Pleased to meat you.................

A gratuitous nod to the Rolling Stones ahead of their Glastonbury concert tonight but that's not what I'm writing about. Part of this morning was taken up with a trip to our butcher's. Not any old butcher but Chris Rounsevell at Caradon Town on the edge of Bodmin Moor.

I enjoy going to Chris's for our meat. Why? Because:
*  His meat is all locally produced and slaughtered and prepared at the back of his shop. I have asked Chris where he gets his meat from and he's just pointed at a field across the way or a farm up the lane. We've never had a duff lot since we've been going to him.
*  He, and his staff, are very friendly and always have time for a chat about whatever seems right to chat about on the day. Today it was clay pigeon shooting and growing potatoes.
*  The journey there (it's about 5 miles from us) is through some beautiful countryside and there's always something to see as the seasons change.
 At the moment the hedgerows are stunning with a spectacular display of foxgloves and cow parsley. And it's all so green, green, green.
*  Caradon Town, itself, is an interesting place if you know its history: in the middle of nowhere if you don't. Nowadays it's no more than a few houses, a farm and the butcher's shop.  It's hard to believe that, in the mid-1800s, it was at the centre of the mineral boom on Caradon Hill and the neighbourhood had a population of several thousand.  Nowdays, there can't be many more than 50 or thereabouts people there.
*  It's the only butcher's shop I know that comes with an associated mausoleum. Chris's father has been building a family mausoleum ever since we've been down here and it's finally finished. Four of its occupants, or rather their ashes, have already been installed inside. Given the robust health of Chris's dad, I think it's going to be a while before he joins them. It has to be said that Chris is not as keen on the mausoleum as his dad! He thinks his dad wants to keep on eye on him from beyond the grave.
*  It's shopping with an old fashioned spin - going to an expert supplier and getting an expert service. With the added bonus of some very keen prices. Why do it any other way?

Compare and contrast with what would happen if we bought our meat at a supermarket. Walk up a sterile aisle, pick up a pre-pack, stick it in a trolley and wander off to the check-out. Boring! Boring!

The lanes and hedgerows are magnificent at this time of year. I opted for a lesser frequented lane today and travelled under this sort of canopy for quite a while. The sides, being of Cornish granite, are unforgiving!

The Rounsevell family mausoleum across the road from the butcher's at Caradon Town.

The memorial on the outside wall of the mausoleum. Note that there is plenty of room for the names of those who are to follow.

It's a good year for foxgloves in the hedgerows. We've got quite a selection down the sides of our own lane but no sign of the white ones I planted a couple of years ago.

Service with a smile - continued....

A trip to a local supermarket today (which shall remain anonymous as I am so ashamed that I crossed its portal. I know I shouldn't support them but it was the only place convenient for what I wanted today - honest.) and, after checking-out my necessary but treacherous items, I saw that there was an in-store Costa franchise (Another one! They are popping up like an infection all over the place). I couldn't help but notice that the 'proud to serve Costa' proclamation was not on display. Why, thought I? I just had to find out.

Of a young lad in a uniform I enquired: "good morrow, bright-eyed barista chappie, pray tell me why you do not tell the world that you are proud to serve Costa". Inwardly I was hoping his response would be along the lines of "coz we ain't, mate. Why don't you get orff outta yer". His reply, after he'd had time to consider my question, was more civil than I probably deserved: "I dunno. I'll arsk me boss" and off he went to arsk his boss. And arsk his boss he did. I saw him do it and I saw the strange looks they cast in my direction. After arsking his boss, he came back and told me: "she dunno either. Best get on our website and arsk Head Orffice". Well, as I can't be arsed to arsk Head Office, I'll never know why the Groves Green branch of Tesco's (doh!) appears not to be 'proud to serve Costa'. And I'm probably the only person in the world who cared.  

Service with a smile?

A Sunday afternoon trip to Leeds Castle followed by a visit to their Costa-franchised coffee shop. "Proud to serve Costa" was their claim. To be accurate, the signs should have read "supremely indifferent to serve Costa" or "can't be arsed to be civil serving Costa". Rather perversely, I quite enjoy seeing people not buying into corporate hogwash. Long may they retain their distain for empty slogans.

Whilst on the subject of coffee chains, is it just me who is irritated by the Starbucks slogan “We proudly serve Starbucks coffee”? The use of that adverb annoys me. Not just because it’s grammatically rather clumsy, but because it also attaches the pride to the service and not the Starbucks coffee – which I don’t think is the intention. Why can't they employ literate copywriters? You know what? I think I'll boycott their coffee shops in protest. Ooops, as a non-coffee drinker, I do that already.

