Author: Platypus Man

Round tower churches – a picturesque part of the Norfolk landscape

Posted on by Platypus Man

Later this month, if things go according to plan, we’ll be off to Norfolk to spend a few days in one of our favourite parts of the country. Norfolk is a peaceful, rural county, a great place to get out into nature and enjoy some serious birdwatching. But it also boasts a distinctive – some would say quirky – style of church architecture.

St Margaret’s church, Burnham Norton, is one of the oldest of Norfolk’s round tower churches. It dates from the late Saxon period, around 1,000 years ago.

Although church attendance has plummeted in recent times the buildings themselves are mostly still there. Church towers, often topped off with a cone-shaped spire, remain a familiar part of the English landscape, particularly in rural areas.

St Mary’s church, Roughton. Again, the tower dates from the late Saxon period, around 1,000 years ago.

Historically speaking, church towers have been the tallest and most impressive structures in most long-established settlements. They typically housed bells that could be rung to mark important events, and to call the faithful to worship. The dominating presence and high cost of such towers was a source of local prestige, and emphasised the importance of the church within the community.

St Andrew’s church, West Dereham. The stone-built section of the round tower, which has the widest diameter of any in Norfolk, dates from C12. It is topped off by a brick-built bell section, which was added in C16.

In most parts of the country church towers are square. There are reckoned to be only around 180 English churches with round towers, nearly all of them in Norfolk (70%) and the neighbouring county of Suffolk (23%). Why round churches were built here in large numbers remains a matter of fierce debate.

St Andrew’s church, Ryburgh. The bulk of the tower is C12, with some evidence of earlier work. The octagonal bell section was added in C14.

Norfolk and Suffolk are on England’s east coast, and some experts argue that, because round towers are better able to resist attack than square structures, they were built to bolster local defences against Viking invaders. It’s a romantic notion, but implausible given that most round tower churches date from after the Viking invasions.

St Andrew’s church, Letheringsett. The lower part of the tower dates from C11, and the bell section was added in C14. When bell sections were added to round towers these were usually octagonal, but in this case it is round, matching the rest of the tower.

Another theory suggests that the round towers were an inevitable consequence of local geology, which meant that the stone available to church builders was not well suited for building load-bearing walls that joined at right angles. Again this seems fine until we recognise that other buildings in the same area dating from the same time were indeed constructed with walls that met at right angles.

St Mary, Beachamwell was one of Norfolk’s earliest round tower churches, dating from early C11. We visited in 2017, when we admired the tower and the fine thatched roof. Sadly, 5 years later, it was destroyed by fire.

Other experts suggest that it was simply a matter of fashion, and that visitors from mainland Europe who crossed the North Sea to Norfolk and Suffolk brought the design with them. Once more, the evidence for such an assertion is thin on the ground.

St Andrew’s church, East Lexham. This unsophisticated round tower is perhaps the oldest in Norfolk. It dates from the Saxon period, possibly around 850AD.

I guess we’ll never know for certain why Norfolk has so many round tower churches, although that won’t stop “experts” and other random nerds banging on about it ad nauseam. And does it it really matter anyway?

St Margaret’s church, Hales, a thatched building under the care of the Churches Conservation Trust. A detailed guide to Norfolk round tower churches by Lynn Stilgoe and Dorothy Shreeve says it “is probably the nearest one can get to the original appearance of an early round tower church.”

The fact is that the round towers are there, and are a picturesque addition to the local landscape. I guess most Norfolk residents take them for granted, but to visitors like Mrs P and I they are important, helping to give this part of the country its unique “feel.” When we drive past a round towered church, we know we’re on holiday!

St Andrew’s church, Wickmere
St Lawrence’s church, Beeston

Mrs P is so taken by Norfolk’s round tower churches that she has vowed to photograph every one of them. She still has lots more to track down, many of them in tiny, almost forgotten villages lost in the middle of nowhere in this remote rural county. It’ll take a couple more visits before we can finally declare the project to be completed; meanwhile, this post is illustrated by photos of a few of the more interesting examples that we’ve visited so far.

Let’s all celebrate International Polar Bear Day!

Posted on by Platypus Man

Today, 27 February, is International Polar Bear Day. Established by Polar Bears International, the day seeks to increase awareness of the plight of these iconic creatures and to raise funds to help with their conservation. The organisation was born in 1994, the brainchild of a group of wildlife enthusiasts who’d enjoyed great views of polar bears near Churchill in the far north of the Canadian province of Manitoba. Coincidentally, Churchill is also the place where Mrs P and I were thrilled by views of wild polar bears over a decade ago.

Churchill has been described as the Polar Bear Capital of the World. OK, it’s true that the ones saying it mostly have a vested interest in that they sell wildlife viewing tours to people like me and Mrs P, but they’ve got a point. If you’re determined to see a polar bear in the wild, the Churchill Wildlife Management Area is the place to go during “bear season,” which lasts for a period of five to six weeks each year. Polar Bears are big business in Churchill!

The signage leaves you in no doubt what to expect – or at least hope for – on a trip to the Churchill Wildlife Management Area.

The little town of Churchill, which has a resident population of fewer than 900, lies on the shores of Hudson Bay. To put it politely the place is bloody remote, being more than 1,000 miles north of the provincial capital of Winnipeg. Churchill is inaccessible by road; to get there you must travel by air or rail.

Its primary source of income is tourism, with thousands of visitors making the journey north every year to view the polar bears (in October and November), beluga whales on the Churchill River (in June and July) and the Northern Lights throughout the winter months.

During bear season the occasional polar bear will make it past the security cordon and end up wandering through downtown. For this reason, residents are said to leave their doors and cars unlocked at all times in case someone urgently needs to retreat to a place of safety. But for guaranteed – and safe – sightings, tourists take trips outside town on tundra buggies. These are big, bespoke vehicles with huge tyres, vehicles specially designed to cope with the challenging terrain of the Wildlife Management Area.

