An Island Retreat

          Barely a month after Brexit, the bellicose headlines in some popular newspapers are aimed at getting their readers to square up for a fight with our former allies on the mainland. Wait Your Turn! Selfish EU Wants Our Vaccines. (Express) and No, EU can’t have our Jabs! (Mail). But just who is being selfish here? Global pandemics require globally co-ordinated action, surely? Ah, but I’m forgetting: this is an island and we have an island mentality. Worse, our island is stalked by the spectre of populism and, as the press knows only too well, the first step to establishing a fascist state is to create a common enemy. Whatever the reasoning behind leaving the EU, it disregards an important fact: that one of its primary aims was the avoidance of rivalries such as led to the succession of wars that benighted us all for centuries past.

          Brexit will, to some extent, hinder the free exchange across borders of people, their ideas, customs and prejudices, which is a backward step in fostering international understanding and cooperation. To make matters worse, covid has deprived us of the one thing that could counteract the islander mentality: travel. Instead of mingling freely with our foreign counterparts, as we lately used to do, we are reduced now to distanced interactions, observations and interpretations of their thoughts and actions, all of which too easily result in misunderstandings, wilful or otherwise. This is not a new observation. Here is Lord Byron’s take on it: I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, and of the bitter effects of staying at home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us.

          On Plymouth Hoe, there is a memorial to the sailors who died in the two World Wars. Their names and rank are inscribed on bronze plates, arranged chronologically and by campaign but, being used to the imposing presence of the memorial, I have found it all too easy to walk by and not read the words. However, at the recent request of a relative, I stopped to search for a particular name – G.L. Murray, Carpenter’s Mate, killed in action 1915 - at which point the inscriptions had the intended poignant effect. Seeing those individual details, I felt not patriotism but sadness that all those people had to die in a war that could have been avoided. As well as the ranks of the Royal Navy, the tradesmen were honoured with their full titles – Blacksmith, Cook, Cook’s Mate, Second Cook’s Mate and, yes, Carpenters Mate. But, saddest of all, were the names listed under the simple heading “Boy”.

          There are many such grand memorials but, where I live, there are numerous other, more mundane reminders of past wars. Not all of them are obvious but, as I acquire new pals and acquaintances, I learn more. The headland opposite us is now a park, but the massive stone walls that surround it are pierced here and there with blocked entrances to the network of bomb-proof tunnels leading to a wartime command centre below that remains intact since its decommissioning in 1958. The small beach next to the slipway is known by the locals as Commando Beach and leading down to it is a steep gully, trash-filled and overgrown, all that remains of a railway built to take ammunition from the armoury to the boats.

          I do hope that all this infrastructure truly is redundant and yet, as I sit here patiently awaiting the call for vaccination, I watch two warships leaving the port. They are flying the flag of Spain. Perhaps their friendly stopover at Plymouth has been curtailed in case of hostilities over the procurement of vaccine. Wars have been fought over lesser issues.

 

Settling In?

           When I’m asked how I’m settling into our new home, my enthusiastic response is that all is fine, we love it here. So far, so true, but I am mindful that there are at least three aspects of ‘settling in’ – physical, psychological and social – the simplest of these being the first. The new place is now fitted out as we want it – but for the last piece in the jigsaw, the mid-century classic designer easy-chair that would make my life complete. It took some time to identify the right model, but I fell finally for a swivelling beauty that featured as a prop in Fassbinder’s 1974 film Fear Eats the Soul (a classic, in itself, of the tribulations of displaced persons). The internet rapidly yielded up its treasure in the form of a sympathetically refurbished model, which will be arriving in the next few days.

