Sunday 31 January 2016

St Kilda...

I bought a book - The Life & Death of St Kilda, by Tom Steel - because I thought a friend would enjoy it. I hadn’t even meant to read it, but, having scanned the first chapter, I couldn’t stop. It’s a fascinating study of this remote Atlantic outpost, 110 miles off the west coast of Scotland, and beautifully written. It vividly depicts the life of the islanders: as perilous and precarious an existence as can be imagined in these British Isles. St Kilda was typically cut off, by high seas and storms, for nine months each year. They had no-one to rely on but themselves.

St Kildans relied for food on gannets, fulmars and puffins - ensnared by men abseiling down steep cliff-faces on ropes. The birds were brought back to the village and divided up equitably, so that every family had enough for their needs. The birds were eaten fresh, often with potatoes; the rest were salted, or, if no salt was available, air-dried, to provide food throughout the winter months. Crops other than potatoes were tried, but with limited success. There were no trees on the archepeligo of tiny islands; no vegetation grew taller than a cabbage. Islanders had sheep and a few cows, but no horses.

They never saw a bath, or a flush toilet. Hygiene wasn’t a priority. According to the author, “Plates, if they were used at all, were cleaned by the women wiping them over with a corner of their blue skirts”.

Divorce was unknown on St Kilda; marriage was for life. There was no crime, and no locks on the doors. None of the islanders could swim. They had little money… and little use for it. Even their rents were paid ‘in kind’, often with the knitted articles the women made. The islanders paid no income tax (because no-one ever tried to collect it) and voted in no election. They had a parliament, of sorts: every day except Sunday the men would meet on ‘main street’, between houses 5 and 6, to decide what needed doing… and who would do it (the author notes that “The men arrived in their own time, and, at the meeting, according to observers, everyone appeared to talk at once”).

There was no doctor on St Kilda. A nurse who visited in the 1920s reported that illness and poor diet were making life ever more difficult for the islanders. She recommended that they should be evacuated back to mainland Scotland. There were probably never more than 200 people living on St Kilda; by the time of her visit that number had declined to just 38. Some islanders voted to leave; others had to be persuaded. All were taken off the island, along with their meagre belongings, in 1930. In each house a Bible was left, open at Exodus.




Friday 29 January 2016

Another windy day...

I’d planned to travel down to Peterborough today, but, having heard the weather forecast, I’ve changed my mind. Driving down the motorway, with gusting wind, in a small but high-sided motorhome, is not a good idea…

Just popped into the health centre in Windermere, to get the results of my blood test. I’ve got a clean bill of health; “no action needed”, said the receptionist. I blew her a kiss - not what you’re supposed to do, I imagine, but I was so relieved. I walked out, with a spring in my step, into the sunshine. Yes, sunshine...

Thursday 28 January 2016

Un-smart phone...

It was a mistake. I bought a fancy smartphone, without considering how much power it would need. Whenever I tried to use the damn thing, it would need re-charging. In the Romahome this isn’t just a matter of plugging it into a socket. Electrical power is a finite resource, and I often have to prioritise. If I’m writing, I have to charge up the laptop; if I’m photographing I have to charge up the camera battery. And, for my own peace of mind, I like to keep my little DAB radio charged up. Without a TV (by choice), the radio is my ‘window on the world’. So there never seemed to be a convenient moment to charge the phone; charging took a long time, and it would need charging again before the day was out. This is the downside of having a powerful, pocket-sized computer that, almost by accident, also made phone calls.

So I looked around for a lo-spec replacement phone, the simpler the better. I settled on a Doro PhoneEasy 508, which is seemingly aimed at the ‘silly old duffer’ market. The buttons are big, the ‘features’ are few and there's a button on the back for emergencies (once I’ve entered a few numbers into the phone’s memory). If I press this button for a couple of seconds, the phone will ring the numbers in turn until it gets a response. If I’m out in the wilds, with my leg bent at an improbable angle, this could be a literal life-saver.

I charged the phone up yesterday, to see how long it would last on one charge. After a day, there are still five ‘bars’ on the little screen, which suggests I won’t need to think about charging it again for a few more days. A week on one charge would be perfect.

