Castles: The Original Gated Communities.

On a muggy day in tranquil, rural mid-Wales I stood alone on the stone remains of the medieval Castle Dryslwyn and looked down over the fertile valley created by the meandering river Tywi. Although the modern world intruded in the form of the monotonous sound of a tractor labouring over the ancient land, it was not difficult to imagine the past and the lives of those who, remote from the affairs of the rest of the world, had once depended upon the castle to safeguard their modest living - until it was finally overwhelmed by those who coveted it.

Whenever I see ruined castles I try to assess their strategic importance and by doing so gain some understanding of the conflicts of the past that brought them into being. In some cases they are fakes, built by landowners to enhance the vistas on their estates – a consequence of the popularity of romantic landscape paintings in which ruins are depicted to add visual drama, lend mystery and hint at legends. But whether authentic or fake, our country without these remains would be poorer: they are part of the collective memory that helps to bind society; they remind us that the present is built upon the past and that the status quo is temporary and subject to change. One day people may similarly revere the stumps of abandoned wind turbines and the hulks of de-commissioned atomic power stations.

But our cultural heritage is measured by much more than ruins: it also includes, for example, Otis Redding. The documentary film of Otis’ short but important career which I watched later that evening was fascinating, not so much because of his music (I was never a fan), but because it covered some key events in the development of popular music. Otis recorded with the Stax label whose records sold only to black Americans. The crossover to a white American audience came via success in Europe – especially England. The chinks in the armour of racial apartheid were beginning to open in the USA and music became a powerful factor in its dismantling. Black American artists were the inspiration for the British soul scene but the 60’s reverse invasion of America by British bands led to a creative cross-pollination resulting in diversification of styles and genres.

I was on a cultural-heritage-induced high by the end of the film but the next day I was brought down by news of the possible closure of several museums, among them Manchester’s Museum of Science and Industry (MOSI) because of the proposed withdrawal of Government funding. Closing museums to save money is never good news: closing MOSI, an institution dedicated to preserving and explaining the very why and wherefore of Manchester’s existence, would be an act of cultural vandalism. Government will justify it on the grounds of austerity brought about by the global economic turndown. It will push the idea of alternative funding through charitable giving while it directs scarce public resources to the four big items: defence; education; healthcare and social welfare.

But the defence budget appears to be spent on the destruction of other countries’ infrastructure and cultural heritage; the education budget on training children not to think for themselves; the healthcare budget on management re-organisation, cover-ups and pay-offs and the social welfare budget on desperate remedial measures to compensate for the follies of the other three.

While privately owned financial institutions are bailed out with money that belongs to society and too many rich individuals and corporations evade taxes and abjure social responsibility, public funds contract and pressure is put on the philanthropic few to make up the shortfall. Cultural heritage gets short shrift as Britain looks increasingly like a poor country run for the benefit of a few rich individuals – just as it was in medieval times.

St. David's Day

During the short time we were at St. David's the weather was 'mixed': days of unbroken sunshine interspersed with days of chill winds and driven rain. During a planning session, with the map unfolded on the table, the rain battering the windows and the remains of lunch cleared away, I reached for the half-empty bottle of wine and, being in no hurry, took time to read the medical advice regarding responsible drinking set out on the back label. The wine was 13% alcohol by volume and a 125ml glass-full of it would constitute 1.6 units of the three or four units per day which a male should not regularly exceed. With the aid of my phone I was eventually able to calculate that, if I wished to drink tomorrow, I had better put the cork in for now.

This informative labelling is provided courtesy of a supermarket chain torn between encouraging us to buy more wine than we ought and discouraging us from drinking too much of it. Thus enlightened, the concerned consumer has three ways to go: one is to memorise the equation, use calibrated glasses and meticulously measure the pleasure; two is to moderate consumption by gauging cause-and-effect by guesstimation; and three is to bypass the system altogether by drinking either recklessly or not at all. I have never met anyone who has chosen the first option.

Personally, I always managed well enough before the days of scientific calibration, competence in maths not being my strong point: besides there is too often scope for misinterpretation of well-intentioned scientific advice - however accurately presented. In the news that day was the story of a child who developed rickets because its mother had denied it vitamin D by over-application of sun-block cream.  Her information on the dangers of melanoma was incomplete and unconnected with anything else. Life's flow, old wives' tales, folklore or experience - call it what you will - context is crucial to the interpretation of statistics. Surely everyone knows how to take sensible precautions for their well-being?

The next day dawned sunny, as predicted, and we were prepared with our boots, map, packed lunches, flasks and sunglasses. St. David's peninsula, with its jagged coastline, cliffs, coves, inlets and ever-changing views, is a holiday destination popular with those who want beaches, water activities and coastal walks. And Ramsey Island, just offshore, adds scale and intrigue to the vista of the open sea. That day, set against a clear blue sky and a glittering sea, the yellow gorse, white and lilac wildflowers and fresh green grasses of spring all combined in a harmonious palette of colours fresh to the eye and invigorating to the spirit.

