Views from the bike shed

Collections 17 - end of day fish

2012-02-08T13:27:00.006Z

My grandmother used to display glass fish in a cocktail cabinet; next to frosted whiskey glasses and souvenirs from seaside holidays. There were figurines from Spain (though she'd never been) and a resin cast of two hands holding a book inscribed with a poem titled Mother. At the bottom of the cabinet were two drawers of assorted 'treasures' - I remember a half packet of cigarettes marked with the date she'd smoked her last.

I adored my paternal grandparents. My grandfather was blind and crippled with arthritis; my grandmother stricken with 'nerves' and, until she gave up, constantly puffing on Embassy Virginia. They'd lived through two wars, the great depression, and even seen Newcastle win the FA Cup: a generation gap that's almost unknown today. But for all they were of a different era, they could sense enough of our world to know things weren't right at home. As a teenager I'd cycle to their house on a Saturday - or midweek in the holidays - and they'd be complicit in the secret when I visited with my father on Sunday mornings.

So my Grandparents' house was a place of refuge - emotionally and sometimes physically. And you know, I think that's why I like glass fish - they remind me of that cocktail cabinet, and how important that house was to my childhood. I can't think of another reason. For glass fish are rather ugly, most of them of the same designs; they're seldom worth more than a tenner and sell at car boots for pence.

Yet I have boxes of them. To be honest, most of them are in the loft and it's sometime since I payed for any or was given one as a gift. People used to do that when we first bought our cottage in Wales; that was the height of my fish collecting phase. And it's probably not coincidental that my grandfather used to say he dreamed of living in a cottage, of being close to nature - even if he did see it in idealised terms and would have quickly missed his Wallsend council house. Our cottage had a Fifties feel to it then, so I suppose the fish fitted the decor too.

But there's another connection - and I've never told anyone this - I once broke one of my grandmother's fishes. As I waited for a belt round the ear she picked up the shards, rearranged the figurines and gave me a hug - never mind she said, there's more treasures in the drawers. That behaviour would be nothing special now; but at the time it was to me astonishing, and I remember lying awake and thinking how I might find her a replacement.

I never did do that. Though I still have two fish on display in my cottage. They're made of the speckled glass that is known as 'end of day', after the practice of using up the last of the molten pot to create unusual objects at the end of a shift. Later it became a general term for designs that were flecked with colour, the result of rolling glass specks into a clear mixture. I suppose I like the idea that many of these are improvised pieces; I like too their unpretentiousness and to some extent the way they border on kitsch.

I doubt I'll collect any more fish - and frankly the ones in the loft ought to be ebayed for charity. But I'll always keep a few. And just this week I took one down, to place in a bookcase, next to some worthless yet priceless treasures of my own.

Straws in the wind

2012-01-29T16:26:00.002Z

Straw and a bluebell by Dylan

I've been troubled this last week, my thoughts not connecting in the usual way; loose strands I want to spin together, but can't quite find the means. They hint at issues we'd rather forget, or at least not examine too closely, preferring cliche to analysis, and if we must have latter, then let it be at a remove.

You get what you pay for, began a conversation I overheard in the gym. Aye, came the reply, but you have to pay for what you get. I was on the rowing machine and couldn't see who was talking. The woman who'd spoken first and sounded younger than I think she must have been, said, they'll pay us back when they're settled, to which her other half grunted, we'll be dead by then. I rowed faster to my target of 2,000 meters - by the time I reached it, they'd gone.

On Tuesday it was reported that the UK had one trillion pounds of debt - more than sixteen thousand for every person. And that's evidently not a true reflection, because it omits the mortgages and credit cards and pension black holes and corporate debts and unfunded future commitments that we're all going to pay for - and some, like my children's generation, a lot more than others.

That evening I’m discussing family finances with my parents in law. I say the idea of my boys leaving university owing forty thousand pounds appals me. Partly I fear for their future, but I’m horrified too at the message it sends about debt as a norm.

On Wednesday Bill Gates says he doesn't pay enough tax. I'm sceptical of this mantra, wondering why those who chant it don't simply write a check to their local hospital. To be fair, Mr Gates has endowed thirty billion dollars to eradicate polio and other killer diseases. Back at the gym I watch the British TV awards on the overhead screens, uneasy with the juxtaposition of jungle celebrities followed by a short clip reminding us that one million children die every year of malaria.

I come home and they're discussing the Euro-crisis on Newsnight. I find myself nodding and tutting as if I understood the complexities of global capital, and think suddenly of Dylan who after listening to Just William had earlier asked me what lugubrious meant, and the meaning of utter vacancy. Jeremy Paxman probes an expert on why the Chinese won't bail us out. She replies: because their average incomes are one tenth of ours - maybe they think we could cut back.

The comment brought back memories. When I was twenty years old I took what I regard as the only significant debt of my life - I borrowed three hundred pounds from my mother to pay the deposit on a flat. It was equivalent to a month's wages after outgoings and I repaid it in six weeks, preferring to eat soup and rice than purchase non-essentials while in hock. No doubt there was some deeper psychology going on there - but the diet did me no harm and in many ways it has shaped my 'appetite' since.

Next day, there's an article in the Times confirming we remain the world's sixth largest economy. I wonder why we need any debt, why no politician is suggesting we remove it over, say, a fifteen-year period. In the same edition there are objections to the proposed benefit cuts, to any prospect of scaling back on the NHS, to the unfairness of this or that, the impact on the arts. Overseas aid is a suggested target for reductions.

The philosopher Karl Popper described democracy as the least worst of all the alternatives. He lamented its inefficiency, its disproportionate focus on the immediate and selfish desires of an electorate - it's inability, as it were, to ever eat rice and soup. Every politician I've met has confirmed my sense that he's correct in this.

Back in my study, I'm confronted by my own contradictions. There’s a letter from our MP responding to my dismay over the increase in student fees. Next to it is another from Medecine Sans Frontier that I’m yet to open – I’m no Bill Gates but my donations are paltry compared to my needs and income.

Is it possible to be too concerned I wonder? Someone told me recently that his partner is so worried about the state of the world that she can lose sight of more immediate ills. It damages those she’s closest too, he said.

Friday, driving into North Wales there are two buzzards, circling above a wood by the Berwyn Mountains. In the mode of that dreadful pseudo-science they call bio-mimicry, I philosophise on nature not doing debt – though it can show altruism, even collective responsibility. Then I notice one bird has a carcass in its talons; the second mobs it and a fight ensues - I’m reminded that nature doesn’t do ethics or charity either.

The rain picks up and the buzzards are lost behind a swish of my wipers. I press on, the thoughts still swirling, unsure if the clouds are lifting or descending. At the farm in Llangynog there are straws in the wind.

Writing our own success.

2012-01-16T22:43:00.006Z

Sketchbooks - perhaps the ultimate home-books?

This post was inspired by the success of my friend and fellow blogger Zoe, who was recently shortlisted for the Times / Chicken House children's fiction competition. Last week, an exert from her novel, The Tarney Scalp, was published in the Times online. The eventual winner will receive a worldwide publishing contract, a substantial advance on royalties and representation by a literary agent.

That sort of prize is an aspiring writers dream. And with over 2000 entries, reaching the final stages of the competition is an achievement in itself. If there's any justice the shortlisted candidates will also be picked up by agents and publishers. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for Zoe, because a win on that scale needs a little luck as well as talent.

But talking to her about the competition got me thinking about the dangers of writers defining success too narrowly. I don't know if one in two thousand is the usual ratio of novels making the grade, but I'd bet it's not far off. Okay, so a lot of those will be trash, but anyone who mixes with committed writers will be aware of the angst, and at times despair, of those seeking a publisher.

Economists would say it's a question of supply and demand. They might concede an inefficiency in the way the market identifies talent, but I doubt they'd offer an alternative. For economic analysis is bound by the constraints of the publishing model - take away the traditional values and what basis do they have for measuring success? Maybe that's why predictions about the growth of the Internet and e-books have been so amiss.

I'm not suggesting we lay any blame at publisher's doors - writers often gripe at the process, but it's not them stumping up the money for production and promotion. Rather, I'd advocate we should be more open minded about what constitutes success. If it's ultimately about reaching readers, then there are lots of other ways to achieve that - and you'll not be surprised that blogs are high on my list.

If you're reading this and thinking 'yeah yeah, but real books are better,' then I'd agree for some formats that's correct (novels especially) - but if you consider most poetry books do well to sell a few hundred copies, you might see my point differently. I know blogs which have that readership daily. I know too of blogs writers who have gone on to write for websites, magazines, newspapers and ultimately, yes books.

Print on demand and e-books have also made self-publishing a cheaper option - and less of a 'vanity' than was considered a few years ago. It is significant to me that when I was a painter I never met an artist who looked down on someone who organised their own show - and yet with writers, it seems that anything less than a fully funded contract from Harper Collins (or Chicken House) can be sneered at. This exaggerates of course, but writers have not always helped there own cause here.

I'm also a great fan of home books. My father in law has written (by hand) a ten year diary of his visits to Pembrokeshire, complete with sketches, cartoons, funny anecdotes, lists of oddities, quizzes... We love it, and it will no doubt be a family heirloom for generations. I have printed my blog for much the same reason, and it's surprising how may guests will pick it up and say they wish they'd written or collated an equivalent.

Pondering all this reminded me of the time I was involved with Welsh Canoe Association. The Sports Council when administering its annual grants, would always ask for evidence of success - and I would point to the thousands of people participating in the sport. That's not what we we mean they would say - we need to see Olympic and Commonwealth medals. When, one year, I asked 'why' they wanted these medals, they became a little flummoxed - until eventually one of the panel said 'because it encourages people to particip...' Aware of the circularity of this argument he tailed off under the glare of his Chairman.

To be fair Sports Council gave us the grant we'd asked for - but I like to think that I helped them see success a little differently. For if we define it only terms of the 'elite' - whether that be in sport or in writing - then frankly, most of us, are setting ourselves up to fail.

January makeovers... with a pinch of Aristotle

2012-01-07T11:13:00.006Z

Cake - one of the nicest presents I received last year - but not in January.

There's an often quoted fact in my industry that December is the best selling month for food magazines and January the worst. You'll not be surprised that the trend is reversed for slimming titles. Television has its equivalent: celebrity chefs make way for the Greatest Loser and adverts for Christmas delights are replaced by weight-watchers and nicotine patches. We've come to expect this - because of course January is a time for resolutions and makeovers.

I'm no different - each year I jot down a few positive goals and do my best to achieve them. Last year I wanted to complete my book, finish my writing degree and not waste energy on crap TV, negative people or conversations I've heard a hundred times before. I did okay, but there's still work to do. I have a similar list this year.

And typically that involves getting a little fitter. I say typically because when I asked around the office, everyone said they wanted to lose weight and/or do more exercise. This week at the gym there was the usual influx of newcomers carrying programme cards or accompanied by a personal trainer. Again, I'm no different - I've spent more time on the rowing machine since Christmas than I did the entire autumn.

It's hardly an insight to say that we have an obsession with our looks - and weight in particular. The idea of the 'perfect body' as a prerequisite of happiness is ever more ingrained in our subconscious, at times insidiously so. Peddling away at the gym I watched a ghoulish documentary about a 72 stone woman - but more disturbing by far was another concerning a child of six who's been diagnosed with anorexia.

In my discussion with friends and colleagues I've heard three themes to our resolutions - weight and fitness (including less drinking and smoking), debt (less of) and travel (more of). On the basis of my straw poll, it seems our idea of the good life is being stick thin, mortgage free, and able to holiday at will.

Put like that it doesn't sound too bad - and let's not get pompous, most of us envy those in that position - but it's interesting that not a single person I spoke too said they want to read more, even those given Kindles for Christmas! Nor did anyone say they wanted to go to the theatre, get less angry, have more courage, help others, or make a difference. Aristotle who believed the good life lay in demonstrating virtue would be turning in his grave. David Cameron's Big Society didn't get a look in.

The funniest resolution I heard was someone who said they wanted to stop picking their nose in public. And the saddest (to return to my theme of an obsession with makeovers) was when one of my fittest friends claimed they needed to train harder and lose half a stone - for what? for whom? I need to be careful though - for my own list was equally self centred in its way.

But perhaps this is just the stuff of New Year resolutions, and by the time Spring arrives we'll all see things in better perspective. This week I began the planning for my company's Community Programme - and looking back over last year I was reminded of the hundreds of colleagues who did something special - for others as well as themselves. In some cases that was genuinely life changing (one couple found love on a bike ride!) in others it was less dramatic, but a highlight of their year nonetheless. When the narcissism of January fades I've no doubt there'll be new people coming forward - and hopefully (me included) we'll remind ourselves that there's more to a good life than the magazines and TV would have us believe.

Nablopomo and survival of the (not very) fittest

2011-11-30T19:23:00.003Z

Dyrham Park, November

Is it really the end of Nablopomo? This is the third year I've completed the challenge to blog every day in November and the month seems to get shorter each time. They say a sign of ageing is that time passes more quickly - it certainly doesn't feel like a year since last December.

My theme, loosely interpreted, was nature and landscape. I'm not sure that helped with the quality of the output, but I at least tried to show that nature writing can go beyond mere description. Many of the posts placed me (or you as a reader) within the story, emphasising the human aspect over hard science or detailed observations. Writing this way has become instinctive, but if I were to analyse it, I'd say it's an attempt to reflect how we respond to the natural world.

Last Sunday I went walking in the Cotswolds with Jane and some friends. We saw a hawk - a peregrine, I'm sure - hunting over a clearing on the wooded ridge. And my immediate reaction was to run over for a better view, leaving the path and my rucksack behind. For a minute or so I was captivated by it's rise and fall on the ridge, the way it held it's tail, the shape of it's wings, the anticipation that at any moment it would strike. I didn't spend ages looking it up in a guide, in fact I only realised it had been a peregrine when that evening I checked what we'd seen against the options. The point I'm clumsily making is that it is the response to the bird that interests and excites me most and I suppose that is what I've tried to write about.

But I'm feeling tired now and not a little 'natured out'. Earlier this week I was saying to my father in law that writing reflects a part of me - but not all of me. It is a mistake, I said, to conflate life writing writing with autobiography. I have never yet met a writer who is not more complex, and often more flawed, than their work might suggest. I am no different - I have an interest in nature and art and philosophy but I'm far from some aesthete who wouldn't contemplate flopping in front of the TV. For the next few weeks I think that's what I'm going to do - and maybe hit the gym as well, because thirty days staring at a screen is not great for the heart rate.

Talking of fitness, I noticed there were quite a few bloggers who didn't stand the pace. Of those who came through, my friends Zoe (mind and language) and Michelle (veg plotting) both gave me encouragement, and wrote superbly throughout. My thanks to them and to everyone who commented - it always makes a difference. My apologies if I didn't always return the compliment - just too much to do and not enough November.

So that's all from my nablopomo offerings - I hope you enjoyed them and they stirred a few thoughts. No doubt next year's challenge will come round sooner than I expect, which will just go to prove that I really am getting old.

Cwm Idwal

2011-11-29T01:00:00.012Z

If I was forced to pick a single place that meant more to me than any other, Cwm Idwal would be a high contender. It is in the Ogwen Valley, a few hundred feet above the main road to Bethesda, on the path to Twll Du, the Devil's Cauldron and Glydyr Fawr mountain. The Cwm is a hanging valley, glacial in origin and now a protected site of natural interest with particularly rare plants including the Snowdon Lilly

It is also of interest to mountaineers - the Idwal Slabs have provided an introduction to thousands of novice climbers and the surrounding cliffs are home to many test pieces, including the aptly named Suicide Wall. Years ago I climbed these routes and can still picture the individual moves, the precarious belays and the long loose descent into the gully to the side of the rocks.

I remember the day we found a rose wedged in a crack, with a note from a girl whose boyfriend who had died in the Himalayas. It made Jane cry. We were there to go climbing but came back despite the sunshine - somehow, it didn't seem right. And I remember too, the afternoon of our wedding day, when we walked to the Cwm in pouring rain and held each other on the rock where we'd kissed three years previous, and known it was more than an office romance.

We've been back many times since - the photos in this post were taken in September 2002, on our anniversary as it happens. The other year we took our boys and stood on the same rocks as they turned away in embarrassment - yukeee they said!

That's teenagers for you. But then one day they will probably be an old romantic just like their father. And if they are ever inclined to kiss a girl in a magical place, then Cwm Idwal will still be there, waiting and as wonderful as ever.

Collections 16 - Wayside and Woodland

2011-11-28T20:57:00.002Z

The inside the cover of my copy of The Moths of the British Isles - Volume One is an inscription which reads: A small memento for a great achievement. To Mark, August 77 - Mother. I could write a book about the subtleties contained in that sentence but for now let's just agree it was strange present for a sixteen year old boy who'd recently passed his O-levels. Even stranger is that I requested it.

My copy of Volume Two has a library stamp from my secondary school, which probably means I accidentally on purpose 'forgot' to return it - but then I doubt it was missed. After all there are not many teenagers who care about the classifications of the larentiinae, ennominae and arctiinae families, let alone details of their lifecycle including illustrations of the ova, larval and pupal stages.

But such are the joys of the Wayside and Woodland series - they bridge the gap between hard academic books and more popular guides, satisfying the knowledge cravings of serious nature nerds - be they sixteen or sixty one (which at the time seemed ancient). Until recently many of the series were considered the definitive field guides, and still today the two volume Beetles is the most comprehensive pictorial reference available.

Wayside and Woodland books were published by Warne, who also produced the popular Observer's series that were a ubiquitous feature of Sixties and Seventies households. Much of the content of the Observer's nature titles is taken from their weightier cousins, and in a delicious irony there is now even an Observer's Book of the Wayside and Woodland Series.

The reason of course is that they have become collectable - the rarest titles selling for hundreds of pounds, with value determined by condition, presence of a dust jacket... all that guff. For me, the value lies is in the content and occasionally in the past owners who have left their mark. I have a wonderful copy of Dragonflies that includes the detailed observation records of Lt. Col. Cowan and his correspondence with the book's author Cynthia Longfield (known in entomological circles as Madame Dragonfly).

I also have copies of, Trees, Freshwater Life, Butterflies, Blossoms (3 volumes), Birds (3 volumes) Caterpillars of British Moths (2 volumes) and Butterflies, Animals, Shell Life, The Seas... and my favourite Practical Entomology. I have more than these but not quite a full collection (Bees,Wasps and Ants is missing, as is Flies and Fungi and the elusive and over priced Beetles) not that it matters, I don't covet a full set so much as I like using them.

It's a pity the Wayside series was discontinued after Warne was bought by Penguin. The series had been in print for decades with the more popular titles subsidising obscurer interests and the whole forming a comprehensive guide to British wildlife. I don't think there is a mainstream publisher with an equivalent ambition and commitment today.

Only last week a friend was commenting on how the days of working class lads collecting bird's eggs had long gone - and that whilst that the protection of species is good thing, he sensed that an interest in nature is becoming an increasingly middle class pursuit. I don't know if that is right - it is almost certainly true of nature writing - but if so, the absence of affordable and accessible guides is perhaps a contributor.

Thankfully, there are still many copies of the Wayside and Woodland Series available - and if you're not fussy about first editions and cover jackets there is world of nature that can be enjoyed for only a few pounds. That copy my mother bought me when I was sixteen cost £6.95; you can probably get one on ebay for the same price - and that has to be bargain.

Julian Meredith - the importance of scale

2011-11-27T01:00:00.001Z

All images taken from http://www.julianmeredith.co.uk

Although for many years I was a committed a painter it's been a long time since I saw works that made me want to pick up my brushes. Much of the art in commercial galleries seems little more than fancy decoration, and frankly I've lost interest in looking. My loft is full of paintings that I can't be bothered to hang.

So how refreshing to be metaphorically hit in the solar plexus by the artist Julian Meredith. Giving a talk about his work he said, Reduced scale images are part of the reason why we now ignore images. And I felt that long forgotten rush of adrenaline (yes that's right) as the photographs of his life-size image of a blue whale hit my nervous system.

Meredith's comments about scale are wise. Size is a fundamental quality of any artwork, impacting on its meaning and context, it's ability to connect with our senses. We've become used to paintings and sculpture that reduce our experience - and they do so more than just physically. The other week, I went to the Leonardo exhibition at the National Gallery, possibly the most over-hyped show this century - I don't want to be churlish about his art (oh for a morsel of that talent) but the vast majority of pictures were tiny; even the showpieces could have hung in my hall. Ultimately we 'peered' at the work - mostly over two dozens heads, jostling for a better view.

The whale prints were so large they were made in sections that bordered on the abstract, and as such had an individual quality of that goes beyond the whole. They were woodcuts, and I liked it that he's used an elm that was felled at Alnwick in Northumberland, near where I used to live. The choice of elm - a tree almost entirely lost in the UK - to make an image of one of rarest and most endangered animals seemed especially apposite. So too, that they were hung at the Natural History Museum as a temporary replacement for the fibreglass model that is one of its iconic exhibits.

In fact the prints were quite small for Meredith. On his various residencies he has created sand sculptures, earth works in chalk and stone (he described the Cerne Giant and Uffington White Horse as two of our greatest works of art), including a 400 white whale near Cardiff. His works are so immense that its possible to become fascinated by how he makes them. But as he so rightly pointed out, (he was almost irritatingly insightful) we should be careful about the value we place on process - it is the image that matters.

That said, everyone at the lecture was taken aback by his descriptions of print making directly from fish and swans - dipping their bodies in ink and pressing directly onto paper. In answer to a questioner he explained that one swan might suffice for eight to twelve images - and no, he didn't kill them himself but used donated specimens.

Julian Meredith is the first visual artist in many years to truly spark my imagination. It's curious that I've always been interested in both very small and very large works of art. By the end of my painting 'career' I was working on postcards and pictures that were fifteen feet long - unsellable images that I would sleep beside, so that on waking, they'd fill my eyes. I'd not thought of them in years, but last week I realised I'd soon have some time on my hands...

How lives change

2011-11-26T01:00:00.004Z

This is a photograph of my cottage (the house in the middle) - we don't know exactly when it was taken, but estimate early Twentieth Century, probably some time before 1920. The lady on the right is my elderly neighbour's aunt and I especially like the chap milking the cow in the background, outside what was then a pub.

The lady with the children lived in the house next door. I was told that all fourteen were her's, but looking at the photo and estimating their ages, it seems improbable - though not impossible. My late neighbour Hirwen lived in a cottage that was across the green from where this photograph was taken - he was one of seventeen children.

My cottage has changed little compared to the lives of those who live there. I doubt any in the photograph had ever left Pembrokeshire - yet I commute two hundred miles for weekends. When I bought the place it had minimal electrics, no heating or hot water system, no damp course... the small connecting shed, now a posh extension, had been used as a pig sty.

I was thinking recently about the extent of change in the century before I was born - how unrecognisably different lives became over that time. In the Eighteen Sixties there were no planes, no cars, not even chain driven bicycles - medical treatment was primitive, no antibiotics, no penicillin, no Welfare State, no nuclear bombs...

And then I was wondering how things might look in fifty years time - a hundred after my birth. I doubt the difference will be so marked. There were no personal computers in the Sixties, no DVD's, no wind farms (I promise not to rant) and our knowledge of say quantum physics was not as it is now .. but much of what we take for granted was already there, even the space exploration programme had started. I read somewhere that the most significant advances in medical science had been made by the Fifties .

But as is so often the case, my thoughts were human centric. Because for all our western lifestyles may not alter as fundamentally, the natural world will suffer more devastation than in any equivalent period since the Ice Age. The world's forests will be a fraction of what they were, our seas overfished, many species lost, arctic ice depleted... we know the story.

It isn't all bad - it's easy to romanticise about how life was when looking at sepia photographs. For all it was simpler, less stressful, and more in touch with nature - it was also hard, cold and at times a hungry existence. Ultimately, I'm glad I was born in 1961 not a hundred years previous - I hope my boys feel the same way when they are fifty.

Counting steps

2011-11-25T07:59:00.005Z

Today is the deadline for submitting my manuscript. The book will be called Counting Steps - journeys through fatherhood and landscape, it will be published next year. I've spent the entire week revising, shaping, printing and sorting - there are few new words, I'm fiddling now and I know it - in truth, I want to move on.

