Out Alone

          There’s a pub in Totnes that has the best food menu ever: bring your own! The concept makes a lot of sense, leaving the publican free to concentrate on curating the bar and the jolly pub vibe, while not having to take responsibility for a potentially cantankerous chef in the back. This formula for success may not be a novelty, I know, but it works especially well in this instance because it’s next door to a very fine takeaway joint that will bring your order, when it’s ready, to your table in the pub. That is, if you can get a table.

          I was there last week, on my own (by design), having arrived too early for a relatively obscure gig at a nearby venue. So, what better way to pass an hour than to eat and sup beforehand in a jovial, old-fashioned pub? Well, to have had company is one answer. A lively taproom can be a lonely place. And there is never a table for one. I was obliged to hang around until I got lucky and, when a couple vacated their table-for-four, I was quick to move in and claim it.

          Predictably, of course, I was soon approached and asked, politely, if I would mind sharing. Two blokes in their sixties, clutching full pints and wearing hopeful expressions stood before me. “Of course,” I said, “feel free.” But, in situations such as this, there is an assessment to be made about whether it is just the space you’re about to share or if conversation is included. I was engaged with my phone – the modern equivalent of reading the newspaper, a traditional way of being alone in a bar – but I paused to allow for any further verbal exchange.

          It became clear, however, that these two chaps had met up specifically to catch up. They had not seen each other for a while and they had no need to leaven their conversation with contributions from a third party. I reverted to my phone until, thankfully, the harried-looking girl from the takeaway appeared with my order, a family-sized chicken shwarma (without napkins), which I consumed, messily, as a captive audience to my table-fellows’ conversation. Although, ‘conversation’ is not really what I would call the lengthy and detailed account by one of the men of how he went about consolidating his various pension funds into a single, drawdown option. And that was before he started on his wife’s financial situation. Before long, I had the impression that his companion was beginning to regret not having invited me to join in, but it was too late to switch topics and, anyway, I was fully engaged in battle with a monster, dripping shwarma.

          But the monster had me beaten and I went in search of a bin for what remained of it. When I returned, the dynamic at the table changed. As the pension bore shifted his chair, it produced a loud cracking sound which alerted me (being an ex-furniture-maker) to looming catastrophe. I urged him to stand so that I could examine the structure which, sure enough, was on the verge of collapse. Manfully, I lifted it with the intention of effecting a temporary repair and, in the process, ripped open a fingertip on a protruding nail. The others gawped as I fished out a pocket-tissue to staunch the blood, then set off in search of first aid.

          The barman, mistaking the look of urgency on my face for thirst, launched himself towards the beer-pumps and enquired after my preference. “Actually, it’s a plaster I need”, I said, brandishing my finger. Although taken by surprise, he acted with alacrity and produced the necessary dressings. One of my table-fellows helped me apply the plaster (it’s difficult to do with one hand) and then it was time for me to leave.

          Going solo is a bit of a gamble, I reflected: one’s fantasies of exhilarating adventures don’t always materialise. Even the gig turned out to be a disappointment, though that’s another story...

Winter Blues?

          I did my bit to help out the NHS last week: I got vaccinated against ‘flu, covid and a new one called RSV, thereby hoping to ease the avalanche of winter infections that crashes into our creaking healthcare system every year. Let’s call it ‘preventive medicine’, which is not only easier to say than ‘preventative medicine’ but is also just as effective. Not that my motivation was entirely selfless, of course. I mean, who wants to be poorly? This is a question to ask anti-vaxxers, the most ardent of whom would not only be stumped by the logic but would also insist (without evidence) that I now have several of the nefarious Bill Gates’ micro-chips implanted in my body.

          The ’flu and covid jabs were given at the same appointment, one in each arm. A friend of mine boasted that he’d had them both in one arm, so that he would be able to sleep on his other side pain-free. But when I asked for the same treatment, it was refused, so I had to sleep on my back, propped with extra pillows so that I didn’t snore. Two days later, I was on my way back up the hill to the clinic for the RSV, when I passed a neighbour who asked me what it was and, in so doing, revealed that, though he is of advanced years, he is not between the ages of 75 and 80, the range that qualifies you for protection against ‘Respiratory Syncytial Virus’. Then, at the top of the hill, I met another neighbour, whom I know to be older, resting on a bench. I asked if he had just had his RSV jab and he said, “No, I’m too old. Not worth saving, I suppose.” I patted him on the shoulder and left him sitting there, disconsolate.

          With both my arms being sore from the previous visit, I asked the nurse whether I should come back another day for this third jab. But she was unsympathetic and dissuaded me with a tale of how inconvenient it would be to make another appointment. Then, before I knew it, she stuck the needle in and dismissed me with a wry, “There now, that didn’t hurt, did it?”

