tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77875360522832670672024-02-07T05:00:26.485+00:00StevensonsJim's blog, directed at the Stevenson family, the Kists and close friends and relatives in the UK, USA and Holland.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger322125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-55932726100594367022021-12-30T22:10:00.000+00:002021-12-30T22:10:07.821+00:00Christmas at Ritty Farm
Leaving behind all the cares of home in Cambridgeshire, we set off for wildest Herefordshire in high spirits. The trip took us about 4 hours plus a stop or two on the way and so it was dark when we wound around miles of narrow hedged-in lanes to the tiny village of Michaelchurch Escley. From there we made several stops along the final stretch while I got out of the car with a torch to read any signs that might give us a clue how near we were to our final destination at Ritty Farm.
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Turning off the lane we descended a farm track to a stream with a narrow bridge and then onwards up the other side of the valley to the cottage. My first thought was that we might need a 4x4 vehicle to get back out, but the need never arose. If it had snowed (as we hoped it might) we might have been in trouble. Even so, as long as we had food and drink, it would have been a Christmas to remember, possibly a Happy New Year too.
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The cottage itself is what I would call a classic little Welsh stone farm-house with a porch and footpath leading up to it. Inside we found it to be warm and cosy with a lot of features reminiscent of my Gran’s cottage in Swaledale, including a big fireplace and a drying rack. I particularly liked some of the pictures on the walls, especially a huge black and white hand-made print of a salmon.
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Whenever we rent a cottage we order a delivery from Sainsbury’s, but it’s always a bit of touch-and-go to see if we can get there before the van arrives. This time we were well ahead so our son Dan kept opening the door to look for his dinner. Fortunately, the delivery man knew exactly where he was and we had most of the food and booze required for a Christmas stay. The final ingredients would be ready for collection in Hereford at the last minute.
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Soon after dawn the next day we had a chance to take in our surroundings. I had imagined a place on a hillside close to the Black Mountains and Hay Bluff with great views and, hopefully, some wildlife. That’s just what we found. I love Herefordshire but I get really nostalgic when I get close to the border with Wales because I used to explore the area on a Lambretta scooter while living in Newport in Gwent during my teens. On a Sunday I might ride up the Usk to the Beacons or into Crickhowell, on to the Black Mountains and then down to the Wye Valley for a quick way home. The outlines of the hills are etched into my memory.
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Another tradition, besides ordering food for ourselves, is to get hold of some bird food and feeders if required. I scattered a liberal amount of seed along the kitchen wall and had an instant response from blue tits, great tits and nuthatches. The tits were not so much of a surprise except there was an awful lot of them, but the nuthatches were special for me as they have almost disappeared from where I live. By the second day we had built up quite a following with coal tits, chaffinches and a few sparrows joining in. Bigger birds included a resident cock pheasant, a jay, crows, green and great-spotted woodpeckers, blackbirds and a mistle thrush that held sway over the lower part of the garden where there was a spectacular spread of holly and mistletoe. Flying overhead there was often a kite or a buzzard and I heard ravens cronking somewhere out in the fog one morning. During the week I saw 25 species of birds in the garden area or overhead, and added a few more on the drive over to Hay-on-Wye where we also saw roe deer.
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The Ritty provided a great base for us to explore by foot or by car. We loved discovering Longtown with its castle and brilliant local store. The drive to Hereford where our son lives often took 40 minutes with traffic jams adding to that time as there is only one bridge across the river into the city: quite a contrast with life out on the hills where we met very little traffic. We learned to avoid going into the city and meet up elsewhere.
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I think it was one of the best Christmases we have ever had, especially since we got to meet up with some of our scattered family while we were there.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZphYZBMqO7iHTkiAx009gpFNttPsouEtaoNtrRZeuX3Ov0wZQ289Ye8gWkFYQYwa8CTOJa6ksNQTSqM-V17zCKjfGeuSszq137iIgZtNF-6AmFAIcxRWdpSPc3dVmc1EPQsdBW8DP9uh6ERc8JfYT2S4yGtGMGny9sRKEyugrXGNIfvKXwYaYT92Nrw=s5553" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="3123" data-original-width="5553" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZphYZBMqO7iHTkiAx009gpFNttPsouEtaoNtrRZeuX3Ov0wZQ289Ye8gWkFYQYwa8CTOJa6ksNQTSqM-V17zCKjfGeuSszq137iIgZtNF-6AmFAIcxRWdpSPc3dVmc1EPQsdBW8DP9uh6ERc8JfYT2S4yGtGMGny9sRKEyugrXGNIfvKXwYaYT92Nrw=s320"/></a></div>Jim Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260834494018070779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-64337744336466001732020-10-21T10:51:00.000+01:002020-10-21T10:51:08.640+01:00A proper twitch<p> Tuesday 20/10/2020</p><p>I spent today on the North Norfolk coast around Holme-next-the Sea. It was an unplanned day out as I have a long to-do list and the weather outside was dismal, wet and gloomy. It looked like being like an office day.</p><p>Most days I check the internet for the previous day's bird news through Cambridge Bird Club and the Norfolk Ornithologists' Association. Monday had been a real red letter day. I don't think I have ever seen so many bird names in red ink; the colour used to denote species that are cosmically, mind bendingly, off the scale in terms of rarity and desirability. </p><p>For some birders rarity is the attraction, presenting the chance to add a new "tick" to your life-list. I must admit that I am a bit drawn to that. Despite having seen a huge variety of birds in different parts of the world, there will always be more birds that I haven't seen than those that I have. Even so, only a few of them are on my birding to-do list. </p><p>To make my list they have to be charismatic, gripping to look at, or perhaps exotic in some way. Some birds are symbolic of other things, other places, other times. Birds of prey, all birds of prey, even little kestrels and merlins, are majestic; they exude power and wildness. And I suppose some birds are just comical; they have novelty value. </p><p>Monday's red-letter birds included an Eastern stonechat, a dusky warbler, an Eastern rufous bush-chat, Pallas's warblers and a two red-flanked blue-tails. All of these birds are well out of their normal ranges, in Asia and Africa. </p><p>It was the blue-tails that had me hooked because, like robins, redstarts, wheatears, flycatchers and stonechats, they simply look perfect to me: perfectly proportioned and, well, a bit cocky. This is a bird I have always wanted to see and so off I went. I never do that.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBH0Y6dLvJWyC-nXIwSg0fZ5CSFymYt0MEateQ-K0L_3WkNAOOLwAmovsCSXS9m36oxpr6EpdKSwzwGB7WiRgK3OpQdasRARiKU6ANzKR0gREve1B41Yp5zz46oSk46FAyOFgLVFlo7oex/s2048/DSC_2519.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBH0Y6dLvJWyC-nXIwSg0fZ5CSFymYt0MEateQ-K0L_3WkNAOOLwAmovsCSXS9m36oxpr6EpdKSwzwGB7WiRgK3OpQdasRARiKU6ANzKR0gREve1B41Yp5zz46oSk46FAyOFgLVFlo7oex/s320/DSC_2519.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birders at Home Dunes</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>After half an hour on the muddy road through the Fens, splattered by lorries and tractors I was ready to quit and go home but I pushed through towards King's Lynn and saw the sky begin to brighten. By the time I had passed Hunstanton there was a big patch of blue and the sun was coming out. This could be the day.</p><p>I joined over a dozen birders who were stood in a socially distanced semicircle as though at an outdoor production in a natural amphitheatre. Yes, the blue-tail had been seen sitting on a fence not long before I arrived. I stuck it out for an hour and decided that this scene wasn't for me. I’m too impatient. I might have to wait all day for just a glimpse of a little bird and, anyway, I don't like crowds and I hate queueing. I just not a member of the twitchers' fraternity. I'm an outsider who likes to go his own way and I can't keep still for long. So I left. Perhaps I’m not dedicated or hungry enough to merit seeing a blue-tail.</p><p>At the Holme Dunes Bird Observatory it was relatively quiet. It’s a place that always produces something for me as it has a variety of habitats, a shop and a cafe. Now this was more my scene. I wandered on my own with a hot Cornish pastie in hand, stopping whenever a movement caught my eye. The warden at the ringing station told me where a second blue-tail had been seen and I spent another hour or two pacing the same length of path over and over until most of the other visitors had gone, leaving a hide vacant. It was as good a place to stare at as any and I needed to sit down. </p><p>Out of nowhere a little bird popped up from the brambles, paused, looked around and promptly moved round the corner out of sight. It wasn't what I expected in that it wasn't blue, it was pale cream and orange, like autumn leaves in the sunshine. Nor was it pugnacious like a robin or a chat. It was active but skulking like an American warbler. This was a bird that was happiest low down in the middle of a bush. But it was stunning to look at, so I just looked at it and tried to burn the image to memory, using my eye and brain as a camera…Camera? I didn’t take a picture, there was no time.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPXj58WsQi77UvY92k2JmSoI54qabNKk4c_e4IMC762uw2iHgB1ii_bPQtq1v-R0raJhjEae4RySmsSvbI8BYBnh86DUyFrbmLN374otIidx3gHwV3mQ366voaaGqYqsDetbpJoD6Eq1h/s1375/121972225_176257900742977_2715346968695095090_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1029" data-original-width="1375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPXj58WsQi77UvY92k2JmSoI54qabNKk4c_e4IMC762uw2iHgB1ii_bPQtq1v-R0raJhjEae4RySmsSvbI8BYBnh86DUyFrbmLN374otIidx3gHwV3mQ366voaaGqYqsDetbpJoD6Eq1h/s320/121972225_176257900742977_2715346968695095090_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Female red-flanked bluethroat. (Debbie Pain)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I spent another hour in the hide, hoping my bird would pop up again, convinced that it was still in the same few bushes. The clouds were gathering and I thought I might go back to the first bird in the hope of getting a photo before the light went. Just as I left the car-park two photographers stopped me from running over this handsome toad-in-the-road. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwxwEypPFqPqtljHCClmEJpodQkcj8Zo8B-tO85jIyXqNhlzNRJHScCmJsNBtaEyIYjRz5ExJ5PE8xT2200Fg-3uisaqDnUM6omRZVZZ7GhVfdc4q6cHHB4LkI3xz0jBDi-uxe9q052sps/s2048/DSC_2530+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwxwEypPFqPqtljHCClmEJpodQkcj8Zo8B-tO85jIyXqNhlzNRJHScCmJsNBtaEyIYjRz5ExJ5PE8xT2200Fg-3uisaqDnUM6omRZVZZ7GhVfdc4q6cHHB4LkI3xz0jBDi-uxe9q052sps/s320/DSC_2530+2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toad-in-the-road<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>By the time I was back at the golf course the sun had come back and I had high hopes of seeing the bird and having it to myself. There was only one birder there but he told me it had not been seen all afternoon.</p><p></p><p>A whole day devoted to getting a mere glimpse of one little bird? Is that insane? I decided to end on a "high" by visiting Thornham Harbour where I spent the hour before sunset notching up bird sightings and simply enjoying being where I was. The tide was out and the beds of the muddy creeks were littered with shellfish, tiny crabs and marine worms all accessible by dunlin, redshanks, egrets, godwits, oystercatchers, ducks and gulls. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXSCZgtEMTflKC1tRcflwLOhmCnU__06T-CDhCYOC-CCLRe0ZEmw9_OElSYVyh_e4yzzEl65XXhJ3RgT1qsq59aPaJXxN0ElamBYRFsWDwhqPIxx_QV-xTlG7f1z9BQdG99k7m9euVgR_/s2048/DSC_2590.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXSCZgtEMTflKC1tRcflwLOhmCnU__06T-CDhCYOC-CCLRe0ZEmw9_OElSYVyh_e4yzzEl65XXhJ3RgT1qsq59aPaJXxN0ElamBYRFsWDwhqPIxx_QV-xTlG7f1z9BQdG99k7m9euVgR_/s320/DSC_2590.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spotted redshank<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Redshanks are not the most numerous of waders in the wash by a long way, but they are confiding and photogenic. One of the redshanks in the creek was running downstream, lifting its stilt-like legs high in a goose-step. It was behaving more like a greenshank, running around chasing small shrimps. It was built like a greenshank with slim, long neck, long legs and an exaggeratedly long and thin needle-like bill This was a spotted redshank and not something expected to see. A flock of little brown finches called twites fed on seeds in the salt-marsh before going to bed. Far off I could hear brent geese and pink feet calling. A flock of snipes flew round me, possibly disturbed by an approaching marsh harrier on its way to roost at Titchwell RSPB Reserve. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HAnmfJokJOJ_UHbGc2Tao6Ia_yrk3I_qFpEKBbOqxf6eQSbX1ShU81R8viojgIJAbM304gFRjzqjYVKkOly5l_It8RTYBBQqswMoU4KCoJnqI6lXejHU66zI72hPhMUH7FsfqPiCkabE/s1720/DSC_2578.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="1720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HAnmfJokJOJ_UHbGc2Tao6Ia_yrk3I_qFpEKBbOqxf6eQSbX1ShU81R8viojgIJAbM304gFRjzqjYVKkOly5l_It8RTYBBQqswMoU4KCoJnqI6lXejHU66zI72hPhMUH7FsfqPiCkabE/s320/DSC_2578.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dunlin</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><p>I watched the sun set on the marsh and set off home. The only talk-radio that I could tune into was BBC Radio Norfolk where the news featured the fact that, on today’s exceptionally hide tide, the largest number of knots ever recorded in the Wash had assembled at Snettisham. The count was roughly 140,000 birds, all from Canada or Greenland. Where else but in Norfolk would this be headline news? <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-norfolk-54592215">https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-norfolk-54592215 </a></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGemTf2fA-QpJd3tLPLuUZbj6ORkLQgGvyj1_7yisBJtYeSbpxWGXs8kpd5TWiB57qg8346bcDzo9rvQIdB3YeL6kRx8zKcVDFvr4VmUEA7yf-QIyTjSSiqjQ3ueqtgk_cOxXUogEPPH8/s2048/DSC_2555.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGemTf2fA-QpJd3tLPLuUZbj6ORkLQgGvyj1_7yisBJtYeSbpxWGXs8kpd5TWiB57qg8346bcDzo9rvQIdB3YeL6kRx8zKcVDFvr4VmUEA7yf-QIyTjSSiqjQ3ueqtgk_cOxXUogEPPH8/s320/DSC_2555.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at Thornham<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><br />Jim Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260834494018070779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-5438976693578740552020-09-25T19:32:00.007+01:002020-09-27T08:23:04.318+01:00"Steve" (James) Stevenson. 1915-1964<div class="separator"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i>Only a week ago, we discovered that Alex and I have a sister and brother (twins) that we didn't know about. We found out through Alex's daughter Lisa who lives in Oregon and was searching for ancestors. After submitting her DNA to Ancestry.com she was surprised to get a very close match with twins in England. Since then we have all been in touch with each other and both families are fascinated. There seems to be no doubt that Dad fell for a lass in Canterbury long before he met our Mum and the relationship was scotched by his CO. Discovering their real dad means a lot to the twins and this is our effort to share memories for the next two generations who are also keen to know more about our Dad, "Steve" Stevenson.</i></p></div><p><b>Edinburgh:</b></p><p>No visitor to Edinburgh can miss Arthur’s Seat, the massive, lion-shaped extinct volcano that dominates the skyline from all over the city. A lot of the best photos of “Ould Reeky” are taken from on the upper slopes with Duddingston Loch and the grassy parts of Holyrood Park in the foreground.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkyEabwzm68C4kvQG9afFUipf8nuraCw2C0aklxQpofD9E4kYhpYt4JeTT4_4Ggi-VgCwl2vNN_0Q_4srGfH5mo36Hs5QSkNiTMtX8YWKjkCk3R6Q1NK0y9OneHfYo_Bj5klZTuPh59Xu/s640/640px-Edinburgh_gora_Artura.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkyEabwzm68C4kvQG9afFUipf8nuraCw2C0aklxQpofD9E4kYhpYt4JeTT4_4Ggi-VgCwl2vNN_0Q_4srGfH5mo36Hs5QSkNiTMtX8YWKjkCk3R6Q1NK0y9OneHfYo_Bj5klZTuPh59Xu/s320/640px-Edinburgh_gora_Artura.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>I scrambled on my hands and knees like a mountaineer, crawling between my Dad’s protective arms up the last and steepest bit of the rock. I was very young at the time and can’t believe we climbed the whole thing. He must have carried me a lot of the way, but he made sure I had the satisfaction of climbing to the top. It was a big adventure. </p><p>On these early visits to Edinburgh we would stay with a lady across the road from Dad’s parents. John and Elizabeth Stevenson had a small flat in a three-story house at the bottom of Arthur’s Seat, close to the famous Sheep Heid pub with it’s skittle alley and near the ancient Duddingston Kirk where grave robbers like Burke and Hare used to operate. It’s a magical place. Bonnie Prince Charlie stayed at the other end of the street when he was in hiding but the big attraction for my brother Alex and I was the little corner shop where we were sent to buy baps for breakfast. We devoured the American comics that we could buy there, such as Superman, The Flash, The Green Hornet and comedy ones that featured whacky cartoon characters. I can smell those comics now. On one visit we bought cap bombs from the shop and walked back along the cobbles delighting in the massive BANG, CRACK and KA-POW that echoed off the canyon wall of stone houses that lined the Causeway. There were complaints. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDR-7DcfGVrRSJcXkZZqYEElEMU5232SLh1yIQauCkVcpw5TpnjEtF_phQA9LClBov35Yit9Tv6T41SahpnbrGuoA4YLIY21axkHqsA1uOxxxM_vtT_-0SJC7cOojwM1XclFGoBkTiCer/s1280/Steve%2527s+parents.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDR-7DcfGVrRSJcXkZZqYEElEMU5232SLh1yIQauCkVcpw5TpnjEtF_phQA9LClBov35Yit9Tv6T41SahpnbrGuoA4YLIY21axkHqsA1uOxxxM_vtT_-0SJC7cOojwM1XclFGoBkTiCer/s320/Steve%2527s+parents.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and Elizabeth Stevenson in 1954<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Dad was born on March 10th 1915 when his parents lived at Number 4, Ferguson’s Place in Duddingston. It seems to have vanished now. He had an older sister called Catherine and a brother who was called John after their father. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzSYGWjlBDtN22ffns3nwUE1lffb9k7xdLZKvCsqSoSQljlNey6SeN660WQJUudsA0A8tzmJIfvW6cIqwKuHiVNOx8wNUcJw9ZY0GOG828KHOKhpnEhEWl1TVvhVjK1GfFvwSKDs17gId/s848/scan0013.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="848" data-original-width="493" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzSYGWjlBDtN22ffns3nwUE1lffb9k7xdLZKvCsqSoSQljlNey6SeN660WQJUudsA0A8tzmJIfvW6cIqwKuHiVNOx8wNUcJw9ZY0GOG828KHOKhpnEhEWl1TVvhVjK1GfFvwSKDs17gId/s320/scan0013.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John, Cath and James (Steve) Stevenson<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Their father worked at one of Edinburgh’s great breweries as a Cooper and brewer. My dad joked that he made his money at the brewery and spent it at the Sheep Heid. They didn’t get on and his brother John was always the favourite. I never met John but I did meet my grandparents who were very old by the time we saw them. In later visits we would stay with dad’s sister Cath and her husband Alec in a classic Edinburgh tenement in Thistle Place. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy_rCv95Z0eiqdsrPi6OhTDXH3r0Z9iynq4cLyzl-R6D6zB5Qbvadz32pP35KfH3w5xMJo8QCIjwdp5iFcqc3C2QcJkgebFN-QdD42iLnsD58sinf7nC3zh3WAEI6sAi3iMjfT1qJI0_yR/s614/Stevensons+in+Edinburgh.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="424" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy_rCv95Z0eiqdsrPi6OhTDXH3r0Z9iynq4cLyzl-R6D6zB5Qbvadz32pP35KfH3w5xMJo8QCIjwdp5iFcqc3C2QcJkgebFN-QdD42iLnsD58sinf7nC3zh3WAEI6sAi3iMjfT1qJI0_yR/s320/Stevensons+in+Edinburgh.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family gathering with (l-r) James, Elizabeth, Dad, Uncle Alec,<br />Grandma, Kathleen and John.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Cath had polio which left her disabled and shortened her life. When we knew her she was confined to a wheelchair which must have been incredibly awkward for her, living up several flights of worn stone steps. I’m sure Uncle Alec carried her up and down; there was no lift. The flat was cosy and Alec was a lot of fun. On a wet day, he advised us to go to the Edinburgh Museum as he did as a boy. “What’s there?” I asked. “I dinna ken. I just went there talent spotting” was his reply. Dad mentioned a huge pike he had found flapping on the loch-shore. It had a smaller pike stuck in it’s jaw and he had taken it to the museum. Perhaps we could see it there. We did see a skeleton that could have been Dad’s pike but it wasn’t labelled. </p><p>My dad and Alec were 'thick as thieves' and good fun to be around. Alec said things like “Gee Whizz” and called people “Guys”. My brother Alex is named after him. Alec was a craftsman, restoring furniture and doing marquetry. He also made fine bone ornaments and brooches. I suspect that he joined forces with my dad before the war to help him get going by sharing his workspace with him. I have a business card on which my dad deals in radios and Scottish ornaments. I bet he did the radios and Alec made the ornaments. The address 108 Hanover Street is rather posh these days. On our last visit I think dad was already aware he had cancer. Kathleen had died and Alec was with aunty Eileen who became a good friend to us. We borrowed a tenner from Alec and set off for the Isle of Skye.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Vnewy4PrbRTGku6myVGg0P_q3VoTOi0ruFD-2Z4g40cesU3uz_Trge-z8ZmLMINRBw6ohmZqd3wybNDyzObuoWWEFj_568kBMFwYsurRQMhoh9C78p4DBzk9S9EF1v1N_cjavPvTuQB0/s712/Steve%2527s+Business+Card+1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="712" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Vnewy4PrbRTGku6myVGg0P_q3VoTOi0ruFD-2Z4g40cesU3uz_Trge-z8ZmLMINRBw6ohmZqd3wybNDyzObuoWWEFj_568kBMFwYsurRQMhoh9C78p4DBzk9S9EF1v1N_cjavPvTuQB0/s320/Steve%2527s+Business+Card+1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>In those days (around 1960), there was no Forth road bridge so we queued for ages at the old Queensferry service that ran beside the great old Forth Railway Bridge to cross into Fife and head for the Highlands. On previous trips we had managed to get to Calendar where “Dr Finlay’s Casebook” was set and to Loch Lomond and back to Edinburgh in the same day, but this was a major expedition by comparison.</p><p>I think my memory has muddled a few of these trips together. I thought we spent the first night at the top of the Small Glen on the minor road to Kenmore where we took out the fishing rods. Unfortunately the keeper in his kilt spotted us from up the brae and we had to hide the fishing gear under the car while he poked around our camp. Alex thinks that was another trip and we camped above Glen Coe. It is possible that it was the same trip as this is the “Road to The Isles” by “Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Locharber” as the song goes. It would be Spring Bank-Holiday and we had snow as we climbed out of a brooding Glen Coe and set up camp on the rushy moor. Soon the stars came out and the temperature fell even more. It was freezing in the tent so Dad got us off the camp beds and put them against the walls so we could all huddle up. At dawn the nesting curlews bubbled and whistled as they shook the frost off their backs. The milk and the water we brought with us was frozen solid.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGimhKJeDqn4ZyADndUloNxVde3MRRsM41-KobSK513xwZedoyDO7tvdGsm1kMErIuOLSiiQuAx6oE1j-zb1OpHRbUHDQjLNngoXSoFqkvmL3c0yySKNNl7QuISQq5T1ZcIFVosXQkZ0kt/s1368/Visiting+Duddingston+2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="1368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGimhKJeDqn4ZyADndUloNxVde3MRRsM41-KobSK513xwZedoyDO7tvdGsm1kMErIuOLSiiQuAx6oE1j-zb1OpHRbUHDQjLNngoXSoFqkvmL3c0yySKNNl7QuISQq5T1ZcIFVosXQkZ0kt/s320/Visiting+Duddingston+2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A visit to Grandad Stevenson<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>On the second day we made it to the Skye ferry and put our tent up near Dunvegan at the top of a coral-sand beach among clouds of midges. It was an astonishingly beautiful evening and we all slept like tops. I will never forget the dawn. The sea and sky merged completely together as the water was like a mirror. I couldn’t decide which shapes were clouds and which were islands until a grey seal swam by and disturbed the surface, turning its Roman nose in my direction. I lay on a rock and pretended to be a seal and he came over to say hello, but he wasn’t coming out of the water and I wasn’t going in. The white beach was littered with sea-urchin shells and jelly fish. I had never seen anything like it at the point. It had a profound effect on me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCxEdErOHOwNTcEoXNgMlKupkUhyg-Qm2u0_x2XAAw484f_IM-jQriiBGy6rMq1KBj2Jcu7w5EFoUM38Ih5f3LxUAVyovsVwEha-gVFgNolGBFEd8CT6f9ZsExTlMgkTpswV99f6RBouuM/s922/Steve.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCxEdErOHOwNTcEoXNgMlKupkUhyg-Qm2u0_x2XAAw484f_IM-jQriiBGy6rMq1KBj2Jcu7w5EFoUM38Ih5f3LxUAVyovsVwEha-gVFgNolGBFEd8CT6f9ZsExTlMgkTpswV99f6RBouuM/s320/Steve.