Not Quite Land's End to John O'Groats

          Last week I was on the SW coast of Cornwall, enjoying a couple of days at the raucous and rowdy Sea Shanty Festival in the well-to-do port of Falmouth. This week I’m on the NW coast of Scotland, quietly contemplating the Cuillin Hills of Skye across the sea from a campsite below the remains of an Iron Age broch (a fortified House in Multiple Occupancy). Whilst the experiences differ, the places have a commonality. They are tourist destinations hosting visitors, like me, who bring our spending power to bear.

          In Falmouth, my contribution to the local economy took the form of multiple purchases of pasties and pints of cider. These are specialities of the region that I am keen to support by making a stand against the big brands’ takeover of drinks and foodstuffs. Diminishment of quality and enhancement of prices follow inevitably - which may not matter to cynical, profit-maximising local businesses, but it degrades the experience of the discerning visitor and is not a good long-term business strategy.

          Still, the performances were free (donations to the RNLI, please). Perhaps the folk songs of mariners are immune to corporatisation: no one has yet monetised the genre by selling out a stadium. I suppose its appeal is too niche for that. Yet, like all good music, it has the power to move the emotions. Could it be that the songs are so familiar from childhood that they evoke nostalgia? Or is it simply that well-rendered harmonies hit the musical spot, whatever the song?

           In any case, and after a couple of pints, joining in the singing feels like joyful expression. No matter that the repertoire is limited (excluding the contributions of the visiting Bretons), with 85 groups singing mostly the same songs at venues across the town, their very familiarity promoted jollity. Jaunty tricorn hats were worn as fashionable accessories and, in an effort to fit in, even I sported a nautically themed tattoo (stuck on, that is).

          It's easy to make fun of sea shanties and to caricature them, along with Jolly Jack Tar, while forgetting that the life that spawned them was hard, the pay meagre and the chances of illness and death high. There is something of that also in a visit to the western fringe of Highland Scotland. We are currently on the peninsula of Applecross, which was accessible only by sea until the 1920s. The road built then was a steep, single-track switchback that is still in use today and, in winter, often impassable. In the 1970s the final, connecting stretch of a coast road was built – but only because the military needed access.

          The population in such places comprised the remnants of a genocidal land-grab by those who owned the titles to the territory and made their income by letting parcels out to tenant farmers – crofters. When they discovered that more profit was to be made from the land by keeping sheep, they evicted their tenants – often in the cruellest ways imaginable. The brutality of the landlords is legendary. Accounts of hardship are excruciating. Driven to the rocky coast, the crofters made a precarious subsistence living from the land and the sea as best they could. For a while, there was even a government subsidised scheme to encourage their emigration. Post 1945, things began to improve in respect of land-ownership rights, but a more potent factor of change also developed: tourism.

          Tourism, like capitalism, can raise some people out of poverty. But both isms have a sting in the tail. When they are overdone, the benefits accrue to fewer and fewer individuals. The residents of Barcelona, for example, have had enough of being priced out of their own housing stock, and the news today featured Venetians protesting the renting of their city to Jeff Bezos for his wedding. Applecross, on the other hand, seems welcoming and friendly. We are, after all, providing an alternative to subsistence farming. But tourist numbers are growing here. Will they kill the goose?

   

The Long Haul

          It’s funny how the 1960s keep popping up. This week, I got news that my 15-year-old grand-nephew, having seen the film A Complete Unknown, went out and bought the vinyl album, Highway 61 Revisited, first released in 1965. I was impressed. But he reportedly finds it hard to relate his newly discovered enthusiasm for Bob Dylan to the fact that I was in the audience of Dylan’s London concert in 1966 and have first-hand experience of the controversy featured in the film’s plot, his perceived “betrayal” of the acoustic folk music tradition.

          A couple of years after that concert, I spent a year in Sudan (then referred to as The Sudan), with no access to western music at all. I was one of a contingent of twenty or so newly graduated adventurers who had successfully applied to join the Voluntary Service Overseas (VSO) scheme. Among our number were Paul and Jim, two of the nicest chaps I ever met, before or since. As it happens, we came together last week – as we do from time-to-time – and, after telling them about my grand-nephew’s musical epiphany, we discussed which side of the “betrayal” argument we had been on at the time. Given the vagaries of memory, it was hard to answer definitively, but I like to think I was not on the purist side. Otherwise, why would I have bought a ticket to the concert, given that I knew what to expect?

          Paul, Jim and I have never lived in close enough proximity for our friendship to be kept alive by default. Chance may have brought us together, but it has required conscious effort to maintain the relationship through the distances of place and circumstance. So, as well as occasional get-togethers, sometimes including partners and family, we have for the past few years fostered a tradition of the three of us meeting annually.

          These rendezvous started as long-ish country hikes – something all three of us have always enjoyed – and involved camping out for a couple of nights (of which the same cannot be said). However, the years took their physical toll and, over time, the hiking routes became less ambitious. I’m not saying it’s all over now, but last week’s outing was, literally, a walk in the park – albeit a country park, Dartington Estate and its formal garden, to be precise. But such gentler excursions do have advantages besides reducing the intensity of the physical challenges. There is much less logistical planning involved than is required for a day out in the rough or remote terrain favoured by seasoned hikers. Packed lunches are not needed, and conversation flows easier when one is not out of breath or obliged to walk single file on narrow tracks.

          But what is it about old friendships that make us want to perpetuate them? My experience is that those made in one’s formative years have a tendency to retain the quality of warm familiarity, even after prolonged periods of non-contact. Yet during those years of separation, each individual life develops, sometimes in ways that may be unexpected. Unless you keep track, the person you once knew may end up as someone you no longer relate to. Then what would you have to talk about, other than reminiscing about the sixties?

          There’s a pragmatic case to be made for dropping long-standing friendships that are deemed to have outlived their purpose – however “purpose” is defined. Self-interest, perhaps? The need to find a place in society. The need for self-affirmation. The need to satisfy nostalgic yearning. Well, if friendship served only to fulfil such needs, then its eventual redundancy could be expected. But friendship is not about pragmatism. Our old friends define our past just as much as we ourselves do, thus they lend meaning to our present as well.

 

Poking Around Plympton

          Plympton. I wouldn’t have gone there but for the fact it was the only place I could get our campervan fixed in timely fashion. The right-hand indicator had suddenly ceased to function, so we were relying on sticking our arm out of the window, a signal that only elderly drivers recognise as an intention to turn right: younger ones look baffled.

          Once a town in its own right, Plympton is now a suburb of Plymouth. I have always perceived it as a dull dormitory, whose rows of box-like houses I glimpsed from the Devon Expressway, its lack of allure reinforced by the fact that the main service centre for our Renault van is located on its bland outskirts. I had approached all our local garages, but they were either baffled by the problem or too busy to look at it before our planned departure for a trip to Scotland, so I accepted Renault’s offer to diagnose the fault, immediately, for a mere £140 (which included washing the vehicle, as a “courtesy”). The subsequent cost of rectification, of course, would be open-ended.

          After checking in, I found myself with a few hours in which to explore a place that proved more interesting than I had imagined. The friendly chap at the service desk directed me to walk the mile down to the high street, where, among the usual proliferation of charity shops, there were traditional and modern retailers, as well as cafés – and all of it not too shabby.

          But what caught my eye was a relatively grand building in the centre, with the title, Stannary Court above its door, which means that this was once a centre for the regulation and taxation of locally mined tin. Conservationists have the Wetherspoons pub chain to thank for having sympathetically re-purposed the building, while the locals, many of whom thronged the place on that Wednesday morning, appeared to be giving thanks of their own. Meanwhile, the older pub, further along the street (and closed until midday), bears the name of that most famous son of Plympton, the artist Sir Joshua Reynolds.

