Slingsby's Miscellany

And so we say goodbye to Margate, and travel a few miles along the northern coast of Kent, that is to say further up the Thames estuary, to Herne Bay, to spend a few days with sister Brenda and her husband Eddie.

Herne Bay, with its pebbly beach and Thames mudflats at low tide could not compete with the sandy beaches of Margate for the family holiday makers and day-trippers. But just now it is more genteelly prosperous than Margate. Its shops are doing better, with very few actually closed up. Mortimer Street is now a pedestrian precinct, and there appears to be more cafés than I remember from previous trips. There are a couple of very good bakeries and cake shops, and I found some fantastic Eccles cakes the likes of which I have never found in Australia!.

Along the seafront, from the Clock tower, past the band stand to the pier, the sunken gardens are bright with flowers and the green grass neatly mowed. In the band stand were several groups of the older generation drinking their morning coffee listening to an elderly gentleman singing ballads from the sixties to the accompaniment of his computerised ‘band’. The clock tower gave the correct time, unlike that at Margate which was only correct twice a day at 1.25, and there were many promenaders, in family groups, enjoying the sunshine. The ‘harbour’ looked good, but is a bit of a disaster, as it is silted up with very fine Thames mud, presenting a serious sinking hazard to anyone who tries to paddle in it. It should never have been built. On the other side of the road, the cafés and the few amusement arcades appear to be well maintained and patronised, quite unlike Margate.

In the evening, we went en famille to The Longreach, a pub large enough for all 14 family members to sit at one table, for dinner. It was good to catch up with them all, even though with such a large group it was impossible to have a meaningful conversation with everyone. But there will be other opportunities for that. Leaving The Longreach, we drove through the heart of Whitstable, in search of The Coach and Horses, which we found, but did not have time to stop at on this occasion—but we shall return. We were very impressed with Whitstable, which we had not really visited before. When I was at school at Faversham 50 years ago, we ‘looked down’ on those boys from Whitstable, as it was regarded as a bit of a ‘dump’. However, now it is probably the best of the towns in this area, having become a very popular place for Londoners to buy a week-ender. Apparently many ‘celebrities’ have bought into Whitstable, and property prices have risen in consequence. We certainly will return in the next day or so, and have a good look round in the day-light.

Next day we went to Canterbury to catch up with another nephew, Pete. He lives in one of the smallest houses in Canterbury, with one room on each of the two floors. To get there we had to negotiate the new one-way system around the West Gate end of Canterbury, which is a bit of a nightmare. Having imposed the new traffic management system, the Council are refusing to re-consider, despite receiving over 5000 letters of complaint from residents and visitors. Apart from the new traffic system, what little of Canterbury we had time to see was just as we remembered. The main street is a pedestrian precinct, and was pretty chock full of visitors, mostly from across the channel.

After a pleasant lunch, we moved on to Broadstairs, by way of Wingham (totally unchanged), as we were to attend an afternoon garden tea party arranged by the Broadstairs branch of the Dickens Fellowship. The event was supposed to be in the garden in front of Dickens House Museum overlooking the harbour, but as the weather was threatening to be unpleasant, it was relocated to an indoor venue. It was attended by about 25 members, and was a pleasant occasion, with their membership being somewhat less than Melbourne in number, but very much similar people!. Their regular monthly meetings appear to be less academic than ours, and it seems that they prefer to make, and to wear, period costume, rather than discuss the finer literary points of Dickens’s writing.

After the tea, we drove to the harbour area of Broadstairs, and could not resist Morrelli’s coffee bar, which seemed unchanged from 40 years ago. It still has a jukebox, and many of the patrons were still eating the most enormous ice cream sundaes—just like in the old days.

It is amazing how Broadstairs has claimed Charles Dickens as their own, considering he only went there for a few family summer holidays. But everywhere there are cafés, pubs, shops, streets and schools named after Charles Dickens or characters from his books. We were too late for this year’s Dickens Festival, but apparently it was a great success, as usual. Walking back to the car by a different route, we passed one of the many second-hand bookshops, and of course could not pass without having a look. It was worth it, as I found a volume from the same edition our old family set of Dickens books that was missing from our collection—so now only four more to find!

Returning to Herne Bay, we had to make a detour to have a drink at the Crown Hotel, Sarre, famously known as The Cherry Brandy House. Again, it was just as we remembered—but a couple of locals in the bar, and even the barman, could only be described as ‘miserable old sods’. Once again Dickens had been called in to help bar sales, as his name headed the list of famous people who had been there.

