Roger’s Rambles

After the large helping of verbiage last month, I thought I’d leave it a while before writing again.

When I left Sampford Peverell, I moved just 18 miles away to Witheridge, near Tiverton. There, I stayed at West Middlewick Farm, which John and Joanna Gibson own and run. It’s an old-fashioned place, mainly a livestock farm, with sheep (including a couple of pet lambs), dairy cows, chickens everywhere, turkeys and a few pigs.

Visitors are allowed near the animals and children are encouraged to pet and feed them. There are frequent callers to buy the chickens’ eggs, an honesty box acting as cashier.

John and Jo are a friendly and helpful couple and gave me permission to photograph round the farm. Here is a study of some of the cows getting their evening feed, in what John calls the shippon. This is a dialect word with several spellings, all traceable back to the Old English scypen. This is related to (cognate with) the modern word ’shop’.

When I was in Northumberland, just over two years ago, the farmer I was staying with referred to his cowshed as a hemmel. The origins of this word are not clear.

I often get up in the middle of night (one of the penalties of middle age) and take advantage of my wakefulness to do work on the computer. While at the farm, at around 3.30 in the morning, I heard a cow nearby making lot of noise but thought nothing of it.

The next day I discovered she had given birth to this bonny boy. He’s a Belgian Blue cross. Had he been pure bred, he would probably have delivered by Caesarian section. It’s a big breed, known as ‘double muscled’.

.

.

.

Order of service

I lingered in this part of Devon because I had booked my motorhome for its first annual service at a garage near Taunton, 30 miles away. Motorhome servicing is a more complicated business than with cars, since there are two elements to deal with. One is the chassis, cab and running gear on which it is based. They come from a mass-manufacturer, such as Fiat (with mine), Ford or Mercedes-Benz, and are typically from its range of vans.

A specialist company, the coachbuilder, takes this foundation and puts the ‘home’ into motorhome. It adds the rest of the body (if it’s a bare chassis), the window, beds, cupboards, sink, washbasin and so on. Mostly these companies use components made by a few specialist suppliers. You find the same brand names recurring whatever the name on the finished vehicle.

Having these two elements — the running gear and the habitation area, as it’s grandly called — serviced normally demands a visit to separate, specialist garages. The Taunton company could do both in one swell foop, which would be less inconvenient for me than two separate periods without the vehicle.

Part of the service for the living area is a check for dampness, so the mechanic needs access to all parts of it, even inside cupboards. You have to empty the van, therefore. John kindly let me use one of his barns to store my stuff, of which there was plenty.

On to Taunton

At 9 o’clock on the appointed day, I left the van with the garage and Jenny and I took a bus to Taunton. I had about six hours to fill, so took my time looking around.

The day was cool but, fortunately for me, dry. Had it been wet, I’m not sure where indoors I could have spent the time. Like an increasing number of towns in England, much of Taunton is inhospitable to dogs (see my rant below). Even the tourist information centre prohibits them.

Despite this, I was able to go into an outdoor pursuits shop to buy some new boots. I was also able to get a haircut, with Jenny secured to the next chair.

The shearing was an experience fully deserving the epithet ’sybaritic’. It involved the attention of three young ladies, a scalp massage, two hair washes, a chair that massaged my back (eery) and hand-clipping of my beard. My usual routine is a dry trim in a firm chair and high-speed electric topiary of my beard.

I left the shop walking on air, and not just because my wallet was £30 lighter. This was not something I’d do regularly but it was worth it as an occasional treat. If you fancy the same, go to one of the Sarah Hodge shops. I was at the branch in Taunton High Street.

I enjoyed mooching around the rest of Taunton, which has a river (the Tone, after which it’s named) and all the amenities you’d expect to find in a county town. There was a wide range of shops, some of them in Tudor buildings, a castle, some good churches (in one of which I saw this diverting notice) and plenty of grassy places.

.

.

Vivary Park, near the town centre, was a pleasure to visit, even on a cold, grey November afternoon. Its name comes from the mediaeval vivarium on the land now occupied by the park. This was used to keep live fish in, a sort of aquatic larder sometimes known as a stew pond.

The park was extensively restored in 2002 and has ornate iron gates, an old-style bandstand and an ornamental fountain, all brightly painted. I sat on a bench to eat my lunch and watched students from one of the local colleges videoing one another, giving a Blow Up feeling to the moment.

Some time later I meandered back to the bus station, took a bus to the garage and, after a bit of a wait and a cup of free coffee, got my van back. All was well but for a couple of exhaust pipe retainers that needed replacing, inexpensively, so I returned to Witheridge tired but in a contented frame of mind.

I was also content, on the whole, with my stay at West Middlewick farm. It has a relaxing atmosphere and, unlike many specialised camp sites, doesn’t have the air of an accommodation factory about it. I can only give it a ‘good’ rating, though. The showers (which you pay for) weren’t to be relied on and the bathrooms were often cold. There must be queues in high season, as there are only two showers for men. Also, washing my clothes was much more expensive than at any other site I’ve visited. It’s a pity, especially as the owners (and their children) were so nice. Still, ‘good’ isn’t bad.

Dogs and shops

No matter how much one might love them, there’s no escaping the fact that dogs are carriers of germs and parasites. (The same is true of humans but in a different way.) It makes sense, therefore, to exclude them from any place where food is being prepared. It is anyway a legal requirement to do so.

To me it seems equally sensible to exclude them where unwrapped food, such as bread, is on display within reach of a large dog. That said, few greengrocers prohibit dogs. I suppose one could argue that their goods can be washed before consumption but the same applies at most corner shops and filling stations, unless they’re selling unwrapped bread or rolls.

There are exceptions. For every kind of shop that bars dogs, I’ve been in similar establishments elsewhere that don’t. In Minehead, for example, two bakeries I went to won’t admit them but in St Ives (for a future epistle) I went to two that will. In all four places, the food was high off the ground and behind glass, accessible only to shop staff. In Dunster, the owner of the delicatessen in the High Street was happy to see Jenny. The Rohan outdoor pursuits shop there even had a notice saying dogs are welcome.

As much as anything, it’s the inconsistency that frustrates. And if a shop doesn’t want dogs in, it should at least put a clear notice saying so on or near the door and provide somewhere to tie the dog’s lead.

Grrr!, from both of us.

And that’s flat!

Seen in a motorhome forum:

“In the UK usually only use CL’s & CS’s and ring up the day we are going unless we have something defiantly planed…”

From a photography site:

“Kathy is a graduate in English literature and currently persuing her masters in Online Journalism”

And, to finish, in yesterday’s newspaper, talking about the closure of the Miramax studio:

“‘You can’t underestimate the influence they had in the 1980s and especially the 1990s,’ says Ali Jaafar, international editor of the trade magazine Variety.”

I didn’t think their films were that inconsequential.

There was more I wanted to see in and around Minehead but I also wanted to be in Cornwall for the winter. Near the end of October, therefore, I drove to the next site.