          The site of the local Manor House, destroyed by fire in 1985, is now occupied by a clinic, a substantial community hub and a public library (closed on Wednesdays), encouraging signs that there is social activity at the heart of the housing estates that bleakly adorn the surrounding hills. But the biggest surprise (to me) was to discover that there is an older part of the town, where there are the remains of a barbican and a Norman castle that was continuously occupied until after the Civil War.

          But my meandering was cut short by a call from the service centre. They had found the problem to be a fault in the switch on the steering column. A new one was needed but, because of its age, it could only be found in the aftermarket, a place where Main Dealers are forbidden to trade – presumably for reasons to do with reputation and warranty. It was down to me to source the part and get a competent person to replace it – a simple job, they assured me.

          So, the race is on to sort it out before we go to Scotland. Our route, or part of it, has lately been branded NC 500 in a master stroke of marketing nous that has brought thousands more tourists to the coastal road around Scotland, so we want to go early in the season to avoid the crowds. Also, we intend to drive clockwise, starting – and lingering – on the West Coast, our favourite stretch. The new indicator switch is on its way from a European warehouse, delivery date unspecified. So, in case it doesn’t come in time, we have a half-arsed contingency plan to avoid right turns by driving the route anticlockwise instead.

Carry On Festivaling

          Once upon a time, a group of us were sitting around, talking about this and that, when the subject settled on music, and each of us in turn was invited to reveal their favourite genre. Now, this is a tricky question for the pedantically inclined, like me. What should I say? Jazz? Yes, but not all jazz. There are reservations, and my explanation, a potentially long monologue on its origins, history and variant forms would certainly have fallen flat on the company, buzzing as it was with snappy repartee. Fortunately for me – and everyone else – my turn never came, since a showstopper was delivered by the person who claimed that their favourite genre was “compilations”.

          I’ve just spent three days at a ‘boutique’ music festival that presented a jumble of genres. Although the headline was Jazz & Blues, the subtext added Soul, Funk, Latin, Cuban and Roots (whatever that is), a bit like a menu and not at all a bad thing if you like a varied diet. It was held in a park, in the centre of the genteel seaside resort of Sidmouth, Devon, where a famous annual folk festival, instigated back in 1955, still takes place. All that accumulated expertise has been applied to this newer enterprise and it shows. It was a slick operation, impeccably managed, quite unlike the original outdoor festivals of the Woodstock era to which I was drawn.

          In comparing Isle of Wight 1969 with Sidmouth 2025, I realise of course that, apart from the obvious and intentional difference in scale, much has changed in the fields of technology, event management and health and safety legislation. One thing that does remain the same, however, is that the audience – or part of it – comprises the same people. We’re just older, pickier and less inclined to leave things to chance.

           We went to those early festivals without planning for exigencies of any kind and we were not unduly inconvenienced by the frequent late starts caused by incompetencies, mishaps or the erratic behaviour of artistes. At Sidmouth, we all brought our own folding chairs, wore weather-appropriate clothing and would have grumbled like old gits if the schedule had been screwed up.

          Being on my own, I was free to choose, without compromise, which gigs to attend, which to shun and which to leave early should I find them uninspiring. It also left me free to pop in and out of the various pubs where fringe acts were performing and where real ales and ciders helped fuel the atmosphere of conviviality that fosters friendly exchanges between strangers – something that solo drinkers are particularly prone to.

          Whoever saw the market opportunity for niche, boutique festivals threw us senior fans a lifeline. With well-appointed facilities, a town-centre location and sensible timetabling, our age-related requirements are well catered for. I chose to stay in my campervan, a healthy twenty-minute walk away, but could have splashed out for a room in one of the many sea-front hotels. Either way, one could be tucked up in bed before midnight with never a pang of FOMO and ready for action the next morning at 11.00 prompt, artisan coffee in hand. Not everyone was of my vintage, but grey heads bobbed everywhere in time to the rhythms. When dancing did occasionally break out, the perpetrators were observably young, impulsive types – which does bode well for the future prospects of the artistes performing.

          Festivals offer more than just intoxicating live music – of whatever genre. The ingredients that make them enjoyable also include a friendly crowd, competent organisation, an attractive location and, of course, clement weather. They all came together on this occasion, so I’m encouraged to take a punt on the original – the Sidmouth Folk Festival. I still have a soft spot for folk and nothing to lose but the will to carry on festivaling.

 

A Tale of Two Barbicans

          The term ‘Barbican’ refers to a medieval outer fortification or defensive gateway, the traces of which can be found all over Europe. I was at two of them last week, though nothing remains but the name. In London, the Barbican Centre is a monster of a modernist, post-war housing estate that contains a cultural hub and was built at or near a former entrance to the Roman walls of Londinium. In Plymouth, the Barbican comprises the characterful streets surrounding the original docks below a medieval fortress, now given over to tourism and fishing.

          I’ve often dallied with the notion of living in one of the Barbican Centre’s flats, since they are not only to my architectural taste but also conveniently connected by walkways to cinemas, theatres, galleries, restaurants, a public library and a clinic. However, as I made my way last week through the brick-and-concrete maze in search of the (new) art gallery, I noticed that the infrastructure is showing its age and in need of costly repairs. The prospect of rising service-charges had a dampening effect on my erstwhile enthusiasm for moving in.

          I was there to see sculptures by Alberto Giacometti set alongside work by the living sculptor, Huma Bhabha. The concept, I think, is to highlight ways in which the contemporary artist references their predecessor’s work. Perhaps it was crass of me to look for obvious connections – though I did see them and consider such comparison useful as a tool of appreciation. In any case, Giacometti resonated with me more than Bhabha, a case, perhaps, of familiarity breeding comfort.

          On that same day, and acting on a friend’s recommendation, I went to see an exhibition of traditional Japanese woodcraft. The narrative is that Japan’s scarcity of metal ores fostered the development of sophisticated techniques for joining wood without metal fastenings. That necessity, combined with dedication to the traditions of craft as a calling and the cultural and spiritual connections between the buildings – especially temples – and the trees from which they were constructed resulted in the exquisite execution of the most complex, effective and aesthetically accomplished wood joints ever achieved. I was in awe.

          The next day, I was back in Plymouth, just in time to catch the last few events marking Tree Week, a celebration of all things arboreal. I spent a couple of hours on a sunny afternoon under the trees in a re-wilded corner of a park, where there was Morris dancing and community-choir singing “Hurrah to the life of a country boy!”. Though I had missed events earlier in the week, there were some that I would not have attended anyway, i.e. those at the spiritual end of the spectrum, where therapies such as forest bathing inhabit a space outwith my predilections. However, as I observed an actual, orange-tipped butterfly settle on a brilliantly blue cornflower, I felt a faint flutter of kinship with nature, a glimmer of empathy with the Japanese ethic. The closing party that evening was at my favourite local café/bar and featured a specially composed musical whimsy evocative of forests and the sounds of nature. The duo, a guitarist and vocalist, applied their artistry to magical effect, luring me even further into the spiritual camp, despite my innate scepticism.

          The sun shone down again the next day, when I cycled over to the Barbican to savour another celebration, Pirate Weekend, a popular event in the annual cultural calendar. Pirate caricature was everywhere. Some of the outfits worn by enthusiasts were earnestly authentic, while others were determinedly comical. But the appeal of the theme soon wore thin for me. It could have been sustained by, say, a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan’s classic, The Pirates of Penzance, but perhaps that would be considered too highbrow?

