A bee in my bonnet

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 6th July, & the Gazette & Herald on 4th July 2018).

When I was small, I was terrified of the bumblebee, as I knew it could sting and it seemed so big and buzzy. One day my dad caught one on his finger and I couldn’t believe he was so calm while this dangerous and threatening creature contemplated its moment to strike his bare flesh.

I recoiled as my reckless dad then began to gently stoke its furry little back, as if it were a tiny cat. Instead of wreaking its stinging revenge, to my surprise, it sat quite happily there showing no signs of aggression. Dad explained that bees actually had very docile temperaments and would only sting you if they felt threatened.

From that moment, I lost my fear of bees, and know that if they do fly close, they are probably drawn to a bright colour I’m wearing, or to a sweet scent they have picked up nearby. They’re not out to get me, and if I stay still, they will fly off when they realise I’m not a source of pollen. I know many people who get into a tizzy at the mere sound of a buzzing insect and flap their arms crazily about their head like they’re trying to stop a bat landing on it. Honestly, unless you suffer from anaphylaxis, get a grip! By doing that you are more likely to get stung anyway and, more importantly, harm one of our precious bees.

As most people today know, bees are not faring very well, with 13 species in the UK already wiped out, and 35 more under threat of extinction. If bees were allowed to disappear, its effect upon the the planet would be catastrophic. The decline is due to a combination of things, such as a reduction in flowering meadows (97% lost since the 1930s), pesticides, disease and invasive species. Bees are the most productive pollinators in our food chain, so without them, we’d lose the plants and food crops they pollinate, and then all the animals that rely on those plants and food crops, and then, food-wise, we humans would be up the creek without a paddle.

With that in mind, doesn’t it make you think twice about the bees that come within arm-flapping distance? Why not take a few minutes to familiarise yourself with our fascinating buzzing fraternity, so you know the difference between a harmless hoverfly and an angry wasp. There are many websites around that can help you with identification, although one of my most trusted sources (naturally, inherited from my dad) is Collins’ Complete British Wildlife photo guide. In there, you’ll see that certain hoverflies are similar in colouring to wasps, but hoverflies are generally smaller and have a flatter body shape. And they hover. And look like flies.

One organisation doing its bit to educate us about bees is Buckfast Abbey in Devon, famous for its tonic wine and, once upon a time, for its honey. In his column from 8th July 1978, Dad talks about a visit there, and was impressed with their entrepreneurial spirit, the monastery having been destroyed and rebuilt several times over the centuries of its existence. Having started from very little, the Benedictine monks had established a thriving cattle and dairy herd, a pottery, a stained glass workshop and an excellent café.

They were at the time famous for their apiaries and their honey, thanks in the most part to a monk called Brother Adam Kehrle. The monastery had been making honey for a long time, but early in the 20th century, 30 of the abbey’s 46 colonies were wiped out through a virulent disease called Acarine. What Kehrle noticed was that all the bees that died were native British black bees while those of an Italian strain survived. He then set out on a mission to come up with a disease-resistant strain of bee that would be perfect for keeping. After many years of study, travel, experimentation and dedication, he managed to breed a bee that was a good pollen-gatherer with a mild temperament and, most importantly, resistant to Acarine. It was, and still is, known as the Buckfast Bee and is now a recognised species.

The monastery emphasis these days has moved away from commercial honey production and now concentrates on what is termed ‘gentle’ bee keeping with a focus on education and conservation to raise awareness of one of our most precious insect friends (Sources: buckfast.org.uk, bbc.co.uk).

Visit my blog at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.


The love of an English Country Garden

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 27th June, & the Gazette & Herald on 29th June 2018).

I’ve just emerged from a busy but fun-filled weekend. On Friday night, I was out at the fabulous Velma Celli Show (Yorkshire boy turned West End star, highly recommended!) and then on Saturday, along with my children and a healthy posse of friends, I completed the St Leonard’s Hospice Midnight Walk in memory of Dad and my sister Tricia (as many of you know, both recently died in St Leonard’s). The theme was ‘Walking Royal Miles’ and we were encouraged to dress in red, white and blue, wear crowns, carry flags and enthusiastically embrace the royal theme. A sea of 800 or so patriotically-adorned men, women and children walked a seven-mile route around York between midnight and 2.30am to raise money for this wonderful cause.

