SA - Sicily Again

My partner rises early to go running or to workout at the gym and, when she returns, I get up. Am I lazy? I think not: I just do not feel the necessity to indulge in extremes of physical exertion to keep fit. Nor am I alone in this belief. Recent “research” confirms that there is an alternative to HII – or High Intensity Interval training. It is called LISS – Low Intensity Steady State training - and it comprises simple, everyday activities such as getting up, yawning, stretching one’s limbs and going for a walk. It works well, so long as you do enough of it. Of course, I suspected all along that this was the case – my own “research” had always tended to verify it – which is why I had no compunction last Sunday about spending the afternoon at the cinema, watching three films consecutively. I had, after all, walked there. Besides, it was the last opportunity to catch the new releases before flying off the next day to spend a few weeks in Sicily.

We have been to Sicily before but, because it is a big island, full of historical interest, we are back to visit the places we missed last time. The flight was fun, being packed with noisy, excited Italians who, when we touched down in Catania, burst into applause and song. However, it was past our bedtime when the girl at the car-hire counter began hectoring us into paying extra for insurance we probably don’t need. We signed up anyway, eager to get our heads down in the nearest hotel and, when she had triumphed, she switched to friendly mode. She revealed that she had until recently lived in Manchester, where she waitressed at our favourite local Italian restaurant. We took her photo and promised to hug the proprietor for her on our return. We drove half a kilometre from the airport, where I scraped the car bumper trying to park in a tight space, then slept fitfully amid dreams concerning car-insurance claims.

Things looked brighter after breakfast, as they often do. The sun shone, and the temperature quickly reached 25 degrees – and this is just springtime. We drove inland to visit the remains of Villa Romana del Casale, a former palace of imperial standing. Though there is not much left of the buildings, the extensive mosaic floors are in a good state of preservation thanks to a landslide in the 12^th century which covered them over for 700 years. Excavation in the 1950s revealed remarkable work, famed for its narrative style, complexity, colour and extent. A few hours later we arrived at the fishing port of Sciacca, where we have rented a flat with a terrace overlooking the harbour, and did what one does on terraces – relaxed with a drink while watching the sun go down.

The next morning, we strolled out for coffee to the main piazza, where there were rows of gleaming, vintage Fiat 500s lined up for all to admire. They really are so cute that it is impossible not to want one. We realised that we were, of course,  in the midst of a club rally, though surprised it was happening on a Wednesday. Only later did we discover that it was actually a full-blown festa day and that all the shops were closed for the celebration of San Fiat dei Cinquecenti. Still, shopping was low on the priority list, way below getting one’s bearings.

Later, I joined the early evening passegiata along the section of promenade recently restored with funds provided by the EU (or ‘us’ as Brexiteers may prefer to think of it) and finally, exhausted by my efforts, I sat at a pavement café and drank a foreign beer – which was not too bad, actually. I looked out at the sea and contemplated the state of my fitness regime, which I now see as morphing into BLISS – Bloody Low Intensity Steady State.

Lifestyle Challenge

The sudden transition from cold weather to hot this week prompted a hasty reassessment of my wardrobe – including bedding and pyjamas. A good night’s sleep is dependent on many factors, some of which are psychological and difficult if not impossible to control. But the physical ones can be addressed and so I went shopping for cooler pyjamas. I could have gone online but, when it comes to clothing, I prefer to feel the quality before buying and, fortunately, there are still some shops in town despite Amazon. Gents’ outfitters have long since been incorporated into big department stores, where pyjamas may be found in the “sleepwear” section. Sleepwear, these days, covers a wide range of options, so it took a while before I decided on the (for me) radical choice of cotton shorts. In and of themselves, they will not guarantee a good night’s sleep, though the promise is seductive.

