A Late Cretan Discovery

“The wind is in from Africa, last night I couldn’t sleep” – the opening line of Joni Mitchell’s Carey – has always chimed with my fondness for the Mediterranean. I imagined the song was written in southern Spain during the scirocco season but have just discovered otherwise: it was written here, in Crete, in the tiny coastal village of Matala, where she stayed for a while in the cliff-side cave of one of the resident hippies, the eponymous Carey. There is a clue in the line – “they’re playing that scratchy rock and roll beneath the Matala moon” – but it only makes sense if you have heard of the place and I hadn’t, unfortunately, until this week. Had I been aware that Joni was looking for adventure in Crete in 1970, I might have relocated there from South London, where, at that time, I was not gainfully employed. So, it was Carey who got lucky – though not for long. Joni was already successful and rich enough to have hired a VW van and, as she tells us later in the song, consider splitting to Amsterdam or Rome, where she would rent a grand piano and put flowers round her room. I had not previously considered the attractions of fan-tourism but now I see it has a certain appeal.

However, my main interest is the history of the island and the hippie legacy is but the most recent phase of a long and tortured story. To get a grasp of it requires an acquaintance with the combined studies of classicists, historians and archaeologists: much has happened here since the first inhabitants left their traces 8,500 years ago. Such an historical time-span can be overwhelming at first but, after a little reading, an hour or two in museums and a few picnics among ancient ruins (liberally interspersed with doses of eating, drinking and interacting with locals) it begins to read as one continuous, fascinating story. This time of year – off-season – is ideal for history-tourism. Not only is it cool and, therefore, easier to concentrate the mind, it is also uncrowded or, to be precise, deserted. In museums, there is no one to obscure your view of the exhibits – though it can feel uncomfortable to be the sole object of the security-attendants’ gaze. At archaeological sites there are no queues to gawp at the best bits; in fact, there is nobody at all, which lends a certain piquancy to the experience. Sitting in lone contemplation of several acres of Minoan ruins somehow concentrates the mind on the futility of human pride. Moreover, these considerable advantages are enhanced by an unexpected bonus: all tickets for entry are half-price at this time of year!

I have been using Lonely Planet as an introduction to all things Cretan but there are certain behavioural eccentricities it does not explain. Despite laws to the contrary, many Cretans still smoke in cafes and bars, ride helmet-less on motor bikes and drive belt-free in cars. In fact, I saw one man riding a moped while simultaneously talking on the phone, smoking, carrying a takeaway coffee and giving his dog a pillion ride. The seemingly casual regard for the law – and for health and safety – is puzzling, but some clues may be extrapolated from the island’s cultural history. The Cretan author, Nikos Kazantzakis, in his novel Freedom and Death, portrays characters that inhabit Heraklion around 1880, the dying years of Ottoman rule. A legacy of oppression by foreigners has nourished a culture of resentment and rebellion against their rule and, along with it, an admiration for the traits of extreme machismo characterised by tough, native rebel fighters. Could this explain why Cretans shun sissy seat-belts? Kazantzakis epitaph, “I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.”, suggests as much: and the anti-authority vibe must also have appealed to the hippies of Matala.

The Picky Traveller's Guide

The number of countries that I am prepared to visit is dwindling because, in order to qualify, they must have liberal governments. The blacklist, which includes Saudi Arabia, Turkey, The Philippines etc. now includes Poland and Austria, where nasty nationalism is on the rise. None of these, however, is quite as troubling as China, the place where sci-fi becomes reality. I heard that the Communist Party is accelerating the development of artificial intelligence, not to benefit the populace but to control it more tightly. It is harnessing AI to perfect the technology not only of facial recognition but also gait recognition. The way you look and the way you walk will be electronically recognisable. In a free society, entrepreneurship and a sense of humour would quickly combine to thwart this threat by boosting production of latex masks and wheelchairs, but I suspect that the Party has already banned both in anticipation.

The Party argues that it acts in the best interests of the people by propelling the economy forward and creating wealth for the masses. It has a point. It has been said that in 1976 Mao Zedong, by one simple act, began the process of lifting billions of Chinese out of extreme poverty: he died. Since then, industrialisation has made the population increasingly prosperous. This was achieved regardless of the cost to the environment and to individual liberty but, to quote Berthold Brecht, “grub first, then ethics” is a very human response to hunger. However, I am a well-fed beneficiary of the traditions of the Enlightenment who feels at home in like-minded societies – which is one reason why my partner and I will be spending the next few weeks in Crete, where the roots of Graeco-Roman civilisation are deep.

Crete, at this time of year, is not the sun-scorched island of popular imagining. In fact, on the first morning here, piles of drifted, giant hailstones littered the streets, along with the debris of leaves they had shredded from the trees during the night. But, as I have implied, I am here for the culture, not the weather, so we collected a hire-car and headed into Heraklion, mindful that our taxi driver had warned us that Cretans are dangerously bad drivers. (Perhaps he was just touting for more business but, having last year mastered the art of driving around Sicily, we are not so easily scared.) Nevertheless, driving into the centre of the walled Venetian city, with its narrow streets and unruly traffic, was a wake-up call. We soon left the car at an attended lot near our accommodation and, for the last three days, we have walked everywhere. This island has a deep and complex history which we have begun to explore in the museums. To summarize: after Neolithic tranquillity, it was grabbed by Greeks, ruled by Romans, sacked by Saracens, assailed by Arabs, occupied by Ottomans, liberated by Brits, nabbed by Nazis, liberated by Brits (again) and, finally, gathered in by Greeks. For once, it seems the British were not the ogres, which may explain why the natives are friendly – although it may be that they are well-disposed to all tourists, since 40% of the economy is dependent on us.

In any case, one feels culturally comfortable here. Yesterday, while sitting by the harbour, I retuned the greeting of a passer-by, a trampish-looking old man who mistook my politeness for an invitation to soliloquise. I learned that he was from Essex originally, had strongly-held libertarian views and had fond childhood memories of building and sailing Mirror dinghies. He had no front teeth and was dirty and ill-kempt, but he seemed content. The glass he held in his hand was half full. I took him to be a stranded survivor of the hippie commune established in the sixties at Matala on the south coast, another fine example of cultural empathy – albeit of more recent vintage.

Not Dreaming of a White Christmas

The barber shook my hand this morning. He’s not in the habit of being formally expressive, so I’m guessing he was trying to thank me for my custom and convey season’s greetings – though he didn’t say either of those things; he knows by now that I would probably respond “Bah! Humbug!” so he just said, “All the best.” That was my last haircut before we fly – in a few days’ time – to Crete, where we will take shelter from the excesses of the forthcoming period of frenetic over-indulgence, aka the ‘festive season’. My personal Christmas Card Fairy has taken care of postal communications, while I have been busy with preparations for the trip. All that remains is for me to buy a wad of Euros because Cretans, I hear, prefer cash to credit. This is not a problem, but I wish I had moved sooner: the Brexit cliff-hanger being acted out in Parliament currently is having a very negative effect on the value of Sterling and each day that passes records a further slump in its value. My hope is that our Brexit-crazed parliamentarians will coalesce in some sort of agreement and that the miserable pound will recover from the wounds they have inflicted upon it before we get to the airport.