 

What We Inherit

          It was the 80^th iteration of VE day that set me thinking about national heritage. When the last Gen-Boomer dies, there will be nobody left whose parents experienced WWII. To what extent, then, will the social impact of that war still be recognisable in the weave of our culture?

          History is open to both honest interpretation and cynical manipulation, so the essence of national heritage is not as fixed as may be supposed. Of the many examples around the world, the USA – self-proclaimed Land of the Free – will serve to illustrate the point. The government there has decreed the eradication of certain datasets from its websites and is currently in the process of taking over the Library of Congress, moves that are intended to take control of the ‘story’. Just how that accords with the definition of “free” is a moot point. Thankfully, I live in the UK, where, since 1945 at least, the majority likes to think it would never be fooled by an invasive creep of fascism such as that.

          I’m currently spending a few days in London, where our heritage is on display in spades, from the top-flight of royalty, down through the ranks of bourgeois traditions and lower, where it fizzles out into romanticised notions of working-class cockneys and the like. And, alongside all this sit the cultures of the most recent wave of immigrants, awaiting their time to become embedded into the mainstream institutions of British life.

          One such, the National Gallery, has recently had a makeover and a re-hang of its paintings. I went to see it – along with thousands of others – and what struck me was the fact that the collection is essentially Western European. What’s on display is the cross-fertilisation of styles and traditions. Yes, it’s a British institution but you would feel right at home if you were, say, French.

          Not so, perhaps, at the London Canal Museum, where my friend and I joined half-a-dozen other curious geeks delving into the uniquely British history of industrial development. Canals were built in Mesopotamia around 4000 BCE, but it wasn’t until 1761, when the Bridgewater canal brought coal into Manchester, that they really came of age. After 200 years, their economic value ebbed away, terminating at last, with the Big Freeze of 1962/3. Nostalgic volunteers kept the infrastructure from being lost and now they serve those who love them and live on them. All this is documented by the museum, a modest affair, run by volunteers and funded by entry fees and charitable donations, quite unlike the grandiose National Gallery that is free to enter, thanks to public funding. Is one of them a more deserving curator of heritage than the other?

          Hillaire Belloc (funny name for an Englishman) said, "When you have lost your inns, drown your empty selves – for you will have lost the last of England", a quote that leaves open to question the definition of the essence of England but strikes trepidation into the heart nevertheless. However, I’m happy to report that despite numerous pubs shutting down these past few years, my research indicates an ability to adapt ensures the survival of the species. In London, at least, many a corner pub has embraced the gentrification of its locale by turning into a restaurant with a posh menu, while managing to keep a traditional façade and a decent pint – albeit at a fancy price. Others have doubled down on the booze, like the Southampton Arms in Kentish Town, where traditionalists gather to savour real ales and ciders and eschew continental innovations such as lager.

          The demise of Gen Boomer is certainly nigh but, on reflection, I don’t suppose the memory of VE day will die with it. More likely it will just get stirred into the muddled mix of memories and myths that we experience every day: that, apparently, is our nation’s heritage.

 

Life Cycles

          A five-hour train journey can be a great opportunity to get stuck into a book, which is exactly what I did last Sunday, albeit the book I chose was not an uplifting tale of heroism, romance and happy endings: it was quite the opposite. Sam Freedman’s Failed State examines the dysfunction within Britain’s political and institutional systems. If it weren’t for the fact that the author proposes plausible remedies to our disastrous governmental establishment (the book’s subtitle is Why Nothing Works and How We Fix It), I would have been both outraged and depressed by the end of the journey. Only the power of hope kept me from falling into the slough of deep despond, on whose edge I habitually teeter in glum pessimism at the state of world affairs. To make matters worse, I was on my way to a funeral.

          Well, to be precise, it was a cremation, followed by a funereal ceremony in a church to mourn the death of a 93-year-old man. It was the second time in a month that I had been in a crematorium, so I could not help but notice the architectural similarities – the uncluttered room flooded with natural light, the muted colour palette and the high ceilings – which seem to provide appropriate, respectful settings for proceedings, whether they be sad, muted or determinedly non-morbid. Whichever the chosen mode, there is high quality audio-visual equipment to supplement the spoken eulogies. Moreover, having been at a secular ceremony earlier in the month, the differences between it and the religious variety seemed to me to be incidental to their purpose, which is the public expression of mourning.

          We travelled home by road, stopping over at Salisbury to visit an elderly relative, now in the care of a nursing home. During the journey we contemplated the news of the death of an equally elderly friend and the prospect of attending the memorial celebration of her life. The knowledge that none of us is far from death resides, usually, at the back of one’s mind and comes to the fore only at times such as this. However, for the millions of humans directly affected by wars currently being waged around the world, or for those living precariously without adequate food and shelter, it must be an everyday preoccupation. Such is the relative ease and comfort of my own life, that I must occasionally remind myself of my good fortune.

          While at Salisbury, I had time to visit another of the ancient sites near it, Figsbury Ring, which is thought to be the remains of an Iron Age hillfort superimposed on a Neolithic henge. There are no signs of buildings, just concentric rings of mounds, in an elevated position spanning about six hectares. During the few days of my travels, the weather had abruptly bypassed spring and turned to full-on summer, so that I stood there in full sunshine and with birds, bugs and butterflies as company, the only other person in view having walked away with her dog.

           I inhaled deeply the antiquity of a place that humans had begun to fashion five thousand years ago. I cannot compute how many generations have died since then, but the contemplation of the number puts a perspective on how short and insignificant one’s lifespan is, no matter how much one might wish otherwise. And, until recent times, death came either unkindly or untimely to most people as a matter of course. This had been a fortified settlement, so I imagined battles in situ were not uncommon.

          But that was two days ago. Now, back at home, I watch the crane in the boatyard over the water putting all those leisure craft back into the sea, where they will float through the summer months, their crews either oblivious to or escaping temporarily from the failing state and their own mortal limitations. We all have to find ways to enjoy life while we can.

Keeping it Real

          Have some sympathy for Gen Z (pronounced zee, you old-timers), the demographic nickname for people born between the mid-1990s and early 2010s, for they are Digital Natives and, as such, different from the generations that precede them. They are still human, of course, but their interactions with the rest of the species have been disproportionately informed by a novel system of communication, the Internet, which the rest of us see as an addition to, not a substitute for, face-to-face encounters.

          Is this problematic? Well, there are plenty of anecdotes that flag it as an issue and there is scientific research to back that up. Psychologists have identified the following skill sets in which Gen Z is deficient: empathy, time management, problem solving and critical thinking. They have also noted their aversion to picking up the phone and attending meetings at which people are physically present.

          This state of affairs might set older people tut-tutting, but there is another, practical level of concern, expressed by employers. Where will they find the workers who have the old-fashioned people skills necessary for public-facing jobs? Our education system was supposed to churn out a workforce equipped to fill the available vacancies. Has it failed in its mission?

          Yes, but there is hope in the form of a course that is becoming available to rectify the balance and teach Digital Natives the soft skills of human awareness and interaction. However – aside from the sad fact of its perceived necessity – there are two potential problems with it. The first is that it is not yet incorporated into any regular curriculum. The second is that it is conducted online.

          Over the Easter break, an evening spent in a pub reassured me that offline life, in all its messy, jostling vitality, aces it. The pub was a street corner local, with a band jammed into the window bay and a mixed crowd of all ages thronging the bar. The vibe was timeless, insofar as it felt the same as it did when I was in my early 20s and pub gigs were staple entertainment most weekends.

