Seminal Personal Places

First there was seminal music in the two-part Echo of a Song blogpost then, it was the turn of the blogpost Seminal Written Words, picking up just a few memorable jottings I have enjoyed over the years, and now it’s Seminal Personal Places, places that bring back memories etched in the mind and evoking different and varied emotions.

At the end of Seminal Written Words, many years ago, I wrote about Roger Thomas’ postscript to his Carreg Cennen visit.  It finished with the following:

“But I do believe that when you follow an old drovers’ road or pilgrims’ trail, those footprints that went before you, although long gone, leave a legacy.  Their residue reveals a sense of attachment, or perhaps higher purpose, solace and comprehension.  It’s the same when you come across a place that immediately speaks to you in a language you can – yet can’t – understand.!”

And for me there have been many of those, but that’s perhaps for another blog post “Seminal personal places!”  ……. Et voila!:

Indeed, thinking back over the years, there are so many places that could easily qualify for the accolade of being seminal (a quick reminder – influential, important, formative, pivotal, inspiring to name a few), but I’m going to restrict myself, at the moment to just five, no six, but who knows, if the spirit takes me and I think of other memorable places or indeed find new such original places, there may have to be a Volume Two!

Here they are in no particular order:

 

Nighttime on the Stroud Commons

Chris Ferris must take the blame for me discovering these particular seminal places, as there are indeed seven commons spread out above Stroud towards and indeed just beyond Minchinhampton.  I should explain, Chris, is a woman that unfortunately I have never had the privilege of meeting, despite spending many nights with her, in the comfort of my cosy chair or occasionally in bed, whilst wandering amongst the nighttime woodlands around her home!  Chris is the author of several wonderful books, as well as a champion of badgers, that came about as she suffered from acute back problem. Finding it increasingly difficult to sleep she started to walk the woods around her house and discovered not only another magical nighttime world, but also one where sinister and dangerous people got perverse pleasure in persecuting badgers and indeed other wildlife, through badger baiting and lamping. Her vivid and wonderful descriptions of this magical world where the colours all drained away and the sound intensified in books such as The Darkness is Light Enough, rather than the more sinister aspects, captured something in my imagination, that led to me becoming a noctambulist, quite simply one who walks at night!

The commons around Stroud are rarely completely dark, the light from the surrounding valleys or bright moonlight making walking relatively easy.  I have no idea how many hours I have spent, in all weathers, wandering around these magical places, thinking, solving problems and at sad times taking solace from the majestic night scenery, at times sitting on one of the many benches quite simply lost in thought, or talking to the dog!  I have so many tales I could, and often do, tell (worldly or other worldly!) of these nocturnal wanderings.

Indeed, after discovering the joys of nighttime walking initially alone and later with my dog, I decided it was time to share the experience.  So, I started, after checking out the health and safety implications with the Cotswold Wardens for whom I had led daytime guided walks for several years, to lead moonlit night walks in various locations on the commons.  They were usually well attended, even during inclement weather, I think largely due to the novelty value.  As with all Cotswold Warden walks, they were not simply walks, but included snippets of history, geology, folklore and the like, and I feel that whoever came enjoyed the experience immensely.  On one memorable occasion, I had a phone call prior to the walk, as pre-booking was essential, from a couple who described themselves as quite elderly but also quite active.  They asked if the walk would be suitable for them and as we didn’t walk far and on this occasion were staying very much up on the top in the open common land, I said they would be fine.  On arrival, I discovered that they were in their late seventies and had some fifty years ago emigrated to Australia.  They had returned a few times to visit the home country, but with advancing years felt this might be their last visit.  As we set off and I started to tell my interesting facts and point out various locations visible by their lights, it became apparent that the couple had visited the common often as youngsters, during their courting days that coincided with the 2^nd WW.  They started to reminisce about how they were up on the common and had been able to see the bombs dropping on Bristol some 30 miles to the southwest.  As they warmed to the audience, I gave up my prepared spiel and left it to this delightful couple to share their reminiscences about war time Stroud, their lives.  With increasing confidence, they even ended up nudging one another and giggling, as we passed by some of the old now unused small quarries that abound on the common previously producing stone for the houses below, saying things like “do you remember what we got up to down there!”  A great time was had by all, not least by the elderly couple, who were so thankful to have had the unexpected opportunity to revisit old nighttime haunts.  I think the rest of us felt the thanks were due to them for making a lovely moonlit night so memorable.

The commons are truly a wonderful seminal place for me, especially at nighttime, and I have very happy memories of time spent walking there in the hours of darkness, hearing about wartime courtship ranking high on the list, but we also drank champagne and ate bacon butties we cooked up there, as we welcomed in the new millennium and were rewarded with nearly an hour and a half of 360 degree firework display, from the surrounding valleys.

 

Early morning on Wingletang

When I first visited St Agnes, many years ago, I fell totally head over heels in love and when you’re in love you do crazy things.  As a rule, I’m a night owl, as you may have gathered from the previous section, loving the solitude and peace after a busy day and when working often didn’t go to bed before 1 o’clock in the morning and later at weekends and holidays.  I always said that my ideal day would start at 10 ish in the morning and go through to 3 o’clock the following morning.  Now retired, it would be easy but have settled on a 1.30 to 2.00 o’clock bedtime, rising usually between 9.00 and 9.30.

So having discovered the magic of the Isles of Scilly and in particular St Agnes (interestingly most regular visitors seem to have a favourite), I found myself burning the midnight oil writing, sketching and painting and generally bringing out the creative in me.  Nothing crazy in that I hear you say, but I then found there were not enough hours in the day on our all too short weeklong holiday we spent on St Agnes each year for many years, the week of the late May Bank Holiday, so fairly long days anyway.  I then found myself wandering during the hours of darkness, smelling the briny air, the wind ruffling my hair and usually lots to see, if only distant twinkling lights and spotting the light patterns made by the various lighthouses.  And although the lighthouse on St Agnes had long been retired and used just as a daymark, so regularly repainted, on several occasions I managed to light up the disused lantern, by aligning bright moonlight behind it.  Interestingly, the light was relit recently to commemorate the late Queen’s Platinum Jubilee and although not there in person to see it, I did see some wonderful pictures and a video, all very emotional, as the island sort of grabs you like that.  Just recently, my Facebook has started to pick up various posts from the islands, perhaps telling me it’s time to go back!  But on one of these, taken from the helicopter as it departed from the islands, in the comments I was pleased to see I wasn’t the only person to shed a tear each time I left.  I used to say the only thing that made it bearable, was knowing that I was coming back the next year!

I guess you’re still waiting for the crazy and for those of you who know me well, getting up early to watch the sun rise on another Scilly day, whilst crazy, is also quite an achievement for me.  I’ve never been one to rise early and to do so requires a real effort, or element of craziness.  So, with insufficient hours in the all too short week we spent each year on St Agnes (approx. 168 hours, which somehow makes it seem scarily short!) and the urge to encounter the island in all its moods and hues, I began getting up to watch the sunrise, and although it didn’t convert me to being an early bird rather than a night owl, it was a truly invigorating and even spiritual experience. Arriving alone and feeling like the only human stirring in the pre-dawn light, standing watching the colours seep back, as the sun rose over the other island in the magical archipelago, is an experience never to be forgotten, and I can still feel the early warmth of the sun on my face, driving away the cold night air, at least on those days when the sun appeared!  It was a different but equally memorable experience on those drab cloudy days, I’m not just a fair weather walker, when the daylight took longer to appear, and on mysterious foggy days the imagination would run wild.  Regardless of the weather returning “home” for a cup of tea and some hot buttered toast, finished off setting me up for the day!  In hindsight, how I ever managed the long drive home when the week was over, having slept so little is hard to imagine, although I do recall the odd powernap to recharge the batteries on those days when I had watched the sunrise, walked the island maybe several times, there was a convenient pub that was hard to pass, observed the setting sun and maybe wandered onto Wingletang again after the pub had closed!

