Blog

The day came along and we huddled,

With Daisy the dog left to cuddle.

We walked, talked,

Not feeling too hot,

Fearing both rain and puddle

With Cammo our aim we trekked.

The shoes and the pants we wrecked,

To get through the sludge,

And twigs that don’t budge,

Building up quite a good sweat

We spaded and barrowed and raked,

In quite an impressive rate.

We all kept on going,

Putting off slowing,

Ignoring our muscles that ached.

Nearer came noon and our ruckus,

Feeling the hunger among us.

We sat, ate,

Needed no plate,

To feast on our sandwich with hummus.

Despite the magnificent lunch,

And the cold that packed quite a punch.

We returned to the field,

Refusing to yield,

To mountains of mud and mulch.

We gave it our all as a team,

It was quite the wonderful scene.

Pulling and clearing,

Sludge disappearing,

With Daisy just running in glee.

Twilight then came and we stopped,

And back on the bus we hopped.

Happy and seated,

For the job we completed,

And back on our warm beds we plopped.

 

By Markos Ioannou

The padlock clutched the gate, hanging there, the little wind there was having no effect on its stationary form. The ever-reliable clamber of golfers, the ping of the balls fighting against the air as the club strikes and then falls as the holder inspects the quality of his shot. The cries and songs of the birds sitting, flying, posing against the early morning sun as it captures the landscape in its all-encompassing glare.

The birds move. A new presence disturbs them from their routines, they fly and scatter as the serenity is broken. The war was about to begin. The dirty weekenders had arrived, group by group marching towards their opponent with murderous intent, weapons in hand.

Sea Buckthorn, had ravaged the land, spreading across its boarders and inhabiting the dunes that for many a year had been left undisturbed. It was in a hollow that the main battle took place with the dirties sheer numbers overcoming the lighter smaller bushes and eventually even the stronger buckthorns succumbed to the relentless bite of mattocks. The birds looked on, staying away from the conflict only occasionally would a pheasant stray close to the seen only to call in alarm as it witnessed the carnage taking place below it.

The bodies of buckthorn were strewn across the hollow only then to be piled and eventually burned, the fire removing all trace of the life that once existed in their branches. There was a brief lull in the action as the dirties took respite with sandwiches passed around as they talked about the deeds they had done that morning.

Greater deeds were yet to come, as many among the feasters talked about heading down to the shore and heading out into the Firth. Their nemesis was not only found in this area and determined to rid any dune of their plague attempts were made to reach the north side of the firth. The cold sea bit and scratched at their skin and the waves tore through their ranks as they swam and fought against its might. In the end the attempt was fruitless, though the dirties could clear the dunes of the sea buckthorn, the sea was a barrier they could not surpass. Instead they warmed themselves by the fallen foe as it burned. The flotilla of Eiders sat out in the firth gloating at the attempt, the Razorbill gave an inquisitive glance but preferred to ignore the apes.

Sun was drifting away and the dim of the evening started to creep into the hollow, the cold air now becoming dominant over what rays still penetrated the slopes. It was time to leave. The army of workers now trudging away silent, their tools underarm. The deer would stop to watch the curious march of this group as it made its way back to the vehicles that brought them in the first place. Aberlady was once again quiet, the golfers long gone home for tea, the low call of the sea as it broke upon the rocks sending spray up into the air, the whisper of the once excitable birds fell lightly upon the ears of the shyer wildlife that inhabited the dunes and the maze of thorns. They looked out, sniffed the air and realised something had changed.

By Gareth Powell

The Saga of the Dirty Weekenders

Narrator: The world is a chaotic and confusing place, one which you can perhaps never hope to truly understand. It is full of suffering and injustice, but also small glimmers of hope and beauty. As the Earth turns on its axis, billions of complex interconnected stories are being written, ones of hope, betrayal, stubbornness and mundanity. The world is not changed by one hero but by the small acts of a few. Let me tell you a story, a story about a group of people who against all the odds, work tirelessly to help this great world flourish. They, and many others like them, are the reason why humanity still has a chance.

