Dream on Dogs

The C19th brain surgeon and anthropologist Paul Broca, exemplifies the inherent limitations of elevating ‘theory’ over empirical experiment. He argued, that because a powerful sense of smell was an inherently animalistic trait, it must be far weaker in humans because we are rational beings The idea remained unquestioned for many years, though well before that, indeed, until the C18th, doctors relied on smell as much as anything else. They ‘squeezed, observed, smelled and tasted.’ Diphtheria smelled sweet, scurvy smelled pungent, typhus smelled like freshly baked rye bread and scrofula smelled like stale beer. I confess I rather like the idea of a doctor sniffing me, some doctors at least, others less so. But such fancies are for the moment academic. 

The Enlightenment and later Paul Broca disparaged and demolished these age old skills, until now it is widely assumed ‘smell’ is our weak link, the Cinderella of our senses. However it may be, to misquote Mark Twain, the death of this sense ‘has been greatly exaggerated,’ and that we are much better ‘smellers’ than we think.

Yes, the dog has certain advantages, slits in their noses that direct air to the side and not purely forward. The whole nostril is designed for sniffing and, moreover, a wet nose lets it know which way the wind is blowing, should you ever need to know. 

Even without wet noses and side slits the human sense of smell is good enough to detect butyl mercaptan diluted to a concentration of 0.3 parts per million – i.e. the rotten eggs smell added to natural gas to warn us of it. 

Traditionally, the number of smells we could ‘officially’ detect stood at 10,000. Quite a respectable figure, but one researcher argues that ‘We can probably distinguish as many smells as we can colours – millions of them.’

Others go farther, one scientist arguing that, ‘An analysis of data found humans can discriminate between around one trillion different smells.’ How he or she arrived at that number I have no idea. It would take more than a lifetime to count, never mind catalogue that number of smells, but there you go; who am I to even argue?  But this I can understand and appreciate: ‘the human olfactory system which regulates a sense of smell is considerably larger than previously thought and contains a similar number of neurons to dogs and other animals.’ 

The key difference lies in priorities. Dogs for example are superb at discriminating between the many types of urine on a lamppost or tree, but they’re rubbish with bananas. Moreover, they’re not that impressive with wine. A trained sommelier can determine the geographic provenance of wine varieties purely by smell. Urine or wine, even bananas? I know where my priorities lie. 

It is only when it disappears, that people fully realise the power of smell. Thousands of covid sufferers who lost a sense of smell found food meaningless, because taste and smell are so intimately linked. To argue the point, one writer advised holding your nose and closing your eyes to see whether you could tell the difference between ketchup and mustard. They may have a point with ketchup and French mustard. I’m less sure it holds true with English mustard and am not willing to put it to the test. 

Smells ‘directly connect to the brain where memory is stored rather than other senses, which get bypassed through a central part of the brain.’ It is why a particular smell can instantly evoke a memory of times past, a particular incident good or bad. It also perhaps explains the negative effects on those who lose their sense of smell—especially of roses, which apparently aids with memory.

A study followed 2,300 people between the ages of 71 and 82, testing their ability to smell by asking them to sniff such scents as chocolate, petrol, lemon, onion and smoke. After a decade around half of the participants understandably died but those with the weakest sense of smell died significantly earlier. A weak sense of smell is also linked to mental decline in later life. Pass me the smelling salts!

A mouse’s sense of smell may also be linked to memory though I’ve never found one to ask. However, scientists have found that by giving a mouse an electric shock whilst it was smelling cherry blossom, saw its grandchildren suffering severe anxiety within smelling distance of the same blossom. 

So, smell has met its Prince, several in fact. It is no longer the Cinderella of the senses. 

The UCL Institute for the Sustainable Heritage of York University have established the UK Heritage Smell Inventory, where the public can submit suggestions for smells that should be conserved for the future. Ideas so far include bluebells, steam trains and red phone boxes—now perhaps more attractive to dogs.  Other suggestions include church hymn books. Personally I’d go for the smell of a packed Liverpool bus on a rainy day, the smell of the Mersey,  baked potatoes and the smell of Hartley’s jam factory. 

