No Rush

          While disembarking from the overnight ferry from Greece to Italy, I had a brief conversation with two fellow passengers (I defer such engagement until the end of the crossing, for fear of getting trapped in unwanted temporary relationships). I learned that they were competing in a race across Europe and were chuffed that they had spent “all of twenty minutes” in Athens. Totting up the time we’ve spent there as tourists over the past few years, I’d say it was three months.

          On this trip, however, we had ventured outside the capital – to the Peloponnese – to explore some of the archaeological sites and the contemporary literary trail left by the author and adventurer, Patrick Leigh Fermor (PLF). Apart from the pleasurable aspects of the Mediterranean lifestyle and its welcoming people, there is so much to savour in Greece about the origins of Western civilisation, that racing through it never occurred to me.

          We tackled, amongst others, one of the most famous sites, Mycenae, fortress of the people who are said by scholars to have been the real founders of Western society. There isn’t much left of their stronghold – such treasures as were recovered are now in museums – but just being on the site can invoke a sense of how it might have felt to live there 5,000 years ago – as long as you’re prepared to make allowance for the crowds of other tourists doing the same. Technology has changed the way we live since then, but the legends and myths of Ancient Greece describe human traits that are no different now – avarice, treachery, lust – and occasional philanthropy.

          We stayed for a while, strategically, at the seaside holiday village of Kardamyli, close to which is the house built by PLF and his wife, Joan. They bequeathed it to the Benaki Museum so that it might remain unaltered, used for educational purposes and open to anyone who fancies a snoop. Why is it not enough to have read an author’s work without feeling compelled to pry into its conception and birth as well? It must be something to do with fandom, as I was gratified to find that the house, its contents, gardens and location, were all as close to ideal as I could imagine, had I lived the same life.

          Taking advice from our excellent guidebook*, we drove into the mountains for a short tour of some traditional villages, one of which, Kastania, has ten churches. They are mostly in poor shape (although the 900-year-old Agios Petros has been sensitively restored to a high standard) and their condition reflects the changing demographic of the hinterland, where many of the dwellings have been repurposed as holiday lets, appropriated by expats or lie abandoned and awaiting their fate.

          On the edge of Exochori, there is the mini church of Agios Nikolaos, where Bruce Chatwin, renowned travel writer and friend of PLF, had his ashes buried. To find it, we had first to locate an overgrown footpath, then follow it through uncultivated ground alongside an olive grove. It led to a promontory overlooking the valley, on which the church, hitherto invisible, stands in solitary command of the view. Wildflowers, nourished in part by Bruce’s ashes, crowded all around it. A small, battered door gave entrance to a roughly decorated interior, crumbling but not yet ruined. Neglect notwithstanding, the building and its setting have a quiet, spiritual quality, which makes it easy to understand why it might have been favoured by a restless romantic such as Bruce was reputed to have been.

          I suppose there is a modern Greece out there somewhere, but the one that fascinates me is stuck in the past. According to Henry Miller, “It takes a lifetime to discover Greece, but only an instant to fall in love with her” and I see his point. The racers, I guess, were too preoccupied.

 

Deepest Dorset?

          Springtime had me fooled this year: just when it had begun to warm my bones, cold winds blew in and chilled them again. This presented a small dilemma concerning my wardrobe (a noun that, according to my dictionary, has 14 meanings, badger faeces being one, though this is now obsolete, as are the hunters who used it).

          The false start to the warmer season had prompted me to begin extracting lightweight garments from their hidey holes and stashing winter woollies there instead, but I’ve had to reverse that flow. And now I need to start packing for next week’s trip to Greece! So, what ought to have been a tidy transition is now a confused project, with my wardrobe (in the contemporary meaning[s]) in disarray. Hence, a couple of days ago, I set off in the campervan for a short trip with an over-stuffed travel-bag.

          The purpose of the journey was to visit an old girlfriend who lived – and still lives – in Dorset, but I took some time to poke around the area while I was there. I still cling, hopefully, to the nostalgic notion that there are regional differences to be savoured, such as there were before the era of instant-comms eroded them further and faster than industrialisation had. Thomas Hardy is still celebrated in the county, but you have to look closely to see it as he did.

           It has been noted, for example, that regional accents are in decline, so it delights me especially if I hear them still voiced. To this end, I eavesdrop and, sometimes, approach older people to ask for directions that I don’t really need, just to hear them speak like Wurzel Gummidge. Of course, I first assess whether, like me, they might be tourists, which is not so difficult: locals tend to be more purposeful in their perambulations.

          I was in Blandford Forum, a market town named, in part, for its Roman past. I had first set foot in the main square in 1967 when, stepping off the bus that had carried me there to be introduced to the parents of said girlfriend, I realised I had entered a uniquely picturesque environment. I learned later that the coherently Georgian architecture is attributed to the brothers John and William Bastard, local architects, who rebuilt the town after it burned down in 1731.

