Summer Break with a Difference!

It wasn't quite a holiday, but the venue was beautiful; it wasn't exactly work because I didn't get paid and the whole time wasn't productive; and it wasn't an entertainment although for the most part it was pleasant and enjoyable to observe.  The journey to Llandrindod Wells was an adventure in the 'old style' that was my work for many years: to follow SatNav's instructions for the most part but then to remember when I was fighting him in order to go a different way, and therefore would need to maintain that disagreement until he caught me up.  Catching me up is more prompt now, however, than was the case with the older machine that I ditched a couple of years ago.

Out and return, although by different routes, were, within a mile or so, the same distance and took about the same overall time, despite the different times of day.  The outward trip on Sunday afternoon involved the M1, where I had forgotten the miles and miles of 50 mph limit which - though still faster than most alternatives - always seems so slow on a motorway.  When I returned on Tuesday evening, I left the M40 further down and took the country roads into Milton Keynes, by-passing the M1 completely.  The journey in either direction took about five hours, including stops.

The view from my window

I'd never been there before and found Llandod (as the locals call it) an attractive town (made more so, I suppose, by the sunshine) that appears to straddle the A483.  Obviously I only saw the centre and there are probably, as with almost anywhere, less alluring parts to it.  My lodging - product of my first venture into the domain of Airbnb - was both the cheapest I could find and also the closest to my target, which was the Liberal Democrat office for the present by-election campaign.  It was a well-appointed room in a clean home that was newly-carpeted, it seemed, throughout.  The view from my window was magnificent and there was even a desk on which I could catch up with my personal admin on both evenings.  I shall have no hesitation in using this resource again.

For physical and personality reasons, I don't undertake canvassing or delivering leaflets, nor will I agree to make telephone calls (which otherwise I could have done from home, avoiding all the travelling).  Instead, I offer my time for clerical work behind the scenes which allows someone else to do these things.  My reward is the interest in seeing the whole election plan unfold around me ... as I've confessed before, I'm a time-served people-watcher!

The sunlit Park Crescent

Following my experiences at Witney in 2016 and St Albans for the general election the next year, I thought I knew what to expect.  I say 'I thought I knew'; what actually unfolded was not quite what I had foreseen when I committed myself to these two days.  Although the office in Llandrindod Wells is the official HQ, a far bigger office is some 25 miles away in Brecon and, although I had explained in advance which office I would be going to (which was in accord with the policy of inviting people to go the nearest one from their direction of travel), it soon became clear that the majority of  clerical work was going on at Brecon.

It transpired, therefore, that the intensity of work was not all that I had anticipated.  However, I enjoyed the comings and goings, and learned something of the daily life in a different part of the country.  I also made the acquaintance - for the first time in my life - with a lady named Portia.  Like me, she has started learning Welsh; in her case it's in order to keep up with her children who attend a school where the teaching is in Welsh.  It wasn't long before this came up in conversation, and she explained that she had installed an app on her phone for the purpose.

Since my own studies in that direction have been somewhat becalmed for several months, I thought this might help me too, so I now have the regular ministrations of a little green owl (the app's user-friendly avatar) to encourage my efforts.  Faced with the initial choice 'start from scratch' or 'know some Welsh already', I opted cautiously for the latter; I was then confronted by a series of test questions at the end of which came the declaration, "We'll start at the beginning."  The aim is to spend 10 minutes a day on the work and, halfway through my first week, I'm now part way through lesson two.  It will be interesting to see how this progresses in the coming months!

Winding Down and Gearing Up

It may be due in part to the irregular but frequent appearance of sunny weather, but there's definitely been a feeling of lightness to this week.  On Monday morning we had the last of our men's breakfast gatherings until mid-September, finishing early this year because our leader's sons are all home from university (some for the last time!) and they're taking the opportunity for a family holiday before the boys go off to do their own thing.

On Tuesday, work at the hospice warehouse was a little bit slack to begin with, because there was no one sorting the books and electronic media that I spend my day scanning for sale.  However, after a brief lull when I came to a complete standstill, sorters had arrived in both departments and a steady trickle of work enabled my prayer to achieve something in excess of £100 for the day to be fulfilled for the third week running.