The following day (Thursday) we went across country to Hastings to catch up with a cousin. Lunch in a pub, which had more ‘collectable’ junk than usable space, was followed by a sentimental trip to Normans Bay, reputedly the beach where William the Conqueror had landed in 1066. The place was largely unchanged, but with more and bigger “statics” (as the Brits call their on-site caravans); and the old house which was nearly derelict, and in which my ancient aunts lived in squalor, was being very tastefully restored to its 1930s glory. Also, what I recalled as a rather scungy tidal creek flowing through a large bore pipe under the pebbly beach to the sea, was being reconstructed as part of an experiment to develop a tidal power generator.

On the way home we stopped in Hastings for tea, and found it to be a very lively place. Around the fishing ‘harbour’ (there is not really one at all, as all the boats are simply hauled up onto the beach), there are interesting buildings used for drying nets and drying fish. These  are now being replicated as flats and holiday apartments. The cafés were busy, with many people having tea, or dining at street-side tables, and from 7.00pm, there was a ‘trader’s street party’ with swinging bands in one of the main thoroughfares. All in all, Hastings could be described as ‘thriving’.

On Friday, we made the pilgrimage to the old houses at Bushey Fields. Both our old house at number 64, and the new one we built in 1955 at number 66 had been extended by more recent owners. Our old farm is now partly a plant nursery and garden centre, and a ‘farm shop’. Otherwise, the lane is unchanged. Then on to Hick Forstall and Daffodil Farm. Although now very run down, I could clearly see that my recent word-sketch of Daffodil Farm is in fact very accurate. Following this little trip, we went back to Whitstable for the long awaited pint in The Coach and Horses. We met, and had a good chat with the co-licensee, and met a few of the locals, including a previous licensee, who were interested in our family relationship with the pub. We then went around the harbour area, which unlike Hastings, is very much a deep-water harbour, and the centre of the local oyster and shell-fish industry.

The following day we returned to The Coach and Horses, and met the other co-licensee. He had prepared a copy of a history of the pub, which was very interesting to us. After a lunch in the pub (not bad pub food) we went to Faversham, to find the old school. Needless to say, I recognised the roads immediately, but found my route blocked by the inevitable one-way system. Nevertheless, we found our way to a car park (pay and display—probably our greatest expense beyond petrol) and walked through an alley way to the old market square. There was a bustling market under and around the mediaeval guildhall, and I left Ann at a street-side café table whilst I went on a memory-lane walk to school. The old building is still there, but now used as offices, and a new glass and concrete monstrosity the other side of the church is the new co-educational school. The part of the brewery that was opposite the school is now a huge Tesco and a conglomeration of luxury apartments, but still very recognisable.

A walk to the Oare Creek, and it was time to return to Herne Bay to attend a nephew’s 21^st birthday.

And there we leave Herne Bay, and head for our next stop, Dover.

The weather is glorious again, with bright sunshine and a very slight breeze—just right for a trip into Margate, and a visit to the Turner Centre. The Centre is a very impressive modern gallery right beside Margate Harbour. Apparently Turner had a mistress who lived in Margate, so there is actually a connection between Turner and the town. Whilst the gallery itself is very impressive, I am afraid that the current exhibition was a great disappointment. Works by Tracy Emin, England’s most well-known artist, could only be described as rubbish. Emin made her name with a piece of ‘installation art’ comprising an un-made bed strewn with various pieces of un-washed underwear. From there she moved to a tent on which was written the names of all the men she had slept with. This current exhibition is a collection of some thirty large blue drawings of (presumably) herself reclining naked, much like the sort of thing that a schoolboy might draw on the toilet walls, and just as poorly and unskilfully executed. Her latest piece of installation art, also on show at the gallery, comprised a urine-stained mattress on which was laid a metal (perhaps bronze) representation of a branch of a tree. I would put her into the category of ‘one to whom fame came so easily, but for so very little reason’. Most of the comments one could hear in and around the gallery were variations on the theme of ‘absolute rubbish’. I hope it does not damage the reputation of this fledgling, but expensive, attempt to raise the cultural profile of Margate.

