Adapting Focus: Bilsthorpe Litter Pickers’ New Objective

Sunday, 5^th May 2024

In the year of our Lord, two thousand and twenty-four, in the month of April, on the fifth day of May, a Sunday, a day of rest and reflection, I find myself ensnared by the allure of numbers. Numbers, those cold, hard, unyielding facts of life, provide a comfort, a reassurance, a certainty in a world often devoid of such luxuries. They whisper to me, in their silent, unobtrusive way, that something, somewhere, is happening. That the world is not static, but dynamic, ever-changing, ever evolving.

When a process is birthed into existence, when the scope of its works has been agreed upon, a question arises, unbidden yet insistent. How does one know it is working? One could leap, with reckless abandon, into the labyrinthine world of management speak, of quality gates, inputs, outputs, and time constraints. But let us leave such matters to the aspirant youngsters amongst my readership, those bright-eyed, bushy-tailed individuals for whom the world is still a mystery to be unravelled.

The corporate battlefield leaves its scars, invisible yet palpable. They ache, these wounds of mine, crying out for a salve, a balm to soothe the pain. And so, I turn to numbers, my constant companions, my faithful allies. I measure the litter I pick, each piece a victory, a triumph over the forces of chaos and disorder. If such a pursuit seems sad, pitiful even, in your estimation, let it be so. Follow on, dear reader, for the journey is long, and the road is winding.

The measurements I take are not clinically accurate. They are rough, unrefined, a diamond in the rough. They would need further refinement, further verification, further challenge, and review before I would dare to offer them as empirical evidence of the cleanliness of Bilsthorpe. But they provide a satisfaction, a contentment, a knowledge that I am doing something, however small, to make the world a better place.

When I embarked on the journey that is Bilsthorpe Litter Pickers, I was plagued by doubts, by fears, by insecurities. The bags I collected were few, pitifully so, in comparison to the YouTubers I followed with such fervour. But then, I began to see posts from other litter pickers, posts that spoke of “only” picking a single bag. And I realised, in a moment of clarity, of insight, that one can only pick what is there. There is no “only” in litter picking. Each piece of litter picked, each piece of litter placed in a bin, makes the world a better place.

Measurement, that faithful ally of mine, allows for the challenging of assumptions, the questioning of processes. Are the outputs in line with expectation? If the answer is yes, one can move on, turn one’s attention to other matters. If not, one must ask, what is different? What has changed?

As I sit at my desk, in my study, writing this on a beautiful Sunday morning, I can say, with certainty, with conviction, that Bilsthorpe does not have a litter problem. Measurement tells me so. There is litter in Bilsthorpe, yes, but it is an irritation, a minor inconvenience, rather than an endemic issue. The Skate Park will always suffer, always bear the brunt of the litter problem, simply because of the age of its users. Education is required, from the earliest days of infant schooling, to change this mindset. But such change is slow, painstakingly so. We are at least thirty years from seeing any effect in the community.

So long as the litter is being picked up, the litter can be managed. The focus of Bilsthorpe Litter Pickers is now more on maintenance than clearing. We are the custodians of our environment, the guardians of our world. We must protect it, cherish it, for it is the only one we have. And so, dear reader, I leave you with this thought. Each of us has a part to play, a role to fulfil. Let us do so with diligence, with dedication, with determination. For in the end, it is not the grand gestures, the monumental achievements, that make the world a better place. It is the small acts, the everyday deeds, that truly make a difference. Let us all strive to make a difference, however small, in our own way. For in the end, that is all that truly matters.

Refocus, Carry On

Bilsthorpe, is a village in the throes of growth, of expansion, of change. New housing, like mushrooms sprouting after a rain, are springing up, bringing with them younger families, fresh blood, new life. And with this influx of youth comes an inherent growth in the pool of natural litterers, those careless souls who discard their rubbish without a thought for the consequences.

When I traverse the streets of the Village, my trusty bag in hand, I rarely collect more than a bag of general rubbish. The historic litter sites, those places where rubbish has accumulated over the years, are dwindling, disappearing, fading into the sands of history. The hedgerow on Eakring Road, stretching from Swish Lane to Deerdale Lane, is a site yet to be tackled, a challenge yet to be faced. But it must wait, wait for the winter die back, wait for the time when the hidden treasures within its depths can be unearthed.

This shift, this change in focus, means that the application of the Bilsthorpe Litter Pickers will be directed towards those areas not visited by the Parish Council’s litter picker. A conversation will need to be had, a dialogue initiated, to understand his routes, his paths, his trails, and to work out a plan that complements, that enhances, that dovetails with his efforts.

And then, the gaze must turn further afield, beyond the boundaries of Bilsthorpe, beyond the familiar, the known, the comfortable. The Old Eakring Road in Clipstone Forest, a place marred by the scourge of fly-tipping, calls out for attention, for care, for healing. The task of cleaning it up is daunting, a Herculean effort, especially when one considers the challenge of getting the Big Beast, that faithful companion, to the site. But the rewards are plentiful, for the dogs would have plenty to do while I pick, plenty to explore, plenty to discover.

Looking even further afield, Mansfield cries out for help, its streets littered, its beauty marred. The surrounding villages, too, have their grot spots, their areas of neglect, of decay, of disrepair. But venturing to these places would mean driving, would mean leaving the dogs behind, those faithful companions, those loyal friends. The A614 and A617, those busy thoroughfares, need work, need attention, need care. But they are too dangerous, too treacherous, even at their quietest, to be considered as candidates for litter picking.