I was thinking this week of all those mountaineering stories in which the climbers spend years preparing, weeks ascending and minutes on the summit. That's not only to return safely, it's because they've accomplished what they set out to achieve. Often, they speak of an anti-climax. I remember something of the sort when I kayaked in Asia. The greatest pleasure in those trips was the anticipation of going and the satisfaction afterwards. I hope books are like that too.

Ten years ago I was a painter, turning to writing when my sketchbook filled more with words than pictures. The crafts are different but they have similarities: both require truth, a looking inward as well as out, and a willingness to commit. Elements of my book are uncomfortable, and I'm conscious that some of my wider family may be hurt by what I have to say about my father. I hope they'll see the bigger picture, for ultimately it is a book inspired by joy, about the power of love and landscape; the ability to come through.

Yesterday I drafted the introduction - curious, how we end at the beginning - and I was thinking about the title. Why are you counting steps? I asked Daniel on our first backpacking trip. Is it to know how far we've come? Oh no, he replied, it's in case we have to go back in the dark. I hope that never happens.

Writing is a bittersweet passion. My book is about the people and places I love - and yet I have worked alone, needing silence and space, distance from those I care about most. But it is they who have dominated my thoughts, given me courage and inspiration - without Jane and my boys, the words would have no meaning.

Welsh Bothies

2011-11-24T01:00:00.005Z

Nant Rhys

There are eight mountain bothies in Wales. All but one is maintained by the Mountain Bothies Association, which has care of over 100 across the UK - the majority in Scotland. Bothies are simple shelters, located in wild places, most usually at a distance from other accommodation - typically , they are old farm buildings, shepherds huts, occasionally purpose built emergency shelters like the one on Cheviot.

One of my favourites in Wales is Nant Rhys, about an eight mile walk from Devil's Bridge but accessible by a shorter route if you prefer - it's possible to cycle there too. The old farmhouse has two rooms, each with a wood burning stove, there's some basic sleeping platforms, a few pots and pans, a room upstairs for more to sleep if needed. Then it gets a bit posh - there's a wood store at the back, a tank for washing water (drinking water from the stream) and a long drop earth toilet with perhaps the finest view of any loo I know.

I went there with my son Daniel. I remember us looking at stars in the blackest sky - the area around Nant Rhys has some of the lowest light pollution south of the Highlands. I keep suggesting we return, take Dylan perhaps, but he's not been so keen since girlfriends came on the scene. I reckon he'll be up for trip next year though, especially now he wants to learn to drive - that feels like an excellent bargaining chip!

Jane can't see the attraction - they're dirty and smelly she says, and I'm not sitting on one of those loos! More than that, she's worried an axe-man will murder us in our sleeping bags. In reality there is more chance of being assaulted in the city and exactly the same loos have been installed at Skomer Island, by the Wildlife Trust - somehow they're more acceptable. I'm not suggesting we should disregard safety, and if you're a nervous type I'd not recommend going alone, but there are reasons why volunteers maintain these shelters.

And the chief one, is that they are fabulous places to escape to - to get away from all the stuff we accumulate, to seek freedom in the very opposite of what normally ties us down; to connect with things that are simpler and more profound. For me, half the fun is the getting there, the other half is simply being there.

Bothies are free to use, you don't have to be member of the MBA - all that's asked is that you follow the bothy code and leave it much the same as you found it. You'll need a sleeping bag, a thermal mat, a stove and basic food - don't rely on pans being there - and some sort of lighting, LED's are best and head torches are useful. Personally I like to take some scotch too, but I guess it's not essential.

For years the precise locations were not generally publicised, but the policy changed a few years ago and grid references are available on the MBA's website. In Wales there is one in the Brecon Beacons, four in the Elenydd and three in Snowdonia. For those in the North of England there are ten in the Pennines and Lake District.

If the idea of a bothy is appealing but a bit too basic, you could try the 'five star' version at Claerddu near the Teifi Pools (this bothy is run by a separate trust) - it has a flush loo, gaslighting and even a stove. A step up again is Black Sail Hostel in the Ennerdale Valley, where they serve meals and good beer - it's the nearest thing to an alpine hut in the UK, but obviously it's not free. There are plenty of bunkhouses too.

But there's something special about the real thing. When I was last at Nant Rhys I read a comment in the log book from a chap who went there regularly - he'd written, I love this place. And I thought, enough said.

P.S. If anyone wants more details, then email me.

Black Sail, Lake District

Penrhos Isaf, North Wales

The path from Penros Isaf - only half a mile to the road

Moel Prysgau, Mid Wales

Mad axe man

Fifteen

2011-11-23T01:00:00.007Z

Here's a good car-game for kids that makes a change from, I spy with my little.... Instead, ask them to name fifteen of a chosen category - for example, flowers, or maybe football teams or countries. Nothing too difficult you understand, but not too easy either - you'll be surprised at the results.

The interesting thing about this game is how fifteen works as a target - it's large enough to make their initial blurt not sufficient, but not so great that they've no chance of reaching it. Take 'birds' for example - most youngsters will reel off a few common species and then get stuck at about ten or eleven; eventually, and with a bit of prodding (what did we see in the zoo) they'll remember fifteen. Then it's their turn and they'll ask you for fifteen Pokemon!

Interesting too are the ones that you think are quite simple, but you end up struggling yourself - try, Wild British Mammals for example.

Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy, said my boys a few years ago - there's mouse and fox and rabbit and badger... and rats and deer (good one) - and sheep (sorry they don't count). The way we play, sub-species aren't allowed, so you can't, for example, list three types of mice. But it's still pretty easy isn't it? So far we have six - only nine to go.

What about hares (yes) and cows (not allowed) ... mmmmm....hedgehogs and voles (very good - six to go).. goats? (no)... mole? (excellent, five left). I'll leave you to see if you can complete the list - maybe return to this post later.

It's surprisingly difficult to list fifteen wild british mammals - okay, so there's wild boar that have gone feral in the Forest of Dean, ponies on Dartmoor and cattle at Chillingham - but these aren't truly wild in the way we generally use that term. Add them if you like, but you still have some to go.

You could have squirrel, wild cat, pine marten, polecat, weasel, shrew, stoat and otter. You're at seventeen if you got those. A bat makes eighteen and then your into seals, porpoises, dolphins and whales - and that's about it. There are few more depending on what you allow - mink perhaps; I've seen lists that include walrus.

There are just over sixty individual species generally regarded as breeding in the UK - much lower than Continental Europe and fairly paltry compared to the 5,500 known on earth. We do best with insects but then they're millions of those worldwide and thousands of new ones classified every year. On the other hand I was fascinated to learn recently that New Zealand had no mammals until the arrival of man. But I'm going on too long, this was meant to be about the game.

Try fifteens next time you're stuck in the car - with or without kids - and here's a few more categories to have a go at:

Freshwater fish
Butterflies
Trees
Animal cartoon characters
Seas and oceans (quite hard)
British Cities (or cities north of... try it from Leeds upward )
Wines and spirits
Counties of England
Eighties pop bands

Enough, you get the idea... have fun.

Save Birds Marsh Wood

2011-11-22T01:00:00.002Z

A leaflet has just dropped through my door - it's designed to look as if it came from the council. A community newsletter it says, telling me of an exciting new development of family homes and affordable housing. It has pictures of nearby Birds Marsh Wood, bluebells in spring sunlight - the proposals will improve its ecological value and protect it for continued recreational blah, blah, blah...

And it's all bollocks. Or at least it's not what it purports to be. For the leaflet, carefully worded and printed in council green, is actually from the North Chippenham Consortium - which is actually, Barratt Developments Persimmon Homes and Heron Land Developments - which are profit seeking companies that don't give a stuff about our local environment and think it's acceptable to con us into thinking otherwise.

Birds Marsh, by the way, is a small unspoilt area of mixed woodland, surrounded by fields and for hundreds of years loved by the locals - it's one of those spots that's very ordinariness is what makes it special. It's also a County Wildlife site and has a friends society to help keep it that way.

Which is interesting because the leaflet says they've been consulted - it just omits that the friends object strenuously. It says too that the development proposes a buffer of green open space to protect the wood - what this actually means is that they will stop building just before they reach the trees, reducing the current buffer by more than two thirds. The consortium claims also to be working with Wiltshire Wildlife Trust - strange that there's nothing on their website about this.

What chance do we have to make sensible planning decisions, taking reasonable account of wildlife and the natural environment, when we are faced with blatant propaganda? It's not that the proposed development is entirely without it's merits - we do need to build homes and I'm generally not a NIMBY in outlook. But I massively object to what are effectively lies by omission - the leaflet reeks of deception, of a lack of true care and of all those values that that will happily see our natural assets diminished if it means their own are increased.

The Consortium concludes by saying, We want to hear what you think. You'll not be surprised that from one blogger at least, they're going to get what they wished for - and very loud and clear, it will be too.

The world as it is

2011-11-21T01:00:00.003Z

If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.

For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro the narrow chinks of his cavern.

William Blake.

In yesterday's post about the senses of birds I referred of the limits of our perception. It's not the first time I've mentioned this: recently I wrote of 'our essential separateness... from the world as it really is.' And nor is it a unique insight - Blake's quote above, beat me by 200 years.

But isn't understanding reality only a question of time? Modern science is just three centuries old; given infinite resources, surely we could establish the facts. That's debatable, but for practical purposes it isn't going to happen in the lifetime of our species, never mind our own mortal span. I read the other day there are 125 billion galaxies - getting to know them is going to take more time than we have. And in any event, science alone would never be enough - it's one thing to know a bat uses echo-location, its quite another to actually live that way. Human experience will always be bounded - our eyes, for example, can observe less than one percent of the spectrum of light.

So if empiricism can't cleanse the doors of perception, might we do it conceptually? Unfortunately philosophers were amongst the first to understand the folly of trying. Plato talked of the 'world of Forms', an abstract realm of perfection - in his allegory of the cave he describes our sensory world as shadows of reality. Bertrand Russell's Problems of Philosophy takes a more contemporary route to the same conclusion - when we look at a chair or a table, Russell explains, we experience it from one perspective and at one particular moment, never the whole in a timeless realm.

But is there any way we can get closer to reality, if not actually touch it?

Throughout history there have been - and I'm off on theory of my own here - perhaps three means of trying. The first is spiritual practice - worship and prayer of any kind is ultimately an attempt to reach beyond our situation. The second is hallucinatory experience, often drug induced - and sometimes, as in Shamanism, combined with with spirituality. I know little about either of these subjects, so I'm not going to say more. The third is art.

My tutor once described art as an attempt to connect with a world beyond us. Paul Cezanne said the role of painting was not to copy the object, but to make real our sensation in paint - in making a true response, he was saying, we create our own concrete reality. Leonardo da Vinci certainly believed his paintings were more perfectly real than the subjects he depicted. Similar claims have been made for poetry, music and literature, each of which can extend our perception beyond the five senses. Through art we perhaps don't open the doors of perception, but we can at least glimpse through the keyhole.

Returning to my opening lines, William Blake's life combined all three manners of trying - a divine believer, a visionary mystic, a poet and painter. He was a philosopher of sorts too - and for all I know a scientist - I'd bet he tried a bit of alchemy. His life was a personification of the fine line between genius and insanity. But in the extent of his vision, and in that marvellous quote, he perhaps got closer than most to understanding the world as it really is.

A sense of wonder

2011-11-20T12:07:00.002Z

An underlying theme of the nature symposium I attended last week was a sense of wonder. One speaker introduced the day by reminding us that the word is used in different ways: we wonder about things as in curiosity and enquiry; and we wonder at things, in amazement, awe and disbelief.

Tim Birkhead is a lecturer and scientist who studies avian ecology- he encompassed both these concepts in what to me was the highlight of the meeting. His soon to be published book Bird Sense: What it's like to be a bird explores the extraordinary abilities of birds to perceive the world in ways we can barely imagine.

We've known for a long time that many species can focus at a great distance, picking out detail with a clarity our best lenses can't achieve. We know too that some raptors, Kestrels for instance, can detect the ultra-violet trails of rodents - experiencing what to us would be a 'new' colour, a concept that has fascinated me since I was a child. But to learn that some can also visualise magnetism, left me incredulous.

Birkhead explained that in studying migrating birds, scientists found the presence of magnetite in their beaks and brains; this compound of iron oxides allows them to orientate to the earth's magnetic field, a process known as magnetoception. But more recently they have also discovered that some birds synaptically connect the magnetite to one of their eyes (usually the left one), literally seeing the earth's magnetic fields.

When you think about that, it is just astonishing. It makes our human abilities seem so limited, exposing our perceived 'superiority' as the hubris it is. Consider how long it has taken, what effort and technology we have had to develop, in order to simulate what geese can do without thinking.

There was more to wonder at too. I never knew that Kiwis used their acute sense of smell to locate worms with absolute precision. Or that many owls have one ear at two-o-clock on the dial and the other at seven - and are able to locate prey in total darkness with one degree of accuracy vertical and horizontal. I could go on, but it would only baffle us further.

I was curious too about the wider implications. For here science touches on philosophy, by illustrating just how limited our own perceptions and experiences are. Emmanuel Kant declared we can never know the world as it truly is. Birkhead tacitly acknowledged this, and significantly he talked of how scientific knowledge allows us to 'judge' what it's like to have these senses - that's a very different thing to actually experiencing them.

Scientific knowledge is also limited, and Birkhead left us with some of the more mind bending natural phenomena we're yet to understand - how, for example, do migrating flamingos 'know' when it's rained at their target destinations, only starting their thousand mile journeys when enough has fallen? This and many other questions remain beyond us - a source of wonder in every sense of the word.

The emotional landscape

2011-11-19T19:41:00.004Z

This morning I went to the village of Helpstone, birthplace of John Clare: poet, naturalist, lover of landscape. His grave is in the church yard, his family cottage restored to a museum. I was there for a meeting of writers and artists, but slipped away to look at what's become of the place that had so inspired him.

There's been a surge of interest in Clare, elevating his status from 'the chap who wrote about birds', to that of a more significant poet whose environmental message is about as contemporary as it gets. Clare dismayed at the loss of species as the enclosure act started a process that would change irreparably the landscape he loved.

I'm no expert on Clare, but I was struck by how prescient his message was. The loss of bio-diversity and the broader environmental agenda is universally acknowledged as one of the most important issues facing the world - by comparison, the recent Euro-zone crisis pales into insignificance.

But perhaps less obvious is Clare's emotional connection with the countryside that has become commonplace too. The concept of landscape, as we know it now, was barely conceived at the time he was writing. Yet today, it seems to me, we care deeply for those places that are most familiar and hold personal significance. And there's no objectivity to our passions - there's scarcely a region I've visited where the locals don't claim it be the most beautiful in the country.

I'm no different. The places that matter to me most, and which I regard as most splendid, are those I know best. It's my intimate association with Wales and Northumberland - rather than any objective assessment of their scenery - which shapes my view that they're our finest landscapes. And this emotional connection shows in other ways too. My loathing of windfarms is unashamedly visceral; an instinctive desire to protect our wild spaces from a desecration that I 'feel' almost as a physical pain.

This afternoon I was hurrying home through Leicestershire, not a county I'd put high on my list, despite three years at university there. But as I passed through Uppingham I stopped by a small pub to read the map, and suddenly realised I'd been there many times before - it was on the route I'd cycle to visit my girlfriend in Peterborough. Driving on I thought about those rides, remembered days when my body was strong, felt the gentle ache of nostalgia... And as I did so, the sun came out (or did I just notice it), the views got wider, the trees more golden - and the landscape changed in a way I think John Clare would have deeply understood.

Voices for nature

2011-11-18T01:00:00.001Z

John Clare

For today's post I've had to bend my rules and write in advance. That's because I'm attending a forum called Voices For Nature, a gathering of writers in Stamford, Lincolnshire. It's organised by New Networks for Nature, a voluntary group concerned to promote the diversity in the natural world and to challenge the low priority put upon it politically and economically.

That all sounds a bit worthy, but in essence I support the position. What's more the network brings together writers, scientists, visual artists, musicians, conservationists, academics - and by happy coincidence, some of my very good friends. The guest speakers include Ruth Padel and Richard Hines (remember the film / book Kes) amongst a host of other writers, film makers and polymaths.

I often find I make unexpected connections at events like these. The other day I looked again at the brochure and realised Saturday's programme is dedicated to John Clare with the theme of landscape and loss. John Clare, who suffered from mental illness, once escaped from his asylum, making a five day walk to his home, delirious with hunger and exposure. He arrived not far from Stamford.

I know this because a neighbour in Wales described it to me. He's composing an orchestral score inspired by the journey - a huge enterprise that he works on day and night. We recently went for walk together on the coast path, during which he eloquently described the challenge of creating a musical tension that slows down rather than speeds up.

I had known my neighbour for twelve years but not been aware he composed so seriously, and at such a high level. I don't understand the technicalities of what he's attempting, but I relate to the aims. Our mutual enthusiasms helped the conversation flow: an interest in the arts, in Welsh literature, the history of our village. But what cemented our friendship, I think, is a passion to respond to the natural world - he in music and me in words.

That's not always easy to talk about; it can feel a bit arty and highfalutin, which is why it's pleasant to find people who aren't embarrassed by the idea. So I'm going to enjoy the next few days, meeting old friends and making new connections. I've no idea what or where they might be, but as with nature, that's part of the delight.

A running sky

2011-11-17T01:00:00.001Z

After yesterday's post about phobias, I was talking with my colleague (the one who is frightened of birds), telling her of the starling roost near my house. At least they're at a distance, she said, making those fancy patterns in the sky. So I began to explain that at Plumstone...

She cut me off, couldn't bear to hear. But as you don't share her fears, I thought you might like a short extract from my forthcoming book. It's taken from an essay about the roost and I'm describing why Plumstone is so different to other roosts.

I'll let the words say the rest.

If I describe the starlings to friends the response is always similar. There is mention of their flight, the swirling forms; comparisons to kaleidoscopes, oil on water, even Disney’s Fantasia. It seems we are fascinated by their synchronicity; the apparently random yet tightly choreographed swarming, the swoops and falls and joy and delight of it all.

And most have a story to share. We’re aware of starlings gathering in cities, under piers, on marshes and reed beds; one colleague talked of the flocks she’d seen on the American Plains. Starling roosts are a seasonal staple of television shows like Spring Watch and Countryfile. On the Somerset Levels they are a promoted as a tourist attraction.

Yet when I listen to these reports they don’t resonate. It took me a while to realise why, though the answer should perhaps have been obvious. We tend to view starlings from afar. Indeed any description of the swarming presupposes we are at a remove.

What I so loved about Plumstone was the opposite.

To visit the roost that winter was to be amongst the birds. At Plumstone the starlings fly over your head; on a heavy night they will literally touch your hair. There will be hundreds by your feet, on the wires and fences, more on the barns and hedges – drinking from pools, chattering on perches, flushed skyward by the raptors. There’s a pair of resident goshawks that make their kills above the wooded break; a peregrine once stooped yards from where I stood, barrel rolling to clasp its prey from below.

Then there’s the stream of chatter, and the overpowering stench of guano. Three months of a million plus birds and the copse stinks of sweet lime. If I walked in the trees I could stand under the roost, the sky reduced to starlight by the bursting branches, my boots sticky and my coat peppered with droppings...

Of birds and worms and other beasties

2011-11-16T01:00:00.003Z

My work colleague Kerrie has a fear of birds. Like the dead reincarnate, she described them today, adding that she'd had to turn away from watching Frozen Planet because she couldn't stand the penguins. Those horrible pecking beaks, brrrr... they're evil. We laughed at the ridiculousness of her phobia, but it's real nonetheless.

Jane doesn't like worms, she goes cold at the thought and won't like the picture above. So of course the big boys delight in throwing juicy ones round the garden, while she takes cover in the shed. Meanwhile Dylan dreams up dishes like worm spaghetti, and thinks there's little more amusing than hiding a few in her handbag.

Phobias are common - in the last few days I've had various comments from followers admitting to a dislike of moths, spiders and the like. They differ from rational fears in that we know they're unfounded. For example, I would be scared if I found a tiger in my bedroom - that's rational because it might eat me! But I'm not (irrationally) worried that if I went upstairs now, there'd be one lurking in the ensuite.

Thankfully, I don't suffer from nature terrors - unless you count acute embarrassment at the prospect of dancing in public. I'm wary of horses and cattle, but that's not phobic in the true sense. And I wouldn't want to eat slugs, but again, that's not the same as considering birds to be the dead reincarnate. In fact, I often spend time imagining what small animals would be like if they suddenly grew - as a friend said to me recently, imagine a six foot stoat!

I was about to end this post by asking what your fear or phobia might be. But then I remembered my stroll with Jane last night - we were passing a wooded area of town and she admitted, I wouldn't like to walk here alone. Neither would I, and it put me in mind that the animal I most fear, irrationally or otherwise, is my very own species.

Star party

2011-11-15T01:00:00.005Z

I've written before about my youngest son's lack of interest in the natural world. For six years he's been captivated by trains, more recently his attention turned to Star Wars. Yesterday we were walking in Dyrham Park and a herd of deer sauntered past. Look at those, I shouted, pointing toward a stag with heavy antlers. He slashed his stick-cum-light sabre in the general direction. All dead, he announced, victory for Count Dylan!

Last week, his interest in the inter-galactic fantasy had given me an idea. It was a clear night, there was a full moon and Jupiter was displaying well too. How about a star party? I suggested. That would be fantastic, he replied, adding that he'd bring his blaster!

I used to have star parties with his brothers. They'd wrap up in coats and mufflers, stomping their feet as I set up the scope. And they'd stay outside for hours, becoming quite adept at finding planets, the Pleiades, the Andromeda galaxy or the Orion nebula. Now they're older and have girlfriends and other interests they might not think it so cool. But they remember the basics and that's an excellent grounding for a teenager - the stars being the ultimate way to put things in perspective.

I don't understand the physics of astronomy, and can't properly comprehend the scale of it all. But in my own, very amateur way, I can find my way round the sky; I recognise the constellations and I know what should interest a seven year old boy. Technically, a full moon is not a good time to view, but when you're dealing with kids it's impressions that count. And by using a night sky application I knew that Jupiter's moons would be in line too.

It's astonishing what you can see with a reasonable telescope. Mine is an old Russian refractor that weighs a tonne - I remember the guy who sold it to me saying 'It's good, if a bit agricultural.' He was right, but the light capture is enough to see the red spot on Jupiter, which in my book is pretty damn cool.

Dylan didn't agree. He was impressed that the moon was 240,000 miles away - but then asked, is that as far as Wales? When we got it in the viewfinder and I pointed out the craters, he asked if it was as big as the Millennium Falcon. And on finding Jupiter and showing him its four twinkling satellites, he said, Do you think they're going to attack?

Our party lasted all of five minutes. After glancing again at Jupiter, he drank his milk, scoffed some cookies and wandered inside. I felt a bit deflated. But then you never know what knowledge they're storing away. For tonight when I put him to bed he asked, you know in Star Wars, when they go to the death star... Yes, I replied, feigning interest. Because I was thinking if the moon is far away and Jupiter is ten times further and galaxies are a million times more - then how do they do it? I don't know, I said. But you're getting there slowly, I thought.

Berries, deadly and nice

2011-11-14T07:17:00.002Z

I wish I knew more about berries. I adore jam, of that I'm certain - but other than the obvious, I never know which berries to pick and which might kill you. It's a pity because they seem to be everywhere this year.

In my garden is a sizeable holly, its berries are toxic though I never knew that until today. Not that I've eaten any, but then it wouldn't occur to me to eat rose-hips either, or the berries of hawthorn and mountain ash - all of which, evidently, you can. Wild honeysuckle is fine too - though some care is needed with modified varieties.

For my fiftieth birthday I was given some Keepers Tipple, a combination of whiskey and whinberry, traditionally made from berries picked on the Blorenege near Abergavveny - very nice it was too. Also in Wales, mountain ash berries were once brewed into an alcoholic liquor called diodgriafel - which perhaps explains why it never caught on. Elderberries are still used today, and the sloes we collected last week will make for fine gin and jam this Christmas.