          Of course, one could go on indefinitely, tweaking and refining one’s home, but therein lies a danger of slipping into displacement activity – the art of avoiding what really needs doing, which is ensuring a robust and healthy mental state. And, whilst this was factored into our relocation at the planning stage, its continuance depends on making the most of the benefits on offer, in this case the combination of city-based cultural facilities and seaside leisure opportunities. Unfortunately, the former is currently locked down and, as for the latter, it being winter, I have not yet got around to messing about on the water. However, I have tried my hand at open-air table tennis on the concrete tables handily situated next to the coffee kiosk by the open-air swimming pool. Sport is not my thing, so I approached it in the spirit of recreational fun rather than competitive showing-off and, for a while, I had a laugh knocking the ball to and fro with my Other Half on the tacit assumption that our aim was to keep a rally going for as long as possible. Sport, however, is my OH’s thing, so it was not long before she smashed a forehand that sent the little ball whizzing past my head and perilously close to dropping into the sea. Either I shall have to nurture my competitive gene or find a like-minded co-player. Meanwhile, we can agree on amiable, non-competitive walking and cycling expeditions until the vaccine – and the weather – work their magic and we can branch out.

          Social distancing notwithstanding, making new friends – the third requirement of ‘settling in’ – is a priority for us both, and the ‘lockdown lull’ does afford an opportunity to reflect on how to go about it. Thinking back, my existing friends are the consequence of fate and circumstance: I didn’t set out consciously to net any one of them. But as a relocated person and without the benefit of reckless, youthful enthusiasm, making new friends is a more conscious process, like being at a party where you don’t know anyone and are obliged either to introduce yourself or wait to be approached. But with the party on hold, I should review what I might bring to it in the way of friendship. I have no doubt I could hone my offer – cultivate the art of becoming more interesting and interested – that sort of thing. Let’s face it, who wants to adopt a needy friend? Friendship is, after all, a two-way exchange. Or perhaps it is more than that? William James* raised another possibility when he posited, “Whenever two people meet, there are really six people present. There is each man as he sees himself, each man as the other person sees him, and each man as he really is.”  With this in mind, one approaches the business of friendship thoughtfully.

*William James, psychologist and philosopher (1842-1910)

 

What I Do with my Alloted Exercise Time (1)

           This week, I watched a couple of films with plot twists so lacking in credibility that, if I had been on Gogglebox, my reactions would have been hilarious to behold. Surely the character(s) drawn would not act that way? In A White, White Day the rogue policeman’s brazen transgressions go utterly unchallenged; in Amores Perros the beloved pet dog, having become accidentally trapped under the floorboards of their flat, is abandoned by its previously adoring owners; and in Midsommer, the protagonists are unbelievably gullible (though, in the end it becomes apparent that the whole artifice is just a crappy horror movie, not the psychological thriller promised in the trailer.)

          Perhaps I should curtail my critical faculty and take a lesson from real life, where, by popular consent, the saying “there’s nowt so queer as folk” explains the seemingly inexplicable. Other people do act in ways which seem incomprehensible, but the context of one’s own terms of reference should be factored into any judgement. That way lies peace of mind and lowered blood pressure.

          Coincidentally, I have discovered an unlikely route to this discipline: litter- picking. Litter-picking not only lends extra purpose to one’s daily exercise walk, but it also arouses emotion and, better, stimulates contemplation. Although the practical aspect of tidying as you walk is satisfying in itself, it is all too easy to become outraged and judgemental about the “litter-louts”, so I have learned to rein in those negative feelings by taking a more empathetic view of the perpetrators. Which leads me into the realm of behavioural psychology – recently brought into the limelight by pundits speculating on the reasons why some people will not accept the science behind mask-wearing, social-distancing, vaccination etc.  I am learning to think of litter-picking as an evidence-gathering exercise in the interests of research that combines elements of anthropological, social and sociological analysis. And, although I am far from a comprehensive paradigm of the subject, the evidence thus far suggests some categorisation.

