There was uproar amongst the villagers when proposals became known for the erection of a wind powered turbine in their very back yard.
The usual emotional sentiments were expressed chiefly on the theme of why it had to be in their otherwise unspoiled area when there were plenty of wide open and unpopulated spaces elsewhere in the county. Rumour and hearsay thrived amongst the residents. There was an unfounded story from another parish where the constant whirring of just such a turbine drove man and beast to a state of demented frenzy and the weaker amongst the respective species threw themselves to an untimely death in a canal or a quarry or under the wheels of some vehicle or other or died of natural causes some years later .
Another tale was of a lady renowned for her special powers in things future and unworldly who claimed that the rotation of the turbine interfered with signals to her from the 'other' side.
In particularly stormy conditions in a southern county someone recalled hearing about turbine blades which had become severed from their tower and had pirouetted and spiralled through the village causing considerable damage to property and possessions.
Sporadic combustion of similar buildings was quite well known and could be substantiated in fact rather than being a subject of fiction.
The representatives of the Consortium, out of town Land Agents, behind the project put their case to a meeting around the village pump amongst barracking and jeering from an almost full contingent of the residents and a few curious by-standers who happened to be out rambling from the city.
The proposed location, it was argued, was ideal on the basis of its elevation and exposure to the prevailing westerly winds.
There was good access to the road network and for the benefit of those for whom the turbine would provide a mechanism for wealth and amenity.
There was to be direct employment for one operator and a house to be built adjacent for occupation by their family.
The spin-off prospects for other jobs in the village and surroundings were expected to be good particularly for those in the transport, haulage, distribution and marketing sectors.
Aesthetically the tower would be quite unobtrusive. Painted black the slender 74 foot high structure with a traditional ogee cap and the four bladed turbine atop would blend in with the hillside and be a mere vertical stripe against the skyline. Such was the design that it was anticipated that the building would attain local landmark status and reflect well on the forward thinking members of the village as being progressive and modern.
When put to a vote the motion to build the structure was passed unanimously. This was not really surprising as the only persons eligible to put their signatures on the paperwork were the Consortium comprising the main land owners and financiers. The rest of the population were largely silent as they were in the employment and tied housing of the aforementioned privileged few as agricultural workers, domestic staff or otherwise beholding for their livelihoods in trade and commerce.
The wind turbine as mentioned , more quaintly called a windmill was erected at Skidby Village in 1821 by Robert Garton, a millwright of nearby Beverley. It was heightened in 1878-1879 but any protests at that time were not recorded for posterity. The windmill was restored to operation in 1974 and is regularly open to the public to this day. The arguments against and for a wind turbine remain ostensibly the same from the early 19th Century to the 21st.
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Saturday, 8 September 2012
The Teenage Mercenary
In the 1970's I tried a few things in order to supplement my pocket money
Coming from a large family of 5 money absorbing children and with a Bank Manager father we operated on a strictly within means basis which was a sound grounding for later years.I have not, however, really applied the theory from my early years lessons in frugality and economy. My parents were fair in their distribution of pocket money and for every year of our age we children got 1p decimal a week. At the age of 15 I found that this allowance never went very far especially as my Speed and Power Magazine cost 10p per month and I never had the sense to save over the four weeks between issues. In addition I liked fizz bomb sweets and my absolute and still current favourite of sherbert fountains. It is little wonder that my interest in smoking was short lived and I stopped that pastime at the age of 12 fearing bankruptcy or withdrawal of finance from the IMF- Income for my Fags.
I did the usual paper delivery round for the newsagent shop opposite the Grammar School. In summer this was a delight with fresh air and a lot of cycling. My technique of scooting along on my bike between house gates on one pedal laden down with a sack of weighty morning tabloids soon cause chronic metal fatigue to the cranks of the pedals and their replacement devastated any profit from that job.
Potato picking sounded good in theory and with the promise of a kingly sum of £15 for a weeks work I promptly signed up. My mercenary attitude backfired big style as I had a round trip of 6 miles to reach the spud field and I had to buy packed lunch and liquids to offset premature death from such arduous work. I had not really thought through the physical demands of harvesting a potato, let alone how many of them could actually be found in a 5 acre field .The tractor had a rear mounted arm attachment that spun out the despised vegetable and a group of us schoolkids had to follow and quickly hand pick and fill up wire mesh baskets before tipping the contents into a nearby trailer. The field was wedge shaped and the first two days were totally demoralising and back breaking in that we were working on the longest rows and had no actual sense of real progress. By days three, four and five we were up and down the shorter furrow lengths at rapid speed and soon completed that form of employment. On the same agricultural theme I also spent a week picking out the wild oats and weeds as part of a crop yield study. Perhaps you could say I was outstanding in that particular field.
I also participated regularly as a bush beater for a large corporate shooting business. This involved wearing thick waterproof clothing all day whilst walking through dripping wet fields of Kale and Sugar Beet a-whooping and a-hollering and smacking the ground and available ground cover with a stout stick in order to startle pheasants, partridge, woodcock and pigeon to almost certain death under a barrage of lead shot from a front line of posh people out for the day in order to claim the highest body count of small animals. There was no more an example of the social divide than between a shooting party and the minions of the bush beaters. I often thought ,with head down against stray lead shot fragments in a head on beat towards the guns,that if one of us beaters actually died from inflicted wounds in these circumstances we would still be retrieved by the trained dogs and hung up for a few days to mature before families were informed.
