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  What is extraordinary is that the ring-necked parakeet’s native range is a broad belt of arid tropical countryside stretching from western Africa right across lowland India, south of the Himalayas. In these climes the birds are common, but despite their tropical origin, parakeets are able to cope with cold British winters, especially in suburban parks, large gardens and orchards, where food supply is more reliable. They feed on a wide variety of fruit, berries, nuts, seeds, grain and household scraps.

  People argue that a cull of parakeets is necessary, due to their potential impact on native bird species such as woodpeckers, starlings and nuthatches through competition for nest holes. Here is the RSPB’s view:

  The RSPB is not in favour of a cull of parakeets at this time, but believes that it is important that the spread of the ring-necked parakeet is monitored, and its potential for negative impacts on our native bird species assessed.

  The Government is obliged to ensure that non-native species do not adversely affect native wildlife, and has developed a policy framework for addressing the possible risks associated with such species becoming established. This includes the production of evidence-based risk assessments of non-native species already in, or likely to reach, Great Britain. Decisions on the type of action necessary is based on the outcome of these risk assessments.

  Ring-necked parakeets, like all birds living in the wild in the UK, are protected by law. The species can be controlled under licence in England, but only in isolated cases where the birds pose a serious threat to conservation of a native species, are causing serious damage to crops, or for air safety purposes.

  Perhaps the strangest animal story of all is that of the Hartlepool Monkey. During the Napoleonic Wars, a French ship was wrecked off the coast off the north-eastern port of Hartlepool.There was only one survivor: a monkey. Apparently a mascot, it was dressed up in a little uniform. When the villagers found the monkey, they noticed its uniform, and the fact that it didn’t respond to questioning. Understandably suspicious of this hairy little man, according to folklore the locals, not knowing what the French looked like, naturally decided that the monkey was a French spy and hanged it after an impromptu trial on the beach.

  But did it really happen? There’s another possible source for the story in a song written by Geordie songwriter Edward Corvan, and called ‘The Monkey Song’:

  In former times, mid war an’ strife,

  The French invasion threatened life,

  An’ all was armed to the knife,

  The Fishermen hung the Monkey O!

  The Fishermen wi’ courage high,

  Seized on the Monkey for a spy,

  ‘Hang him’ says yen, says another, ‘He’ll die!’

  They did, and they hung the Monkey O!

  They tortor’d the Monkey till loud he did squeak

  Says yen, ‘That’s French,’ says another ‘it’s Greek’

  For the Fishermen had got drunky, O!

  ‘He’s all ower hair!’ sum chap did cry,

  E’en up te summic cute an’ sly

  Wiv a cod’s head then they closed an eye,

  Afore they hung the Monkey O!

  The song apparently refers to a real event in 1772 in the village of Boddam, Aberdeenshire, when a ship was wrecked off the coast and the villagers hanged the sole, primate, survivor. But their reasons were actually far more reasonable. The villagers could only get salvage rights if there were no survivors; therefore, the monkey had to go. To this day, people from Peterhead still taunt the people of Boddam with ‘Fa hangit the monkey?!’ (‘Who hanged the monkey?’) Needless to say, Hartlepool has embraced the legend far more than the Boddamers. But why that might have happened is another mystery.

  Of course, sometimes truth can become stranger than fiction. In 2002 Hartlepool made national headlines when a monkey became the town’s first directly elected mayor. H’Angus the Monkey, the mascot of Hartlepool United Football Club, was elected on the slogan ‘free bananas for schoolchildren’. Having originally stood as a joke, Stuart Drummond, the man in the monkey suit, went on to win two more elections, stepping down only in 2013. In 2008 the Audit Commission gave Hartlepool the top four-star rating for performance against other councils and said it was ‘improving strongly’.

  We LOVE our animals.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE QUEEN’S SANDMAN AND SWANMAN

  Heavy grey cloud clings to the horizon as a wicked wind whips off the turbulent waters. Shafts of light from the sun occasionally cut through and illuminate the erratic water, which appears to be running in all directions. It is slightly disorientating as I walk across the gelatinous, sticky mud. Or is it sand? I can’t quite tell.

