The Wallabies and The Roaches

My curiosity has been piqued lately. It could be from some recent news stories between here and my homeland that people have treated with varying degrees of scepticism it's fair to say. Back in late August the county of Essex was seemingly in lockdown while more than 30 police and £3600 worth of police helicopter time was spent searching for what a couple reported as a lion on the loose. Their evidence was a photo that was more fuzzy than grainy. It could even be described as a portrait of Bungle from the children's television program Rainbow in a relaxed pose, taken with a 0.25 Megapixel camera. In spite of an intense search, no lion was found.
Back in my home state of Victoria, the government itself believes in big cats. Only days before the Essex Lion appeared and vanished the Victorian State Government was investigating years of reported sightings and suspected evidence of puma and panthers roaming through the state's vast parks and forests. While hiking and photographing with a friend I once saw what was a generously long and sleek black cat in the middle of a remote forest. Whether it was a panther or a 'very large black cat' that shouldn't have been there anyway I'm not confident to say either way. I was too stunned to reach for my camera in any case.
Big cats stories are becoming commonplace at either end of the world and every man with a Ute and savagely-bred dog now wants to find them. I wanted to see if I can find something less common, perhaps somewhat less vicious also. I have something different, but no less exotic, to find myself. I speak of the population of Bennetts Wallabies that have become a feature of the area and part of local folklore
I found it curious that some of my country's natives have set up colonies in the UK. To me it's strange as I'm used to it being a roll-call of European invaders who have taken well to Australia: rabbits, foxes, starlings, sparrows and black rats, of course. I’m an advocate for nature staying local and where it belongs, but I must confess to a ping of revenge to know that we had some interlopers in the land of the imperial colonists who introduced the pest animals of Australia. I speak of one of the populations of Wallabies that have ended up in the UK, particularly a population of Bennetts Wallabies, a sub-species of Red-necked Wallabies.
Given that I lived relatively close to the region that hosted these macropods, it would have been rude of me to not see some of my fellow country-beings…if they were still about that is. Reports of the Wallabies had become increasingly sparse it’s fair to say. The last report was in August of 2011, and the previous one was two years earlier. I was no less deterred though; perhaps I would find evidence, speak to people who had experienced or had intimate knowledge of the wallabies.
Firstly I best explain how the Wallabies came to be so far from their home range. Although not abundant in marsupial macropods, England has long been well populated with the wealthy and eccentric. One of these species was Captain Henry Courtney Brocklehurst who owned the property of Roaches House. A characteristic of many of the rich and eccentric in the past was to own their own menagerie. And Captain Brocklehurst was no different. Roaches House had its own zoo of exotic animals. An article written in the Leek Post and Times on August 13th, 1938 describes the scene that occurred over the 80 acres of property. The article explains that a ‘casual wanderer whose route took him past the estate’ would be ‘excused a certain furrowing of brow at sight of its fellow denizens’. The article continues ‘he might be met by the enquiring stare of llamas’ or ‘emus would merely look indignant and a little fierce’ while ‘a pair of yak would go about placidly grazing’. Aside from the menagerie of residents, the article’s fascination was with the unusually natural and free roaming setting of the zoo. The zoo apparently offered ‘all the advantages and none of the disadvantages of life in their native land - an abundance of natural food, shelter from storm and a freedom of travel in almost every wise comparable to what they would enjoy in the wilds’. The article declares the Roaches Zoo to be an animal ‘Utopia’ and ‘Eden’ when compared to other captive zoos throughout the country.
It must be said that Captain Brocklehurst was better prepared than most of the British Gentry to host a zoo at home. After being a pilot through the First World War his career’s natural progression was as game warden of British Sudan. In an interview with the Berkeley Daily Gazette in 1934, Captain Brocklehurst explained that he felt safer in the jungle of the Sudan than in New York City and that he found it to be ‘too noisy’ and ‘too hot’, which bemused the writer of the article given that Captain Brocklehurst would be dealing with the heat of Sudan. The busyness of 1930s New York was ‘a clatter’ that ‘would have him batty in a month’s time if he stayed around that long’. The one saving grace of New York for Captain Brocklehurst was the Museum of Natural History. He had much praise for the natural settings that were arranged as backdrops for the stuffed and mounted animals. Brocklehurst declared ‘we have nothing like it in England, the way they are arranging the backgrounds for stuffed animals here, the grass, the foliage, the trees are remarkable. I think the exhibits will prove trustworthy for hundreds of years’.
The Captain’s adoration for the natural settings of the Museum of Natural History hinted at his broader philosophy for animal conservation, having views that were very much ahead of their time. A biography Elizabeth, the Queen Mother by Hugo Vickers describes Brocklehurst’s role in hosting the Duke and Duchess of York (whom would later become Queen Elizabeth) in early 1925. The Captain had already known the Duke and Duchess from his social circles back in Britain. During their tour of East Africa, the Duke reportedly found Uganda to be a less attractive country than Kenya which they had previously visited. The Duke however did manage to shoot two elephants, a lion and a white rhino. The Duchess also shot a white rhino. Their host in Sudan had different views on animal welfare, quoted as stating ‘a good photograph of a wild animal in its natural surroundings is of more interest than all the heads, and is often a sign of great patience, courage and skill in bush craft. Record heads mean nothing and are purely luck. Above all, don’t kill just for the sake of killing!’ In 1940 Captain Brocklehurst was again called upon to serve his country, returning to action in World War 2, firstly in the Middle East, then Burma where he died in battle on June 28th, 1942. A memorial plaque erected on the Roaches estate in 1949 by Philip Brocklehurst describes his brother as a person who won ‘the trust of all dumb living things’.
