Camberwell Quilting
Our previous blog likened Burgess Park to an embroidered bed spread, covering the remains of a pre-war community with a new green quilt. Did we sound a little underwhelmed, perhaps a touch unexcited by what we saw on a chilly February day? Well, maybe we did.
So we are making a brief return visit to Camberwell, to explore three gems which decorate the edges of our quilt and which have been retained within the hemline of the Park. As with other historic items such as the Bridge to Nowhere and the lime kiln (briefly featured in the preceding blog), today’s jewels represent fascinating fragments of the former landscape: delightful, curious, but frustrating in their disconnection from both the park and the modern cityscape which surrounds it.
Addington Square
Addington Square lies at the western extremity of Burgess Park and is intimately linked with the construction of the Grand Surrey Canal (from ‘inland’ Surrey to the Surrey Docks and the Thames) in the first decade of the 19th century.
Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Addington_Square) tells us that one Nathaniel Simmons “the engineer to the Grand Surrey Canal Company” owned the first house in the Square. Terroir has yet to find any other mention of Mr Simmons but a square of handsome Georgian houses was certainly built close to the canal at about this time.
Wikipedia again: “The 1851 census shows 32 houses with 179 residents and 33 servants, an occupancy rate of 6.2 persons per house.” And, we calculate, a ratio of 1 servant to 5.4 ‘residents’. We assume the servants were also resident, but not classified as such.
Some diversification followed, with smaller terraced houses and workshops (below) but the Georgian cohesion remained.
Today, the remnants of this classic Georgian square and its surrounding terraces seem rather surprised to be sitting between the park and a very assorted collection of later urban development, on and around the Camberwell Road.
The serenity of this handsome oasis is undeniable, however, despite the cars and the litter bins, and it is a popular stopping off place for rest, relaxation and a coffee from the nearby café.
Chumleigh Gardens
Chumleigh Gardens is equally elegant and unexpected. Contemporaneous with activity in Addington Square, the buildings associated with the Gardens were built in the first half of the 19th century but for the benefit of a very different section of society. In 1802 a Female Friendly Society had been founded ‘by and for women, operating “by love, kindness, and absence of humbug”. It gave small grants to “poor, aged women of good character”.’ (https://bridgetonowhere.friendsofburgesspark.org.uk/the-story-of-burgess-park-heritage-trail/heritage-trail-a-l/chumleigh-gardens/).
By 1821 the Society was building almshouses on the south side of Albany Road - an area which is now on the northern edge of Burgess Park. The operation expanded again in the 1840s, but the buildings were damaged during WWII bombing raids.
Thankfully, these structures were not demolished post-war but it took until the mid-1990s for this heritage to find a new purpose within the Park. The buildings have now been restored and the grounds re-created as a multi-cultural garden designed to celebrate Camberwell’s diversity. They include a memorial to local hero Keib Thomas (image left), a Welshman turned south Londoner, who campaigned for ethnic & inter-faith harmony, justice and equality.
A winter visit to Chumleigh Gardens is not a waste of time. The Gardens have been designed to represent diversity through spaces celebrating different local communities, using plants from around the world. Hope for a better future is epitomised, in February, by blossom and catkins …
... while the quirky café provides a haven for tired feet, succour for mind and body, and retail therapy.
Glengall Wharf Garden
This community garden just exudes fun, exhilaration and horticultural angst! Some might call it alternative mayhem, but for others, that is part of its attraction.
We’re back on the Surrey Canal. Glengall Wharf is technically in Peckham (London Borough of Lewisham), but from our perspective, it is at the very eastern end of the Burgess Park green space. The Wharf was built on the junction of the main Surrey Canal and the Peckham Branch which opened in 1826. The junction was wide enough for the timber barges to turn down the branch line to the many timber yards which lined the route (https://bridgetonowhere.friendsofburgesspark.org.uk/the-story-of-burgess-park-heritage-trail/heritage-trail-a-l/glengall-wharf/).
By the 1890s, the Edison Bell company opened a factory to the north of the junction but ‘Edisonia’ closed in 1933 and other commercial projects have obliterated all signs of the imposing building which one stood there. Lewisham opened a refuse depot in the south east angle of the junction, which was also unlikely to have improved the local streetscape. The canal was filled in, in about 1970, and the depot converted into the Glengall Wharf community garden. The time line seems a bit hazy and is further complicated by the Glengall family owning a large part of the Isle of Dogs. Many links take you to various fascinating, but unproductive, rabbit holes in Millwall!
The garden entrance can be mysteriously hard to find and, on finally entering the garden, one can be forgiven for thinking that yet another alternative rabbit hole has opened before you. Yes, there really are saunas here, housed in a wooden cabin and a converted horse box (or is it a shepherds hut?)!
Beyond that is the fascinating, organic, make-do-and-mend, mélange of a community garden devoted to growing food, increasing biodiversity and recycling, to reducing the speed of climate change and to changing community minds of what constitutes a garden.
So there you have it. Georgian terraces in the west, Georgian alms houses, with a modern diversity garden, in the north and a refuse depot recycled into a community garden in the east. That’s Burgess Park all over: a community’s geography buried below ground, with volcanic eruptions of history exploding through the green quilt in a most unregulated manner. We’ll be back.
Camberwell Beauty
Burgess Park in Camberwell (London SE5) rose slowly, like a self-assembly phoenix, from the ashes of the Blitz. It is a remarkable open space which touches on many facets of London’s history, but its story is as diverse, fragmented and as quirky as the Park itself. Let’s see if we can build a compelling narrative out of the Burgess box of bits.
Burgess Park - thanks to https://www.layersoflondon.org
Some visitors might think that Burgess Park in winter is somewhat unexciting, akin perhaps to a quilt of green in the early stages of embroidery, hemmed in by Albany Road, Old Kent Road, St Georges Way, and Camberwell Road. Key features such as the lime kiln, the Bridge to Nowhere and the Lake have been added to the bedspread but there are large areas of short green grass which seem to stretch in unbroken swathes to the urban-edged park horizon.
Above: OK, so these images aren’t of the exact spots mentioned above, but you get a rough idea of what we are talking about.
The Bridge to Nowhere (image right) was once an important crossing point over the now infilled Surrey Canal. This waterway once ran east/west right across what is now the park. The route is unmarked, save for an anonymous, grey/black tarmac path, looking like a stick of liquorice laid from one end of the park to the other.
Only in an underpass (where the canal would have passed under Wells Way) is a hint of the former canal culture.
Images below: underpass wall decorations hinting at the cargoes which the canal carried.
To be fair, there are some gems within the park, but they do seem strangely isolated in the expanses of the Burgess prairie lands. The more peripheral gardens - Glengall Wharf Community Garden, the Chumleigh Gardens and Addington Square are terrific and offer wonderful facilities including cafes and saunas!
Just because some of Burgess Park history is invisible, doesn’t make it unimportant or insignificant, however. Unlike many London Parks, Burgess does not have a continuous history of open space, although the Layers of London website mentions that the area was once part of Walworth Common, noted for footpads.
Roque’s mid 18th century map of London (left) shows an agricultural area, but hints of urban sprawl encroaching from the north and west, suggesting that already this area is urban fringe rather than rural idyll.
images left and below: the National Library of Scotland https://maps.nls.uk/
By the mid 19th century the area is clearly urban…
Image left: the National Library of Scotland https://maps.nls.uk/
… and by the latter part of the 19th century, Charles Booth’s poverty maps show that the area of what is now the park was largely the greys and reds which depicted the less well-off.
image right: https://booth.lse.ac.uk/map
The Second World War was to be a tipping point. By May/June 1940 Britain was evacuating troops from Dunkirk. On the 18th of June, Churchill announced that “the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin…”. France signed an armistice with Germany on the 22nd June and, according to Britannica (https://www.britannica.com/event/Battle-of-Britain-European-history-1940) the German army pretty much went on holiday, while waiting for Churchill to capitulate. He didn’t of course, so Luftwaffe leave was cancelled, German bombing raids on the UK started and the RAF got stuck into Churchill’s Battle of Britain. By October 1940, Britain was felt to be victorious. But - enter the shock and awe tactics of the Blitzkrieg.
The blitz lasted from September 1940 to May 1941 and had a huge impact on the social and physical geography of the UK. The bomb count for the Burgess Park and sourrounding area is illustrated below.
Around 30,000 bombs dropped on London as a whole with enormous impact on many aspects of life. The centre of London suffered particularly badly. But the far-sighted realised that this offered potential as well destruction. “London was presented with an opportunity to amend the perceived failings of unplanned and haphazard development that had occurred as a result of rapid industrialisation in the nineteenth century.” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greater_London_Plan#cite_note-2)
Consequently, Professor Patrick Abercrombie and London County Council architect John Forshaw were, in 1942, commissioned to write the County of London Plan which aimed to direct the reconstruction of inner London. This was presented to the London County Council in 1943 and subsequently Abercrombie with Forshaw developed the Greater London Plan, completed in 1944.
The Abercrombie Plan, as it is usually called (Forshaw seems to have been a rather shadowy figure, seldom in the limelight), is seen as a seminal document in post war planning. It covers, amongst other things, industry, communications, housing, land classification and agriculture, community planning and public services. There are 28 appendices and is worth browsing for its (now historic) photographs of London and the south east alone.
For our purposes, the key section relates to Chapter 7 - Outdoor Recreation: Open Spaces, for it is this section which gave rise to the development of Burgess Park. Abercrombie (and, I hope, Forshaw) realised the huge benefits of accessible open space in the crowded communities of places like Camberwell and recommended 4 acres of open space per 1,000 people. Rather than rebuild or attempt to repair the shattered housing, dying canal and battered industry, it was agreed to demolish the majority of the buildings (including perfectly serviceable dwellings, churches and community buildings), and translate the area into an open space, in line with Abercrombie’s (not forgetting Forshaw’s) recommendations. This was to become a green lung for the new developments round the area, many of which (ironically, with hindsight) were high rise accommodation.
The open space was called Burgess Park in honour of Jessie Burgess, labour councillor for Camberwell Metropolitan Borough from 1934 to 1951 and the Council’s first female mayor (1945 to 1947).
Obviously this is a rather simplistic account of a very large and very significant open space. We will return to the Park in the summer to see what difference that makes to our perhaps rather low key response on a chilly day in February. Locals will also note that we have said little of the Surrey Canal but we will also return to that piece of heritage on another occasion.
What we would compliment is the width and depth of digital history and interpretation available to the inquisitive. We would particularly reccommend the Friends of Burgess Park website (www.friendsofburgesspark.org.uk). If you prefer a more traditional format, then a trip to Dulwich Library to read “The Story of Burgess Park” (sadly out of print) is definitely for you.
At 56ha, Burgess Park is bigger that either St James Park or Green Park. But who needs bedding plants, rose gardens, fountains and pelicans, when you have the entire history of a south London community buried beneath your feet?
The Importance of Eggs
“… the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking, beauty and solemnity of Eggs.”
These words come from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s book, “The Secret Garden”. One of us had remembered the quote as “the importance of Eggs” (hence the title), but on re-reading a large chunk of the story to find the quote, discovered that memory plays tricks, or, possibly, that one of us unconsciously summarised the slightly overblown text.
The eggs in question are birds’ eggs. As you probably know, they belong to a pair of robins who inhabit the Secret Garden and play a significant and symbolic role in the tale of two children called Mary and Colin.
The book is very much of its time (first published by William Heinemann Ltd in 1911) and paints a picture of the life of rich and poor in India and England, of death from cholera and childbirth, of loved and unloved children, and of very clear distinctions in class and gender. Whether they be robins, landed gentry or moorland cottagers, the male is always in the lead!
But though we still love the lively tale of Mary and Colin, the obvious star of the book is the garden and the obvious hero, is, clearly, a robin. Both these characters could easily be in existence today. The secret garden of the Edwardian period could be re-cast as a neglected, 21st century open space, to be taken over by local community volunteers and made into a haven for all - human, plant and animal. The robin would still be the symbolic lead and, as it is hard to distinguish male and female robins, one would hope the symbolism could also be gender neutral!
But, we suggest, it is still impossible to apply such inclusiveness to eggs. What sort of eggs did you think of when you read the title of this blog? We bet you thought of birds’ eggs - probably hens’ eggs, but full marks if you imagined robins’ eggs. But of course many, many other types of animals lay eggs which hatch externally to the parent’s body. Reptiles, amphibians and fish are obvious examples. Even a few mammals – the duckbilled platypus and the echidna – are egg layers.