  I have no idea if the tide is rising or falling. In places, the water has carved deep channels. The sand has been sculpted into steep cliffs that break off and collapse with a mighty thud into the grey waters, which are now beginning to resemble white water. The water becomes a chaotic, bubbling cauldron as large patches of glistening mud and sand appear. The water thins, and before you have time to comprehend what you are seeing, disappears, to be replaced by a vast, limitless expanse of nothingness. It is like the parting of the Red Sea as the ocean disappears.

  Welcome to Morecambe Bay, one of the most extraordinary and dangerous geographical wonders in England.

  Historians argue that the route across Morecambe Bay has in all probability been used for more than five thousand years. Almost certainly, it was used by monks who would go ‘over sands’ to reach the religious houses of Furness and, by the mid-nineteenth century, at low tide routes opened up across the bay for farmers to drive cattle and packhorse trains to ferry people and cargo. Today, Morecambe Bay may have lost its significance as a major trade route, but it can still be crossed.

  I am here to meet the legendary Cedric Robinson. He knows more about these sands than anyone and, it has been calculated, the miles he has clocked up walking them could have taken him twice around the world. For half a century he has been the Queen’s Guide to the Kent Sands of Morecambe Bay, with a fixed salary of £15 per year. He has one of those jobs that could only exist in England.

  The dangers of the shifting sands have always been known. Even in Roman times, no one attempted a crossing without the help of local fishermen. The official job wasn’t created until 1501 when a certain Edmondson was appointed. Cedric took over from William Burrow in the 1960s.

  Cedric’s love of the sands is lifelong. He left school at fourteen to sell shrimp from a horse and cart, crossing the bay with his father and sister. He first led a group over in 1964 and the walks afterwards became more and more frequent, as did the size of the parties – sometimes the group would be 1,000-strong or more at a time. His dedication to the job has earned him an MBE and local celebrity status.

  Cedric has never guided the Queen across the sands, but he has met her, and he escorted Prince Philip across once, in 1985. As they reached the other side of the bay, a crowd had gathered and started to applaud. The often-told story goes that the Duke turned to Cedric in their carriage and said, ‘Stand up, Mr Robinson. It is you they are clapping, not me!’

  ‘Hello Ben,’ he smiles warmly as we greet at the bay’s edge, opposite Grange-over-Sands. We strike out across the sands. It has been nearly fifteen years since I first walked across the bay with Cedric.

  ‘Apart from three trips to London to visit the Queen, I have never left the sands,’ he explains as we gently walk out into the waterless bay. On his hand is scrawled ‘3.15’ in pen. ‘I have never left the house without writing down the next high tide,’ he says. He has a shepherd’s crook that he uses to probe the sand.

  ‘I can’t tell you how many people just think they can cross the sand without knowledge,’ he explains. ‘I’ve seen horses and tractors swallowed by the sand.’ He used to be a prawn fisherman and he told me that once, his horse and cart got stuck in the quicksand. ‘We couldn’t free the horse,’ he recounts with horror. ‘I got away just in time to watch the water swallow t
he horse.’

  His face brightens as he continues, ‘But the water must have freed the sand, because the horse suddenly appeared on the surface and swam to safety. This is a dangerous place, and no one can read the sand like me.’

  As those poor cockle pickers who tragically drowned several years ago found out.

  We are now far out in the bay. The grey horizon and the grey muddy sand merge in a grey blur. It’s difficult to tell which way is up. All around us is the crackle of tiny shrimp-like creatures in the moist sand.

  Some days, when he has a walking group, it can take Cedric days to map a safe route across the bay. Sometimes it is simply too dangerous and he has to cancel. Quicksand is notoriously difficult to predict and spot. Cedric knows this better than anyone.

  We stop in the middle of the bay. It is at once moonlike and beautiful. The sky is mottled with blue sky and grey cloud that reflect off the puddles of water scattered across the bay like a dalmatian’s spots. There is not another person around. We are alone. I am in Cedric’s world.

  ‘Do you know I’ve never taken a holiday,’ he states proudly.

  ‘Never?’ I repeat.

