Don Gorge Community Group: Important Announcement

FISH PASS & SMALL HYDRO SCHEME AT LOWER SPROTBOROUGH

CHANGES PROPOSED TO THE ORIGINAL SCHEME, WHICH WAS PLANNED TO BE ON THE LEVITT HAGG SIDE OF THE RIVER

This is the proposed new site on the island for the fish pass and small hydro scheme, along with the housing required for the electrical control unit.  This area is quite narrow and is currently used as a picnic area. 

We have been made aware that the Canal and River Trust (ex British Waterways) and the Small Hydro Company, which are in partnership, have agreed that siting this scheme on the south side of Sprotborough Falls is not now viable and so they intend to build it on the  north side, ie on the island. 

This has come as a complete shock to those of us who have been involved in the planning so far and we wish as many people who might have a view to consider the implications of this and contact us.  We had always had concerns regarding the siting of the housing required for the electrical control unit, etc, but were waiting for the planning application before considering objections.  However, although plans have still not been published, there seem to be many disadvantages to this proposal as follows:

·      This is considered to be an area of outstanding natural beauty and the island is a Site of Special Interest (SSI).   We believe that anything which might undermine the fragility of the island should only be undertaken after stringent assessment and consideration of all the possibilities.

·      Lower Sprotborough has been one of  Doncaster’s most attractive beauty spots for hundreds of years, one could even say the jewel in Doncaster’s crown, and as such should not be marred by large building/s which are out of character with the area..

·      Potential environmental damage to trees and habitat.

·      Access of all plant and machinery would be via Sprotbrough village, down Boat Lane and over the canal bridge for a period of approximately six months.  This would involve plant crossing the high pressure gas main supply to the village.

·      Disruption of traffic flows over the river during construction and also during cable-laying activity following construction, with the likely use of traffic lights for weeks or months at a time.

·      Potential weakening of the canal bridge.  This is protected at present due to the weight restrictions already in place on the river bridge.

·      The wall at each side of the gateway access onto the island would be in jeopardy due to the present width of the gateway and the anticipated size of plant and machinery.

·      Water flow rates are greater on the island side.  Would this defeat the object of enabling fish to ‘climb’ the ladder?

·      Weakening of the canal embankment due to heavy plant driving on and off and destruction of the surrounding area during construction. 

·      The possibility of increased flooding.   The island has been so landscaped that, when in full spate, the water will flow from the canal to the river over the island.   If it should flood during construction, there could be a danger that parts of the island would be eroded and washed away, particularly as the proposed site is on a narrow section of the island.  Could such damage actually split the island in two making access to the end of the island impossible?

·      Because of the fragility of the island, it seems possible that this erosion could be increased, not only during construction, but in the longer term as soil disturbance might have unforeseen consequences in future. 

·      If there is any change to the way in which rising waters are allowed to flow over the island - or, indeed, if debris in the filter beds causes backing up of flood waters, it is possible that The Boat Inn and the cottages at Lower Sprotborough could be more endangered than is the case at present.  As we know, the 2007 inundation resulted in flooding of them by more than a metre of water. 

·      One would expect that a geological survey has been carried out by the Small Hydro Company to ascertain the possibility of this risk.  If so, the results should be published.  If not, why not?

·      The installation of two buildings, one approx 12' square and 8' high - and even higher if it has to be raised up to take account of flooding.  Even with environmentally-friendly cladding, the size and height of these would destroy the natural beauty of the area.

·      Access to any viewing area (which was part of the original scheme) would only be available from the gate between the two bridges, which would be dangerous for pedestrians as there is no footpath on western side of the road.

·      The possible loss of use of the island for picnickers and anglers during construction and into the future.

·       Potential for loss of moorings for narrow boat users during construction and into the future.

·       Negative visual impact of debris being held back on filter grids required to protect plant.

·       Impact on environment and local residents from construction noise and activity.

