The Garden Politic
James Wong created quite a stir with his recent Guardian article entitled ‘Other arts are political, why not gardening?’ https://amp-theguardian-com.cdn.ampproject.org/c/s/amp.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2020/nov/29/james-wong-other-arts-are-often-political-who-says-gardening-shouldnt-be-too
Thomas J Price: Network Yorkshire Scuplture Park
To summarise, James Wong (ethnobotanist, write and broadcaster) argues that gardening is an art, and that arts are political, in the same way as, say, sculpture or music. Think of the ambiguous nature of Shostakovich’s symphonies or the lack of people of colour represented in British sculpture. If you think politics should be kept out of gardening, says Wong, then by implication, you don’t consider it an art form. In case you haven’t read the article, Wong’s piece was triggered by a ‘keep politics out of gardening response’ from some of the visitors to a Hampton Court flower show exhibit, shaped like the Empire Windrush and inspired by the issues facing displaced peoples from around the world.
I have no difficulty in coming down on the side of gardens as both art and politics. In my view, it is as impossible to create and manage a garden or a park without making decisions which declare your world view, as it is to keep a sense of the artistic (however poorly executed!) out of your creation. I would add, however, that – as with some art – the design and management may simply reflect the attitudes of the creator/manager; it does not necessarily make a conscious or specific political statement. Thus, even the smallest urban garden, which may not be overtly political, will represent our society, as well as its maker’s nature and nurture.
Ponder then, on the potential message that an intentional garden statement can send without denigrating the art - and science - of gardening. The wall which separates Petworth Park in Sussex from the surrounding village is, to me, as lowering and ominous as the Berlin Wall and, whether you interpret it as a symbol of class, or of politics, it clearly indicates the separation of the rich and powerful on the inside from the less fortunate on the outside.
Ponder also on the current ‘trend’ towards garden biodiversity, use of locally native species and sustainable management. This is not about fashion, but a clear statement of intent regarding climate change, resource management, reduction of carbon footprints and protection of the planet. Surely that is political?
But for me, the most worrying implication of Wong’s article is the inevitable Twitter storm which followed it, focusing on horticulture and race. On Wednesday 16th December, Wong (@Botanygeek) tweeted, ‘It’s certainly been a colourful few days. Been asked by the police to read all the 1000s of tweets to screen grab & report the hate crime & threats. What that also revealed is 1000s kind & supportive messages, inc the very highest levels in hort.’.
That is a very serious reflection on our society.
Talking of gardens and planetary threats, however, I will finish with the political topic about which I originally intended to blog this week, anyway. The tell-tale signs of climate change are everywhere. Here is Terroir’s gallery of a very floriferous winter.
November on the Isle of Wight
December in Surrey and Sussex
The odd one out is, of course, the gorse, which can flower throughout the year. Hence the comment, ‘when the gorse is out, ‘tis kissing time’!
Redhill and the Railways
Surrey, Terroir’s home county, has plenty to offer when obedience to Tier 2 rules and foul weather makes ‘further afield’ a difficult place to visit. As one of London’s Home Counties, Surrey’s history is worthy of a blog in its own right and I will return to that another day. This week, however, I wanted to write about a single Surrey town – somewhere I could reach easily in a pandemic. The transport hub of Redhill, in the east of Surrey, certainly falls into this category.
Redhill is a Victorian railway town. I would argue that it is the least typical of what many associate with a ‘Surrey style’, whether in terms of architecture, townscape or reputation. Redhill lives under the shadow of the older, prettier and much sought after town of Reigate, and to which it is now joined at the hip by urban expanson. Some residents of Redhill (postcode RH1) actually aspire to live in a house with an RH2 postcode (Reigate of course) and do make the move across the intangible boundary between the two. Redhill (or Red’ill as its detractors like to call it) is perceived as the poor relation with all sorts of unattractive characteristics. Why is this?
Historically the area was a marshy valley with a few scattered hamlets. When the South Eastern Railway Company scouted for a route from London to Dover (to access the continent, how ironic), they tunnelled through the North Downs and turned sharply left for Dover at ‘Warwick Town’, only later renamed Redhill. Some considerable and confusing railway shenanigans later, local stations were rationalised and the one which is now at the core of Redhill was built and roads adapted to provide a decent infrastructure.
Redhill was also lumbered with the re-routed main highway from London to Brighton, but the town still remains amazingly unrecognised. Conversation goes something like this: Q: ‘Where is Redhill?’ A: ‘On the route from London to Brighton’. Response: ‘Oh’. Not helped by the fact that the later (20C) alternative London to Brighton railway route goes under Redhill in a tunnel.
But:
Redhill has some honest and attractive Victorian and Edwardian architecture. It is amazingly well supplied with green space, based on extensive local commons. It has phenomenal transport infrastructure - railway lines in four directions, a not unreasonable bus service, lies between two M25 junctions and is 20 minutes from a major international airport, while not being under the flight path. Newer (and less attractive) office buildings provide some local employment, and commuting to employment hubs such as London, Croydon and Brighton is pretty good.