For the most part, Margate is looking sad, falling victim to the law of entropy. Arlington Arcade at the station end of the sea front is derelict, with the shops boarded up with corrugated iron shutters covered in graffiti. About a third of the seafront shops, which used to be cafes selling ice creams and ‘trays for the beach’ are shuttered; and Dreamland, once a thriving fun park, is a derelict waste-land. The clock on the tower built in 1887 for the Jubilee of Queen Victoria stopped one day at 1.25, and hasn’t gone since. Further toward the harbour, the shopfronts are mostly boarded up, with only one or two trying to carry on the business of selling ice cream, toys, and buckets and spades for the beach. The bottom half of the High Street is a wasteland of closed shops, and the top half is not much better. It is a sad reality that they simply could not compete with the huge shopping centre built at Westwood, just outside the town toward Ramsgate.

But around the harbour area, and just behind that, in the old market place, things are vibrantly thriving with very nice cafes, bars, and tables with umbrellas in the cobbled courtyards, and hanging baskets containing flourishing bright flowers. If the Turner Centre can continue to attract people who are looking for something a bit different to the traditional day trippers in ‘kiss-me-quick hats’ who only wanted to sit on the beach and eat hot-dogs and candy floss, then maybe there is a brighter future for Margate.

Going the other way, walking toward Westbrook, there is a very successful ‘crazy golf’ course, in which many families were enjoying themselves. The beach huts along the esplanade were mostly occupied, with families sitting around—the children playing on the beach whilst the oldies read the paper and drank tea. This part of Margate, like the clock on the tower, seems to have stood still, with very little change either way.

Whilst cooking dinner on Saturday evening, Pat’s oven blew up, so as it was not possible to cook the Sunday Roast at home, we went to Sandwich for lunch. The drive there took us through the heart of the Pfizer plant at Richborough, which has more than quadrupled in size since we worked there 40 years ago, but which is now closing down. As the largest employer in the Thanet area, its closing came as a great shock to many and as the facilities were largely custom-built for the specific purpose of manufacturing antibiotics and other pharmaceuticals, it is very unlikely that there will be a purchaser for the plant in the foreseeable future. But Sandwich was looking great. The restaurant was an inn dating back to the 15^th century, but even this is modern when compared to the Fisher Gate through which we walked to get there. Fisher Gate was built in 1348, and was one of the few entrances to the town through the old wall. Another, the Barbican, still serves as a road entrance as one crosses the river, but the tolls we had to pay 40 years ago when we worked at Pfizer are no longer collected as the traffic jams became too long. The lunch was very good, and we have been very impressed with the quality of pub food generally.

One more day in Margate, during which we caught up with friend from the past, and we left to spend the next few days at Herne Bay

 

 

I forgot to mention in my last blog that the Swilcan burn runs through the Easter Kincaple farm before it reaches The Old Course. It took about 10 minutes to walk from the farm house to the burn, and here are a couple of pictures, one on the farm, the other on the course.

 

 

 

Anyway, we left St Andrews in reasonable weather and headed across country to the Kincardine Bridge. As we were following the route we had taken to get to St Andrews, it was nice to see the countryside with the sun shining. But the sun did  not last, and as we climbed through the boarder country and past the Lake District on the M7/M6, the mist and rain returned.

We found Rob and Sal’s with no difficulty, and spent a couple of enjoyable days there, including a visit to Bolton Abbey. Partly in ruins from Henry V111’s reformation, and partly still used as a Parish Church, and set in lovely riverside grounds, it  was a very pleasant place. Of interest were a set of six stained glass window depicting 36 biblical scenes, by the 19^th century designer Pugin. Pugin was responsible for the design of many stone churches in Tasmania, even though he never came to Australia.

At the end of our visit, we headed for Fleet to catch up with Kate, Roy and the girls. We had no difficulty with the first couple of kilometres or so, but  missed a turning onto the M62, and ended going the wrong way. When we realised our mistake, we thought we would cut across country to get to the M1, but found ourselves right in the middle of Huddersfield. Eventually we did reach the M1, but it  took a long time, and we arrived at Fleet, about an hour after Rob and Sal had arrived, even though they had left home about an hour after us. But we saw some lovely countryside and small villages. Arriving at Fleet a bit later than we had intended, we had little time to get ready to go to the Wellington Arms for dinner. The Welly was great. We had an excellent meal, and met a young woman, Bex, with whom Amy-Ann had worked when she was there last year. The two other staff we met were travellers like Amy-Ann had been, and had only be there a few weeks. The girl who brought the bottle of wine (an Australian pinot noir) to the table missed the glass completely when she tried to pour a drop for tasting, so asked if we would mind pouring it ourselves. Amy-Ann might relate to this! Unfortunately we had forgotten to take the camera, so have no photos from this memorable evening.

