Same Old Same

(Monday) Another fun filled week in store. Oh, the excitement is too much! Note the ironic tone of this blog post.  Cooped up in my flat like a battery chicken when it's really sunny and warm. I am hoping and even praying that the government will reduce the social distancing. It's a bit of a joke when I went out yesterday evening with Alfie and seeing people definitely not social distancing, children playing on the equipment in the playground at Oldbrook Green. The 'Rate of Transmission' of the infection rate of the coronavirus has been reduced to whatever number, I think it's 3, moved down from 4. I'm not entirely sure.

People on Oldbrook Green flying a kite. The wind was more or less perfect for such an occupation. There is something fascinating about kites. I really like them. We took Sam and Emerline to Dunstable Downs to fly his kite many years ago, although not entirely successfully. When we used to go on holiday to Frinton-On-Sea I used to fly a rather incredible box kite, which wasn't mine. It belonged to my younger brother, Sandy, who had been given it as a present, I think, by his godmother, Jane, but he wasn't in the least bit interested, so I got the pleasure of flying it. Quite high, from what I remember, on the Greensward, the grassed area between the road, The Esplanade I believe, and the promenade where the beach huts were. Quite a strong wind off the sea and it took some effort to get it to fly to the furthest extent of it's string.  A lot of effort to keep hold of it and probably a danger to low-flying aircraft. More on holidays to Frinton-On-Sea in an earlier blog post but I may write more in a future blog post.

(Tuesday) 4.02a.m. I haven't slept much. Someone in a flat below me has a television or radio on with a voice that never stops. I can't think what it can be. Not BBC or Sky News because there's no music, advertising or those 'stings' or whatever they cal them, the bits of music between items or over credits or the opening of programmes. Whatever it is, it's difficult to get to sleep. I turn on BBC News and have a cup of tea. Something to watch or listen to. They have an item about a digital television channel calle 'Talking Pictures' which has seen it's ratings rise since the start of the pandemic lockdown. It shows old programmes, most of which are black and white and run by a handful of staff. Apparently the main channels don't show black and white material. Why? Does that mean some of the classic films of the early days of the film industry aren't important because they aren't in COLOUR? So, that means that Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, Buster Keaton and a whole host of other comedy films are worthless? Absolutely not. Then how about: Casablanca, Sunset Boulevard, and probably the best film comedy of all, Some Like It Hot aren't worth bothering with? Are audiences so dumb that they can't be doing with black and white films? I don't think so. Surely it's the story, characters and just plain charm of these early films which makes them what they are. They survive because they are so brilliant. Oh, and then, how about the priceless Ealing comedies such as Passport to Pimlico (which is on tomorrow as I have looked at the EPG (Electronic Programme Guide), Kind Hearts and Coronets and The Ladykillers (I think the only Ealing comedy to be made in colour and also the last one made.)

The social distancing is likely to be reduced from 2 metres to 1 metre today, after the Cabinet has met this morning. It has to happen. BBC Breakfast has said that we can expect high temperatures in the next few days, possibly the highest temperatures of the year, towards the end of the week. Heat kills viruses, so it's going to wipe out the coronavirus. Just wait and see.

Later. 'I just don't believe it!' as Victor Meldew would say repeatedly in the brilliant sitcom 'One Foot In The Grave.' I have mentioned the problems I have had regarding my Television Licence. If you need a reminder, when I moved into Dexter House I made sure I had this set up so that I was 'legal , decent, honest and truthful' (an advertising slogan which was used by the Advertising Standards Authority.) I'm rambling. Going off-topic. Not keeping to the script.  Digression is the word I'm looking forAnyway, I discovered that I didn't need to pay a full licence living at Dexter House. Don't ask me how or why. You can, but you won't get an answer. I paid by cheque and it must have cleared as it shows up on my bank statement so the licensing people have proof. But I keep getting letters, beautifully printed and posted, no doubt at great expense. So . . . what on earth is going on? Making a mockery of the whole confounded TV licence business and must cost a fortune, money which could be going to the BBC to pay some hard up celebrity on their payroll who needs to probably put petrol in his/her Rolls Royce or to buy more caviare or pate de foie gras from Harrods or Fortnum and Masons.

Later still. So, that's it. Boris Johnson says the social distancing can be reduced to one metre and that more businesses can reopen. Thank goodness! Being a prisoner in your own home is no joke. But lockdown can be reenforced if there's any new infections, or something, I'm not sure of the exact words. But it's not going to happen. It's summer, the sun is out and viruses don't survive in a hot climate.

(Wednesday) A hot and humid night and I found it difficult to sleep, but the kitchen is as hot as ever. Why on earth can't the heating be reduced? It just doesn't make sense and I have mentioned it but it seemed impossible to get anyone to deal with this situation.

Things That Have Disappeared

Now, it's one of those mysteries. What, you may ask? Well, I was driving through the countryside the other morning and was aware of the passing scenery, as you do. I was fully aware of the other traffic, making sure I kept the car on the road, not too close to the vehicle in front, keeping to the speed limit and making sure I was going in the right direction to my destination. As I glanced around, it suddenly occurred to me, what ever happened to . . . . telegraph poles? What is odd, in this day and age, do we have such things as telegraphs? Do they refer to telegrams? What on earth, it has suddenly struck me, do, or did, (is that grammatical I wonder?) a telegraph pole actually DO? Are they (or were they?) support the cables that transmit telephone calls? So, why do I not see any as I drive about the countryside? If not, how do telephone calls get from A too B? Are the cables that once, long ago, were strung along these poles, now hidden underground, perhaps? Or are the signals that are transmitted sent by radio waves, digitally sent via some sort of dish-arrangement, rather like a Sky satellite dish? Can someone answer me this question then, what has happened to telegraph or telephone poles and how are telephone messages (and, no doubt, the internet) sent if there are no visible cables?

If there's no telegraph/telephone poles, what else do we not longer have which we once had, particularly when I was considerably younger? How about such things as level crossings? I mean, the old fashioned sort, with proper gates which are manually operated by a man who operates them from a little signal box. They used to have lights on them, so they could be seen at night. I don't mean those half-hearted excuses for 'barriers' that replaced them years ago, that only cover part of the width of the road. Sort of, vaguely, dare I say it,'continental-style'? When we used to go on holiday to Frinton-On-Sea, on the Essex coast when I was a child, you used to enter Frinton from the 'outside world,' through such level-crossing gates. Into an almost enchanteted world. I haven't visited Frinton in decades, so I don't know whether those level-crossing gates have been replaced by the 'modern' style barriers. It wouldn't be the same if they had. I'm not even sure whether there is a railway station at Frinton, necessitating the need for a level crossing.

