A good grouse?
Are we too grumpy? Maybe we all need to get out more.
Last summer, when we could (get out more), we spent some time walking in the Derbyshire side of the Peak District. I hasten to add that these were legitimate walks, although we did keep a sharp lookout for the Derbyshire Constabulary and for lagoons which had turned a suspicious shade of black. Little did we know that carrying a takeaway coffee would later become an icon of Derbyshire lockdown bad temper and an extreme interpretation of recreational rules.
What is it about Derbyshire which puts people out of sorts? We are certain that the Derbyshire community, as a whole, is not to blame. We know for sure, however, that areas of beautiful, dramatic and inspiring landscape such as the Peak District or the Lake District create intense human passions – often about protection, conservation, access, management and policing - which may polarise views and create adversarial situations.
The 1932 mass trespass on Kinder Scout, which drew support from both sides of the Pennines, is a classic case in point. The fact that it took a further 80 years to pass legislation which allowed any form of open access to landscapes such as these, is enough to make anybody irritable. We refer, of course to the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000 (the CROW Act). Even the National Parks and Access to the Countryside Act 1949, which recognised the significance of these landscapes, if not of universal access, had to wait 17 years to reach the statute book, after a gestation period which included WWII. The Peak District was the first National Park to be designated, and this year sees its 70th birthday. But not even this anniversary seems sufficient to create universal joy and good will to all.
As an example of some of the issues which make landscape management so ‘interesting’, and defusing conflict so important, we will take a look at some of the walks which we enjoyed so much last summer. There was considerable debate between the three of us who took part but not, I am pleased to report, a single cross word. Do I hear laughter in the background?
Ladybower Reservoir and Win Hill
Let’s start off by being petty: nice bit of traditional waymarking but the plethora of roundels makes a bit of a nonsense of the ‘Public Footpath’ message!
More seriously, did they really need to mow the down stream slope of the reservoir dam in the monocultural, English garden style? It seems possible to accept a more diverse and sustainable ground flora beneath the scrub and bushes on the left of the photo, and around the photographer’s feet.
We’ll pick up the non native coniferous planting later.
Ladybower Reservoir was constructed between 1935 and 1943 to quench the thirst of the expanding industrial towns surrounding the Peak District. The long, deep valleys of the rivers Ashop and Derwent, the high rainfall and low popuation, made the area seem ideal for water storage. The population was not non-existant, however, and two villages, Ashopton and Derwent, were flooded and their population moved to an estate downstream of the dam. They must have found it galling to discover that ‘Derwent's packhorse bridge, spanning the River Derwent … was removed stone by stone to be rebuilt elsewhere as it was designated a monument of national importance’. And that, ‘The church spir' was left intact to form a memorial to Derwent. However, it was dynamited on 15 December 1947, on the rationale of safety concern’. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ladybower_Reservoir
Of course, after WWII, the attitude to planning and infrastructure changed significantly. In the 1950s and 60s, the plans for the Llyn Celyn reservoir in Gwynedd caused deep controversy. Despite the degree of protest, the village of Capel Celyn and its valley, located in a stronghold area of Welsh culture and language, was flooded to provide water for the - English - city of Liverpool.
Do people grouse about Ladybower today? It is a large of expanse of open water, beloved by thousands of tourists. But - parking and traffic creates a management nightmare. It provides drinking water, but access to the reservoir is controlled with limited recreational uses including no swimming (potentially hazardous). Architecturally, it is imposing and technologically, interesting. It looks wonderful when full of water, much less so in a drought, and probably a potential nightmare to manage access when the water level is so low that you see the remnant village.
Let’s move on to the top of Win Hill and look at the view.
Oh look - lots of issues here! On the plus side, there is no one else around, so those of us who love getting away from it all are very happy. But we did get up early to achieve this. We don’t see this as a problem, however. Self-managing the timing of our access to potentially busy areas is part of the challenge.
But obviously, lots of other people have been here and the photo hints at the erosion that all those walkers have caused. In the early days of the Pennine Way this was a serious problem, and much of the route has been paved to overcome the ‘sea of mud’ crisis. This is a sensible solution, which increases access but does diminish the wilderness feel. I was worried during our recent wet winter that the ‘sea of mud’ look created by a lockdown population desperate to get out and keep sane, would bring out the worst in our open space managers. What a swell of pride when the response was basically, ‘don’t worry, keep coming, we’ll sort it out later’.
And the view? What’s that lurking in the distance, sporting a high chimney and a massive quarry? It’s the Bredon Hope Cement Works, with the village of Hope nestling in the Valley below. The up side? It all started in the late 1920s, long before planning legislation and the designation of the National Park, but environmental control is much stricter now.
Lots of the finished product goes out by rail (left), so minimal impact on road transport.
Provision of local employment - Bredon says the company is ‘the area’s largest employers with the majority of the 200-strong workforce at Hope living in the Peak District’ and that they employ a ‘diverse range of people’. https://www.hopecementworks.co.uk/about/
Down side? Big energy user and lots of CO2 goes up the chimney. Damage to visual amenity? You decide. At this distance, we thought it rather interesting and a demonstration of geography in the raw (the plant is here because the required limestone is here). Living next to it, may produce a different answer, however.
Don’t like it? One of the great 21st century challenges is finding alternatives to, in this case, building materials, to reduce negative impacts. On delving deeper, alternatives can often be worse than the existing situation. Ingenuity essential.
Thanks to Wikipedia for some help with the above. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hope_Cement_Works
Strines Moor and the real grouse.
Grouse moors: where to start. So many issues, so many points of view.
Shooting and grouse moors were a big part of the original Right to Roam debate. The few owned vast acreages of moorland and denied access to the many. It was still an issue in the CROW Act which does allow for short term closures of open access land to allow for shooting.
You could devote a whole blog to intensive grouse shooting and grouse moor management and indeed Terroir was planning to do this until we came across Guy Shrubsole’s blog post on ‘Who Owns England?’ https://whoownsengland.org/ Do read his January post, entitled ‘The Climate Sceptics Grouse Moor’ which, although a diatribe against one particular moorland owner, gives an overview of some of the issues. Read all his links too, to get a view of both sides of the argument. Both the hunting and shooting orgnisations and the environmental press argue lucidly for and against intensive grouse shooting.
Here is a quick round up of the main issues. We have already mentioned access, so we will move onto the management debate. Rotational cutting, burning and draining of grouse moors is standard practice. If cut back, heather re-grows until it becomes ‘over mature’ - tall and leggy - when, if cut back again, it will restart the growth cycle. Each part of the cycle has its ecological advantages and so it is not uncommon, on any form of heathland, to cut areas on a rotational basis and try to mimic former and traditional management via grazing and burning.
Above - classic pictures of rotational cutting of upland moorland for grouse shooting. The patterns are wonderful and I would happily upholster my sofa in something based on this, but the ecological implications are less appealing.
Grazing and burning of lowland heaths, often in urban areas, is not really attempted any more for reasons of livestock welfare and control and, for burning, for reasons of pollution, and burn control, particularly in areas heavily used for recreation. On upland moorland, the substrate is often peat, which puts a whole different perspective on the matter. Peat is regarded as an excellent carbon store and burning and drainage is seriously damaging to peat. Strines Moor is classified as Upland Heath (https://magic.defra.gov.uk/MagicMap.aspx) which means peat depth may be limited to ‘only’ 50 cms deep, but there is plenty of blanket bog in the area, and the name is an excellent description.
Of course, species conservation and biodiversity is also part of the debate with game keeper and ecologist fighting it out on who can best conserve and manage heath and bog vegetation, ground nesting birds, raptors, butterflies and … . You get the picture.
Tree planting is the other ‘Big One’, which must be discussed.
Deciduous woodland beside Ladybower Reservoir
One of the big upland debates centres on trees. Visitors love the windswept uplands, with their stunning views, ‘wilderness’ experiences and complete contrast to an urban and often industrial home environment. The Forestry Commission loved the open uplands for their unobstructed tree planting options. Don’t forget that the Commission was set up in 1919 after the terrible experiences of WWI, to provide a strategic resource of timber, should such a conflict ever re-occur. Of course, it did re-occur but by 1939 the new plantations were at best only twenty years old and even the fast growing, non native conifers were not of a size or condition to deliver.
Post war, support for planting non-native and non-local timber conifers continued with a mix of enticing tax breaks for those owning large estates, and a range of grant funding. In my view the economics never stacked up, but the promise of jam today more than compensated for the lack of jam/income at maturity and felling. Criticism of the visual impact of the sitka spruce farms and of damage to biodiversity and native habitat became increasingly vocal. To encapsulate over half a century of grumpiness into one sentence, changes were made in planting design, management and species choice, and the governmental approach shifted to include access and nature conservation as prime objectives along with timber production. The grant forms became harder and harder to understand/complete, so just about everyone had something to moan about.
With increased understanding and awareness of climate change, the whole tree planting thing shifted gear once again. Here is a flavour of some of the issues (it’s extraordinarily complex, so please don’t expect a comprehensive run down, details, or academic verification). Trees absorb carbon as they grow, but they grow very slowly. Alternative carbon sinks are available. Managing woodland to create a continuous supply of fuel might be close to carbon neutral, but wood smoke contributes to air pollution and we are already banned from burning ‘wet wood’ (more than 20% moisture content), please note if you own a wood burning stove. Mass tree planting can do more harm than good and this is a serious issue. We were incandescent over an episode of BBC’s Countryfile, which appeared to be supporting mass planting of a single non-native conifer, in Northumberland. I thought we got over that approach last century.
Tree planting will be and should be one of the pieces in the carbon control jigsaw but, as with peat, it’s not as easy as it looks. Tree planting must use appropriate, preferably native - and locally native - species and mixes, or our wildlife and ecology will be sunk. It must also take into account other landuses and habitats, which may actually be more valuable than new tree planting - yes, really - otherwise our ability to sustain, diversify and also feed ourselves will be significantly damaged. It must be in an appropriate place in the landscape, taking into account our love of the hills, views, access, and the needs of human beings, or our history and society will go down too.
To do all of this, we must have appropriate leadership, support and guidance from our government and its advisers. We must learn lessons from the Corona epidemic. And we must do it on a global scale.
End of rant, but it is rather important.
Pond Life
If last week’s blog discussed the environment of Thornton Heath’s present day fishy experiences, then this week’s sequel will focus on a historically watery habitat. We are going from Thornton Heath’s fish shops to Thornton Heath Pond. We will return, via a new open space opposite the station, to complete our circuit.
The maps included in last week’s post clearly show that, in the 19th century, the heart of Thornton Heath lurched eastwards, from the original hamlet around the Pond to the station, and then beyond again to the newly-created, semi-circular High Street. The pulling power of the Victorian railway system was, in all senses of the word, vastly superior to the speed, comfort and carrying capacity of the Victorian road system. Today, of course, road transport is favoured, but it also delivers a significant, negative environmental impact. Thornton Heath High Street, originally a product of train travel, appears to have responded well to regeneration works but what has happened to the road transport dominated ‘Pond’?
It is a good mile from the High Street to the Pond so, after our exploration of Thornton east, we save our legs and take a bus to go west to the Pond. To be honest we got the wrong bus so come upon Thornton Heath Pond from the south rather than from the east.
Approaching Thornton Heath Pond along the old London to Brighton Road you cannot but believe that this vast gyratory will be a polluted, noisy, dusty, litter-strewn, cracked paving, broken tarmac-ed, and unpleasant experience.
© Google Maps 2021
To reach the centre you have, by necessity, to cross busy roads. Threading your way over a traffic ‘skerry’ (island is too comforting and romantic a word) with an untidy growth of poles supporting traffic lights, signposts and cameras, it is at best uninspiring and at worst confusing and downright depressing. The only nod to local identity – a kind of low, urban, metal hurdle adorned with golden baubles and announcing ‘ornton Heath Pond’ - has already been adapted to carry the modern equivalent of fly posting.
Emerging on the other side, there is another scatter of vertical elements and lumpy skerries but the impact is both surprising and altogether more pleasing. Dimensions, materials, spacing and sight lines have created a sense of arrival and of calm. Who would have thought that the centre of a roundabout could become a destination, a place to sit in the sun, a place to watch the shadows etching patterns on the ground, a place to admire the daffodils, tulips, new leaves and blossom. One of the boulders even turns out to be a Croydon Stone.
The remnant of the pond lies at the other end of this almost-bean-shaped traffic island. A path, delineated by low brick walls, offers a pleasant promenade down into the grassy bottom, which is itself edged by further walls or vegetated banks. It doesn’t take much to imagine it full of water. Considerable efforts have been made to decorate the walls, and the perimeter trees on the ‘banks’ provide structure, shade, interest and significantly dilute the impact of the circling traffic (although I might not be saying that during a wet and non-Covid rush hour).
Some would say that the perimeter banks, the planting areas and even the grassed area within the ‘pond’ itself are neglected and weedy, but in spring time we find them totally inoffensive, indeed a real bonus for a heavily urbanised area of south London located in the centre of a roundabout. The impact of a wide selection of native wild flowers, all blooming, all self-generating in their rough grassy matrix, gave enormous pleasure. We logged red dead nettle (Lamium purpureum), groundsel (Senecio vulgaris), dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), shepherds purse (Capsella bursa-pastores) chickweed (Stellaria media), daisy (Bellis perennis), forget-me-knot (Myosotis arvensis or similar garden escape!), yarrow (Achillea millefolium), buttercup (Ranunculus acris) and an umbel which the photographer slipped in without identifying…).
We will revisit later in the year to see how this landscape copes with other seasons.
Also on the plus side, I did find subtle evidence of maintenance. The path edges had been cleared, trees maintained, and there was precious little litter. An extraordinary range of people were either walking though or sitting and enjoying the sunshine and the delights of such an unusual open space. Even the noisy bunch of young men who turned up to sit on the walls were soon relaxing, quietening down and generally merging into the magic of the environment.
Perhaps the lonely, off-centre, tree-less, commemorative planter fails to make the grade. Perhaps the place is a nightmare in the dark, perhaps …. But on that day, in that weather, at that time of year it was an extraordinary, surprising and pleasant experience.
But there is another open space we need to visit before we take the train home.
Walking up Brigstock Road from Pond to Station we pass more street murals which do exactly what they are meant to do and reinforce our upbeat mood.
Opposite the station, we come to Ambassador House. We will let the Thornton Heath Chronicle (online edition, 28/10/18) make the introductions:
‘The iconic Thornton Heath eyesore Ambassador House is being squatted by a collective of artists, The Chronicle can exclusively reveal.
The group of five have taken over the vacant building which has been empty since it was bought at auction in October 2012 by Red Wing Property Holdings Ltd … .
The group wants to open up the redundant office space to the community and has begun putting in place precautions to meet health and safety requirements as well as setting up an account to pay for the utilities.
Ambassador House was was[sic] once a busy hub, with offices used by CALAT, the Met Police, and Croydon council.’
How interesting. But back to the Thornton Heath Chronicle online (6/12/19):
‘Last year the council launched a competition to transform the Ambassador House forecourt.
A year later this is the result – a mural and and an unfinished garden. …
Following the announcement of the winners, a collective of architects, public consultations were held resulting in a grand design. A mural was painted and then months spent creating a garden by the bus stop which is full of weeds …
Then out of no where the forecourt was back in the spotlight. The council had done a deal with Timberland as part of its Nature Needs Heroes campaign with Croydon rapper Loyle Carner declaring plans to green up the area. The forecourt was cordoned off and transformed in to a trendy venue with marquee and a concert stage and the public hurriedly invited on a week day to look at the plans, though to the untrained eye looked much the same plans. …
The latest date to install and launch the square is April 2020. Watch this space!’
So we did watch this space and this is what we found.
