Low-Key Exploration

          A couple of weeks ago, we packed the campervan with everything we thought we might need for a 24-day trip, the itinerary of which is shaped like an elongated letter O, taking us from Plymouth up through Wales to the west coast of Scotland, across to Edinburgh, then down the east through Lincolnshire and London towards home. Now, I know that a popular image of campervanning is one of freewheeling spontaneity, but this outing was planned with the precision of a major undertaking, partly because it involves hooking up with friends and relatives, but mostly because age-related control-freakery has set in. Overnight stops were booked in advance and clothing carefully chosen to cope with the fickle British weather. And, as the provisions list grew ever longer, we had to remind ourselves that we would never be more than a few miles from a supermarket.

          We had looked forward to the trip, which has, so far, lived up to expectations. But I do have misgivings about the fact that it takes us to familiar territory, places we already know and are fond of. After all, a major part of campervanning (to my mind), is boldly going to places unexplored and I am wary of becoming too comfortable with a limited choice of destinations lest my curiosity should dwindle. But there is merit in re-visiting places that delighted us on first encounter. A ‘refresher course’ can reveal qualities missed and details unobserved – the missing pieces in the jigsaw of history and landscape that defines Britain. And different circumstances can evoke new feelings. For example, I have been several times to the sweeping estuary of the river Dovey on the west coast of Wales but have never seen it as I did last week, when an enchanting, huge red moon rose slowly over it as we watched with close friends after a convivial dinner.

          When we drove to Scotland the next day, I knew from previous experience where to stop and buy excellent cider directly from the orchard – another benefit of familiarity, I thought, as I later quaffed a glass or two while overlooking the white sands of a perfect little bay on the west coast just a few miles south of Skye. Our knowledge of the area had paid off in the form of a pitch at the prettiest of campsites. And the next morning, I knew that coffee could be had at the boatyard in Arisaig. All right, I got soaked by an Atlantic squall during the walk there, but I was blow-dried on the way back and, that afternoon, it was the sun’s turn to dominate the sky and an opportunity to try out my newly refurbished bike on the single-track road to nowhere that snakes along the peninsula. If I never get on a bike again, that ride will be the one I remember.

          As for Skye, I had last been there in 1977 and remember visiting the MacLeod’s residence, Dunvegan Castle. I would not have gone again this week, but for the fact that I was in the company of others who had not been and were curious to experience it. It is an ugly building – especially compared with Eilean Donan, the iconic castle on the nearby mainland – but its history is intriguing. One of the things I may have missed first time around was the fact that Boswell and Johnson were guests at Dunvegan and their subsequently written and thoroughly effusive ‘thank you letter’ is displayed there. It finishes with the regret that they are “unlikely” to return, which is easy to reconcile this with the fact that tourist facilities were sparse in those days and their journey on horseback must have been long, arduous and uncomfortable. But maybe they were just restless for new destinations.

 

 

 

Party For The People

         The coronation of Elizabeth II was the first thing I ever saw on TV and I have not watched a televised royal event since. Yet I could not boycott last week’s Jubilee celebrations entirely, try as I might. I got drawn in on day one, when my Finnish pal pinged a message. He was watching the TV broadcast from the Mall. “What a great spectacle. Congratulations!” he wrote. I replied as tactfully and graciously as I could, then turned on my own TV in time to watch the flypast, something that, as a 1950’s RAF child, I just cannot resist.

          As for street parties, I attended three (not all on the same day), but as a supporter of community activities, not of the Queen. Yes, there were ironic paper crowns and bunting, but the flag-waving was generally low-key and the impression I got was that people were more appreciative of the extra holiday than the reason for it. As for the formats, none of them looked like the classic 1950’s street full of trestle tables laden with sandwiches, scones, tea and trifle, with neighbours seated shoulder-to-shoulder in cheery, loyal celebration. They were all different except in this one respect: they were based around food banks.

          The first event was on a grassy space adjoining a sports centre, where giant board games were provided by a small charity and ‘minded’ by an old bloke cheerfully resigned to the job of making sure they were not wrecked by over-enthusiastic kids. Meanwhile, the food was the domain of three volunteer ladies with whom I would not have picked an argument. (And for those of you who care about the issue, the scones were pronounced “sconns” and served with the cream on top of the jam.)

          The second event was set in the back yard of the community hub and spilled out into the back alley, where it adjoined the next-door pub’s smoking area. The food here was not traditional and all the better for it. Two Nigerian ladies had been co-opted to cook up some of their national specialities, the aromas of which tempted even the most die-hard traditionalists to grab a plateful.

