Driving to work early on a wednesday morning is a particular treat for me.
The car radio tuned into BBC 4extra on my short commute to the office starts up with a jaunty sea shanty type melody.
Although concentrating on keeping up with the rush-hour traffic I am transported back with the distinctive theme to a sunday lunchtime with my parents and siblings in the early 1970's.
In my early teens I was just one of an estimated 22 million radio listeners who enjoyed the comedy broadcasts of The Navy Lark before sitting down to a formal meal or if our Father was late back from the pub, during the main course .
I came to be a fan of the series quite late as it had already become established on the BBC Light Programme from its launch in 1959.
It revolved around the incompetent, bungling and misdemeanours of the officers and crew of a fictional naval frigate HMS Troutbridge.
The cast included well known actors from television and film such as Jon Pertwee (later to become Dr Who and Worzel Gummidge), Leslie Phillips, Tenniel Evans, Heather Chasen , Richard Caldicott and introduced Ronnie Barker.
The skill and craft of this tight knit group produced 550 different characters over the 18 years of the show and its 244 episodes.
The idea for the Navy Lark was from a chance meeting in 1958 between the BBC Head of Light Entertainment and a script writer for Jon Pertwee. The likes of The Army Game and Much Binding in the Marsh already represented two of the armed forces and so using the Royal Navy was a natural progression.
The late 1950's was still a time for National Service and so many called up to the military could identify with the subject matter of the show, although hopefully not to the same degree of mayhem and madness in reality.
The main writer Lawrie Weinman had been on the payroll with Tony Hancock and brought some of the chaotic style of comedy and its delivery from that background. Although under threat from television and the decline in the sunday lunch as a main family get together The Navy Lark became a firm favourite.
It has remained foremost in the minds and memories of those who heard it the first time around and the current re-runs are as funny and memorable as they were then.
Catchphrases, often overused and relied upon in modern comedy writing, originating from The Navy Lark have become firmly embedded in colloquial English.
Leslie Phillips as the enthusiastic but hapless Sub Lieutenant responsible for navigating Troutbridge
coined the phrases of "left hand down a bit" and "ooh, nasty" which were inevitably followed by a barrage of sound effects leaving the listener to easily visualise the impact of the ship with the Portsmouth naval dockyard, dock gates, bits of the UK coastline, other navy ships and many other maritime obstacles. The motto for Troutbridge soon became "Everybody Down" in anticipation of some momentous impact.
The other cast members developed their own characters to a similar comedic level. Commander Povey was the hard pressed senior ranking officer on shore and at the beck and call of his rather dominant and overbearing wife, Ramona. Tenniel Evans as Goldstein was a larger than life character being a combination of welsh and jewish traits. He blamed anti-welsh and english suppression for his often beleagured role on the crew. One of his themes was trying to get Troutbridge to run on welsh coal. Heather Chasen was a shore based Wren who was the target for the philandering Phillips. Jon Pertwee brought his amazing accents and dramatic nuances portraying the scheming and unscrupulous quatermaster who made a nice living out of purloining naval supplies and also including the stuttering and confused Commander Wetherby.
Ronnie Barker as Fatso Johnson was a revelation and first introduced in the series set the tone for his distinguished comedy and writing career in the following decades.
The long running series was a great hit amongst the Senior Service who received copies of the scripts prior to broadcast for vetting and also to authenticate the technical aspects.
I admit that my drive to work on a wednesday takes exactly the same amount of time as the re-runs of The Navy Lark which is a strange coincidence given that my commute is only 3 miles and on mondays, tuesdays and towards the end of the week takes considerably less time.
Wednesday, 13 April 2016
Tuesday, 12 April 2016
Talk Sport
I remember, as a teenager in the 1970's, being allowed to watch televised football matches.
That may sound like a bit of a strange admission nowadays but not if you recall that any football on the small screen was pretty rare in those days and mostly late at night, well beyond my normal bedtime.
There were the occasional live games at more reasonable hours of the day. The FA Cup Final every May was something to really look forward to and on the match day there was always a full schedule of events to keep you entertained including "It's a Knockout" between supporters of the finalists.
The few international games that were broadcast were the Home Nations Tournament. That was until crowd trouble and hooliganism put paid to that very competitive round of games.
One very noticeable feature of a televised match was the level of noise that came, as well as from the packed terraces, from the players themselves on the pitch. It was noisy indeed as though an actual and real time commentary on the progress of play.
In the school playground in the week following a big game we would have a kick around with a tennis ball and imitate the skills we had seen as well as the language of "Man On", "On my head" and"Shoot". There were also the congratulatory cries of "nice one Cyril", "good shot" and " great goal".
Football to me was a sport appealing to all of the senses.
It appears that the modern game is lacking in some respects. What is now a very fast and athletic game with tremendous skill and tactical awareness has lost out where just plain communication between players is concerned. This is both on and off the pitch. That might just be a factor arising from a multi-national squad of players and managers and their well paid and privileged status but concerns have been expressed by those within the game that something is missing.
The sight of elite footballers getting off team buses with headphones on does not impress Southampton manager Ronald Koeman, who insists the near-obsession with smartphones and social media has led to a communication breakdown on the pitch.
The Dutchman, whose team are seventh in the Premier League, revealed how he was sending his players to weekly communication sessions to get them talking to each other again.
'The whole lifestyle has changed,' Koeman told the Return To Play football medical conference in London.
Southampton manager Ronald Koeman has criticised modern players' obsession with smartphones.
'One of the problems you see now in football is there is not enough communication on the pitch. That's all about social media. Everybody goes on it straight away on their phones.'
The 53-year-old former Dutch international and member of that great Johan Cruyff 'Dream Team' at Barcelona, spoke of how things were different before the advent of smartphones, when team-mates on long coach journeys interacted more with each other.
