All's Well with the World?

          For us, the inhabitants of the British Isles, a heatwave used to be considered a bit of a treat. Knowing it would disappear within a few days, we would soak up the sun with neither restraint nor modesty, so that it was common to see people proudly displaying the damage – skin peeling off their noses and shoulders, revealing tender red patches beneath – as if it were a trophy. Then the Australians discovered a connection between sunburn and skin cancer, invented greasy sunblock and exported it to Britain.

          Well, that’s the way it seemed to me at the time: the beginning of a sensible approach to ‘catching some rays’. Mind you, it didn’t appeal to everybody, as is apparent from our balcony. Presently, we are living next to a small, scruffy, inner-city beach and, whenever there’s a heatwave – as there is right now – it turns into a pop-up holiday destination for the locals, some of whom appear to be doing their utmost to toast themselves.

          Do they not know about the connection with cancer? Do they know but don’t care? Do they think they are immune? Have they not heard the news about heatwaves lasting longer and becoming more intense because of climate change? Do they not know that the urgency to binge has diminished?

          Maybe it’s about joining the dots. Chris Packham has made a short film, National Emergency Briefing, that does just that. In it, scientists explain how climate change is affecting every aspect of life as we are used to living it: food security, healthcare, national defence and economic systems are all threatened. The effects are already measurable – though some of us may not recognise the connections – and tipping points are inevitable unless there is immediate remedial action. I don’t want to sound alarmist, but how else is the danger to be expressed other than bluntly?

          But a world in which rational decisions are made about important issues exists only on the fictional planet Vulcan. On Earth, a rational person is necessarily one who factors emotional behaviour in to their thought processes: that’s entirely logical, given human nature.

          We are reminded, by Chris Packham, that Britain is one of the most nature-depleted countries in the world – though you may be forgiven for thinking otherwise. Our countryside has a reputation for being beautiful, magnificent, lush (in places) and fertile, all of which qualities are still to be found but to a diminishing extent.

          We spent a couple of days last week in a rural corner of Suffolk, where the towns are quaint and weighted with history, the higgledy-piggledy villages populated with cute, well-kept cottages whose gardens spill over with iconic hollyhocks in every pastel colour imaginable. In between, the farmland appeared fecund and prosperity was in the air, not least around the attractions that draw in visitors. Walking through the wooded heath, where deer roam free and butterflies flutter, to the beach at Dunwich, the depletion of nature was not the first thing that came to mind.

          Discovering the ‘best bits’ of Britain is like going to a theme park: all your expectations are met or surpassed (vagaries of weather duly factored in). But coming to generalised conclusions, i.e. ‘Suffolk is nice’, is a trap into which we humans too readily fall. There must be parts of Suffolk that are grotty and, if so, they should be taken into account when measuring up.

          What with all this sunny weather causing folk to flock to the beaches, countryside havens, beer gardens and barbecues, the question of what lies behind it can be easy to overlook. It may feel like an endless summer, but there’s an ominous ending in sight. Join the dots. 

Village Mysteries

          As our two-week residence in the South Devon village of Slapton comes to an end, I’m inclined to remark that there’s more to the place than meets the eye. The obvious attractions – vernacular architecture (e.g. thatched roofs) and a pretty setting in a narrow, wooded valley running down to the coast – are augmented by an adjacent nature reserve and its associated Field Study Centre. So, holiday makers and students alike boost the village’s economy, helping support its two pubs and its volunteer-run community shop.

          Slapton has a slow feel to it – the narrow, steep and winding streets discourage through-traffic and can accommodate no vehicle larger than an Amazon delivery van. There are no yellow lines because there is nowhere to park anyway. There are no streetlights because this is a designated ‘dark skies’ area – great for stargazing on a clear night, but tricky without a torch when it’s overcast and you fancy a pint. Just like other bog-standard, rural English villages, there is a church at its heart and a pub hard by. Yet Slapton has an intriguing extra dimension.

          A village this small surely doesn’t need two pubs, so why is there a second one the other side of the church? And why is it attached to the base of a seemingly random medieval tower?

           Then there’s the ‘big house’. One might expect to find such a residence inhabited by the local lord of the manor, but this one is hidden behind a high stone wall inset with a couple of disused Gothic-style doorways, next to one of which is propped a hand-painted slate sign, “The Chantry”. Above the wall, an ornate balcony protrudes from the house, its old iron brackets flaking with rust. To one side of it, there is a similarly styled and dilapidated footbridge, covered in clinging vines, that passes over the road and connects the house to the churchyard via a small, mature wood, surrounded by yet another stone wall.

          From what little can be seen of the house, in its 18^th century iteration, it is elegant and imposing, yet shabby and in need of maintenance. Who lives there? The distressed descendants of the medieval lords? A modern-day Miss Havisham?

