Ola!

Choosing a holiday wardrobe is always a trial and I like to 'go local' as much as I can. Dressing inconspicuously helps in avoiding any unwanted attention. I hope I've got it right this time.

In praise of the final works of two men

Despite some of my previous utterances, I really am looking forward to the holiday season and I'll be ho-ho-hoing with the best of them (possibly!). In total contrast to the impending jollifications, I've found myself reflecting this week on the final works of two now-deceased men, probably prompted by my completing an autobiography by one and then coming across a YouTube clip by the other. Hardly festive fare, I know, but I can't control where my thoughts take me: my mind has a mind of its own.

One morning the author of the book I mentioned woke up in his hotel room “feeling as if I were actually shackled to my own corpse. The whole cave of my chest and thorax seemed to have been hollowed out and then refilled with slow-drying cement. So begins the account of Christopher Hitchens’ final days, the nineteen months between the diagnosis of oesophageal cancer in June 2010 and his death in December 2011 at age sixty-two. In Mortality he describes the torments of his illness, discusses its conventions and taboos, and explores how disease transforms experience and changes our relationship to the world around us. It's partly personal and partly philosophical as he goes through the full panoply of human emotions as the cancer invades his body and compels him to grapple with the enigma of death. I was impressed by his will to endure intellectually and his approach to taking death unapologetically on the chin. Throughout his book, your sense of him and all that makes him what he is is heightened precisely because it’s in the writing; he bares his soul in his written words. He was, above all else, a writer.

You get a sense for how important writing is to him in one of his more poignant passages. “I often grandly say,” he writes, “that writing is not just my living and my livelihood but my very life, and it’s true.” The poignancy comes from the context: he has just been injected with something to alleviate the pain in his extremities, the chief side effect of which is a numbness which brings a fear of losing the ability to write. He remarks, “Without that ability, I feel sure in advance, my ‘will to live’ would be hugely attenuated. I feel my personality and identity dissolving as I contemplate dead hands and the loss of the transmission belts that connect me to writing and thinking.”

Mortality could very easily be depressing but I didn't find it so (I read it twice in short succession). Despite his sobering examples of the fragility of life and the inevitability of death, it is lifted by the quality of his writing, his eloquence and unsuppressible wit and humour. One of the best books I've read this year.

Continuing the downward spiral of seasonal lightheartedness, I turn now to the YouTube I mentioned in my first paragraph. It captures a wonderful performance by Johnny Cash, maybe the last before he died in 2003. The video is generally recognized as "his epitaph". A clearly fragile Cash (it was filmed shortly after the death of his wife, June Carter, and a few months before his own) gives a haunting interpretation of the lyrics of 'Hurt'. Gulp! 



And the link between Hitchens and Cash? Simply both knowing they were dying and both expressing themselves in their own artistic medium - words and song.

And a merry Christmas to one and all!

A sunny day on Dartmoor?

Moving up to Combeshead Tor

In yer dreams!  A very wet walk today with the Group. About 5.5 miles over a fairly strenuous route. Up a few tors, across a few streams, through a deserted farm at Combeshead and a long squelch up to our highest point on Sheepstor. Wonderful views to be had - on a clear day. Not today, though. Our reward at the end of all this? Hot mulled wine and mince pies at the Royal Oak in Meavy. What a great way to spend a day.

In praise of choral evensong

Choir stalls at St David's Cathedral

I'm ambivalent to the austere charms of C of E choral evensong when I hear it broadcast on the radio (Twice weekly on Radio 3, live at 3.30pm on Wednesday and repeated at 4pm Sunday). But when I see (or even take part in) this intimate performance live, it's an entirely different experience. The way voices carry within the transcendent architecture and massive acoustic of a mediaeval cathedral is nothing short of astounding; every note seems to shimmer with a halo of resonance.

Coming from a Welsh chapel background, I didn't grow up with the rituals of Anglican liturgy, so the mysteries of the responses and when you're supposed to stand up and sit down again are not familiar to me. But all of this seems inconsequential when you hear a choir's performance of a Stanford anthem or their sensitive singing of the Psalms and Canticles. I've heard them described as 'minor musical miracles in a gigantic space'. Hyperbolic language, perhaps, but I agree.