·       Noise from generator equipment, etc, has been an issue on some sites where hydro-electric has been installed.  This will need to be taken into consideration because of its proximity to residents and the possible impact on visitors to the area who currently come because of the peace and tranquility the area offers.

·      The desecration of this beautiful area would be a tragedy and any organisation or profit-making company which claims to improve the environment by destroying it should be prevented from doing so.  

 Please contact lizreeve@dongorgecommunitygroup if you would like to make any comments regarding this.



Sprotborough Weir is just over the fence



Buyer Beware

It’s always exciting when, after searching for ages, you find just the thing you’ve been looking for.  When we moved into our renovated cottage nine years ago, we used a lot of the Ikea furniture we had brought with us from our old house, bookshelves in particular.  Some of these we used in the kitchen, fronting them with sliding doors so that we could store pots and food, and the rest went upstairs in the bedroom.  It may seem strange to display china and such like in a bedroom, but when that’s the only space you have to learn to be flexible.

To supplement our storage needs, we returned to Ikea and bought a unit which we hid behind a curtain, to use as a wardrobe and shoe store, and a chest of drawers for me.  In due course, we found a nice chest of drawers made of English walnut for Mick and I continued to hanker for one of my own.

A couple of weeks ago, an acquaintance died and, to support Mick’s brother, we went to Gainsborough for the funeral.  It was some time since we had been in that area, but we were reminded that Hemswell Antique Centre wasn’t far away and decided to pay a visit.

It’s a massive place, with lots of buildings full of brown furniture, which everyone seems to hate these days, but I love.  We had lunch and wandered around.  As usual, I had my eyes peeled for a suitable chest of drawers.  There were several on display, but there was always something not quite right, not quite high enough, not enough drawers, wrong sort of wood, condition not quite good enough.   You know how it is, that little ‘je ne sais quoi’ was missing.  Until….. there it was, standing by the wall, the chest of drawers I had imagined standing in the alcove in my bedroom for so long.  Right height, lovely sliding drawers, nicely polished, spot on.  The price was a bit high, but the owner agreed to knock £45 off and the deal was almost done.  But how to get it home?  We didn’t think it would fit in our car, so delivery had to be considered.  As deliveries are normally done through the Centre, we decided to ask at the entrance desk before committing ourselves totally. 

We were staggered to learn that the cost of delivery would normally be £120, but they had a van going in our direction that night and would reduce it to £70, but even this seemed outrageous.  We returned to inform the salesman that we were unable to finalise the sale as we weren’t prepared to pay such a high delivery charge, at which he offered to deliver it himself the next day at 11 am if we agreed to pay the full price.  We agreed.

By 11 o’ clock the next morning, we had cleared the route through the cottage to the alcove in the bedroom and were full of anticipation about our new acquisition, so when he arrived on the dot of eleven, we were impressed.  After removing the drawers, Mick helped him in with it and they proceeded to the stairs. 

Now, as in many old cottages, there are a variety of nooks and crannies which one wouldn’t find in a modern house: for instance on the outside wall, there are two windows, one above the other, which look out into the back yard and,  above the highest one, is a sloping bit where the roof begins.  On the side of the stairs, there is a bulge in the wall and, above that,  another ledge parallel to the stairs which sticks out.  I’m not sure of the reason for all this, but there you go, some things just are.  On top of these niceties, our stairs have a bend in them after the second step and, like all good, old furniture, the drawers were heavy.

Well, to cut a long story short, it wouldn’t go.  There was no two ways about it, it was just too deep.  

Back it came into the living room where a discussion ensued and it was decided that, if the top, which overlapped the drawers by a good inch all round, would come off, that might do the trick.  Twelve 2” screws later, it had to be turned upside down to enable the base to be pulled from the top.  After returning it to the upright position, they set off again.   “Left-hand down a bit”, “Rest it on the step for a minute”, “Tilt to the right a bit”, “Can you take the pictures off the wall and remove the plants from the window sill?”, could all be heard, tried and accomplished , but it still wouldn’t go round the corner.   The problem now was that the base stuck out a fraction and was stopping it going round the bend.  Perhaps if that could go into the window opening first, then they might stand a chance.    

