All in it Together?

This week I thought it was time we had a history lesson.

Egbert is recognised as the first king of what might be called England.  He rose to prominence in the early 9th century.  The various peoples who lived in this half of the little offshore island the Romans had called Britannia were learning to live together, as one nation, rather than lots of squabbling tribes. His grandson Alfred the Great saw off the Vikings, and you could be excused for thinking that all was set fair for us 'English'.  Then along came the Normans, to remind us that we couldn't expect to have it all our own way. The lesson was learned - for a time - and gradually the Normans and the English grew into one nation ... who wanted things done their own way. (Can you see where this is going?)

In the course of the next millennium, this business of 'getting our own way' became a national way of life.  Time after time, we didn't get on with the neighbours.  Take Ireland, for instance (I've written here before about this, I admit).  Henry I and his fellow Normans invaded Ireland, beginning in 1169, but only did half a job of colonising the Irish.  400 years later, it was decided to settle the place properly, and lots of people were sent there en masse - mainly from Scotland - to create 'plantations' and supplant the natives.

After many more centuries their descendants, understandably, see the northern part of Ireland as their home, and are happy to stay there.  But, remembering where they came from, they are also determined to remain part of this so-called United Kingdom ... whether the rest of us, on the big island, are happy with that or not.  They're showing us they are truly English (or as we now say, British) by wanting their own way and, to bring the story completely up to date, the two sides of the population there are presently haggling over the place of the Irish and Ulster Scots languages alongside English.

Then there were the Jews.  How long they'd been here I couldn't say but Edward I wasn't happy with the situation and in 1290 he expelled the lot of them.  Gradually, they were admitted again, and relationships recovered. 100 years ago, there was great feeling for the fact that their original homeland was no longer theirs and, in his famous Declaration, our prime minister promised them that they could have the original Israel as their own.  It didn't help matters that Britain was saying sweet things to the Palestinians at the same time, making similar promises to them if they would help get the Ottomans out of the land we wanted to share with the French ... separated by the famous 'line in the sand'.  This was just one mess we got into in the wider world.  Palestine and India were the first big steps in a process of de-colonisation that took place during the mid-20th century, and much of it was badly handled, to the cost of the native peoples.

Nearer home, talking of the French, we were always squabbling with them ... so much so that they became known as 'the old enemy'!   In the 13th century, our king was so corrupt that the French invaded Kent to do something about him (he ruled - if that's the word - half of France at the time).  Then there was the Hundred Years' War, which lasted off and on for well over 100 years, in the 14th and 15th centuries.  We all remember the stories of the Duke of Marlborough, as he fought the France of Louis XIV and, in succeeding decades, came a succession of other small wars in most, if not all, of which the French were on the other side ... the song 'Hearts of Oak' was written to commemorate the many victories of 1759.  And by the end of the century we were fighting Napoleon: twenty years of war that ended at Waterloo.

Now, what about this island itself?  To our north many wars were fought with our neighbours Scotland.  Quite apart from the cross-border skirmishes before a firm line was established between the two, there were some more serious affairs, too.  Such as when Edward I decided to take a hand in resolving a succession crisis for tenure of the Scottish throne.  The resulting conflict, involving heroes like William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, is sometimes referred to as the Scottish War of Independence ... not to achieve independence from a situation of belonging, but for the security of independence from the threat of domination.  When finally the two thrones were joined, it was as a result of England not having a successor to Elizabeth I, and many Scots must have felt deserted and resentful when James VI, on taking the job, decided to move, lock stock and barrel, to London!  It was as if, having no king of their own, the English had stolen theirs!  Little wonder that it took another century before the two countries would actually unite.

I've left until last the closest nation to be offended by this English trait of 'having it all our own way'.  For centuries the Welsh had governed themselves quite happily and efficiently among the mountains and valleys. Then, not content with interfering with his northern neighbour, Edward I also invaded Wales in the late 13th century, covering the north of the country with strong castles and installing his own son as 'their prince' to replace their own.  He pronounced the Statute of Wales in 1284 and over the next two centuries or so the merger of the social and economic life of the two countries proceeded, suffering only a temporary setback as a result of the rebellion of Owain Glyndŵr about 1400.

