Missive 27 ~ A Thought popped into my head! / Moments in Time

February 2011 (just!!)

Dear All

Hopefully you will find Missive 27 attached. A bit of a mammoth, but plenty of short sections, hopefully making for easy reading, although “her indoors” tells me there will be lots of huffing and puffing, as its heavy going!!!

As the spring starts to spring out everywhere, we’re beginning to look forward to our first visitors of the season, having just had a lovely three weeks away in the caravan in “warmer” climes – sunny 20˚ in Biarritz!! Needed shorts which we hadn’t packed!!

In the meantime, enjoy the painting!! Read on and all will be revealed!!

Love

Roger

rogerhiggs@hotmail.co.uk

Mes chers amis

A thought popped into my head / Moments in Time ~ Missive 27

“...... a brief moment in the retina of an observer ......”
From “The Art of Travel” by Alain de Botton

“Memory is complex, as well as fragile. It isn’t just a list of dates and events. You might argue that it is much more to do with scents and textures, and less tangible elements than those. The cadence of a voice uttering a single word. A bird’s song at dawn on one significant day.”
Said by Dr Nicholas Grosseteste in the book “Iris & Ruby” by Rosie Thomas

I love the first of these quotes, how often does an image flash briefly through your mind of something long ago; thought about because of something you have seen (a person who reminds you of someone you know), a smell (it’s the proverbial smell of boiled cabbage taking you back to the school canteen – although for me it’s sweet smelling baked beans!), the feel of something (a well laundered pillow case takes me back to the days – half a century ago! – when I got to sleep sucking my thumb and flicking the hem with my nail!), a piece of music can transport you many miles and also over the years (three years back I sang once again at the folk club in Leeds I frequented, as a student, probably on too many nights, the song I had last sung there over thirty years before, but with the spotlight blinding me the audience became all my old friends once again – helped not a little as the whole pub was unchanged, even not redecorated!, during the intervening years) and in a similar way a tasty meal can not only transport you to heaven, but the very same table that you sat at years before!!

When I first read this quote, I was reminded of snippets of India, featured briefly in my book “Moonlit Guruji Travels” and I quote: “Who could have failed to wonder where the old man hobbling along the seemingly endless road was going, or what would happen to the two old men whose motorbike ground to a halt in the midday heat far from anywhere and why were the group of young children poised ready to flee whilst one brave (only just) soul poked, very gingerly, with a very long stick at something (a snake?) hiding in a crevasse in the corner of the walled garden in the middle of an area of wasteland.” All these were viewed fleetingly from the window of a bus or train and, as I reread them they’re there once again on the retina!!

On the second quote, Michael Gove (currently Secretary of State for Education, should anyone have missed this rather insignificant gentleman!) take note, at this time when you are talking about returning to a “fact-based” curriculum! Who knows, soon maybe he’ll have had his day and the bird’s will once again sing to herald the dawn of a new era!!

As many of you will know, I’m often amazed by little things and certainly by much of modern technology, but surely the most amazing is the human brain which is surely the original hard disk drive, capable it seems of storing endless snippets of information, thoughts, processes and the odd fact or two if you so desire, although these days the knowledge of how to Google has in many ways superseded this requirement!

Finally, by way of introduction John Ruskin talks about how, when travelling (at the moment this is being written on the laptop, in the caravan surrounded by vineyards pruned ready for this year’s growth, close to the world famous St Émilion, a year older than I was yesterday!) everyone should not only draw, they should also “word paint” or write, so colourfully painted below for your edification and delight, are some of my sensory snippets from the last five and a half centuries – makes me feel quite old!!

But I might be stolen!

This one is relatively recent; in fact it dates back to a very cold January day in 2009, just before we set off on our adventures! We were walking up Stroud High Street for our then regular Saturday morning coffee rendezvous at Mills Café, when I overheard a young boy of about nine being asked, by his mother, to stay outside the shop and look after the baby in the push chair, whilst she very quickly popped into the shop.

It was a bitterly cold day with a biting wind and obviously the somewhat agitated young lad felt the shop would be more comfortable, so loudly protested saying “But Mum, it’s freezing!” When that didn’t work the quick thinking boy, who I’m sure will go far said “Mum, I might get stolen!” But unfortunately, that didn’t work either, but may well have made Mum’s “pop in” all the quicker, as the thought might subconsciously have crossed her mind – what if!

