Wassail Away

          In an old Steinbeck story, set in California around 1930, the protagonist adds a pinch of celery salt to the glass of beer he is served in a bar. Intrigued by this, I dug around t’internet and discovered that it has long been known that adding salt to poor quality beer makes it more palatable. Further intrigued, I went to the trouble of buying some celery salt and adding it to bottle of supermarket lager left over from a party. The result of my test was inconclusive – but that’s probably because I don’t much care for lager anyway, salted or otherwise. So, I am rid of the lager, but the salt remains, a useful addition to the cruet, as it goes especially well with boiled eggs (hard or soft).

          Actually, I prefer cider to beer and have become quite the afficionado when it comes to the apple varieties used, the style of the drink and the provenance of the producers. You could say I’m picky, but that would be an understatement. For me, it has to be dry, still, without additives and made in England with native apples. The thing is, when I taste cider, I taste also the history of England. It’s a visceral thing, hard to explain. I’ll have a go anyway.

          Last Sunday, I went wassailing around a small orchard that has recently been established on the Hoe (Plymouth’s elevated park that overlooks the city to the north and the sea to the south and from which sir Francis Drake calmly observed the approaching Spanish Armada while he finished a game of bowls with his mates). I joined a motley crew of traditionalists in the act of dispensing goodwill to the trees in the hope that they will respond with an abundant harvest. There is a special song to kick off proceedings but, after that, the ceremony loosens up and we traipse around the trees, banging pots and pans or playing folk instruments and offering libations of cider lees to the roots. It’s pagan, ancient, light-hearted and uniquely silly: the essence of old England as popularly portrayed. I don’t believe wassailing has any effect on harvests, but I do believe that the perpetuation of the joyfully expressive tradition makes the cider taste better in the bar afterwards.

          And so it did. The after-party took place in the bowling club pavilion (which is said to stand roughly where Sir Francis would have been playing in 1588), where we were treated to sea shanties, morris dancing and refreshments, including, of course, cider most pure (and some which was adulterated with spices and heated up – mulled, they calls it. I suspect it’s just another way of making a poor beverage palatable, like the trick with salt). Sea shanties are a bit like the blues in that, when sung with gusto, they can be moving but, musically the format is limited, so one’s attention wanders after about fifteen minutes. However, a couple of pints of cider soon has you singing along.

           Morris dancing, likewise, can arouse more curiosity than excitement, but this particular side* had a narrator who explained the stories behind the dance moves, clarifying the interpretive choreography. It became a bit fuzzy after the second pint but, by then, it was all just jolly japes anyway and I was feeling inclined to join in, regardless of the fact that the dancers were wielding heavy sticks. Sensibly, I refrained and gave thanks, instead, to those who actively perpetuate the folk traditions. Progress may be the inevitable fate of us humans, but the past is the start of our story.

          Two days later, I was driving along an old road that wound through the Devon countryside, skirting ancient landholdings and passing within inches of the thatched buildings of Norman hamlets. There were moments when old England surged through me, like the remains of a dream.

*Morris dance troupes are called ‘sides’.

 

 

Annual Review

          Happy new year! Although it’s unrealistic to expect a full twelve months of happiness, nevertheless this greeting is universal – implicitly acknowledging that optimism is a more attractive trait than pessimism. After all, it would be cynical to toast another year of ‘getting by’, even though that will be the inevitable fate of some of us. As for those who have been dealt the most certain of losing hands, even they might want a positive greeting, just to lift their spirits. At the very least, it’s polite to say to each other that we are hopeful everything will be satisfactory, while omitting the part about it being unlikely.

          Each new year begins in the depths of winter, when bright horizons, both actual and metaphorical, are easily obscured. For instance, during this week’s cold snap, two of our three storage heaters ceased to function, leading to some invective-laden questioning of their value and purpose. But let’s skip that and move on to the positives: there’s always joy to be found somewhere.

          It was one of those clear, sunny mornings after the overnight temperature had dropped below freezing. We went for a walk on the edge of Dartmoor and down into the valley of the river Tavy, where hoar frost decorated every leaf and twig with a delicacy and brilliance that made even the finest Christmas tinsels and strings of coloured lights look like the work of a ham-fisted amateur. It was cold, especially down in the wooded valley, but even here there was extraordinary beauty to behold in the mosses and lichens that smothered the sun-deprived trees and rocks. Muddy paths, turned solid by frost, crunched under our boots and warmth soon suffused our fingers and toes as we picked up the pace. Winter days like these are as enjoyable as the finest of any season.

          And at home, there are wintry culinary delights to be savoured. Wednesday’s supper of roasted parsnips and kale pesto, a newly discovered recipe, went down a treat with a glass or two of Douro. Dishes like this, savoured in the comfort of a cosy room are a satisfying antidote to cold, rainy evenings. And after clearing up, what better than to catch up on tv box sets. This week, having come to the end of all five seasons of My Brilliant Friend, we have begun to search around for the next addictive drama series.

