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The Dirty Weekenders met one more

On a bright and bonny Sunday

To ride for Dalkeith was their aim

They were sure ’t would be a fun day

 

They rode aboard a Lothian bus

Down the winding roads

And arrived at Dalkeith country park

Carrying their loads

 

A ranger waited for them there

And lead them through the fields

To a steep and muddy slope

Where steps were to be built

 

And so, with mattock and with spade

The work began apace

They hammered posts before the planks

To hold them fast in place

 

Soon once where the slope had been

A row of steps appeared

And now a walk down the hill

Was no longer to be feared

 

Upon this moment of success

A great luncheon was eaten

Of those famous sandwiches

It’s said cannot be beaten

 

Then several Dirties brave and bold

Went back up to the field

To play some ratchet screwdriver

On the grass, they kneeled

 

 

 

Twas a very rowdy game

As in the mud they almost fought

When bystanders witnessed from afar

Who knows what they thought?

 

Refreshed by this lunch and sport

The Dirties sought a whole new foe

Which grew on the bridge crossing the Esk

And there the dirties they did go

 

Ivy! Such a challenge ’twas

To wrench it from those old stone walls

And then look upwards in dread

Lest on their heads the leaves did fall

 

Others worked upon the path

As some strong ivy refused defeat

Rope was called for, and the help

Of a dozen dirties’ feet

 

Clasping to the rope they pulled

And pulled with all their fearsome might

Till the ivy snapped, and fell

Into the river, ’twas a sight!

 

The day was drawing in by then

A hard day’s work was surely done

They said goodbye to the merry park

And waited by the bus-stop in the sun

 

The tales of the day were told that eve

Gathered round at the Auld Hoose

Till the next week, then my friends

When the Dirties shall again be loose!

 

Morgan Powell

Sunday 5^th March 2017

“Gale force wind winds” I remembered the met office parroted as I walked past the grey stone tenements pleasance towards the tool cupboard. “Perfect day for a trip to the beach” I muttered as I walked through the gated arch and saw a group of fleeced Dirties huddled in the shelter of the old cargo container. The sun had definitely thought better of joining us; A persistent rain was falling and the wind seemed to be doing its best to strip the coat from your back then square you up for a fist fight.

Inclement weather or not, plenty of people showed up to take on this weekend’s task. Kenworthy had been sent word from Count Sil and Eden Burgh, the two big shots in charge of this town, that a punk going by “Japanese Rose” was causing trouble down in Cramond. Apparently they were messing up the dunes, rare enough places these day, plus important for a bunch of birds known as Curlews. That was good enough for me, so we loaded the mattocks and rode the 41 down to the shore front.

The wind kicked up a gear or five as we headed down from the village past the yachts huddled on the mouth of the Almond. The causeway across to the Island has already sunk  under the grey water for the day and  the dunes stretched  100 metres to the east. We got our first look at Japanese Rose, a spiky customer who fought spine and thorn when you started pulling, then snapped just as you had got a good hold. Still, there isn’t much that can stand up six or seven mattocks.

Some tree regrowth was also trying to muscle in on the dunes but they got no sweeter treatment than the rose and soon bundles of sticks were being dragged across the sand to the refuse pile. Between the de-vegetation and litter picking it was grim work, but they don’t call us “The Dirty Weekenders” for our internet search history.

Mears stared too long into the abyss of thorns and roots, for a while we weren’t sure he would make it back. He made it out though, retreated to build a wind break to keep the sand out of our sandwiches.

The wind was to much to much for some of us and headed back to town. The rest went back to business,  there was too much rose to clear but we made a dent. Last thing was to roll Mear’s windbreak off the beach, pull our soggy coats around us and  head to the Hoose to try to drown out the howling of the wind with drink and nachos.

 

Will

(for actual Noire fiction follow this link http://ae-lib.org.ua/texts-c/chandler__the_big_sleep__en.htm)

Last month, instead of the usual project fare, the Dirts headed to Craigmillar Castle Park in the South of Edinburgh to learn about winter tree identification. The course was run as part of the RSPB’s Young Roots Project, which the Dirties have been involved with for about a year and a half now.

Identifying tree species in the winter is quite a skill and requires much keener observation than in the Summer. In the winter, broadleaf trees generally lose their leaves, flowers and fruit, all things that we usually rely on to ID the tree, meaning we have to look for more subtle signs. Given that the Dirts do most of their tree-felling and pruning in the winter months, it’s a useful skill for us to have.

We started our day at Bridgend Farmhouse where we met Amber, our guide for the morning and began our tour with some staples of the British countryside, the wych elm (Ulmus glabra) and the sycamore (Acer pseudoplatanus). Both of these can be identified by looking at their buds, which are out for most of the winter season. Sycamores form bulbous green buds with alternating scales, resembling a fat beetle in my eyes, while wych elm buds are decidedly more round and red in colour.

We moved onto some other key species of British woodlands and learnt their distinctive features. The silver birch (Betula pendula) can be identified by its bark, the pedunculate oak (Quercus robur) and European beech (Fagus sylvatica) by its distinctive leaves that often stay on the tree, and the hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna) by its fruit and fruit stalks.

We found that the more we paid attention to the trees and our surroundings, the more our collective minds dredged up little snippets of information about the species and all of us became teachers. Birch bark makes a great tinder, yew trees play an important role in folklore, elder bush branches can be fashioned into flutes, etc..

As our eyes became more attuned to what had become a treasure hunt for interesting specimens we came across remnants from when Craigmillar Park was a private garden in the early 1900s. We found what we think was a himalayan pine with long soft needles and a patch of some sort of bamboo, which both stuck out against the mostly leafless woodland.

We sat at a park bench and got out a load of books and put our new ID skills to the test with some twigs that Amber had gathered from Kelvin Grove in Glasgow, helped along by biscuits and penguin-huddling to stave off the cold. Many were species that we had seen that morning but many more were exotic species, a reminder of how integral people are to cultivating our woodlands, especially in urban areas.

I think we all learned a lot on our morning botanical excursion, and it certainly showed how interesting woodlands can be when you pay more attention.

__Here are some links to help you start identifying trees in the winter:__
Woodland Trust Nature Detectives Twig ID sheet
Paul Kirtley’s blog post on winter tree ID