And despite the title of this piece, returning to watch the setting sun make a golden pathway over the sea to the new world and the subsequent later magical darkness of night, where the sound of kittiwakes returning to shore after a day at sea, are reminiscent of the anguished cries of drown sailors, make this something of a twenty-four-hour seminal experience!

Re-reading this I realise that I need to tell the reader a little about Wingletang, if only to explain the title! Wingletang, or to give it its full name Wingletang Down, is the last place on the Isles of Scilly before you get to America and consists of 28 hectares of barren rock-strewn heathland, punctuated with large weirdly shaped granite outcrops, craved by the wind, rain and sea. It is surrounded on three sides by the Atlantic Ocean and feeling almost remote from the rest of the island much of which is small fields traditionally used to grow the early daffodils for which Scilly is famous, but also to graze cattle and grow food for the islanders and visitors.  It starts, as you head towards America, at the end of a track lined by stunted trees called Barnaby Lane or can be accessed either side by the coastal footpath, and is criss-crossed by numerous footpaths between the bracken, heather, rough maritime grassland and tangled gorse, an area of untamed beauty, with a number of rare salt resistance plants. Two sandy bays pinch it in the middle before it opens out again ultimately dropping over a scramble of huge granites boulders at Horse Point, named I’m sure after the white maned horses that crest the waves that more often than not crash relentlessly into and sometimes over the rocks.  Suffice to say it’s wild, memorable, evocative and irresistible.

 

Before dawn on Jaipur Station

This moment was on the same amazing school trip to India, that features in the final of these seminal places below and led to me properly self-publishing my first book (Moonlit Guruji Travels), such was the life-changing intensity of the experience.

It was a very early morning, pre-dawn, start to catch the train, for the long journey to the next part of our Indian odyssey or adventure.  Despite the early hour there was a tremendous amount of hustle and bustle as the station day was an early riser.  As our coach dropped us of on the station forecourt we were, as so often in India, assailed by what from a distance could be misconstrued as an angry baying mob.  In fact, it was a throng of people all wanting to carry our bags, show us the way to our platform, help in any way they could or maybe even simply try out their English on this strange group of pale travellers, often rather disconcertedly reaching out to touch particularly the fair haired girls in our party.  Usually, there was no ill intent, just simply a fascination and maybe the chance later in the day to relate the story to a friend. Having successfully negotiated this melee and got passed the ticket barrier, things were slightly less frenetic, as only those travelling or having been enlisted as porters got onto the platforms. And it was our platform that is the next of my seminal places, for most certainly a very different reason than the others written about here.

I have a picture of the little boy, and it is one of the illustrations in the above book, and if anyone asks me about a lasting memory of my Indian travels, yes the Taj Mahal was magnificent (albeit smaller than I thought it would be), as were many of the other places we visited, but it’s that picture that’s indelibly printed in my mind and the subsequent smile which I sadly didn’t capture, and found so emotional at the time and still do, now many years later.

This rather wary little boy who looked about five, but was probably two or three years older, due to malnutrition and the life he led, was there when we arrived on the platform.  He was there, alone grubby and unkept, wearing simply a pair of dirty, shabby shorts and battered sandals, the shorts held up with string and gaping at the fly making it obvious he wore nothing underneath.  I said he was grubby and his bare torso had a patina of dust from where he slept, in his home which was under the platform on which he now stood, quietly hoping for something to make his life better, if only for a brief moment, some food or a few rupees, from this affluent group of strangers with such light coloured skin carrying large packs on the backs, but not all our worldly possessions.  He lived, with numerous other waifs and strays, under the platform quite possibly with no family, surviving by begging and boarding the trains when they arrived at the stations and using his teeshirt or other rags to clean down the floor under the passenger’s feet hoping for a few rupees or some leftover morsels, to help survive another day.  

Some of our party gave him a few coins, some food items from their bags and one gave him a banana, which he looked at quizzically, not really knowing what to do with it.  He was then shown how to open it and as he took a bite he smiled.  I remember thinking at the time that I couldn’t really comprehend how living like he did, constantly hungry and probably scared for much of the time, what he had to smile about, but then as I said above he was hoping for something to make his life better, if only for a brief moment, and this was that moment and worth a smile of gratitude.  It was these encountered and heart wrenching moments, that meant I came back from India a different person to the one who travelled out there, and why that brief moment on a busy pre-dawn Jaipur railway station, so clearly etched in my memory all these years later, was truly formative and pivotal, indeed seminal.

 

A small cluttered sitting room Sandwich

(I must admit to this being previously used elsewhere, but such a seminal, life-changing

space that it just must be included here!)

 

Memories are wonderful things, and I often find myself thinking and hoping, that as I get older my "memory storehouse" will not become full and as I learn new things and take on board further revelations, some of the more precious earlier memories will not fade and disappear altogether.

Then for no apparent reason, maybe a line in a book, a tune or a picture I find myself thinking about some long past, indeed I thought long forgotten, episode in my life.  Sometimes just an atmosphere may be enough and whilst sitting huddled against a cold August North wind, with the tent billowing around me and my wife dressed for a polar expedition rather than our summer holidays, I found myself perhaps not surprisingly, thinking about a far off warm, cosy place way back in my past.

    

In an instant, involuntarily I had gone back nearly twenty years to what almost seems another life.  I was in the upper sixth of a medium-sized grammar school with a small boarding department. I was one of these boarders and as such was part of an educational establishment of very old roots and which even then still had many Victorian elements within its ethos.  Boys of eighteen in the prime of their lives were only just beginning to be allowed evenings out, a generous four per term with a curfew so early as to be an insult to a fourteen-year-old today.  However, there was light at the end of the tunnel, and one progressive member of staff, responsible for a boarding house of some forty boys in which I had the dubious honour of being a prefect, did request that if I was late returning from an unofficial night out, could I please not use the fire escape above his bedroom!  All my laborious efforts to tread quietly were in vain, defeated by an old creaky wooden floor and his sleep was thus interrupted!!

    

About this time a group of friends and myself found what in hindsight must have been a welcome "legal" escape from the confines of school! A new young vicar had moved into the town and was also responsible for ministering to the spiritual needs of the one hundred and twenty odd resident boys. Due to this pastoral role, respectability and being a useful P.R. role between school and town, he set up a weekly discussion group in his converted garage, to which some of the older boys were allowed to go and mix with real people. Despite the garage becoming unbearably cold during the winter months, the sense of freedom and good company kept us going.  This meeting provoked many discussions and branched out into poetry/prose readings and songs in the folk-style, someone being able to strum a few notes on the guitar that lay in the corner and went horribly out of tune in the cold weather. Well from little acorns...., before long talk came round to planning an event on a larger scale. The vicar had been involved with the running of a folk club whilst resident in London, before coming out into the sticks, and it was decided to hold a folk concert as part of a week-long festival due to take place shortly in the town.  Local amateur talent as well as a few professional singers/musicians known to the vicar were to make up the bill.    

 

That was the start and preparations continued apace, and before long the event was planned and I started to make acquaintances outside my own circle of school friends and began to feel part of the local community recognising "real" townsfolk as they went about their business.  One such couple were an extremely talented pair of amateur musicians who performed at the folk concert and were also very involved in the setting up of a weekly folk club in a redundant church in the town, a direct result of the most successful earlier concert.

 

The concert that formed part of the town’s festival was to take place in a small warehouse that had been converted into an extremely primitive theatre. The stage was such that performers with guitars had to be extremely careful, due to the swinging of the proverbial cat being quite impossible, let alone getting carried away and trying to turn in an up-tempo number!  Looking back, the fine performance of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milkwood was an ambitious feat, the one saving grace being that the scenery designers, who did a brilliant job, didn’t have much backdrop to fill!  The couple of real townsfolk mentioned above, not only sang and played a variety of instruments at the concert but were also involved in the production of “Milkwood.”  They were what I am sure the head of my school would have called “hippie-types” and to make matters worse lived together as husband and wife but weren’t married, how times change!  Their only saving grace seemed to be that they both belonged to respected local families, and perhaps it was only a phase they were going through!