The afternoon sessions were the most nerve wracking as the shooters had just partaken of a generous, mostly liquid lunch and could not be relied upon to fire straight or even differentiate between man and beast at an alcohol induced squinting range. The larger animals of the fields and forests were wise to the approach of humans and were rarely ever seen in a perilous position between beaters and guns. I did enjoy the revenge of a huge Hare which, having been shot and then disrespectfully thrown over the proud shoulders of a waxed jacketed businessman for a photo opportunity, promptly evacuated its bowels all over the hapless individual. The stench over the course of the day was warning enough of the position of the guns. The shooting season was mostly in the damp and misty early mornings of the spring before any real damage could be done to the crops by waves of beater infantry. My income from this hazardous work was £6 for a full day.
I now acknowledge that I participated in some barbarous, cruel and, frankly, painful activities in my attempts to supplement my pocket money but this has made me appreciate to this day the value of a strong work ethic in life. If there was a surplus of kill from the shooting party then this was distributed like and in the manner of charity to the scruffy and cold air induced ruddy faced beater brigade. We bowed and grovelled in thanks which the executive ladder climbers lapped up before alighting in their Range Rovers and Jags.
Any pheasant that I presented at home was hung up in the shed for a few days and always ended up being buried in the garden as no-one had the desire to pluck, gut and dress the fabulously flashy male of the species. I did reserve one or two of the fancy tail feathers to adorn my rather faded and sweat stained bush hat to give my beating activities some credibility. I made a point of taking off the hat for the post-lunchtime shooting drives mindful that, to the half cut owner of a double barrelled shot-gun , I could appear like a giant freakish game bird and fair game for that.
I have been out and about all day so this is another one of those recycled blogs from last year. I may have more time for original thoughts tomorrow....
Coming from a large family of 5 money absorbing children and with a Bank Manager father we operated on a strictly within means basis which was a sound grounding for later years.I have not, however, really applied the theory from my early years lessons in frugality and economy. My parents were fair in their distribution of pocket money and for every year of our age we children got 1p decimal a week. At the age of 15 I found that this allowance never went very far especially as my Speed and Power Magazine cost 10p per month and I never had the sense to save over the four weeks between issues. In addition I liked fizz bomb sweets and my absolute and still current favourite of sherbert fountains. It is little wonder that my interest in smoking was short lived and I stopped that pastime at the age of 12 fearing bankruptcy or withdrawal of finance from the IMF- Income for my Fags.
I did the usual paper delivery round for the newsagent shop opposite the Grammar School. In summer this was a delight with fresh air and a lot of cycling. My technique of scooting along on my bike between house gates on one pedal laden down with a sack of weighty morning tabloids soon cause chronic metal fatigue to the cranks of the pedals and their replacement devastated any profit from that job.
Potato picking sounded good in theory and with the promise of a kingly sum of £15 for a weeks work I promptly signed up. My mercenary attitude backfired big style as I had a round trip of 6 miles to reach the spud field and I had to buy packed lunch and liquids to offset premature death from such arduous work. I had not really thought through the physical demands of harvesting a potato, let alone how many of them could actually be found in a 5 acre field .The tractor had a rear mounted arm attachment that spun out the despised vegetable and a group of us schoolkids had to follow and quickly hand pick and fill up wire mesh baskets before tipping the contents into a nearby trailer. The field was wedge shaped and the first two days were totally demoralising and back breaking in that we were working on the longest rows and had no actual sense of real progress. By days three, four and five we were up and down the shorter furrow lengths at rapid speed and soon completed that form of employment. On the same agricultural theme I also spent a week picking out the wild oats and weeds as part of a crop yield study. Perhaps you could say I was outstanding in that particular field.
I also participated regularly as a bush beater for a large corporate shooting business. This involved wearing thick waterproof clothing all day whilst walking through dripping wet fields of Kale and Sugar Beet a-whooping and a-hollering and smacking the ground and available ground cover with a stout stick in order to startle pheasants, partridge, woodcock and pigeon to almost certain death under a barrage of lead shot from a front line of posh people out for the day in order to claim the highest body count of small animals. There was no more an example of the social divide than between a shooting party and the minions of the bush beaters. I often thought ,with head down against stray lead shot fragments in a head on beat towards the guns,that if one of us beaters actually died from inflicted wounds in these circumstances we would still be retrieved by the trained dogs and hung up for a few days to mature before families were informed.
The afternoon sessions were the most nerve wracking as the shooters had just partaken of a generous, mostly liquid lunch and could not be relied upon to fire straight or even differentiate between man and beast at an alcohol induced squinting range. The larger animals of the fields and forests were wise to the approach of humans and were rarely ever seen in a perilous position between beaters and guns. I did enjoy the revenge of a huge Hare which, having been shot and then disrespectfully thrown over the proud shoulders of a waxed jacketed businessman for a photo opportunity, promptly evacuated its bowels all over the hapless individual. The stench over the course of the day was warning enough of the position of the guns. The shooting season was mostly in the damp and misty early mornings of the spring before any real damage could be done to the crops by waves of beater infantry. My income from this hazardous work was £6 for a full day.
I now acknowledge that I participated in some barbarous, cruel and, frankly, painful activities in my attempts to supplement my pocket money but this has made me appreciate to this day the value of a strong work ethic in life. If there was a surplus of kill from the shooting party then this was distributed like and in the manner of charity to the scruffy and cold air induced ruddy faced beater brigade. We bowed and grovelled in thanks which the executive ladder climbers lapped up before alighting in their Range Rovers and Jags.
