Careful Owner

 I was Greek.

Well, just for the two weeks.

The country, the lifestyle, the climate, the music and above all the namesake salad overwhelmed me and I was Greek.

In these times of easy and cheap travel you may find it surprising, or even amazing that my first ever flight in an airliner was when I was in my late 30's but that was the situation with our first family holiday abroad.

It had always been so much easier with young children to pack up the car and go on vacation within the British Isles rather than contemplate being reliant on others for transport and sustenance. At least, if we needed to stop for toilet break, cup of tea or just for a snooze we could pull over by the road or in a scenic rest area and get on with what needed to be done.

There was so much of our own country to see that travel to foreign parts was not a priority in order to see and enjoy great sights, sounds and atmospheres. The children could be enthused with our own history by a walk along a section of Hadrian's Wall, an outlook from the elevation of Edinburgh Castle, beachcombing in Cornwall, skimming pebbles off the Northumberland coast, finding dead sheep on a Scottish Lochside or looking at old buildings in our fine cities.

The catalyst to our inaugural adventure to Greece, or rather the Ionian Island of Kefalonia was that Captain Corelli movie which showed a fantastic terrain, white sandy beaches, a clear blue ocean and so much more.

We started from scratch as none of us had a current passport. Clothes and sensible but appropriate footwear had to be acquired but it was something of a guessing game as to what temperatures and humidity we would experience out there.

We travelled in an English August in wet weather gear and woollies and were taken aback by how little our fellow passengers were wearing as we stood around in Manchester Airport in the early hours of the morning for the 7am scheduled flight. Our rookie status must have been very obvious. We huddled together not confident enough to wander about in the shops and eateries airside. I was guilty of regularly delving into my small rucksack to check and recheck the paperwork which, itself, was meticulously arranged in strict order in clear plastic wallets.

We squinted at the departures board every time it flickered and displayed a change even though our destination was well down the rankings. We were very early for the preliminary steps but so well prepped that we sailed through the check-in, baggage checks and security screening with no drama or excitement apart from the novelty of it all.

I was always, before the event, apprehensive about flying and I admit to some palpitations during the sprint to take off speed and then the rapid climb to the first stomach churning turn. I remained calm on the outside so as not to startle or embarrass the children who were, in any case, enthralled by the noise and view from the small windows.

It would be a three hour flight but it passed quickly, what with the constant attention given by the cabin crew and offers of food or other goodies on a regular basis.

What struck me first about Greece was the sheer heat as we stepped off the plane and walked across the concrete apron to the small island terminal. I had not been prepared for it and every pore in my body opened up and leaked out instantaneously.

We boarded a coach for the transfer to our accommodation. The photo in the brochure had shown a front door, one window and some whitewashed interiors with sparse but adequate furnishings. Apart from that there were no clues as to where it was or what the outlook or surroundings were like. The numbers on the bus dwindled rapidly as we wound along the narrow roads and individuals, couples or family groups alighted and disappeared up or down a path above or below the carriageway.

We were one of the last lot to leave the hot, sweaty bus with the tour rep ticking us off her list and pointing vaguely in the direction of a two storey modern apartment block. It was a compact place, deep, dark and thankfully cool for the early morning as we flopped out and rested from jet lag.

The lack of any supplies led me to venture out in what was now the full midday sun. It was a foolhardy but typically English thing to do and three hours later and a bit frazzled and red I returned with a large bag of crisps, some bread and a few bottles of mineral water.

The nearest settlement of any note had been some distance away over the hills. The true folly of my expedition was only evident a couple of days later when the same journey in our hire car seemed to take an age.

Being Greek is very much a frame of mind. It is a characteristic dictated by keeping out of the harsh sun and heat, doing things slowly and enjoying them. These attributes are again completely alien to us English.

The best and most comfortable times in the day were the very early morning and the late evening. This was when the Greek population did what they had to do in work and chores but not forgetting setting aside a good time to just talk, eat and drink. We expected to do a lot of sightseeing and to absorb the culture and heritage of the island but our most active hours coincided with the shutting down of activity by the locals.

The main street of Argostoli, marble paved was deserted from midday to tea time giving the impression of a sleepy backwater rather than the thriving economy that it was.