The weekend was rounded off on a beautiful Sunday with a visit to the pretty village of Coxwold with my mum for the village’s ‘Hidden Gardens’ event. I haven’t been to many of these kinds of occasions before, and was amazed to see so many cars filling the local playing field which was acting as a make-shift car park.

According to the organisers, there were well over 500 visitors – and well over 500 cups of tea poured (according to my exhausted friend Sharon who was serving them non-stop all afternoon).

I am pretty much the kiss of death for most plants, so I steer clear of proper gardening, content instead to admire the handiwork of others (including my mum’s, who turned her garden of mud and rubble into a gorgeous oasis of colour and life).

But the Coxwold gardens were another level of horticultural excellence, hidden behind the quaint facades of the village’s yellow stone cottages. Borders were brimming with flowers of all colours of the rainbow, curving their way in and around the lawns which were surrounded by crowds of lush trees and shrubs. Creepers like like honeysuckles, clematis and wisteria twisted up wooden arches and gazebos and every so often, we came across a bench or a table where we we could sit for a while and appreciate the splendour that has come about thanks to years of hard graft and dedication by the owners.

Now, I’m not very good at naming cultivated flowers and shrubs, but one class of plant that I do recognise is the fern, and they were well represented that Sunday. They’re not what you would call the lead singers in the show, but more like a very reliable backing band, providing support by filling in the gaps and giving coverage in areas that other plants might not do so well.

As my dad explains in his column from 1st July 1978, the fern is quite an unusual plant in being a combination of leaf and fruit. In most cases, the fruit is carried on the underside of the leaf. He says that in autumn, “…you may walk in places where ferns are plentiful and find ripe spores on the undersides of the fronds…By carefully removing one of the fronds, you will acquire many spores from which new ferns can be gown.” So no digging them up, then!

I discovered a couple of rather interesting facts while writing this (thank you woodlandtrust.org.uk!) including that the fern is one of the earliest vascular plants (i.e. they have special tissues within them to conduct water and other essential nutrients through the plant). They are believed to have evolved over 300 million years ago, being very plentiful and growing to tree-like heights. They later died out and their compaction helped to create the coal which we use as fuel today (hence the term ‘fossil fuels’).

Open gardens have become a traditional way for the rural community to raise funds for their own local causes and charities. The first event was held 37 years ago in the Suffolk village of Walsham-le-Willows, and the idea quickly caught on. This year, there are 860 events taking place nationwide, with 42 in Yorkshire alone.

Villagers pitch in to bake cakes and serve teas, local musicians entertain, artists exhibit their works and artisan producers display their wares and, together with the gardeners, raise tens of thousands of pounds for local charities and community projects across the country.

To find out where and when your next local open gardens event is, visit the Open Gardens National Directory at opengardens.co.uk.

Visit my blog at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.


It shouldn’t happen to a vet

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 20th June, & the Gazette & Herald on 22nd June 2018).

As I write this, I’m recovering from the emotional turmoil of watching the final episode of the latest series of The Yorkshire Vet. One of the main protagonists, Peter Wright, lost his beloved canine companion, 10-year-old Alf. Peter’s sadness was tangible, and hankies were a must.

I absolutely love the programme, love witnessing the ups and downs of life as a country vet, the trials and tribulations of treating the agricultural animal community, the roller-coaster of emotions every family experiences when a cherished pet is sick.

The stories are so engaging, and the compassion that Peter and his (then) colleague Julian Norton so obviously feel shines through and is reflected by the staff at their practice in Thirsk. Not only that, but the way it is filmed celebrates the rural beauty of North Yorkshire in a way that makes you feel proud and truly blessed to live here. What an asset for our tourism industry.