Meanwhile, life goes on in a compressed “must-do-it-before-Christmas” kind of way. There is a schedule of hook-ups with friends whom we will not see for a while (including a day-trip to London to catch a transiting Aussie), an outing of the Heaton Moor Jazz Appreciation Society to a live performance inspired by Benny Goodman’s music and a couple of cinema visits. As I write, some of these events are yet to come, but those that have occurred include a couple of socials and the cinema outings. The social events have been intimate foursomes of the kind that do not involve an exchange of gifts but are lightly tinged with tinsel on account of the incidental proximity of revellers in Christmas jumpers and soundtracks of tediously regurgitated yuletide musak.

There was no hint of Christmas at the cinema, however. First, we saw The Old Man and The Gun, a film that surely must be Robert Redford’s swansong. If so, his acting career is now bookended by portrayals of two loveable rogues – the Sundance Kid and the Old Man – both of whom were engaged in the business of bank robbery. Now, although Hollywood has presented it as an entertaining caper, robbery is condemned, not condoned, by upstanding citizens and punished by strict laws pertaining to ownership of property. However, I think this view has probably softened in the years since 2008, when the bankers themselves pulled off the biggest robbery of all time, leaving us with a legacy of civic penury, an abiding sense of injustice and a heightened awareness of the rapacity of corporations. Let’s hear it for bank robbers! Well, all right, that film is a light-hearted entertainment, but the other one we saw – Disobedience – certainly is not. It tells of the repercussions consequent upon an individual’s refusal to conform to the strict rules and conventions of the society into which they were born. On one level it is a love-story with complications; on another, it is a contemplation of entropy, the tendency of a closed system to descend into chaos – somewhat like the Brexit negotiations.

Disobedience came to mind the next day when I was heading for the loo in a department store. I passed a grey-haired couple and overheard her say to him “Don’t you move from there!” as she walked away. He didn’t. When I came back that way he was still standing, forlorn in the Ladies’ Shoes Department, with the strains of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas having no obvious cheering effect upon him.

Etiquette and the Meaning of Art

As a group of friends, we gather for dinner at a restaurant. There is no fixed menu and no prior agreement as to how the bill will be settled, just an unspoken ‘understanding’ that it will be divided equally, regardless of individual choices. So, what happens towards the end of the jolly proceedings, when we are all quite tipsy (except for the unfortunate driver) and someone proposes that we should order yet more wine? We order more wine – because nobody wants to be a killjoy or a skinflint. This is the etiquette to which we conform and which leads, invariably, to excess.

The following morning, remnants of the group reconvene for a head-clearing walk along Crosby beach, where a hundred cast-iron replicas of the artist Anthony Gormley are planted irregularly over a mile of the shoreline. The installation is titled Another Place, which I am inclined to think of as a clue to its meaning – if there is a meaning. But we do not voice so crass a question. Instead, we comment on the patina of rust the figures have acquired, their apparently haphazard distribution, the fact that one of them is toppling over (a great selfie opportunity) and another has fallen on its back so that only its toes protrude from the sand. Visitors have ‘intervened’ in the work, adorning some of the iron men with hi-viz vests and other oddments of clothing. I suppose there is an element of mockery intended, but in the case of the one that has been given a lovers’ pledge, a padlock attached to its inventorial wrist-band, it seems that someone has sought to invest it with meaningfulness of a personal kind. But whatever they stand for, the iron men are resolute: they face the sea, come what may, make of them what you will. I (after satisfying my curiosity regarding the technical details of fixture) am left with the feeling that they represent a yearning to go back to a place and time that is no longer accessible. I imagine longing in their blank eyes.

I find myself experiencing such wistful feelings from time to time, most recently at Manchester Art Gallery, where Martin Parr’s photographs of the City are currently on display. Gazing at the monochrome pictures taken in the 1970’s is a bit like flipping through an old family album: there are familiar but shabby-looking backgrounds and people I feel I ought to know but don’t, dressed in comically dated fashions. It was another time, alright, but it also feels like another place and one to which, on second thoughts and nostalgia notwithstanding, I don’t yearn to return. To an outsider, of course, the pictures will be of interest for other reasons: historical (the content) and/or technique (the medium). The question of where this work sits in the spectrum of art is debatable but it is at least easy to attribute meaning to it, if only as documentary comment.

Perhaps that also applies to a 1950s novel I picked up recently, a well-regarded work that I had never read. It would be interesting to know what impression somebody too young to have known the period first-hand would form of the context. I do recall the timbre of domestic life at that time, so the author’s words effortlessly conjured images, feelings and atmosphere. But an abiding impression of history was impressed on me by an unexpected subtlety – the yellow-edged pages of the book itself, which added an authentic period feel to the medium, thereby enhancing the message.

I was explaining this to a friend over a lunch for which he had offered to pay and which was in danger of taking up most of the afternoon. Etiquette forbade me suggesting another bottle, even though I felt the need for one. Happily, though, he picked up on the vibe and voiced it himself. I just hope I wasn’t too obvious.

 

Ways to Shop

From time to time we hear heart-warming tales of informal arrangements whereby postmen (posties?) look out for elderly people who live alone. In rural France, however, this is now being commercialised: people pay for a service whereby elderly, lone residents in remote locations can be kept in touch with their relatives via regular contact with postal delivery operatives. This seems like a good idea, not only for dispersed families but also for postal services looking for income to supplement dwindling sales of stamps. (Set aside any sinister thoughts of ghoulish outcomes that you may harbour due to memories of The Postman Always Rings Twice.)

Last Wednesday, I waited in for our postie, not to check up on my welfare, but to deliver two packages. I had ordered a cushion to make my desk-chair more comfortable and a replacement part for the vacuum cleaner. You can never be sure whether online purchases will be delivered by a courier or by the Royal Mail, though it seems the distinction between them matters less and less. Whichever one comes, you have to wait in for them, which is doubly infuriating if your purchase turns out to be a dud, as did one of mine. The cushion, upon which I had anticipated settling comfortably, comprised a wedge-shaped pad that propelled my buttocks slowly and inexorably towards the front edge of the chair and under the desk. The vacuum cleaner part, however, fits perfectly. I have made a note, therefore, that internet (or catalogue, as it once was) shopping should be reserved for items that do not require a body-fit.

Nevertheless, internet shopping is convenient and I wish that it could be employed for my latest requirement – a new pair of spectacles necessitated by age-related macular degeneration. The prospect of wearing glasses permanently, as opposed to just for reading, looms and with it comes the realisation that I have lacked empathy for all those people for whom this has long been routine. The implications are only now becoming clear to me, among them this: wearing a medical appliance on your face changes your appearance, thereby making an impression on other people in much the same way as does your clothing. Some consideration is called for and I am lately transformed from a person who never noticed the displays in opticians’ windows to one who can no longer walk past them without careful inspection. I have discovered that finding a comfortable fit is straightforward but deciding on an appropriate style is not: there are subtle ramifications which I do not feel qualified to assess alone. I must rely on the advice of my personal style-consultant, aka my partner, and hope that her patience will last the course.

Meanwhile, I am quite content to wear my existing, utilitarian specs when needed as, for example, when I went to the exhibition Lowry & the Pre-Raphaelites. There, I mingled un-self consciously with people coping with a variety of sight-aids – taking them off to read the labels, putting them on to read the labels and so on – while also observing with newly-aroused interest those who sported permanently placed ‘eyewear’ of note.  