Any pheasant that I presented at home was hung up in the shed for a few days and always ended up being buried in the garden as no-one had the desire to pluck, gut and dress the fabulously flashy male of the species. I did reserve one or two of the fancy tail feathers to adorn my rather faded and sweat stained bush hat to give my beating activities some credibility. I made a point of taking off the hat for the post-lunchtime shooting drives mindful that, to the half cut owner of a double barrelled shot-gun , I could appear like a giant freakish game bird and fair game for that.
I have been out and about all day so this is another one of those recycled blogs from last year. I may have more time for original thoughts tomorrow....
Friday, 7 September 2012
1914 Home Front
The first battle of Ypres took place on the 11th November 1914, incidentally a wednesday.
The First World War was in its infancy having started just a few months before in the July.
British Society would never be the same again given the loss of life, upheaval and revolution from that great war.
On the Home Front there was a semblance of normality in spite of the appetite to fight amongst the young males of the nation.
A case in point was the Sale by Auction of Contractors Plant at Louth Sewerage Works in Lincolnshire on that very same day.
The sale, by the local auctioneers Dickinson, Riggall and Davy was to start at 10.30am at the Out-Fall Works of the Sewerage Plant and with a secondary venue for the afternoon, from 2pm in the Corporation Yard, Upgate, Louth.
The town was a typical centre of commerce and business for an English rural area being some 20 or so miles east of the county town of Lincoln and equidistant from the North Sea Coast. On the edge of the rolling Wolds countryside the town was important for a regular market economy of produce and livestock. The population had expanded rapidly in the pre-war period from the older street frontage cottages around the town centre into the middle class areas of villas with gardens and a view of the sky and hills beyond.
With urban growth and development came the need for Utilities including sewerage being provided by private enterprise, wealthy investors or the Borough.
The sale was on behalf of the executors of the late Orston Wright Esquire, no doubt an important benefactor and servant of the townspeople. The advertisements for the Sale were targeted as being an opportunity for farmers, contractors, engineers and local authorities to acquire ' Effects of the utmost utility and of standard quality'.
Such an event would no doubt be the highlight of the day for the resident population given that it would take some time for the telegraph wires and press to bring the news of the momentous troop and military movements of the War to the town.
On offer was a wide range of buildings, goods, chattels, materials, tools and instruments. Amongst the structures were an excellent and well built Stores Shed with two windows and a corrugated roof of dimensions 30ft by 18ft since dismantled and re-erected at the railway station goods yard. In addition, a cement shed, Pay Office (in sections) with a desk and Solar Stove, Engineers Office on wheels and 2 watchmans boxes.
Materials cnsisted of a large amount of timber, pitch pine posts and sleepers to appeal to contractors and farmers. Galvanised and other tanks, iron piping, cement and ballast guage boxes may also have been of interest to the well informed.
The apparatus of the sewerage works was also to be sold including smoke testers, brass inflating pumps, Avery brand weighing machines, a portable bellows, 3 ton blocks and pulleys, Diaphragm Pumps by Bastin & Co and a hose pipe.
The goods up for grabs were extensive with many leading and well known brands, Bamfords and Jim Crow amongst them.
The Auctioneers had structured the day to work from the largest items downwards. By about midday there was a huddle of interested parties around the display of small plant, tools and effects. Many bidders went away happy given the surplus of barrows (20), Tool Boxes (6), shovels (250), picks (150) and hammers (30). Those attendees in more formal attire than overalls and work clothes were in waiting for the specialist items under the broad heading of 'Engineers Instruments'. These ranged from drawing boards and the rudiments of a fully equipped office to surveying equipment, a 100 feet steel tape on a drum and a 14ft staff pole.
The sale was by all accounts well attended and with a good level of revenue generated. For some in the crowded venues it may have been a welcome distraction from the looming pressures to enlist and take the Kings Shilling to participate in the war on foreign soil. Given the acceleration of the conflict it is likely that many of the goods and chattels purchased that day may not have enjoyed an extended lease of life in the hands of those who had volunteered only their hard earned cash to acquire them on that November day in 1914.
The First World War was in its infancy having started just a few months before in the July.
British Society would never be the same again given the loss of life, upheaval and revolution from that great war.
On the Home Front there was a semblance of normality in spite of the appetite to fight amongst the young males of the nation.
A case in point was the Sale by Auction of Contractors Plant at Louth Sewerage Works in Lincolnshire on that very same day.
The sale, by the local auctioneers Dickinson, Riggall and Davy was to start at 10.30am at the Out-Fall Works of the Sewerage Plant and with a secondary venue for the afternoon, from 2pm in the Corporation Yard, Upgate, Louth.
The town was a typical centre of commerce and business for an English rural area being some 20 or so miles east of the county town of Lincoln and equidistant from the North Sea Coast. On the edge of the rolling Wolds countryside the town was important for a regular market economy of produce and livestock. The population had expanded rapidly in the pre-war period from the older street frontage cottages around the town centre into the middle class areas of villas with gardens and a view of the sky and hills beyond.
With urban growth and development came the need for Utilities including sewerage being provided by private enterprise, wealthy investors or the Borough.
The sale was on behalf of the executors of the late Orston Wright Esquire, no doubt an important benefactor and servant of the townspeople. The advertisements for the Sale were targeted as being an opportunity for farmers, contractors, engineers and local authorities to acquire ' Effects of the utmost utility and of standard quality'.
Such an event would no doubt be the highlight of the day for the resident population given that it would take some time for the telegraph wires and press to bring the news of the momentous troop and military movements of the War to the town.
