In praise of parks and their keepers

Opposite my house in Wiltshire is a large Edwardian park. Within its steel fenced boundary is an arboretum of mature trees which act as backdrop to my garden. There's also a large playing field,  three tennis courts, a jogging trail, bowling green, toddler's playground, snack-shack and even a bandstand which hosts Sunday concerts throughout the summer.

John Coles Park is then, a quintessential civic amenity: accessible, free to use and beyond what any individual could afford or would want to maintain. It's one of the chief delights of living where I do. And yet before I moved to this side of town I don't think I'd walked there more than twice in fifteen years.

The reason is I was sniffy about public spaces. They were second rate: not the same as 'proper landscape', cultivated and false - and frankly, full of lads in hoodies playing keepy-uppy with empty cider cans. Given the choice I'd head to the hills or, more locally, the woods at Castle Combe; I'd seek out true nature and preferably not to have to share it with others.

There is still some truth in that attitude - parks are not the same as the fells; they can't compare to Bamburgh beach on a crisp winter's morning; there isn't the view, the space, the sense of perspective that wild places offer. And many are spoiled by yobs and winos - there's one the other side of town that I'd not walk through at night.

But I've come to learn that at that their best they are worthy in their own terms.

Last Sunday the clouds parted for a couple of hours and our park had well over a hundred visitors.  There were folk walking their dogs, kids on bikes (and scooters - oh, so many scooters), some playing tennis, a chap on power-risers, another sprinting between the trees.  There were families and couples and groups of teenagers - I'd reckon the age range spanned eighty years. We had a coffee at the snack bar and Dylan defied the seasons by demanding a tub of ice cream.

And I've come to realise how important these facilities are to the community. Not everyone has access to those hills and woods I casually assume are available to all. And those who do, might justifiably not have the time or inclination (or cash) to travel and sort maps (let alone the gear) only to drag their kids through an unfamiliar landscape. Wilderness is an acquired taste; it requires knowledge and skills that aren't gained overnight, let alone a break in the clouds.

An irony perhaps is that our park is the best open space around here, precisely because it is closely managed. The gates close at dusk; there are uniformed keepers, the litter is picked; offensive youths are asked to leave. That's not to say it's policed, nor is it tended like a National Trust property - but there's sufficient control to 'keep it tidy' as they would say in Wales. I often think of it as an example of Liberalism in action -  we are free to do as we please - so far as it doesn't stop others doing the same.

The park from my garden

Of course, the presence of careful (if understated) management is essential to our so-called wilderness too. I might fantasise about an unspoiled landscape offering free and open access, but the reality is that without the management of bodies such as the national park authorities (and the aforementioned National Trust) there would be precious little of it. And it's not just yobs or selfish landowners who'd be the threat- take a look at, say, Keswick High Street or Bourton on the Water, to see how rampant commercialism can destroy the character of a place.

It's 11.00am and I need to finish this blog.  The sun has come out and the frost is finally melting. But it's too cold to cycle and the big boys are revising; Dylan is playing video games and needs some air; Jane has plans this afternoon.  I wonder where we can go for an hour or so?

The water in Majorca...

Those of a certain age might remember an old Heineken advert. It was a send-up of My Fair Lady and featured a Sloan Ranger being trained to talk in a cockney accent. She fails miserably until one swig of the amber liquid has her drawling, The worta in madjorca, don't tayste like it orta! 

This last week I've been to see for myself- not drinking lager but riding my bike with Andy Cook Cycling. It was my first visit to Majorca, and before going I'd have struggled to say much about it.  If you'd pushed me I'd probably have ventured that Magaluf wasn't quite my kind of town! The truth is, our pre-conceptions of places are often pejorative and unfounded - and no more so than mine of this stunning island.

The day I left, my friend and blog-hero Michelle sent me an email vouching deep envy. She'd once worked on an environmental project in the mountains near Alcudia - by coincidence, where I was staying. She wrote of eagles and kites, of fabulous coves and of ancient monasteries in the hills. I saw all of these and more, riding 400km in the Serra du Tramuntana, through orange and lemon groves, under cobalt skies and a temperate sun. On Wednesday I rode to Cap Formentor, the northern-most tip of the island - mile for mile I can't think of a more scenic ride in thirty years of cycling.

