Summer Sample

          During last week’s heatwave, we were travelling what felt like the length and breadth of England – from South Devon to Lancashire, Wiltshire and West Sussex – and, while we have friends in the USA for whom these distances add up to no more than a daily commute, for us it was an almost epic journey. As for our ageing campervan, it proved a few miles too many. The motor lost power whilst climbing a single carriageway on a hill outside Salisbury and the following traffic was obliged to match our crawl until we pulled into a layby on the descent. The resentment was somehow palpable.

          Waiting for the AA to provide roadside assistance, I had a flashback to my youth when, on hot summer days especially, roadsides were littered with broken-down vehicles, often with their bonnets up and clouds of steam rising from their overheated engines. The frequency of such incidents has diminished since we learned from Japanese carmakers how to build resilience into mechanics, but other vestiges of summer holidays in England circa 1960 remain, to be relished or rejected according to taste. In Lancashire, we stayed briefly at the seaside resort of Southport, the genteel cousin of Blackpool. Both have been impoverished by the competition – foreign holidays – yet they cling to what they can of their former glories. Southport once had a high street famed for its jewellers and furriers but the elegant shopfronts, with their curved glass windows, now showcase everyday commodities like coffee, trainers and Polish groceries. In Sussex we visited Bognor Regis which on first acquaintance appears to be to Brighton what Blackpool is to Southport – a cheaper and more vulgar alternative – yet such faded charm as it still possessed was being lapped up by determined, holidaying families. The big question for seaside resorts is what future do they face? The enforced staycation boom has boosted their fortunes, but will customers fly abroad again as soon as it is permitted?

          Elsewhere, in the Sussex hinterland, adaptation is the name of the game. We were invited to the wedding of our friends’ daughter, which was held in a former farmyard barn complex, now converted into a dedicated wedding venue. The repurposing of these ancient buildings is a way of preserving, not just structures, but also the heritage that lingers within them and rubs off, I hope, on all the wedding parties, thereby perpetuating the sense of a collective history. OK, it’s no longer a barn, but the spirits of Thomas Hardy-esque characters still linger in the oak frames. Likewise, the country pub, where, the following day, our generous hosts treated us to lunch. The Duke of Cumberland Arms was once a modest village watering hole, hidden away in a tangle of lanes off the A286, but nowadays it can claim to be a ‘destination’ pub-cum restaurant. Yet it cannily retains its old-fashioned rural charms, while catering to the needs of a widely drawn clientele of diverse and sophisticated tastes. The transition was commercially driven, of course, yet we are all winners in the process. We have a public house that would otherwise have been turned into a private residence and I am inclined to agree with Hillaire Beloc’s sentiment, “when you have lost your inns drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England.”

          In conversation, our friend (the bride’s father) told me that his knowledge of England is limited to a handful of places outside of where he lives and works and that this is because he has always holidayed abroad. Staycationing has awakened his curiosity, though whether it will change his habits is another matter. In response, I say that an English summer has its allure, come rain or shine: heritage trumps mere weather.

What Do I Know?

          Last Saturday, I watched sailboats racing on Plymouth Sound.

          In that opening sentence, there are two points of contention. First, why was I, a lifelong sports-sceptic, watching racing? (The answer is that I was tempted to the spectacle by the promise of a picnic on a summer’s day: what scant interest I had in the racing evaporated as soon as the food had been consumed). As to the second point, the sailboats were F50 catamarans, which (for those who are not au fait) stretch the conventional definition of a boat, since their hulls do not touch the water once they are up and running. Quite how they work is a mystery to me and will remain so – not because I lack curiosity, but because my capacity to absorb facts is limited. Therefore, on my list of interests, sporting activities occupy pride of place at the bottom.

          The world inhabited by people who design, build and race F50 catamarans is one that I, as an outsider, am inclined to dismiss as advanced “messing about in boats”. Likewise, I think of F1 motor racing as an obsession for “petrol heads”. Yet I am amazed by the dedication and inventiveness of those who practise these disciplines and aware of the argument for their pursuit in the interests of R&D, which is vital to technological progress. Yet there are other manifestations of seemingly pointless speeding that test one’s tolerance, such as water-borne jet-skiing, which upsets the tranquil enjoyment of many a peaceful beachgoer. Is the inconsiderate noise pollution and wanton use of fossil fuels really justifiable in the individual pursuit of the mere thrill of speed?

