Beards

I'd better be careful about what I say in this post. I might give offence (potentially dangerous in these hyper-sensitive times). It's about beards, those hairy growths on men's faces. And when I say 'beards' I'm including moustaches and prominent sideburns - any facial hair at all.   

More than once in recent months it has occurred to me that there are many more men around sporting beards of one kind or another than there used to be. It was once the case that you could identify a person by referring to him as 'that bearded bloke over there' and because he'd be the only one, there would be no mistake. Now, when so many men are bearded, that won't do. There are thankfully still a lot of clean-shaven men around - I don't think they are yet in a minority - but it is my perception that being clean-shaven is nowadays most likely the mark of a middle-aged man: young men have taken to beards in a big way, and surely more old men seem to go bearded than hitherto.

Assuming I'm right, why is this? 

I'm pretty certain that many (if not most) women dislike beards, whether it's untidy stubble, a carefully-trimmed creation, or a luxuriant growth in the style of Charles Darwin or the guru of your choice. The simple reason? Beards tickle if soft, and scratch if wiry. You really do not want to dance cheek to cheek with a bearded man, nor kiss him. I suspect that a high percentage of men who are unsuccessful with women are bearded, and are automatically less desirable for this simple reason. If I were ever interested in dating, a bearded man would be a non-negotiable no-no, as much as if he smoked or vaped. 

I can't be unique in my aversion to facial hair. It's a turnoff. So why do men cultivate beards? Are they quite unaware that it's not generally attractive to women? Well, I think they do know. Perhaps, then, they grow beards not primarily to win female company, but to impress other men. 

Let's see. A bearded man would presumably assert the following.

(a) Beards, whatever else you might say, are natural. They indicate the natural man, the straightforward man, the reliable man.

(b) Beards are a sign of maturity. They indicate the adult man, the serious man, the wise man (as in ancient Greek philosophers and thinkers, all with beards).  

(c) Beards are a sign of virility. Facial hair growth indicates strength, capability and potency. 

(d) Beards are a badge of authority. A bearded man is a dominant figure. He is unafraid, undaunted by problems, and likely to be noticed and obeyed. At any rate, someone not to be messed with.

(e) Being clean-shaven is to artificially maintain a childish appearance - bad for credibility, and fatal to achieving supremacy within a group. 

(f) In any case, real men should not look like girls.

I expect that I am wide of the mark on some of these things. But otherwise it's hard to see what the rationale is for having a beard. (I don't want to say that the main reason so many men wear beards is because they are too lazy to shave, or want to conform to the current fashion, or are vain)

Rebels, revolutionaries, mercenaries and mountain men: all usually bearded. Popeye shaved, but Bluto had a beard. Rapacious men generally have had beards. Vikings did. I think it's rather telling that misogynistic men like Andrew Tate are also bearded. As were may of the Proud Boys who backed President Trump when he incited his followers to storm the Capitol in Washington in January 2021. 

Against this, most of the top leaders in the world are clean-shaven. Perhaps they think a shaven face is a political asset, conveying the illusion of honesty and openness, whatever the actual facts. Certainly, a beard can hide a lot of things, including giveaway facial expressions, and I for one would trust a bearded man somewhat less than a clean-shaven man. But there's also another thing: beards add age, especially when flecked with grey. Therefore a world leader, anxious to seem young and full of vigour, needs to use that razor.

No bearded man will get my vote. Nor any of my social time. I'll be polite to him, of course. But he has to realise that his facial fungus, whether grown to bolster his standing with other men, or just an affectation, is anything but cool.

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Death in Paradise: one for those who are not afraid of something different

Two nights ago I watched - on my laptop, in the caravan - the last episode of Series 14 of Death in Paradise. It's the one in which the 'new' detective played by Don Gilet (a football-loving Londoner who for most of Series 14 has wanted to get home again) finally discovers an over-riding personal reason to stay. It's also the one in which the close-to-retirement Commissioner (played from the very beginning by Don Warrington) decides not to accept the offer of his job back after it was snatched away in a cost-cutting exercise. In both cases, the course taken is difficult, but potentially cathartic. And I for one want to see what happens in Series 15.

