Ash to ashes

The thin elm in the centre is dead - the one to its right will follow soon

The prospect of ash dieback has caused widespread concern over recent weeks. Thankfully the press has highlighted the potential devastation rather than focusing on the attempts to make political capital out of the crisis. It's been helpful too in communicating the actions we can take to report possible cases. A garden blogging friend told me the other day that #ashdieback is now one of the most used tags on Twitter.

I'd like to think we can contain the blight - but I'm pessimistic. The whole affair is reminiscent of the foot and mouth outbreak - maps appearing on the website with a worryingly large number of dots for reported cases. Yesterday, the BBC carried an article advising walkers to wash their boots and hose down their dogs after visiting woodland with ash - oh, yeah, like that's going to happen!

My last post was about beetles and how few most people can easily identify. Trees are not far behind. My company recently moved to new premises called Rowan House - you'd think it was obvious and yet I had to point out to senior colleague this referred to a tree! How many in the office would be able to spot a poplar or a willow I wonder?

But as with beetles, identification is almost beside the point.

Earlier this week I walked the grounds of Lacock Abbey - visitors might not know the names, but they know the immense trees that grow there, and to think of them gone is beyond horrific. Ash trees used to line the roads of the streets I grew up in - last to leaf and first to fall, my mother would say - and one of my earliest memories is making dens in the russet piles that the wind would blow to our garden.

My garden now is full of trees: walnut, maple, beech and holly. There are firs too, some to be removed - and there are elms, five in fact.  Or at least there were.  This year two died from Dutch Elm Disease - it's near certain the others will go too. Elms still grow in the UK, but they invariably succumb as they reach maturity, particularly when emerging from hedgerows.  It is possible that by thinning the garden wilderness I inherited, I've inadvertently hastened the demise of mine.

At the advice of a tree nursery I've chopped one to a metre above ground - there's a faint possibility it will sprout again.  The other has had it, and needs removing quickly. I'm told the logs would burn if I seasoned them for a year - but even then they give little heat.  I shan't bother - apart from anything, it seems too sad an end.

Cefn Croes wind farm

Let me start by sharing three recent conversations.

The first, with a writer who was once a prominent road protester. Would you have climbed those trees to stop the building of a wind farm, I asked?

The second, with a writer and environmentalist, as delightful as she was committed. I care most deeply about the landscape, I explained, my view on wind farms is really a matter of personal priorities.

And the third, with a writer whose generous mentoring has helped me more than any other. I've discovered the way to success, he said. Write nothing controversial, acknowledge all opinions and say bugger all of consequence.  He had a twinkle in his eye.

I recalled these snippets as I neared the summit of Pen y Garn on Saturday, walking on a treble-width forest track, five miles east of Devil's Bridge in the Cambrian Mountains. The 'road' leads to the Nant Rhys bothy, arguably the most perfect and isolated of all in Wales.

Of course, I knew what to expect. After all, I'd been this way before. I'd written of my hatred of the Cefn Croes wind farm, its impact on the landscape and the inappropriateness of its turbines. I'd gone so far as to say that before passing judgement every campaigner (for or against) should stand under one of the monstrous contraptions.

You'll understand then, I'm no fence-sitter on this issue - though it's fair to say that over recent years I've tried harder to listen to alternative views. Sometimes I even find myself nodding.

But as I crested the rise that visceral response hit me again... I began ranting to my walking companion... and again... reeling off photos... and again... spitting into my iPhone's voice recorder: fucking turbines.. and again... arrogant, criminal... and again... they make me want to puke..  I was listening to no one and to trucking no arguments.

And you know, I was glad about that. For in those few minutes of rage I felt more authentic than any amount of reasoned argument, probing questions or careful assessment of perspectives. I didn't give a toss for the technical reports available as pdf downloads, the website propaganda of the energy companies or the paranoia of the eco-lobby that positions windfarms as a binary alternative to nuclear-fuelled wastelands. Nor did I care about the European grants, the Welsh Assembly's Sustainability Strategy, or the 40,000 homes putatively benefiting from this 'clean' energy.

What I cared about was this place.