So what’s wrong? Why do people flee to Reigate which has a significantly poorer train service and where housing is significantly more expensive. I would suggest that there are a number of factors. Housing density is higher in Redhill than in Reigate and there are fewer larger houses in Redhill. Most houses were built without garages and on street parking has made it very difficult to appreciate the architectural details. Where houses have tiny front gardens, most have been converted into off street parking, removing any vestige of personalised, soft, varied, greenscape or characterful fencing, and making on street parking even more difficult.
Infill has been a huge curse, replacing many a charming run of Victorian/Edwardian terraces or semis with a hotchpotch of styles (including uninteresting and unadorned blocks of flats) shoehorned into tiny plots to maximise housing density, and with no garden space in front, let alone down the sides. Many of the local Victorian and Edwardian ‘big houses’ were also pulled down to make way for much smaller dwellings, or facilities such as the local sports centre, or converted into flats with no individual garden space except a sea of car park tarmac. Modern design, whether residential or more public is also poor or bog standard. The result is that much of Redhill is dominated by cars, is invisible, impersonal, uninspiring, unowned and somewhat unloved.
Oh and the brook, which once flowed through the marsh, has been placed in a culvert through much of the town.
But, if you look carefully, there are some amazing details still in existence. Tile hanging, decorative plaster work, a whole series of cupolas and towers, and remants of the former hamlets. The High Street has been pedestrianised (a saving grace in Covid times) and provided with some excellent (but also some not so excellent) tree planting.
Here is Terroir’s take on some of the quirky and often unnoticed Redhill gems. Please note - this is not an architectural tour of the town but a personal response to some of the more heart warming details.
But to end on a postive note in praise of modern additions.
We have only recently come across this little haven of modern housing, illustrated below tucked peacefully away from through routes. Despite the - albeit very sculptural - defences on the sub station wall, the enclave exudes pride, ownership and relaxation.
The pedestrianisation of the old town centre intersection between the High Street (on the line of the London to Brighton Road) and Station Road has been a godsend to Redhill and permits a lively market on three days a week, attractive sitting areas, shade and a restful escape from the hustle and bustle. The tree planting and seat design is of slightly variable quality but the benefit is enormous. And, someone, somewhere, understands plants, climate change, dry gardens and the local authority need for low maintenance, creating some delightful public realm planting. Winter photographs do not do it justice.
More on Offa
Blogging about Offa’s Dyke path has brought home an obvious truth: long distance foot paths are, well, long. Last week, we covered less than half of the Way from Chepstow to Prestatyn. In Terroir’s terms, this is about a year and a half’s worth of section walking. This week, we return - it’s now 2017 - to pick up the baton at the foot of the Black Mountains, moving from Monmouthshire to Powys with some forays in and out of Herefordshire and Shropshire.
I realise that these blog accounts bear no resemblence to a traditional guide book, and are distinctly lacking in wayside commentary or historic detail. But that is rather point. I have read detailed and wordy blogs on long distance footpaths and, as with the guide book, they have little to say that is memorable if you are not walking the Way as you read them. All Terroir is attempting is to sum up the essence of the trail in a few pictures and fewer words. Inspiring? Good. Boring? Go buy a Guide Book!
Hay on Wye to Knighton - sliding down into Hay from the Black Mountains, we promptly took a day off to explore the town and, of course the book shops. Hay doesn’t grip us. Maybe it needs a festival… But what happens next more than compensates. Next is forgotten Radnorshire, a tapestry of exceptional countryside, with extraordinary towns. Our ancient guide book (John Jones’s ‘Offa’s Dyke Path’, HMSO for the Countryside Commission [remember them?], 1976) speaks of ‘broken hill country’ and ‘the most strenous walking on the Offa’s Dyke Path’. Don’t believe it - the seamless weave of hills and valleys urges you on, begging you to walk to the crest, rewarding you with bizarre surprises, textured and tempting views, and a way down again which enticies with promises of further delights. The diary of the Rev Francis Kilvert, whose ‘country’ this is, also beckons, with lyrical and accessible prose and a historical perspective which makes one weep for lost diversity: ‘Went to Bronith [Bronydd]. People at work in the orchard gathering up the windfall apples for early cider. The smell of the apples very strong. Beyond the orchard the lone aspen was rustling loud and mournfully a lament for the departure of summer’ (Kilvert’s Diary 1870 - 1879, Penguin Books 1987).
We stray off piste, of course. Hergest Croft garden on the way down the long grassy slope from Hergest Ridge is a must (see below). Kington, the sort of a town which supports two butchers where others have none, is described in our guide as ‘not the pleasantest town on the long-distance path’. I hope it gets a better press in the more up to date editions; entering Kington is like walking back into the 1950s and an experience not to be missed. Knighton seemed much more up to date and very much aware of its responsibilities as the ‘capital’ of the Dyke, providing all sorts of useful services to walkers and interested visitors alike.
The Clun Hills - we are in England, perhaps due to aspirational Marcher Lords attempting to push the boundaries forever westwards. The river Clun is the theme, prompting the latter day Marches’ enthusiast, A E Housman, to pen the following: ”
“Clunton and Clunbury,
Clungunford and Clun,
Are the quietest places
Under the sun.
In valleys of springs of rivers,
By Ony and Teme and Clun,
The country for easy livers,
The quietest under the sun,
We still had sorrows to lighten,
One could not be always glad,
And lads knew trouble at Knighton
When I was a Knighton lad.”