By this time, I had decided to spend my time more profitably and was writing a reply to a letter I had just received from an old friend, describing the situation as it unfolded and hoping against hope that the drawers wouldn’t have to go back to Hemswell.  No doubt the seller was also praying for the same outcome.

 So, as I wrote, the drawers were returned to the living room to be turned upside down once more before setting off for the stairs for the third time.  I could hear the pushing, shoving and scraping going on, but decided to stay out of it.  A cost and benefit debate was going on in my head and I decided that so long as the wall didn’t fell down, any damage could be repaired later.  At last, with grunts and sighs of relief, it turned the corner and I heard two tired and weary men stagger up the rest of the stairs and into the bedroom. 

The top still had to be replaced and the twelve long screws driven into place, but that was a minor difficulty in the overall scale of the morning’s activities and I breathed a sigh of relief that the mission had been accomplished.  “Have you taken note of what you need to do if you need to take it out again?” The man’s voice came from above.  “You must be joking”, I returned.  “It’ll never come out again.  Now it’s in, it’s here for ever.”

Just the stair wall to paint and that plaster chip on the window surround to repair now!

© Liz Reeve

13.12.11

"My Sprotborough"

Lower Sprotborough

Playing tag in the lane, a tin bath in front of the fire,  rambling through the woods; walking up the hill to chapel three times on Sunday and my granddad shouting ‘hallelujah’; Miss Goodman’s village shop and characters with names like Mr Spink, Mr Sharp and Mrs Meek; a bucket toilet in the back yard, helping on the farm; the smell of washing drying round the fire, dough rising on the hearth; grass verges and few footpaths, old houses, the river, the canal and ice skating on the lake; sledging down Hill 60, ice crystals on the window panes, wet gloves and hot aches; shelling peas and harvest festivals; cats and kittens being born – and sometimes drowned; the little school in the village and a friend hiding tough meat under cabbage so that she would be allowed to leave it; the last horse-drawn barge and lads diving from the bridge on hot days; my mum and Mrs Lockwood cleaning the chapel and my dad taking us to the races; people picking blackberries or carrying armfuls of bluebells down the wood, just to throw them away when they wilted; catching the bus to Richmond Hill School and mourning the death of King George in 1952 before moving into the new school next door; chickens and collecting eggs; old bikes and pram trolleys; chilblains and scorched legs caught by huddling too close to the fire whilst trying to avoid the draughts; passersby asking for a drink of water; tying people’s door knobs together on Mischievous Night, and bonfire night with rockets and Catherine Wheels, and jumping jacks chasing us down the lane; politicians sending cars to collect last-minute voters; and listening to the radio, a life-long pleasure that meant so much to everyone in the 40s and 50s: Listen with Mother, Children’s Hour and Journey into Space, Chapel in the Valley and Morning Service, Mrs Dale’s Diary and The Archers, Round the Horn and the Navy Lark as we ate our Sunday dinner, and the excitement of winning the Ashes from Australia in 1953 for the first time in 19 years

These random thoughts course through my mind as I think of ‘My Sprotborough’.  For the first ten years and ten months of my life, the images of Lower Sprotborough that these thoughts provoke were my reality: enjoyed and accepted unquestioningly by the child I then was.  I thought what they represented would go on and on and that I would continue to be part of it all.  To me it was idyllic and I wanted it to last for ever. 

My childhood home

But on the 21st December 1954, my dad set off for Wales to see his brother on his BSA Bantam, never to be seen again.   The funeral was on Christmas Eve and what should have been a celebration turned into a wake.    The picture of my mother washing the hearth in floods of tears, as I stand by not knowing what to do or say, is the one that will stick in my mind for ever. 

I just about scraped through the 11+ and became a Percy Piglet, transferring to the Grammar School the following September, feeling quite grown-up as I travelled to Sprotbrough Road end and then caught the Woodlands bus to Adwick – no special buses for the few of us who attended Percy Jackson’s at that time, though a pass was provided.