My assimilation into Greekness was slow.

It included being patient from ordering a cool drink or a snack meal which could take an age. Excess movement was discouraged in favour of just finding the shadiest spot and staying there. Shopping had to be savoured rather than to be attacked and completed as quickly as possible. There was a protocol in purchasing everything, a period for reflection and then bargaining. Very un-English but perfectly logical and understandable in one of the oldest cultures of the world.

I gradually acclimatised to Greek hours and practices.

This was assisted by my personal discovery of the Greek Salad and the music of Stamatis Spanoudakis.

I would order and savour that same dish at every opportunity. There was some degree of interpretation of the components across the island with varying amounts of fresh tomatoes, cucumber , onion, feta cheese and olive oil but I was always left with a feeling of contentment and happiness.

I did eventually track down the Spanoudakis CD in a small record shop on the island and our subsequent holidays in Greece seemed to coincide with his next and latest release of atmospheric orchestral and choral offerings.

My CD shelf is fair bulging with half a dozen of his works and the ambience of the sounds of his native country are always close by.

For the rest of the authentic experience I just pop down to the Tesco Express and with a plastic bag of the staple ingredients, donning sandals, shorts and T shirt at any time of the year I am whisked back to those fond memories. 

As my children say, I have always been a bit of a Greek, or something to that effect.

A Big Thank You

I know that the "page views" statistics for Blogspot.com are not the most reliable. I am aware of the activity of bots and the mass trawling of data and information by all sorts of organisations, nations and nefarious secretive operations. 

In monitoring my own Blog I will have logged on many thousands of times since I started it in 2011. 

My blog was never set up to earn an income or accolades- it was a genuine laying down of family stories, personal experiences, expanding on matter that interested and fascinated me. There have been jokes and April Fools, recording of momentous events and with a principal theme being local history around the place that I call home- Kingston upon Hull.

I have a small band of followers, mostly family and friends and a few of my blogs have generated comments and interaction with those of a similar mindset and interests. I'm happy to have connected complete strangers in a few cases and thrilled to have made contact with lost relations with whom I have struck up fresh communication. 

Postings on my message board have shown many common interests amongst correspondents. Who would have thought that there was a huge following for a specific type of locally made roof tiles?

This posting is to celebrate quite a landmark in the history of my blog ........................

Whilst writing this bit of self promoting stuff my "All time" viewing figures have reached and passed the 1 million mark. 

Thank you to everyone. 

A Real Scottish Hero

 

Rae of Hope

I have Scottish ancestors on my father's side consisting of my Gran from the far northern fishing town of Wick and my Grandfather from Tong on Stornaway.

Consequently, I have deep rooted genes which dictate that I go all dewy eyed whenever I hear the bagpipes, know by heart the words of Auld Lang Syne, can fashion a passable porridge from scratch and there are distinct ginger tones in an attempted or lazy growth of facial hair. Although of generous intentions I can be quite frugal and tight with money.

As head of my branch of the family I have also tried to perpetuate Scottish type traditions with observance of such rituals as first-footing at New Years and the cooking of Haggis, neeps and tatties on Burns Night.

I am the proud owner of a kilt in which I was wed but have not been able to secure around my middle-aged girth for some years now. It is brought out on special occasions to prove to incredulous friends that indeed I did honour my Scottish heritage and is always well received. In fact many have commented that the Thomson Tartan weave is quite familiar but they are not sure why. I gloss over the fact that the reason for the deja-vu moment is that Vauxhall cars used the pattern for seat covers in their Astra model hatchbacks in the late 1970's and early 1980's.

We have enjoyed many a family vacation in the Old Country regardless of the blood sucking intentions of the midge population.

That moment of approaching and then crossing the border from England to Scotland, in itself a bit of an anti-climax really, has in recent years been celebrated by the playing on the Car CD of a certain evocative and emotional track- that of "Over the Sea" by Jesse Rae.

It first came to public attention in, I think, 1978 or 1979 after a video version was broadcast on the Channel 4 media and music show of The Tube presented by Jools Holland and the late Paula Yates.