It’s bright, it’s fun, it’s brash and in your face. It’s so much better than a weedy bus stop. It’s also lunchtime. Where are the people? It’s pretty much empty. It’s long and thin, and feels tight, small. To us, back from the sunshine over Thornton Heath Pond, it feels drafty, lacking focus and depth. We are probably being very unfair; It’s probably heaving in the sunshine, on a weekday, when there is an event on, when the shops are open. But today? It lacks the spontaneity, the people, the nooks and crannies of the Pond. It feels more like a thoroughfare than a place to linger. The Pond was obviously used as an access - it’s in the middle of four major roads for goodness sake, and walking through is a far pleasanter experience than walking around - but it also felt like a place where you could ‘dwell’ for a moment or for a while.
So, sorry Ambassador House. We want to pick up a wrap or a samosa from one of those exciting shops in the High Street but its too far in the wrong direction, so we’ll find something in equally multi-cultural Broad Green on our way to East Croydon Station. This space is too well-tailored, too sterile for our current needs. Espeially when the station building, wrapped in scaffolding, can’t contribute anything to the street scene either!
So we will bid you farewll with a taste of some of Thornton Heath’s best banners.
An uproar of amazingness
Fish for supper? Fancy a surprising south London suburban stroll? Welcome to Thornton Heath.
The reason we went to Thornton Heath was to look at some art work at the station, of which more later, but having arrived by train it seemed churlish, and unlike Terroir, to go home after just viewing that mosaic on platform 1. So we climbed up to the High Street and spent a few hours exploring the wider suburban landscape. It’s quite an eyeful.
St Alban the Martyr’s Church
Building started in 1889 but contined in stages until 1939. It is listed grade II
Architects: William Bucknall & Sir Ninian Comper
But let’s start by going back a bit. In case you don’t know, and that may be quite a lot of you, Thornton Heath is in south London, just to the north of Croydon. One of the better known local landmarks is Thornton Heath Pond, not because you can picnic or feed the ducks there (you can’t) but because of the adjacent bus depot and the number of red London buses which carry ‘Thornton Heath Pond’ as their final destination. But it does sound delightfully rural, atmospheric and a worthy - if somewhat mythic - destination, just like the Purley Fountain, to the south of Croydon. And, just like the Purley Fountain, Thornton Heath Pond, is now the centre of a very busy roundabout.
In August 2018, the Croydon Advertiser asked the inevitable question, ‘Why is there no water at Thornton Heath Pond?’ (https://www.croydonadvertiser.co.uk/news/croydon-news/no-water-thornton-heath-pond-1939675). Part of the answer went as follows:
‘Centuries ago, before the busy roads were built, Thornton Heath actually was a heath. Acres of common land stretched across the area, and the ancient grazing land was used by Medieval farmers to feed their animals.
Their livestock could also take a drink at the watering-hole at the heart of the heath which would later become the eponymous Pond.
The area – now part of London's most populous borough – was once a rural and isolated spot.’
The London to Sussex Road (now the A23 London to Brighton road) also passed by the pond and is probably the reason the area became famous for highwaymen. An interesting Wikipedia article (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Thornton_Heath) suggests that Dick Turpin was associated with the area (via a local aunt - families, eh?) and that a ‘plot of land at the Pond became known as Hangman's Acre. Immense gallows loomed on John Ogilby's Britannia maps of 1675, and were still present in a later edition in 1731.’ The account goes on to suggest that in the 17th and 18th centuries Thornton Heath was ‘a desolate valley with lonely farmsteads sheltering desperate outlaws, with the hangman's noose the only recognised authority.’
The other local activity of note is commemorated by Colliers Water Lane, a local street name which still exists, and whose origins were linked to the romantic sounding Great North Wood. Remember, however, that this area is culturally both the south of England and ‘south-of-the-river’, so that the Great North Wood didn’t even get to Watford, but stopped abruptly on the south bank of the River Thames. The Colliers were charcoal burners who, according to the Wikipedia article, burnt timber from the Norwood Hills, using cooling water from the adjacent Norbury Brook. The concept of ‘north’ must have had a deep psychological impact on Croydon and the south. Wikipedia continues, ‘Smoke and high prices made the Thornton Heath colliers unpopular. With their dark [presumably in the sense of grimy?] complexions, they were often portrayed in the popular imagination as the devil incarnate.’
Back to the Croydon Advertiser: ‘In the early 19 century the well-to-do started to build their grand houses along the London Road [or, as William Cobbett described them less politely, ‘stock-jobbers’ houses’] , and the village surrounding the pond began to attract tradesmen.
New tastes and wealthier citizens led to the one-time watering-hole being given an upgrade – formal railings were installed to circle the water-feature, which became the decorative heart of the area.’
What the Croydon Advertiser forgot to mention is that, prior to the 19th century ribbon development, the land surrounding Thornton Heath had been enclosed (in the 1790s), and had become a landscape of small fields, farms, woodlands and the occasional orchard; no doubt very bucolic but enclosure meant that the control of the land would now have been in the hands of a very small number of people.
With the development of the Surrey Iron Railway (Croydon to Wandsworth section) in 1803, and the Croydon Canal (Croydon to New Cross via Forest Hill), in 1809, both passing close to the south of Thornton Heath Pond, plus the existing importance of the London to Sussex road, probably made investment in the Thornton Heath Pond settlement an attractive proposition. Instead of agricultural improvements to his newly enclosed fields, a beneficiary of the enclosures, one Thomas Farley, ‘converted allotments of land and sold them as freehold property. As a result, by 1818, the hamlet around the Pond had become a considerable village containing 68 houses’ (Wikipedia). One suspects that it was not quite the windswept heath which the newspaper report implied.
The sign of the Thomas Farley Public House, High Street, Thornton Heath
The pub has closed but, perhaps appropriately, has been converted into residential accommodation.
But it was the Victorian railway boom which initiated the major conversion of Thornton Heath from urban fringe to full on south London suburbia. Where railway lines had not been routed through existing settlements, stations such as Thornton Heath (constructed in 1862) were built in the middle of farmland. Again, those who had done so well out of the enclosures, recognised that they were sitting on prime real estate and, within ten years, the area of housing around the station was larger and more significant than the road hub, almost a mile away, around the Pond.
The maps below tell their own story, with the railway stimulating residential development far more rapidly around the station than around the pond/village/highway combination.
Ordnance Survey 1894/95 Revision, showing both pond and railway station
Pond - blue circle Station - red circle
All map images 'Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
21st century Thornton Heath has a far more diverse demographic than the community which formed around the station in the late 18th century. But times are tough and, in 2010, most of the area between and around the station and the pond was recorded as lying in the more deprived end of the multiple deprivation spectrum. By 2015, the situation worsened but some improvement is shown in the 2019 statistics. Indeed Croydon Council has been working on the regeneration and improvement of the Thornton Heath environment since 2016 and around £3 million pounds has been invested, on shop and building front improvements, on artworks and on open space. The methodology behind this work deserves a blog in its own right but, for now, Terroir will take you on a tour of the delights of Thornton Heath and try to demonstrate why we so enjoyed our morning of sight seeing.
If you arrive by train, look out for two things.
The first, left, delivers a bit of a mixed message.
We are happy to be welcomed to Thornton Heath, but are wary of the anti-climbing device on the top of the wall!
This, right, is what we have actually come to see.
It is one of 14 such roundels currently adorning 11 stations around London.
The roundels are the work of Artyface, founded by Maud Milton in 1999, ‘to provide high quality, legacy public art’ with community involvement at its core. Her website is a delight (https://artyface.co.uk/wp/) and if you ever need cheering up, just take a browse.
The Station roundels project was developed out of a partnership with Arriva. Maud and team worked with 3,000 members of the relevant local communities to create the designs for the first 13 roundels which are all noth-of-the-river, mainly on the London Overground.
The most recent roundel has been devloped for Govia Trains and the Thornton Heath community. The detail is phenomonal and tells its own story.
Leaving the station for our ‘well we might as well take a look while we’re here’ expedition, we turn to the left to head east - away from the Pond. Turning around to take a photograph of the 1860s station building, we are gutted to find that it is encased in the warm embrace of extensive scaffolding. A bad start for the photographer.
Our next discovery was the clock tower and the Croydon stones. The clock tower, which also seems to feature as an iconic bus stop, in a similar manner to the Pond, was erected in 1900 to celebrate the new century. According to the Thornton Heath Chronicle, it suffered a minor arson attack last year but appeared, to Terroir, to be in good condition last Saturday. Neither were there any signs of the ‘street drinkers’ who the Chronical reported to have been plaguing the area.
Left: the Thorton Heath Clock Tower
Below: one of the Croydon Stones
After this sedate history lesson, things really began to hot up as we rounded the corner and moved onto the High Street. It was a blast - first the murals, then the building facades, and then the shops themsleves.
We turned off up a side road, to see what went on behind the behind the High Street and were taken aback - again - by the extraordinary contrast offered by the suburban streets. How could anywhere so close to that vibrant, brightly coloured and noisy high street be so quiet and so calm. We could hear the birds singing and we couldn’t hear the traffic. How is it done?
We walked up hill, discussing how we would like to live here, as long as there was a park or open space nearby. As if by magic, we came across the entrance to Grangewood Park. As we entered, the magic did rub off a little, however, as the steep gradient put paid to our day-dreams of spending our twilight years here. If any octogenarians were to make it their daily walk, they would certainly be very fit. Grangewood Park is a relic of a much older estate which was originally part of, guess what? the Great North Wood (https://www.thorntonheathchronicle.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/Grangewood-Booklet-v6.pdf). Today the southern lodge is boarded up, the scattered trees look tired (and what is that tent doing in the second picture from the left?), the ground flora is trampled down and the soil looks heavily compacted. Spring seems a little far away, although a Monkey Puzzle tree and some sparkling new gym equipment do lift the spirits.
We zig-zagged back through more amazingly peaceful - and clean - streets, spotting our favourite bits of suburban architecture.
Back on the High Street, we had to face up to the big question. Why were there so many fish shops? We don’t mean fish and chip shops or fish restaurants, we mean wet fish shops, fishmongers, shops that sell fresh fish. Some just sold fish, some sold fish and a variety of groceries or vegetables. We wouldn’t have been surprised if the newsagents had had a fish counter. Why is Thornton Heath fish heaven? If you know please put a comment at the bottom of this blog.
Talking of which, we will postpone the rest of our voyage through Thornton Heath until next week, as there are one or two suprises still to come. But we will leave you with an image of that evening’s supper. It was by far the best fish we have had in ages.
Home Ground
An Englishwoman, an Irishwoman, a Welshman and a ‘British’ woman were all sitting around their respective dinner tables having a Zoom meal. It was the time of the Rugby Six Nations tournament and the conversation between the Welsh and Irish contingent was animated, emotional, patriotic, fervent and loud. Suddenly Irish turned to English and asked why we didn’t exhibit the same degree of loyalty to England. There was quite a long, deep pause as we marshalled our thoughts.
While we are waiting, I will just mention that the ‘Briton’ present is so-called because she is linked by birth, domicile, emotional connections and genetics, not only to Surrey, but also to the Isle of Wight, Yorkshire and Ayrshire. In the interests of balance she is often pigeonholed as the token Scot, but on this occasion she adopted an English perspective (current domicile and birthright). As another aside, we are all white and British or Irish born.
Much of what came out of the pregnant pause will be picked up again in future blogs. I’m referring to things like never thinking we were the underdog, not having to fight for (in this case) Celtic identity, culture, language or independence; things like guilt over the empire (so often identified with the English if not, actually, factually correct); things like the adoption of the cross of St George by football fans; things like being economic migrants within our own country and having lost our roots or strong feelings of identity for a particular region.
The final question, from Ireland, was, ‘Well, where is home for you, and with what area do you identify?’ It was a sudden, light bulb moment for England. The answer is Kent. It is the land of my fathers (most of my mothers came to London from the Midlands). Kent is not known for its prowess in rugby, but it is where I instantly feel at home and is the only county where I don’t have to spell my surname.
As a child I visited deepest Kent regularly. We were allowed free range of the local countryside as long as we rocked up at our grandparents’ cottage in time for meals. Somehow, I absorbed an innate emotional, ecological, botanical, geographical, historical, architectural, cultural, literary, agricultural and (being Kent) horticultural afinity, and a deep appreciation of Kentish landscape and community. Many, many years later, on a visit to Hughenden Manor (which is in Buckinghamshire), we walked down an avenue of beautiful coppiced hazels. I instantly felt a warm rush of comfort and nostalgia for Kent. I instinctively knew their shape and form and what they stood for in the history of the Kentish landscape. You may think this is bizarre, but it was a wonderful feeling of coming home. Snowdonia does it for the other half of Terroir. So it’s not romantic tosh after all?
Coppiced hazels used as an ornamental avenue along the drive to Hughenden Manor
The hazel coppice, backed by the brick and flint wall, could easily be taken for a Kentish ensemble, rather than the entrance to Benjamin Disraeli’s home near High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire
This feeling was revived, when we went for a walk in a National Trust Woodland on the Surrey side of the Kentish border. No, we’re not purists; English Terroir feels pretty comfortable in Sussex and the Kent/Sussex/Surrey borderlands too, despite greater difficulties in surname spelling.
Walking into Hornecourt Wood feels like slipping on a favourite old glove and, in landscape terms, you instantly recognise every aspect of the history and ecology of the space around you. But you don’t have to be a local or an ecologist to appreciate the delicate beauty of a deciduous wood in spring. The wood anemones were at their best, low-lying but proud, massed but not in your face, stunning but delicate. The beefier bluebells were doing their best to catch them up and already a blue miasma was creeping over the ground, but the bridal wind flowers (Anemone nemorosa) were the stars of the show.
This is ancient semi-natural woodland, defined by being consistently shown as woodland from the earliest maps to the present day (1600 is taken as the starting point). At Hornecourt, it’s a southern classic: a mix of hornbeam which is easily coppiced to provide small ‘round wood’ for poles, fencing, hurdles and so on, and, at a lower density, oak ‘standards’ which grow up as single massive stems to provide construction timber. It’s been a while since that management system has been in operation in Hornecourt, and the hornbeams are growing bigger while the oaks are falling, creating a horizontal sculpture park, studded with their star-like roots. Even the occasional hornbeam has toppled over.
The sculpture park effect is also turned to vertical effect by many of the standing oaks displaying a spectacular range of burrs which are outstandingly visible in springtime.
The hornbeam is as delicate as the wood anemones at this time of year and their opening buds are hanging down like tiny, lax, cocktail umbrellas, while their catkins fatten, lengthen and release their pollen, to the disquiet of Terroir’s hay fever sensitive receptors.
Hornbeam bark is smooth to the touch, a simple garment, elegantly worn.
Hornecourt Wood isn’t all fairy glades, catkins and picturesque burr oak, however, and its topography hides some interesting and alternative evidence of former times. As background, you should know that the wood is just a small part of a large agricultural estate, donated to the National Trust around the middle of the last century; there are five main farms spread over three parishes. To a public which is used to the Handbook listings of heritage buildings and spectacular countryside, this is a side of the National Trust which is less well known. The estate is located in the farmlands of the Low Weald and the wood tumbles down a low escarpment to the sticky clays of the Weald below. A classic Wealden gill also tumbles through a steep-sided valley within the wood, and low-key plank bridges provide pedestrian access.
But there are warning signs of alternative or additional uses. It’s like stubbing your toe on a stone which shouldn’t be there. A rhododendron clump and a few cherry laurels are out of character; stands of birch regeneration, standing out like sore thumbs, have probably taken root in an area cleared but not restocked; there is the shock of an inner core of conifers, including what looks to me like western red cedar, a native of the Pacific coast of north America; new plantings of native hardwoods stand in regimented rows, even-aged and as yet un-thinned – the tell-tale tree shelters still lurking in the light-loving bramble undergrowth.
A quick chat with the National Trust confirms these findings. Apparently the wood was once managed for pheasant rearing – no doubt as an additional source of income at a time when local biodiversity was not sufficient justification in a working landscape. Pheasants are not lovers of draughty copses and the laurel may have been encouraged to provide cover and shelter.