But the trouble with collecting more good ones, is that I'd get mixed up with the nasties. The berries of the yew (or at least the seeds within) can be deadly, and plants such as bittersweet, spindle and butcher's broom are regarded as highly toxic. So too are ivy, dogwood, lilly of the valley and deadly nightshade.

The real the problem of course, is that I got all that from a book and the Internet. In the field I'd not know one from the other - or at least not be certain. And even if I was, I'd worry a fox or rat had laced them with Weil's disease.

So I think I'll stick to old favourites - and the winter fruits compote from Sainsbury's. I suppose it leaves more for the birds, and to brighten the woods, as they have done especially this autumn.

I'm not envious, I'm jealous.

2011-11-13T01:00:00.009Z

Fin whales off the Welsh Coast - image from Wales online

'What's the difference between envy and jealousy,' my son asked me this week. He had a new girl friend with him (note the separation of those words) and they'd been joking about my pedantry with language.

I played along, explaining that in common usage the two are now interchangeable. But technically, envy is a desire to have something others possess; a regret that it's beyond our reach. Whilst jealously is a fear of loss, a desire to hold on to what we already have - that's why we talk of jealously guarding. 'So you can envy someone's talents,' I explained, 'and still be jealous of their affections.' His new friend smiled and I left them too it.

This is a highly contrived introduction to my watching some nature programmes later in the week. The Frozen Planet was amongst them, but I'm also a late night addict of those documentary repeats on Sky. And the tendency when watching, aside from wondering at the diversity of life (and the photography that captures it), is to be envious of what's elsewhere - to wish we could experience it too: imagine, I said to Jane, the thrill of seeing a humpback whale.

Or a bird of paradise, a rhino charging; a colony of penguins. I watched this week, a piece about birdwing butterflies, laying single eggs on the leaves of particular vines, their caterpillars growing poisonous spikes that deter predators, at least if you're second in line. And all of this was fascinating and awe inspiring - and, frankly, beyond me, at least for the time being.

But on Friday I turned to Autumn Watch, the BBC's flagship of nature at home. This week's show was about the coast, and coincidentally to my envy, it showed Iolo Williams watching fin whales off Ireland, pods of dolphins following his boat. There were whales at Strumble this year too, and sunfish - and basking sharks passing regularly, occasionally turtles. It's good to be reminded of what we have here. But for all the magnificence of the rarer sights, I think it's the birds of which we should be most jealous.

There's a blog that lists local sightings, and on Thursday, four observers recorded.. two woodcock at Porthclais, along with great tits, coal tits, blue tits and blackbird. There were lapland and snow bunting on Skomer, a ring ouzel and a black redstart. At Castlemartin were sparrow hawks and kestrels, 600 lapwing, curlew, snipe, teal, shoveller, 10 choughs, 200 greenfinch, 150 linnets, 100 chaffinch and a few goldfinch. St Davids saw a Merlin in addition to some others above.

And this evening I'm going the three miles to Plumstone, for a clear night's forecast and I've noticed the starling gathering in our fields. At about 5.00pm, if I'm lucky, they'll fly to a small copse of trees on the edge of a nondescript moor. By December they'll be arriving in millions; the road will be white and the woods stinking of lime, and the raptors will be waiting too. It's one of the best sites (and sights) in Wales; something to be jealous of indeed.

Sepia chapel

2011-11-12T08:56:00.008Z

It's impossible to travel any distance in Wales without coming across a chapel. As late as the early twentieth century up to three quarters of the population attended nonconformist congregations; they're in every town and village, encompassing denominations from Methodist to Baptist to Presbyterian.

The chapel above is at Llangloffen, very near to the nature reserve I visited recently. That same day I took a photo to show how it looks now - there's been little change, and I suspect that the farm which stands opposite and out of shot is much the same too. It has a cobbled courtyard, a rookery, a look of run down despair.

But of course the biggest difference is the people, and not just the way they dress. Had I taken my updated shot on a Sunday there might have been half a dozen cars and perhaps twice that in attendees. It's been said that most chapels are waiting for the last of their faithful to die before shutting the doors. Today there are little more than 100 nonconformist ministers in Wales.

I can't complain; I don't attend and its unrealistic to expect the organisations to keep them going. The communities that sustained these chapels, and the values that went with them, have gone or are disappearing. And it's important not to be sentimental too; sepia photographs give a sense of nostalgia but anyone reading the stories of Caradog Evans or Patrick O Brian's first novel, Testimonies, would be warped to say that the society they depict was wholesome. Chapels, like all powerful institutions throughout history, had a dark side.

There are of course, some iconic ones that are worth preserving. The chapel at Mwnt is an historic monument and the wonderful Soar y Mynydd is the exception that proves the rule about isolation and decline - it remains an active chapel despite the flooding of its catchment to create the Llyn Brianne dam. And I hope the Brynmawr chapel at Betwys y Coed manges to keep going - for it was there, twenty years ago, that I married Jane on a day when it rained enough to launch an ark.

But the chapels of Wales are not quite dead yet. Many have been converted to houses, others taken over by Friends of the Friendless Churches; some have become craft centres, art studios - that sort of thing. And some continue as active congregations. On the day I visited Llangloffan there was funeral taking place in nearby Mathry - the cars had filled the village, the approach roads were lined with pickups, one farmer opened his field for parking.

I heard there were hundreds who couldn't get a seat. I heard too that they'd sung the hymn, Dyma Gariad Fel Y Moroedd, Here is love, vast as the ocean.

Headlining at Haverfordwest

2011-11-11T01:00:00.041Z

'Isn't it your gig tomorrow?' a friend asked me this morning. Sort of, I hesitated, though not sure I'd call it a gig - it's more of a talk at the local library. 'That's a gig in my book - what time are you on?' About six pm, I told him. 'So you're headlining!' he replied.

Another writer friend told me she'd been developing her 'writer's cv'. I should do one she said, and put my talk on it too. At first I resisted, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea - if only as a way of taking stock, and deciding what next? There was more to include than perhaps I'd realised.

I've been writing seriously for ten years and somewhere on my computer there are hundreds of thousands of words, each of them considered, read aloud, revisited, re-read, re-drafted... I've all but finished my degree; I've had articles published here and there, and I've a book coming out next year. But it's my blog that I always put first when people ask, what is it you write? And it's blogging that I'm passionate about as a means for writers to find an audience - so that's what I'm going to talk about on Friday.

Earlier this week, I wrote comments on laidbackviews and mind and language, about the potential for electronic publishing - and the word I used was 'democratising'. I'm chuffed to bits that someone wants to publish me in a 'proper' book (sorry to keep going on about that) but I'm aware of how lucky I've been, and how many excellent writers never get that chance. The great thing about blogs is that they can work for supposedly real writers as well as those who want to have fun.

I put the word real in italics, because I believe that we can all be real writers. It isn't about audience, or being published in print, or completing a proper novel; it's about one thing - care in the words. No matter what we write, be that about family or politics or instruction manuals for tanks, if we care about the words, we are writers. And I don't see why a well crafted blogs shouldn't be as highly regarded as, say, magazines and newspapers - or books for that matter.

But I also said that blogs should work for those who just want to have fun. (Didn't Cyndi Lauper sing something like that... bloggers, just want to have fun... okay, bad joke.). Having fun with words and pictures is fine, and it may be that some of those who come to my talk this evening want to do just that. I'd encourage them, because in the way that doodles can lead to great paintings, it just might be that some of them, given a little time, will start caring about the words too. That explains, when I agreed to do the talk, why I suggested it include a reading and not be a technical lecture on how to set up a blog.

So far, this post has been a slight deviation from my self imposed theme of nature during November's nablpomo - but to give it a tangential connection, I was re-reading James Lovelock's The Revenge of Gaia the other day. And in it he argued that the Internet, electronic publishing, and by implication blogs too, are part of a greener future. Virtual entertainment and learning, he claims, cause minimal impact on the environment compared to physical alternatives. So I suppose next time I'm 'headlining' it ought to be on the web, and then there'd be more than the good folk of Haverfordwest who'd get to hear about the bike shed - but in your case of course, you've already found it.

P.S. If you'd like to hear me talk and read from my blog and forthcoming book, I'm 'headlining'at Haverfordwest Library (Dew Street, 01437 775244) tonight at 6.00pm.

What not to wear

2011-11-10T07:12:00.006Z

Perfect outdoor kit for boys

In the comments section of yesterday's post Lucy asked if I'd write about what to wear and take on a nature adventure. It put me in mind of an article I must have read twenty years ago, by the equipment editor of a climbing magazine. It was his last article before retiring, and he was going to own up: despite all the fancy gear he received, he mostly went out in the hills wearing a smelly jumper and a pair of old jeans.

And I've always remembered that article because it points to a greater truth: that we don't need hi-tech, lightweight, waterproof and breathable, see-you-home-in-the-dark clothing to enjoy a day outdoors. Not that you'd believe it in places such as Keswick or Hathersage where the shopping has become as important as the landscape. But we're trying to get away from all that, right? And most of us are heading for a day on the moors, rather than a Scandinavian winter. So with that in mind we can get by without spending a fortune or worrying unduly about the fashion police.

Footwear is always my first consideration, and though I have a pair of very good walking boots, I mostly use lightweight outdoor shoes. My favourites are a pair of Salomon trail boots, which are pricey, but the Hi-Tec company does much cheaper equivalents and it's possible to find very good value on the Internet. Aside from winter mountaineering there are very few places in Britain that you'll truly require dubbed leather boots. I'm actually a big fan of wellies too, and know people who swear by those cheap suede bog trotter boots - I once met a bloke who'd walked the entire Pennine Way in those.

Waterproofs come next, and not word of a lie, my favourite cost me six euros from a Decathlon store in France. It's a brown pertex smock that packs the size of a large sandwich; it's featherlite, windproof and even supposedly breathable - and it's cut like a bin bag which means you can slip it over almost anything. They're available in the UK but any pac-a-mac equivalent will do. Of course, I wouldn't use this as my only waterproof on a full day in the hills with a threatening sky - but for most times, when the worst that happens is you get a bit damp before heading to the caff, I'd pack it in preference to coat that cost fifty times more.

For the rest - trousers and tops and all that, go for lightweight and lots of thin layers. Even in winter you're much better off with thermal leggings underneath some cotton trousers, than wearing heavy denim or track suits that soak up the damp. You can buy all manner of technical clothing, but you know what, most of it is marketing bollocks - and the rest is common sense.

But surely there's more to it than that? I'm tempted to say not really, but actually I do have a few tips and tricks too. Sticks are excellent, and for all that retractable walking poles have become overly technified, they do make a difference (though fallen branches are almost as good) - they also make excellent swords for young boys to fight with. Cyclists use body-warmers to ward off wind-chill and they're excellent for walking too - just make sure you find ones with pockets. On the subject of which most people don't have enough and use rucksacks that are far too small - the extra weight of a larger sack is minuscule but if it means you can carry your kid's waterproofs and stuff in a bigger picnic and flask, it makes all the difference to your day. Alpkit gourdon sacs are cheap, light and very cleverly designed - they're a great online retailer too.

On the subject of kids, I have boys, and they like things like pocket knifes, magnifying glasses, matches, i-spy books and notebooks - and I say that, not because I'm a middle class throwback to the Sixties, it's because they work at engaging their interest. For something more modern, try a fling sock which is possibly the most fun we've had from a present and in a different league to a Frisbee or a worse, a kite... I have this theory that people only fly kites when they're bored. Another tip - keep spare clothes in the car; this is blindingly obvious but even we forget sometimes, and yet it makes such a difference if there's any sort of stream or lake they might fall in - because of course, they will.

For nature watching you need a decent pair of binoculars and those tiny ones won't do - if you want to save weight, buy a monocular (try here) - they are way better for kids too. Most identification guides are too large and complex for practical use in the field so I often use the Collins mini gem series - no, they aren't perfect, but better to have something that might actually be opened. Back at home I have a comprehensive library of guide books. What I use more than anything is my digital camera which is fantastic for snapping wild flowers, trees, even birds - I'm not looking for composition, just to identify them later.

In the outdoors, as in most areas of life, there's a balance. I don't want to wear tweed and plus-fours, but neither do I want to be one of those prats who've 'all the gear but no idea'. A little fashion is fine, but function is more important. The same goes for equipment - a map, a rucksack and a good picnic; that's enough on most days. Because most important of all, it is the getting out there in the first place .

Collections 16 - memberships

2011-11-09T01:00:00.001Z

A small selection

I'm not sure that I can accurately describe my 'memberships' as a collection, but when I counted them up the other day it began to feel that way. I like to support organisations that I think are doing some good and if that involves a membership card and a quarterly magazine I am easily swayed. With direct debit payment they tend to hang around too, so it's possible after writing this post that I'll do some culling.

I didn't join the National Trust until about five years ago - I suppose I thought it was a bit on the aristocratic side, and then there was all that fuss over hunting on its land. But politics aside, the Trust is one of the great protectors of our landscape; I can take or leave the stately homes, the gardens I enjoy in a gentle sort of way, but its the wild places the Trust cares for that I value most. I'd join the National Trust for St David's Head alone - as it is, the Trust owns 600,000 acres of land and 500 miles of coast, in addition to its hundreds of gardens and properties.

The Wildlife Trusts do something similar but with an emphasis on conservation of nature. I'm a member of the South and West Wales Trust which manages 90 wildlife reserves including Skokholm and Skomer Islands, famous for their puffin, seal and shearwater colonies. Not linked, but relevant to wildlife I'm in the Amateur Entomologist Society and the Exotic Entomology Groups too.

The Elenydd Wilderness Hostels Trust was set up to rescue two of Wales' finest hostels - Dolgoch and Tyncornel in the Cambrian Mountains. These are some of my favourite places anywhere; yes, they can be full of grouchy old farts who talk of the golden days of hosteling - but to my mind they're right and I'm unashamedly a supporter. Shame on you Youth Hostels Association for trying to sell them in first place!

That said, I still pay my YHA subs each year - and recently applied for the 'over 50s Group' - oh, I so enjoyed being able to do that! I could write for ages about the YHA, but its original aim of providing simple accommodation, accessible to all and giving wide access to the countryside, remains highly relevant today - and for all I despair at some of its policies, at heart I am a supporter.

If I'm not staying in hostel I could be under canvass with the Camping and Caravanning Club , or pitching in the mountains with the Backpackers Club. There are six mountain bothies in Wales and though membership is not a requirement of using them, the Mountain Bothies Association is a worthwhile body. There are many people I know who don't 'get' the idea of these wild shelters, who jest or shudder at the very idea - but the times I used them, on trips with my eldest son, are days and nights I'll never forget - fabulous places and all thanks to volunteers.

Then there are the local clubs: the boat club, the cycle club, the local gym, the steam railway- I'm even in the bowls club, though only a social member because of its rather good bar. And there are intermittent memberships, such the Austrian Alpine Club, that I have let lapse but will renew if I go to the Alps next year. I surprised myself when I realised I'd let my Welsh Canoe Association membership lapse too - I was its Chairman for a number of years.

I suppose with all these memberships - and this is only a selection of my outdoor related ones - there is some overt value that could be attached: free parking, reduced entry prices, shop discounts, that sort of thing. But with the exception of the National Trust I don't think about this much - and even in that case it's only to recognise the astonishing value we get from our family membership. This year, I calculated that to pay for individual entries to its properties would have cost us over £500.

And I've just realised that I have a whole list of cyber memberships too, all of them free - blogging ones, writing ones, philosophy ones - and of course, Nablopomo, which, depending on your interest, you can blame or thank for my ramblings this month...

...actually, now I mention rambling, I'd been thinking about the Rambler's Association and their campaign for better access. Enough!

A midway guide to Mid Wales

2011-11-08T01:00:00.010Z

The Teifi Pools

Almost any guide to Wales will inform you of the better known highlights, most likely illustrated with atmospheric photographs and a suggested walking route. The trouble is, you probably know of them anyway: Crib Goch on Snowdon, Cadair Idris, the Wye Valley walk, Conwy Castle; I could list dozens more and you'd not be surprised.

On the other hand, if the guides were full of remote and secret places where you can bivvy in an open ditch, then that wouldn't be much use either - at least, not for those of us with families, looking for somewhere that's away from the crowds, but not requiring a ten mile yomp.

What's needed then is something between the two, a guide to the special places that are easily missed, but just as easily discovered. And in twenty years of travelling in Wales I've developed my own list of favourites - they are geographically biased to the mountains and coast, and some of them require a little effort - but overall, they are relatively easy to access and just that little bit different. My first selection comes from Mid Wales, an area that gets scant attention even in the most comprehensive guidebooks.

Abergwesyn common is owned by the national trust, it lies to the west of the Brecon Beacons, near the town of Llanwrtyd Wells and access is by the mountain road to Tregaron. This is picnic country par excellence: set yourself down by the cascading pools of the avon Irfon , let the kids go play as you lie back in the sweet soft bracken and look for kites in the best glacial valley in Wales. Afterwards, drive over the devil's staircase, round the Llyn Brianne reservoir, stop at the pub in Rhandirmwyn (good campsite here too) before making your way back to Llanwrtyd.

Not far from here is the delightful town of Llandeilo - over the last fifteen years it's gone from rather down at heel to an understated shabby chic. There's enough cafes and boutiques to keep the shopping demons at bay, but it's three castles in a day that I want to suggest. Carreg Cennan is perhaps the most scenic in Wales, a showpiece of Cadw and deservedly so. But the castle at Dinefwr is more overlooked by the guides and especially so is Dryslwn, situated a few miles down the valley on a perfect tump - entry is free and it's the sort of place to let your kids run wild and tumble down the hill while you enjoy the gentle bends of the avon Tywi at the end of a classic day out.

Wilder still are the Teifi Pools, high in the Elenydd, fifteen miles east of Aberystwyth, they are surprisingly easy to access. I'd wanted to go there for years and in my case I backpacked in from Rhayader - it's also possible to take a spectacular mountain bike trail round the Claerwen reservoir. But most people will simply park at the lay-by and walk the few hundred yards to the first of these glacial mountain lakes - though when I say most, you'll meet perhaps half a dozen others on a busy day. Strata Florida Abbey is not far away if you want to add to your day - or drop in for a cup of tea at the Claerddu bothy (pic to left - it's only four hundred yards from the road but you'll need to find it on the map).

Last pick is not strictly in Mid Wales, but I'm going to include it anyway. Henhryd falls is where I took Jane on our first date. It's less well known than those at Ystradfellte, but I like it more - not least because I kissed her behind the screen of water that soaked our hair and she didn't pull away. The falls, one of the highest in Wales, drop into a pool that wouldn't be out of place in Lord of the Rings - great in winter too, when the icicles hang from the cave and the hoar frost clings to every branch.

I could list more: the Doethie valley and Twm Shon Catti's cave; the B road from Rhayader to Llangurig, the ancient mines at Cwmystwyth, the Clywedog River and the Staylittle Pass, the dawn Chorus tour at Lake Vyrnwy (see left) ...

But I have to stop somewhere, and I'd hope I've said enough to fire your imagination.

Nocturnes - papillon de nuit

2011-11-07T01:00:00.003Z

A collection of British moths

As boys, my brother and I would go hunting for moths. We used homemade nets and would roam the avenues by our house, lurking under street lamps and looking for tell-tale flickers. The moths would gather most near midnight, and we'd make our way to the railway station where the bulkhead lights cast a glow over beds of nettles and convolvulus.

You'd never see that now: two boys in duffle coats, walking the streets with nets and jars. But I'm glad I was allowed, because for me it began a fascination with travelling at night that I love still. There's a tension to travelling in the dark, an alertness that's akin to what nocturnal prey must feel - for though it was me that was hunting the moths, I've always felt more like the hunted.

Perhaps that's why we caught so few. But we did learn a lot about their behaviour: how they spiralled, which would fall to ground, what conditions were best and when not to go at all. In August there'd be hundreds of yellow underwings, once we caught an elephant hawkmoth, and we discovered larvae of the willow hawkmoth nocturnally feeding night in the trees of Belsay Gardens. We even smeared rum laced treacle on the trees to see what would be feeding next morning.

There are 800 species of larger moths in the UK, about 2400 if you include the 'micros' - this compares to about 60 butterflies, and explains why most lepidopterists soon turn to the night. And you'd be wrong if you thought moths were all dull and brown - indeed, the bigger ones are more spectacular than butterflies - papillon de nuit the French call them, and they are right. They are right too, in that there's no absolute distinction from butterflies - taxonomically, they are all of one lineage.

By the time I was teenager I had a moth trap - its actinic tube emitted an ultra violet glow that would attract hundreds more than a street lamp. It's not the brightness to our eyes that matters, but the colour on the light spectrum - have you noticed there are much fewer moths round lampposts these days? That's because most street lamps are now yellow, one of the least phototactic colours to insects. You'll see more moths in your headlights than you would by walking the streets.

In my mid teens I started to make money from my interest - I'd buy eggs of exotic silk moths (saturniidae), feed the larvae, store the cocoons and breed the adults in cages I made from net curtains - then sell the hundreds of eggs at a profit. Forty years later I still receive newsletters from the Exotic Entomology Group - and as an aside, if anyone's thinking of rearing some caterpillars with their kids, silk-moths are way easier and more spectacular than butterflies. I bought my boys some moon moth cocoons when they were toddlers - I remember them crouching by the cage, awestruck and whispering, as the adults emerged and their pale wings filled with fluid, expanding to a six inch span, the long tails twisting below.

Moths are possibly the most ignored of the major creatures we could easily observe. Most of us get a thrill in recognising wild mammals - (though as challenge, see if you can name twenty different British wild ones without getting into sub species; it's much harder than you think) - birding is hugely popular; plants and trees (ok, not creatures, but you know what I mean) too. There are more beetles than moths but the identification is tortuous and frankly they are hard to find - similar problems apply to spiders, wasps and ants. Yet in most gardens you could almost certainly record a hundred moths; they'd be there most of the year too, feeding and breeding and flying to your window - butterflies of the night.

Hawkmoth larva

Click here for a fantastic website on UK moths

Llangloffan Fen

2011-11-06T01:00:00.007Z

When the boys were small we'd search out and be prepared to drive long distances to enjoy walks that were buggy friendly. It was how we found the Newport estuary and the cycle path at Neyland that I wrote about the other day. Good access, a reasonable track and enough to keep the kids interested, was all we wanted - but in Pembrokeshire that can sometimes be hard to find . So it's surprising we never discovered Llangloffan Fen, for it's only few miles from our house.

Or perhaps it isn't - surprising that is - for in Pembrokeshire, all eyes are fixed on the coast, and the fen, being inland of the Fishguard to St David's road, is on the wrong side of the scenic divide. Even up close, it's one of those places you barely notice: a no man's land of scrub and mire that you vaguely undertand is what's beyond the hedgerows you're passing on the way to somewhere else.

But recently, the fen was in the news. The West Wales Wildlife Trust had improved the boardwalk that gives access to what is essentially a glacial floodplain, a new bird hide had been installed and there was talk of otters in the reed beds. So the other week we took the unclassified lane from Castle Morris to Llangloffan wondering what we'd find.

And in truth, on a showery day in October there wasn't a great deal on show. Put perhaps like fishing, when you don't have to make a catch to have a great day, we thoroughly enjoyed our discovery. There were dragonflies of course, darters and the odd hawker - and we could hear many birds, the trees were gnarled and covered in lichen, some huge fungi, plenty of grasses and ferns. There were wildflowers too and though these aren't my strong point there would be much to see in summer, a highlight is evidently Marsh Cinquefoil.

The reserve is best known for its warblers (sedge, grasshopper and reed) and there have been sightings of corncrake, water rail and quail; it's a stronghold of owls and hen harriers too, and of polecats, badgers, voles and shrews. We saw none of these, though I'm sure they're there in numbers. Even on good day, I suspect it's one of those places that you spot only a few species.

But what I liked most, was the sense of remoteness - the boardwalk is perhaps a couple of kilometeres in length, and it takes you directly into the reeds and woods. Within a hundred yards you're right in the bog, and there's these oddly protruding islands of sedge grass that tussock between stunted shrubs. It feels ancient (which it is) and special (which it is too) and yet it does it in a very unspecial way.

The fen is a mire, a low trough between two slight rises in the surrounding landscape, cutting you off from the familiar landmarks - there are no roads, so its silent, other than the trickle of the water, the call of the birds and the creaking of your foot on the boards .