In it an armour clad Jesse Rae wields his broadsword on the top of a Highland Peak and then appears in the same attire on top of a New York skyscraper with the ill fated twin towers just visible in the misty distance. The lyrics, in the terminology of a Sociologist, rue the day that proud Scots were forced to leave their homes and make their way in the brave new world.

The theme and sound of the track remains quite unique and many may recall it on the basis of my description although in fact it did not do much in the very competitive pop charts of that time.

For my 40th birthday my wife sought out a supplier of the otherwise elusive 'Over the Sea' recording through an E Bay seller and confirmed the order by phone. The voice on the other end of the line, in a lilting Scots Border region accent, confessed that he did have quite a stock of the things in his garage and that my wife's interest was quite a rarity.

He asked if she would like the CD autographed. You would be understandably suspicious over such an offer of an added bonus from a complete stranger in spite of a favourable seller rating.

My wife envisaged a hasty scrawl of limited authenticity but it turns out that the vendor was Jesse Rae himself.

It is clear that he has fallen on hard times, mainly brought on by one of those disagreements with a bank that usually and in Jesse Rae's case did prompt financial ruin.

His career had promised much and he was courted by big record companies and the prospect of big money but it did not go strictly to plan.

In 1981 he wrote "Inside Out" which was an international sensation and hit for New York soul and disco group Odyssey and still gets airplay even today. It is all too clear that the reaping of royalties for the record was not enough to stave off bankruptcy in 2002. He also co-wrote "This Time" for The Human League.

In more recent years he has made a few live appearances at Festivals and has provided rugby commentaries on Borders Radio.

As with many short lived but nevertheless iconic figures in the oh-so fickle pop music industry there has been a fading into relative obscurity and anonymity apart, that is from the special place that Jesse Rae has in our own family tradition whenever we boldly venture into Scotland and engage with our proud ancestry.

Footnote; Jesse Rae was seen at the recent UK General Election in his full Highland regalia and looked mighty well.

The Music Video of "Over the Sea" may be difficult to find due to Copyright Issues 

Chernobyl at 40 years

On and after the 26th April 1986 the nuclear monitoring equipment in Sweden began to show a spike in radiation levels.

It was of enough concern to the Swedish authorities to order the shutting down of one of their own power plants for an investigation. This proved not to be the source.

It was three days later that the State Controlled Media in the Soviet Union gave brief mention of a fire at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Complex ,Reactor number 4.

This was followed by other small announcements in print, on radio and television in a matter of fact way alluding to an accident.

The Soviet propaganda machine was in full swing defending the exceptional safety record of the home grown Nuclear Industry compared with "many accidents abroad".

Nuclear Power was regarded as being clean and low risk. No one seemed alarmed or perturbed even though the incident had been violent and had resulted in 31 deaths in the immediate aftermath.

The residents of that part of Ukraine were given no cause for any concern to their everyday activities and certainly not to their health or futures.

Gradually a realisation dawned amongst the authorities that the fire and explosion at Reactor 4 was a major threat to life. The emissions released to the soil and into the atmosphere were many hundreds of times greater than the fallout from the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombs. The compounds of Cesium 137, Plutonium, Iodine 131 and Strontium 90 were a potent cocktail which analysts now believe has contributed to up to 1 million related deaths from cancer on a global scale, and counting.

There were, from the initial radiation cloud as it passed over neighbouring Belarus, a cluster of child deaths from thyroid cancer.

The fire at the reactor continued to rage well into May.

Upon imposing a 10km critical zone the Soviet military began a ruthless programme of evacuations. Over a 36 hour period 40,000 residents of the nearest town, Pripyat were told to leave without pets and non-essential belongings. By the end of that week a further 30,000 were forced to abandon their homes.

To encourage co-operation and avert panic or unrest there were promises made of a return within 3 days. Most of the population never saw their homes again.

President Gorbachev felt compelled to address the nation and by way of reassuring neighbouring countries all through northern and western Europe that effective measures had been implemented although a clean up operation to mitigate the damage was still under way in the July.

Thousands of military personnel and civilian volunteers embarked on a huge operation. Contaminated soil was dug up and dumped under concrete. Helicopters sprayed water to suppress airborne dust. Soldiers washed down dust covered pavements , roads and buildings. Dogs and cats were shot on sight.

