The Presence of Absence

          Lately, I’ve been buying pink grapefruits from the local supermarket. I’m so addicted to them that I daren’t look to see the country of origin, lest it be too far across the globe for the carbon footprint not to prick my conscience. I take pleasure in juicing them on a vintage, electric Moulinex that is activated by pressing the halved fruit down on the rotary spindle, which alternates direction each time it is engaged. That is, until the motor packed up and my efforts to fix it came to nought. So, I trawled eBay for a replacement and saw the same model, in an authentic 1960s shade of custard. Nostalgia tempted me (and it was reasonably priced), but reason prevailed. Old electric motors die, don’t they.

          Thus, paralysed by indecision, the matter was put aside while we executed a plan to make the most of the mild weather. We went on an excursion in the campervan – the last, perhaps, before the clocks change and the days get shorter overnight. A previously unexplored section of the north coast of Cornwall was our target for a stint of hiking, sampling local produce and engaging with nature in general.

          I found a strategically located campsite at Delabole, a name that intrigued me because it sounded French. Norman, perhaps? Cornish placenames tend to have prefixes, such as “Tre” (homestead), “Pol” (pool or pond), “Pen” (head or end) and, of course, “Saint” (saint), but this place is different because it was named after a hole in the ground. (Not a Norman nobleman after all.) I didn’t know it until I went there, but Delabole is the site of a “world famous” slate quarry that continues to be productive, six hundred years after it was first excavated. As for the name, Deliou Manor, near the present site of the quarry, was listed in the Doomsday book. By 1284, it had become known as Delyou Bol – a translation of the old Cornish – “delyou” meaning flakes or leaves and “bol” a pit – which gives us the Pit of Flaky Stone.

          We did go to see it, walking past the vacant coach-parking lot and standing, alone, on the viewing platform (sightseers are more numerous in the holiday season, apparently). We watched an excavator poking noisily at the prized sediment and tried to imagine the time when more than a thousand people worked there. Now, there are five men and three machines, so there wasn’t much to see. We continued along the path to the coast and a café at Trebarwith, a placename more familiar, insofar as it is easily confused with a hundred others.

          There’s something sweet about seaside holiday places at the end of the season. There are few if any other customers, so staff are friendly and relaxed. You feel smug if the weather’s fine and privileged, as if you were in First Class. It was in this kind of bubble that we set off on a five-hour trek. Yet, there was also an eeriness, induced partly by the lack of a breeze, the stillness of the ocean and the absence of any other hikers. This might have been something to savour, yet we were not gratified by such exclusivity, especially as it applied also to the wildlife. During that walk, not once did we see any creature emerge from the sea. Apart from a few sheep and cattle, the only fauna we spotted were three caterpillars, three butterflies, two black beetles and a slug. Had the end of the world occurred since we left Trewhatsit?

          More likely, it’s just a quiet time for nature, but now that we’re back in the city, it’s business as usual. I was going to resolve the matter of the citrus juicer but, having opened the freezer and seen the gallons of frozen apple juice stashed within, I have put it on hold again – which, incidentally, gains me respite from the carbon-footprint anxiety.

Pressing Engagements

          It’s that time of year again: the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness – and influenza. Actually, it’s been so long since I had the flu that it seems now like one of those childhood afflictions one no longer need worry about. I am, of course, not uniquely immune to the virus; regular vaccination has saved me from the dreaded lurgi. So, I was pleased to be invited this week to the local clinic for the annual flu jab.

          My appointment was set at 09.22 (which did strike me as being improbably precise) and when I arrived ten minutes early, I was perplexed to see a queue snaking out of the entrance and into the carpark. My first thought was that I could have stopped for coffee at that nice little café I walked past, but I observed the queue shuffling forward at a fair pace, so I took my place. Before long, I was inside, with just enough time to banter with one of the attendants, who told me they were doing 850 jabs that morning and that the reason it was organised so efficiently was because “the boss is ex-military”.

          ‘Military precision’ is one of those assumptions that, in my view, deserves to be questioned. I may be biased but, with a father who served in the armed forces, I was accustomed to hearing stories to the contrary. The terms ‘balls-up’ and ‘cock-up’ were familiar to me from an early age and, later, I learned the US forces equivalent, SNAFU. It was with scepticism, therefore, that I viewed footage during covid lockdown of army personnel taking charge of vaccine distribution. I took the cynical view that it was just a morale-boosting stunt. Nevertheless, here I was, rolling down my sleeve and being ushered out of the back door, with my phone displaying 09.23!