It goes on for another four verses but the depression which reading Houseman always induces in me is beginning to become unbearable. Look it up if you want more! The Clun Hills are subtly different from the Radnorshire variety. Here, old Red Sandstone and Dolerite give a rougher, more irregular feel; there is more woodland, scrub and hedge, pasture rather than meadow. It is exhilirating, spooky, varied - and you get to Dyke’s half way point.
Back to the Severn and the Vale of Montgomery - we are coming down off the hills, through woodland and onto the Severn plain, another almost violent change in landscape. There will be hills and views later but the immediate contrast is, literally, a bit of a let down. The Wye is sluggish, recovering from a spate of flooding; silty hedgerows bear witness to recent high water levels. The ground is damp, stolid, riparian, but an unexpected garden bordering the dyke provides domesticity, diversity, delight - and cake. A section of road walking contibutes another downer but suddenly the contours begind to wriggle and twitch and we find ourselves creeping up the ‘foothills’ of the Long Mountain, past the heroic remnants of an an abandoned quarry. Here on the Long Mounain lies ‘Leighton’, originally part of the estate of the same name but donated to the Royal Forestry Soceity (RFS) in 1957. Leighton has many claims to fame, particularly an old grove of Coastal Redwoods, planted in 1857, very shortly after the first specimens were intrduced into Brtiain. They remain unthinned, as requested in the gift, but a 1934 planting is managed by the RFS for timber and for an element of biodivesrity, to support the ‘wide range of plant species and associated insect life [which] … flourish’ in the estate. https://www.rfs.org.uk/media/28903/leighton-info-for-visitors.pdf The Way curves around elaborate dams and ponds (old water management features) and through shade cast by the most ecletic mix of native and exotic species I have seen in some time.
And now the confession. Our pictures of Leighton vanished in a mysterious digital crash, no doubt engineered by the sprites of the Long Mountain, and the heavy shade cast in many areas. So yet another reason for a visit to Offas’s Dyke.
So, as the Long Mountain fairies wreck our sign off at Leighton and the neighburing hill, The Breidden, we will leave you to seek accommodation in Welshpool or Oswestry, or perhaps take a turn in the neighbouring shooting estate, before continuing this journey to Llanymynech, Llandegla and the Vale of Llangollen.
Breaking News
Remember the hedgerow which failed to thrill me in Blog 1? Three cheers for the Surrey Wildlife Trust ( https://www.surreywildlifetrust.org/ ) who have transformed part of the hedge into a heritage and wildlife beauty.
A Good Offa?
Political walls and fences have been in the news with surprising frequency over the last sixty years or so. Just as the Berlin wall comes down, so we see the erection of Trump’s USA/Mexico wall and the Israeli West Bank Barrier. One can only assume that the reactions created by these modern walls - anger, fear, rebellion, frustration and misery to suggest just a few - echo the feelings of those who lived on the ‘wrong side’ of the Great Wall of China or Offa’s Dyke.
In blog 2 (about the Klondike lead mill in North Wales) I asked, ‘How long does it take for an abandoned industrial site to become a piece of archaeology, a piece of heritage and a tourist asset, rather than a blemish or an intrusion?’ The same question applies here. When does a divisive, defensive and thoroughly unpleasant barrier become valuable heritage with a useful story to tell? For once we have recent evidence, thanks to the demolition of the Berlin Wall, initiated on the night of 9th of November 1989. The wall instantly became a very different and very positive symbol and siteseers flocked to its remnants. Destruction, rather than time is, obviously, the key here. With King Offa’s mighty dyke we have both time and, sadly for modern archaeologists, partial demolition on our side.
So what was Offa’s Dyke all about? The story seems to start when the Celts rocked up on British shores (around three thousand years ago), apparently intermixing with the British who were moving from a bronze to iron based technology. The identification of the Celts with the western extremities of the British Isles appears to have been initiated by the Roman invasions, with both sides building forts in the battle for supremacy. What did the Roman’s ever do for us? Well, the foundations for three National Trails, at the very least.
Post the Roman Empire, King Offa of Mercia (an ambitious sounding monarch whose definition of Mercia seems to have included most of southern England at one time or another) is thought to have ordered the construction of a dyke, sometime in the second half of the 8th century. A chap called Wat also constructed a border dyke, but Offa’s is thought to have been bigger and longer. That’s certainly how it looks on the ground today. Poor Wat!
At the time, it seems highly probable that Offa’s Dyke was a very good example of the nasty, political and power based type of construction, in this case built to protect the Angles from their British (aka Welsh) rivals. Of course, geology and geography took a hand in delineating the actual route; uplands and rivers, for example, were probably key factors in creating feasible and defensible boundaries. One can speculate that this worked both ways, and, ironically, may have helped in the attempt to create a defensible principality for Celtic peoples, who were looking at things from the ‘other’ side.
Whatever the original circumstances, Offa’s Dyke seems to have started a trend which was taken up enthusiastically by the Normans, who established a frontier zone under the ‘control’ of the newly created Marcher Lords. In the early 1400s, Owain Glyndŵr had a good go at Henry IV but was, eventually, defeated. At least Glyndŵr had a National Trail named after him. This frontier zone became known as the Welsh Marches. One never hears of the English Marches, of course; the Marcher lords were on the English side but, as fairly frequent border adjustments may illustrate, never quite seemed to pull off full control.
