There was nothing as eerie and for instilling a strange sense of disquiet as the sight of an abandoned house, let alone a whole hillside of stone built villas that clung on to the steep hillside for as far as the eye could see.
We were taking the tortuously rambling tourist route through the Greek Island of Keffalonia when the ruins came into view on the slopes above. A local at the petrol station which was our next stop gave the explanation that because of the massive earthquake of 1953 the residents had been instructed and had accepted as their fate that they would have to vacate their homes forever.
These had been modern homes of the period and yet abandonment and the subsequent exposure to weather had given them the appearance of an ancient almost mythical settlement.
Natural forces have been responsible for the desolation of many towns and large cities across the world.
Epicuen, a lakeside tourist resort in Argentina had provided a livelihood for 1500 occupants seeing to the needs of 20000 tourists a year. A combination of freakish climatic events led to a massive tidal surge in the formerly friendly lake and the full inundation of the town in 1985. The water levels have long since subsided but the population have largely stayed away leaving a mass of twisted reinforcement protruding through crumbled concrete across many square miles.
The town of Plymouth on Montserrat in the West Indies was hastily evacuated after being threatened and subsequently engulfed by lava flows from a succession of volcanic eruptions.
Speculative economic ventures and property gambles have also contributed to many more ghost towns and cities across the globe.
Kilamba New City in Angola was a development by the China International Trust and Investment Corporation with the intention for it to be a major regional population centre. The tower blocks, 750 of them over eight floors each were anticipated to house 50,000 persons supported by an infrastructure of 12 schools, shopping malls, a five star hotel and 100 shops. Construction forged ahead and yet up until 2012 only just over 200 properties had been sold. The town stands empty and forlorn waiting patiently for its buildings and streets to be filled.
On a considerably smaller scale the North Yorkshire located Ravenscar high up on the cliffs just to the south of Robin Hood's Bay was feted as an ideal place for a new town. Investment came from the railways and building plots were set out for purchase along a series of wide avenues. In spite of active marketing in the mid 19th century only a handful of customers were caught up in the idea and today there is the forlorn sight of a few dispersed gritstone built houses occupying the windy summit.
Commercial considerations have also figured in the rise and fall of other towns and cities.
The diamond mining boom of 1908 in Namibia was the catalyst for the rapid growth of Kolmanskop and yet within a few years the settlement was abandoned and left to the ravages of the natural environment. The desert sands, unchecked by human actions have simply blown into and become established between the walls and under the collapsed roofs of the myriad of buildings.
A similar downturn in world demand and markets in potash and salt led to the complete vacating by its residents of Dallol in Ethiopia. The town had done well to become established in its halcyon days as in the 1960's it had the dubious honour of recording the highest temperature for an inhabited place at 35 degrees celsius.
In a simpler age the East Yorkshire village of Wharram Percy, a thriving settlement, was vacated due to a combination of the Black Death, changes in the local Medieval economy and the increased value of sheep farming over the growing of arable crops with the consequences of a massive down scaling of livelihoods for many families.
Similar fates were suffered in successive centuries with the failure of local fishing industries such as in Great Blasket Island in Eire which led to the depletion of population to only 22 in 1953.
War and political events have imposed conditions on towns and cities causing residents to flee, be evacuated or just give up and drift away.
In 1923 the town of Kayakov in south west Turkey had been home to a predominantly Greek Christian population. The dramatic exchanges of territory between Turkey and Greece led to the abandonment by the indigenous population within a few years.
Cradour sur Glane in France has been left in ruins intentionally as a memorial to successive generations of the barbarism of war. In 1944 in a retaliatory action by the Waffen SS after persistent attacks by partisan groups some 642 residents, amongst them 205 children and 247 women were massacred. Charles de Gaulle decreed that the town be protected in its ruinous state.
Whatever the reasons for enforced abandonment by humans many such settlements are in peril of being overrun by the very forces of nature that had to be placated and suppressed in the first place. There is some irony in that.
Sunday 30 November 2014
Saturday 29 November 2014
Iggy Pop
In the artificially induced sub tropical temperatures of Hull there is a grumpy Iguana.
Before anyone hearkens on about global warming it is important to explain the previous sentence.
It is a hot, humid and oppressive atmosphere but not unusual for the interior of a beautiful glazed building that is the Victorian Conservatory in Pearson Park, Hull.
The Iguana, called George, is one of if not the best loved reptile in the City having been in residence for a good proportion of his 16 years (about 80 years old in human terms) apart from a mysterious twelve month exile to a park facility in the east of Hull.
George is a large lizard. Sticky out tongue to tip of tale he measures about two metres and in his senior years his original bright green scales have mellowed in to pearlescent sheen of rainbow colours, almost fluorescent in tone and hue. Apt for the city is his black and amber striped tail which is in the colours of the Premier League Club.
Visitors to his smallish enclosure greet him like the old friends they are and he acknowledges by bobbing his proud head up and down. In the natural environment of his home territory which could have been anywhere between Mexico to Paraguay, Brazil to the islands of the Caribbean this movement of the head would mean many things to other Iguana's. It could be a challenge to another male intent on intruding onto his turf or a cheeky come-on to a female.
In Hull the same ritualistic nodding probably equates to "Now then, nice to see ya" or a similar sentiment.
His caged surround include a wooden open sided bed area with a deep and warm-looking layer of bark chippings, a large tree bough on which he lounges comfortably although precariously for his size, a recess with brackish water and a large stainless steel feeding bowl containing a rough cut vegetable and fruit mixture. He is a herbivore, no doubt resisting any foodstuffs squeezed through the mesh by well meaning, adoring but misguided fans.
He must secretly revel in his confinement as in the wild habitat of the South Americas he is the prey of birds and the locals have also enjoyed his species as a staple of their diets for the last 7000 years. As reported in terms of familiarity with most creatures an Iguana tastes just like chicken and has been referred to as Bamboo Chicken.
George does not move about much unless he falls off the tree trunk in a moment of inattention or where the counter balance of his tail fails. In a constant temperature of 75 to 80 degrees Fahrenheit he is probably best advised to stay still and keep cool.
His social interaction has been rather limited but in recent days he will have sensed, through smell, sound and the reaction of his regular visitors the presence of another of his species in the building.
George is getting on a bit and someone in Parks and Gardens is obviously lining up a successor in anticipation of his sad demise.
Then new Iguana is a bright green female, bred in captivity and purchased by the City as an addition to not only George but the tropical fish tanks, Australian bearded dragons and impressive canopy of broad leaved equatorial plants.
It is important to emphasise that the female is not at all a partner or mate for George.
The Iguana is a fiercely territorial creature and the two, although neighbours, will not ever meet.
There will be no coming together to produce little Iguanas-that is clear.
They will however be expected to form a double act for visitors and the process has an essential component- the naming of the female.
Pink Post-It Notes and an unreliable ball point pen invite suggestions from the visitors. The range and derivation of potential names is diverse to reflect the multi-cultural and eclectic composition of the population of Hull.
Historical figures put forward have included Martha, the wife of George Washington and Betty, the spouse of General George Custer.
Sportsmen have contributed Angie (Mrs George Best) and Mary Joan Foreman, wife of the former boxer and grill specialist.
Films and Entertainment suggestions have included Amal, the new Mrs George Clooney and Mellody the partner of George Lucas.
Literature is topical as Philip Larkin lived just opposite the Victorian Conservatory and Sonia Orwell has been scribbled down by some academic type (although George Orwell was born Eric Blair).
Perhaps put forward by an American tourist is Barbara, the constant companion on State business for George Bush Senior.
Fictional characters have also figured with Judy in the running, wife of the animation favourite George Jetson.
I am sitting on the fence a bit in my favourite for the naming ritual.
Close up the lurid green Iguana is not a pretty sight. Her loose jowly skin hangs down and flaps in the slightest vibrational movement. There are large black rings around her beady eyes. There is a certain tiredness in her demeanour. She is a bit Old School as Iguana's go.
That makes the naming easy......Mildred, as in George and Mildred in the 1970's sit com. It all makes sense. I can only apologise with all due respect to Yootha Joyce who made that role her own but the resemblance is uncanny.
Before anyone hearkens on about global warming it is important to explain the previous sentence.
It is a hot, humid and oppressive atmosphere but not unusual for the interior of a beautiful glazed building that is the Victorian Conservatory in Pearson Park, Hull.
The Iguana, called George, is one of if not the best loved reptile in the City having been in residence for a good proportion of his 16 years (about 80 years old in human terms) apart from a mysterious twelve month exile to a park facility in the east of Hull.
George is a large lizard. Sticky out tongue to tip of tale he measures about two metres and in his senior years his original bright green scales have mellowed in to pearlescent sheen of rainbow colours, almost fluorescent in tone and hue. Apt for the city is his black and amber striped tail which is in the colours of the Premier League Club.
Visitors to his smallish enclosure greet him like the old friends they are and he acknowledges by bobbing his proud head up and down. In the natural environment of his home territory which could have been anywhere between Mexico to Paraguay, Brazil to the islands of the Caribbean this movement of the head would mean many things to other Iguana's. It could be a challenge to another male intent on intruding onto his turf or a cheeky come-on to a female.
In Hull the same ritualistic nodding probably equates to "Now then, nice to see ya" or a similar sentiment.
His caged surround include a wooden open sided bed area with a deep and warm-looking layer of bark chippings, a large tree bough on which he lounges comfortably although precariously for his size, a recess with brackish water and a large stainless steel feeding bowl containing a rough cut vegetable and fruit mixture. He is a herbivore, no doubt resisting any foodstuffs squeezed through the mesh by well meaning, adoring but misguided fans.
He must secretly revel in his confinement as in the wild habitat of the South Americas he is the prey of birds and the locals have also enjoyed his species as a staple of their diets for the last 7000 years. As reported in terms of familiarity with most creatures an Iguana tastes just like chicken and has been referred to as Bamboo Chicken.
George does not move about much unless he falls off the tree trunk in a moment of inattention or where the counter balance of his tail fails. In a constant temperature of 75 to 80 degrees Fahrenheit he is probably best advised to stay still and keep cool.
His social interaction has been rather limited but in recent days he will have sensed, through smell, sound and the reaction of his regular visitors the presence of another of his species in the building.
George is getting on a bit and someone in Parks and Gardens is obviously lining up a successor in anticipation of his sad demise.
Then new Iguana is a bright green female, bred in captivity and purchased by the City as an addition to not only George but the tropical fish tanks, Australian bearded dragons and impressive canopy of broad leaved equatorial plants.
It is important to emphasise that the female is not at all a partner or mate for George.
The Iguana is a fiercely territorial creature and the two, although neighbours, will not ever meet.
There will be no coming together to produce little Iguanas-that is clear.
They will however be expected to form a double act for visitors and the process has an essential component- the naming of the female.
Pink Post-It Notes and an unreliable ball point pen invite suggestions from the visitors. The range and derivation of potential names is diverse to reflect the multi-cultural and eclectic composition of the population of Hull.
Historical figures put forward have included Martha, the wife of George Washington and Betty, the spouse of General George Custer.
Sportsmen have contributed Angie (Mrs George Best) and Mary Joan Foreman, wife of the former boxer and grill specialist.
Films and Entertainment suggestions have included Amal, the new Mrs George Clooney and Mellody the partner of George Lucas.
Literature is topical as Philip Larkin lived just opposite the Victorian Conservatory and Sonia Orwell has been scribbled down by some academic type (although George Orwell was born Eric Blair).
Perhaps put forward by an American tourist is Barbara, the constant companion on State business for George Bush Senior.
Fictional characters have also figured with Judy in the running, wife of the animation favourite George Jetson.
I am sitting on the fence a bit in my favourite for the naming ritual.
Close up the lurid green Iguana is not a pretty sight. Her loose jowly skin hangs down and flaps in the slightest vibrational movement. There are large black rings around her beady eyes. There is a certain tiredness in her demeanour. She is a bit Old School as Iguana's go.
That makes the naming easy......Mildred, as in George and Mildred in the 1970's sit com. It all makes sense. I can only apologise with all due respect to Yootha Joyce who made that role her own but the resemblance is uncanny.
Friday 28 November 2014
Troubled Waters
Stavi Most; The "Old Bridge" which spans the deep gorge of the Neretva River as it winds its way through the regional town of Mostar, its own name being derived from "Bridge Keepers", in what is now Bosnia Herzogovina, part of the former Communist Yugoslavia.
The bridge was commissioned by the Ottoman Emperor, Suleiman the Magnificent and completed in 1557 replacing a pitiful wooden bridge which did nothing to represent the great power of the Ottomans. Mostar was a frontier town for the Empire in the 16th Century and retained its status through the dominance of the Austro-Hungarian era.
Its architect, Mimar Hayruddin, was a time served apprentice and student of the great Sinan. It would be a step up from understudy to taking on the main contract but there must have been very mixed feelings given that any failure to produce a bridge of unprecedented dimensions would be under pain of death.
Upon its completion the bridge was the widest man made arch in the world, referred to by an awe inspired visitor as "a rainbow rising up to the milky way",
Many technical aspects were a mystery making the work one of the greatest architectural acheivements in history. The main material, a local stone was said to held together by mortar made from egg whites. The bridge was not built with recognisable foundations but from an abutment of limestone linked to wall along the cliff face of the gorge. Fortified towers at each end emphasised the strategic importance of this crossing point as much as the military might of its commissioning Emperor.
The shape of the arch is down to numerous irregularities produced by deformation of the inner line of the arch or in simpler terms, a circle with the centre depressed.
The hump backed bridge is 4m wide , 30 metres long and at its highest point some 24 metres above the river.
Substantial scaffolding and formwork, much advanced for the 16th Century, was relied upon to support the stonework in the construction process. The Architect prepared for his own funeral in the moments before the temporary structure was removed to reveal the full splendour of the bridge.
On 9th November 1993 a relentless bombardment by Croat Forces of up to 60 shells finally caused the bridge to collapse. It had been a regular target for artillery in the attack on Mostar but the final onslaught proved too much for the elegant structure. The Croats claimed that the destruction of a wonder of architecture was legitimate on military grounds but the act was widely seen as an unnecessary act of political vandalism.
The 25000 inhabitants of Mostar were, as a consequence, trapped and under siege and at the mercy of snipers and shortages of water and supplies, In an act of war the shared cultural heritage of a peaceful city had been eradicated.
In the tentative peace that followed the Balkan Conflict it was decided that Stavi Most should be rebuilt. The same local stone was quarried and added to original blocks salvaged from the river bed by specialist divers. It took three years to reconstruct and was opened for use in 2004.
The return of the bridge was regarded as a major step towards reconciliation between factions but the wounds of the savage war remained very real and raw so much so that Mostar remains a divided population unable to bridge the gap of the years of conflict.
Thursday 27 November 2014
Match Perfect
My Dad took me to my first proper football match in 1974.
The nearest professional club to where we lived was Scunthorpe United, then in the Fourth, lowest, Division of the English Football League. I was a Liverpool supporter at that age and the fact that Ray Clemence and Kevin Keegan, then at Liverpool, had previously played at The Old Showground on Doncaster Road, held some excitement for me and brought the names and clubs on my collection of football cards that little bit closer.
The ground had certainly seen better days.
The stands were just big steel framed open bay sheds with a lot of corrugated iron or even asbestos sheeting forming the sides and roofs. Not at all watertight or weatherproof. My first match was a winter afternoon game so the floodlights were already on at 3pm when we had walked the full length of the High Street from the brand new multi-storey car park that was the centrepiece of Scunthorpe's new shopping precinct. I vividly recall that first sight of the still lush green pitch under the glare of the lights.That is still my favourite part of attending a game.
Emerging from the underground maze of sub-terracing turnstiles into the mix of bright light and the competition between the tannoy system and the crowd. The ground, I cannot use the word stadium, was standing only, apart from the Directors and VIP area where hard plastic seats and bring your own cushion were the indicators of first class accommodation. The terracing in the Donny Road end behind the south goal was in harsh concrete that made your legs and souls of your feet ache after only 20 minutes.