Overheard in an Irish coffee shop

In Dublin for a short break with some friends a couple of years earlier, this time on a fairly chilly February morning, perhaps it’s the cold that sharpens the wit, we had popped into a café for a warming cup of coffee.

We were sitting looking out onto the busy streets; it was the day that the England rugby team were playing Ireland in the Six Nations Tournament, so Dublin was awash with the red and white of England and the green of Ireland. A large group of English supporters came around the corner, all patriotically dressed in their team’s colours, but in amongst them and obviously one of the crowd rather than a hostage!, was one solitary figure wearing the green of Ireland with the lucky shamrock emblazoned on the front.

One of two Irishmen sitting in the window drinking coffee, turned to the other one and anyone else who happened to be listening, and said: “Obviously, one of them masquerading as one of us!” which raised a general chuckle. Somehow, I just can’t seem to imagine a similar scenario happening in the streets close to an important football match, indeed I doubt we would even have been able to drink coffee in the same café as the opposition!

We then went on to an amazing pub called the Porterhouse, (if you’re ever in Dublin do find it, the one situated in the old brewery building and quite close to the Liffey, it’s full of little rooms all on different levels with a very interesting collection of quotes – “I drink to make other people interesting” George Jean Nathan, one that particularly caught my eye! – and of world beers displayed everywhere, interspersed with lots of bottles surprisingly looking like Carlsberg – the whole pub and brewery being devoted to the best of real beer. Closer inspection of the famous “C” labels showed the tag line to read “Probably the worst lager in the World!” The food is great as well!) owned by the Porterhouse Brewery who brew a small range of exciting beers, including a stout that gives “The Guinness” a run for its money, and has at various times, guest brews from all around the world.

Today, being match day and the pub full of supporters, English and Irish, as well as Italian and Scotland, who were playing earlier in the afternoon (for the aficionados amongst you, it was the year Italy gave Scotland an early fright – three tries in the first few minutes of the game, but then unfortunately ran out of steam and couldn’t maintain the early lead!!), the numerous wide screen TV’s didn’t seem as intrusive as rugby was today’s theme, and it was great to see rival supporters engaged in friendly banter, but also prepared to praise the opposition where praise was due.

Rugby certainly won on this day, a day when the media had hyped up the possibility of trouble at the England – Ireland match being played for the first time at Croake Park, normally a hurling stadium, and in the distant past scene of a bloody massacre by English troops. It was almost as if the media were hoping that memories of events well before anybody’s living memory would spark off new troubles. But, as I said rugby won the day and never has an opposition stood more respectably for the playing of the opponents National Anthem – you could have heard the proverbial pin drop as well as the tears of emotion in many an eye. The Irish did however get the last laugh, they trounced us, but by the time of the kick off we were at the airport waiting to fly home, and had to endure the agony of watching the excited Irish supporters – we were at the time still reigning world champions, but it didn’t show!!! But as I said above, the one or two moves worthy of world champions were met with warm applause and credit where credit was barely due!!

Overheard in the Turk’s Head

This one I’ll report verbatim, a conversation overheard in the Gents of the Turk’s Head Pub in the Isles of Scilly, between two seemingly strangers, but it could have all been an elaborate ploy – for a laugh, but as they went back to different tables I don’t think so!!

Having finished what I had gone in to do, I was washing and drying my hands, with one gentleman going about his business in one of the two stalls in the fairly cosy space. In comes another gent, who has obviously imbibed freely and needs to make room for more, with a loud “Room for a small one?” The other gent peering over the low dividing screen said “Yes ... and it is a small one isn’t it!”

The other gent then looked back and said “My!, that’s a real porker, what do you call it!?!” I just caught the reply as I stumbled, trying not to laugh, out of the door – “Freddie!”

Again, I can’t imagine this happening at a football match without a certain amount of bloodshed!

Eenie Meanie

Driving home from work one day, yes I did have to do that once!, with the radio on to keep me awake, a rather jaunty little song started, that if I hadn’t been driving in a stream of traffic, would have quite literally stopped me in my tracks! It was the chorus that caught my ear;

“If you don’t give my ball back to me, I’ll get my dad onto you!
I only kicked it over your fence, and broke a silly gnome or two!!”