In tune with that sense of urgency, I chose somewhere almost exactly due south of Minehead rather than to the west. (Perverse? Moi?) Minnows Touring Park is next to a canal at Sampford Peverell in Devon, near Tiverton. This is a medium-sized site, affiliated to the Caravan Club. It’s well run and pleasant but traffic noise from nearby roads can be intrusive, especially in wet weather. I rate it ‘excellent’, nevertheless.

Weighty matters

On the way, I called in at a public weighbridge at a grain store at Cullompton. I had for some time been meaning to get the motorhome weighed.

Driving any vehicle loaded beyond its designed capacity is against the law. If you’re stopped and it’s found to be so, you can be fined or worse. I didn’t fancy that. Also, overloading doesn’t do the van or its handling any good.

I was pleased to learn that the van (with Jenny and me on board) was 200 kilos — nearly 450 lbs — within the limit, despite all the possessions I’ve crammed into it. The individual axle loadings were OK, too, so it was £7.00 well spent. Peace of mind cheaply won.

When I got to the Minnows site, I grinned. There, just 50 yards from it, was a government-run vehicle testing station. Oh well — bird in the hand and all that.

Halcyon days

I parked my van next to a hedge, the other side of which is the Grand Western Canal. A lockable door in the hedge puts you right on the towpath. As soon as I had set up, I took Jenny for a constitutional along it. We’d gone only a few paces when a small blue-green projectile went whizzing off. It was a Kingfisher, the first I had seen for months. I took that as a good omen.

What’s left of the canal extends only 11 miles, from Tiverton in the west to the tiny village of Lowdwells, so you might think it better named the Grandiloquent Western Canal. When it was begun, though, it was intended to form part of a link south from the Bristol Channel near Bridgwater to the estuary of the River Exe. These days it is a linear nature reserve, with little human traffic on the water when I was there.

It was too late in the year for many flowers to be in bloom but wayside fruits and berries were abundant. As well as hips and haws everywhere, I saw plenty of White Bryony fruits. This is a climbing plant that scrambles up trees and shrubs (a Hawthorn, in the picture).

White Bryony is the only native member of the cucumber (gourd) family but is not for eating. Those shiny fruits, the size of large peas, are poisonous. They start yellow, turn green and finally go the bright scarlet you see here.

Black Bryony (Tamus communis) is also a poisonous scrambler with berries red when ripe but is unrelated. (Colloquial plant names are no guide to taxonomy.) It is the only British member of the yam family and gets its name from the colour of its roots. An easy way to tell Black Bryony from its near namesake is that it climbs clockwise (which brings to mind this witty ditty from Flanders and Swann.)

I also saw more Spindle trees in the area than I have anywhere. This is yet another poisonous native plant. It gets its name from its hard wood, which was used for spindles, skewers, knitting needles and similar.

I’ve concentrated on one fruit in this photo but a tree usually bears many. When ripe, each popcorn pink case splits along the seams and spills small orange seeds on the ground. These are toxic to a wide range of animals, including dogs and people.

There are more poisonous plants native to Britain than you’d suspect, as well as introductions like Laburnum and Oleander. Parents and dog owners should get to know them. Here for downloading is a useful but incomplete list of plants poisonous to people and here is one of plants harmful to dogs. You can find lists for other animals on the Web.

Sampford Peverell

If you turn left when you leave the caravan site through the hedge and walk a mile or so beside the canal, you come to Sampford Peverell. It’s a quiet little place, with two pubs, two shops, a school and a church. The old part is cramped but characterful.

The “Sampford” element of the name means sandy ford; the “Peverell” that it was part of an estate belonging to the 12th-century Peverel family. There are several Sampfords in the area, each with a different affix denoting ownership or affiliation.

One area of this village bears the entertaining name of Boobery. I don’t know its origins but I wouldn’t like to advertise that as my address if I lived there.

Walking through it, I saw a rusty and mouldering collection of old motor mowers in someone’s front garden. There must have been 50 of them.

Near it in a swing seat sat a nerdy-looking boy — early teens, spectacles — listlessly lobbing darts into a board on a chair a few feet away. I asked if he minded if I took some pictures — he didn’t — and then asked how the machines came to be there. Was it a museum, perhaps?

His reply, given in a flat, resigned voice, was:

“No. He repairs lawnmowers but takes so long about it that people give up and buy new ones, so he leaves them there.”

I didn’t ask who “he” was but thanked the lad and went on my way, the urge to giggle fighting a feeling of sadness for his situation.

.

A little further along, outside a grander residence, this cheerful crew was taking their tea break. I imagine their lives are fuller.

.

.

.

.

.

Naming of parks

On another day, I walked south of the canal to Little Turberfield, where there is a small but well-stocked farm shop, handy for the caravan site. The shop is on a periodically busy road, the fluctuations in traffic accounted for by the railway station at the end. Tiverton Parkway is the antithesis of Minehead station, being devoid of visual interest, history, architectural merit and atmosphere. It’s a car park with a pair of railway platforms alongside.

The name of the road leading to it is equally sterile and unimaginative — Tiverton Parkway Way. Sounds like a bad comedian’s catchphrase. (”Parkway”, in case you were wondering, is modern railway-speak for “station”. There are 20 or so in the country. Linguistic ugliness everywhere.)

Perhaps a future Doctor Beeching will purge the parkways. The original did a thorough job on older stations, as this song, also by Flanders and Swann, laments. Some meticulous types have made a list of disused stations, not all victims of Beeching’s axe.

Fortunately, many intriguingly-named older stations survive, as do the settlements they serve. This part of the country is rich in interesting and, often, mysterious place names. Some of my favourites are:

Beer Crocombe, which is near Isle Brewers, with Isle Abbotts between. You can almost smell the hops.
Brompton Ralph
Cheriton Fitzpaine (there are several Fitzpaines)
Chilthome Domer
Chilton Cantelo
Clannaborough Barton
Clyst St Lawrence
Compton Pauncefoot
Cricket Malherbie
Cruwyse Marchard
Curry Mallet (for pounding your gurum masala?)
Dog Village
Holcombe Rogus
Huish Champflower and Huish Episcopi
Noble Hindrance (he’s nice but dim?)
Norton Fizwarren, which is just a mile from North Fitzwarten. How many cartographers has that caught out, I wonder?
Nymet Tracey
Orchard Portman
Preston Plucknett
Ryme Intrinseca
Toller Porcorum. Yes, it means Toller of the pigs.
Venny Tedburn
Vobster
Western Zoyland
Whitchurch Canonicorum
Zeal Monachorum

.

I’ll leave you there for now.

And on to Minehead, where I spent an October fortnight at another Caravan Club site. This one is at Alcombe, once a separate village but long since absorbed into the seaside resort.

The site is compact and sheltered, and laid out on three levels. It manages to combine urban convenience with a rural ambience. A roe deer watched us from behind a fence 20 yards away as Jenny and I walked around looking for the best vacant pitch. Deciding we weren’t a threat, it continued strolling up the steep bank to the woods and fields behind the site.