On offer was a wide range of buildings, goods, chattels, materials, tools and instruments. Amongst the structures were an excellent and well built Stores Shed with two windows and a corrugated roof of dimensions 30ft by 18ft since dismantled and re-erected at the railway station goods yard. In addition, a cement shed, Pay Office (in sections) with a desk and Solar Stove, Engineers Office on wheels and 2 watchmans boxes.
Materials cnsisted of a large amount of timber, pitch pine posts and sleepers to appeal to contractors and farmers. Galvanised and other tanks, iron piping, cement and ballast guage boxes may also have been of interest to the well informed.
The apparatus of the sewerage works was also to be sold including smoke testers, brass inflating pumps, Avery brand weighing machines, a portable bellows, 3 ton blocks and pulleys, Diaphragm Pumps by Bastin & Co and a hose pipe.
The goods up for grabs were extensive with many leading and well known brands, Bamfords and Jim Crow amongst them.
The Auctioneers had structured the day to work from the largest items downwards. By about midday there was a huddle of interested parties around the display of small plant, tools and effects. Many bidders went away happy given the surplus of barrows (20), Tool Boxes (6), shovels (250), picks (150) and hammers (30). Those attendees in more formal attire than overalls and work clothes were in waiting for the specialist items under the broad heading of 'Engineers Instruments'. These ranged from drawing boards and the rudiments of a fully equipped office to surveying equipment, a 100 feet steel tape on a drum and a 14ft staff pole.
The sale was by all accounts well attended and with a good level of revenue generated. For some in the crowded venues it may have been a welcome distraction from the looming pressures to enlist and take the Kings Shilling to participate in the war on foreign soil. Given the acceleration of the conflict it is likely that many of the goods and chattels purchased that day may not have enjoyed an extended lease of life in the hands of those who had volunteered only their hard earned cash to acquire them on that November day in 1914.
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Uplifting
There is something that can be either an exhilarating experience or just a big disappointment.
I am talking about that moment when the outer doors to a passenger lift first open.
Of course, the calibre of the building in which the lift is situated can go a long way to heightening the anticipation. Those who have, for example, been privileged to visit the Empire State Building in New York have not expressed any lack of satisfaction in the art deco elevators that take you up to the heady altitudes and the tremendous cityscape views on offer. At the other end of the scale you may hesitate to even push the button to call the lift let alone enter it in a run down and neglected premises or where there are quite pungent and concentratedly unpleasant odours emanating from behind the sliding doors as though poised to pounce.
A brightly lit, smoochie muzak filled lift in a hotel or department store is nothing exceptional and may be regarded as a standard expectation of the overall visit to such a place. An Express elevator on the outside of some of the tallest structures in the world, with fully glazed panoramic vista can be the highlight of someones life.
In the movies ,passenger lifts have provided high drama, mayhem and carnage and perpetuate the myth that being in an enclosed space and moving vertically can be potentially hazardous if coinciding with the intentions of a master criminal or other ne'er do wells.
All of the above flashed across my mind and consciousness just today as I waited to take the lift in the company of the building owner. The five storey property was an integration of three original and character town houses built in the late 1800's, until ten years ago operating as a hotel but over the last decade providing student accommodation. The lift was an inherited feature of a facility for guests but under student use was turned off after 10pm so as not to be abused or exploited.
The wide outer door was impressive but the actual lift compartment was no larger than a wardrobe say, 4 feet square and with an indicated capacity for only 4 persons.
In the heyday of the hotel in the post war period, the dimensions would easily cater for four or more undernourished adults. In the 1960's a kaftan and flared jeans wearing patronage would infringe capacity further. In the 1970's those wearing platform shoes would be wedged tightly up against the ceiling. A 1980's Dallas style hairstyle and padded shoulders could limit occupation to about three. A health conscious and leaner 1990's lifestyle may have restored the loading limit. Fears of that ubiquitous Millenium Bug may have dissuaded any use at the beginning of that decade. Although I would say that myself and the owner were of average to large build it was nevertheless a bit cramped for just two 21st Century inhabitants.
I found it unnerving when the sprung door slammed shut and the panel at my side moved downwards. I had been spoilt by more modern lifts where there are inner doors to conceal acual physical movement. The sensation of going up in that small space was concentrated and seemed hellishly fast even though in reality the stairs may have been quicker.
Akin to the awkward silence in one of the Pink Panther Films the two of us just avoided eye contact. Neither of us mustered enough courage to break wind to ease the silence as per the comic genious of Peter Sellers.
The panel of buttons indicating the five floors was rough and battered. Symbols on the buttons were badly worn and indicipherable. The motion was lurching and lumpy. The interior was fully carpeted in a tight cheap weave with dubious stains and a characteristic of generating a crackling static charge. The owner, perhaps feeling more awkward than me in his attempt to sell to me the merits of the lift as an attribute to the building finally spoke. 'Did you know' he offered 'that there have been 28 students in this lift. We saw the photograph on Facebook'.
At that very moment I was unsure whether to be reassured by that fact or in mortal fear of an unrestrained plummet to the basement.
I am talking about that moment when the outer doors to a passenger lift first open.
Of course, the calibre of the building in which the lift is situated can go a long way to heightening the anticipation. Those who have, for example, been privileged to visit the Empire State Building in New York have not expressed any lack of satisfaction in the art deco elevators that take you up to the heady altitudes and the tremendous cityscape views on offer. At the other end of the scale you may hesitate to even push the button to call the lift let alone enter it in a run down and neglected premises or where there are quite pungent and concentratedly unpleasant odours emanating from behind the sliding doors as though poised to pounce.
