Lament for Latin

          You can learn a lot on a train. While on an evening journey from Manchester to London last week, I read that the Finnish public broadcasting service has, after thirty years, decided to call a halt to its regular news round-up in Latin. It seems a pity, even though not many people speak the language (my own grasp of it is schoolboy rudimentary), because Latin is a conduit for our past and history has many lessons to teach us. Nevertheless public service broadcasting, for all its educational potential, is low down the list of governmental priorities, even in rich countries.

          The train was crowded with India cricket fans who had just watched their team beat the West Indies at Old Trafford. They were remarkably subdued, considering their ‘victory’ (how I dislike the vocabulary of war being employed in sporting commentary), which may be because they had taken for granted that they would win. If so, that might also account for the fact that there were no Windies supporters in the carriage. Why would they go out of their way to watch certain disappointment unfurl? But when a young black man, wearing sports-branded clothing, took the seat next to me, I assumed – among other things – that he had been at the match. In a polite and genial exchange, however, I learned that he had not: having just graduated from Manchester University, he was travelling home to South London and thence to celebrate with his mates. And no, they were not going to Glastonbury to see the Grime rapper, Stormzy, but to Amsterdam to take in the art ‘culture’. And no, he had not graduated in performance arts, but investment banking, a career in which he expected to prosper in the City of London – where else?

          I have been thinking about switching my current account from the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation (especially after China’s latest attempts to quash the remnants of HK’s democratic system) to an ‘ethical’ bank but am unsure whether ‘ethical banking’ is an oxymoron. There are not many banks that make the claim, anyway, and the pioneer in the field, the Cooperative Bank, lost its halo when it was bought by a hedge fund, the most rapacious beast in the menagerie of financial institutions. I would have raised this topic with my graduate neighbour, but he soon became involved in phone communications which absorbed his attention. Coincidentally, a few days later at a street-side community book exchange somewhere between the City and Canary Wharf, I unearthed a couple of volumes that may have been on his reading list: Equities, an Introduction to the Core Concepts and Futures and Options for Dummies. They are subjects I know very little about – as, it seems, did most of the people responsible for the financial crash of 1980: the books, though published in 2006, were in pristine condition – as if unread.

          Nevertheless, my research into the possibility of ethical banking continues. If I must have a current account, then let it be with an institution that shares its customers’ concerns and preoccupations with societal issues, such as recovery of the environment, the health and safety of populations, the eradication of poverty and the availability of education for all. If such institutions exist, they should be encouraged to wrest power and influence from the incumbents, whose established methods lend succour to the demagogues and plutocrats who threaten liberal democracy with their backward-facing policies and protectionist warmongering. In other words, let us learn from Rome, where democracy was replaced by tyranny because its citizens failed to take preventive action and opted, instead, for pane et circenses – bread and circuses. This much Latin is all we need to know.

Eco-Glasto and Boomers

          On the way to the barber’s, I stopped for a coffee at a hip, right-on establishment (shipping container, cool young staff, precious blends, cashless till) and marvelled, silently, that they were still offering take-outs in disposable cups. Not very right-on, really, but I suppose we have become so used to convenience that weaning will take a while. And as for the inconvenience of cleaning up the environment after us, well, that would be someone else’s problem. I am myself not blameless of eco-unfriendly behaviour, modify it as I might. But, as a child of the 1950s, I was a late adopter of the disposable culture: the very idea of ‘disposable’ was anathema to us, raised as we were in an era of sock-darning thrift. Consequently, I am pre-disposed to renounce any over-consuming habits I have fallen into since.

          Still, the coffee was good and I recommended it to the barber, a thrifty type himself, who works alone, in shabby, low-rent premises. He was dismissive, however, because he only deals in cash. “Can’t even get a pint at the bar ‘round the corner now. It’s all going cashless,” he complained (again). I suspect his boycott of credit cards has something to do with the taxable status of his business model, but was unwilling to raise the subject for fear of getting a botched haircut. Instead, we talked about Glastonbury which was about to kick off. He said he would love to go once in his lifetime (he is pushing fifty) but that the timing is never right. The end of the month, when people get paid, is his busiest period and he must fill his pockets while he can. I turned the conversation to the burgeoning culture of eco-awareness that is now festival-culture norm, but he did not respond. His thriftiness, I think, is centred more on himself than the needs of society.

          Of course, it is easy to be lulled, day-to-day, into thinking that there is no imminent danger to humanity of eco-disaster. This week, I watered my brightly blooming potted plants prior to a brief absence, then drove (I know) for four hours through the green heart of England, savouring the long, lingering June evening as I bowled along tree-lined roads towards Salisbury, the centre of which is a picture of prosperity and quaint heritage. I think of it as www (wealthywhitewestern). salisbury.co.uk – a place that is protected by the status of its 13^th century cathedral and the land-owning family of Marquises associated with its establishment. A quick foray around the centre – dodging the clusters of guided tourists – reveals none of the high-street malaise that afflicts so many other towns of similar size. Smug complacency is in the air, as if change will not be happening here.

