Environment – John Vincent

Arborist Adventures

Funny how we attribute a problem to a nation. I’m sure it’s not the fault of the Dutch. It’s more the fault of the Canadians. To be fair, it’s nature rather than anyone’s fault.

One of the enduring memories of my childhood is looking out of a bedroom window to see the most enormous line of tall Elm trees. Running east to west, these magnificent trees were a dominant feature of the skyline. Looking south, towards the wider Blackmore Vale, they created a screen of green in the summer. Tall stately trucks in the winter. Maybe the central ones measured four or five feet in diameter.

Today, the view, on a clear day, extends all the way across Dorset to Bulbarrow Hill. Close by, no tall trees to obscure the view. Far off, on the top of the hill the telecommunication masts tower above the trees. Across the valley there’s nothing but treetops to be seen but few if any Elms.

The fate of the Elm trees is a sad one. Dutch elm disease wiped them out. From the 1960s, more than 25 million trees died across the UK. Other species have taken the opportunity to occupy the spaces left by the Elms. However, hedgerows have been lost as framing practices have changed. Trees a plenty but not so many as past times.

This week is national tree week[1]. I didn’t even know that until a visit to the RHS[2] at Wisley. I’ve had an RHS membership for about three years. Any time I’m in the vicinity of Wisley, I make a visit. That’s not been so easy of recent. The monstrous road works, planting a motorway junction of vast proportions in the area has been awkward to navigate. Nature is trying to coexist with traffic, tarmac and concrete.

I learnt that there are a couple of thousand trees at Wisley. Lots of variety. Being RHS, a staff to maintain them in good condition. Experts with chainsaws and ropes to prune the dead limbs and make the most of any wood that comes their way. What I’m referring to is a highly entertaining lecture given by one of the young arborists who manages trees on their site.

There’s a lot more to managing trees than first meets the eye. Safety is one of the major considerations. Especially with an extensive garden that receives thousands of visitors. Rotten branches falling from great hight are not something to wish to encounter unexpectedly.

I get the distinct impression that, like a Cirque du Soleil show, arborists love nothing more than hanging upside down from flimsy looking branches. Constructing elaborate schemes of ropes to navigate the treetops. With pride, the lecturer had videos of scampering amongst the high tree limbs. Not a place I’d go. They’re a cross between tree hairdressers and surgeons. Rearranging, chopping, crafting, diagnosing and amputating at the same time. Not a job for a heavy-set person who has a phobia of hights.

The message here, for the week, is not to take the wonderful diversity of trees in the UK for granted. They do need nurturing and replacing. For the most part they do nothing but good.

[1] https://treecouncil.org.uk/seasonal-campaigns/national-tree-week/

[2] https://www.rhs.org.uk/

Adapting to Climate Change

Owned experience is more real than the theory, or the machinations of commentators. Yes, I know climate change and the weather are two different phenomena. My local weather is a part of the equation, even if it has its own life. Living in a shallow river valley in southern England there’s bound to be an element of a microclimate. A little warmer than the sounding chalk hills.

Last night, the rain fell. At about 3am it was ponding the roof tiles. Coming down like stair rods. Dislodged moss on the decking. Making the dark seem darker. Soaking the garden. Water butts that spent most of the year empty, full again. Whereas the water table sank to a depth in the mid-summer. My garden’s soil was hard. Compacted dust and flint in places. Now, it’s as if the ground water has risen to the surface. No place untouched. Grass as green as it has been. Squelching underfoot.

What’s chiming with me is the marked difference from past times. It’s November. The year is coming to an end. For decades past it would be perfectly normal for there to have been at least one hard frost. One of those occasions when the water in the bird bath becomes a solid frozen block. A glistening white cover of the grass. An end to the growing season, for sure.

Looking out of my kitchen window I still have plants in flower. Piles of sodden leaves. With one or two trees still reluctant to give up theirs. The seasons reluctant to move on. More chance of flooding than frozen ground.

