Not Quite Land's End to John O'Groats

          Last week I was on the SW coast of Cornwall, enjoying a couple of days at the raucous and rowdy Sea Shanty Festival in the well-to-do port of Falmouth. This week I’m on the NW coast of Scotland, quietly contemplating the Cuillin Hills of Skye across the sea from a campsite below the remains of an Iron Age broch (a fortified House in Multiple Occupancy). Whilst the experiences differ, the places have a commonality. They are tourist destinations hosting visitors, like me, who bring our spending power to bear.

          In Falmouth, my contribution to the local economy took the form of multiple purchases of pasties and pints of cider. These are specialities of the region that I am keen to support by making a stand against the big brands’ takeover of drinks and foodstuffs. Diminishment of quality and enhancement of prices follow inevitably - which may not matter to cynical, profit-maximising local businesses, but it degrades the experience of the discerning visitor and is not a good long-term business strategy.

          Still, the performances were free (donations to the RNLI, please). Perhaps the folk songs of mariners are immune to corporatisation: no one has yet monetised the genre by selling out a stadium. I suppose its appeal is too niche for that. Yet, like all good music, it has the power to move the emotions. Could it be that the songs are so familiar from childhood that they evoke nostalgia? Or is it simply that well-rendered harmonies hit the musical spot, whatever the song?

           In any case, and after a couple of pints, joining in the singing feels like joyful expression. No matter that the repertoire is limited (excluding the contributions of the visiting Bretons), with 85 groups singing mostly the same songs at venues across the town, their very familiarity promoted jollity. Jaunty tricorn hats were worn as fashionable accessories and, in an effort to fit in, even I sported a nautically themed tattoo (stuck on, that is).

          It's easy to make fun of sea shanties and to caricature them, along with Jolly Jack Tar, while forgetting that the life that spawned them was hard, the pay meagre and the chances of illness and death high. There is something of that also in a visit to the western fringe of Highland Scotland. We are currently on the peninsula of Applecross, which was accessible only by sea until the 1920s. The road built then was a steep, single-track switchback that is still in use today and, in winter, often impassable. In the 1970s the final, connecting stretch of a coast road was built – but only because the military needed access.

          The population in such places comprised the remnants of a genocidal land-grab by those who owned the titles to the territory and made their income by letting parcels out to tenant farmers – crofters. When they discovered that more profit was to be made from the land by keeping sheep, they evicted their tenants – often in the cruellest ways imaginable. The brutality of the landlords is legendary. Accounts of hardship are excruciating. Driven to the rocky coast, the crofters made a precarious subsistence living from the land and the sea as best they could. For a while, there was even a government subsidised scheme to encourage their emigration. Post 1945, things began to improve in respect of land-ownership rights, but a more potent factor of change also developed: tourism.

          Tourism, like capitalism, can raise some people out of poverty. But both isms have a sting in the tail. When they are overdone, the benefits accrue to fewer and fewer individuals. The residents of Barcelona, for example, have had enough of being priced out of their own housing stock, and the news today featured Venetians protesting the renting of their city to Jeff Bezos for his wedding. Applecross, on the other hand, seems welcoming and friendly. We are, after all, providing an alternative to subsistence farming. But tourist numbers are growing here. Will they kill the goose?

   

The Long Haul

          It’s funny how the 1960s keep popping up. This week, I got news that my 15-year-old grand-nephew, having seen the film A Complete Unknown, went out and bought the vinyl album, Highway 61 Revisited, first released in 1965. I was impressed. But he reportedly finds it hard to relate his newly discovered enthusiasm for Bob Dylan to the fact that I was in the audience of Dylan’s London concert in 1966 and have first-hand experience of the controversy featured in the film’s plot, his perceived “betrayal” of the acoustic folk music tradition.

          A couple of years after that concert, I spent a year in Sudan (then referred to as The Sudan), with no access to western music at all. I was one of a contingent of twenty or so newly graduated adventurers who had successfully applied to join the Voluntary Service Overseas (VSO) scheme. Among our number were Paul and Jim, two of the nicest chaps I ever met, before or since. As it happens, we came together last week – as we do from time-to-time – and, after telling them about my grand-nephew’s musical epiphany, we discussed which side of the “betrayal” argument we had been on at the time. Given the vagaries of memory, it was hard to answer definitively, but I like to think I was not on the purist side. Otherwise, why would I have bought a ticket to the concert, given that I knew what to expect?

          Paul, Jim and I have never lived in close enough proximity for our friendship to be kept alive by default. Chance may have brought us together, but it has required conscious effort to maintain the relationship through the distances of place and circumstance. So, as well as occasional get-togethers, sometimes including partners and family, we have for the past few years fostered a tradition of the three of us meeting annually.

          These rendezvous started as long-ish country hikes – something all three of us have always enjoyed – and involved camping out for a couple of nights (of which the same cannot be said). However, the years took their physical toll and, over time, the hiking routes became less ambitious. I’m not saying it’s all over now, but last week’s outing was, literally, a walk in the park – albeit a country park, Dartington Estate and its formal garden, to be precise. But such gentler excursions do have advantages besides reducing the intensity of the physical challenges. There is much less logistical planning involved than is required for a day out in the rough or remote terrain favoured by seasoned hikers. Packed lunches are not needed, and conversation flows easier when one is not out of breath or obliged to walk single file on narrow tracks.