 

Their open friendliness and a seemingly deep understanding of the Victorian manner with which my school operated, drew me towards them, providing perhaps a shoulder to cry on!  It was therefore quite a coincidence then to meet them again shortly afterwards when out at the pub with my brother (a school rebel who had only recently left, with I would imagine great sighs of relief from the staff, surprisingly having made it to the bitter end!) and his then partner.  Being with big brother I had shunned the normal haunt and was visiting the pub over the road, a small place with the bar taken up by several large and heavy pine tables and the walls lined by old church pews. It was as we got our drinks and looked around for somewhere to sit that I noticed Jan and Tony on one end of an otherwise empty table.  We joined them and they were quickly pulled into our conversation. There ensued an evening of laughter, friendship and anecdote that I can honestly say changed my life.  Towards the end of the evening Jan and Tony said to me that if ever I wanted a bolt hole from school, I could call round for a cup of coffee and a chat, and often being in such need it was an offer I just couldn’t resist.

 

So almost too quickly after the offer, I found myself turning into their road and approaching their home.  As I had been forewarned, I wasn’t surprised to see it looked just like a shop front full of many nick-nacks and artefacts.  The tiny house was squashed into the corner just passed a pub and surrounded by industrial / business units, many of which were deserted. Imagine then my disappointment when having knocked at the door there was no reply. However, undaunted I tried again shortly afterwards and had more success.  Initially I was a little worried that the offer in the pub, made at the end of a pleasant evening may have simply been a pleasantry, but I needn’t have worried as I was on this occasion and any other made warmly welcome and made to feel special.

 

I was then shown through the small front room that had previously been a shop and still contained some of the original fitments, as well as a homely clutter that gave the place a well and truly lived-in feel. We then entered what I later realised was the hub of the house, a tiny room with one wall full to overflowing with a fireplace, books, records and the hi-fi.  The rest of the room was equally full with an old tatty 2 seater settee along one wall with crammed bookcases above, and on the opposite wall were a pair of matching armchairs with barely room between for the sitter’s feet, and yes you’ve guessed it more shelves of books and assorted nick-nacks.  The final wall contained three doors with the access from the front of the house to the kitchen in front of them. The middle door was to the stairs, the one on the left to a minute bathroom and the other to a thin cupboard.  The whole room although completely full, then had the trappings of family life, there also being two small children (Louise and Ben) in the house, with pictures, discarded toys, half-read books, empty coffee cups and a plethora of musical instruments filling in any gaps! From the back of this room there was the kitchen, stretching long and narrow between cupboards and shelves stacked high with tins and jars of every size and shape, reminiscent of an untidy apothecary shop.  Then at the end of the kitchen was a laden kitchen table, which it was surprising that it could ever be used and the back door on which was hung a variety of aprons, coats, bags and anything else needing a home!  This door finally opened onto the equally long and thin back garden, beyond the small, cluttered kitchen table and low back window.  The garden had a small irregularly shaped lawn surrounded by a profusion of large shrubs and old cottage plants. 

 

It is surprising how as I write this some 25 years later(!) the details all come flooding back so vividly. But on the other hand, I have so many fond memories of this time that perhaps this helps them to linger on in the mind.  I was to spend many a happy evening in that tiny middle room, which although only really able to seat 4, would often be filled by considerably more.  Live song and music would often fill the air for many an hour interspersed with “real” conversation, that made leaving the room very difficult and explained why I had to creep, not always too effectively, back up the fire escape, long after I should have been tucked up safely in my bed.  Eventually, many years later, I found out that Jan and Tony were known by the housemaster, who also seemed to know where I was and was therefore able to turn a blind eye. Words hardly do justice to the warmth of the friendship I felt at this time and many happy incidents keep springing to mind.  Like the afternoon when together with the children I received lessons in water divining in the small back garden and located the hidden well, or the times spent at the folk club once it had got off the ground. 

 

I said that that chance meeting changed my life and if nothing else it started a lifetime interest in folk music, which led on to some solo performing of unaccompanied largely traditional songs.  Indeed, it is new year time as I write this, and these reminiscences make me even more determined to fulfil this year’s resolution, to feel once more the buzz of the audience!

 

I have dwelt for some time about the warmth of the friendship felt at this time and for many years afterwards. After I had moved away, we kept up an erratic correspondence, and I would occasionally visit.  These visits were not always prearranged, and I would often arrive unannounced and always receive a warm welcome, the like of which I have always tried to pass on to friends visiting me ever since.

 

Imagine then my horror on arriving on one occasion, not having been in touch recently, to find the shop window empty and the house having that unmistakable look of being deserted. In vain I knocked and searched for some message of where they had gone all to no avail as my fears were confirmed and my loud knocking simply echoed around the empty house.  In desperation and with a bit of quick thinking I remembered that Jan’s mother used to run a shop just around the corner. Great then was my relief when I found the shop open and Jan’s mother still behind the counter, and I was quickly directed to their new house just a short walk away.  I found the new house which was low fronted but certainly much bigger than the other house and knocked firmly on the door. Quickly Jan’s head popped out of the window, said “Hello Roger,” as though we had last seen each other earlier in the day and said, “Hang on I’ll be down.”

 

In the space of time it took Jan to get downstairs, she had rearranged the sleeping arrangements to put me up, invited me to stay until the end of the week (today being Monday) as they had been invited to a party on Friday night and it would be great if I could go!  All this before she even knew if I wanted to stay or not, but suffice to say it was a great party!

 

True friendship and very many fond, happy memories.   

 

School Assembly Time

I’ve said it lots of times before, but maybe still a surprise to some, I used to be shy and retiring, I know it’s hard to believe, but again as I’ve said before my wife will bear this out!  Indeed, as I will have recounted to many of you, I know exactly when that changed, after an interview for a deputy head’s job which I didn’t get and during the debrief by the “man from Shire Hall” was told I didn’t get the job because I wasn’t blonde and vivacious! Somewhat non-PC even then, but also rather life changing as a couple of weeks later, at another interview I made the decision to at least be vivacious, although going blonde seemed a step too far, and I got the job!  The headteacher of that school, Heulwen, is sadly no longer with us, but over the years as her deputy we developed a strong and lasting friendship, even after I went on to my own headships and subsequently moved to France.

Having turned vivacious for the interview, I subsequently had to maintain this impetus when I started the job and was told subsequently that part of my duties was a weekly assembly, at the time rather daunting.  It’s one thing being in a classroom, behind closed doors, with 35 children and maybe one supporting adult, but in a large hall with a couple of hundred children and all the staff, could and probably did initially, lead to sleepless nights.

But, pinching some of the words I wrote for her obituary: “Heulwen was so special and always so supportive to everyone.  You came up with an idea and however zany it might be, her first reaction was not a don’t be silly or that won’t work, but rather “What can I do to help!”  That’s why I guess she made such an impression on everyone and took me from being “shy and retiring” (yes really, ask my wife) to the Roger I became, largely through Gastrells!  In the early days of working for her, school curriculums were going through a period of unprecedented change and she and I would have to attend many meetings together in Stroud.  As we walked through Stroud, we would end up with lots of documents to carry (somehow, I always seemed to end up carrying her handbag!), but as we went, she seemed to know the whole of Stroud from the local politicians to the Big Issue sellers and others down on their luck, all who greeted her fondly, and would often reminisce about some past event.”