So is the modern National Trail based purely on a political construction project, bits of which are still visible in the landscape? No, of course not! The history, myth and romance of the trail which now bears Offa’s name (sorry Wat…) is down to the social concept of borderlands: power struggles, heroes, containment, independence, subjugation, freedom, Welsh identity and the fight for English supremacy. Thankfully, the dyke also passes through remarkable and extraordinarily varied landscape, thus reinforcing its claim as ideal National Trail material! Definitely a good offer.
Terroir has been walking the Offa’s Dyke National Trail for 6 years. No, ha ha, we aren’t excessively slow walkers. We belong to that group of ramblers known as section walkers. We’ll walk for a week, then come back the following year and do another section. But many would regard us as ‘not quite the thing’. We keep stopping to look at the view, butterflies, birds or plants. We have days off to explore local towns, or visit gardens. We aren’t booked into B & Bs so don’t have to anywhere at any particular time. Shocking behaviour!
So how does one describe a journey along the narrow corridor of a long distance footpath? Offa’s Dyke is particularly idiosyncratic, as it passes through some distinctive but very different landscapes. But to the trail walker, it is the essentially a linear ‘terroir’, specific to the path and its history, which is the essential Offa’s Dyke experience.
The photographs below can only describe our own high lights, assessed through the filters of our own experience and interests, the camera lens, the weather and the people who we meet. But here goes.
From the River Severn to the lower reaches of the River Wye We decided to walk from south to north. Technically, the Trail starts on the top of Sedbury Cliffs, above the Severn estuary, but if seemed churlish not to walk from the estuary itself before heading up the Wye. It is varyingly bleak (the Severn), charming (what a loaded word) (Chepstow), flat, wet, engineered and managed (the lower Wye).
The Wye Valley from Tintern to Monmouth and on towards the Black Mountains Part I We start with the intense delights of green rolls of hills, the steep sided Wye valley, Tintern Abbey, midsummer road verges, lush meadows, relaxation, satisfaction, extensive productivity, small woodlands, small farms, small scale, huge feeling of well being
On towards the Black Mountains Part II Down to the Monmouthshire lowlands, the calm before the uplands; still green, still lush, but no more fairy tales; flatter, occasional meadows already buzzing with the silage cutter, elsewhere things are more intensive, with agricultural monocultures, orchards in scorched earth, less colourful hedgerows and a foretelling of the hills to come
The Black Mountains What a contrast, what a surprise and how typical of the Offa’s Dyke Path - this is by no means the last such landscape volte face which we will discover; the red marls, brown sandstones and conglomerates of the Black Mountains rise with abrupt steepness from the plains below; the Way shows evidence of heavy use in a fragile environment (note the erosion and use of paving to keep us going); a bracing and inspring walk on a good day, an exercise in survival on a bad one
I think this is what novelists call a cliff hanger. As we slither down the northern slopes of the Black Mountains, we will leave you. In our next instalment we will visit Hay on Wye, the Radnorshire Hills and on to the Clun Hills to revisit the Severn.
*Tony Webster: https://www.flickr.com/photos/diversey/16025367585/in/photolist-qq7ct8-5yEX1i-7Tx3yN-kYh1oZ-5uNnm8-kYhUGh-kYgt7H-2dpgogX-5wpW8m-8oRDxV-ouC6x-nxmJUF-8pA9AS-2hYi2ts-2hYi2ro-3GrkV-QTH5Ue-5TKhRm-482uwf-kYgrG8-2bqXuFk-2bmzfXY-2bmzf67-2bmzfpd-z87sX-Ket8uH-kYhWwQ-kYguqK-ebDWxQ-ebyhA2-kYhWah-kYgshg-kYgCQR-kYih7w-kYh2wv-kYh18P-kYgvQi-kYh1ng-kYhWVA-kYh4FF-kYh36g-kYgvCV-kYgv3r-kYgrRr-kYi6kS-kYi6Y5-eLAUFX-8oUQWQ-kYhWjW-b7mecg
**Jonas Witt https://www.flickr.com/photos/jonaswitt/3830661294/in/photolist-6Qv99o-49thm1-7z332x-4SFSsc-49e5b6-4SL4wu-5WvQbo-4SFTx4-4SFRX6-5Wry2K-5WryVV-5WvQos-49patT-5WvQBj-4SFRt4-4SFQWH-nJEqLH-5YvJaJ-4SFK7P-4SFNRn-49p8Hv-4SL2YS-81JzLb-49p9Pk-81JzpW-49tgio-6kLrMu-21fVJoK-81JAH3-81EsMc-21cVaTX-49p9iT-5YvHXj-a84vB6-49tfAf-D1wQhR-CypMjb-7MP8je-7AgjGD-7MT7iU-7Ak6LL-7MT7Pj-K9wHxw-7BJKqo-7AgjEa-7MT7tj-81JCL1-8367w1-YkNMy4-81FtLe
National Treasures
I don’t remember long distance footpaths being a factor in my childhood. As a rather timid child, my holy grail of recreational walking was the public right of way, those comforting pecked red lines on an Ordnance Survey map which gave a right of access and protected you from being shouted at by irate land owners. Yes, this was a real threat in the sixties and early seventies. For us as a family, our ideal long hike lasted just a day and needed to link with a bus stop or train station. As a result, many a walk finished in an undignified run to ensure catching the last bus or the only train for the next two hours. Taxis didn’t feature in our recreational lexicon. The next day, we went for a walk somewhere else.