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>The ferries didn’t run on Sundays and the shops didn’t open so we had to eke out our supplies until Monday which meant we were back in Edinburgh a day late. Uncle Alec must have been worried but I am so glad we made that last Scottish trip as a family. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjB47wBT5XD98yXT8rTcyiaqC2bOe8QDfmaxdjLDOpG59j4LzAXMyVJZ42FaT2mTsL8kQGyklPlB4F5sbk_hezgoEoh_fHTXDfvJcMYA8zMP2_RRGi07Dr3wFQlw8xhohWJ1WFEuhnDZ9/s1434/Screenshot+2020-09-22+at+14.08.35.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjB47wBT5XD98yXT8rTcyiaqC2bOe8QDfmaxdjLDOpG59j4LzAXMyVJZ42FaT2mTsL8kQGyklPlB4F5sbk_hezgoEoh_fHTXDfvJcMYA8zMP2_RRGi07Dr3wFQlw8xhohWJ1WFEuhnDZ9/s320/Screenshot+2020-09-22+at+14.08.35.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Causeway in Duddingston. The Sheep Heid on the right.<br />Steve's parents lives in one of the tall houses on the left.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Dad talked about some of his time as a child and young man in Scotland. He sang in the choir in Duddingston Kirk and fished in the loch. Holyrood Park, the loch and the crags on Arthur’s Seat were his playgrounds where he met his schoolmates. Toys were few in those days but everyone improvised with sticks and bits of rope.They played cowboys and indians on the broom and bracken hillsides but no-one had a toy gun. He stole the click-gun that was used to light the fire because it sent out sparks. When he pretended to shoot one of his friends, he was surprised to see him grab his chest and topple backwards out of sight. In his enthusiasm for ham-acting he really went for it, toppling like a stunt man off Salisbury crags. He walked away from it apparently. Kids are amazingly resilient. </p><p>A way to escape the claustrophobia of home life was to take up cycling. As a young teen he would join thousands of others who toured central Scotland and beyond on their drop-handlebar bikes, knocking up hundreds of miles over a weekend. That’s how he got to know Scotland so well and why he was delighted to teach Alex and I how to maintain a bicycle properly. He would also take a little tent and stove with him and forage from the countryside as he travelled. Camping and brewing-up became second nature to us all.</p><p>Escape is definitely what he wanted as he could never please his parents and spent as much time out of the house as he could. He stopped using the name James at some point around this time and called himself Steve to avoid being called “Jammie". When he left school he took an engineering apprenticeship in Glasgow. He described an upstairs workshop where he learned to work in metal and wood, and how a dynamo works. Best of all he made a brass steam engine from scratch that really worked and a crystal-set radio that used an old Will’s tobacco tin as its case. He made me one much later. It had no speaker so I had to use a pair of old bakelite earphones to hear the Home Service, very faintly. They were a bit of a craze during the war.</p><p><b>Marriage and the Army:</b></p><p>After the apprenticeship he went back to Edinburgh and set up shop, but war-time loomed and it didn’t work out . About this time he married Helen Webster Gilchrist Graham (no details yet) and they lived in Portobello or Musselburgh. He signed up and joined the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. (see military records) and, after cadet training, went to Kent in time for the Blitz and the Battle of Britain.</p><p>REME is not a Scottish regiment per se but has a lot of Scots in it. He was a Warrant Officer (2nd Lieutenant) based in Kent for most of the war where he supported the artillery, especially anti aircraft guns defending Dover and Folkestone. His base by 1948 was at No 3 AA (ant-aircraft) Workshop. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuNu6Y40Uk2KmfYVl2URVV_4kCHNtZCf3ZbmN6AUrNvpNC3Xen7ZnDjs0Aq33C1ulk3NIFZIr9e_yE2BIhjipWN7O3OQi2Qr7_sleRNSi_Mm-txR-puVbrdfdtf-S56vEg73xHSRmR6Ja/s693/Steve+1948+ish.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuNu6Y40Uk2KmfYVl2URVV_4kCHNtZCf3ZbmN6AUrNvpNC3Xen7ZnDjs0Aq33C1ulk3NIFZIr9e_yE2BIhjipWN7O3OQi2Qr7_sleRNSi_Mm-txR-puVbrdfdtf-S56vEg73xHSRmR6Ja/s320/Steve+1948+ish.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve in his Warrant Officer Uniform</td></tr></tbody></table><p>One of his tasks was to fit wedges to the foot-controls of the anti aircraft guns that made them “pan and tilt.” These guns were designed to shoot upwards at enemy aircraft but, being on top of the White Cliffs of Dover and Folkestone they often had to aim downwards at aircraft that came in low over the sea to bomb and strafe the town. The gunners would latch on to a distant plane and follow it through its dive and its run in. Unfortunately this meant they were doing the Luftwaffe’s job for them by shooting up the town. The wedges stopped the gun from traversing over the houses and docks. While Steve was repairing one gun someone fired the one behind him and blew his eardrums. He became permanently deaf in his right ear. He blamed an army surgeon for the fact that it never healed and he had to keep a wad of cotton wool in his ear for the rest of his life. </p><p>He did go to France just after D Day but was injured again when attending to an upturned gun in the dark and medi-vacced home with broken ribs. </p><p><b>Post-war London:</b></p><p>He was a natural musician and he played trumpet and drums with jazz bands at the end of the war . He must have spent a lot of time playing and going to gigs. He could really dance too. He played with George Chisholm at one point, a genius ( but comedic) Scottish trombone player who was also a mate of Milligan, Sellars and the other Goons. Him and Mum particularly loved Humphrey Littleton and his band. (I met Humph much later when he brought his band to the nature reserve in Scotland where we lived.) Humph chaired “I’m sorry I haven’t a clue” on Radio 4 for years. He was a hero of mine too. Humph more or less hit the big time after he played at the Leicester Square Jazz Club where Steve was a member.</p><p>Steve teamed up with our Mum in London around 1948-49, probably at one of the jazz clubs and I was born in Woolwich in March 1950. They had a lot of sorting out to do, including getting our Mum a divorce from her estranged husband. They had no money and no job and I don’t think Mum wanted a confrontation with her Dad so they went to stay with her grandad in Lanchester. They were married on the 23rd of May 1951 in Durham Registry Office.</p><p><b>Swaledale:</b></p><p>Steve took at job at Catterick, selling and installing radios and TVs and we lived temporarily in Helaugh before moving up to Mum’s home village of Gunnerside where she had her Mum and friends around her. Her dad, who had been the village policeman, was ill by then and was soon unfit to stay home. We lived up the steps next to the King’s Head in Troutbeck Cottage. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHo8dtz-yfai2Ad-xMuLGFRNGgqyPh8IZuKY7x4mgVHod8iwIAWRJ6gP5yugBOt5TM9HcvPJqA-IyLm4qovNGpiIHjk1etrGIB846gwfpdyGhHzxjgK1PvAQ01f_UAiQqm6HtkqDguPF00/s2048/DSC_9160.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHo8dtz-yfai2Ad-xMuLGFRNGgqyPh8IZuKY7x4mgVHod8iwIAWRJ6gP5yugBOt5TM9HcvPJqA-IyLm4qovNGpiIHjk1etrGIB846gwfpdyGhHzxjgK1PvAQ01f_UAiQqm6HtkqDguPF00/s320/DSC_9160.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gunnerside in Swaledale<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Dad commuted down the Dale on a motorbike, which must have been lovely in summer. In winter it was a different story and the route is notorious for flooding and snow. On his way home one foggy night he turned left through a new gap in the wall which he mistook for the road and he came a cropper. I can remember Mum crying well int the night thinking he must be dead, but he had a few broken bones and a lot of bruises and was soon home.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfMd-xLPr3Rue_6t-vO9_TmPBWNk3bfzSiBMvAqZDKkdb6B04ry-6TBhnbTJffbYhkQ4KlqvJyROtwXgYJxQJTdQS-jlMsJH_bKX1I8towfeyVBhkSaauOJvSWyZ7u9GNCZXOeXYnPTEH/s1522/Coronation+Day+2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="1522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfMd-xLPr3Rue_6t-vO9_TmPBWNk3bfzSiBMvAqZDKkdb6B04ry-6TBhnbTJffbYhkQ4KlqvJyROtwXgYJxQJTdQS-jlMsJH_bKX1I8towfeyVBhkSaauOJvSWyZ7u9GNCZXOeXYnPTEH/s320/Coronation+Day+2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coronation Day in Gunnerside.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>In 1953 there was great excitement in the village because of the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. There would be a parade and I was entered into a fancy dress competition, dressed as a cowboy. Dad brought a euphonium home and stood it bell down on the floor so I could blow raspberries into it. Thats’t the instrument he played in the parade. Mum was busy with my new baby brother Alex who was born ion February 23rd. Quite few people crammed into our living room to watch the Coronation on our TV as it was one of the first up the dale. The TV reception would have been terrible because of the hills.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6umwNFPyKx7TJ0UPwM0MfK45k6VUaZcHb1yuOWneY6aFs1bzmkjE831ZWkOk50JsACo1FVp3QwN0CzE76hVf5UyXT-zS4N_ehDZo_1tsmjizXTbMdMU24ooNm_Us8G9ZWRxv5pgtCI7_Q/s475/Troutbeck_Cottage.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="299" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6umwNFPyKx7TJ0UPwM0MfK45k6VUaZcHb1yuOWneY6aFs1bzmkjE831ZWkOk50JsACo1FVp3QwN0CzE76hVf5UyXT-zS4N_ehDZo_1tsmjizXTbMdMU24ooNm_Us8G9ZWRxv5pgtCI7_Q/s320/Troutbeck_Cottage.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Troutbeck Cottage. The porch was a later addition.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I have a strong memory of going rabbit shooting up Gunnerside Ghyll with my Dad and Uncle John (my Mum’s naughty brother). As we left the cottages behind and crept up the hill we lay down in the dry sandy turf and took aim with a 2.2 rifle. There was a light “crack” and the hillside came alive with rabbits running in all directions. We came home with a dozen or more which Gran and Mum prepared in the sink. I watched with fascination. John was a crack shot and Dad probably was too. All the rabbits were hit in the head as I recall. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEf4nqQbBmXCLbT9beyRgyATPz5u4UyYFeP0MPGKVBRq_Oz5ey00lKRgsfiYmwqoc09Aam7N0fmIQLs9Neel3SarXXwv_nNFiipJXNtfKH5htUXs_BKH0Djfc0EC_6zM20qy5hSyd89urr/s1367/Steve+with+both+boys+1953+2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="899" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEf4nqQbBmXCLbT9beyRgyATPz5u4UyYFeP0MPGKVBRq_Oz5ey00lKRgsfiYmwqoc09Aam7N0fmIQLs9Neel3SarXXwv_nNFiipJXNtfKH5htUXs_BKH0Djfc0EC_6zM20qy5hSyd89urr/s320/Steve+with+both+boys+1953+2.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gunnerside 1953<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Country people took a pretty utilitarian view of the countryside and it seemed perfectly natural to eat chickens and farm animals and to add to our diet with trout, wild mushrooms and rabbits. In fact, wild food was important as there was very little money about and rationing of food and clothes was still in place. John and Steve were adept at foraging and they taught me how to catch trout and how to tickle them too. I remember them trying to hit trout with rock and even shoot them from a bridge. People didn’t catch fish to put back in the river in those days. Later John’’s poaching career got him into trouble, which is ironic, but not unusual for a policemen’s son. </p><p><b>Moving South:</b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSzkTMxWshA853End1CZ7gRC9ZWgJXu25gS3DBEsigflfExEy-MDFOAHBxwsFOGg3YPG8cfGDhom8iIl7wTN7OdZHOlTqH5ZeV3fhl2wVZ6wKzdEzhyphenhyphenQDQDDBBOPqPKuKsHAE_rVg1HQg/s1077/Screenshot+2020-09-26+at+09.49.44.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="1077" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSzkTMxWshA853End1CZ7gRC9ZWgJXu25gS3DBEsigflfExEy-MDFOAHBxwsFOGg3YPG8cfGDhom8iIl7wTN7OdZHOlTqH5ZeV3fhl2wVZ6wKzdEzhyphenhyphenQDQDDBBOPqPKuKsHAE_rVg1HQg/s320/Screenshot+2020-09-26+at+09.49.44.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">17, Chamberlain Road today, with palm trees.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>We left the dale in 1954 or 55 and moved to near Winchester for Steve’s work. We lived in a flat in a very posh doctor’s house in Wanston and I went to school for the first time a mile or so away in Sutton Scotney. Mum acted as a part time housekeeper in the big house and I was allowed to wander all over the grounds at will. I liked it there and “helped” the road-men to repair the roads and eat their lunch. The school was awful though. We used slates to write on and It was truly Victorian. Fortunately we were only there for a year as Dad took a much better job with Moxham’s in Southampton. He did very well there and we bought our own house at 17 Chamberlain Road in Highfield; owning a car took a bit longer. Part of his job was to fix or install projectors and sound systems on the big ocean liners like the Queen Mary. Mum had a load of menus off those amazing ships. He also did a week or so in Avonmouth each year, working long into the night repairing AV equipment for the County Council. It paid well but he came home with eye trouble and severe headaches. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdclcy1M-P7zXe4KaGGE7y6AY9X1a0wM0Gw02R7_97jXUHc2ilBxZTrl5j2ZaBRlZY0czjxzuZLdYhGDOF-TBtSrlo4Yty5KAy6EtcFndOUmSFCu6U5ggSslPi2-rdO-w_bBvgXfVO1vR/s944/Steve+at+bench.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="944" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdclcy1M-P7zXe4KaGGE7y6AY9X1a0wM0Gw02R7_97jXUHc2ilBxZTrl5j2ZaBRlZY0czjxzuZLdYhGDOF-TBtSrlo4Yty5KAy6EtcFndOUmSFCu6U5ggSslPi2-rdO-w_bBvgXfVO1vR/s320/Steve+at+bench.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At work in Moxham's c 1962<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><b>Pubs:</b></p><p>When we lived in Southampton Steve didn’t play professionally but was the resident drummer at our local pub, the Crown Inn in High Crown Street. He had false teeth by then and couldn’t play jazz trumpet any more. I was often sent up to the pub to bring him home for dinner. I could hear those drums from a long way off. </p><p>Like most men back then, Steve enjoyed a pint or two. So do Alex and I. He almost never had a beer at home unless it was a special event. A day out usually included a visit to a pub, but he was picky. The Green Dragon at Lavington in Wiltshire was our favourite because we could play mini cricket outside and they had great lemonade in fancy bottles. In the New Forest we had a similar favourite but, unlike today, we didn’t go to pubs to eat, we took a picnic. Local to our home in Highfield, we could enjoy a walk along the old tramlines on the common and go to the Bassett Hotel where there was a cage for a bear. Thank God that was out of use bye then. The site is now a care home (for people, not bears.) On holiday in the Dales, Tan Hill (the highest pub in England) was a great place to go. At the Punch Bowl in Low Row, we thought we had made it into the grown-up world when he ordered us glamorous sarsaparillas.</p><p><b>Music:</b></p><p>I have to say Steve was a bit of a jazz snob. That’s to say, he worshipped good musicianship and dismissed most of the pop music of the time. My mum’s friends the Jennings in Bromley were very good to her at the end of the war. They were lifelong friends and their daughters Lana and Carol would send Steve 45 rpm singles to prove their point. He fell for their bait and liked “24 Hours from Tulsa” by Gene Pitney and a few others like Dionne Warwick's "Do You Know the Way to San Hose?" </p><p>We watched “Six-Five Special” which was probably the first pop music TV show. Dad enjoyed the more band orientated stuff and even put up with Don Lang and his Frantic Five and Lonnie Donegan but the new boys, Tommy Steel, Marty Wilde, Adam Faith and Cliff Richard left him cold. At least he let us watch them. “Top of the Pops” would have been a step too far. Thankfully there was still some decent music on the radio. We would listen to the Billy Cotton Band Show for example.</p><p>I talked to him about jazz a few times. I wondered why we didn’t have any Miles Davis and he said he liked that stuff and had some Dizzy Gillespie, but he didn’t really get Charlie Parker. The conversation turned to drugs and addiction and a warning to stay away from them. At that time I just liked the music and hadn’t any knowledge of the scene. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYe-_5i3Juy9owjzH7RYVDOw1COTkAf5K0qvMjpowoOdWCHiQ4XSpCNCohWq2L5jrYEkt632qFFR3kDBgBMwObPEEW6gff-EBjOi7kxC0Lngj5ZK1VQFO_AF4iSB4NPCtLMyb92rEzULFD/s744/Steve+Jazz+Club+1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="744" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYe-_5i3Juy9owjzH7RYVDOw1COTkAf5K0qvMjpowoOdWCHiQ4XSpCNCohWq2L5jrYEkt632qFFR3kDBgBMwObPEEW6gff-EBjOi7kxC0Lngj5ZK1VQFO_AF4iSB4NPCtLMyb92rEzULFD/s320/Steve+Jazz+Club+1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>He had an extensive collection of 78s that featured all the big wartime jazz bands. Every track was labelled “fox-trot”, “waltz”, “quick-step” etc. There was a bit of be-bop too. We had a lot of Sinatra, Nat King Cole. Ella Fitzgerald and Bing Crosby as well a bit of classical music. </p><p>Dad played a chromatic harmonica very well and he played that for us regularly; whatever tune came in to our heads. We all liked music and were encouraged but not pushed to be musical. When the vicar came round the school and asked for choirboys to audition, I was the first to join. It took my parents by surprise. They never said so, but it must have worried them that I had committed to two services on Sunday, two evening rehearsals a week and the odd wedding on a Saturday but they were proud of me and came to services when I had a solo. Alex joined as well. Steve taught us the basics of reading music and we used a Melodica to match the notes to the score.</p><p>Dad's singing was a bit of a novelty. I'm sure he could croon very well, but around the house he often sang in the Glaswegian style of "Fly me to Dunoon" where the beat stretched out in places when he found a note he liked. It could be on the word "fly" as in Sinatra's American version, or he might hold the "noon" for an age. The final consonant could be stressed too, so "Dunoon" would become "D'noooo-Na".</p><p>Also part of the Scots in him was the way he spoke, which was with an Edinburgh accent. "H" was pronounced "Itch" and he would say "Aye" quite a lot. I wouldn't say he had a broad Scottish accent, nor did he use a lot of dialect words unless we asked him to. He shunned the twee tartan-chappie image that some TV entertainers adopted. Unlike his parents he was well spoken, quite a good speaker who you would enjoy listening to. I wish we had a recording.</p><p>I don’t remember new record albums coming into the house. We had some LPs from films and shows such as “The King and I”, “High Society” and “The Sound Of Music” but I think those were our mum’s choices. Alex has all the discs and it would be nice to list them and try to record some of them too. </p><p>We played the records on a system he made himself using a good quality old gramophone case. Under the lid was a Garrard deck with a sliding speed control. You couldn’t select 33, 45 or 78 so you had to use an optical illusion to get the correct speeds or just play the record how you think it sounded best! Sadly it didn’t work backwards, which might have been amusing. If you remember the old cowboy films, due to the frame rate of the film there came a point when waggon wheels appeared to go backwards. Using that same effect, this deck used a circular card that sat on the spindle. It had three concentric rings of black and white stripes, like a bar code. You can download one at <a href="https://soundsclassic.com/ttsdteg.html">https://soundsclassic.com/ttsdteg.html</a> At 45 rpm the second circle would appear to be stationary but if you sped it up it would appear to go backwards. </p><p>In the cupboard underneath was the valve amplifier and we stored the records on the shelves beneath that. The most hi-fi component was the speaker. It was installed solidly into the corner of the room. The front face was made of two boards of thick plywood with sand sandwiched in the middle to stop the wood from vibrating. The main speaker was at least a foot across and there was a tweeter to replicate the high notes. There was a vent for the bass to escape. It sounded great and I bopped to it a lot when I started buying my own records. The first album was “The Rolling Stones” and the first 45 I bought was by the Goons. It was an EP with “I’m walking backwards for Christmas” and “The Ying-Tong Song”. Which brings me to humour.</p><p><b>Humour: </b></p><p>I loved Spike Milligan and the Goons. I thought Dad would too, given their musical and military background. Peter Sellars and Spike Milligan both played in the jazz and dance bands and Milligan was a gunner who spent some of his time on the south east coast when Steve was there. He thought they were just silly. His favourite kind of comedy was probably the wise-crack stand up routines that he would have known from the clubs in Glasgow and London; people like Chick Murray. Scottish humour could be quite dry and I never really got some of it until I lived there myself. I had to listen to the Goon Show on headphones late at night. I think we all liked “Round the Horn” and “The Navy Lark”. There were variety shows on TV every week and Tommy Cooper often appeared. I think, if there was one thing that really made dad laugh it was Tommy Cooper. </p><p>We watched old comedy movies together, especially Bing Crosby and Bob Hope’s Road Movies which were really a string of wise cracks. </p><p>Cyril Moxham was the boss's son and a bit of a joker. One holiday weekend he presented Dad with a big pork pie to take home. It was huge and looked delicious so we saved it for Sunday lunch with a ton of (overcooked and over salted) veg. We all sat round and Dad cut it open and……Sawdust! It was filled with sawdust because it was a shop-window pie. Mum broke into tears. If dad thought it funny he was wise enough not to show it.</p><p><b>Toys, Games and Play:</b></p><p>We didn’t have or need a lot of proper toys but we played board games and some card games.</p><p>When we had the pocket money we mostly bought Dinky Toy cars and military vehicles. The old Anderson shelter in the back garden was demolished but the concrete base was still there. We built roads and tunnels all over the garden for our toy cars. Mostly we played outdoors. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-z9ELdASMqbMFEAZQRRSHteUzIvQnEiFlKPexQ4bUl53MPbu-4GzbDHazK30x1tuWlHtqLlfH_z-XfFYnl7dQmF6NW_frNav9pd5XC4gN9Ln5QzvYh-D9fTAbmKV8l1VK75ZQHKE3sr5s/s1360/First+car+1.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="910" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-z9ELdASMqbMFEAZQRRSHteUzIvQnEiFlKPexQ4bUl53MPbu-4GzbDHazK30x1tuWlHtqLlfH_z-XfFYnl7dQmF6NW_frNav9pd5XC4gN9Ln5QzvYh-D9fTAbmKV8l1VK75ZQHKE3sr5s/s320/First+car+1.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first car at Ivelet near Gunnerside, 1954<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Chamberlain Road was a cul-de-sac where it was safe to play in the street. There was a baby boom on, so there was always someone to play with. We all had bicycles. Peter Thursby had a metal peddle car that was done up as a WW2 Jeep, but we came with something special that Dad brought home when we lived in Wanston. It was a green and yellow wagon with four big metal wheels . Ive never seen another one but I recently found one on-line. It was a postman’s mail-cart from Ireland. You powered it by pushing and pulling on the handlebars. We also made our own go carts that Dad called “guiders”.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEv-BoihXGEBycMZAi9kpJ_X08ZUt8e_X-JsNDxtuAMZzrgT0XaTb6kbrepr8lci3qSZK3y-Fw7bPoyfZN5YFnD41ex4vZKPuQk5UIeeu2m5lMMouzf0sUGgP543EdCFwFgZ-Wcgw7UcU5/s225/s-l225.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEv-BoihXGEBycMZAi9kpJ_X08ZUt8e_X-JsNDxtuAMZzrgT0XaTb6kbrepr8lci3qSZK3y-Fw7bPoyfZN5YFnD41ex4vZKPuQk5UIeeu2m5lMMouzf0sUGgP543EdCFwFgZ-Wcgw7UcU5/s0/s-l225.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mail cart. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>When there was a craze for roller skates around 1960 we were both given adjustable, strap-on Jaco Skates. We were amazed when Dad strapped them on and skated gracefully up and down the street. Quite a few neighbours came out to watch. Later we would flatten the skates out, screw them to planks and make skate-boards. </p><p>When he worked on the big ocean liners Steve made friends with some of the crew members on board. He would be assigned a “minder” to make sure he didn’t interfere with the ships structure by drilling holes in the walls…that sort of thing. He used his contacts to get things for us such as fibre glass fishing rods from South Africa and a compete split cane fly fishing kit from Japan. One sailor made very intricate plastic kits of cars and ships which he gave us. They showed us how to up our game with a paint brush. I can remember Dad helping us to make our first plastic models of Spitfires and Messerschmitts. We had a lot of trouble with biplanes collapsing before the glue set so he showed us how to fix that. Mostly he was an enabler though. He would show you how to do something and then it was down to you. </p><p>We loved cowboy films and dressing up. Somehow Dad found a second hand “Roy Rogers” cowboy gun set with two realistic Colts and a studded leather belt with holsters. I had a Davy Crockett hat too. We made our own bows and arrows. I remember kites as well. </p><p>One school friend had a Scalextric track and another had an electric train set. We begged for both but ours was a cheaper Airfix track and the train sets were always clockwork, not electric. We had a couple of construction sets. Dad was particularly keen on us using Meccano and helped us to build a crane. We had a big second hand set supplemented with some new bits. We also had a Bako Set that used metal rods and bricks to build 60’s style houses.</p><p>We kicked a ball around on days out and we played cricket together and it was fun. I was never seriously interested in sport though. Steve was very keen on football and he did the Pools every week. We all had to be quiet when the pool results were read out on the TV each Saturday.