It's estimated over 80,000 bikers come to Majorca each year, providing an early boost to the tourist season. I vaguely knew this, but wasn't aware how comprehensively the island has embraced the influx: the resurfaced roads, the signed routes, the cafes with free oranges and cakes, the cries of hola from the locals. Add those to the mountain landscape and it is near enough cycling heaven.

You might suppose that hills and heat would make it more like a cycling hell. But it's surprising how the landscape inspires. One lady on our trip had never peddled more than 30 miles; she rode 100km with us on Sunday and beat me to the top of a 400-meter climb. I spent much of another day riding off the back with Andy, the trip organiser and a friend who goes back almost as far as those Heineken adverts. Confidence makes the biggest difference we agreed, and I thought how it applied to him too; he left a steady job to started his business two years ago, a leap of faith that's paid off in self-belief as much as financial returns. Hopefully, both will continue to grow.

I came home on Thursday, into a damp Bristol with the usual queues and traffic jams. Today I rode the Fosseway in a southwesterly headwind, the sky inking and the temperature barely 6 degrees. Not quite cycling heaven, but just as surprising in its way. Recently, I lamented the ripped hedges on Common Lane and doubted there'd be bullfinches there this year. Yet as I turned for home, a male was calling from the top of a hawthorn, its peach-pink chest as dazzling as the Majorcan sun - actually, that's not quite true, but you know what I mean.

Cutting back

Last spring I was preparing for a bike ride that would take me across the UK from Aberystwyth to Great Yarmouth. And on my training route, I'd always cycle a particular lane - it had the most fabulous hedges, all overgrown and shady and bursting with wildlife. I saw a bullfinch there in March, a hare lolloping down a side track, brimstone butterflies right into summer - when I returned in the autumn the hedge was heavy with sloes.

On Saturday I was back on my bike, starting my training for another charity ride (you'll hear more about that in another post). I was looking forward to that lane; indeed, as I approached it I was thinking how, when passing through much of the middle of England, it was the hedgerows I'd liked best. Throughout the ride, there'd been pretty much a direct correlation between bushes and birdsong - I remember commenting as much to one of my colleagues.

So I was in a light mood as I pressed on the pedals and into Common Road. Only the day before there'd been goldcrests in my garden, long-tailed tits on the silver birch and a blackcap on the forsythia. The warmer weather was hinting at spring - perhaps that bullfinch would be there again - or a flock of yellowhammer? There was a sharp cerulean sky.

Some people might think it peculiar that a little bit of hedge trimming could conjure any sadness. After all, it's only a few gnarly trees - overgrown bushes really.  Didn't I read somewhere that it's good for certain species if the lanes are kept in order?  And doesn't pruning make the trees more robust in the long run?

It's true that pruning makes the hedges thicker.  And cutting every few years, even quite severely, is probably better for wildlife than annual trimming. For every summer of growth, it's estimated two additional bird species will come to nest - so cutting less frequently is a good idea.  On the other hand, there are butterflies which only lay eggs on new growth and many birds prefer low hedges - for these species, regular trimming is what's needed. The ideal is to prune every three years in careful rotation, ensuring no area is reduced too severely at any one time.

But all that is clearly too much hassle for the farmer on Common Road. I reckon it was ten years since he last cut those hedges (ironically quite good) - and when the time came that something had to be done, he wasn't going to be worried about the niceties of yellowhammers or bullfinches. Judging by the results of his mechanical flail I don't reckon he's bothered about much in nature at all. He's not only cut the thinner growth, he's slashed the nearby trees, splintered the blackthorn into shards, even smashed his own fences. In all, he reduced the hedge by over six feet.

I know most of it will grow back; I know that Common Road isn't a conservation imperative, and I know it probably looks worse than it is. But there's something quite brutal about all this. Something that doesn't feel right - a sense that with just a little more care, it would have made such a difference.  As it is, there'll be less birdsong on my training rides this spring, and I guess this autumn I'll be going elsewhere for sloes.

Of sheds and dens and being a boy

Last week we had the builders round. Ostensibly they came to mend the fence, but before that I had a couple jobs which needed sorting in the potting shed. Just a bit of a tidy up, I said to Jane, and the electrics look ropey too. (I find that dodgy electrics is never questioned).

