The all white ,unblemished van, excepting the logo of the Local Authority, sped past my line of vision at the roundabout junction.
I did not catch sight of who was sitting up front but upon reading the small print below the logo of "Play Area Inspection Team" I half expected to have seen two burly employees wearing clown suits or at least with their faces blathered and stained with the coloured pigment from high sugar content Chupa-Chups lollies.
A jolly single balloon on a string flapping around the back doors of the van would also have been a nice and fitting touch.
I can appreciate the need for such a service having experienced some frightful recreation grounds, public parks and play areas during my most attentive parenting period with the children when they were very young.
The graffitti covered climbing frames, swings, roundabouts and see-saws were a testament to poor attention to spelling although the general gist of who was willing to do what to whom and for how much was quite clear and unambiguous. It took some very vague and non-commital explaining to distract curious young minds.
The surrounding area was also a minefield of discarded lager cans, shattered cider bottles, crisp packets and confectionery wrappers. It was a relief to find that alcoholism had taken over as a career ambition from that horrible nicotine drugged smoking lark amongst the local teenagers. I challenge anyone to deny that their local recreation ground figured highly in their courting habits. The current trend appears to be as a sordid venue for sexual exploits given the amount of prophylactics adorning the place like stalactites.
I was understandably shocked to read in the local newspaper that my local Reccy was a major market place for drug dealing.
So, in summary the play areas of today accommodate everything apart from being a venue for actual play.
A posh housing development in a nearby commuter village boasted in it's marketing literature that it featured a fenced children's play area. Not so much a philanthropic gesture as a means of securing concessions from the Planning Authority in terms of a higher volume of housing, euphemistically termed Planning Gain. The development was in high demand and a good number of off-plan and pre-sales were agreed with a handshake and a non refundable deposit. Unfortunately, under the due diligence of lawyers acting for individual purchasers, the open ended liability for any injury or worse arising from use of the play area would leave all the residents jointly and severally responsible for any civil actions and damages arising. Clients were advised to pull out on the basis of the nightmare scenario. Panic ensued, money and jobs were on the line for the developer. The Council stepped in and took over the playground. Peace, tranquility and order were restored to the universe.
My own childhood memories of play areas are reinforced by a few persistent scars on knees, elbows and face. They were rough and tough areas. Use of a particular item of equipment was strictly on a first come, biggest kid or scary mum basis. There were frequent injuries and maimings for those who unwittingly or intentionally wandered into the reach of an occupied and high impact swing, on either the forward sweep or the back-climb. Trying to get onto a high speed roundabout, without any comprehension of physics, momentum or understanding of giroscopic motion was foolish but a challenge. Use of the stainless steel slide could be sticky and slow or unbelievably fast and this could vary very much on a visit to visit basis. Who could predict what would happen? The see-saw was equally hazardous and many a spinal column injury , snapped collar bone or skull fracture was indeed an expectation of play.
My wife had a problematic tustle with a piece of play equipment as a young child with a consequence being that one of her eyeballs popped out of its socket.
I hospitalised my younger sister in exercising a dramatic dismount of a see saw.
Many a time a playmate cascaded through an array of monkey bars like a ball bearing through a pin ball machine.
In all circumstances, barring paralysis and coma , we just picked ourselves up. I usually cried a bit, tied a clean handkerchief onto any abrasions or blooded areas and moved on to the next apparatus, if it had suddenly become free.
My last supervision at a commmunity play area emphasised the impact of a health and safety culture. The surfaces under what remained of the apparatus were in a soft rubberised matting. Anything that swung, propelled, slid or elevated had been removed and replaced with a spring mounted caterpillar figure that rocked back and forth. That was it. I have observed a welcome return to activity based play in more recent years with basketball courts, 5 a side football courts and all-weather pitches but the spirit of unrestricted play has been lost for ever. I expect the main role of the Play Area Inspection Team is to sit menacingly in their van and discourage any children from coming anywhere near the play area.
(first produced 2 years ago)
Saturday, 18 January 2014
Friday, 17 January 2014
To err is human. Ooh-err
I have come to the conclusion that in the early part of the 21st Century there is no longer any place for what is referred to as "trial and error".
It used to be part and parcel of growing up. It was acceptable to have a go at something and fail, admit getting it wrong (or at least if it didn't kill you) and having another go using exactly the same manner or through an altogether different approach or method.
Through history you can depend on the fact that the greatest philosophies, inventions, discoveries and epoch defining events were largely attained following a long and arduous process of trial and error. The initiators of many of mankinds' acheivements will have bombed out either in style or abject misery and not a little tragedy before our civilisation was able to benefit from ultimate success as others picked up the quest and carried it on.
I grew up in the period before the nanny-state, the ridiculous extremes of Health and Safety and the virtual eradication of most debilitating viruses and infections.
