Bogol (3)

Episode 3 (of 6)

It wasn’t until I set off for the Borders, driving an under-powered van with a clunky gear change, that I began to think about how I was actually going to do a review the value of which was certainly open to question. I think that I had been carried along up to that point by events and the pace at which they had developed.

I thought I might have a choice: to throw myself whole heartedly into it or to treat it with the disdain that it deserved – and simply enjoy a month of vanning around before writing a short report which said nothing, but couldn’t be accused of missing anything out. But past experience of being involved in dubious reviews told me I had already made my choice; namely to undertake the bugger in the first place and that there was my professional reputation to consider – this was public money after all.

So I spent a late night camped up in a layby surrounded by HGVs re-reading the brief and supporting papers, which fortunately included material on this new-fangled ‘user participation’ malarkey. Once I got over my initial it’s dangerous to ask the public about such complex matters   ….. where will this end ..? response I positively warmed to the idea. No more trawling through huge files and then interrogating disgruntled officials about discrepancies, omissions and of course timescales – you just talked to anybody you met and found out what they thought. This could be quite interesting.

In retrospect I fear my initial approach was somewhat freighted, if I may use such a term, with the zeal of the convert who was desperate not to think about the wider issues. I think I may have been a tad over enthusiastic . My first attempt at ‘user consultation’ occurred on the beach north of Maryport.  I spotted a potentially captive audience – a man fishing who was standing next to two tripods he had set up on the beach set back a bit from the water’s edge on which rested two rods. As I got closer I noticed something odd – neither of the rods had lines stretching away from their tips into the sea.

‘Afternoon’.

The man looked across at me and nodded. I walked on a bit further and then turned and came back to him.

‘Not fishing?’ I asked.

‘Not yet, I’m waiting for the tide.’

I couldn’t believe my luck – first contact and straight to the nub of it as Sir Reginald might say.

‘Is it late then?’

‘Late?’ he shot me an uncertain look.

‘The tide …….. how long have you had to wait?’

He shook his head, as though to clear confusion and uncertainty from his mind, ‘I’m waiting for the tide to come in over the sand bar, it brings the fish in, cod …. and flat fish if I’m lucky.’

‘Does that happen every day?’

‘No,’ he laughed, ‘sometimes it brings in no fish at all.’

I followed this bit of research up with a visit to the local Tourist Information Office where my enquiries resulted in the purchase of a set of tide tables and some explanation as to how they worked. I sat outside on a bench to study the information and, with the aid of a map, did my best to relate this to the places around the shores of the firth. Then as an afterthought I went back into the office. ‘Do you know where I can get information about when the tides are not on time?’

I continued with this direct approach for a couple of days as I worked my way slowly north eastwards along the southern shore of the Firth, talking to bird watchers, bathers and other people fishing. Although I got plenty of affirmation that the tide did seem to go in and out in a predictable manner every day I got the impression that people were a bit wary of me, a touch uncomfortable in my presence and rather glad when I moved on. A slight niggle began to grow – was there a cover up going on? and perhaps more worryingly were they on to me?

My unease came to a head one night when I was camped up in a layby near Kirkbridge, close to completing the survey of the English shore. I was sound asleep only to be woken up by some strident knocking on one of the cab doors, followed by those words that are guaranteed to generate a degree of anxiety in any chap.

‘Open up, it’s the Police.’

Once I had complied I found myself shivering outside in my pyjamas in the chilly night air.

The Police Officers were polite but went about their interrogation in a manner that brooked no obstruction.

‘Please can you tell us sir who you are and what you are doing.’

With Sir Reginald’s imperative that the purpose of my visit should not reach the ears of the authorities clear in my mind I fell back on the cover suggested by Faisley; that I was a photographer compiling a portfolio in the hope of obtaining commercial commissions.

‘Mind if we look inside sir?’

Ten minutes later, perched on my bed with mugs of tea in hand, the tension ebbed away, although there was a potentially awkward moment when one of the officers started showing an interest in my cameras – but I switched the conversation to talk about the difficulties of their job (always a winner I find). As they drained their mugs and prepared to leave they returned to the subject of their enquiries.

‘I wouldn’t loiter around here much longer sir, people are suspicious about outsiders and we’ve had complaints about a strange man in an old van asking odd questions …. One or two wondered whether he had escaped from an asylum …….. and,’ there was a slightly embarrassed pause, ‘ Wearing convict print pyjamas is probably not a good idea!’

I moved on in the early hours, up to the head of the Firth and across into Scotland – where my reputation was unlikely to follow me. I had enough experience of inspections to feel confident that my night visit from the forces of law and order would not be communicated to the constabulary of a different area in a country operating under a different legal system.

I did , however, resolve to refine my approach – no more direct questions but more observation!  As I worked my way westwards along the northern shore of the Firth I spent more time checking the tidal movement against the tide tables and I was careful when engaging in conversation to ask more general questions such as ‘When is high tide?’ and ‘how high are the tides at the moment?’ I got much useful information this way which triangulated nicely the results of my earlier field work.

As the monthly tide cycle came to an end I found myself camped on a beach overlooking Newton Bay. I reviewed all my notes, checked the brief again and concluded that I had enough to write a draft of the report.

I roughed out a plan which fitted into the departmental format, took the lid off the Olivetti, fed in the first sheet of paper and got stuck in. My second attempt, clearly labelled as a draft – not for onward circulation was, I felt, pretty much on the money and at three pages was decidedly ‘less.’ It finished with a short no nonsense conclusion that:

Tidal movement in the Solway Firth has been found to be absolutely adequate and conforms entirely to expectations. There is no cause for concern and no recommendations are made for improvement.

With a sigh of relief I sealed the papers into the pre-paid envelope ready for posting. I then climbed out of the van and walked out across the sands with the lightness that comes from having completed a task that was beginning to weigh.