John Bailey's Casting Off West

[John Bailey]

The Wye 16th June 2020​

Baiting Up​

Casting Off West. 26/03/2021

As some of you know, after sixty years in Norfolk, wife Enoka and I made the extraordinary decision to up sticks and relocate two hundred and fifty miles to the West, on the edge of the Wye valley. We have been here around three weeks now, and it has been the usual stressful time that accompanies all removals but, for an angler, the pressures are perhaps greater than you’d expect. Of course, all the usual considerations have to be sorted. Where is the supermarket? Where to find a doctor, a dentist, a handyman, a skip, even a lawnmower that does not have to be carted home in a box and self-assembled?

But for an angler like me, the real killer challenge is where do I go fishing? How do I find the waters I crave? What about tackle shops? And fishing mates? It is not starting from scratch, I realise, though it feels like it in my down times. The problem is that Norfolk had become so easy, so comfortable, and the fishing so guaranteed that I always knew where to go, who to ask, what to take, and what swim to target. There were no surprises but equally, no disappointments or traumas. I should probably have let my life jog to its natural conclusion, while I trod the banks I had enjoyed since boyhood. That would have been the safe, sensible route. Which I spurned.

My friends didn’t help dissuade me. They weren’t the ones casting off into the semi-unknown, so their advice was all positive. Perhaps they wanted to live vicariously, looking to see how I might fare, might succeed, or fall flat on my fishless face. But I think not. I believe they saw in me the need for a last new challenge, a burning need for something raw and different and demanding. I’m not saying they swung the decision we made, but their wise nodding of grey heads confirmed the momentous step should be made. And I thank them. I think.

So, what I am proposing is a diary of my fishing life out West – and Enoka’s too, as she did not win the title 'Barbel Queen' by luck alone. How do you start on new waters? Who comes to your rescue? How do you evaluate advice? How do you rate waters, and find those that fulfil your ambitions? Once again, as some of you know, I have been writing a regular piece in this site called Roach Obsession Diary. I’m not done with that long-term, but it struck me that in the river close season, there was not too much to tell. Not compared with the efforts that are dominating my mind and waking hours now.

Obviously, I hope that you find my journey interesting. I hope you share any triumphs I might achieve, and sympathise with the mistakes I am bound to make. Perhaps you might be in a position to help me, or to put me right on issues that I don’t get my head around? Who knows, I might inspire you to consider a similar plunge into the void? Covid has changed many lives. Only yesterday one of my cappuccino-drinking Metropolitan friends astonished me by buying a farm in Devon! I did not think he knew milk came from a cow. One friend has left Manchester for North Wales, and another Hertfordshire for the Outer Hebrides, so what Enoka and I have done is on the humdrum side of insanity. I just hope the lot of us don’t come to grief.

So that’s the premise of all this. Next, I’ll kick of with a round-up of where I am in my quest, and the early days of finding my feet. I’ve received help, advice and a warm welcome, so I am up, running and raring to get at it. Always bearing in mind it is dangerous to run before I can walk!

The Gear is Ready​

 

[liphook]

Good luck to both of you JB! It's a stressful experience moving lock, stock, barrels and many boxes. It has to be said you've chosen a fabulous river and surroundings. Once you've got your bearings and things in position you could perhaps give those reels a clean and service
I look forward to reading about your new challenges and opportunities

 

[Peter Jacobs]

John, let me see if I might not be able to offer some perspective.

If you think what you are doing is hard then try moving house (and country) over 20 times, and 6 of those moves with a wife and children (who needed English speaking schools) . . . finding the supermarkets, doctors, hospitals, dry cleaners, dentists and handymen etc all become second nature . . . . Then add in twice also having to learn a new language, in short order time, as well as trying to do my actual job of running major oil and gas projects . . . .

Then in my spare time (what little there was, also trying to find somewhere to fish or play golf . . . .

That spanned close to 44 years, and many ask, would I do it again?

Indeed I would, and in a New York minute and without a second thought.

Bonne chance . . . . lykke til and Viel Glück . . . .

 

[John Bailey]

Adam Fisher...​

...meets The Boys​

Casting Off West. 27/03/2021

In my last COW piece I mentioned the impact that Covid has on all of us, and it strikes me I should mention when the idea to come West really hit me. Last June, as lockdown began to be eased, I filmed with Mortimer and Whitehouse on the Wye for Gone Fishing, Series 3. We couldn’t begin 'till the 16th, of course, but I was down on the river, beneath Ross, a good few days before the main party. I was introduced to the stretch there by Adam Fisher, and of course it is impossible not to be instantly engaged by the chap. He gave me a whistle-stop, but massively helpful tour of the beat, and then left me to it.