I’ve cancelled my contract - with 3 - and gone back to a simple ‘pay as you go’ deal with Vodaphone. They always seemed to have the best coverage, in the out-of-the-way places I like to visit. The ‘phone experience’ is like going back ten years, and I’ll be able to top up at an ATM. I feel good about the new phone. My smart phone was too noisy, too distracting, too demanding, too power-hungry; it will be going on eBay shortly…

Tuesday 26 January 2016

Wonderful Life...

Sad to hear that singer Colin Vearncombe has died, aged just 59, following a car crash. He recorded for many years, under his own name and as ‘Black’. He only ever had two hit singles, and I particularly remember Wonderful Life, which I never get tired of hearing. The title is ironic; he was in the middle of a divorce, I believe, when he wrote the song. Listen on YouTube...

Friday 22 January 2016

Claife Station...

In 1778 Thomas West published his Guide to the Lakes, listing the best ‘stations and viewpoints’, from which visitors could appreciate the formal qualities of the landscape. These stations weren’t just points printed on a map; they existed ‘on the ground’ as well. At Claife Station, for example, above the western shore of Windermere, was a two-storey lodge commanding fine views across the lake.

Visitors could enjoy the views by looking through the bow windows in the drawing room. In an effort to ‘improve’ on Nature, and imitate the seasons, each pane of glass was a different colour. Light green glass represented spring, yellow was for summer and orange for autumn, while light blue gave the scene the chilly hues of winter. A dark blue window bathed the scene in ‘moonlight’; another had a liliac tinge to suggest a thunderstorm!

Claife Station had been in a ruinous state as long as I could remember, but the National Trust has recently restored it, adding a café closer to the lake. The lodge has been consolidated, rather than rebuilt, with a new metal floor allowing visitors to climb upstairs and enjoy the view (more panoramic now, with the removal of some trees). The windows are framed by panes of coloured glass, to recall the original purpose of the station. The restoration looks pretty good to me…


Jesus loves me...

I met another ageing, bearded, camper van dweller in Ulverston. We parted company with an exchange of names and a handshake. “Remember, Jesus loves you, John”, Peter said, with a wave of the hand that was almost papal. I groaned, but I don’t think he heard it.

I’d prefer to cut out the middleman altogether and communicate with Jesus directly. I’d love to hear his opinions, but from his own lips, about me (“Love you, John!”), or the crap weather we’re having, or the outrageous price of replica football strips. Or anything, really.

Unfortunately Jesus - and his dad - have been inconveniently reticent these past 2,000 years, and, no matter what the Good Book might suggest, they show no signs of breaking their silence any time soon. Of all the characters in the Bible that I can recall, I identify most closely with Doubting Thomas. In suggesting that he would appreciate some tangible sign of divine presence, he seemed to foreshadow the scientic method… which values empirical evidence over blind faith.

I can’t honestly say I was offended by Peter’s ‘blessing’. I just find it kinda creepy that believers are content to have a one-way conversation with ‘God’, without any kind of reciprocation…

Thursday 21 January 2016

Black Combe...

I’ve done my chores for the day - having finished an article, paid a couple of bills and taken my gouty foot to the health centre in Windermere. I have a course of pills, for the gout, which will last a couple of weeks; hopefully it will have cleared up by then.

The weather is beautiful today; after all those gloomy skies, and all that rain, it’s good to see the sun. This afternoon there’s a slight haze, and a warm, peach-coloured light, which is transforming Black Combe - the signature hill of South Lakeland - into simple shapes, in muted pastel colours. The sunlight is catching the polished beer pumps and the face of a man sitting at the bar. A proper photographer would go and get his camera, but I’m happy to sit here, in the pub at Foxfield, and watch light chasing shadows across the fells.

A couple in the corner seem to find their dog, a pitbull, particularly fascinating. Everything the dog does - farting, grunting, lying down, getting up, lying down again - is greeted with delighted applause, as though the pooch had split the atom or found a cure for cancer. “Oh look”, they say, as the dog stares malevolently at me, “he wants a crisp”. But I speak fluent pitbull and I’m convinced I hear him say “Give me a crisp, old man, or I’ll tear your fucking throat out”…

Tuesday 19 January 2016

Gout...

