MY HOMELAND – THE FENS
My fathers’ father worked this land, his father’s father too,
we’re farmers, drainers, countrymen, and fenmen through and through,
who’ve fought the Romans and the Danes, and Frenchmen many times,
battled against the elements, quelled Crowland Abbey’s danger chimes*.
We’ve mastered rain, controlled the floods, the tempest, storm and tides,
we’ve conquered wind and cyclones, then snow and ice besides,
hand-moulded this flat landscape into what it is today:
a jewel in the farming world, where nature also has its say.
FARMING MEMORIES
I was born in 1940 in the farmhouse where I live today. My early memories of the farm were [DAL1] when horses were still used extensively, with tractors and combines being introduced after WWII. Like many Fenland farms, we kept horses for carting potatoes from the field until machines replaced them in the mid-1960s. Farming changed dramatically in the 1970s; on joining the European Common Market mechanisation took over and reduced human labour.
I remember the days when animal sounds marked the breaking of dawn,
cows and calves bellowed, a cock crow announcing the morn.
I remember the daybreak, the sight as it lit the flat fields,
as the skylark sang out and the livestock demanded their meals.
SUNRISE FROM TURFPITS FARM
I was born into this fen world in1940, and have witnessed the sun rise and set from Turfpits Farm throughout my life. I have never tired of these quotidian natural phenomena and have greeted them as they have greeted me; with reverence, love and appreciation. It saddens me when the sun slips away at dusk but one of my greatest privileges is that, like the sun, I will one day slip below the Fenland landscape.
I watch the sun rising from below the earth,
a jewel released from our planet’s vast girth,
to awake the world from its slumbering night,
to warm the fen as it gains full height.
SUNSET IN THE FENS
I never tire of our sunsets over the fens.
Unlike in a landscape of hills and mountains,
light lingers as if it does not wish to leave us,
until it finally disappears below the earth’s curvature.
A time of day when life must ease its pace,
when darkness fills that bright-lit space;
the fading sun serenely makes retreat
when day’s sounds cease and night calls beat.
DAWN ACROSS THE FENS
There is a certain peace that hangs across the fens at dawn,
half-light awakens nature, as well as souls withdrawn;
before the rise the blackbird’s song has chimed today’s advent,
to warn nocturnal friends and foes another night is spent.
MORNING WALK AROUND THE FARM
The morning is my favourite time, walking as early as possible before urban sounds begin, when I can enjoy silence, solitude, and watch part of nature rise whilst another part retreats.
Night’s conclusion, hoar frost glistens,
darkness slumbers as morning stirs,
sun rays stretch, the land’s revealed,
SUNRISE FROM TURFPITS FARM
I watch the sun rising from below the earth,
a jewel released from our planet’s vast girth,
to awake the world from its slumbering night,
to warm the fen as it gains full height.
DAWN ACROSS THE FENS
There is a certain peace that hangs across the fens at dawn,
half-light awakens nature, as well as souls withdrawn;
before the rise the blackbird’s song has chimed today’s advent,
to warn nocturnal friends and foes another night is spent.
COLOURED WATER IN THE RIVER WELLAND
The world’s top-soils are depleting at an alarming rate, mainly due to water erosion. It takes thousands of years to produce a few inches of top-soil, which can be washed into rivers and deposited in the sea during one human lifetime. The main rivers passing through the Fens are, the Great Ouse, Nene, Welland, Glen, Steeping, and the Witham, all gather water from over four million acres, as well as receiving water pumped into them from the fens themselves, before depositing it into the Wash.
I stood on Crowland Bridge today
watching the water in dismay,
a river swollen, running brown
with sediment from field and town;
brooks flowing over, banks awash
and gathering soils – so someone’s loss –
but pipes and drains will do their job
and drain the land beneath the sod.
LIVE WATERS
There is an old fen term “letting live water into the fens” that refers to water passing through catchment areas such as streams, brooks, lodes, and becks; all are water carriers that lie above the fens and transport water through the Fen-edge and into the fens themselves. The term ‘live water’ means flowing water, as opposed to much that is stagnant for a great part of the year.
Streams and brooks up off the fen
gathering waters from the hills,
filling gullies, lodes and becks,
LITTER FROM THE SKY
I often come across remnants of sky balloons and Chinese lanterns littering the fen countryside.