Our buggy was remarkably comfortable, bordering on luxurious. The cabin was heated, had an onboard loo (for any North Americans reading this, that’s a restroom!) and, most importantly of all, was totally bear proof.

To the rear of our tundra buggy was an open-air viewing platform, enabling great photographic opportunities without any windows to get in the way. The platform had a corrugated steel mesh floor through which we could watch bears as they passed beneath. One bear even stood on its hind legs to sniff curiously at the feet of the awe-struck passengers, with just a couple of inches / centimetres of perforated metal separating the two parties. That, my dear friends, is why there’s onboard loo!

The person standing on the rear viewing platform gives an indication of the size of this tundra buggy.

The views we enjoyed of polar bears during our tundra buggy rides were truly extraordinary, particularly when two of the bears were sparring with one another. These were, without doubt, some of the best – and closest – wildlife encounters of my life. We also took a helicopter trip out over the Wildlife Management Area one day, and saw several bears from an entirely different angle. In addition, helicopter vision helped give us a better appreciation of the bleak terrain that the polar bears inhabit.

Yes, the four white blobs are indeed polar bears, all chilling out in a bleak tundra landscape!

There was a range of other wildlife to be seen, but polar bears were the undoubted stars of the show. It was an absolute privilege to see them, and hopefully – if we, as a species, can get climate change control – similar opportunities will be available to future generations of wildlife enthusiasts.

Some of the other wildlife that we saw on the tundra around Churchill. Clockwise from top left: Red Fox; Snowy Owl; Arctic Hare: Rock Ptarmigan

Polar bears are magnificent, iconic creatures, and to lose them would be a tragedy. All power to the good folk at Polar Bears International for fighting the good fight on their behalf. Here’s wishing them, and anyone reading this, a wonderfully happy International Polar Bear Day.

Concorde: up close and personal

Posted on by Platypus Man

I grew up in West London, within spitting distance of Heathrow Airport, and for 18 years the noise of aircraft taking off and landing was part of the soundtrack of my daily existence. In order to protect our sanity, we all trained ourselves to tune it out. In this way we could reduce the relentless roar of aircraft coming and going to mere muzak, simultaneously there and yet not there. But where Concorde was concerned, such mental gymnastics simply didn’t work. Concorde was SERIOUSLY LOUD.

Compare, if you will, the noise of a tabby cat miaowing and a lion roaring. You can experience only one of those sounds viscerally, as a physical sensation pulsing throughout your whole body. And it ain’t the tabby cat! It was just like that with Concorde, the undisputed roaring lion of the skies round my way, back in the day.

Concorde was, of course, the world’s first supersonic passenger-carrying aircraft, the product of a ground-breaking joint initiative between Great Britain and France. The name “Concorde” means “agreement,” and was an ironic reminder that the partners were in unfamiliar territory – over the centuries, the two nations had agreed on almost nothing, and had spent more time fighting than co-operating.

It all began in 1962 when the Brits and the French signed a treaty to share costs and risks in producing a supersonic passenger plane. Then the hard work started in earnest. Concorde made its maiden flight seven years later, but it was not until 1973 that the first transatlantic journey took place. The world’s first scheduled supersonic passenger services were launched three years later, in 1976.

Once development of Concorde was underway in the mid 1960s, some bright spark decided it would be a good idea to prepare the public for what might be in store for them. I distinctly remember, when I was ten or eleven years old, our teacher taking us out into the school playground one day so we could all experience our first sonic boom, courtesy of an air force jet the authorities brought in for that very purpose.

We all waited, hushed and expectant, for the miracle to happen. The appointed hour duly arrived, and so too did the RAF jet.

BOOM-BOOM went the soundwaves, echoing noisily around the neighbourhood.

“Oooh, aaah” squealed my schoolmates, frolicking excitedly around the playground.

“Enough of this rubbish, go back indoors and get on with some proper work” growled our teacher, trudging grumpily towards the classroom.

And, of course, it was rubbish. Concorde was never going to be breaking the sound barrier anywhere near us. It would be landing and taking off from an airport that was only a few minutes walk away from the school gates, and so would be many, many miles away before supersonic speeds could possibly be reached. It was therefore obvious to anyone with more than a couple of brain cells in working order that the sonic boom demo was totally pointless, but who cared, it got us out of lessons for a few minutes.

These memories of my own brief encounters with Concorde came flooding back last year, when Mrs P and I visited the Brooklands Museum of Motorsport and Aviation in Surrey. Amongst the museum’s collection is a Concorde, grounded of course, but perfect for an up close and personal inspection.

The plane on display still belongs to British Airways, but has been on loan to the museum since 2003. This particular aircraft never flew commercially, but was used in early testing and for certification. Later, from 1974-81, it was flown around the world to test new routes and to drum up sales to international airlines.

It was fascinating to finally get up close and personal with a Concorde. Its sleek, streamlined fuselage, the iconic delta-wing design and a nose that drooped during take-off and landing rendered the aircraft unmistakeable. And beautiful too. From outside you could gaze in wonder at a Concorde and think to yourself wow, if that’s the future of commercial air travel, bring it on NOW!

Cramped!

Inside however, as we discovered when we walked through the narrow cabin, things were rather different. With only around 100 seats – four per row, separated by a central aisle – and a low slung roof, it seems cramped, uncomfortable even. No amount of “free” champagne could disguise the fact that it feels like cattle class. But only the wealthiest of cattle ever got to fly in it.

Concorde’s advertised selling point was its unimaginably quick passage through the air, with a cruising speed that was over twice the speed of sound. A crossing from London or Paris to New York lasted approximately three and a half hours, less than half the time taken by subsonic aircraft.  Famously, in summer 1985, Phil Collins was able to perform at Live Aid concerts in both London and Philadelphia on the same day by hopping onto a Concorde after his set at Wembley for a transatlantic flight to the US!