'When I was playing, on the coach when we went to matches, we talked and we had communication,' he added.
'Now everyone just puts on his headphones and is in his own world. For young players it is all about themselves and less about communication with the rest of the players.
'That is maybe one of the reasons they don't talk any more on the pitch. Communication on the pitch is so important even if it is just to help your team mates and say 'time' or 'turn'!
'That's so difficult now. To deal with this we do sessions in training, different exercises every week which are all about focus, communication and concentration.'
Old stagers in the professional ranks remember how team spirit flourished in their time in the game.
The 1966 England World Cup Winning squad went to the cinema together the night before the final. It appears that watching a good Western brought the team together to achieve what is still the pinnacle of English football.
Don Revie and his Leeds United team who dominated the domestic game in the 1970's regularly partook in carpet bowls and bingo.
I remember seeing the coverage of Cup Final Teams on their team coaches on the way to Wembley huddled around playing cards.
A few England players being interviewed for BBC and ITV during, I think, Italia 1990 dropped as many selected words as they could into the conversation including titles of Beatles Songs.
Has the modern game lost out for all of the supposed sophistication of the new millionaires who dominate the top echelons of the professional leagues?
Unfortunately, I think so.
I am not unreasonably cynical is speculating that in the current professional leagues only probable conversations to be overheard of "pass.......pass to me" are likely to be followed by "the new Bentley Brochure".
(Koeman interview sourced from Daily Mail and BBC News)
That may sound like a bit of a strange admission nowadays but not if you recall that any football on the small screen was pretty rare in those days and mostly late at night, well beyond my normal bedtime.
There were the occasional live games at more reasonable hours of the day. The FA Cup Final every May was something to really look forward to and on the match day there was always a full schedule of events to keep you entertained including "It's a Knockout" between supporters of the finalists.
The few international games that were broadcast were the Home Nations Tournament. That was until crowd trouble and hooliganism put paid to that very competitive round of games.
One very noticeable feature of a televised match was the level of noise that came, as well as from the packed terraces, from the players themselves on the pitch. It was noisy indeed as though an actual and real time commentary on the progress of play.
In the school playground in the week following a big game we would have a kick around with a tennis ball and imitate the skills we had seen as well as the language of "Man On", "On my head" and"Shoot". There were also the congratulatory cries of "nice one Cyril", "good shot" and " great goal".
Football to me was a sport appealing to all of the senses.
It appears that the modern game is lacking in some respects. What is now a very fast and athletic game with tremendous skill and tactical awareness has lost out where just plain communication between players is concerned. This is both on and off the pitch. That might just be a factor arising from a multi-national squad of players and managers and their well paid and privileged status but concerns have been expressed by those within the game that something is missing.
The sight of elite footballers getting off team buses with headphones on does not impress Southampton manager Ronald Koeman, who insists the near-obsession with smartphones and social media has led to a communication breakdown on the pitch.
The Dutchman, whose team are seventh in the Premier League, revealed how he was sending his players to weekly communication sessions to get them talking to each other again.
'The whole lifestyle has changed,' Koeman told the Return To Play football medical conference in London.
Southampton manager Ronald Koeman has criticised modern players' obsession with smartphones.
'One of the problems you see now in football is there is not enough communication on the pitch. That's all about social media. Everybody goes on it straight away on their phones.'
The 53-year-old former Dutch international and member of that great Johan Cruyff 'Dream Team' at Barcelona, spoke of how things were different before the advent of smartphones, when team-mates on long coach journeys interacted more with each other.
'When I was playing, on the coach when we went to matches, we talked and we had communication,' he added.
'Now everyone just puts on his headphones and is in his own world. For young players it is all about themselves and less about communication with the rest of the players.
'That is maybe one of the reasons they don't talk any more on the pitch. Communication on the pitch is so important even if it is just to help your team mates and say 'time' or 'turn'!
'That's so difficult now. To deal with this we do sessions in training, different exercises every week which are all about focus, communication and concentration.'
Old stagers in the professional ranks remember how team spirit flourished in their time in the game.
The 1966 England World Cup Winning squad went to the cinema together the night before the final. It appears that watching a good Western brought the team together to achieve what is still the pinnacle of English football.
Don Revie and his Leeds United team who dominated the domestic game in the 1970's regularly partook in carpet bowls and bingo.
I remember seeing the coverage of Cup Final Teams on their team coaches on the way to Wembley huddled around playing cards.
A few England players being interviewed for BBC and ITV during, I think, Italia 1990 dropped as many selected words as they could into the conversation including titles of Beatles Songs.
Has the modern game lost out for all of the supposed sophistication of the new millionaires who dominate the top echelons of the professional leagues?
Unfortunately, I think so.
I am not unreasonably cynical is speculating that in the current professional leagues only probable conversations to be overheard of "pass.......pass to me" are likely to be followed by "the new Bentley Brochure".
(Koeman interview sourced from Daily Mail and BBC News)
Monday, 11 April 2016
Storey Time
Selling a house is one of those milestones in a lifetime that can cause stress and worry.
Some people positively thrive on it and make a positive experience of doing it multiple times in just a few short years. It can be a way of moving up the housing ladder if the timing is right but as the small print always says, the value of a property can go down as well as up. It can be a bit of a gamble but then again, what is wrong with just staying put until the market improves and your plans can progress.
A few fortunate home owners, happy with their four walls and more, have no compulsion to sell until it is brought upon them by such factors as ill health, bereavement of a partner or just a feeling that they cannot keep up with the demands of ownership.
In such circumstances there is perhaps a higher degree of stress brought on by the longevity of occupation and a definite emotional connection with the bricks and mortar.