The Elenydd wilderness is one of the few mountain regions worthy of that epithet. The Cefn Croes windfarm is barely visible from the road, it takes miles of walking to get up close, it directly affects but a handful of homes and doesn't offend the tourist's windscreened view of Wales. And that's precisely why it matters so much.

This landscape is precious; it's rare and special, and I'm angry because we despoil it with industrialisation on a scale that would be unthinkable in any urban equivalent. This is wrong, and it's plain and obvious when you go there. But because most of you won't, I'd ask you to spend 14 seconds watching the video below.

Just sometimes it's entirely rational to follow our gut.

How green is my valley?

Image from visitwalesnow.org

The South Wales Valleys are a curious and scarred countryside. From one viewpoint they can be seen as a manifestation of community, of a strength through industry that (in most versions of the story) was killed by Thatcher who cared nothing for the consequences. From another, they can resemble a post-apocalyptic landscape, a pertinent reminder of how it's possible to trash an area bigger than London for lack of care of a different sort. A drive up the Rhondda will give you as good as any sense of these, not necessarily conflicting, perspectives.

The Heads of the Valley tends more to the post-apocalyptic; it's new dual carriageway cuts a swathe through the spoil heaps on which even tussock grass is never quite fully established. The road links  Abergavenny to the Neath valley, skirting a list of the towns synonymous with our industrial heritage: Blaenavon, Ebbw Vale, Merthyr Tydfil. It's a bleak drive, the sense of failed regeneration felt as keenly in the empty industrial units as in the bald and blackening moorland. The quintessential highlight is an ASDA superstore that overlooks Merthyr's Gurnos estate, a place once described as the UK's capital of economic inactivity.

I've been travelling this road for twenty-five years, and not a lot has changed. Except that is for the Glynneath; an area that, from a landscape perspective at least, has been gradually rejuvenating. There is more tree planting here - sure, a lot of it's commercial, but it's sensitively done - the canal has been renovated too; there are boat trips from Resolven and the river is clean enough for trout and sewin. It may be that this particular valley was spared the worst of industrial despoliation - I don't pretend to know its history - but whatever it's past, I've always regarded it as a model for what the other Valleys might eventually become.

So why, oh why have they covered it turbines!

Covered is an exaggeration, but as always seems to be the case, they pick the best, the wildest, the most open landscape to site these monstrosities. Drive now into the one valley that seemed to have come through and the first thing you see is a hillside of tri-blade propellers. And if you're like me, every other time you pass, not one of them will be turning.

Not that I'd be more inclined to love them if they were. I've long hated wind farms, and I'm unashamed in my view that they despoil our landscape, that this matters deeply and that the putative benefits don't outweigh the aesthetic impact. The turbines that have been installed across Wales can be seen over thousands of square miles; their impact is far greater than the land they stand on.

The journalist Will Self, wrote this week in praise of windfarms - or rather of the development of the countryside as a constantly evolving and functional space. He argues that virtually all our landscape is man-made; that when he took a three-day trek from London to Newhaven he hardly saw anyone - though quite why that's relevant I don't know - that there's a deal of hypocrisy in our views of the countryside. And in that regard he's right. But overwhelmingly I regard Self's view is an oh so clever analysis, typical of metropolitan intellectuals who like to sneer at the commuting middle classes of Sussex.

Frankly, I could sneer at people who think a three-day walk across the Home Counties makes them an expert on the value of landscape. What's more - and this is particularly telling of Self's article - I have little regard for the views of people who have only viewed turbines from afar. Before anyone sets about justifying them, I'd suggest they go stand underneath a 165ft tower, and that to reach it they walk one of the service roads that have been gouged through the forests and hillsides; that they take time to look away from the blades and compare the view without them, before excusing their presence.

To be fair to Will Self he's not presenting himself as a lover of the great outdoors, but to my mind, his argument gives insufficient value to wilderness - indeed, he questions its very concept. In terms of pastoral England, he might be right, but I'd bet a lot of cash that he's never been to Plynlimon, or Hyddgen (see photo left) - both of which have an intrinsic value in their very remoteness, and both of which are seriously under threat. What Self's argument fails to address is that it is ancient and naturally important landscapes like these that are the most likely sites for wind farms in Wales.

