The Tribulations of Anne

Last Christmas I bought my wife a stocking filler—well, two stocking fillers really—a first edition of Five Go to Billycock Hill, and another Famous Five Book published the same year she was born. Out of delicacy and a sense of self preservation, I won’t give away the name of that particular book. 

One wet afternoon, we opened a book each, sat in front of the fire and cracked open a bottle of chilled Sourgal Moscato. Pretty soon the peace was shattered by hoots of disbelief and laughter. We’d anticipated it, been looking forward to it—the archaisms, the profusions of adverbs and exclamation marks, and above all, the cheerful sexism of our childhood. 

Billycock Hill begins on a promising note. The five are at Kirrin cottage, studying maps and planning a jaunt when George suddenly erupts: “And just us Five together again on a sunny week’s holiday!” said George, giving Timmy a sudden thump of joy. “Hurrah for Whitsun!”

George is the tomboy who today would probably be packed off for gender reassignment. Julian is officer material, Dick his subaltern, and Anne—poor Anne—housewife and homemaker with all the perceived frailties of her sex. 

Anne picked a spray of honeysuckle and put it through the buttonhole of her blouse. “Now I can sniff it all the time,” she said. “Delicious.”

Cycling up a high hill is hard work.  ‘Thank goodness,” panted Anne. “We’ll be as stiff as anything tomorrow.”

They pause for a rest and Anne falls asleep. Then she felt something crawling up her arm and woke with a jump.

“Ugh – a big beetle!” she said and shook it off.”

When they reach their destination, they’re treated to a farmhouse tea, and here Enid Blyton reveals her astuteness. In an age of post war austerity and the shadow of rationing we have wish fulfilment writ large.

They all sat down to tea, and the four visitors wished they had not had such a big lunch! A large ham sat on the table, and there were crusty loaves of new bread. Crisp lettuces, dewy and cool, and red radishes were side by side in a big glass dish. On the sideboard was an enormous cake, and beside it a dish of scones. Great slabs of butter and jugs of creamy milk were there, too, with honey and home-made jam. No tripe and onions for them.

But soon after this it’s back to business for poor old Anne who assumes the role of domestic goddess when camping in a field. Roles are traditional and clearly spelled out.

Anne loved arranging anything, and she was soon at work putting away the food and the milk into her queer larder.

Asked about food, Anne tells them what’s available. “Sounds jolly good,” said Julian. “What do you think, Timmy? Anne, if you and George get the supper ready, Dick and I will prepare our heathery beds.”

After the meal, they decide on a swim: “It sounds jolly good,” said Julian pleased. “Well, we can’t bathe immediately after a meal. The girls will want to do their bit of washing up and put the rest of the food away. We’ll sit here and wait until they’re finished, have a bit of a rest, and then go and find this pool.”

When expressing an interest in seeing an aeroplane, George is put in her place. “But you’re a girl," said Toby. “Girls don’t understand the first thing about aeroplanes or motor cars or ships – or spiders either, come to that! I really don’t think you’d be interested Georgina dear.”

On finding the pool a bossy airman appears and shouts at them, but it’s only Anne who feels scared. It’s Julian who sorts things out with upper class smoothness. “Well, we apologise for trespassing,” he said in his clear, pleasant voice. “We shan’t bathe here again, I promise you. Sorry to have made you come all this way to warn us off.”

And the bossy airman regards Julian with new respect. There was something about the boy that reassured people, and the man now felt quite sure that was all Toby’s fault. He smiled and gave a sketchy salute.

“That’s all right,” he said. “Sorry to have cut your bathing short this hot day” It’s the salute, I can’t get over.

Back at the tents one of them suggests they listen to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony on their portable radio as the sun sets. Anne’s not so sure. She ‘loathes’ inconsiderate people who play their radio loudly in the countryside “I could go and kick their radios to pieces!”

“Gracious, Anne—you do sound fierce,” said George, looking at her cousin in surprise.

“You don’t know our quiet sister Anne quite as well as we do, George,” said Julian, with a twinkle in his eyes. “She can be quite fierce if she thinks anyone is spoiling things for others.”

“Oh Julian! How can you say such a thing!” said Anne. …

“All right, young Anne!” said Julian affectionately, and patted her hand. Both he and Dick thought the world of their quiet, kind little sister.

Listening to Beethoven as one does when camping

Later, back at the farmhouse, Mrs Thomas automatically asks the girls to make tea. The girls bustled about, setting out cups and saucers, while the boys talked to Cousin Jeff and asked him eager questions about planes and flying and how this was done and that. 

Jeff is Toby’s cousin and the Five are enchanted: A tall, good-looking young man stood up, smiling. The Five gazed at him, liking him very much indeed. What a fine young fellow—how strong—what keen straight eyes he had—what a cousin to possess! They all envied Toby at that moment.