Climate change predictions are that rain is likely to become heavier in this part of the UK. Floods to become a more regular occurrence of warming winters. The ground absorbing much more rainwater. River levels staying higher for longer.

What impact this seasonal flip-flop will have is open to question. Dry summer ground as hard as concrete. Wet winter ground constantly saturated. A more rapid change from one to the other.

For a gardener, certainly, this needs to be considered when planting. Seeing what plants will flourish in these changing circumstances. At least, I did invest well in one new willow tree this autumn. It’s about eight foot high and leafless. I’m expecting it to bust into life in next spring.

POST: As if I’d called it, the temperature has started to drop. 2C this morning. So, maybe the point is not that the seasons are changing, which they are, but more the moment of transition from one to the other is changing.

The Legacy of Beeching

Two hundred years is a long time. No, it isn’t. William the Conqueror, that’s the sort of name politicians crave, called for the building of Windsor Castle in England. That means, almost but not quite, a thousand years of continuous use. I guess in 2070 there’ll be a big celebration of the achievements of the Normans. Certainly, seemed to impress US President Trump.

If I had a time machine one of the destinations that I’d consider is 1963 and maybe 1965. I’d take a mass of press clippings and audio recordings about inadequate rural bus services and the high-speed railway saga (HS2).

History has a way of condensing a whole succession of events into a few simple words. William was a conqueror, but 1960’s civil servant Beeching was an axeman. That can be said to be unfair, since he was mandated to produce a report and, in the context of the times, British railways seemed like they had overexpanded and wouldn’t be brought back into profitability.

This happened when I was a child. I can just remember on my way to primary school stopping at a railway crossing and waiting a steam train to pass. It could have been the milk train. At that time milk was transported from west country dairy farms, in churns, to the local milk factory. Then loaded onto a London bound train. All this activity disappeared as I grew up. It was displaced by road tankers forcing their way along country roads.

I was born in a small Somerset railway town. Got my first pay packet in that small railway town. Had a couple of weeks of my engineering apprenticeship in the former railway shed. Spent time in the small motorcycle shop next to the railway embankment.

Beeching’s reports resulted in thousands of stations and thousands of miles of railway line being closed. The Somerset and Dorset (S&D) railway line was one of those that vanished. It was on 6 September 1965, the consent for closure was issued for most of the railway line.

Strangely, it was a newly elected Labour government that promised to reverse railway closures that closed the railway. A campaign to save the line was lost. Now, I think, what if, what if the new government of 1964 had not been so beguiled by modern road building and the white heat of technology. The internal combustion engine and purveyors of tarmac had won the day.

My message is to commission reports with a wider remit than merely improving economic efficiency. It’s a concern that is as ap today as ever it was. State of the art technology is alluring. Sloganising it’s easier to say that we are moving forward to a new dawn than it is to say we will update and improve the machinery we already use. There are good cases for scrapping past ways and means. Surely, it’s as well to try to look beyond immediate pressures.

Had Beeching’s axe not been so readily swung then we’d have an alternative to ever more road building and the billions ploughed into it. Remember those feeble promises to invest in local busses to replace the lost trains. How such recommendations are so quickly forgotten.

What will we say about robotics and artificial intelligence in 60-years’ time. Or even 200-years’ time. If we are still here.

Autumn’s Arrival

It’s the season of mellow fruitfulness. Hey, I didn’t even know I was quoting Keats with that apt short line. It’s so embedded in my thoughts.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing Sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;[1]

It’s so appropriate to the day. To the week. We are in that spot of the year that marks a transition. Summer is behind us. The ground is covered with acorns and conkers. Leaves are contemplating the end of the duties. A mist hangs over the grass in the early hours.

Just to be clear, I don’t live in a picture box thatched cottage in some hidden English valley. That said, from one long-standing vine, this year, I’ve collected a mass of grapes. This vine, being so deep rooted, it hasn’t suffered the desert like conditions that prevailed for weeks.