But others were more active and more adventurous. Pre-war, there was a growing demand for better countryside access, particularly to areas of stunning scenery (championed by amongst others the Ramblers and Youth Hostel Associations). The movement for National Parks and long distance footpaths was given a more formal voice through reports such as the Dower Report on National Parks in England and Wales (1945) and the Hobhouse (1947) Report of the National Parks Committee. This culminated in the 1949 National Parks and Access to the Countryside Act. Significant changes were afoot. Pun intended.
In 1965 the first of what are now called National Trails was established in England. This was the Pennine Way and I was immediately captivated by the idea of a long distance route, particularly one which appeared to honour the feisty walking traditions of working class Yorkshire and Lancashire and the legendary Kinder Scout mass trespass. Is this how others saw it? The Pennine Way was certainly popular and my first outing, as an ill shod student, was marred by the seeming borderless river of mud created by mass walkers stepping further and further away from the trail to find dry footing. I gather it is a lot easier to negotiate now.
Most of the trails are based on either an existing or a former (if slightly mythical) route such as the North Downs Way (pilgrims) or Peddar’s Way (Romans), on geographical or geological features such as the South Downs Way or the Pennine Way, on water ie the coastal walks or the River Thames, or on historic features such as Hadrian’s Wall or Offa’s Dyke - or a combination of all four. All give stunning landscapes and fascinating cultural features but if you compare, say the Ridgeway with the Cleveland Way, or the Pennine Way with the North Downs Way, you realise just how extraordinarily diverse is our landscape and history.
Scotland has a different access system but has also fallen under the Trail spell. The 96 mile West Highland Way opened in 1980 and there are now 29 Great Trails, as they are known north of the border, varying in length from 24 to 214 miles.
But enough of countryside access history and statistics. I’m going to ask the unmentionable, the heretical question: considering the wealth of walking options available in the UK, do we actually need long distance trails? The long distance footpaths were set up with funding and a dedicated member of staff and were seen as the peak of the recreational walkers’ access options. But are they value for money? Are they worth the effort? Do enough of us use them? Basically, what’s the point? I can hear the yells of protest from here.
Let’s take the long view. Long distance trails are distinctive because walkers can, if they want, follow them consistently for several days, either travelling from end to end in one go, or ‘section walking’ for a number of days to return and pick up the route again at a later date. This type of usage is usually supported by some sort of written guide, distinctive way marking, and overnight facilities ranging from campsites to local hotels. These days, many UK trails also support rural businesses by offering luggage transfer options, often combined with B & B booking to allow walkers to reduce their rucksack weight to day packs only. I can also vouch for farms which run camp sites and first class ice cream parlours within easy reach of a particular NT. So, good for the health (well maybe not the ice cream), good for the local economy, good for the travel guide writers and publishers, good for outdoor equipment shops.
But users of Trails are heard to quantify and describe. There are some stats on the web but they are contradictory and often poorly defined. What does seem to be clear though, is that walkers anywhere tend to be white, professional and reasonably affluent https://www.ramblers.org.uk/advice/facts-and-stats-about-walking/participation-in-walking.aspx That’s not very inclusive. It also seems that use of longer trails is high but numbers actually completing a trail is very low. That’s not the trails’ fault, but it could be interpreted that most people use them as footpaths for the day, rather than for the adventure of walking long distance trail walking.
So why do we love them so much? Our trails tend not to be of the length or remoteness of say, the Appalachian Trail (see Bill Bryson’s book, A Walk in the Woods) or the Pacific Crest Trail (see Jean-Marc Vallée’s film Wild), but there is an allure which makes many people value them. What follows is purely anecdotal (I asked family and friends why they walked, or thought others walked, long distance footpaths) and has no rigorous research base on which to assess the pros and cons of the Trail network. Sure, some of the results are applicable to the typical day walk, but others were much more specific to trail walking. This is what I found:
I like walking
I like seeing something different
Access to stunning countryside
Magical moments – eg wildlife encounters
A challenge
Planned by somebody else
There is a handy guide book (which is also fun to read on my sofa)
Way marked (definitely a double edged sword in my view)
Out of the routine
Feels like a journey rather than just a walk
Romantic, following in the footsteps of history or cultural associations
Ticking off a challenge from a list, collecting something, competiveness, kudos (I’ve done four National Trails, how many have you done?)
Because it’s there
Personal exploration
Meeting other trail walkers, comradery, exchanging experiences
A walking tour – extensive experience of an area (although it can also be like a voyage on a canal or even a motorway journey: you just see a long
strip of countryside; at least the NT’s often give you views over other areas and off route experiences overnight)
A walking route on which one can also hang excursions into nearby places
Is this sufficient justification for all the work which goes into maintaining these trails? Have I missed out something/anything? And finally, how do we make walking more inclusive? Answers please – there is a comment box below.
Next week will be devoted to the beauty of just one National Trail. No rants, I promise.