But we tend to ignore the insects. The vast majority of insect species lay eggs and the majority of animals on planet earth are insects. So yes, eggs are very important indeed. Insects, however, tend to be small creatures with exoskeletons (ie their skeletons are on the outside of their bodies) and no lungs. They rely on diffusion to transport oxygen and this, according to multiple websites, means that small is not only beautiful but essential for getting sufficient oxygen to where it needs to be. Please correct us if we are wrong but when one of us was of an age to be reading the “Secret Garden”, teachers were rather vague on the causes for the small size of modern insects.
As well as being small, insects are, by and large, considered to be, well, not particularly attractive. Butterflies and moths are, of course, an exception to this rule, if only for part of their convoluted life cycle. On the wing, we love them. We have a bit of a love/hate relationship with their caterpillar (larva) stage and probably don’t see or recognise their weird pupa packages, which do their best to stay immobile and hidden until the time is right for the imago – the adult butterfly – to emerge.
But eggs? When did you last see a butterfly egg?
From Terroir’s perspective, the answer to that one is ‘about ten days ago’. This is the time of year when groups of humans (usually, but not exclusively, male) can be seen standing in a row, staring fixedly at a hedge of blackthorn (Prunus spinosa). For most humans, the blackthorn has two periods of the year when it is of interest (spectacular white blossom in early spring and dark blue sloes in the autumn); January/February just doesn’t feature. But for the butterfly enthusiast, searching for the eggs of the Brown Hairstreak butterfly (Thecla betulae) is a post-Christmas rite of passage in areas (particularly in southern and south west England and south west Wales) where the blackthorn flourishes.
The female butterfly lays her tiny eggs at the end of summer/early autumn. She prefers sheltered, south or east facing bushes or hedgerows, and lays her white eggs (usually one, sometimes two, but rarely more) in the angle between blackthorn twigs.
Image right: female brown hairstreak, heavy with eggs © Richard Stephens
Madam Butterfly prefers a bush which has been fairly recently cut back, so that such axils are more easily accessible. One of the great threats to the brown hairstreak population, however, is landowners/managers who cut back all their hedges in the autumn or winter after the eggs are laid.
Our favourite egg hunting ground, Spynes Mere, is a small nature reserve in north east Surrey, based on a flooded former sand quarry and sandwiched between the M25, M23 and an active sand extraction site. It sounds less than attractive but, once you have zoned out of the hum of the motorways, it is a pleasing spot, popular with dog walkers and birders and, in season, blackberry pickers. We featured the Mere in August 2023 when the (by then mature) quarry reclamation hedgerows were offering a particularly bountiful and varied display of berries. At that time, the blackthorn is less obvious, clad in greenery which hides immature sloes and, one hopes, plenty of twigs in a suitable condition for brown hairstreak egg laying.
Spynes Mere: above left -in summer garb; berries attract the humans, and the unassuming leafy blackthorn is attracting egg laden female brown hairstreaks
centre - winter reveals the young blackthorn regrowth; this is when and where the egg hunting takes place
right - a sprig of blackthorn displaying the multiplicity of twiggy angles which are so well hidden to the human eye in summer
And here the eggs are (below) - revealed to the eager searching eye (and possibly hand lens) of a butterfly watcher in January, and hugely magnified by the camera lense to reveal their fascinating sculptural form.
The eggs hatch in the late spring, after blossom time is over and about 7 to 9 days after leaf-bud burst begins (Life cycles of British and Irish butterflies, Peter Eeles, 2017, Pisces Publications). Eeles refers to a study by H H de Vries et al which links egg hatching with blackthorn leafbud burst, rather than air temperature, a charactristic which may help to future proof them against climate change. The caterpillar, having somehow received a message about leaf emergence, eats a neat round hole in the top of the egg shell and crawls into the developing leaf bud to start its journey to the pupa stage, before the final emergence of the butterfly in summer.
As you can imagine, the caterpillars are hard to see within their bushy hideout. But did you know that some caterpillars are fluorescent?! Hunting brown hairstreak caterpillars with a UV light reveals the eerie, blue phantom, below left. Below right is what you see with a more tradional light source. It is obvious which is the easier way of spotting a brown hairstreak larva!
Around June or July, the leaf fattened caterpillar starts to turn a pinkie-purple colour and heads for the leaf litter at the foot of its blackthorn bush haven. Here the creature pupates into another well camouflaged form - a small brown chrysalis (https://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/species.php?species=betulae is excellent, with superb illustrations of all life cycle stages).
After about four weeks, the adult butterfly will finally emerge and forsake the blackthorn for the haven of a well grown ash tree (known as the Master Tree), to feed on honey dew and search for a mate. It will also become very difficult to photograph but here are some of our better efforts, from when they do come within reach.
This dependance of the species on a single Ash presents two challenges to 21st century society. First of all, some of us might well prefer to re-name the chosen ash as the prime, lead, pivotal, premier or home tree! But whatever we call it, dependance on Ash presents, potentially, a real problem to the Brown Hairstreak. We mentioned, above, the climate change advantage of caterpillar emergence depending on bud break rather than temperature. In southern England, however, Ash populations are being decimated by the fungal disease known as Ash dieback, and in the short term, the impact is severe with enormous numbers of ash dead, dying or already felled.
So next time anybody asks what something has to do with the ‘price of eggs’, don’t think of hens, robins or echidnas. Spare a thought for all the insects who struggle through complicated lifecycles to ensure their eggs make it to adulthood.
Image right: © Richard Stephens
The Ladybird Guide to Derbyshire: Winter
As a schoolchild, one of us experienced mixed emotions on receiving good marks for a composition required to demonstrate clichés! On conceiving the idea for this blog, therefore, imagine the discomfort when the first title which floated into mind was, “A Derbyshire Christmas”! How many nostalgic, rose tinted essays have been written under such a title, probably aimed at magazines such as ‘This England’ (“a large readership among expatriates”) or ‘The Countryman’ (which, latterly “tended to favour the views of urban-dwellers” and is now defunct). Both were beloved of my urban grandmother. [Both quotes come from Wikipedia].
So why choose the ‘Ladybird’ book reference as a title for this blog? The Ladybird books are also, of course, very nostalgic, resonating strongly with the Baby Boomer generation, although the first books were actually published in 1914 to keep the presses in use during the First World War.
The format which most of us recognise today, however, (image above right) was first published during the Second World War. Paper rationing had become an issue, but a 56 page book of around 7” x 4 5/8” could be printed on a single sheet of paper measuring 40” x 30”. This poster sized sheet was called a Quad Crown.
Opposite every sheet of text is a full page illustration. Clear, colourful and very competent, each picture tells a story with clarity and simplicity and created artwork which is still enjoyed today.
Nostalgic? Of course, but with artists including C.F. Tunnicliffe, Rowland Hilder and Allen Seaby, we would suggest that interest is not purely driven by the Boomers who grew up with them. One Instagram account, devoted to the books and their artists, has 28,000 followers. This seems like a biggish number to Terroir.
So, I ask again, why the Ladybird book title for this blog?
We spent Christmas in the Derbyshire village of Hathersage. The winter sunshine and shadows sharply defined key elements in the views, such as buildings and larger landforms, and resulted in panoramas which reminded us of nothing so much as a Ladybird Book illustration. Even the cement works in the background (image above) looked like a simplified, toy walkie-talkie.
We won’t attempt the writing style but we will try to keep what follows simple and very visual in the best tradition of a Ladybird guide to ‘A history of Hathersage’ and ‘Christmas in Derbyshire’.
As is so often the case, our first glimpse of Hathersage is via the Domesday Book of 1086, which describes an area or hamlet of just 2 smallholders and 8 villagers.
The Normans also seem to have built the mysterious Camp Green, a ‘Norman ring-motte’ with massive walls which now shelter a much more modern house. https://her.derbyshire.gov.uk/Monument/MDR4217
The first mention of a church dates to 1130, the list of parish priest starts at 1281 and 1381 saw the construction of a new church which, after much modification, grew to be the building we see today.
For many centuries, Hathersage remained an agricultural community, gathered around the church with a pub (the Bell Inn) and a small village green.
Image right: Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland
Inevitably, the industrial revolution reached Hathersage in the mid 18th century. Quarrying and the making of millstones was very much based on local resources but the proximity of the village to Sheffield and its steel works encouraged one William Cocker to set up a wire pulling business. ‘Wire pulling’ it seems is a metalworking process to reduce the thickness of a wire by pulling it through a die which forms the wire to the required cross-section. Things went well and Cocker built a new works at the bottom of the hill, below the village, close to the confluence of the Hood and Dale Brooks and a convenient public house, which had been built sometime around 1560. Slowly the village extended down the hill as other wire and needle making works joined in. The Hope Valley railway branch line arrived in 1894.
You could say that tourism in Hathersage started in 1845 when Charlotte Brontë visited the village to stay with a friend (sister to the then vicar). When Charlotte returned home she penned ‘Jane Eyre’, a novel full of Hathersage influences, ranging from names to buildings, landscapes, interiors and dramatic settings.
As just one example, in 1845, a widow called Mary Eyre was living in a substantial house, a little above above the main village. The house was called North Lees and is thought to be the model for fictional Mr Rochester’s residence of Thornfield.
Today, Hathersage still trades on all that inspired Charlotte Brontë. Tourism is now a major money earner, building on its dramatic location and spectacular scenery for walkers, climbers, cyclists (as well as less energetic visitors) and converting a host of traditional buildings into restaurants, cafés, outdoor equipment shops and accommodation.
But despite its new economic basis, its railway station, petrol station and two convenience stores, Hathersage appears to retain a strong Derbyshire community spirit.
So let’s get back to some real Ladybird Book style adventure stuff. We were told that Hathersage was a interesting place in which to spend Christmas. It is.
Top of the bill for one of us was an evening in the Millstone Inn listening to the splendid tradition of Derbyshire carols. Both Derbyshire and Sheffield have a long standing tradition of singing local carols - not in church but in pubs. We heard new words, new tunes and new combinations. How many of us outside the region have sung ‘While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night’ to the tune Cranbrook (otherwise known as ‘On Ilkley Moor’)! Thank you to the singers and to the Millstone Inn, Hathersage.
Hathersage is also good on crib scenes. Yes, there was one in the church, of course, but again Christmas in Hathersage is an outdoor thing with this full sized affair (below), opposite the George Hotel. Baby Jesus arrived a tiny bit early to coincide with a brass band and more carol singing.
Our final Christmas ‘Show and Tell’ (well more ‘show’ than ‘tell’ I’m afraid) was something we had never seen before: a village Advent Calendar. It makes an evening ramble around the village streets a real community light show. We just don’t know how you get to open the windows!
We are obliged to three organisations for helping us to tell this Ladybird story of Hathersage. In no particular order, these are:
The Museum of English Rural Life at Reading University who hold the Ladybird Book Archive
The Hathersage Parish Church of St Michael and All Angels for the book entitled ‘A Guide and Brief History’ (and yes we did pay for it!) and
The Millstone Country Inn for our first live introduction to the carols, hymns and songs sung in and around the village of Hathersage.
A happy New Year to you all.
New Year Resolutions
The change from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar seems to have been a messy operation, making Britain’s conversion to decimal currency and much of Europe’s change to Euros seem like child’s play.
Pope Gregory XIII eventually managed to introduce the Gregorian Calendar to Catholic states in 1582. Unsurprisingly this change did not impact on England and her colonies and, as far as Terroir can work out, New Year’s Day continued to be celebrated on 25th March (ie Lady Day or the Feast of the Annunciation), until 1752. As an aside, Scotland made the change in 1600!
Would our New Year’s resolutions have been different if made in spring rather than the middle of winter? Here is our commentary on typical NY resolutions as inspired by the December landscapes of Derbyshire. We hope to try the same exercise in late March to see if there is a seasonal impact.
Note: we think the image above left is a fox moth caterpillar, very active on a warm December day.
A happy and healthy New Year to all.
The Father Christmas Issue
If St Nick can’t get through, those are big boots (not to mention stockings) to fill.
What could possibly go wrong?
Happy Holidays!
Make Space for Children
The charity, ‘Make Space for Girls’ was founded in 2021 to campaign for better provision for teenage girls in parks and other public spaces. ‘We campaign for parks and public spaces to be designed for girls and young women, not just boys and young men.’ (www.makespaceforgirls.co.uk). One of us remembers one of the charity’s very telling illustrations of how boys and girls move around a school playground. The trace of the boys’ footsteps zigzagged madly all over the available space. In contrast the girls were, literally, marginalised, clinging to the edges of the space or moving around the circumference.
It’s not just that girls can feel excluded from spaces which suit boys well; girls seek different facilities and environments in which to hang out.