</p><p><b>Fishing:</b></p><p>Fishing is an ideal activity for men to spend quality time with their children. It worked for us with our dad, though not so much for me with my children. We started out with a bent pin and stick with some string. You could use red wool to catch sticklebacks too. Then came the 6 foot South African rods that were good all-round rods for starters. We put cheap Intrepid Monarch reels on them and 4 lb line and caught all sorts of fish. Steve set us up with the gear and showed us how to use it and we were off on a lifelong hobby. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTaLrziCBedu08lP9K19z_ukg0-fsCHPPnh6gshOVpqqsrBgYm37HyHHC2CRfoyX0rn2QDiqi-XED5bR6T0p8x-T4XAX3RUZbqnrg1Hx4DyUY_MgGO02bU9paQYJ6Ungm1bPw9TFNKxIsD/s902/Steve+fishing.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="619" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTaLrziCBedu08lP9K19z_ukg0-fsCHPPnh6gshOVpqqsrBgYm37HyHHC2CRfoyX0rn2QDiqi-XED5bR6T0p8x-T4XAX3RUZbqnrg1Hx4DyUY_MgGO02bU9paQYJ6Ungm1bPw9TFNKxIsD/s320/Steve+fishing.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The start of a life-long obsession.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The war-time generation generally saw fishing a s away to get food and Dad was no exception, though he plainly enjoyed it. With him and uncle John we learned to catch trout using worms. We also learned how to kill the fish by putting out thumbs in the fish’s mouth and pushing the head back to break the neck. On my first sea fishing attempt off the pier in Southampton I caught an eel and was just about to put my thumb in its mouth when another adult stopped me. It could have been very messy. On one trip to Stourhead Gardens, we caught almost 100 rudd and brought half of them home in a back-pack. They were indelible, though we tried. We tried to eat our first pike too. After it was cleaned and beheaded, it was lift to soak in salt water in washing up bowl. The lead for the electric kettle dropped into the bowl and the headless corpse jumped about until the fuse blew. </p><p>On TV at the time there was programme called “Out of Town” presented by Jack Hargreaves. It covered fishing and all aspects of the countryside. We watched it together every week and talked about it quite a lot. It was a cheaply produced, home-spun show that was made in Jack’s garden shed, or so I thought. I went into the tv studio in Southampton once to take part in "Saturday Banana" which was like Tiswas. In the corner was a metal cage on wheels with all the parts and contents of Jack’s fake shed. </p><p><b>Holidays:</b></p><p>Day’s out, long drives and camping trips brought the family close together for hours on end. We got to hear adult conversation from the front seats and we could chat all we wanted. Dad loved his cars and loved driving them too, though many Saturdays were spent underneath them. We did a lot of touring and every year we would go back to Swaledale for a week or two staying at our gran’s house. Sometimes we went on to Scotland. We would walk and fish or Mum and Dad would picnic on the bank while we fished or re-arranged the stones in the river. We were always doing something. Steve taught us to play “ducks-and-drakes” by skimming flat stones over the water and he would set up targets of tins, stones and sticks for us all to throw stones at. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRz0SFN4_NsS28ExE-oyTCuug_eUrkc6e0Oq4ugr8mhOHEZTHF8l2M92UTDRaJQUnq_ggs4opnXB454mIYR_aDQgHNElcdwTdcm_JJQdVxtyBNBpSPRv7QMHsJjejxoEhVzEBYMlhfUWl/s1369/Car+at+Tan+Hill.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="1369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRz0SFN4_NsS28ExE-oyTCuug_eUrkc6e0Oq4ugr8mhOHEZTHF8l2M92UTDRaJQUnq_ggs4opnXB454mIYR_aDQgHNElcdwTdcm_JJQdVxtyBNBpSPRv7QMHsJjejxoEhVzEBYMlhfUWl/s320/Car+at+Tan+Hill.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On holiday. Jim, Gran Pescod, Mum and Dad.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Visits to Swaledale were fabulous and we boys had a huge amount of freedom. The grown ups had to do a bit of socialising with the aunts and neighbours and this often led to Dad fixing a tv or a radio or two on his holiday. Although we had lived there for only three years or so, he seemed genuinely popular and readily adopted Swaledale as his own. I think, because he had played soccer in the village team and was in the band, he made a lot of friends quickly. He was close with some of the men his age, especially a farmer called Matt Cherry who was technically advanced in that he built his own hydro electric supply.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaTwDMs9DrGB5HiXGnBd6BAeQxXiwXWWDKeR5sOs7KI2fh_WLfTEhG5TrSP4VPvDRn8WmFKdlLx9wP3Kl12ox5gbrEQrGu0iFgColZXFbIt86QcSfvgiX2bkScAOStzs_CBizI7ZPCSbf0/s1190/At+Tan+Hill.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="1190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaTwDMs9DrGB5HiXGnBd6BAeQxXiwXWWDKeR5sOs7KI2fh_WLfTEhG5TrSP4VPvDRn8WmFKdlLx9wP3Kl12ox5gbrEQrGu0iFgColZXFbIt86QcSfvgiX2bkScAOStzs_CBizI7ZPCSbf0/s320/At+Tan+Hill.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rock-climbing on limestone.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />I only once found the long hours in the car too much when Mum decided we had to visit the Glen Eagles Hotel. I lay on the floor of the car and would not look at it and refused to get out when we stopped. Years later, to make up for it, I took my mum back in my beat-up car and she was so impressed that a liveried doorman stepped forward and opened the door, greeting her like royalty. </p><p>Alex remembers our last trip to Scotland, "There were two not just to Skye but also to Oban. We had a puncture at Mallaig and camped on the side of the road. The sand was white and beautiful. I think that was the final trip. I remember having a meltdown because I couldn't have an ice cream. I didn't know dad was I'll and how hard up we were. I don't remember dad ever losing his temper or admonishing us and even then he put up with it but I've always felt I spoiled the last holiday we ever had."</p><p><b>Cars:</b></p><p>Alex thinks the cars we owned were an Austin 10, Morris 8 and an Austin Somerset. We rented a Morris thousand andAustin A40 and some older Morris or Austin cars that had running boards. Those black pre-war cars were rented out from somewhere near the Railway Station in Southampton and one in particular looked like it would never get to Yorkshire. The first steep hill we reached was Pepperbox Hill near Salisbury. By half way up the clutch was slipping badly and there was a strong smell of hot oil and metal. By some extraordinary coincidence (or prior knowledge) Dad produced a box of Fuller’s Earth that would absorb the oil that was getting onto the plates. He found a way into the clutch housing by taking out the matting from the floor and there it was with a hatch in the top that seemed to be designed for this very purpose. I guess we used a hundredweight of the stuff when we got to Yorkshire, or he may have replaced an oil-seal that was leaking. </p><p>He spent a lot of time on his cars, they were washed and polished and serviced a lot. Feeler-gauges were important tools used to measure the gaps in spark plugs and to set the timing. He discovered that you could get the gap right at a pinch using a fag packet which just happened to use the right thickness of card. By coincidence there was always a fag packet around. </p><p><b>Clothes:</b></p><p>Steve had style. He made a major effort to be Frank Sinatra and always dressed well. He was charming I think. He didn’t have a big wardrobe but there was always a nice hat with a brim and a flat cap for driving. The trousers I liked were brown chords but he had some woollen ones in grey too. He had a few nice shirts, a cardigan or two and some cravats. I wore those myself after he died. My favourite item was a battered Harris Tweed jacket that I wore for fishing. He had overalls for work and for maintaining the cars we had.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi14N09OSqPOhIxpIR4Hbk_TKkRJMwTJwYGTqcoZxIttAsQIaWnb0nAD3ZwwWhm3Z-1wmPAr4klWPx-mbsvz6wh-kaTYdmTar1Ro6aAn1pgmhyphenhyphen8Ra7DHpIfDMMDSZ2y34i2cul1BES4gOWB/s796/Glenfinnan.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="796" data-original-width="467" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi14N09OSqPOhIxpIR4Hbk_TKkRJMwTJwYGTqcoZxIttAsQIaWnb0nAD3ZwwWhm3Z-1wmPAr4klWPx-mbsvz6wh-kaTYdmTar1Ro6aAn1pgmhyphenhyphen8Ra7DHpIfDMMDSZ2y34i2cul1BES4gOWB/s320/Glenfinnan.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and Alex at the Glenfinnan Monument. 1963.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b><br />Final days:</b></p><p>We hardly have a photo of Steve without a cigarette and he died of lung cancer in 1964 at the age of 49. He was very ill for three years or so and it must have been extremely hard for him and Mum. We saw him right to the end when he was bed ridden. He had a lot of radio-therapy and when he came home he must have been pretty radio-active. We think that’s why all three of our thyroid glands are wrecked. Alex and I still think on many occasions about what he would have said if he had been here through these crazy times, the good and the bad. He missed out on seeing us grow up and so saw none of his grandchildren. I’m hoping that through these words and pictures they will have some sort of record of his life. He was a good man; very hard working, sociable, talented and multi-skilled. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="920" data-original-width="632" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0v7SBFJnoM8OEChc4wCh7jFsGbGCSnszXWQKkteRyz3dc1axoD1Rj65We_dkTQD2ivF2hOM9c7Fx_yAF0of87dnk2xFQo0pGXcmLB7eksd8SMQ76bShiS751Uu39VyhFrX78Dz21IV6F/s320/Steve+at+Tan+Hill.jpg" /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Jim Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260834494018070779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-38830289466550564922020-08-23T08:38:00.002+01:002020-08-23T09:16:38.482+01:00A Summer Spent at Home.<p>Southampton Common’s tall oaks beckoned me from the end of my street. My brother could often be found sitting high up in their branches but, for my lookout, I preferred the top branch of a solitary Scots pine that stood clear of a thicket of elder and birch. This outlier of the New Forest was our patch where we had adventures as cowboys, commandos and super heroes. We built dens and explored endlessly all year round, often catching snakes and lizards. Our school was housed in Nissen huts from the war and our playground was an open part of the common which was dotted with birch, gorse and broom.</p><p>Between the common and the University were the brickfields with old piles of rubble where toads would hibernate. There were treacherous boot-sucking clay pits where we would catch newts and come home looking like New Guinea mud-men. Mum made us drop our clothes at the back door. </p><p>All of the primary school children in our street played on the Common, which seemed boundless to us. There was Peter, Rowena, John, Lorna, Mark, David, Kirsty and a few others; all of us born around 1950. Older brothers and sisters were almost invisible, bound up in homework and the cares of further education. Some were on National Service in Kenya or Cyprus.</p><p>Why am I telling you all this? Well, it all came back to me when I was thinking about what to do when so many of our options were closed to us due the Coronavirus lock-down. My busy 2020 Google Calendar became a work of fiction overnight. Trips to the Norfolk Coast were off, most local nature reserves, stately homes, garden centres and pubs were shut. Even the local reservoir was closed. What could I do for exercise and stimulation? There was only one option and that was to get to know my patch. I wouldn’t be building any dens or climbing many trees but I was determined not to miss a day on my patch and make an effort to get to know it better.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxg9SHLzPT8H0rbzBWtGYJKK0dgpdCdc6fvpnHeD_4UtLf2gOuZ3XKk2NQFg__u8fgvz-RX_QLAHKHgjodqerAQ1p4uQeL7A0mDOEaqFtPh7uv0NqswHjg670wS82TMXAdHnjllVgSnHjY/s2048/DSC_3572.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Snakes-head fritillaries in Portholme Meadow." border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxg9SHLzPT8H0rbzBWtGYJKK0dgpdCdc6fvpnHeD_4UtLf2gOuZ3XKk2NQFg__u8fgvz-RX_QLAHKHgjodqerAQ1p4uQeL7A0mDOEaqFtPh7uv0NqswHjg670wS82TMXAdHnjllVgSnHjY/w400-h225/DSC_3572.jpeg" title="Snakes-head fritillaries in Portholme Meadow." width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>In order to put some shape on my explorations I started by cataloguing the wayside weeds, one a day, and poting the results on the village Facebook page. I remembered trawling the common for groundsel for Sammy, our pet budgie, and acorns for Thumper, our bad-tempered buck-rabbit and that provided a starting point for a more personal view of our common weeds than you usually find in books. It turned out to be a great way to get to know my plants a bit better. At the same time I was looking out for the year’s markers; frog spawn, toad spawn, newts, grass snakes, butterflies and the migrant birds.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZb_f2nVsFvEs_dQKgFxo0v0B4POVFjf-nLpG6P18ISzLXqxTj1GFdJ9ysZWq83y6PWTYv9bOA5tFIVwEOmoger-Y_LRSLNdt93lBPEP0qFX1yfgUGc6BAKA5uhuLm4a9v2Td_zK8Zo96/s2048/DSC_0012.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZb_f2nVsFvEs_dQKgFxo0v0B4POVFjf-nLpG6P18ISzLXqxTj1GFdJ9ysZWq83y6PWTYv9bOA5tFIVwEOmoger-Y_LRSLNdt93lBPEP0qFX1yfgUGc6BAKA5uhuLm4a9v2Td_zK8Zo96/w410-h230/DSC_0012.jpeg" width="410" /></a></div><p>I have always had a patch. Before the common it was Swaledale and later, in my 6th form it was the Brecon Beacons. At teacher-training college it was Frenchay Common on the outskirts of Bristol and my first teaching post sent me to Salisbury Plain. When I started working in Nature conservation my new patch became Arundel in West Sussex, then Loch Leven in Scotland, then Cousin Island in the Seychelles and finally here at Little Paxton and around my home in Brampton. After so many exotic and scenic locations I’m afraid I have taken my local patch for granted, but now it’s my salvation. It feels like being a youth again with every day bringing a new discovery. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqD9OMmCF-xBjJ0Qs4Ru_D1oBDIkUru3YHpmWzuPR39XlXVuq6NICa8U7ovrxK_ndBagWXX6gO_P0pn-av6QEJf8S2KtSbBSQ5KFdcOubc8CnbhmsRc4GWL8-t-xd6j74nJADHTl9FFzcx/s2048/DSC_2730.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqD9OMmCF-xBjJ0Qs4Ru_D1oBDIkUru3YHpmWzuPR39XlXVuq6NICa8U7ovrxK_ndBagWXX6gO_P0pn-av6QEJf8S2KtSbBSQ5KFdcOubc8CnbhmsRc4GWL8-t-xd6j74nJADHTl9FFzcx/w410-h410/DSC_2730.jpeg" width="410" /></a></div><p>For my 70th birthday in March my wife has bought me a light trap for catching moths. I haven’t run one since Salisbury Plain in the 1970s so I have a lot to learn. I bought a battery-powered kit so I could take it away camping, but that’s all cancelled now so I bought a mains adapter and have run the trap every suitable night in my garden. I’ve caught a few spectacular hawk moths but it’s the weird little ones that are so fascinating. They have strange names like Setaceous Hebrew Character, Chocolate Tip, Old Lady and Burnished Brass and, in super close-up they look like furry miniature aliens, angels perhaps.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOp4X8y1maZSFIqcLJTH7L18zqVmeH6zel7Lkd5PdiUtczxT7Jg04PNQGS5zQ2S9J0pBRu7b4fyWxxtyzTN_KlCdEBDrpJ0AtvTyx7bRCvYZsjAs4pg1vF45wruQvZximzCazlVuCeT7S/s2048/DSC_9134.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOp4X8y1maZSFIqcLJTH7L18zqVmeH6zel7Lkd5PdiUtczxT7Jg04PNQGS5zQ2S9J0pBRu7b4fyWxxtyzTN_KlCdEBDrpJ0AtvTyx7bRCvYZsjAs4pg1vF45wruQvZximzCazlVuCeT7S/w410-h230/DSC_9134.jpeg" width="410" /></a></div><p>It was the garden that sold this house to us and it is always a work in progress. I don’t think the garden or the house have had so much work done on them in many years. While Hanna, who is working from home, has organised the interior decorating, I’ve been working on the outside paint jobs and maintenance. In the garden, my first job was to build a new pond that has proved a huge boon to wildlife. Out in front we sowed wild flower mixes in the borders and they have come up beautifully. Our neighbours appreciate the face-lift and the bees and butterflies enjoy the nectar.</p><p>As restrictions relaxed we started to get out more using our old bicycles. I spent many hours and a fair bit of cash fixing the bikes up. It was a job I really enjoyed, reminding me of my first proper bike I bought for ten shillings (50P) in about 1961. I painted that old bike dragon red and put fresh tape on the drop-handlebars, tightened the spokes and replaced the saddle and brake blocks as well as most of the bearings. It lasted me about eight years and gave me a lot of blisters in places you don’t want them. This year’s bike project is a Dutch style man’s bike with Sturmey-Archer three-speed gears. I painted it British Racing Green, like a Bentley, only cheaper.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJQB25gVL-OGjgjPHmA4934jXiW_vDW8TWWeFpW_q2LK4IJwTc7dV9EfECyH1C97dDc4JeFXM3yonLZziBWwMxD0_8oMu7nvJpOq3EUbmFhNQExXcrQIYMhKomJJZuYVrvcZoODaNimBn/s2048/IMG-8364.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1537" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJQB25gVL-OGjgjPHmA4934jXiW_vDW8TWWeFpW_q2LK4IJwTc7dV9EfECyH1C97dDc4JeFXM3yonLZziBWwMxD0_8oMu7nvJpOq3EUbmFhNQExXcrQIYMhKomJJZuYVrvcZoODaNimBn/w384-h512/IMG-8364.jpeg" width="384" /></a></div><p>Our son Dan has Angelman Syndrome and can’t ride a bike. When he was smaller he sat on the front of a special tandem with me. It’s a German bike with a recumbent seat and peddles on the front but a normal sit-up position on the back. Very sensibly, the person in the back does the steering and it’s a fabulous bike. However, as Dan entered his late teens he became to heavy to hold up on a two wheeler, so now he has a three wheeler side-by-side bike.</p><p>Because of lockdown, our local country park at Hinchingbrooke closed its special bikes programme. Rather cheekily I asked if we could keep one at home for a while and, very generously, they agreed. The Van Raam tricycle was enormous, taking up most of our garage, but it was an immediate success and gave Dan a completely new interest that provided him with a decent bit of exercise. We dreaded having to give it back so Hanna scoured the internet for a second-hand one and, by extreme luck, one came up for sale in North London. I hired a van and picked it up. It seemed to be in perfect condition but it was extremely hard to peddle. I fiddled with the brakes and oiled all the chains but it made no difference. We called in an expert who said it had to be the tyres. Having a puncture when your passenger is a disabled person can be quite a complicated situation so the previous owners, an Association for the Blind, had fitted solid rubber tyres. It seemed a good idea but they stuck to the road like glue. After re-fitting pneumatic tyres it was like having a new bike. Best of all, our village is half way through constructing miles of new cycle paths so we can take Dan for miles without worrying about traffic.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhF4lmmBob-IzI9oM7W1dv-NKbMi4f52qPFxfeU8Yj_V6UCFlKMNvFQfXQgwsTwWQiNP-8VncSS8iq8rQpkT0874PzkeOdQfp_JBUtnprkD2mjczlHb4cJgCDW4rQovtTIev9Qy9_SVzar/s2048/DSC_3745.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhF4lmmBob-IzI9oM7W1dv-NKbMi4f52qPFxfeU8Yj_V6UCFlKMNvFQfXQgwsTwWQiNP-8VncSS8iq8rQpkT0874PzkeOdQfp_JBUtnprkD2mjczlHb4cJgCDW4rQovtTIev9Qy9_SVzar/w410-h230/DSC_3745.jpeg" width="410" /></a></div><p>Apart from exploring the village itself, we have spent more time than we used to in Hinchingbrooke Country Park and Brampton Wood; both brilliant places for wildlife watching. Then there’s the river. The Great Ouse lazily wanders through Huntingdonshire taking its time meandering and detouring its way to the Fens and the Wash. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKy9_4QCc_e5hGdsTCQxl1JG1Ue57GK3DwzGrfC1NmKL3_97Ie2oQ0viP5waocYx5m5p6nr6IN-SdUNgBiDKOzvsGrmb70I1VIiT-c1rHpbKTb9hCt7k-oZJMI3z85bv4jcxKHo1uSvlP/s2048/DSC_4005.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKy9_4QCc_e5hGdsTCQxl1JG1Ue57GK3DwzGrfC1NmKL3_97Ie2oQ0viP5waocYx5m5p6nr6IN-SdUNgBiDKOzvsGrmb70I1VIiT-c1rHpbKTb9hCt7k-oZJMI3z85bv4jcxKHo1uSvlP/w410-h410/DSC_4005.jpeg" width="410" /></a></div><p>Hanna and I were married close to 40 years ago when we both worked at the Wildfowl and Wetland Trust in Arundel. The staff and volunteers bought is the most extravagant present in the form of a Canadian style canoe. (It is a three-seater so I guess they were making a hint). It has been with us in Scotland and around the country but for most of the last few years it has hung from the ceiling of a barn at Paxton Pits, collecting bird droppings. We brought it home, cleaned it up and started using it again to discover uncharted backwaters off the Great Ouse. What a delight that has been.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhX6JSVw3xmaXTZPo0oHTQ-iluNuAgr4Rp9aIHASgBAHCtonRu8mQ_8AmqQWzhirgYn5am1MMT-X8IeeTs8NYgoKHI70nc_i5szVEdJt7z8A5op7h837dKbk57d6vlhA-ogGim58Q4vgEJ/s2048/DSC_0009.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhX6JSVw3xmaXTZPo0oHTQ-iluNuAgr4Rp9aIHASgBAHCtonRu8mQ_8AmqQWzhirgYn5am1MMT-X8IeeTs8NYgoKHI70nc_i5szVEdJt7z8A5op7h837dKbk57d6vlhA-ogGim58Q4vgEJ/w410-h410/DSC_0009.jpeg" width="410" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>All-in-all, getting to know our home patch has made us feel very thankful to be where we are. For years we have considered moving to a National Park; somewhere more wild and scenic, but the practicalities for a family like us left us feeling a bit stuck. Not anymore. We love it here. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvc_KR8jVxqyzCWoH1Kg5_LS0x0zwllvYqIFn2sorfnLhc20pTmTRSMh6f9A6_gz1StzL-yl11BX8-7lM8aPUgCxYrtO4UjiejHNMR4mEgbiSVGXJU0fFeyM_3GwU_7CCFQE8G2QrrnT4F/s2048/DSC_6319.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvc_KR8jVxqyzCWoH1Kg5_LS0x0zwllvYqIFn2sorfnLhc20pTmTRSMh6f9A6_gz1StzL-yl11BX8-7lM8aPUgCxYrtO4UjiejHNMR4mEgbiSVGXJU0fFeyM_3GwU_7CCFQE8G2QrrnT4F/w410-h410/DSC_6319.jpeg" width="410" /></a></div><p><br /></p>Jim Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260834494018070779noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-26847678088713358392020-03-30T21:17:00.005+01:002020-03-31T08:00:53.425+01:00My Patch1958: The ancient oaks of the Common beckoned me from the end of our street. My brother would be up there sitting unnervingly high in their branches with his chum Rowena (aged five). I made for my own lookout on the top branch of a Scots pine that stood umbrella-like above of a thicket of elder and birch. My hands and shorts would soon be covered in sticky resin that smelled pleasantly of pine for the rest of the day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGVIZuaI_tBcSp5r_mCHoKJd96t4CyPNVjzer0aYqG4Q3_o5zDcZ7pADgr0-2W6TUNgKsu038gwQo63O12vej6OIG9R0VKnwnXOvSOiEXJEELwI17kh8WkM3Kd0US0ReJab8ZIwPs4K15v/s1600/DSC_1544.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGVIZuaI_tBcSp5r_mCHoKJd96t4CyPNVjzer0aYqG4Q3_o5zDcZ7pADgr0-2W6TUNgKsu038gwQo63O12vej6OIG9R0VKnwnXOvSOiEXJEELwI17kh8WkM3Kd0US0ReJab8ZIwPs4K15v/s320/DSC_1544.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chestnut Avenue.</td></tr>
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This outlier of the New Forest was our local patch where we had adventures as cowboys, commandos and super heroes. We built dens, caught lizards and explored endlessly all year round. Our school was housed in Nissen huts from the war and our playground was an open part of the common, dotted with birch, gorse and broom where yellowhammers, long tailed tits and red-backed shrikes nested.<br />
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Between the Common and the University lay the brickfields with the their old piles of rubble where toads would hibernate. Treacherous boot-sucking clay pits were where we would catch newts and come home looking like New Guinea mud-men. We were always made to drop our clothes at the back door.<br />
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All of the primary school children in our street played on the common, which seemed boundless to us. We were all of born around 1950. Adults and older brothers and sisters were almost invisible, bound up in homework and the cares of adulthood. Some were on National Service in Kenya or Cyprus.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijybbKCTaaig8HwuKVLKg1DzOIa2ooKBxhyQvliF1TD1cjA3COxZKY-7C6jurdD4L48rpOmsfQ93VyiDfB03CVUBeermXo1Cq2IPHdSUeAmJZ9b7W3W-TUBgDg22FjVf7M_pV3bbBjUhY8/s1600/DSC_2110.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="561" data-original-width="998" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijybbKCTaaig8HwuKVLKg1DzOIa2ooKBxhyQvliF1TD1cjA3COxZKY-7C6jurdD4L48rpOmsfQ93VyiDfB03CVUBeermXo1Cq2IPHdSUeAmJZ9b7W3W-TUBgDg22FjVf7M_pV3bbBjUhY8/s320/DSC_2110.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First singing chiffchaff.</td></tr>
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Why am I telling you all this? Well, it all came back to me when I was thinking what to do with myself during the lock-down. Trips to the Norfolk Coast are off, most local nature reserves, stately homes, garden centres and pubs are shut. Even the local reservoir is closed. What could I do for exercise and stimulation? In my view there’s only one option and that is to get to know my patch. I won’t be building any dens or climbing many trees but I'm trying not to miss a single day on my patch and I’m going to try and approach it with same wide eyed wonder that I had back in the day.<br />