Welcome to Molly

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Not a deliberate juxtaposition of the subjects of two posts but we've gone from the grave to the cradle in less than 24 hours. Today we saw the arrival of the latest addition to the family: Molly May Palmer. Grandchild #6; grand-daughter #3. All is well with the world.

Requiescat in pace

Not all writing is on paper and not all written documents are found in libraries. History is alive in graveyards and that's why I've always loved wandering around them. Give me a pile of crumbling tombstones and I'm a happy bunny! The way people bury their dead says almost as much about themselves as it does about those who have died. Going around a 'good' graveyard will give you insights into not just the names of people buried there but also, if you are lucky, one or more of the following: their familial relationships, their religious beliefs, their social standings, their technological knowledge, their cultural symbols and their artistic ideals.

It may seem rather morbid to enjoy a book about graveyards but that’s what I've just done with Peter Stanford's 'How to read a graveyard'. Not a heavy read by any means but more of a meditative travelogue as his sort-of-pilgrimage takes him to ten sites: the Scavi in the Vatican, purportedly the grave of St Peter; the catacombs of St Callixtus in Rome; St Margaret’s, Burnham Norton, where he hopes to be buried himself; Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh; Père-Lachaise in Paris (where Oscar Wilde’s and Jim Morrison’s celebrity tombs attract devotees); the misnamed “English” or “Protestant” cemetery in Rome (for Shelley, Keats and the pyramid of Gaius Cestius); Paddington Old Cemetery; the Deane Road Jewish Cemetery in Liverpool; the Commonwealth war graves at Etaples; Notre Dame de Lorette; Ayette and Thiepval; and finally the Chiltern Woodland Burial Park, a modern eco-friendly “forest of remembrance”. He makes no claim to it being a comprehensive survey but it did strike me as rather perverse not to visit Highgate cemetery, yet succumb to the tourist trap that is Père-Lachaise.

His central premise is that our contemporary rituals tend to sanitise death and distance us from our own inevitable fate. Reading graveyards helps us to find out how previous generations dealt with the Grim Reaper and, in some way, help us to face up to him/her ourselves. I'm not too sure about that last bit but there are pleasing nuggets on nearly every page. We learn that Dr Spock’s greeting on Star Trek derives from Jewish blessing; that British wolves died out after graveyards became walled, presumably because they were thus deprived of food; that Woking cemetery once boasted its own branch line, the London Necropolis Railway. A book worth reading for the funereal trivia alone.

Musical sirs

Leonard Cohen, Joe Bonamassa - all this thinking of pop stars reminded me of a niggle, albeit a very small one, I've had for a while. What in the world possessed those who decide these things to start knighting pop stars? Who is responsible for this nonsense? Admittedly, I used to think that the Beatles were incredibly cool, but, really... Sir Paul? And... Sir Mick Jagger?  And ....Sir Cliff Richard? And....... Sir Tom Jones?

Can you see King Arthur trying to defend Merrie Olde England with a Round Table comprised of Sir Paul, Sir Mick, Sir Cliff, Sir Tom and..... Sir Elton?

And they still haven't ennobled those true aristocrats of the pop world - the Barron Knights. Instead we get some barren knights.....

(PS: the above was written in ignorance that more honours were going to be announced today. Tony Robinson has been knighted: at least Sir Baldrick sounds authentically Arthurian).

For musciologists everywhere..................

I think I have made an important discovery. For some time now I have been fascinated by a particular variant of spam messages (Yes, I know, what I want is a nice hobby and to get out more). You know the ones? They contain what appears to be a random collection of words and phrases as the wrapping paper around an advert for Viagra or some other universal panacea. The advert is in the form of an image and, as such, doesn't seem to be detected by my spam filters.

 But what of the random words? Who creates these? From whence do they originate? Here is a sample from a message which landed in my in-box this morning.

Ideas percolate Bedouins/Again we switch parts/Thrill gone, seeing my bedroom tricks mysterious/Wins prejudice, naivety and witty innuendo.

 

The answer to the questions raised came as I wandered (lonely as a cloud) around my veg plot just now. They are all lyrics from Leonard Cohen songs. Granted, in some cases they are lyrics from songs the sainted Leonard hasn't written yet, but the phrases are surely destined for "Ten Sad Songs" or whatever his next CD might be called. Then a second thought struck me. Maybe, just maybe, Sunny Len got his lyrics from a close reading of spam messages rather than the other way around. Could this create an opening for me. I have the lyrics - all I need now is a tune. Where did I put my old mouth organ?

There's a slow train coming...............