My drive through Glynneath made me sad. According to Self, that's sentimentality; he'd say the turbines merely continue a tradition of utilising the land effectively. I think that's intellectual bollocks, fuelled by a certain philistinism toward nature. To me, they're a lost opportunity; yet another scar on a landscape that's suffered enough. Strange analogy that it is, they felt like an addict relapsing.

Lamenting the past; changing the future

A walk on the beach - good place to think. M. Charlton

Time for another pondering. This one's a little harder to get your head round, but I promise it gets more interesting and relevant as it goes along. Stick with it and hopefully you'll see what I mean.

There have been lots of occasions for remembrance this year: in July, the last surviving soldier to see service in the First World War died; in September it was the 60 years since the end of World War II; in two weeks time it will be 20 years since the Berlin Wall came down. Each, in its way, giving us cause to reflect on the more terrible events of the Twentieth Century.

It is common to hear people say these events 'should never have happened'; sometimes they go so far as, 'I wish it had never happened.' We understand the sentiment behind these words, but if you stand back a moment they are fraught with difficulty.

Let's take an example to illustrate - the First World War - and let's imagine you had the supernatural power to go back in time and change events. It might seem obvious that you ought to do everything possible to avoid the human suffering, to stop that terrible war from ever having started. But pause a moment before you raise your magic wand?

The First World War was undoubtedly human slaughter on a grand scale. But consider my question carefully, would you actually chose to change history? Before you decide, consider that altering history will always have an impact on the present. Or putting it more directly, if that terrible war had never taken place, it is a dead certainty that you would not be here now reading this blog - and neither would your children be alive or your grandchildren too. Do you still want to wave your wand?

The First World War may have been a terrible event, but it led to changes in society which led to your grandparents meeting, and later your mum meeting your dad, and the rest, as they say, is history... To answer my own question directly, I would not stop that war happening even if I had the power to do so; I love my own children too much.

Of course, when people say they wished that such and such an event 'had never happened', they don't mean it in quite that literal sense. They merely express their sadness at its consequences; and aside from anything else, they know they cannot go back and change history. So isn't this just a game of words - the kind of academic puzzle which only philosophers enjoy?

Well, not quite. Because if you apply the same principles to the future it gets more interesting, and it can take you to some unexpected and perhaps uncomfortable conclusions.

Take, for example, the contemporary issue of global warming. We all know that we need to do something about the environment before it is too late. If we don't there will be terrible consequences for future generations; people will die, the world will be a lesser place...

But hold on a moment. What if we took only minimal action to reduce carbon emissions; what if the earth heated up and we saw large scale climate change? How then would future generations look back on us? I suggest they would view the past much as we do the First World War - they would lament our folly, but unless their life was so terrible as to not be worth living, they would not logically want events to have actually been different.

The philosopher Jonathan Glover acknowledges this is a serious problem. For if we take this view to it's conclusion it suggests that there is no moral consequence to the actions we take today. Whatever the state of the environment we leave for future generations they would choose to keep it, because to change the past would mean - putting it bluntly - that they personally, would not be alive.

And yet this is so counter-intuitive - on this basis we would take no action at all.

The solution says Glover - and you may have got there already - is that we have to think about 'conceptual' people rather than 'real' people. We know the real people of the future - the people who actually exist in, say, 200 years time - would choose to leave the past unchanged no matter what we do. We know too that whatever actions we take today will affect which real people are born in the future. But Glover says it is not our responsibility to try and chose between different sets of real people who may or may not be born - frankly, we can't do that. Rather, he says it is our responsibility is to maximise the conditions for human flourishing, whoever those people may be.

In a sense what he is saying is blindingly obvious; we should try to make the future a better place - a place where people's well-being is maximised, where there opportunities for a rich and fulfilled life are the best they can be. That is what we all would want isn't it?

But the idea of maximising human flourishing can take us to some uncomfortable places when we apply it to areas that are more controversial than the environment. Glover, for example, discusses all of this in the context of the genetic engineering of children. His book, Choosing Children, is not an easy read, but I suggest it is worth a look by anyone going through the traumas of IVF or genetic issues associated with conception.