Why did I find this so arresting, and why still on reading it does it make for such a vivid sensory snippet? Quite, simply, something that happened when we first moved into our second Stroud house, some sixteen or so years ago. Our next door neighbour had a patch of gravel, about 4 metres square on which he had serried ranks of Garden Gnomes, carefully painted and lined up looking towards his bedroom window! Later we discovered, in conversation with the neighbour once he had decided that we weren’t all bad, that there were two hundred gnomes in total and during the inclement winter weather he carefully wrapped them up, possible affectionately patting them on the “bottie,” and boxed them up until the spring!

But back to the retinal incident when we first moved in! It more or less happened like the song says, Daniel had a friend for tea, the football went over, the friend started to climb over and get the ball and the neighbour impounded the ball, which incidentally hadn’t so much as grazed the knee or bloodied the nose of any of the small white bearded gents or their less than traditional lady friends! But I returned to find an indignant Daniel and friend, the incensed pair wanting their ball back and annoyed at the injustice of it all. Binding my time a little, not wanting having just moved in to fall out with our new neighbour, I had tea, a couple of drinks, which made the fact that the neighbour looked uncannily like one of his red hatted charges, all the more hilarious and as darkness fell it took a great deal of self control not to stage a “kidnap the prize gnome” raid and hold it as ransom for the ball!

As time went on, the ball having been returned the next morning, the point having been made, relationships thawed and we ended up getting on quite well with the short legged, pot bellied, gnome-like next door neighbour and even ended up cutting his hedge for him, partly so it didn’t spoil our view across to the picturesque hillside over the valley, but also to help the neighbours out who were both too old to be climbing ladders and cutting hedges. Although, the neighbour remained quite a cantankerous soul, we did end up getting on quite well and even found out why he was so bitter and twisted – he was a Maxwell Pensioner who had ended up losing much of his pension during the financial scandal – I’ve always gone on record as saying that there is usually some explanation for people’s behaviour, particularly when it is rather erratic!

The song, in case you are wondering I finally tracked down, courtesy of the internet. It’s called Eenie Meanie, and sung by a singer called Jim Lawyer!!

Glasgow Central

As a relatively young child, about 15 years old, my parents abandoned me, late at night, at one of Glasgow’s main railway stations. If we hadn’t later been reunited, who knows I could, like a well known cuddly bear, have ended up being named after the station and a series of stories about a lost boy called Glasgow Central (doesn’t have quite the same ring as Paddington!!) taken the world by storm.

Glasgow late at night, as you might imagine can be a little scary, but they (my parents that is!) had the presence of mind to leave me our two dogs, but would two “wee corgis just like the Queen brings to Balmoral each year” be any defence against the numerous local neighbourhood drunks who through the haze, just might have imagined me to be one of the princes, rather than a lost child shortly to become known as “Glasgow Central!”

Shocking, how awful I hear you gasp. How could your parents who seem so pleasant have done such a mean, heartless thing!! Well, I ought to explain!

My brother had spent much of the preceding summer “chilling out” on the island of Tiree in the Inner Hebrides, off the Scottish mainland and having been holidaying in Scotland, we had arranged to meet him off the train to take him home. Unfortunately, having arrived at the main station, we discovered that Glasgow indeed has two mainline stations either of which it seems could have been the arrival point for my brother’s train and all this before the days of mobile phones and a quick call to check which station we needed to be at!

It was therefore decided, indeed I probably being such a delightful child!!! even offered to stay there whilst my parents went to check out the other station. Leaving the dogs, I’m sure was my idea as they were very protective at the best of times. It was quite difficult, a young boy with two corgis trying to wait inconspicuously at a Glasgow station in the dead of night, so I quickly or at least I think it was the dogs that became the blurred focus of attention of a group of drunk down and outs, who started to come over to say hello to the “lovely wee doggies” seeming at the time to ignore me, but who knows maybe it was a case of befriend the “wee doggie” and get to know the “wee laddie a bit better!!” Fortunately, the dogs came up trumps, rose to their full height, raised their hackles and bared their teeth menacingly; both emitting deep threatening growls that were enough to sent the drunks on their way, mindful of being bitten by the now not so lovely wee doggies. Unfortunately, with their minds somewhat befuddled by the drink they quickly forgot about the threat and returned for another go, but the dogs were more than equal to them and drove them off again. I was however, quite a relief to see the rest of the family, my brother now in tow having come in at the other station, coming down the platform for a welcome reunion!!

