Predicting the Future

          Russians, so I’ve heard, have a joke that goes, “The future is predictable: it’s the past we can’t be sure of.” Notwithstanding the awful irony of this, I find it reassuring that there is such a thing as a Russian sense of humour at all, especially of the self-mocking variety. Unfortunately, it’s a cultural trait that doesn’t transfer universally to that nation’s citizens.

          But, setting our conventional understanding of the time-line back to ‘normal’ for a while – the unknowable future versus whatever version of the past we have come to believe in – it is from its past that a nation derives the culture that equips it to tackle its future. But there is often resistance to change, regardless of its benefits, which can cause the past to be very persistent and for elements of it to hang around for longer than is desirable, as I have noted on my travels to some of the quieter parts of England.

          A recent case in point is the Lancashire coastal town of Southport, in its day a fashionable seaside resort with grand buildings, extensive ornamental parks, lakes, parades and the second-longest pier in Britain. Most of it is still there, some of it is intact and all of it is a bit shabby. The main reason for the decline is that more holidaymakers choose, now that they can, to go abroad. For the local council, it’s a tough nut to crack: how do you revive the fortunes of a town? I don’t know the answer, but, speaking as a ‘metropolitan elitist’, I would suggest that ditching elements of the past and embracing the future would be the way to go. Which elements? Well, to be specific, the cuisine. Many of the eateries are firmly stuck in a tradition of unimaginative, unappetising and unhealthy food of the kind for which Britain rightly earned a grim reputation after WWII. Now, I know that a large part of the town’s population is elderly, retired and stuck in its dietary habits, but that is no reason not to move on. Lancashire is home to several Michelin-starred restaurants, with celebrity chefs creating dishes from abundant local produce. Could not Southport aspire to become the county’s gastronomic capital, as happened at Ludlow in Shropshire?

          Still, there are other things happening. There is a sign of modernity in Victoria Park, home to the (famous) annual flower show, where a corner has been set aside for electric model-car racing. While I was there the British Radio Car Association was holding a two-day national competition for fearsomely fast 1/10^th scale, battery-powered replicas of Formula 1 racing cars. A whole field was filled with marquees occupied by blokes buying and selling parts or fixing and tuning their little vehicles. I was told that the competition is bounded by just as many technical regulations as the grown-up one, the niceties of which would not be of interest to the casual spectator. In fact, spectators were few, which is not surprising given that the spills were not accompanied by thrills. The cars appeared indestructible and any that happened to flip over and lie immobile on its back like a beetle was quickly grabbed by a steward and tossed back into the melee.

          After a while, I’d had enough and went to the refreshment truck in the faint hope that a flat white with oat juice might be had. But the caterer had his market sussed: think, geeky blokes obsessed with model cars, think bacon/sausage/egg butties, builders’ tea or instant coffee. From this perspective, the future does indeed look predictable.   

All History Now

          Having previously dipped into Plymouth History Month by way of a thinly-attended talk on the recently-established LGBT+ archive, my latest historical foray was on the subject of Plymouth’s civil engineering exploits – a subject far more extensively documented than the population’s sexual traits, despite its relative novelty: it goes back merely to the 16^th century, when fortifications were built against the threat of French invasions. But this talk was focused on a particular project – bridging the Tamar estuary – first by rail in 1859, then by road, an astonishingly-delayed 102 years later.

          The talk attracted an audience of ten and was delivered by a volunteer at the visitor centre attached to the control room on the Devonshire side of the bridges (which are separated by a few hundred metres). The first thing she told us was that she was not an expert on the subject (though she knew people who were) but an ex-teacher more used to engaging the attention of parties of school children with a view to encouraging them to become civil engineers. So, having established the fundamental mis-match between speaker and audience and disappointed us with her meagre credentials, she then struggled to give us anything beyond some basic facts and a couple of anecdotes. Fortunately, her offering was supplemented by material offered up by one of the attendees, an old bloke who had worked in the dockyard since the age of fifteen. When our teacher told us that the rail bridge had survived the impact of HMS Roberts colliding with it years ago, our docker told us all about the circumstances of the incident (stormy weather was to blame, it seems) and the warship itself – its history in battle, its refits with guns salvaged from other vessels and its decommissioning at the end of its useful life. “You should record all that info with the local history society,” said our teacher, but he seemed not to hear.