By the time my five years there had passed, it was 1960 and Sprotbrough had changed even more.  Anything ‘old’ became expendable and ‘new’ became enviable.  Sprotbrough was becoming a desirable place to live and that meant more houses were needed.  During the next decade, in fields where we had played and held Summer Fayres, housing estates sprang up, older properties in the village were pulled down, and, with the railway line now obsolete, bridges were demolished and the cut filled in.  A new road and footpath was driven through The Park and the celandines and primroses that had so beautifully dressed the verges in Spring were gradually forgotten.   Sprotbrough acquired a manicured air, more suitable for the increasing number of vehicles and safer for pedestrians.   Even the name of the village changed when, for some reason unknown to me, and to my intense displeasure, the Council decided to take the heart out of it by removing the middle ‘o’.

They say disappointment always accompanies the return to a well-remembered place, but although I had married, had a family and moved away, I had never truly left.  It was still home, as my mother continued to live at Lower Sprotborough.  We had seen the transformation being made and, whilst being nostalgic for some of the losses, being the new generation, we recognised the benefits too.    We resolved to return and hoped we might carry any disappointment lightly.

We have now been back for almost nine years and, despite the flood of 2007, have not been disappointed.  We enjoy the benefits of modern life just as much as anyone else – who would still want a bucket toilet in the back yard for instance?  Or no central heating?  And how we would complain if the roads were always full of pot-holes and there was nowhere safe to walk? 

Fortunately, I have the best of both worlds, as little has changed at Lower Sprotborough where I live once again.  I rejoice that the lane, pot-holes and all, is still tarmac free and that nature is allowed more or less free rein.  The Flash, that was simply ‘the lake’ to us, still attracts interesting birds - and ‘twitchers’ to see them, the river bank and the woodlands still produce lovely wild flowers, and it is still possible to walk where no vehicles can impinge on one’s senses.   Sadly, there is no sound of children’s voices playing outside in the lane these days, but the bluebells are growing in greater numbers again and orchids flourish in the meadow.   The bars on the wall that we used to swing on at the end of the lane are sadly no more and badly parked cars mar the verges, but the fight is on to retain the natural beauty of the area.  As an old, new resident, I am committed to preventing the worst excesses that modernisation can throw at us and protecting what I can of the things that I loved so much as a child.  My Sprotborough is still ‘My Sprotborough’, but I hope that children who live here today and in the future might still be able to claim that description for themselves, having experienced something of the adventure that is still available to them in the countryside so near to their homes. 

My mum, Alice Watson, and her second husband Norman sitting on the wall at the end of the lane at Lower Sprotborough, showing the bars on which we swung and where we learned to do acrobats. 

During the 1980s, Sprotbrough Lock was enlarged, Conisbrough lock was removed and the height of Sprotborough weir was raised to accommodate it.  These bars, which stretched the length of the wall, were removed and never replaced when the height of the wall was also raised.  Another reminder of childhood lost.

 

©  E Reeve

6 .11.11

It's Not All Black and White

The sun was shining, the work was done for the day and the garden called.  I was alone, Mick having gone into the Peak for a few days to practise his dry-stone walling - a jolly with his volunteer friends.  I got out my sun lounger and settled in for a good read in the quiet and peaceful surroundings of my flower-filled garden and had been so engrossed that at first the persistent calling didn’t register.  But eventually it seeped in and, thinking some animal must be in distress, I prised myself out of my chair to investigate.

