Collective Memory Loss

The continuing hot weather has brought with it several problems, such as bushfires, drought, sleeplessness and – for me, at least – a footwear dilemma. The ‘townie’ sandals I rely on are in need of replacement, yet retailers stock only what is currently fashionable, which boils down to a choice between slip-ons for slopping around, flip-flops for getting to the beach-bar or sturdy, Velcro-fastened, multi-coloured clod-hoppers with deep-tread rubber soles for country hiking. Where are the sleek, leather, townie styles befitting an aspiring flaneur?

It is symptomatic of the dominance of fashion and branding that some clothing traditions have become so obscure that they may now be obsolete. Where, for example, can a man get a shirt that is designed to be worn open-necked i.e. that has no collar button? Hawaii, perhaps? “Who cares?”, you say: certainly not the teenager at the bus stop wearing a black, hooded puffa jacket over a black, padded body-warmer, despite the ambient temperature of 27 degrees Celsius. However, if – as predicted – longer, hotter summers are to become the norm, we might want to reassess our wardrobes to favour comfort over fashion. If so, we could dip into our colonial history for a few pointers.

In the mid-sixties, I spent a year working as a volunteer in the Sudan, which ten years earlier had gained independence from Anglo-Egyptian rule. Before taking up my post, I was advised to visit a certain long-established London gentlemen’s outfitters that specialised in clothing for those working abroad in the colonial service. Even then, they stocked those peculiar white, pith ‘helmets’ reminiscent of British administrators in Borneo. However, my needs were less formal, and I left with a collection of loose-fitting cotton and linen garments designed, above all else, to reflect the sun, cover the skin and allow maximum circulation of air. Furthermore, when I arrived at my posting, the few remaining Brits who clung to a semblance of the old colonial lifestyle by retaining positions at the British Council, offered me advice on how to keep cool: first, get a servant to do all manual work; second, drink hot tea rather than cold beer. I have followed their advice ever since and, while it has not always been easy to hire servants, the scientific logic of ingesting hot fluids to create perspiration that in turn evaporates, causing cooling, trumps the more intuitive desire to guzzle cold beer.

Looking around me now, however, I see evidence that the body of knowledge assembled by the colonising Brits has vanished from our common memory, replaced by less practical notions based on the experience of brief holidays in the Mediterranean. People are walking the sweltering city streets in flip-flops, tight tee shirts, skinny jeans, fitted shirts etc. Some parade in varying degrees of undress, flattering or otherwise, that expose their skin to UV rays. When they stop for refreshments, they sit in sunlight and drink latte frappe or ice-cold lager. In the long run, our hot climate may be not just a fleeting novelty but a more enduring condition that will merit adoption of the old, forgotten ways.

Forgetting important stuff, however, is nothing new. I have just come back from a place in the middle of England – Wroxeter – where there are extensive remains of a Roman city and, nearby, the once-again-functioning Roman Vineyard. When the Romans decided to go back home, they took with them their administrative machinery, just as subsequent waves of colonisers have done ever since. The city disappeared over time, as did the vineyards. (Thus, the benefits of liberation are outweighed by the resulting collapse of civic order.) The Britons, left to their own devices, built no proper roads until the 18^th century, which might be explained by the tribal divisions of the land. I see no excuse, however, for the fact that it was 1991 before we remembered to grow vines and make some decent wines again, a truly inexplicable lapse of our common memory.

Curb your Awfulising

During our recent trip to Dorset, we drove around Portland – that odd spur of land that dangles from the eastern end of Chesil Beach. It is the source of the famous building material, Portland stone, but we did not see any evidence of present day quarrying, just the remains of industry past. “They must have used it all up,” I said. However, I learned later – from a TV documentary – that the stone is being extracted still, and in vast quantities, from a network of underground mines. As I watched, I hoped that the presenter would raise the question of the eventual fate of Portland – would it soon be consumed completely? – but he seemed to have reached a tacit agreement with the mine manager to portray the stone as an unlimited resource.

Perhaps I worry unnecessarily about the fate of the rocky outcrop due to the historical novel I am currently reading: Barkskins describes the ravaging of North America by the early European colonists who, having stripped the Old World of its forests, proceeded to do the same to the New World. Awed by the size and fecundity of the woodlands there, they believed the resource was limitless: in any case, they were too busy reaping profits to consider the replenishment of nature’s bounty. Eventually, the notion of sustainability did take hold, with trees being planted for future harvesting, which is a comfort of sorts, but the fact that President Trump has appointed a climate change sceptic to head the Environment Protection Agency leads me back to a pessimistic prognosis. What can be done to limit the damage we are doing to nature? It is not my destiny to be a Greenpeace activist, risking life or limb out in the field of conflict – I do my bit at the recycling bins while cheering on the front-line soldiers. I may not have been able to come up with a clever idea like the people in Wyoming, who are buying up as many as they can of the limited-issue bear-hunting licences so that they can burn them, but at least I read that while drinking my takeaway coffee in a non-disposable cup.

