Hopeful on the High Street

When I began to take a serious interest in hill-walking, back in the 1980s, I kitted myself out with specialist clothing made from polyester fabric which is effective at retaining body heat while still allowing perspiration to escape. I soon discovered it has a couple of drawbacks: it is wickedly electro-static and, after only a few hours, reeks of armpits. Despite this being common knowledge since the 1960’s (the era of nylon, drip-dry shirts) I, and many others, convinced ourselves that we needed to spend small fortunes on garish garments which could be easily spotted (and probably smelt) by mountain-rescue teams. Lately many of us have returned to Nature’s own hi-tech fabric: worn by millions of sheep in New Zealand, it is called Merino wool and has re-generated the outdoor-clothing business. Nowadays unwanted polyester pullovers (ironically known as ‘fleeces’) can be bought for the price of a pint of beer at many High Street clothing shops.

But the High Street has long been full of things I neither want nor need, as was reconfirmed recently when I went in search of some Merino socks. The specialist outdoor-pursuits shops had plenty of the thick, chunky hiking variety but I was looking for an apparently rare type – the svelte city-sock – and without success. Manchester city centre has no shortage of men’s clothing shops but most of them are really in the business of selling fashion-branded garments and are unconcerned with the niceties of fabric types. Humble socks are relegated to racks at the back of the shop and, being low-ticket items, are not well understood by staff.

My search would have been better conducted on the internet but this had now turned into an ad-hoc research project during which I began to question the value of the big, familiar shops which aim to reassure customers by offering consistency but, in the process, are responsible for perpetuating uniform patterns of behaviour. I hankered after different shops. Someone told me that in Amsterdam, for example, coffee-shop chains are banned from the city centre for fear that the place would lose one of its main attractions – the charming variety of individual, owner-managed cafes which lend character to the place. This may have been achieved by timely civic legislation in Amsterdam but it is too late for such controls to be applied to Britain’s High Streets where landlords have tied their tenants into long contracts with periodic, upwards-only rent reviews.

Change may be on the horizon: I notice that the first charity shop has opened on one of the main shopping streets in Manchester and, although the word “blight” may spring to mind, along with visions of poor, semi-derelict High Streets elsewhere, it may well be that the charity shop signals a point in a cycle of regeneration. The last few decades have been marked by retail-chain expansion which has driven rents upwards with the consequence that more modestly capitalised independent businesses have lost their toe-hold. The lending and borrowing which has nourished this process has, at last, become unsustainable and the inevitable consequence is collapse. The corporate retail chains, whose spread has spoiled the individuality of Britain’s High Streets, have taken to sheltering in malls where their business model can be sustained, their high costs recouped from the heavy footfall of shoppers who prefer to put comfort and convenience before risk and adventure.

Charity shops may be the first to seize the opportunity but, as landlords are obliged by market forces to reduce rents, smaller businesses will be able, once more, to populate the High Streets where they will do what they do best – attract curious, interested customers by offering quirky, individual experiences. And when these customers come they will bring with them the life that makes High Streets buzz again.

NYRs

On a grey Sunday afternoon, at the beginning of January, I was at home contemplating my NYRs (New Year’s Resolutions) when I became aware of the sound of helicopters circling low over the city and emergency sirens echoing around the streets. Could this, I thought, be the beginning of the much-anticipated revolution, the Northern Spring?  Alas no: it was merely the routine aftermath of another local football derby - a ‘sporting’ event.

No change there; nor in my NYRs which comprised the usual drink less, think more and keep fit intentions. Last year I decided it would help if I joined groups of like-minded people for encouragement and support, but the outcomes were disappointing. In the first instance my friends proved reluctant to commit to the idea of going out for fewer drinks (which has led me to consider the NYR ‘get new friends’). On the thinking front, I joined a newly established philosophy discussion group, which could have worked out well but for the fact that we had neither sufficient knowledge to sustain discussion nor the will to acquire it. And then there were the various gym classes which I embraced enthusiastically - too enthusiastically, as it turned out, for the net result was my having to seek osteopathic treatment for a disjointed spine.

I even thought of teaming up with the Chinese senior citizens who exercise publicly each morning in the little park nearby. They are a loose congregation of six or seven tiny, ancient women who make barely-perceptible movements of their limbs. I once stood shyly on the periphery, undecided whether to approach (it is rumoured that they have never learned to speak English) and ask to join. Although theirs was not quite the vigorous workout I really needed I thought it inspirational in its unselfconscious and dutiful performance. In the end, however, it proved to be a cultural step too far for me: I lost my nerve and fell back into solitary-resolve mode.

NYRs would be easier to keep if we all agreed to adopt the same ones; they would become part of our social fabric and, like the Chinese ladies, we would all pull together for the greater good. We could take a vote and choose NYRs which would really make a difference to society. If, for example, we all gave up drinking excessive amounts of alcohol, the money spent repairing the collateral damage could be diverted into education; if all football supporters resolved to be friendly and sporting to each other, peace would break out and the resources of law and order would become available for helping old ladies across roads.