The following day we had a look around Fleet in the morning, and there are some wonderfully large houses set in nice grounds. But I also understand there are a lot of people in these houses mortgaged to the eyeballs, and having difficulty keeping up with their repayments! There are quite a lot of high-flyers who have had company cars, big houses etc, recently made redundant from what were reckoned to be well-paid secure jobs in IT and banking, that have now come a cropper. Having said that, there are still a lot doing very nicely thank you. We went to another nearby pub, The Crown and Cushion, for lunch. This was very pleasant, and after lunch, whilst Roy took Rob and Sal to Gatwick for their plane to Spain, we went with Kate and Martha to the nearby village of Farnham. We went to one shop which had ridiculously over-priced goods, (a set of six Laguiole steak knives at £135.00) commensurate with the supposed wealth of the area. It will be interesting to see how long it lasts. Then, whilst the ladies of our small party wandered around the shops, I retired to a 16^th century pub for another pint of beer, and waited for them there. That evening we had an excellent BBQ, and just sat in the garden until about 11pm, it still being very warm. During the couple of days we spent at Fleet, the daytime temperature was just about 30.  When we left on the morning of July 26, Martha treated us to a small house recital, singing an aria from Xerces, and Schubert’s ‘Trout’. Roy accompanied her on the piano, and it was a lovely way to end a very pleasant sojourn at Fleet.

We took a cross country route to Margate, avoiding the M25, and passed through some lovely villages. We stopped for lunch at a pub in the village of Shere, and arrived at Margate late in the afternoon. Again the weather was beautiful, with the temperature about 28, and we sat in the garden with Geoff and Pat, and consumed a bit more wine, beer and scotch than was probably good for us, but it was a very pleasant evening.

Travel Blog; July 18 to July 22 2012
One thing I forgot to mention in my previous blog, was the strange sight of a small tractor driving back and forth along the inter-tidal zone of beach at St Bees. At first we thought that maybe it was scraping up debris (syringe needles, plastic bags and the like), and then we thought that perhaps it had a permit to harvest sand-dwelling shell fish. In the end, we had to ask, and were told that he had a radiation detector fitted to the front, and he made daily checks of the beach for nuclear radiation that may have escaped from the local nuclear power station. Our informant was keen to point out that so far, no radiation had been discovered, and that the beach was perfectly safe. In witness to this safety, and despite the rain, there was a family of two adults and two small children (the only people other than the radiation detection man on the beach) building a sand castle.
Wednesday July 18 dawned as a very cloudy day. It was market day in Ambleside, so we went before breakfast to have a look. There were three stalls—fruit and veg; cakes; and one other that was so tented up because of the imminent rain, that we did not discover what it was actually selling. The fruit and veg stall certainly had fresh-looking produce, so we asked whether it was from local famers. The vegies mostly were, but the cherries were from Turkey, the plums from Spain, the oranges from South Africa, the asparagus from Peru and the apples from New Zealand. The cake stall had locally produced cakes, made of course from mostly imported ingredients. We bought some Eccles cakes, which were really just like I remembered them to be, and which I have never found in or around Melbourne. A truly international famer’s market!
Anyway, we left Ambleside straight after breakfast, and headed, in the rain, for Windermere and the road over the Kirkstone Pass. This road is the highest in the whole of England, and is spectacular—if you can get a glimpse of the valleys on either side through the rain and the mist!. Then on the Keswick and the M6 for bonnie Scotland. Flashing roadside display boards warned of the likelihood of heavy rain, and at times it really was. At other times the sun shone, and we enjoyed watching baby ducks and geese basking in the sun beside the lake at the Annandale Motorway services point as we had our morning coffee . But the rain started again, and we went through quite a number of minor floods on the way to St Andrews and our destination of Easter Kincaple. On arriving at the drive of the guest house, we were confronted by what looked like a moat with the drawbridge up—but it was nothing more than a huge puddle, some 50M long and the entire width of the lane. We managed to get through it without too much difficulty, but later we learned that several roads along which we had travelled earlier were by this time fully closed by floodwater.
The guest house is a very tastefully restored and furbished farm house, run by James and Lucy Cuthill, who are very good friends of Ann’s brother John. The farm has been owned by the Cuthill family since 1898, and is still very much a working farm, as well as the guest house. We were taken into St Andrews by James, to catch up with brother John, who had already booked a table for dinner at his favourite restaurant, The Dolls Hose. James insisted on dropping us off at the restaurant, and on collecting us later, so that we could really enjoy the hospitality! It was good to catch up with John, who we had not seen for about 5 years. He has now grown a beard, and looked very distinguished, if somewhat frailer than when we last met.
The following day, we went with John around the fishing villages of the EastNeuk, starting at Crail, passing through Anstruther (excellent fish and chips), Pittenweem, Sellardyke and St Monans. They are mostly tiny harbours, except Anstruther which is quite large; and Crail is perhaps the most picturesque. Crail claims to have the most photographed and painted harbour in Britain, and of course we had to add another photograph to boost the statistics. On this trip around the coast, we had a little rain, but nothing to worry about. Golf courses are everywhere, with several new courses developed recently. They all looked to be in very good condition, but several had a great deal of ‘casual water, from which one would get a free drop, if one could find somewhere dry enough to drop! Dinner this evening comprised all the food we had bought for our picnics, but which had not been eaten as the weather had been too inclement.
The following day was really one of eating and drinking with a variety of people, including our niece Gill, our nephew David, David’s partner Wendy, and of course John. Gill prepared a lovely meal and it was a great evening, sitting beside a roaring coal fire (first time for over 40 years). Who would had thought of the need for a coal fire in the middle of July!
On our final day in St Andrews, I was compelled to make a pilgrimage to The Old Course, and took the opportunity to walk to the Swilcan Burn. The fairway was glorious to walk on, and it was very difficult to tell where the fairway ended and the green began. Then it was farewells again, and we drove south to Rob and Sal’s just outside Leeds.