I have a hatred for balloons and lanterns
that come dropping from the sky,
I do not know who sent them
or the bloody reason why.
AUTUMN SHADOWS 1
Shadows, mellow in the fading sun;
chill winds cool our Fenland soils,
storm clouds scatter across the sky,
days shorten as the months go by.
AUTUMN SHADOWS II
Shadows lengthen in the fading light,
silhouettes blend serenely into night,
poplar trees reach out across the field,
extend their forms but soon will yield.
A FEEL OF AUTUMN IN THE AIR
Summer evenings are now memories to us all,
they readied us for glories of the autumn fall,
when filigrees of cobweb drape the trees like lace,
I feel the breath of winter’s sigh upon my face.
DAWN ON THE MARSHES
I have visited the marshes all my life, sometimes rambling with friends, sometimes alone to watch the geese or collect samphire for the kitchen table.
Twilight marks the close of night
unveiling marsh and creek,
sea mists rise to heaven above –
it’s feeding time for bill and beak.
FOOTPRINTS IN THE FEN
Over a Fenland lifetime I have left my footprints on many bridleways and footpaths used by drainers, drovers, workers and ramblers; along dykes, drains and rivers.
On riverbank, by gates* and droves,
washes, marsh and mere,
by clough and cradge*, field and fen,
humans wander without fear.
URBAN SOUNDS
I am fortunate to live in a remote part of the Fens but am conscious that urbanisation is eating into them. Almost all new developments are being built around towns and villages on Grade 1 agricultural land, a precious and diminishing commodity. Sadly, the more affluent people become, the greater the increase in fly tipping across the countryside.
More urban sounds are beating out
obscuring nature’s calls; and dwelling,
creeping far across the plain,
marching on with no restraint.
SHRINE
This shrine stands on one of our family farms next to a millennium stone on the meridian line. It was erected by a local family in memory of their daughter who visited this spot, where she found peace of mind as she was nearing her death, aged twenty-four.
There are still places left on earth where peace of mind is found,
where souls sit and rest alone, on their sacred ground,
places to meditate and pray, to recall and access their life,
for some it is their sanctuary, away from noise and earthly strife.
THE BAKER
On visiting a local baker in Gedney Hill village early one morning whilst researching my book FENLAND FAMILIES.
The baker stirs before the dawn,
lights his fires as souls slumber on;
taking salt and yeast and flour from bins,
he measures, kneads and shapes in tins.
THE BEDFORDS
Sir John Russell, 1st Earl of Bedford (1486–1555), owned a considerable estate at Thorney in fen heartland, enlarged in Henry VIII’s reign with the dissolution of Thorney Abbey. In the seventeenth century the family oversaw widespread drainage of the fens by Dutch engineers, notably Sir Cornelius Vermuyden and Sir Philibert Vernatti, thus adding acreage to the estate. Death Duties and the Great Agricultural Depression forced the 11th Duke of Bedford to sell the estate in 1930, ending nearly four hundred years of the Russell/Bedford family ownership.
The hand of Cromwell changed this land and abbeys were destroyed,
priests, monks and deans and abbots joined the unemployed;
this holy land that God and then the fenmen did create
would see a transformation into nobleman’s estate.
HOPKINS BRIDGE
Hopkins Bridge still spans the Middle Level Commissioners’ Drain. It was built in WW1 to span drains for the tanks to cross.
Hopkins was an engineer and building bridges was his passion,
as new-found railways round the world became the century’s fashion.
With iron and steel he built them, his design and thoughts were seeded,
and when call from king and country rang he knew they would be needed.
TOM
Tom worked for us in the 1940s and ’50s. He drifted onto the farm from London, after the Blitz, and stayed with us for several years until our family moved near to Spalding. With no one to cook for him he moved on.
When I was young and the war had past
men drifted away from the cities fast.
Homes were gone and loved ones died,
leaving only tears for those who survived.
KEN
Materials for house building were scarce during post war years so many farmers bought old railway carriages, like Tom’s, and converted them into homes. Ken was a local farmer’s son who lived near the POW camp at Whaplode Drove. His carriage is still there today.