A brightly lit, smoochie muzak filled lift in a hotel or department store is nothing exceptional and may be regarded as a standard expectation of the overall visit to such a place. An Express elevator on the outside of some of the tallest structures in the world, with fully glazed panoramic vista can be the highlight of someones life.
In the movies ,passenger lifts have provided high drama, mayhem and carnage and perpetuate the myth that being in an enclosed space and moving vertically can be potentially hazardous if coinciding with the intentions of a master criminal or other ne'er do wells.
All of the above flashed across my mind and consciousness just today as I waited to take the lift in the company of the building owner. The five storey property was an integration of three original and character town houses built in the late 1800's, until ten years ago operating as a hotel but over the last decade providing student accommodation. The lift was an inherited feature of a facility for guests but under student use was turned off after 10pm so as not to be abused or exploited.
The wide outer door was impressive but the actual lift compartment was no larger than a wardrobe say, 4 feet square and with an indicated capacity for only 4 persons.
In the heyday of the hotel in the post war period, the dimensions would easily cater for four or more undernourished adults. In the 1960's a kaftan and flared jeans wearing patronage would infringe capacity further. In the 1970's those wearing platform shoes would be wedged tightly up against the ceiling. A 1980's Dallas style hairstyle and padded shoulders could limit occupation to about three. A health conscious and leaner 1990's lifestyle may have restored the loading limit. Fears of that ubiquitous Millenium Bug may have dissuaded any use at the beginning of that decade. Although I would say that myself and the owner were of average to large build it was nevertheless a bit cramped for just two 21st Century inhabitants.
I found it unnerving when the sprung door slammed shut and the panel at my side moved downwards. I had been spoilt by more modern lifts where there are inner doors to conceal acual physical movement. The sensation of going up in that small space was concentrated and seemed hellishly fast even though in reality the stairs may have been quicker.
Akin to the awkward silence in one of the Pink Panther Films the two of us just avoided eye contact. Neither of us mustered enough courage to break wind to ease the silence as per the comic genious of Peter Sellers.
The panel of buttons indicating the five floors was rough and battered. Symbols on the buttons were badly worn and indicipherable. The motion was lurching and lumpy. The interior was fully carpeted in a tight cheap weave with dubious stains and a characteristic of generating a crackling static charge. The owner, perhaps feeling more awkward than me in his attempt to sell to me the merits of the lift as an attribute to the building finally spoke. 'Did you know' he offered 'that there have been 28 students in this lift. We saw the photograph on Facebook'.
At that very moment I was unsure whether to be reassured by that fact or in mortal fear of an unrestrained plummet to the basement.
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
The Bank Job
It was a Bank Job.
I was an impoverished student and the prospect of earning some cash over the long, drawn out and expensive summer vacation would be most welcome. I had been asked to act as a sort of look-out checking on the staff at a small branch in a market town, about 20 miles from where I lived.
Before you make a judgement on my apparent descent into the criminal fraternity I should point out that the Bank Job was actually a paid job working in a bank.
I would also have to act as general dogsbody in fetching and carrying, making extravagant numbers of cups of tea and coffee, answering the phone, filing away papers, making my presence known to any dodgy characters entering the building but for the most part of the long 8 hour days occupying the former Managers Office and playing with the swivel chair, paper clips, elastic bands and supposedly doing a bit of course work before my return to Polytechnic.
The day would start early with a drive in the cashiers car from the regional branch to the sleepy market town sub-branch. The usual staff contingent was only two persons and my employment was to provide cover for one of them whilst on their annual leave.
Pauline, the full time employee was very chatty and amiable although for the duration of the car journeys over the summer I quickly adopted a stance of nodding and agreeing with everything she said about her life, relationships, home life,social life and so-on which appeared to be on an endless and repetitive loop. There was some excitement when her car got stolen overnight and we had to make alternative arrangements to get to the bank. That day was just a cacophony of incoming phone calls from the Police on the procedure to recover a burnt out vehicle from a public open space in Nottingham, some 120 miles away which had been the dumping ground by the perpetrators, apparently a group of boys from the local Borstal who had wanted to go home for a couple of days.
Pauline knew everyone who came ino the branch. This fact made my security duties very easy. If the heavy outer door to the street creaked and squeaked open and there was no cheery 'hello' and fraternisation on first name terms with the customer then I would be on alert. My cheek pressed up against the back of the door of the Managers Office allowed me to squint through the fish-eye viewing hole to monitor events. The distorted image gave everybody the appearance of an abstract Gerald Scarfe character.
The town was a smallish one but with a thriving weekly market in the square directly outside the bank. This drew in large numbers of the population from the surrounding rural areas and they were always keen to withdraw their cash and have a binge on the traders stalls selling domestic goods, out of sale date provisions , ironmongery, last years fashions and sweets.
It was often the case that there was a large queue snaking its way through the compact banking hall in front of Pauline's sole position. If I wandered through, as nonchalantly but as authoratatively as possible the waiting customers would fidget and surge as though they expected me to open up another cashier window. Their disappointment in my lack of banking ability was evident to see but they never chuntered or grumbled as they might be disposed to do in the supermarket, Post Office or Doctors Surgery.
What did stir up some frustration was the arrival of a local shop-keeper towards the end of business carrying one or two fist fulls of cotton cash bags. The contents had to be carefully weighed and counted, lotted up and justified. Not in itself an arduous task unless of course, as was inevitably the case, the bags contained loose copper coinage, lots of it and usually a few stray foreign coins and washers.
