Them and Us

          There was no corkscrew at the opening event I attended last week, so I took it upon myself to procure one from a shop nearby. Knowing they stock everything a household needs (and loads of junk food that it really doesn’t), I went straight to the kitchen department, but I searched in vain! I asked the young man at the till who, though he had heard of corkscrews, wasn’t sure what they were and asked me to describe their purpose and appearance. As it turned out, he was not only young but Muslim as well, so the expectation that he should know anything about the (ridiculously outdated) method of sealing wine bottles was presumptuous on my part.

          Of course, with this anecdote, I attempt to illustrate how easy it is to assume everyone else shares your experiences and lifestyle. Just as easy, in fact, as it is to do the opposite and conclude, even on fleeting observation, that other tribes, with their funny ways, obviously have it all wrong. From here, it’s an easy step towards demonisation and one so thoughtlessly taken that I fear it is endemic to human behaviour.

          I had to watch my own step this week during a planned visit to Totnes, a town which, by reputation, is a hub of new-age thinking, sustainability, creativity and alternative lifestyles. When news reaches us of odd behaviour there, we say, “Yeah, well, it’s Totnes, isn’t it?” Even though I actually approve of the values that have come to define the place, I had to remind myself not to look at everyone as if they were weird: but for the accidents of fate, I might have ended up living there myself. As it is, I live in the less funky city of Plymouth, where I scatter hopefully the seeds of inclusivity. Polarisation is not the way forward for civilised nations. (There are warning signs from the USA, where recent data shows that many intellectuals are currently migrating from red to blue states.)

          As it happens, I had a dream this week about a life-changing move. My partner and I, during a party at our house, had a brief conversation that concluded in our deciding to walk out, there and then, informing no one, taking nothing with us and intending never to return. That was the exhilarating part of the story: the remainder, in which the consequences of our action unravelled, was misery personified. Antithetically, we would do no such thing and, since we are fortunate enough to have a degree of choice, decided to live where it suits us best (within the parameters of our circumstances). Even so, we should be on guard against adopting local prejudices, real or imagined. Rivalry such as Devon vs. Cornwall, say, or Yorkshire vs. Lancashire may provide a rich (if clichéd) seam of ice-breaking banter, but only for as long as there is a tolerably fair distribution of power and resources between the contestants. When scarcity and injustice come calling, there will arise populist leaders to pick out our resentments and degrade them to the status of hatred.

          But we’re not there yet, especially in relation to Plymouth vs. Totnes, where we spent a pleasant evening. The occasion was a lantern parade, an annual event, held on a seemingly random Tuesday in December (well, this is Totnes) and my Other Half was involved as part of the drumming ensemble recruited to drive things along. The lanterns were all very pretty, thanks to the renowned creativity of the locals (and the ubiquitous availability of cheap LEDs), and the drummers were… enthusiastic. Predictably, I tired of it all before long and found alternative diversion in the many charity shops along the high street, where I found what I had been searching for since last winter: a good pair of woollen trousers, in the right colour, style and size! Whenever I wear them, I shall feel a new sort of affinity with the good folks of Totnes.

Anything But...

           The completion of our household’s tax returns has been on my to-do list since April, but HMRC’s increasingly frequent reminders of the looming deadline finally injected a degree of urgency into the chore and, yesterday, I ticked it off at last. But not before dispatching a good many minor tasks masquerading as essential missions. These included: fixing a doorknob and sorting out my shaving mirror; then shopping for loose-leaf Darjeeling tea, tamarind paste and fairy-lights.

          The knob in question is a wooden one from a kitchen cabinet which, having fallen off, had been lying for two weeks in a bowl on the counter, where it passed itself off as a small brown onion among a crowd of larger ones. It took five minutes to replace it with an identical one that had been attached, for aesthetic reasons, to a dummy drawer front. I have now taken the faulty knob to the garage, where it joins a queue of items slated for refurbishment.

          Regarding the shaving mirror, its position has been an irritant for at least four years. It’s an elegant and effective product of German engineering, but it’s too tall for the shelf on which, ideally, it should stand. So, it squats down by the taps, where I have to crouch in order to use it, which means I never get a good view of that tricky spot under the chin and, consequently, too often cut myself with my so-called safety razor. The solution, when it finally occurred to me, was simple: I lowered the shelf. It took twenty minutes.

          As for the Darjeeling, I am at a loss to understand why so many people prefer to dunk a teabag in a mug and imbibe an inferior beverage from a clunky vessel, when they can as easily infuse the loose leaves in a pot, pour the strained liquid into porcelain and release the full, aromatic flavour of our national drink. Nor am I convinced by the convenience argument: I’m willing to wager that scientific study would reveal marginal savings in time and effort that are easily outweighed by a superior cuppa and – a bonus – enhanced self-esteem arising from having done the job properly.

          And the tamarind paste? It was readily procured in a multi-national ‘Asian Supermarket’, though it has been on the shopping list for so long, neither of us can remember for which recipe it is intended.

          We come then to the fairy lights. They would not normally be required at this time of year, since our habitual way of dealing with the festive season is to go abroad and return when it’s all over. This year, however, the extent of our recent travels has left us with neither appetite nor budget for further excursion, so we’re hunkering down at home, prepared to accept that a degree of engagement with the proceedings is our best option. To this end we have invited two groups of guests to gather socially at Wonderman Towers to acknowledge any or all three of the following: the Christian myth of Jesus’ birth; the Pagan tradition of the Winter Solstice; and the secular celebration of the New Year. A string of gaily coloured lights will, I trust, suit all occasions. It took me fifteen minutes to hang them.

          I also found time this week to test whether my recently rekindled interest in yoga was more than just a passing fancy. But, yet again, I found myself the only male – and an old one, at that – in a class full of middle-aged women, led by a younger woman, which made me feel… out of place. I won’t be going back, but I am on the lookout for a class for old geezers with attitude.

          Anyway, after all that, the tax returns were a doddle, more daunting in the contemplation than the execution. Next year, I’ll knock them out first and rid myself of months of lurking anxiety.

 

With A Little Help From My Tech

          The other evening, while walking home alone from a meeting, I inadvertently activated the voice recorder on the phone in my pocket. During the journey of about fifteen minutes, I had started to sing, loudly and heartily, as if to an imagined audience, an old favourite from my folk-club days, Cyril Tawney’s Sally Free and Easy. Mind you, I wasn’t just indulging in the joy of unrestrained vocal expression (fortified by the two pints of porter consumed in the pub after the meeting); I was consciously practising, or rehearsing so that, in the admittedly unlikely event of my being called upon to perform a party piece (the festive season approaches), I should have something acceptable to offer. I thought, at the time, that I had pretty much nailed it but when, the next day, I discovered and listened to the soundtrack, my bubble was burst. Even the muffled, distorted background, could not disguise the fact that I have work to do on hitting the notes (in the coda, particularly) and on mastering the lyrical phrasing (which came across as a bit ragged). Technology sometimes sneaks up behind us.

          I deleted the file, but not before skimming through the latter hour-and-a-half, which comprised sounds of my arriving home, helping myself to supper and watching Car Rescue until my Other Half enters the room and ‘suggests’ a change of channel – all of which was also disappointing, in so far as it highlighted just how many hours of our lives slip away in the mundanity of routine existence. Surely this is what Alfred Hitchcock was referring to when he defined “drama” as “life, with the boring bits left out.”

         There are some mornings – yesterday, for example – when I wake up feeling less than on the ball. “Groggy” would be an apt description. There are ways to haul oneself out of this state of mental sluggishness – cold water in the face is one – but why they occur in the first place and so randomly is a mystery to me. Yesterday’s grogginess lasted most of the day, despite my applying fresh air, physical exercise, caffeine, a shave and even a haircut.