          So, on the domestic front at least (and storage heaters notwithstanding), the year has started well. However, domestic order is an apple cart easily upset by external events and I can’t help but take into account the geopolitical situation which, in all its interconnected complexity, seems to hold no promise of a happy new year for anyone but a handful of oligarchs, kleptocrats, gangsters, billionaires and their respective hangers-on, whose manoeuvrings have brought them into positions of such power that even those governments with the strongest and most valid democratic credentials are now in danger of falling over and leaving the field open to fascism. This view, morbid as it is, seems valid the more I look into it.

          When I visited the library last month, I took out a book by Jonathan Aldred, Licence to be Bad: How Economics Corrupted Us and, having just received a reminder of its imminent due date, I picked it up and began reading in earnest. The message is bleak: a few influential economists have, over the last forty years, shaped our lives by steering western political policies towards maximisation of profit and, consequentially, away from societal cohesion. For this achievement, they were awarded Nobel prizes.

          So, when I wish someone a “happy new year”, there is an implicit qualification: I wish them well in the face of the odds stacked against them – and all the rest of us.

 

   

'Tis the Season

          If you’re the sort of person who depends on daily routines to keep you on the straight and narrow, then the chaotic end-of-year holiday period must be quite a challenge. Far from feeling flat when it’s all over, you might well relish the resumption of ‘normality’.

          This year, we didn’t avoid the festivities by going abroad as we usually do. Instead, we drew up a plan to remain and work with the situation. So, we participated in some of the revelries, avoided others and paid respectful homage to traditions with the degree of restraint you might expect of those who have reservations about their provenance. We threw a house party and justified it to ourselves as marking the solstice, though I don’t suppose anyone really cared about the reason: a party is a party, after all – especially during the catchall “festive season”.

          For me, the first event of said season was when our University of the Third Age philosophy discussion group devoted its last session to a lunch. It wasn’t a highbrow affair: there was everyday banter, tinged with a few jokes at the expense of the great philosophers and what felt like an appropriate toast to Epicurus, though his stated principle of pursuing pleasure is widely misunderstood by those (especially heavy drinkers) who are unaware of his balancing principle, that of exercising prudence to avoid future pain.

          Talking of pain, it hasn’t all been fun. On Christmas Eve, I suffered an attack of trigeminal neuralgia (severe pain, akin to toothache, in one side of the upper and lower jaw). It’s one of those oddly intermittent afflictions that are difficult to treat. It’s also difficult to say, for me, at least. So, having settled upon the malapropism “trigonomic nostalgia”, I came across some curious information regarding nostalgia which, until the 19^th century, was considered to be a serious medical condition. For example, during the American Civil War, 5,200 cases were recorded in the Union Army and 74 deaths attributed to it. Nostalgia, of course, ain’t what it used to be but, when the doctors return to work on Monday, I will just check that I don’t have the fatal variety.

         On the big day itself, we set off in the campervan for St Ives, where we hiked for a while along the rugged coast path, nourished by sandwiches and reassured by a handy supply of paracetamol. Later, a walk through the seaside town revealed that tradition was solid: only the pubs and hotels were open (for lunch). The public toilets were locked up and posted with notices declaring closure until the 27^th. There, at least, the sanctity of those two holidays remains unchallenged. We retreated to our snug campervan, hunkered down, all alone, in a small, sheltered field, where we cracked open the Champagne and celebrated our solitude.

          We lingered in the area until the 27^th, when the Tate St Ives opened its doors and I was able to get a fix of the kind of art that resonates most with my aesthetic preference – mid-century modern. Then we headed home to rejoin the social melee. By this time, my neuralgic pain had receded both in frequency and intensity, with just the occasional twinge to remind me of its presence.  Meanwhile, there was fun to be had at our block, where a round-the-world bar-crawl was planned for New Year’s Eve. Participating neighbours themed their apartments (ours was Greece) and opened up to all-comers for a pre-allocated half-hour slot. Despite some dodgy cultural stereotyping and a level of alcohol consumption that Epicurus would have advised against, the evening proved good for bonding with our neighbours and, as a bonus, having a nosey around their flats.

          Now, festivities are at an end, normality is nigh and I can relax into my routines. I’ll be able to see the GP about my nostalgia, one of the symptoms being a feeling that I’m going to miss the fairy lights and tinsel.

 

  

  

Them and Us

          There was no corkscrew at the opening event I attended last week, so I took it upon myself to procure one from a shop nearby. Knowing they stock everything a household needs (and loads of junk food that it really doesn’t), I went straight to the kitchen department, but I searched in vain! I asked the young man at the till who, though he had heard of corkscrews, wasn’t sure what they were and asked me to describe their purpose and appearance. As it turned out, he was not only young but Muslim as well, so the expectation that he should know anything about the (ridiculously outdated) method of sealing wine bottles was presumptuous on my part.

          Of course, with this anecdote, I attempt to illustrate how easy it is to assume everyone else shares your experiences and lifestyle. Just as easy, in fact, as it is to do the opposite and conclude, even on fleeting observation, that other tribes, with their funny ways, obviously have it all wrong. From here, it’s an easy step towards demonisation and one so thoughtlessly taken that I fear it is endemic to human behaviour.