This is a show that (like Vera) I first watched during the coronavirus lockdowns five years ago. I was quickly hooked by the premise: the fish-out-of-water British detective suddenly plunged into a Caribbean murder investigation, and proving himself to the local force (and the formidable Commissioner). Always a British detective with an unusual personality. And the crimes also unusual, generally oddball, always baffling, and yet happening in an idyllic location - not what one expects. It has worked. And I have always found Death in Paradise well worth watching, a series to look forward to. 

Yes, the main plots seem to proceed according to a formula. You know almost to the minute when the British detective will have his moment of brilliant insight, and announce that he has the answer. I don't mind that. The solution is always intriguing, and often completely unguessable. But there are also ongoing subplots connected to the other characters, that go forward from episode to episode, and indeed series to series. These deal with the personal circumstances and development of the local officers, and to my mind supply as much interest as solving the crime. Then there is the exotic backdrop, the lush island St Marie (in real life, Guadaloupe). And in every episode, insofar as they serve the plot, glimpses of ordinary life and ordinary people on the island. 

How authentic is all this? It's hard to tell. I have never been to a Caribbean island. I'm sure the location shots are genuine enough and need little embellishment. But I can't say how real the overall picture is. So long as I treat it all as entertainment, the question of absolute authenticity may not matter too much. But I do have a yardstick for these things. The offshoot show, Beyond Paradise, has Looe in Cornwall as its Honoré, and I know Looe and its surrounding area pretty well. So I can judge somewhat.

One thing that had however become questionable about Death in Paradise was the notion of a foreign police detective officer being parachuted in. Was there no closer talent, perhaps in Jamaica? It looked uncomfortably 'colonial'. The new detective was always white, always male. Did Britain have no other kind of officer to fly out? And why always so quirky? 

Of course, the incongruous and eccentric British officer went with the premise; and there were obvious story-lines to be exploited. The officer would find himself missing his old life, but eventually liking the new, and possibly becoming romantically attached to a local (Caribbean) girl. All good stuff. But it was pleasing to see that, from the beginning, the local Caribbean personnel were not treated merely as colourful extras. Their own histories, problems, emotions and romances were revealed. Gradually, series by series, the local staff and certain other local characters became as important to the life of the show as the British detective. 

So I was pleased to see a logical development in Series 14: the detective, now played by Don Gilet, was black. Aha! For the first time the entire police department at Honoré was ethnically the same, for it turned out that the character Don Gilet was playing originated from St Marie (his murdered Mum lived there). We also found out as a cliff-hanger that he had a brother on another island, whom he will no doubt meet in Series 15. So he was in the strange position of a person hitherto alone in the world, now discovering a close relative he had never before heard of. How will that pan out? 

Standing back a bit, though, it struck me that I couldn't think of another keenly-watched primetime TV drama that featured an entirely 'Caribbean' cast. This is one of Series 14's achievements. No white face in sight, apart from the tourists. This is amazing, something to celebrate. And not just if you happen to be black. The show will resonate with any person who feels different, is in a minority of any kind, or whose life is even slightly at odds with what it means to be conventionally British. Which includes me: my life is different, and not at all conventional. And I assert my intention to remain that way. 

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I wonder if I could have your personal point of view?

Have you ever been stopped in the street by someone with a microphone, and asked to give your point of view on something topical? 

It's happened to me only once. It was in August 2016. I was at Bridgnorth, in the West Midlands. A man from the local radio station, with a microphone and some kind of professional-looking recording apparatus slung over his shoulder, was strolling along the High Street, clearly looking for people to interview. I thought about avoiding him, and walking the other way: I wasn't eager for stardom. On the other hand it was an intriguing situation. Suppose he accosted me and gave me the opportunity to speak? Would I be equal to it? Would I be able to assume a confident air, and discourse eloquently on some important issue of the day? It would certainly be a novel experience. In fact a test of coolness and quick thinking. But I wasn't sure. 

Fate intervened before I could escape. No doubt it was inevitable. Perhaps I looked exactly the right kind of educated person who could string a few words together. And if I only spouted incoherent tosh, he'd still be able to edit out anything that made no sense. It would be all right. At any rate, I was accosted. I prepared to be the ideal interviewee, a lively, good-value Person In The Street, well worth his time.  

