Rubbish and Recycling

           There are some words, phrases and expressions, the use/misuse of which I actively dislike. For example: “shortly” instead of “soon”; “hopefully”, when not used as an adverb; “on a daily basis”, when “daily” will suffice; and “obviously”, when no fact has been established. But I have learned not to rant pedantically on the subject. It is a fact that language evolves over time, regardless of those who may be wound-up by its transitions. Besides, if ever objection is made to a perpetrator, the usual response is, “Well, you know what I mean,” which is hard to argue with outside of a court of law. Anyway, I don’t identify as the Canute of linguistics.

          Not that I have many face-to-face conversations in these lockdown days. Most of my time is spent in solo pursuits and it is my good fortune to have acquired an asset that makes this more enjoyable: a garage. Now, to some, a garage is a place to keep cars, while to others it is an overflow storage facility. To me, however, it is a workshop/mancave, something I have been without for 25 years and which I had not realised I missed, having found other, more cerebral ways of coping in the interim. Now, my brain is taking a break, while I concentrate on DIY jobs, some of which could not be fulfilled without a workshop of some sort. For example, the restoration of a G-Plan sideboard, made by E. Gomme of High Wycombe circa 1958. Originally finished in West African tola veneer, its last owner had painted it, inexpertly but imaginatively, the carcase in battleship grey, some of the doors/drawer fronts in turquoise and others in tangerine. The handles are missing, presumed stolen, but I was happy to pay £30 for it, with the intention not to reinstate the veneer finish – tola is not an outstandingly attractive wood – but to cut back and repaint it in the previous owner’s scheme. It’s quite a project, but my enthusiasm is undimmed (though I am having second thoughts about the tangerine).

          Seeing that I am spending perhaps too much time in the garage, my partner found a new way to lure me out of it. She has enrolled us in Clear my Patch, an umbrella organisation for voluntary litter-pickers. Given that I am, in principle at least, civic-minded, I could find no grounds for objection, especially as she presented it as a way of adding purpose to those impromptu recreational strolls around the shoreline and green spaces of our new locality. Besides, hadn’t we already developed a litter-picking habit over the years as we hiked around the countryside? Yes, but the quantities involved – the odd can, bottle or wrapper which you can stuff into your rucksack – do not compare with the accumulated debris consigned to the dead corners of an urban landscape. Our first expedition, which lasted less than an hour, netted two bags full of rubbish, some of it quite off-putting (dog walkers, please take note).

          I went solo the next time, venturing only as far as the marine slipway overlooked by our terrace. Low tide had deposited some plastic debris among the clumps of seaweed – a more appealing proposition, since it had been thoroughly rinsed in seawater. Besides, on the shoreline, there is always the romantic, if remote, prospect of finding a message in a bottle. Of course, I found no such thing – just plastic and two metres of old rope, which I briefly considered keeping (in the garage) in case it should come in handy. I picked up a lot of plastic, but my satisfaction was dulled by the thought that there would be more with the next tide. Obviously, I could find myself there on a daily basis, Canute-like, deluding myself that I can stem the flow of debris. Hopefully, this will not become another obsession, but we shall see, shortly.

What I Learned From My Bicycle

           As covid-19 raged like wildfire through the UK earlier this year it was clear that the NHS was struggling to cope, for a variety of reasons, one being that its crisis response systems had been honed to deal efficiently with what was, by common consent, the most likely future emergency, an influenza epidemic. It might have been better prepared if it had focussed its planning on resilience rather than a specific threat, thereby taking into account unpredictability.

          The virus still rages and the NHS remains under pressure, so people with non-urgent conditions stay away – voluntarily or otherwise. So it’s just as well that, when I took a tumble from my bike this week, I had no need of medical attention. Mind, I was fortunate: there was no motor traffic and I was wearing a helmet plus several layers of thick, winter clothing. Nor did the bike suffer any damage, it being a sturdy, general-purpose machine of no particular distinction, not a specialist mount such as a pared-down, lightweight racer, or a techno-bike, loaded up with costly electronic gadgetry. It is a model of resilience.