          Most of the answers are readily found in historical accounts. In 1372, Sir Guy de Brian founded a religious college in Slapton. It was a Chantry, a nice little earner for the church, whereby wealthy individuals were scammed into a pay-to-pray scheme. They were persuaded to endow a chapel, thereby providing a living for monks and priests whose job was then to pray for their benefactor’s soul. The resulting credits could then be cashed in at the Pearly Gates to reduce their time in purgatory.

          Henry VIII abolished all that – possibly for Trump-like motives – confiscating the assets and dividing them up between himself and his supporters. Perhaps he presaged the view of Frank Zappa who, when asked during a TV interview how he would define the difference between an established religion and a cult, replied “The amount of real estate they own”.

          Typically, the new secular owners abandoned the ecclesiastic buildings and used the stones for their new house. In this case they left the tower intact because it was a bit difficult to demolish or, more likely, because they found it useful as a lookout for the Barbary pirates who were active hereabouts at the time. As for the pub at its base, speculation has it that it was built for and by the construction workers hired by Sir Guy de Brian. Another reason not to demolish the tower?

          As to who lives in The Chantry today, I have no information to offer. I should have asked down at the Community Shop, where I might have got the lowdown. Still, I leave the place feeling pleased that it has a little touch of mystery about it, adding a little piquancy to future visits.

 

 

Escape to the Country?

          The headlines this week are full of anticipated events: a new Prime Minister, England scoring goals in the World Cup tournament and a monster heatwave, the like of which we haven’t experienced since 1976. It’s all work in progress but, as I write (it’s Thursday), the temperature is about to peak, England failed to find the net against Ghana and the ‘King of the North’ – the now ex-mayor of Manchester – has taken the train to London, where he is expected to move into Number 10 Downing Street without further ado.

          These events have triggered in me a ripple of nostalgia. In 1976, I had just moved to Manchester, a football-mad city in industrial decline and yet to find a new engine for its economy. I did play a small part in the economic revival, by setting up in the furniture manufacturing business, but the footie left me cold. Eventually, a good friend and native of the city advised me to take at least some notice of its two legendary teams, lest I be thought of as a weirdo in the pub. I am now able to summon a modicum of interest in the game.

          As it happens, my Other Half and I are well placed to withstand the high temperatures, as we are in the South Devon countryside, close by a beach. It’s hot, but not as hot as elsewhere (Manchester included). We are house/dog-sitting for relatives who have taken a break to go to Menorca, where it’s also hot, sunny and by a beach. To be fair to them, they planned it months ago and were not to know they could have saved themselves the expense – by which I mean the travel and accommodation, not the services provided by us. After all, who wouldn’t volunteer to help out for a week or so in a nice house, with a well-stocked wine cellar? What’s more, the dogs are friendly and the locale is pretty. The only thing is, there is no actual ‘sitting’ involved.

          Our relatives, having recently moved here, are in the process of establishing an extensive garden, comprising produce-beds and areas of newly planted saplings and striplings. Even during an average English summer you would expect to have to spend time watering the plants, but we drew the short straw this time. It takes at least two hours a day to get water to every poor, wilting green thing that needs it and, since the striplings are at the top of a steep incline, it’s not just they who are in need of hydration by the time they are served. The science tells us to expect this extreme weather more frequently, in which case my suggestion would be to plant more cacti.

          As for the two dogs, it seems to me that they are happy to lie around and sleep all day long, but my OH tells me that they have a lazy tendency and it’s not good for their health: they must be roused and taken for long walks, preferably lasting two hours. Surprisingly, they don’t appear to mind being woken up and, as soon as they get wind of ‘walkies’ in the air, they spring eagerly into a state of uncontrollable shaking and tail-wagging.

          I like a good walk myself but, these days, I prefer townie terrain where there are cultural distractions. Around here, it’s country lanes, woods and coastlines. The dogs really like it but, for me, this temporary change of lifestyle is like a refresher course in taking responsibility for the well-being of other living things. The selfishness of an urban-flat-dwelling, garden-free, pet-free lifestyle is duly challenged – as is only fair – but found to be not without merit.

Zen In DIY

          It took me a while to work out that the heightened proliferation of St. George’s Cross flags around town was not down to a sudden increase in the political activities of the far right, but a show of support for quite another cause: football.

          It was the eve of England’s first match in the World Cup tournament, a fact which I had not troubled to register. You might think it curmudgeonly wilfully to ignore the progress of one’s national football team, yet I see a point of principle at stake: the hoo-ha around this tournament is boosted deliberately (by President Trump, for one) to distract attention from warfare and the transference of wealth and power from the many to the few. The Romans practised the same chicanery in their circuses. Why has the game still not been called out?

          Anyway, I spent three days last week in a sort of DIY trance, so I wasn’t taking notice of much in the outside world, never mind one of my least favourite activities, sports.

          After four months of waiting for builders to commit to doing some tiling on our terrace, I realised the job was of no interest to any of them and decided to do it myself (DIM). In an effort to encourage any builder to take an interest in earning some easy money I had simplified the original brief, but the lure had been ineffective. Eventually, I thought it through and realised the job had become so simple, I could DIM and spend the budget on having fun afterwards.