There followed a trip to B&Q: reels of cable, new sockets, masonry paint, thirteen lengths of 'two by four', three plywood boards, door hinges, polyfilla, junction boxes, woodstain - and a bill for two hundred quid (shhh...). Like I said, just a bit of a tidy up.

My grandfafther had a good shed; he called it his cabin. It was a gimcrack lean-to, painted pillar-box red and furnished with a bed for his afternoon naps after a few pints at the club. The shelves were stacked with jars of string or screws and bottles of unspeakable potions; he'd pasted the walls with our childhood drawings and we played there while he snored and the afternoon sun filtered through the net curtains. I'd have stayed there forever had there not been a time to go home.

My grandfather was clinically blind, and yet he had knack for dens. Once, he took us 'camping' (effectively a day trip to some wasteland) and we cooked sausages on an open fire, baked potatoes in the embers. I'll show you the tramps nest now, he said. And he led us to a tree with a whacking great platform of straw - it was big enough for two small boys, or a tramp, to sleep in I suppose. I remember him leaning on the trunk as we climbed the boughs; I'll just close my eyes, he said. I've never found a tramps nest since, and I've always wondered how he knew it was there. Wonderful man.

All my life I've delighted in sheds and tents, even mountain bothies. In a way they are all the same - a haven from the stress and pomp of the everyday world. It's an irony that by cutting out all the 'stuff' we work so hard to accumulate, we find a simpler, more profound pleasure.

But let's not get too philosophic. For there is something very uncomplicated about building dens. When my boys were small I taught them how to make shelters from sticks and bracken - now they are older they do the same with their younger brother. And when they get too distracted by their girlfriends or just generally surly, I and the little one go camping. Mostly we go a few miles from home, sometimes to the garden; it's as much about process as place.

All of which is long digression from my builders and the cost of materials. I left them to it as we headed to London - posh hotel, chaotic tubes, expensive restaurants - had enough after a couple of days. And driving back I mentioned casually, wonder if they've finished the fence?

As it turns out they did. But more importantly my new den was ready. My grandfather would have built it himself, before he lost his sight. But I'm time poor and I think he'd at least approve of the design. It has storage locker that converts to a bed, electrics (no longer dodgy) for a kettle and and a bench for writing. There's room for some homebrew, walls for Dylan's pictures, even shelves for a printer, books - perhaps jars with string and unspeakable potions.

And on Thursday night, before we'd even unpacked, Dylan and I tried it out. Your great grandad had a shed like this, I told him, his eyelids closing. He called it his cabin and I used to ...

Welcome everyone, to the new home of the bike shed.

Peacocks, Admirals, and Emperors

In the front garden of my Wiltshire house is a towering buddleia. It dwarfs the privet hedge, dappling the lawn with shadow and brushing the roof of any car on the drive. One of the reasons I bought this house was that bush. In July it is thick with flowers and bees - there ought to be hundreds of butterflies too.

Yet this year I've seen only a handful feeding on its plumes. It was twenty five degrees on Saturday and there were two Red Admirals displaying, last week I saw a Large White; there has been the occasional blue. But that's about all and it's a worrying trend. The nature charity, Butterfly Conservation, organises a public recording scheme - The Big Butterfly Count - and the results show   serious declines in the number of Tortoiseshell and more recently Peacock butterflies.

I had thought this would be a good summer. Our spring came early and it's been the best weather for years. But of course there are other factors - we had a very cold winter, last August was wet and the climate on the continent affects migration of many species that we mistakenly regard as residents - Red Admirals being an example.  I suppose it's just possible that my garden isn't as attractive to butterflies as I'd imagined - only time will tell.

But I've found compensation for my disappointing buddleia in a local woodland. If I asked my neighbours for directions to the Three Crowns at Brinkworth, I reckon the majority could oblige. But if instead I queried the way to Sommerford Common (a mile or so from the pub), my guess is that I'd draw a blank. That's not surprising because it's hardly a visitor attraction.