          I was cycling around Plymouth, reacquainting myself with my childhood realm, noting what had changed, as well as what I had never even noticed at the time. As for the physical environment, I have so far encountered very few surprises, nasty or otherwise. It is in the cultural field that I am aware of obvious difference. The hazy remembrance from my schooldays is of a monocultural community of extended family networks, Devonian in origin and staunchly protective of their heritage – though against whom, I am not sure. The neighbouring Cornish, whom they distrusted, certainly, but other UK inhabitants posed no threat, as they only came here to holiday, precisely to enjoy the quaintly attractive elements of that heritage. Foreigners came and went also, I suppose – though I never met any. But now, multiculturalism has come to town, imported by foreign immigrants and youngsters studying at the university, which has expanded in the last twenty years. It may seem odd but, in returning to live in a place that is no longer quite the same as I remember, I am happy to find it changed. Notwithstanding the relative decline of the extended family networks that provided succour and support (now a common factor in the underlying social structure of Western societies generally) the dynamic feels progressive.

          There are still plenty of pasty shops, but they compete for custom with vegan, vegetarian and ethnic outlets. And, while it is still possible to sit down to a cup of instant coffee and a sickly-sweet custard tart at a ‘greasy spoon’, my preference is an espresso with home-made pastel de nata at the Portuguese café, made possible by an enterprising family of incomers. And, while supermarkets provide all the things we want (and more than we need) their monolithic corporate structures make little contribution towards innovations such as sustainability and local production, unlike the independent shops run by youthful idealists whose future depends upon those values. Small enterprises may not be ‘efficient’ if measured by the standards of corporate profitability, but their strengths lie elsewhere, in the need to succeed economically by finding the niche in which they can thrive. Resilience, innovation and staying close to customers all play their part and, when they succeed, they strengthen the fabric of community by adding diversity. Monoculture may be comforting but it is dull – and not even dependable: when the mainstay collapses – say, the major industry, for example – there is no economic back-up; or when the population simply ages and fades away, there is no regeneration. Since we know that such events will happen (even if we cannot predict their exact nature), maybe we should plan for them by building in some diversity, some alternatives, some…resilience.

  

Headspace

           As I walked past a “Dry Riser” sign I realised that, in all the years of seeing those words, I still don’t know what they mean. Of course, I could whip out my phone and google it, but curiosity has its limits – even for the curious. Right now, being preoccupied with getting to know my new environs, my brain-capacity feels stretched by inputs on all fronts and I feel the need to regulate its intake.

          One way of achieving this is to imbibe small, daily doses of my new physical and cultural environment so as to assimilate what is there, balance my perception and get the most out of the new situation. I’ve made a start on the physical by walking and cycling a good deal (a method of exploration which has the added benefit of avoiding membership of the local gym, with its associated expense and tedium) and, in the process, begun to read some history from the built environment. For instance, there is a plaque on a house nearby noting that Admiral Hardy – he of “Kiss me, Hardy” fame – “reputedly lived here”. Though not all buildings or ruins are so informatively labelled, it is obvious that Plymouth’s heritage is naval and rooted in the early years of sea-borne adventuring, piracy and, ultimately, colonisation. 2020 is the 400^th anniversary of the sailing from Plymouth to America by the Mayflower and it is marked by an art installation on the Mountbatten breakwater (pictured) that challenges the way we view this history. The so-called “New World” of the pilgrims was, in fact, inhabited by its indigenous people and, to quote one wag, “The American who first discovered Columbus made a bad discovery”. *

           But that’s all history. What’s happening now? To get an idea, I have bought local papers and learned that the home of the Royal Marines, the nearby Stonehouse Barracks, is a subject of controversy. Having been earmarked by the MoD for disposal a few years ago, it remains in use but with a question mark over its future and that of the marine unit itself. The local MP is keeping an ear to the ground for any hint that the Government might commit the outrage of moving them out of Plymouth, their rightful home. Meanwhile, deeper into Devon, the Farming section of the Western Morning News speculates about the post-Brexit future of agriculture, while reporting in detail on livestock market activity and prices, as well as up-coming auctions of tractors and the like. I need not take a deep interest in these, but it is as well to know that it matters to some.

          Meanwhile, on a practical level, lockdown has left us all in need of personal grooming so, on the day it was lifted, I went in search of a barber’s shop. I was lucky enough to find one at which there was neither a queue nor a requirement to book so, despite its snazzy, hipster frontage and the youthful, foreign (Turkish?) appearance of the staff, I took a chance and went in. Back in Manchester, I always had the same barber, so I never had to answer the dreaded question, “How would you like it, sir?”, to which the only answer I can think of is, “Same but shorter, please” but the new chap was not too demanding. Nor was he Turkish, but “British-Kurdish” and we had an interesting conversation about the displaced Kurdish community in the UK and the plight of the forty million Kurds constantly denied the right to nationhood, despite – among other things – their having done everyone the favour of disposing of the forces of ISIL.