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In order to put some shape on my explorations I have started cataloguing the wayside weeds and posting the results daily on the village Facebook page. I remember trawling the Common for groundsel for Sammy our pet budgie, and for our bad-tempered buck-rabbit, Thumper. That's the inspiration for tomorrow's posting on groundsel. I'm finding a lot of other interesting plants in cracks in the pavements and roadside verges and quite a few in my garden. I thought I knew all their names but a little research proves that I don't. I'm finding it a great way to get to know my plants a bit better. At the same time I’ll be looking out for the year’s markers; frog spawn, toad spawn, newts, grass snakes, butterflies and the migrant birds that are already arriving.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkHrk7msoLv-X4aO_mFT5YcuUjYJcdcXxoxxhbpzNG_BWQJRj6K4Oxcx8zW3YC7YEEEhlpCpCDa8yB44-8AbuOwuZkN7ZAI1vl_0otzTqdmsnEfGVTRiT9ybL1bTHSNuDVy782XrXeVs8/s1600/DSC_2778.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkHrk7msoLv-X4aO_mFT5YcuUjYJcdcXxoxxhbpzNG_BWQJRj6K4Oxcx8zW3YC7YEEEhlpCpCDa8yB44-8AbuOwuZkN7ZAI1vl_0otzTqdmsnEfGVTRiT9ybL1bTHSNuDVy782XrXeVs8/s320/DSC_2778.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first cowslips. Not a soul around.</td></tr>
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I have always had a patch. Before the common it was Swaledale (grouse, dippers, common sandpipers) and later, in my 6th form it was the Brecon Beacons (buzzards and crossbills). At teacher-training college it was Frenchay Common on the outskirts of Bristol (water voles and tree sparrows) and my first teaching post sent me to Salisbury Plain to see all the chalkland orchids and butterflies, plus breeding stone curlews and wintering harriers. My next patch was Arundel in West Sussex (for orchids, nightjars and nightingales), then Loch Leven in Scotland, (with pinkfeet and peregrines) and Cousin Island in the Seychelles (for a tropical paradise stuffed with endemics). Finally I landed here on the Reserve at Little Paxton and around my home in Brampton in Cambridgeshire. After so many exotic and scenic locations I’m afraid I have taken my local patch too much for granted but now it’s my salvation. It feels like being a youth again with every day bringing a new discovery.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHP4xoP6yOPGJiKMfVefDwFdM0STd_vSUfui-Ct1JF0j8p72E8sOWiVCs6WsujC_lOLO4tmI883q18fgQSSIiu0P8tWsaIl45VU49hf-oTeDIMosduULXGzL4a0-vt85I_LD1ipZUIfMdp/s1600/DSC_2730.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHP4xoP6yOPGJiKMfVefDwFdM0STd_vSUfui-Ct1JF0j8p72E8sOWiVCs6WsujC_lOLO4tmI883q18fgQSSIiu0P8tWsaIl45VU49hf-oTeDIMosduULXGzL4a0-vt85I_LD1ipZUIfMdp/s320/DSC_2730.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moth trap, just unwrapped.</td></tr>
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For my 70th birthday my wife bought me a light trap for catching moths. I haven’t run one since Salisbury Plain in the 1970s so I have a lot to learn. I bought a battery-powered kit so that I could take it away camping, but that’s all cancelled now, so I’m going over to a mains supply kit with a plan to run the trap every night in my garden and record what I find there. It was the garden that sold this house to us and it is always a work in progress. I think it will get more attention this summer than ever before.<br />
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Jim Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260834494018070779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-80590717611247049882019-08-06T18:12:00.002+01:002019-08-06T18:12:24.271+01:00A bit of a saga.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9iaBakXrWg-YnODDvl5vbWM8AuD5JLy7DhVKNXEEcgv4e2Qw9ZErbPPBehyphenhyphenQQ7vAXBo4pzmJihqVMz5XCJZgtrSwH0MxOnc0Vj97tTtnHUPDOANDV_JLsOnhcooXFm3enToY-XERRhvA/s1600/8c0c9245-d90b-4768-818a-6ba3b9416bae.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="1519" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9iaBakXrWg-YnODDvl5vbWM8AuD5JLy7DhVKNXEEcgv4e2Qw9ZErbPPBehyphenhyphenQQ7vAXBo4pzmJihqVMz5XCJZgtrSwH0MxOnc0Vj97tTtnHUPDOANDV_JLsOnhcooXFm3enToY-XERRhvA/s400/8c0c9245-d90b-4768-818a-6ba3b9416bae.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meeting the cows.</td></tr>
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We planned a visit to Woodwalton Fen; a place that obviously brims with wildlife, but the road was blocked and so we found ourselves at the end of a long, gravel drove at Upwood Meadows Nature Reserve. It didn't look much, just a field with cows in it, but we decided to take a walk anyway. The cattle field seems to only have one feature of interest, ant-hills: huge ant-hills made by yellow meadow ants. The second field was slightly more interesting with a scattering of yellow flowers including ladies bedstraw and birds-foot trefoil that attracted some of the smaller butterflies such as brown argus, common blue and small skipper.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zjDty67rRlSFFBl-ZDDPaKAVDa5kITdbd7-jo83AKmnlxU4b4iyBT0kGeT9oTAPt0qGDyZeXfOWVm-2V7RedV4ejXPTypHSzJnlb0-M0LDtaTa9Qhk0pmwcntPBs_fNIdXfaPnFDGCNn/s1600/DSC_0054.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zjDty67rRlSFFBl-ZDDPaKAVDa5kITdbd7-jo83AKmnlxU4b4iyBT0kGeT9oTAPt0qGDyZeXfOWVm-2V7RedV4ejXPTypHSzJnlb0-M0LDtaTa9Qhk0pmwcntPBs_fNIdXfaPnFDGCNn/s320/DSC_0054.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brown argus.</td></tr>
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The third and largest field was a real joy with many more flowers including some unfamiliar ones and a lot more butterflies and dragonflies. The reason for the difference is that this field was never "improved" with herbicides and fertilisers like the other two which are on the way to recovery using seed from the big field.<br />
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We arrived back at the car at 5 pm to find that it wouldn't start. I knew this was due to mucky fuel as I had accidentally put petrol in it a couple of weeks ago. Despite draining it down and refilling it, I guessed some petrol still remained in there, but the addition of more diesel would sort that out.<br />
I called home to catch one of our carers at the end of his shift, hoping he could pick up some diesel and get it to us. As our son Dan was playing up a bit, he decided to send another carer and stay on for an extended shift.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Small copper.</td></tr>
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Eventually a little bright orange Fiat Panda bumped its way down the drive towards us trailing a dense plume of dust. We were rescued! (Or so we thought).<br />
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"This is diesel ins't it?" "No, it's petrol".<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm_fiBmSqQwxPpo3IFpSK-HoSsMkAJAt75adfESlq6xBnqZkv_1YtHLPIoSJ7KwuxuAzpmLl9ybtUm_D4QDABrwBufRID2P-70_xEYGULM0ufBjoNEapWSmsNiolP98ZFXgsKWWjp5buWu/s1600/DSC_0042.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm_fiBmSqQwxPpo3IFpSK-HoSsMkAJAt75adfESlq6xBnqZkv_1YtHLPIoSJ7KwuxuAzpmLl9ybtUm_D4QDABrwBufRID2P-70_xEYGULM0ufBjoNEapWSmsNiolP98ZFXgsKWWjp5buWu/s320/DSC_0042.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another small copper.</td></tr>
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Hanna jumped into the Panda and they set off to get diesel this time. Being that kind of day and this kind of saga, they got lost, then they bought more petrol, then remembered that they were supposed to get diesel and so, after a long wait while the combines hummed and the sun sank low in a dusty sky, the little orange car returned with two green cans of petrol and, (thank Goodness) two black cans of diesel.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green-veined white.</td></tr>
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After a transfusion of clean diesel the car started first time and we were on our way home.<br />
Meanwhile (back at the ranch) Dan spent an hour waiting in the front garden for what he thought would be his mum and dad's imminent return. Too anxious to go back inside, he took a very public "comfort break" on the front lawn, much to the surprise of a passing lady. She was so "surprised" she passed twice for a second look.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMf9MSzPbLMhFLAxXQNo6iCWyqkTP-MFpCHrEKCj5C41Q3Lu-KZnxKCrgyFtMvWcBIt2imlBeX6WJUjQUHfZsaXG3eFoa-eWuZURmikX1q8zB2j92OZoVuR0gLqn495p5QakkCzPmYm5vA/s1600/DSC_0076.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMf9MSzPbLMhFLAxXQNo6iCWyqkTP-MFpCHrEKCj5C41Q3Lu-KZnxKCrgyFtMvWcBIt2imlBeX6WJUjQUHfZsaXG3eFoa-eWuZURmikX1q8zB2j92OZoVuR0gLqn495p5QakkCzPmYm5vA/s320/DSC_0076.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every cloud has a silver lining? Possibly not.</td></tr>
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<br />Jim Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260834494018070779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-67222870160089344132019-07-25T06:23:00.000+01:002019-07-25T06:23:43.249+01:00Over the hill.My brother Alex and I are starting to feel our age, due to various aches and pains but, are we over the hill? Not quite yet!<br />
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On the campsite at Usha Gap we saw folks our age walking the Pennine Way and the Coast to Coast Walk or cycling the Tour-de-Yorkshire route and we felt nothing but admiration for them. Then we met Debbie from Canada and her Swedish husband Perry Ekstrand. These guys never stop cycling and you can check them out at "Retired Without Borders" on the web. When we met them, they were at the point of giving up cycling when they discovered e-bikes. They traded in their tourers for a pair of amazing new machines that even impressed the bikers who were camping next to us, and so a new set of adventures began for them.<br />
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Going "over the hill" from Muker offers several tortuous routes on foot, by bike or by car. My favourite is the road from Crow Trees by High Oxnop and down into Wensleydale at Askrigg, but the more famous route is the Buttertubs Pass from Thwaite to Hawes. We took this route on a hunt for red squirrels and returned by the third option which is from Kirby Stephen back to Keld via Raven's Seat.<br />
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Beyond Hawes, on a remote hillside, lies a rather dull-looking conifer plantation. Its isolation is a key reason for why the Yorkshire Wildlife Trust chose it as a site for re-introducing red squirrels as there is no woodland nearby that would provide a corridor of access for American grey squirrels.<br />
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Snaizeholme Wood has a very small car park so the Trust prefers visitors to use the bus from Hawes. On our fist visit we used the bus and the driver told us that, if we didn't see any squirrels, we should come to his house in Hardraw where he sees them every day. That is the secret of all re-introduction programmes: you have a hot-spot or core area for releases while the population becomes established in the wider area. That's just what has happened in the Dales, with the squirrels spreading over a wide area that takes in the northern edge of the dales and the adjoining part of Cumbria. The villages all display red squirrel signs and you can get lucky anywhere along the route.<br />
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Despite the recent spread of red squirrels, I would still say that Snaizeholme offers the best chance of success given just an hour or so of effort. This year we arrived to meet a few disappointed photographers who were leaving, so I was quite worried that we had wasted our journey. My brother has trouble with his legs and so he decoded to wait at the little car park to avoid the steep steps. I joined three other people and we found our first squirrel within ten minutes, but against the light on the edge of the wood. "Never mind," I said, "the feeding station is the best place". And so it was. Only one squirrel appeared but he was very obliging for us.<br />
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I felt guilty for leaving my brother alone, so I didn't stay very long, but I needn't have worried as he found plenty of people to chat to and saw two red squirrels at a bird-feeder outside the cottage that abuts the car park.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pendragon Castle.</td></tr>
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Having gone over the hill, we headed to the Cumbrian bit of the Dales via Garsdale Head, to Pendragon Castle which is another red squirrel site. We failed with the squirrels but found three woodcock on the lawns there. It's always a magical place to stop for a look around. The ruined castle is set in a dramatic narrowing of the valley with steep, bare, forbidding fells all around. The harsh effect of the landscape, as in much of Cumbria, is softened by the lines of old walls and the random spread of alder, oak, ash and birch along the route of the River Eden. The Settle to Carlisle Railway runs along the hillside above, but it is almost invisible for most of its length here.<br />
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After a well-earned stop for a beer in Ravenstonedale we headed out into the wilds of Sunbiggin Tarn for a bit of botanising. Mid July is a bit late for the specialist flowers that grow there, but we found marsh orchids, alpine bistorts and a some birds-eye primroses still in flower.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rare, and very pretty, birds-eye primrose.</td></tr>
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<br />Our route back to Swaledale took us along narrow lanes to Kirby Stephen, then up over the hill to Raven's Seat where the Yorkshire Shepherdess farms, down past Keld, through Angram and Thwaite and back, tired and hungry, to Usha Gap.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-67801445761486654532019-07-21T16:09:00.001+01:002019-07-21T16:09:44.724+01:00Campsite wildlife at Usha Gap.The campsite at Usha Gap offers two options; camping by the alder trees along Muker Beck, or in one of two spacious fields behind the farm at the foot of Kisdon Hill. Both choices are good for viewing wildlife but I prefer the beck-side for close up-encounters with birds. If it has been raining and the midges are really bad, then the beck-side is a bad choice and there is also a risk of flooding.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglGO8GEO3QACyzFwdvtx57vz2PJcbRRs8hTH3D9MZZ7zeGMOuCYoHFeoLRqqVFgcwlEfhNirX1-3RhoCO2OVvm-RyhfvFei5b9p1LDqRqw5Zl0HUgB6rjedWI0xOyX8cNgFsdbpDxGsQU/s1600/DSC_0156.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglGO8GEO3QACyzFwdvtx57vz2PJcbRRs8hTH3D9MZZ7zeGMOuCYoHFeoLRqqVFgcwlEfhNirX1-3RhoCO2OVvm-RyhfvFei5b9p1LDqRqw5Zl0HUgB6rjedWI0xOyX8cNgFsdbpDxGsQU/s320/DSC_0156.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beck-side</td></tr>
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Birdlife along the beck in summer is especially good. This year we had dozens of young chiffchaffs, willow warblers passing through. Chiffchaffs seem to be doing better in numbers, probably due to their shorter migration to Iberia rather than Africa. Spotted flycatchers were joined by treecreepers, wrens and baby blue-tits. Finches breed close by and chaffinches join the farmyard sparrows and starlings around the picnic tables while greenfinches, goldfinches, redpolls and siskins are best picked up by their calls.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBrS68QvJCheP7Kvq9JhuYJ-zDBMi2Pw6SeGsiJR4WAXNEOPxKLQc8Gf7SJy5sjLLPLsM3i8qXNKOj47Ck4lIvBwHNxYnP82_PN4zDvfYEEeZVtwe2G3F-JwrjNePP4JvtGj7zRGMM__M/s1600/DSC_0086.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1485" data-original-width="1485" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBrS68QvJCheP7Kvq9JhuYJ-zDBMi2Pw6SeGsiJR4WAXNEOPxKLQc8Gf7SJy5sjLLPLsM3i8qXNKOj47Ck4lIvBwHNxYnP82_PN4zDvfYEEeZVtwe2G3F-JwrjNePP4JvtGj7zRGMM__M/s320/DSC_0086.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little owl near Muker. </td></tr>
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Among the beck-stones, wagtails are common with pied and grey wagtails mixing together in the hunt for insects, often perching on the fence to feed their chicks. The top birds to spot are dippers, which are really giant wrens. Look for one with its dazzling white breast bobbing up and down on a rock in the middle of the beck. Their favourite stones always display a white blob of "Dulux". If you watch closely you can see them snorkel along the surface before pushing themselves under and running along the bottom using their wings as hydroplanes to push them down in search for insects and small fish. Kingfishers visit the campsite too, but they are less approachable than the dippers.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young wagtail.</td></tr>
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Swallows, sand martins, house martins and swifts dash low over the water and circle back over the tents to try again, always hunting against the wind.<br />
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Just downstream of the campsite there is a more densely wooded area hides nesting birds such as red-starts that visit the campsite after the young have flown. Common sandpipers work their way upstream and hunt in the beck, but if you want to see a woodcock it is best to watch them circling over the campsite or the Farmers Arms at sunset. Sometimes, just after hay-time, you can find them resting in the open during the day, but woodcock are particularly nocturnal.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7iGcksi99LLZQo9SSFR3VPYOumvcxuPGRZoS9rp6oDm_lajLu2qWEMEWZpv4wbEEFWWPpp6dpJ1atoiUGCcaw37CVOCwyq_pWyzxE0CZcNWuicqbBkOF3YqV_8PDAM-qf-N3VKDFYSY/s1600/DSC_0093+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1007" data-original-width="1007" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7iGcksi99LLZQo9SSFR3VPYOumvcxuPGRZoS9rp6oDm_lajLu2qWEMEWZpv4wbEEFWWPpp6dpJ1atoiUGCcaw37CVOCwyq_pWyzxE0CZcNWuicqbBkOF3YqV_8PDAM-qf-N3VKDFYSY/s320/DSC_0093+2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A moulting buzzard flaps over the campsite.</td></tr>
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The most obliging campsite birds are the mallards that wander between the tents but there are other waterfowl around. One summer, a whole family of goosanders rafted down the beck past my tent. More commonly I enjoy watching the moorhens feed their little black fluff-ball chicks. They are great parents. Baby moorhens are lucky because any passing sub-adult will feed them too.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Male pied wagtail and chick.</td></tr>
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In the fields across the road, the snores of your neighbours may be drowned out with the calls of moorbirds. Black and white oystercatchers shout "Peter! Peter!" or just "Pete" while curlews have a broad range of yodels and trills. Gulls, particularly black-headed gulls come down from the tarns on the moors.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cock chaffinch.</td></tr>
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Owls are present too. There are little owls and barn owls nesting in the cow-houses on the way to Muker and tawny owls screech and hoot near the woods. Nigh-times cam be quite noisy in the dales, even when the sheep are quiet. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1NAtLzTpzPQqkev_GzSn2ovU6A1P1XY8VYt_mrzipIs3qw-PRl5Rw6T1zuUmgrju9xb3AhsMs3KoHjURDVkJCTL7RQ4PAD0IfBOqIRKWlGZ6nxoDoZNKnoIPDMaGUiiCOFW5y5SJLBo/s1600/DSC_0271.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1NAtLzTpzPQqkev_GzSn2ovU6A1P1XY8VYt_mrzipIs3qw-PRl5Rw6T1zuUmgrju9xb3AhsMs3KoHjURDVkJCTL7RQ4PAD0IfBOqIRKWlGZ6nxoDoZNKnoIPDMaGUiiCOFW5y5SJLBo/s320/DSC_0271.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby song-thrush.</td></tr>
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<br />Looking up the slope of Kisdon Hill is almost always fruitful for birding. Jackdaws out-number the other crows, but carrion crows are always present along with ravens that they mob mercilessly. If you are not familiar with ravens, they are much bigger than crows, long winged and with a head that sticks out in front as much as the wedged tail sticks out behind. They look like a cross in the sky or like an anchor when they fold back their wings.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrPOQ2McwanscuXjFh48oDi0LaCXYDPJ-hIuEJIiE56BeHkRznQfD8FZZiFhvSxo1cmLuaE2f367l2wBJbPtzQcAQP9UfuJrxrn2er9-S0uz1YB8zyAbJoItTLluxkC5anWbwpqDSfZlU/s1600/DSC_0320.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrPOQ2McwanscuXjFh48oDi0LaCXYDPJ-hIuEJIiE56BeHkRznQfD8FZZiFhvSxo1cmLuaE2f367l2wBJbPtzQcAQP9UfuJrxrn2er9-S0uz1YB8zyAbJoItTLluxkC5anWbwpqDSfZlU/s320/DSC_0320.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dipper. This is a young one.</td></tr>
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As for birds of prey, the possibilities vary from year to year. Buzzards and kestrels are usually around, but I have seen red kites, peregrines and merlins quite often. Along with short-eared owls, they can be pushed down from the tops by the grouse shoot which starts on August 12th.<br />
<br />
There are always other birds passing through, so ring-ouzels and wheatears may show up in spring and autumn, and there are many common birds I have not mentioned, but what about mammals?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31eC54EgtuuHIpWSDuEa3f-fOLPzvrCONVxS6No4VhvEWjawv9CXXv2lPw8Q-JdpTwIpMzVGrpR6JmD4c0mbIdUctKoGRyUIJrhwzx_Wa-_vGwVn62JUYuRDOEcTDXg2Ji7t7ErFA7eo/s1600/DSC_0168.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31eC54EgtuuHIpWSDuEa3f-fOLPzvrCONVxS6No4VhvEWjawv9CXXv2lPw8Q-JdpTwIpMzVGrpR6JmD4c0mbIdUctKoGRyUIJrhwzx_Wa-_vGwVn62JUYuRDOEcTDXg2Ji7t7ErFA7eo/s320/DSC_0168.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Common hawker dragonfly.</td></tr>
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<br />Rabbits can be seen everywhere, all day, but keep an eye out for stoats hunting them along the beck. Early in the morning is the best time to spot roe deer on the hill or hedgehogs in the meadows, but both prefer the darker hours. Foxes are a rare sight and badgers must be around too but are rarely seen. The most common mammals, apart from sheep and cows are bats. A walk back from the pub on a summer's evening always produces a few bats.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsS1y2WNoNS7BVfX6QNMk9oiiQc6dMt1gVp-7s58b1CKKRUFamO3rG9L-FlgfQligVgrQHwJui990favrv2PMuusDzv0gkDc0De3-PNN5LG3NiwaGFp-uDFiVKIw2ho0rqheYW7wUn6I/s1600/DSC_0169.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsS1y2WNoNS7BVfX6QNMk9oiiQc6dMt1gVp-7s58b1CKKRUFamO3rG9L-FlgfQligVgrQHwJui990favrv2PMuusDzv0gkDc0De3-PNN5LG3NiwaGFp-uDFiVKIw2ho0rqheYW7wUn6I/s320/DSC_0169.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stone loach.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As children, my brother and I loved to look under the beck-stones for whetever was there, stoneflies, caddis-flies, mayflies, tadpoles..... anything and everything was fascination...and it still is. If you are quick you can catch bullheads (called miller's thumb over here or sculpin in the USA) and, if you are even quicker, you might catch a stone loach.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAYSAGljc7d365_pEWMPiCr0qlBnZkK1oPWPh384tGeeW5v8s90enBUsYwqd8kWWMaPIc7jia0uNPiHL77B2cPkar8T16L9NAWWTQNUIIRW6Xr_NIjYO7kGkuLMg7TV03RyNnaj3aR9A/s1600/DSC_0178.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAYSAGljc7d365_pEWMPiCr0qlBnZkK1oPWPh384tGeeW5v8s90enBUsYwqd8kWWMaPIc7jia0uNPiHL77B2cPkar8T16L9NAWWTQNUIIRW6Xr_NIjYO7kGkuLMg7TV03RyNnaj3aR9A/s320/DSC_0178.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bullhead.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>I have run out of space here to add more photos. All of the above are from July 2019.</i><br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-55389179880612161932019-07-21T07:47:00.000+01:002019-07-21T07:47:01.332+01:00How not to pack for a camping trip.Every year I take a trip to Swaledale to link up with my brother Alex. We make for Usha Gap campsite, close to the paradise where we spent our early childhood and many holidays with our grandmother.<br />
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My old tent was a big blue canvas job that was made in France in the early 60s or late 50s. It was getting very tatty and I think Alex was a bit embarrassed to be seen near it. Despite my misgivings he persuaded to me to send it to the skip and "get modern". I hated my new little nylon tent from the outset and vowed to go back to canvas. Now I own this whopping 3 metre canvas bell-tent and I love it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_2-WRiyBroKs5drKhYQd0c5kwoFN2RzCP1IxO2BsHEQzyO6s7nURIEJVipMBHyjvtR8K6mcvumIEEbTl533UKlur9nn9UH_tGrg_v_zwkP6xZD1RTZlv6w7WU9bgAT3NyKVnG0b0XIl0t/s1600/DSC_0156.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_2-WRiyBroKs5drKhYQd0c5kwoFN2RzCP1IxO2BsHEQzyO6s7nURIEJVipMBHyjvtR8K6mcvumIEEbTl533UKlur9nn9UH_tGrg_v_zwkP6xZD1RTZlv6w7WU9bgAT3NyKVnG0b0XIl0t/s320/DSC_0156.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My new tent in front of Alex's camper van.</td></tr>
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Packing the new tent was easy because it came in three weighty bags; one for the pegs, one for the poles and big one for the canvas. All you need is a trolley to move it to and from the car! As for the stuff to go inside, I started making lists about two weeks in advance and a mountain of gear started to grow in our conservatory, hindering access to the garden and tripping people up.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyhVRMCfFNybGSPYl8l0YZPl2VTaJxZFQ6KV_28eqg7STHOd_pgWUBdrkeT8aqDgG0GW5hFLh1TbfGwfAwo3qgniVvKia9zWd3SxRLraMHl-0gQe0gdRf2nDVXiKG4Ln6EZc6BPgjtbk50/s1600/DSC_0205.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyhVRMCfFNybGSPYl8l0YZPl2VTaJxZFQ6KV_28eqg7STHOd_pgWUBdrkeT8aqDgG0GW5hFLh1TbfGwfAwo3qgniVvKia9zWd3SxRLraMHl-0gQe0gdRf2nDVXiKG4Ln6EZc6BPgjtbk50/s320/DSC_0205.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Usha Gap.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In the tent I would need a sleeping bag, which was in it's stuff-sack in the loft, so that was easy. I found a good lamp and an air-bed in the loft too but memories of constantly rolling off the single-size inflatable mattress flooded back and I went out to buy a double one. Of course they don't come with a pump but we have a few of those around the house. Pillows were a last minute addition.<br />
