and an antique Black and Decker drill with hammer action setting (a bit scary to use).
The latter was inherited from my late father in law, George, himself a patiently skilled and clever craftsman.
I was privileged to be asked to look after it by my wife's family although was, from the start, a bit overawed by the responsibility of it all. Soon after being entrusted to my custody I mislaid the special key required to fit the various sized drill bits. This was unfortunate as for the previous forty or so years it had always been tied to the power cable by hessian string. This rendered it unuseable until the missing implement was eventually tracked down in the far recesses of the garage .
My wife often recounted fond childhood memories of using the drill. In those days of little Health and Safety guidance she would regularly and wholly unsupervised use it to make holes in the garden shed, bits of old wood and any expanses of masonry that happened to attract her attention.
I dare not let on that I had lost the ability to use the drill by my carelessness and opted for delaying tactics if she wanted anything doing around the house that would involve its multi-functions.
So, it seemed to me reasonable to remove the plug from the redundant tool and appropriate it to the radio.
Minus its loyal plug the drill was confined to the tool box and gradually sank down, as though in quicksand, to the lower reaches.
Perhaps this was to be expected of a good tool, embarassed by losing its purpose.
I did not come across a replacement surplus plug until just yesterday when my Mother in Law's gigantic boxed television was scrapped in favour of a flat screen version.
I thought immediately of the old Black and Decker and retrieved it from amongst the small screws, fixings and wood shavings that had formed its nest or resting place for some years.
It was a joyful act to prepare the plug for reconnection although such was the age of the wires to the drill that I was having trouble recalling where the black and red wires went respectively. After a bit of trial and error and a few false starts the drill burst into life with the merest squeeze on the handle mounted switch. It was as though brand new and keen to get to work.
Above the raucous grating staccato hammer action setting I was convinced that I could hear the voice of George. I like to think that he was expressing approval of my restoration of his faithful drill although he would more likely be critical of my reckless and totally disrespectful use of it.
If only the current troubles in the wider world could be resolved so simply.
I have been anxious and stressed about this particular thing.
Every time I have passed through my garage (integral) or when it has been necessary to retrieve something from the plastic tool storage box I have been reminded of my act of betrayal.
I cannot actually recall why I did it.
One reason may be that my collection of tools is very old. Some I have purchased for a particular domestic exploit. Others I have acquired by roundabout means or where contractors have left them behind.
They all have a common factor and that is they connect to the power supply at the socket by a wired up plug.
This may sound a bit strange but not so when you consider that more modern and current appliances have a moulded, fitted plug that cannot be tampered with.
I was taught at an early age how to wire up a traditional plug.
This was in days of black and red sheathing ( usually without an earth connection) and latterly in blue and brown, possibly with a green and yellow wrapped earthing. It is a fiddly thing to do requiring some dexterity and nimble hands and often complicated by the need to strip back the plastic cover to get enough copper wire to make a contact in the terminal.
Over time, when it has been necessary to throw away something with a wired up plug I have always taken it off either by carefully dismantling the screws or just cutting through the flex. They have become important and valued things to wick away in the tool box in readiness for future use.
However, some time ago I found that my stock of loose plugs had been depleted and I needed one to replace one damaged in use attached to a much loved radio.
I scoured the house for a donor appliance, thinking that the least used example could be plundered.
Not being a great exponent of DIY many of my smaller power tools have lain dormant for long periods and with changing fads and fashions domestic appliances have become redundant and so I compiled a shortlist of potential candidates.
These included a wallpaper steamer (living in a 1970's house I do not have any papered walls), coffee grinder (I just cannot be bothered to grind whole beans), old juicer (it is cheaper and easier to just buy boxed fruit juice) and an antique Black and Decker drill with hammer action setting (a bit scary to use).
The latter was inherited from my late father in law, George, himself a patiently skilled and clever craftsman.
I was privileged to be asked to look after it by my wife's family although was, from the start, a bit overawed by the responsibility of it all. Soon after being entrusted to my custody I mislaid the special key required to fit the various sized drill bits. This was unfortunate as for the previous forty or so years it had always been tied to the power cable by hessian string. This rendered it unuseable until the missing implement was eventually tracked down in the far recesses of the garage .
My wife often recounted fond childhood memories of using the drill. In those days of little Health and Safety guidance she would regularly and wholly unsupervised use it to make holes in the garden shed, bits of old wood and any expanses of masonry that happened to attract her attention.
I dare not let on that I had lost the ability to use the drill by my carelessness and opted for delaying tactics if she wanted anything doing around the house that would involve its multi-functions.
So, it seemed to me reasonable to remove the plug from the redundant tool and appropriate it to the radio.
Minus its loyal plug the drill was confined to the tool box and gradually sank down, as though in quicksand, to the lower reaches.
Perhaps this was to be expected of a good tool, embarassed by losing its purpose.
I did not come across a replacement surplus plug until just yesterday when my Mother in Law's gigantic boxed television was scrapped in favour of a flat screen version.
I thought immediately of the old Black and Decker and retrieved it from amongst the small screws, fixings and wood shavings that had formed its nest or resting place for some years.
It was a joyful act to prepare the plug for reconnection although such was the age of the wires to the drill that I was having trouble recalling where the black and red wires went respectively. After a bit of trial and error and a few false starts the drill burst into life with the merest squeeze on the handle mounted switch. It was as though brand new and keen to get to work.
Above the raucous grating staccato hammer action setting I was convinced that I could hear the voice of George. I like to think that he was expressing approval of my restoration of his faithful drill although he would more likely be critical of my reckless and totally disrespectful use of it.
Sunday 19 April 2015
Ten Foot City; A Social History
It must be a feature common only to the city of Hull.
I refer to the phenomena of the ten foot roadway or as it is referred to with alternate affection and detestation, just a ten foot.
If I happen to mention it in even casual conversation or in a report or correspondence to an out of towner, usually someone of an expensive legal educated background, then there is always a long pregnant pause before a sheepish voice requests clarification of what it comprises. It is, as they say, what it says on the tin. It is a roadway and it is ten feet wide. I know because I have been sad enought to measure them.
The housing stock in Hull has a very high proportion of terraced properties, long regimented blocks with some consisting of perhaps thirty or more dwellings. This was part of the huge expansion of the suburban areas in the period between the two world wars. It was a time of increasing affluence and living standards.
The suburbs were away from the belching industrial operations and less likely to be shrouded in the usual Hull odours of fish processing, tanneries, cocoa and yeast. Car ownership was increasing and although initial very low levels of private cars kept the streets nicely clear and safe for access and children at play, a perceived and attractive selling point for the speculative builders would be the ability to park a car or van in the back garden. The homes, which had all mod cons such as indoor toilets, electric light and heating still required service access for the coal merchant and tradesmen and a cut through the back garden to the ten foot was always preferred to what could be a very long walk around the block.
Under fairly light use the ten foot could sustain an unmade clay based surface or with the better ones being concreted or tarmac dressed. The aggregated rights of way and use over the ten foot demanded reasonable behaviour to prevent obstruction and inconvenience of passage. As car ownership increased the surfaces inevitably became churned up or damaged. A few good citizens would take on the informal duty of carrying out patching repairs for ruts and potholes. The soot and ash residues from the common use of open fires were ideal for impromptu repair.
The owners of end terraced houses with elevations flush to the ten foots would express understandable concerns over echoing noise and vibration from unsociable use as well as a risk of splashing and spraying of accumulated surface water up their walls. In the larger suburban areas of West Hull the ten foots became a paradise for thieves, pilferers and opportunists, a veritable network of escape routes along which to transport ill gotten goods from garden grown soft fruits to the whole contents of a shed..
Parking spaces soon saw the proliferation in numbers of garages and in particular the cheaper timber and asbestos structures. This was in the prime era of that wonder cement bonded material and well before the expressing of concerns on health grounds. Soon the ten foots appeared scruffy and home to every form of construction and style of garages, sheds, aviaries, pigeon lofts, summerhouses and play houses.
By the 1970's cars were rarely driven to be parked at the rear of the houses and many ten foots fell into a deteriorated state. After heavy or persistent rain there were always large pools and ponds to be negotiated by brave souls. I am not aware of any cases of persons being found face down in such a potentially watery grave. Neighbourhood awareness has led in recent years to the postioning of lockable gates at the entrances to the ten foots and this has had a remarkable deterrent effect on crime levels but quite a bonanza for locksmiths in the provision of multiple keys for all those entitled to use the road.
A high proportion of Hull's resident population has therefore grown up with the ten foot. Many scarred knees will have been caused by a rift valley of concrete road sections or loose based gravels and tarmac, as many birthday bicycles left with mangled wheels or frames from frequent jumps and wheelies, a few babies thrown out of prams and buggies by uneven ground and some of these infants actually conceived in the darker shadowy parts of the shanty town of structures.