‘Overall, teenage girls do not feel that public spaces – whether parks, recreational grounds, urban areas or facilities – are intended for their use or are places where they are welcome’ (https://committees.parliament.uk/writtenevidence/127290/html/) , and that girls and young women tend to feel that their voices are not heard and their needs are not met.
I was strongly reminded of the work of Make Space for Children when Terroir recently visited an exhibition mounted in a small art gallery in Granada, Spain (Galeria Toro Brossard, Calle San Miguel Alta, 15). Exposición “Memoria de Una Infancia” is the work of Egyptian born artist (and now 20 years a Spanish resident), Husam Said, and is a celebration, a reflection and an extraordinary meditation on his childhood in a village near Tanta, about a 100 km north of Cairo. Several things struck us as we viewed and absorbed the images around us.
In Said’s paintings, children’s play does not seem to be segregated as it so often is in the UK. Obviously not being confined to a fenced ‘playground’ must allow significant fluidity in play and use of space. When your village is your playground, girls and boys, in active or quiet play, in huddles or adventuring can mingle or disperse as need arises.
Image above: girls and boys play hide and seek together in the play ground which is also their village
‘Huddles’ have obviously been an important part of this Egyptian childhood. The importance of ‘nests’, safe places, ‘secret’ places, contained places – call them what you will – seem to have been as important to Husam’s childhood, as they are today. Modern parents worry about children in ‘hidden’ places but the Husam’s nests seem to be contained but never invisible to others.
A village structure and community is also revealed by this celebration of childhood. What child could not be entranced by the dovecots (image left) – those weird cones in a village of rectangular buildings, where birds not humans provide constant movement - or, with adults, visiting the nativity by lantern light (below).
But the games, oh the games: a different continent, a different lifestyle, but so, so familiar. We would call them Hide and Seek, Blind Man’s Buff and Hopscotch. There are marbles (image right) and a circle game featuring stick and ball whose name Terroir can’t remember. Girls and boys play together; there is rhythm and movement, excitement and intensity. Even Husam appears – a key player but not the protagonist (can you spot him in the image on the right?)
Marbles are obviously an important part of Husam Said’s life - they appear in his sculptures as well as his paintings. This is probably not quite so true of British youngsters today but Husam’s exhibition illustrates so many truths about the importance of play and outdoor space in the lives of children and young people. A big thank you to Husam for illustrating both his childhood and what we in the UK need to provide to our youngsters.
Please contact Terroir if you would like more information on Husam Said’s work.
Mallorca/Majorca
Trains and Tourism
“…there’s a long-standing Spanish joke about a mythical fifth Balearic island called Majorca (the English spelling) inhabited by an estimated eight million tourists a year”. The Rough Guide to Spain, 2002.
Terroir’s first trip to the largest of the Balearic islands took place not long after that guide was published and we probably did go to Majorca rather than Mallorca. It was a pre-Easter visit, warm enough to swim (just) and fantastic hiking weather, but we have an enduring memory of a throng of AirBerlin planes waiting on the stands at Palma airport. Once established in our apartment at the western end of the island, we found that the early season meant a scarcity of open restaurants and, if Spanish/Mallorcan/Catalan was lacking, we needed basic German to order a meal.
We hoped our second visit – this September – would provide a little bit more of Mallorca. You may have gathered that Team Terroir does have a penchant for trains and thanks to the auspices of the fabulous Ffestiniog Travel company (‘Rail Holidays of the World’ https://www.ffestiniogtravel.com/) we were going to explore the north eastern end of the island, famed for its walking and, in certain quarters, for its railways.
Railway trip 1: Palma to Manacor
Manacor isn’t mentioned in the 2002 Rough Guide to Spain so we had hopes of the ‘real’ (what a cliché!) Mallorca.
These days, Palma’s main station is a rather brutal, subterranean confection, with smart 21st century trains, and unsmart old-fashioned departure platform chaos. Those of us with London commuting campaign medals just stood on the concourse and waited until both Manacor trains had sequential, rather than simultaneous, departure times.
Trip advisor’s web page on ‘Things to Do in Manacor’ (their capital initials, not Terroir’s) mainly advertises trips to somewhere else. But, the town is, of course, home to the Rafa Nadal Academy and Museum (and two of our group had a frabjous day there) …
… while the rest of us went off to experience the ‘authentic’ Mallorcan market’. And authentic it probably is, majoring as it does, like so many Spanish markets, on clothes, although we did find a few stalls with other specialities, including cheese (left) and plants and birds (below).
The town centre has some delightful nooks, crannies and restaurants, centred around the amazing convent church.
This little drama (above left) involved a policeman (legs just visible) and a ladder to rescue a small child who had inadvertently got locked in the convent garden (above right) when it closed for the long lunch/siesta break!
For people who enjoy towns over tennis academies, the other real joy of Manacor is wandering the back streets of Rafa Nadal’s home town. Arrow straight, grid pattern lanes are peppered with pot plants, easy-on-the-eye ironwork and jacarandas wherever there is a space. The repeated, squat, circuar towers had us fooled for a minute but Don Quixote quickly came to our rescue.
The train trip to Manacor was definitely worth it if you like tennis and towns. But the other great benefit of train travel is bagging a window seat and watching the landscape trundle past.
Railway trip 2: Palma to Inca and Sa Pobla
This one may be harder to justify as high quality train-tourism, but we will do our best. Again it’s a modern train running a modern service but the history of the line and the communities it served is much older. And the view is pretty good too.
Palma was once connected to much of the island of Mallorca by train, but by 1977 the line from Palma to Inca was all that was left, with the exception of the link to Soller which was in separate ownership, and which finally closed in 1994. In 2001 the link between Inca and Sa Pobla was re-opened and the whole system electrified. More was planned, but the future now appears uncertain. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serveis_Ferroviaris_de_Mallorca and https://fascinatingspain.com/place-to-visit/what-to-see-in-balearic/what-to-see-in-majorca/tren-de-soller-the-railway-in-mallorca/
The black lines represent the routes which are currently open and working.
By OpenStreetMap contributor - OpenStreetMap, ODbL, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=53809214
Our expedition on Railway Route 2 stopped at Inca in time for coffee. A sign outside the station indicated the way to a local museum with a pictogram of a boot. It took several other, rather more artistic, hints on our walk into town to realise that Inca was a place of leather workers and shoe makers. It does a decent cup of coffee too.
First impressions of Sa Pobla, at the end of the line, are a trifle bleak. A busy ring road now separates the train station from the town and it takes a while to walk along that flat, straight ‘boulevard’, past the industrial sheds, to something more inviting - unless of course you are a train enthusiast and recognise that pedestrian/bike path for what it is: a disused railway line, heading for the original town station.
By the time the railway link from Inca to Sa Pobla was reinstated, the new ring road had probably eliminated any practical possibility of rebuilding a rail/road crossing, and the lines were abruptly terminated on the wrong side of, in this case the road, rather than the railroad tracks.
Most of our group followed the beige-paved road ‘downtown’, took a quick look around and headed back for the next train to Palma. Not Terroir of course and here is what we found – a whole new take on a car free route into town. It is a bit alarming when we realised that the police station car park is built across the track, but in the interests of reaching the bitter end, we pushed on through.
Inevitably much of the old route is encased in high concrete walls but the town response to this is anything but boring. Where there is room, tree planting has been added and seems to be flourishing: jacaranda of course but also European hackberry and a buckthorn which we think is Chinese date/Common jujube.
And finally we emerge at the old station yard, now a community Police Station in the Plaꞔa des Tren, with its car park firmly up against the buffers.
What can cap that? Only lunch. The town centre was a gracious and spacious place providing not just food but a whole new transport experience. Who knew that Sa Pobla is now a centre for another form of tourism transport? Most people come here, not by train, but by bike.
Railway trip 3: Palma to Soller and Port de Soller
I’m not quite sure why we are including this rail trip. It is definitely already on the tourist trail, and you don’t have to be interested in trains to enjoy it. I suspect it is firmly in Majorca not Mallorca.
Soller was once an isolated community in the Sierra de Tramuntana and separated from Palma by the Sierra de Alfabia. But in Terroir’s view, nothing excites railway engineers and their backers more than a project to punch a railway through or up a mountain. The line was eventually opened to Soller in 1912, with the tramway to Port de Soller following in 1913, and is said to have revolutionised the life of local inhabitants in terms of trade, travel and speed of postage. Inevitably, road engineers began to follow, however, and the line closed completely in 1997.
Of course nothing excites rail enthusiasts and their backers more than an abandoned ‘heritage railway’ , and a group of local business people bought the whole thing to create a tourist attraction. And of course nothing excites tourists more than a mountain railway and tramway with spectacular scenery and original engines and rolling stock. All while sitting down.
The Soller train and tramway is fun, spectacular and hugely popular. So welcome to the view and the crowds, the mountains and the seaside.
The Soller railway station in Palma is right next the main station but couldn’t be more different. It’s a wooden period piece with a little garden and tiny refreshment booth, run by a crew with a metaphorical rod of iron. There are two reasons for this: the first is to control the crowds of tickets holders all desperate to get what might be perceived as the ‘best seats’. The second is that, on leaving the platform, every train has to pass through a massive set of gates and set off down the middle of the public highway. Of course there are traffic lights but there are also pedestrians who might either have no idea what is about to come at them or are train photographers determined to get the best shot.
The train ride is amazingly scenic but you also spend a lot of time admiring the amazing dry Mallorcan stone walls which, in this environment, ensure the mountains do not slip onto the railway. Very difficult to photograph due to lack of light in the cuttings.
To be honest, weather matters, not just to see the view, but because the best fun is travelling on the passenger coaches’ ‘end platforms’. They are the sort of thing which feature in most Westerns and one of us kept expecting to see a sheriff chasing a pistol-toting villain leaping from carriage to carriage. Even when in the inevitable tunnel the end platforms deliver an interesting experience of the gradient, which is lacking from the comfort of your inside seat.
And finally – the tram from Soller town down to the port. This is pure tourism with all the struggle for seats, trying to work out the time table, wondering which harbour-side café will give you the best lunch and if there is time to walk to the lighthouse (believe me, there isn’t, just look at it at from a distance). It is spectcular though!
And then you have to go all the way back to Palma again!
Public Wealth or Public Health?
This very nearly turned into a blog about elitism in access to fine art.
Recently, one of us and a friend (in the UK for just a week), set out on a journey to see the Van Gogh exhibition at London’s National Gallery. Booked out for the rest of the run, one of us had signed up to become a member of the National Gallery to enable ticketless access for two.
Image (right) by Diego Delso, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=35481651
The NG had recently been heavily criticised for poor queue management so we approached the famous portico with some trepidation but, thankfully, the lines of people seemed benign and well regulated. Spotting a queue-free entry door on the right-hand side, we approached with caution, to be confronted by a grim-faced myrmidon. I cautiously raised my right hand in which was clutched my phone, displaying the QR code of my digital membership card. Mr Grim-Face melted instantly and ushered us into the bag search area like honoured guests, which, in a way, we were, thanks to spending twice the ticket price on membership.
And so the morning continued. Staff couldn’t have been more, well, ingratiating. Is that too damning a word? We were certainly made to feel special simply because we had paid more money to join a sort of London Club. But, as usual, we digress. The exhibition was splendid and ‘club’ membership does, of course, continue to offer benefits for the rest of the year.
There is so much for the landscape lover to enjoy in Van Gogh, and to see the terroir authentique of Provence through the eyes of an anxiety-ridden Dutchman is, yes, a glorious experience. Here is the embodiment of Provence - light and agriculture, fields and treescapes, skies and mountains. Here is the essence of the people who lived there, their architecture, their parks and their lives.
Ten days after our visit to the National Gallery one of us was to be involved in a symposium on the Landscapes of Public Health and was, therefore, particularly interested in the pictures created by Van Gogh during his time in the asylum in Saint-Rémy (some 15 miles to the east of his Provençal home in Arles). If Van Gogh could have been a symposium speaker, he would have been in excellent company.
Saint-Rémy Asylum Garden
What do we mean by public health? The UK’s Faculty of Public Health defines it as ‘the science and art of preventing disease, prolonging life, and promoting health through the organised efforts of society’ (https://www.fph.org.uk/what-is-public-health/). A quick bit of Terroir brainstorming came up with topics such as plague/Covid, drinking water and fluoride, sewage infrastructure and river pollution, open spaces and mountains.
