As a fruit farmer, selling his apples for cider, I am horrified by the idea of having to buy any fruit (except, of course, bananas). So the conspiracy of the seasons to ruin my plum crop might have caused me distress, if the hedges had not been full of blackberries this year. They supply our staple desert, in place of plums, for August.
After she arrived from Slovakia, Anna seemed confused by the fact that I furiously cut and chopped back brambles (or 'brambories', the Slovak term for potatoes, as she called them), but ate their fruit at every opportunity. Eventually she has become an inveterate brambory-hacker, and an assiduous blackberry-gatherer on her strolls in the company of Jean. Brambles are not found in Northern or Eastern Slovakia, but gathering traditions are strong in the culture; so Anna reported in amusement that Jean had chided her for greed at having picked every last berry from the hedges, and left none for anyone else.
But of course Jean's philosophical position perfectly reflected her membership of the English school of thought on the issue. Staying at the home of a friend at Talaton , just up the road from here, in the 1670s, John Locke considered the different logics attached to the production and consumption of blackberries and butter, and used his conclusions later to justify both the Glorious Revolution of 1688, and the ownership of private property.
God gave Nature's Bounty, he argued, to all men in common; yet the invention of money, and its use by all the population, meant that farmers could enclose land and graze cattle, still leaving those lacking land or money enough and as good for themselves. So private property and markets passed for morally OK, and so should the revolution against King James II be if he resisted these things in the name of the Divine Rights of monarchs.
Locke failed to notice that butter is more nutritious than blackberries, or that butter producers could buy up so much land that blackberry gatherers had no access to God's free gifts. But by then Locke paid court to a replacement king from Holland, and didn't visit Talaton too often.
To my mind, Jean got it about right, and Anna's enthusiasm for the Full Monty on blackberries must be put down to her Slovak experience of unenclosed mountain environments, in addition to her pity for me over the failure of my crops.
The apples are fine.
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
Monday, 13 August 2012
Jane
Since my mother died in April, I have received an enormous amount of help from my first wife and the mother of my four children, Jane. Through this, we have become friends again after 35 years. I still find her extremely attractive, but chastity is not a problem, since to lay a hand on her is much like touching a very fierce and muscular leopardess.
My mother remained fairly fit and incredibly mentally alert far into her 94th year, but the last two months of her life were dreadful. She had a fall, and although she escaped any real injury, her time in a district hospital caused a rapid and terminal deterioration in her condition. Mercifully, she died in a small local unit, in sight of her home.
I spent a lot of time visiting her and trying to advocate for better treatment, to no avail. By the time she died, I needed some recuperation, so I jumped at the offer from Jane to live in her house and sort out her belongings and the aftermath of her loss. As one of her executors, I thought I might have to pay many visits to my old home, which is an hour and a half's journey from my present one. In the event, I have been able to do all the probate stuff by letter and phone; Jane has handled all the rest, cleared up and disposed of the excess items, made friends and condoled with her neighbours, and generally made life very easy for me.
My parents divorced in South Africa in the mid-1950s. It had become fairly common there, but returning to the British Isles I found myself the only lad from a single parent household in my class, except for my close friend Barry Stevens, living at the home of his grandmother through his school years. I managed to remain in good contact by letters to my father, and the intellectual content of his correspondence stimulated my academic interests. My parents, still in love I am sure, never stopped exchanging letters.
Jane lived in the same street, and like me had just arrived from the Empire - her father, the nicest of men, had taken Holy Orders after retiring from the colonial police. I shocked everyone by marrying her when I had not yet graduated from Oxford.
It is really nice to be spending some time in her company again. Divorce is far more prevalent these days, and I hope that our handling of the consequences for our children has been a bit better than my parents'. Perhaps each generation can improve on the previous one in managing it. The couple can certainly go on helping each other, even if living together does not prove possible.
My mother remained fairly fit and incredibly mentally alert far into her 94th year, but the last two months of her life were dreadful. She had a fall, and although she escaped any real injury, her time in a district hospital caused a rapid and terminal deterioration in her condition. Mercifully, she died in a small local unit, in sight of her home.
I spent a lot of time visiting her and trying to advocate for better treatment, to no avail. By the time she died, I needed some recuperation, so I jumped at the offer from Jane to live in her house and sort out her belongings and the aftermath of her loss. As one of her executors, I thought I might have to pay many visits to my old home, which is an hour and a half's journey from my present one. In the event, I have been able to do all the probate stuff by letter and phone; Jane has handled all the rest, cleared up and disposed of the excess items, made friends and condoled with her neighbours, and generally made life very easy for me.