          During all this, he did an excellent job on the haircut – and charged a mere £8! I gave him a tenner in the hope that he will remember how I like it next time. And now that my head feels lighter, it's possible that dry risers might get a look-in.

*Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, scientist and philosopher (1 Jul 1742-1799)

What You See Is What You Get?

           We now live in Plymouth. It’s official – the council tax bill arrived the day we moved in. So, being in a new space, in a new place, we have an opportunity not only to enjoy the difference but to question lifestyle habits we have fallen into and make a few adjustments. (I’m not talking about delving into existentialism, just the everyday business of making the best of one’s life.)

          Not that Devon is an alien or unfamiliar region – English is spoken and the Queen’s coin is valid – but there are significant differences, at least superficially, as can be seen from the window. Whereas, in Manchester’s gritty centre, I breakfasted with a view of lorries delivering supplies to and collecting refuse from a row of Chinese restaurants, here I watch the quieter, more relaxed activities of a waterfront awakening. Either way I’m in a room with a view. But it’s the particularities of a view that call into question the impact it may have on one’s approach to life. I suppose that, after a while, what I observe each day must become a part of my consciousness and play a part in forming habits. The Manchester view had little to stimulate the imagination, but it did provoke an urge to go out and explore the streets, rich with magnificent buildings, and partake of some of the cultural life of the teeming city. The Plymouth view serves a dual purpose: on the one hand, it is scenic and good just to contemplate (which is useful if you’re feeling poorly); while, on the other, it is dynamic and stimulates a desire to go out and participate.

          Although the South West Coastal Path runs past the door, most activities here take place on the water. A variety of pleasure boats, from kayaks and canoes to small yachts, launch from the slipway and adjacent marina, tantalising even a landlubber like me with the prospect of a jaunt. Meanwhile, further out, the scary-looking Royal Navy warships passing to and from the dockyard upstream serve as a reminder that all is not well with the world. And each morning, at 08.30 prompt, a dozen or so ‘ladies of a certain age’ launch themselves into the water for a swim. They don’t swim vigorously – just a few gentle laps around the little bay, followed by an extensive period of bobbing about in a huddle, chatting loudly and elatedly – but their endurance shames me into feeling like a wimp nevertheless. Perhaps I will work up the courage to take a dip myself – once I have unpacked my trunks. It’s only been a few days, but already I am contemplating the options for water-related exercise. I can swim, though it’s been a while. I don’t fancy any of the many variations of balancing on what looks like a floating ironing board. Nor do I have any desire to own a boat for, as I see it, that would mean devoting a lot of time and money to ‘gear’ and maintenance. I can, however, see a way of dipping my arse in the water by taking a few ‘kayaking for beginners’ sessions – not ambitious, I know, but it could be the start of a new enthusiasm.

          But all this talk of the great outdoors distracts from the business of the interior life – the room from which one views. Moving home is also about finding a balance between replicating the comforts of the old nest and making changes that will expand rather than contract one’s life in the new one. A reassessment of the space, the way it is used and furnished can be stimulating and eye-opening if made in the light of questioning what is really important instead of merely habitual. All this, however, can wait until the foremost priority is sorted: broadband!

 

 

 

Never Waste a Crisis

           Last week, I lamented the stasis of three issues. This week, I am pleased that progress that has been made on all of them: the announcement of a viable vaccine for covid has lit a lamp at the end of the tunnel; the US electorate has succeeded in cutting off the head of the monster that is Trumpism; and, on the personal level, our home-moving process has advanced significantly.

          While progress such as this fans the flames of hope on both the macro and micro fronts, nothing is quite resolved. However, the direction of travel is cause for optimism. In the case of coronavirus, it is to be hoped that, once over, the havoc it is wreaking on human lives and livelihoods will lead us to adjust some of our behaviours – such as better management of the environmental interface between humans and wildlife, a less isolationist tendency among nations and more serious support for the aims of the World Health Organisation. In the case of the USA, perhaps the pendulum of popular opinion has now begun to swing away from libertarian fanatics and towards “losers”, ultimately to replace selfishness and polarisation with a social contract that is more inclusive. Meanwhile, our moving home presents an opportunity to shake off some entrenched ways and perspectives, to stimulate the senses and reignite one’s curiosity.