The FOLAR symposium (The Friends of the Landscape Archive at Reading, (https://www.folar.uk/) presented a wonderfully eclectic and informative view of public health landscapes. The ‘Bermondsey Experiment’ undertaken in the early decades of the 20th century, took us, metaphorically, to a damp, unsanitary and unhealthy part of London’s south bank slums, where men sought work in the docks or on the railways, the single women worked in canning factories and the married women in jam factories. The mortality rate was sky high, the air filthy from coal smoke, income extremely insecure, and sanitation we leave to your imagination.
Ada and Alfred Salter (social reformer and medical doctor respectively) moved into this landscape to fight for, and instigate, much needed public health improvements. Their holistic approach included an open air school for tubercular children (these days we call them Forest Schools), improvements to the sewage system, extensive tree planting and other ‘beautification’ works, provision of parks and open spaces, community facilities and activities (sports, chess, music) and much more. Their dedication to improving immune systems and extending life expectancy in the Bermondsey community was extraordinary and effective, despite the ultimate tragedy of losing their own daughter to scarlet fever at the age of 8. Thank you to speaker Robert Holden.
Images above: Alfred and Ada Salter and the cat, with the view from modern Bermondsey, looking west
We are probably all aware to some extent of the role of parks and open spaces for mental and physical health thanks to the Covid Pandemic, but speaker Paul Rabbitts illustrated the low political profile which parks still hold in delivery of public health gains. The 1875 Public Health Act recognized the importance of public open space to the health of urban communities, and many supportive organisations followed (eg The National Playing Fields Association and the Public Gardens Association). But the role of parks in the delivery of Public Health is, in the opinion of Terroir, still woefully underplayed.
A talk on the landscapes associated with 19th century ‘lunatic asylums’ (including their gardens, parkland & farms) brings us nicely back to Van Gogh and the time he spent in the Asylum at Saint-Rémy. The exhibition at the National Gallery is subtitled ‘Poets and Lovers’ but to Terroir, the St Remy paintings speak more of survival, of making the best of things, of re-evaluating his environment and his ability to represent it in paint on canvas.
His life had a tragic ending – from mental health issues, rather than from the virulent strain of scarlet fever which carried off Joyce Salter - but his journey through life has bequeathed to us a vigorous bequest of uplifting, inspiring and bouyant landscapes.
Despite the cost of the therapy(!), we came away feeling uplifted, joyous and in excellent mental health.
The Big Deal
This blog, penned under the damp skies of late October, was meant to be a sunny – and probably rather inconsequential – tale about a recent trip to Mallorca and its quaint railways. You may still get this story later in the year, when skies are even gloomier and autumn colour has turned to a wintry tracery of bare twigs.
But for now Terroir has been diverted onto the more serious matter of Climate Change. So what happened? Two meetings (one planned, one serendipity) collided.
Concern Worldwide (https://www.concern.net/) had invited Terroir South to an event entitled ‘Ending extreme poverty – whatever it takes’. (As an aside, they didn’t actually know that they had invited Terroir blog, it’s just that the one of us who supports their work with a monthly contribution was on their mailing list.) As the event was also scheduled to take place in the House of Commons, it was hard to resist.
Concern Worldwide was founded in Ireland, in 1968, in response to famine and conflict in Biafra. Today, with offices in Dublin, Belfast and London, its reach is, as it says, worldwide. As we sipped wine and dropped canapé crumbs on the floor of the Churchill Room, we weren’t quite sure what to expect: maybe a disturbing film of poverty in action in East Africa, or perhaps a hard sell to raise funds for flooded Pakistan? Absolutely not, it was much more grown up and down to earth than that.
We were audience to a panel discussion on ‘the root causes of and key issues impacting extreme poverty’. On the panel were the director of the Somali NGO consortium, Concern’s Country Director in Kenya, and the Director of the Humanitarian Policy Group at the ODI (the London based Overseas Development Institute, and tactfully acknowledging any ‘white male’ comments – he was the only one who qualified).
The discussion (moderated by Martine Dennis, a broadcast journalist with credentials from Sky News, BBC and Al Jazeera), was a wide ranging view of the reality of translating cash into realistic aid to help communities help themselves in their struggle with extreme poverty. A big thank you to Concern World Wide for educating us in these realities. For one of us, three issues stood out: conflict, crisis and - climate change
As it happened, this was not the first reference to Climate Change which we encountered that evening. On the train to London, we were joined - totally unexpectedly - by a longstanding friend who heads up one of England’s ‘National Landscapes’ – perhaps more familiar to most as ‘Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty’. Following the usual ‘how are you and how are the kids’ conversation, one of us was suddenly plunged into a questionnaire on climate change, as the train rattled through the London suburbs. It was turning out to be a bizarre evening.
What was the takeaway message from this evening? For one of us it was a rush of pure relief that climate change is really being taken very, very seriously by at least some of our planet’s community. That rush of relief came as a surprise and a shock. It made us realise just how inured we had become to the apparent lack of investment in viable actions to tackle climate change. So, please, support groups like Concern Worldwide and any other organisations which take these responsibilities seriously and creatively.
As a postscript, we arrived in Westminster early and spent 20 minutes in the Public Gallery of the House of Commons. It was fascinating of course. The wall mounted digital screens make it so easy to work out what’s going on and who is speaking. We watched part of the ping pong discussion on the second reading of the Employment Rights Bill, which was then interrupted by some deft choreography, to allow Katie Lam, MP for the new Weald of Kent constituency, to give her maiden speech. Part of her constituency lies within the High Weald National Landscape and although she made much of this Area of Outstanding Beauty (‘the weald of Kent boasts hundreds of square miles of the most gorgeous countryside’ (https://www.theyworkforyou.com/debates/?id=2024-10-21b.46.0#g79.2) there was no mention of climate change.
At least the walk through the Commons’ caverns and Westminster Hall wonderland (below) was splendid.
Community, Landscape and Art
What if we couldn’t speak out? Who would we get to speak for us? How could we communicate to others?
In the 21st century, we have many ways of expressing our opinions. We can vote in national and local elections. We can join local residents’ associations and community groups to express our views. We can write letters to our representatives in local government. We can write to our members of parliament (although one of us would point out that the devolved nations have two options here while England has only one parliamentary representative to whom they can grumble). We can join ‘focus groups’ or hope to meet one of those elusive pollsters who purport to record and publicise our opinions. We can (on the whole) join marches and demonstrations. Very occasionally some resort to rioting. Mostly we just moan to friends and neighbours.
Recently, Terroir South was travelling ‘up-country’ for a high level blogging summit with Terroir North. On the way, TS stopped over in Worcester, a city which has contributed much to English history and society. We learnt a little about a great variety things, including politics (Worcester and the King were roundly defeated by Cromwell), religion (Catholic monasteries, Judaism, Quakers, Anglicans, Non-Conformists), agriculture (tobacco – yes really – potatoes and hops), the importance of wool and the cloth trade, geology (all that coal, iron and limestone) and life on the geographical edge of the industrial revolution and the Black Country. It was a very entertaining day.
Our visit to the cathedral, which has watched over Worcester’s community since 680, even indulged us with a full-on organ rehearsal in preparation for a recital later that day.
But what really inspired one of us was an exhibition in the Worcester City Art Gallery and Museum entitled ‘Connections - In conversation with the community ’ (https://www.museumsworcestershire.org.uk/events/connections-the-worcester-city-collection-in-conversation-with-the-community/). Connections is a visionary expression (both literally and metaphorically) of how Worcester feels about itself and its City. So much more telling, revealing, and enjoyable than a focus group or community consultation.
Here’s the brief:
What a wonderfully communal and artistic way of expressing our feelings about our home town. The process must have been as exciting for the participating community groups as it is visually pleasing and stimulating for residents of (and visitors to) Worcester. Imagine the thrill of being ushered ‘behind the scenes at the museum’, of penetrating the unknown territory of stacks and stores, of viewing pictures not normally seen on the gallery’s walls. Imagine the thought processes – what do we value about our town, how do we like to see it represented, what if our favourite area has never been painted by an artist (is there a reason)? From the visitor’s perspective, we were constantly asking ourselves these questions about our own home communities.
Here is the Museum’s perspective:
The chosen pictures fell into two categories. ‘Snapshots of our city through time’ concentrated on recognisable locations at different periods thus emphasising the process of urban and industrial development in a familiar environment, and begging questions of ‘How did that happen?’ or ‘Why did that change?’.
The second part of the exhibition, entitled ‘Escaping the city’ was about the wonder of landscapes seen on holidays, on days out, or on walks or travels abroad. What do the people of Worcester find joyous and memorable? Perhaps unsurprisingly, for an island where most of us live inland, the answer seems to be the sea.
But we suppose the crucial and overriding question which visitors wish to ask of the people of Worcester is, ‘Who invented Worcestershire Sauce?’.
As with Coca-Cola, so with Worcester’s sauce: the inventors were pharmacists. According to Wikipedia and others, the pharmaceutical partnership of John Wheeley Lea and William Perrins of 63 Broad Street, Worcester is responsible for the invention, although its history and ingredients are as murky as the sauce itself.
Above: the reconstructed Victorian Pharmacy in the Worcester City Art Gallery and Museum
But, as one of us is the child of two generations of pharmaceutical chemists, we are proud, yes, but also unsurprised.
IN SEARCH OF DRAGONS AND DAMSELS
Despatches from Terroir North:
North Wales, in common with most of the UK, has suffered from a distinct lack of butterflies this year - not just in numbers but also in the range of species. That this is, for the most part, attributable to prolonged spells of cold and wet weather is not in doubt, and it is only in the last few weeks that the numbers appear to be rising a little.
‘Where have all the butterflies gone' scream many newspapers, clearly short of major events to record (I think they call it clickbait these days!). Nevertheless, such headlines highlight the fragile nature of these much loved insects, and how one miserable summer can have a devastating effect on butterfly populations (and, maybe, on their long term recovery). What these editors appear to have overlooked, however, has been an ongoing and disturbing decline in butterfly numbers over several decades.
Diminishing butterfly populations: from left to right - common blue, small tortoiseshell and small copper (all images © Richard Stephens)
So, given the lack of butterflies here in the depths of a cold and damp north Wales, the members of Terroir North turned their attention to another spectacular group of insects – the Odonata. Better known as dragonflies, this group includes both dragonflies and damselflies of which there are some 57 species recorded in the UK and around 5,000 species worldwide. Of that 57, a significant number are rare ‘vagrants’ and several are confined to very specific localised parts of the UK. In reality, therefore, we realised that around only 30 species were likely to be found, and eventually identified, by the intrepid Terroir team.
But why 'dragonfly'? Well, there are several myths and legends surrounding these creatures. The most likely explanation is that their long bodies and wings resemble the mythical dragons of old (for which Wales is, of course, famous). Apparently the name seems to have first appeared in the late 16th century and then seems to have stuck.
Image above: male southern hawker masquerading as a full sized dragon
The much smaller damselflies are thought to be so named because of their more delicate (damsel-like?) appearance and generally less powerful flight.
Left: common blue damselfly
A bit of biology now. These flying insects are incredibly short-lived - maybe a week or so for damselflies and two to three weeks for most dragonflies. During this time they feed mainly on other smaller insects. The larger dragonflies will happily consume butterflies, moths and even smaller dragonflies. Nothing is safe.
Images above: immature emperor dragonfly demolishing a bee
Most of the dragonfly life cycle, however, is spent in water. The flying females normally lay eggs under the water. These slowly develop into a larva, moulting several times until eventually emerging (after from six months to six years depending on the species), as a full-grown adult.
The trouble with these insects is that, in their winged form, dragonflies tend to be extraordinarily active, flying at great speed and performing aeronautical acrobatics with ease. The smaller damselflies are generally more sedate and are relatively easy to observe - that is until you realise that several species are extraordinarily similar! Identification revolves mainly around the abdominal segments; many species have an assortment of blue colouration, but the key is the relative position and frequency of these blue segments.
The Odonata are loosely classified into their basic flying habits (or jizz as its known). So we have the hawkers which are the larger dragonflies because they prowl around, a bit like a bird of prey. Then there are the darters which tend to dart around but then settle, which helps identification, always assuming you know where they have darted to. There are also chasers and skimmers which loosely do chase and skim - but not always!
Then there are the specific habitats preferred by the various species. Some like fresh water, some prefer still water, running water or even acidic pools and bogs. Some are upland species, most are lowland species. Some emerge in late spring, some in late summer and most inbetween. But, because they are only around a short time, seeing them is very hit and miss, depending on when an emergence has taken place. Sometimes one species is present in vast numbers but two weeks later – they’re all gone. All in all, it’s very similar to the vagaries of looking for butterflies but with much shorter windows for some species.
