Land of my Fathers

At ground level England can seem very urban and concreted but flying from Stansted to Belfast earlier this month it is easy to see what a 'green and pleasant land' it is. The impression from the air is a patchwork of green and bright yellow with the occasional splodge of woodland or a wiggly deep green line showing the path of a stream or river. And - mercifully - the roads don't show up that much. So although most of our country is tamed and manicured, there is room for wildlife. I just wished I could have heard the birdsong from up there.

It was odd returning to the place my Dad called "over at home", and it was odder still that it felt both comfortable but unfamiliar, especially with my uncertainly about how much my English accent would make me seem like the enemy. The "religious" divide still feels alive and well.

The taxi driver who took us to our hotel, chatted as taxi-drivers do. He was quick to comment on our accents, joking that we might have difficulties with his. I presented our credentials saying that his lilt felt friendly and homely.

The taxi-driver responded 'That's what some say - others tell the truth.'

The jokes - apparently - hadn't evolved in the decades I'd been away.

My cousin talked about the Falls Road black taxis during the height of The Troubles. The Falls is very much a Catholic area. My grandfather was an Orangeman, which speaks of his affiliations. We're an athletic clan, and my cousin's daughter started to excel at trampolining. The best club in Ulster meant a journey up the Falls Road, where black taxis act like buses, picking up fares and charging little more than a bus.  But my cousin was told, 'Don't let your daughter use the black taxis. With her accent, everyone'll know she's protestant.'

Last time I was "over at home" I determined I would avoid sectarian labelling and when asked my religion, I replied. Buddhist.

'But are you a Catholic Buddhist or a Protestant Buddhist?'

City Hall, Belfast

Life is much calmer these days. The black taxis offer tours of the Republican and Loyalist murals. Bridges have been built between communities, and money has been spent on regenerating the city. Mum and I took a tranquil riverside walk along the Lagan and were serenaded by gulls and robins.

We wandered along to Victoria Square and up into the glass dome and the panorama of the city: all the stately architecture of the capital, Napoleon's nose on Cave Hill, and the massive cranes of Harland and Wolff (where Titanic was born).

In our hotel, I overheard a conversation that made me smile. A group of Ulstermen - probably in Belfast for a wedding - were complaining about their wives' aspirations while staying in the Big City.

'All they want to do is shop - and they'll end up in Marks and Spencers.'

I recalled a very similar conversation of decades ago. My aunt and uncle were visiting from Northern Ireland and staying with my parents in suburban Surrey. My aunt and uncle were keen to explore London. My uncle aimed to soak up the history while my aunt wanted to shop. 'And would you believe it?' My uncle complained, 'We ended up in M&S!'
Well at least Belfast's M&S is in a listed building.

Next the Sea

East Anglian countryside is wonderfully varied as a drive north from Cambridge shows. Yes, Cambridgeshire is green and beautiful, but it is Fen-flat so only rarely are you treated to a good view. There are other things to bring a smile to the face though. The first was driving past the village of Fakenham which sounds like an ancient Saxon curse, and on north through sumptuous poppy-fields of the Brecks and vistas of gnarled Scots Pines with their backs bent against the prevailing winds. On again through Little Snoring – there really is a village called Little Snoring, as well as Great Snoring, and sleepy places they do seem to be.

 

Scanning the map en route, there are a great number of Norfolk and Suffolk villages with an ing in the name, often in the middle: like Sandringham. Ing means “son of” so that when a Saxon chieftain’s son set up his own settlement (a ham), his father’s village might be called Wallsham and his son’s – usually within five miles – would be Wallsingham, but often the father’s settlement will have disappeared over time.

The roads of North Norfolk are a delight to drive. There are plenty of surprises too. We paused at the 12th century castle that gives Castle Acre its name. The crumbling walls are now decorated by Dog Roses and many of the rest of the fortifications are now covered with lush grass, forming banks that are still challengingly steep to ascend. It is an atmospheric place.

Often the roads cut through woodland so lush that the trees form a tunnel. Journey times aren’t fast but being behind the wheel is so much more enjoyable than motorway driving. Our target on this trip was the windmill that is a cosy hotel at Cley Next the Sea – a fine spot to savour the squalls and brooding clouds coming off the ocean. Here too there are fine sea-marshes which made me recall the excellent atmospheric novel by Jeremy Page – Salt – that had me wanting to go out and find some samphire to nibble. Instead we ‘made do’ with some delicious piquant lavender bread from the Cley deli.



looking out from the old quay to the sea defences and the sea itself - about a mile away



Yellow horned poppies and looking back towards Cley across the salt-marshes

 

 

 

the windmill that is a hotel

Cley hasn't actually been "next the sea" since the 17th century; it is about a mile away these days. Striding through the salt-marshes towards the sea though we were treated to views of avocet, hilariously hyperactive plovers and even a Marsh Harrier getting mobbed by 30 or 40 wading birds as it flew off with one of them – probably a shelduck. The high point though was a boat trip from Blakeney to the colony of Grey and Common Seals. It was cold and windy but the occasional faceful of seawater only added to the adventure.