For now, Bilsthorpe, with its growing population, its expanding boundaries, its changing landscape, has more than enough to keep me amused, to keep me occupied, to keep me engaged. The task is daunting, the challenge is great, but the rewards, oh the rewards, are plentiful. For in the end, it is not the grand gestures, the monumental achievements, that make the world a better place. It is the small acts, the everyday deeds, that truly make a difference. Let us all strive to make a difference, however small, in our own way. For in the end, that is all that truly matters.

The April Music Show

The April Music Show, a symphony of sounds, a cacophony of notes, a melody of harmonies. If you venture to Hive Five, you will be greeted by music, a constant companion, a faithful friend. Early morning, as the sun peeks over the horizon, casting long shadows and bathing the world in a soft, golden glow, music will be there, a gentle lullaby to welcome the new day. At noon, when the sun is at its zenith and the world is ablaze with light and life, music will be there, a lively tune to match the vibrancy of the day. And in the evening, as the sun dips below the horizon and the world is bathed in the soft, muted hues of twilight, music will be there, a soothing serenade to bid the day farewell.

Music, that ethereal entity, connects directly to the soul, bypassing the mind, the intellect, the ego. It is intensely personal, a reflection of one’s innermost thoughts, feelings, desires. On this subject, my taste is infallible, a testament to my discerning ear, my refined sensibilities.

As the weather improves, as the chill of winter gives way to the warmth of spring, the surrounding gardens start to compete, each vying for attention, each striving to outdo the other. But so far, they have all been awful, a discordant symphony of sounds, a jarring cacophony of notes. Most of what has blown over the fence is the worst Eurovision Eurotrash, a genre of music that grates on the ears, that assaults the senses. Awful, simply awful.

In my early years, when I was but a fledgling music enthusiast, I would attend concerts, immersing myself in the world of music, losing myself in the rhythm, the melody, the harmony. Flyers would be handed out, listing albums from bands I had never heard of, would never hear. I would wonder what they sounded like, would imagine their music, their sound, their style. Probably their success was matched by the sales they achieved and sank without recognition, disappearing into the abyss of obscurity.

In the town where I grew up, we had one actual music shop, a haven for music lovers, a sanctuary for audiophiles. The next time I am back there, I will look, see if it is still there, see if it has withstood the test of time. I have a feeling that the site has been developed, transformed, changed. It was certainly still there in the 1990s, a beacon of musical discovery, a treasure trove of auditory delights. I would go there for the more obscure records, the ones that Boots or Rumbelows did not stock. Davids was always a stop, a destination, a pilgrimage. Even to just flick through the records, to admire the album art, was a joy, a pleasure, a delight.

Today, in this age of technology, of innovation, of progress, streaming technology has opened the world to my ears. I can now search for bands that were once listed on those flyers, find the music that no one else has found, discover the hidden gems, the overlooked masterpieces. When I do find it, and if I do like it, I will search out and buy physical copies of the artist’s music, a tangible testament to my appreciation, my admiration, my respect. Spotify, and all streaming platforms, is robbing creatives with its obscene royalty structure, taking from those who give so much. In a just world, something would be done about it, some action would be taken, some change would be made.

In the labyrinthine alleys of sound, I, a solitary wanderer embark on an odyssey, a ceaseless quest for the quintessence of melody. The world of music, a cosmos brimming with infinite novelties, beckons the seeker to delve into its depths, to unravel its mysteries, and to savour its delights. It is a journey that transcends the mundane, a pilgrimage in pursuit of the sublime.

The wanderer, with ears attuned to the harmonious cacophony of existence, discerns the symphony in the silence and the rhythm in the chaos. Each note a beacon, each chord a revelation, each melody a narrative of the soul’s sojourn through the vicissitudes of life. In this quest, there is no destination, only the perpetual motion of discovery, the eternal dance of sound and silence.

Music, in its boundless forms, styles, and genres, is the wanderer’s companion, guide, and muse. It is the alchemist that transmutes the leaden weight of sorrow into the golden light of joy. It is the architect of bridges spanning the chasms between hearts. It is the painter of invisible canvases, the sculptor of intangible monuments, the weaver of unseen tapestries.

And in this relentless exploration, the wanderer finds solace, finds ecstasy, finds purpose. For music is not merely an art form; it is a conduit to the divine, a portal to the ineffable, a vessel for the transcendental. It is the gift that bestows meaning upon the inexplicable, the blessing that illuminates the darkness, the joy that uplifts the spirit.

To be eternally grateful for music is to acknowledge its power to heal, to inspire, to unite. It is to recognize the threads of melody that bind the tapestry of humanity. It is to accept the invitation to the eternal feast of sound, where every soul is both guest and celebrant, partaking in the sacred communion of rhythm and harmony.

Thus, the wanderer continues, a minstrel in the court of existence, singing the song of the universe, a melody that never ceases, a harmony that never fades, a rhythm that pulses with the heartbeat of creation. For in the world of music, there is always a new frontier, a new experience, a new joy. And for that, the wanderer is, and forever will be, eternally grateful.

BE A FREIEND TO THE EARTH