          Anyway, now that I’m jabbed, I can relax and enjoy autumn’s delights, especially as the weather is clement and there’s plenty of sunshine to enhance the colourful, turning foliage. The bumper harvest has already given us a freezer full of stewed apples and there is no end in sight to the season’s plenty. Now there is apple juice. A friend, who lives in a farm cottage next to a small orchard, invited a group of pals for an afternoon of sharing both the labour and the produce of an apple-pressing session. She had hired, or borrowed, the equipment and we were required to bring suitable containers. Glass-bottled juice can be pasteurised and kept, plastic-bottled juice can be frozen and kept, but untreated juice will soon ferment.

          Had I realised the scale of the abundance, I would have brought a wagonload of vessels. She has no more than a dozen fruit trees, but they were loaded with fruit. Even so, there was no need to reach up for them. Heavy winds had deposited so many on the grass that we could barely cope with the gathering. I soon became expert at throwing them into the hopper that chops them into a mulch that is then then put into a screw-press. The juice flows from the base and is collected into buckets for bottling.

          At the end of the afternoon, each of us took away our filled containers, leaving sacks full of unpressed apples, the fate of which may be to rot. I put plastic bottles in the freezer (in the spaces next to the stewed apple), gave glass bottles to neighbours, took some more to a workshop next day and put the remainder in the fridge, where they will turn into cider if I don’t drink them pronto.

          But I can’t help worrying about all the surplus left languishing in orchards around the country. All that nutritious produce going to waste, for lack of a viable distribution system. Perhaps we could call in the army.

Wakey, Wakey!

          Last night, I dreamed that the house in which I was living, and with which I felt smugly satisfied, began to disintegrate around me. If this was a classic case of subliminal insecurity syndrome, who could be surprised? I might feel safe and sound in my present circumstances, but life is a pitfall waiting to happen – and that’s before you factor in the steady progress being made by authoritarian tyrants and their billionaire accomplices making short work of capturing power via wealth, limiting political freedom and destroying the ecosphere with their extractive, destructive economic policies.

          So, now that’s off my chest, and notwithstanding the slough of despond into which I am trying to avoid sliding on account of foresaid doom scenario, I want to make it clear that I live in an apartment, not a house, though my point is somewhat pedantic in that respect. Whatever the form of dwelling in which one happens to reside, the important thing is not to confuse it with ‘home’. Is it just me, or do others shout at the telly when politicians promise to build new “homes”, when what they really mean is habitations? A house is not a home. Home is where your heart is – or where you hang your hat. Just ask anyone who is homesick. What’s more, it is misleading to refer to people as homeless, when what they really lack is shelter. It is perfectly possible to be at home, i.e. on the street, in the town of your birth, yet without a residence.

          If you happen to visit the Tate Modern, London, you will be able to see exhibitions by two artists that illustrate the difference. Aboriginal Australian artist Emily Kan Kngwarray painted her home, whereas South Korean artist Do Ho Suh reconstructs the houses he has lived in.

          The traditional lifestyle of the Aboriginal Australians did not involve the building of permanent dwellings, therefore in referencing her home pictorially, Kngwarray had no problem of definition. She painted the landscape and the flora and fauna that inhabited it; in other words, her homeland and that of her kin – which included its non-human inhabitants, whose spirits are revered. This was the sole subject of her work. She hardly ever left the Northern Territories (her region is called Utopia, so named in 1978 as a result of aboriginal activism) and she certainly never travelled abroad.

          Do Ho Suh, on the other hand, has lived and worked in three cities that he has, at one time or another, called ‘home’ – Seoul, New York and London. By his own account, all three have shaped his experience of life and deposited memories into his subconscious mind. His ingenious re-creations of the houses he lived in contain these memories and illustrate his point that ‘home’ is not necessarily a fixed place. It evolves over time and is redefined as we move through the world.

          This last point might be contested by those who have experienced the trauma of forcible expulsion or who have become refugees from war and other disasters. Their experiences have nothing to do with lifestyle choices. The visceral pull to one’s home is not simply geographical; it is tied up with community and tradition as well. It is also surprisingly local. Studies of statistics in the (relatively small) UK indicate that the average UK adult lives 25 miles from where they were born, only a slight increase on the 19 miles that was recorded in 1921.

          So, as I sit comfortably in our well-maintained apartment, in the city of my father’s ancestry (though I spent my entire working life elsewhere), I feel at one with the statistics, though uneasy about the latent, snugness-induced tendency to smugness. Perhaps my dream was a wake-up call.

 

It's Politics, Stupid!