          First, there is the seemingly innocent kiddie stuff – sweet wrappers and soft-drinks containers. In the light of childish enthusiasm to consume the contents, it is not hard to understand their neglecting to dispose responsibly of the packaging. (Though I had been under the impression that modern schooling included an element of environmental awareness.) Then there is the poverty-related stuff, such as fast-food packaging and cheap drinks containers. The lives of poor, socially deprived people can be extremely precarious and the habits and values adopted by better-off sections of society are not necessarily their priority, which may explain both the consumption of these goods and the relative disregard for a tidy environment. Then there is the desperate stuff. At the top end of a particular park, in amongst the bushes, lies the detritus of addiction – empty cans and bottles of (cheap) alcoholic drinks, syringe packaging and Naloxone containers – spent and discarded. Policy makers could learn a thing or two from us litter-pickers. We are close to the ground, literally, gathering, observing and classifying information that could be influential in tweaking policies. For instance, in the case of the addicts, there are no bins for them at the top of the park; they are far away, near the road, for the convenience of the bin-men. However, larger-scale social problems, such as the consumption of junk food, social inequality, poor housing, inadequate education and unemployment lie behind the apparent environmental disregard of those who litter. The litter-picker soon learns not to harrumph at the “louts” but to question the social system that sows the seeds of its own problems.

          Which is not to say that all forms of behaviour may be excused. I find it difficult, for example, to empathise with dog-walkers who, having taken the trouble to bag up their doggy turds, then sling them aside. This is a truly tricky conundrum, even for professional behavioural scientists. It certainly tests the limit of my reasoning and, surely, even a film director couldn’t make it up?

It Makes No Sense

          During a TV interview, a woman who gave birth to twins while being treated for covid in intensive care let it be known – casually, it seemed to me – that she had been “one of those who thinks covid is, you know, a hoax”. Fortunately, she survived to nurture her babies and, I hope, take more notice in future of facts and reason. But I don’t count on it: the human mind plays tricks on us, pretending to be logical whilst all the time tending to fantasy.

          The next day, the nation was ordered into lockdown – although, to me, it doesn’t seem as dramatic as the first time. Nevertheless, it has put many a plan on hold, one of mine being to drive down the coast awhile and find a new stretch to hike along. The weather was sunny but cold – four degrees but “feels like” minus one. (I don’t know who gets to decide what it “feels like”, but it seems to be a subjective judgement, not worthy of the science of meteorology.) But hey-ho! There are many walks closer to home that offer vistas, nature and history, some of which I have trodden without appreciating all their qualities. Along a street of elegant early-Victorian villas, I noticed – for the first time – a string of inscribed metal panels let into the paving stones. I recognised the text immediately as lines from the Sherlock Holmes stories, though I have never knowingly read any of them. The clues were evident in several outdated phrases that have become lodged in the national psyche – and of course reference to Watson, the power of deduction and the remorseless application of logic. If only!

          Another time, walking along the seafront, I stopped at a coffee kiosk and entered into light conversation with two tough-looking but very friendly policemen in the queue. “What does that badge on your arm mean?”, I asked, “The one that says ARV?” “Armed Response Vehicle,” came the reply. (I should have guessed that from the weaponry slung around them, but my focus was elsewhere.) They went on to say that they didn’t have much to do – unlike American police who, it seems, are constantly occupied in shooting their fellow citizens. But my flat white was called, so we said a cheery goodbye before getting deeper into the politics of policing.

          But I don’t spend all my time walking around. Films (at home, these days) are also part of my routine and it was watching a biography of the husband-and-wife designers, Charles and Ray Eames that spurred me into finishing off the restoration of the mid-century sideboard I had lately rescued from a junk shop. (‘Before’ and ‘after’ photos are proudly displayed.) And, by happy coincidence, I had a lottery win of £30, which I put towards furnishing the cabinet with the makings of typical mid-century cocktails.

After...

Before...