          The pandemic – as has often been said – will bring about some big changes, but what and how remain to be seen. For example, will working from home become a permanent feature and, if so, how would that affect our centres of commerce, our cities? But there are less obvious ways in which our lives have been touched: Guy Fawkes night was firework-free; Armistice day was without ceremony; and Christmas party invitations have not been sent out. Will the temporary absence of these traditions begin to erode them or, at least, bring into question their hold on the common psyche, thereby shifting our historical perspective a little? I hope so, for the upholding of traditions requires a fine balance between using them to bind society in a mutually beneficial alliance and misapplying them to stultify dissent, diversity and enlightenment. And whilst we, in our smug ‘Western Democracies’, might think we are well along the road to ultimate civilization, we have a long way yet to travel. Take a look at Peter Geoghagan’s book, Democracy for Sale: Dark Money and Dirty Politics. If you think that either the USA or the UK has a robustly democratic system, this evidence-based analysis will open your eyes.

          There has always been lobbying, gerrymandering and – in the USA – state-sponsored suppression of ethnic voters. Over the years, legislation has been passed to set up controls aimed at keeping the playing field level and, when it comes to suffrage, this has been relatively successful. However, in the fields of lobbying and campaigning, nothing has been able to control the power of money. The gist of Democracy for Sale is that money, in the last few years, has played a decisive role in influencing voters because it is being used to buy advertising on social media, an unregulated medium. Not only are the purchasers of the ads invisible, but the ads themselves are liable to contain unverified propositions targeted at those most likely to accept them as factual. Existing controls on political campaigning are ineffective in the era of instant social media. Complacency in this respect is proving to be dangerous for democracy.

          Crises present opportunities for change, for better or for worse. I vote for better, by which I mean progress towards socioeconomics*, environmental restoration, democratic restitution and, on the practical level, advances in technology and design. Funny, though, how I am spending a lot of time online looking for a vintage mid-century easy chair for my new life in my new abode. Traditional ways are not so easy to shake off.

*As in Raguram Rajan’s The Third Pillar.

 

The Waiting Game

           As I write, it seems that everything is up in the air: lockdown has just been reinstated in England; votes are still being counted in the USA; and the legal process of conveyancing grinds inexorably towards an unknown and unknowable date of completion for our home move. When will the pubs, gyms and shops selling non-essential items re-open? Who will emerge as leader of the “Free World”? When will I be able to sit on my west-facing terrace and contemplate the sun going down over Cornwall (or watch the Atlantic weather fronts roil in)? It feels like living in limbo, whatever that is. To be sure, I looked up the origin of the word and was horrified. It seems that having invented a place called Heaven, Christianity then had to institute a few border controls to ensure that only the worthy entered. Hence Limbo, the place where applicants, i.e. innocent souls, languish until their visas can be validated. This applies especially to saints who died before the advent of Christ and (it gets worse) all those unbaptised children who have committed no sin except for the “original” one of having been born. So henceforth I will shun the word, along with its implication that there is nothing to be done but wait. Instead, I will concentrate on the here and now.

          As far as lockdown goes, although it means the suspension of daily visits to the gym, it also presents the opportunity to question the sense of a costly membership pass. Why not make permanent use instead of the outdoors, where walking and cycling cost nothing? As for the pub, the experience of the past eight months has made us resourceful in finding alternative ways to socialise – for the time being, at least. And the non-essential shopping? Well, it’s non-essential.

          Then there is the presidential election. While one hopes for the worst possible outcome for the incumbent, the present hiatus is a chance to reflect on how he even got there in the first place and whether or not he has had any positive effect on the system of governance, which is not as perfect as the myth surrounding it would have us believe. Certainly, he has exposed its weaknesses, so maybe there will arise some momentum to fix them – if, that is, politicians who are not corrupt ever get to tinker with the constitution. For it is said that “power corrupts but it is more likely that power attracts the corruptible. And supposing an honourable, public-spirited legislature did turn the USA into a better functioning democracy, how long would it last? As one US Senator* has observed, “If we were to wake up some morning and find that everyone was the same race, color and creed, we would find some other cause for prejudice by noon.”

          Then there is the waiting to move home, which is largely a state of mind, since there is a mass of displacement activity to keep one from dwelling on it. Despite paying solicitors to deal with it, most of the work is actually done by me. They made it sound easy, seducing me with web portals, through which documents can be exchanged – signed, even – and phone apps which track your progress towards the all-important ‘completion’, but the reality is that I do all the collating, scanning, checking, uploading, emailing and subsequent chasing-up. Without a fully equipped home-office, which (to my occasional regret) I do have, all this would be unfeasible. And even the removals companies got me to do the surveys for them via video.

          So, I am trying to keep my mind focussed on the present, be in the moment and not waste time speculating about what might be. Even so, I do lapse sometimes into a daydream of what it will be like to sit on that west-facing terrace and watch the sun go down on the river Tamar – and, possibly, democracy itself.