          The autumnal equinox is not usually on my radar but, this year, having been invited to join friends around a small bonfire they lit to mark the event, at last I felt some sense of the need thus to ritualise our connection to nature’s cycles. The fact that the night-sky was calm and the stars twinkled over the stilled waters of the estuary probably helped lull me into a fleetingly, semi-mystic state of awe from which I found myself questioning the temporal strivings of humanity. It was a fitting start to a week I had earmarked for taking a break from the relentless and depressing news of politics to turn my attention, instead, to art and jazz.

          It began with standing under a suspended, giant model of the sun – Luke Jerram’s Helios – that is being shown, with an accompanying and appropriately spooking soundtrack, at various National Trust venues. The potentially mesmerising effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that, it being a rainy Saturday morning, young families were there in great numbers. But for my self-imposed schedule, I would have gone at a less busy time, so I made the best of it and reminded myself that ‘art is for all’, not just the leisured class.

          Thence to London, where, if you can afford the price of entry, there are always exhibitions of interest. At the National Gallery, the show Radical Harmony examines the works of the Neo-Impressionist painters of the late 19^th century, as represented in the extensive collection of a wealthy industrial heiress. Whether you simply like to admire the paintings, or consider the artists’ different approaches to the same subjects, or get up close to the technique popularly known as pointillism, there is another, underlying theme, explained in the notes – radical politics. Many of the artists in this movement were supporters of the anarchist communist agenda that championed working people’s rights to dignity and rest and supported the ideals of harmony with nature and non-exploitative government.

          Next, to the Royal Academy and the exhibition titled The Histories, comprising works by the American artist, Kerry James Marshall, who is celebrated for his figurative paintings that “unapologetically” centre Black people. As the title implies, the artist digs into history for his subject matter and, in so doing, engages with the socio-political issues of the times. His images are strikingly colourful and overtly political, taking a bold, brash approach to messaging, unlike that of the pretty, pointillist face behind which the Neo-Impressionists hid their political activism.

          Then I went from the grandeur of the West End institutions to the tiny Estorick Collection of Italian art, in Canonbury Square. The permanent collection there is full of the work of artists who engaged, not only with modernism, but also the rise of fascism pre-WWII. Their involvement in politics seemed almost de riguer. And, in the temporary gallery space, there is an exhibition of work from the 60s and 70s by Ketty La Rocca, a “trailblazing figure of Italian conceptual and feminist art”. Her interrogation of consumer culture and gender dynamics later became an exploration of alternative forms of communication. It’s all quite complicated to explain. Better to go and have a look. But there’s an element of visual poetry in her later work.

          Then there was jazz. At the suggestion of my friend and fellow afficionado, we went to a performance by an outfit called Lucid Dreamers. If anything could be labelled ‘experimental’, this was it. Leaning on a vocal, poetic base and eschewing regular structures, the music could have descended into incoherent cacophony. Yet there was form and a sense of purpose. And, played with passion by seasoned, talented musicians the music took me to places of tenderness and excitement – as I’m sure was the intention.

          I didn’t detect any obvious political content in the music, but who knows what drives such artists? However, on the walk home, I passed a parked-up, beaten-up old VW van that sported a bumper-sticker proclaiming “Everything is politics!” I’m inclined to agree.

 

 

 

Dream On

          There was a piece in the paper that caught my attention, perhaps because, as I turned the pages, it was the first story not to be about the geopolitical nightmare that is the background to our lives and the daily, debilitating fodder of journalists, commentators and readers such as me. What attracted my eye was a photograph of the interior of “the world’s smallest theatre”, with its youthful, creative director standing there, radiating her pleasure, pride and optimism with a glorious, uninhibited smile.

          The theatre, which is in a former public toilet in Malvern, seats only twelve, so its financial viability must be a challenging prospect (you see what a pessimistic mindset I have been reduced to), but micro-theatre and micro-economics can be made to work, bringing sustenance and happiness to those involved. Not every venture has to be scaled up to succeed.

          The very next day, we saw theatre on the grandest scale, with Donald Trump featuring in a lavish production that, were it to be given a title, might be called The King and I – but for the small matter of copyright law. Insofar as we were not physically present at the show, what we actually saw was the equivalent of ‘the film version’. But that was the producers’ intention, it seems, as stage-management was of the essence in this case. We, the audience, had to be convinced – despite the shaky acting and implausible plot – that the story being told was leading us all to a happy ending. Dissenting voices must be kept away from the stage for fear of discrediting the fantasy.