The town also had a large and well respected Public School and the pupils would come in on a regular basis to cash a cheque from their wealthy parents or undertake a transaction to pay for a ski-ing holiday or a holiday at the family retreat in some exotic part of the world. They were most polite and smartly attired in a pale grey blazer and trouser even out of normal school hours.
On the outskirts of the town was a large industrial estate including a caravan factory. The production models were twin axled, sizeable and luxurious and particularly popular with the Traveller population. Payment for the latest version, chromed and shiny was always a cash purchase and the factory owner would send a couple of his lads to pay in wads of £50, £20 and £10 notes. Pauline looked like she would have preferred to put on gloves to handle the monies and she would try not to breathe in during the whole process. Her face would become almost as blue as the £20 pound notes as she fought the natural urge to breathe over the mass of scrunched up, soiled and sometimes fake notes. I had to watch the position after such a deposit whilst she washed and scrubbed her hands in the staff room.
As a job it was not particularly taxing. I did became a bit of a clock watcher but mainly from a hunger point of view as I had usually finished off my packed lunch before 10am and was not able to leave the branch to re-stock at the local shops. The delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and cakes would waft in on the breeze when the door was opened from the shop just up the street. If I stood on the managers desk I could just see the townspeople going about their business with a pastie, meat pie or a vanilla slice in their hands. This was most tantalising and frustrating on my part.
The grand old Bank premises is now a restaurant having fallen victim to the combination of a Head Office rationalisation of retail banking, the take-over by a larger overseas financial institution and the embracing by the customers of internet and phone banking. It had been, before my eyes, a hub of social activity and a valued place in the delicate economic structure of that town. Something that a hole in the wall cash dispenser or a lap top screen internet banking page cannot ever hope to emulate.
I was an impoverished student and the prospect of earning some cash over the long, drawn out and expensive summer vacation would be most welcome. I had been asked to act as a sort of look-out checking on the staff at a small branch in a market town, about 20 miles from where I lived.
Before you make a judgement on my apparent descent into the criminal fraternity I should point out that the Bank Job was actually a paid job working in a bank.
I would also have to act as general dogsbody in fetching and carrying, making extravagant numbers of cups of tea and coffee, answering the phone, filing away papers, making my presence known to any dodgy characters entering the building but for the most part of the long 8 hour days occupying the former Managers Office and playing with the swivel chair, paper clips, elastic bands and supposedly doing a bit of course work before my return to Polytechnic.
The day would start early with a drive in the cashiers car from the regional branch to the sleepy market town sub-branch. The usual staff contingent was only two persons and my employment was to provide cover for one of them whilst on their annual leave.
Pauline, the full time employee was very chatty and amiable although for the duration of the car journeys over the summer I quickly adopted a stance of nodding and agreeing with everything she said about her life, relationships, home life,social life and so-on which appeared to be on an endless and repetitive loop. There was some excitement when her car got stolen overnight and we had to make alternative arrangements to get to the bank. That day was just a cacophony of incoming phone calls from the Police on the procedure to recover a burnt out vehicle from a public open space in Nottingham, some 120 miles away which had been the dumping ground by the perpetrators, apparently a group of boys from the local Borstal who had wanted to go home for a couple of days.
Pauline knew everyone who came ino the branch. This fact made my security duties very easy. If the heavy outer door to the street creaked and squeaked open and there was no cheery 'hello' and fraternisation on first name terms with the customer then I would be on alert. My cheek pressed up against the back of the door of the Managers Office allowed me to squint through the fish-eye viewing hole to monitor events. The distorted image gave everybody the appearance of an abstract Gerald Scarfe character.
The town was a smallish one but with a thriving weekly market in the square directly outside the bank. This drew in large numbers of the population from the surrounding rural areas and they were always keen to withdraw their cash and have a binge on the traders stalls selling domestic goods, out of sale date provisions , ironmongery, last years fashions and sweets.
It was often the case that there was a large queue snaking its way through the compact banking hall in front of Pauline's sole position. If I wandered through, as nonchalantly but as authoratatively as possible the waiting customers would fidget and surge as though they expected me to open up another cashier window. Their disappointment in my lack of banking ability was evident to see but they never chuntered or grumbled as they might be disposed to do in the supermarket, Post Office or Doctors Surgery.
What did stir up some frustration was the arrival of a local shop-keeper towards the end of business carrying one or two fist fulls of cotton cash bags. The contents had to be carefully weighed and counted, lotted up and justified. Not in itself an arduous task unless of course, as was inevitably the case, the bags contained loose copper coinage, lots of it and usually a few stray foreign coins and washers.
The town also had a large and well respected Public School and the pupils would come in on a regular basis to cash a cheque from their wealthy parents or undertake a transaction to pay for a ski-ing holiday or a holiday at the family retreat in some exotic part of the world. They were most polite and smartly attired in a pale grey blazer and trouser even out of normal school hours.
On the outskirts of the town was a large industrial estate including a caravan factory. The production models were twin axled, sizeable and luxurious and particularly popular with the Traveller population. Payment for the latest version, chromed and shiny was always a cash purchase and the factory owner would send a couple of his lads to pay in wads of £50, £20 and £10 notes. Pauline looked like she would have preferred to put on gloves to handle the monies and she would try not to breathe in during the whole process. Her face would become almost as blue as the £20 pound notes as she fought the natural urge to breathe over the mass of scrunched up, soiled and sometimes fake notes. I had to watch the position after such a deposit whilst she washed and scrubbed her hands in the staff room.