The ten foot does have some competition on a national basis from the likes of ginnels, snickets, a cut, alley ways, passages and lanes but is intrinsically part of the Hull culture and language and will survive long in the pages of urban folklore of which there is a great richness from that north east City
I refer to the phenomena of the ten foot roadway or as it is referred to with alternate affection and detestation, just a ten foot.
If I happen to mention it in even casual conversation or in a report or correspondence to an out of towner, usually someone of an expensive legal educated background, then there is always a long pregnant pause before a sheepish voice requests clarification of what it comprises. It is, as they say, what it says on the tin. It is a roadway and it is ten feet wide. I know because I have been sad enought to measure them.
The housing stock in Hull has a very high proportion of terraced properties, long regimented blocks with some consisting of perhaps thirty or more dwellings. This was part of the huge expansion of the suburban areas in the period between the two world wars. It was a time of increasing affluence and living standards.
The suburbs were away from the belching industrial operations and less likely to be shrouded in the usual Hull odours of fish processing, tanneries, cocoa and yeast. Car ownership was increasing and although initial very low levels of private cars kept the streets nicely clear and safe for access and children at play, a perceived and attractive selling point for the speculative builders would be the ability to park a car or van in the back garden. The homes, which had all mod cons such as indoor toilets, electric light and heating still required service access for the coal merchant and tradesmen and a cut through the back garden to the ten foot was always preferred to what could be a very long walk around the block.
Under fairly light use the ten foot could sustain an unmade clay based surface or with the better ones being concreted or tarmac dressed. The aggregated rights of way and use over the ten foot demanded reasonable behaviour to prevent obstruction and inconvenience of passage. As car ownership increased the surfaces inevitably became churned up or damaged. A few good citizens would take on the informal duty of carrying out patching repairs for ruts and potholes. The soot and ash residues from the common use of open fires were ideal for impromptu repair.
The owners of end terraced houses with elevations flush to the ten foots would express understandable concerns over echoing noise and vibration from unsociable use as well as a risk of splashing and spraying of accumulated surface water up their walls. In the larger suburban areas of West Hull the ten foots became a paradise for thieves, pilferers and opportunists, a veritable network of escape routes along which to transport ill gotten goods from garden grown soft fruits to the whole contents of a shed..
Parking spaces soon saw the proliferation in numbers of garages and in particular the cheaper timber and asbestos structures. This was in the prime era of that wonder cement bonded material and well before the expressing of concerns on health grounds. Soon the ten foots appeared scruffy and home to every form of construction and style of garages, sheds, aviaries, pigeon lofts, summerhouses and play houses.
By the 1970's cars were rarely driven to be parked at the rear of the houses and many ten foots fell into a deteriorated state. After heavy or persistent rain there were always large pools and ponds to be negotiated by brave souls. I am not aware of any cases of persons being found face down in such a potentially watery grave. Neighbourhood awareness has led in recent years to the postioning of lockable gates at the entrances to the ten foots and this has had a remarkable deterrent effect on crime levels but quite a bonanza for locksmiths in the provision of multiple keys for all those entitled to use the road.
A high proportion of Hull's resident population has therefore grown up with the ten foot. Many scarred knees will have been caused by a rift valley of concrete road sections or loose based gravels and tarmac, as many birthday bicycles left with mangled wheels or frames from frequent jumps and wheelies, a few babies thrown out of prams and buggies by uneven ground and some of these infants actually conceived in the darker shadowy parts of the shanty town of structures.
The ten foot does have some competition on a national basis from the likes of ginnels, snickets, a cut, alley ways, passages and lanes but is intrinsically part of the Hull culture and language and will survive long in the pages of urban folklore of which there is a great richness from that north east City
Saturday 18 April 2015
Sunk Island Feeling
Give a man a map and he is in his element.
There is nothing more thrilling to the male population than opening up a crisp, brand new Ordnance Survey Sheet with everything that it implies and promises by way of new experiences.
The danger arises when a journey is undertaken by memory alone shunning all navigational aids and reference points.
That was my situation today when I set off for Sunk Island with a strong visual impression of my destination. The lady in the estate agents office availed me of the missing hours of the previous recipient of a set of keys for the property in question. He had got hopelessly lost out in the expansive flat lands which stretch for miles towards the northern marshland of the River Humber.
In a completely featureless landscape, that is if you disregard the dispersed houses, tree lined avenues, farmsteads and billowing fields of cereal crops and peas, it is easy to become disorientated and then the doubts and panic set in.
I laughed at the hapless individual and confidently asserted that I knew where to go.
I had, after all, been in the approximate area a few times in the last 25 years.
If I just headed for the evocatively named Stony Creek I could not go wrong.
Stony Creek is at the convergence of three long rural roads but because of the indentation of the land drain and lock gate which release the surface water into said Creek they do not actually join up.
My destination was at or close to that very location.
I knew that for certain but the trouble was selecting the right roadway. My map resource was not the ideal one for such a journey. It was a regional guide, intended to assist travellers in the larger towns and cities and fell well short in the critical detail of an open rural area. I doubted that even a sophisticated Sat Nav would be of any use unless you had the data upload for the Netherlands which would just about cover this remote corner of Yorkshire, England.
Turning off the main coast road brought me to my first choice route to try to find the quaint but functionally named Saltaugh Sands Estate.
It sounded idyllic and I could imagine something akin to a happy holiday camp, albeit more inter war than the latest Butlins. I had come across similar addresses in other parts of the country and these had included a peace camp, the shacks and chalets of conscientious objectors, a naturist commune and a temporary residence for seasonal agricultural workers.
The estate agent, now having fully debriefed the disillusioned visitor of a few days prior mentioned that I was not to be distressed when the metalled road surface ran out and to persist with the loose dressed track and hump backed bridges.
My first choice road seemed well surfaced and seemingly endless. There was no traffic at all although I could see, in the vast acres into the distant horizon, tractors and heavy machinery or rather the dust clouds that they churned up in the dry heat of a summers day. The atmosphere was ripe with country odours and these wafted through my open window. The hot corn smell was comforting and that of the freshly vined peas quite mouth watering. Less enticing was the heavy, sweet and sickly manure smells which were rapidly taking over as the huge agricultural operations churned out the muck to fertilise the freshly harvested land.
At one, if not the only bend in that road in 6 miles a large swine disease control sign forbad me and other motorists to proceed further. I was convinced that I was close to my destination and so completely ignored the ominous warning. In the hazy distance there seemed to be a group of slate roofs and chimneys which I was convinced was my destination.
As the car skidded to a halt at a cul de sac marked by a pile of topsoil I knew that the second choice would be the correct one.
Backtracking seemed to take longer than the outward journey and I was a bit anxious at passing by the pig farm in case a delegation had been sent out to teach me, an obvious townie, the etiquette of controlling fever amongst the pig population.
My start point for the next road brought the trip counter on the dashboard to 12 miles covered and no house found.
This route was a bit deja vu in that it ran quite close and parallel to my first abortive attempt. The outlook and any landmark features were therefore uncannily similar and quite disconcerting. This time the public road petered out even sooner and I crunched down onto a gravelled track. The surface was very well compressed from the passage of evidently quite large and heavy vehicles. I glanced around in case any of them sneaked up on me unannounced if that was possible by something of tangible tonnage.
This route went on for, it must have been seven or eight miles. I was sensitive to damaging my tyres and the prospect of having to be rescued in the middle of nowhere following a puncture or worse was not worth thinking about. A couple of fields away was a settlement made up of dwellings and barns.It looked promising as a candidate for my job but I had no idea, however, how to get to them as the track started to take me farther away.
Perhaps I could leave the car and walk along the headlands as a valid short cut. I decided against that for fear of getting even more disorientated. You sometimes read about people getting lost and perishing in a ditch or drain from fatigue and thirst. Two tractors pulling twin axle trailers approached and I had to pull up sharply onto the verge to give them room to pass. They were laden with fresh peas. I knew this from the fluorescent green liquid which drained out of the tailgate and splashed up and over my bonnet and windscreen.
I had reached another dead end. The Birds Eye convoy was some way away but I hung back in following to disguise my incompetence in navigation.
There was one route left.
Driving along I recognised a few of the farmhouses and some of the traditional cottages that had been built for the resettlement of soldiers from the First World War. Former memories were rekindled and yes, I was now definitely, for sure and for certain heading towards my intended destination.
There were of course more doubts as the tarmac ran out again but I crossed a couple of narrow, steep bridges and then saw the first signage referring to Stony Creek. A few cars were parked up, left by dog walkers, ramblers and twitchers giving the impression of a crowded metropolis after my many miles of lone travelling.
In turning around at the drain outlet parapet I saw a directional post with the name Saltaugh Sands Estate.
I had arrived after some thirty miles and nearly two hours in a trek that should only really have taken a fraction of that time and distance. The house itself was, frankly, a bit of a dump with none of the elusive Shangri-La character that I felt that I deserved for my efforts. On returning the keys to the estate agent I lied that I had not had any trouble finding the place. I think they were not entirely convinced my by claims.