How glorious. The magnificence of the river and the whole valley. The wildlife. The periodically rolling barbel. The serenity of my life there, peace still laced with subtle currents of excitement. I saw barely a soul for three days, but watched woodpeckers, deer, badgers and of course the long, gleaming shapes of my quarry as they flashed in the shallows. Of course, I was aware of the shadow across this paradise. Adam had made me even more aware of the possibility of severe algal bloom along the river, a product almost certainly of the exponential growth of chicken units up and down the valley. I’d done some research and found it almost impossible to believe that the statutory authorities had so far – up to that point – done so little. And yet, the bloom was not nearly as bad as I had feared, and I refused to let the situation tarnish a special time. I waited for the “talent” and the crew to arrive, and for once almost wished they wouldn’t, so happy was I in my own Wye bubble.

Of course, I used the time to tackle up and bait up both, and not just gawp and daydream. From what I saw, I was amazed by the fecundity of the river, and the fact that there were fish everywhere, despite the the algal threat. I was temporary master of a mile of Wye, and I guessed there were way more fish along it than lived in the entire River Wensum back home. I just hoped that would translate into success when The Boys fished and the cameras rolled. Anyone who saw the program will know that Bob and Paul caught fish, and with some ease. Float. Lead. Freeline. Bouncing baits. Pretty much everything worked, and the second morning early was the time I knew my life must change. I had positioned the pair at the head of long rapids, where I knew well in excess of fifty barbel were hanging. I’d cast around in the dawn light with no bait on the hook just to feel for line bites and establish where the groups were living. I was amazed and exhilarated. It was like the river here was a Medusa’s head of writhing barbel. I said there were fifty fish down the run, but I’d quietly up that figure threefold. My excitement was intense as I waited for the film party to arrive. When they did, I had to rein in my bubbling anticipation lest things should go wrong, but Paul, super angler that he is, recognised my mood and prepared himself with true dedication. His head straight, he cast, struck and the barbel was in the net, in the can!

At some stage, we were sitting all of us on the gravels in the fitful sun when Bob announced he might go to look at a property. We knew Bob loves the Wye intensely, so it was not the surprise it might have been. What Bob’s announcement did do was to spark an explosion in my own head. If Mortimer can go West, so could I, and my head buzzed with the thought as I drove East after those six revelatory days.

So Bob and Adam were the first people I had to thank for turning my life, and Enoka’s, upside down. I did not know it then, but soon I would be thanking Peter, Seth, Geoff, Charles, and many more, as they helped me on my way. The die had been cast, but nine months of toil, doubt and self-recrimination were to follow.

Where are these fish JB?​

The camera crew don’t like Wye mud​

 

[John Bailey]

Ping Pong and a 2.02​

JB and a 7.03​

Casting Off West. 28/03/2021

It’s just on 6.00am and I'm up early to meet D and show him three stretches of river with a view to buy. I’ve done the spadework, my great friend has the money, so we’ll see. Sod’s Law says that while the week has been mellow and edging towards spring, last night the rains returned and the temperature has plummeted. It’s not hard to imagine what a beat will look like in nice weather, of course, but it makes it easier to do a viewing when all is sunny.

Viewings! After that fateful decision made with Paul and Bob down on the Wye on or around 17th June 2020, Enoka and I viewed at least forty Herefordshire properties before deciding on one. Before you even come to the house, you have to decide on the geography, because of course Herefordshire is big and has numerous shades to it. Seth was an enormous help. Some areas are smart and expensive, especially as you look South, closer to the M50 and links with the modern world outside the county. Those Marcher lands, hugging the Welsh border, can feel remote, which is good, but isolated, which is not. There’s a difference, I think, but I know it’s subtle. Seth recommended the North of the county, which Enoka and I love, and which we settled on. A little less posh, a little less dear, a little less busy, and extremely rural. And with four rivers within easy casting distance.

Forty viewings were not easy in Covid times, and endless journeys East to West and back again took their toll, especially as often overnight accommodation was not possible, and the trek had to be done in a day. Nor did Norfolk want to say goodbye. Remember, I had not seen a definite Wensum two pound roach on the bank for perhaps seven years. October, and Ping Pong had a 2.02, and Ratters dropped a bigger fish at the net. Remember too, that I had never had a seven pound chub, despite sixty “sixes”. Whist we were looking to live in the West, the old Wensum went and coughed up a 7.03 and 7.05 for me. Bonkers, mind-bending, but the die was cast and nothing the river of my life could do about it.