          Contrast this to Liverpool, another city I visited last week, where despite two cathedrals and a magnificent collection of architecturally impressive and historically important secular buildings, its essence is far from staid. Edgy would be a better description. In part, this may be due to the long-standing dominance of the working-class population and to the university students who now contribute substantially to both the economy and the culture. Indeed, one of my nephews is studying there and is enrolled on a course that promotes and encourages the ethos of eco-business.

          Meanwhile, back at home, living a reasonably frugal lifestyle that is not too greedy of resources, I looked forward to a simple lunch of tinned sardines in tomato sauce, mopped up with wholemeal sourdough and washed down with sencha green tea. I was disappointed to find that there was no tomato sauce in the tin and spent my meal-break trying to work out how this had come about. What comes first in the process – the labelling or the sauce? But I did get some satisfaction from lobbing the empty tin into the recycling bin.

Read All About It!

          If only it were possible, when you buy a book, to purchase also the time in which to read it, there would be less of what the Japanese call tsunduku – acquiring books without reading them. Personally, I manage this tendency by compiling a wish-list rather than a pile of books, though I still have the time conundrum: I would love to read the latest novels but, having only just finished Tristram Shandy, which was hot-off-the-press in 1759, I am a bit behind. To make matters worse, I have undertaken the restoration of a folding wooden chair that I have had in my possession since 1979. It has been 40 years since I was a hands-on furniture maker and, though I have not lost the skills, I had forgotten just how time-consuming they are. So, while scraping away at the chair-legs of a revered Danish designer, I have been fretting about all the reading that awaits.  On top of this there is a sense of urgency sparked by the tide of illiberalism that is rising across the world, stifling the voices of writers.

          Still, I found half an hour (while the first coat of oil was drying) to nip to the library for a tourist guidebook for my next foray abroad. Before I made it to the travel section, however, I was distracted by flamenco music coming from the ‘performance space’ (libraries are no longer silent shrines to the written word) so I poked my nose in. “Welcome,” said a man with a lanyard. “It’s a celebration for Refugee Week. Help yourself to the buffet.” I did and, though falafel and cous-cous – at a stretch – might be associated with Andalusia, it is surely not the daily fare of the Paraguayan dancer who appeared next. I must have missed the Arab oud session. Or, maybe there wasn’t one. After all, I had recently read about how traditional forms of Arab music are on the edge of extinction, driven there by globalisation and – worse – tyrannical regimes bent on ensuring that theirs are the only versions of culture and history that should be allowed.

          The guidebook was not available but, in any case, brief contact with the refugees had cast a different light on my planned journey, leading me to try to see travelling from their point of view. What for me is a leisure activity to be enjoyed for the cultural enrichment it delivers – involving choice of destination, timing and convenience – for refugees is a necessity: a bleak, harsh and sometimes dangerous experience. Moreover, many are fleeing drought, starvation and poverty caused by environmental degradation linked to the carbon emissions of the jet planes upon which we have become so reliant. It is beyond time, therefore, to develop a conscience about flying and, while it is possible to assuage that conscience with the purchase of carbon credits as we await the arrival of electrical aircraft, it would be better to travel by train where possible. Train journeys, in any case, allow more time for that reading list.

          We can and should help refugees, but it would be better for all concerned to prevent the causes of their flight – conflict, repression, hunger – rather than just alleviate the miseries of their displacement. While we as individuals may help by choosing to live a more eco-sustainable lifestyle, many of our political leaders, the likes of Bolsonaro, Trump, Orban, Erdogan, Putin, Mohammed bin Salman and Duterte are not similarly motivated. They are supported and funded by corporations and individuals whose motive is greed for riches at any cost and their actions continue to drive a destructive, unsustainable world economy. Their success is ominous and must be reversed. Time is short, not just for reading but also for the restitution of liberal, enlightened values that can give the bulk of humanity some hope of salvation.

Moving the Furniture

          Within two days of returning home from a four-week trip, I had re-arranged the layout of our living-space. It troubled me that, in certain respects, the existing arrangement reflected a presumed lifestyle as opposed to the way we actually live. We are fortunate in having a degree of choice here, which is not the case for everyone. Nevertheless, in small ways at least, most of us could benefit from reviewing the smaller details of how we live: it is the accumulation of these details (known in the physical realm as clutter) that obscures and confuses vision, blunts purposefulness and generates excessive consumerism. Let me explain.

          Over the past year, we have spent weeks at a time living away from home – either in the campervan (in the UK), or in Airbnb apartments (abroad) – and one consequence of this peripatetic habit is the disruption of the assumption-based routines we develop at home. The way to cope when they are disrupted is to adopt new routines for the environment and reach a happy accommodation with prevailing circumstances. Here is where observation and questioning play a part. For example, it is not uncommon to find that the most comfortable armchair in someone else’s apartment is in the least convenient position, i.e. back against a wall, where there is no suitable light by which to read. This is easily remedied by moving it. Likewise, when there is nowhere to place your laptop and writing pad because every suitable surface is strewn with ornaments, these should be swept up and deposited out of sight. (Before making these changes, however, it is best to take photographs so that all can be returned to normal before vacating your host’s cherished home.)