          But the builders, with all the benefit of their professional experience, may well be having the last laugh. Having decided to lay click-together wooden decking tiles over the existing ceramic floor tiles, thereby de-skilling the bulk of the job, I reckoned to have cracked the case. All that remained was to chip the vertical tiling from the retaining wall and paint it a jolly colour.

          My Other Half (OH) was away for a few days; the weather was set fair and my enthusiasm to get the job done could no longer be contained. The tiles came off in ten minutes, but my elation was to prove premature.

          The wall is only two feet high and twenty-two feet long, yet it took two days to clean off the tile adhesive and underlying coats of paint, then another to make minor repairs and prepare the surface for re-painting – and all this time my body was under the strain of crouching on a low stool or kneeling on a pad while leaning forward into the work. I avoided back injury by careful management of my posture, stretching during standing-up breaks and finishing the day with a hot bath.

          So, here comes the Zen part: the work is physically demanding but manageable; your focus is on a vertical surface about one foot away; your only objective is to remove all traces of old paint because, if any patches are left, they will show through the new coat; there is no one to distract you and no one to call you in for tea.

           I found that listening to music or podcasts over earphones lost its appeal early on. I could only get satisfaction from the work by concentrating on small achievements, like removing a particularly stubborn spot of paint in an especially inaccessible corner of the wall. I spoke to no one, didn’t shave, went to bed sober and arose early to the task. At last, I applied the first coat of new paint just as the weather broke, the rain set in and my OH returned. The nagging thought that I had just wasted three days of my life on something I need not have done was countered by the sense of satisfaction at having persevered and the appreciative remarks of the first beholder of the result.

          That evening, after dining out on the tiling budget excess, we got home in time to watch the second half of England vs Croatia – a very entertaining display of footballing skills. It’s not hard to see how immersion in such a spectacle is a useful distraction from the bleak reality of geopolitics.

Home Is Where the Fight Is

          After three weeks away, home, where everything is tailored to one’s personal preferences, feels like a welcoming environment, familiar, soothing and reassuring – one in which, for instance, you can get a cup of tea, made by pouring boiling water over loose leaves in a pot with a straining basket and a properly functioning spout.

          In Athens, we rented an apartment at the foot of the Acropolis and sat on the roof with our drinks to admire the floodlit ruins and contemplate their history. If we shifted our seats to the corner, we had an oblique view across the street of the boutique-open-air cinema that showed The Devil Wears Prada each evening at eight forty. The contrast between ancient and modern had the potential to grate on one’s sensitivities but, given the novelty and exoticism of our situation, excitement and enchantment were our dominant reactions. The ‘theme-park’ appeal might have worn thin after a while, but we certainly did not pine for home during our few days there.

          En route for home, we spent a couple of days mooching around the swanky centre of Milan, where men in tailored suits take breaks from their offices to stand at bars to drink espresso (al banco), while we tourists sit at tables and try not to get in everyone’s way. At one such bar, we asked for “two Americanos” and were given espressos in large cups and a jug of hot water so that we could dilute the blessed beverage ourselves, so scornful were they of the concept.

          We tired quickly of the Duomo’s depressingly Christian interior, with its gloomy images of suffering saints and relentlessly over-decorated surfaces. The streets held more appeal, though excess of a different kind prevails there, especially in the shops, where retailers exploit the power of brands to elevate prices to extraordinary levels. As a rule of thumb, which I learned from one of my travelling companions, the fewer items there are displayed in a shop window, the less likely you are to be able to afford to buy anything within. It’s a sort of early warning system for the curious but impecunious. Incidentally, I have read that Milan has lately become a fashionable refuge for the very rich who want to reside in cities where taxes are not too taxing for them.

          In Paris, we experienced a less affluent cross section of European society. In transit, we had time to spend in and around the rail stations, Gare du Nord and Gare de Lyon, where travellers of all sorts encounter everyday locals, a large percentage of whom are immigrants, either established or still finding their feet in society. The shop windows thereabouts are stuffed with goods, every square centimetre occupied and every single item priced. We had lunches and breakfasts in cafés done up in traditional style (and were served by waiters with traditional off-handedness). We stayed in small hotels, located conveniently by the stations and in which we relished the stereotypically old-fashioned Parisienne interiors.

          Finally, Eurostar delivered us to London and GWR took us onward to Plymouth. It’s good to be home, though our to-do list is full of work in progress. Britain still needs our help: the fight to stem the advance of illiberal legislation that is turning the right to protest into illegal acts labelled as terrorism (next step, treason); the fight to change our electoral system from first-past-the post to more nuanced proportional representation; the fight to stem the loss of public goods to the private sphere which is controlled by ever fewer people or entities; the fight to turn the tide of the commodification of education, which is snuffing out the principle of critical thinking; the fight to modify capitalism to an economy that isn’t bent on chasing the unfulfillable goal of never ending growth.

          The list goes on. But first, a decent pot of tea.