Me and my Dad sought refuge just in front of one of the metal barriers set in the concrete which gave some protection against being crushed by the surge of the crowd. The game must have been just before or just after Bonfire Night because, no sooner had we got settled to await the arrival of the teams, someone threw a banger which landed just behind an old chap near us. I think that the general noise of the crowd, in serving to stifle the actual explosion of the firework , may have saved the man from the full and startling impact of an unexpected improper explosive device.
The crowd were quite unruly, foul mouthed, drunk and very handy throwing and rolling around beer cans and bottles which littered under foot. The teams filtered on and the game got underway. I could see most of the play but being somewhat short for my age I had to edge up on tip toe to see any attack down the far end or if the crowd in front jumped up or got otherwise agitated. I found it strange that the phases of action were not available to view and analyse on a replay having been used to this on my TV only based match experience. I was so enthralled by being at a real game that time flew.
Half time came. A packet of crisps from the local Riley's brand cost 2p. I will not attempt to describe the squalid conditions in the communal toilets save I decided that I would not put myself in the position ever again to need them. Disappointingly, I cannot remember the score or opposing team but thanks to the internet it was apparently 0-0 against Swansea City.
The walk back through the town to the car park was a bit frightening as the crowd spilled out at the end of the match. The evenings mayhem in the town centre had already begun.
Going to a game yesterday was such a massive contrast to the dark days of the 1970's. It was Jake's first match, age 7.Hull City versus Burnley. I did not want to go on my own so we came to a pact that if he saved up half the ticket money then I would pay the balance.
He managed to get to 47p but thanks to a very enlightened pricing policy at Hull City he was already just under 16% paid up. We went on a nice clean Park and Ride bus which dropped us off just outside the KC Stadium. I was at its opening on a bitterly cold night in 2002, a purpose built £44 million facility.
The concourse was lively but well illuminated as the winter afternoon light faded. Jake bought a programme. He had a couple of pounds from his Grandad towards the cover price. A thick and informative volume that could keep a young lad in reading matter and statistics for a month. We were very early, about an hour before kick-off but Jake wanted to soak up the atmosphere as he was into all things football and Man Utd.
First on our list of pre-match things to do was to check the away team coach and then the players and officials cars in the car park. The owners Rolls Royce, lots of matt black 4 x 4's and definitely some sponsorship link with the local Audi franchise. Jake easily got through the turnstile although my big bulky coat made it a tight fit for me. He made sure that he got back his ticket stub as a souvenir. Our seats were high up in the two tier West Stand, just level with one of the goals. Jake plays goalie at school so he was thrilled that all three of City's keepers were out training in front of us.
There was no one else yet sat in our block so we went walkabout. Loo, food franchise, popping through the other block entrances to see what was going on down on the pitch and then back to sit down with a bag of crisps and hot chocolate. Compared to my 1974 experience we were lording it up. Jake was anxious for the game to start. I think he actually counted the crowd in as I had told him that the game would start when everyone was sat down, yes, all seater, comfy seats and good leg room. All first class accommodation.
The teams were on and warming up. I had to squint to make out any familiar faces but the team was mainly new signings and Andy Dawson who had played in all the Divisions and the Premier League for City was the only one I recognised. Then the announcer and guard of honour marked the start of the game. Jake was on the edge of his seat.
The game started slowly but City were 1-0 up after ten minutes. We jumped around with the crowd at this good start. By half time, no more goals but our team were well on top. I was quite happy to stay seated or stretch my legs where we were but Jake needed the loo again and he was also hungry. The food franchising is a slick operation as required in a numbers-served game. The long queue we joined soon snaked it's way to the till.
We left for our seats and the second half with a foot long hot dog in a foil warapper as big as a sleeping bag and a bottle of Pepsi. City were 2-0 up and cruising by 66 minutes. Arch rivals, Leeds were 2-0 down at home so we would leap frog them in the table, up to 5th. We had not really accounted for the course that the last last twelve minutes of the game went.
Twelve minutes of madness in which Burnley scored three very good goals and then the final whistle. We were stunned in to silence. Jake was not downhearted though and was already starting negotiations towards the percentage he should be expected to put towards his ticket for the next home game.
The nearest professional club to where we lived was Scunthorpe United, then in the Fourth, lowest, Division of the English Football League. I was a Liverpool supporter at that age and the fact that Ray Clemence and Kevin Keegan, then at Liverpool, had previously played at The Old Showground on Doncaster Road, held some excitement for me and brought the names and clubs on my collection of football cards that little bit closer.
The ground had certainly seen better days.
The stands were just big steel framed open bay sheds with a lot of corrugated iron or even asbestos sheeting forming the sides and roofs. Not at all watertight or weatherproof. My first match was a winter afternoon game so the floodlights were already on at 3pm when we had walked the full length of the High Street from the brand new multi-storey car park that was the centrepiece of Scunthorpe's new shopping precinct. I vividly recall that first sight of the still lush green pitch under the glare of the lights.That is still my favourite part of attending a game.
Emerging from the underground maze of sub-terracing turnstiles into the mix of bright light and the competition between the tannoy system and the crowd. The ground, I cannot use the word stadium, was standing only, apart from the Directors and VIP area where hard plastic seats and bring your own cushion were the indicators of first class accommodation. The terracing in the Donny Road end behind the south goal was in harsh concrete that made your legs and souls of your feet ache after only 20 minutes.
Me and my Dad sought refuge just in front of one of the metal barriers set in the concrete which gave some protection against being crushed by the surge of the crowd. The game must have been just before or just after Bonfire Night because, no sooner had we got settled to await the arrival of the teams, someone threw a banger which landed just behind an old chap near us. I think that the general noise of the crowd, in serving to stifle the actual explosion of the firework , may have saved the man from the full and startling impact of an unexpected improper explosive device.
The crowd were quite unruly, foul mouthed, drunk and very handy throwing and rolling around beer cans and bottles which littered under foot. The teams filtered on and the game got underway. I could see most of the play but being somewhat short for my age I had to edge up on tip toe to see any attack down the far end or if the crowd in front jumped up or got otherwise agitated. I found it strange that the phases of action were not available to view and analyse on a replay having been used to this on my TV only based match experience. I was so enthralled by being at a real game that time flew.
Half time came. A packet of crisps from the local Riley's brand cost 2p. I will not attempt to describe the squalid conditions in the communal toilets save I decided that I would not put myself in the position ever again to need them. Disappointingly, I cannot remember the score or opposing team but thanks to the internet it was apparently 0-0 against Swansea City.
The walk back through the town to the car park was a bit frightening as the crowd spilled out at the end of the match. The evenings mayhem in the town centre had already begun.
Going to a game yesterday was such a massive contrast to the dark days of the 1970's. It was Jake's first match, age 7.Hull City versus Burnley. I did not want to go on my own so we came to a pact that if he saved up half the ticket money then I would pay the balance.
He managed to get to 47p but thanks to a very enlightened pricing policy at Hull City he was already just under 16% paid up. We went on a nice clean Park and Ride bus which dropped us off just outside the KC Stadium. I was at its opening on a bitterly cold night in 2002, a purpose built £44 million facility.
The concourse was lively but well illuminated as the winter afternoon light faded. Jake bought a programme. He had a couple of pounds from his Grandad towards the cover price. A thick and informative volume that could keep a young lad in reading matter and statistics for a month. We were very early, about an hour before kick-off but Jake wanted to soak up the atmosphere as he was into all things football and Man Utd.
First on our list of pre-match things to do was to check the away team coach and then the players and officials cars in the car park. The owners Rolls Royce, lots of matt black 4 x 4's and definitely some sponsorship link with the local Audi franchise. Jake easily got through the turnstile although my big bulky coat made it a tight fit for me. He made sure that he got back his ticket stub as a souvenir. Our seats were high up in the two tier West Stand, just level with one of the goals. Jake plays goalie at school so he was thrilled that all three of City's keepers were out training in front of us.
There was no one else yet sat in our block so we went walkabout. Loo, food franchise, popping through the other block entrances to see what was going on down on the pitch and then back to sit down with a bag of crisps and hot chocolate. Compared to my 1974 experience we were lording it up. Jake was anxious for the game to start. I think he actually counted the crowd in as I had told him that the game would start when everyone was sat down, yes, all seater, comfy seats and good leg room. All first class accommodation.
The teams were on and warming up. I had to squint to make out any familiar faces but the team was mainly new signings and Andy Dawson who had played in all the Divisions and the Premier League for City was the only one I recognised. Then the announcer and guard of honour marked the start of the game. Jake was on the edge of his seat.
The game started slowly but City were 1-0 up after ten minutes. We jumped around with the crowd at this good start. By half time, no more goals but our team were well on top. I was quite happy to stay seated or stretch my legs where we were but Jake needed the loo again and he was also hungry. The food franchising is a slick operation as required in a numbers-served game. The long queue we joined soon snaked it's way to the till.
We left for our seats and the second half with a foot long hot dog in a foil warapper as big as a sleeping bag and a bottle of Pepsi. City were 2-0 up and cruising by 66 minutes. Arch rivals, Leeds were 2-0 down at home so we would leap frog them in the table, up to 5th. We had not really accounted for the course that the last last twelve minutes of the game went.
Twelve minutes of madness in which Burnley scored three very good goals and then the final whistle. We were stunned in to silence. Jake was not downhearted though and was already starting negotiations towards the percentage he should be expected to put towards his ticket for the next home game.
Wednesday 26 November 2014
Lyrics versus the Truth
There is an unwritten principle in the world of song writing.
It is something along the lines of do not let the truth get in the way of what sounds like a good lyric.
We have all pondered, when listening to our favourite popular music, about the factual basis of certain phrases but perhaps out of reverence for the artist or artists have not pursued it with any real commitment.
Some just do not stand up to examination in science, mathematics, astro-physics, geography or meterology amongst many other disciplines.
Zoology, for example, really puts into context the lyrics of the Tight Fit hit of the Lion Sleeps Tonight. "In the jungle, the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight". It is a nice image but lions do not live in the jungle.
In the natural world physical features like mountains are immoveable objects. John Denver in Country Roads sings of the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia. In this short phrase the slight and bespectacled singer ups and moves the range of mountains into a county in which, in reality, they hardly feature.
History provides a wealth of source material for song writers but it is important to get basic facts correct. U2 in their hit Pride use the assassination of Martin Luther King as their theme lamenting the shot that rang out in the early morning of April 4th. The tragic end of the great man took place at 6pm.
Blandness is rife in modern pop songs but then again I would say that with my own music experiences peaking in the arguably best ever decades of the 70's and 80's. Rihanna in Man Down refers to the subject of her song that he could have been someone's son. I will not dwell on the sheer nonsense of that.
Some singer songwriters could benefit from a good map and scale rule when putting together a lyric. Sade sings about coast to coast, LA to Chicago when on the ground the windy city is actually 700 miles inland.
Ambiguous references just invite ridicule and lampooning. The serious New Order are just asking for it with the, at face value, beautiful "Here Comes Love, It's like honey, You can't buy it with money". Some witty soul challenged this with the information that Asda have a jar of the yellow nectar at £2.84.
Scientists must be aghast and despairing at some of the lyrics in circulation today.
Coldplay refer to birds flying at the speed of sound. At 760 mph or thereabouts this is just an impossibility. However, in extreme temperatures the speed of sound does reduce significantly to 200mph which is the top speed of a Peregrine Falcon.
Fleetwood Mac seem to think that thunder only happens when its raining. In some hot desert environments in the dry season this cannot happen as any precipitation evaporates before it hits the ground.
Katy Meleu is probably quite close in her estimate of the number of bicycles in China but astronomers are entirely justified in pulling her up in her comments that the edge of the observable universe is 12 billion light years when it is recorded at 13.7 billion.
The most topical song for examination is the re-release of the Live Aid record.
It is probable, yes, that there won't be snow in Africa in populated areas but if you are planning a trip to the continent assuming the lyric to be infallible then avoid the mountainous regions of Algeria and Tunisia and simply avoid the Atlas Range in Morocco.
It is something along the lines of do not let the truth get in the way of what sounds like a good lyric.
We have all pondered, when listening to our favourite popular music, about the factual basis of certain phrases but perhaps out of reverence for the artist or artists have not pursued it with any real commitment.
Some just do not stand up to examination in science, mathematics, astro-physics, geography or meterology amongst many other disciplines.
Zoology, for example, really puts into context the lyrics of the Tight Fit hit of the Lion Sleeps Tonight. "In the jungle, the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight". It is a nice image but lions do not live in the jungle.
In the natural world physical features like mountains are immoveable objects. John Denver in Country Roads sings of the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia. In this short phrase the slight and bespectacled singer ups and moves the range of mountains into a county in which, in reality, they hardly feature.
History provides a wealth of source material for song writers but it is important to get basic facts correct. U2 in their hit Pride use the assassination of Martin Luther King as their theme lamenting the shot that rang out in the early morning of April 4th. The tragic end of the great man took place at 6pm.
Blandness is rife in modern pop songs but then again I would say that with my own music experiences peaking in the arguably best ever decades of the 70's and 80's. Rihanna in Man Down refers to the subject of her song that he could have been someone's son. I will not dwell on the sheer nonsense of that.
Some singer songwriters could benefit from a good map and scale rule when putting together a lyric. Sade sings about coast to coast, LA to Chicago when on the ground the windy city is actually 700 miles inland.
Ambiguous references just invite ridicule and lampooning. The serious New Order are just asking for it with the, at face value, beautiful "Here Comes Love, It's like honey, You can't buy it with money". Some witty soul challenged this with the information that Asda have a jar of the yellow nectar at £2.84.
Scientists must be aghast and despairing at some of the lyrics in circulation today.
Coldplay refer to birds flying at the speed of sound. At 760 mph or thereabouts this is just an impossibility. However, in extreme temperatures the speed of sound does reduce significantly to 200mph which is the top speed of a Peregrine Falcon.
Fleetwood Mac seem to think that thunder only happens when its raining. In some hot desert environments in the dry season this cannot happen as any precipitation evaporates before it hits the ground.
Katy Meleu is probably quite close in her estimate of the number of bicycles in China but astronomers are entirely justified in pulling her up in her comments that the edge of the observable universe is 12 billion light years when it is recorded at 13.7 billion.
The most topical song for examination is the re-release of the Live Aid record.
It is probable, yes, that there won't be snow in Africa in populated areas but if you are planning a trip to the continent assuming the lyric to be infallible then avoid the mountainous regions of Algeria and Tunisia and simply avoid the Atlas Range in Morocco.
Tuesday 25 November 2014
Week End
In life there is quite a lot that is mundane. The utter predictability of the day to day routine.
However, this should not be begrudged because for the majority it is this relentless treadmill that is a fundamental part of our livelihoods and means of generating income .
This ultimately helps in the funding of interests and pursuits which make the heart and soul sing and the spirits soar.
Take an average working week.
Monday can be a bit of a trial especially after an indulgent or over-active weekend break depending upon what really floats your boat.
Tuesday can have some turbulence left over from the day before but is a good time to start a project with the prospect of a good part of the week ahead.
Wednesday is definitely the source of mid-week blues, what with a now very distant recollection of that precious weekend period and a seemingly insurmountable task ahead to get to the next two day reprieve.
Thursday, there can be a tangible uplift in attitude and enthusiasm with the approach of the end of the week and on the generally accepted principle that it is now too late to start a new project, that is after all what a tuesday is all about.
Friday, a few deadlines to meet and presentations to make but after the short morning, unless on flexi hours and a 7am start, the gradual running down of activity can begin in the early afternoon.
A lot of companies and businesses seem to cease work by about 4pm, no doubt very much aware, from experience, of the significant fall off in productivity towards this time.
