Two Stories

          A few weeks ago, Boston United went to Cornwall to play Truro City in the English National League, the fifth tier of English football. I only know this because certain relatives of mine, Lincolnshire born and bred, are avid supporters (or customers, in my admittedly cynical view) of Boston United – so much so, that they devoted the whole weekend and a considerable amount of their combined disposable income in travelling to Truro, via a stopover here in Plymouth, to watch ‘their’ team lose, 3 – 0.

          As I was recounting this sorry tale to a couple of friends a few days later, I became aware of a blank expression that betrayed a degree of incomprehension. “What?” I asked. It transpired that, despite being university-educated people, in their early fifties, born and brought up in England, they had no idea that Boston was anywhere but in the USA. I’m sure I sounded incredulous at having to explain that the American city is named after Lincolnshire’s Boston (which happens to be ten miles away from the original New York). They seemed bemused but not embarrassed. And I’m not convinced they believed me – or even cared that much.

          Nevertheless, I went on to explain that the nickname for Boston United is “The Pilgrims”, because the town was the port of departure, to America, for a group of Puritans fleeing persecution by the established church. However, their ship, the Mayflower, sprang a leak and made a pit-stop here in Plymouth before heading across the Atlantic. Now, I am aware that my enthusiasm for this line of coincidental dot-joining might not sustain the interest of an audience for long, so I left it there. I had another story to tell.

          The previous week, the campervan overheated while dawdling along in slow-moving traffic. A loud hissing noise and a cloud of steam emerged simultaneously from under the bonnet, so I pulled over to the side and stopped the engine. The breakdown service – who know us quite well – advised us to get out and find a safe place for the two-hour anticipated wait (it was a Sunday).

           Fortunately, we campervanners are well equipped for unforeseen circumstances. We unfolded two canvas chairs and placed them on the ‘safe’ side of the crash barrier, where we intended to have an improvised picnic. Just then, a black saloon pulled up behind us and disgorged two armed police officers, which caused us concern given our recent brushes with the law over protest demonstrations. Had the government’s measures to stifle us by introducing ever more draconian laws really come to this?

          But it seemed they were just passing and, it being a slow day for armed police action, used our plight as an excuse to stretch their legs. The friendlier of the two asked about our circumstances, put his head under the bonnet and identified the problem. I had failed to see it myself, but a hose had become detached from the bottom of the radiator. “I can get to that,” he said and, lying on his back, slid under the engine and came out with a rusted, broken circlip. “Have you got one of these?” he asked. “Yes”, I replied, offering an assortment from my toolbox.

          Mutual respect developed and was further enhanced when he realised that we were carrying enough water to top up the radiator. The officer, his gun still in his holster, slid back under the engine, reattached the hose, then topped up the coolant reservoir. “We’ll follow you for a while, make sure you’re OK,” he said and held out his hand to shake. I took it and was astonished at how limp it felt. Could it really handle a pistol?

          Well, I was glad not to have to put that to the test. I sensed that, perhaps, he was too.

Will the Past Ever Inform the Future?

          At this time of year, when summer is morphing into autumn, I like to observe the subtle progress of the seasons’ handover. The years have taught me what to look for and what to expect – which makes the changes wrought by pollution and the shift in our climate worrying, to say the least. Perhaps the coming generation will be less anxious about losing the past and more focused on forming the future.

          I’m thinking of two young men in particular. One is the child of friends, the other a great nephew. I’ve seen them only sporadically during their childhoods, but they have both now turned 18 and, coincidentally, I spent a little time with each of them last week. For these young men, the subtleties of seasonal change are secondary to what is happening in their lives: they are excited about starting at university. They will study subjects based on their aptitudes – the arts and geopolitics, respectively – though I hope they will one day conclude that nothing exists in isolation, not in the biosphere nor in the sphere of human affairs (neither of which is in good shape right now).

          I’ve remarked before about the strange phenomenon of three-a.m.-anxiety, whereby sleeplessness is exacerbated by fretting over small issues. These past few days, however, my three a.m. slot has been filled with doom and despair over the takeover of the world by just a few dictators, most of whom were invited to a self-congratulatory party in China this week, where they gloated over the quantity and quality of their host’s weaponry, while Trump sulked at home, where he has yet to graduate to full-on tyrant. I sense that his exclusion from the gang rankles.

          Morning dawns gloomily after a night of such preoccupations, but therapy is at hand in the form of distractions, i.e. enjoying what freedoms we still have – campervanning, for instance. The last outing – to Hartland, North Devon – proved to me, yet again, just how much there is still to explore on the relatively small island of Britain. The diversity of landscape and the legacy of our social history will keep me occupied (or distracted) for as long as I’m capable of pursuing them.

          The extraordinary geology of the coastline around Hartland Point has thrown up dramatic jagged, saw-tooth rock formations for the Atlantic to smash into and for ships to be wrecked upon. On a blustery day at Hartland Quay, the elemental power of nature inspires awe and is likely one reason why the Smugglers Inn, with its offer of comfortable refuge, has endured for the hundred years since trade (legal and illicit) shifted away from the sea and onto the roads and railways. Another is the rise of tourism, itself driven – as film buffs will know – by the fact that the location has been a favourite with film directors since 1950.