The home group that I lead on Wednesday afternoons has two more sessions planned before it, too, finishes until September, and I've already sown seeds for my alternative use of the six-week period.  I've presented a challenge to the warehouse manager to come up with a project that can utilise my Excel skills.  She is clearly giving the idea some positive thought, because she came up with some probing questions when we were chatting on Tuesday afternoon.

In many ways, therefore, life is winding down for the summer.  The progress is not all in one direction, however.  Looking further ahead, my favourite football team - along with countless others, I imagine - is already into pre-season friendly matches in readiness for the 2019-20 campaign.  They played one match this week.  I also had advice of another that has been re-arranged for the first Tuesday in August and has now been added to one already inscribed in my diary.

Now I'm going to risk alienating some supporters by early mention of 'the C-word': I've spent some time revising the church's plans for the 2019 delivery of Christmas cards.  Last year we started the campaign far too late, and some streets just didn't get delivered at all.  There were also complaints that the number of cards in each bundle was high enough to discourage otherwise willing helpers from taking part, so some of the larger areas have been split and the average bundle is now about two-thirds the size of last year.

That's two references to campaigns; here's a third.  I'm preparing to spend two days next week helping with the parliamentary by-election campaign in Brecon and Radnorshire in the same way as I did in Witney in 2016 and at St Albans in the general election in 2017.  While not willing or able to go door-knocking myself, I can at least help with the clerical work in the background, releasing someone else to do so.  It'll also give me more of the driving through the countryside that I still miss in retirement; it's the going, not just the being there that's part of the attraction!

Sons and Camels

The other morning I awoke with my mind filled by a story from the East that I heard long ago.  It bears repetition here today.

"A certain rich man had three sons, whom he loved; it was a realistic love that had regard for their strengths and their weaknesses.  One day he died and in his will he left a mathematical paradox for his sons.  He bequeathed them his herd of camels, and the formula by which it should be shared between them.  The eldest son was to receive half the herd; the second son to receive one third of the herd and the youngest son one ninth.  A few weeks after his death, an old friend of the family who had travelled from afar arrived for a visit.  To his dismay, he found the sons in agitated consternation over the camels.

"The eldest son explained, 'Our father had a total of seventeen camels.  It is impossible to follow his wishes without killing at least one of them.  He loved those camels and we are sure he would not have wanted this for any one of them.  We loved our father, and want to carry out his wishes, but we just cannot decide how to proceed.'

"The visitor reflected on this during his stay and, shortly before his departure, he replied to the sons.  'I'll lend you my camel,' he said.  'Then you will have eighteen.  Now, how will you proceed?'  The eldest son took half the herd, nine camels; the second son took a third, six camels and the youngest son took one ninth, two camels.  The visitor then took back his camel and left."

Like all eastern stories, this one is capable of interpretation on many levels.  The literal meaning is confused, since the proportions given in the will don't dispose of the whole of the herd.  There is the possibility that the father simply wanted to get his sons thinking about their respective responsibilities; the eldest son was clearly to assume control, while the youngest - and possibly the weakest of the three - would have but token influence.

Then we must consider the part played by the visitor.  Had he been primed by the father to visit after his death in order to provide a solution, or perhaps just to see that the sons hadn't done anything drastic?  Or was his arrival pure coincidence?

Finally, might there be a moral to the tale?  Are we, like those sons, too confused by the system, the minutiae of what is involved, to widen our outlook and see how the detail could be changed just a little to bring about a satisfactory improvement or conclusion to something?  Would we welcome someone like that visitor to cut through the red tape and show a better way forward?

Tomorrow there are market stalls across the country, 'from Cornwall to Norwich to Berwick-upon-Tweed'.  Their location is shown on a map here.  This 'Demand Democracy Day' is organised by Make Votes Matter, an organisation whose purpose is to give voice to an increasing majority of our population who recognise that the present electoral system in this country is not suited to a multi-party political climate.  It coincides with the signing earlier this week of a 'Good Systems Agreement' by Plaid Cymru, the Liberal Democrats, the Green Party, the Scottish Nationalists and the Brexit Party to promote a new voting system for Westminster elections that will ensure that every vote counts (at present up to 68% of votes cast in UK general elections have no effect on the result), while retaining the direct link between an MP and his/her constituency.