Those fields lead further south and upwards to large commons and Forestry Commission plantations that are favourites with local walkers, riders and cyclists. They are the start of Exmoor, all 267 square miles of it. Just over a mile to the east of them is the pretty village of Dunster.

Five minutes’ walk away from the entrance to the site is a mixture of shops and take-aways. Going further downhill takes you into Minehead proper and its sandy beach.

The wardens are friendly and helpful, if somewhat obsessive about dogs. There are notices everywhere — reminding, exhorting and, often, forbidding. This is the pick of them.

Despite what it says on the notice, there is no safe off-the-lead walking for dogs on or near the site. Otherwise it ticks all the boxes. Cellphone and Internet connections were good and there’s little traffic noise. I rate it ‘excellent’.

.

The town

Minehead is an attractive place, mainly Victorian but with some older parts. The main shopping street is The Avenue, which was relatively quiet at that time of year. In season, it will be full of visitors to the Butlins holiday camp, which is within waddling distance at the eastern end of the beach. This BBC Web site tells you more about the town.

At the other end of the promenade is the harbour, with a row of old cottages at The Quay. These are mostly holiday lettings but done in the best possible taste. Many are listed and it’s a conservation area.

Nearby is this jolly piece of sculpture marking the start of the South West Coast Path, 600-odd miles of walking around the coastline of the bottom-left corner of England.

Over this end of the town looms North Hill, an 840-foot high sandstone promontory that gave Minehead its name. In 1046, before the Conquest, it was recorded as Mynheafdon, deriving from the Old English words, myned (mountain) and heafod (projecting spur).

There are few literary connections with the town. Arthur Clarke, the science fiction writer, was born there but the family moved away a year later. Not much of a connection, then, and scarcely literature.

Slightly further out there is Porlock, five miles to the west of the caravan site (which is on the Porlock road). An unnamed visitor from there famously interrupted Samuel Taylor Coleridge when, in October 1797, he was composing the poem, Kubla Khan, at his home at Nether Stowey, 20 miles to the west. That tale sounds to me like an 18th-century version of “Please sir, the dog ate my homework” but the result is indisputably fine.

Highlights

The railway station. I’m not a railway nut but I found this place absorbing. Not only are there several large steam engines in magnificent condition, they are all used on the regular, scheduled services of the West Somerset Railway. Entry to the platform is free and photography allowed. It’s a Mecca for train enthusiasts as well as for tourists. I visited several times.

.

The Bakelite Museum. This is a delight. The museum is housed in an old mill on the outskirts of the village of Williton, eight miles from Minehead. Next door is a tea shop. The collection has been assembled by Patrick Cook, who makes The Pod plastic caravan. One of them sits outside, alongside plastic bicycles and a ‘Trabby’ (Trabant) car, which has a plastic body.

There’s a slightly chaotic, take-us-as-you-find-us air to the place that I found engaging. Many museums ‘push’ their exhibits and information at you as though there’ll be a written test at the end of your visit. Here, it’s more like stumbling on a private storeroom. There’s no guide book, you pay into an honesty box and, so far as I remember, there are no “Do not touch” notices. Patrick hasn’t even bothered keeping the museum’s Web site alive. It’s charmingly eccentric while being nostalgic and genuinely educational.

Also good

Cleeve Abbey. These remains of a 12th-century Cistercian monastery are at Washford, between Williton and Minehead. Through good luck, it did not suffer the dereliction that afflicted most religious buildings after Henry VIII’s onslaught on the monasteries, begun in 1536.

The modern visitor sees a building in good repair and with some interior decoration still evident. There’s more information at the National Monument Record.

I went on a sunny day and enjoyed both the building and the location but came away with no great feeling for the place. Some sites almost vibrate with history; I must have been tuned in to the wrong frequency for this one.

Finally, an event rather than a place. Each year, the Minehead Running Club organizes two concurrent races called collectively The Exmoor Stagger and Stumble. These go cross country for 15 and 6 miles respectively, the longer race (The Stagger) going out to Dunkery Beacon and back. This is near Porlock and, at just over 1,700 feet, is the highest summit in Somerset.

I took my camera and Jenny and wandered up the course near Alcombe Common in time to catch the first set of runners returning. I then went to the finishing line to photograph the end of The Stagger. Here is Kerry Roberts of Tiverton Harriers coming home the overall winner, in a time of just over 2 hours. You can see pictures of some of the other competitors here.

You might think it an incongruously urban setting for the finish of a cross-country race but it was convenient for the assembly point, which was a local college about 100 yards behind the finish. One of the officials asked if I felt tempted to enter. I said only if they instituted a third event on the day — The Exmoor Amble.

.

Devon next and then Cornwall.

It’s less than two weeks from my last posting! Shock, horror.

Well, I thought I’d better whiz through the rest of the year or I’ll forever be trailing by weeks, if not months. Here’s the next instalment.

I left you last time poised to travel to Wincanton but, before we take to the road again, here are a couple of snippets linking to my last piece.

First is the delightful discovery that at least some of the kind of rubbish blowing from the landfill site at Cranford has a nickname. In Ireland, it seems, empty carrier bags caught up in trees are called “witches’ knickers”. I shall use that.

The other is the unsurprising knowledge that the kind of media blackmail I mentioned in the piece on death in the public eye takes place in the USA, too. Here is Mark Lawson, writing recently in The Guardian:

The concept of a right to question has become corrupted into the assumption of a duty to answer. On Wednesday, after the murder of a young woman in Brooklyn, the reporter at the scene lamented “we have reached out to the family of the dead girl but they felt unable to talk to us”. There was almost a note of censure in the delivery of the sentence…

That “reached out” sounds malign.

To the races

So to Wincanton, in Somerset, for 11 days, starting in late September. The Caravan Club has a site there that adjoins the racecourse, half a mile north of the town. It’s level and, as you’d expect, has large areas of well-kept grass — just right for Jenny to dash around on. There’s plenty of space between vans and the area is tranquil (except on race days but the site closes for those). A small golf course sits at the centre, open to non-members.

The groundkeeper and his staff were preparing for a meeting in a fortnight’s time. This was coinciding with an inspection from the Jockey Club, which owns the site, so there was plenty going on for me to ‘neb’ at. (Anyone from Lincolnshire will know what that means.)

There was an uncalled-for display of boorishness from the site warden when I went to extend my booking. An email to his area manager produced a satisfactory response, so I don’t think that problem will recur. The facilities were no more than adequate, so I give the site only a ‘good’ rating.

Wincanton town is old and characterful. The highlight was discovering there the existence of the Ankh-Morpork Consulate.

This will sound familiar to readers of Sir Terry Pratchett’s books, for the good reason that it resides at a bookshop run by one of the author’s friends. There’s even a pretend post office in there, tricked out to look like one from 19th-century Britain and selling Discworld-inspired stamps.