Telephone boxes. You never see them these days. The traditional red variety. Is it because everyone has a mobile phone and has no need for the use of such a thing as a telephone box. The sort with the 'press button 'B.'' I can't remember when I last saw one.

Policemen on 'The Beat.' I mean a Police Constable actually seen walking the local pavements. Someone you can trust if there's a problem. A sort of deterrent if there's something likely to become a criminal act or is against the law. I used to live in a village where there was a local Bobby and if you were caught riding your bicycle on a footpath you would be stopped by the PC and told to get off and push your bicycle or at least ride it on the road.  There was a sense of community, people knew right from wrong (well, I suppose they did.) and a police officer being on hand gave you s sense of safety. But not anymore. You never see a policeman, except if they're driving past in a car.

One thing that definitely disappeared and that's manners. Why do some people insist on driving close behind me when I'm driving. Just because I'm not going at top speed and why do some people cut you up on roundabouts? I refuse to drive outside my safe zone. Then there's mobile phones. I have mentioned this before, but why on earth do people insist on having them permanently fixed to their hands? There's nothing more bad mannered than being in a situation where you meet someone, say, in a Costas or Starbucks, and the other person is constantly looking at their mobile, or they're texting. Really rude. It makes you wonder what people used to do before mobile phones and what would happen if these things disappeared. These things are as they are because, with, for example, the internet, you can make a rather nasty comment about someone and you aren't ever likely to meet them face to face. The same with driving. A motorist can cut you up on a runabout or tailgate you or whatever, but they're never likely to meet you in a face-to-face situation. It's rather a cowardly way to behave. People seem to think they're separated from the rest of society, sitting in their room on their laptop or mobile phone, Tweeting, posting things on Facebook or whatever, in a sort of bubble. It seems that's the way a lot of people spend their lives, isolated, separated. Rather a sad sort of world we've created.

Postmen. I know they're out there somewhere, but if so, I don't see many. On bicycles? I doubt it. Most come in little red vans. Some I see walking along with wheeled barrow things with the mail in. I presume they can take far more mail if they have these wheeled things. One thing I do know, they seem to deliver at almost any time imaginable, We've even had a delivery at 4.30 in the afternoon. I can't imagine it would be safe carrying a heavy load of mail on a bicycle because you'd have to strap the bag on somewhere on the bicycle. I can't imagine having to go out in the early morning, when it's dark and probably cold and wet and in snow and ice. I feel sorry for those people who do these sorts of jobs, the jobs we take for granted. We all expect our mail delivered on time and to be correct, although that isn't always the case as we often get the odd letter or even parcel which is delivered through our door but isn't actually addressed to us. The postman isn't looking at the address properly. I suppose if they have temporary staff on, particularly during the run-up to Christmas, those staff can't know all the little unknown places that a regular postman would know, or even get the mail posted through the correct door. 

All About Weather

It's bright and sunny this morning, but there's a cooling breeze. So, I begin my blog posts most days with a mention of the weather. I think most people, when they meet others, will almost always mention the weather. We do tend to spend a great deal of our time in this country discussing the weather. It does have an effect on our lives to a large extent. It gives the British their character. Stoical, long-suffering, uncomplaining. Is this true? A lot of British people moan constantly about the weather, as well as other things, such as politics, those in authority, but they make a living out of moaning, and do nothing much to try to change things. Admittedly you can't change the weather, you just have to 'grin and bear it,' whether it's too hot or too cold. We do have a habit of moaning on and on that it's far too cold in the winter or too hot in the summer, as we seemed to do during the recent heatwave. I have to admit it did get far too hot for me, but you can just keep out of the sun, or, when it's cold, put on more layers of clothes. If it's bright and sunny it does give you an up-lift to your mood, but if it's cold, due to snow and frost, or wet, due to rain, it can tend to make you miserable. I don't like it when the clocks move back in October, long dark days when it begins to get dark at around 4 o'clock in the afternoon. That long haul as we build up to Christmas, getting colder and even more dark doesn't help.

My father was a farmer and weather with important to him. There was a barometer on the wall in the corridor downstairs and he almost always consulted it at some stage of the day and he insisted on watching the television weather to find out how things would turn out, particularly during the corn harvest. If it rained it could effect the moisture content which was vital as to whether a particular batch of wheat, barley or oats was to be harvested. We didn't go on our annual holiday to Frinton-On-Sea until the first fortnight in September. I suppose school realised that most of the pupils were farmer's children and my father wouldn't go away until either the harvest was complete or unless the weather was fine and he could come with us to Frinton. It seems amazing looking back to think we must have missed two weeks of school, but that's what we did.

We've been out this morning. Carol had seen an advertisement in a magazine for a shop in Leighton Buzzard. They sell crafting materials. I'm not sure whether they have a website, but most likely they do. We drove there, via the A5 and then off towards Aylesbury along the by-pass. Some of the route is being resurfaced, the opposite lane. We got to Leighton Buzzard and parked in a Morrison's carpark but had no real idea where the shop was, but it's in a side-street off Lake Street, which means nothing to either of us. We visited the town a few years ago, but, frankly, the place has nothing much to recommend it. I think that time we parked near the theatre, but that's about all I remember. It's somewhat depressing, just looks rundown. Very bleak. Is it just me or is this how most towns look these days? Lots of boarded-up properties. No end of charity shops, pubs, banks and building societies. We eventually discovered the shop, which is down a rather seedy alleyway, which you wouldn't want to venture into at night. The shop is small and rather depressing and even more rundown than all the others. We have a browse and then return to Morrison's. Unfortunately you could buy everything they sold in that shop in large barn-like retail outlets such as Hobbycraft or on-line. We went into Morrison's and bought sandwiches, crisps and drinks to have for lunch. We were undecided where we should stop to eat our picnic, not really having an idea about the immediate vicinity. We drove away from the town towards Dunstable and the A5 because the alternative route back along the by-pass would be closed off due to the resurfacing. It seems incredible that such a recently opened stretch of road should require resurfacing. It is remarkably poorly constructed, no doubt as a way to cut costs when it was originally built only a few years ago. We reach the A5 at the roundabout we know well because we come this way when we visit Whipsnade, and go left and then meet a traffic jam. It creeps along at no more than walking pace. It goes on towards Hockliffe. No sign at all as to what caused the traffic hold-up. I imagined it might have been further roadworks, resurfacing perhaps, but absolutely nothing. Not even a road traffic accident. The jam just disappears and we move on at a higher speed. We decide to come off the A5 where the road meets a roundabout, to the left going off towards Stockgrove Park, which we visit on occasion with the dogs. But we go off right towards Woburn. There must be somewhere to stop nearby to have our improvised picnic. We drive through the deer park, doing the loop we usually do and come back through the park. We eventually find a rather pleasant bypass in the wooded area going back towards the A5. We sit in the car and eat our picnic and then return home via the A5 towards Milton Keynes.

