Local

A good old chunter about access rights, the right to roam, and Scandinavia's approach to allemansrätten.

My hopes were high. It was a perfect sunny day and the grid square looked enticing on paper. It was mostly woodland, with some contour lines, a small lake and the site of a Roman villa thrown in for luck. There was only one building on the whole square. A motorway and railway sliced through the middle, but a third of the area was a country park and all the rest was open countryside. I was looking forward to roving around a pleasant landscape dotted with enormous trees. 

And yet... 

And yet, it turned out that the solitary building was a historic manor house that owned most of the grid square and resolutely refused to share it with plebs like me. I was shunted away from the meadows and ancient trees by signs and fences, and ushered instead down an unattractive path squashed between the motorway and a metal fence. I hoped I could at least explore a small copse, but that turned out to belong to a golf course and was also off-limits. And the lake was ringed with forbidding notices from the fishing club that owned it. 

So far, the most enjoyable part of the outing had been standing on the motorway bridge and watching the hypnotic traffic hurtle beneath me. 

I cycled to today’s grid square with Test Match Special playing in my headphones. Listening to the ebb and flow of a cricket match arcing towards its conclusion is one of my greatest pleasures. I turned it off reluctantly when I arrived so that I could concentrate on what I was exploring. 

I began outside a working man’s club with a fluttering Union Jack, then rode among Victorian terraces, streets of post-war pebbledash, and 1980s semis. A brick clock tower had been built in the town cen- tre with the largesse of the local mill owner 150 years ago, and the mill’s chimneys still smoked away in the distance. There was the usual array of shops and eateries: convenience stores, kebabs, fried chicken, Chinese, Indian, garage doors (that was a first), and a bookmaker. It was a typical old-fashioned town of struggling shops and pubs sliding into decline, plus a shiny new Domino’s Pizza takeaway. 

An elderly man laboured across the street with his shopping trolley. A car slowed and waited an age for him to cross. ‘That will be me one day,’ I thought to myself, ‘sliding into decline.’ And, ‘Be grateful then for this moment,’ I reminded myself. This moment is my life 

It seemed to me, walking and cycling through this year on my map, that the seasons move in two ways: gradually, then suddenly. No change, no change, no change... and then one morning the new season is well on its way, overlapping the previous one in its eagerness to get going. I caught the first embryonic smells of autumn today, along with heavy dew and a noticeably later sunrise. 

I always enjoy daybreak, though doing the school run means I’m rarely free to head out and play at such an hour. But I managed it this morning and immediately felt I was winning the day. It took an hour to ride across my map to the grid square, and I had time to enjoy the sun rising, the rabbits in the fields, and the foxes slinking home after a big night out. 

I had waited for the rain showers to pass before heading out today, but I was forced to shelter from a fresh cloudburst beneath a bowed old horse chestnut tree. Sheets of water slid down the road and dampened my enthusiasm. I had, however, spotted the map symbol for a pub on today’s grid square, and I had little to do later. 

‘Go for a look around the square, and after that you can go to the pub,’ I bargained with myself. 

It had been a warm and humid day between the heavy showers. Aside from traditional British grumbles, which we all enjoy, the weath- er had not actually been too bad recently compared with, say, the year 1816, when ash clouds from a volcanic eruption in Indonesia shrouded the world in an extended winter. Mount Tambora’s blast was heard 1,600 miles away and plunged the 350 miles around the volcano into darkness for two days. It was the most powerful volcanic eruption in recorded human history. 

Over the next year, a cloud of ash spread through the atmosphere,  wreaking havoc with the weather for three years. The resulting potato famine in Ireland led to a terrible outbreak of typhus and mass emi- gration. North America’s arable economy crashed, causing the panic of 1819 that pushed the country from being a commercial colony towards becoming an independent economy. In China, three consecutive har- vests failed, prompting farmers to plant poppies in place of rice, with far-reaching and long-lasting global consequences. 

But while Tambora’s eruption caused widespread famine and dis- ruption, the strange weather also influenced an output of poetic and musical works infused with gloomy genius and named for the Greek god of fire: Byron’s Prometheus, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein or, The Modern Prometheus, and Schubert’s first commission, the cantata Prometheus, composed to a poem of the same name by Goethe. 

Volcanoes erupt now and then, and weather conditions also swing back and forth naturally, but sane people are in agreement that human behaviour is now causing climate breakdown far beyond natural var- iations. A clear and alarming demonstration of our extravagant and irresponsible way of life was the occurrence of ‘Earth Overshoot Day’. 

Earth Overshoot Day marks the date when humanity’s annual demand for ecological resources and services exceeds what the planet can regenerate in that year. It means we’ve used up our sustainable bio- capacity for the year. We deal with the deficit for the rest of the year by borrowing from the future and gobbling limited reserves of ecological resources more quickly than they can be replaced, if at all. 

Qatar and Luxembourg’s Overshoot Days for the year were back in February. Britain’s was in May. The only reason the world’s Overshoot Day as a whole is as late as August is because the poorest countries are still living within their means. They prop us up, while also bearing most of the burden and consequences of climate change. 