My early years in the 1960's were lived in effect in a Petrie dish of afflictions such as rubella, whooping cough, tuberculosis, scarlet fever, smallpox and polio not to mention the side effects of what were pedalled as wonder drugs to assist mothers in pregnancy and just drugs for those feckless parents and guardians who indulged in those promiscuous and anything goes years.
We were intentionally exposed to mumps and measles which spread like wildfire through our contemporaries in order to build up our immunity and resistance. There were no widely available household substances that could kill up to 99% of all known germs in those days.
When able to get about under my own power and determination it was very much a matter of trial and error to see what tree was the safest to climb or fall out of, how fast you could pedal a tricycle down a hill without touching the brakes, how far you could swim out into the local river before getting into difficulties and what fruit scrumped from the gardens in the area was edible and what was poisonous. I stuck my thumb into the electrical socket of the Christmas Tree lights just to see if I would get a jolting shock. I did. I ran my electric toy train for about an hour to see if it would overheat and catch fire. It did. I let go of my bike at speed with my little sister on it to see if she had natural balance and technique. She did not and fractured her skull in the process. I held on to a lighted match to see how short a burnt stub I could get. I learned that the smell of scorched flesh and hair is amongst one of the worst you can experience. I dismantled a shotgun cartridge and left a trail of gunpowder along my bedroom window cill. It ignited and cut a long ugly swath through the woodwork and by this I came to know that a grey and seemingly innocuous powder has great explosive capabilities.
We were encouraged to try, try and try again. The moralistic story of Robert the Bruce and his observations of the endurance of the cave dwelling spider was one on which was placed great emphasis by our elders in the telling of it as a bedtime story, at school assembly or when being told off for not displaying what was called "backbone". Underdogs were held in high esteem even if with hindsight they were stupid and futile. Failure but after a bit of an effort was typically British and applauded for all of that.
How things have now changed.
The culture of the 21st Century and particularly in childhood is sanitised, apparently risk free and with no margin whatsoever for trial and error. Our health and safety are taken as being assured even at the cost of the loss of any common sense approach to a potentially hazardous predicament in which we may find ourselves. There is a fear ,amongst those who would want to encourage adventure and an intrepid spirit, of being sued for negligence or malpractice. Risk assessment is a big wealthy industry and leaves no room for any free thought or inspired judgement.
As an unfortunate and downright heartbreaking consequence of this regime is that our children are not allowed to find value in play and discover for themselves the joys and tribulations of life. It is sadly now very much a situation in reverse. Error and Trial.
It used to be part and parcel of growing up. It was acceptable to have a go at something and fail, admit getting it wrong (or at least if it didn't kill you) and having another go using exactly the same manner or through an altogether different approach or method.
Through history you can depend on the fact that the greatest philosophies, inventions, discoveries and epoch defining events were largely attained following a long and arduous process of trial and error. The initiators of many of mankinds' acheivements will have bombed out either in style or abject misery and not a little tragedy before our civilisation was able to benefit from ultimate success as others picked up the quest and carried it on.
I grew up in the period before the nanny-state, the ridiculous extremes of Health and Safety and the virtual eradication of most debilitating viruses and infections.
My early years in the 1960's were lived in effect in a Petrie dish of afflictions such as rubella, whooping cough, tuberculosis, scarlet fever, smallpox and polio not to mention the side effects of what were pedalled as wonder drugs to assist mothers in pregnancy and just drugs for those feckless parents and guardians who indulged in those promiscuous and anything goes years.
We were intentionally exposed to mumps and measles which spread like wildfire through our contemporaries in order to build up our immunity and resistance. There were no widely available household substances that could kill up to 99% of all known germs in those days.
When able to get about under my own power and determination it was very much a matter of trial and error to see what tree was the safest to climb or fall out of, how fast you could pedal a tricycle down a hill without touching the brakes, how far you could swim out into the local river before getting into difficulties and what fruit scrumped from the gardens in the area was edible and what was poisonous. I stuck my thumb into the electrical socket of the Christmas Tree lights just to see if I would get a jolting shock. I did. I ran my electric toy train for about an hour to see if it would overheat and catch fire. It did. I let go of my bike at speed with my little sister on it to see if she had natural balance and technique. She did not and fractured her skull in the process. I held on to a lighted match to see how short a burnt stub I could get. I learned that the smell of scorched flesh and hair is amongst one of the worst you can experience. I dismantled a shotgun cartridge and left a trail of gunpowder along my bedroom window cill. It ignited and cut a long ugly swath through the woodwork and by this I came to know that a grey and seemingly innocuous powder has great explosive capabilities.
We were encouraged to try, try and try again. The moralistic story of Robert the Bruce and his observations of the endurance of the cave dwelling spider was one on which was placed great emphasis by our elders in the telling of it as a bedtime story, at school assembly or when being told off for not displaying what was called "backbone". Underdogs were held in high esteem even if with hindsight they were stupid and futile. Failure but after a bit of an effort was typically British and applauded for all of that.