If we agree that our obligation to future generations is to maximise human flourishing, then where does this leave us with regard to engineering the genetics of individuals? There is widespread concern over technical advances in this area - we may shortly have the power to influence the genes of our children and yet progress towards this is strongly resisted in some quarters. But leaving aside religious objections, on what grounds can we deny, say, the development of techniques to improve intelligence or physical well-being? Surely these would improve human flourishing too? And this is just the start of our moral dilemmas.

Glover describes a particularly difficult case of a profoundly deaf couple who wanted to ensure their child had the best possible upbringing - and so decided they would like to engineer it to be born deaf! Their reasoning was that they were better placed as parents to bring up a deaf child, and that the benefits of their empathetic nurturing would outweigh any disadvantage of deafness - indeed, the child, when grown, would not logically wish to change their disability, just as we do not logically wish to alter the events of the First World War.

The case above is arguable either way, but there are many less controversial genetic interventions we could make, which, for the present, the law prevents us. There are also the equally difficult cases, such as those involving judgements about whether or not to abort a genetically abnormal foetus. Glover's point is that we need something to help guide us in these decisions - something beyond the individuals who will (or will not) be born as a result of the decisions we take. We need this because we know that the individuals of the future would not wish to change whatever decisions we made. His suggestion is that thinking in terms of 'human flourishing' is our best guide to a profoundly complex moral problem.

So it is interesting, I think, how one thought leads to another - and how apparently obvious principles are not quite so straight forward when applied in different circumstances. And though we might think it all very high brow - there are times when such decisions will affect us all. It is conceptual thinking which helps us through this maze. And a starting point, I think the idea of human flourishing, is a good one.

In concluding this piece I ought to make some things clear. I hope it is obvious that I do not think any less of the horrors of the past than the next person. Nor am I taking any particular stance in relation to abortion or genetic engineering. I have a particular interest in IVF because it touched me personally, but beyond that I am interested only in how we find our way through these issues. It seems to me that Glover has something valuable to offer, and that it is worthy of careful consideration. I hope you found it interesting too.

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After thoughts

Reading this piece aloud to someone they said, 'The only thing I don't quite follow is why I wouldn't be alive if the First World War hadn't happened.' It occurred to me that this conclusion may not be as entirely obvious as I thought.

When you think about it, many lesser events could have led to you not being here; if your parents hadn't met at that dance, or they hadn't gone to bed early that night... Of course, someone else might be here instead , someone very similar - but not YOU!

We are all a consequence of the past - both the world changing events and the apparently inconsequential choices made by others. The First World War was merely an example of a terrible event which we might wish to have changed - I could have chosen others further back in time.

It comes back again to the real you, as opposed to the conceptual you - the person who might have been born had events turned out differently. It is odd that in the relation to the present we have a clear obligation to the former and can judge the consequences fairly straightforwardly, but in relation to future generations it is much, much more difficult.

A taste of welsh honey

As I drove past Newgale this morning I noticed the campsite was almost full; across the road, many of the campers had already staked a claim to their patch of sand. Two miles further, at Nolton, the car park was overflowing, a queue of people on the slipway. Over the hill the boogie boarders were braving the early morning waves at Broad Haven. At the prospect of sunshine, the crowds were gathering at the honey pots of Pembrokeshire.

On their day I like all of these places, though I'm not a great one for crowds - not a great one for sitting on the beach if I'm honest - so I was off to complete another section of the coast path. This time I was walking from St Martins Haven to Dale, a fiddly place to get to, which explains why it was one of the last sections I needed to complete. My plan was to drive to Dale, leave bike there, drive to St Martins, park at National Trust, walk twelve miles, cycle back to car... you get the idea.

But sometimes the effort is worth it. A mile into my walk and I was above Marloes Sands, a kestrel hovering above me and butterflies rising from the grass with every stride. But it was the beach that held my gaze. I kept thinking, how it could be, that in all the time I've been coming to Pembrokeshire I've never been here before? The truth is, it's a faff to get here and there are easier options; much the same reason as why the crowds gather at Newgale I suppose.