          Other preparations for winter include an underwear upgrade. When there was a very brief cold snap, back in September, I made a beeline for M&S, where they stock some comfy-looking, long-sleeved, thermal vests. I splashed out on a couple in light blue (which, I fancy, rather suits me) but, by the time I had got them out of the packaging, the temperature had shot back up to 20 degrees, thereby rendering them temporarily redundant. I’m not one to complain about the weather – I like its variability – but I was sort of looking forward to the winter and the smug feeling of having planned to be snug when squaring up to its harsh embrace.

          Now I wait. In fact, the situation seems to have regressed. We spent the last couple of days at Treyarnon Bay, in Cornwall, where the sun shone down on us and the handful of off-season holidaymakers frolicked in the waves that rolled endlessly onto the sandy beach. It was like a ghostly iteration of summer, without the hordes of visitors and the ensuing vehicular chaos. Even the lady running the ice cream hut reopened for business after having shut up shop some weeks earlier. How fortunate we were to visit a picturesque Cornish resort under such ideal conditions. And yet…

          Now, back at home and with no sign of wintry conditions arriving, I console myself with the cost-saving of not having to heat the flat in these next few days, after which we will embark on the ferry to Spain for three weeks. Surely, there will be a winter to look forward to on our return.

 

Proactive Friendship Pays Off

         It is said that men are not very proactive when it comes to nurturing their male friendships. (Those who question this assertion might be interested to know that a recent scientific paper, in attempting to quantify the apparent differences between male and female friendship patterns, provides some evidence for the credibility of this assertion.) Perhaps that’s why women often step up to help their menfolk with their friendship management.

          For example, we spent a few days last week with old friends we had left behind when we moved from Manchester to Plymouth. As two (straight) couples, we rented a cottage on the coast of Cardigan Bay – a location equally inconvenient for both parties but well suited, nonetheless, to our tastes for gentle hiking and general poking around in historically interesting places. Our coming-together was, of course, initiated and arranged by the women.

          The cottage is in the village of St. Dogmaels, a short walk from the town of Cardigan. St Dogs, as the locals call it (or so I was informed), once had an abbey, the ruins of which are bang in the middle of the village and significant enough to sustain a visitor centre that doubles up as a community café. The morning after our arrival, it was buzzing with locals and visitors who had come for the weekly craft and produce market set up in the adjacent car park. Here, we stocked up on organic veg and a chicken that had previously ranged freely but was now destined for our supper. Across the way, at the old mill – still in operation – we bought a surfeit of bread from the artisan baker. For us townies, it was the ideal village experience.

          Nor did the walking disappoint. The forecasts threatened rain but it mostly held off. Being out of season, we had little or no company, except for the couple who caught up with us on a set route that we were following from a 1993 Ordnance Survey guidebook. My Other Half and I had made a note in our copy of the book that we had completed this circuit in 1996, though neither of us had any recollection of the route and its sometimes remarkable landmarks. The text gave directions that were not always obvious, especially when stone stiles had since been replaced by metal gates, so we took a few wrong turnings. But so did the other couple, who were following the same route but using an app and GPS for guidance. We challenged them to meet us in the pub at the end but, the last we saw of them, they were heading in what was definitely the wrong direction through a wooded valley.

          We also met a Land Rover on a narrow lane and, as it slowed to let us pass, the driver, an ageing crusty with dreadlocks and a smoking joint between his fingers, leaned from the window, grinned widely and muttered something friendly sounding. I took him to be a survivor of the drop-out culture, one of those who went to live the simple, organic life in remote parts of Wales years ago and were never seen again. Later, we walked past a ramshackle farmstead littered with old machinery, vehicles and other stuff that might one day be recycled but meanwhile lay rusting. But it was the political slogans painted on the barn that made me suspect this might be the home of our latterly encountered crusty.

          We dined each evening at the cottage, wilfully ignoring the list of recommended restaurants provided by our host, for we are comfortable with the intimacies of sharing space and the preparation of meals. Our jollity was fuelled by many a glass of wine, though, now I come to think of it, we men ought to have raised one of them as a toast to the women for bringing us together again.

 

Flytrap

          During the summer months, fruit flies hang around our kitchen. Despite my obsessive efforts to keep everything clean, still they circle slowly around, seeking out any whiff of organic matter. I suppose they do no harm, but I am unaccountably irritated by their insouciance and just cannot resist trying to squash them. Fooled by their slow flight, I grab at them with one hand, but they scoot away with super-powered acceleration. Occasionally, I catch one in a two-handed clap, but the sudden violent movement often has repercussions in the form of spillages and breakages that are even more irritating than the pesky flies. And so, I use a deadly trap, a glass containing an inch of cider vinegar, sealed at the top with clingfilm perforated with a few holes small enough for them to crawl in to but out of which, inexplicably, they are unable to escape.

          Yesterday, it being the start of October, there was a chill in the air marking the end of the fruit fly season, so I emptied the contents of the trap, a sludge of tiny, semi-pickled carcasses, down the toilet – though not without a pang of guilt. After all, the philosophy discussion group I attend has recently touched upon ahimsa, the theory of non-violence and compassion towards all living beings, as contained in Hindu, Buddhist, Jainist and several non-religious philosophies. Then, today, an item in the news tweaked my conscience even more. Scientists have produced the first wiring diagram for a whole brain – that of the fruit fly! Leaving aside, for the moment, the repercussions of this astonishing scientific breakthrough, the realisation that such tiny creatures really do have a brain (rudimentary though it may be) induces in me more sympathy with the concept of ahimsa.