How things have now changed.
The culture of the 21st Century and particularly in childhood is sanitised, apparently risk free and with no margin whatsoever for trial and error. Our health and safety are taken as being assured even at the cost of the loss of any common sense approach to a potentially hazardous predicament in which we may find ourselves. There is a fear ,amongst those who would want to encourage adventure and an intrepid spirit, of being sued for negligence or malpractice. Risk assessment is a big wealthy industry and leaves no room for any free thought or inspired judgement.
As an unfortunate and downright heartbreaking consequence of this regime is that our children are not allowed to find value in play and discover for themselves the joys and tribulations of life. It is sadly now very much a situation in reverse. Error and Trial.
Thursday, 16 January 2014
Westwood
You can certainly get attached to a space.
That is the case with me and The Westwood.
It is a rare bit of land. A long surviving bequest of common ground held in trust for a townspeople. It dominates almost the whole of the western boundary of the historic settlement of Beverley, not in an overpowering or controlling way but as a protective tract against what has been an incessant pressure for expansion of housing, commerce and industry.
On my first ever sight of The Westwood, sometime in the mid to late 1970's I was over-awed by its wide, open and undulating presence.
We, as a family, were just passing through on return from a holiday and parked up on the grassy side of one of the metalled roads that weave their way through the pasture. The rattle of the car tyres and of those carrying the towed caravan over the span of the cattle grid were a gruff staccato announcement of something different. The guttural sound caused me to look up with jaded eyes from a long drive.
There was a large expanse of verdant green with a backdrop of reddish brick under plum coloured slate roofs, the bright almost white towering mass of the Gothic Minster and a lot of bright blue sky to a distant horizon.
Slow moving, lumbering shapes and far off specks that I could make out in the dazzling summer sunlight were grazing cattle, a lot of them. There was a cluster of youths kicking a football towards a solitary set of goalposts seemingly in the middle of nowhere, huddles of golfers seeking out dimpled Slazengers in the rough clumps astride the well manicured and watered fairways and greens, gals on ponies lolloping around the sandy track of the training gallop, a Crufts-like collection of assorted dogs and their owners, walkers, family groups on picnic, kids on bikes, couples hand in hand emerging out of the bushes, more dogs, cars abandoned in a random manner in the shade of the avenues of horse chestnut trees, litter pickers and a snaking line of sweltering general public awaiting their turn at the small sliding aperture on the cream and blue Burgess Ice Cream Van.
I was not to know that this brief stopover was a precursor for an actual relocation of the family a couple of years later to a house just on the Westwood Road making the pasture into an extension of the back garden and a backdrop to my formative years.
In the following years I spent many, many tens of hours within the broad boundaries of the common.
Our first family dog, Sheba, would disappear in yelping excitement into the thick undergrowth around the excavated chalk pits in pursuit of rabbits. I was on dog walking duty in the dusk and after dark hours. I would often just walk home without Sheba out of sheer frustration for not being able to coax her back to the leash or physically corner and capture her. My whistling technique was finely honed in the fading evening light or pitch black farther out beyond the streetlights with just the stars or a full moon for illumination.
The Westwood was all things to me.
I could just go out for a run to get rid of excess energy or teenage angst. The middle Newbald Road hill was a great training route when I first thought about cycling competitively. Walking the miles helped me to memorise my essays for exams. The Black Mill Tower was a good target towards which to whack a golf ball with my second hand bought pitching iron, yet more adolescent angst to tackle. Bouncing a football off the crossbar of the lonely goalposts was a constant challenge. Five days a week in school term I criss-crossed the Westwood on my way to and from school sites and home dinners.
A summer job, voluntarily, was to carefully apply linseed oil to the large hand written boards on which were sign written the rules, regulations, by-laws, entitlements and obligations for Freemen and Women of the town. One of the Pasture Masters, a wizened, hardy and grumpy old man lived at the top of the road in a tied cottage and was definitely not someone you would hope to tangle with or upset.
I got a good snog on the Westwood. Dressing up as a monk and beckoning motorists with skeletal hand when caught in the full beam of their headlights was a bit of a prank. A bright spotlight on a steamed up parked car caused quite a flurry of activity.
O I did a dissertation on the role of the Westwood in the history of Beverley which highlighted the location of tumuli and where an iron age chariot had been excavated. Snow brought out the sledges, fertiliser sacks and the posers with skis and a ski lift on Hill 66.
Mid week in the spring and summer months and on some saturdays there were horse racing meets at the racecourse on the north side of the Westwood. In the winter I took part in cyclo-cross races up and down the dips and slopes. Visitors were taken to see the huge iron ring to which bulls were tethered for the barbaric practice of baiting with dogs and where, following heavy rainfall the ground would erupt with freshwater springs and flood around York Road. Did I say that I got a good snog on the Westwood?
