Turf Wars: living next door to malice

Our home is at the centre of a discomfiting territorial dispute. It started when we moved house last summer and - despite our best efforts - hasn't gone away. Harry the cat has, understandably, claimed our garden as his own. The cats that live next door see it as more of a community asset, particularly as there’s a conveniently cat-sized hole in the fence. Despite Harry’s insistence that the hole was only intended for hedgehogs, his fellow felines still pop round for the occasional chat. All we can do is shake our heads and shrug our shoulders in sympathy whenever Harry looks to us for support.

That’s pretty much the only disharmony in our street: intermittent tail twitching and a muttered miaow. Fortunately there's no personal disagreement whatsoever. Loving our human neighbours is remarkably easy. On a broader scale, Ringmer’s neighbours are equally likeable. Obviously I can’t say a bad thing about Lewes. (That’s due to contractual obligation rather than any personal preference.) Occasionally we hear a little noise when you throw a party – there’s some kind of thing you do every November, isn’t there? – but we’ve got used to it now. Barcombe Mills: it’s a delight to have you alongside us, although a bit of a shame about your lack of mills. Firle brings joy every time someone from the village says your multi-syllabled name. Obviously Isfield is notable for having the only working railway line within a significant radius. And talking of machinery, I really ought to mention Bentley Wildfowl and Motor Museum, which is surely the only place in the country that successfully combines ducks and racing cars without any harm to eider.

But all this is missing the biblical point of ‘love thy neighbour’. Jesus told the story of a man walking from Jerusalem to Jericho, which is rather like walking from the spiritual beacon of Ringmer to the far side of Hove, except that the road was considerably more dangerous. Not only was there no separate cycle path, there were also gangs of bandits roaming the countryside. In the bible story, the traveller has his life saved by someone who – in other circumstances – would have been seen as an enemy. Totes awk, as the Samaritan might have said when he texted his mates afterwards.

So, as well as loving my neighbour's cats and all the friendly people in our road who popped a Christmas card through the letterbox last year, it seems I have a biblical mandate to love people who live further away. Not just those in surrounding villages or even born-and-bred Brightonians. No, if I’ve understood the parable correctly, it seems I am being called to love those from far-away lands with lifestyles I don’t understand. Despite their strange customs and unfamiliar accents, the people of West Sussex are also my neighbours.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 137 February 2018.

A snail's space

I’m tiptoeing across our patio in the dark. Silhouetted in the moonlight, I cast a sinister shadow rather like a Scooby-Doo villain. An ominous rumble accompanies every step I take. It’s Sunday night and I’m moving our wheeled bin onto the driveway, ready for it to be emptied in the morning. However, my caution isn’t an attempt to keep quiet. It’s prompted by the large number of snails that inhabit our garden. You see, I have a particular fondness for snails, although I’m not quite sure why. Perhaps it’s the childhood trauma of having stood on one. Perhaps it’s the graphic description of snail farming that our French teacher gave us at secondary school. Either way, I don my outdoor slippers and tread very carefully whenever I’m in the garden at night. If I didn’t, there’d be a lot of crunching.

Actually, I’m not sure if tiptoeing is a smart move. Although it reduces the size of my footprint, it increases the pressure if there is any unfortunate snail-related incident. Maybe I ought to wear bigger shoes to disperse the impact. I wonder what size of shoe I’d need to ensure the safety of the average snail? A quick internet search reveals that dancing en pointe in ballet shoes can double the pressures acting on a foot. Therefore, strapping a pillow to each foot might be enough – but my A-level physics fails me at this stage. I’m tired and it’s time for bed.