There is nothing more thrilling to the male population than opening up a crisp, brand new Ordnance Survey Sheet with everything that it implies and promises by way of new experiences.
The danger arises when a journey is undertaken by memory alone shunning all navigational aids and reference points.
That was my situation today when I set off for Sunk Island with a strong visual impression of my destination. The lady in the estate agents office availed me of the missing hours of the previous recipient of a set of keys for the property in question. He had got hopelessly lost out in the expansive flat lands which stretch for miles towards the northern marshland of the River Humber.
In a completely featureless landscape, that is if you disregard the dispersed houses, tree lined avenues, farmsteads and billowing fields of cereal crops and peas, it is easy to become disorientated and then the doubts and panic set in.
I laughed at the hapless individual and confidently asserted that I knew where to go.
I had, after all, been in the approximate area a few times in the last 25 years.
If I just headed for the evocatively named Stony Creek I could not go wrong.
Stony Creek is at the convergence of three long rural roads but because of the indentation of the land drain and lock gate which release the surface water into said Creek they do not actually join up.
My destination was at or close to that very location.
I knew that for certain but the trouble was selecting the right roadway. My map resource was not the ideal one for such a journey. It was a regional guide, intended to assist travellers in the larger towns and cities and fell well short in the critical detail of an open rural area. I doubted that even a sophisticated Sat Nav would be of any use unless you had the data upload for the Netherlands which would just about cover this remote corner of Yorkshire, England.
Turning off the main coast road brought me to my first choice route to try to find the quaint but functionally named Saltaugh Sands Estate.
It sounded idyllic and I could imagine something akin to a happy holiday camp, albeit more inter war than the latest Butlins. I had come across similar addresses in other parts of the country and these had included a peace camp, the shacks and chalets of conscientious objectors, a naturist commune and a temporary residence for seasonal agricultural workers.
The estate agent, now having fully debriefed the disillusioned visitor of a few days prior mentioned that I was not to be distressed when the metalled road surface ran out and to persist with the loose dressed track and hump backed bridges.
My first choice road seemed well surfaced and seemingly endless. There was no traffic at all although I could see, in the vast acres into the distant horizon, tractors and heavy machinery or rather the dust clouds that they churned up in the dry heat of a summers day. The atmosphere was ripe with country odours and these wafted through my open window. The hot corn smell was comforting and that of the freshly vined peas quite mouth watering. Less enticing was the heavy, sweet and sickly manure smells which were rapidly taking over as the huge agricultural operations churned out the muck to fertilise the freshly harvested land.
At one, if not the only bend in that road in 6 miles a large swine disease control sign forbad me and other motorists to proceed further. I was convinced that I was close to my destination and so completely ignored the ominous warning. In the hazy distance there seemed to be a group of slate roofs and chimneys which I was convinced was my destination.
As the car skidded to a halt at a cul de sac marked by a pile of topsoil I knew that the second choice would be the correct one.
Backtracking seemed to take longer than the outward journey and I was a bit anxious at passing by the pig farm in case a delegation had been sent out to teach me, an obvious townie, the etiquette of controlling fever amongst the pig population.
My start point for the next road brought the trip counter on the dashboard to 12 miles covered and no house found.
This route was a bit deja vu in that it ran quite close and parallel to my first abortive attempt. The outlook and any landmark features were therefore uncannily similar and quite disconcerting. This time the public road petered out even sooner and I crunched down onto a gravelled track. The surface was very well compressed from the passage of evidently quite large and heavy vehicles. I glanced around in case any of them sneaked up on me unannounced if that was possible by something of tangible tonnage.
This route went on for, it must have been seven or eight miles. I was sensitive to damaging my tyres and the prospect of having to be rescued in the middle of nowhere following a puncture or worse was not worth thinking about. A couple of fields away was a settlement made up of dwellings and barns.It looked promising as a candidate for my job but I had no idea, however, how to get to them as the track started to take me farther away.
Perhaps I could leave the car and walk along the headlands as a valid short cut. I decided against that for fear of getting even more disorientated. You sometimes read about people getting lost and perishing in a ditch or drain from fatigue and thirst. Two tractors pulling twin axle trailers approached and I had to pull up sharply onto the verge to give them room to pass. They were laden with fresh peas. I knew this from the fluorescent green liquid which drained out of the tailgate and splashed up and over my bonnet and windscreen.
I had reached another dead end. The Birds Eye convoy was some way away but I hung back in following to disguise my incompetence in navigation.
There was one route left.
Driving along I recognised a few of the farmhouses and some of the traditional cottages that had been built for the resettlement of soldiers from the First World War. Former memories were rekindled and yes, I was now definitely, for sure and for certain heading towards my intended destination.
There were of course more doubts as the tarmac ran out again but I crossed a couple of narrow, steep bridges and then saw the first signage referring to Stony Creek. A few cars were parked up, left by dog walkers, ramblers and twitchers giving the impression of a crowded metropolis after my many miles of lone travelling.
In turning around at the drain outlet parapet I saw a directional post with the name Saltaugh Sands Estate.
I had arrived after some thirty miles and nearly two hours in a trek that should only really have taken a fraction of that time and distance. The house itself was, frankly, a bit of a dump with none of the elusive Shangri-La character that I felt that I deserved for my efforts. On returning the keys to the estate agent I lied that I had not had any trouble finding the place. I think they were not entirely convinced my by claims.
Friday 17 April 2015
Plane Speaking
What did twelve pence purchase some forty years ago?
That is an easy one for me as that was the cover price of my weekly magazine entitled "Speed and Power"- dedicated to planes, cars, trains, ships and science fiction. It was also the total allowance of pocket money that I received from my parents every seven days.
The publication started in 1974 but only ran for some 89 or so issues before it was taken over by the mega-magazine of Look and Learn.
I lost interest in it after that.
Rather geekily I have kept my collection together and from time to time I browse and reminisce about the amazing technology of that era although such has been the pace of progress in the last four decades that everything featured as revolutionary then does now seem rather crude, basic and clunky.
Speed and Power also did features on characters and events centred on transport and one from the November 7th edition of 1975 is worth re-telling.
It was about a 31 year old aviator, Douglas Corrigan from California who on July 16th 1938 took off from Floyd Bennett Field, New York with the intention of making a non-stop flight across America to Los Angeles.
This was quite a challenge over 2000 miles and particularly so in his choice of plane-a single engined Curtiss Robin, 8 years old with no radio and the most basic of instruments, some of which he had made himself. Corrigan was actually more of an aircraft mechanic than an experienced pilot perhaps lacking a bit of natural ability and aptitude for an endurance flight.
His map for the westerly journey was to be gauged using a page from a school atlas.
Corrigan's attire was only a leather jacket and his rations restricted to a couple of chocolate bars, fig snacks and some water.There was no parachute on board.
Fully laden with extra fuel tanks it took 3000 feet of runway to lurch airborne and gradually ease up to 500 feet, the required height to set off on the planned course.
Unfortunately, a combination of disorientation and stupidity saw Corrigan mis-read the compass set down on the floor near his feet. He unwittingly took up not a westward inland line but, following the wrong end of the needle, began one of the strangest flights in aviation history.
With no means of communication from those on the ground who quickly realised that he was flying in the opposite direction Corrigan remained oblivious to his error. At a cruising altitude of 3000 feet he found himself between two layers of dense cloud giving no chance of visibility of ground landmarks and certainly giving no hint that he was heading out over the Atlantic Ocean.
His actual view from the cockpit was impeded in a forward direction by a bolted on fuel tank and with another wedged in behind his seat. The only real view was acheived by rolling the plane sideways and looking out that way.
Ten hours into the flight a fuel leak washed around his feet and fearing a fire he frantically stabbed a hole in the floor pan with a screwdriver and by banking steeply any surplus liquid was able to drain off and a fireball disaster was averted.
The loss of fuel led Corrigan to consider an emergency landing but any serious thoughts of this would require daylight.
By his reckoning he would shortly have to climb to 8000 feet to clear the Guadalupe Mountains of Texas. At that height there was always a risk of icing up and sure enough a rain storm turned to sleet freezing on the fuselage and wings. De-icing involved poking a long pole out of the window to chip away at the covering on the wings.
Corrigan felt it would be wise to descend to slightly warmer weather and emerging through the cloud base he was shocked to see nothing but a mass of ocean.
At first he thought that he had overshot the west coast and was above the Pacific but then with horror realised the magnitude of his navigational error.
Now airborne for 26 hours he had reached the point of no return.
The sole option was to carry on and hope that the fuel supply lasted.
Ironically, Corrigan had asked for official clearance to emulate the exploit of his great hero Charles Lindbergh in crossing the Atlantic 12 months earlier but was denied permission on the grounds of the lack of airworthiness of the veteran plane. He was now doing it by mistake.
The fuel situation was a major concern but luckily a strong prevailing westerly had swept him along without depleting the on board reserve.