In the 30km zone more forcible evacuations were made and evacuees saw their homes demolished and the rubble buried. Many peasant farmers had to abandon livestock and crops and were then housed in the austere apartment blocks which typified many Soviet settlements of the era. Former residents were often caught in the exclusion zone in subversive actions to tend to what remained standing of their vegetable plots or to fish as they had always been used to.

The radioactive cloud spread with the wind during 1986 with contamination as far apart as the United States and India recorded.

The 30km zone remains in place to this day although the radioactive elements will take up to 200,000 years to decay to safe levels.

Abandoned cities, towns and villages have become overgrown and there has been a long running discussion about designating the area as a National Park. Some concessions have been made for tourists to visit the zone even though there is ongoing scientific monitoring of the environment. This is ironic as many animals and plants have suffered from the radiation with low life expectancy and mutations as side effects.

Reactor 4 was encased in a concrete sarcophagus in the years following the accident but even this is now in need of replacement and the world's largest moveable structure, a huge dome is being constructed to be put in position to give up to a century of protection from the all pervading radiation.

The lobbyists for nuclear power still find it difficult to secure support for this form of energy generation because of the Chernobyl disaster.

The implications for ongoing generations may not yet be fully appreciated.

Queen Victoria on the toilet

On a weekend shopping trip I have sat and eaten sausage and chips in its shadow. 

It has been the hub for many a political and environmental demonstration and a focal point for civic and other celebrations including the triumphal reception for Hull City AFC upon their ascension to the Premier League in 2008 and in the Year of UK City of Culture.  

It is of course the Landmark Statue of Queen Victoria in the centre of Kingston Upon Hull. 

Therein lies an interesting bit of history. 

If you study the old town maps for Hull in the latter years of the illustrious reign of Victoria that part of the City Centre was very different- in fact a bit of a slum. 

It was a maze of alleys of poor quality housing, dark and threatening alleys and passages, declining businesses, a haze of smoke and some interesting and unpleasant odours. 

The Dock Offices fronted Junction Street and the function of the locality was aptly explained in the road names of Waterworks and Engine Streets. The exact position of the monument was previously occupied by what appears to have been a Post Office and as part of a larger block including a public house. The only name recognisable to me on the old maps is New Cross Street, a short thoroughfare to what was Queens Dock. 

For a major Port and Regional Town this mish-mash of buildings and uses was a big embarrassment to the Councillors and people of Hull. A statement of Civic ambition and aspiration was needed and in 1900 the Junction Scheme was proposed. This was intended to create a Grand Square for the City and at its heart would be a memorial to the recently deceased Monarch. 

In a Public Appeal in 1901 some £15000 was raised for the erection of a monument. The Reckitt family contributed £5000, Joseph Rank £2000 and with several other wealthy folk each giving £1000. 

The commission for the statue went to Henry Charles Fehr who had already provided a similar statue in Liverpool and with the wider project to James Glen Sivewright Gibson, Architect. 

Fehr was a major appointment with his specialism being historical and civic figures and a number of notable War Memorials. J S Gibson was similarly accomplished in his work. 

The larger than life bronze figure of Victoria in bronze folded  imperial robes was mounted on a Portland Stone plinth giving a towering height of 35 feet. At her side sat smaller figures depicting the Mistress of Seas and Dominion of Land. 

It was unveiled by the Prince and Princess of Wales in 1903. Within 6 years the statue was joined by completion of Hull City Hall, an imposing and classically styled building which to this day retains it importance to the cultural life of its population. 

All seemed well and good for Hull with its status and due respect to the life of Victoria but in 1923 there arose much debate in the City Council Chamber over its relationship with further improvements in the Square. 

This was because of the design for a new Civic amenity, specifically subterranean public toilets 

A few Councillors of a sensitive nature questioned whether the proximity of the toilets to the Late Queen's statue was in the interests of the moral welfare of the City. One member of the opposition claimed to have sounded out the King's Secretary on the subject and although declined to offer up the correspondence as irrefutable proof he stated that the scheme would be regarded with Royal disfavour. 