It’s all light-hearted stuff, in which the Wincanton’s town councillors have joined. The two places — one real, the other fictional — are twinned and there are even two roads in a new housing estate named after places from the books.

I like Pratchett’s writing but not to the extent of being a fan. He writes amusingly within the fantasy genre while subverting it but after a while it all seems much the same. It’s Chinese restaurant reading — you feel good for a while after but soon hanker for something more sustaining. (I’m presently re-reading the John Updike “Rabbit” books. Plenty there to chew on.)

To me, there’s a whiff of CAMRA membership, Terry Wogan listening and anti-metrication about the Pratchett enterprise, at least among his fans. I think of them as mainly being burly, bearded British blokes baffled by modernity, multiculturalism and the female vote. I could be wrong.

There’s lots of ground to cover, so — deep breath — here we go.

Leaving Lincs

In early September I left Spilsby for Kettering, in Northants, to see my family. I was there two weeks, staying at Five Willows Farm, Cranford. This is a secluded five-van site, within easy reach (and earshot, unfortunately) of the A14, which joins the east coast to the M1 and the Midlands. I was impressed by the powerful, and free, shower at the site but less so by having to take my own toilet roll when on other business.

The site gets a ‘good’ rating from me, despite the constant daytime traffic to and occasional niff from the neighbouring landfill site. There’s plenty of walking thereabouts and a nature reserve nearby at Twywell Hills and Dales.

.

.

.

Highlights:

1. Seeing the family, of course.

2. Visiting the Civil War battlefield at Naseby, which I’d been meaning to do for decades. There’s nothing much to see at the main site — a few fields and a 19th-century monument — but the explanatory notices and maps give you an idea of the troop arrangements and movements. The Naseby Battlefield Project is doing good work in creating new viewpoints.

3. A short walk from the site, watching six Red Kites and a Buzzard exploiting a late-afternoon thermal as they rode their invisible escalator out of a former quarry. Neither is a rare bird these days, which is a triumph for conservationists, but it’s still a special treat to watch their sublime skill at flying.

A Thames-side discovery

Leaving the Midlands for the West Country, I digressed to the Camping and Caravanning Club’s excellent site at Chertsey, in Surrey, where I stayed a few days. It gave me the chance to visit a friend in Crowthorne, Berkshire, whom I hadn’t seen for years.

Chertsey was a revelation. I’ve driven past the turn-off to it from the M25 hundreds of times and assumed it was another victim of the necrosis afflicting most settlements and countryside near London.

How wrong I was. It’s busy, of course, with constant motor traffic over its elegant 18th-century stone bridge but has kept much of its riverine and rural character.

Just along from the site are the Chertsey Meads, for example. These are 170 acres of meadow — open to the public — lying on the south bank of the Thames as it comes west from Walton then swerves north to Staines. On the opposite bank is the smaller Dumsey Meadow, on which cattle graze at the water’s edge like something from a bucolic idyll by Claude Lorrain.

By the bridge is this modern statue of Blanche Heriot, commemorating a legendary event during the Wars of the Roses.

The bell Blanche is shown so determinedly gripping is 700 years old now and hangs in St Peter’s Church, in the centre of Chertsey. Behind it are the ground-level remains of a 7th-century Benedictine abbey, set in a genteel park and adjoined by narrow alleys and old houses. It all forms part of a conservation area.

The ferry that delayed the messenger in the story will probably have been near the M3 crossing, which is just north of the town and its Victorian canal lock.

A little further along the right-hand bank is Laleham Park, another large open space. The house of which it was part belonged to the Earls Lucan; it is now flats.

George Bingham, the 3rd Earl, is notorious for ordering the Charge of The Light Brigade, in which ignorant armies clashed by day. As every schoolboy once knew, this was during the Crimean War, in 1854.

Matthew Arnold — poet and schools inspector — was born in Laleham village in 1822, when it was part of Middlesex. He had his armies clashing by night.

As you can tell, I liked Chertsey. The main purpose of my journeyings is to discover my own country. I hardly expected one of the nicer surprises to occur a mere half-hour drive from where I live!

West at last

On then to Dorset. My son and his fiancée had rented a cottage in a remote spot near
Sherborne and I spent a couple of days with them. It was a great pleasure to see them, naturally, and also to meet at last their new puppy.

Alfie is a Jack Russell and Patterdale cross, five months old at the time. We all wondered how he and Jenny, my exuberant little Staffie, would get on.

Like a house on fire, is the answer. (What a macabre expression that is.) Alfie was not awed by his older and larger ‘auntie’ and they wore each other out with constant chasing and play-fighting.

.

Next day, we took a trip to the beach at West Bay (where the dogs are in the photo) and then into the adjoining Bridport. There was a street market that day and plenty to see, do and buy. We didn’t have the pizza but lunched across the road at The Bull. Nice.

I also liked Bridport.

.

.

At the races

I was away the next morning to Wincanton, in Somerset, which I’ll tell you about next time.

.

Modern death

“Family pay tribute to fall girl”. A sad business, without a doubt, but the reporting follows an established formula.

This paying tribute business seems to a modern twitch of the press. Just search for “pay tribute” on the BBC’s Web site, or that for Google News for further examples. The Beeb even ran an item last year about another death which pointed out, rather huffily, that the deceased’s relatives had up to then “failed” to pay tribute.

People are no longer to be allowed private thoughts and emotions, it seems. (Reading between the lines, in that instance they had probably refused to say the ritualised nice things about the deceased to the Beeb’s stringer, or too late for the deadline.)

It’s all part of the modern way of death, as set out by the media:

1. Someone dies, often unexpectedly = “the tragic/sudden/untimely death”

2. The family (any relation or neighbour will do, really) says the expected words, i.e. “pays tribute”, as above.

3. A senior public servant/company executive says his or her thoughts “are with the family”.

4. The “sorrowing” or “grieving” wife/husband/father/mother gets a visit from a police shrink (if death was from a crime), social services, a priest or other professional do-gooder = “receives support”.

5. If the death was a result of neglect or ineptitude by officialdom, a spokesperson intones that “lessons will be learned” and “the issues will be addressed”.

6. The bereaved is/are then left to get on with it. They “come to terms with their loss” and can “move on” with their life/lives.

7. How? Because they have “reached closure”.

Simple, isn’t it?

PS As I’m sure you know, to pay tribute originally meant to hand over money or other valuables to someone more powerful, as a kind of tax (hence “tribute money”). The meaning seems to have come full circle with the media vultures — either say nice things on demand or they’ll paint you as unfeeling.

After my stay with Pam and David, in late August I moved 50 miles south to Great Steeping, near Spilsby. Meadowlands is a site I had stayed at two years previously, so it was good to meet the owners again.

Henry and Ann had had the site only a year when I was there before and it’s lost the raw look it had in places. As before, I rate it excellent. Some of the plumbing arrangements are ramshackle but they work. The ambience is relaxed and welcoming.