But he totally threw me. He wanted to know what I thought about the Olympic Games then going on at Rio in Brazil.  

Poor man: of all the persons he could have stopped and interviewed, it had to be someone who took no interest whatever in sport. No, I hadn't watched any of the Games. No, I didn't know the name of any competitors, nor how they had fared. No, I couldn't care less who had won, nor what the tally of medals was. Really, I had no opinion at all about the Games. 

He saw he had made a mistake about me, but he persevered. Did I think the Games were an inspiration to young people? Yes, I supposed I did; but I couldn't go on to say why or how. Did I think it would be a matter for great national pride? I supposed so, if the British Team did well. What might it mean for the West Midlands, and Bridgnorth in particular? I couldn't say - I was here on holiday. I had no local or regional standpoint.

He couldn't get blood out of a stone, so we left it there. I was quite certain that my few words would be wiped. I didn't mind that. But as I walked away, I found I did mind his thinking that I was an idiot, oblivious to world events and current affairs - emphatically not true - or that I was snobbish or superior about the Games and what they meant. I almost blushed with shame for my indifference, for I was certain he'd have judged me to my detriment.

That feeling soon passed, obliterated by the excitement of riding down Bridgnorth's cliff lift, and then photographing from an overbridge the spectacular steamy happenings at the Severn Valley Railway's Bridgnorth station. 

But later on, I pondered what had happened. I felt a dim sense of injustice. Why should anyone pay the Olympic Games - or any other sporting event - any special attention? Did we - or specifically myself - owe the athletes anything? No. I hoped they did well for themselves, and fulfilled personal ambitions, but that was all. Was I being unpatriotic? No; not when I felt that the Games - and international sport generally, football especially - was dishonestly conducted, far too political, and a waste of national money and resources. 

My one and only radio interview, a failure, left no lasting legacy except to make me very wary of ever doing the same thing again. It's much too easy to seem foolish or ignorant when speaking on the fly. And nowadays there is the added risk that someone will find one's stumbling words objectionable, with dire trouble ensuing. No thanks.

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Custard pies and days out in Calais without a passport

Only one post in February! I have to go back to April 2009 to find a month in which I wrote so little. The constant happenings in America have distracted me. 

King Donald has been chipping away at normality every day. Clearly a man in a hurry to make big changes while he can. And all suavity and pretence have now been discarded. I was appalled to see President Zelensky spoken to so cruelly, and then hustled out of the White House, probably never to return. This very public humiliation of a visiting head of state may well show how all other leaders will be dealt with in future. Sir Keir Starmer - whom I think is proving more capable at foreign diplomacy that I'd have believed a year ago - had better expect to hear some blunt words when - or if - he next meets King Donald. Actually, such a meeting may be left to Mr Vance, who shows a clear talent for calculated viciousness and diversion from the expected agenda.

Should the state visit (King Donald meeting our King Charles) go ahead? Actually, yes: it will be interesting to see how a pretend King copes with a real one. He is bound to trip up on protocol. Besides, in the name of honesty and free expression, I'd like to see several well-timed Hollywood-style custard pies hitting King Donald in the face. It would make 'great television', and I fully expect King Donald to laugh heartily at the joke. The throwers should, of course, get either diplomatic immunity or a Royal Pardon. 

The world is realigning. I expect to hear soon that there is to be a European Alliance to succeed NATO, composed of the UK, the EU, and all other like-minded states in what is geographically Europe. It won't include America or Russia, simply because they are not 'in Europe'. To facilitate this new Alliance, and fund its own destiny, Europe will have to integrate. I think that, for Britain, this will undo much of what Brexit achieved (if it did in fact achieve anything). Back in 2016, I voted enthusiastically for Brexit, on the sole point of having our own sovereignty and the ability to go our own way. But things have now changed, and I would feel happier and safer living in something like a United States of Europe. Naturally I want Britain to be a key player in that entity. It's a second-best for 'independent sovereignty' but a chance to re-connect with the continent and get necessary things done. 