* George D. Aiken, (d. 1984)

 

Hello, Goodbye

          We have often fantasised about living in some of the places we been to during our travels and now, fantasy is about to become reality. In a few weeks’ time we’ll be moving to Plymouth, a city that I know from adolescence. It’s smaller than Manchester and it’s a seaport, so it has quite a different feel, but that is the point – to experience living somewhere different – while we are still able. We’d had it in mind to migrate there a couple of years hence, but covid has catalysed events, challenging assumptions about likely future outcomes and putting pressure on timelines. Much is about to change in the way many of us live, our cities, our infrastructure and our freedom of movement so, with all that in the offing, now seems like the time to stop dreaming and make an actual move.

          Preparations for moving home include taking stock of possessions that need to be transported. We don’t have much, having downsized just six years ago, yet a reappraisal swiftly identified at least one item that need not follow us around any longer: my collection of CDs. The fact is, since I copied them all on to a hard drive around ten years ago, I haven’t laid a hand on a single one of them. Not that I have gone off listening to music – far from it – but CDs are just as redundant in the life I now lead as shellac discs and disposable gramophone needles were at the time I first bought a record, which (for the record) was in 1959. Even so, the tedious process of digitising the CDs was, in the end, pointless, since, for a modest monthly subscription, all that music is now available to stream online.

          And there is more: internet-enabled TV brings musical treasures galore straight to your favourite armchair. Last night, for example, I caught up on a bio of Count Basie that gave an insight into the man, as well as the music. Which reminds me: unlikely though it may seem, I do not expect my membership of the Heatons Jazz Appreciation Society to be revoked on the grounds of geographical disqualification. These past few months have seen its activities confined to Zoom anyway and, since the members mostly fall into the upper age-range ‘at risk’ category, the likelihood of physical meetings in the foreseeable future is small. I am confident that it will adapt to the times, as with its latest project, a plagiarised form of Desert Island Discs, which reflects the ‘marooned’ feeling we all have and seeks to bring us all together over the ether.  

          Not all decisions regarding possessions are straightforwardly dependent on logic, as anyone sorting through their cupboards will tell you. What do you do about the sentimental stuff – the love letters, the photos, the books inscribed with birthday wishes? The obvious answer, supposing one has the space, is that there is no need to dispose of them: take them along and let someone else do it for you when your time is up. Nevertheless, to put a perspective on this conclusion, the world is full of refugees and victims of destruction who have been left with nothing but memories, so I consider it a privilege even to have a choice in the matter. I will be taking my personal mementoes with me for as long as I can.

          Which just leaves one outstanding matter and the only one of real consequence: the friends we will leave behind. After so long in one place it is certainly not a matter of “easy come, easy go” (though in a few cases this is true) it is a case of wrenching oneself away. It didn’t feel like that when I left London, but I was younger then and the sense of adventure for what lay ahead easily overwhelmed any hankering to stay. Perhaps the secret to the success of this move is to try to emulate that optimism of youth and not dwell too much on the past.

Opening Shots

           While I was loitering in St. Peter’s Square trying to make up my mind where to go for coffee, a small blue tent slid slowly into view. Propelled by the wind, it progressed gracefully across the paving. I got a hand to it before it drifted onto the tram rails. It was empty but I guessed it belonged to a homeless person, so I put it under the arcade, whence it most likely came. There are fewer tents on the streets since the pandemic forced the authorities to do the decent thing and take more care of the homeless, but they haven’t all disappeared. I thought, at the time, that the scene would make a good opener for a film, since there was a sort of mystery about it. What had become of the owner/occupier? Perhaps they had found permanent accommodation – or moved into a friend’s tent for companionship.

          I was mulling over several possible plotlines, when a large pigeon startled me by landing in a flurry on a low wall nearby. I noticed that it had only one leg yet, by somehow twisting it into a central position beneath its breast, it was able to stand erect without the aid of a crutch. Perhaps it had been born that way. I could see no sign of injury or mutilation, no residual stump. The pigeon had adapted well to its handicap and I felt some admiration for it, unlike its two-legged fellow, an avian  brute, who arrived soon after and chased it away as though it were a nuisance. Mmm, I thought, an allegory on lack of empathy. Another good opening shot, perhaps.

