Skye's the Limit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An impulse bid on-line for this hefty work left me with a copy withdrawn from a municipal library stock with hard cover and an ominous message on the inside cover not to return the book to the lending library if there was a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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An epic journey in itself. 

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

Slate Tales Least Stale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Down the Drain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                 

Tricks of the Trade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But we ain’t got no bloody money!’

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

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

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

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

Sunday Best

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Sunday in Hell (Jorgen Leth 1977)

Sods Law

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julians Bower at Alkborough, Lincolnshire 

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

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

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

I wanna say it now for now is today

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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



  

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

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

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

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