          Furthermore, in Greek and Italian apartments there are no kettles or teapots, perhaps because they boil water in saucepans and use the teabag-in-a-cup method if they fancy a cuppa. In the USA, they have no kettles, no saucepans and no teapots: just a microwave oven. The way to adapt to this situation is either to compromise one’s taste buds by using teabags or go out to the café for a cup of whatever the locals are drinking. The latter is preferable, given that it is folly to spend time and effort on attempts to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

          In the campervan, where the lounge/kitchen/diner becomes a bedroom at the end of the day, the logistics of life on board are pre-ordained: breakfast cannot be prepared before the bed is put away and everything must be stowed in its allocated space before moving on, etc. As for functionality, the interior fit-out is governed by a logic that maximises the accessibility of all necessary parts. It is evident that there will never be a need for an occasional table to fill an empty corner. Life on-board, therefore, is an uncomplicated business and a vindication of the theory that “less is more”. Campervanners, thus freed from the temptations of displacement activities, have more time to focus on pursuing their chosen goals.

          These experiences serve as a reminder that the layout and functionality of one’s home are predetermined, initially, by whoever built it and by the prevailing conventions and practices of society at the time. It is worth scrutinising the values thus reflected because they influence the way we live and if ever there was a time to buckle down to re-assessment that time is now. The despoliation of Earth’s resources, the looming catastrophe of climate change and the takeover of politics by tyrants and bullies who ignore the prospect of species extinction should not be allowed to be swept under the carpet of cosy domesticity. If we cannot question our daily routines and assumptions, what chance is there that we will act to break away from inefficient, wasteful habits and practices that, until recently, may have seemed innocuous? Moving the furniture isn’t just about tweaking aesthetics, it’s a call to action.

Castles and Cuckoos

          A couple of years ago, in the Rockies, I was in conversation with a Canadian who said that she would love to visit the Scottish Highlands. “Why?” I asked, “the Rockies are far more impressive.” “Yes,” she said, “but we don’t have castles here.” She had a point: castles add romance to landscape. However, after three weeks of encountering them on my Scottish tour, I have to say that they are losing their allure. In fact, they are all beginning to look alike and it is easy to imagine that the Tourist Board commissioned a job lot of them, in various stages of ruin, to be constructed and positioned strategically.

          One thing that really is variable here, though, is the weather – especially on the west coast, which takes the full brunt of the North Atlantic fronts. Conditions can change rapidly – put your deckchair out, then bring it back in fifteen minutes later. And the wind can be so fierce that a short coastal stroll can leave you ruddy-faced for hours while you watch (from the shelter of your campervan) tent-people struggling to prevent lift-off. It’s an amusing show but I try not to smile, lest they consider me smug. In fact, I sense that they feel superior – in a stoical, hardy way – to us wimpish shirkers of the unmediated rigours of the great outdoors.

          I also suspect that the locals have a similar attitude to tourists. Compared with urban existence, their life in the remote corners of the land is challenging and requires fortitude, tenacity and resilience. Or it used to, before they got electricity, roads and cars. Now it is surely the townies’ turn to roll their eyes at country folk who drive everywhere just to access the most basic services. Do they have no regard for their CO2 emissions? I haven’t seen a Tesla in three weeks! Lately, pockets of the population here have been provided with cell-phone signals and internet access, which means they can get Ocado deliveries. But coverage is patchy and, in my experience, the best way to get connected is to drive around until you see a telecoms mast, then park as close to it as possible. Visits to the remote corners of the country are stimulating and demanding in ways that trips to more populous parts are not.

          In the summertime, visitors outnumber residents, many of whom appear to be descendants of farming or crofting families. But there are permanent incomers, such as seventy-year-old Jenny, a keen amateur baker, who has set up shop on a cliff-top, miles from any potential customer-base. With capricious opening hours and opaque signage, I suspect that her enthusiasm to bring sourdough to the fringes may be cancelled out by her lack of business nous. But maybe she doesn’t need to make a profit and is happy just to bake while looking out to sea.

           “I’m heading home tomorrow,” I said, in reply to a fellow camper’s enquiry. “Where’s that?” she asked. “Manchester”. “How horrible!” she said. “That’s a bit rude,” I said. “Oh, I meant…well, it’s just that it’s so beautiful here.” She had a point, though clumsily expressed: it is a pretty spot. The sun was shining, enhancing the colours of the verdant trees and the wildflowers in the hedgerows. The soundtrack was the splashing of a stream and birdsong – in particular, the call of a cuckoo seeking a mate. “Well,” I said, “the pastoral idyll is a lovely thing, but cities have their own special beauty too.” But she looked sceptical and disinclined to learn what they might be. Perhaps, for her, castles and cuckoos are all it takes.

P.S. If you are in Manchester on June 11^th come to Joe’s Jazz Evening at 33 Oldham Street. (It’s a city thing.)