News From Beyond The North Wind

Crisp & Even

2008-12-24T19:06:00.004Z

Margaret & I went to Prague last month & the pic above is a view from the battlements of the Castle - which means that, give or take 800 years of urban development, you're seeing what Good King Wenceslas saw when he looked out on the feast of Saint Stephen. No, I can't see any poor men gathering winter fu-u-el either, but it allows me to wish you all the very best for Christmas & the New Year.
Hither, page, and stand by me!

Zimba, Camden Maine

2008-07-10T16:23:00.002+01:00

To Whitehaven, for an optician's appointment. Walking along the hard standing on the harbour my gaze was caught by a boat of quite outstanding elegance. A 60-foot yacht with a sleek black hull and neat cream-coloured strip decking that made it look quite the Art Deco transport of delight. The Zimba was registered in Camden, Maine, from which it inescapably followed that its lucky owners must have sailed it across the North Atlantic.
This led me to think of those Cumbrians who made the crossing the other way under sail, generally to the Maritimes and the Carolinas, in search of better fortune; and of others whose enforced transportation brought them from Africa in vessels whose home was this Cumbrian port. What the Zimba's crew came in search of is probably not difficult to gauge: Whitehaven arguably looms larger in American history than British. The family of their revolutionary hero hailed from hereabouts, and the town's Lowther-built gridiron was allegedly the blueprint for Manhattan's streets. And in 1778 the father of the US Navy, a local lad, brought the Revolution home with an abortive strike at the colonial power's economy by attacking the third largest slaving port in Britain. (One wonders what the Virginian revolutionary leadership felt about this stunt).
Whatever the reason, the Zimba gave Whitehaven harbour a welcome breath of sophistication and class.

Les Delices De Cumbria - Part XXII

2008-06-26T08:33:00.003+01:00

New horizons in post-Euclidean geometry over lunch with the Intrepid Mountaineer at The Glasshouse in sophisticated downtown Wigton. Intrigued by a menu item we asked the waitress for advice.
"This ciabatta rustic triangle. What is it exactly?"
"Well, it's sort of square-shaped like . . ."

Road Rage County

2008-06-24T10:33:00.002+01:00

Getting beaten up in public is always a rather embarrassing experience, and I'm pleased to say I managed to avoid such inconvenience in Sainsbury's car park on Saturday morning.
The facts of the case are as follows, constable:
Stuck behind a tractor en route to Cockermouth, I was tailgated by a silver Volvo. The lad in the tractor had his girlfriend in the cab and a phone in his hand so I hung back, awaiting developments. The Volvo overtook both of us on a blind bend. Gestures followed as he sped off. A few minutes later on Gote Brow the Volvo was parked on the curb. As I passed him he pulled out and carefully followed me into Sainsbury's carpark. Tattoos and muscles got out and walked over to me.
"Have you got a problem with my driving marra?"
Clearly this was a tabloid headline waiting to happen, so I gently encouraged him to get back in his car and drive away. He did so, after a few soothing words, but was obviously very upset that I hadn't given him the opportunity to use his fists.
I then went and did a spot of shopping.
Postscript: a straw poll later in the day suggests that what I should have done was drive further down mainstreet, turn left into Cockermouth police station and park in the bay marked 'Staff'. Let's hope I don't ever need to.

"You're Not Normal"

2008-06-23T11:04:00.003+01:00

That's what my physiotherapist said this morning while dealing with the wreckage from the dorsal catastrophe in Stac Pollaidh car park. I think she was refering to my lumbar muscles, but the last time I consulted her she told me I was 'clinically short'. (Trust me honey, that's not what the other girls say). After half an hour of pressing and pummelling my back now definitely feels worse than it did when I got out of bed. So it must be working.

Purple Haze

2008-06-19T11:40:00.004+01:00

Driving home so-late-it-was-early I noticed the sky above Moota Hill was already lightening behind the traces of rain-clouds. About to descend towards Parsonby I caught a glimpse of something astonishing. A lens of purple light stretched the length of the Solway from Cardurnock to Robin Rigg. It seemed to be floating in the middle air, weaving between the red-lanterned transmission towers of Anthorn, wreathing the shore light at Southerness before dissolving around the offshore wind turbines in mid-channel. The effect was jolting and hallucinatory, not so much a trick of the light as a shameless piece of effrontery. A moment's thought suggested that a shoal of cold night-air above the Solway was condensing mist and then refracting what little pre-dawn light was streaming over my shoulder from above Skiddaw and the north-eastern fells. The sight was a small bit of nocturnal conjuring to which I was very probably the sole witness. All it lacked was a distant Brockenspectre, a ghostly car projected upon the lens of light.
Two minutes later, in the lane at by Arkleby Toll a hare appeared in my headlights and ran off just ahead of my wheels before vanishing into a dark hedgerow.

Nine Feet Over The Tarmac

2008-06-15T17:57:00.008+01:00

Here's a salutary tale of serendipity and confusion from that half-derelict palace of memories the Electrical Intertubes.
'Improved Sound Limited' were a 1970s Krautrock band of quite outstanding obscurity. In the twilight of their career they contributed four tunes and a song to the soundtrack of Wim Wenders' 1976 Cannes prize-winner Im Lauf Der Zeit. Unavailable on DVD and rarely watched even by Wenders afficionados, the film's a long, slow-moving meditation on (among much else)friendship and the passing of time. But it's shot in serenely elegiac black and white and if you watch it in the right rhythm, is an utterly compelling experience. The music, all airy country blues, willowy pedal steel and echoing drums, matches the images with quiet perfection and suggests that songwriter Axel Lindstadt had been listening to a lot of Harvest-era Neil Young. It also has some sumptuous saxophone riffs (OK, you can see where this is going). The music made an enormous impression on me when I first saw the film. From time to time, I tried to track down a copy of the soundtrack - even going to the trouble of collaring Wenders at a film festival in the '80s and asking him about it. (He was evasive).
One evening last week I was surfing Youtube when I came across a series of short films made by a middle-aged Frenchman calling himself 'radiateur93'. Montages of family photographs and home-movies, they were deeply personal works, watching them felt impolite. But 'radiateur93' had spliced them to the Improved Sound Limited Im Lauf Der Zeit soundtrack. A brief traverse led me to the band's own surviving videos and promos. The bad news: their other music really is quite mind-bogglingly dull. The good news: a compilation CD 'Road Trax' exists, and it includes all five soundtrack pieces. In an instant, thirty years of searching were rewarded. I surfed off and ordered the CD from an obscure Berlin music shop.

Just after this transaction completed I finally found my way to Wenders' own website rather than the cybersquatters selling DVDs of his films and discovered that it offers free mp3 downloads of the same songs. It was the work of five minutes to download them, burn a CD and walk over to the car.
So I spent part of a bright summer evening driving down that boulevard of broken dreams the A66 to the tune of some achingly familiar music on Thursday. I suppose the Road Trax CD is on its way from Berlin.
Coda: for those still wondering what the fuss is about, I also discovered that Youtube has an old 70s trailer of Im Lauf Der Zeit which almost completely fails to convey the hypnotically serene beauty of this film.

WARNING: Contains scenes of existential Volkswagen driving. Do not attempt this at home. Or on the open road.

Kylesku Bridge

2008-06-14T16:25:00.003+01:00

At Kylesku, deep in Sutherland, the high road leaps across Loch a'Chairn Bhain on an elegant, spritely concrete bridge that curves extravagently between two rock promontories. At the far end is a stone memorial to the British submariners and 'human torpedoes' of World War II who trained in these waters. The list of their dead is long: the description of their operations, manoeuvring two-man subs sat astride explosive-stuffed cylinders onto the keels of enemy warships in dark, muddy, freezing waters, terrifyingly claustrophobic. Tonight, in the upper world of Sutherland the light of the midsummer evening gives an intensity to the blues of the loch, the greens of the hillside that is a kind of wildly expansive luxury. Above me the green hillsides sweep upwards to 800 feet of sheer cliff: the sandstone buttresses of Sail Gharbh, north-eastern spur of Quinag, loom like a dreadnought's prow. The mountain seems painted by the wild vision of one imagining some otherworld. For a moment it is not of this earth. I pause and wonder what thoughts and sensations this hill engendered in the human torpedoes of Kylesku when they turned their eyes away from the deep.

The Book Of Emigrations

2008-06-12T12:05:00.003+01:00

As the dizzy blonde disappeared up a pinnacle, there cycled into the car-park a geography teacher from Largs and all his worldly possessions. He had, he informed me, spent the last ten years touring the world on two wheels and was now cycling to Iceland. Apparently it was preferable to life in Largs. Essential information for anyone who needs to get out of Reykjavik in a hurry: a one-way ferry ticket to Bergen costs £160. A one-way ferry-ticket to Thurso via Bergen costs £79. Perhaps Bergen has a congestion charge?

Great Mountaineering Disasters Of Our Time - # 375

2008-06-12T11:44:00.003+01:00

Stac Pollaidh, the car-park. Intent on ending the perfect day in Assynt with an evening of scrambling across the sandstone pinnacles of Scotland's most photogenic mountain, I put on my boots and bent down to tie the laces. That was the moment at which my lumbar vertebrae decided that I might think I was going scrambling but they had other plans. Pop! The pain was excruciating and made standing up a real challenge. Twenty minutes of gentle hobbling and some stretching exercises brought things under control but meant that agile scrambling was out of the question. Then a dizzy new age blonde in a camper-van turned up and informed me that bodily injuries were a result of bad thoughts and negative feelings. Was she by any chance a physiotherapist, I enquired. Sadly no, and after some analgesic banter she headed off up the hill she claimed to be 'strangely drawn to'. Then I remembered the presence of an effective pain-killer in the boot of the car. I don't recommend drinking malt whisky from the bottle while semi-recumbent in the driver's seat at a major tourist destination. "It's for my bad back you understand," starts to sound a little unconvincing after a while.
Dear Readers, whatever you're doing I hope it's less painful and involves more vigorously expressive movements of the pelvis.

The High Road To The Deep North

2008-06-10T10:05:00.003+01:00

I'm sitting in a quayside bar in Ullapool at the cocktail hour - the 80/- hour, I suppose - recovering from exertions on the fells. Once again the long-planned assault on The Matterhorn Of The North has been postponed - this time on account of a bizarre series of orthopaedic disasters brought on by an embarrassing incident in the car-park at Stac Pollaidh. So while the air pulsates to the odour of Calmac diesel mixed with an aerial suspension of sub-flashpoint lard from the BBC Radio 4 Chippy Of The Year 2004, I'm enjoying the prospect of Loch Broom, the green lushness of Inverlael and the distant snow-patches atop the Fannaichs. Sheer heaven.

Lamb Shank

2008-06-09T19:16:00.003+01:00

Spotted lying in the street outside The Caley Inn, Ullapool: the skeleton, just about picked clean, of the hind-quarters of a sheep. At least I think it was a sheep. Read the menu with care . . .

A Gneiss Day Out

2008-06-09T12:38:00.004+01:00

Ride the high road to the deep north beyond Ullapool and you'll come to Inchnadamph Lodge, a tranquil 19th century farmhouse B&B in leafy shade by a quiet loch. It's miles from anywhere but evening meals can be had in the hotel down the road, a branded monster of a hostelry that's undergone several extensions since the 1950s, none of them sympathetic.
A few miles up a rough track from here the western face of Connival, all dilapidated butresses and crumbling strata, broods above the glen. A stiff pull and some elementary scrambling takes you up to its ridge: then the gneiss sets in. Crisp rocks and volcanic boulders that crunch beneath your boots in a tone suggesting they're much smaller and lighter than they actually are. Fifty metres up the slope and you realise they're the best business an orthopaedic surgeon could wish for. Ankles turn, knees ache, hips scream across this volcanic minefield. At Connival summit the ridge to Ben More beckons: a half-mile switch-back of slabs boulders and shillies of the same gneiss that bludgeons your cartilege into unconditional surrender. But the view is a reward beyond price: the line of the Assynt mountains from Cul Beag to Quinag, enticingly distant, and linking them on the far horizon a blue line between heaven and earth that is the Outer Isles.

Nick And Ben's Bogus Adventure

2008-02-04T13:58:00.000Z

On Saturday afternoon I took Ben The Trailhound down to Mawbray (as previously blogged), one of his and my favourite spots. Usually he romps along the boardwalk and cavorts on the beach. This time he got a scent within seconds of leaving the car, and was off along the seaward fence towards Allonby. I walked down to the beach, expecting his return (trailhounds have a highly developed topological awareness and if you don't know where they are, they almost certainly know exactly where you've got to). No Ben. I set off along the line of fences to Allonby. No Ben. I walked back. No Ben. Reasoning that he would make for the car, I returned to the car-park. No Ben. I waited patiently until the weather had turned, and horizontal rain powered by a Force 6 gale was lashing the windscreen, before walking along the fence once more. No Ben. So I started knocking on doors. After a diverting but fruitless encounter with Cumbria's celebrity chef (who gave the impression I was by no means the first person to have lost a dog at Mawbray) I soon found the trail. Yes, the chef's neighbours assured me: a trailhound had been here an hour ago. Their friend The Active Citizen, who was visiting them, had taken him home and called the Dog Warden.
After calling The Active Citizen, I eventually got through to Allerdale Borough Council's emergency out-of-hours help desk. "Is it about the trailhound?" they asked when they picked up the phone. Clearly Allerdale was having a slow emergencies day. They gave me the number of the kennels to which their Dog Warden had delivered Ben.
I drove the 15 miles to High Harrington to be reunited with a mildly distressed but unharmed trailhound. The kennel-owner had some difficulty with the fact I wasn't the person on Ben's ID-chip, which led to a certain amount of No, I am not the Renaissance Man, nor was meant to be . . confusion, but after signing off Allerdale Council's paperwork, I was allowed to take Ben home three and a half hours after he first disappeared into the dunes.
The phone rang as soon as we walked through the door. It was The Active Citizen, wanting to know was the trailhound safe and well? I reassured her that he was.
"Was the silver Mondeo in Mawbray carpark yours?" she asked.
Yes, it was.
"Only that's where we found him - he was sitting next to it."
Very politely, I thanked The Active Citizen for her help.
I'm curious to understand how a collared and well-kempt dog, sitting next to an empty car in a place where many people walk their dogs, is in any sense lost, strayed or abandoned. However, it is reasuring to know that Allerdale Council's Dog Warding service is so efficient that it can spring into action and transport a dog 15 miles on a Saturday afternoon before his keeper has any sense that the animal may be lost.
There's a moral about the state of our nation in all this, but I'm not sure what.

The Group Areas Act, 2008

2008-02-04T13:38:00.000Z

The higher gardening in South Africa seems convulsed by a campaign to eradicate 'alien' flora and populate 'native' species in woods and gardens. My land management friends tell me this is a project doomed to failure, but in a country with a history like South Africa's, it's difficult not to see this approach as a metaphor.
Up on the Wild West Coast at Lambert's Bay, next door to 'Potato World' (incredibly, not a starch-related theme park for the couch-bound but a chip factory - it seems that when the Atlantic fishery got all fished out they diversified into the other half of the fish and chip market), a colony of 16,000 gannets sits atop a quarter-mile-square slab of guano. Things turned ugly a while back when a colony of seals arrived in search of food (a result of the same ecological pressure that caused the fishermen to move in on the potatoes), worked out that what fish there were to be found were inside the gannets and promptly started eating the seabirds. We heard all this over a beer with a tanned and grizzled gannet-warden in the bar of the Lambert's Bay Hotel. His solution to the competition-for-resources problem was admirably simple: the gannets were confined to their white guano-stained slab; the seals to their wave-darkened promontory rocks. A wide no-creature's land was decreed between the two groups and patroled by conservationists. Any seal straying into this area was deterred with extreme prejudice and deported back to its rocky homeland. The DMZ was then fumigated to remove the enticing odour of seal and the status quo preserved. The day we were there both communities seemed quite content with their separate developments. Some things don't change.