This little railway carriage trundled right across the county
transporting souls, young and old, with luggage and their bounty.
Some were scrapped but some were kept, this one being sold,
and so it spent it’s latter years as someone’s prized abode.
CROWLAND ABBEY
Crowland village is steeped in history
with stories and legends and fables of mystery:
Guthlac* arrived to banish all that was bad,
then suffered the ague that sent people mad.
BARE FIELDS
Harvest safely gathered in,
barren fields across the fen,
blend with clouds from distant lands,
with only tramlines now and then.
PREPARING THE FEN DRAINS FOR WINTER FLOODS
Mowers and cutters flail in rage
along the dykes, the leams and drains;
they’re cutting sedges, grass and rushes,
buntings and warblers look on in vain.
SPRING IN THE SKY
I yearn for winter days to cease
and seek new heights that glorify,
adorned with spotless shimmering clouds
that fill the generous Fenland sky.
SPRING IN THE SKY
I yearn for winter days to cease
and seek new heights that glorify,
adorned with spotless shimmering clouds
that fill the generous Fenland sky.
LAST SUNRISE OF THE YEAR
Over a year, as the sun rises across the great Fenland plain, it traverses points on the horizon in an arch of 30’NE and 30’ESE. At the March and September equinoxes, when day and night are equal, the sun rises closest to the equator. March equinox signals the first day of spring, while the September equinox marks the end of summer. I have always noticed where and when the sun rises on the skyline.
His journey of the day is brief,
time is short and light is low;
these winter months, when storms prevail,
are blown with rain and ice and snow.
RAINBOWS
I saw a halo across the fen,
so close and yet so far away,
encasing fields within its grasp,
lingering rainstorms kept at bay.
MORNING CALL
I recall owls around the farm all my life, and have erected nest boxes as enticement, along with perching poles in places they rest between hunting. Some poles are floodlit so we can view them in darkness from our summer house. We have also released barn owls that have recuperated after road injuries. After all these years they still excite me; they appear from nowhere, then disappear like ghosts.
As dawn at last begins to break
the fen wakes up in glowing light,
far off horizons come to view,
shadows appear with strengthening might.
MY TIMEPIECE
I have a watch, I have a clock that’s hanging on the wall,
but I have a favourite timepiece that I treasure most of all;
it wakes me in the morning and at breaking of the dawn,
then it tucks me kindly up in bed when life becomes forlorn.
A FEN BLOW
On the black fens, named for their peat soils and often known as ‘moors’, strong spring and autumn winds catch up fine particles until the air is filled with black peat specks whipped up from the ground. In these seasons the peat soils were often void of crops. Fen blows occur less today since, when main crops have been harvested, cover crops are drilled into the peat forming a blanket over the soil.
Equinox, a word that peat-land farmers fear,
a time that happens twice a year;
strong winds blow, and strafe our void flat land,
filling the air with soil like shifting sand.
THE DROVER
Back in the days before powered transport
the foot and the hoof ruled the day;
flocks and herds were driven to market,
along stock lanes and droves was the way.
WIND
Psithurism [sith-er-izz-um]
I have always been conscious of the wind, living as I do in flat fen land where there is little to hinder it; but when obstructed it speaks to me in many tones. Wind is soundless, invisible, odourless, inanimate, heard only when blowing past or through something. It takes sonic guises depending on what it interacts with. Wind may not be seen, but its presence is recognised by influences on materials or objects it contacts. It can collect odours and carry them long distances.
Wind has no voice or song,
it needs a host to utter sounds;
buildings trees or hindrances,
when one is found it has no bounds.
FEN FAUNA AND FLORA
ROOKS’ DAILY JAUNTS
We have always lived next to a colony of rooks and I’ve been fascinated observing them. I notice rookeries when travelling too. These birds seem unafraid of urban noises or interference and like living close to humans. They venture across the fields to forage for their morning feed or maybe just to explore the countryside. I especially notice them return to the rookeries in the evening, boisterous in a flight that either hugs the ground in strong winds or very high when winds are light. Rooks are gregarious and extremely vocal in flight, often chattering amongst themselves. They seem to fly in pairs within the colony, sometimes breaking away then re-joining the flight. A colony lived near us for as long as my father could remember. One day we noticed they had deserted the rookery and Father declared there would never be luck in that house again. Since then, many families have come and gone – mostly through bad luck.