Plans for the weekend will be well formulated by late friday afternoon, after all there has been a lot of strategic work towards it on office time with so much social media and internet available under a veil of legitimate browsing and networking.
A proportion of the workforce will be commencing their weekend from the moment they vacate the premises, having struggled in that morning with overnight bag, clothing in a dry cleaning cover and changing from office attire into glad rags in the canteen lavatory. Others may linger a while to see if any group outings are in the offing or try to catch a rumour or whisper of a party or gathering amongst colleagues or their wider circle of friends and acquaintances.
There can be luxurious speculations about a saturday morning lie-in, love-in or tidy up. The more energetic and adventurous may look forward to spending their friday evening preparing their walking gear, oiling the cycle gears, greasing the motorbike, stocking up the caravan or planning a DIY project. I am not so sure that there is, nowadays, an exodus straight to the pub but that friday fish supper maintains its position in the traditions to mark the end of a long working week.
Personally, I do look forward to friday tea-times with family participation in preparing a meal and making plans for the all too short weekend. Much does depend on the time of year and the weather of course but that has always been the case in this country and nothing, short of the apocalypse, stands in the way of the English and their saturday and sunday activities.
However, this should not be begrudged because for the majority it is this relentless treadmill that is a fundamental part of our livelihoods and means of generating income .
This ultimately helps in the funding of interests and pursuits which make the heart and soul sing and the spirits soar.
Take an average working week.
Monday can be a bit of a trial especially after an indulgent or over-active weekend break depending upon what really floats your boat.
Tuesday can have some turbulence left over from the day before but is a good time to start a project with the prospect of a good part of the week ahead.
Wednesday is definitely the source of mid-week blues, what with a now very distant recollection of that precious weekend period and a seemingly insurmountable task ahead to get to the next two day reprieve.
Thursday, there can be a tangible uplift in attitude and enthusiasm with the approach of the end of the week and on the generally accepted principle that it is now too late to start a new project, that is after all what a tuesday is all about.
Friday, a few deadlines to meet and presentations to make but after the short morning, unless on flexi hours and a 7am start, the gradual running down of activity can begin in the early afternoon.
A lot of companies and businesses seem to cease work by about 4pm, no doubt very much aware, from experience, of the significant fall off in productivity towards this time.
Plans for the weekend will be well formulated by late friday afternoon, after all there has been a lot of strategic work towards it on office time with so much social media and internet available under a veil of legitimate browsing and networking.
A proportion of the workforce will be commencing their weekend from the moment they vacate the premises, having struggled in that morning with overnight bag, clothing in a dry cleaning cover and changing from office attire into glad rags in the canteen lavatory. Others may linger a while to see if any group outings are in the offing or try to catch a rumour or whisper of a party or gathering amongst colleagues or their wider circle of friends and acquaintances.
There can be luxurious speculations about a saturday morning lie-in, love-in or tidy up. The more energetic and adventurous may look forward to spending their friday evening preparing their walking gear, oiling the cycle gears, greasing the motorbike, stocking up the caravan or planning a DIY project. I am not so sure that there is, nowadays, an exodus straight to the pub but that friday fish supper maintains its position in the traditions to mark the end of a long working week.
Personally, I do look forward to friday tea-times with family participation in preparing a meal and making plans for the all too short weekend. Much does depend on the time of year and the weather of course but that has always been the case in this country and nothing, short of the apocalypse, stands in the way of the English and their saturday and sunday activities.
Monday 24 November 2014
The Avenues
The phrase of "brown bread and muesli" was often used as a descriptive term for the demographic of the occupants of the four streets of late Victorian houses that make up The Avenues area of Hull.
It compounded the image of bearded men, well rounded women in floaty clothing and a host of intense and creative children, perhaps a bit old fashioned in manner and speech.
That may have been the actual case in the late 1970's when I became first acquainted with that part of the City but now actually living in the district, well technically included in the Conservation Area I have had to revisit my previous prejudices. This is based on a regular walking up and down the streets as part of my winter fitness routine.
On a map this is hardly a challenge as it entails a westward leg, a return in an easterly direction, westward again and then a turn against the prevailing wind to sail back home. The streets are close and parallel and bisected in a couple of places by cut through roads. The distance for a full walk is just under four miles and when determined and not overtired or overfed it is possible to do the round trip in just under an hour.
This does involve setting a fast pace as an average of four miles per hour is quite an effort even on the perfectly flat topography of just off central Hull. The start and finish points can be varied at the eastern end so as to end up nearest home. The Avenues do have a hierarchical status based on the calibre of housing and desirability of the address but none of the residents can agree as to what it is as they obviously place their own street at the top of the table.
Being an outsider I am able to be quite impartial on this matter and my own personal rating of Avenues would be, from lower to prime, Marlborough, Victoria, Park and Westbourne. To confuse matters my favourite order for the walk is Victoria, Park, Westbourne and Marlborough but I can feel equally satisfied with the reverse order of this. In its halcyon days the area was the place of choice for the middle classes, merchant class and older monied families whose endeavours and wealth creation had kept a good proportion of the working population of Hull in wages and shelter.
Bourgeois and Artisan types also preferred the large two and three storey houses and even today it is possible to pick out a good number of the blue and white enamelled plaques raised by the Civic Society to celebrate even a brief occupancy by the likes of Dorothy L Sayers, Ian Carmichael, Anthony Minghella and Amy Johnson amongst other figures from local history or with some wider significance. One notable former resident was the second in command on the Titanic although I have not checked to see if he went down with the countless other victims or was seconded to lifeboat duty. I have looked to see if his house is straight and true and not listing to starboard.
A reasonable proportion of the housing stock through the Avenues has as some time suffered from subsidence and settlement because of the poor load bearing clay subsoils and the source of the street names, the trees. My first few working years in Hull in the mid 1980's was spent on regular visits to subsiding properties, some very badly affected and with the cost of remedial underpinning being very close to actual values. Some individual properties will have been virtual write-offs in insurance terms but only salvaged because of the Conservation Area status.
A few of the bay fronts had to be fully rebuilt and flexible expansion joints inserted between longer runs of wall to allow for seasonal and differential movement. Some houses were just too far gone in terms of distortion to be straightened up and remain out of true and both disturbing and amusing visually.
These factors have not diminished the demand and popularity of the housing stock. The larger 5 and 6 bedroomed properties have longevity for the purposes of a wide range of generations. The even larger premises have been sub divided into flats and bedsits. The highest proportion by far just remain as traditional single family houses. On my walk it is interesting to guess the form of occupancy with clues for flats being multiple doorbells, lots of lights on and poorly maintained forecourts in contrast to the private houses of well tended grounds and a few modest shows of habitation.
Unmade and unadopted service roads do provide potential for car access but very few residents can be bothered to use them preferring to abandon vehicles on the carriageway where there can be intense competition for a parking space. My walk often involves criss-crossing the streets to avoid cars and vans which have been thoughtlessly left to barricade the pavement. Walking at fast pace through a good residential area can cause a few curtains to twitch as the Neighbourhood Watch stirs into action. I feel sorry for the consequences faced by anyone walking similarly speedily and say, carrying a colour TV set down to the repair shop out of necessity.
On an evening of exercise I am never alone as there is a regular flow of joggers pacing the same up and down route, large numbers of dog walkers and a few badly illuminated cyclists.
In fact, for a supposedly quiet inner city location it can be quite a congested place.
Sunday 23 November 2014
Grubb-ie goings on
I could not fail to notice that everything in the house had a label attached to it.
The traditional type of label with a small tie of clean white string through a reinforced punched hole in the cream coloured paper tag, about the size of a library card. Some of the labels bore just a single initial, the majority had the same surname but prefixed with various initials, a few had a very formal and civil full name approach as though for a neighbour or aquaintance who had once admired the item and then the rest just said the single word of Charity.
It was the slow process of the clearance of a house by a grieving family, some quicker than others to claim their entitlement amongst the furniture, framed prints and ornaments. I had met a middle aged man at the house. It had been a long time residence for his late father, in fact the family had bought the property from new in the late 1940's and he himself had been born in the place as had his siblings. It was a long time to be in a house but why think about moving when everything is provided under the current roof. I was there to value the property, less the chattels.
I was left to wander about through the disarray of furniture, the small collected piles of similar items, a few bags of clothes, stacks of paperback books, kitchen pans and utensils and all the accumulated ephemera of a long life. It was difficult to negotiate a way through most of the rooms because of the upheaval and aftermath of family, friends and distant relatives searching and scouring the contents for a memento or keepsake. The loft hatch had been removed and had been rested against the staircase spindles. Grubby, dust streaked fingermarks indicated that the roof void had also been the subject of investigation and part clearance of the manageable items of worn suitcases, packing boxes and bundled up old curtains and sheets.
A standard sized tea-chest had been evidently lowered through the loft hatch, and had snagged the wall with an unruly piece of the metallic edge trim before being deposited disappointingly empty in the doorway to the small front box-bedroom. I examined the abraded scar in the old wallpapered finish and then carefully moved the sharp edged chest out of the way to inspect the room. Of all the rooms in the house the smallest one was empty apart from a bicycle. I thought that I was the only person who kept a bike in the house and not in the shed or garage. The bike was not complete or serviceable. It had wheels but these were of the metal rims only, no tyres and of a poorer modern aluminium type usually provided with a new starter or junior racing bike.
They had obviously been hastily fitted to keep the frame of the bike upright and safe from damage. It was clear that the frame was of good quality beneath the faded and corrosion speckled paint job. The lug work around the head tube was elaborate and well crafted. The same quality showed on the brazings for the main tubes and around the axle. I inserted two fingers of my right hand under the mid point of the crossbar and lifted slowly. Even with the dead weight of the wheels the bike was featherlight in weight. This, in its heyday, had been a top calibre machine for road-racing or the off-season leisure rides up to Scarborough or the Moors. As I lifted the bike higher, engrossed in its lightness, the wheels fell off from their loose association with the front and rear drop-outs. The clatter of noise brought the man to assist me, concerned if I was alright and apologising for the state of the house which was now completely at sorts to the standards kept by his parents and latterly his widower father. From the initial suspicion of me on my arrival this broke the ice and we got to talking on the subject of his father and his passion for cycling.
The bicycle in the house had been all he could remember from his earliest years. He recalled that it had always been in pristine condition, shining and chrome polished even after a run out in mixed weather. The original wheels had been made of cane for absolute minimal weight. The components had been the best his father could afford. In the 1930's cycling was a major interest in the City and there were a number of very well patronised clubs catering for racing, socials, longer weekend runs to cafe's and cycle-touring. His father, a keen member of 'something or other Wheelers' had met his wife to be through the mutual love of cycling in a large group. The front of the frame was moved into the sunlight from the window.
The man pointed out the emblem on the tubing below the handlebar head. It read "F H Grubb". This immediately sparked a memory from a conversation with my father about his cycling days, when as a mere teenager he had pedalled through Holland, Belgium and to Paris. He had spoken of many classic bike makers and Grubb had stood out as both unusually ugly for a commercial venture and a bit comical. The pedigree of the frame had been validated beyond doubt. The frame did not have a label attached so cheekily I asked what was to become of it. The man said that it would probably go to a youngster in the family as was his responsibilty as Executor for his father's estate. I had immediate visions of the frame sprayed lurid yellow, fitted with a front wheel smaller than the rear and used for stunts and jumps over scrap-wood ramps or dirt hills. The frame would prove disappointing in such pursuits as it would surely buckle and fold on any minor impact for which it was not intended. I asked if he would consider selling it to me. He said he would if I took it all away, frame ,wheels and , also, a box of bits which over the years had become detached or broken off .
He disapperared into another bedroom. I heard some shuffling, the moving of heavy items, a profanity and then a cry of success. The box was indeed full of cycle related components topped by the protruding curl of clearly the original handlebars. I would check the boxed contents out in more detail later. The transaction did not take much to close. I offered £30 which was immediately accepted. The man obviously felt I was an idiot to want nothing more than a collection of welded pipes on wheels, notwithstanding the sentimental value. Personally, I could not believe my good fortune. Later, after work I took the frame, less the cheap wheels, to present to my father.
He was amazed at my acquisition and availed the full story of the great Freddie Grubb, a Silver Medallist at the 1912 Summer Games in Stockholm in the individual and team road races before his retirement and setting up in the bike making business. My father and Freddie, whilst a generation apart, did have a common association with Croydon, north of London as a place of birth and manufacturing respectively. F H Grubb built bicycles from 1914 and even into the late 1970's after the Holdsworth brand continued his name two years after his death in 1949.
My father over the following months took on the restoration of the frame as a project. It took much time and care to strip back the frame to the bare metal after accumulated dirt and corrosion had dulled the definition between lug and tube. Unfortunately, the task could not be completed within the lifetime of my own father but all the hard work has been done and I look forward to completing the project at some time in the future.
The traditional type of label with a small tie of clean white string through a reinforced punched hole in the cream coloured paper tag, about the size of a library card. Some of the labels bore just a single initial, the majority had the same surname but prefixed with various initials, a few had a very formal and civil full name approach as though for a neighbour or aquaintance who had once admired the item and then the rest just said the single word of Charity.
It was the slow process of the clearance of a house by a grieving family, some quicker than others to claim their entitlement amongst the furniture, framed prints and ornaments. I had met a middle aged man at the house. It had been a long time residence for his late father, in fact the family had bought the property from new in the late 1940's and he himself had been born in the place as had his siblings. It was a long time to be in a house but why think about moving when everything is provided under the current roof. I was there to value the property, less the chattels.
I was left to wander about through the disarray of furniture, the small collected piles of similar items, a few bags of clothes, stacks of paperback books, kitchen pans and utensils and all the accumulated ephemera of a long life. It was difficult to negotiate a way through most of the rooms because of the upheaval and aftermath of family, friends and distant relatives searching and scouring the contents for a memento or keepsake. The loft hatch had been removed and had been rested against the staircase spindles. Grubby, dust streaked fingermarks indicated that the roof void had also been the subject of investigation and part clearance of the manageable items of worn suitcases, packing boxes and bundled up old curtains and sheets.
A standard sized tea-chest had been evidently lowered through the loft hatch, and had snagged the wall with an unruly piece of the metallic edge trim before being deposited disappointingly empty in the doorway to the small front box-bedroom. I examined the abraded scar in the old wallpapered finish and then carefully moved the sharp edged chest out of the way to inspect the room. Of all the rooms in the house the smallest one was empty apart from a bicycle. I thought that I was the only person who kept a bike in the house and not in the shed or garage. The bike was not complete or serviceable. It had wheels but these were of the metal rims only, no tyres and of a poorer modern aluminium type usually provided with a new starter or junior racing bike.
They had obviously been hastily fitted to keep the frame of the bike upright and safe from damage. It was clear that the frame was of good quality beneath the faded and corrosion speckled paint job. The lug work around the head tube was elaborate and well crafted. The same quality showed on the brazings for the main tubes and around the axle. I inserted two fingers of my right hand under the mid point of the crossbar and lifted slowly. Even with the dead weight of the wheels the bike was featherlight in weight. This, in its heyday, had been a top calibre machine for road-racing or the off-season leisure rides up to Scarborough or the Moors. As I lifted the bike higher, engrossed in its lightness, the wheels fell off from their loose association with the front and rear drop-outs. The clatter of noise brought the man to assist me, concerned if I was alright and apologising for the state of the house which was now completely at sorts to the standards kept by his parents and latterly his widower father. From the initial suspicion of me on my arrival this broke the ice and we got to talking on the subject of his father and his passion for cycling.
The bicycle in the house had been all he could remember from his earliest years. He recalled that it had always been in pristine condition, shining and chrome polished even after a run out in mixed weather. The original wheels had been made of cane for absolute minimal weight. The components had been the best his father could afford. In the 1930's cycling was a major interest in the City and there were a number of very well patronised clubs catering for racing, socials, longer weekend runs to cafe's and cycle-touring. His father, a keen member of 'something or other Wheelers' had met his wife to be through the mutual love of cycling in a large group. The front of the frame was moved into the sunlight from the window.