Sustainable living dictates that you must meet the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs. We are clearly failing to do that. How long would you tolerate the behaviour of a friend who guzzled voraciously, overspent in his own interests, then came to you each August asking you to bail him out for the rest of the year? 

I filled my bottles with ice before heading out this morning. It was the hottest day of the year, and Britain was parched by an unusually severe drought. As I got ready, I heard on the radio that 20cm of rain had fallen in an hour in Germany, causing floods that killed almost 200 people. 

The last of the morning dew felt cool on my toes as I cycled down a grassy path in my flip- flops. In the crisp, brown fields, the harvest seemed to be ripening before my very eyes. A silence hung over the day, which reminded me of Spain. A distant voice carried from across the fields. I was roasting. And it was still early. I envied a buzzard whose feathers ruffled in a breeze as it perched on a pylon by the railway. 

Includes a polite argument about land access and the right to roam.

I sat down on an overgrown, underused bench outside a derelict timber-framed pub to squeeze out my socks. The men in hi-vis jackets from the water board had warned of a deep flood on the road, but I thought, ‘Come on, lads, how deep can it be?’ and pedalled on. 

‘Pretty deep,’ was the answer. 

Now I had wet shoes and socks for squelching around today’s grid square. Well done, me! 

Unique on my map, but very welcome, was a long strip of grass beside the road. It would not have been of much interest except that it was marked on the map as ‘land available for access on foot’. Beyond the slender threads of footpaths and the declining municipal parks, this was a rare example of the 8 percent of England that is open-access land for anyone to roam freely. 

There was a humid, jungle feel to the day after heavy overnight rain. Plants shone, the ground steamed, a thrush sang a persistent tune that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in the tropics, and pink rosebay willowherb flowers gave off their strong, sweet fragrance. The plant is known as fireweed in North America, and its scent always reminds me of it growing on blackened land following forest fires when I cycled through Canada. The dormant seeds make the most of the increased sunlight and decreased competition after fires, to bloom quickly before young trees return and outgrow them. During the London Blitz, wil- lowherb was called bombweed as it flourished in the wreckage of buildings. 

I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt today and not even carrying a raincoat in my bag. The weather had rarely been so clement this year and I had been excited to get on my bike this morning. Yet although the weather was kind, the overgrown footpaths continued to be anything but. This was another week of hacking through brambles, squeezing past nettles and swatting mosquitoes in damp undergrowth. All this slashing and whacking and stinging felt like a jungle expedition, albeit a gentle one accompanied by 4G phone signal and the sound of motor- ways. I’m content that this is about as ferocious as the British country- side ever gets. 

To reach today’s square, I needed to make a short crossing on a small ferry, which I knew would be fun but also added the tiniest frac- tion of hassle to proceedings, which is all I ever need to be tempt- ed to procrastinate. That quibble aside, I always enjoy ferry crossings. The only thing that beats them are cable ferries across rivers, with a bonus point for those you have to hail by shouting, hoping that the ferryman hasn’t gone home for lunch or closed for the season. Though these journeys are brief, they have the excitement of crossing a border, a boundary, to somewhere new. 

Although today’s river was only a few hundred metres wide, I wasn’t brave enough to swim or canoe across it. The brown water swirled and boiled with eddies and undertows, and ships ploughed up and down. Even the ferry struggled, crossing the current in a wide, swerving arc. 

As the ferry slowed down to dock, I looked back across the river at the landscapes I had been linking this year. I enjoyed seeing those con- nections from this fresh perspective, noting how this place joined onto that place. I wheeled my bike down a causeway of riveted girders, over tidal mud and shopping trolleys, then pedalled away from the ferry. 

I removed my bike helmet and wiped my sweaty face. It was hot. I was at a memorial to a pilot shot down by German Messerschmitts in the skies overhead during the Second World War. Appropriately, the fields around were filled with poppies. Scattered at the base of the memorial was the rubbish from a KFC takeaway. The ten-piece Wicked Variety bucket contained 4,790 calories, the large fries had 1,440 and there were 750 more in the large Pepsi. I hoped it had been shared around, for that is a spectacular 6,980 calories, enough to fuel one eater through an impressive 69.8-mile run. Although given that they had been too lazy to put their rubbish in a bin, I doubted these calories were being used for long-distance running. 

A cockerel crowed from behind a nearby hedge, jubilant not to have been fried. I rarely heard cockerels around here, but the sound reminded me of travels in other countries, of pre-dawn wake ups in the Philippines and the potholed roads of rural Nicaragua. 

A bonus round. A little something extra. Have a look at what you could have won... 

I didn’t go out today to explore a grid square as usual, but to see the squares between the squares. I’d found myself with the rare but joyous occurrence of a weekend afternoon all to myself, so decided to go for a bike ride to calm my nerves before the big football match in the evening. I wasn’t playing and was merely preparing to take my seat in front of the TV with beer in hand and loud opinions galore. But the game was still all I could concentrate on. 

I headed out after lunch to see how many of the grid squares that I’d visited I could link together in an afternoon. I would ride through as many as possible before I ran out of time, and then zoom home for kick-off. It would be interesting to take stock of all I’d seen so far.