A Certain Age

         There’s a phrase, ‘a woman of a certain age’, which I understand to be a euphemism employed to avoid the indelicacy of stating frankly that she is past her physical prime. Whether it’s still widely used I can’t be sure, but it comes to mind when I reach for a description of several women with whom I have recently had brief interactions. If pressed, I would estimate their ages as being in the sixth or seventh decades, ‘old lady’ territory from the perspective of a youngster, but near contemporary from mine.

          During my recent solo expedition in our campervan (named ‘Bluey’, for its livery), I came to realise that, even though it is 23 years old, our vehicle, far from being scrapworthy, is approaching the point at which the description ‘vintage’ might be considered appropriate. At the entrance to the car park at Scotney Castle, there were two volunteer attendants. I was explaining to the teenaged boy that I had not reserved a space, when his apparent supervisor, an ‘older’ woman came over, barged him aside and smilingly reassured me that I was welcome in the overflow field. “Just turn right by that hedge. Nice van, by the way”, she said.

          The very next day, intrigued by a roadside sign that read Off the Beaten Track, I turned into an extensive, leafy compound to discover a sprawling, scruffy shopping complex of shacks and yards in the indie/alternative/brocante styles. It being late in the day, everything was closing, but the person in charge of locking up, a woman of a certain age, enthused over the project and insisted on showing me around. “Come back tomorrow, when it’ll be busy”, she said.  I replied that I might and reached for my key. “I like your van”, she added, as I climbed in.

          When, later, I told my Other Half about the compliments Bluey had received, she immediately put a different spin on things. “So, you’ve been picking up old ladies then?”

          More recently, in the company of a couple of friends, the four of us boarded the Cremyll ferry for the eight-minute crossing over the river Tamar. The open prow is fitted out with bench seats that are coveted in fine weather, such as pertained at the time. The other three bagged a section, leaving me with not quite enough space between them and a woman of a certain age (and her backpack). “Excuse me”, I said to her, “any chance you might budge up a bit?” She shifted and, as I parked myself beside her, she said, “A slight chance”, which I took as a compliment on the slimness of my hips.

          Whether or not that was her meaning, it was certainly an invitation to a conversation between the two of us. After the usual niceties, she told me about herself. She had seen The Odyssey and it had reawakened her interest in the classics (all of which she had read). She also told me where she lived and that she had to hurry off to her book club as soon as we disembarked. And, in what might have been a last attempt at a pick-up line, she told me her name.

          Walking home, my OH made capital out of this and the other incidents to amuse our friends with her theory that I am in the habit of picking up “old ladies”, as she put it.

          That same day, I overheard a conversation between two, let’s say, ‘retired’ women who were walking just ahead of us. They were talking about the recently introduced electric scooters that can be hired around the city. “I hear they can be quite dangerous”, said one. “Yes”, said the other and, after a brief pause, “Mind you, I must admit, I’d quite like to have a go on one”.

          Now, there’s a game old bird, I thought.

 

 

  

     

 

The Restoration

         This morning, on the radio, I listened to Rupert Lowe, the hectoring leader of the political party, Restore Britain, express his stance on immigration with the frequent assertion that “most people would agree (with me)”. So, to what point in time does he want to ‘restore Britain’ and how does he know that most people concur (with him)?

          The latter point may be dismissed as irrelevant: what he may assert without proof, I may refute without proof. As to the former, there is a great deal of context to be considered, which is what I’ve been doing this past week, as it happens. In Devon, Dorset and Sussex I have enjoyed experiencing traces of British history and the cultural residue left in its wake.

          The 4000-year-old stone circle at Kingston Russell (Dorset) was the oldest of these but, unfortunately, I couldn’t quite locate it. After a two-mile walk along a private farm road and in searing heat, the last stretch lay across fields, uphill and without signposts. I chose the wrong side of the fence and ended up lost in a crop of sweetcorn, with no sightline to the stones. I did subsequently identify an alternative route but, since it entailed passing through a large herd of cattle, my enthusiasm waned and I trekked back to the campervan, pondering the while whether Britain in the Late Bronze Age had been a better place, you know, before the immigrants invaded.

          It’s a moot point, of course, because the Romans, Vikings, Angles and Saxons all turned up before too long, each wave flooding ‘our’ island with its foreign genes and funny ways. Then, there were the Normans. By coincidence, I stayed at a campsite near the Sussex town of Battle, named for its location as the site of the 1066 defeat of King Harold by William, Duke of Normandy. There is a signpost to the actual battlefield, though more recent evidence suggests it took place closer to a roundabout in the centre of town. Whichever, I didn’t visit it anyway, as I’ve nursed a particular grudge against that last wave of newcomers ever since I saw the tapestry at Bayeux back in 1982.

          That grudge is reinforced each time I visit a stately home, the seat of such-and-such a family that has owned it since they built it on land given to them by William as reward for their support in his conquering endeavour. And when, thereafter, those families used the social media of the day, portrait paintings, to glorify their lineage, boost their status and persuade everyone else to consider them a class apart – aristocracy – they pulled off a great con.