For the time being, I am fortunate in not needing specs for cinema screenings, even when – as in the last film I saw, Shoplifters – there are subtitles. The story concerns a ‘family’ that supplements its income by shoplifting, though the real interest lies in the personal relationships depicted (and very convincingly acted). The actual shoplifting is trivial in the context of the struggles endured by the characters: petty crime is an understandable consequence of a hard life. Nevertheless, the word ‘shoplifting’ is a euphemism – rather like ‘scrumping’. I heard a southerner tell a northerner about his childhood raids on a neighbour’s orchard. The northerner was unimpressed. “Do you know the word ‘scrump’?” asked the southerner. “Aye,” said the northerner, “but we call it theft.”

Busy Going Nowhere

Lately, I haven’t been anywhere that is more than twenty minutes walk from base-camp. But don’t panic, I tell myself. Remember that eccentric chap you met in the Student Union bar when you were twenty? You were all fired up with excited anticipation of your forthcoming year of Voluntary Service Overseas in some exotic, faraway place (it turned out to be Sudan) and he maintained that going to distant places was a waste of time: the only valid form of travel was the exploration of the mind, he said, and that could be accomplished from your armchair. Bearing this in mind, my week of staying put has not been so dull.

Coincidentally, an old friend from those VSO days in Sudan has been in town and we spent some time together at the Whitworth gallery, where we were enchanted by William Kentridge’s video work Second Hand Reading, despite neither of us being fans of the genre. The fast-paced moving images tell a story that is hard to pin down, but the evocation of South African culture and politics was evident – even though I have never been to that part of the world. I am sure the distinctive accompanying music also wrought its magic. Later, we lunched at a nearby Yemeni café, where the Arabic spoken reminded us of our Sudanese experience. But what struck me was the fact that ordinary day-to-day activity goes on for these people, despite the carnage of war that is ravaging their homeland. Yemen is another place I have never been to, though my father was stationed there during the time of the British garrison and it is his description of the place that lingers, despite current events.

And I have been drawn, as usual, to the cinema. Tempted by the ‘Steve McQueen hype’ (and the availability of cheap tickets) I went to see Widows which, despite the director’s pedigree, is a run-of-the-mill heist movie with an unconvincing plot and very little to challenge the imagination – except that it is set in present-day Chicago, a place that I have not visited but which is on my wish-list. Much more rewarding is the movie Wildlife, by Paul Dano. The action – such as it is – takes place in a small town that sits below a glowering mountain range somewhere in Montana. The time is 1960 and the 14 year-old Joe shares with me not only a name but also a birthdate, so the music, the fashions and the attitudes of the period resonate nostalgically. Montana itself is unfamiliar territory for me but the story told in Wildlife is not. It is a good example of William Faulkner’s notion that only the “human heart in conflict with itself... is worth writing about”.

But the most significant mind-travel this week came on the centenary of Armistice Day. Standing with the crowd around the city’s cenotaph was, I thought, the best way to pay tribute to those who fought and died in what they were led to believe was a just and necessary war. The military parade set the scene, but it was the plaintive strains of The Last Post and the contemplative two-minute silence that evoked an emotional response akin to empathy for those who suffered. Yet it was the cinema that managed the feat of transporting me back to the time and place of WWI. Peter Jackson’s They Shall Not Grow Old is a remarkable work that takes old film footage of the front line and transforms it into a more lifelike, modern cinematographic experience, one with real power to help you imagine being there – not that you would have wanted to be.

So, it’s been a busy and, at times, intense week of going nowhere. Nevertheless, my appetite for real, passport-flourishing travel is unabated. London and, later, the island of Crete beckon.

The Peterloo Pivot Point

It was in a Sicilian lemon grove that I learned the surprising fact that citrus fruits were cultivated, originally, in China. I mean, it’s obvious where Japanese knotweed comes from but oranges and lemons, those quintessential fruits of the Mediterranean, must surely be indigenous? Not so. I suppose there may be a clue in the name of the variety called ‘mandarin’ but it had never occurred to me to query it, any more than I had ‘tangerine’ or ‘clementine’. My assumption was based on limited knowledge.

It’s not unreasonable to draw conclusions from scant perceptions, especially if we have limited access to learning and education, but we all benefit from bathing in the pool of knowledge. My former impression that the only fruit to have come from China was the lychee has been banished and so it should be, given its shallow foundation. And, despite the saying “a little learning is a dangerous thing” (which I suspect was coined by the gatekeepers of academia to dissuade the hoards from assailing their ivory towers), I certainly feel better knowing that there is much I do not know and for observing that learning is incremental, not absolute.

For those who don’t know, ‘Peterloo’ was an event that took place in Manchester in 1819 and the eponymous film has just been released. It recounts the violent reaction of the authorities to a peaceful assembly of thousands who had gathered to hear orators state the case for enfranchisement. The eventual outcome of that day was the recognition that the right to vote belongs not just to property-owners but to all citizens. According to the director, Mike Leigh, his motivation in making the film was to educate rather than entertain, in which case (assuming its historical authenticity) it should be included in the relevant history curriculum for schools as an adjunct – or even as an alternative – to textbooks. What better way to get a flavour of the past than via intelligent cinematography? (And if this proposition raises the spectre of propaganda films, such as those used by dictatorial regimes, then the same wariness should apply to currently adopted textbooks.) Historical perspective is fundamental to making sense of current affairs. In the case of Peterloo, for example, how many more voters would turn out at election time if seeing the film made them aware that enfranchisement had not been granted to them by a beneficent ruling class, but hard-won from a grudging, greedy elite determined to cling to wealth and power?

Even so, knowledge is not the only thing that will improve our condition. Peterloo highlights the eternal conflict between two human traits: selfishness and selflessness – the instinct for individual survival versus the logic of acting for collective survival. Recent advances in DNA recognition have enabled scientists to deduce that immigration to Britain began 10,000 years ago: we are all immigrants or descendants of immigrants. In Darwinian terms, this is a good thing, since it provides a bigger gene pool for the purpose of evolution. Yet still we resist newcomers: we are not convinced by the argument that they will enrich our lives in the long term. Perhaps because, in the long term, we are dead and, meanwhile, we must survive.

This defensive strategy also translates into corporate behaviour. For example, companies that promote harmful drugs such as alcohol and tobacco have spent money lobbying and conniving to maximise profits, when their money could have been employed in a forward-looking strategy of developing product less harmful to society. They are slow to adapt but, now that cannabis is becoming more acceptable, there are signs that they may be moving into that trade. Not that it’s a new market: there is DNA evidence that cannabis was being used 5,000 years ago – in China.

Good News Bulletin

Here is the news: the world is getting happier. Now, I wouldn’t blame you if you were to scoff – what with that ‘fake news’ controversy raging – or if you were to say it doesn’t feel like it (we all have our worries) but, from my point of view, the argument certainly holds up. I have spent some days during these autumnal weeks hiking in classically picturesque English countryside and among orchards of “mellow fruitfulness” on crisp sunny days, when Nature’s colours reflect the light so brightly that every vista is a classic photo-op – a temptation to indulge Excessive Instagram Syndrome.

You would be right, of course, to object that my evidence of universal well-being is a) anecdotal and b) personal, so perhaps we should stick to measurable statistics. The World Happiness Report 2016 demonstrates a continuous upward trend in happiness, in so far as it correlates rising incomes with measures of life-satisfaction: as countries get richer over time, their people get happier. Happyologists (those who work in this sector of social science) face a degree of scepticism, rightly so, as they are dealing with a slippery concept. One line of lyric from Ken Dodd’s enduringly popular song sums up the difficulty of framing the questionnaire: “I’ve got no silver and I’ve got no gold but I’ve got happiness in my soul”. He is right: happiness depends on much more than wealth. Many factors affect the way we feel – and these are duly recognised and enumerated by researchers – nevertheless, wealth does play a fundamental part, the old refrain “we were poor but we were happy” notwithstanding . Subsistence, let’s face it, cannot be a joyful experience.