By the time that Henry VIII's secretary Thomas Cromwell drew up the Act of Union in 1536, it was almost a formality, spreading the English county administration system over the whole country and requiring that everything official should be carried out in English.  The Act didn't actually forbid the use of Welsh, it simply set up - so far as Cromwell could see - a united government for a united country.  The country was - and, for many purposes, still is - England-and-Wales.  It's an interesting sporting insight that the 'England and Wales Cricket Board' , the organisation that governs the country's national team, is represented by the letters 'ECB' and not 'EWCB'.

In so many ways, the identity of the Principality is swallowed up in that of the Kingdom.  Over the last hundred years or so, however, moves have been made to restore the balance.  The first National Eisteddfod was held in 1861, and since 1952 all its events have been held in the Welsh language. Politically, the nationalist party Plaid Cymru was founded in 1925 and gradually grew to the prominence it holds today in the devolved government.  I learned when on holiday a couple of years ago - and have no reason to disbelieve it - that Rheilfordd Llyn Tegid, the company that runs Lake Bala Railway, was the first one to be registered in the Welsh language.

People have asked me why I should want to learn the language, when I freely admit to having no known Welsh ancestors and no Welsh connection apart from my name.  There are many partial answers to that question, one of which is a pledge made in absentia to a couple whose names I don't know, from whom I acquired a Welsh Bible and New Testament that had been given to the wife many years ago.  They had no use for them, but rather than put them out to rubbish, they sought a place where they would be treasured. They're now on my bookshelf.

As I was marshalling my thoughts for this blog, I realised another reason. With the prospect of close foreign travel being slightly more difficult after Brexit (in itself yet another example of Britain 'having its own way'), Wales is one place accessible without the need to cross water, where one can hear a language other than English spoken freely!  Many languages are heard on our streets today, the principal one of course being English.  However, just as the UK doesn't have a written constitution, it doesn't have an official language.  Being an official language in Wales, Welsh is the only language to have legal status in any part of the UK!  On that basis alone, I feel a certain - if minimal - obligation to have some knowledge of it!

As to the theme running through this piece, one of my late father's sayings was, 'Have it your own way ... you'll live the longer!'  While true, I'm not sure I'm the happier for it.

One Thing Leads to Another

"I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,"                

- John Masefield: "Sea Fever"

I first came across those lines in a school art class fifty-five years ago.  Art was far from being my favourite subject ... mainly because I had no skill at handling a brush.  The teacher who had been saddled with the task of keeping us in order (his main subject was PE, but he also taught geography and art) read this verse to us, suggested that it might inspire a picture and then returned to the book he was reading.  I recall the envy with which I viewed one classmate's effort: an elegant three-master sailing on rough seas ... with the ubiquitous seagulls in the sky.

This was the culmination of a line of thought prompted by spotting a book the other day on my shelves - one of many that have yet to be read - "As I Walked out one Midsummer Morning" by Laurie Lee.  I picked it up and was entranced by some of the illustrations in this edition.  They reminded me of my first visit to France, and evoked an involuntary exclamation, "I must go to France again!"  This was almost immediately followed by, "... and Ireland, too."

Let me tell you first about Ireland.  On Tuesday morning I visited my GP and, as is sadly so often the case, I had to wait.  However, the waiting was not without reward for, as I sat wondering upon which blank wall to fix my gaze, in walked in one of my former driving colleagues.  Pete and I were soon cheerfully exchanging experiences, much to the interest of other patients present, and it gave a completely different complexion to the whole business of waiting.