          When, at last, I did feel sufficiently alert, I tackled some of my administrative backlog and followed up a few of my miscellaneous notes, one of which was to look up the word, ‘lachanaphobia’. (I know, some of you may be thinking there are more productive ways to spend five minutes, but bear with me.) According to my AI app, it means “an irrational fear of vegetables”, so while I was at it, I asked whether there is such a thing as an irrational fear of salads (having been lately in several Airbnb flats where there is every imaginable piece of culinary equipment except for salad bowls and servers) and it answered, “Yes. The word is deipnophobia”. Whilst I would never dispute the irrationality of these or any other phobia, I do question why there is a vocabulary dedicated to their description; I mean, you could just use “irrational fear of (whatever)” and not have to remember all the Greek prefixes. Still, if you’re a clinical psychologist, I guess the use of ‘scientific’ terminology to explain human irrationality lends a degree of credibility and gravitas to your diagnoses.

          AI assistants are useful, but they do have a sinister side to them. Today, when I opened mine up to ask it something, it was already displaying the answer to a question I had not put, but which was relevant nonetheless: “How do you shake off morning grogginess?” By way of answer, it listed all the remedies already known to me (except the haircut). Can it somehow sense when I’m being slow-witted?

          And can you blame me for feeling somewhat monitored this week? If I wasn’t feeling paranoid, I would be tempted to have another go at rendering Sally Free and Easy, loudly, heartily and publicly.

 

Barcelona Vs. Paris

          We were sitting at a café table in a leafy square just off the Ramblas, with the morning sun falling in patches between the buildings and the day’s business slowly gaining momentum around us. As we sipped coffee, we watched a short, stout woman at the café across the way singlehandedly set up her big parasols, drag the chairs and tables outside and arrange them neatly. We’d had only two days in Barcelona and were feeling reluctant to leave, even though Paris was our next destination.

       Having ‘done’ the main tourist attractions on previous visits, we were inclined only to explore the streets and enjoy the vibe, though we did swing by La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s eccentric cathedral, just to see how the work is progressing. They’ve done a lot since last I saw it, though the result, to my eyes, has spoilt the weirdly imposing structure that I remember. From every aspect, the new facades present a complicated mix of richly detailed but incoherent ornamentation. Are the builders working to a plan, or making it up as they go along? It looks to me like the latter.

          The excessive number of us tourists presents the city with certain difficulties, as is well known, but it’s problematic for us as well. When we look for the ‘authentic’ Barcelona – in so far as such a thing exists – we find ourselves searching through the wreckage wrought by our very presence. But all is not yet lost, at least when it comes to eating and drinking, both of which pastimes are abundantly and publicly indulged on almost every street (although, strangely, obesity is not evident). And, if you are brave enough to explore the neighbourhoods behind the main drags, your antennae soon become attuned to the places that are not devoted to the tourist dollar but owe their living to the locals who live in the apartments above them. It was in such establishments that we ate the best food, reasonably priced and served with friendly yet business-like service, such as would encourage regular patronage.

          We looked for the same sort of experiences in Paris and, I’m happy to report, with some success. The cold, wet weather did not put us off venturing out on foot, though it may have caused us to spend more time in cafés than we might usually. Then again, any excuse would have done. A memorable plat de jour lunch was had in a bistro that, apart from contemporary-style cuisine, had the style and feel of a bygone era, including tiny tables for two that were so close together it was necessary to move them to get seated. This also presented difficulty in removing one’s coat without sweeping the adjacent tables clean. Then, when settled, there was the question of to what extent you should acknowledge the other diners, strangers just a few centimetres from your face. Fortunately, we had each other to talk to, but those on either side were dining alone and determinedly minding their own business. On the one hand was a woman who was consulting a guidebook in Japanese, Chinese or Korean script and, on the other, the French-speaking spit of Barrack Obama.

          Politely, each table respected the others’ privacy, up to the moment when Barrack inadvertently knocked his water carafe over. He caught it deftly and elegantly – as you would expect him to – but water splashed onto my coat, causing consternation on his part and the swift appearance of the waitress to smooth things over. He apologised profusely (in English, with no hint of an American accent) and I joked that it was of no consequence, as it was a raincoat anyway.  He finished his meal before us and, as he left, said sorry once more and flashed me his big Obama smile. Paris, of course,  was no disappointment at all.

Coping In The Campo

          Ten days in the campo (as they call the countryside here in north-east Spain) have done nothing to persuade me to adopt the rural lifestyle. Not that it’s been uninteresting or in any way unpleasant; just so unrelentingly, well, rural. There has been many an occasion when, outnumbered in company by agriculturalists, I’ve had nothing to contribute to the conversation; though, on reflection, I have now, through osmosis, acquired sufficient knowledge of olive harvesting and pressing to hold my own in a lightweight exchange on those subjects.

          True, most things you can do in a city, you can also do here: it’s just more convoluted and involves driving. For example, I went to a yoga class one day (I know, one scratches around for something to do) though it was only with the aid of Google maps that we were able to locate it, set as it was in a yurt, on yet another finca amid acres of identical-looking olive trees.

           Actually, I have had yoga lessons a couple of times before, once in the 1980s, then again, a decade later. On the first occasion the classes, funded by the local council, were abruptly discontinued after a budget review. And in the second instance, I found the teacher so disagreeably arrogant and impatient I could not bear to go back for more. This last experience, however, has revived my interest. The yurt was comfortable and the fee reasonable. More importantly, the teacher was charmingly considerate of my age-related inflexibility. I couldn’t bring myself to join in the “ommmm” but otherwise followed instruction as best I could.

          The campo is between the mountains and the Mediterranean, so, since the weather was conducive, we went one day for a swim down at Miami Beach (the original, I assume), at a cove designated for nudists. Not that we had intentions to skinny dip, it just happens to be the best place for swimming. Fortunately, it is out of season and the few diehards there made no objection to our clinging to our modesty. Then, on another, fresher, day, we took a hike in the mountains and got a panoramic view of the region, including the river Ebro and its delta.

          But, for everyday exercise, I’ve been stretching my legs for an hour or so along the access road that serves the tracks leading off to the individual fincas. It is here that I noticed a striking resemblance to the UK, not in the flora but in the amount of litter scattered amongst it. Yes, even on this land dedicated to agriculture, the drive-by tossing of beer cans and fag packets is commonplace and a walk along the lanes without a collection bag is a wasted opportunity to clean up and feel indignant.

          Otherwise, I have taken every opportunity of a lift into town, most frequently to Tortosa (population 33,000), where there is a museum of local history housed in a surprisingly handsome and ornate collection of buildings that once had been the region’s main slaughterhouse. There I discovered more about this seemingly sleepy region, particularly what happened during the civil war. In 1938 the German Luftwaffe did General Franco the favour of dropping 54 tons of bombs on Tortosa, intending to destroy its three bridges over the Ebro and thwart the Republican forces. The fascists prevailed and subsequently erected a monstrous victory-commemorating structure on a pier in the river. It looms over the city even now, a subject of controversy.

          The next day, in our local village, we bumped into the yoga teacher. I immediately straightened my posture and tried to look loose-limbed. She probably was not fooled, but she smiled and greeted us warmly. We’ll be leaving for home soon, but we have an opportunity to go to one more yoga lesson. I’ve put my name down. This time, I might even brave a discreet “ommmm”.

On The Move Again

          I will admit to being a bit of a grump about Halloween. The way I see it, what started as an ancient Celtic festival marking the end of harvest season was subsequently hijacked by the Christian church, then popularised and commercialised in the USA, before being exported back to Europe as a mock horror tableau. It serves no useful purpose in my universe. Still, having spent the night of 31^st October in the centre of Santander, Spain, I can see it’s a lot of fun for a lot of people. The local populace dressed up and stayed up, partying in the streets for most of the night – and so they might, as the following day is a holiday, designated by the Church as All Saints Day (which sounds like an all-purpose excuse for a party).

          We’re currently on a leisurely round-trip, staying for a week or so with a friend who now lives off-grid on a finca – or smallholding – that she acquired in NE Spain some five years ago. Although hers may sound like an isolated existence, she is in fact at the centre of a networked community whose social life would be the envy of many a city-dwelling nine-to-fiver. Get-togethers are frequent and laughter abounds, though underlying anxieties related to battery capacity and rainfall often dominate the conversation.