If this is something that is important to you, do go along to a stall near you, say hello and find out more about what's going on.

All Change?

Normal life has returned (at last!) after the holiday.  I found myself humming 'Fields of Athenry' the other day, and it somehow seemed old-hat, only a month after I seemed to be humming it all the while in anticipation of seeing if indeed they do lie low as in the song (yes, it is quite flat country thereabouts).  And with normal life comes change.

Change first of all - however briefly - in my background 'habits'.  There's always a 'go to' when I feel I haven't got anything pressing to do and, for many months, it has been census transcription for FreeCen but on Tuesday I discovered in my work at the hospice warehouse, some twin-cassette recordings that were headed for the grinder, recordings of cricket commentaries dating back to before I was born!  I couldn't just see them pass into oblivion so, for a few pence, they accompanied me home.

Some while ago I invested in a little unit to convert cassette recordings into MP3 computer files (in fact, I later bought what I thought was an updated and faster gizmo to do the same thing, only to find it was a re-branded version of the exact same item that I already have so, if you want one second-hand but unused, get back to me) and three evenings this week it has been hard at work computerising over 7 hours of cricket to warm up cold rainy days next winter.

I referred to the census transcriptions: earlier this week I finished the job I had been working on, a Piece of the 1871 census for Suffolk and when I submitted it to the organiser, she replied that there is only one Piece as yet unfinished of this, and that is being worked on.  So there was some debate about what I should like to do next.  I decided to attempt a Piece of the 1841 census, again for part of Suffolk.  A lot of this was recorded in pencil and the images are not easy to read, although I find the angle of the computer screen makes a lot of difference to visibility.  There is less information, so less to copy, but it requires a lot more concentration and, whereas with 1871 I could easily work through 8 or 10 pages in an evening, so far I've done a page of this on each of two evenings and felt 'that's enough for tonight'.

That's two changes ... they go in threes, as you know.  The third one came yesterday morning, when I was at the warehouse again for my other job, as a van help.  A change of routine has meant that the van I usually work on is now being used to collect and deliver donated furniture - something with which, as an asthmatic, I would need to be selective in what help I could give.  This meant that I was re-assigned to help on the other van, visiting the shops with orders and to collect donations as previously.  It has involved a slightly different outlook on life so far as conversation in the cab is concerned; the place of a retired telephone engineer, now semi-professional photographer, with technical interests has been taken by a young chap keen on cars, whose mental capacity was  impaired by a surgical accident some years ago.  A change of pace for me in many ways .. and somehow refreshing!

Now I'm embarking on an exciting weekend, with a striking competition this afternoon (where teams of bell-ringers compare their attempts to ring with perfect timing), and more bells tomorrow afternoon when we shall attempt a quarter peal to welcome the new curate to the parish ... with the additional dimension that, until her ordination tomorrow morning, she has been  a worshipper at the same church that I attend, just across the town!

More of the 'Green Stuff'

I can hardly believe that within an hour or so of a week ago, I re-entered my home after eight days away.  Time certainly does move very quickly.  The advantage of taking pictures on holiday is that there is a reminder of what one did, what one saw, and what happened between one picture and the next ... sometimes.  Sometimes - and this

Galway Hookers

happened to me this week - there are pictures that mean absolutely nothing and you wonder how they got onto your camera.  This was just one such.  It wasn't until I looked at the time and date of its creation that I realised where I would have been, and therefore where it was.  I remembered then taking the picture just because it looked so strange, and I turned to Wikipedia to reveal its identity.  It is a fountain in Eyre Square, Galway, ornamented by a sculpture to reflect the unique character of the Galway Hooker (in Irish húicéir), a fishing boat developed to tackle the strong seas found in Galway Bay.  It has a single mast equipped with a mainsail and two foresails.  Traditionally the hull is black, and the sails a dark red-brown.  The vessel reminded me of the Norfolk Wherry in its origin and purpose, and to a limited extent in the shape of its mainsail.  To someone brought up near the east coast, its very shape is evocative of that culture just as, I presume, the Hooker is to natives of the Galway area.

