Syria on the Dneiper

 

I was asked my opinion of Ukraine recently, and I offered the Russian perspective on the basis that the airwaves are swamped with the alternative and, more importantly, it’s important to know where your opponent is coming from. First of all, I’m not buying the knee-jerk view that Putin is a deranged psychopath in a hurry; he’s not a messianic communist, and I think he’s realistic enough to know there is no chance of resurrecting the old ‘Soviet empire.’ I think though he is a nationalist, and that is probably the key to the tragedy and my worse fear of all, that we may have another Syria on our doorstep.   

I hesitate to step on enflamed passions but, in my view, there are two scenarios: best case and worst case. 

If  we look at it from Putin’s perspective, Kiev would be important to him. It was, in a sense, the birthplace of Russia, the country getting its name from the early Vikings who established a trading post there in the mid C9th. They were called Rus by Arab traders and the name stuck. For centuries it’s been part of Russia either as a constituent of a Tsarist empire or as part of the Soviet Union. Eastern Ukraine is still largely Slavic, Russian in culture, religion, and language. 

When the Soviet Union collapsed at the end of the C20th, America/Europe promised not to take advantage and that NATO would not spread eastwards with the potential to threaten Russia. Despite the objections of seasoned White House advisers and senior members of the American government, this understanding was broken, and since then Estonia, Lithuania, Rumania, Poland and Czech/Slovakia have all joined NATO, and despite the denials, Ukraine was clearly next on the list. 

Of course, each of these countries have the right to apply for membership, from their sense it makes sense. What’s not generally said is that NATO has the right to refuse, and this was the understanding when the Soviet empire broke up. In Putin’s view, it is a case of now or never to stop NATO and the EU’s steady eastwards expansion, especially when the cards are currently in his hands. It’s also more than mere paranoia on his part. Hardwired into Russian thinking is the experience of two world wars when each time Germany saw Ukraine as ‘living space’ a source of raw materials, as well as a gateway into Russia. 

After the horror of the Napoleonic Wars, European statesmen realised the dangers of nationalism and in the interests of a peace that lasted much of the century respected each other’s backyard. We continue to respect America’s ‘backyard’ when it comes to South America. A case in point is the 1962 Cuban crisis when Russia sent missiles to Castro’s Cuba  a hundred miles or so from Florida. Kennedy threatened nuclear war over the issue and Russia backed down. Less publicly reported, America also backed down by removing their missiles from Turkey, all of them pointing at Russia.  

So what now? The best-case scenario offers two possibilities: a) Putin exploits a short-term success as a negotiating lever into the ‘Finlandisation’ of Ukraine, a large Switzerland if you will, and with the ‘Russian’ eastern provinces having a role in a decentralised constitution as a checkpoint against veering too far to the West.

b) It is possible Russia will attempt to take and hold on to Kiev, using the River Dnieper as a boundary. The large flat plains of Eastern Ukraine would be easier to control than the more urbanised and western orientated western Ukraine. Neither of these would be seen as best case scenarios by many Ukranians. The problem is the alternative could be far worse

The worst-case scenario is a long and protracted war, mutilation and bloodshed, where outside vested interests exploit nationalist fervour but themselves avoid the full agony of war. Syria immediately comes to mind, once a diverse but prosperous country at ease with itself because it had little choice under the Assad despotism. Then we got involved – from a safe distance of course supplying bellicose language, support and equipment, along with the likes of Sunnis, Shiites, Isis, Al Qaida and latterly Russia and Iran, all with their various interests and axes to grind. 

Putin is accused of being a danger to world peace, his regime a corrupt collection of kleptomaniacs. True or not, in terms of our respective elites, the words pots and kettles come to mind, and we have a record of using others to further our ends. Sometimes it backfires. 

It may be American power has reached its highwater mark and Ukraine is on the fault line of a tectonic shift as Russia pushes back. Whatever the case, the innocent suffer. One can hope that the oncoming economic damage, volatile electorates and political repercussions in Europe as a whole will concentrate minds, and that Putin has a rational aim. One can only hope statesmen react with intelligence and not soundbites or a slide into the Syrian nightmare.

Fair Rosamund

Godstow Abbey, a backdrop in the film Mama Mia  (When I kissed the Teacher) and the playground of Lewis Carol and his 'Alice'. 

A pleasant ritual is sharing Christmas presents with old friends who live Gerrards Cross. The ritual takes place shortly after Christmas somewhere between Monmouth and Buckinghamshire. The venue is always carefully chosen: a meal, good beer and more presents. What could be nicer? This year the meeting took place near Godstow and all was as it should be part from the weather, blue skies and bitterly, bitterly cold. A highlight for me was stumbling across Godstow Abbey, the burial place of  ‘Fair Rosamund,’ and at once old stories and legends came rushing back. 

She was born Rosamund de Clifford at Clifford castle— now a ruin in Herefordshire just up the road from us. It is likely she met the young Henry II who used Clifford castle as his base in a military campaign against the Welsh. The affair began in 1166 and became generally known in 1174 —possibly on Henry’s instigation. His wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine was in open rebellion against him taking the side of her sons against their father. Anger or spite or because he sought a divorce, Henry began flaunting Rosamund, gifting her a fine house in Woodstock.There are many romantic tales of the Woodstock tower guarded by an impenetrable maze, all later, romantic inventions but in all stories, the ending is the same.

 In 1176 Rosamund  sickened and died a year later in Godstow Abbey—some say poisoned by Eleanor, the queen. Henry may have believed this. He may also have wished to blacken his wife’s reputation.  

The ground was sodden, the wind raw and worst of all Rosamund's grave is lost. In theory, it shouldn't be difficult to find. The space is no bigger than the Leicester car park where Richard III is buried. 