The Bright Lights Tonight

2008-01-25T17:16:00.000Z

Even in Cumbria the northern night skies are no longer the jewelbox of childhood. Light pollution from Carlisle and the coastal towns swamps much of the starlight not already dowsed by the particulates that hang heavy in industrial skies. Here in the populous, over-developed north of the planet you look up and feel yourself solitary in the isolation of a lonely universe.
Down below, in the unpopulated oceanic vastness of the southern hemisphere, the night skies give an entirely different impression. Orion, shorn of his scabbard, sports an enthusiastic erection, a lover not a hunter. The Milky Way streams in incandescant profusion across the sky, and the Magellanic Clouds swarm with light. It's impossible not to feel a local part of so great a celestial network, and the most distant realities seem close enough to touch. Stargazing brings with it a wondrous sense of connection, and I'm looking forward to the next time I see the Southern Cross from a hillside in the Western Cape.

Alvin & Ziggy

2008-01-23T10:54:00.000Z

There being no stars to gaze upon, we arranged a tour of the SALT on its plateau just out of town. The Renaissance Man will probably be blogging about the sheer mechanical engineering of the telescope's intricacies of design. For me the most startling parts of the tour were two exhibits in the visitors' centre exhibition which precedes sight of the telescope. On the floor in the corner of a gallery sits a large, twisted mass of nickel and iron: it's a meteorite, a navel-stone which fell to earth somewhere in the Karoo. Almost reluctantly, I touched it then tapped its surface with my knuckles. It rang metallic, deep and true. There was a cold frisson to this encounter, both a sense of wonder that I was touching something left over from the formation of our solar system and which had been present out there for thousands of millioons of years, but also a feeling that, for all the strange trajectories of its wanderings, I was the unregarded piece of stardust whose course had led me to a brief encounter with something that would endure till the Big Rip.
Round the corner from the meteorite was the cast of a skull, the blank-orbited heavy-browed Australopithecus Africanus, possible ancestor of Homo Sapiens, who was perhaps wandering across the veld when the lump of nickel was still out beyond Pluto. The hominid family tree is such that you and I cannot claim that this individual is a common ancestor, but certainly a very distant cousin, someone with whom we share DNA and perhaps some degree of humanity. It's probably impossible to think your way into the mind of another creature, however close, without the certainty of the shared artefacts of consciousness such as language and a sense of self. But after the coldness of the stone, I was struck by a forceful sense of the reality of the individual, the selfness, that had inhabited the bones and given them life. No doubt s/he had looked up at the stars which gave birth to the twisted nickel a few feet away from us, though what shape and meaning s/he had seen in their patterns I cannot imagine.

SALT & Lamb

2008-01-21T11:41:00.000Z

The Southern African Large Telescope (SALT) sits atop a plateau in the Karoo about ten miles from Sutherland. The skies are, apparently, particularly clear here, though when we hit town to celebrate the Renaissance Man's birthday with a spot of stargazing low clouds stretched across the sky. We made up for our disappointment with a stay at Jorg's Kambrokind Guest House and dinner at Perlman's Restaurant.
Sutherland really is in the middle of nowhere, a one-street, one donkey-cart town 5000 feet up in the desert and a hundred kilomteres from the next one-horse, one-donkey-cart town. The graveyard records the dead of the Boer War and there's still a palpable feeling of outrage at the English occupation of the town's church in 1901.
And they'll probably still be discussing our dinner at Perlman's a century hence. The restaurant, whose hostess appears to be Judy Dench's separated-at-birth twin, is decorated with memorabilia of Swinging London and specialises in Karoo lamb. The evening was a roaring sucess, fuelled by an endless supply of Beyerskloof Pinotage and the lamp speciality - quite simply the most powerfully delicious I have tasted outside Cumbria. And it culminated in a prolonged singalong - led by the Renaissance Woman and enthusiastically supported by fellow-diners Dave The Astronomical Chancer, a former child prodigy bassoonist, and the president of the local chapter of the Afrikaaner Hell's Angels, who broke off from extolling the virtues of Pink Floyd to show us photographs of his Kawasaki 1300. Worryingly, these were kept in the part of his wallet other men reserve for pictures of wife and children. We went home late. Very late. We're still not sure how the proprietors will react the next time we turn up for dinner . . .

Windsor Castle Revisited

2008-01-21T10:12:00.000Z

I had been struggling for some days with the eccentric opening hours of South Africa's public services. My goal: buy some stamps for postcards home. Clearly the government's stealth-oriented public service strategy was paying off, because it was the best part of a week before I found the PO in the tiny settlement of Sutherland (see other posts) open at the advertised time of 0800. The clerk duly sold me a strip of stamps. It was only when I was back on the street that I noticed their design, and across the space of fifty years felt an intense and utterly unexpected rapport. The stamps were commemoratives celebrating the history of the Union Castle Line with images of their ships from the 19th and 20th centuries. Two caught my attention: the Edinburgh Castle and RMS Windsor Castle. I have intense memories as a child of visting my father when his ship was in harbour at Southampton, Glasgow or Hull. The Union Castle Line was his employer, and for a while in the 1950s and 1960s, he captained the then Edinburgh Castle and the Windsor Castle.

The Great Railway Theme Park

2008-01-18T15:14:00.001Z

Prize for the oddest place visited in South Africa (& believe me the West Coast provides some serious competition for that title) undoubtedly goes to Maatjiesfontein, a wind-blown railway halt in the Karoo where the Johannesburg - Cape Town Blue Train stops. The 'town' is a single 200-yard street of rather grand Boer War era buildings which have been quaintly preserved in a run-down version of their original state and are manned by staff dressed in period costume and some rather unconvincing waxworks. It was as if we had stumbled onto the set of Young Winston and I half-expected Simon McCorkindale to charge down main street at the head of a squadron of cavalry irregulars.
The mayor wore a threadbare bowler hat and could have gone on as Oliver Hardy without rehearsal. For some reason he was very excited about an imminent 'lesbian night' the town was about to host. Or at least that's what we think he said. Quite what the economic reality of this bizarre theme park may be I cannot imagine, but perhaps the pink rand keeps it afloat.
But there was one really cherishable feature: the station waiting room houses an Aladdin's Cave of curiosities and wonders, the private collection of a deceased resident encompassing 19th Century agricultural equipment, Union Castle Line menus, Victorian surgical instruments and 1950s cine cameras. All thrown together without any concession to taxonomy or interpretation and in its own slightly mad way quite magnificent.

Wanted: Friendly Bombs Or Near Offer . . .

2008-01-18T15:11:00.000Z

I am reposing amidst the rococco splendour of the Holiday Inn, Slough-Windsor. Should you ever find yourself similarly benighted, a word of advice regarding the room service lasagne: Avoid, Avoid, Avoid.

I'm Too Sexy For This Shop

2008-01-15T10:53:00.000Z

Marketing, South African style. If you ran a fly-blown, run-down, half-wrecked roadhouse in the middle of the Karoo desert, covered in graffiti, with old bras and knickers hanging from its rafters, and you wanted to ensure travellers stopped and bought a beer rather than accelerating rapidly away as soon as they caught sight of the place, what would you do? You'd change its name to Ronnie's Sex Shop, wouldn't you? People would be bound to stop, wouldn't they? And yes, we did stop, didn't we?

So Long - And Thanks For All The Photos

2008-01-11T20:48:00.000Z

Draaihoek Beach at 6.00am is deserted (except for some kelp . . .). A soft wind blows in from the South Atlantic, and a gentle surf crashes onto the ramp of sand at my feet. Behind me, over the dunes, the sun has just risen, and the sand-flies cast long shadows. Southwards the beach disappears into the middle air: northwards the sandstone cliffs of Eland's Bay rise above the salt haze. Suddenly, a fin shows where a breaking wave curls into foam at its crest, and a dark body skims forward on the swell: a dolphin is surfing towards the shore.
A hundred yards out three more groups of dolphins are frolicing, turning their backs above the water; periodically one jumps clear of the sea. At this point my camera announces that its batteries are flat, so this blog's policy of crisp minimalism with respect to illustrations will be maintained. Later on a seal waddles along the beach before galumphing into the surf, swimming into a foot of water, taking a brief look back at the land, and then shooting with astonishing speed and grace along the line of breakers, its head and back breaking above the foam.

The New 30

2008-01-08T19:15:00.001Z

We celebrated my birthday, the Renaissance Man, the Scouse Ambassador and me, by taking a hike - a beautiful 12-mile walk through the mountains north of Greyton on the so-called 'McGregor Trail'. That we did so at all is down to the determination of the Scouse Ambassador, whose walking takes no prisoners. The first two miles of trail had been washed away by recent floods and this meant much cutting through trackless undergrowth, fording and refording rivers, forcing ways through close thickets, all the while surrounded by the colourful wreckage of Greyton's public infrastructure: twenty-foot lengths of industrial tubing littered the riverbanks, which the Ambassador confidently identified as 'the town's water-main'. After a while we reached a distinct trail and we turned our faces to the hills, boldly going where no four-wheel-drive had gone recently. We ascended a snaking path into the Overberg leading to a hidden valley of luscious fynbos circled by the craggy redoubts of Table Mountain Sandstone which receded into the mist-wreathed peaks.
At first the Renaissance Man seemed beset by bandana-related fashion issues, but by the time we posed for delicious lamb sandwiches at Breakfast Rock he had recovered his characteristic disdain for haute couture. The trail led us through storm-gouged dongas (into which I stylishly fell headlong) and across stream-crossings choked with tree trunks, boulders and rubble, but the waterfalls were spectacular, enchanting torrents that plunged sixty feet through narrow rock-chutes into bottomless black pools. Then we ascended to the barrier at Galg along the remains of a road cut across a cliffside by Italian POWs in the 1940s. It was reassuring to note that their sense of style had not deserted the forced labourers as the road, rough-hewn blasted and precarious, was flanked by attractively cut decorative curbstones.
Then we descended to the steaming plains of McGregor, past rows of hives where bees feasted on fynbos blossoms and found, quite coincidentally, that we were passing Lords vineyard, a new winery whose Sauvignon Blanc has the authentic sharp fruit of the variety and whose Shiraz is as perfumed, smooth and supple as one could wish. After a conversation on the intricacies of vine-cultivation, the Cellar Manager drew some of his unreleased Pinot Noir from its cask for us. Altogether, rather a good way to turn 50.

. . . Aliquid Novum

2008-01-03T21:13:00.000Z

Stars upside down.
Toilets flushing wrong way round.
Any suggestions?

Africa At Noon

2008-01-01T11:34:00.000Z

Frozen mist curls around the margins of the ploughed fields. Across the lake the shades of departed Twisbies gibber and squeak. Outside, Dr Biswell is patiently chipping ice from the dashboard of the Hispano-Suiza. I depart for the southern hemisphere in an hour.

Trailhounds Roasting By An Open Fire

2008-01-01T11:31:00.000Z

Ben The Trailhound would like it to be known that Christmas in the Deep North - long periods of idleness sprawled in front of a peat fire, punctuated by episodes of frantic activity chasing rough cats at the White Lodge - is probably the finest Christmas a trailhound could ever enjoy. Even his relations with Miss Kit have achieved an unexpected harmony . . .

Groucho, Thou Shouldst Be Living At This Hour

2007-12-30T10:45:00.000Z

Cockermouth Main Street, a few days before Christmas. I enter an off-licence and buy a bottle of reliably good single malt ahead of my departure for the Deep North. The establishment's swanky new POS system blinks at me with an animated Santa and an important seasonal message: "(Well-known Scotch manufacturer) asks that you enjoy alcohol responsibly this Christmas". To which corporatist inanity I can only respond in the words of G Marx Esq - Thanks - but I've got other plans . . .

Les Delices De Cumbria - XXI

2007-12-30T10:31:00.001Z

Blessed are the cheesemakers. Possibly the finest goat's cheese available to humanity can be found a mere 10-minute walk from my front door at Wardhall, where Lynn and Thomas Balantine Dykes manufacture the delicious Wardhall Blue, a truly pungent sharp and rich example. If you're inclined to aquire a sliver of this lactic heaven for yourself, drive down to Wardhall Guards and ascend the birdleway towards Tallentire Hill. You'll know you're heading in the right direction when strange, satanic sheep and double-horned and dark-browed goats populate the surrounding fields. The dairy itself is a cat-swingingly small room just off the farm-yard guarded by a golden retriever of fierce mien. The cheese it protects is heavenly delight. There are rumours of a soft Brie-like cow's cheese to come in 2008. Watch this space for further artisanal Arkleby cheese updates.

Amour - And A Man With A Dog

2007-12-30T10:23:00.000Z

This blog has been uncharacteristically silent - largely because the sorts of things I was likely to post about are precisely the sorts of things I'm not inclined to record in this blog. The Renaissance Couple have decamped to South Africa for six months (where I'll shortly be joining them for a brief holiday). Some time before their departure I agreed to dogsit Ben The Trailhound. On hearing of this innovation in my domestic arrangements, V promptly combusted in a terminal lather. The upshot of which strange fashion of forsaking is that I have gained custody of a trailhound for the winter. So far, I'm pleased to say, the relationship has been one of mutual trust, respect, admiration and affection. It must be something to do with the cheese treats I feed him . . .

Earth Conscious Pledge - Cumbria Futures Forum

2007-10-17T00:41:00.000+01:00

Here we are.
Note my low impact blog.

If you are an individual or organisation living in Cumbria:
Cumbria Futures Forum.
Cumbria Futures Forum Pledge.
Have fun.
From the main website
In honor of Blog Action Day, we wanted to highlight some of the many Blogger-powered blogs that are focused on the environment, climate change, and sustainability. Want to see more Blog Action Day participants from around the web? Find them on Blog Search.
Cleantech Blog - Commentary on technologies, news, and issues relating to next generation energy and the environment.
The Conscious Earth - Earth-centered news for the health of air, water, habitat and the fight against global warming.
Earth Meanders - Earth essays placing environmental sustainability within the context of other contemporary issues.
Environmental Action Blog - Current environmental issues and green energy news.
The Future is Green - Thoughts on the coming of a society that is in balance with nature.
The Green Skeptic - Devoted to challenging assumptions about how we live on the earth and protect our environment.
Haute*Nature - Ecologically based creative ideas, art & green products for your children, home and lifestyle, blending style with sustainability.
The Lazy Environmentalist - Sustainable living made easy.
Lights Out America - A grassroots community group organizing nationwide energy savings events.
The Nature Writers of Texas - The best nature writing from the newspaper, magazine, blog and book authors of the Lone Star State.
Rachel Carson Centennial Book Club - Considering the legacy of Rachel Carson's literary and scientific contributions with a different book each month.
Sustainablog - News, information and personal meanderings related to environmental and economic sustainability, green and sustainable business, and environmental politics.
These Come From Trees - An experiment in environmentalism, viral marketing, and user interface design with the goal of reducing consumer waste paper.

Inheritance tax - do we give a damn whose idea it was?

2007-10-11T23:34:00.000+01:00

Not really.
A threshold increase was always going to be announced.
The Boy George knew it was coming so said "£1Million" knowing it was a bit ahead of what Darling/Grodon had worked out precisely. Who cares, he/they thought, if £1M would have a negative effect it's bigger and, in this instance, better than £700k.
More money for hospitals and education and .... see I've forgotten already the other thing, are all ... yeah the flight tax... I remember. Anywez they were all anticipated and The Boy George did a clever bit of upstaging - stole all the punchlines. That's the way I read it.
Or - Did he? I have serious doubts all round - everyone of them is a fibbing Tuareg.
Hell I'm confused now. Maybe they were Genghis Campbell's ideas afterall- Simon Hughes thinks so. Not much you can do with a name like Simon Hughes?
Go for a fixed term between elections that's what I say.
I'm not sure I can be bothered voting again. Certainly not for a party.
Forgive my political outburst - I retire from paid employment tomorrow (12 Oct 2007) after 42 years and I'm feeling a little trepidatious (must check spelling).
We had in mind that this blog site would be 'Arts & Literature'. Didn't we TWIR? What happened?

I've been thinking

2007-10-09T17:13:00.000+01:00

I've been thinking. Twice in as many weeks.

Take a look at these 6 faces: Why are they likeable?