Friday, later. The weather has changed considerably. The day started off sunny bit windy, but as I write this (at 6.55) it's been raining and we had a clap or two of thunder. It went quite dark as we were about to have our evening meal and I shut the curtains to keep the weather out.

Trip to Bekonscot Model Village

Carol is really determined to get out as much as possible. Considering that she's been off work since August last year and has been stuck indoors for most of this time. except for hospital and doctor's appointments, who can blame her? We search on Google for somewhere suitable to visit, and as a result came across Bekonscot Model Village in Beaconsfield. I'd heard of this place, but had never visited. We took the satnav, which has been sitting on the shelf in the lounge unused for some time now. I was hoping we might be able to use the satnav which is in the Renault, but for some reason we just can't manage to operate it. So we set up the Garmin and then found that the part that fits on the back and allows it to stick to the inside of the windscreen was missing. So I had to have the thing on my knee as we went along with Carol driving.

We drove out towards Aylesbury as we knew that Bekonscot isn't much further from the route we know reasonably well, particularly going to such places as West Wycombe, a National Trust property, as well as the hill that over-looks the village as well as Stoke Mandeville Hospital.

We arrived in Beaconsfield and it was only by chance that we saw a sign for Bekonscot, otherwise I doubt we'd have found it. I was somewhat surprised that it was in a rather affluent-looking housing estate, putting me very much in mind of Frinton-On-Sea, where my family used to go on summer holidays when I was a child. It has that 1920s-1930s sort of feel about it, vaguely Art Deco designed houses, and all quite large. Fortunately we could park the car opposite the model village, in a church carpark.

Having paid our entrance fees we went into the model village. First we had something to eat, buying drinks and paninis from the café and sitting at one of the tables outside. It was good to see so many families with children enjoying the sunshine. Then we began our walk around the model village, along the paths between the exhibits. Some truly amazing models, with so much detail. Again, a sort of 1930s feel, almost like going back in time to a period of seaside holidays with Punch and Judy on the beach, cricket on the village green, horses and carts instead of lorries and vintage-looking cars. How on earth they manage to keep the place in such good order is quite amazing. Some of the exhibits have moving parts, such as a coal mine with coal being loaded onto a train. Yes, and throughout the whole garden, a fantastic railway with trains moving about. And on the lake in the middle, an area to represent a harbour, and little yachts  sailing across the water as well as other types of boat and ship. Someone had a real sense of humour with the names of businesses, the shop fronts bearing all sorts of names, puns almost. Several churches, one which you can see inside in, with the choir and a tiny vicar, another model of a circus, again, you can view inside, with acrobats and horses revolving as if in a circus ring. Further over, a farm with a threshing machine, probably a bit out of days by today's farming standards, but all working and to minute scaled detail.

Carol was keen to have some ice-cream. Being on chemotherapy, anything cold, such as ice-cream, would be impossible to eat, so we went to the ice-cream stand and she tried a small spoonful. It seemed fine, no reaction, so we both ordered some for ourselves, two scoops each. Very delicious. We sat at a café table. Then we went towards the exit and had a browse in the obligatory gift shop, but bought nothing and then made our way out and back to the car and home.

We were surprised how many families there were in the model village. Also, how few people taking 'selfies'. For some reason it seemed that nobody was busy with such crazy things, more interested in what they'd obviously come to look at. No smartphones much in evidence at all, apart from a few people taking photographs with their phones of the model buildings on display and a young boy who was with his dad who had a Canon camera (a more advance and probably far more expensive model than one, which I took photos of the buildings with). He was taking similar photos, but was being quite clever and experimental they way he was lining up shots, no doubt influenced by his dad.

So, we drove home, quite happy with our day out.

More Politically In-Correct Books and Films

Continuing on the theme begun in my last blog post, what about all those other works of literature, usually aimed at children, as well as films? Just think of a series of books that I read avidly as a child, beginning with "Swallows and Amazons" which were written by Arthur Ransome. They were about a group of children who seem to spend their lives perpetually on holiday in either the Lake District, Norfolk or Essex. The children are John, Susan, Titty and Roger Walker. I don't think, in all honesty, you could have a character called Titty in a book nowadays. Sorry, but the name just causes (sorry for the pun) a titter. You would have to re-name the character for a modern audience. I think it's the fact that they sail their boats on one of the Lake District lakes (I think it must be Windermere, but I'm not sure.) and there's no attempt to them wearing life jackets of any sort. When I was growing up, my father was an avid sailor, and had several yachts, some of which were sailed on the River Ouse near where we lived, mostly at Cardington Mill. We were never allowed in these boats unless we either wore a life jacket (generally a very bright orange or yellow) or we could swim proficiently (about the only decent thing I ever got from going to Rushmoor School was the fact that I learnt to swim). The stories of the Walker children continue in several other books, Pigeon Post, Swallowdale, Peter Duck, Winter Holiday, We Didn't Mean To Go To See. I think he later books might have been set in and around the Essex coast. As we used to go on holiday each year to Frinton-On-Sea, and the inlets in and around Walton-On-Naze, which was a little bit further up the coast from Frinton, this gave the stories a good deal more interest to me because I could picture the places in the books. But I think it's the fact that there's no hint of 'Health and Safety' and neither the fact that they wander around the Lakes and surrounding countryside free from any sort of adult interference. When you consider things like 'Child Protection' today, and the unfortunate stories that have come out recently about child abuse, it makes these stories, although written in the 1930's, even more intriguing. It's sad that today's children don't get the freedom to roam about as the children do in those books. Even when I was growing up in the 1960's there was no such thing as 'Health and Safety' or 'Child Protection.' Infact, when I consider the fact that living on a farm alone had many dangers and perils that would make the place a possible death-trap. We built hideouts in amongst the hay and straw bales, never once thinking that they might collapse on us and suffocate us or even catch fire. I used to make tree-houses, fairly high up in some oaks trees in the garden at Malting Farm. Thinking about it now, I could have easily fallen out of the tree and broken a leg, arm or whatever. You didn't think things like that were in the least bit dangerous in those days, but I suppose children never see the dangers in anything.