Terroir in north Wales is fortunate to have a wide variety of suitable sites available to the team. The British Dragonfly Society has a very good website which lists many of the best locations in the UK, giving details of what has been seen and how to get there. Canals and small lakes with good marginal vegetation are excellent places to visit. Peat bogs and raised mires such as found at Fenns, Whixall and Bettisfield Mosses National Nature Reserve (on the Wales/Shropshire border), Cors Caron (Tregaron, Ceredigion) and Cors Goch (a Wildlife Trust reserve on Anglesey) proved very productive. So too did long lengths of the little used Montgomery Canal (and its assocated overspill reservoirs) which are especially well-vegetated.
So when did we go Odonata hunting and what did we find? The key (as with butterflies) is a warm and mainly sunny day. Strong winds and lots of cloud are no good; the dragonflies just simply hunker down and are not to be seen. Unfortunately this summer has not been blessed with many fine days but we did make sorties out to known sites where possible.
Generally we found the common blue, blue-tailed and emerald damselflies …
… and the canal yielded the spectacular banded demoiselle (right) in large numbers.
Hawkers seemed to be everywhere but they fly fast and furiously and rarely stop, making identification problematic. The most common seemed to be the emperor dragonfly and the southern hawker (check the colour of the thorax and abdomen), but males, females and juveniles all have different colour combinations so positve identification is really tricky. Another relatively common dragonfly is the brown hawker which - being brown - is a fairly easy one to confirm! The common hawker and the migrant hawker look superficially identical and you need to be close up to confirm the colour details on the thorax and abdomen. Neither is rare but we found these two to be the most taxing of them all. And, of course, they are continuously on the wing which makes it even more tricky to get a close view.
Moving down in size we found a massive abundance of black darters on Cors Caron, and the common darters were overall, well, common! Lovely surprises were a ruddy darter, black-tailed skimmers, and spotted and broad-bodied chasers on the canal and on Cors Goch. Overall, we successfully recorded over 20 Odonata species with a couple being relatively unusual for the area, including red-eyed damselflies and that ruddy darter which we pictured above.
Would we recommend it? Most certainly we would. It’s a fascinating group of insects and we are already looking forward to next year’s Odonata hunt - but starting a bit earlier in order to catch the spring species.
Ed – I hope you recorded all your sightings on iRecord? https://irecord.org.uk/
Seasonal Change
Social media is already awash with harbingers of autumn and it can only increase as the trees start to change colour. Terroir was going to write something hard hitting and original about seasonal change but that seems to be getting harder every year. The internet has everything you could ever want to know on climate change and how to define a season.
Climate and weather seem a pretty obvious way to define seasonal change. We in the UK still think of summer as warmer and drier and winter as colder and wetter. We book our foreign holidays to avoid monsoon seasons or to exploit snow for ‘winter’ sports. Or at least we try to forecast when these conditions will apply. With climate change, this is becoming increasingly tricky.
But surely seasons are still a valid concept? In Britain, we have devised a number of ways to define ‘seasons’.
Astronomical seasons in Britain are based on the earth’s orbit around the sun and the timing of our equinoxes and solstices. Thus the Met Office defines the astronomical seasons for the next 12 months as
Autumn: 22nd September 2024 to 21st December 2024
Winter: 21st December 2024 to 20th March 2025
Spring: 20th to March to 21st June
Summer: 21st June 2025 to 22nd September 2025
On that basis, therefore, and at the time of writing, it is still summer in the UK.
Meteorological seasons, however, are strictly defined by specific and unchanging dates to ‘coincide with our Gregorian calendar, making it easier for meteorological observing and forecasting to compare seasonal and monthly statistics’ (https://www.metoffice.gov.uk/weather/learn-about/weather/seasons/winter/when-does-winter-start). The Met Office defines these periods as:
Spring - March, April, May
Summer - June, July, August
Autumn - September, October, November and
Winter - December, January, February. By this definition, we are currently in autumn!
The church, the legal profession and bureaucracy have also had a crack at defining the seasons. Quarter Days in Britain seem to have been around since at least Medieval times. Based on religious festivals which roughly coincided with the equinoxes and the solstices, they were the dates when rents were paid, staff hired and educational terms started. Dates changed a bit in the early 1750s due to the move from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar, and to harmonise with Scotland, but the basic principle has survived.
Today, the English and Welsh Quarter Days are:
Lady Day: the Feast of the Annunciation, 25th March
Midsummer Day: the Nativity of St John the Baptist, 24th June
Michaelmas: the Feast of St Michael and All Angels, 29th September
Christmas: 25th December
According to this, we are still in summer having not yet reached the start of the Michaelmas term, due on the 29th September.
Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quarter_days) quotes The Times (G. C. M Young 15/04/26) with the following useful memory aid:
‘Assuming you can remember when Christmas occurs, a useful mnemonic to place quarter days is to count the letters of the relevant months. Thus, in March, there being five letters, you can know that the quarter day is the 25th. June has four letters and the quarter day is the 24th, and September, having nine letters, has its quarter day on the 29th.’
Phenology is the study of seasonal changes in plants and animals, and is how we – as human animals – tend to judge the changing of the seasons by observing when specific plants start to flower or hedgehogs to hibernate. Both Terroirs North and South agree that this is an early autumn.
Here is our evidence:
Terroir south:
dropping temperatures since before the end of August and torrential rain storms
last of the beans and tomatoes, and full on apple harvesting
garden visits which now depend on seed heads much more than late blooms
Terroir north:
feels like October - 9◦C and wintry showers
Teasel dieback and blackberries early (although bilberries pretty much ‘on time’)
Ling (Calluna vulgaris) flowering significantly early and now over in many places where it would normally be in full flower (image right)
Both Teams are experiencing late second flowerings (in the garden, not figuratively).
South - chives, rosemary, lavender and roses
North – apple, honeysuckle, teasle and also roses.
Instagram evidence: bringing tender plants in early, rowan berries early, fungus early, trees turning early, onions lifted already.
One sign of seasonally change is certain, however: Christmas cards in the shops.
Open Air Theatre
We’re on a stately-home-and-garden visit with friends. We get separated over the entry formalities, but on completion, the friends rush over with news which one of us hears as, ‘they have a garden in ruins’. We’re hooked.
In 1868, Ludwig Ernest Wilhelm Leonard Messel emigrated to Britain. He was probably 21 or 22 at the time. By 1890, by then a man in his forties, he had bought a Regency country house in Sussex and founded a dynasty which was to play many significant roles in the theatre of British society. You may know his home – Nymans – a National Trust Property with a fabulous garden and, yes, some ruins.
Ludwig was born to a German Jewish banking family in Darmstadt. He was well educated and, one assumes, comfortably off, yet he and his siblings emigrated to Britain. Terroir was curious to know why, and a quick internet search started to provide details of some issues that are still familiar today.
John Hilary, one of Ludwig’s great-great-grand-children writes that, despite being able to integrate into German society and retain their faith, and despite the fact that ‘Britain was not always a welcoming environment to foreigners, it clearly offered greater freedom and opportunity to German-Jewish migrants than the restricted society they left behind’. https://jch.history.ox.ac.uk/article/writing-messel-family-history-labour-love For a banking family, London’s role in global money matters must also have been a lure.
So Ludwig establishes the stockbroking firm of L. Messel and Co, marries an English woman (Annie Cussons), becomes a naturalised British citizen, has six children – four girls and two boys - and eventually uses his wealth to buy the Nymans estate. John Hilary sees the purchase as the epitome of ‘putting down roots and integrating into their new home environment’ but the website ‘Shalom Sussex’ suggests that integrating into the British gentry was ‘a goal he [Ludwig] would never achieve’. https://shalomsussex.co.uk/the-messel-family-living-in-britain-with-german-heritage/
So what happened? It seems that WWI happened. The war was never going to be easy for a German immigrant. For example, renovations at Nymans, carried out by his youngest brother, architect Alfred Messel, in a rather Germanic style, included a high tower. Ludwig was accused of using this tower to communicate with Germans or Germany. The tower was later demolished, but Ludwig died in 1915, depressed and possibly heartbroken, over the conflict between the two nations he loved.
Ludwig’s eldest son Leonard inherited Nymans after his father’s death. Leonard’s upbringing was quintessentially English (Eton, Oxford, the Territorial Reserve and marriage to Maud, daughter of Punch cartoonist, Edward Linley Sambourne). Despite this cv, however, a German father was seen as sufficient to prevent Ludwig’s sons from serving abroad in WWI, although both they and Maud served their country in various ways while remaining based in England.
Nymans is famous for its gardens. The love of horticulture had started with Ludwig, aided and abetted by his head gardener James Comber, and famous names such as William Robinson who advised on a wild garden.
In their turn, Leonard and Maud both became avid plants-people, the German influenced Regency was house converted into a mock medieval Manor House and some ambitious planting work was undertaken (including Maud’s Rose Garden and an impressive collection of rare plants). The garden was often opened to the public in the interwar years. Finally the shadow of German immigration seemed to have been laid to rest.
Sadly disaster struck in the cold winter of 1947, when the house burned down destroying not only the mock medieval great hall but also Leonard’s extensive and irreplaceable collection of horticultural books. The house was partially rebuilt but extensive ruins still stand.
The final generation to be raised and nurtured at Nymans, were Leonard and Maud’s three children Linley, Anne and Oliver, born around the turn of the 20th century. Linley seems to have been a rather elusive figure, marrying in 1933, divorcing and remarrying in 1945 after playing an active role in WWII. Anne was a gardener, artist and socialite - one of the ‘Bright Young Things’ of the 1920s. She also married twice, firstly to Ronald Armstrong-Jones (her son was Antony Armstrong Jones, later Princess Margret’s husband) and, in 1935 to the ‘Adonis of the Peerage’ (according to Wikipedia), aka Vicount Rosse. Nowadays, divorce is a norm, but in the interwar years was probably the prerogative of the wealthy. Did changing marital partners produce mere society gossip or was there an element of scandal as well?
Oliver Messel was an artist and an extraordinarily talented theatre designer. He too may have had to ‘manage’ his lifestyle. His long lasting same-sex relationship with Vagn Riis-Hansen, at a time when homosexuality was a criminal offence, must have had to be handled with discretion. All the Messel lives seem to have had an element of the theatre about them.
So, you are shouting, where is this ruined garden? Stop droning on about 20th century social mores.
Allow us, therefore, to indulge you. I had, of course, misheard the message relayed to us on arrival at Nymans: it is not a ruined garden but a garden in the ruins - of the mock medieval great hall. It is a magnificent piece of design and horticulture, worthy of Anne and Oliver (and possibly the elusive Linley too). A knowledgeable ‘ruined room’ steward added depth to our visit and there is sufficient space to move around and admire the architecture and sculpture as well as the planting. A worthy addition to the already stupendous Nymans’ gardens.
The great hall in its heyday (note minstrels’ gallery at the far end - above left), and the ruined hall as it stands today (above right).
Below: the new ‘Garden in the ruins’ (below left and centre) and the blank supporting wall where once was the minstrels’ gallery.
The planting (below) is bold and architectual, using large plants to great effect in a confined space.
The corten steel ‘room dividers’ (below) are stunnng; artworks in their own right but reflecting key images of the Messels and their garden. The Cedar of Lebanon was the Messel family emblem.
The interplay between the modern garden and the ruins create a magnificent atmopshere, and makes the whole appear much larger than it is. A piece of theatre in the ‘rectangle’ which creates a very fitting tribute to Oliver Messel and honours the architectural detail (below) which has been, literally, honed by fire.
Remarkably the gable window (above left) still has tiny shards of the original glass caught in the corners of the decorative stone work (above centre and right).
Perhaps the most poignant memorial to the fire, however, is a huge reproduction of Leonard Messel’s beloved study and book collection, placed where his library would have been. This is a salutary reminder of the tragic loss to horticultural knowledge and scholarship, which went up in flames on a freezing winter night in 1947.
English Rural Life
In October 1908, Aubrey gave Doreen a book entitled Highways & Byways in Berkshire. Was this a romantic gesture or had they been married for forty years? Were they siblings, cousins or just good friends? We shall probably never know as Terroir purchased the book, from a British Heart Foundation charity shop, well over a hundred years later. The fly leaf dedication reveals only that Aubrey considered himself a man of Southsea at the time.
We do know that the book was written by James Edmund Vincent, with illustrations by Frederick L Griggs and was published by the London house of Macmillan & Co Ltd in 1906.
J E Vincent was a Welsh barrister, called to the Bar in 1884, went the North Wales circuit, but began to ‘devote more attention to journalism than law’ (https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Dictionary_of_National_Biography,_1912_supplement/Vincent,_James_Edmund) and was soon authoring books on a variety of subjects. In the early 1900s, he moved to the Vale of the White Horse, near Abingdon (at that time in Berkshire, now Oxfordshire) where he penned this volume and contributed to other publications devoted to the same area.