After this experience, I’m surprised by my fascination with stations, airports and the like at night, finding them in the words of Alain de Botton: “unexpectedly poetic travelling places – airport terminals, harbours, train stations and motels” not forgetting motorway service stations. I guess inherent in all these places is the thrill of travel to faraway, unknown places in wonders of modern technology ranging from the relatively simple motorcar to the mind-bogglingly sophisticated and gravity defying monster of the sky – however scary you find the takeoff of an huge metal aeroplane, you can’t fail to be mixed up in the wonder of it all as you swoop gracefully high, into the air leaving behind the toy like houses and cars, populating the map that spreads out in front of you, quite simply taking your breath away! And, next stop – who knows where!

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The final two snippets...... the first decided upon before our holiday to warmer climes and the second as a result of our time away, both take me back to my younger days. The first, also with an amazing coincidental link to our present life in France as well as strong unexpected links to one of the visits we made on our holiday, the other to my late teens, but both as you will see never far from retina!!

Himalayan Village

Many years ago, when my age could still just be counted on the fingers of two hands, my brother and I belonged to the BOAC (British Overseas Aircraft Corporation, one of the fore runners of the present day BA) Junior Jet Club, by dint of the fact we regularly during school holidays flew to visit my parents who were living in the Far East – first Bangkok, the capital of Thailand and later Singapore. At this age we were travelling as “unaccompanied minors” and were under the care of a steward or stewardess – our BOAC Uncle or aunty, who signed the Junior Jet Club Book and how many miles we travelled, made sure we got to visit the cockpit at some point on the trip (now sadly a thing of the past as cockpits have had to become secure fortresses) and made sure we got safely on and off the plane at the various refuelling stops that aircraft had to make in those days!! By an amazing coincidence, one of our new friends who lives down the road was a new recruit to BOAC Cabin Crew on the Singapore route, at about the time we making the journey and may well have been the one to sign our books – they are still somewhere in my Mum and Dad’s loft – I’ll have to dig them out and see!!

Well, on this particular flight we were flying over the Himalayas very early one morning, just as the sun was rising and with the new dawn painting the snow clad mountains the most stunning colours, for ever changing as the sun rose from behind the mountains and grew in intensity. I seemed at the time to be the only person awake on the plane and glimpsed far below, but very high in the mountains a small, snow covered settlement with no obvious roads to it, just a few barely marked tracks that converged on the village like the fine filaments of a sparse spider’s web. At the great height that we were flying, it was impossible to see much detail, although as it was a strikingly clear morning, you could make out different buildings and imagine in each families with children some possibly my own age, waking up to another morning of survival, in a very different culture and much more extreme environment to any I had ever experienced or indeed the one I was hurtling towards at several hundred miles an hour. At this speed it was surprising how long the village remained in view (it must have been the 35,000 plus feet we were flying at!) from my lofty eerie, and my thoughts (at my very impressionable age!) were of lost worlds and extreme exploration, the sort of books I devoured in those days, and the hot sun and swimming trunks of the beach in Singapore later that day seemed a million miles away.

I had already got this glimpse from a faraway retina on the list for this missive, and then our hair-raising trip by cable car, 1000m up to the nigh on 3000m Pic du Midi in the central Pyrenees, bought it all back even more clearly. The cable car took us up to an observation platform and laboratory / observation complex surrounded by snow and ice with tantalising glimpses to the town where we were staying (the campsite was clearly visible through the telephoto lens) 2 ½ thousand metres below, to the south and to the north an amazing mountain panorama (watch this space as to how to view some of my panoramic pictures from here as well as many others from the growing collection!!) seeming to go on forever, and with a number of intrepid skiers and snow shoe walking parties seemingly in the middle of nowhere and certainly with a long way to go before nightfall. There were even some skiers preparing to ski down from the top, obviously there being some sort of exit from the scientific station, giving access to the perilous slopes surrounding the lofty summit, I just couldn’t help thinking of that rather modern saying “Way to go!!!”

