The Countryman's Daughter

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 31st August, & the Gazette & Herald on 29th August 2018

Dad’s Ryedale Hen Watching Society file

Dad’s Ryedale Hen Watching Society file

While researching this week’s piece using Dad’s column from 1st September 1978, I came across his very first mention of the Ryedale Hen Watching Society. I wonder how many of you have heard of it, or indeed if any of you ever considered joining it?

Until I read that I had no idea how long it had been going, but had been aware of it growing up as Dad used to mention it occasionally, and always with a chuckle. The ‘society’ came about, so my dad’s article reveals, thanks to a conundrum that had arisen in the valley where we lived.

“In this quiet valley there rages a controversy of tremendous proportions. In the pubs and clubs, homes and tents, people are arguing and discussing a point upon which there seems to be no known answer,” he says.

And the point in question? At the exact moment that a hen lays its egg, is the shell hard or soft? This mystery troubled many a scientific brain over the centuries. Apparently, someone in the village had spent hours watching her hens to ascertain the truth, but to no avail, for whenever she found a suitable observing position, the hen would turn round just at the precious moment, obscuring the view.

I remembered seeing a folder in my dad’s archives entitled ‘Ryedale Hen Watching Society’ and so dug it out. Inside was a large collection of newspaper cuttings and letters, all connected to poultry, starting from the late 1970s, and the latest from 2006. As usual when I start digging around my dad’s stuff, I got sidetracked by all the clippings and articles. Topics included giant prehistoric eggs, a bantam adopting motherless puppies, chicken overtaking beef as the nation’s favourite dish, and even the case of Esmeralda the hen, who survived incarceration in a deep freeze for two whole weeks after having been tossed in there in a sackful of unplucked dead birds. Poor Esmeralda!

One of the most curious cases concerned the community of Anfield, near Liverpool, which was rocked by the discovery of a foetus in a back alley. Police cordoned off the area, and the rumour that a dead baby had been found spread like wildfire. Emotional residents started leaving cards, flowers and teddy bears at the scene. Several days later, they found out they had in fact been mourning a dead baby chicken.

But by far the most numerous cuttings were dated between 1981 and 1983. They concerned the debate over battery hens and protests against this method of farming were at their height. Arguments continued for many years, well into the naughties, with the practice of battery farming continuing in the UK until it was finally banned in 2012 (though not in Europe). Large-scale chicken farms could no longer use the tiny cages of the past, which were around the size of an A4 sheet of paper. Instead they introduced ‘enriched cages’ which could house up to 90 birds with the freedom to move around. They also had to provide perches, a darkened ‘laying’ area and litter on the ground which enabled the birds to enjoy their natural behaviours such as flapping their wings, scratching, stretching and foraging. Although they weren’t perfect, they were a significant improvement.

As for the question about when the egg hardens, after some exhaustive research (a couple of minutes on the internet) I discovered that the hard outer shell of a hen’s egg takes about 20 hours to form, and occurs before it is laid. If only that poor woman had access to the internet in 1978!

If this column has sparked in you an interest in joining the Ryedale Hen Watching Society, I’m afraid I have some bad news. The society was in fact a fabrication of my dad’s creative mind, the like of which can be found in his Constable novels. Well, he always loved to play a good yolk! (Source: British Hen Welfare Trust, bhwt.org.uk)

A quick thank you to Mrs Marie Marsh who, following my piece about Mastiles Lane (Making a Wrong Turner, 1st August) wrote to tell me of many a trip up that very lane, the first time in 1956 in a Standard Vanguard car, and other trips with her family on motorbikes. Her last sentence is a delight: ‘Nowadays we are armchair travellers living on memories.’ Keep on travelling, Marie!

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

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

My brother and I in our borrowed dinghy on Brothers Water in the Lake District in 1978

Me playing on the shores of Brothers Water in thrvAke District in 1978

I’ve said before how my dad preferred to spend our family holidays in the UK, and reading his column from this week in 1978, he is talking about our annual week’s break in the Lake District. It means that already a full year has passed since I last wrote about our trips to the Lake District in this column. How time flies!