Frederick Gibbs RA was ‘one of the finest and most respected etchers of his time’ as well as an architectural draughtsman, illustrator, and early conservationist (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/F._L._Griggs). He illustrated a number of Macmillan’s Highways & Byways series but one suspects that this was just an early step on his path to becoming, in 1931, one of the first etchers to be elected to full membership to the Royal Academy.
In June this year, Terroir walked a section of the Ridgeway National Trail through the ‘Berkshire Downs’ (Blog 136 ‘Ridgeways’). One of us was curious to see what James E Vincent made of the area, particularly as our party included another North Walian who had, like James Vincent, emigrated to the Home Counties.
James Vincent discusses the Berkshire Downs in his second chapter of ‘Highways & Byways in Berkshire’. The account is discursive, often self-indulgent and sometimes confusing, but does consider a number of topics of interest to Terroir.
The chapter starts with a discussion on what we would now call landscape character: ‘The fascination of Downs’, remarks Vincent, is ‘more comparable, perhaps, to that of the Canadian prairie than to any other scenery in the world’.
Above: American Mid West prairie lands in the 1880s, from the Puffin edition of Little House on the Prairie, drawn Garth Williams
He suggests that the new-comer to Canada is ‘appalled by the savage solitude’ and ‘wearied by gentle and monotonous undulations of poor grass which seem to go on for ever’. [I’m so not picking up Berkshire here]. Laura Ingalls Wilder hinted at this experience in her ‘Little House’ books (Blog 129), but Vincent’s point, when we finally get to it, appears to be that ‘The Berkshire Downs … attract the newcomer at once’ while the call of the Canadian Prairies only becomes irresistible after a considerable absence!
Above: Canadian prairies, Alberta 2023
Vincent follows his transatlantic distraction with a more traditional eulogy on English downland: the springy turf, the soft, elastic grass, the gentian or orchid, the faint fragrance of hundreds of tiny flowers, the hum of bees. Agricultural changes mean that much of that springy turf is now gone although some of the track margins do still support a diversity of wild flowers (including orchids) within the, now longer, grassy habitat.
As with ourselves, so Vincent was enthralled by evidence of the Downs’ antiquity (‘a tumulus, or a group of great grey stones’) (right - a view of Wayland’s Smithy) but unfortunately our author cannot get those Canadian prairies out of his head.
He dismisses the prairies’ early history (defined by JEV as anything prior to the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railway) by suggesting it could be ‘condensed into a few sentences’. Please don’t pass that on to the Canadian First Nationers.
As a Welshman abroad, Vincent indulges himself with a diversion into linguistics and the origin of place names: ‘having been born in Wales and being well aware that the Britons were before Roman and Saxon, I have a tendency to suspect a British origin for old-place names when the derivation is not obvious’. The debate centres on the villages of East and West Hendred. JEV argues that ‘Hendred’ is surely a corruption of the Welsh Hêndre or Hêndref meaning ‘old town’ or ‘old house’. Terroir will spare you Vincent’s defence of his theory but the author is firm in his conclusion that a Celtic influence still abounds in the culture and DNA of these Berkshire villages.
Whatever your views, it is an excellent excuse to feature one of Griggs’ illustrations (left).
Vincent has other surprises for us. After 14 closely typeset pages, he introduces the concept of ‘Berkshire sheep’. We think he means sheep that graze in Berkshire as we can find no reference to such a sheep breed. Hampshire sheep appear to be downland grazers so perhaps the bureaucratic nightmare of moving county boundaries applied to the naming of sheep as well. Our man then goes on to state that the Berkshire Downs were not, in fact, grazed by sheep at all, despite much of what he has written and/or implied in earlier sections. Indeed, by page 30, he has all these sheep penned on the lowlands, eating turnips and clover.
But one cannot deny that agricultural changes must have wrought many, many alterations to the landscape known to James Vincent at the start of the 20th century. Sheep of any sort are now a rarity and, although some verges might still be spangled with wild flowers familiar to our author, one suspects that the wider landscape now sports crops of different shades of green, planted on a different scale and creating very different landscape patterns. The weed-free, densely packed plantings of short stemmed wheat, barley and even peas would have been, we suspect, entirely alien to Vincent’s Berkshire landscape.
After around 6,500 words, Vincent ends his Berkshire Downs chapter with specific reference to horses and hares: ‘the only animals one sees’. Although we spotted a number of bird species and some butterflies on our 2024 walk, we would agree with Vincent that wild mammals were not much in evidence. The sight of race horses training on the Berkshire Downs, however, is probably the only landscape detail which Terroir and James Vincent would have in common. Vincent cites the 18th century Prince William, Duke of Cumberland as starting the trend with the construction of substantial stables near the village of East Ilsley and suggests that these Berkshire gallops rivaled Newmarket with their ‘better galloping ground and purer air’. The Downs remain an important locale for race horse training today (see images below).
And the hares? The final pages of Chapter 2 are not for the faint hearted nor for the Hunt Saboteur. Vincent revels in the delights of hare coursing - and of class consciousness! Bemoaning that coursing has fallen into disrepute ‘because it has come to be practised by persons of low repute’, (by which he means ‘publicans’ and ‘betting men’), he continues, ‘For the sport itself, privately pursued by small groups of gentlemen with two or three couples of greyhounds … I know nothing prettier’. He speaks with equal enthusiasm of fox hunting, and of shooting pheasant and partridge. He is clearly an avid enthusiast and his love of hunting shines through: his prose becomes lyrical, imaginative and fast moving in a way that not even the Welsh language, wild flowers or prehistoric antiquities had inspired him in earlier pages. Perhaps hunting is why James Edmund Vincent moved to Berkshire?
Postscript:
While researching this blog I was reminded of the excellent Museum of English Rural Life (The MERL), at Reading University. The Museum houses a magical, and nostalgic, collection of all things agricultural, including the finest line up of farm carts I’ve ever seen. Yes, I know - I never imagined that I would hear myself say that, but looking at the design quirks of hay wagons can be just as absorbing for Terroir as discussing car marques and specs can be for petrol heads.
But the Museum is not just about the English or Rural Life. Studying the Museum’s archive catalogue is like walking through your favourite sweet shop. Enjoyed Ladybird Books? A fan of Samuel Beckett? Want to study the history of Woolworths? Got a thing about clay land drainage pipes? Then this is the place for you.
I was reminded of all this when I started looking at the publisher of the Highways & Byways series. So good to know that the archive of Macmillan and Co Ltd (all 762 boxes) is safely tucked up in the Museum of English Rural Life.
University of Reading, Redlands Road, Reading, RG1 5EX
Vox and Socks
Last weekend we went around the world.
One of the greatest ways to experience a landscape, a culture, a history or a people is through their music. But how do you illustrate music in words? Surely a blog about music is a contradiction in terms, a waste of time and an unsatisfactory story, without a sound track? You are probably right but we’re going to give it a go anyway. As we said, last weekend we went around the world – in music.
Our journey started with a brief stop-over in central Tanzania with The Zawose Queens, a mother and daughter combo carrying on the tradition of father/grandfather Hukwe Zawose: large and lustrous rhythms and harmonies, radiating warmth and welcome. https://www.thezawosequeens.com/
But we were actually on our way to the Iberian peninsula in Europe, so hurried on to sit at the feet of LINA_, a shepherd’s daughter from north eastern Portugal. Classically trained, she now combines traditional Fado music with the 16th century poetry of Luís de Camões and 21st century electronic music.
Her wandering, soaring vocals create patterns in the air but also present us with the weekend’s greatest conundrum: we had no idea what she was singing about. https://www.lina.pt/lina/
And yes, you’ve guessed it, we were at a world music festival. WOMAD (World of music, arts and dance) was founded by Peter Gabriel and others in 1980 and is now an international staple. Currently based, in the UK, at Charlton Park in Wiltshire, WOMAD is a rich, deep, funny, relaxed, satisfying fruit cake of everybody’s folk music, literally electrified, but as subtle, outlandish, political, personal, historical, futuristic and satisfying as only music can be.
Food is also very much part of the experience and we counted around 40 food outlets in the main arena area alone. The English staple of coffee and cake is available everywhere and the queues at breakfast and mid-morning are witness to the hugely appreciated English pastry and toastie menu.
But there is just nothing like being taken to Pakistan and Spain (Qawwali Flamenco) while eating an apple and cinnamon French crěpe.
A potential problem with WOMAD, however, is the number of stages and the resultant planning required to nip from one stage to another to be sure of hearing all you want. On the plus side, if you’ve missed your favourite on, say, the Charlie Gillett stage, you may well be able to catch them doing a workshop in a tent somewhere else.
Thus we caught up with an Italian group (Ars Nova Napoli) at the ‘Taste the World’ stage where certain groups are invited to cook something from their home cuisine, submit to being interviewed and play music, often simultaneously. Ars Nova not only cook pasta but use traditional instruments, reinterpret long established tunes and create some new ones of their own as well. Their music is fast and furious, swirling at breakneck speed, but occasionally creating a pause for a melodic soloist - perfect for that hot Mediterranean or Wiltshire evening. Their tarantella certainly uplifted the audience but goodness knows what it’s speed does to the players. https://www.arsnovanapoli.com/
The big one for Friday evening was the duo that is Amadou and Mariam (https://www.amadou-mariam.com/), a couple who met in Mali’s Institute for the Blind in the 1970s, are still married and still making music. What a contrast to the Israel based rappers ‘DAM’, performing in Arabic, English and Hebrew. Under a silent dance of Palestinian flags carried by members of the audience (below right), the atmosphere was electric (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DAM_(band)). We finished the evening in Edinburgh (as you do) with Young Fathers (https://www.young-fathers.com/), described by trio member Graham G Hastings as “hip hop without the rules” and “just like it’s rock without the guitars”. New to us (surprised?), but it works.
In contrast, on Saturday, the London Bulgarian choir is very colourful, very formal and now, apparently, with many non-Bulgarian speakers. Bulgarian folk music first passed though the Iron Curtain thanks to the 1980s record ‘Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares’. The recording was a huge success – you can still find copies in boxes of second hand CDs – but the choir was, one suspects, very much a Soviet invention; today the London Bulgarian choir carries on the folk tradition in a very different atmosphere. Apparently we were listening to songs about shepherds and nightingales, about freedom fighters and about love. Yep, that’ll do nicely.
Genticorum, in contrast is a three-piece Québecois group who prefer larks to nightingales. Their music clearly reflects the influences of Francophone immigrants and the equally toe tapping Celtic traditions which arrived from the west of Britain and Ireland.
We followed that with a very different take on the French abroad, this time via kora player Seckou Keita and the Homeland Band, keeping the African sounds of Sénégal very much alive. The vibe couldn’t be more different.
Where next? Wales of course for Cerys Hafana, her elphin face just visible over the heads of the audience, while her seemingly enchanted fingers fashion compelling melodies from a triple harp (is that three times more difficult than a ‘standard’ harp?) and an extraordinary array of other instruments. We slip quietly away at the end for a Goan fish curry.
The night finishes (for us) on New York’s Lower East Side with Gogol Bordello, described as ‘riotous gypsy punks’ with a big dash of ‘Eastern European sounds’. I’m still not sure what that combination should sound like but Gogol Bordello is (are?) loud, chaotic, eccentric, arresting, surprising and utterly mesmeric! Unsurprisingly, they are very hot on supporting Ukraine, and have collaborated with others on the song "Man with the Iron Balls", dedicated to Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky.
It’s Sunday and maybe we have saved the best ‘til last. You will probably not agree with us but something advertised as ‘stirring vocal harmonies from the Caucasus’ will always make Terroir sit up and take notice. Indeed it made us stand up and lean on the rail at the very foot of the stage for the entire set.
We were not disappointed. Three young women in Chechen dress lined up in front of us with the more mature figure of Bella, armed with an accordion, keeping a motherly eye on things. They were magic!
The Ensemble lives in the Pankisi valley in eastern Georgia and sing of their former homeland in Chechnya, now a Russian republic. They sing Georgian songs too but are passionate about protecting and conserving their Chechen cultural heritage. The sound is four-part, close harmony, with the Chechen flute and accordion in support.
Sometime later that afternoon, they appeared again at the Taste the World stage, creating dumplings cooked in stock and a traditional salad (sadly it all ran out before we got to the front of the queue), plus singing and telling us about how Bella created the ensemble.