Autumn can be a wonderful season. For a few weeks the siren sound of the winter’s coming is held in suspension. There’s time to think about whether to turn on the heating or not as the temperature dips at night.

Transitions are political too. In Britain, it’s the season of conferences. A time for the faithful to gather and spend a few days running around like headless chickens. A harvest of policy papers and last-minute speeches. Condemnation of opponents. Accolades for friends and good company. Tee-shirts, hats and posters plying slogans old and new.

It’s difficult to explain. Might seem tiresome to those who have never spent 4-5 days at the seaside in September but mostly indoors or waving banners in the sea breeze. This week the Sun has blessed all concerned. Those of us who went to the south coast to share time with family and those who went to change the world.

For the party of government, they may be asking:

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

The optimism of last year has dramatically subsided. Now, they seem like the Mars company marketing gurus who rebranded the Marathon chocolate bar to Snickers[2]. A lesson in how to cause confusion for no material gain. Labour’s problem is clear. The chocolate bar is a good national trend indicator. Off the shelf, the bars are smaller, but you pay the same price or more for the pleasure. Arresting decline is proving to be difficult.

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

For those who may wonder at this line, Keats didn’t have social media.

[An Aside: AI, and its unsolicited interventions, can be right plonkers. It suggested that I change the grammar of Keats poem. It offered to rewrite the lines above. So, billionaires are spending billions trying to prompt us to rewrite romantic poetry. What a mad mad world.]

[1] https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44484/to-autumn

[2] https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-13873067/real-reason-Snickers-changed-Marathon-chocolate.html

A Critical Look at Clowns

There’s a section of British politics which will aways be clownish. I mean this in both a childish sense and a terrifying sense. There are plenty examples of mighty frightening clowns. The Joker was transformed from a comic book TV series of Batman into a menacing movie villain[1]. These are people who embrace a life of deception and chaos. It’s a streak of putting two fingers up to the “establishment”. At the same time making a healthy living from the populous. Milking every moment to advantage.

Having a beguiling nature sustains their success. I’m tempted to think of Peter Cook as the Devil[2] in the 1960s film Bedazzled. Dated as it is, the core theme remains ever relevant. Please protect me from what I want.

Often, clowns are figures of the establishment who have flipped. Driven by a sense of injustice, that somehow society doesn’t appreciate their great talents. Sadly, for them, the seeds of their own destruction are often sitting there waiting to germinate.

It could be said that former Prime Minister (PM) Boris Johnson was a master example. Although I’d not go quite as far as to equate him with Beelzebub. There’s a man who should have stuck to his first profession – journalism.

[Why is it that journalists, lawyers and management consultants aspire to be in Parliament so much? Is it the number one aspiration for societal archetypes – to reach for this pinnacle?].

This week, the media has reveled over a predicable political circus. Now, after having seen the Brexit Party, and alike, fade into nothingness, the UK has a new set of party clowns called Reform. It’s a troupe of escapees from the awkward right-wing of the political spectrum. They are complemented by a small group who claim commercial expertise to bolster their image.

As the tired and elderly Tory Party (Conservative Party) slowly decays and melts away, so this new bunch springs up to try to replace them in full. They have been called populist. In my mind a silly word to use as a general description. Since just about every politician, to a degree, is populist. Whatever the principals involved, few politicians stand at complete odds with the public. If they do, then their time in office can be cut short.

Watching and listening to the new parade of clowns at conference, it makes me wish for a minor revival of the traditional Conservative Party. There was a time when old fashioned social liberals and concerned environmentalists could be found in that British political party. Not anymore.

If I had seven wishes, one of the would be that competence and substance got more attention than loud mouths and false promises. I don’t suppose that’s on offer. Even if it was, I’d need to be careful what I truly wished for because I might just get it. Good advice for anyone. Imperfection is OK.