          But what is it about old friendships that make us want to perpetuate them? My experience is that those made in one’s formative years have a tendency to retain the quality of warm familiarity, even after prolonged periods of non-contact. Yet during those years of separation, each individual life develops, sometimes in ways that may be unexpected. Unless you keep track, the person you once knew may end up as someone you no longer relate to. Then what would you have to talk about, other than reminiscing about the sixties?

          There’s a pragmatic case to be made for dropping long-standing friendships that are deemed to have outlived their purpose – however “purpose” is defined. Self-interest, perhaps? The need to find a place in society. The need for self-affirmation. The need to satisfy nostalgic yearning. Well, if friendship served only to fulfil such needs, then its eventual redundancy could be expected. But friendship is not about pragmatism. Our old friends define our past just as much as we ourselves do, thus they lend meaning to our present as well.

 

Poking Around Plympton

          Plympton. I wouldn’t have gone there but for the fact it was the only place I could get our campervan fixed in timely fashion. The right-hand indicator had suddenly ceased to function, so we were relying on sticking our arm out of the window, a signal that only elderly drivers recognise as an intention to turn right: younger ones look baffled.

          Once a town in its own right, Plympton is now a suburb of Plymouth. I have always perceived it as a dull dormitory, whose rows of box-like houses I glimpsed from the Devon Expressway, its lack of allure reinforced by the fact that the main service centre for our Renault van is located on its bland outskirts. I had approached all our local garages, but they were either baffled by the problem or too busy to look at it before our planned departure for a trip to Scotland, so I accepted Renault’s offer to diagnose the fault, immediately, for a mere £140 (which included washing the vehicle, as a “courtesy”). The subsequent cost of rectification, of course, would be open-ended.

          After checking in, I found myself with a few hours in which to explore a place that proved more interesting than I had imagined. The friendly chap at the service desk directed me to walk the mile down to the high street, where, among the usual proliferation of charity shops, there were traditional and modern retailers, as well as cafés – and all of it not too shabby.

          But what caught my eye was a relatively grand building in the centre, with the title, Stannary Court above its door, which means that this was once a centre for the regulation and taxation of locally mined tin. Conservationists have the Wetherspoons pub chain to thank for having sympathetically re-purposed the building, while the locals, many of whom thronged the place on that Wednesday morning, appeared to be giving thanks of their own. Meanwhile, the older pub, further along the street (and closed until midday), bears the name of that most famous son of Plympton, the artist Sir Joshua Reynolds.

          The site of the local Manor House, destroyed by fire in 1985, is now occupied by a clinic, a substantial community hub and a public library (closed on Wednesdays), encouraging signs that there is social activity at the heart of the housing estates that bleakly adorn the surrounding hills. But the biggest surprise (to me) was to discover that there is an older part of the town, where there are the remains of a barbican and a Norman castle that was continuously occupied until after the Civil War.

          But my meandering was cut short by a call from the service centre. They had found the problem to be a fault in the switch on the steering column. A new one was needed but, because of its age, it could only be found in the aftermarket, a place where Main Dealers are forbidden to trade – presumably for reasons to do with reputation and warranty. It was down to me to source the part and get a competent person to replace it – a simple job, they assured me.

          So, the race is on to sort it out before we go to Scotland. Our route, or part of it, has lately been branded NC 500 in a master stroke of marketing nous that has brought thousands more tourists to the coastal road around Scotland, so we want to go early in the season to avoid the crowds. Also, we intend to drive clockwise, starting – and lingering – on the West Coast, our favourite stretch. The new indicator switch is on its way from a European warehouse, delivery date unspecified. So, in case it doesn’t come in time, we have a half-arsed contingency plan to avoid right turns by driving the route anticlockwise instead.

Carry On Festivaling

          Once upon a time, a group of us were sitting around, talking about this and that, when the subject settled on music, and each of us in turn was invited to reveal their favourite genre. Now, this is a tricky question for the pedantically inclined, like me. What should I say? Jazz? Yes, but not all jazz. There are reservations, and my explanation, a potentially long monologue on its origins, history and variant forms would certainly have fallen flat on the company, buzzing as it was with snappy repartee. Fortunately for me – and everyone else – my turn never came, since a showstopper was delivered by the person who claimed that their favourite genre was “compilations”.

          I’ve just spent three days at a ‘boutique’ music festival that presented a jumble of genres. Although the headline was Jazz & Blues, the subtext added Soul, Funk, Latin, Cuban and Roots (whatever that is), a bit like a menu and not at all a bad thing if you like a varied diet. It was held in a park, in the centre of the genteel seaside resort of Sidmouth, Devon, where a famous annual folk festival, instigated back in 1955, still takes place. All that accumulated expertise has been applied to this newer enterprise and it shows. It was a slick operation, impeccably managed, quite unlike the original outdoor festivals of the Woodstock era to which I was drawn.

