Dry Stone Walling - Somerset

On a clear and mild day towards the end of last year I started a dry stone walling course in the Mendip hills in Somerset. From the shadow of Wells’ famous cathedral a steep road climbs the edge of a wooded combe to a small pastoral farm. It’s here that a group of volunteers are guided through the process of re-building a wall. I was late. A brief introduction and I was put to work.

The existing wall, how old no-one there can be sure, sags down on its broad base, visualising years of service. Throughout its existence this wall has been maintained by simply adding to the top. The wall has to be completely removed; deconstructed and laid out in a size-orientated fashion ready for immediate reassembly. Allsorts of treasures are uncovered including numerous perfectly preserved rabbit skulls. By the time the foundations are uncovered it has become clear to me what a backbreaking labour-intensive task this is and, not for the last time, I’m glad to be doing it as a modern day casual volunteer. In the 19^th century I could expect to be making a shilling a yard if I was a decent enough waller, I suspect at my pace I would be unemployable.

I chat with fellow volunteers; quite a cross section; farmers, a landscape gardener, retirees, members, me. Unexpectedly varying levels of enthusiasm too, one fellow appears to have been signed up by “the wife”. We reach ground zero and several A-frames are set up along the course of the wall with parallel lines running between as a guide to height and width. We work the whole section of the wall to this the line before it is moved up. I expect proficient wallers probably do this by eye.

The Foundations go down, interlocking at the centre, two stones covering the width of the base. Naturally at this widest, lowest point the biggest stones are used and the aim is to create a base for the next layer, so the stones have to be surely planted, no rocking and a nice sharp outside edge, if anything sloping towards the centre of the wall. Some of thee foundation stones are huge and if you dismantled correctly they should be nearest the wall, at this weight one doesn’t want to be playing around with them too much. Much of this Limestone will have been quarried from the rich supply to be found locally but in many cases the stones have been dragged from the field to make it more suitable for ploughing.

Any air pockets are pre-emptively filled with hearting. All the little stones and fragments up to about fist size are used as ‘hearting’ to ensure the wall is a tightly packed, solid structure. As we build higher, the volume made up of hearting becomes more substantial. This part of the process, previously unbeknownst to me, is absolutely crucial to the integrity of the finished wall. Despite this importance it seems to be perceived as the least glamorous job of the operation (every process has one). People are keen to get on with the main puzzle, the recognisable face of a dry stone wall and the hearting is often left for the more conscientious among us to fill in.

Resolves are tested from the off on the second day as, we make our way across a wet field, the mist only revealing the looming, incomplete task at the last minute. Unlike me, rain arrives early and sets in for the day. As we gain height and reduce our cache of building materials the mental challenge becomes more prevalent. The ongoing puzzle continues, essentially; finding a stone that will bridge the gap to the previous layer (ala typical running-bond brick wall), nestle right into position without any rocking and create as flat a surface to build from as possible. But more than that, at this stage frustration is never far away, with fewer and fewer stones available I continually find myself trying the same stone in the same position. At this point it seems to have become impossible to judge whether or not a stone will be appropriate without actually trying it in every conceivable orientation.

Lunchtime and the rain continues unabated. There are only a few yards of wall left incomplete and the group is given the opportunity to abandon ship. Over half of our contingent leaves, some reluctantly, others not so. I decide to press on. Somehow I feel as though the weather sweeping over this particular Mendip hill adds to the authenticity of the experience.

It is unsurprising that to see the completed wall is rather satisfying, however, when the last stone was laid and we stood back I was quite taken back by the sense of pride and achievement. No doubt this was partly due to the physical and mental input but I think it was also partly attributable to the iconic, if understated, nature of the subject in our British consciousness. Having been part of the building crew it’s hard to believe just how solid this structure is and not a single hammer or chisel left the back of the land rover throughout the course of the weekend. This particular method of walling is one for the purist, the stones are used unaltered and no pinning on the outside faces is permitted. Rising out of the earth, the wall modestly stops at the top, task complete. No flourish of vertical coping stones here.

My contribution to the walls of Somerset is complete, I’m keen to do more but want to experience other regions. With some seventy thousand miles* of wall still available and only nine percent* of that reportedly stock-proof, there’s still plenty of work to be done.

* These figures are taken from England in Particular - Sue Clifford and Angela King (2006)

The Art of Den

Building Dens is one of my fondest and most integral childhood memories. The vision that most prominently springs to mind is one of a roof constructed from harvested sweetcorn stalks beneath the late summer cover of a Crab Apple tree. The fruit of which is a fantastic source of ammunition to repel any way-fairing little sisters. I was never one for free standing dens in exposed locations, I always favoured building off of something more permanent, a shed or a fence. The previously mentioned den was in my favourite spot, against the back of a shed on the edge of the garden with the opposing side open to the wheat field, a source of both cover and an escape route. This location aided in one of the key requirements of even the most basic den, to act as a wind-break. There is nothing like moving into protection from a chilly wind, except possibly the feeling created by separating oneself from the rain by the smallest margin. Dens do this to varying degrees, a sheet of tin or plastic may provide complete resistance with minimum thickness whilst capturing that wonderful sound of rain abruptly reaching its destination. A more organic solution, no matter how well built up, will almost always drip, which in its way also adds to the joy in that tiny degree of separation between shelter and the elements.