Red Robin Letter
Fashion is no stranger to landscape and garden design. How many of us have fallen for the vibrant charms of Hot Lips (Salvia mycrophylla ‘Hot Lips’), only to find that she (he?) likes her/his drink and is not quite the low maintenance date you hoped for, if she/he is to flaunt her/his charms in the drier garden.
But there is, I suggest, a difference between following and enjoying a horticultural trend or fashion, and mere imitation, due to a lack of imagination, skill, or perhaps the will to fight for something a little more appropriate, exciting or original.
As I blog from an area of housing shortage, there are currently a number of local residential building sites or, interestingly, conversions of offices to residential use. Every one of them seems to be sprouting copious and identical linear plantings of Photinia x fraseri, aka Red Robin, and not a lot else. The occasional Red Robin in garden, park, public space, or housing estate car park, is a delight, glowing like fiery embers amidst a range of other foliage. But the latest trend for Red Robin hedging along the front and side of every new build is becoming a hideous and predictable rash.
Wondering if this personal rant was making me see red, even when no Photinia x Fraseri was actually present, I decided to take a quick survey of the local, residential new builds/conversions. Was I exagerating? I limited the survey to developments which had been completed in the last 18 months, and twelve sites qualified, within a corridor approximately 9 km long by 1 km wide. Of course the sample is far too small to be meaningful, but here are the results, for what they are worth.
Office block conversion: one or two bedroom flats on busy main road in urban area; road frontage planted entirely with Red Robin.
New build on edge of urban area; development of a former garden centre site: mainly 3 bedroom houses. Bedraggled Red Robin on road frontages.
New build infill in existing residential area: two large, three storey houses; Red Robin hedge on road frontage behind brick and flint wall (architecture makes a nod to local building materials); behind the Red Robin hedge there is a heavy dependence on pyracantha and privet. How nostalgic.
Terraced retirement properties in medium density urban area: road frontage a bit retro as Portugal laurel used all the way along.
New build of small houses on outskirts of village: despite solar panels, the landscape is a classic example of how not to do it, but at least it is a Red Robin free zone.
New build terraced houses on brown field site in large village; minimal area for planting - back to the laurels.
New build estate on former garden centre (yes, another one): large houses, and landscape majors on beech hedging throughout, but with an above average number of ornamental species in public realm.
Large area of ‘executive’ housing on grounds of former charitable establishment; a varied planting scheme used for the public realm, although, to me, it smacked of the sort of planting which developers employ for up market housing estates far from public transport or the town centre. After extensive survey work, two Red Robin bushes were tracked down adjacent to a front door in the higher density end of the development. They looked lovely but the resident will need a machete to get in and out if the things aren’t trimmed in the very near future. Note the privet… .
New build terrace housing on village brown field site; attractive planting along house frontages including cordyline, lonicera, camellia, pittosporum and just one Red Robin. As a visitor, this would be my favourite planting scheme, providing a varied, intriguing and currently low level (in the height sense) welcome. Unfortunately, the residents currently look out over this onto a bleak expanse of tarmac. Apologies for lack of photograph; blame the weather and lockdown.
Mixed new build of two houses and numerous flats on busy main road: very little ‘residents’ realm’ but car park and house front gardens heavily dependent on - privet.
New build flats on urban brown field site, garages integral with the building, and very limited soft landscape areas. Not a Red Robin in site however, and even a slight architectural nod to the local townscape of Edwardian terraces (sadly not visible in the photo).
New build houses (probably four or five bedroom jobs) on former residential site. Heavy dependence on cherry laurel hedges, particularly for those fronting onto a busy main road, but retention of some former garden planting and hedging around periphery was a real plus
Town centre office conversion to studio flats: the picture says it all - not even a ram raid planter
And my conclusions? Well, I have to admit that only 25% of the sites were wrapped up in Photinia x fraseri. But if you include old faithfuls such as the laurels and privet, then the percentage of what I consider to be uninspiring planting schemes rises to nearly 60%. Who knew that privet was back in fashion? And if you include the ‘no hopers’ on the design front, the percentage of unexciting or unoriginal schemes runs to 75%.
So what have I got against the extensive use of Red Robin, laurels and privet?
I find mass planting of any single species to be uninspiring in terms of both design and biodiversity. Well designed, mixed block planting of single species, well, yes. SIngle species mass planting, no.
But my bêtes noires come with other, very specific, problems too. They grow quickly, which is probably why developers love them, and to enormous size (after the developers have left). Photinia x fraseri has to be trimmed to keep its contrasting red foliage. Most householders feel an irresistible urge to cut back their hedges during spring, which is also the bird nesting season; not a great idea if you are a nesting bird and is also illegal in most circumstances. If you trim your hedges in autumn, you may remove berries and fruits of both beauty and wildlife value. If you don’t trim your hedges in February, and also honour the bird nesting close season, then hedges can be enormous by the time you can get your shears out. Neighbours complain! If you keep your privets well pruned, they can’t flower; great for those with hay fever, not so for pollinators. And cherry laurels leaves are the very devil to keep trim.
So: suggestions and examples please for beautiful and bidoverse hedge and other linear planing, suitable for residential areas, in particular where where bird nesting related legislation may be a closed book.