POST 1: When a Party leader admits his infant Party has no idea how to function in Government. Saying that defecting and discredited former ministers will fill the gap, trouble is ahead whatever happens. Satire is dead because real life has jumped the shark.

POST 2: UK Reform activists sing “God Save the Queen” at the Reform conference. The UK hasn’t had a Queen for almost 3-years. These people are happy to show-off as phony patriots.

POST 3: UK media fascination with sensationalism has given Reform an undeserving boost. The BBC has been ticked off for sacrificing impartiality in chasing this circus. Especially pertinent considering that Parliament contains 72 Liberal Democrat MPs and only 4 Reform MPs.

[1] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt7286456/

[2] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0061391/

The Greasy Pole

I think we should be indebted to the writers of “Yes Minister.” And the brilliance of Paul Eddington, Nigel Hawthorne, and Derek Fowlds[1]. No mobile phones, lap-tops or tablets, wood panelled offices, a Minister with all the backbone of a jellyfish and the cunning and mountainous pomposity of Oxbridge’s best.

It’s the ultimate lesson for aspiring British politicians. Fresh faced, with ambition and desire to make a difference they are confronted with the custom and practice of centuries. A bureaucratic minefield that tops anything Brussels can produce.

At first, it’s easy to see Jim Hacker as naive to the point of merely being indulged by the civil service. He learns fast, as a good parliamentarian should always do. Fun being seeing him turn the tables on the Whitehall establishment. Often at the expense of hysterically awkward moments and sporadic cynical manoeuvrings.

Last night, I watched “The greasy pole”[2]. Without a doubt this episode remains 100% relevant. It first went out in 1981. The story’s themes are universal.

A proposed industrial development offers secure jobs and potential prosperity. It comes with a hitch. Activism and noisy protests aimed against the project. Industry and the civil service want the factory to get built. The Right Honourable James Hacker sits on the fence. Blows hot and cold but realises that his political career pivots around sinking the project. The Minister wins out in the end much to the discomfort of the department officials.

It would be easy to write the entire plot in terms of 2025’s political difficulties. This morning’s News ran a story that wasn’t so far off the plot of “The greasy pole.”

A new Labour government minister tells of publishing a report that favours a point of view he wishes to get across. He continually mentions the name of the author of the report. Mimicking Jim Hacker as he makes sure everyone knows the report’s author, just in case he’s made a mistake.

Although, with the complete ridiculousness of the past British Conservative governments it may have been said that satire is dead. No, it certainly isn’t. Here it was playing out on the BBC on my kitchen radio at breakfast time.

This is the stubborn reality. In Britain we have a new absurdly named political party called “Reform.” They are flying high in the opinion polls because some people think the word has a political meaning. However, if these would be politicians were to gain a position of power, would they conduct long-needed reforms? Well, given the competence of the people involved and given the historic clashes between elected officials and civil servants the answer is most certainly – no.

It seems to me that new Labour government ministers are slowly getting the hang of the job. One year in they are still a bit wet behind the ears. Gradually, they are climbing the greasy pole. At any moment, because of the nature of the job, down they can come, and they know it.

[1] https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episodes/b006xtc3/yes-minister

[2] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0751819/

The Intriguing Life of Jackdaws

As the grass turns brown, the sun beats down. Me, I just a lawnmower[1]. Now, that’s probably the daftest lyric that has ever been written in the history of rock. As I look out of the window at the parched grass there’s no way I’d take my lawnmower to it. If I did there would be nothing, but dirt left in its wake. Stubborn deep-rooted weeds and dead moss.

It’s summer. It’s unusually dry. Although, as the sun came up this morning, looking out of the bedroom window, a thin mist covered the ground. That was early. Between 4am and 5am. A thin white mist, low to the ground, must refresh the grass just a little. Most of nature sleeps.

