Some childhood memories prompted by some illicit rummaging

Here's a little nostalgia prompted by Grandchild #4 rummaging in Grandchild #1's little 'box of secrets' and coming across something I'd forgotten. Better not tell #1 about this because I don't want to get #4 into trouble.

For many years I lived in the shadow of our local 'pit' (Bedwas Navigation Colliery to give it its formal title but it was never referred to as anything other than the 'pit') and things relating to the pit were important, directly or indirectly, to most in the village. It was the major employer and its buildings on the side of the mountain dominated the valley below. It was common to see miners black with coal dust going to and from the pit and the scene below was very familiar to me. This was taken just below the pithead and we often played in the fields either side of this access road. The building at the top housed the administrative offices and the square structure in front was a reservoir, the water in which contained lots of goldfish. All gone now as the pit closed around 1985, coincident with the Miners' Strike. Note that I say coincident with and not caused by the strike. It was on Thatcher's hit list long before that and the strike was a very convenient excuse for closure. But enough of the politics - sometimes I think my memory is too long for the good of my blood pressure. Almost thirty years ago and I still get hot under the collar about it. And don't get me started on the way my grandfather was treated when he had pneumoconiosis after a life time working down this very pit.

Nothwithstanding all of the above, Grandchild #4 asked me what a blue badge he'd unearthed was for. I'd forgotten I'd had it and, bearing in mind his age (3), I told him that it was a picture of my dad in a funny mask. He accepted this and moved on to irritating Grandchild #6.  I wasn't completely truthful with him as what he had come across was his great-grandfather's Mines Rescue Service badge, issued by the National Coal Board to those miners who had volunteered to be trained as part of the Mines Rescue Service. The reverse of the badge gives his name and the Rescue Station (New Tredegar) at which he was trained. Dad was in the Rescue Service for around 10 years and, as far as my mother and I can remember, was only called to a 'proper' accident once. The funny mask? That's the standard Proto respirator used at the time (50's and 60's) and the helmet was made of laminated fibre board. By present day standards, not very sophisticated gear but it did the job.

Those in the Mines Rescue Team were the first-line responders when there was an accident underground, be it a tunnel collapse, explosion or injury. Such occurrences were signalled by long blasts on the pit hooter, calling the Team into action. I remember hearing it several times when I was young but I really did not appreciate the significance of what was going on then. The photograph below was taken in the late '40's outside the lamp room at Bedwas Pit and is of the Team at the time. I can still recognise several of the faces and things wouldn't have changed that much by the time dad was involved. It was typical of dad to volunteer for something like this and the badge is another  warm memory of him.

 

If you want answers, look elsewhere...............

Modern communications and social media mean that we are better informed than ever about what's going on in the world. And, depressingly, we seem to know more than ever what a terrible world it can be for so many of us, what a horrible species we can be and what horrors we can inflict on each other and on ourselves. But, in amongst all this, most of us retain our basic humanity and our basic decency. Most of us still believe in goodness, in justice and the fact that right can and must win. Most of us feel that "something must be done" about so many issues.

But there is a problem with thinking that something must be done because it is not always clear what that something is. Something is hard. Something is complicated. Something has consequences and we know from bitter experiences that sometimes the something we do is the wrong thing. So do we freeze? Petrified into inaction? Or do we charge ahead? Gung ho, thinking that our something, indeed anything, is better than nothing?

I don’t know the answers to any of the current big international problems facing us. Lest you think otherwise, this is not a blog with answers. It strikes me that every other column I read by every other writer I admire, has answers. How I envy them. I look at the horrors of war and I want to act. I want to march in front of the guns. I want to stand between the messianic maniacs with machetes and their victims. I want to rip the rockets from the hands of those bombing schools and killing children. But I’m not going to. I am a coward. I am too comfortable in my life. I do not have the right stuff. My morality is that of an armchair general, an armchair tactician and, perish the thought, an armchair politician.

I'm glad that I don't have to take these life and death decisions. And knowing this of myself, I can’t come to an easy position that always believes in British intervention. I can’t have that as my first option every time something happens that is hideous and brutish elsewhere. But I can’t always rule it out either. I can’t rule out sending into danger the younger and braver people of this country who volunteer to protect us and to police our world. I don’t have a singular rule that says we should always or never take action. In some ways, I think that those who do are possibly more comfortable than me. Their certainty is their comfort blanket. But perhaps that is me passing off my responsibilities again, passing off my own guilts for the results of the positions I do and don’t support. This is not a blog with answers. How I wish I did have answers.