The fact that, country-by-country, people are becoming wealthier and happier is a good-news story, though it is not one that the media are inclined to headline. It goes against their tendency to be anxiogenic – inducing anxiety – and to foster alarm. It is said that pessimists sound like they are trying to help you, but optimists sound like they are trying to sell you something, in which case a daily dose of pessimism is a neat way to hook your public. That said, editors often make an effort to include a cheerful story in their content, so as to introduce balance and offer us hope that not all the world is doomed. From a consumer’s point of view, it would be nice to take this further and to have a distinct choice between optimistic and pessimistic news channels, so that we could reassure ourselves either that things are going well or badly depending on our disposition. Even then, however, there is another issue: that of the disjointed presentation of random facts. Heart-warming or despair-inducing, we would still be consuming a day-to-day account of a string of incidents that do not coalesce into a bigger story – the equivalent of a play-by-play sports commentary. For a better understanding of the changing state of the world and the direction in which it is heading, we could use more stories along the lines of “Number of people in extreme poverty fell by 137,000 since yesterday, every day for the last 25 years”  brought to us exclusively by the Long-Term Good-News Channel.

One more thing that the happyologists’ findings suggest is that absolute income, not relative income, is what matters most for happiness. The Joneses may have more money than us but that does not necessarily make them happier than us. And I must say, as one who can afford simply to spend time hiking in fine weather, in good boots and in good company, I have no argument with that proposition either.

Vintage Elevation

“Like your shirt,” said my friend.

“Thanks. It’s vintage,” I replied.

“You mean, like, second-hand?” he said, whereupon I became a tad defensive, since the sub-text of “second-hand” says utilitarian at best, poverty at worst, while “vintage” aspires to be fashionable.

“Well, pre-owned doesn’t mean pre-worn, necessarily,” I said, splitting the hair in an attempt to distance myself from the implication of penury (though the shirt in question had obviously been through the laundry more than a few times).

I had indeed bought it in a shop that offers ‘vintage’ clothing as an alternative to the contemporary styles that are available elsewhere: but it was not cheap (ergo, I am not impoverished. Such places – there is a cluster of them in the Northern Quarter – trade on the premise of fashionability and feel entitled to price their offering at a level that is reassuringly expensive. It’s an old trick. Five minutes away, in a less rarefied part of town, there is a Thrift Shop, where re-cycled clothing is offered, also in a stylish and considered display, but at prices a fraction of those in the Northern Quarter. It is, in effect, the Primark of the used-clothing retail sector. I also go there and, sometimes, spot hipsters skulking, trying to look cool while hunting for bargains away from their home turf. Fashion and style are as applicable at the bottom end of the clothing market as they are at the top.

The branding of goods as vintage implies enhanced value and some, as they get older, may even be classified as antique, thereby accruing even more value. In the end, however, there is an argument for the eco-morality of recycling that can be used against those inclined to snobbish disdain for or plain indifference to the value of second-hand stuff. This applies also to book-exchanges, which provide opportunities for free access to text. I admit that authors might take issue with a system that deprives them of income but, like musicians whose creations are available cheaply or free of charge online, and clothing workers who become redundant because of recycling, they have to face the reality of the post-industrial economy. There is a world-wide trend towards consuming less stuff and more services, despite which (and contrary to common perception) the populations of all nations are becoming wealthier.*

The penchant for vintage, by the way, is not just for clothes. I just saw the film Columbus, a pensive, wistful account of one person’s repressed aspirations set alongside her enchantment with the several classic examples of Modernist architecture that happen to exist in her home town, Columbus, Ohio. The camera dwells lovingly on these 1950s buildings but, when the film had drifted inconclusively into its final shot, the chap next to me stood and said “Is that it? Do you think we could get our money back?” Perhaps he would have been more comfortable watching First Man, the biopic about Neil Armstrong. At least he would have known for sure that the story had a decisive, nay, predictable ending. He would also have had the visual bonus of all that convincing footage of 1960s rocket technology in all its bone-shaking, nuts-and-bolts, seat-of-the-pants, vintage glory.

The term 'vintage' comes to us via the wine-making tradition but has proven useful as a catchall for anything that can be located in an identifiable period of time. Well-made wines of a certain harvest will improve with the passage of time. The same can be said of non-organic goods, the best of which resist wear-and-tear, become revered as classics and preserved in museums. Likewise, the best artistic creations will endure. We mere humans, however, must face a different trajectory, a fact that was brought home to me this week, as I visited the dentist, the optician and, along with others of my ‘vintage’, the surgery for the annual ‘flu jab.

*Factfulness, Hans Rosling. Enlightenment Now, Steven Pinker

  

Enlightened Behaviour

It came as a surprise to me to discover this week that knitted, multi-coloured, stripy socks, with the big toe separated from the rest so that they could be worn with sandals, were invented by the Ancient Egyptians. It is not clear, however, whether those who wore them then were associated, as they are nowadays, with fashion dyslexia, disparaged alternative lifestyle practices, or both – despite the rational case for this perfectly practical and hygienic mode of footwear. Later, while walking in town, I looked for practitioners of the socks-and-sandals combo so that I could nod my head at them in silent approval. There were none.

There were, however, plenty of Jehovah’s Witnesses proselytising in their usual manner, silently proffering leaflets to passers-by: and pass-by is just what I did. Though I am sometimes tempted to stop and challenge their dogma, past experience has proven that it is futile. They believe absolutely in their particular interpretation of god-given ancient scriptures. No discussion is possible from any other starting point. The Enlightenment passed them by – as it did the Mormons, a Christian sect founded on the ‘divine revelations’ experienced by the 17 year-old Joseph Smith (an acknowledged drinker) in 1823. A brief analysis of the account of his mystic experience would lead a rational thinker to the conclusion that the boy was sleep-deprived and delusional, or high on drink and/or drugs, or that he was a liar and a con-man. One can only despair at the fact that, because of the propensity for humans to think and behave irrationally, the Enlightenment has made limited progress since it kicked off in the 17^th century. Jehova’s Witnesses still believe the end of the world is nigh, despite several previously predicted deadlines having passed without incident.

Now, however, there is an alternative warning of Armageddon – not promulgated by prophets, but credibly forecast by scientifically collated data. The U.N. has announced that global warming of the order of 2C will certainly cause the end of the world as it is currently constituted. No vengeful god is responsible. No righteous peoples will be spared. No prayers will affect the outcome. The only way out of the dilemma is for the human population to moderate the economic activities that are at the root of this potential calamity. Disaster could be averted by reasoned and bold action, but time is of the essence. Governments must act, and act now! The problem is, however, that they will not. Governments just aren’t very proactive. Leaving aside those run by tyrants or infested with self-enriching, corrupt politicians, even the cleanest, most democratically elected governments tend to champion policies promoted by lobby groups and act on fears of losing the next election. Momentum for change must come, as it always has, from individuals acting and influencing others, until their number reaches critical mass and obliges politicians to follow suit.