You may find this blog, like the flight from Melbourne to Manchester, rather long and tedious, but hopefully you will find that like the flight, the end result is worth the effort!
5.00pm, July 13, Helen and Phil came for a quick light snack (Auvergne omelette) before we headed to Melbourne Airport. We had already checked in “on-line’ and printed our boarding passes at home, so all we had to do at the airport was to check in the baggage. As we had already checked ourselves in, we went to the e-check-in queue, only to find it longer and slower than the ordinary check-in queue! So beware, do the on-line check in from home, but still queue in the ordinary line to get your baggage booked in!.
Time for a coffee and complete the green departure card, before farewells and going through the doors to the departure gates. However, somewhere between going through the doors, and reaching the passport control desk, Ann managed to lose her departure card—so a delay to the queue whilst she completed another! From there it just became the long tedious wait to get on the plane for the long tedious flight to Abu Dhabi. The in-flight entertainment was good—an excellent selection of classical music and what seemed like hundreds of films, tv programmes and the like all on demand. There was a good flight-path navigation system as well. We travelled almost the whole 14 hours in darkness, with the sun making a glorious entrance about 30 minute before we arrived. Looking down on Abu Dhabi it seemed a very desolate place, with a couple of emerald green golf courses visible in the otherwise barren brown landscape. There also appeared to be a lot of swamp-land which was being drained and/or built up in places preparatory to being developed into expensive water-side residential sites; and some already completed high-rise buildings of various architectural designs, including one which looked like a massive bodhran (Irish hand-drum) standing on its side. The airport terminal was much like any other but for the large rectangular glass capsules, like very oversized fish tanks, into each of which a dozen or so of those desperate for a smoke could go and puff away to their hearts delight. The other thing to note was that coffee left much to be desired! After about three hours, it was back through the screening process and boarding the plane for the next 8-hour leg to Manchester. A two-year old girl took a shine to me, and insisted on calling me ‘poppa’. Apparently her grandfather, who she was on her way to visit with her slightly older brother and her parents, also has a beard. Fortunately she did not discover me on the plane until we were nearly at Manchester, at which time she insisted on standing by my seat and jabbering in a totally incomprehensible way until everyone had to return to their own seats for the descent into Manchester. Apart from that, the flight was totally uneventful.
At Manchester we were advised to go through the e-passport exits for immigration control. But like the e-check in at Melbourne, that also proved to be a mistake. Admittedly the queue was shorter, but the process much slower. Most people did not know what to do, placed their passport the wrong way up in the scanner, and then had trouble standing still while the automatic camera took a picture for the computer to make a verifiable comparison. On average it took about 5 minutes per person, so the old traditional way of being checked by a real person seemed much more efficient, and the ordinary queue certainly moved along much faster. But at least it then shortened the time we had to wait for the baggage to come through on the carousel. After going through the ‘nothing to declare’ doors, we had to go the 13th (top level) of the car park to collect the hire car.