The Trust experimented with ‘commercial’ plantings of conifers again, no doubt, following the practice of the time and chasing the available grants. Thankfully, they were limited to the interior of the woodland and the gill valley, no doubt to conserve the visual amenity of the ancient wood within the landscape.
Again, management aspirations and grant funding changed and much of the coniferous timber appears to have been felled to be replaced by native hardwood species, with the pioneer birch trees leaping in to colonise peripheral open spaces. No doubt the pandemic has entirely destroyed the timetable and budget for any plans to manage these young trees, such that they can integrate into the classic habitat which gives the rest of the wood its richness and beauty.
The National Trust has Terroir’s every sympathy. Woodland management is wonderfully rewarding on all fronts except financial. Until we can adopt a Natural Capital approach, whereby the ‘stocks’ and flows’ of natural resources and services can be assessed in monetary terms, and accounted for on a par with traditional evaluations of goods and services, mangement of magical places such as Hornecourt Wood will be an uphill (pun intended) struggle.
Terroir will leave you with two thoughts. The Zoom dining quartet (particularly the Celts) wish it to be known how much they appreciate living in England, despite their apparent fierce attachment to their mother lands!
Meanwhile those with a fierce attachment to their English forefathers delight in the sculptural impact of the historic remnants of a neglected, south east English, hornbeam-and-hawthorn hedge.
The Art of Lockdown
One of the inspiring experiences of lockdown has been the artistic endeavours of friends, family and colleagues, and it is with great pleasure that I have ‘curated’ (how posh) an exhibition of their works completed during the last 12 months. Some of the contributors have been creating artwork for many years, some only started in lockdown. All have been working within the confines of a pandemic. Many have sold their art at open studio or similar events, but the majority would probably classify themselves as producing art for the sheer pleasure of creativity and, for some, for the adventure of exploring their own artistry as a response to Covid-19.
The experience of curating turned out to be terrifying. I looked up the definition of the expression ‘to curate’ something, to see what it was that I was trying to do. Words such as select, organise, look after, present, interpret and display came up again and again.
Selection has been easy and involved emails to friends and colleagues who I knew were painters or artists. My brief asked for ‘something that you might have created over the last year which has some relationship to landscape, environment or society, however tenuous’. Thus the process of selection of the potential artists was down to me. The selection of the artworks, was (largely) down to the artists. I have accepted everything which was sent me. I was aware that some I contacted had been involved in portraiture but, knowing my background, they felt that the link to ‘landscape and society’ was just too tenuous; thankfully I managed to convince one artist that portraits are important too.
It was the requirement to organize, look after, present, interpret, and display which was so stressful. My own creative experience relates to working with actual, live landscapes. This can be onerous: the responsibility of creation must be taken seriously, and comes with responsibility to client, user and environment. But the curating or management of that landscape is also, in my experience, a joy which brings immense satisfaction. So why the tears and fears connected to this blog’s endeavours? One dictionary defintion continued: ‘typically using professional or expert knowledge’. Ah. So obvious. I am trained to handle landscapes which are alive in a biological sense and are physically anchored into our external environment (I can even handle the occasional house plant) but am a total amateur in curating artistic representations of and refections on ‘landscapes, environment and society’.
So, forgive me if I have made a poor job of exhibiting my friends’ and colleagues’ work. Not only am I inexperienced in presenting and displaying artistic output, but am constrained by the technlogy of a blog platform, on which my grip is tenuous to say the least. If admiration and enthusiasm were enough, then this would be a superb ‘exhibition’, but I know that in the curating sense this is not true! Please enjoy as best you can. My contibutors deserve better but I also know that, despite my ineptitude, their art will speak out for them.
Elizabeth Ellison
Regular walks started last year, usually walking up and over/under the A264, and the railway line, towards the farmland, and Rusper. I took photographs, (too cold to sit about) and resolved to paint small and fast, so no dithering or overworking. Found it helped to prepare sketches, mix all the paint first, and allow myself no more than 40 mins. Nothing too challenging or long term, but as they say, you have to put the paint on!!
Oil paint on board, palette knife
Size 24x18cms
Prepared throughout 2020
March
April
May
June
July
August
Carole
Instagram: @calligraphysurrey
I belong to a calligraphy group and last year the theme for our summer project was ‘CELEBRATE' and the format was a folded book made of a single sheet of paper. I wanted to use the letters of the word ‘celebrate’ but also wanted to specify what I wanted to celebrate. As lockdown happened about the time I started thinking about the project, I chose to celebrate trees, as they became my close companions during lockdown walks.
The large colourful letters spell tree names starting with the letters C E L E B R A T E and although I tried to use mainly native trees, a eucalyptus managed to sneak in.
The tree names were written first with a chisel brush and gouache paint. Then I folded the sheet of paper into its book shape and on each page I carefully wrote a different tree quote in pencil.
Gwilym Owen
I signed up to a lockdown art class, to do something, to motivate myself to attempt some art, and maybe to learn some new skills. I painted from photographs.
Fly Agaric Toadstool
Watercolour on paper
Starling
Water colour on paper
Stanage Edge, Peak Distict
Pen and ink on paper
Maureen Ford
Instagram: @maureen_ford22
Redhill redevelopment during lockdown. Charcoal drawing on paper.
The building site was a mass of linear, vertical, horizontal and diagonal lines and structures with contrasting tones. Having sketched the demolition of the Co Op store decades ago I couldn't resist taking multiple photos and sketching this view.
The painted version is executed using acrylic paint on paper emphasising the contrast of cold greys with the warm colours of the plant.
These are two of the portraits made during lockdown when Clive Myrie and Lesley Garrett engaged in fascinating conversations while sitting for Skye’s ‘Portrait Artist of the Week’ on Sunday lunchtimes. The portraits were fascinating, challenging and demonstrated a wealth of talent by participating artists who shared their work online. portrait artist of the week skye arts
Lesley Garrett, Pastel pencil on paper
[A Yorkshire phenomenon, ed]
Clive Myrie, watercolour on paper
Born on the ‘other side’ of the Pennines [ed]
Walking the footpaths and fields during lockdown and watching the seasonal changes to the fields brings a stability to the everchanging scenario of lockdown.
The sheep are moved to different fields when the foraging becomes scarce. Each sheep has a character of its own, be it curiosity or resignation.
Sheep in a turnip field.
Pastel pencil on paper.
Locked in or locked out?!
Reminders of a bright hot summer
Acrylic paint on paper
Zosia Mellor
I retired from practice as a Chartered landscape architect and have thoroughly enjoyed having time for pastimes. I really enjoy painting …! Before lockdown we travelled a great deal, however last year I did enjoy exploring different corners of England.
Landscape:
Darenth Valley in Kent
Fresh Food in Lockdown
Blackheath Farmers Market
: the market ran throughout both lockdowns and it was a wonderful outlet on a Sunday morning. I was struck by the vibrancy of the colours of this vegetable stall and the jumble of shapes and textures.
This painting is acrylic on board measuring 30 x 20 cms.
Field Mushrooms
: during lockdown walks for exercise I collected these field mushrooms. I enjoy painting seasonal subjects and lockdown has definitely heightened my awareness of the changing seasons.
I used acrylic paint on acid free card measuring 30 x 20 cms.
Rob Thompson
I wasn’t sure if I should include more of Rob’s work (see Blog 18 Cynefin), not because I was worried about over exposure (!) but because in my view he sells enough of his work to make him a professional. Rob thinks this is very funny. So Terroir has compromised and we are pleased to include some paintings he produced to support Snowdonia Donkeys, a charity dedicated to promoting human and equine health and well-being, through working and walking with donkeys. https://www.snowdoniadonkeys.com The two images below were created for, and donated to, a secret post card raffle. If you were generous enough to donate to the raffle and received either of the donkeys shown below, please let us know!
Before you go… thank you so much to all our contributors. When we started working on this blog post, Terroir had no idea just how rewarding, stimulating and throughly enjoyable this curating business was going to be. I hope you - our readers - are able to enjoy this lockdown art as much as we have.
… don’t forget to visit the gift shop! Most of the art shown above is for sale and, if you like their style, the artists also have a store of other treasures. If you are interested, contact Terroir at blogterroir.net@gmail.com and we will pass your details on to the relevant artist or atists. This aspect of producing art was never mentioned in the definitions of curating, and Terroir certainly didn’t embark on this project with this in mind. But, if any of our artists are starving in a draughty garret, we are very pleased to help!!
‘Chilly Finger’d Spring’
Spring - such an obvious name! So delightful that the English language settled on a word so simultaneously descriptive, self-evident and cheering. But there are other names, of course. Here are a few: vernal equinox, emergence, daylight saving, the start of British Summer Time, clocks spring forward, seed time, spring fever, primaveral, vernalagnia, frondescentia, repullulate, Chelidonian winds. No, Terroir’s vocabulary is not that extensive and we owe a debt of gratitude to a wonderful page on the BBC website: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/rMcWv9V1wWWNXxmbLkQW5P/12-spring-words-to-celebrate-the-new-season
Spring is also a time of religious celebration: Easter, Pacque, Ostern, Πάσχα, Pasg, A 'Chàisg, Cásca, Easter Tide, paschal festival, Pesach, Nowruz (Iran), Holi (Hindu), Vaisakhi (Hindu/Sikh).
Some aspects of spring are best avoided, however: gowk-storm (snow fall or gale which coincides with arrival of gowk or cuckoo - Scottish dialect), lamb-storm (spring thunderstorm at lambing time), blackberry winter (American spring cold snap). Again, thank you BBC.
More secular celebrations tend to get less exciting names: Easter holidays, spring break.
Terroir has spent many late winters watching for the signs of spring. We are not very good at phenology - the study of biological cycles and how they are influenced by seasonal variations - because we never keep proper notes. The only key information we can remember from year to year is whether the garden daffodils are out for St David’s day. 2021 qualified for an ‘only just’; one miniature bloom was sacrificially plucked for the Welsh lapel.
For some time now the old-fashioned enjoyment of a warm spell bringing an early clump of snow drops, or the traditional agony of a cold snap delaying the first pussy willow buds, has been tainted by the spectre of climate change. Phenology has become witness to a sad confusion of seasons and global influences. Watching the quickening of the local landscape from dormancy to a riot of activity is no longer the simple pleasure of our childhoods.
Lockdown, however, has changed our attitudes to spring even more thoroughly than climate change. And, so, this year we kept a pictorial record of our journey from winter to spring, from Christmas to Easter, from winter solstice to vernal equinox.
Our pictorial voyage is exhibited below, in fairly strict chronological order. We have broken it into three sections in accordance with our crazy, traditional calendar which does it’s best to ignore the lunar cycle, although the relationship between the moon and the earth is perhaps the most steadying influence in our currently topsy world.
January: a revealing month, showing details and patterns which are either hidden or overshadowed by the riots of spring growth, the ripening of summer or autumnal reveries. We found natural sculptures, spots of colour, fungus and seed heads, the loss of an old hedgerow tree veteran, extremes of weather and, yes, new life.
February: a month which started well but rapidly became the victim of strong meterological contrasts. The days continued to lengthen, but none of us in Terrior-land really noticed as the snow fell to a mixed reception. We - adult humans and nascent nature - bided our time until, finally, the sun came out again.
March: sunshine, cold and long. The gardens did their best to cheer us up, but the countryside held its breath, drab khaki beneath the yew, juniper and pine. Farmers and schools started work again, and finally, finally the rest of us were rewarded with green shoots, early blossom, thoughts of eggs and spring flowers aplenty. At the end of the month the sun came out and so did we.
“… for the choir
Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar
Nor muffling thicket interpos’d to dull
The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full,
Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles.
He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles,
Wan as primroses gather’d at midnight
By chilly finger’d spring.”
John Keats Endymion Book IV
I think Keats would have hated climate change…
Happy Easter/Spring Break to you all. May the English and Northern Irish ‘Rule of Six’, the Welsh freedom to roam, and staying local in Scotland bring health and happiness.
Life and Death on the Fringe
The concept of the favourite aunt or uncle has always seemed a tad too sentimental for the likes of Terroir. We had no shortage of appropriate relatives. Between us we can muster seven uncles (of which four share our DNA) and twelve aunts (of which a mere five are genetically connected). The arithmetic is interesting, I agree, but multiple marriages (in sequence, we are not aware of any bigamy), plus an extra family lurking in the shadows, make for the usual complicated familial links. Some we never met, or even knew about as children. The known uncles and aunts were loved and appreciated but never promoted to ‘favourite’ status.
One set of relatives, however, has always generated an irresistible magic (one of Scary Great Granny’s daughters married into the clan – see Booth map blogs) and some years ago, I promoted a first-cousin-once-removed clan member to Favourite Cousin. No one could accuse Meg of being saccharine or a cliché. I first consciously met her when I was maybe six or seven years old, she in her early 30s, a tall figure in a beautiful summer dress. She knew how to engage with children - and also how to buy them presents. I still have that wooden jigsaw puzzle of the United States of America. I rated her as special from then on and was never disappointed. I hope she will forgive me for promoting her to ‘favoured’ status.
Last month, Meg died at the age of 92. I was uncharacteristically upset. The funeral was a Covid 19 limited edition, but with space for Terroir amongst the congregation of 30 max. The location was the Cotswold village of Ilmington, where Meg had previously lived for many years.
Why had Meg chosen Ilmington as her favoured terroir? It turned out that Ilmington had chosen her. A cousin (obviously not on the Terroir side, to whom such things do not happen) had left Meg a house in the village (a joint inheritance with someone else). Possibly scenting internecine warfare, the house was put up for sale, but the transaction later fell through. Realising the house was rather special, Meg and husband upped sticks, left the south east and moved in. They were right about the house and, fortunately, right about the village too.
Ilmington depicted on an Ordnance Survey map of 1897
The contours to the south west of the village rise inexorable up Campden Hill to the top of Ebrington Hill (731 feet above sea level). The gardens of Hidcote and Kiftsgate lie on the lower, western slopes of the hill.
Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
Ilmington is described as a Cotswold Fringe Village. This seems to be an established typology, relating partly to geography (Ilmington is on the very northern fringes of the Cotswolds) rather than a derogatory comment on village character. It is also noted as the highest village in the Cotswolds and lies at the base of Ebrington Hill, the highest point in Warwickshire. I can bear witness to a certain draughtiness which becomes apparent when the sun goes in on an otherwise fine March morning.
Apart from its immediate attraction as a honey-coloured Cotswold village (however fringe), two specific things strike me about Ilmington. One is related to food and drink, and the other to architecture and buildings, both an integral part of any discourse on terroir.
Farmers have probably been cultivating the Cotswolds since the Neolithic period (from about 6,000 years ago) but Terroir’s sources of information stem from a slightly more recent era. Go to http://www.fabulous-50s.com/memories/oral-histories.html and you will find a rich seam of oral history called ‘Ilmington Remembers the 1950s’, inspired by celebrations for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee in 1977. The stories are captivating, and revealing about post-war Ilmington life, which very much revolved around agriculture and its supporting trades and activities.
Two things stand out. During a time of continued food rationing, when other communities were still struggling to find a sufficiency and variety of nourishment, it appears that the village had plenty to eat. Gardens and allotments were the norm, obviously well tended and productive, even to the level of providing a suplus for sale (there is a mention of one family producing over a ton of potatoes in a year). Blackberries were foraged for eating or selling on. Meat was avalable - often in the form of rabbit, but a more traditonal Sunday roast did not seem uncommon and there was a butcher in the village as well as a grocer. Local farmers had dairy herds and there is mention of milk available as well as fruit for making puddings. No one seems to mention hunger, and many comment on having enough to eat.
The other recurring theme relates to orchards. Lots of orchards. There is mention of plums grown locally, but the product of the apple orchards seems to have made the biggest impact, with many farm workers reported as receiving considerable quantities of cider as part remuneration for their daily labours!