So the onus is on each and every one of us to take action to reduce our carbon footprints. This is a difficult sell, since we who live in rich countries have become accustomed to the throwaway society, the over-consumption of goods and the luxury of placing convenience over necessity – all things to which populations in poorer countries aspire. Still, it is the sum of billions of small things that can make a difference. We don’t all have to become vegetarian but we do all have to eat less meat. How hard is that? My guess is that it becomes easier as awareness and practice spread, establishing new behavioural mores. Sooner or later, neighbours will frown on your eco-unfriendly car(s), friends will encourage you to switch to green energy and avoid profligate consumption. Eventually, those alternative lifestyle pioneers may be awarded belated recognition for their commitment to change. By their socks-and-sandals shall ye know the true saviours of mankind.

Timelining

This week I saw two films and read one novel, and the one thing they had in common was that a main character was killed off towards the end of the plot – a device often used by writers wishing bring things to a convenient conclusion. Death, however, though it may bring an end to an episode, does not terminate the whole story (hence umpteen series of Game of Thrones or whatever). The ramifications of our actions are interwoven into others’ stories long after we are gone. Our short lives are mere episodes in a continuous drama and, if we cannot always relate these to past events, it may be because our memories fail us. However, there is now a handy device that overcomes memory-loss: the smartphone.

It was by chance that I discovered, in the menu of the Google Maps app, a feature called Timeline which, if you allow it, will track your movements. And it is very precise. It shows not only a map of your itinerary but also a list of times, routes travelled, mode of transport and places visited. Last Wednesday, for example, I walked from home for three minutes to Marsters Coffee Shop (there is even a photo of the place). My subsequent movements are similarly recorded in detail and, although I later went “missing in the Gay Village” for 15 minutes (of which I have no memory), I am nevertheless impressed by the technology. Had you asked me where I was and what I was doing last Wednesday at 15.23, I would have had no idea – but Google probably would.

Except that I have noticed an odd discrepancy: on Monday I was simultaneously at home and in Rochdale. It took me quite a while to work out how this was possible but, by a process of deduction, I fathomed it, eventually. I was indeed at home; it was my partner who went to Rochdale. The explanation is that we share a Google account (so that we can both access mutual contacts) and we are both signed into it on our phones. Our timelines, therefore, merge into one, despite there being two devices. All of which is perfect for the happy, devoted couple living mutually supportive lives, though not so for those at the opposite end of the relationship spectrum.

I am sure that some readers will regard this ability of Google to track our movements as a sinister – possibly evil – power, but you do not have to sign up for it: there are other options, such as asking strangers for directions, consulting out-dated paper maps, and using public telephone booths (I think they still exist). Otherwise, there are good things that can come from the confluence of technology and personal data. I have heard the argument for Google to make available ‘safe’ pedestrian routes, for example. This could be done by plotting a course, let’s say, that takes you to your destination avoiding streets that are poorly lit and/or unpopulated by other walkers. Admittedly, this service would require massive data input and computation but this is what they do. The real problems would be resolving the duality problem and persuading everyone to enable GPS on their devices.

There is another possible use for the technology: ‘Group Timelining’ could be employed by writers to experiment with the way they tell stories. Plots of extreme complexity could be auto-generated by persuading each person in the writers’ interactive circles of friends and relatives to sign into the same Google account on a phone that they are given. After carrying the phone constantly for a given period of time, the ‘characters’ can then decide when and where to turn it off, thus providing a ‘death’ for the writers to deal with and thereby preventing them from choosing a convenient conclusion. As in life, the story goes on.

A Tale of Two Peaks

We caught an early flight to Geneva last Saturday, which meant getting a taxi to the airport at four thirty in the morning. We booked in advance so as to ensure a few hours anxiety-free sleep, though we need not have bothered, since the streets around us were thronged with young revellers making their way home and hundreds of taxis cruising for fares: nor had I slept well.

We were visiting friends who had moved there from London – we hadn’t seen them since their leaving party a year ago but it looks as if they have settled well into a city that has first-class civic amenities, good schools for their kids and is a perfect location for outdoor activities. They welcomed us warmly and, since we were first-timers, introduced us to the delights of the Saturday market in Carouge, a degustation at a delightfully quaint winery just out of town and a picnic on a hillside with a view of the Alps jutting into a clear blue sky – (except for Mont Blanc, the top of which was obscured by a cloud that resembled Trump’s coiffure). The picnic was actually in France, the border of which closely surrounds the city in a way that could feel threatening if international relations were to turn ugly. That seems unlikely, however, given that everyone we encountered spoke French and that the Swiss legendarily maintain a high degree of military preparedness. (Our friends’ house – along with others of the period – incorporates a mandatory nuclear-bomb-proof bunker in the basement.)

The day after our return, I threw my hiking boots into the campervan and drove to Snowdonia for a rendezvous with a couple of very old but distant friends. We had arranged to ascend Snowdon – so long as the weather permitted – and the forecast was excellent. All the way there, the sun shone: on the suburbs of Manchester; on the motorway to North Wales; on the lush, rolling countryside; and on the mountains themselves, as they loomed enticingly into view. Snowdon stood proud, without a crown of cloud. At the campsite, my friends erected their tent and we went off to the pub for some supper, having decided our route for the next day.

The night, however, grew wet and windy and, when we met at breakfast, my friends were bleary from lack of sleep. All around us a thick mist swirled and the wind drove gusts of rain into the sodden grass. Somewhat disappointed, we discussed the situation and decided that an alternative, low-level walk might be best – though it took some time to convince ourselves that we were not wimps but sensible, experienced hikers who knew when to back off. What would be the point of scrambling up 1,000 metres of slippery slate when there would be no view from the top? Our dilemma thus resolved, we celebrated with coffee at the Caffi Colwyn in Beddgelert, our starting point.

The change of plan actually brought with it a certain benefit: the broad tracks through woods, hills and valleys are more conducive to conversation than the narrow, steep, mountain paths that oblige single file and permit only breathless exchanges. We had, therefore, plenty of opportunities to reminisce, exchange news, debate obscure points of interest and exchange gentle, humorous banter – a mellow progress through a dank but beautiful landscape.

After tea and scones back at Caffi Colwyn, we said goodbye, with a promise to meet again in Spring. I stayed that night at the campsite so as to explore the area next day. I slept well and awoke to find the mist had cleared and the sky was blue. Snowdon, with a fluffy white quiff on top, reminded me of Mont Blanc. People around me were putting on their boots, eagerly. I almost did likewise but felt it would have been disloyal to my mates to summit without them. Besides, where’s the fun in solitary hiking?

Llyn Gwynant campsite on a fine day.

A Haven for Eccentrics

At the head of the queue in the butcher’s shop was a very old, shabbily-dressed woman with out-of control hair, fierce eyes, a strong voice, confident manner and a seemingly familiar relationship with the man behind the counter. She pretended to bully him and he pretended to be intimidated by her, each of them turning occasionally to wink at the rest of us. When it came time to pay, she threatened that she would brook no increase on last week’s prices, offered up her purse, instructed him to take what was due and to place the change in the appropriate compartments, all of which he did with an obedient flourish. She left the shop, smiling triumphantly. I would have applauded her had I not been inhibited by the fact that I am a stranger in this, the Lincolnshire village of Ruskington, which is, according to my brother-in-law who lives here, the largest village in the land (though a cursory online enquiry lends no evidence to this: for a start, there is no universally agreed definition of “village”). From the perspective of a city-dweller such as me, however, the point is academic: it feels small anyway.