The man pointed out the emblem on the tubing below the handlebar head. It read "F H Grubb". This immediately sparked a memory from a conversation with my father about his cycling days, when as a mere teenager he had pedalled through Holland, Belgium and to Paris. He had spoken of many classic bike makers and Grubb had stood out as both unusually ugly for a commercial venture and a bit comical. The pedigree of the frame had been validated beyond doubt. The frame did not have a label attached so cheekily I asked what was to become of it. The man said that it would probably go to a youngster in the family as was his responsibilty as Executor for his father's estate. I had immediate visions of the frame sprayed lurid yellow, fitted with a front wheel smaller than the rear and used for stunts and jumps over scrap-wood ramps or dirt hills. The frame would prove disappointing in such pursuits as it would surely buckle and fold on any minor impact for which it was not intended. I asked if he would consider selling it to me. He said he would if I took it all away, frame ,wheels and , also, a box of bits which over the years had become detached or broken off .
He disapperared into another bedroom. I heard some shuffling, the moving of heavy items, a profanity and then a cry of success. The box was indeed full of cycle related components topped by the protruding curl of clearly the original handlebars. I would check the boxed contents out in more detail later. The transaction did not take much to close. I offered £30 which was immediately accepted. The man obviously felt I was an idiot to want nothing more than a collection of welded pipes on wheels, notwithstanding the sentimental value. Personally, I could not believe my good fortune. Later, after work I took the frame, less the cheap wheels, to present to my father.
He was amazed at my acquisition and availed the full story of the great Freddie Grubb, a Silver Medallist at the 1912 Summer Games in Stockholm in the individual and team road races before his retirement and setting up in the bike making business. My father and Freddie, whilst a generation apart, did have a common association with Croydon, north of London as a place of birth and manufacturing respectively. F H Grubb built bicycles from 1914 and even into the late 1970's after the Holdsworth brand continued his name two years after his death in 1949.
My father over the following months took on the restoration of the frame as a project. It took much time and care to strip back the frame to the bare metal after accumulated dirt and corrosion had dulled the definition between lug and tube. Unfortunately, the task could not be completed within the lifetime of my own father but all the hard work has been done and I look forward to completing the project at some time in the future.
Saturday 22 November 2014
Quirang goings on
I am just not good at heights. My most frightening experiences have involved heights. I do not like heights at all. This has caused much mirth and merriment amongst my family who, I am convinced, go out of their way to make sure I am exposed to some sort of height related threat at least three to four times a year. Holidays tend to throw up the most opportunities to scare me to a point of absolute petrification. The trip, during a holiday on the Isle of Skye, to The Quirang was a prime example. The natural feature comprises a raised plateau within a crown shaped surround of volcanic basalt rock at some altitude and quite something to see. In the days of frequent Norse raiders in the Scottish Islands or general banditry The Quirang provided a safe and impregnable refuge for residents and their valuable livestock. If it was difficult to be attacked by a determined and motivated enemy then I held little hope of actually getting there as a tourist. The road up to the car park on the inland side was a forerunner of what could be expected on foot. Steep, tight turns, a sharp falling away below and the precarious and alarming positioning of sheep above and below the road as though they had two short legs on one side to appear level and steady on the otherwise hostile gradient. We set off along a footpath across a meadow, fairly good going and then beyond a drystone wall the path took on an all too sinister and threatening route. It sat on the only shelf of level ground atop a very steep drop into the valley below. On a map it would be represented by a thin brown contour line amongst many similar and closely packed brown lines. It felt as thin and narrow as the actual representation on the map. Add to that the fact that it was a bit windy. After all it was August, more of the same rainy season which prevailed for the whole twelve months of the year on Skye. Anticipating wet weather I had my waterproofs on as standard day-wear. In the wind my anorak rippled and flapped which increased my already heightened sense of danger and instability. A few walkers approached us from the direction of The Quirang so to my mind the route was do-able unless of course they had given up and just turned back. I did not want to appear weak or uncommitted by asking them. The path continued along the ledge and then disappeared around a bend following the topography of the hillside. That was enough for me and I sat down on the upper path edge and went on strike. The rest of the family struck on and out of sight. Within a few minutes they had returned. The pathway was blocked by a couple of ladies obviously suffering from the same allergic reaction to the prospect of plummeting to a painful death as I was experiencing. That and the fact that what looked to the eye like a straight route was in fact quite uppy and downy and could take at least a couple of hours of quite energic hiking to reach the base of The Quirang. I proposed we go and find a tea shop somewhere and the others, not wanting to lose face at their defeat by the path, gratefully agreed. I suspected from the large numbers of the general public in view enjoying that landmark feature that there was probably a large and very accessible coach park on the seaward side only a short hop and skip away from The Quirang posing no difficulty whatsoever to the elderly, infirm or very young. Other situations where I feared for my life included accompanying my wife on one of her favourite activities of walking coastal paths. Nasty situations were encountered along both the high cliff routes in Cornwall and on the North Yorkshire coastline. I also have problems going over bridges where the planking of the walkway leaves a narrow gap affording a very clear and unambiguous viewpoint of white-water rapids. I was proud of myself in successfully negotiating the cliff side path and a suspension bridge up to Tintagel Castle for an evening of magical Arthurian legends acted out by puppeteers. On a day to day level my work also puts me in what I feel are hazardous situations as far as heights are concerned.
Assured that my right hand was holding on as tightly as humanly possible to the top of the ladder I extended my left hand to ease myself up with the intention of actually clambering up onto the flat section of house roof. At that point, on a 30 foot hired wooden ladder, my legs began to shake uncontrollably as though bared open on a nerve end. The builder who had ascended onto the flat roof just before me remarked with some amusement that I did not appear to be enjoying myself. He was absolutely right and I had added another sorry chapter to my list of high places that I should never have attempted to get to. The most recent similar experience was only just this morning. At the top of a newly converted and swankily refurbished former Brewery building was the means and therefore an impulsive invitation to get out on the roof for an inspection. I assembled my own trusted 15 foot aluminium ladder and released the catch handle which held the bubble type perspex skylight in position. Immediately freed from its restraint the lightweight dome caught the wind and was wrestled out of my hand. I grimaced in case the hatch actually blew off its hinge and cascaded down to the ground or worst still clattered down the roof of the adjoining Catholic Church. The force of the wind had not been apparent during my ground level working but at a height of over 50 feet there was quite a strong breeze. I put my head out over the shelter of the hatch surround. What was left of my head of hair was ruffled and there was a definite feeling of suction and negative pressure through the vast expanse of the building below me. In the depths of the empty building I could hear a door slam. I was sure that during my progression through the four floor levels I had secured all the internal doors. I listened for the sounds of footsteps. Nothing followed the resonance from the slamming door. I was now at the threshold for stepping out onto the flat roof. There was however no shelter from the wind and in the absence of a safety rail to the overhanging edge I declined to detach myself from the ladder which otherwise kept me connected to the ground. There were some good photo opportunities for my work. The strap for my camera was draped around my right hand as I was fearful of dropping it beyond reach or even over and into the precipice between the building and its near neighbours. One detail of a sagging gutter on a lower roof section had to be recorded. This meant my rotating on the ladder trying to simultaneously hold on to the top rung and the camera whilst operating the zoom focus. I had by now come to the attention of the city centre pigeons who were congregating in the sheltered dead spaces between the buildings. Not expecting any food they just milled around or expressed annoyance that I had trespassed into their exclusive domain. I narrowly escaped a couple of warning shots from the agitated birds. It was time to retreat back into the calm of the building. Unfortunately the bubble hatch in its vertical position was now out of my immediate reach without upsetting my delicate balance. The hatch was above a small plant room on the top floor. There were offcuts of electrical cable strewn on the floor and I selected one of the shorter lengths. Catching in the wind my lassoo was difficult to control and it took about 5 minutes to toss the cable around the catch mount with enough purchase to draw the cover down within reach. I was happy with my improvisation and started to dismantle my ladder. I then realised that my camera was missing. I had, after all that, left it on the roof just below the lip of the hatch. The process was repeated with some annoyance. The hatch was just as unruly as before. As I stretched to pick up the camera I could feel that all too familiar leg wobble starting. This could easily cause a vibrating effect down the angled ladder to its footing on what had formerly appeared as a non-slip concrete floor. In natural light flooding in through the open hatch, the floor was the most highly polished screeded finish I had ever seen. I carefully made my way to down. As with most of my self exposure to heights the moment of touch down with both feet is ecstatic. The spine tingling feeling associated with above ground levels continued as I made my way out of the building. The renovation of the old Brewery building had included the creation of a full floor to three storey height atrium, a very indulgent waste of otherwise lettable space but visually stunning. I descended the resin floored landings, treads and risers carrying all my equipment and ladders. The view over the handrails and clear glass balustrade panels left little to the imagination of the vertigo sufferer and at last arriving at ground floor level I felt like kneeling down in Papal style to kiss terra firma.
Assured that my right hand was holding on as tightly as humanly possible to the top of the ladder I extended my left hand to ease myself up with the intention of actually clambering up onto the flat section of house roof. At that point, on a 30 foot hired wooden ladder, my legs began to shake uncontrollably as though bared open on a nerve end. The builder who had ascended onto the flat roof just before me remarked with some amusement that I did not appear to be enjoying myself. He was absolutely right and I had added another sorry chapter to my list of high places that I should never have attempted to get to. The most recent similar experience was only just this morning. At the top of a newly converted and swankily refurbished former Brewery building was the means and therefore an impulsive invitation to get out on the roof for an inspection. I assembled my own trusted 15 foot aluminium ladder and released the catch handle which held the bubble type perspex skylight in position. Immediately freed from its restraint the lightweight dome caught the wind and was wrestled out of my hand. I grimaced in case the hatch actually blew off its hinge and cascaded down to the ground or worst still clattered down the roof of the adjoining Catholic Church. The force of the wind had not been apparent during my ground level working but at a height of over 50 feet there was quite a strong breeze. I put my head out over the shelter of the hatch surround. What was left of my head of hair was ruffled and there was a definite feeling of suction and negative pressure through the vast expanse of the building below me. In the depths of the empty building I could hear a door slam. I was sure that during my progression through the four floor levels I had secured all the internal doors. I listened for the sounds of footsteps. Nothing followed the resonance from the slamming door. I was now at the threshold for stepping out onto the flat roof. There was however no shelter from the wind and in the absence of a safety rail to the overhanging edge I declined to detach myself from the ladder which otherwise kept me connected to the ground. There were some good photo opportunities for my work. The strap for my camera was draped around my right hand as I was fearful of dropping it beyond reach or even over and into the precipice between the building and its near neighbours. One detail of a sagging gutter on a lower roof section had to be recorded. This meant my rotating on the ladder trying to simultaneously hold on to the top rung and the camera whilst operating the zoom focus. I had by now come to the attention of the city centre pigeons who were congregating in the sheltered dead spaces between the buildings. Not expecting any food they just milled around or expressed annoyance that I had trespassed into their exclusive domain. I narrowly escaped a couple of warning shots from the agitated birds. It was time to retreat back into the calm of the building. Unfortunately the bubble hatch in its vertical position was now out of my immediate reach without upsetting my delicate balance. The hatch was above a small plant room on the top floor. There were offcuts of electrical cable strewn on the floor and I selected one of the shorter lengths. Catching in the wind my lassoo was difficult to control and it took about 5 minutes to toss the cable around the catch mount with enough purchase to draw the cover down within reach. I was happy with my improvisation and started to dismantle my ladder. I then realised that my camera was missing. I had, after all that, left it on the roof just below the lip of the hatch. The process was repeated with some annoyance. The hatch was just as unruly as before. As I stretched to pick up the camera I could feel that all too familiar leg wobble starting. This could easily cause a vibrating effect down the angled ladder to its footing on what had formerly appeared as a non-slip concrete floor. In natural light flooding in through the open hatch, the floor was the most highly polished screeded finish I had ever seen. I carefully made my way to down. As with most of my self exposure to heights the moment of touch down with both feet is ecstatic. The spine tingling feeling associated with above ground levels continued as I made my way out of the building. The renovation of the old Brewery building had included the creation of a full floor to three storey height atrium, a very indulgent waste of otherwise lettable space but visually stunning. I descended the resin floored landings, treads and risers carrying all my equipment and ladders. The view over the handrails and clear glass balustrade panels left little to the imagination of the vertigo sufferer and at last arriving at ground floor level I felt like kneeling down in Papal style to kiss terra firma.
Friday 21 November 2014
Lighting Up
It is that time of year, and still much too early even for mid to late November, when we keep a watching brief and high state of alert to spot the first house in the city to put up and activate Christmas lights and decorations.
From past experience there a couple of properties that consistently compete for the dubious honour and one-upmanship brownie points and even if not strictly on our route to and from work, the shops or general errands we will nevertheless make a detour to check who has been victorious between them.
We disregard, of course those households who have left the fascia dangled illuminated icicles up all year round and the student properties where a fake pine tree in a window, lit up from the new term in september, is part of the general kitsch.
It is though Christmas proper begins only after your front door has been visited by ghouls, vampires and pirates (yes, I know???) and thereafter announced formally by the explosion of fireworks. I do not have much of a working knowledge of the Bible and the run up to the birth of Christ but I am pretty sure that trick or treating and bonfire night are not mentioned as main catalysts to the events in the stable. Everyone knows that it truly begins upon finding a holly shaped chocolate novelty behind door number one on an Advent Calendar.
The last few years has certainly seen a proliferation in very public seasonal exhibitions on the front of private homes.
These have in some cases been very extravagant. There have been multiple strings of lights, still, flashing, rhythmic and pulsating, neon bright outlines of festive things such as sleighs, reindeer and oversized stars , inflatables of a bulbous Father Christmas and also that icon of the giving season, Homer Simpson. Natural features of trees and bushes have been draped with twinkling pinpoints and coloured lanterns. I have sensed some dimming of my own house lights when such civic scale installations have been fired up in my neighbourhood.
The policy of affixing as much illumination as physically possible on a house frontage is unfortunate and particularly so to those, like myself, who appreciate a bit of symmetry and regularity. A few kindly souls make a collection for a charitable concern with a bucket attached to a gatepost for loose change and this should be applauded. Others just like to put on a swanky show of unrestrained expenditure to aggravate the neighbours.
I will not even think about this years display at our place until mid December. We are quite modest and conservative in our efforts but feel this is right and fitting for what is still, when we last looked, a religious celebration and festival and not a riot of consumerism and materialism.
From past experience there a couple of properties that consistently compete for the dubious honour and one-upmanship brownie points and even if not strictly on our route to and from work, the shops or general errands we will nevertheless make a detour to check who has been victorious between them.
We disregard, of course those households who have left the fascia dangled illuminated icicles up all year round and the student properties where a fake pine tree in a window, lit up from the new term in september, is part of the general kitsch.
It is though Christmas proper begins only after your front door has been visited by ghouls, vampires and pirates (yes, I know???) and thereafter announced formally by the explosion of fireworks. I do not have much of a working knowledge of the Bible and the run up to the birth of Christ but I am pretty sure that trick or treating and bonfire night are not mentioned as main catalysts to the events in the stable. Everyone knows that it truly begins upon finding a holly shaped chocolate novelty behind door number one on an Advent Calendar.
The last few years has certainly seen a proliferation in very public seasonal exhibitions on the front of private homes.
These have in some cases been very extravagant. There have been multiple strings of lights, still, flashing, rhythmic and pulsating, neon bright outlines of festive things such as sleighs, reindeer and oversized stars , inflatables of a bulbous Father Christmas and also that icon of the giving season, Homer Simpson. Natural features of trees and bushes have been draped with twinkling pinpoints and coloured lanterns. I have sensed some dimming of my own house lights when such civic scale installations have been fired up in my neighbourhood.