          I suppose film was on my mind because the previous evening I had watched Witness for the Prosecution, a 1957 production by Billy Wilder starring Tyrone Power, Marlene Dietrich and Charles Laughton. The plot is intriguing – as you would expect of its author, Agatha Christie – and the production, allowing for its era, is top-notch. From my contemporary liberal point of view, however, the experience was marred by the reduction of the supporting cast to gross caricatures. This may have been done for comic effect but, nevertheless, it left a bad taste, based as it was on the kind of class-biased assumptions of superiority that have long since been discredited. The saving grace of the film (production quality excepted) is that the story itself – a tragedy of unrequited love – is all too human, credible and moving.

          I have not been to a cinema since lockdown: too risky to be enjoyable. Instead, I have spent more time at home, streaming, reading and browsing the internet, the last of which is not without its own dangers. Not that I have been infected by a computer virus, but I have unwittingly attracted the attention of a blogger known as Peking Duck, whose mission is to spread propaganda for the Chinese Communist Party, of which I am not a fan. In the interest of open mindedness however, I have read some of Peking Duck’s content and have to agree that the CCP has achieved a remarkable feat in dragging China out of poverty and propelling it to the forefront of technological innovation. I also agree that ‘western democracy’ is not the perfect system of governance that some claim it to be, especially now that I see it crumbling under pressure from demagogues and corrupting lobbyists. But my real objection to the CCP is its anointment of Emperor Xi Jinping and the consequent snuffing out of all political dissent. I am, after all, a liberal and I said so in a comment to Peking Duck one evening after a few glasses of Bordeaux, which may not have been prudent, since I imagine now that I will soon be kidnapped, taken to China, charged, convicted and imprisoned under the new National Security laws. Now, that has the makings of a good film plot.

 

Who Do You Think You Are?

           On returning from several weeks away in the campervan, I unpacked my bag and, small as it is, found that it still contained items of clothing I had not worn and need not have taken. Despite my best efforts to pack only the necessities, I had over-provided. To be fair it was prudent, given the time of year, to take both summer and autumn clothing. But I really did not need that smart-casual outfit for the one dinner we had in a posh restaurant: the hospitality trade is currently so stressed that dress codes have been relaxed, face masks now being the only requisite. No, the fact is that I have not quite mastered minimal packing, certainly not in the same way as my friends who gad about in their (very small) helicopter and must adhere strictly to weight limits. One superfluous pair of pants and they could crash and burn.

          Perhaps the problem starts at home, where too many clothes are stashed for no good reason. Now that the routine of being back has kicked in and I have resumed my daily visits to the gym for a workout (if thirty minutes on a cross-trainer can be called such). I found that all the staff were pleased to see me – or anyone at all, really – and I could have my pick of personal trainers right now, despite my embarrassingly low-grade kit, which comprises an XR-emblazoned t-shirt, M&S lounge trousers and Primark loafers. The sports section of my wardrobe, at least, is admirably Spartan, which supports the theory that one’s choice of clothing is determined by lifestyle – although there are qualifications. First, there is the tendency to be aspirational about lifestyles that never actually materialise, a behavioural quirk that is the foundation of the fashion industry and which is responsible for many a wardrobe stuffed with garments that never get an outing. Garish shirts come to mind. Then there is the temptation of ‘the sales’ and the stuff we buy just because of the apparently bargain prices. I still have an overcoat that is too big for me, though I always pretend it is not. Then there is the tendency to cling on to outfits from defunct lifestyles, whether out of refusal to accept their redundancy, nostalgia for the past, lax housekeeping or plain, old-fashioned reluctance to discard ‘perfectly good clothes’. Whatever the reason, there must surely come a point when any reasonable person will acknowledge that an overstocked wardrobe is one of the things in life that can absolutely be categorised as unnecessary. This is especially true of the most problematic section of the wardrobe, the one devoted to the host of public outings that are not formal but do require a degree of effort at looking presentable. This is where the maximum clutter tends to accumulate, with more casual shirts, jumpers, jackets, trousers and shoes than can feasibly be worn in a lifetime

          Whilst most of these clothes may be discarded on a whim, it is harder to do so with the more formal gear, especially as I have a tendency to want to dress ‘appropriately’ – subjective though the definition is. I keep, therefore, several outfits in case of invitations to weddings, funerals, bar mitsvahs, formal dinners etc. The fact that these outfits are beginning to look passé is of less concern to an ageing gent such as me than it might be to someone more fashion-conscious. I like to think that the more outmoded I appear, the more sympathy I might get from other guests, perhaps being offered a comfortable chair or a refill of my sherry glass. And one lives in hope that an invitation will arrive to a proper garden party, in which case one has just the perfect outfit to hand – albeit twenty years out of date. The thing is, I have an image in my head of a dashing young version of myself in flannels and linen, which is as hard to discard as are the actual togs.