          In comparing Isle of Wight 1969 with Sidmouth 2025, I realise of course that, apart from the obvious and intentional difference in scale, much has changed in the fields of technology, event management and health and safety legislation. One thing that does remain the same, however, is that the audience – or part of it – comprises the same people. We’re just older, pickier and less inclined to leave things to chance.

           We went to those early festivals without planning for exigencies of any kind and we were not unduly inconvenienced by the frequent late starts caused by incompetencies, mishaps or the erratic behaviour of artistes. At Sidmouth, we all brought our own folding chairs, wore weather-appropriate clothing and would have grumbled like old gits if the schedule had been screwed up.

          Being on my own, I was free to choose, without compromise, which gigs to attend, which to shun and which to leave early should I find them uninspiring. It also left me free to pop in and out of the various pubs where fringe acts were performing and where real ales and ciders helped fuel the atmosphere of conviviality that fosters friendly exchanges between strangers – something that solo drinkers are particularly prone to.

          Whoever saw the market opportunity for niche, boutique festivals threw us senior fans a lifeline. With well-appointed facilities, a town-centre location and sensible timetabling, our age-related requirements are well catered for. I chose to stay in my campervan, a healthy twenty-minute walk away, but could have splashed out for a room in one of the many sea-front hotels. Either way, one could be tucked up in bed before midnight with never a pang of FOMO and ready for action the next morning at 11.00 prompt, artisan coffee in hand. Not everyone was of my vintage, but grey heads bobbed everywhere in time to the rhythms. When dancing did occasionally break out, the perpetrators were observably young, impulsive types – which does bode well for the future prospects of the artistes performing.

          Festivals offer more than just intoxicating live music – of whatever genre. The ingredients that make them enjoyable also include a friendly crowd, competent organisation, an attractive location and, of course, clement weather. They all came together on this occasion, so I’m encouraged to take a punt on the original – the Sidmouth Folk Festival. I still have a soft spot for folk and nothing to lose but the will to carry on festivaling.

 

A Tale of Two Barbicans

          The term ‘Barbican’ refers to a medieval outer fortification or defensive gateway, the traces of which can be found all over Europe. I was at two of them last week, though nothing remains but the name. In London, the Barbican Centre is a monster of a modernist, post-war housing estate that contains a cultural hub and was built at or near a former entrance to the Roman walls of Londinium. In Plymouth, the Barbican comprises the characterful streets surrounding the original docks below a medieval fortress, now given over to tourism and fishing.

          I’ve often dallied with the notion of living in one of the Barbican Centre’s flats, since they are not only to my architectural taste but also conveniently connected by walkways to cinemas, theatres, galleries, restaurants, a public library and a clinic. However, as I made my way last week through the brick-and-concrete maze in search of the (new) art gallery, I noticed that the infrastructure is showing its age and in need of costly repairs. The prospect of rising service-charges had a dampening effect on my erstwhile enthusiasm for moving in.

          I was there to see sculptures by Alberto Giacometti set alongside work by the living sculptor, Huma Bhabha. The concept, I think, is to highlight ways in which the contemporary artist references their predecessor’s work. Perhaps it was crass of me to look for obvious connections – though I did see them and consider such comparison useful as a tool of appreciation. In any case, Giacometti resonated with me more than Bhabha, a case, perhaps, of familiarity breeding comfort.

          On that same day, and acting on a friend’s recommendation, I went to see an exhibition of traditional Japanese woodcraft. The narrative is that Japan’s scarcity of metal ores fostered the development of sophisticated techniques for joining wood without metal fastenings. That necessity, combined with dedication to the traditions of craft as a calling and the cultural and spiritual connections between the buildings – especially temples – and the trees from which they were constructed resulted in the exquisite execution of the most complex, effective and aesthetically accomplished wood joints ever achieved. I was in awe.

          The next day, I was back in Plymouth, just in time to catch the last few events marking Tree Week, a celebration of all things arboreal. I spent a couple of hours on a sunny afternoon under the trees in a re-wilded corner of a park, where there was Morris dancing and community-choir singing “Hurrah to the life of a country boy!”. Though I had missed events earlier in the week, there were some that I would not have attended anyway, i.e. those at the spiritual end of the spectrum, where therapies such as forest bathing inhabit a space outwith my predilections. However, as I observed an actual, orange-tipped butterfly settle on a brilliantly blue cornflower, I felt a faint flutter of kinship with nature, a glimmer of empathy with the Japanese ethic. The closing party that evening was at my favourite local café/bar and featured a specially composed musical whimsy evocative of forests and the sounds of nature. The duo, a guitarist and vocalist, applied their artistry to magical effect, luring me even further into the spiritual camp, despite my innate scepticism.

          The sun shone down again the next day, when I cycled over to the Barbican to savour another celebration, Pirate Weekend, a popular event in the annual cultural calendar. Pirate caricature was everywhere. Some of the outfits worn by enthusiasts were earnestly authentic, while others were determinedly comical. But the appeal of the theme soon wore thin for me. It could have been sustained by, say, a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan’s classic, The Pirates of Penzance, but perhaps that would be considered too highbrow?