The maps below show that orchards were significant thoughout the late 19C and though to the interwar years of the 20C. Both oral history and mapping confirm the importance of the orchards in the early 1950s, but by the end of that decade, surveys show the bginning of reduction in area. The orchards today are sad remnants of their former glory, more so perhaps than even in Kent or Herefordhire. Some of Ilmington’s orchards are extant but derelict, others converted to alternative uses including housing.
Terroir has, however, just ordered some refreshment from a renewed interest in the apple harvest resulting from remaining trees, and we will report back on the apple brandy and dry gin in due course.
All map images reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
Satelite image of Ilmington today.
A new tree-scape now characterises Ilmington but it is still possible to pick out where the orchards used to be.
© Google Maps 2021
Railway gricer alert: check out the route of the Morton-in-Marsh to Stratford Tramway, a horse drawn system authorised in 1821 to supplement the canal system, and visible on both maps of eastern Ilmington and on the satellite image.
Terroir is in possession of another document relating to food, this time a substantial cookery book, produced in 1982 to raise funds for the Ilmington Church Roof Fund. I can still remember Meg flogging us a copy in a determined effort to do her bit.
We can’t find a single recipe with her name on it, but it is obvious that diets have changed a lot since the Cider with Rosie era of the 1950s. Bacon Jack, Back-bone Pie and Soldiers Cake are now heavily outnumbered by Tonille aux Pêches, Bermudian Banana Fritters and Sole à L’Indienne. I leave you to draw your own conclusions on the changes in lifestyle and demographic.
But I also mentioned architecture and housing, and those honey-coloured, marlstone Cotswold buildings. Unsurprisingly, Ilmington is a very attractive village (excepting the draughts). Unsurprisingly it is also heavily regulated. The Cotswolds were designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (AONB) (aka be innovative and outstanding before you even think about trying to build a house) in 1966. It was the 14th AONB to be designated and I’ve not begun to work out why it took them so long.
In 1969, nearly the entire village was designated a Conservation Area (apply for permission before you do nearly anything). When this designation was reviewed in 1995, there were 41 listed buildings or structures in the village (check your bank balance before contemplating modifications). Today, there are no less than 61 such listings!
An analysis of these buildings offers a fascinating insight into the agricultural heritage of ilmington and also to the extraordinary level of change which has occurred in the village since the 1950s. Out of the 61 listings, 58 are Grade II. Of these, I would suggest that over a third relate to the village’s agricultural heritage. No less than ten are described as ‘Farmhouse’ and the remainder are barns, outbuildings or cart sheds. Structures related to the religious life of the parish mop up another 10 listings, leaving less than 50% for other forms of residential buildings (which seem to range from cottage to Dower House) and the Chalybeate well head (see below). What a heritage. And, in case you are wondering, Wikipedia tells me that ‘Chalybeate means mineral spring waters containing salts of iron’.
As an aside, it is no surprise that this area comes very low in the England deprivation indices, with the main exception of ‘physical and financial accessibility of housing and local services’ (http://dclgapps.communities.gov.uk). Even in the 1950s, the oral history accounts often mention the wait for council housing, although it also records that such did exist in village. Today, private house prices in Ilmington are only slightly below typical prices in the south east commuter belt.
Only two buildings manage grade II*: the grandiose early 18C Manor House (think Doric Columns and a pediment on top to attic height) and the earlier 16C ‘Ilmington Manor with attached Barn’. The latter is much more to my taste, particularly because of the down-to-earth and very functional attachment.
Which leaves us with a single grade I listing, the Norman parish church of St Mary. This deserves a blog in its own right, but a mention of the embroidered apple map is essential. Created by resident June Hobson, the map is a copy of a 1922 plan which identified the locations of all the orchards in the village (https://www.cotswolds.info/places/ilmington.shtml). The church is also famous for its wood carvings by Robert Thompson (no known relation to Rob Thompson, the artist/architect, featured in the Cynefin blog, last month). Not only did he create the pulpit and pews, but carved his signature mice in eleven places throughout the church (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ilmington)
I sat in one of Robert Thompson’s pews last week, saying goodby to favourite-cousin Meg. Although she had temporarily left Ilmington (a decade in a life of 92 years counts as temporary in my book) to live closer to essential amenities in Stratford upon Avon, she had chosen to return to Ilmington for her final farewells and for her ashes to be interred next to her husband, in the church yard. It has been a great privilege, not only to have known Meg, but to have actually been related to her. A Grade I human being resting beside a Grade I Norman Church.
Privet Land
Although privet was an integral part of a Terroir childhood, it was many years before I realised the stuff had pyramidal spikes of white blossom, or experienced that heady, heavy, almost sickly perfume which emanates from the flowers. I suspect I caught up with the follow-on black berries even later. How come I was so ignorant of such basic aspects of this native shrub (Ligustrum vulgare)?
Flower image: © David Birch Privet flowers DSCF5484 https://www.flickr.com/photos/hedgerowmobile/328836044
Berries image: © versageek European Privet (Ligustrum vulgare) https://www.flickr.com/photos/versageek/1563369131
Like so many of us, I was a suburban child. The only privet I knew was the privet hedge which formed the boundary to so many semi-detached front gardens. In our area, Ligustrum ovalifoilum vied with Golden Privet (Ligustrum ovalifolium ‘Aureum’) for most-favoured hedge status. A 1950s and 60s summer did not hum with the sound of an electric lawn mower, but rattled with the sound of a push mower, and a pair of shears chopping the privet hedges into perfect vegetable rhomboids. No flower was ever allowed to appear on these hedges, so no whiff of potent perfume or tell-tale berries.
As a nearly-teenager I spent more time at the overgrown, more distant, end of the back garden. Here a neighbouring privet had been forgotten and run wild. Here I discovered the privet secrets of flower and scent. Such was the universality and uniformity of the sterile front garden privet hedge, that the shock of the fecund floral discovery was akin to finding out how babies were made!
My childhood privet landscape was one of inter-war, speculative, private housing development.
The urgent need for housing following WW1 created vast acreages of suburbia. The ‘Addison Act’ of 1919 and subsequent Housing Acts in the 1920s and 30s, ensured the construction of over a million local authority houses.
In 1923, the speculative builders of private houses joined in, adding a further 2.8 million ‘middle class’ homes. This was my domestic inheritance landscape: a ‘Tudoresque’, three bedroomed semi-detached, of brick cavity wall construction, with pebble dash and tiled roof, small front garden and bigger back garden. The house was fitted with electricity, gas, tiny kitchen, bay windows at the front, topped with a gable, French doors at the back, an inside bathroom and separate toilet. Two designs were often offered: ours had a curved bay and arched storm porch while Granny and Aunt J (Scary Great Granny’s daughter and grand-daughter - see the Booth Blogs) had a rectangular bay and matching storm porch. Subtle. Garages were an optional extra and ours had been built of asbestos but with the classic wooden double doors. Looking back, and looking at pictures of ‘typical’ spec-built estates, I realise that chez Terroir was at the smaller end of the size range; indeed my bedroom was not much more than 6 foot by 6 foot square.
From memory, the classic front garden featured a low brick wall, topped off with either looped chains or backed by the aforementioned privet hedge. By the 1950s, the uniformity was already being eroded. The low brick walls lasted well, but I have only faint memories of the looped chains and the privet hedges were definitely on the decline.
The images below are a classic selection of inter-war speculative private housing, in this instance as found in Terroir’s current home town. These all have the classic gable, over the two stories of bay windows, something which was missing form Terroir’s childhood estate. On the other hand, these tend to have a single, shared access to garages behind the houses. The density was often lower in the childhood estate, offering space for a garage beside the house, sometimes with a side passageway through to the backgarden, as well. Obviously, there have been significant changes to the front gardens, although low walls and hedges are not completely absent.
Since achieving some sort of adult status, Terroir had not given the suburban privet hedge much thought. Interest was revived recently, however, by the discovery that some of Sheffield’s allotments are surrounded by privet. We don’t mean neat, waist high hedges around the external site boundary. We mean that every two allotment plots are corralled within massive privet ramparts, at least 4 metres high and a couple of metres wide. Thankfully the plot sizes are generous, as nothing grows within the shade of these evergreen barbarians.
Now on constant hedge alert, we soon saw that the remains of privet hedges are alive and well. Not just in Sheffield but throughout the towns and cities of England and Wales.
Finding information on the history of the privet hedge has been tricky, however. Histories of modest 20th century domestic architecture are not difficult to find. But details of standard garden finishes, are much harder to track down. Were the looped chains a figment of my imagination? What sort of fencing was used to divide the residential plots? Was that front garden privet hedge a hangover from the 19th century or was it a purely inter-war feature? Why did Sheffield plant them around their allotments?
Some references we have found. Ian Waites, in his evocative book ‘Middlefield – A post war cou ncil estate in time’, talks of cut-throughs – ‘narrow channels of privet, wall and fence’ - where children would disappear and reappear as they crossed this Lincolnshire estate. The Municipal Dreams website (https://municipaldreams.wordpress.com) remarks that ‘The privet hedges remain a characteristic feature of Nottingham’s interwar council housing’ (Nottingham’s Council Housing by Bus and Tram Tuesday 19 June 2018) and ‘Some original privet hedges survive to mark the plot boundaries’ (Lincoln’s Early Council Housing 16 June 2015).
We will continue to research the history of the privet hedge but we would be grateful for any further information, whether circumstantial, anecdotal, or academic, which readers can contribute. If the comment box below is not visible, please click on ‘read more’, scroll down to the bottom again (sigh), and share your knowledge. We look forward to hearing from you.
Heavenly Bodies
What makes you choose one block of flats over another?
Location, obviously. And as an aside, the famous phrase ‘Location, Location, Location’ was not invented by Kirstie Allsopp and Phil Spencer, presenters of the eponymous TV programme, but by one Harold Samuel, property developer, in 1944. But then I expect you knew that.
Before lockdown, a good urban location might have been defined as a town centre, close to railway station/transport hub, shops, cinema, cafes and restaurants, for that authentic city experience; no car needed.
After lockdown, a flat may be the last place you want to live, the train station may no longer be relevant, parking may suddenly be more important and access to green space top of the agenda.
So how does a pre-Covid development of ‘luxury apartments’ sell itself? The one Terroir has in mind must have seemed a sure fire thing when it was planned in the 20 teens. It is literally opposite a good commuter railway station, right at the edge of the town centre, and with a cinema/restaurant complex, aimed at boosting the evening/night time economy, going up just across the road. Oh, and an international airport 20 minutes away (flight path not an issue). What more does the pre-pandemic, go-getting singleton or couple desire? The outdated sales blurb talks of good transport connections (well you will certainly get a seat on the train these days), retail therapy (currently closed), pubs and restaurants (if they ever re-open), and wonderful local countryside (true but car - and thus parking space – essential).
Terroir visited a two-bedroom show flat last summer. Considering this seems to be the most expensive apartment block in town, we were surprised to find: no separate kitchen (washing up in full view from living space); en-suite to master bedroom seriously reducing wardrobe space, no cat-swinging room in either bedroom, and a tiny balcony overlooking either a main road or the railway line (great for railway gricers, I suppose - see last week’s blog). Oh and we forgot to mention, and I quote, the
· Porcelanosa wall tiles in bathroom and en-suite
· Integrated Bosch appliances in the kitchen
· TV/FM Sky Q points to living room and master bedroom
· Stylish bathrooms with Roca bath and chrome Hansgrohe taps and fittings
Call us old-fashioned but we don’t understand a word of that.
So, lets go outside and take a look at the greenspace. On three sides the block is bordered by a main road, a sizeable but inaccessible railway embankment, and a second block of flats, still under construction. Out front? The building is separated from another main road (on the other side of which lies the under-construction-cinema site and the town centre) by an irregular space which has just been ‘landscaped’. We have to say, it did make us smile. And brought out the worst in us, too.
Let’s try to be positive, to begin with, at any rate. Topiary seems to be the order of the day, creating a green passage between the building and the main road. I love the way the cypress seem to flicker and dance like flames in the sunshine while the bay laurel ‘guard of honour’ keeps pedestrains on the straight and narrow.
But is it really going to work? I give it one summer to impress potential purchasers of the remaining flats (let’s stop calling them ‘apartments’) and by next year the maintenance regime will have started to ‘level down’ the whole thing.
Let’s take it apart.
The Cypress snake: these things grow fast and furiously. Keeping them in shape (literally) will take consistent and sympathetic trimming. Neither adjective is in common usage with the average commercial residential grounds maintenance team or, perhaps more accurately, the budget of the contract manager. The image to the right of the snake depicts a hedge of Cypress ‘Green Hedger’ which is cut back twice a year just to keep it in this simple form.
The conical bay trees (laurus nobilis): their natural shape is neither conical nor noble and they will need ongoing care and attention to keep them to this shape and size. The bay illustrated to the right of the newly-planted specimen grows in a garden about 500 m from our conical friends.
The yew bomb, cannon ball or heavenly body: so heavily clipped that we could not even begin to identify its species, so let’s assume Taxus baccata. Again, they don’t grow naturally like this. The Taxus baccata specimen on the right of the newly planted yew ball is neighbour to the non-conical and expansive bay tree, shown above.
The Euonymus (Euonymus japonica ‘Bravo’): no we are not expert Euonymus growers, that is what it says on the label. Already reaching for the sky, this shrub can, according to the Royal Horticultural Society, grow to 4 m high (yes, really) and spread to 2 m wide. And there are smaller varieties, so why use this one? The right hand image is a different variety but shows the same enthusiasm for vigorous growth.
The Mexican Orange Blossom (Choisya ternata) is no slouch and can quickly grow to well over a metre. It’ll be fun watching it fight for space with the canonball yew. And, oh horror, ‘they’ have included a Photinia fraseri (Little Red Robin). See Blog 3 (12th November) for why I dislike this plant so much.
I actually like the inclusion of Nandina domestica aka Heavenly Bamboo (it isn’t a bamboo, it’s in the Barbary family, most of which are types of Berberis). I’d like it even better if the contract supervisor had spotted the condition of some of the plants. Maybe they just haven’t done the snagging meeting yet… .
There are even a few trees, their trunks making a pleasant contrast to the other vertical elements which include flag poles and ‘for sale’ signs. At least these uprights will probably be removed in the fullness of time.
The choice of location did make us laugh, however. Some branches are already wrapped lovingly around a couple of lamp fittings and one tree is so close to the building that its juvenile boughs are making a concerted effort to climb through an adjacent window.
But there are good bits. A few cheerful daffodils (more would have been nice, of course), a herd of Bergenia (Elephants’ Ears), tough critters with cheerful flowers; they can also spread with alarming rapidity but only require brute force to get them back under control again.
I imagine, by now, that you are getting my drift: if left under-maintained, this formal and sculptual luxury apartment-selling landscape will quickly become a spectacular, if unsophisticated, jungle. Terroir has no problem with landscapes and gardens developing, and this particular landscape may well need changing, thinning, and/or restructuring to create a long term setting for the building. It needs to be both appropiate to the site (narrow, linear space, close to two main roads, plus heavy footfall between station and town centre etc) and to the management company’s budget. The problem will be if no-one manages the residents’ expectations, for when their cypress snakes and soldier bay trees, develop into common or garden trees and shrubs.
Walking the Line
As Chris Baines (environmentalist author and campaigner) once said, “Whoever heard of the Society for the Protection of Slugs”?
We are suckers for the eye catching and the beautiful. Take birds: in the UK, the largest nature conservation membership organisation is the RSPB, with over a million members, all prepared to stump up an annual membership fee to protect and enjoy just one small segment of the biosphere. On a global level, we also have the example of the WWF, which started life in 1961 as the World Wildlife Fund, campaigning with huge success under its delightful image of a panda. Although WWF was always committed to ‘protect places and species that were threatened by human development’ (https://www.worldwildlife.org/about/history), it was the panda that caught my attention and imagination, and I am sure I was not alone in that.