No dramas there, except that one of the lifts was not working and the two that were, were very slow. Now, I have heard it said that Manchester is one of the rainiest places in England, so we were very pleasantly surprised, when we got to the top of the car park, to find it being bathed in glorious afternoon sunshine! The collection of the car was very smooth, and the chap on duty very friendly and helpful. I paid using the travel-money card which worked well, and we headed for the Ramada hotel. It was easy enough to follow the route on the motorways, but once we were in the country lanes we got very lost. But we came across a shopping centre, where the locals were very friendly and helpful, and we were soon on our way again—but not before I tried to get some money from an ATM, which refused to process my card! We got to the Ramada at exactly the same time —to the second—as the bus carrying the Herne Bay trippers back from the flower show. So, we caught up with sister Brenda and brother-in-law Eddie at the hotel, and had a very enjoyable dinner that evening. But we were buggered by this time, and could not last the distance of the evening.
Saturday morning was crisp—about 16 degrees, —and sunny. We had a nice walk before a good breakfast, and were very impressed with the way the whole area had been developed, retaining a lot of woodland around what was otherwise a very large business park. After breakfast, the bus tour departed and we left to find the M6 motorway to go the Lake District. Once again we got hopelessly lost, and had to seek assistance from the girl managing the till in a small grocery shop we stumbled across by chance. She was very helpful, just like everyone we have met, and wrote out some very clear directions which took us through a couple of delightful villages, and eventually onto the M6. Two hours later we were in Ambleside, and checked into the Walmer Hotel.
The Walmer is very comfortable, and right in the centre of the town, so we could walk to everywhere—which we did. It is about 20 minutes to the actual lake (Windermere), but very well worth it. There is a lovely pub right on the lake side, with a large selection of local beers—several of which I tried, and found very much to my taste. This tasting in not pints of each, but the pubs offer small tastings of the local beers, of which there are many, as part of the tourist attraction. But I did have a full pint on one (Black Sheep Bitter) and we sat right on the bank of the lake, basking in lovely warm sun, for about an hour. Very nice. We also tried a pub right in the middle of Ambleside, which was very nice and atmospheric.
One thing very obvious in England just now is the wave of patriotic fervour sweeping the country, due in part to the Queen’s Jubilee, and in part to the Olympics. Every shop, pub and restaurant is bedecked with red, white and blue bunting and Union Jacks. There is so much about that I wondered whether a law had been passed making it compulsory. But no, I have been assured, it is all very willingly done on a purely voluntary basis.
On our last full day in the Lake District, we started, in bright sunshine, to drive across to the west coast by way of Keswick, Derwent Water, Buttemere, Crockermouth and Whitehaven. The scenery is stunning, and it was an extremely enjoyable drive. We went to St Bees, which has an interesting history. Very small now, it was once a thriving religious centre, being the first religious training college to be established after Oxford and Cambridge. Today it is noted for being the start of the ‘Coast to Coast Walk’. From St Bees, where it started to rain, we went to Ravenglass, a remarkable small fishing village which also boasts a Roman Bath House, and from there we headed through ever increasing rain, back to Ambleside by way of Coniston.
For dinner this night, as it was still raining, we went to the very nearest restaurant, where we had the best meal so far! (confit de canard for me)
Well, that concludes the first of the travel blogs. I shall resume (if any of you are still interested) after a few days at St Andrews.

In the early days of the 1665 plague in London, the Lord Mayor got it into his head that cats and dogs were the cause, and ordered that as many as possible be destroyed. The unintended consequence was an explosion in the population of rats, which by way of their fleas were the real culprit, and a marked increase in the rate of plague infection.

Here in Whitehorse, the local Council now requires pet owners to keep their cats and dogs in at night, and whilst I have not seen any increase in the local native wild-life, which was the laudable intention of the regulation, there does appear to be a significant increase in the local population of rats—-the same unintended consequence that the Lord Mayor of London experienced in 1665! I hope that Yersinia pestis does not make its presence felt here.