          Still, we all like to be thrilled from time to time. Fairground rides would have a bleak future otherwise. But do speed-freaks eventually tire of the adrenaline rush? As a non-sportsman and someone whose last fairground ride was fifty-odd years ago, I don’t feel qualified to make a call on that one, except to say that, in my case at least, the answer is probably “yes”. Even so, I do still enjoy the occasional frisson, though speed is not of the essence.

          It should really be cause for celebration that other people’s interests are so diverse and so different from one’s own. Far from being dismissed as weird, peculiar or misguided, special interests of all sorts are what push the boundaries of knowledge and human endeavour. Yet there is a tendency for us to club together with people of similar interests and circumstances, to the impoverishment of our own experience. I had a reminder of this last week, when we spent some time entertaining two young women of our acquaintance. Ordinarily, I have no close contact with twenty-year olds, so it came as a shock to be reminded of the shallowness of juvenility. I marvelled at their obsession with self-appearance, their profligate waste of time, their disregard for planning ahead and the fact that they don’t care for wine with dinner! Were we all like that before we ‘grew up’? Did we all stand on the threshold of adulthood oblivious to the view of life’s horizon?

          Not that we oldies know everything. It’s never too late to learn and, though I have ruled out yacht-racing, I did try oat ‘milk’ in my coffee recently and was surprised to find it pleasingly creamy and not at all weird. I was at a vegan café, sitting outside, where the appetising aroma of kebabs wafted from the door of the adjacent Turkish grill. I’m not sure how the vegans felt about it, but I would like to think they are tolerant of, if not entirely happy with, the cultural diversity on the street.

 

Waving The Flag(s)

           Lest anyone is under the impression that the government has won its war of attrition against the “self-styled eco-crusaders-turned criminals” * or, as they prefer to define themselves, concerned citizens lobbying for action to save everybody from ecological disaster, a.k.a. supporters of Extinction Rebellion (XR), they are alive and well and picnicking in parks – while it is still legal to do so. For the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill, currently with the House of Lords, contains provision for this and other forms of peaceful assembly to be criminalised at the whim of the Home Secretary.

          As it happens, I have been to a few XR picnics, ranging from large, organised events to small, informal gatherings. Food is shared as a gesture of the commonality of the biosphere and the XR flag is flown to draw attention to the cause and to rally supporters. Otherwise, they are just ordinary social gatherings, a way of keeping people in touch with each other during covid-restricted times. Last Sunday, however, our local XR picnic was disrupted by the rain. In fact, it didn’t really happen, although, despite the weather forecast, my OH insisted we proceed as planned in case anyone turned up and was disappointed. She packed a hamper (one of those natty, insulated back-packs), then dug out our two XR flags, furled around 4-foot, bendy bamboo poles, which she attached, by some makeshift method, to my rucksack. Then we donned our waterproofs, grabbed our litter-pickers and splashed our way to the nearby park, where, on taking shelter in the bandstand, we put our packs down and waited for the others to arrive. That was when we noticed the flags were missing.

          Flags, of course, are important. Everyone identifies with them in some way and to some degree. But therein lies a danger. Unscrupulous politicians misuse them to win votes or, as Arundhati Roy put it, “Flags are bits of coloured cloth that governments use first to shrink-wrap people's brains and then as ceremonial shrouds to bury the dead.”  And the recently deceased Euro 2020 footy tournament provided ample proof that the English flag represents an over-simplification of national identity and a misinterpretation of its constituency. Beneath the flag of England there are complex and various interpretations of Englishness, though our government would wish it otherwise.

