Flagging Up Concerns

Last week I took myself to the cinema for a few hours respite from the media coverage of the Olympics.  I saw, among other films, Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words and was struck by how international her life was. She left Sweden early on and lived subsequently in California, Italy, Sweden (again), Paris and London. The peripatetic lifestyle endowed her with fluency in several languages and exposed her to multi-cultural influences. No doubt she retained a kernel of Swedishness deep down but she had the rare opportunity to experience life as a global citizen – or at least, as a Western Hemispherical one, which is a step in the right direction if, like me, you mourn Brexit as a lost opportunity to push civilisation beyond the destructive rivalries of nationalistic interests and towards the idea of transnational governance.

The news is full of issues which affect us all a lot more than our position in the Olympic medal table: cruise liners are sailing through the North-West Passage so that tourists can see the last of the ice and, in doing so, contributing to its demise; plastic micro-beads are accumulating in the sea and clogging up the biosphere, and the best we can do is phase them out of cosmetics by 2020; nations fight wars over the possession of oil, minerals and water – resources which belong to the planet not to random groups of individuals. A logical thought-process might be expected to conclude that humanity must act in unison to avert disasters of its own making. As the diplomat Mohammed El Baradei said, “Our primary allegiance is to the human race and not to one particular colour or border. The sooner we renounce the sanctity of these many identities and try to identify ourselves with the human race the sooner we will get a better and a safer world.”  We need a global approach to saving the ‘global village’ but, unfortunately for us all, the extent to which global activity is considered successful is measured in commercial units i.e. the ubiquity of iPhones, Coca-Cola and gas-guzzling SUVs – all of which exacerbate rather than resolve the problems by creating competition for finite resources.

Meanwhile the Olympic Games steamrollers on, dominating the news as if none of this mattered. And to what purpose? Bearing in mind the fact that many of us are not very interested in physically competitive sports (although we may be pleased for the individuals whose lives are raised by it), the cost and the hoo-hah appear to be out of all proportion to the benefit. And to those who argue that it’s pure entertainment I would point out that the net result of this entertainment is an extreme and sometimes bitter whipping-up of international rivalry: this year Russia is sulking because it was caught out cheating and China is smarting because it thinks Team GB must be up to no good. The original ethos of healthy competition is tainted by individuals who cannot bear to lose and by cynical regimes looking to seduce their constituents with trophies – by fair means or foul.

Surely the many billions of pounds that are raised in broadcast fees and commercial sponsorship (47% and 45% respectively) could result in a legacy which is more significant than a few sports arenas, some extended infrastructure, the propagation of a league of super-athletes and the exaltation of national banners? What are the Games, with their high global profile, contributing to world peace and environmental co-operation? I think it’s time to put the International Olympic Committee under the control of the United Nations and ban all flags but the Olympic flag. There is no inherent evil in competition – it raises standards – but let those standards be attributed to the human race, not nations A, B or C. We may never have a global government but we can at least strive for a global conscience: and a nation-neutral Olympics could help us get there..

A Fishy Conundrum

Mackerel don’t like sunshine – according, that is, to the amateur fisherman on whom we were relying for our supper. When we first arrived at the campsite he told us that he goes out in his boat every day and, in the evening, sits outside his motorhome with his catch for sale at 50 pence per head – DIY gutting: what he neglected to mention was that when the sun shines – as it has for the past few days – the mackerel disappear into the depths so he will inevitably come home with an empty bucket. When I asked him why he even bothered to go out on sunny days he looked at me as if to say “What else would I do?” We had expected that our hike along the Wales Coast Path would put us in the way of abundant freshly-caught seafood but this has not been the case. We came across just one fishmonger – and he was closed that day. Whatever is caught by whoever remains in the fishing industry must be sold elsewhere. Fortunately, that evening, we had a carnivores’ option on board for the BBQ – again.    