          In fact, just before we arrived, a storm had brought them much needed rain, though in such vast quantities that it ran down the rivers to Valencia and caused catastrophic flooding, leaving the country in mourning for the death of hundreds of its citizens. The event was covered by news media in the UK, but distant tragedies are usually only of passing interest to those who are not immediately affected. Such is the extent of human empathy. Being in Spain at this time makes it feel a little more personal, but only to the extent that my touristic pleasures are tinged with a vague feeling of guilt.

          If measured by the extent of human suffering, then every news bulletin contains greater tragedies than this, though that does not deter us tourists from carrying on regardless. Life goes on. It used to be easy to maintain a state of oblivion while on holiday, working abroad or travelling. I recall being overseas for months at a time and losing touch with current affairs for want of an English language news-source. It was as if geopolitics had been suspended, such was the degree of my ignorance.

          But the internet has changed all that and not necessarily for the better. I have been able to continue following the US presidential election as reported by CNN, the Guardian, the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Financial Times and various free news sources. Where once there was famine, now there is feast, which is a marvellous thing but, in the current circumstances, does nothing to lift the spirits. The geopolitical storms don’t look like abating. Wars, the depletion of nature and climate change are driving the migration of millions from their homelands. It's not surprising that we humans take care of our own welfare before we give much consideration to the suffering of others: it might so easily be our turn next to fall victim to the cruelties inflicted by others acting in their own self-interest.

          Anyway, my leisurely trip can be likened to a circular hike: assuming all goes well, I will find myself back at home, safe, sound and satisfied. It’s quite unlike the linear, open-ended journey that I contemplated, just for the sake of adventure, at the age of eighteen. And it’s in a different league altogether from the desperate, dangerous setting forth of the migrants who seek sanctuary from the all too real horrors they face in their homelands.

Out Alone

          There’s a pub in Totnes that has the best food menu ever: bring your own! The concept makes a lot of sense, leaving the publican free to concentrate on curating the bar and the jolly pub vibe, while not having to take responsibility for a potentially cantankerous chef in the back. This formula for success may not be a novelty, I know, but it works especially well in this instance because it’s next door to a very fine takeaway joint that will bring your order, when it’s ready, to your table in the pub. That is, if you can get a table.

          I was there last week, on my own (by design), having arrived too early for a relatively obscure gig at a nearby venue. So, what better way to pass an hour than to eat and sup beforehand in a jovial, old-fashioned pub? Well, to have had company is one answer. A lively taproom can be a lonely place. And there is never a table for one. I was obliged to hang around until I got lucky and, when a couple vacated their table-for-four, I was quick to move in and claim it.

          Predictably, of course, I was soon approached and asked, politely, if I would mind sharing. Two blokes in their sixties, clutching full pints and wearing hopeful expressions stood before me. “Of course,” I said, “feel free.” But, in situations such as this, there is an assessment to be made about whether it is just the space you’re about to share or if conversation is included. I was engaged with my phone – the modern equivalent of reading the newspaper, a traditional way of being alone in a bar – but I paused to allow for any further verbal exchange.

          It became clear, however, that these two chaps had met up specifically to catch up. They had not seen each other for a while and they had no need to leaven their conversation with contributions from a third party. I reverted to my phone until, thankfully, the harried-looking girl from the takeaway appeared with my order, a family-sized chicken shwarma (without napkins), which I consumed, messily, as a captive audience to my table-fellows’ conversation. Although, ‘conversation’ is not really what I would call the lengthy and detailed account by one of the men of how he went about consolidating his various pension funds into a single, drawdown option. And that was before he started on his wife’s financial situation. Before long, I had the impression that his companion was beginning to regret not having invited me to join in, but it was too late to switch topics and, anyway, I was fully engaged in battle with a monster, dripping shwarma.

          But the monster had me beaten and I went in search of a bin for what remained of it. When I returned, the dynamic at the table changed. As the pension bore shifted his chair, it produced a loud cracking sound which alerted me (being an ex-furniture-maker) to looming catastrophe. I urged him to stand so that I could examine the structure which, sure enough, was on the verge of collapse. Manfully, I lifted it with the intention of effecting a temporary repair and, in the process, ripped open a fingertip on a protruding nail. The others gawped as I fished out a pocket-tissue to staunch the blood, then set off in search of first aid.

          The barman, mistaking the look of urgency on my face for thirst, launched himself towards the beer-pumps and enquired after my preference. “Actually, it’s a plaster I need”, I said, brandishing my finger. Although taken by surprise, he acted with alacrity and produced the necessary dressings. One of my table-fellows helped me apply the plaster (it’s difficult to do with one hand) and then it was time for me to leave.

          Going solo is a bit of a gamble, I reflected: one’s fantasies of exhilarating adventures don’t always materialise. Even the gig turned out to be a disappointment, though that’s another story...

Winter Blues?

          I did my bit to help out the NHS last week: I got vaccinated against ‘flu, covid and a new one called RSV, thereby hoping to ease the avalanche of winter infections that crashes into our creaking healthcare system every year. Let’s call it ‘preventive medicine’, which is not only easier to say than ‘preventative medicine’ but is also just as effective. Not that my motivation was entirely selfless, of course. I mean, who wants to be poorly? This is a question to ask anti-vaxxers, the most ardent of whom would not only be stumped by the logic but would also insist (without evidence) that I now have several of the nefarious Bill Gates’ micro-chips implanted in my body.

          The ’flu and covid jabs were given at the same appointment, one in each arm. A friend of mine boasted that he’d had them both in one arm, so that he would be able to sleep on his other side pain-free. But when I asked for the same treatment, it was refused, so I had to sleep on my back, propped with extra pillows so that I didn’t snore. Two days later, I was on my way back up the hill to the clinic for the RSV, when I passed a neighbour who asked me what it was and, in so doing, revealed that, though he is of advanced years, he is not between the ages of 75 and 80, the range that qualifies you for protection against ‘Respiratory Syncytial Virus’. Then, at the top of the hill, I met another neighbour, whom I know to be older, resting on a bench. I asked if he had just had his RSV jab and he said, “No, I’m too old. Not worth saving, I suppose.” I patted him on the shoulder and left him sitting there, disconsolate.

          With both my arms being sore from the previous visit, I asked the nurse whether I should come back another day for this third jab. But she was unsympathetic and dissuaded me with a tale of how inconvenient it would be to make another appointment. Then, before I knew it, she stuck the needle in and dismissed me with a wry, “There now, that didn’t hurt, did it?”

          Other preparations for winter include an underwear upgrade. When there was a very brief cold snap, back in September, I made a beeline for M&S, where they stock some comfy-looking, long-sleeved, thermal vests. I splashed out on a couple in light blue (which, I fancy, rather suits me) but, by the time I had got them out of the packaging, the temperature had shot back up to 20 degrees, thereby rendering them temporarily redundant. I’m not one to complain about the weather – I like its variability – but I was sort of looking forward to the winter and the smug feeling of having planned to be snug when squaring up to its harsh embrace.

          Now I wait. In fact, the situation seems to have regressed. We spent the last couple of days at Treyarnon Bay, in Cornwall, where the sun shone down on us and the handful of off-season holidaymakers frolicked in the waves that rolled endlessly onto the sandy beach. It was like a ghostly iteration of summer, without the hordes of visitors and the ensuing vehicular chaos. Even the lady running the ice cream hut reopened for business after having shut up shop some weeks earlier. How fortunate we were to visit a picturesque Cornish resort under such ideal conditions. And yet…

          Now, back at home and with no sign of wintry conditions arriving, I console myself with the cost-saving of not having to heat the flat in these next few days, after which we will embark on the ferry to Spain for three weeks. Surely, there will be a winter to look forward to on our return.