Yukon Breakup
Expecting a ‘Yehaa!’ or a ‘Howdy’? No, ‘sut mae’ would be more appropriate. This isn’t north western Canada but it is north west Wales, the land of Welsh speakers and slate mines. Except that Klondike Mill is a lead processing plant.
We have been walking in the woods above Betws-y-Coed in an area which I later discover is called the Gwydir Forest Park. This appears to be a Natural Resources Wales (NRW) non statuatory designation, big on access – the walking, riding and cycling variety – and light touch tourism. The NRW website says that the Park covers an area of 72 sq km, and that ‘Since Victorian times, generations of visitors have walked the woodland paths’. https://naturalresources.wales/days-out/places-to-visit/north-west-wales/sawbench/?lang=en
Indeed, the forest area is riddled with tracks, the sort the Ordnance Survey (OS) describes ominously as ‘Other road, drive or track’, so lowly that they have not been attributed with any colour coding at all, and which my father, a petrol head in love with our first car (an early and second hand Austen A40), would absolutely refuse to drive down. The threat of reaching our destination by a ‘white road’ became a standard family joke.
Although much of Gwydir forest appears to be coniferous (the map is speckled with those iconic, but totally unrealistic, miniature Christmas tree pictograms) our way is through deciduous woodland, twisted, gnarled and dripping with moss. Sessile oak, silver birch, the occasional rowan, and teasing glimpses of other worlds below or beyond us. So far so wonderful.
But on breaking through the tree line to admire a view we come across an example of the other great feature of the Gwydir forests. The NRW website continues, ‘Today, waymarked walking trails allow visitors to explore this landscape of lakes, forests and mountains and learn about its mining history’ … ‘Between 1850 and 1919, lead and zinc mining dominated the area. The legacy of old engine-houses, waste tips and reservoirs are characteristic features of the forest landscape today.’ Forget the ‘generations of visitors’, welcome to the tracks and paths of the miners and mineral workers. Welcome to Klondike Mill! Klondike? Really? Read on.
The Mill was built in 1899 and contributed to an already semi industrialised landscape. A fascinating and detailed Wikipedia article tells its story, one of technological ambition, the economic frailty of mineral extraction and processing, and of subsequent financial and business intrigue. I would add that it is also a story of landscape and environmental impact.
In 1899, it seems that a company called the Welsh Crown Spelter Company (supported by an English company of similar name), purchased and worked a number of lead mines in the area. With expansion in mind, a new and large ‘dressing mill’ was planned for the valley below us. Ore was to be transported to the enormous mill building from the nearby Pandora mine (another great name) by a 2 mile tramway and delivered to the upper storey of the mill by an aerial runway. I can feel the bills mounting as I write.
Power was to be provided by state of the art electricity thanks to Llyn Geirionydd, a nearby lake which had already been conscripted to serve the local mining industry by providing a water supply and power for a generator. A pipeline was now constructed from Llyn Geirionydd to bring water to a tank above the mill, the flow from which powered the mill’s turbine room. The company built a new road, installed the necessary equipment, built enormous shallow holding tanks for effluent and even opened a new mine, next to the mill. Between 100 and 150 staff were employed.
The company’s consulting engineer assured shareholders that ‘the future was bright’, but no ore was processed until the latter part of 1902. Inevitably, debts were enormous, the price of ore was dropping and the mine never returned a profit. The Company went into voluntary liquidation in 1905, although the mill staggered on until 1911.
My thanks to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Klondyke_mill for so much detail on this fascinating industrial landscape. What the website isn’t able to tell is the tale of the people who worked there, the conditions of the industry, nor the hardship which must have occurred as a result of this story.
But there is more: it appears that the name ‘Klondike Mill’ only came about due to a gold rush style scam operated in the 1920s. An article published in the Mining Journal in May 1920 implied that the local silver-lead mines had struck a rich lode, and one Joseph Aspinall spent much time and money enticing would be investors. The perpetrator is thought to have been rumbled, however, by another local mine owner, and was imprisoned. But the name of Klondike stuck.
How long does it take for an abandoned industrial site to become a piece of archaeology, a piece of heritage and a tourist asset, rather than a blemish or an intrusion? The mill building is now a Scheduled Monument in the care of Cadw. The ruins are stunning, eerie and well worth a visit. The site is rich in industrial archaeology and a wonderland for landscape detectives, but sadly, still a silent witness to its social history. Over 100 years later, the waste heaps below the mill remain bare and sterile, presumably due to lead contamination. A quick search of the internet still hints at water pollution in the local streams and rivers from the zinc and lead mines; I would be grateful for any further information on this.
Moorish Magic
It all begins with an idea.
The Moors - just 6 miles from the M25
Mention ‘post war Surrey’ and phrases such as Arts and Crafts, stockbroker belt, Tudorbethan, London sprawl, privet hedges, green belt, housing estates or commuter land may come to mind. Yet Surrey has a long history of industry and mineral extraction which often lies forgotten. River valleys such as the Tillingbourne and the Wandle were once lined with mills. In the 1600s the Tillingbourne valley was probably the most industrialised in England and its mills continued working into the 20C. Think gunpowder manufacturing, paper-making, tanning, iron-forging, wire-drawing as well as the more rural corn milling. https://www.surreyhills.org/surrey-hills-60/the-mills-of-the-tillingbourne/ The Wandle, a chalk stream rising on the London facing flanks of the North Downs, supported copper working, tobacco milling and textile mills, amongst many others. https://wandlevalleypark.co.uk/projects/wandle-mills/
Site of the Mixing House at Chilworth Gunpowder Works, Tillingbourne Valley Photo: Tillingbourne Tales Project © The Surrey Hills Board.