The programme ends on a positive note when Peter and his wife take home a kitten in need. It made me think about my dad, and how much he loved animals. Like Peter Wright, he wasn’t a cat ‘or’ dog person, but rather a cat ‘and’ dog person. He loved both equally, although we just had cats for the practical reason that they were easier to look after (and the fact that stray cats chose to adopt us, which had nothing to do with us kids bribing them to stay with food).

Dad was insistent that he never wanted a dog himself, which used to baffle me whenever I saw how he fussed over other people’s. And despite me pleading with him at least once every few months for the best part of the twenty years or so that I lived at home, he never caved in.

I must have inherited that side of his character, for I love both cats and dogs, and had two lovely rescue cats for about ten years. When they grew old and had to be put to sleep, I didn’t feel the need to replace them as by then I had my own litter of very energetic young puppies (known more commonly as ‘children’).

Just like the young me, they have pleaded to get a dog. Unlike my dad though, I eventually (sort of) caved in, but in a way that suits us all. Instead of having our own dog, we now look after other people’s. It means we get all the pleasure, but less of the pain of things like vets’ fees, kennel fees and, worst of all, of losing them. I’ve experienced a whole variety of breeds and temperaments and can honestly say I adore them all, and yet still enjoy the liberation of my dog-free days. Best of both worlds, I’d say.

Dad genuinely loved most animals, and had been fascinated by our bird population since childhood, so that by the time he started his columns, he was arguably a self-taught expert. In his column from June 24th 1978, he talks with clear passion about the songs of the warbler family, particularly the willow warbler that is so active at this time of year. He writes that he would find it difficult to describe the tune, but that an ornithologist he knew captured it perfectly: “The song of the willow warbler was like a sixpence spinning on a china plate, and being allowed to slowly come to rest.”

I had a go with a five pence piece on a saucer, but found it hard to recognise it as birdsong. However, I also have access to a trusty ornithological friend, also known as the RSPB website, and you can look up just about any native bird. Within seconds I’d found a video of the willow warbler in full song. I then understood where the reference to the sixpence came in, but to my mind it is more like the sound of a loose hub cap spiralling off and gradually spinning to rest in the middle of the road. Look it up, have a listen, and see if you agree.

(This is my 53rd column, so it means I’ve completed a full year! Thank you so much for reading them and for all the encouraging comments, letters and messages to date.)

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A fledgling emergency

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 15th June, & the Gazette & Herald on 13th June 2018).

I was on a dog walk this morning when I came across a scruffy, chubby little chick perched by the side of the path. Every now and then, he’d give a few cheeps and look about himself in bewilderment, as if saying, “How on earth did I get here? And now what am I supposed to do?”

I had visions of him bravely leaping out of his nest into the unknown, and landing in unfamiliar territory without any notion of how to take off again. He didn’t look very happy, and I wondered if I ought to help him in any way. I couldn’t spot his parents anywhere.

In years gone by, I would have stood there agonising about what to do, fearing he’d be a tasty meal for the next passing cat. But one of the benefits of the modern age is that we have technology at our fingertips. So I took out my phone and Googled ‘What to do if I find a baby bird’. Those clever people at the RSPB came to my rescue, having dedicated a whole page on their website to just such a emergency.

For those you who don’t know, they say: “It’s common in spring and summer to find young birds sitting on the ground or hopping about without any sign of their parents…interfering with a young bird like this will do more harm than good.” It goes on to say they will not have been abandoned by their parents, who will either be watching unseen, or gathering food, and that you should leave them as they they are. “Removal of a fledgling from the wild has to be a very last resort – then only if it is injured or has definitely been abandoned or orphaned.”

So, thanks to my phone, I was very quickly reassured that I was doing the right thing by simply leaving it where it was, despite its anxious chirping and my worries about dastardly feline predators.