Near where I took the photo below I met a lady who was admiring the view. She told me she lived in Marloes (the nearest village), then added 'Is there a better beach anywhere than this?' I had to agree. 'Not many trippers come here, because you have to walk four hundred yards from the car park - it's fantastic for the rest of us though.' Again, I agreed. But when I asked if she'd been to Ynys Barry near Porthagin she said ' Where's that?' And when I explained it was only a few miles to the north, she replied, 'You know, we never go to the north coast, it's terrible really.' I left her sitting on the headland and reflected on how we each have our own hefts.

But talking to anyone was an exception today. I must have passed no more than a dozen people in as many miles. Every so often I'd come across a cove with sunbathers and perhaps a yacht off shore. There were some farmers turning the fields, flocks of gulls crowding behind the tractors. The lighthouse at St Anne's was deserted - probably automatic these days. There were butterflies to watch too - one of my geekier hobbies - today was outstanding: Red Admiral, Painted Lady, Peacock, Comma, Blues (various), Fritillaries (at least two species) Meadow Brown, Wall Butterfly, Small and Large Heath, Speckled Wood, Small White, Green Veined White, Grayling ( I think) and best of all what must have been a hundred Large Whites feeding on a bramble patch. Sadly , not one Small Tortoiseshell, which used to be so common only a few years ago.

The coast path turns east after the lighthouse, following the Duagleddau towards Milford Haven and Pembroke Dock. It is reputedly the second deepest natural harbour in the world - on a day like to day it is hard to imagine that such a wide passage could be dangerous - yet fifteen years ago the Sea Empress foundered off this headland, resulting in Britain's worst oil spillage. I remember the dead gulls washed up on Whitesands and the diggers cleaning the oil off the sand.

Today, it would be a mean person not to say the estuary was beautiful. Even the refineries and the various industrial detritus seemed almost in keeping. It made me wonder if I'd ever come to accept wind farms quite so readily; I doubt it. My thoughts were confirmed as I passed under the signal towers - there is something about getting close to these structures that brings home how out of place they are in the landscape. Not that I have any alternatives to offer if they save lives and stop ships running aground.

My walk finished at Dale. It's not a place I've liked before; a pub, a cafe, a car park. The last time I was here was in winter - to look for birds on the River Gann - and I wondered then, why it is so popular with summer visitors. As I walked down the hill, a hundred or so boats came into view - all on moorings, with easy access in the sheltered bay. There were dozens of boaty types in the pub, sunbathing on the sea walls - they seemed to be having a good time, no rush to go out on the water. And why not, I thought - we each of us have our honey pots, and it would be a shame if they were all the same.

Wind farms

There's been a lot in the press this week about wind farms. I'll try not to get into the political or technical debate, but it does annoy me when people say (as did one commentator in the Telegraph) that they look so splendid on the hillsides.

Well go and stand beneath them! Go take a look at the roads they carve out to service them - or the way they reshape the hillsides to allow for better wind flow. Go and see the trash that's left behind. Huge tracts of the Welsh countryside have been destroyed in the rush to grab cash subsidies and fulfill political targets - sadly, it appears more precious landscape will soon fall victim.

I hear that Wales is committed to significant reductions in carbon emissions, indeed Wales is one of the world's leading countries in making such commitments. It all sounds good; an assembly minister proudly boasted that only two percent of the Welsh landscape would be affected by wind farms. Except as my fourteen year old son pointed out, 'two percent; so that one turbine every fifty yards?'

Sorry, I said I'd try not to get political...

So returning to my theme, anyone who thinks wind farms are just turbines standing elegantly in the landscape is naive in the extreme. Sometimes you have to get up close and personal - and until you do, I say you can't properly judge.

One of the smaller new roads ploughing through the wild Cambrian landscape - actually much bigger than most roads in Wales

Playing with words

My friend Andy writes on his blog of the delights of playing in the Brechfa Forest.  Always alert to the use of language, I sense he is echoing a trend amongst outdoor thrill seekers who refer to their exploits as 'play'.  I have used the phrase myself: 'playing in the rapids' is commonplace jargon of kayakers.

But their use of the word is more deliberate.  By describing mountain biking, or surfing, climbing, snowboarding et al, as 'playing',  they want to emphasise a carefree, non competitive side to their nature. Perhaps giving a subliminal two fingers to the rules and regulations and health and safety junk that so stifles much of the outdoor experience.   