I have some understanding of this having just moved after 18 years in the same place. Even though it was time to leave and we have been blessed in our new home I have fond recollections of bringing up our three children amongst its rooms and large garden. I still drive past it on a regular basis. My wife did actually pull into the driveway and park up momentarily just last year (some 15 months since moving out), after a particularly stressful working day. Obviously a subconscious reaction to seek the familiar rather than an act of intentional trespass or curiosity.
I therefore had considerable empathy with a lady just last week who was selling up after 28 years in the same house.
It was a huge mid Victorian period semi detached house over three floors plus large cellar in Flemish bond brickwork and all of the embellishments of the era very much in a Parisian architectural style under blue/grey slate roof and stucco detail around window.
When she bought the property it had been in three flats for some considerable time.
Although sympathetically returned to a single character house it still retained the scars of sub-division with unsightly downstand beams marking the position of partitions wall, stairwell segregation and fire safety measures as well as a top floor kitchenette, in use as an impromptu potting shed on my visit.
The original floor plan and layout had lended itself to carving up into flats, each one being of good size and with an interesting split level arrangement. The three storey contemporary wing, likely to have been large open plan or basic partitioned areas had been converted into multiple rooms with an access corridor per floor. Any present day scheme will have utilised lightweight stud walls to meet design, safety and regulatory requirements with little or no additional loadings on the structural components. The existing dividers were however in substantial masonry and from the very pronounced and discernible sloping and distortion to floors there was a significant overloading factor.
The walls had evidently been constructed off the floor joists and boards. That would take some further investigation and no doubt a bit of dismantling and de-construction to alleviate the pressure on that part of the building.
It was good to see that a number of authentic features had survived a succession of tenants over, perhaps 30 or 40 years.
These included sash cord window frames (although firmly painted shut), deep profile skirtings and architraves and heavy panelled internal doors. These were well within renovation possibilities.
The cellar was expansive even for the mid 1800's but damp and decay were major impediments to any practical use without major expenditure if intended for mainstream accommodation. Those Victorians were certainly physically smaller from nourishment and general health issues and will have, when venturing into the cellar compartments, been easily able to stand upright. I had to stoop in my inspection keeping a watchful eye for any protruding beams, hanging hooks or stubborn nails.
From walking through the house there was a good difference in floor levels with, in particular, a steep flight of steps down to the kitchen and mirrored on the two floors above. The owner, initially aloof and not a little bit hostile to my visit was never too far away and I took the opportunity to start a few conversations about the history of the house.
I had not seen any evidence of servant bells or staff quarters and she explained that the when built as a pair her half had been rented out with the builder and his family keeping the other side as main residence. That explained the complete absence of any dividing walls in the roof spaces but a potential cost to new owners to provide suitable fire barriers.
The scale of the property and demands of repair and maintenance were becoming a bit too much although the lady which was a shame as she had managed perfectly well on her own for the last quarter of a century.
I had completed my work and we parted on much better terms than we had started. I had enjoyed the experience of a properly built house and one that in its heyday will have been much admired.
It would take some considerable effort to get it back to that state but in the long run it would be a most worthwhile project.
Some people positively thrive on it and make a positive experience of doing it multiple times in just a few short years. It can be a way of moving up the housing ladder if the timing is right but as the small print always says, the value of a property can go down as well as up. It can be a bit of a gamble but then again, what is wrong with just staying put until the market improves and your plans can progress.
A few fortunate home owners, happy with their four walls and more, have no compulsion to sell until it is brought upon them by such factors as ill health, bereavement of a partner or just a feeling that they cannot keep up with the demands of ownership.
In such circumstances there is perhaps a higher degree of stress brought on by the longevity of occupation and a definite emotional connection with the bricks and mortar.
I have some understanding of this having just moved after 18 years in the same place. Even though it was time to leave and we have been blessed in our new home I have fond recollections of bringing up our three children amongst its rooms and large garden. I still drive past it on a regular basis. My wife did actually pull into the driveway and park up momentarily just last year (some 15 months since moving out), after a particularly stressful working day. Obviously a subconscious reaction to seek the familiar rather than an act of intentional trespass or curiosity.
I therefore had considerable empathy with a lady just last week who was selling up after 28 years in the same house.
It was a huge mid Victorian period semi detached house over three floors plus large cellar in Flemish bond brickwork and all of the embellishments of the era very much in a Parisian architectural style under blue/grey slate roof and stucco detail around window.
When she bought the property it had been in three flats for some considerable time.
Although sympathetically returned to a single character house it still retained the scars of sub-division with unsightly downstand beams marking the position of partitions wall, stairwell segregation and fire safety measures as well as a top floor kitchenette, in use as an impromptu potting shed on my visit.
The original floor plan and layout had lended itself to carving up into flats, each one being of good size and with an interesting split level arrangement. The three storey contemporary wing, likely to have been large open plan or basic partitioned areas had been converted into multiple rooms with an access corridor per floor. Any present day scheme will have utilised lightweight stud walls to meet design, safety and regulatory requirements with little or no additional loadings on the structural components. The existing dividers were however in substantial masonry and from the very pronounced and discernible sloping and distortion to floors there was a significant overloading factor.
The walls had evidently been constructed off the floor joists and boards. That would take some further investigation and no doubt a bit of dismantling and de-construction to alleviate the pressure on that part of the building.
It was good to see that a number of authentic features had survived a succession of tenants over, perhaps 30 or 40 years.
These included sash cord window frames (although firmly painted shut), deep profile skirtings and architraves and heavy panelled internal doors. These were well within renovation possibilities.
The cellar was expansive even for the mid 1800's but damp and decay were major impediments to any practical use without major expenditure if intended for mainstream accommodation. Those Victorians were certainly physically smaller from nourishment and general health issues and will have, when venturing into the cellar compartments, been easily able to stand upright. I had to stoop in my inspection keeping a watchful eye for any protruding beams, hanging hooks or stubborn nails.
