Further to my aside of 29th July, I came across this rather striking image in the Saatchi art world this morning. Small one for free, prints from $40 or the real thing (a painting) for $1600.
I was vaguely aware that Saatchi was quite a modern art enthusiast and was an early backer of various modern artists of whom I do not approve, but it now seems that he might be rather more than that. I wonder what you have to do to get onto his books and be able to punt your stuff out through his world-wide channel?
See for yourself at http://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-JEENA/423582/2079306.
Thursday, 31 July 2014
Ryde
We didn't spend a lot of time in Ryde this year, but enough to find that the rock shop (the geological sort not the edible sort) in the little tower along Garden Walk had shut and that the second hand bookshop at the top of town was still open. We completely failed to find out what the imposing building illustrated was: for some reason I had thought it was the yacht club, perhaps because of the flagpole and its fine views across the Solent, but now I think that maybe it was an assembly room of some sort, dating from Ryde's glory days. Presently looks to be struggling to find a sensible use and is partly shut up.
And glory days there certainly were to judge by the impressive mixture of old buildings down both sides of Union Street and some of which looked to pre-date the arrival of Queen Victoria at nearby Osborne. One of which was, I think, the oldest shopping arcade still used for shopping in the land. Whole lot probably listed and probably a complete pain from maintenance and retail points of view - but Union Street taken as a whole was alive and reasonably well.
We managed three eatings there.
French Frank's (http://www.frenchfranks.co.uk/), at the top of Union Street did us tea and teacakes. Cheap and pleasantly served, but not the highest grade of teacake, being a little light on fruit and flavour.
Olivo's (http://www.olivorestaurant.co.uk/) half way down. Nice high ceilinged space, light and airy. Nice Polish waitress who boasted a boyfriend from Switzerland whom she had met when on holiday back in Poland. Their language of romance was English. Food vaguely Mediterranean but I only remember what we had for main course; in my case a seafood spaghetti, entirely adequate, and for BH a sea bream served entire, curled round a little to fit on the plate, dorsal fin up. It looked quite spectacular and tasted good too - the claim being that it had only been landed at Old Portsmouth fish dock that morning. Bottle of something white and Italian to wash it down. A good meal, finishing nicely in time to catch the train home from Ryde Esplanade.
Michelangelo's (http://www.ristorantemichelangelo.co.uk/) at the bottom. The corner dining room we used was not as big or as high at that at Olivo's, but comfortable just the same and comfortably busy despite the early hour - around 1800. Genuine Italian with Italian staff rather than vaguely Mediterranean. Mixed meat with bread followed in my case with a pizza, thin and rather good, but which needed to be eaten reasonably briskly as it cooled down reasonably briskly. Bottle of gavi di gavi followed by a snorter of Marsala (the stuff which did for the Duke of Clarence. See '1066 and all that'; page 48 in the Folio edition) from Sicily to go with my almond cake. Nice to have an Italian restaurant which could manage a dessert which was not heavily into either cream or chocolate, neither of which agrees with me very well these days. Another good meal, once again finishing nicely in time to catch the train home from Ryde Esplanade.
The railway line from Ryde Pier Head to Shanklin was very handy for us staying in Brading and a lot quicker and more convenient for eating out in the evening than using the car. And the rolling stock taken from the Waterloo & City Line still had real mahogany trim. Pleasantly old fashioned feel about the whole operation, despite being operated by the same South West Trains which serves Epsom. The station at Brading, for example, boasts antique green shutters to all the windows and waxworks of antique passengers (as featured on the BBC).
In closing, I offer an engaging factoid from Volume I of Hurford's two volume work on language in light of evolution: it seems that you can train pigeons to distinguish the paintings of Monet from those of Picasso. Along the way they lump Cézanne and Renoir with Monet, Braque and Matisse with Picasso. Perhaps the RA should add such a pigeon to its hanging juries.
And glory days there certainly were to judge by the impressive mixture of old buildings down both sides of Union Street and some of which looked to pre-date the arrival of Queen Victoria at nearby Osborne. One of which was, I think, the oldest shopping arcade still used for shopping in the land. Whole lot probably listed and probably a complete pain from maintenance and retail points of view - but Union Street taken as a whole was alive and reasonably well.
We managed three eatings there.
French Frank's (http://www.frenchfranks.co.uk/), at the top of Union Street did us tea and teacakes. Cheap and pleasantly served, but not the highest grade of teacake, being a little light on fruit and flavour.
Olivo's (http://www.olivorestaurant.co.uk/) half way down. Nice high ceilinged space, light and airy. Nice Polish waitress who boasted a boyfriend from Switzerland whom she had met when on holiday back in Poland. Their language of romance was English. Food vaguely Mediterranean but I only remember what we had for main course; in my case a seafood spaghetti, entirely adequate, and for BH a sea bream served entire, curled round a little to fit on the plate, dorsal fin up. It looked quite spectacular and tasted good too - the claim being that it had only been landed at Old Portsmouth fish dock that morning. Bottle of something white and Italian to wash it down. A good meal, finishing nicely in time to catch the train home from Ryde Esplanade.
Michelangelo's (http://www.ristorantemichelangelo.co.uk/) at the bottom. The corner dining room we used was not as big or as high at that at Olivo's, but comfortable just the same and comfortably busy despite the early hour - around 1800. Genuine Italian with Italian staff rather than vaguely Mediterranean. Mixed meat with bread followed in my case with a pizza, thin and rather good, but which needed to be eaten reasonably briskly as it cooled down reasonably briskly. Bottle of gavi di gavi followed by a snorter of Marsala (the stuff which did for the Duke of Clarence. See '1066 and all that'; page 48 in the Folio edition) from Sicily to go with my almond cake. Nice to have an Italian restaurant which could manage a dessert which was not heavily into either cream or chocolate, neither of which agrees with me very well these days. Another good meal, once again finishing nicely in time to catch the train home from Ryde Esplanade.
The railway line from Ryde Pier Head to Shanklin was very handy for us staying in Brading and a lot quicker and more convenient for eating out in the evening than using the car. And the rolling stock taken from the Waterloo & City Line still had real mahogany trim. Pleasantly old fashioned feel about the whole operation, despite being operated by the same South West Trains which serves Epsom. The station at Brading, for example, boasts antique green shutters to all the windows and waxworks of antique passengers (as featured on the BBC).
In closing, I offer an engaging factoid from Volume I of Hurford's two volume work on language in light of evolution: it seems that you can train pigeons to distinguish the paintings of Monet from those of Picasso. Along the way they lump Cézanne and Renoir with Monet, Braque and Matisse with Picasso. Perhaps the RA should add such a pigeon to its hanging juries.
Wednesday, 30 July 2014
Twit
We might have seen some interesting crows on the Isle of Wight (see 19th July) but we completely failed to twit this serious tweet, a seriously rare bee-eater. Should have been a Medal of Honour job from the Epsom Branch of the RSPB.
The National Trust is being a little coy about exactly where the family that this chap is feeding is nesting, beyond the nest being in a burrow in the sand somewhere near St. Catherine's Point. To think that we were only a couple of miles up the road at Ventnor Botanic Garden (see 17th July) and didn't know to go the extra mile.
But it might have been a waste of time. The RSPB volunteers (the 16th Shanklin troop cover this area) might already have rolled the barbed wire out by then.
PS: common as muck in their proper homes. For example, Carthage and Utica. Probably Gaza.
The National Trust is being a little coy about exactly where the family that this chap is feeding is nesting, beyond the nest being in a burrow in the sand somewhere near St. Catherine's Point. To think that we were only a couple of miles up the road at Ventnor Botanic Garden (see 17th July) and didn't know to go the extra mile.
But it might have been a waste of time. The RSPB volunteers (the 16th Shanklin troop cover this area) might already have rolled the barbed wire out by then.
PS: common as muck in their proper homes. For example, Carthage and Utica. Probably Gaza.
Tuesday, 29 July 2014
Hedgerow jam
The post of 1st November 2013 notwithstanding, I fell off the wagon yesterday while minding my own business down Mill Road and picked maybe a pound of damsons, definitely low hanging fruit in the memorable phrase of the marketing men. I did not have a plastic with me, and was concerned not to stain the bag I did have with me, so I opened up the Metro from the station in the bottom of the bag and put the damsons in that. Perhaps just as well as that stopped me picking a lot.
Back home, brought maybe half a pint of water to boil with three ounces of sugar, then added the fruit, waited for them to come to the boil and then turned the heat down. Not fast enough, as the whole lot frothed up a few minutes later, at which point I took the pan off the ring. Cooled down, they did not look that appetising all mushed up (having imagined that I would get dark red entire damsons floating around in a clear red syrup. See 17th June), although they tasted OK, and this morning, after our regular breakfast meeting, I sieved them with the result illustrated. Much better in appearance, and we shall see if this improved appearance improves the taste in due course. Maybe we will be back to Mill Road after all.
PS: we also got an Evening Standard yesterday, this from Sainsbury's Kiln Lane, which caused us to wonder how it got there. Do Sainsbury's send a man and a van down to the station to pick up a couple of bundles? Do the Evening Standard people make a round of big suburban shops with one of the early editions? Maybe I need to hang out around the entrance one afternoon to see if I can work it out.
Back home, brought maybe half a pint of water to boil with three ounces of sugar, then added the fruit, waited for them to come to the boil and then turned the heat down. Not fast enough, as the whole lot frothed up a few minutes later, at which point I took the pan off the ring. Cooled down, they did not look that appetising all mushed up (having imagined that I would get dark red entire damsons floating around in a clear red syrup. See 17th June), although they tasted OK, and this morning, after our regular breakfast meeting, I sieved them with the result illustrated. Much better in appearance, and we shall see if this improved appearance improves the taste in due course. Maybe we will be back to Mill Road after all.
PS: we also got an Evening Standard yesterday, this from Sainsbury's Kiln Lane, which caused us to wonder how it got there. Do Sainsbury's send a man and a van down to the station to pick up a couple of bundles? Do the Evening Standard people make a round of big suburban shops with one of the early editions? Maybe I need to hang out around the entrance one afternoon to see if I can work it out.
Monday, 28 July 2014
Kreutzer
Having done the Kreutzer Sonata on 4th July, we were feeling the need for another go on Sunday, so off to the Wigmore Hall again, to hear two new-to-us musicians, Catherine Leonard and Hugh Tinney, both of whom are Irish, although Catherine Leonard has done a long stint on the west coast of the US, having started on the south coast of Ireland.
As we were a little early, we started the proceedings with refreshments at the Regent Street All-Bar-One, a pleasant, high ceilinged place, nicely got up with a handsome wine rack behind the bar. Tea included two small shot glasses full of smarties and we thought that the staff probably passed the time, when it was quiet, making bets on which customers would eat the smarties. We learned on the way out that the place was once the first of Forte's milk bars, being opened as the 'Strand Milk Bar Ltd' in 1935. We also noticed that this part of Regent Street was mainly food and drink, with only a sprinkling of shops, but with the whole given a bit of tone and coherence by the rather pompous, stone fronted buildings which housed the retail on their ground floors, tone and coherence which most of Oxford Street has lost.
The Brahms and the Ravel were also new-to-us but went down well enough and the Beethoven was its usual excellent stuff. There was also the usual hot chocolate in the form of a short encore which was something transcribed for violin and piano by someone, the violin being too overcome at that point to articulate very clearly. Audience fairly worked up too.
My only comment on the playing would be that in some passages of the Brahms and the odd passage of the first movement of the Beethoven, when the violin and piano should have been more or less in balance, the piano rather swamped the violin. There was also an incident which bears on my wondering why it is that string players do not seem to play from memory as much as piano players. At one point in the Beethoven Leonard turned her page but a stray bit of wind turned it back, not leaving her enough time to turn it again. She recovered herself, then played from memory until there was enough of a gap for her to turn again. She may have missed the odd note in so doing.
To lunch in the downstairs bistro at Debenhams, first visited on 20th May, pretty much up to my high expectations, letting us down slightly by not being able to do Lebanese chicken and the alternative Caesar chicken (salad) not being quite up to the usual (Wetherspoon's) specification, although perfectly acceptable in its way. Another nicely got up place, which seemed to have been recently refurbished, a refurbishment which involved, inter alia, a lot of white paint. Using what was just the light well to hold the escalators worked well.
On the way back down Davies Street to Green Park tube station, we were rather shocked to notice the the Sunseeker showroom had shut up shop. Where on earth were the Russian gangsters going to go now to buy the toys to put in their baths? See 25th June and http://www.sunseeker.com/en. On the other hand, Hedonism (owned by a Russian tycoon rather than a gangster) was open and while the ever friendly staff were still not able to offer us a Greco di Tufo, we were able to take a gewürztraminer from the part of Italy which used to be part of Austria, until it was given to Italy as a prize for their guessing (in time) the winning side in the first world war. Aka Alto Adige. I am fairly sure that we had had it before and found it good, but I did not ask them to check their records. They also tried to sell us a wine for someone's birth year as a birth day present, but it was a bit too strongly priced for both us and the occasion in question; maybe another time.
As we were a little early, we started the proceedings with refreshments at the Regent Street All-Bar-One, a pleasant, high ceilinged place, nicely got up with a handsome wine rack behind the bar. Tea included two small shot glasses full of smarties and we thought that the staff probably passed the time, when it was quiet, making bets on which customers would eat the smarties. We learned on the way out that the place was once the first of Forte's milk bars, being opened as the 'Strand Milk Bar Ltd' in 1935. We also noticed that this part of Regent Street was mainly food and drink, with only a sprinkling of shops, but with the whole given a bit of tone and coherence by the rather pompous, stone fronted buildings which housed the retail on their ground floors, tone and coherence which most of Oxford Street has lost.
The Brahms and the Ravel were also new-to-us but went down well enough and the Beethoven was its usual excellent stuff. There was also the usual hot chocolate in the form of a short encore which was something transcribed for violin and piano by someone, the violin being too overcome at that point to articulate very clearly. Audience fairly worked up too.