As you can see from the two articles I posted at the time (here and here), I enjoyed my previous stay in that part of Lincolnshire. This time I did not venture so far but did more local walking instead.

Just call me Farmer Giles

One sunny day, while in the next parish of Monksthorpe, I watched and photographed a man cultivating a nearby field with the aid of a large orange tractor fitted with rubber tracks. He stopped nearby, got down and we had a chat.

His name was Barry and he was, he said, ‘topsoiling’. He told me his brother was doing some ploughing in the next field (these are large fields) and it would be worth photographing him, too.

So I strolled off to the next field, where there was this large, green tracked tractor (left) rumbling up and down. I photographed that, too, and this driver stopped for a yarn.

It was indeed Barry’s brother and his name was Malcolm. After a while he asked if I would like a drive. Would I? Try and stop me!

Jenny and I climbed up to the cab after Malcolm. He did a length of the field to show me the controls, turned the rig round and then we swapped places. I drove my first tractor that day and ploughed my first furrows. What fun! It was easy, too. Although the machine is a monster, most of the controls are power-assisted, with some of them automated.

As you can see, I didn’t do a bad job — beginner’s luck, of course. The picture’s a little blurred because I took it through the rear of the cab.

I think I’d get bored pretty quickly if I were doing it all day, though, and start trying tricks. Since the tractor and plough cost about £160,000, it would be my luck to break something. I’m better staying a tractor tourist, grateful for the chance to drive such a magnificent beast.

Wartime remnants

Most of the fields in the area formed part of RAF Spilsby, a WWII bomber base from which Lancasters flew. The airfield was used for training after the war but abandoned in 1958. It stretched for miles in all directions and you can still see many of the buildings, although most of them are in ruins. Much of the ground-level concrete remains; Meadowlands is on some of it.

About a hundred yards from the entrance to the site is this memorial to fliers and ground crew who died. It was unveiled in 2001. The picture is from my previous stay. The memorial looks the same now.

.

.

.

On another walk, later in the day and in changeable weather, I stood a few hundred yards from the memorial and watched rain clouds competing with the setting sun to see who could produce the most photogenic sky. They then decided to work in partnership, with the result you see here.

It was an effect I’ve never seen before — mainly blue sky on one side, funereal clouds sliding up from the other and the setting sun turning just the rain orange-red. It only needed four horsemen to make it complete but they must have had the day off. I was reminded of the settings Roger Corman magicked up for his Edgar Allen Poe films.

This will hurt you more than it will hurt me

No, not a return to schooldays, joyously long finished, but a visit to an osteopath. I had mentioned to Pam and David that I was suffering from a cricked neck and sore ankle. They immediately and enthusiastically recommended treatment by Cheryl Rowland, whom they and some of their friends use. What she does sounded suspiciously New Age to me but David is a sceptical sort of chap, as I am, and if he said it worked I was prepared to give it a try. They were in no doubt that she could help me.

And she did. Cheryl uses something called Neurostructural Integration Technique, which consists of short periods of manipulation followed by rest. The link leads to a site that explains the theory. You don’t have to believe it for the method to help.

I had three sessions, the first being painful in places. Cheryl is no weakling (she goes scuba diving and rides a big Harley Davidson motorbike) and you know all about it when she digs her fingers into any muscle that’s particularly knotted. It was worth the occasional jolt. My ankle has improved greatly, and now troubles me rarely and not for long. The neck problem has almost disappeared. The treatment, coupled with postural and dietary advice, has made me more aware of causes and of how to look after my bones and muscles better.

So, here’s another recommendation from me. Cheryl is at Rowland Healthcare Clinic, Okeechobee, James Place, Ulceby, Lincs DN39 6UG, telephone 01469 588351. She offers other therapies as well, including reflexology. None of this is on the National Health but it’s not dear.

That’s big of them

Staying with matters medical, I heard recently that my GP — whom I like — had left the local NHS practice, so I went to its Web site to see who the new person would be.

The site carried no names but gave some supposedly reassuring messages. Among them was this: “You will be treated with respect and as a partner in your care.”

I should hope so on the first point (in fact it is so) but what’s this partnership business? Whoever wrote and sanctioned this guff has completely the wrong idea if he or she believes that. Patients admit medics into the relationship with their body and their ailments, not the other way around. Arrogant or what?

That section continues: “Being a partner means you have responsibilities too.” Who do these people think they are? And who do they think we are?

We’re patients — adult human beings in need of specialised help — not children or juvenile delinquents to be lectured. I know some people don’t help themselves get better but that doesn’t mean the rest of us should be talked down to.

Immanuel Jakobovitz, the former Chief Rabbi and an expert on medical ethics, put it succinctly (when talking about doctors getting involved in spiritual matters) — “These people are mechanics.” Quite so.

If I went to my local garage and saw a notice in reception saying, “You will be treated as a partner in your car’s care”, I’d think they’d gone loopy. “Of course I am — it’s my bloody car”, I’d say, while thinking the managers a load of pompous and patronising poltroons.

Although doctors receive far more rigorous and prolonged training than any Kwick-Fit fitter, that does not qualify them to arrogate to themselves ownership of anybody’s condition or the treatment for it, still less to preach at that person.

Grrr!

= = = = =

At least my spleen is working. Having said all that, I will add that my family have always had excellent care and prompt attention from the doctors and staff at the Oxted practice.

See you soon!

Oh dear; late again.

Teesside

North this time, up to Stockton on Tees for a week in August. The Caravan Club has a site there at White Water Park. As much as anything, I went because I was intrigued by its name. It had excellent facilities, well looked after (as is usual with either club), but was a typically soulless large site, more like a transit camp.

The “white water” bit is an artificial canoeing and rafting centre. It lies next to the River Tees (remember Tyne Tees Television?) and consists of narrow watercourses designed to produce torrents and rapids for enthusiasts to practise in. The flow is produced twice daily by diverting held-back water from a nearby barrage across the river.

Perhaps I got the wrong time of year but I was hoping for more activity, possibly competitions. All I saw was a few learners trying out basic manoeuvres and not for long at that. It wasn’t their fault, of course, but was anticlimactic all the same.

Compensations came in walks around the area:

1. Next to the site is a nature reserve called Portrack Marsh (or Marshes), good for birds and wild flowers.

2. On the opposite bank of the river is Maze Park, another but newer reserve. This is next to some railway marshalling yards, of which you can get some good views. I was there mainly for the flowers.

Common Terns nest by the river on that side, giving a free aerobatics display every time the barrage flushes and a fresh supply of fish moves downstream. A seal often wanders up at those times, too.

.

.

.

.

3. There are plenty of walkways and cycle paths, away from the river and alongside it.

One leads to the Infinity Bridge, opened only a few months before. It’s for pedestrians and cyclists, mainly to and from the adjoining university campus (at left in the picture).

The bridge gets its name from the shape it makes with its reflection. The two combine to make the symbol for infinity. (That’s the official version. I think they look more like a bowling pin.)