Sometimes sleep comes effortlessly, especially when unscheduled. This happened the other evening while I sat watching an episode of Civilisations on TV. The last thing I remember is seeing huge statues of Egyptian pharaohs – selfies in stone – and contemplating a celebration of the fact that the smart-phone has finally brought egalitarianism to the art of self-promotion. When I awoke, another programme had begun and I had pins-and-needles in one arm. I retired to bed, where I spent the next two hours trying to induce a return to slumber, during which time I tried not to fret, for fretting about sleeplessness, as we all know, only exacerbates the problem.

As with sleep, so with wakefulness: you make all the preparations you can to create your ideal conditions but a positive, happy result cannot be guaranteed. “Life,” as they say,” is what happens to you when you are busy making plans” and it is sometimes advisable, therefore, to go with the flow. Nobody, however, can be fully prepared for the unexpected, as is illustrated by a certain news story I picked up. A householder came home to find an intruder taking a bath in his tub, cocktail in hand. He called the police, who arrived in time to apprehend the naked, fleeing bather, saying afterwards “the man’s safeguarding needs were addressed.” Just how the householder reacted subsequently, one can only guess: I suppose he fitted extra security locks to the premises but it would have been heartening to learn that his experience had led him to a different conclusion and that he had decided to hold regular ‘open bath’ days to celebrate the occurrence. Naturally, prudence would require that he make some sort of identity check prior to admitting strangers but bath nights could be a fun way to meet new people. He could even extend them to friends, instigating an evening of socialising, Finnish style, but without going to the expense of installing a sauna.

Such a course of action might be held up as an example of questioning the assumptions and habits upon which one’s lifestyle is founded.  Experimenting in this manner is a healthy exercise in combating complacency and encouraging the spirit of empathy in the interest of social harmony. Some of us are keen to challenge ourselves in this way in order to jolt our systems, get out of a rut, or simply test our capabilities. However, I would not include bungee-jumping or other forms of extreme physical activity, as these fall more into the category of ‘gambling with death’, where the reward for winning is euphoria and the ultimate adrenaline buzz requires an ever-escalating stake. No. What I have in mind is a more cerebral kind of challenge: ordering something new in a restaurant; visiting an unfamiliar place, where everyone but you has a weird haircut; or diversifying into a new style of sleepwear, for example.

Keep on Joining the Dots

On just my second day away from home last week, I was puzzled by the disappearance of my change of underwear. Certain that I had packed it, I made an extensive but fruitless search of the rooms, concluding that I must have inadvertently recycled it with the previous evening’s bottles – or something. Still, apart from a spot of unscheduled laundry and shopping, the loss did not disrupt my plans unduly.

I was keen to see the exhibition Charmed Lives in Greece at the British Museum so that I could ‘join up the dots’ that connect the writer Patrick Leigh Fermor with the artists John Craxton and Nikos Ghika. While in Athens a couple of years ago, I had been enchanted by Ghika’s town house – now a museum – that is full of art and memorabilia from post-war Greece. Fermor and Craxton featured among the exhibits but I did not then appreciate the extent of the connection between the three. My appetite having been whetted in Greece, this exhibition presented an opportunity to find out more. But I have a self-imposed limit when it comes to amassing information on any one subject, since my aspiration is not to become an amateur specialist in just a few fields, but to make connections with as many strands of history as I can. This is an ambition that can easily get out of hand though, since the scope is enormous. Sometimes, friends look nervous when I launch into a “Did you know?” – as in, for example, “that Maida Vale in London was named after the Sicilian village of Maida where, in 1806 General Stuart’s British force beat  the French? And there was, until recently, a pub called the Hero of Maida with Stuart’s portrait on the sign?” (I am reading a history of Sicily because I plan to go there soon.)

Sometimes, however, it is refreshing to know nothing. When, days later, I went for the first time to the Hertfordshire town of Ware (for a family birthday celebration) nothing connected it to anything I knew – although its name always reminded me of a childhood sweetheart called Christine Ware. Arriving early, I poked my nose into the town’s museum, where civic pride in its history as “one of the oldest, continuously occupied sites in Europe” was evident. As I scanned the captions, I half hoped to see a mention of the Ware family but there was nothing. The only connection – and a tenuous one at that – is the Roman road, Ermine Street, which runs through Ware and up to Lincolnshire, where my courtship of Christine was conducted on the playground swings of our innocence.