          As this charade works its way to a flawed finale, what I see is a tale as old as humanity: two individuals, who have come into power by villainous methods (Trump by lying and inciting hatred, King Charles by inheriting unquestioningly the common wealth acquired forcibly by his ancestors), engaged in a tentative dance, choreographed to boost the power and prestige of the President on the one hand and limit the damage to the economy and independence of the UK on the other. The outcome has been predetermined. Since it is well known that the President is something of an Anglophile, an admirer of our monarchy and a sucker for flattery, the UK government has played the appropriate cards to best effect. New money meets old money and as is its wont, seeks its validation and approval.

          Some will argue that it’s as well we have a monarchical heritage resplendent with pageantry. “You see, it does have a role to play”, they say. But what if we had used the nation’s riches not to glorify an unelected family but to invest, instead, into a renewed common wealth? Would our national economy then be as impoverished as it is and as subservient to that of the USA?

          We peasants can be distracted easily from seeing the bigger picture: dangle baubles that are just beyond our reach, divert our attention from their power-grabs by creating enemies for us to hate – it’s a universally successful technique. All these ingredients are mixed into the script of the show currently playing. The Americans are offering to boost our economy by investing billions of dollars into our digital infrastructure (something we should have done ourselves), creating jobs for blue- and white-collar workers alike. But they will be calling the shots and the price we will pay is fealty to the economic and political values they preach and want us to espouse.

          And what of the existential problems of the world: eco-destruction and the wars driven by it and the naked greed of nationalism? These themes, apparently, have no place in their programme. I’m hopeful they will find a spiritual home, at least, in theatres where they do still dream – like the one in Malvern.

 

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. 

Mind Your Manners?

          Our upbringing generally involves the acquisition of a code of etiquette, a sort of template devised for interacting socially – and sociably – with those around us. On the whole, it serves its purpose, though it can be taken to extremes and is often used as a weapon in class warfare (an example might be the ‘correct’ way to arrange and use cutlery when dining). But broader experience of social customs teaches us that the only ‘correct’ way to dine in public is with consideration for those around us. Conventions may differ but basic good manners will always be appreciated.

          One rule of etiquette I was taught was not to eat while walking in the street. I mean, it was acceptable to suck a pastille, discreetly, but full-on chomping was not allowed. Even the chewing of gum was frowned upon. No explicit reason was given, though the message came across clearly enough: it was considered vulgar. In later years I developed a more egalitarian attitude, which caused me to come up with a rational argument for the rule. If you want to enjoy your take-out food, it’s better done sitting comfortably and taking time to savour it, while watching the world go by. If you simply want to take fuel on board – and quickly – then go ahead, if you must. I will look away. So, when I broke the rule myself, just the other day, I felt I had no right to complain of the consequence.

          It was a sunny morning and I had walked into town to catch a bus that would take me up the Devon coast. With twenty minutes to spare, I figured I had just enough time to nip around the corner and get a bacon roll (no coffee, as the journey would be two hours, unbroken) to supplement my earlier hurried breakfast. I’d like to think I was reasoning that time was tight and, in order not to embarrass myself by self-consciously devouring my treat on a bus, I ought to get started. Finding a spot to sit and relish the feast risked missing my ride so, I took stock and, seeing that there was no one around to report me, succumbed to temptation and took a bite. It was to be my last. A seagull had spotted its opportunity and swooped down with unerring accuracy to snatch the whole roll from my hand.

          Momentarily outraged, I swore at the bird and made as if to chase it along the pavement, where it had landed, with its booty, presumably having learned that the proper way to enjoy someone else’s takeaway is to find a place to sit and relish it. But mine was a reflex reaction and the futility – not to say the ridiculousness – of it  dawned upon me soon enough and I gave up. Regaining my composure, I glanced around and was relieved to note that, still, there were no witnesses to the incident and that my embarrassment would not be going viral.

          I spent the next two hours with the faint taste of bacon lingering in my mouth (having no coffee to wash it away), torn between appreciating the lush beauty of the countryside through which we progressed and struggling to come to terms with my loss. It’s not as if I was really hungry, I argued. And wasn’t I supposed to be on a journey to veganism anyway? I considered but quickly dismissed the possibility that fate may have had a hand in punishing me for transgressing the rules of etiquette, as it seems unlikely that the universe much cares about my self-imposed behavioural values. And you can’t blame a seagull for snatching a meal, any more than you accuse it of vulgarity.

