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Letters to
the Editor - April 2008
Good luck to David Bellamy (Jan) in encouraging volunteers
to do conservation work, I hope their experience is different from
mine. For twenty years I took part in voluntary work parties on the
Pembrokeshire islands. We always had at least one skilled jobbing builder
as one of our volunteers and on Skokholm Island we pretty well re-built
the observatory.
Over the years the value of the work we did is estimated
to run well into six figures, so imagine my amazement when we were
told that our services to carry out major works were no longer required.
Health and Safety regulations decree that all future works to the buildings
must be done by paid workers who have builders’ liability insurance.
In vain I pointed out that at least one of our volunteers had this
requirement, but no, the job had to be put out to local tender.
The only jobs the volunteers are allowed to do are
simple painting or similar tasks, and climbing a ladder to paint the
roof is absolutely forbidden. Consequently, without a job they can
get their teeth into, the volunteers are no longer interested.
John Lewis, Elmstone Hardwicke
The delightful article (Feb) on hostelling in Wales
revived many memories of my hostelling years – but this folly
of disposing of the ‘simple’ country hostels to finance
the slick city establishments has been going on a long while, and also
in more countries than England. Marilyn Barrack ‘discovered’ hostelling
at the age of 20. I was a later starter, aged 28 plus (one excuse that
I might offer would be six years war-time Army service), as prior to
the war I had used CTC and NCU cyclists B and B accommodation for my
travels – and found many of them outstandingly good. A university
society organised my first hostelling and it was in North Wales. Wondrous
places that I revisited many times – Idwal Cottage, Capel Curig,
Llanberis and the scene of my very first overnight hostel, Llanrwst.
It was 29 Dec, 1947, a cold, black night and due
to train and bus delays we arrived very late, so it was straight to
bed by the light of our own torches. We had to leave early next morning
(by taxi) before it was light, to undertake an ambitious winter walk
from Pen-y-Pass over the Glyders to reach Idwal Cottage for our next
overnights – so arriving and departing in darkness – I
have never seen my very first hostel, Llanrwst, in daylight!
From those first experiences I developed a love for
the hostel movement, visiting several hundred of them in several countries,
serving as the Hon. Sec. for the Tasmania YHA and enjoying almost every
minute of every overnight. One in South Wales, I particularly remember.
It was a ‘temporary summer hostel’ in the school at Brynberian,
in the Mynydd Preseli National Park. It was extremely simple: no bunks – just
mattresses on the floor – cold water (basins to be emptied in
the outside drain) and generally minimum facilities. But the saving
grace of that lovely place was the outstanding kindness and concern
of the local people (there seemed to be half a dozen ‘wardens’ who
could not do enough to help you) and I contend that was hostelling
at its best – and most unforgettable. I have used, and appreciated,
city hostels – not least when back-packing across Canada at seventy
years of age. I must add that the Canadian capital city hostels I used
in 1989 seemed to have retained much of the homeliness and companionship
of real hostels. It is probably pure personal bias, but I believe the
breakdown in hostel atmosphere and companionship commenced with the
advent of transistor radios and was completed with the provison of
TVs in many hostels.
All my very best wishes for outstanding success to
Maralyn and Steve Griffith in their most worthwhile cause.
John Bellamy, Lauderdale, Tasmania
A thirty-year-old favourite sweater (Mar)? I have
several at least that old, especially two Norwegian ones bought from
Tulloch of Shetland which are some of the best forms of sheep’s
wool insulation I know. However, my oldest regularly worn sweater,
which I almost always wear when out with the shoot, is my father’s
old army sweater dating from some time in the second world war, so
that is at least sixty-three years old, though I only started wearing
it about forty years ago.
Mary Acland-Hood, Glastonbury
The photographs show a donkey at Castle Bolton in
Wensleydale, North Yorkshire. It was used daily to carry milk panniers.
My partner and I would drive from Skipton to Castle Bolton for the
pleasure of the journey, enhanced by watching the milk collecting ritual
from the post office, just by the castle, where Neddy would wait for
the pannier cans to be loaded. He would begin his journey alone, laden
and slow moving. His owner would follow on foot at a leisurely pace
to unload full cans and return with the empties. No word of command
or encouragement was ever used; just an orderly daily routine.
Megan Fluck, Skipton, North Yorkshire
The skyline here in Lamplugh in Cumbria is changing.
After forestation on the slopes of Knock Murton Fell, above my home,
it has been decided to take out the fir trees. I suppose their lifespan
is over? We will be able in due course to once again pick bleaberries
like we did as children. I have lived in the same house for seventy-two
years and was born at High Fell Dyke, just a hundred yards from our
present home, in 1934. The old water house (now dilapidated) had two
cottages next to it and we rented one of them. They were condemned
in 1934 because of damp.