A parliament of rooks adjourn,
from Crowland Abbey they have come,
making haste to forage fields,
flying high with boisterous song.
ROOKS AT NESTING TIME
A world wakens to springtime calls,
darkness conceding to twilit scenes,
the moon accedes to sunlit hours,
winter succumbs to summer’s dreams.
ROOKS DESERTING THEIR HOME
Troubled rooks are on the wing,
a parliament has left its home,
a curse has settled on that place
and the parliament will roam.
REED BEDS
I walk daily along Fenland water courses that hold an abundance of reedbeds in spring and summer. Due to drainage maintenance essential for winter rains, most channels are void of reedbeds in winter. Today, however, fewer reedbeds are cut, leaving alternate banks unmown on an annual rotation.
I have a stretch of reedbeds
in a peaceful corner of the farm;
they’re in a dyke we never flail
so it retains a natural charm.
NORFOLK’S PINK-FOOTED GEESE
‘Pink-feet’ geese summer in Iceland where thy breed, then migrate south to overwinter. Thousands arrive in North Norfolk marshes in October and November to feed on sugar beet and carrot harvest residues. They overnight on the marshes and move inland at daybreak to feed, returning at dusk. The nutritious diet, of mainly sugar-beet tops, prepares them for their next breeding season in Iceland. Often the sky is alive with ‘pink-feet’ and the sight and sounds are very moving, especially when morning or evening sun shines on their formations.
Dawn breaks across an English marsh
as creeks give way to rising tides;
pink-feet complete their morning chores,
prepare to leave these Norfolk shores.
SKYLARK
Skylarks have nested at Turfpits all my life, on the same field areas as I remember from childhood.
As the morning chorus waits its cue
above the fen, skylarks climb in the mystic air
to sing their song, and dance to the stirring crowd
whose morning begins beneath that crimson cloud.
BLACKBIRD
My first morning caller, and the last at night, is a blackbird who never seems to sleep. For years we watched one with a white spot on the crown of its head. We fed him apples each winter and, if we forgot, he would fly into the store and steal one. He disappeared one winter and we still miss him.
As moonbeams slip out of sight
the blackbird stirs at light of dawn,
his chirping rouses all around
long before shadows have drawn.
ROBIN
Robins can be aggressively territorial and, sadly, I find the odd dead one on the lawn.
I have a robin in my garden
whom I see as day begins,
he sits upon the apple tree,
smiles and cocks his head with glee.
THE GREEN WOODPECKER
I don’t recall green woodpeckers on the farm when I was young, but they have become numerous over past decades. It strikes me as unusual, as in my youth pasture was plentiful.
He tumbles in from nearby woods
lighting on the fresh mown lawn,
head erect and stance so bold,
SEAGULLS ON THE PLOUGH
I remember when horses pulled the plough before being superseded by tractors in the late 1940s. Land was ploughed more often then, with buried soil being brought to the surface around every third year in those days. The surface soil has borne many imprints upon it from farmers, machinery tyres, birds and mammals.
I saw a thousand seagulls, circling in the sky,
waiting for the ploughman to begin his toil,
preparing his fields for future crops
THE SILVER RUN
The European brown eel starts life in the Atlantic Ocean’s Sargasso Sea, east of Florida. After spawning, the elvers or ‘glass eels’ migrate to Europe on the Gulf Stream, finding their way into Fenland rivers, dykes, leams, loads. After several years in the fens a breeding instinct changes their metabolism and colour, and they increase body fat to sustain their 5,000 km return journey to the Sargasso Sea. Migration peaks around the first new moon of September when they leave the fens, even travelling overland to reach rivers, heading for the sea. When this phenomenon occurs the eels are called ‘silvers’, and are much sought after as a centuries-old smoked delicacy for European gourmets. Eel populations declined over two decades, but numbers are increasing with the advent of eel passes at drainage pumps, making their passage into the fens easier. Eels, nutritious and high in protein, were vital to fen economy and it is said that Ely Cathedral was built from the revenue from eels.
Darkness hides the new moon’s face,
surrounding stars shine like silver lace,
the time the eel-man calls Black Moon,
AN EEL-MAN’S LAMENT
Written after a temporary ban on eel fishing in the fens, July 2004.