  ‘Why would I need a holiday when I have this?’ He gestures around us. To the north-east are the fells of the Lake District and to the west is the Irish Sea.

  ‘I remember seeing icebergs in here when I was a child,’ he recalls. ‘They were big enough to stand on. The whole bay would be covered in an icy froth that my father called “snow broth”.’

  I ask him if he actually still receives his nominal £15 a year. ‘They present me with a cheque,’ he smiles mischievously.

  I wonder who would be willing to take on the dangerous, lifelong job for £15 a year. ‘The Duchy [of Lancaster] are going to advertise for a new Queen’s Guide,’ he explains.

  ‘Who could replace you?’ I wonder.

  Cedric shrugs his shoulders. ‘It’s got harder rather than easier to cross the sands,’ he says. ‘The tides, the wind and the weather have all changed and it’s harder to read the sands.’

  ‘So what kind of person could do this job?’ I press him a bit.

  He looks at me and gestures with his hands. ‘Someone like you,’ he smiles.

  I honestly think it is one of the greatest compliments I have ever had.

  While I might not make the final cut for Queen’s Guide to the Sands, I am the proud holder of another great English honour: the Freedom of the City.

  I received it in the Chamberlain’s Court at Guildhall, accompanied by the Beadle, wearing a top hat and frock coat. The clerk of the court wore a silk gown, and instructed me to read the ‘Declaration of a Freeman’:

  I do solemnly swear that I will be good and true to our Sovereign Lady Queen Elizabeth the Second; that I will be obedient to the Mayor of this City; that I will maintain the Franchises and Customs thereof, and will keep this City harmless, in that which in me is; that I will also keep the Queen’s Peace in my own person; that I will know no Gatherings nor Conspiracies made against the Queen’s Peace, but I will warn the Mayor thereof, or hinder it to my power; and that all these points and articles I will well and truly keep, according to the Laws and Customs of this City, to my power.

  My certificate – a parchment document on which my name was beautifully inscribed by a calligrapher – was handed over and I was formally a ‘Citizen of London’. Looking down proudly at the certificate, I noticed that the inscription read ‘Ben Fogle, TV Company Director’.

  I had been away in Antarctica when I was nominated for the honour for my services to adventure and exploration, so my wife had had to fill in the documents for the ceremony. I think she missed both the mood and the significance of the occasion by describing my work so blandly. She could have chosen ocean rower, mountaineer, writer, traveller, polar explorer or broadcaster, but decided on the least exciting option. ‘Well, you are a TV company director,’ she snapped upon presentation of my framed certificate, which now has pride of place in our loo.

  That’s another English thing. Placing anything of sentimental value in the loo.

  The City of London website describes the Freedom of the City like this: ‘The medieval term “freeman” meant someone who was not the property of a feudal lord but enjoyed privileges such as the right to earn money and own land. Town dwellers who were protected by the charter of their town or city were often free – hence the term “freedom” of the City.’ Murray Craig, Clerk of the Chamberlain’s Court at the City Corporation of London, says the apocryphal belief that it allows freemen the right to drive sheep and cattle over London Bridge probably comes from the exemption from tolls and charges given in earlier times. Today the status is only symbolic, but it carries an enormous cachet. And the ceremony is supposedly one of the oldest traditional ceremonies still in existence today, dating back to 1237.

  The legal system in Britain is the product of centuries of creation, alteration and destruction, and England still has many archaic items of legislation to prove it. We as a nation have accrued so many laws, bylaws and conventions over the centuries that it would take several lifetimes and many thousands of hours of parliamentary time to debate and repeal them. And some are just not true, but we have persevered in our belief that they must be because we really want them to be written down on vellum somewhere.

  One that does certainly exist, though, is that ‘all beached whales and sturgeons must be offered to the Reigning Monarch’. It was passed by Edward II, who was concerned by ‘overly conspicuous consumption’ in the realm. That was in 1322. The law was even tested in 2004. Robert Davies caught a 9lb sturgeon off the coast of Wales and in an act of commendable patriotism offered it to the Queen, who politely (of course) allowed him to ‘dispose of the fish as he saw fit’.