I am in the process of (slowly, oh, how slowly) writing a book about the servicemen who died in WW1 and who are listed on our local War Memorial. Attempting to track down a relative of one who had worked on our nearest railway line in the early 1900s, I did the obvious and Googled under a number of railway relevant terms. Hooray! I found what I was looking for - eventually and after some smugly satisfying lateral thinking. Having been successful, I rewarded myself with a rummage in the 'Related Items' collection and came upon an excellent interpretation of a Flanders and Swann song I'd long forgotten, "Slow Train". Michael Flanders and Donald Swann wrote and performed the song back in the 1960s and although the events it records (the closure of almost 50% of the small railway stations in Britain following the Beeching Report on the future of the railway network) are now long gone, the song remains as a triumphal celebration of nostalgia. To illustrate the cultural loss resulting from the Beeching Axe, they simply strung together a list of the names of just a few of the 3,000 small stations and halts that were closed during this period. The result is, I think, musical poetry at its best. And it's accompanied by some lovely old photographs of steam trains and sooty platforms.

The Beeching cuts hit all parts of the country. Both rural and urban lines were decimated and by the end of the decade a quarter of the original trackway mileage and a half of all stations had been cleaved from the system. Here in the West Country, as in the rest of the UK, many of the most romantic small stations and desultory branch lines vanished almost overnight. They remain only as ghostly markings on OS maps: look for faint dotted lines annotated with 'track of old railway'.
 

One of the more weird things I came across in my searches was the post-Beeching fate of the station at Cleckheaton in Yorkshire. It was stolen! Following the closures, British Rail issued contracts for the demolition of the buildings, the clearance of the sites, and the sale of the recovered material. When the appointed contractor turned up at Cleckheaton Station he found the entire station - every stone, wooden fence, metal frame, and tin signpost - had already been dismantled and removed. Eventually the person who had dismantled the station was arrested and taken to trial (the only case in British legal history concerning the theft of a railway station). He was eventually acquitted as the court accepted his defence that he had been following the orders of what he thought was the legally appointed contractor. The company that masterminded the plan was never identified, and the station was never recovered.

And finally: whilst we are talking about slow trains, how about this live version of 'Slow Train' by Joe Bonamassa? Listen and compare and contrast with the more sedate music of Flanders and Swann. I enjoy them both, but they are very, very different.

 

In praise of Corky Siegel

I'll admit that I'd never heard of Corky Siegel until this track came up in a recent Best Radio Show You've Ever Heard compilation (Volume 208). It's called 'Half Asleep at the Wheel' and features some of the best rock blues piano playing I've ever heard. I located two clips on YouTube. The first, with the best sound, comes from a live concert in Minneapolis in February 1977.

And the second is of the man himself playing at a show he did in Montreal in 1999. Both are worth listening to. All those notes without looking at the music! Enjoy!



Hooray for the 10 hour day

 As I write this it is 9.0785 according to the decimal clock I have just installed on my computer. I have always been fond of decimal time (perhaps it explains my rather idiosyncratic timekeeping and the fact that I always seem to be operating in a different dimension to most people?) and I have never understood why there has never been a more active campaign to get it adopted. The idea of dividing each day up into ten decimal hours each of which is made up of 100 decimal minutes subdivided into 100 decimal seconds is one of the finest ideas to come out of the French Revolution. Why we were so keen to adopt - long after the revolutionary ardour had faded - the ideas for decimal measurements, paper banknotes and all the rest, but leave the idea of decimal time in the dustbin of history is beyond me. Decimal time is easier to understand, much simpler to calculate and much less confusing (there are no silly AM's and PM's on the decimal clock). It has the advantage that time seems to go at a more leisurely rate and its adoption would almost immediately lead to a slowing in the frenetic pace of modern life. As each decimal minute equates to about 1.5 old style minutes, tea breaks become longer, as does Chopin's Minute Waltz. Back in the far distant days of licensing hours, I always used to say that the biggest advantage of decimal time was that it never got passed 10 o'clock and therefore it was never closing time. I must add that this logic was never accepted by any publican I mentioned it to - usually over my shoulder as I was being ejected.

As a service to my readers, I must let you know that you can download a decimal clock onto your computer display and share the beauties of this most logical system of timekeeping. Visit http://minkukel.com/software/sillyclocks/
for a free download. And that's not all! The software (SillyClocks 2.2) displays eleven different clocks which, as they rightly claim, 'will help you losing some time while trying to figure out what time it is'. The clocks are:

• Normal Clock
• Binary Clock
• Decimal Clock
• Roman Clock
• Degrees Clock
• DMS (Degrees, minutes, seconds) Clock
• Sine Clock
• Percentage Clock
• Swatch Internet Clock
• Hexadecimal Clock
• Morse Clock

Apart from the Decimal version, I find the Roman Clock strangely addictive and the Morse Clock is fun. I really must get out more!