          All this took place outdoors on a sunny day in a mini amphitheatre overlooking the portals to the bridges and across to the Cornish side. Whether or not civil engineering is your bag, the spectacle alone is impressive. But even as a child growing up nearby (before the road bridge was built) I was intrigued, not so much by the bridge as by the six-foot high lettering emblazoned on the main pier – I.K. Brunel, 1859. At that time, the only means of crossing for vehicles and pedestrians was an old chain-ferry operating in the shadow of Brunel’s bridge and we would sometimes ride that ferry on Saturday mornings, with paper bags of winkles soaked in vinegar for a treat and with no other purpose than to entertain ourselves. I don’t recall any adult telling me what the initials I.K. stood for (I don’t recall any adults being present – unless you count my cousin, who was a few years older than me), but I was delighted to learn later in life that the great engineer had a suitably impressive name – Isambard Kingdom Brunel! No PR guru could have come up with a name as mysteriously impressive. The road bridge, by contrast, lacks any aura of romance, dedicated as it is to an engineering consortium called Tamar Crossings, 1961 and, try as she might, our teacher was on a loser trying to make it otherwise.

          As the talk approached its conclusion (Brunel’s bridge originally carried seven trains per day: now it carries 70 and there are 18 million crossings annually on the road bridge) something set our docker off reminiscing about HMS Roberts again. He seemed lost in his own memories – as was I. Looking nostalgically down to the slipway far below, I could make out the chain-anchoring points for the old ferry. It ceased to operate in 1961 and, along with it, the shellfish stall that served the queueing passengers. All history now.

 

Out in Devonport

         Devonport, the dockside district of Plymouth which, in its heyday, was a major base for Royal Naval assets, the de facto workplace of the surrounding (male) population and the night-time playground of thousands of sailors and marines, has had to adapt over the past forty years or so to the shrinkage of Britain’s military forces. And, since I now live on its edge, I am both invested and interested in how it copes with that process. Fundamentals appear to have been taken care of – the housing stock has been rebuilt or refurbished and important landmark buildings re-purposed with deliberate intent to foster community interests, while employment opportunities are being created outside of HM Dockyard.

          But it is the recent establishment of a new, hip café in one of the many redundant pubs that has made me hopeful that the people of Devonport are beginning to embrace the 21^st century. The café is called Terra Nova – a nod to the native-born Captain Scott of the Antarctic – and its menu is up to scratch with Hackney’s finest, a proud rebuttal of the dismal reiteration of cling-on greasy-spoons that hook people into unhealthy diets and low culinary expectations. I was especially pleased that the new café is on the route of one of my walks since, if I time it right, it is the perfect pit-stop. I sat outside it one sunny day and my coffee was delivered by a young lady with facial piercings, an elaborate hair-do and tight-fitting, leopard skin print trousers. I remarked that I was just admiring the frontage of the Victorian terrace across the road, classically elegant despite the garish shop-fronts at street level. “Yes, they’re lovely,” she said, adding “Take my word for it, Devonport is the next place!” So, there we have it, on the authority of the next generation.