My father was stationed at various RAF bases around here when I was a child, so my extended stay in Ruskington is beginning to feel like a homecoming of sorts. Driving through nearby RAF Cranwell, I stopped for a walk around the place where I first went to school. Our house is still there, as is the shop across the green, but the school – a collection of wartime wooden huts – has disappeared. I walked up and down the B1429, which runs through the military base, identifying some familiar landmarks, but my progress was thwarted by a proliferation of fences and KEEP OUT notices that I certainly don’t recall. It being Saturday, there was no-one around (it worries me that our armed forces take weekends off), so I stepped off the public highway and onto a patch of grass in order to inspect the information plaque under a permanently displayed aircraft (the splendid Hawker Siddeley Dominie). As I was reading, a security guard arrived out of nowhere. He confronted me politely, but he was well-armed, so I did not protest that the plaque is unreadable from the pavement. Instead, I consoled myself with the fact that somebody, at least, was on duty.

Later, I walked elsewhere, though the flat landscape of Lincolnshire, ideal for farming and flying, is not so attractive for recreational hiking. Perhaps that is why the local authority has devised a trail running from Lincoln to Sleaford called Spires and Steeples – the idea being to provide hikers with something of interest to engage their minds as they tramp along the edge of one field after another. The path is thoughtfully furnished with signposts which, though appreciated, are an unnecessary expense, since the next spire or steeple along the way is clearly visible at all times. I have not had an opportunity to walk the path to Sleaford, but did drive there one day. Unsurprisingly, it is not quite the metropolis it seemed to me a child. It is also – again unsurprisingly – run down. Nevertheless it does have aspirations to reassert itself post its market-town-heyday: it boasts The Hub, a new building that houses the National Centre for Craft and Design, set pleasantly among riverside boutiques and residences. There, the thought of coming back to live in Lincolnshire floated by me on a wave of nostalgia and other considerations: the easy pace of life, ready availability of fresh produce and low property prices. Okay, I might eventually develop eccentric tendencies but there’s a lot to be said for having friendly relationships with your local shopkeepers. And who knows? The guards might one day be persuaded to let me stroke the Dominie.

It's a Family Affair

I had to change at Sheffield so, as the train approached the station, I closed the novel I was reading just at the point where one of one of the main characters arrives at – Sheffield station. I know coincidences are commonplace, but this one was extra-coincidental for I was on that train by mistake. I had intended to catch the faster train, in which case I would have arrived at the station long before I encountered Randeep, the character in the novel. Then I would not have alighted with his description fresh in my mind of the place as “bright and airy”. Again, coincidentally, I also found it to be both bright (it was a sunny day) and airy (it is not enclosed like most big city stations).

Unfortunately for Randeep, his first impression is soon subsumed by the gritty realities of daily life, especially as he is there, as an immigrant of questionable status, to try to make money to send back to his family in India. As it happens, I was also on a family support mission, though one far less onerous. I was on my way to stay with my sister and brother-in-law who were in need of logistical support following medical interventions which had left them both with limited mobility. The extent of my selflessness is paltry when compared with Randeep’s, yet our circumstances highlight an everyday dilemma: how much value does one place on personal freedom when it comes at the expense of familial duty? There is truth in the adage “No man is an island”, even though some would like to pretend otherwise. The freedom to please oneself comes and goes, subject to circumstances beyond our control. Therefore, extended periods of self indulgence might be thought of as holidays – on an island, say. I have had quite a few such holidays in my lifetime, but the birds have come home to roost just often enough to remind me that frailty comes to us all and that family support – if you have it – is the first line of defence.

This may begin to sound like I am paying the premium on an insurance policy that is designed to come good when I am in need of help and, to some extent, this would be true but for the fact that there are no guarantees of a payout. The relatives you help may not be inclined to reciprocate – they may even be dead by the time you need to call on them. In any case, I am keeping up the payments. In the past month alone, I have been to three family get-togethers, offered assistance to one elderly aunt and entertained one nephew: not bad for someone with a life-long aversion to the bosom-of-the-family lifestyle. And, in case my aversion to family life should be interpreted as nothing but selfishness, I would like to make a case for my having inherited an independent streak that was subsequently nurtured and honed by the English boarding school system. Where were mummy and daddy when I needed them?

So, I am temporarily living in my sister’s house, immersed in the life of her immediate family and, while it is a pleasure to be with people I like and love, there are certain aspects that jar with my ‘independent streak’: having to hold conversations over breakfast, for example. Of course, I am working hard to accommodate the alien habits of other peoples’ lifestyles and to find ways to carve out some personal space within the family routines. In the end, however, I have to take example from the novel and its characters, all of whom are entwined in the classic, tightly-knit Indian family structure. There, they have a saying: the bigger the family, the easier it is to find your own space within it.

Responsible Capitalism?

I awoke this morning to the news that one of Donald Trump’s senior officials has described his boss as “amoral”. As I see it, this is a story about the aide’s treachery, since the President’s amorality has never been in question. Long ago, a pundit said “When I was a boy, I was told that anybody could become President. Now I’m beginning to believe it.”  Dodgy Presidents are nothing new: what concerns me more is what that says about the people who elect them to office. With Mr. Trump’s recent assertion that, if he were ousted, Americans would lose “a lot of money”, we can only assume that his appeal is to those who, like him, want to accumulate wealth at whatever cost. Moreover, this is far from being an issue exclusive to the USA. The Chinese novelist Yu Hua has just published a piece in which he bemoans the fact that, in China these days, “only money counts”. Perhaps avarice is an inevitable consequence of the unleashing of individual entrepreneurship in order to create wealth?

Nobody wants to be poor (some religious fanatics excepted) but, on the other hand, those who emulate Mammon – that Biblical personification of wealth and avarice as a spirit of evil – demonstrate no sympathy for the establishment and welfare of a fair and inclusive society. As it happens, despite wars, oppression, genocide, extortion, forced migration and other catastrophes, the world’s population is becoming wealthier – as measured by the constant upward trend of the number of people rising above poverty thresholds – and neither the patchy, geo-political progress of wealth creation, nor the uneven distribution of its fruits invalidate these data.* Nevertheless, it can be hard to believe when you see the rise in the number of desperate people living on the streets. The problem, from this point of view, is not the creation of wealth but the management of its distribution. No less of a problem is the question of how to limit the impact that over-exploitation of resources has on our environment. These issues ought to be the concern of those – individuals and corporations – that benefit the most from the system of economics that creates wealth but incurs costs.

This is why another news item caught my attention this week. McDonalds, that invincible corporate creator of shareholder value, destroyer of culinary skills and contributor to the obesity crisis, may have unwittingly found a way of repairing some of the damage it has done to society. In a poor suburb of a French city there is currently a public protest at the imminent closure of the local McDonalds restaurant. Why do they want to keep it open? Because it is the only place left where people can meet to socialise. The public realm has become so impoverished that commercial enterprise finds itself in a position of proxy which, if it has any regard for its public image, it ought to exploit. However, we should be wary of reliance on corporate beneficence: corporations do not have consciences, only balance sheets. The public realm should be the property – and the responsibility – of the people it accommodates.

