Llanthony Priory

LlanthonyPriory is one of my favourite places. It began as a small hermitage started by two men in 1100 and ended up as a major Augustinian priory. Such was the Age of Faith. The ruins make a wonderful amphitheatre for drama  or music. I have played with Welsh Dancers – musically rather than otherwise, and our band, the aptly named Devil’s Elbow once played there too.

 It’s also a place to just sit and stare. 

One thing though has always eluded me despite several attempts. Hatterrall Hill, the top of which allows stunning views of Herefordshire, the Black Mountains, and Wales. The ridge way eventually leads on to Offa’s Dyke. In the past company, or sheer lack of time, has prevented the full climb. This time, with my daughter leading the way, and my newly repaired lungs put to the test, we did it. The photos offer only a glimmer of what we experienced. 

 The Leader

 

Clouds sweeping over the sun

The Priory

Nearing the top

Wales and the Black mountains from the top

England from the top

Vile and Crass

David Ward is a Liberal MP for Bradford East, a constituency with a large Muslim population. He recently tweeted ‘The big question is – if I lived in Gaza would I fire a rocket? – Probably yes.

In terms of maximising his vote in next year’s elections you can see where he’s coming from. A cynical view perhaps.  On another level it’s a ‘case of the bleeding obvious’. You’d have to have the empathy of a gnat not to be able to put yourself into the position of a Palestinian who has just lost a wife, or a child, a father or brother. ‘Probably’ doesn’t come into it – except for the morally blessed. Vengeance isn’t a pretty thing but it’s pretty much a core element of the human condition. And both sides of this conflict are tapped into it.

What is interesting, in my view chilling, is the blanket condemnation from the media and political establishment. In the words of the Labour Party: it defies belief that a Liberal Democrat MP should tweet something so vile and irresponsible. Nick Clegg must act immediately to disassociate his party from this comment.”

The Liberal Party duly obliged, referring to his comments as: “vile and crass”.

The Tory Party are equally appalled: “Appalling: No MP should tweet what’s essentially incitement to violence. Mr Ward must withdraw now. Completely irresponsible.”

I have no wish to write about the Israeli- Palestinian conflict. It is complex. The arguments are out there, and no amount of words from me or anyone else is going to save anyone’s life today. I’m writing instead from a curmudgeonly sensitivity that free speech is being subtly repressed. If someone, quite legitimately, supported the Israeli side and had tweeted. ‘The big question is – if Hamas fired a rocket on me would I fire back? – Probably yes.’ Would there have been so much fuss? I hope not. Both are legitimate points of view. And I stress the word both. When one becomes ‘delegitimized’ something is lost. Freedom of speech.

Consistency in death

I’m all in favour of consistency, especially when it comes to death. When the Abortion Act was passed in 1967 the great and the good assured us we would be talking about only a trickle of 'hard cases.' The trickle has become a flood of 200,000 cases a year, and to accommodate this babies have been re-termed foetuses. There are many strong arguments in favour of abortion and many, heart-aching stories. There are others who argue babies die for social and economic convenience. There is truth on both sides.

A similar argument is being conducted with Lord Falconer’s Right To Die Bill, which will no doubt be passed. I accept it is much easier for the healthy to pontificate, and that my mind might change if I or a loved one found themselves as one of those ‘hard’ cases currently used to justify legalised killing. Then again it may be a case that hard cases make bad law.

When the Right To Die became law in the Netherlands 1,923 people were killed in 2006. The trajectory is 6000 – 7000 by the end of 2014. Rising at a rate of 15% a year one assumes they will eventually catch up with the abortion figures. In the Netherlands new classes of people are being offered the right to die including the demented and the depressed, the lonely and recently bereaved.  There are now mobile death units of travelling doctors trained to kill with minimum pain. Just in case not all have got the message, activists are campaigning for lethal pills to be made available to anyone over 70 who wish to die. In Belgium the service is offered to children.

There is consistency in this. At both ends of the spectrum the socially inconvenient are spared the horrors of life. At least though the aged have lived and are offered the choice, though, with familial and societal pressure one can assume the right to die will in time become an expectation, if not a duty -  at least for the poor, the easily swayed, or those seeking to do well for their children

Where then is the inconsistency? 

It’s raised in the question of how many supporters of abortion and the right to die are also opposed to the death penalty? It seems inconsistent to support the one and not the other. With ageing populations and spiralling national debts one can see the convenience in supporting the right to die. One can see the convenience in removing a mistake at the other end of the spectrum. Why then should the murderer be spared?

There are many familiar arguments against such a course:

a) It is barbaric. But then barbarism is a relative term and like beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. In this case Humpty Dumpty had it about right:  'When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, 'it means just what I choose it to mean. Question is, did the barbarians see themselves as barbarians? Will people in the future see what we now take for granted as ‘barbaric’?

b) There have been miscarriages of justice? The thought of wrongly applied ‘Do not resuscitate’ notices placed on patients’ beds immediately come to mind.

c) The most puzzling argument is that the death penalty causes unnecessary pain. Why then are the old being offered medicalised death? If it is painless for them it should be painless for the convicted murderer. If it is not painless, then it shouldn’t be offered to the old.