My only comment on the playing would be that in some passages of the Brahms and the odd passage of the first movement of the Beethoven, when the violin and piano should have been more or less in balance, the piano rather swamped the violin. There was also an incident which bears on my wondering why it is that string players do not seem to play from memory as much as piano players. At one point in the Beethoven Leonard turned her page but a stray bit of wind turned it back, not leaving her enough time to turn it again. She recovered herself, then played from memory until there was enough of a gap for her to turn again. She may have missed the odd note in so doing.
To lunch in the downstairs bistro at Debenhams, first visited on 20th May, pretty much up to my high expectations, letting us down slightly by not being able to do Lebanese chicken and the alternative Caesar chicken (salad) not being quite up to the usual (Wetherspoon's) specification, although perfectly acceptable in its way. Another nicely got up place, which seemed to have been recently refurbished, a refurbishment which involved, inter alia, a lot of white paint. Using what was just the light well to hold the escalators worked well.
On the way back down Davies Street to Green Park tube station, we were rather shocked to notice the the Sunseeker showroom had shut up shop. Where on earth were the Russian gangsters going to go now to buy the toys to put in their baths? See 25th June and http://www.sunseeker.com/en. On the other hand, Hedonism (owned by a Russian tycoon rather than a gangster) was open and while the ever friendly staff were still not able to offer us a Greco di Tufo, we were able to take a gewürztraminer from the part of Italy which used to be part of Austria, until it was given to Italy as a prize for their guessing (in time) the winning side in the first world war. Aka Alto Adige. I am fairly sure that we had had it before and found it good, but I did not ask them to check their records. They also tried to sell us a wine for someone's birth year as a birth day present, but it was a bit too strongly priced for both us and the occasion in question; maybe another time.
A nascent wikopedian?
I make a lot of use of Wikipedia and have sometimes thought that I was well qualified to be an editor, wikispeak for contributor, although I never actually got around to being more than an occasional contributor of money. But an advertisement for their bash at the Barbican caught my eye recently and having signed up for that, I thought it would be sensible to do a little preparation.
Spurning Wikipedia itself for some reason, I turned to Amazon where as luck would have it I lighted upon 'How Wikipedia Works' by Ayers, Matthews and Yates, veteran wikipedians all, which turned out to be a fat but well produced paperback, which does indeed tell me a great deal about how Wikipedia works. A good book, of which I have already read a lot more than I would have been likely to read on-screen.
I had previously read in, as I recall, a gently condescending article in a literary magazine, that wikipedians spend a lot more time and energy on talking about Wikipedia than on producing useful copy (articles in wikispeak). One good product of all this chat is three interlocking principles which help govern the content. V for verifiable: all articles should be verifiable in well regarded, established secondary sources, with Wikipedia seeing itself as a tertiary source. NPOV for neutral point of view: articles should respect the balance of views. A majority view should get the most air time, minority views should get some and cranky views should get little or none. Sounds much the same as one of the policies of the BBC. NOR for no original research: articles are for the established truth, not for breaking truth, breaking news or truths which are not yet widely acknowledged to be such. Wikipedia is not a personal soapbox and people are discouraged from editing articles either about themselves or about the organisations for which they work. And the condescending article was quite right in that there does seem to be a lot of case law.
I have learned that Wikopedia is very democratic, one expression of this being that all articles have a talk page and an edit page in the background. There are a lot of editors, many of whom come in for a few years then drift away again, all editors are equal and pretty much anyone with an internet capable computer can be one. Wikipedia is truly a collective effort. Being an expert on, to take a random example, stag beetles (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Stag_beetle) and then throwing your weight around in the group of stag beetle editors does not work. What does work is patience and respect for the views of others.
A very pleasing feature, coming from a high-control background, is that the low-control wikiscene seems to work. There has to be some control, particularly of the articles about important or well-known people, because there are some vandals about and because there can be accidents. There is also machinery for resolving disagreements or worse between editors: in such a large operation such things are going to happen from time to time and in extreme cases editors can be barred. But what I have read so far suggests that not all that much of all this is needed. All part of what must make the wikiscene fascinating for sociologists and other sorts of gists and I would guess that there are plenty of learned articles and PhDs out there.
However, while I have been impressed by what I have learned, I am no longer sure that I have the relevant skills to be an editor. First because it would require some commitment in time for it to be worthwhile, say a day a week to get started, perhaps less after one had settled down, and this seems rather a lot just at the moment. Second because, having come from a high-control background, I am rather enjoying being in a no-control world and I am not sure that I would fit comfortably into such a strongly collective and cooperative enterprise. But we shall see: who knows what the next few weeks might bring.
Spurning Wikipedia itself for some reason, I turned to Amazon where as luck would have it I lighted upon 'How Wikipedia Works' by Ayers, Matthews and Yates, veteran wikipedians all, which turned out to be a fat but well produced paperback, which does indeed tell me a great deal about how Wikipedia works. A good book, of which I have already read a lot more than I would have been likely to read on-screen.
I had previously read in, as I recall, a gently condescending article in a literary magazine, that wikipedians spend a lot more time and energy on talking about Wikipedia than on producing useful copy (articles in wikispeak). One good product of all this chat is three interlocking principles which help govern the content. V for verifiable: all articles should be verifiable in well regarded, established secondary sources, with Wikipedia seeing itself as a tertiary source. NPOV for neutral point of view: articles should respect the balance of views. A majority view should get the most air time, minority views should get some and cranky views should get little or none. Sounds much the same as one of the policies of the BBC. NOR for no original research: articles are for the established truth, not for breaking truth, breaking news or truths which are not yet widely acknowledged to be such. Wikipedia is not a personal soapbox and people are discouraged from editing articles either about themselves or about the organisations for which they work. And the condescending article was quite right in that there does seem to be a lot of case law.
I have learned that Wikopedia is very democratic, one expression of this being that all articles have a talk page and an edit page in the background. There are a lot of editors, many of whom come in for a few years then drift away again, all editors are equal and pretty much anyone with an internet capable computer can be one. Wikipedia is truly a collective effort. Being an expert on, to take a random example, stag beetles (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Stag_beetle) and then throwing your weight around in the group of stag beetle editors does not work. What does work is patience and respect for the views of others.
A very pleasing feature, coming from a high-control background, is that the low-control wikiscene seems to work. There has to be some control, particularly of the articles about important or well-known people, because there are some vandals about and because there can be accidents. There is also machinery for resolving disagreements or worse between editors: in such a large operation such things are going to happen from time to time and in extreme cases editors can be barred. But what I have read so far suggests that not all that much of all this is needed. All part of what must make the wikiscene fascinating for sociologists and other sorts of gists and I would guess that there are plenty of learned articles and PhDs out there.
However, while I have been impressed by what I have learned, I am no longer sure that I have the relevant skills to be an editor. First because it would require some commitment in time for it to be worthwhile, say a day a week to get started, perhaps less after one had settled down, and this seems rather a lot just at the moment. Second because, having come from a high-control background, I am rather enjoying being in a no-control world and I am not sure that I would fit comfortably into such a strongly collective and cooperative enterprise. But we shall see: who knows what the next few weeks might bring.
Dragons
I have just learned about a splendid bit of public art called the Taunton Deane Dragon trail. Around 30 colourful dragons erected in and around Taunton (Deane in Dorset, not MA) for children to climb on and be photographed with.
Sensibly, the dragons will be expired and auctioned off in October. No time to get tired and tatty.
With thanks to LPH for drawing my attention to the dragons. You can read all about them at http://deanedragons.co.uk/, a site which it took me a little while to find, not having read the original notification very carefully and having confused dragons with dodos.
But there was an up side as, on the way, I came across an art site from Saatchi, from which it was clear that he did more than provide a platform for body parts, the offensive and the inane. The fatuous if not the vacuous. He, or perhaps they, operate a site at http://www.saatchiart.com/ which appears to be a showcase for modern art for sale. And despite the presence of some body parts, I actually like some of it! But either the site or today's broadband is a little creaky and I did not quite get the hang of how it all worked.
Sensibly, the dragons will be expired and auctioned off in October. No time to get tired and tatty.
With thanks to LPH for drawing my attention to the dragons. You can read all about them at http://deanedragons.co.uk/, a site which it took me a little while to find, not having read the original notification very carefully and having confused dragons with dodos.
But there was an up side as, on the way, I came across an art site from Saatchi, from which it was clear that he did more than provide a platform for body parts, the offensive and the inane. The fatuous if not the vacuous. He, or perhaps they, operate a site at http://www.saatchiart.com/ which appears to be a showcase for modern art for sale. And despite the presence of some body parts, I actually like some of it! But either the site or today's broadband is a little creaky and I did not quite get the hang of how it all worked.
Sunday, 27 July 2014
Midsonian progress (2)
While at the Isle of Wight we went to a Sunday car-booter on the smallest (50.697208, -1.114939) of the six interconnecting village greens at St. Helens. A very proper village sporting pub, post office (staffed by an exile from up north), a second hand book shop and at least one café. A very proper village car booter, quite unlike the vast cosmopolitan affairs on our own Hook Road Area (http://hookcarbootsale.com/).
There was a lady selling her own jam. We bought a jar of raspberry while she had great fun explaining why my strawberry went wrong (see 17th June). As it turned out, her raspberry had good flavour but was rather more runny than it should of been. There was also a degree of fakery in that she had gone to the bother of putting proper paper covers on the pots, fastening them with rubber bands, but with the paper covers on top of the screw top lids, in our case for the pot of marmalade that it had once been. Perhaps food hygiene regulations forbid the use of paper covers unsupported by proper covers. We associated to a yarn from my childhood whereby the company that manufactured the fake pips (made from pine) used to improve the appearance of raspberry jam, to make it look as if is was actually made from raspberries, was deemed to be an essential industry and exempted from the conscription during the second world war, it being thought important to keep up appearances during that difficult time. Also to the turnips which my father used to claim were the main ingredient of factory jam, like that made just up the road (at the time) by Chivers, quite unlike the stuff he used to make. Used to make, I may say, in a solid copper jam pan which always ended up glowing clean and golden. Who is to say how much copper we were ingesting as a result? Does that explain everything?
No jigsaws of my sort, that is to say arty, 500 pieces and not more than £2.
There was also a very engaging refreshment caravan, about the size of a large transit van, which was painted in a amateur if talented way with scenes of the tropics, including dusky maidens in bikinis. Both the painting and the van looked as it they dated from the seventies of the last century.
Of a good size for a quick visit on a Sunday morning before one got onto the main business of the day; one could get around the thing in an hour or so.
We went away with the thought that the Midsomer people ought to move on from village fêtes to village car boot sales. All the same fun to be had but rather more likely; people actually do car booters, while fêtes are nearly extinct.
Next stop on the buying & selling front was auction put on by Hose Rhodes Dickson (http://www.hose-rhodes-dickson.co.uk/) round the back of Brading High Street, with them planning to do 423 lots with average estimate around £33 in one sitting. I guess they would need to be pretty brisk to make it pay. We only managed the view rather than the sale, at which there was a fair showing, mainly of much the same sort of people as you get at car booters and second hand book fairs. Three lots caught my eye. First, a collapsible top hat, of a variety mentioned by Osbert in connection with his time with the Guards at the Tower of London. Far too small for me. Second, something called a galvanometer, a splendid piece of old-speak scientific instrument, all brass and mahogany. Would have looked rather good in the study if I could have found room for it. Third, and best of all, was a glass topped & fronted draper's display cabinet. Nicely made of beech in the fifties with 25 smoothly running drawers arranged so that you can see into the top of all of them from the customer side. A wonderful thing for a collection of small objects, perhaps netsuke (see May 28th 2012 in the other place), but the estimate was £250-300, it would not fit in the car and it was not clear where we would put it or what we would put in it. So, sadly, we had to desist.
As it happened we came across another sale a few days later in Shanklin, put on by another lot, but there were very fierce signs saying that there was no viewing on the day of the sale, which it was, so we didn't.
Furthermore, when we got home on that day, we were just taking our tea when half a dozen or more police vehicles turned up, complete with the sort of police men & women who wear funny jackets and baseball caps rather than proper uniforms. They were there for around half an hour, but we never got to find out what they were after. A bit of cannabis being grown in the waste ground behind this particular row of houses (the same waste land which houses the tree which housed the crows. See 19th July)?
PS: just found that even government sites are now doing advertising. Is there no escape? See http://www.planningportal.gov.uk/permission/commonprojects/outbuildings/.
There was a lady selling her own jam. We bought a jar of raspberry while she had great fun explaining why my strawberry went wrong (see 17th June). As it turned out, her raspberry had good flavour but was rather more runny than it should of been. There was also a degree of fakery in that she had gone to the bother of putting proper paper covers on the pots, fastening them with rubber bands, but with the paper covers on top of the screw top lids, in our case for the pot of marmalade that it had once been. Perhaps food hygiene regulations forbid the use of paper covers unsupported by proper covers. We associated to a yarn from my childhood whereby the company that manufactured the fake pips (made from pine) used to improve the appearance of raspberry jam, to make it look as if is was actually made from raspberries, was deemed to be an essential industry and exempted from the conscription during the second world war, it being thought important to keep up appearances during that difficult time. Also to the turnips which my father used to claim were the main ingredient of factory jam, like that made just up the road (at the time) by Chivers, quite unlike the stuff he used to make. Used to make, I may say, in a solid copper jam pan which always ended up glowing clean and golden. Who is to say how much copper we were ingesting as a result? Does that explain everything?
No jigsaws of my sort, that is to say arty, 500 pieces and not more than £2.
There was also a very engaging refreshment caravan, about the size of a large transit van, which was painted in a amateur if talented way with scenes of the tropics, including dusky maidens in bikinis. Both the painting and the van looked as it they dated from the seventies of the last century.
Of a good size for a quick visit on a Sunday morning before one got onto the main business of the day; one could get around the thing in an hour or so.
We went away with the thought that the Midsomer people ought to move on from village fêtes to village car boot sales. All the same fun to be had but rather more likely; people actually do car booters, while fêtes are nearly extinct.