Just a few minutes after my head hits the pillow I’m drifting off into a world where snails are telepathic. They’re trying to teach me something about Newton’s Second Law of Motion. Julia Bradbury is there, too. Perhaps she’s making a TV show about my pillow-shoe invention. She smiles at me and… hang on, Julia, I’m a married man. My wife…

My wife’s phone wakes me with a beep. She picks it up from the dressing table to see who’s sent her a message. “Sorry”, she whispers. I’m relieved it’s only the dream snails that are telepathic. The message is a casual inquiry from her daughter, whose five-month-old son is yet to adopt conventional sleeping. Anything that involves our nocturnal grandson is forgiven, of course. He’s a delightful chap to whom I’ve already promised an action-packed trip to the zoo when he’s a little older. After all, if a grandparent's role is to indulge their children's children, then a step-grandparent's role is surely even more anarchic. I’ll need to behave like some kind of louche character that might be portrayed on film by Hugh Grant or Bill Nighy, arriving at every birthday party on a Harley Davidson and wearing a smoking jacket. But there's one thing I haven't decided yet. Should I accessorise with pointy-toed slippers or extra-wide soft-soled shoes?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 110 November 2015

Seasonal sport

The phone rings. It's mum. There's a low level of exasperation in her voice, which makes me wonder whether she's been visiting the garden centre that can't make a decent cappuccino. But this isn’t the problem. "I've been putting Vaseline on the pole", she announces. "It's not slippery enough." I'm pretty certain mum doesn't have a part-time job cleaning the fire station. I'm reasonably confident she's not adopted a new way of keeping fit. I don't remember seeing any so-called Gentleman's Club within walking distance of the family home. The awkward pause prompts my mother to explain. "Squirrels have been climbing up the bird feeder", she tells me. "I can't have them stealing all the bird food."

As a result, mum's garden is designed to be a rodent assault course. Bird feeders are mounted on greased poles or suspended from springy wires, with food hidden in double-layer cages under a metal dome. I'm not convinced by all this. I reckon there's a possibility that mum is inadvertently training the next generation of squirrels to be ninja-smart. It's certainly a sporting challenge for all concerned. I'll be studying their progress with interest.

Mind you, we've already had our share of genuine local sporting challenges this year. Although Rooks supporters are breathing a sigh of relief at the end of an occasionally stomach-churning football season, it's been a disappointing time for the faithful at Ringmer FC's Caburn ground. A troubled season ended with a disastrous 8-0 defeat that left the first team heading for a drop into Division 2 of the Sussex County Football League. Well, that's where they would be if the Sussex County Football League still existed. Instead, from the end of May, it's been transformed into the Southern Combination Football League. I'd be prepared to argue that it's not relegation if you're starting the next season in a brand-new league. Pioneers, not victims.

And some of our local footballers are sill playing. In fact, many of the youngest are preparing for a major tournament. It happens during the weekend of Sat 13 and Sun 14, it's hosted by the Ringmer Rovers Junior Football Club and it takes place on the well-appointed sports field of Ringmer Community College. Hundreds of visitors are expected for what's now the eighth annual Summer Football Festival. I'm told there will be tea, coffee, cake, ice creams and a barbecue... so everyone wins, I reckon. Alternatively, if you like outdoor sport but football's not really your game, Ringmer Cricket Club has an assortment of teams catering for various ages and abilities. Better still, the club’s picturesque home on the village green is enhanced by a pavilion that contains a bar. On a sunny afternoon, there's every chance I can be persuaded to enjoy a pint on their balcony. In pole position, you might say.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 105 June 2015.

Disharmony in Ringmer

Huuuuur. Huuuuur. An unfamiliar rattling sound stirs me from my weekend lie-in. I'm just about to check Mrs B's airways before I realise the noise is coming from outside, not from my sleeping wife. One of our neighbours is mowing his lawn. Winter is officially over... as is any hope of an extra half-hour in bed. Time to put the kettle on.