          The quay itself was a capitalist venture; infrastructure built for profit and financed privately. Once the business model failed, the quay was left to ruin. All that remains in the water now is a slipway constructed by latter-day enthusiasts. However, nearby, there’s a more enduring monument to a former way of life, Hartland Abbey (also a famous filming location). It survives because it has been a family home since 1539, when Henry VIII dissolved the Abbey and gave the estate to the Sergeant of his Hampton Court wine cellar. Monarchs, of course, only owned land because they had taken it by force in the first place, but this small detail has never troubled the beneficiaries of their ‘generosity’. So-called nobility apparently sees it as a hereditary right to own land and rent it back to those from whom it was taken.

          But don’t get me started. Having failed to rectify this historical injustice in my lifetime, I must hope that the next generation of idealistic, hope-filled youngsters will sort it all out – after they’ve paid back their student loans, of course.

  

Local Is Global

          By August last year, our freezer was crammed with stewed blackberries, but this year’s drought has caused my favourite hedgerow fruit to shrivel before it ripens. On the plus side, this leaves plenty of room for stewed apples, which is as well because a bumper crop is expected on account of the early warm and sunny conditions. We’ve already made a start, collecting windfalls from the orchards at Cothele last week, where we also enjoyed the peace of the gardens there, watching the dragonflies skim over the ornamental pond.

          Later, I took myself off for a couple of days, tootling solo down the coast towards Looe, a popular centre for holidaying families. Every little beach I passed along the way was busy and the term ‘Cornish Riviera’ came into its own. I found a pitch on one of the many campsites around Looe Bay, then walked the two miles into town. I had thought, perhaps, of spending the evening in one of the pubs that had live bands playing, but the reality of my situation did not match my fantasy. Being on my own among high-spirited groups of families and friends soon became uncomfortable, so I caught a bus back up the hill and retired with a book and a tot or two of single malt.

          Back in the mid-nineties, I acquired a map of Britain’s ancient monuments, a cartographical record of archaeological remains that we usually drive past obliviously. I put it to use the next day in seeking a more suitable spot for solitude. Conveniently, it showed I was near a neolithic stone circle on the edge of the village of Duloe, just four miles inland but a world away from busy, buzzing Looe. The circle is small (about 10m) but comprises large, white quartz stones, one of which weighs about twelve tons. I stood in the centre and tried a little mindfulness, imagining the lives of our ancestors. Here I was, immersing myself in quiet, rural surroundings, deflecting the buffeting winds of geopolitics that so distress our daily lives (whether or not we recognise their origin and direction of travel). Our ancestors surely had it tough, but geopolitics was not really a concern for them.

          People like to take a break from routines, get-away, go on a retreat, vacation, holiday, sabbatical – whatever they choose to call it. They are all a form of escape.  Usually, they go back to their regular life after the time allotted, only to find that the global forces that ultimately determine their lives are still grinding away. The question that haunts my otherwise shallow mind is what can we, as ordinary citizens, do to influence the destructive forces that control us? For example, last week the world’s nations convened to agree ways to limit pollution of our ecosystem by plastics. It was reported that the delegates were outnumbered by lobbyists from the plastics industry and it was no surprise that the nations who vetoed any meaningful action were those whose economies are based on petro-chemicals. What should concerned individuals do about stopping this self-harm? What can they do?

          Later, at Lanhydrock, a National Trust-owned estate, I waked down to a hidden vale within the grounds where there is a disused, open-air swimming pool. Built by Victorians in somewhat Spartan fashion, it is kept up as a mini nature reserve, though not many visitors make the effort to find it. So it was that I sat there for a while in the company of hundreds of dragonflies, some so bold as to hover right in front of my face, amazing me with their flying skills and sparkling colours. They seemed like creatures from a different planet, yet it is the same one as ours. The difference between our species is that they can’t influence what happens to it.

 

 

 

Love or Hate. Really?

          At the supermarket, I reached for a jar of Marmite and saw that it had an unfamiliar look about its branding. The label was adorned with rainbow graphics and the words “Elton John Limited Edition”. I looked more carefully and found a QR code on the back which links to a site where you can donate to E.J’s. Aids Foundation (though I haven’t yet made it work).

          The question is not whether to donate but why did they choose Marmite jars for the appeal? After all, the powerfully flavoured yeast extract has become synonymous with the expression “you either love it or hate it”, so why would the EJAF choose a product towards which many people feel hatred, thereby alienating a group of potential donors? They could have picked a universally neutral product, such as toilet rolls.

          Anyway, it’s a bit OTT to either love or hate something that you spread on toast. It would be more reasonable to take the emotion out of a simple consumer preference and say that you either like or dislike it. (To give the benefit of doubt to those who really are emotionally invested, it’s true enough that some tastes and smells can evoke memories of times that were significant to them in some way.) For my own part, I prefer to save emotionally charged language for those occasions when my blood temperature rises.