Henry paid for a fine tomb near the altar and an endowment for the nuns to tend it and pray for her soul. It quickly became a place of pilgrimage, people seeking miracles and decorating her grave with candles and flowers—that is until 1192 when that fun-loving prelate Hugh, the bishop of Lincoln visited the Abbey. On seeing her tomb so close to the high altar he had a small fit, called her a whore and demanded its immediate removal. The nuns had no choice. Her tomb was moved to the cemetery near their chapter house, where it remained a place of pilgrimage for local people. There it remained until the C16th when it and the Abbey were destroyed during the Reformation. Its dissolution is a blog in itself and reveals Thomas Cromwell in a new light. To my knowledge, Hilary Mantel makes no mention of it in her vast and wonderful trilogy, and I haven’t the time or inclination to check a possible fading memory. 

The C17th Trout Inn, favoured by Lewis and Inspector Morse and where you could read a wonderful fictionalised account of Henry and Rosamund 

 

In praise of tinned food.

I get hooked on the most trivial articles. A recent one I read concerned tinned food and how some iconic chefs swear by it. In winter Raymond Blanc is happy to use tinned pears, other chefs tinned cherries in Clafoutis and tarts. When it comes to tinned beans, I like them cold from the tin but love them hot and unadorned on homemade granary bread toast which has been smothered in virgin olive oil, the whole topped of with a generous sprinkle of black pepper. But then, I’m no longer a chef. 

Others are far more ambitious with baked beans,  mixing them with chilli paste and dolloping them on baked potato – or Tortilla topped with diced avocado, finely chopped chilli, a squeeze of lime juice and some crumbled feta cheese. Beans for goodness sake!

But then I got hooked onto the comments that followed and went down the rabbit hole. 

Apparently, you can make a neat Sicilian pasta dish made from tinned sardines, chopped cherry tomatoes and a dollop of puree, crushed garlic, capers, pine-nuts, and a pinch of chilli flakes.

I read on eagerly . . . tinned mackerel  fishcakes . . . smashed butter beans or any white bean with rosemary and garlic instead of boring old mashed potato. 

Another boldly claimed that tinned salmon was far superior to fresh. Many agreed that little could beat tinned peaches with tinned evaporated milk.

Back to tinned sardines:  fry breadcrumbs and garlic; add the sardines,* parsley and lemon and add to pasta. (*alternatively, tinned anchovies)

Or might you be tempted by corned beef hash patties fried in butter and served with mayo and pickle? And are Farrows’ tinned marrowfat peas really tastier than frozen?

Then the comments moved on to tinned soup—Campbell’s condensed soups in particular. 

One writer averred that nothing could beat fried sausages topped with Campbells’ concentrated vegetable soup. Another disagreed, arguing the virtues of Campbell’s mushroom soup instead. Both agreed the soup should remain undiluted. 

Or would you fancy a drop of Crab Bisque? — equally easy to make using Campbell’s condensed cream of chicken soup, and equal quantity of milk, butter, tin of shredded crab and sweet Hungarian paprika.

Canned Pilchards anyone?  They’re apparently big in Italy—often put into a pasta sauce with—as another reader claims—dry fennel seeds, tinned tomatoes and tinned olives.

Evaporated milk is supposedly great in coffee, even better on breakfast cereal, though an aunt of ours preferred Bailey’s Irish Cream on her cereal and lived until she was ninety-eight.  She may though have lived even longer had she gone for a tin of evaporated milk which contains a healthy amount of Vitamin D.

By this time readers were in rhapsody, as was I, all of them bemoaning the demise of the well-stocked pantry bursting with colourful tins. It prompted me to wander off to the cupboard we call a pantry for a tin of sild and two rounds of toast. 

Aunt Etty and the Stinkhorn

Aunt Etty and the Stinkhorn would be a great name for a children’s book. It has a ring to it. It rolls off the lips. And, in fairness, the story itself has a distinct Roald Dhal vibe. A full account was given by Charles Darwin’s granddaughter, who described her aunt Etty’s revulsion for the Stinkhorn mushroom. As a daughter of Charles Darwin, Aunt Etty should have known better, but it was the shape of the mushroom that disturbed her. Its Latin name perhaps gives us a clue Phallus impudicus. Apart from its distinctly phallic shape, the stinkhorn had other, more unpleasant qualities. It emitted a pungent smelling slime that attracted flies, which in turn dispersed its spores and so allowed it to spread

Unfortunately for the stinkhorn, that same smell attracted its nemesis: Aunt Etty. 

They are extremely good for the soil, and for those with strong stomachs and a yen for castration, their innards have a nice, crisp radish-like taste to them. So I’ve been told.

Aunt Etty (Henrietta Lichfield walking with Erasmus Darwin). You can almost see her nose twitching, though the habit may have aided her longevity – 1843-1927

Armed with a basket and a pointed stick, and wearing a special hunting cloak and gloves, she would sniff her way through the wood, pausing here and there, her nostrils twitching when she caught a whiff of her prey.

Then with a deadly and ferocious pounce she would attack the hapless mushroom, poking the obscenity into her basket.  When the great hunt was over her spoils were brought back and burnt in the deepest secrecy on the drawing room fire with the door locked. She had the morals of her maids to consider

For someone so repulsed by the stinkhorn, Aunt Etty spent more time than most in seeking them out, and in doing so performed better than any number of flies in dispersing their spores. The stink that proved so irresistible to flies, proved irresistible to Aunt Etty too. Motivated by disgust and horror, she enveloped the humble stinkhorns within the folds of Victorian morality and in doing so aided their spread. There must be a moral there somewhere.