Mother Nature's Sons and Daughters

          Last Saturday, an estimated 80,000 people walked from Park Lane to Parliament Square under the banner Restore Nature Now and I was one of them – albeit peripherally. Having joined the procession with good intention, I was soon overcome by frustration and claustrophobia, so I opted for the role with which I am generally more comfortable, that of observer. I might have been inclined to stay with the mass had there been an edge of expectation that something was going to happen – confrontation with the police, hostility from bystanders or even a jolly good marching band to keep the spirits up – but as it was a family-friendly, establishment-condoned demonstration of concern for nature, heavily dependent for fun on ironic costumes, its outcome was predictable. So, frustrated by the slow progress and inexplicable hold-ups (there being no way of knowing what was happening at the celebrity-led front of the column) and claustrophobic at being hemmed in on all sides for what I guessed would be several hours, I dodged out of the main body and followed it in parallel, blending into the ambient population of pedestrians.

          Passing the Royal Academy, my eye was caught by the big, ragged-looking sculpture in the courtyard, so I popped in for a closer look, While I was reading the explanatory sign, a middle-aged man asked me if I had been in to see the exhibition yet. He explained that he was about to go in himself but had a spare ticket which he didn’t want to waste and was offering it free of charge to whomever wanted it. His manner was polite to the point of being apologetic, which I realised was because of the delicacy of his proposition. Approaching strangers in such a way could be met with suspicion – especially in a big city teeming with tourists. Anyway, I declined his offer (as sensitively as I could) because, apart from being already committed to the demo, a friend who had seen the exhibition had told me it was really quite dull.

          For a long while, I sat on the steps of Eros in Piccadilly Circus, watching the procession of nature-themed costumes and banners snake by. From my semi-detached position, I was able to appreciate the creativity and commitment of the participants, while taking stock of onlookers’ reactions. These fell into three categories: luke-warm, bemused and dismissive (though selfie-taking was widespread across all three). The only spark of energy came from the sidelines, where a man displaying a “Free Palestine!” poster was being harangued by another who threatened to get Nigel Farage to sort him out. The lack of openly enthusiastic support for the main procession was disappointing, considering the commitment of the participants. At least I saw no open hostility, but then it would be astonishing if anyone actively opposed a movement to restore Nature. What opposition there is, comes usually in the form of foot-dragging and underhand legislation on the part of those who profit from the status quo.

          The rallying speeches in Parliament Square were delivered to an audience of the already converted. It is hoped that publicity will spread the word but, if you rely on the BBC for your news, it was silent on this event. The crowds dispersed and I caught the tube back to north London, only to find myself in a carriage surrounded by yet more crowds in costume – girls and young women wearing sequined clothes. They must be going to a party, I thought, but when I got off at my stop and found more of them wandering about, my curiosity was piqued and I asked a couple what was going on. “Taylor Swift”, they chimed, as if I were a hermit. “Oh”, I said, too astonished to muster anything else. Apparently, an estimated 80,000 people attended her concert that night. The event featured on the BBC news later.

Town and Country

          The first few days of last week we spent on a campsite at the head of a Cornish valley, a half-hour walk from the quaint fishing port and popular Airbnb destination of Mevagissey (or Megavissey if you’ve had too much cider). We met very few people on our hikes along the coast path (school’s not yet out) and none at all when we struck inland, which added a touch of privilege to the pleasure we gained from striding out in June, when nature is fresh and vigorous, in defiance of mankind’s efforts to control it. I felt this especially on a stretch through a wooded valley, where cultivation seemed – to my townie eyes, at least – to be off the agenda and lush, varied foliage flourished all around and all by itself. For a while, my mind emptied of temporal concerns and I was in awe of Nature, over which I had no influence and of which I had little comprehension.