Baroness Knight and her gay friends

 

Who says the members of the House of Lords are not in touch?  Let's go to one of them for my 'quote of the week'. Speaking to Nicky Campbell on BBC Radio 5 Live yesterday, Conservative peer Baroness Knight said that despite her opposition to gay marriage, she recognised that homosexuals had many good qualities. “We’ve all got friends who are homosexuals. They’re often extremely clever; very, very good at artistic things; very good at things like antiques…”

I rest my case for the abolition of the House of Lords.

Upon receiving a spooky e-mail

I received a rather unusual e-mail today. It appeared to come from a friend who had died about six months ago (RIP: Brian). When the surprise subsided, and after I'd reflected a little, it struck me that the e-mail had come as a result of someone replying to a comment I'd made to him about one of the posts on his blog. The blog in question is still accessible on Wordpress and I presume that no-one in my friend's family knows how to close the account. Or, perhaps, they want it to remain as a virtual memorial to him. This got me thinking............about immortality. Internet immortality.

We’ve had the concept of space junk with us for just over half a century now… with items floating about in space that have served their purpose long ago, or like the Voyager Spacecraft, have gone beyond their original design parameters. The internet has many sites like Brian's where their owners have passed away, yet the site goes on, like Voyager, into the inky future. Internet detritus can only increase dramatically in the years to come and it is inspiring in one sense; that your work will still have an existence, long after you’ve stopped writing..… or existing. Is this our 21st Century version of immortality, where our virtual presence could go on into infinity, or as long as the server and hosts continue to function? I am reminded of one of my favourite writers from my teenage years, Ray Bradbury, and his story from the Martian Chronicles, There Will Come Soft Rains. Its central character is a futuristic house that continues to function long after its occupants have gone. Bereft of its raison d'etre, I find that immortality rather sad.

(Note to self: leave farewell post on file and instruct executors of will to upload it and leave blog live. I want to boldly go.........)

In praise of Thomas Hardy's poetry

Since I first dipped into The Mayor of Casterbridge in my entry year in grammar school, I've always enjoyed the novels of Thomas Hardy, though they are sadly out of fashion now. I read his entire canon and then graduated to his poetry. I'll admit that I don't like them all and, in my opinion, Hardy was a much better novelist than he was a poet. Ironically, he abandoned fiction after receiving an increasingly negative reception from the critics of the time  and turned entirely to writing verse. 

I like his shorter works and here's one that dropped into my inbox today. It seems to resonate with the sunny weather we are having at the moment. It's called 'The High School Lawn'.

Gray prinked with rose,
White tipped with blue,
Shoes with gay hose,
Sleeves of chrome hue;
Fluffed frills of white,
Dark bordered light;
Such shimmerings through
Trees of emerald green are eyed
This afternoon, from the road outside.

They whirl around:
Many laughters run
With a cascade's sound;
Then a mere one.

A bell: they flee:
Silence then:
So it will be
Some day again
With them, ...with me.

Royal Red Flag to a Republican Bull!

Today we had the above letter from Prince Charles under his title of His Royal Highness Charles Philip Arthur George, Duke of Cornwall and Rothesay, Earl of Chester and Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Great Steward of Scotland. Actually, between us we had four identical letters from Prince Charles under his title of His Royal Highness etc...

And what was this letter about?  It refers to an application by Prince Charles (under his title of His Royal Highness etc...) to register his ownership of the mines and minerals in the Manor of Stoke Climsland in which our property lies. By way of explanation, sometime in the mid 1300s the Duchy of Cornwall took upon itself to claim all the mineral and mining rights in Cornwall. These passed into law in 1846 following the passage of the Duchy of Cornwall (No 2) Act in 1844. This means that Prince Charles (under his title of etc....) has the right to mine and extract minerals from our property. We've always known this and it's a feature of living in Cornwall.  So why the letter now?  The Duchy has said it is having to officially register its ancient rights as part of a new drive by the Land Registry to record all mineral rights by October 2013. "The Duchy of Cornwall is having to register its mineral rights with HM Land Registry in order to preserve them for the future," a Duchy spokesman has said "This does not mean that the Duchy has any intention at this time to work the minerals. The Duchy has owned these mineral rights for many centuries - it is simply a case of the Duchy registering its existing rights." Well, that's alright then. No, it certainly is not.

We are given two options. Give our consent, in which case we can tell them by e-mail. Or we can object, in which case we have to register our objection in writing, giving chapter and verse of the legal basis of our objection and proof that we own the property in question. Not that they want to make it difficult to object, of course. My first reaction to the letter was one of surprise (why now?) followed very quickly by quiet outrage.  This is 2013 and something so archaic and feudal has absolutely no place in a so-called modern democracy. This point will be the basis of my objection.