All this genuine friendship and camaraderie made the thought of my weekly assembly much less daunting, I was amongst friends, and confidence grew and my assemblies flourished, at least I thought so!  Mostly stories with a moral, rarely religious, but often involving dressing up and enlisting the enthusiastic help of some of the children and maybe less enthusiastic help from others on the staff!  It did however land me in a little trouble, going back to my obituary, I mentioned that only twice whilst Heulwen’s deputy did I come close to a serious reprimand: “The second occasion, was after one of my assemblies, when yes, I admit I did occasionally dress up in woman’s clothing (I’m sure carrying Heulwen’s handbag must have had a profound influence on me!), although more often than not it was other members of staff, who were already women, who dressed up as witches, princesses or the like!  On this one occasion, I had got rather carried away (I know it happened quite a lot!), and afterwards Heulwen took me on one side for “a quiet word!”  However, it was not to do with the cross dressing, but rather that maybe an hour and twenty minutes for a morning assembly, however enjoyable it had been, was probably a little too long!  As I said before she was so supportive and did indulge us at times!”

Then, when I left this school and became a headteacher myself, assembly time became a lifeline, a time to get out of the office and pause writing policies and newsletters or trying to balance the books!  A precious time when I could interact with the children and almost get back to being a teacher, not a paper pusher jumping through hoops as each new directive came from on high!

Many times, I would bump into other teachers who would say “I saw one of your assemblies” as I did on occasion take assemblies “on tour” for fundraising or simply at the request from a colleague, who perhaps knew a little about my antics!  At these times I would usually not ask them if I had dressed up as a woman, because that really was very rare, despite the evidence to the contrary in the family photos that we are currently digitalising, these being out of school activities, and usually for a good cause, if only merriment!  Indeed, virtually the only time I cross-dressed was on the occasion of the annual pantomime, where I surprised the staff with an unannounced, non-rehearsed, impromptu, largely adlibbed Christmas offering, and convention dictates that the pantomime dame is male!!  No, my stock answer to “I saw one of your assemblies” was “Did I take my clothes off!”  If they looked at me askance, I knew it wasn’t that particular assembly, that did indeed tour some of the local schools, and often, as now there wasn’t time to explain, so either you’re someone who knows or you’ll have to ask me next time you see me!!

Assemblies really became my happy place and thankfully, left the shy and retiring me a long way back in the past! I did also surprisingly, learn to curb the length to something more reasonable, unless of course I got carried away ……….!

 

Roof of Pachewar Garh Fort

(Again, I’m going to use something from a previous publication: “Moonlit Guruji Travels”, which chronicled a life changing trip I had the privilege to make, accompanying a three-week school trip to India from my children’s secondary school, which saw the birth of Guruji, a new inspirational leader!)

 

The journey from the Bissau Palace was long and hot with all the hustle and bustle that we had come to expect in India.  Having left the main part of Jaipur, we turned onto the open highway, only to find it very similar to the road we had just left, although affected in many places by extensive road works.  It certainly looked like a motorway in the making.  Eventually, after some deliberation about the way, our guide and coach driver never having been there before, we turned off onto a single-track road out into the desert.  We passed several lake areas which had no water and had probably seen little water for several years and we also travelled through haphazard villages, like so many in India, with primitive mud huts, small shops, chi stalls and various other workshops, temples and public meeting places (often little more than large mud huts) for groups to congregate in and the use of the village at festival time.  In many of the villages there were also village squares, not lush green with village ponds and ducks lazily dabbling, but dusty often untidy areas surrounded by rubbish – what a shame that plastic was ever invented! – and more often than not cows, goats, a collection of village dogs, boar and some shops and stalls.  It was probably here that the village pump, often a modern galvanised affair was situated, and buses would stop and gaudy Indian lorries congregate.

 

We also passed many isolated thatched mud huts, sometimes singly and at other times in small groups, small farmsteads trying hard to grow crops in this most arid of climates.  Each of these was surrounded by a number of the most amazing onion shaped haystacks, bulbous with a small bottom and coming to a point at the top.  To stop these huge structures from toppling over, large stout wooden poles were propped around the base.

 

Finally, hot, flustered and many of us suffering from gastric problems, caused by the chicken at the previous night’s dinner, the coach skidded to a halt in one of the village squares, where several jeeps waited to take us to the nearby fort.  In a scene reminiscent to a kidnap in a spy film, seven of us were bundled into the first jeep, our feet barely touching the floor.  The rest of us followed as the jeeps filled up - into the vehicle, doors barely shut and we were off at breakneck speed, at what could only be described as an uphill bobsleigh ride, as we careered up the narrow village streets with mud huts close on either side and barely enough room for the pedestrians, mostly ladies in bright sarees carrying heavy loads on their heads, to jump out of the way as the maniac drivers hand on horn, sped round the corners and through the double gate house into the grounds of the fort.  Out we jumped, taken along by the frantic activity and half expecting to be marched, at gunpoint, to our place of incarceration awaiting payment (hopefully!) of a large ransom.  Instead, we were met by two silent members of staff, one a woman in a sari, who applied, with her thumb, a large bindi to our foreheads and a man in white pyjamas and with a turban on his head, who gave us a brightly coloured flower – a traditional Hindu welcome.  Passing through the gate, the hotel owner greeted us and showed us through to the inner courtyard for cool drinks, shade and peacefulness.

 

The fort is truly a magical place, built originally by a mogul king, large brightly coloured and towering above the surrounding countryside.  It is just about square with large turrets on the corners and part way along each side, and was originally surrounded by an outer wall, now in most places nothing but an untidy mound.  Passing in through the small doorway, you enter a large rectangular garden, green and lush and somewhat incongruous in such an arid region.  This covers about half the inner part of the fort with rooms situated on two floors in the turrets.  To the back of this lawned area the fort is divided by a wall behind which most of the accommodation and domestic quarters are situated, with this end further divided into two smaller squares each with a small central courtyard.  Around the courtyard on the left are situated most of the rest of the guest rooms as well as the owner’s accommodation, and restaurant opening off the courtyard.  The rooms are arranged on three floors with various balconies, dark winding staircases and walkways linking them together.  The final quarter houses the kitchen and other domestic rooms and is largely still derelict, in the state it was in when the present owner inherited the place. 

 

If all of the fort had been like this and indeed worse, as it was on all accounts severely overgrown into the bargain, it took a considerable amount of vision, courage and an enormous leap of faith to take it on and produce what is there now.  The owner, the wife of a high-ranking army officer, decide to renovate the ruin and, in the first instance, open up just a couple of paying rooms and see how it went.  When this proved to be a success and as the seasons passed, more rooms have been added up to the present total of sixteen, with our own room the last to be done.  Once the new bathroom for our room was complete then, at least for the time being, no more rooms were to be added.  The effect was stunning, a refurbished mogul fort, in the middle of the Rajasthani desert, simply but effectively decorated, providing a hideaway well off the beaten track, where weary travellers could rest awhile, a million miles from the hustle and bustle of busy Jaipur that we had left some hours before.  The developments also had a very positive side to them, the fort providing work for many of the villagers from the large village that swarmed around the fort and spread out onto the surrounding plain.

 

By now it was lunchtime, and we dined as was becoming the norm, in some style an array of dishes set out on a long table for us to help ourselves to.  The staple food was rice, naan bread, chapatti, a curry of some description and dahl with a number of other local specialities added.  This was sometimes rounded off by a sweet, that lived up to its name as the first and largest ingredient, by far, always seemed to be sugar.  Lunch finished and after a short rest finding whatever shade and respite from the relentless sun that we could, a walk was planned out into the surrounding village, to see rural life and to have a cookery demonstration.