They are saying something about themselves too:  Hey, I'm cool enough to use a word like 'play', I'm in touch with my sensitive side...  And in many cases they position play in contrast to work; not rejecting work but saying it isn't the be all of life.  Some go further and disingenuously hint that play is all that really matters.

And it strokes the ego too.  For we know that activities like riding a black run or kayaking white water are fraught with danger.  Being on the edge, that fine line between control and wipeout,  isn't play in the normal sense of the word.  Only those with the requisite skill and courage can take part - by calling this play, they are making a statement as surely as a peacock displaying its feathers.

We should forgive all this, for I think the intentions are honourable - and I have much sympathy for their message too. We do need a better balance in our lives; we need to find meaning too, and the outdoors is one way to that end.  At times, we just need some fun.

But herein lies a slight danger. It is hubris to see the landscape as our playground. The Brechfa forest is more than the Raven black run - and though I know my friend Andy would feel this way too, not everyone does. Visit the French Alps in the summer, see the ski runs and high rise apartments, and think again if playing is without a dark side.

There is a need for balance here. The landscape should be enjoyed; there's nothing wrong with playing (if you're inclined to use the phrase) but we should not seek to reduce it to our level. For in the end, it is bigger than us, beyond our control and out of our bounds; ultimately, unknowable. 

It's not easy being green...

I could do a whole spoof here about the effects of rising water temperatures on the bio-sphere... the need for a sustainable aquatic environment... the imminent and very real threat to population levels (in one week our global population has dropped by 33%)... the impact of over consumption of rich food stuffs... the age of the stupid; oh why didn't we do something when we could? 

But I won't, because Jane is upset and I bought her the darn thing for Christmas, so it's partly my fault.  And tomorrow we have to change half the water, buy an algae filter and quietly replace 'Dylan Fish' before his namesake notices he's gone.  And I thought goldfish were simple.

How did that song by Van Morrison go?

You’ll come to love both.

The bothy at Moel Prysgau

I remember the first time I drove through Abergwesyn Pass. It was spring and I was living in Cardiff, questioning my decision to move to Wales after a cold grey winter. I wasn't happy in the city, but didn't feel at home in the hills either. Much of South Wales seemed grim; even the Brecon Beacons lacked the stillness I had come to love in my home county of Northumberland. I must have mentioned something of the sort in the office.

Rodger was having none of it. 'I tell you, Wales is the most beautiful and the most ugly country in the world – and you'll come to love both.' Rodger lived above Merthyr, a proper Valleys boy who'd been a coach driver for years and now worked for the local newspaper, though he missed his time on the road. His great delight was to visit customers in Carmarthen or Cardigan – very important area for us but – indeed, he insisted on 'going west' at least once a week.

 'You come with me to make some calls,' he insisted, 'then you'll see.'

We drove the mountain road from Rhayader to Aberystwyth, stopped for quick coffee with a newsagent in town, then – work completed for the day - headed south to Aberaeron. Rodger was on a mission; he drove me to Lampeter, to Dolaucothi, to the wonderful village of Caio (still my favourite place in Wales) and then, by yet another double back, to Tregaron and the road to Llanwrtyd. 'Now is this a mess, or what?' he asked as we drove through an area of young forestry. I murmured agreement, though in truth I took little notice, being somewhat car sick by that point. 'Just you wait,' he said. 'The best pass in Wales is over this hill.'

The Abergwesyn pass is a near perfect glacial valley, cutting deep into the hills from the hamlet of Abergwesyn towards the Llyn Brianne dam and the Mid Wales forests. I was there again this morning; driving through the ancient deciduous trees at the start of the gorge. There was ice on the road, the northern slopes still in shadow by mid morning; on the southern side the bracken was drying in the sun; two ravens were harrying a buzzard. It is twenty years since Rodger took me here, I have driven and cycled this road dozens of times since, and still it takes my breath.