  

Bell Wringing

          Soon after returning from our month-long road trip, my Other Half took herself off to London for a week. Having spent all that time together in the close confines of the campervan, being alone in our modest flat made it feel almost like a mansion. What’s more, the same effect applied to time. With nobody but myself to consider, time became more fluid. I resolved that neither of these luxuries was to be squandered and set about drawing up a to-do list biased heavily in favour of self-indulgence.

          Not that my indulgences are extravagant (though I did get quite drunk with our friendly neighbour on the first evening). It’s just that they can be a little obsessive and, sometimes, too obscure to be of interest to others, my OH included. For instance, I love the Chinese shop (so-called after the ones in Spain, where they are known as such). Our home version is actually run by an Asian family but, like the Spanish ones, it is chock-full of what looks like a cross section of the entire output of China’s factories.

          I was looking for a replacement bell for my bike, the original having been smashed when a gust of Scottish wind flung the parked bike against a Caledonian boulder. I was certain that I would find a cheap replacement there, but I scoured the tightly packed shelves in vain. Still, the forty minutes I spent browsing were productive, as I came out with a new pump, some work gloves and two carabiners, all of which items I had been in need of for some time.

          Anyway, there was a specialist cycle shop on the next street and, though I anticipated the quality and specifications of their bells would exceed my needs and that the price, accordingly, would be higher than my expectations, I walked in and asked for one. They didn’t have any. I’m not sure who was more surprised by this stocking oversight – me or the staff – but they shamefacedly directed me to Wilko’s, the well-known, cut-price, all-purpose store, where I obtained what I needed at the very satisfactory price of 99p.

          None of this would have been of the slightest interest to my OH, but she was the one responsible for the elevation of my agenda by bringing to my attention a documentary film, Sudan, Remember Us, which was showing at the local Arts Cinema. The film is about the popular demonstration for a return to democracy in Sudan in 2021 and the military’s brutal response, quashing it and burying all hopes of any humane form of governance.

          This grimly depressing story is not unique to Sudan, of course, but my particular interest and subsequent sorrow stems from the fact that, long ago, a dozen years after the country gained independence from Anglo-Egyptian rule, I lived there for a spell and acquired a fondness for the people I got to know. It so often seems that it takes some degree of personal connection to feel empathy for other people’s tragedies. Can this self-centredness be explained as a naturally evolved defence against emotional overload?

          Questions such as this are debatable and, probably, unanswerable. It’s not surprising that we shy away from them and busy ourselves with other things – either what is most pressing in our daily lives or what is most enjoyable to us. This morning, as it happened, I had nothing pressing, so I pumped up my tyres, fitted my new bell and rolled the bike out for a sedate pedal around the neighbourhood.

          It was then a question occurred to me. What is the use of a bell? If you sound it as a courtesy to pedestrians unaware of your approach, your politeness is likely to be mistaken for an arrogant warning to get out of the way. If you need to ring as a warning, then a yell will serve as well. And you can’t ring it in anger – as motorists are inclined to honk their horns – for fear of ridicule. Need I have bothered?

Road Trip Junkies

          The four-week road trip that took us around the coast of Scotland is now over. We set off at the start of one heatwave and returned at the end of another. In between, we experienced a variety of weather conditions, which we expected and for which we were prepared. And variety is the key word also for our other experiences, which is what makes a road trip so special. Getting away from home is, in itself, a chance to break from habitual comforts and atrophied notions of how to live your life: visiting many different places makes the most of that opportunity.

          Leaving the Highlands, we travelled down the east coast to Dornoch for a two-night stopover with a couple of friends who have a house there. We were duly reacquainted with the pleasures of social dining around a proper table and sleeping in a large, comfortable bed – neither of which we had missed, until then. Having left behind the ragged, sparsely populated north and its train of adventurous European tourists, we had come to a genteel, wealthy enclave, where numerous Americans, attracted by the world-class golf course, ambled around the town’s other attractions. I didn’t set eyes on the golf course (of course) but did accompany our hosts on a fishing-cum-picnic expedition to a nearby loch, where we met – among others – an enthusiastic fisherman from Pittsburgh, USA. That was the closest I got to sport before it was time to move on, this time to the rich farmlands of Fife, further south.

          We stayed at the intriguingly named Pillars of Hercules, an organic farm with a shop, café and camping fields. This is a business committed to existing in harmony with nature and reaping its abundance without harming the source. There was no shortage of appreciative customers, attracted by the ethos and delighted by the charm of the surroundings. Considering it was established in 1983, it seems a living can be made without ‘scaling up’ or ‘franchising’ the concept.