          I also like to question the necessity for a binary ‘either/or’ verdict. There must be some people whose reaction to Marmite is ‘meh’. This gradation of judgment is illustrated by Elie Wiesel’s pronouncement that “the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference”, which introduces the idea that you can neither love nor hate unless you are engaged with the object in question. Indifference is, per se, lack of engagement and akin to being in a state of limbo from which you are unqualified to make a definitive value judgment.

          Of course, it’s not possible to engage with everything, everywhere, all the time, so we have a biologically inherent filtering mechanism based on personal capacity and the freedom to choose ‘which hill to die on’ or, for non-binary types, which hill to um and ah over.

          Last week, there was a protest in London (and other places) against the government’s decision to proscribe the group known as Palestine Action under anti-terrorist legislation – an act that many people see as an OTT reaction to the activities the group has been engaged in. I had, as they say, ‘skin in the game’ (I can say no more, for fear of prosecution under section 14 of said legislation), so I found channels on YouTube that broadcast live and continuously from the London event. Whilst they mainly showed just extended versions of what was subsequently condensed and broadcast on mainstream news platforms, one of them included a live, unmediated comments pane below the footage. The hatred and vitriol expressed in some of those one-line comments was hard to come to terms with.

          I subsequently sought to quell my seething outrage by rationalising the hatred. Was it genuinely felt and expressed by people with first hand experience of terrorism? Was it the product of ignorance and prejudice? Was it a form of mob feeding frenzy? Was I watching a channel sponsored by partisans? It may have been all of the above, but one thing seemed obvious: those who expressed hatred (towards the proscribed group, its supporters and the Palestinians on the receiving end of Israeli firepower) had missed the point that the protest was also was about the right to freely express dissention from government legislation. In contrast to the bloodlust expressed by the online haters, the police tasked with the arrest of 522 peacefully protesting citizens displayed what might be described as disinterest.

          By the way, in case anyone is interested, I’m partial to Marmite, I really like some of Elton John’s early recordings, I’m trying hard not to hate the haters and I’m indifferent only to that of which I know nothing.

  

Rainy Day Pursuits

         Given that it’s been thirty years since I decided to hang up my gardening tools and allocate the time saved to other pursuits, how is it that I presently find myself responsible – albeit temporarily – for a large vegetable patch? The answer is that we are dog-sitting at the house of close relatives and, though the doggy duties are light (she being old and sweet-tempered) their garden is large and, as it hasn’t rained for some weeks, their vegetable harvest is at risk of withering – an outcome that would sit heavily upon the conscience of even the most determined ex-gardener. Nor does it end there. One also feels duty-bound to eat as much as one can of the of the produce ripening by the hour, so a lot of time is spent harvesting, looking up recipes, cooking ‘from scratch’ and – as a last resort – freezing the excess.

          Yesterday, however, was a rainy day, so I left nature to its own devices and escaped to visit a couple of nearby National Trust houses, former country retreats of wealthy DFLs (down from Londoners). At these places, you can learn a lot about the history of people and places, or, to put it in less lofty terms, indulge yourself in an hour or two of being nosey.

          Firstly, I went to Greenway, a plain-looking Georgian mansion set in 36 lush acres on the steep banks of the river Dart. In 1930, Agatha Christie, then newly married to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, bought it as a holiday home. It remained in the family until it was taken on by the National Trust, which is why it still contains so much of the family’s stuff – a jumble of furniture and an accumulation of unremarkable bric-a-brac – as well as some of the celebrated author’s literary works and memorabilia. It is said that Agatha was a modest person, a claim lent substance by the fact that her Dame of the British Empire regalia was found in the back of a cupboard full of decorative pottery. It is now displayed at the front, in its original box and with the instructions for how and when it should be worn.

          Agatha lived her professional life in London but was born and raised in nearby Torquay, so she would have known that this part of Devon is coveted as a holiday retreat. Ten years prior to her buying Greenway, another couple of DFLs, Rupert and Lady Dorothy D’Oyly Carte, were sailing in their yacht off the coast nearby when they spotted a picturesque valley leading down to a secluded cove and determined to buy it and establish their own country house there. By 1926 they were ensconced in Coleton Fishacre, an Arts and Crafts style house designed for them by Oswald Milne, former assistant to Edwin Lutyens. Unlike Greenway, the house was built with stone quarried on site, positioned discreetly in the landscape and fitted out internally by the architect so as to present a cohesive style throughout. For those curious to know, Rupert’s fortune came from the businesses his father founded – the eponymous opera company and a string of luxury hotels – so he knew a thing or two about stylish interior design.

          Since they were neighbours, I like to imagine both sets of DFLs mingled socially, with Agatha taking notes, discreetly, on Coleton Fishacre and the doings of its occupants for use later in a murder mystery (A Stylish Summer Ending?). But apart from summers spent relishing their extensive acreage of gardens and woodlands, I suspect they had little in common.

          Had the weather been more accommodating and I had been with a companion so inclined; I might have spent some time admiring those acres. But I’d had enough of gardens for the time being and was grateful, in more ways than one, for a rainy day.