Another loose comparison I wanted to tell you about involves the second B&B of my holiday, the place I called my 'bridgehead', from which I departed at 6.25 last Friday morning to make my way to Dublin Port for my return to the UK.  The accommodation that I enjoyed was converted from a lounge of a conventional semi-detached house in a suburb of Tallaght, about 10 miles from the port as the crow flies.  It had all the features I would require and I was perfectly satisfied.  It was my understanding that there was at least one more similar accommodation in the house, in addition to that used by my host, so three households accessed by one front door.

14 Henrietta St - Georgian bedroom

One sightseeing visit I made during my holiday was to 14 Henrietta Street, Dublin.  The street was begun in the early eighteenth century as a speculative project to profit from the needs of the rich.  No. 14 was completed in the late 1740s and its first occupant was Richard, Viscount Molesworth.  Subsequent residents included the Lord Chancellor of Ireland and the Bishop of Clogher.  After the Act of Union in 1801, the higher nobility moved (back) to England, and the street was taken over by the professional classes.  No. 14 was home to a solicitor and later to the Proctor of the Prerogative Court.  From 1850 to 1860 it was the site of the Encumbered Estates Court, set up to administer the acquisition and sale of insolvent estates following the Famine and after 1860 it was occupied by the Dublin Militia.

14 Henrietta St - typical basement
tenement c. 1913

No. 14's descent through the class structure continued after 1876, when it was converted to 19 tenements of from one to four rooms.  A single room might house a complete family, partitioned by curtains into separate areas for living and sleeping.  In 1911, no. 14 provided accommodation to a total of 100 persons, housed in 43 rooms: 17 separate households accessed by one front door (you see the comparison I drew with my B&B when I woke up last Friday morning).  14 Henrietta Street has been restored to "educate Dubliners and visitors about the history of the city through the prism of tenement living," as its website explains.  It's been a hard, thirteen-year journey and the work is still ongoing.  The house was opened to the public in September last year and I can thoroughly recommend it for a visit if you're going to the city.  It's open from Wednesday to Sunday and tours take about 75 minutes; the basic price is €9 with reductions for seniors, students and families and it's preferable to book in advance.

There was more to Ireland than a damp day in Dublin, of course.  On Monday afternoon, for example, I explored the ruins of the priory at Athenry on the way back from Galway and the next day I enjoyed glorious sunshine west of the Shannon when I briefly wandered around the centre of Ennis, the county town of Clare.  But no visit to Ireland would be complete without paying homage to the 'tart with the cart'!

'Sweet Molly Malone'

Over the Water

I believe I was lucky this week to escape most of the rain, rather than taking it with me on my holidays, as is often the case.  That said, it was far from a week in glorious and unremitting sunshine: there were no blissful evenings sitting outside in shirtsleeves and I was very glad to have taken an overcoat.  Although I may have told you before, you may be curious where I found even half a week without noticeable rainfall.  I went to the midlands of Ireland (pronounce it as it it were two separate words ... the mid lands).

For those with statistical interest, I will summarise the eight-and-a-half days as travelling 1,540 miles, approximately one-third of which were getting to Ireland and two thirds driving around once I'd got there, at an average of just over 61 miles per gallon.  I filled up three times while there at an average price of €1.469 which, irrespective of what exact exchange rate you get, I contend dispels the idea of cheaper fuel there than here as a myth from a bygone age.

I stayed in two separate lodgings; one the main base for the week, the other a convenient bridgehead to make my departure for home a little more civilised.  When people had asked me before where I was going I had sounded somewhat vague, saying 'a few miles outside Birr', which is the nearest town to the farm.  It wasn't until the morning I left that I explored the village of which it is actually a part, and even later that I learned something of its history.

Almost as shameful was my puzzle over why the farm should be called 'the Ring'.  It wasn't until the last morning that I spotted an aerial view of the farm hanging above the fireplace in the sitting room.  Once you know what you're looking for, it's obvious.  Find the town of Birr in Co. Offaly and follow the N52 about 2 km south to the village of Crinkill (in Irish Crionchoill), which lies a short distance to the east of the main road.  About the same distance beyond the village, further to the east, a perfect circle of fields can be distinguished with the farmhouse at its centre.