Herons screeching, swans are hissing,
gulls are soaring, something’s missing,
pike are restless, diet waning,
in the waters something’s changing.
SPARROW HAWK AT THE DRINKING POOL
As evening fades there is a calmness in the air,
at sunset all have come to drink their share:
blackbirds drink in a puddle by the stream,
starlings, thrushes, sparrows watched by basking bream.
MARSH HARRIER
I don’t remember seeing a marsh harrier on the farm in my youth. I saw my first in the late 20th century. Wheeler’s ‘A History of the Fens of South Lincolnshire’ (1868), mentions many birds, some of which are extinct today, but there is no mention of the marsh harrier.
Harvest time across the fens, crops are being cleared
corn and straw are both removed, stubble has appeared;
bare and barren soil remains a hiding place no more,
neither for lonely field mouse, nor rabbits by the score.
BEWICK SWANS
Bewick and Whooper swans migrate to the fens for our winter, the Bewick from Siberia and the Whooper from Iceland. Both species are spotted in the Nene and Ouse washes from October to March, where the Bewick makes a loud honking in flight and a quieter babbling when feeding. The Bewick is smaller than the Whooper (both are smaller than our indigenous Mute swan), and was recorded by Peter Scott in the early 1960s. These swans, who mate for life, form a magical spectacle at Welney Wetland Trust.
There is a chill across the tundra wastes
when summer ends, so nature states
swans must look for pastures new
THE SWANS’ OMEN
We find it harder every year
to choose our breeding grounds,
humans are creeping closer,
and we’re hearing urban sounds.
Living space is hard to track,
together with our feeding;
migration, we well know these days,
takes on another meaning.
THE SPIDER’S WEB
For Jo Smith (née Pick) a farmer’s daughter who made me a postcard of a spider’s web. I sent her this poem in return, and she urged me to publish it one day.
The dew rests on the grass from morning mist,
relic of night, when sun and moon have kissed,
lies fresh and cool on leaves of crops and trees,
refreshes cattle, insects, birds and sheep and bees.
CHRISTMAS ROSE*
The myth goes that a young girl watched travellers taking the baby Jesus a gift of beautiful flowers, making her sad that she none to offer. An angel felt sorry for her and dug down in the snow to reveal a Christmas rose which she gave to the girl for Jesus.
A sight to greet me came today,
a face appeared so bright and warm,
its petals gleamed as white as snow,
it smiled against a winter’s storm.
SPRING
Christmas Rose has come and gone,
a welcome to the coming year,
a brief encounter with this world,
she came and went without a tear.
THE OLD MAN OF THE RIVER
My wife and I often walk our two dogs along the Maxey Cut to join the River Welland, and towards Deeping St James. On the river bank is an old willow tree that has been pollard over many years.
Watching waters take their course
under bridges, now and then
flowing through the locks and weirs
sourced from hills, then into fen.
THE HARE
We love the wildlife on our farm,
our favourite is the old brown hare,
elusive, shy and seldom seen,
a life together that we share.
LEAVES
Trees unrobed in winter months
show off their basic body form,
trunks portray their hoary years,
cleansed by the winter storm.
GREY HERON
Fen watercourses are ‘mudded-out’ in early autumn to prepare for winter rains. As machines gather drain spoil, to deposit it on the bank, eels and small fish are sometimes caught in the excavator’s bucket and left on the bank. It is not unusual to see herons waiting each morning for the drivers to start work, then following the machines all day. They scavenge fish, eels, and even water vole, dropping them on a road to kill them before eating.
A ghostly figure stands alone
among the shimmering reeds,
with no set piece, but time to spare
to hunt her prey and fill her needs.
THE SACRED BIRD
Swallows have nested on our various farm buildings for as long as I can remember. The numbers fluctuate annually. In drier seasons, when the dykes are empty, I ensure water is available for them to gather wet mud for nest- building. I open the stable doors at the beginning of April to welcome them to their old nesting haunts. With their forked tails, swallows fascinate me as they perch on the telephone wires. Southern African friends often let me know when the swallows are mustering in large flights before setting off on their migration to Europe.