 

Back in Town

           I have lately been waxing lyrical about the west coast of Wales, where we recently enjoyed hiking and biking during a spell of summery weather, and the west coast of Scotland, a more remote region, where the weather was ‘variable’. (On one occasion the wind was so fierce that I got up at 03.00 to secure outdoor furniture that threatened to cause serious damage to the campervan. Only then was I able to sleep.) But weather is all part of the exhilarating experience of outdoor life beyond the city and, so long as you are properly equipped for its vagaries, no hindrance to full immersion in what the great outdoors has to offer –  rejuvenation of mind and body and, these days, refuge from the covid virus.

          However, what both coasts have in common – apart from an abundance of natural attractions – is a dearth of coffee shops. Of course, no entrepreneur worth their salt would sink capital into an enterprise in a place where footfall is insufficient to cover costs, let alone earn a profit, but there are outlets – cafés and such – where coffee, of a sort, can be had. Many of them sport serious-looking, fancy Italian equipment, which promises satisfaction their operatives are unable to deliver, because they lack either the expertise or the best beans – or both. So, one adapts by setting one’s expectations low. On one occasion, I resorted to a Costa takeaway from a Spar shop, reasoning that the well-known national brand would at least guarantee consistency of quality. It didn’t. Perhaps the shopkeeper used lower quality beans than the ones stipulated in the franchise.

          You might think that I bang on about coffee too much but, like any beverage, there is a quality curve and, if you develop a taste for it, you will seek out the best – budget permitting. More importantly coffee, like tea and alcohol, is not merely a drink – it has a social function, the legendary suburban ‘coffee morning’ being but one example. In fact, whole empires have been built upon get-togethers over coffee: consider the famed coffee shops of 17^th century London, where merchants, bankers, shippers and insurers met informally and built trading alliances that resulted in the biggest concentration of wealth the world had ever seen. More recently, this same phenomenon occurred in California’s Silicon Valley, where tech geeks met financiers and creatives, resulting in the spawning of the monster digital companies that now dominate our lives. Unfortunately, the success of these companies is such that their well-paid employees have ruined the local property markets, forcing prices up and tenants out, some of those tenants being the very coffee shops where they used to meet to swap ideas and make those serendipitous connections that can so change the course of world events. I hear that one such establishment, Red Rock Coffee, where the founders of WhatsApp used to hang out before they sold to Facebook for $19bn, tried to stay afloat by crowdfunding a mere $300,000 but failed to reach the target.

          Still, who needs coffee shops when you’ve got Zoom? Well, would Zoom have been stillborn but for the existence of Red Rock and the like? The same argument applies to cities in general: that they are hubs within which valuable connections are made between closely mingling populations of creative people, the result being economic and cultural outputs that sustain society. The persistence of the covid pandemic has seen something of a flight from cities, unfortunately, with commuters preferring to work from home and residents looking to sell up and move to the country, but I am not tempted to follow suit, myself. I put my hope in an urban recovery of sorts. It feels good to be back in town, in my favourite coffee shop, with a flat white made by a seriously bearded barista.  

Beware the Bewitching Sunset

           For almost a week now, we have been lodged at a beachfront campsite with a front row view of the sunset over the islands of Muck, Rum and Eigg. Comically named they may be (at least, to the English ear) but they look sublime when the light plays about them. Naturally, we are not alone: places such as this are prized by campervanners, motorhomers and caravanners from all over, thousands of whom are on the coast, even after the holiday season has ended, in search of peace, tranquillity, somewhere to run their dogs and the great, covid-free outdoors. Yet this landscape does feel wild and remote, despite the presence of others. It’s as if the lack of an urban landscape automatically reconnects us all with nature’s force.

          In the last three weeks we have ventured just once into the dangerous confines of a restaurant and that was to dine with friends staying nearby at the quaintly named hamlet of Back of Keppoch. But, with our adjacent tables being two metres apart, sustained intimacy was difficult to achieve and I am inclined to question the very future of restaurants. It is said that many will become unviable and have to close down. If so, we may see a partial return to the time when dining out was occasional or celebratory, which is not necessarily a bad thing, given the proliferation over the years of so many pizza and burger outlets that have added little to the excellence of dining and much to the rise of unhealthy eating – and at pretty fancy prices, too. I say this having dined cheaply but regally last night, in the campervan, on locally caught scallops and bream, which I washed down with a couple of glasses of chilled Chablis.