The Duchy of Cornwall enjoys a curious variety of rights. Some of them might be regarded as “charming” by some but many are the source of real economic benefit and give the Duchy a privileged position with regard to both the creation and application of law. To we republicans, it is unarguable that the Duchy should be subject to greater public scrutiny and stripped of its privileges.  Until that happy day dawns, oi, Charley Boy, get orff my lawn!

I say, chaps, wouldn't it be spiffing if we started digging in the middle of the Parsons' lawn?

 

Such japes! Time to don one's Bob the Builder's hat.

Don't you just love the CAPTCHA box?

One of the banes of my on-line life is the CAPTCHA security system. You know, those little boxes you often have to complete in order to prove that you are a human being and not a robot. CAPTCHA, just in case you were blissfully ignorant of the fact, stands for Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart, the Turing being Alan Turing the pioneer of computing and the originator of the so-called Turing Test to detect artificial intelligence.

 

I might not like them but I can fully appreciate why they are so popular. I do think, however, that there is a crying gap in the current market place for an arbitration service for use at times when there is a dispute between a user and a

CAPTCHA dialogue. Let me give you some examples of what I mean. The code on the top left is easy to decipher: 'overlooks' and 'inquiry'. But what about what appears to be in the majority? The other day I was commenting on a

blog post and was faced with the CAPTCHA dialogue illustrated here. I typed in 'bedagandmi' and the wretched thing said I was wrong and offered me another silly pictograph to interpret. I shouted back that I wasn't wrong and that the CAPTCHA machine couldn't read its own writing. This went on for some time until we reached a stage of deadlock and I went off to sulk. Clearly, what is needed in these circumstances is an independent arbitrator who could settle such disputes - for a small fee, of course. I would therefore like to use this opportunity to announce the launch of my new service: CAPTCHAUSIFYOUCAN.COM If you find yourself in an argument with a CAPTCHA dialogue, just take a screenshot of the dialogue and send it to me along with your interpretation and a Paypal transfer of £5. I will e-mail you a decision by return and my decision will, need I say, be binding on both parties.

 

Incidentally, the wheelchair logo to the right of the box above is not for wheelchair users but is, in fact, the audio version of the phrase. Have you ever tried using these? I'm not sure for whom this feature is designed but if you think the number words are absurd, click the audio icon and try to decipher the same numbers and words as spoken by a broken tape recorder! It will make you weep.

 

And finally. People of a certain age will have thought "Captchausifyoucan? That sounds familiar". Indeed it does. Who remembers the Dave Clark Five? All together now, snap your fingers and..............

Here they come again, mmmm-mm-mm

Catch us if you can, mmmm-mm-mm

Time to get a move on, mmmm-mm-mm

We will yell with all of our might!

[Dave's drums kick in right now]

Catch us if you can ...

 

RIP: Trevor Bolder

Yet another player on my soundtrack of life has gone. Today we heard that Trevor Bolder has died.  Trevor Bolder? Who he?  OK, not a household name but he was a member of the greatest imaginary band ever to walk the stage - the Spiders from Mars. He also sported the best pair of sideboards ever seen in the rock world!

He played bass for David Bowie from 1971 to 1973, appearing on four legendary albums, Hunky Dory, The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars, Aladdin Sane and Pin Ups. You can hear his bass lines at their best on Bowie's classic The Jean Genie (clip below). 

You might not know his name but if you are a rock fan, you'll know his bass lines. Enjoy the music and Trevor's sideboards!

RIP: Ray Manzarek

Sad to hear of the death of Ray Manzarek today. As the keyboard player in The Doors he is/was a very important contributor to the soundtrack of my life. Of course, much is made of his role in The Doors but I'll always remember him for a staggeringly different piece of music. And that's his 1983 collaboration with Philip Glass for a version of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana. Not what you'd expect from the co-writer of 'Light my Fire', 'The End' and 'People are Strange'. But very enjoyable and my route into the appreciation of Orff's masterpiece.

A Saturday walk around Burrator

Where on Dartmoor can you find three Rajahs, evidence of bull fighting, a holy well, the setting for some scenes from War Horse, two ancient granite crosses and a Pua Kumbu? Sheepstor, that's where and we passed through it on our 8 mile walk on Saturday just gone. And guess what? We had blue skies, sunshine and fantastic visibility all the way around.  Here's the route:

*  We started at the Quarry Car Park just before Burrator Reservoir and from there we headed down the footpath to Meavy, crossing Drake's Leat (taking moorland water to Plymouth since 1650 or thereabouts) on the way.