Back in Ulverston, as the sun comes out. In the market place there's a flower shop called... wait for it... Floral and Hardy. Stan Laurel was born in Ulverston, in 1890.

I have a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow morning, because of pain in my right foot. It feels bruised, except I haven’t given it a knock. And the pain disappears for a day or two, then comes back. I think it’s a (milder) recurrence of the gout I had a few years ago. At least I hope it is, because the treatment worked before: from excrutiating pain to gamboling like a spring lamb, in the space of a week…

Monday 18 January 2016

Blackout...

Saw the Liverpool v Man United game, as planned. The score was 0-0 at half-time, which is when Ulverston town centre had a power cut. The TVs went black and all the lights in the pub - and along the main street - went out. A few of the customers drained their glasses and left; others tried to keep in touch with the game by gazing at their phones. One guy held up his smart phone for everyone to see, though it looked a bit small compared to following the action on a TV screen the size of a dinner table. Everyone was in a good mood, as the landlord brought out candles…

A bacon sandwich in the café at Booths supermarket is a thing of beauty. Lots of crispy bacon in a fresh, floury bun, with ketchup… washed down with a cup of tea (which, thanks to my Booths card, is free). Very tasty. Compare and contrast with a bacon roll in McDonalds: pale, limp bacon in a bun that may have been baked yesterday… or six months ago. It looks like proper bread from a distance; up close it’s just a McCounterfeit roll, and, like the bacon, tastes of nothing at all…

Sunday 17 January 2016

Reds...

The snow is turning into slush, but the sky has a look that suggests ‘more snow’. Finishing off some writing - but slowly - and I’ll hope to find a pub later on where I can watch the Liverpool v Man United game. I’m not sure why, since I can’t remember the last football match I really enjoyed. It’s come to the point where I’m mostly interested in the hold that football has over the popular imagination. I don’t really care who wins; I try to care, and pretend I’m a Liverpool fan, but a win for the Reds doesn’t really make me want to punch the air in triumph, and a loss does nothing to spoil my day. As someone reminded me a while ago, I’m not a “real” fan at all…

Old Town, near Hebden Bridge...


Saturday 16 January 2016

The Revenant...

In Barrow this evening, so I parked up near the Vue Multiplex and took in a film. I’d read good things about The Revenant, and it didn’t disappoint. Leonardo DeCaprio plays a trapper trying to make some kind of living hunting and collecting pelts. After he’s horribly mauled by a bear, he’s left for dead by a couple of fellow trappers. Against the odds, he survives, but God knows how, because the landscape is huge, remote, frozen and overwhelmingly harsh and inhospitable.

DeCaprio’s character, Hugh Glass, crawls through snow, falls into ice-cold rivers and rides his horse over a cliff. In those temperatures a badly wounded man would surely not survive a plunge down a waterfall. With no way to dry his sodden clothes when he sleeps in the open, he would surely die of hypothermia. But, in the age of the blockbuster film, the paying public need to suspend their disbelief. Glass eats what he can find - berries, raw fish, raw bison liver - and spends one snowy night, naked, inside a dead horse. Yes, inside a dead horse…

After that cinematic ordeal I won't be complaining about the half inch of snow here in Barrow. No raw fish or bison liver to be had, so I'm making do with McDonald's. Instead of a dead horse I have a sleeping bag and a duvet...

The harbour at Maryport...



Thursday 14 January 2016

Freeze-up...

The weather's taken a turn for the better. Or worse. More normal anyway, for January, as temperatures have dropped to below zero. Black ice on the roads around Brampton tonight; thankfully I didn't have far to drive...

Gravestone at Lanercost Priory...

Wednesday 13 January 2016

Non-news...

According to the Guardian website, Scottish Secretary, David Mundell, is “the first member of the Tory cabinet to come out as gay”. It must surely be a slow news day for this to be the lead item. Roll on the day when such ‘news’ will merit nothing more than a footnote. Between now and then, of course, a Premier League football will come out as gay. He’ll have to be brave, and thick-skinned. The last top-flight footballer to bear his soul was Justin Fashanu, in 1990. Eight years later he hung himself in a lock-up garage…

Made a detour to Dumfries yesterday, another place that’s suffered from flooding. I found a little pub, close to the river, and joined three guys at the bar to talk amiable bollocks for a couple of hours…

Kirkandrews Tower, a fortified house near Longtown...