Perhaps serious consideration should be given to moving Queen Victoria to another location

The City Architect, Mr Joseph Hirst, pointed out that the statue did long pre-date the proposals for the new amenities which would be of a commensurate high standard of design and materials to compliment the existing street scene. There would be no detraction from the aim of achieving Civic Grandeur.

In fact, and to act as a visual aid those debating the contentious issue, Hirst stated that the actual area of the underground chambers would be as big as the Council Chamber itself.

Misleading statements in the media had, it was argued, stirred up a lot of public fervour but in a Council Chamber Vote the motion to relocate Victoria was defeated. 

The scheme was completed with much approval in 1925 and to this day Queen Victoria remains on the toilet. 

Sticky Volkswagen

 

Sticky Volkswagen

According to official Government guidance there is a critical time in any car journey taken by parents and children when everything kicks off and what could be a nice day out deteriorates into a big rumpus. A Survey of motorists has suggested that at precisely two hours and thirty seven minutes any children become agitated and begin to ask that question that crosses successive generations "are we nearly there yet?".

Within fourteen minutes of this sign of boredom chances are that arguments start to break out.

I am disappointed and a little bit disillusioned when I see a car full of children but none of them are actually looking out to see or apparently show an interest in where they are on their journey.

It is a case of heads down with hand held video game or slightly raised up but only at the TV screen set in the rear of the front head restraints.

Granted, when I was a nipper the most sophisticated piece of in car entertainment was an I-Spy book, Travel Mastermind, suppressing being sick or squabbling with my brothers and sisters whilst we sat stuck to the black vinyl seats of the family VW by the back of our bare legs and becoming increasingly hot , frazzled and irritable.

Otherwise, to wile away the miles of a long trip such as to our annual summer holiday in Scotland, Northumberland or Norfolk it was a case of watching the world go by out of the window if you had baggsied a seat to take advantage of it.

In the days before compulsory seat belts for back seat passengers it was easier to stand up behind the driver or front passenger and view from there.

I developed a great interests in the sights on the open road and this persists even today.

There were the landmarks that signalled our imminent arrival at a regular holiday venue.

Crossing the iconic Tyne Bridge in Newcastle meant that in just over an hour the distant turrets and towers of Bamburgh Castle would be in view and in a few more minutes after that we would be running through the loose, hot sand of the dunes onto the vast, wave lapped beach that seemed to stretch to the very edge of the known world, at least that in the perception of a 10 year old.

We would collectively count down the miles to the border with Scotland, always greatly anticipated but never failing to disappoint being marked only by a large blue and white thistle sign rather than a crossing into a strange, mist swirling, mountainous wonderland of lochs, glens and warlike kilt clad pipers.

It appears that Scotland is more of a frame of mind to a 10 year old than a momentous and deeply felt experience, at least for us children of half Scottish origin. My Father, an authentic Scot but born in Croydon was always a bit dewey eyed and emotional when safely reunited with his Kinsfolk for those two weeks of the year, give or take long distance travelling time.

I could be a bit of a nuisance in that I would always announce the obvious landmark or feature even though evidently visible and appreciated by all the occupants of the family car. I recall getting a slap on the leg by my parents, deservedly so in hindsight for my persistent chanting of "it's a dam", "it's a dam", "it's a dam" after seeing a dam somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. It had been signposted for miles but I could not contain my excitement at the thought of seeing it. Not that I really knew what a dam was for. On my return some 30 or so years later I could just not see what all the fuss was about. My own children saw it as a grassy bank holding back an expanse of cold and faintly rusty coloured water. That was all.

I did become quite an expert on geographical phenomena and even more so after really taking to my senior school lessons in that subject. On the journeys to or through the more interesting parts of the British Isles I could easily identify a burial mound as opposed to just a grassy knoll, an ox bow lake rather than a pond, a scree slope from just a pile of loose rocks, granite precipices from chalky downs, a dry valley from a wet one and so on.

The majority of my fond memories have one thing in common. They were all part of the build up to a great family holiday. Conversely, when the fortnight was over and that was almost in the blink of an eye or so it seemed, there were those landmarks that signalled, as Mother always said, that we would soon be "back to normal", ie home life, school and all that went with those sorts of things.