He was quite a chunky, round, fellow, with pleasantly dishevelled feathers, a tell-tale sign that he was just a youngster. He was mostly dark brown, yet speckled with dashes of light brown, and my gut instinct told me he was a baby blackbird, although I wasn’t sure. I took a few photos to look it up on my return, and, sure enough I was right. I think my dad would have been pleased. My countryside knowledge is growing by the week!

Dad just loved the nature that surrounded him, and he described June as a ‘beautiful time’ in his column from 17th June 1978. He goes on to talk about its reputation of being a ‘dry’ month, and the long-range forecast in that year predicted it would live up to that reputation. “However,” he adds, “We must not overlook the possibility of heavy downpours – indeed they’ve already come!”

Which is pretty much the same as now, with the first few days of June being as Dad described 40 years ago. I’ve checked the long-range forecast for this month too and it is strikingly similar, predicting mostly dry weather with the occasional heavy downpour.

He goes on to explain that is also known as the month of the ‘haysel’, an ancient word no longer in use, and not found in any of his trusty dialect glossaries. It refers to the period of gathering in the hay, when the ripe grass is cut, dried and carried into the barns for storage. When Dad was a boy, it was a time of great communal activity, and the whole village would turn out to help the farmers gather in their hay before the next heavy downpour. The farmer’s wife would provide a ready supply of drinks to the thirsty workers, including beer and cider, although according to Dad, the rather unappetising-sounding ‘cold tea’ was more commonly drunk.

Dad’s favourite part was once they were in the yard, when him and the other small children would launch themselves into the barn and, as it was in the days before bale machines, make dens and hiding places in the fresh, warm grass as it was unloaded off the carts. He notes that by 1978, almost all of the hay-gathering was done by machinery, and wistfully observes, “Haysel has gone from our language; I wonder how long it will be before haymaking as we knew it also disappears?”

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That Old Chestnut

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 8th June, & the Gazette & Herald on 6th June 2018).

One of the best things about being a countryside writer and regular walker of dogs is that I have the enormous privilege (which I never take for granted!) of being able to get outside most days and appreciate the amazing county I am so fortunate to live in.

Today, as I write this, the sun is beaming down and I have been on two good walks where I took the time to really examine the rural world around me. At the moment, the footways and hedgerows are positively brimming with wild flowers and blossoms against a backdrop of vivid and vibrant greens and a walk surrounded by such natural splendour is truly therapeutic. To me, a few doses of this each week is as good as any medication.

And it isn’t just a treat for the eyes. Whenever I pass the stunning pink dog rose, the scent that fills the air is just sublime, and it never ceases to amaze me that such beauty can be found in our wild and uncultivated places.

One of the floral displays that most impresses me around this time of year has to be that of the horse chestnut tree (Aesculus Hippocastanum). I find it truly stunning. I play tennis for a village team, and right by the courts is possibly the most beautiful example I have seen. Last Monday night, I couldn’t help but look at it between points, it was so eye-catching (although I didn’t let it distract me too much to not win the match!) and it seems my dad felt the same way about these glorious trees. On 10th June 1978, he wrote: ‘One of the most striking of our trees is the horse chestnut, with its multitude of candles, as the flowers are so often called. No other tree can put on such a magnificent display of flowers, unless we include the cultivated ones.” And he is right. The sight of a horse chestnut festooned with countless cone-shaped blooms makes it appear like a giant candelabra lighting up the countryside.

At the start of the season, from a distance the blossom appears creamy-white, thanks to the yellow splash at the centre of each white bell-shaped flower head. These bee-friendly blooms are actually very clever, as once they are pollinated, the splash turns vibrant pink to alert approaching insects to the fact they have already been pollinated and so there is no point in visiting them. I’m sure our endlessly busy worker bees are very grateful for this time-saving tip-off. Once the flowers begin being pollinated, the whole tree appears to transform from creamy white to pale pink.

You will see a red variety of horse chestnut (Aesculus x carnea) dotted about the countryside and our open spaces, but is less numerous and generally much smaller than the common horse chestnut. It was introduced into this county from Germany in around 1820 as a hybrid between the common tree and the shrub Aesculus Pavia (or red buckeye). Like its larger relative, it also produces conkers in September and October, but they are usually smaller and housed in less prickly casings than the standard variety.