After his tenure in Sudan, Captain H.C. Brocklehurst established The Roaches zoo upon returning to England. A private zoo, it was an outpost for the London Zoo to conduct breeding and conservation programs. In addition to the Emus, Llamas and famously aggressive Yaks, the zoo had ‘Tasmanian Black Swans’, as Black Swans were then known, and a pair of mating Wallabies were brought in from Whipsnade Zoo in 1936. The original pair of breeding Wallabies indeed mated. 5 of the species were either released or escaped 2-3 years after the original pair arrived. The 5 escapees established a colony on the neighbouring moors and peaked at approximately 50 individuals in 1962. Harsh winters and the ever-present danger of road fatalities caused the population to fall to between 10-20 individuals over the period between 1970-1985. This was in spite of the introduction of an additional male in 1978. Although the official line was that this was to lessen genetic inbreeding, the wallaby population undoubtedly had tourism value for the local villages. The Roaches area and the Peak District are interesting enough in their own right, yet there was a market of people curious to see if they could sight or photograph any remaining wallabies…just as I was hoping to. 
It took me three attempts to visit The Roaches. Given that it had been the wettest summer in 100 years you would assume that the weather had some part in my previous cancellations. I had called up to arrange to speak to a ranger who may have some knowledge of the Wallabies and the history of them. After being passed through a few people I ended up speaking with a man who seemed like he had been part of the system for some years. After giving me the names and numbers of some people who it may be worth speaking to he broke the news that I wouldn’t be able to visit for two weeks as they were conducting some aerial herbicide spraying. I waited out the two weeks and primed myself to visit The Roaches, only to have injured my wrist in a freak pint glass accident the evening before.
The Saturday I did manage to visit was a beautifully warm and bright day in a summer that had few of them. I just managed to make the morning run of the twice daily Buxton-Leek bus, disembarking near The Three Horseshoes pub in the village of Tittesworth, just north of the town of Leek. After a false start down a country road I pulled out some crude directions and headed towards the Roaches, a ruggedly rocky region within the picturesque Peak District National Park. Given that I was carrying my camera, lens and tripod, the few miles uphill to The Roaches was a slow walk, but some good exercise.
The Roaches isn’t the great secret location that I was hoping that it may have be. on the approach to the great rock crags the roadside was soon filling with vehicles taking advantage of the glorious weather. I soon met a couple who, like me, had to make their own way to the location. They were Czechoslovakian; one was from Slovakia and the other from the Czech Republic. They woke in the morning, pulled out a book of British walks and liked the look of the Roaches as a walking destination, so paid whatever the fare was from their neighbourhood of London to get a train to Stoke where they got a cab to the Roaches for £25. I shared my knowledge of the marsupials that were - and maybe still were - resident around these parts. They found it hard to believe, which was to be a theme for the day I was to discover.
Many of the fellow explorers were prepared with rock climbing equipment; The Roaches happens to be the most popular destination for the activity in England. There were some groups of climbers and walkers scattered around the base and over the rocks themselves. I listened in while one group received some commentary on the mysterious building of Rock Hall, which is loaded with history in its own right. Rock Hall Cottage - also known as Don Whillans Hut - was built by Phillip Brocklehurst as a hunting lodge, but the more interesting history originates from the cave that the cottage backs on to. In the 1800s a lady by the name of Bess Bowyer - unflatteringly referred to as an old crone of great age - supposedly lived for nearly a century. It is said that she would harbour smugglers and deserters who may have been on the run from soldiers tracking them down.
While many of climbing brigade were heading directly toward the middle of the rocks and doing what they enjoy, my camera, tripod and I traversed the perimeter of the rocks. A nice gradual climb took me through a small wooded area. before finding a gap that allowed some wonderful panoramic views of the surrounding Staffordshire, Derbyshire and Cheshire countryside. I enjoyed seeing the sky punctuated with Buzzards, Kestrels and the odd Peregrine Falcon. Looking down the valley I saw the archetypal English countryside fields separated by dry-stone walling - an art that fascinates me no end. It was all a lovely view, but if any of the infamous wallabies of The Roaches still existed they weren’t about today.
I asked the young barman at Ye Olde Rock Inn if he had any recent knowledge of the Roaches' Wallabies. He gave me a bit of a funny look and thought for a moment before adding 'they sometimes talk about big cats roaming around here'. I take it as a personal insult if I'm being associated with that lot; I don’t know if my target mammal is out there…but they were at some point.
After finishing my pint at Ye Olde Rock I continued the walk from Upper Hulme down to the slightly bigger village of Tittesworth along the A53 to the Three Horseshoes pub. The traffic traveling along here between Buxton and Leek seems to ignore any speed restrictions that applies to these quiet settlements. After walking along a narrow strip of roadside path for half a mile I took care to avoid becoming roadkill as some of the wallabies reportedly had over the years as I had to cross towards the Three Horseshoes. In the driveway across from me I smiled and waved to an old timer whose attention I caught between 4WDs and convertibles taking advantage of a (rare) warm and bright day. I tried to comment about the traffic as it buzzed between us and I think he got the message. After I crossed the road to continue the conversation I noted that the man was wearing a Peak District National Park cap. Maybe he worked for the National Park over the years and studied the wallabies up close. After finding out that he'd lived in the area most of his life I started to ask what he knew of the local wallabies. At this point he turned on his feet and shuffled back to his house. One could guess that he was contributing to the local mystery by ignoring my queries. Or a more plausible option was the hearing aid in his right ear.
I settled into the Three Horseshoes while I waited for the last bus of the day back to Buxton and was soon talking to Sam, a silver-haired, yet fit, retired British soldier. We spent the next one and a half hours have a great chat. The discussion covered the monarchy, national identity, sport, his war experiences, governments, politics, the cost of living and other matters of the day. We didn't, however, get around to discussing the existence of wallabies though.

