It's a rare week when
you can say your future hangs in the balance, but last week was such
a one with the hearing of our long-awaited planning appeal.
As a quick recap, we
have a plan to turn three acres of pasture land into a small-scale
farm based mostly on trees. Based meaning that the trees will provide
not just produce but a habitat in which other elements of our system
can thrive – such as chicken. We have worked out a plan based on
permaculture principles where all systems are integrated with the aim
being for zero waste. The human beings in the system are part of
that integration, thus waste and consumption flow seamlessly around
the whole venture. It's a complex system, but then so is nature,
which permaculture aims to echo.
All of this requires us
to live on the land, however the local planning department disagrees.
So having had our initial planning application turned down, we turned
to the planning inspectorate in the hope of having a, er, more
considered hearing.
Planning appeals are a
little like trials. Both parties have to supply proofs of evidence
before the proceedings and the planning inspector presides as judge
and jury. It's a painfully formal and dry affair as was evidenced by
the posture of some law students who were there to observe as part of
their course. Within ten minutes it was clear most of them had lost
the will to live – their eyes raised heavenward in despair as the
day loomed long before them. The atmosphere wasn't helped by the
temperature in the hall, which was very, very cold – in every
respect.
Since Gully was the
appellant and therefore a witness, I got to speak as a member of the
public. I had visualised being coherent, but failed. This is an old
problem – under pressure or in confrontational situations, I tend
to lose any ability to articulate and end up behaving like a
six-year-old. First I start blustering, then I turn to abuse and
finally end up in tears – often I do all of these at the same time.
My bosom pal, Beth, has the same issues leading to what we term the
'Yeah, but at least I've got friends' syndrome, in fond memory of a
particularly inarticulate difference of opinion she once had with a
flatmate.
Thus I babbled on
incoherently, trying to express to the men in suits how inspiring our
vision is, how much our application means to us and how committed we
are. The two lucid moments I had came courtesy of Einstein ('madness
lies in repeating the same thing over again and expecting different
results' and Ghandi ('be the change you want to see'). Apart from
that I made an arse of myself whittering on about just not being able
to understand the negativity.
And the negativity was
palpable. Three of the villagers had tipped up for a nice day out and
sat shaking their heads and rolling their eyes whenever they felt the
need – as did one of the members of the council team, whom I had
expected might have been a little more professional. But aside from
all that the gloomy surroundings of Tiverton town hall were beginning
to suck all the spirit and hope from me. Our glorious vision was
being suffocated by an outpouring of cynicism and dry arguments over
DM10s, Core 18s and PP7s. There came a point where I realised that
even if I was locked in a padded cell for a week with certain members
of the opposition they would still never grasp the essence and spirit
of what we are trying to achieve. It was like trying to explain
Chopin to someone profoundly deaf.
The next day I was
discussing career options with eight-year-old Matty, I was explaining
that some people went to university and studied subjects they were
either very good at or very interested in and that some studied
because they had particular jobs in mind. 'So, for instance,' I
explained ' you may want to go to university because you want to work
in a planning department and you need a degree that will enable you
to get that job.
But,' I added hastily,
'you don't want to do that.'
'Why,' said Matty.
'Because,' I said 'you
will lose your soul'.
'What do you mean?' he
asked.
I fumbled around in my
head for an explanation, then hit upon one. 'Well,' I explained,
'like the dementors in Harry Potter.'
 | |
| Planning official |
Dementors are not
visible to muggles. But they were there that day in Tiverton town
hall alright.
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