Cockpit confusion!

But the other attraction of Concorde was its exclusivity. Tickets were prohibitively expensive, meaning that you could only afford to take a scheduled flight on this iconic aircraft if you were stinking rich. To have flown on Concorde became a badge of honour, an indicator that you’d inherited or otherwise made a fortune.

Ultimately, however, the Concorde project was doomed. Although aesthetically pleasing and technologically ground-breaking, operating costs and serious environmental concerns were its undoing. Astonishingly, given its iconic reputation, only 20 Concordes were ever built, and just 14 of these flew commercially.

This photo shows the iconic “droop nose” on a plane landing at Farnborough in 1974. IMAGE CREDIT: Steve Fitzgerald (GFDL 1.2 or GFDL 1.2), via Wikimedia Commons

The final nail was driven into Concorde’s coffin on 24 July, 2000, when Air France Flight 4590 crashed shortly after take-off from Paris. All 109 people on board and four others on the ground were killed. As a result, commercial Concorde services were suspended everywhere until November 2001. Less than two years later the plane was officially retired, 41 years after the Anglo-French treaty was signed and 27 years after commercial operations had begun.

Visiting Concorde at the Brooklands Museum was a fascinating experience. It was also rather nostalgic, oddly so given that although I’ve seen – and heard – it from afar on countless occasions, I’ve never actually flown on this aircraft. Indeed I’m neither that rich nor so environmentally naïve as to have ever contemplated such a thing. And I’ve absolutely no regrets on that score.

I’d like to believe that all thought of commercial supersonic air traffic has been abandoned forever. However in doing research for this post I’ve have read that greener options are currently being explored, including hydrogen-powered planes that could offer the prospect of “near-zero emissions.”

If this is really true I have to ask, why are we bothering? In my humble opinion, commercial supersonic air travel is folly at best, criminal at worst. The world is in big trouble right now. Surely there are better uses of our time, wealth and ingenuity than seeking to shave a few hours off the length of a transatlantic flight, a flight that is probably unnecessary anyway in the modern, digitally-enabled age? Sometimes I despair!

Our “Boarding Passes” for the Concorde at Brooklands Museum!

Missing hermits and Netflix blockbusters – the Painshill story

Posted on by Platypus Man

Painshill, in the county of Surrey, is regarded as one of the finest remaining examples of an 18th-century English landscape park. Having been rescued from oblivion by the local council, it has won awards and been used as a filming location for the Netflix blockbuster Bridgerton. In the past, however, Painshill struggled to hang on to its hermits!

The Woollett Bridge: installed in autumn 2022, replacing Hamilton’s original while copying its design

The creator of Painshill Park was Charles Hamilton (1704-86), the 14th child(!) of the 6th Earl of Abercorn. Although Hamilton was plainly not at the top his family’s pecking order, his father was wealthy enough to buy him a “classical” education and to pay for him to undertake two Grand Tours of Europe in 1725 and 1732. It was these tours that helped inspire him to abandon formal, geometric garden layout at Painshill, adopting instead a picturesque and more naturalistic landscape.

The Five Arch Bridge, with the Gothic Temple beyond

Hamilton’s vision was to create a pleasure park offering visitors a series of sinuous trails and scenic vistas, with a range of eye-catching follies – including a Crystal Grotto, a Temple of Bacchus, a Gothic tower, a Turkish tent and a mock-Gothic “ruined” abbey – scattered amongst them. It was a revolutionary approach to garden design, one that influenced a generation of landscape gardeners. Today, Painshill is regarded as one of the finest examples of the English Landscape Movement.

The Gothic Temple…it’s a folly!

Work began in 1738 and continued until 1773, at which point Hamilton was forced to sell up to cover his debts. Over the next two centuries Painshill passed through a number of owners. Some of them bought into Hamilton’s vision, most notably Sir William Cooper – the High Sheriff of Surrey – who installed a suspension bridge and a waterwheel, and planted an arboretum. But ultimately the dream began to fade, the Park became neglected and its features started to decay.

View from inside the Gothic Temple

Painshill was recued by Elmbridge Borough Council. In 1980 the council purchased 158 acres (64 ha) of Hamilton’s original estate, enabling work to start on the restoration of the Park and its features. The following year responsibility passed to the Painshill Park Trust, which was newly created with a remit “to restore Painshill as nearly as possible to Charles Hamilton’s Original Concept of a Landscaped Garden for the benefit of the public.”

An alternative angle on the Five Arch Bridge, with the Turkish Tent (another folly!) beyond

At the heart of the Painshill landscape is a man-made serpentine lake, fed by water pumped from the nearby River Mole. Eye-catching in its own right, the lake also enabled the creation of picturesque islands and gave Hamilton an excuse to build some pretty bridges. The Five Arch Bridge is particularly elegant, and featured prominently in an early episode of Bridgerton, a hit Netflix drama set at the start of the 19th century. 

Hidden in the trees, the Temple of Bacchus. Yes, it’s a folly!

Bridgerton is a story of upper class secrets, lies and love, in which the poor and the ordinary are notable by their absence. This was also true of the early days of Painshill, when it was only well-bred or otherwise prominent folk – including future US presidents Thomas Jefferson and John Adams – who were personally shown around by the head gardener. 

The reflections on the serpentine lake were superb on the day we visited, although the grass was brown and parched after a long period without much rain.

Luckily, these days Painshill Park is open to anyone prepared to pay the modest entrance fee. Mrs P and I visited last year, and loved the place. It’s incongruous, quirky but strangely appealing. Sadly the day of our visit was very hot, and we didn’t feel up to walking into the woods to find the Hermitage, another of Hamilton’s flights of fancy. 