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Alex brings all the cooking gear, but just in case, I always bring my Kelly kettle, kindling, cigarette lighter, a huge water container, plate, mug, corkscrew, tea-towel and cutlery, mostly packed into a washing up bowl along with a sponge and wash-up liquid. I can't go away without my steel cafetiere and sone decent coffee. Add in my wash-kit, some changes of clothes, walking boots and a towel and that should be that, shouldn't it?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0ElEIw2bRhpz6xozIyltubWyuhUK0Sm_IVg9ZySrx2IfHPDJFJ4w0haGGHk6IncaLTus5kqpLevHr-ENMug-GOpOQfZ9pLUNDHfkvEvpg05iwdZP5L35LoDqR9Z0THj2snD1vqSui6XQ/s1600/DSC_0100.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0ElEIw2bRhpz6xozIyltubWyuhUK0Sm_IVg9ZySrx2IfHPDJFJ4w0haGGHk6IncaLTus5kqpLevHr-ENMug-GOpOQfZ9pLUNDHfkvEvpg05iwdZP5L35LoDqR9Z0THj2snD1vqSui6XQ/s320/DSC_0100.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muker.</td></tr>
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We are both trout fishermen so that means we need another pile of kit to add to the camping clutter. I take two fly rods in case of accidents, a little landing net, a few reels with different lines on, boxes of flies, floatant grease, bug repellent, polarised glasses, hat, nylon line and few more bits and bobs, plus jacket, chest waders and wellies. Job done?<br />
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Nope. I also take birdwatching gear that includes a telescope and tripod, binoculars and a field guide, all of which live in the car permanently. Then there is the photography kit which is pretty hefty too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTofpiWN8D0YoTsEEA38FgLtDnvhexd2kpmdiNwFR9TOVcbGkWfeuMYAFiqSgLD064QdMUdTXWFSIVOhx9zpCpO-FyoYc-nxUKidHHJ1miqrYH2BBLXTkoXOyQ3VM4sVsDf6Gt5Wd5ZNPP/s1600/DSC_0111.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTofpiWN8D0YoTsEEA38FgLtDnvhexd2kpmdiNwFR9TOVcbGkWfeuMYAFiqSgLD064QdMUdTXWFSIVOhx9zpCpO-FyoYc-nxUKidHHJ1miqrYH2BBLXTkoXOyQ3VM4sVsDf6Gt5Wd5ZNPP/s320/DSC_0111.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alex, with midges.</td></tr>
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On the day, of departure I dropped the back seats down to make a lot of space in my car and piled the lot in. Looking at the load in the back, I convinced myself that, if I had forgotten anything, it wouldn't matter unless it was my medications for this and that. "Oh Heck!" I put them in the glove compartment at the last minute, waved bye-bye and set off.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkeTUFlFW4JFaSaRpDO3zSxcjDvVbEcisZMtLf5coKaK0FwWVAgkE97lP43GIa-p9IBcXw3plJy433lUY4iwZTd5eaqYH0QR96dH6_mHd4fwsx0n9y0ysZUqHXXniZXoNUi8oNhOjhWO3V/s1600/DSC_0127.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkeTUFlFW4JFaSaRpDO3zSxcjDvVbEcisZMtLf5coKaK0FwWVAgkE97lP43GIa-p9IBcXw3plJy433lUY4iwZTd5eaqYH0QR96dH6_mHd4fwsx0n9y0ysZUqHXXniZXoNUi8oNhOjhWO3V/s320/DSC_0127.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cooking up supper.</td></tr>
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The first job on arrival, apart from a visit to the loos, was to put up the tent. This went well. Then we decoded to "have a look" at the river and see if it was fishable. "Having a look" obviously requires taking the fishing gear, just in case, so I put up my all purpose fly rod that comes in four pieces. Packing mistake number one: I only had three sections and the tip was in my garage at home. Oh well, perhaps I could scrape by with the little six foot rod?<br />
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I found another issue on the first night. Yes, the sleeping bag was in its stuff sack but the zip was broken beyond repair. The lesson? Check the condition of everything before packing it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQNv67RbHqyx3kARcejTYYzgdhhGR5-5Xa4ChLcY0wxzki4xy2jpsEP1BoqbXFYrOEjhd2lmRjrKebJNKPl0lHGu3Zso-H1iXF-V4a9szpXC7bylA7Mw-zY3N6d6Nx_231UCemCtuH3xA/s1600/IMG-3475.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="1600" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQNv67RbHqyx3kARcejTYYzgdhhGR5-5Xa4ChLcY0wxzki4xy2jpsEP1BoqbXFYrOEjhd2lmRjrKebJNKPl0lHGu3Zso-H1iXF-V4a9szpXC7bylA7Mw-zY3N6d6Nx_231UCemCtuH3xA/s320/IMG-3475.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The campsite.</td></tr>
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My worst error was not to pack the charger for my Nikon camera. My last picture of the week was of a trout that I caught on the little rod but I still had 24 hours to go. I asked the friendly Hairy Bikers next door if they had a Nikon charger but they joked that they were Canon men and had no sympathy for people who buy Nikons. To rub it in, one of them listed his collection of cameras that included a Hasselblad, a Sony and a Leica, not a single Nikon. I could weep, because a chiff chaff was sitting just over his shoulder and taunting me to take its photo.<br />
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All the same, we had a brilliant week and the camera didn't let me down until late on Thursday evening.<br />
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More to come.....<br />
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<br />Jim Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260834494018070779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-72738368575778619912019-06-20T23:27:00.001+01:002019-06-20T23:43:10.054+01:00An old hippie speaks out.I am officially coming out tonight!<br />
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Yes, I'm a member of the "Basil Fotherington Thomas Fan Club" and proud of it.<br />
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For those of you ignoramuses who haven't a clue, Basil was a character in the Molesworth books by Ronald Searle (see "The Complete Molesworth" or "How to be Topp," for example). Basil would skip around the grounds of St Custard's Boarding School for (not very bright) Boys saying "Hello Clouds, Hello Sky". Nigel Molesworth himself described him as "a Weed and Utterly Wet".<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlQxTMjKkyZKFcMzA161UdOColGGR7NxYTvBThBoOUIrWi9csOGpwfhbuNEHc2dFgSD4vxcrh6VwDacXWp-Y5J005ngEViKuj8KuYnrXe4EURNlwJ_zoQsQ3SzEEKzfCM2lXtElj9X08/s1600/DSC_0228.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlQxTMjKkyZKFcMzA161UdOColGGR7NxYTvBThBoOUIrWi9csOGpwfhbuNEHc2dFgSD4vxcrh6VwDacXWp-Y5J005ngEViKuj8KuYnrXe4EURNlwJ_zoQsQ3SzEEKzfCM2lXtElj9X08/s320/DSC_0228.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
Anyone who has ever read children's fiction will realise that the key device for writers is to remove adults from the story right at the start. You can brutally kill them off (as in Harry Potter) or send them to war, or just have the children become evacuees, but you absolutely have to get them off the scene. Boarding schools are an ideal setting.<br />
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Ronald Searle placed Nigel Molesworth as my guide to survival in such a brutal place as a public school for boys, as though Ronald was actually Nigel (the central character) himself, but I think he was secretly Basil Fotherington Thomas. Whilst playing along with the obviously flawed idea that only boys who were good at sports could be "Topp" and therefore worthy of worship, Searle, who was an artist after all, revealed his tender side in his knowledge of the arts by playing "Fairy Bells" on Mrs Curwen's piano or drawing knights in armour on his blotting pad.<br />
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Now, while I am bearing my inner soul (in the manner of a Tory MP pretending to be honest with you in an attempt to win votes to become Prime Minister) I should also admit to spending a few psychedelic evenings watching trees eat themselves over Glastonbury Tor against a too vivid orange sunset. No doubt my past partly explains why I look to the skies rather than the TV but being long sighted is probably just as relevant.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCShQOuehykVerNdQv7tIA0rRHGr03LQ_qfzmZovYyIMQ5m3DxmVb4X9FrTMbNn1UHeJXYUO418NnNiT5tYIeHsKLQ1sVOc_DZcDKb7FaNSrg1wXSajmFDIWDj2X26fJKF1n9z3V9zuY/s1600/DSC_0233.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCShQOuehykVerNdQv7tIA0rRHGr03LQ_qfzmZovYyIMQ5m3DxmVb4X9FrTMbNn1UHeJXYUO418NnNiT5tYIeHsKLQ1sVOc_DZcDKb7FaNSrg1wXSajmFDIWDj2X26fJKF1n9z3V9zuY/s320/DSC_0233.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
But my first revelation about the wonder of clouds came much earlier than my hippie phase, around the age of ten during a family holiday in Scotland.<br />
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We had borrowed a few Scottish quid off an uncle to get us to the Isle of Skye and back to Edinburgh, only to find that, due to the Free Church of Scotland, the ferries did'nae run on the Sabbath, ye ken. We had to stay the whole weekend on the island so we set up camp on the beach near Dunvegan Castle. In the stillness of an early dawn I crept out from our blue and orange canvas tent onto the pure white and pink sandy shoreline and froze in amazement at the scene in front of me. Clouds, islands, sea and shore were all shot through with pink and grey. It was impossible to separate reality from illusion or solid land from ethereal sky or sky-reflected ocean.<br />
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For all the years afterwards, in the hours around sunset or sunrise when the slanting light illuminates clouds from the side rather than from above, I have tried to re-live that moment when landscape, sky-scape, seascape and cloud-scape merge to form a solid image. And, do you know what?, It actually happens on most evenings for those of us who choose to spend dusk or dawn outdoors.<br />
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This very evening, while soaking in the tub outdoors in Brampton, I watched the cloudscape shift from white-and-grey to pink and the deepest blue and I remembered the Isle of Skye, the Seychelles, Kenya, Costa Rica, Uganda, Tanzania, Yellowstone, Ascension, the Falklands, Cuba, the Gower Peninsula and all those other amazing sunsets and sunrises in my life and I burbled "Hello Clouds; Hello Sky!"<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-4511039236830186042019-05-09T14:04:00.003+01:002019-05-09T20:26:44.008+01:00Bird CountThe team of voluntary counters assembles in the car park at 7 am on a spring Sunday. A huddle of 20 figures in shades of green or khaki huddle at the back of a car to collect their data sheets before setting off in pairs along their assigned routes.<br />
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This session is one of three or four breeding bird surveys that we make every summer. The results will tell us which birds are doing well and which ones are not, leaving us to try and work out if the changes are due to our work, changes in the habitat, or could it be changing weather patterns here or perhaps in Africa?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The weather is very important.<br />
'Looks like rain coming.</td></tr>
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The weather on the day makes a lot of difference. If it is cold, windy or wet then birds will be harder to find than on a warm sunny day. The first survey in April will have a lot less migrants around than the one in May, and by June the reserve is full of bird families making a confusing amount of hisses clucks ad whistles but not singing.<br />
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From my bedroom window, this morning looked like being ideal. Yesterday’s rain, hail and wind had gone but when I reached my car the windows were coated with a thick film of ice and the breeze felt much colder than I expected.<br />
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The sight of seven newly arrived summer swallow on the wires near our visitor centre were a welcome site and led us to think there would be more surprises in store. A cuckoo called from across the meadow and chiffchaffs, black-caps and garden warblers seemed to be in every bush.<br />
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Our <i>modus operandi</i> is quite simple, we record every bird that we see or hear on a base map. Exactly the same routes are employed every time and we try to spend about the same time on each survey so we can compare on year with another. It sounds easy but birds can be very unpredictable, skulking silently in the undergrowth or all singing at once to make it hard to tell who is who and how many there are.<br />
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Reed warblers clamour away in the reeds in a rhythmic buzz of whistles and clicks that surely must come from two birds? Or is it three? No it’s one. Or is it a sedge warbler? Is that a blackcap singing? It sounds a bit too melodic. Maybe it’s a garden warbler. Yes, it’s a garden warbler, there it is. Oh no, it’s got a black cap!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5H5o4K_7rGrAJ5kmsI2pZ3hYt8FEjxc4Jdkq93aLvjD6wpmPmCE2Ey9SoyegD7OmKdUKGw_LNcCnuVK8w15-4uCndgvRaR4J6Wknwq6I3iGMud1XH-W29F2FHiQGHM0IzKbj91yf3E9vy/s1600/DSC_0260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5H5o4K_7rGrAJ5kmsI2pZ3hYt8FEjxc4Jdkq93aLvjD6wpmPmCE2Ey9SoyegD7OmKdUKGw_LNcCnuVK8w15-4uCndgvRaR4J6Wknwq6I3iGMud1XH-W29F2FHiQGHM0IzKbj91yf3E9vy/s320/DSC_0260.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sedge warbler</td></tr>
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Even when a bird reveals itself it is not always easy to put a name to it. Chiffchaffs and willow warblers look identical except for their leg colour and the bramble bushes are full of little brown jobs (LBJs) that could be sparrows, dunnocks, finches, robins, warblers or even something extremely rare, which of course they never are.<br />
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Today’s count produced a few surprises. I was startled by a sudden very loud outburst of <i>Chip Cherrup Cherrupupup</i> coming from a little clump of brambles in the meadow. Cetti’s warblers are almost never seen but you can’t miss their call. Why do they have to be so loud though? Perhaps their territories are very large? I’m quite deaf these days but Cetti’s warblers still make me jump. On the other hand I struggle even hear the high-pitched reeling buzz of a grasshopper warbler.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixP7ketbOY-ZKGv8h95MTgmAyqsxwdzk0spvUP2m_OELbEbfcC3ygHyIT28X-GsFu_NplLYnm4D2524o4KN2CM-lTxMQqSvttaC4TBNl8ZUMt2IdU9o1yC-6t8FbkcC81GruApi7kPYeoM/s1600/DSC_0103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixP7ketbOY-ZKGv8h95MTgmAyqsxwdzk0spvUP2m_OELbEbfcC3ygHyIT28X-GsFu_NplLYnm4D2524o4KN2CM-lTxMQqSvttaC4TBNl8ZUMt2IdU9o1yC-6t8FbkcC81GruApi7kPYeoM/s320/DSC_0103.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always look for surprises like the gull <br />
on the right in this photo.</td></tr>
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A male cuckoo gave us a fly-past, its long tail and shallow wing beats make it's silhouette unique but it was calling as it flew so no-one could mistake it for a hawk or a falcon. It perched high on a tree above me and i managed to get a sound recording of it.<br />
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The bird everyone wanted to hear this year was a nightingale. After almost losing them last year we were hoping for a better turn-out this summer. The northern team, working near Stirtloe heard at least five and we heard at least two at the southern end, although they were not in full song. I suppose the biggest surprise was to hear the purring of three turtle doves across the site. Let's hope they stay.<br />
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As final proof that summer is nearly here we saw our first swift of the year.<br />
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Like almost every enterprise on the reserve, this project would be impossible without a dedicated army of volunteers. Thank you all very much.Jim Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260834494018070779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-67036523373246134272019-05-08T13:24:00.001+01:002019-05-09T20:31:38.112+01:00Yorkshire Fog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>“What in bloody hell dost tha think tha’s doing! Get thesen out ot' fog!” </i>shouted Arnold Alderson.<br />
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For those of you who are not from The Dale, this loosely translates as “What are you doing in my hay-crop young Jimmy? I would like you to leave, please”.<br />
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Up until that moment grass was just, well, grass, and grass was for playing in. Arnold taught me that grass grown for hay is a crop, and a vital one too. Come the winter, Arnold and all the other sheep farmers rely on hay to feed their flocks. Up in the hills it is essential to insure that you have a good stock of hay in case spring comes late because there may be no fresh grass until well into lambing time or beyond.<br />
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If the supply of hay is short it can become a very expensive commodity... a long summer drought makes for a poor crop but too much rain can be a problem too, especially if it makes it impossible to cut and dry the hay before it loses all it’s nutrition.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4kFD_V3O4eoB_jbHAiQvlXVzwzbq_A2lEbs9v_mt1vZrZdBjDIVUyJqkbZLwh0bL3zcvExCm8p0kiy-xlR4YryyKrgU9YS0TI3xY013eSr053G9AbXz5sMJXoaGozybTc1_NQPCKUHNB/s1600/DSC_3354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1600" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4kFD_V3O4eoB_jbHAiQvlXVzwzbq_A2lEbs9v_mt1vZrZdBjDIVUyJqkbZLwh0bL3zcvExCm8p0kiy-xlR4YryyKrgU9YS0TI3xY013eSr053G9AbXz5sMJXoaGozybTc1_NQPCKUHNB/s320/DSC_3354.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the hay cut, grazing with sheep.</td></tr>
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There’s another good reason to make hay while the sun shines. It’s a slow process taking two to three days of turning and shaking before it can be gathered in. In Arnold’s time the work was done by hand using scythes, pitchforks and rakes and a horse was used to pull the sled that carried hay to the barn. Later he had and his brother bought a little Ferguson tractor to replace Robin the horse. Today’s hill farmers work in teams using quad bikes to race between three or four fields that are cut on the same day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jhckbLzPAHle5RRwyqxhqIL-FAOORCXaU0Wf-8Ru0O_NimAmdyHUKuX2XVlAmxLbyADtMIzQqsYedyClPQvguQbj5IyD_jOfu0b9fFvbc7kvbGN_nZbMoMP_Lw1k8DhZ_M_A5TOJMPCv/s1600/DSC_0330.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jhckbLzPAHle5RRwyqxhqIL-FAOORCXaU0Wf-8Ru0O_NimAmdyHUKuX2XVlAmxLbyADtMIzQqsYedyClPQvguQbj5IyD_jOfu0b9fFvbc7kvbGN_nZbMoMP_Lw1k8DhZ_M_A5TOJMPCv/s320/DSC_0330.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A hedgehog in the hay meadow.</td></tr>
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During the process of making hay the seeds of grasses and flowers are scattered back into the field to grow again next year. A good hay meadow will contain masses of wildflowers so long as the farmer doesn’t cut the grass too early for the seeds to be ripe. It is a good idea to leave some corners or strips left uncut for late flowering plants like knapweeds and to leave some shelter for insects and animals that have been disturbed during the process.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifF73gFl1J9tGN_-Kp6KugMmG-QN_aRnBXy_4GLBJuGGIRD5TGkCqr6C8j4bsich2gImtW6pOuGfwISzFDxE1Mlg5-Db6rQRAcS2pMRo0bQjVyE56UasFaKn_Xw4uo6v6CDj84rWvYSUok/s1600/DSC_1060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="1600" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifF73gFl1J9tGN_-Kp6KugMmG-QN_aRnBXy_4GLBJuGGIRD5TGkCqr6C8j4bsich2gImtW6pOuGfwISzFDxE1Mlg5-Db6rQRAcS2pMRo0bQjVyE56UasFaKn_Xw4uo6v6CDj84rWvYSUok/s320/DSC_1060.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sailing Club meadow at Paxton Pits.</td></tr>
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So, how does a farmer know when it’s time to cut? Apart from consulting the weather forecast, he will look at the plants themselves.<br />
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The seeds of buttercups turn from soft green to hard black when they are ripe but another good indicator plant is yellow rattle. In May the bladder-like pods that contain the seeds will be soft and silent but, when the time is right, they dry and harden to become little rattles. That’s how we know when to cut the hay.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggwhbRC7PX5NRZirLBxu4lNeXTApDn8QyRYMx_zwNrnbXktzuUlCOfSDHVWk5ozxsa5SHFOZkgBVVniuZHTI-BF71d5fJcdHJR-bQGIxLAP0onxCwrUkWBVq2Jn3pX5cN9bA3U76JotfZ-/s1600/DSCF9945.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggwhbRC7PX5NRZirLBxu4lNeXTApDn8QyRYMx_zwNrnbXktzuUlCOfSDHVWk5ozxsa5SHFOZkgBVVniuZHTI-BF71d5fJcdHJR-bQGIxLAP0onxCwrUkWBVq2Jn3pX5cN9bA3U76JotfZ-/s320/DSCF9945.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The meadow at Paxton Pits in May.</td></tr>
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Arnold is long gone but his meadow still has clumps of purple cranesbills and a hundred other plants. Tiny eyebrights and crossworts grow where rabbits have been, yellow bedstraws and blue forget-me-nots, the very colour of Peter Rabbit’s waistcoat, grow on ant hills and there are waist-high stinging nettles, giant bellflowers, figworts and sweet cicely plants leaning against the drystone walls. Those flowers and herbs give each hay bale a unique aroma and taste that goes on to flavour milk and cheese and possibly meat too. But it is the grasses that are the heart of the crop; grasses like cocksfoot, fescue, foxtail, timothy, quaking grass and good old Yorkshire fog.<br />
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<br />Jim Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260834494018070779noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-46550230914408828402019-04-02T16:42:00.002+01:002019-04-02T17:55:18.725+01:00Quickset<br />
Blackthorn blossom time is almost past it's peak at the end of March, now it's the turn of the cherry trees. Blackthorn was the main tree that landowners planted to make hedgerows during the Georgian land-grab by which a lot of open or common land was made into fields in the name of agricultural efficiency. In my lifetime we have lost most of our hedgerows due to the same goal but, thankfully, hedgerows are back in fashion, which will be of great benefit to wildlife. Classic hedgerow birds include dunnocks, yellowhammers, whitethroats, blackbirds, song-thrushes, goldfinches and long-tailed tits but many more creatures live in the hedge, under it or close by.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blackthorn hedge at Paxton Pits</td></tr>
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The Parliamentary Enclosures created a huge demand for blackthorn whips because the plant grows quickly and makes a thick tangle of thorns that, after a few years, is a strong enough barrier to contain cattle and sheep. Quickset is another name for blackthorn, which is also called sloe after its bitter fruit that is used to flavour gin.<br />
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The Brampton area became the main producer of quickset for hedging in the East Midlands with the centre of production (I think) being around River Lane and the south side of the High Street. In those days the hedges contained only blackthorn but other trees gradually added themselves to the mature hedges as birds and animals dispersed the seeds.<br />
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In the 1960s Dr. Max Hooper discovered that he could date a hedge by the number of woody species in a 30 yard stretch, so a length of hedge containing blackthorn, hawthorn, ash and elm, for example, would be 400 years old. However, hedges planted today are grown from a hedgerow mix that may also contain spindle, hazel, dogwood, wayfaring tree, guelder rose and field maple, so don't be fooled.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtMeWEZoVG76Z2t1kdJLoV-drTcoCfjmXpYgj-q5twv_zlywuhiNLF1kIaF1n1kRvesQ3bxXFodutItRx9cUzCa3J_T6Ku5S2xaZM3AgIpJJeNo7miIp8xTF0tKDyTgJV7GVnMde1yYsI/s1600/DSC_0246.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtMeWEZoVG76Z2t1kdJLoV-drTcoCfjmXpYgj-q5twv_zlywuhiNLF1kIaF1n1kRvesQ3bxXFodutItRx9cUzCa3J_T6Ku5S2xaZM3AgIpJJeNo7miIp8xTF0tKDyTgJV7GVnMde1yYsI/s320/DSC_0246.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blackthorn blossom</td></tr>
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Where I live, the first blossom each year is on bullace plum trees but the blackthorn is never far behind and they even hybridise. They both blossom before their leaves sprout whereas hawthorn produces its leaves first and does not flower for a another month. It's a risky business flowering so early in the year as there may be late frosts and no pollinating insects about. Strong winds in early March often blow a lot of the blossom off the trees, in fact a "blackthorn winter" is the name given to a late cold or stormy spell in March. I like to think the name might refer to the snowy drifts of blossom along woodland edges and old trackways.<br />
<br />
The tough wood of blackthorn makes excellent walking sticks, especially if a bulging warty knot is used for the handle. The spines that are so good for deterring livestock make pruning quite tricky and even a small prick always seems to become infected. No gloves are thick enough, in my experience.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-52320899865624141702019-03-27T00:57:00.002+00:002019-03-27T00:57:49.165+00:00WelneyToday we made a rather rushed visit to Welney Wash Nature Reserve. If you are not a member of the birdwatching fraternity you probably have no idea of the wonderful place on our doorstep, not far from the Isle of Ely, just over the border into Norfolk.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The heated viewing gallery and swan trap (on the right).</td></tr>
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<br />I first visited Welney when I worked for the Wildfowl and Wetland Trust (WWT) at Arundel in West Sussex where I was the education officer. Because our splendid new visitor centre was nowhere near completion, I was sent on a tour of the Trust's other centres, starting at the HQ at Slimbridge in Gloucestershire, then Martin Mere in Lancashire and Washington in Tyne and Wear. All of these brilliant places had a posh visitor centre, cafe and education programme. In those days, Welney was very different.<br />