Two hours further on Corrigan sighted a rocky headland and with the engine straining on the last drops of kerosene he was able to land at Baldonnnel Airport, to the south west of Dublin.
The newspapers lapped up his epic story calling him "Wrong Way Corrigan", although many did not believe that he had flown the entire Atlantic in error. He was however a National Hero and returning to New York was given a ticker-tape parade along Broadway.
Corrigan denied any intention and laughed when the Liars Club of America elected him an Honorary Member.
That is an easy one for me as that was the cover price of my weekly magazine entitled "Speed and Power"- dedicated to planes, cars, trains, ships and science fiction. It was also the total allowance of pocket money that I received from my parents every seven days.
The publication started in 1974 but only ran for some 89 or so issues before it was taken over by the mega-magazine of Look and Learn.
I lost interest in it after that.
Rather geekily I have kept my collection together and from time to time I browse and reminisce about the amazing technology of that era although such has been the pace of progress in the last four decades that everything featured as revolutionary then does now seem rather crude, basic and clunky.
Speed and Power also did features on characters and events centred on transport and one from the November 7th edition of 1975 is worth re-telling.
It was about a 31 year old aviator, Douglas Corrigan from California who on July 16th 1938 took off from Floyd Bennett Field, New York with the intention of making a non-stop flight across America to Los Angeles.
This was quite a challenge over 2000 miles and particularly so in his choice of plane-a single engined Curtiss Robin, 8 years old with no radio and the most basic of instruments, some of which he had made himself. Corrigan was actually more of an aircraft mechanic than an experienced pilot perhaps lacking a bit of natural ability and aptitude for an endurance flight.
His map for the westerly journey was to be gauged using a page from a school atlas.
Corrigan's attire was only a leather jacket and his rations restricted to a couple of chocolate bars, fig snacks and some water.There was no parachute on board.
Fully laden with extra fuel tanks it took 3000 feet of runway to lurch airborne and gradually ease up to 500 feet, the required height to set off on the planned course.
Unfortunately, a combination of disorientation and stupidity saw Corrigan mis-read the compass set down on the floor near his feet. He unwittingly took up not a westward inland line but, following the wrong end of the needle, began one of the strangest flights in aviation history.
With no means of communication from those on the ground who quickly realised that he was flying in the opposite direction Corrigan remained oblivious to his error. At a cruising altitude of 3000 feet he found himself between two layers of dense cloud giving no chance of visibility of ground landmarks and certainly giving no hint that he was heading out over the Atlantic Ocean.
His actual view from the cockpit was impeded in a forward direction by a bolted on fuel tank and with another wedged in behind his seat. The only real view was acheived by rolling the plane sideways and looking out that way.
Ten hours into the flight a fuel leak washed around his feet and fearing a fire he frantically stabbed a hole in the floor pan with a screwdriver and by banking steeply any surplus liquid was able to drain off and a fireball disaster was averted.
The loss of fuel led Corrigan to consider an emergency landing but any serious thoughts of this would require daylight.
By his reckoning he would shortly have to climb to 8000 feet to clear the Guadalupe Mountains of Texas. At that height there was always a risk of icing up and sure enough a rain storm turned to sleet freezing on the fuselage and wings. De-icing involved poking a long pole out of the window to chip away at the covering on the wings.
Corrigan felt it would be wise to descend to slightly warmer weather and emerging through the cloud base he was shocked to see nothing but a mass of ocean.
At first he thought that he had overshot the west coast and was above the Pacific but then with horror realised the magnitude of his navigational error.
Now airborne for 26 hours he had reached the point of no return.
The sole option was to carry on and hope that the fuel supply lasted.
Ironically, Corrigan had asked for official clearance to emulate the exploit of his great hero Charles Lindbergh in crossing the Atlantic 12 months earlier but was denied permission on the grounds of the lack of airworthiness of the veteran plane. He was now doing it by mistake.
The fuel situation was a major concern but luckily a strong prevailing westerly had swept him along without depleting the on board reserve.
Two hours further on Corrigan sighted a rocky headland and with the engine straining on the last drops of kerosene he was able to land at Baldonnnel Airport, to the south west of Dublin.
The newspapers lapped up his epic story calling him "Wrong Way Corrigan", although many did not believe that he had flown the entire Atlantic in error. He was however a National Hero and returning to New York was given a ticker-tape parade along Broadway.
Corrigan denied any intention and laughed when the Liars Club of America elected him an Honorary Member.
Thursday 16 April 2015
BFG
One of the greatest authors of children's stories was, of course, Roald Dahl.
He was often asked about what made good writing for children and produced a sort of manifesto or guide to this art.
His primary intention was to entertain but equally as important he wanted to teach a child to be comfortable with a book and the reading of it.
It was his aim to lift the reader into a marvellous, funny and incredible place.
In acheiving this through his much loved works Dahl became very much the voice of the young. They recognised that he was, indeed, one of them.
I regularly read and re-read his stories to my own children when they were little and they were, in equal proportions, scared, amused and shocked by the antics of Matilda, the BFG, The Witches and James and the Giant Peach amongst many others. Their love of his stories persists and even in their twenties they fondly recollect every twist and turn in the narrative.
A common theme of his writing was the attitude towards the grown up characters be they parents, teachers or figures in authority who were regularly attacked , villified and belittled.
Dahl was a firm exponent of employing his own traits and skills and building into his first class plots the elements of tricks, jokes, riddles and childish things.
A successful writer for children must also be unconventional, able to invent new things and ideas and use unorthodox methods. This can be fulfilled by a sense of eccentricity.
He or she must know implicitly what enthrals a child but also what runs the risk of boring them.
Children love being spooked, exposed to suspense, appreciate action scenes, ghosts, finding treasure and magic. They love chocolate, money and toys.
The importance of being made to laugh and giggle cannot be over-emphasised nor a suitably grisly fate befalling the villainous character or characters.
There must be a hero and that hero must be a winner.
Children are sensitive to good writing, hate long descriptive passages and flowery prose and love a tale that contains a strong threat.
Dahl was well aware that children can lack powers of concentration and so must be tantalised and fascinated on every single page. There must be some variation in pace and an awareness of whether it is too slow or too fast.
The writing must not be dull.
Roald Dahl continuously questioned his own written word as he formulated his fantastic fables.
If there was any possibility that children would stop reading, put the book down and go and do something else then the only response would be to cross out the text and start all over again.
He was often asked about what made good writing for children and produced a sort of manifesto or guide to this art.
His primary intention was to entertain but equally as important he wanted to teach a child to be comfortable with a book and the reading of it.
It was his aim to lift the reader into a marvellous, funny and incredible place.
In acheiving this through his much loved works Dahl became very much the voice of the young. They recognised that he was, indeed, one of them.
I regularly read and re-read his stories to my own children when they were little and they were, in equal proportions, scared, amused and shocked by the antics of Matilda, the BFG, The Witches and James and the Giant Peach amongst many others. Their love of his stories persists and even in their twenties they fondly recollect every twist and turn in the narrative.
A common theme of his writing was the attitude towards the grown up characters be they parents, teachers or figures in authority who were regularly attacked , villified and belittled.
Dahl was a firm exponent of employing his own traits and skills and building into his first class plots the elements of tricks, jokes, riddles and childish things.
A successful writer for children must also be unconventional, able to invent new things and ideas and use unorthodox methods. This can be fulfilled by a sense of eccentricity.
He or she must know implicitly what enthrals a child but also what runs the risk of boring them.
Children love being spooked, exposed to suspense, appreciate action scenes, ghosts, finding treasure and magic. They love chocolate, money and toys.
The importance of being made to laugh and giggle cannot be over-emphasised nor a suitably grisly fate befalling the villainous character or characters.
There must be a hero and that hero must be a winner.
Children are sensitive to good writing, hate long descriptive passages and flowery prose and love a tale that contains a strong threat.
Dahl was well aware that children can lack powers of concentration and so must be tantalised and fascinated on every single page. There must be some variation in pace and an awareness of whether it is too slow or too fast.
The writing must not be dull.
Roald Dahl continuously questioned his own written word as he formulated his fantastic fables.
If there was any possibility that children would stop reading, put the book down and go and do something else then the only response would be to cross out the text and start all over again.
Wednesday 15 April 2015
Porridge and Lycra
I seem to attract strangers.
I should qualify that statement.
If I am on my own (and that can be quite often] in a public place or even in the middle of nowhere you can be sure that I will be accosted by some lone individual keen to avail me of their current circumstances or their life story.
It happened today to me. I will present you with a picture of where I was and what I was doing.
Dressed in my summer cycling lycra I was tackling a gentle but very long incline, yes of course on my racing bike.
It was a bit of a struggle on three counts.
1) it was an incline
2)There was a niggling head wind
3) I had already been at work for 6 hours prior to deciding to go out for a bit of exercise.
These two obstacles to enjoyment and performing in good and breathless style were complicated further by the rather sudden deflation of my front tyre- curse those farmers for not even trying to sweep up their trimmings after macerating the headland hedges with tractor mounted cutter.