Dens are fantastic indicators of location and season. They are constructed out of what ever is at hand, and kids don’t have any pre-programmed preferences towards materials, a scrap of plastic bag, the current height of unsightlyness for the eco-driven fashion conscious, is happily incorporated into the waterproofing. Whether in a wood, field, scrap yard or urban wasteland, all materials are considered. In the winter the rural den becomes much more exposed and materials can be scarce. I often found the big lumps of earth churned up by the ploughs excellent in the construction of a dry stone wall style bunker.

A peculiar phenomenon among the tenants of dens (or ‘dennents’) is the quality to be found in objects that are left in the den, they go through a change, take on new traits. Like ancient explorers they forever step aside from the society they once belonged to. Often they never return, if they do they are weathered and aged, never the same again.

In some walks of life of course dens are a more serious business. Roaming shepherds are notable dennents. From the simple A-frame with roofing shingles of a French shepherd to more solid structures and everything in between, an eclectic mix of shelters can be found in rural areas all over the world charting the passage of shepherds seeking refuge. Some are left in place for the next time, some are taken along and re-erected tent-fashion while others are purely constructed for the current situation and abandoned.

A fine barrier between life and death, the fruits of a child’s imagination or a place of belonging in a faceless urban backdrop, the den is international and highly local, basic and sophisticated. Oh to be a child again and den once more.

Shepherd's A-frame shelter, France

Shepherd's Shelter, Rwanda

Shepherd's Shelter, Peru

Real England

A couple of years ago now, pre-blog, there came a book by Paul Kingsnorth called ‘Real England’. I will restrain myself and stop just short, perhaps over cautiously, of saying ‘this book changed my life’. However, I do think it has that potential and I found it tremendously inspiring. A look, at once hopeful and regretful, at the England we live in today, Kingsnorth presents a picture with tattered edges and faded colour but not without beauty. Far from a nostalgic look at England past, it is concerned with where we are now and where we go from here.

The question here is, how can these aspects of England successfully evolve and maintain value in contemporary society. Take independent pubs and breweries for example, continuously being eaten up by brewery giants and PubCo’s, here is something that can be owned and run by the community, such as the Old Crown in Caldbeck Fells that Paul visits in the course of his travels. A solution that may well work for other endangered features such as orchards. These kinds of solutions are of course onerous for the general public, us, the power is, after all, with the people. Many of the issues addressed here are consumer led and as such the book is also a kind of call to arms. The second chapter 'Drown Your Empty Selves' has made me far more considerate of where and what I drink. I even registered my support of CAMRA and I don't drink beer of any sort, can't stand the stuff. From watercourse to China Town, from village green to Broadway Market, I found the journey to be quite emotional and I suppose that can only be a good thing, as one should be stirred when discussing one’s home.

Real England surpasses playground, lefty-righty politics and I urge anyone who considers themselves ‘English’ to read it. I worry that the title may scare away much of a certain, self-loathing group of English society, but it really shouldn’t. Forget your built perceptions of political correctness and what it means to be patriotic and don’t be frightened, this book is for everybody living in England today and is indeed about Real England.

The Presence of Giants

We are all aware of the ever-increasing dominance of chain stores on our high streets, the ominously encroaching blandness. I recently went back to a town that for a long time I called home and there experienced the disappointment of seeing the rather harrowing sight of a familiar little independent shop having been replaced by another all too familiar chain store. There were several cases in this particular market town that have arisen since last I was there (the most prominent victim for me being a reasonably sized book shop) and I must admit that I was surprised by the strength of the feeling of loss.

You might expect the mixed-period architecture to be unaffected but I could swear it is unhappy. I get the distinct impression of something that has had its guts blown out and a mask pinned across its face presenting a big smile. If you listen carefully you can almost hear the muffled mumblings of objection.

The shops that do survive are often the less useful ones, particularly in a town like this. The antiquey type places, the variety that tourists love. Tourists that will come and poke around, maybe buy the odd nik-nak, then go and have coffee at Pret. The danger is, quite frankly, Glastonbury: A beautiful town in one of the most beautiful parts of the country, not to mention an essay in itself. If you want to buy a crystal you need only walk a couple of yards in any direction but if you want to buy food or a hammer and nails you must go and bow before the big supermarkets and DIY stores on the edge of town. Whilst tourists are a useful, in some cases essential, source of income for the local economy it seems a bit of a waste if they feed the giants. Perhaps local shop-keepers should use that in their windows; “Please do not feed the giants”.