As I search the springtime sky
for this year’s swallows to appear
and await the greeting sound
WREN
A pleasing sight to start the day
to see a wren flit like the bees,
hunting for her morning meal,
foraging under the leaves.
TIMES &TIMELESSNESS
friends, family and pets.
TIME
There was a time when time did not exist,
when light and darkness ruled and set the scene,
when ticking clock and chimes were still unheard,
when nature ruled and no one yet demurred.
STEPH
Teenage years seem long ago
but memories are still fresh,
I saw a pretty girl one day –
that girl I saw was Steph.
AGE
(On my seventieth birthday, 2010)
On reaching this exalted day of three score years and ten
I reminisced about the past but pondered, So, what then?
What of my unseasoned years when life was funny and carefree,
those youthful days when worries never could exist in me?
THE GRIMSBY FISH TRAIN
The March railway station, south from Postland on the LNER line, was one of the largest marshalling yards in the UK until it was closed in the 1970s. This line ran through our farm so that sights, odours and sounds from goods passing along the line were part of everyday life. The Hump, which can still be seen, was an enormous mound outside the town of March where trucks were shunted up to the top, uncoupled, and run down the other side to be directed into a series of lines depending on their destination.
THE WHISKY TRAIN
There was a tale of mirth and mystery
from voices heard across the fen,
but kept in secret since those days
of pirates, brigands and unruly men.
A railway train rattles through the farm
smoke pluming from the engine’s stack;
it’s the Grimsby fish-train right on time,
with ice-blue vans from front to back.
FINDING SILENCE
Here is a word of little meaning,
it blights our lives and clouds my mind;
elusive in this hurrying world
where pure silence is hard to find.
CORONAVIRUS
Since human life began on earth
and people roamed its seas and lands,
the pace of life was theirs to share,
until a trauma tied their hands.
THE BLUE BELL
If you have a love of eating, and passion for a wine,
and you’re prepared to travel, to carouse, to drink or dine,
go out into the countryside, find a lane or village green,
look around for somewhere cosy, somewhere you may not be seen,
seek out a pub or find an inn where local folks gather to talk
and a footpath that you fancy, if you choose to take a walk.
If in wintertime a log fire cracks and hisses to give cheer,
go in and sit beside it, try a glass of wine or local beer:
The Blue Bell Inn is such a place, in all good faith I say,
it’s always been a choice inn, and still it is today.
Next door to John Clare’s cottage, close to Helpston centre,
it’s worth a try, I know – so go on out, have an adventure.
FARM WORKERS
The soul of a farm is its labour force,
the men and boys with tales to tell
of mothers, daughters, sweethearts too;
some have many, some have few.
UTOPIA
Probably my first poem, remembering boarding school days in Sussex, 1947–1956
I sit and dream, and sleep and dream, of heaven upon this earth;
I do it every day, in fact I’ve done so since my birth.
When I was young I dreamed about my games and sweets and toys,
I did not think it odd because I thought like other boys;
I dreamed about my Border Terrier, Tilley, my loving pride,
then waking from a dream one day, I realised she’d died.
LOSS OF A FRIEND
This day I returned from that church across the dell,
a sorrow lingering in my ears, a sound of funeral bell
that struck a chord within my heart, its deathly chime
that life has ceased for one, that marks the end of time
A FARMING FRIEND
To David Coles of Thorney Fen
Cattle farmers are required by law to test for tuberculosis, but this can be a stressful event, followed by a harrowing time awaiting test results. Many farmers helped bring their cows into the world, assisted in their calving, and nursed them when sick, all of which creates a strong bond between farmer and beast.
I had a friend who farmed in Thorney Fen;
arable with livestock was his farming way,
but his great passion was his cows and calves,
a farmer of tradition, I would say.
TO SIR STEPHEN HASTINGS, MC – MY FRIEND
Duty and devotion were his battle cries, and woe betide his foes.
He cheated death so many times and yet, within its throes,
The drone of graveside bagpipes wails on in my ears
Fuelling emotions, swelling eyes awash with tears.
Last Post played by a bugler for this warrior laid to rest
Whose life, from start to ending, remained an unfilled quest.
But he now lies at peace beside his beloved mate,
Prepared and groomed – just as in battle – to await his fate.