I began to hurry down the path, but had only ventured a few steps before I was stopped in my tracks – a black cat with a tiny kitten at her feet was looking at me warily – the loud mewing continued.  As I gently picked up the little black and white bundle, the mother growled and spat at me, but took her aggression no further as I examined the kitten.  Its tummy seemed full and its beautiful blue eyes were wide and shining.  I quickly put it down and the mother immediately picked it up by the scruff of its neck and set off back the way she had come.  The kitten was obviously getting too big for her to carry and she stopped several times to get a better grip before disappearing up the path towards neighbouring gardens.  As mother and kitten disappeared through the hedge, the source of the wailing came into view – another kitten, which tried to follow but wasn’t quick enough.  It sat looking at me, not knowing what to do.  It sat there for a long time.  I kept expecting the mother to return for it, but each time I checked it was still there, silent now, looking at me pitifully.  And then it was gone.  Were they under our neighbour’s decking, had she taken her family further afield?  I didn’t know, but realised there was little I could do about it.

Animals have been a feature in my family for as long as I can remember.  We have a photo of me when I was about three years old holding Blackie and some time later we had Tish and Tess, a cat and dog, whose names when said quickly together always produced some shocked amusement.  Later still, we had Sandy, the greyhound who was destined to become my father’s goldmine, but who instead caught mange and proved to be a silent witness when we had burglars one night.   After we were married, our first house became home to Tiger, a stripy kitten Mick brought home from the pit one day.  She had kittens, one of which we kept and Dandy lived to be about eighteen years of age.  We also owned, bred and exhibited Chihuahuas for about twenty years until, in the 90s, and generally in old age, the last few passed away, Mick retired and we decided to travel.

For the past sixteen years, we have done just that, but since 2003 have settled into a more homely routine and there have been times when I would have enjoyed having an animal around again.  Could this be the time? 

Mick phoned that night and I regaled him with the news that we might have some new residents.  I knew at heart what he would say but, despite knowing that he was right, was still a little disappointed that he should be so definite: “Ring the RSPCA first thing in the morning”, he said.  “See if they will take them.”

Wednesday morning arrived and the cats were still on my mind.  A black cat had been around for some time, but nobody seemed to know anything about it or own it.  I didn’t think anyone fed it either – unless it got scraps from the pub next door – more likely it had been chased off.  With kittens to feed, it would be hungry, I thought.  We don’t have a big garden, but it’s full of plants with no lawn depriving them of space, and places to hide were plentiful.  I set off to investigate.  Despite the onset of Autumn, the borders are still full, with plenty of colour to catch the eye.  The insects were busy that morning and, as baby grass snakes have been around for a week or two – had eggs been laid in the compost heap again? - it was necessary to watch where I put my feet.  And so I walked carefully, slowly, to the top of the garden where we have a raised water feature in the corner surrounded by shrubs and flowers.

Her green eyes watched me as I drew nearer.  The kittens were snuggled close, definitely two, but was that a third?  It was hard to tell and I didn’t want to frighten them off again.

Most of Wednesday, I spent either following Mick’s instructions or traipsing up and down the garden keeping an eye on the new family.  I offered the mother a saucer of milk which she quickly lapped up and looked for more.  The local RSPCA were full, the national body offered me a cat pack so that I could put leaflets up around the area.  “Sorry”, I said.  “There’s no way I am starting that.”  I had already decided she was a stray.  Why else would she be sitting in my garden and not at home being looked after and fed by her human family?   Why had no-one been around looking for her?  The young man at Cat’s Protection League was very kind and sympathetic and offered me a couple of local numbers to try.  The internet produced one or two more.  I tried them all and was eventually rewarded by a lady who said she would take them at a push, but she already had too many and would I try another number first.  Yes, I’d try anything.  She gave me the number.  I rang it and the lady said she would.  Now I just had to catch them. 

A mixture of tuna and muesli seemed like a good idea and was wolfed down like there were no tomorrows.  When I took the dish away, she nearly bit my hand off, and in fact she did break the skin.  Yes, she was definitely hungry.  The next step was to find a carrier in which to hold them.  I knew my neighbour had had a cage five or six years before because he had lent it to me when I had to take my mother’s cats to the RSPCA after she died, but we had been flooded since then.  Would he still have it?  Fortunately, the answer was yes.  He had nearly thrown it out, but on second thoughts had decided to keep it.  Thank goodness for that.