If this sounds too totalitarian to bear, individualists and anarchists need have no fear of it ever happening: our society is too loose a confederation of tribes to allow for any such unity of purpose. Although, peculiarly, when it comes to international sporting competitions, tribes seem happy to set aside their differences and unite under national flags. The Olympic Games, the mother of them all, will soon be upon us and enthusiastic, consolidated tribes from around the world will compete in a £9 billion (at least) orgy of flag-waving, podium-posturing, medal-ranking displays of national pride egged on by commercial sponsors keen for ever-multiplying numbers of viewers. Those of us who may have lost the battle of the NYRs - to give up drinking and smoking, lose weight and get fit - can watch those who apparently have not as they strive for national glory on our behalf.

Participation in the Olympic Games may not be on my agenda but my NYRs are no less a challenge to my personal abilities. I’ve made a start by aiming to get through January in one piece. That in itself should win me a medal.

Radio Star

Video killed the radio star: maybe - but it certainly didn’t kill radio stations. In fact digital and internet technologies have ensured their multiplication. Mostly they comprise music-based programmes offering soundtracks to our busy lives, but there is at least one station which features not music but old-fashioned story-telling and drama. I like the idea of this but the reality is problematic: stories require some effort, some concentration on the part of the listener; for the thread of a story is easily lost if one is distracted by other activities such as checking e-mail, making tea, reading the papers or popping out for a breath of fresh air. Would-be fans like me face the challenge of fending off such distractions in order to benefit from careful, attentive listening to the story.

Long gone is radio’s 1930’s heyday when manufacturers advertised their appliances with pictures of contented families, gathered around cosy hearths, listening with rapt and undivided attention to loudspeakers in huge wooden boxes. Things have moved on: the contented families still look happy and the hearths cosy but the boxes are nowadays supplanted by big, shiny flat-screens - which have the advantage of being able to command not just one but two of our five senses, thereby pinning us to our seats for hours on end. This is serious competition for radio drama’s one-dimensional appeal – and it may be the reason why there are not too many stations offering such fare.

Acting on the use-it-or-lose-it principle, I decided to boost audience ratings while testing my own resolve. I scanned the schedules, found a radio play I would like to hear and made my preparations: I ticked the outstanding items on my to-do list, fixed an imaginary 1930’s wireless set in my mind, chose a comfortable chair and settled down to some dedicated listening.  I was soon rewarded by a plot that was engaging, acting that was convincing and sound-quality that was excellent. So far so good: there was indeed satisfaction and pleasure to be had from broadcast story-telling. Yet it proved not quite enough to keep my attention from wandering and before long my eyes began to cast around the room, falling on things that were in need of fixing or cleaning (and, in one case, throwing out). Then my thoughts began to stray into speculation about future events, such as my next meal, and I was finding it difficult to overcome the urge to fidget, write lists of things to do, reach for a book or magazine, get up to make a pot of tea or otherwise satisfy the cravings of the redundant senses. Resisting these temptations was difficult but I held my position, determined to persist with my experiment. Perhaps, I thought, I should close my eyes and concentrate hard.

When I woke up it was to the sound of an unfamiliar voice: “That’s Cross Incontinence, tonight at 8.30”. What was this - a programme about Irritable Bowel Syndrome? What happened to the play? It eventually dawned on me that I had missed most of the play and had woken, a little confused, to a trailer for a programme called Crossing Continents.

Later that day I opened an email from the City Library reminding me that they offer audio books which can be downloaded. I’m not falling for that again! I tried it once but was fast asleep before the end of the first chapter and could never work out how to find my place. At least with a printed book you can pick up where you left off when you dropped off. As for radio plays; if anyone has any practical listening suggestions please let me know.

Northern Wonders

My life began in the Mediterranean, despite which I am drawn inexorably northward. Over time I have acquired a fondness for the landscape and culture of northern Britain - and a corresponding aversion to those of the Home Counties. Fortunately my partner shares some of my preferences and so joined me on a recent northern excursion which included hikes along part of Hadrian’s Wall and the Northumberland coast, a visit to the mysterious Rosslyn Chapel and a peek at the newly refurbished Scottish National Portrait Gallery in Edinburgh.

Hadrian’s Wall (true to the fate of all such artificial barriers to human migration) was ultimately ineffective and, as soon as the Romans went home, it became a source of free, ready-cut stone for local building projects. In this respect at least the wall brought some benefit to the locals – unlike its modern-day equivalents made of massive concrete slabs. What remains of the ancient wall, however, certainly demonstrates the Romans’ remarkable engineering skills and their appetite for grand projects. It is also testament to their human endurance for, when we were there, in that remote and hilly place, the weather was so hostile that it was difficult to imagine how they could have accomplished such a work without the benefit of Goretex.

The outdoor-clothing industry would have us believe that there is no such thing as bad weather so long as you have appropriate clothing - but the next hike, along the coast, called this principle into question: the prevailing gale-force wind battered us into submission and, within a few hours, we were obliged to bring forward the ‘indoor’ section of our tour.