          The third event was actually in a street, at one end of which was a stage for bands and along which were stalls set out by local craftspeople, where anyone who wanted to could try their hand at making. The hub was a multi-use building, fitted out with performance and exhibition spaces, as well as a bar. Things got quite lively towards the end of the day, a desperate finale before the Monday morning come-down, perhaps.

          A couple of days later, in the quiet aftermath of the celebrations, I visited a place called Antony, a grand, historic house, now in the care of the National Trust. Its founding family were well connected with the monarchy six hundred years ago, though one of them was decapitated by Henry VIII for not showing sufficient loyalty and they have worked hard ever since to regain favour. The family still lives in the house (even though it was ‘given’ it to the NT), which is why public access is quite limited. As on many past occasions, I felt thankful that places like Antony have been preserved and opened up, while resentful that they were spawned by a land-owning aristocratic system. However, the NT also preserves more ordinary properties, such as the Hardmans’ house in Liverpool, which gives me a hope and vision of the future in which it might be persuaded to take over even more modest properties, like mine, for instance. I would really not mind relocating to the pub every Thursday afternoon to accommodate the public – as long as the NT foots the bill for the upkeep of the place.

          But why stop there? In my mind’s eye, I see a future for the NT as a property developer, not in a Disneyesque manner, but as a socially responsible landlord, nudging the useless government aside and building to resolve the housing shortage. Now, that would be something to celebrate in the streets.

Who Does She Think She Is?

         As I write, millions of the Queen’s subjects are preparing eagerly to celebrate her 70^th year on the throne. Some of them will regard as traitors those of us who decline to participate, dismissing our objection to the notion that a divinely-appointed aristocracy has the right to rule as ‘nit-picking’. Yet we know that the term “aristocracy” is a euphemism for warlords of yore who took our land by force and rented it back to us. So, what’s to celebrate?

          Still, in the early summer sunshine, parts of our stolen land look lovely and it’s easy to be lulled into thinking that all is well in this “sceptred isle”. I refer to the last few days, which we have spent campervanning in Cornwall, where nature’s work was resplendent in sunlight. Walking and cycling along quiet lanes we became intoxicated by the colours, scents and unstoppable fecundity of the hedgerows. “Look! A butterfly!” one of us would exclaim, as if observing for the first time some rare, exotic creature (which is what they are fast becoming). But, at times, it’s easy to be lulled into ignoring the fact that the Anthropocene era, unabated, will deliver ecocide and monocultural desertification. The reality is that the delightful, wooded glen we walked through later is, in fact, a scrap of woodland that survives only because it occupies the steep banks of a small valley and is thereby saved from commercial exploitation.

          Apart from these misgivings, my enjoyment was marred only by the sorry state of my bike, which I inherited two years ago and have neglected to maintain since. Only three of its dozen-or-so gears engage reliably, the saddle is fearsomely intrusive and the handlebar is back-achingly low, which also means that my sights are set by default on the front wheel, which wobbles because of a missing spoke. The brakes work, but I suspect that is a temporary state of affairs. I determined to get it fixed before our next outing.

          But quiet lanes and isolated, sandy coves do not comprise all of Cornwall’s attractions. Some of the towns and villages are an integral part of the tourist draw and of our itinerary, Mevagissey being a classic example. A picturesque village with a harbour from which fishing boats still operate, despite – or is it because of? – Airbnb, it boasts a wet-fish stall on the quay, good pasties in the bakeries and thriving pubs. And although devotion to the monarchy was evident in the red-white-and-blue bunting around the harbour railings, the multi-coloured crocheted replicas of the crown that topped the posts added a touch of reassuringly irreverent humour.

          This illustrates a dilemma for one who disapproves of the monarchic system yet is steeped in the nation’s history and culture. How to react, for example, to a place such as Cothele, a Cornish Tudor house and estate that was ‘given back’ to the nation (via the National Trust) when its noble owners no longer wished to pay for its upkeep? The good thing about it having been held for so long in private ownership is that the place is a time-capsule, a repository of actual history. It’s an important resource and, for those who are interested in or nostalgic for the past, an immersive experience. I love the place but despise the principles it was built on. It’s like being fascinated by a horror story.

          Back at home, in my peasant hovel, I sought out a local bike repair workshop and was delighted to find one that is a CIC (Community Interest Company), staffed by people who really care, not just about bikes per se, but cycling as a green, healthy and socially interactive mode of transport. I was even more pleased when they told me that the council shares their principles and provides subsidies for repair work. It’s not the discount that excites me so much as the egalitarian ethos behind it.