When it appears Jeff is a traitor, the Five are distraught.

“To think that Jeff could do a thing like that – Jeff a traitor – flying off with a plane of ours to sell to an enemy,” said Julian….

(Dick similarly) “…fancy Jeff doing that! I liked him so much.”

“So did I,” said Anne, turning her head away.

Later they learn that the stolen plane has crashed in the sea. “But that means Toby’s cousin is drowned – or killed,” said Anne, her face very white.

“Yes, but remember, if he flew away in that plane, he was a traitor to his country,” said Dick gravely, “And traitors deserve to die.” 

“But Toby’s cousin didn’t seem like a traitor,” said George. “He seemed so – well, so very British, and I can’t say anything finer than that. I feel as if I shall never trust my judgement of anyone again. I liked him so very much.”

In solving the mystery, they come across 'butterfly man'

Later a new crisis emerges. A young child is missing. All hands on deck. They need to look for him – but not on an empty stomach.

“Well, can you make some sandwiches very quickly?” asked Dick. “We’re all very hungry, and it won’t take a minute. We can munch them as we go. Let’s make a plan of campaign while you’re cutting them.”

George and Anne set to work with the sandwiches. Anne’s fingers were all thumbs, she was so shocked to hear that little Benny was missing. 

Could little Benny be down here?

It all ends happily as you know it will and there’s another farmhouse tea, with no doubt the girls washing up afterwards. We finished the wine, looked at each other and turned on the dishwasher. 

The Goose Egg

A few weeks ago, we went to Pengethly Garden Centre to buy some compost. Like all of these places you leave with more than you originally set out to buy; in this case two bags of compost, two dwarf rhododendrons, eggs—six chicken and three duck—and one Goose Egg – capitalised because of its size. I’d never seen a Goose Egg before, (a sheltered life) but once seen it immediately soared to the top of my bucket list and ticked off with the reckless swipe of the debit card. 

They found me a special box and green tissue paper for my Goose Egg, and on the long journey home I nestled it between my legs, resisting the urge to honk. 

Aphrodite, for reasons best known to herself, occasionally rode a large goose. I wondered if the egg suddenly hatched, would I turn into Aphrodite; or was I in fact Leda, hatching the egg of Nemesis and Zeus . . . and what would my wife say if Helen of Troy unexpectedly appeared between my thighs. 

Funny thing, geese. In the air they’re referred to as a skein, on land as a gaggle and around the world they’re associated with creation or death.

 In Egyptian creation myths, the cosmic goose, Kenkenwer—the great cackler— was reputed to have laid the cosmic egg from which the world was born, and the Egyptian God, Geb was often painted with a goose on his head. 

He, too, was a great cackler and adds a further thread (if we needed one) to the current controversy between gender and sex. According to another Egyptian myth, it was Geb who laid the cosmic egg from which the sun emerged every morning. Geese are everywhere in mythology. 

In Hindu mythology, two divine birds called the Hamsa in the form of geese, sometimes swans, laid an egg on the cosmic ocean from which the Creator God Brahma was born. Like Aphrodite, he too rode a goose, clearly the only way to travel. Siberian Shamans were of a similar mind, soaring over mountains and tundra on geese.

Across the world, geese have been associated with death, carrying or embodying the souls of the recently departed. Tibetan female spirit guides—the dakini— were seen as voluptuous goose-headed women, which is both off-putting and weird. But as Monmouth approached, the first stirrings of unease emerged: Was it sacrilege to boil, scramble or fry something so sacred? 

As things transpired, I was faced with more material problems—not should I, but how to cook the damn thing.

To big for egg cups

Inspiration! Pestle and Mortar!

Back to the drawing board

It was even too big for an omelette pan, but a full sized skillet did the trick.

And with Oxford Sauce, of course - as a tribute to the gods

So far, I have not incurred Aphrodite's wrath.

The Moles of Intriguer House

Sometime during lockdown, I heard a heavy thud through the letter box and saw a brown paper parcel on the mat. In it was a slim salmagundi of a book: ‘The Moles of Intriguer House’ 

It begins with a savage attack on the shortcomings of the National Trust— throughout referred to as the National Untrustworthy—and, surprisingly, an attack on the entire Morgan family of Tredegar House —in the book, as a tribute to Robert Firbank, referred to as ‘Intriguer House.’ 

As satire, it reads like Jonathan Swift on Mescalin, and when it comes to generalising on the Morgans as a whole, the writer seems possessed by the spirits of Bukharin and Lenin.  He refers to Morgan dynasty as a bunch of megalomaniacs and ‘land thieves’, masking ‘their proclivities (and) greed, mocking human rights and committing vile deviancies. Although well known for their charity giving, there NEVER was an act of charity or a donation” without ulterior motives such as to “lessen death duties and taxes and to protect their own family interests.”