          Back then, I was generation-blind, interested in mixing only with my peers. I could say the same today, except that I do take notice of those younger than me. Having been there, I am now curious about how they navigate life. What are their backgrounds, their daily strivings, their hopes and ambitions? How do their lives compare with mine and those of the people I grew up with? That evening, it was plain that we had at least one thing in common: coming to the pub to hear a good blues/rock band.

          But for such an evening to be authentic, it takes more than a good band. The place itself must feel welcoming to one and all, as this one does. Key ingredients are a good beer (and cider), a friendly, mixed crowd and the kind of interior that hasn’t had a themed makeover since it first opened its doors in 1887, it’s essential grubbiness disguised by a random assortment of trophies, old photos, bric-a-brac and plaques inscribed with humorous slogans, within which often may lie a gritty grain of real-life truths. Surely everyone appreciates the wry humour of the old Free Beer Tomorrow offer; or the quaintly illustrated Duck or Grouse warning on the low beam in the passageway to the gents (nowadays rudely sidelined by a mandated health and safety sign in neon yellow)?

          If you consider all this to be the essence of a charming old institution sustained by genuine human interaction, then it might be a good idea to encourage Gen Z to go and learn to mingle there as a practical alternative to the online course. I’m not sure they would appreciate the significance of the sign over the bar that asks What if the Hokey Cokey Really Is What It’s All About? But I’m sure some old geezer like me would be happy to explain.

Dining Out

          Our local Earth Café (an event, not a place) is held once a month, on a Saturday evening in a community space. If you think its name smacks of veganism, you’d be right, though you don’t have to be a committed vegan to eat there: you just need to be open to the principle. So, as one of a growing number of people shifting towards a plant-based diet, I’ve become an enthusiastic participant in its regular suppers.

          I say “participant” and “enthusiastic” because it’s not just about the food. The emphasis is on fostering the sense of community by way of sharing a meal with like-minded others. You pay a fixed but modest price, bring your own booze, choose seats at long, communal tables and go to the counter to be served generously from a limited choice of dishes. The seating arrangement is as flexible and as sociable as you want to make it, especially when the tables are cleared and the meal is followed by announcements, short speeches and, to round things off, live music.

          The experience is the antithesis of fine dining, but not a repudiation of it or, indeed, any other type of restaurant experience. It is different, if only insofar as it might work well as an alternative to dinner parties staged at home. Imagine: no work, disruption and responsibility for the would-be hosts. As for the guests, they would feel less constrained: no need to bring a gift (possibly an inappropriate one); to endure an ill-conceived seating plan and several hours in the company of someone they don’t like; and no potential awkwardness over what the host serves up. Etc.

          Dinner parties at home can, of course, be delightful, but the Earth Café format de-emphasises the complexities of cuisine and social niceties. It serves food in the ancient spirit of sharing and widens the scope for random social connections. And, not coincidentally, the plant-based menu is the ultimate all-rounder when it comes to inclusivity. Is there any creed or religion that forbids it?

          Veganism has been practised since ancient times, though the word itself was coined in 1944 by Donald Watson, a British woodworker. As far as ‘conversion’ to the credo is concerned, it’s not the same for everyone. Some people have an instant revelation and subsequent total adherence to its principles, while others – me included – lurch towards the finish line without ever, perhaps, actually arriving. We compromise, accepting perhaps the logic of the proposition (a more sustainable agri-system) while stopping short at the ethical boundary (not killing animals).

          Anyway, it’s not easy to wean people like me off legacy foods. We need a little encouragement to forsake the familiar tastes and textures integral to our upbringing. Briefly put, the bacon butty beckons at random times and places. Added to which, there is the embedded expectation that the meals on our plates should conform to longstanding, familiar conventions.

          At one of our University of the Third Age (U3A) philosophy discussion sessions, Pythagoras was identified as an early believer in vegetarianism (or veganism lite, as it may be called) but, although the group accepted his logic, when it came to our Christmas social, sausage rolls were the most popular item on the buffet. And further proof that the U3A is not all highbrow, there’s a newly formed group dedicated to performing the Blues. When they saw my interest piqued, they asked if I would like to join. But, alas, my arthritic fingers can no longer navigate the frets on my now redundant guitar (I really don’t know how Keith Richards keeps it up) and they don’t need another vocalist. Maybe I can get them a gig, though – headlining at the Earth Café.

Precedent vs Hindsight

          When the cover on my e-reader (not a Kindle) finally disintegrated, it was cheap and easy to replace. (By the way, this is just one of the advantages these devices have over printed hardbacks with their flimsy dustjackets.) After twenty minutes online, and for less than eight quid, I had a new one delivered directly from China. Even though I am not a citizen of the USA and cannot claim to understand fully the economic theories underpinning free trade, this simple transaction is enough, surely, to raise questions about the logic of President Trump’s tariff war? Especially considering the precedent set by President Hoover, whose protectionist tariffs screwed up international economies in the 1930s.

          Not that I intend to dwell on the crass antics of a bullying braggart but, while economists ponder and speculate over the eventual outcome of his diktats, whatever it is Trump is up to is, I’m sure, intended to enrich himself and the even wealthier billionaires for whom he toils so blatantly, shamelessly and relentlessly.

          Meanwhile, far below the level of macroeconomic and geopolitical jousting, populations at large suffer the divisive effects of widening income inequality and endure the vanishing prospects of job security, as businesses put profit before social responsibility. If we want to rein in the excesses of corporate greed and rescue what little is left of society’s commons, we might try playing them at their own game. I, for one, avoid buying from Amazon whenever possible, though I can only hope that millions of others will come together to boycott such monopolistic companies, causing their share prices to wobble and their oligarchs to concede that a more compassionate distribution of wealth is not only affordable but also beneficial to society as a whole.

          The fact that this is unlikely to happen is somewhat depressing, so it’s best not to dwell on it. Fortunately, there are still some small, inexpensive pleasures with which to distract oneself, such as poking around in local history - which is why I boarded a train for an afternoon excursion to nearby Exeter. I was aware of the rivalry between Exeter and Plymouth, the two cities of Devonshire, but did not know the root cause of it. Apparently, it stems from medieval times, when Exeter was a cathedral city and Plymouth a maritime town. Thus, the driving factors are snobbery on the one part and resentment on the other: what’s more, they are remarkably persistent.

          Plymouth has a much larger population but that of Exeter is posher, as evidenced by the fact that John Lewis is on its High Street. Exeter has a magnificent medieval cathedral and all that goes with it: extensive grounds bang in the city centre, with properties, including a posh school, all owned by the Church of England. The centre of Plymouth was erased by bombing during WWII and rebuilt in a modern, architecturally coherent style that is magnificent in its own way but commonly dismissed as ugly by many.  And it wasn’t until 1974 that a reorganisation of local government freed Plymouth from the humiliation of being ‘ruled’ from Exeter.

          No doubt the list of grievances goes on but, in a corner of the ancient church of St. Martin’s, next to the cathedral, I discovered a nugget of history that links the cities despite themselves. Plymouth made the national news last year when there was a dispute over the felling of trees in the city centre to make way for modernisation of the major boulevard, Armada Way. The council insisted (despite strong objections from many citizens) that the trees be removed, claiming that they served as cover for ‘undesirables’ and their nefarious activities. The CCTV cameras needed a clear field of vision.

          It seems the precedent had already been set. The same argument was used at St. Martin’s in 1555, when John Hooker, chamberlain of Exeter, cut down the elms that graced the boundary of the church “because under and behind the trees did hide many evil persons”. He got rid of the trees but, I suppose, the evil persons just relocated. Perhaps it's a good idea to look for precedents.

What's it All About?