          We spent last week in Cornwall, a county that takes pride in waving its own wannabe ‘national’ flag, thereby proclaiming its perceived otherness from the rest of the mainland. Like England’s, its flag is also named for a saint, though secularism has long since diluted the religious significance of both emblems. And, like the rest of the country, Cornwall’s ‘traditional’ identity is in flux. Its language died, along with its mining industries. More recently, its fishermen have struggled to make a living in the face of international quota disputes. And, most egregiously, its quaint coastal villages are being commoditised by second-homers, greedy for a slice of someone else’s pie. In short, the uniqueness that made Cornwall a favourite holiday destination is eroding fast. Yes, it is now possible to get good Italian-style coffee in every tourist hot-spot, but don’t we appreciate diversity of place? What happened to the refreshing a-change-is-as-good-as-a-rest approach to holidays? Where I see an Italian flag, I expect sublime espresso. Where I see a Cornish flag, I expect first-class pasties. Perhaps we expect too much from pictorial symbols. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but the story doesn’t always stack up under scrutiny.

          Nobody turned up to Sunday’s picnic, unsurprisingly, but on the way home we found our flags lying on a pavement, sopping but intact. I was pleased to reclaim them. They may mean nothing to a passer-by, but to me they have acquired significance as battle colours of a sort.

 

* Priti Patel, Home Secretary, in an address to the Police Superintendents’ Association annual conference, 2020.

Scrote Centre?

           Having completed the Guardian Quick Crossword in the time it took to consume two rounds of toast and a pot of tea – a personal best! – I was feeling quite pleased with myself. The bright weather and my elevated mood tempted me to take a walk with my litter-grabber, not to my favourite park but to a more challenging, slightly edgier one, where beer cans, wine bottles and the occasional needle were sure to be included in the haul.

          People often talk to me when they see what I’m doing. Often a simple “Thank you” or “Never ending job!” is all it amounts to, but when exchanges are prolonged, the impromptu ‘vox pop’ that ensues can be both entertaining and enlightening. Some people claim that they also pick litter (but are not doing it right now); some people shake their heads and wonder why others strew it about (but offer no explanations); some people express illiberal views on how to punish perpetrators (without considering the causes); some simply blame the council for not clearing up (as if it were acceptable to toss litter). So far, my attempts to introduce an element of behavioural psychology have met with blank expressions. Moreover, no one has admitted to being a litter lout, nor have I ever caught anyone in the act (not that I am sure I would confront them if I did). On the morning in question, a man did approach me and offer his explanation of why there was a trail of detritus along the path we were on. “They’ve just opened a new ‘scrote centre’ up the road there and they come down this way to the soup kitchen, chucking everything about when they’re done,” he explained. It seemed plausible enough, but it was his terminology that interested me, as it revealed something of his attitude to the problems of social deprivation, which, in my view, is what lies at the root of litter-unawareness: ‘scrotes’ may get the blame for making a mess, but our social structures are partly responsible for their alienated situation. The real problem we should address is why we need scrote centres in the first place.

          I have just finished reading a history book* in which the author gives an account of the origins and spread of written constitutions. By rigorous analysis of cause and effect, she demonstrates that there is more to the story of, for example, the writing of the American constitution than is popularly supposed: the document was not immaculately conceived but born of a sequence of events and exchanges of ideas over a long period of time and several continents. Such correlation of facts is the cornerstone of any worthwhile historical study. And a knowledge of history (though it may never be completely objective) is a requisite for understanding and assessing our present circumstances, which too often we take for granted or judge on sketchy background information. Would we, the human race, not benefit from understanding how our situation has developed from past events so that we may plan for the long-term future?

          Unfortunately for the mass of the world’s population, its long-term welfare is not what interests those in power. Apart from occasional acts that benefit the majority (e.g., the establishment of the NHS) the acquisition and accumulation of wealth and power by individuals and their chosen few is the norm. And it is to this end that short-termism is employed as a controlling tool, by populist politicians, dictators and tyrants alike, airbrushing history to suit their purpose. Hence, when I pick up litter, what I see is not just an untidy park, but a symptom of societal dysfunction due to failure to address long-term problems – the kind of puzzle that can’t be solved over breakfast.

*The Gun, The Ship and The Pen Linda Colley