You might get that sense that I thought the fen was less than spectacular. And you'd be right - but that's also its delight. It was one of the places that you know you'll go back to; that will always, in a quiet way, have something to offer. The irony is that for over ten thousand years people have been passing it by - and that's precisely why it's so worth visiting today.

Books I'm reading # 12 - Guides Britannica

2011-11-05T01:00:00.003Z

Time was when almost every middle class household had a set of nature guides. The AA Book of Britain's Countryside Springs to mind; my mother still displays her Readers Digest illustrated series; I've written before about Observers Guides and Wayside and Woodland. Many of these, or their equivalents, are still available, but their popularity has waned - replaced by television spin offs that started with Life on Earth.

The 'book of the series' might be a popular money spinner for the BBC, but in most cases (and I'm generalising here) they're not something you to turn to time and again - for despite the sumptuous production, let's be honest, they're pretty dull to read. I'd bet if you did a survey you'd find most people admire the photos, read the odd chapter, and then let the thing languish untouched.

So it's interesting that a new series of books has been published, bridging the gap between the coffee table and the reference shelf - they combine the best of both genres and in my view, they do it superbly.

What sets the Britannica series apart is its editorial format. These are not taxonomic guides; they are more like encyclopedias, stuffed with observations, historical records, folklore, art and science. Much of the material comes from amateur and professional naturalists, and the genius of the books is in blending this with extensive research, excellent writing and fabulous photographs. The books give the 'story' to their subjects, so it's possible to spend hours reading whole sections, or like me, just dipping in now and again - either way you'll come away more richly informed than you would from a traditional guide.

Birds Britannica is written and edited by Mark Cocker, arguably our finest pure nature writer and certainly, king of the birds. If you haven't read his Crow Country, you should - shortlisted for the Samuel Johnson prize it was a crime it didn't win. Richard Mabey, took the lead on Flora Britannica, and Peter Marren on Bugs. All three are experts in their subjects without necessarily being 'hard' scientists.

Now it might not surprise you that I like the bugs edition the best (though only just), for it is insects which interest me most. But it's also because there are so few books that even attempt this territory. For a start the definition of bugs is panoramic: from amoebas to tapeworms, from true bugs to spiders - there's chapters on mollusks and sea squirts for goodness sake. And even in those sections about which I know quite a bit, I still find swathes of new information - interestingly the book sits on neither my coffee table or my bookshelves - it's constantly on my desk.

But I'm in danger of droning on; and that isn't what these books are about - they're about a joy in the subject, about cramming you with information - they're like one of those people you meet and then think, what a fantastic chap, love to talk to him again. Or to make a more topical analogy, they're like Stephen Fry and Brian Cox and Kate Humble and Leonardo da Vinci and Rolf Harris (ok, maybe not him) all rolled into one.

Enough! For now I really am droning on - just take it from me they're fantastic. Each book costs around £20 from Amazon - about £35 - £40 from your local bookseller, but they might do you deal (worth asking) - either way they're excellent value. If you're struggling for a Christmas gift for someone who likes the outdoors, you really won't go wrong with these.

Encounters 3 - Hornet

2011-11-04T07:35:00.008Z

Have you ever seen a hornet close to? I thought I had. My father used to claim he'd been stung by one - right next to my eye, he'd say, like a dagger; could've blinded me. If ever we saw a large wasp, to him it was a hornet; and as you do when you're a child, I believed him.

But this summer I saw one for real, in the woods at Somerford Common. It was hovering near a mound of straw, a nest of some kind with a small tunnel entrance. And it was huge - the hornet that is - this wasn't a large wasp, it was a golden, iridescent, gob-smacking monster. It's enormous, I kept saying aloud; absolutely bloody huge.

In truth, it was about the size of my thumb. But when you see something so wonderful and so unexpected, its presence distorts and focuses your perception. You'll have experienced something similar if you've ever photographed an animal in the wild, thinking it filled the viewfinder and yet the end result was as a disappointing dot on the horizon.

And even if it had filled the frame, it could never be the same. That hornet is burned in my memory more surely and with more reality than any digital image. For a good few minutes I watched it hover in and out of the entrance, moving forward and back, never changing its orientation, droning and buzzing like - well, a hornet.

The noise and size of hornets has led to them to be misunderstood, feared even. Yet their sting is no more powerful than a bee, and they are far less likely to attack. It's a common occurrence for hornets and birds to share the same hollow tree. Though evidently, it's inadvisable not to kill one near a nest as this releases pheromones that can disturb and 'anger' a swarm.

But who would want to kill such a fabulous creature? This year I've seen some wonderful animals; I watched a Peregrine stooping over the cliffs at Ynys Barry, a million starlings massing at Plumstone, a seal giving milk to its pup... and yet I reckon that hornet was the best by far.

My father was surely wrong. I don't doubt he was stung by something, but hornets don't reach as far north as Northumberland, and nothing we came across compared to what I saw this summer. I can still see it now: the plates of gold, the wings a-blur, the jewel in the straw. God, it was huge.

Musings on nature

2011-11-03T01:00:00.012Z

Earlier this week I was talking to my father in law, who asked if I was doing the November blog-a-day challenge. I told him I was and this year I'd given myself the theme of nature. I'm not sure about that, he replied, there's only so many posts you can do on Starlings or Yellowhammers or Robins or Buzzards. Don't you need some variety?

You won't be surprised to learn that my father in law is an avid bird watcher. But the response got me thinking in another way - and what struck me, was his intuitive reaction that my theme of 'nature' would essentially involve the describing of birds, and possibly, though not stated, some countryside mammals too.

That's interesting because I'd not thought to do that at all. In fact, top of my list was probably 'landscape', followed by 'green issues' and 'journeys in Wales'. But I'd happily include (and indeed plan to) items on mountaineering, astronomy and the stars, gardens, planning regulations, insects, plants - a whole gamut of topics with a vague connection to the natural world. Yesterday's post, for example, was about cycle paths.

The philosopher Thomas Hobbes used the term state of nature to describe the human situation before society developed, famously pronouncing life in such conditions to be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short. His solution was a 'social contract', in which we gave up our absolute liberty in return for a protector who guaranteed security. Exactly what form that protector should take, and the limits of its authority, have exercised philosophers for centuries since.

And Hobbes' distinction is perhaps not a bad way of thinking about what sets us apart from other creatures. If we leave aside religious ideas of soul, it's not so much intelligence or genes or complexity that makes us different - it is man's willingness to live within rules that restrict his ability to' do anything that he wills or to preserve his own life.' Arguably, it is only because of society that we're able to describe nature as 'red in tooth and claw'.

I have a writer friend who describes the natural world as 'the other' - meaning everything out there but us. That's wider than I'd intended - wider too than Hobbes' distinction - for it hints at nature's unknowability, at our essential separateness, not only from other creatures but also our environment - from the world as it really is.

That, however, is a very long debate, which can wait for another time.

National Cycle Network

2011-11-02T01:00:00.009Z

A few hundred yards from my house is a disused railway line. I say disused when in fact it's now part of an off-road cycle path that runs from Avebury to Lacock, a section of the national cycle network established by the charity Sustrans. The network extends to over 12,600 miles of traffic free or traffic light routes, and if you drive anywhere in the countryside you're probably familiar with the small blue way markers.

I have to admit to scepticism when the network was first established. A long time cyclist I held a certain snobbishness towards those who couldn't devise their own journey - and the flagship off-road paths weren't (and still aren't) suitable for the lightweight bikes that 'proper cyclists' rode. It seemed to me an expensive exercise in signage for those who couldn't be bothered to make more effort.

I realise now, that those views - still prevalent in some cyclists - miss the point entirely. Over the last ten years I've ridden thousands of miles on the network and have come to recognise its positive impact (and that of Sustrans) on our attitudes to cycling. But it's not so much my riding the routes that has changed my opinion, it is three additional observations that I thought I'd share.

The first derives from my cottage in Wales, which happens to be on one of the network's minor routes. Prior to this, the only visitors to our village were either lost or delivering parcels, often both. And yet this summer we had, at a rough estimate, thirty to forty riders passing through every day, ranging from families to elderly couples to groups of young people on their way to Ireland. And talking to some of these it reinforced that the whole attraction is precisely that the network makes things easy: it provides a well marked, scenic route avoiding the worst of the traffic - all with minimal effort. Would these people be cycling were it not for the network? Some certainly would, but many wouldn't.

The second observation is that it's not just cyclists who use the off-road paths. This might seem obvious, but the cumulative effect is impressive. The old railway near us in Wiltshire is used by runners, walkers, farmers, nature watchers, kids, families, schools, dogs, artists and even on occasion shooting parties. The path has become a much valued community asset, giving easy access to countryside that would otherwise be little visited or require a car.

The third is the way these paths create nature corridors. They're the perfect example of that marginal landscape which Richard Mabey writes of in his book, The Unofficial Countryside. For example, there's an off-road path in Pembrokeshire, running from Haverfordwest to Neyland - it too follows a disused railway line. And on it I've seen kingfishers, herons, buzzards, weasels, all manner of wild flowers - again, it's used by many and varied groups, the majority not cyclists.

Back in Wiltshire the path to Avebury is perhaps the longest unbroken hedgerow in the county. There are apple trees, sloes, oaks and hollies, a wild quince or two. It's the best place for birdsong that I know. And to walk there on a January dawn, as I did last winter, is to be taken to a world more remote than it's location would suggest. As the mist cleared that morning I noticed a roe deer wander into a furrowed field; watching too was a buck hare, high on its haunches, ears aloft to the frosting sky. For a few seconds, all three of us were held in a moment of perfect stillness - and all this, a mile from the centre of town.

Red Admiral

2011-11-01T01:00:00.003Z

Image from the web

Sunday morning at midday and I'm sitting in the car with drizzle spotting the windows when what should land on the wipers but a red admiral. It's possibly the last 'on the wing' butterfly I'll see this year - there will be some that hibernate in my shed and of course there will be chrysalises too, but neither of these are quite the same.

The red admiral is for me one of the quintessential English butterflies. It's arrival in Northumbria, where I lived as boy, marked the start of summer holidays. Along with peacocks, tortoiseshells and painted lady they would feed on the buddleia bushes in our avenue and we'd try to catch them with nets made from bamboo poles and old lace curtains. They're a butterfly that makes you stop and admire (it was for a long period erroneously named the red admirable), even allotment gardners don't chase them away.

In fact, the species is not really English at all - it's a migrant that rarely survives even our milder winters - after last year's cold snap it's doubtful the one I saw came from anywhere other than the continent. I suppose it could be a second brood - some of the early arrivals breed in spring, their larvae forming web nests on stinging nettles. But the emergent adults then have to face the winter, a few choose to fly south.

I read the other day that in Welsh their common name is y fachtell, which I think means the cloak. With its black and red forewings I've often thought the butterfly has a vampire look - so perhaps the day before Halloween was an appropriate time to see one. In the event it drank only from my windscreen!

This year has been poor for butterflies and moths, but the warmer autumn has given a late surge and as always there are exceptions - the hummingbird hawk moth had a bumper year. A migrant too, over 11,000 were recorded this summer. The other week on the coast path I saw dozens of small coppers, a delight of colour in the September sun. And I saw a painted lady on our anniversary, the only one this year.

Next time you see a red admiral, consider its journey, and think again about how robust these deceptively delicate creatures are. Alternatively, you could smile at the answer a pal once gave in our secondary school quiz. What's a red admiral? was the question. To which he replied, It's an Indian Sailor, sir. Given that some of them come from almost as far, he wasn't entirely wrong.

End of radio silence

2011-10-30T10:40:00.002Z

I've been relatively silent of late, a bit down in the dumps about the blog. The course I was due to run had to be postponed because of some last minute cancellations - apologies to those who'd signed up, but it will definitely run next year. And then the weather turned just as I was thinking I'd have time to gather some writing material in the mountains - so annoying.

I've also been working on my book manuscript (due end November and closing fast) and suffering what I hope is an entirely normal last minute crisis of confidence. Last week I spent four days editing and re-editing, and I wasn't sure the result made that much difference - so disappointing.

'Why don't you take a break,' said Jane. 'Yes,' agreed Dylan, who suggested I take him to see Real Steel instead of writing all the time. Turns out Real Steel is a movie about robots bashing each other - mmm. I'd already spent Friday night having a 'sleepover' with Dylan in my shed (it's now become 'our' shed) and suffered a bad back, chilled feet and two hours of cartoons before he eventually dropped off. So - well actually it was great fun.

And yesterday I thought, what have I been whinging about? My mother is about to have her knee replaced (yuk), I heard of a fellow blogger who is very ill and another who was trying for the umpteenth time to get an agent to look at their excellent work. November is even a relatively slack time at the office, and for me it forms a watershed as I start in a new, less stressful and more interesting, role at work.

So what the heck, be positive I thought and sign up for NaBloPoMo. After all, it's only a blog a day for thirty days - on top of a new job, finishing my manuscript, attending a nature writing weekend, nursing my mother (Jane, ten times more than me to be fair), giving a talk about blogging to Pembrokeshire libraries (you'll hear more about this soon) and the Christmas preparation that seems to get earlier every year.

I'm planning vaguely on a theme of 'nature' and will try and limit it to between 300 and 400 words a day - but don't hold me to that precisely. What I won't do is write in advance unless absolutely necessary, because to me, that defeats the object. I want to fit it in around my life instead of carving out chunks of time. And I need to learn to write more quickly.

There are others doing the November challenge too - Zoe, at Mind and Language is writing about art that inspires her - and you should definitely take a look. So far there are nearly 400 bloggers who've signed up; there'll be many more by closing date and even more who do it unofficially. If you're going to take part then let me know because it's good to share encouragement - last year there were about half a dozen of us swapping comments and suggestions throughout, including one of my blogging heroes and neighbours, Michelle at Veg Plotting. She even brought me some jam to keep me going!.

So enough of this rambling on, you'll have more to cope with in November. And in any case I'm off now with Dylan to the cinema... Real Steel, here we come.

How green is my valley?

2011-10-16T22:30:00.012+01:00

Image from visitwalesnow.org

The South Wales Valleys are a curious and scarred countryside. From one viewpoint they can be seen as a manifestation of community, of a strength through industry that (in most versions of the story) was killed by Thatcher who cared nothing for the consequences. From another they can resemble a post apocalyptic landscape, a pertinent reminder of how it's possible to trash an area bigger than London for lack of care of a different sort. A drive up the Rhondda will give you as good as any sense of these, not necessarily conflicting, perspectives.

The Heads of the Valley tends more to the post apocalyptic; it's new dual carriageway cuts a swathe through the spoil heaps on which even tussock grass is never quite fully established. The road links Abergavenny to the Neath valley, skirting a list of the towns synonymous with our industrial heritage: Blaenavon, Ebbw Vale, Merthyr Tydfil. It's a bleak drive, the sense of failed regeneration felt as keenly in the empty industrial units as in the bald and blackening moorland. The quintessential highlight is an ASDA superstore that overlooks Merthyr's Gurnos estate, a place once described as the UK's capital of economic inactivity.

I've been travelling this road for twenty five years, and not a lot has changed. Except that is for the Glynneath; an area that, from a landscape perspective at least, has been gradually rejuvenating. There is more tree planting here - sure, a lot of it's commercial, but it's sensitively done - the canal has been renovated too; there are boat trips from Resolven and the river is clean enough for trout and sewin. It may be that this particular valley was spared the worst of industrial despoliation - I don't pretend to know its history - but whatever it's past, I've always regarded it as a model for what the other Valleys might eventually become.

So why, oh why have they covered it turbines!

Covered is an exaggeration, but as always seems to be the case, they pick the best, the wildest, the most open landscape to site these monstrosities. Drive now into the one valley that seemed to have come through and the first thing you see is a hillside of tri-blade propellers. And if you're like me, every other time you pass, not one of them will be turning.

Not that I'd be more inclined to love them if they were. I've long hated windfarms, and I'm unashamed in my view that they despoil our landscape, that this matters deeply and that the putative benefits don't outweigh the aesthetic impact. The turbines that have been installed across Wales can be seen over thousands of square miles; their impact is far greater than the land they stand on.

The journalist Will Self, wrote this week in praise of windfarms - or rather of the development of the countryside as a constantly evolving and functional space. He argues that virtually all our landscape is man made; that when he took a three day trek from London to Newhaven he hardly saw anyone - though quite why that's relevant I don't know - that there's a deal of hypocrisy in our views of countryside. And in that regard he's right. But overwhelmingly I regard Self's view is an oh so clever analysis, typical of metropolitan intellectuals who like to sneer at the commuting middle classes of Sussex.

Frankly, I could sneer at people who think a three day walk across the Home Counties makes them an expert on the value of landscape. What's more - and this is particularly telling of Self's article - I have little regard for the views of people who have only viewed turbines from afar. Before anyone sets about justifying them, I'd suggest they go stand underneath a 165ft tower, and that to reach it they walk one of the service roads that have been gouged through the forests and hillsides; that they take time to look away from the blades and compare the view without them, before excusing their presence.

To be fair to Will Self he's not presenting himself as a lover of the great outdoors, but to my mind his argument gives insufficient value to wilderness - indeed, he questions its very concept. In terms of pastoral England he might be right, but I'd bet a lot of cash that he's never been to Plynlimon, or Hyddgen (see photo left) - both of which's have an intrinsic value in their very remoteness, and both of which are seriously under threat. What Self's argument fails to address is that it is ancient and naturally important landscapes like these that are the most likely sites for windfarms in Wales.

My drive through Glynneath made me sad. According to Self, that's sentimentality; he'd say the turbines merely continue a tradition of utilising the land effectively. I think that's intellectual bollocks, fuelled by a certain philistinism toward nature. To me, they're a lost opportunity; yet another scar on a landscape that's suffered enough. Strange analogy that it is, they felt like an addict relapsing.

Collections 15 - Bartholomew maps

2011-10-08T16:05:00.012+01:00

'There's a weird parcel arrived,' said Jane. 'I had to collect it from the depot and needed help to get it in the car. What have you been ordering?' Nothing I told her, a bit confused as I went to fetch it - and then I recognised the handwriting.

A few weeks earlier my friend Ian had emailed to say he was rationalising his maps. Ian is the only person I know with a full collection of the Ordnance Survey for the UK - but it was his Bartholomew Maps that were going spare. Would I like them, he'd asked?

The parcel landed with thud on our settee - reminding me why backpackers doing the Lands End to John O' Groats post their maps to overnight stopovers. Not that today's walkers would use the Bartholomew series - they went out of print in the Nineties and had been declining for years before then. But what do walkers know about a good thing? I ripped off the paper to reveal an almost perfect collection.

I've always liked 'Barts' maps, as they used to be called. I took one on my first holiday to the Lake District, despite them being next to useless in the hills. Another time I walked a long stretch of the Northumberland coast using Map 42; this was marginally better until I reached Blyth and about half the town hadn't been drawn, causing me hours of confusion. But it was as a cyclist in my twenties that I came to use them most.

The maps were especially popular with cycle tourists. This was because the half inch scale was detailed enough to show minor roads and spot heights, but not so large that it had to be taken out of the handlebar case every few miles. For many years the maps had a Cyclists' Touring Club logo on the front, in acknowledgement of the revisions that were regularly supplied by club members. Knowing a few CTC types, I can well imagine the letters Bartholomew received at their Edinburgh headquarters. On rechecking the spot height at North Hill I found it to be only 824ft, not the 870ft recorded... please note the hostel at Bryn Poeth Uchaf is no longer in operation... the Kielder Forest has now been flooded to create a reservoir!

To some extent their inaccuracy was part of the joy. A short detour on a bike is seldom a problem, and the lack of detail might persuade you to tackle roads you'd otherwise avoid. There was something seductive about the colour scheme too; earthy tones, graduating from lime through ochre to umber, each colour indicating a gradual rise in altitude, but no mention of gradient.

The maps Ian sent me are almost a complete set. Only two are missing but I've already found them on ebay. So an instant collection - not quite in the spirit of amassing slowly, but then Ian bought them like that too. I especially like it that every map has a white label marked: John Menzies, £2.50. It's possible some have never been opened.

As I looked through a few the other night I began to trace the routes I'd cycled years ago. And I kept finding youth hostels that have closed - Bryn Poeth Uchaf is on map 17, Aberystwyth and Cardigan. Jane and I stayed there once with Ian and his wife Ros - a mile up a track above Rhandirmwyn it was a cottage with no electricity or running water. Nobody wants places like that anymore - too old fashioned, not enough facilities, they say. Jane would agree, and she's probably right - a bit like Barts maps they've fallen behind the times. But the nostalgic in me wishes it were different. And thanks to my new collection, those places, and the days that went with them, are all still there - in lime and ochre shading, with spot heights and enough detail for me to fill in the rest.

Travel Memoir and Landscape

2011-09-27T20:40:00.002+01:00

It is seldom that bloggers as writers get the recognition they deserve. That's why I'm so keen for the course I'm co-tutoring at Ty Newydd writing centre to be a success.

There are still places available and because of some special bursaries Ty Newydd can now offer places at about half price. So if you'll excuse what might appear to be a little self promotion, please consider if you or anyone you know might like to come along.

Feel free to blog it, tweet it, Facebook it, whatever .. even better, make a booking.

The course is an ideal opportunity to develop your writing in the company of like minded others,. For anyone whose not been to Ty Newydd or an Arvon centre before, it's a chance to write in a wonderful location supported by enthusiastic and talented tutors - and for a bargain price.

For further details phone or email Ty Newydd at post@tynewydd.org Tel: 01766 522811, or visit the website on http://www.tynewydd.org/english/home.html

Landscape Travel and Memoir - From Blogs to Books
October 24 - 29
Rory Maclean and Mark Charlton
Guests: Fiona Robyn and Zoe Dawes
Residential from £250 (shared room) £300 (single room)

In October the acclaimed travel writer Rory Maclean joins the family, landscape and nature blogger Mark Charlton on a journey from books to blogs and back again. Through workshops, tutorials and discussions, Rory and Mark will look at how to create engaging and personal writing, exploring the potential for publication in both new media and more traditional forms.

The course is suitable for anyone interested in travel, landscape and memoir – whether that be through journals, essays, poetry or fiction. Both tutors are regular bloggers and have a particular interest in how the Internet and electronic publishing can compliment traditional publishing and create opportunities for new writers to reach a wider audience.

RORY MACLEAN is one of Britain's most expressive and adventurous travel writers. His eight books include award-winners Stalin's Nose, Under the Dragon, Magic Bus (Penguin) and now, in a moving departure, Gift of Time (Constable) about his mother's final journey. Every week he writes a provocative, personal blog from Berlin.http://blog.goethe.de/meet-the-germans

MARK CHARLTON is one of Wales’ most acclaimed bloggers; his Views From The Bike shed has been widely praised for the both the quality of its writing and it’s honest, reflective style. Mark’s first book, described as a journey into fatherhood and landscape, will be published by Cinnamon Press in 2012.

Guest Readers:

Fiona Robyn's most recent novel Thaw, was published as both traditional book and a daily blog. She is a prolific writer, tutor and founder of the online writers network, Writing Our Way Home.

Zoe Dawes was recently named as Britain’s Best Travel Blogger. Her Quirky Traveler website has opened a huge variety of travel and writing opportunities that show the possibilities of new media for aspiring writers. http://www.thequirkytraveller.com

Laugharne

2011-09-25T23:02:00.013+01:00

Estuary - M Charlton

I went to Laugharne the other Sunday. Every week I pass the sign at St Clears and yet it must have been five years since I last made the turn. The sky was dull as ash, drizzle on the windscreen; I quite fancy being underwhelmed, I said.

All day I'd taken quirky turns, zig-zagging my way eastward, even driving through Whitland for the heck of it. If you're familiar with Whitland you'll know how peculiar that is; if you don't, you probably get the picture. But in fact I rather like those bypassed towns you find throughout Wales - I mean the term figuratively, though in the case of Whitland it happens to be literal too.

Laugharne isn't so much bypassed as at the end of the road. It sits a mile of so from the mouth of the Avon Taf; round the point is Pendine Sands and eventually I suppose Tenby though few would go that way. If you took a boat in the opposite direction you'd glimpse Llansteffan which occupies much the same position on the neighbouring Towy. The two rivers mix their silts before reaching the sea aside the eerie and little visited west coast of Gower. It's what Dylan Thomas called the Heron Priested Shore. I've always thought it feels like reaching the end of one of his more turgid numbers.