Returning to Swallows and Amazons. In the mid-1970's they made a cinema film of the book. It was, by coincidence, at the time I was an A.S.M., working at Century Theatre in Keswick. We did a series of four plays, running in repertoire, and changing every two days. Hard work, to say the least. When they began filming (no doubt on Derwent Water, on which Keswick is near). When we were out looking for props in the town for the plays we were staging, we often got asked whether we were from the film unit. It was also a coincidence that this film had a screenplay written by David Wood    who was in a play that I worked on at Greenwich Theatre called "A Voyage Round My Father" by John Mortimer. The director of the film was Claude Watham who also directed the Mortimer play, as he had done when it was originally done as a 'Play For Today' on BBC Television.

Back on books and films. Just think of Harry Potter. Why didn't the Dursleys, who had young Harry as a lodger (where they actually related? Were they really Harry's aunt and uncle?) Nevertheless, they had Harry under their care, so why did the poor boy end up living under the stairs? Why were they never prosecuted for child abuse? Expecting the child to live in such confined conditions is surely abuse of some sort? Why didn't the authorities intervene?

Then think of Oliver Twist, in particular the musical version, on stage and screen. What are they teaching children if they watch Oliver! That crime seems to pay, perhaps? Teaching youngsters to PICK POCKETS! Really terrible.

I seem to have veered off course about unsuitable or politically un-correct films for children, but never mind. I'll get back on the them in another blog post. It was good to reminisce on various things. The whole point of these blog posts I suppose.

Listening To Radio Four- Part 1

I was thinking to myself the other day how my interest in such things as literature, theatre and comedy have been influenced by BBC Radio Four. Most people, as they grow from adolescence to adulthood, listen mainly to what is commonly known as 'pop' music, and the form of delivery for this is via radio. In the 1960's we had pirate radio, such as Radio Caroline, which operated illegally from just outside the mainland of Great Britain. I do have a slight connection to this station (but only slightly, I may add.) Radio Caroline was broadcast from a ship which was anchored in the North Sea just off the Essex coast near where my family spent it's summer holidays, at Frinton-On-Sea. You could see this ship clearly from the promenade at Frinton, where we rented a beach hut for the two weeks at the beginning of September each year. One year there was a mighty storm at night and the ship on which Radio Caroline was broadcast from came adrift from its anchorage and ran aground on the Frinton beach. It made the headlines in the national newspapers over the next week of or two. In 1967 (or thereabouts) the then Labour government, under Harold Wilson, made pirate radio stations illegal, apparently because they were supposed to interfere with broadcasts for the lifeguard service. Radio Caroline (and other similar pirate stations) were put out of business and the good old BBC was tasked with creating a replacement radio station, which was to be called, rather unimaginatively, Radio One (because the remaining BBC radio stations were to become Radio 2 (formerly The Light Programme), Radio 3 (formerly The Third Programme), The Home Service became Radio Four. No doubt it was the obvious numbering of these stations that gave them their names, so to have a new station called Radio One was logical. I've not actually been a particular fan of 'pop' music, preferring classical music, but I do enjoy some bits of pop. I think if I have to have any sort of pop radio station on I prefer Radio 2, because, frankly, I can't stand commercial pop stations such as Heart which is awful. The adverts are really appalling and seem to play to the lowest common denominator. It was better when it was Chiltern and Horizon. They've just made it into a sort of mush, basically for financial reasons. Terrible. They must think their audience are really dim or something, the tone of the presenters.

Why am I mentioning all this? I suppose because when I was growing up I tended to listen to Radio Four. My parents always had it on in the house.  My father had to listen to the weather forecast because he was a farmer and the weather was important to him, particularly at harvest-time.) It was probably the main source of news and always seemed to be on at lunchtime. We had an ancient radio in the kitchen at Malting Farm, kept on a shelf high up on a wall, which took a time to warm up before it worked (I think most things needed 'warming up' in those days, before transistors became popular and replaced valves in things. The television we had, a black and white model, took some time to warm up. A good many years before the introduction of colour in the early 1970's.)

Radio Four must be unique. It's an all-speech channel. I can't imagine a commercial version because I don't imagine the audience figures are particularly high, so it would never survive on advertising alone. It broadcasts a wide range of material across such things as documentaries, arts, media, light entertainment, comedy (light entertainment covers panel shows and sitcoms and sketch shows.) as well as soap opera (The Archers would fall into this category. It's supposed to be the longest running drama or soap in the world, running for something like 65 years. In fact, it's one year younger than me.)

I got hooked on adaptations of books which were (and probably still are) broadcast on Radio Four. For example, some of Daphne Du Maurier's novels. which lead me to read many of them, particularly 'Rebecca' and 'Jamaica Inn.' I think I'd written them off as being somewhat female-orientated (which perhaps they are, to some extent.) but then, once I'd read them, I discovered that there was far more to them, particularly 'Rebecca' which is really gripping and has a mystery about it. She does atmosphere and character really well. Definitely page turners. The books have been adapted for both radio and television, and of course 'Rebecca' was famously made into a film by Alfred Hitchcock, with Laurence Olivier in the role of Max DeWinter. She also wrote another, the later novel which was called 'The House On The Strand' which was done well on the radio. There's something about a radio adaptation, you have to concentrate more than with a visual medium. There's no way you can get away with the scenery dominating, flashy camera-work etc with a totally aural adaptation of course.