 

We set off, a somewhat out of place bunch of still very pale Europeans, and quickly as became the norm, we gathered quite a following.  But here, perhaps by carefully selecting the route away from the busy main street, and by a number of the locals accompanying us we were not besieged by hawkers, beggars or indeed children wanting pens and sweets.  Instead, the locals, if interested at all, wanted to shake hands, say hello, exchange a few pleasantries and maybe have a photograph taken.  As we walked down the dusty street, a small village street in real India, it certainly felt like we were experiencing real people, proud people who were pleased to show us their lot and welcome us into their village and houses.  We made our way to the house of one of the hotel employees, where we were obviously expected as when we entered the compound a number of charpoys, low beds with woven webbing tops, that served as seating and beds and were an important part of the furniture in any house, were set out facing the corner of the yard where the outside cooking stove was situated and the lady of the house, with a bright shy smile creeping out from under her saree was busying herself with preparations for the cookery demonstration.  Sitting by the wall were two of her small children, a tiny boy and slightly older girl, dressed obviously in their Sunday best and told to sit quietly and be on their best behaviour.  This proved a tall order as the demonstration was quite long and at one point, the excitement of it all got too much for the little girl and she had to make a quick dash to the loo!!  Also, after a while they became fidgety, and despite Mum’s best efforts to glare at them when they started to poke at each other, Mum also giving the little girl a number of errands to run, she always returned to sit close to her brother, and it appeared trouble could be brewing.  An older sibling was enlisted if not to mediate at least to separate before it got out of hand.

 

The lady of the house proceeded to light a fire in the small hearth in front of the small clay dome, on top of which a small opening allowed a large wok-like pan to be placed and used for cooking.  Whilst constantly stoking the fire, she managed sitting by the fire to prepare the household’s evening meal of; pakoras, mixed and cooked in the large open pan, chapattis mixed in the pan and carefully “rolled” out in mid-air in the palms of her hand and cooked on the ashes raked out from the fire and a curry dish also prepared in the large pan.  All the mixing, chopping and preparation done in front of us using traditional methods, with the cook smiling throughout, despite some of her friends appearing in the back row and silently barracking her!  We were able to taste the resulting pakoras and very good they were too.  After saying our goodbyes and thank you’s, we returned leisurely to the fort, being called over on the way by a proud granddad to see his newly born grandson and stopping before the gates of the fort for an impromptu game of cricket, thankfully the bowler was kind and I was able to drive the ball for what I’m sure would have been the winning run, had we been keeping score!  Then it was back into the quiet of the fort with some further time to “chill” (if only the heat hadn’t been so intense!) before dinner.

 

Time for some limited exploration, and I found a narrow, dark twisting staircase that wound its way up onto the flat roof, a wide expanse with phenomenal views of the surrounding village and the desert beyond.  From this eyrie the true splendour of the fort could be appreciated, as well as the mammoth task that had been undertaken in the renovation, as from here it was possible to see the bit that remained in its derelict state.  In the heat of the late afternoon the surrounding area was still going about its business and a variety of sounds; traffic, shouting, hammering and general bustle came through the hot air, as in the distance clouds of dust indicated the passage of vehicles along the dusty roads.  Also, in two or three places sandstorms could be seen, with plumes of sand twisting across the landscape.  But for the heat, I could have stayed taking all this in for a long time, but the furnace-like qualities of this roof drove me away and into the shade, to relax a little before the evening meal.

 

The evening meal followed a similar pattern to lunch, with the addition of a starter and one or two more spicy dishes to tickle the taste buds.  There was also the welcome addition of ice-cold beer, purely to wash the day’s dust out of our throats you understand!  After dinner we were, once again to be entertained by a musical puppet show, which it transpired followed much the same plot as the others we had seen, including an Elvis impersonator and a nobleman riding a horse in the most manic of fashions, at times both rider and horse upside down!  All this accompanied by some traditional music, and the most infuriating squeaking, reminiscent to the cries of our own Mr. Punch, but considerably louder and seeming to bear no resemblance to the scene being played out before us!  This was to take place on the lawn, but a sudden dust storm, like those I had spied earlier, all but blew away the puppeteer and his theatre, so he beat a hasty retreat into the shelter of the inner courtyard. 

 

There followed a chance for some of the females of the group to try on some of the family wedding sarees and model these to us and then dance to the traditional music.  One of the adult number proved particularly alluring at this!!  Not to be outdone, the boys were lent turbans and performed a number of somewhat zany dance routines, no doubt influenced by the forthcoming school production of the Mikado, that several of them were in!  Then after one of the turbans had fallen apart, there followed turban-tying lesson, quite a task with nine metres of materials to play around with!  Then in true “Generation Game” style there followed turban-tying competitions!

 

All too soon, with the prospect of another early start and long sticky coach ride in the morning, the evening ended and as people returned to their rooms shouting cheery good nights to one another, I informed Guruji that I was going to have one last turn, in the moonlight, on the roof.  She decided to accompany me, and as we carefully made our way up the even darker staircase and stepped out onto the roof a magical light, from the near full moon swept over us.  The light intensified by the lack of any streetlights cast an amazing glow over the mostly sleeping village and surrounding desert.  Intermittent sounds from a raucous party or late-night coffee house, like those associated with a standup comic, the audience busting forth at each punch line, cut the stillness accompanied by the more distant barking of dogs, disturbed no doubt by the noisy revellers.  Apart from these sounds, utter stillness all around with plenty of the heat of the day remaining and despite the headiness of the atmosphere only one moon shone brightly, illuminating the sleeping desert around!  (You’ll have to read the book to understand the reference to just one moon!)

 

How we ever dragged ourselves away from this magical scene I shall never know, but I do know that if we had been staying for more than one night, one of them would have been spent sleeping up there under the stars, indeed the hotel staff simply pulled their charpoys outside and did just that.  But the thought of an early morning forced us down, but not least because of a large terrifying bat in our room, sleep didn’t come easy, perhaps on second thoughts sleeping on the roof with the bats wouldn’t have been such a good idea!

 

 Happy New Year and all the very best for 2025 I know, it's been a while, but I have been busy with other things both creative and strenuous, but maybe 2025 will be the year that I get back to some regular blogging.  There is one called Seminal Personal Places that might be hitting your screens ere long!

Skeletons

I’ve just read an old article from the Guardian, by Anna Pavord, where she eloquently talks about the splendour of trees stripped bare in the winter.  Yes, she also declared the splendour of trees wearing their full summer plumage, but quite rightly points out that the blob of green you see really covers the amazing “skeleton” framework beneath, and although in autumn they turn majestic colours and in the breeze cause flurries of multicoloured “snow”, their true beauty lives beneath.  In winter unclothed, in front of a wintery sky, their true majesty unfolds and provides the inspiration for many an atmospheric picture, something perhaps less easy to capture with fully clothed trees and harsh summer light.

That’s not to say that summer trees aren’t beautiful, billowing vibrant shades of green, and other colours besides, against the brilliant blue sky of summer.  Which reminds me of a conversation had periodically with my wife, when out in the countryside I spy a particularly fine specimen and exclaim excitedly; “Wow, just look at that fantastic noble oak / beech / ash,” or whatever it might be.  She usually concurs with the sentiment, but often asks “How do you know what it is?”  Thinking about this it’s a fair question, particularly from someone bought up in a town, where there were trees, but incidental rather than part of the amazing landscapes rolled out before you when in the depths of the countryside.  I guess my love of trees and flowers came from my parents, both of whom as youngsters spent much time in the great wilds of our “emerald island.”  This love of the natural world blossomed, and love is not too strong a word in this case, as for me emotions run high when out in the countryside, in whatever the weather, although walking in the rain unfortunately happens much less since we lost our dog.  A dog gave me a reason to go out, even if the roaring fire was inviting me to sit comfortably in front of it!  Now on the odd occasions that I do walk in the rain, I realise what I have been missing and think I must do this more often, particularly when I have a roaring fire to return too.  It’s down to willpower, and indeed earlier today we were going to go out for a walk, but it rained and we ended up staying in, despite knowing all the well documented health benefits of walking in the countryside or Forest Bathing in the woodland: “Strengthening the immune system, Reducing blood pressure, Increasing energy, Boosting mood, Improving focus, Reducing psychological stress and depressive symptoms, Enhancing sleep, Increasing vigor and vitality, Lowering stress hormones, Decreasing heart rate” as well as the exercise and overall feeling of well-being that walking gives you.