From walking through the house there was a good difference in floor levels with, in particular, a steep flight of steps down to the kitchen and mirrored on the two floors above. The owner, initially aloof and not a little bit hostile to my visit was never too far away and I took the opportunity to start a few conversations about the history of the house.
I had not seen any evidence of servant bells or staff quarters and she explained that the when built as a pair her half had been rented out with the builder and his family keeping the other side as main residence. That explained the complete absence of any dividing walls in the roof spaces but a potential cost to new owners to provide suitable fire barriers.
The scale of the property and demands of repair and maintenance were becoming a bit too much although the lady which was a shame as she had managed perfectly well on her own for the last quarter of a century.
I had completed my work and we parted on much better terms than we had started. I had enjoyed the experience of a properly built house and one that in its heyday will have been much admired.
It would take some considerable effort to get it back to that state but in the long run it would be a most worthwhile project.
Sunday, 10 April 2016
Northern Powerhouse
Fairly typical isn't it.
All of the greatest things originate from the North of England but then get hijacked and our fellow countrymen from the South take all the glory.
Depending upon which side of the north/south divide your reside in this can be attributable to a natural and selfless generosity or just plain taking advantage.
This trend is not just in entrepreneurial activities, great ideas, fabulous food and in our people as prevailing today but has been a fact of the life of Britain for Millenia.
It is as though the North is the power house, bread basket, fruit bowl and larder, staffed by hard working folk, modest, frugal and enterprising and seemingly, to our Southern compatriots at their beck, call, service and disposal.
It is as though we are a larger than life Reality Show along the lines of Downton, Upstairs-Downstairs and The Pallisers.
This also clearly illustrates that our Nation is unbalanced in terms of its regional economies and wealth with a strong bias in favour of the South and South East.
Up North, however, we do not really mind about this and are magnanimous in our perceived harsh environment and lifestyles.
We can cope with our "adversity" reasonably well as long as curious Southerners do not start drifting up country and find out that we all thrive in idyllic, prosperous and enjoyable lives and in the most beautiful scenery.
The urban myth of our apparent miserable plight is well worth maintaining and perpetuating and we will be better off for it.
All of the greatest things originate from the North of England but then get hijacked and our fellow countrymen from the South take all the glory.
Depending upon which side of the north/south divide your reside in this can be attributable to a natural and selfless generosity or just plain taking advantage.
This trend is not just in entrepreneurial activities, great ideas, fabulous food and in our people as prevailing today but has been a fact of the life of Britain for Millenia.
It is as though the North is the power house, bread basket, fruit bowl and larder, staffed by hard working folk, modest, frugal and enterprising and seemingly, to our Southern compatriots at their beck, call, service and disposal.
It is as though we are a larger than life Reality Show along the lines of Downton, Upstairs-Downstairs and The Pallisers.
This also clearly illustrates that our Nation is unbalanced in terms of its regional economies and wealth with a strong bias in favour of the South and South East.
Up North, however, we do not really mind about this and are magnanimous in our perceived harsh environment and lifestyles.
We can cope with our "adversity" reasonably well as long as curious Southerners do not start drifting up country and find out that we all thrive in idyllic, prosperous and enjoyable lives and in the most beautiful scenery.
The urban myth of our apparent miserable plight is well worth maintaining and perpetuating and we will be better off for it.
Saturday, 9 April 2016
Horses for Courses
A family friend, who had offered her services to house-sit, was traumatised by having to arrange for the Veterinary to put down the donkey.
I should add some general notes to that opening sentence as it does sound a bit far-fetched.
i) The house-sitting service was not for profit but to help out longstanding acquaintances of said family friend
ii) The house was in fact a farm
iii) The donkey was already a bit poorly
iv) The Vet had been put on prior notice that he may be required
v) Everything possible was done to prolong the life of the animal but to no avail
vi) Our friend loves donkeys.
That was a few years ago now but the events surrounding what should have been a week away in an idyllic setting on the edge of the North Yorkshire National Park amongst beloved livestock still bring a slight but noticeable waver to the voice.
I did not know the specific donkey but you can be assured that it had a good and happy life. That is a given where a creature is living in the open, in safety, cared for, regularly fed, watered and free to roam and do as much or as little as they desire.
Perhaps the deceased donkey, and I am speculating here, had forged a career taking children for rides on the nearby Scarborough Beach showing characteristics of patience and quiet endurance. It would take such qualities to remain placid when being kicked, punched and verbally abused by youngsters hyped up on sugary drinks and even more sugary candy floss and ice creams.
In spite of the predictability and monotony of being led up and down the same stretch of sand for holiday season after holiday season, generally on the North Sea Coast from April to mid September this would give some time for rest and relaxation in the off-peak months.
My main point, and I could be criticised for plodding along like the unfortunate animal itself before getting to it, is that donkeys and horses generally are bred and kept for service to humans whether it be in hard grafting, leisure or sport and are valued for that role.
In the history of mankind our equine friends have more than partnered achievements in conquest, travel, pioneering, trade and commerce.
We are all familiar with the horses of great rulers, conquerors and leaders such as Bucephalus, Copenhagen, Marengo and Little Texas.
The Conquistadors used horses to great effect in their subjugation of the native South Americans and where would the great explorers and teamsters be without their pack animals and wagon trains?
In popular fiction and media we have laughed and cried with "Black Beauty", "On White Horses" and who, as a child or adult, has not pretended to "Heigh-Ho -Silver" or even "My Little Pony" with high legged prancing and attempted neighing.
Mechanisation and automation has in much of the industrialised world reduced the need for horses for heavy work and so their role has changed.