The policy of affixing as much illumination as physically possible on a house frontage is unfortunate and particularly so to those, like myself, who appreciate a bit of symmetry and regularity. A few kindly souls make a collection for a charitable concern with a bucket attached to a gatepost for loose change and this should be applauded. Others just like to put on a swanky show of unrestrained expenditure to aggravate the neighbours.
I will not even think about this years display at our place until mid December. We are quite modest and conservative in our efforts but feel this is right and fitting for what is still, when we last looked, a religious celebration and festival and not a riot of consumerism and materialism.
Thursday 20 November 2014
Packet in
In the days pre-awareness of choking hazards it was always very exciting to discover, either by accident or intentionally, what free giveaway gift was lurking in the breakfast cereal box.
The decision over which type and brand to purchase was usually made on the basis of the freebie rather than on any nutritional grounds.
This could result in a near riot down the cereals aisle of the supermarket from competition amongst siblings to get first choice and, importantly, be the first to get their hands into the depths of the inner packet to retrieve the action figure, self assembly toy, booklet or even a vinyl record disc amongst many other items on promotional offer.
I always felt it was a shame when the perfect packaging was ripped apart, squeezed to bursting point and the contents roughly emptied out into a receptacle in the mad search for the non-food item hidden amongst them.
I soon developed a process whereby the open topped box and inner transparent wrapper could be rhythmically and steadily shaken which coaxed the freebie to work its way through the Sugar Puffs, Cornflakes, Rice Crispies, Coco-Pops, Golden Nuggets and other small grained foodstuffs up to the top for extraction with minimal disturbance or insanitary handling.
Unfortunately, the percussion and maracas sounds from the exercise made it impossible to do it without attracting the unwanted attentions of the rest of the children in the family and another predictable riot and cries of 'It's not fair'.
There was also no guarantee, without having the luxury of X-Ray vision, that the concealed and yet eagerly awaited incentive to purchase, would not be one of the same already now lying around the house, discarded from boredom, damaged or not swappable amongst schoolfriends or neighbouring kids. If a set of figures or booklets formed the promotion you could always count on the phenomena that there would always be a single, unnattainable one thwarting an enviable full set from being collected.
The best things that I can remember to come out of the cereal packets were the likes of Thunderbirds figures of the main characters (We had more Brains than anyone else), clip together models of cars from other TV series, Zoo Animals possibly from Animal Magic, aeroplanes, toy rings and joke shop items. One of the strangest was from Ready Brek and consisted of a long, thin ribbon type plasticised strip which, when pulled through a small aperture in the bottom of a Baked Bean can or other metal container, gave forth the authentic speeches of famous historical figures, Neil Armstrongs' words upon the moon landing being a favourite. I cannot seem to find anyone else, from introducing it casually into a conversation with strangers, who recalls this particular free gift and I am beginning to think that it was a product of my imagination rather than a real, tangible thing. (Letters and messages of support in the comments section below- please....please)
It was necessary to open up the cereal box flaps with some care because they could sometimes be overprinted with tokens or vouchers to be collected towards a larger toy, recreational plaything or money off a day out or another purchase.
In such a way our family were the proud owners of a metal climbing frame, rocket shaped, from Kelloggs, which was a permanent feature in successive gardens even after a series of house moves with our Father's work. I seem to think that the alternate red and blue ladders and bars of the frame first arrived in about 1970 and provided many, many hours of imaginative play and scabby extremities for at least ten to fifteen years before our body weights into teenage years caused the, by now, weakened metalwork to just sag and distort if sat upon or there was an ungainly attempt at a hanging bars swing or somersault.
It was a sad day when the remains of our very own Apollo shaped climbing frame were carted off to the local tip. It did look small and insignificant.
There seems to be very little by way of a similar type of promotion today with the emphasis being on reward schemes, money off leisure activities, free phone minutes, vouchers for treatments, personalised slimming plans or trips to Disneyworld.
These cannot match in any way, shape or form that feeling of excitement that I remember well upon seeing the offer of a free gift inside the cereal box packaging and the fear and trepidation that my own brothers and sisters would get to it before me.
The decision over which type and brand to purchase was usually made on the basis of the freebie rather than on any nutritional grounds.
This could result in a near riot down the cereals aisle of the supermarket from competition amongst siblings to get first choice and, importantly, be the first to get their hands into the depths of the inner packet to retrieve the action figure, self assembly toy, booklet or even a vinyl record disc amongst many other items on promotional offer.
I always felt it was a shame when the perfect packaging was ripped apart, squeezed to bursting point and the contents roughly emptied out into a receptacle in the mad search for the non-food item hidden amongst them.
I soon developed a process whereby the open topped box and inner transparent wrapper could be rhythmically and steadily shaken which coaxed the freebie to work its way through the Sugar Puffs, Cornflakes, Rice Crispies, Coco-Pops, Golden Nuggets and other small grained foodstuffs up to the top for extraction with minimal disturbance or insanitary handling.
Unfortunately, the percussion and maracas sounds from the exercise made it impossible to do it without attracting the unwanted attentions of the rest of the children in the family and another predictable riot and cries of 'It's not fair'.
There was also no guarantee, without having the luxury of X-Ray vision, that the concealed and yet eagerly awaited incentive to purchase, would not be one of the same already now lying around the house, discarded from boredom, damaged or not swappable amongst schoolfriends or neighbouring kids. If a set of figures or booklets formed the promotion you could always count on the phenomena that there would always be a single, unnattainable one thwarting an enviable full set from being collected.
The best things that I can remember to come out of the cereal packets were the likes of Thunderbirds figures of the main characters (We had more Brains than anyone else), clip together models of cars from other TV series, Zoo Animals possibly from Animal Magic, aeroplanes, toy rings and joke shop items. One of the strangest was from Ready Brek and consisted of a long, thin ribbon type plasticised strip which, when pulled through a small aperture in the bottom of a Baked Bean can or other metal container, gave forth the authentic speeches of famous historical figures, Neil Armstrongs' words upon the moon landing being a favourite. I cannot seem to find anyone else, from introducing it casually into a conversation with strangers, who recalls this particular free gift and I am beginning to think that it was a product of my imagination rather than a real, tangible thing. (Letters and messages of support in the comments section below- please....please)
It was necessary to open up the cereal box flaps with some care because they could sometimes be overprinted with tokens or vouchers to be collected towards a larger toy, recreational plaything or money off a day out or another purchase.
In such a way our family were the proud owners of a metal climbing frame, rocket shaped, from Kelloggs, which was a permanent feature in successive gardens even after a series of house moves with our Father's work. I seem to think that the alternate red and blue ladders and bars of the frame first arrived in about 1970 and provided many, many hours of imaginative play and scabby extremities for at least ten to fifteen years before our body weights into teenage years caused the, by now, weakened metalwork to just sag and distort if sat upon or there was an ungainly attempt at a hanging bars swing or somersault.
It was a sad day when the remains of our very own Apollo shaped climbing frame were carted off to the local tip. It did look small and insignificant.
There seems to be very little by way of a similar type of promotion today with the emphasis being on reward schemes, money off leisure activities, free phone minutes, vouchers for treatments, personalised slimming plans or trips to Disneyworld.
These cannot match in any way, shape or form that feeling of excitement that I remember well upon seeing the offer of a free gift inside the cereal box packaging and the fear and trepidation that my own brothers and sisters would get to it before me.
Wednesday 19 November 2014
Noises Off
I go a little bit wobbly at the knees at the sombre and melancholy tones of a group of stout and portly Welshmen as they stand rank upon rank and go through a repertoire of traditional songs and timeless classics.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise and tingle when mixed male and female voices are blended into a sublime sound as they sing through the hymns and anthems of a rich heritage of church and religious music.
At my occasional attendance at school concerts when my junior age children participated in a performance I could be seen pretending to wipe away a speck of dust from my eyes when in fact I was trying to hide genuine tears of emotion.
One of those impromptu moments when a large crowd takes on a singular voiced sentiment has me all but weeping aloud.
Even the ragged and coarse output of a football crowd at full volume can be strikingly stirring although never sustainable for more than a few moments.
There is a real soul reaching depth and lyrical beauty in a human voice when it is set free to sing, losing all inhibitions and selflessness.
Of course, the best thing about all of the above and more is that it in no way involves me taking part.
In my own early school years I lived in dread of the arrival of the teacher responsible for music at the front of the classroom asking for volunteers for the choir. A few of the chubby kids would immediately gasp excitedly and throw up one or more arms in enthusiastic acceptance of the invitation. Some of the naughty boys followed just for an opportunity to get out of mainstream lessons and wreak havoc and mayhem elsewhere on the premises. One or two only with anything like a decent singing voice would also step up and there would be about the same number who thought they could sing when in fact they were tone deaf and monotone. Their mums and dads had lied to them about their abilities although you could forgive them as they did it in the name of love.
My panic stricken attempts to hide behind others always seemed to pick me out as a definite candidate for the choir and I would inevitably find myself holding a book or song sheet over the lunch break or horror upon horror, in my own precious time after school had finished for the day. Tedious hours practising were for perhaps a five minute cameo in a school assembly if the Governors or a local dignatry attended, forty minutes in the annual concert for mums, dads, grans, gramps, aunties, uncles and younger siblings, or three hours in the freezing cold of the shopping precinct when it was time to put in an effort to sing Christmas Carols for a charitable purpose.
Lack of resources and willing members of staff meant that by senior school there was little attempt to gather together such a group.
I was of course thrilled.
The days of choirs seemed to be gone, forever, dead and buried, the song sheet had curled at the edges, rolled up and perished.
I was wrong, so wrong in so many ways.
Today the intiatives to form a choir are stronger than ever thanks to media broadcasts of random individuals finding a meaning in their lives by joining such groups.
It almost seems compulsory that just about every daily activity involves a choir.
I went to open a bank account. Barclays were getting together a choir of customers and staff.
In the supermarket where I like to find anonymity amongst the well stocked aisles the tannoy announced the intention to form a Tesco Local choir.
I recently volunteered to work on the Tour de France during its Yorkshire stages this year and one of the first chat room themes amongst my fellows was about starting up a choir.
Again, I can appreciate a good mass sing song but the whole thing is just getting a bit out of hand.
In fact, I should form my own choir and we could specialise in protest songs about singing in a choir.
Volunteers please sign up now.......................................
The hairs on the back of my neck rise and tingle when mixed male and female voices are blended into a sublime sound as they sing through the hymns and anthems of a rich heritage of church and religious music.
At my occasional attendance at school concerts when my junior age children participated in a performance I could be seen pretending to wipe away a speck of dust from my eyes when in fact I was trying to hide genuine tears of emotion.
One of those impromptu moments when a large crowd takes on a singular voiced sentiment has me all but weeping aloud.
Even the ragged and coarse output of a football crowd at full volume can be strikingly stirring although never sustainable for more than a few moments.
There is a real soul reaching depth and lyrical beauty in a human voice when it is set free to sing, losing all inhibitions and selflessness.
Of course, the best thing about all of the above and more is that it in no way involves me taking part.
In my own early school years I lived in dread of the arrival of the teacher responsible for music at the front of the classroom asking for volunteers for the choir. A few of the chubby kids would immediately gasp excitedly and throw up one or more arms in enthusiastic acceptance of the invitation. Some of the naughty boys followed just for an opportunity to get out of mainstream lessons and wreak havoc and mayhem elsewhere on the premises. One or two only with anything like a decent singing voice would also step up and there would be about the same number who thought they could sing when in fact they were tone deaf and monotone. Their mums and dads had lied to them about their abilities although you could forgive them as they did it in the name of love.
My panic stricken attempts to hide behind others always seemed to pick me out as a definite candidate for the choir and I would inevitably find myself holding a book or song sheet over the lunch break or horror upon horror, in my own precious time after school had finished for the day. Tedious hours practising were for perhaps a five minute cameo in a school assembly if the Governors or a local dignatry attended, forty minutes in the annual concert for mums, dads, grans, gramps, aunties, uncles and younger siblings, or three hours in the freezing cold of the shopping precinct when it was time to put in an effort to sing Christmas Carols for a charitable purpose.
Lack of resources and willing members of staff meant that by senior school there was little attempt to gather together such a group.
I was of course thrilled.
The days of choirs seemed to be gone, forever, dead and buried, the song sheet had curled at the edges, rolled up and perished.
I was wrong, so wrong in so many ways.
Today the intiatives to form a choir are stronger than ever thanks to media broadcasts of random individuals finding a meaning in their lives by joining such groups.
It almost seems compulsory that just about every daily activity involves a choir.
I went to open a bank account. Barclays were getting together a choir of customers and staff.
In the supermarket where I like to find anonymity amongst the well stocked aisles the tannoy announced the intention to form a Tesco Local choir.
I recently volunteered to work on the Tour de France during its Yorkshire stages this year and one of the first chat room themes amongst my fellows was about starting up a choir.
Again, I can appreciate a good mass sing song but the whole thing is just getting a bit out of hand.
In fact, I should form my own choir and we could specialise in protest songs about singing in a choir.
Volunteers please sign up now.......................................
Tuesday 18 November 2014
Rock and Roll
STRUMBLE. (strim-ball),n. spherical fragment of meteorite. Named after similar pyroclasts
or volcanic bombs found in Stromboli, Italy.
Strumble would be an ideal word to feature on that old TV favourite "Call my Bluff" where pundits offer seemingly plausible explanations and it is up to the opposing side to extract the true meaning from the skillful trail of misdirection and falsehoods. The word itself is comparatively new to the english language as tends to be the case with many objects of galactic origin which are only now explicable and understood in science. The very recent landing of a small fridge sized spacecraft, in the loosest sense of that word, on a comet has sparked renewed interest in the phenomena of Strumbles.
A popular misconception is that meteorites or shooting stars are extremely rare events in our earth's atmosphere but in fact they are a commonplace feature which does not warrant mention in the media apart from, most exceptionally, the large explosive event over Russia in 2013. As long as the Universe continues to develop then there will always be planetary, galactic and other debris on a collision course with us.
Most simply burn up on entering the friction of the upper atmosphere. It is this exposure to such extreme temperatures that shapes the original rocks into the distinctive smooth and dense spheres characteristic of strumbles.
My collection of strumbles began with one passed down to me by a distant relative some years ago and over the last 20 years I have added to the number through rummaging at car boot sales and by purchasing through the many web pages run by enthusiasts keen to trade and exchange their own accumulated items.
The largest in my possession is around 12 cm in diameter. This is quite a modest example as Strumbles found in the vicinity of the huge meteorite crater at Coon Butte, Arizona, in the United States measure up to close to a metre across.
The strumble season has no equivalent to say the Glorious Twelfth but generally coincides with the spring equinox when most fragments of space rock reach the atmosphere. The spread of molten formed strumbles is understandably over a very large area making them very difficult to find but then that is part of the fascination and challenge.
Luckily, in the UK the spring peak is early in the agricultural growing season and with little ground cover there is an improved prospect of finding the elusive visitors from outer space.
Metal detectors are of some use because of the traces of pure aluminium and tungsten amongst the matrix of pulverised quartz.
Before tramping across fields it is always diplomatic to ask the permission of the land owner. In my home area I have spent many countless hours roaming the countryside. Akin to fishing it is not that important to make a catch if there is good exercise and fresh air benefits.
Equipment for strumble hunting is relatively inexpensive and well suited as an amateur pursuit. A plastic carrier bag is ideal, perhaps two doubled up but taking care that the rock is not still hot from a fresh descent, a notebook, trowel, small toffee hammer and GPS system, typically on a mobile phone.
The Smithsonian Institute in Washington DC has a Strumble Facility and compiles a database of incidences on a world wide scale. This is intended to catalogue origin and composition in an attempt to understand the complexities of the galaxy.