          But, speaking as a person who prides himself on possessing a degree of practical skill, I do marvel at the fact that the researchers were able to slice the fly brain into 7,000 slivers in order to analyse the neural connections. Their feat of precision puts into the shade my own, recent achievement, which was the re-hanging of our internal doors so that they fit snugly into their frames after a whoosh of resistant compressing air and a reassuring ‘click’ (though my Other Half, who is congenitally disinclined to close anything fully, will never experience the sensation of satisfaction that comes over me each time I “put wood in th'ole”, as they say in Yorkshire, or thereabouts).

          But the brain of a fruit fly is commensurate with its function in life, which is to multiply and thrive, I assume. Unlike the human brain, it doesn’t create for itself problems by striving for much else. Take, for example, the paralysis my own grey matter experienced this week when a programme on my computer acted unexpectedly by renaming a file, then refusing to save it. Although my first reaction was panic, I did then attempt to analyse and rectify the process. But I failed and had to call on the expertise of James at Computerbase, who, with a few deft taps on the keyboard and a dismissive, “What’s your problem?” demeanour, soon set things right. My problem, obviously, is a lack of understanding of how the programme works. There may well be capacity in my brain to acquire that knowledge, but what’s lacking is motivation.

          One day, scientists may be able to scale up their brain-mapping technology to the human level, whereupon they will be able to fix our apparent wiring faults. Meanwhile, I would like to set them a more modest goal: to explain why fruit flies can’t find their way back through the holes in the clingfilm. And, with my much bigger brain, allied with my newly acquired compassionate streak, I really ought to be working on a non-lethal way of ridding the kitchen of the irritating little buggers.

Frank and Me

         It’s not just the changing weather that signals the end of summer; there are other markers, such as the darkening evenings which, for me at least, reignite the fancy to read novels. Currently, Richard Ford’s works are capturing my attention, especially those featuring Frank Bascombe, a character with whom I feel some affinity, though he is American. What we have in common is our year of birth, our left-leaning politics and the degree of equanimity with which we bear the burden of guilt imposed upon us by an accident of fate – our white, western, male boomer ‘privilege’.

          Meanwhile, the warm, sunny second week of September insisted that summer wasn’t done yet and it was time, for those of us who are able, to make the most of it. The kids were back at school and we had the fields of leisure to ourselves. But first, I had one commitment to dispatch – helping out with the annual street party thrown by the charity with which I associate. My role as a volunteer involved a long day of interacting with the public, topped and tailed by the physical activity of dragging out and putting away a lot of bunting, chairs and miscellaneous kit. I had been suffering some lower-back pain (as a result of sanding and painting the skirting-boards at home, I’m sure), so I was apprehensive of worsening the condition. However, I awoke the next day pain-free – a testament to the aphorism “use it or lose it”. I wish I could pass this good news on to Frank, as he is something of a martyr to the aches and pains of his elderly frame.

          Then it was time to exercise the privilege of we self-employed/un-employed. We threw our hiking boots in the campervan and set off for a few choice days out – part of our on-going project to explore our recently adopted location on the border of Devon and Cornwall. We based ourselves at the village of Lydford, a place that has it all: ancient pedigree, interesting topography, a campsite on its periphery and a good pub at its heart. (It once had a post office, too, but now it’s a bijou residence.) Archaeology concludes that Lydford was established in the Bronze Age and documented history tells us that it was an important place in Saxon times – so much so that the Danes attacked and captured it in 997, overcoming its formidable defences, both natural and constructed.

          Lydford sits at the western edge of Dartmoor and just above a gorge, the latter seemingly inconsistent with the relatively gentle lie of the land. Yet, there it is! A mini gorge, with all the features of a maxi (except scale), complete with a Devil’s Cauldron of roiling water and a spectacular, 30 metre waterfall, known as the White Lady for its resemblance to long white tresses. No doubt Americans would be underwhelmed by the experience, though I would hope for at least a polite show of interest from Frank.

          The small scale of the gorge rules it out as a hike, so we took one on adjacent Dartmoor the next day. It’s a bleak landscape and famously treacherous in bad weather. Yet, even on the clear, sunny day of our visit, we found it a less than joyful experience. Like the Lake District, Dartmoor used to be completely forested and, with that in mind, it is hard to ignore the fact that these uplands, famed for their ‘beauty’ and favoured by hikers, are really despoiled and degraded regions. The pleasure of being in them is tempered with grieving for what they once were.

          Before leaving, we returned to the café at the gorge, which adjoins an old orchard, where the apples are free to gather. We took a load home and stewed them for the freezer, while planning which films to see now that the cinemas have come back to life. Autumn was in the air. Or ‘fall’, as Frank would have it.