Being British: Who are the British?

Earlier this year the island of Great Britain was collectively tangled in Union Jack bunting as it celebrated a year of national pride largely generated by the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth and the hosting of the Olympics and Paralympics in London. While much of the public and the media rolled the bandwagon along, I couldn’t help but stand back and wonder - as I long have - when is the UK a country and when is it four? There have been an increasing amount of articles debating and discussing what it means to be British. It’s a very complex question as I’ll soon outline - and it’s becoming increasingly complex in these modern times. I’m currently working in a job where I’m processing forms that ask the ethnicity of the applicant. One of the options is a collective ‘English/Scottish/Welsh/Northern Irish/British’. Whereas only a simple tick to be dropped into this basket is sufficient, many people circle ‘English’ or ‘Welsh’. Some, more surprisingly, circle British.

Many of us toss around the term of the UK without really knowing what the country is comprised of. And when is someone from Britain and when are they from the United Kingdom?  Part of my fascination with this part of the world is, that while its civilisations are ancient and the land-mass is compact, there is much overlooked in such a complex history. We all know of the royal family and the subsequent tabloid industry they feed these days. Castles and manor homes are scattered across the land just as you expect to see. The arts, particularly literature, owes much to writers such as Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Dickens, Austen, the Bronte sisters and many others. But is there anything else worth learning about this busy little island…or islands? First, let’s get some definitions out of the way. Please try to keep up.
According to the Oxford dictionary, Great Britain is defined as being the island that is formed by the countries of England, Wales and Scotland. If you add Northern Ireland you end up with the United Kingdom. Things start to get a bit more fuzzy when you refer to the romantically endearing term of The British Isles. We take the United Kingdom that we have come to so far and add 136 odd islands including Ireland, The Isle of Man, The Shetland Islands, The Orkney Islands and the Hebrides off the west coast of Scotland. Are you still with me?