My parents divorced in South Africa in the mid-1950s. It had become fairly common there, but returning to the British Isles I found myself the only lad from a single parent household in my class, except for my close friend Barry Stevens, living at the home of his grandmother through his school years. I managed to remain in good contact by letters to my father, and the intellectual content of his correspondence stimulated my academic interests. My parents, still in love I am sure, never stopped exchanging letters.
Jane lived in the same street, and like me had just arrived from the Empire - her father, the nicest of men, had taken Holy Orders after retiring from the colonial police. I shocked everyone by marrying her when I had not yet graduated from Oxford.
It is really nice to be spending some time in her company again. Divorce is far more prevalent these days, and I hope that our handling of the consequences for our children has been a bit better than my parents'. Perhaps each generation can improve on the previous one in managing it. The couple can certainly go on helping each other, even if living together does not prove possible.
Sunday, 12 August 2012
Tips for Coaches
The art of cricket coaching has been developed over a period of some 150 years. I had my share of it over 50 years ago in Cape Town. My coach was the Headmaster of the school, Peter van der Bijl, father of the affable 6 foot 6 inch Middlesex and South Africa fast bowler, Vincent.
Peter van der Bijl was also tall and upright, but he was an exceptionally dour opening batsman for Oxford University, Western Province and South Africa in the 1930s. In those days, if the outcome of a series of Test Matches was not decided until the final match, this was played without time limits, a bit like the final set of a grand slam tennis match. Peter was almost single-handedly responsible for bringing this experiment to an end.
In the timeless test of 1939 in Durban, he made an undefeated century of such excruciating slowness that the game was finally left unfinished so that the England party could catch the boat home. I have never been clear whether this was because all the spectators had melted away, or that the impending threat of world war caused the authorities to fear a U boat attack somewhere off the West African coast.
As a coach, he emphasised the disciplines and technical niceties of batsmanship. He managed to turn me into a passable imitiation of my contemporary, no doubt receiving similar instructiion from his mother and her legendary stick of rhubarb in Fitzwilliam, Yorkshire, the great Geoffrey Boycott. As soon as I got the chance, I became a bowler.
Running round the cricket field last week, I as very impressed to see a coach using all sorts of imaginative exercises and games to teach some very promising lads the finer points. They wore expressions of enjoyment, rather than the resignation of my tea-mates of former times.
But the old style art of coaching is not dead. On my run today, I circumnavigated a boys' match, and had to pass several times a slightly familiar-looking figure of a father constantly chuntering and sending critical instructions to the fielding side.
'What's Jonathan Trott's Dad doing here?', I asked a couple of other fathers, strategically positioned some distance away from him..
'No', they replied, poorly suppressing their laughter, 'That's Glen'.
'Well tell him he looks exactly like Jonathan Trott's Dad', I suggested, 'And I should know, I come from Rondebosch, in the Cape'.
I shall never know if he felt furious or flattered.
Peter van der Bijl was also tall and upright, but he was an exceptionally dour opening batsman for Oxford University, Western Province and South Africa in the 1930s. In those days, if the outcome of a series of Test Matches was not decided until the final match, this was played without time limits, a bit like the final set of a grand slam tennis match. Peter was almost single-handedly responsible for bringing this experiment to an end.
In the timeless test of 1939 in Durban, he made an undefeated century of such excruciating slowness that the game was finally left unfinished so that the England party could catch the boat home. I have never been clear whether this was because all the spectators had melted away, or that the impending threat of world war caused the authorities to fear a U boat attack somewhere off the West African coast.
As a coach, he emphasised the disciplines and technical niceties of batsmanship. He managed to turn me into a passable imitiation of my contemporary, no doubt receiving similar instructiion from his mother and her legendary stick of rhubarb in Fitzwilliam, Yorkshire, the great Geoffrey Boycott. As soon as I got the chance, I became a bowler.
Running round the cricket field last week, I as very impressed to see a coach using all sorts of imaginative exercises and games to teach some very promising lads the finer points. They wore expressions of enjoyment, rather than the resignation of my tea-mates of former times.
But the old style art of coaching is not dead. On my run today, I circumnavigated a boys' match, and had to pass several times a slightly familiar-looking figure of a father constantly chuntering and sending critical instructions to the fielding side.
'What's Jonathan Trott's Dad doing here?', I asked a couple of other fathers, strategically positioned some distance away from him..
'No', they replied, poorly suppressing their laughter, 'That's Glen'.