We are more likely now to come across horses in sport and recreation and no more evident than in the running, today, of the world's greatest steeplechase - The Grand National which was inaugurated in 1839.
I understand that in spite of the usual mayhem associated with fallen horses and riders over the huge jumps and ditches all of the runners and riders survived to participate again.
The Aintree festival of racing which includes the Grand National has however seen four fatalities this year in the supporting events which has made it the deadliest meeting in the last three years.
In the last 16 years some 42 mounts have died at Aintree which is a sad fact and even though I am not a gambler with a vested interest I still feel some emotion at the thought of this.
Their loss has not been lightly taken.
For each magnificent creature there is one or more owners, the jockey and stable staff, supporters and sympathisers and the gambling public.
There have been calls for many years to make racing safer or even outlaw it altogether from pressure groups in the animal rights sector but I contend that horses thrive and enjoy the sheer physicality and athleticism which are integral parts of their everyday lives whether in training or in competition.
We should continue to celebrate our equine friends in their lives and sometimes glorious departures with the same dedication and faithfulness that they have always, unconditionally, shown to Man.
I should add some general notes to that opening sentence as it does sound a bit far-fetched.
i) The house-sitting service was not for profit but to help out longstanding acquaintances of said family friend
ii) The house was in fact a farm
iii) The donkey was already a bit poorly
iv) The Vet had been put on prior notice that he may be required
v) Everything possible was done to prolong the life of the animal but to no avail
vi) Our friend loves donkeys.
That was a few years ago now but the events surrounding what should have been a week away in an idyllic setting on the edge of the North Yorkshire National Park amongst beloved livestock still bring a slight but noticeable waver to the voice.
I did not know the specific donkey but you can be assured that it had a good and happy life. That is a given where a creature is living in the open, in safety, cared for, regularly fed, watered and free to roam and do as much or as little as they desire.
Perhaps the deceased donkey, and I am speculating here, had forged a career taking children for rides on the nearby Scarborough Beach showing characteristics of patience and quiet endurance. It would take such qualities to remain placid when being kicked, punched and verbally abused by youngsters hyped up on sugary drinks and even more sugary candy floss and ice creams.
In spite of the predictability and monotony of being led up and down the same stretch of sand for holiday season after holiday season, generally on the North Sea Coast from April to mid September this would give some time for rest and relaxation in the off-peak months.
My main point, and I could be criticised for plodding along like the unfortunate animal itself before getting to it, is that donkeys and horses generally are bred and kept for service to humans whether it be in hard grafting, leisure or sport and are valued for that role.
In the history of mankind our equine friends have more than partnered achievements in conquest, travel, pioneering, trade and commerce.
We are all familiar with the horses of great rulers, conquerors and leaders such as Bucephalus, Copenhagen, Marengo and Little Texas.
The Conquistadors used horses to great effect in their subjugation of the native South Americans and where would the great explorers and teamsters be without their pack animals and wagon trains?
In popular fiction and media we have laughed and cried with "Black Beauty", "On White Horses" and who, as a child or adult, has not pretended to "Heigh-Ho -Silver" or even "My Little Pony" with high legged prancing and attempted neighing.
Mechanisation and automation has in much of the industrialised world reduced the need for horses for heavy work and so their role has changed.
We are more likely now to come across horses in sport and recreation and no more evident than in the running, today, of the world's greatest steeplechase - The Grand National which was inaugurated in 1839.
I understand that in spite of the usual mayhem associated with fallen horses and riders over the huge jumps and ditches all of the runners and riders survived to participate again.
The Aintree festival of racing which includes the Grand National has however seen four fatalities this year in the supporting events which has made it the deadliest meeting in the last three years.
In the last 16 years some 42 mounts have died at Aintree which is a sad fact and even though I am not a gambler with a vested interest I still feel some emotion at the thought of this.
Their loss has not been lightly taken.
For each magnificent creature there is one or more owners, the jockey and stable staff, supporters and sympathisers and the gambling public.
There have been calls for many years to make racing safer or even outlaw it altogether from pressure groups in the animal rights sector but I contend that horses thrive and enjoy the sheer physicality and athleticism which are integral parts of their everyday lives whether in training or in competition.
We should continue to celebrate our equine friends in their lives and sometimes glorious departures with the same dedication and faithfulness that they have always, unconditionally, shown to Man.
Friday, 8 April 2016
I Love Skye (mostly)
Against the backdrop of the Cuillin Mountains with their dark rocky shadows, across the bluey green waters of the tidal seawater loch and during the couple of hours, only, per day in which the horizontal driving rain or the bone chilling mist ceased to conceal everything from view I caught a brief glimpse of a shining jewel in the bay below the house.
After a good soaking on such a regular and rather monotonous and predictable cycle- a.m. Rain, p.m. Rain, the colours of the land, sea and sky are fresh and vibrant. At some distance the mountains show depth and contour when fleetingly scanned by a column of sunlight which manages to find a break in the dense cloud steaming in from the Atlantic Ocean. Then, the shaft of golden rays is switched off abruptly and the peaks and slopes return to a rather flat, one dimensional silhouette.
On the line between sea and sky the white crested bay waves are broken by the large and strangely regular angular profiles of the islands of Rhum and Eigg- an interesting combination and no doubt a staple diet at some time in maritime and naval history. The sheer volume of water running off the land mass is constant and persistent in eroding and sculpting the silica embedded rocks, washing away the lighter soils and peat deposits and giving a rusty tint to everything in between.
The far shore of the bay of Loch Eichort is just a vertical cliff. At night there are no signs of habitable dwellings and the absence of even a single glinting light from a porch or window is strange and eerie when we expect such things for comfort and reassurance. The night sky, with no dilution from sodium lighting, is simply spectacular and the Milky Way appears close enough to touch.