So, I’d got the cage, now I just had to get them all in it.  The mother proved to be easy enough.  So long as I had food, she would come to me.  My fleece and winter gloves offered protection.  The kittens weren’t so easy.  I guessed they must be about four weeks old and that, if I didn’t get them now, it wouldn’t be long before they were completely wild.  Even at this age they could growl and spit.  The problem was, though, that having got the cat in the cage, I had to tie the lid down so that she wouldn’t escape – and how would I get the kittens in if the lid was tied down?  I looked for a garden trug – all filthy of course – but found a large one which I cleaned out and lined with newspaper.  Hopefully I could put them in there as I caught them before transferring them to the cage.  At various times throughout the day, I had the mother or two kittens or the mother and two kittens, but never the complete family in the cage.  Where was the third kitten?  It hadn’t turned up by dark so I let them all out again.

Thursday morning dawned and all four were back together again on the water feature.  With another dish of food, the mother was soon caught and two kittens quickly followed into the trug.  The third once again slipped my fingers and disappeared under a stone shelf which I hadn’t realised was there.  On top of the shelf was our wood pile – perhaps it was hiding in there, but there wasn’t a sound and the mother didn’t seem interested in calling for it.  I let the mother out again in the hope that it would be drawn to her for a feed, but no.  She sunned herself languorously all day, as though without a care in the world, and gradually ate enough to seem satisfied.  Perhaps she was glad of the rest.

If she was feeling rested, I must admit I was feeling quite stressed out by this time.  Mick returned home mid-morning and was at least sympathetic.  The lady who was due to have them was understanding, but couldn’t do much to help.  The missing kitten remained invisible.  Both mother and kitten seemed to be joined in a conspiracy of silence. 

But perhaps things were about to change.  In the afternoon, I spotted the mother going into my neighbour’s orchard.  ‘Aha’, I thought, ‘she’s taken it away somewhere else’.  I followed, but she’d disappeared.  Having looked around, I decided to go into the next orchard, but to do that I had to retrace my steps and enter from a different direction.  Still no sign of her.  At the bottom of this orchard there were some old pigsties, dilapidated and almost completely overgrown.  No doubt a cat could have got in, but I certainly couldn’t and there was no way I was even going to try.  I began to make my way back home, but suddenly spotted something moving alongside one of the buildings and to my astonishment there sat two more kittens, smaller than the others and completely black.  Surely there couldn’t be two mothers around.  Well, how could I know?  There was certainly no sign of another one.  I picked them up and decided to put them in the cage with the others.  If they got on together, fine; if not they might or might not survive, but what else could I do.  If there was another mother, no doubt she would come looking.  So now I had four, but No. 3 was still missing.  Suddenly the mother was at my feet once more.  I wondered what her reaction might be to the two new babies, but I needn’t have worried.  She was fine.

Rain was forecast for the coming night, so as darkness approached, we decided to put the cage under cover near the woodpile and cover it with a plastic sheet.  It didn’t seem right to leave the four kittens alone all night and so just before bedtime the mother was put in with them and they all settled down cosily together. 

Friday was D-day as far as transferring them to the new carer was concerned.  We had arranged to meet her at the vets at lunchtime and were hoping that there would be a total of six in the cage by that time.    I woke early and dashed out to check that they had all survived the night.  It had rained, but the cage was dry and all seemed quiet.  I gently lifted the plastic sheet away and there, huddled to the outside of the cage, was the third identical black and white kitten.  What a relief.  The wanderer had returned and allowed me to pick it up and put it in with the others who were all quite alive and well.

The journey to the vet’s was uneventful, though rather smelly.  They had of course been in the cage for some time by then, but there was no way we could risk letting them out again at this late stage.  The vet seemed generally happy with their condition, despite the numerous ticks that were plucked from them, and their new custodian seemed responsible and caring.   We were asked if we would have the mother back once the kittens had been weaned and she had been spayed, but the response from Mick was so immediate that I knew there was no point in discussing it. 

