Why is there so much anger around country paths?

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/sep/01/anger-country-paths-landowners

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When the Ramblers Association recently launched its Big Pathwatch, urging walkers to upload pictures of overgrown footpaths, I considered it a bit silly. Poor hard-pressed councils tasked with footpath maintenance – can’t walkers stamp down a few stray nettles? After a stinging wade along the bridleways of Buckinghamshire, however, I’m all for app tale-telling.

It wasn’t just fast-growing nettles and brambles but teasels, thistles, young oaks and hogweed as high as a horse. And this 35 miles from London, in the Tory shires, where keen trampers take to the lanes in battalions and steel swing gates have been installed in memory of members of the local U3A group.

Apart from council cuts, the problem appears to be that many landowners regard footpaths as an unfortunate relic from pre-enclosure days, when peasants swarmed unimpeded across the countryside. Virtually every fence has a warning sign attached. “Private” (it’s really obvious where the footpath goes), “Beware of the bull” (there never is one) or “Vermin control in progress”.

To be fair, most notices plead with walkers to stop their dogs harassing sheep and cows. But even these can be forbidding. “Please don’t let me GET SHOT” said one sign alongside an image of a cute Jack Russell, holding a lead – rather than the usual bleeding sheep’s head – between its teeth.

A few Farmer Palmers – the gun-toting Viz stereotype – prefer the unwritten sign. In the Chilterns, one demonstrated his contempt for the ancient right of way wiggling through his farmyard by dumping a load of manure over it. Further on, two dead crows had been left on the path.

I am a country person but, at times, Buckinghamshire felt bristlingly hostile

As I waded through a fourth field of thigh-high wheat, I didn’t curse the farmers for sowing across the path (they can’t fiddle about cutting paths for my enjoyment) but silently blamed local residents for not walking these routes. They’d be kept open if regularly trodden. Use it or lose it.

But perhaps people aren’t footing our paths because of the cumulative effect of all these signs. I am a country person but, at times, Buckinghamshire felt bristlingly hostile. This is a shame because when I actually bumped into rural landowners, they were always friendly and interesting. They channel rage into the signs.

Going on hols in a hand cart

I’d like to meet the futurologist who predicted the rise of the hand cart. I first saw people pulling these old-fashioned four-wheeled trolleys at festivals, where their metal cages clank with beer (Glastonbury) or small children (Latitude, Wilderness).

This bank holiday weekend, they reached my local beach, carrying tents, kites and other essentials. Their ubiquity shows how the path to the future is sometimes a trundle, rather than a high-speed zap. That said, we’ll probably have personal drones flying our stuff to the beach by the globally warmed summer of 2025.

Lucas for Labour leader

I’ve always rather po-facedly believed that journalists shouldn’t join political parties, so I abstained from activism until I paid £5 for a vote in Labour’s leadership election an hour before the deadline.

Like many, my registering to support the party I’ve voted for more than any other is not solely because of the excitement generated by Jeremy Corbyn, but because I felt so disfranchised by the general election. I’ve not yet been purged by “Operation Icepick” (although there’s still time). My dream candidate would combine Jez’s heart with Yvette’s head – and Andy’s eyelashes. There is someone who embodies these three attributes, but she’s called Caroline Lucas. The Green MP would storm this contest and she’d make an excellent PM, too. If Corbyn-mania unites opponents to austerity, that thought suddenly doesn’t seem quite so fantastical.