If the wind dies down for a few seconds the sound from waterfalls and cascades over and down the distant precipice is just audible. The combination of sights and accompanying soundtrack are captivating and I found myself regularly running to the window of the holiday house just to check on what was coming in on the next weather front.
It was in a short bright spell of weather and at low tide that a glaringly crystal white causeway appeared in the inlet of the bay. I had not noticed it before. Perhaps a particular lunar phase was in play dragging the tide to a swelling peak far out in the Atlantic.. The colour was dazzling and beautiful. It ran from the loose rocks of the shoreline out across the pale sand and terminated on the golden beach of a small tufty grassed islet. As though a revelation I had to go and see the thing for myself. It was as if some mythical Sirens were summoning me to the rocky outcrop. I was totally drawn towards the sparkling tantalus and was soon clambering down the cliff to the start of the newly emerged pathway.
The closer I came to the causeway the less glimmering it began to appear.
After enjoying the sights and sounds of the bay on my holiday a third influence came into play- the smell. It was a pungent mix of peaty acidic soils, sheep droppings and the unmistakable odour of seaweed, kelp and sea salt. In the absence of a breeze the stagnant air caught between sea and mountains was slowly warming up and the cocktail of sealife was partially stewing in is own juices.
My shoes and socks came off on the first sandy part of the beach.A large boulder povided a reasonably safe place to leave them. A bit risky as I had no idea of the tide times and levels. With trouser legs carefully rolled up and held in place by my kneecaps I was crossing the shallow course of a stranded stream. The water was cool and then tepid in alternate sequence dependant on the depth and the ability of the sporadic sunlight to provide radiant heat to the briney solution.
I reached the recently exposed walkway. The decision to shed footwear rather than let them hang by intertwined laces over my shoulder had been poor judgement. The causeway and its distant sheen was now fully explained. The composite parts were the remnants of a billion or so shells and corals, blended and interlocked in a jagged carpet pile which threatened to lacerate and mutilate my bare feet. I had stumbled not across a wonder of nature but a mollusc and crustacean graveyard. The multitude of creatures had over millenia come to this specific place to curl up, die, decompose and leave their mother of pearl and mineral remains as the only indication of their prior existence.
I retreated back to the shore and properly shod made good speed over the ground. I did not glance back until reaching the dry stone wall which bounded the kitchen garden of the rented house .
In that short period the tide had rushed in and again concealed the causeway.
In my mind it had been a bad experience and for the rest of the stay on Skye I only looked westwards and out to the far horizon.
After a good soaking on such a regular and rather monotonous and predictable cycle- a.m. Rain, p.m. Rain, the colours of the land, sea and sky are fresh and vibrant. At some distance the mountains show depth and contour when fleetingly scanned by a column of sunlight which manages to find a break in the dense cloud steaming in from the Atlantic Ocean. Then, the shaft of golden rays is switched off abruptly and the peaks and slopes return to a rather flat, one dimensional silhouette.
On the line between sea and sky the white crested bay waves are broken by the large and strangely regular angular profiles of the islands of Rhum and Eigg- an interesting combination and no doubt a staple diet at some time in maritime and naval history. The sheer volume of water running off the land mass is constant and persistent in eroding and sculpting the silica embedded rocks, washing away the lighter soils and peat deposits and giving a rusty tint to everything in between.
The far shore of the bay of Loch Eichort is just a vertical cliff. At night there are no signs of habitable dwellings and the absence of even a single glinting light from a porch or window is strange and eerie when we expect such things for comfort and reassurance. The night sky, with no dilution from sodium lighting, is simply spectacular and the Milky Way appears close enough to touch.
If the wind dies down for a few seconds the sound from waterfalls and cascades over and down the distant precipice is just audible. The combination of sights and accompanying soundtrack are captivating and I found myself regularly running to the window of the holiday house just to check on what was coming in on the next weather front.
It was in a short bright spell of weather and at low tide that a glaringly crystal white causeway appeared in the inlet of the bay. I had not noticed it before. Perhaps a particular lunar phase was in play dragging the tide to a swelling peak far out in the Atlantic.. The colour was dazzling and beautiful. It ran from the loose rocks of the shoreline out across the pale sand and terminated on the golden beach of a small tufty grassed islet. As though a revelation I had to go and see the thing for myself. It was as if some mythical Sirens were summoning me to the rocky outcrop. I was totally drawn towards the sparkling tantalus and was soon clambering down the cliff to the start of the newly emerged pathway.
The closer I came to the causeway the less glimmering it began to appear.
After enjoying the sights and sounds of the bay on my holiday a third influence came into play- the smell. It was a pungent mix of peaty acidic soils, sheep droppings and the unmistakable odour of seaweed, kelp and sea salt. In the absence of a breeze the stagnant air caught between sea and mountains was slowly warming up and the cocktail of sealife was partially stewing in is own juices.
My shoes and socks came off on the first sandy part of the beach.A large boulder povided a reasonably safe place to leave them. A bit risky as I had no idea of the tide times and levels. With trouser legs carefully rolled up and held in place by my kneecaps I was crossing the shallow course of a stranded stream. The water was cool and then tepid in alternate sequence dependant on the depth and the ability of the sporadic sunlight to provide radiant heat to the briney solution.
I reached the recently exposed walkway. The decision to shed footwear rather than let them hang by intertwined laces over my shoulder had been poor judgement. The causeway and its distant sheen was now fully explained. The composite parts were the remnants of a billion or so shells and corals, blended and interlocked in a jagged carpet pile which threatened to lacerate and mutilate my bare feet. I had stumbled not across a wonder of nature but a mollusc and crustacean graveyard. The multitude of creatures had over millenia come to this specific place to curl up, die, decompose and leave their mother of pearl and mineral remains as the only indication of their prior existence.