Charles, the painter, says it's due to their World icon status and also adds Mother Theresa, Princess Diana, Marilyn Monroe (to balance my male dominated selection). I'm not so sure. 2 of the above have no World icon standing and 1 of them is relatively unknown. 3 are alive; 2 were shot; they all have some celebrity probably due in some way to the way they look. Quite a lot of icons are not likeable and quite a lot of celebrities I wouldn't recognise. Tony Blair, George W and to some extent David Cameron all have recogniseable, approaching icon, faces, but for different reasons, have a countenance in need of a good slap (as the late father used to say). I'd queue to have a smack at young Cameron.

I know very little about the personal traits of any of the above - John Lennon I believe was a bit of a self-centred sod with Cynthia at least, but that doesn't stop me liking his image.

Wondering now - why in my first 'think' I didn't choose a woman. Ummm - could be something to do with the published image of women. Female images are always based on sex which can be confusing as we all know. The likeability of a Marilyn Monroe image is totally constructed.

See what I mean? Personally Julie Christie always did it for me.

No. There has to be something more to it. It's not to do with beauty either 'cos that's in the eye of the beholder.

I'm puzzled. Maybe it's face shape or eye spacing or the captured smile. Captured smile or the image frozen in time - constructed again - Einstein didn't smile much but the eyes twinkled (Charles said). Lennon's eyes hidden I hear you say. In that case that would make him least likeable of the bunch above. Maybe so?

Charle's threw in Che Guevara as another of the likeable icons. It depends on which image they print I say. Discuss or tell me to get on with something useful.

See Di and Robert Plant

2007-10-07T11:19:00.001+01:00

Last night Di (RW) and me went to a rock n roll event in the newly refurbished Birmingham Town Hall. 10 years of Brum Rock (The 60's mainly); 3 hrs of happiness including 25 minutes of absolute genius - Robert Plant.

Why, how and where? The where bit is already obvious. 10 days back I was sur(f)ching for the words for 'storm in a teacup' sung by 'The Fortunes' 1965ish, written by Lynsey de Paul (i didn't know that). I noticed that the Fortunes were still playing and had a date at Birmingham Town Hall on 6 October.

"Let's go" sez I in a spur of the moment sort of way "it'll be a bit of nostalgia for us..... The only downside being missing sounds of the sixties as we have to travel back on the train on Saturday morning." So we booked it. ........."It also says that ...subject to availability .... Also appearing ... Steve Gibbons, Danny King, The Rocking Berries, Bev Bevan and The Move, Trevor Burton, some of The Moody Blues, Robert Plant, Jasper Carrot .... ........"

" WHAT?! Robert Plant?" spluttered RW. "There's a 20 million waiting list to see him and ledzep … 'ow much are the tickets?"

"50 quid it's for charity and there's Dave Pegg (bassist with that Fairport lot) subject to availability" - he was available unfortunately but more later.

"But what about Robert Plant" she went on. "My hero ... Best voice in rock. Lovely hair.... Wonder who had his babies? ....... Robert ....? Plant ...." You get the picture?

And so it came to pass. Everybody was available. Danny King had been sprung from the retirement home. He had a hell of a comb-over but moved well and had the voice of an angel though not the memory. He must be 70 at least. He did admit though that he was "..nervous as hell because of Planty". I know what he meant. Planty with just a guitarist (Justin Adams) and 2 West African guys on percussion (Salah-Dawson Miller) and a 1 string violin thing (Juldeh Camara) were mind-blowing good. 4 songs Ledzep re-interpreted back to roots. I could have gone to heaven then. Di was already there. Robert Plant - as close as that tree in our yard and chatting away to the audience as if he'd just got the bus in from Stourbridge. RW's still talking about it 2 days later. She thought he was just talking to her.

The Fortunes were a little too cabaret but very good nevertheless a little… oh and then we had Raymond Froggat. ........ and to my great embarrassment, and the rest of the cast who studiously ignored him, Dave Pegg! Oh dear oh dear .. he's my age now and should know when not to play TFT (the fucking tambourine- for the musicians amongst you). He kept appearing on stage obviously much the worse for drink, trying to moon walk and join in on backing vocals with whoever had a mic. He nearly took out the drums at one point as he skidded on some trailing cables. Danny King, 10 years his senior, was much steadier. C'mon Peggy - get off! In one drunken moment I spotted him playing air tambourine and singing to an imaginary mike. Could have been funny - but it wasn't. He enjoyed himself though

I'm off to down-load some Planty stuff and track down whatever that thing was that Juldeh Camara was playing.

Got to get RW off the flaming Robert Plant website first, and she wants me to have my hair curled and wear my shirt out over my jeans. Not sure about the Planty poster blue tacked to the wardrobe door. What am I going to do? We'll never travel in silence again.

Cumbria – Consultant Fees Coast if you ask me

2007-10-01T17:54:00.000+01:00

My reference to the Energy Coast may have baffled anybody who read my previous posting.
Even if “a blog is the sound of one person talking to himself” (*1) just so’s I can get my own thoughts sorted it’s worth me wandering through the subject.
The West Cumbria Strategic Partnership (http://www.westcumbriavision.co.uk/) commissioned Grant Thornton to come up with a master plan for West Cumbria.

http://www.nwda.co.uk/publications/infrastructure/britains-energy-coast.aspx
This document was costly, £200k plus, and adds to the £10million (and more) of consultants fees milked out of the system over the last 15 years or so. I’m not bitter by the way - just a natural born cynic.
The rather catchy tagline ‘Britain’s Energy Coast’ and the green mesh lines stretching from Allonby to Millom confuse the reader into thinking that the West Cumbria Strategic Partnership/The Consultants Grant Thornton are proposing an economic solution for West Cumbria (from Allonby to Millom) based on Energy production.
Britain’s (Nuclear) Waste Reprocessing Coast would have been a better tagline and maybe change the colour, of whatever is obscuring the coastline, to Red.
Let me be clear about this the only energy being generated in Cumbria is from the 100 or so Windmills scattered down the coast, oh- and one gas fired Combined Heat and Power Plant on the Calder Hall site. The Nuclear power station at Calder Hall closed a while back and had it’s cooling towers dropped 2 days ago. Chapelcross on the other side of the Solway has also closed. There was an oil powered station at Workington 30 years back and all our coal was sent out of county to - I don’t know where. There’s a gas fired station near Barrow but Barrow though I believe technically part of Cumbria (West too) seems to have been largely ignored on the cover of the plan at least.
Energy wise unless there are plans for a few hundred more windmills I can’t see why we should become Britain’s Energy Coast. Windmills once built need very little maintenance and while being built seem to employ more Danish and Dutch labour and resources so the local economic benefit is at best poor.
The Solway Energy Gateway above Allonby towards the mouth of the Eden would make tremendous sense with massive energy generated by the tides and would also give lasting economic regeneration. There are some hurdles though, the main one being the local environmental impact. Local environmental impact might be the price we have to pay though to have any chance of impacting on Global Climate Change.
A new Nuclear Power Station at Calder/Sellafield would seem to be in the subtext of Grant Thornton’s plan. Whilst I have no problems with Nuclear Power Stations (I’ve made my living for 30 years or more from the Nuclear Industry), the only reason for a plant in Cumbria is the existence of a nuclear licensed site and a population conditioned, through 60 years of exposure and dependency to accept anything nuclear.
Sellafield has never been a nuclear power station – how many times have I had to tell people over the years and how sick am I of the jokes – Cumbrian – glow in the dark – 2 headed fish – pre cooked lamb.. I’ll stop.
Sellafield is a waste treatment and reprocessing plant for the nuclear industry.
Read the words from the Grant Thornton’s plan (11,000 words and loads of big pictures over 48 pages – this blog posting is 1,200 words with 1 picture; possibly 3 pages max- work out the value for money – bear in mind it took me 35 minutes to write this)
“West Cumbria has major nuclear assets and internationally competitive expertise and skills in a range of related activities, including environmental remediation, engineering and decommissioning. Employment in Research and Development is double the regional average.These strengths and assets are of national and international importance. The UK’s energy, environmental and economic policy now involves a unified approach to the twin challenges of energy security and climate change. Maintaining a sustainable national economy requires integrated answers to both. This approach will also provide major business opportunities for UK firms.It will also enable the UK to make an important contribution to European energy policy. West Cumbria can provide a unique contribution to the UK’s short and long term policy goals, transforming its own economy in the process. Our Vision for West Cumbria is based on this unique relationship between local economic assets and transformation and national policy priorities.”
Now read them again.
Now tell me what they mean?
Weasel words when read with the tagline.
“West Cumbria has major nuclear assets and internationally competitive expertise and skills in a range of related activities, including environmental remediation, engineering and decommissioning. Employment in Research and Development is double the regional average.These strengths and assets are of national and international importance…..”
Yes it does have major nuclear assets but it does not have nuclear energy producing assets. The redundant reprocessing plants at Sellafield were classed as liabilities until very recently and there is a new research centre now so that must be what doubles the regional average (regional being where exactly?)
“(environmental) Remediation, engineering and decommissioning “ – yes at last – glossed over pretty quick and early – that’s what we do.
Look I’m glad that we are doing it and not anybody else.
The rest of the executive summary really means -carry on Cumbria being the nuclear waste treatment plant for Britain and the World.
The £300million a year Nuclear Decommissioning Authority continues to buy the dependency of West Cumbria. We see a succession of companies coming in to show us how to decommission – mostly American (though I used to share a building with a German/now French company) and my old factory has now been bought by a Swedish outfit. It’s a whole lot of heat and not much light as far as I can see and quite a lot of money spent on local advertising and promotion telling us Cumbrians about how good the colonists are and how much they are spending on social projects in Cumbria - sponsoring businesses, schools, the local supply chain, rugby teams. If you have to blow a trumpet it might as well be your own. It turns off most Cumbrians – they see right through it. Actions - not words about actions. Let people judge for themselves.
Instead of the NDA waste of nuclear money on themselves and commissioning consultants I could have provided the plan for free and redirected the money to better schools, a university 10 years ago (not just now), apprenticeship training, infrastructure. Focus on engineering and the environment not just nuclear. If we get a new nuclear reactor at some time then so be it. If we really need to have a windmill every mile including 60 in the Solway at Robin Rigg then so be it. But let’s not dress up what we are doing as a “unified approach to the twin challenges of energy security and climate change”. It means sod all to the population at large. All we want is a sustainable way of life not so obviously dependant on the command employer and not to be told by the incoming colonizers what a good job they are doing for Cumbria.
*1 – plagiarized from ‘the sound of 1 hand clapping’ – van morrison or zen?

Cumbria – The Energy Coast

2007-09-30T19:18:00.001+01:00

On Friday I discovered a piece of Cumbria where you cannot see a windmill. It's in a dip in the road surrounded by high hedges. The road is a lane really between Pica and Rowrah (more on pronunciation of these place names later*).

It has just struck me that on the drive down the coast from Carlisle to Whitehaven there isn't a place (apart from the Rowrah Pica interchange) where windmills are not visible.

I'm all in favour of energy from the wind so I suppose I will just have to put up with the high visual impact. I quite like the look of windmills though, there's something quite pleasing about them compared to a coal fired power station or a nuclear one for that matter. In fact compared to the mining scars of the villages that are Rowrah and Pica they are positively beautiful.

*Pica – pronounced: PIE – KUH
Rowrah - pronounced: ROW (as in having an argument – not Boat) – RUH

I recently discovered that the PICA environs has decoy buildings dating back to the 2^nd World War designed to trick enemy bombers in to not dropping their loads on Workington. Pity!

This Kevin Bacon thing continues - at least between RW and WIR.

2007-09-20T12:36:00.000+01:00

The WIR informs me that to get a Kevin Bacon number you have to have appeared in a film with the associate(s). Hence Paxman: Thingie: Bacon for WIR. The James Garner number that I have brought up, from where I do not know, has nowt to do with film it's just how far separated, by having met someone, is a person from James Garner or from anybody else for that matter. I remember reading somewhere that there are only a maximum of 6 degrees of separation to everybody.
So on that basis:

I met David Jacobs once on Euston Station (had a sandwich and a chat about Pete Murray..)
David Jacobs hosted Top of the Pops in the 60s and Samantha Just was the 'disc girl' for a while.
Samantha Just married Mickey Dolenz (of the monkees) in 1968
Mickey Dolenz was Circus Boy and Noah beery was his uncle (Joey the clown?)
Noah Beery was James Garner's (Jim Rockford's) dad in Rockford Files

Does that give me a James Garner number of 5? Does anybody really care?

RW met Tony Blair once! Now that gives us all a problem. She has a TB number of 1. Do I want to admit to a TB number of 2? I think I may stop this line of thought once I have published. It's starting to oppress me.

James Garner: My Kevin Bacon Alternative:

2007-09-18T22:42:00.000+01:00

Mickey Dolenz (The Monkees)-(Circus Boy): Noah Beery (Joey the Clown)-(Jim Rockdord's Dad): James Garner. Degrees of Separation: 2.

Cher (I Got You Babe): Mike Post (Guitarist on I Got You babe) (Writer Rockford Files Theme Song): James Garner. Degrees of Separation: 2.

Herb Pedersen (Neil Diamond 1994 Christmas Album backing vocals) also (Banjo Player Rockford Files Theme Song): Neil Diamond (Writer of I'm a believer for the Monkees): Mickey Dolenz (The Monkees)-(Circus Boy): Noah Beery (Joey the Clown)-(Jim Rockdord's Dad): James Garner. Degrees of Separation: 4 or 2 ? Hey I can't work this one out.

Scotland by Microwave - and a bit of Northumbria

2007-09-17T03:00:00.001+01:00

Last weekend the Scouse African and his Guardian Angel and Mrs RW and me set off for 2 days in Northumbria. We left the house at 10.10 Saturday morning intending to find lodgings near Alnwick and spend 2 nights (3 days (an in joke- sorry)) exploring the surrounding castles, beaches and breathtaking coastline.

We stopped for late breakfast at 10.30 at a farm café and ice cream shop on our side of Carlisle. Orton Grange farm shop to be precise. It's one of the many farm diversification projects since the 2001 foot and mouth outbreak. There's a whole blog or two to be written on the art and craft galleries, farm-shops, ice cream parlours and petting zoos that now pepper Cumbria. Orton Grange was a good thing but it meant it was afternoon before we turned off the A69 at Greenhead on to the military road alongside Hadrian's Wall. We slowed to view Sycamore Gap (Robin Hood's Tree) and then sped passed Housesteads Fort ('cos it was full of people in cardigans and hats). We pointed out the wall walkers to SA and GA (I bet you could pass a bucket from one end of the wall to the other in under an hour) and arrived at Chesters Fort.

We paid what seemed a small fortune to an intense young man with an intense fringe to enter the museum of stone and metal things and then promenade with some difficulty over the foundations of the fort. I really enjoy the feeling of history in these places BUT I prefer to be in less of a crowd and to explore and work things out for myself. Instead - whenever we were seen to be puzzled - staring at a plan and a piece of masonry, some cardiganed Smartus Arsus would move into view and be interesting:

"I think you'll find that bathhouse is 200 metres in that direction … that piece of foundation is the commandants latrine" ……………….." ah here you are again … that's not the bathhouse .. Mrs Gardiganus Maximus made that mistake … you should have turned left at Biggus Dickus.."

We left just as the choir was assembling in the foundations of the bath house though I think Samartus Arsus was on his way to point out the anachronisms in their repertoire and replace the keystone that the soprano's motorised wheelchair had taken out. A choir?

So we left without trying out the roman hotdogs at the Snackus Shedibus and headed to Wallington at Cambo .

Wallington was free entry for the day (a stroke of luck- saved us 30quid it did). It was full of families sort of wandering aimlessly and shouting at their children. One shout of 'Kylie' had 22 kids, 5 single mothers and a grandmother of 32 (years!) looking worried.

We had a late lunch – a bad thing. SA has to eat every couple of hours to keep up his blood sugar(?). The pie was very dry and not substantial. So far the good meal-bad meal score was 1:1. Wallington had changed a bit since my last visit in 1983 – no rare cattle but the farm shop was good -well at least as good as the Orton Grange one. We bought some more honey. Can't have too much post 2001 foot and mouth organic honey can you?