Next stop on the buying & selling front was auction put on by Hose Rhodes Dickson (http://www.hose-rhodes-dickson.co.uk/) round the back of Brading High Street, with them planning to do 423 lots with average estimate around £33 in one sitting. I guess they would need to be pretty brisk to make it pay. We only managed the view rather than the sale, at which there was a fair showing, mainly of much the same sort of people as you get at car booters and second hand book fairs. Three lots caught my eye. First, a collapsible top hat, of a variety mentioned by Osbert in connection with his time with the Guards at the Tower of London. Far too small for me. Second, something called a galvanometer, a splendid piece of old-speak scientific instrument, all brass and mahogany. Would have looked rather good in the study if I could have found room for it. Third, and best of all, was a glass topped & fronted draper's display cabinet. Nicely made of beech in the fifties with 25 smoothly running drawers arranged so that you can see into the top of all of them from the customer side. A wonderful thing for a collection of small objects, perhaps netsuke (see May 28th 2012 in the other place), but the estimate was £250-300, it would not fit in the car and it was not clear where we would put it or what we would put in it. So, sadly, we had to desist.
As it happened we came across another sale a few days later in Shanklin, put on by another lot, but there were very fierce signs saying that there was no viewing on the day of the sale, which it was, so we didn't.
Furthermore, when we got home on that day, we were just taking our tea when half a dozen or more police vehicles turned up, complete with the sort of police men & women who wear funny jackets and baseball caps rather than proper uniforms. They were there for around half an hour, but we never got to find out what they were after. A bit of cannabis being grown in the waste ground behind this particular row of houses (the same waste land which houses the tree which housed the crows. See 19th July)?
PS: just found that even government sites are now doing advertising. Is there no escape? See http://www.planningportal.gov.uk/permission/commonprojects/outbuildings/.
Ryde Pierhead
The railway station at Ryde Pierhead is a bizarre mixture of a working railway station and an anachronism.
All the human flotsam that you get, for example, hanging around bus stations and all the holiday makers (including on this occasion a young German with bicycle & trailer who was taking his touring holiday very seriously), all set in a station full of heritage. Of, for example, benches in little enclosures. I suspect both benches and enclosures as being old & original but perhaps not in their original arrangement & position.
All the human flotsam that you get, for example, hanging around bus stations and all the holiday makers (including on this occasion a young German with bicycle & trailer who was taking his touring holiday very seriously), all set in a station full of heritage. Of, for example, benches in little enclosures. I suspect both benches and enclosures as being old & original but perhaps not in their original arrangement & position.
Saturday, 26 July 2014
Ewell Village
On Friday evening to Ewell Village to pay our first visit to the 'Famous Green Man' for some time, a pub which may well be named for the sort of green men which are to be found in places such as Ely Cathedral (see, for example, December 2nd, 2007 in the other place). I am pleased to report that it seemed to doing very well, a very good trade early this Friday evening, well supported by a bevy of pretty young barmaids. Quite possible that some of those there were people in the building trade on the way home with their vans, a feature shared with both TB and the 'Jolly Coopers'. It was still busy when we went past it on our way home, rather later on, although we forbore from making a second visit in the one evening,
In between whiles we had been for a meal at the nearby 'Neapolitan Kitchen', which also seemed to be doing very well, with the original Italian staffing having expanded into other parts of Europe. A white meat and fish occasion with none of the party straying into red meat. The apple pie was a little sweet, but they had managed to omit the cream and otherwise the food was good. Washed down with two bottles of their 'Greco di Tufo', rather better than the version which is occasionally to be had from Waitrose.
Feeling a bit fresh in the morning, I succumbed to collecting the shopping trolley mentioned in the second post of 25th July, still stationed under the tree on the western verge of Manor Green Road at about 51.336921, -0.280005. What on earth was it doing there? One might have thought that most of the houses in the vicinity costed far too much for their owners to be dumping shopping trolleys - although that said some of them are pretty slow to do their bit at keeping the road free of litter. Quite happy to leave that to the council. As it turned out the trolley was green, not from Waitrose, rather from Marks & Spencer, but not being being that particular I still wheeled it over West Hill, back to its proper home, taking it to the pond to have its picture taken on the way. There were some young moorhens on the pond and it occurred to me that a half submerged but upright shopping trolley would make an admirable foundation for a nest for a water bird - but I was able to restrain myself and I did not shove the thing into the pond.
References: http://www.clivelaneltd.co.uk/greenman/ and http://www.theneapolitankitchen.co.uk/. Also, by way of an experiment:
https://www.google.co.uk/maps/place/51%C2%B020'12.9%22N+0%C2%B016'48.0%22W/@51.3369204,-0.280005,15z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m2!3m1!1s0x0:0x0
In between whiles we had been for a meal at the nearby 'Neapolitan Kitchen', which also seemed to be doing very well, with the original Italian staffing having expanded into other parts of Europe. A white meat and fish occasion with none of the party straying into red meat. The apple pie was a little sweet, but they had managed to omit the cream and otherwise the food was good. Washed down with two bottles of their 'Greco di Tufo', rather better than the version which is occasionally to be had from Waitrose.
Feeling a bit fresh in the morning, I succumbed to collecting the shopping trolley mentioned in the second post of 25th July, still stationed under the tree on the western verge of Manor Green Road at about 51.336921, -0.280005. What on earth was it doing there? One might have thought that most of the houses in the vicinity costed far too much for their owners to be dumping shopping trolleys - although that said some of them are pretty slow to do their bit at keeping the road free of litter. Quite happy to leave that to the council. As it turned out the trolley was green, not from Waitrose, rather from Marks & Spencer, but not being being that particular I still wheeled it over West Hill, back to its proper home, taking it to the pond to have its picture taken on the way. There were some young moorhens on the pond and it occurred to me that a half submerged but upright shopping trolley would make an admirable foundation for a nest for a water bird - but I was able to restrain myself and I did not shove the thing into the pond.
References: http://www.clivelaneltd.co.uk/greenman/ and http://www.theneapolitankitchen.co.uk/. Also, by way of an experiment:
https://www.google.co.uk/maps/place/51%C2%B020'12.9%22N+0%C2%B016'48.0%22W/@51.3369204,-0.280005,15z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m2!3m1!1s0x0:0x0
Risus sardonicus
I am presently reading another blast from the past in the form of G. K. Chesteron's autobiography, the chap pointed up for me by the otherwise rather odd Houellebecq (see January 17th 2011 in the other place). In due course, to sit alongside my privately bound collection of 'Father Brown' stories, a hardback which looks as if it started life as a fat paperback.
My eye was caught this morning by the bit included above, which made me realise that I did not have a clue what either sardonic or sarcastic really meant, despite making occasional use of the first and reasonably frequent use of the second. So off to the usually trusty OED to learn that sarcastic was derived from a late Greek word meaning to tear flesh or gnash teeth. From which the current usage of the word seems to flow quite naturally. So far so good. But turning to sardonic it offers very little help at all, appearing to mean much the same thing as sarcastic. And being a little early in the morning, I entirely missed the accompanying reference to sardonian. But I did wonder to where to turn to next, and lighted upon my also usually trusty miniature Littré which actually lists sardonique under sardonien and I learn that the latter is a Sardinian plant, the ingestion of which is said to cause a convulsive laugh. A sort of involuntary laugh involving a grimace. The Chestonian anecdote starts to make a bit more sense.
Turning back to the OED, I do now pick up its reference to sardonian which in second meaning is one who flatters with deadly intent, this by virtue of the Sardinian plant which is said to kill by exciting laughter. All of which says to me that dictionaries can be a bit sterile. A word lives by the use that is made of it, and if one does not use it or come across it much, it is going to lose its proper savour.
PS: chaining from one word to another, something that Littré seems to provoke, I learn that astrum is early German, via late Latin, for hearth. Is there any connection with astral? But that must be another story.
My eye was caught this morning by the bit included above, which made me realise that I did not have a clue what either sardonic or sarcastic really meant, despite making occasional use of the first and reasonably frequent use of the second. So off to the usually trusty OED to learn that sarcastic was derived from a late Greek word meaning to tear flesh or gnash teeth. From which the current usage of the word seems to flow quite naturally. So far so good. But turning to sardonic it offers very little help at all, appearing to mean much the same thing as sarcastic. And being a little early in the morning, I entirely missed the accompanying reference to sardonian. But I did wonder to where to turn to next, and lighted upon my also usually trusty miniature Littré which actually lists sardonique under sardonien and I learn that the latter is a Sardinian plant, the ingestion of which is said to cause a convulsive laugh. A sort of involuntary laugh involving a grimace. The Chestonian anecdote starts to make a bit more sense.
Turning back to the OED, I do now pick up its reference to sardonian which in second meaning is one who flatters with deadly intent, this by virtue of the Sardinian plant which is said to kill by exciting laughter. All of which says to me that dictionaries can be a bit sterile. A word lives by the use that is made of it, and if one does not use it or come across it much, it is going to lose its proper savour.
PS: chaining from one word to another, something that Littré seems to provoke, I learn that astrum is early German, via late Latin, for hearth. Is there any connection with astral? But that must be another story.
Friday, 25 July 2014
Recycling at Raynes Park
The waiting room at Raynes Park railway station has been quite productive of late, notably of an introduction to the autobiography of Osbert Sitwell. I had been thinking that perhaps it might be a better place to leave some of my books than the Oxfam bin at Kiln Lane, but I found yesterday evening that someone had beaten me to it.
My first find, a Nigel Balchin called 'seen dimly before dawn', a library book which had had the first few pages torn out but which retained the original dust jacket and which was printed at a time when capitalisation of the words making up a title was clearly out of fashion. It only took a few minutes this morning to determine that this was a ladies' book and was so translated to the other side of the bed.
But after that, in new territory, the land of cast-offs of some bookish gent. who either lived near Raynes Park or passed through. A handy little tri-lingual guide to Girona Cathedral. A booklet celebrating the 50th anniversary of the inauguration of the railway of the Lower Congo, a booklet which comes with two pull out maps and which appears not to fall in with current views on the behaviour of the Belgian colonists of the Congo. (It seems ironic now that Roger Casement should have been documenting this only a few years before others went on to laud the plucky behaviour of our gallant ally in the opening stages of the first world war. I associate to the shockingly good looking young street walkers from the Congo on patrol near the Place de Brouckère last time I was in Brussells). The bulletin of the German Historical Institute of London for November 2010. And last but not least a well illustrated catalogue of the museum of shop signs of Paris (see http://www.carnavalet.paris.fr/).
Having extracted these five it seemed a bit greedy to take more, although there were other items of interest, and as it was I felt that I should donate my programme for the 'Crucible' to the pile, perhaps to save some careful commuter the expense of buying his own. Perhaps to prompt some theatrical commuter to go to the show.
My first find, a Nigel Balchin called 'seen dimly before dawn', a library book which had had the first few pages torn out but which retained the original dust jacket and which was printed at a time when capitalisation of the words making up a title was clearly out of fashion. It only took a few minutes this morning to determine that this was a ladies' book and was so translated to the other side of the bed.
But after that, in new territory, the land of cast-offs of some bookish gent. who either lived near Raynes Park or passed through. A handy little tri-lingual guide to Girona Cathedral. A booklet celebrating the 50th anniversary of the inauguration of the railway of the Lower Congo, a booklet which comes with two pull out maps and which appears not to fall in with current views on the behaviour of the Belgian colonists of the Congo. (It seems ironic now that Roger Casement should have been documenting this only a few years before others went on to laud the plucky behaviour of our gallant ally in the opening stages of the first world war. I associate to the shockingly good looking young street walkers from the Congo on patrol near the Place de Brouckère last time I was in Brussells). The bulletin of the German Historical Institute of London for November 2010. And last but not least a well illustrated catalogue of the museum of shop signs of Paris (see http://www.carnavalet.paris.fr/).
Having extracted these five it seemed a bit greedy to take more, although there were other items of interest, and as it was I felt that I should donate my programme for the 'Crucible' to the pile, perhaps to save some careful commuter the expense of buying his own. Perhaps to prompt some theatrical commuter to go to the show.
Civics (3)
Took the hose to it this morning and it came up, more or less as new.
Then onto google to see what it is was worth and what to do with it. I found that I could buy an inferior version on ebay for £25. I found a recycling outfit at http://www.trolleywise.co.uk/ which did involve downloading an app, something I have yet to get a decent grip on and which would probably have involved waiting in - or leaving the trolley on the verge, which BH would not have cared for. So the answer was clearly to walk the thing back to Sainsbury's at Kiln Lane, which I then did, leaving it inside its twin in a trolley park.
Nearly home I came across a rather smaller Waitrose trolley, in the respectable end of Manor Green Road. If it doesn't move maybe I will move in on that one. I can become a one-man campaign to clear Stamford Ward of carelessly parked shopping trolleys.
PS: along the way I read that the average life of one of these very substantially built shopping trolleys is around two years. Maybe more care in this department is part of what makes Lidl and Aldi the shops they are.
Then onto google to see what it is was worth and what to do with it. I found that I could buy an inferior version on ebay for £25. I found a recycling outfit at http://www.trolleywise.co.uk/ which did involve downloading an app, something I have yet to get a decent grip on and which would probably have involved waiting in - or leaving the trolley on the verge, which BH would not have cared for. So the answer was clearly to walk the thing back to Sainsbury's at Kiln Lane, which I then did, leaving it inside its twin in a trolley park.
Nearly home I came across a rather smaller Waitrose trolley, in the respectable end of Manor Green Road. If it doesn't move maybe I will move in on that one. I can become a one-man campaign to clear Stamford Ward of carelessly parked shopping trolleys.
PS: along the way I read that the average life of one of these very substantially built shopping trolleys is around two years. Maybe more care in this department is part of what makes Lidl and Aldi the shops they are.
Civics (2)
This trolley had been in the bed of the stream down Longmead Road for some weeks before the sight got the better of me. Presumably no part of the duties of the people who mowed the banks of the stream or of the regular litter pickers.
My first attempt was without rope, and while I dare say I would have got there in the end, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, with such things as backs and ribs taking a while to heal these days. But for my second attempt I took a length of blue agricultural rope, clearly intended for getting ironmongery out of ditches, and the trolley was retrieved from the ditch with neither sweat nor toil. That came when I came to walk the thing home, to find that it had a will of its own, particularly when on an uneven or sloping service. Plus a lot of bumping and clattering. Just one conversation with a passer-by about the shocking waste involved in getting such a thing into a ditch and then letting it lie.