Though perhaps it ought to be. For yesterday I went there with Dylan and Jane, and in a little more than thirty minutes we saw twelve different species. The highlight was a Silver Washed Fritillary crossing the forest break in an effortless glide. Earlier this summer I've seen Marbled White's, Large and Small Skippers, Essex Skippers (a misnomer if ever there was one) Ringlets, Meadow Browns, Brimstones, Gatekeepers, Common Blue... many more.  Some of these were there yesterday; as were dozens of Peacocks feeding on the thistle heads, so drunk with nectar I could hold them between gentle fingers.

Sommerford Common is a site of scientific interest, a haven for butterflies and specially managed to assist and encourage insects. As far as I can tell that management seems largely to consist of leaving the trees well alone and clearing the breaks of debris - this creates corridors of light that are conducive to flowering shrubs and meadow grasses. And yet that simple policy results in a transformation in the levels of wildlife.

Walking there with Dylan was like going back to an imagined childhood: insects rising at every step, the chirping of crickets, dragonflies hovering over the scrub, jewel like beetles and damselflies, moths, butterflies, ladybirds... literally, hundreds of thousands of insects. Earlier this summer I went there and saw a hornet  coming and going from a hollow in the grass; I stood motionless, gobsmacked by this fabulous creature that I'd longed for years to see.

There were no hornets yesterday and no White Admiral butterflies tough I'm convinced they must be there. And Dylan to be truthful wasn't up for looking much longer - he'd paid his usual attention to nature by insisting we play Star Wars throughout the entire trip. For the record, I was a Droid, Jane a Wookie and he was the Evil Emperor - any resistance was futile and looking for more silly butterflies would result in instant death. A White Admiral he assured me was no match for The Force.

As we neared the car a hawker dragonfly flew past and I suggested we play something different. How about I Spy? Something beginning with.

He looked at me disdainfully. It's going to be a B, isn't it?

Actually Dylan, it was going to be a D. D for drag..

I know, I know, he interrupted. It's Darth Vader!

Oh well, I suppose we're all different.

Going widdershins

This spring I've been training for a ride across Britain, cycling the lanes of north Wiltshire to improve my fitness. In January I was struggling to manage an hour, now forty miles in less than three isn't a problem. So it's being going well; I ride a carefully planned route, taking  me through pleasant if not spectacular countryside. And over the weeks I've seen that landscape change: the hedgerows budding, the golden rapeseed, the finches and flocks of yellow hammer, the May blossom falling.

But after a while any route can become routine. Last Sunday was thick with clouds, the roads damp and a northerly wind threatening showers. 'Are you sure you want to go,' Jane asked, heading upstairs with her book and a cup of tea. As I togged up in waterproofs the prospect of a lie in seemed a lot more appealing than yet another circuit of the lanes.

So, as if in perverse delight, I decided to reverse my usual direction. Instead of riding clockwise I'd go north up the Fosse Way and meet the wind on that straightest of Roman Roads. It would make a change I thought, and if nothing else, would boost my fitness. As I rode from the drive I turned right instead of left, then paused at the next junction. It was one of those 'senior moment' when your memory fails you; I've travelled this route dozens of times and yet there I was reorienting myself after less than a mile.

The ride wasn't as tough as I feared. A heavy shower brought brighter skies and the wind never quite reached a gale. Indeed it felt easier this way round, the hills a little less steep, and I was soon passing the teashops of Tetbury. But I pressed on, turning left at the next village, right down a farm track, same again at the junction and straight on at the cross roads.

And maybe that's where I went wrong. I'm not sure, it could have been the previous crossing - but anyway I found myself riding past a lake and I was darn certain I'd not seen it before. Quite where the lake was I wasn't sure, or what direction I was heading - the water was bounded by trees so even the wind was unreliable. I pressed on, hoping for a road sign.

The evening before my ride I'd been to an event that was part of a literary festival. The writer Olivia Laing was talking about her book, To The River, a journey down the Ouse in Sussex; the place where Virginia Wold had drowned. My first question to her was, which way had you travelled, upsteam or down? Later we talked and I mentioned the different experience that kayaking brings - the closeness to the water, being part of the flow, at times in it - as opposed to looking from above.