The waterwheel – one of Sir William Cooper’s creations

Hamilton was clearly an eccentric, and had the resources to indulge his eccentricities. One of these was that his park should host an “ornamental hermit.” Unlike genuine hermits who locked themselves away from the outside world for devotional or spiritual reasons, ornamental hermits were employed by rich estate owners to live in a hermitage on their land and amuse guests by making appearances.

The “ruined” abbey…
…Yet another folly!

An advertisement was duly placed to secure the services of a hermit to live in Painshill’s purpose-built Hermitage for a period of seven years. The fee was 700 guineas, to be paid as a lump sum at the end of the contract period, but only if the hermit was still in residence at that time and had not broken any rules.

The rules were explained in an advertisement for the position, which advised that the successful applicant “shall be provided with a Bible, optical glasses, a mat for his feet, a hassock for his pillow, an hourglass for his timepiece, water for his beverage and food from the house.” He was not allowed to speak, to cut his hair or nails or to leave the grounds of the estate.

The Hermitage. IMAGE CREDIT: Rictor Norton & David Allen from London, United Kingdom, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

This appears onerous, but the fee was generous: 700 guineas is equivalent to around £135,000 (USD 170,000) in today’s money. It’s said, however, that the first resident hermit liked an immediate beer rather more than the prospect of a pot of cash in the distant future. He lost his job after just three weeks, having run away and been tracked down to a local pub, where he was found to be as drunk as a skunk!

The Crystal Grotto
Restored early in the 21st century
That’s right, another folly!

The Hermitage eventually fell into disrepair and was finally demolished for firewood in the 1940s. It has since been rebuilt by the Painshill Park Trust, based on drawings of the original structure. Mrs P and I plan to make a return visit to the Park, and when we do we’ll be sure to track down the Hermitage. I may even take up residence…the prospect of living in splendid isolation, insulated from rantings of crazed politicians, random so-called “celebrities” and all their media cronies is strangely appealing!

Another year, another cat

Posted on by Platypus Man

Milky Bar* and Malteser*, two cats who live locally and claim ownership of our garden, have competition. There’s a new kid on the the block. Caramel has arrived on the scene, oozing cheeky charm and kittenish cuteness. He first appeared just before Christmas, watchful, tentative, a stranger in a strange land, hoping for the best but plainly fearing the worst.

Since the start of the New Year he’s been coming more often, and is gaining in confidence. Our garden is a bit chaotic (I lack both talent and enthusiasm in the gardening department!) so there’s plenty for him to investigate, plenty of adventures to be had. Transfixed, we’ve watched the intrepid explorer through the window, anxious to do nothing that might alarm him. 

Everything’s a game to Caramel. He’ll be strolling nonchalantly through the garden and then suddenly go crazy, stalking inanimate objects, pouncing on windblown leaves and swatting invisible insects. One time, for no obvious reason, he attacked the withered stem of a pondside plant. After grappling with it for a while he succeeded in breaking the stem free. Then he daintily picked it up between his teeth and proudly walked off in the direction of his own house, clearly keen to present this hard-won trophy to his bemused owners.

We probably shouldn’t do it, but we’re in the habit of treating Milky Bar and Malteser to snacks when they visit. Milky Bar is quite a fussy eater these days, but will happily down a couple of mouthfuls of freshly cooked chicken. Malteser, on the other hand, has no such reservations, and is hopelessly in love with Pawsome Pockets, “chicken, turkey and duck crunchy pillow treats with a soft centre.”

Caramel is also developing a taste for Pawsome Pockets. The first time I opened the door to throw some out to him his instinct was to run. Good! Some people do unspeakably cruel things to cats, and it’s important that he works out who he can trust. But he soon decided that I’m one of the good guys, and was keen to investigate the little treats I tossed in his direction. Sniff, sniff, sniff! Crunch! Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch! And then stared at me with his mad kitten eyes and gave me THAT LOOK, the look that says “Keep ’em coming, I’m a growing kitten don’t you know!“ So I kept on tossing them out, and Caramel carried on wolfing them down.

Last week there was a major breakthrough in our relationship. With a bit of encouragement Caramel plucked up the courage to approach me and stand at my feet. I knelt down and offered to hand-feed him his daily dose of Pawsome Pockets. He snatched them from me and gulped them down, hardly bothering to chew at all. And then he approached even closer, clearly inviting me to stroke his back and fondle his ears. I did my duty, and the little ginger guy looked suitably pleased with himself, almost as pleased as me!

Milky Bar is doing his best to ignore the irritating teenager

Already I can see Caramel is growing up. Soon he’ll be putting his kittenish ways behind him, but his prospects for the future look good. Milky Bar* and Malteser* will look after him – we think they all live in the same household. He appears at ease in their company, and they tolerate him in the way that adult humans put up with irritating but basically likeable teenagers. And when he needs to fill his belly with Pawsome Pockets or have his ears fondled, he knows just where to come!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*The Milky Bar and Malteser story

Milky Bar and Malteser have featured many times in this blog. You can read about Milky Bar here, here and here. Malteser’s story is told here, here and here. Just click on the links to find out more about this fantastic feline pair.

Malteser
Milky Bar

The Big Garden Birdwatch breaks my heart

Posted on by Platypus Man

It’s that time of year again, the time when the UK’s dedicated nature lovers take part in the RSPB’s (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) Big Garden Birdwatch, a national survey that has been running annually in one form or another since 1979. It is also, sadly, the time when I have to confess that once again Mrs P and I have failed miserably in our attempt to attract a wealth of birdlife to our modest suburban back garden.

The Woodpigeon was one of just two species to visit our garden over the Birdwatch long weekend

The first event, in 1979, was aimed at children and was a good deal more popular than anticipated. For over two decades the Big Garden Birdwatch continued in this form. Eventually the RSPB must have realised that the buzz created by the Birdwatch every year would be even bigger if anyone could take part, so in 2001 participation was opened up to adults as well. It worked: last year over half a million people took part in the Big Garden Birdwatch, and between them they recorded a massive 9.1 million birds!