Rural life has many benefits - but don't make the mistake of thinking it's all twittering skylarks, fragrant wild flowers and slow-moving Morris Minors around here. In fact, I reckon Lionel Richie would never have written the lyric 'Easy like Sunday Morning' if he'd been living in Ringmer. Certainly not if he'd relied on public transport. Instead of a gentle ballad we'd probably have something rather more frantic, inspired by Lionel nervously checking his watch and wondering whether he'd end up jogging down the new cycle path because he'd missed the hourly bus. Neither would Lionel have been particularly relaxed if he was within earshot of the village church, where one of the bells has cracked. Apparently this isn't covered by the manufacturer's warranty, despite being barely 130 years old. The offending bell currently sounds like an ancient tin bath being struck with an equally elderly saucepan, which is why it's staying quiet at the moment. The other seven bells are still being rung but the eighth is conspicuous by its absence. No, there's nothing especially easy about Sunday mornings in this part of the world.

But all this pales into insignificance when Mrs B wakes. She has a Garden Centre look in her eyes. Unfortunately it's not a 'nice mug of coffee and a bowl of soup' trip that she has in mind. In the time it took me to pop downstairs and make a cup of tea, she’s prepared a shopping list. It looks like a medieval incantation to rid one's husband of distemper, although she assures me it's merely a few Latin plant names and some organic fertiliser. My wife is the one with green fingers; my gardening performance is more akin to a Vulcan nerve pinch, inadvertently rendering plants into unconsciousness with the effortless technique of Mr Spock. It’s usually safest if I stick to digging and weeding. And with spring in the air, Mrs B’s seasonal interest in gardening will soon broaden to include other activities I’m just as poor at. There’ll be unfathomable colour charts for interior decoration. There may even be talk of choosing new cushions.

All this leaves me a long way outside my comfort zone, so there’s only one thing left to do. One last desperate attempt to escape all these challenges. Something that’ll outclass my neighbour’s garden-tidying efforts, too. Most importantly, it’s traditional. It’s a ritual that’s been passed from generation to generation since the dawn of history. It’s a Sunday morning routine that unites communities. It’s time I went to the tip.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 103 April 2015.

A sluggish reaction

When it comes to unwanted visitors, my mother is one of the 22 percent. She's part of a sizeable group of people with a zero-tolerance approach to trespass. I don't agree with her perspective, even though I know she intends no harm. She simply wants to protect what she has from those that seek to destroy it. And if they venture too close to her... well, she'll throw them over the fence.

Yes, mum's a snail chucker. According to a recent Royal Horticultural Society survey, 22% of people questioned had thrown snails out of their gardens. In mum's case, they're not piling up in the neighbour's pond or landing on their conservatory roof but are arriving on some wasteland at the edge of the South Downs. This is a compromise I'm prepared to accept. Murderous slug pellets are not for her, nor the extraordinarily cruel salt cellar. As a result, I reckon her lettuce can still be described as ethically sound. Assuming, of course, you can find any lettuce that hasn’t been nibbled off at the root.

Here in Ringmer, I'm resigned to the presence of snails. In fact, I'm rather fond of them. Apparently they're keen on our shady flower beds. Because of this, delicate plants are kept in pots. Robust, foul-tasting shrubs are planted in our garden. Going outside on a damp evening requires either a torch or walking on tiptoes. When it's dark, I totter down the path like an untutored ballerina.

Unlike me, mum's not entirely happy with her snail situation. She's convinced that some of her expelled visitors are returning, albeit a little more tatty around the edges than when they left. I think she's probably right. A few years ago, an amateur researcher discovered that snails have a strong homing instinct. If moved thirty feet from their home, they could easily find their way back. Some could manage 100 yards without too much of a problem. Well, unless they were in a hurry.

I can see two solutions for mum. One involves treating those garden snails as the French might, served in garlic butter and accompanied by some of the salad they favour. Unpalatable in every sense, as far as I’m concerned. The other solution would require a catapult, which doesn’t seem a great deal better. Actually, I suppose there's a third option. Perhaps I should open a snail sanctuary.

First published on Viva Lewes 24th April 2014: www.vivalewes.com

 

At home with a gnome

I cross the border into West Sussex to see my mother. When I arrive she calls me into her bird hide - sorry, conservatory - to show me something. "Look over there, by the pond."