It has been a matter of speculation that Strumbles may be returned to space aboard unmanned and later manned craft fitted with long range transmitters.
In order to become a successful Strumble hunter (the odds of finding two near identical pieces from the same meterorite were quoted in New Scientist as 25,000,000,000,000 to 1) some rudimentary knowledge of their composition, characteristics and chemistry is necessary. I have learnt much from my fellow hunters and have read widely in journals and authoritarian papers on the subject.
Strumbles hit the earth at around 2000 mph and so can leave a noticeable impact crater even for the smaller examples. This pattern makes them easier to discern over bits of iron ore, scrap metal, flint and chalk rock which are major components in my local area, The high silica-quartz content gives them a diamond-hard quality and many a time upon striking them with the toffee hammer I have been at peril of losing an eye or suffering cuts and abrasions. On a sunny day the glint from the pinkish hue of the quartz is quite beautiful.
Keep your eyes open and your wits about you and you may well join the ranks, the ever growing ranks of those dead keen to discover a strumble of their own.
(written in 1981 for a school magazine and updated today)
or volcanic bombs found in Stromboli, Italy.
Strumble would be an ideal word to feature on that old TV favourite "Call my Bluff" where pundits offer seemingly plausible explanations and it is up to the opposing side to extract the true meaning from the skillful trail of misdirection and falsehoods. The word itself is comparatively new to the english language as tends to be the case with many objects of galactic origin which are only now explicable and understood in science. The very recent landing of a small fridge sized spacecraft, in the loosest sense of that word, on a comet has sparked renewed interest in the phenomena of Strumbles.
A popular misconception is that meteorites or shooting stars are extremely rare events in our earth's atmosphere but in fact they are a commonplace feature which does not warrant mention in the media apart from, most exceptionally, the large explosive event over Russia in 2013. As long as the Universe continues to develop then there will always be planetary, galactic and other debris on a collision course with us.
Most simply burn up on entering the friction of the upper atmosphere. It is this exposure to such extreme temperatures that shapes the original rocks into the distinctive smooth and dense spheres characteristic of strumbles.
My collection of strumbles began with one passed down to me by a distant relative some years ago and over the last 20 years I have added to the number through rummaging at car boot sales and by purchasing through the many web pages run by enthusiasts keen to trade and exchange their own accumulated items.
The largest in my possession is around 12 cm in diameter. This is quite a modest example as Strumbles found in the vicinity of the huge meteorite crater at Coon Butte, Arizona, in the United States measure up to close to a metre across.
The strumble season has no equivalent to say the Glorious Twelfth but generally coincides with the spring equinox when most fragments of space rock reach the atmosphere. The spread of molten formed strumbles is understandably over a very large area making them very difficult to find but then that is part of the fascination and challenge.
Luckily, in the UK the spring peak is early in the agricultural growing season and with little ground cover there is an improved prospect of finding the elusive visitors from outer space.
Metal detectors are of some use because of the traces of pure aluminium and tungsten amongst the matrix of pulverised quartz.
Before tramping across fields it is always diplomatic to ask the permission of the land owner. In my home area I have spent many countless hours roaming the countryside. Akin to fishing it is not that important to make a catch if there is good exercise and fresh air benefits.
Equipment for strumble hunting is relatively inexpensive and well suited as an amateur pursuit. A plastic carrier bag is ideal, perhaps two doubled up but taking care that the rock is not still hot from a fresh descent, a notebook, trowel, small toffee hammer and GPS system, typically on a mobile phone.
The Smithsonian Institute in Washington DC has a Strumble Facility and compiles a database of incidences on a world wide scale. This is intended to catalogue origin and composition in an attempt to understand the complexities of the galaxy.
It has been a matter of speculation that Strumbles may be returned to space aboard unmanned and later manned craft fitted with long range transmitters.
In order to become a successful Strumble hunter (the odds of finding two near identical pieces from the same meterorite were quoted in New Scientist as 25,000,000,000,000 to 1) some rudimentary knowledge of their composition, characteristics and chemistry is necessary. I have learnt much from my fellow hunters and have read widely in journals and authoritarian papers on the subject.
Strumbles hit the earth at around 2000 mph and so can leave a noticeable impact crater even for the smaller examples. This pattern makes them easier to discern over bits of iron ore, scrap metal, flint and chalk rock which are major components in my local area, The high silica-quartz content gives them a diamond-hard quality and many a time upon striking them with the toffee hammer I have been at peril of losing an eye or suffering cuts and abrasions. On a sunny day the glint from the pinkish hue of the quartz is quite beautiful.
Keep your eyes open and your wits about you and you may well join the ranks, the ever growing ranks of those dead keen to discover a strumble of their own.
(written in 1981 for a school magazine and updated today)
Monday 17 November 2014
Things what men must do. Part One; Dressing Up
I admit to having had a part share, when a young child, of the family dressing up box.
As the title suggests it was just a large box or shipping trunk containing items of clothing which when worn could fire and inspire our innocent and expansive imaginations.
It is a sad sign of the times that any present day analysis of dressing up activity would be damning and judgemental on the grounds of reinforcing stereotypes, gender roles, sexuality and good old prejudices. I thought nothing of wearing a wide brimmed hat and flowing kaftan, a beaded necklace and hobbling about on very much oversized and impractical high heeled shoes. Read into that what you want.
I feel that I have reached a good adult age with no hang-ups or neuroses about such activity, indeed I feel that my broad outlook on life was enriched in a most natural way, through unconditional play.
I have not worn women's clothes since, well at least not persistently or seriously. You cannot match however the insulation characteristics of ladies tights under trackie bottoms during a winter football match or beneath a lycra bib suit on a long ride out on a mountain bike. You do have hopes that an injury or fall does not occur in fear of the hushed tones and inevitable pointing and sniggering of a physio or paramedic when such garb is revealed in the pursuit of first aiding.
Lipstick (did I mention the use of that earlier?) and costume jewellery may be firmly associated with femininity in western culture but amongst the fearsome male warriors of the nomad Wodaabe of Southern Niger region the matter of dressing up is fundamental to their love-lives and status as a married man.
These are hard men who, even though their traditional practices of raiders and caravan leaders have been curtailed in the modern world, will not leave their hut, tent or camp without their swords. The Woodabe tribe prize three things in life; beauty, cattle and family. Surprisingly for roughie toughie blokes it is beauty that holds top spot. Key characteristics and preferences are for light skin, pearly white teeth and clear whites of eyes. Such attributes can be cosmetically produced and enhanced in the western world but for a nomadic race must be much more difficult to achieve. The active lifestyle wandering around the borders of Niger, Nigeria, Cameroon, Chad and the Central African Republic would certainly promote the desired physique of a thin, slender and fine featured form.
The women are considered to be the most beautiful in Western Africa and as a consequence the menfolk have to compete to win them over. It is not a case of aggression or a displays of prowess in fighting and hunting but in the adornment of make-up, adopting a flirtatious manner and sporting a bit of bling that is required in order to be chosen by a new lover or partner. This ceremony takes place at the gathering of the tribe annually when their cattle are brought to an area of Niger known for the salinity of the soil.
The "Beauty Contests" are a time for the young men to compete for the title of best looking man. Faces are made up with yellow ochre, lips are painted black, eyes are outlined and hair is fashioned in the traditional style with shaven forehead and 6 or 8 short pigtails at the nape of the neck. The paint is complimented by the wearing of their best embroidered clothing and there is always the option to accessorise with shiny, bright and colourful items such as safety pins, buttons, cowrie shells and in one instance even the display of a plastic ukelele over the shoulder. It is a sophisticated affair and leads to the inevitable outbreak of dancing and subtle movements to showcase their individual and group efforts. The photograph illustrates the meaning of the elements in the competition.
The ostrich plumes and pompoms emphasise height and athleticism. Narrowness of face is concentrated by red ochre face paint. Black eyeliner made from charred egret bones makes the eyes wider and the whites of the eyes shine. Facial symmetry is enhanced with black, yellow and white patterns. An aquiline nose is picked out with a white arrow stripe in earthen clay. Long braids and cowrie shells are to show fertility and wealth. White and regular teeth, a particularly prized asset glisten amongst black lipstick. Of course, all of this can only come together with being a good dancer with the sounds of beaded necklaces and bodices to attract the attention of the female judges.
The Wodaabe ceremony has attracted the media and wider interest but should not be regarded as a quaint old custom or even bit of a performance for the tourist industry. It is something to be valued in this fast changing world and is a challenge to western culture and its obsession with material wealth rather than any true substance or meaning.
As the title suggests it was just a large box or shipping trunk containing items of clothing which when worn could fire and inspire our innocent and expansive imaginations.
It is a sad sign of the times that any present day analysis of dressing up activity would be damning and judgemental on the grounds of reinforcing stereotypes, gender roles, sexuality and good old prejudices. I thought nothing of wearing a wide brimmed hat and flowing kaftan, a beaded necklace and hobbling about on very much oversized and impractical high heeled shoes. Read into that what you want.
I feel that I have reached a good adult age with no hang-ups or neuroses about such activity, indeed I feel that my broad outlook on life was enriched in a most natural way, through unconditional play.
I have not worn women's clothes since, well at least not persistently or seriously. You cannot match however the insulation characteristics of ladies tights under trackie bottoms during a winter football match or beneath a lycra bib suit on a long ride out on a mountain bike. You do have hopes that an injury or fall does not occur in fear of the hushed tones and inevitable pointing and sniggering of a physio or paramedic when such garb is revealed in the pursuit of first aiding.
Lipstick (did I mention the use of that earlier?) and costume jewellery may be firmly associated with femininity in western culture but amongst the fearsome male warriors of the nomad Wodaabe of Southern Niger region the matter of dressing up is fundamental to their love-lives and status as a married man.
These are hard men who, even though their traditional practices of raiders and caravan leaders have been curtailed in the modern world, will not leave their hut, tent or camp without their swords. The Woodabe tribe prize three things in life; beauty, cattle and family. Surprisingly for roughie toughie blokes it is beauty that holds top spot. Key characteristics and preferences are for light skin, pearly white teeth and clear whites of eyes. Such attributes can be cosmetically produced and enhanced in the western world but for a nomadic race must be much more difficult to achieve. The active lifestyle wandering around the borders of Niger, Nigeria, Cameroon, Chad and the Central African Republic would certainly promote the desired physique of a thin, slender and fine featured form.
The women are considered to be the most beautiful in Western Africa and as a consequence the menfolk have to compete to win them over. It is not a case of aggression or a displays of prowess in fighting and hunting but in the adornment of make-up, adopting a flirtatious manner and sporting a bit of bling that is required in order to be chosen by a new lover or partner. This ceremony takes place at the gathering of the tribe annually when their cattle are brought to an area of Niger known for the salinity of the soil.
The "Beauty Contests" are a time for the young men to compete for the title of best looking man. Faces are made up with yellow ochre, lips are painted black, eyes are outlined and hair is fashioned in the traditional style with shaven forehead and 6 or 8 short pigtails at the nape of the neck. The paint is complimented by the wearing of their best embroidered clothing and there is always the option to accessorise with shiny, bright and colourful items such as safety pins, buttons, cowrie shells and in one instance even the display of a plastic ukelele over the shoulder. It is a sophisticated affair and leads to the inevitable outbreak of dancing and subtle movements to showcase their individual and group efforts. The photograph illustrates the meaning of the elements in the competition.
The ostrich plumes and pompoms emphasise height and athleticism. Narrowness of face is concentrated by red ochre face paint. Black eyeliner made from charred egret bones makes the eyes wider and the whites of the eyes shine. Facial symmetry is enhanced with black, yellow and white patterns. An aquiline nose is picked out with a white arrow stripe in earthen clay. Long braids and cowrie shells are to show fertility and wealth. White and regular teeth, a particularly prized asset glisten amongst black lipstick. Of course, all of this can only come together with being a good dancer with the sounds of beaded necklaces and bodices to attract the attention of the female judges.
The Wodaabe ceremony has attracted the media and wider interest but should not be regarded as a quaint old custom or even bit of a performance for the tourist industry. It is something to be valued in this fast changing world and is a challenge to western culture and its obsession with material wealth rather than any true substance or meaning.
Sunday 16 November 2014
Invention and perspiration
I was very interested to hear that a Japanese Organisation who advise on matters of economics, business and commerce attribute more than half of the greatest inventions known to the world to the ingenuity and eccentricities of the British.
That is quite credible at face value but if entirely true what has happened to dislocate the natural talents of British boffins from actual industrial and financial dominance for this nation?
Somewhere and under a combination of circumstances there has been a failure to carry the germ of an idea through to a prototype stage and into actual large scale production?
The sole reason, the hard fact of this situation is not very nice.
Principally, it is because of the individual inventors themselves and their knack of not getting on at all well with those who, through their own and diverse talents, are essential to making a dream a reality.
A stereotypical inventor type may be percieved as a Doc Brown character from the Back to The Future Trilogy, all madness and hair to match. I have limited personal experience of meeting actual Inventors and in reality they are more likely to be quite normal in appearance, mannerisms and behaviour, perhaps even a bit on the quiet, reserved, shy and retiring side.
I did once meet a Mr Bruce Bedlam, inventor of the Bedlam Puzzle, a most intriguing and frustrating solid dissection challenge, in a tour of a rather chaotic laboratory at an East Midlands University. He did appear reasonably normal but evidently thinking and existing at a higher level of consciousness than us mere mortals, well alright, just me. Although only a very brief introduction was made he did make quite an impression.
However, to reinforce the missing link between inspirational ideas and actual sales and profits I have not been able to find and buy a Bedlam Puzzle anywhere in the High Street or on the world wide web.
What is the process to alert the world to the next best idea if you happen to have it?
The Patent Registration Process is often pursued to protect the intellectual property rights of an invention but this can be a very long, drawn out and expensive process. So much so that it is reasonable to presume that ideas which may have potential to revolutionise the way we exist as a species could be sat in a drawer, the ink fading on the blueprint because of a lack of funds to progress to the next stage.
I feel sorry for those inventors who have to resort to the freak-show style of such TV programmes as Dragons Den in order to secure some form of financial backing or access to the expertise and networking that has so far eluded them. A few who have made it up the stairs into the Den have been reduced to a state of nervous distraction and meltdown and this has been pounced upon as being a sign of weakness by those sat behind the piles of cash.
This fracture in what should be a seamless process from idea to product has been addressed to some degree through the actions of a new breed of business advisors.
They take the responsibity for organising and assembling a team of experts and specialists who form the front and public face for an invention. Disciplines cover the complimentary roles of production, financing, marketing and media relations leaving the inventors protected and cushioned from distractions in their workrooms, labs and sheds to pursue their main activity of invention.
Through this structured approach an invention can be brought up to at least a working prototype in order for it to be demonstrated to the money men. It is however a reasonably recent innovation to assemble an effective team.
James Dyson recounted how he had been to his local bank branch to try to obtain a six figure loan for his pioneering invention of the dual cyclone vacuum cleaner. This was in the days when he had to do everything himself from drawing board through, hopefully ,to stacking the shop display shelf. The bank manager did not appear to grasp the technology or concept of the system or appreciate the inspirational thought behind it by its inventor. A working model was left with the manager but James Dyson did not get a decision. It took some weeks for the bank to agree to the full request for funding. When asked what had been the critical factor in accepting the business proposal the manager said that his wife, on using the prototype, had thought a bagless system was a brilliant idea.
So it appears that the exposure of an idea and invention to the world can be susceptible to failure on such grounds as personality and presentation but this may always have been the case. Other ideas may be killed off at any early stage because they are just too damaging to the social and economic order that operates even for all its faults and failings.
Of course the conspiracy theorists will hark on that a domestic fuel produced from air and water has been proven to be viable but the technology and intellectual rights has been purchased lock, stock and barrel by the oil companies and will never see the light of day.