The RSPB is understandably very proud of its Big Garden Birdwatch, which it claims is “the world’s largest garden wildlife survey”.  The benefits are wide-ranging: media coverage helps raise the profile of birds,- and environmental issues more generally – with a wider audience; those taking part get to focus their attention on nature for a while and enjoy consequential benefits for their mental health, and the RSPB collects a wealth of data on which species are thriving and which are struggling.

We were also visited by two male Blackbirds

Unhappily, the picture painted by the Big Garden Birdwatch is not encouraging, with the number of birds plummeting over the decades since it began. For example, House Sparrows are down 57% since 1979, while the number of Song Thrushes has collapsed by 80%.

Our own experience echoes these dismal findings: the results of this year’s count at Platypus Towers were, as expected, absolutely abysmal. The Big Garden Birdwatch 2024 ran over a period of three days, during which participants had to record the birds landing in their garden in a one hour period of their choice. In our garden, the number of birds seen throughout the whole three days – not just one hour! – was four. 

NOT SEEN! – Robin
NOT SEEN! – House Sparrow

Yes that’s right, we saw a measly four birds in our garden during the entire Birdwatch long weekend! OK, I admit that we weren’t watching every daylight minute of all three days, but the room where I work on my laptop overlooks the garden. In addition we spend every tea break in our “garden room”, watching what’s going on out there (and remember, we’re Brits so we have LOTS OF TEA BREAKS!) Not much passes us by, meaning the count of four birds is sure to be fairly accurate.

I’d been topping up the bird table for weeks to get the local birds in the mood for food, and on the first morning of the Birdwatch it was groaning under the weight of the goodies we’d provided. But they went largely ignored. The birds simply stayed away.

NOT SEEN! – Long-tailed Tit
NOT SEEN! – Wren

It wasn’t always like this. We’ve lived in this house nearly 40 years, and back in the day we welcomed a variety of avian visitors. Starlings, House Sparrows, Blue Tits, Long-tailed Tits, Robins, Wrens, Goldfinches and Dunnocks have all been seen. Memorably, for a few days one winter, a Pied Wagtail and a Grey Wagtail called our garden home. Once we spotted a Sparrowhawk sitting on the roof of the garden shed. A little later we found the remains of what we reckoned to be a Collared Dove on the path, and without doubt the Sparrowhawk was the guilty party. Even a Pheasant, hopelessly lost of course, once dropped in to say hi.

But in recent years, the number and variety of birds in our garden has fallen drastically. I last blogged about the Big Garden Birdwatch in 2020, under the title Birds Don’t Come Here Any More. That year, we saw just one male Blackbird! This year, between 26 and 28 January, the only birds to visit our garden were two woodpigeons and two male blackbirds. 

OK, we did better in 2024 than in 2020, but there’s nothing here to celebrate. I wish I could believe it’s simply because all the local birds got a better offer, a garden with tastier food (Mrs P’s theory) and fewer visiting cats, but I fear it’s worse than that. All the evidence suggests that bird numbers are declining right across the country. It breaks my heart.

NOT SEEN! – Pied Wagtail
NOT SEEN! – Grey Wagtail

Next year, of course, we’ll do the Big Garden Birdwatch again. Maybe we’ll do better than this time. We could hardly do much worse.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Update, 5 February 2024

A week has passed since I wrote this post at the end of the Big Garden Birdwatch, and as expected the birds are back in numbers. As well as the Blackbirds and Woodpigeons, over the last seven days we’ve been visited by a Starling and a Dunnock, and three (yes, that’s right, THREE) Robins. It’s almost as if they know and are taunting us. Huh!

Updating the update!

No more than 20 minutes after writing the above update two Blue Tits arrived and started inspecting the nest box we’ve put up on the side of the shed. They seemed interested. Things are definitely looking up, and my broken heart is beginning to mend…for now at least.

One year on …

The 2025 Birdwatch was marginally more successful: Two Woodpigeons, two male Blackbirds, two Robins and a Magpie. Typically, however, the Wren didn’t turn up until 48 hours after the count had ended. It was ever thus …

Dunrobin – a fairy tale castle

Posted on by Platypus Man

No trip to Scotland is complete without visiting a castle. Last year, on our way north to Orkney, we did just that when we broke our journey at Dunrobin, which has been home to the Earls and Dukes of Sutherland since the 13th century. Boasting no fewer than 189 rooms, Dunrobin Castle is the largest great house in the Northern Highlands. It is also one of Britain’s oldest continuously inhabited houses, dating back to the 13th century.

Although vestiges of the early medieval castle remain, they are today buried deep within a much larger and grander structure. A series of extensions over the centuries have transformed the original fortified tower into something altogether different, something apparently straight out of a fairy tale.

One of the men most responsible for the Dunrobin we see today was architect Sir Charles Barry (1795 – 1860), who oversaw a massive remodelling exercise in the mid-19th century. Under Barry’s guidance, Dunrobin morphed into a grand house in the then-fashionable Scottish Baronial style, similar to that adopted at Queen Victoria’s Balmoral residence. 

Barry had a big national reputation. Amongst numerous other accomplishments, in 1836 he won a commission to design the new Palace of Westminster (Houses of Parliament) in London. The Duke of Sutherland’s great wealth and extensive social connections are clearly evidenced by his ability to secure Barry’s services at Dunrobin.

As it happens, that wealth was generated to some considerable degree through the forcible eviction of many thousands of estate tenants during the notorious Highland Clearances. This is something that should, I feel, give visitors pause for thought when they murmur appreciatively at Dunrobin’s undoubted magnificence. The cost of Dunrobin should properly be measured not just in financial terms, but in human terms too.