Of course, it isn’t just the environment that concerns me: what about the general wellbeing of humanity? The abundance – or otherwise – of natural resources is just a part of the equation. Poverty, repression, ignorance, war and disease are all the enemies of humanity and they all seem to be getting worse: but are they? Statistics, surprisingly, demonstrate that they are, in fact, (literally) getting better which, to those of us who are inclined to ‘awfulise’ the situation, should be something of a revelation and a comfort. Consider the following quote: “In 1976, Mao single-handedly and dramatically changed the direction of global poverty with one simple act: he died.”  Though the statement gives no comfort to those who suffered under Mao’s tyranny, it makes the point that a proper consideration of factual data can dispel popular misconceptions about the state of the world. This proposition is the basis of Factfulness, Ten Reasons We’re Wrong about the World and Why Things are Better Than You Think, a book that is on top of my pile of intended reading, not least because it promises to “manage your tendency to misery”. The authors deploy data convincingly to demonstrate that even educated people can be “not only devastatingly wrong but systematically wrong” about global trends. If it lives up to its reputation for credibility, it will sit nicely with the next on the pile, Steven Pinker’s Enlightenment Now, an argument for the case that humans have a much better life than they used to.

Therefore, I end on an optimistic note, albeit with a slight caution, as expressed so succinctly by the writer E.B. White (d.1985): “I have one share in corporate Earth, and I am nervous about the management.”

Not So Far From The Madding Crowd

Summer is the season for cricket and tennis and, although I don’t follow either sport, I am curious as to why one is played on an oval pitch and the other on a rectangular one. In my (admittedly minimal) experience as a spectator, a curved arena affords a more panoramic perspective of sporting action than does one with distant corners (a principle established long ago in Roman amphitheatres). I cannot imagine that tennis players would find any disadvantages to playing within an oval – though I am open to expert opinion – and I suggest, therefore, that the format be changed so that spectators have a less neck-wrenching experience. Whatever: summer, for me, is not about sport but about campervanning around the country, enjoying the diverse curiosities of social life, history and geography that abound in this relatively small island.

The weather this year is unusually warm and sunny, which means that the beaches are busy. They have always been popular with children but nowadays they are playgrounds also for adults with their own toys – kayaks, kite-surfing gear, ski-jets and the like. I don’t care to spend much time on beaches – especially those that are the territory of families and enthusiasts – though a slogan pinned to the wall in a seaside cafe did strike a chord – “a little sand between your toes always takes away your woes”. Generally, I prefer to experience beaches as an adjunct to coastal hiking. I have recently enjoyed walking along the flat, broad sands that stretch for miles along the coast of Lancashire; admired the curiously regular shingle bar of Chesil Beach from the viewpoint high up on Portland; and, better still, explored the  multitude of pretty little coves on the north east edge of Anglesey, inaccessible to motorists and, therefore, unsullied. Naturally, there are exceptions to this selfish tendency: for example, I was charmed by the pop-up bar in the form of a tipi at Lligwy beach, where, to the accompaniment of a band playing familiar songs, a small but appreciative crowd of us drank, danced or tapped our feet as the sun sank silently into the sea.

Meanwhile, as the hot weather draws the crowds to the coast, the lanes, footpaths, hamlets and pubs of the countryside are left for the exclusive enjoyment of the few who remain inland. In deepest Dorset, where the silent, leafy greenery is almost overwhelming, the texture of history is palpable. Winding byways pass through settlements with mediaeval-sounding, double-barrelled names – Compton Valence, Linton Cheney and Buckland Ripley – while die-straight, Roman roads lead to places with Latin-sounding, double-barrelled names – Toller Porcorum, Toller Fratrum, Blandford Forum and Cerne Abbas. It all feels remote from mainstream, urban life, yet the major centres of population are never more than twenty miles away. Perhaps the inhabitants of the hamlets and farmsteads tucked into the folds of the countryside feel proud to maintain their heritage. Certainly, many of them are aware of it and the power it has to intrigue outsiders. For example, Enford Bottom Farm has a ramshackle collection of buildings containing, among other enterprises, a produce shop that sells “Iron Age Pork,” which is the meat of Gloucester Old Spot, cross-bred with wild boar. We bought some to barbecue that evening in their small, secluded field, where we set up camp: it was delicious. The only other person on site was the young owner of a 19^th century, mobile tea-hut for agricultural workers, which he proudly showed us. He had discovered it in an old barn, restored it and intended to enter it in the forthcoming Dorset Steam Fair. Yes, these things really do happen in the countryside.

The summer – and the campervanning – will continue but, for now, I am back in Manchester, where I have just watched England lose their World Cup semi-final to Croatia. I was engaged with the game, of course, but at the same time somewhat preoccupied with an idea I had about the shape of the pitch...