          As a resolute city-dweller, used to having everything on the doorstep, it may seem surprising that I have no gripes about the nearest shop being a forty-minute walk away in Arisaig but, if it were not so, the illusion of remoteness that makes this place special would be shattered. The older buildings of Arisaig sit on the shore of yet another of the perfect little sandy bays that are the hallmark of this coast, while the newer houses are arranged on the steep hill behind. Boats take tourists out to spot wildlife and ferries ply to and from the small islands – although this service has been suspended since the pandemic took hold. Islanders are, sensibly, guarding their isolation. The self-described “community” has provided a toilet block for visitors, in which there is a tin box and a polite notice asking for contributions toward its upkeep. And the sense of a community is evident in the prominence given to honouring its dead. As well as the prettily positioned hillside churchyard, there are two prominent war memorials. One is a stone Celtic cross high above the village, its pedestal inscribed with the names of local men who fought and died in wars from 1914. The other is a modern sculpture in polished granite that sits just above the tideline, across the road from the Spar shop. At first glance, the inscription appears to be in both English and Gaelic but, in fact, the second language is Czech and the memorial is for the fighters of the Czechoslovak Independent Brigade who trained here for special operations behind Nazi lines in Europe.

          This place is charming but, in its way, dangerous because it lulls you into thinking that all is well with the UK and its quaint, quirky history. Sure enough I awoke this morning to the news of the reported loss of 25% of our plant species, the Government’s feeble stance on environmental protection, the familiar catalogue of its incompetent handling of the pandemic and its self-serving fiddling-while-we-burn policies that seem intent on the destruction of what is left of our social fabric. In the face of all this, I must accept that the sunset over the Western Isles is but a temporary balm for my spirits.

 

 

Talkative Strangers

          Last week, at the start of our journey, I quoted travel writer William Least Heat-Moon’s reflection, “When you’re travelling, you are what you are, right there and then. People don’t have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road.”  I think that’s pretty cool but, after several recent encounters, I learn that not everyone agrees with the sentiment.

          Our journey began in North Wales, where we enjoyed several days of trekking in the covid-unfriendly hills. Despite the perfect, late summer weather, other hikers were thin on the ground. On one six-hour hike, we met just one lone walker, who crossed our path as we sat to eat lunch. He stopped to exchange pleasantries about conditions, starting points, destinations and so on, but lingered longer than is usual. I began to fear he was eying up my salami, but perhaps he just wanted to talk, for we soon learned quite a lot about him. He lived and worked – as a consultant – in Guildford and had a second home in Wales, where he loved to walk. He was recently retired but still did freelance gigs “working from home”. When he eventually left us to our lunch, perhaps disappointed that no salami was forthcoming, we speculated as to why he was on his own. Recently divorced or bereaved? Or otherwise bereft in some way and just wanting an ear?

          Campsites are extra busy this year, so solitude is hard to come by. Unavoidable neighbourliness is the order of the day, fleeting though it inevitably is. Mostly, conversations are brief and centred around weather and itineraries, but there are those who want to tell their story. Like the chap who recently retired (on a generous package, judging by his magnificent motorhome with a pair of electric bikes stowed in its belly). He told me of his long and illustrious career as an engineer in the oil industry while, just a few feet away, my partner was talking loudly to her XR buddies via Zoom. Whether or not the oil man registered this irony, I cannot say – he didn’t ask about us at all – but when he departed the next morning, he gave us a cheery farewell.

          We then made our way to the west coast of Scotland, where three miracles occurred: the weather was fine, the midges were absent and sourdough was on the shelves of the Co-op in Ballachulish. But these were mere bonuses to the real prize – the marvellously restorative powers of the sunsets over the Western Isles and the quiet, star-studded night skies that follow. It was here that Ross McPherson, farmer, campsite operator and accordionist, told me something of his life. He had just come off the phone to the accordion tuner in Inverness, who had returned the instrument with a few dud notes. Having paid £650 for the tuning, Ross felt entitled to complain and, though the tuner was unhappy about it, insisted it be sorted in time for his intended trip to Shetland to see his girlfriend, whom he had met last year at the Shetland music festival. I managed to extricate myself from this story before he showed me a photo of his beloved or offered to demonstrate the duff tuning on his instrument, though I might have been more amenable had a tot of whisky been forthcoming.

          Throughout these and other encounters, I don’t recall being asked anything other than where we had come from and where we were bound. Given some encouragement, I might have enthused about the quayside shellfish shack in Oban, or the enchanting sculpture trail through the woods at Calgary Bay on the Isle of Mull. Otherwise, I would be reticent about revealing any personal history to strangers. Yesterdays on the road really are unwanted. They dull the spirit of adventure.