Gnarly

This is a favourite tree that I pass often. I don't know what sort of tree it was - it doesn't put out any leaves and may well be dead or completely dormant. 

But what a shape! It's like a work of art.

D'Israeli's dogs

Benjamin D'israeli, arguably Queen Victoria's favourite Prime Minister, had an estate on the outskirts of High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire. Hughenden Manor and the gardens, park and woodlands that surround it, are now owned by the National Trust. The park and woodlands are open for all to use and it's a favourite spot for dog walkers and picnickers in the Summer. 

There's also a beautiful clear chalk stream that runs through it with a pond and a horseshoe-shaped island in the middle. My kids used to sail an inflatable dinghy over to the island when they were young and would happily spend all day there with their mates. Sadly, the drought has left the river bed completely dry, the pond has vanished, and the lush green grass that usually sustains the Hughenden herd (yes, you often have to negotiate cows in the park) is now brown and straw-like. 

Here it is in happier, moister times.

Hughenden Church, incidentally, is the building you see in the opening credits of Gerry Anderson's strangest TV series - The Secret Service.

However, what I want to focus on today can be found at the very top of the hill, where the manor stands. If you walk into the woods you come across a tiny graveyard. This is where D'Israeli's pet dogs were buried.

I find it a bit odd that he chose to lay his pets to rest in such a public place (and, sure enough, one headstone was broken off recently - you can see the repair). 

But then, I guess it wasn't public when D'Israeli lived there and before the National Trust had the place.

It's interesting to see that one was a fox terrier - an uncommon breed today. But it was the dog that sparked some controversy in the world of science writing.

I'll tell you that story tomorow.

Books Worth Reading #6: 'Food for Free' by Richard Mabey

I first started learning to forage as a young lad. My granddad and my dad would show me various hedgerow nibbles that helped to stem my hunger pains during long rabbit and pigeon shoots. I then I moved to London from Cornwall and put such things aside for a while. 

But then, some 30 years ago I moved out to Buckinghamshire and I've since moved even further into the countryside. And around 15 years ago I got bitten by the foraging bug all over again and treated myself to Richard Mabey's classic, Food for Free.

It's been my 'Bible' ever since and, even though I've since bought other books on the subject, this one is still my favourite. 

I then discovered there was a pocket edition, I bought it at once and it's travelled everywhere with me for over a decade.

It's such a useful little book. For a start it will tell you that those blackberries are safe and delicious while the enticing looking red berries above - Bittersweet Nightshade - are best left alone. Although it's one of the less poisonous members of the Solanaceae family, it will make you feel quite ill. That said, instances of poisoning in humans are rare on account of the fruit's intensely bitter taste. 

But if you had the book you wouldn't even try it!

Dwile Flonking

Britain has a long history of inventing mad and occasionally dangerous 'folk sports'. From the lunacy of the Haxey Hood, to Cheese Rolling on Cooper's Hill, to River Football in Bourton-On-The Water (which took place yesterday), we Brits love a moment of sporting madness now and again.

   

Dwile Flonking is an East Anglian 'sport' which some people would have you believe is centuries old. In fact, it's most likely less than a century old, but it may be a revival of some old harvest ritual. 

The modern game is believed to have been created in the 1960s by rival printing apprentices at Clowes of Beccles and Clays of Bungay (coincidentally, Clays is where my last four books were printed!). 

At Midday the two teams assemble - usually in a pub garden - and dressed as yokels. The referee, or Jobanowl, decides which team goes first by throwing up a sugar beet. The teams then become either Flonkers or Girters. 

Girters form a circle by holding hands and they surround the first Flonker in to 'bat'. The Flonker holds a short pole called a Driveller and uses it to pick up the Dwile - a beer-soaked bar towel - from a chamber pot full of beer that stands in the centre of the circle. Upon the command of 'Here y'go t'gither!' the Girters start to dance around clockwise while the Flonker goes anti-clockwise around the chamber pot and attempts to 'Flonk' the Dwile at one of the Girters.

   

A direct hit on a Girter's head is called a Wanton and scores three points. A hit on the body is called a Marther and is worth two points. A leg hit is a Ripper and scores just one point. If the Flonker misses all of the Girters it's called a Swodger. 

The Girters then form a straight line and the outgoing player must down a pint of ale in a quicker time than it takes for the Dwile to be handed down the line of Girters. If they can't do it, they're out and the next Flonker comes in. This continues until the whole team is out. Then the teams swap over. Once everyone has Flonked the winning team is decided on points. 

Unsurprisingly, many of the players end up riotously drunk, falls are common and there are occasional casualties as the result of a good hard Wanton. Which is why the sport has been banned on several occasions for violating health and safety regulations. But it continues to persist and, if anything, trying to ban it just makes the British want to play it even more.

