Car hunting in Rutland

I sold my car today. So armed with a pocket full of £££££ I've been scouring the internet for likely candidates under £1,000. I should have known this might be a bit of a challenge in Rutland. A search for local motors for sale came up with this line up (scroll down). Hmm. Not sure I can convince Phil to stretch to a £130k Ferrari right now. The Bentley Continental's a steal though...

Heyho, signing off to go back to car hunting.

The death of an institution?

I've just got an email from my mother (Mary) to say that my school (St Mary's Hall; no connection) is closing and being taken over by Roedean. This elicits all sorts of conflicting emotions. St Mary's Hall (SMH) was (I think/hope) a unique institution; a Church of England all-girls boarding school.

I haven't mentioned this before, but I am a vicar's daughter. My Father is Christopher, my mother Mary and I'm Elizabeth. I also have an older sister called Katie who is trying to teach me how to use Facebook, Second Life and Chat. Katie is Katharine without a C &A. The replacement of C&A by my parents was, I believe, an attempt to distance Katie genetically from Catherine II of Russia who purportedly died from an over-indulgence in horse meat. I have a sneaking suspicion we are actually related; it would explain the peculiar affinity both Katie and I have to horseflesh.

My best friends at SMH were also vicars' daughters: Rachel, Ruth and Teresa. Teresa's not a traditional biblical name, but reference to Mother Teresa obviously helps (albeit Catholic). Teresa, Rachel and I all went on to form various allegiances with Ardingly College. I stayed with Teresa's family (Pa Waters was Chaplain; I could write a whole blog about life with the Waters) and attended Ardingly, Teresa also attended Ardingly and Rachel stayed at SMH but visited Ardingly on occasion to meet with the not very biblical Garth (yes really) who, according to Friends Reunited, she later married. I don't know what happened to Ruth (sorry Ruth, crap best friend wasn't I).

Now it seems St Mary's Hall as been subject to a hostile takeover by it's arch rival Roedean. I have just two things to say:

1. Door handles

2. Denman hair brushes

Hoorah, aaaaah Mat's won

Masterchef. I SO wanted him him to win. Good luck Mat.

Today's walk and the latest Rutland news

As today did not feel much like spring, Annie and I just went for a short walk down the hill and back up again. Apart fron Annie learning to fly (see white flying dot in photo), this was exceptionally uneventful. On the way home we stopped at the post office and bought a Rutland Times.

Now news isn't something that happens much in Rutland. Somehow Johnson Press manage to churn out a newspaper once a week, and this week's major headline story (full front page) is a change to parking restrictions on Uppingham High Street (you'll be allowed to park for two hours instead of one from July). I was going to link to the article on the web, but it seems in the fast changing world of Rutland news the story has already been surplanted by the announcement of new public toilets in Oakham .

In terms of crime, it seems a holly tree has been stolen from someone's garden. So I was delighted to read that our exhorbitant council tax has been put towards installing new CCTV cameras in Oakham and Uppingham. Presumably to prevent cottaging in the new toilets in Oakham or overstaying two hours on the High Street in Uppingham.

Multum in Parvo

Multum in Parvo is Rutland's strapline, and it means Much in Little. Before we go any further, this is plain wrong. It might work for, say, Tokyo, or Monaco, but the whole point of Rutland is that there isn't much in it. So Not Much in Little would be more fitting.

What you will find in Rutland are two small market towns, Oakham and Uppingham, a dozen or so pretty villages, the odd castle, estate and manor house and lots of farms. Most of the land is either arable (predominently wheat at the moment) or horses. There are an awful lot of horses in Rutland. So perhaps Multum in Parvo actually started out as Multum Equus in Parvo, then lost the Equus somewhere along the way.

As well as buildings and horses, there are two polo clubs (more horses) and two military bases. RAF Cottesmore is half a mile down a no-through lane from our house. The lane ends at what are commonly known as the "Crash gates". Quite why they are called crash gates is a mystery to me. Cottesmore in home to Harriers which take off and land vertically (commonly known as VTOL), so landing on the gate would be rather careless and stupid. Saying that, one did crash into a field near Ashwell last year; perhaps he was trying to land on the crash gates and missed by a couple of miles.