So no, I don’t have answers. But maybe, just maybe it’s OK to admit that. To say – as someone privileged enough to have some sort of public platform – that I don’t know what to say. To admit that I am winging it. Because we all are. Many with better information than me. Many with better understanding than me. But we are human. And as we face the worst of what that means, we need to allow ourselves to be as open and human with each other about how we reach consensus on what must be done. Because let’s face it: Something must be done.

And to lighten the gloom, why not listen to this excellent version of 'Somewhere over the Rainbow' by the Hawaiian singer/ukulele player Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwoʻole? Am I the only person who finds an optimistic undertone in the lyrics?

Pigs 'Ere Blog Part 11: Eight but soon to be seven.

Whilst doing my routine check of the pigs earlier on, it occurred to me that this might be the last time I see the Original Eight as a complete unit. We go to Romania for a week this weekend and, pretty soon after we come back, we are going to have a Hog Roast with one of them. The selection of the participant for this event will probably be done whilst we are away and she will already have taken the one-way trip to the abattoir by the time we come back. And I can't wait to taste her! 

Is this the last photograph of the Original Eight? But which one will be for the chop first?

Will it be this one?

Or maybe this one?

Surely not this one? Just look at those cute floppy ears and little piggy eyes. "Pick me. Pick me", she seems to be saying. Be careful what you ask for, my dear, as you may very well get it.

 

And lest I forget what it's all for!

 

If you'd been down to the woods today..................

.....You could have joined us at the Wild Woodland Summer Ball at Terhidy Woods, near Portreath. We went en famille to this open air performance in a woodland clearing put on by Rogue Theatre. If you haven't been, the order of the afternoon is:
*  Wait in a queue until let into the woods in small groups.
*  Walk along a woodland path, being ambushed/entertained on the way by a variety of performers.
*  Enter the woodland world through a portal guarded by the Fairy King.
*  Enter a clearing, with a raised stage in the centre surrounded by straw bales as seats.
*  Enjoy a performance of song, dance, music and stories for a couple of hours.
*  Reverse the process to go back to the cars.

The photographs below will give a flavour of the experience. We'd been for an evening performance last year and had really enjoyed it. This year?  You can't fault the setting and the way you are guided to the stage but we had young children with us this year and, if I'm honest, it went on too long for them. Their attention started to drift after a while and it would have been better if the interval had been the end. In the event we had to leave at the interval so that we could get the children home at a reasonable hour and in good time for bed.

Having said all that, it was worth going and Rogue Theatre put on some very imaginative productions. Given the setting, maximum pleasure will be derived from an evening performance when the spookiness of being in a wood is enhanced with the lights.

Strange things dangled from trees on our path to the stage.

Oh look, there's a singing mermaid.

And here's some woodland karaoke.

A human spider weaving her web.

The Fairy King inviting us to pass through the door into his world.

The start of the performance with the Fairy King appearing in a puff of smoke.

The moon had a central role throughout as a commentator and observer. Imagine how much better she would have looked if spotlit in the dark.

An ensemble piece.

You have to pretend that the fire represents the flames of a dragon. Maybe it's just me but I don't think that the Health and Safety goggles add much to the fantasy.

I don't normally 'do' envy but....

Without wishing to sound smug and complacent, I'm very lucky with my lifestyle and usually don't feel any need to acquire more trappings. And yet....and yet...recently I've been afflicted by the Green Goddess of Envy. Perhaps sharing my uncomfortable thoughts will make me feel better about them?

First of all, there's the lens envy I've been feeling. One thing I've noticed since being the VPO (very proud owner) of a 'proper' camera is that we photographers (as I now call myself - immodestly) can always be seen surreptitiously taking sideways glances at fellow photographers to see if their lens is bigger or wider or both.  Even with my Canon 100D, 18-55mm kit lens, 55-200mm zoom and 50mm 1.8 prime dangling around my neck, yesterday I felt like the man with a small penis standing at a urinal: I kept looking at everyone else's lenses, wishing mine was bigger! I really, really need a 300mm and a 500mm would be so useful, not to mention a decent wide-angle lens and, before I forget, a good macro lens is close to being essential. I'm sure I'm not the first person to feel this way! 