Why is this? Why do these appealing species create so much enthusiasm, loyalty and support? Why is there so much less attention given to the world of say amphibians or even wildflowers and so little attention to say, spiders or worms. What follows is purely anecdotal, based on observation, and has no scientific backing, but it seems to me that there are a number of factors.
The first is the teddy bear factor: pandas are cuddly and cute. We fall for them every time. The second is the human perception of wild beauty: I doubt the female blackbird will ever top a bird beauty contest, but there are many other British avian species which take our breath away, an obvious example being the kingfisher. [Stop press: regular followers will be pleased to hear that there is at least one on The Moors, flashing its feathers in fine style].
Thirdly, there is the human perception of wildlife repulsiveness, into which category fall the aforementioned slugs, spiders and worms and may also include close encounters with snakes or ants.
Fourth, and thanks to lockdown, we all know that being outside makes us feel good, and watching something alive and cuddly or beautiful makes us feel even better.
Picture credits, left to right: Kingfisher - Vine House Farm; Wasp spider - © Nigel Jackman 2021; Ant - Maciej; Blackbird - Wildlife Terry
And fifthly, there is the human love of the chase. Call it hunting or list ticking, human beings have been doing this for a very long time: train spotters (gricers), bird watchers (twitchers), butterfly or egg collectors (dodgy), trophy hunters (controversial), sporting hunters (commercial?), wildlife managers (cullers). Much of this love of the hunt has now been channelled into benign pursuits and scientific study but, whether peaceable or more destructive, it has been around a long time - and is a key factor in the growth of the conservation movement. I hesitate to say that it may also be a largely male pursuit, but observation suggests that, in the past, this might be so.
Ironically, the RSPB started, in 1889, as an organisation to stop the trade in feathers and plumes which late Victorians used in lavish quantities to adorn ladies’ hats. The Society consisted entirely of women, and cost tuppence to join. The rules were:
“That members shall discourage the wanton destruction of birds and interest themselves generally in their protection [good to see this first in the list]
That lady-members shall refrain from wearing the feathers of any bird not killed for purposes of food, the ostrich only excepted.” https://www.rspb.org.uk/about-the-rspb/about-us/our-history/
I’m not sure what happened to the ostriches, but some influential ornithologists (men) joined in, the Society grew rapidly, got its Royal Charter and, in 1921, the Importation of Plumage (Prohibition) Act was passed, forbidding the import of plumage to Britain. Result!
But conservation focused on a single species, no matter how attractive or repulsive, was never going to be really effective. The importance of the ecosystem approach, which aims to manage the whole habitat for the good of an appropriate range of species, became increasingly recognised as the way forward. The more habitat-based ‘Society for the Promotion of Nature Reserves’ was set up by Charles Rothschild in 1912, but it wasn’t until after WWII that this style of conservation really got going, with the expansion of county Wildlife Trusts, in the 1940s and 50s. This was reinforced by significant legislation, starting with the ground breaking National Parks & Access to the Countryside Act in 1949.
It took until the 1970s, however, before the WWF began to look seriously at holistic habitat protection as well as species specific work, (it kept the Panda logo though) and it was 2010 before the RSPB started its ‘landscape scale’ conservation programme, and 2013 before ‘Birds’ magazine became ‘Nature’s Home’. Oh, and another black and white cuddly image (of a badger) became the Wildlife Trusts poster animal from 2002.
Conservation organisations which concentrate on single species or species groups still thrive however, including The Bat Conservation Trust, Buglife, The Mammal Society, and Plantlife (wild flowers, plants and fungi) to name a few. Typically memberships are in the thousands or tens of thousand, however, and the RSPB still leads the way in terms of sheer size.
How do these organisations cope with habitat wide issues? Let’s take a look at Butterfly Conservation, a classic in terms of life-affirming study of beautiful creatures, with the added bonus that those creatures tend to grace our landscapes in the warmer months and during daylight hours. In addition, there are only 59 butterfly species in the UK (depending on how you count) compared to 3,000 or so moth species, which makes the annual challenge of seeing them all much more achievable. Happy hunting.
Adons Blue Butterfly
© Richard Stephens 2021
Butterfly Conservation (BC) has four very laudable aspirations and I hope they will forgive me for my ‘holistic habitat approach’ comments:
Conservation - including the recent Brilliant Butterflies Project, a partnership between BC, London Wildlife Trust, Natural History Museum and funded by a Dream Fund Award (Post Code Recovery Fund/Lottery). Sounds good: specialist knowledge teamed with area based knowledge.
Reserves – BC owns over 30 reserves around the UK ranging from Devon to Norfolk and the Scottish Highlands, all managed for the benefit of the butterfly/moth home team. Terroir needs to know more on the management issues before commenting.
Recording – including some seriously useful Citizen Science (see below).
Education – many, many field visits for BC’s local membership groups (this is serious butterflying with, in Terroir’s experience, only a smattering of wider habitat input!) (and yes, a few women attend!). Also initiatives such as a ‘Munching Caterpillars’ programme for Primary schools; I assume this is more along the lines of Eric Carle’s ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ than an Australian bush craft diet for the stranded human.
Why would you not want to come out and look at these beauties? Their names are as picturesque as their wing formations. But their context is important too: why are they there, what do they feed on, what do their caterpillars feed on, do they cohabit with equally important but less beautiful plants and animals which are also deserving of conservation?
Terroir’s favourite Butterfly Conservation activity centres on the citizen science end of things - knowing what is going on is key to understanding just about anything. BC has set up a series of transects – fixed lines through all types of habitat - which are walked weekly by enthusiastic members, between April and September. Whoever is walking the line, records butterfly sightings (species and numbers) according to a standard set of rules. The data is then uploaded onto The UK Butterfly Monitoring Scheme (UKBMS) website (https://www.ukbms.org/ ). It is then available to those who, one hopes, can interpret the trends and offer appropriate conservation management advice. There are over 3,000 monitored sites and transects across the UK with over 100 butterfly transects in the Surrey and South West London branch area, alone.
The Box Hill/Dukes transect in Surrey crosses chalk downland, and up to 33 butterfly species have been recorded there by the line walker. Thankfully, this site is owned and managed by the National Trust, who have the tricky job of trying to balance the needs of butterflies with the needs of the species rich chalk grasslands, of reptiles, of birds, of arachnids, of archaeology, of history and, not least, of the many human beings who exercise (pun alert) their ‘right to roam’ across these open access areas, to walk their dogs, improve their health and lift their spirits.
The images below show just a small selection of the butterflies recorded on the Box Hill/Dukes transect.
So, is there a role for all these different types of wildlife and conservation organisations? Of course there is, specialist knowledge is always valuable, but there is also a constant need to adapt to changing circumstances and to listen to the views of others, whether scientific or social. Just as the WWF and RSPB adapted their approach to conservation, so species experts like BC are having to adapt their approach to banging their particular butterfly, bug or bat drum.
At the moment partnership is vital, as exemplified by BC’s collaboration with holders of a different sort of specialist knowledge such as the London Wildlife Trust, the British Museum or the National Trust. No organisation is, or should try to be, an island.
Don’t forget to log your own wildlife sightings on iRecord (https://www.brc.ac.uk/irecord/ ), and yes, I know, yet another recording website.
And if you join Butterfly Conservation, and start transect walking, remember Johnny Cash’s immortal lines:
I keep a close watch on this heart of mine
I keep my eyes wide open all the time
I keep the ends out for the tie that binds
Because you're mine, I walk the line
He was referring to his wife, not to his passion for butterflies. The butterfly widow is not yet extinct.
Cynefyn
‘Terroir’ is very much a francophone concept of landscape and culture but other languages and nations have similar words to express this complex concept. The Welsh cynefin is as hard to define as terroir, but has strong links to ideas of place, of habitat, of belonging, of welcoming familiarity, of a location which feels like home. And it is an aspect of cynefin which occupies Terroir today.
As part of the research for a blog post on art in lockdown, we have been following a young Welsh artist and architectural designer who specialises in vernacular structures, particularly traditional Welsh buildings. Rob Thompson says,
“As an artist, my subject is the everyday. Although humble, [these buildings] seem to sit proudly in the landscape, and appear very comfortable in their habitat. The cottages, farmhouses and barns which are scattered across Wales’ western seaboard, offer a direct connection to those who shaped this land before us [and] are indelibly linked to the werin bobl (the rural people). Using locally sourced materials such as stone, slate, mud, timber and heather, they were relatively quick and cheap to build. By sketching and painting these buildings, I hope to record them before they disappear. Over the last few decades they have been vanishing at an alarming rate and when they do survive have often been so changed that they are barely recognisable.”
The paintings which have emerged from this understanding and appreciation of the west Wales cynefin have really caught Terroir’s attention.
One of Rob Thompson’s Instagram accounts (how many does a young man need?) started today’s journey across west Wales by introducing us to the ‘Crog Loft cottage’.
Rob writes:
“[the Crog Loft cottage is] essentially a single storey dwelling with a lofted space above for sleeping. Similarities exist in Ireland, Scotland and Brittany but the Crog Loft cottage version is uniquely Welsh. Its origins are linked to 19th century poverty and encroachment onto common land.” Those who were fortunate, would own a cottage with a tiny land holding [called Tyddynau] and could maybe keep a cow or other livestock, but the Ty Moel, or dwellings of the poorest members of society had no land and thus no additional resources to fall back on when times were hard. If, however, ‘you could successfully build your home overnight, and have smoke rising from the chimney by the morning, you could claim the land your house sat on.” These cottages were known as Ty Unnos, or overnight houses.
Single-room cottages such as these were divided by a dresser “placed half way across the space, thus separating the main cooking/living area from the bedroom. At some stage, planks of wood were placed over the box beds to create a sleeping platform and the Crog Loft cottage was born! Later, formal timber partitions, and in some cases stone walls, were built, creating a three-roomed space. The Crog Loft only sat above the bedroom, so the living and kitchen space was double height. There are many words for the Crog Loft. In Welsh it is called the taflod or in English, the cockloft. It is hard to know where it came from originally.”
Rob has been able to continue drawing and painting throughout lockdown, thanks to a library of photographs taken when travel across North Wales was still possible. But lockdown is also responsible for a new artistic venture, an exploration of lino cuts which has added a new dimension to his cynefin portfolio. Rob Thompson again:
“I have never done lino prints before. The notion of forming a negative on the lino was tricky to get my head around at first, and once you remove a piece with a cut you can't go back!
“I have a file of drawings of … vernacular cottages, farmhouses and barns around the coast of Wales which I would like to prepare [as lino prints], and which I think would bring the collection together, the aim being to produce a book one day. I like the way the process calls for a simplification of an image, yet the simplification is the difficult bit!”
Here is a Crog Loft cottage ‘simplified’ as a lino print.
Once again, Terroir discovered Thompson’s skill with lino and chisel through another Instagram post displaying a Welsh stick chair (below). I found it utterly compelling and symbolic; the very kernel, the quintessence of rural Wales, not in slate but in a piece of lino!
Lino print of three legged Welsh Stick Chair
The origins of this particular chair are equally compelling. Here is Rob’ story:
“I built the actual chair a few years ago while working on the construction of an oak framed visitor centre at the Felin Uchaf cultural and ecology centre in north west Wales. As well as building we were making welsh stick chairs, signposts, and all manner of rural craft objects. Before I left I was given some wood to make my own chair. The timber for the seat was elm from a fallen tree in Criccieth. The oak is from a forest behind Bodnant near Conwy, the peg joints for the arm are Yew from Llangernyw, and the joints for the seat are made from one thousand year old bog oak from mid Wales. The saddle of the seat is carved with an adze and chisel, the legs shaved with a draw knife on a shaving horse and the spindles for the back turned on a lathe, although not your traditional pole lathe but one powered by the engine and gear box from a Reliant Robin car! It took months to make all the parts and many a late night was spent in the workshop carving away. The assembling of the chair is similar to constructing a building. You have to understand the compression and tensions of the structure and how the different wood will react. It is like north west Wales in a chair! The chair now sits in my cottage. It has changed within it's now ten-year life: the arms and seat are worn, and some of the joints have risen a little from being in a heated room. It is in its own cynefin, and like the Welsh cottage of the past it is very fitting, as exactly like the home built furniture that would have existed then.
“The print came from a pen sketch done at the time when I first drew what I wanted to build. The three legs is a Welsh thing, three legs being more forgiving on wonky Welsh flagged stone floors. I translated it into a pencil sketch directly onto the lino rectangle. The tones are tricky to get right as you work as a negative. So whatever you scrape away becomes white and what is left is black or whatever colour ink you choose to use. If you remove too much then you can't go back so it is a bit nerve racking! You just have to go for it and a glass of a good ale (Welsh of course) helps along the way! The ink is rolled over the lino block and is then ready to print onto anything you like.
“The print is a very primitive design yet it took time to consider how best to put it together – a very similar process to the construction of the actual chair!”
Most of Robert’s paintings have stories attached. Terroir is now conversant with the grouted roof, another feature of the west Wales vernacular. Roof slates (often of poor quality) were bedded into lime mortar to prevent the wind driving through the gaps. Over the years, more lime mortar was applied to fill new gaps and to weather-proof the tiles, “so in some areas the roofs are white and appear like tents or cakes dotted across the landscape.”
“As for the farmhouse, a very different journey must be made to the uplands of Wales to find the most ancient Snowdonian houses, which is a building typology in its own right. These were homes of gentry hill farmers from when there was alot of wealth in the Welsh uplands - many go back five hundred years.”
Wales is famous for its terraces of quarry workers cottages, but a different quarry-related landscape developed on the slopes around Caernarfon. As a result of rural poverty on Anglesey and the Llŷn Peninsula, many moved to the Caernarfon area and built detached Tyddyn or Ty Moel houses, basing their livelihoods on a mix of quarry work and farming, creating a scatter of cottages and small farms across the local scrub land.
Rob’s work is important as a record of a vanishing landscape and architecture. He paints with the emotional understanding of a Welshman and the eye of the trained architect and craftsman. In Terroir’s view, it doesn’t seek to romanticise his environment, but to record his cynefin in the full meaning of the word.
Rob can be contacted via his infamous Instagram accounts @rob_thompson_artist @robthompson_architect @ty_bach_ and his website https://www.robthompsonart.co.uk/ (there is currently only one website but rumour has it that he is working on that too).
All images © Rob Thompson
Coal Porter
“Times have changed, And we've often rewound the clock …. Anything goes”
[Cole Porter, extract from lyrics of ‘Anything Goes’]
In 1934, when Cole Porter wrote ‘Anything Goes’ for his musical of the same name, Terroir doubts he realised just how prophetic his lines might be in 2020, when Cumbria County Council granted permission, for the third time, for the UK’s first new deep coal mine in 30 years. The development of yet another carbon based fuel supply has started a complex debate, revolving around steel production, world transport issues, economics, job creation, and carbon reduction. The government’s refusal to call in the plans, for an inquiry, has further inflamed the debate.
Coal (pun intended) has played a long and complex part in British history, a role which, due to the industrial revolution, has had repercussions around the world. Today, however, Terroir is focussing in on a very small coal-related area, but one which probably punched well above its weight in terms of economic and environmental impact. This is where the ‘porter’ bit comes in, as we will also be looking at the influence of the railways. Welcome to London’s Coal Drops Yard, welcome to Kings Cross.
A Kings Cross gas holder ‘from the back, By Robin Hall, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9210813 Coal Drops Yard Central St Martin College of Art and Design, also ‘from the back’
In the early 18th century, Kings Cross wasn’t much of a destination. In Terroir’s mind the area only became famous for construction of the ‘New Road’ in 1756. This was a sort of early London North Circular by pass, and clearly delineated the edge of London, beyond which one threw one’s rubbush. To the north of the rubbish lay brick works, market gardens, open countryside and small hamlets such as Highgate and Hampstead. To the south, there was a rapid expansion of new housing, later joined by a Small Pox Hospital and later still, a Fever Hospital (classic infilling of the ‘city envelope’, to use modern planning parlance).
