Season's end...

About this time of year, I always find this pic a bit of a sad reminder of what was a huge part of life when I was much younger.

My Dad was the chief engineer for the largest hop grower in the country, and his work meant that he researched, designed, and eventually built the state-of-the-art machines and oasts which picked and dried the hops.

Up to the fifties, the traditional way to pick hops had been to bring folk - mainly from London in this area - and install them in hopper huts on each of the farms. It was a riot, great fun, and without touching on 'social' issues, most people who came down made a few quid, and enjoyed a working holiday in some great countryside.

Because the farms were so spread out, the 'guvnors' had early versions of radio telephones installed in their cars, vans and Landrovers, and I, and a few other sons were paid £2 a week to take messages on these things. It was very important (!), and drew gasps from other kids who thought that such space age kits only worked in police cars!

But driving round Kent these days is a bit nostalgic, as 'farm quotas' and general interference from the usual suspects who detest farming, have all but driven the UK hop growing business away for good.

I can't really get to grips with seeing bare wirework like this, especially if a few solitary bits of bine are still blowing in the breeze...

Legs...

For Daisers, Trubes, Pips, Lils, Merms, Hats, to name but a few...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13yhhjClzwA

And see what dancing means to some...

(And, of course, I must not forget Mrs Tuscs, Mrs Elecs, all the other sweethearts, Bunty Binstock et al...)

...and while I'm at it, (well, not actually at it if you see what I mean), Autumn is peering over the wall, so a change of colour is called for...

ps - can anyone tell me how to make the link to Youtube above, into a single word please? I bet it's easy, but that doesn't mean I can't cock it up at some stage...

Da da da da da da DAH; dada de da da da...

Although I am officially rejoining the whirlwind of commerce tomorrow, (Monday has been a nightmare of calls and emails, so I may as well have said 'sod it, I'm back', but Mrs S insisted that I kept quiet most of the time - as she is entitled to do, as I have actually still been on leave today)!

Just tonight, we've been talking about what makes a good dance work.

I've always had two left feet at dancing. Waltzing was the nearest I've ever got to making less than a complete idiot of myself, and have been known to fall over after only seven pints, but Mrs S has the nimblest feet this side of The Appalacians, and from an early age was an expert at all sorts of foot-steps and moves, prances etc...

And so the conversation got onto Country Dancing. Simple, enjoyable, funny and energetic!

How could any young lad get to know even the 'Girl next door', without an excuse to go cavorting around a barn, trying his hardest to impress, and, even putting up with the ribald remarks from his chums? (Well, I did, but it was to get the future Mrs S out to a party; and I damn well did...)! The Girls could have a field day in the barn/village hall, sorting out the Travoltas, looking glum at the Scrobs-dance-alikes...

Country dancing allowed you to talk to new girls/boys...

It got you making a fool/ace of yourself.

• It made an evening out of a dull weekend.
  
• It helped slow kids to start up.
  
• It let the plainer ones shine.
  
• It allowed you to drink more...
  
• It made life bearable for millions of youngsters - and oldsters!

So here's to what you need to let you put your arm around the best thing you can, and let the music roll on...

Calvados...

Mrs S and I have enjoyed a few days away from commerce this week; (i.e. I went upstairs to turn off the cellphone and bugger the emails, she stayed in the home more than somewhat, and we have had a great week...).

So we've built a new fireplace after hating the old one for eighteen years, and had the occasional foray into the woods with JRT; just before we open another Chateau Swansea or similar...

But today, we took a small detour (bus passes at the ready), to a small pub near T.Wells, for a big, bigger, huge lunch - well why not? After imbibing several (bus remember - no car...), and taking on the largest portions of fantastic fare, Mrs S decided that we should top off with a glass of Calvados!

Check...

We both love Calvados. Ever since we started French holidays with ED and YD in Normandy years ago, we've gone for the best we can afford, enjoyed the roughest we've been sold, laughed every time we swung the glasses of the 'amber nectar', around the air before collapsing in an aromatic appley heap, and wished we could sit in a Kentish orchard for the rest of our lives, swigging the best of life...

The pub people are lovely - superb at running a pub, (editor's note - The George at Frant...); friendly, very attractive (watch it! Says Mrs S...) but unable to supply the simple apple requirement. (no probs there, something else did the trick...)

But, wait; we live in deepest Kent, where apples are coming out of our ears! We have two apple trees at The Turrets, and they're both Lord Lambournes.

'George' is an 'M27' stock, very short, small branches, but he fruits like a dervish. 'Mildred', close by, is a 'pyramid', and not prolific - probably only just able to keep George in bees and pollen, poor gal..., but she does the job; we love her, and she also provides a few apples.

George (pictured, with Mildred behind), goes bananas every year. He exudes huge apples, throws them all over the place, drops them on JRT, leans over lovely girls like Lils, and above all, makes us both very healthy every time about now...

So my question is; why on earth is there nowhere in Kent which can appreciate and work on the quality of a home-grown apple brandy, in a place where we can grow apples like nobody's business?

Perhaps I'll go and find out...and I may be some time...

Sagtrouser and Bucket...

I've become uncomfortably aware that of late, I've consistently berated the building trade to the point of unfairness...

To put the record straight, I now wish to pronounce Travis Perkins, of Cranbrook, Kent; Builders Merchant of the year!

Why, you shriek?

Well, Mrs S has been asking me to put in a new fireplace in The Turrets for years (18), and so, while taking a small rest from my toil as a generator of hotels, and to do some bits at home, read a few books, check out the family etc etc, I was instructed to 'bloody well get the thing done...please...')!

So of course I did...

Every time I visit Travis Perkins for anything - be it one single nail or a pair of boots (see Scrobs passim; but it wasn't their fault), they treat me with good humour, pleasant chat, a fair price, and above all, a service which makes me think that all these big DIY stores still have a lot to learn.

Yeah, I can still talk the builders lingo when it suits me, (I used to sell concrete stuff years ago; did most of the M25 actually), but in this establishment it is a natural place to talk to someone who actually knows what he's selling, and you get fair trade, satisfaction and, above all, help.

So, for any Lady reading this, and of course Bloke... I'm not going to lay down the law, but I reckon that if you need a few odd bits of wood, a pot of paint, or even just a small paintbrush, the Builder's Merchant will probably make you feel better and also not take so much of your hard earned cash...

(Author's note; Mr Elias Sagtrouser has no recollection of buying Mr O'Blene several pints in 'The Bells', to ensure that his firm was represented in this way...)

Vertigo...

I’ve never actually enjoyed working on ladders, but when the gutters get a bit creaky, or the wisteria has to be given a severe haircut, Scrobs can be seen scaling the Turrets, leaping like a gazelle from one rung to the next, and looking forward to when he can reach ground level again…

When Mrs S and I were wandering around Teesdale recently, we tried to follow an old rail track, (long closed down), and wanted to find the bridge, but gave up because the map didn’t make sense, it was starting to rain, and JRT was beginning to look at her watch as well.

It was just as well, as high bridges have a similar effect on both of us, and long after, we learned that the old bridge over the River had a warning that it might be a good idea not to get too close to the sides, and horse riders should dismount…

So you can probably understand why these pics of the Millau Bridge still keep me enthralled…