Someone asked about their recordings – CDs? You Tube? No, they replied, we are active on social media but no recordings. ‘Quick’, someone called out, ‘get them a contract’. You can follow the Pankisi Ensemble on Instagram and Facebook. Terroir already does. What a find.
Our farewell to WOMAD was Baaba Maal, headlining on the Sunday night main stage. What a show! Pure theatre, with splendid vocals and band, and a vibrant message about the need to tackle climate change. We couldn’t stay to the end, however, as we had reality waiting for us in the form of a 9am dentist’s appointment the following day.
So that’s how we travelled the word in a weekend and accounts for the ‘Vox’ part of the title. But what about those socks?
Music festivals mean you spend a lot of time sitting on the ground. Audiences tend to differentiate into three distinct horizontal bands: the upper level is formed by the people who stand, the middle is made up of those who sit on folding chairs and the lowest level are those who sit on the ground either on rugs or portable folding festival seats (favoured by Terroir). At Terroir level you see a lot of socks. Friday’s audience favoured brightly coloured stripy socks, probably made out of bamboo fabric. Saturday’s socks tended to be vivid patterns and bright colours. But Sunday socks were overwhelmingly plain black or plain white socks. What was that all about?
Jog on, Jog on, the Footpath Way
and merrily hent the stile-a
Shakespeare, from The Winter’s Tale
Terroir has written a lot about how humans get from A to B. We’ve looked at the 800,000 year old footprints of five people walking down the Ancestral Thames, which were briefly revealed by the tide at Happisburgh on the Norfolk coast; we’ve walked and reported on National Trails (most recently the Ridgeway); we’ve trialled a new Green Link walk across London, and we’ve travelled on numerous trains on rails, buses on roads and boats on waterways.
Even the most sedentary of us need to travel, if only from field to barn, or from semi-detached villa to local shop. To do this we create ‘ways’, which can vary from grassy pathways to giant freeways. At the time of writing, Terroir South is housebound with Covid so our thoughts have turned to how we design these ways, routes, paths, tracks and trails which we currently don’t have the energy to use.
These days, there are design and engineering standards for most of the things which we formally construct in the UK. I suppose the earliest forms of design decisions were largely intuitive. How much vegetation do I need to cut down to create a track wide enough for me and my pack pony to get through? If I veer left here to avoid that massive oak, the track will be longer but, in the short tem, it’ll save time and energy on beating a path to market.
The size of the ‘average’ cart horse probably dictated the width between the shafts which in turn was significant in deciding the width between the cart’s wheels and, as night follows day, the width of a cart track. Railway pioneer George Stephenson worked with a track gauge of 4ft 8in, based on the width of existing colliery wagon ways, (although he increased it to 4ft 8 ¼ in to ease the curves). Brunel built at 7ft gauge (later 7ft ¼ in – what is it with these railway types?) but, as Brunel had laid fewer track miles, he lost the battle for the standardised width to the Stephenson lobby.
Today, there is a mass of guidance on widths and surface types for most of the ‘ways’ which we currently create. For example, new footpaths should, under normal circumstances, be at least 2m wide to allow two wheelchairs or motorised buggies to pass. On sloping ground, regular ‘landings’ with accessible seating should be provided to allow the opportunity to rest. Cycle ways should be – oh never mind, you get the idea.
Navigable, legible, accessible streetscapes and areas of public realm are essential. You may not need it today, but tomorrow you may be very grateful for it (a new baby, a newly broken hip, newly deteriorating eyesight).
Many of our existing ‘ways’, however, do not conform to these accessibility recommendations. Should we expect them to?
An accessible route from car park to famous beauty spot can complement a choice of routes for a country ramble. Most, however, would think that a standard wheelchair route to the top of your favourite mountain would not be realistic or feasible (especially if you were doing the pushing).
The United Kingdom’s four national peaks are Slieve Donard at 850 m (2,790 ft), Scafell Pike at 978 m (3,209 ft), Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon) at 1,085 m (3,560 ft) and Ben Nevis coming in at 1,345 m (4,413 ft). In terms of climbing, these figures are pretty useless however, because the amount of effort you expend depends on how high you are when you start and what it’s like underfoot. Many people start the Ben Nevis climb at just 20 m above sea level.
It is interesting to note that all the UK’s peaks offer alternative climbing routes. But only one has a route which can be defined as accessible; this route even has its own Access Statement. The mountain is, of course Snowdon, and the accessible route is via the Snowdon Mountain Railway (https://snowdonrailway.co.uk).
Unlike many of Wales’ narrow gauge railways, the SMR was built purely as a tourist attraction. It runs from Llanberis to the summit and opened in time for Easter in 1896.
By Porius1 - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11614480
Today’s blog, however, concentrates specifically on a jog up the English high point of Scafell Pike, located in the northern Lakes.
You can climb Scafell Pike from Borrowdale, Langdale and Wasdale but the driving time to reach the relevant car parks is as significant a factor in selecting a route as the hiking time. We settled on the longest drive, to Wasdale Head, for the shortest distance to the peak.
The website (https://www.scafellpike.org.uk/route/wasdale-head/) describes this route as
Terrain: Rough and rocky ground, grassy hillsides, bog and occasional exposure
Time: 4.5 hours
Distance: 9km/6 miles [that’s from the car park, not the bottom of the trail!
]
No sweat!
But before we start, we need to discuss why upland paths are never a walk in the park. To start with, the National Trust (which owns the Scafell Pike area) reckons that 250,000 people climb the Pike every year. That’s an average of 685 people every day or 21,000 every month. So imagine a sunny Saturday in the school holidays?
The pressure is enormous, not just on the car parks, not just on the Mountain Rescue Teams, not just on your legs, but on the surface of the routes up which we are all stumbling. That number of people can erode a mountainside, wreck vegetation and frighten a lot of sheep in a very short time. Ensuring people stay on the path and ensuring the path stays in existence is a tall order in all senses of the word – high elevations, high work load, high costs.
So let’s review the conditions which we experienced on our expedition to the summit of Scafell Pike.
The day starts with a long, slow drive on an extremely picturesque but stomach churning, wriggling, single track road (right). At 08.30 on a school day in July it’s quite exciting, especially when you realise that traffic isn’t going to be an issue. We can’t begin to magine what it’s like on a bank holiday Monday!
People have arrived ahead of us but there is still plenty of room in the car park. We are National Trust Members, so parking is free. The members’ card digital scanner works fine and spits out a neat little parking ticket. We even remember to put it in the car windscreen.
The track to open moorland is a very attractive prospect and the views are opening up nicely. There is even one of those accessible kissing gates in case you don’t fancy merrily, or indeed fractiously, henting one of those antiquated stile contraptions. Granny and the toddlers would love these.
Things continue well until we round a corner, and the sun goes in. Where did all those rocks/boulders/rubble come from?! Granny and the kids will have beaten a hasty retreat.
But then, my goodness, they’ve built us steps! Not quite sure if this is over urbanisation or a glorious relief from the boulders. Good place to stop for a breather though.
What’s this? A notice board? Up here? Fix the Fells? Beware of Rangers? Is that anti European graffiti or just an updating of out-of-date information? It’s a bit like being held up by a digital highwayman/woman. Yer money or yer dodgy footpath …
Where did these builders’ bags of stone come from? Ah, delivered by helicopter; don’t blame them but no wonder they need money. We’re run out of steps here but there’s a nice steady grade to climb. But what’s happened now? We’ve moved into boulder hell. Surely this can’t be real?
Sadly it was real, and the final section of the walk to the top of Scafell Pike is (t)rubble all the way, particularly if your lungs are starting a battle with Covid 19.
There was one compensation however, which was the discovery of a healthy population of parsley fern (Cryptogramma crispa), an arctic-alpine species and a pioneer plant on acidic screes.
As we tramped back through those ghastly boulders and suffered the knee-jarring experience of all those steps, we did spare a thought for the National Trust staff and volunteers who have to heft that stone and build those steps. We even wondered if there was an alternative footpath material which might lighten everybody’s load. Any suggestions? But it was also cheering to think that, on the journey down, the path from hell is also paved with good intentions.
Ridgeways
Southern England loves its chalky ridges. In very simplistic terms (we’re not geologists) the chalk was formed by layers of marine creatures who lived and died in shallow seas. Unsurprisingly, this geological period became known as the Cretaceous period (creta is Latin for chalk), although the dinosaurs, who were knocking around in the shallows and on dry land at the time, probably just thought of it as home. As it happened, they became extinct ‘shortly’ afterwards; theories about why this happened are numerous.
After a lot of post Cretaceous upheavals and erosion, chalk ridges and plateaus appeared all over southern England. The locals loved them and put them to lots of good uses, not all of which we fully understand. It seems that the Romans then brought reading and writing to the British Isles and kick started British history (as oppose to prehistory). Now we began to have records of some of our activities. Literacy, however, also laid the foundations for one of our greatest achievements: bureaucracy. And with bureaucracy came the absorbing occupation of trying to work out what the records actually mean. Progress?
This year, Terroir South spent a happy few days walking sections of the Ridgeway National Trail. The Ridgeway “rides the back of one of the six great ridges that radiate from the central hub of Salisbury Plain. It sails the undulating waves of chalk downland through Wiltshire and Oxfordshire (until recently they were in Berkshire) [see how bureaucracy can ruin a lyrical phrase] to the Thames Valley at Goring”. This extract comes from the 1981 publication entitled ‘The Ridgeway Path’ by Alan Charles and perfectly illustrates our love of chalky uplands. After Goring, and assuming you are walking west to east, with the wind at your back, the path turns north east to clamber through the Chilterns, culminating at Ivinghoe Beacon five miles north east of Tring.
Today’s blog, however, will concentrate on the 23 mile section of the Ridgeway which runs from south of the village of Ashbury (a victim of the Berkshire to Oxfordshire hiatus) to the small town of Goring, picturesquely situated on the left bank of the Thames. This distance will be quite long enough to illustrate some of the quirks relating to our love affair with chalk ridges.
The Ridgeway as communication and trade route:
“In pre-historic times the chalk up-lands, free-draining and relatively open, with scrubland, grazing animals and primitive cultivation, offered easier and safer passage than the heavy clay and dense woodland of the vales and river valleys, particularly in winter.” (https://ridgewayfriends.org.uk/the-trail/the-ancient-ridgeway/)
Above - which would you take - the ridge or the vale?
But what did our Neolithic forebears actually experience when they travelled along this elevated pathway. Could they see the view? Was the route easy to navigate? Terroir buys into the theory of chalk ridges being easier to navigate than clay-and-woodland lowlands, but I sometimes wonder how much work was really required to keep these passage ways open to travellers. In southern England, we have a romantic attachment to species-rich, springy downland turf, kept open by grazing sheep, so surely, we hear you cry, these were obvious places through which to create long distance routes for trade or pilgrimage? But modern agricultural changes caused by the removal of sheep has shown just how quickly these light, free draining soils scrub over and mature into woodland. A few ‘grazing animals’ and some ‘primitive cultivation’ may not have been enough to keep the tracks open in the way that 21st century walking boots, bicycles, horses and off road vehicles do.
Maybe all this business about prehistoric people enjoying wide views and easy walking (have you tried chalk when it’s wet?) is just a cultural myth. Maybe they chose the chalk routes (complete with encroaching hawthorn) as merely the lesser of two evils.
The Ridgeway and Wildflowers:
Where is the Ridgeway’s species rich chalk grassland today? Surprisingly, it is fairly limited. The verges on either side of the track from the Ridgeway’s Ashbury staging post (aka a car park) is a delight. We found wild thyme, Jack-go-to-bed-at-noon, hogweed bursting out all over, orchids (pyramidal and spotted), broomrape, horse shoe vetch, red campion, wild mignonette, sainfoin, meadow cranesbill and many more.
We also looked up and saw buzzards and red kites, skylarks, whitethroats and yellow hammers. We looked around and saw butterflies including meadow brown, small heath, and speckled woods, a few common and small blues and a couple of passing red admirals.
But after a while, it suddenly dawned on us that we had stopped stopping, so to speak, to look at the flowers, as the verges were now solidly dominated by a range of grasses and peppered with stinging nettles. On either side of the track were acres of wheat and barley - dense, silent and menacing ranks of cereal soldiers, surfing the chalk waves in monotonous shades of dark green. Coincidence?
It was a relief to see that we weren’t the only ones to notice the lack of wayside flowers. This sign (below left) informed us of an Oxford University outdoor laboratory project to encourage more native plants, insects and other wildlife to the area. At the moment oxeye daisies and buttercups seem to be hogging the limelight but we hope there will be further work to diversify the flora.