But the 19th century swept all this away: engineering, industry, transport, coal, a cycle which was to change Kings Cross - and the whole of Britain - forever. Canals started the revolution in the 1750s. With the completion of the Regent’s Canal in 1820, the canal system could deliver freight from the Midlands directly to north London, via Paddington, Regents Park, to Kings Cross, and then on around east London to Lime House and the Thames. By 1824, the Imperial Gas Light and Coke Company had opened the Pancras Gas Works immediately to the south of the Regent’s Canal at Kings Cross and the local landscape was well on the way to full industrialisation.
By the 1840s the Great Northern Railway Company was in town, looking for a depot and passenger station. Land was purchased to the south of the canal for the station (opened in its final position in 1852). The Great Northern Hotel followed in 1854 (at the posh, passenger-orientated southern end of the development) and extensive areas of housing (most on a very different scale of opulence and grandeur) were constructed for the now expanding workforce, in the north. Just to complete the picture, areas to the west of Kings Cross Station were redeveloped in the 1860s for the construction of the Midland Railway’s St Pancras station and goods yards.
This division between the north and the south extremeties of these two railway empires is significant. To use the modern parlance, the outward facing, passenger related elements of the Great Nothern and the Midland Railways were, literally, grand facades aimed at making the travelling public feel good. Unless you worked for the railways, I suspect that the great majority of the public, whether travelling or not, never guessed at the huge, grimy, commercial, ‘back of house’ yards through which passed thousands of wagons carrying thousands of tons of Yorkshire and Midland coal, as well as agricultural supplies such as grain and potatoes. Enclosed by high walls, these extensive land holdings were probably hidden from all except those, perhaps, on top of a double decker bus. The grime was due not just to the cargo but also to the exhaust of the steam locomotives which burnt some of that cargo in the course of their daily shunting duties. Kings Cross must have been a heavily polluted environment.
The maps below show the enormity of the industrial transport undertaking.
All map images 'Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
Top left: 1868-1873 survey: red circle - Kings Cross station and St Pancras station; black circle - Pancras Gas Works; green circle - Great Northern Railway yards; maroon circle - Great Midland Railway yards.
Top right: 1893 - 1894 survey Bottom left: 1913 - 1914 survey Bottom right: 1938 revision
Coal was King and where the profit lay. The ‘Coal Drops’ were built in the 1850s, to transfer coal from railway wagons to road carts. The Drops consisted of long linear structures, built of brick and iron, and roofed in slate, and carried high level railway tracks. Coal dropped from bottom doors in the wagon into hoppers beneath or down a shoot for filling bags. Kings Cross boasted two such Drops. There was also a Granary, a Train Assembly Shed, and Eastern and Western Transit Sheds.
Post WWII brought nationalisation of the railways and road transport started to make serious inroads into the railway freight operation. By the 1980s much of the goods yard rail insfraturure had been removed. Amazingly, the gas works continued, on a small scale, to the turn of the century but it was not until 1986 that four of the holders (No 8, and the three conjoined holders, Nos 10, 11, and 12) were listed Grade II ‘as a tangible reminder and physical manifestation of the St Pancras gasworks, which was at one time the largest gasworks in the country, and probably the world.’ https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1464325
By the 1970s Terroir had first-hand knowledge of the Kings Cross area and can attest to its need for regeneration. Using the trains was never an issue but ambling down the side of the station of an evening, waiting to board the sleeper to Aberdeen was always a bit of an adventure; worth it, though, to peer in the window of the model shop (as in railways and cars, I hasten to add) at No. 14 York Way. The shop always seemed such an anachronism in an area so obviously used for prostitution. There was never any evidence of the rave scene which made use of the deserted industrial buildings, but the overnight trains may well have left before that activity really got going. The nature park in Camley Street on the west side of the station, was a welcome addition, however, and painting the listed gas holder frames in black and red provided a cheering focal point, particularly when seen from the train. By the end of the century, however, the railway yards were derelict.
Regeneration of the area began in 2001 with the Channel Tunnel RailLlink and the restoration and expansion of St Pancras station, although the building works seemed never ending. Since then there has been significant investment in the area and the two hotels and Kings Cross Station have all been upgraded.
Which brings us to the regeneration of Coal Drops Yard. Pictures of the Yard at its most derelict are hard to find, but the two wikimedia photos below give a hint of the trnsformation.
Today, Coal Drops Yard is a very different place. It has, apparently, been turned into an ‘Experience’ offering plenty of retail, a culture hub and food outlets. An article in The Architectural Review started with these words: ‘The crowning jewel at King’s Cross Central, Heatherwick Studio’s Coal Drops Yard is yet another in a litany of cultural hubs cum shopping arenas that are carefully choreographed confections of disingenuous ‘authentic’ experiences.’ https://www.architectural-review.com/buildings/the-experience-is-everything-coal-drops-yard-london-by-heatherwick-studio For an awful moment I thought they liked it, but phrases such as, ‘The project is a kind of industrial-themed strip mall, poorly disguised as a bustling local marketplace’ made me feel better.
Here is Terroir’s critique. We visited Coal Drops Yard on a damp October afternoon before lockdown 2 started. It was a gloomy day and the site, although not crowded, was uncomfortably busy by lockdown standards, and the food and retail offer was limited. To us, it felt (indeed it was) wind swept, but also rather desolate. The boundary walls have gone, of course, making it accessible to all, but reduces its identity and sense of place. The granary and east and west transit sheds now house Central St Martin’s School of Art and Design as well as shops and offices. The buildings, however, seem stranded in a sea of paving, lacking any reference points or navigational aids to the rest of the site. We came across the entrance to Central St Martin’s almost by chance and were relieved to find something on a human scale to which we could relate. The two coal drops buildings, with their new, raised, flying roofs, like an enormous black moustache, are certainly eye-catching but we found the space below and between them uninviting. The cluster of gas holder frames are splendid and add height and structure. Their location, however, is very confusing until you understand that they were dismantled from their original positions, repaired, restored and re-erected on the opposite side of the canal, as part of the Coal Drops scene.
These photos were taken on a much better day (you can see how much we liked the gas holders) but not all members of Team Terroir were present.
Finding it difficult to find a focus or haven within Coal Drops Yard itself, we attempted to find the canal. Again, the lack of reference points made it a longer search than it should have been, but oh, the relief when we finally located the tow path. Here was a landscape which we could read, understand, and navigate; from which we could appreciate the modernity of the new canalside buildings, and relish the juxtaposition of the old and the new.
When times are easier, the sun is out and the cafes are open, we will try another sortie to Coal Drops Yard. But I suspect that, along with the Architectural Review, we will not wowed by the ‘Experience’ and will once more seek sanctuary on the buzzing, linear highway of the Regent’s Canal.
‘And we shall have snow’
The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then? Poor thing
He’ll sit in a barn, And keep himself warm, And hide his head under his wing, Poor thing
Trad, Nursery Rhyme
The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, edited by those experts in children’s culture, Iona and Peter Opie, is silent on any possible ‘meaning’ of The Robin rhyme, although numerous websites suggest that it was used to ensure children associated home with security, as well as understanding how tough it was to be a robin. It is believed to be a British rhyme and may have dated back to the 16th century. The Opie’s earliest documentary reference is from Songs of the Nursery, 1805.
To be honest, Terroir is with the silence of the Opie’s on this one. Why would children need to be taught to associate home with security, or to pity the plight of the robin (or the blue tit or the thrush or any other fairly common and easily recognisable song bird)? Robins are, of course, especially obvious, and very sociable birds, particularly if anyone is turning over soil or dead leaves, which might reveal a few worms. Isn’t that reason enough to write a ditty about them? It’s a great song, very rythmic, majors on things we all understand such as cold winds, snow and keeping warm, and anthropomorphising a robin is a wonderful way to amuse children. Interestingly, the robin came eighth in the RSPB’s 2021 Big Garden Bird Watch’s top ten, but numbers are down by 32% since the Bird Watch began in 1979. So, please, pity the plight of the robin. And it’s habitat.
The point of quoting the rhyme was to introduce a blog entirely about snow, a topic which is current if not very original. We must replace the north wind with the Beast from the East, but there is plenty of other literature with which to celebrate a snow fall. Those who have recourse to shelter and warmth also have the resources to respond in verse to the extraordinary delight with which human beings respond to a white out. This exploration of literary snow will be based on a trip to The Moors, which regulars know is our local lockdown space. Terroir has reported on The Moors in summer and winter, but snow always reveals a new aspect to a familar landscape.
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest brook along;
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below …
From The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772-1834
No wolves on The Moors of course but plenty of ivy tods and leaf skeletons lagging the brook. ‘Tod’ is also an addition to the Terroir landscape lexicon. For those of us with a passing knowledge of Rhyming Slang, ‘tod’ means ‘alone’ or ‘on your own’ derived from Tod Sloan, the American jockey. To be ‘on your tod’ was (maybe still is?) a common phrase in any south London childhood. But in landscape terms, a tod refers to a mass or bush, or a measure for wool. Dictionary.com describes it as an ‘English unit of weight, chiefly for wool, commonly equal to 28 pounds (12.7 kilograms) but varying locally', and ‘a load’’, or ‘a bushy mass, especially of ivy’. Thank you Coleridge.
Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good!
Hail, ye plebeian underwood
Opening lines of Of Solitude [not a great advertisement for the ecologically essential scrub]
Abraham Cowley 1618 - 1687
From troubles of the world
I turn to ducks,
Beautiful comical things….
… or paddling
-Left! right!-with fanlike feet
Which are for steady oars
When they (white galleys) float
Extracts from Ducks (written for F.M. who drew them in Holzminden Prison) [Ducks, both real and poetic, still provide tremendous therapy and enjoyment]
F W Harvey 1888 - 1957
Let Hercules himself do what he may
The cat will mew and dog will have his day
Hamlet, Act 5 scene 1 [or day-ly walk]
W Shakespeare 1564 - 1616
‘Oh look at the trees!’ they cried, ‘O look at the trees!’
London Snow [but still very appropriate to the Moors]
Robert Bridges 1844 - 1930
Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:’
Snow in the Suburbs [spot on for the walk home from the Moors]
Thomas Hardy 1840 - 1928
Vin de Terroir
At the risk of making this look like a computer screen saver, in which country do you think this vineyard is?
When researching this week’s blog I came across this definition of Vins de Terroir:
“These are the wines where the winemaker strives to somehow capture and reflect in the wine the inherent qualities of the site from which it derives, as well as the characteristics of the vintage, and by extension the great complexity and intelligence of Nature itself.” https://www.bonnydoonvineyard.com/wine-quality-talking-the-elusive-vin-de-terroir-blues/
Replace ‘wine’ with ‘blog’ and add ‘Society’ to ‘Nature’ and you will understand what this blog is trying to achieve.
Terroir moved into its current habitat in the autumn of 1985. Not long after, on a summer walk in our new landscape, we climbed the scarp slope of the North Downs above Dorking. On the way up, the once extensive views to the south were hidden by frequent clumps of woodland and scrub – hawthorn, spindle, holly, dogwood, old man’s beard, hazel, field maple, oak, ash – which had grown up on former, species rich, chalk downland turf, following the cessation of traditional stock grazing in the 1940s and, later, a severe reduction in rabbit numbers caused by myxomatosis. On reaching a crest, with a potential view a few tantalising metres away, we were surprised to find a substantial deer fence crossing our path and a rather formidable, self-closing, deer proof gate permitting access to whatever lay beyond. This was not a traditional part of the 1980s downland experience.
We pushed through the gate, rounded a corner and looked down the slope below us. Sure, there was a view and for certain there was no woodland, but something totally unexpected was growing immediately below us in neat rows. Puzzled, we examined the numerous, identical small plants. Looking at each other, we mouthed the astonishing words, ‘grape vines!’. Someone had climbed this hill and planted – a vineyard! Today, of course, the Denbies vineyard above Dorking is one of the largest in the UK and also one of the largest in Europe. It is now a local ‘destination’ with gift shop, restaurant, guided tours and tastings. But back then, Surrey and vineyards were still relative strangers.
The history of wine in Britain is not a consistent one. Many people associate the modern explosion of English and Welsh wines (Scottish grape vineyards are still a rarity) with climate change and warmer temperatures, but I would suggest that other issues are also relevant. If I am wrong, I hope the specialist sommeliers, vintners and viticulturists amongst you will put me right.
A website called ‘The History of English Wines’ (sorry Wales) (http://www.english-wine.com/history.html) is helpful. This site, and other internet searches, suggest the following:
Iron Age – wines probably imported; maybe this indicates developing taste buds but perhaps a lack skill and/or technology
Roman invasions – everyone seems to agree that the Romans brought wine to the British Isles, but not all agree that they also introduced vineyards.
The Norman Conquest – documentary evidence suggests that vineyard technology didn’t necessarily come over with William the Conqueror, but was already here to meet him. On the other hand, many agree that the number of vineyards (and presumably consumption of wine) increased significantly post conquest. No surprises there, then. The Hull Domesday Project (http://www.domesdaybook.net/domesday-book/data-terminology/manors/vineyard) reports ‘vineyards recorded at 45 places in Domesday Book, 32 of these in Great Domesday, all in south-eastern England’. Interestingly, ‘The History of English Wines’ suggests that, ‘At the time of the compilation of the Domesday Survey in the late eleventh century, vineyards were recorded in 46 places in southern England, from East Anglia through to modern-day Somerset’. But whatever the geographical spread, the crown, the nobility and the monastic orders are felt to have had the monopoly.
Late Medieval to 17C – a period of significant decline. Theories include the acquisition (mid 12C) of wine producing Aquitaine by the English crown, worsening weather in England, and the dissolution of the monasteries.
17C to 19C – during this period of exploration (in Europe and across the globe) and of scientific development and enterprise, many of the nobility started to experiment with vines and, presumably, wine making. Famous names include Lord Salisbury at Hatfield House (17C), the Hon. Charles Hamilton at Painshill, in Surrey (18C), and the Marquess of Bute at Castell Coch near Cardiff (19C). I wonder which was more important, the kudos of a vineyard, the quality of the wine or, in the case of Castell Coch, the revenue potential?
1920 to 1950 – this seems to have been a bit of a dry patch.
1950s to present day – a quiet revolution. Huge steps forward in the science of viticulture seem to have enabled the harnessing of English soils, topography and climate to great effect. Success isn’t guaranteed, of course, and poor scientific decision making, bad weather, disease and lack of a sustainable approach still create real risks. On the other hand, cultural tastes have changed, with huge increases in wine consumption. In our childhoods, Terroir only ever saw wine at Christmas; now we would drink it every day, if it wasn’t for a ‘healthy’ respect for our livers. Agricultural/horticultural economics and the need for diversification have also, I suspect, promoted the spread of vineyards. Improved business acumen and financial management may well have played a part, too, although I think the delightful quote from ‘The History of English Wines’ is probably also very appropriate: ‘the best way to get a small fortune is to have a large fortune and buy an English vineyard’.
So what impact has the wine industry had on our landscapes, in terms of vineyards? How many are there? Estimates for England and Wales have proved hard to pin down but well over 700 in 2019 seems a safe bet, with over 60% of the area located in south east England. Wales, with around 30 vineyards, has 1.5% of total area but the highest predicted level of expansion. How interesting. https://www.winegb.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/10/Survey-Report-2020-FULL-FINAL.pdf So far, I’ve found no reliable figures for value of production (but probably well over a £100 million) nor for the impact of leaving the EU.
So my next question (thanks to lockdown restrictions), is what did the Romans and Normans ever do for the Surrey wine landscape? I will leave it up to you to decide what the Surrey terroir did for the taste of Surrey wine.