           The Georgian charm lingers, though the town is suffering the same high street blight that affects so many others. The streets once full of specialist retailers now accommodate charity shops, barbers, fast-food joints and beauty parlours. I was not in need of a haircut, a burger or a makeover, but I was easily lured into the charity shops. There may or may not be bargains within, but as repositories of the town’s unwanted stuff they offer an insight, of sorts, into its life. Time was, you could find things unique to the locale – such as tweed jackets as worn by badger hunters – but nowadays they are much the same everywhere, all the valuable or interesting items having gone upmarket to the antique or collectable trades, leaving the clothes racks full of Primark castoffs. I did think I was in luck when I came across some superior quality summer trousers that had belonged to someone with my taste and waist size, but our similarities ceased when it came to the inside leg measurement.

          Back on the street, I approached a local to ask if there was a deli, where I might buy some local delicacy to take to my rendezvous. She shook her head and gave me a brief history of the decline of the town’s shops before directing me, without irony – and without a regional accent – to Marks & Spencer’s Foodhall, which is tucked out of sight at the end of the main street. It was only when l I got to the checkout at M&S that I caught an earful of West Country burr, though there was no local produce on offer.

For the Sake of Clarity

          The novel I’m currently reading* is about the compilation of an English dictionary first published in 1930.There is a team of lexicographers beavering away to catalogue definitions but one of them has developed the playful obsession of inventing words and smuggling them through to the next edition. The editor-in-chief remains unaware, though, had he found out, he may have taken the benign view that there is no harm done: the English language welcomes (useful) newcomers.

          Obsession manifests itself in various ways: in my case it may be observed in a need for tidiness. A neat, clean environment helps me maintain a degree of mental clarity with which to negotiate life’s jumbled administrative complexities. Window-cleaning is an example.

          One day last week, I spent an inordinate amount of time and energy wiping down windows. In the morning, I tackled the seven-metre-run of terrace glazing at home and, in the afternoon, the shop-front windows of the premises that house the charitable organisation, Nudge, where I do some voluntary work. That’s a lot of glass – especially when every square centimetre of it must be absolutely streak-free – and the energy expended was taxing for someone in late, advanced middle-age. At the end of that day, it was all I could do to flop from sofa to bed via a brief stop at the dining table for supper.

          Still, having done the windows, I saw the way clear for the more cerebral project of transferring the contents of my notebooks. Some years ago, I abandoned actual notebooks in favour of an online organising app – as was consistent with the domestic downsizing we had undertaken. But the app I adopted is focussed on the needs of corporate employees and the subscription has become expensive, so I found another that does the job for free.

          Technophobes will probably shudder at the thought and imagine the dire consequences of trusting their stuff to distant servers, never mind shifting it between imaginary clouds and losing it all in the process. Me too – to some extent – which is why I asked AI to guide me through the process. It went without a hitch, which is amazing unless you are already familiar with the competencies of AI.

          Despite all these activities, there was time during the week for leisure. I had a grand day out with a couple of old pals, contemporaries with significant shared experiences.  During our conversations, I asked whether either of them used AI. They both said no – not intentionally or knowingly, at least.  I guess there’s no surprise there, as we boomers tend to be behind the curve of tech adoption. Perhaps our lack of enthusiasm for new methods can be explained by dearth of ambition brought on by a deal of laurel-resting. Who knows? Anyway, I went on to relate one or two of my successful encounters with the beast but didn’t press the point, as there seemed to be no prospect of their adopting it – late or otherwise.

          Some days later I was at a party held to celebrate the opening of one of Nudge’s projects. It was a ‘good do’ in the traditional sense – there was food, music, booze and dancing – but it had a contemporary component that took me by surprise. As the dancers boogied to a 70s style disco tune, I noted that the lyrics specifically named and celebrated all those who had contributed to the success of the project. When I asked who should be credited with the writing and performing, the answer was delivered with an upward eyeroll: it was entirely AI generated.

          In an attempt to keep up, I have ventured to ask AI for a word to describe someone who cleans windows obsessively. It delivered the following dictionary entry:  paneiac (n) A habitual over-cleaner of windows, often claiming “they are still a bit streaky”. Could I have put it better myself?

*Eley Williams, A Liar’s Dictionary.

No More Kings?

          Here’s a grudging admission: even from an anti-monarchist standpoint, it would appear that our King might be proving himself useful. His state visit to the USA – ostensibly to mark the 250^th anniversary of its independence from his ancestors – happens to coincide with turbulence in the political relationship between the two nations and His Majesty’s intervention is deemed our best chance of calming things. Soft power meets state thuggery in a carefully choreographed dance of diplomacy. It seems to be working, but will it have any lasting impact?

          I’ve been out and about these past few days, taking a break from the routines of home life, which include excessive consumption of news and current affairs. It being pre-election season – in the US as well as the UK – there is more than the usual amount of frenzy in the politicking one must endure: more trumpeting, accusing, denying, exaggerating and deliberate misleading. I thought to ease the pressure on my tolerance valve by skipping some of my regular reading/watching/listening slots. A day or two in the campervan usually does the trick.