 

Proactive Friendship Pays Off

         It is said that men are not very proactive when it comes to nurturing their male friendships. (Those who question this assertion might be interested to know that a recent scientific paper, in attempting to quantify the apparent differences between male and female friendship patterns, provides some evidence for the credibility of this assertion.) Perhaps that’s why women often step up to help their menfolk with their friendship management.

          For example, we spent a few days last week with old friends we had left behind when we moved from Manchester to Plymouth. As two (straight) couples, we rented a cottage on the coast of Cardigan Bay – a location equally inconvenient for both parties but well suited, nonetheless, to our tastes for gentle hiking and general poking around in historically interesting places. Our coming-together was, of course, initiated and arranged by the women.

          The cottage is in the village of St. Dogmaels, a short walk from the town of Cardigan. St Dogs, as the locals call it (or so I was informed), once had an abbey, the ruins of which are bang in the middle of the village and significant enough to sustain a visitor centre that doubles up as a community café. The morning after our arrival, it was buzzing with locals and visitors who had come for the weekly craft and produce market set up in the adjacent car park. Here, we stocked up on organic veg and a chicken that had previously ranged freely but was now destined for our supper. Across the way, at the old mill – still in operation – we bought a surfeit of bread from the artisan baker. For us townies, it was the ideal village experience.

          Nor did the walking disappoint. The forecasts threatened rain but it mostly held off. Being out of season, we had little or no company, except for the couple who caught up with us on a set route that we were following from a 1993 Ordnance Survey guidebook. My Other Half and I had made a note in our copy of the book that we had completed this circuit in 1996, though neither of us had any recollection of the route and its sometimes remarkable landmarks. The text gave directions that were not always obvious, especially when stone stiles had since been replaced by metal gates, so we took a few wrong turnings. But so did the other couple, who were following the same route but using an app and GPS for guidance. We challenged them to meet us in the pub at the end but, the last we saw of them, they were heading in what was definitely the wrong direction through a wooded valley.

          We also met a Land Rover on a narrow lane and, as it slowed to let us pass, the driver, an ageing crusty with dreadlocks and a smoking joint between his fingers, leaned from the window, grinned widely and muttered something friendly sounding. I took him to be a survivor of the drop-out culture, one of those who went to live the simple, organic life in remote parts of Wales years ago and were never seen again. Later, we walked past a ramshackle farmstead littered with old machinery, vehicles and other stuff that might one day be recycled but meanwhile lay rusting. But it was the political slogans painted on the barn that made me suspect this might be the home of our latterly encountered crusty.

          We dined each evening at the cottage, wilfully ignoring the list of recommended restaurants provided by our host, for we are comfortable with the intimacies of sharing space and the preparation of meals. Our jollity was fuelled by many a glass of wine, though, now I come to think of it, we men ought to have raised one of them as a toast to the women for bringing us together again.

 

Flytrap

          During the summer months, fruit flies hang around our kitchen. Despite my obsessive efforts to keep everything clean, still they circle slowly around, seeking out any whiff of organic matter. I suppose they do no harm, but I am unaccountably irritated by their insouciance and just cannot resist trying to squash them. Fooled by their slow flight, I grab at them with one hand, but they scoot away with super-powered acceleration. Occasionally, I catch one in a two-handed clap, but the sudden violent movement often has repercussions in the form of spillages and breakages that are even more irritating than the pesky flies. And so, I use a deadly trap, a glass containing an inch of cider vinegar, sealed at the top with clingfilm perforated with a few holes small enough for them to crawl in to but out of which, inexplicably, they are unable to escape.

          Yesterday, it being the start of October, there was a chill in the air marking the end of the fruit fly season, so I emptied the contents of the trap, a sludge of tiny, semi-pickled carcasses, down the toilet – though not without a pang of guilt. After all, the philosophy discussion group I attend has recently touched upon ahimsa, the theory of non-violence and compassion towards all living beings, as contained in Hindu, Buddhist, Jainist and several non-religious philosophies. Then, today, an item in the news tweaked my conscience even more. Scientists have produced the first wiring diagram for a whole brain – that of the fruit fly! Leaving aside, for the moment, the repercussions of this astonishing scientific breakthrough, the realisation that such tiny creatures really do have a brain (rudimentary though it may be) induces in me more sympathy with the concept of ahimsa.

          But, speaking as a person who prides himself on possessing a degree of practical skill, I do marvel at the fact that the researchers were able to slice the fly brain into 7,000 slivers in order to analyse the neural connections. Their feat of precision puts into the shade my own, recent achievement, which was the re-hanging of our internal doors so that they fit snugly into their frames after a whoosh of resistant compressing air and a reassuring ‘click’ (though my Other Half, who is congenitally disinclined to close anything fully, will never experience the sensation of satisfaction that comes over me each time I “put wood in th'ole”, as they say in Yorkshire, or thereabouts).

          But the brain of a fruit fly is commensurate with its function in life, which is to multiply and thrive, I assume. Unlike the human brain, it doesn’t create for itself problems by striving for much else. Take, for example, the paralysis my own grey matter experienced this week when a programme on my computer acted unexpectedly by renaming a file, then refusing to save it. Although my first reaction was panic, I did then attempt to analyse and rectify the process. But I failed and had to call on the expertise of James at Computerbase, who, with a few deft taps on the keyboard and a dismissive, “What’s your problem?” demeanour, soon set things right. My problem, obviously, is a lack of understanding of how the programme works. There may well be capacity in my brain to acquire that knowledge, but what’s lacking is motivation.

          One day, scientists may be able to scale up their brain-mapping technology to the human level, whereupon they will be able to fix our apparent wiring faults. Meanwhile, I would like to set them a more modest goal: to explain why fruit flies can’t find their way back through the holes in the clingfilm. And, with my much bigger brain, allied with my newly acquired compassionate streak, I really ought to be working on a non-lethal way of ridding the kitchen of the irritating little buggers.

Frank and Me

         It’s not just the changing weather that signals the end of summer; there are other markers, such as the darkening evenings which, for me at least, reignite the fancy to read novels. Currently, Richard Ford’s works are capturing my attention, especially those featuring Frank Bascombe, a character with whom I feel some affinity, though he is American. What we have in common is our year of birth, our left-leaning politics and the degree of equanimity with which we bear the burden of guilt imposed upon us by an accident of fate – our white, western, male boomer ‘privilege’.

          Meanwhile, the warm, sunny second week of September insisted that summer wasn’t done yet and it was time, for those of us who are able, to make the most of it. The kids were back at school and we had the fields of leisure to ourselves. But first, I had one commitment to dispatch – helping out with the annual street party thrown by the charity with which I associate. My role as a volunteer involved a long day of interacting with the public, topped and tailed by the physical activity of dragging out and putting away a lot of bunting, chairs and miscellaneous kit. I had been suffering some lower-back pain (as a result of sanding and painting the skirting-boards at home, I’m sure), so I was apprehensive of worsening the condition. However, I awoke the next day pain-free – a testament to the aphorism “use it or lose it”. I wish I could pass this good news on to Frank, as he is something of a martyr to the aches and pains of his elderly frame.

          Then it was time to exercise the privilege of we self-employed/un-employed. We threw our hiking boots in the campervan and set off for a few choice days out – part of our on-going project to explore our recently adopted location on the border of Devon and Cornwall. We based ourselves at the village of Lydford, a place that has it all: ancient pedigree, interesting topography, a campsite on its periphery and a good pub at its heart. (It once had a post office, too, but now it’s a bijou residence.) Archaeology concludes that Lydford was established in the Bronze Age and documented history tells us that it was an important place in Saxon times – so much so that the Danes attacked and captured it in 997, overcoming its formidable defences, both natural and constructed.

          Lydford sits at the western edge of Dartmoor and just above a gorge, the latter seemingly inconsistent with the relatively gentle lie of the land. Yet, there it is! A mini gorge, with all the features of a maxi (except scale), complete with a Devil’s Cauldron of roiling water and a spectacular, 30 metre waterfall, known as the White Lady for its resemblance to long white tresses. No doubt Americans would be underwhelmed by the experience, though I would hope for at least a polite show of interest from Frank.