*  From Meavy we negotiated the stepping stones over the River Meavy and headed to Sheepstor, via Yeo Farm and the Bluebell bedecked Burrator Wood. Not quite at their prime but not far off.
* Sheepstor is an interesting place.  A village in name but really no more than a small hamlet. It's strange that three generations of the Brooke family, the last Rajahs of Borneo, are buried in the graveyard. On the church walls hangs a large Pua Kumbu, a ceremonial blanket from that part of the world. In a field next to the church are the remains of a bull fighting ring in the shape of a granite block with an inset iron ring to which the bull was tethered. The War Horse connection? Several scenes were filmed around Sheepstor but, but all accounts, you'll need to really know the area to be able to recognise them.

*  From the hamlet, we ascended Sheepstor itself by the most direct (and steep) route.  But the view from the top was worth the effort. A full panorama, with views stretching as far as the Eddystone Lighthouse, maybe 25 miles away. It's not often that we are able to see this far.

*  From the top we dropped down acrossYellowmead Down and walked along the Deanscombe Valley to Norsworthy Bridge. From there it was a short climb up to the Devonport Leat, which contoured more or less back to our starting point. It was ice creams all around when we reached the end. A hot walk but a good one. Is this the start of the warmer weather when thermal underwear and waterproofs are abandoned for a while? Probably not!

Just to show that we do get blue skies sometimes.

Bluebells and moss covered rocks in Burrator Woods. And no Spanish interlopers in sight.

The spire of Sheepstor church.

The view from the top of Sheepstor towards Sharpitor and Hessary Tor in the distance.

From Sheepstor looking down on Burrator Reservoir.

Note the carefully placed pile of litter to the right. Why, oh, why do people do this?

After 8 miles, an ice cream is well deserved.

And just to show that I'm not losing it completely, one style and two correct feet.

We hardly ever buy Fairy.........

........because when we run out of our favourite washing up liquid, we do what all these lovely ladies in this advert do. We pay a blonde haired little girl to nick a couple of bottles for us from Tesco's in Callington. We did ask a blonde haired little boy to do this at one time but he used to come back with something silly... like a tin of Heinz Beans or he'd stuff a bar of chocolate down his trousers, which caused unsightly stains and then we'd have to pay the blonde haired little girl extra money to pinch a box of Fairy Washing Powder.

A walk from Bennett's Cross on Dartmoor.

A walk of around 6.5 miles today which had everything that Dartmoor has to offer: Open moorland, tors, Neolithic structures, burial mounds, panoramic views, rabbit warrens, WW2 artefacts, birthday cake (thanks, Hilary!), a mediaeval village, mining in all its forms and rain. We've taken this route before and it's always been an enjoyable walk. Today was no exception.  Brief details are:

*  Start at Bennett's Cross, just passed the Warren House Inn on the Postbridge to Moretonhampstead road.
*  Follow the Two Moors Way around Birch Tor and onto Hookney Tor.
*  Descend to Grimspound Neolithic village/settlement.
*  Ascend to Hameldown Tor and then follow the ridge to Two Barrows.
*  Descend into the Challacombe Valley and head to the mediaeval village of Challacombe.
*  Follow the track through the Vitifer and Golden Dagger Mines and slowly ascend to the starting point at Bennett's Cross.

Well worth doing for the views alone. Despite a few showers, and some hail, the visibility was pretty good considering the conditions.  And now a few photographs to give a flavour of the terrain.



Looking down to Grimspound - around 4000 years old and thought to have been a settlement. the outer wall encloses some 24 hut circles.

 

Looking back up to Hookney Tor, just about 1500 ft high.

 

Is this the right way to wear one of these neck scarves?

 

Don't ask me!

 

A dark Dartmoor sky - luckily this weather front passed us by relatively unscathed.

Watching the world go by and wondering if that cloud above is heading our way.

 

If I don't mention it, someone else will. Got back to the car to take off boots and put on something lighter. Found that I had packed the right feet of two different styles of shoes.  A senior moment?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Made in Chelsea wins a prize? Good grief.

Glancing cursorily down the list of winners at last night's British Academy of Film and Television Arts Awards, I noticed the above category. 'Reality and Constructed Factual'? Never 'eard of it. What's all that about?

Apparently it's a new one to recognise programmes where 'participants are placed in a constructed environment or format and filmed interacting in situations devised by producers'. So now we know. I'd put it a slightly different way: Reality & Constructed Reality = Manipulated TV = Crap

If you think I'm being harsh in my judgement, have you ever seen Made in Chelsea? It really is unwatchable - 30 seconds was enough to make my nose bleed. Avoid it like the bubonic plague. Unless, of course, you need something to rant about.

Another dose of melancholia from Charles Bukowski ..........but I like it.

Another poignant poem from Charles Bukowski - Hell is a Lonely Place. Sadly the scenario described is not uncommon and, when you think about it, not an illogical conclusion to a lifetime relationship. What would you do in similar circumstances?

