A Bit of A Rant.......

The Goyt is as far as I know a CCTV free area. I can still walk there, mumble to myself, rant against the government or just shout into the wind because I feel like it. No one in authority will be keeping tabs on me. There may be one or two startled dog walkers, and some surprised grouse, but my actions will not be recorded, to be sifted over in some darkened room by an agent of the government at a later date. We are not yet under the same level of surveillance, that Orwell wrote about in his novel "1984", where I seem to recall Winston and Julia were still at risk from listening devices even in the depths of the Home Counties countryside. But we are not far off. If you use the Internet, telephone (mobile or landline) then you are under surveillance. If you walk down the street in any of our towns and cities then you are under surveillance. It is possible for someone without your knowledge to know where you have been and what you have been doing and for this information to be gathered electronically and remotely regardless of whether you are doing anything wrong.

Up to a point I have no problem with that. There is some truth in the assertion that if you have nothing to hide then you have nothing to fear from the additional surveillance, that it will offer the law-abiding citizen some measure of protection. But it does not stop at the use of surveillance to protect the citizen from criminals. It can be and is being, abused. Our civil rights are eroded almost with each passing piece of legislation. Our own government, rather than seeking to limit the use of technology to “spy” on its citizens, actively seeks to increase the levels of surveillance, and seeks to extend police powers and to limit the protection we have from our legal rights. Tony Blair makes no attempt to hide his frustration at the slow and laborious nature of the courts system, wanting more summary justice to be dispensed by Police Officers. It starts with small seemingly irrelevant almost trivial things, but one day you wake up and realise that a large chunk of freedom has gone. All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men or women to do nothing.

First They Came for the Jews

First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Next they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade
I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.

Pastor Martin Niemöller

Back in the Goyt I can breathe in the clean fresh air of freedom, and stare out across a hillside free from CCTV, and hidden listening devices. But hang on a second; what’s this, I am sure that rock wasn’t there last time I was here!

Invisible Man......

I was in one of the larger supermarkets the other evening. I had popped in to get a paper so I was standing at the kiosk or counter near the entrance waiting to be served. When I say waiting I was actually the only person at the counter. There were two assistants; they were deep in conversation about a forth-coming party. One of them glanced up at me and looking back at her colleague continued chatting. Could they not see me? What else did they think I was standing here for? Perhaps they thought that I did not want to be served. Perhaps they thought I just enjoyed standing by the counter, browsing through the different types of cigarettes that they had. (I don’t smoke by the way) I waited, patiently, they glanced at me, so I tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Success! One of them reluctantly shuffled towards me, still chatting to her colleague. “Can I help you?” she said. I was tempted, so tempted to say no, actually I quite often stand at a shop counter giving the appearance of wanting to be served when in actual fact I don’t, I was just winding you up! I am going to put the paper back and leave your shop. Of course I didn’t. I went all English and apologised for disturbing her. She took the paper, scanned it, took my money, gave me change, and shuffled back to her friend. I left feeling a little more invisible than I did before I went in. Is it just me? I do seem to be invisible when it comes to being served. Getting served at bars is always a stressful thing for me. I have been known to take up to thirty minutes to get served at our local Wetherspoons. If I go into Dixon’s with my wife, assistants with offers of help and support will surround us within seconds of entering the store. If I go in on my own however, they disappear. I have to sneak up on them hiding behind racks of CD’s or games to ask them for help. Maybe I should shout and complain. Maybe. I doubt it would get me very far, just barred.

Wishful Thinking ......

Its around about this time of the year that I keep a close eye on the weather forecasts in the hope that we wil get some proper winter weather. For me winter is incomplete without some decent snowfall, and some cold weather. The mild damp grey stuff depresses me. Luckily in the Peak District we usually get at least one spell of cold snowy weather, so I am keeping my fingers crossed!

Winter has arrived.....

Winter must be here as fat balls have appeared on the branches of some of the bushes and trees and the coconut half, filled with seeds and fat, has blossomed again. The house sparrows have been queuing up in their usually polite and orderly way to take turns with one particular fat ball, which must be tastier than the others, whilst the blue tits are more selective in their tastes preferring to dine on peanuts. I do feel sorry for the Dunnocks though, as they are ground feeders they have to scratch around for the scraps that the sparrows and tits drop. They also run the risk of being harassed by our cats. Risk maybe a bit strong really. Irritated is perhaps more accurate. The cats have realised that there is no point in throwing themselves at birds anymore, as the birds have wings which gives them an unfair advantage. Its cold and wet outside anyway. Far better to stare at them from behind double glazed windows in the warm.