Dogs (and other Pets)

We always had dogs when I was a child. My father had greyhounds, although I don't really think they'd be classed as 'pets' as such. They lived in their own kennels and there was a run for them in the garden at Malting Farm. Some were put into greyhound races, but others were used for coursing. I know it's not considered 'P.C.' (Politically Correct) and hunting with dogs is now illegal, that is still what they were basically used for. I'm not going to get into a discussion on the rights or wrongs of it in this post, although in some sense, in the early part of the 21st Century, perhaps it's a good thing that we don't continue with such things, but I'm not convinced one way or the other. One of the dogs won some race, it may have been at the White City Stadium in London, back in the early 1960's, because he had a large trophy which sat on the sideboard in the lounge at Malting Farm, which was the prize for this race. I'm not sure whether there was any money involved. Dad was a greyhound trainer, which is one reason the greyhounds were kept in separate accommodation. There were several litters of puppies born at Malting Farm, and the dogs made exceptionally good mothers. Contrary to what you believe about greyhounds they are very affectionate and do make good pets and I know people re-home retired greyhounds. One, in particular, called Ben, who became a stud dog, was often bought into the house and made a fuss of, but unfortunately he was poisoned during one event, I think the Waterloo Cup, which was held every year in Lancashire (now no more since 'hunting with dogs' is illegal.) Although you must not call greyhounds 'dogs.' I don't know what the outcome of the poor animal who was poisoned, whether the culprit was found or whether the police were involved. I think the poison was paraquat or some sort of poison used to keep down weeds.

Being a farm, there were always labradors around, usually black. Beautiful creatures used to retrieve game during shooting expeditions and the annual 'shoot', which was quite a big event, culminating in a large meal, provided by my mother and comprised of quite an elaborate meal in the dining room at Malting Farm. Later, my brother Andrew had a black-and-white Cocker spaniel, called Pippa, who came from a litter produced by a bitch owned by my Kendall cousins who lived at Eyeworth, near Sandy. Pippa was a sweet-natured little dog, who always went around with a wagging tail. We went to Fronton-On-Sea for summer holidays as well as to Brightlingsea, a little further down the Essex coast, where my father had a sailing boat called 'Flashpoint' on which we occasionally stayed. The boat was moored in the Colne estuary, and to get to it you had to use a small rubber boat or 'tender.' Trying to get out to the yacht with a load of shopping as well as Pippa was quite an ordeal. She had a tendency to always want to swim, which is what all spaniels seem to love. But on one particular occasion, she decided that she couldn't be contained on board ship for too long and took off by jumping in. But, as there was a  strong tide in the Colne estuary, she got caught in a song current which means she could possibly get back to the yacht. So we had to get in the tender and row after her in order to rescue her, otherwise, she would have been lost and possibly drowned. Even though she was a strong swimmer, she couldn't swim fast enough against the rapidly ebbing tide and would have been swept out to sea, never to be seen again. On the beach at Fronton, Pippa would enjoy the sea, and it was quite difficult to keep her out of the water. Her one abiding passion was chasing things, which is what a Cocker excels at, along with swimming. It was at a time when Frisbees were all the fashion, but if anyone was seen playing with one, usually someone or other of our family or friends, or complete strangers, merely throwing the things between one another, Pippa had the idea that the Frisbee was being thrown for her entertainment, and if the thing landed, she would run and pick it up and play with it herself, which could be quite embarrassing, particularly as she had a tendency to chew the things.

My brother James had a couple of black labradors. One I think was called Flon. She had a tendency to run off. As a child, I seem to remember another black labrador called Sorrel. I don't remember much about this dog. We had small Jack Russel Terriers in the 1960 and 70s. We had a small, tan and white terrier which had a wiry coat and called Honey. Unfortunately, it died. I think Dad took it to show the greyhounds and one barked and it scared the poor little pup to death. Sad. A really sweet little dog. I think she came from family friends who lived in Carlton, whose dog had puppies. Then Dad got another little Jack Russel, small, black and white and with an undershot jaw. Funny how you remember these things. She was called Spike. I don't know why. I think it was because her tail was like a spike. Then we got a second dog, a bit bigger than Spike, who got called Milligan, after the Goon's writer and comedian. I think it seemed an obvious name, come to think of it. He was black and white with tan markings, on his face and legs. He took to me and pined when I went to school. He used to sleep on my bed and followed me around like a shadow. Unfortunately, he rather liked the neighbour's chickens. I think he might have chased a few and killed them. Then he wasn't around anymore. I don't know what happened to him. Went to a new home, away from chickens. I was quite upset, as you can imagine. Then, a few years later another dog came into our lives, another Jack Russell Terrier. She was called Lucy. She had a problem with her skin. She got an allergic reaction to flea bites and her skin came out in a horrible load of sores. She was small, and to relieve the itching caused by the sores she rubbed herself underneath the armchairs in the lounge and made the sores bleed. Poor little thing. She had a sort of epileptic fit one evening when she was let out into the garden. It was quite distressing to see this, laying on her pack, with her legs shaking. She came out of it a few minutes later, but I thought she was going to die. I just think she was prone to have an odd sort of metabolism or something, which meant her heart raced at too high a level, which was what caused the epileptic fit.

Another dog we had, probably a good deal earlier, was a dachshund, called Chippy. He was light brown with white markings. He was very like a sausage (I know, dachshunds are often called 'Sausage Dogs.) and called Chipolata, hence, Chippy for short. He loved music, or so he seemed to, because if you were to play a mouth-organ (or harmonica) he would howl along. It was very amusing. He got his tail, which was very long for such a little dog, and got caught in the rear door when my mother had a Hillman Husky, which had a rear door which was operated by a lever on the car's dashboard. How on earth his tail got caught in the door when it got shot I really don't know, but as a result, the end of his tail had about half an inch missing. It never recovered and ended in a rather abrupt tip and the hair never grew back.

So, now Carol and I have two dogs, as you will know if you have been reading my posts on here over the years. The oldest one, Poppy, is a Shitsu-West Highland Terrier cross. She has a stubborn streak and does what she wants, particularly when we take her out for a walk, and you have to put her back on her lead and she runs off and won't return. When I first met her, at Carol's house in Crownhill (a good ten years ago now.) she was so excited to meet me that she weed on my leg! Take her anywhere with water, such as a lake or river, and before you know it, she'll be in and swimming.
The other dog we have is Alfie, who is a Yorkshire Terrier. A faithful little dog, who took to me very early on and follows me around the house like a shadow. He's even-tempered and has a lot of courage, especially when we're out walking and he comes across far larger dogs. He hates cats and if one comes into our garden he barks loudly. Both dogs sleep on our bed at night, but disturb Alfie at your peril and he will growl to warn you off. He doesn't like being disturbed and falls asleep at the merest opportunity.