You can probably tell I'm not a fan - of Llaugharne I mean; my son's named after the poet even if he does go on. Maybe that's what I don't like - all the fuss about a house he lived in for four years and a writing shed that would admittedly be a fine place to sleep off a hangover, but is hardly worth the trip. I've never liked those literary tourist trails - to me it's the words that count; the rest is pretty much incidental.

Except the landscape, to be fair that's important too. And last Sunday the tide was out and the spreading delta was covered in pale sea grass, spotted with gulls and the odd curlew. The sun broke through the purpling clouds, light shifted across the flats, and the serpentine river, deep in its sticky trough half a mile from the shore, sparkled with blue. It wasn't exactly sapphires and emeralds, but then Wales is never like that and I wouldn't want it so. What mattered was for the first time I saw the Laugharne estuary as something more than a tea stain and a misty horizon. I strolled with Jane to the boat house, past the castle that sits on a plinth of liver coloured sandstone, through the woods where Thomas walked on his thirtieth year to heaven.

There's a running feud between Laugharne and the fishing port of New Quay in Cardiganshire. Not literally of course, but as to which was the basis for Under Milk Wood. Thomas had lived in them both at one time or other. Laugharne can lay claim to cockle pickers, but there's hardly a fishing boat bobbing sea - even at high tide it's more of a shifting shoreline. My money has always been on Newquay, and when I saw, in the main street of nearby Aberaeron, that there's a Manchester House (home of Mog Edwards, the draper) it cliched it for me.

Laugharne's one main street is in a state of constant renovation such that I've never seen it without scaffolding. Browns Hotel, famous as Dylan's favourite taproom, is similarly closed and being done up; opposite is quite possibly the most miserable secondhand bookshop in Wales. There are few trinket shops and the ubiquitous SPAR in what passes as a square. The actor Neil Morrissey bought three pubs here a few years back - it ended in tears and debts and stories in the paper. The whole place feels like the tide has washed through it once too often.

Jane thought differently, she liked the Georgian buildings, and wondered why the street was so grand; why so few vernacular cottages? I understood what she meant, there is a sense of something different here, but to me it's something not quite right. As we peered through the windows of Castle House - all high ceilings and fancy plaster - it struck me I could just as easily be in Bath. I have no idea how much Welsh was spoken here, but the castle was in English hands for centuries and I wonder if Laugharne hasn't always has that split identity.

I should say in fairness, 'what do I know?' All towns and landscapes take time to understand, familiarity is essential to all but the most fleeting response. There are parts of Wales much scruffier than Laugharne, with less to offer and with far less Welshness about them - yet I like them very much. That's not a cop out, it's an observation that passing through on a Sunday afternoon you can't hope for more than a superficial impression - and we should always be wary of that. Maybe Laugharne is like its estuary and there are rich pickings under the silt.

We left as the sky returned to ash; our journey home in ever heavier rain. Jane asked if I'd been suitably underwhelmed? Enough for another five years, I quipped. In a way I wish I liked Laugharne more than I do; if nothing else it's a place to stop before the motorway - before the reluctant though inevitable journey east.

Red Surf - M Charlton

Clear September sky

2011-09-18T19:27:00.012+01:00

The path from Whitesands to Abereiddy traces one of the longest unbroken stretches of the North Pembrokeshire Coast. For nine miles there is no access by car and with the exception of the smugglers cove at Pwll Caeorg the cliffs maintain their height throughout. At this time of year atlantic grey seals come here to pup and breed. It's the inaccessibility of the rock beaches they favour, seemingly untroubled by the storms that scour the granite and slate of all but barnacles.

Jane and I walked their yesterday. We saw the first seals at Porth Lleog, barely two hundred yards after leaving the car; they were two females, lolling on their backs in the sunlit surf. It was one of those breezy mornings, a jade sea, spotted with the shadows of scurrying clouds; bright one minute, showers the next.

To the west of Carn Llidi is a hidden valley of ancient stones and feral ponies. It shortcuts St David's Head and leads to the sheltered cove of Gesail Fawr, which my minimal Welsh translates as the big armpit! Here we saw our first pups, four of them sleeping on the rocks, their mothers basking in the clear water under the hundred foot cliffs. Two of the pups looked new born, a third so plump its features had lost all definition; the fourth, older again, had fur that was mottling from cream to grey.

By now the sun had chased away the showers and the breeze was at our backs. We made good progress toward Penberry, passing a few walkers on a sponsored hack. There were gulls and rock pigeons on the cliffs, a great skua floating in one of the bays - and on the landside, the last of the wheatears, their little 'white-arses' (their old country name) flashing across the field stubble.

Beyond Penberry we watched a kestrel hovering over the bracken. They are surprisingly scarce in Pembrokeshire, their inland territories lost to buzzards and kites - one birder told me the increasing numbers of goshawks played a part too. But they thrive at the coast and I often see them at the Head or the Porthgain quarries near my house. Of all birds of prey I think kestrels are my favourite; they remind me of my blind grandfather, his gnarled hands holding mine as we'd walk each other to the scrub fields by his house; windhovers he used to call them.

Beyond Penberry the path had been strimmed and I wondered aloud if it was a way of managing the wild flowers. Probably not, but it sounded plausible. As the sun warmed the bracken some butterflies came out: a small copper, a common blue, three tortoiseshells. I was telling Jane that it's been a poor year for butterflies, the numbers in the national count down by 11%. 'You know,' I said, 'I haven't seen a painted lady all summer. Two years ago, there were thousands passing here on a mass migration.' And no sooner had I stopped talking than one opened its wings on the rocks by my feet, its auburn wings edged with scales of black mascara. That alone would alone have made my day.

There was a seal pup at Pwll Caerog too. We didn't realise at first, mistaking it for a rock in the stream that trickles to the pebbles. A young couple on the beach pointed it out. They were camping at the bunkhouse they said, but they had to dash because their friend was getting married in a hour - on the campsite above the cliffs. Jane and I were married twenty years ago this week - we were meant to go to Rome but work intervened. Instead we came here, eating flapjacks and drinking tap water from a plastic bottle as we listened to the pup's mother calling in the bay.

At Abereiddy we bought mugs of tea from the van that is always there. The storms of a fortnight ago had carried thousands of rocks to the lip of the breakwater; the beach, normally black with shale, was a glistening ochre. 'Give me a kiss,' said Jane, 'and don't you dare pull away.' The surf was spoiling in the wind and I could hear the jackdaws reeling above Blue Lagoon quarry. When I opened my eyes, the pools of an ebbing tide were bright in a clear September sky.

Books I'm reading # 11 - nature writing, new and old

2011-09-04T21:05:00.020+01:00

It's a while since I've written a books post, and meanwhile I've read so many that I'm going to chose carefully. I'm also going to try (and no doubt fail) to tread carefully because there's a certain unease in reviewing a selection of 'new nature' books, when you're soon to publish something akin to it yourself.

I'm not sure there's a sustainable definition of 'new nature' writing. But for now, let's assume its signature is a mix of person and place: 'new nature' goes beyond mere description to include the author as central protagonist; it's as much a personal as a geographic journey. A couple of years ago Granta published an edition dedicated to the genre, including pieces from some of its high priests, notably Robert Macfarlane (The Wild Places, Mountains of the Mind), and Roger Deakin (Waterlog, Wildwood, Notes From Walnut Tree Farm).

Also included in that Granta selection was Kathleen Jamie, whose book Findings is a collection of essays based largely in the Scotland Highlands. Jamie is a poet and, as with many of the new nature writers, her command of language is enviable. The book starts with Darkness and Light, an amiable enough essay that moves between islands and mainland, churches and shopping malls, before settling on the ancient tomb of Maes Howe. It's a promising introduction, with hints of the reflection and observation that makes for good nature writing.

The trouble is, not much more follows; each subsequent essay (on peregrines, salmon, corn crakes, skylines, even Surgeon's Hall ) left me increasingly dissatisfied. Exactly what was she trying to say, I wondered? And in the end, I concluded, 'not a lot'. That's a touch harsh, and there will be those who'll delight in her lyrical skill, but ultimately I wasn't sad to put the book down. I had to reread sections to remind myself for this brief review - never a good sign.

If I found Jamie's book disappointing, then Olivia Laings, To The River, was doubly so - at least on first attempt. And that, after I'd heard her talk at a local literature festival and rather liked her. The book describes a week-long journey down the Ouse in Sussex; it's the classic 'new nature' blend of observation and personal story, padded with lots of research material - the Ouse is famous for the death of Virginia Woolf, the Battle of Lewes, Henry III and various other historical and literary connections which Laing weaves into the progress of her journey. The trouble - and I accept that others might take a different view - is that this deviation from the immediate experience is what I so dislike and mistrust about much of the 'new nature' genre.

In, To The River, Laing uses the landscape as a stage to display how intelligent and well read she is - a form that's been perfected by writers like Macfarlane (who coincidentally wrote the cover puff for the book) and Deakin. The trouble is, I don't care! And I'm not very interested in Virginia Woolf or Kenneth Grahame or King Harold - and if I were, I'd look them up elsewhere; probably in the same books that she did. What I'm interested in, is Laing's journey, her relationship with the Ouse, her perceptions of the river and her response to the wider landscape. I recognise that, at times, this might include her interest in Woolf or history or whatever, but for me, the balance is all wrong - and frankly, it doesn't ring true.

After abandoning the book I returned to it a few weeks later, and in fairness, if I skipped through the research material I began to enjoy her writing. Laing walked the Ouse having broken off a long standing relationship, and as her journey progresses the river becomes a metaphor for what she has lost, but also for new possibilities; for the sense that our past is always part of our present. And to my mind, this is the territory in which she is strongest, and of which I wanted to read more - she is also a fine observer with some echos of Annie Dillard in her writing. To my surprise, I found myself rather sad when she and the river had reached the sea.

The third book in this nature selection is the much lauded Edgelands, by Paul Farley and Michael Symmons Roberts. It was a book I'd looked forward to reading. Their idea was to explore those landscapes we often disregard - the railway sidings, car parks, industrial scrublands, derelict canals and brown field sites that fringe our towns and countryside - it seemed full of possibility. Sadly, the outcome is one of the most dreadfully pretentious books I've ever picked up. Strong stuff, but if Laing typifies the tendency to use the landscape as an excuse for other material, this book takes the concept to a new level. Behold the Emporer's new clothes!

This isn't a book, as its sub-title claims, about England's lost wilderness; it's a book about Farley and Roberts and how smashingly literate and clever they are. I don't believe for a moment that they have spent much time in the 'edgelands', and certainly not before they researched this nonsense. I have an image of the two of them wandering round a Midlands scrapyard on a drizzling Saturday, trying desperately to imbue some meaning before the rain comes on.. 'This reminded me of Yeats,' says one. 'I was thinking, TS Elliot,' the other replies... at which point they nod and rush to their car as a group of yobs hurl stones in their direction.

Beyond it's over intellectualising, Edgelands also suffers from a peculiar format, in that it is two authors writing as one voice - evidently this was a conscious decision. The consequence is that there is never mention of 'I' - all observations are at a remove, deconstructed, extrapolated... For me, who comes from a Romantic tradition - who believes that our response, if it is true, will connect with others - this is a singular failing. Arguably, it takes the book outside the 'new nature' tradition, and given that I regard Edgelands as one of the silliest books I've read in years, I'm not sad about that at all.

After those three selections I was feeling a touch dejected. So let's concude with some old nature writing and two books which after I'd finished them, put me in a brighter frame of mind.

Robert Lockley's Letters from Skokolm is exactly what the title says - a series of letters to his brother in law John Buxton (also an excellent nature writer), written during the War. Skokholm is a bleak little island to the south of Skomer where Lockley made his home as a crofter in the Thirties. The letters give an intimate picture of Lockley's life there, of the birds and other wildlife, of his love of the place, his delight in the wild. The writing is not brilliant, at times the letters are repetitive, the images and words a little staid - and yet it reads true. It's not an vehicle for cleverness, just an honest story, simply told.

And lastly, William Condry's Welsh Country Essays. I'd long known of the late Bill Condry, the former Guardian nature diarist, but hadn't read many of his essays. These are the stuff of brilliance: sharp and heartfelt, deeply rooted in the landscape and beautiful in their simplicity. Condry is the George Orwell of the natural world - watching, wondering and gently educating as describes what he finds, and how it makes him feel. His writing is the sort that makes you pause for breath as well as thought. There's little if any research material in these essays, just a deep knowledge of Wales and what it means to be close to a land he loves. Utterly believable and absorbing. It cheered me up no end.

A pocket book of flowers

2011-08-24T12:47:00.002+01:00

I went to my local car boot on Sunday. How much for the little green book? I asked a trader. He wanted a quid; I offered fifty pence and we agreed to split the difference.

What I'd bought was a pocket book of flowers - or more accurately, A Flower Book For The Pocket, by Macgregor Skene, Professor of Botany at the University of Bristol. It's one of those beautifully illustrated field guides that became popular in the Forties as printing techniques allowed for cheaper reproduction of colour plates. The book is quite scholarly by today's standards, though it's written with real skill which makes the taxonomy accessible to the layman - a style that was later perfected by the Wayside and Woodland series and their ubiquitous cousins, the Observers Books.

This particular copy was bought in 1943 and it cost someone ten and six. I know that because there's a price mark on the first page and an inscription that reads:

To E from W.

When WE went NW.

August 43.

E has written her name, E M McGarry, on the inside leaf. I suppose E could just as easily be a 'him', but the writing looks feminine so I'm going to presume otherwise - not that it matters.

Whoever E was, she was a diligent botanist, ticking and dating the illustrations, noting any variance to the description. Common Hemp-nettle, she observes, is taller than described and Hedge Woundwort has solid not hollow suckers. She's added details of flowers and variants not included the book, commented on the accuracy of the illustrations, and my favourite, noted that 'high heathland' would be better defined as 'heights over 1500 feet'.

In '44 E saw a Hemp Nettle at St Brides Major (all her dates use an apostrophe). That same year she recorded a Marsh Gentian in Norfolk, Knotgrass in Cornwall and Water Avens at Borrowdale. Between '43 and '45 she includes sightings from Cambridge, Dartmoor, Stonehenge, Salisbury, Ogmore, Cowbridge, Exmoor and Suffolk. On a few occasions she's picked flowers and pressed them between the pages, their impressions still there after sixty years.

Reading her notes, it's possible to create a fictional portrait of E. From the frequency of the place names I'd say she came from the West Country, and she must have had transport to travel so far and so frequently. Remember, all this took place during the Forties, so presumably she was well off, and by the look of things, well educated too - her handwriting is beautifully formed and the accuracy of her notes indicates more than a keen amateur. As for who W was - her companion on that trip to the North West - a lover perhaps, or a sister?

I love these old books, and to me they are enhanced by the notes and jottings of a past life. I have a copy of the Wayside book of Dragonflies that includes handwritten lists of species seen in Wiltshire over many years, there is even copies of the owners correspondence with the book's author.

To a collector, books that have been marked are often devalued, the descriptions on ebay will typically say 'some scribblings and notes throughout' or 'considerable wear and pencil markings'. What they don't say is, the book includes a life that took joy from nature; someone, who in the midst of a World War, stopped to record the flowers she saw.

Those recordings stop abruptly in 1947. What happened to E after that I wondered? The notes gave me no clues. Until that is, I turned to page 353 - almost the last of the book - and there was that same handwriting, this time in biro, underlining and ticking Bladder Sedge, with the note Bratton Fleming ' 97.

I like to think that E lived a long life, that she had many books like this - that perhaps she turned to an old copy to remember W and reminisce about those trips to the Lake District and Cornwall. Bratton Flemming is on the edge of Exmoor - not quite 1500 feet about sea level. I wonder if she's buried there, and what flowers grow on her grave.

Coming of age.

2011-08-18T22:15:00.006+01:00

The picture above was taken on my eighteenth birthday. It isn’t the best likeness (not sure that smile was quite mine) but it’s the only one I have. It was taken by my girlfriend: before we went to university, before our first jobs, before we were married and later divorced. It was taken before I learned to climb, before I cycled in the Pyrenees, before breaking my leg and buggering my back. It was taken before coming to Wales, before meeting Jane, before the promotions and house moves, before my children... I could so easily fill this page.

I have a vivid memory as a teenager of deciding that life didn’t properly start until you were eighteen. I’d lie in bed and count the months I had to endure - calculating what percentage that was of the ‘sub-life’ I was living. Reaching eighteen was about as far ahead as I could imagine (though back then the idea of being twenty one still held some illogical significance). I doubt if I ever calculated the months to reaching thirty; that was as good as infinity. My ‘proper life’ would stretch on for ever... if only, that is, it would hurry up in getting started.

And yet somehow tomorrow it is my fiftieth birthday - and that picture seems at once a day and an age away.

Shorty after it was taken I left home. I spent three years as a student and have long regarded that as the period I truly grew up. But thinking now, what about my first job, my first house - all the things I listed above - aren’t those times just as significant? I hope never to stop learning, to facing the new or seeing the world differently - and in that sense, never to stop coming of age

I was given a birthday card this week - it proclaimed fifty was the new forty, some wag even suggested ‘thirty’. I hope it’s not. Because for one thing, the older I get the more comfortable I’ve become, not so much materially or even physically (though my waistline’s certainly more relaxed these days), but in my own skin; in my sense of being me and being confident with what that means. Youth has it’s delights but it also has its uncertainties and pressures - in my case it was dominated by anxiety and a sense of being deeply alone. It took me another eighteen years to admit that to anyone.

And so being fifty doesn’t seem that bad. It feels to me (and allowing for a few ups and downs) that life’s getting better, not worse. Despite what we read in the news, I’d argue that’s true for most of us - there's more freedom in the world, better health, information, nutrition, education.. just about everything bar pensions and wind-farms (sorry, couldn’t resist and don’t want to get too serious).

When I said this to a friend the other day they replied, 'but wouldn’t you like to be eighteen again, except with all you have now’.

Leaving aside the impossibility of the wish, I’m not sure I would, for it devalues the journey. Sure, I’d like to live longer; I’d love to be fitter and wish I still had my hair - but I wouldn’t gamble what I’ve had for another chance at life. I look at my children, at Jane, at where I live... and I feel extraordinarily privileged.

And with a little luck and grace, there'll be more to come.

Tin town halls

2011-08-09T11:11:00.008+01:00

For all its other qualities Pembrokeshire is not awash with grand architecture, at least not in the usual sense of that term. Much the same could be said of Wales. There are many reasons for this: the quality of local materials; a low wage community that prioritises economy over fancy design; and in the case of Pembrokeshire, the Atlantic weather which eats away at any structural weakness.

I read somewhere that Jan Morris had declared the quintessential Welsh building to be the farm. That's a good shout; it certainly isn't the castles, most of which were built by the English and in any case are largely in ruins. I'd add the chapel, particularly those Methodist tradition tabernacles which stand austere at the centre of most villages here abouts.

But a third, and often looked contender, could be the tin village hall. These are not unique to Wales but there's an abundance here that helps to define the place. Often they were attached to churches but the community would use them, if not quite seamlessly, for both religious and secular purposes. My late neighbour gleefully told me tales of Saturday night shagging behind our village hall - of course, there was a Sunday School too, he said.

Tin halls and churches are having a resurgence. There's some that are listed buildings, others have been converted to holiday homes; occasionally a tea room, an artists studio... They're a popular motif too: on postcards, paintings, tea towels - there's even a coffee table book of moody photographs called Tin Tabernacles.

Until recently our hall was open to the wind; House Martins had colonised the rafters with their pulp nests and in the cupboards you could find posters for the Silver Jubilee dance, paper plates in red white and blue. There was a sink unit holding white china crockery and a water boiler with a two pin plug.

Three years ago the church sold it off. It was bought by a local farmer - he's had it repainted, sealed the doors and otherwise left it alone. In a way I hope it stays that way. Better that than being replaced by a rendered bungalow.

It's easy to become falsely nostalgic about the heyday of these buildings. The sense of community the halls embodied and sustained has waned; in most places it's long gone. In isolation that's to be lamented, but the reality is that few us would opt for the life choices of those who built and used these glorified sheds. On a tangent, I once bemoaned the loss of the simple youth hostels in Wales to which a trustee replied that the visitors had stopped coming long before the hostels closed. There is an equivalence here, but let's not get too embroiled in politics and social history.

Few visitors come through my village unless they're lost. Those that do tend to be looking for the old church with its arts and crafts rood screen; most walk past the hall on the green without a glance. That's a pity, for in the right setting these tin structures are some of the finest and most typical architecture of Wales.

Encounters 2 - Grayling

2011-08-06T10:43:00.002+01:00

Of all the British butterflies my favourite has to be the Grayling. Blink and you'd miss it. Indeed, look hard, really hard, and you could miss it too. For the Grayling is the master of camouflage. Yesterday, on the path between Abereiddy and Penclegr, I showed one to a walker; my finger was three inches from its wings before he could spot it.

When I was teenager I kept a list of butterflies I'd seen. It wasn't long, not least because I lived in the Northumbria which is too far north for many species. With my as bike the only means of transport my range for exploring was also limited. Nonetheless, I had a second list: of butterflies I might see. And the Grayling was always up there in my mind, for it's colonies tend towards the coast and we lived only minutes from the dunes.

As it turned out I saw my first Grayling in the Alps; it was basking on a rock above the Col de Forclaz near Lac Leman (about as far from the coast as possible in Europe). At first I thought it was a Meadow Brown, but the moment it closed its wings I knew, for the distinctive V shaped markings had been etched in my collecting brain for twenty five years. I remember skipping with delight, tipping out my rucksack and scrabbling for my camera before it flew off.

In fact, it's not an easily spooked butterfly; quite often it will sit for minutes, leaning toward then away the sun, a behavior which evidently regulates its temperature. The Alpine Graylings are larger than those in the UK but variation is common - there are six sub species in Britain alone - and, frankly, it didn't matter to me; I'd seen one at last.

Of course, once one come along, then more follow. So it was in the Alps where I found dozens, and also back here in Wales; that same summer I discovered them three miles from my house. The largest colony I know of is in the shallow valley behind Carn Llidi, at the tip of West Wales. Amongst the bracken and heather are clusters of pale granite boulders, covered in lichen and perfect for both heating and disguise. Of the thousands of walkers who stop there for picnics I'd bet less than a handful notice the ginger flickering on the rocks, the slow turning of wings from left to right.

This year there are more than usual, and I've seen them further afield too. They are almost certainly breeding in pockets along the entire Pembrokeshire Coast, though numbers will vary and August is the best time to find them. The secret is to look very carefully; very carefully indeed.

****

The National Trust is running a love butterflies scheme, just tweet the butterflies you see, together with the postcode of the location and the tag #lovebutterflies

Interview

2011-08-05T17:03:00.003+01:00

I was recently interviewed by the writing website and forum, Writing Our Way Home.

The interview was about creativity and what lies behind my writing and painting. So if you'd like to know a little more about me and what drives my imagination, then check out this link.

On a loosely related theme, this morning I walked a long section of the coast path, more of which when I get some time to write about it. In the meantime, here are some pictures of the landscape by my home in Wales - it is this as much as anything that makes me want to write.

Some of you may also have noticed the new Facebook link on the sidebar; I'm told I need to do more networking.. mmm. But seriously, feel free to link up.

Pretty in pink

2011-08-01T07:41:00.006+01:00

Advocates of good food often talk of the need for seasonality. Real strawberries, they say, ripen in an English summer and not a Spanish poly-tunnel in January. The equivalent applies to apples, tomatoes, asparagus... you name it. What's more, by embracing the idea that different seasons bring different produce our enjoyment is enhanced - we appreciate the harvest and look forward to the next.

It's not a perfect analogy but something of the sort applies to one of my favourite places to eat. The Pink Caff (at least that's what I call it, for so far as I know it has no name), on the road between Newport and Cardigan, is open for a mere six weeks a year. Pembrokeshire's summer visitors make it a viable enterprise, but it's locals in the know who most eagerly await the appearance of the roadside billboard. This year I made a few early forays in the hope they'd extended their season, but no luck; I had to wait like everyone else.