          Mortality featured prominently on my agenda last week, beginning on Monday, when my Other Half and I finally got around to consulting a solicitor about amending our wills. We want to gift funds to the likes of Liberty, Greenpeace and Amnesty, in the hopeful expectation that these organisations will continue to fight the good fight long after we are deceased, for there is no definitive victory currently in sight.

          Then, on Tuesday, at our regular philosophy discussion session, some of the Ancient Greeks’ ideas on life and death were explored. I was gratified to learn that there was little or no nonsense about an ‘afterlife’ – at least not as far as Leucippus and Democritus were concerned. They had proposed the theory that everything in the universe is made up of indivisible particles called atoms (yes, 2,000 years before the science of physics emerged), thereby establishing the case for the ultimate recycling of life: ‘dust-to-dust’.

          Unfortunately, one of our number revealed during our discussions that he had a terminal illness and was trying to face up to the prospect of palliative care. Whether our discussion had prompted his revelation I couldn’t be sure, but I fear ours was not the most sympathetic forum in which to raise the matter, since philosophy tends to focus on the logical, not the emotional. I, for one, was stuck for words. But, that same afternoon – and entirely by coincidence – I attended a family funeral, at which I experienced the opposite: the overwhelming of logical discourse by the tide of emotion.

          It seems to me sensible not to hasten one’s own demise, which is one reason why I avoid risk of physical injury and always* take the doctors’ advice about maintaining a healthy lifestyle. Hence, I was at the clinic this morning for a covid vaccination boost. I had also organised a routine blood test appointment ten minutes later, followed by a visit to the nearby shop so as to optimise use of time and effort.

          These days, a visit to our clinic is an eerie, non-contact experience. The two receptionists (who, on this occasion, outnumbered the waiting patient) are redundant, apparently: unless, perchance, you are unable to negotiate the self-check-in screen and subsequent directions to take off your shoes and step onto a machine that records your vital statistics and sends the results directly to your digital record. I have heard that there are doctors on the premises, but I have never seen one.

          There is, certainly, a woman, dressed like a nurse, who takes blood samples and sends them off for analysis. The last time I tried to engage with her about the whys and wherefores of the process, I discovered that she doesn’t do interpretation or explanation. She does excel, however, at small talk (the weather being a classic opener). When she asked me which arm I would like to proffer, I pointed to the left one and joked that it had already been stabbed once, so I would prefer to keep at least one uninjured limb. “Was it the covid vaccination?”, she asked. “Yes”, I said, “better safe than sorry.” I was expecting her to nod approvingly but, instead, she implied that it was a waste of time and, when pressed, hinted that she didn’t believe the science. “Well, you hear so many stories”, she said. I wouldn’t be surprised if, next time I go, they tell me she’s emigrated to Texas, where the wages for vampiric operatives are more generous, and patients don’t ask awkward medical questions.

          Assuming I survive the next two weeks, I shall propose at the next philosophy session that we discuss whether we are wasting our time, considering how some people appear to be regressing to beliefs held prior to the 5^th century BC.

*Reduction of red wine intake is work-in-progress.

 

 

 

 

Commoners?

          They were pretty good at recycling in olden times. When I went to Old Sarum last week, I was awed by the hilltop site, but disappointed by how little was left of the medieval castle and cathedral – just the rough, stony outlines of the excavated foundations were visible. All the good stuff had been taken away and used to build nearby Salisbury, the new town that grew to replace the ancient settlement. Fair enough, I suppose. Dressed stone was an expensive commodity and, besides, people back then weren’t to know that gawpers like me would come along centuries later, in our leisure time (in itself, an unimaginable concept), to try to extrapolate what their lives were like.

          Archaeologists trace continuous occupation of the site from 400 BC to around 1300 AD, so it has a layered history. Of those layers, the one that was on my mind that day (because I am halfway through Kazuo Ishiguru’s the Buried Giant) was the time of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. However, it was the subsequent legacy of the Norman conquest that had the dominant and lasting impact on modern society and, as I gazed down on Salisbury, some of the links came into focus.

          Ever since the Normans took all the land and left the populace to make a living, either in service to their conquerors or by foraging on licensed ‘commons’, we have been stuck with the same system, although it has become so normalised that we tend to forget its origins. It only got worse for the population at large: the commons were subsequently ‘enclosed’ (privatised, in today’s parlance) and people got accustomed to wage slavery as an alternative means of subsistence. It’s not a stretch to describe the present day oligarchs and their political enablers as the modern equivalent of the Normans, an elite that seeks to own everything and rent back to the rest of us that from which profit can be extracted, including hard-won ‘commons’ such as education and healthcare.

          Contemplating history from the heights of Old Sarum put me in a grumpy mood, but not for long. All things considered, I’d rather be a peasant in 2025 than in 1025: at least I have the benefit of some education and a degree of mobility, which means I can visit other historical sites, such as the town of Southport, established around the 1820s and now well past its heyday. I have been several times, accompanying my Other Half, who has business there. While she works, I wander and observe what has become of the place.

          It was once a prosperous and fashionable resort, offering hydrotherapy treatments and seaside frolics at fancy hotels. Its wealthiest scion funded a gallery and museum, the Atkinson, that is now run by the council and where I go to obtain background info on all the down-at-heel, grandiose buildings. While I was there last week, I saw a display about what is, as far as I’m aware, the only product of the town, potted shrimps, a delicacy to which I am partial. My appetite for lunch duly whetted, I went off in search of a retailer.

          But retail in this and many other towns is not what it used to be. There are too many shop premises – some shuttered because of the internet, some because of the presence of M&S and the like. If the town centre could be ‘tidied up’ by consolidating all the shops in one area instead of sprawling over the three that have developed over time, it would look a lot neater, even moderately prosperous. It would also make it easier to discover that nowhere in the town is there a shop that sells potted shrimps. I could have saved myself the trouble by googling. They are, of course, available online and might even have been delivered to me by a gig-economy worker on a bike, a form of subsistence employment not dissimilar to that which peasants endured in medieval Britain and, therefore, one in which I will endeavour not be complicit.

 

Enough Stuff?

          Some time ago, I adopted a deliberate policy of thinking twice before acquiring any more stuff. The change may have coincided with our downsizing to a smaller apartment, though I prefer to believe its origin was more loftily conceived, the result of ideological and moral contemplation. Certainly, I was influenced by William Morris’s advice to “…have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful…” and by the noble philosophy of asceticism, though less so by the latter, given that it requires considerable self-discipline and is tainted by association with religiosity. Most likely, the cause was a combination of pragmatism and idealism, but one thing’s for certain: the ticking clock of advancing age introduces a reality check to the rationale behind accumulating worldly goods.

          Decluttering has become a thing that people consciously do, whereas cluttering is not necessarily deliberate. Moreover, these terms apply not only to objects. Without due care and attention, one’s life can quickly become crowded with relationships and activities that complicate our days, obfuscate our priorities and eat up that most finite of commodities, our time. Of course, it’s not easy to divest oneself of relationships, since they are usually reciprocal. Activities, on the other hand, are easily terminated, as when I gave up gardening.

          One day, I woke up to the realisation that with both a garden and a share in an allotment, my weekends were spoken for well into the foreseeable future. Not long after this dawning, I relinquished both by moving into an apartment. I then bought a campervan, thereby gaining not only the time but also the means to pursue more varied leisure activities. It’s not that I find horticulture uninteresting. It’s just that I would rather someone else’s life were devoted to its execution. In return, I show my appreciation by subsidising the National Trust and visiting its gardens and orchards to admire – and sometimes harvest – the fruits of their labours. Last Sunday, for example, I went to Cothele, where a daffodil fest was in full swing. The gardens there are stocked with 320 varieties of the trumpet-like blooms, some of which date back to the 17^th century, though it was enough for me to pick out the half-dozen types that differ most obviously.