My brother Robert was keen on horses. We had a pony called Meg from quite early on and Andrew had a couple of ponies, one called Whiskey, a black and white pony as well as a white one whose name I forget. My younger brother, Sandy, used to go to gymkhanas around Bedfordshire and take part in the various events and got quite good at it. I'm not sure these are still going, but there used to be an annual one at Clapham as well as the Young Farmers' rally at Silsoe. My grandmother Ferriman was President or something for several years. I do recall, from quite an early age, being taken to these events, even though I never took part. I did ride, occasionally, but what put me off was all the mucking out and tack cleaning which went with caring for horses. The fact that I was kicked by one of the horses and then bitten by another, quite badly, in the fleshy part of my arm, might have something to do with it, as well as being on one of the ponies which bolted with me on board and nearly going through a five-bar gate has definitely got something to do with it!

I'm fairly certain we had other pets. A budgerigar, which I seem to remember lived in a cage in the kitchen at Malting Farm. Whether it was male or female I have no idea. There was a tortoise, but it lived in the garden and wandered as tortoises do and was rarely seen, no doubt hiding away amidst the flowers and other plants, but was rarely seen. Which makes me wonder how it ever survived winter. No doubt it hibernated somewhere or other. One of my brothers, Robert perhaps, had a fish in a tank, and I think it was in his bedroom, but whether it survived I can't recall. That is all I can remember of any pets we had as children. Growing up on a farm there were always animals, such as cows and pigs (I don't actually think there were pigs at Malting Farm. The Porter's, who lived next door, had a pig unit, and there were some at Mill Farm, my grandfather's farm. Sheep didn't come onto the farm until my eldest brothers took over when my father retired in the 1970's. We were never allowed to become to attached or over sentimental with any of the animals, although we sometimes reared some of them, such as bucket-feeding calves. They were all treated with respect and had good lives.  And my mother had chickens and we had chicks which were hatched somewhere or other and put in a deep litter house and laid eggs which were sold.

Recent Reading . . . and some Writing . . . Part 1

I have quite a wide taste in what I enjoy reading. I've had a passion for good reading since I was quite a young age. When I was at school we were always supposed to have something to read, taken out of the school library or else bought from a local shop. Infant, it's a habit which I have continued to this day. I always have a book to read and once one is read I have another to read.  I read Arthur Ransome's "Swallows and Amazons" and the later books which featured the same characters. "We Didn't Mean To Go To Sea" which I believe was set in and around Essex, along the coast from where we used to go on holiday when I was a child, Frinton-On-Sea, Walton-On-Naze and all the little inlets along that stretch of coast. The characters were real to me, and the stories were good. I'm not sure whether children read them today. I think they were written in the 1920's and 30's so perhaps they wouldn't appeal to modern children, bought up with iPads, Gameboys, Nintendo etc. My father was a sailor and had yachts which were sailed along that bit of coast, around the Colne Estuary, Brightlingsea as well as Frinton (see earlier blog posts on our family holidays.) So a series of books featuring children who sailed was of interest to me, not that I was a sailor myself. My father put me off, to some extent, as he wasn't the most patient of people, when it came to his children in a boat he was sailing. When I went to work as a D.S.M. at Century Theatre in Keswick in the early 1970's they were in the process of making a film version of "Swallows and Amazons" on Lake Windermere, although I was too busy with the season of plays we were producing to be able to watch any of the filming, which was a real shame.

I got hooked on anything with a really good plot. I was a radio drama fan (something I doubt children of today can say.) Radio Four (or the good old Home Service it was named up until about 1967 when the B.B.C. introduced us to Radio 1, 2, 3 and 4. No doubt it was easier to give the stations numbers than to come up with any other name.) I think it's the fact that, with a radio adaptation, you have to use your imagination far wore than when it's done in a visual medium, such as film or television or even stage. For that I think Radio Four is quite unique. Where else can you get such a rich selection of drama? Nowhere I can think of. I got hooked on adaptations of novels, done as "Saturday Night Theatre" as well as a Sunday night adaptation of books as well as stage plays. It was through an adaptation of "Rebecca" by Daphne Du Maurier, that I discovered not only that novel, but all, or about all, her other novels, such as "Frenchman's Cove", "Jamaica Inn" as well as her later novels such as "The House On The Strand." Such an incredible author, how she could evoke a place, such as Cornwall where most of her earlier novels are set. "The House On The Strand" is a particularly clever piece of writing, and it worked so well as a radio piece and wouldn't work as a film or a television series (thankfully.) and knowing today's television it would be ruined. "Rebecca" is perhaps best known as being made into a film by Albert Hitchcock and starring Laurence Olivier as Max DeWinter. It has been adapted for television a couple of times, the first with Joanna David as "The Girl" and then much more recently with Charles Dance. More of Daphne DuMaurier's stories have  been made into films, most famously, another Hitchcock adaptation being "The Birds" as well as "Don't Look Now" with Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland and directed by Nicholas Roeg. It's a really scary film and, although a good 40-plus years old, well worth a view if you get a chance to see it. It's shown regularly on television although you could get it on DVD. I supposed DuMaurier would be considered a 'woman's novelist' and I suppose, when I first came across her, not having then read anything of hers, it would have put me off,  as I think I might have thought the novels to be sort of 'Mills and Boon-ish', but how wrong could I be, as her books are so well plotted and the characters so captivating, particularly "Rebecca" that I was soon hooked and had to read more of them.

In the late 1960's Radio Four did a quite brilliant serialisation of the J.R.R. Tolkien novel "The Hobbit." It was done in eight episodes. I have recently managed to purchase this adaptation of a set of CD's from "The Works" in Milton Keynes. As a result of the radio adaptation I read the book and later on I discovered "The Lord of The Rings" (also adapted for B.B.C. Radio and part of the CD set.) I had it originally in a very thick paperback edition which I think I bought on a trip into London and took with me when I went to work as an A.S.M. at Liverpool Playhouse in the early 1970's. I read it every decade or so after that, and had it in three hard-bound editions, I think purchased from Book Club Associates and later I had an illustrated, one volume edition. So I know the trilogy very well and enjoyed the Peter Jackson movie trilogy which was pretty faithful to the original. At the time of writing this I haven't seen "The Hobbit." It seems unnecessary to me to make it into three films, because it's a relatively straightforward book. No doubt it was done for financial reasons, which seems a shame. I may eventually get round to viewing it on D.V.D.