And if that's not enough, extreme envy hit me again the minute I saw what the Sage of Pempwell had before him - a Travelling Desk. A combination of an attaché case and a writing desk, complete with functioning porcelain ink well!

It was made of wood and is lined with green felt but the great, great thing about this briefcase is that I could write on it, wherever I was! As the inventor says on his website, I could use it "Waiting for the train or the plane, or on the move, in the bus or the car, or on a park bench, or in bed! So it saves you hours of dead time. Armed with pencil and paper and a desk, you can work, you can play, you can think, you can fight boredom, that “delicate monster”. Whatever the hurly-burly around you, you can retreat to a safe and familiar place – a place of words, of thoughts – an intelligent place." Who could fail to be beguiled by such a description? And if that's not sufficient, consider their final inducement: "A STATEMENT OF STYLE: Altogether, the The Travelling-Desk® makes a nice statement: it speaks of an unhurried, nature-friendly, thoughtful man." Yep, if that isn't something to be envious of, I'll eat my lens - if I can get one big enough.

Warleggan and its environs

The second time we've put our boots on this week and this time it was for a wet 7.5 miler on the western fringes of Bodmin Moor. An area not visited much by ourselves, or anyone else for that matter. Off the beaten track it surely is and that's a good thing as it's quiet. Our circular route took us from Pantersbridge to Warleggan, up the Glynn Valley to Cardinham Moor and then back to our starting point via Fore Downs and Mount. A good stretch of the legs, great scenery and lots of history.  

The only village of any size we passed through - and it really was a case of blink and you'll miss it - was Warleggan. Apart from being the name of some character in that dubious costume drama set in Cornwall, Poldark, it's known for its eccentric (not mad) vicar, the Reverend Frederick Densham, its incumbent between 1931 and 1953. Rev Densham's eccentricity and autocratic habits led to a boycott by parishioners and caused him to preach to his dead predecessors' name cards, otherwise an empty church. It is said for over twenty years he preached to an empty church and, week after week as the service reached its conclusion, he would note poignantly in the register, “No fog, no wind, no rain, no congregation”. His death in 1953 was as lonely as his life had been. He died on the staircase of the vicarage where he lay undiscovered for two days. When they finally found his body, his arm was reaching for the bell rope, his last moments having evidently been spent attempting to summon the assistance of his alienated parishioners. There's one more thing to say about Rev Densham: his ghost is supposed to haunt the church grounds, trying to entice people to join a service.

There's always something interesting, if not downright strange, around every corner in Cornwall.

Here's the route, way to the west of Bodmin Moor and just outside of St Neot.

The first mile was a bit of a slog uphill along a very old track. The wet slate bottom of which made it quite tricky to negotiate. It leads up to Warleggan village/hamlet and at one time would have been an important access route. Warleggan had the reputation of being one of the most isolated villages in Cornwall and has only had a decent road to the outside world since the mid-1950s.

I couldn't work out what was old. A band room for old musicians, perhaps? Or an old room for all musicians? It was originally a brew house before it became the place where the Warleggan band would practise. The band has been long gone and was probably a product of the population increase due to the thriving local mines in the mid-1800s.

St Bartholomew's church at Warlegggan, dating from the 11th Century, with a short and squat tower. Up until the early 1800s, it had an elegant spire but this was lost in a fire and was never rebuilt. Something else of interest is its circular graveyard, a regular feature of old Cornish churches that have Celtic origins.

And in the bell tower a fern shadowing a plaque to repairs made in 1754. Looks like they have a little problem with damp.

Shall we call this one 'dead tree with lichen'?

This is something we haven't encountered on our walks for a while - waterlogged tracks. Lots of those today. In fact, the rain was so heavy at times that my camera was kept covered up for a lot of the walk.

An attractive combination of gorse and heather. Interestingly the heather was much further advanced than it was on our Dartmoor walk last week.

These are the remains of the Glynn Valley china clay workings on the side of Cardinham Moor. #1 are the two spoil heaps that are visible for miles. Once excavated the sandy clay mixture was mixed with water and run through narrow concrete channels (#2) in which the heavier sand settled and the china clay suspension piped into large circular settling tanks (#3). From these the gelatinous sediment was removed from the bottom and then dried in drying 'ponds'. The workings date from the early twentieth century but were run-down by the late 1940s. 