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Four ways to fail

I'm following the first weeks of President Trump's reign as the new King of America with keen interest. It's so dismaying. And I'm puzzled how, given that the US Constitution is supposed to have 'checks and balances', he can do what he does. It looks so very much like the exercise of arbitrary and unrestrained power. You know, how a real dictator would behave (and there are plenty of those around the world, prominent or petty, who can serve as role models). 

I hear that half of America - the sensible, responsible half - is groaning at President Trump's media posts and his public posturing, if not actually beside themselves with concern that he will ruin the country (and the whole world) with his policies. I always had a personal prejudice against anybody who wears baseball caps: such a bad sign. How right that instinct was. President Trump is blatantly and crudely pandering to his home supporters: badly-educated misogynistic rednecks, the gun-obsessed, the bible bigots, and all those millions who wallow in selfish self-interest in El Dollarado. It doesn't seem to matter that a misbehaving and fast-imploding America, once the Bastion of Democracy, is becoming a land at odds with itself. What a delightful thing this must be for rival superpowers to see. 

It was a mistake to rename the Gulf of Mexico the Gulf of America. Will the Atlantic be renamed the 'American Ocean'. No, of course not. The Pacific Ocean will get that name.

How can all this win global appreciation and respect? How can America become 'Great Again' by sneering at its own allies, and making existential threats against various territories? It will only make America a country to be wary of, and soon a country to avoid.     

Politics is a serious business, and not for amateurs, whatever their experience as deal-makers in real estate. It needs an unusual kind of person, not like you or me. A person who combines principle, vision, deep knowledge, wisdom, foresight, subtlety, stamina and personal appeal. I exclude ambition, and a hunger for power and prestige, from my list of essential qualities, although sadly these baser propellants usually go with the finer attributes.  

Where will it end? President Trump faces four likely outcomes. 

First, he will succumb to old age. He'll soon be eighty. Then it will be 'Sleepy Donald'. There will be calls for him to retire to Mar-O-Lago. He may indeed run out of steam, make slips, and lose his grip. Then the sharks - the younger aspirants in the Republican Party - will have a feeding-frenzy. In the first instance, the replacement has to be the current Vice-President, Mr J D Vance. But Mr Vance has stiff competition, who will try to shoulder him aside. Whoever eventually grabs the reins of power in the 2028 elections, he will ensure that Former President Trump's legacy is trashed in favour of his own.

Second, the cuckoo in the nest - Elon Musk - will nudge him out. Mr Musk is a self-obsessed amoral man of no conscience and crazy ambition. But he is much younger, and even richer, and if anyone has to choose between the two of them, Mr Musk is superficially the more attractive choice. He's unelected? Tush. A mere detail. 

Third, President Trump will over-reach himself and get ensnared in a constitutional net, an outcome especially likely if the US Supreme Court, despite being composed of mostly his own appointees, turns against him. Senior judges have a habit of regarding themselves as jealous and independent guardians of legal principle, and even Republican-minded judges have red lines. President Trump could well find himself impeached and pulled down. Nobody has forgotten Richard Nixon.

Fourth, President Trump may fall victim to another - and this time successful - assassination attempt. America has a disturbing history of political assassinations. Personally, I hope it doesn't happen, as making him St Donald the Martyr would be no solution. 

How soon? President Trump looks vigorous enough for now, but it won't last. As time goes by the chances of his making some calamatous error of judgement will increase. If he can bring himself to do it, it would make sense to bow out while riding high. But this is a wayward man who does the unexpected, and he may hang on well beyond his sell-by date, convinced that he can still pull off astonishing deals. That won't be good to watch. Perhaps someone can persuade him that heading up (say) PGA Tour would be a more suitable career.

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Hoods and street photography

I don't like hoods. I don't like the feeling of my face being hemmed in. I especially don't like having only a front-facing view (tunnel-vision so to speak) and not being able to see what is going on - movement at least - to the left and right of me. 

When out and about, good peripheral vision is surely a vital thing to possess, so that one cannot be caught unawares, either by people, traffic or street furniture. Even without a hood, I am constantly looking about and checking where I'm going, and who is on the edge of my eyesight. I can't afford to trip up and fall. Nor do I want to collide with someone and hurt them.