In sharp contrast to 2018, August 1978 it seems was not very dry at all, as Dad describes when mentioning a trip to Borrowdale, which he tells us was once said to be the wettest place in England. “It was to that district, however, that we journeyed on holiday during what must have been one of the wettest and most miserable Augusts in years.” Oh dear!

A quick search reveals that indeed, Borrowdale’s village of Seathwaite holds that distinctly soggy crown still, with the last annual rainfall having been recorded as 3552mm (the national average for 2017 was a mere 1372mm).

I do remember some very wet days, but also plenty of lovely dry ones too. On warmer days, we treated the shores of Lake Ullswater as you would a Mediterranean beach, but although us children loved it, that was one of the more popular places to go and so on fine days could be rather busy.

Dad hated busy places, and took the time to discover the quieter lakes that were less populous. A firm favourite was Brothers Water, which was a mere puddle compared to the likes of Ullswater and Lake Windermere, and as such significantly quieter. But we loved it there, and even on dodgy weather days could spend hours exploring its waters and shores. One year, we borrowed a little dinghy from a friend to take out. I wasn’t allowed to use it by myself to go very far, but my 16-year-old brother was considered mature enough to row us both across the lake all the way to the other side.

There is something dark and mysterious about the very centre of a deep lake. As we floated across, the water below us got blacker as it got deeper and my young self feared it might hide some mysterious relative of the Loch Ness Monster. I imagined it ominously observing our passage from the safety of the murky depths.

Thankfully, we made it there and back without becoming a lake-living leviathan’s lunch, but I’m glad that as a child I did not know the story of how Brothers Water got its name.

The lake was originally called Broad Water, but was changed to Brothers Water following an apparent tragedy in which two brothers are said to have drowned. There has been some debate as to whether this accident even occurred, but having delved deeper into the tale, it seems it does bear truth.

Many tellings and retellings of the story over the years have muddled timescales, facts and the names of the unfortunate victims, and for some time I was still none the wiser as to a definitive account.

However, I fortunately came across the blog of a chap called Raymond Greenhow who did a lot of research on this topic and, based on the evidence he found in archive newspapers and parish records, I think he has come up with the most likely and truest account. So I’ll summarise briefly what he believes happened.

A newspaper article dated 25th January 1786 stated that two brothers aged 16 and 19 had set out across the frozen lake one winter’s morning to visit a friend on the other side. Their father was working in nearby fields, and at the end of the day saw his sons start to make their way home. The father knew the ice had thawed somewhat during the day, and desperately tried to warn them. But sadly, they didn’t hear him, or misunderstood his signals and he was too far away to prevent them walking towards the centre of the lake. Under their weight, the ice fractured, and their father watched helplessly as his two sons fell through to their deaths.

Other sources suggest a separate earlier incident also involving two brothers, but it is less certain as to whether it happened or not. Nevertheless, the name was changed from Broad Water to Brothers Water as an everlasting memorial to those poor lost souls (Source: scafellhike.blogspot.com).

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 17th August, & the Gazette & Herald on 15th August 2018)

In his column from 19th August 1978, my dad talks about a letter he deceived from a reader who hailed from Devon. She’d recently visited North Yorkshire and was impressed by our quiet roads, spectacular countryside and pretty towns and villages. But what stood out more for her was the kind nature of its residents. “She writes that the people of the region are most friendly and helpful. She found helpfulness wherever she went, particularly in the shops and cafes,” he tells us.

As I write, I’m listening to BBC Radio York’s Yorkshire Day coverage (you might recall I write these columns about two weeks in advance) and that spirit that Dad talks about is more than evident. I’m filled with a real sense of pride listening to people from all over North Yorkshire who have come together to celebrate the day in the station’s ‘Cake and a Cuppa’ drive.

The initiative has the aim to not only bring people together, but also to help tackle the isolation and loneliness felt by some in our area. Initially, events were held once a month in various locations around the county and they would broadcast for the day from wherever it was.

But the idea gathered momentum, with some villages and community groups deciding to set up their own and hold them regularly. It led to the idea of a massive Cake and a Cuppa event specifically for Yorkshire Day and more than 50 communities all over the county (and even one in India!) took part.

