Old McBowyer had a farm..........

Here's an episode from my family's story that has always fascinated me. In the scheme of things, nothing grand but it is a unique piece of social history. First a little background and then the connection with my family.

I would guess that few people are aware of the Land Settlement Association, I certainly wasn't until I started looking into it. It was established in 1934 to provide employment on the land for unemployed industrial workers from

depressed areas, most particularly the coalfields of North East England and South Wales. Between 1934 and 1939 1,100 small-holdings were established within 26 settlements.^[Posters and pamphlets were distributed through employment exchanges inviting men to apply and the successful applicants were vetted for suitability to the rural life and given a medical examination. After that, they received agricultural training and each family was given 5 acres to cultivate plus some livestock to rear. The small holdings were run as a co-operative, with growing glasshouse crops a prominent part of the communal commitment. But many communities failed when men complained of the long hours, low pay and the isolation of rural life. Recruitment to the scheme ceased at the outbreak of World War II and the settlements were dissolved and eventually privatised in 1983.

And the connection with my family? My grandfather, Norman Bowyer, was part of the scheme. He had worked down our local pit (Bedwas Navigation Colliery) for many years and was invalided out in the late 1930's because of a serious case of 'dust' (pneumoconiosis) which ultimately lead to his premature death, leaving a widow and six children. Back to the story: for reasons that my mother

cannot remember (perhaps he was after a better life for his family? A new beginning in pastures new?), he enrolled and was accepted. This strikes me as rather strange as his poor health meant that he had difficulty walking any sort of distance. And they expected him to farm the land? He had six weeks of rudimentary agricultural training in Chichester and, again it's strange that his health was not flagged up as a contraindication to becoming a son of the sod. A pretty rigorous selection process? I think not.

Not withstanding all this, he was allocated a smallholding at Harrowby Hall Estate, just outside of Grantham in Lincolnshire, a good 200 miles from his home in Trethomas. The contents of their house were loaded onto a lorry (granddad and 'the boys' travelled in the lorry and nan and 'the girls', one of whom was my 14 year-old mother, went to Grantham by train) and off they all went. Nan and the girls arrived first and, to put it mildly, nan was not impressed. The promised house was dirty, miles from anywhere and the neighbours, although very kind, were Geordies with strange personal habits and impenetrable accents. My mother remembers nan greeting the arrival of the furniture lorry by standing in the middle of the road, waving her arms and saying "turn back. I'm not staying here". In the event this was not immediately possible and it took a month before they could head back to South Wales. And for all this time, my nan refused to unpack their furniture and the family (two adults and five children) all had to sleep downstairs together on the floor, as the beds remained in pieces. And they wonder where my stubborn streak comes from!

And that's my family's experience with an experiment in social engineering. For them the rural idyll just didn't work out but, hats off to granddad, for giving it a go. Who knows, if they'd stayed, they might have bumped into the young Miss Roberts who became Margaret Thatcher? Mmmm, maybe going back to South Wales was the better choice. 

 

A visit to Wells, not Well's or Wells'

A night away in Somerset took us to Wells for a visit. A delightful place with a very active local produce market next to the cathedral and a rather cavalier attitude to the English language. Read on and share my dismay.

As ever the façade of the cathedral was a tribute to the mediaeval stone carvers responsible for the statues and figurines.

We should have been alerted to all not being well when we heard the Town Crier shout "Oyez, oyez, welcome to Somerset's most apostrophe challenged town'. What could he mean, we thought?

This one's OK. Good old Barnado's.

And this one's acceptable. A bald statement of fact.

And then we came across this.

Was it the nose of many Parsons?

Or just the one?

And the above example was just the tip of the iceberg. A stroll down the High Street gave us Greggs (rather than Gregg's), Lloyds (rather than Lloyd's), The Kings Head, The Queens Head and so on and on...Wells Festival of Literature? More like the Wells Festival of Illiteracy. Harumph.