After passing the lake I stopped at a gate, searching for clues to my whereabouts. There was a gradual fall to the land, the scarp of Lynham banks to the south, the last of the rapeseed turning in the breeze. I hadn't seen the fields this way before - or at least I hadn't noticed them. Gradually I pieced it together, and ironically it was a tower I've always regarded as out of place that put me back on track. If I reversed my route and turned left after the lake, with a little fiddling I'd soon be on familiar ground.

When I got home Jane remarked that I was late. I explained that I'd ridden an unintentional ten mile loop. It's odd I said, the difference a change in perspective can make. Habit too plays a part. I usually play my banjo with fingers a blur, yet if I reverse the roll pattern, suddenly I'm stuttering, taking one string at a time - pausing at each note.

And sometimes that's a good thing to do. For with banjos it's easy to lose the melody to speed, and I suppose with our routines, cycling or otherwise, there's an equivalent prospect. Whatever, I shall certainly ride anticlockwise again - and maybe I'll go visit that lake in the sunshine.

Apple Pear Plum

The back of my garden - pre pruning

Yesterday I saw my first Spring butterfly, a glimpse of acid lemon in the dappled light of my garden. It was a Brimstone, one of our longest lived species; the adults survive the winter by roosting in woods  before breeding in spring. This one flew strongly, spiralling above the trees then heading to the park.

I came to this house last October and have not felt entirely at home since. Jane loves the Edwardian feel, the period doors and leaded windows; my bigger boys like the extra space; Dylan, his room with a secret cupboard. As for me, I was happy where we were, felt no need for any of these things - but I have always liked the garden. When we came to view, I spent more time outside than in. There's a raised fish pond, two walnut trees, a wisteria over the entrance. The day I agreed to the move, I counted twenty butterflies on the buddleia.

But the garden was overgrown. If I was kind I'd say the previous owners had a wilderness approach; more likely, they couldn't be arsed or it all became too much. It took four truck loads to clear the first pruning, I found enough soil down the side of the garage to fill a raised bed; now the borders are cleared we have all manner of shoots and bulbs responding to the light.

I'm too impatient to be a proper gardener. At least that's what Jane says. I ought to wait a year, see what comes through and plan it properly. She's right I'm sure, but this winter I needed progress. I wanted to clear the debris, establish a scheme and reverse the neglect. So in four months we've rebuilt walls, cleared the ivy, dug out dead trees and finally, last week, I went to buy some plants.

I chose three fruit trees - an espalier apple, a matching pear and a prolific plum. They are for the rear lawn, the one area our predecessors had cleared, because in so doing, they were able to create a building plot. What they left was a blank canvass and a twenty metre fence with three climbing ivy (as if they didn't have enough). It will take years to mature. When the borders are sorted I plan to add a cherry, perhaps a damson too, eventually I'll have my own little orchard.

In the meantime, I've press-ganged the teenagers into helping. Yesterday I watched the two of them, six feet tall now, laughing as one sprayed the panels and the other dabbed his brush with a practiced incompetence. Dylan rushed amongst them, fighting monsters and insisting they hurry. Me and Dad are going to camp here tonight, he said. Are you sure, his brothers asked?  Of course we are, Dylan cried, we're going to camp hear for years and years, aren't we Dad?

As I write this post Dylan is asleep in his bag and my back is easing from eight hours on a thin mat. In the tent we read stories, listened to the rain, and talked of how one day he'll be as big as his brothers. But it was only as I tiptoed past the new the trees that I made the connection.

I could have bought something easier: faster growing, less expensive, simpler to mange -  plants with a more instant gratification. These trees will take years, I thought; I'll be in my dotage before they're at their best. What's more, I know next to nothing about growing fruit. My dark side said, I'll probably get it all wrong...

But it can't be that difficult surely? They are pretty robust things are fruit trees. No doubt, they'll need some pruning, the espalier especially, and I expect I'll be as frustrated by their progress as I'm delighted by their blossom. Frankly, fruit will be a bonus. More than anything I know they'll take time, care, and a commitment to place that I hadn't expected to make.

And with that thought, I felt more at home than I have for months.

A visit from the blog fairy - erm, VP actually

 

Picture from Veg Plotting

A week or so after I started the Bike Shed I Googled blogs from Wiltshire. Top of the list was Veg Plotting, describing itself as Musings from life in the heart of rural Wiltshire, well, erm Chippenham actually... It was ostensibly about allotments, not something I was hugely interested in, but I clicked to follow anyway.