          The small scale of the gorge rules it out as a hike, so we took one on adjacent Dartmoor the next day. It’s a bleak landscape and famously treacherous in bad weather. Yet, even on the clear, sunny day of our visit, we found it a less than joyful experience. Like the Lake District, Dartmoor used to be completely forested and, with that in mind, it is hard to ignore the fact that these uplands, famed for their ‘beauty’ and favoured by hikers, are really despoiled and degraded regions. The pleasure of being in them is tempered with grieving for what they once were.

          Before leaving, we returned to the café at the gorge, which adjoins an old orchard, where the apples are free to gather. We took a load home and stewed them for the freezer, while planning which films to see now that the cinemas have come back to life. Autumn was in the air. Or ‘fall’, as Frank would have it.

Healthy Concern

          This week, I was summoned to the clinic for a periodical blood test to keep track of an illness that I may or may not develop. Though I remember vaguely being told about it, the origins of the diagnosis were lost during the transfer of records from my former home, so I keep turning up for the test, just in case.

          I suppose I shall get a definitive result one day but, meanwhile, an actual health-related incident occurred when I spat out part of a tooth that had come asunder. The broken-off remnant is tiny in comparison to the gap it has left, which, to my probing tongue, feels cavernous and has a razor-sharp edge. The breakage was to be expected, in fact I had anticipated it, given the antiquity of the tooth and my penchant for toasted slices of sourdough, the crusts of which are more dangerous than pork crackling and can slice through your gums as well as lay waste to your teeth.

          I may or may not get a repair done, as there is no pain and the sharp edge will eventually wear blunt. No, the real problem here is finding another type of bread to toast, given that none of the alternatives available locally are to my liking (Cranks wholemeal being the gold standard). So, I’m exploring the viability of making bread myself and, already, a friend has offered up a couple of recipes. The prospect is unappealing, since it will introduce an unwanted chore into my studiously idle hours. Ideally, I will find a method that involves not having to wait hours for the dough to prove – a requirement driven not by impatience but by my innate unwillingness to schedule every detail of life. Another stipulation would be the no-knead method – not that I’m lazy, but my arthritic fingers will protest; as it is, they are aching from the exertions of sanding doorframes in preparation for their coat of new paint.

          Incidentally, the fingerprint detector on my phone no longer recognizes my skin, presumably because most of it has been worn down by repeated, vigorous contact with 120s grit sandpaper. This is a bit of a nuisance because – if I’m wearing a dust mask and/or goggles – the face-detection doesn’t work either and I’m back to inputting a PIN.

          Overall, however, I am in good health (forthcoming blood-test results notwithstanding), something for which I am particularly thankful, having just attended the funeral of an old friend.

          I can’t claim to have been very close to Tony, a big man with big appetites and a cavalier disregard for risk. There was a period, long ago, when we might have grown together, but geography rather precluded it. Still, I am tight enough with at least part of his circle to have stayed in touch and enjoyed his generous, enthusiastic company over the years. He died suddenly, though not unexpectedly. Anyone with basic medical knowledge could have predicted the outcome of such an immoderate lifestyle as his. Nor did it come as a surprise that there was a huge throng of mourners at his wake, given that he lived his gregarious life in the town where he was born. The wake was not mournful, though I did detect among contemporaries, the feeling that Tony could have been with us a good few years longer yet.

          On the scale that runs from well, through unwell, to deceased, I am pretty much at the alive-and-kicking end, where I make some effort to remain. There’s nothing like the passing of an old friend to strengthen that resolve. But Tony’s approach to health and well-being was not, shall we say, as pernickety as mine. He was not the kind of man to fret over the results of a blood test.

Listening

          The internal redecoration of Wonderman Towers is well under way and, with vast expanses of wall and ceiling now double-coated, there remains only the east wing to tackle. Progress has been satisfactory in more ways than one, because I’ve been using the time spent labouring to listen to stuff – switching between playlists and podcasts, as the mood takes me – and it feels like I’ve covered ground mentally as well as physically. It’s a very satisfactory form of multi-tasking, though it comes with one proviso: take care not to become so carried away with what you’re listening to that you end up painting yourself into a literal corner.

          One of the podcasts I like is The Writer’s Voice, which is put out by The New Yorker. It comprises short stories, previously published in the magazine, read aloud by their respective authors. Of course, being a good writer possessed of what is called an authentic “voice” does not necessarily mean you can read aloud, convincingly, the fruits of your authorial labour. There are professionals who take on this work: they are called actors.

          Nevertheless, the half-dozen authors I’ve sampled so far do make a pretty good fist of it. I suppose they are all accustomed to reading out loud to audiences on their promotional tours. There is one writer, however, whose voice I found so grating that, no matter the quality of what she had to say or the subtlety and emotion with which she imbued it, I could not endure her nasal, whining tone beyond about three minutes (the app has a helpful timer on it). I felt guilty about curtailing her effort, but I might salve my conscience by reading her piece – once the job is finished, of course.

          Coincidentally, I came across another source of the amusing and sometimes edifying effects of the spoken word. During my evening down-times, I’ve been delving into the BBC iPlayer archive of documentaries made in the early 60s. The black and white footage makes everything look dreary – even scenes shot in colourful Carnaby Street – so it’s as well that my memories of the time are in vivid, Sergeant Pepper-style colour.

          What is harder to call to mind, however, is the way people spoke. And when I say people, I mean those of us who were there. Did we really sound like that? There seemed to be a lot of stilted formality about it. Surely, the way we speak nowadays is more relaxed? Well, maybe. We would need a big AI programme to analyse the data on that. Perhaps we have just become more comfortable with the technology of recording. Thanks to phone-enabled video production, it is no longer unusual to hear our own voices and see our own actions, hence we don’t feel so inhibited when confronted with cameras and microphones.

          But, while listening to recorded material has its benefits, there are times when you want to chip in. This is where the University of the Third Age philosophy discussion group comes into its own. At yesterday’s meeting, we considered the main tenets of Kant and Bentham and, notwithstanding the aphorism, “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing”, we sought similarities in their respective principles of the ‘categorical imperative’ and ‘utilitarianism’.

          Briefly put, we considered whether the proposed ban on smoking in beer gardens would accord with the great philosophers’ ideas. One of our number blurted out immediately her abhorrence of the “nanny state”, a pejorative and emotive phrase that deftly by-passed any philosophical consideration of the example. But we carried on regardless to conclude that Bentham would vote in favour of the ban on the grounds that it would benefit the majority. Kant was harder to call but, since he advocates a universal moral law that applies to all beings, it seemed likely he would also be in favour. By the way, albeit Kant is a towering figure in Western philosophy, contemporary reports inform us that he had a weak and tremulous voice, quite unsuitable for podcasting, I imagine.

 

  

 

On Choosing One's Destiny

          Finally, we decided on a colour for the walls. It’s called Tundra Frost. Despite my slight embarrassment at returning several times for sample pots, the man in the paint shop told me that I was nowhere near the record, which is held by a person who bought 46 pots to determine two shades of cream for one room. It made me feel quite decisive.

          I became impatient waiting for the decorators who said they’d do the job to get back to me so, while my Other Half is away for a week, I’ve taken the opportunity to get on with it myself. The fact is, I never could resist a DIY challenge, especially one that fell comfortably within my abilities. Nevertheless, I have a nagging feeling that, despite enjoying the work itself, there are more momentous issues crying out for my attention. I am also a little anxious about meeting the somewhat demanding deadline.

          Am I over-worrying the situation? If so, I put it down to the accumulation of knowledge and experience that clogs my mind and inhibits my motivational impulse. Oh, for a return of the simplicity of youth, when everything was an adventure upon which I would embark without hesitation. Nowadays, I think at least twice about everything.