That is quite credible at face value but if entirely true what has happened to dislocate the natural talents of British boffins from actual industrial and financial dominance for this nation?
Somewhere and under a combination of circumstances there has been a failure to carry the germ of an idea through to a prototype stage and into actual large scale production?
The sole reason, the hard fact of this situation is not very nice.
Principally, it is because of the individual inventors themselves and their knack of not getting on at all well with those who, through their own and diverse talents, are essential to making a dream a reality.
A stereotypical inventor type may be percieved as a Doc Brown character from the Back to The Future Trilogy, all madness and hair to match. I have limited personal experience of meeting actual Inventors and in reality they are more likely to be quite normal in appearance, mannerisms and behaviour, perhaps even a bit on the quiet, reserved, shy and retiring side.
I did once meet a Mr Bruce Bedlam, inventor of the Bedlam Puzzle, a most intriguing and frustrating solid dissection challenge, in a tour of a rather chaotic laboratory at an East Midlands University. He did appear reasonably normal but evidently thinking and existing at a higher level of consciousness than us mere mortals, well alright, just me. Although only a very brief introduction was made he did make quite an impression.
However, to reinforce the missing link between inspirational ideas and actual sales and profits I have not been able to find and buy a Bedlam Puzzle anywhere in the High Street or on the world wide web.
What is the process to alert the world to the next best idea if you happen to have it?
The Patent Registration Process is often pursued to protect the intellectual property rights of an invention but this can be a very long, drawn out and expensive process. So much so that it is reasonable to presume that ideas which may have potential to revolutionise the way we exist as a species could be sat in a drawer, the ink fading on the blueprint because of a lack of funds to progress to the next stage.
I feel sorry for those inventors who have to resort to the freak-show style of such TV programmes as Dragons Den in order to secure some form of financial backing or access to the expertise and networking that has so far eluded them. A few who have made it up the stairs into the Den have been reduced to a state of nervous distraction and meltdown and this has been pounced upon as being a sign of weakness by those sat behind the piles of cash.
This fracture in what should be a seamless process from idea to product has been addressed to some degree through the actions of a new breed of business advisors.
They take the responsibity for organising and assembling a team of experts and specialists who form the front and public face for an invention. Disciplines cover the complimentary roles of production, financing, marketing and media relations leaving the inventors protected and cushioned from distractions in their workrooms, labs and sheds to pursue their main activity of invention.
Through this structured approach an invention can be brought up to at least a working prototype in order for it to be demonstrated to the money men. It is however a reasonably recent innovation to assemble an effective team.
James Dyson recounted how he had been to his local bank branch to try to obtain a six figure loan for his pioneering invention of the dual cyclone vacuum cleaner. This was in the days when he had to do everything himself from drawing board through, hopefully ,to stacking the shop display shelf. The bank manager did not appear to grasp the technology or concept of the system or appreciate the inspirational thought behind it by its inventor. A working model was left with the manager but James Dyson did not get a decision. It took some weeks for the bank to agree to the full request for funding. When asked what had been the critical factor in accepting the business proposal the manager said that his wife, on using the prototype, had thought a bagless system was a brilliant idea.
So it appears that the exposure of an idea and invention to the world can be susceptible to failure on such grounds as personality and presentation but this may always have been the case. Other ideas may be killed off at any early stage because they are just too damaging to the social and economic order that operates even for all its faults and failings.
Of course the conspiracy theorists will hark on that a domestic fuel produced from air and water has been proven to be viable but the technology and intellectual rights has been purchased lock, stock and barrel by the oil companies and will never see the light of day.
Saturday 15 November 2014
Sex Words
A recent commentary by a Domain Name Company indicated that, in the UK alone, there are 20 million word searches a month for websites containing the word "sex".
I was actually quite surprised that it was only that for the monthly tally.
This is based on the impression perpetuated by the media that we are a nation completely obsessed and voyeuristic on the matter of sex, sexual antics of the great and infamous and things to titillate and thrill.
There is no disputing that sex is a good selling tool for anything from perfume to beer, cars to yoghurt breakfast cereal to shampoo and hence the current initiative by the marketeers of the Internet Company to release their infographic to promote the new .sx domain name series. These are specifically targeted at those with websites with an adult content.
I took it upon myself to analyse this figure of 20 million UK searches per month.
The appearance of 'sex' in an internet search, and inevitably included in the count, can arise from an entirely innocent perspective.
For example, followers of anything to do with the reality TV show The Only Way is Es-sex will be hitting the keyboard on a very regular basis. The viewing figures for the first few series were regularly above one million per show and ,with a typical audience profile of social media savvy under 30's. even a fifty percent inquisitiveness over what the main protagonists get up to out of the camera focus can account for about two million 'es-sex' searches a month.
The current estimated population of the counties of Middlesex, Sussex and Essex (again) is in aggregate in the region of 6.37 million.
It is reasonable to assume that on any one day there will be a measurable volume of internet searches along the lines of "builders in Middle-sex", "plumbers in Middle-sex", "yoga classes in Middle-sex", "Child day care in Middle-sex" and similarly throughout Sus-sex and Es-sex.
If I were to warrant a guess on numbers I would for a starter exclude the under 5's age group for not being able to reach a computer (unless Leap-Pad has progressed since my children had one), those too old or nervous to have access to the internet, tenants with no responsibility for contacting a tradesperson and the childless. I have been careful not to double count a household where either spouse could take it upon themselves to make that search to get someone to sort out that hanging-off guttering or that leaky tap.
By my reckoning the net figure would be around 2 million eligible persons. If diligent about home maintenance, the welfare of their kids and the suppleness of their bodies they could, feasibly, make one internet search per week, therefore 8 million monthly searches including the three letters of "sex".
I feel some sympathy for those searching the internet in pursuit of a hobby or interest who unwittingly become a 'sex' word statistic.
Those who look after Church premises, a valued but ever diminishing band of faithful and loyal parishoners, may want to extend their experience and knowledge by making an internet search for the opinions and recommendations of other sextons.
What I anticipate to be a small minority of Master Mariners may feel in the mood to treat themselves to a new navigational apparatus and search accordingly for sextants.
Couples desperate to have their own family may have some apprehensions over fertility treatment in case they end up, as a result of the IVF procedure, with sextuplets.
I have not personally felt any compulsion to do so but those contemplating a soiree, function or other entertainment may wish to enquire, via the internet, about the availability of a sextette in their local area or willing to travel.
A solitary mathematician may have temporarily forgotten how many zero's there are in a sextillion. 21 to be exact.
These, I admit, minority groups would only add a small number to my running total but must be considered in the big picture of sex word accounting.
I would like to acknowledge the contribution to the minority sex words by the Scrabble Word Finder.
A further source of sex searches would come from those challenged by just spelling or plain stupidity and I have attempted to guesstimate a figure for those searching for types of a) insex commonly found in the UK, b) sextional concrete garages , c) those interested in vivisextion, and not forgetting d) the apparently increasing number of motorists reliant on sat-nav systems and concerned about congestion and delays at key traffic intersextions.
Of course, there are those who are actually intent on accessing a pornographic website, apparently ,from the same infographic source being 12% of all websites ,and do this blatantly with just the word 'sex' and with or without any prefixes or suffixes dependant on any particular penchants or tendencies that they may have.
The grand total, in my broad minded research therefore indicates a more realistic participation of 33 million per month. That accounts for about half the UK population engaged in what can only be described as 'sex' word games and on a regular basis. I do make an exception for, and exclude, regular players of Scrabble in this statistic.
I will next be contemplating the correlation between this fact and the persistence of the depressed economy and double dip recession in this country. I do find this surprising given the level of apparent stimulation in other parts of the population at large.
I was actually quite surprised that it was only that for the monthly tally.
This is based on the impression perpetuated by the media that we are a nation completely obsessed and voyeuristic on the matter of sex, sexual antics of the great and infamous and things to titillate and thrill.
There is no disputing that sex is a good selling tool for anything from perfume to beer, cars to yoghurt breakfast cereal to shampoo and hence the current initiative by the marketeers of the Internet Company to release their infographic to promote the new .sx domain name series. These are specifically targeted at those with websites with an adult content.
I took it upon myself to analyse this figure of 20 million UK searches per month.
The appearance of 'sex' in an internet search, and inevitably included in the count, can arise from an entirely innocent perspective.
For example, followers of anything to do with the reality TV show The Only Way is Es-sex will be hitting the keyboard on a very regular basis. The viewing figures for the first few series were regularly above one million per show and ,with a typical audience profile of social media savvy under 30's. even a fifty percent inquisitiveness over what the main protagonists get up to out of the camera focus can account for about two million 'es-sex' searches a month.
The current estimated population of the counties of Middlesex, Sussex and Essex (again) is in aggregate in the region of 6.37 million.
It is reasonable to assume that on any one day there will be a measurable volume of internet searches along the lines of "builders in Middle-sex", "plumbers in Middle-sex", "yoga classes in Middle-sex", "Child day care in Middle-sex" and similarly throughout Sus-sex and Es-sex.
If I were to warrant a guess on numbers I would for a starter exclude the under 5's age group for not being able to reach a computer (unless Leap-Pad has progressed since my children had one), those too old or nervous to have access to the internet, tenants with no responsibility for contacting a tradesperson and the childless. I have been careful not to double count a household where either spouse could take it upon themselves to make that search to get someone to sort out that hanging-off guttering or that leaky tap.
By my reckoning the net figure would be around 2 million eligible persons. If diligent about home maintenance, the welfare of their kids and the suppleness of their bodies they could, feasibly, make one internet search per week, therefore 8 million monthly searches including the three letters of "sex".
I feel some sympathy for those searching the internet in pursuit of a hobby or interest who unwittingly become a 'sex' word statistic.
Those who look after Church premises, a valued but ever diminishing band of faithful and loyal parishoners, may want to extend their experience and knowledge by making an internet search for the opinions and recommendations of other sextons.
What I anticipate to be a small minority of Master Mariners may feel in the mood to treat themselves to a new navigational apparatus and search accordingly for sextants.
Couples desperate to have their own family may have some apprehensions over fertility treatment in case they end up, as a result of the IVF procedure, with sextuplets.
I have not personally felt any compulsion to do so but those contemplating a soiree, function or other entertainment may wish to enquire, via the internet, about the availability of a sextette in their local area or willing to travel.
A solitary mathematician may have temporarily forgotten how many zero's there are in a sextillion. 21 to be exact.
These, I admit, minority groups would only add a small number to my running total but must be considered in the big picture of sex word accounting.
I would like to acknowledge the contribution to the minority sex words by the Scrabble Word Finder.
A further source of sex searches would come from those challenged by just spelling or plain stupidity and I have attempted to guesstimate a figure for those searching for types of a) insex commonly found in the UK, b) sextional concrete garages , c) those interested in vivisextion, and not forgetting d) the apparently increasing number of motorists reliant on sat-nav systems and concerned about congestion and delays at key traffic intersextions.
Of course, there are those who are actually intent on accessing a pornographic website, apparently ,from the same infographic source being 12% of all websites ,and do this blatantly with just the word 'sex' and with or without any prefixes or suffixes dependant on any particular penchants or tendencies that they may have.
The grand total, in my broad minded research therefore indicates a more realistic participation of 33 million per month. That accounts for about half the UK population engaged in what can only be described as 'sex' word games and on a regular basis. I do make an exception for, and exclude, regular players of Scrabble in this statistic.
I will next be contemplating the correlation between this fact and the persistence of the depressed economy and double dip recession in this country. I do find this surprising given the level of apparent stimulation in other parts of the population at large.
Friday 14 November 2014
Line Dancing Revisited
Amongst the great railway journeys in the world one of my favourites does not really figure in say, the top ten thousand.
There are no dramatic mountain peaks hovering vertically overhead, no sheer drops into a raging torrent in the bottom of the valley, no risk of rock falls or landslide in a constant battle against the forces of nature, no need to carve a snaking route through a harsh environment with dynamite or to provide an armed on board presence to discourage attack and insurrection.
My journey starts at a typical red brick railway station in the west of Hull commuter town of Hessle.
The old ticket office sits at street level in a leafy suburb and looking onto large late Victorian properties originally built as superior residences for the well to do of the East Riding but now either split into flats or operating in the Health and Social Care sectors.
In terms of progress in the latter part of the 19th Century having a railway station at your front door would be quite an attraction, a modern amenity. The platform for trains to Hull is set at a lower level following the topography of a narrow plateau between Hessle Cliff and a further, shallower slope down to the Humber Foreshore.
For those venturing westwards and served by the far platform it is a case of using a large metal gantry bridge with the accompanying whistle of a prevailing wind as it hugs the contours. The Station, once employing perhaps upwards of a dozen employees is now unmannned and only frequented by the distant voice of the announcer over the tannoy. As the sound system suddenly bursts into life with someone playing a xylophone those waiting can be seen to be startled or grimacing in equal numbers.
The early morning trains are the short local ones, two sections, bench seats, no frills, deserted apart from a few shop workers and early bird shoppers. I am excited as we move off. There is some deep rooted emotion about being conveyed by a train. I have tried to fight it by refusing to stand on a bridge to await the arrival of a specific named or numbered engine with binoculars, camera and anorak.
As part of my self imposed therapy I stare out of the window. On the north side of the line to Hull leaving Hessle stands a large area of post war built housing infilling between the grand Victorian Villas and a small terrace of railway workers cottages. Once isolated and well out of the town the neat engineering brick faced properties are now hemmed in and squeezed by industry. The train rattles over a bridge where it crosses Hessle Haven although in land drain guise before it widens at the estuary mouth. I recall many a ship launch sideways into the tidal outlet of the same watercourse just out of sight.
As business and commerce has followed the trend over the last decade or so to vacate the old central city areas it has relocated to the floodplain between Hessle and West Hull. There are acre upon acre of sheds, multi purpose with the same basic pattern and style being adapted for either office, showroom, factory or recreational use. The out of town retailers have followed with large Sainsbury and Aldi stores. The new Park and Ride has also become established and always, when overlooked from the competing train, seems to be well patronised.
The low rise business district contrasts sharply with the large and tall edifice of a Hotel with coffee shop franchise and Health Club but even this yellow stone monument is dominated by the powder blue stanchions of the Arco Warehouse. The span and tension in the metalwork creates a huge clear working space for the storage and distribution of every manner of safety equipment. At 6pm every evening a fleet of parcel carriers leave the premises, straining on their axles to meet the 24 hour delivery promise for steel capped work boots or padded ear defenders and so much more. The articulated trucks complete a 12 hour cycle of peak activity on the industrial estate which started with the vans and lorries going to and from the wholesale fruit and flower market at its eastern end.
Having run quite close and paralell to the river and business district the railway line turns inland, north easterly at about the position of Cod Farm, a promontory, man made into the river where lines of filleted fish were hung out to air dry in the halcyon days of the trawling industry. Large mounds of gravel and salt can be seen in the marshalling yards where in the 1970's the sections of the Humber Suspension Bridge were assembled and gathered before being floated up river and lifted into position.
There is another estate of factories including a large manufacturer of Yorkshire Puddings but of older and now rather dated buildings. I avert my gaze from an area of open ground where, to the open mouthed amazement of the occupants of a train from London to Hull, a man was seen having sexual relations with a tethered goat.
The older terraced housing on the outer approaches to the city made way in the 1960's for bland modern council houses . Current demolition and clearance has led to some striking town houses in deep glazed brick panels with gable balconies and neat wrought iron fenced in forecourts. Nice but probably only good and sustainable for about 50 years whereas the former housing had survived over 100 including wartime bombing.
A series of level crossings frustrate the busy city traffic but a vast improvement from the 1950's when constant rail freight traffic to and from the thriving docks meant that the crossing gates on the main arterial roads of Hull were closed for a cumulative total of 15 hours a day. My window flashes in and out of light and shade as the train passes under the Anlaby Road Flyover, one of the civil engineering remedies to bypass the physical severance of the road by the rail lines.