<br />
I was sent to stay with the local warden Josh Scott and his wife and I spent a pleasant enough spring week birdwatching from the hides and talking to the very few visitors who dropped in. Josh pretty much ignored me saying that Welney needed an education officer very much, but only to drive a JCB and to round up cattle. To him I was pretty much the sort of young man that a fensman like him might keep as a pet. I don't remember him trying to teach me anything, which is a shame because he was quite a character and a bit of a local hero with a lifetime's experience of the fens and particularly the wildfowl that lived there.<br />
<br />
I watched the departure of the last wintering wildfowl and the arrival of the summer waders, many of which I saw for the first time. Ruffs were not breeding there but the males gathered in dozens to show off their remarkable and exotic hoods and capes in the courtship lecking grounds. My top bird was a visiting spotted redshank; a leggy male with jet black plumage set off by blood red legs and a fine stiletto bill.<br />
<br />
On Wednesday morning Josh asked me where I was staying that night. This came as a bit of a shock as I was told that I was booked in for the week. "My wife doesn't do B+B on a Wednesday, it's our night off." I didn't know what to say. I had no money and nowhere to go. I should have just left, written Welney off and gone back to Arundel. Instead, I decided to make the most of the opportunity to visit new places and so I popped over to Rutland Water in Northamptonshire and spent the night in my old Moskvitch car. It was quite a cold night and the local police came and woke me several times but didn't move me on. By dawn I was frozen and hungry so I banged on the door of the wardens cottage and he gave me breakfast. Tim Appleton was also a bit of a legend and someone I would meet again many times. Sadly, I never got to know Josh Scott. At Rutland I saw my first wild garganey and some black terns, so in my mind, the trip was a success.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The flooded washes: wildfowl heaven.</td></tr>
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I really got to know Welney better when I left the WWT and went to work for the RSPB in Scotland and then at the Lodge in Sandy. The visitor facilities were always basic, made up of several porta-cabins joined together, but the attitude of the staff and volunteers and the quirkiness of the place made it loved by many. The main feature of the site was an elevated bridge that led to the reserve proper, across the road and a fen drain, ending at an elevated glazed and centrally heated viewing gallery that looked north across the wash. In winter the fields would flood and hundreds of Bewick's and whooper swans would gather there to be fet under floodlights.<br />
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That wildfowl spectacular is still the main attraction today but now there is a lot to see in the summer too. The giant shed that is the main visitor facility was mocked at first by those who loved the old porta cabins, but I'm sure attitudes have changed. This is the best place I know to stop for a decent lunch and watch birds at the same time.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drake scaup.</td></tr>
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And so it was today. We arrived with less than three hours to spare and made for the restaurant where we both ordered coffees and spicy chicken goulash with cous-cous. I would have called it more of a tagine really and it was delicious. Best of all we had a window seat looking over the scrapes and wet flashes of the new grounds to the south. We had already heard a Cetti's warbler in the car park and seen a flock of tree sparrows which made the trip worthwhile in itself, but out there in the wet fields we spotted egrets, reed buntings, redshanks, lapwings, greylags and, best of all, avocets. Way off in the distance two small groups of roe deer were feeding in the arable fields.<br />
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Over on the wash the wildfowl numbers had greatly decreased since our last visit as they had mostly migrated north, but we saw a few gems including bean geese and a cattle egret. The top birds for the day were a drake scaup (a maritime relative of the black and white tufted ducks that are common in urban parks) and roughly 60 black tailed godwits in various stages of moult, many in full rust-red dress.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black-tailed godwit.</td></tr>
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If you have never been to Welney you definitely should!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-66427973097713850622018-11-19T18:27:00.002+00:002019-01-24T21:25:49.573+00:00Ivelet<br />
The music of the dales was hymns, brass and silver bands and cowboy music.<br />
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Brothers Chris and Arnold Alderson would sing to their brown-and-white short-horn cows as they milked them by hand in the midge ridden byre next to my grandmother's house. The songs would be Jim Reeves and Gene Autry. <i>“A four legged frind, a four legged frind; he’ll never let you down” </i> and <i>“I’ll forgit many things in my lifetime, but my Darlin’ I won’t forgit yew.”</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking towards Satron from Ivelet.</td></tr>
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The Aldersons rented a small house and farm in Ivelet from Lord Peel. No-one in Ivelet had electricity so cooking was done on a cast-iron range and water for the tin bath was boiled up in a cauldron or pot over the fire. After Mrs Alderson died, baths became a real rarity for Mosser, Chris and Arnold. The fire was always lit and the door was almost always open.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hay time. Looking towards Ivelet. </td></tr>
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My first memory of Ivelet was of summertime when the Aldersons were harvesting hay in the small patchwork of fields that they rented. Chris and Arnold had cut the grass with scythes and with a green petrol-powered Allen Mower that had two wheels and a reciprocating blade. They cut every hillock and hollow and worked right into the corner of each field where a tractor could never heave reached, even if they had one. Hay had to be made while the sun shone, so family and neighbours were enlisted to turn the hay with pitchforks and rakes so that it could be stored in the stone barn or cowhouse before the next band of rain swept in from the fells. When the hay was dry enough to be gathered, it was forked onto a wooden sled that was pulled by a patient old horse called Robin. My job was to sit on Robin's back and hold onto his padded leather collar while he marched along slowly so that the sled could be piled high without stopping every few minutes. When we reached the barn, the hay was pitched up into the loft with long-handled two-pronged forks to be fed to the stock in the coming winter. A few years later I would have the same job pulling the same sled but using a little grey Ferguson tractor instead of the horse. When he died, Robin had a whole field and a barn named after him.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What remains of the Allen mower.</td></tr>
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In the 1950s as today, Ivelet was dominated by the big house at Gunnerside Lodge. It was owned by Lord Peel and mostly unoccupied until August each year when the grouse shoot started. During one shoot, Sir Robert was handed a shotgun by his loader and it went off. He literally shot himself in the foot. As a result, the moor-tracks were littered with stone mounting blocks so that he could get on and off his horse near the shooting butts. When he died, his son William, who is the same age as me, moved into the Lodge as his family home.<br />
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Apart from the farm house, the hamlet included a few old stone buildings associated with the farm and six other homes. The best house belonged to Mr and Mrs Clucas. The front of the house boasted an oak doorway and a small stained-glass window depicting a fly-fisherman, who reminded me of the famous Mr. Crabtree. The rear had a large terrace that overlooked the Swale and the hills beyond. <br />
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The second best house belonged to the estate and provided a home of the head keeper, Jimmy Wilson and his family, as well as kennels for dogs. Edgar Tissiman was the head gardener and later a National Park Warden. He lived with his wife in the cottage next to the farm. Edgar was a fine fisherman and a great walker. He once showed me his service revolver but I never thought to ask him which army he was in.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fisherman window.</td></tr>
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Tucked in behind the farm was a tiny cottage that was occupied by Jane Mary, who was also an Alderson. The living room was like something from a history book with a stone floor, a black-painted cast-iron range, simple wooden furniture and some stuffed birds that I really fancied. One was an owl and the other a pheasant. Old Jane Mary dressed like a Victorian (which she was, really) with a long dark woollen dress, a white apron and clogs. We really liked her a lot and we adored her Swaledale shortbread biscuits. The only other Ivelet residents in the 1950s were my Gran and Mr and Mrs Hope who later moved to Rampsholme near Muker.<br />
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The house on the corner belonged to Mrs. Pescod, my grandmother. It was a traditional Dales stone cottage, built in 1602 into the slope of the hill. The cool stone-shelved pantry and the coal hole in the back were practically underground. When we looked out of the small pantry window we were on eye level with the sheep in the back field. There was a small dark kitchen area with a sink. Water came from a spring up on the pasture above and occasionally, after a good shower of rain, frogspawn or even tadpoles would come through the tap. Once, in a drought period, the pipe became blocked when a mouse crawled into it and died.<br />
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The white-washed sitting room was rather smart with black beams, imposing black oak furniture, a sofa and a few paintings. Uncle John kept his ancient fly rod and reel along one of the beams. It had belonged to a Colonel Greenwell and probably our great grandfather before John had it. My brother Alex has it now. A black china teapot held a tangle of small fishing flies tied to cat gut. The patterns were Greenwells glory, snipe-and-purple, partridge-and-orange and March brown.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favourite view in the<br />
whole world.</td></tr>
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The sitting room wasn’t used very much because the heart of the house was the living room with it's vast cast-iron range, an overhead drying rack and various hooks for hanging things like hams. Despite the lack of electricity there was always a battery powered radio with a big yellow dial on it naming all of the stations we could possibly reach if we were on top of a hill rather than deep in a valley. We usually managed to get the BBC Home Service and the Light Programme and that was enough to set me off on a lifetime love affair with radio.<br />
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The walls were a yard thick and set with sash windows that framed my favourite view in the whole world. I would sit in the recess with my knees up to my chin and trace the raindrops racing down the glass. The whole south side of the valley was laid out like a diorama. Looking out across the tall alder and ash-trees that marked the river banks I scanned the steep hillside. The tumbling course of Oxnop Beck was lined with smaller trees that crowded low over the narrow stream before giving up to the sheep-shawn moorland and the bare crags beyond. There were farms over there at Crowtrees, High Oxnop and Hill Top. Gran knew all the people who lived in those stone houses and we would check the chimneys to see if their fires were lit, which meant that all was fine within. The hill was netted with dry-stone walls that retained sheep on the higher ground and cattle on the lower ground. We could watch the animals being herded or moved by the farm dogs or we could scan the valley road to see if the Percival's bus, the postman, the dairy lorry, the mobile shop, the library van, the butcher or the fish van was on the move.<br />
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On this rainy day, I was peering at the hillside in a search for rushing gutters of white water which signified that good fishing days lay ahead as the river would be in flood. This was the signal for me to go into the walled garden and turn it over with a fork to find worms which went into a moss-lined coffee tin or a jam-jar. I puncture the lid with Gran's tin opener, or the meat fork, which explained its splayed prongs. Later, when the rain eased off, my brother and I would join Mosser and Arnold Alderson on the river bank with our rods set up and baited with a worm on a hook and a few lead shot about a foot above that. The ideal spot to find trout in a flood was in an eddy, under the bank, out of the current where many trout would take refuge until the flood eased off and the water clarity improved. Vast clouds of biting midges tested our patience and our stamina. Our faces and hands would be blotched and burning but we would never give up without a few trout to carry home in the old wicker creel.<br />
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On most days the Swale looks like it is made of black coffee due to peat staining from the head of the Dale, but in full spate it turns a muddy brown, like builder's tea. There are standing waves that hold over submerged rocks and whole trees float past. The stones of the river bed tumble downstream producing an unforgettable range of noises that are distorted by the torrent. Afterwards the old pools and rapids would be changed, but they are always in the same places because the river descends in a series of steps composed of shelves of flat slippery limestone that allow the stones to be washed away to accumulate in a chaotic flow below them where the stream gets braided into numerous channels as it finds its way through. Tufts of grass and discarded animal feed bags would mark the height of the flood in the branches of the riverside alders.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTjqQJTMLgX-4LvsjWo3MsBbtuJZrYAMZuwfqu0T8WgFbCQ0S4ZX_bTVh7fjp5iAEmQt0U7eI7L0aHoMlqKp-yjo32XQ048ZhZuWbqKrp-2hFhEP-eB-0Vr4ENGYs5an0yJThWwG5fFQ/s1600/Jim+and+Alex+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="684" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTjqQJTMLgX-4LvsjWo3MsBbtuJZrYAMZuwfqu0T8WgFbCQ0S4ZX_bTVh7fjp5iAEmQt0U7eI7L0aHoMlqKp-yjo32XQ048ZhZuWbqKrp-2hFhEP-eB-0Vr4ENGYs5an0yJThWwG5fFQ/s320/Jim+and+Alex+004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing among the stones at Thurley field.</td></tr>
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Playing among the beck-stones filled endless summer days, as it had for every generation before us. We made boats and submarines from old chair-legs, cotton-reels and bits of scrap wood, ballasted with spanners, bolts or anything heavy we could find.<br />
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Alex and I would dam up the small detours that the rivulets made, or we would create holding ponds for small fish like loach and bullheads that we would catch with our hands. Later Uncle John would teach us to tickle trout out of the pools, but I never lost my fascination for all the little fish and the caddis and mayfly nymphs that lived under the stones.<br />
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Alex took a lot of interest in the stones themselves, finding minerals and fossils among the limestones and shales and piecing together the story of the landscape we grew up in.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-19091682522424158462018-11-17T14:49:00.000+00:002018-11-20T20:10:40.433+00:00Margaret Heseltine's Shop.<style type="text/css">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gunnerside.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Next door to the pub in a harsh grey-stone village in the Yorkshire Dales, a little lad wearing homemade shorts, wellies and a knitted tank-top stood at the top of the steps and sang as loud as he could, both for the sheer joy of it and the benefit of the whole world; <i>“She’ll be cummin round the mountains when she cooms.” </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Earlier that day he had found a rusty bicycle in the the beck. It had wheels but no saddle or chain and it was far too big for him, so he pushed it all round the village to show off his new transport. He leaned the bike against the wall of the King's Head and span the pedals while singing <i>"Yipee-i-aye, Yippee-i-o. Ghost Riders in the sky"</i>. </span><br />
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<span class="s1">With his friend Micky, he spent a happy hour scraping chewing gum off the road and chewing it, like a big boy. Micky came from a big family that was mostly composed of girls. One laundry day he had been playing with his sisters and was working the handle of a mangle to squeeze the water out of the freshly washed sheets and found his thumb caught between the two rollers. To young Jimmy, the pink nail-less stump was a fascination to behold.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Village sports on Coronation day.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Jimmy had his own misadventures too. The winter of 1950-51 brought heavy snowfall with drifts that would fill in the entire road to the tops of the drystone walls. Kathleen held her sleeping infant on her lap while the Percival’s bus ploughed it’s way up the Dale from Richmond. Somewhere near Reeth they crashed into something solid and the passengers were thrown out of their seats. Young Jimmy’s head hit the frame of the seat in front resulting in a “bump like an egg” and a cut to his chin that had to be stitched leaving a scar that I still have to this day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">When the snow thawed, another bus was found parked against the side of a house.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jimmy and a playmate.</td></tr>
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Times were hard for everyone so we didn't see each other as poor. All the mums made clothes for themselves and the children and we wore them until they fell apart or passed them on to younger siblings. Knitted clothes could be unravelled and knitted again. As for food, there was milk, farm made cheeses and home reared pork. Everyone kept hens for their eggs and meat.<br />
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My Uncle John was an all-round poacher who kept a .22 rifle at our house and a ferret at my Gran's. My Dad and John would hunt rabbits up Gunnerside Ghyll above the house where he was born and brought up with my mother. I was taken along while Gran and mum peeled vegetables and shelled peas. They were absolutely confident that we would come home with rabbits, and so we always did. The hillsides moved with rabbits and we would not take long to get a few that I would carry home in triumph for Gran to "ploat". I remember looking for the bullets in the porcelain sink.<br />
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Post-war Gunnerside was a place full of aunties. Those formidable, white haired ladies were the backbone of the chapel and much else that went on in the village. A visit to an auntie's home always lasted for a couple of hours while tea was served from a big china teapot and wonderful home-made biscuits, scones and cakes were laid out in a proper dales "spread". Swaledale biscuits were a variation on Scottish shortbread while ginger snaps were nothing like the bought product; crisp on the outside but still chewy in the middle. <span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">At hay-time you could see all of the aunties out in the fields, skilfully tossing hay with pitchforks and wooden rakes. On Mondays, Nancy Calvert would clatter about on the stone flags in her clogs, mopping and scrubbing as water slopped out of wash-day dolly tubs and boiling cauldrons. Washing was hung out all over the village if the weather was kind.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gunnerside today.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">In those days, the village had a number of businesses including a carpenters, a blacksmith's, a pub, a post office, a grocery store and Margaret Heseltine’s shop.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">At the shop, there was a metallic clack as you lifted the iron sneck, then came the friendly clang of a brass bell that was suspended on a spring at the back of the door.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Children opened and shut the door repeatedly just to hear that bell. Adults had to duck under the lintel and step downwards in the gloom to stand on the flagstone floor. As if by magic, up would pop Margaret herself, like a spector of some sort; thickly bespectacled and haloed in white hair, wearing a wrap-around apron, metal shod clogs, stout stockings and a big smile.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Now then young Jimmy. How would you like a toffee today?” </span><br />
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<span class="s1">Every child was offered a sweet. War-time rationing was just ending and there was a national binge on sweets and chocolate. All the same, there was still rationing of a sort and no-one ever dared try for two free sweets in the same day.</span><br />
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<span class="s1">In front of the counter was a row of square biscuit tins with lids. There was no plastic back then; a tin was actually made of tin and often had the label printed onto it, rather than onto a paper wrapper. Almost nothing came pre-packed and almost everything was sold by weight using the brass scales on the counter. Every sale was a prolonged ritual, to be savoured over an exchange of news or gossip. Even a nearly empty biscuit tin still had value. A penny-worth of broken biscuits and crumbs was a real treat, presented in a paper cone or a brown bag. Then the empty tins themselves could be sold. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Our favourite sweets were black bullets, which were brittle boiled sweets that looked uncannily like sheep's' eyeballs. Like all the other sweets, they were displayed in big glass jars and were weighed out on Margaret's brass scales into brown paper bags that they soon stuck to. "A quarter" of black bullets was 4 ounces; (a pound was 16 ounces, but we were more likely to buy two ounces at a time). Other favourites were "5 Boys" chocolate bars and "Palm" toffee bars that came with different flavours sandwiched in them. We liked the banana ones. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coronation Day. Jimmy is wearing the cowboy suit.</td></tr>
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Winter snow was always to be expected and sledging was a popular activity. Dads would build the sledges and then take them to the smithy to have metal runners put on. There is no shortage of steep slopes to sled on in the dales. Opposite the village institute, between the smithy and the back of Margaret Heseltine's shop there was a long run down to the road from the pasture that led up to the moor above. An essential accompaniment to sledging was a Catherine wheel of liquorice which could be unrolled so that it trailed for a yard or so in the snow. We called in "Spanish" rather than liquorice. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jimmy and Alex 1954</td></tr>
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1953 brought some memorable days. My baby brother Alex arrived that year and the “little house up t’steps” became cluttered with dozens of white and blue tins that were labeled <i>National Dried Milk</i>, an endless line of terry-cloth nappies and a huge pram. Dad (who's name was also Jimmy but he prefered Steve) brought home a euphonium which he stood bell-down on the carpet. He told me to try and get a noise out of it by blowing into the mouthpiece. and then, over the din of farts and squeaks, announced that there would be a Coronation Day parade in the village to celebrate the new Queen. There would be dressing up, running races and other events for the children and the band would be playing.<br />
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<span class="s1"></span>The aunties all got involved in the children's events and the men got involved in the band. Margaret Heseltine, Mrs. Metcalf, Mrs. Guy and Nancy Calvert were joined by some of the young mums including Lucy Rutter and Mrs. Shepherd who was married to the policeman and lived in the new police house near the cattle grid at the end of the village.<br />
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Gunnerside did not have its own show like Muker and Reeth, probably because there was not much flat land to hold it on. The year was broken up with weddings, christenings and funerals and there was a calendar of events that included a sports day that was held next to the river, downstream near Low Row.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Rutter and Jimmy Stevenson with a girl each.</td></tr>
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For youngsters there was always the beck to play in, picnics to be had and day trips to Richmond or Hawes on the bus with Mum and the Aunties. There was even an annual outing by bus to Redcar, Keswick or Scarborough.<br />
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Apart from road accidents, the Dale was generally a safe place to be. We could even play in the road as there was almost no traffic and we could wander the fields or play in the beck. But danger can pop up and bite you when you least expect it.<br />