Let the thing dry out for a bit, then brushed most of the grot off with stiff hand brush, this last including a fair number of pigeon feathers and winding up in our compost dustbin.
My first attempt was without rope, and while I dare say I would have got there in the end, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, with such things as backs and ribs taking a while to heal these days. But for my second attempt I took a length of blue agricultural rope, clearly intended for getting ironmongery out of ditches, and the trolley was retrieved from the ditch with neither sweat nor toil. That came when I came to walk the thing home, to find that it had a will of its own, particularly when on an uneven or sloping service. Plus a lot of bumping and clattering. Just one conversation with a passer-by about the shocking waste involved in getting such a thing into a ditch and then letting it lie.
Let the thing dry out for a bit, then brushed most of the grot off with stiff hand brush, this last including a fair number of pigeon feathers and winding up in our compost dustbin.
Thursday, 24 July 2014
30 second brain
Poking around at http://www.anilseth.com/, I came across and bought a book called '30 second brain', one of a series published by the Ivy Press of Lewes, whose site at http://www.ivypress.co.uk/ shows them to have an engagingly eclectic list.
As a bit of book production, unusual not to say odd, with the boards faced with what looks like brown packing paper, with some of the illustrations having what looks like brown packing paper as the background and with most of the right hand pages being taking up with rather odd illustrations, only rather loosely related to the text on the left hand pages and not usually very helpful - although some are, like that on page 99, reproduced left, which neatly illustrates one of the many tricks of human colour vision - all three greens being printed in the same colour.
The core of the book is fifty neatly presented, one page summaries of interesting topics in neuroscience, for example 'The Bayesian brain', 'The alien hand syndrome' and 'The ageing brain', and the rather implausible story is that you can consume the inner core of such a page in 30 seconds, hence the title. The diet is varied with a number of two page spreads telling us about an important person in the field and, for each of the seven chapters, a helpful two page glossary.
By way of a short example, I offer the factlet that schizophrenics, unlike the rest of us, can tickle themselves.
By way of a long example, I offer a story about a few of the people who appear to be in a deep, possibly irreversible coma. To all intents and purposes dead.
One then tells them that they are to be asked some questions, of the sort that want a yes/no answer. And to answer yes by thinking of a tennis match and to answer no by thinking of a nettle. It seems that with the right sort of brain inspection equipment one can communicate with at least some comatose people on this basis.
In another experiment, normal conscious subjects are given a small number of options, for example circle, square and triangle, and they are asked to think about one of them. Again, with the right sort of brain inspection equipment one can see which option the subject has chosen.
This is all a bit slow, low bandwidth in the jargon, but maybe in time we will be able to do better. Maybe the list of options could be the letters of the alphabet, and the subjects will be able to think out arbitrary words to be read by the computer. Maybe some person-computer pairs would be able to do this at speeds of the same order as that, for example, of reading braille. I associate to the prison cell wall tapping technique of Koestler's 'Darkness at Noon'. And morse code, with both of these rather clumsy techniques being pretty much like reading and writing to adepts.
But the question more interesting to me is, is the first subject conscious? I think my answer is maybe. Maybe someone who is in a coma but not conscious could do this. Not enough information. I associate to the sleep learning wheezes which one has in Huxley's ‘Brave New World’ and which have been tried, with some limited success, in real life - although I suspect that http://www.sleeplearning.com/ overstates the case.
In sum, a good read or a good dip for someone like myself with some basic science and a smattering of prior knowledge; a lucky find. Lots of good stuff to build into lectures for A-level students or first year undergraduates.
As a bit of book production, unusual not to say odd, with the boards faced with what looks like brown packing paper, with some of the illustrations having what looks like brown packing paper as the background and with most of the right hand pages being taking up with rather odd illustrations, only rather loosely related to the text on the left hand pages and not usually very helpful - although some are, like that on page 99, reproduced left, which neatly illustrates one of the many tricks of human colour vision - all three greens being printed in the same colour.
The core of the book is fifty neatly presented, one page summaries of interesting topics in neuroscience, for example 'The Bayesian brain', 'The alien hand syndrome' and 'The ageing brain', and the rather implausible story is that you can consume the inner core of such a page in 30 seconds, hence the title. The diet is varied with a number of two page spreads telling us about an important person in the field and, for each of the seven chapters, a helpful two page glossary.
By way of a short example, I offer the factlet that schizophrenics, unlike the rest of us, can tickle themselves.
By way of a long example, I offer a story about a few of the people who appear to be in a deep, possibly irreversible coma. To all intents and purposes dead.
One then tells them that they are to be asked some questions, of the sort that want a yes/no answer. And to answer yes by thinking of a tennis match and to answer no by thinking of a nettle. It seems that with the right sort of brain inspection equipment one can communicate with at least some comatose people on this basis.
In another experiment, normal conscious subjects are given a small number of options, for example circle, square and triangle, and they are asked to think about one of them. Again, with the right sort of brain inspection equipment one can see which option the subject has chosen.
This is all a bit slow, low bandwidth in the jargon, but maybe in time we will be able to do better. Maybe the list of options could be the letters of the alphabet, and the subjects will be able to think out arbitrary words to be read by the computer. Maybe some person-computer pairs would be able to do this at speeds of the same order as that, for example, of reading braille. I associate to the prison cell wall tapping technique of Koestler's 'Darkness at Noon'. And morse code, with both of these rather clumsy techniques being pretty much like reading and writing to adepts.
But the question more interesting to me is, is the first subject conscious? I think my answer is maybe. Maybe someone who is in a coma but not conscious could do this. Not enough information. I associate to the sleep learning wheezes which one has in Huxley's ‘Brave New World’ and which have been tried, with some limited success, in real life - although I suspect that http://www.sleeplearning.com/ overstates the case.
In sum, a good read or a good dip for someone like myself with some basic science and a smattering of prior knowledge; a lucky find. Lots of good stuff to build into lectures for A-level students or first year undergraduates.
Wednesday, 23 July 2014
Halifax
Regular readers may recall that the former friendly society called the Halifax Building Society has completely p'd me off by the way it treated me as a regular and long-standing customer for its house insurance product. That is to say it pushed the (direct debit) charges up every year in the hope and expectation that I would just pay up, with the result over the years that, despite moaning from time to time, I paid a good deal more for my house insurance than was fair or proper. I am now no longer a customer for their house insurance product and there was no reply to my letter to them explaining why.
Today they invite me to fill in a computer based questionnaire which, they said, was intended to help them provide a better service. Actually it was intended to help them refurbish their customer lottery, and after being asked many times - say more than twenty times - to choose between two options, all of which looked pretty much the same to me, I gave up and closed the survey window. I was not given the opportunity to explain that I would much rather that they did not spend money, time and effort on customer lotteries. I would much prefer them to put it all into services rather than peripheral & irrelevant inducements to use those services. Lotteries like this irritate me just as much as all the money, time and effort poured by the big shops into their various reward schemes.
Maybe Halifax should take a leaf out of the Ryanair book and stop p'ing this customer off just for fun. Or perhaps profit.
Today they invite me to fill in a computer based questionnaire which, they said, was intended to help them provide a better service. Actually it was intended to help them refurbish their customer lottery, and after being asked many times - say more than twenty times - to choose between two options, all of which looked pretty much the same to me, I gave up and closed the survey window. I was not given the opportunity to explain that I would much rather that they did not spend money, time and effort on customer lotteries. I would much prefer them to put it all into services rather than peripheral & irrelevant inducements to use those services. Lotteries like this irritate me just as much as all the money, time and effort poured by the big shops into their various reward schemes.
Maybe Halifax should take a leaf out of the Ryanair book and stop p'ing this customer off just for fun. Or perhaps profit.
Memorial
To complement the witch shop mentioned in today's first post I now find that there is a tasteful memorial. Further information can be found at http://salem.lib.virginia.edu/Commemoration.html.
But I have not bothered to find out why this Massachusetts tragedy should be memorialised at a Virginian website.
But I have not bothered to find out why this Massachusetts tragedy should be memorialised at a Virginian website.
David Prentice
The Guardian ran an obituary of a new-to-me painter, David Prentice, today, including a picture of a buzzard which I rather liked. Unfortunately, the Guardian web site is only giving away a version with the bottom cropped off, so I offer another buzzard, entire, from the John Davies Gallery in Moreton-in-Marsh (http://www.johndaviesgallery.com/).
Marked as sold so, maybe this image is the best that one is going to do, given that their exhibition of works by Prentice has just closed.
Marked as sold so, maybe this image is the best that one is going to do, given that their exhibition of works by Prentice has just closed.
Hot from the crucible
Yesterday to the Old Vic to see the Crucible, the subject of many flattering reviews. A long show at more than three and one third hours running time and we were pleased to just catch the 1109 to Epsom on exit, despite the presence on it of some rather young people, rather highly dressed and behaved.
Off too rather a slow start, rather well padded by scene setting music and tableaux, but building up to a terrific climax at the end. A lot more immediate and effective, I imagine, for being done in the round, and we were quite close enough at row N. A rather young and enthusiastic audience with a sprinkling of older people, some of whom were dressed rather loud, perhaps luvvies come to have a peek at friends in the large cast of more than twenty, not including the creative team. A lot for a play these days. A disadvantage of being in the round - with us being in what was the body of the auditorium, facing the proscenium arch - was a lot of flesh and summer clothes directly behind the rather somberly dressed actors. A touch distracting.
We reflected afterwards on how such a thing could come to pass, just about three hundred years ago. Ironic that it should be, in part, a lurid product of the Puritan faith, itself a reaction from the luridities of the Catholic faith which preceded it. The programme talked of the commie scare in the US at the time the play was written, but we associated more to the satanic ritual scare of our own time, in the eighties. Similar, for example, for the way in which nuggets of unpleasant truth became embedded in a far larger narrative. One also hopes that those of the various Muslim faiths are not at this same intolerant and puritanical stage of their development, having started a few hundred years after the Christians got going and being a rather younger faith in consequence: one does worry that this is a stage that one has to go through. One also noticed that the headgear of the Puritan ladies, possibly the product of some historical research on the matter, looked very like the headgear of many Muslim ladies. Or did the creative people just do what the Muslim ladies do, without bothering to check what the Puritan ladies actually did, wanting to make a point without having to go to the bother of checking their facts?
The illustration taken from google maps is of a church in Maple Street in Danvers MA, not too far from the scene. Note the banner advertising the annual rubber duck race to the right; the inhabitants have clearly been shamed by the shameful history of their town into more childish pursuits than hunting witches. They also do a good line in witch souvenir shops, see, for example, http://www.witchwaygifts.com/. Silly, and perhaps tasteless given what happened, but relatively harmless. I also came across the Danvers State Hospital which looked very like one of our old mental asylums - and was equally closed up and awaiting development.
I also went to see what they could do at http://www.dp.la/ and they came up with a splendid history of the whole business by one Reverend Zachariah Atwell Mudge, called 'Witch Hill : a history of Salem witchcraft, including illustrative sketches of persons and places' and published in 1870. There is a good quality facsimile online which lets you download good quality copies of individual pages should you be so inclined. Alternatively, there are lots of postcards of something called 'Witch House'. The Digital Public Library of America does the business again.
Off too rather a slow start, rather well padded by scene setting music and tableaux, but building up to a terrific climax at the end. A lot more immediate and effective, I imagine, for being done in the round, and we were quite close enough at row N. A rather young and enthusiastic audience with a sprinkling of older people, some of whom were dressed rather loud, perhaps luvvies come to have a peek at friends in the large cast of more than twenty, not including the creative team. A lot for a play these days. A disadvantage of being in the round - with us being in what was the body of the auditorium, facing the proscenium arch - was a lot of flesh and summer clothes directly behind the rather somberly dressed actors. A touch distracting.
We reflected afterwards on how such a thing could come to pass, just about three hundred years ago. Ironic that it should be, in part, a lurid product of the Puritan faith, itself a reaction from the luridities of the Catholic faith which preceded it. The programme talked of the commie scare in the US at the time the play was written, but we associated more to the satanic ritual scare of our own time, in the eighties. Similar, for example, for the way in which nuggets of unpleasant truth became embedded in a far larger narrative. One also hopes that those of the various Muslim faiths are not at this same intolerant and puritanical stage of their development, having started a few hundred years after the Christians got going and being a rather younger faith in consequence: one does worry that this is a stage that one has to go through. One also noticed that the headgear of the Puritan ladies, possibly the product of some historical research on the matter, looked very like the headgear of many Muslim ladies. Or did the creative people just do what the Muslim ladies do, without bothering to check what the Puritan ladies actually did, wanting to make a point without having to go to the bother of checking their facts?
The illustration taken from google maps is of a church in Maple Street in Danvers MA, not too far from the scene. Note the banner advertising the annual rubber duck race to the right; the inhabitants have clearly been shamed by the shameful history of their town into more childish pursuits than hunting witches. They also do a good line in witch souvenir shops, see, for example, http://www.witchwaygifts.com/. Silly, and perhaps tasteless given what happened, but relatively harmless. I also came across the Danvers State Hospital which looked very like one of our old mental asylums - and was equally closed up and awaiting development.
I also went to see what they could do at http://www.dp.la/ and they came up with a splendid history of the whole business by one Reverend Zachariah Atwell Mudge, called 'Witch Hill : a history of Salem witchcraft, including illustrative sketches of persons and places' and published in 1870. There is a good quality facsimile online which lets you download good quality copies of individual pages should you be so inclined. Alternatively, there are lots of postcards of something called 'Witch House'. The Digital Public Library of America does the business again.
Tuesday, 22 July 2014
Civics
Odd that I should have mentioned Bertrand Russell in my first post of 21st July as I have just finished, after rather a long time, a first reading of a book he wrote in 1938 about power: 'Power, a new social analysis', published in a small but handsomely produced book by George Allen & Unwin Ltd and complete with its more or less immaculate yellow dust jacket. Picked up from somewhere or other, exactly where being now forgotten.
