Fiddle-Dee-Dee

          The young couple who own and operate the local vegan sourdough bakery are delightful: smiley, kindly, politically and environmentally engaged – we might find ourselves in the same social circle, were it not for the age gap and the fact that they get up at four o’clock in the morning.

          They always ask how I am and what I’m up to and they surprise me by remembering better than I do whatever I’ve previously said. This week, when one of them asked “How are you?” and I replied, “All right, I suppose”, they both looked concerned. So, I quickly added, “Considering the world is burning down around us.” They laughed nervously, relieved that I was not unwell.

          Of course, I understand that the question was a polite invitation to a conversation but, given that the world is demonstrably full of suffering and hate, I sometimes cannot bring myself to boast that my personal world is in good shape and I have no grumbles. Self-satisfaction isn’t a good look at the best of times.

          But life goes on regardless. Most of us are, in effect, fiddling while Rome burns. Incidentally, stringed, bowed instruments such as the fiddle were unknown until about a thousand years after the Emperor Nero was allegedly playing one instead of going responsibly about his duties. One can only conclude, therefore, that the metaphor is invalid and ought to be re-phrased, ‘fiddling about while…’ But, as the saying goes, ‘no one wants pedantry to get in the way of a good story’.

          Thus was I contemplating the futility of everything while driving along a back road in Somerset last week. We had earlier passed a sign that proclaimed CATS EYES REMOVED when I spied a less ambiguous one that simply said CIDER. It was hand-written and nailed to a tree, which may be just a clever form of advertising that promises but does not deliver authentically rural product, but which, nevertheless, always lures me in the hope I might find the real thing. In this case, I got lucky.

          We followed signs into a farmyard enclosed by ancient stone buildings and inhabited by two men leaning unconcernedly on a tractor. They didn’t acknowledge us, but a woman appeared, smiling and wiping her hands on her apron. She led me into what served as a cider shop and invited me to taste one or two of the half-dozen barrels along a wall. I didn’t need to. I could smell authenticity in the air and promptly bought two flagons of dry, still cider, one made from five apple varieties, the other a more selective blend of Bramley and Dabinett. The price was modest – as you would expect of a product that has minimal marketing and distribution costs loaded on to it.

          A drop of cider has the ability to numb one’s consciousness to the overall plight of the world, but that doesn’t mean that it’s gone away. For the next few days, the news was full of Artificial Intelligence agents. Some of the developers are warning of the potentially existential danger they pose to humanity, while Donald Trump poo-poos them and takes a characteristically materialist stance.

          The way I see it is that AI might well develop sufficient intelligence – allied with control of all our systems – to do any of three things. One outcome might be that it works out how to resolve geopolitical conflicts of interest and impose peace and harmony on all peoples of the planet. Another outcome might be that it effectively says, “Sod it! This species deserves extinction. Let ‘em have it!”

          The first option would be preferable, from an idealistic point of view but, if I were a betting man, my money would go on the second (though, come to think of it, post-extinction collection of my winnings would be unfeasible). Either way, we would reap what we have sown. What would be really disappointing is if AI chose the third option, a continuance of fiddling about while Rome burns.

 

Tiling Ticked Off

          The view from our living room is an active panorama: to the right, the grassy promontory of Mount Wise, at the base of which is a boatyard and the skeleton of a stone building with eight tall, slender arches founded below the tideline and, beyond that, a waterfront lido; to the left is a marina full of bobbing boats, beyond which is the Tamar estuary, highway to the Royal Naval docks at Devonport. It’s enough to entertain you even on the dullest of days.

          But, having become accustomed to the scene, last year I found my eye constantly being drawn instead to the foreground, i.e. the state of our outdoor terrace. It’s a good space but the previous owners had given it an ugly, badly executed makeover, covering it in porcelain tiles the colour of pale-yellow puke, with a rippled surface, glazed, so they were slippery when wet. Earlier this year, I determined to do something about it and, after making a start myself, found and contracted a tradesman to finish the job properly.

          Now that the terrace is professionally laid with non-slip tiles in a tasteful, pale shade of terracotta, my eye is still drawn to it, but for a different reason: I am mesmerised by the transformation. Just this morning, I watched with deep satisfaction as the rainwater ran towards the gutter and the residue soaked away into the semi-porous surface. I’ll be seeing a lot more of that now that the long, dry summer is coming to an end.

          The August Bank Holiday was a watershed – literally. Our residents’ annual BBQ, held in the communal garden with a combination of doggedness and borrowed gazebos, was at the same time a celebration of summer and an acknowledgement of its demise. The singer we hired was unfazed by the gusty conditions – a true professional – and finished her set, by request, with a Dolly Parton tribute.

          More signs of autumn came with the return of my Other Half from a brief stay in the countryside – a bagful of windfall apples and a wasp sting on a fingertip that was swelling ominously. It was Sunday afternoon before she decided to seek direct medical advice and, with the following day being a holiday, the only resources available outside of A&E were via telephone. Although no emergency was declared, the swelling expanded to the point where it triggered acute anxiety in the patient, testing my limits as a nurse and, incidentally, obliging me to deal with the peeling, coring and stewing of the apples.

          After a couple of days, the swelling receded – as was predicted – and I grabbed some time for R&R. I sauntered into town and had coffee at a smart new Kurdish café, where you can get simit (a saucer-sized ring of sesame-seed-encrusted bread) to dunk – or not – and pretend to be abroad for a while.

          Suitably fortified, I then went to the Box, Plymouth’s prize-winning* museum/gallery/archive, to put some sunshine back into life by soaking up the colourful paintings of Gillian Ayres. Although the place was thronging with families filling the last few days before school with indoor activities, the painting galleries had only a few, solitary visitors and I was able to bask in the colours and contemplate the life artistic.

          I finished off by browsing the books in the local history room, where I like to pick up obscure facts with which to impress visitors to our patch. Flicking through a book of photos, a page fell open at a view I recognised. It was as if taken from our terrace, but in 1898, long before our building existed. Plainly visible were the eight stone arches, capped by a roof and with small boats and sailors busy all around. The caption read “The Admiral’s Boathouse”.

          The Admiral’s residence still sits atop Mount Wise, though it has been converted to apartments. Could his redundant boathouse one day be recommissioned and used by one of the several rowing clubs around here? I could do with a bit more activity to distract me from gazing at the tiling.

*The Art Fund ‘Museum of the Year’ 2026.