Not so mellow yellow

One week off and the difference in my drive to work is remarkable. The trees are wearing their April clothes, the beer can man has acquired a seat as well as a dog, and the landscape is patched with vivid yellow oilseed rape in all its fluorescent indecency.

I am not a fan of oilseed rape. Even its name has repugnant connotations. It smells highly unpleasant; it makes my eyes water – and not simply from looking at it. It’s not even redeemed after it’s been cut; a wheat field gives a lovely golden stubble to canter across on your horse, but rape stubble is sharp, stocky and dangerous looking.

Oilseed rape is insidious: it’s even rife in the central reservation of the A1 near the big white Northumberland sign (which, incidentally, says ‘Welcome to Northumberland’, not, as you may have been led to believe, ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here’). It's set to become even more ubiquitous as farmers are encouraged to turn to the yellow stuff to make biofuel. There may be many thousands of acres under oilseed rape, but I can’t say I’ve noticed any reduction in prices at the petrol pumps.

I shudder when I imagine a vision of the future, prescribed by the global warming police: an army of towering wind turbines marching across of an unending vista of not so mellow yellow...

Scarecrow

I spotted a rather funky scarecrow this morning. At least, I think he was a scarecrow: transplant him to the Tate Modern and he’d easily pass for one of the exhibits. Standing around 5ft tall, he has a face and body made from black Guinness cans and white Stella Artois cans. I wonder if his creators drank them all in one go, or whether they saved up the cans, Blue Peter-style? I reckon I know what his artistic interpretation is though: Newcastle United-supporting farmer turns to drink due to single payments scheme cock up…

There is a scarecrow festival held not far as the crow flies from where I saw this splendid specimen standing stark in the early morning sun. Each August Bank Holiday, Rennington is taken over by tableaux of scarecrows in a variety of attitudes. There is a bride and groom, a farrier, dancers, even a scarecrow cop with a gatso gun.

I am very fond of scarecrows. I like to think that, Worzel Gummidge-like, they awaken when the sun goes down. Unlike the sinister china dolls that pretend innocence, then spring to life the moment the door is closed, I believe scarecrows are benign. Just like the Jolly Green Giant, I find it comforting to imagine them striding across the night-time fields, keeping the crops safe from harm.