Other countries have the same idea. In 2001, Japan’s Ministry of Environment compiled a list of 100 notable smell-scapes, including the sea fogs of the Kushiro region and the second-hand bookshops of Tokyo’s Kanda-Jinbocho region. Each to their own. In 2001 France passed the Sensory Heritage Law with similar emphases on its own fairly unique smellscape. 

 And finally, to conclude with a real visionary, a man before his time. In the mid C19th  an 'off the wall' chemist, G.W. Septimus Piesse, combined music and scent with his own especially designed 'perfume organ,'an instrument that emitted one of 46 different smells when a note sounded. It never got farther than the prototype stage, but it may at last have come into its own. Herald the day when churches and cathedrals bless congregations with light shows and a trillion evocative smells. Dream on dogs!

Preacher Man

 

I have a Sunday morning ritual I’ve long enjoyed, though sometimes I wonder whether it’s the routine I enjoy: an endless pot of tea and feasting on the various news outlets. These range from BBC, Sky, Al Jazeera, GB News and before it was banned, Russia Today. And then one day whilst channel hopping, I stumbled upon CNBC one programme in particular or rather a man, Dr Charles Stanley. 

In a lined, teak coloured face, silvery hair, and dark well cut suit, he looked to be in his eighties, and he spoke with both gravity and authority. It was the first time I’d seen a preacher man since my student days when we witnessed the strutting, striding, thigh-slapping Morris Cerullo in the Brangwyn Hall, Swansea. The contrast was startling, akin to comparing an evangelical Napoleon speaking Bronx to a Werther’s Originals sucking uncle.

Whatever, the 25-minute break, replacing Russia Today has become a welcome palate cleanser after the earnestness of Al Jazeera and the inanities of Sky. The words are familiar, the lessons nothing I don’t already know but it makes for strangely riveting viewing. 

There is Charles Stanley himself. Born in 1932 he preached for over 49 years, dying on the 18^th of April 2023. And yet, despite his death, In Touch Ministries, the organisation he founded, still broadcasts his sermons and lives on after him.

The sheer longevity of the man allows you to make other interesting comparisons, between the jaunty certainty of a sprightly forty-year-old, to the more measured preacher man in a well-cut black suit, and with a deeper certainty, one honed by his own challenges in life and ploughing the same furrow for nearly fifty years. 

 Preaching at 85

One of those challenges involved Anna, his wife from 1955 –1993 who divorced him. Initially and perhaps cynically, I assumed he’d been caught out in affair, which in a sense he had been—with God or with In Touch Ministries at least. Her grounds were that he had put religion before her, and she had seen little of him over the yearsw. Chastened, he tried to reclaim what he may have taken for granted but found he had left it too late. St Paul was probably wise not to have married.

Another, and I confess a more trivial reason for watching, lies in the slow camera shots of audiences of every ahe and colour. Spanning the seventies and eighties, to the first two decades of the C21st the cameras allow you glimpses of changing fashion, from power shoulders and big hair to the more subtle and subdued styles of later years. 

The fashion notes are trivial. Less trivial is what I see as a factor common to every decade. It’s the faces. Faces caught in rapt attention. Many are young, some attractive. Others are old and middle-aged, wrinkled, gaunt or plump. All though have the indefinable beauty of a soul reflected in the face, something you rarely see in a rock concert, a comedy show or political rally—which brings me nicely back to the news and the carefully curated masks of politicians smoothly avoiding the truth or answering the question. Give me conviction and sincerity. 

Norwich Cathedral and the Automatic Flush

1 - 3 Credit B Keyton

Friends have told us Norwich cathedral is one of the great ones, a friend of a friend was of the opinion it was the finest of all. Built between 1096 and 1145, one can only imagine the thoughts of the newly conquered Saxons as they saw this huge and powerful homage to God emerge from turmoil and dust. 

My thoughts were less sanguine, largely because of the toilets. 

We both went, and things went according to plan—as you’d expect—except when it came to flushing away the excrement. I looked around for something to pull or press. Nothing. 