The value of such gatherings cannot be underestimated. In my home village, we have a mini version every week after the morning service in the Catholic church hall. Volunteers bake cakes and serve tea and coffee and it is open to absolutely everyone, not just those who have attended mass.

I know my mum won’t mind me saying how beneficial she has found it since the deaths of my dad and sister. We other children visit as often as we can, but we live some distance away so of course my mum has to face many days alone. This is a place to go where people know her, know her situation and where she is always welcome. It’s one of many small things that enable her to get through each week.

Mum made a valid point to me yesterday about rural life in that you can live in a place for many years, and if it wasn’t for gatherings such as this, you might never know who lives on the other side of the village. Our local shop is at the centre, and the main street is more or less one long straight mile. So you walk to the shop, buy what you need, then go back the same way without venturing into the other half of the village. And no doubt people living in the other direction do the same, and so they don’t get a chance to get to know one another. It was at a recent communal picnic that my mum met a lady who had lived on the other side of the village for a number of years, and yet they hadn’t met until that day. So we need to encourage things like Cake and a Cuppa, as they really do help tackle the problem of loneliness and isolation.

One of the things that struck me as I listened today was the comment made by one young man, who said something along the lines of: “You don’t need to be old to feel lonely,” which I thought was a valid point to make. Indeed, when I went along to my village coffee morning, although most were elderly, there was also a young family with two very small children enjoying the chats and the cake.

What I also noticed was the amount of energy the youngsters injected into the room. They naturally lifted everyone’s spirits in a way that children can effortlessly do (admittedly, they can have the opposite effect on some people, but not on this occasion!).

It’s nothing that we don’t already know, of course, and events like Cake and A Cuppa prove it all the more. So let’s build on what’s been started and bring more people together over a cup of tea and a slice of cake.

Listen to my 9th August interview on the BBC Radio York Adam Tomlinson and Anna Wallace show: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p01yq8ky

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

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 20th July, & the Gazette & Herald on 18th July 2018).

The state of our roads and managing our increasingly congested national network has long been a political hot potato, and it seems that forty years ago, it was no different, as I discovered when I read my dad’s column from 22nd July 1978.

“So many highways and byways are becoming very neglected by our authorities,” says Dad. “They do not have the money to effect repairs and lots of roads, urban and rural, have degenerated rapidly over the past months.”

He blames the policy of only maintaining popular routes for the deterioration of quieter ones, the rationale being that by ignoring the less busy roads, it left money in the budget to maintain the ones that are used more.

Having just landed back home after a two-week holiday in south-West France, where I drove all the way, I became very well acquainted with both our own and our French neighbour’s highways and byways. So with the benefit of that recent experience, I can say that driving in France is a much more enjoyable experience than here. I covered almost the length of the country, there and back, and did same in the UK (between North Yorkshire and the south coast).

In France (Paris excepting), the roads seemed significantly quieter and were extremely well maintained, no doubt thanks to their toll system. Drivers were courteous, patient, and everyone followed the rule of pulling back into the inside lane as soon as possible after overtaking. There was no such thing as middle-lane hoggers, and if a slower car did pull out, drivers just sat back patiently until it had completed its manoeuvre, presumably because they knew that it would pull in again straight away. I saw very few of the shenanigans between drivers that we get over here, such as driving intimidatingly close to a slower car in front to get them to pull over.

By contrast, my return journey from the south to the north of the UK couldn’t have been more different, with bad-tempered, impatient drivers, lane hoggers and more roadworks than you could shake a stick at. I blame the dreaded ‘Average Speed Checks’ for contributing to a nation of frustrated and angry drivers. They are spreading across the country like a plague of locusts and I lost count of how many I encountered en route. When we spend mile after mile on the motorway crawling along at a 40mph limit, it’s no wonder we get cross with other drivers who we feel impede our way.

We are a nation of selfish drivers who, once we are at the wheel, undergo some kind of Jekyll and Hyde personality transformation. We enter our own little cocoon, where our desire to get to our particular destination is the number one priority. We are all out for ourselves, and woe betide any fellow road users that get in our way.