Abergwesyn is owned by the National Trust, consequently it has been saved from the vandalism wrought on the hills beyond. At the head of the pass is a steep road where the forestry begins – appropriately, it is known as the Devil's Staircase. From here westward, swathes of fir trees cloak the hills, the only respite to the monotony being the fell-clearance areas and the Dolgoch hostel, nestling in an oasis of bog that was presumably too awkward to plant. A huge area of land between here and Tregaron has been spoiled – some would say ruined – for what I suspect was little more than politics and the quasi- economics of the forestry commission; but what do I know? 

What I do know, is that the fir trees are every bit as ugly and despoiling as the industrial detritus that litters the Rhondda. And this is only one small area of the Mid Wales forests. Huge areas of the Cambrian Mountains have suffered the same fate, and sadly I suspect it will be repeated – though today it is wind farms more than trees that the politicians want. What was it Rodger said about Wales being the most ugly country…?

And yet I still love this area. Today, I walked to the bothy at Moel Prysgau. It is miles from any tarmac, approached by the old drove road to Strata Florida. The path is stubbornly defiant; it hugs the river, sometimes this side, sometimes that - time and again you have to wade through to stay with it. In a sense it is the reverse of walking the hills of the South Wales Valleys – here the dereliction is above you, not below. 

A few miles in and the trees take over, the paths become forest roads, complete with junctions and rights of way; the views become sporadic. Yet there is remoteness here, a stillness that saves the landscape despite our worst efforts. My son Daniel was with me today, but we walked much of the way without talking. Towards the end of the walk we came to a small boggy pool in a clearing, two geese floated serenely on the water, untroubled by our watching. 'Do you want to chat? I asked.

'I'm good,' he replied. 'It's the silence that I like the most.'

Mid Wales - an object lesson in how to ruin a landscape?

Pause for thought

'...the torrid despoilation that is the Mid Wales wind farms.'

The philosopher Mark Vernon draws attention on his website to a speech made by the Archbishop of Canterbury. The speech, which focused on climate change, argued the need for a new kind of intelligence; an intelligence that can save us from our worst excesses.

It was interesting that the speech should come from the Archbishop, as only this week I'd been musing on how the green movement increasingly resembles a religion. My thoughts were prompted by an email from a friend, alerting me to a group of young people who are planning to tour the country on bikes, spreading the environmental message. As I looked at their web site I felt increasingly uneasy but wasn't sure why: here were a group of committed people, talking about an issue they felt was important – what's wrong with that? Nothing - except it all seemed so horribly evangelical. They reminded me of a Church Youth movement; spreading the Word, all happy-clappy and inclusive – providing you don't question their particular green gospel.

Much of the green movement seems to me to be quasi-religious. Its mission provides a meaning and purpose in life (what greater goal than to save the world); it has its high priests (Lovelock, Kumar) and its demons (Bush, Enron); it preaches an apocalyptic vision, the need to redeem our sins and be born again… I could go on, but the point is made and analogies only take us so far.

Thinking about this I understood the reason I had felt so uneasy. Religions are notorious for quashing debate (except on their terms); for valuing faith above reason; for embracing supporting evidence but rejecting that which counters. In short, religions are bad at science, bad at tolerance and bad at analysis. They are good at lots of things too (wars, censorship, repression) which gives a certain irony to the Archbishop's notion that we need saving from our intelligent excesses.

It seems relevant that I started this post with reference to a philosopher. For in all the discussion on climate change, my feeling is that there is very little which is grounded in good clear philosophy. We know what is happening to our climate and we are bombarded with solutions and calls to action. But we hear less about why we should care – about why our current environment is so special that we should be compelled to save it, now? If I climb to the top of Carn Lladron, a mountain near my house, I am standing on rocks that were once a sea cliff – why is it that we have to save it as it is? These questions are deliberately naïve, and there are obvious answers to many of them – such as the moral imperative to avoid the human suffering that unfettered climate change would bring – but that doesn't mean we shouldn't ask them, for it is often in the fundamentals that we find the principles to guide us elsewhere.

It is tempting to leave these questions hanging, for committing an idea to writing leaves us vulnerable to criticism. In that respect I applaud the Archbishop despite thinking that most of what he says is bunkum. For my part, I believe we should strive for an environment that maximises human flourishing – sure, that means carbon reduction on a big scale, but it also means protecting those wild landscapes that nurture our sense of wellbeing. And if we had followed that as principle we might have thought twice about the torrid despoliation that is the Mid Wales wind farms – I hope the evangelical youths ride past them on their pilgrimage; it might give them pause for thought.

