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.

Wassail Away

          In an old Steinbeck story, set in California around 1930, the protagonist adds a pinch of celery salt to the glass of beer he is served in a bar. Intrigued by this, I dug around t’internet and discovered that it has long been known that adding salt to poor quality beer makes it more palatable. Further intrigued, I went to the trouble of buying some celery salt and adding it to bottle of supermarket lager left over from a party. The result of my test was inconclusive – but that’s probably because I don’t much care for lager anyway, salted or otherwise. So, I am rid of the lager, but the salt remains, a useful addition to the cruet, as it goes especially well with boiled eggs (hard or soft).

          Actually, I prefer cider to beer and have become quite the afficionado when it comes to the apple varieties used, the style of the drink and the provenance of the producers. You could say I’m picky, but that would be an understatement. For me, it has to be dry, still, without additives and made in England with native apples. The thing is, when I taste cider, I taste also the history of England. It’s a visceral thing, hard to explain. I’ll have a go anyway.

          Last Sunday, I went wassailing around a small orchard that has recently been established on the Hoe (Plymouth’s elevated park that overlooks the city to the north and the sea to the south and from which sir Francis Drake calmly observed the approaching Spanish Armada while he finished a game of bowls with his mates). I joined a motley crew of traditionalists in the act of dispensing goodwill to the trees in the hope that they will respond with an abundant harvest. There is a special song to kick off proceedings but, after that, the ceremony loosens up and we traipse around the trees, banging pots and pans or playing folk instruments and offering libations of cider lees to the roots. It’s pagan, ancient, light-hearted and uniquely silly: the essence of old England as popularly portrayed. I don’t believe wassailing has any effect on harvests, but I do believe that the perpetuation of the joyfully expressive tradition makes the cider taste better in the bar afterwards.

          And so it did. The after-party took place in the bowling club pavilion (which is said to stand roughly where Sir Francis would have been playing in 1588), where we were treated to sea shanties, morris dancing and refreshments, including, of course, cider most pure (and some which was adulterated with spices and heated up – mulled, they calls it. I suspect it’s just another way of making a poor beverage palatable, like the trick with salt). Sea shanties are a bit like the blues in that, when sung with gusto, they can be moving but, musically the format is limited, so one’s attention wanders after about fifteen minutes. However, a couple of pints of cider soon has you singing along.

           Morris dancing, likewise, can arouse more curiosity than excitement, but this particular side* had a narrator who explained the stories behind the dance moves, clarifying the interpretive choreography. It became a bit fuzzy after the second pint but, by then, it was all just jolly japes anyway and I was feeling inclined to join in, regardless of the fact that the dancers were wielding heavy sticks. Sensibly, I refrained and gave thanks, instead, to those who actively perpetuate the folk traditions. Progress may be the inevitable fate of us humans, but the past is the start of our story.

          Two days later, I was driving along an old road that wound through the Devon countryside, skirting ancient landholdings and passing within inches of the thatched buildings of Norman hamlets. There were moments when old England surged through me, like the remains of a dream.

*Morris dance troupes are called ‘sides’.

 

 

Annual Review

          Happy new year! Although it’s unrealistic to expect a full twelve months of happiness, nevertheless this greeting is universal – implicitly acknowledging that optimism is a more attractive trait than pessimism. After all, it would be cynical to toast another year of ‘getting by’, even though that will be the inevitable fate of some of us. As for those who have been dealt the most certain of losing hands, even they might want a positive greeting, just to lift their spirits. At the very least, it’s polite to say to each other that we are hopeful everything will be satisfactory, while omitting the part about it being unlikely.

          Each new year begins in the depths of winter, when bright horizons, both actual and metaphorical, are easily obscured. For instance, during this week’s cold snap, two of our three storage heaters ceased to function, leading to some invective-laden questioning of their value and purpose. But let’s skip that and move on to the positives: there’s always joy to be found somewhere.

          It was one of those clear, sunny mornings after the overnight temperature had dropped below freezing. We went for a walk on the edge of Dartmoor and down into the valley of the river Tavy, where hoar frost decorated every leaf and twig with a delicacy and brilliance that made even the finest Christmas tinsels and strings of coloured lights look like the work of a ham-fisted amateur. It was cold, especially down in the wooded valley, but even here there was extraordinary beauty to behold in the mosses and lichens that smothered the sun-deprived trees and rocks. Muddy paths, turned solid by frost, crunched under our boots and warmth soon suffused our fingers and toes as we picked up the pace. Winter days like these are as enjoyable as the finest of any season.