          Last week, our friends took us on their catamaran, as passengers, for a sail up the River Tamar. I chose not to get involved in manoeuvring the vessel. I have tried it before and decided that life is too short to spend it acquiring skills that I don’t need (I have a tendency to become sea-sick), which left me in a position to observe not just the scenery, but also the procedure. Under sail and with strong but variable winds, experience is required to navigate the several sharp bends while keeping to the deep channel. It’s not what you call ‘plain sailing’. But conditions were favourable, the crew were competent and we had time before the tide turned to drop anchor and enjoy lunch in the spacious cabin that straddles the hulls.

          Our destination was Calstock, around which the lucrative industries of mining and lime production thrived at a time when the spoils had to be transported down river by sailing barges. It seems to me that those involved in that trade must have mastered not only the skills but also the longanimity required to sit out the vagaries of wind and weather without suffering constant deadline-stress syndrome. Perhaps they enjoyed the work/life balance. If so, they were probably not best pleased when the railway arrived and deprived them of it.

          As to whether I could spend my time more profitably than by wielding a paintbrush – it is a moot point. We are all living our lives to a deadline (literally), we just don’t know when it’s scheduled. It makes sense, therefore, to make progress, while we can, with whatever we are best equipped to achieve. This is a thought that preoccupies me increasingly, in direct proportion to my diminishing future prospect. It can lead to a sort of desperation to try anything – as, for example, when I went recently to a performance given by a fifty-strong steel band. It was certainly impressive; there was no conductor up front and no sheet music to guide them through their impressively complex pieces. And yet, once the novelty wore off, I could find only so much musicality in the hitting of steel drums with sticks, no matter how masterfully executed. I left the hall uninspired, but in awe of the commitment of those involved.

          But I must get back to the job. Satisfaction lies in its completion, on time, within budget and to a competent standard: of that, I’m sure. It’s just the Tundra Frost I have a lingering doubt about.  

 

 

Aisle Number One

          I was crossing the carpark on my way into the supermarket when a woman emerged from a car, looked at me and said, “I was having trouble seeing the lines.” Apparently, she was embarrassed by her inept parking. As if I had even noticed! Still, I smiled and responded, “Yes, it’s time they were repainted. But there’s plenty of space, it’s not busy this early.” “I know,” she said as we walked through the door in sync. “That’s why I’ve come now. I have to go into town after.” She was, I guess, in her early seventies and had a purposeful set to her petite frame. I complimented her, jokingly, on her efficient time-management. She didn’t smile, but continued to outline the rest of her day, regardless of our being strangers to each other. I know that routines and goals, however trivial they may appear, do play a part in maintaining good health, physically and mentally. Perhaps that was how she kept things together, I thought.

          My own resilience in this respect has been tested these past couple of weeks, one of which was spent looking after three dogs at the house of relatives, the other spent entertaining visitors back at home. Although my habitual routines were thereby disrupted, I cannot claim to have suffered unduly – painful as it was to have been  obliged to make conversation over breakfast. Nevertheless, I missed the rhythms of my preferred lifestyle and, now that I have settled back into them, I feel more at ease. None of which is to deny the advantages of disruption – the stimulant of company and the refreshing of perspectives discovered in unfamiliar places or situations. In the end, however, it’s the certainty of a controlled environment and a constant companion that gives me comfort.

          But I haven’t finished with the woman at the supermarket. As we arrived at the fruit aisle, I feigned an interest in the bananas, thinking she might take the hint that we both had errands to fulfil. Instead, she began a new topic of conversation, her penchant for coastal hiking – something we both share, as it happens. However, it wasn’t conversation she wanted, just a sympathetic ear, so I listened patiently to descriptions of her favourite stretches of the Cornish coast, while using my body language to move us along, hoping that she would remember the urgency of her mission to get into town. But we had only progressed as far as the nectarines when she announced that she was going to show me some photos of the stretch from Polperro to St. Ives.

          She fished out her phone and there was that awkward couple of minutes while I waited for her to locate the pics, during which time I averted my eyes from her screen, as per newly-established social conventions. And, with nothing to do but contemplate the nectarines, I remembered the last time I had tried one from there, about four years ago: it was tough as a turnip and less flavoursome. When she eventually found them, her photos were embedded in a chain of WhatsApp messages, a sort of travelogue, that she had sent to her son. As I admired the shots – all strips of blue, green and yellow, the coast on a sunny day – it became apparent that she hiked alone. Not that she expressed loneliness, either in words or demeanour but, after we parted company (by the melons) with the usual, “must be getting on, nice to talk to you” etc., it occurred to me that what she was really doing was keeping herself busy, filling her days with whatever it took to give them meaning.

The Jury's Out?

          Last Saturday, I joined around one hundred other concerned citizens at a Defend Our Juries rally in Parliament Square, the ideal location, you might think, for such a demonstration. It’s a high-profile, public space right outside the seat of government. However, it’s actually a traffic island and it has to be shared with other groups wanting to make an impression on Parliament and the public at large.

           The spot beneath the statue of Gandhi is especially popular and, in order to claim it, we were obliged to come to a time-share arrangement with groups demanding rights for trans-sexual people and statehood for Palestine. And, considering one of our aims was to engage the passing public, the spot was even less ideal. The foot-traffic consisted almost entirely of foreign tourists, whose interests lay elsewhere – mainly in getting selfies of themselves with the smart, white-shirted, pointy-helmeted officers of the Metropolitan police, who were there in abundance. (I imagine that the body-armour-clad snatch-squads lurking nearby were too menacing to approach and, in any case, did not project the essence of the ‘Mother of Democracies’ that the photographers were hoping to capture.)

          Still, there were some fine speeches – and an amusingly satirical poem – addressed to the assembled crowd of already-converted campaigners in the hope that TV news channels would broadcast our message, which is that we object to the judicial undermining of the long-established* principle that juries, having been presented with all the relevant information, have the right to give their verdict according to their convictions. (In March 2023, Trudi Warner sat, silently, outside Southwark Crown Court holding a poster reminding jurors of this right. The judge, presiding over a case against climate activists inside, ordered her arrest and prosecution for “contempt of court” and “conspiring to influence the jury”.)

          I can’t say for sure that our rally didn’t make it on to the national news channels but, even if it did, it would have been eclipsed by the rioting that subsequently broke out in several cities and which is attributed to politically far-right groups who blame immigrants for our social problems. That footage of violent mobs attacking premises, fellow citizens and the police made it to Australia, from where my sister sent messages of concern for her siblings at home and for the UK itself, which, as she saw it, seemed about to erupt into civil war. A few days later, the rioters (whose targets also included retail outlets, especially those selling booze, fags, trainers and phones) were faced down by far larger numbers of counter-protestors determined not to let violence prevail. Civil war was never likely to transpire, but the power of media to amplify an event is evident, which is why we too would like some exposure for our cause.

          But there might be a chance of a randomly beneficial side-effect to all this violent disorder – at least for those who have been locked up for protesting peacefully. The government promised swift justice and harsh sentences for those caught red-handed in acts of violence against society and, today, the first of those arrested were tried, convicted and sentenced. Two men are now serving two-and-a-half year terms in jail.

           Well, it was certainly swift – especially considering the utter congestion of our legal system – but whether it was harsh is a moot point. By comparison, four people are currently serving four-year custodial sentences and a fifth was jailed for five years – the longest sentences ever given in the UK for non-violent protesting. Their crime was to discuss, via Zoom, a plan to disrupt traffic on the M25. Their motive was to bring attention to the devastation that fossil-fuel extraction is wreaking on our eco-sphere, but the judge ordered that they were not allowed to mention that in the court, lest it sway the jury.

           As to which of the crimes prosecuted is more harmful to society, the jury’s certainly not out.

*Ref the prosecution, in 1670, of two Quakers, Penn and Mead, who were tried for preaching to an unlawful assembly. The jury refused to give a verdict against them.