I was reminded of this article when earlier tonight looking through my folder simply marked “Writing ideas”, trying to find inspiration and come out of a malaise of writer’s block, and saw a scribbled note saying: “River Adventure – from a tiny drop to a mighty ocean.”  Many of these writing ideas have been around collecting dust for many years, and this may well harp back to a time when paddling a canoe down (up against the current seemed too much like hard work!) The Orinoco, all 2250 km or 1400 miles was on the to do list!  Incidentally, the nearest I came to this was swimming 1450 km or 900 miles up the Amazon, near Manaus, but I had flown into Manaus and taken a boat to our Amazon Eco-lodge, altogether less energetic, albeit fulfilling a lifelong ambition to swim in the Amazon!

Whereas a tree, at least above ground and the bit we are most familiar with goes from a massive trunk to the tiniest outermost twigs, a river is more like the roots of a tree and the reverse of tree’s tremendous crown, going from a tiny drop to the massive estuarine outpourings into the mighty ocean – microscopic root hairs to the colossal trunk.

In both cases, the tree crown and the river system they are very much skeletal, both supporting amazing and varied ecosystems, comprising many different habitats, and in the case of the former, supporting the tree and allowing it to grow high up into the surrounding atmosphere and the latter part of that immense water cycle, without which life as we know it wouldn’t exist.  Two great parts of our wonderful world, supported with skeletal frameworks, which if one part fails can have a disastrous effect on the whole and as with much of nature, are heavily interdependent on one another – the trees, and other plants, to release water into the atmosphere, as well as helping to “clean” the air, and the river systems to distribute this water, often given an helping hand by humankind, and flowing into the seas and oceans to further fuel the cycle.  Wow, what an amazing and fragile earth we inhabit, and need so much to look after.

Since starting this piece, I have purchased Anna Pavord’s book and just finished reading it, it gives an interesting narrative on how, through the ages the landscape of the British Isles has been viewed and indeed modified over time by humankind.  It’s well worth a read.

 

The morning side of midnight:

A series of short pieces, from the bulging book of writing ideas, often from some time ago, I keep handy, written as the title says after midnight, when I’ve always found myself to be at my most creative, and by then even the early evening wine has worn off!! Here’s the first that comes out at just over 250 words and as such sets a rough target, up to about 350 words, so no groaning that another ten pages of idle ramblings has arrived again from Roger, and maybe a reasonable target for the replies that people always tell me they are going to do, but rarely materialise!!

These were all in 2020

1        A reoccurring dilemma.

Well actually at the moment with France only just coming out of lockdown and strict social distancing rules, I’ve been spared this dilemma recently.

Kissing in France is, as I’ve said before something of a dilemma; to kiss or not to kiss, how many, starting which side and when do you know a man well enough for him to be included in the barrage of kisses that until recently started every get together – playing football, going for a group walk,  having a picnic and even meeting someone you know when out shopping!  Amazingly, as the multiple bissous are so much a part of France, two being the bare minimum and anything up to five or six for very good friends or Parisiens!, the present Covid – 19 crisis has totally put a stop to not only kissing but also shaking hands, after a brief period early on when elbow pumping became the fashion, before we weren’t even able to get close enough for that.

So, I suppose if the traditional and well used greetings don’t return, my dilemma may be solved for me, albeit rather drastically.  The dilemma is do I kiss my next-door neighbour when, each week I meet her very scantily clad and the rather apt bare minimum of two presents said dilemma.  I should hasten to add we are both swimming up and down the local swimming pool at the time, and sometimes a cursory wave is sufficient, if they are some distance away, but I’ve finally decided that when we do come face to face, when in France ….

 

2       Two French letters tonight!

I know what you’re thinking – quite an achievement for one so old, and indeed it is age that creates the problem.  All can be going swimmingly one day and the next I’m shooting blanks and can’t manage to string two letters together coherently, let alone enough words for two letters of the postal variety.  But, on this particular night needs must and with a little help from Linda, she’s better at French than I am, and the invaluable help of a dictionary and possible hindrance of Google translate, by morning the two letters were ready to go, one to be delivered by hand, the other entrusted to La Poste, by the very convenient and very French method of placing the letter in your household post box at the end of the drive and turning a dial inside.  That places a red marker in a little window and alerts Monsieur ou Madam Poste to the letter awaiting collection.  I’m further told, although have yet to put it to the test, that if you haven’t got a stamp you can put the money in with the letter and the postie will purchase a stamp for you, attach it to the letter and send it winging on its way, and should you not have the correct change, your change will be returned to your box the following day!

However, the posted letter being a rant about the fitting of our new fosse septique (septic tank) for which the contractor’s figures didn’t equate to ours, we had attached the correct stamp to ensure speedy delivery.   The other letter was to one of the local farmer’s family, who we had befriended when living in our rented house, and was to congratulate them on the birth of a baby son.

 

3      Whilst showering in northern Spain…….

I was standing naked under the warm trickle of water, when somewhat surprisingly transported back to a rather boozy night, close to Christmas, in The Rising Sun pub, in Gloucestershire.  No, it had nothing to do with the plentiful booze lowering the inhibitions and the rugby club atmosphere of that long-ago night causing scenes of nudity, it was rather to do with the music.

The publican at The Rising Sun at that time, had taken on the pub, and more or less retired from playing rugby at the weekends, restricted by the opening hours, as well as age creeping up and injuries becoming more frequent.  However, although I’m not sure how much he missed the battles on the pitch, it was obvious that he certainly missed the after-match revelries!

So once in a while, he would give the regulars the nod, myself included, and whilst calling time and ushering out the non-regulars, those in the know would sup slowly, until such time that the door could be locked and the lock in commenced.  On one memorable occasion, several of us regulars had to leave and hide round the corner, as one of the other drinkers sensing that a lock in was on the cards tried to gate-crash.  We waited for him to drive away before creeping back in through the back to continue the evening into the early hours.

The lock-ins were certainly no quiet affairs, and it was just as well there were no close neighbours and little chance of a passing police patrol car.  But the landlord came to life, standing crouched on a low bar stool in the middle of the low room and leading us through his repertoire of bawdy rugby drinking songs.  The lyrics of his favourite included “My sister Belinda, she peed out the window and filled up my brand-new sombrero.”  And that morning in Spain, whilst in the shower, a workman renovating part of the toilet block was loudly whistling the tune, and I nearly burst into spontaneous song, singing along!  

 

4      It made a difference for that one.

I have a very large framed print of an anonymous poem called Making a Difference, now hanging in my bedroom, and it is very dear to me, given to me by a very dear friend who felt I had!  (I also have a smaller version hanging in the study!) It’s about a wise man who goes walking on the beach and spies what he thinks is a young man dancing in the distance.  Getting closer he discovers that the man is actually reaching down and rhythmically picking up stranded starfish from the beach and returning them to the sea.

The wise man asked the young man what he is doing to which he replied “Throwing starfish into the ocean.”  The wise man then says what he should have asked is why are you doing this, to which the young man replied “The sun is up, and the tide is going out. And if I don’t throw them in they’ll die.”

The wise man then said that the young man couldn’t possibly make a difference as there were many miles of beach with stranded starfish all along it.  To which the young man didn’t reply straight away, instead he bent down, picked up another starfish and threw in back into the sea, then turned to the wise man and simply said “It made a difference for that one.”

Well, a couple of birthdays ago I went for a walk on a very long sandy beach, near to home, and imagine my surprise to find it liberally covered in stranded starfish, and like back then when the poem was gifted to me, I hope I made a difference for quite a few!

 

5      A snapshot from one night.

I often when locking up for the night stand on the top step of the front door and take in the surrounding night.  I guess it stems back to when Fergus would go out for a last “pud” (puddle) before bed and biscuits!

As I rarely go to bed much before two o’clock, something that a previous dog, Max, could never get used to and would often ask to be able to go to his bed, and have his biscuits!, well before that.  Mind you, he would at times try and pretend that he hadn’t been out earlier and think he should have more biscuits!!