But including the slip illustrated for a society which looks to be very much of the fifties, appropriate to when this seventh impression was printed in 1957. An outfit which draws just a single screen from google, a single screen; an early music screen including, for example, something from an auctioneer about a chest of viols. Something else from OUP for which I have to pay if I want to see it, so google must have some cunning arrangement whereby it can index stuff which the rest of us have to pay to see.
The book itself was rather good, a book which like the roughly contemporary 'Jesting Pilate' (vide supra) has worn rather well. The mathematical genius - if not giant - of the very beginning of the twentieth century had turned into a social scientist by the middle of it, a social scientist who from a position of never having had much power - beyond that which accrues to any successful upper-crust socialite and philanderer - has a very fair stab at working through the workings of same.
Priestly power, kingly power and naked power. This last being the sort that claims no legitimacy than that of itself, of brute force. The tools of power, for example castles and roads. Economic power and the distinction between the power of shareholders and the power of the executives, generally not the same people.
For a life-long atheist, he takes a positive view of the rôle of organised religion over the centuries. On the whole, a force for progress. He does not go in for the rather tiresome priest bashing of Dawkins and the late Hitchens.
Forms of government. The need for the rule of the majority to be tempered by the needs of the minority. For the need for all of us to rub along with each other, without reaching for our equalizers (see http://www.colt.com/ for a rather unpleasant display of such and where the Colt Single Action Army® Revolver can be seen to be the name of the current offering) when we disagree, to be able to disagree in a civilised way.
A book which, I would have thought, would make a very good text for the lessons in what we used to call civics when I was at school. One period a week when we learned about how and why the country was organised, mainly based on the lessons of the history of Great Britain in the 18th and 19th centuries; this in the days when we could hold up the House of Commons to the rest of the world as the example of how things ought to be done. I think the chap who taught this class was a regular reader of the then long parliamentary columns of 'The Times' and I associate to my days at what was then OPCS (now lost inside ONS) where it was normal for budding young statisticians such as myself to turn the pages of Hansard most days, to see what was happening at the seat of power.
But including the slip illustrated for a society which looks to be very much of the fifties, appropriate to when this seventh impression was printed in 1957. An outfit which draws just a single screen from google, a single screen; an early music screen including, for example, something from an auctioneer about a chest of viols. Something else from OUP for which I have to pay if I want to see it, so google must have some cunning arrangement whereby it can index stuff which the rest of us have to pay to see.
The book itself was rather good, a book which like the roughly contemporary 'Jesting Pilate' (vide supra) has worn rather well. The mathematical genius - if not giant - of the very beginning of the twentieth century had turned into a social scientist by the middle of it, a social scientist who from a position of never having had much power - beyond that which accrues to any successful upper-crust socialite and philanderer - has a very fair stab at working through the workings of same.
Priestly power, kingly power and naked power. This last being the sort that claims no legitimacy than that of itself, of brute force. The tools of power, for example castles and roads. Economic power and the distinction between the power of shareholders and the power of the executives, generally not the same people.
For a life-long atheist, he takes a positive view of the rôle of organised religion over the centuries. On the whole, a force for progress. He does not go in for the rather tiresome priest bashing of Dawkins and the late Hitchens.
Forms of government. The need for the rule of the majority to be tempered by the needs of the minority. For the need for all of us to rub along with each other, without reaching for our equalizers (see http://www.colt.com/ for a rather unpleasant display of such and where the Colt Single Action Army® Revolver can be seen to be the name of the current offering) when we disagree, to be able to disagree in a civilised way.
A book which, I would have thought, would make a very good text for the lessons in what we used to call civics when I was at school. One period a week when we learned about how and why the country was organised, mainly based on the lessons of the history of Great Britain in the 18th and 19th centuries; this in the days when we could hold up the House of Commons to the rest of the world as the example of how things ought to be done. I think the chap who taught this class was a regular reader of the then long parliamentary columns of 'The Times' and I associate to my days at what was then OPCS (now lost inside ONS) where it was normal for budding young statisticians such as myself to turn the pages of Hansard most days, to see what was happening at the seat of power.
Monday, 21 July 2014
Yaverland church (2)
The top of the west door into the church at Yaverland, presumably dating from the time it was built in the 12th century. But perhaps cut about since to allow for a higher door; tympanums of this sort are usually semi-circular and do not have lumps cut out of them.
Have we grown that much since the Conquest? Did the Normans bring a taller stock with them? It being well known from the examination of bits of thigh bones from funerary urns that the Northmen of Denmark who became the Normans were a lot taller than the Jutes of Jutland who became the Caulkheads.
See also the end of the first post of 22nd July 2013.
Have we grown that much since the Conquest? Did the Normans bring a taller stock with them? It being well known from the examination of bits of thigh bones from funerary urns that the Northmen of Denmark who became the Normans were a lot taller than the Jutes of Jutland who became the Caulkheads.
See also the end of the first post of 22nd July 2013.
Yaverland church (1)
One of the products of the Victorian restoration of the church at Yaverland. A post, probably oak, with a carefully made lead roof to keep the rain out. Never seen such a thing before.
The church used to be the private chapel of the manor house and is tucked into a small plot of land jammed right underneath same. Perhaps the lord of the manor at the time was not into hunting or fishing but took a keen interest in architectural detailing instead.
The church used to be the private chapel of the manor house and is tucked into a small plot of land jammed right underneath same. Perhaps the lord of the manor at the time was not into hunting or fishing but took a keen interest in architectural detailing instead.
Bad timing (reprised)
Advertised, as it happens, in the same Yaverland church as last year. There must be a fellow enthusiast in the area.
God is invisible
Having turned up 'Jesting Pilate' again yesterday, I fell to rereading it, to come across an interesting demonstration of why God is invisible.
It seems that one Jalalu 'd-Din Muhammad Rumi, a 13th century Iranian, wrote: 'Opposite shows up opposite as with a Frank and a negro. The opposite of light shows what is light ... God created grief and pain for this purpose: to wit, to manifest happiness by its opposites. Hidden things are manifested by their opposites; but as God has no opposite, He remains hidden'. I am reminded of a witticism of Bertrand Russell in which by using an arithmetical falsehood as a premise he was able to demonstrate that he was the Pope. Also that Huxley managed these feats of erudition without the benefit of the internet and quite possibly, since this was a travel book, without the benefit of a library.
I was also amused to find that Huxley knew all about the row that crows make when roosting, having had an congratulatory address to one Mr. Patel, on the occasion of this last being made the speaker of the Legislative Assembly (of I am not sure where), drowned out by the roosting crows of Bombay. Altogether an amusing writer.
Asking the other place (http://www.pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/) for 'jesting', it looks as if I acquired and first read this book back in 2008 - and I still think, as I observed at that time, that it has worn well. It is still a good read, well worth its shelf space.
It seems that one Jalalu 'd-Din Muhammad Rumi, a 13th century Iranian, wrote: 'Opposite shows up opposite as with a Frank and a negro. The opposite of light shows what is light ... God created grief and pain for this purpose: to wit, to manifest happiness by its opposites. Hidden things are manifested by their opposites; but as God has no opposite, He remains hidden'. I am reminded of a witticism of Bertrand Russell in which by using an arithmetical falsehood as a premise he was able to demonstrate that he was the Pope. Also that Huxley managed these feats of erudition without the benefit of the internet and quite possibly, since this was a travel book, without the benefit of a library.
I was also amused to find that Huxley knew all about the row that crows make when roosting, having had an congratulatory address to one Mr. Patel, on the occasion of this last being made the speaker of the Legislative Assembly (of I am not sure where), drowned out by the roosting crows of Bombay. Altogether an amusing writer.
Asking the other place (http://www.pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/) for 'jesting', it looks as if I acquired and first read this book back in 2008 - and I still think, as I observed at that time, that it has worn well. It is still a good read, well worth its shelf space.
Saturday, 19 July 2014
Twit log
A note of tweet affairs over the last couple of weeks on the southern island, in roughly descending order of interest.
Crows, possibly rooks, get pride of place. There are some trees behind our bungalow, one in particular of which seems to be favoured by crows for roosting (illustrated left), crows which like to make a great deal of noise when they go to bed at night and then again when they get up in the morning, roughly sunset and sunrise. One evening they got really excited and hundreds of them seemed to be flying & squawking around this particular tree, flying in something which reminded us of the bulbular clouds favoured by starlings. Never seen anything like it before, but then we have never slept in such close proximity to crows before. Present on other nights since, but not as numerous or as noisy.
Starlings next, our coming across perhaps a hundred of them roosting under the pier end bit of the canopy over the platform of Ryde Esplanade station. Some of them looked quite young. There was some contention for the top spots. (I have been seeing a lot more starlings about this year, for example a small flock grazing a few weeks back down the Longmead Road. No idea why).
Quite a lot of buzzard sightings and even more hearings, assuming that is that the mewing noises were indeed buzzards. The most spectacular sighting was in a small valley heading up towards Culver Down, where we saw the shadow of the buzzard before the buzzard itself. Then another, and then a bit of dead tree. First thought was that the bit of dead tree was an owl but eventually decided that it was another buzzard. Yet another buzzard was seen from below, looking up at the Culver cliffs from Yaverland beach, being very struck on that occasion by the white flashes under the outboard end of the wings.
There were also seagulls, exhibiting the very special white of their wings which you get when seeing them from below against a bright blue sky.
Rather more small birds than is usual in Epsom, with the flashiest sighting being of a gray wagtail in Shanklin Chine, a very pretty and distinctive bird with grey head & shoulders and yellow breast. Various swallows and skylarks. Maybe a green finch. Some other small birds with wagging tails on the shelves at Bembridge but we did not know what they were. But there was compensation there in the form of three white egrets, last seen down the Longmead Road (see 22nd December last). Also a very large black diver, a bit big for a cormorant.
The odd kestrel. Rather more magpies, although not as many as in Epsom. The odd owl-like sound at night, but nothing clear enough to claim as a tweet aural. Nor did we see any foxes; perhaps you don't get them in the country despite not being allowed to hunt them down with their natural predators, that is to say fox hounds. Maybe we should redirect the people who get excited about fox hunting to tigers, to mount a campaign to convert tigers to vegetarianism. In which we would have to put aside the people who detect life forces in plants with ammeters - the sort of people that Aldous Huxley came across in India between the wars, written about in his book about his journey around the world, the name of which eludes me for the moment.
PS 1: the book has now been run down and I find it to be called, as I had suspected, 'Jesting Pilate'. This particular sort of person was an eminent Indian scientist called Sir J. C. Bose CSI CIE FRS. See page 174 et seq. in the Paragon House edition of 1991.
PS 2: Huxley was fond of using quotations for the titles of his books. This one is particularly obscure and is taken from the opening sentence of an essay by Francis Bacon written some time around 1600 and which refers to John 18:38.
Crows, possibly rooks, get pride of place. There are some trees behind our bungalow, one in particular of which seems to be favoured by crows for roosting (illustrated left), crows which like to make a great deal of noise when they go to bed at night and then again when they get up in the morning, roughly sunset and sunrise. One evening they got really excited and hundreds of them seemed to be flying & squawking around this particular tree, flying in something which reminded us of the bulbular clouds favoured by starlings. Never seen anything like it before, but then we have never slept in such close proximity to crows before. Present on other nights since, but not as numerous or as noisy.
Starlings next, our coming across perhaps a hundred of them roosting under the pier end bit of the canopy over the platform of Ryde Esplanade station. Some of them looked quite young. There was some contention for the top spots. (I have been seeing a lot more starlings about this year, for example a small flock grazing a few weeks back down the Longmead Road. No idea why).
Quite a lot of buzzard sightings and even more hearings, assuming that is that the mewing noises were indeed buzzards. The most spectacular sighting was in a small valley heading up towards Culver Down, where we saw the shadow of the buzzard before the buzzard itself. Then another, and then a bit of dead tree. First thought was that the bit of dead tree was an owl but eventually decided that it was another buzzard. Yet another buzzard was seen from below, looking up at the Culver cliffs from Yaverland beach, being very struck on that occasion by the white flashes under the outboard end of the wings.
There were also seagulls, exhibiting the very special white of their wings which you get when seeing them from below against a bright blue sky.
Rather more small birds than is usual in Epsom, with the flashiest sighting being of a gray wagtail in Shanklin Chine, a very pretty and distinctive bird with grey head & shoulders and yellow breast. Various swallows and skylarks. Maybe a green finch. Some other small birds with wagging tails on the shelves at Bembridge but we did not know what they were. But there was compensation there in the form of three white egrets, last seen down the Longmead Road (see 22nd December last). Also a very large black diver, a bit big for a cormorant.
The odd kestrel. Rather more magpies, although not as many as in Epsom. The odd owl-like sound at night, but nothing clear enough to claim as a tweet aural. Nor did we see any foxes; perhaps you don't get them in the country despite not being allowed to hunt them down with their natural predators, that is to say fox hounds. Maybe we should redirect the people who get excited about fox hunting to tigers, to mount a campaign to convert tigers to vegetarianism. In which we would have to put aside the people who detect life forces in plants with ammeters - the sort of people that Aldous Huxley came across in India between the wars, written about in his book about his journey around the world, the name of which eludes me for the moment.
PS 1: the book has now been run down and I find it to be called, as I had suspected, 'Jesting Pilate'. This particular sort of person was an eminent Indian scientist called Sir J. C. Bose CSI CIE FRS. See page 174 et seq. in the Paragon House edition of 1991.
PS 2: Huxley was fond of using quotations for the titles of his books. This one is particularly obscure and is taken from the opening sentence of an essay by Francis Bacon written some time around 1600 and which refers to John 18:38.
Thunder and lightning
The scene on the Isle of Wight the other night, looking northwest from somewhere, I should think, above Shanklin.
BH woken up from where she was behind Culver Down, not far where the second bolt from the right appears to touch down, and caught some of it.
A better version of the picture can be found at the Telegraph web site (search for sandown at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/) - or, alternatively, take a leaf out of our book and buy one.
BH woken up from where she was behind Culver Down, not far where the second bolt from the right appears to touch down, and caught some of it.
A better version of the picture can be found at the Telegraph web site (search for sandown at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/) - or, alternatively, take a leaf out of our book and buy one.