Despite living so close to the airfield, we are generally undisturbed by any activity. The Harriers only fly Monday to Friday, 9am to 5pm, and rarely over the village, and they paid for eveyone to have double glazing installed anyway. On the odd occasion they need to practice at night the CO puts a very polite letter in the Post Office window apologising in advance. The most activity is seen around Families Day (perhaps this is why they need the crash gates - put Great Aunt Vera in a Tornado and what else is there to stop her?) , when there are all sorts of shenanigans. Last year we had aerobatic displays plus visits by the Vulcan Bomber and Eurofighter. Very exciting, and all visible from our back garden.

The one glaring ommission I have made so far is, of course, the whacking great inner-sea that makes up much of Rutland. Rutland Water is a giant reservoir that swallowed up whole villages a few years ago to provide a home for some ospreys. It's very lovely from a distance, but get close up (if you can afford the astronomical parking charges) and you'll find it heaving with the sort of people who are scared to go into the real countryside in case they get spiked/shot/poisoned or slightly muddy. In the nearly two years we've lived here, we have only been to Rutland Water once, and had a great time watching Annie plant muddy paws on horrified Townies.

If you want to learn more about Rutland, this is a lovely book. I have also put some links to Rutland websites at the bottom of the page.

A Townie's guide to the countryside

And why farmers seem like miserable gits

Even country people are sometimes blindsided by the apparent malevolence of land managers. Townies have no hope. In my role as peace envoy for the rural community, I will hereby attempt to communicate the reasons why landowners like to have a modicum of control over their land and how townies can avoid being spiked/shot/poisoned/nuked/verbally abused.

Firstly, an explanation of how the countryside generally works.

Rural England is mostly owned by the following:

1. The Church of England

2. The Queen

3. The Duke of Westminster

4. Big companies

5. Estates (country houses, castles etc)

6. The City (pension funds etc)

7. Foreign investors

8. Farmers

9. The government (all the cr*p bits that can't be farmed profitably)

These organisations use a variety of agents, managers etc to oversee their land. Some organisations run their land through direct management, some through contractors or tenant farmers.

However, whoever owns it, the people who run it from the ground are generally:

- Farmer/farm manager

- gamekeeper

These are the guys with the combines, quadbikes, guns, chemical weapons and attitude, so you can more or less ignore the rest and worry about why they get feisty and how you can keep them on your side.

Reasons why you want them on your side:

1. They have guns, and know how to use them

2. They have fearsome vehicles and murderous accoutrements (see pic)

3. Their barns store enough of the periodic table to conduct a chemical and possibly nuclear war

4. They can outrun you off road

5. They know more swear words than have featured in the whole back catalogue of Shameless

A concept - your garden - a complete stranger walks in your gate, lets their rotti off its lead and flings a load of Macdonalds wrappers across your lawn. How would you feel?

OK, an extreme example, but there are reasons that land owners get upset. Here are the main ones:

- Birds. Shoots are good income streams for estates across the UK. Thousands of game birds are purchased each year at great cost and carefully managed. Loose dogs can disturb birds and cost estates dear. Despite looking big and posh, most estates are living on a knife edge of survival (imagine paying the utility bills for a castle these days) and every penny counts.

- Livestock. Keep it in and shut gates. Keep dogs on a lead - even if your soppy spaniel only chases sheep for a laugh this is still worrying for the sheep.

- Respect. Treat the countryside as you would expect others to treat you own garden. It's a rare privilage that we are able to traverse privately owned land at certain points via public paths, and we should be grateful for that privilage not abuse it.

If, despite following this advice you still come across Roy the gamekeeper, the best tactics are:

1. Run

2. Run

3. Run

Incidentally Townies, in case you didn't realise, we're not constantly shooting things in the countryside - those bangs are MOSTLY bird scarers....

Did you hit a pheasant last night?

Don't look ebayers!

This was last October, and I only knew about it when Phil pointed it out the next morning.

The horse/car conundrum

Last September I was somehow persuaded that a job with an estate agency (albeit with an agricultural element) would be my ticket to a comfy retirement. As with horses, I merrily disregarded all advice and experience and took the job, happily ditching my £750 escort (actually it ditched me, replicating one of those Laurel and Hardy vehicles that suddenly falls to pieces in an instant) in a dealer's car park in favour of a shiny convertible.