In France, on the other hand, they seem to understand that if we all abide by the road rules and respect our fellow drivers, on the whole it will mean that we will get to our destination more quickly and safely, and emerge from our car as happy as when we got in it.

They understand that to keep traffic flowing through roadworks, you leave space for people to enter the queue, rather than drive bumper to bumper, like we do, to stop those people we think are trying to queue jump from easily getting in. But by doing that we are in fact compounding the problem and the knock-on effect is to make the traffic jam worse. In France, drivers are educated to use all the lanes as they approach the roadworks, right up to a lane closure, knowing that the etiquette is for every car to let one into the queue. It’s such a simple and sensible a system that keeps the traffic moving. If everyone does it, then everyone benefits. But once we are behind the wheel, we seem to have trouble with that communal concept.

So, obviously, the answer to the money question would be to introduce tolls, but how do we make bad road etiquette socially unacceptable? Answers on a postcard please…

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

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(This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times  on 13th July, & the Gazette & Herald on 11th July 2018).

For the few years that I’ve been caring for other people’s dogs, I’ve come across all sorts (and that’s just the owners!). I can say with some authority that almost all problem behaviours with dogs are down to the owner’s relationship with them. I’ve seen it time and time again, and so I thought I’d pass on some of the useful things I’ve learned through this work.

A dog is happiest and most relaxed when it is in the right place within the family hierarchy – at the bottom. Generally, all a dog wants is to be allowed to be just a dog, nothing else, and then in return it will be well behaved, placid, and shower its owners with oodles of love. A dog that is not confused about its role is one happy dog.

But problems occur when we treat them too much like furry substitute children, and communicate with them on a human level rather than in a way that a dog can clearly understand. That is when they get anxious and confused and issues creep in.

You are likely to get the desired response with a short, loud ‘No!’ and accompanying hand gesture, rather than from a: ‘Rover, my handsome little poochy wooch, please be good for mummy wummy and don’t jump onto the sofa because we’ve just been out for a muddy wuddy walk and you are all stinky winky.’

Rover hasn’t a clue what you’re saying and is confused by all the words, but he does hear your soft tone of voice, which to him is a happy tone, and so he will think it is OK to jump on the sofa. And then when you get cross with him, he ends up anxious because he doesn’t understand why in the next breath you’re angry with him. Poor old Rover!

Another common complaint from owners is that their dogs are aggressive towards other dogs or people. In almost all the cases that I’ve dealt with, they are not naturally aggressive, but are simply anxious and confused. A dog which grabs the mail as it comes through the letter box, or who snarls and snaps at other passing dogs, does so because it has come to believe that its role is to protect its home or owner.

The most common reason is that the owner has not been assertive enough with their dog and has unwittingly allowed the problem to develop. It can be reversed, but you have to be patient and persistent. One simple tip is to make sure you ALWAYS go through a door or gate before your dog. I use the word ‘Back!’ very firmly, and put myself physically in front of a dog waiting eagerly by the door. If you persist, you will be amazed at how quickly they pick it up. Doing this shows them that you are in charge and don’t need them to go out first, which they do because they are checking there’s nothing out there that might harm you.

Also, never allow a dog to sit higher than you (on the back of the sofa, for example). This often is protective behaviour, and might seem cute at first, but later you might find the dog starts to snap if other people try to sit down because it views the sofa as its territory.

It is debated as to whether animals can feel emotions like we humans do, and there are many documented cases of dogs and other animals pining for lost owners or mates. In my dad’s column from 15th August 1978, he recounts the story of coming across two yellowhammers in the road. One was dead, and the other stood next to it. Dad moved the dead bird to the side of the road, and as he drove off, he saw the other bird go back to what he presumed was its mate and continue its sad vigil.

Although I don’t believe animals can feel emotions in the same way as us humans, I do believe they are sensitive. I’m certain my friend’s dog, a labrador-springer cross, actually smiles with joy when I turn up at his house, while other dogs do appear genuinely sad when they know I’m going to leave them at home while I go shopping. So what do you think? Does your dog show emotion?

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

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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.

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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.

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