Stockton’s a bit rough but money has gone into local redevelopment. There’s a big retail park nearby and an Asda supermarket a short walk from the site. It’s also a handy base for touring around the north-east, which has more places of beauty and interest than you might suspect if you’ve not been in the area before.

Barton-upon-Humber

On then to see my friends David and Pamela but in more relaxing circumstances than last time. Warmer, too.

It was lovely to see them again and there was much good talk, laughter, and gin and tonic. A couple of times we went into Barton itself (Pam and David live on a farm outside it), which is old and interesting without being too picture postcard.

.

.

.

.

.

Like Stockton, the town grew up next to a river, this one being the Humber. It also no longer depends on its river for trade or industry and is recycling its riparian past.

One example of this is the recently opened Waters’ Edge Country Park, near the old docks (and the Humber Bridge). It’s too early to say whether the nature reserve will amount to much — the adjoining Far Ings reserve is older and better established — but the building is unusual. I’m not sure I like its appearance but it hosts a lively programme of events.

.

We went to Brigg for some shopping and had a stroll around. It also has some good domestic and public architecture and is, of course, the location for the annual horse fair.

The fair has been immortalised in the tenderly beautiful folk song of that name, which was ‘collected’ in 1905 by Percy Grainger. A couple of years later, Frederick Delius wrote his lush orchestral version. It refutes Constant Lambert’s notorious (but funny) jibe — “All you can do with a folk tune is to repeat it — louder!” — but goes on a bit. Delius stretches the tune to more than eight times its original length.

On another day, we went to Normanby Hall, near Scunthorpe. This is the family home of the Sheffields, former steelmakers, but is now leased to the local council, who look after it well. Its architect was Robert Smirke, who was responsible for many other, and finer, buildings.

This one’s a dour-looking lump but it has for me an overriding attraction — one of the best and most authentic Victorian walled gardens in the country. Even the newest plant varieties there are Victorian. It was a delight to walk around.

Normanby’s worth a visit for that alone but it also offers displays inside, a farming museum, ornamental gardens, some fine trees and a deer park.

There is a topical connection in that it was one of the childhood homes of Samantha Cameron (née Sheffield), wife of the Conservative party leader David Cameron. Just plain folks, as Tory HQ keeps telling us.

That’s it for now. Tune in again soon.

The pleasantness re-established at New England Bay has continued. From there, I drove to Boroughbridge, in North Yorkshire. It’s just over 200 miles direct but while on the M6 in Cumbria I took a detour to the Westmorland Farm service station at Tebay. I’d heard it was a cut above the usual.

I never eat in at service stations, just use them to grab TSN&D (toilet, sandwich, newspaper and diesel), so looked in the shop instead. It was like a delicatessen, along the lines of Fodder (see below) and the Ludlow Food Centre (mentioned here), with similar sorts of food. I thought the goods a touch pricey and the pies I bought weren’t special for flavour but you’d be hard put to get anything of similar quality at most other motorway service stations.

The exception has been where Moto has teamed up with Marks & Spencer, on A-roads as well as motorways. I aim for those places when possible. (Welcome Break are, apparently, partnering with Waitrose as an experiment. Bit of a culture clash there, I’d say.)

One of the incidental benefits of driving around in a motorhome is that any chilled or frozen foods you buy go straight into a cold container once you get back to the van. The fridge and freezer in most modern motorhomes are powered once you get moving and stay cold when stationary, so perishable foods never warm up. Sounds obvious when put it that way but I still get pleasure from it. Oh well, you know what they say about simple minds.

Food retailers refer to stuff you can keep at room temperature as ambient products (for ambient temperature) or “ambients” for short. Some years ago, I puzzled over a sign at a local supermarket that advertised a vacancy for an “ambient replenishment assistant”. It turned out they needed a shelf filler.

Boroughbridge

Two days before setting off for this site, one of the managers made one of those bad news:good news calls to me. The site was flooded but they could let me have a ’superpitch’ at no extra charge. That was fine by me and generous of them.

This is a Camping and Caravanning Club site (excellent, by the way), so it meant I would be getting my own water supply and waste drainage as well as the usual facilities. There was also a TV connection to the pitch but that was wasted on me, not having a telly. The superpitches were at road level, so were well above the water.

They weren’t kidding about the flooding. The site is next to the River Ure, which had overflowed its banks. Although the main field was soggy in parts, the next one was almost totally awash. The picture shows it at dusk. Everything dried out in a few days.

.

.

Highlights: It was the middle of the school holidays and, as I dislike crowds, queues and noise, I stayed away from the local tourist attractions. Another, quieter time I would have taken advantage of the site’s closeness to Harrogate and Ripon and ease of access to the Yorkshire Dales.

1. I did visit Masham (”Mass-um”). It’s a charming old place, with friendly people and some good shops, including an old-style sweetshop called “Bah Humbugs” and this butcher. The shop on the right of picture is a grocer and deli; good things in there, too.

Masham must be the smallest town in Britain with two first-rate breweries (Theakston and Black Sheep, the latter being set up by a dissident member of the Theakston family, hence the name). I came away with the products of both.

.

.

2. Another day I drove to Harrogate for the big Sainsbury’s on its outskirts. It adjoins the Yorkshire showground, which the Yorkshire Agricultural Society owns and runs. (The supermarket has to close during the YAS’s big summer show.)

I saw signs for a food shop and café called Fodder, so went in. It’s a smart and stylish new operation, opened in February this year, and adjoining the Society’s offices. The purpose of it is to sell and promote Yorkshire food and drink. I’m partial to both, so treated myself to a local meat pie, Swaledale ewe’s cheese, a packet of plain, unsalted crisps (proclaiming “Nowt On”), Wold Newton beer, from Hunmanby, and some Botham’s plum cake. All flavoursome reminders of why I like North Yorkshire so much. Dear, though.

(In case you’re wondering, I do occasionally shop for things other than food but there’s not much regional variation in, say, printer cartridges or caravan toilet fluid, so I don’t bother mentioning such humdrum purchases.)

Also good:

1. Boroughbridge itself. The town is an undemanding 20-minute walk from the caravan site. You pass under the A1(M) on the way, so it’s not tranquil nearby. Soon after, you can see some tall stones in a field to your left. These are the Devil’s Arrows, prehistoric markers of or monuments to something we can only guess at.

It’s not easy to gauge their size from the photo. The nearer one is longer than my motorhome and weighs eight or nine times as much. Imagine the planning and work that, 4,000 years ago, went into making, transporting and erecting these mute sentinels. Amazing.

These two stones aren’t easy to get at during the summer, being surrounded by fields of wheat and rape. There’s a third immediately to the right of the road to the town but it’s surrounded by trees on three sides, so doesn’t look quite so alien and remarkable.

The town has managed to keep much of its character and individual shops, despite the presence of a nearby Morrisons. The staff of the tourist information centre plied me with leaflets, which the local council produces in helpful and informative abundance.