Two of my children were born in Westwood Hospital.
Two of my friends died from careering their motorbikes into the static obstacles of heifers and trees.
My father helped to raise funds to put reflective collars on the cattle to counter strikes from vehicles and my other two wheeled contemporaries. Mother still walks mile upon mile with Maisie the dog in a perfect blend of exercise and joyful celebration of freedom.
We have had family blessings and commemorations at the position of a tree planted and tended by my parents way out close to the Burton Bushes woodland.
The above, and countless other of my experiences, snogging and otherwise, encouraged me to put my signature on the current petition to try to prevent an incursion on the sacred open space by developers seeking to convert the Beverley Union Workhouse into apartments and bulldoze the modern hospital buildings for non-descript speculative housing of sorts.
It is intended to be a temporary measure of a roadway for construction traffic but it represents a threat and a dangerous precedent to whittle away at the precious pasture. Signatories are not NIMBY's or Luddites but those with a real and deep fondness for the Westwood, for all that it represents and its contribution over the millenia to the people of Beverley and those who have trodden its broad acres.
That is the case with me and The Westwood.
It is a rare bit of land. A long surviving bequest of common ground held in trust for a townspeople. It dominates almost the whole of the western boundary of the historic settlement of Beverley, not in an overpowering or controlling way but as a protective tract against what has been an incessant pressure for expansion of housing, commerce and industry.
On my first ever sight of The Westwood, sometime in the mid to late 1970's I was over-awed by its wide, open and undulating presence.
We, as a family, were just passing through on return from a holiday and parked up on the grassy side of one of the metalled roads that weave their way through the pasture. The rattle of the car tyres and of those carrying the towed caravan over the span of the cattle grid were a gruff staccato announcement of something different. The guttural sound caused me to look up with jaded eyes from a long drive.
There was a large expanse of verdant green with a backdrop of reddish brick under plum coloured slate roofs, the bright almost white towering mass of the Gothic Minster and a lot of bright blue sky to a distant horizon.
Slow moving, lumbering shapes and far off specks that I could make out in the dazzling summer sunlight were grazing cattle, a lot of them. There was a cluster of youths kicking a football towards a solitary set of goalposts seemingly in the middle of nowhere, huddles of golfers seeking out dimpled Slazengers in the rough clumps astride the well manicured and watered fairways and greens, gals on ponies lolloping around the sandy track of the training gallop, a Crufts-like collection of assorted dogs and their owners, walkers, family groups on picnic, kids on bikes, couples hand in hand emerging out of the bushes, more dogs, cars abandoned in a random manner in the shade of the avenues of horse chestnut trees, litter pickers and a snaking line of sweltering general public awaiting their turn at the small sliding aperture on the cream and blue Burgess Ice Cream Van.
I was not to know that this brief stopover was a precursor for an actual relocation of the family a couple of years later to a house just on the Westwood Road making the pasture into an extension of the back garden and a backdrop to my formative years.
In the following years I spent many, many tens of hours within the broad boundaries of the common.
Our first family dog, Sheba, would disappear in yelping excitement into the thick undergrowth around the excavated chalk pits in pursuit of rabbits. I was on dog walking duty in the dusk and after dark hours. I would often just walk home without Sheba out of sheer frustration for not being able to coax her back to the leash or physically corner and capture her. My whistling technique was finely honed in the fading evening light or pitch black farther out beyond the streetlights with just the stars or a full moon for illumination.
The Westwood was all things to me.
I could just go out for a run to get rid of excess energy or teenage angst. The middle Newbald Road hill was a great training route when I first thought about cycling competitively. Walking the miles helped me to memorise my essays for exams. The Black Mill Tower was a good target towards which to whack a golf ball with my second hand bought pitching iron, yet more adolescent angst to tackle. Bouncing a football off the crossbar of the lonely goalposts was a constant challenge. Five days a week in school term I criss-crossed the Westwood on my way to and from school sites and home dinners.
A summer job, voluntarily, was to carefully apply linseed oil to the large hand written boards on which were sign written the rules, regulations, by-laws, entitlements and obligations for Freemen and Women of the town. One of the Pasture Masters, a wizened, hardy and grumpy old man lived at the top of the road in a tied cottage and was definitely not someone you would hope to tangle with or upset.
I got a good snog on the Westwood. Dressing up as a monk and beckoning motorists with skeletal hand when caught in the full beam of their headlights was a bit of a prank. A bright spotlight on a steamed up parked car caused quite a flurry of activity.
O I did a dissertation on the role of the Westwood in the history of Beverley which highlighted the location of tumuli and where an iron age chariot had been excavated. Snow brought out the sledges, fertiliser sacks and the posers with skis and a ski lift on Hill 66.