I retreated back to the shore and properly shod made good speed over the ground. I did not glance back until reaching the dry stone wall which bounded the kitchen garden of the rented house .
In that short period the tide had rushed in and again concealed the causeway.
In my mind it had been a bad experience and for the rest of the stay on Skye I only looked westwards and out to the far horizon.
Thursday, 7 April 2016
Suilven
Check fuel guage, pressure and condition of tyres. Stock up with warm clothes even though it is mid July and have a good supply of water, chocolate, oatcakes and crisps. Sensible precautionary preparations for any intended road trip and even more so when the route is through the most sparsely populated area in Europe.
It was a further leg of the journey across the very top of mainland Scotland from Wick on the east coast down to a book-a-bed ahead at the herring port of Ullapool on the shore of Loch Broom. In actual miles not too great a distance but on narrow single track roads with a steady contraflow of local and tourist traffic it was certainly expected to be a long start -stop sort of day.
Thurso is a major regional town and supplies were replenished , not so much lashed to the roof rack in true adventurer style as shoved into the glove-box.
As with the majority of travelling in the northernmost parts of Scotland there are stretches of excellent wide and smooth red-tarmac'd highways boding well for a decent constant speed. The slip roads onto such routes have large timber braced notice boards acknowledging funding for the scheme from Highlands and Islands, and a blue starred flag expressing recognition of a large regional grant from the European Economic Union. Evidently the funding is restricted because as soon as vehicles attain speeds of 56mph the brand spanking new road suddenly tapers sharply down from up to 4 lanes to little more than a loose gravelled farm track. It is though a bit of a show is being put on for dignataries and official delegations who would be flown into town by helicopter anyway.
The landscape beyond Thurso is scattered with crofts and farmsteads and what remains of the now decommisioned Dounreay Nuclear Power Station which by 2033 will have been whittled down to a brownfield site for luminous green rabbits.
As signs of habitation are left behind the course of the road runs inland but closely paralell to the rocky promontories and coves with intermittent but glorious views to the cold bluey green bays and white wave crested breakers.
Bettyhill and Tongue are small quaint settlements of stone kirks and cottages and a few shops and facilities. The history of the area is dominated by invasion, conflicts and rampaging by Gaels, Picts and the Vikings with many ruins of fortified houses and small castles.
The sea views disappear on the road across the A'mhoine peninsula, a bleak upland moorland area and the group of houses nestled together and called Hope on the far west descent is aptly named and does stand out from the otherwise heavy Norse derived titles of places and landmarks.
By now into the journey there is some form of connection with other vehicles in what is a fixed convoy. The only prospect of moving up in the order of traffic is when someone pulls off the road in a gateway, next to a mound of gritting salt or has first dibs on a one car space viewing area for a particularly striking outlook of hills or sea.
The convoy travelling west is mostly of UK registered cars, a good proportion with small badges of car hire firms likely to be driven by overseas visitors doing the grand tour in a huge loop with the pick up and drop off points being Glasgow or Edinburgh airports.
Main obstacles impeding traffic flow include kamikaze sheep, very photogenic Highland cattle, unrestrained streams and piles of boulders or gravel which have fallen unchallenged from a rocky outcrop above or have washed out of a watercourse. The other main interruption is from what gives the impression of the mass migration of the descendants of the ancient Germanic tribes, what we know as the modern Germans, going east, probably home, in large gawdily coloured motorhomes. These take up a full width plus part of the passing bay and panic ensues when confronted by a columm of these bike and boat covered monsters from a blind summit. The atmosphere is jovial with waving and a thumbs up in gratitude. As the vehicles cruise past there is usually the grinning face of a small child sticking up through the sunroof.
Durness is the absolute most northerly point of the journey.
The road executes a tight sweeping bend after a signpost for the tourist attraction of Smoo Cave before reaching the town. This is a popular destination and there is a community of crafts folk and a Youth Hostel.
It is only a further 19 miles to the next change of road but it feels like 190 at snails pace.
The remarkable scenery slowly upstages itself and rolling rocky outcrop moors become lower slopes for some sizeable mountains with the switchback road between. The right turn onto another barely 'A' class road is almost overlooked but leads to Scourie and the appearance of palm trees is quite a shock although these are in fact a hardy New Zealand species very much at home and thriving.
Through the village the route is again in view of the now Gulf Stream warmed west coast. Badcall Bay, between Upper and Lower Badcall prompts thoughts on trying to find out the reason for the strange and rather self defeating place names.
The next right turn is onto a 'B' class road. The shading in khaki and white on the Ordnance Survey map is a bit ominous being the first such designation on the road trip to date. Even the pioneering pedigree of the Deutsche Dormobilen is intimidated by what lies ahead although the tightly packed arrows signifying a steep course do give some indication to a former Boy Scout.
The hamlets gripping the sides of the minor road have very evocative and romantic names or are very harsh. Nedd, Drumbeg, Clashnessie, Rienachait and Clachtoll, the latter two being almost french and german in pronunciation. The town of Lochinver, by comparison, appears huge. A genteel place and the second largest fishing port in Scotland.
The reason for our journey is now close at hand.
Soon in full view is the distinctive north west buttress of Suilven, a striking, bulbous policeman's helmet of a mountain.
It would easily serve as a stunt double for The Devils Tower in Wyoming which featured in Speilberg's Close Encounters movie. Even from a rather tame viewing point from the nearest road, for those not wanting a strenuous 9 hour walk and climb to the 731 metre summit, the appearance of Suilven is dramatic and quite haunting. It looms above and dominates the surrounding peaks and bogs and yet from a distant view of its flanking slope and most popular ascent route it appears almost sphinx like in profile.