As the morning progresses its not long before one dominant sound fills the air. It’s not the cars on the nearby road. One species of bird has adopted the tall trees, field next door and my garden. They are not a quite bird. To those that know their call is instantly recognisable. Their sound isn’t musical like some birds. It’s an incessant chatter. Loud and repetitious.

Jackdaws are having no trouble despite the dying grass and rock-hard ground. Our community of noisy birds is thriving. I guess their advantage is that they eat just about anything that’s going. Not much concern about predators as they take no care to hide their presence. I’ve seen them happily mocking larger birds. Showing off seems to make them happy.

As far as evolution goes, they have a lot of advantages. Equally agile hopping around on the ground as they are swooping and diving from tall trees. There’s no doubt they have a complex social etiquette. One or two minutes watching how they interact gives this away. Bigger, more mature, birds intimidate the younger ones.

Can’t say I like them much. More that I admire them for being so savvy. Jackdaws look as if they own the place. It’s not my garden. They are saying, we come a go as we please, you can share the space if you like. Sooty black masters of the airspace.

We’ll tolerate each other mainly because we have no other choice. Trying to scare a jackdaw is a fruitless task. They learn quickly. Soon sussing out that they can get the better of you.

As the sun beats down, I lay on my lounger. Listening to the endless chatter. Me, I’m just a bird feeder. Watching as the skies fill with shiny black dots. There for moment and gone the next.

[1] https://genius.com/Genesis-i-know-what-i-like-in-your-wardrobe-lyrics

Strolling

Daily writing prompt

What notable things happened today?

View all responses

Mr fox strolled intently across the green field. Apologies, if in fact it’s a Mrs fox that I saw in the early morning light. His was a deliberate, nonchalant stroll. Knowing that tuffs of high grass and reeds provided cover. A stop, quick look around, and then onward. No reason to hurry.

From my window, this was not the first time I’ve seen a fox on his first light stroll. In the bright morning sunlight, there was a sheen coming off his coat. This was clearly a healthy fox. Agile, slender and strong. Unlike shy, less fit town foxes that I’ve seen wandering gardens. No scavenging from waste bins for this smart fellow.

It crossed my mind that prey must be plentiful at this time of year. Later in the day a pack of geese graze this unkempt wet land. Mixing with the Dexters. I’ve seen goslings waddling along behind their parents. Now, I suspect there are fewer of them to waddle.

Sustainable Aviation: Innovations and Challenges

Gas guzzling continues to be one of aviation’s problems. Combustion remains that the heart of most aircraft power plants. Taking large amounts of fossil fuel. Squeezing energy out of every drop of gasoline. Gobbling up more day after day. Pushing out emissions.

As I look out across the garden, I see gliding effortlessly as the warm air rises, a Red Kite[1] gracefully circling. Wings outstretched they hardly move them as they climb. They’re a distinctive small bird of prey, easily spotted because of their forked tail. Now, that’s what I call efficient flying. Using all that nature provides and wasting little energy.

Human attempts at flying are a million miles behind these magnificent birds. There’s still so much to learn about aerial navigation. It’s a matter of control. The sensing of ambient conditions and the precision movements needed to ascend and dive at will.

The search is on for effective change. There’s no pretence that the way commercial aviation operates is unsustainable. It’s true that the gas guzzlers of the air guzzle less gas now than they ever have but the physical facts remain.

None of this is new. I’m about to send a book called “Towards Sustainable Aviation” to a charity shop. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with it. The book is full of pertinent analysis and observations. Trouble is that it’s dated 2003.

I’m led to ask – what’s changed in over 20-years? In answering my own question – quite a lot but not enough. Discourse has moved on from academic quarters to the political sphere. Aircraft have become more fuel efficient. Driven by economic imperatives as much as any concern for the climate. Research initiatives are generously funded to come up with answers. Solutions like hydrogen, electric propulsion, and SAF (sustainable aviation fuel) are slowly moving from theory to practice. A few prototypes are flying. Limited supplies of SAF are flowing.