So - we headed for Alnwick and Bamburgh 'cos we still had to find some accommodation and a camera battery charger. It seems that we had picked the 'festival weekend' in Northumbria and it was full. We tried the 'Al 'n' Val' recommended hotels guest houses and B&Bs – must have tried over 30 and by 5.30 we were starting to panic… and had to find a charger for the mobile phone too. Bamburgh, though fabulous was full. It seems we had arrived at the weekend of Bamburgh Festival!! Never mind. We, RW and me, had spent the day at Alnwick only a month back and so could vouch that the food is good, the experience excellent and the farm shop worth a tour. However it was getting late and we needed somewhere to stay so SA and GA had to forgo the personal experience and take our word for it. The castle at Bamburgh is something special…. restored in the late 19th century by Lord Armstrong and now houses an excellent collection of arms and artwork as well as a tea room and gift shop. I detect a theme running here.

"Let's head for Berwick get accommodation and then do Holy Island and Alnwick from there tomorrow and then maybe head back via Newcastle" says Mrs RW. I like Holy Island and the little castle on Lindisfarne is one of my favourite places. Not sure what post 2001 foot and mouth has done for it so would like to investigate.

"I need to eat" says SA " Seahouses is supposed to be good and have the best fish and chips in the world"

Seahouses ……. Hah ….. well … what can I say… The, by now obligatory, festival was packing up, the fish and chips were not good, but we saw a seal from our viewing area on the starling shit encrusted benches overlooking the harbour. So far our only wildlife sighting. We left the tattooed retiring festival goers and fish and chip eaters and headed to Berwick.

Berwick (looks good - must go back) was full and so was Coldstream.. and Kelso BUT eventually 10 miles from Edinburgh at a place called Pathhead we found the Stair Inn.

Look – it was fine – (and SA was hungry again) – clean (but thin pillows) and it was dark by now, so we can't even tell you if the countryside was pleasant or even if there was a festival. Edinburgh was full by the way – there had been a festival of some sorts.

Mrs RW had now decided that we were not going to leave Sunday to chance and that instead of going back via Northumbria we should go to Glasgow and then on to Strachur on Loch Fyne and stay at a decent hotel that we knew for at least one night of the SA-GA visit (Scouse African - Guardian Angel – NOT SAGA you understand).

So at crack of just after the Full Scottish breakfast we set off for Glasgow. Arriving at Princes Square carpark at 11:10 to find that Glasgow was shut until 12. En route I had been trying to educate SA on the finer points of the Glasgow School – Charles Rennie-Mackintosh and his peers. It was lost. He didn't quite see the design benefit of a door push- plate cut on the taper instead of the square. I gave up trying to point out the different size windows and eccentric design of the Scotland Street school as we sped past. I have no idea why CRM designed windows of different sizes …yes I know he would have been cheaper. He was more impressed by the Artist Blacksmith's work in Princes Square though, and we had a good hour or so looking round, consumed some milky coffee (but no food!). We tried to find a farm shop to stock up on honey and then headed for the 2.30 ferry to Dunoon. SA and GA wanted to see this bit of Scotland and although the drive along the old shipbuilding yards of the Clyde was moody and depressing however there were no farm shops and only the occasional suicidal drunk falling out of a fortified bar.

30 mins beyond Dunoon we arrived at the Creggans Inn on the banks of Strachur, checked in, checked out the pillows (to GA's satisfaction) and were next to be found sheltering from the rain in the Loch Fyne Oyster Bar having a late lunch.

The Loch Fyne Oyster Bar and the Creggans were a hit. Excellent food, good service and friendly engaging staff. It's worth noting at this point that in Scotland and Northumbria it is very rare to be served by a local. Mostly Polish, Canadian and Asian. The Chinese I noted all have broad Scottish or Scouse accents wherever you are in the world.

We reminisced, over dinner, on the difference between Bamburgh and Seahouses: 3.2 miles by road but a million miles in culture. There wasn't a chip shop in Bamburgh.

Monday morning and time to head back with another change of plan. The original idea being to go the long way round to Glasgow and then South to Cumbria. But NO - SA has some strange traits and one of them being 'never to go back over the same tracks'. So after the Full Scottish (again) we did go part way back to the Oyster Bar and farmshop (yes there is a (fish) farm shop) and a milky coffee and then headed down the other side of Loch Fyne to Inverary. It's a fabulous piece of undiscovered Scotland or so it says in the guide books. It was pretty full. I'd tried to be interesting – white and black cottages, symmetry of design, Adams brothers, Para Handy – but SA was having none of it. He should have been an architect.

Whilst the rest of the party explored the town (no doubt in search of honey), I managed to queue jump in the Tourist Information Office and held back some highly cardiganned tourists, with pencils and scotty dogs in kilts to buy, for 30 mins or more arranging ferry tickets from Skipness to Lochranza on Arran and then from Arran to Ardrossan. It meant catching the 3 o'clock ferry and then the 7.15 ferry but we reckoned we could do it and probably get a decent meal in Brodick and maybe even take in a farm shop if we could get the clog down.

Arran, is often referred to as Scotland in Miniature (so it says everywhere): The Isle of Arran, is the most southerly Scottish island and sits in the Firth of Clyde between Ayrshire and Kintyre. Arran is 19 miles long by 10 miles wide but has a remarkable diversity of landscapes and seascapes. We needn't have bothered the 800 mile round trip if we'd thought about it we could have come straight to Arran booked in to an upmarket guest house and done some serious sight seeing. It would have done our carbon footprint a power of good too and saved a pile of money.

Arran is a good place and, I feel not too touristed. Maybe hitting it between 5 pm and 7pm on a Monday at the beginning of September isn't a good time to make a judgment. The Arran Aromatics shop and Arran farm cheese shop were both open and able to sell us some shampoo and garlic cheese (it's the future).

Dinner at the Auchranie Spa and lodge was good. The maitre d' – one of the wee Scottish types – white(ish) ill fitting shirt and some very large spectacles held together with elastoplast would not let us to our table until 5.30. He was at least Scottish and not totally unpleasant.

In Lochranza, on the golf course we had our second wildlife sighting – a red deer. We didn't see a single thing going through the glen – but on the golf course in the middle of town grazing like a tame red cow with elastoplasted antlers was a deer. We need to go to a petting zoo to see wildlife?

Luckily we landed at Ardrossan in darkness so the true ugliness was more or less unnoticed. It says something about the place that the website has a picture of the advertising balloon that flew over the new ASDA store. Keep looking up is my advice.

The drive back to Aspatria was more or less uneventful. We had to stop for fuel and a dark chocolate kit kat to keep SA's blood sugar sorted but we arrived safely at home at 11.10pm: 61 hrs; 800 miles; 2hrs on ferries; 2 full Scottish breakfasts; 7 pints of milky coffee; 6 farm shops; 1 seal; 1 deer; 35 starlings;1 meal of fish and chips; a critique of the Art Nouveau movement in Glasgow; an appreciation of the size of the mountains on Arran; a vow never to visit Seahouses again; take pillows on the next trip; do something to stop Britain turning into a craft gallery and farmshop theme park; plan a route next time or only do Arran.

Alistair Cooke v The Archers: most soporific?

2007-08-24T17:33:00.001+01:00

Since Alistair's demise in 2004, me and Mrs. RW have been unable to reach that deep REM sleep. We have this awful habit of sleeping with the radio on – much to the annoyance of the daughterous one (Emma) – who has been known to sneak in and switch the thing off thus waking her parents!!!! I cannot remember a single word that Alistair Cooke delivered. As soon as his programme came on, early Sunday morning, no matter how interesting it was or how concentration demanding his tangential excursions, we would be in REM in less than 60 seconds. Only waking when some damn organ music struck up a little later in the morning. It was wonderful sleep. The best you can get.

We tried 'Something Understood' with Mark Tully…. more like 'Misunderstood'. The rage of not understanding what the hell is going on even kept the dog awake. *1

On Wednesday, just gone, Mrs. RW and I were having a lie down early evening after a grueling day. Look - when you get to our age it makes sense to get some daytime sleep in when you can. We slumped into the new bed and put on Radio 4 to get the end of the 6.30 comedy slot and the News and The Archers. I remember The News but .. then.... not a thing until Mark Lawson's adenoidal smart-artsed ramblings were heard. Ok he's smart but at least he has a face for radio so he shouldn't sound that smug … sorry…… I went off piste again. Yerh - there you have it - The Archers. I can't think of a pun or witty aphorism to finish. Even the thought of St. Jennifer Darling of Ambridge is enough to get me slapping the face and doing pull-ups on the steering wheel.

*1 - post post: I looked up Something Understood and got this: 'Something Understood has been broadcasting contemplative programmes to insomniacs, early risers and night owls since 1995. Its original and principal presenter is Sir Mark Tully, former BBC correspondent and author of a number of books about India. Other presenters have included Fergal Keane, Sheena Macdonald, Bonnie Greer and Joan Bakewell. ....... Presenters choose a theme that interests them and then pick pieces of music, poetry and prose. Often the starting point is something in life that is puzzling or doesn't seem to fit: an unexplained gesture, an angry thought. Small themes often work better than grand thoughts. The presenter then circles around the grit until the end of the programme, when they may or may not have an answer. Spiritual rather than religious, Something Understood is about the thoughtful moments in life.' -
Well that's alright then!!!

Waiting for Gary -The South African concept of ‘now’ - I feel a play coming on

2007-08-09T22:23:00.001+01:00

As the NFBTNW Southern Africa correspondent I am coming to the end of a 2 weeks posting in the other WC (Western Cape). Most of it has been spent waiting for Gary. Gary is the electrician I have employed to sort out the wiring on the Southern outpost of the Renfamily. Gary is a decent sort and a reasonable sparky however he just doesn't turn up. But then neither does Paul Van Internet - the bloke charged with installing BroadBand, and neither did Kevin the generator commissioning engineer. I've had 2 whole weeks of being put off. For the last 30 years Sarth Efricans of every race, colour, gender have found it impossible to tell me that they cannot do something.

I've now realized that it is because they (yer Sarth Efricans) have been genetically engineered to be optimistic about the future. They also don't want to let anybody down, so, rather than tell the truth they elect to tell me- for instance that they 'can do' the external lights installation and they will be with me 'now'.

'Does this mean that you are standing at the front door Gary?'

'Hahah' says Gary 'No - I'll be with you in about an hour'.

Hours come and hours go – still no sign. Gary has been known to turn up and tell me that he's just going again. PVI told me that he could install BroadBand 10 days ago. It is now 10 days later and 5 promises of doing it tomorrow. To be fair he did turn up yesterday and rub his temples for 6hours, then said he would need to come back today to put up a mast. He hasn't showed.

The charming optimists that inhabit SA use the word 'now' to mean sometime in the future. 'Just Now' as in 'Ah'll be wuth yoo just nar' means maybe in the next 24 hours (providing not too near the weekend). 'Now Now' means that they intend to set off to meet me in the next 4 hours. 'Tuesday' means they have no idea at all when they may do the thing they have been asked to do. Only once in the last 2 weeks has anybody 'phoned me back before I have weakened and 'phoned them.

Thursday:
I am back in the UK. PVI has installed Broadband. He arrived unannounced and had me on-line 4 hours before my departure. Gary did arrive to help me out of an emergency and for this I thank him. Reaction not proaction seems to be what he does best. They'd make bloody good ambulance drivers. Yer Sarth Efrican boere or coloured chap loves to 'makaplan', BUT after doing so always ignores it awaiting something to react to. A bit like the French.

Oh dear .. I may have upset 2 nations, a few ethnic groupings and various tradsemen and technicians.

Still waiting for Kevin though.

Take the Pledge

2007-07-23T01:23:00.001+01:00

Dear readership I need your help.

I'm working with the Cumbria Futures Forum and trying to set up a website called Cumbrians Concerned About Climate Change (CCACC) perhaps an unfortunate acronym. You will remember that last month I was (and continue to be) inundated with emails from Al Gore's Live Earth project. It's worse than the spam I get and has had almost the opposite impact on my environmental intentions than Al had planned. Madonna jetting in to tell me to save energy … well if she thinks it's a good idea I'm almost inclined to think the opposite. See - already I've forgotten the issue.

Despite Al Gore, we've been working on a website to try and get people to do their bit to influence climate change. I still have the fundamental belief that people will only go to websites to either shop or play games or do things that they shouldn't do - so we are going to have to come up with something pretty innovative to get people to seek out CCACC in the first place. I've got a couple ideas that might work but the first thing is the pledge itself. I've had the family edit the initial draft and the personal pledge now looks like below.
Please tell me if you think we are on the right track – style, tone, appeal:

The Draft Pledge:

I'm aware of the impact that I have on the environment and the wider community and I want to do something about it.
THESE ARE MY SEVEN PROMISES:

I'll make a list of my activities that I think create an impact on the environment - in particular the use of carbon
I'll then decide upon targets and actions that will help reduce my environmental impact – and I'll record them so I can check my progress
I'll try my best to seek out and engage people and organizations who are committed to the same ideals
I'll ensure that all the people I know – family, friends, work colleagues – are aware of the commitments I've made and I'll encourage them to do the same
I'll share my experience and expertise in assisting others along the path of improved environmental performance and community responsibility
I'll keep working towards continuous improvements in my environmental performance
And finally, I'll continue to actively question and explore new ways to ecologically balance my life

The act of signing the pledge and base-lining an individual's carbon footprint (apologies for the jargon – please suggest some other words – please please) would stick a flag on the map of Cumbria – dependant on an individual's post code and also build an indicator of the average carbon impact per person signed up. We could graph this overtime too.

Reading the words again now, they do sound a bit elitist and awfully middle class. Help required.

A Long Stretch

2007-07-14T13:14:00.000+01:00

For reasons far too complicated to go into this post is being blogged from the Exec Lounge of the Gateshead Hilton where there's a splendid view of sunshine on the Canny Toon and free newspapers.
I've just picked up one of these. 'Conrad Black faces 10 years in gaol' the headline screamed.
I picked up another. Black faces 20 years it said.
Then I noticed a copy of the FT. Conrad Black gets 35 years.
Clearly, the day just keeps getting better and better.

Yesterday – I nearly acquired a criminal record

2007-07-06T08:22:00.001+01:00

I'm going through what I call a dusting phase. As I approach retirement (only 12 weeks to go) I have become obsessed with tidying, filing stuff, oh and finding dust. Sad! I was struggling out of Staples with 5 large leverarch files (nice plastic ones with an extra strong spring thing) and a pack of 'bandit' elastic bands – they've got labels affixed to the bands so's you can write on the contents of the bundle – sorry… The lady on the till, seeing my plight, asked if I needed a bag or help for the files. 'No' says I 'think of the planet'. On arriving at the car doing that thing of tucking everything under my chin whilst I try to find the last pocket for the keys it dawns on me that I have not paid for my swag. In the excitement and desire to get back home to do some decent cataloging I'd walked straight passed the tills. I turned went back to the shop and 'fessed.

They had assumed that the old dodderer (aged rock and roll icon I prefer) had paid at one of the other tills. There was much hilarity. It was noted though that if I'd been a teenager, in a hood, with slightly more spots, that I would probably have been banged up in Carlisle Castle jail by now nursing a black eye and looking forward to an ASBO.

So Here It Is . . .

2007-06-25T15:06:00.001+01:00

Cockermouth. June. Four days after the summer solstice. I have just been into the Co-op & come out with my shopping in a Christmas-at-the-Co-op branded plastic bag. Is this a record?

Geordie Waste Disposal

2007-06-22T14:30:00.000+01:00

We're obliged to the BBC for this extraordinary insight into standards of personal sanitation among the Geordies. Flushing a DD bra down your toilet is, to put it mildly, a novel way of disposing of unwanted underwear. Though the fact that the sewage system couldn't cope with this item is probably due to the shoddy standards of workmanship often encountered in the North-East. We also note that the pipe was blocked with 'a build-up of grease and fat' - no doubt indicating the culprit was enjoying a typically nutritious Geordie diet. All attempts at speculative reconstruction of the events leading up to the fatal flushing have left us speechless. Obviously a story for which the world is not yet ready . . .