I looked more closely, feeling the first stirrings of unease. Then on the wall, I saw a small stainless-steel plaque with an even smaller blue-glass disc, and the words—Automatic Flush.

This was new to me. What did it mean? 

I assumed at first it would be akin to these new post-covid taps, the ones you no longer need to touch. A languid wave of the hand under the spout summoning water. Some toilets too have buttons you don’t have to touch, the mere proximity of a finger sufficient to activate the flush.

On that basis, I waved, brought my finger closer. Nothing. I touched it, pressed it, stroked it. Nothing. I began waving my hand like a mother’s farewell to a son off to war, tried pressing the plaque, eventually reduced to studying it like a chimp presented with an iPhone. 

This was embarrassing, leaving an unflushed toilet is one of those unspoken but unforgivable sins peculiar to our time, less so for the stonemasons who built the cathedral perhaps. And the toilet was busy. Behind the cubicle door I heard the sound of taps and hand-driers. I was trapped, at least until the toilet was empty.

Silence at last. 

I peered through the cubicle door, prepared to make a quick and furtive escape. And, as soon as I closed the door behind me—a gush of water as the automatic flush did what it was designed to do. 

Human nature being what it is, the experience soured my views of what is undoubtedly a magnificent cathedral, though not so inspiring as its neighbour, Ely cathedral. To look up is to be reminded of the craftsmanship of what we deem a more primitive age, the use of light and stained glass, the Caen stone transported from Normandy, cut with machine like precision. 

Off from the nave, in St Luke’s Chapel, is the Despenser Reredos, given to the cathedral by Bishop Dispenser of Norwich sometime between 1380– 1400. It was likely painted in the locality by a Norwich artist and is seen as one of the finest European paintings of this period. 

The five panels show the flagellation, the carrying of the cross, crucifixion, resurrection and ascension.  

 

When it came to leaving the Cathedral, I resisted the impulse to make a small donation. If they could afford ‘Automatic Flushes’ designed to confuse the innocent and pay millions in reparations for nebulous involvement in the Slave Trade, they clearly didn’t need what I’d rather spend on a pint of Saxthorpe beer. 

And in lieu of a blazing log fire this, in my opinion would be the perfect place to enjoy it, and not a pesky automatic flush in sight. 

Cromer, Biggles and Crab

have just come back from a ‘magical mystery tour’ of Norfolk, largely because we had never been to Cromer and because I have always wanted to taste the fabled Cromer Crab. In choosing Alfa Coaches, we inadvertently discovered a fascinating example of entrepreneurship both modern and old. The first entrepreneur was Cromer born and would develop the hotel where we stayed.

The Hotel de Paris at night

The view from our window

The original premises were bought by Pierre le Francoise, the son of two French emigres who’d fled the French Revolution and settled in England. Pierre died in 1841 and four years later the hotel was bought by a local businessman, Henry Jarvis. Under his ownership and that of his son Alex, the hotel prospered as did its reputation. Lord Tennyson visited the Hotel de Paris in 1877. Later guests included Lord Curzon, the Marquis of Blandford, the Duchess of Marlborough, and Lord Ivor Spencer Churchill. 

The railway encouraged more tourism, more hotels were built and by the end of the century the Hotel de Paris was showing its age and so the Jarvis family knocked much of it down and built a new and even more grand hotel. It stayed in the family until in 1961 it was sold to a Mr Bush of Norwich who promised to keep the hotel in good repair. When he died in 1972, the hotel fell into the hands of various property companies, its golden days long gone. It might well have been knocked down, turned into flats, or even worse, fallen into the hands of Britannia Hotels. 

Luckily it was saved by two entrepreneurs from Chorley, Tony and Peter Sawbridge, who in 1984 founded ‘Leisureplex.’ Their mission was to renew the once great but fading hotels of this country, realising at the same time they now had to fill them. 

So, in 1990 they founded Alfa Travel,  their new coach company completing a virtuous circle—supplying their refurbished hotels with customers and a fresh income stream to buy and refurbish new but carefully chosen hotels. Saving fine buildings and making money. They now have a fleet of fifty Mercedes Benz coaches and picturesque hotels scattered across the country.