And it was of course worth it. Yesterday, I had fish pie washed down with home made ginger beer, both as real as they come - and just the job after a walk along the delightful river Nevern. Dylan had a doorstop sausage sandwich, Jane's was crab and I swear there was a whole one in there; Mike tucked into a plate of chilli. The food is simple, home cooked, fabulously tasty and served on a jumble of old crockery at rickety tables in a botched up barn. Frankly, it's brilliant.

What I so like about the Pink Caff is it's lack of pretence. You go there for great food in relaxed surroundings; not to be fawned over or seduced by an out of place menu offering seventeen different coffees all ending ino. And the barn has its charm too. The table next to us yesterday described it as shabby chic - its the sort of place you actually talk to other people - but that's not quite right. It's more cobbled together than that - I'd say hippy-chick and cheerful, finished off with whatever's to hand. Like my new writing shed, it's very simplicity is the whole point - you either get it or you don't.

I resisted a pudding (though Jane didn't), which is quite a feat, for they don't ponce about with those either: rhubarb crumble, ginger sponge, chocolate pudding, home made cheese cakes - half portions available for the kids though I've never seen one ordered. And now I'm rather regretting that I did, for as I said at the start of this post there's a finite season for the best of foods.

What a shame, I shall have to go back there soon.

Of sheds and dens and being a boy

2011-07-30T11:11:00.007+01:00

Last week we had the builders round. Ostensibly they came to mend the fence, but before that I had a couple jobs which needed sorting in the potting shed. Just a bit of a tidy up, I said to Jane, and the electrics look ropey too. (I find that dodgy electrics is never questioned).

There followed a trip to B&Q: reels of cable, new sockets, masonry paint, thirteen lengths of 'two by four', three plywood boards, door hinges, polyfilla, junction boxes, woodstain - and a bill for two hundred quid (shhh...). Like I said, just a bit of a tidy up.

My grandfafther had a good shed; he called it his cabin. It was a gimcrack lean-to, painted pillar-box red and furnished with a bed for his afternoon naps after a few pints at the club. The shelves were stacked with jars of string or screws and bottles of unspeakable potions; he'd pasted the walls with our childhood drawings and we played there while he snored and the afternoon sun filtered through the net curtains. I'd have stayed there forever had there not been a time to go home.

My grandfather was clinically blind, and yet he had knack for dens. Once, he took us 'camping' (effectively a day trip to some wasteland) and we cooked sausages on an open fire, baked potatoes in the embers. I'll show you the tramps nest now, he said. And he led us to a tree with a whacking great platform of straw - it was big enough for two small boys, or a tramp, to sleep in I suppose. I remember him leaning on the trunk as we climbed the boughs; I'll just close my eyes, he said. I've never found a tramps nest since, and I've always wondered how he knew it was there. Wonderful man.

All my life I've delighted in sheds and tents, even mountain bothies. In a way they are all the same - a haven from the stress and pomp of the everyday world. It's an irony that by cutting out all the 'stuff' we work so hard to accumulate, we find a simpler, more profound pleasure.

But let's not get too philosophic. For there is something very uncomplicated about building dens. When my boys were small I taught them how to make shelters from sticks and bracken - now they are older they do the same with their younger brother. And when they get too distracted by their girlfriends or just generally surly, I and the little one go camping. Mostly we go a few miles from home, sometimes to the garden; it's as much about process as place.

All of which is long digression from my builders and the cost of materials. I left them to it as we headed to London - posh hotel, chaotic tubes, expensive restaurants - had enough after a couple of days. And driving back I mentioned casually, wonder if they've finished the fence?

As it turns out they did. But more importantly my new den was ready. My grandfather would have built it himself, before he lost his sight. But I'm time poor and I think he'd at least approve of the design. It has storage locker that converts to a bed, electrics (no longer dodgy) for a kettle and and a bench for writing. There's room for some homebrew, walls for Dylan's pictures, even shelves for a printer, books - perhaps jars with string and unspeakable potions.

And on Thursday night, before we'd even unpacked, Dylan and I tried it out. Your great grandad had a shed like this, I told him, his eyelids closing. He called it his cabin and I used to ...

Welcome everyone, to the new home of the bike shed.

Peacocks, Admirals, and Emperors

2011-07-26T14:59:00.009+01:00

In the front garden of my Wiltshire house is a towering buddleia. It dwarfs the privet hedge, dappling the lawn with shadow and brushing the roof of any car on the drive. One of the reasons I bought this house was that bush. In July it is thick with flowers and bees - there ought to be hundreds of butterflies too.

Yet this year I've seen only a handful feeding on its plumes. It was twenty five degrees on Saturday and there were two Red Admirals displaying, last week I saw a Large White; there has been the occasional blue. But that's about all and it's a worrying trend. The nature charity, Butterfly Conservation, organises a public recording scheme - The Big Butterfly Count - and the results show serious declines in the number of Tortoiseshell and more recently Peacock butterflies.

I had thought this would be a good summer. Our spring came early and it's been the best weather for years. But of course there are other factors - we had a very cold winter, last August was wet and the climate on the continent affects migration of many species that we mistakenly regard as residents - Red Admirals being an example. I suppose it's just possible that my garden isn't as attractive to butterflies as I'd imagined - only time will tell.

But I've found compensation for my disappointing buddleia in a local woodland. If I asked my neighbours for directions to the Three Crowns at Brinkworth, I reckon the majority could oblige. But if instead I queried the way to Sommerford Common (a mile or so from the pub), my guess is that I'd draw a blank. That's not surprising because it's hardly a visitor attraction.

Though perhaps it ought to be. For yesterday I went there with Dylan and Jane, and in a little more than thirty minutes we saw twelve different species. The highlight was a Silver Washed Fritillary crossing the forest break in an effortless glide. Earlier this summer I've seen Marbled White's, Large and Small Skippers, Essex Skippers (a misnomer if ever there was one) Ringlets, Meadow Browns, Brimstones, Gatekeepers, Common Blue... many more. Some of these were there yesterday; as were dozens of Peacocks feeding on the thistle heads, so drunk with nectar I could hold them between gentle fingers.

Sommerford Common is a site of scientific interest, a haven for butterflies and specially managed to assist and encourage insects. As far as I can tell that management seems largely to consist of leaving the trees well alone and clearing the breaks of debris - this creates corridors of light that are conducive to flowering shrubs and meadow grasses. And yet that simple policy results in a transformation in the levels of wildlife.

Walking there with Dylan was like going back to an imagined childhood: insects rising at every step, the chirping of crickets, dragonflies hovering over the scrub, jewel like beetles and damselflies, moths, butterflies, ladybirds... literally, hundreds of thousands of insects. Earlier this summer I went there and saw a hornet coming and going from a hollow in the grass; I stood motionless, gobsmacked by this fabulous creature that I'd longed for years to see.

There were no hornets yesterday and no White Admiral butterflies tough I'm convinced they must be there. And Dylan to be truthful wasn't up for looking much longer - he'd paid his usual attention to nature by insisting we play Star Wars throughout the entire trip. For the record, I was a Droid, Jane a Wookie and he was the Evil Emperor - any resistance was futile and looking for more silly butterflies would result in instant death. A White Admiral he assured me was no match for The Force.

As we neared the car a hawker dragonfly flew past and I suggested we play something different. How about I Spy? Something beginning with.

He looked at me disdainfully. It's going to be a B, isn't it?

Actually Dylan, it was going to be a D. D for drag..

I know, I know, he interrupted. It's Darth Vader!

Oh well, I suppose we're all different.

Thoughts on flowers and landscape

2011-07-17T09:42:00.006+01:00

The Pembrokeshire lanes are past their best. In June they sing with pinks and blues and the trumpets of foxgloves, gorse buds crowning the higher verges. The tradition here is not to use hedges between the fields, but to pile earth over stones, creating steep banks that effectively become meadow strips. By July the flowers are browning, long grasses bending over the last of the pinks; soon the council will be trimming the verges, clearing the roads for the hoards of summer tourists.

This process of cutting back is evidently essential to ensure the flowers return next year; like true meadows the banks need to be 'harvested' though I couldn't fully explain why. Indeed, I was thinking about this yesterday as I walked with Jane down the old drove road, noting all the flowers I could name and the many more I had no clue of. Wild plants, I said are something I know very little about.

That statement is relative. I clearly know something about how they thrive on the Pembrokeshire field banks, and for all I used the words 'pinks', I do know a Ragged Robin from a Red Campion - the blues would fox me though. I may not be able to name more than the common species but I'm generally aware of the presence of plants and their effect on the landscape.

Apart from butterflies (about which I do know quite a bit), the same goes for most aspects of natural history. I can identify more birds than the average person, but as soon as it comes to the 'little brown jobs', I'm lost. Moths I could tell you the family grouping but then it might get sticky; the same for fungi, sea life, and dragonflies. As for beetles, bugs and spiders... and what exactly is a lichen?

The truth is I'm a generalist, and a thin one at that. I know a little about everything and have a wide selection of identification guides for the times I bother to look things up. When I do, I'm usually checking for the name, which, when you think about it, is also a pretty superficial knowledge.

Last year I spent a week in North Wales with Nigel Brown from Bangor University; he knew more about the natural world than anyone I've ever met - he certainly knew about lichens, explaining that they're the symbiosis of a fungi and an algae. He knew too about the geology, the mammals, the rivers and the weather; we ran a moth trap every night and looked at stars through telescopes. A fascinating time, and if you're interested he's running a coastal wildlife weekend this september.

I shall never have Nigel's wealth of knowledge, but I've come to accept that's okay. I've realised something else too: that if I have any specialism at all, its an acute 'sense of place'. That's an imprecise concept, but I suppose I'm very aware of the overall the landscape, its relationship with the wider geography, culture, present and history. It's not enough for me to look at the mountains and rivers, I want to climb or kayak them; I want to walk or run the coast paths, to stand under the waterfalls, visit the derelict quaries, remote coves and down at heel towns. In Wales, where I've been doing this for twenty years, I'm acutely aware that I don't speak the language.

It is significant I think that although I write a lot about landscape I seldom take notes. I'm as likely to create a montage of photographs to trigger inspiration than to refer to lists or jotted reminders. Yesterday I could have picked some flowers to identify, but I didn't. Most important to me, is the way the landscape feels and that is largely an internal thing; a kinesthetic experience, in the language of the neuro-linguistic types. It is something more than knowing the names of plants or birds.

Or perhaps I should say it is something different. For deep down I wish I knew what those blue flowers were called, and those little brown birds that flit between the hawthorns. As for the browning grasses that define the lanes in July - I've never really thought about those.

Coast to Coast

2011-07-04T22:11:00.004+01:00

It's nice when a plan comes together. Especially when it's others who benefit as well as yourself. So the picture of me with my bike in the sea - taken last Friday - is as much a celebration for them as it was for me. It marked the end of a six month and a five day journey.

Last January I had an idea. Why not organise a bike ride from my company's most western depot in Aberystwyth to our most eastern in Norwich, and then on a bit more to the sea? We'd travel from coast to coast, across the middling spread of England and Wales. And as part of the deal we'd all raise some money for charity. All I needed were some others to join me and a bit of training.

Finding volunteers wasn't a problem and my company got behind the plan with gusto. The training wasn't too bad either and last Monday myself and twenty colleagues set off over the Cambrian Mountains. Five days later we arrived in Norwich having raised around fifty thousand pounds for charity. For my part, when the cheques all come in I shall top two thousand pounds for Whizz-Kidz. To all of you who sponsored me, encouraged me, and inspired me, many thanks - you can take pleasure in knowing that your donations really will make a difference.

But what of the ride itself?

It's a long time since I rode a tour of that length and my legs are sore, but the impressions are more than just physical. Crossing the country by pedal power has left me with thoughts, not all fully formed, about the landscape, the places and the people we passed. Most of it is positive, if a perhaps little biased.

If I'm honest about the landscape my overriding impression is that after Wales it was all down hill. Given the height of the mountains this is almost true topographically, but it's also true, for me at least, in a scenic and cultural sense. It's not that Shropshire or Warwickshire or Northampton or Cambridgeshire don't have their good points - it's just that none of these could lift my spirits as do the mountains and forests I've adopted as my second home these last twenty years. The only sadness was the wind turbines despoiling the hills above Cwmystwyth - why is it, I wondered, that I saw more turbines in Wales than the three hundred miles which followed. I could weep, I really could.

The sound of the landscape is pertinent too - and again, the further east we went the quieter it became. Not from lack of road noise (that tended towards the opposite) but from birdsong - never before have I been so aware of how silent the huge industrialised fields of modern farming can be. It was eerily so at times, and all the more noticeable as we passed the intermittent hedgerows from which the chattering would return.

And yet I rather liked the Fens - to some extent they were an exception that proved the rule - I especially liked their wide skies and whispering fields of corn. We met a farmer near Ely who allowed us to shelter from a storm in his barn - he and his brother worked five hundred acres with the help of two tractors and his wife who graded the potatoes. He told me he had always wanted to go to Wales to see the hills, though he loved his flatland farm and pointed out, with pride, that it was below sea level.

My impressions weren't just of landscape. Most of the people I rode with were neither experienced cyclists nor the senior managers I typically know. They were front line staff, out to do something different and significant. They rode with courage and humour and were supported by wives, fathers, brothers, children, colleagues, customers... Throughout our week we recieved hundreds of messages, emails, tweets, blog comments and personal visits. One of the most memorable moments was the unexpected visit by the family of one of our riders, his children waiting for us at a village green with cakes and drinks and banners.

And so on Friday lunchtime I arrived at the east coast, at California Norfolk. Ironically there were turbines off shore, just out of shot in the photograph - that too gave me pause for thoughts, but I'll leave those for another time. Most importantly, I'd made it - half a stone lighter and a great deal prouder of myself, my colleagues, my company and even my adopted country, than when I began.

Like I said, it's nice when a plan comes together.

Encounters 1 - Kites

2011-06-21T23:53:00.006+01:00

The road going north from Tufton crosses the the Preseli Hills in three distinct pulls, each a little steeper than the last. At the head of the pass there's a scruffy layby-cum-car park from where you can walk to the iron age forts of Cerrig Lladron, or take a longer squelch up Foel Cwmcerwyn. The later is the highest peak on the Preseli ridge, not quite a mountain at 536m, though it feels that way when you're up there.

On Saturday I cycled over the pass, on my way to the delightful estuary at Newport. It is seldom busy in these hills, but the heavy showers meant there was only one car at the summit. I didn't hang around, freewheeling into the lee of the wind, then stopping to don a jacket before the steep descent to the sea.

It was then that I saw the kite, hovering above the slope to my right, it's distinctive fan tail held upright to the wind. It was prowling the hillside, flying just above the scrub, crisscrossing the moor in a meticulous search. As it neared the road, it saw me too, came nearer and hovered only meteres away.

It was big for a red kite, through the wind was ruffling its feathers and I wonder if at this time year they moult, for they looked ragged. The bird held fast to its position, arched wings on the edge of stalling in the ridge lift; its primary feathers spreading and bending with each gust. I noticed its head was much lighter than the body, almost white, and smaller than I expected - very neat, more like a hawk than a buzzard.

The kite must have stayed there a minute, perhaps more - each of us looking at the other, fascinated in our ways. They used to be rare in this part of Wales and though still not common, red kites are no longer endangered. Shortly after I met Jane we cycled on a tandem from Rhayader to Tregaron, passing the then only nesting grounds above the Elenydd dams. You'll not see an adult bird, the lady in our guesthouse had said - they're all on the nests or out hunting in the hills. But she was wrong - for a male came to hover by us on that road too; it kept backing up as we neared, always facing us, maintaining a distance of perhaps three or four metres. It stayed with us for more than a mile.

That was twenty years ago. There were military lookouts on the road that weekend, guarding the nests from egg collectors. Since then the red kite has made a remarkable comeback. It has been reintroduced elsewhere in Britain, though it is the birds in Wales that are the original natives.

And as I'm writing this on the solstice I should mention that over to the east of where I saw the kite on Saturday comes a different original. For on the slopes above Mynachlog Ddu, at Carn Bica and Mynnydd Bach are the bluestones - it is rocks from here that form the first and inner ring of monoliths at Stonehenge. A few years ago I walked the ridge and camped overnight with my son amongst these rocks; we woke to frost and saw a kite that morning too, above the lambing fields as we descended to our pick up at Crymych.

The kite eventually left me, gliding low over the moor; it flushed a skylark and carried on toward Brynberian. Moments later its silhouette fused with the heather. I zipped my jacket, tucked low to the wind and flew down the hill before more showers arrived.

Going widdershins

2011-06-12T13:10:00.008+01:00

This spring I've been training for a ride across Britain, cycling the lanes of north Wiltshire to improve my fitness. In January I was struggling to manage an hour, now forty miles in less than three isn't a problem. So it's being going well; I ride a carefully planned route, taking me through pleasant if not spectacular countryside. And over the weeks I've seen that landscape change: the hedgerows budding, the golden rapeseed, the finches and flocks of yellow hammer, the May blossom falling.

But after a while any route can become routine. Last Sunday was thick with clouds, the roads damp and a northerly wind threatening showers. 'Are you sure you want to go,' Jane asked, heading upstairs with her book and a cup of tea. As I togged up in waterproofs the prospect of a lie in seemed a lot more appealing than yet another circuit of the lanes.

So, as if in perverse delight, I decided to reverse my usual direction. Instead of riding clockwise I'd go north up the Fosse Way and meet the wind on that straightest of Roman Roads. It would make a change I thought, and if nothing else, would boost my fitness. As I rode from the drive I turned right instead of left, then paused at the next junction. It was one of those 'senior moment' when your memory fails you; I've travelled this route dozens of times and yet there I was reorienting myself after less than a mile.

The ride wasn't as tough as I feared. A heavy shower brought brighter skies and the wind never quite reached a gale. Indeed it felt easier this way round, the hills a little less steep, and I was soon passing the teashops of Tetbury. But I pressed on, turning left at the next village, right down a farm track, same again at the junction and straight on at the cross roads.

And maybe that's where I went wrong. I'm not sure, it could have been the previous crossing - but anyway I found myself riding past a lake and I was darn certain I'd not seen it before. Quite where the lake was I wasn't sure, or what direction I was heading - the water was bounded by trees so even the wind was unreliable. I pressed on, hoping for a road sign.

The evening before my ride I'd been to an event that was part of a literary festival. The writer Olivia Laing was talking about her book, To The River, a journey down the Ouse in Sussex; the place where Virginia Wold had drowned. My first question to her was, which way had you travelled, upsteam or down? Later we talked and I mentioned the different experience that kayaking brings - the closeness to the water, being part of the flow, at times in it - as opposed to looking from above.

After passing the lake I stopped at a gate, searching for clues to my whereabouts. There was a gradual fall to the land, the scarp of Lynham banks to the south, the last of the rapeseed turning in the breeze. I hadn't seen the fields this way before - or at least I hadn't noticed them. Gradually I pieced it together, and ironically it was a tower I've always regarded as out of place that put me back on track. If I reversed my route and turned left after the lake, with a little fiddling I'd soon be on familiar ground.

When I got home Jane remarked that I was late. I explained that I'd ridden an unintentional ten mile loop. It's odd I said, the difference a change in perspective can make. Habit too plays a part. I usually play my banjo with fingers a blur, yet if I reverse the roll pattern, suddenly I'm stuttering, taking one string at a time - pausing at each note.

And sometimes that's a good thing to do. For with banjos it's easy to lose the melody to speed, and I suppose with our routines, cycling or otherwise, there's an equivalent prospect. Whatever, I shall certainly ride anticlockwise again - and maybe I'll go visit that lake in the sunshine.

Sound of the sea

2011-05-29T11:42:00.003+01:00

In the morning early
I go down to the sea
And I see the mist on the shore;
I listen and I listen.

I was brought up near the sea and have listened to it all my life.

My junior school was an Edwardian edifice called Rockcliffe, and the name describes well its positioning above Browns Bay near Cullercoats on the North East coast. In winter the windows were streaked with salt, and at break we'd huddle behind the playground walls thinking of the fishermen in peril who were a regular subject of school assembly. One of my earliest memories is playing dare with the swell as it drenched the railings on the lower cliff path.

My mother was a teacher at Rockcliffe. One evening she wrote a song using chime bars to tap out the tune. Later that night she allowed us down from our bedroom to try out the verses and the next day her class sang it in school. By coincidence the school was preparing for a radio broadcast and the producers asked if they could use the song to introduce the show.

That song is now published across the world. It's been a staple of the BBC's Songs for Schools and Come and Praise for forty years. Despite this, my mother received only a few pounds from royaltes until she learned a recording was being used by the BBC as a radio theme tune. She contacted the performing rights society, was given a substantial backdated compensation, and now receives a small, but not to be sniffed at, income from royalties.

A few weeks ago I told this story to some friends on a writing course; one of them remembered the song from her childhood. I sang it in faltering voice, the first time in years. And as I did so it was clear why this simple hymn has been so popular. It is a primary teacher's dream - the perfect musical accompaniment to a project on the seashore. But it also has that quality of drawing our attention to something we're not always aware of, and yet is vital to the experience.

Yesterday my middle son was fifteen. After giving him his presents we went for a walk from Porth Clais on the Pembrokeshire coast. The sky was streaked with plane trails, a sharpness to the air after a morning of rain, the swell on the rocks, ice white. After a mile or so we lay down in a hollow and I sat watching the tide run through the reef between us and the bird island of Carreg Fran.

We must have been there half an hour: Daniel flat out in seconds, Mike cradling his girlfriend, Dylan's imagining himself a Jedi knight and Jane snoozing in the heather. I counted boats (five), watched a cormorant steal a fish from a gull, and tried to remember when I'd last kayaked this stretch of coast. But most of all I listened to sea.

Our thoughts about the sea are tied up with the view, the horizon, our history and memory - the taste and the smell too. So many things. But I'd defy you to experience the sea without hearing its voice; indeed the sea without sound would be a strangely dead place. Yesterday, with my family on the cliffs above Porth Clais and the wind sucking at the swell, I hummed my mother's song. As the words came back to me, the sea felt more alive than ever - and, just for a moment, so did I.

Here is the song in full.

In the morning early
I go down to the sea
And I see the mist on the shore;
I listen and I listen

When I go to the rocks
I go looking for shells
And I feel the sand beneath my feet;
I listen and I listen

When the stormy day comes
Waves crash on the cliffs
And the wind whistles through my hair;
I listen and I listen

And at night when I sleep
And the sea is calm
The gentle waves lap the shore;
I listen and I listen

I sometimes think that God
Is talking to me
When I hear the sound of the sea;
I listen and I listen

Hazel Charlton

Objects of desire

2011-05-23T22:04:00.002+01:00

On Friday I bought a water jug. It's quite large as jugs go, stoneware with an earthen finish, glazed green inside; it was made by a potter whose name I've forgotten but I recall sounded Swedish. The jug was on display in the David Mellor factory in Hathersage. As we browsed the shop I kept going back to pick it up, judge it's weight and feel the curve of the handle; when Jane walked back to the car I quickly bought it.

'That's a lot for a jug,' she said, when I told her the price. A little defensive, I pointed out that our dinner for three (in a Beefeater steakhouse) would likely cost as much and we'd not think twice about that. And whereas the dinner would be forgotten by tomorrow, I might use the jug for years; keep it for life even.

For me, this is an increasing state of mind. As I get older I find myself buying objects that I don't as such need, but that strike me as beautiful, and useful - items that might give me pleasure every day. Not many are as pricey as the jug; I bought an antique toffee tin the next day for two pounds and the most gorgeous writing slope for forty (it will house my laptop and a plethora of 12volt chargers). Few cost more than a fill of petrol.

I'm conscious that to some that last comment might appear flippant; lots of people can't afford to fill their car at a whim, and I'm deeply fortunate not to have to count every pound. I could give all manner of justifications but deep down I suspect I'll always be sensitive to the privileges I enjoy; hard earned or not. And in truth I'd not wish to change that - it's a safety valve that helps me take as much pleasure in owning (relatively) simple things as some seemingly get only from way more expensive purchases.