          From the site, it was a short drive to Dundee, where the Victoria & Albert Museum opened its doors in 2019. The building itself is worth a visit, if only for its unique architecture and imposing presence on the waterfront (characteristics also evident in Santander’s Botin Centre), but its contents are equally impressive – as you would expect from one of the world’s top museums. The establishment of the museum was part of the city’s drive to reinvigorate its economy and, if what I read is true, the results are beginning to show. Technology in the form of video game development is a front-runner in the industries that are now replacing the staples upon which the city’s wealth was built, historically characterised as jute, jam and journalism.

          A day’s drive south took us to Worcestershire, where we stayed overnight adjacent to the improbably named Droitwich Spa Marina. Yes, it was, until 1950, a spa town and yes, there is a marina, though it is for the inland canal system and harbours hundreds of residential longboats. Nevertheless, the surrounding land is lush and, at its heart, there is the National Trust property, Hanbury hall. We went for a look around and found they were celebrating the 350^th anniversary of the birth of the artist, Sir James Thornhill, whose murals adorn Chatsworth, Greenwich Royal Hospital, St. Paul’s dome and, of course, Hanbury, where they look remarkably fresh for their age.

          On the final leg home, I began to sense the return to normal routines as a sort of prick to the conscience. Had all this gallivanting around the country, revelling in difference and delighting in small discoveries been no more than a distraction from the serious business of living my own life? Was it a sort of dereliction of duty? But then, it wasn’t long after I unpacked my bag that I was consulting the diary to plan the next expedition.

 

Most Northerly

          Yesterday, we were at the most northerly tip of Britain, Dunnett Head, where sits an elegant, still operational lighthouse, built in 1830. On a rise just above it there is a collection of abandoned box-like buildings that once housed radar equipment, their utilitarian ugliness blighting what is otherwise a romantic spot from which to gaze over to Orkney and scan the sea, hopefully, for whale sightings. A few days before, we were at another ex-radar station, Balnakiel, near Durness, though that one has been imaginatively repurposed as a craft village, complete with a chocolatier operating from a classy coffee shop. Radar stations per se have had their day, but lighthouses remain, a tribute to early technology and the role it still has in navigation.

          But the seas around here were busy with traffic long before the invention of lighthouses. On the island and mainland coasts, the remains of buildings from as long ago as five-thousand years reveal evidence of frequent and prolonged connections with Scandinavia. In the (most northerly) town of Thurso, there is a ruined church that looks nothing special, but we had the good fortune to visit it on a morning when Maureen, a volunteer custodian-cum-historian, was on duty to inform the curious. She was at pains to point out that what is visible above ground is only the latest iteration of a place of worship that has been on the site since the time of the Picts. In populous places, new buildings sit upon old foundations.

          Is the same true of cultural mores? I’ve been reading some short stories by George McKay Brown, an Orcadian author who was writing in the early 20^th century. His stories and characters are peppered with references to Vikings, Norwegians, whaling, fishing, crofting and religious observance, reflecting the cultural influences of the past upon the living. History, in that sense, is like archaeology. Funny-sounding place name? Probably of Norse origin and descriptive of a feature or purpose. But names stick, whereas other traditions fade more readily. There are only residual traces nowadays of the particularly strict Presbyterian ethic that is the backdrop of McKay Brown’s stories: supermarkets are open on Sundays until ten p.m. and churches in smaller hamlets have faded notices pinned to the doors announcing their closure and suggesting alternative venues for worship.

          Change is driven by many factors, incomers being one. Some people move here to build a different kind of life for themselves Like Phil, the Mancunian building contractor, who sold up and is now the contented owner of Windhaven (the most northerly campsite in Britain). Unlike me, he doesn’t miss Manchester. His neighbour, who crafts objects in wood, is from Yorkshire. In the town of Tongue (a corruption of the Old Norse “tunga”, a spit of land) there is a famous bakery that, when it closed its doors, was revived – with a great deal of style – by a young couple whose commitment to wholesome baking is apparent in the excellence of their goods. He is from London; she is from Japan. And, on a walk towards a remote beach, we passed through a croft and were greeted by the new owners, a young couple from England. They had been there only five months and were “loving it”. Crofting, they explained, is a pure form of sustainable farming. When it comes to the future of farming, there is no need to reinvent the wheel!

          This wild and windy corner of Scotland will stay that way for some time to come. The lighthouse could well be here in another 184 years. What is changing is the population. This current wave of incomers is another element of history-in-the-making. They will certainly adapt to the peculiarities of the terrain. They will also, in time, redefine what it is to be a Scottish Highlander.