Scene 1: Pleasance Courtyard, the renowned meeting place of the Dirty Weekenders. A small crowd is gathering, word of their accomplishments have spread across the land. The Master of the Tools carefully arranges the legendary spades, mattocks and gloves for the brave volunteers.

Leader: Friends you have shown great courage, braving the bitter coldness of a January morning and managing to get up at the godforsaken hour of 10 O’CLOCK in the morning. Here we believe in justice for all humanity (and dogs, actually mainly dogs…) Together we shall help create a better world!

Wild cheers from the crowd. People whisper excitedly to their neighbors.

Seasoned Dirty: Today we must travel east to Duddingston, to assist the townsfolk in these hard times. The journey will be long and arduous, some of you will not make it but your name will be carved in the Stone so you will never be forgotten.

New Volunteer: So, what brought you here, the desire to help the common good, a passion for the preservation of the purity of nature?

Volunteer: Me? I mean yeah that’s cool but you know (whispers) they have the best sandwiches in the land and (dramatic pause) biscuits.

Scene 2: Duddingston community garden, where food is grown by the locals and the place for the walking of the dog. On their journey the Dirties gained (well bribed, conscripted etc.) some more members.

Local Resident: Oh valiant Dirties we are immensely grateful that you answered our call for help. There is so much that we could not achieve without you.

Seasoned Dirty: Gather your tools, there is much to be done.

The volunteers scatter and being to work on their respective jobs

Volunteer 1 (pushing a wheelbarrow): This hill is mighty steep, but this sand and gravel must be moved to its rightful place! (beginning to tire) Must get to the top, must get to the top…. (collapses in exhaustion and another volunteer takes their place.)  

Volunteer 2 (planting trees): They are beautiful aren’t they, to think that this tiny sappling will eventually grow into a majestic tree.

Volunteer 3 (digging over ground): Look potatoes! We could use this as ammunition, err I mean to feed the starving! (quickly gets back to digging)    

Scene 3: The Hearth (fireplace), where the Dirties go to receive a well-earned break from their hard work. Much attention is given to the puppy that one of the locals have brought along.

Local Resident: Without your work, we could not have restored the great forest or removed those Minor Trip Hazards, we are eternally grateful. Please accept our gifts of some hearty broth, wholesome bread and sweet, sweet cakes.

The Dirties eat ravenously and talk endlessly about their hard-work (and pet the dogs) over the meal.

Seasoned Dirty: The time has come my friends to begin the game that is Ratchet Screwdriver, a test of strength, endurance and dirty-tactics. Those who succeed shall have proven their worth to this cause.

The volunteers gather in a circle and violently try to prevent each other from getting to the Centre, which is a place of divine privilege. There is much grunting and shrieking.

Volunteers (talking over each other): I was so close, Is Britain an island? Is eye-gouging allowed?….. Ratchet Screwdriver! (everyone dives into the center)

Local Resident (watching from afar): The Dirties have some rather strange rituals for people dedicated to helping the impoverished.

Town Elder: They work in mysterious ways my friend, very mysterious ways.

Volunteer: Let us dry ourselves by the glowing hearth. (stands close to the flames, steam beings to emerge from his clothes.) Arrrgggh! My buttocks are on fire!

Volunteer 2 (laughing): Don’t be silly it’s just the water evaporating. Now let’s get this fire roaring.

Well fed and watered, some slowly return to their original work. Others coppice some willow and dig swimming pools for the humble toads. 

Volunteer (excitably): Look I found some real treasures while digging, some bricks, some glass and some fancy bits of pottery. (holds up tiny blue speck)

Volunteer 2 (staring into the distance): We have done a good thing today, I think that I feel (pause) content.

Leader: Come fellow Dirts, let us return home to the ale house and celebrate another successful adventure. (cheers from the volunteers)

Narrator: And so they took the long road back home, the townsfolk watching them go in wonder. The treasures they found now reside in the Duddingston museum for all the public to view in awe reminding them of their saviors. Once again these noble souls have helped to make the world a slightly better place.

Curtain Falls, THE END

 

Written by Peter Tyler