Porte de crayon

It must be something to do with just having had a birthday and now being an official “early retiree!”, but again I find myself equating this sensory snippet (perhaps this ought to be my original thought as I’m claiming, but prepared to accept otherwise, that this is my own “new” terminology!) to time gone by, and how long ago it all now seems!

Anyway, whilst still at school (a Victorian boarding school that was only just starting to catch up with the times!) I became interested in Folk Music, thanks to one of the local clergy, who had previously helped to set up the famous folk club in St Martin’s in the Field in the centre of London, as well as being very involved in helping homeless people through soup kitchens and a hostel next to the church called Centre Point. This respectability I guess helped to ease the relaxing of school rules, allowing me at nearly 18 to be allowed to stay out after dark!!

Hugh, the vicar set first set up a discussion group who met in his converted garage, lay around on the floor doing nothing more risqué than drinking coffee, discussing current affairs (of the state rather than more promiscuous ones!) and singing the odd song – largely of a quasi-religious / folk style accompanied by anyone able to strum along on that most decadent instrument – the guitar. One thing led to another, and could have done in more ways than one as the “clientele” were not only other boys from my single sex boarding school, but also other parishioners, some of the opposite sex!!, and talk turned to the setting up of a Folk Club in a nearby redundant church using Hugh’s contacts from his time in London.

In what seemed like an amazingly short space of time the first acts were announced and the venture was underway with amazing acts such as; Decameron, Mike Maran, Davey Graham and Holly Gwinn Graham amongst many more professional acts and local amateurs doing a number of “floor spots” each week! I even made my “singing” debut as one of the “Falsetto Three” backing a friend playing guitar and singing “Monster Mash” – well with folk anything seems to go!!

But, one thing led to another and I became very friendly with a young couple, regulars at the club, who in time invited me back to their house for singaround sessions and largely coffee. It helped considerably that the mother of the lady in the couple was very friendly with the Headmaster of my school, so again making staying out easier. They were great times, and further instilled a love of folk music in me, but also provided a very welcome retreat from the austerity of school. Initially, the couple and their two young children lived in a tiny cottage the front room of which had initially been a shop and the shop window was still there filled haphazardly with an array of interesting and obscure knick knacks! Indeed, the tiny house was an absolute treasure trove of instruments, records, pictures, interesting furniture and even more knick knacks!! There wasn’t a spare surface anywhere and it was all so homely, and looking back, how large groups of us managed to fit into the tiny sitting room, barely big enough for the two large armchairs and three-seater settee as well as five doors and a fire place that between them all took up most of the wall space, is hard to imagine.

Eventually, they moved on to a bigger house and all the interesting knick knacks could spread out a little and indeed be added to!! It was here in the much bigger lounge that they had built in a shelving unit of lovely rich wood all along one wall, to largely house many of the smaller knick knacks! On here there was an ornate pen stand that I fell totally in love with and vowed one day to own one like it.

Well, it’s taken 35 years of looking in antiques shops, junk shops, flea markets, car boot sales and the like for one and in all those years, vowing that if I saw one I would have to buy it, the nearest I came to finding one was an advert for a modern day version in the back of a glossy “Homes and Gardens” style magazine! Then, whilst staying near St Emilion, in a small Brocante (flea market) there was one and on first sight the heart pounded and I broke into a cold sweat with the excitement of it!! But, I didn’t buy it, not because it was too expensive but because it was the wrong colour, gold instead of black! But, don’t despair of my as having realised that the “holy grail” I had searched all these years for was in danger of slipping through my fingers at the last moment, on our return to St Emilion at the end of the holiday, first port of call was to the Brocante, hoping that it was still there, initially thinking it sold but relieved to find it hiding behind another item, and now I’m pleased to say it is sitting next to me, bringing back happy memories every time I set eyes on it. What exactly is it I hear you ask? It’s a simple object, named a porte de crayon (pencil holder) and consists of two identical arched end pieces with Chinese-style decoration, that have a number of short finger like projections for laying pens or pencils across horizontally, the ends held together by three thin plain horizontal bars – simple but has the retina working overtime!

