Opinion: When regen realities meet the right to roam
© Adobe Stock At the top of Big Field, tucked away at the edge of the trees that line the bridleway, is a bench.
It’s known as “Humphrey’s Seat”, in memory of the Rev Humphrey Llewelyn, vicar of this parish back in the 1980s.
See also: Opinion – a return to my spiritual home, the tractor cab
About the author
He was proper old school, arriving by complete chance on his Honda C70 at the back door just before Five Nations kick-offs, and never declining the half-time sloe gin.
He spent hours at the top of Big Field, watching his whippet, Charlie, take on the hare population.
He once suggested that we should meet up and run our two high-speed dogs together, Waterloo Cup-style. Old school, indeed.
Humphrey’s Seat had a stunning view south-west across the farm right up to Millbarrow Down.
It was the perfect spot to sit and rest a while. We planted a hedge up across Big Field, and in recent years it has grown to block the view somewhat.
Now it is under new management, of course, and hasn’t seen a flail in some time.
But an unkempt row of bushes is nothing compared with what has just happened to the magnificent vista across the South Downs.
A fence has arrived, only a couple of paces from the bench.
Not just any old fence; it is multi-stranded, supported with monumental posts, and has mesh that denies access to all but the Kate Mosses of the rodent world.
This fat farmer wouldn’t have a chance, of course. But then again, I did sign away “access” to these fields 18 months ago.
But it dawned on me as I surveyed the galvanised monstrosity (working out where to put the vaulting horse and signs for Tom, Dick and Harry – look it up, kids) that for the first time in my life, I cannot stroll across these fields as I have done for more than 50 years.
It’s not all bad news, though. The National Trust is simply physically enforcing the polite request we’ve been making to walkers and their dogs for 30-odd years: “Please keep to the footpath.”
The wildlife, trapped though it may be, is safe from rescue springers and, one hopes, late-night Subarus.
The locals aren’t terribly happy, though. The fencing contractors, hard at work on the 25km job, should be beaming – but their daily earful from irate Hampshire White Settlers may have taken some of the gloss off the job.
When I get asked, “what is going on?” I explain, with more than a hint of a smile, that it’s called “regenerative farming”.
Magic cattle are brought in to magically make fertiliser, and they need to be fenced in, and the public needs to be kept out.
“Regen” and public access are mutually exclusive. It’s one of a long list of contradictions that go with this trendiest of farming techniques.
This can come as a bit of shock to the average Bodenator, still reeling from the revelation that “rewilding” really means neglected acres of ragwort, thistle, docks and groundsel – or what we old-school farmers call “weeds”. They didn’t promise that on Countryfile.
And do I remind the more militant locals that they used to demand right of access across our fields because “they’re National Trust owned”?
The same fields that are now fully Trust-managed – and impenetrable? Of course not – but it’s tempting.