Well, standing on the doorstep that late at night, usually means that all the lights are out in the neighbouring houses and without street lights, and with the nearest towns some distance away, the night is truly dark but sometimes anything but quiet.  Mostly natural noise such as frogs croaking in spring time, crickets in summer, owls hooting at any time and even the strange whirring of a nightjar, from a distance sounding more like the ticking over of a small underpowered mobylette, with just the occasional drone of a faraway aircraft, or a late-night traveller driving along the distant main road.

But this particularly early summer evening, not a frosty, cloudy and wet winter’s night, indeed it was a beautiful starlit night so I lingered, and was rewarded with the magical sight of a bright shooting star travelling far athwart the dark night sky, but even more magical was that its rapid, silent and very distance progress was serenaded by the beautiful lilting song a very nearby nightingale.  We are very fortunate to often be lulled to sleep by the nightingale, but rarely do we get the chance to see an accompanying ethereal light show!

 

6      Should we be worried?

Our local town, Fontenay le Comte, is a garrison town.  So, it is not uncommon to see army personnel shopping in full uniform.

On this particular day, Linda and I were in one of the local supermarkets and joined the queue behind a smart uniformed officer with just a couple of items, as he didn’t have much to go through the check out and there was only one person in front of him and they were just finishing.  This however, is not always a quick affair in France as shoppers often very slowly take items one at a time off the counter, place them loose in the trolley to be bagged up when they get to the car, pausing frequently to chat to the cashier and waiting until they have individually placed each item in the trolley before even thinking of getting out their loyalty card and means of payment.  And, if paying by cheque, still quite common in France, they have to get out their cheque book, tear out the next check and hand it to the cashier who places it in a machine, which rarely seems to work first time, to be printed and handed back to the customer to check the amount before signing and returning it to the cashier, probably after they have filled in the amount of the cheque on the section for keeping a tab on your spending.  The cashier prints off the till receipt, often accompanied by various other money off coupons, which must all be checked before stowing away and wishes the customer bon journée, bon après midi, bon weekend (any time from Thursday lunchtime) and anything else mildly appropriate. 

But this did give us time to see what the army officer was buying – a boxed set of Downton Abbey DVDs and a thick glossy magazine, which rather worryingly was one of a long series called “Strategies of War”, we were left thinking that should war break out hopefully the necessary strategies had been covered in an edition he had already read!

 

7       Englishmen Abroad

I’m an Englishman abroad, but have always tried my best to blend in, be it on holiday or now all the time as we live in France.  There’s nothing better to be walking down the street and for a French person passing in the car stopping to ask directions, thinking you’re a native.  Or going to a restaurant and having had that bizarre start to the evening where you are speaking French and the French waiter is answering in English, when they realise that actually you can at least get by in the local language and they return to the table and start speaking French, or in one memorable case, actually asked us if we would prefer to speak in French.  Having in this case obviously passed the test and the waiter realising we weren’t going to waste his time struggling, suddenly found time to chat about where we lived!

But one thing I do when out and about is people watch, and the Englishman abroad can be very embarrassing, I have on occasion felt the need to apologise for the behaviour of fellow Brits, often when they have imbibed just a little too much to be good for them, or those around them!

Over the years, it seems that the drunk Englishman abroad goes one of two ways:  They either get louder as the evening wears on and too much beer is consumed.  Then, they can become objectionable, shouting to make themselves understood, criticising the staff’s inability to speak English and have been know to belch, fart and find funny French works like PISScine!

Or, they go very quiet and maudlin, like the one I recently encountered outside a campsite restaurant, on an English owned site with a large fishing lake.  He was almost silently gazing over the large lake in the middle of the site, muttering to anyone who happened to be passing, but no-one in particular, “Fancy fucking waking up to this every morning, it would be fucking marvellous.”  I couldn’t help but agree with his sentiments, but no so much his Anglo-Saxon!

 

8       We were back in Stroud, most certainly!

We try to visit Stroud when we are back in the UK, not least to visit our son and granddaughter and catch up with friends.  We also try to visit on a Saturday to wander around the market, catch up on the café scene and soak up the atmosphere, and indeed spot native Stroudie’s!  Often, when we are out and about, the world over, we will pass a certain type of person and we’ll look at each other and silently agree another Stroudie in the world of eclectic people.

Indeed, our local town in France, Fontenay Le Comte, we have increasingly likened to Stroud, not least because of its Arts and Music scene, café culture, thriving market, as well as picturesque stone buildings and a long history.  There are also several true Stroudie’s amongst its population, although I guess we should call them Fontenaisie’s.

Fairly recently, we were back in Stroud with a little time on our hands and I went for a walk along part of the Stroudwater Canal near Ebley Mill.  First, I was passed by a young teenage girl, possibly about fourteen, who was wearing a floppy purple hat and bright yellow wellies (with other clothing I should add!) and it was the middle of summer!  Then, passing under one of the bridges I spotted some suitably erudite Stroudie graffiti, it simply said “Stroud. All hop e is gone!”, with the e of hope falling off the line, which sadly my computer won’t let me replicate accurately!

Finally, to completely make me realise I was in Stroud, I was passed by (not in this case the man in lady’s clothing who happily walks up and down the High Street, if my memory serves me right, sporting a beard!), no it was the dread-locked aged hippy who remains shoeless, even in the depth of winter!  I couldn’t have been anywhere else than the “People’s Republic of Stroud!”

 

9       Égalité a basic premise.

A couple of years ago, well I did say some of the thoughts were somewhat distant, I was in the kitchen cooking tea and Linda was outside with the door open doing some crépi work on our wall below the terrace at the front of the house.  Crépi is a thick masonry paint that is good for covering rough walls with minor cracks.

I then heard her talking to Yvette, our neighbour, who we hadn’t seen for some time.  They were generally passing the time of day and Yvette was complimenting Linda on her work, saying how good it was and how it made the front look splendid.

Having stirred the tea, I thought I should pop out and say hello to Yvette, who as I said we hadn’t seen for some time.  As I arrived on the terrace and exchanged pleasantries, I could see Yvette looking slightly askance, I was wearing an apron, but with the odd glance in Linda’s direction, before saying: “Linda fait le travail manuel et Roger la cuisine, je suppose que ça s'appelle l'égalité!”, which if you haven’t worked it out means: “Linda is doing the manual work and Roger the cooking, I suppose it's called equality!”  I couldn’t be sure if it was a complement to Linda or a back-handed swipe at me!

After all Egalité is, as the title suggests one of the basic premises of French culture.  Everywhere you go, particularly on public building you will see inscribed: Liberté, égalité, fraternité, which means “liberty, equality, fraternity”, and as it is the French National Motto, I felt I, indeed we, were doing our bit to integrate into French life!

 

10   Fine tuning

Several computers ago, it seems, I used to have a security system called AVG, which Wikipedia informs me stands for Anti-Virus Guard.

Well, it seems that quite frequently AVG, being a matey sort of anti-virus software would send me messages.  You know the type:  “We’ve scanned your computer zillions of times in the last few nano seconds and found the following problems, pay vast sums and we’ll sort them out for you.”  “Today’s your lucky day, we’ve found no problems with your computer, but paying us vast amounts, might just speed it up a little.”  “OK we’ve given up trying to upgrade you, at vast expense, how about you run this scan and see what we can do for you – at vast expense!

Actually, the free version seemed to work pretty well and do the job that I wanted it to do, it even did the odd FREE update, and then sent me a friendly message saying things like: “Did you think your computer booted up 15% faster, as we have upgraded AVG Free and you should be able to notice the difference!”  and not a mention of any money changing hands!  I’m not sure I ever particularly noticed a difference, but were too polite to say so, or rather felt if I did then they would be sure to fix it for me – at great expense!

Imagine then my excitement when I received the following message, short and succinct and obviously designed to make me dance a jig and sing the praises of AVG from the rooftops, or maybe as actually happened read the message incredulously, thinking maybe there was more!  The message “Did you think your computer booted up 1% faster!” to which all I could think is, I’m not sure I blinked, or maybe dozed off, as it wasn’t the fastest system I’ve used at the best of times.  But I did think I should have noticed a difference over time, as the combined messages told me that my computer should have been something in the order of 2000 times faster – it wasn’t! 