So we’ve got some of the more technical definitions out of the way, but it’s still not so clear cut as you’ll see. And I’m not just talking of the cardinal sin of telling a Scot in Glasgow that it’s ‘nice here in your country, England, isn’t it’? The first time I visited Edinburgh I met a young Canadian man who casually said to me ‘really, they’re just a bunch of different states, aren’t they’? Hmmm, I’m not so sure about that…and I wouldn’t say that so loudly either as it could result in a quick - perhaps violent - response if you said it to the wrong person.

The UK, or even Britain, is a small, but complex country that gets infinitely more interesting when you pull apart the sum of its parts.

Scotland

In addition to being the land of kilts, haggis and fantastic whisky, Scotland is a beautiful country in its own right. In spite of its low population density and some of the most rugged and harsh patches within Britain/The UK, Scotland has some of the most turbulent and diverse history within it’s mainland and islands.

The capital of Britain may well be London, but much of Scotland is nearer to places such as Norway, The Faroe Islands and Iceland. Some of the regions of Scotland that share this geographical relationship have strong historic ties to the Vikings who passed through, establishing settlements that linked to the those more obvious Nordic lands mentioned above. The unique identity of some of these areas, particularly the Shetland and Orkney Island groups, shouldn’t be understated. Not only are they physically some distance from London, but there is some suggestion that they can even distance themselves from the Scottish mainland as I’m about to explain.

Scotland, and its future, is currently of the UK’s big current talking points, nestled between the recession and who has survived the cut on X Factor. In 2014 residents of Scotland will vote on a referendum on whether or not to tear away from the rest of the UK. Politically, Scotland has already taken a step in that direction with its own Parliament that governs much of what happens in Scotland; politically,  it is common to hear of the grouping England and Wales, highlighting their combined governance, but excluding Scotland.

To further muddy the waters - and I hope you’re still keeping up with this - the Ministers responsible for Shetland and Orkney have raised the possibility that should their own motherland of Scotland break from Britain and the UK, they may break away from Scotland to retain the benefits that exist from the big family as it currently exists. These island groups argue that their identify and history is more to the eastern land of Scandinavia rather than the Scotland to the south. The Shetland Islands were part of Norway until 5 centuries ago and place names such as Valsgarth, Unst and Brae highlight how removed such lands are from Westminster and 10 Downing Street. But there is also a famous historical quote from the Shetlands that gives a view of the island group’s relationship with Scotland: "All the Shetland ever got from Scotland was dear meal and greedy ministers." The Orkney Islands also had 6 centuries of Norwegian rule. The Viking culture and legacy - and that of the Pictish tribes who pre-dated them - has a bit impact on both of these island groups; The Orkney and Shetland flags have a distinct Scandinavian look about them. Although only just over 40,00 people live over these islands they are a good example of how diverse and complex Britain and its people are.

Wales

Where does one start with Wales? A beautiful, rugged (and often rain-drenched) land, Wales has its own distinct culture, history and language. Wales is the land that gave us some of the world’s most common surnames throughout the English-speaking world including Jones, Williams, Smith, Davies and Hughes. Things get a bit more complicated after that though, it is fair to say. To listen to the Welsh language being spoken fluently is a beautiful thing. Perhaps it’s the reason I have such a man-crush on the naturalist Iolo Williams. But to read it is not like playing Scrabble with too many consonants and not enough vowels. My Welsh vocabulary is rather limited. I know that: Cymru = Wales, Croeso = Welcome and Hedlu = Police. I can’t imagine too many situations where a combination of those three words would come in useful…or a situation that I would want to find myself in at least.