Family Summer Holidays- Part 3

As I have mention in the earlier post, my father's yacht was the central reason for the holiday in Frinton-On-Sea. I think the sailing must have been particularly good along that stretch of the Essex coast. The boat he had which was called 'Amaranda' was a Jewel class yacht. It was clinker built, meaning it was made of overlapping lengths of timber made in the traditional manner. He had another yacht built of fibreglass of about the same size and later still a far larger yacht called 'Flashpoint' which was moored in the estuary at Brightlingsea and which was fitted out with a galley and sleeping accommodation , although it was quite cramped. I wasn't so keen on sleeping in that tiny space afore, as I got seasick with the motion of the boat and also some amount of claustrophobia in such a tiny space. This had a tender, a small rowing boat attached which was used to ferry us out to the mooring.  I remember that my Uncle Michael (my mother's brother, now, alas, dead.) was a very good sailor and would take command of "Flashpoint" because I think as Dad got older he found it quite difficult to manage. Dad had bought a small wooden rowing boat from somewhere in Colchester I seem to remember and took some duty as tender and was called 'Midge.' This was quite a basic sailing boat and could be sailed quite well by one person. Mum was good at sailing that alone and I think my brother James sailed that a few times. This was also sailed on the River Ouse near Cardington Mill, as we had a hut there which was used as a base for sailing and summer picnics, but, unfortunately, all of that had been swept aside when the business park was built.

The yacht would be taken down to be parked at the beach on arrival in Frinton. We had to go to the estate agent to get the keys for the house we had rented as well as the beach hut. I know that now it's quite fashionable to rent or own a beach hut at places such as Southwold, Frinton, Bournemouth and other seaside resorts, but when we went it made a very good base on the sea front. Frinton has an excellent beach, very fine sand between breakwaters or 'groynes' and the sea comes in right up to the level of the promenade and so washes the sand clean and makes an  excellent safe place for families with young children to have a holiday. Inside the hut (we had a different one each year, but I believe that they are all basically the same inside) there is an inner and outer area, the back area being lockable with double doors and which makes a good place to change when you go swimming. In that part of the hut there would be a Calor gas ring for boiling water for tea, a set of around six deckchairs, a picnic table and probably one or two other tables. In the front section of the hut there would be a benched area, so you could set up your table here and sit for meals or set up on the promenade at the front of the hut. 

There was a parking space on what was called the Greensward, a long stretch of grass which runs the whole length of the Frinton seafront. There is a slipway which runs down to the promenade and a further one which allows boats to be manhandled onto the beach and then launched. It was quite a strenuous task to haul the boat up and down these slipways, but I think at one point the car was used for this purpose.
As I said in the earlier post, it can't have been much of a holiday for my mother, because we stayed in a rented house in Frinton and this would mean there would still be meals to cook and we children would need to be looked after. Also, my mother and father sailed most days and knowing my father, who wasn't the most patient of men, it must have been quite stressful being a crew member for him. I can remember on several occasions being on board one of his yachts on the River Ouse and he wasn't patient, particularly if you hauled on the wrong sheet (rope) or moved at the wrong moment, as you had to if the boat was tacking into the wind, for example. If you didn't move fast enough you were very likely to be hit on the head very hard by the boom, the wooden 'stay' which kept the bottom of the mainsail fixed to the mast and moved about quite freely if not taken under control with whatever rope you happened to have in your hand and if not you'd get a lot of abuse from my father such as 'get out of the way, you idiot!' or words to that effect.
Quite a few family friends would congregate at the beach hut at Frinton. Not just my uncle Michael and his wife Gemma, but also a couple called Tim and Betty Smith.  They were a really nice couple, but they would argue with one another and would sit and bicker endlessly.  Can't have been much fun for my mother, inviting someone to tea and have to listen to them constantly bickering.
My brother Andrew appeared in 1961. I think after four boys my mother was keen to have a daughter. So it was a bit of a surprise when child number five was yet another boy. The Smiths, on the other hand, had been married for years and no baby appeared, but around a year after Andrew was born their one and only child appeared, called Ian. Funny little kid, bald, not very good looking, to say the least. In fact, possibly the inspiration for Yoda in the 'Star Wars' movies! I shouldn't make such comment, but never mind. Then there were the Boddy family, Ashely and Alison. Again, lovely people, but very noisy. I think Ashley bought my father's first boat, 'Amaranda.' He was another very good sailor. But as I say, whenever this family visited you needed to keep at arms length or wear earplugs as Ashley had/has a very loud laugh and the whole family makes a great deal of noise.
My Great Aunt Liz stayed at the Grand Hotel  which is on the seafront at Frinton and quite an imposing building.  She was one of my father's Scottish relatives, never married and was ancient even when I was a teenager.  She died at the grand old age of 95, in 1965, so almost 50 years ago. She makes me think of Lady Bracknell in "The Importance of Being Ernest." Blind as a bat and just as deaf and with a huge nose, which, thank goodness, I didn't inherit. Imperious, to say the least, and although she wore a hearing aid she never seemed to have it tuned properly so it made that unfortunate whistling noise that hearing aids are prone to. You would find yourself repeating things endlessly if you had a conversation with her, which could make life very difficult. Anyway, she would come down to the beach several afternoons when we were there, but it would mean her being ferried around in cars and taken down to the beach as she couldn't walk far.
Andrew, as I've said, was the youngest of my parent's children. I can't imagine what looking after no less than five children would be like, not just feeding, clothing, birthdays, Christmas and so on. So it's no wonder that my mother needed some sort of help. So Andrew had someone to look after him when he was a baby up until be was around 9-10 I suppose. This lady was Miss Fuller. To this very day I'm not sure of her Christian name. It's odd, but it's true. She had been a seamstress and very good too, and had gone to our neighbour's at Cardington, the Porter's and used to do mending. Somehow or other she was sort of 'head-hunted' by my mother and came to work for us., doing virtually the same thing. I know, it's odd to us today, but people did mend clothes. It's not something that is done now, I should imagine, even with the 'recycling' generation and the need to be 'environmentally friendly.' I imagine this would be a left-over from the days of the Second World War and what followed with Austerity. Anyway, she had one afternoon of mending socks, darning etc and then when Andrew was born she used to take him for walks in his pram. Eventually she came more or less permanently as a sort of nanny, but I don't suppose she would have wanted to be called that. So she came with us when we went on holiday to Frinton. I don't know what the arrangement as regards payment. I suppose she was given something, but I don't know. But I suppose she was getting, in effect, a free holiday. At least it meant my mother got some sort of time to herself as Miss Fuller took virtually complete control of son number five. Things went very well with this arrangement until my grandmother  Ferriman came to Frinton. I'm not sure for certain whether she came for a day or two or whether she stayed with us, but she was another body for my mother to look after.
One afternoon there was something of a cat-fight between Miss Fuller and my grandmother. Don't ask me what it was about. It was in front of everyone on the promenade near the beach hut. My grandmother was going on  about something like who was looking after my brother, and Miss Fuller, who was an extremely strongwilled lady, put her foot down and said that SHE was looking after him. It was like something out of one of those comedies, almost fists flying, fur and feather. 'He's my grandson and I'm in charge of him!' from granny Ferriman and then 'He's my responsibility' from Miss Fuller (or words to that effect.) I'm not sure how it ended, but it must have been very embarassing for my mother. I think it may have been about who could take him for a walk along the promenade or something equally trivial. I know it must have caused no end of entertainment for all and sundry!