Once a year I sing a week of choral evensongs at St David's cathedral with the East Wickham Singers. I thoroughly enjoy being part of a centuries-old musical tradition and I look forward to the meditative and reflective moments the services allow me. If I lived in St David's, or close to one of our other great cathedrals, I think evensong would become a regular musical ritual for me. It's a living tradition that costs precisely nothing to experience live. The best free show in town! 

PMQs and a baboon's backside

Prime minister's questions (PMQs) are held as a single session every Wednesday when the prime minister spends around half an hour answering questions from MPs. In theory, it is a time when backbenchers and leaders of the opposition parties can hold the prime minister to account. It's an opportunity for the backbenches to haul the prime minister over the democratic coals. Except, except...... increasingly it descends into farce. When the prime minister and leader of the opposition take to the despatch box, it’s all about who can cause the most embarrassment, get the biggest laugh, and secure the most playable soundbite. It's obvious that getting a proper answer on an issue isn’t what anyone wants anymore. It's all good knock about stuff and makes for excellent TV but policy never gets improved or changed due to an exchange at PMQs. How can it? A prime minister in that bear pit is in no position to say calmly: “Thank you for that information, I’ll go and change that now”. The confrontational nature of PMQs doesn’t allow for grown up debate, so what is the point?

Absolutely no point at all from an advancement of politics perspective. Let's get rid of them. Except, except.....

Watchers of David Cameron just love the various shades of red his face goes as he gets more and more irritated during PMQs (see colour chart on left). And to the Labour frontbench (and lots of other people, including me!) his journey through facial palette signals victory. Indeed Ed Miliband could not resist calling it to our attention recently: "It's good to see the crimson tide back." No wonder Posh Dave went the colour of a baboon's backside.

RIP - Ravi Shankar

Just to acknowledge the death of Ravi Shankar yesterday. He is very much a part of the soundtrack of my life and I've previously mentioned how much I like his music. I continue to listen to it regularly, usually through a fog of incense in the wee small hours when all else is still. It's sad news but not unexpected as he had had heart problems for a while. His legacy lives on through his daughters, Anoushka Shankar and Nora Jones.

Cartman chops anyone?

A short trip across the valley this morning to pick up half a lamb from a friend. Raised in a field we can almost see, slaughtered and butchered locally, the meat couldn't be more Cornish.

I always think it's a courtesy to pay homage to what's on my plate and there's a no more intimate way to do this than to refer to it personally. What was in the bag came from a short fat lamb Jo and family had nicknamed Cartman. Wonderful. One of my favourite cartoon characters linked to one of my favourite meats. My, I am looking forward to my first plate of Cartlamb.

If you go down to the woods today.....................

................you'll see the affects of Phytophthora ramorum (P. ramorum) infection on the larch trees. It's a fungus-like pathogen that is really catching hold in the Duchy of Cornwall woodlands around us.

I was doing my Footpath Warden's bit and walking 'my' stretch from home to Horsebridge, where, very conveniently, I was meeting up with some friends for lunch at the Royal. The route took me downhill to the woods at Old Mill and I was amazed by what I saw there. I knew that some diseased larch trees were being cut down but I was not prepared for the scale of the operation. As the photographs show, hundreds have been felled and logged, leaving

gaping holes where there had been a dense forest. It looks a complete mess at the moment but it will improve once the replanting gets underway and there's some regrowth. I wonder what species will be chosen as replacements? Hopefully, a selection of native hardwoods will feature.

 

One of the Duchy of Cornwall workers wielding a chainsaw looked strangely familiar. I can't quite put my finger on who he reminded me of. Maybe posting it will prompt someone's memory?

The rest of the walk was a treat. Along to Luckett, where it looked as the natives were getting back to nature! Perhaps not all - just the members of the friendly Howlett tribe.

From there it was splash, splash, splash on the path parallel to the river. It's wet at the best of times and I can't say that the recent rains have made it that much worse.

There was a pleasant interlude when I stopped to talk to someone rebuilding a dry stone wall. Mansell Grant from Caerphilly of all places! I'll remember him every time I pass Mansell's wall in the future. Thence to the pub for lunch and very nice it was too.