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At the back of our house was a little field called the Croft that we could overlook from the bedrooms. It was where we hung out our laundry. One day I heard my mum cry out as though something dreadful had happened. When I rushed to her side I could see that the farmer had put some heifers into the croft and that they had pulled down our washing and trampled it in the mud; and it wasn't just mud. I was sent to get the laundry back and my little brother came along.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judging the fancy dress competition.<br />
Jimmy in the cowboy suit with Mrs Shepherd <br />
behind Red Riding Hood and perhaps<br />
Margaret Heseltine behind her.</td></tr>
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The path alongside the house was narrow and lined with dense nettles that hid Alex from view. I heard him screaming and thought he must have got stung, but it was much worse than that. A large cream-and-black cockerel was standing on his head while Alex screamed and frantically waved his arms. Amazingly he stayed on his feet while the cockerel scratched away with those vicious spurs that they have. Our shouts brought the adults running and our mum was first on the scene, followed by Annie Cleeman and Tommy Brown the postman from over the road. The cockerel was quickly beaten off and my bloody-headed little brother was carried indoors. The scratches to his head turned out to be pretty superficial but the worry, when you consider the scratching habits of chickens, was infection. Alex wandered around like a wounded soldier with a bandaged head for several days. When the dressings came off there was a fine set of parallel scabs on his shaved head which was stained yellow with antiseptic cream. He was very lucky not to have been blinded which would have been a real possibility if he had fallen over.<br />
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That night Tommy Brown came by with the gift of a large cockerel for dinner. It was too tough to eat.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-68366586218520212892018-09-20T14:22:00.000+01:002018-09-21T08:32:10.722+01:00Back to Earth<i>A lot has happened since my last post, much of it worthy of a page or two, but Hanna and I finally had a full day out together, which was a real tonic and inspired me to write again.</i><br />
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Norfolk 18/9/18<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holme-Next-the-Sea.</td></tr>
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We have never been to the Norfolk coast and had a bad day. True, we have almost been snowed in during March, and we have had gales and heavy rain before, but it was always an adventure.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beachcombing.<br />
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The very first time we visited was when we came down from Scotland to speak to the members of the Wildfowl Trust at Peakirk in Lincolnshire, probably in about 1985. The talk was on a Friday night so we had the whole of Saturday to explore the area with the warden Tony Cook and his partner Ann. We visited the Borough Fen Duck Decoy where Tony was also the decoy-man. The decoy is a star shaped pond, hidden in a wooded copse. Each arm of the star has hoops over it which are covered in netting which tapers to a funnel at the end for trapping ducks.<br />
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You might think that the best way to get the ducks in the funnel would be to scatter food in the pond and then frighten the ducks up the nearest tunnel, but that's not clever enough. All you need is a small, red, fox-like dog to show itself repeatedly from behind specially constructed hurdles. Tony used his dog "Piper"to demonstrate. The ducks swam after it, mobbing it in the way starlings do to a sparrow-hawk. At the last minute Don leaped out waving his arms behind the ducks and panicked them into the trap. In the old days when the decoy was built, the ducks were trapped for the market but in Don's time it was all done for science. The birds were measured and ringed, then released to be trapped again who knows where? The shelves in the old ringing hut were filled with reports and diaries with rusting staples. Just think of the history contained in those. All those famous ornithologists from the second half of the 20th Century were there, starting with Peter Scott.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teal</td></tr>
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On that visit, Tony took us to the royal park at Sandringham first because the chaffinches, tits and nuthatches had become used to feeding around the cars. Visitors brought bird food specially. We found bramblings (pretty Scandinavian finches related to chaffinches) there I think. Then we drove on to the coast.<br />
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I'm not sure where we were but I remember a light powdering of snow and ice at the sea edge holding the stones, shells and weed together. It was probably Cley because I remember stopping off in the village near the windmill to visit the top British tearoom that specially catered for birders. It has gone now but, in the days before mobile phones, pagers and Birdline, Nancy's Café was a Mecca for anyone who wanted to network with other birders or just find out what was about. There was a payphone on the wall that rang all the time as people called in to ask "What's about?" or to log a sighting. Anyone who picked up the phone was expected to check the daily log and add any information that came in. The extreme cold weather had driven a lot of us off the beach and into the café so it was jammed with beardy men (it was almost all men in those days) in bulky sweaters who worked up a steamy fug that misted the windows.<br />
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I supposed that Tony had milked the crowd for information as well as checking the log because he soon has us on the move. We slipped and tripped our way eastwards along the shingle against the bitter wind, doubled up with eyes watering and scarves around our mouths. As we worked the strand line, a flock of snow buntings fluttered just ahead of us. I have never had better views of them before or since. Every bird in the flock seemed to have a different pattern of black, white and rust colours.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Curlew sandpiper (probably!)</td></tr>
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Thankfully, a tiny wedge shaped hut loomed ahead of us and we ducked inside to warm up. It was even more packed that Nancy's with people jammed against the window slits while others waited their turn by huddling on the floor behind. The shed was used for sea-watching, which is elf explanatory really. You sat in the shed and watched the sea until your eyeballs froze or the people behind you made impatient noises at you. I'm guessing we set a world record for the largest number of chunky men ever to fit in a garden shed without being stacked on top of each other.<br />
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The shed is long gone now, but the Norfolk Wildlife Trust has a smart visitor centre above the marsh where there are hides and good paths for visitors. The beach, though, is still as wild as ever.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Redshank.</td></tr>
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This week's visit was totally different. We checked the internet to see the weather forecast and to find out what birds were about. These days you there are reports form the the RSPB, the Norfolk Wildlife Trust, National Trust and the Norfolk Ornithologists Association (NOA), and from their various reserves along the coast. We like to use <a href="http://pennyshotbirdingandlife.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Penny's Hot Birding and Life</a> daily blog as a one-stop-shop. As it turned out the omens were not good; rubbish weather and not many birds. However, despite low clouds and high winds, we decided to keep our allotted slot for taking off for the day. "<i>Carpe Diem"</i> they say; so we did.<br />
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Our route to the coast took us across the Fens via March where blue patches where starting to show in the big fenland sky. The road crosses the Great Ouse near the big sugar-beet facility at King's Lynn. The water under the bridge was churned up by the wind into a cappuccino brown boiling mess with standing waves caused by wind-against-tide pressure. The wind was stronger than we expected and we wondered what lay ahead. We decided to have lunch and then play it by ear from there.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A birdwatching hide at Titchwell.</td></tr>
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It would be a waste of a journey to drive all that way just to sit inside a dingy pub eating fish and chips, so we took the long gravel track to Holme Bird observatory where the Wildlife Trust has toilets and a friendly cafe where you can sit outside and birdwatch. There is a little pool off to the side of the track that never seems to dry up and always holds a few birds. We pulled up and immediately spotted a very white gull on the bank that got me all excited until I put the scope on it. It was very white because it was upside down and definitely dead; a black headed gull without a head! ("Told you so!" said Hanna.) Next to it was a dozing redshank that looked too pale for this time of year but it refused to wake up and give us a good view. Luckily two more active birds appeared and they were definitely spotted redshanks, which are black in summer and practically white in winter. These are very fine billed, long legged waders; totally elegant and not very common. That was a good start.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Curlew in saltmarsh.</td></tr>
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It's a bit of a funny set up at Holme with the NOA observatory sitting back-to-back with the Wildlife Trust's centre. If you are not a member, you have to pay admission to both separately if you want to be sure you don't miss something. It is worth it though. On a good day when migration really kicks off the ringing station can be alive with small birds and the shore can be filled with waders too, with seabirds swarming about behind. Mostly it's not quite that good though. </div>
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There was a red-necked grebe on the sea but the strong wind made it difficult to stand still. We saw small groups of terns winging past, some scoters, a gannet and a few waders. There were no small birds about at all. We enjoyed our walk and an hour's beach-combing before heading off to Titchwell.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanna at Thornham</td></tr>
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Most of the North Norfolk coast is composed of nature reserves but Cley and Titchwell are proper world-class bird reserves, each worth a whole day for a visit. At Titchwell we logged in and decided to take the main drag that overlooks the lagoons on the way to the beach. Because of the high wind and low water level we didn't connect with many birds until the first wooden hide with it's grass roof. Teal poddled about in the mud close by with a hotch-potch of ruff's behind them. Ruffs are waders a bit like redshank, but with orange legs and small heads. The males are much bigger than the females which as called reeves and their moulting patterns are quite individual to each bird. A young ringed plover joined them as well as a few small "peeps", which is what you call waders that you can't identify or can't be bothered to try on account of their annoying habit of all looking the same. Mostly they are dunlin, but not always. One of them was a juvenile curlew sandpiper that was tricky to pick out. Hanna found a few avocets further away but, compared to summer or late autumn, it was very quiet on the lagoons. All the same, there was plenty to see and the two RSPB volunteers in the hide were very helpful. We saw our first pink-feet of the winter; just two of them, but the pathfinders for many more to come down from Iceland next month. We usually find that geese that haven't bred are the first to migrate.</div>
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Birdwatching is tiring on the legs and even more so on the eyes. We took a break back at the cafe only to find we had lost Hanna's purse. After a worrying few minutes we found out that it had been found in the hide and was with the warden on his rounds. We compensated ourselves for the stress with a large slab of cake. Without the wallet, we didn't have enough cash for two. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thornham Creek.</td></tr>
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We have a favourite stop-off at Thornham Creek where you can birdwatch from the car if need-be or you can take the footpath to Holme along the sea-wall and the top of the dunes. In search of wading birds, we explored the creeks and pools that run through the salt marsh and found a few curlews, redshanks and a single godwit but our attention was caught by the plants, the changing light and the curious holes in the mud that we hadn't seen before; too big for beak marks. We think they must be made by Chinese mitten crabs, though we didn't actually see any. Next time I will take a spade and we will try and dig one up. These things can increase the rate of coastal erosion massively. We found the yellow dandelion-like flowers in the marsh a bit of a puzzle too, until we spotted a few of them with purple petals hanging on around the yellow stamens. These were sea asters going to seed. </div>
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The golden glow of the falling light made for the best photo opportunities of the day and we hung around the old brick-and-flint coal bunker building and the boats in the creek until the sun set. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Gin Trap Inn.</td></tr>
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After a long day weathering sun and wind, the drive home can take the edge off the day, so we stopped off at Ringstead for a pint and a meal while we reviewed our day from start to finish. The low black-beamed bar inside the Gin Trap Inn seemed pitch-dark at first and we had to wait for our eyes to adjust before being able to order drinks or read a menu, but we had a tasty meal and set off again for home feeling tired but contented. </div>
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Days like this remind both of us that we are still fundamentally the same people as we always were, just a bit older with a bit less stamina. Theres nothing we love more than a day out. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-33112366073670098882018-01-19T21:37:00.000+00:002018-01-19T21:57:33.553+00:00Desert Island Discs<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Music in my Life: Part One.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I was recently asked to take part in a local radio programme that sounds uncannily like “Desert Island Discs.” That means that I have to tell my life story and illustrate it with up to ten songs, all in an hour. It’s an interesting challenge. I started with a list of tracks that I might use and it soon exceeded twenty, so I started again by writing a chronology. The trouble with this approach is that it just reads like a list of bands and musicians.. And that’s where I’m at right now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Let’s see if we can do better and actually come up with a short list, or even a mix-tape. You could try this yourself if your music meant a lot to you as you were growing up. How much have you changed? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The 1950s</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It is 1953. Beside the pub in a harsh stone village in the Yorkshire Dales, a toddler wearing home made clothes stands at the top of the steps and sings as loud as he can, both for the sheer joy of it and the benefit of the whole world; <i>“She’ll be cummin round the mountains when she cooms.” </i></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gunnerside on Coronation Day, 1953.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />That was me singing the first music I can remember. In that same year there was a Coronation parade through the village, led by a brass band that included my father on a euphonium. The music of the dales was hymns, brass and silver bands, and cowboy music. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Brothers Chris and Arnold Alderson would sing to the short-horn cows as they milked them by hand in the midge ridden byre and the songs would be Jim Reeves and Gene Autry. <i>“A four legged frind, a four legged frind; he’ll never let you down” </i> and “<i>I’ll forgit many things in my lifetime, but my Darlin’ I won’t forgit yew”.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">By 1956 we finally had our own house in Southampton where my Dad built a first class gramophone system to play his jazz music on. Mum and Dad had quite a collection of 78s; some jazz and some classical music, but they both shared a love of Louis Armstrong and the dance bands of the 1940s playing foxtrots and quick-steps, and of course the crooners like Nat, Bing and Frankie who my mum would sing along with. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I liked to sing too, so, when the vicar came to my school looking for choristers, I signed up. The choir took an immense amount of time, with two evening rehearsals a week, two services on Sunday (sometimes three) and, on summer Saturdays, weddings. Being in the choir gave me a good fundamental music education and a working knowledge of the vocabulary of King James 1st which was a good grounding . “Nobby” Hume, the choirmaster and organist, was a wonderful old man who introduced me to concerts of choral and orchestral music through the local Philharmonic Society. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Nobby thought I could get a scholarship to Winchester as a chorister, but I loved it at home and we didn't go for it. If I had, where would I be now?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>(Next Post; The Sixties.)</i></span></div>
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</style>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-27726177367404912242018-01-18T21:49:00.000+00:002018-01-20T23:53:04.615+00:00Music in the Sixties<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Music in my Life: Part Two</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The 60s</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">By now it was the sixties. Teddy boys, skiffle and rock and roll were almost over and I needed new, raw music that spoke to me and wasn't what they played on “</span>Housewife’s<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Choice” or “Forces Favourites”. My Dad hated almost all of the new music that was on Six-Five Special and Juke Box Jury. Imagine caring enough to actually hate Tommy Steele, Marty Wilde or Cliff Richard!</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The Beatles and the Stones gave us kids a taste of pop music and “white-boy blues” that in turn led us back to the original blues artists like Muddy Waters and BB King that my Dad would have approved of.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Money was tight and albums were expensive, so none of us had more than half a dozen. We all bought different ones and played them at each other’s houses. My friend Dave Diaper had a lot of Beatles music because his whole family liked them so I bought the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan and Donovan instead. Harmonicas were a feature on all of the records I bought at that point so I learned to play the blues harp. I would practice in the bath where the acoustics were brilliant, and in the school playground where the school dog would howl along in a very authentic bluesy growl.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJs-Iytg4Uus78UEK0qkPT-ZAjcm155e4jffZjNFTk4iZr7gcisuefgjTaF-xhL4mUvHuiN-isGb2mhzB3ERBfZv3W9Q56XGO1ai7NEk0A9J6dW_QgJkx63rWHYCeb-BVXxpWdpx9Ph4/s1600/DSC_0028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJs-Iytg4Uus78UEK0qkPT-ZAjcm155e4jffZjNFTk4iZr7gcisuefgjTaF-xhL4mUvHuiN-isGb2mhzB3ERBfZv3W9Q56XGO1ai7NEk0A9J6dW_QgJkx63rWHYCeb-BVXxpWdpx9Ph4/s320/DSC_0028.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">At the church youth club we played singles by the Ivy League, and Manfred Mann. On Saturdays us boys went fishing on the common where someone always sat on the picnic bench and played the latest hits on the BBC Light Programme’s Saturday Club with Brian Matthew. Don Lang played trombone with Lord Rockingham’s XI playing <i>“There’s a Moose Loose about this Hoose”</i> and even some skiffle by Lonnie Donnegan or Tommy Steele, but that show was also where we first heard the latest hits. Both the Who and the Kinks had happened by then.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>“My Generation”</i> was a pivotal track. The Who had a tough time getting the record produced because of it’s analogue rawness and the way the band sounded (and probably was) almost out of control. Part of it’s magic was the hum and whistle of feedback, caused by waving the mics and guitars close to the speakers. The white-coated studio engineers had probably done their national service working as boffins on Sonar or Radar and they saw their job as keeping all the needles out of the red. The Who were aiming for the infra red and a whole spectrum beyond that if possible.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">In my early teens I would go to dances on the pier and at the Top Rank Suite on Southampton Common. The first proper band I saw there was the Yardbirds. I think Jeff Beck was in the band at the time. I remember seeing a fox on my way to the gig but not a lot of detail about the music except that they were quite a polished show band.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My school days in Southampton ended in 1966 and I completed my A levels in South Wales. By then I was a proper Mod, with a <i>Lambretta TV 175</i> scooter, which was covered in mirrors, crash bars and the rest. I fitted a particularly objectionable megaphone exhaust that probably ruined the performance but sounded great to my ears. It also inhibited by ability to turn right as it would hit the road and lift the wheels off the tarmac.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Scooter scrambles to Cardiff were common. The main band I followed at the time was Love Sculpture with the amazing Dave Edmunds covering Hendrix songs as well as prog-classical stuff like Sabre Dance. This was also the time of Amen Corner and the Small Faces, and God’s second coming in the form of Eric Clapton. I also attended a few laid back, beatnik sort of folk clubs back then and we danced to Tamla Motown and Ska music in the youth clubs and at a rather sleazy club under Newport station, called Platform Six, I think. There was always a fight.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My first outing in a band was at a school end of term, playing bass on “<i>There is a House in New Orleans”</i> in 1967.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgV6YAu61MWpiwdLKKBgqhxnYvGI1CfLDiwynlaMWD-hIl9DCSc2mems4erU53u38AVQySGCMema-dBOBCJy7-t4lU-kHd3xYOgg3T8qoK5SjkgFrrJg9vjzeBCMLgHRi8XZ68pD-Z_iU/s1600/176467363b8ae08c6fdb8f13a675391e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="343" data-original-width="385" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgV6YAu61MWpiwdLKKBgqhxnYvGI1CfLDiwynlaMWD-hIl9DCSc2mems4erU53u38AVQySGCMema-dBOBCJy7-t4lU-kHd3xYOgg3T8qoK5SjkgFrrJg9vjzeBCMLgHRi8XZ68pD-Z_iU/s320/176467363b8ae08c6fdb8f13a675391e.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Luckily, I fell in with a fairly cultured crowd in South Wales and we would often pop over to Bristol’s Colston Hall to see touring bands, playing mostly Jazz. I saw Jacques Loussier’s Play Bach Trio several times, Dave Brubeck, the Modern Jazz Quartet, and Joe Harriott on tenor sax with Indo-Jazz Fusions; another game-changer for me. Bristol soon became a Mecca for us and so, when it came time to go to teacher training college, Fishponds in Bristol was my first choice.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">But before college, if I had a lost summer in the 60’s, it was the summer of ‘68. I joined a couple of old friends from Southampton and we bummed around the country hitch hiking barefoot and picking up new friends along the way. We were very young and naive but, gosh, we had some adventures.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The highlight’s for me that summer were seeing Jimi Hendrix, Tyrannosaurus Rex, (Later T-Rex.) Family and other bands live at Knebworth before heading down to sleep rough in Hyde Park for a free concert by a cut-down version of Traffic. Steve Winwood of Traffic was a big hero, and still is.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">About this time (1968) CBS Records issued the first album-length sampler called “The Rock Machine Turns You On.” My copy, like most of them, was mono. It had tracks by Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Spirit, the Zombies, The Butterfield Blues Band, Blood Sweat and Tears, Simon and Garfunkel and mavericks like Roy Harper. It influenced a generation and was never (officially) brought out on CD or tape.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">By the Autumn of 1968, there I was in Bristol with a grant and all expenses paid. The first things I bought were a mono turntable, a valve amplifier and a 10 inch speaker. Then I bought some wood and made the boxes to put them in. The fist album I played on it was “All Blue” by Miles Davis, followed by Pink Floyd’s “Saucerful of Secrets”, then Jethro Tull’s “This Was”, my Hendrix albums and Cream’s “Wheels of Fire.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Of course we formed a college band, heavily influenced by Jethro Tull, Joni Mitchell and the Incredible String Band. I played flute, whistle and harmonica, Sue Doyle sang and Ade George played guitar. I kept doing that kind of thing until I was well into my thirties; and why not?