As a job it was not particularly taxing. I did became a bit of a clock watcher but mainly from a hunger point of view as I had usually finished off my packed lunch before 10am and was not able to leave the branch to re-stock at the local shops. The delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and cakes would waft in on the breeze when the door was opened from the shop just up the street. If I stood on the managers desk I could just see the townspeople going about their business with a pastie, meat pie or a vanilla slice in their hands. This was most tantalising and frustrating on my part.
The grand old Bank premises is now a restaurant having fallen victim to the combination of a Head Office rationalisation of retail banking, the take-over by a larger overseas financial institution and the embracing by the customers of internet and phone banking. It had been, before my eyes, a hub of social activity and a valued place in the delicate economic structure of that town. Something that a hole in the wall cash dispenser or a lap top screen internet banking page cannot ever hope to emulate.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Message in a Bottle
I read with great enthusiasm the report that a fisherman in Scotland had landed a glass bottle containing a small slip of paper which formed part of a Marine Survey from some 98 years ago. The find qualifies as the record for the oldest recovered message in a bottle. With the heart warming feelings I experienced from this tale I was disturbed by a distant memory that troubled me and quickly turned my euphoria to just plain guilt.
On a family holiday, an autumn break in a rented cottage in Robin Hoods Bay, North Yorkshire it was imperative to make the most of the daylight hours as these were becoming increasingly eroded by the approach of winter. We would get up early and, tide permitting, walk along the wide sweep of the Bay scouring the rockpools and picking out nice looking pebbles and bits of gnarled, wave abraded driftwood. These items would fill our cagoule pockets or be carried awkwardly until a better example came into view. Transported home at the end of the week with the intention of doing something creative or for a rustic theme of Christmas gifts they usually ended up discarded in the garden water feature or in a cardboard box in the back of the garage.
Amongst fascinating geological specimens, a wealth of natural history and the sheer beauty of the cliffs and coves we focused our attention on an old plastic bottle possibly left behind in the picnic days of the high summer season just passed. We had an idea to use it as an experiment in just how far it could go containing our personalised message if thrown back into the surf. Paper and pencil were always close to hand in our wet weather gear and the children scribbled our home address and a message inviting whosoever found the message to write and report where it had been found. There were concerns that if it reached, say Holland, France, Spain, Africa, The Americas or beyond there may be some difficulties in translation but I gave reassurance that a message in a bottle was always understood whatever the language.
Ceremoniously we threw the lightweight bottle as far as possible into the advancing waves. It bobbed and wobbled for some time before appearing to escape the draw of the tide and float in that smoother part of the sea beyond the breakers. We left the beach chattering excitedly although that may have been largely as a result of the cold autumn weather. This had not deterred other people and the usual dog walkers and fishermen began to arrive as we headed back to the cottage.
A few weeks later a letter arrived at our home curiously addressed to all three children. It was from a 10 year old boy from Newcastle who had come across the bottle and message and was understandably thrilled about doing so. He had drawn a small map of where he had found the bottle and with a dotted line around a quite accurate representation of the North Sea Coast and Humber Estuary up to our home town. I could see from the detail that he must have spent many hours researching and studying the tides and currents in order to produce the map.
We felt immediate embarassment at what we had done. The small boy had been on holiday like us in Robin Hoods Bay and at the same time. Thinking back I recalled a father and son passing us on the Bay slipway, rods in hand at the very moment we had left the beach. The bottle had, in our estimation, possibly set a new record for the shortest ever time afloat before being discovered, roughly about 5 minutes.
On a family holiday, an autumn break in a rented cottage in Robin Hoods Bay, North Yorkshire it was imperative to make the most of the daylight hours as these were becoming increasingly eroded by the approach of winter. We would get up early and, tide permitting, walk along the wide sweep of the Bay scouring the rockpools and picking out nice looking pebbles and bits of gnarled, wave abraded driftwood. These items would fill our cagoule pockets or be carried awkwardly until a better example came into view. Transported home at the end of the week with the intention of doing something creative or for a rustic theme of Christmas gifts they usually ended up discarded in the garden water feature or in a cardboard box in the back of the garage.
Amongst fascinating geological specimens, a wealth of natural history and the sheer beauty of the cliffs and coves we focused our attention on an old plastic bottle possibly left behind in the picnic days of the high summer season just passed. We had an idea to use it as an experiment in just how far it could go containing our personalised message if thrown back into the surf. Paper and pencil were always close to hand in our wet weather gear and the children scribbled our home address and a message inviting whosoever found the message to write and report where it had been found. There were concerns that if it reached, say Holland, France, Spain, Africa, The Americas or beyond there may be some difficulties in translation but I gave reassurance that a message in a bottle was always understood whatever the language.
Ceremoniously we threw the lightweight bottle as far as possible into the advancing waves. It bobbed and wobbled for some time before appearing to escape the draw of the tide and float in that smoother part of the sea beyond the breakers. We left the beach chattering excitedly although that may have been largely as a result of the cold autumn weather. This had not deterred other people and the usual dog walkers and fishermen began to arrive as we headed back to the cottage.
A few weeks later a letter arrived at our home curiously addressed to all three children. It was from a 10 year old boy from Newcastle who had come across the bottle and message and was understandably thrilled about doing so. He had drawn a small map of where he had found the bottle and with a dotted line around a quite accurate representation of the North Sea Coast and Humber Estuary up to our home town. I could see from the detail that he must have spent many hours researching and studying the tides and currents in order to produce the map.