          The next day, I went to the re-opening of the leisure centre that closed for refurbishment a couple of years ago, thereby temporarily terminating my membership of its gym facility. I have to say that I have not missed the treadmill and, despite the shiny new upgrade and reasonably priced membership offer, I cannot work up sufficient enthusiasm to commit to re-joining. It’s not that I begrudge the time – one must exercise to stay well and, besides, music and podcasts are there to fill the mental void – but I’m inclined to postpone the decision ‘til winter, when recreational bike-rides and walks are less appealing options.

          I also spent a few days travelling up north, where I spent time with a few old friends that I don’t see from one year to another – long enough for visible changes to register. Everyone looks a degree or two older, something that might go unnoticed if we met more frequently, but that is to be expected. What I was looking for were changes of opinion, attitude or lifestyle. Of these I saw little. Set in our ways or committed to hard-fought-for values? My vote is for the latter.

          Conversely, I admit to a lapse in principles last week. I was browsing, somewhat scornfully, in a shop full of “collectors’ items”, when my eye was drawn to a framed print of a townscape, prettily done in muted colours and in a style reminiscent of the sixties. Perhaps I bought it for nostalgic reasons but, at only four quid (a mistake, surely?) it didn’t take me long to override my ‘no-acquisitions’ policy. Now, I have to find a space on the wall to justify its purchase.

 

 

 

The Power of Music

          Going to the cinema during the day still feels naughty, even though I’ve been doing it now for 18 years. The benefits are that it’s sometimes cheaper, often empty and always an enticing refuge when the weather is dull. So, it felt like an imposition when I was obliged to go on Wednesday evening to catch the final showing of Becoming Led Zeppelin.

          I’m not a big fan – I like some but not all of their music – but the appeal of the film is that it documents their backstory during an era through which I also lived. In the interviews, the four musicians come across as likeably modest, considering their international fame and their extrovert musical exploits. Acknowledging their musical debt to American soul and blues, they made it big in the USA before coming ‘home’ to consolidate their popularity in the UK, an unusual reversal of the norm in 1970.

          Those were the days! America, flush with the ethos of the summer of love and the hippy counterculture, was open to progressive rock bands from Britain. At the same time, however, the National Guard felt free to shoot and kill unarmed protesting students in Ohio. Two very different Americas asserted themselves. Will the States ever be truly united?

          Well, there is a concerted effort going on right now, though its methodology owes more to fascism than consensus. The Washington Post (WP) reports this week on the extent to which statistical data that provides evidence contrary to the current administration’s version of actuality is being removed from government websites. Much has disappeared already and, in its absence, the government is able to spin whatever story it chooses without the nuisance of contradictory voices. The WP dubs this ‘digital book-burning’, which is ominously reminiscent of Heinrich Heine’s observation, “Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings”.

          I also managed a daytime cinema showing. I’m Still Here is another film about 1970, set this time in Brazil, where the military dictatorship was busy ‘disappearing’ those of its citizens who dared question its authority. One day later, I learned – from what still remains of the free American press – that a Green-Card-holding permanent resident* of the USA was taken from his home in an unmarked car and deposited in a migrant detention facility. No charges have been made against him at the time of writing. His pregnant wife, a citizen of the USA, awaits news of his fate.

          Understandably, you can get depressed by such bad news – if you’re anti-fascist, that is. But even fascists might feel a bit down after reading, as I did elsewhere, that if you measure your life in the number of weekends you likely have left, you might be surprised by how few there are to look forward to. In my case, there are very few so, to lighten things up, I chose to go for a long country and coastal walk on a day when the weather forecast was encouragingly vernal. For a few hours, my Other Half and I focussed our attention on varieties of daffodil and birdsongs (the latter, with the aid of a surprisingly efficacious app), while seeking the perfect bench-with-a-view on which to eat our picnic lunch. It was a classic two-in-one, relaxation for the mind and exercise for the body.

          But back to the everyday and, with all this going on, I forgot to prepare for last week’s choir session. Consequently, I was floundering with the melodies, confused by the four-part harmonies and distracted by the voice of the chap on my left, who sings strongly and confidently, even when missing the notes.

          However, there is one song in our repertoire that is relatively easy to sing, even though the lyrics are Italian. Bella Ciao! originally a folk song, was adopted during WWII as the call-to-arms of Italian partisans fighting fascism. I don’t know whether our musical director included it for political reasons but, when sung with gusto, it certainly seems to lift the spirits and offer some hope of resistance to whatever threat to freedom looms.

*Mahmoud Khalil

 

 

 

Party Time?

          I thought I was in good health, but then I got a worrying text from the NHS. It said that the blood test I had a month ago showed me “at risk of developing diabetes”. The degree of risk was not specified, nevertheless, the message urged me to sign up to attend an online ‘patient information session’, hosted by XYLA (part of Acacium Group) and ticketed by Eventbrite.

          Of course, I checked again on the possible causes of the disease. Lifestyle is a major factor but, in my case, an unlikely contributor, since my diet and exercise regimes have conformed, for most of my adult life, with those recommended by the medical profession. If, indeed, I am at risk of developing diabetes, then it is most likely due to ageing and/or having drawn the short straw in the heredity stakes, in which case there is not much point in worrying, since I can’t affect the outcome.

          What does concern me is the involvement of commercial companies in this process. Is it conceivable that there is a payment from the public purse to XYLA for every “patient” that signs up to a webinar to get advice that is readily available for free, either on the NHS website or through the internet more generally? The answer is “yes”.

          Every slight movement towards the American model of healthcare makes me nervous, especially since the takeover of its government by the far right. Fortunately I am not a citizen, but the protection that affords from being affected by its political direction is slender to the point of meaninglessness. The magnitude of its economic and military might is sufficient to influence everyone on the planet. And who is in charge of it? A handful of billionaires who have been working to this end for some time.

          I am inclined to the view that democracy is beyond being at risk in the USA: it has already been captured and is now being demolished by plutocrats who are busy consolidating their position by dismantling the state and selling its parts to oligarchs who will then offer services back to citizens at prices they determine. This is an attractive model of governance for those who stand to profit from it and, as history attests, it is both commonplace and relatively simple to achieve. All you need is great wealth. Feeling uneasy, I checked on the Acacium Group. It’s a Private Equity Investment Company, based – for now, at least – in London, where a modicum of democratic restraint still applies.

          And, despite holding a generally pessimistic view of the future for most of the planet’s populace, I take what opportunities I can to enjoy what is left of our civil society and our cultural and natural heritage. Life in Devonshire showed its bountiful face last week, with unbroken sunshine and a few days spent at the seaside in the jolly company of old friends.

          We stayed at Slapton, a ten-minute walk from the beach. It’s an officially ‘dark’ area, which means that the stars are spectacularly visible on cloudless nights such as we had. We walked through the village, where the vestiges of our feudal past remain in the layout and buildings. We mooched around the quaint old centre of Dartmouth, famous for its Roal Naval College (and, latterly, unaffordable housing stock) and visited the old market, interacting with the characterful fishmonger and genuinely French pâtissier. One of our party picked edible stems from the hedgerow and served them as an appetiser for supper. She identified them as Alexanders and told us the Romans ate them.

          We drank and laughed a lot, as friends will. After all, our party’s not over just yet.

