Let the Train take the Strain

So having had to postponed my trip to London for a day there I was at last sitting on the overcrowded cattle truck that passes for what Richard Branson laughingly calls a train. To be fair, and I pride myself on being fair, the train (I said I was being fair) was on time. But it was crowded, well at least it was in “Standard Class”. First Class was half full to judge by the empty seats that I had glimpsed on my way to standard class. To get a seat I had had to ask a lady clad in Manchester United scarves if she would mind using only one seat. She didn’t, despite having had no sleep for two days and enduring the rain in Moscow, and seemed happy to put up with the BW’s attempt at a conversation. So we chatted about the Final, Rugby, children, and house prices? The time passed and the further South we went the warmer it became and the drier the landscape looked. The other passengers did what passengers do, sleep, stare at their laptops, read, shout loudly down their mobile phones, listen to other peoples conversations and generally try and survive the boredom of the Virgin Train “experience”.

Arriving in London I did what I had to and learned a lot of technical legal phrases (but that’s another story) and so it was that I found myself in the early evening with a choice. To hang around London for a bit or to catch the first available saver train back up North to civilisation, and dreary weather. I decided to return to the Bosom of my family (a phrase that is guaranteed to make the Munch snigger when I say this at meal times) and caught the first available train with minutes to spare. I found myself standing (literally not metaphysically, this was no On the Road to Damascus moment) amongst the other standard riff raff in the restaurant car. There was no seating room left on the Cattle Truck part of the train, however the conductor (or On Board Train Manager or what ever glorified title the Management Consultants employed by Virgin Trains, have deemed necessary for the smooth and efficient running of the alleged service) seemed a sensible sort of chap and announced to us that he was declassifying the train. He paused as if expecting a round of applause, and then when it was clear that we did not have a clue what he was talking about, told us by way of explanation, to go and find a seat in first class. Managing to avoid being trampled in the rush I found myself a few minutes later, legs stretched out in front of me in the spacious and refined luxury of first class, deciding whether or not to read my book or do some work on my lap top (not a difficult decision really) Some time later the conductor came round to look at the tickets. I half expected to be frog marched back to standard class. He glanced at my ticket and then proceeded to explain that there was a signalling fault at Rugby and that we could be upto twenty minutes late. I relaxed. But not for long. To the bona fide first class traveller next to me he grovellingly apologised for the inconvenience that the poor man had to endure and almost begged him for his forgiveness. I was a bit taken aback. What inconvenience exactly? Was it having the nice roomy clean first class carriages swamped by the great unwashed? As it turned out that was only part of the “inconvenience”. The real hardship that was that due to a problem with onboard catering the poor things would have to make their own way to the restaurant car where if they managed to make it alive and unmolested by the lower classes cluttering up the carriages they could have a complimentary drink. I sighed to myself and returned to reading Andrew Marr’s History of Modern Britain. Marr was explaining about the deferential and class ridden nature of the pre-war era. Nothing much has changed then!

A Buzzard

I was meant to be in London, but instead I was standing on a hillside in the Goyt, watching a buzzard glide and soar just above the treetops of the wood. It was early afternoon and in the valley out of the chilly wind it felt like summer. The sun was shinning, there was even a faint shimmering heat haze. As I watched the buzzard, it began to climb above the trees, seeking out the thermals, effortlessly turning in tight circles with just an occasional flap of its large wings and going ever upwards. Every so often it would stop rising and fly in larger circles, its head hung down, searching for any movement below, before seeking out the warm rising air to climb higher. Within minutes it was a faint speck, and I moved on lifted by what I had seen and as always amazed at the sheer effortlessness of it all. I was glad I was on the hillside London would wait until tomorrow.

Teenage Taxi Service

With Mrs BW off enjoying herself on one of her courses for the day, I was left i/c of the teenagers and their various social arrangements. This meant that effectively I was just a taxi, but without the benefit of collecting a fare, in fact it was worse because I had to shell out for their various activities.

First out of the block was ferrying the Munch to his riding lesson. Normally the riding school where he has his lesson is a little oasis of calm and peace, but this morning it seemed to be teeming with activity. The pot bellied pig was sulking and grunting in the chicken run and the chickens, a little put out that some of their run was occupied by a large and bad tempered pig, were on edge and nervous. I strolled over to the Munch. He had mounted his horse, Mollie or Nellie or something, so I wandered up to the front end and began stroking the horse. “Nice horse” I said to him. “Yes she is, but she is a bit nervous and highly strung” Now the Munch has a highly tuned sense of humour and he thought it would be fun to swing the horse round at this point so that I was no longer chatting to the front end but was in fact faced with the back or kicking end. Not the best place to be when the owner of the rear end is of a nervous disposition. I beat a hasty retreat and leaning on the fence (I later found out that the strange ticking sound was not some sort of beetle but in fact the sound of the electrified part of the fence) settled down to watch the proceedings. In the field next to me, the owner of the stable was schooling a difficult horse and being watched by the concerned owners. Next door the Munch was having a jumping lesson. His was doing fine but on the third or fourth jump the horse must have remembered an urgent appointment and stopped abruptly, before realising that it was meant to be jumping. Which was all fine accept that the Munch was caught unawares and as they landed over the jump he was thrown sideways and came down on his shoulder. We hurried towards him but apart from a being a bit muddy, he seemed fine and was soon back on and jumping again. In fact filling in the accident book at the stables was more stressful.