 Capitalism creates wealth, but it also creates problems. Many of us abhor the excesses of the monster yet, without the stock markets, pension funds would not be able to fund our retirements. I am just reading Jesse Norman’s book Adam Smith, a study of the 18^th century philosopher who is widely credited as the founder of economic theory. Smith has also been described as an advocate of free-market capitalism, though he did no more than describe the phenomenon. Moreover, his extensive writings on the subject never amounted to the promotion of a system based only on self-interest: his overarching concern was that economic activity should flourish within a framework of social responsibility, based on education, justice, honesty and – well – morality.

*Hans Rosling, Factfulness

Setting an Example

My partner is an un-convicted thief, which means that unless I turn her in I am complicit in her crime. I am fairly relaxed, however, since there are mitigating circumstances: until recently, few people were aware that under the Coastal Protection Act of 1949 it is illegal to remove pebbles from public beaches. Therefore, while the attractive specimens that adorn her bookcases are technically stolen, we would argue that a sense of proportion is in order.

The news item that brought this issue to light concerns a man who was observed taking a bag of pebbles from a Cornish beach, then traced to his home in the Midlands (where I imagine he intended to strew them artistically around his patio border) and required to return them or face a fine of £1000. He returned them. I don’t know how anyone could identify them as the originals but that is possibly beside the point, since the pressing issue is one of environmental protection. The pebbles prevent the beach from being washed away by wave action, thus preserving it for the enjoyment of future generations – a laudable motive. However, there is an incidental consequence: the Council has since desecrated the beach in question with several ugly ‘intimidating’ signs warning would-be thieves of the consequences. Now, an argument rages locally over aesthetics versus proportionate response.

I am familiar with this dilemma in my own (communal) back yard, where the Council’s latest attempts to encourage residents to recycle rubbish has resulted in a display of large, colourful, diagrammatic signs depicting various types of trash. The reasoning behind this is sound: you don’t have to have reading skills in order to grasp the message. However, you do need to have the will to recycle which, unfortunately, some residents do not. Now, therefore, we have messy bins and unsightly signs. The answer to my frustration with this situation is probably the passage of time. As happened with the introduction of seat belts, the ban on drunken driving and smoking in public places, socially acceptable behaviour did become modified after a while, so that only sociopaths transgress these newly-adopted norms.

For this, I have high hopes of the coming generation – not that I know any of them intimately, since I am not a parent. The closest I get is being an uncle, albeit one whose engagement with his siblings’ offspring is remote and sporadic at best. (This may be the reason I feel awkward in the company of young adults, never quite sure whether easy familiarity or respectful reserve is appropriate). Nevertheless, I do hope and expect that they will come to see – either by observing the example set by their elders, or by the logical conclusion of their own rational thought processes – that it would be better for them in the long run if they put their recyclables in the appropriate bins. Of course, one must modify one’s hopes to take into account the fact that young people often resent authority, sometimes understandably. For example, one 17-year-old, whom I know, was apprehended recently and fined £50 for discarding a cigarette-end in the street. Given that she is funding her college tuition by working in McDonalds for a pittance, this is a very harsh punishment to bear and one that is likely at odds with its presumed goal of encouraging her to use a bin. She, like me, must have seen plenty of adults tossing their rubbish on the street. Young people need role models, adults they respect and to whom they can look for guidance on social behaviour.

With this in mind, perhaps it is time for my partner to consider undertaking a publicised tour of British beaches, restoring to them that which she has nicked – a sort of self-imposed community service that would send an exemplary message to our younger citizens.

Rural Retreat

There is a perfect campervan site in Shropshire (actually, there are quite a few, since Shropshire is pretty much a perfect county for campervanning) just below Stiperstones Ridge where, from its elevated position, the view is westwards over an almost uninhabited expanse of fields and small woods that stretch to the mountains of Wales on the horizon. The first time we stayed there, we had the place to ourselves. This time, however, there was another couple, Bernie and his wife – or “Bernie the bore” and “her indoors,” as we nicknamed them. They lurk in a permanently pitched caravan in a fenced-off corner of the site. It is next to the gate and all the facilities, so there is no chance of avoiding them. His first approach seemed innocuous. “I’m just going for a newspaper. Can I get one for you?” he said, as I was recycling our bottles. It was twenty minutes before I could get away and, during that time, he recounted his life story. He asked me just one question – the standard travellers’ “Where are you from?” – and when I answered “Manchester” his eyes glazed over as he struggled to think of a response. Campsites abound with people like Bernie who are unfamiliar with the concept and practice of ‘interactive conversation’. The trick is to identify them early and avoid meeting them at the water-point or the bins. If you do get caught and they ask about your itinerary, be warned that it is merely a prelude to a detailed account of their own, often going back as far as the 1960s.

Actually, the aura of the 1960s seems to linger still in parts of Shropshire. Below Stiperstones, where a former village school has been adapted as a Visitor Centre, nice old ladies offer milky tea, Nescafé and home-made scones – just as they always have. A few miles away, in the market town of Bishops Castle, the picturesque high street is unspoilt by intrusively modern buildings. However, the economy is very much of the 2000s. Very few traditional retailers remain: in their place are charity shops, cafes, tourist traps and unoccupied premises. The neighbouring small towns of Kington and Knighton are in a similar bind, rich in the attractive infrastructure of rural English towns that prospered until fifty years ago but lacking the economic activity to sustain it. Is it possible that Brexit will restore the full-English vigour and vim of the agricultural economy they used to enjoy?

I left this question hanging as we drove on to Pembrokeshire, another pretty part of Britain where tourism supplements the incomes of the local farmers. We are currently in the fourth year of a project to complete the Wales Coast Path, not in a strictly linear progress, but by a series of sorties targeting stretches according to whim, weather and the availability of local transport to or from the end-points. During the summer, the Edwards brothers run a bus service for this purpose, though its frequency is sparse and it is essential to plan carefully. The little buses labour tirelessly up and down the sides of coves, mostly along single-track roads. Progress is slow, especially at stops where foreigners (English included) have difficulty understanding the Welsh drivers’ pronunciation of place names, but the summer days are long enough for even the most arduous stretches of the Path to be completed before dark.

We pitched up on a site and, just as we lifted our aperitifs to clink glasses, the farmer roared into the field on a tractor the size of a house. He had come to collect his fee. “I would offer you a glass,” I said, “but you’re obviously driving and, possibly, still working.” Alas, this was all the invitation he needed to launch into his life story which, given his 84 years of age, took quite some time.

Arch Politics

I took the campervan to Paul and Colin, the mechanics I have used for years: they operate from a railway arch, as do many small, useful businesses that serve inner-city residents such as me. The nation’s railway arches are public property, insofar as they are owned and operated by Network Rail, but I had learned that the leases are to be sold as a job-lot to the highest bidder. Meanwhile, existing tenants are being pressed into onerous rent rises and short-term lease renewals as part of a process designed to raise the sale value of the property portfolio. “Has this affected you?” I asked Paul (or Colin – they are twins and I still can’t tell which is which). “No,” he said, “I haven’t heard from them:” which fits with the suspicion that Network Rail is deliberately keeping its tenants in the dark so as to avoid their objections to its plan.

I went back to collect the vehicle, as arranged, only to find that it would not be ready for another week. “Why didn’t you call to let me know?” I asked. “Sorry,” said Paul-or-Colin, “Colin was in charge of the job and he’s gone on holiday.” I studied him hard for a moment, but he remained poker-faced. I let him know that I was a bit miffed because we had planned to go touring the next day. However, I soon got over it, since our diary was flexible and, in any case, the weather had turned rainy.