   

That says so much about the British character doesn't it? It's why attempts to ban cheese rolling at Cooper's Hill in Gloucestershire have failed (they tried to ban it but people held the race in secret at night with the potential for greater injuries). It's why we go Bog Snorkelling in Llanwrtyd Wells. It's why Shin Kicking still takes place in Lancashire, and Cornish Hurling in St Ives and St Columb Major - a sport that has only one rule: No Weapons. 

But we should embrace these silly sports because, in a strange way, they led to the modern Olympics.

The Cotswold Olympicks were first held in 1612 on Dover's Hill, Chipping Camden, and survived until 1652 when the Puritans shut it down. It featured Shin-Kicking, Tug Of War, Sack Races, Sheaf Throwing (lobbing a hay bale as far as you can with a pitchfork), climbing a greasy pole, Morris Dancing and Back Swording (or 'Cudgel Play) in which contestants keep hitting each other until one is unconscious. The Olympicks returned after the Restoration and continued for another 200 years before being, once again, shut down by the authorities. But, by then, the event had inspired Dr William Penny Brookes to create the Wenlock Games at Much Wenlock, Shropshire in 1850. And it is these games that directly inspired the creation of the modern Olympics in 1896. 

Which is why, for the 2012 London Olympics, the mascots were called Wenlock and Mandeville (the latter named after Stoke Mandeville Hospital in Buckinghamshire where the Paralympics were created). 

So there you go. The British may like a daft sport or two but who knows where a silly idea might take you? 

It might take you all the way to a gold medal.

World Gravy Wrestling Championships

After an enforced Covid break of two years the World Gravy Wrestling Championships return today in Stacksteads, Lancashire, at the Rose 'n' Bowl pub.

 

Contestants must wrestle in gravy for two minutes whilst being scored for audience applause, various different moves, and often while in fancy dress. There are male and female competitors battling it out and all funds raised by the day go to the East Lancs Hospice.

Some days I am so proud to be British. Despite what the news may try to tell us, we're still the most generous, eccentric and deliciously bonkers people on the planet. 

The event website.

The tragedy of the Pals' Battalions

Every town in the UK has a war memorial to list the names of those who lost their lives during the two great wars. I came across this one a couple of years ago in the small Cornish village of Tregony, near Truro,  and it struck me as particularly tragic. 

Just read the list of names. 

What we see here is undoubtedly evidence of a Pals' Battalion.

Pals' Battalions were a uniquely British phenomenon. Britain was the only major power not to begin the First World War with a mass conscripted army and it quickly became clear that the existing army was not large enough for a global conflict. Recruiters began to visit towns and villages and, in a wave of patriotic fervour, thousands of men volunteered for service. 

The War Office quickly realised that many more men would enlist if they could serve alongside their friends, relatives and workmates. And so, on the 21st August 1914, the first Pals' Battalion began to be raised from the stockbrokers of the City of London. In a matter of days 1,600 men had joined what became the 10th Battalion, Royal Fusiliers. Lord Derby first coined the phrase 'battalion of pals' and recruited enough men to form three battalions of the King's (Liverpool) Regiment in only a week. The phenomenon soon spread around the country.

The first Pals' Battalions began to arrive on the Western Front in mid-1915. Most were not to see their first major action until the Battle of the Somme which began on the 1st July 1916. Many of the battalions sustained heavy losses. The men who all joined together died together. 

Tregony is a small town with a population of around 760 (2020 figures). Chances are the population was even smaller when the First World War broke out. You can therefore imagine the impact of losing so many men - many from the same families.

With the introduction of conscription in 1916, the close-knit nature of the Pals' Battalions was never to be replicated.

But, by then, the damage had been done.

Hornbeam, skittles and floppers

When lockdown began I set myself a pretty daunting task. I have a fairly extensive knowledge of native UK plants and animals but there was definite room for improvement. So I set myself some goals, one of which was to be able to identify every kind of tree I might come across in the countryside. 

A year or so later and I know a lot more evergreens (there are so many and all so similar!). I'm also pretty close to completing on the deciduous trees and the most recent 'tick' on my list is the Hornbeam (Carpinus betulus).

I've been regularly walking past a handful of them without realising because they're in among some Beech trees. It was only the fact that there's a lot of Beech mast (the hairy looking cases of the Beech nuts) at the moment that the Hornbeams suddenly stood out. And it's easy to see how I could have misidentified the trees. Their leaves are very similar. However, Beech leaves are more oval and have wavy edges while the Hornbeam leaf is sawtoothed. Here's some beech for comparison.

Mature Hornbeams can reach a height of 100 feet and live for more than 300 years. They are monoecious, meaning male and female catkins are found on the same tree. After pollination by wind, the female catkins develop into papery, green winged fruits, known as samaras. 