The acquisition of facts in this age of information is easy. So easy, in fact, that the quantity we can amass threatens to outstrip our ability to process it. How much capacity do our brains have? Until recently, it was supposed that older people’s brains were unable to create new cells. Latest research, however, indicates that this is not necessarily so, as long as the person is fit and healthy in mind and body. Despite this, we all have limited life spans and are unlikely ever to match, say, Facebook algorithms’ ability to make zillions of connections between zillions of scraps of knowledge. Not that FB’s conclusions can be relied upon: there is no way, for example, that I can be persuaded to pay £70 for a pair of poncey slippers. On the other hand, there is a possibility that it could put me back in touch with Christine.

But that is mere fantasy. What I really want is for my brain to continue making new cells, especially since, when I got home yesterday, I found that my underwear had never left its drawer.

Look Back in Moderation

“When you re-read a classic, you do not see more in the book than you did before; you see more in yourself than there was before.” The editor and critic Clifton Fadiman wrote these words and, when I contemplate them, I am inclined to agree. However, there are so many classics out there that there arises a question of practicality. Who has the time for re-reading? It takes me seven days just to get through the weekend’s newspapers – and I don’t even glance at the sports sections. Perhaps I could streamline the process by limiting consumption of Brexit-related articles and developing a speed-reading technique but, even so, War and Peace would still be years away from a re-read. (In fact, it is so long since the first read, I can barely recall whether it merits a re-read). Moreover, if you apply the principle of re-visiting classics not only to books but also to other creative works – films, paintings, plays, operas and all kinds of music, the pressure on one’s time is compounded.

To a limited extent, you can save time by listening to recordings. Audio books, poems, plays and music may be appreciated while driving or doing the ironing: effective time-management for the consumption of culture. The same does not apply, however, for films and art exhibitions. Arguably, you can watch a film while ironing, though the dangers are apparent: you may miss a crucial shot while perfecting a trouser-crease and/or catch an exquisitely framed sequence while scorching a favourite garment. I have never yet seen anyone ironing in an art gallery, though I did once watch a lady ironing on Trafalgar Square’s “fourth plinth” as part of a public-participation-in-art event.

Moreover, shortage of time compounds even further if you consume music accompanied by video footage. The simultaneous engagement of ears and eyes excludes listening as an accompaniment to practical tasks. In extreme circumstances, you could be fully occupied watching YouTube for the rest of your life. I have developed something of a penchant myself, while finishing the last of the evening’s tipple, for trawling YouTube for classics such as Joni Mitchell performing Both Sides Now, only to find that an hour has slipped away in the pursuit of inferior cover versions subsequently suggested to me by the smart-arse algorithm. Let’s face it: there has to be a limit on the amount of time one spends re-visiting the classics. Apart from time being precious, there is another, important consideration: how do you keep abreast of the classics that are currently being produced if you are forever harking back to golden oldies?

Besides, what actually constitutes a classic? I suppose that the likes of Clifton Fadiman would be qualified to compile a scholarly list but, when it comes down to it, one has to choose for oneself. A lot depends on the impression the work makes in the first instance. Yesterday, I went to see the 1958 film Look Back in Anger. It wasn’t a re-visit – I had never seen it – but I had seen the famous play on which it was based and, more significantly, I had acted one of the parts in an am-dram production. The work qualifies, therefore, as a classic on my list.

I should explain that my acting career was very short – lasting only one term of my fresher year at university – and that I was cast as Cliff, the genial one, not Jimmy, the angry one. At the time, I did not understand why Jimmy was so unreasonably angry – after all, he had the girl, didn’t he? But what I didn’t know back then was that not everyone has had a happy, contented childhood and, consequently, little reason to be angry.