But now, in the wet, it’s off to look at the river. My heart skips its usual beat at the thought!

Chub and barbel heaven​

 

[Mark Wintle]

Good luck with your move; we enjoyed holidaying in the Wye valley a few years ago, and it's a wonderful place to live. It was amazingly quiet compared to SE Dorset which I fear is about to have a repeat of last year's madness invasion. One tip for the present is that sadly NHS dentists seem to no longer be available. After mine stopped my appointments last summer I went private with the same densist this year as I needed treatment and to get back on track with maintenance and voila ,appointments easily available, something my wife already knew as she's had private dentistry for years.

 

[John Bailey]

Casting Off West. 7.00pm 28/03/2021

I think it was Peter Jacobs who told me to get a life, and not whine about a single move 250 miles across a relatively civilised country. He is of course right. I only make a point in these diaries, because a late life move is what many think about, and most wisely do not embark on. All this is especially pertinent today because I have driven 500 miles North to the Highlands, to a glen where I semi-lived in the late '80s and early/mid '90s. I am here for certified bona fide work, I hasten to add, so all is above board, and I need to get that straight.

In 1989 I left teaching and cast my life to fishing fortune. Most of those early years I was skint, and lived many months of the year in a bothy (old Scottish hut) for which I paid 50p a week, not a fortune even then. If I were not up here at 2000 feet then, like as not in those days, I was abroad fishing here and there in well over fifty countries in twenty years. So I lived a charmed, if perilous, life and I am well equipped to see what Peter means about my grandad-sounding tales today.

I’m sitting here on my tod in a cabin (very well appointed this one!) overlooking the river and lochs where some of the very best fishing days of my life have been spent. The rain is flooding down and the memories are flooding in, especially as I have not been back for nigh on a quarter of a century. I caught my very first ferox trout not a mile from where I now sit typing. Were it not for the water-filled dusk, I could point out the very spot for you. In my mind, I see the great fishing partners of those days striding the glen. Gordon. Roger. John. Norrie. Denis and Rab, giants in my life who I have lost, and tonight are ghosts to me no more.

Tomorrow, I am out early, sure of a good dowsing, but equally happy to walk in the fishing footsteps of my greatest days. So, Peter, the travel bug is in me still it seems, and sleepy old Herefordshire has not claimed me entirely for her own. I’ll report back on what might well be an interesting day.

 

[Peter Jacobs]

That is a little harsh John as my comments were simply meant to show you that many of us have been where you are now, and all survived, so more of an encouragement than anything else . . . . .

I'm sorry if you took it the wrong way, as it was not meant to be a slight at all.

 

[John Bailey]

Casting Off West. 7.00am 30/03/2021

Yes, not West but North, just North of the Great Glen, in fact. I’m with a director, hoping to show him the rugged magnificence of the Highlands and all we see is rain, mist, and a terrain out of King Kong. I have been here now two days, beginning my third, and I haven’t seen a hint of the mountain peaks I know are here, peaks clothed in snow.

This other-worldly glen was my stamping ground from 1985 'till 1997, when I all but lived here two, three, and even four months of the year. My target then was the ferox, with char thrown into the mix, and things have not changed. They are the species we hope to nail in weeks to come, when the work we are preparing for begins – Covid permitting. (Indeed, this trip has been easy to set up, with the Scottish authorities seeing our reasons and assisting us in every way. To be fair too, our isolation in this lonely place is complete.)

Even here, the time has not stood still. There are cabins sprung up in forests that then were all wilderness, but the water is essentially the same. And I guess the mountains, when we see them. The hotel I wrote about back then, in books like In Wild Waters and Casting For Gold, has become a residence, and the wild nights that nearly killed me as a kid are now consigned to memory, I guess. Not a bad thing that.

Yesterday, before my colleague arrived, was all about reminiscence, retracing footsteps a quarter of a century old. I went to the river, to the exact spot I had landed my very first ferox trout, not far short of thirty years ago. Sadly, it died after release, and I found the body next morning when I returned to check on it. It was a sharp lesson on how to treat ferox, fish in general, and I hope I learned from it. But, the point is that rather than waste an amazing creature, I had it cased and donated the result to the hotel bar, where it resided in state for many years to come.