My son, with whom I was riding, was just disappearing over the blind summit on the road ahead and failed to hear my frantic wolf whistle to alert him to my situation.
I dismounted and wrestled out of the forks the front wheel before half undressing mainly to retrieve the large bulges of spares and tools in my rear jersey pockets but also mindful of overheating now that the natural cooling effect of that pesky wind was temporarily curtailed by the sheltering effect of tall hedges.
The grass verge resembled the operating table of a surgeon strewn with tyre levers, inner tubes, clever multi tool and compact bike pump as well as a small pile of discarded stretchy clothing.
Stripping out the thin, high pressure or lack of it, innards of the tyre and inflating it immediately revealed the position of the puncture, or rather a pair of incisions quite close together just adjacent to the valve. It was obviously unrepairable and so fully removed and ceremoniously or rather petulantly thrown down in true prima donna fashion. Venting anger and frustration on an inanimate object can be quite satisfying.
The two spares included one previously repaired tube and rather than use the brand new one I opted for that.
I was then conscious of being watched.
Looking up through eyes reddened and stinging with perspiration I saw my sole spectator, a cyclist.
He was perhaps a bit younger than me but as cyclists quickly adjudge, heavier and bulkier. A monotone but kindly voice asked if I needed any help but as serious cyclists quickly respond in such situations I replied that I was "ok, thank you very much".
In other and more social environments this would be taken as an instantly recognisable signal to go our own ways and not force the conversation but the man began to impart the critical facts of his day so far, bikeography ( a term I just thought of to describe the practice of talking about every bike ever owned), training routine, loyalties to a particular local bike shop and how his employer, HM Prison Service, had helped him splash out on his current machine through a Government ride to work scheme.
I was busy trying to correctly place the inner tube between rim and tyre and so, to my shame, only took in a small proportion of his words.
He was out on a short two hour ride but at the price of having had an argument with his wife who wanted him to use the time to do the school run. I muttered some supporting sentiments along the lines of "us men need to look after our health in the best interests of our families" and that pseudo moral support established a common bond between us.
Like me his biking exploits had helped him shift some considerable excess body weight and the fear of putting it back on ensured that cycling remained a regular form of activity, bordering on an obsession.
The time passed quickly as I warmed to the guy and we chit chatted as though old pals.
My son re-appeared over the horizon after carrying on for about four miles before noticing my absence and the three of us prepared, a bit awkwardly, to part.
Perhaps we might meet again out on the road.
I think that I would remember him- Planet X carbon fibre bike , matt black, deep rim stainless steel spoke wheels, SRAM chainset, 18 speed, and....oh yes, I think he may have had a beard.
I should qualify that statement.
If I am on my own (and that can be quite often] in a public place or even in the middle of nowhere you can be sure that I will be accosted by some lone individual keen to avail me of their current circumstances or their life story.
It happened today to me. I will present you with a picture of where I was and what I was doing.
Dressed in my summer cycling lycra I was tackling a gentle but very long incline, yes of course on my racing bike.
It was a bit of a struggle on three counts.
1) it was an incline
2)There was a niggling head wind
3) I had already been at work for 6 hours prior to deciding to go out for a bit of exercise.
These two obstacles to enjoyment and performing in good and breathless style were complicated further by the rather sudden deflation of my front tyre- curse those farmers for not even trying to sweep up their trimmings after macerating the headland hedges with tractor mounted cutter.
My son, with whom I was riding, was just disappearing over the blind summit on the road ahead and failed to hear my frantic wolf whistle to alert him to my situation.
I dismounted and wrestled out of the forks the front wheel before half undressing mainly to retrieve the large bulges of spares and tools in my rear jersey pockets but also mindful of overheating now that the natural cooling effect of that pesky wind was temporarily curtailed by the sheltering effect of tall hedges.
The grass verge resembled the operating table of a surgeon strewn with tyre levers, inner tubes, clever multi tool and compact bike pump as well as a small pile of discarded stretchy clothing.
Stripping out the thin, high pressure or lack of it, innards of the tyre and inflating it immediately revealed the position of the puncture, or rather a pair of incisions quite close together just adjacent to the valve. It was obviously unrepairable and so fully removed and ceremoniously or rather petulantly thrown down in true prima donna fashion. Venting anger and frustration on an inanimate object can be quite satisfying.
The two spares included one previously repaired tube and rather than use the brand new one I opted for that.
I was then conscious of being watched.
Looking up through eyes reddened and stinging with perspiration I saw my sole spectator, a cyclist.
He was perhaps a bit younger than me but as cyclists quickly adjudge, heavier and bulkier. A monotone but kindly voice asked if I needed any help but as serious cyclists quickly respond in such situations I replied that I was "ok, thank you very much".
In other and more social environments this would be taken as an instantly recognisable signal to go our own ways and not force the conversation but the man began to impart the critical facts of his day so far, bikeography ( a term I just thought of to describe the practice of talking about every bike ever owned), training routine, loyalties to a particular local bike shop and how his employer, HM Prison Service, had helped him splash out on his current machine through a Government ride to work scheme.
I was busy trying to correctly place the inner tube between rim and tyre and so, to my shame, only took in a small proportion of his words.
He was out on a short two hour ride but at the price of having had an argument with his wife who wanted him to use the time to do the school run. I muttered some supporting sentiments along the lines of "us men need to look after our health in the best interests of our families" and that pseudo moral support established a common bond between us.
Like me his biking exploits had helped him shift some considerable excess body weight and the fear of putting it back on ensured that cycling remained a regular form of activity, bordering on an obsession.
The time passed quickly as I warmed to the guy and we chit chatted as though old pals.
My son re-appeared over the horizon after carrying on for about four miles before noticing my absence and the three of us prepared, a bit awkwardly, to part.
Perhaps we might meet again out on the road.
I think that I would remember him- Planet X carbon fibre bike , matt black, deep rim stainless steel spoke wheels, SRAM chainset, 18 speed, and....oh yes, I think he may have had a beard.
Tuesday 14 April 2015
Vinyl Countdown
Vinyl as a medium for music has had a tremendous resurgence after many believed that it had perished with the dominance of CD's, MP3's and Downloads.
In the last seven years the sales of pressed records has shown continuous growth and in 2014 this reached a 20 year high.
This phenomena has been recognised by the music industry just this week by the creation of a new dedicated chart for vinyl.
There has always been a niche market for vinyl being the preferred format for DJ's and enthusiasts and frequented by those looking to replace original recordings perhaps worn out or damaged from a wasteful youth or poor storage in lofts, garages and understairs cupboards.
Many have gone full circle to return their collection to vinyl after a brief foray into other forms.
This acknowledges the touchy-feely aspect of vinyl, a more realistic sound and ambience and above all that sensation of possessing something of material substance and value.
I have spent many hours revisiting my selection of long playing albums and EP's on 7" and 12" and have revelled in the pleasure of firing up the record player, listening to the crackle and hum and reading and re-reading the information on the cover and inner sleeve.
CD's by comparison are rather cold and impersonal, a bit mechanical and engineered. MP3's have persistently failed to deliver quality and Downloads, well, they are just a bit fly by night and transitory.
There are merits to having portable music in the modern forms on smartphone or technical equipment for a hectic life very much on the go but vinyl is reserved for a more special and meaningful moment.
The inaugural top ten in the vinyl chart gives some clues as to the age of those contributing to the vinyl revival.
Official Vinyl Albums Chart - Q1 2015
1 CHASING YESTERDAY NOEL GALLAGHER'S HIGH FLYING BIRDS
2 PHYSICAL GRAFFITI LED ZEPPELIN
3 AM ARCTIC MONKEYS
4 ROYAL BLOOD ROYAL BLOOD
5 THE RACE FOR SPACE PUBLIC SERVICE BROADCASTING
6 SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT BOB DYLAN
7 THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON PINK FLOYD
8 LOST IN THE DREAM WAR ON DRUGS
9 HAPPY PEOPLE PEACE
10 FOUR SYMBOLS LED ZEPPELIN
40% of the chart is represented by classic rock albums by Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Bob Dylan suggesting that the over 40's are active in spending on vinyl although anecdotal evidence indicates that it is also the children of the baby boomer generation who are rediscovering the mega bands of the 1960's and 70's.
The remainder are an eclectic mix of pop and rock showing that vinyl is being embraced by more of the younger age group.
The main source of sales is from the Independent Record Shops who have been under a persistent onslaught by mega chains such as HMV (the sole survivor on the High Street) and the now demised Virgin, Zavvi, Andys Records and even Woolworths.
There has been a dramatic decrease in the number of small record sales outlets over the last few decades and in the peak download years many struggled to survive or just failed and disappeared from our High Streets and side lanes.
Those still open and trading strongly should feel vindicated by their loyalty and support for vinyl and fully justified in reaping the rewards from the upturn in demand.