Power to the People but not when Ruritania comes to town

The State Opening of Parliament today prompted me to root out something I posted in 2013. I think it stands the test of time and is worth rehashing. The only difference this year is that the Queen was unable to attend because of 'mobility issues'.

It's that time of the year again when the issues to be presented to Parliament in the next session are announced and what a weird and anachronistic way to do it. One of the less attractive features of the British is our pathological need to ritualise tradition and today's State Opening of Parliament is a brilliant example of this. A wonderfully over-the-top gothic pantomime of epic Hollywood proportions. The Queen (gawd bless her) processes in state from Buckingham Palace to the Houses of Parliament in a glittering coach, flanked by ranks of the Household Cavalry. In an elaborate ceremony with all the Crown Jewels on display, she reads out a list of government bills from the throne in the House of Lords. Only the British could still be doing this sort of thing in the 21st century! Either us or some tin-pot dictator with galloping delusions of grandeur!

It’s a colourful ceremony of seemingly ancient rituals (but they are not as old as you might think) where all the symbols and offices of the constitution come together under one roof. The Lords gather in their ermine robes and the Commons are summoned to attend in a famous door-slamming ritual played out by Black Rod ((by tradition, the Queen cannot enter the Commons). It is amazing how little things have changed in parliament over the last two centuries! It’s a grand pageant set in elaborate 17th century costumes of wigs, breeches, tights and ruffs. Pure high camp drama. The Crown, the Cap of Maintenance (the what?!), the Dutch Cap of Prevention (I'm sorry, I made that one up. I just couldn't help myself) and the Sword of State make an appearance along with officials with extravagant titles like Garter King of Arms and, a particular favourite of mine, Rouge Dragon Pursuivant! The camp splendour of the royal procession through Parliament is quite a sight. The uniforms, gowns, robes and the Crown jewels themselves are spectacular. More Ruritanian pantomime than serious government procedure.

The Queen finally takes her place on the Throne (titter, titter) in the House of Lords and the Commons file into the chamber. The Tories looking smug and, I'm glad to see, many Labour ministers and MPs appearing suitably bewildered by the occasion. The speech (and it's not any old speech, it's the Gracious Speech and is read from a goat-skin vellum scroll**) is a turgid list of Government business and legislation, prefaced with a regal, “My government will…”. It’s dull and no one pretends otherwise - and what's on this year's menu is duller than most.  As soon as the speech is complete, the Queen and her entourage process all the way back again (no, not backwards - sadly they spoil things by turning around) and the politicians get down to the serious business of making soundbites and point scoring - sorry, I meant to say the serious business of debating.

The one thing you can’t help noticing is how undemocratic the whole thing is. Only a third of those in attendance, the House of Commons, is elected by we plebs. The rest are hereditary or appointed. Within the ceremony, the Commons are conspicuously the least prominent. During the speech MPs (our representatives, remember) crowd in at the back of the room -rather like naughty school children, it's always struck me. Of course, it could be argued that any ceremony that makes politicians stand at the back must be a good thing!

However, there is one element that is totally missing from all of the above. The people. Any government presentation outlining upcoming intentions and priorities should, in the modern world (Hey - it's 2013 already or maybe Black Rod and Rouge Dragon Pursuivant haven't noticed?), be aimed at us, the electorate. Strip away the constitutional flummery and you’re left with a governing party stating what it’s going to do in the upcoming parliament. That’s important, and it should be presented to the people in a clear, unambiguous way. It's weird that a day of such high politics should start with such an archaic royal ritual. How long is all of this going to last. Will we see a radical overhaul at the end of the current reign ? Will a forward looking King Charles scale it down or abolish it all together? Probably not.

OK, so it’s a bit of constitutional glitter that pomp and pageantry junkies (and tourists) love. But does it really add any value to government in the 21st century? Would we not be better off with a State of the Union style speech to parliament and people by the Prime Minister? Isn't that what a representational democracy demands? Isn't that what the electorate deserve?

** I was being a little economical with the truth here. It is not on vellum anymore. It is on "goatskin parchment paper" but, confusingly, it's not actually made from goatskin. However it is very high quality, thick paper, which is why the ink takes several days to dry, and it then needs to be bound into a booklet, before being sent on to Her Majesty for signing. I wonder if she uses joined-up handwriting for this?

UKIP if you want to................and many did.

What should we make of the success of UKIP in the recent local elections? What do I make of it? Well, I'm certainly not getting as excited as the political commentators and I'm trying to keep a reasonable perspective. I can't but help remember the rise and fall of the SDP so I'm of the view that the real consequences will not be clear for a long time. Possibly not until after the next General Election.

