Manchester Diary Two
O2.02.20
Another drizzly day. Sheep took their time this morning getting up to go graze, not before about 9 am. They were nestled in the pasture waiting. Waiting for what I cannot say, but they were in no hurry to get eating. People raise ‘native’ sheep in this High Peak region. Down my back-country road to the left are fuzzy smallish Herdwicks (those that took their time). They yield fine wool, it is said, and are white, black to gray. They have small forward pointing ears. To the right are Swaledales with curvy horns around their ears, they are found mostly in the north, have thick coats, and are also fairly small, mostly white, but some with black heads. There maybe Lleyn sheep (the sheep for today’s farmer as its low maintenance), it has a shorter pelt, and Bluefaced Leicester. These latter sheep are the most sociable, bedded down together under a small bosquet of trees, heads on each other’s backs or nestled under one another every night. One of the growers was giving his herd hay and grain as it is going to be breeding time soon. Of course, my sheep identification could wrong.
It is interesting to note that sheep raised here are from the North and Wales, not some generic industrial animal. So while they are more or less indigenous, they are everywhere in this region, and clearly overstocked relative to any chance of vegetation other than grass, growing. EU policy has encouraged/rewarded the removal of all non-pasture vegetation in the fields, allowing it only in narrow bands along the edges. This, in combination with the numbers of sheep, has certainly reduced biodiversity, bird counts and more. Growers get a bottom line annual stipend for growing sheep. It can be hard to imagine these hills with trees and shrubs, the wide open fields hedged in by rocks are so iconic and beautiful in themselves. Yet when you begin to realize what is involved, it a kind of muddy monoculture and it seems like some of the pastures must be fertilized the green is so intense. There seems to be very little row crop agriculture, even in the bottom lands, and I have seen no gardens at people’s houses and the farmsteads. It seems odd. Chickens, ducks, yes, and small glass houses. But no vegetable gardens, zero.
I have been visiting local towns – Buxton, Glossop, Whaley Bridge, Macclesfield – sites of still standing mills dotting the landscape. This was a stronghold of spinning and weaving, and technological innovation to mechanize the industry. First the spinners were put out of work, who were enormously adept and could shut the industry down if they went on strike, and then down the line, even carding the wool. Not only were all the processes being mechanized, one process at a time, but steam power was growing too, overtaking water. There was strike upon strike, wages gained, repression, dire economic downturn, mechanization, wages lost. At one point, the region saw ¼ million people on strike as wages were so miserable. They famously went from mill to mill, dousing the coal fires and ‘plugging’ the chimneys, shutting everything down. But ultimately, as we know, workers failed. It seems the region has suffered austerity upon austerity, thin and superficial redevelopment schemes, and neglect. Nearly every town that is bigger than a couple of ribbon of roads, has had its center gutted and rebuilt with an enclosed mall. Some are lucky and have had their high street, or arcades preserved. These retain more small local stores, many of which are thrift stores. The mall is reserved for the chains, the same chain stores again and again and again. At the edge of town is the big box shopping, groceries often. There seems little room for local commerce. An occasional butcher shop, the coffee shop and, rarely, a bakery. Many stores close at 4:30 and are not open on Sunday, except for the chain grocery stores. And austerity is on people’s lips. At a booth in an open market selling organic soap and cleaning products (a rarity, the organic, and a lot of it imported), the woman seemed defeated, resigned, and cold in the bitter wind. ‘Things will only get more expensive’ she said. Most other booths, by 3 pm, were shut down, but would have consisted of some second hand and ‘antique’ bric-a-brac, new quite cheap clothes, some bolt fabrics.
The triumphalism of the pro-Brexiters is visible in some parts, though this is a largely labor stronghold. Not to stereotype, it does seem that Labour signs are in front of modest row houses, and Brexit supports, sporting the UK flag, are associated with larger properties. . .
Without the EU sheep subsidies, which are considerable, it remains to be seen what people will farm here. The countryside is riddled with farms interwoven between the roads and towns. Working farmsteads are numerous, I do not know if these are land owners or tenants, I suspect tenants due to the land concentration. They have big machinery. The roads are a clogged assortment of competing sizes and types of transportation vehicles going different speeds, from the many spandex-clad men on their racing bikes, to Range Rovers, tractors, farm trucks and small rattley passenger cars, we all weave around parked vehicles, thread our way carefully between rock walls and the arriving cars on narrow or single track roads. It can be unnerving and requires a lot of concentration and attention. Cars, cars, cars. And yet the train system is over-burdened too. People live dispersed in villages and in their country houses.
One thing is strong and that is the neighborhood pub culture. Any night of the week, and especially on weekends, pubs are full, beer flows, matches on TV are watched passionately. Families sit down for a pub dinner, small children zoom around. It’s a friendly, warm atmosphere, and in these parts people know each other. Gossip and information trading fills the air. Down the road we have a pretty good inn and restaurant – the Paper Mill – and its associated pub that does special menus in a pop-up fashion, every month or so. It was Thai month, and pretty good. There is also the regular menus, enjoyed by the 2 young ladies next to me. Pizza and fries, local gin and the intermittent digestive cigarette. They had a lively conversation about all the folks in their circle all along.
There was a beautiful light snow early one week, it soon melted, and the weather is mostly cloudy with intermittent drizzle, sometimes a very cold bitter wind comes in. The snow drops are in bloom, very cute, daffodil greens are popping up, crocus are starting to flower in brilliant yellows and purples. Precipitation and cold make for such great flowing bulbs. The hydrangeas outside the door have green buds. Spring will be a delight.