Hornbeam is notable for the density and hardness of its wood - the hardest of any European tree, in fact. The Romans used it build their chariots and our ancestors used it to make yokes to join a team of ploughing oxen together. The wooden ‘beam’ would have been attached to their horns which may have contributed to the tree’s name. Nowadays, the wood is mainly used for furniture, flooring and wood turning, but traditionally it was used for butchers' blocks, piano hammers, wood screws, coach wheels and cogs for windmills and water mills because it doesn't easily split. 

Another use was to make pub skittles. 

There was a time when many pubs had skittle alleys and the way the game was played varied from county to county, town to town and even pub to pub. Most commonly the game employs nine hornbeam pins and a ball or 'cheese' - a round, flattened wooden discus - made of lignum vitae. The pins all have names. There's the Front or King Pin, also known as a Bobby. There's the Copper - the pin on the extreme left or right of the frame - and the Birdie, also known in some places as Fat Annie (it's the pin in the very middle of the frame). They come in different shapes too. The Gloucester style is like a tall thin barrel, while the Welsh style is narrow and has a ball on top like a fat dolly clothes peg. Then there's the Bristol style which is thinner at the top and bottom with a fatter middle (you can see all of them on the excellent Trad Games website). 

There are also playing styles. I'm particularly taken by the 'flopper' in which the player throws himself or herself into the shot. You can see it in action here on this clip from an old Jack Hargreaves show:

     

I quite like this video about preserving London Skittles too:

     

Isn't it amazing where a leaf can take you?

I wonder where they are now?

One has a chat show in America and a huge collection of cars.

The other is fronting Simply Red.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, messages carved into trees are called arborglyphs or dendroglyphs. 

Every day is a school day!

Common Wood, Penn, Buckinghamshire.

Summer Palette

A couple of years ago I posted some pictures to Facebook of Autumn colours captured on camera.

We're now officially an urban species. In 2014 the United Nations reported than more than 50% of humans currently live in urban areas and more than 40 countries are at least 80% urbanised. It's projected that the total will reach 66% - two-thirds - by 2050. I doubt I'll still be here by then. But every year I do get to spend on this beautiful planet I will make the most of.  

Today as I was out walking I couldn't help noticing the beautiful colours of late Summer. So many people just walk past without noticing. But not me.

Life is too short. 

Arch Rivals

My blogpost yesterday about natural arches reminded me of some local unnatural arches and a fascinating piece of Buckinghamshire history.

Back in 1999 I took part in a writing competition organised by the now defunct booksellers Ottakar's. They were asking people to submit short essays and features about the towns in which they lived. The company would then sponsor a Local History Series of books. It was a great idea. And my submission for the High Wycombe volume made the cut.

My piece was called Arch Rivals and told the story of the various 'chair arches' erected in Wycombe throughout the years. Here's the article which will explain what I'm talking about (and it was written 22 years ago - mention of  'future prosperity' and petrol prices was not intentionally ironic!).

Arch Rivals 

'It's not healthy you know. Obsession, that is. Especially when it centres on inanimate objects.' 

Jake eyed the Millennium Arch with something like suspicion. 

‘What are you on about?' I asked. 

'Football, Star Trek. They're obsessions that I can sort-of understand', he said, raising a Spock-like eyebrow. It echoed the shape of the ten metre high arch above us. ‘But chairs? That's just weird.' 

'I'm not with you', I said. 

Jake pointed up at the structure above us; a skeleton of scaffolding under a skin of green boards and tarpaulins and supported on two sturdy legs. The legs were trousered with the bright, optimistic paintings of local students although some idiot had vandalised two of the pictures and torn off a third. Above the paintings were long 'shelves' upon which stood a variety of chairs and sofas: recliners and Windsors, cane-seated chairs,  carvers, armchairs, drawing-room, lounge, library, reading and rocking chairs, garden benches and chaise longues. There were nearly 200 in all. 

'A chair museum? A road called Parker Knoll Way? And now this,' said Jake, laughing. 'I'd call that obsession.' 

‘Not obsession. Tradition', I explained patiently. 'Wycombe has a tradition of building chair arches.’ 

Jake snorted. 

'I just thought you had posh scaffolders round here', he said. 'I can just imagine them up there, all yellow hard-hats and bum-cracks, sat in comfortable Chesterfields and Parker Knoll Recliners shouting, "Phwoooaarr!" at the ladies below.' 

'Har har', I said sarcastically. 

'I don't know', said Jake, shaking his head. ‘Millennium Domes, Millennium Wheels, Millennium Arches. Call me a cynic but what a waste of money! I mean, it's not even as if it is the real Millennium yet, is it?' 