The coast path was not busy, except near the beaches where people had ventured up to the cliff for a short stretch, but we did encounter a few other hikers. In one party of four a middle aged woman had paused to answer her phone. I overheard an exasperated "Well, have you tried turning it off then back on again?" then a more enthusiastic "What's the weather like with you?" A party of about 20 Asian teenagers trooped past in the opposite direction. Their stylish clothes and unsuitable footwear gave away the fact that their tour bus must have been nearby: but at least they were able to see for themselves that it doesn't always rain in the UK.

We hiked all day. My feet needed a rest, my throat a beer and the rest of me a wash. But in the shower, as the water stung my head and shoulders, I noticed I had a T-shirt-shaped, white torso and vividly contrasting red arms and neck – a sure sign of vitamin D overdose. Later that evening, after lavishly moisturising, I neglected to compute the units of alcohol I consumed over dinner.

What's Going On?

I sometimes travel by train to random destinations - for the pleasure of discovery and the luxury of a prolonged period of reading, uninterrupted by the distractions of domestic routines and commitments. On the way I read newspapers, periodicals and magazines in order to find out what's going on in the world. And, when I arrive at my destination, I nose around to see what's going on there. Lately I visited the small, Welsh coastal town of Pwllhelli which sits, with its missing consonant, so temptingly at the end of a branch line.

In my newspapers the big story was taxation or, rather, the avoidance of it by the rich and determined. According to one columnist Google paid a total of £2.4 million in UK taxes in the same year in which it received £2.5 million in government subsidies, making it a net beneficiary of the social security system and enlightening us as to the hollowness of its "don’t be evil" slogan. Taxation is a simple principle to understand - a proportion of the wealth generated within society is pooled to provide services - but it is complicated in practice by those who consider themselves to be exempt from the social compact.

Less prominently featured was an article describing how software companies are actively recruiting people with autistic tendencies to work at testing their products. Could this land them in trouble? Legislation seeks to prohibit employers from discriminating between potential employees. But then, what type of personality is most likely to apply for such a job?

Less prominent still was the startling revelation that a bumblebee with a full belly is only 40 minutes away from starvation - such is the rate at which it burns energy. Having just eaten my lunch and with no imminent prospect of physical exertion I was inclined to feel that we humans lead a privileged life.

The train eventually pulled into the Welsh-speaking stronghold of Pwllheli just after the shops had closed for the day. I walked through the quiet town-centre to my accommodation, a high street hotel/pub which had recently been rescued from closure by a thirty-something bloke with a rough-and-ready approach to the hospitality business. He asked me to write down a lot of personal details on a form while he went upstairs to prepare my room and left me in the bar with the only other customer, a silent, tramp-like figure who looked as uncomfortable as I felt. My room was clean and comfortable enough but I left it in search of food and, hopefully, company. I found the former but, having decided against attending the performance in Welsh at the arts centre, the remainder of my evening was filled with more reading.

On the return journey, while scouring the pages for hidden gems, I took wry pleasure in the discovery that a growing number of French universities are now offering courses taught in English so as to attract international students. The French, who - like the Welsh - are protective of their language and harbour resentment towards us English for the pan-global adoption of our language, seem to be learning to live with the inevitable.

I felt less than smug, however, when an article about internet identity theft made me realise  that my own security precautions are quite inadequate and that I should change all my passwords (if I can remember them) toute suite (see, no hard feelings). I recalled with a chill that I had last night obligingly written my name, address, email and phone and credit card numbers on a piece of paper for a stranger in a deserted bar in semi-hostile territory.

On reflection, trying to determine what - if anything - is going on in small-town Britain probably requires more than just a quick nose-around. And I have to agree with the man who said that “trying to determine what is going on in the world by reading newspapers is like trying to tell the time by watching the second hand of a clock”.

Tree Time

A few years ago the City Council planted trees along one of the streets next to mine. Ornamental steel tubes were thoughtfully placed around the saplings to protect them as they grew. The trees are thriving but the steel tubes (which are no longer required) have become stuffed to overflowing with empty cans, bottles and paper litter. Now the street looks pleasantly green when seen from a distance but comically untidy close up. When the Council arranged an early evening rendezvous last week between residents and the people who run our services I went along, curious to put faces to emails - and keen to raise my concern about street aesthetics.

It was an unstructured gathering attended by three residents and a dozen or so official delegates - disheartening for the organisers but useful for us as it presented an opportunity to command the undivided attention of our public servants. The other two residents, coincidentally, were on a mission to green up the neglected nooks and crannies of the urban landscape, so trees quickly became the main item of discussion. It transpired that the Council is aware of my particular concern but unable to resolve the issue promptly because of a legal complication: although the trees belong to us, the protective tubes belong to some arts organisation which designed and provided them as part of the original project. It was deemed a sensible collaboration at the time but the arts organisation, having lost its funding, is now defunct and negotiations to remove the tubes are stymied.