In the best dystopian tradition the most consistent solution might be extending 'the right to die' to long term prisoners – in fact to all prisoners. I cannot see how anyone who champions the right to die could object. It would be a matter of choice and societal pressure. Equality within the law.

The Kindle Daily Deal

Some years ago I received an offer from the Daily Telegraph, which basically offered a full subscription for little more than £2 a week. I couldn’t believe it and, like the monkey who puts its hand in the narrow-necked jar in search of nuts, I immediately subscribed. Once the monkey closes its fists on those nuts it cannot escape without releasing the nuts. I don’t know how many monkeys ever escaped from such a devilish trap, but it was a close run thing with me.

Every day the letter box clicked followed by a soft plop on the carpeted hall. A dull thud on the weekend when the paper rivalled the size of a telephone directory.  And slowly the horror began.

I couldn’t keep up – not without sacrificing big chunks of the day. It was particularly bad because when it comes to reading I’m a bit OCD. Life has no meaning unless I read everything in front of me – even sports reports – and I hate sport. I even found myself reading a report on a Manchester United game. Enough said.

Great oceans of paper lapped and curled round my feet and every day there came another plop, sometimes a thud.

At last I had to give my almost free gift away, and by golly it hurt. I come from a culture that never gives anything away. 

And life improved on the instant.

Now I’m confronted with a new and more subtle threat. The Kindle Daily Deal. Sometimes its selection is generic and random and I sigh with relief and skim ‘delete’. Another sandbag against the flood of new titles is to read the one or two star reviews. That usually works. But more and more I’m sensing complex algorithms closing in on me as they measure my tastes. And more and more – for a mere 99p – I’m buying the damn things. The books are piling up, books I may/will never read.

If I was a clever monkey; if I was a monkey with just half a brain I’d delete the Kindle daily deal immediately and unread – better still consign it to spam. But Poo Bear has a better brain than I do when it comes to deals too good to refuse.

How many books does a kindle hold? How many years have I left?

England is the paradise of women. So now you know

I was leaning against the wall radiator in the staffroom when Mike Bouchier sidled up to me with the air of a man in a shabby brown coat and one or two dirty books to sell. An unfortunate image – he was the Deputy Headmaster. Thing is, he did have a book to sell – not just one but an indefinite number of them. He wanted me to join the Folio Book Club. I’d be committed to buying four books a year and he’d get a free book.

I now have a fine collection of Folio books, most of which are beautifully produced reprints of works you can no longer find – at least not easily.

Marriage, children ended my relationship with Folio. The books, though beautiful, are not cheap. They do though hold their value in second hand bookshops. You can imagine my delight when I spotted the Folio edition of ‘Fuller’s Worthies’ in a second hand bookshop that was closing down. It was in Ross and Wye and he was selling it for a mere £5.

So what is ‘Fuller’s Worthies’? It’s a fascinating and plum-pudding rich insight into C17th England. Almost an encyclopaedia - eccentric though and more entertaining.

Fuller describes the various counties of England under various headings such as proverbs, famous men, soldiers, manufactures, produce, wonders and sayings, amongst others. It’s a fascinating snapshot of C17th England and reveals much of its prejudices. He was a contemporary of Pepys and John Aubrey. As Richard Barber writes in his introduction: “For if we would like to walk the streets of London with Pepys, or sit in an Oxford Tavern, drinking with Aubrey, with Fuller we would want to dine with leisure. He is a comfortable writer, marvellously entertaining, and well informed.”

I turned a page at random and came upon this – it is a proverb from Berkshire:

England is the paradise of women, hell of horses, purgatory of servants.

I had to find out why.I had to read on.

According to Fuller ‘ women, whether maids, wives or widows, finding here the fairest respect and kindest usage. Our Common Law is a more courteous carver for them than the Civil Law beyond the seas, allowing widows the thirds of their husbands’ estates along with other privileges. The highest seats are granted to them in feasts. The indentures of maid servants are cancelled by their marriage, though the term be not expired; which to young men in the same condition is denied…and we men, so far from envying them, wish them all happiness therewith.’ (Such fat-headed complacency.)

With regard to England being Hell of horses he seems less complacent more confused as to whether the Spanish are worse. On the one hand he condemns the Spanish for having horses for show rather than use, and so making ‘wantons’ of them. The English however use them but are ‘over-violent’ in their riding, racing and hunting. He urges more consideration because ‘the good man regardeth the life of his beast.’ (Much as he does with his woman)

With his purgatory for servants Fuller plays a waggish trick on his readers. First of all he denies England could ever be a purgatory for servants, we treat them so well. And since ‘Purgatory’ is a mere Popish invention, both concepts are equally false. Oh, my sides cracked. 