          I had to watch my own step this week during a planned visit to Totnes, a town which, by reputation, is a hub of new-age thinking, sustainability, creativity and alternative lifestyles. When news reaches us of odd behaviour there, we say, “Yeah, well, it’s Totnes, isn’t it?” Even though I actually approve of the values that have come to define the place, I had to remind myself not to look at everyone as if they were weird: but for the accidents of fate, I might have ended up living there myself. As it is, I live in the less funky city of Plymouth, where I scatter hopefully the seeds of inclusivity. Polarisation is not the way forward for civilised nations. (There are warning signs from the USA, where recent data shows that many intellectuals are currently migrating from red to blue states.)

          As it happens, I had a dream this week about a life-changing move. My partner and I, during a party at our house, had a brief conversation that concluded in our deciding to walk out, there and then, informing no one, taking nothing with us and intending never to return. That was the exhilarating part of the story: the remainder, in which the consequences of our action unravelled, was misery personified. Antithetically, we would do no such thing and, since we are fortunate enough to have a degree of choice, decided to live where it suits us best (within the parameters of our circumstances). Even so, we should be on guard against adopting local prejudices, real or imagined. Rivalry such as Devon vs. Cornwall, say, or Yorkshire vs. Lancashire may provide a rich (if clichéd) seam of ice-breaking banter, but only for as long as there is a tolerably fair distribution of power and resources between the contestants. When scarcity and injustice come calling, there will arise populist leaders to pick out our resentments and degrade them to the status of hatred.

          But we’re not there yet, especially in relation to Plymouth vs. Totnes, where we spent a pleasant evening. The occasion was a lantern parade, an annual event, held on a seemingly random Tuesday in December (well, this is Totnes) and my Other Half was involved as part of the drumming ensemble recruited to drive things along. The lanterns were all very pretty, thanks to the renowned creativity of the locals (and the ubiquitous availability of cheap LEDs), and the drummers were… enthusiastic. Predictably, I tired of it all before long and found alternative diversion in the many charity shops along the high street, where I found what I had been searching for since last winter: a good pair of woollen trousers, in the right colour, style and size! Whenever I wear them, I shall feel a new sort of affinity with the good folks of Totnes.

Anything But...

           The completion of our household’s tax returns has been on my to-do list since April, but HMRC’s increasingly frequent reminders of the looming deadline finally injected a degree of urgency into the chore and, yesterday, I ticked it off at last. But not before dispatching a good many minor tasks masquerading as essential missions. These included: fixing a doorknob and sorting out my shaving mirror; then shopping for loose-leaf Darjeeling tea, tamarind paste and fairy-lights.

          The knob in question is a wooden one from a kitchen cabinet which, having fallen off, had been lying for two weeks in a bowl on the counter, where it passed itself off as a small brown onion among a crowd of larger ones. It took five minutes to replace it with an identical one that had been attached, for aesthetic reasons, to a dummy drawer front. I have now taken the faulty knob to the garage, where it joins a queue of items slated for refurbishment.

          Regarding the shaving mirror, its position has been an irritant for at least four years. It’s an elegant and effective product of German engineering, but it’s too tall for the shelf on which, ideally, it should stand. So, it squats down by the taps, where I have to crouch in order to use it, which means I never get a good view of that tricky spot under the chin and, consequently, too often cut myself with my so-called safety razor. The solution, when it finally occurred to me, was simple: I lowered the shelf. It took twenty minutes.

          As for the Darjeeling, I am at a loss to understand why so many people prefer to dunk a teabag in a mug and imbibe an inferior beverage from a clunky vessel, when they can as easily infuse the loose leaves in a pot, pour the strained liquid into porcelain and release the full, aromatic flavour of our national drink. Nor am I convinced by the convenience argument: I’m willing to wager that scientific study would reveal marginal savings in time and effort that are easily outweighed by a superior cuppa and – a bonus – enhanced self-esteem arising from having done the job properly.

          And the tamarind paste? It was readily procured in a multi-national ‘Asian Supermarket’, though it has been on the shopping list for so long, neither of us can remember for which recipe it is intended.

          We come then to the fairy lights. They would not normally be required at this time of year, since our habitual way of dealing with the festive season is to go abroad and return when it’s all over. This year, however, the extent of our recent travels has left us with neither appetite nor budget for further excursion, so we’re hunkering down at home, prepared to accept that a degree of engagement with the proceedings is our best option. To this end we have invited two groups of guests to gather socially at Wonderman Towers to acknowledge any or all three of the following: the Christian myth of Jesus’ birth; the Pagan tradition of the Winter Solstice; and the secular celebration of the New Year. A string of gaily coloured lights will, I trust, suit all occasions. It took me fifteen minutes to hang them.

          I also found time this week to test whether my recently rekindled interest in yoga was more than just a passing fancy. But, yet again, I found myself the only male – and an old one, at that – in a class full of middle-aged women, led by a younger woman, which made me feel… out of place. I won’t be going back, but I am on the lookout for a class for old geezers with attitude.

          Anyway, after all that, the tax returns were a doddle, more daunting in the contemplation than the execution. Next year, I’ll knock them out first and rid myself of months of lurking anxiety.