In the last seven years the sales of pressed records has shown continuous growth and in 2014 this reached a 20 year high.
This phenomena has been recognised by the music industry just this week by the creation of a new dedicated chart for vinyl.
There has always been a niche market for vinyl being the preferred format for DJ's and enthusiasts and frequented by those looking to replace original recordings perhaps worn out or damaged from a wasteful youth or poor storage in lofts, garages and understairs cupboards.
Many have gone full circle to return their collection to vinyl after a brief foray into other forms.
This acknowledges the touchy-feely aspect of vinyl, a more realistic sound and ambience and above all that sensation of possessing something of material substance and value.
I have spent many hours revisiting my selection of long playing albums and EP's on 7" and 12" and have revelled in the pleasure of firing up the record player, listening to the crackle and hum and reading and re-reading the information on the cover and inner sleeve.
CD's by comparison are rather cold and impersonal, a bit mechanical and engineered. MP3's have persistently failed to deliver quality and Downloads, well, they are just a bit fly by night and transitory.
There are merits to having portable music in the modern forms on smartphone or technical equipment for a hectic life very much on the go but vinyl is reserved for a more special and meaningful moment.
The inaugural top ten in the vinyl chart gives some clues as to the age of those contributing to the vinyl revival.
Official Vinyl Albums Chart - Q1 2015
1 CHASING YESTERDAY NOEL GALLAGHER'S HIGH FLYING BIRDS
2 PHYSICAL GRAFFITI LED ZEPPELIN
3 AM ARCTIC MONKEYS
4 ROYAL BLOOD ROYAL BLOOD
5 THE RACE FOR SPACE PUBLIC SERVICE BROADCASTING
6 SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT BOB DYLAN
7 THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON PINK FLOYD
8 LOST IN THE DREAM WAR ON DRUGS
9 HAPPY PEOPLE PEACE
10 FOUR SYMBOLS LED ZEPPELIN
40% of the chart is represented by classic rock albums by Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Bob Dylan suggesting that the over 40's are active in spending on vinyl although anecdotal evidence indicates that it is also the children of the baby boomer generation who are rediscovering the mega bands of the 1960's and 70's.
The remainder are an eclectic mix of pop and rock showing that vinyl is being embraced by more of the younger age group.
The main source of sales is from the Independent Record Shops who have been under a persistent onslaught by mega chains such as HMV (the sole survivor on the High Street) and the now demised Virgin, Zavvi, Andys Records and even Woolworths.
There has been a dramatic decrease in the number of small record sales outlets over the last few decades and in the peak download years many struggled to survive or just failed and disappeared from our High Streets and side lanes.
Those still open and trading strongly should feel vindicated by their loyalty and support for vinyl and fully justified in reaping the rewards from the upturn in demand.
Monday 13 April 2015
Wham! Bang....Young Guns and Freedom
It was the 21st October 1983.
The place?
De Montfort Hall, Leicester in the English Midlands.
I had to look up these material facts because, really, going to that concert by the British Pop Band Wham! did not have any great material influence on my life or outlook. I am not sure why I actually attended apart from being part of a group of friends at College, some of whom had been swept along by the media hype and euphoria of George Michael and the other one, oh yes, Andrew Ridgeley and bought a block of tickets.
It was the Club Fantastic Tour which covered much of the UK playing to small and medium sized audiences and with Leicester sandwiched in between Sheffield and St Austell's, Cornwall. From this rather modest and low key start the band were obviously making an impact in the music charts and were heavily featured in style and fashion magazines as well as publications focused on the teen scene and all that went with that.
Within a couple of years (1985) Wham! were making history by becoming the first western performers to appear in China at the Workers Stadium in Beijing in front of 12,000 curious concert goers.
It was a rare glimpse of western culture for a subdued and oppressed population but the negotiations and logistics behind the tour had been well planned to ensure that it was a good experience for all concerned.
The Manager of Wham!, Simon Napier Bell looked to China as not so much an untapped market in its own right but as a means of obtaining maximum publicity and press coverage by which to break into the considerably more lucrative American circuit. Conventional approaches to venues and promoters in the US was notoriously time consuming and energy sapping for what was a band still relatively unknown outside of Britain and Europe. A high profile stunt would be worth a great deal in any assault on the US.
Every month for a year and a half Napier Bell commuted to China to try to gain the attention of the Ministry of Culture who were the only Communist Department who could green light his plans. Initial entry into China had to be on an illicit Visa which was bought in Hong Kong and as a foreigner he was restricted to staying in the Holiday Inn, the only western hotel in Beijing.
There was a certain amount of blagging on the part of Napier Bell and from his accommodation he used a directory of State Ministries provided by the British Embassy to ring around trying to get an appointment to make a presentation with a sweetener being a luncheon invitation.
Not many officials spoke English and so even the canvassing of 20 Departments was unsuccessful. Messages were left and fortunately on the second visit there was a response. This was from a Junior Minister for Power who arrived on his bicycle in Mao suit at the Hotel keen to discuss issues. Unfortunately, the official had mistook the invitation to be from a Swedish Coal Merchant with massive reserves of fossil fuels to sell to the emerging Chinese Industrial operation. He was however immediately taken with the idea of a Pop Group coming to China as this would be viewed as good intent by the State to appease a growing restlessness and dissent amongst the aspirational young as well as showing some enlightenment in western culture.
The Man from the Power Ministry acted as a go-between in the following months and gradually the number of diners from a wide range of Ministry's increased on successive visits by Wham! Management to 25 to 30. The key Cultural Ministry was still proving elusive but patronage and support for a concert was at last forthcoming some 18 months after first pitching the idea.
Prior to the visit, Chinese youth had little access to the Wham! playlist in the absence of, at that time social media, downloads or file sharing and so a local female singer was employed to make recording covers of the main hits in the native language and these were given out with purchased tickets.
There was a high demand for the Beijing Gig and on the night a rather stunned but expectant audience awaited the arrival on stage of George, Andrew and entourage.
Police on duty in the all seater Workers Stadium discouraged standing although westerners in the crowd were up and dancing wildly to the loud and raucous music. Those in the gig reported being overwhelmed by the sights and sounds but recall the strange feelings associated with something new and exciting. It was indeed the beginning of the opening up of China to the outside world, the start of the remarkable social, economic and industrial revolution that has elevated the nation to its current position and status.
For many and not just those there on the night it was a life and game changer.
I feel a bit embarrassed that my own Wham! experience was less inspiring.
The place?
De Montfort Hall, Leicester in the English Midlands.
I had to look up these material facts because, really, going to that concert by the British Pop Band Wham! did not have any great material influence on my life or outlook. I am not sure why I actually attended apart from being part of a group of friends at College, some of whom had been swept along by the media hype and euphoria of George Michael and the other one, oh yes, Andrew Ridgeley and bought a block of tickets.
It was the Club Fantastic Tour which covered much of the UK playing to small and medium sized audiences and with Leicester sandwiched in between Sheffield and St Austell's, Cornwall. From this rather modest and low key start the band were obviously making an impact in the music charts and were heavily featured in style and fashion magazines as well as publications focused on the teen scene and all that went with that.
Within a couple of years (1985) Wham! were making history by becoming the first western performers to appear in China at the Workers Stadium in Beijing in front of 12,000 curious concert goers.
It was a rare glimpse of western culture for a subdued and oppressed population but the negotiations and logistics behind the tour had been well planned to ensure that it was a good experience for all concerned.
The Manager of Wham!, Simon Napier Bell looked to China as not so much an untapped market in its own right but as a means of obtaining maximum publicity and press coverage by which to break into the considerably more lucrative American circuit. Conventional approaches to venues and promoters in the US was notoriously time consuming and energy sapping for what was a band still relatively unknown outside of Britain and Europe. A high profile stunt would be worth a great deal in any assault on the US.
Every month for a year and a half Napier Bell commuted to China to try to gain the attention of the Ministry of Culture who were the only Communist Department who could green light his plans. Initial entry into China had to be on an illicit Visa which was bought in Hong Kong and as a foreigner he was restricted to staying in the Holiday Inn, the only western hotel in Beijing.
There was a certain amount of blagging on the part of Napier Bell and from his accommodation he used a directory of State Ministries provided by the British Embassy to ring around trying to get an appointment to make a presentation with a sweetener being a luncheon invitation.
Not many officials spoke English and so even the canvassing of 20 Departments was unsuccessful. Messages were left and fortunately on the second visit there was a response. This was from a Junior Minister for Power who arrived on his bicycle in Mao suit at the Hotel keen to discuss issues. Unfortunately, the official had mistook the invitation to be from a Swedish Coal Merchant with massive reserves of fossil fuels to sell to the emerging Chinese Industrial operation. He was however immediately taken with the idea of a Pop Group coming to China as this would be viewed as good intent by the State to appease a growing restlessness and dissent amongst the aspirational young as well as showing some enlightenment in western culture.