Back entrance to the hotel

The story is inspiring, the reality a little less so but this is purely subjective. Cruising on ocean or river is passive like coach travel, but on a ship or boat you can walk about, stretch your legs, have a drink; in other words do things. On a coach, once you’re strapped in, that’s it—the only distraction a trip to the toilet; stiff legs and a sore bum as you approach your destination. 

As I said, subjective. Coaches suit many people, old people mostly— and I of course am not old—not to the extent of being in a position to compare and contrast the comparative merits of Alfa Hotels. Two of our fellow travellers had been to them all and were able to tell us which had the best architecture and which the best food. That is weird.

 We were though, spared the company of an ex schools inspector on the coach at least; not unfortunately at breakfast and dinner for he sat at the next table.

I’m convinced he took a deep, whale-like breath before he sat down, for he didn’t stop talking – not to us but his two unfortunate companions and anyone in earshot. It was a bit like the Ancient Mariner on speed with an opinion on everything: deep-sea fishing, the armed forces, the French, Germans, Chinese, traffic calming, taxation, the role of the state, immigrants. . .  We also gained an insight into his role as an Ofsted =inspector. He was able tell a good or bad school just by studying  the surrounding litter. To think of all those endless hours preparing documentation and lesson plans when all school needed was a caretaker on overtime.

 Having said all this, Alfa was excellent value and Cromer was wonderful.

In one of these streets was a second hand bookshop where I was able to buy a set of Biggles books at £3 a go. My wife has told me I now have to read them.

The highlight for me was the Red Lion in Cromer, where I experienced a pint of Saxthorpe Bitter, followed by Cromer Crab in a sea front café. That and Biggles made the journey entirely worthwhile

Tai-Lin—— OUT NOW!

It’s not often you think what goes into a story. In the case of Belia and its sequel Tai-Lin, the influences, conscious and unconscious are there to be found. As a child, I was swept away by Stevenson’s Treasure Island, The Black Arrow, and Kidnapped; in particular, his exploration of villainy, its attraction and moral complexity. I didn’t know these terms as a child, but I most definitely ‘got it.’ I also ‘got’ Alan Garner, Susan Cooper, Moorcock’s Elric of Melnibone, and later I also ‘got’ history. 

I’ve often been asked my favourite period, and on reflection, it has to be the Eighteenth Century, possibly because it’s rarely taught in British schools. But for me, it’s the period when the world opened out in all its weird and wonderful glory. 

Eighteenth century China marked the peak of the Qing dynasty dominating vast territories across Central Asia and Tibet. Neighbouring India saw the gradual decline of the Mughal empire and European incursion. In the forests of North America, you saw conflict between the English and French, Iroquois and Huron, and the tribes of the plains and faraway Rockies not yet knowing what was to come.

All of it reflected in the plaques, graves and memorials in obscure English churches; ploughboys and sons of gentlemen who met their deaths in foreign lands. An England of ex-pirates and highwaymen. It’s also the world of the Great Witch Belia, Tai-Lin, Rafe Sadler and Rosie his daughter, her boyfriend Jai from the far future.

And Tai-Lin, the book?

In a sentence:

A sweeping adventure exploring corruption, morality, and the pitfalls of time travel romance.

You want more?

Tai-Lin is a story set within three timelines: Wales in the C18th, present day Newport, and a far future world, where a pastoral 'Golden Age' is enforced by corrupt and ageless Shepherds—a world now threatened by demons in search of three quantum opals. Individually, the opals allow limited time travel. Used together they would allow the colonisation of time itself.

The demons have one of them. Rafe Sadler, an C18th highwayman and Rosie his daughter, hold the other two and are now being hunted. So too, is the brilliant but elusive Tai-Lin who created the three time-jewels.

A perfect present for yourself, your child or any passing ragamuffin.

A Church in a Meadow

 

Two miles from us stands St Peter’s church.