THE LONG ROOM AT LORDS
My son, James, was a playing member of MCC. This poem is a reminder of the day he played cricket at Lords for the East Midlands Counties members.
In years gone by, I’ve sat and watched the cricket play at Lords,
enjoyed the battles at the crease where nations have crossed swords.
Flags have flown, proud emblems raised from every sporting nation,
insignia adorned the pitch, to mark their countries station.
Fine gladiators have been drawn to pitch their skills on hallowed turf;
a game it is but, to the bitter end, each shows his worth;
their triumphs and their failures, their glories and their doom,
all begin and end with that walk across the long room.
QUEEN FOR A DAY
Filming in the fen, with Selina Scott: ITV 1 Thursday, 29th March 2007
The sun rose up across the fen
and with it came the morning mist;
humans stirred and nature woke,
where sun and moon had kissed.
FAMILY
We plough the land and till and sow
and pray to God that crops will grow;
we nurse the crops that each man needs,
keep some to eat and some for seeds.
WALTER SLY
(1660–1717)
Walter was a gentleman born of Fenland people,
christened in Thorney Abbey, a church without a steeple.
Walter was a trusted man, with position to uphold;
he ran the decoy, farmed as well, so we are told.
THE FAMILY CLOCK*
I have a family clock that’s nothing very grand
but to me and my contemporaries it’s the finest in the land,
it hangs upon the wall, as it has always done,
ticking for my father and now ticking for my son.
BIB’S SPINNEY
‘Bib’ was my father, although Harold was his name,
a quiet understanding man, his father was the same.
Bib always loved his cattle, his pigs and horses too,
he also loved his farm men and the family, through and through
ALLEN SLY AND HIS FAMILY
My grandfather’s name was Allen, and his brother was called Blott,
an unfamiliar name that does not fit the family plot.
His other brother, Fred, prematurely left life’s stage,
dying from an illness early in his middle age.
Allen’s been a family name since 1725
but hasn’t been used recently, since they’ve all lived and died.
Allen and his wife Ada had Arthur, Stan and Harold –
then along came Cissy to make up the family fold.
AUNTY FLIP
I have an Aunty Phillipa whom everyone calls Flip,
she is rather portly and has hairs beneath her bottom lip.
Flip rides to hounds all season, judges horse events in summertime,
wears breeches, jeans and jodhpurs, and boots that never shine.
She is a horse flesh expert, ranks every shape and size,
but father says she’s lonely, which could be to her demise.
Flip has no man of meaning but a Jack Russell, name of Russ,
who chases cats and other dogs and causes Flip to cuss.
She loves to walk hound-puppies and always has a couple;
she loves hunt suppers, breakfasts, teas, and sure enjoys a tipple.
Flip wears a skirt infrequently, one made of Harris Tweed,
and when she does my father warns that men must all take heed.
She will never change her ways for man or beast, we do know that,
but that’s the way we love her, with her horse and dog and tabby cat.
TERRIERS
There has to be a terrier on the farm, it is a must;
of any shape or size and has to be one we can trust.
They must be good with children, the postman and the cats,
but nurse hatred for the vermin, especially the rats.
We’ve always had a terrier and maybe always will,
the one we have at present is a Border, name of Till.
She makes the cats’ lives hell, and hates hedgehogs even more,
would like to bite the postman, and kills rats by the score.
A FATHER’S ADVICE
My father was a wise man who quoted wise old fables;
he rehearsed them on the farm, but mostly round the kitchen table.
One he told from time to time, in family discourse,
was how “cattle buy the saddle, but the sheep will buy the horse”.
Sheep became our mainstay, as they were in times of old;
they fertilise the soil and they are never left unsold.
STEPPING OFF THE FEN-EDGE
&
STEPPING BACK HOME
The Fen-edge is a liminal divide that separates low-lying fens from the upland. Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, Suffolk and Norfolk all lay claim to areas of fen and so include Fen-edge in their domain. It roughly follows the 5-metre mean sea level recorded at Newlyn, Cornwall.
UMBRIAN DAWN
May 19th, 2007
Breaking dawn unveils the hills
exposing man’s unending chores,
olive groves through lingering mists,
mingled with the harvest straws.
ROCKTAIL BAY
North Natal Coast, South Africa; breeding ground of Leatherback and Loggerhead turtles.