Al Gore ithm

2007-06-21T20:15:00.001+01:00

Yesterday I think I was spammed. I got an email from Al Gore on behalf of Live Earth. I was invited to participate in an event –Live Earth Day. I had to host a party - a 'Live Earth House Party' . It sounded like a good idea and my opportunity to do something for the planet (again!). Anyways ~ about 10 mins into filling in a very complex form, designed to do what, I don't know, I lost the will and decided to spoil the ballot paper. I submitted my stuff and sat back. Initially I got the automated advices back and then what still seems to be an automated deletion of my posting. I still think it's automated. Am I being paranoid or do you think that this is a genuine happening. Here's the response followed by my further enquiry. I've done a lot of this sort of automated email and they can be very clever.

From: Live Earth [mailto:info@friendsofliveearth.org] Sent: 20 June 2007 23:56
To: Brian Dawes
Subject: Event Deletion: Live Earth House Party
An event you posted has been deleted from our system. The event's details are below.
Live Earth House Party
Time: Saturday, July7 at 12:00 PM - All Day Event
Location: Arkleby arkl;eby, CA72BT

Hello Brian,
I have deleted your event as it did not contain information making it seem like a valid event. If you do indeed intend to host a real festival in support of the Live Earth message of the need for climate protection please log back onto www.liveearth.org and re-register your event through Friends of Live Earth on the right hand side. This time please include more information and do not put 'silly' in the addressee box.

Thank you for your understanding.
Live Earth

MY RESPONSE
Dear Live Earth
I would like to host a live earth musical even. But in these Spam Days that we live in I started to mistrust the questions being asked so I introduced some spurious spelling mistakes and answers.
If indeed this is a genuine real event please can a real person respond and not just what seems to be an al gore ithm.
Brian Dawes

What do you lot think – am I off beam on this one?

The Longyearbyen Day

2007-06-21T09:01:00.000+01:00

Yes, it's the summer solstice, and while this blog comes from the north, it's just not quite north enough. So we're taking you straight off to Svalbard, land of the midnight sun - here's a link to a Svalbard webcam, so that you can enjoy 24-hours of light entertainment. (May require Java plug-in).

Last Exit To Whitehaven

2007-06-19T18:56:00.001+01:00

Spotted at last weekend's Whitehaven Maritime Festival - a nautical type in full uniform blocking the gangplank to one the ships with a sign saying HMS Balmoral - No More Cruising Tonight while simultaneously fending off a party of obviously disgruntled gay men.

Les Delices De Cumbria - Part XXI

2007-06-19T18:48:00.000+01:00

(Actually, we're beginning to lose count). Those among our regular readers looking for a genuinely Italianate experience in Cumbria need go no further than the fabulous Lizzie's Cumbrian Frutta Cotta, a mesmerising concoction of figs, apricots and prunes steeped in spices and rum. There are rumours that the same lady produces a Cumbrian version of that full-on Italian post-prandial delicacy involving preserved fruit and mustard. A delicacy too far for the present writer, though I suspect that others may disagree . . .

Canny Geordies

2007-06-19T18:43:00.000+01:00

Here at the News we're liberal and broad-minded. Rarely do we descend to parading ignorant, uninformed prejudice. (Our prejudices are, of course, based on profound knowledge & being staggeringly well-informed). But just occasionally, reality comes along & reassures us that, yes indeed, the world is precisely as we believed it to be. What else can we do, therefore, but draw your attention to this hilarious story about standards of honesty among inhabitants of the Canny Toon?

International Incident #0001

2007-06-10T15:40:00.000+01:00

Picture the scene dear reader - well actually I can do better than that - words fail see photo. A near deserted holiday apartment complex Albir Spain. I was sitting on one of the white plastic things near the pool keeping any eye on my 6 yr old grandson Audi. The blue object to to the right of the picture near the pool is German. The German frau has arrived with her grandson. The little German plays in the pool just behind the tree on the left. The lady places herself with me directly in line of sight of her duty of care and begins to read. Do you like the German edition of Hello magazine? Eva does (I'm resisting the obvious jibes you will notice). I have not spoken. She then asks me to move as she cannot see her grandson. So I move.

Why did she not move? Why did she speak English? Why did she sit where she did? Why did I move without a murmur? Why does my grandson have a German car brand as a christian name? Can it be changed?

Last night at 'that round bar' we went for a night cap with J&T. Within seconds I was asked to move out of line of sight, again in English, by the Rumanian barmaid, of the TV screen. Apparently the big chain smoking German sat at the bar couldn't move and I had to. I didn't speak. I moved. Am I getting soft? Have I gone arse (as they say in Sarth Efrica)?

On Tour in search of the breakfast

2007-06-10T13:25:00.001+01:00

Me, RW, the daughterous one (Ems) and greGG and the 2 grandkids – Audi & 'rilla are in Spain for a week visiting RW's parents 'June and Terry' (I kid not). Ems, greGG and A&'r are in one apartment and we, due to some misunderstanding on the size of the apartment, are now staying with J&T. The misunderstanding will be sorted on Monday – Spanish holiday company management do not work at weekends. We have to ring back at 9.30 tomorrow so for the next while (as they say in South Yorkshire) we will sleepover at J&T's.

We are in Albir.

10 June 2007: This morning it rained in Spain so we had breakfast at a Spanish Caff and discovered Pan Tumaca. Basically Bread and Tomato – Toasted not fried bread but despite that close to the Cumbrian delicacy. Probably - slightly healthier.

Benidorm cannot be seen from Albir. Apart from a couple of bars catering for the Brit tourist/expat contingent is still quite Spanish. I have resisted any attempt to speak Spanish so far relying on RW to keep me straight. Driving on the right, changing gear with my right hand, putting on belt with left hand, looking left at roundabouts…….. grief I don't know how the Spanish manage without RW and Ems keeping them in-line. Maybe if 'they' had remembered to bring their driving licenses then I could have said 'why did you turn right back there'. Nearly forgot to mensh that the left turn out of Alicante airport following the newly acquired SatNav device takes you to an entirely different Albir. This Albir added 70 minutes to our journey and another reason to be cited in RW's divorce papers.RW and I have still to speak civilly to one another. The circumstances are, you will understand, a little extenuating.

On days like these

2007-06-07T17:24:00.001+01:00

There are a couple of days just towards the end of May and away from the start of June when Cumbria looks particularly good. The hedges and verges are just at the end of their first flush, a little manicuring is taking place, and the drive to work from Aspatria to Whitehaven is a joy. There's a point on the road just after the Chapelbrow roundabout when I can see at least half of Cumbria - from the mountains to the sea and from Whitehaven to Wigton. The temperature is 19^oC at most, but it's glorious. 'You could almost live here' my inner voice opines.

Even the bit of my drive where I turn off the Cleator Moor road down through the 'nice' Hensingham council estate passing the 'lovely' hospital gives me an artist worthy view over Keekle and Wath Brow (sheer poetic place names) to the Ennerdale fells. You can tell that May be out. The morning shoppers are awaiting the free Tesco bus. The ill smokers are sat on the steps outside the hospital. Their pink-grey anoraks and car coats cast off. Sleeveless shirts and frocks with seconds from New Balance seem to be in. I swerve to miss a lurcher and narrowly glance a wheelie bin strategically placed 3 feet from the pavement by the black bag skirted dustbin men and say to my inner voice " sorry-I didn't quite catch that".

I do love and appreciate the place - I just wish that all Cumbrians did.

Les Deli Cumbri XX – Clotted Cream and Road Kill?

2007-05-29T18:20:00.001+01:00

Last weekend RW and I went to Cornwall to visit the eldest child – Derwent and the butterfly expert Betsy. It's difficult picking nom-de-blog – with real names like Derwent & Betsy. How do you do anything with those names - D & B? They are soon to be parents and this was a pre visit to see their new house and get the feel of where they are living. D is very much a Cumbrian by breeding, naming and passion (though born in Joburg!) and B is from Cornwall and her parents live close by in Luckett. D & B live in Stoke Climsland. Stoke Climsland (what weird names they have in Cornwall!) is a very alternative community – lots of beards and sandals. To the south of the parish is Kit Hill, a significant landscape feature . As well as Stoke village and Luckett, the parish contains many hamlets of Beals Mill, part of Bray Shop, Downgate, Higherland, Luckett, Monks Cross and Venterdon. At one time there were seven mines employing over a thousand men, but these went into decline at the end of the 19th century, although the Luckett mines were reopened for a period of just over five years in 1947. There's a blog link with Cleator Moor at some point - but not today dear reader.

Cornwall and Cumbria have a lot in common. For a start they are as far that way as we are this way. It feels more remote than Cumbria and certainly the bits that we saw were very very rural. It's less hilly and the lanes and roads seem to run in verdant troughs. The hedges are very high – a bit like driving in a maze. I had no idea from the beginning to the end of the weekend where we were because there are no visible points of reference. In Cumbria we have Skiddaw, Grassmoor and Chapelcross cooling towers – well maybe not the cooling towers (see previous blog). In Cornwall you have hedges and …uh … er… well…. road kill. It seems you can navigate by whatever's dead on the road, though Betsy (mostly a vegetarian) will collect freshly dropped rabbit and deer and, as long as they are dead, quite happily butch, cook and eat - thus removing the aids to navigation.

The farm, next to the D & B boheme, is not allowed, under some EU ruling, to make or sell clotted cream. D, insisting that we have a cream tea, and with typical Cumbrian guile has found that for a pound the farmer's wife will rent D a dish and fill it free with clotted cream. The scones, jam and cream were wonderful, washed down with free cider in rented bottles from the farm on the other side.

On Saturday we found ourselves at a music festival on the banks of the Tamar under the arches at Calstock (now there's alternative). The Tamar is the border between Cornwall and Devon. Now I know that Cumbrians can be very partisan but there's no touching your average Cornishman. A boat sailed by - the MV Gloria (it's owner a Van Morrison fan). The captain announced over his PA system, to all 2 of his paying passengers, " Lady and Gentleman (I can only write in Cumbrian by the way – so won't attempt a Corrnish accent) … The Tamar is our border. On our left is Cornwall on our right England, Wales and further North – Scotland."

Home rule for Cornwall seems a lot more likely than for Cumbria.

Les Deli Cumbri XIX - reflux

2007-05-28T10:51:00.001+01:00

One of the comments on previous postings said 'I bet you all have reflux'. Well I haven't. In fact the only thing that gives me reflux (apart from a bucket of red or white wine) is porridge. I love porridge to the point of putting it on my list of fave foods BUT it don't love me. One hour after an infusion of oats, RenWoman will say "porridge?" as she catches that pained look of 'the porridge afflicted'. It's much worse if I just have plain porridge made with water. The addition of cream, salt and butter (yes – butter) helps to ward of a reflux attack but not the addition of a shot of whisky. Once in the Okavanga delta darling (the ODD) and an hour after porridge, cream and whisky, and a lot of tutting from RW, I had a reflux attack. I was on the back of an open topped landrover in the presence of an interested pride of lion. There was nowhere to run and nobody helped .. I could have died. Maybe it was RW's tutting that brought on the reflux. Hah!

Popular Beat Combos - Part 359

2007-05-23T21:13:00.000+01:00

There's probably something deeply sad about men-of-a-certain-age getting excited about discovering Youtube, but You Are The Generation That Bought More Shoes by Johnny Boy is very possibly the most perfectly enjoyable piece of pop music since Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers. And it looks like Phil Spector and Martin Scorsese remade Vivre Sa Vie with that girl from The Human League. Far too clever for its own good. Oh, and a little hommage a Bob at the end. What more could you want? Sheer heaven. How about Banjaxing it?

Les Delices De Cumbria - Part XVI and XVII possibly XVIII: Ice Cream and Lemonade and...

2007-05-23T10:49:00.000+01:00

Just struck me that the previous couple of posts, or so, should have been in the Les Delices series. I also forgot my all time favourite simple meal. 2 slices of thickish cut white bread fried and served with boiled tinned plum tomatoes (the ones without skin) with a little salt and pepper - put the salt on the bread before the tomatoes. You can add bacon, eggs, mushrooms and call it the 'full something or other' but I just prefer the bread and toms. I'm sure the Italians would have a fancy name for it. My gran called it 'Fried Bread and Tomatoes'.
It doesn't work with brown bread or fresh tomatoes by the way.

I blame Underwood’s yellow lemonade

2007-05-22T00:58:00.001+01:00

The writer in residence and mesel found ourselves in the yard reminiscing. The reminiscence had to be, Twentyman's ice cream. Yeah we are agreed - plain vanilla with red syrup (even though it 'meks amess'). We were transported back to a time when Mr. Underwood of Maryport could have a good living making 'pop' and supplying the local pubs and some shops with yellow lemonade; dandelion and burdock; American ice cream soda and…. I think that was it. Once a week the pop van would come to Gote Road in Cockermouth. We would have left the empties on the step with the correct money and 'as if by magic' we would receive 2 full bottles of yellow lemonade which would last me and my Gran and a couple of visiting friends and family a whole week. I don't remember them being rationed but the 5 pints of bright yellow liquid (tartrazine, water, sugar, lemon essence, some gas and more tartrazine) would see us through the week. Come to think of it …. It wasn't actually called yellow lemonade. It was just, well, lemonade! Only, when new fangled 'white lemonade' arrived in the 60s, was there a distinction. Now here's a little test. If you can still find yellow lemonade (I doubt it 'cos tartrazine became one of those 'E-substances') try a Bitter Dash – 7/8ths of a pint of Jennings Bitter filled up with a dash of yellow lemonade. Nectar! I usual have a headache within 15 minutes being allergic to E102 and burnt sugar (oh and sheep wool) but for 14 minutes all is well.

We have become over stimulated by choice. How much better food tasted when it was simple and satisfied locally.

New potatoes fresh from the garden boiled in their skins, some farm butter, a little mint and a fried egg. At 9.30 pm just before going to bed.

The Co-op's choice of cheese – crumbly white or cheddar with white bread with my uncle Ted's tomatoes and a little salt (crushed with a rolling pin in a tea-cloth and kept in one of those funny jars). Saturday afternoon

Tinned peaches and evaporated milk. Sunday afternoon.

Pastry squares – Sunday Dinner with real gravy.

Rice Pudding, jam and the top of the milk (as anybody seen the top of the milk in the last 20 years?) Bi weekly Sundays.

My Gran's meat and potato slab pie with oxo gravy and HP sauce … and a cup of tea. AND a tin of peas. Monday

A pork chop, apple sauce, peas and homemade chips, white bread and butter (sometimes a fried egg!) Wednesdays when Gran got her pension.

Pickled Herring with …. I wish I could remember .. I have a feeling that it was brown bread and butter. Saturday teatime. Sometimes Thursday.

Tatie Pot, chutney and tea. Tuesday

Haig's Pork Pie with peas. .. 3 times a year!

And.. Twentyman's ice cream when Mr. Nicholson took me and Gran for our Sunday afternoon drives out.

I like a pea - as my dad used to say.

Twentyman’s plain vanilla in a tub… though technically it’s a frozen stare.

2007-05-21T14:40:00.000+01:00

As regards (as an acquantance of mine is irritatingly prone to say) a previous posting I got to thinking about the ice cream of my formative years. There’s quite a lot to choose from - Hartley’s (Egremont), Luchini’s (Cockermouth now Keswick), Bouch’s (Aspatria), Tognarelli’s (Wukintun), Longcake’s (S’loth) and of course Twentyman’s of Allonby.

It should have been Luchini’s. We used to get a Jug of it to share with the rice pudding at Sunday dinner but the taste that still gets the teeth itching is Twentyman’s plain vanilla.