Rock of Ages

          Gneiss is a word that doesn’t come up very often. It’s the name given to a metamorphic rock formation – one of the oldest in the world. Here at Scourie, on Scotland’s rugged west coast, surrounded by classic outcrops of the three-billion-year-old stuff, I’m beginning to feel that its qualities exceed a purely technical, geological identity. The landscape it creates is spectacular – menacing in rough weather, majestic in colour-enhancing sunlight – but the living it provides is far from bountiful and, to a city dweller like me, whose interface with nature is less raw, it is the rocks, not the small settlements huddled below them, that comprise the spirit of this place.

          The sparse human population hereabouts seems to be adapted to the habitat and even to relish being far from the towns and cities. I imagine these folk feel little affinity with the big bad world of geopolitics, seemingly so irrelevant to their daily grind of making a living out of grazing sheep, catching lobsters and servicing tourists. Theirs is a different way of life from the always-on complexity and intensity of life in teeming cities. What difference would it make to them if, say, the USA invaded Canada? At times, momentarily overawed by the ancient bedrock, I feel my own mind disengaging from its habitual agonising over the machinations of power-hungry tyrants and nations striving against each other. Could this become a permanent state of mind if I were to live in a place such as this?

          Well, only by determined choice. Even in remote places, connection to the internet is possible and the foghorn of Trump’s posturing breaks through the ether as soon as a signal is established. Fortunately, the signal can also bring good news, as happened a few days ago. We were approaching the port of Ullapool, where we were due to stay the night, when I picked up an Instagram post from of a couple of old friends. They were happily hiking around Ullapool and staying over while they waited for the ferry to take them to that legendary hunk of gneiss, the Isle of Lewis. Thus, the combination of serendipity and internet enabled a joyful catchup in a pub, which we couldn’t have arranged better if we’d tried.

          Ullapool itself is an apparently gentrifying town. Being a port and ferry terminal, its purpose in life is well established and there is money passing through. I noticed there is a library and a theatre – neither of which we had time to visit – as well as a street that contains a deli, an on-trend coffee bar and re-fuel and re-use shop (the latter being of most interest to me, as it was the welcome source of a rare commodity – loose-leaf Assam tea), all of which we did visit. Another place we stopped at, en passant, was Gairloch, where there is evidence of colonisation by alternative lifestyle people circa 1975. It takes the form of a café-cum-bookshop called (?), which we discovered on a previous trip around ten years ago. We called in to check that it still retained its hippyish charm and, sure enough, it does. Nothing has changed – not even the stoner soundtrack.

          Back on the road, we take pleasure in small things: the little stands outside crofts offering garden produce, eggs and chutneys in exchange for cash deposited in honesty boxes; the temporary neighbourliness on campsites, where courteous consideration is the norm and conversation rarely has the time to develop beyond small talk; the wet, windy days devoted to reading, interspersed with the bright ones, ideal for invigorating walks; and the travelling fishmonger who dispensed seafood with a good deal of jollity and wit, and whose French accent was apparent despite his insistence on being from Aberdeen.

          Then there’s the background to the whole show, the time-defying gneiss that offers an insight into how and why it all works the way it does.

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?

 

What We Inherit

          It was the 80^th iteration of VE day that set me thinking about national heritage. When the last Gen-Boomer dies, there will be nobody left whose parents experienced WWII. To what extent, then, will the social impact of that war still be recognisable in the weave of our culture?

          History is open to both honest interpretation and cynical manipulation, so the essence of national heritage is not as fixed as may be supposed. Of the many examples around the world, the USA – self-proclaimed Land of the Free – will serve to illustrate the point. The government there has decreed the eradication of certain datasets from its websites and is currently in the process of taking over the Library of Congress, moves that are intended to take control of the ‘story’. Just how that accords with the definition of “free” is a moot point. Thankfully, I live in the UK, where, since 1945 at least, the majority likes to think it would never be fooled by an invasive creep of fascism such as that.

          I’m currently spending a few days in London, where our heritage is on display in spades, from the top-flight of royalty, down through the ranks of bourgeois traditions and lower, where it fizzles out into romanticised notions of working-class cockneys and the like. And, alongside all this sit the cultures of the most recent wave of immigrants, awaiting their time to become embedded into the mainstream institutions of British life.

          One such, the National Gallery, has recently had a makeover and a re-hang of its paintings. I went to see it – along with thousands of others – and what struck me was the fact that the collection is essentially Western European. What’s on display is the cross-fertilisation of styles and traditions. Yes, it’s a British institution but you would feel right at home if you were, say, French.