'Ah, that old argument.' 

'It's not an argument. It's basic maths. You can't tick off a period of a thousand years until the end of the thousandth year. The real twenty-first century doesn't start until New Year this year; 2000. Those Whitehall wallies had us celebrating the end of 1,999 years.' 

'I see your point', I conceded. 'But it's ...'

'And how did our government celebrate all that's best in Britain at the end of 1.999 years?' continued Jake. 'With an up-turned wok that cost the British public billions. Billions.' 

'Did you go there? To the Dome?’ I asked. 

‘Me? Not likely', said Jake. 

‘Then how can you criticise?' I said. 'I went and I had a great day out. So did the kids. In fact, everyone I know who went also had a great day out. The Peter Gabriel floor show alone was worth the entrance fee.’ 

‘Yeah, but that still doesn't warrant the cost', said Jake. 'People like me who live way out in the country couldn't afford to go there. What with the rail fares being as high as they are. And petrol isn't exactly cheap either. That's the true vision of Britain in the year 2000; an attraction that no-one can afford to visit. Is that why you lot built this arch? As a cut-price version of the Dome? To give the locals something to look at as they couldn't get to the Greenwich white elephant?’ 

I took a deep breath. Jake had ruffled my feathers but I didn't want this to sound like a history lecture.

‘The idea behind the Dome was, as you say, to celebrate Britain at the end of the 1900s but, sadly, the press got their claws out for it from Day One,' I said. 'The whole project was used as a metaphor for the Government's performance. And the amount of lottery money that went in didn't help public opinion either. This arch is different. This was built by the people of Wycombe for the people of Wycombe. It's a way of celebrating the past, while looking forward to future prosperity.' 

I paused to wave at the arch above. 

'This borough was once the furniture capital of England. All the big manufacturers were based here, like Ercol and Parker Knoll. We were particularly famous for chair making. Chairs were the town's main export. So, when Queen Victoria paid a visit to Disraeli in 1877... you did know that Benjamin Disraeli lived in Wycombe? At Hughenden Manor?’ 

'I didn't, but go on.' 

‘Well, to mark the occasion the council came up with the idea of building an arch made of chairs. So they got one of their people - a guy with the brilliant name of Walter Skull - to organise it through the Chair Manufacturers' Association. The arch even included the State chair of the mayor.'

‘But why an arch?' asked Jake. 

‘Some reckon it's a tradition that started after Marble Arch and the Arc de Triomphe were built,' I said. ‘I’ve heard of places making arches from things like flowers, garden tools and motorbikes. It depends on what the local area is famous for, I suppose.' 

'Good job they didn't build a Millennium Arch in Soho then', said Jake. 

'Anyway, the arch was built and, apparently, Queen Vie was so impressed that she stopped the coach to have a closer look at it. That's what started the fad for chair arches. There have been about three more, I think. I know the biggest one was for the visit of the Prince of Wales in 1884. That had about 400 chairs. And there was definitely one in 1962 for the visit of the Oueen.’ 

'And you say that you're not obsessed?' said Jake. 'How do you remember these things?' 

'I don't', I said with a smile. 'It's written on that poster just behind you. 

Jake turned and saw the information sheet. 'Ah. You cheated.' 

'I may be interested in local history but I don't own an anorak yet', I said. 

‘Yeah, well. I guess it is nice to see a town taking pride in its past. A lot of places just don't bother any more.' 

'There's a lot of history here that deserves to be celebrated', I said. 'During the war the Wycombe furniture makers used their skills to build the wooden frames for the Mosquito aircraft. The Spitfire and Hurricane and the Lancaster bomber get all the press but the Mosquito was the workhorse of the RAF and it has been called the most versatile warplane ever built. With its light wooden frame it was one of the fastest operational aircraft in the world. And it was designed by Sir Geoffrey de Havilland - a local man. He also designed the Comet, the world's first commercial jet airliner.'

'I guess that is something to be proud of.'

'And while the big furniture manufacturers may have moved on or disappeared, we still have some of the best bespoke cabinet makers in the world around here. And local schools and colleges produce a large number of brilliant new designers every year. So, still think we're obsessed with chairs?' 

‘Yeah, okay. If places can have hat museums and toy museums, I guess that Wycombe can have a chair museum and a chair arch.' 

''If you like, we can take a walk up to the museum,' I said. 'It's only five minutes away.' 

‘Not really my bag', said Jake. 'Although I'm quite happy to go and study the barstools in The Antelope.’

_________________________________

The High Wycombe Millennium Chair Arch was on view from 17th May – 31st May 2000 outside the Guildhall in High Wycombe.

A more recent arch - though without chairs - was put up in 2013-2014 as part of the Mayor's Charity Appeal that year.