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.