          But inspiring patches of land like this are rare and never far from human habitation. Soon, we were in the village of Gorran, distinguished by its church, the history of which can be traced back to around 600 AD. When, in the 1960s, the indefatigable Pevsner* visited, his meticulous observations included a quirky, caricatured face carved into the underside of the Norman stone font. I guess that, despite his eye for detail, it must have been brought to his attention by the churchwarden because, to get a glimpse of it, you have to lie on the floor. Before leaving, we lit candles in memory of our mothers, as we always do (though this is the full extent of our religiosity). Then we put what cash we had in the collection box, noting that donations could be significantly increased if card payments were facilitated. The cost of upkeep must be covered somehow: when buildings such as this fall into ruin, history crumbles with them and the task of piecing it back together is bequeathed to archaeologists.

          When I’m in a seemingly enchanted place like the wooded valley, or if my imagination is time-travelling through ancient buildings, my temporal affairs are on hold and it’s possible to see the appeal of retiring from the hustle and bustle by joining a monastic order or suchlike. But my pragmatic self could never live such a head-in-the-sand life, so our return to town was far from reluctant. Besides, my Other Half had co-opted me to assist in a ‘banner-drop’ from a footbridge over the A38, reminding passing motorists to have regard for the health of the planet and its ecosystem.

          Back home, everyday affairs soon dulled Nature’s magical moments. On a drive across town to fulfil an errand, the van broke down and I had to call out AA assistance. With an hour to wait and no breakfast yet consumed, I walked to the nearest place, McDonald’s, in search of coffee and a bacon bap. It was my first time since they introduced pre-ordering on a giant screen and I found the system baffling. After standing uncomprehendingly in front of the display for an embarrassingly long time, I eventually found a way to order what I wanted. It was delivered quickly, I’ll grant them that, but I don’t recall having opted for the slice of yellow plasticky cheese.

          When the AA man finally arrived, his mood was grumpy, but by then I was grateful for any sort of human interaction. He fired questions at me concerning the symptoms, rather like a doctor in a hurry, then dismissed my vague answers with a shake of his head and got to work on the diagnosis under his own steam. Ten minutes later, having traced the fault to a blown fuse, he perked up – a manifestation, perhaps, of job satisfaction. Or was it the prospect of having gained some time to go for breakfast? If asked, I would have advised against McDonald’s.

*Sir Nikolaus Bernhard Leon Pevsner was a German-British art historian and architectural historian best known for his monumental 46-volume series of county-by-county guides, The Buildings of England.

Great Expectations?

          On Tuesday morning, out of simple curiosity, I took the newly established ferry service that runs from Plymouth, up the Tamar estuary and over to the Cornish town of Saltash. The route affords a close-up view of the Royal Naval dockyards that line the Plymouth side of the river but are not so visible from the city itself. If I had hoped to see His Majesty’s mighty fleet at anchor, I would have been disappointed. But, knowing that the Navy is no longer the force it once was, I was not surprised to see that the few vessels docked there (apart from a visiting French warship) appeared to be rusting away or else under repair. Still, it’s a pity that, in my excitement to set off on my outing, I forgot to take any of the three pairs of binoculars or two telescopes we own. I might have caught a glimpse of something more exciting.

          Since I’m familiar with Saltash, I had no intention of staying long, so when I stumbled across a well-stocked e-bike station next to the landing stage, I hit on the idea of renting one to ease my progress up the exceptionally steep hill that takes you into the town. I don’t know whether the bike I chose was a dud, but it didn’t make it up the ascent. Despite my vigorous exertions on the pedals, I was forced eventually to dismount and push the (very heavy) machine to the brow, by which time my heart was thumping, my breathing laboured and my thoughts were on whether I might expire before docking the bike, thereby lumbering my estate with a steep bill for its hire. I survived the ordeal, though my faith in e-bikes was dented. And I had found, incidentally, an explanation as to why the stash of e-bikes down at the ferry landing was so much bigger than the one at the top of the hill.

          Since I had expected technology to make my labours easier, not harder, the lesson I took was that I need to work on managing expectations. So, I put this into practise later in the week, when I traded in our five-year-old phones for a couple of newer models. Foreseeing complications (is it just me?), I laid down some parameters, the chief of which were: no migration from Android and no deviation from Samsung. The last time I did this, I learned quite a lot about how to screw things up; this time would be less of a disaster. Even so, I duly anticipated irritation at best and exasperation at worst, so I set aside plenty of time and emotional energy. In the event, all went smoothly, but this was due in large part to the fact that Android and Samsung have developed the software to make it so.