The chances of a mishap seem to have greatly increased in recent years. So many people think they own the pavement or pedestrian area (the concept of 'a pedestrian' must elude them; perhaps it's not taught in schools any more). I'm thinking of kids (or childish adults) on a scooter or bike, or an idiot staring at their phone screen while they walk forwards (effectively deaf as well as blind, because they have their earbuds or headphones in place), or a selfish jogger. But young women with babies in buggies are not always blameless. A too-close encounter with any of these could be upsetting. And, of course, I would be blamed and badmouthed - even if they walked into me, and I was shaken up or injured. 

I particularly want to avoid anyone intent on street robbery or some other harm; beggars as well. 

So I need to have 180-degree vision. And that rules out a deep hood. 

There's also something else. I want people to see my face. I don't want to hide. I think I am far likelier to be treated as a human being if I'm not buried in the shadow of a hood. 

So I'm really happy with hats as an alternative. They give presence, and add height. I walk taller and more confidently in a hat, especially my very latest, but I have others. A good chin-strap stops the hat blowing off in the wind. Combined with a turned-up coat collar, a hat confers the same feeling of warmth and protection from the elements as a hood provides. Furthermore, a hat provides the same psychological benefit as a hood - by which I mean the comforting sensation of having a roof over one's head. 

But a hat doesn't shut the world out. I've long suspected that many people you see around in hoods are rather wobbly about contact with strangers. They might even be afraid of meeting anybody but their similarly-hooded friends. I think that's so sad. 

Then of course there are furtive hood-wearers of the criminal kind who need to keep their faces hidden. They are the ones who give hoods a really bad name. 

Mind you, in a cold arctic gale, none of the above applies. The weather determines what to wear: hoods are going to be necessary if out in driving snow. 

Getting back to what I said above, about staying alert to whatever is happening around one and not relying on only a narrow forward view, I consider this should apply in particular to street photography. People (not necessarily the subject) do sometimes get seriously annoyed when a person with a camera is snatching pictures. They may object sufficiently to harass the photographer, and one needs to see that coming. Then again, most modern cameras likely to be used for quick in-and-out street photography will cost a lot, and are worth stealing. One needs to spot potential muggers before they close in. This is not so much about wearing hoods as squinting into a viewfinder, with the other eye idle or closed. That effectively renders the photographer blind while taking the shot. Most unwise. Especially unwise for a woman. The better alternative is to use the camera's rear monitor at waist level, or even a film TLR (these are starting to reappear in shops). 

It helps if one can look 'official'. A student getting material for a project probably has a licence to grab shots that others wouldn't get away with. So might an obvious professional of some kind. I personally wouldn't indulge in anything fraudulent, but - this is tongue-in-cheek - wearing a hat with a card stuck in the band above the brim with 'PRESS' typed on it, might be a plan!

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I'm on Wikipedia!

Any search on Google or elsewhere using my name will throw up numerous hits - my Blog and my Flickr photos of course, but also some other references and credits. I suppose that will be true for anyone who has been active on the Internet for a while - and I started the Blog, and joined Flickr, way back in February 2009, sixteen years ago. So it's scarcely any surprise that a search for me will produce so much, even though I'm certainly not famous, and have never been in the news. 

But one thing eluded me, something I rather wanted. That's a mention in Wikipedia, the online encyclopaedia. I'd never expect a full article devoted to - say - my miraculous birth and extraordinary upbringing, my exciting career, and my adventurous retirement. No; something much more modest would do, so long as I was cited as a serious source on some serious topic.

Now I have been! In fact since 2021. 

Somebody has listed me as an impeccable source of information on the Wester Pipe Railway in Caithness.

Look at this:

OK, it's only a technical article on an oil pipeline assembling facility, but it references one of my Blog posts. A post called The Long Pipe, published on 4 July 2019. You can if interested look it up.

I might add that I went back in September 2022 for another look at this pipeline railway, which runs into the sea south of Keiss. It wasn't active at that time, and seemed to be mostly mothballed, although some kind of work was going on to renew the supports for the double-track underneath the road bridge on the A99. A few pictures will reveal the state of play in autumn 2022.