Tragedy
While we get angry with the Russians, we might do well to remember that the US Navy shot down a large civilian aeroplane in the Persian Gulf in 1988, IR655, with considerable loss of life. According to Wikipedia, at a rather confused & dangerous time towards the end of the Iraq-Iran war, the US Navy had mistaken the A300 airbus for an F14 fighter. Perhaps we should look to the subsequent handling of that shooting for clues as to how to handle this one.
Wikipedia lists more than 20 such incidents since the second world war.
Wikipedia lists more than 20 such incidents since the second world war.
Housing
We had occasion to catch a bus home from Shanklin the other day, prompting various thoughts about housing.
The bus stop at which we waited was opposite the property illustrated (courtesy of Google Maps). To our right was a single fronted house from which emerged a probably Polish couple, to our left was what was a hotel in the middle of serious structural alteration & refurbishment, a hotel which was still more or less alive at the time of the Street View, June 2009.
The immediate prompt was the hole to the right of the property opposite & illustrated, of which it once looked to have been the guest car park, now occupied by a half built house. This house confused us because the outside walls & detailing looked old, but a passer-by explained that the council had insisted on this new-build house conforming to old-build visual standards, at which the builder was doing very well.
It was clear that a lot of the housing stock behind the beach at Shanklin was no longer fit for purpose, having been built at the time when there was good business for boarding houses and small hotels, a time which was already passing when it was celebrated by 'Fawlty Towers' in the mid seventies of the last century. And it is now well and truly passed, and the buildings which once served that business are struggling to find new business, just as in dozens of other once popular seaside towns on the mainland. Are these towns destined to moulder on as brown-field, as sinks for the metropolitan homeless for years and years to come?
I am not sure that the council is helping by insisting on the new build conforming to the standards of its left hand neighbour (in the illustration), when I am sure that the example on its right is more to the point, nice new, purpose built retirement flats for the seniors of both i-land and main-land. It would be interesting to know the history of the new build; who thought that building such a house was a good idea?
I associated to a vision of the outskirts of Manchester from the late sixties, when I was little, when vast tracts of 'Coronation Street' style housing were being razed to the ground to make way for the now discredited housing estates and tower blocks of that time, some of which are now being razed to the ground in their turn, having lasted a mere fifty years or so. From where I associate to a good customer of TB who reckons that we should not build to last, that we should build like they do in the US, build to last fifty years, after which fashions will have moved on and starting over will be the way ahead.
Which organ of government worries about such matters these days, or do we leave it all to the ebb and flow of market forces around the breakwaters of what is left of council planning departments? Were there council planning departments when Mr. Cubitt knocked up Belgravia for a forerunner of the preseent Duke of Westminster?
PS: Wikipedia tells me that there are statues of Mr. Cubitt at Denbigh Street, where a good friend used to live, and opposite Dorking Halls, where we visit. Clearly need to inspect both of these (contemporary) wonders. Perhaps his building of Osborne (see 16th July) for the Queen was what really earned him his statues.
The bus stop at which we waited was opposite the property illustrated (courtesy of Google Maps). To our right was a single fronted house from which emerged a probably Polish couple, to our left was what was a hotel in the middle of serious structural alteration & refurbishment, a hotel which was still more or less alive at the time of the Street View, June 2009.
The immediate prompt was the hole to the right of the property opposite & illustrated, of which it once looked to have been the guest car park, now occupied by a half built house. This house confused us because the outside walls & detailing looked old, but a passer-by explained that the council had insisted on this new-build house conforming to old-build visual standards, at which the builder was doing very well.
It was clear that a lot of the housing stock behind the beach at Shanklin was no longer fit for purpose, having been built at the time when there was good business for boarding houses and small hotels, a time which was already passing when it was celebrated by 'Fawlty Towers' in the mid seventies of the last century. And it is now well and truly passed, and the buildings which once served that business are struggling to find new business, just as in dozens of other once popular seaside towns on the mainland. Are these towns destined to moulder on as brown-field, as sinks for the metropolitan homeless for years and years to come?
I am not sure that the council is helping by insisting on the new build conforming to the standards of its left hand neighbour (in the illustration), when I am sure that the example on its right is more to the point, nice new, purpose built retirement flats for the seniors of both i-land and main-land. It would be interesting to know the history of the new build; who thought that building such a house was a good idea?
I associated to a vision of the outskirts of Manchester from the late sixties, when I was little, when vast tracts of 'Coronation Street' style housing were being razed to the ground to make way for the now discredited housing estates and tower blocks of that time, some of which are now being razed to the ground in their turn, having lasted a mere fifty years or so. From where I associate to a good customer of TB who reckons that we should not build to last, that we should build like they do in the US, build to last fifty years, after which fashions will have moved on and starting over will be the way ahead.
Which organ of government worries about such matters these days, or do we leave it all to the ebb and flow of market forces around the breakwaters of what is left of council planning departments? Were there council planning departments when Mr. Cubitt knocked up Belgravia for a forerunner of the preseent Duke of Westminster?
PS: Wikipedia tells me that there are statues of Mr. Cubitt at Denbigh Street, where a good friend used to live, and opposite Dorking Halls, where we visit. Clearly need to inspect both of these (contemporary) wonders. Perhaps his building of Osborne (see 16th July) for the Queen was what really earned him his statues.
Thursday, 17 July 2014
Ventnor revisited
Earlier in the week we paid what might be our fifth visit in ten years to Ventnor Botanic gardens (see http://www.botanic.co.uk/), once a TB sanitorium. The last recorded visit was on or about 29th July last year.
As far as the plants are concerned, not all that much to add to what I said last year, but I do draw attention to the fine display of various kinds of hydrangea, mostly grown in the shade underneath trees, rather than up against a sunny wall, which seems to be the way that most domestic gardeners do it and as did FIL. Perhaps what they really need is warm & wet, with this site being so warm (for England) that it can manage without the sun. And it is certainly true that many of our favourite house plants are ground & shade plants hailing from sub-tropical forests. Got a real bang out of the various succulents, particularly the giant (Mexican) aloes. Don't know why. Also to be found at Hampton Court Palace and at Wisley. Got a real hit from the very hot hot house - 40C plus and humidity said to be in the nineties. Not sure that I could stand it for very long, but worth it for the plants, particularly the giant lily.
Catering facilities now back in-house, having once been contracted out to the nearby Royal Hotel (not so grand these days), and good sandwiches were only marred by bad music. Management had thought it a good idea for there to be live music but could not afford good music, so we had bad music (the sort of thing you might get in TB on a Friday evening) from which there was no escape. The catering staff were sympathetic and apologetic, but there seemed to be nothing that they could do about it. Most customers seemed to be sitting as far away from it as could be managed.
All of which led onto a worry about the future. The gardens are run as a relatively young sort of entity (invented in 2005 or so) called a community interest company, a device which combines some of the features of a charity with some of those of an ordinary limited company, perhaps a device which brings practise here closer to that on the continent where they have, I dare say, as much charity as we do but no charities. Maybe something like the not-for-profit outfits you get in the US. They have their very own quango which can be found at https://www.gov.uk/government/organisations/office-of-the-regulator-of-community-interest-companies, a New Labour quango which seems to have been left out of the Tory bonfire of same. So far so good.
But I imagine that the local authority grant which kept this fine place afloat has been heavily cut if not withdrawn. So how is it going to make a living? They might use lots of volunteers, but this is a large garden and there are going to be running costs. Are they getting enough visitors to cover them? The place was pleasantly quiet when we were there, a quiet which was very much part of the attraction; one doesn't want to be the only party there, but one does not want crowds either. Is that a viable proposition in the absence of public funds? The attempt to drum up custom in the restaurant with music suggests to me that maybe it is not.
Oddly, while there are donation boxes at the site itself, there do not seem to be any such boxes at the web site.
PS 1: the reorganised entry arrangements, included being issued with something rather like the wrist band you get given in a hospital to stop you being muddled up with someone else. Perhaps not quite the thing as most of the visitors are going to be old enough to know that.
PS 2: we subsequently bumped into a chap who had moved from Deptford to Sandown for the sake of his lungs, which were, in consequence, much improved. From which we deduce that the people putting the sanitorium on the island know what they were about.
As far as the plants are concerned, not all that much to add to what I said last year, but I do draw attention to the fine display of various kinds of hydrangea, mostly grown in the shade underneath trees, rather than up against a sunny wall, which seems to be the way that most domestic gardeners do it and as did FIL. Perhaps what they really need is warm & wet, with this site being so warm (for England) that it can manage without the sun. And it is certainly true that many of our favourite house plants are ground & shade plants hailing from sub-tropical forests. Got a real bang out of the various succulents, particularly the giant (Mexican) aloes. Don't know why. Also to be found at Hampton Court Palace and at Wisley. Got a real hit from the very hot hot house - 40C plus and humidity said to be in the nineties. Not sure that I could stand it for very long, but worth it for the plants, particularly the giant lily.
Catering facilities now back in-house, having once been contracted out to the nearby Royal Hotel (not so grand these days), and good sandwiches were only marred by bad music. Management had thought it a good idea for there to be live music but could not afford good music, so we had bad music (the sort of thing you might get in TB on a Friday evening) from which there was no escape. The catering staff were sympathetic and apologetic, but there seemed to be nothing that they could do about it. Most customers seemed to be sitting as far away from it as could be managed.
All of which led onto a worry about the future. The gardens are run as a relatively young sort of entity (invented in 2005 or so) called a community interest company, a device which combines some of the features of a charity with some of those of an ordinary limited company, perhaps a device which brings practise here closer to that on the continent where they have, I dare say, as much charity as we do but no charities. Maybe something like the not-for-profit outfits you get in the US. They have their very own quango which can be found at https://www.gov.uk/government/organisations/office-of-the-regulator-of-community-interest-companies, a New Labour quango which seems to have been left out of the Tory bonfire of same. So far so good.
But I imagine that the local authority grant which kept this fine place afloat has been heavily cut if not withdrawn. So how is it going to make a living? They might use lots of volunteers, but this is a large garden and there are going to be running costs. Are they getting enough visitors to cover them? The place was pleasantly quiet when we were there, a quiet which was very much part of the attraction; one doesn't want to be the only party there, but one does not want crowds either. Is that a viable proposition in the absence of public funds? The attempt to drum up custom in the restaurant with music suggests to me that maybe it is not.
Oddly, while there are donation boxes at the site itself, there do not seem to be any such boxes at the web site.
PS 1: the reorganised entry arrangements, included being issued with something rather like the wrist band you get given in a hospital to stop you being muddled up with someone else. Perhaps not quite the thing as most of the visitors are going to be old enough to know that.
PS 2: we subsequently bumped into a chap who had moved from Deptford to Sandown for the sake of his lungs, which were, in consequence, much improved. From which we deduce that the people putting the sanitorium on the island know what they were about.
Midsonian progress
Further to my post of 8th July, I can now report that we have got half way through, that is to say through series 1 and 2 of 'Midsomer Murders' - remembering here that this programme has reached the grand old age of at least series 16. How far have they got in far away Serbia (see first post of 15th July) where it is called 'Ubistva u Midsomeru'?
We fell asleep half way through the last episode of series 2 and had to complete in a second sitting, during which we did not, as it happened, fall asleep again.
But there was an odd trick of memory between the two sittings, in that I was unable to remember anything of what had happened in the first sitting. Then BH said the magic word - I forget what it was - and the whole thing popped back into memory. It was if someone had turned the light on in the room where it was all kept or perhaps opened the door. All there, but inaccessible. What other treasures of the past 65 odd years are lurking intact but inaccessible in other rooms?
Another trick was trying to spot members of the magic circle, that is to say well known luvvies who make regular guest appearances in shows of this sort and some of whom have kept it up even longer than the great Nettles himself. So during the second sitting, I recognised the voice of one of the lady luvvies but could not put either a person name or a programme name to the face; most frustrating. Eventually BH rides to the rescue again with the information that the voice in question belonged to Prunella Scales whom I had rather liked in Mapp & Lucia, the charity shop boxed set which we did before this one and which had been filmed around 10 years before this particular episode. Armed with this information I was then able to recover the Prunella Scales I had liked in the earlier series from that which appeared in the later. Amazing how much difference a bit of make-up can make.
The voice also made me think of Kent in the recent Lear when he talks of Lear's manner having something of authority in it: act I, scene IV where he says 'no, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master' (see 27th June). So, since Ms Scales has probably never been in a position of authority, she must be a good actress. Also something which the actors at the Globe Theatre are generally bad at, with no-one being likely to mistake them for people who had been in positions of authority.
We fell asleep half way through the last episode of series 2 and had to complete in a second sitting, during which we did not, as it happened, fall asleep again.
But there was an odd trick of memory between the two sittings, in that I was unable to remember anything of what had happened in the first sitting. Then BH said the magic word - I forget what it was - and the whole thing popped back into memory. It was if someone had turned the light on in the room where it was all kept or perhaps opened the door. All there, but inaccessible. What other treasures of the past 65 odd years are lurking intact but inaccessible in other rooms?
Another trick was trying to spot members of the magic circle, that is to say well known luvvies who make regular guest appearances in shows of this sort and some of whom have kept it up even longer than the great Nettles himself. So during the second sitting, I recognised the voice of one of the lady luvvies but could not put either a person name or a programme name to the face; most frustrating. Eventually BH rides to the rescue again with the information that the voice in question belonged to Prunella Scales whom I had rather liked in Mapp & Lucia, the charity shop boxed set which we did before this one and which had been filmed around 10 years before this particular episode. Armed with this information I was then able to recover the Prunella Scales I had liked in the earlier series from that which appeared in the later. Amazing how much difference a bit of make-up can make.
The voice also made me think of Kent in the recent Lear when he talks of Lear's manner having something of authority in it: act I, scene IV where he says 'no, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master' (see 27th June). So, since Ms Scales has probably never been in a position of authority, she must be a good actress. Also something which the actors at the Globe Theatre are generally bad at, with no-one being likely to mistake them for people who had been in positions of authority.
Wednesday, 16 July 2014
Osborne revisited
Earlier in the week we paid what might be our fifth visit in ten years to Osborne House, once Queen Victoria's summer retreat.
