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.