While approximately 1.2% of Scotland’s population speak it’s traditional language of Gaelic, the Welsh native language is spoken to some degree by over 20% of Wales’ population. The country is bilingually Welsh and English throughout, but the native language is very much driven as being more than pure novelty value. I’ve applied for work in Wales, but I get tripped up with my vocabulary limited to ‘Welcome to Wales Police’…or another combination of those words. I’d be in real trouble if I had to direct people to Llanfairpwllgwyngyll via Dolgellau or Porthmadog. I once worked in a call centre where I had to verify basic name and address details around Britain - I’m sure that it was an intricate and elaborate practical joke to hear me try to speak Welsh.I n many jobs it’s a ‘nice to have’, but in some it’s listed as essential.

England

The most prominent of Britain’s countries is, of course, England. It’s the obvious focal point when we start to think of Britain or the UK. The land of the Queen, Big Ben and a great deal of history and industry seems pretty straight-forward as a country. But what if Cornwall wants to be its own place, the north and south of England are two distinctly different regions, Berwick upon Tweed doesn’t know if it’s English or Scottish and each of the country’s numerous cities and towns have their own distinct mood - and accent - even if there is only 20 miles between one and the next.

Cornwall, considered by many of the English as their country’s own utopia can perhaps be seen as Cornish first, English secondly. A look at the Visit Cornwall site refers to the tourism board’s British Travel Award wins and the county’s presence as the UK’s foremost holiday destination. But you will not find any reference to England, the country of which it is the most southerly county. Things have been more political in the past though. Five centuries ago thousands of the Cornish marched all the way to London to demonstrate against the oppressive that they were subjected to like the rest of England - whether they recognised themselves as part of it or not. And earlier this year the Cornish were again political when pasties - famously originating from Cornwall - were to be subjected to a ridiculous tax courtesy of the current day government. The tax was soon overturned, although I’m not sure it was due to a Cornish uprising. The Cornish, like the Welsh and Scots, also have their traditional language.
 

I have barely hinted at the complex nature of this land that we think we’re all already very familiar with. I have probably raised more questions than given answers. I often wonder ‘what makes a country’? Is it a distinct language, is it the Welsh language, is it the Scottish bank notes, is it the presence or absence of haggis and other foods, or is it more likely to be the mood and mindset of the people that live there, do people feel British or English/Welsh/Scottish? It’s questions like these - and the search for their answers - that keep me fascinated about this country - or countries - that we think we’ve already seen everything of. I don’t know how many answers I’ll find, but I hope to have fun and discover what I can along the way.

Here’s the Church, Here’s the Steeple, Here’s the Pig!

I will be upfront and reveal that I’m not at all a religious man. That doesn't mean that I cannot appreciate the craftsmanship and artistry that has built the endless parade of churches and cathedrals across Britain. You scan the horizon of any motorway, any succession of fields and, of course cities and town, and you soon glimpse a spire on the horizon of the landscape if it’s not already in front of you. Aside from the aesthetic wonder of these man-made structures and engineering feats I often find myself getting caught up in the legends that stem from many of these places of worship.

One such church is only a couple of miles or so from my current residence. The neighbourhood of Winwick within the town of Warrington in North West England isn’t going to register on many travel brochures. Winwick’s St. Oswald’s church sits within a fairly non-descript patch on the A49 road that cuts a scenic route from the North West to the Midlands of England. I say that the patch is nondescript, but the church occupies a site that has ancient roots to the days of early Druid altars. Christian associations with the church date back to around the year of 634AD. The church gets its name from St. Oswald, who ruled as King of Northumbria between 634 and 642AD. Kings were more common back then as they are now. King St. Oswald came to grief as he took on King Penda of Mercia somewhere near the site of the church…although some scholars believe that his resting place is nearer to Oswestry, Shropshire...which is approximately 50 odd miles away.

I could continue about the history of the church across the ages, but really I’m only concerned about a particular event or fable. The top of the spire of St. Oswalds church is adorned with a particularly distinct ornament – that of a pig. The pig isn't commemorated as the feast upon the church’s completion or any hangover from pagan symbolism. The most interesting explanation – albeit the least reasonable it’s fair to say – is that a fairy pig by the name of Peg made a direct contribution to the construction of the church. 

Peg was a female pig with a bell around her neck. The stonework that constructed the church was supposedly built and laid on lower ground.  Overnight, these solid stones were moved mysteriously uphill by Peg, the resident pig, using her snout Peg is not unique around the country…or at least the concept of a fairy or goblin helper. But not content with helping construct the church itself, legend has it that Peg had a distinct squeal as she nudged the bricks uphill of ‘Win-ick, Win-ick’… which coincidentally happens to be the name of the village upon which the church sits.

