Didsbury's Tribute to Peter Cundall

The flier we'd received in our mailbox said the day's planting activity was to commence at 10am. Curious to see the 'Didsbury Lanes Association' in action, Kel and I wandered the streets near our place around 11am one Sunday morning. We rounded a corner and there they were in all their glory: a handful of 50- and 60-something ladies wielding pot plants and wheelbarrows whilst barking orders to an odd assortment of small children, attentive mothers and several men who seemed pretty unsure about their role in the whole thing. If Peter Cundall was still doing his thing on the ABC's Gardening Australia show, he would have undoubtedly described the scene as "bloomin' marvellous".

In an unlikely twist, when doing some research for this post I discovered Mr Cundall is, in fact, a former Mancunian (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Cundall for his bio). And yes, I confess I do not have a life and actually devote time 'researching' for my blog...

We said g'day to all and sundry, the ladies sized us up, and within minutes Kellie and I were given hanging baskets and a set of directions. Happy planting! According to Anton, the current president of the Lanes Association, Manchester City Council supplies the soil, seedlings and various paraphernalia. Volunteers (like us) do the 'donkey work' of planting and watering...and hey presto, you have a floral mardi gras in the making. See picture at left of a donkey about to be put to work.

We met loads of people on the day, with Kellie befriending a retired primary school teacher named Sylvie. We dropped in just last night to say hello and ended up leaving 3 1/2 hours (and 3 bottles of red wine) later. She practically pushed us out the door with a trio of rainbow trout that her husband Mike had caught plus a Bill Bryson novel for me to read. The generosity of people in the North really can be astounding - although having an Australian accent certainly helps.

No Fish-Kissing Please, We're British

Several weekends ago (yes, I know, I'm getting behind in this blogging thing) I was introduced to another quirky past-time here in the Old Blighty: coarse fishing competitions.

For unenlightened folk, which until recently included me, coarse fishing comprises fresh water-based fishing that aims to catch fish species which are, well, 'coarse'. If you think of coarse as meaning rough, or perhaps unsophisticated, you're getting warm. Carp happens to be at the top of many a coarse fishermen's list, which says a lot about the activity, if you ask me...

My mission was to travel down to a man-made lake near Birmingham and observe the creme-de la-creme of British coarse fishers as they endeavoured to catch as many fish as they could over a 4 hour period. I found it hilarious that the lake is sited in the middle of a golf course, envisaging fish and fishermen being peppered with errant drives off the 18th tee. In fact, there is a golf green positioned on the lake's island (see photo). I wonder if they issue fishermen with helmets?

The press release I received had promoted the event as:

"the greatest spectacle of international angling ever seen"

Suitably impressed by this glowing endorsement, I was rather excited about being part of a "spectacle", expecting an extravaganza of baited hooks and quivering rods. See the video footage of me below:

Sadly, I have to report that there was a vast gulf between my expectations and the reality of the day. The Gulf of Carpentaria would be a good size approximation. I think I spotted 3 fish being caught in 2 hours. Instead of being proudly shown off to an adoring crowd, when fish were landed they were furtively stuffed into holding nets, with 1 or 2 passers-by feigning some interest in proceedings. Here's a photo of the fishers in action, with absolutely no emphasis on the word 'action' whatsoever. And yes, your eyes are not failing you, they are using poles, not rod and reels...

If I was in any doubt about taking an early mark from this pure riot of colour and movement, the fickle English weather sealed the deal. I arrived hopelessly underprepared for the squalls that were skidding across a darkening sky, thus it wasn't long before I was wet, cold and at the wrong end of the lake to get a cab back into town. So, I did what any self-respecting Aussie would do when the chips are down, and promptly legged it across the nearest muddy field in the general direction of home...