After all that excitement taking the Weasel to her drama class should have been easy. Normally she is just taken to the hall and then walks home afterwards but today because Dad is a soft touch she said as I dropped her off, “Can you pick me up at 3.00pm?” I was about to protest but to late “Thanks Dad, don’t be late now!” and she was off into the village hall.

At least the roads will be quiet, and I don’t like association football anyway. And there will still be time to take the washing out and tidy the lunch things away before Mrs BW gets back!

Go to Work on a Grebe

I managed to drag myself out of bed at around 5.00am this morning. I had planned to get up an hour earlier so that I could lie in wait for the dawn chorus but it was hard to tear myself away from comfort and warmth of the marital bed and Mrs BW. But I am glad I did. It was a glorious morning.



A brisk stroll brought me to the "Bench that overlooks the top resevoir" and there I sat, the richest man in Derbyshire (figuratively of course) surrounded by the Goyt in all her glory. I had been brooding over the day to come in the car but I swear that it is impossible to think black thoughts when you are under the influence of the Valley. She casts a spell that lasts so long as you are there.




What better way to start the day than watching a pair of Great Crested Grebes dive for fish. They are magnificent birds, graceful and effortless on the water. Okay a bit Heath Robinson in the air but you can't have everything.




And then just to round the morning off (It was about 7.00am by this time) the Short Eared Owl appeared just over the crest of the rise, hunting for food for its mate that hopefully is sitting on a clutch of eggs.



It was hard to tear myself away, to take off the walking boots and drive back the short distance, to put on full business suit and step out into the so called real world but I went to work with a song on my lips this morning. Great for me but a nasty surprise for anyone within hearing range.

Alls well that ends well its the bit in the middle thats the problem

I knew things were going to be difficult today when I stopped at the traffic lights when they were on green, and ignoring the honking horns behind me, waited until they turned red, started to set off then stopped (luckily) and realised what a pillock I had been. Well it was 7.10am, and I was in Stockport, and I had just dropped Mrs BW and the Munch off at Stepping Hill. The Munch had to have a minor operation, which went well I am glad to say. So maybe I was not at my best. Things got worse. Back in time to make sure that the Weasel got up for school, she told me just as she was going that she needed a check for her dinner card. After we had gone through the usual ritual of me shouting "why the hell didn't you tell me earlier" and she replying that "if you were a caring dad you would remember without having to be told!" she asked me if I could possible make it legible this time. Apparently no one could read the details last time and it caused problems in Admin and the Weasel was embarrassed by it.

Then of course there was work. I started with two things that I absolutely had to do no matter what happened and by lunchtime the list was up to seven and I was drowning not waving.

Back to Stockport to collect the Munch and Mrs BW. Twenty five minutes cruising the Stepping Hill car park to find a space. And it was hot and the car heating which in winter puts out a luke warm sort of heat was blowing out heat that it would have melted steel,and stayed the same no matter what setting I put it on.

Back at Birdwatcher terraces Mrs BW set up her Hammock, the Munch had to be gently told that no he could not go out to play as he had just had an operation and he really ought to rest, and I went back to the list of things that I absolutley had to do today. It was up to eleven.

Much later in the Goyt I sat on the bench overlooking the resevoir, watched a couple of curlews glide down from their nesting grounds to feed somewhere below me. It was a perfect evening, warm and the air filled with the scent of pines and grasses. Stockport seemed a long way away.

Life and Death in the Goyt

High above a buzzard flaps slowly and effortlessly above the moor. Suddenly from nowhere a curlew appears. It is smaller than the Buzzard, but I guess it has eggs near by, possibly chicks and its unhappy at the presence of the Buzzard. It escorts it away from the area, diving at it every so often, not to hit it, but just to encourage it to “push off”. The Buzzard continues on its way, unperturbed and disinterested in the attention, and satisfied that it no longer poses a threat, the Curlew peels off and returns to its nest.

Over the crest of the hill the Short-Eared Owl that we saw ten minutes previously re appears. It is no longer hunting but flying purposefully back across the valley. Through the binoculars I see that it is clutching a small furry creature. I ask Mrs BW if she wants to have a look, but she declines saying that she can get a better idea about how graceful and elegant it is with the naked eye.

A brown hare breaks cover and with slow lolloping strides reaches the safety of the undergrowth, pausing once or twice to look back at these strange intruders. As we enter the small wood, I leave the track to answer a call of nature. There in front of me hanging from a branch are the remains of a rabbit, eviscerated; it has obviously been dead for some time. The wood is strangely silent. It is dark, many of the trees lean at weird angles, and there is an uncomfortable lifeless feel to it. Back on the path and into the sunlight I catch Mrs BW up as a jay dashes from one patch of wood to another, a flash of pink and white.

We stop and sit for a while on the bench that overlooks the reservoir. There is no wind and the late evening sun feels warm. All appears to be peaceful in the Goyt. Appearances are deceptive.