But now another Folio lines my shelves and who knows, I may share more of Fuller’s insights in the future. You have been warned.

Running for buses

After last weeks scare - okay, a minor palpitation - on to more mundane dreams; mundane because they're recurring; mundane because they're solely about buses. Liverpool buses.

Liverpool, in preparation for and following its brief stint as 'European Capital of Culture 2008' tarted up its sea front. It is a magnificent sea front, in contrast to Cardiff's more higgledy-piggledy affair, but in a bout of artistic feng shui the designers destroyed the Valhalla of Transport, the Liverpool Bus Terminus. It exists now only in dream, mine and perhaps those of a few others with similar, sad dispositions.

 This is how it looked once - probably before I was born. I'm wondering what that man is dreaming about in the bottom left hand corner. Note the two entrances to the landing stage. The one constant. Apart from the dreaming man.

 

 You can see how little the layout has changed in the pictures below, though buses replace trams.

Walk down either of those 'tunnel's and you found yourself on the landing stage for ferries or once, ocean going liners.

But back to my dream. In it I'm running for the 2 or the 30 to Aintree and I always think I know where it is but it is never, never  there. As the minutes tick by I run from bus to bus in an increasingly vain hope of finding it before the last bus goes.

At last, in desperation, I remember their route and abandon the terminus for the nearest bus stop where one of them is bound to turn up.

And here it is, the noble No. 2 that will take me to Aintree. 

In terms of dream this is a result. Huzzah!

Usually I jump on the bus but in the dream it is always dusk and usually raining. Sometimes, for no accountable reason (you want accountable reasons in dreams?) I miss the bus or I'm at the wrong stop. It's a five mile walk to Aintree and I wake up more tired than I went to bed. Still, turning into Ribblesdale Avenue and home - it's a wonderful feeling.



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All these pictures have been taken from the talented and generous members of:
https://www.facebook.com/groups/friendsoforrellpark/
https://www.facebook.com/groups/waltononthehill/
https://www.facebook.com/groups/Liverpoolincolour/
https://www.facebook.com/groups/Photographsinliverpool/

Nematodes of Doom

“I’m afraid it’s bad news.” The doctor – a woman – was sympathetic but firm. “You’re going to die within the next four days. I can’t put it any other way.”

Yes, you could - if you tried hard enough. “That bad.” I buttoned up my shirt and stood, and sat down again. I felt dizzy. When woke up I was in bed staring out of a window. And the strangest thing – I was calm, working out all the things I’d have to sort out – my digital will – passwords and stuff – who was going to be my literary executor – yeah okay, okay, but the prospect of imminent death conjures up the weirdest of thoughts. 

 And yes, before you all rush to buy me flowers, or think to yourself 'Praise the Lord one less person to follow' - it was all a dream. But a vivid, highly detailed one that left me unsettled. Even waking up, I wasn’t sure I had wakened up and not dreaming instead. 

My first cup of tea didn’t entirely convince me. In fact I descended into a bit of a gloom. Whereas, in my dream, I had been quite stoic over the whole business, in real life it was the reverse. It was a dream. I wasn’t going to die in four days. 

Or was I?

My Irish and Welsh ancestry kicked in. My mind became dark peat, a hundred and one stories wriggling through it like nematodes of doom.  Dreams can be warnings. And looked what happened to Caesar and William Rufus when they’d ignored their own portents and dreams?

By my second cup of tea I was compiling a bucket list – always a challenge when you have only four days.

By my third cup of tea I had second thoughts. I remembered reading about witch-doctors who could kill from a distance by auto suggestion – the mere sending and receiving of the appropriate Juju being enough to knock a man off his perch. Was I not doing precisely this with my truncated bucket list? What would happen on my last sip of Lagavulin on Sunday night?

Still…Some of what I had planned was more than inviting. Perhaps I could sneak up on them – a cheeky sip of Lagavulin – spur of the moment kind of thing - the rare grilled steak, the vindalooo? Kick the bucket away - see what fell out – pick up a couple of things and hope the dark gods weren’t watching. 

Well, I have between now and Sunday night to see if the plan works. In the mean time what’s left of my rational mind is working overtime – death in four days - a subliminal warning that England will be knocked out the world cup tonight and be taking the Sunday flight home?

 I can live with that.

In the meantime onto happier things, and a different Sunday.

Last Sunday, being Father’s day, I received two presents and two cards, which showed me once again how well my children know me – and how I’ve learnt to live with disrespect. 

 Led Zeppelin. I could have linked Stairway to Heaven, still one of my favourites, but perhaps predictable. This is my current favourite, featuring Sandy Denny in the Battle of Evermore.

 Ah, the Lagavulin - A Birthday present from my beautiful children - and still some left for Sunday  night.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-21AtiWV3TE