Saturday 5 March 2011

Get off my land


For millennia, the Great North Woods were the domain of Mother Nature, then the king – guess which one - rudely robbed her. And when Henry VIII said to the people, ‘Get off my land,” what he really meant was, stop stealing my deer or I’ll cut your hands off.

He stripped out its oaks to build his navy until all that remained of the once great forest were two slivers, Sydenham Hill Wood and the adjacent Dulwich Wood, whose ownership passed down to the Dulwich Estate. In around 1802, it’s recorded that one ‘Matthews the hairyman’ used to live in a cave up there, just one of the renegades that must have sought sanctuary in the woods or used them for crime. There are two murders on record; God knows how many others there might have been over the centuries.

Now, you can accuse the College of many crimes, but messing up the woods isn’t one of them. Well, that’s if you don’t include the nasty pikestaff fence that separates them from the golf course, or the deeply unattractive Wates development that chewed into the pristine greenery. But at least that damage won’t be done again, or we hope not.

The Dulwich Estate can pride itself on having protected the village and its environs against the filthy excesses of the planners for centuries. Lots of us live here largely because of that and regularly enjoy ambling in the woods, catching occasional glimpses through the trees of the shimmering city just four miles to the north.

However, many Dulwich residents will be unaware that the best local views of London aren’t from the woods or the top of Dawson’s Heights flats, nor from One Tree Hill or Horniman Drive; they are exclusive to the gardeners of Grange Lane and Rosendale Road allotments. But don’t think for a moment you’ll ever see them. The twin vistas are jealously guarded by the allotment-eers and those who dare try to catch a peek of them should prepare themselves for a dust up with a hoary-handed son of the soil.

My encounter went something like this:

‘Good morning.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I was thinking about putting my name down for an allotment, how long is the list?’

‘You shouldn’t be on here you know,’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Why are you up here?

‘I was thinking about an allotment and I wanted to see the view.’

‘It’s private property.’

‘I know, but I’m only having a look at the view.’

‘It’s not allowed. There’s been vandalism up here.’

‘I’m sorry about that but do I really look like an allotment wrecker?’

‘They call the police, you know, the golf club does.’

‘Are you going to call the police?’

Then you spot the next-door allotment holder bearing down on you, hoe at the ready, and it’s clearly time to leave.

Go on then, call the police, and if they can be bothered to turn out at all; unless I’m standing next to a burning shed with an empty petrol can and a box of matches in my hand, what do you think they’ll do? And whose land is it anyway?

But by then the bucolic euphoria has slipped away and you slip away with it.

The pugnacious gardener was a recent allotment holder. I could tell by his recent allotment, staked out and raked but devoid of plants. No point telling him I had been going up there for years to stand in the little paradise of blooms, beehives and happy farmers gazing at the spectacular view. Everyone knows that the BT tower is to the right of the big wheel, Sadie, Sienna, Jude and you Primrose Hillbillies, not to the left.

To be fair, it does say on the Grange Lane gates that allotment holders should try and discourage trespassers but what is trespass anyway? It’s not a crime that’s for sure. However, this custodian seemed perfectly prepared to fight with fork and fists to protect his thirty-foot long patch of dirt. Him and his mate looked like they would think nothing of beating me to death with a spade and shovelling me under the compost heap until ripe enough to spread like mulch on their tomatoes.

But it’s deep within us all no matter how we masquerade as clean fingered urbanites. Land. Without your own patch you are nothing, just a serf. So I sympathise with the veg men while at the same time feeling a bit annoyed that they exclude me.

From Grange Lane you can scan an arc encompassing Battersea Power Station and the City; from Rosendale Road the sweep extends to the Dome off to the east. To be up there on a fine day lifts the heart. But you’ll never experience it unless you are prepared to battle scary allotment holders worthy of Matthews the hairyman himself. Get orf moi land!

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