Mid week in the spring and summer months and on some saturdays there were horse racing meets at the racecourse on the north side of the Westwood. In the winter I took part in cyclo-cross races up and down the dips and slopes. Visitors were taken to see the huge iron ring to which bulls were tethered for the barbaric practice of baiting with dogs and where, following heavy rainfall the ground would erupt with freshwater springs and flood around York Road. Did I say that I got a good snog on the Westwood?
Two of my children were born in Westwood Hospital.
Two of my friends died from careering their motorbikes into the static obstacles of heifers and trees.
My father helped to raise funds to put reflective collars on the cattle to counter strikes from vehicles and my other two wheeled contemporaries. Mother still walks mile upon mile with Maisie the dog in a perfect blend of exercise and joyful celebration of freedom.
We have had family blessings and commemorations at the position of a tree planted and tended by my parents way out close to the Burton Bushes woodland.
The above, and countless other of my experiences, snogging and otherwise, encouraged me to put my signature on the current petition to try to prevent an incursion on the sacred open space by developers seeking to convert the Beverley Union Workhouse into apartments and bulldoze the modern hospital buildings for non-descript speculative housing of sorts.
It is intended to be a temporary measure of a roadway for construction traffic but it represents a threat and a dangerous precedent to whittle away at the precious pasture. Signatories are not NIMBY's or Luddites but those with a real and deep fondness for the Westwood, for all that it represents and its contribution over the millenia to the people of Beverley and those who have trodden its broad acres.
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
The Demolition of Portobello Street, Hull
We used to live in a terraced house
Nestled in neighbourly obscurity
But now, upon revisiting it has been cut apart
In the name of progress to make way
For a super school
or community empowering facility
or something
My mum and dad always aspired to a semi detached
But not like this
The old wallpaper that I helped to paste
Hangs listless like an abandoned hoarding
The nicotine stains are surprisingly yellow
In natural light
The chimney breast hangs on like a cliff face
A floorboard sticks out like a fractured rib
The dismantled elements lie smouldering
In an undignified pile of debris
Which we were happy to call our life
When we used to live in a terraced house
(Entered into the East Riding Poetry Competition 2012. Didn't get anywhere)
(Entered into the East Riding Poetry Competition 2012. Didn't get anywhere)
Tuesday, 14 January 2014
Reboot
I had a booter.
At the bottom of the field ditch, its brackish and green tinted residue was pouring over the top of my wellington boots.
It was a very unpleasant sensation, not altogether unknown to a 12 year old ranging about in the watercourses of the local area in search of tadpoles, sticklebacks and water boatmen, but nevertheless disappointing and demoralising and especially with the prospect of a long, soggy walk home.
It was always the same. A squelch followed by an eruption of dirty drainage up the back of your leg for the duration of the trek along the footpath at the back of the housing estate.
Socks were sodden and under the additional weight tended to work their way towards the toe-end of the welly boots before eventually falling off your foot altogether. This brought your skin directly into contact with the cold, clammy and saturated innards of the boot and another and even more unpleasant experience.
At this stage you just had to sit down on the path or on a fallen tree bough . The water heavy socks could be extracted and twisted hard to force out the excess moisture. They could never be put back on but were draped over the shoulder so that they could, upon the return home, be sneaked into the wash pile without being seen by a parent.
Trouser legs, also fully wet could be rolled up carefully to just below the knee and this process did tease out a bit more ditch water but the fabric remained damp and uncomfortable.
I soon developed a strange walking style to avoid any more than necessary chafing by wellies or clothing. This consisted of a lolloping from side to side, slightly bow legged in the style of someone suffering from rickets or haemorrhoids or as I imagined these afflictions would look and feel.
My unsightly progress up the track was complicated by my insistence on still carrying the spoils of my ditch bottom foraging. One hand held a jam jar, lidless and with red fibrous bailer twine from a ruptured straw bale wrapped around the rim and knotted into a makeshift handle. The contents of the jar consisted of yet more murky water and on very close inspection to those of a curious disposition could be seen the flick of a tail of a tiny scale-backed fish, frantic movements of small and newly developed frogs and a couple of water snails making their way up the sides in a bid for freedom.
In the other hand was a large stick. The first and most essential part of any expedition down the field side was to procure a stick. Previous adventures had created quite a pile of old bits of wood in the hedgerow where the pathway snuck down between the estate houses and these could be picked through for anything suitable. A brand new stick was preferred and although there were plenty of places to look there was a strict criteria to be met. It had to be as straight as possible. If formed from the convergence of two boughs then this would make a good thumb notch for extra comfort over the great distances to be wandered. A thin, stringy and strong stick was ideal to clear the nettles and other vegetation if venturing off the path or just to waggle at menacing animals such as loose dogs or cattle. As much time could be devoted to the search for the best ever stick as the intended expedition.