There’s a road bridge over the River Ure, with a picnic area nearby. It’s the site of a long-ago battle but there’s nothing much left to see except a plaque on the bridge. Even the memorial is in another village.

2. A shorter walk from the site, but in the opposite direction, takes you to the village of Roecliffe. This has some lovely greens, pretty houses, an imposing Victorian school, a dapper but redundant church and The Crown Inn. Outside it are these two customers.

Publicans have on occasion been known to mutter about seemingly immovable drinkers. This couple are genuinely fixed in their seats, being mannequins. The inn changes their clothes once in a while and puts recent newspapers and magazines on their laps. It makes for a local talking point and, as was probably the main intent, pulls in the customers.

There; done for now. It’s Teesside next.

The recent sapping heat has gone, thank goodness, and I am again in the mood for editing photos and writing. This lightening of the atmosphere has come at the price of unsettled weather, so I’ve been dodging the showers in my thrice-daily walks with Jenny.

Back from this morning’s exercise, I stood at the door of the van and watched a flotilla of rooks set sail on the gusting wind, testing it I suppose; they went back to the safe harbour of the tree tops soon after. Straight ahead, about a mile away, rain tugged at the hem of a glowering grey cloud, dragging out dark threads of fabric on its way to earth.

Upwind, Thor gave a roll on the drums and there — splat! splat! — was the start of another shower. In I came and started writing. Half an hour later, the sun said a cheery ‘hello’ as though nothing had happened. It won’t last; he’ll be playing peek-a-boo most of the day by the looks of it.

So, since I’m at my computer, I’d better start bringing you up to date with my latest rambles. It’ll be quick, since I see that I’m only up to early July in talking about the places I’ve stayed.

Mosspaul

Yes, again. I’ve talked about the area and its literary connections but not mentioned the site. It’s a good example of a Caravan Club five-vanner, with level hardstandings and good water and waste amenities. There are, alas, two drawbacks to it, both female.

The first is Culicoides impunctatus, more often known as “those xxxxxxx midges”. It’s ironic that I’d left the Highlands to avoid this creature and my only encounter should be in the Lowlands. There’s a stream (burn) near the inn and a pond, which is probably where they breed. These little bastards, which the Americans call “No-see-ums”, are invasive, persistent and malign.

I left for the coast with 70 bites on my body and limbs and more on my head. It’s how a man knows he’s reached middle age or more, when the only female that wants him for his body is a female mosquito.

The other troublesome member of that sex was the inn owner’s wife. I must have done something bad to her in a previous life because she cold-shouldered me while I was there, completely blanking me on one occasion. On the other hand, Steve, the owner, is a friendly and helpful fellow. He deserves a medal.

Fortunately, Mrs Smith’s froideur doesn’t affect my opinion of the Scots, because she’s English. Living up to their reputation for canniness, the locals have installed this apparatus (left) so people know when she’s in residence.

.

.

.

New England Bay, Stranraer, Dumfries And Galloway

This is a full-sized Caravan Club site, which I rate excellent. It’s on the west bank of Luce Bay, which separates the Rhins of Galloway from the mainland.

Next to the site there’s a long beach of sand and shingle with dunes protecting it. There was plenty of wildlife interest, including seals in the bay (regular visitors, I was told) and this Yellowhammer near my van.

Stranraer is about 12 miles to the north and is where most people do their shopping. The site is otherwise miles from anywhere. Fortunately, there’s a handy shop on site and both fresh and fried fish arrive regularly by (separate) van.

The only drawback is a poor cellphone signal on some services but a short walk outside the site gate gets you a signal. Internet connection was adequate.

Highlights:

1. Logan Botanic Garden is just three miles away and is a jewel. It’s an outstation of the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh and specializes in plants from warm climates. The walled garden at its heart was full of colour, scents and grateful flying insects when I went. Outside this are collections of Tree Ferns, Palms and Gunnera. There is a cafeteria, a small shop and, a nice touch, shaded parking for vehicles containing dogs. It was a baking day when I went, so Jenny was a beneficiary. I met several people who went for ideas on plant choice, as well as for the pleasure of being there. Highly recommended.

2. Wigtown. On the mainland is what was the county town (of Wigtownshire). A charming and easy-going place, it is trying — but not too hard — to become Scotland’s Hay-on-Wye. The shops are more diverse than Hay’s, in fact, and the town is not as claustrophobic. The large town hall has a display on the top floor about the local natural history, including a live video display of an Osprey’s nest “somewhere in Galloway”. There was one chick left.

The local church has a memorial to some Covenanters killed in 1685. They include two women tied to stakes in the harbour and left to drown in the rising tide. It’s yet another example of what, in American police jargon, might be described as ‘Christian-on-Christian’ violence and a depressing reflection on human barbarism.

Also good:

1. At the other end of the Rhins is Corsewall Point. Here is yet another lighthouse from the Stevenson dynasty, part of it now run as an hotel. There are fine views over the water between Scotland and Ireland and the ferries crossing between.

2. The Mull of Galloway. This nature reserve at the southern tip of the Galloway peninsula is an ideal place from which to watch cliff-dwelling birds. The weather was poor so I didn’t linger. I shall return.

3. Kirkmadrine Stones. These early Christian relics are displayed in the glassed-in end wall of a small church at the end of a short track in the middle of a pastoral landscape. It’s a tranquil spot, not encumbered with disfiguring “interpretation” panels.

Next time, I’ll talk — more briefly — about Boroughbridge, Stockton-On-Tees and Barton-upon-Humber.

- - - - -

Can I interest you in joining the Apathy Society?

Looking through a magazine on motorhomes, I saw a listing of clubs and societies. I read through it, hoping at least to find some informative Web sites. There were none but I was entertained to see an entry for something called the Loners’ Group.

I suspect it’s for people who find themselves alone against their wishes, rather than for people who simply like their own company. All the same, it seems a self-contradictory notion.

A good test of a loner, it seems to me, is what he or she would do if locked in a room furnished with a range of reading material but with no radio, television, record player, telephone, computer or other people in it. Providing, of course, there were food, drink and a toilet available, the real loner could stay there for days. More gregarious types would be hammering to be let out within a few hours. I have a few of those in my family.

The difference is probably linked to the psychologists’ notion of introversion versus extraversion. A few years ago, Jonathan Rauch wrote a partly tongue-in-cheek piece entitled “Caring for Your Introvert” that summed up the differences with perceptive humour.

I’m presently spending my work time researching online social networking. Whenever I look at services like Facebook and Twitter, they remind me of Rauch’s description of extroverts’ discourse as being “98-percent-content-free”.

Here’s to that vital 2 per cent!

Sorry about the long gap since my last posting. The day job’s been getting uppity and needed attention.

I promised that this time I’d talk about literary connections. There isn’t space or patience for a full list — I’ve so far stayed at over 40 places in my travels — so I’ll mention just one, to show how richly words and places are sometimes braided together.

Scottish Borders

The area surrounding Mosspaul surprised me with the number of famous writers who came from or who lived there.