Bright spells with Heavy Showers and the occasional risk of Flooding: Reclections on the Summer that Didn't Happen

We've recently finished a 6 month stint of living in the middle of Manchester City Centre and I feel compelled to reflect on our time spent in the city. The six months we resided in Manchester comprised of 2012's calendar months of spring and summer. Climatically it was one of the more interesting of British Summers, as will be explained throughout this post. It must be said at this point that the British are generally a race of people who crave the sun and chase it. The basis of many holidays is purely on warmth and sunshine. Spanish resorts hum to the sound of sun-worshiping Brits. They laze by the sea or pool while drinking cheap lager and cocktails as they burn to a shade of orange that a tanning bed cannot produce.

We became residents of Manchester in March. The month was a good example of how bright and warm it can potentially get in Britain. March of 2012 was the third hottest of that calendar month recorded across the UK and warmest since the 1957 edition. Other statistics included it being the fifth driest and third sunniest March - total sunlight hours - on record. It's too easy to dismiss the UK as being perpetually wet, cold and damp, but I nearly got sunstroke on my first visit to London. So, yes, it is possible for the country to warm up.

March, being the first month of spring, gave the British public optimism of a bright and warm six months ahead. And these six months included some of the biggest events possible squeezed into the calendar. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth's Diamond Jubilee celebrations, The Olympics, Paralympics, Wimbledon and the Euro 2012 soccer cup were all the big headline acts for summer 2012. Our local village green had a large video screen that was ready to celebrate all of these events and promote the outdoor lifestyle that the spring and summer months enable. The same venue had a program of outdoor movies to be hosted on Thursday nights.

While the weather was causing excitement and optimism throughout the public it was tempered by a backdrop of drought throughout regions of England. Those of us from Australia and countries of similar climates may find it amusing that Britain, the perceived undisputed heavyweight champion of miserably wet weather, could possibly be mentioned in the same sentence as the word 'drought'. But the winter of 2011/12 was a dry one by historical standards, as was the prior one. The year of 2011 was the UK's driest in 90 years. There was much fear from the government and water management bodies that a dry winter wasn't a good eve to a potentially water-hungry summer. To mitigate this, water restrictions were implemented throughout many of the worst affected areas of the country. Then came April.

Throughout March we would often open the balcony doors, enjoying the warmth and watching the diners at the alfresco furniture below as they gave the restaurants much needed business. Within the first few days of April I was looking out through the same doors as a dusting of snow was falling past our Central Manchester windows. And the furniture that was so popular a week before was scattered by wild winds like the aftermath of a Wild West pub fight. It became a running joke that I'd often report that there were no outdoor diners below our apartment...as it would be lashing down with rain. After the tease and promise of March this was all very sobering indeed.

                                                                                                                                

It was only after we ended up living in the middle of Manchester that I learnt of its nickname of the Rainy City. Rather than fill me with dread it made me feel a special kinship as my hometown of Melbourne is often given the same name. This was a year where Manchester lived up to its name. It happened to be the wettest summer in 100 years.  The average temperatures throughout Manchester averaged 14.7 degrees throughout summer.      

The weather brings with it a different set of practicalities. As much as I try to be of the 'soldier on and wear a raincoat' brigade sometimes that doesn't quite cut it. I had grand plans of using summer to explore the nearby countryside including the wonderful Peak District. But as much as you tell yourself to carry on regardless in spite of what nature serves up it's hard to be motivated or inspired when rain was a feature. One of my interests is in a product that there's an infinite selection of in Britain: beer. A news story made me take great interest in the village of Hebden Bridge, North East of Manchester within the boundaries of West Yorkshire. Aside from being declared the Lesbian Capital of the UK, its other claim is the Little Valley Brewery. The brewery works alongside the monks of Ampleforth Abbey who have recommenced brewing some strong beer for the first time in 450 years or so. Alas. it seemed that my interest in visiting Hebden Bridge was shelved as the town was mostly flooded throughout summer.