As well as capturing water creatures the acres of farmers fields in between the land drains could also produce a wealth of interesting collectables, curiosities and plain rubbish. Scratching around in the heavy clay soils I had found a good assortment of bits of clay pipes discarded by 19th century agricultural workers. Pride of place was given to an almost complete example albeit slightly chipped and scuffed from exposure to wind and weather for a century and more.
Any interestingly shaped stone was secreted away in pockets and a particularly productive session would result in significant sagging of trousers making walking quite difficult and ungainly. Before turning for home at the top of the path the stash was sorted and graded leaving, next to the old sticks, yet another pile of debris. A lot of stuff still made it past parents and into my private collection which occupied much of the window cill in my bedroom or various old shoe boxes and biscuit tins under the bed or at the foot of the wardrobe.
I am now over 50 but the prospect of a ramble in the countryside or even on the new edge of town revives memories of those distant and carefree days. Where there is a meaningful stretch of stream or a stagnant pond I still earnestly search, but in vain ,to catch a glimpse of a tadpole and as for the silver sliver stickleback, it's absence may indicate that it is extinct. Many of the ditches are now infilled or dry.
I accept that there have been major changes in the climate and in nature's response to it albeit enforced and distressing. There is however one reassuring constant in all of these things. A booter is still a booter.
At the bottom of the field ditch, its brackish and green tinted residue was pouring over the top of my wellington boots.
It was a very unpleasant sensation, not altogether unknown to a 12 year old ranging about in the watercourses of the local area in search of tadpoles, sticklebacks and water boatmen, but nevertheless disappointing and demoralising and especially with the prospect of a long, soggy walk home.
It was always the same. A squelch followed by an eruption of dirty drainage up the back of your leg for the duration of the trek along the footpath at the back of the housing estate.
Socks were sodden and under the additional weight tended to work their way towards the toe-end of the welly boots before eventually falling off your foot altogether. This brought your skin directly into contact with the cold, clammy and saturated innards of the boot and another and even more unpleasant experience.
At this stage you just had to sit down on the path or on a fallen tree bough . The water heavy socks could be extracted and twisted hard to force out the excess moisture. They could never be put back on but were draped over the shoulder so that they could, upon the return home, be sneaked into the wash pile without being seen by a parent.
Trouser legs, also fully wet could be rolled up carefully to just below the knee and this process did tease out a bit more ditch water but the fabric remained damp and uncomfortable.
I soon developed a strange walking style to avoid any more than necessary chafing by wellies or clothing. This consisted of a lolloping from side to side, slightly bow legged in the style of someone suffering from rickets or haemorrhoids or as I imagined these afflictions would look and feel.
My unsightly progress up the track was complicated by my insistence on still carrying the spoils of my ditch bottom foraging. One hand held a jam jar, lidless and with red fibrous bailer twine from a ruptured straw bale wrapped around the rim and knotted into a makeshift handle. The contents of the jar consisted of yet more murky water and on very close inspection to those of a curious disposition could be seen the flick of a tail of a tiny scale-backed fish, frantic movements of small and newly developed frogs and a couple of water snails making their way up the sides in a bid for freedom.
In the other hand was a large stick. The first and most essential part of any expedition down the field side was to procure a stick. Previous adventures had created quite a pile of old bits of wood in the hedgerow where the pathway snuck down between the estate houses and these could be picked through for anything suitable. A brand new stick was preferred and although there were plenty of places to look there was a strict criteria to be met. It had to be as straight as possible. If formed from the convergence of two boughs then this would make a good thumb notch for extra comfort over the great distances to be wandered. A thin, stringy and strong stick was ideal to clear the nettles and other vegetation if venturing off the path or just to waggle at menacing animals such as loose dogs or cattle. As much time could be devoted to the search for the best ever stick as the intended expedition.
As well as capturing water creatures the acres of farmers fields in between the land drains could also produce a wealth of interesting collectables, curiosities and plain rubbish. Scratching around in the heavy clay soils I had found a good assortment of bits of clay pipes discarded by 19th century agricultural workers. Pride of place was given to an almost complete example albeit slightly chipped and scuffed from exposure to wind and weather for a century and more.
Any interestingly shaped stone was secreted away in pockets and a particularly productive session would result in significant sagging of trousers making walking quite difficult and ungainly. Before turning for home at the top of the path the stash was sorted and graded leaving, next to the old sticks, yet another pile of debris. A lot of stuff still made it past parents and into my private collection which occupied much of the window cill in my bedroom or various old shoe boxes and biscuit tins under the bed or at the foot of the wardrobe.
I am now over 50 but the prospect of a ramble in the countryside or even on the new edge of town revives memories of those distant and carefree days. Where there is a meaningful stretch of stream or a stagnant pond I still earnestly search, but in vain ,to catch a glimpse of a tadpole and as for the silver sliver stickleback, it's absence may indicate that it is extinct. Many of the ditches are now infilled or dry.