But the unavailability of fish has been partly compensated by another type of produce. Curiously, the coastal towns – large and small – have been rescued from culinary desertification by Italians: there is no shortage of prosciutto-and-rocket panini, fancy Tuscan wines and authentic espresso. The Welsh descendants of Italian immigrants are challenging the ubiquity of the chip-shop and pub-lunch offerings for so long associated with British seaside holiday resorts and the effect of this competition can be seen in an apparent fight-back by the traditional outlets. It is recognisable in the adoption of the Farrow & Ball colour palette so familiar to visitors to the resorts of Suffolk and Norfolk, chalk boards proclaiming trendy menus, chairs and tables spilling out from fashionably stripped interiors and welcoming staff who have been taught to smile at customers.   

But the hike is not all about sustenance, any more than it is all about invigorating exercise and magnificent views. It is also about appreciating the peculiarities of infrastructure that enhance the individuality of a place.  For instance, what to us is a continuous path is actually divided by county into sections for the purpose of administration, so that the rivalry between Cardiganshire and Pembrokeshire as to which has the most beauteous coastline is evident in the resources devoted to the adequacy of the signage, its branding and the state of maintenance of the route. And, tourism being such a crucial part of the economy, there are little ‘hopper’ buses that ply the single-track roads from cove to cove. These are useful indeed but the traveller must be alert to the fact that the brightly-liveried and cutely-named Strumble Shuttle, Poppit Rocket and Cardi Bach buses are run by different contractors whose policies on ticket pricing and customer-friendliness can vary alarmingly.

And, at this, the height of the summer season, the holidaymakers themselves provide much to interest the observant. The path is not what the majority come for – most of the time we saw no more than one or two other hikers – but when it drops down to an accessible beach there is the expected throng. Beaches can be busy places: little children run about excitedly, dig pits and paddle, squealing; older children play cricket or volley-ball with their parents; water-sports enthusiasts launch their various forms of transport – dinghies, surfboards, paddleboards, kayaks – I never thought there could be so many variations of flotation fun; and professionals take boatloads of people out to see dolphins and seals. We spotted dolphins once – a mother and calf we were told, although it was hard to tell from our cliff-top view-point. We watched them frolic for a while before they swam off.

“Dolphins like the sun then,” said my partner.

“Yes”, I replied. “So, how come you never see dolphins at the fishmongers?”

Lost but Found

Driving off in the campervan, our mood was one of eager anticipation at the prospect of a couple of weeks away and a mixed programme of activities – a brace of social engagements, plenty of time for un-planned bimbling and a background project, walking a few more sections of the Wales Coast Path to add to those we had already bagged. As if on cue, a rainbow appeared over the M6, a vivid, perfect arc of colours, shadowed by another, paler version above it: an augury, we agreed.

On day two of our travels, however, I lost my phone. Well, I didn’t lose it exactly, I left it in the back of a taxi and the next fare appropriated it. There is a certain kind of sinking feeling that accompanies the moment of realisation that you have lost something valuable – it used to apply to wallets but now that they are likely to contain nothing more than a few quid, a couple of unusable credit cards and old receipts, it’s more likely to be phones that are the cause of grief. Lost your car keys? It’s a negligible setback: call a cab to get home and fill in the insurance form for compensation. Lost your phone? Lost your life. I woke up in the night fretting about identity theft. Eventually I calmed down, reasoning that I had locked the phone with a password, my partner still had hers and, in any case, where we were going – the west coast of Wales – the chances of catching a cell signal would be slim. I resigned myself to being off-grid.

We had ticked off the social engagements and it was time to do some exploring – of the tame kind i.e. National Trust properties. First up was Claydon House, a vanity project which brought financial ruin to James Verney, partly because he employed Luke Lightfoot, a wood-carver but not an architect, to build it for him. Huge chunks of it were later demolished lest they collapse but it remains a grand house – with some extremely fine wood carvings adorning the interiors. The family’s descendants made a good bargain with the National Trust: they get to live there and have the maintenance taken care of in exchange for allowing the public limited access to the most spectacular parts.

Visits to such places are a snooper’s delight: they afford insights into the families’ intimate histories, as well as revealing socio-historical context. Llanaerchon is a good example. The manor house is at the centre of a self-sufficient country estate, the whole of which has been uniquely preserved by an accident of history. When the lady of the manor was widowed early she did not inherit the property but only the right to remain there as a tenant for the rest of her life and, as such, was not allowed to make any alterations to the place. She lived to be 104.