As I’m sure many of you have guessed, the picture at the top of this blog is of the Denbies Estate. Thomas Cubitt, the builder/architect who changed the face of significant areas of London, bought the estate in 1850, demolished the Georgian house (too cramped), built his own Victorian mansion and planted a great many trees. Sadly he had little time to enjoy it and the estate passed to his sons when Cubitt died in 1856. Following use of the house as a troop billet in WWII, there were insufficient funds to repair and restore, and the mansion was demolished in the early 1950s. The White family purchased the estate in 1984 and planted a great many vines.
Seen from certain angles, and without the obviously ‘Southern’ train, one might be forgiven for assuming the landscape below was part of a wine region in Germany or France. The serried ranks of summer foliage, autumn grape clusters and bare stems in winter is a familiar site at vineyards the world over. By European standards, Denbies is large, particularly as it is contained within a single estate. And for Surrey, a large vineyard offers a completely new landscape.
Personally, Terroir feels that retention of an, albeit geometric, field pattern, reinforced by the rhythm of the parallel support structures (winter) and vines (summer), which flow down the slope of the Downs, provides a large scale, seasonal drama which complements the topography and surrounding landscape. The details are fascinating, however. Viewed across the rows, rather than down the vine ‘allées’, the large leaves provide a very different but not unpleasant, ruffled, texture, totally unlike the pasture, woodland or even arable landscapes elsewhere in the county. Tell us if you disagree, but at least this is a living, viable (one hopes) and rural landscape, which provides access and enjoyment to a great many people, not to mention a modicum of employment.
Terroir also visited two other east Surrey Vineyards. What a contrast! Here is a much more traditional pattern of small vine growing units, which appear to be more craft based and hand worked. Again the geometry provides an interesting contrast to the local Surrey Hills topography (Godstone Vineyard) and local industry, commerce and proximity to London (the Iron Railway Vineyard). The Iron Railway Vineyard is sandwiched between the route of the early 19C Surrey Iron Railway, and the A23 London to Brighton Road. The ‘Railway’ was a horse-drawn ‘plateway’ (so technically not a ‘rail’way at all) which carried goods such as coal, building materials, and agricultural supplies. The original section linked Wandsworth and Croydon and was then extended to Merstham in 1805. It lasted until 1838, but ironically it became unviable after the opening of a canal, in 1809, between Croydon and London. Terroir felt that both vineyards were a quirky but positive addition to the local landscape, although both were blighted by the noise of the A23 or the M23. Sadly, another northern Surrey phenomenon.
Godstone Vineyard
The Iron Railway Vineyard
But to end on an upbeat note: thanks to all who contributed to Terroir’s landscape lexicon, initiated in last week’s post. I particularly liked the Treorchy word for a gennel or lane: ‘gwli’ (sent via Instagram @terroirlandscape). Unfortunately, as most of Terroir’s Welsh roots are from the north, we are still a little unsure of the pronunciation! Anybody from Treorchy out there?
The Welsh for vineyard is ‘gwinllan’ ie wine yard or wine space, which makes perfect sense. Terroir is now interested in the use of ‘yard’ for both grapes (as in vineyard) and, in some areas, for hops (as in hop yard). As far as we know hop yard is used in Herefordshire and the southern Marches, while ‘hop garden’ is the appropriate word in Kent. Any contributions on that one too?
Katteken and Gennels
Local words for landscape features hold a deep fascination for many of us. The language used to represent a locality, a ‘somewhere’, a terroir, are deeply steeped in, and injected with humanity’s response to, and relationship with a place, and with the minutiae which are its perceived components. Take the example of a basic element of any landscape – the name for that piece of low key human geography by which we move around or make connections within a locality. I mean a track, lane, alley/alleyway, footpath, pathway, path, bridleway, by(e)way, trail, route, passage, entry, drang, twitten, ginnel, gennel, snicket, jitty, jigger, gulley … I’m sure there are many, many more deeply descriptive words.
In recent days, I have been looking for heralds, forerunners, outriders, precursors, omens, auguries, messengers – ah, I must mean harbingers – of spring. To be honest there is not a lot around at the moment, but one stands out – the humble hazel catkin, those funny little loofahs of spring hope.
They start out as tiny little, firm, textured (layered like pine cones), greenish brown, stiff, mini caterpillar shapes, sticking out from their twigs at awkward angles. In Terroir’s terroir, they have been making their presence felt since at least November, but they are easy to overlook and, as the caterpillar is to the butterfly, so the young catkin is to its fully ripe counterpart – perceived as lacking in inspirational wonder! The catkins are the male flowers – visually dominant – and the females are shy, retiring, home lovers (snuggled into a ‘bud’) with, (when they are ready) just their cream or red ‘rara skirts’ or styles sticking out to receive the windblown pollen from the boys.
By now, in Terroir land, the boys are maturing, opening out to let the wind take their pollen and start the process of producing the autumnal hazel nuts. Each catkin is actually a cluster of over 200 individual flowers, enough to supply sufficient pollen to accommodate the wasteful process of breeze based fertilisation.
But for winter-weary humans, they make a brave sight, cheering passers-by and telling us that spring is – now, what’s that cliché? – ah yes, just around the corner. A corner which is gradually moving to the dance of global warming. So far, our stalwart hazel bushes seem to have coped.
*© timku Hazel in the Winter Sun Female Hazel Catkin https://www.flickr.com/photos/34972638@N07/24609008162/in/photolist-DuBALb-kzRGmr-dTh6Aj-qupxVC-2kgZVxU-jPbHXL-21DjLry-konHWz-FtFxKC-kzRJXF-Pn6aB3-jneVYP-8UiHT-8UiHS-8UiHR-2cx9zzX-D1mkBb-4vqvq6-7V8zdG-S5eX59-7V8zdJ-j7tnAs-9FqYjL-FH6Qw3-24u3xtc-4v1LDB-23YMZW7-BJX4kz-Fu3BjP-6hRgfi-22pGuyD-isYZdY-qzGpck-9qDmoT-pUpQ8z-9idorg-qmLAF2-4ksmVX-kusxNF-D8VWxV-BRkodf-9QBXgP-7HNait-8YSJPB-r4VRs-rKgTNE-rwbRcy-mpcfAP-RBLCAT-D4yBk/
Getting back to the linguistic part of this blog, I wondered what local words were used to describe these mood-lifting ‘lambs tails’? Various sources suggest that the origin of the mainstream English word is the Middle Dutch Katteken or little cat; so is the name ‘Catkin’ harking back to tails again?
As a starting point, I picked up Robert Macfarlane’s book Landmarks. When I first started reading this book, I was filled with anticipation for the treasures within - and sadness that someone else had penned the book Terroir would love to have written! Each chapter is succeeded by a glossary of terms gathered from a whole variety of sources, geographies, languages and dialects. Most are topographical rather than botanical (Uplands, Coastlands etc) but the penultimate glossary is entitled Woodlands, and I turned to it with enthusiasm. Sadly, it doesn’t get down to species level and even the section headed ‘Branches, Leaves, Roots and Trunks’ makes no mention of flowers or fruit. Even the ‘Gift Words’ (ie words donated by others), are seldom plant specific although I did enjoy ‘bog-gazels’ or ‘bogarves’ for hawthorn berries (Sussex) and ‘snotty-gobs’ for yew berries (Hertfordshire)!
Wandering the by(e)ways of the internet, however, I came across this fascinating page: ‘Synonyms for Catkin. (2016). Retrieved 2021, January 27, from https://thesaurus.plus/synonyms/catkin The back stories (origins, sources, etc) are lacking, but it makes good reading. Here is the list; the comments are Terroir’s:
Aglet or Aiglet [suggested miss spelling of aiguillette - the braids on military unforms; this seems very convincing; Collins dictionery also adds ‘or any ormamental pendant’]
Ament or Amentum [sources refer to it as another name for catkin, botanical, or meaning someone with Amentia which is, appaently severe congenital mental disability; oh dear…]
Flower [obvious]
Infloresence [botanical, obvious]
Shackle [tethered?]
Tassel [obvious]
So, now it’s your turn. Please tell us about any hazel related names, stories or folklore. I can feel a historical botany coming on.
More or Less Poverty?
Last week’s blog on poverty in London featured Scary Great Granny and her family at home in Beaufort Street Chelsea. Of somewhat greater importance, however, the blog also featured the Booth Poverty maps, that extraordinary and detailed archive of information on London’s poverty plight in the late 1890s. Housed at the London School of Economics, the archive can be accessed on line at https://booth.lse.ac.uk/. Here is a reminder of both the Booth Maps, and of Millie, before she became a Great Granny. She was probably always scary.
In 1891, Millie, Charles and their elder daughter lived in a comfortable street in an area of Chelsea which Booth’s surveys recorded as fairly mixed in terms of poverty. The map (above) shows evidence of wealthy inhabitants (yellow/gold) on the river front, with ‘poor’ and ‘very poor’ neighbours (blues and greys) in relatively close proximity to Millie’s comfortable red..
By 1901, Millie and family had moved from Beaufort Street, to the edge of Hammersmith (or to the edge of Fulham, depending on your perspective; Terroir suspects that Millie’s perspective favoured Hammersmith!), about 2 miles to the north west. We know that Beaufort Street was redeveloped in the early 20th century so this may have been the reason for their move. Their new abode, at No. 2 Perham Road, has not been redeveloped, so for once we can see what it looked like. I wonder if she would recognise it now? Were the windows above the front door false or bricked up?
As with Beaufort Street, the Booth Poverty map for Perham Road shows a diverse area. There is a core of mixed, fairly comfortable, and middle class areas, but the ‘poor’ are also close by. This time the wealthy are on the other side of the Earls Court railway tracks. But as we noted in Chelsea, this is London, where poverty and comfort often lie close together, sometimes interwoven. And again, there is a little more to Millie’s ‘comfort’ than meets the eye. Remember the artist/musician husband? Remember the probable need, in Beaufort Street, to have two income streams? Yes, you’ve guessed it, Millie is still taking lodgers. But things do seem to have changed. The Perham Street house may have to pull it’s weight, economically, but apparently they are getting by with just one boarder: 28 year old Lilian who, the census notes, is ‘living on own means’. By this time, the two daughters are aged eleven and nine and there is only one ‘general domestic servant’, 21 year old Amy, born in Battersea.
Extract from Booth’s Maps Descriptive of London Poverty, 1898-9 Perham Road, Hammersmith and local area
Looking at the same area in 2019, there is evidence, again, of diversity in the poverty stakes although the pattern of variation and the degree of deprivation is different. The modern indices of deprivation are of course based on different criteria from those used by Booth and I doubt those collecting and assessing the 2019 data walked the Streets with a local police officer as Booth’s surveyors were wont to do (hence the reference to the [Police] ‘Notebooks’ on the heading of the above ilustration).
It is also important to realise that the current indices do not concentrate soley on poverty or lack of it. The large image below shows the results for all deprivation indices for 2 Perham Road, and places Millie’s house on the edge of a small island of pale green, meaning it lies within the 50% of least deprived neighbourhoods, albeit surrounded on three sides by areas of gretaer deprivation. The smaller images below the main image, however, show the results for very specific types of deprivation. Four have been selected out of the available eight, and some very different patterns suddenly emerge. The Income deprivation map indicates a similar layout to the overall multiple indices map, but educational attainment shows a significant improvement. In contrast, concentrating on access to housing and services shoots the neighbourhood well down into the more deprived blues, as does quality of environment. Perham Road is obviously not close to accessible green space. Things have certainly not improved since Millie left the area.
Images above and Below: 2019 Index of Multiple or Specific Deprivation for Perham Road and Neighbourhood From: Indices of Deprivation: 2019 and 2015 http://dclgapps.communities.gov.uk/imd/iod_index.html#
So where did Millie and her family go next? The 1911 census places them at 10 West Kensington Gardens, close to West Kensington Mews. This address does not appear in any of the obvious places such as Google Maps, the post code finders or good old-fashioned, hard copy volumes of the London A to Z; this presented Terroir with quite a challenge. In fact, Millie had only moved a mile away, to the Kensington Hammersmith border. Thanks to a digitised Post Office Directory of 1902, we finally located West Kensington Gardens on the north side of the Hammersmith Road, hard up against the Olympia exhibition centre. No. 10 (by the look of it quite a des res) is clearly visible on the 1893/4 revision of the Ordnance Survey 6 inch edition and again on the 1912/14 revision (both shown below), but the area was obviously changing even then (look at the massive Post Office Savings Bank development on the back of the RC College). By the 1938 map revision, the Olympia halls had spread right to the edge of the Hammersmith Road, engulfing West Kensigton Gardens. so, somewhere between 1914 and 1938, saw poor old Millie on the move again.
Both map images 'Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
The 21st century images for the site of West Kensington Gardens (below) present an almost shocking contrast to the genteel, domestic layout depicted on the map images above.
Google Maps UK downloaded 20/1/21 Google Maps UK Street View downloaded 20/1/21.
If you have recovered from the shock of the demolition of yet another of Millie and Charles’ homes, let us take a look at what Charles Booth made of the area in 1898/9. Strangely, Booth’s base map bears no resemblence to the location as recorded by the relevant Ordnance Survey maps, but I think we must put this anomoly to one side for the moment. The area is solidly ‘red’ in Booth mapping terms, in other words it consists, in the main, of the well-to-do middle class, the fairly comfortable with ‘good ordinary’ earnings, and mixed - some comfortable, some poor. The wealthy are nearby if, yet again, on the other side of the railway tracks. Finally, Millie seems to have found some element of uniformity in which to bring up her daughters and ready them, unknowlingly and unfortunately, for the war work which will take over their lives in just three or four years. At the time of the census the girls are 21 and 19, single and living at home. Charles is still described as an artist (painter) and Millie as, of course, ‘wife’. They have no boarders, and two domestic servants, a cook, no less, and a house maid. Portait painting must be on the up.
Charles and Millie also have a social life and census night has brought visitors. Remember Hubert, the Jeweller’s assistant, who boarded with them in Beaufort Street? On cLose examination, he turned out to be one of Millie’s younger brothers. He is present tonight along with a sister-in-law, who is descibed as a book keeper to a taylor, working from home in Bury St Edmunds. All very proper. In addition to the ‘grown ups’ there are also a couple of twenty somethings, perhaps invited by Millie’s daughters. Elizabeth Hermes (22) is German and Robert Dale Deniston (British) is 21. One wonders who is courting who.
Extract from Booth’s Maps Descriptive of London Poverty, 1898-9 Hammersmith Road, West Kensington and local area
Interestingly, the uniformity shown in the Booth map (above) is also evident to some degree on the 2019 Indices of Deprivation Map (below). The core of the area in 2019 is clearly in the green, less deprived, part of the scale. The areas on the ‘other side of the railway tracks’ have, however, suffered greater deprivation than they appear to have warranted in 1898/9. There is, however, one area of blue (more deprived) to the south of where 10 West Kensington Gardens once stood. On the Booth map, the area is small, and backs onto the garden of Otto House (just to the right of the arrow head on the Booth map above). On the 2019 map, the area is much larger, and engulfs nearly the whole of the former Otto House and garden. In 1928, this area became the site of a substantial Samuel Lewis Housing Trust Estate, called Lisgar Terrace. Now part of the Southern Housing Group, Lisgar Terrace is being given a £50million revamp and extension. According to their website, the Trust has ‘completed 154 new affordable homes the majority of which have been offered to existing customers. Phase 5, currently underway, will provide 72 homes for private sale to help fund the project. (https://www.shgroup.org.uk/about-us/latest-news/latest-developments/lisgar-terrace/plans-for-lisgar-terrace/). It will be interesting to see what this does to the neighbourhood deprivation trends in the future.
2019 Index of Multiple Deprivation for Hammersmith Road, West Kensington and Neighbourhood From: Indices of Deprivation: 2019 and 2015 http://dclgapps.communities.gov.uk/imd/iod_index.html#
Terroir’s exploration of the Booth Poverty maps, courtesy of Millie, Charles and family is now complete. It is impossible to make meaningful comparisons between conditions in 1899 and 2019, but it is clear that poverty, however it is classified or described, still exists. Sadly, plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
Many more of Terroir’s ancestor’s have come to London since then; some stayed, many also left again, acording to job or retirement opportunities. As far as we know, most, like Millie, have found satisfaction and sufficient resources to enjoy their lives. But there are no guarantees.