Composting

Can anyone tell me what all the fuss is over composting?

In my town it began with a brochure from the council, quickly followed by the unsolicited delivery of an oversized compost bin, whether your house has a garden or not. Soon after there were leaflets explaining why we could no longer put grass clippings in the wheelie bins. Then posters appeared at the tip, the library, the garden centre... For some people, it’s become a quasi moral crusade; the other week I met a woman who actually described herself as a ‘composting guru’. She told me that recycling had given her a meaning in life.

Making matters worse, some of my greener friends appear to regard my lack of enthusiasm as a serious character trait. Admittedly, she wasn’t exactly a friend, but the compost guru felt it entirely acceptable to publicly chide me for throwing away a tea bag, promptly rooting in the canteen bin to dig out any vegetable scraps she could find.

None of this is a big issue in itself; in fact I quite like the idea of the occasional free bag of mulch. My problem is that despite all the publicity and the right-on pressure, I truly don’t understand how composting my veg and cardboard is supposed to save the world – or even a tiny little bit of it.

Let me not be deliberately naive. I have no doubt that central government has imposed a bunch of targets on our local council, which probably accounts for the publicity and the delivery of the black plastic dalek. And I can see too that the idea has a certain feel good factor which might appeases guilty consciences over the amount of ‘stuff’ we consume. But that’s a far cry from tangible evidence that this will have any real impact on global warming, even if we all went composting crazy.

In simple terms what I don't understand is this: if the stuff we’re composting decomposes quickly, then what’s the problem with land filling it? What’s so special about my garden that means we help save the world by improving the soil in my flower borders and not that of the local tip? I thought one of the problems with some landfill sites is that the soil is so poor thereafter.

I’m sure my green friends would point out that composting saves on bulk and reduces the weight on council vehicles. But given the amount that most of us compost it can’t be much, and in any case we could save just as much fuel by more efficient logistics. Even if there were clear benefits I can’t believe they are proportionate to the amount of effort that’s gone into persuading my corner of Wiltshire to save its potato peelings.

Virtually all environmental scientists accept that we need massive - no, really massive - reductions in emissions to stop global warming. In which case why are we faffing about with tea bags and banana skins? Frankly, it can’t be significant to the big picture. The odd thing is that those in power are arguing the same logic as the normally more militant green warriors; if we all make a little effort it will add up to a huge difference. Well let me tell you, it won’t.

In fact the ‘we should all do a little bit’ approach can be hugely counter-productive, Where I live the recycling centre just happens to be five miles out of town; yet on Sundays there are queues of middle classes families in estate cars smugly unloading last week’s wine bottles (New World of course). I wonder how many of them know what happens to recycled glass – do they think it get turns into bottles again? Road surfaces, actually.

I despise tokenism, even more I despise misinformation and crap logic. If there’s a genuine reason why we need to compost can someone please explain it to me? And can anyone tell me why decomposing my peelings in landfill is so environmentally bad; my local council can’t, and neither can anyone else I’ve asked.

More importantly, can someone explain why the promotion of composting should take precedence over, for example, a proper and reasoned debate on nuclear power, or implementing policies that would seriously change consumption patterns for the better, or imposing real and meaningful targets on businesses, or investing properly in technology solutions to reduce global warming, or riding a bike instead of taking the car? I could go on.

The truth is, much of what we’re told on green issues is nonsense, collapsing under a little critical assessment. It seems to me that those peddling this well meaning rubbish rely on a combination of people’s natural deference to authority and a general reluctance to face the real issues. Taking a step back and seriously assessing if it makes sense to sort your organic scraps before jetting off on yet another foreign holiday is, for many people, just a little too uncomfortable.

Composting doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things; it’s just an example of the tosh we’re asked to accept as Gospel. Green issues are riddled with misinformation, poor logic, appeals to sentiment and blind faith in gurus – is it any wonder that for some people saving the world has become a quasi religion?