          I doubt that Restore Britain is considering a return to pre-Norman times, as that would entail a lot of property being returned to the commons. Perhaps they have in mind a more recent period like, say, the 1980s, when the concept of common ownership was sufficiently diminished to the point where most of what remained in our ownership could be taken without much resistance, or “privatised”, to use the capitalist euphemism for theft.

          But heritage isn’t all about property. Back in Devon, I poked my nose into the week-long Sidmouth Annual Folk Festival, a celebration of traditional forms of music and dance created, curated, performed and, to this day, still owned by common people. I saw youngsters doing clog-dances that originated in the Lancashire cotton mills of the industrial revolution; Morris dancers performing stories from medieval England; hurdy-gurdy players teasing tunes out of unwieldy instruments invented in Europe a thousand years ago; and impromptu bands of assorted musicians playing jolly, Celtic jigs in packed-out pubs.

          Perhaps, in a few years’ time, we may expect the programme to include more recently integrated forms of British folk music – African drumming, say, or oud-accompanied middle eastern love songs, both of which I would pay good money to hear. Whether most people would agree remains to be seen.

Nose-Following

          If you like films with cartoon characters, lots of swordfights and a dull script, the Odyssey is for you. My Other Half and I spent three and a half hours (including ads and trailers) of our bi-annual date-day watching it at the local Imax, with only one positive comment at the end: neither of us had needed a loo break. Latterly, however, I have been speculating on whether the saying Never trust Greeks bearing gifts originated with the Trojan Horse. Perhaps, after all, there is some educational value to be had from the movie.

          Soon after, I began a mini odyssey of my own when I embarked upon a solo road trip in the campervan. Not that I expect to encounter monsters and gods during my progress along the south coast of England from Plymouth to Hastings and back. What I do anticipate is an epic tale of cider farms and places of historic interest. At the end of day two, I can report positively on both fronts.

          However, I do feel inclined to challenge the notion of romance that attaches to road trips. It’s all very well if you’re doing, say, Route 66 in a classic Chevrolet, but England’s highways have no such aura – especially when you’re driving in a heatwave, without air-con. Plain sailing is the best you can expect from long-distance driving here.

          On day one, out of curiosity, I diverted into the little Dorset town of Bridport, which appears to have plenty to offer in the way of regional character and history (though you would have to eat a lot of lotuses to be tempted to stay too long). A couple of hours mooching around revealed an Arts Centre (closed that day), an old cinema now serving as a theatre for am-dram and touring shows and a local history museum, where I astonished the staff by buying an entry ticket instead of just browsing the shop as an excuse for using the facilities.

          My lone perambulation through the galleries yielded what I was looking for: the town’s raison d’être. Because it is set in an area where flax and hemp flourish, Bridport had become prosperous by making ropes for the Royal Navy and nets for fishermen. Ropemaking disappeared when the RN took it in house, but the netting developed into a major international operation encompassing aero-space and sporting industries. Who knew that Wimbledon’s nets are freshly woven in Bridport each year?

          Leaving the Tudor-fronted museum building, I crossed the road to an independent wine shop, stocked and stashed with hundreds of interesting varieties – and a range of bottled ciders. I left the cider on the shelves, as it’s a keg I’m after, but I bought a nice bottle of Douro for suppertime.

          I pressed on steadfastly through Hampshire, teeth gritted, as though passing through the straits between Scylla and Charybdis (I have never warmed to the county), then, somewhere on the outskirts of Chichester and far beyond the reach of the siren call, I noticed a road sign pointing to the HQ of the Women’s Institute, a comforting signal of safe haven. I had reached East Sussex and the beginning of the end of the overpopulated South Coast.

          It was then, just past the town of Lewes, that I saw a sign from the gods: Middle Farm Cider Barn. With barely time to indicate, I swerved into the driveway, shuddered to a halt and alighted with eager anticipation. I was not disappointed. This place has a vast selection of proper ciders – in kegs, bottles and demi-johns. Excitedly, I selected a wide range and resolved to add more on my return journey.

          That evening, the Douro remained unopened, like the door to Penelope’s boudoir. Which reminds me: I must make it home before the next date-day, lest trouble should brew in my absence.

Mind Your Back!

          When my brother posted on our siblings’ WhatsApp group a photo of a skip full of earth and rubble that he had single-handedly dug out himself, I was well impressed. Given that he is a couple of years short of 80 (just one behind me), undertaking such back-breaking work must have been a challenge to say the least. He is obviously fit as a fiddle, but he assured us that he approached the task not with the reckless gusto of youth but with the experienced man’s care and consideration for his back. And this is just the preparatory stage of his project to build a conservatory.

          Now, I don’t wish to appear competitive, but this week I have been bending my own back to a spot of hard labour. The new owners of the building that housed a recently closed department store, House of Fraser, invited Nudge*, the charity that I do some voluntary work with, to help ourselves to whatever had been left behind and, after a quick survey of the contents, we jumped at the opportunity.