WOMAD

          I was initiated into the world of music festivals in 1969 at the Isle of Wight. Bob Dylan was the main attraction for me, but there were many other favourites of mine on the bill. The following year I caught the ferry across the Solent again, this time to see an even more comprehensive roster of outstanding acts and, looking back, I’m not sure which was more incredible, the lineup* or the fact that the tickets cost less than a fiver.

           Memories become patchy and distorted, as we all know, yet such fragments as remain with me from those festivals are vivid to this day. Jimi Hendrix dazzled us with his guitar wizardry, building to a climax when he set fire to his instrument (literally) while still playing it. But what I remember most clearly about that was that he pulled from his pocket one of those little yellow tins of lighter fluid and periodically squirted it over the guitar to keep the flames going. The mundane, makeshift nature of this pyrotechnic device somewhat dulled the magic of the moment and drew a line for me between musicality and theatricality, hence my subsequent indifference to, for instance, Ziggy Stardust.

           For a few carefree years, I would catch up with the music I liked at similar multi-act, outdoor gigs, until I moved from London and grew into a different scene and phase of life, emerging at last into the light of jazz. I started going to jazz festivals (where the theatrical elements of performances, if there were any, were restrained so as not to distract attention from the musical artistry). But while I was preoccupied with my newly adopted genre, something happened to music festivals. They no longer presented themselves as extended gigs, but had become ever more complex, multi-stage, multi-interest events appealing to wider audiences.

          I began to fancy the idea of one of these new-fangled festivals that embraced literature, poetry, art and music – something for everyone – and, in 2016, I finally got around to attending Festival Number 6 at Portmeirion. One reason for the delay in making the decision was my astonishment at the effect inflation had had on ticket prices in the years intervening. Another can be laid at the feet of my Other Half, whose aversion to events such as these is as stubborn as it is unaccountable. I did persuade her, eventually, to come along, only to have my success blunted by the incessant rain which led to the total washout of the event, our early departure and the confirmation of her antipathy.

          Fast forward to this year and I made up my mind to give festivals another chance. The one I chose was WOMAD, World of Music, Arts and Dance (only later did I discover the irony of its nickname, World of Mums and Dads) and this time I went solo. The weather was perfect and there were tents dedicated to real ale and cider so, if all else proved disappointing, there was some solace to be found. But being alone is only fun for a while, so I hooked up as soon as I could with some friends, old and new, that I knew were there and the event subsequently took on a sociable, party atmosphere. I began to understand that I was in a sort of holiday theme-park, with a menu of entertainments at my disposal.

          I don’t need to go back to WOMAD. The ‘world music’ genre is a mixed bag, some of it too ethnically pure to be more than academically interesting, some of it too rhythmically focussed to go anywhere but trance-dance and some of it too mixed up to qualify as ‘fusion’. I could try another festival next summer – Love Supreme has been suggested as being more to my liking. Of course, what I’d really like to do is go back to the Isle of Wight and, this time, pay more attention. But time-travel is for dreamers.

* I.o.W. 1970.
Jethro Tull
Ten Years After
Chicago
Family
Taste
Voices of East Harlem
Arrival
Lighthouse
The Doors
Joni Mitchell
The Who
Sly and the Family Stone
Great Mother
Free
John Sebastian
Emerson, Lake & Palmer
Mungo Jerry
Spirit
Jimi Hendrix Experience
Joan Baez
Donovan & Open Road
Leonard Cohen & the Army
Richie Havens
Moody Blues
Pentangle
Good News

Unforeseeable Consequences

          At the end of almost a week of relaxed mingling with extended family at the World Touch Cup sporting tournament in Nottingham, I was driving home. The sun was shining and I was full of joie de vivre, so I hooked up the sound system to Spotify and picked a playlist that would sustain the mood as I bowled along the motorway. All was going swimmingly but, after an hour or so, the music was interrupted by the stern-sounding voice of a middle-aged American male – such as you might have heard in a black-and-white Hollywood movie about the invasion of the planet by aliens from outer space – and his words were indeed a warning, not of invasion but self-destruction. He was talking about irreversible climate-related catastrophe.

           I was first alarmed then puzzled by this abrupt intrusion but, being in no position to pull over, I tried to make sense of it as I drove. In the days of radio, this might have been explained by either the deliberate intervention of the ‘authorities’ or, less ominously, a slippage of broadcasting frequencies. But this was the internet, so was I being hacked? Pretty soon, however, the message I was hearing became more interesting than puzzling over the medium through which it was being delivered. The stern-sounding man was merely the opening voice of a podcast called The Great Simplification, the theme of which is that account should be taken of all the possible outcomes of the actions we propose and the question asked, “And then what?” We need to use a “wide-boundary lens” when formulating policies. For example, we all switch to EVs, which do not run on fossil fuels but whose interiors are made of plastics – a by-product of oil – and whose batteries will require more rare minerals than are currently being mined. And then what? And don’t forget to factor in the Jevons paradox: if the cost of a resource decreases (i.e. EVs become more affordable), we are inclined to use more of it, thereby blowing a hole in any chance of actually conserving resources.

          By the time I got home, I had convinced myself that the podcast had played itself because Spotify knew I would be interested in the subject, either by analysing my listening fodder or – and this is where it becomes menacing – by consulting with Alexa. The truth turned out to be more mundane: my Other Half was trying to access our single-user account while I was using it and succeeded in selecting the podcast but not in being able to hear it.

          The next day, we had men in to lay new floor covering throughout Wonderman Towers. It’s a necessarily disruptive process, but I intended to supervise it closely, while my OH absented herself entirely. In the event, the men were quick, efficient, professional and not in need of supervision. We are chuffed with the result and with ourselves at having chosen to lay cork, a material with excellent properties of thermal and acoustic insulation and a sustainable pedigree second to none (although I have yet to check the latter through a wide-boundary lens).

          When we moved in here three years ago, the interior was an homage to magnolia and beige. Now, with the carpet gone, there are just the walls to re-paint. I say “just”, but the difficulty of the task is in choosing colours – especially from those tiny, printed swatches that serve only to confuse the eye. We have a lot of paintings to re-hang, but don’t want the clinical white background of a gallery space. So, I am currently surrounded by patchwork-effect walls painted with samples. I’m paralysed with indecision and mulling over the relative benefits of a return to magnolia. Not only that, but I also have a nagging feeling that I am engaged in mere displacement activity. I mean, according to what I’ve been listening to lately, we’re all doomed anyway, whatever decisions we make.

 