A view of the landscape towards the higher pars of Bodmin Moor. But look more closely and there's a lot more to see. #1: the diagonal line heading down shows the sites of various tine workings, dating as early as the 18th century. #2 and #3: leats carrying water to various water wheels and extractive processes for tin. #4: you can just about make out the remains of an old furnace. #5: those with keen eyes can make out the circular shapes of a series of buddles used in tin ore refinement. It's all there if you know where to look and how to interpret the remains.

On a wall of a house in Mount village. Foreign spirituous liquors? Probably referring to brandy and rum and dating from the mid 1700s when excise duty was a big deal. Think smugglers.

Along the Teign River from Dunsford to Chagford

A slightly different walk for us today as we followed the River Teign from Dunsford to Chagford - no open moors and no wide-raging panoramas. Ten miles of relatively easy walking for five friends and a dog! A couple of showers but nothing worth putting our wet weather gear on for. A stop half-way for lunch at the Fingle Bridge Inn and refreshments at the end in Chagford. A great day and a route to be repeated.

Here's our route. A linear walk this time, made possible by a little car shuttling. If you study the contours of the map you'll see that most of the route was in a pretty steep gorge. If only I had the geological knowledge to explain the reasons for this landscape.

Along side a river you get....river views. This was just at the beginning looking up from Steps Bridge, our 'formal' starting point.

All along our route there was ample evidence (weirs, leats) that the water of the river has been used to provide motive power for many years. This is the remains of the central hub of one of the waterwheels at Fingle Mill.

Himalayan Balsam (Impatiens glandulifera) was in evidence in patches along our route. An imported thug of a plant but with a very pretty flower and explosive seeds pods.

Another river scene, this one entitled 'The Dipper that flew away just as I pressed the shutter button'. The Teign was not this placid for most of the stretches we followed.

In the distance, under the giant plastic bag, is Castle Drogo. Owned by the National Trust, it is undergoing extensive renovation and stabilisation. Castle Drogo was built in the early 1900s and is a memorial to what too much money and too little sense can get you. Like many others, I think that the Trust's money (and some of it comes from me) could be far better spent elsewhere.

Now this is something you do not see very often nowadays - an outside swimming pool. This is the Chagford Lido - long may it continue but it will have to do so without my patronage. Cold water? No thanks!

In the distance, our goal - Chagford with its church tower to the left. In the background looms Dartmoor.

Short walk from Postbridge up to the East Dart waterfall.

Nice weather for a Dartmoor walk as we headed north-ish from Postbridge to trace the East Dart up to 'the' waterfall. Admittedly not on the scale of Niagara but very impressive when the river is in full spate: today was not one of the days.  We walked to a prostatic trickle, reaching it through some wonderful panoramas. Just under 5 miles and well worth doing - as we will again in the future.

Not the time of year for many flowers but the broom is just getting into its stride, with its bright, cheery yellow dotting the landscape.

A hoverfly on a knapweed flower. The scientific name for this one is Helophilus pendulus, meaning "dangling marsh-lover" (from Greek 'helo-, "marsh", -phil, "love", Latin pend-, "hang"). It is the commonest member of this species in the UK so no kudos for spotting it. How do you tell a hoverfly from a bee or a wasp? Easy peasy: hoverflies have the typically large eyes of flies and just the one pair of wings.

Open spaces - with no people in view. A little misleading as there were more walkers than we normally encounter when we are out and about.

This cloud formation looked like a sailing ship when I pressed the shutter but that's not the way it turned out. Use your imagination.

Grass waving in the wind - perhaps there's a hint of movement here?

Some early heather. Give it a few more weeks and this part of the  moor will be purple with it.

The oblong structure in the distance, on the slopes of Stannon Tor, is the ruin of a sheep fold,  sometimes known as the Scotch Sheepfold. It's also known as the Potato Farm or the Starch Factory. Why? Because at one time it was used as a factory to produce starch from potatoes. It's unlikely that the potatoes were grown locally as the harsh environment would not be suitable for decent crops. Yet another example of a failed enterprise on Dartmoor and yet another weird piece of trivia.

Sheep will sleep absolutely anywhere. Here they are as dozing (and dozy) gatekeepers.

The East Dart leading up to the waterfall.

The waterfall, looking rather more splendid than just the trickle I mentioned earlier. It's a great spot to head for and, for those who like their mining history, it's the start of a fascinating zone of old workings. Unfortunately we didn't visit them this time around.

A semi-regular reader asked me to include maps of our walks so here's one for this perambulation.