Sticking to the bird theme, on the way back from Derby on Thursday, I saw a large buzzard being mobbed by a small crow. The crow was persistent to the extent that it forced the buzzard to the ground. There they both sat a few feet apart. Unfortunately I had to concentrate on driving so I don't know what the outcome was. It has always puzzled me that a large well-armed bird will tolerate the mobbing attentions of a much smaller bird and even on occasions giveway. I would have thought one decently aimed swipe from its talons or beak would have settled the matter.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning is fast becoming my favourite time of the week. This morning it is a glorious autumn day. The sun is shinning, and from the kitchen window I can just see a faint trace of snow on the hills above 1400 feet. I am writing this at ten o’clock so I suspect it will be gone by lunchtime. The few leaves that are left on the trees are a collection of russet, yellows, deep orange, browns and reds. The air is still and the birds are feeding on the fat and nuts that my wife put out for them yesterday. The “young people” are still in bed, fresh coffee is bubbling on the hob, the archers provide a faint soundtrack in the background, and I have just finished making a batch of bread. It will be going into the oven in a few minutes and soon the house will be filled with the glorious aroma of fresh bread as well as coffee.

I make bread several times a week, partly as therapy and mainly because it is better than most of the stuff that passes for bread that you can buy. Being a bloke I have an innate inability to follow any sort of instructions, so it has taken a while to get the recipe right. I still make stupid mistakes, like forgetting to put the yeast in! But on the whole it seems to work out okay and there is rarely any left. So lunch will be scrambled eggs with fresh, still warm home made bread.

I find making bread a very calming process. You cannot rush it; if you try then the result is poor and disappointing. You have to relax and let the yeast do its work, and it still fascinates me to leave a lump of dough in the bowl and to pop down an hour or so later and find that it has doubled in size and is warm to the touch. There is also something deeply satisfying about making and eating your own bread.
So that’s my Sunday morning sorted. Pity its Monday tomorrow!

Missing the Goyt!

Pressure of work during the week and rugby commitments at the weekend has meant that I have not been walking in the Goyt valley for a while. I drove past the turning today and was sorely tempted to drop out of range for a hour. Evening was drawing in though and it was drizzling , and I did not have a pair of decent shoes (what a fair weather walker!) so I thought better of it. I shall have to keep a pair of boots in the car just in case I happen to find myself I the right place at the right time.

Summer Memories

Outside, the wind rattles the windows
Driving sleet and snow against
The panes. Warm inside I take down a map and
Sitting by the fire, remember before drifting off
The summer’s walks and rambles.

Familiar routes, condensed on fragile
Paper, the landscape reduced to lines
And symbols, I trace with clumsy fingers
The paths I took,

And wonder when I will take them again,
Smell the bracken after rain, feel the
Dry grass under foot or sense the stolid rock
Beneath my boots.

I wake, weary of dreams, and folding the
Map; place it back where it belongs.
Outside the wind rattles windows
Driving sleet and snow

Against the window panes,
And I am glad to be inside,
But happy for the journey too,
For memories of a summer gone

And hopes of many more to come.

The Crescent Buxton 2006

With ground floor windows boarded up,
I imagine it a bombed out relic from the war.
The Fencing and the keep out signs
Intimidate, but underline its plight.

And yet the people passing by seem
Not to care, have lived with this for fourteen years,
Grown used to silent emptiness
That lies within the ancient limestone walls, and

Seeing only quarried blocks (for beauty
Can be a gash, a rent in the hillside,
A disassembly of nature) they use trucks
And trains to take away the heart stone;

The living rock cut out by men, handled ,
Crafted, shaped with iron tools held by
Hands, hardened by work, by pride,
Each limestone block, fits into a plan.

Meanwhile promises to recreate the former grandeur
Are made and broken, and only
The fencing, graffiti stained, gets replaced,
Spawning angry letters in the local paper.

But in the deserted rooms, ghosts quietly
Dance with the dust and the moonbeams,
While the corridors reach out, silently
Yearning for the touch and warmth of life.

Another perfect Autumn Day

Managed to get some time off on thursday, so spent a few hours in the Goyt. Another perfect autumn day. Down in the valley by the wooden footbridge the ground was frozen solid in the shade. Hints of winter at last?

Late Sunday Afternoon

Late Sunday afternoon in the Goyt.

It was a glorious autumn day. By the pond, (still duckless), a family were having a party, and the smoke and smells from their barbeque were drifting lazily into the clear blue sky. Towards the end of the afternoon as the light began to fade, the owls appeared and hunted quietly and lethally, if you were small and furry, amongst the bracken.