During this discourse I also learned that the cost of planting a city centre tree is approximately £5000 despite which, somewhere near the bottom of a prioritised list, there is a plan to plant some more as part of the rejuvenation of a nearby square. Tree-lined squares attract people and increase footfall for local businesses.

The meeting having soon disbanded for lack of attendees, I made my way to the square in question, motivated partly by curiosity but mainly by hunger and an urge to visit the noted pizzeria which has lately been established there. Pizza, once a simple, Italian street food, now features as a main course on many a menu and even has worldwide chains of restaurants devoted to it. This place, however, hopes to succeed by following a more traditional model - pizza al taglio - such as I experienced once upon a time in Rome when, near the bus station there, I queued outside a bakery for pizza which was made, once or twice a day, in big rectangular trays to be sold by the slice.

The square itself was deserted and the only bar I could see was closed. The pizzeria was open but there was no sign of life: its colourful display of pizzas, focaccia sandwiches and bottles of ruby red Montepulciano had attracted no admirers.  Inside, candles flickered invitingly on the tables at the back but the tinny sound of a cheap radio echoed in the empty room. I sensed a business doomed to failure.

A young man appeared from the kitchen, apparently pleased to see me. He helped me order and, when I had taken a seat, brought me a dish of livid-green Sicilian olives. It was a bribe, an inducement to talk. As one of the two proprietors he was keen to explore ideas on how to attract business. In exchange for the olives I offered him some observations from a customer point of view and encouragement in the form of the news about the trees. By the time I left he seemed more optimistic and shook my hand warmly.

On leaving I noticed that he had placed two small bay trees in tubs outside the entrance - the vanguard, perhaps, of the coming greening. I hope he can hang on until the reinforcements arrive: he certainly knows how to make pizza.

Watch Out for Historical Klingons

I really don't know how the Queen managed to keep a straight face when she made her customary speech at the opening of Parliament this week. Given that its theme was the necessity for cost-cutting, there is hilarious irony in the fact that tremendous expense is involved in the custom and pageantry of its delivery. Perhaps her conscience was assuaged by the recent tiny reduction in the cost of the whole performance: her speech is no longer hand-written on goat-skin vellum with a special ink that takes three days to dry. In these straitened times one must suffer with the people, even if it means having one's speeches inscribed on mere (imitation goatskin) paper.

When Gutenburg first successfully employed his printing presses he could not possibly have envisaged that 560 years later, on a small island off the mainland of Europe, there would still be a solitary scribe labouring over goatskin as if nothing had changed in the intervening years. Nor could he, visionary though he was, foresee that his invention would produce one of the earliest side effects of industrialisation - putting scribes out of work. I do have some sympathy for those scribes - there would have been no job-seekers' allowance (JSA) for them to fall back on - but I would rather praise Gutenburg for his innovation than damn him for the temporary woes of a few workers. And he was himself later put out of work by the banker who lent him the money to build the presses and then confiscated them when the cash failed to flow back quickly enough for his liking. The visionary had not taken into account the fact that he was producing more books than were required by the very small numbers of customers who could actually read.

Reading is now more widespread, but the capitalist model remains unchanged since those days. Any business which cannot pay its way must forfeit its assets, and its directors must suffer humiliation and possible financial distress. Unless, of course, that business is a bank - in which case it is lavished with public funds and its directors are permitted to retire anonymously and in considerable material comfort.

I expect that the scribes of old soon found alternative employment, perhaps as typesetters in the growing industry of printing, but the prospects for today's unemployed are not so promising. The rapacious activities of the banks have laid waste to the economies of entire nations. As a result, businesses are damaged: many are wary of taking on new employees; start-up companies struggle to find backers and unemployment is becoming the norm for young people who should really be climbing career ladders.

But we Europeans are sticking together, helping each other out and jointly laying the foundations of economic regeneration. Only last week I had to transfer money to someone in Spain and discovered that my bank had discounted its fee for that particular transaction. Spain, as we know, is short of money, so I'd like to think it was a 'philanthropic' rate - but no one at the bank was available to comment. Then there is the Cypriot couple who have just become neighbours. Having graduated from Manchester University with more degrees than I had thought possible they now describe themselves, with considerable inventive flair, as "international job-seekers". (Perhaps this enables them to qualify for enhanced JSA subsidised by the EU and known as IJSA).

But, now that Europe is impoverished and the subsidies are on the wane, many Britons have concluded that their flirtation with the Continent has run its course and it's time to retrench. It is, after all, dangerously republican territory. Even in those few countries where monarchs remain they are mere shadows of the real thing. Just look at that Queen of the Netherlands who abdicated last week - without ceremony. She simply signed a form - and I bet it was on A4 copy paper printed out on an inkjet.