I made good use of the unexpected week at home. I saw two cinema documentaries – Tracking Edith, about the photographer and Soviet-era spy Edith Tudor-Hart, and Leaning into the Wind, about the work of artist Andy Goldsworthy – and an Icelandic tragic-comedy, Under the Tree. I also had two catch-up dinners with male friends, remarking that, in the old days, we would not have isolated ourselves at tables in restaurants: on the contrary, we would have been mingling in buzzing bars.

I also found time to finish reading Hans Rosling’s book, Factfulness, in which he argues in favour of cultivating the “...habit of carrying only opinions for which you have strong supporting facts.” He was driven to this by analysing the responses of educated audiences to questions about world statistics. When given the choice of three possible answers, no group had any more success than chimpanzees do in random-choice tests. Horrified by this level of ignorance, he set about exploring why we are so deluded and, in the process, came up with some convincing reasons. One of them is that we tend to look at things from a single, limited perspective i.e. our own.

When I went back to collect the van, Colin (as he claimed to be) was back from his holiday. The job had been well done and, after handing over the keys, he said, “They want to put our rent up. We might have to move from here.” “Oh no!” I said. “It will probably become another Starbucks and I’ll have to travel miles to get my van fixed.” Neighbourhood gentrification has its downsides.

“Why are they selling them anyway?” he asked. I explained my take on it thus: the Government wants the assets sold to the private sector on the pretext that the money raised from the sale will be used for much-needed rail investment. The fault in this logic is that the assets already generate income, against which capital for such investment could be borrowed. Income-generating assets like this are hard to accumulate and nobody in their right mind would sell them; therefore, the buyers must be companies in which the politicians have financial interests, direct or indirect, present or future. But perhaps my conclusion is distorted by my single, limited perspective? Paul-or-Colin doesn’t think so.

Street Life

Since 2008, when the bankers sucked up all available public funds, homeless people have become a common sight on the streets of our cities. Urban tents are no longer remarkable, except for the degree of ingenuity that goes into their positioning. While I was staying in Wapping last week, there was one pitched on a quiet pedestrian walk-through, snuggled up to a wall for maximum privacy and security. I walked past it one day just as its inhabitants, a young couple, emerged. I looked the other way – I like to think it was to spare them embarrassment at their reduced circumstances but, in truth, it was also about avoiding being asked for money. Although I feel charitable towards people living on the streets, I hold firmly to the principle of not giving them cash but, instead, funding organisations that try to help them in the long term as well as the short.

I was on my way to the mini street-library – a cabinet on a pole, stocked with donated books. I was clutching Amy Liptrot’s The Outrun and Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping, hoping to swap them for something I had not read. At the library was a scruffy-looking woman, one hand restraining a large dog on a leash, the other rummaging through the books. We exchanged a few awkward words and she moved over to give me access. Then, seeing I was scanning the titles, she began to recommend randomly selected books for my consideration. “Do you want to read this?” she said, holding up a dull-looking textbook. “Not really,” I replied, thanking her politely for her trouble. “What about this one? It looks good.” It was a collection of translated Lithuanian Folk Tales. “Uh, no thanks,” I said. “Have you read it?” She shook her head. I began to suspect that reading was not her motive for being there. Maybe she was a local eccentric who had appointed herself the unofficial librarian, I thought. More likely, however, taking into account the big dog, she was someone down on her luck and with a keen eye for anything on the street with a potential monetary value. She had not actually asked me for money but I began to suspect that she might if I stuck around, so I adopted my avoidance tactic and took my leave of her. In any case there were no books that had appealed to me so we both came away empty-handed – she with no donation and me with no books.

Later, I saw her again. She was at the entrance of Wapping Station, where she was trying to sell books to commuters. As I approached her, she proffered me The Outrun, inviting me to buy it so that she could get money for a hostel for the night. “I’ve read it,” I said with an ironic smile, but she evidently did not recognise me. “What about this one, then?” she said, holding up the Lithuanian Folk Tales. I shook my head and walked on. On reflection, I could have helped her out by recommending the novels I had read to her potential customers as they hurried homeward. It would have been a difficult sell but a charitable gesture towards someone in need. However, I soon persuaded myself that I should not be aiding and abetting in the sale of stolen goods – and that she would probably just buy drugs with the proceeds.

At the end of the week, I saw that the tent-dwellers had written a notice on a big piece of cardboard and propped it against the wall. It read, “To all the people that helped us with food & money we have now got somewhere to live. Thank you!” (smiley face, heart, heart, smiley face).

Don't Talk About Brexit

At the beginning of the week, I was at the Manchester Jazz Festival, enjoying a series of (free) performances by a contingent of French groups promoted by the Association Jazzé Croisé. They were talented performers and accomplished English-speakers, addressing their audience with wit, humour and tact, never once mentioning Brexit, though I’m sure I sensed an underlying tone of regret at our imminent departure. Next day, on a train to London I was sitting next to a couple of empty-nesters on their way to visit their offspring and we struck up amiable small talk. Since it is the accepted convention to avoid religion and politics on first acquaintance, we did just that. However, after an hour of uninteresting accounts of their favourite holiday destinations, I was almost hoping they might instead court controversy by raising the B question. But we arrived at Euston shortly afterwards and the awkward moment passed.

In London, the following night, the heatwave broke down amid thunderstorms, followed by an eclipse of the moon. Science provides explanations for such phenomena but they were, nevertheless, sufficiently spectacular for me to imagine why our uninformed ancestors believed them to be signs of the gods’ displeasure. Ten days ago, I was viewing the remains of the Roman city at Wroxeter, most of which is buried under agricultural land and which, were it not for the skill and knowledge of archaeologists, might easily be mistaken for a group of randomly abandoned foundations. I wandered the site and read the interpretive material, marvelling at how our ancient ancestors, through their own efforts, and using advanced engineering techniques, designed and built a thriving city yet still credited imagined gods for their success. Superstition trumped rationality, then as now.

Yesterday, in London, I went to explore the newly opened section of ‘pedway’, or elevated walkway, through the cluster of office buildings at London Wall. The location is at the heart of fortified, Roman Londinium and this scheme aims to do two things: link the many buildings for pedestrians, while showcasing the sorry remnants of the ancient Wall. It succeeds in both. Moreover, it extends north to the Barbican Estate and south to the Guildhall, taking in the Museum of London at the centre of the complex and thereby providing the basis for a grand day out – if you are interested in urban history. I had never before been to the Guildhall, so was surprised to find that it has an extensive collection of paintings in galleries open to the public. The architects who extended those galleries also got a surprise, when they discovered the remains of a Roman amphitheatre underneath the building. It’s not much to look at – just the outline of part of the foundations and some wooden drainage channels – but the display chamber is lavish, clever and evocative.

However, I was drawn back to modernity by a walk around the Barbican Estate, a place I do know and one where I aspire to live one day. “A concrete monstrosity,” is some people’s opinion, but I admire the rationality of the compact, densely populated development with its gardens, fountains, communal facilities etc. In short, I favour its modernist ideals of urban living. The development was conceived in the late 1950s, a time when town planners embraced a vision of moving on from class divisions, slums, and European wars – principles not dissimilar from those who conceived and founded the EU in that same decade. In both cases, however, they were swimming against the tide of irrational human behaviour.

The next day, at a family gathering, the conversation began to drift towards the topic of Brexit but fear of the quagmire swallowing up the party quickly led to a consensus to change the subject. “Don’t talk about Brexit!” we all said – though really, we know we must.