We started at 1000 sharp, the opening time, when we were told by the chap of the car park that on fine summer mornings there would often be half a dozen coaches lined up at the gate for the off. Just four on this day, as it happened. He also told us that the flashy orange sleeper coach - made by Mercedes and full of Germans - we had seen (but cannot now trace) on a previous occasion came every year, usually arriving at 0700 for a picnic breakfast. Presumably they made special arrangements to get into the car park. Illustration from one of the range exhibited by google; right colour, right maker but wrong shape - the Mercedes-Benz site itself not being terribly helpful.
On to the house which was interesting as ever. On this occasion I was particularly struck by the number of not very good paintings and by what now seems a ridiculously ornate taste in furniture and ornaments, although Osbert seemed to think it got even worse in the first decade of the 20th century, a decade for gross display of wealth, the end of a golden era. But I did like the wine glasses on display on the dining room table. We also liked the portraits, in various sizes, painted in enamel on porcelain. We needed to be reminded that the substantial iron gates which can be used to shut off the private apartments were not intended to keep out the mob (thinking here of Versailles in 1789) or nosey servants, but rather to keep out nosey tourists when the house was first opened to the public, the family not thinking it seemly to put the private apartments on display in this way. Times have changed and we are now free to inspect the royal water closet.
A big new plus was opening up a path to the beach, a very pleasant antidote to the rather heavy interior of the house, complete with a coffee hut.
Back at the house we lunched in Terrace Restaurant, actually inside what might have been a summer ball room rather than on the terrace, it being a little too hot and sunny for our comfort. Service was very slow, but the food & ambience were good. The cheese with the cheese and biscuits was dressed with sprigs of pea, new to me but good. But the cheese itself was only an adequate cheddar, albeit served at room temperature, which was something. And it was a pleasant change to eat in somewhere high, light and airy, so many restaurants in this country being small and dark.
Lots of fine trees in the gardens around the house. Lots of fine views further afield.
Rounded off the visit with a visit to the walled garden which was rather good, a pleasing mix of fruit, vegetables and flowers, with a couple of handsome glass houses with very lush contents up against a south facing wall. It looked to be mainly the work of volunteers, who, we were told, shared the produce with the staff at the big house. Not much went to the restaurants as they were now run by an outside contractor (with, as it happens, a French parent). All very proper.
Rounded off the day with a contrasting visit to East Cowes, once home to the workers at the local boat builders, quite apart from Cowes proper with its boaters, but now graced by a large Waitrose, complete with a separate building called the energy centre, powered by the same Mitie who used to have the maintenance at some at least of the Treasury's buildings. See http://www.mitie.com/news-centre/case-studies/energy-services-case-studies/waitrose_2.
We started at 1000 sharp, the opening time, when we were told by the chap of the car park that on fine summer mornings there would often be half a dozen coaches lined up at the gate for the off. Just four on this day, as it happened. He also told us that the flashy orange sleeper coach - made by Mercedes and full of Germans - we had seen (but cannot now trace) on a previous occasion came every year, usually arriving at 0700 for a picnic breakfast. Presumably they made special arrangements to get into the car park. Illustration from one of the range exhibited by google; right colour, right maker but wrong shape - the Mercedes-Benz site itself not being terribly helpful.
On to the house which was interesting as ever. On this occasion I was particularly struck by the number of not very good paintings and by what now seems a ridiculously ornate taste in furniture and ornaments, although Osbert seemed to think it got even worse in the first decade of the 20th century, a decade for gross display of wealth, the end of a golden era. But I did like the wine glasses on display on the dining room table. We also liked the portraits, in various sizes, painted in enamel on porcelain. We needed to be reminded that the substantial iron gates which can be used to shut off the private apartments were not intended to keep out the mob (thinking here of Versailles in 1789) or nosey servants, but rather to keep out nosey tourists when the house was first opened to the public, the family not thinking it seemly to put the private apartments on display in this way. Times have changed and we are now free to inspect the royal water closet.
A big new plus was opening up a path to the beach, a very pleasant antidote to the rather heavy interior of the house, complete with a coffee hut.
Back at the house we lunched in Terrace Restaurant, actually inside what might have been a summer ball room rather than on the terrace, it being a little too hot and sunny for our comfort. Service was very slow, but the food & ambience were good. The cheese with the cheese and biscuits was dressed with sprigs of pea, new to me but good. But the cheese itself was only an adequate cheddar, albeit served at room temperature, which was something. And it was a pleasant change to eat in somewhere high, light and airy, so many restaurants in this country being small and dark.
Lots of fine trees in the gardens around the house. Lots of fine views further afield.
Rounded off the visit with a visit to the walled garden which was rather good, a pleasing mix of fruit, vegetables and flowers, with a couple of handsome glass houses with very lush contents up against a south facing wall. It looked to be mainly the work of volunteers, who, we were told, shared the produce with the staff at the big house. Not much went to the restaurants as they were now run by an outside contractor (with, as it happens, a French parent). All very proper.
Rounded off the day with a contrasting visit to East Cowes, once home to the workers at the local boat builders, quite apart from Cowes proper with its boaters, but now graced by a large Waitrose, complete with a separate building called the energy centre, powered by the same Mitie who used to have the maintenance at some at least of the Treasury's buildings. See http://www.mitie.com/news-centre/case-studies/energy-services-case-studies/waitrose_2.
Tuesday, 15 July 2014
Impressions from Yaverland
Yaverland is a village between Brading and Sandown on the Isle of Wight and is home to a rather splendid beach, running west from below Culver Down, past many millions of years of geological history and home to almost as many fossil hunters as Charmouth.
One starts at the car park by the café (see 50.661666, -1.136405). The car park comes with a well appointed toilet block and the café, provided one gets there early enough, comes with well made rock cakes, a species of cake of which I am fond. Maybe I am prompted to attempt to make some myself.
The beach seems to be as much the preserve of caulkheads as holiday makers and as the beach to the east of the café is open to dogs, one gets rather a lot of them, particularly at weekends when the caulkheads are free to come out to play. They can be something of a nuisance, as on one occasion was an owner who was ejaculating the phrase 'good girl' at what seemed like 10 second intervals for half hours at a time. The nuisance seemed to be compounded by the subtly irritating variations in enunciation. I think he was requiring the dog in question to keep on fetching a ball from the sea.
There was a moment of hilarity however, while the Polish family on the other side of us were cooking their lunch time sausages on one of those disposable barbecues that come in a tin foil tray. One of the sausages managed to fall out of the tray onto the sand and the lady of the family picked it up, marched down to the sea and attempted to wash it: one had lurid visions of the salt water swirling, entirely ineffectively, around the sand firmly cemented to the sausage by rapidly congealing pork fat. She then resorted to brushing the sand off before returning the sausage to its rightful owner for onward consumption.
Meanwhile, a lady caulkhead sat firmly on the beach (she being a reasonably big girl) reading her mobile phone while her young daughter played around, wishing her mother would join in, and while her husband and son went for a walk to the fossils. How she could see anything in the bright sunlight was a mystery, but she also kept it up for half hours at a time.
Later in the afternoon, heading east towards Culver Cliffs, we came across a very small encampment at the foot of the cliffs, a small tent fenced in with windbreaks and which appeared to be home to someone or other. The encampment has now been there for several days, which seemed odd, given that there were much better places for a spot of freelance camping quite close to hand. What sort of a person did we have here? Did he or she have special needs?
The next day, the Polish lady had, as it were, her revenge for our amusement at her expense. The day was hot but windy and we got home from Yaverland to find very fine sand stuck all over us, sand which seemed to take an inordinate amount of soap and hot water to get off. Indeed, I am still coming across odd remnants some days later.
But a fine beach, good for both sitting and swimming. We have now clocked up three swims and aim to have some more before we are done.
And lastly, this morning, I was reading in Osbert of his introduction to the world of the visual arts, in the form of a painting owned by his father, possibly once hung at Renishaw Hall (see http://www.renishaw-hall.co.uk/), painted by George Morland and of the Duchess of Devonshire kissing a butcher in an effort to obtain his vote for her candidate, the infamous Fox, in an election at Westminster in 1793 or so. Intrigued, I asked google, to find that both the painter and the painting appear to exist, but completely failing to find an image of this painting. But I did learn that the Duchess had prompted a whole raft of prints and paintings at the time, one of which is included above, courtesy of a library in the US, perhaps the Lewis Library at Princeton. Also that unseemly pictures of celebrities were not invented by Rupert Murdoch.
One starts at the car park by the café (see 50.661666, -1.136405). The car park comes with a well appointed toilet block and the café, provided one gets there early enough, comes with well made rock cakes, a species of cake of which I am fond. Maybe I am prompted to attempt to make some myself.
The beach seems to be as much the preserve of caulkheads as holiday makers and as the beach to the east of the café is open to dogs, one gets rather a lot of them, particularly at weekends when the caulkheads are free to come out to play. They can be something of a nuisance, as on one occasion was an owner who was ejaculating the phrase 'good girl' at what seemed like 10 second intervals for half hours at a time. The nuisance seemed to be compounded by the subtly irritating variations in enunciation. I think he was requiring the dog in question to keep on fetching a ball from the sea.
There was a moment of hilarity however, while the Polish family on the other side of us were cooking their lunch time sausages on one of those disposable barbecues that come in a tin foil tray. One of the sausages managed to fall out of the tray onto the sand and the lady of the family picked it up, marched down to the sea and attempted to wash it: one had lurid visions of the salt water swirling, entirely ineffectively, around the sand firmly cemented to the sausage by rapidly congealing pork fat. She then resorted to brushing the sand off before returning the sausage to its rightful owner for onward consumption.
Meanwhile, a lady caulkhead sat firmly on the beach (she being a reasonably big girl) reading her mobile phone while her young daughter played around, wishing her mother would join in, and while her husband and son went for a walk to the fossils. How she could see anything in the bright sunlight was a mystery, but she also kept it up for half hours at a time.
Later in the afternoon, heading east towards Culver Cliffs, we came across a very small encampment at the foot of the cliffs, a small tent fenced in with windbreaks and which appeared to be home to someone or other. The encampment has now been there for several days, which seemed odd, given that there were much better places for a spot of freelance camping quite close to hand. What sort of a person did we have here? Did he or she have special needs?
The next day, the Polish lady had, as it were, her revenge for our amusement at her expense. The day was hot but windy and we got home from Yaverland to find very fine sand stuck all over us, sand which seemed to take an inordinate amount of soap and hot water to get off. Indeed, I am still coming across odd remnants some days later.
But a fine beach, good for both sitting and swimming. We have now clocked up three swims and aim to have some more before we are done.
And lastly, this morning, I was reading in Osbert of his introduction to the world of the visual arts, in the form of a painting owned by his father, possibly once hung at Renishaw Hall (see http://www.renishaw-hall.co.uk/), painted by George Morland and of the Duchess of Devonshire kissing a butcher in an effort to obtain his vote for her candidate, the infamous Fox, in an election at Westminster in 1793 or so. Intrigued, I asked google, to find that both the painter and the painting appear to exist, but completely failing to find an image of this painting. But I did learn that the Duchess had prompted a whole raft of prints and paintings at the time, one of which is included above, courtesy of a library in the US, perhaps the Lewis Library at Princeton. Also that unseemly pictures of celebrities were not invented by Rupert Murdoch.
August 1914
It approaches the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of the First World War, so it is entirely appropriate that I have now, after some months, finally finished the Christopher Clark account of how Europe went to war in 1914. This morning's take is rather long but rather good.
When I was very small the story was the the war was caused by railway timetables. That the business of getting hundreds of thousands of troops to the front by rail was so complicated and so tricky, that once you had started you couldn't stop. And the powers involved, particularly the great powers, were terrified that the other lot would start first and would get in the first, possibly killer punch.
I then moved onto 'The Good Soldier Švejk', a book with which I had a long and happy relationship, now dormant, from which I learned that the Austro-Hungarian empire was a sometimes brutal shambles which by 1914 or so, if not earlier, had reached its sell by date, along with the neighbouring Ottoman Empire.
More recently (see June 28th 2010 in the other place) I read some memoirs from Viscount Grey, the bird watching Foreign Secretary at the time and came away with the feeling that given where things had got to by July 1914 we did not have much choice but to join in on the side of the French and the Russians. As someone in the Clark book said at the time, if we stood aside and the Germans won that would be pretty bad and if we stood aside and the French & Russians won that would be pretty bad too. The former because the Germans would rule the roost in Europe and rapidly become a bigger cheese than ourselves, the latter because the Russians would then make trouble in various parts of our ever so important (at least it seemed so at the time) eastern empire. So joining in was the lesser evil.
I now take from Clark various other thoughts.
First, that the Serbians were a crude and bloodthirsty lot back in 1914 and don't seem to have got all that much better since. The Serbian government was involved, perhaps in a more or less deniable way, in the assassinations at Sarajevo and the Austrian government's ultimatum to the Serbs was not as unreasonable as is sometimes claimed. The Serbs had done wrong and should, in some way or another, have bent the knee.
Second, that power is a very diffuse thing. We talk of Britain doing this and France doing that, but this is just a summary of a very complex process involving quite a big cast of bureaucrats and soldiers, a process which was not that much different in the nominal autocracies such as Germany and Russia from that in the nominal democracies such as Britain and France.
Third, that in our eagerness to finish off the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman empires, we quite overlooked the good things that they had been doing, not least holding together very mixed populations, in keeping the peace. Something that we continued to overlook when we finished off Saddam Hussein.
Fourth, that the Russians in some sense started it. If they had been content to let the Austrian sort out the Serbs, not got into a passion about their fellow Slavs down south and not mobilised (first), then maybe the Germans and the French would have stayed quiet. We would just have had the fourth Balkan War (or whatever) and not the first World War.
And railway timetables with which I started still had a role. The great powers, or at least their soldiers, seemed to be very keen on getting in first, of concentrating then unleashing overwhelming force, the knock-out blow. Perhaps this was a legacy of the campaigns of the first Napoleon; perhaps too many of the generals involved aspired to emulate his stunning (albeit sanguinary) victory at Austerlitz.