The pond, by the way, is the result of me and my brother visiting a fair when we were youngsters. Both of us won goldfish in plastic bags, which led to dad constructing a pond. I can only assume there was a glut of goldfish that year because I've subsequently never demonstrated the same level of success at any fairground stall. Anyway, around 20 relatives of those fish now live in the garden with their own fountain and the occasional frog. Well, not so much 'relatives' as 'replacements'. The original prize fish didn't last long. Perhaps they missed the travelling life.

But today it's neither aquatic nor avian visitors I'm looking at. It's a small concrete creature with pointed ears and a mischievous grin. This new arrival is wearing some kind of smock and appears to have no trousers. Perhaps those wrinkles on its legs are supposed to be tights. I don't want to look too closely. Mother has bought a gnome.

"It's my garden pixie", says mum. No, it's not. It's a gnome. My heart sinks. You hear about this kind of thing happening to other people but you never think it'll strike your own family. I suppose I should have seen the signs. Once, mum just went to garden centres to buy plants. But that wasn't enough. Soon it was lawn food, fish food, bird food... and lunch. Before long she was taking a shortcut straight to the café. It was only a matter of time before the gnomes got her.

That same afternoon she switches on the television to catch up with news from Chelsea Flower Show. There, amongst the medal-winning gardens, are hand-decorated gnomes. Shocking, I know. It's unexpected because the Royal Horticultural Society had previously banned gnomes from its displays. Apparently they've been allowed in for the 100th anniversary of the event and are being auctioned for charity. Naturally, the RHS doesn't use a specific word like 'gnome'. The garden ornaments they prohibit are described officially as "brightly coloured mythical creatures". Hang on. That means mum's stone-coloured chap really isn't a gnome after all. Perhaps there's still hope for her. Unless she decides to paint his legs, of course.

First published on vivalewes.com 30th May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/

Garden centred

I head over the border into West Sussex to see mum, who treats me to lunch at a garden centre. I’m served a perfectly acceptable snack that comprises an Italian-style sandwich with Italian-style ingredients on Italian-style bread, finished off with an Italian-style coffee. To continue the continental theme there's even an advertisement for 'Italian grown plants' on the table. Apparently these plants spend their childhood in Tuscany, which means they're well suited to the south of England. I gaze through the double-glazed window at the nose-to-tail traffic outside. It starts to rain. The concept of homesick shrubs begins to trouble me, so I distract myself by looking inside the garden centre instead.

When I was younger, places were always what they claimed to be. Garden centres sold grass. Supermarkets sold food. Airports were where you caught a plane. Not any more. Everywhere is a 'destination'. Take this freshly-expanded garden centre, for example. There's a pizza oven in the restaurant. There's a conference room to hire; ideal for the kind of business meeting that needs to be held in a plant-themed retail environment. There's free Wi-Fi. Gifts. Kitchenware. Stationery. Shortbread biscuits in enamel tins. A chaise longue, for heaven’s sake.

Meanwhile, supermarkets now sell televisions, airports play host to celebrity restaurants and almost every petrol station has a coffee machine. Mind you, occasionally the coffee tastes as though it’s kept in the same storage tanks as the fuel.

Arriving back home, I find our resident teenager suffering from ennui. "Ringmer is boring", he tells me, before adding "there's nothing to do". Rather than draw attention to the unnecessary duplication in his weary claim, I'm prepared to admit he has a point. It's not that Ringmer really is boring. Definitely not. But our little village can sometimes appear a bit on the quiet side.

I reckon I have the perfect solution. All we need to do is put a roof on the entire place and call it a multimedia experience. Our church is smarter than the average airport chapel, our garden centre actually grows plants and our pubs are livelier than any tacky themed bar. Come to Ringmer retail park: where everything makes sense.

First published on vivalewes.com 21st March 2013: http://vivalewes.com/