The Man from the Power Ministry acted as a go-between in the following months and gradually the number of diners from a wide range of Ministry's increased on successive visits by Wham! Management to 25 to 30. The key Cultural Ministry was still proving elusive but patronage and support for a concert was at last forthcoming some 18 months after first pitching the idea.
Prior to the visit, Chinese youth had little access to the Wham! playlist in the absence of, at that time social media, downloads or file sharing and so a local female singer was employed to make recording covers of the main hits in the native language and these were given out with purchased tickets.
There was a high demand for the Beijing Gig and on the night a rather stunned but expectant audience awaited the arrival on stage of George, Andrew and entourage.
Police on duty in the all seater Workers Stadium discouraged standing although westerners in the crowd were up and dancing wildly to the loud and raucous music. Those in the gig reported being overwhelmed by the sights and sounds but recall the strange feelings associated with something new and exciting. It was indeed the beginning of the opening up of China to the outside world, the start of the remarkable social, economic and industrial revolution that has elevated the nation to its current position and status.
For many and not just those there on the night it was a life and game changer.
I feel a bit embarrassed that my own Wham! experience was less inspiring.
Sunday 12 April 2015
Convoy
(from exactly 12 months ago)
It was my first competitive cycle race of the year.
A tough undulating circuit of 8.5 miles per lap including five ascents of a wicked long and steep hill.
On the final climb on the final lap I was just behind the lead group of riders and prepared to move up the field when suddenly the tightly packed bunch accelerated. I had missed my chance to overtake and had to be content with crawling over the line behind the last man. Never mind.
I came over the finish line and parked up the car safely away from the Officials and spectators.My passenger for the previous two and a half hours, the Second Commissaire (race referee) alighted and went with clipboard in hand to get the numbers of the winner and finishers.
So ended my participation, on a voluntary basis, as one of the vehicle drivers accompanying the 56 riders at an unearthly hour on a April Sunday morning.
It had been a very eventful road race but thankfully all of the field made it back safe and soundly returned to their homes and families.
You would not think that so much could happen in the space of that distance and time to try to thwart, intimidate and exact harm on a band of dedicated amateur athletes on two wheels.
The race convoy was made up of a lead vehicle with high-viz signs and an array of flashing roof mounted lights to inform approaching road users of the event, a second safety car similarly festooned with hazard warning, my own car with a magnetic roof box and beacon, the Chief Commissaire with lights, PA system and more fluorescent displays and a car with a Doctor on board. When providing a cocoon either side of the riders this is a long line of traffic and cannot fail to make an impression and cause observant and conscientious motorists to at least slow down or keep well to the left side of the carriageway until the multicoloured cavalcade of sporting excellence had passed by.
On a sunday morning in pleasant countryside it was evident to me that the typical driver was possibly drunk, nursing a headache from the night before, angry about something, half asleep, hurrying to the sales or just plain ignorant and stupid. There was scant regard or respect shown to our authorised use of the roads in that locality and more than once I had to take evasive action whilst, of course, keeping a happy smiling face as an ambassador for the sport and resisting an overwhelming urge to commit an act of road rage myself.
The omens for a troubled day were there from the first roll out of the village hall car park when the CB radios on a selected waveband for the convoy crackled into life with a voice placing an order for an apple crumble for lunch. This was a farmer communicating with his missus whilst out somewhere in nearby fields on a tractor. My passenger, an experienced race official reported that on a race the previous weekend the frequency adopted had coincided with that used by the delivery service for Tesco's with amusing consequences.
Verbal traffic on the airwaves during a race is busy and varied from timechecks, warnings of obstructions in the road, providing information on rider problems both physically and mechanically and some good humour.
Within a few minutes of racing one of the riders sheared off a crank and had to retire. The field fragmented on that first climb as limbs and muscles had not been warmed up or stretched enough to catch a solo attacker. He was away and soon out of sight whilst the other, now 54 riders struggled to organise a pursuit.
The next hazard came from what we refer to as leisure riders. These are superbly attired and very expensively mounted affluent couples taking the fresh air before a stop off at a gastro pub and then a slow wobble home. The combined cost of a typical pair of bikes and gear can exceed £5000 at least. They look the part but have no road sense and what is worse, no empathy or identification with those who race seriously. The posers insist on hogging the road and refuse to take account of the approach or passing of a large group of fast moving riders.
Again, a smile and gesturing wave is necessary to avoid any grievance or complaint reaching the local constabulary.
Unusually for the rural surrounds there were no gals on horses to become excited and annoyed at the presence of us obvious town based types. This was a bonus although on successive laps the convoy encountered a loose dog, low flying hedgerow hopping pheasants, a lazy fox sauntering across a narrow part of the course, more rude motorists and drivers of large 4x4 SUV's trying to avoid getting their tyres dirty in the gutter or by a slight pull over on to a verge.
A few stray cars found themselves amongst the riders after ill advised and hasty manouvres to try to jump the whole line in one go on a blind bend or hidden dip.
Walkers and Ramblers were visibly shaken and disturbed when sneaked upon by cyclists travelling at 40mph with no apparent warning apart from the prior passing of multiple, brightly coloured and very prominent escort vehicles.
So, in spite of the best efforts of man, not discounting the equal endeavours of women and beasts the race turned out to be a good one with controlled but aggressive riding and a well deserved victory for...well, I never did find out as I was keen to get first dibs on what looked like wonderful cheese and pickle sandwiches and the equally fine buffet fare back at the Village Hall HQ.
It was my first competitive cycle race of the year.
A tough undulating circuit of 8.5 miles per lap including five ascents of a wicked long and steep hill.
On the final climb on the final lap I was just behind the lead group of riders and prepared to move up the field when suddenly the tightly packed bunch accelerated. I had missed my chance to overtake and had to be content with crawling over the line behind the last man. Never mind.
I came over the finish line and parked up the car safely away from the Officials and spectators.My passenger for the previous two and a half hours, the Second Commissaire (race referee) alighted and went with clipboard in hand to get the numbers of the winner and finishers.
So ended my participation, on a voluntary basis, as one of the vehicle drivers accompanying the 56 riders at an unearthly hour on a April Sunday morning.
It had been a very eventful road race but thankfully all of the field made it back safe and soundly returned to their homes and families.
You would not think that so much could happen in the space of that distance and time to try to thwart, intimidate and exact harm on a band of dedicated amateur athletes on two wheels.
The race convoy was made up of a lead vehicle with high-viz signs and an array of flashing roof mounted lights to inform approaching road users of the event, a second safety car similarly festooned with hazard warning, my own car with a magnetic roof box and beacon, the Chief Commissaire with lights, PA system and more fluorescent displays and a car with a Doctor on board. When providing a cocoon either side of the riders this is a long line of traffic and cannot fail to make an impression and cause observant and conscientious motorists to at least slow down or keep well to the left side of the carriageway until the multicoloured cavalcade of sporting excellence had passed by.
On a sunday morning in pleasant countryside it was evident to me that the typical driver was possibly drunk, nursing a headache from the night before, angry about something, half asleep, hurrying to the sales or just plain ignorant and stupid. There was scant regard or respect shown to our authorised use of the roads in that locality and more than once I had to take evasive action whilst, of course, keeping a happy smiling face as an ambassador for the sport and resisting an overwhelming urge to commit an act of road rage myself.
The omens for a troubled day were there from the first roll out of the village hall car park when the CB radios on a selected waveband for the convoy crackled into life with a voice placing an order for an apple crumble for lunch. This was a farmer communicating with his missus whilst out somewhere in nearby fields on a tractor. My passenger, an experienced race official reported that on a race the previous weekend the frequency adopted had coincided with that used by the delivery service for Tesco's with amusing consequences.
Verbal traffic on the airwaves during a race is busy and varied from timechecks, warnings of obstructions in the road, providing information on rider problems both physically and mechanically and some good humour.
Within a few minutes of racing one of the riders sheared off a crank and had to retire. The field fragmented on that first climb as limbs and muscles had not been warmed up or stretched enough to catch a solo attacker. He was away and soon out of sight whilst the other, now 54 riders struggled to organise a pursuit.
The next hazard came from what we refer to as leisure riders. These are superbly attired and very expensively mounted affluent couples taking the fresh air before a stop off at a gastro pub and then a slow wobble home. The combined cost of a typical pair of bikes and gear can exceed £5000 at least. They look the part but have no road sense and what is worse, no empathy or identification with those who race seriously. The posers insist on hogging the road and refuse to take account of the approach or passing of a large group of fast moving riders.
Again, a smile and gesturing wave is necessary to avoid any grievance or complaint reaching the local constabulary.
Unusually for the rural surrounds there were no gals on horses to become excited and annoyed at the presence of us obvious town based types. This was a bonus although on successive laps the convoy encountered a loose dog, low flying hedgerow hopping pheasants, a lazy fox sauntering across a narrow part of the course, more rude motorists and drivers of large 4x4 SUV's trying to avoid getting their tyres dirty in the gutter or by a slight pull over on to a verge.