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I saw Pete Green’s Fleetwood Mac, The Nice, The Who, The Crazy World of Arthur Brown and the Incredible String Band during my Bristol days, as well as jazzers like Roland Kirk, blues players like John Mayall, and the folkie scene heroes like </span>Keith<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Christmas. I met Roy Harper at a University sit-in and John Peel at a shambolic Pink Floyd gig while selling IT and OZ magazines. ‘Heady times.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">By 1970 my tastes spread to progressive jazz, blues, folk, psychedelia and all combinations thereof. It was the fusion areas that interested me most. “Bitches Brew” and "In a Silent Way" by Miles Davis pulled all that onto one canvas with an outrageous all star line up that redrew the map of modern jazz.</span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-20842067802201835652018-01-17T21:56:00.000+00:002018-01-20T20:44:50.251+00:00Music in the Seventies<b>Music in my Life: Part Three.</b><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">The 70s.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">My first proper teaching job was in Wiltshire on Salisbury Plain: not exactly a focus for the avant garde, but I played every week in duos at pubs and folk clubs, honing a few dozen songs that almost won us a tour of Scandinavia. The trouble was that we all had jobs and families. I was playing finger-in-the-ear type folk-songs while listening to Weather Report, Oregon and Pat Metheney; all fusion bands. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">I was absolutely hooked on John McLaughlin's Mahavishnu Orchestra (later Shakti), featuring John’s runaway electric guitar riffs (like Jimi Hendrix meets Carlos Santana, at double pace) and a very tight band of European, American and Indian musicians. Then, on hearing Jaco Pastorius playing his fretless bass with Weather Report, I really didn’t want to hear anything else for years.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> These were not aberrations that you could share in the relatively straight folk world.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">It was my younger brother Alex who introduced me to the music of Steely Dan. They were an American band that merged jazz, pop and blues. The jazz purists hated them for being pop and the pop people hated them for being jazz, but I had a weakness for that kind of thing. Sadly I never saw them and I still don’t have “Aja” or “Pretzel Logic” on vinyl, which is the way I heard them first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">While teaching I took courses in music and eventually took a degree in art and music from the Open University. I found the 20th century composers really interesting, though hard to listen to. My tastes became even more eclectic as a result. I listened to everything from Stockhausen to Fairport Convention.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">I joined a band called Marvo the Magician and stretched my playing quite a bit. I still have a demo tape we made in a studio in Poole and I’m rather proud of it.</span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-68420803463102768842018-01-16T22:08:00.000+00:002018-01-20T20:54:12.266+00:00Music in the Eightees.<b>Music in my Life: Part Four</b><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The 80s.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I left Salisbury Plain and moved to Arundel in Sussex to become the education officer at the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust there. The Famous Willows Folk Club was on my doorstep and I got to play pubs and folk clubs pretty much weekly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUh-sugMhU52G6XqByoxTM4IASxH7r6viJLLYSisnTWGf4-wTuq-QjADC06lCeDhAiQVDSGc_5NcSH25nsL8VHEaHf7Wdd_vdaOgvm9ciNEH16Oo8jBjV58ssrifpzj1QLX0ggHUWKGxo/s1600/DSC_0021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUh-sugMhU52G6XqByoxTM4IASxH7r6viJLLYSisnTWGf4-wTuq-QjADC06lCeDhAiQVDSGc_5NcSH25nsL8VHEaHf7Wdd_vdaOgvm9ciNEH16Oo8jBjV58ssrifpzj1QLX0ggHUWKGxo/s320/DSC_0021.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">One night, I was lolling in my arm chair while roasting my feet on the fire. Centuries before, the house I rented had been a sort of pub and a hang out for smugglers. The fireplace was as big as the kitchen.and I often fell asleep in front of it, still wearing my woolies and Barbour coat. I eventually heard a knock on the door and there, in the pouring rain, stood a young American girl who was to be our intern and my assistant, on loan from Slimbridge. We married a year later.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">There was a serious amateur dramatics scene in town and we did a few musical shows,. I enjoyed the social side of all that, but the folk music was the real deal. The Copper Family became close friends and even sang for us at our pre-wedding booze-up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There were some good bands around in the 80s but this was the decade of the synthesiser and it pervaded everything. Joan Armatrading, Steve Winwood, even Joni Mitchell fell under it’s spell. However, my favourite Joni album is from 1980 and it goes in the opposite direction. This double live album, called <i>Shadows and Light</i> is a jazzy masterpiece with Pat </span>Metheny<span style="font-family: inherit;"> on guitar. Lyle Mays on keys, Don Allias on percussion, Michael Brecker on sax and, ……wait for it………Jaco Pastorius on bass. It’s probably my favourite album of all time.</span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQuGV9rnWvGeGGVH3WZJTS3abj-i3F946HyNZeKhP1IBJxrfO1UvmvQOoB3ob6Gy63oRhFDzCiq8wuIy9Mj0PJjRywvAktBHkoPOaw7hJH-Dr_lehGlUTLteBTIbp7txM30ns2dXxup8/s1600/Jan+Garbarek+%25286%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="771" data-original-width="1280" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQuGV9rnWvGeGGVH3WZJTS3abj-i3F946HyNZeKhP1IBJxrfO1UvmvQOoB3ob6Gy63oRhFDzCiq8wuIy9Mj0PJjRywvAktBHkoPOaw7hJH-Dr_lehGlUTLteBTIbp7txM30ns2dXxup8/s320/Jan+Garbarek+%25286%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eberhard Weber and Jan Garbarek</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We moved to Scotland where I was the new warden at the RSPB’s Vane Farm Reserve, less than an hour from Edinburgh. My new hi-fi took pride of place on the roof of my car all the way up from England.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I remember driving up to Mull for a spring camping trip (it was freezing cold with snow on the hills) and listening to Mark Knopfler’s music for the film “Local Hero”. The real local hero was a musician called Dougie Maclean who I had met in Sussex years before. He provided the music for the film “Last of the Mohicans” and ran a thriving studio and record label up the road from us in Dunkeld. His most famous song “Caledonia” is an unofficial National Anthem up there. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The Scottish folk scene is quite different from the English one, but we loved going to the clubs and the ceilidhs. Archie Fisher hosted the weekly folk show on the radio and he spent a lot of time in Canada with a singer called Stan Rogers who, like Ewan McColl<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>before him, wrote songs that everyone thought were traditional. His Northwest Passage sing, about driving a truck across the tundra, is a Canadian classic.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Then there was Edinburgh with its Festival. We went to a huge number of gigs in our first year up there. Edinburgh was on the tour list for many of the great bands, and there was a good jazz scene too. One of the best concerts was a solo gig by John Martin when he was in his prime.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8J7tfIUrvbDN1qZ6vKSrzCRqJVqdfAMz5ctVJCatrrWnbDOC0MShhziWyHIYdVryhWUOT96YkWElXEIxuEpaquEVdlvDjoUMMK1WqxweUaYwosTonLh7mkl89wqYZ8hWMb87pKYHumc/s1600/Jan+Garbarek+%252812%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="879" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8J7tfIUrvbDN1qZ6vKSrzCRqJVqdfAMz5ctVJCatrrWnbDOC0MShhziWyHIYdVryhWUOT96YkWElXEIxuEpaquEVdlvDjoUMMK1WqxweUaYwosTonLh7mkl89wqYZ8hWMb87pKYHumc/s320/Jan+Garbarek+%252812%2529.jpeg" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jan Garbarek in Edinburgh</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The ECM record label launched an era of “chamber jazz” based around an international set of musicians that some called the Third Viennese School, though many of them also went to the Berklee Music School. Jan Garbarek is a Norwegian sax player with a very characteristic pure tone, Eberhard Weber played an electric double bass that sounded more like a cello. The pianists </span>Keith<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Jarrett and Chic Corea signed up and Gary Burton played vibes while Ralph Towner brought his 12 string along. Everyone had their own band, made up of other soloists who had their own bands too. You could call it a collective. Every time I</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">saw them there was a different line up. I missed seeing Bill Frisell play guitar with them but I caught David Torn doing his weird computerised, pedal powered and over-driven guitar to create a ghostly, impressionistic backing to</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Garbareks sparse, ringing, plainsong sax-ballads.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">After our son Nicholas was born, we didn’t go out quite so much. The first concert we went to was a band called the Rolling Stones (‘remember them?). They were playing a football stadium in Glasgow on a summer’s Sunday afternoon. They were not allowed to play after ten pm, so the show was in such bright sunlight that the lighting and the big projected images struggled to have any effect. The band was a long way away and I’m afraid we got a bit bored, and so we left early to get a bite to eat on the way home. Scottish Sunday nights were a wee bit dull in those days and we didn’t find anywhere open. Our babysitter was astonished when we fell in the door, stone sober and famished.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-35368125197282018882018-01-14T22:19:00.000+00:002018-01-20T23:47:46.746+00:00Music in the Nineties.<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>My Life in Music: Part Five</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The 90s.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYyzGsO7UzB6A-iTOBunjfqIQuZlE-DRKl61s6cUyjeqRlWjcrq07YQ6kmJbKEe4Jqr-pDYTkknLFBmIi2_VyQ68TZMY6-Qo4iVoWZqI4rsiKYW1cjTVetB6SSe26Ps318OX-07rO_hNA/s1600/DSC_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYyzGsO7UzB6A-iTOBunjfqIQuZlE-DRKl61s6cUyjeqRlWjcrq07YQ6kmJbKEe4Jqr-pDYTkknLFBmIi2_VyQ68TZMY6-Qo4iVoWZqI4rsiKYW1cjTVetB6SSe26Ps318OX-07rO_hNA/s320/DSC_0006.jpg" width="211" /></a><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">At the end of the 80s, the monster album was </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> Paul Simon's "Graceland," which was a brilliant collaboration with bands from South Africa. We had been to Kenya and longed for another adventure like that.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And so, everything changed: We took a posting to Seychelles for three years to work in the marine parks there. We had no TV and the only radio station we could receive was the government station. I must say, it didn’t bother us much. Our neighbours listened to two kinds of music: Reggae and Country Music. On a Sunday morning I might walk out early through the palms on Praslin Island counting black parrots to the sound of Bob Marley singing <i>“Don’t Worry about a thing, Every Little Thing’s Gonna be Alright.” </i>The booming reggae bass would be coming from a wooden house, hidden in the trees. I was in Little Jamaica. Further on, another house would have the radio on and I would hear one of those cowboy evangelists singing about how he had been a poor sinner and almost died until he saw the light. I preferred the Reggae.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Seychelles has its own language called Kreol. This is mostly made up of pigeon French, some English, some Indian, Malagasy, and some African words, all mixed together and infused with Swahili spelling which is phonetic.<i> Bon jour</i>, becomes <i>bonzur</i> and we also have <i>bonswa </i>for<i> "Good-night"</i>. The Franglais element is endearing to us Brits but makes the French cringe.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guide at Vallee de Mai with a Seychelles coco-de-mare.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>“Bonswa monzami, komonsava?”</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>“Mon byen.”</i> or more in the English way, <i>“Pa tro mal”</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The real local music is sung in Kreol. It combines French dance tunes with a particular African beat called <i>Sega.</i> Tourists hear it in the hotels, but the locals, who hang out at grandma’s house during weekends, still know all the songs. I learned to dance a bit of <i>Sega</i> and can remember some of the tunes. We bought a few tapes by local musicians including Jonise Juliette.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">On returning to the RSPB in Bedfordshire I was given the job of managing the Seychelles programme and, as a bonus, I was given Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda to work in too. I found Uganda to have the most interesting music, drawing on all the countries around it for influences. The Half London Club in Kampala was a delight with bands from Rwanda and Mali joining the local ones.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"> </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">Despite all the other things going on in the 90s music scene, I think I was most interested in the African music I heard. </span></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-44670281629846565972018-01-13T22:53:00.000+00:002018-01-20T19:14:54.513+00:00Music in the 21st Century<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>My Life in Music: Part Six</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">2000 to 2018<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">My work was keeping me away from home too much of the time so I needed a job with less travel involved. My director at the RSPB offered me the UK Overseas Territories; a rash of tiny islands scattered all over the globe. I was supposed to go to meetings at the Foreign Office in London and attend a few conferences in places like Gibraltar and the Caribbean. However I soon found myself travelling regularly to Ascension, the Falklands and Anguilla, which meant more Reggae music.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">One conference was in Cuba, not long after the Buena Vista Social Club album was produced by Ry Cooder. I remember sitting in the back of a tour bus with a group of wary Americans. I was listening to local radio on a Sony Walkman with a huge grin on my face. The pretty tour-guide remarked that I was the happiest person on the bus and asked me why. I said that I had always wanted to come to Cuba and now, here I was in Havana, listening to fantastic music on the radio and looking forward to seeing a lot more of Cuba. I caught as much live music as possible on the trip.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">While all of this was happening, our son Nicholas was showing real talent as both an artist and a musician and it became my job to ferry a car load of schoolboys down to London to see the latest bands. It was novel for me to enjoy young British bands through the eyes and ears of another generation. Soon Nick had his own band and we had a boot load of gear to cart around between gigs and recording sessions. We still go to see his own band Lucky Shivers and two others that he plays in, called Red Kite (based in Northampton) and Oro Swimming Hour (based in Bristol).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Meanwhile, my grandson Jake has become an operatic bass, singing with Holland Park Opera and performing in Arundel and Chichester regularly. No-one saw that coming!</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Admittedly, since Nick left home, there is less music about the place. I always have some CDs of the old stuff in my car, but I usually listen to Radio 4. Hanna and I chill out to mum and dad music, like James Taylor and Mary Chapin Carpenter who comes to Cambridge regularly. Hanna sings in a women’s choir while I take photos . It's all very mellow and cosy, so sometimes, I just have to crank up the volume and let off steam. My current playlist includes David Bowie’s Black Star, probably the best album he ever made, and my son’s latest releases.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My youngest boy, Dan has special needs </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">but is also showing some talent as a musician. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">After always having guitarists around, I’m finally trying to learn the guitar for myself. Don’t hold your breath.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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</style>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-1268188206143757582018-01-12T23:37:00.000+00:002018-01-20T23:37:43.758+00:00My Shortlist of Singles<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>My ten records? I thought you would never ask!</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">After wracking my brain to remember all those decades of music, it's really hard to make a choice. I might just as well have </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">gone into a second hand vinyl store, such as our local Oxfam shop or "The Vinyl Frontier" in Suffolk, and picked out a few singles at random. However, if you consider who the audience will be on</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Huntingdon Community Radio on a Sunday, it would not be wise to go for the raw folk, the jazz-rock stuff, the hippy noodlings or any long virtuoso solos, be it jazz, prog-rock or an African drum cooperative. People would switch off. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In any case, a lot of my favourite tracks are very long and an extract would not do them justice, so </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have chosen tracks that assert themselves pretty quickly and I have mixed a few more obscure ones in with some pop classics.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is my short list that will need to be pruned down:</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
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<li style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>All Blue</i> by Miles Davis.</span></li>
<li style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>My Generation</i>, by The Who</span></li>
<li style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>On the Road Again</i> by Canned Heat.</span></li>
<li style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Fresh Garbage</i> by Spirit or the Zombies, <i>Time of the Season </i>(both from the Rock Machine Turns You On sampler).</span></li>
<li style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>America</i> by the Nice (Keith Emerson) </span></li>
<li style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joni Mitchell <i>Woodstock </i>(preferably from <i>Shadows and Light</i> ) or the Crosby, Stills and Nash version.</span></li>
<li style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Peter Gabriel singing <i>The Power of the Heart</i> (written by Lou Reed for his proposal to Laurie Anderson) </span></li>
<li style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">David Bowie <i>This is not America</i> (with Pat Metheny Group.)</span></li>
<li style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>All I Want to Know</i> by the Magnetic Fields.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nick Stevenson's band Lucky Shivers performing </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Human by Night</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span><a href="https://luckyshivers.bandcamp.com/releases" target="_blank">https://luckyshivers.bandcamp.com/releases </a></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>The Water is Wide</i> by Karla Bonoff with James Taylor.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Dreamland</i> by Mary Chapin Carpenter.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Weather Report performing <i>Birdland.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Raga Piloo </i>by Indo Jazz Fusions. <i> </i></span></li>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787536052283267067.post-77250357856899830912018-01-07T16:29:00.002+00:002018-01-07T16:33:14.829+00:00Meeting Sinterklaas on a plane.At one time, I used to fly backwards and forwards to East Africa very regularly. Those were long flights, usually over-night, so I would try and get some sleep. The problem was that I would quite often find myself seated next to a talkative agronomist or a forester who would tell me "What Africa needs is intercropping" or a fish farmer who would say "The way to save Africa is aquaculture". The one I dreaded hearing most was "Those people need Jesus in their lives."<br />
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Pretending to be a sleep was my best defence. If they asked me "What do you do in Dar Es Salaam?" how would I answer? What would I say? "We have done extensive research and we know that the only way to stop malaria, famine, desertification, corruption and war is to make an Important Bird Area directory?"<br />
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On a short flight you can risk a chat because, in an hour, you know you will be able to walk away and never see them again, unless they are staying your hotel.<br />
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I was on a packed but short flight from Stanstead to Amsterdam, sitting in the middle of a row of three seats. Having no window to look out of, I set about reading my book.<br />
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"That looks interesting." said the middle aged American lady on my right.<br />
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"No, it's really boring. I have read the same page four times and still can't follow it. It's about carbon trading."<br />
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"Is that the sort of thing you usually read on a flight? I read trashy novels and thrillers to pass the time."<br />
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I told her that I worked in nature conservation and travelled a lot. I religiously read anything by John le Carré and Annie Proulx. When asked which was my most recent read, I told her "The Constant Gardener".<br />
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"Oh yea, I read that too. It's totally true you know."<br />
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I asked her what she meant and she replied "All that about tuberculosis and testing unapproved drugs on poor people in the Third World."<br />
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It turned out that she worked for a giant multinational pharmaceutical business in the USA.<br />
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"They just fired our Central American CEO for getting caught doing just that."<br />
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I was horrified and asked her why she would still work for a such a company.<br />
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"Believe me, it sickens me too, but they own me. They even pay for the care of my elderly parents."<br />
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At this point, the gentleman on our left joined in.<br />
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"I saw the film. It's really tense."<br />
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My new and inquisitive American friend asked him why he was going to Amsterdam and what he did for a living and he replied, "I'm Father Christmas."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sinterklaas at De Bijenkorf department store.</td></tr>
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Of course we all guffawed at this and a few neighbours joined in, but it turned out to be true....in a way.<br />
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He certainly had the hair, the beard and the eyebrows and they were all real. He was on his way to be photographed for the Christmas Catalogue in Amsterdam's most prestigious store.<br />
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I asked him if he was Father Christmas, St Nicholas or Sinterklaas and he looked a bit lost. He didn't really know anything about the Dutch tradition.<br />
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"I'm really an interior decorator back in London. One night, I was at this party and a bloke said to me that I had an interesting face and I should get it photographed by an agency. My girlfriend thought it would be a laugh, so she took me along and, before I knew it, I had a walk-on part in a Viking movie."<br />
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He showed us some stills from the film and then explained that his agency was paying for the whole trip and he would spend a week in Amsterdam being photographed and enjoying the sights. I told him what I knew of the Sinterklaas story; how, on December 5th, St Nicholas arrived in Holland by steamboat from Spain, accompanied by his Moorish assistants, bringing his white horse and bearing gifts and cookies. <br />
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Since then, I have often wondered how my fellow passengers got on after we parted. I also wonder if we would have ever spoken to each other at all if we met today. Since the invention of the mobile phone, the tablet and the lap-top computer, no-one seems to talk at all, except the cabin crew.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0