          Meanwhile, there is quite a lot of nostalgia in the air, as we are currently in the middle of the month-long Plymouth History Festival, a series of events and displays that are useful to an incomer like me whose knowledge is patchy and anecdotal. I have signed up to whatever I can fit into my diary. Yesterday, it was a talk given by the curator of Who Am I? – a themed display at the museum. The fact that it was about the LGBT+ community, of which I am not a member, did not disqualify me from attending, which was just as well, since I arrived to find myself an audience of one. The (gay) academic protagonist, Bill, welcomed me enthusiastically and told me the backstory of how he had persuaded the Lottery Heritage Fund to give him money to set up what was lacking at the museum, namely an archive dedicated to the history of his community, the existence of which had never been openly acknowledged – curious, since naval ports have long been associated with homosexual liaisons. But one of the exhibits is a photograph, taken in a pub in 1966, of a sailor sitting on the knee of a local man. The sailor was due next day to be court marshalled for homosexual practices. One year later, homosexuality was decriminalised, yet it seems that public opinion took a long time to catch up: in 1995, a local man was murdered for being gay, after which public perceptions began to shift.

          As the talk formally commenced, we were joined by a latecomer, a lesbian with whom Bill was on familiar terms and whose contributions made the event livelier – and more comfortable for me. Except at the end, when she was so generous as to advise me of the best places to connect with the LGBT+ community. Taken somewhat aback at her apparent misreading of my sexual identity, I thanked her politely but made it clear that my interest was more generally in the city's social history – that and its transition to the 21^st century.

You Have Been Noticed

          The weather’s been nice, which has been good for my covid-recovery – plenty of fresh air and sun. On one occasion, I took a spontaneous trip to admire the carpet of bluebells under the trees at Mount Edgcumbe. I hopped on the ferry, intending to get a pasty for lunch at the café on the other side of the river, before walking a couple of miles in a circle back to the jetty. So, I was pretty disappointed to find that the café was closed. However, I was amused by the notice on the door. It read that Keith and Emma were sorry to have to close, but covid had hit their household and they thought it the best thing to do under the circumstances. However, they hoped to be open by Thursday or, failing that, by the weekend, since they knew some very nice people (Janet and Dawn) who had worked for them previously and who might be available to open up even if they themselves remained indisposed. They apologised for the inconvenience and hoped to see us soon.

          Some of this information was superfluous, strictly speaking, but the message was very effective: “this is not a slick, chain operation, but a family business and we care about our customers and their expectations and are doing our best to fulfil them.” Imagine if they had simply put up the “Closed” sign and left it at that. I would never again have had confidence in obtaining a timely pasty there. Their personal messaging is in stark contrast to that of the local council when, on occasion, I have anticipated with some urgency the availability of a public toilet only to find an “out of order” notice stuck to the door, with no advice on where else to go, no information on when they intend to fix the problem and no hint of apology. This type of sign comes under the ‘Unhelpful’ category. It also comes under the ‘Useless’ category, since locking the door sends exactly the same message as the notice. Furthermore, it comes under the category of ‘Annoying’, especially as one is likely to be ill-humoured at this point.

          There is such a thing, however, as an amusing sign. I particularly liked the one posted outside a polling station that reads “No Sitting on the Fence”, though this is unintentionally funny – unlike the one that sits atop the piano in a pub I used to frequent, which says “If you can’t play the piano, please don’t”. Amusing signs help to counter the ones that can only be called mean-spirited, such as the one famously noted by Bill Bryson and typically found at the entrances to private drives. It says, “No Turning”, Bill’s response to which is to make a point of turning there and, as he departs, tooting his horn.

          Then there are signs that are simply unwelcoming. There is a local place that specialises in making cakes and, though I have no appetite for such confections, I sometimes go there to buy bread and drink coffee on their little terrace. The only thing is, you have to be careful not to break any of the house rules, which are spelled out on little notices posted everywhere you look – one person at a time at the counter; wear a mask; card payment only; tables not to be used for consuming takeaway food; and no smoking on the terrace – all of which are backed up with the implicit threat of enforcement by the woman in charge, who has the kind of smile that is worn reluctantly and only when customer-facing. The last time I went, I was careful to observe all the procedures and, in order to ingratiate myself into their good books, even took my empty cup back to the counter (which may have been against the rules, come to think of it) but the woman in charge was busy making cakes and didn’t see me. I saw her though, dipping a finger into the mix and licking it. Surely, I thought, there must be a notice in the kitchen forbidding such behaviour?