A Word about Diversity

          The dictionary definition of “one who likes to bathe in cold water, especially outdoors in natural bodies of water such as rivers, lakes and oceans” is ‘psychrolute’ (from the Greek words "psychros" meaning "cold" and "loutros" meaning "bath"). Of course, ‘wild swimmer’ is the more commonly used appellation, possibly because, to all but scholars of the classics, it’s more evocative of its subject. Hence (pedants excepted) psychrolute is used only by marine biologists, who know it as the proper name for what is commonly called a blobfish.

          But I would argue that it's not just scientists who find it useful to have a noun, a one-word definition, rather than a phrase. For example, in everyday life, one has no option but to refer to one’s cousin’s offspring as “first cousins once removed”, an awkward phrase to have to insert into a conversation. We could do with a noun here, but none can be found. Was it a challenge too far for the scholars of ancient Greek? I consulted my copy of the Reverse Dictionary, a publication that is designed for looking up words that you suspect exist but have slipped from your memory. In truth, I didn’t really expect a result. I was just giving the book a valedictory airing, knowing full well that AI has supplanted its usefulness. I returned it to the bookcase, where it will remain as a decorative reminder of the days when reference books were, well, referenced.

          Of course, there’s no guarantee that knowledge dispensed by AI will be accurate, impartial or uncensored. It may even be completely fabricated – as is so much that comes from the official communication channels of various Autocracies, Theocracies, Dictatorships and nominal Democracies such as the USA (which now surely qualifies as a Plutocracy). So, how best to protect ourselves against the monopolisation of information by those who would control our lives for the benefit of their own interests? Well, efforts have been ongoing for thousands of years, so hope still burns. I just saw the secretly made Iranian film, The Seed of the Sacred Fig, a story of family conflicts set against the theocratic state’s brutal suppression of the hijab revolution. The title is allegoric and refers to the eventual overwhelming of the tree of state by home-grown dissent. Not everyone is persuaded by the regime’s rhetoric and diversity is a threat to dictatorship, which is a good reason to encourage it.

          Diversity is also a word that has come into vogue. When I was growing up, the very concept was exotic, if not downright alien, to be tolerated rather than accepted. Later in life, I met and mingled with people who were from different backgrounds and other countries. This contact had the effect of disrupting my cultural norms: the manners and etiquette that I had been taught were essential, I came to see as more of a framework of politeness. For example, tilting one’s soup bowl away from oneself and silently spooning the contents might be the quintessentially English way, but it began to seem prudish after I encountered the naked enthusiasm that Oriental soup-slurpers brought to the table. And at the table is a good place to start, since the ancient habit of breaking bread with strangers is the hallowed way of establishing friendly relations.

          In the less diverse days of my upbringing, dinner parties were gatherings of omnivores. But, as veganism heads for mainstream, I envisage a time when the opposite will apply. It’s been a while now since ‘special dietary requirements’ began to appear on invitations to dine (to which one diehard omnivore responded, “a decent claret, please”) and we have reached a point where even the word “dinner” needs either a qualifying adjective or a descriptive phrase.

Solace, of a Sort

          At last, I have resolved the niggling issue of having different types of valve on the front and rear tyres of my bike. Ostensibly, this was not problematic because I had bought a pump that connects to either, but when I needed it most, midway through a longish ride, it broke. My choice of a replacement was limited to whatever was available at the first shop to which I could push my stricken machine, so I came out of there with a very nifty (and quite expensive) lightweight ‘racing’ pump, which I soon discovered to be annoyingly impractical. Yes, it worked, but its adaptor for the differing valves was a plastic fitting so tiny that my fingers found it awkward to extract from its hidey-hole and re-position appropriately. Worse, the whole thing was about six inches long and impossible to grasp firmly and effectively.  Since Monday, however, when I acquired matching valves and a man-sized pump, I have felt happier about being back on the saddle.

          I know, I’ve been called pernickety before. But, in a world in which we are at the mercy of overwhelming forces, both natural and political, there’s comfort in controlling whatever we can to make life more enjoyable – or less annoying, depending on your point of view. And it’s not that I’m a complete control freak. Take, for example, the community choir. (There is a hierarchy of choirs, by the way, according to their degree of expertise. In this context, the word “community” is a euphemism for “entry-level”.) I’ve attended twice now and, as a participating singer, accept that I have no authority over the repertoire or how it is arranged, nor may I criticise the efforts of other members. This is challenging for someone who wants everything to be ‘just so’, yet I accept that teamwork is inherent to the enterprise, so I do what is expected of me. A good dose of working as a team is a useful antidote to selfishness, a reminder to stay rooted in society and a distraction from fretting about that over which I have no control, like geopolitics.

          Most of us are insufficiently rich to be in a position to influence the outcome of political power-struggles (yes, in case you hadn’t noticed, democracy is bought and sold). The very rich are in charge and act constantly to consolidate their stranglehold on power. Those who perpetrate war may legitimise their motives on religious or nationalistic grounds, but the real goal is invariably the acquisition of wealth. If this is true, it makes sense that Donald Trump should propose ending at least two wars, simply by putting forward commercial propositions. We shall see. Meanwhile, those who suffer are the cannon fodder and the civilians caught in crossfire.

          As interested as I am in geopolitics, there are mornings when I open the papers and skip over the headlines about this, that, or the other autocrat’s latest outrages on humanity. With a sad resignation, I search instead for some good news or, at least, a story that is not about destruction of the planet and its inhabitants. I suppose editors include such items purposely to leaven the burden of gloom and doom and avoid reader burn-out. This morning, I did the skip and landed on the story about archaeologists uncovering a pharaoh’s tomb, the first to have been discovered since that of Tutankhamun in 1922. Fascinated by archaeology’s forensic potential to tell us what happened in the ancient past, I’m always drawn to news of its findings, as I prefer evidence-based speculation to mythologies.

          But the uplifting effect of this particular story wore off pretty quickly when I realised that it’s really about yet another autocratic dictator who nabbed all the wealth for themself and – a particularly selfish move, this – took it all to the grave, presumably to avoid inheritance tax. In the three-and-a-half millennia since then, not much has changed. It’s enough to drive a chap to tinkering with his bike. 

Promises, Promises...

          The feeling that I really ought to make good on a few of the unfulfilled promises I’ve made to myself over the years has come to the fore. It gnaws at my consciousness from time to time anyway, but that recurring measure of urgency, my birthday, is here again to prompt me to action. Of course, advancing age renders some of those ambitions no longer feasible or, at least, less attractive than they once were: fast-tracking to rock stardom or wild-camping for two weeks in the Cairngorms are among the dreams from which I have awoken to face the reality of diminishing appetites and physicality. So, I have to refine the list and get on with ticking off the items that still qualify as achievable yet languish in limbo.

          A good place to start is the diary. A solid session of forward planning is an effective way to weed out unrealistic schemes. The very process of pinning down a date affords the opportunity to question the value of that to which you are about to commit. Whether or not you take that opportunity is up to you, with the proviso that your choice may be constrained by obligations to family and friends. Diarising (conversion of nouns to verbs is all the rage these days: I have it from Australia that a great-nephew “farewelled” his lifelong friend before he went off to study abroad) goes against my grain somewhat, as I like to think of the future as an open book. But my Other Half argues against this notion of que sera, sera by evidencing some of the lost opportunities that litter my past. I can’t argue with that, so I compromise by diarising key events and leaving blocks of time vacant and available for spontaneity – on my part, at least.

          As an extra refinement to this system, I have allocated a new colour code to the diary: graphite grey, which is to say, ‘pencilled in’. This category usefully covers the various events – gigs, meetings, exhibitions etc. – which are of interest, within walking distance, do not require advance booking, yet which I habitually miss. Now, with the ‘pencilled in’ category, I win/win. My options are left open, thus relieving my fear of constraint, while there is no chance of feeling regretful at having forgotten to attend.