Construction on the Ridgeway:
Perhaps one of the greatest testimonies to our ancestors’ enthusiasm for the chalk lands is the serious, heavy weight ceremonial and community construction work which makes such dramatic use of the ridge crest. On this short stretch alone, there are numerous examples of prehistoric building work.
Our first stop is Wayland’s Smithy. As a child I found this name wildly romantic (although I had no idea who Wayland was and why he had a smithy). Thankfully, our visit did not disappoint.
From the slightly hippie notice board (do what you like but do it carefully) to the magic of the stones and earthen long barrow, the site was as eerie, and as evocative of old ghosts, as I could possibly have hoped. I now also know that Wayland was a smith god whose name was attached to the site in perhaps Saxon times. It did seem that the shape of the barrow was vaguely reminiscent of an anvil.
You will also note that, today, the site is rather cathedral like within it’s curtain wall of trees. Did our prehistic ancestors have to clear the site before they built here? Did they have to manage regenerating woody vegetation to retain clear visibility of the monument from the (?wooded) vale below? Or did those grazing animals do all the work?
Beyond Wayland’s great smithy lies the Uffington Castle and White Horse combination (below).
The huge, hilltop, ditches and ramparts of Uffington Castle are clearly visible from both the Ridgeway and from the Vale below, so it’s not surprising that the Castle was co-opted by 20th century surveyors and cartographers (trig point above right). In both cases (ie fort and map making) technology has rapidly moved on such that both structures are now classed as ‘heritage’. English Heritage retain this monument in an entirely tree-free condition.
The neighbouring Uffington White Horse (probably just BCE) is extremely difficult to see from the Ridgeway or from the Castle. In fact it is quite difficult to see from lower down the hill as it is tucked into an angle in the contours. One assumes that its surrounds were always maintained as grassland and that there was enough tree clearance in the Vale to make it easily visible from a distance.
By this time we were getting rather blasé about monuments and so we trudged straight past a little fort (with no public access) and made only a nodding acquaintance with the Iron Age Letcombe Castle, with its single ditch and rampart (Uffington’s is a double). We did visit the wonderfully named Scutchamer Knob but this heavily vandalised iron age round barrow was largely hidden under scrub and undergrowth.
But prehistoric monument builders were not the only ones to see the advantages of a ridge way location. Moving into the current era, our next discovery was a striking 19th century monument, perched on a bronze age barrow and commemorating local man, Brigadier General Robert James Loyd-Lindsay, 1st Baron Wantage.
One other form of landuse accompanied us throughout this 23 mile hike. It has nothing to do with the chalk ridge as such, but everything to do with the chalk downs behind it and with our nation’s love of horses and racing. We refer, of course, to the gallops which are carefully laid out and managed as an integral part of training race horses. The gallops are wide, sweeping, undulating and homogeneous grassy avenues which currently provide only a subtle contrast to the green of the downland arable crops but which will soon stand out more strongly as the grain ripens, and the harvester and then the plough get to work.
Thus the Vale of the White Horse is also the Vale of the Race Horse and no trees will be allowed to encroach on either of their habitats. We reckon that’s a dead cert.
Weedy Tendencies
Many years ago, three young geography undergraduates were reduced to (badly controlled) giggles when introduced to the concept of Weedy Tendencies. I had never heard the phrase before and, to be honest, have never heard this exact phrase since. A quick trawl of the internet, however, reveals that others have researched the characteristics of the ‘ideal weed’. For instance:
“By studying ruderal and agricultural weeds invading empty niches, Herbert Baker began to identify characteristics associated with invasiveness, which resulted in a list of traits describing the ‘ideal weed’ (Baker 1965, 1974)” (https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s00442-023-05397-8). Of course the key word here is ‘invasiveness’.
Memories of the definition of ‘Weedy Tendencies’ are clouded by the urgent need to appear focussed and stay silent in the lecture theatre, but I do remember that weedy characteristics included the ability to produce massive quantities of easily transportable seed (thistledown seems so romantic until it grows into a socking great thistle, and the heavier Sycamore seeds even come supplied with wings) or come with roots which can regenerate the plant after the hoe or hand has removed all evidence of leaves and flowers. How many times have I dug up the top end of a dandelion’s massively entrenched tap root, only to give up and move on, knowing that new leaves will be back before I am.
Above from left to right: the dreaded dandelion root, some catsear and a sycamore seedling. You know you didn’t plant them.
Of course invasiveness is not all bad: it’s sometimes a pleasure to get ‘free’ plants, to dig up spare plants to pass on to others or to feed the compost bin with the ones that you pull out. But - warning klaxon - many compost bins don’t get hot enough to kill off the roots of couch grass or bindweed.
So what is a weed? Yes, yes, we know it’s a plant in the wrong place. But we suspect that the definition of ‘wrong place’ is changing as awareness of climate change, the importance of biodiversity and the delights of No Mow May, June and July (right) alter the definition of the ‘garden’.
Terroir South’s garden is definitely not a nature reserve. It is a garden which functions as a controlled space, a place of peace, visual delight, variety, relaxation and shelter. It is a transition zone between ‘indoors’ and the world beyond (be that urban, agricultural, woodland or wilderness) over which we have no control.
But we now realise that gardens can make a serious contribution to urban biodiversity and habitats. Even one small garden can make a difference, but a row of gardens can provide sufficient habitat to support a huge range of wildlife from hedgehogs to holly blue butterflies.
So, as with many gardeners, we have added biodiversity (above) to Terroir’s list of what we expect from our garden.
But it’s all so subjective. How do we choose what plants to keep and what to weed out? There was a time when invasive herb Robert and cleavers were signs of neglect, a blemish on the garden environment. Terroir now welcomes herb Robert as a garden invader; he adds colour, form, diversity and a hint of the countryside beyond.
Above: herb Robert and wood sorrel decorate the front door step.
But cleavers/sticky Willie/goosegrass? Visually and culturally, it still seems incredibly ‘weedy’, something signalling neglect. The tiny white flowers are delightful but you need a magnifying glass to appreciate them; the burs are annoying or fun, depending on how old you are. We feel guilty pulling it up (and, oh boy, is it easy and immensely satisfying to grab great handfuls of the stuff). On the other hand it is impossible to eradicate completely so we always tolerate a small amount. Would we be more tolerant if cleavers was more colourful? Dandelions are frowned upon but a few of their bright yellow, nectary flowers can always be tolerated.
A farmer, or a lover of the perfect English lawn, knows exactly what a weed is – something which interferes with the ‘crop’ (and no, we won’t digress into a discussion on monocultures). It’s far harder to be a gardener where choice and variety is everything. Unwittingly we make value judgements all the time.
Below are some of Terroir’s decisions on invasive plants.
And finally - red campion, taken just past its best. It has just re-introduced itself and we are so glad to see it back.
So, what’s your favourite weedy invader?
Et in Arcadia Ego
‘‘Even in Arcadia, there am I”. Heavy stuff with which to start a blog on the essence of landscape and place, but Arcadia is a spatial concept, of course, as well as an intellectual and spiritual one. Getting our heads around the origins of Arcadia has been quite a tussle, however, so classicists and historians – please correct us as and where you need to.
Until our recent visit to Greece, if Terroir thought about Arcadia at all, we would have said something along the lines of Classical mythology, 17th century romantic shepherds posing in an Italian landscape, a French colony in eastern Canada and “Brideshead Revisited”.
A search through various references confirms that Arcadia certainly was a concept in Greek and Roman mythology. It was a mysterious, mountainous place, a lush, green, heaven-on-earth, full of mythical creatures including the gods Pan and Hermes, plus a load of shepherds. Presumably there were also sheep but apparently not enough to destroy that lush green, utopian, biodiverse, pastoral and bucolic landscape. Perhaps lamb was seen as the local Ambrosia.
The Arcadia concept seems to have a gone a little quiet for some centuries until, following on from the Scientific Revolution, the 18/19th century Age of Enlightenment burst on the scene, with a host of great thinkers, writers, scientists, philosophers and artists, including Poussin, whose posing shepherds (Et in Arcadia Ego) - right - is dated at approx. 1640 …
Nicolas Poussin, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=157589
… and Schiller whose poem entitled Resignation was published 1786, here in translation:
“Yes! even I was in Arcadia born,
And, in mine infant ears,
A vow of rapture was by Nature sworn;”
By the first half of the 19th century, people like Francois Pouqueville and William Wordsworth were also on the case.
The Classical Arcadia was located in the Peloponnese in the middle of the Greek mainland. It’s still there – and so are the sheep.
Inevitably, modern Arcadia isn’t quite as lush as we imagined the original version to have been but it is certainly hilly, green and, if you can find a suitable road verge, very floriferous (below left). The sheep were actually very hard to find but most of the countryside is covered with woodland, olive groves, walnuts, pasture and the occasional hay meadow (below right).
I suspect that most visitors enter the kingdom of Arcadia via the village of Lagadia, a striking hill top settlement with magnificent views. But wait – turn around – the buildings are as stunning (perhaps even more so) as the views. The houses are sturdy, rectangular, stone structures with overhanging clay tile roofs, built with skill, grace and assurance, and with wonderful attention to details. In other parts of the Mediterranean, say the Castagniccia in northern Corsica, such buildings might well be neglected, empty or falling apart. Here, the majority appear to be in robust health, although tourism is probably the main form of income now.
And some of those details:
Arcadia’s adaptation to tourism, including the sale of local crafts:
There is a fascinating architectural, historical, cultural and geographical back story behind this beautiful ‘village-scape’. Lagadia was the centre for skilled stonemasons who built houses, churches, schools, public buildings and bridges not just throughout Arcadia but pretty much the whole of Greece.
“… it was the builders hailing from Lagadia and its surrounding villages, who belonged to the organised groups of craftsmen, that penned the narrative of traditional architecture in Greece” (https://www.travel.gr/en/experiences-ee/unknown-greece/the-revival-of-lagadias-master-crafts/). Here (above and below) are a trio of Lagadia’s church-scapes.
But why here, why up a mountain in central Greece? Security must have been a major factor - Greek history was hardly a bundle of laughs and lowland areas must have been very vulnerable to whoever the enemy happened to be at the time.
So those skilled stonemasons took advantage of the Arcadian hill tops to build around the contours, creating dramatic village ‘amphitheatres’ with excellent views of potential enemies on the ‘stage’ below.
Without water, however, the security factor could not have been exploited, but the area is well supplied with mountain springs. With such a reliable water source the area must have seemed very attractive. Add in a basic agricultural economy (remember those sheep plus useful trees like walnuts and olives), plus a ready supply of building stone, and the area must have seemed like heaven on earth – Arcadia indeed.
Wittingly or unwittingly they also created a landscape and architectural composition which delights the eye and, now, the modern tourist.
Not all was peaceful, however, in this hill top Arcadia. Many villages bear the scars of two world wars and also of more local struggles.
The agonies of the global conflicts were extended by the Greco Turkish War from 1919 to 1922 and the Greek Civil War which lasted, on and off, from 1943 to 1949.
The most heart-rending war memorial, however, was the village of Kalavrita, located in the mountains to the north of Lagadia. Following the execution of 78 German soldiers in 1943, by mountain based Greek resistance fighters, a German ‘response’ force, in the form of the 117th Jäger Division, was sent to nearby Kalavrita.
In brief, the village population was rounded up and imprisoned in the school while the village was looted and burnt. All men and boys over the age of 13 were then taken to a nearby field (above right) and shot and the school building set on fire. Incredibly, the women and children escaped - to discover the horror which had overcome their community.
A more cheerful and pituresque side to Kalavrita is its train service. A delightful, narrow gauge ‘rack assisted’ railway connects the village to the coastal town of Diakopto, some 30 km to the north east. The route descends via a twisting, precipitous and incredibly scenic sandstone gorge.
The first surprise is that this is 21st century public transport, ie a regional railway, not a purely a tourist heritage attraction. But considering how crowded our train was, one wonders how far in advance the locals may have to book their seats. The journey is regularly punctuated by stops to allow the train to be connected to the rack (for the steeper sections) and for the crew to change the points on the passing loop. Perhaps it is more ‘heritage’ style than one might expect from a modern two-car diesel unit!
Stops may also be necessary to avoid the hikers which make use of the rail track as a walking route (the train crew are not the only human figures in the view, above right). There are two types of hazard associated with using this type of ‘footpath’: one is the danger of actually being hit by a train, although the drivers are probably very used to having to slam on the anchors on rounding a corner only to discover a hiker wandering down the middle of the ‘road’. The second danger is the width of the track bed. We saw hikers flattened to the side of the canyon or teetering on the edge of a precipitous drop, as the train gently eased its way past. Is this the latest extreme sport?