  And who knew that a 1872 Licensing Act states: ‘It is illegal to be drunk in the pub’? The Act goes on to explain, ‘Every person found drunk … on any licensed premises, shall be liable to a penalty.’ Originally brought in to encourage lower levels of drinking, the law is still in use today as a means of dealing with unacceptable public drunkenness.

  Hangovers in other parts of our legislation include the illegality (since 1313) of wearing armour in Parliament, or allowing your dog to mate with any dog belonging to the royal household. You can be arrested for being in charge of cattle. Finally, and most recently, a poaching law was introduced in 1986 that pronounced it illegal to ‘handle a salmon in suspicious circumstances’.

  Our country abounds with archaic institutions and rules. It’s an essential ingredient of the recipe for Englishness. ‘Freedom of the City’ or ‘Queen’s Guide to the Kent Sands of Morecambe Bay’ are great examples of the respect we pay to our past lives. Another example is that of the New Forest Verderers.

  The Verderers are a body of ten persons appointed to administer the law concerning the New Forest. Five are elected and five are appointed as representatives of the Crown, the Forestry Commission, the Countryside Agency, Hampshire County Council and The Department for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA). The Verderers sit in open court at regular intervals throughout the year and any member of the public may make a ‘presentment’ to them, raising any issue concerning the forest. They employ ‘Agisters’ to tend to the New Forest’s population of ponies.

  Evidence suggests that the Verderers date back to the thirteenth century, when they were the legal guardians of the sovereign’s hunting ground now known as the New Forest. I travelled down to the New Forest to meet them.

  Climbing aboard a Land Rover, we headed for our first call, the ancient court in which the Verderers sit once a month to hear from members of the public. While the Agisters wear ceremonial jodhpurs and hunting jackets for ceremonial and court appearances and often patrol on horseback, for my introduction they were dressed a little less formally in green fleece jackets. They showed me around the 219 square mile National Park.

  The ponies are all owned by individuals or ‘commoners’ who exercise their right to allow their ponie
s to roam and graze the forest. They are the resident gardeners, maintaining the vegetation through grazing. Their heavy footfall also helps to turn the soil and maintain the forest. The Agisters’ primary role is to keep an eye on these ponies and ensure that they are healthy and happy.

  Fallow deer grazed on the open meadowland as we meandered along the Park’s highest point. Through ancient forest and across heathland we bounced across country in search of the famously hardy ponies. Once a year the ponies are gathered in a series of ‘drifts’, during which each animal is checked, wormed, vaccinated and has its tail trimmed to the pattern of the Agister responsible for that area of the National Park. To qualify as a New Forest pony, the animal must fulfil a set of requirements: the upper height limit is 148cm and the ponies can be any colour except piebald, skewbald, spotted or blue-eyed cream.

  William the Conqueror used the New Forest as his hunting ground and commissioned Domesday Book to document the ownership of all the property in the kingdom at the time of his conquest. If you do a little bit of research, our current Queen has some pretty astonishing powers.

  She can drive without a licence, she doesn’t need a passport to travel, she can create lords and she doesn’t have to pay taxes. She has the power to form governments. She has knights. She has the ability to fire *sniggers* the entire Australian government. She is also head of state in Antigua, Barbados, the Bahamas, Belize, Canada, Grenada, Jamaica, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Lucia, the Solomon Islands and Tuvalu. She is head of a religion and she is immune from prosecution. She also has some extraordinary privileges.

  The town of Hungerford has to present a red rose to the sovereign in exchange for its fishing and grazing rights. The owner of Fowlis Castle must deliver her a snowball in midsummer. The City of Gloucester pays the Queen for its holdings with an enormous eel pie, while Great Yarmouth must provide a hundred herring baked in twenty-four pastries to the Sheriff, who sends them to the Queen. The Duke of Marlborough has to present a small satin flag bearing the fleur de lys on 13 August, the anniversary of the Battle of Blenheim, and the Duke of Wellington a French tricolour before noon on 19 June every year. But perhaps one of the most extraordinary privileges is that she owns all swans, whales, dolphins and, as we have seen, sturgeon.