Sitting with Laurie Lee's book 'parked' in my hand, I now recalled one particular job that this driver and I had undertaken jointly.  A well-known financial company had plucked our firm from a national list to fulfil a simple task of independent witness.  They were changing the location of their computer operation from the north-west to Northern Ireland, and sought a guarantee that their servers were not tampered with during the shipment from one place to the other.

Since two locations were involved at each end of this transfer, Pete and I were each assigned to one server, to observe the loading of the servers onto the vehicles of a specialist carrier, and note the serial numbers of the seals that secured the vehicles.  We then witnessed that these seals were the same, and still intact on arrival at the port, on being loaded to the ferry, on being unloaded, and then at arrival at the destination sites near Belfast.  It was my first commercial trip on a ferry, and my first visit to Northern Ireland.

I have since made many visits to the 'Emerald Isle', mostly to the North, and usually by my preferred route of going via Holyhead to Dublin and returning via Cairnryan.  I'm resolved to return in the leisure of retirement, but it will need planning so as to get the best out of such a trip.

And what about France? I hear you ask.  I picked up "As I Walked out ..." and read the blurb on the jacket: "in 1934 at the age of nineteen he left home and walked to London, and then travelled on foot through Spain".  My first thought was about the apparent spontaneity of Lee's expedition, seemingly undertaken with no consideration of where stops could be made, where a bed would be found for the night.  I then recalled that first trip I'd made to France, over fifty hears later, when similarly, nothing was planned in advance.  I drove my Austin Maestro down to Ramsgate, and we took the Sally Line to Dunkerque.  We were both insured to drive each other's cars and, knowing that I'd never driven on the right-hand side of the road before, my friend was reluctant to let me drive until I'd got the feel of being 'back to front'.  I think that was wise for I still recall my confusion when we came to a dual carriageway and wanted to enter and turn left!

Our first night was at a small hotel a few streets from the centre of St Omer. Our room was up two floors and probably not en-suite.  I think there was an old-fashioned iron bedstead.  It was fairly basic ... but it was France!   The next night was spent at Blois, where we took it in turns to get food poisoning.  I was unwell at bedtime, but by morning felt up to having breakfast; I ate alone however, while my friend stayed in our room feeling sick.  After that, we camped when we could find a site.

Bonnieux - looking down on the church

I remember so many of the places we passed through ... some by name!  One night in the Auvergne we couldn't find a campsite, and forked out for a chalet that had a french window overlooking a lake.  Eventually we made it to Provence, with the masses of roofs clad with the characteristic of curved tiles. We sampled the wine in the Luberon, and delighted in the village of Bonnieux, straggling up the mountainside.

Bonnieux - the lower church

We lay flat to look down the face of the Pont du Gard, although neither of us had the courage to walk across the top, and preferred to go through the aqueduct to get to the other side.

Pont du Gard

All too soon, the first week was over.  I left my friend at the railway station in Avignon, from where she was going to take a train to visit her mother in southern Spain, and I drove up to Alsace, where I discovered the town of Riquewihr, with its medieval centre that had escaped damage in either of the World Wars.  I drove through many of the places I later learned had been key points on the Western Front and past many a war cemetery, eventually making my way home again, largely without appreciating the great freedom that we had enjoyed.

As Masefield put it in his poem, "the vagrant gypsy life ... and quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over."

Sunny Days of Early Summer

Bourne Mill, originally
a 16th century country house

In the beautiful weather of last weekend, I think I can be excused for the decision to spend Saturday enjoying the open air.  I went first to Bourne Mill, a National Trust property in the Essex town of Colchester.

Its first appearance was as a country house of an Elizabethan country gentleman, built using materials from a nearby monastery that had been a victim of Henry VIII's dissolution.  It was later developed as water-powered fulling mill, where the local woollen cloth was processed.  In the eighteenth century it was extended and the mechanism re-developed for use as a corn mill.

I then went on to a seaside with a difference.  Far from the sand and paddling of the usual seaside resort (not to say that it has neither, of course), Brightlingsea is a place that I don't recall having been to before, but one that I recall from my childhood when a rather unusual toy was an out-of-date railway timetable.

