perplexing experience. There is no appropriate official body who would have responsibility for such a problem—perhaps there should be. No matter. I am a retired civil engineer, and I am a practical man, and I do not wish to fritter away my maturer years without aim: so, amongst other public duties, I have involved myself with the Civic Society. In fact, I am its Chairman. We have been concerned of late to draw more popular attention to the town and its great history. We are a backwater, Mr Tyler: Other places of considerably less significance are treated as shrines, whilst we are totally ignored. And yet parliaments were held here, crucial treaties negotiated here, and kings and barons and archbishops have all known our ancient streets. . . . But I digress. Amongst several schemes for developing this potential, the one which has achieved most acclaim, to speak without false modesty, since the idea is mine, is the erection of a viewing tower on Madberry Hill. You are a native of these parts, Mr Tyler?’
He scarcely paused for Ralph’s bemused nod.
‘Then you will certainly have climbed Madberry Hill at some time, if not often. It affords a most pleasing panorama of the town and surrounding countryside. And yet—it is not quite perfect. Trees obscure several perspectives, and the planning authority is most obstinate about them. They will not see the sense in removing them so as to create uninterrupted views at every point. Now, I am as conservation-minded as the best, Mr Tyler, but it is surely a question of priorities. The spinney is certainly not older than eighteenth century, and therefore scarcely venerable: and though it may have been planted around a more ancient residue, there is no proof of that. But, there: that debate is closed. The trees stay. It was all I could do to get their grudging agreement in principle for a patch of scrub in the centre to be cleared to facilitate the tower; and here we speak of merely gorse and bracken. No matter. The plans are now well in hand. It will surely be a fine monument, a great attraction. People, especially children, always like something to do once they have got to the top of a hill, don’t you think?
‘Well, now there shall be a Prospect Tower. The design is quaint and relatively unobtrusive; a stone-faced construction, with a spiralling staircase, of course, and curiously-shaped windows, arched, triangular, trapezoidal, and so forth. And on the battlement, or top platform, a metal plaque with a diagram depicting places of interest which may be discerned in the town below. And what will that do? Why, of course, inspire the spectator to descend and seek out those places he has espied from afar. And thereby bring the attention to the town which it justly deserves. It is all capital, capital!’
Ralph was unable to conceal a little impatience.
‘And yet . . . ?’ he began to prompt.
Frederick Bentley resumed his narrative hastily.
‘I was on the Hill yesterday evening. I was plotting in my mind’s eye where a few benches might be placed, and also thinking about whether the path through the spinney needed to be widened. We can hardly expect families, still less coach parties, to resort to the Hill as a beauty spot, unless it is improved a little. Parts are far too rough. Furthermore . . .’
Perhaps forewarned by an audible sigh from Ralph Tyler, the visitor paused in his description of the shortcomings of the Hill as a tourist attraction, and returned to the pertinent theme—eventually.
‘It was getting towards dusk. Oh, I was going to say that I had been idly looking at the vegetation in the spinney to see if it might represent another attraction—you know, “Visit Madberry Hill in its Summer plumage, a riot of delightful colour”, that kind of thing. Also, we need a name for the path; the Beech Walk would do nicely if there were more beeches, whereas the Ash Walk is a little too commonplace, if more faithful to detail. I came to no firm conclusion.’
He
He scarcely paused for Ralph’s bemused nod.
‘Then you will certainly have climbed Madberry Hill at some time, if not often. It affords a most pleasing panorama of the town and surrounding countryside. And yet—it is not quite perfect. Trees obscure several perspectives, and the planning authority is most obstinate about them. They will not see the sense in removing them so as to create uninterrupted views at every point. Now, I am as conservation-minded as the best, Mr Tyler, but it is surely a question of priorities. The spinney is certainly not older than eighteenth century, and therefore scarcely venerable: and though it may have been planted around a more ancient residue, there is no proof of that. But, there: that debate is closed. The trees stay. It was all I could do to get their grudging agreement in principle for a patch of scrub in the centre to be cleared to facilitate the tower; and here we speak of merely gorse and bracken. No matter. The plans are now well in hand. It will surely be a fine monument, a great attraction. People, especially children, always like something to do once they have got to the top of a hill, don’t you think?
‘Well, now there shall be a Prospect Tower. The design is quaint and relatively unobtrusive; a stone-faced construction, with a spiralling staircase, of course, and curiously-shaped windows, arched, triangular, trapezoidal, and so forth. And on the battlement, or top platform, a metal plaque with a diagram depicting places of interest which may be discerned in the town below. And what will that do? Why, of course, inspire the spectator to descend and seek out those places he has espied from afar. And thereby bring the attention to the town which it justly deserves. It is all capital, capital!’
Ralph was unable to conceal a little impatience.
‘And yet . . . ?’ he began to prompt.
Frederick Bentley resumed his narrative hastily.
‘I was on the Hill yesterday evening. I was plotting in my mind’s eye where a few benches might be placed, and also thinking about whether the path through the spinney needed to be widened. We can hardly expect families, still less coach parties, to resort to the Hill as a beauty spot, unless it is improved a little. Parts are far too rough. Furthermore . . .’
Perhaps forewarned by an audible sigh from Ralph Tyler, the visitor paused in his description of the shortcomings of the Hill as a tourist attraction, and returned to the pertinent theme—eventually.
‘It was getting towards dusk. Oh, I was going to say that I had been idly looking at the vegetation in the spinney to see if it might represent another attraction—you know, “Visit Madberry Hill in its Summer plumage, a riot of delightful colour”, that kind of thing. Also, we need a name for the path; the Beech Walk would do nicely if there were more beeches, whereas the Ash Walk is a little too commonplace, if more faithful to detail. I came to no firm conclusion.’
He
Similar Books