Family Summer Holidays- Part 2

Just looking at the road map and in particular the route to Frinton along the A120 evokes a lot of memories for me.  Mention of the names of the places along the route, such as Baldock, Buntingford, Puckeridge, Bishop's Stortford and so on wakes up a lot of memories. I knew the route well enough as a child and then again in the early 1970's when I used to drive it when I was an A.S.M. at Colchester Repertory Theatre and used to use this road when I went home for the weekend.  (Colchester Rep is no more. It was replaced by the Mercury Theatre in the early 1970's The foundation stone was laid by Eric Porter, who played Jolyon Forsyte in the 1960's BBC series."The Forstye Saga". I remember this from when I was working there. The old rep building, which was in the high street, had been an art gallery before it was converted into a theatre, and is now a building society or bank, I can't remember which.) It probably was quite dangerous in those days, particularly late at night (I used to leave Colchester after the evening performance, which would end around 10.30 p.m.) so driving on the A120 wouldn't  have been been very safe as I don't imagine there were many street lights along the long sections through open countryside.

I do remember that there was one thing that sticks in my mind. Somewhere in Dunmow or Coggeshall there was a tree at the side of the road which had been shaped into what appeared to be a table. I don't know whether it is still there, but it was something that, as children, we always managed to point out on the journey. I imagine you wouldn't be able to find it now, if it is still there, as it's most likely to be in the centre of a town and you now use a by-pass and not see it. That's one of the drawbacks of by-passes. You don't see the sights that you would have seen if you drive through the  centre of places and by-passes always seem to be routed through cuttings with high banks so you never see much of the surrounding countryside.

We had another sort of 'game' which was whoever saw the water tower which was near the entrance to Frinton and whichever of my brothers saw it would get a bag of sweets or something. Silly now, I suppose, but I imagine my mother, who would be driving the car, needed something to keep us occupied on the journey.

To enter Frinton you go through some gates, which are in actual fact part of a level crossing which goes over the railway line, and Frinton's railway station is one of the first buildings you see when you enter. As such, the railway line is the sort of 'outer wall' of the town, if you like. You drive in and down Connaught Avenue, which is the main shopping  street and runs right down to the beach. There is a sort of air about the place as if you've stepped back in time. Probably then, but not so sure now, as I haven't been there for at least 30 years. It's sort of stuck in a timewarp of the 1930's. Very genteel, and dare I say it, middle class. When we used to visit there were no pubs. I can't remember if there were any fish and chip shops, which seems very odd, considering it is a seaside town. You always associate the 'seaside' with fish and chips. Well, at least I do. There were bars in the hotels, but these seem to have been frequented by a very select few. A sort of feeling of one of those Agatha Christie mysteries. If not the setting for one, you can imagine  a television or film production company  using it for the location of something set in that period. A lot of the houses are built in the classic Art Deco style. Somewhere, also, you can imagine Noel Coward frequenting. Perhaps being the setting for one of his plays such as "Private Lives" although I know that was supposed to have been set on  the French riviera.

Family Summer Holidays- Part 1

My family always went to the same place for our summer holidays when I was a child. This was to Frinton-On-Sea in Essex. It's between Colchester and Walton-On-Naze, which is a few miles further along the coast.  Clacton-On-Sea is the next resort down the coast from Frinton. We'd go for two weeks at the beginning of September each year, so I would miss the first few weeks of school. The reason for this was that my father was a farmer and he would want to go once the harvest was over. I think it may have been still being bought in as sometimes he would return home at some point and come back to Frinton. 

We went to Frinton basically so that my father could sail. He had his own yacht, Amaranda, which was taken to Frinton, towed by the family car, and was usually stuffed with suitcases and all manner of items found necessary for the holiday. This yacht had been built at  James shipyard in Brightlingsea, a town on the River Colne estuary, further down the coast and not far from Colchester. A good many years later we did occasionally have holidays in Brightlingsea and staying at a hotel near the harbour. I can't remember the exact name, but somewhere near the harbour. I know my parents went to Brightlingsea on their own a few times, which was quite a rarity for my mother, not having us children with her. I do remember staying with my grandparents at Mill Farm near Cardington when I was a child when my parents went on their own to Brightlingsea. This, unfortunately, is no more, and is now a business park. Sad to see a farm which has so many childhood memories cleared away to make way for something so mundane as a business park, but I suppose that's progress, or what passes for progress. The Bedford by-pass crosses some of the land.

My parents rented a house in Frinton each year, so, in some ways, it wasn't much of a holiday for my mother, as she still had to run the house very much as she had the family home at Malting Farm in Cardington, just outside Bedford. Also, there would be a beach hut on the promenade where we would spend the entire two weeks of the holiday. She would be organising food, having to do shopping and cooking meals at the beach hut, as well as the house.

My two elder brothers, James and Robert, never came with us. They would stay behind and presumably be involved with the harvest. Robert, in particular, was not interested in the sea, swimming or boats and was more into horses and riding. We would go with my two younger brothers, Sandy (Alexander) and Andrew, my youngest brother by around eleven years. The journey to Frinton has deep memories for me, almost as exciting as actually getting to our holiday destination. I know that now the road there has been up-graded and you drive mostly on dual carriageways that by-pass most of the larger towns and villages, but when we drove there, which would have been in the early to mid 1960's, you would have to drive through the major towns such as Braintree. There were some really narrow bits of road along the way and you would often get stuck behind large H.G.V. lorries, particularly near Puckeridge, which was (and probably still is) a major Sainsbury's distribution centre.