Dunrobin Castle had an eventful time in the 20th century. In 1915 much of the interior was destroyed by a huge fire, so what we see inside today is largely the work of Scottish architect, Sir Robert Lorimer (1864 – 1929) rather than Charles Barry. Despite the fire, parts of the castle were used as a naval hospital during the First World War, then, later in the century between 1965 and 1972, it was used as a boys’ boarding school. 

Today no trace of the school remains, and instead visitors are offered glimpses of an opulent lifestyle that is almost certainly beyond their reach. The formal gardens are also rather grand, and are another part of Sir Charles Barry’s legacy. They are arranged into two parterres, both laid out around circular pools where fountains playfully splash. The layout of the gardens has changed little since they were planted more than 150 years ago, although new plants are constantly being introduced.

Barry took his inspiration from the Palace of Versailles in Paris. That the Duke of Sutherland was prepared to commission and bankroll such a project in this remote, windswept corner of the Scottish Highlands speaks volumes about his cultural awareness and social ambitions. Visionary? Pretentious? Completely out to lunch? You’ll have to make up your own mind on that one!

Although Dunrobin Castle is impressive and its formal gardens are majestic, I have to confess that the most memorable part of our visit was the falconry display. Falconry is the ancient art of hunting with birds of prey, and for reasons that aren’t entirely clear Dunrobin puts a show every day. No actual hunting takes place, but the birds – including Peregrines, Gyr Falcons and Harris Hawks – are exercised on the Castle lawn, under the watchful eye of the resident and highly knowledgeable falconer. 

The birds are given the opportunity to fly around freely and do so with obvious pleasure, often whizzing just above the heads of an enthralled audience. In the end, however, the birds always return to the falconer, secure in the knowledge that he’ll be providing dinner once the show is over! It’s highly unusual to be able to get so close to birds of prey, and as they were bred in captivity and are plainly well cared for we had no qualms in watching and applauding the show.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

What, then, is the overall verdict on our visit to Dunrobin Castle? Perched on a high terrace and bristling with fairy tale spires and turrets, the castle sits somewhat incongruously within the Scottish Highlands’ landscape. It is a relic of another age, an age when great wealth and all the opportunities that went with it was concentrated in just a few fortunate hands. The splendid gardens and the falconry display add to this other-worldly feeling, making a visit to Dunrobin a somewhat surreal experience. It’s a fascinating place to spend a few hours, but don’t make the mistake of thinking this place has anything to do with the real, 21st century world!

Magpie mythology and internet lies

Posted on by Platypus Man

Magpies are unmistakeable. Members of the crow family, seen from a distance they are long-tailed birds with distinctive black and white plumage. Up close, however, the colouration is more subtle. In the right light a Eurasian magpie’s wing feathers take on a purplish-blue iridescent sheen, while the tail bears hints of a subtle glossy green. It’s a handsome bird, and also – in some circles – a controversial one.

Some people dislike magpies because they are noisy, raucous birds that posture and strut around gardens, parkland and fields, apparently believing themselves to be top bird. Others object to their omnivorous lifestyle, which can include raiding the nests of smaller birds and carrying off their eggs and chicks. And their reputation for stealing jewellery and other bright, shiny objects wins magpies few friends amongst their human neighbours.

However, while their fondness for scavenging and their bully-boy tendencies on the bird table make them unpopular with squeamish bird lovers, it is their alleged association with Satan that upsets others. Yes, that’s right, folklore tells us that magpies are in league with the Devil. According to this tradition, magpies refused to join the other birds in mourning at Christ’s crucifixion, thus marking themselves out as the Devil’s own.

The magpie’s supposed indifference to Jesus’ crucifixion is just one of a huge number of tales and superstitions that surround this striking bird. In the UK, one of the first nursery rhymes many children hear is about magpies. The rhyme references the birds’ association with prophecy, and is found in countless variations up and down the country. Here is just one of them:

One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a girl 
Four for a boy 
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret never to be told

So, according to this piece of folklore, the future that awaits you is indicated by the number of magpies you see. It’s a compelling part of our oral tradition, and I must confess that one day a little over a year ago – when a new baby was expected in our family – Mrs P and I happily counted the number of magpies we could see in order to predict the gender of the new-born. On the day in question we spotted three together in a field, and the baby, when born, was indeed a girl. Spooky!

The same nursery rhyme indicates that spotting a single magpie is a harbinger of bad luck. Again, this belief is deeply embedded within our culture. I clearly remember a former work colleague revealing that, when out for a drive in the countryside, he and his wife would wave vigorously to any lone magpies they spotted, because in so doing they were bidding farewell to ill-luck. 

Alternatively, to dissipate the impending misfortune associated with seeing a single magpie, you should point it out to someone else, presumably on the basis that bad luck shared is bad luck halved. And if there’s nobody else around to take on the burden, the best course of action is to salute the magpie with a cheery ‘’Good morning Mr Magpie, how is your lady wife today?’ in the hope that he will take pity on you!

How did a single magpie become associated with bad luck? One theory is that, as magpies mate for life, seeing one by itself may suggest that its partner has perished. The surviving magpie has therefore suffered bad luck, and associating with it may cause its bad luck to transfer to the observer. However, by asking after the welfare of the lone magpie’s wife you demonstrate your belief that his partner is alive and well, which, if true, means no bad luck awaits you.

As well as waving to a lone magpie, or asking after the health of his wife, there are other ways in which the bad luck might be avoided. These include raising your hat to the bird, spitting three times over your shoulder, blinking rapidly to fool yourself into thinking you’ve seen two magpies rather than one, and flapping your arms about wildly and cawing loudly to mimic the magpie’s missing mate. But be warned: most of these activities, if undertaken in public, are likely to result in ridicule, arrest or an enforced appointment with a psychiatrist.