The Poverty Maps
Great grandparents are, on the whole, remote creatures. To most of us they tend to be mythical, distant, or just plain forgotten. Good lord – did Granny have a mother? Who knew? Intellectually, if we ever bother to think about our forebears, we know that each one of us has a quota of eight, genetically connected great grandparents. This may seem like a ridiculous oversupply for a generation about which we may know very little.
By now you are wondering what this has to do with the concept of terroir and the mission of this blog. Have we turned Terroir into an homage for the BBC series ‘Who do you think you are?’ The essence of ‘somewhereness’, however, is as much about the people who influenced, guided and developed ‘somewhere’ in the past, as it is about those who currently inhabit it. So more nearly, we are talking about ‘Where do you think you are?’ or, in in today’s blog, ‘Where do you think you were?’
For Terroir does not spring from generations of Surrey farm labourers, millers, land owners or stockbrokers. We are the product of generations of economic migrants. Our multiplicity of great, great grandparents and great grandparents came from as far afield as rural Kent, Sussex, Cambridgeshire, Warwickshire, Staffordshire, Montgomeryshire and Caernarvonshire. And they were drawn through the industrial sweatshops of places like Wolverhampton, Liverpool, and Nottingham on their journey to a very much more diverse range of employments and locations in the 20th and 21st Centuries.
But all this talk of ancestor’s journeys is also a vehicle to explore something of national significance and interest - The Booth Poverty Maps of London - housed at the London School of Economics https://booth.lse.ac.uk/ and which must be one of the most extraordinary social mapping archives in the country.
Extract from Booth’s Maps Descriptive of London Poverty, 1898-9 Thames-side from Battersea Bridge to Vauxhall Bridge
The eponymous Charles Booth was born in Liverpool, the son of a corn merchant and, at the age of 16, was apprenticed to a shipping company. Up to this point he could perhaps have passed for one of Terroir’s ancestors, although I suspect that, in 1856, most of Terroir’s lot left school a whole lot earlier and were more likely to have been apprenticed to shop keepers.
Thereafter the story is very different from Terroir’s. Booth seems to have combined a sound business acumen with a desire for fair play, and developed ‘a profound sense of obligation and responsibility towards the poor and to the improvement of social conditions.’ https://booth.lse.ac.uk/learn-more/who-was-charles-booth After experiencing the shocking condition of the Liverpool slums it is hardly surprising that by 1886, he was proposing an inquiry into living conditions in London. Full details can be found on the LSE website noted above. If you don’t already know the archive, delve deeply. It is utterly fascinating.
So, let’s return to Great Granny and explain where she fits into Terroir’s exploration of the Booth maps. Terroir can just remember her – a terrifying, upright, fur clad, Victorian matriarch. There is a photograph of her and her extended family (she was one of thirteen children), at an event (party is too uninhibited a concept) to celebrate a significant parental wedding anniversary (golly - Great, Great Granny and Great, Great Grandad). It is summer and she is some 50 years younger than the fur clad memory, but there she is, a terrifying, upright, Victorian matriarch, having a bad hair day. All the other women present are having a bad hair day too, so it is obviously the fashion.
‘Scary Great Granny’ is important, not only because I can remember her, but also because she was the only Terroir ancestor living in London when Booth was surveying and mapping poverty. Actually, that’s not strictly true; another branch of the family had also made it to London by then, but they were living in Willesden, north of the railway station, and outside Booth’s area. So it was Scary GG (aka Millie) who became our focus for exploring the Booth maps and for comparing her late 1888/9 habitat with the same street in the early part of the 21st century.
According to the 1891 census, Millie and husband Charles, with their one year old daughter, were living at 29, Beaufort Street, Chelsea, London. It sounds promising. Millie was born in Cambridge, the daughter of an upwardly mobile shop keeper. Charles came from Sussex, probably St Leonards, or possibly Kent, maybe Maidstone (depending which census return you happen to be reading). Charles is described as a painter (he was never an ‘RA’ but he was more than proficient), organist and teacher of music. Laudable, but hardly a high earner, one would imagine. Millie is described, of course, as ‘wife’.
Beaufort Street runs from the northern side of Battersea Bridge, where the Chelsea Embankment meets Cheyne Walk (yes, really, the Cheyne Walk), and heads north westwards, crossing the Kings Road, to end at its junction with the Fulham Road (the A308). Feed that address into Google Maps and it takes you to flat 29, Beaufort Mansions, one of a spectacular line of purpose built apartments which just shouts Chelsea.
For various reasons (!) none of this feels right, so the next stop is the Ordnance Survey Six-inch England and Wales series, 1842-1952, which produces two contrasting images: the 1912/13 revision (left) shows the layout of Beaufort Road as we know it today, but the 1893/95 edition (right) shows a completely different layout. Welcome to the world of Millie and Charles in 1891.
'Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
So what did the Poverty Survey make of Beaufort Road in the late 1890s? The Poverty Map – which also confirms the layout shown on the Ordnance Survey 1893/95 edition - indicates that Millie and Charles were on a street labelled ‘Middle Class, Well to do’, no doubt to the relief of Millie’s father who had by now trained himself as an accountant and was a pillar of Cambridge society. But the area is not homogeneous. Yes, there is a lot of red shadings (from Millie’s ‘Well to do’ to ‘fairly comfortable/good ordinary earnings’ to ‘mixed, some comfortable, others poor’ but the blue/greys of the ‘poor’ are certainly in evidence and the local work house (now the Westminster and Chelsea Hospital) is only half a mile away. The ‘vicious, semi criminal class’ is not a significant element of the locality and there is only slight evidence of the ‘wealthy’, although an enclave of yellow, around Elm Park Gardens (just north of the words Park Chapel, on the map), is a similar distance from Millie and Charles as the work house. Perhaps the best conclusion one can draw is that the inhabitants of the area around Beaufort Street, in the middle 1890s, was a classic London socio economic mix.
Extract from Booth’s Maps Descriptive of London Poverty, 1898-9 Beaufort Street, Chelsea and local area
But there is somethig else you need to know about Millie’s life in Beaufort Sreet. Millie, Charles and the baby did not live alone. According to the 1891 census, no less than nine poeple lived at No. 29, and Millie (for it surely it would have been Millie’s role?) was responsible for four boarders and two domestic servants. Unsurprisingly, she probably needed to raise an income, to keep their little ship afloat. The boarders were all male and each poses intriuging questions about the locality. The first mentioned is described as ‘Professor [sic] d’Ecole Normal [sic]’ which would usually translate as a teacher or lecturer at a teacher training college. Was Emile working for, or linked to, the Institut Francais, just a mile away in South Kensington? Or did Chelsea boast a French training college of it’s own? If you know, please tell us in the comment box below. William (28) and Henry (18) are both listed as students of metallurgy. Again, where did they study? Was this the Royal School of Mines (later to become a component of Imperial College when it was founded in 1907), also in Kensington? Again, information please. Finally, 21 year old Hubert is listed as a ‘jeweller’s assistant’ and someone has pencilled in the word ‘gold’ on the census return, lest you should think he was just any old jeweller’s assistant. Perhaps Millie chose her tenants with care. Two teenagers, Elizabeth and Sarah Jane (described as servants), were no doubt Millie’s subordinates in what must have felt like a never ending campaign to keep the house clean, the boarders fed and the family clothed and out of debt. She may also have been pregnant with their second child at the time of the census. Poor Millie - it sounds as though she is working far harder than her artistic husband, while he is probably exacerbating things by taking a money earning room out of commission to use as studio. Millie is not unusual. however. Next door, at no. 31, there is a similar arrangement: a widow with two grown up daughters, four boarders (two men and two women) and a single domestic servant.
By 1901, Millie, Charles and the children have moved on to Fulham (and we will explore the implications of this relocation another time) but what has happened to Beaufort Street, in the meantime? We know that by the early part of the century, large sections of the road had been redeveloped with blocks of flats. Currently a one room studio flat with small kitchen and bathroom is valued at around £400,000 and a four bedroom flat for around £1.6 million pounds. But has the pattern of a comfortable Beaufort Street located within a mixed area continued, or do the 2019 Indices of Deprivation maps tell a different story?
2019 Index of Multiple Deprivation for Beaufort Street and Neighbourhood From: Indices of Deprivation: 2019 and 2015 http://dclgapps.communities.gov.uk/imd/iod_index.html#
Obviously any superficial comparison between the current Multiple Deprivation Indices (above) and the Booth Poverty Maps for the same area, is laughably crude, but Terroir could not resist the temptation of illustrating both representations of our society’s assessment of poverty and deprivation. We leave you to draw your own conclusions. There does, however, seem to be a prima facie case for saying that the area is still a complex mix and that a thougoughly modern Millie might still be taking in lodgers.
Water Works
Lockdown 3. Winter. Essentials: vaccine, open space, Wellington boots.
Terroir’s first ever blog focussed on the importance of open space. No matter how quirky, no matter the surroundings, no matter the back story, an accessible open space is the very best shot in the arm, barring the vaccine itself. In October I described the explosive summer benefits of our local lockdown open space -The Moors, in Surrey. There was colour, vibrancy, life, excitement, space, variety, views and well being, all based on a leg-stretching splinter of land wedged between a railway line, a landfill site and a housing estate. Here is that post’s parting shot:
“‘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.”
Winter landscapes don’t always get a good press unless covered in snow. But a wet winter landscape has jewels aplenty. You just have to look a little bit differently. There are no leaves to get in the way - the landscape is revealed in its wet and skeletal glory.
So let’s take a look. Wearing a hood, sou’wester, beanie hat (they were known as tea cosies when I was a kid), snood or balaclava can give you tunnel vision. So, if you want colour, shape and pattern, look out through that tunnel at the details.
Fruits: the Moors can do a veritable visual feast of winter fruits (better botanists - please correct any detailed mis-identifications).
Fruit just a bit too obvious for you? Then please try our menu of assorted vegetables. Strictly visual treats only. Mosses and fungi are too specilaised for Terroir’s identification skills, so any nomenclature suggestions gratefully received.
Abstract arts: the lack of distracting fresh leaves and flowers reveals many other treats. Push back the hood. Discard the balaclava. Look up and out. Enjoy the patterns, the colours, the reflections and the scuptural skeletons which summer hides from us.
But, for the Moors, the Unique Selling Point is water. On cessation of sand extraction and processing, and in parallel with construction of the housing estate, the existing damp areas were re-engineered as seasonal wetlands, a new lake established on the edge of the housing, and the whole caboodle designated as part of a larger wetland Nature Reserve (https://www.surreywildlifetrust.org/nature-reserves/nutfield-marshes-moors-spynes-mere). Depending on your age and interests one of the small pleasures, or great excitements, of walking the Moors is to see how high, or low, the water is. There are various indicators which allow intimate interaction with the wetland landscape, weather and climate, and ecological process. How much of the old fence posts are visible above the water in the upper lake? Is the revealing, muddy, high water mark visible along the fence at the bottom of the railway embankment in the lower lake? Can you cross the path between the two lakes dryshod? Has the surface of that path been removed by an energetic overflow (that’s a new one for this year)? Is the foot of the fence adjacent to that path above or below water level? Is the Brook flooding into the lower lake or is the lower lake flooding into the Brook? Does the ‘heritage’ green footpath sign indicate the walking, wading or sailing options along the alternative track to the Pooh Sticks bridge? As an aside, this track is seldom walkable unless you have waders or a machete - in winter the Brook takes over at one end and in summer the waist high nettles and burdock, loving the nutrient rich, damp soils, take over everywhere else.
But the ultimate marker, the great question upon everyone’s lips, the burden of the bush telegraph is: has the cycle path flooded? Upon this information depends the length and comfort of everybody’s walk, run or cycle. It is Surrey nature at its most untamed! Can we get through? The path floods sufficiently often for pedestrains to have created an alternative path on slightly higher ground, hard against the landfill fence. Surrey is not short of tenacious and inventive walkers - it is a response to an oudoor challenge, a little bit of wilderness in our manmade county. If you can tolerate a rough and muddy passage, then this is for you. The ill-shod, those with pushchairs, or those not fancying off piste travel will usually turn back. For cyclists, the decision is more technical. Depth of water, length of leg, size of wheel and frame, and confidence, have all to be considered. The taller and stronger cyclist, who doesn’t object to wet feet, will pedal though with an impressive bow wave. The smaller but daring cyclist will probably make it, with only a telling off from Mum ar Dad for getting wet trousers. Bur for the smallest or more timorous cyclist disaster awaits. We have watched Dad cycle though with a certain confidence and panache, eldest son take it at a run and make it to the other end, wet but triumphant, while small son panics in the deepest part, puts down a foot and topples over in spectacular slow motion. Dad, panache now resembling soggy papier mache, comes to the rescue, as only a good Dad can.
Too much water? Many attempts have been made to stop the cycle way from flooding. In my view, the present solution (let it flood) is without doubt the best. This is a nature reserve which is based on seasonal wetlands. Water rises, water falls. Nature thrives. Some find it frustrating that walkers and cyclists are kept to the edges - but what stunning edges they are. Many, many visitors come - the place was both flooded and thronged last Sunday. The crucial benefit is that all users actively interact with their changing environment. Can we get through? How deep is the water? Oh look! That’s how deep it was last week. What’s that bush? Can you see the swan/ducks/gold crests/long-tailed tits? All that rain last week has really made a difference.
And, no matter what the weather - there is always some delighted individual who makes it through! To misquote Dylan Thomas’s ‘Under Milk Wood’, one year I saw the Snipe when I wasn’t looking for them, but I’ve never seen them since, even though I’ve been looking all the time.
There is Aways Another Door
As this post is timed for the last day of the year (in many cultures, at any rate), I thought that this might provide a good excuse to explore Terroir’s ‘door collection’. Doors can be very symbolic (looking out or looking in, looking forward or looking back) and also enormously varied in cultural and architectural terms. What worlds lie behind any particular door? Once inside, what possibilities lie ahead, as you open a door to leave – or to run away?
Looking through a decade or so of door images, it became obvious that doors actually say a whole lot more than that, and also a whole lot less. In practical terms, for instance, a detailed photograph of a door isolates this symbolic piece of architectural furniture from its building. How unnatural. Strike one. It is also very difficult to photograph an open door: if open, the door tends to disappear and the eye is drawn through it – just as much as through an arch, a window, a gate or an arrow slit. So the symbolism of a door, as a solid architectural form, is lost. Strike two.
Here are some open doors. Will I go in (or out)? What would you do?
Some doors have lost their function, or have disappeared altogther, but are not always the worse for that.
On the other hand, a shut door can send a whole host of unexpected messages, over and above its individual design.
Some doors come as a series such as this street in Toulon
Others are less organised - just neighbours (Uzbekistan)
And here are my favourites with which to welcome in the New Year. We hope that a door labelled vaccine will replace the first image below, enable us all to enjoy going through a multitude of doors in safety, and allow us once more to fully enjoy our own and others’ terroir.
Season’s Greetings
Christmas is a very visual festival, and many countries incorporate a variety of vegetation into their local response to the mid winter season. The results can be a delightful - although occasionally over-vibrant - mix of traditions, with Christianity firmly secured to the foundations laid on a variety of winter solstice celebrations. Aspects of the Roman Saturnalia may be particularly relevant to 2020. Everyone at home, schools and Courts of Law closed, the donning of brightly coloured special clothes (who knew that the original Christmas jumpers and onesies were called ‘synthesis’?), gifts and, something we all may have to resort to, sacrifices to the gods to ensure a better year ahead. Something from the New Year’s Honours list perhps?
Let Terroir take you on a tour of some of our favourite Christmas scenes.