Mineral extraction is also no stranger to Surrey. The parallel belts of chalk, clays and greensand have supported a great number of local industries. Mineral winning cannot, to use a planning term, be a ‘footloose’ affair and before Surrey developed good road transport links, mineral based industries remained local to their source material, hence the Surrey lime kilns, or the brickworks which made wonderful, local clay bricks and tiles, which literally supported the vernacular architecture of many Surrey villages and towns.
Which brings me to sand extraction, and my own neighourhood terroir - The Moors – which provided so many of us with our local lockdown breathing space. ‘Moor’ is not a typical component of Surrey place names. Dry, acid Heaths are very Surrey, but Moors, often associated with damp, and upland acid places, are rare in the locality. I suspect damp is the key here, and a strategically placed information board gives us the following: ‘Moor is old Saxon for marsh, and surviving Saxon documents describe the area as ‘marshy with black peaty pools’’.
The Moors isn’t (aren’t?) a typical component of urban fringe open space, either. This long, irregular sliver of land is sandwiched between a landfill site, based on former Fuller’s Earth extraction (thanks to the clay) and a railway line known as, yes, the Quarry Line, (thanks to The London, Brighton and South Coast Railway), and the Moors themselves is/are largely based on restored sand workings. Am I losing you now? Please stay and experience this glorious if quirky piece of open space.
Designated as a nature reserve earlier this century, as an adjunct to, yes, substantial residential development on the sand quarry workings, The Moors was designed as an area of seasonal wetlands and links to further flooded sand pits, before the whole shebang butts its head against the chalk ridge of the North Downs. The local Brook flows gently through, an apparently bucolic and lowland affair, but which is intimately (if benignly) linked to land fill drainage, and which can suddenly flex its muscles when winter downpours swell its load and water surges dramatically over the banks to turn adjacent wetlands into substantial lakes.
The valley footpath has changed from a muddy, puddle jumping, childhood enhancing experience to National Cycle Route 21 (Greenwich to Eastbourne) which has greatly extended usage and accessibility to quality green space. Part of me, however, still misses the slow, tranquil, low key ‘walk to the stream’, although fitness levels have universally increased, as pedestrians may now need to leap smartly to one side to allow the faster runners and cyclists through: the inevitable compromises of urban living.
So, yes, we get the quirky; but where’s the glory? Despite, or maybe because of, the total lack of maintenance during lockdown, this year’s summer wildflowers were a stress buster in themselves. Colour, vibrancy, mass, movement and tranquillity were there in spades. A smaller wetland was dry, revealing a massive horizontal poplar trunk and the largest burdock plant I’ve ever seen: the very best of natural play.
The bigger wetlands were, well, pretty wet, and busy with swans, egrets, ducks such as teal and mallard, cormorants and great crested grebe. Sure, the paths run close to the land fill site and the railway embankment, but glance over to the other view: rushes moving in the breeze, mass swathes of natural colour, poplars swaying gently, veteran oaks of enormous stature marking a former field boundary, butterflies and bees in thrall to nectar, and those stunning views of the North Downs.
To be honest, the landfill’s methane guzzling generators are noisy and sometimes smelly, but most of us forgive them as they seem to represent a positive outcome from our dreadful habit of throwing our rubbish into holes in the ground. But then there is the ‘hedge on legs’ which is what you get when you don’t trim hedge plants on a regular basis or remove stakes and shelters. It provides an excellent green screen between cycle path and nature reserve, but it needs a fence to keep the cattle (sorry, conservation grazers) in and the dogs out. It’s not what I call a hedgerow.
But despite the urban quirks, the ‘promise’ of a landscape, in terms of space and time, is perfectly encapsulated in The Moors. This space is connected: cyclists – if you keep going, Paris is a just a designated cycle path away; pedestrians - home is a short stroll along the valley; for the more energetic, those North Downs are easily accessible by footpath and bridleway; bird watchers and butterfly spotters, this is for you; shoppers, Sainsbury’s is only a 20 minute walk and, according to Google Maps, ‘mostly flat’. In time terms too, the offer is good. ‘Seasonal wetlands’ means seasonal change. Different birds (snipe in winter), different berries, different colours, and always water – more water, less water and sometimes, when the footpath floods, just a little bit too much water. https://www.surreywildlifetrust.org/nature-reserves/nutfield-marshes-inc-moors-spynes-mere-holmethorpe-lagoons
Welcome
It all begins with an idea.
Welcome to Terroir - a blog about our landscape and environment
Terroir has been in gestation for many years but to go live during an international pandemic with severe movement restrictions may seem downright perverse. Nothing, however, has taught us the value of our landscape, our outdoors - our shores and mountains, our streets and neighbourhood parks, our commons and heaths, our cities, towns, and villages, our rivers, woodlands and fields, our whole and holistic environment, our terroir - like the Corona revolution.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Mesdames, Messieurs, may I present - TERROIR