The plaque on the road bridge had been refreshed.

And (taken from official articles and pamphlets) these pictures show what happens at the sea end of the railway, when the line is active. 

No doubt that huge towhead, when not drawing a length of pipeline into the sea here, is put to work elsewhere in the world.

Well, there you are. Fame at last. (Though as we all know, fame costs...) I'm up in the area in late May. I will definitely return to see what's happening then. Did you know that I possess a yellow hard hat? I'll take it on holiday, just in case the guys invite me to look at the fabrication yards at either end. Now that would be a memorable experience!

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President Trump's menacing signature

Glancing at the BBC News app, I started reading an article about President Trump's first Executive Orders, and there was a picture of him signing one of these Orders.

He was using a big marker pen, so the signature would naturally be big also. Even so, that's a very striking signature. Was it his normal signature? I looked him up on Wikipedia, which often shows the typical signature of well-known people:

It is indeed his normal signature. I wonder what it says about him? For me, these words come to mind at once: wilful, determined, aggressive, impatient, intimidating, uncompromising, ruthless, vindictive, relentless. It's the signature of a man who wants to appear overwhelmingly vigorous and strong - and a formidable and dangerous person to mess with. 

I am not applying any tests drawn from 'graphology', a thing once taken seriously but now rightly discredited as a way to assess 'character' or 'true personality'. Rather, I'm considering the actual physical hand-movements President Trump would have to make in order to write like this. It would be a series of highly-controlled stabbing thrusts, some short, some long; and no trailing off into artistic twiddles or other whimsical meanderings. Certainly, it's the signature of a man who can hold a pen firmly, and is not the vague scrawl of a weak and feeble hand. To compare, I looked up Ex-President Biden's typical signature on Wikipedia, and I think it does reveal him to be a tired old man:

Perhaps the thing President Trump most wants to convey, with the way he signs things, is that he's still a force, and not a man who is being pulled down by old age, as Ex-President Biden clearly was. 

I am sure he must be afraid of encroaching senility, diminishment as a man, and fearful of what will happen when he begins to lose his grasp of events, and with it his grip on power. 

He'll be seventy-nine in June. Once eighty, damaging comparisons with 'Sleepy Joe Biden' are bound to be made, and younger contenders will sense weakness, and start to position themselves. So he hasn't really got all that long to make his mark: maybe only a year and a half to achieve a lasting legacy. Meanwhile, he needs to employ every trick he can to convince his followers that he is robustly in charge, and remains a man to reckon with. So even signatures matter.

I wonder if he consciously and deliberately developed this very sharp, spiky signature for business situations, and then after that, adopted it for his political career, where a particularly 'strong' signature would be an impressive asset.  

Does he employ it in all circumstances? Imagine receiving a Christmas or birthday card from him, signed in this way. Or a love-letter! I know what I would think.

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Brownsea Island - natural beauty and red squirrels

The main reason I'd wanted to visit Brownsea Island was because it was a stronghold of the red squirrel - our native squirrel - in southern England. 

I'd never actually seen a red squirrel in the flesh. Grey squirrels yes - thousands of them; a ubiquitous and vigorous import that had ousted the poor red squirrel from most habitats. I didn't regard grey squirrels as villains, just naturally better at finding food and shelter and breeding successfully, and because of these strengths they had got the upper hand. It's just Nature's way. Grey squirrels were everywhere. Why, they gambolled daily in the trees at the bottom of my garden, ran along my fences, and searched for caches of nuts on my lawns. They even came indoors, as this 2020 poster for a TV comedy show testifies (click on it to enlarge):

But the pretty red squirrels hadn't entirely thrown in the towel. They still ducked and dived here and there. There were some living on the Isle of Wight, although I'd never seen any when over there. There were some in Northumberland, and when driving up the River Breamish valley in 2013, I saw warning signs telling me to watch out for red squirrels. But none showed. 