It didn't take long to realise that Veg Plotting is about much more than allotments; it's about plants and gardens and the town I live in and funny adverts and serious issues; it's about someone with a passion for and an interest in life. Gardening might be the means, but the end is much more universal. .

VP is a blogging hero in my mind; she'd laugh at that, but I have watched and learned and shamelessly imitated many of her ideas. It was where I learned about comments and followers, and got the idea to use themes for continuity (see here for example), and always using a photograph...  Her blog is also hugely impressive from a technical aspect and I've long envied its three column format.

So how nice that VP herself should come and visit me today. Not in the blogosphere, but actually knocking on my door, coming in for a coffee, swapping pots of home made jelly (apple for quince), talking blogs and biscuits, wandering round the garden, offering ideas and advice.

And how great that someone you've come to 'know' through their writing should be just as you'd hoped. She describes herself as 'very much the amateur' and yet in only a few minutes pondering she'd given me more new idea and advice than I'd have thought of in months. And just like her blog, our chat ranged from the local to the national, from plants to people, from moths to trains, from birds to real ale...

I thoroughly enjoyed VP's visit. We've exchanged emails for a couple of years and must have passed in the street many times before - she lives about a mile from my house - but there's nothing like meeting up for real. And like the blog fairy she is, she brought me good luck - no sooner had she left than my solicitor confirmed the exchange of contracts on my old house, and then an email to say I was a winner in a writing competition (more of which tomorrow).

Diminishing returns

When I was sixteen I began studying for my economics A-level. I was finding it tough and I wasn't alone - the abstract theory in Lipsey's Economics wasn't making much sense to anyone in the class. Then one day, my teacher, attempting to explain the bell curve of diminishing returns, said something like:

'Stop looking at the chart and think of it like this. You eat one Mars Bar - yummy. You eat two Mars Bars - even more yummy. Then three - that last one wasn't quite so nice. Then a fourth - I'm beginning to feel sick. And a fifth - I'm sorry, do you have some soapy water...'

I remember that somewhat exasperated speech, because it was the moment something clicked. I get it, I thought, I finally get it. Mars Bars give you pleasure - but each one gives a little less than the last, until finally they stop giving any pleasure at all. And that's why the graph dips into negative territory. Of course, why didn't I see that before - it's just like getting pissed.

From an early age, we intuitively understand the law of diminishing returns - at least we do once we've stuffed our face with birthday cake and felt 'icky' afterwards. Our understanding of the concept is often reinforced in our teenage years when we drink one too many bottles of cider, or wine, whatever... you can have too much of a good thing, is pretty much the whole theory in an nutshell.

And in later life, if you are anything like me, collecting things can have a strong tendency towards diminishing returns. We start out enthusiastically, each acquisition giving us great pleasure; we delight in the occasional gem or bargain that boosts our collection. But somewhere along the way the joy of each find wears off, our desires gets more expensive or we start buying items to 'complete the set' rather than loving the object itself. I once paid more than a hundred pounds for the Observers Book of Folk Songs - it sits on my shelves unread.

Simon Garfield touches on this in his excellent and hilarious book, The Error World. It is subtitled, a memoir of obsession and desire, and it describes his love of stamps and the absurd length he has gone to in collecting them. After losing out at auction he is despondent (his bid of £6000 was trumped by one of £10,500); eventually he realises that his collection is no longer giving him pleasure. In the jargon of the economists he is experiencing 'negative returns'.

Christmas is diminishing returns on a grand scale. I love Christmas and I tend to throw more cash at it than I should, but I know deep down that the most of the pleasure could be had for half the cost. And sometimes spending less can actually increase our pleasure - forcing us to think about what we really would like to eat, or drink or receive as a gift.

This year, my mother in law has been ill, our plans have had to change and we will celebrate Christmas in Wiltshire before travelling to Wales on Boxing Day. We therefore need to buy enough food for Christmas Day and minimise what will have to be transported or thrown away the next. It's interesting to see how the shopping list changed - to understand what we really consider important to a special celebration.