Whether the kittens were all from the same mother, I don’t suppose we will ever know, but as we returned home, our neighbour met us.  “I don’t want to worry you,” he said, “but I’ve just seen another black cat in my garden.”

©  Elizabeth Reeve   

21.9.11

To Blog or Not to Blog - That is the Question

“Why don’t you start a Blog?”  This is Sheila speaking, an artist friend and fellow member of the Don Gorge Community Group committee.  “It’s much better than a website and you can update it really quickly and easily.”  I’m not convinced.  It had taken me the best part of a week to pay the annual registration fee for the website, which I was told would be cut off if I hadn’t paid it by the due date  and that was the last thing I wanted as it had taken me weeks to set that up.  The problem was, every time I tried it wouldn’t let me access the checkout for some reason.  In the end, the only way through the mire was to agree to set up a continuous credit which I did, though reluctantly, to save the site.  How easy would it be to cancel this if I decided to start a blog and found the website was unnecessary after all?  Who knows?  Certainly not me.

Well, I’ve got one,”  this is Sheila again and she means a Blog, “and it’s brilliant.”  I hesitate and splutter a bit.  I just wish some fairy Blog-spotter would take all this off my hands and do it for me.  I think I’m fairly computer literate, but some things confound me.  I don’t know what some of the jargon means and so I don’t always understand the instructions or warnings.  It produces a sense of utter confusion and futility which makes me want to just back off.  But she won’t give up yet.

“It’s not difficult and you’ll soon get used to it.  Honestly.”  I begin to show signs of weakness, which she jumps on.  “I’ll show you how to start if you like.”  How can I refuse?  She’s so enthusiastic – and she’s older than me!  Anything she can do, I can do at least as well, can’t I?  Well, no, not really.  I can’t paint for toffee, can I?  But maybe I should at least have a go, if only to show her I’m not a total dim-wit.

I turn on my Notebook and we sit side by side in front of it.  “It’s a bit small isn’t it?  Haven’t you got anything with a bigger screen?  The Blog will look much better on a bigger screen.  I don’t know how you can see it on there.”  She has a really up-to-date Apple Mac with a screen like the local cinema.  We do have a laptop and a desktop, but the laptop is very slow and the desktop is upstairs.  Mick usually uses that and is so untidy that it’s not worth the effort for me to go there unless I’m really desperate.  I just use my Notebook downstairs.  The screen is small, but at least nobody else is allowed to interfere with it, so it’s OK.

“Now, go to Google and search for ‘Blogger’.”  I do as I’m told and a message immediately appears telling me I can’t do it and to click ‘learn more’.  This is the same message I was receiving when I tried to pay my bill a few weeks earlier.  I know in my bones this isn’t going to be as easy as Sheila has made out.  “Oh, I know what it is,” she says.  “The website was created through a Google Apps account.  What you need is an ordinary Google account and when you’ve done that, you should be able to get into Blogger and go on from there to create the Blog.  It’s really easy, just follow the instructions.”  She leaves me to it.

So, how do I get myself another Google account?  I guess I have to create a new email and so click all the labels available and somehow – I don’t remember how – find a page that invites me to register by choosing a new email address and password.  Now, I already have a personal email, a Don Gorge email called lizreeve@dongorgecommunitygroup.com and don’t want to confuse these with a new one so I have to find a name format that fits into the same mould but is sufficiently different that I will remember which is which.  Nor do I want anyone else to actually use this new email as the original one has already been publicised.  I rack my brain and settle on lizreeve.dgcg@googlemail.com, choose a different password and, thankfully, find this is acceptable to the invisible computer brain that judges the efficacy of such things.