These included flat, boring landscapes only broken by the looming presence of the power station cooling towers or the pit head winding gear near Doncaster. Then there was the reddening skyline above the huge British Steel Works at Scunthorpe as we came to within 10 miles of our home town and soon, on the farther horizon the white painted post windmill at Wrawby.

The drive up the slightly elevated and winding estate road to our house was depressing for those of us still awake even after melting into the plastic of the uncooled car interior.

We children then dopily went to check that our bedrooms had not been ransacked or pillaged by unknown imagined persons. We had no thoughts whatsoever to offer our exhausted parents any help in unloading the car of the detritus of two weeks under canvas or in a small caravan with five kids.

Now that I am a father myself I can appreciate that the anticipation and excitement of travel as felt by children is simply reversed in the grown ups.

Whilst the journey to and arrival at a holiday venue is undoubtedly exciting it does not mean a rest from the chores and responsibilities for adults.

Indeed it invariably means that it is the same work but made harder and more challenging in a different and unfamiliar environment.

The coming into view of the Doncaster wastelands and the intrusive industrial processes that made that part of the country the powerhouse that it was in the 1970's must have been a welcome sight and with it the promise of a slightly easier existence for our parents.

They hid their hopes of a brief respite and return to normality from us at the time and it is only really now that I am able to appreciate that particularly skilful trait of practical and effective parenting. Margaret and Donald, my heroes.

Industrial Action or One out, All out!!!!

 

One Out, All Out!

In the true spirit of fighting for workers rights I called a meeting.

For too long the basic and fundamental entitlements of the working class have been eroded in an insidious and downright sneaky way by the Government, Employers and pressure just to stay in employment and not rock the boat, This is more than accentuated in today's fast paced and ruthless business world where there is little sentiment for such things as loyalty, dedication or even a bit of flexibility when there are pressing family and personal issues that are seen as disruption and diversion to the Capitalist bosses and not the crises that they actually can be.

I was always promised a working life where I could retire in my 50's with a decent pension and in the preceding years enjoy many, many hours of leisure time what with the harnessing of computer power to work smarter and even the prospect of a job share with a robot or android.

In reality the working hours daily and cumulatively weekly and monthly have increased significantly. I knew from the start that my line of work, Surveying, would not be a strictly 9 to 5 job but that stands to reason in that the source of my work is property and that has to be visited rather than expecting it to come to me.

In the treadmill of my typical workload I am out and about all of the daylight hours apart from the brief calling in at my office to drop off completed paperwork and pick up the next assignments. In order to keep up to date with targets and client expectations I find myself squeezing in a couple of hours of preparation from 6am every day and often work late to clear my mind in readiness for another batch of Surveys.

Technology has helped a little and indeed if I did not have a digital dictation system, access to remote typing services and the internet with all of its practical functions I could see myself having to increase further my timesheet hours.

I am, in the context of a Professional. on a salaried basis. The recession from late 2008 imposed a pay reduction in order to help keep the company afloat. When the firms car came up for change I took on one of the existing pool cars which had been freed up when one of my surveying colleagues was made redundant. In real terms my income decreased by 30% and the little perks of seats at the football stadium, Health Club subscription, contribution towards incidental expenses and any prospect of a performance related bonus evaporated as I, as they say, "took one for the team".

Savings had to be made in my working day. McDonalds profits in their UK operation dipped. Starbucks opted not to pay any UK tax. Tesco meal deals just went mouldy on the shelf, Pork Pie manufacturers put staff on reduced hours and the General Stores in many a rural village reported hard times.

I am a bit scruffy in appearance because ascending into loft spaces or crawling into sub floor areas takes its toll on my business suit but unlike those sectors who can claim for a uniform or specialist attire I am on my own. A suit is my identity card and upholds the image of the profession for the public.

The above and many other issues contibuting to the catalogue of grievances, annoyances and petty mindedness culminated in my calling a meeting. There was a 100% turn out and words were said by way of a strategy to deal with the plight of the workforce. Policies were formulated and I was deemed to be the most appropriate person to act. There would definitely be changes or there would be trouble.

The downside is that I am self employed..................................