Plenty were said to lurk in the pine forests of the Scottish Highlands. And indeed, when I visited Alladale in 2022 - a wild estate west of Bonar Bridge - there had been very similar road signs telling me to watch out for red squirrels: 

This looked promising. It was definitely the right kind of location. The right kind of trees. I expected to see every branch sagging with the weight of little red bodies, and the road practically carpeted with the creatures. It was not so. Nary one did I see. Quite possibly they were there all right, watching me in their hundreds (or even thousands) from high tree-tops, cunningly hidden and sniggering with glee, ready to pelt me with larch twigs and pine husks if I came too close. But I departed without a single glimpse of their tufty red ears. 

Such disappointments could have left me bitter and twisted. Or I could have sunk into deep melancholia. But the Melfords are made of sterner stuff than most mortals, so I remained hopeful. After all, there was always Brownsea Island! I was confident that Brownsea Island would be visibly rammed with them. I would be tripping over them at every turn. They'd be constantly at my elbow - as in that comedy show poster - hoping to snatch my sandwich or lick my ice cream, as pesky as hungry seagulls. And for the sake of having some great pictures, I was going to be cool about that kind of naughtiness. Especially if they posed for a series of shots afterwards, and went through an entire dance routine in little top hats.

I should emphasise that Brownsea Island was primarily a nature reserve, a nationally important site for the scientific study of wild creatures and plants. It was not all about red squirrels. The island's diverse natural history was given a special exhibition of its own. I had a good look at it. Habitats included woodland, grassland, a little heathland, beaches, crumbling cliffs, the odd pond, and some salt marshes. I'd thought there might be extensive areas of marsh, and as a precaution I'd come with my anti-midge head-net in my bag, ready to repel those annoying pests. But it wasn't needed. 

Here's sample of what was covered by the exhibition:

Uh-oh. Ants, the sort that bite. Presumably they would attack, or at least attempt to chivvy away, anything in their path. So sitting down on a tree stump to eat a snack while contemplating a serene Harbour view wouldn't be a good idea! Nor would sleeping on the ground overnight under canvas. I wondered whether the boy scouts mentioned in the last post had suffered badly from ant bites. Or their modern counterparts. I did in fact spot some ants, scurrying purposefully. They seemed pretty big (for British ants):

Of course, the famous and super-attractive red squirrels were very much to the fore:

What an amazing picture of a leaping red squirrel! According to the credit on the 'welcome' poster, it was taken by wildlife photographer Mark Medcalf. Definitely beyond my own abilities! 

There was also a video of a very young red squirrel in its nest. How sweet. The woman in the upper shot watched it enthralled. A shame that her husband found his phone more interesting!

Having taken all this in, I set off to enjoy the beauties of the island. The paths were easy to follow, and although there were quite a number of people wandering about, it was easy to keep them at a distance and enjoy the peacefulness and the views. Brownsea Island was basically an elevated rolling wooded plateau with steep coastal cliffs on the south and west sides. I planned a clockwise circuit, keeping mostly to the coastal fringe, although I'd have to use an inland track for the final stage back to the 'village' and then the return ferry to Poole Quay, as the north-side nature reserve for rare birds was out of bounds.  

The interior of the island covered many acres, and on the whole was devoid of visitors, who mostly tended to do a coast-hugging circuit like my own, if they went beyond the 'village' at all. Here are some interior views. Lush meadows in places; otherwise ferny, with abundant trees:

Before stepping forth in earnest, I had a look at the island church, which was set apart from the 'village', up on a hillock. It was a very Victorian affair, with each successive owner of the island leaving a memorial inside, one of them grandiose. 

As you can see, I gave the church interior serious study. In fact, I gave it nearly all my attention, hardly looking at the churchyard, or exploring the immediate surroundings. What a mistake!

With time steadily ticking on, I now headed for the south coast. The sun was out, and it was turning into a lovely day, although it clouded over now and then. I wanted views of Poole Harbour and its islands, and of Purbeck beyond. I got them.

To the east was the entrance to Poole Harbour. This was the northern tip of Studland Heath, with the very sandy Beach hidden behind the trees. 

South-east on the horizon were the Old Harry Rocks - a group of chalk stacks. Swanage lay around the point.

Looking southward now, through the trees at the edge of the cliff. Calm waters, clear enough to see the sand underwater.

There, close by, was Furzey Island, with its oil well and its pier for exporting the oil to the mainland.