A Faerie Fortress

St Peter’s Church was already 300 years old when the young future Henry V was hunting boar in the forests of Monmouth. An ‘old’ church was mentioned on this site in AD 735 and was probably founded by Tydwg, a monk of the small Welsh kingdom of Archenfield, a stronghold of the early Celtic Church. In 1054 the church was destroyed by the Welsh prince, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn who devastated the river settlements along the river Wye. The church was rebuilt and dedicated to St Peter by the Normans in 1080, who went on to occupy the small Welsh kingdom of Archenfield.  Soon after that it was appropriated by the Benedictine Monastery of Monmouth and placed within the Hereford Diocese. 

Original Saxon 'herringbone' pattern stonework

Building work continued. The tower was completed by 1300. In 1420 they acquired a church bell cast in Worcester and transported downriver. No rush then. By the late C16th the church was falling into decay and it fell upon a local man, David the Hermit to repair it. In 1740 the vicarage was located in Wyesham across the river, and vicar and parishioners on that side of the river arrived for service by ferry and boat, the steps still in evidence on the riverbank.

Over the years, the river has proved both a blessing and a curse. The watery highway allowed monks to travel far  inland and establish the early Celtic churches along its banks. Wood, stone, and even cast-iron bells were transported via the river. The river though, sometimes went its  own way. Heavy rain often saw the surrounding  meadow flooded, the church built upon a small bump then appearing to float on water. Very heavy rain saw devastating floods when pews and pulpits crashed into the walls and each other as forceful torrents rushed through the church. Brass markers record the height of the varying floods, 1947 marking a flood level well above head height.                                                

And finally, one wonderful curiosity, a handwritten and hand coloured Bible.  The story behind it is so beautifully bizarre I simply invite you to read the accompanying information and wonder at one man's eccentricity. 

                                                                       

Footprints in the Sand.

There is mystery in a family tree. Who were these people? What were they like? What feuds and quarrels lurk there? What broken hearts to they hide? Family trees are very much like footprints in the sand. Nothing else is shown.

We have traced our family tree as far back as 1770,  the entire Keyton clan never straying far from Cork, but the longer I stare at their names, the more I want to know about them. Who were they apart from names and dates? Even so, dates reveal a lot. Look at old Jeremiah Keating 1770 - 1880 and  check the 1830 generation, you can see—surprisingly—they sailed through the Great Potato Famine and lived to a ripe old age, a mystery in itself. If you compare this to later dates, Keytons begin dying off like flies—that though is less of a mystery and summed up in one word.

Liverpool.

In 1865 John Keyton moved to Bridgend. It may have been to gain mining experience before moving on to Liverpool and then America, where wages were much higher than here. It was a well-worn path for those Irish born with a sense of adventure. 

In Bridgend, my grandfather was born and by the slip of a pen John Keating became John Keyton because the Welsh registrar wrote it how it sounded to him. 

Fortunately for me, unfortunately for John’s immediate family, instead of moving on from Liverpool to America, they stayed, living in a disease- ridden slum. 

And in tribute to them I wrote the book, determined that these at least would be more than ‘footprints in the sand.’ 

The Pierhead from where so many sought a better life in America

Why should anyone else read the book? I could say it’s beautifully written and packed with evocative photos. I could say that. The truth though is much more. The Keytons and Parrys are  illustrative fragments of a far wider picture.

The former Walton Workhouse where my grandmother died

Five people were killed here during the Blitz

But ideal playgrounds for children- before ‘Health and Safety.’

A Liverpool Childhood is a spotlight on a moment in time. It’s a personal memory integrated into the social and cultural history of Aintree based on hearsay, gossip, ghosts from the past, a period of turbulent change. It examines the impact of war, the complex family culture dominating local factories, recession and renewal, schools, music, murders, and ghosts.

And where do you find local pubs like these anymore?

The Beatles 

The famous Aintree Institute built by the jam maker Sir William Pickles Hartley in the 1890s as a Christian community centre‚ the venue for many, many Beatles concerts,  and demolished in 2006  by worthy councillors for houses that twenty years later have still not  been built. A piece of history replaced by a pay and display car park.

In geological terms we are here and then gone. Some call it renewal. But here and now we have life and we have meaning, a shared history and one to be celebrated—even if, as George Harrison once observed, ‘All things must pass’—but not before reading this book