Simple Pleasures

           We moved from a landlocked city to a (smaller) coastal one, partly to get easier access to the ‘great outdoors’ and I am pleased to report “so far, so good”. Our last visitors, whom we had not seen in person for a year and a half, commented that we looked “healthy and happy” – both of which conditions are attributable in no small part to this location. Physical exertion and exposure to daylight no doubt account for the impression of health radiating from me: my body, aging though it is, remains sufficiently serviceable to engage in light, non-competitive activities, such as cycling, kayaking, table tennis and walking. But mostly walking, either solo or in company.

          Walking is my preferred exercise, not least because it is simple, flexible and inexpensive. All you need is a minimal degree of physical fitness and no skill is necessary; anywhere will do, no particular itinerary is required; furthermore, costly specialised kit is optional, needed only to deal with extremes of weather or topography. Once these minimal conditions are met, the pleasures of walking extend beyond the physical to the social, if in company, the contemplative, if going solo and the observational, in either case. For instance, it was a walk along the clifftops of Cardigan Bay that aroused my interest in kayaks. Looking down on a colourful cluster of them, sliding along the sparkling blue sea, was a visually arresting experience and one that fired my imagination. I envied the paddlers’ freedom to poke their prows into otherwise inaccessible caves and coves and fancied that they carried scrumptious lunches in waterproof containers, ready to picnic, smugly, in the best spot on the coast. It is true that, so far, my attempt to emulate those adventurous souls has proceeded no further than splashing around our calm little creek, but the vision remains.

          During another cliff-top walk, I had a different reaction, as I watched speedboats powering through figure-of-eight manoeuvres. Their drivers were intent on providing their thrill-seeking passengers with a shriek-inducing ride, but at what real cost? My increasingly eco-conscious attitude demanded disapproval and I shook my head accordingly at the unnecessary and excessive burning of fossil fuel. At the same time, I mused on whether the drivers considered this a problem and, if so, had made future plans for alternative employment. Perhaps they could re-train as kayaking instructors. After all, even if their conscience doesn’t get them, the thrill of handling a speedboat must surely pall after a while? Otherwise, they may just carry on until the fuel runs out, I suppose.

          More recently, I walked in South Devon with two companions on a route that swung inland before re-emerging at the coast. In the gently undulating rural landscape, June proclaimed its fecundity in spectacular fashion, with a lush, green-toned background of grasses, crops and foliage, against which multitudes of magnificent wildflowers did their colourful best to attract the diminished swarms of pollinators. They certainly attracted our attention. In fact, our admiring comments – typically “Oooh, look at that!” – became so frequent as to render themselves redundant and even, after a while, tedious and so were henceforth banned so as to give other topics of conversation a chance of being aired.

          And, although urban walking has its own visual appeal and interest, typically to be found in structures and their embedded histories, wildflowers are now invading even that territory. Many urban authorities have recently adopted bee-friendly regimes, so that their parks, roundabouts and roadside verges, presently untamed by mowing machines, have sprouted hosts of wildflowers aspiring to compete with their country cousins for the attentions of insects and humans alike and transforming the walk to the shops from a chore to a pleasure. Walkies, anyone?

Congenital FOMO

          Even as an infant, I was aware of the condition that we now call FOMO. Our life on an RAF base in rural Lincolnshire, cosseted though it was, felt mostly like an existence waiting to begin. Perhaps that was a by-product of the pervading sense of purpose of our community, which was standing at the ready, Vulcan bombers poised, to do the bidding of the powers-that-be, who were located elsewhere – probably in a nuclear bunker near London, wherever that was. Well, wherever it was, that was where I wanted to be. The feeling has never left me. At the age of 20, I volunteered to spend a year working in Sudan, though the sense of adventure soon turned into a longing to return to England, where the sixties were swinging – without me! Nor was I tempted to emigrate to Australia, though some of my close friends had done so. When I went to visit them, I recall standing on a beach, gazing woefully at the horizon, knowing that whatever was happening in the world, it was happening thousands of miles away from that spot.