“Ici devant nous!”

A king called Martin, who is an accomplished fisherman, has moved into the chateau in our back garden, or I suppose to be precise he’s moved into the moat and his full name is Martin Pecheur, better known in England as the kingfisher!

I first saw that unmistakable flash of electric iridescent blue when coming back from a short walk around the lake and coming past the end of the large stable block that now houses the gîte, up he flew for his perch overlooking the now water filled moat – in the summer the long periods of hot dry weather dry up the moat and stop it becoming “des res” for a hungry kingfisher. I must say even now when the current wet weather has filled the ponds and made the water trickle steadily around the chateau moat, it’s still little more than a reed filled shallow hollow in parts and in others a tunnel overhung with laurel hedges on either side, not where I would make my first examination, if on the lookout for a kingfisher.

But a couple of days later a further sighting seemed to confer it was not just a one-off, but indeed a local resident. This time I was coming from the other side of the chateau, just as the kingfisher rose and flew off towards the gîte – it had obviously seen me coming!!

Martin Pecheur, Common Kingfisher, Eurasian Kingfisher, River Kingfisher or Alcedo Atthis (surprisingly in both “French” and “English” Latin which isn’t always the case, making some comparisons between my French and English field guides difficult at times!!) is a small bird, not much bigger than a sparrow, but certainly more colourful and instantly recognisable by even the most amateur of bird watcher. My guide tells me “Nothing else looks so stocky and big-headed, nor so colourful except the much larger bee-eater,” but it’s a Britain and European Guide and although we might have seen an early bee-eater whilst in the far south of France, it seems unlikely you’ll see one in England!

Closer inspection of a Kingfisher shows it to be carefully designed to plunge from a riverside branch or from hovering above the water, its long streamlined bill and large head effectively followed by its compact body, small feet and very short tail to catch small fish or water insects. This excerpt from Wikipedia, I must share with you as it has always puzzled me how a diving bird catches a fish: “A challenge for any diving bird is the change in refraction between air and water. The eyes of many birds have two foveae (the fovea is the area of the retina the greatest density of light receptors), and a kingfisher is able to switch from the main central fovea to the auxiliary fovea when it enters water; a retinal streak of high receptor density which connects the two foveae allows the image to swing temporally as the bird drops onto the prey. The egg-shaped lens of the eye points towards the auxiliary fovea, enabling the bird to maintain visual acuity underwater. Because of the positions of the foveae, the kingfisher has monocular vision in air, and binocular vision in water. The underwater vision is not as a sharp as in air, but the ability to judge the distance of moving prey is more important than the sharpness of the image.” Isn’t nature wonderful and in this case leaving nothing to chance!!

The Kingfisher nests in tunnels dug into vertical riverside mud banks, anything up to a metre in length, lays six or seven glossy white eggs, which hatch in about 20 days with the young flying between 23 and 27 days after hatching. The young are then left to teach themselves to fish, as the parents may well be busy rearing a second brood. That tells you quite a bit about these spectacular birds, it just remains to ask why are they so brightly coloured – surely alerts the more observant minnow of their approach!! Although one of the guides does say, that despite their bright colouring they can be difficult to spot and you should therefore listen out for its call, which the book reliably informs us, is a loud, shrill “chi-keee” or”tseee!”

But undoubtedly, the “piece de la resistance” came several days later when I happened to glance out of one of the windows at the back of our house and that unmistakable and unforgettable, I can remember clearly the few kingfisher sightings I have had over the years, flash of blue passed rapidly across the light coloured front of the “chateau in our back garden!”

My original “thought!”

Both of us keep saying that we are firm believers in fate, and indeed if it wasn’t for fate we may well not be where we are today. However, last month fate dealt us a heavy blow, having set our hearts on returning from France and viewing what we hoped was to be the house of our dreams, only to find someone had beaten us to it and it was sold.

But, on reflection and now the disappointment has dwindled somewhat, fate hasn’t done us too bad so far!!

Kind regards, Best Wishes and Love,

Roger and Linda

And, next time? At the moment in the lap of the GOD’s, which I have now joined being in possession of a pension – Growing Old Disgracefully!!