          Flush with success (and funds, having picked up a couple of bargain-price handsets) I then tackled one other thing on my to-do list: booking tickets for summer music festivals. I haven’t done it for some time, but the bug is biting and the campervan is crying out to be put to good use. (I say “I” because my Other Half is no fan of such events: but that’s another story). Ideally, I would have got tickets for Love Supreme, but the campervan pitches are sold out and taking a tent would be an insult to the van. However, I booked a pitch at Womad – without electricity! – and can look forward to a few days of comfortable, convenient accommodation, from which I can emerge at will to drift in and out of transformative musical experiences as the fancy takes me. At least, that is my expectation: the last festival we went to, Port Merrion, was abandoned early because of incessant rain and consequent flooding. I won’t dwell on the details, but that is the gist of the other story referred to above.

Training It

          We returned yesterday from a three-week round trip to spend time with friends in Catalonia and Tuscany. Choosing not to fly short haul (fortunately, we can afford the time and expense of minimising our carbon emissions) our journey involved one ferry, one bus, thirteen trains, four taxis, and a lift in a friend’s hired car. As for accommodation, there were six hotels, one Airbnb and several nights at each of our friends’ places.

          Knowing we have a campervan, one of my pals asked why we chose not to use it for the journey, a reasonable question but one that has a complex answer. It’s not that I had done a complicated carbon emission calculation; it’s more to do with wanting to engage with foreignness rather than cocoon oneself in a mobile home parked on out-of-town campsites. Plus, there’s the powerful attraction of letting the train take the strain as you sip wine while whizzing through the Camargue and the Alps, or skimming along the Mediterranean coast past Cannes, Nice and Monaco, where the sea is littered with motor yachts of unimaginable cost and questionable utility, their owners apparently heedless of the environmental impact.

          If there is a downside to travelling this way, it’s the inconvenience of luggage. We try to keep it to a minimum, but it does have a tendency to self-bloat – an inexplicable phenomenon – and things are not helped by my Other Half’s predilection for full-blown picnics on trains, which means we carry not only food and drink but also cutlery, plates, beakers, napkins and condiments. Her argument is that a buffet may not be available and, even if it is, it may not offer what you fancy. And what happens when your train gets stuck between stations for four hours (as it once did)? You won’t complain about the luggage then, will you?

           Well, as long as I remain fit enough to haul it around, I suppose not. Besides, cases have wheels now (I remember when they didn’t) and, although ours are old and tatty and have only two wheels, they remain effective. However, I’ve been eyeing up the four-wheel models that everyone but us has these days. They seem to glide along smooth floors and make light work of the rough terrain of medieval city centres. They also stand upright without a prop and come in enormous sizes, possibly with all the clothes inside neatly arrayed on hangers.

           There are travellers (mostly youngsters) who prefer backpacks, though it’s hard to understand why. Some of them are bigger than their owners, some come with a matching frontpack – useful for posture balance – and they are all unsuitable for carrying clothes that have any pretence of being smartly casual – though I don’t suppose that’s an issue, since you would have a permanently sweaty back anyway.

          For one night, in Genoa, we did actually stay in a hostel full of back-and-front-packers, though it was not by design. We booked the Britannia Hotel online, unaware that it has a dual identity and is, in reality, the Bello Osteria, an establishment obviously catering to an impecunious but cool and adventurous younger set. They gave us the key to a suite of rooms that included a kitchen and two more beds than we needed, so I went back to the receptionist to make sure we would not be joined later by a group of partying young people. I was assured that we would not. We had been “upgraded”, she said – and breakfast was included – all for a mere £68! The bar was open 24/7 but we opted for an early night, aware that we were out of our depth.

          So, now that we’re home and our tattered but still-functioning cases are stashed away, the lure of the Continent endures and some of its mysteries remain. Like, why do they have double-decker trains but single-decker buses?