Coincidentally, I struck Mars Bars off the list - I had wanted some for party a game that would only have irritated my boys. Which brings me back to my economic teacher. His name was Pete Johnson and after his little speech I used to pester him with questions, trying to 'make real' the abstract theories we were learning. As we went through the syllabus I had twice as many questions as the rest of the class combined - at one point he banned me from a lesson for being a nuisance.

I'm sure he was right to do so - quite possibly my questions were giving negative returns to everyone else. But he did have the good grace to call the class to attention at the end of term, addressing us in serious tones :

The average mark for this terms exam paper was less than 4o%. This is deeply disappointing - unless it improves, most of you will fail and have wasted your time. Even the second highest mark was only 60%, which shows the spread of your mediocrity.

There is however one exception - a member of this class who has driven me to distraction; at times I was convinced he was either an idiot or playing the fool. But clearly I was wrong. Mark Charlton, your result was 95% - from now on you may ask as many questions as you like.

I did too, and in truth I've never really stopped. Though just occasionally Jane will remind me that I've reached the point where asking another might not be the best of ideas.

Run for home

Dan jumping at Lacock

'Are we going home today,' the boys asked?

'No, we're going to Chippenham.'

They gave me that look which says, 'Duh!'

'All right, we're going home.'

Regulars to this blog will know that I split my time between Pembrokeshire and Wiltshire; the former feels like home, the other is the place I work. My two older boys see it differently; Wales is where we go for weekends and holidays. And this year they want to 'see more of their friends', so instead of spending all summer at the coast we've come back to middle England.

I know this marks a bigger change; that they are growing up and wanting more independence from their parents. I know too that we are lucky; they like being with us, and we seldom have those teenage rows and sulks you hear so much about. But understandably they don't want to spend ALL their time with Mum and Dad. So unless we're going to impose our choices on them, I expect the next few years will see us more 'back here' than 'over there'.

Part of the problem is of my own making: I have such affinity to Wales that I make less effort in Wiltshire. I've lived here for fourteen years and yet I barely know anyone I'd call a close friend (there are a few exceptions who ironically I knew before I came here). When we first moved in we had wonderful neighbours, but they have moved on and today I couldn't tell you the the name of anyone in my street.

And it's not just the people I don't make the effort with. I've written regularly on this blog about my journeys in Wales but never about the places I know near Chippenham; Bath, Lacock, Castle Combe, Malmesbury, the Ridgeway. These places may never feel like home, but I should at least be open to their merits and prepared to share my responses to them.

Driving home today I resolved to be more positive about Wiltshire. It is true that I came to Wiltshire for work, but there is no need to treat it like a transit camp. In a few years, I can move back to Wales (five and counting) but in the meantime I can either sulk like a teenager or get on with life and start enjoying it here. For God's sake, there are thousands of people who'd love to be in my position...

There's the cycle club for a start - one of the best in the country - when was it I last went on a club run? And talking of runs, I've been meaning to join Corsham Running Club. Then there's the get together for old friends in September; perhaps I should invite some people from Chippenahm too. You see Mark, there are lots of options if only I'd apply myself...

This evening I went running near Corsham. My route took me through the lanes to the hamlet of Easton, passing the most perfect cottage, whose garden would grace the cover of Country Living. The farm next door was a delicate balance of decay and elegance, its Cotswold stone mellowed by the last light of the day. I liked the smell of the cows and the cackling of the rooks in the trees; the enormous box bushes at the house by the bend. As I rounded the corner a hot air balloon, resplendent with snowman logos, appeared above the hedgerows.

My return took me through Corsham Court - two miles of open fields with an avenue of sycamores that must have been planted way back; there's a lake which is home to a flock of geese and a huge lime tree that I'm sure must host a colony of hairstreak butterflies.

This isn't a new route. I run it regularly and always enjoy it; I just don't allow myself to say so. Tonight, as I ran the last mile to the car, each stride seemed easier and longer than the last. It was good to be here; I was flying, and I found myself humming the old Lindisfarne number:

Run for home, run as fast, as I can

Oh-oh running man, running for home.

Run for home, run as fast, as I can...

This in itself is a small irony, as my real true home is Northumberland - but that feels a very long time ago.