On a short return visit in 2011, I found the hotel closed and up for sale. I peered through the darkened windows into the empty bar, as if listening for the rowdying ghosts of my past, and saw my ferox still resplendent there. No one at home. Apart from breaking in, there was no way I could bag my fish a second time, and I was forced to depart, leaving a note about the fish and my ownership. I never heard anything and yesterday, once again, the building was unoccupied, but looking through the old bar’s window revealed no ferox. I heard later it had been disposed of, with all the other items from the hotel.

I wonder where it hangs now? I’d love to gaze on it dearly. The fish, ten pounds of it, was nicely set up. The case was a bow front, and my name and all the details of the catch were inscribed in gold lettering so, if it exists, it should not be hard to trace? How I would love any lead from anyone reading this, who might have seen it for sale, perhaps in the last five years or so. I expect my claim on it is dead and buried, and impossible to prove, but I’d love to salute an old foe and say sorry to it again.

 

[LPP]

What adventure! Moving west and now in the magnificence of the Highlands; I'm sure the resulting episode will show us the true beauty and leave all the "challenging" preparation behind.

 

[liphook]

Are you just north of Rannoch Station I wonder?

 

[John Aston]

JB - I became a devotee of the incomparable Tomdoun Hotel too- but later than you, as my early adventuring in the 80s took me further north to Durness and Altnaharra . I had worked out where your ferox hotel was - you used a pseudonym - and it lived up to every expectation .Friendly , boisterous , wildly eccentric and you have got to love a hotel where you trip over a sleeping whippet on your way to the toilet in the early hours -none of that namby pamby en suite stuff there .

Last time we stayed was just after Christmas in about 2009 . Half way through serving us a cup of tea after our freezing walk the ghillie excused himself briefly , picked up the rifle in the corner of the room and after a loud bang was back in 30 seconds . He'd bagged a stag he'd seen from the dining room window ... Mind you, at the long gone and much missed Cape Wrath Hotel the owner had a licence to shoot seals in the Kyle of Durness . You don't get this excitement at the Premier Inn in Basingstoke now do you ?

I always make a point of calling in to the gorgeous little chapel up the road from Tomdoun - I noticed your signature in the visitor's book last time I was there in 2017.

Nowhere like it , and I am overdue a return trip.

 

[John Bailey]

The glen in the rain...​

Casting Off West. 4.00pm 31/03/2021

Thank you LPP and liphook for comments, but especially grayson – and how pleasing to find a fellow Tomdouner. What an extraordinary hotel in every way, and I wonder if you stayed during the reign of that incomparable Welshman, Gordon Heath? I had a good 12 years plus there, sometimes staying 2-3 months at a time, and that’s when Gordon rented us the bothy at 50p a week. It was a good move on his part, as I spent every cent I had on his boats, engines. and in his bar. How I, or any of us, lived to be able to tell the tale twenty years on is extraordinary. Although I believe a few perished on the journey.

I am back West now, however, although a second trip will take place soon. I won’t talk about my fishing (re)discoveries, as I am putting together a “My River” piece tonight/tomorrow which might be of interest. Whilst it is primarily about trout, ferox are also key to it, so my words might strike a chord on the FM site.

They say you should never go back, and there is truth in that. The weather was horrendous, and even made the Radio 4 News, the rain was so unrelenting every second of my stay. But of course we Tomdouners are used to snow in July, and have learned to laugh at any weather. I was a tad disappointed at the development that had gone on in this most magical of glens, but people have to live and most construction was of larch and looked in keeping. What I could not get my head round was the monstrosity of a building appearing just at the head of Garry. Apparently, the owner has already demolished three cottages that had been standing there, and is aiming to build this out-of-character palace at least four levels high. When locals cannot get permission for two levels often, this beggars believe, and surely raises the eyebrows of deep suspicion.

Still, the glen is too majestic to be defeated by a bit of building and even in the rain, it makes anywhere else in the UK, outside Scotland anyway, look drab. Even today, a quarter of a century on, I am hesitant to name the place outright, but, hey, we are all friends here. Above Quoich, everything is in place and as I remember it, even though cloud never once cleared the three thousand foot head of Gairich. And, yes, the chapel, nestling as I have pictured it many times, prettily decked by daffodils. What bittersweet memories that enchanted place holds for me. You never should go back. But I’m glad that I did.

More on the fishing tomorrow.