From the Touchline

          The last time I was at the National Water Sports Centre, Nottingham – about 20 years ago – I was with a group of thrill-seeking geezers. We rode around aimlessly on those gyroscopically balanced ‘segways’, then had a go at white water rafting, where I was washed overboard and ignominiously hauled to safety. So, having ticked off those two activities, what am I doing back here again? Well, I’m pitched up on the adjacent campsite, a useful base from which to attend the week-long World Touch Cup which is taking place a few miles away at the university sports complex.
          Considering I spend as little of my short span of time on earth as is socially acceptable on sports of any kind, my presence here might seem anomalous. But a strand of my family has travelled from Australia to compete, so it’s an opportunity to spend time with them and, perhaps, get a glimpse into the lives of sporting types and whatever it is that motivates them. (I may be cynical about sport but not so much as the renowned New York wit Fran Lebovitz, who said “about the only thing I have in common with sports people is the right to trial by jury”.)  
          Nevertheless, I do feel as though I’m currently surrounded by an alien culture. Travelling to and from the Touch event I pass Trent Bridge, (where the West Indies are playing England at cricket), Nottingham Forest FC and several local tennis and rugby clubs. Two days ago I left home, where the TV was permanently showing either Wimbledon (where the British would-be women’s champion admitted to having no idea that the general election was about to happen) or the Euro football tournament which, according to the more emotionally inclined, broke the nation’s heart. Now there is championship golf in Scotland and the news feeds are filling up with preparations for the Paris Olympics. And back on the campsite, I’m surrounded by people with canoes and wetsuits. From this perspective, it seems as though our economy is based mainly on sports, in which case it should be simple for the new government to achieve its stated aim of growing GDP. They might even try conscripting reluctant participants, like me, for the greater good.
          So, I’ve watched my great nephew and several of his cousins play Touch for the Cook Islands (his father’s heritage qualifies him, despite his being Australian) and I now see that it’s a version of rugby/football that excludes physical contact, making it possible to play with mixed-sex teams. It’s fast and furious, while also being safe. Thirty nine countries are competing in the tournament, yet my nephew, who lives in Nottingham, told me he had seen no publicity for the event and that it would have passed him by but for the family callout. Perhaps the sport’s star is on the rise, though. The next competition will be held in New Zealand, which is inaccessible by campervan, I regret to say.
          My parents and siblings had no detectable interest in sports, so I can only speculate that our family caught the bug when one sister emigrated to Australia (I hear it’s rife there) in the company of a Portsmouth  FC fan and the other married into a family of Boston United supporters. These life-changing decisions enriched the bloodline. I say “enriched” in humble acknowledgement of the fact of human difference and because the benefits to the economy are palpable – especially to those who are successful. One news item today concerned a Morrisons delivery driver who won £180k in a golf tournament and has now embarked upon a career change.
          The Touch World Cup goes on till Sunday but I’m currently having a day off, recovering from a bout of touchline fatigue. My extended family is sympathetic, knowing as they do that my enthusiasm is limited and my enquiries into the game and its participants represent polite conversation rather than genuine interest. I have been careful, however, not to mention the fact that I sat and watched the England games during the Euros. They might suspect, as do I, that cracks are appearing in my immune system.
 
 

Whose Court?

         Our judicial system has lately been embroiled in a bit of a ding-dong regarding what is allowed as admissible evidence for presentation to juries. As you might expect, arguments of this nature are contested in a quagmire of legal precedents such as would test the patience of all but the most dogged of lay persons. But because the issue has uncovered something more fundamental than legal niceties (it raises concerns over the manipulation of the judiciary by politicians wanting to stifle dissent), I have locked horns with the beast.

          Which is why I (and several others) sat in silence for an hour outside our local Crown Court last Tuesday, holding a placard reading “Jurors have an absolute right to acquit a defendant according to their conscience”. Trudi Warner was arrested in March 2023 outside the Inner London Crown Court, where she set the precedent for our action, so it was reasonable for us to expect some sort of backlash from the authorities. However, no drama ensued, which left me at leisure to contemplate my surroundings.

          Plymouth’s Crown & County Court is a modest 1960s building, low-rise and unimposing, its only decorative feature being a large lattice-work panel above the entrance incorporating the City’s coat of arms. Pevsner labelled it a “bland box” but, to me, its presence says “civic pride” in a way that is inclusive of the people and is not designed to exaggerate the pomp of the courts. It has none of the lowering, gothic menace of, say, Lincoln’s Inn or the Old Bailey.

          Nor did we feel threatened in any other way. Our spokesperson politely informed the Clerk of our intentions and he responded in a friendly manner, sensibly anticipating no trouble. And so I sat, unspeaking, my back to the building, with a view across the plaza of the 1960s Civic Centre building, a true architectural classic in the tower and podium style, long since vacant and awaiting re-purposing after becoming surplus to requirements a few years ago. Which is why there is very little footfall in the area. Even the Court itself seemed to be short of business, despite the reported crisis of under-capacity in the system nationally and the fact that we sat from 08.30, so as not to miss the comings and goings.

          The people carrying cups of coffee and dressed in smart clothes – I supposed them to work within the building – paid us no attention, except for one who wore a pinstriped suit and a sneering expression. He engaged our spokesperson with a dismissive, “that was all sorted out in the Clive Ponting case years ago!” and flounced into the building, urging us to “look it up” as he went.

          Well, if it was sorted out, Judge Hehir hadn’t got the memo. Besides, it had, supposedly, been ‘sorted out’ long before Ponting, around 1670 in fact, following ’Bushel’s case’, after which a plaque incorporating the words written on my placard was put up in the entrance hall of the Old Bailey. Yet the point remains in contention, allegedly.

          Of the few passers-by, most did read the placards and some stopped to ask for clarification. When responding, the key is to have an explanation that is succinct and briefly conveys the message that Judge Hehir’s attempt to lock up Trudi Warner may seem like someone else’s problem but, if he were to succeed in his attempt to undermine our rights of peaceful protest at the behest of politically appointed prosecutors, it might one day be theirs.

          On the second of July this year police, acting on the order of Judge Hehir, arrested a group of 11 people, outside Southwark Crown Court for holding placards identical to Ms Warner’s. Hehir described them as “troublemakers”, but photos of the incident show them to be mostly old, white-haired citizens, sensibly dressed against the weather and uncomfortably perched on camping seats – just like the group I was part of last Tuesday.

 

 

The People's Party

          The Cornish fishing-port-cum-holiday-destination of Mevagissey celebrated its traditional ‘Feast Week’ at the end of June and I went along to get a taste. Its origin may lie in thanksgiving for an abundant fishing season, but the decline of religiosity and the onset of holidaymakers has transformed a once parochial event into a popular, secular, summer celebration involving games, processions, competitions, performers, fireworks and an awful lot of premium-priced pasties, beer and fish-n’-chips. But when you’re on your own the party tends to drag so, before long, I left the throngs and went on a solo exploration of the wider locality. Cornwall is loved by holidaymakers for its numerous attractions but it’s easy to forget that, underlying these, is its history. I went looking for it nearby.

          Who could resist a visit to the intriguingly named Lost Gardens of Heligan? Well, it all depends. I was certainly tempted but, when I discovered that the entry fee was £25, my enthusiasm melted away quite swiftly. Not being a gardener, it wasn’t hard to persuade myself that I didn’t need to enter the gardens to know their story (OK: they were ‘lost’, as in abandoned, then restored by enthusiasts). So it was that I pulled out my membership cards for the National Trust and English Heritage, consulted the apps and looked elsewhere for an immersive history experience. I had, after all, paid annual subscriptions to these organisations for many years and it was time to take advantage of my ‘free entry’ entitlement.

          I went first to the impressive house and estate of Lanhydrock, taken over by the National Trust in 1953, after more than 400 years of ownership by aristocrats who intermarried to sustain their fortunes down the centuries. This was standard practice and, as I maintain, the one and only purpose of the creation of the institution of marriage. Having taken by force most of England’s green and pleasant, the self-styled aristocracy then held on to it – with the collusion of the Church (the parish church abuts this house) – by keeping the people in ignorance and poverty. Their scheme began to unravel when the growth of trade produced a newly enriched class that was able to challenge their socio-economic domination.

          Many a stately home was ‘accidentally’ burned down or left to go to ruin. Other toffs cleverly ‘gave’ their grand country houses to the National Trust, thereby transferring the cost of their upkeep to those of us who can’t afford to own them but do have the means to afford an entry ticket from time-to-time. With this in mind, I contemplated the privileged lifestyle embodied in the house and it rich contents with a stoney heart that softened only slightly on learning that the head of the family at the time of the Civil War had fought on the side of Parliament.

          Next, I drove a few miles (but much further back in time) to the remains of Restormel Castle. Its unusual design, a perfect circle (except for the rectangular chapel that juts out from it) is striking in itself, but the fact that the wall still stands at full height eight centuries after being built seems to indicate that it was not much fought over. Today’s visitors can perambulate the reasonably intact battlements and imagine being lords of all they survey. Or, instead, imagine being a sentry on duty in the depths of winter. Either way, we get to appreciate just how deep are the roots of the construct of aristocracy, power and control.

          Lanhydrock was not busy and there were only two other visitors at Restormel while I was there. Perhaps when the party’s over in Mevagissey, the revellers will turn up. Mind you, immersive historical experiences are not cheap and there won’t be much disposable cash left after all that spending on beer, pasties and fish-n’-chips.