Fifth, the small matter of Ireland. The British government was preoccupied with Ireland in the summer of 1914, might even have been grinding to a satisfactory outcome, and did not pay enough attention to affairs across the other sea. Furthermore, the Conservatives, who were trying to block what most people, not least the Irish, saw as progress in Ireland, thought that a continental war would be a good way of stalling on Ireland. A foreign diversion to calm things down at home. And Churchill's activities as First Sea Lord at the time look unpleasantly bellicose; he enjoyed fighting and was certainly up for a crack at the Germans.
Sixth, that the business of blaming one country or one person or another is not terribly helpful. Blame is only helpful in a context where there are rules, norms and justice; where someone or something can be found to have broken the rules and should therefore be punished or be made to do something restorative. But here, apart from the initial Serbian assassinations, symptoms of unrealistic and uncontrolled Serbian (or should it be Servian) ambitions, not much was done which was clearly against the rules. Even Germany going into neutral Belgium, our casus belli, does not seem that terrible to me; I don't think that small countries in strategic positions can expect their neutrality to count for much and the Belgiums could have opted to have had it all dressed up as a well paid transit rather than an invasion. And for a lot of the rest of it there were no rules.
Illustration courtesy of Google and Wikipedia, reasonably typical of the way that the Serbs romanticise their bloody and messy past: the dying Pavle Orlović is given water by a maiden.
When I was very small the story was the the war was caused by railway timetables. That the business of getting hundreds of thousands of troops to the front by rail was so complicated and so tricky, that once you had started you couldn't stop. And the powers involved, particularly the great powers, were terrified that the other lot would start first and would get in the first, possibly killer punch.
I then moved onto 'The Good Soldier Švejk', a book with which I had a long and happy relationship, now dormant, from which I learned that the Austro-Hungarian empire was a sometimes brutal shambles which by 1914 or so, if not earlier, had reached its sell by date, along with the neighbouring Ottoman Empire.
More recently (see June 28th 2010 in the other place) I read some memoirs from Viscount Grey, the bird watching Foreign Secretary at the time and came away with the feeling that given where things had got to by July 1914 we did not have much choice but to join in on the side of the French and the Russians. As someone in the Clark book said at the time, if we stood aside and the Germans won that would be pretty bad and if we stood aside and the French & Russians won that would be pretty bad too. The former because the Germans would rule the roost in Europe and rapidly become a bigger cheese than ourselves, the latter because the Russians would then make trouble in various parts of our ever so important (at least it seemed so at the time) eastern empire. So joining in was the lesser evil.
I now take from Clark various other thoughts.
First, that the Serbians were a crude and bloodthirsty lot back in 1914 and don't seem to have got all that much better since. The Serbian government was involved, perhaps in a more or less deniable way, in the assassinations at Sarajevo and the Austrian government's ultimatum to the Serbs was not as unreasonable as is sometimes claimed. The Serbs had done wrong and should, in some way or another, have bent the knee.
Second, that power is a very diffuse thing. We talk of Britain doing this and France doing that, but this is just a summary of a very complex process involving quite a big cast of bureaucrats and soldiers, a process which was not that much different in the nominal autocracies such as Germany and Russia from that in the nominal democracies such as Britain and France.
Third, that in our eagerness to finish off the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman empires, we quite overlooked the good things that they had been doing, not least holding together very mixed populations, in keeping the peace. Something that we continued to overlook when we finished off Saddam Hussein.
Fourth, that the Russians in some sense started it. If they had been content to let the Austrian sort out the Serbs, not got into a passion about their fellow Slavs down south and not mobilised (first), then maybe the Germans and the French would have stayed quiet. We would just have had the fourth Balkan War (or whatever) and not the first World War.
And railway timetables with which I started still had a role. The great powers, or at least their soldiers, seemed to be very keen on getting in first, of concentrating then unleashing overwhelming force, the knock-out blow. Perhaps this was a legacy of the campaigns of the first Napoleon; perhaps too many of the generals involved aspired to emulate his stunning (albeit sanguinary) victory at Austerlitz.
Fifth, the small matter of Ireland. The British government was preoccupied with Ireland in the summer of 1914, might even have been grinding to a satisfactory outcome, and did not pay enough attention to affairs across the other sea. Furthermore, the Conservatives, who were trying to block what most people, not least the Irish, saw as progress in Ireland, thought that a continental war would be a good way of stalling on Ireland. A foreign diversion to calm things down at home. And Churchill's activities as First Sea Lord at the time look unpleasantly bellicose; he enjoyed fighting and was certainly up for a crack at the Germans.
Sixth, that the business of blaming one country or one person or another is not terribly helpful. Blame is only helpful in a context where there are rules, norms and justice; where someone or something can be found to have broken the rules and should therefore be punished or be made to do something restorative. But here, apart from the initial Serbian assassinations, symptoms of unrealistic and uncontrolled Serbian (or should it be Servian) ambitions, not much was done which was clearly against the rules. Even Germany going into neutral Belgium, our casus belli, does not seem that terrible to me; I don't think that small countries in strategic positions can expect their neutrality to count for much and the Belgiums could have opted to have had it all dressed up as a well paid transit rather than an invasion. And for a lot of the rest of it there were no rules.
Illustration courtesy of Google and Wikipedia, reasonably typical of the way that the Serbs romanticise their bloody and messy past: the dying Pavle Orlović is given water by a maiden.
Sunday, 13 July 2014
Anxious times
I had last night what I think is called an anxiety dream, a term I think proper to any dream expressing anxiety about something or other, real or imagined.
In this case I was charged with putting on a lunch-time meeting at work, essentially a lunch-time entertainment occupying an hour. Attendance entirely voluntary, but one usually reckoned on getting twenty or thirty turning up. Unfortunately for present purposes, the dream seems to have taken place in a number of episodes, with the content of one episode only being rather vaguely available to the next.
So I seem to start off with some content about pianos. Visiting various places - perhaps churches - containing old pianos, some in good working order, some not so good - perhaps driven by the recent visit to Hatchlands (see 2nd July), perhaps by a piano we came across yesterday, an old upright, with no maker's name visible but in a nice wooden case and with two odd metal fittings, one left and one right, maybe for holding candles. I then move onto a lunch-time concert, perhaps a rehearsal for a proper concert in some evening following, a concert for which three performers, all more or less beginners, have been lined up to do their bit, one after the other. At which point the anxiety kicks in, with my worrying that none of these performers are really up to it and the people turning up are going to be a bit cross at being brought along to something which was not what it was advertised to be.
The three performers - now vaguely wind players rather than keyboard players, perhaps reflecting my adolescent efforts on a clarinet - and their performances now morph into the last item, now much shorter, of a meeting with four items on the agenda. The first item is the new security passes which are in the course of being issued; what we are trying to achieve with them and how well we have succeeded. The second item is something to do with some database or other, now lost. The third item is now lost altogether.
The time for the meeting is now rushing up and we are nowhere near ready. But I decide to have a rehearsal for the meeting. A rehearsal which attracts maybe twenty quite senior people and who are slightly surprised when I cut the proceedings short in order to make more time for preparation for the meeting proper. Most of them exit right, sliding away on a punt on a river flowing through the auditorium. I associate now to the physics lecture theatre in my secondary school.
I try to have a meeting to finalise preparations for the meeting proper, now only a few hours away. The chap slated for the security talk doesn't turn up. Can I spoof it? Then I can't remember what the database talk was supposed to be about. I associate now to a (real) chap who did something about the database inside a digital mapping system at a meeting like this. I think of a couple of (also real) people who are quite good at filling up 15 minute slots with something or other but decide that it is not fair on them to ask them to fill in at such short notice.
Things are all looking a bit grim and I wake up.
PS: with thanks to Google and to Carl Frankenstein for the illustration.
In this case I was charged with putting on a lunch-time meeting at work, essentially a lunch-time entertainment occupying an hour. Attendance entirely voluntary, but one usually reckoned on getting twenty or thirty turning up. Unfortunately for present purposes, the dream seems to have taken place in a number of episodes, with the content of one episode only being rather vaguely available to the next.
So I seem to start off with some content about pianos. Visiting various places - perhaps churches - containing old pianos, some in good working order, some not so good - perhaps driven by the recent visit to Hatchlands (see 2nd July), perhaps by a piano we came across yesterday, an old upright, with no maker's name visible but in a nice wooden case and with two odd metal fittings, one left and one right, maybe for holding candles. I then move onto a lunch-time concert, perhaps a rehearsal for a proper concert in some evening following, a concert for which three performers, all more or less beginners, have been lined up to do their bit, one after the other. At which point the anxiety kicks in, with my worrying that none of these performers are really up to it and the people turning up are going to be a bit cross at being brought along to something which was not what it was advertised to be.
The three performers - now vaguely wind players rather than keyboard players, perhaps reflecting my adolescent efforts on a clarinet - and their performances now morph into the last item, now much shorter, of a meeting with four items on the agenda. The first item is the new security passes which are in the course of being issued; what we are trying to achieve with them and how well we have succeeded. The second item is something to do with some database or other, now lost. The third item is now lost altogether.
The time for the meeting is now rushing up and we are nowhere near ready. But I decide to have a rehearsal for the meeting. A rehearsal which attracts maybe twenty quite senior people and who are slightly surprised when I cut the proceedings short in order to make more time for preparation for the meeting proper. Most of them exit right, sliding away on a punt on a river flowing through the auditorium. I associate now to the physics lecture theatre in my secondary school.
I try to have a meeting to finalise preparations for the meeting proper, now only a few hours away. The chap slated for the security talk doesn't turn up. Can I spoof it? Then I can't remember what the database talk was supposed to be about. I associate now to a (real) chap who did something about the database inside a digital mapping system at a meeting like this. I think of a couple of (also real) people who are quite good at filling up 15 minute slots with something or other but decide that it is not fair on them to ask them to fill in at such short notice.
Things are all looking a bit grim and I wake up.
PS: with thanks to Google and to Carl Frankenstein for the illustration.
Saturday, 12 July 2014
Chandler
Paying another visit to the bookshop mentioned on 18th June the other day, I acquired a fat Penguin from their 'Twentieth Century Classics' brand containing three stories by Raymond Chandler, a writer whom I think I have tried in the past: 'The Big Sleep', 'Farewell, My Lovely' and 'The Long Good-Bye'.
Now more or less got through the first of these, possibly hindered rather than helped by having seen the Robert Mitchum film version at least once. The west-coast low-life milieu held some interest, but in the end I tired of trying to follow the twists and turns of the plot and of the staccato prose. Maybe of the rather large amount of rather stale sex & violence - missing from the vaguely contemporary Agatha Christie, with whom I get on rather better, at least on an occasional basis.
The front of the book contains a very enthusiastic puff for Chandler, a gentleman with a colourful history which includes service with our Civil Service, with the Canadian Army during the first world war and with an oil company afterwards, eventually domiciling in the California of his novels. According to Wikipedia he was a drunk, married for a long time to a much older woman and who was also mixed up with Sonia Orwell, perhaps in her capacity as a literary fixer, at some point (see 15th June). Also according to Wikipedia, the three novels in the present volume are considered important literary works, masterpieces even, several cuts above the usual run of detective fiction.
But I still give up and the book has now been found a new home in Brading, a home where, perchance, it will find happier readers than me. I am prompted to turn up Simenon again, also vaguely contemporary, also a writer of some books considered important literary works etc. They also have a certain something being written in French, a French which as I recall is of a deliberately easy going variety, spurning literary flourishes and fancy vocabulary, perhaps the Simenon version of the Chandler staccato. I also recall that he was rather peeved that they passed him over for a nobel in favour of some other French writer, maybe Camus, so perhaps vainer than Chandler.
PS 1: unable to turn up a proper illustration. All the ones that I could find were of the postage stamp variety, as is that above. Perhaps owners keep a stronger grip on pictures from films than the custodians of paintings seem to (see 22nd June).
PS 2: while I think of it, the Getty of the post of 22nd June used to own a place called Sutton Place near Guildford in Surrey. A very old and fancy building which is still used for its original purpose, being owned by a Russian grade-II oligarch, rather than by one of the heritage outfits. It would be interesting to go and inspect the fencing arrangements at some point. Perhaps in the margins of a follow-up visit to the nearby Hatchlands (see 2nd July).
Now more or less got through the first of these, possibly hindered rather than helped by having seen the Robert Mitchum film version at least once. The west-coast low-life milieu held some interest, but in the end I tired of trying to follow the twists and turns of the plot and of the staccato prose. Maybe of the rather large amount of rather stale sex & violence - missing from the vaguely contemporary Agatha Christie, with whom I get on rather better, at least on an occasional basis.
The front of the book contains a very enthusiastic puff for Chandler, a gentleman with a colourful history which includes service with our Civil Service, with the Canadian Army during the first world war and with an oil company afterwards, eventually domiciling in the California of his novels. According to Wikipedia he was a drunk, married for a long time to a much older woman and who was also mixed up with Sonia Orwell, perhaps in her capacity as a literary fixer, at some point (see 15th June). Also according to Wikipedia, the three novels in the present volume are considered important literary works, masterpieces even, several cuts above the usual run of detective fiction.
But I still give up and the book has now been found a new home in Brading, a home where, perchance, it will find happier readers than me. I am prompted to turn up Simenon again, also vaguely contemporary, also a writer of some books considered important literary works etc. They also have a certain something being written in French, a French which as I recall is of a deliberately easy going variety, spurning literary flourishes and fancy vocabulary, perhaps the Simenon version of the Chandler staccato. I also recall that he was rather peeved that they passed him over for a nobel in favour of some other French writer, maybe Camus, so perhaps vainer than Chandler.
PS 1: unable to turn up a proper illustration. All the ones that I could find were of the postage stamp variety, as is that above. Perhaps owners keep a stronger grip on pictures from films than the custodians of paintings seem to (see 22nd June).
PS 2: while I think of it, the Getty of the post of 22nd June used to own a place called Sutton Place near Guildford in Surrey. A very old and fancy building which is still used for its original purpose, being owned by a Russian grade-II oligarch, rather than by one of the heritage outfits. It would be interesting to go and inspect the fencing arrangements at some point. Perhaps in the margins of a follow-up visit to the nearby Hatchlands (see 2nd July).
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