       

 

 

          

 

 

          Meanwhile, Trump fanatics rampaged through the Capitol in a frenzy to overturn the very democratic process that brought their hero to power in the first place. On hearing a few of the hurried press interviews with Trump acolytes, I was struck by the illogic that drove them. It seems that they do not acknowledge the non-sequitur of defending their “freedoms” by destroying democracy. Perhaps the answer to that conundrum lies partly in the definition of “freedoms”.

          And yet, recalling another walk, this time to the Mayflower steps, the departure point for 102 pilgrims who, in 1620, fled persecution for their beliefs in England and settled in America, there is a plaque that offers another possible explanation. It has been calculated that 35 million Americans can now trace ancestry back to those same pilgrims and, though the mathematics of that will always be a mystery to me, the impact on American politics makes some sense. Four centuries later, governmental control is still anathema to millions of Americans – unless, of course, that government controls people who don’t agree with them. The logic is impeccable.

Happy, Brexity New Year?

 

          This year’s Christmas celebrations may have been covid-constrained for most households but, for ours, it was almost as normal: we don’t celebrate it, preferring instead to take refuge in some city, preferably Mediterranean, where our anonymity precludes participation or having to justify our “Bah, humbug!” proclivity. The difference this year was that we holed up at our new home in Plymouth, where we know nobody other than a few ancient relatives of mine, who are too vulnerable to consort with under the circumstances. But whether you embrace the traditions or not, the festive period is a time when ‘business-as-usual’ is on hold, leaving the field open for the pursuit of leisure activities or, if you are so inclined, plain old lassitude. For me, because we are still settling in to the new flat, ‘tis the season of DIY projects. Now, I like to keep a healthy balance of activities, manual and intellectual, but I feel the former are currently dominant and, worse, hanging about the place in various stages of incompletion. As I write, it is New Year’s Eve, so perhaps the time is ripe for a resolution, along the lines of “Finish the Work In Progress”?

          But, Janus-like, the spirit of New Year’s Eve contemplates both past and future which, to my mind is not just 2020 versus 2021 but my whole lifespan – and, considering I have not much of it left, any forward resolutions are easily side-lined by bouts of nostalgia, more especially now that I have ended up in the city where much of my youth was squandered. Yesterday, we drove the 22 miles to Looe and went for a wintry hike, but all the while I thought of the time when, at the age of fifteen or so, my friend and I borrowed a couple of bikes and cycled there – just to escape for a while from our boarding school. It was a long day, considering the hilly terrain, our lack of cycling prowess and the fact that one of the pedals snapped off my bike on the return journey. Of Looe itself, I remember nothing. Other places, however, are seared into memory one way or another. In the days before Christmas, my partner and I volunteered to help distribute food packages to needy households. We loaded the van and were randomly assigned a delivery route that took us on a tour of streets where various members of my father’s family had lived, one house in particular being aunt Beryl’s former residence, where my cousin and I bonded as children. The family all moved on eventually, but the houses and streets still resonate in my being.

          Back to the future, however, and this time the “Happy New Year” greeting really does hold some specific promise of joy for everyone, the prospect of vaccination against corona virus. But today is also the eve of Brexit and, while I have plenty to look forward to personally, it does pall in the light of our leaving the EU at midnight. Call me a remoaner if you will, but the narrowly won referendum was the worst possible way of determining the future of Britain. The Leave campaign played its hand of jingoistic nonsense about ‘sovereignty’ and ‘taking back control of our borders’ to masterly effect, but this will turn out to be a disastrous act of national self-harm. The world’s future will be determined by the two bullying superpowers, the USA and China. Britain, at best, will have a diminishing presence as a middle-ranking nation, obliged to align itself with one or other of the bullies, having shunned the sensible option of teaming-up with a massive European economy that stands a chance, at least, of asserting liberal values in the face of populist autocracy. My hope is that, within a decade, Britain will be begging to be let back in. After all, human undertakings are never concluded; their natural and permanent status is ‘work in progress’ – in the light of which those unfinished DIY jobs begin to weigh less upon my mind.