Both trees are beautiful when in full bloom, but which is your favourite? I must say, for me, the common white variety can’t be surpassed.

I’d like to say a couple of thank you’s here to two readers. I’m afraid I couldn’t decipher the name of the first (it might be AW Grant?) but they sent me a lovely card and in response to my question about butterfly names (May 2nd) they enlightened me on the fact that the Glanville fritillary butterfly is named after 17th century entomologist Lady Eleanor Granville, who was an expert on the creatures.

The second reader is Edith Bennison, from Stokesley, who sent me a lovely letter of condolence, and told a funny story to cheer me up about her son. He was on a visit to North Yorkshire Police Headquarters with his sister, when, much to his sister’s embarrassment, he told the following joke to the room full of policemen:

‘Where do policemen live?’

‘999 Letsbe Avenue!’

Edith says: “Well my daughter was hoping the floor would open up and swallow her…but the policemen just burst out laughing!”

Well that old chestnut certainly did cheer me up. So thank you Edith!

Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug


No need to get ratty


(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 1st June, & the Gazette & Herald on 30th May 2018).

I was driving home late one night along one of our quiet country lanes when a great big rat dashed out of the verge and scurried across the road in front of me, its long pink rubbery tail illuminated by my headlights. This is not the first time it has happened, and I always experience an involuntary shudder every time it does.

It makes me wonder why I am so squeamish around rats. I don’t have the same feeling about mice – I recently caught one outside my back door that I found investigating my recycling boxes. I managed to trap it in a plastic tub, and it was so tiny and cute that there was no way I could possibly destroy it, so I released it into some nearby fields (I can hear the seasoned agricultural contingent among you groaning!).

But rats have always suffered from a ‘bad boy’ image, and are regularly depicted as the villains in children’s fiction. Famously they are the worst fear of George Orwell’s unfortunate hero from ‘1984’, Winston, who has to face them through a cage secured to his head in the dreaded Room 101.

It’s possible that this common fear stems from the belief that rats were to blame for the devastation caused by the Black Death. In the mid-fourteenth century, it killed 25 million people across Europe, and even more during later resurgences. The speed of the spread, so it was believed, was due to infected fleas that lived on rats.

But now we know they may well have been unfairly vilified, as a study published in January in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Science (PNAS.org) showed that it is more likely that it was down to human fleas and body lice. Poor old rats having to shoulder the burden of that reputation for so long!

In my dad’s column from 3rd June 1978, he talks of the old custom of ‘rhyming rats to death’. I have to confess that I have never come across that phrase, but according to Dad, it was an Irish belief that rats in the fields and on rural farms could be rendered unconscious if you talked to them in rhyme. No particular poem is mentioned as having these soporific qualities, but Ben Jonson, the English poet and dramatist, wrote: “Rhime them to death, as they do Irish rats,” and Shakespeare also referred to the belief when Rosalind, in As You Like It, says: “I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras’ time, that I was an Irish rat.”

Dad also quotes this fascinating little ditty:

“The rat, the cat and Lovel our dog,
Rule all England under a hog.”

This seemingly innocuous verse was in fact a searing criticism of those in power at the time it was written in 1484, and was found pinned to the door of St Paul’s Cathedral and other prominent places all over London. The rat was King Richard III’s confidante, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, the cat was Speaker of the Commons William Catesby, and Lovel was Viscount Lovel, who had a reputation for being the king’s ‘lap dog’ or ‘yes man’. King Richard’s emblem was a white boar, hence the reference to a hog.

The poet was ultimately unmasked and found to be wealthy landowner William Collingbourne, a fierce opponent of the king, and he paid a heavy price for writing those few words as he was put to death for treason.

Despite the general dislike among the population towards rats, they are actually supposed to make very good pets. When I was at school, one of my classmates used to bring his white rat into class, and he was a most well-behaved and tame thing, who would sleep in master’s blazer pockets during lessons, so the teacher never knew he was there.