Now what about the frozen stare? Old man Twentyman used to be the most miserable looking chap I’ve ever seen. Not content with the queues round the block in the pouring rain and driving wind he would stand there (occasionally helping out or reinforcing the refusal of a serving of red syrup – ‘cos it meks a mess’) casting gloom and unhappiness on the proceedings. Outside it could be a glorious day but inside the shop it was always dark and gloomy. The current generation Twentyman seem a little happier. They now do a selection of sundaes and loads of different flavours but I still opt for a medium tub – plain vanilla then browse the out of date tins of tuna and pot noodles and plastic buckets and balls and Concorde English wine and felt tip pens .. packs of cards. I did ask for red syrup on my tub and was told that they would sell me a little carton BUT I had to put it on my tub myself when I was well out of the shop ‘cos it meks a mess..n’ that’ll be another 10p’

Today the backdrop to my existence changed

2007-05-20T21:45:00.000+01:00

We all have, at least I do, an image of where we are. A sort of bird's eye view of where we line up. Mine's an aerial map of Cumbria (like the one in the Keswick Museum - Flintoft's amazing 4m Scale Model of the Lake District). I saw it when I was 8 and it's been in my head ever since. The view overlooking Cockermouth towards the Lorton valley with Hopegillhead and Grassmoor and of course sleeping Skiddaw dominates the natural; but there are a couple of man made items that provide me with my in-built satnav positioning device.

The first was the pile chimneys at Sellafield and the second the 4 cooling towers at Chapelcross nuclear power station on the Scottish side of the Solway.

I declare an interest - my gran came from Seascale and Calder hall and my earliest memories were the 2 chimneys (every other Sunday teatime)- now reduced to approx. 1 and a bit.

The Chapelcross quad towers gave me the North Cumbria trig point when we had our bi-weekly Sunday outings for Twentyman's and Longcake's ice cream from Allonby and Silloth. There's at least another couple of posts on the delights of Silloth- but not today. This morning RenWoman brought the cup that revives and without the need for a second we set off for Bowness on Solway and the site of the old railway line across the water to Scotland. The 2 piers on the site of the railway line are worth a post in their own right... but later. By 8.30 am (along with an assorted thousand or so other train spotters) we were attempting to find a parking place between Bowness and Anthorn. The occasion - the demolition of the cooling towers - at 9 - at 2 second intervals the towers would be dropped. And so there they were gone.

How am I going to find my way to Silloth in future? It could explain why bendigo (the dog) got disorientated on his way back to the car. The national news informed me that migrating geese use(d) the towers to navigate - though not for Longcake's vanilla.

I would have been tempted to have left the towers, their carbon impact long neutralised, and painted them pink or found an alternative use. I actually quite like dereliction (look at Italy for instance - though not at Barrow-in Furness). RW and I drove home in subdued silence until I took a wrong turn near Newton Arlosh (now there's a place) and ended up back in Silloth. See! I've lost the in-built satnav already.

Clarence Clemons Is My Sax God

2007-05-16T20:36:00.000+01:00

I've just been listening to some of The Big Man's finest work - largely as a result of this objectionable piece of inanity. (It's not just that I object to the phenomenon of 'list of 100 greatest all time designer sandwich wrappers' on the grounds that such enterprises are a sad excuse for a lack of critical intelligence so much as it's self-evidently the case that Born To Run isn't even Bruce Springsteen's best album of the 1980s - that accolade goes to The River - let alone The Best Album Of All Time). So I've spent the early part of the evening re-acquainting myself with The Boss's finest work - and was overawed by the god-like genius of Side One Track Two Sherry Darling, a sort of Frat Rock / Jersey Shore re-working of And Her Mother Came Too, and blessed with a couple of delicious examples of Clarence at his best. If you don't already know it go out and buy it right now.
Update: Whoops! - Erratum: for Born To Run read Born In The USA above throughout. And vice versa. I mean, obviously.

50% of banjaxed gig at Meriendas – another list for comment please

2007-05-10T10:54:00.001+01:00

Last Friday we performed at Meriendas. We being - RenWoman on lead vocals, shakers, bodhran, upstaging; mesel on guitar, harmonies occasional vocals; Ricardo on the 'box' (cajones – flamenco beat box). We're half of banjaxed (the local well known beat combo) and still struggling for a name. 'Not Quiet Broken' was suggested. Anyways a fiver to a charity of your choice for the best name.

The set list gives a fair idea of the age and musical experience and inclination of the band.

Box Rag – Instrumental (made up on the night to warm up the audience) – reprised later in the set - but different.
I once loved a lad (Eng Trad – slightly jazzes – in D with the bottom E dropped to D for the musos)
Ruby Tuesday (Jagger- Richards – fair cover with the stones' usual riff duh dah dah)
Mozambique (from Dylan's Desire – shaker – a bit faster than the original)
Where Do The Children Play
(Cat Stevens ~ thingie Islam now … I use the guitar effects pedal on this one if I can find it)
Times They are a Changing
(Bob - but a reggae version. Bob who? DYLAN DYLAN!!)
Love and Happiness
(I forget who by – that chap from Dire Straits and Emmy Lou I think. I can't help hearing it as Love and A Penis. Which sort of spoils it for performing seriously)
The One I Love
(David Gray – with the effects pedal again to make it sound like a helicopter – if I can find…the…. Right…. Ah …)
Dimming of The day
(Richard Thompson – great song great harmony – fun to sing)
Careless Love
(Trad – very much the Joan Baez version. For this one we become 2/3rds of banjaxed as Valeree joins us)
Super Trooper
( ABBA – yes ABBA. I like it - though there was some resistance from RW and Ricardo)
ONE (yer man BONO – but nearer the Johnny Cash version. ABBA ? U2? I don't question my thought processes in drawing up these lists)
Baby can I Hold You – Sorry (Tracy Chapman – great song, difficult timing. Someone (SIMON Dawson!) dropping the dominos in the first bar didn't help)
Love Me Do (Lennon & Macca. Slowed down version – great simple song – I sneak in a Steve Tilston ending)
Too Old to Wrangle (not sure of the provenance – have known it for years – country harmony all the way . not sure who does the tune - me or RW)
Things Have Changed (Bob again – but more recent from his gardening period – the only song I know about wheelbarrows)
Every Night (McCartney via Phoebe Snow – with carry that weight and another macca song at the end. Much as I try to dislike Paul he does occasional throw in a good un)
Party Doll (Jagger Richards again – great song – relatively unknown – look it up by Mary Chapin-Carpenter)
Frank Mills (from Hair – really nice little narrative song with only 1 rhyme - slant - Waverley with unfortunatley)
Let No Man Steal Your Thyme (Trad; Pentangled and then 50% banjaxed- good jazz feel)
Wheels On Fire (Bob – via Julie Driscoll – rocks)
San Francisco Bay Blues (Jesse Fuller; but I've been doing it since 1965 – long before Eric C – so there)
Please Please Me (Lennon Mac; very slowed down version – more like a folk song)
Pebbles on the Beach ( A gem from Paul Weller)
Bobby McGee (Kristofferson with the Joplin ending – yeh I know but everybody sings along)
I got you Babe (Sonny Bono and Cher? – no matter how many times we sing it I still don't know the words)
Paved Paradise (Joni Mitchell – as near as we can to the original)
We didn't do 'Love the One You are With' (Steve Stills) .. 'cos I forgot the timing .. weird

Any requests - for our next outing please? Apart from the usual 'Play far away' and 'I think the sax would sound good in Bobby McGee'

Boys On Film

2007-05-09T18:20:00.000+01:00

The Cineaste & I will once again be talking movies on Radio Cumbria at about 11:00am BST tomorrow (Thursday) on the excellent mid-morning show. Those of you outside Cumbria who want to find out our views on the latest releases can listen by clicking on this link.
You'll be relieved to hear that they've told me not to bring the saxophone.

Trane In Vain

2007-05-08T23:38:00.000+01:00

Readers will be delighted to hear that my saxophone playing is coming on by leaps and bounds, (shurely - shcales & arpeggiosh?), and I can now pick out the very simplest of tunes and make them sound almost but not quite completely unlike real music.
In one crucial respect, however, I have begun to excel - I can now unfold and set up a music stand in a matter of minutes, and all without accidentally reprising the physical comedy of Norman Wisdom's deckchair-opening routine.
Onwards!

Offset This!

2007-05-08T16:58:00.000+01:00

The Renaissance Woman mentioned to me the other day that she'd just had her household's carbon footprint measured. Size six Jimmy Choos, apparently. But there was more to come. She'd found a handy way of offsetting the carbon.
For some reason this involved making a cash payment to the nation's favourite greengrocer, who will kindly do the offsetting for you, saving you a lot of trouble and inconvenience.
Yes, that's Tesco's, the people who habitually fly Jumbo Jets full of mange-tout peas three times round the world before delivering them to an out-of-town superstore within driving distance of your home. Just spend some more money with them and they'll offset your carbon footprint.
I can't help but feel that I'm missing something important here. Or perhaps Tesco's are? Isn't reducing global warming by consuming more rather like fighting for peace? Or, in the old 60s slogan, f***ing for virginity?
If anyone can explain the rationale for this, please comment . . .

Pillar

2007-05-01T18:12:00.000+01:00

A few days ago V & I walked up Pillar - the great fractured theatre of a mountain that sits between Wasdale and Ennerdale, and upon whose Rock the sport of climbing can claim (perhaps plausibly) to have been born.
The walk-in from Ennerdale is long, tedious and besmirched by the wreckage of the Forestry Commission's latest vandalisms, so we drove to Wasdale Head and walked in from the pub carpark - always a good place to start and end an expedition. Our route took us up Black Sail pass via the inappropriately named Mosedale (tedious valley according to the Norsemen - I can only assume that Vikings had abnormally low boredom thresholds, what with all that baby-impaling to be getting on with . . . )
It was an April day of midsummer heat, the rocks shimmered before our eyes, the turf was dessicated, the becks bedded with white stones. At Black Sail we admired Kirk Fell and turned left towards our goal: a few hundred yards further on, at a small cairn, we dropped off the ridge and took the High-Level Route across the mountain's northern face. This is a thrilling walk that picks its way around two great basins of ice-gouged crags before revealing the east side of Pillar Rock itself. The route then culminates in the Shamrock Traverse, a narrowing ramp of grass and rock that brings you out on a level with the top of the Rock before you. We paused to watch two early-season crag-rats ascending what looked to me like a suicidally extreme crack (if anybody knows the likely route's name, please comment) and came out just opposite Pisgah in time to see a solitary walker essaying what looked like a similarly lunatic descent of the scree-chute immediately to the east of the Rock. After that we enjoyed a short steep pull up to the hill's reassuringly flat summit. The rest of the afternoon was spent on a beautiful stroll along the ridge towards Red Pike and Yewbarrow before we descended to the pub. The early evening light played on the beck as we sat outside the bar drinking beer while the weekend's walkers took to their cars. Mild sunburn, sore legs and the rock of Great Gable above us turning rich and deep in the sunshine: quite the perfect end to the day.

Blood On The Sax

2007-05-01T18:02:00.000+01:00

Late one afternoon, the sun was shining - and I realised that my attempts to get my tonguing technique right during saxophone practice were becoming over-enthusiastic: the underside of the reed was damp with red saliva.
Note to commenters: jokes about bodily fluids and unprotected sax are inevitable, so you'd better go ahead & make them . . .

Lives Of The Great Belgians - Part II

2007-04-24T19:40:00.000+01:00

Undeterred by the hostility of the lanolin-daubed fiends in the field outside, I took up the saxophone once more. Right thumb under the rest. Fingers of the left hand poised lightly. Deep breath, and . . .
The Gressingham duck resumed its mortal agony. Ben the Trailhound stared at me balefully, but did not move. Gradually, the crass honking emanating from the sax began to take on some sort of consistency.
Buoyed up by the illusion of competence, I kept on breathing and blowing, until my lip gradually took on the feel of lacerated rubber.
Now I felt ready for something a little more advanced. I stood in front of the window and sneered at the sheep. This time, as I blew on the sax, I lifted it up and leant backwards. Then I dropped it down and leant forwards. Pause. As I blew again, I turned to the left . . . and to the right . . . Splendid! I was beginning to get the hang of this. With a little concentration, I found I was soon able to execute a little four-step dance routine, backwards, sideways, forwards, while playing. After twenty minutes or so, I slumped in the chair, elated. My sax playing was clearly coming along swimmingly well.
I've noticed that the sides of the instrument are adorned with a series of rather complicated-looking keys and levers. Tomorrow I hope to find out what happens when I press one of them.

Stop This Retail Madness

2007-04-24T19:33:00.000+01:00

Whitehaven, Sunday morning. Fear stalks the aisles of the nation's favourite greengrocer.
Promptly at 10.00am the doors open and a crowd of West Cumbrian happy shoppers flood into the store, your bloggist among them. I execute a well-planned raid on the paper stall and fresh vegetable section and present myself at the checkout. The girl takes one look at my shopping and throws down the 'This Checkout Is Closing' sign behind my bananas. Evidently, I'm her last customer of the day. I look at the clock on the wall. It is 10.04am.
Is it just me?

Banjaxed do Civic Duty

2007-04-21T18:33:00.001+01:00

This coming Friday – banjaxed (the wake up to wogan tribute band) are playing at the Allerdale Civic Dinner to mark the end of Margaret Jackson's year as Mayor. Though I can find little to confirm it on the world wide web thingie – starting to worry a little now as I've lashed out £6.50 on a new dickie bow tie.

As the guitar and banjo (sorry) player with banjaxed I am also charged with coming up with the set-list. Having carried out an intensive survey of the 200 or so guests (i.e. thought about who is likely to be there) and a risk assessment of who we are likely to offend I've come up with this little lot. It's very much stream of unconsciousness so I hope there's nowt subliminal. Would any of our reader-ship like to order them. Bear in mind that although I list the origin of the version they will be heavily banjaxed.

Dancing in the Street (Bowie Jagger version ) – linking straight in to.. Walk in the Room (Jackie de Shannon version almost)
Stop Your Sobbin (Kinks/ Pretenders mix) linking in to a folk rock version of the Supreme's Stop in the name of love – ends with a fast Irish jig I kid not!)
Runaway (the Bonnie Rait version of the Del Shannon song modified to suit the band of course )
Under My Thumb (the Stones with mandolin, drums, bass and re-gendered for twin female chauvinist vocals)
Under African Skies (Paul Simon Ladysmith Black Mombasa with Cape Jazz Kwela overtones) – I see a theme building Dance .. Walk …Stop … Under Under…
Let's Spend the Night Together (Stones meets Queen with Young Tradition harmonies
All Over Now (Stones to a reggae beat partly unaccompanied – finger in ear!)
Under the Board Walk ( I forget who just now – but fairly straight other than the mandolin)
Out of Time (The Chris Farlow version nearly !) linking in to Moon Dance (Van the Man but a bit more frantic and louder)
Aint No Cure for love (Cohen via Jennifer Warnes and then banjaxed to hell)
Beeswing (driving beat version of the Richard Thompson number – pretty close to the original at least as I remember it)
Just One Look (Doris Troy -Mandolin lead)
Stoopid Coopid (yeh – but a penny whistle version of the one Di remembers from the Juke Box in the pub in 1962)
Room at the Top of the World (Tom Petty – with Banjo and Stratocaster and some nice harmonies)
Knock On Wood (more or less straight lift of the Eddie Floyd version – at least the drum part is!)

And that's it.

Should fill 90 minutes, with a break for string repairs after Beeswing. Suggestions please for the encore.