          I tested this last Friday evening, foregoing a warm and cosy evening at home to brave a walk to the pub through a bitter easterly to see a “Barcelona street folk-rock” group whose percussion section comprised two tap-dancers. Interesting – for a while. But they did get an enthusiastic response from people inclined to dance. And there was a decent pint of cider on tap.

          But perhaps the more momentous event of the week – and something I have been dancing around myself – was my actual attendance, for the first time, at a choir session. Signs that I will keep it up are encouraging. First, they didn’t tell me not to come back (though this is likely to be because male voices are notoriously scarce in community choirs). Second, I did enjoy singing, even though it was difficult to make out whether I was hitting the notes, what with all those other people attempting the same. I suppose one becomes accustomed to that after a while, otherwise it wouldn’t work.

          The choir has been working for a couple of weeks on Leonard Cohen’s Dance Me to The End of Love, an unlikely choice, I thought. Not that I wish to disrespect Leonard’s legacy, but I never much liked that old klezmer-tinged dirge, though I do like the jazz-swing version recorded by Madeleine Peyroux. But our leader has come up with a complicated four-part arrangement that, if it ever comes together, will vindicate her endeavour and, to a lesser extent, mine.

Contemplate the Hole

          About seventeen years ago, I managed to escape from the hole I had dug for myself – a manufacturing business that I had established, nurtured and eventually grown weary of. The subsequent euphoric feeling of freedom from responsibilities took me back to the prelapsarian era prior to my taking hold of the metaphorical shovel, when my horizons seemed to expand daily, and mortgaging was something other people did. Once out of the hole, I relished once more the luxury of being able to plan a day out according to the weather forecast, spend a morning at the cinema, or enjoy a night out without a looming ‘school day’ to inhibit the occasional excess to which I’m inclined.

          But I have been aware lately of being stalked by a low-level form of anxiety. It creeps up and questions whether I’m making best use of my time. Whence this spectre of my shovel-wielding past? Well, after giving it some thought, I’ve concluded that it’s because I have gradually accrued responsibilities – again! To be clear, I’m not talking about anything really burdensome – just, for example, volunteering to help a local charity. Still, such work involves meetings, deadlines, preparation, engagement with professionals and various other activities that demand entries in my otherwise ‘pencilled-in’ diary. Looking over my shoulder, I’ve had to remind myself that anxiety, in itself, is not a bad thing: though it can be overwhelming, it’s best utilised as a driving force, an antidote to complacency and lethargy – or so goes the therapeutic argument.

          When, in a recent surge of outrage, I signed up to join last week’s protest outside the Royal Courts of Justice*, I didn’t think about how the action might cause me to become anxious, but that was before I arrived and saw that the side streets were crammed with vans full of police officers ready to be deployed. “Don’t worry”, said the organisers, as a thousand of us sat down deliberately to block a road for an hour-and-a-half, “You have a legal right to protest peacefully”. What followed was akin to a performance imbued with an air of menace.

          The police adopted a tactic of polite, individual engagement, aimed at encouraging us to move to the designated protest area nearby (where our message to the world would have shrivelled and died of media under-exposure) and backing this up with the prospect of arrest, should a Section 14 order be imposed in the next hour, which was “very likely to happen”. We all knew it was unlikely, but I admit, nevertheless, to having been tempted to move on quietly. But my fortitude prevailed – largely because behind me was someone I knew to have been arrested more than once, to my left a stranger who told me she had been arrested four times and, to my right, another who had actually served time in prison for animal rights activism. What was I? A wimp?

          Well, not exactly. I may not have form, but I do have nice, middle-class manners and, when asked politely by the police to move on, I find myself inclined to oblige. But I gained strength from our number and my anxiety was laid to rest. A touch of humour also helped leaven the situation, when a very young policeman explained to me, seriously, that, were I to be arrested, I would acquire a criminal record, which could adversely affect my future career prospects.

          That evening, I celebrated my freedom (though not, I fear, that of those on whose behalf we had protested) with a friend, in Soho, where we ate and drank lavishly before descending to a cellar to jive it up to an excellent jazz band. It was well after midnight before I got home but, who cares? School days are most definitely a thing of the past.

*Bringing attention to the appeal for a reduction in the custodial sentences previously imposed on sixteen citizens currently serving time for non violent acts of protest.

Vegans Beware!

          The set of friends we’ve acquired since uprooting four years ago includes quite a few vegans and, having heard their arguments in favour of a plant-based diet, I have found myself taking tentative steps down that particular road to Damascus. Although the ethical case for not eating other sentient beings is debatable, the scientific case relating to better health for us and the environment is not. And, as for best use of resources, it makes no sense to devote an estimated 36% of the world’s grain production to feeding animals who, while being bred and raised for slaughter, emit an awful lot of atmosphere-warming methane.

          Our philosophy discussion group began its new year on Tuesday with Socrates, whose principles might have aligned him with ethical veganism, had it been proposed to him, but that being the day after the presidential inauguration of the wannabe dictator, Trump, our focus was on the decline of political ethics since the golden age of Greece. When, in 380 AD, Emperor Theodosius mandated that Christianity must be adopted throughout the Roman Empire, he effectively buried philosophical discussion until the Renaissance. Now, faced with Trump’s triumphant onslaught against the reasonable exchange of ideas, could we be in for a second Dark Age?

          Trump’s vilification and stifling of opposition, along with his blatant attempts to capture the institutions of state, are classic fascist tactics. His success (as defined by winning the election) can be attributed, in part, to the paucity of public education, insofar as it has kept enough of the voting population sufficiently ignorant as to be easily manipulated.

          But the week hasn’t been all doom and gloom. Professional Donald Trump impersonators are delighted to be looking forward to four years of solid bookings. And, more widely, there are the veteran Bob Dylan fans, like me, who bought tickets to a time-travelling treat, A Complete Unknown, the biopic covering Dylan’s emergence in the early sixties. The accuracy of some details in the film is questioned by experts but, for me, it was enough that the overall re-creation of time, place and events had sufficient credibility and more than enough atmosphere to elicit a sometimes tearfully nostalgic response. As for Timothy Chalamet, his impersonation/impression of Bob’ singing and playing was astonishingly convincing – so unlike my amateur attempts in the heyday of my hopeful musical ambition. So absorbing was the film that my Other Half, whose interest in Bob has always been lukewarm and whom I suspect of having come along simply to see Timothy Chalamet, afterwards admitted to having had something of a damascene experience herself.

          I was at one of Dylan’s Royal Albert Hall concerts in 1966, ten days or so after the more famous Manchester gig at which a ‘folk purist’ and erstwhile fan expressed his sense of betrayal by shouting “Judas!” when Bob came onstage with his electric guitar and backing band. The London audience was also divided but I sat on the fence, more intrigued than outraged. In my view, Bob certainly had the last laugh.

          As it turned out, the week’s highlights were overshadowed by the constant stream of bad news from the good old US of A, land of opportunity and centre of the free world, which has seemingly acquired a king – anointed by God when he diverted the assassin’s bullet. Trump’s latest edicts include removing from official documentation the option for citizens to register their sex as any other than either male or female and denying the validity of those parts of the constitution that do not serve his purpose, such as the 14^th amendment, which grants US citizenship to all those born in the USA. More ominous is the implementation of a Soviet style ‘snitch’ culture, whereby Federal employees are now obliged to inform on colleagues they suspect of not whole-heartedly complying with Trump’s orders. At this rate, it won’t be long before, at the behest of the agro-industry lobbyists, Americans will be obliged to report anyone suspected of the unpatriotic crime of veganism.