          And at home, there are wintry culinary delights to be savoured. Wednesday’s supper of roasted parsnips and kale pesto, a newly discovered recipe, went down a treat with a glass or two of Douro. Dishes like this, savoured in the comfort of a cosy room are a satisfying antidote to cold, rainy evenings. And after clearing up, what better than to catch up on tv box sets. This week, having come to the end of all five seasons of My Brilliant Friend, we have begun to search around for the next addictive drama series.

          So, on the domestic front at least (and storage heaters notwithstanding), the year has started well. However, domestic order is an apple cart easily upset by external events and I can’t help but take into account the geopolitical situation which, in all its interconnected complexity, seems to hold no promise of a happy new year for anyone but a handful of oligarchs, kleptocrats, gangsters, billionaires and their respective hangers-on, whose manoeuvrings have brought them into positions of such power that even those governments with the strongest and most valid democratic credentials are now in danger of falling over and leaving the field open to fascism. This view, morbid as it is, seems valid the more I look into it.

          When I visited the library last month, I took out a book by Jonathan Aldred, Licence to be Bad: How Economics Corrupted Us and, having just received a reminder of its imminent due date, I picked it up and began reading in earnest. The message is bleak: a few influential economists have, over the last forty years, shaped our lives by steering western political policies towards maximisation of profit and, consequentially, away from societal cohesion. For this achievement, they were awarded Nobel prizes.

          So, when I wish someone a “happy new year”, there is an implicit qualification: I wish them well in the face of the odds stacked against them – and all the rest of us.

 

   

'Tis the Season

          If you’re the sort of person who depends on daily routines to keep you on the straight and narrow, then the chaotic end-of-year holiday period must be quite a challenge. Far from feeling flat when it’s all over, you might well relish the resumption of ‘normality’.

          This year, we didn’t avoid the festivities by going abroad as we usually do. Instead, we drew up a plan to remain and work with the situation. So, we participated in some of the revelries, avoided others and paid respectful homage to traditions with the degree of restraint you might expect of those who have reservations about their provenance. We threw a house party and justified it to ourselves as marking the solstice, though I don’t suppose anyone really cared about the reason: a party is a party, after all – especially during the catchall “festive season”.

          For me, the first event of said season was when our University of the Third Age philosophy discussion group devoted its last session to a lunch. It wasn’t a highbrow affair: there was everyday banter, tinged with a few jokes at the expense of the great philosophers and what felt like an appropriate toast to Epicurus, though his stated principle of pursuing pleasure is widely misunderstood by those (especially heavy drinkers) who are unaware of his balancing principle, that of exercising prudence to avoid future pain.

          Talking of pain, it hasn’t all been fun. On Christmas Eve, I suffered an attack of trigeminal neuralgia (severe pain, akin to toothache, in one side of the upper and lower jaw). It’s one of those oddly intermittent afflictions that are difficult to treat. It’s also difficult to say, for me, at least. So, having settled upon the malapropism “trigonomic nostalgia”, I came across some curious information regarding nostalgia which, until the 19^th century, was considered to be a serious medical condition. For example, during the American Civil War, 5,200 cases were recorded in the Union Army and 74 deaths attributed to it. Nostalgia, of course, ain’t what it used to be but, when the doctors return to work on Monday, I will just check that I don’t have the fatal variety.

         On the big day itself, we set off in the campervan for St Ives, where we hiked for a while along the rugged coast path, nourished by sandwiches and reassured by a handy supply of paracetamol. Later, a walk through the seaside town revealed that tradition was solid: only the pubs and hotels were open (for lunch). The public toilets were locked up and posted with notices declaring closure until the 27^th. There, at least, the sanctity of those two holidays remains unchallenged. We retreated to our snug campervan, hunkered down, all alone, in a small, sheltered field, where we cracked open the Champagne and celebrated our solitude.

          We lingered in the area until the 27^th, when the Tate St Ives opened its doors and I was able to get a fix of the kind of art that resonates most with my aesthetic preference – mid-century modern. Then we headed home to rejoin the social melee. By this time, my neuralgic pain had receded both in frequency and intensity, with just the occasional twinge to remind me of its presence.  Meanwhile, there was fun to be had at our block, where a round-the-world bar-crawl was planned for New Year’s Eve. Participating neighbours themed their apartments (ours was Greece) and opened up to all-comers for a pre-allocated half-hour slot. Despite some dodgy cultural stereotyping and a level of alcohol consumption that Epicurus would have advised against, the evening proved good for bonding with our neighbours and, as a bonus, having a nosey around their flats.

          Now, festivities are at an end, normality is nigh and I can relax into my routines. I’ll be able to see the GP about my nostalgia, one of the symptoms being a feeling that I’m going to miss the fairy lights and tinsel.