By the time we set off on our first ten-mile stretch of coast I had almost persuaded myself that I was free from digital enslavement. While my partner expressed periodic frustration at not being able to check email, or even text messages, I exuded an annoying disregard for the urgency of any such communication. ‘Be in the moment’ became my motto. The following day we tackled a 14-mile section of the path, from New Quay to Aberporth, where it rises and falls steeply between the sparsely-populated cliffs and river mouths. Porpoises and seals can be seen out in the sea, they say, but they were too elusive for us. We did, however, spot a radio mast atop a promontory and, for a while, even I became hopeful of a Vodafone signal. There was no such thing, however, and as we passed close by we saw the reason why: “Ministry of Defence Property. Keep Out.”

(In case you’re wondering, this post comes to you courtesy of Cardigan public library.)

English, As She is Spoken

A newspaper headline got me in a tiz last week. It stated that Yorkshire is the most ‘British’ region in the UK because, according to scientific mapping of DNA samples, it has the highest concentration of Anglo-Saxon genes. But, given that the native British were in situ before the Anglo-Saxons arrived (eventually to become what we now call the English), the headline is incorrect and Yorkshire, according to genetic distribution, should be described as the most English part of Britain.

The headline typifies the confusion that surrounds the definition of nationality for UK citizens. Even the government can’t cope with it, as we saw in its drafting of the Brexit referendum. The ‘British people’ were asked to make a stark choice, without consideration of the fact that they do not see themselves as a unified entity with common interests: the result has left us with endless analysis of who exactly voted for what and why. Is it really feasible to address a series of complex social, economic and political issues with a simple yes or no question? People tend to live in bubbles defined by their social circumstances: those who occupy the ‘unemployed residents of devastated former industrial town in the far provinces’ bubble will have a different experience and outlook from those in the ‘wealthy inhabitants of another part of the country’ bubble. It is, therefore, surprising that any degree of commonality or national identity exists at all. Perhaps, as in a bowl of soap-suds, bubbles jostle around, occasionally bursting and co-mingling, but mostly remain bound together. In the UK, however, society’s bubbles exist within even bigger ones – the several notional, national boundaries.

I consider myself to be English but by what measure? Perhaps not being Scottish, Welsh or Northern Irish helps to narrow it down, but that’s just a start, an elementary guide for foreigners who are unfamiliar with the complexities of the United Kingdom’s constitutional make-up. DNA testing might help in the definition but, as the aforementioned research also shows, the average UK resident is only 36.94% Anglo-Saxon and, given that the British Isles has been an ethnic melting pot for millennia, I doubt that the essence of Englishness is embedded in genes. I prefer to think of it as ingrained in the culture (sorry, Yorkshire) and believe that it is acquired through absorption, assimilation and diffusion.

I can, of course, only offer anecdotal evidence to support my theory (such is the unquantifiable nature of the beast) and am always alert to situations in which only an English person feels completely at ease. Like, for instance, a recent lunch with friends in a pub in the Essex countryside, where the bar-staff were home-grown and the closest thing to foreign was the word croutons on the menu. Tourists, had they ventured so far into that deep redoubt of the English, might have delighted in the authenticity of the experience. But tourists don’t need to stray so far to experience English essence; it is available – at a price – on the main tourist routes. Take, for example, Simpson’s-in-the-Strand, where I recently dined. The 185-year-old restaurant is reputed not to have changed much since its foundation. Certainly the interior is a well-preserved marvel of the Imperial Age and reflects, discreetly of course, English tradition (of the wealthy Londoner bubble variety) in every detail. The menu is from the glory days of English cuisine i.e. before the advent of WWI stopped it in its tracks and WWII finally put an end to it. But despite the perfectly orchestrated theatre of the ‘institution’ there was one thing that struck a discordant note with me: English is the second language of all the front-of-house staff.

             I was reminded that, comforting as it is to revel in one’s Englishness, the embracing of change is essential to ensuring it doesn’t become a mere sideshow in the greater historical pageant.