 

[liphook]

Quoich! Now that brings back memories of long easter walks with my Dad and his racing snake of a black lab Iona. My dad's favourite place. Lovely stuff. Thanks JB!

 

[xenon]

The north west of Scotland is surely one of the most magical places on earth. In my younger years when I believed myself immortal I would spend my entire annual holiday allowance ice climbing in winter, and if you avoided the honeypots of Glencoe and Ben Nevis the place was astonishingly empty-you would expect to see no one else for days on end. As for Scottish hospitality in some of these out of the way places, the reputation was well deserved, lets say.

 

[John Bailey]

JB playing and holding a Norfolk wildie... that’s lucky to have escaped that otter attack!​

Casting Off West. 8.00am 3/04/2021

The horrors of the eleven hundred mile round trip to Scotland in ninety six hours are receding, and I am putting my mind to the location here of wild carp waters. Wildies fascinated me from 1970 'till 1997, and they still do whenever they come into my head. We have just gone through a long debate on this website about when a brown is wild or not, and I hesitate to kick-start something similar with carp. Can we all agree that the idea of the wildie, commonly held, has some merit? You know, the long, lean, fully-scaled carp that flourished here from medieval times (that’s vague for a former historian, I accept), and was associated with monkish stew ponds, in particular. Go back a hundred or so years and most English carp were wildies, only being displaced during the second half of the 20th century by the stocking of big imported strains of both commons and mirrors. That is why BB wrote much about them, because when the Carp Catchers Club was founded seventy years ago, the wildie was the fish that most waters held.

By 1985, I became aware that many Norfolk waters that had held wildies in 1960 were losing them, twenty years down the line. In 2021 I would say the status of Norfolk wildies is even more vicarious. Thinking quite hard about this now, I can only say with conviction that I could go to a mere two lakes and find them there. In 1970, I’d put that number at well over twenty. Silting. Stocking. Predation. Pollution. Ignorance and indolence. The reasons are not hard to find.

So it was in the late Eighties that I started coming West, primarily to find Wye barbel, but almost equally to locate the wildies of the Marcher Lands. It was a fine, romantic-sounding dream that’s all Arthur, Camelot and Holy Grail, but it had merit then and still does today. Along with pals like Peter Smith and Chris Yates, I began to find wildie waters that completely echoed the 'Last Kingdom' image we had of them. And, know what, those lakes that I found with those pals then still look good wildie bets now. It is only fair and true to say I haven’t actually CAUGHT one yet, but I have a list of at least five lakes where I am sure I have a chance once I put a rod up.

But does all this matter? Wouldn’t we all prefer to catch thirties and forties, and hang their parentage? Many, if not most, surely would, but that does not mean we should wave the wildie goodbye. There are many things in society today that hang by a thread, but are worth saving, surely? Test cricket. Freedom of speech in Hong Kong. Hmm, well, you get my drift, perhaps, and if you lot tolerate it, this is a theme I’ll come back to as the world warms up and we actually get fishing for them.

 

[John Bailey]

Our glorious wildie hunt​

Casting Off West. 11.00am 4/04/2021

If you can’t reflect on the nature of life and goodness on Easter Sunday, there’s not much hope for you, whether you are religious or not. Yesterday, again in the line of accredited duty, Enoka and I drove far West in the search for wild carp waters, and experienced landscapes of stunning beauty. For once, the weather was on our side, and everything looks better under blue I know, but these mountains and valleys, both cloaked in sheep and lambs, would have looked pretty passable in a Rochdale deluge.

When we did find the water we were after, and it took the best part of the day, it was of staggering beauty, and looked as unreal as a film set. Talking of Rochdale, the last time I fished there was about 1964, in an ash pit (whatever they were) with earth movers filling in the bottom end. I suppose it became a housing estate, and the roachlings Pete and I caught were buried under the footings.

That memory, and yesterday’s expedition, reminds me of the unfairness of life. It struck me first back in my taimen days, when my Czech mates and I were done with Siberia and moved to Mongolia as a possible location. Siberia was horrible beyond my ability with words to describe, so I’m not going to try. Mongolia, just over a mountain range, was an earthly paradise of unspoiled forests, pellucid rivers, and wonderful Buddhist-believing people. If ever I had been plucked from hell and elevated to heaven, then it was during my taimen days, and I have never taken the best places on the planet for granted since.