The two species of seals co-exist contentedly. The much larger 'roman-nosed' Grey Seals produce their pups around Christmas time so their youngsters were already huge. Some of the bulls are truly massive: they weigh up to 250kg. The smaller Common Seals have more attractive faces and are due to give birth around about now. The adult males reach a maximum weight of about 120kg. Both species have the most endearing undulating-fat-rippling means of moving on land.

 



How can lying like a banana possibly be restful?



Seal life seems to be about eating and sleeping



Some of the youngsters were a bit nervous as the boat approached but not for long



This seal seemed really interested in close up views of us

 

Gap Yah

When I came down for breakfast, the door was open and I realised his bed hadn’t been slept in. He’d gone. Off to explore the world, no doubt. But he was so very young: young and so, so anxious. What had he taken with him? Did he have enough food – and water.

We had to find him.

There was some evidence of which way he’d gone. He’d clearly wandered about the house for a bit, but his most likely destination was a dark corner under the oven. He’d dropped bits of sawdust nearby.

We left out food and water, thinking he’d come out and we’d bring him home, and to safety, but he’d tasted freedom and he didn’t want to come back. This was his gap year.

We heard various scratching and gnawing and scuttling, and sometimes glimpse a small twitching nose, but he liked freedom. He did some Grand Designs-style home improvements, and shifted half a cubic foot of builders rubbish from a rat-run between an understairs cupboard and the oven by way of some pipework supplying a tiny loo.

I set a trail of small cubes of cheese from beneath the u-bend and soon saw him emerge pouching the cheese as he scuttled forward. But on coming to end then of the trail in the corridor, he rapidly turned and fled back to sanctuary beyond the u-bend.

A had the inspired idea of manoeuvring his i-phone towards where we thought Lawrence had made his home and filmed him. He was dazzled by the light of the phone but came forward to see if any more treats were on offer. They weren’t. He fled, and that night he relocated.

That was his big mistake. He settled for a comfy carpeted corner behind a small, easily moved cupboard. When we finally caught him, he’d clearly ferried many pouchfulls of food between the loo and the new location. It seemed so harsh to put him back in his cage again.

Click here for an exciting 17 sec clip of the traveller...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GVMJZnvga0

 

 

 

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

Our early ancestors explained away impressive features in their landscape as the work of almighty gods, and later mediaeval peoples blamed the devil for scars in the countryside. The impressive Devil’s Dyke in Cambridgeshire has caused a lot of head-scratching over the eons and has been at the centre of several interesting traditional stories. One legend says Hrothgar chief of a race of Fen giants built it to protect the virtue of his beautiful daughter Hayenna from a fire demon. There was a terrific battle but Hayenna was saved by a water god, who wanted the rampart maintained forever after.

It is easy to believe that the ancient rampart is the work of a race of giants. At its greatest height, the Devil’s Dyke is 10.5 metres high, and it is steeper than would seem possible without concrete and JCBs. And with the ditch along the south-western edge it is a formidable barrier, although it is difficult to capture the steepness in a photograph.

Pasque flowers in the most exposed parts of the dyke, in April and May

Another legend about the Dyke, is that it was carved by the devil’s fiery tail when he left in fury after failing to gate-crash a wedding in the village of Reach.

Even until a few decades ago, scholars were uncertain when or why the Devil’s Dyke had been built and by whom. Some assumed it was a defence against invading Danes, but the steeper side of the rampart faced away from the North Sea. What was clear was that it was a barrier defending or controlling an obvious corridor between dense forests to its east, and boggy Fenland to the north-west.

The land at the north-western end of the Dyke is now drained by a system of quidditches, but 1400 years ago this would have been a malarious swamp. These days, the village of Reach marks the furthest extent of the Dyke. From there it runs in an almost perfect straight line seven and a half miles to the south-east as far as Woodditton.

it is tough to capture the steepness of the dyke on camera

the forested Woodditton end of the Dyke

There may have been a barrier at this site during the Roman era, but archaeologists have now dated the latest building on the site to the 5^th or 6^th century AD. It is the last, best preserved and most northerly of a series of defensive linear earthworks – the others being Fleam Dyke, Brent Ditch and Bran Ditch.