          And so I felt quite content spending most of last week at St. Ives, on Carbis Bay, where the leaders of the G7 countries had congregated for their annual get-together. Not that I had been invited by the authorities – quite the opposite: road signs in the area advised would-be visitors to stay away. Nor was I exactly in the thick of it. But I did come across Biden’s motorcade blocking an entire street while the man himself attended a local church service. And I spotted Andrew Marr obliging a fan by posing with her for a selfie. No, I was there in what has become my usual capacity, an Extinction Rebellion (XR) camp-follower, providing back-up support for my more militant OH.

          One observation I made was that, for a movement that disavows leaders and rejects hierarchical organisation, XR does put on quite a show. Perhaps a thousand people marched through St. Ives and, the following day, Falmouth, while other demonstrations popped up frequently and colourfully in the most prominent locations. The variety and novelty of these actions demonstrate the efficacy of XR’s policy of inclusiveness, which encourages imaginative forms of action from all types of people. A multitude of demonstrators provided a free, entertaining spectacle for holidaymakers, locals, the media and, one hopes, the G7 delegates, with their often-witty messages stressing the urgency of the need to act on climate change. There was one placard, however, that did not chime with the theme of concern for climate change: its main message, “Free Julian Assange” and a list of other, assorted causes, such as “USA out of Syria”, seemed of the kind with which a liberal might have some sympathy. But on enquiring of the bearer, I discovered that he was a ranting conspiracy-theorist who had nothing to offer in the way of constructive criticism. So, after a prolonged earful, I left him to it and went to seek solace in Barbara Hepworth’s delightful garden, so near yet so far from the geopolitical melee a few hundred metres away.

          Whatever art is about, the contemplation of it is the important thing. Its effects can be soothing (as in this case) or otherwise, but it also has a sort of medicinal property that works well on persistent cases of FOMO. Once you appreciate the artist’s work, you become a part of their creativity, so you are where it’s happening. And where it’s happening is in the mind, not a place, remote or otherwise.

          It was with this thought that I retired to the cute little bio-wine bar across the road from Hepworth’s studio and sipped a glass of Carignan while discussing with the proprietor his wonderfully sonorous, retro hi-fi system. Place does still count, after all.

Watery Zen

           Is leisure-kayaking a waste of time? A mere displacement activity? After three goes at paddling aimlessly around the creek, I was inclined to think so. Then, one calm and tranquil evening, in the pinkish grey of dusk, I watched from the balcony as a young man stood effortlessly on a paddleboard, motionless on the glassy surface of the water. He was looking at his phone – tuning in to a mindfulness podcast or some soothing ambient music, as I imagined. Nothing around him was moving. There was no sound except birdsong. That’s the way to go, I thought. I should approach kayaking as a medium for meditation.

          The next day dawned perfectly warm and sunny. Climate crisis? On days such as this, it is all too easy to forget the facts. I set out for a walk, litter-picker in hand, light of heart and ready to forgive the bin-deniers. But the first thing I encountered was a euphemistically styled “poo-bag”, bright blue, fully loaded (must have been a big dog) and placed conspicuously atop a low wall. A metaphorical cloud obscured the sun, but it passed when I reasoned that the perpetrator might have left it there, not on purpose but absent-mindedly, while dealing with the aftermath of the event. Call me a soft liberal, easy prey to Far Right predators. Certainly, I remember being identified as such a couple of years ago at a street party in New Orleans, where I got talking to a middle-aged guy with long hair, a floppy hat and a generally liberal mien. But he was a redneck in disguise, tricking me into revealing my social-democrat tendencies before mocking me with his contempt for any view less than the full Trump. The sneaky bastard!