The church a hundred yards down the road from the new Bailey abode was busy today with worshippers looking even older than I do, whilst the graveyard was carpeted in primroses, end-of-season daffodils, and the first brave bluebells. It was a scene straight out of Midsomer Murders, without the stabbed bell ringer, and I thought how lucky we are, and how glad I am my life has brought me here. So my thought for the day is that Attenborough is absolutely right. We truly do have a duty to do our very best for what is left of the natural world. and that is my sermon for Easter Sunday.

I have an Attenborough story I wish to share, not to big up myself, but to show you the measure of a man whose feet are completely un-clay-like. Several years ago, I co-presented a film for BBC4, and the two week shoot was made miserable for me by the producer and her friend, the director. Perhaps I wasn’t up to much in the role, but my confidence by the last day was in tatters when, famously, we were to interview Sir David on the merits of green spaces in cities. Now, I had worked in a very junior role with him a quarter of a century before, down at the Natural History Unit in Bristol, but I barely expected him to know my face, never mind my name. Wrong. The producer ensured I was last in the line for introductions, but when my turn came, David pumped my hand, embraced me, and said for all to hear “John, it’s been too long. Great to see you. Would be great to work with you again”. My whole world changed around me. Great men and women can make even wretches like me feel good about themselves, and the drive back to Norfolk was made bearable by dint of those three sentences.

 

[Molehill]

Think I recognize the Llyn where you are, quite renowned for it's wild carp fishing and beautiful countryside. Did you both walk up to it from the valley? You certainly picked a lovely day for it, flipping freezing cold wind today and it would be mighty bracing up there now.
I have never got around to fishing it even though it is reasonably local - as is so often the way with something interesting on ones doorstep.
From the hills around me the whole of the Epynt is stretched out along the skyline - I would have waved ?.

 

[John Bailey]

Casting Off West. 10.00am 7/04/2021

It’s a dead period this in an angler’s life. The rivers are out for weeks to come. There are no bass, mullet or mackerel inshore that I know of. Pike are getting ready to spawn, or already have done, so are off limits. Tench, carp and river browns are targets but, as I write, there is snow on the ground and temperatures, even in mid-morning, are around 3 degrees so I’m not inspired. So, as far as JB goes, the fish are getting a reprieve then.

Good job my bird feeding station is up, running, and giving oodles of joy. Squirrels are naturally an eternal problem, and we are involved in a battle of wits and wills over the availability of fat balls. No matter how inaccessible they might seem to me, and how far out I perch them on the slenderest branch, Nutkin concocts a plan. I wouldn’t begrudge him a feed, especially in such harsh spring weather, were he not such a ruffian. His best moments come when the feeder is on the ground where he has kicked it, and he has eaten four of the things at a sitting. His bum and waistline are quite extraordinary, and he’ll be getting tattoos next.

Happily, the birds get a look in as well, especially when the jackdaws get frustrated and caw their way back to the adjoining paddock. All manner of tits, chaffinches, green finches, house and hedge sparrows, robins, two types of woodpecker, doves, pigeons, pheasants and next door’s hens make up the daily attendance, but thrushes are appearing, and a couple of characters I haven’t quite got a handle on yet. Moreover, there are ever-growing numbers of them, and this is a spectacle I have not seen in Norfolk for many years. I don’t say this lightly or happily. I’m happy to have moved, but I’ll always be a Norfolk boy and want to see my county do well. (I was overjoyed to see NCFC give Huddersfield a good trouncing last night. The Prem here we come – for a season anyways!)

Whilst water is and always has been my focus, this move, and these birds, are inspiring me to take a greater interest in the land as a whole. I have a clutch of books by me, and I dip into them at random, gleaning nuggets of information and wonder from all of them. On the go at the mo is H is For Hawk (Helen MacDonald), Say Goodbye To The Cuckoo (Michael McCarthy), How To Read Water (Tristan Gooley) and especially The Running Hare and Meadowland:The Private Life of an English Field (both by John Lewis-Stempel). All these books are so erudite, so full of observation that I gasp at them. I’m seeing our countryside in ways I had never dreamed of but of course, the picture is not that rosy. The sad fact is that whether hedge sparrows or dace are your thing, 21st Century Britain is not a welcoming place for almost anything that is not human.

Once again, it seems we can say or write whatever we like, and no matter how true our words might be, nothing seems to be done. Only time, perhaps, will tell, and were we to fall from pride of place on the pecking order, nature would soon step in to protect today’s downtrodden species once more.

 

[LPP]

Nutkin concocts a plan

Will provide a strong plan to counter this.......