I know that indulging in schadenfreude is unbecoming but I must say that a joy for me so far has been the fall out from the remarks made about UKIP before the poll. Some things just cannot be unsaid and the dismissal of UKIP voters as ‘fruitcakes’, ‘closet racists’ and ‘clowns’ by several senior Tories is one of them. It was wonderful to watch it all blow up in their faces: the Kenneth Clarke outburst followed by the visible gulp, and the cold sweat, as they wondered suddenly ‘what if they actually do take votes from us?’ And then to cap it all, Posh Dave bleating that he was sorry for his comments: “We need to show respect for people who have taken the choice to support this party and we are going to work really hard to win them back.”

To me UKIP policies are fundamentally arch-Thatcherite with a visceral dislike of foreigners and homosexuals thrown in for good measure. Nigel Farage – if he were not in UKIP – would be the perfect embodiment of what I dislike about the Tory Party. Farage is a man motivated by ego, power and greed. Farage is UKIP and UKIP is Farage. I'm sure that this will cause serious problems for the party in the future as any scandal involving Farage could seriously damage UKIP - perhaps fatally. It's time for UKIPPERS to ensure that other talent is encouraged and developed within the party. However, it is so centralised under Farage that this will never happen. UKIP's undoubted success in the polls will further strengthen Farage's control and ensure that his sycophants will remain firmly in place, enjoying, for the moment, the privilege of minor parties in the UK: making promises which are easy to like and impossible to keep – in the sure and certain knowledge you'll never be in power and have to deliver them.

The really big surprise down here in Cornwall, as elsewhere, was the size of the UKIP vote. I'm sure that there were some UKIP candidates who worked hard to get elected but that does not seem to be the case in many electoral wards in our county. I'll quote one example that I'm aware of, Illogan, further west from us. The UKIP candidate, as far as anyone seems to know, had never had anything to do with Illogan, did not deliver a single leaflet and did not knock a single door and yet he ended up with 23% of the vote. I watched a television interview where the newly elected UKIP person was asked what they stood for on local government issues. Basically he didn't have a clue. He said that UKIP councillors were going to ask what their constituents wanted and then represent that. Sounds good but the problem is that when it comes to voting for a UKIP candidate you don't know what they stand for because they don't know themselves until after they have been elected! It doesn't say much for the sophistication of the British voter that they've voted so many of them in.

As well as the tremors shaking the Tories, UKIP's success has made made me rethink my basic political philosophy. I first coined this when I was around 8: Labour good, Tory bad, Liberal funny. Thanks to Farage and his cronies, I've had to change it: Labour good, Tory bad, UKIP worse, Liberal funny.

Up the Port!

In my post of 15th April, I posed this question about Newport County football team: Will this be the season when they finally return to the higher echelons of the Football League after so many years of tootling around its lower reaches?
And the answer for all those who are interested is 'yes'. They won their play-off against Wrexham yesterday, 2-0, and gained promotion into Division 2.  Harry Laws would be delighted. Up the Port!

Notes from Shetland: Part 6: Finale

Just to tidy up a few loose ends at the end of our stay, I thought I'd include a few shots of the places we visited on Days 2 and 3 that I could not upload earlier. Nothing more to add other than to say that Shetland is well worth a visit.

Puffins at Sumburgh Head. It turns out that we were very lucky to see as many as we did. They were absent on subsequent evenings and, perhaps, those we saw were just 'casing the joint' prior to some serious nesting. The pair above clearly had some pre-nesting activities on their minds!

 

Circular houses at Jarlshof. Stone built with a turf over wooden poles roof. Very thick walls which, if made draught proof, would have given the inhabitants pretty good protection from the elements.

 

The tombolo joining St Ninian's Island to Mainland. Tombolo? That's a ridge of beach material (typically sand over shingle/pebbles/rocks), built by wave action, connecting an island to the mainland. Google 'tombolo' if you want to know about refractive wave action and the dynamics of tombolo formation. 

 

Circular houses at the Scantness Norse Village. Later in age that the houses in Jarlshof shown above. These are called 'wheel houses' as they had rooms coming off a central space rather like the spokes of a wheel. Again with turved roofs.

 

Mousa Broch with my IWC to give some idea of scale. Despite the blue sky, gloves, woolly hat, thermal undergarments and warm clothes were the sensible dress of the day (and every day for that matter!).

 

Inside Mousa Broch. This is dry stone walling with a vengeance. The gaps lead into small rooms and the stairs between the walls.

 

Mousa Broch in a panoramic view of the island and the channel between it and Mainland. Sumburgh Head is way in the distance.

 

I love watching waves crashing over rocks and the way water runs back into the sea.

 

Ruins and birds! Sums up our break on Shetland very nicely.