I accept that there have been major changes in the climate and in nature's response to it albeit enforced and distressing. There is however one reassuring constant in all of these things. A booter is still a booter.
Monday, 13 January 2014
Be More Dog
Just when you thought it was safe to put away the Christmas jigsaw puzzle after nearly 3 weeks of it occupying the dining table, just after having lugged the old faithful boxed games and this years versions up to the loft and completing the seeking out and destroying of the short lived entertainment that formed the contents of the seasonal crackers I have devised a little bit of a quiz.
There are no prizes, just a sense of participating in something without competitive edge if anyone can at all be bothered to use the comment button to submit their entries.
I got the idea from listening to Martin Jarvis and one of his Just William readings which reminded me about the close relationship between boys and their dogs.
The characters, both human and canine are to be found in mythology, fiction, non-fiction and the world of entertainment.
I provide a list made up of a mixture of owners and dogs and with the reservoir of answers below to allow a matching up and reunion of best friends. I have given a few clues for the perhaps more obscure.
Bulls Eye Obelix
Odysseus Eddie
Fluffy Shep
Tin Tin Santa's Little Helper
Timmy Beethoven
Dogmatix Wellard
Dennis The Menace Tim Bisley Cartoonist
Snoopy Brian
Detective Scott Turner Hooch
Doc Brown K9
Colin Robert Barone (Ray's Brother)
Dr Who Muttley
Bart Simpson Julian Clary
Martin Crane (Frasier's Dad) Bill Sykes
Jumble Argos
John Noakes Hagrid
Fanny the Wonder Dog Snowy
Rebel George of the Famous Five
George Newton Gnasher
Peter Griffin and Family Charlie Brown
Dick Dastardly Einstein
Shamsky Master William Brown
Robbie Jackson Ricky North
There are no prizes, just a sense of participating in something without competitive edge if anyone can at all be bothered to use the comment button to submit their entries.
I got the idea from listening to Martin Jarvis and one of his Just William readings which reminded me about the close relationship between boys and their dogs.
The characters, both human and canine are to be found in mythology, fiction, non-fiction and the world of entertainment.
I provide a list made up of a mixture of owners and dogs and with the reservoir of answers below to allow a matching up and reunion of best friends. I have given a few clues for the perhaps more obscure.
Bulls Eye Obelix
Odysseus Eddie
Fluffy Shep
Tin Tin Santa's Little Helper
Timmy Beethoven
Dogmatix Wellard
Dennis The Menace Tim Bisley Cartoonist
Snoopy Brian
Detective Scott Turner Hooch
Doc Brown K9
Colin Robert Barone (Ray's Brother)
Dr Who Muttley
Bart Simpson Julian Clary
Martin Crane (Frasier's Dad) Bill Sykes
Jumble Argos
John Noakes Hagrid
Fanny the Wonder Dog Snowy
Rebel George of the Famous Five
George Newton Gnasher
Peter Griffin and Family Charlie Brown
Dick Dastardly Einstein
Shamsky Master William Brown
Robbie Jackson Ricky North
Sunday, 12 January 2014
No sex please we're skittish!
It was a strange conversation amongst my fellow guests at a get together last evening.
I am not sure how we did get around to the particular subject.
It may have been prompted by a parlour game involving having a label affixed to your back bearing the name of a character from history, fiction, popular culture and entertainment. It was then a case of trying to guess the assumed identity by asking a series of questions of the roomful of players. This went along the lines, typically ,of "am I human?", " am I dead or alive?", " was I in the movies?", "was I a politician?" and similar lines of enquiry.
This interrogation rapidly exposed the likes of Abraham Lincoln, Harry Potter, Meryl Streep and not without a struggle, Lady Ga Ga.
The most difficult to guess began to fall into a distinct category. Even when reduced to the common denominators of "am I male or female?" a handful of guests remained standing, frustrated and falling well down the queue for the hot buffet being served up in the kitchen by virtue of the persistence of the post-it note attached to their persons.
The matter continued as we all sat with laden plates on our laps.
The stumbling point was obviously an inability to sex specific characters.
This may have seemed ridiculous but from the raised and animated voices in the room it had sparked off quite a debate.
Take Lassie. Arguably one of the great non-human stars of celluloid from a 1943 debut. However, depicted as a highly intelligent and compassionate female collie the actual role was taken by a male dog called Pal and, subsequently, by his dependants.
Mickey Mouse next came under scrutiny. The majority in the room went for undoubtedly a male but let's face it, what with that high pitched tone and a lack of visible genitalia even on a naked lower torso some hard questions could be raised in support of non specific gender.
Bambi. The vulnerable and awkward fawn who had a real baptism of fire could for much of the animated film be mistaken for a female but in the final scenes as a fully grown stag there is no debate to be had.