With that out of the way, William Cross, with the aid of the artist, Gerald Whyman, develops an exuberant whimsy of a book with moles running rampant.

The medieval monk loved nothing better than to adorn religious manuscripts with weird and wonderful monsters and everyday creatures made strangely sinister on the page. Every creature told a story, for every creature had an attribute from which a moral hung.

The Medieval bestiary lives on in ‘The Moles of Intriguer House, but unlike the monkish manuscript where fabulous creatures merely decorated the margins, William Cross, under the influence of Covid and curative bottles of Macallans, has his creatures taking over the entire book. 

Open the pages, and you’re plunged into a parallel world where moles have replaced the Morgan dynasty from 1700 to 1962, their activities running side by side with their real-life counterparts:

Sir William Morgan 1700 -1731 becomes a mole, “dubbed ‘Wild Bill’ by Sandy Boggy Mole, his old dirt tutor who patiently tried to coach and teach him the Greek and Latin Mole verse of worms, slugs and centipedes. The precocious, William (his Sunday name) was only interested in . . . following the cockroach racing on the Taffy Mole Hills of Cardiff. So fond was he of cockroaches, that William had them farmed under the Basseleg Fields for racing and for the high table at lavish dinner parties, and his head cook ‘Wee Shug’ gained fame with an accompanying book of recipes and exhibitions as far away as the annual Abergavenny Mole Food Festival.”

Evan Morgan Papal Knight, predatory homosexual and Satanist: 

“In Moleland, the complex skills of tunnel building were much prized. Male tunnels were generally straight, female tunnels were curved, and in each case the systems were arranged at two different levels.

When it came to tunnelling around Intriguer Park the honourable Eddie Intriguer…was only able to dig curved tunnels and his mole heaves of earth were decidedly queer as they were just on one level, and he was never able to keep his tunnels straight.”

Newport was once famed as the ‘Home of the Mole Screw Wrench.’ It may have had Eddie Intriguer in mind.   

And Normality Restored.

 

We settled on the paint colour, Florentine Red. The Medici gene and/or delusions of grandeur. 

Much of it will be hidden by tiling. 

Delivery day. Bit like Christmas but with  more hassle.

The job underway

All units in, but for the quartz worktop. The space it will cover was measured by laser. It was manufactured in Darlington and delivered from Worcester.  But something is missing.

And here it is. the beast, the Leviathan, my pride and joy. Every now and again it emits a comforting purring sound

The work top. I'm rather liking the Florentine Red. 

Perhaps something Sistine on the ceiling . . . ?

And finally, the tiled kitchen from every conceivable angle. Property porn. Mea Culpa. But we've earned it. 

I know, it's bit like a missing tooth. The combi microwave/oven is missing.

It's probably still in Germany waiting for its Chinese microchips. A first world problem and perhaps more in the pipeline

Ignore the debris. 

Organised chaos

 

 

The unsuspecting kitchen. We whisper its fate as the clear-out begins

The pictures below pretty much reflect my state of mind. They also reveal a powerful truth.  We largely function along familiar lines and routine. For someone who has a fuzzy, anarchic mind, external tidiness and order is everything. Without it I’m a lost soul, drifting confused and without purpose.

 

What am I talking about? This week we began the process of installing a new kitchen. Initially I was against it until I was asked the question as to whether I’d really want to be doing this in ten- or twenty-years’ time? 

On the strength of the evidence so far, the answer is obvious. Even so, I held out for a big American Fridge Freezer as the price of my capitulation. 

The American fridge freezer hiding in the wings. It knows.

Kitchen cleared (almost) awaiting its execution.

What is absolutely staggering is how much a kitchen actually holds. By the time we had emptied every cupboard and drawer we’d turned the entire bottom floor of the house into a complex labyrinth of plastic bags and deep boxes holding everything—food—pans—cups, plates, bowls, cutlery etc. The old fridge is presently looming over my shoulder in the study.

Eating becomes a mind-game, first locating the food. After that the game increases in complexity: What are we going to cook it on? Kind friends have lent us a Russell Hobbs portable two-ringed hob, ideal for tinned soups and boiled eggs. porridge when feeling adventurous. They also lent us a slow cooker, but how to clean it without a kitchen sink?

We could eat out but not every night for three and a half weeks—the kitchen is expensive enough—so a dinner invite is a gift from heaven.