A few stray cars found themselves amongst the riders after ill advised and hasty manouvres to try to jump the whole line in one go on a blind bend or hidden dip.
Walkers and Ramblers were visibly shaken and disturbed when sneaked upon by cyclists travelling at 40mph with no apparent warning apart from the prior passing of multiple, brightly coloured and very prominent escort vehicles.
So, in spite of the best efforts of man, not discounting the equal endeavours of women and beasts the race turned out to be a good one with controlled but aggressive riding and a well deserved victory for...well, I never did find out as I was keen to get first dibs on what looked like wonderful cheese and pickle sandwiches and the equally fine buffet fare back at the Village Hall HQ.
Flare up in the back passage
I was startled by the appearance of the man.
I say man in the loosest of terms in that he could have been anywhere in age between 15 and 90.
His face was round and ruddy, the skin stretched taut and shiny as though he spent all of his life outdoors, walking into a strong wind and driving rain. He had achieved, in whatever lifestyle he led , that timeless, revitalised look that the cosmetics industry have striven to promote to its clientele through chemical injection, skin peel and the application of compounds derived from human and animal body parts.
It was the reddish hue, protruding eyes and sticky out ears that kept him from being regarded as a marvel of nature or a candidate for a catwalk. He was also short of stature, with the height and deportment more associated with a jockey.
The manner of his appearance did cause me to jump as well as nearly falling over him as we converged from opposite directions down one of the narrow foot passages that run like arteries through the old terraced housing in the inner city area of Hull.
These back-ways will at one time have been the lifeblood of the terraced housing blocks behind which they sit and interconnect.
The front doors of the terraced houses were strictly reserved for visitors of a formal nature such as Clergymen, the Man from the Prudential, the Police and relatives from out of town. The back way was for everything else from the return from the nightshift of the man of the house, the wheeling of bicycles, deliveries of coal, day to day comings and goings, a playground for children, a secluded place for the trembling knees of young lovers and for the logistics of moving furniture and rubbish.
The maze of ways was respected and maintained in good order by the residents, kept clear of ladders, bits of wood and miscellaneous building materials, barrows and fish boxes.
Everyone knew everybody else in the terraced blocks and their business. There was a common bond in the neighbourhood of proud workers in factories, in local shops and on the docks. There was no thought of having to lock the outside doors and people came and went as they pleased. Uncles and Aunties abounded in number even though not many were actually of any blood relative status.
At some time in more recent history the use of the back ways declined. Boundary walls teetered and fell and were left where they lay. Yard gates swung on burst hinges or disappeared to be reduced to kindling. Dogs, cats and roaming foxes pilfered the waste bins and the inevitable arrival of the rats and other vermin was the catalyst for some sort of action by the Environmental Officer.
Pilfering and theft through the footways followed with any items not bolted down or otherwise secured just lifted out and of the back yards and secreted away. The width of the passage made it just about physically possible to carry and whisk away a large unwieldy cathode ray tube TV, a mountain bike, lead flashings from a bathroom roof, prized ornaments and commemorative benches.
An empty property in the block became the focus for vandalism and criminal trespass and its yard a depository for yet more domestic waste from soiled nappies to defective fridges and washing machines.
The dubious rat run role of the back ways called for determined action and large secure palisade gates topped with razor wire soon appeared across the openings onto the streets. Keys were issued to those whose houses required any use. Longstanding short cuts to the Chip Shop and Bookies were now no longer viable. Strangers seen to walk up to and rattle the locked gates were viewed with suspicion and reported to the Community Warden Service.
I had wandered into one of the foot ways to get a look at the back of one of the terraced houses as someone had left a gate unlocked. This was for me quite a rarity of access and I felt quite elated at the prospect. At the same time I was wary of not being an authorised user and on guard in case of being cornered by a bulky former fishwife with hair in curlers, ciggy hanging off her bottom lip in an aggressive grimace and wielding a rolling pin.
My movement parallel to the gable end of the house was a bit like a crab crossing a wide open beach in fear of reeling gulls. In trying to get a good viewpoint of the roof and upper rear wall I started to walk backwards and in doing so came up across the strange, Gollum type man. He had heard footfalls in a distinctive booming echo as the sound reverberated between vertical brick elevations and had set out to reccy the situation.
His first impression of me was likely to have been as unflattering as mine of him. He must immediately have put me down as non threatening based on my suit, clean shaven appearance and obvious nervousness to be out of my comfort zone in a back passage with no witnesses.
We did not exchange a single word.
Such a first stage of familiarity was wholly unnecessary as we would never be friends nor perhaps even cross paths ever again. A brief second or so of eye contact established our respective positions.
He left me to make my way back to the street and the safety of the world I knew best.
He was obviously in his element, it was his domain and the place that gave him his livelihood and means of sustenance.
I left him to return to fill up an Asda shopping trolley with the entire contents of some poor sods back yard.
I say man in the loosest of terms in that he could have been anywhere in age between 15 and 90.
His face was round and ruddy, the skin stretched taut and shiny as though he spent all of his life outdoors, walking into a strong wind and driving rain. He had achieved, in whatever lifestyle he led , that timeless, revitalised look that the cosmetics industry have striven to promote to its clientele through chemical injection, skin peel and the application of compounds derived from human and animal body parts.
It was the reddish hue, protruding eyes and sticky out ears that kept him from being regarded as a marvel of nature or a candidate for a catwalk. He was also short of stature, with the height and deportment more associated with a jockey.
The manner of his appearance did cause me to jump as well as nearly falling over him as we converged from opposite directions down one of the narrow foot passages that run like arteries through the old terraced housing in the inner city area of Hull.
These back-ways will at one time have been the lifeblood of the terraced housing blocks behind which they sit and interconnect.
The front doors of the terraced houses were strictly reserved for visitors of a formal nature such as Clergymen, the Man from the Prudential, the Police and relatives from out of town. The back way was for everything else from the return from the nightshift of the man of the house, the wheeling of bicycles, deliveries of coal, day to day comings and goings, a playground for children, a secluded place for the trembling knees of young lovers and for the logistics of moving furniture and rubbish.
The maze of ways was respected and maintained in good order by the residents, kept clear of ladders, bits of wood and miscellaneous building materials, barrows and fish boxes.
Everyone knew everybody else in the terraced blocks and their business. There was a common bond in the neighbourhood of proud workers in factories, in local shops and on the docks. There was no thought of having to lock the outside doors and people came and went as they pleased. Uncles and Aunties abounded in number even though not many were actually of any blood relative status.
At some time in more recent history the use of the back ways declined. Boundary walls teetered and fell and were left where they lay. Yard gates swung on burst hinges or disappeared to be reduced to kindling. Dogs, cats and roaming foxes pilfered the waste bins and the inevitable arrival of the rats and other vermin was the catalyst for some sort of action by the Environmental Officer.
Pilfering and theft through the footways followed with any items not bolted down or otherwise secured just lifted out and of the back yards and secreted away. The width of the passage made it just about physically possible to carry and whisk away a large unwieldy cathode ray tube TV, a mountain bike, lead flashings from a bathroom roof, prized ornaments and commemorative benches.
An empty property in the block became the focus for vandalism and criminal trespass and its yard a depository for yet more domestic waste from soiled nappies to defective fridges and washing machines.
The dubious rat run role of the back ways called for determined action and large secure palisade gates topped with razor wire soon appeared across the openings onto the streets. Keys were issued to those whose houses required any use. Longstanding short cuts to the Chip Shop and Bookies were now no longer viable. Strangers seen to walk up to and rattle the locked gates were viewed with suspicion and reported to the Community Warden Service.
I had wandered into one of the foot ways to get a look at the back of one of the terraced houses as someone had left a gate unlocked. This was for me quite a rarity of access and I felt quite elated at the prospect. At the same time I was wary of not being an authorised user and on guard in case of being cornered by a bulky former fishwife with hair in curlers, ciggy hanging off her bottom lip in an aggressive grimace and wielding a rolling pin.
My movement parallel to the gable end of the house was a bit like a crab crossing a wide open beach in fear of reeling gulls. In trying to get a good viewpoint of the roof and upper rear wall I started to walk backwards and in doing so came up across the strange, Gollum type man. He had heard footfalls in a distinctive booming echo as the sound reverberated between vertical brick elevations and had set out to reccy the situation.
His first impression of me was likely to have been as unflattering as mine of him. He must immediately have put me down as non threatening based on my suit, clean shaven appearance and obvious nervousness to be out of my comfort zone in a back passage with no witnesses.
We did not exchange a single word.
Such a first stage of familiarity was wholly unnecessary as we would never be friends nor perhaps even cross paths ever again. A brief second or so of eye contact established our respective positions.
He left me to make my way back to the street and the safety of the world I knew best.
He was obviously in his element, it was his domain and the place that gave him his livelihood and means of sustenance.
I left him to return to fill up an Asda shopping trolley with the entire contents of some poor sods back yard.
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