This post barely scratches the surface of the superstitions surrounding magpies. Variations on the theme include the following:

  • In Scotland, a single magpie seen near a window warns of an impending death. However, in the county of Sussex a magpie perched on a house roof is a good sign, indicating that the roof isn’t about to cave in.
  • In Wales, if you see a magpie moving from left to right when you set off on a journey, that journey will be hazardous.
  • Yorkshire folk associate magpies with witchcraft, and when seeing one (a magpie that is, not a native of Yorkshire!) you should make the sign of the cross to ward off evil spirits.
  • According to tradition in the county of Dorset, if a fisherman sees a magpie before he sets sail he won’t catch any fish that day.
  • In Somerset it is advised that you carry an onion with you at all times to protect you from the bad luck a magpie may bring. (As an aside, while I cannot testify as to the veracity of this advice I will readily admit that during my working life I sometimes kept a bulb of garlic in my office to ward off the accountants. I’m pleased to say it seemed to work!)

Regular readers of my blog will know I have a passion for folk music, and it’s therefore a pleasure to share with you below a link to a song about magpies. The harmonies may be challenging, but the story told is highly relevant to this post. It was written around 50 years ago by a guy called Davey Dodds. The story goes that one day Davey gave an old lady a lift in his new car. Davey was bemused, and probably a little horrified, when the lady insisted on shrieking “Devil, devil, I defy thee”, and spitting on the floor of his Jaguar every time she saw a magpie. 

Intrigued, Davey looked into the mythology of magpies, and this song is the result. Its lyrics* reference some of the magpie superstitions I’ve written about in this post, and others that I haven’t had space to include. This version on YouTube was recorded in 2014 by a trio of singers called the BlueBirds.

At first glance, magpie mythology is totally out of place in our rational, comfortable, well ordered 21st century lives. I mean, it’s all a load of nonsense, isn’t it? Of course it is! But on the other hand, the mere fact that humans embraced these stories for millennia tells us a lot about our species. Our ancestors believed that magpies were the Devil’s disciples. Gullible, weren’t they?

Today, large sections of society enthusiastically embrace the conspiracy theories and other vile lies peddled relentlessly on the internet. Their need to feel good about themselves, their quest for certainty and their desperate desire for simple answers to complex questions leads them to believe stuff that is patently ridiculous, often downright dangerous and occasionally evil. Gullible, aren’t we?

* * * * * * *

* The complete lyrics to Davey Dodds’ song are as follows

Chorus (after every other verse)
One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a girl and for for a boy,
Five for silver, six for gold,
Seven for a secret never told,
Devil, devil, I defy thee.
Devil, devil, I defy thee.
Devil, devil, I defy thee.

Oh, the magpie brings us tidings
Of news both fair and foul;
She's more cunning than the raven,
More wise than any owl.

For she brings us news of the harvest
Of the barley, wheat and corn.
And she knows when we'll go to our graves
And how we shall be born.

She brings us joy when from the right,
Grief when from the left.
Of all the news that's in the air
We know to trust her best.

For she sees us at our labour,
And mocks us at our work.
And she steals the egg from out of the nest,
And she can mob the hawk.

The priest, he says we're wicked
To worship the devil's bird.
Ah, but we respect the old ways
And we disregard his word.

For we know they rest uneasy
As we slumber in the night.
And we'll always leave a little bit of meat
For the bird that's black and white.

A good year for windmills

Posted on by Platypus Man

Have I mentioned that Mrs P is fascinated by windmills? She grew up in a village just a few minutes drive from here, a village that boasts a highly unusual six-sailed windmill that I wrote about in this post a couple of years ago. I guess it was this magnificent structure that fired her interest in all windmills, wherever they are. And so it is that, whenever we’re travelling about the country, we seek out and visit any windmills in the neighbourhood. Last year, 2023, was a good year for windmills! 

Chinnor windmill, Oxfordshire

Perhaps I should clarify what I mean by a windmill. Encyclopaedia Britannica defines it as a “device for tapping the energy of the wind by means of sails mounted on a rotating shaft.” I understand this to mean that windmills power machines used to process a range of materials, including the milling of grain into flour, the sawing of timber and the manufacture of goods such as paper and paint. 

Jill windmill, Clayton, West Sussex

These days, however, “windmill” is also used in some quarters to describe those towering, gleaming edifices used to generate electricity from wind power. Most people I know refer to the latter as wind turbines, and although we have no problem with them (in the right place!), they all look pretty much identical and have nothing to recommend them in terms of their individual character or history. To be absolutely clear, Mrs P and I do not spend our days out visiting and taking photos of wind turbines…we may be a little bit eccentric, but we’re not totally out to lunch!

Ovenden windmill, Clayton, West Sussex

In terms of their history, windmills have been around for over a thousand years. The earliest written references are from Persia – now Iran – in 644 AD and 915 AD. The use of windmills in Europe expanded rapidly from the 12th century onwards, and they remained a visible and vital part of the landscape until the early 20th century. Today they have little practical value, but as reminders of a simpler, lost world they have many fans. Across the country nostalgic groups of windmill enthusiasts work hard to maintain many of those that still survive, much to the delight of Mrs P.

Left: Chailey windmill, East Sussex. Middle top: Berkswell windmill, West Midlands. Middle bottom: Oldland windmill, Keymer, West Sussex. Right: Brill windmill, Buckinghamshire

An interesting example of this enthusiasm is Chinnor Windmill in the county of Oxfordshire. Built in 1789 as a flour mill, it was abandoned in 1923 and finally condemned in 1967 to make way for a housing development. However, someone involved with this decision had the foresight to recognise that future generations might be interested in this local landmark, so instead of outright demolition the mill was dismantled and some of its components put into storage.  Forgotten for many years, the pieces of old windmill were rediscovered in 1980 and plans were set in motion to rebuild it a short distance from its original location. As Mrs P’s photo shows, this was good decision!