Lives Of The Great Belgians - Part I

2007-04-20T12:52:00.000+01:00

Back in Beghan days, V decided that for a man of my advanced age & musical ineptitude the only sensible course of action was to take up the saxophone. This struck me as a counsel of despair. But in the course of a rendez-vous in Soho last December I acquired one of Professor Sax's inventions from my old friend The Defrocked Priest, who in his more lucid moments likes to imagine himself a member of the Glen Miller Orchestra.
The sax lay untouched till the other day when I finally resolved to give it a blow. The first obstacle to be overcome was assembling the various bits. Once accomplished, I carefully took it in my hands, hooked the strap to the back of it, brought the mouthpiece towards my lips and took Lauren Bacall's advice to Humphrey Bogart.
Nothing happened.
I tried again. Still nothing.
I put the sax down & took a long look at it. After about five minutes I removed the mouthpiece and turned it so that the reed (a Rico #3, jazz-fans) was on the underside. Then I picked up the instrument, put my lips together, and blew.
The effect was astonishing.
A sound very like a Gressingham duck in terminal agony echoed from the walls of the cottage. Ben the trailhound stared at me balefully, got up off the couch and ran downstairs.
Undeterred by this enthusiasm from my audience, I persevered. By now the reed was vibrating in a truly alarming fashion, making my lower lip feel as if it was being massaged by a coffee grinder.
Exhausted, panting for breath, I put the instrument aside & staggered to the window. Out in the fields the sheep were staring up at me with expressions that occupied that dangerous no-man's land between Wild Surmise and Bored Resignation.
I picked up the sax and blew. That'd show the woolly bastards.
Just give me some of that rock and roll music . . .

Get Your Kicks On The B5301

2007-04-19T14:35:00.000+01:00

Driving to Aspatria the other day I was ambushed by rock & roll - the radio started playing Dirty Water by The Standells, possibly the finest 3 minutes of trash ever to emerge from that musicological country The Clash christened garageland, and a song which has the built-in advantage of a hook that's infinitely adaptable to present circumstance -
Oh - Cumbria, you're my home

Mad Scientists Stole My Dad's Radioactive Kidney

2007-04-18T18:47:00.000+01:00

The local media are running a story about our county's world-leading hi-tech industry which simply has everything you could wish for in a news item.

Rap, With A Capital 'C'

2007-04-16T17:45:00.000+01:00

Oh dear, oh dear. I'm grateful to the Herr Doktor Professor for bringing to my attention the latest cultural outrage perpetrated by those geniuses at the Cumbria Tourist Board. Just click on this link to be treated to their giant red squirrel rapping his way through William Wordsworth's Daffodils. OK, so the poem's not exactly one of the man's finest moments, but as someone at least slightly responsible for marketing one of the county's major cultural events with a significant youth audience, I'm really at a loss to see how this sort of inanity helps us. Maybe they thought that it would show that they're really, like, down with the Cleator Moor massive, innit? Perhaps someone from GoLakes would like to come on the blog and explain it all to us? If not, I may be forced to use this material in my forthcoming 'Grumpy Old Men' slot on Radio Cumbria . . .

Pebbles From Heaven

2007-04-10T11:44:00.000+01:00

A previously undiscovered blog has arisen in the Cumbrian hinterland - PebblesFromHeaven is damned fine stuff. The perpetrators also have a rather good Rock Art Blog devoted to a genuinely fascinating bye-way of rural psychogeography.

Pay Sex

2007-04-10T11:41:00.000+01:00

New horizons in social embarrassment enabled by technology - don't ever mention to anybody that you've been searching for 'pasche eggs' on the internet. They're likely to mis-hear you . . .

Pasche Eggs Redux

2007-04-06T13:09:00.000+01:00

This blog has been getting many hits from readers searching for information about Pasche Eggs, a vital part of any Cumbrian Easter.
So in a spirit of public service - here's a brief guide to improving your Easter celebrations with a genuinely Cumbrian experience.
First - buy a dozen fresh eggs. Free range please, and preferably from a farm shop somewhere in the county.
Then click on this link, this one and this one. Here you'll find everything you need to know about preparing your pasche eggs (hint - you'll need some onion skins too), the joys of egg dumping, and (if you're unfortunate enough to be Bear Ghrylls) participation in Pasche Egg Extreme Sports.
If anybody wants to send in a photo of themselves egg-dumping from a belay half-way up Napes Needle, they're very welcome to the public humiliation that will inevitably result.

One Dog Nights

2007-04-03T21:51:00.000+01:00

Ben The Trailhound, readers will be delighted to hear, has been enjoying his excursion to The Deep North far more than is strictly good for him: days spent charging across desolate fields in pursuit of distantly-scented deer and terrorising rough-cats in the neighbouring steading; nights spent curled up on the centre of a warm bedspread driving the present writer, lying beneath it, to the margins of the mattress. Ben's lean good looks and raffish charm have made him the absolute sensation of le tout Aberdeenshire, so it is probably just as well, and entirely for his own good, that I'm taking him back to Cumbria in the morning.

Snow Hares & Trailhounds

2007-03-31T19:52:00.000+01:00

Our bloggists are scattered across the hemispheres: the Renaissance Couple have gone to South Africa; the present writer is in the deep north of Scotland, along with Ben The Trailhound, who has been co-opted into an impromptu holiday. There's nothing so melancholy as a resort out of season or a pub with no beer: yesterday on the route north I stopped atop Glen Shee, a ski resort with no snow, to allow the hound some mid-journey exercise. Liberated from car-bound stress he plunged across the hillsides while I stood amidst the desolation of chairlifts and empty coffee shops reflecting that global warming has disfigured this piece of the Highlands into an entirely post-industrial landscape: the Mounth must be the most extensive stretch of high ground in Britain yet snow was only to be seen in occasional streaks, and this in March.
Happily, Ben The Trailhound was untroubled by this and bounded along, successfully terrifying a brace of black grouse and a white snow hare. I'm pleased to say he failed to catch the latter, but the sight of them running beneath the stationary chairlift was exhilirating and the only sign of movement for miles. Ben is now appearing in a cameo role in The Deep North, where you may follow his continuing Highland adventures.

Muckspreader Once, Muckspreader Twice

2007-03-27T16:36:00.000+01:00

My return to the Arkleby boheme has been immeasurably softened by the sudden appearance of Cumbria at its early spring finest: warm sunshine and hazy light between the Solway and the mountains, as if the heat and thunder of high summer are imminent. But this is a new start, not a return. Though some things remain unchanged: I have just looked out across the fields and seen Sheep-Fighting Man's muckspreader sail merrily past my windows, flinging lumps of ordure high in the air.
Gee but it's great to be back home . . .

The Happiest Day Of His Life

2007-03-23T21:50:00.000Z

One of the minor hazards of life in St Bees was the likelihood that, when turning up to some event at the local school, I'd have my collar felt by a visting old boy and be recognised and remembered as a former pupil. One such occasion recently developed into the inevitable Do you remember old so-and-so? - a dismal prospect as in general all anybody ever wants to talk about is Rowan Bloody Atkinson. But this time with real originality and pleasure I heard the story, second-hand, of a dimly remembered younger contemporary. At some point in the late 1970s the school was indulging in one of its periodic bouts of construction. One day Dimly Remembered Younger Contemporary distinguished himself by liberating a JCB from the building site, driving it around school and attempting to take the roof off one of the buildings. Sadly, he was expelled. In a just world such a finely judged combination of individual initiative and psychotic violence would be rewarded with the captaincy of the School XV and a place at one of the more barbaric Oxbridge colleges.

Directions

2007-03-23T21:30:00.000Z

New horizons in sound: my mate the rocking ex-banker Henry Doss, and torrid rock-chick Emma Rugg are about to embark on their Directions US/UK tour. If you're anywhere near any of the venues go & listen to their exceedingly good music. Good luck to both of them, and their tour manager the splendid Chris Arvidson. Enjoy!

Resolution & Independence

2007-03-18T12:53:00.000Z

A few days before my precipitate departure from St Bees (about which I'll not be blogging) I had a chance encounter on the promenade. It was a cold winter morning, the light was bouncing off the Head and the sea was gently flinging pebbles up the shingle slopes to the concrete platform on which I walked.
Coming towards me was a woman dragging what seemed to be a metal detector along the bank of stones beneath the promenade rim. She was of course checking the littoral for radiation from nearby Sellafield and the device was one of Mr Geiger's counters. She was dressed in bog-standard Goretex and woolly hat, beneath which her hair was streaked red - more environmentalist than corporate enforcer, I thought.
What was she looking for? I asked.
Radiation hotspots at the high water mark, she replied.
Were there many of those? I wondered.
Oh no, she said, she was definitely not expecting to find any at all. The clicks on her Geiger were just background radiation, that was all.
I thought I was being given the usual corporate bullshit line at this point. But the Renaissance Man tells me that what really worries BNFL these days is uncontrolled emissions of radioactive seagull droppings. (OK, this implies that other emissions are controlled by BNFL, but how do the seagulls get so much radioactivity within them in the first place?).
This made me reflect on her quest for things that slowly decay. What most impressed me about the solitary radiation gatherer was her utter dedication to a search which should most satisfactorily end in failure. She was separate and apart, in her work and appearance, both from those who employed her and those who she was, apparently, there to protect. The rest of the promenaders politely ignored her. But she continued her task on the edge of the prom. I took heart in my own despondency in a way I had not expected - she was showing me how to be true to your self, indifferent to success and failure, and above all utterly committed to the importance and authenticity of your own task.

Advertisement For Myself

2007-03-15T11:50:00.000Z

A modest ray of sunshine in a gloomy time: in my occasionally alluded to professional life as a part-time rural IT consultant, I'm responsible for a small number of websites of taste and distinction. One of them has just won 'Best Website Of The Year' at the 2007 British Federation Of Film Societies annual awards. Unfortunately I didn't get to meet the great Nic Roeg at BFI South Bank when he was handing out the gongs. But if you or your organisation would like a website like this one, drop me a line in the comments or via the email at the bottom right of the page, and I'll respond.

It's All Turned To Custard

2007-03-09T17:51:00.000Z

At Christmas the household acquired a state-of-the-art electric ice-cream maker, a present to V inspired by the success of the Northern Professor and the Lady Novelist with their own iced confectionery. After some initial false starts we're now awash with stupendously high quality iced desserts and the younger members of the household are entranced by my virtuosity with honeycomb crunch and ginger mascarpone.
The key to this success has been the assiduously hard work spent on my custard technique which has recently blossomed into unqualified success with the difficult-to-pull-off soft-scoop bitter chocolate recipe whose perfection had eluded me for some weeks.
Now fresh horizons of cultural fusion beckon and a project has been mooted to achieve a high standard chocolate chilli-pepper ice cream. Ice cream theory suggests that this is best achieved by infusing the milk with finely chopped chillis when preparing the custard. Then adding a selection of diced, deseeded chillis to the mixture either pre- or post-churn.
V has serious concerns about the whole enterprise, fearing that the chilli oils will cling to the inner surface of the churn, imparting a flavour of chilli to all future ice cream.
Would the readership care to offer advice?
There are culinary Titans out there and we need your help with the practicalities of effective chilli technique and choice of chilli pepper. Advice on the dangers of long-term chilli contamination would be particularly welcome.

Is This The Most Dangerous Woman In Britain?

2007-03-09T17:44:00.000Z

The photograph above is of the TV lifestyle presenter Kirsty Allsop, and she has ruined my life. Singlehandedly, this woman has corrupted the tastes and minds of the young urban bourgeoisie, depraving them into delusional fantasies that no lifestyle is complete without stainless steel kitchens, sleek Scandinavian stripped pine furniture, beige angora throws and ceramic lighting units. Interior decoration is the new pornography and this woman is its high priestess.
The net result of this diet of lifestyle fantasy is that prospective tenants looking for rental accommodation in South London all harbour utterly unrealistic expectations about the quality of gaff their hard-earned valuta will get them. Forget Rachman: landlords are now an oppressed class forced into ever more ruinous renovations and redesigns to attract the discerning tenant. I have just managed to acquire two of these elusive beasts for the Battersea flat. At what cost in terms of pandering to the TV-mediated tastes of the aspirational urbanite I will not say. But the nightmare of renovation is over and I am sitting by the window of the deceptively spacious reception room on a warm winter morning waiting for Lloyd the South African plumber to take his kit and go. On Saturday the girls move in. All that remains is to clean the place one more time and I can leave it, knowing that I can force myself back into unfamiliarity more easily, and it will be someone else's personal, domestic machine for living.
As to Ms Allsop, a sustained period of silence from her would be most welcome.

All Over Battersea Some Hope & Some Despair

2007-03-09T17:37:00.000Z

Returning to a place in which you have lived after a substantial absence to find it transformed by others and no longer your own is a jarring, discomfiting experience. To do so in that period of non-time immediately after New Year when London has not yet returned to reality, the streets are deserted, the bars full of inauthentic bonhomie and the only sign of purposeful life is in the hypnotised gaze of hard-partying bargain-hunters makes it even more of a floating, dislodged experience.
But that was what I did at the beginning of the year - camping out for a week in an old sleeping bag while I systematically tore apart and put back together the fixtures, fittings, decorative details and soft furnishings of the place I had once called home - with a very considerable amount of help from my partner's sister and brother-in-law, without whose enthusiasm, insight, sense and inventiveness the whole enterprise would have been doomed.
At first the flat was completely unfamiliar, the colour schemes and furnishings the choice of someone I no longer recognised. This was not my place, not my street, not my town. Camping out among the re-arranged furniture, tins of paint, dust sheets and toolboxes, I truly felt like a journeyman. Then memory began to assert itself: the way that you turn at the corner of the hallway, the creaking of the bedroom door; the reaching up to the shelf to the left of the cooker; actions long unfamiliar became unconsidered and automatic as my body began to remember the place it occupied. The flat became mine again, as I set about making it fit for others.

Suzy Kendall & The School Of Chicago

2007-02-27T11:56:00.000Z

At the beginning of Up The Junction (the softer feature film of 1968, not Ken Loach's raw TV drama of a few years before) Suzy Kendall makes a symbolic journey, walking across Battersea Bridge from her parents' home in Chelsea - all Daddy's Jags and Home Counties elegance - to her new life south of the river in a white working class slum. It's a journey from one world to another, across an inner border made outward and visible in the span of the bridge and the bitter worm of the Thames sloughing its way down to the Pool past Wren's serene hospital and the gasworks. It's also a journey I made in reverse for many years when I drove over the river each morning to work in Heathrow. Even from newly flush Thatcherite Battersea to impossibly plutocratic Chelsea it was still a journey across symbolic boundaries, the sort of frontiers without physical walls but all the more solid for being grounded in education, politics, attitude and identity. Cities are full of them, unmarked but always acknowledged and felt. My turf. My space.
But it's a journey I won't be making again. Not just because I've left London long since, but because the other morning a large red 'C' adorned the junction of Cheyne Walk & Beaufort Gardens where you come off the bridge: Mayor Ken's newly enlarged congestion charge zone has arrived and now sits plumb across the route I used to take through Chelsea and Fulham to Earls Court and the intoxicating road to freedom that is the elevated section of the M4. So I won't be going back there no more, as the Bluesman sings: a border, intangible but absolute stands across my very own rat run: I'll need to find another way to blast off in pursuit of the escape velocity needed to slip the surly bonds of the M25.
The locals are predictably incensed by the perceived inconvenience and injustice, but like many imaginariy divisions, congestion charging forces you to re-assess your ideas of the world around you. Introduced by Red Ken, the people's choice, but dreamt up by Milton Friedman of the Chicago School of Economics. After 15 years of chasing material success in South London, my psychological geography of the city I once loved with a passion is now altered by a secondhand idea of Margaret Thatcher's favourite economist.

UPDATE: To give this abstract rumination a human face, here's portraits of both Ms Kendall in her glory and Professor Friedman in his dotage.
I leave it to your imaginations to decide who you'd rather have sitting in the passenger seat of your Jag as you drive over Battersea Bridge to Chelsea to promenade down the Kings Road on a summer's evening blissfully careless of the secret divisions of your very own city.

The West Auckland Triangle

2007-02-26T19:11:00.000Z

V & I have just returned from a dirty weekend - well, a distinctly wet and muddy one - at a rather swish hotel in one of the weird, undiscovered parts of England. The rural hinterland on the borders of County Durham and North Yorkshire seems to have been ignored by the rest of the country, and appears to be doing very nicely indeed thank-you. Tiny villages and farmsteads alternate with shabby-elegant 18th century gentleman's houses. Perspectives in low sunlight flash tantalising hints of medieval field systems; whitewashed barns and farm-buildings cosy up along narrow lanes. One reason for the region's bywater feeling is that the trunk roads thereabouts seem designed to make it practically impenetrable - we'd been there before but it still took a full 60 minutes of circulatory silly-buggers on the A68 and adjoining roads before we managed to find the right turnoff. The hotel is a sumptuous Jacobean manor house, with the recent addition of a modern spa. I can vouch for the incomparable luxury of an outdoor hot tub on a winter evening while the winds blow in from the Cleveland Hills. And the restaurant served possibly the best beef fillet that I've ever tasted. If the thought of an inaccessible country house in which magical things happen and to which you cannot find your way back sounds altogether too much like something out of Alain-Fournier change your plans for next weekend, abandon the kids, switch off the mobile phone and make your way into the heart of the zone of enchantment that is the West Auckland Triangle.