I search for Google Blogger.  A new page comes up with a variety of websites to choose from and I pick ‘Create your free Blog’ hoping it will take me to the right place and it does.  ‘Dashboard’ appears with a variety of headings, including ‘design’ which I click on and choose ‘simple’.  You can change this later, it tells me, but I’ve now forgotten how!  This then invites me to design how I want the page to look.  There are boxes of various sizes dotted around the screen with little messages inside saying ‘Navbar’, ‘About me’, ‘Followers’, ‘Pages’, ‘Blog Posts’, ‘Attribution’ ‘Stats’ and ‘Add a Gadget’ and the word ‘edit’ in each.  After a quick look round these, I decide to check out Sheila’s Blog to get an idea of how hers looks, and then do some editing of my own, before creating a ‘post’ by cutting and pasting a few things from elsewhere to see what happens.  Inevitably, it doesn’t look totally as it should and editing is necessary.  The ‘edit post’ heading on the dashboard seems to fit the bill, so I click it and don’t know what to do.  I try a few things, but nothing works.  There’s obviously more to this than meets the eye.  I decide I need another consultation with the oracle and make an appointment with Sheila.  At the appointed hour, I take my Notebook with me so that we can compare things as we go along.  I turn it on and only then realise I need a wireless connection.  Amazingly, after looking for available networks, I find one that works and off we go.

“Are you there yet?”  Sheila again.  She is biting at the bit.  She doesn’t realise that my little ‘Mini’ doesn’t go as fast as her ‘Masserati’.  No matter, we get there eventually.

“I don’t know how you can see that,” she says, “It’s so small.”  We’ve been through this before, so I keep quiet and then change the subject.  “What are gadgets?” I ask.  “How do you get them all in a line down the side?”  “Why do some headings come out at the bottom of my blog instead of down the side?”  She demonstrates, but her screen is slightly different to mine – well it’s Apple isn’t it and min is Windows.  What can you expect?  She eventually gets through to me some of the finer points of layout.

“What you really need are ‘static pages’,” she says.  I agree that one of the documents I’ve copied in would be ideal for one of these as I didn’t need it to change on a regular basis, and she shows me how to create such a page which I will try when I get home.  I would also like to know how many people look at the site – ‘stats’.  I have asked it to provide these, and find that 35 hits have been received so far – but they’re all mine!  “You don’t want that.” She says.  “You’ll have to change the setting.  If you go to ‘help’ at the top there, someone will have asked the question before and you’ll find an answer.”  Thanks a lot Sheila.

I return home to tackle my still unanswered questions and hope ‘help’ will come up trumps.  It does to a degree.  I just don’t understand the jargon until one correspondent says “these are my favourite stats sites’.  I pick ‘StatCounter’ at random and hope for the best.  At least it’s free.  “Copy the Code below,’ it says, “and paste it into the relevant box.”  I do and it works, except that it is still counting my own hits.  I return to the StatCounter site, saving it in my Favourites for future use  – I now have so many ‘important’ pages and sites saved in my Favourites list that it’s off the page, but I worry if I don’t save them I won’t remember their names and will never find them again.   It takes some time, but I eventually find the necessary item to tick – it’s called a ‘blocking cookie’.  Having done that, I turn the counter back to zero, ready to start again. 

I also think I’ve created a ‘static page’, but I’m not really sure and it keeps changing the size of the font.  I don’t understand why, but decide to add some gadgets anyway – photos this time – and it works.  I insert our logo and another, bigger picture to make a heading and it’s looking quite good.  I’m steaming ahead now.

I email everyone in my Don Gorge email list in the hope that current friends and supporters will check it out.  Two days later, I have two Followers and 35 hits.  Wow.  I can hardly believe it.  No-one’s left a comment yet, but, hey, it’s early days.  Sheila has emailed a ‘Well done” so that’s something isn’t it?  There’s still a lot to learn, I’m sure, and lots more people to invite along for the ride, but so far I agree it is easier than the website.

The address is http://dongorgecommunitygroup.blogspot.com.  Why don’t you look us up?  Maybe become a Follower?  Maybe leave a comment?  It’d be good to hear from you.

© Liz Reeve
24.10.11

 

This was written for my writing group at Tickhill in South Yorkshire following my first attempt at a Blog.  As you can see, I am now attempting one for myself, so thought this was a good place to start.