          I haven’t been far – a 200-mile round trip – but, in England, that can take you through some very different places. Merely crossing the border from Devon to Somerset, as I did, can feel like an adventure, albeit a subtle one. I mean, we speak the same language and share the same infrastructure but there are variations. Apart from the topography – Devon being hilly and Somerset level – there are ancient dialects, traditions and buildings that differentiate one shire from another. Encountering them is one of the pleasures of leisurely travelling around the country. For example, we do have thatched roofs in Devon, but the ones I saw in Somerset struck me as fancier, more refined.

          Seeking out the National Trust property, Barrington Court, I drove through several villages full of quaint, thatched buildings, set irregularly at the side of narrow, winding roads not designed for motorised traffic. So cute, so pretty, so well-kept. Of course, I had also driven through less attractive settlements, so I wasn’t fooled into thinking that the whole countryside is pickled in aspic. In fact, I began to feel uncomfortable at the fact that parts of it are. Politics raised its head. (There’s no escaping it once you have looked at life through the lens of political power dynamics and noted its influence).

          There were no people in the streets of the wonderfully well-tended old villages – perhaps because there were no shops to walk to – but, supposing there were people living in them, how would they vote in the upcoming elections? I had driven through places where the flag of St. George fluttered from lampposts and was left in no doubt as to the political leanings thereabouts. But in these picturesque backwaters, the clues lay in the discreet display of comfortable circumstances.

          Barrington Court is an estate at the edge of one of those pretty villages. It comprises an Elizabethan manor house, a grand 17^th century stable building that has been converted into a lavish residence and extensive gardens that surround and complement the lot. The Norman conquerors claimed the manor, but its present form is attributed to a certain Captain Lyle, a beneficiary of the Tate & Lyle fortune, who lavished care and money on it in the 1920’s. His son and heir, Ian, surrendered the lease back to the National Trust (who have owned it since 1907) when he could no longer afford to run the place.

          It’s a bitter-sweet outcome, whereby the Lyles did a great job of restoration, preservation and development, though the funds came at the expense of the nation’s unhealthy addiction to sugar. This, presumably, did not occur to His Majesty’s mother, Queen Elizabeth, when she knighted Ian Lyle for “services to sugar”.

 

 

 

Time to Shine

          It’s not without a touch of trepidation that I open a party invitation. A requirement for themed ‘fancy dress’, for example, may have been conceived by its author as a spiffing idea to pep things up (and it usually does, in the end) but the thought of it can intimidate people who are shy, introverted, imaginatively challenged or just plain lazy.  One's flutter of excitement at the prospect of a fun evening is likely to be followed by a groan of faux despair on contemplating the stipulations,

          Thus did the invitation to an upcoming family do induce in me a tiny touch of anxiety. There was to be a theme: sparkles. Not too onerous, I thought, but a challenge, nonetheless. Still, it was weeks away and the effort required to come up with an idea could be spread over the intervening period. There would be plenty of time to think about it and seek inspiration. In other words, I could procrastinate.

          Nevertheless, the nagging need to conclude the matter kept popping up. One day, I even found myself looking into the window of a shop I had never taken notice of previously, Pandora, an emporium devoted entirely to sparkly things. It was not a helpful experience. In fact, it led me down the path of pedantry all too quickly, where I obsessed over the difference between sparkle, twinkle, glitter and outright bling. It got more complex when I began to explore the grammatical niceties differentiating sparkly from sparkling, etc. Whatever. Taking note of Pandora’s price tags, I decided a better option was to trawl the charity shops for things that glister (but are not gold).

          Meanwhile, we had a week away from Devon. My Other Half had some business up north, so I tagged along to share the driving and keep her company (though the latter was notional, as she was too busy even to notice). The trip would mean spending a few days in the faded coastal resort town of Southport, where I knew there would be an abundance of opportunities to resolve my sparkle dilemma. In its heyday, Southport’s Lord Street was lined with jewellers’ shops, many of which remain, though in reduced circumstances. More to point is the large number of charity shops that are stocked with the goods of the now deceased but formerly well-off retirees who retreated there from Manchester and Liverpool.

          I set about my search with high expectations but, after a good deal of diversion into mid-century furniture and glassware, I realised that I was getting nowhere. In conversation with a stallholder, I was directed to a small shop in a Victorian arcade. “He might have something suitable”, she said.

          He was on the phone when I walked in and I detected a hint of annoyance in the tone of his, “Anyway, I’ve got to go”. Then he put his phone down and said to me, “You’re in the wrong shop”. Given that the main display in front of me was a collection of fascinators (for weddings), I assumed he was kidding and replied, “It looks like it, but…”. “No, you’re in the wrong shop”, he said, sternly. “You want the one next door”. “But you don’t know what I’m looking for”, I said. “You’re in the wrong shop!”, he repeated. “Look, I said, you sell sparkly things, right?” “Yes, but…”. He remained convinced that he was right; so, to prove him wrong, I explained my dilemma. He softened, but only to the extent that he recommended a few other places, so keen was he to get me off the premises.

          I left him, no doubt, to resume his phone call then, jaded and weary, I tacked off to the Bottle & Tap, an idiosyncratic little dive where I knew I would get satisfaction, albeit of a different kind. “Got any dry cider?”, I asked. “Sure”, said the affable proprietor. “We have Hunt’s from Devon. Still or sparkling?”.