We have no water downstairs, so a simple cup of tea involves filling the kettle upstairs in the bathroom, boiling it in the conservatory, then walking through the house to the study for the milk, all the time weaving your way between mazes of boxes. This is hell in the morning when I’m barely awake. Then there’s the noise, and the dust, which despite dustsheets and closed doors, gets everywhere.

Here ends the long whine. I’m sure the new kitchen will be wonderful, and the American fridge freezer will bow gravely to its new master as I enter the kitchen. But no more blogs for the next two weeks.  I'm with the destroyed kitchen, dazed and confused.

 

Must go now. I’ve an egg to boil. 

Day one. Demolished and gutted, new cabling put in.

Day 2 more electrical work, ceiling and one wall plastered

Still deciding on paint colour to accent white quartz surfaces, pale tiles, and shades of grey units. Probably going for the Florentine Red.

The plastering finished. Drying slowly

Meanwhile, outside

Sigh. . . sorry, old friend

 

Gerald of Wales

I liked teaching about Gerald of Wales, his tall tales—like beavers chewing off their testicles to escape hunters—went down well with most classes I taught, but it must be said, the man was a bit of a stirrer. Last week, we visited his birthplace, Manorbier Castle on the Pembrokeshire coast. 

Climbing the tower was tricky, the steps narrow and steep and nothing to hold onto but the wall. Even so, well worth it.

Wonderful internal corridors still extant

They were a little overfond of dummies, but the info was useful

The Great Hall where they feasted on every kind of roast including heron and swan and occasionally dolphin.

Manorbier is fascinating enough. It was granted to a knight who fought for William the Conqueror at Hastings, and Odo de Barri constructed a motte and bailey castle where the present stone castle stands. It was Odo’s son, William who built much of the limestone castle standing today. And in 1146, Gerald of Wales, the fourth and youngest son of William, was born there. It may be relevant that he was related on his mother’s side to Nest ferch Rhys, the daughter of Rhys ap Tewdwr, the last king of Deheubarth, south Wales. The Normans were quite savvy when it came to marriage. It may also explain Gerald’s obsessive ambition later in life. 

Gerald studied in Paris, was employed in various ecclesiastic missions in Wales, and showed his ‘sneaky’ side when reporting the Archdeacon of Brecon for having a mistress. The old Archdeacon was sacked, and Gerald took his place. For him, Brecon was a stepping stone. He had his eyes on a  bigger prize, the bishopric of St David’s held by his uncle. When his uncle died, the Chapter unanimously chose Gerald as his successor, but Henry II wasn’t having it. Henry knew well enough that St David’s wanted independence from Canterbury, and after having just got rid of one troublesome cleric—Thomas Becket— was wary of another. 

According to Gerald, the king remarked that: 

“It is neither necessary or expedient for king or archbishop that a man of great honesty or vigour should become Bishop of St David’s for fear that the crown and Canterbury should suffer thereby. Such an appointment would only give strength to the Welsh and increase their pride.” 

One suspects that Gerald put some of these words into the royal mouth. In 1184 Henry sweetened the disappointment by appointing Gerald as Royal Chaplain where he mediated between the crown and Prince Rhys ap Gruffydd, and the following year, accompanied Henry’s son, John, to Ireland. There Gerald wrote Topographia Hibernica, followed a few years later by an account of Henry’s conquest of Ireland. Though admiring Irish music, Gerald reflects the prevailing Anglo-Norman view that the Irish themselves were little more than savages.

In 1188, he began a comprehensive tour of a densely wooded Wales accompanying Baldwin, the archbishop of Canterbury, on a great recruitment campaign for the Third Crusade. It was there he wrote his two greatest, certainly the most well-known of his works: Itenerarium Cambriae  1191and Descriptio Cambriae 1194. Despite a credulous acceptance of Welsh superstitions and legends like poltergeists, hauntings, and self-castrating beavers,  the two works give a wonderful insight into C12th Wales and bring history to life in the classroom.

In 1198, Gerald had a second chance of being appointed Bishop of St David’s. The local chapter again chose him as their new bishop; King John was also favourably inclined, but Hubert Walter Archbishop of Canterbury wasn’t. For the next four years the Pope was hounded alternately by a desperate Gerald and agents of the archbishop. Again, Gerald lost out. 

As I said, Gerald was a bit of a stirrer and had no trouble getting leading Welsh princes on side; he was accused of fermenting rebellion against English rule and fled to Rome, where the Pope, fed up with the whole business, appointed a tiebreaker as the new Bishop of St David’s. 

Gerald protested vehemently saying that it was because he was Welsh, he was being denied the job and  never forgave King John, siding with the French when Louis VIII was invited by rebellious barons to seize the English throne. He died at Hereford aged 77. Denied the bishopric of St David’s, his body may or may not be buried there. His dummy resides in Manorbier castle.