World Cup 2006 Mix

Mr Big's great big bulldozer

It was George the dog who first spotted the big red bulldozer. He was as surprised as I was, seeing it squatting there in the middle of the rough ground where we often walk.

The rough ground is a hundred acres of boggy grassland next to the Aintree Asda, enclosed by the M57 motorway to the north. George and I reach it through an archway under the railway line. Its a peaceful place, a mix of grassy scrub and dense bramble with the beginnings of a woodland habitat.

Its a wilderness place where kids can explore, play cowboys and indians - or maybe these days squaddies and Taleban - and, by osmosis, absorb an empathy for the natural world. Its a kind of secret garden, to be discovered, enjoyed and, above all, protected.

There is birdlife galore and loads of rabbits. Though George, despite having, allegedly, some lurcher in him, is pretty dozy when he sees a rabbit. No idea of bringing one home for the pot. Instead, waggy-tailed, he ambles off to say hello. By which time they’ve vanished back into the brambles.

But we both love the rough ground. It’s on the edge of the city and is wild and uncultivated, gradually becoming a wet woodland habitat in which alder, birch and willow will thrive. I’ve often wondered who it belongs to and how this little island of nature has survived, untouched, ignored.

How naive I was. The red bulldozer was the first ominous sign that our little paradise was under threat. George, friendly as ever - except to staffies - ran up to greet the ‘dozer driver. He’d already cleared hundreds of square yards of grass and scrub, exposing brown, peaty soil.

This was not a happy man. As we chatted he confessed he didn’t really want to be doing this. He’d already phoned his boss once, asking if he was sure this was what they were supposed to be doing: clearing all plant life, grass, bushes and trees, from the site.

Yes it was, apparently. And a chat with some locals, drawn by the sight of the ‘dozer at work, revealed the grim truth. Which is that the site belongs to an Isle of Man developer who paid, I’m told, some £650,000 for it at auction a few years ago. It had been a wet, boggy field.

In the years since Mr Big acquired it, it had reverted to nature. The miracle of self-seeding had turned this poorly-drained pasture into a rich new habitat. Left alone, this no mans land between city and farmland would have become a rich wildlife sanctuary.

But now it looks as though greenfield will become brownfield, the profit imperative will roll back nature’s presumptuous landgrab and hundreds of hutches for humans - so convenient for Asda and the motorway, don’t you know - will replace what was Watership Down in embryo.

Will Mammon always trump Nature? Can this secret garden be saved? I think, dear readers, that you already know the answers to these two questions: Yes and No.

stop, look and listen

Street preachers are, in their own way, busking. Not for material reward, of course, but for spiritual riches.

Love old postcards like this, in fact a contact print from a glass plate, in real sepia. This is 16 meg but the original is far more rez and lovely to look at in detail with a loupe. It is marked in pencil as being a leper colony. I am not so sure. I think it could be a troupe of travelling players.

Luther is a very fine cat but he can look quite scary when you catch him off guard