Houses close to the course of the railway have metal tie bars in their brickwork to counter the rattling and wobbling effect that a procession of diesel engines, and steam engines before can exact on an already fairly unstable foundation on a shrinkable clay.
The Infirmary is a large sprawl of old and very modern buildings, mostly in the shadow of the now very dated multi storey tower of Hull Royal. The train is slowing now, tic-tac sounding across points where the main lines into Hull Station converge. I laugh aloud at a piece of humourous graffitti on the underside of a road bridge and depair at the rest of the indiscriminate and illiterate offerings on walls, obsolete signal boxes and on every other accessible available surface.
The vast arched profile of Paragon Station is in view, a magnificent example of functional and beautiful architecture, much featured in film and television. It will have been marvelled at by the 2.2 million immigrants awaiting transit from Hull to Liverpool and beyond at a turbulent time in their own lives and world history over 100 years ago. Their onward journey will have been of epic and dramatic proportions. My own, about 6 miles and 7 minutes.
There are no dramatic mountain peaks hovering vertically overhead, no sheer drops into a raging torrent in the bottom of the valley, no risk of rock falls or landslide in a constant battle against the forces of nature, no need to carve a snaking route through a harsh environment with dynamite or to provide an armed on board presence to discourage attack and insurrection.
My journey starts at a typical red brick railway station in the west of Hull commuter town of Hessle.
The old ticket office sits at street level in a leafy suburb and looking onto large late Victorian properties originally built as superior residences for the well to do of the East Riding but now either split into flats or operating in the Health and Social Care sectors.
In terms of progress in the latter part of the 19th Century having a railway station at your front door would be quite an attraction, a modern amenity. The platform for trains to Hull is set at a lower level following the topography of a narrow plateau between Hessle Cliff and a further, shallower slope down to the Humber Foreshore.
For those venturing westwards and served by the far platform it is a case of using a large metal gantry bridge with the accompanying whistle of a prevailing wind as it hugs the contours. The Station, once employing perhaps upwards of a dozen employees is now unmannned and only frequented by the distant voice of the announcer over the tannoy. As the sound system suddenly bursts into life with someone playing a xylophone those waiting can be seen to be startled or grimacing in equal numbers.
The early morning trains are the short local ones, two sections, bench seats, no frills, deserted apart from a few shop workers and early bird shoppers. I am excited as we move off. There is some deep rooted emotion about being conveyed by a train. I have tried to fight it by refusing to stand on a bridge to await the arrival of a specific named or numbered engine with binoculars, camera and anorak.
As part of my self imposed therapy I stare out of the window. On the north side of the line to Hull leaving Hessle stands a large area of post war built housing infilling between the grand Victorian Villas and a small terrace of railway workers cottages. Once isolated and well out of the town the neat engineering brick faced properties are now hemmed in and squeezed by industry. The train rattles over a bridge where it crosses Hessle Haven although in land drain guise before it widens at the estuary mouth. I recall many a ship launch sideways into the tidal outlet of the same watercourse just out of sight.
As business and commerce has followed the trend over the last decade or so to vacate the old central city areas it has relocated to the floodplain between Hessle and West Hull. There are acre upon acre of sheds, multi purpose with the same basic pattern and style being adapted for either office, showroom, factory or recreational use. The out of town retailers have followed with large Sainsbury and Aldi stores. The new Park and Ride has also become established and always, when overlooked from the competing train, seems to be well patronised.
The low rise business district contrasts sharply with the large and tall edifice of a Hotel with coffee shop franchise and Health Club but even this yellow stone monument is dominated by the powder blue stanchions of the Arco Warehouse. The span and tension in the metalwork creates a huge clear working space for the storage and distribution of every manner of safety equipment. At 6pm every evening a fleet of parcel carriers leave the premises, straining on their axles to meet the 24 hour delivery promise for steel capped work boots or padded ear defenders and so much more. The articulated trucks complete a 12 hour cycle of peak activity on the industrial estate which started with the vans and lorries going to and from the wholesale fruit and flower market at its eastern end.
Having run quite close and paralell to the river and business district the railway line turns inland, north easterly at about the position of Cod Farm, a promontory, man made into the river where lines of filleted fish were hung out to air dry in the halcyon days of the trawling industry. Large mounds of gravel and salt can be seen in the marshalling yards where in the 1970's the sections of the Humber Suspension Bridge were assembled and gathered before being floated up river and lifted into position.
There is another estate of factories including a large manufacturer of Yorkshire Puddings but of older and now rather dated buildings. I avert my gaze from an area of open ground where, to the open mouthed amazement of the occupants of a train from London to Hull, a man was seen having sexual relations with a tethered goat.
The older terraced housing on the outer approaches to the city made way in the 1960's for bland modern council houses . Current demolition and clearance has led to some striking town houses in deep glazed brick panels with gable balconies and neat wrought iron fenced in forecourts. Nice but probably only good and sustainable for about 50 years whereas the former housing had survived over 100 including wartime bombing.
A series of level crossings frustrate the busy city traffic but a vast improvement from the 1950's when constant rail freight traffic to and from the thriving docks meant that the crossing gates on the main arterial roads of Hull were closed for a cumulative total of 15 hours a day. My window flashes in and out of light and shade as the train passes under the Anlaby Road Flyover, one of the civil engineering remedies to bypass the physical severance of the road by the rail lines.
Houses close to the course of the railway have metal tie bars in their brickwork to counter the rattling and wobbling effect that a procession of diesel engines, and steam engines before can exact on an already fairly unstable foundation on a shrinkable clay.
The Infirmary is a large sprawl of old and very modern buildings, mostly in the shadow of the now very dated multi storey tower of Hull Royal. The train is slowing now, tic-tac sounding across points where the main lines into Hull Station converge. I laugh aloud at a piece of humourous graffitti on the underside of a road bridge and depair at the rest of the indiscriminate and illiterate offerings on walls, obsolete signal boxes and on every other accessible available surface.
The vast arched profile of Paragon Station is in view, a magnificent example of functional and beautiful architecture, much featured in film and television. It will have been marvelled at by the 2.2 million immigrants awaiting transit from Hull to Liverpool and beyond at a turbulent time in their own lives and world history over 100 years ago. Their onward journey will have been of epic and dramatic proportions. My own, about 6 miles and 7 minutes.
Thursday 13 November 2014
What's around the corner?
A series of photographs taken over the last 18 months which I have found to be intriguing about what lies just around the corner or beyond the horizon.
Scotland Forest Ride
Yorkshire Green Lane
Next stop .....Denmark
Wednesday 12 November 2014
Sand in your Pants
Picture a sandy beach anywhere in the world.
A relaxing scene of softly lapping waves, drifting and leisurely bathers, a few paddling at the edge, rows of neat sun beds, shaded under bright and gawdy coloured canopies or authentic coconut palms, beachfront concessions for that chilled soft drink or something a bit more sophisticated and alcoholic.
Bronzed and beautiful people, stretched out in sun worship or chilled out with a book or magazine.
Then you see the English family, fully clothed, any exposed skin very red in colour and undertaking a full scale excavation and civil engineering project to build a replica of Windsor Castle in sand, complete with small paper Union Jack and Royal Standard Flags that they carefully packed and brought with them.
We have all perpetuated the very English activity of digging in sand wherever we may find it.
Think back to your own childhood days and the presence of a sand-pit or sand box in just about every back garden. Of course, without a plywood or polythene cover this play facility rapidly deteriorated into a very large community litter tray for the local cat population but then we were more resilient to infectious and debilitating illness in those days.
Unfortunately the sand pit went through a high tech phase from which it never recovered. This consisted of mainly shell or turtle shaped moulded plastic, with a cat deterrent lid, and clean and sterilised play sand. This combination ruined the engineering capabilities of sand as far as young children were concerned.
The demise of the sandpit is illustrated by a foray onto Google Earth over any UK suburban area. Once the proving ground for sand based architecture, such a satellite study today reveals the very common phenomena of small black circles in back gardens. This contrasts sharply with, say, an equivalent residential area in the warmer parts of the US where there is the bright blue rectangle of an outdoor swimming pool. The circular images are a consequence of the very clever marketing of trampolines as a combined play, leisure and fitness item.
I am not sure if they were given away free with a Nintendo Wii or similar given their significant numbers. However, I have never seen one in actual use. Give the youngsters of today some credit in that just jumping up and down or attempting, at great risk of injury or death, a somersault is no way to wile away the hours.
There must however be a very English genetic trait that demands that sand be dug wherever it may be.
I was watching a very interesting TV programme last week about a return to the Stalag Luft prison camp from where the actual Great Escape took place. The Allied internees were of course duty bound to try to break out and much ingenuity and inspired improvisation was applied to that purpose.
I hope I am not being disrespectful to either the prisoners or their captors but for some reason the authorities felt it necessary to;
a) locate the camp in a sandy area and
b) spread extra sand over the site to make it easier to spot spoil and waste produced by tunnelling.
Talk about providing subliminal encouragement to dig.
There is a considerable difference across the world in the quality and suitability of beach sand to keep us English happy and content in a deep hole, amongst sea-water filled canals and rivulets, or in the shadow of an almost full size sculpture of the Tower of London, a wildly imagininative collection of stout ramparts and fortifications or an attempt at Hogwarts.
The much admired beaches at Anse Lazio in the Seychelles, Ka'anapali in Hawaii, Coronado in California and Cas Aboo in Curacao may have the climate, ambience and sheer beauty elements but frankly, these would all fail the sand elasticity test conducted by filling a small brightly coloured plastic bucket using the colour matched spade, tamping it down and then upending the whole contents in search of that perfect sand castle.
Our first proper continental holiday involving flying was to the Greek Island of Kefalonia.
We had read the book and seen the Hollywood movie of Captain Corelli and his mandolin and were enthralled by the dramatic landscape of the island on which the story had unfolded.
We were not disappointed and indeed most of our exploration of the island in a small Hyundai Atoz was done with clenched hands on the steering wheel because of the many sheer drops and limited barrier provision below the roads carved out of the steep hillsides.
We had saved a visit to Myrtos Beach until the latter part of out ten day holiday.
The beach, one of the most photographed on the planet is a crescent shaped strip at the base of impenetrable cliffs, onto deep, clear and treacherous waters and with a tortuously winding roadway down. The best viewpoint was from a dusty lay-bay, again with no protection against plummeting over the edge.
This only strengthened our resolve to put our feelings of self preservation aside and get down there.
I cannot remember the descent which is understandable amongst those who are exposed to extreme trauma in certain situations.
We got to the sweeping beach in late afternoon, the inland sweltering heat tempered by a coastal breeze. In the Corelli movie the beach is the setting for a raucous party, some toplessness of the female kind is shown, (available on Total Film, 1 hour 37 minutes and 20 seconds in).
We were not all interested in re-enacting the scene.
We were there for a higher purpose.
What better way to celebrate our first overseas holiday than to build something on the best beach we had ever been to outside the UK.
A few seconds later we were back in the car hurtling up the cliff road. We were a very disappointed and devastated family. I was already composing a letter of complaint to the tour company.We had found, on close hot footed investigation that Myrtos Beach was a travesty.
The whole bright white and promising strip was in fact made up of small sun bleached pebbles.
A relaxing scene of softly lapping waves, drifting and leisurely bathers, a few paddling at the edge, rows of neat sun beds, shaded under bright and gawdy coloured canopies or authentic coconut palms, beachfront concessions for that chilled soft drink or something a bit more sophisticated and alcoholic.
Bronzed and beautiful people, stretched out in sun worship or chilled out with a book or magazine.
Then you see the English family, fully clothed, any exposed skin very red in colour and undertaking a full scale excavation and civil engineering project to build a replica of Windsor Castle in sand, complete with small paper Union Jack and Royal Standard Flags that they carefully packed and brought with them.
We have all perpetuated the very English activity of digging in sand wherever we may find it.
Think back to your own childhood days and the presence of a sand-pit or sand box in just about every back garden. Of course, without a plywood or polythene cover this play facility rapidly deteriorated into a very large community litter tray for the local cat population but then we were more resilient to infectious and debilitating illness in those days.
Unfortunately the sand pit went through a high tech phase from which it never recovered. This consisted of mainly shell or turtle shaped moulded plastic, with a cat deterrent lid, and clean and sterilised play sand. This combination ruined the engineering capabilities of sand as far as young children were concerned.
The demise of the sandpit is illustrated by a foray onto Google Earth over any UK suburban area. Once the proving ground for sand based architecture, such a satellite study today reveals the very common phenomena of small black circles in back gardens. This contrasts sharply with, say, an equivalent residential area in the warmer parts of the US where there is the bright blue rectangle of an outdoor swimming pool. The circular images are a consequence of the very clever marketing of trampolines as a combined play, leisure and fitness item.
I am not sure if they were given away free with a Nintendo Wii or similar given their significant numbers. However, I have never seen one in actual use. Give the youngsters of today some credit in that just jumping up and down or attempting, at great risk of injury or death, a somersault is no way to wile away the hours.
There must however be a very English genetic trait that demands that sand be dug wherever it may be.
I was watching a very interesting TV programme last week about a return to the Stalag Luft prison camp from where the actual Great Escape took place. The Allied internees were of course duty bound to try to break out and much ingenuity and inspired improvisation was applied to that purpose.
I hope I am not being disrespectful to either the prisoners or their captors but for some reason the authorities felt it necessary to;
a) locate the camp in a sandy area and
b) spread extra sand over the site to make it easier to spot spoil and waste produced by tunnelling.
Talk about providing subliminal encouragement to dig.
There is a considerable difference across the world in the quality and suitability of beach sand to keep us English happy and content in a deep hole, amongst sea-water filled canals and rivulets, or in the shadow of an almost full size sculpture of the Tower of London, a wildly imagininative collection of stout ramparts and fortifications or an attempt at Hogwarts.
The much admired beaches at Anse Lazio in the Seychelles, Ka'anapali in Hawaii, Coronado in California and Cas Aboo in Curacao may have the climate, ambience and sheer beauty elements but frankly, these would all fail the sand elasticity test conducted by filling a small brightly coloured plastic bucket using the colour matched spade, tamping it down and then upending the whole contents in search of that perfect sand castle.
Our first proper continental holiday involving flying was to the Greek Island of Kefalonia.
We had read the book and seen the Hollywood movie of Captain Corelli and his mandolin and were enthralled by the dramatic landscape of the island on which the story had unfolded.
We were not disappointed and indeed most of our exploration of the island in a small Hyundai Atoz was done with clenched hands on the steering wheel because of the many sheer drops and limited barrier provision below the roads carved out of the steep hillsides.
We had saved a visit to Myrtos Beach until the latter part of out ten day holiday.
The beach, one of the most photographed on the planet is a crescent shaped strip at the base of impenetrable cliffs, onto deep, clear and treacherous waters and with a tortuously winding roadway down. The best viewpoint was from a dusty lay-bay, again with no protection against plummeting over the edge.
This only strengthened our resolve to put our feelings of self preservation aside and get down there.
I cannot remember the descent which is understandable amongst those who are exposed to extreme trauma in certain situations.
We got to the sweeping beach in late afternoon, the inland sweltering heat tempered by a coastal breeze. In the Corelli movie the beach is the setting for a raucous party, some toplessness of the female kind is shown, (available on Total Film, 1 hour 37 minutes and 20 seconds in).
We were not all interested in re-enacting the scene.
We were there for a higher purpose.
What better way to celebrate our first overseas holiday than to build something on the best beach we had ever been to outside the UK.
A few seconds later we were back in the car hurtling up the cliff road. We were a very disappointed and devastated family. I was already composing a letter of complaint to the tour company.We had found, on close hot footed investigation that Myrtos Beach was a travesty.
The whole bright white and promising strip was in fact made up of small sun bleached pebbles.
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