          I continued my walk, unfazed by the bright blue monstrosity. I often get nods and smiles of approval from people I encounter while cleaning up. Sometimes they instigate brief conversations or, occasionally, rants about litter, but they usually have one thing in common: they are not young. I was surprised, therefore, when a twenty-something crusty wearing expensive-looking headphones made a point of stopping to engage with me. As he peeled his headphones away from his dreadlocks, I anticipated a right-on conversation about ecocide. It began promisingly. “See all those vapour trails from planes up there”, he said, pointing at the clear blue sky. I looked up and saw just one. “And we’re not allowed to fly anywhere!” he continued, outraged. He went on to rant incoherently about lockdown and covid and it became obvious that this was not about the environment, nor was it even a conversation. I excused myself with a “whatever” and turned away. But he was not finished with me yet and continued to rave, now on the themes of face-coverings and vaccination. At last, I took the bait and suggested he might consider some of the scientific evidence put forward by, you know, people who study immunology. But he had no intention to argue or discuss. He was there to proselytise. I tried once more to introduce another point of view, but in vain and, after presenting me with some imagined “facts” as evidence for his case, he pointed his finger at me, said “Think about it!”, stuck his headphones back on and marched off, oblivious to the hollowness of his victory.

          The encounter left me feeling angry and frustrated, so I decided to give the Zen-kayaking a go. It was a sunny afternoon and the water looked inviting. Perhaps that was why it didn’t work: there was too much action around me and I spent some time considering things like whether I dared to paddle cheekily under a huge, moored-up catamaran. Perhaps dusk is best for a meditative atmosphere, but that would mean disrupting my routine of aperitif, dinner, Channel 4 News and gazing vicariously from the balcony. I’ll think on it.

Friends Reunited

           The last couple of weeks have seen a resurgence of bingeing – and I’m not talking about TV dramas. On May 17^th, the first day on which we were allowed to entertain at home, our first visitor arrived and, from then on, our social calendar has been blocked out with friends and relatives who have travelled from afar to check out our new abode, make sure that we made the right choice, reassure us that out of sight is not out of mind or simply to wish us well. With them came an abundance of wine, flowers, cakes and other goodies, the remnants of which are still around. It feels like the aftermath of Christmas here and with it comes that same sense of a lull before normality returns.

          Naturally, we wanted our visitors to be favourably impressed by Plymouth although, since they were all from London, that was going to be a tall order. But, so long as they made allowances for the differences in scale, diversity and the fundamental facts of location and raisons d’être, I was confident that the order could be fulfilled. However, I must say that the weather could have been more co-operative. This being a port in an attractive coastal setting, sunshine becomes it well. But the weather was true to its British credentials and ran the gamut of wet and windy, through bright and breezy, ending with a few days of hot and hazy. In such a climate, adaptability is key and one of our guests doggedly purchased a foul-weather jacket one day and a wetsuit the next. Some days later, with other visitors and in warm sunshine, we had the old fashioned, shoes-in-hand pleasure of splashing through the sea to board a ferry via a ramp on the beach at Cawsand.

          But some activities are not weather-dependant: with restaurants now allowed to reopen for inside dining, we have become reacquainted with the rituals of menus, wine lists, starters and mains, not to mention tipping, which seems to me more important than it ever was. Hospitality workers are hard-pressed, what with having to deal with the over-eager customers, the rigours of covid-safe service and the shortage of colleagues due to the pandemic and Brexit. They could surely do with a bit of encouragement in the form of a generous gratuity now and then – providing they are demonstrably doing their best to please, of course. However, judging from one unsatisfactory experience we had, I fear that some customer-facing workers have been pressed into service despite their innate temperamental unsuitability for the job. A forced smile through gritted teeth is easily detectable, even when it is concealed by a face mask. Also, there is some way to go before ancillary services recover their former capacity: the unavailability of taxis during busy times is attributable, so I’m told, to cabbies having migrated to delivery companies, businesses that were among the few to thrive during lockdown.

          So, for the time being, social life is a not-quite-normal affair that requires face-covering and hospital-grade hygiene habits among strangers but allows no-holds-barred hugging and kissing among friends and relatives. On reflection, if this were to be the new norm it would be quite sensible, given our track record of passing on nasty diseases. And who couldn’t do with a few more hugs and kisses? Fortunately, I do have plenty of those to look forward to, because a new wave of visitors is due soon. It’s just a pity that they crowd together in the calendar. People we like or love are like jewels that enliven the mundanity of life. But they sparkle more brightly when they are scattered through our years of ordinariness: bingeing is a poor substitute for a balanced diet of anything.