In my loftier moments I like to think that I'm following in an Arts and Crafts tradition; surrounding myself with objects that exhibit a truth to materials and a sense of craftsmanship that makes life a greater a joy. Certainly, there's an honesty and utility to jugs and the like that you seldom find in the fine arts - much though I love paintings, they are by their nature 'on display' rather than in use. But in truth my purchases are less consistent philosophy and more that I'm periodically confronted by objects of desire I simply can't resist.

Years ago my father in law said to me that the best thing about becoming a headmaster was being able to afford any book he wanted. His point was that not sweating the smaller pleasures was a greater delight than affording a bigger house or a new car, the so called and more stereotypical trappings of success. It has always struck me as a healthy approach.

I like books too and Amazon's 'buy now with 1-click' could easily be one of my more serious vices. Thankfully I have it under control. So too is my buying of pottery. Or at least I thought so - for the next day, when Jane wasn't looking, I bought a jar for no other purpose than to look at!

Books I'm reading # 10

2011-05-11T21:30:00.002+01:00

After a rather fallow winter I've been catching up with some better reads this spring - my enthusiasm renewed by the purchase of a garden swing seat that I've taken to lounging on; book in one hand, beer in the other, teenager doing the lawns... ah, that's better. Here's a small selection.

First up is True History of The Kelly Gang by Peter Carey, a one time Booker Prize novel and the best fiction I've read in ages. It's written as a first person narrative, as if it were the 'authentic' voice of Ned Kelly, using little punctuation, a crude dialect and a disarmingly simple narrative style. The genius of this bold approach is that by chapter three I was so taken in I'd ceased to regard it as fiction. Still now, it feels like its literal title - the true history of the Kelly gang. A fabulous book and a monumental achievement.

I was delighted to be given an advance proof of Rory Maclean's, Gift of Time. This too is a story of which we know the ending, for it chronicles the last months of his mother's life after a diagnosis of terminal cancer. The book is presented as a diary of three voices - Rory, his wife and his mother - each coming to terms with the inevitable. Paradoxically, it is a hugely hopeful story as each voice, in its own way, reaffirms what is most joyful and important in life. And its hopeful too in standing at odds with the modern tendency to relinquish old age and dying into the hands of others. The book is available for pre-order on Amazon or at book shops and I'll write a fuller review nearer its publication.

Jan Fortune Wood was one of the first women to be ordained into the Church of England. Stale Bread and Miracles is a series of prose poems that tells the story of how, from inspired and expectant beginnings, she came to leave the church, disillusioned with its politics, misogyny and plain lack of care. This is not a hopeful book, and typically not something I'd chose - but in fact I loved it. By the end I wanted to clap and cheer- thank God you left, at last you saw the light.

On the subject of politics, I read James Whyte's, A Load of Blair in an afternoon on the sun lounger. I like Whyte, he's a rigorous thinker with the ability to make logic entertaining. His better known book, Bad Thoughts: A Guide to Clear Thinking, targets the nonsensical assertions of religion, the press and Government. A Load of Blair, as the title suggests, takes a particular look at the spin of New Labour (with Blair as its master craftsman) and more generally the vacuous claptrap of modern political rhetoric. I guess most of us like to think we know, or at least can sense, when we're being duped - but this book dissects political rhetoric at a whole new level. It is relevant, funny and recommended if you like that sort of thing.

Winston Smith (not his real name you understand) was the winner of last year's Orwell Prize. A link to his blog is on my sidebar - it you haven't read it before, then prepared to be shocked, angry and a little lost at the desperate state of social care for young people in Britain. Generation F is the book of the blog; an insider's account of (in his view) the counter productive, bureaucratic and wasteful madness he encounters as a care-worker on a social housing scheme. Smith paints a picture of a system so driven by political correctness and its own funding structure, that it is singularly failing at all levels - particularly its ability to offer any hope or answer to the most antisocial contingent, which he describes as 'feral brutes'. If I have one criticism it is the absence of a clearly articulated alternative - Smith's views on the current system are self evident, but a chapter setting out his vision for an alternative structure, funding and objectives would have raised the book to another level . You may not agree with all he has to say, but the Generation F is an eye opener nonetheless.

And finally Roald Dahl - never my favourite children's author, I'd always thought his books to be overly long and full of cliches. But what do I know; Dylan loves them. And together we pretend they are written especially for him. So we've read aloud Dylan and the Giant Peach, Dylan and the Chocolate Factory, Dylan the Champion of the World, The Giraffe the Peli and Dylan, as well as Fantastic Mr Fox (real name Dylan) and others. And in so doing I've come to appreciate Roald Dahl a little better; it's not so much the writing that matters - its me and my boy, reading together, hatching plots, flying peaches, poaching pheasants and squashing baddies; what stories should be I suppose.

Ty Newydd - and the importance of place

2011-05-07T12:40:00.004+01:00

The view from the garden, Ty Newydd, North Wales

Last week I completed the final assignment of my creative writing degree. It marked the end of an nine year journey that began when I noticed my sketch books were more full with words than drawings. In that time I've progressed from the vague idea that I might have something to say, to well... what you're reading now.

It was appropriate that I put down my pen - or more accurately, clicked the save key - in the garden of Ty Newydd, the last home of Lloyd George and now of the National Writing Centre, Wales. I first came here shortly after I started writing, having enrolled on a course with the Open College of the Arts but looking for additional support and, in truth, some validation that I had the latent ability to make it worth carrying on.

What I found would have a profound effect, not just on my immediate work but on my confidence and sense of worth as a writer. For Ty Newydd is that sort of place. I remember my first visit, a 'tutored retreat' facilitated by the poet Janice Moore Fuller. I'd sneaked a last minute place and felt entirely out of my depth, especially when she said, 'we'll come together each evening so we can share what we've been working on'. I wasn't sure what I was going to write never mind read it aloud.

But I loved it. I worked from seven till seven, barely stopping to eat; the atmosphere was inspiring, the feedback supportive, the evening get togethers, intelligent, creative and boozy. I was gutted when I learned the centre would soon be closing for a full year's renovation - in fact I squeezed in another course just before it did.

And over the years I've returned time and again. I've attended courses on landscape, short fiction, science and writing, journeys and journals, nature writing; a host of retreats too. I try to come whenever my work is at the stage it needs some real focus and the creative input that a shared commitment seems to bring. In parallel with my degree tutors, it is the support from Ty Newydd that has shaped my writing and brought me to where I am now.

Last week I not only completed my last assignment, I went to visit my soon to be publisher, Cinnamon Press (I can hardly believe I just wrote that). That too has a connection with Ty Newyyd, for the introduction was made by Jim Perrin, a tutor on an early course and whose mentoring and friendship, has encouraged me more than any other.

Other tutors and readers too: John Latham, Mark Cocker, David Constantine, Celia Brayfield, Ruth Padel, Niall Griffiths, Carol Anne Duffy, Christine Evans - where else could I have worked with and learned from writers like these? To be fair, the Arvon Foundation runs similar courses and I've attended a few, but it's Ty Newydd I come back to. Partly that's preference; more objectively I'd argue Ty Newydd is a genuinely special place - the house itself, its connections to Wales and the landscape, history and culture. It's no coincidence that these are recurring themes of my writing.

Places like Ty Newydd need our support. At time when arts funding is tight it's understandable that questions are asked, that the value and efficacy of its output is reviewed. But how do we measure the success of a national writing centre? Should we look the hundreds of school children who come here and measure the difference it makes to their exam results? Should we count the number of published writers, or review the course anthologies and assess the quality of work produced?

Or should we, as in my case, consider too the friends I've made, the help I've received, the wider impact on my motivation, my degree, my book, my blog... and indeed my life.

*******

Post Script - completing the circle, I'll be tutoring a course on Blogging for Writers at Ty Newydd this autumn. My co tutor is the acclaimed travel writer Rory Maclean, and the guest reader, prolific blogger and author, Fiona Robyn.

Route finding on Snowdon

2011-05-02T21:05:00.007+01:00

Snowdon from the Deiniollen quarries - it was sunnier last week.

On Friday, when half the nation was watching 'that wedding' I walked up Snowdon. It wasn't so much an act of protest as a simple opportunity to climb a great mountain on a fabulous day. Hundreds, possibly thousands of others, had the same idea.

Snowdon (or Yr Wyddfa) is of course the highest mountain in Wales. The massif consists of three distinct summits, arranged in a horseshoe formation, but it's the central peak that most climbers aim for. From the summit there are some of the most spectacular views in the UK. I realised it was fifteen years since I'd last stood there.

My route took me up the old Miners Path, returning by a variant known as the Pyg track. Both are now scars on the mountain; their routes passing the industrial detritus of a lost age, as well as the disgraceful hydro electric pipes that are today's equivalent. On the final slopes is an incongruous and yet somehow not inappropriate funicular railway line, and to top it all is a dull, box-like, summit cafe. It must be one of the ugliest mountain tops in wales.

Snowdon then, is a magnificently flawed mountain. It has sweeping views and hidden corners that leave me breathless, yet within yards there's as much that brings me to rage; huge tracts are untouched wilderness, a small proportion so tramped that the rock steps need replacing. It reminds me of what a colleague said about Wales when I first came here, the ugliest and most beautiful place on earth.

Friday had its share of diversity too. I passed a man travelling barefoot, another in a ceremonial kilt; there was a lady whom, I assume for reasons of faith, was wearing an ancle length black hessian dress and matching headscarf (notably her husband wasn't burdened with this inappropriate garb). Finally, there was a couple carrying golf clubs to play pitch and put on the summit.

Actually, that finally isn't correct. For there were hundreds more walkers in fleeces, families in shorts, lads in hoodies and girls in not much but tattoos. There were Welsh and English and Japanese and Dutch and Eastern Europeans and Americans. A toddler was having a strop because she wanted the picnic now!; a chap who looked at least ninety was swaying in the wind - he gave the impression that if he stopped he wouldn't start again.

And yet amongst all this it was someone else who was in my mind.

Almost thirty years ago, on the day that Charles and Diana were married, I walked with my grandfather up Windy Gyle in the Cheviot hills. It was the last proper mountain we'd climb together. I remember us arriving at the summit cairn to find a group of about half a dozen disaffected blokes all smoking pipes, you've escaped as well, they said.

We saw an adder on our way down and I recall my grandfather explaining how to use the intersection of the horizon as guide to your height on the mountain. I showed him where I'd camped wild when walking the Pennine Way and how I'd found water in a hidden gully. We had a shared love of the landscape that transcended other differences; obvious ones like age, but also attitudes to politics and ways of seeing the world. He was scientist; I'm a... well at that time I was probably all of a muddle.

And it was walks like those that helped me become a little less so. Twelve years later, when my grandfather died and soon after I first climbed Snowdon, I asked for his compass; it couldn't be found. No matter, for in a sense I'd already inherited it.

They say we don't change much beyond our teenage years, at least not our personalities. It's the experiences we have as young people, what we are given and what is taken away, which fundamentally shapes our inner self. And thereafter, no amount of life's wear and tear can make much difference.

I'm not sure if that's scientifically correct. But sheltering under Snowdon's trig point on Friday, it felt about right. And as I looked across its scarred slopes, over my half adopted country, towards the north and east, to the land of my father, it felt as true of this place as it was of my granddad, and ultimately of me.

Progression - the good, the bad and the uhm, I'm not sure...

2011-04-17T22:50:00.003+01:00

On Friday I wrote post that praised the philosopher Jamie Whyte for his clear thinking and rigorous logic. I cited, as an example, his recent interview on Radio Four, during which he made the case that progressive taxation was a unfair. Since then I've had a number of emails asking me to explain more.

What follows isn't just about tax, it's about our tendency to accept commonplace values without asking the question: why do we think that? I'm sure that to many of you it will also be a good example of why philosophers can be irritating. For the few who get to the end, it might just show how difficult it is to justify much of what we take for granted.

Now back to taxation - don't fall asleep yet please.

Over recent months, politicians and the media have been full of claims that this or that policy is regressive or progressive. The general iimplication is that progressive is good, and regressive is bad. In the context of tax, Progressive Taxation is the idea that the more you earn, the higher percentage of your income you should pay. And it's the 'higher percentage' bit that is offensive to Whyte.

Whyte isn't arguing that the better off shouldn't pay more tax. What he questions is the accepted wisdom that says they should be obliged to pay an even higher percentage of tax. To put this into context, in the UK the standard rate of income tax is 20%; it increases to 40% for incomes over £37,500; it rises again at £100,000 (because at this point people begin to lose their personal allowance) and again at £150,000, by which point the tax rate is 50%.

Whyte says this approach is a punishment for success. He argues that a fundamental aspect of fairness is that we treat people the same, but in this case we are arbitrarily saying 'because you are successful you not only have to pay more - you have to pay disproportionately more.' He says there is no moral justification for this approach - and in no way can it be described as fair.

On radio last week, his interviewer challenged this, saying the system treated all rich people the same, and therefore it did not treat people differently. Whyte replied with incisive logic that this was equivalent to levying a tax on bald people or black minorities and saying it was fair because we treated all bald or black people the same. No, it isn't enough to treat all 'better of' people the same, we have show why it is reasonable that they should pay disproportionately more than others.

His interviewer challenged again: but aren't richer people lucky to be earning more than others? Isn't the roll of life's dice such that they have their income by good fortune?

Whyte argued that this was not so; the vast majority of higher incomes result from a mixture of skill and application. Success was not a lottery and this is why we encourage education, and reward hard work. And most of us intuitively agree with this - for example, not many headmasters, doctors or company managers would concede that they are where they are, as a result of luck. No, the argument of 'good fortune' is not strong enough justification.

So why then, do not more people and politicians question progressive taxation?

Whyte went on to argue that the system is actually bad for the economy, because it creates a disincentive to work harder. In making this point, however, he acknowledged it was a practical argument rather than anything to do with fairness.

And perhaps that hints at an answer to the earlier question. Politically, progressive taxation makes sense - the alternative, of putting taxes up by a smaller amount for everyone, is hardly a vote winner. And frankly, where else are we going to get the money from? Progressive ideas also make for good soundbites, such as David Cameron's aphorism that, 'those with the broadest shoulders should carry the biggest burden'.

But none of these are arguments for fairness. Neither are statements you might just be thinking now, such as they can afford it or it would be a nice problem to have. We might feel like that when we hear of bankers' bonuses or footballers' wages, but they are not a coherent argument for fairness. They also ignore the reality that higher tax rates kick in at a fairly low level; for example, most heads of department in a secondary school will hit the 40% threshold.

So if, like me, you still feel there is something not quite right with Whyte's argument, then what is it he is missing? Why exactly do I think it is right that the better off not only pay more tax, but pay disproportionately more? In a moment I'll give you my answer. But before I do, I'd acknowledge that my arguments are not very strong; they rely to large extent on unprovable assertions and probably to an even greater extent on a desperation not to share the same views as reactionary Tories.

Perversely, this is why I like Whyte so much; he makes me think; he makes me question my views and come up with real hard reasons in support of them.

So why is Whyte wrong?

Actually, I don't think he is. I think his arguments are logically consistent and if you hold to them rigorously they are beyond my skill to dismantle. But I do think he gives too little weight to the idea of society and the economy as whole.

While it is true that most people who are 'better off' achieve this through skill and application; they also need a flourishing wider society to make this possible. Skill and application will not get you very far if you are alone on a desert island! There is also a historic inheritance upon which all successful people build - today's engineers owe a debt to the past, as do our doctors, teachers, writers... everyone. In other words our success, however great or modest, is almost never entirely our own work.

I'd argue that those who benefit the most from the existence of the wider society and the achievements of the past, should fairly contribute a greater amount to its upkeep. I'm sure that Whyte would argue, that they would already be paying more - and he'd be right - but then we get into the realm of value judgements. I think it is not unreasonable that better off people pay a higher percentage as well as higher total amount.

How much more, and whether the thresholds of forty and fifty percent are reasonable, is another issue - in fact, I'd agree with Whyte that our tax system is very poorly designed and that the use of sharp thresholds creates real disincentives. We also, quite bluntly, tax too much - but that really is a different matter.

Enough from me. What do you think? Is Whyte an insightful maverick or plain wrong? Should we all pay the same rate or should the rich pay even more? Either way, let me know your reasons.

Chalk and cheese

2011-04-15T19:06:00.006+01:00

Image from Google Images

David Willetts, minister for universities and science, is fast becoming the most irritating politician in Britain - certainly, he appears to be one of the most desperate. I've written before about his claims that the increase in university fees are somehow a matter of fairness rather than a financially driven imperative. More recently he's been clutching at even frailer straws.

One of Willetts' recent pronouncements was that what mattered was not the total level of debt students would accrue - but rather how much their repayments would be. When I heard this I nearly punched the TV screen! Willetts' approach is the political equivalent of those loan consolidation adverts that prey on the vulnerable: replace all your loans with one easy payment; no mention that your debt will take twenty years to pay off and is secured against your house.

As if that wasn't enough he's now imitating Canute in denying the tide of universities that have declared fees at the maximum amount. Of the 37 universities to announce, 27 have set them at the maximum. But having earlier said that fees of £9000 would be the 'exception' it would be too much to expect Willetts' to admit he'd been wrong. Instead he says it is early days, that there will be new providers, that the average will be lower...

This last point is a classic example of political sophistry. Willetts' claims the headline figures ignore the subsides available to poorer students, and that we should look at the average fee. Yet he knows full well that students don't pay 'the average' - they either get an assisted place or not. The vast majority will pay between £8500 and £9,000.

The most irritating thing about Willetts is that his slippery logic is so unnecessary. Everyone understands we have some difficult funding choices to make. I would prefer us to hold university fees and make sacrifices elsewhere - but I recognise it's possible and entirely logical to take a different view based on different preferences. What I can't stand is the desperate attempts to present a tough choice as something other than what it is.

Why can't Willetts' just tell the plain truth - that the Government believes increased fees are a financial necessity (not a fairer system); that unfortunately, student debts will be a significantly greater burden on graduates (not lesser because repayments start a little later in life); and that the rapid adoption of maximum fees by most universities is disappointing (not mitigated by putative averages).

The answer of course is politics - and the ridiculous nature of our soundbite democracy that doesn't allow for debate based on agreed facts, declared preferences and logical analysis. Instead, after 350 years of parliament we've become so used to the obfuscating nonsense of people like Willetts that we regard it as the norm.

How refreshing then to hear Jamie Whyte on Radio Four's More or Less today.

Whyte is the antithesis of Willetts: a liberal philosopher, rigorously logical, open to different views, and prepared to tackle those that are so ingrained we take them for granted. His book, Bad Thoughts - a guide to clear thinking, is to my mind, a great example of how philosophic thinking can be applied to modern issues. In it, he tackles themes as varied as the Holy Trinity, anorexia and banking profits - but its underlying theme is the need to question, to face facts and respond to them in a consistent way.

Typical of Whyte, he was today arguing against a canon of modern politics - that progressive taxation (the richer you are, the higher percentage you should pay) is a good and fair thing. I don't wholly agree with his position on tax, though much of what he said is highly persuasive and showed deep flaws in our accepted approach. But I do admire his willingness to question the herd, to declare his sources, to explain his reasoning and ensure the facts that support it are sound.

It was probably a forlorn hope - but I did wish that Willetts was listening too.

Books I'm reading - Ten Pound Pom

2011-04-09T09:54:00.001+01:00

Niall Griffiths is a writer of apparent contradictions. A Liverpudlian living in Wales; a sensitive man who delights in the profane; alive to nature yet a long time stoned or blotto. Actually, none of these are necessary contradictions - but to use his own writing style, it does make him an awkward fucker.

And so it's no surprise that his latest book, Ten Pound Pom, chronicles a country which he variously describes as racist, over-legislated, Blackpool in the sun... and shite. By the second chapter it's clear there's lots about Australia that Griffiths doesn't like, and he gives the impression he knew this before he travelled. But then writing a guide book was never the point of Ten Pound Pom.

Griffiths' parents were Seventies migrants, seeking a better life under the Australian Government's assisted passage scheme. After the War, more than a million British people came to Australia hoping to find a new England; the scheme was part of a wider policy that actively discriminated against non-white immigration. Griffiths himself was nine when he arrived. He stayed for three years before his parents returned to Liverpool.

Thirty years on, he travels overland from Brisbane, retracing the journey he'd made with his parents and siblings in a station wagon. The route takes him through New South Wales, to Sydney, Canberra and Melbourne - hugging the coast of South Australia, before crossing the vast, mind numbing, scorched, remote, stultifyingly dull and seemingly never ending plain of Western Australia. The trip ends in Perth, from where he flies home, 'sick to the gizzard of Oz'.

But in fact, Griffiths recounts three journeys, each in dialogue with the other. The original trip, told thorough the mind and words of a somewhat introverted boy; his return, through the more self confident and darker eyes of a man. And in between, both in time and the pages, is the journey of Griffiths himself, his attitudes, addictions, inspirations and rites of passage.

Ten Pound Pom is a book about returning. 'Of course we age, We get old and we die. But how many of us regress like this, to the other side of the planet, to revisit ourselves at a distance of three decades and 12,00 miles?' And a few pages later. 'This isn't just me touring Australia, this is touring a large and formative part of my life. I'm a tourist through my own childhood. Stange jaunt this; I become more alien to myself with each passing day.'

It is also a book about history and culture and depth - or the lack of it. Griffiths does not universally dislike Australia, but it's significant I think that his best moments are in the landscape, close to nature and the sense of wonder it brings. He is sympathetic to the Aboriginals and alert to those aspects of Australia's history that were shaped by injustice and dissent; the legend of the Kelly Gang is of particular interest. And he is openly hostile to what he sees as the all too prevalent narrow minded, supercilious and smug attitudes of modern Australia.

The book is also a lesson in self-reflection. For if Niall Griffiths is anything as a writer he is searingly honest, and in so being, he make us look at ourselves as much him. Whether you agree or not with his views on the nature of Australia (and I can't comment, having never been there), and regardless of whether you approve of his attitudes to authority, alcohol, culture... so many things, you can't fail to read Ten Pound Pom without questioning your own attitudes to the same.

I've long held that Niall Griffiths is one the best fiction writers in the UK. His books are not for the faint hearted, but they look deeply at what it is to be human, to live on the edge of civility. His characters are a world away from my comfortable life, and yet in parts, they are uncomfortably close. We're lucky to have him in Wales, and I couldn't agree more with his first words to his parents on returning home, 'Thank Christ you brought us back from Oz.'

Ten Pound Pom is available from good books shops, from Amazon or the marvellous Parthian Books

From A to B

2011-03-24T20:23:00.004Z

I'm looking forward to cycling this... mmm...

One of the most pleasing aspects of my job is that I get to oversee our community programme. Every year, hundreds of people across the company raise money by shaving their heads, walking over mountains, or whatever challenge captures their imagination. Others volunteer their time, sharing their expertise or simply getting involved with some hard graft when a good cause needs it.

And every year, I don't set the best of examples... too much on; too many pressures - too comfortable more like!

So as I approach my fiftieth birthday I've decided to do something about it. This June I'll be joining some of my colleagues and riding a bike from our most western depot in Aberystwyth, to our most eastern, which is called Bertrams in Norwich. So from A to B... then on to the coast, just for the heck of it.

That's about 360 miles and I know it's going to hurt - a lot. But actually, it'll be great fun too and already I'm enjoying the training. Last week as I rode through the lanes I glimpsed a Bullfinch calling from the hedgerow, its great puffed breast a sure sign of spring.

And I thought, how lucky am I? I've riden bikes since I was six and always loved them. From my first wobbles down Holystone Avenue, to cycle touring as a lad, to crossing the Pyrenees on a tandem and the Alps with my son - whose effortless climbing brought me to tears. Bikes are so simple, yet they've given me more freedom and joy than any other piece of technology I can think of.

But not everyone is so lucky.

And that's why I'm riding for Whizz-Kidz. It's a charity we've been involved with for some years and they do a fantastic job helping disabled kids to have some of the mobility and independence that I've taken for granted. Their website sums it up well:

Whizz-Kidz provides disabled children with the wheelchairs and other mobility equipment they need to lead fun and active childhoods. But that's just the start. All around the country disabled children are meeting and making friends at a growing network of Whizz-Kidz clubs. They’re having fun around obstacle courses, knocking over skittles, doing wheelies and learning about boring but important things like road safety. They’re also forming campaign groups and meeting MPs, contacting the press, and designing campaign badges and posters. And because growing up can be a bit scary, they’re taking part in work placement programmes and life skills events.