Monday 11 January 2016

Ground Control to Major Tom...

Woke up to the news that David Bowie has died. I know he’s a major figure in modern music, because everyone on Radio 5 Live is saying so. But Bowie was - and remains - a blind spot in my musical upbringing. I just didn’t get it. Hunky Dory I liked - Changes in particular - but not much else. He appropriated the singing voice of Anthony Newley and, chameleon-like, adopted many different personas from the dressing-up box of androgyny. But his costume changes - and voice - seemed too mannered for my tastes, aimed at shocking Middle England: a rather facile ambition, I thought, like shooting fish in a barrel.

Bowie’s songs helped to define the last five decades, and I appreciate that a lot of people will be heartbroken at today’s news. There’ll be plenty of his songs played on the radio… though I think I’ve had my fill of uncritical hagiography already… and it isn’t even breakfast time…

Saturday 9 January 2016

Preston & Blackpool...

The Romahome feels a bit lighter, now I’ve put some books into storage, and given stuff to a charity shop. The process begins again, of course. I picked Landranger 102 - Preston and Blackpool - from a pile of Ordnance Survey maps in a charity shop. “That’s a good one”, said the old guy behind the counter, looking at the map, front and back, and nodding his head sagely. I agreed it was a wise choice… at least for someone who might be planning to visit Preston or Blackpool. For a tour of the Black Country or the Cotswolds, however, the map would be useless…

Friday 8 January 2016

Morecambe...

In Morecambe, and it's still raining. I'm sorting out stuff - mostly books - that I can drop off in my tiny storage unit here... to avoid the Romahome grinding to a halt...

Thursday 7 January 2016

Booths...

On my way to the Lakes, and stopping in at the Booths store in Ilkley: Booths, the self-styled “acceptable face of supermarkets”. With my Booths card I can get free wifi, clean toilets and a free cup of tea to wash down my bacon sandwich: very convenient for a man on the move.

I’m driving through a landscape of sodden fields and temporary lakes… and still the rain is falling. Where does it all come from?

Wednesday 6 January 2016

Dream...

While chatting with friends, I said I don’t seem to dream (or, rather, that I no longer remember my dreams). And then, out of the blue, I had a vivid dream last night. Male MPs - all stark naked - were approaching a microphone on a stage and addressing an unseen audience. To the left were a group of politicians undressing, waiting their turn to speak; to the right were politicians who, having spoken, were getting dressed again. Nothing in this scene seemed in the slightest bit odd; the MPs themselves looked as though these naked appearances were a regular feature of political life. It’s a dream I’ll be happy to forget…

Tuesday 5 January 2016

Pigeons...

Back to Sowerby Bridge, in the rain, where a group of pigeons are eating a slice of discarded pizza in the car park. I’m beginning to regret my decision not to winter in the Seychelles this year…

Monday 4 January 2016

Otley...

Got my laptop mended today. The machine seemed to think it was full - of photos, mostly - but it wasn’t. All sorted now. In Otley this evening to have a few beers with my oldest chum…

Saturday 2 January 2016

Knarsborough...

Despite the weather - mild and damp, with leaden skies, day after day - it feels like the heart of winter. The days must be getting longer, though, since I haven’t yet seen sunshine in 2016, I can’t say I’ve noticed any difference. I’ve got a bit of writers’ block, and the weather’s not good for taking pix. But, hey, the square in Knarsborough looked cheerful enough last night, with all the Christmas lights, and there was a seat by the fire in an old-fashioned pub…

Friday 1 January 2016

Embers...

I parked up on the moors last night, with the sky clear and full of stars. The lights of Burnley were twinkling in the valley below like the dying embers of the old year. It was only when the fireworks started that I realised midnight had arrived. Without a firework display to add some spurious excitement, the countdown to 2016 would end in silence: a non-event, an existential void. For a few minutes the fireworks turned Burnley into a war-zone.

In Wetherspoons for breakfast. Very quiet… just a few old guys. Whatever they’ve resolved to give up in January, it isn’t the idea of drinking beer on an empty stomach at 8 o’clock in the morning…