          Not so, perhaps, at the London Canal Museum, where my friend and I joined half-a-dozen other curious geeks delving into the uniquely British history of industrial development. Canals were built in Mesopotamia around 4000 BCE, but it wasn’t until 1761, when the Bridgewater canal brought coal into Manchester, that they really came of age. After 200 years, their economic value ebbed away, terminating at last, with the Big Freeze of 1962/3. Nostalgic volunteers kept the infrastructure from being lost and now they serve those who love them and live on them. All this is documented by the museum, a modest affair, run by volunteers and funded by entry fees and charitable donations, quite unlike the grandiose National Gallery that is free to enter, thanks to public funding. Is one of them a more deserving curator of heritage than the other?

          Hillaire Belloc (funny name for an Englishman) said, "When you have lost your inns, drown your empty selves – for you will have lost the last of England", a quote that leaves open to question the definition of the essence of England but strikes trepidation into the heart nevertheless. However, I’m happy to report that despite numerous pubs shutting down these past few years, my research indicates an ability to adapt ensures the survival of the species. In London, at least, many a corner pub has embraced the gentrification of its locale by turning into a restaurant with a posh menu, while managing to keep a traditional façade and a decent pint – albeit at a fancy price. Others have doubled down on the booze, like the Southampton Arms in Kentish Town, where traditionalists gather to savour real ales and ciders and eschew continental innovations such as lager.

          The demise of Gen Boomer is certainly nigh but, on reflection, I don’t suppose the memory of VE day will die with it. More likely it will just get stirred into the muddled mix of memories and myths that we experience every day: that, apparently, is our nation’s heritage.

 

Life Cycles

          A five-hour train journey can be a great opportunity to get stuck into a book, which is exactly what I did last Sunday, albeit the book I chose was not an uplifting tale of heroism, romance and happy endings: it was quite the opposite. Sam Freedman’s Failed State examines the dysfunction within Britain’s political and institutional systems. If it weren’t for the fact that the author proposes plausible remedies to our disastrous governmental establishment (the book’s subtitle is Why Nothing Works and How We Fix It), I would have been both outraged and depressed by the end of the journey. Only the power of hope kept me from falling into the slough of deep despond, on whose edge I habitually teeter in glum pessimism at the state of world affairs. To make matters worse, I was on my way to a funeral.

          Well, to be precise, it was a cremation, followed by a funereal ceremony in a church to mourn the death of a 93-year-old man. It was the second time in a month that I had been in a crematorium, so I could not help but notice the architectural similarities – the uncluttered room flooded with natural light, the muted colour palette and the high ceilings – which seem to provide appropriate, respectful settings for proceedings, whether they be sad, muted or determinedly non-morbid. Whichever the chosen mode, there is high quality audio-visual equipment to supplement the spoken eulogies. Moreover, having been at a secular ceremony earlier in the month, the differences between it and the religious variety seemed to me to be incidental to their purpose, which is the public expression of mourning.

          We travelled home by road, stopping over at Salisbury to visit an elderly relative, now in the care of a nursing home. During the journey we contemplated the news of the death of an equally elderly friend and the prospect of attending the memorial celebration of her life. The knowledge that none of us is far from death resides, usually, at the back of one’s mind and comes to the fore only at times such as this. However, for the millions of humans directly affected by wars currently being waged around the world, or for those living precariously without adequate food and shelter, it must be an everyday preoccupation. Such is the relative ease and comfort of my own life, that I must occasionally remind myself of my good fortune.

          While at Salisbury, I had time to visit another of the ancient sites near it, Figsbury Ring, which is thought to be the remains of an Iron Age hillfort superimposed on a Neolithic henge. There are no signs of buildings, just concentric rings of mounds, in an elevated position spanning about six hectares. During the few days of my travels, the weather had abruptly bypassed spring and turned to full-on summer, so that I stood there in full sunshine and with birds, bugs and butterflies as company, the only other person in view having walked away with her dog.

           I inhaled deeply the antiquity of a place that humans had begun to fashion five thousand years ago. I cannot compute how many generations have died since then, but the contemplation of the number puts a perspective on how short and insignificant one’s lifespan is, no matter how much one might wish otherwise. And, until recent times, death came either unkindly or untimely to most people as a matter of course. This had been a fortified settlement, so I imagined battles in situ were not uncommon.

          But that was two days ago. Now, back at home, I watch the crane in the boatyard over the water putting all those leisure craft back into the sea, where they will float through the summer months, their crews either oblivious to or escaping temporarily from the failing state and their own mortal limitations. We all have to find ways to enjoy life while we can.