Forestry: Young hand cutter ponders team-bonding exercies

A few weeks ago, we received an invitation to my wife’s work’s Christmas party – clearly this business wants to plan ahead. On offer was a sit-down formal Christmas dinner with drinks and a band with which to dance the evening away. I pondered the invitation for a short period and then declined, my reason being that around that time of the year I’d rather spend time with the people I like instead of attempting to make small talk with a group of people with whom I have nothing in common and who my wife frequently describes as ‘lazy and incompetent, with no understanding of the real world’.

Returning to the real world, I then pondered for a little longer over the idea of organising my own Christmas works party. Throughout the year I have an army of people without whom I’d struggle to function as I do and the thought of some kind of selective thank you seemed appropriate. However, after brief consideration I decided against the idea on the grounds that we have plenty of fun and entertainment at work anyway, with team-building exercises being a daily feature. The workforce all seem to enjoy short intermittent periods away from home (outside Northumberland) and so I will try to organise several per year. In fact, we have just returned from one such outing which lasted over a period of three weeks.

It all began in North Yorkshire (not a million miles away), where an ambitious friend by the name of Marc Riding had taken on the challenging task of a felling job on a very steep bank side near Pateley Bridge. With a cab canopy full of chainsaws and combi cans, two of us headed south on the A1 to begin our tour of Northern England. What we faced on arrival was pretty much what I’d expected, with all straightforward trees removed on what appeared to be a site most suited to mountain goats. We wedged our way up the hill, pulling out some heavily branched Sitkas, which we dressed out in the hot Yorkshire sun. As the day progressed it became clear I’d made a bit of a rookie error in the wardrobe department.

As all hand cutters can confess, the choice of underwear can make or break a day’s enjoyment while working in the woods. A good pair of swimming or cycling shorts is sometimes vital in creating a barrier between your bare skin and the hot abrasive conditions created by chainsaw trousers. As the chafing began, I realised this essential garment was in the glove compartment of the truck over a mile away. As we only had a few litres of fuel left in the cans, it wasn’t worth heading back, so I decided just to widen my stance and hope that no permanent damage was incurred. I took some solace in the knowledge my colleague, shuffling gingerly through the brash, was clearly suffering in the same way.

Trees down, cans empty and sweat lost, we chafed our way back to base in search of beer and balms to sooth our aching bodies. Our search brought us to the beautiful town of Ripon, festooned with hanging baskets, attractive shops and pungent with the smell of fresh bread. We drove slowly, enjoying the ambience, until we found our accommodation in a more salubrious area of the town. Here we were greeted by a toothless barmaid and a clientele looking like the crew of a decommissioned pirate ship, somewhat agitated by our presence.

As hand cutters desperate for a drink we stood our ground (legs still ajar) and drank our beer. I selected the inn on three principles – it was cheap, near to the job and provided a breakfast.

However, halfway through our first pint we were instructed that breakfast was no longer available due to the death of the chef. Had he eaten his own food? There was no explanation or refund offered, but we decided to continue our refuelling further down, for fear of being press ganged, despite the increase in the price of beer. On reflection, I would recommend Ripon to anyone interested in a pub-based holiday, with about 17 pubs offering a wide range of opportunities for refuelling and night life.

Having managed to visit most of them, we headed back to Blackbeard’s lair, but not before we witnessed a self-policing burglary. Rippon’s mobile ice-cream seller had unfortunately left his boxed fridge bicycle unlocked – an opportunity spotted by a very drunk middle-aged lady. Once on board, she managed to guide the rig gracefully out of the car park, unaware of the grinding sound floating through the cool evening air as the chain gripped on the sprocket. The chain seized, there was a loud bang and the whole thing capsized, throwing the woman and the contents right across road. As she got back to her feet sobbing and with the front wheel of the bike still spinning, a BMW pulled up alongside (her boyfriend?), she was bundled into the back and sped off into the night.

Having completed our job in Yorkshire, we were then joined by more of the team and headed over the border into Lancashire to begin our firewood-processing tour. Firewood processing is a very simple game. We arrive at a yard stacked with a pile of timber – usually oversized timber or arb waste left over from tree surgery, invariably covered in soil and filled with nails and bird boxes – next to which are placed LBC crates or bins which are to be filled with firewood, and we either run out of crates or simply move on to the next job.

Our first job had us on the outskirts of Burnley in a long, thin, linear settlement called Water Rossindale, which has two pubs, both free houses. We drink in one and drink heavily in the other. We have now stayed here several times and are well known by the owners and locals. Although there are the occasional misdemeanours, the enormity of the final bar bill usually pacifies the owners.

This year was no exception as we managed to flood the bar. Half the crew went upstairs to bed in various stages of consciousness, while the other half remained below. A rather tired barmaid drew our attention to the cascade of water pouring from the ceiling onto the hand pumps. We assumed someone had fallen asleep in the bath, but it was a malfunction with a cistern which resulted in the continuous flow of water, creating a six-inch-deep lake in the bar.

Crates complete, we moved on to Blackburn, staying in nearby Lancaster. After a very long day filling a 20-cube skip several times over, the squad sought nourishment in a local Wetherspoons. As most of you know, Wetherspoons offers good value for money – an opportunity exploited by a large number of school pupils who’d just received their A-level results that day. The age range of our squad varies from 28 to 61, most of whom are beer aficionados not interested in alcopops, shots, sweet ciders or the wokey chit-chat of the current youth, so we quickly relocated to another favoured watering hole further along the street.

Unfortunately, when we arrived, the students had already been and gone. Clearly their initiation into vodka had resulted in terrible consequences. Like anyone trying something for the first time, the evidence of their innocence lay all around. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much vomit in one building – on the bar, up the stairs and all over the seats. I felt particularly sorry for the toilet attendant who had to bin the mints he had been trying to sell and was slowly wiping vomit from individual aftershave bottles. It really was a sight to behold.

So yes, I probably would make more money by working from home and avoiding such astronomical bar bills. However, these ‘tours’ prevent me from having to host a conventional Christmas Party or hand out £50 M&S vouchers to all and sundry. I’m quite happy to continue taking on these far-away challenges.