We start with Langholm, 10 miles to the south. It was the birthplace of the poet and author Hugh McDiarmid (1892–1978). This was one of the pen names of Christopher Grieve, sometime journalist, sometime politician and ever a radical.

Among his early successes was the long poem, A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle, which appeared in 1926. Here are the first lines. You’ll need a dictionary! (Fortunately, most collections of his poems come with a glossary.)

I amma fou sae muckle as tired deid dune
It’s gey and hard wark coupin gless for gless
Wi Cruvie and Gilsanquar and the like,
And I’m no juist as bauld as aince I wes.

The elbuck fankles in the coorse o time,
The sheckle’s no sae souple, and the thrapple
Grows deef and dour: nae langer up and doun
Gleg as a squirrel speils the Adam’s apple.

Forbye, the stuffie’s no the real MacKay.
The sun’s sel aince, as sune as ye began it,
Riz in your vera saul: but what keeks in
Noo is in truth the vilest ’saxpenny planet’.

You can hear the author reading it at this page. The meaning comes through clearer when it’s read aloud.

Langholm was a town I never got to, as I was at Mosspaul only a week. If I go to the Borders again, I’ll try to visit McDiarmid’s monument, just outside it. Made in 1985 by another Borderer, Jake Harvey, it looks entertaining but there are surprisingly few photos of it on the Web. Perhaps that’s something I’ll be able to put right.

Moving north up the A7, a couple of miles past Mosspaul you see on the left the upper part of what looks like an oversized candle snuffer made in stone. This is the Colterscleuch Monument, erected to the memory of another poet, Henry Scott Riddell (1798–1870).

He is chiefly famous in Scotland as the author of “Scotland Yet”, which he composed in 1834. Peter McLeod, a well-known tunesmith of the time, set it to music soon after. For a while it was nearly as often sung in Scotland as Robbie Burns’ “Auld Lang Syne”.

These days it has probably lost ground to the lugubrious “Flower of Scotland“, the lyrics of which don’t even scan. It celebrates the defeat at Bannockburn of Edward II of England and the routing of his army.

Riddell was also the translator of some books of the Bible into Lowland Scots. Here’s an extract from his version of the Song of Songs (Song of Solomon) rendered “into Lowland Scotch” in 1838:

I am blak but bonnie, O ye douchters o’ Jerusalem,
as the sheilins o’ Kedar,
as the coortins of Solomon.

Glowerna at me becaus I am blak,
becaus the sun hes shaine on me:
my mither’s children wer angrie wi’ me…

(A shieling is a summer cottage or hut.)

Riddell based his version on the King James or “Authorised” version of the English Bible. In the original, that section reads as follows:

I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem,
as the tents of Kedar,
as the curtains of Solomon.

Look not upon me, because I am black,
because the sun hath looked upon me:
my mother’s children were angry with me…

A leap to the south-east

It’s nothing to do with the Borders but I can’t resist giving you another version of those lines. This time they’re “in the dialect of the colliers of Northumberland but principally those dwelling on the banks of the Tyne”. J.P Robson made this jaunty translation in 1860:

Aw’s black, but bonny, Salem lasses,
Like the Kedar-shows;
Or, like the cortins where wor king
Lies under for a doze.

Noo, divent glower at me se,
Becas aw’s black as seut,
Becas the sun maw skin he’s tann’d,
Maw mother’s bairns cries, “Slut”…

A modern name of this dialect is Pitmatic, previously Pitmatical. This page gives you a chance to hear how it sounded.

Back to the Borders

When Henry Liddell wrote “Scotland Yet”, he showed the words to James Hogg (1770–1835), another and more famous local writer. Hogg lived in and came from Ettrick, a few valleys and about 20 miles to the west.

James Hogg was born into a sometimes destitute sheep-farming family and for much of his adult life was himself a sheep herder. One result was his being given the sobriquet of “The Ettrick Shepherd”, often meant patronisingly. (Since, in Scotland and much of England, a hogg is a young sheep, his real name can be classed as an aptronym.)

Hogg’s most famous prose work was The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner, which you can read here. Before that he had established himself as a major poet.

In time, Hogg’s largely middle-class readers tired of the novelty of reading the work of someone of such lowly station in life. Also, like his similarly impecunious hero Robert Burns, Hogg was a questioning writer, critical of the status quo. This alienated some, especially the snootier Edinburgians.

As the Dictionary of National Biography puts it: “James Hogg’s status as a major writer was not fully recognized in his own lifetime because his social origins led to his being smothered in genteel condescension.”

Hogg was a longtime friend of Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832), financially the most successful of the literary figures associated with this part of the Borders and the last I’ll mention.

Born and educated in Edinburgh, Scott spent some of his childhood at his grandfather’s farm at Sandyhowe, near Kelso. There he heard many of the Borders’ folk tales and legends that he later drew on in his writings. Like his father he became a lawyer, his first pleading being in Jedburgh (which gives me an excuse to show this picture of the abbey ruins there.)

While building his practice, Scott started writing poetry and published a collection of ballads, The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Borders, in 1802. This led on to The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Marmion, The Lady of the Lake and others. This romantic material was later echoed in his immensely popular novels, beginning with Waverley in 1814.

Meanwhile, through a combination of ability, hard work and patronage he became Sheriff-Depute [sic] of Selkirkshire in 1799. A dozen years later, he bought the property at Abbotsford, near Selkirk, that he transformed into the grand house and estate that we see today.

I find it remarkable that so many gifted writers should come from this part of Scotland (and there may be others I have left out). Apart from the big cities, I can think of only one other similarly compact area in Britain that has provided or was home to so many famous literary figures. That place is the Lake District, associated with Wordsworth (William and Dorothy), Southey, Coleridge and Ruskin, followed slightly less luminously by Beatrix Potter, Arthur Ransome and Melvyn Bragg.

Anyway, before I figuratively leave the Borders, I feel I should mention one other figure who adds lustre to the area’s reputation. It is the engineer, Thomas Telford (1757–1834). He was born in Westerkirk, about eight miles north-west of Langholm. This page on Undiscovered Scotland gives you some idea of his astonishing accomplishments. The picture on the left is of one of his minor productions.

.

A bit of a downer

Commendably, large bookshops and supermarkets in Scotland usually have at least one set of shelves labelled “Scottish writing” or similar. There’s always plenty of choice. BBC Scotland also has a helpful set of pages — Writing Scotland. (”You start with a big ‘S’…”)

Another shelf label that caught my eye recently was in a branch of WH Smith. There, next to the massed biographies of nobodies, was a section labelled “Tragic Life Stories”.

Can you imagine? “I’m feeling in a really cheerful mood today. What can I do to cure that? I know, I’ll pop into Smiths and get a thoroughly depressing book about someone’s unavailing fight against the forces of fate and upbringing. That’ll set me right again.”

They’re a sort of literary put-me-down. I don’t see me buying much in that genre, somehow.