Daymer Bay to Rumps Point and return

And what a day to pick for a walk along a stretch of the Cornish Coast! Bright sunshine but not too hot, blue skies, calm conditions and good company. It doesn't get any better than this. Actually it could because Mrs P wasn't able to be there.

Just under 7 miles, starting at Daymer Bay and finishing on Rumps Point, before pretty much tracing our outward route back. Another one to do again.

The route - out and back with the sea to the side almost all the way. A few ups and downs but nothing too strenuous.

The bay at Polzeath with some good surf.

Surfers on their way for a, mmmm, surf. David Cameron body-boards down here regularly but we didn't see him today. Unless, of course, he was already in the water so we missed him.

Marking the 'Tomb of the unknown Sand Castler' lost with his bucket in 2014.

A Little Egret reflecting on the fishy side of life. A few years ago we'd have been jumping up and down with delight over the novelty of seeing one but now they are quite common.

The sands at Polzeath cover a much bigger area than might seem at first sight from the road (way to the left).

 

There were a lot of kestrels hovering above us. This one stayed for a while but wasn't kind enough to get into the sun so I could get a decent view of its body. But I forgave it for the enjoyment of watching it at such close quarters.

A crabbing boat doing a bit of, mmm, crabbing. Or lobstering, I suppose.

Sun, sea, sand and clouds - looking due west-ish.

I'm sure that the one on the right is David Cameron and the one on the left is Jeremy Corbyn. A bit of boy bonding with body boards? And the one in the background, looking out of his depth, must be Boris Johnson.

One man and his dog.

Getting up close.

I like taking photographs of most things but I would put flowers and insects close to the top of my list of favourite subjects. I like their colour and complexity of form.  In a moment of extravagance (well, it was my birthday and Mrs P is a generous soul), a lens just right for getting up close to small things (and, no, I don't mean grandchildren. I use my 300mm zoom for these) came my way - a Sigma 105mm F2.8 EX DG Macro OS for those who like to know these things.

I gave it a try this afternoon as the sun was shining and I was keen to see what it could do. Unfortunately, apart from some dahlias on their last legs and a single Bumble Bee foraging for whatever nectar remained, there were few suitable subjects around. But this didn't prevent me from taking a few encouraging shots. Roll on the warmer days of 2016 when it should come into its own. Thank you, Mrs P.

Going around in circles - at speed

It was Grandson #1's 5th birthday recently and, as a treat, the family spent an evening at the Plymouth Speedway. A great night was had by all, especially the young man in question.

We (Mrs P Senior and myself - there was another Mrs P there as well but she is Mrs P Junior) had never been to a speedway meeting before so it was all new to us. It's never too late for a new experience, so we can put a tick in the Speedway box. Basically, teams of four riders go around the track as fast as they can, strewing grid over everybody daft enough to stand too close to the edge of the track (namely me) and finishing after 4 laps. And this goes on and on until the end of the allotted laps or one of the riders gives up because of terminal dizziness.

A good opportunity for some colourful photographs and a good opportunity to discover how hard it is to get a decent image of a fast moving object - even with fast shutter speed and an impressive panning technique (who was impressed? Me, that's who).

It's not all about going around in circles. We were entertained by some loony dressed like a red something or other who turned out to be the Plymouth Devils' mascot.

And if that wasn't exciting enough, we could watch a tractor levelling the track surface.

And, as a bonus, we had the man with the magic rake to look at as well. Be still, my beating heart.

Headshots in Glasgow

To Glasgow for a weekend with friends and today we took a hop-on-hop-off bus tour of the city. We've never visited the city before and we were very pleasantly surprised by what we saw on our way around. The highlight of the day? That's got to be the Kelvingrove Art Museum. Housed in a Victorian sandstone building, it was jam-packed with interesting things to see, of which we had only time to scratch the surface. Reviewing the photographs I took, a definite theme emerged. I wonder what a psychiatrist would say about this? Heads, I win?