Now it CAN be Xmas every day!

Christmas always starts for me when I first hear the strains of Wizzard's modern day carol tinkling out of the radio. You know the one I mean: 'I wish it could be Xmas every day'. All together now......

 

When the snowman brings the snow
Well he just might like to know
He's put a great big smile, on somebody's face
If you jump into your bed
Quickly cover up your head
Don't you lock the doors
You know that sweet Santa Claus in on the way

Well I wish it could be Christmas, every day
When the kids start singing and the band begins to play
Oh, I wish it could be Christmas, every day
Let the bells ring out for Christmas

 

Only the most stony hearted of curmudgeons would not agree with the sentiments expressed by Roy Wood and his merry minstrels. Don't we all wish it could be Xmas every day? I know I do and I've come up with an idea that will prolong the yuletide magic for a full 365 days and beyond. I'm calling the prototype FestiPlas.
 

Imagine keeping a momento of Xmas forever! Imagine being able to gaze on a symbol of festive fun in the middle of a wet and soggy August day! FestiPlas allows you to do exactly that. The holiday season icon of your choice (a mince pie and a bowl of sprouts are shown as typical examples) can be embalmed for permanence and embedded in a solid acrylic plastic display suitable for keeping on your desk, in your kitchen or on top of your TV. Its final location is limited only by your imagination. Whenever, and wherever, you look at your FestiPlas momento, you’ll be reminded of all those great times you had around the light-bedecked tree with your family and friends.

As the photographs above show, I've been successful at making a couple of trial products. I've conducted a small survey and have given myself some really exciting and positive feedback. I'm convinced there's a market for FestiPlas: it's a true symbol of the ingenuity of the British entrepreneur, like what I am. Dragon's Den here I come - unless someone wants to make me an offer for the patent before Theo Paphlatulence or one of the others jumps in? You know where I can be contacted.

Soldiers working from home - a brilliant idea

The Ministry of Defence was criticised yesterday for ordering the Army to take 25 days off or work from home over the Christmas period. Officials insist the move is a “thank you” for a busy year, which included the Olympics and Diamond Jubilee. But former commander in Afghanistan, Colonel Richard Kemp, said the extra days off are just an “insulting” bid to save on energy bills. He called it “an act of sheer desperation by military commanders starved of cash by the Government”. Col Kemp added that the idea troops can work from home is “beyond satire”. Wrong, Col Kemp, wrong. I think letting soldiers work from home, if they choose, is an excellent idea and a sign that the British army is joining the 21^st century. 

Modern electronic communications and weapons allow soldiers to perform, in the comfort of their own homes, most of the tasks that used to require their physical presence in the field. Using remote control cameras, soldiers could patrol camp perimeters and alert superior officers when there’s an enemy breach. Operating remote control robots, home-based soldiers can search for mines, defuse improvised explosive devices, identify enemies and fire small arms weapons. I bet they could look for and pick up litter around a base. Some military vehicles are being adapted for remote control, thus allowing soldiers to control them from home. Home-based soldiers can even control drones and battlefield missiles. Drill exercises are made easy by remote cameras, allowing a home-based soldier to participate in exercises along with the rest of their unit. Through Skype technology, a home-based soldier could continue to participate in kit inspections – a drill sergeant can examine his or her uniform on screen and still bellow out intimidating and belittling instructions. Another benefit of allowing telecommuting from home is that it may enable the Army to attract more (and more technically sophisticated) people to enlist. If I've whetted your appetite, you can visit the Army information website here.

Of course, there would be a few teething problems that would have to worked through initially. Changes to sleeping arrangements might lead to some domestic friction: how would the hoover go under all the kit on the floor? And the children would have to be told that the drone control is not an X-Box or Wii device. One press on the wrong button and, oops, there goes another innocent bunch of civilians in a far off land. On the plus side, shopping at the supermarket will take on a new dimension as the squaddies yomp their way around the aisles before heading home (at the double, of course) with the week's groceries on their backs.

 

Admit it, Col Kemp, it's a brilliant concept. Bet you wish you'd thought of it. If you had, you could have been cultivating your tulips in Taunton at the same time as fighting the Taliban in Tashbir.