At the same time I sold Rocco to my sharer and looked forward to a horse-free future. After all, with all that sparkling horsepower, who needs a real horse?

Four months on, the job's a bust, the car's on ebay and I'm actually looking forward to returning to jalopyhood. There's something wonderful about being able to get into your vehicle with mud-caked wellies and not worry about the trim, to seeing the dog puke on the seats without noticing the difference and using hay as a secondary floormat.

And when the car's sold, what AM I going to do with that spare cash........

OK, I really should pay off the debts. Shouldn't I?

Ruminating on horses

Are horses ruminants?

At the moment I am horse-free, having sold my gorgeous arab Rocco (see me and the mad arab in pic) in the autumn after nearly four mostly happy years. This is in many ways a blessing - in fact let's count them:

1. It's been a sh*tty winter and I haven't had to wallow about in the mud and dark, scrape mud off horse, pick poo out of 6 inch snow drifts etc etc etc (etc etc etc)

2. It saves a LOT of money not having a horse. Especially a Rocco who seems to cost more money than most (I'm still paying off his last vet bill). This is especially helpful when one has just been made redundant.

3. It saves a lot of NHS time and taxpayers money (yes, horse riding really is more dangerous than ecstasy, well it is when I do it anyway).

4. I'm actually quite scared of riding (see number 3), so getting on my horse was stomach-clenchingly stressful for me at times. Falling off was quite a relief in a "see, knew that would happen" kind of way.

The problem is, having owned a horse or three for the last seven years, and ridden since I was fetlock high, not having direct access to one is rather like not having access to a handy loo. I'm getting this overpowering urge, but nowhere to relieve it, and it's starting to hurt. I know the last couple of years have challenged my confidence (and the occasional orthopaedic surgeon) but I still remember the happy days of tearing around the countryside with wild abandon and zero control and loving it.

So, when it comes to horses, a warning to my nearest and dearest - like with the job, I think I am "resting" rather than giving up.....

My first post and a walk to Barrow

First, a bit of background. I was made redundant a couple of weeks ago, so have a little time spare around job-hunting to share my experiences of living (and hopefully in the not too distant future working) in Rutland.
I moved to Rutland with my husband Phil nearly two years ago by mistake, and loved it so much we stayed. We live in Market Overton; a picture of which is on the header. There is also a link to a slideshow of views of Rutland, which may go some way to explaining why we are so evangelical about the place. We have three dogs and four cats, and two of the dogs are very elderly so can't manage much of a walk these days, hence most of my walks being with Annie alone.

So, on to my first proper post, a walk to Barrow (pictured above).

As the weather and the birds seem to have decided it's spring, I decided to take Annie for a longer walk than our usual Church walk, Berry Bushes walk or Bridleway walk. We set off down past Deirdre's house and fended off her two beautiful English setters, and followed the narrow track down to the arable field at the bottom. A rather muddy walk across the plough was followed by a short climb up hill across pasture, then over a style and past two inquisitive chestnut horses and some chickens. Here we entered Barrow, a tiny hamlet of golden cottages and farm buildings at the end of a no-through lane. As far as I can gather the only person who actually lives in Barrow is a rather curmudgeonly old gentleman who admonished me for not wearing a raincoat on a drizzly day. As usual, not a soul in sight or sound. We left Barrow down a lane (not suitable for motor vehicles) and followed this for a few hundred yards before turning right into a large (approx. 20 acres) arable field. Here Annie put up three lapwings and chased them the length and breadth of the field; lapwings peewitting and Annie yipping like crazy at each other. Finally as we approached the old canal the lapwings veered off, possibly due to the arrival of a large kite gliding low and gentle over the canal, the sun glinting like fire off it's red back. Annie seemed disinterested in the kite and stood knee deep in a muddy puddle lapping at the green algae, ears sodden. Round the other side of the field we made our way up the steep hill back into Market Overton, Annie galloping back and forwards tirelessly, me plodding up the hill panting. At the top of the hill Annie was reattached to her lead and we made our way home via Main Street and Thistleton Road. Following a thorough hosing down, Annie is now curled up asleep on the window seat.