Rosslyn Chapel, a symphony of carved sandstone, was built about 1000 years after the Romans had left Britain and about 600 years before the next significant event – the invention of waterproof, windproof, breatheable, hi-tech fabrics. Its myriad carvings are not only extraordinary but also fascinating because the meaning and significance of many of them is now obscure. Were it otherwise the chapel would hold less mystery, the legends that surround it would not exist and Dan Brown would have had to find some other setting for the denouement of The da Vinci Code.

Whereas the interior decoration of Rosslyn Chapel was accomplished entirely by stone-carving, that of the Scottish National Portrait Gallery was achieved by the application of colourful murals and skilfully crafted woodwork, rendering the interior itself a thing of wonder - especially if compared with the stark, neutral interiors of many contemporary exhibition spaces. This building holds no mystery; it is a hall of fame containing a well-documented, pictorial record of those who feature in the nation’s history and, traditionally, the exclusive domain of the rich and powerful who could afford to commission portrait painters. But egalitarianism and photography have combined to level the ground so that, on these walls, a much broader section of society is represented and the historical record is more comprehensive.

But early Scottish history had not the benefit of contemporary painters and so has been visualised here in retrospectively painted murals. One of these represents St. Columba brandishing a wooden cross as he preaches to a group of Pictish warriors who are paying (incredibly) polite attention to his message.  Others depict imagined scenes of battle in which muscular natives repel fearsome invaders. They are romantic interpretations and I am inclined to question their authenticity, especially given the inadequacy of the characters’ clothing, which appears to have been modelled on the Mediterranean style circa 2000 B.C. – and there’s not a thread of tartan to be seen!

Driving back (without let or hindrance) across the border and through the remains of Hadrian’s Wall I pondered the fact that people nowadays may well be more suitably dressed for the weather but many are nevertheless still employed in the futile building of walls.

Little Worlds

There is a small scrap of grassy land near the back entrance of the Town Hall. I never really noticed it before because it is sunken and hidden by bushes but, when the ‘Occupy’ protesters set up camp there, I discovered that it has an official name - the Peace Garden.

“So why exactly are you here?” I asked one of the more approachable campers. “It’s a public space so we have every right to be here” he answered. “Yes but you’ve now made it into a private space. You’ve appropriated it for yourselves” I said. I considered this to be a valid point but he sidestepped this argument by inviting me to come and join them. A lively discussion ensued, during which he revealed that he had no home of his own and had been consigned to a hostel full of thieving smackheads and so he preferred to live in a tent in the Peace Garden. He then started to question me about my circumstances: did I have a home, an income etc? After a while we parted - on friendly terms, but not as friends: our worlds, regardless of their geographical proximity, were too far apart for us to mingle with social ease.

A few streets further on and now feeling in the mood for random inter-planetary dialogue, I bumped into a lone canvasser who urged me to take one of his leaflets.  “Thanks” I said, sensing proselytising, “but if it’s about religion I have no interest”. “No” he said, “it’s not about religion, it’s about Jesus and salvation”. I took the leaflet anyway but decided, on this occasion, not to pursue an argument. Instead I steered a course well out of his orbit.

During that brief time, within those few streets, my little world had collided with two other little worlds - each with its own set of values, priorities and boundaries. How many more little worlds must there be out there?

I travelled somewhat farther to encounter the next one, driving through the rush hour one dark, rainy evening to get to the Lake District. The haloed lights of the traffic advancing and receding in the blackness lent the feel of a Star Trek galactic mission to my journey and, when I turned off the main road onto the last few, unlit, lonely miles of winding, single-track up the valley to Wasdale Head, there was a sensation of being drawn into a black hole. But gradually the rain ceased and the cloud parted to reveal a full moon which, in turn, illuminated snow-dusted mountains looming all around - as if they had been lying in wait - their presence betrayed at last by the silver light. I stepped out of my spaceship at the head of the valley where, but for the lazy drift of the dispersing clouds, the motionless mountains bathed in eerie light looked like an artfully painted theatrical backdrop. Had I really landed on another planet this time?

In the morning the mountains were still beautiful but the illusion of other-worldliness had vanished with the moonlight. I was back on more familiar territory and set out to locate a farm where cheese is made and sold. I found it tucked away at the end of a gated track. My approach was undetected until I knocked at a door which was opened by a sixty-something man in corduroy trousers and a nice cardigan. He seemed surprised that I wanted to buy cheese but recovered his composure as he led me to the outhouse where his wife was busy cutting it into portions and sealing it in wax. This pair of mild-mannered, softly-spoken southerners might have been retired teachers who had decided on a change of lifestyle. The cheese was weighed, packaged and paid for while we tried some awkward conversation but I felt they were relieved when I said goodbye and left them to their solitude. Another collision of tiny worlds, another awkward moment: it’s not so easy communicating with beings from another planet.