 

11  Choose your words carefully

Those of you who know me well will appreciate after over a decade living in France, my French has improved, possibly not in leaps and bounds but inch by inch, and the French are fairly forgiving if you at least make the effort.  The biggest problems are the language is very precise and you’ll be convinced that you’re saying beaucoup, as in merci beaucoup – thank you very much, and you’ll find a French friend creased up with laughter, maintaining you said beau coup as in nice bottom!  Also, once you have fluently complimented them on their derriere, they then assume you are generally fluent and reply so quickly that you are still on the second word when they have completed several sentences, the last one of which is a question, and you realise they are waiting for an answer!

However, we have over the last few years been increasingly visiting Spain and although I make an effort with greetings/farewells, ordering a coffee, loaf of bread or a piece of cheese, I can’t manage, try as I might to compliment the locals on their posteriors and even more worrying (possibly!!)I can’t manage to order a cerveza!  I did find out last year that it’s easier in Portugal, where the word is very similar – cerveja – but is pronounced as it is written.  Imagine then my delight, when in Spain recently, to discover an easier way to quench my thirst, and no it isn’t resorting to using finger and pointing to the pump, or indeed as a barman in Madrid, once suggested; he spoke no English but hearing my struggle looked me in the eye and said “two halves of bitter, señor!”, no I can now order a caña (a small beer), and it sounds like it looks!

But I must still remain vigilant, particularly after a caña or three and not muddle up my bodegars with my bordellos, the former being a temple to wine and the latter a temple to woman, both of which involve you with parting with large sums of money, or so I’m lead to believe in one case!

 

12  Overheard

I’ve been in several situations, when travelling by plane, train or ferry and there is someone having a loud, one sided conversation into a telephone?  Its tempting to angrily say “Do you mind, some of us are trying to sleep, read ……” or “For pity’s sake, please turn on the speaker then at least your conversation would make sense!” or “Do you think it might be more private / less irritating if you stepped outside to have that conversation!”, difficult at 30,000 ft in an aeroplane, although ……!

Twice recently it happened to me, on a ferry without the telephone involved.  In both cases the two people involved were sitting very close to me, not so close to each other, late at night and I was trying to sleep.  The first one, on reflection, was a little sad and falls into the category of “It’s good to talk,” but better in a quiet corner in hushed tones, as the whole lounge didn’t need to know.  A man who seemed to be travelling alone had befriended a fellow traveller and proceeded to regale them the sad story of his wife’s serious medical condition, visits to the doctor / hospital, the prescribed medications and her ultimate demise.  We then learnt all about visits by the children, prior to her death, funeral details and subsequent transportation of her ashes back to the UK.  Not only the volume of this conversation made it difficult to fall asleep, the content also didn’t help!

The second high-volume conversation was between two women, one doing most of the talking.  The animated conversation built up over a period of some time and was basically all about an important document that finally “he” had signed and so now couldn’t be changed unless …… and there followed a number of scenarios where actually it could be changed!  As for the document, I never did find out what it was, despite knowing all the ramifications of getting it signed in the first place and that actually it still wasn’t legally binding!

 

 13   Le rossignol chantait

I’m reminded of this as earlier tonight, even when listening to music on my headphones, the unmistakeable gravelly sound of a nightjar ground through the open door, and it’s the first we’ve heard for some time.  I was talking to our new neighbours the other day about said bird, and likened it to one of those old-fashioned French mobylettes, powered by a “cylinder” engine mounted above the front wheel.  In fact, the noise is more like one of these underpowered mopeds straining to go up a slight incline, more than that and you have to assist by pedalling – and then the noise changes!

But back to le rossignol chantant, or indeed le rossignol chaitait dans le cour secrѐte, which if you’re not following translates as “The nightingale sang in the hidden courtyard”, which sadly doesn’t scan particularly well to the tune of “A nightingale sang in Berkley Square”, and for once I even think the English sounds better and certainly more romantic!

We first heard the nightingale, or at least became aware of hearing it some years ago when we were sitting in said courtyard, with a large group of friends from England and as it became darker, we became aware of this bird singing loudly in a tree by the wall, we were being well and truly, and beautifully serenaded, almost without realising it!  Then, someone said “What’s that bird singing, is it a nightingale?  Being not sure someone confirmed it with a suitable app on their mobile which must have given the real bird something of a shock, when close by a fellow feathered friend started singing loudly!  Fortunately, it didn’t seem to mind and carried on its virtuoso performance for us.

I’ve not heard one close by so far this year, but I am reminded that last year for several weeks we were nightly entertained, sometimes by more than one, to the point that some nights it was almost tempting to stick our head out of the window and ask them to keep the noise down, particularly as it is always rather a lively tune!!

 

13   Have Harley will barbie

Several summers ago, the sun was shining, spring had been left behind and things were hotting up.

On the roads it was the normal story, more lycra clad cyclists, who as you approach them from behind look lithe and young and are making a cracking pace as you would expect of one at the peak of fitness.  Overtaking them you look in your mirror and see the rider isn’t a day under seventy and it’s a firm bet that they’ll be doing more kilometres than their age!  Then the French caravans, as opposed to caravans from elsewhere in Europe.  Why does this make it summer?  Well, it is very unusual to see a touring French caravan on the roads outside the months of July and August – that’s when France holidays!

Roadside stalls are reopened selling produce such as melons and everywhere is advertising “Rentrée!”  That so used to annoy me, when I was a teacher and had just got rid of the little darlings and was looking forward to a restful holiday and going to stock up with some restorative beer and entering the supermarket you’re reminded that it’s not that long until it’s “Back to School!”

Now as I browse the wine aisle, looking for summer rosé and salad stuff, the classroom is increasingly distant, and other than the people (children and staff) rarely missed!  

The roads also become full of large powerful motorbikes, that must have been mothballed during the colder and wetter months, when putting on wet weather gear is only for the real enthusiast, or those relying on their bike for work.  So, cocking a snoot to the “Rentrée” signs, we went shopping in Fontenay le Comte, and there in the supermarket carpark was a brilliant (in more ways than one) red Harley Davison, the rider just starting it up with that distinctive and immediately recognisable throaty roar.  He’d popped down to the shops and his only purchase was strapped to the pillion seat – a large bag of charcoal for the barbie!  

 

          16   He was certainly a disappointment to them!

Back on the ferry…… and once more people watching!  We were having breakfast as the ferry set off, before trying to have a bit of a sleep, to recharge ready for the drive the other side.  On a nearby table sat what some might regard as the “perfect” family; Mum, Dad, older sister and younger brother, except only three of them sat stoically eating their breakfast whilst the son was having his breakfast on the run, flitting in and out to collect the next tasty morsel before circling the nearby tables, not particularly noisily, but without pausing.

Now the boy was perhaps ten if not a little older, and certainly, some would say, old enough to know better, and although showing no outward signs of a disability, I’m quite happy to concede that it could have been caused by a number of conditions or disorders on the autistic spectrum.  Indeed, in many ways he was doing us and those around us no harm and the worst harm he might cause himself was probably a bout of indigestion!

Really, it wasn’t his behaviour that caught my eye, but that of the rest of the family, who may at this point have simply reached the end of their tethers and were trying hard to pretend he wasn’t there!  Body language from the parents certainly gave the impression that he was a great disappointment to them, but more striking was the fact that the older sister, perhaps aged thirteen or fourteen, wasn’t a disappointment, as they all sat there having an animated and in depth conversation, with serious bits , light amusement and above all oblivion, if not total forgetfulness that the younger sibling existed at all, the daughter NOT, as might well have been the case, trying to milk the situation.  It had obviously been a long day, and they weren’t there yet, and I couldn’t help but reflect sadly on whether every day was like this.

More to follow next year!!