In riding from A to B I'm hoping to raise at least £2000 from personal donations, and as a group we're targeting up to £50,000 by the time we've called in a few favours with suppliers and supporters at work. But every encouragement counts, and all the more so if it comes from friends and supporters.

If you'd like to leave a message of support that would be great, or to sponsor me click my just-giving page. But most of all, think of me the next time you get in the car to drive anything approaching 360 miles - it's a long way by bike.

Apple Pear Plum

2011-03-13T19:11:00.004Z

The back of my garden - pre pruning

Yesterday I saw my first Spring butterfly, a glimpse of acid lemon in the dappled light of my garden. It was a Brimstone, one of our longest lived species; the adults survive the winter by roosting in woods before breeding in spring. This one flew strongly, spiralling above the trees then heading to the park.

I came to this house last October and have not felt entirely at home since. Jane loves the Edwardian feel, the period doors and leaded windows; my bigger boys like the extra space; Dylan, his room with a secret cupboard. As for me, I was happy where we were, felt no need for any of these things - but I have always liked the garden. When we came to view, I spent more time outside than in. There's a raised fish pond, two walnut trees, a wisteria over the entrance. The day I agreed to the move, I counted twenty butterflies on the buddleia.

But the garden was overgrown. If I was kind I'd say the previous owners had a wilderness approach; more likely, they couldn't be arsed or it all became too much. It took four truck loads to clear the first pruning, I found enough soil down the side of the garage to fill a raised bed; now the borders are cleared we have all manner of shoots and bulbs responding to the light.

I'm too impatient to be a proper gardener. At least that's what Jane says. I ought to wait a year, see what comes through and plan it properly. She's right I'm sure, but this winter I needed progress. I wanted to clear the debris, establish a scheme and reverse the neglect. So in four months we've rebuilt walls, cleared the ivy, dug out dead trees and finally, last week, I went to buy some plants.

I chose three fruit trees - an espalier apple, a matching pear and a prolific plum. They are for the rear lawn, the one area our predecessors had cleared, because in so doing, they were able to create a building plot. What they left was a blank canvass and a twenty metre fence with three climbing ivy (as if they didn't have enough). It will take years to mature. When the borders are sorted I plan to add a cherry, perhaps a damson too, eventually I'll have my own little orchard.

In the meantime, I've press-ganged the teenagers into helping. Yesterday I watched the two of them, six feet tall now, laughing as one sprayed the panels and the other dabbed his brush with a practiced incompetence. Dylan rushed amongst them, fighting monsters and insisting they hurry. Me and Dad are going to camp here tonight, he said. Are you sure, his brothers asked? Of course we are, Dylan cried, we're going to camp hear for years and years, aren't we Dad?

As I write this post Dylan is asleep in his bag and my back is easing from eight hours on a thin mat. In the tent we read stories, listened to the rain, and talked of how one day he'll be as big as his brothers. But it was only as I tiptoed past the new the trees that I made the connection.

I could have bought something easier: faster growing, less expensive, simpler to mange - plants with a more instant gratification. These trees will take years, I thought; I'll be in my dotage before they're at their best. What's more, I know next to nothing about growing fruit. My dark side said, I'll probably get it all wrong...

But it can't be that difficult surely? They are pretty robust things are fruit trees. No doubt, they'll need some pruning, the espalier especially, and I expect I'll be as frustrated by their progress as I'm delighted by their blossom. Frankly, fruit will be a bonus. More than anything I know they'll take time, care, and a commitment to place that I hadn't expected to make.

And with that thought, I felt more at home than I have for months.

Past Imperfect 7 - University

2011-03-06T11:10:00.010Z

Me in 1982 - et in Arcadia ego?

A letter arrived on Friday, redirected from my old address. It was from Leicester University Alumni Association. After thirty years they'd found me; probably want some money, I thought.

But I was wrong, the Alumni is free to join. There was even an apology that many students from the Seventies and Eighties had, for so long, been overlooked. Using modern tracing techniques they were contacting ex-students and they hoped I would join. Perhaps I'd visit the University for the 'Homecoming' event in July.

I went to Leicester in 1979, a northern boy with a world of opportunity. It was an awakening, and like many people of my background and generation I look back with deep affection for the three years I spent studying, partying, earning and learning about life. Ten years ago I happened to be in Leicester on business; I took some time to visit the campus and as I strolled back to my car I was not surprised at the hot tears rolling down my cheeks.

Nostalgia is heroin for old people, my eldest son once chided me. He has the confidence of youth and a healthy disregard of his father's sentimentality. Yet last Christmas he insisted on travelling two hundred miles to be with his girlfriend on their 'anniversary'. And last week my middle son was sitting with his girlfriend cooing at old photographs - we're reminiscing, he said. At fourteen, I laughed! We all of us, I suspect, have a yearning for times that can never come again.

It was always my ambition to return to university. In my last year at Leicester I won a scholarship to study for an M Phil in Philosophy. They would pay my fees and I'd have a full post graduate grant - that sort of funding would be unheard of now. But it was 1982, there were three million unemployed and whilst many of my friends were struggling to find work I was offered a well paid job by a newspaper. I remember the letter I wrote declining the postgraduate course, my heart is in further study, but my head says I have found too good an opportunity.

I was twenty years old when I wrote that. Astonishing to think I'd graduated, started my career, bought my first house and still had a month to wait for my twenty first birthday. And therein hides some of the imperfection. For if university had felt like Arcadia, home was not. During the three years at Leicester my father's depression had worsened; my mother had finally divorced him and was living in a small flat - she had no room for me and boyfriend problems dominated her time. No one came to see my graduation; I watched my friends from the stalls and understood I was essentially alone.

And in truth university was not entirely Arcadian. I suffered from severe anxiety attacks, triggered by a student prank with a Ouija board, but rooted in a childhood riddled with fear. I seldom went home; I was emotionally dependent on my girlfriend from school, who had little idea of what I was getting up to at college. We were married three years later, divorced by my late twenties - not my finest hour, but I hope forgiven now.

After the letter arrived on Friday I looked for the first time in years at Friends Reunited. And amongst the hundreds of names were a few that I recognised; an old girlfriend (two actually), a flat mate, a drinking pal whose remembered wit still makes me smile. I even found the chap with millionaire parents, whom for all my adult life I have regarded as the perfect example of why private education is unfair - it turns out he became a teacher. (I once wrote about him here)

And as I looked at the list and read of their lives and achievements, I was reminded of that scene in Dead Poets Society when the inspirational John Keating (played by Robin Williams) shows his pupils the faded photographs of long dead students. They were just like you, he says, full of hormones, invincible, destined for greatness. Lean closer, he whispers, listen to their legacy...

Carpe diem; seize the day - and make your lives extraordinary.

Wet monday and waiting for the postman

2011-02-21T13:44:00.006Z

I'm on holiday this week and it's pouring. And I mean properly pouring; the decking swamped, the sky a soggy lilac, next door's cat sheltering in our outhouse. It's going to stay all day. Meanwhile Dylan is beside himself because the postman hasn't arrived. He's been up since six-thirty waiting for the knock on the door that signals the parcel from Amazon. If I suggested going out, it would tip him over the edge.

So it's a miserable day and we're stuck in the house. A few years ago I'd have been swearing at the clouds, insisting we 'get on and do', make the most of time away from the office. When I first came to Wales I took up kayaking as an alternative to climbing because it rained so much. And yet, despite the damp weather, I'm quite content.

I'd like to think I've mellowed, acquired a stoicism that transcends immediacy and embraces what can't be changed. But that would be bollocks. There's a part of me that can still get annoyed at the weather and waiting for the gas man is as irritating as ever. No, the truth is more practical than philosophic - a few years ago I bought some time.

To be more precise I negotiated a flexible contract. My company agreed I could work an 'eighty percent' arrangement, which isn't quite the same as a four day week. About two thirds of the year I work Monday to Thursday - it's like having a bank holiday every weekend. For the remaining months, I work full time and accrue holiday that I use in blocks. Previously, I'd never have had sufficient spare to take the February half term.

What has struck me most about my new arrangement is the disproportionate difference it has made to the quality of my life. The change in ratio from five and four to four and three, may not seem huge - but it's fifty percent more freedom. And in reality it works out more than that, because so much of our supposed spare time is spent in chores and other prosaic tasks.

When I asked for the 80% contract I had grand ideas: I'd write in the library, take long weekends camping, return to painting, run every day - make up for the years sacrificed to my desk. It hasn't turned out like that. I usually spend Fridays faffing about, going for a stroll, filling the bird feeders, having lunch with Jane... I might write a blog post, or even two.

At one level this might seem an indulgence. My reduced contract didn't come for free - it cost me 20% of my benefits, and though I kept a senior job in a good firm, realistically it killed any prospect of promotion. That's a high price for a stroll and lunch with Jane.

But what I've come to learn is that by allowing myself to be less frantic (just some of the time) I'm better able to appreciate and participate in what remains. It's not only the extra time I've gained - it affects all the time I have, including when I'm at work - and especially rainy days in Pembrokeshire.

I often say to people that there's a time in your life to do something like this - and it's probably not when you're twenty five. The implication being that anything less than full time work will reduce salary and career prospects to unacceptable levels, especially for the young. In saying this, you might say I'm trapped in the old thinking - that what matters most is cash and career, security and seniority.

Perhaps, but I'm not so unrealistic that I don't recognise I only made the change based on enviably solid foundations. Not everyone can afford a 20% drop in salary - though perhaps more could if they reassessed priorities. There are others who would not want the change - I have many colleagues, particularly senior managers, who define themselves by work. They find it hard to see how commitment means anything less than 150% - and in my experience, this remains the dominant professional culture.

As more of the population gets older the incidence of flexible working is predicted to increase. It would be pity though if that shift is restricted to mums with young children, those boosting pensions, or to low paid jobs stacking shelves.

It's a pity too that so many organisations are not far sighted enough to see that flexible working increases satisfaction and productivity. That its possible to be 100% committed (or 150% if you like management bullshit) for 80% of the time. That by working a little less, we might actually work more creatively, more intelligently, less wastefully. And that our lives might just be better as a result - which is, after all, why we work the first place.

These are hardly unique insights, but to me the practical impact has been a revelation. And today, as the rain drums the windows and Dylan interrupts me for the third time in ten minutes - why isn't the hour hand moving; do you think the mail man knows we're waiting? - I can sense it more than ever.

Two years ago I'd have been bouncing off the walls. As it is, I've got some books to review, some cooking to look forward to, and oh how lovely, Dylan's just got out the Buckaroo...

Look, here comes the postman.

Porthgain

2011-02-07T22:40:00.008Z

I've been writing about the places to which I find myself returning. Here's an adapted extract; perhaps one day I'll see you there.

On the low sloping cliff to the north of Porthgain is a white tower. It is made from field stone, about the size of a small lime kiln, mortared with mud and covered in a flaking wash. The tower is one of two that indicate safe passage to the harbour. A few years ago its starboard sister was struck by lightning – the locals rebuilt it. For in a heavy sea and squalling wind the fishermen need these towers still.

I walked there recently, alone on a December morning. I’d forgotten a scarf, my ears were sore in the wind. As I climbed the mud sticky path a flock of curlew rose from the sand by the slip. They flew to the crumbling walls of the stone hoppers that loom over the quay. The hoppers, a relic of Porthgain’s industrial past, once stored the graded stones that were loaded onto sloops bound for Liverpool and Newport.

Looking north, I felt the curve of the ocean folding over my shoulder. The light at Strumble was flashing and I could make out Pwll Deri hostel beneath Garn Fawr, the big cairn. That morning the sea was flat, a gunmetal grey darkening to a pewter horizon, lobster pots bobbed in the marbled swell. I have stood there, in other Decembers, as the waves swallow the cliffs and clots of spume settled as if it were snow on the dun grass.

In the lee of the stack I thought of the times I have come here; the years of looking, of painting the view, counting boats; that first time, with Jane. And I remembered too, our boys running round it; how we said it was the magic tower; five times for luck, five more to earn a wish. They used to hold their coats like kites above their heads, screaming and leaning into the breeze.

As I made to leave I had a sudden urge to measure the tower’s circumference; holding my arms at full stretch I sidled round, hugging the pock marked stones. Its girth is four and half spans and I have the whitewash on my fleece to prove it.

Two gulls were circling above; they were black-backs, dismissive of the kestrel that hovered in the faint ridge lift; its tail held flat for balance; down and into the wind.

Books I'm reading # 9

2011-02-03T14:07:00.010Z

It's been a while since I did a books post, and that partially reflects that I've not been reading a great deal. But what I have read has been pretty good, and a little different for me. I'll not bother with links to the books, just Google them or try Amazon.

Niall Griffiths is one of my favourite authors: gritty, honest, often profane, but always compelling. His latest book The Dreams of Max and Ronnie is part of a series in which contemporary authors reinterpret tales from the Mabinogion. I especially liked Giffith's second tale, in which gangster Max, sending his henchmen to find him the perfect woman.. with tragic consequences. It's impossible for me to compare these to the original Mabinogion (such as that exists) because, shamefully, I have never read it - but the tales did inspire to buy a copy, which as a matter of fact, arrived this morning.

Pollard by Laura Beatty was the recommendation of a friend with impeccable taste. The story of an abused girl with what we'd probably call learning difficulties, making her home in a wood. As the sprawl of development threatens her home she is forced into ever more desperate measures. The descriptions are rooted in nature, the situation not so fantastic as to make you think 'that's ridiculous', and the unfolding of the plot is entirely believable. For a first novel it's a triumph; one of the best I read last year. My only criticism is that it ends rather abruptly; I wanted more.

The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat, is an old best seller from Oliver Sacks. Sacks is a neurologist who describes a variety of his patients' conditions with care and intelligence. These include the man who cannot recognise objects (hence he confuses his wife with his hat), another whose memory stopped 40 years previous, and - the case I found most disturbing - a woman with no proprioception. Proprioception is the unconscious awareness of our body and where it is - although the woman was not paralysed she had no awareness of her body, she could not 'feel' it in action, and could only sit or stand using visual clues and statuesque postures; she described herself as a 'pithed frog'. The triumph of Sacks' writing is that he transcends the medical, and indeed the vaguely comic, to make us think about our own condition, and what it is to be fully human.

The Hare With Amber Eyes by Edmund De Wall came recommended too, and I wanted to like it, I truly did. But after a four attempts I gave up. It is the story of De Wall's ancestors, told through the collection of Japanese ivory carvings he inherited from an uncle. The bumf says it's a gripping tale of war, peace, and romance. The trouble is, I just didn't care about his ancestors, no matter how rich and powerful they were. And frankly, I didn't much care about the netsuke carvings either. Sorry; boring and over hyped.

Betrand Russell wrote the Problems of Philosophy in 1912; he called it his 'shilling shocker'. I took it down from my bookshelf, unread for twenty years. Now I appreciate this isn't exactly the sort of book you'd curl up with your partner and read; but it's pretty fantastic nonetheless. I'd forgotten how clear Russell is, how he gets over the most complex of concepts in easy language (well, relatively speaking), and leaves you with enough brainpower to think it through. I wish he were alive today to describe the banking crisis or Middle Eastern politics.

The Butterfly Isles by Patrick Barkham was a prize from the National Trust. Barkham's quest to find all of Britain's resident butterflies in one summer is a deeper book than it appears; it is also a book about dreams, childhood, and his love of his father. His description of the Painted Lady invasion of 2009 was especially poignant for me; I remember camping on St Davids Head when they arrived in West Wales - 3000 an hour were passing us at one point. Lovely book, would make a nice gift for almost anyone; not just sad entomologists like me.

Stalin's Nose was the debut novel of Rory Maclean, my co tutor on the blogging course (yes, you know about that...) The story of a chaotic drive through Eastern Europe after the fall of the Berlin Wall, it is peopled by Rory, his aunt in search of new false teeth, her pet pig Winston, and a piece of statue that is Stalin's nose. It is also a story of his family, torn apart by the communist divide, and of the many secrets and resentments that followed from the allegiances they chose. This book has recently been reprinted and it includes a generous introduction by Colin Thubron.

I've written before about West: A Journey Through The Landscapes Of Loss by Jim Perrin. It so affected me that I read it again (rare for me) and I know many readers of this blog have bought it too. I also have a copy of the film Jim made on his 60th birthday, returning to climb the Old Man of Hoy, a Scottish sea stack where an accident had occurred which led ultimately to his son's suicide. It won the won prize for best short film at the Banff festival and its narration is reprinted as the last chapter of West - it is writing of the very highest order. My book of the year by a country mile; it comes out in paperback soon.

And finally, When it Changed, a collection of short stories by writers working in conjunction with scientists. I bought this to read Sarah Maitland's prize winning, The Moss Witch - and good it was too, but like all short story anthologies the collection is mixed. The book's premise is to reconnect literature with research, authors with scientists, and for each to learn in the process. Reading the scientist's notes after each story, I have the impression the writers got the more out of it. An interesting twist, but I'd rather have Raymond Carver any day.

That's all for now. What are you reading?

Blogging for writers

2011-01-29T10:22:00.012Z

Blogging for writers - October 24 to 29,Ty Newydd, North Wales.

Is blogging a serious form of publishing for writers? That's the question I kept asking the National Writing Centre in Wales. And more pointedly I asked, 'Why don't you run a course on blogging?' Blogs have encouraged millions of people to share their voice - I challenged them to name another development that has created so many new writers.

But are they proper writers, was the concern? Is blogging really a serious form, or is it just social networking in fancy format? And aren't most blogs, well a bit rubbish, if you want me to be frank? There's some truth in those objections, I'd reply, but then many writers' circles are as much about socialising as the quality of the output. And yes, there is plenty of rubbish; but there's quality too. I listed a dozen or so blogs that I follow and asked the director of the centre to check them out.

It's interesting that the Open College Of The Arts encourages its students to create a blog as part of their 'learning journal'. Blogging, they've realised is good a way of sharing thoughts and work in progress, and the idea has been embraced most fully by visual arts students. Every so often the college promotes a student blog, and last week Gareth Dent, its Chief Executive wrote an article on blogging that referred to me and the Bike Shed.

The reason for the mention, is that the director at the National Writing Centre listened; so much so that they asked me to run a residential course on blogging for writers. It takes place next October and my co-tutor is the widely acclaimed travel writer, Rory Maclean. I met Rory some years ago on one of his courses on writing from life; he's one of the best tutors I've worked with - and of course, he writes a quality blog, all about Berlin where he lives. Also exciting, is that Fiona Robyn will be coming; she's a prolific blogger who recently published her novel THAW, as a daily blog, to coincide with its print publication.

And if you've never been to the National Writing Centre - because of course, you're all now desperate to go - then you should. It is based at Ty Newydd, Lloyd George's last home on the edge of Snowdonia. It runs along the same lines as the Arvon Foundation, and this year's programme is impressive. Apart from my ground breaking offering (did I really just say that) there are courses by the Poet Laureate, Carol Anne Duffy and a list of other esteemed writers.

Those of you who read the Bike Shed regularly will know I am passionate about blogging. Part of the appeal is that blogging isn't precious: it can mix a little social networking with some decent writing; it can be good without being perfect; it's exciting and instant and it appeals to people who might not have the time or opportunity, to write a book.

But there is room to improve the quality or writing too. The course will be looking at how we might do that. If you'd like to create more engaging work, experiment a little, take feedback from a group of other writers, or just have the space to write a dozen new posts, then it should have something for you. I can promise you it will be fun; and hey, you get to meet me... On second thoughts, that's maybe not the best of selling points.

So 24 - 29 October, put it in your diaries, and maybe see you there. I hope so.

Tuition fees and intelligence flawed

2011-01-22T22:50:00.019Z

Late on Thursday I was about to hit the sack when I was distracted by the 10 O'Clock Live show. The comedian David Mitchell was interviewing David Willetts, minister for Universities and Science. I was expecting a light hearted piss take, maybe the odd Ben Elton style jibe; it's brave of him to go that show said Jane, as I readied for some topical humour.

What followed was the most intelligent debate I've yet heard on the proposals to increase university tuition fees. Mitchell contrasted the proposals to the system of free education he and Willetts had enjoyed - did the Government regard this as progress? Wouldn't fees of £9,000 p.a. deter the very people the Government wanted to encourage; was there not a case for scholarships; what about subjects (such as Classics) that would be unlikely to 'payback' with higher earnings; wouldn't the proposals reduce social mobility?

And in response Willetts made considered, well spoken, non-avoiding answers. The introduction of student loans had encouraged take up - 40% of young people now progress to higher education. He hoped the new proposals would not be deterrent; the earnings threshold for repayment had risen to over twenty thousand pounds; the best universities would prosper and the poor quality courses decline.

But despite Willetts' measured tones, the more I listened, the more I sensed something wasn't quite right - perhaps it was his smirk that gave him away?

Central to Willetts' position were two considerations. Firstly, he argued it was unfair for the general tax payer to be funding the education of those who will go on to be higher earners. Furthermore, he claimed that the average graduate would, across their lifetime, earn one hundred thousand pounds more than a non graduate - surely it was reasonable they should pay back the cost of the education which had facilitated this.

At first sight these arguments appear plausible, but on reflection, it seems to me they are deeply flawed.

If we think about the claim that having degree leads to an increase in life-time earnings of one hundred thousand pounds, then presumably these earnings will be taxed. And even at a basic rate plus national insurance it must mean that the average graduate will contribute additional tax which more than covers the cost of their tuition fees.

Willetts' own words reinforced this conclusion when he claimed that there was a correlation between the number of graduates and the number of higher paid jobs. In justifying the 40% of young people going to university, he said it was not just a case that graduates competed more effectively in the existing wage pool, but rather that the presence of more graduates led to an overall higher wage economy. So by his own logic, it must also lead to more taxable income and revenues.

Putting it crudely, and using the terms of Willetts' own logic, the government is expecting graduates to pay twice. It isn't difficult to see this - it is simple maths - and Willetts must know it too. It was a pity that Mitchell didn't challenge him on this obvious point.

But it was Willetts' first argument that irritated me most: the claim that it is unfair for the general tax payer to subsidise higher education because they don't directly benefit.

Let's leave aside that this is a gross misrepresentation of the tax system and the percentage of revenues accruing from the 'general public'. And let's not question the numbers of 'net gainers' from State services against the numbers of 'net payers'. Let's also not get into arguments about the benefits of a high value economy, driven by technology and services which require an educated and skilled workforce, increasingly of graduate standard.

Instead let's just examine the claim at its most basic level - that those who don't directly benefit from services should not be expected to subside those who do. Isn't that reasonable; plausible; fair?

Well if it is, why don't we fund the National Parks with an entry fee instead of State resources? Not everyone likes the Arts, or visits museums, or plays sport - why are we subsidising these out of general taxation? And what's so special about graduate education - there's probably just as big an earnings correlation with A-levels; why don't we charge for those too? Or how about prisons - we could levy a tax for the cost of qualifications received at her majesty's pleasure. Come to think of it, why stop at education; I'm pretty healthy - I don't see why I should be funding those who are ill.

Some of these examples are more analogous to tuition fees than others - if I took more time I'd no doubt think of better ones. But the general point is that tax has never been confined to redistributing income to the least fortunate. In practice, tax revenues in a modern state system are also used to fund services that benefit society as whole. If we start salami slicing that ideal and claiming this or that service ought only and on principle to be funded by those who directly benefit, then we quickly weave a web of inconsistencies.

The irony of Willetts' sophistry is that the plain truth is a more powerful argument. Why, I wonder, didn't he simply say, 'Of course increasing university fees is regrettable, but in the difficult circumstances we judged it to be a better course of action than reducing other frontline services'. I might disagree with that claim; I might take a polar opposite position on the relative merits of education versus, say, the armed forces - but it wouldn't matter, the argument in itself would be sound.

Perhaps it's the philosopher in me, but I especially loath the type of rhetoric Willetts tried to pass off as logic. I'd rather we had an honest debate about what we can and can't afford, than the blind alleys of a pretence which claims there is some deeper fairness behind political decisions. David Mitchell led a good debate on Thursday; it's just a pity that in the end it was Willetts who sounded more the comedian.