In May evidence of another traditional tale can be seen on the Dyke. One of England’s rarest but most sumptuous wild flowers blooms out of the closely cropped grasslands. These have been said to spring out of drops of blood of slain Romans or Danes since they are often found on old boundaries or even barrows. An explanation of this though is that such places stay undisturbed for hundreds of years, and this favours the Anemone of Passiontide. The fact that the Dyke has remained safe from ploughing for 1400 years also encourages other fine rarities, and in the summer lizard orchids blossom there, as well as plenty of cowslips, violets, and within the wooded parts of the Dyke, bluebells and wood anemones.

Pasqueflower,

wood anemone

Wandering the length of the Dyke is a pleasure because it traverses several very different habitats; an information board mentioned snow berries and I wondered how I'd recognise them, until we arrived in a part of the woodlands where - if it hadn't been for the spring warmth - we could have believed there had been a fall of snow. The tranquillity was perfect so that while listening to birdsong and looking out for rare butterflies, I found myself trying to imagine who might have fought and died here on this ancient barrier.

Archaeologists have solved some of the mysteries surrounding this place. The Dyke, considered the finest Anglo-Saxon earthwork of its kind, was probably reinforced to defend the Kingdom of the East Angles from the expansive Kingdom of Mercia.

Wimpole and paparazzi

See what I mean about the paparazzi, kids? Can’t get away from them.....

Feels like the first day of real summer at last - and we had breakfast in the garden for the first time this year - oh the luxury!

Had to stretch our legs and take proper notice of the sunshine, by taking a trip to the very fine National Trust property Wimpole Hall, where we even found a cowslip. If you see my post on Hayley Wood you'll see they are totally different to oxlips - not.

Put them in a Tree Museum

Last month I found myself driving out east from Cambridge, and I looked out for signs that winter was on the run. Circling buzzards broke off from spiralling lazily to play and tease each other. Reproduction was on their minds. I drove out by Six Mile Bottom, Dullingham and through the mysterious Devil's Ditch, then past Snailwell and the rude-sounding Frekenham.

East Anglian landscape is dramatic for the intense feeling of freedom and space. Big horizons were especially impressive against skeletal trees. Only the stately Scots Pines wore any green.

But then my reverie was interrupted with a jolt.

First I saw magisterial Scots Pines wearing yellow bands, at waist-level. They'd been sentenced and awaited execution. Further on yellow machines assaulted the landscape, tearing up the rich black soil to make way for a wider highway to make it easier for us to rush from one end of the country to the other in endless pointless journeys.

England is crowded and I often find myself wondering what it was like in those days when our population numbered thousands, not millions, when the land could breathe and wasn't waterproofed by swathes of concrete and tarmac.

All we seem to have left now are tiny scraps of green, and even these are unnatural. They have been cleared and ploughed and ravaged, then in a few places have been allowed (or rather neglected enough) to struggle back to life again.

It's showing my age but I found Joni Mitchell's song going around in my head...

They took all the trees
And put them in a tree museum
Then they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em
Don't it always seem to go,
That you don't know what you've got
'Til it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer, farmer
Put away that DDT now
Give me spots on my apples
But LEAVE me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
'Til its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Sussex Forests and Skeletons in Cupboards

Dipping into my Dad’s library, I was surprised to find a book “Closing Ranks” by Dirk Bogarde. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. The man was a film star during my Pa’s formative years and they’d both seen action during the Second World War. My immediate reaction was that it would be celeb eye-wash. Intriguingly though the dust jacket told me Bogarde had three honorary literary doctorates including one from France. Perhaps he could write as well as look glamorous on the big screen.

I started to read a tale set in the familiar and fine Sussex countryside. The story caught me up. It centres around a gentrified family with skeletons in their cupboards who gather to see off a dying nanny. There is reference to some under-reported messy British history: when Cossacks were forcibly repatriated into Russia at the end of the war.

Yet there were lovely descriptions of rural England...

“A dragonfly looped around her head, dipped low, soared up, a whispering crackle of papery wings..”

And

“every shadow of a thought or doubt.. crossed his face with the clarity of cloud shadows racing across the fields..”

And

“A moorhen hurried though the rushes on the stream bank and launched itself into the water, flicking its tail with fussy anxiety.”

And

“The first crack of true dawn split the greyness, and as the sun rose above the brim of the silent earth, the first birds started, calling and scolding, the light grew stronger, drenching the still-damp fields. A golden haze grew in brilliance.... the valley was all at once glowing with sunlight, rang to the sound of the birds in copse and wood.”

Describing the dog as draggled made me smile and reminded me of all those words we use without thinking - like dishevelled - that we wouldn't normally shorten to their original root. The book was a thoroughly enjoyable, well-crafted, skilfully observed read, made all the more fun for me for being sited in beautiful Sussex woodlands.

Is it my perception or is there a dearth of novels set in southern England??