Left: Hawridge windmill, Cholesbury, Buckinghamshire. Middle: Lacey Green windmill, Buckinghamshire. Right: Herstmonceaux windmill, East Sussex.

The “Jill” Windmill at Clayton in West Sussex is another fine example of a restored windmill. First built in 1821, it ceased operation in 1906 and was badly damaged by wind two years later. Basic restoration was carried out in 1953, and in 1978 work was undertaken to restore it to full working order. Flour produced by the mill is sold to visitors on Sundays, when it is opened to the public.

Left: Green Ridge windmill, Patcham, West Sussex. Centre left: West Blatchington windmill, Brighton West Sussex. Centre right: Ringle Crouch Green windmill, Sandhurst, Kent. Right: Stone Cross windmill, East Sussex

Ovenden Windmill in Polegate, East Sussex survived longer as a commercially active mill. Built in 1817, the mill continued to be wind powered until 1942. It was then powered by an electric motor until it ceased operation in 1965. At this point it was bought by a Preservation Trust, which set about restoration work. The windmill’s future now appears secure, but sadly members of the public are no longer able to enter it as the floors in the tower have been deemed unsafe. Hopefully, one day, they will raise enough money to sort out the problem, but until then visitors will have to be content with viewing the windmill from the outside only.

Left: Rottingdean windmill, East Sussex. Top right: Quainton windmill, Buckinghamshire. Bottom right: Kings windmill, Shipley, West Sussex

Each windmill in today’s landscape has its own unique history and challenges. Mrs P took photos of nearly 20 new windmills last year. It seems like a lot, but there are still hundreds more to track down, scattered up and down the country. That should keep us busy for a few more years!

A remarkable Scottish woman and an unexpected Japanese garden

Posted on by Platypus Man

The visitor to Scotland is guaranteed lots of treats, including rugged mountains and romantic castles, glittering lochs and golden beaches. And maybe even a glimpse of a majestic red deer showing off an impressive rack of antlers. But a Japanese garden that’s more than a century old? Really?

The Japanese Garden at Cowden Castle was the brainchild of pioneering Scottish traveller and explorer Isabella Christie (1861-1949), better known to family and friends as ‘Ella’. Daughter of a Scottish industrialist and landowner, from an early age Christie made annual trips to Europe with her parents. When her mother died she continued to travel with her father and also alone or with a friend, visiting Syria, Egypt and Palestine.

Christie’s wanderlust, as well as her bank balance, received a boost following the death of her father in 1902. From 1904 to 1905 she travelled east to India, and then on to Kashmir, Tibet, Ceylon, Malaya and Borneo. Two years later she visited China, Korea and Japan. In 1910 and again in 1912 she took herself off to the Russian Empire, travelling part of the Silk Road and visiting Ashkhabad, Bukhara, Samarkand, Tashkent and Khiva. At a time when most of her contemporaries found their horizons severely restricted by prevailing attitudes towards women, Ella Christie broke the mould.

As an intrepid and inquisitive traveller Christie* must have been exposed to a huge variety of new ideas, but it was Japanese gardens that particularly captured her imagination. So, following her return from the orient in 1908, she decided to recreate a taste of Japan in her own backyard. 

Christie’s home was at Cowden Castle just outside the small town of Dollar, lying 36 miles north west of Edinburgh and 37 miles north east of Glasgow. She decided to set aside 7 acres (3 hectares) of the castle’s grounds to create her own Japanese garden. To plan and design it she enlisted the skills of Taki Handa (1871-1956), a Japanese garden designer who was studying in England at the time. This seemingly routine appointment was in fact revolutionary, with the Japanese Garden at Cowden becoming the first and only garden of its size and scope to be designed by a woman. 

The work involved in creating the garden at Cowden included damming a stream on the castle estate to create an artificial loch [lake], importing plants, shrubs, trees and a traditional stone lantern from Japan, and building a tea house. It was clearly a job well done, as in the mid-1920s Professor Jijo Suzuki, Head of the Soami School of Imperial Garden Design at Nagoya, declared Cowden to be the best Japanese garden in the western world. 

In its heyday the Cowden Japanese Garden enjoyed a steady stream of visitors, but after Christie’s death in 1949 things began to go downhill. The garden opened to the public for the last time in 1955, and in 1963 it was badly vandalised by local teenagers when tea houses and bridges were burnt to the ground, and stone lanterns were thrown into the water.

The garden languished – largely untended and apparently unloved – for nearly half a century until, in 2008, it passed to Sara Stewart, Christie’s great, great niece. Determined to restore the garden to its former glory, Stewart created a charitable trust for this purpose and led a fundraising campaign to raise £1m (USD 1.27m) to pay for it. 

Restoration began in 2014, guided by the renowned Japanese architect and garden designer Professor Masao Fukuhara. Although the project was not completed until 2022, Cowden Japanese Garden re-opened to the public in 2017 as a “work in progress”.

We visited the garden a few months ago and were pleased to see that Ella Christie’s achievement has been successfully revived. The garden is clearly not in the same league as those of – say – Kyoto and Tokyo, but as a taster of an approach to garden design that most Brits will find unfamiliar it’s definitely worth a visit.

Ella Christie* called her garden Shāh-raku-en, meaning a place of pleasure or delight, and that name is well merited. Its restoration serves as a fitting memorial to a formidable and truly remarkable woman.

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

Footnote – more about Ella Christie

IMAGE CREDIT: Anon. none given by Nat’l Library of Scotland – dated 1909, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

* Ella Christie was –

  • fluent in four languages
  • the first western woman to meet the Dalai Lama
  • the first western woman to travel from Samarkand to Khiva
  • one of the first cohort of women to be elected Fellows of The Royal Geographical Society
  • a published author, who in 1925 wrote “Through Khiva to golden Samarkand; the remarkable story of a woman’s adventurous journey alone through the deserts of Central Asia to the heart of Turkestan“