The mountain stays in view for some time but is a major hazard to the road user as the eye and imagination is drawn to and fixated by its image rather than giving due care and attention to navigating the now wider, much busier and well funded main road now frequented by refrigerated fish transporting HGV's and recklessly speeding locals.
The mountain surpassed expectations after a long and draining but fantastically scenic road trip- something to tick off that ever expanding list of 'things to do before the end of the world'.
It was a further leg of the journey across the very top of mainland Scotland from Wick on the east coast down to a book-a-bed ahead at the herring port of Ullapool on the shore of Loch Broom. In actual miles not too great a distance but on narrow single track roads with a steady contraflow of local and tourist traffic it was certainly expected to be a long start -stop sort of day.
Thurso is a major regional town and supplies were replenished , not so much lashed to the roof rack in true adventurer style as shoved into the glove-box.
As with the majority of travelling in the northernmost parts of Scotland there are stretches of excellent wide and smooth red-tarmac'd highways boding well for a decent constant speed. The slip roads onto such routes have large timber braced notice boards acknowledging funding for the scheme from Highlands and Islands, and a blue starred flag expressing recognition of a large regional grant from the European Economic Union. Evidently the funding is restricted because as soon as vehicles attain speeds of 56mph the brand spanking new road suddenly tapers sharply down from up to 4 lanes to little more than a loose gravelled farm track. It is though a bit of a show is being put on for dignataries and official delegations who would be flown into town by helicopter anyway.
The landscape beyond Thurso is scattered with crofts and farmsteads and what remains of the now decommisioned Dounreay Nuclear Power Station which by 2033 will have been whittled down to a brownfield site for luminous green rabbits.
As signs of habitation are left behind the course of the road runs inland but closely paralell to the rocky promontories and coves with intermittent but glorious views to the cold bluey green bays and white wave crested breakers.
Bettyhill and Tongue are small quaint settlements of stone kirks and cottages and a few shops and facilities. The history of the area is dominated by invasion, conflicts and rampaging by Gaels, Picts and the Vikings with many ruins of fortified houses and small castles.
The sea views disappear on the road across the A'mhoine peninsula, a bleak upland moorland area and the group of houses nestled together and called Hope on the far west descent is aptly named and does stand out from the otherwise heavy Norse derived titles of places and landmarks.
By now into the journey there is some form of connection with other vehicles in what is a fixed convoy. The only prospect of moving up in the order of traffic is when someone pulls off the road in a gateway, next to a mound of gritting salt or has first dibs on a one car space viewing area for a particularly striking outlook of hills or sea.
The convoy travelling west is mostly of UK registered cars, a good proportion with small badges of car hire firms likely to be driven by overseas visitors doing the grand tour in a huge loop with the pick up and drop off points being Glasgow or Edinburgh airports.
Main obstacles impeding traffic flow include kamikaze sheep, very photogenic Highland cattle, unrestrained streams and piles of boulders or gravel which have fallen unchallenged from a rocky outcrop above or have washed out of a watercourse. The other main interruption is from what gives the impression of the mass migration of the descendants of the ancient Germanic tribes, what we know as the modern Germans, going east, probably home, in large gawdily coloured motorhomes. These take up a full width plus part of the passing bay and panic ensues when confronted by a columm of these bike and boat covered monsters from a blind summit. The atmosphere is jovial with waving and a thumbs up in gratitude. As the vehicles cruise past there is usually the grinning face of a small child sticking up through the sunroof.
Durness is the absolute most northerly point of the journey.
The road executes a tight sweeping bend after a signpost for the tourist attraction of Smoo Cave before reaching the town. This is a popular destination and there is a community of crafts folk and a Youth Hostel.
It is only a further 19 miles to the next change of road but it feels like 190 at snails pace.
The remarkable scenery slowly upstages itself and rolling rocky outcrop moors become lower slopes for some sizeable mountains with the switchback road between. The right turn onto another barely 'A' class road is almost overlooked but leads to Scourie and the appearance of palm trees is quite a shock although these are in fact a hardy New Zealand species very much at home and thriving.
Through the village the route is again in view of the now Gulf Stream warmed west coast. Badcall Bay, between Upper and Lower Badcall prompts thoughts on trying to find out the reason for the strange and rather self defeating place names.
The next right turn is onto a 'B' class road. The shading in khaki and white on the Ordnance Survey map is a bit ominous being the first such designation on the road trip to date. Even the pioneering pedigree of the Deutsche Dormobilen is intimidated by what lies ahead although the tightly packed arrows signifying a steep course do give some indication to a former Boy Scout.
The hamlets gripping the sides of the minor road have very evocative and romantic names or are very harsh. Nedd, Drumbeg, Clashnessie, Rienachait and Clachtoll, the latter two being almost french and german in pronunciation. The town of Lochinver, by comparison, appears huge. A genteel place and the second largest fishing port in Scotland.
The reason for our journey is now close at hand.
Soon in full view is the distinctive north west buttress of Suilven, a striking, bulbous policeman's helmet of a mountain.
It would easily serve as a stunt double for The Devils Tower in Wyoming which featured in Speilberg's Close Encounters movie. Even from a rather tame viewing point from the nearest road, for those not wanting a strenuous 9 hour walk and climb to the 731 metre summit, the appearance of Suilven is dramatic and quite haunting. It looms above and dominates the surrounding peaks and bogs and yet from a distant view of its flanking slope and most popular ascent route it appears almost sphinx like in profile.
The mountain stays in view for some time but is a major hazard to the road user as the eye and imagination is drawn to and fixated by its image rather than giving due care and attention to navigating the now wider, much busier and well funded main road now frequented by refrigerated fish transporting HGV's and recklessly speeding locals.
The mountain surpassed expectations after a long and draining but fantastically scenic road trip- something to tick off that ever expanding list of 'things to do before the end of the world'.
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