          The closure of the store had been inevitable, as it was the last department store standing after the other five shut up shop. It put up a good fight, but its sorry end comprised a sell-off of stock at discounted prices, protracted until the last few bargain-hunting punters dwindled away, spent-up or unable to justify another purchase, despite the tempting price tags. I was amongst them, trawling through the menswear while observing the floorspace becoming smaller as areas were cleared and cordoned off.

          But if the death throes were sad, the final demise was eerie. When we arrived to collect our goodies, we entered through the back door and walked into a post-apocalyptic movie set, dimly lit and strewn with seemingly random clusters of redundant display counters.

          Our little band of volunteers, with a borrowed Luton van, had only two days in which to operate – and vehicular access was prohibited after 08.00. So, early starts were required to grab all the items that we had previously claimed and stickered. That was one challenge. Another was that many of the items needed to be disassembled, as they were heavy or unwieldy. Yet another was that the owners’ generosity had not extended to use of the service lift, which they had prematurely de-commissioned. Everything depended on speed, enthusiasm and muscle power, the last element of which was not our strong point.

          If our band is typical, then volunteers largely come from the ranks of people who are well meaning and available, though not necessarily in tip-top physical health. Our team comprised two people in their creaking seventies, four in their dodgy middle age and only two who could be described as young – one of whom spent fifteen minutes explaining to me his spinal injury and the botched surgery that had left him somewhat incapacitated.

          Still, you have to work with what you’ve got and, though I do have a lingering injury to my own back (ref. the aforementioned reckless gusto of youth), I also have valuable experience in lifting and shifting using pallet trucks, sack trucks and dollies, so I was able to contribute meaningfully to the project, while emerging with little more than aches, pains and a need to soak in a hot bath for an hour after each session.

          In the end, our haul was well worth the effort: miles of useful racking for storage; big bench-tables for workshops; display stands for exhibitions; fancy light fittings for our buildings; twelve fully decorated Christmas trees for yuletide and a dozen glitter balls for – well, for fun.

          Oh, and I blagged some shelving for our garage, which I will assemble and install just as soon as my back has had a rest. (Siblings’ WhatsApp alert.)

*Nudge Community Builders

 

The Woman On the Bus

          What do you do when you become aware that another passenger on the bus, or train, is trying to catch your eye? You have a choice between engaging or not, of course, but how do you decide which way to go – and why?

          After some days spent travelling and being in the company of family and friends, my Other Half (OH) and I had a ‘day off’ and decided to spend part of it together, visiting one of the art galleries in London, where we were staying. Having decided on the Tate Britain, we were chuffed to discover that the number 88 bus would take us, slowly but conveniently, door-to-door. Better still, when we boarded, we found that two of the front seats on the upper deck were unoccupied, so we bagged them for the best and cheapest sightseeing tour of the capital (the route winds through Regent Street, Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, Whitehall, Downing Street, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey).

          Before long, I became aware that the woman in the adjacent seats, who had clocked us as we settled in, was still taking a sort of sideways interest. Unlike a regular passenger or commuter, she was not occupied intently with a phone or book, nor was she staring wearily through the window. She appeared, like us, to have a child-like relish of just being on the bus. Yet, since she had the same view as us but no partner with whom to trade comments, she seemed intent on joining in ours. (All this, I thought, had been apparent only to me, but my OH later said she had also noticed it, “obviously”.)

           After one or two failed attempts to catch the eye of either one of us, our wannabe friend finally found an opportunity to make bold when a young woman, against the odds of a long, tight-fitting skirt and high heels, hurried comically across the road in front of our bus.

          There was no disguising the fact that all three of us were amused by the spectacle and thus was the ice broken. In the time it took for her to get off three stops later to get a bowl of porridge at Gail’s, we learned that our new friend was a visual artist and that she usually cycled this route but was going to the West End to meet her gallerist and didn’t want to arrive as a sweaty mess. “So, you’re taking a day off from painting?”, I said. “I suppose so,” she said, “but I hadn’t thought of it that way”. To her questions about us we responded courteously but with a degree of prudent reserve. She seemed pleased, however, to have ‘met’ us and especially so as we were going to see art*.

          The next morning, I went to get coffee and a few moments of reflection at a local café and saw someone familiar in the queue: the woman on the 88 bus! The question arose as to whether I should greet her. Seeing as we were just visiting the neighbourhood, was this a relationship worth pursuing?

          I let it lie until I had emptied my cup, before something drove me to approach her. Whether it was curiosity, compassion or courtesy I don’t know, but I made the right call. She was warm and welcoming, asking how we had found the show and telling me the details of her morning so far.

          Then it was time for another decision: should I extend the conversation or leave it there? I opted for the latter but, as we shook hands and said goodbye, I had the feeling that I knew her face, not just from the day before, but from somewhere in my deep and distant past.

*Hurvin Anderson at Tate Britain, until 23^rd August.