Beghan Bouldering

2007-02-26T13:25:00.000Z

To Fleswick Bay on a warm winter's afternoon, V & I for the sheer exercise and pleasure, Younger Step-Daughter with her box of water-colours to try to capture the light. For those who don't know it, Fleswick Bay is the great secret of the Cumbrian coast, a sharp declivity between the sandstone stacks of the north and south St Bees Head, where a tiny stream trickles into the sea. Only accessible on foot by the coastal path, its cliffs are the haunt of seabird colonies, its sands the legendary resting place of gemstone fragments. A famous holiday jaunt for face-workers from Haig Pit and the Marchon anhydrite workings, whose shafts and levels pass far beneath it, the Bay has the feel of both a refuge and an exposed speck of wilderness caught between the mayhem of the Irish Sea and the monumental geology of the sandstone cliffs. It was also a favourite expedition for schoolterm Sundays when the boredom of boarding at the nearby school drove teenage lassitude into the urge for intrepid scrambling. We arrived to find Fleswick transformed: a broad sandstone pavement, perhaps unseen for centuries, had been exposed, the gem-bearing sands being carried away massively by the storms of winter. Just how catastrophic this change in the landscape had been only became obvious when a solitary wanderer arrived, bearing what looked like a cross between a gymn-mat and an orthopaedic cushion. He laid down his load, looked up to the cliffs, scratched his head, and consulted a lavishly illustrated booklet. Then he came over and asked us - was this Fleswick Bay? Yes, we assured him, this was. He pointed to photographs of the cliffs, which clearly suggested otherwise. The source of his confusion soon became apparent. He was a boulderer,and this was his first expedition to the route-rich cliffs of the Bay. For those unfamiliar with it, bouldering is a kind of semi-domesticated offspring of mountaineering and gymnastics, a smallscale but hugely demanding variation that values dexterity and intensity over exposure, altitude or inaccessibility. I was pleasantly surprised to find from his book that the sites of teenage free-scrambling (which on at least one occasion almost ended very badly indeed) were now themselves formalised into named routes, starred ticklists and recommended starting points. Except they no longer were. Nature had rendered our boulderer's guidebook obsolete. Each route now began in mid-air, a good 6 feet above the sandstone pavement - the forgiving sands upon which they had once begun having gone with the storm-tides of winter. Every route now had not only a new start of extreme difficulty, but a distinctly uncushioned decking-out below. Our boulderer went off to study further some of the lines and then announced that there would, after all, be no Beghan bouldering that day, a choice which I silently aplauded. On reflection, the addition of those feet of bare rock at the bottom of the cliffs could be said to alter the nature of most of the routes substantially, so I would imagine that enthusiasts are already forming orderly queues to claim fresh first ascents . . .

The Depths

2007-02-06T18:47:00.000Z

Spotted in a Red City bookshop yesterday morning (upstairs in the coffee lounge, if you want to go see for yourselves). A bookcase with the words 'Academic Sciences' prominent. Below it, a row of heavy volumes entitled 'Plumbing'. So that's why the work on the Battersea flat is so expensive . . .

A Season In Flat-Pack Self-Assembly Storage Unit Hell

2007-02-01T18:32:00.000Z

I've just spent a half-day in the aforementioned, none-too metaphysical location, putting together bedroom furniture for the Battersea flat. The process goes through three distinct phases - dread, tedium, and despair. The result is a pine wardrobe and chest of drawers. This suffering is as nothing compared to the heroic passion of V who, entirely of her own volition & without me so much as dropping a hint, spent the previous Sunday afternoon over in Gateshead and broke off from important musical work to obtain the aforementioned flat-packs from the Geordie IKEA. This involved the usual obstacle course of being misdirected around the IKEA showroom by grinning Geordies all trying to sell her things she didn't need or want until, on paying for the goods, she was told by said grinning Geordies that she now had to drive 3 miles to the IKEA warehouse to collect them. Readers, I owe this woman, big time. A brief search through the contents of Mr Berners-Lee's interweb invention reveals the startling fact that the domain name 'ihateikea.org' is currently 'inactive'. Well, what are you all waiting for? This obviously represents an opportunity for somebody . . .

Barrow-In-Furness again – at least there’s no IKEA here

2007-02-01T13:24:00.001Z

Sorry chaps. I'm running the same risk as the ex B-I-F Thornton's manager who dared to criticize the town in his blog. The shop was boycotted and the staff threatened. Thorntons had send out a public apology and give free chocs for a day or so and eventually move the offender to North Wales. Umm North Wales … I dunno which is the worst posting Wrexham or B-I-F. I'd have trouble deciding which one to be thrown out of first. I like the people in B-I-F better hence my reason for being here (B-I-F that is) once a week but I have made a vow never to go into the town centre just straight to Furness Internet/PPS office and then out again. I must blog about the back door at PPS sometime but.. Anyway - I've been boycotting Thorntons for years now, over an entirely different matter, and I do not want to be tempted by free chocs. Actually it isn't Thorntons with whom I have an issue - it's IKEA. I hate IKEA and am already banned from the Gateshead big shed thing. I am hoping that this might get me banned from the other sheds.

David Rattray died 26 January 2007

2007-01-29T03:11:00.000Z

One of South Africa’s greatest sons was murdered on the 26th of January age 49. David Rattray of Fugitive’s Drift Kwazulu Natal was shot 3 times and killed at his own house at 6 in the evening as he prepared for a cycle ride. David was a brilliant teller of the story of the Anglo-Zulu wars in particular the battles of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift. His account of the battle of Isandlwana, which I’ve heard him perform 3 times over the last 10 years, is told as the great Zulu victory. Di and I had the great privilege of having him to ourselves for 2 days some 10 years ago, sat on the battlefield in ‘Sotho blankets riveted by his stories and the cadence of his voice. We’ve also seen him move a packed Royal Geographic Society through tears and laughter .
We only knew him briefly but he’s had a lasting memory on the both of us. His death is unsettling and possibly one of those personal life changing moments.
It’s a mystery still why he died. The impact on his immediate community and South Africa is yet to be felt. I don’t think I’m overstating things, but like the release of Nelson Mandela, I’m sure that the shooting of David Rattray will be yet another turning point for the new South Africa.
His wife Nicky said “South Africa had lost a man who spoke to an international audience about, not only the history of his beloved South Africa, but also about the miracle that he saw us living through today"….."How tragic that a man who gave his life to preserving the Zulu culture lost his life at the hands of the Zulus”
Hamba Kahle – Go Well
PS: The battle of Isandlwana was on 22nd January 1879. There was a commemorative ceremony just 4 days before David’s death. I wonder what will happen next year.

Park for Park's Sake

2007-01-21T18:49:00.000Z

The offices of Copeland Borough Council in Whitehaven sport a rather good piece of public sculpture that almost works very well and then manages to pull disaster from the jaws of victory . . . Three ornate sheets of steel and one of glass stand in line, a few yards apart. The glass is engraved with a curious design of dark lines, the steel at the other end is adorned with an obvious key-hole, inviting the viewer to bend down and peep. I did so, and was delighted to find the steel and glass line up beautifully into a map of Copeland with its ward boundaries etched into the glass. Then it all went horribly wrong. Also directly lined up through the glass in the middle distance was the council carpark, plumb in the middle a ticket machine and a large sign saying Pay Here with an arrow pointing directly to Whitehaven on the glass map.

Cumbrians Abroad –and the collarless shirt

2007-01-21T12:10:00.000Z

In recent years, for some reason, I have taken to wearing a collarless shirt – the grand-dad/Nehru shirt that was popular back in the 60s. I have noticed that the collarless shirt is now very popular with men of a certain age (mine) and of the Cumbrian persuasion. On the recent trip to the Western Cape, travelling from the airport we stopped at Thandi for some breakfast. It's one of those places sort of not far enough from Capetown and too near our house for us to usually stop, but, breakfast on the flight had been non-existent and I/we needed scrambled eggs, beans and fried tomatoes. Thandi is a Black Empowerment Project (BEP) with a Fair Trade vineyard and we'd seen and bought the Thandi brand from the Co-op in Aspatria. We'd often passed it but have only ever stopped there once. We had been impressed with the look of the place and the attention to detail and service and thought that it was worth a second visit. Breakfast was good and the staff attentive and happy. We have seen a few of the BE projects over the years and they tend to be badly organized, untidy and unhappy. I was also strangely interested in the pronunciation of the word 'butter' by the waitress. I commented to Ren-Woman (t'wife) that I thought she may be just mimicking my Cumbrian accent.

As I was doing that finger licking thing I do with the baked beans juice the white guy appeared. There's usually a white person or two involved in these projects – volunteers and advisors and not necessarily a good thing. In this case it was a good thing. The white guy was the eccentric and affable Alan Clowes. What was initially eccentric was the fact that he was wearing exactly the same collarless shirt as me. 'Where did you get the shirt?' I sez. 'Marks & Spencer – Carlisle – where did you get yours? ' he sez. 'Marks & Spencer – Carlisle' I sez. Bizarre!!

The turnout is that Mr. Clowes is a Cumbrian from Kendal and has been at Thandi working as a volunteer with Christine (his long suffering wife) for 2 years. They are there as a result of Friends of Thandi - based in Kendal. The Clowes bring donated bikes, guitars, banjos, plant and equipment and the Kendal Rugby Teams last years strip to Thandi and keep an eye on business and devote what seems to be endless energy to the well-being of the community. Alan has also had a bash at teaching English to the Thandi partners. Hence the 'butter' pronunciation and the cry from the kitchens of 'pass me them uniuns marra'.

Alan is currently looking for people to: teach plant & equipment care and maintenance; teach playing the banjo; teach English as foreign language; supervise a daytrip for 70 kids and parents to the seaside; donate some money; set up a Saturday farmers and craft market; and on and on …..

We've been back twice during the recent stay: once with the A-B and family. A-B (a Cumbrian of a certain age wearing a collarless shirt) may find himself volunteered for some blacksmithing teaching; the second time was for Sunday lunch (roast beef, Yorkshire pudding..) with the Scouse African and the Angel. Scouse African may find himself volunteered for something but has only succumbed to the collarless shirt once in recent weeks.

Buy the Wine. Visit the Web Sites. Get Involved. Volunteer for Something.

To create more permanent jobs.
To train older workers
To train young people
To plant more orchards
To plant more vines
To open a laundry
To open a mechanical workshop
To open a Computer training centre
To enable the community to support itself
To enable Thandi to support other projects

Contact Thandi

SafariSaBad

2007-01-20T18:44:00.000Z

Safari is the Swahili word for journey. We've been in Greyton South Africa for Christmas.

My mate The Artist-Blacksmith (A-B) with wife (Jude) and the two offspring (boy 11, girl 17!) came to Sarth Efrica for the first time. We decided to show them something of the place and one of the things is the obligatory game park experience. We opted for The Garden Route Game Lodge – 2 hours from our house. The main reason being it was just far enough to prevent 'the boy' being bored (having lost his ipod in a freak river/hire car incident the night before (maybe more on that later)) and it offered the BIG FIVE (still in small family numbers!). I must apologize for early overuse of parenthesis (it is a while since I blogged and am a little rusty). The BIG FIVE – actually the BIG TEN, as there were only 2 of everything (I think that's what still in small family numbers means) comprises (for those not in the know (sorry more bloody brackets (Nick help me here)): 2 elephant, 2 buffalo, 2 rhino, 2 lion (actually only saw the arse and tail of one) and 2 elusive mountain leopard. I would have suggested the substitution of 2 giraffe for the 2 leopard, but was not asked. Look - the experience was fine – bumpy rides on land-cruisers – meals in the boma – luxury thatched rondavel accommodation – attended to by 'the formally disadvantaged' ( Sarth Efrican for the coloured and black population) and topped the first day by sharing a land-cruiser with 'The Fokkers'. The Fokkers are just a bunch of people that you would not choose to be with in the normal way of things. Strangers thrown together by a lack of seats.

Now I tend to be a bit loud in company and I imagine sometimes crass and boorish (know thyself) but Father Fokker managed to shut me up completely – apart from my occasional mutter of 'forfucksakeshurup'.

Our guide had asked that we turn off our mobile, I mean cell (as they say in SA) 'phones. He should also have added and be as quiet as possible and only ask questions at suitable times. A-B and family were stunned into silence too; something we've been trying to do to Jude for years (joke?).

Father Fokker's wife and children were subdued. When I met her later on her own in the bar she volunteered that 'the one good thing about living with Dan was that she always knew from the noise where he was'. I think she'd read the expression on the back of my head whilst on the morning drive. Dan was a couple of hundred yards away at this point with two Americans (BIG SIXTH?)pinned against a wall saying 'The best route through Alaska is left on the R62….never wear blue with green…. Always carry a small knife… I'm an estate agent/travel agent/doctor .. you can trust my judgement.. would you like to buy a daughter off me?….

Dan felt the need to inform and assist. His questions weren't questions. They were statements of how much he knew. Even when he got things wrong, or was told something he hadn't said …. after such moments he would say 'of course - I knew that'.

His mother, Grandmother Fokker, had the skin and the laugh of a hyena (one of the BIG SEVENTH?). She obviously thought that her son was a born comedian and threw in the hyena cry at every opportunity. It was at least twice the decibels of any mobile/ cell phone, and probably the reason why the game kept well away. For a woman in her sixties born and raised in Sarth Efrica she was surprisingly ignorant of the local wildlife.

Two Blue Crane flew over. The Blue Crane is Sarth Efrica's national bird.

"Heh Heh Ha - Look at those ostrich – they are my favourite' brayed GM Fokker.

"They are actually Blue Crane – and ostrich don't fly" I inadvertently intervened.

"I knew that" said the son.

I pulled down my hat and did that scowl thing with the back of my neck

After dinner we were sat in front of the fire trying not to catch their eye and trying not to be animated or say anything that might need enlightenment. D F mistook our sullenness for boredom.

"Hey guys would you like to play charades?"

A puzzled look from A-B.

D F: 'It's a game? You choose a film, a book, a tv programme and mime it and then we guess what it is"

"We knew that" we chorused and went to bed.

Why I Hate London

2007-01-20T17:56:00.000Z

Long residence in Cumbria had made me forget the charms of South London. Sunday afternoon, after 4 days of intensive flat renovation, we load up the car and I drive to the tip, a trip that involves going round the Daytona-Speedway-on-bad-acid that is the Wandsworth Roundabout. Total length of journey: slightly less than 1 mile. Total elapsed time for the round trip, including unloading, on a Sunday afternoon in the 'quiet' period just after New Year: 50 minutes. As has no doubt been pointed out elsewhere, the average speed of traffic in the nation's capital is now slower than was achieved using wooden rollers propelled by a troup of hairy-arsed Battersea boys in designer rhinoceros furs during the Upper Palaeolithic. But that's progress for you.

The Flat-Pack Self-Assembly Church Of God

2007-01-20T15:02:00.000Z

You know, life is like a set of surprisingly affordable Scandinavian designed walnut-veneer free-standing storage units. We're all looking for the (Allan) key.

Sunday morning at the Wandsworth Homebase church of the medium-density fibreboard redeemer is a peculiarly dispiriting experience - a huge warehouse full of aimlessly circulating young urban professionals searching for the perfect ceramic hob. Presumably the group of identical professionals aimlessly circulating around B&Q on the other side of the Wandsworth Roundabout are to be regarded as deluded heretics who have fallen from the true path of home improvement. I paid up and got out fast.