Night tides from the distant seas
leave lines of shining dross,
patterns etched upon the sands,
silhouettes that criss and cross.
HOWARD’S BUSH CAMP
The camp is in the Klaserie Nature Reserve and belongs to a good friend. My wife Steph and I have spent wonderful times there, sometimes on our own.
Dawn across the Lowveld Bush
unveils the face of nature’s bride;
her beauty’s etched upon this earth
and time is always on her side.
VOORTREKKERS
A young Afrikaner farmer in the High Veld was once showing me his pedigree cattle with great pride. It was with a developer who wanted to flood the valley for trout fishing. The farmer explained that the land was his best summer grazing and asked where he would put his cattle in the summer months. The developer advised selling his cattle because he would make more money from the fishing. “My ancestors walked these cattle’s progeny from the Cape, in the Great 1000-mile Trek, I could never sell them,” the farmer said.
Wagon wheels cease their groaning chore,
laagered* for the night they’ll turn no more;
the sun goes down his work is done,
the beginning and end of labour for some.
BLACK DOG COTTAGE
New Zealand, February 2006
Written at the isolated beach house of Mark and Vicky Williams. Vicky is artistic, inspired to paint and utilise materials from her surrounding natural environment.
Waters from a distant ocean
race in here from far-off lands,
crests of waves as white as snow
tumble to the waiting sands.
Never still and always flowing,
SAND DUNES ON THE NORFOLK COAST
I have visited the North Norfolk Coast since I could first walk and every year since, in all seasons. In my youth we drove our Land Rover onto the beach, cooked breakfast and lunch, swam and fished there until the tide came in. Not today. There are no vehicles on the beach and no fishing, shrimping or crabbing, which provided our lunches. But we still visit the Norfolk Coast, mostly in winter months, where we love to see and hear the Pink-feet geese.
A wild allusive blissful place
among the sand dunes near the sea,
places to hide and rest your soul,
a heaven for others as well as me.
SHIFTING SANDS
Raging winds whisk up from off the sea,
harsh sounds of tempests fill the air,
birds are gleaning fresh washed sands,
lonely walkers stand and stare.
MARTIN FEN
James John Hissey published ‘Over Fen and Wold’ in 1889. He describes crossing Martin Fen, which was ‘almost treeless and hedgeless and wholly wanting the wild, weird beauty of the wider Fenland, with its magic of colour and mystery of distance’.
I gazed across the open plain
where fen blends into sky,
with only me between them both
where spirits linger, rest and lie.
BOMBER COUNTRY
I witnessed thousands of aircraft leave on bombing raids over Europe. Sadly, those coming home were fewer.
I saw the bombers climbing high
against the Fenland’s setting sun,
off to a foreign land for war,
to battle against the dreaded Hun.
MEMORIAL IN MARTIN FEN
Crossing Martin Fen, I found this plaque on a gatepost, memorialising a Lancaster crew from RAF Metheringham who crashed on return from a bombing raid on Berlin, 15th February 1944. They returned safely, but collided with another aircraft while circuiting to land. Five crew members died and two were injured, but survived.
I saw a plaque in Martin Fen
to flying men who gave their best,
who sacrificed their lives for ours;
on Fenland soil their spirits rest.
SAINT ANDREW’S SPIRE, HECKINGTON
While admiring the Godson Almshouses behind St Andrews I recalled WF Rawnsley, author of ‘Lincolnshire Highways and Byways’, who described St Andrews as “one of the wonders of Lincolnshire”. Vapour trails were a common sight from the many RAF aircraft based here.
Strolling around Heckington village,
while admiring Godson’s Homes,
my attention is drawn to skies above,
streaks hanging over me, forming domes.
SEMPRINGHAM ABBEY
Sempringham Abbey was the home of the Gilbertine Order, the only indigenous English Catholic Order of monks and nuns, from the twelfth century until the Reformation.
There is a church that stands just off the fen,
a house where monks and nuns once made their vows,
where austere Gilbertines worshipped their God;
now only spirits rest under that sacred sod.
FLOWING BROOKS
From off the heath the water flows,
that the Dunston Beck will steer
through the village and past the green;
its waters bright and crystal clear