We began, collectively to throw up other examples of indeterminable sex.
The Clangers caused a near rift and schism amongst those assembled in the room, incidentally having now progressed to dessert and as for the Teletubbies, well there could have been a bit of a scuffle and agitation had we not unanimously agreed that Tinky Winky was distinctly male in his mannerisms and occasional petulance and stubborness in group situations.
No genre of character was spared the probing and sometimes quite vigorous questioning on the basis of for and against male or female sex or other legitimate points in between.
The Dr Who fans in our midst held their ground on arguing a specific exception for mechanically engineered life forms with no dangley bits or reproductive process and so by this route the Daleks and Cybermen got off lightly.
Flipper the Dolphin and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo were, it was largely agreed, asexual for the purposes of their appearance in their respective broadcasted shows but we agreed had the right to be of either sex in their own private lives off screen.
The Woodentops came into sharp focus. Spotty Dog whom we all recalled as "the very biggest spotty dog you ever did see" had to be given the benefit of the doubt on the grounds of the absence of any defining features of a male dog.
The Fingerbobs, individually made up of Fingermouse, Gulliver, Scampi and Flash presented an easy argument in that they were just an extension of the very male and bearded Rick Jones although I must apologise now for my insistence that the human collaborator was Derek Griffiths and I retract my less than complimentary opinions on the man.
The evening flew by in like minded company. We could appreciate that our choice of characters did highlight the fact the we were all roughly of a certain age and had obviously spent a disgraceful amount of time in our formative years in the 1960's and early 1970's glued to our parents' small and black and white televisions. Those were the days.
I am not sure how we did get around to the particular subject.
It may have been prompted by a parlour game involving having a label affixed to your back bearing the name of a character from history, fiction, popular culture and entertainment. It was then a case of trying to guess the assumed identity by asking a series of questions of the roomful of players. This went along the lines, typically ,of "am I human?", " am I dead or alive?", " was I in the movies?", "was I a politician?" and similar lines of enquiry.
This interrogation rapidly exposed the likes of Abraham Lincoln, Harry Potter, Meryl Streep and not without a struggle, Lady Ga Ga.
The most difficult to guess began to fall into a distinct category. Even when reduced to the common denominators of "am I male or female?" a handful of guests remained standing, frustrated and falling well down the queue for the hot buffet being served up in the kitchen by virtue of the persistence of the post-it note attached to their persons.
The matter continued as we all sat with laden plates on our laps.
The stumbling point was obviously an inability to sex specific characters.
This may have seemed ridiculous but from the raised and animated voices in the room it had sparked off quite a debate.
Take Lassie. Arguably one of the great non-human stars of celluloid from a 1943 debut. However, depicted as a highly intelligent and compassionate female collie the actual role was taken by a male dog called Pal and, subsequently, by his dependants.
Mickey Mouse next came under scrutiny. The majority in the room went for undoubtedly a male but let's face it, what with that high pitched tone and a lack of visible genitalia even on a naked lower torso some hard questions could be raised in support of non specific gender.
Bambi. The vulnerable and awkward fawn who had a real baptism of fire could for much of the animated film be mistaken for a female but in the final scenes as a fully grown stag there is no debate to be had.
We began, collectively to throw up other examples of indeterminable sex.
The Clangers caused a near rift and schism amongst those assembled in the room, incidentally having now progressed to dessert and as for the Teletubbies, well there could have been a bit of a scuffle and agitation had we not unanimously agreed that Tinky Winky was distinctly male in his mannerisms and occasional petulance and stubborness in group situations.
No genre of character was spared the probing and sometimes quite vigorous questioning on the basis of for and against male or female sex or other legitimate points in between.
The Dr Who fans in our midst held their ground on arguing a specific exception for mechanically engineered life forms with no dangley bits or reproductive process and so by this route the Daleks and Cybermen got off lightly.
Flipper the Dolphin and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo were, it was largely agreed, asexual for the purposes of their appearance in their respective broadcasted shows but we agreed had the right to be of either sex in their own private lives off screen.
The Woodentops came into sharp focus. Spotty Dog whom we all recalled as "the very biggest spotty dog you ever did see" had to be given the benefit of the doubt on the grounds of the absence of any defining features of a male dog.
The Fingerbobs, individually made up of Fingermouse, Gulliver, Scampi and Flash presented an easy argument in that they were just an extension of the very male and bearded Rick Jones although I must apologise now for my insistence that the human collaborator was Derek Griffiths and I retract my less than complimentary opinions on the man.
The evening flew by in like minded company. We could appreciate that our choice of characters did highlight the fact the we were all roughly of a certain age and had obviously spent a disgraceful amount of time in our formative years in the 1960's and early 1970's glued to our parents' small and black and white televisions. Those were the days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)