We felt immediate embarassment at what we had done. The small boy had been on holiday like us in Robin Hoods Bay and at the same time. Thinking back I recalled a father and son passing us on the Bay slipway, rods in hand at the very moment we had left the beach. The bottle had, in our estimation, possibly set a new record for the shortest ever time afloat before being discovered, roughly about 5 minutes.
Monday, 3 September 2012
The Eels go round
A freshwater Eel on your fishing hook was always bad news.
The moment the float disappeared under the choppy river surface there was no telling whether it was that elusive once in a lifetime catch to be photographed and mounted on the mantlepiece, or featured in Angling Times, or just a troublesome eel.
On that first strike and tautness of nylon line it was apparent that there was something of some substance attached by hook. A tugging resistance was exciting and as the line played out into the murky depths all your senses became accentuated and raw. It was a one on one confrontation with the natural world.
The line ,transluscent in the morning sun , glistened and small droplets of water fell away to create small concentric circles in the wake of the pursuit. The flexibility of a modern fibre glass fishing rod gave the impression of a relentless battle, arching dramatically, almost doubling up on itself but like a vaulting pole always springing back to its full reach.
Whatever was trying to get away was quite determined to do so and was heading towards the depths of the river and the clump of thick weeds at the edge of the far bank. It was bit and bit on who was winning. The line would slacken suddenly as though the hook had released its captor. The action of slowly reeling in the loose, flapping line was tentative and nervy but only served to annoy the protagonist and the run, stall and waiting game would start again.
After what seemed like hours but was only really a handful of minutes a silver flash briefly broke the surface. The glimpse was not enough to identify fish or eel and catching a second surge of energy the river dweller continued to make a bid for freedom. It was good sport, or as good as could be expected on a sleepy backwater.
Gradually the advantage turned in favour of the angler and more of the line was now back around the reel than in the water. Excitedly the green mesh landing net was prepared and pushed out just under the surface to receive the catch.
As the last few metres of line emerged there was the sight of a thick congealed slime, like that often seen around the mouths of grazing cows. This announced that it was an eel that had provided the entertainment. Not wanting to introduce the mucus into the fishing reel it was a case of swinging the rod end and the struggling, knotted eel onto the bank. The grass seethed and hissed under the contortions of the eel. Thoughts of retrieving the hook were discounted. The discorger could just not be manouevred into the reptilian mouth of small stubbly but sharp teeth and even if it was possible to grip and hold the eel it would only wrap itself tightly around hand and wrist and in a flume of more slime and extruded fluids.
The only course of action was to sever the line just above the last point of the congealed mess and throw the eel back into the river. Such an action did betray the creed of a dedicated angler who always strived to release a catch without apparent harm back to its habitat. However, eels, somehow did not come under the same category as a fish and warranted special treatment.
They are tough creatures and many caught had multiple hooks and strands of line about their bodies from previous frenzied feedings. I often though that anyone actually wanting to catch eels in our stretch of river could easily do so from a small boat with a metal detector and small net.
The moment the float disappeared under the choppy river surface there was no telling whether it was that elusive once in a lifetime catch to be photographed and mounted on the mantlepiece, or featured in Angling Times, or just a troublesome eel.
On that first strike and tautness of nylon line it was apparent that there was something of some substance attached by hook. A tugging resistance was exciting and as the line played out into the murky depths all your senses became accentuated and raw. It was a one on one confrontation with the natural world.
The line ,transluscent in the morning sun , glistened and small droplets of water fell away to create small concentric circles in the wake of the pursuit. The flexibility of a modern fibre glass fishing rod gave the impression of a relentless battle, arching dramatically, almost doubling up on itself but like a vaulting pole always springing back to its full reach.
Whatever was trying to get away was quite determined to do so and was heading towards the depths of the river and the clump of thick weeds at the edge of the far bank. It was bit and bit on who was winning. The line would slacken suddenly as though the hook had released its captor. The action of slowly reeling in the loose, flapping line was tentative and nervy but only served to annoy the protagonist and the run, stall and waiting game would start again.
After what seemed like hours but was only really a handful of minutes a silver flash briefly broke the surface. The glimpse was not enough to identify fish or eel and catching a second surge of energy the river dweller continued to make a bid for freedom. It was good sport, or as good as could be expected on a sleepy backwater.
Gradually the advantage turned in favour of the angler and more of the line was now back around the reel than in the water. Excitedly the green mesh landing net was prepared and pushed out just under the surface to receive the catch.
As the last few metres of line emerged there was the sight of a thick congealed slime, like that often seen around the mouths of grazing cows. This announced that it was an eel that had provided the entertainment. Not wanting to introduce the mucus into the fishing reel it was a case of swinging the rod end and the struggling, knotted eel onto the bank. The grass seethed and hissed under the contortions of the eel. Thoughts of retrieving the hook were discounted. The discorger could just not be manouevred into the reptilian mouth of small stubbly but sharp teeth and even if it was possible to grip and hold the eel it would only wrap itself tightly around hand and wrist and in a flume of more slime and extruded fluids.
The only course of action was to sever the line just above the last point of the congealed mess and throw the eel back into the river. Such an action did betray the creed of a dedicated angler who always strived to release a catch without apparent harm back to its habitat. However, eels, somehow did not come under the same category as a fish and warranted special treatment.
They are tough creatures and many caught had multiple hooks and strands of line about their bodies from previous frenzied feedings. I often though that anyone actually wanting to catch eels in our stretch of river could easily do so from a small boat with a metal detector and small net.
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