Later on my final morning, I explored places fairly close by, including the monastic ruins at Clonmacnoise.  I didn't stay long before moving a few miles downstream to the unimaginative named Shannonbridge.  Here is one of the few points where this magnificent river can be crossed.  I learned that, in Napoleonic times, when it was feared that the French might invade Britain 'by the back door', it was decided not to bother defending the west coast of Ireland because the Shannon forms such a perfect defence.  The bridge over the river here was completed in 1757 and the crossing was fortified in 1803-1817.  The resulting fort, most of which remains to view inside and out, was manned by over 100 troops and defended by four 24-pounder guns.  Some of the troops were based in barracks at Athlone further up-river ... and others at Crinkill.

The barracks at Crinkill were built in 1809-1812, and became the base for the 100th Royal Canadian and 109th Bombay Infantry regiments, which later were amalgamated into the Prince of Wales's Leinster Regiment. Some 6,000 enlisted there during the First World War, and an airfield was build there in 1917.  The regiment was disbanded on Irish independence in 1922, and the base taken over by the Irish Army.  However, a small group of the IRA took control during the civil war and it was razed to the ground.  The ruins were demolished in 1985 and all that remains now is the perimeter wall.

There's more to tell of my jaunts but they'll have to wait until another day.

As Far as You Can ... and Beyond!

One of the blessings of belonging to a church where there are many young people is the joy of watching children grow up.  In recent years I have had to come to terms with my almost complete failure as a parent, and this has been helped by having such a plethora of families around me on a regular basis.  That doesn't mean that I actually have a lot to do with the children; quite the reverse, in fact.  But, to a people-watcher of long standing, there is a lot of activity to attract my eye.

One aspect of seeing the development of children is wondering what they will remember.  The older we get, the smaller part of our total memory is any one individual year, and it could be argued that those years most distant are the ones that drop out of focus quickest.  Against this is anecdotal evidence that old people can clearly remember what happened in their schooldays while being completely unable to recall what happened last year ... or even, sometimes, last week!  Certainly this was true of my parents in their latter years and I'm beginning to find it so for myself.

This week has been filled with memories for a decreasing body of World War II veterans as we have seen in the news media the commemorations of the 75th anniversary of D-Day, the invasion of occupied Europe that was the beginning of the end of the War.  'What did you do in the War, Daddy?' was the title of a film comedy released in 1966, but the question was a very real and current one for quite some while during those years when I was a teenager.  Personally, it was a question to which I could never receive an exciting answer.  Since my father worked on a farm and mother in a grocery store, they were both engaged in 'keeping the home fires burning' (to quote a song title from an earlier age).

However, I grew up in the knowledge that my mother's brother had died while a prisoner of war in the Far East, and it must have been in those teenage years that I learned the basic fact that my father's nephew had died on service with the RAF.  It wasn't until comparatively recently that I was able to research the details of this, which I published here five years ago on the 70th anniversary ... which was far and away the most popular and widely read of these blog posts.

I began by wondering what today's children will remember as they grow old towards the end of this 21st century.  The news bulletins this week, referring to the commemorative events at Portsmouth and our Queen's speech referring to the 'wartime generation ... my generation', kick-started a brief flashback to one of my earliest memories.  It wasn't a specific occasion, but an 'atmosphere' of what life looked like then, with open coal fires for heating (one room only) in a tiled fireplace above which hung a big mirror on a chain, there was linoleum on the floor, covered in part by a hearthrug and hand-made mats and, for reading material, comics like Jack and Jill and Robin.

When I went to the senior school, ten years or so after these memories, 'History stopped at 1914' so, although I knew first-hand, as it were, the personal tragedy of World War II, it wasn't until adulthood that I learned something of the events that had led to its outbreak.  Alarmingly, some aspects of those events of the 1930s are being referred to in current times.  In July 1932, NSDAP, the party led by Adolf Hitler, gained the most votes and the greatest number of seats in the German Reichstag, although not an outright majority.  At a second election in November, the outcome was broadly the same, although NSDAP won fewer seats this time; however, only four months later, by the use of political strategy coupled with paramilitary activity, Hitler had become president, had engineered another election and now led a majority coalition in the Reichstag.  The rest, as they say, is history.

As far-right characters parade across our political stage in connection with elections near and far, we are reminded of this chain of events with the suggestion that the same could happen here.  Wild theories, frightening speculation  or a genuine possibility to guard against?  Your guess is as good as mine!