The rail link to the town closed in 1964, and the site of the station long since redeveloped.  However, I parked outside the Railway public house, which is still operational, and took a walk around the nearby streets, eventually ending up at the 'Hard', where there were many pleasure craft to be seen.

Brightlingsea: Harbour office

After a snack at a tea-shop opposite the harbour office, I wandered along the pier where a ferry leaves for nearby Point Clear or Mersea Island, to either of which the nearest route is via the many branches of the Colne estuary rather than a longer trip by road.

Brightlingsea: Departure of
the ferry to Point Clear

My day was completed by a visit to the East Anglian Railway Museum at Chappel and Wakes Colne station on the (still alive) branch line from Marks Tey to Sudbury.  A private function was taking place on the premises, but this didn't prevent me briefly viewing the exhibits before making my way home. It was a great way to begin what promises to be a busy summer month, culminating in my holiday, of which more later.

This week has been very much taken up by diligently collecting all the details of the recent General Election.  I'm not exactly sure what use I will make of this data in the coming months, but in the great scheme of things it seemed a worthwhile use of the time if I'm to make a positive contribution to the reform of our electoral system as mentioned here last week.

Apart from the computer screen, I've also been busy with preparations for two events at our church.  Tomorrow sees our annual Fun Day, when we provide activities, crafts, snacks, drinks and a barbecue for the whole community, whether church people or not.  Today was preparation day, when the interior of the church was transformed into a series of 'pods', where the various craft exercises can take place, and I was one of a small team who spent an active morning achieving this.  Tomorrow promises to be busy from breakfast time when the climbing wall arrives to be erected by skilled engineers.

We've also been busy rehearsing musical items for both Fathers' Day on Sunday and a special service in a few weeks' time to mark the last day of our present vicars who are leaving to take up new roles elsewhere in the country. That will be a day of very mixed emotions, as we wish them well in this, but also come to terms with not having them with us after seven very happy years under their leadership.

As the Dust Settles

I can't remember - or be bothered to research - how many Friday mornings I've woken up after a General Election to the thought that 'it's a new world out there today'.  As one person whose views I respect has written this morning, "all has changed, and yet nothing has changed ... it's business as usual."

Business as usual in the political world will still include such famous characters as Dennis Skinner, the 'Beast of Bolsover', and the neighbouring county has again returned Kenneth Clarke, both of whom I admire for speaking boldly what they feel ... and often causing amusement by so doing. From the same area, Anna Soubry will also be returning to the Commons; I felt that she summarised the resulting situation well: "what should have been certainty ... is now no overall control ... there is more confusion ... we are more divided."  It was a sentiment echoed by the defeated Nick Clegg, who referred to "a deeply divided and polarised nation" as he called for members of the new House to espouse co-operation, rather than continue to focus on what divides them.

The earliest General Election I can remember must have been in 1959.  I had persuaded my mother that I had to go to school as usual on polling day, but in reality I had gone off to play with my friends.  Unfortunately, my deceit was detected and I suffered the embarrassment of being dragged away from them and taken home to suffer whatever punishment that - blissfully - I can no longer recall.

The intervening occasions have passed with a varying degree of academic interest.  I have long been fascinated by numbers and how the fortunes of the various parties have interwoven down the years.  This year, for the first time, I've been personally involved and so my attention was more intense.  I was pleased to assist my local party at a modest level, but decided that I could be most useful at a nearby 'target seat' where, over a total of five days, I made new friends and learned quite a bit about the organisation that goes on behind the scenes at an election, while undertaking a variety of useful tasks.  Naturally I was disappointed that our candidate wasn't successful, but I'm sure she will live to fight another day.