As a child I played safely with my friends from the
Edwards family next door and we built walls with the slate and picked
bleaberries. Hopefully we will soon be able to sit on the Ronald Dickinson
seat (he was the squire and former High Sheriff of Cumberland) and
see Criffel in Dumfriesshire to the right and the Isle of Man to the
left.
Grace Sloan, Lamplugh
The article on the Ruskin Mill College mentioned
Candlemas – February 2 and it reminded me of a couple of old
sayings for that day:
If Candlemas dawn rugged and rough
Fodder away you’ve fodder enough.
If Candlemas dawn blithe and gay
Go saddle your horse and buy some hay.
On your farm at Candlemas day you should have one half the straw and
two thirds the hay.
From observation it seems as accurate as the Long
Range Met. Forecast.
Paul Berkeley, France
I thought readers may be interested in the photo
of a fungus which I took in a country lane. I had not seen one before
and believe it is Lycoperdon giganteum – is this correct, and
is it common?
M T Jose, Romsey
The incident depicted on the reader’s tablemat
(Jan) did indeed take place. In 1816 the London bound coach drew up
at the Winterslow Hut (now the Pheasant) a few miles from Salisbury
in Wiltshire. Also staying at the Hut was the owner of a travelling
menagerie and his crew, his stock-in-trade being parked in the field
next to the inn. As the coach stopped, a lioness which had just escaped
from her cage attacked one of the lead horses. Pandemonium ensued.
The screaming passengers jumped from the coach and jostled their way
into the inn. The guard of the coach fired his musket at the lioness
and missed.
The animal was by now terrified and took shelter
beneath a nearby barn which was raised on staddle stones. The menagerie
owner, none too keen on having his valuable animal shot, came running,
followed by his crew.
They all crawled under the barn and managed to calm
the poor beast. Somehow they tied her four feet together, dragged her
out and transported her back to her cage.
The story spread all over the country. It appeared
in broadsheets and many drawings and paintings were done of the scene.
Even the wounded horse had its days of glory, being exhibited at country
fairs far and wide.
Mrs M W King, St Albans
(Thanks to all the others who wrote in about this
subject)
Dick Hilton had always been a labourer. He had worked
on numerous farms in the Midland counties, worked in several woodyards
and had even done a stint on the Trent barges, trimming grain in Hull
and Sutton-on-Trent to feed the chicken farms of Nottinghamshire. He
was a slow, steady, sober man whose pace at the end of the day was
the same as at the beginning. His slow steady work always seemed to
achieve more than those who belted into the work and then had to take
a breather. He wasn’t exactly sure where and when he had been
born and that caused problems for his employers (who had become his
family) when he reached retirement age. He mistrusted numbers and preferred
the spoken word to the written. By any industrial classification he
was unskilled.
He did, however, have one very special skill. He
played dominoes in three different pubs and could read the backs of
most of the dominoes in most of the packs. Just by the natural scratching,
staining and patina that they had acquired from long use he could read
the backs almost as easily as others could read the fronts; as easily
as he could tell one ewe from another. It says a lot for his character
that, by and large, he lost as much as he won.
I asked him one day if he had ever been tempted to
use the full potential of this skill.
“Onny once,” he said. “I were working
in Cartwright’s woodyard an’ it were ’olidays wi
pay but thur were nowt ta come. I tuk im ta Lion and took mi olliday
munny frum im and a pound fur luck. Then I went to ’is missus
and collected mi cards. I ’ad another job that afternoon.” Unskilled?
Roy Jenkins, Chipping Campden
I read with interest Robin Page’s article suggesting
the government legislate the use of fireworks. I wholeheartedly agree.
It seems people use any excuse to have a pyrotechnic display anytime
and anywhere. Large country estates holding music festivals always
end proceedings with a firework extravaganza, even birthday celebrations
and wedding receptions are not complete without lighting up the surrounding
district with their opulent displays.
The distress caused to wildlife and domestic pets
along with farm livestock is considerable yet completely ignored. This
is yet another example of selfish Britain: ‘I want fireworks – and
to hell with everyone else!’.
But it did surprise me to hear Robin Page wanted
the government to step in and change the law – some might accuse
him of being a spoilsport – just clamping down on a bit of harmless
fun. Especially as Robin is always complaining about government interference
when it comes to certain country pursuits. Surely the irony of Mr Page’s
argument wasn't lost on the majority of Countryman readers?
John Baynes, Markfield
We welcome readers' letters,
which should be sent to:
Countryman, The Water Mill, Broughton Hall, Skipton,
North Yorkshire BD23 3AG
Or email: editorial@thecountryman.co.uk
The editor reserves the
right to edit letters for length and clarity. |
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