The weather also has huge economic implications. The strange climate of summer 2012 is not one that the current austerity economy wanted. The restaurants below our apartment were hungry for customers that weren't turning up to dine alfresco. And the outdoor cinema more amusingly was the local outdoor summer cinema season that we had looked forward to. Ironically, I think one of the few sessions that weren’t washed out was the screening of Singing in the Rain. 

We recently stayed in a B&B where the lady running it gave some insight into the impact the weather forecast can have. We visited over a long-weekend when the owners expected it to be fully booked, but the uncertain weather forecast seemed to spook the prospective customers she believed – a pattern that had been typical throughout summer. It had its moments, but the weather over the long-weekend was warm and sunny for the most part, in spite of the weather forecasts of flooding and wild storms – which did happen elsewhere, mind you. This negative speculating has had a great impact on a struggling tourist market. The B&B landlady told us of a number of large businesses contemplating a class action against the Met Office Weather Bureau for their part in revenue dipping up to 1/3^rd on last year.

I have developed a particular fascination for the fine art of weather forecasting here. I have noticed that you can take the four-day forecasts of several sources and each one can vary greatly between the four days. I even started to take the average across the various news and weather sites. Some newspaper web sites don't even list the weather forecast - have they gotten it too wrong too many times? I have made a table below that highlights the disparity in weather forecasting for Manchester.

	Weds	Low	High	Thurs	Low	High	Fri	Low	High	Sat	Low	High
Manchester Evening News	A shower	8	13	Spotty Showers	10	15	Rather Cloudy	7	15	More Clouds than Sun	10	13
BBC	Light Rain Shower	10	14	Heavy Rain	11	14	Light Rain Shower	6	13	Heavy Rain	10	13
The Guardian	Sunny with Showers	8	14	Showers	8	15	Mostly Cloudy	7	14	Mostly Cloudy	8	15
The Met Office	Light Shower Day	8	14	Light Rain	10	13	Light Rain	9	12	Sunny Day	8	13
Sky News	Light Rain	9	14	Light Rain	9	15	Sunny	6	14	Sunny Intervals	9	15

The BBC news service provides two levels of news - the national/international coverage and the more localised content relevant to your region, whether it be London, the Midlands or the North West of England as we were in Manchester. The weather also gets the two-tiered treatment. I have noticed two things about the BBC television weather coverage. The presenters seem so friendly that you couldn't turn them away from the door if they came to sign you up to a lifetime subscription of Readers' Digest. They're often Scottish or Irish ladies with the warmest accent that you could listen to all day. I suspect that this is to counter my second observation; the forecasts are usually brutally honest or otherwise gloomy. There could be a day when not a single piece of cloud is visible across mainland Britain, yet a light shower occurring off the coast of the Faroe Islands is something to keep an eye on in case it develops.

Throughout the disappointment of summer, the media offered some optimism. There were reports of an 'Indian Summer' arriving in September. I'm writing this post in late September from the middle of Manchester. I can tell you that any hope of this Indian summer has well and truly been taken out the back and euthanised. Today is the third consecutive day of constant heavy rain - enough to bring September's average monthly rainfall in 24 hours. There are currently 23 flood warnings and 118 alerts scattered across the country. Furthermore, 3 unfortunate people have died as a result of the rain and winds over the last day. So it's highly unlikely that there's going to be any 'Indian Summer' between now and winter.

The people of Manchester seem to fall in two distinct groups as far as the rain goes. The first group tend to overuse words like 'crap' and lament that they're not in Spain, Florida, Australia, the Bahamas or anywhere else warmer and drier than here. The second group are resolute realists who believe that Manchester is to be accepted as it is and people should adapt and love its rainy days accordingly. I believe that the climate has a part to play in the character of the Manchurians. As is the case in my '4 seasons in one day' hometown of Melbourne, the weather and climate provide a ready-made topic of discussion and humour. I fell into the 'embrace the drenching rain' camp myself. To me I cannot imagine Manchester without rain after experiencing one of its finest years. 

Incorporated into the Manchester coat of arms is the emblem of the worker bee – a nod to the industrious nature of the people who built this pioneering industrial city. I finish this post by recommending my nomination for an alternative emblem. On days of heavy rain the evening peak hour would be pock-marked with a familiar scene - litter bins stuffed with the day’s casualties of countless dead umbrellas competing for space, jutting out like a TV aerial cum public art installation. To me it sums up the Manchester of 2012.