Most of the buildings still standing on Brownsea Island clustered near the 'village', but there were a two houses in the trees on the south coast of the island. One was being done up as a bothy. What a great view it had.

The clifftop path was very pleasant indeed. Especially so when the sun shone. Beyond the Outdoor Centre (see the previous post), there were glimpses of other islands, and boats lazily at anchor, or speeding off somewhere.

I found the way to the beach where the pottery factory had once stood. It was a failed enterprise, and was pulled down long ago. But the beach was still littered with pottery fragments. The owner's ambition had been to produce high-class china, but the clay on the island was only suitable for ordinary household waste pipes.

A pier was built to take the pottery away - now rickety, and visited only by private yachts and boats at their own risk. 

The path had become more of a forest track. It had once led to Maryland, where cottages were built for the workers. All gone now; they fell into disrepair, became dangerous, and were demolished for safety reasons. But when lived in, their inhabitants considered themselves fortunate. 

It was by now mid-afternoon, and I began to think about how long I might have left before I'd have to take the ferry back to Poole Quay. A nagging inward voice said 'Start back now: cut inland, and head straight for the village - you won't be able to run if you need to hurry!' But another said 'You can't turn back before you've seen everything in the west part of the island'. I listened to the second voice. But there was something else to think about. A couple of people I'd bumped into had mentioned that red squirrels had been seen behind the church. Well, that meant taking a detour to get some souvenir shots of the creatures I'd come to see. And detours use up precious time. Ah, I'd be all right. My right knee was still good. Surely I could see everything I wanted to? 

Next, I arrived at a mindfulness and calming trail in Cambridge Wood. What was this all about? 

 

The trail was meant to be followed slowly, allowing one to experience green growing things through the senses, and be refreshed accordingly. There were a number of boards which gave directions how to do so, such as this one:

I'm sure that leaning against the tree was OK as well! (By now I could have done with a sit-down somewhere)

Here are other boards:

Well, I did close my eyes and I did listen. Did I hear the scampering of red squirrels, or their chirps and chatter? I did not. I looked up. 

They must be up every tree, keeping still and silent, looking down at me and no doubt mocking my efforts to see them. Maybe pulling faces and mooning. The little beasts. 

Near the above board was a stout swing on which one could rest and meditate. 

There was a girl on it, and we got talking about the island and how nice it was. She kindly gave up the swing to me, and I had a three-minute rest, all I would allow myself. Getting on my feet again, the girl's friend came into view. She was less athletic, and was lagging behind. We had a chat too. Then I was off down the remainder of the calmness trail, and then out onto a broader, straight and well-surfaced track that led back to the 'village'. However, I still had the length of the island to walk before I got there, plus that detour to check out those red squirrels behind the church.

The track wasn't very interesting, and questions started to form in my mind as I walked along. When was my car parking session back at Poole Quay going to expire? Which hourly return ferry would I need to catch? Could I catch it? I slowly did the calculations, and then to my horror saw that I had only half an hour left in which to rush back to the village and catch the ferry boat I needed. If I missed it, I'd be well overdue at the car park, and in line for a thumping penalty notice! Now that would spoil the whole day.

This made me walk a lot more briskly. I ignored the protests from my right knee. I had to get that ferry! As the minutes passed, it became clear that if I could keep up this cracking pace, I should be all right. But then another thought: no time for a detour to see those red squirrels behind the church! Damn. But there was nothing to be done about it. 

I reached the village with five minutes to spare, and joined the boarding queue. 

The queue was very long. But amazingly the ferry boat was big enough to take us all. While shuffling forward, I had ample time to contemplate Sandbanks and its 'multi-millionaire' homes, just across the water. I had an even better view once were under way.

The return ferry was packed. But I got a seat next to two young girls who were showing off the videos they'd each taken with their phones. One of them told me she'd seen the red squirrels behind the church, and had a video of them. Oh, could I see it? Well, it was amazing. She'd concentrated on one squirrel in particular, and the creature - which was playing on a log - had let her get really close. It was astonishingly good footage. But of course I can't show it here. 

Oh well. I'll just have to go back to Brownsea Island and make seeing the red squirrels my number one priority (apart from lunch). Unfinished business, then!

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