Domesticated rats are known as ‘fancy rats’, coming from the term ‘animal fancier’, and there are numerous professional breeders and a whole community of rat fanciers, with an estimate of about 100,000 pet rats in the UK. They have a reputation for being cleverer than a dog, and more hygienic than a cat. They are sociable, affectionate, trainable, and easy to keep, and if the National Fancy Rat Society (nfrs.org) is to be believed, they are the best of the rodent population to keep as a pet.

So I have one remaining question then – can you take them for a walk?

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From memories to remembrance

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 25th May, & the Gazette & Herald on 23rd May 2018).

Sometimes, researching material for these columns is a bit like being a detective. I read Dad’s words from the corresponding week 40 years ago, and that triggers off an idea which can require me to delve into the archives of cuttings and photographs that we have stored at my parents’ home. Usually this, along with a few targeted questions to my mum and siblings, and some rummaging around the internet, helps me to build up a picture of what was going on in the world at the time Dad was writing the column.

This week, I was reading his column from May 27th 1978, in which he talks about the visit by Prince Charles to Great Ayton. That is just about all he says about the visit itself, and he goes on to talk about the school in the village where Captain James Cook was educated as a young boy.

I then recalled having seen a picture in our archives of Prince Charles with my dad standing in the background and wondered if it was that same occasion at Great Ayton. If I could find it, then wouldn’t it be a good accompanying picture to this week’s column!

So I called my mum and asked about said picture, at which point she put me straight, “Oh no, that was Whitby up at the Captain Cook memorial,” she said.

Momentarily disappointed, I thought my quest had come to an end. But when I googled ‘Prince Charles visit to Great Ayton 1978’, the results also showed that his visit to Whitby was on 1st June 1978. And going back to the first paragraph of my dad’s column, he said the visit to Great Ayton was ‘on the following Thursday’, i.e. 1st June 1978 too, so of course Charles would be visiting both places on the same day! My quest was back on track.

The visit was part of the Royal Tour of Cleveland, which included celebrations for the 250th anniversary of Cook’s birth, and so Prince Charles was visiting some of the spots that were significant in Cook’s life. He unveiled a plaque at the Cook Memorial, which is where the picture showing my dad in the background was taken. Unfortunately I don’t possess an original, just a copy of the photo from the paper. Annoyingly, I couldn’t lay my hands on the original cutting either, despite raiding my dad’s mind-boggling collection of cuttings, and so had to continue my Poirot-esque quest for information elsewhere.

What Dad fails to mention in his article is that at the time, he was press officer for North Yorkshire Police, and as such, was heavily involved in all royal visits to the region. Another search of the internet threw up some photographs from that day, and sure enough, Dad can be spotted lurking in some of them. It’s an odd feeling when you find photos of your loved ones that you never knew existed, and it added another small piece to the jigsaw of my dad’s life that I am piecing together now he’s gone. The pictures were taken during Dad’s thankfully short-lived ‘moustache’ phase, when, in his uniform, he wouldn’t have looked out of place next to a line-up of the Village People.

Dad worked for North Yorkshire Police for 30 years until he retired in 1982 to write full time. He was always very proud of his police career, and, as a gifted storyteller, particularly enjoyed his time as press officer. I was honoured to be invited along with my mum, sister and brother, to the North Yorkshire Police headquarters for a service on 13th May to remember the lives of those men and women who have either died during their service, or after they left. It was a very moving occasion, particularly hearing about the tragic cases of officers who had fallen while on duty.

One of the most memorable cases Dad dealt with while press officer was the hunt for killer Barry Prudom, who was on the run in North Yorkshire in 1982. Dad’s approach when dealing with the media in this case was quite revolutionary, and he received a commendation as a result, as well as a personal call from Scotland Yard to say it would be adopted nationally. So when the two officers murdered by Prudom were remembered at the service, it was especially poignant.

So please take a moment to remember, and never forget, the names of PC David Haigh and Sergeant David Winter.