At some point during these recent weeks, I was asked why I had joined the party in the first place.  After reflection, I realised that - quite distinct among the many policies it promotes and with which I agree - one thing above all others is of paramount importance to me.  I have never been represented in parliament by an MP whose views match my own.  I imagine this is the situation of many, many more across our land.  In 2007, I was in a position to follow the General Election in the Republic of Ireland by listening to RTÉ as I drove around the country.  I was intrigued by their electoral system and, as I followed this up by further research, I realised how much fairer it is than our own.

All of their representatives are directly elected by constituencies as are ours, but these are multi-member constituencies, electing three, four or five members each.  Votes for losing candidates and those for winning candidates that are in excess of the number required for election are re-distributed according to second or further preferences and the outcome is usually one in which at least one member from each of the major parties is returned by each constituency ... overcoming the frustration that has been my experience during all of my adult life.

It is now my convinced belief that such a system would go a long way to addressing that very divided state that we now find ourselves in, a state that has dogged our parliamentary history for decades ... in fact for all of the modern era since the Great Reform Act of 1832.

The measure of unfairness of our present system can be easily calculated. With one seat awaiting its third recount in the coming days, yesterday's election has given 92% of the seats to the two largest parties on the strength of 82% of the votes cast.  While these two figures could be said to be 'generally' fair, consider the effect on the remaining 5.6 million voters.  Over a million are not represented at all; of the rest, 35 seats in Scotland have used an average of less than 28000 votes each; the Liberal Democrats' 12 seats have cost almost 200,000 votes apiece and each of the remaining 23 seats (mostly in Northern Ireland) has required a more reasonable, though still excessive, 54,500 votes.

It has been reckoned that the 'wasted' votes in the 2015 General Election - those that either didn't elect anyone, or were in excess of those required to elect the chosen candidate - amounted to a staggering 71% of the total votes cast, down from 74% in 2010.

It's a matter that needs addressing - by minds and personalities far greater than mine - but to the benefit of the whole nation.

Almost There Now ...

You know how it is when somebody important or famous dies, or when a great tragedy - such as the bombing in Manchester the other week - occurs? For a while there's little else in the news and all thought seems to be dominated by this one event.  It's the same at the moment with the General Election.  After all the build-up, I think everyone will breathe a sigh of relief when Thursday evening comes and it's all over.  Certainly that's the feeling among teams on the ground, whether engaged in canvassing, delivering leaflets, or the planning, printing, stuffing envelopes or sorting that goes on behind the scenes.

Yes, it will soon be over; but one important thing remains.  I hope my readers will not ignore their hard-won right to vote in the election.  If you aren't a staunch supporter of one party or another, perhaps the choice of who to vote for is still a difficult decision yet to be made.  One way is to draw up a list of the various claims of each party standing, decide which of their policies you agree with and which not, and simply vote for the party with the most likes.

Some may advise you to vote tactically: to vote for the party most likely to defeat the one with your most dislikes.  This might be effective under our present electoral system, but has always seemed to me to be disloyal to the values I hold dear.  When proportional representation comes - as, sooner or later, it must - there will be no need for tactical voting because, wherever your sympathies lie, a vote for your preferred choices will not be wasted.

One friend told me the other week that "so-and-so candidate is a sweetie, so he gets my vote, otherwise I would have voted for your party."   I don't particularly like my party's candidate, but I've voted for her because of the policies she espouses, not because of her personal appeal ... or lack of it. After all, it doesn't matter whether it's warm water or cold that you use to pressure-wash your yard, so long as the pressure is there to do the job.

I'm reminded of an incident that (fortunately?) occurred so many years ago that all of the people involved are now dead.  It happened while I was a teenager working in a grocer's shop during the school holidays.  A customer had been bewailing the fact that no suitable toilet rolls were available on the shelves.  There were blue rolls, green rolls, yellow and white rolls, but this lady was interested only in pink ones, of which there were none.  After a lengthy discussion on the matter, she left ... disappointed and empty-handed.  As the door closed behind her, one assistant turned to the other and remarked, "I don't know about you, but my bum doesn't mind what colour wipes it!"