Unmistakable that’s where the problem lies. For all the hype, policy and government funding the pathway to genuinely sustainable aviation disappears way off into the horizon. There are setbacks too. Gas guzzling is back in fashion. Certainly, in Trump’s America.

We could make a much more of the technology that’s currently available. Yes, there are costs involved. Change is not a free ride. That said, sticking with the status-quo isn’t free either. Legacy costs mount up. One reason why older jets disappeared from fleets so quickly.

The next generation of commercial aircraft must make major steps forward. Since the life of a typical aircraft type can easily extend to 30-years, then change must happen in design now.

Typically, commercial aviation moves with graduated change. There’s an inherent conservatism in the system, as might be expected when safety and security are paramount. Facing this global challenge, there’s a need for a degree more radicalism.

Since high impact disruption is also in fashion, it’s time for airlines and manufacturers to adopt a pioneering spirt. It’s been done before. In the 1960s, that pioneering spirt gave us the Boeing 747, the Jumbo jet. That opened flying to a whole generation.

[1] https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/red-kite

Exploring a Riverside

Riverside walks can be pleasant ways of spending a sunny spring evening. That’s what I did on Friday. Sun shining with a cool breeze sweeping through the trees. Underfoot even the unmade-up paths were dry, which is testament to the rainless weather of recent weeks. Even so, the riverbank showed signs of the flooding of the winter.

Reading is a town[1]. It’s England’s largest town. Now, I didn’t know that until I looked it up. The largest English town that I’ve been familiar with over the years is Crawley in Sussex. I think of that as a large town but it’s less than half the size of Reading. It’s the railway that makes Reading. Reading railway station was the last stop on the Great Western Railway (GWR)[2] when it was first opened in 1840. After that the railway forged west to be what we know now as the main thoroughfare across southern England.

Reading town has a long history. That’s no surprise given its position on the river Thames. It’s where the river Kennet, the canal and the river Thames meet. An obvious place for trading since Roman times. It’s a commercial town. Glass sided office blocks and Victorian brick work. For all that it doesn’t stand out as an architectural masterpiece.

Another surprise for me was leaning that town twinning is alive and well. That Reading in twined with Düsseldorf in Germany. A city more than twice the size of Reading. In fact, until this last year, I’ve been more familiar with Düsseldorf.

Our walk ended at The Fishermans Cottage[3]. I’m happy to recommend this small riverside pub.

From there, on the walk back to the railway station I did see the one of the more notable sites in Reading. That’s the Banksy’s Great Escape artwork[4] on Reading prison wall. Oscar Wilde spent time in that jail. The artwork has got a Perspex cover to keep the pigeons off. And anyone else who might think of spraying it.

That reminds me. It’s not unusual to have a phobia about dogs. Although dog owners mostly have a difficulty in getting their heads around the fact. On my riverside walk dogs were not the problem. Amongst our small group of walkers had a different phobia.

As we got to the confluence of the Thames and the Kennet, we discovered the phobia of one of our walkers. Alfred Hitchcock would approve. The Kennet’s tow path attracts Swans. These Swans are attracted by people with food. With no inclination to get out of the gently flowing river these lazy Swans wait for passers-by to pay attention to their needs. That’s no problem.

It’s called Ornithophobia. A fear of birds. Birds flock when free food is on offer. The worst of these can be thought of as flying rats. I talk of pigeons. That how I think of pigeons. Tom Lehrer[5] had the right idea about these annoying birdies. Frightening them away, at least for a moment, cleared our pathway. Like a flash they returned as we strolled into the pub.

[1] https://www.reading.gov.uk/

[2] https://www.gwr.com/stations-and-destinations/travel-inspiration/blogs/history-of-the-railways

[3] https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Restaurant_Review-g186363-d7363678-Reviews-The_Fishermans_Cottage-Reading_Berkshire_England.html

[4] https://banksyexplained.com/create-escape-march-2021/

[5] https://youtu.be/yhuMLpdnOjY