'Well tell him he looks exactly like Jonathan Trott's Dad', I suggested, 'And I should know, I come from Rondebosch, in the Cape'.
I shall never know if he felt furious or flattered.
Saturday, 11 August 2012
Fulfilling His Destiny
Did you see the expressions on the faces of Mo Farah and his defeated rivals after that epic 5,000 metres race? Mo looked absolutely at peace with himself, a young man who had fulfilled his destiny, the historic 'double' of gold medals in both the 10,000 metres and this distance. The Ethiopian and Kenyan runners who came second and third had shock etched into their features; they just couldn't believe what he had done to them. I have never seen siver and bronze medal winners look so disappointed with their results.
I am old enough to have watched Zatopek, Kuts and Viren, the first three runners to achieve this feat in the modern era. Their victories were nothing like so impressive, because they dominated their rivals from the gun. Zatopek and Kuts led out, Viren lurked with a menace that left no-one in any doubt that he alone could burn off the rest with a blistering last lap. Mo's victory was always so much on a knife-edge that it was hard to believe it possible until he broke the tape. I can never remember any distance runner hold off persistent challenges from just behind him for the whole of the last lap.
Afterwards, like the world record-breaker David Rudesha, Mo was modest and self-effacing, giving the credit to others. I hate to say it, but they both made Usain Bolt look a bit cheap.
I am old enough to have watched Zatopek, Kuts and Viren, the first three runners to achieve this feat in the modern era. Their victories were nothing like so impressive, because they dominated their rivals from the gun. Zatopek and Kuts led out, Viren lurked with a menace that left no-one in any doubt that he alone could burn off the rest with a blistering last lap. Mo's victory was always so much on a knife-edge that it was hard to believe it possible until he broke the tape. I can never remember any distance runner hold off persistent challenges from just behind him for the whole of the last lap.
Afterwards, like the world record-breaker David Rudesha, Mo was modest and self-effacing, giving the credit to others. I hate to say it, but they both made Usain Bolt look a bit cheap.
On Being a Carer
Jean and I have been partners for 35 years. For half of these she has suffered from Alzheimer's Disease, and I have been at home caring for her for the past 7 of these. Plymouth University genrously let me work from home; Jean used to accompany me to classes and on lecture trips abroad, but it became too stressful for her. We have had Anna as a live-in carer for 15 months. (By the way, she has gone to the BMX Olympic biking contest in Leigh-on-Sea today.)
We first met when we taught together at Exeter University, where Jean was the Head of the programme. It was great working so closely together for 20 years, and we remain in touch with many of our former students. Some are visiting us this month.
Jean was always a beautiful woman, and she has put on not an ounce of weight; she is 79 years old now, but is often taken to be 10 or 20 years younger. She walks 20 miles a week, and even runs a bit, though she never did when she was younger. But she suffers some existential as well as orientation distress now, which is horrible for her.
I can never forgive the writer John Bailey for publishing his account of the decline into dementia of his wife, the great novelist, Iris Murdoch (later made into a film). A literary pygmy in comparison with his creative genius of a partner, I see Bailey's book as a kind of retaliaton for her deserved fame and his equally deserved lack of it. In my eyes, he demeaned her in an attempt to draw some attention to himself.
I owe a vast debt of love and gratitude to Jean, who always supported me (for a time financially as well as emotionally, when my children were younger), and who never sought her own advantage, though she was universally respected as a researcher in public services for children. It is both a pleasure and a privilege to be able to be with her for a few more years, perhaps longer.
Jean's mother cared for her father, her parents-in-law, her brother-in-law and her husband for over 40 years; Jean herself cared for her parents. As you sow, so shall you reap.
We first met when we taught together at Exeter University, where Jean was the Head of the programme. It was great working so closely together for 20 years, and we remain in touch with many of our former students. Some are visiting us this month.
Jean was always a beautiful woman, and she has put on not an ounce of weight; she is 79 years old now, but is often taken to be 10 or 20 years younger. She walks 20 miles a week, and even runs a bit, though she never did when she was younger. But she suffers some existential as well as orientation distress now, which is horrible for her.
I can never forgive the writer John Bailey for publishing his account of the decline into dementia of his wife, the great novelist, Iris Murdoch (later made into a film). A literary pygmy in comparison with his creative genius of a partner, I see Bailey's book as a kind of retaliaton for her deserved fame and his equally deserved lack of it. In my eyes, he demeaned her in an attempt to draw some attention to himself.
I owe a vast debt of love and gratitude to Jean, who always supported me (for a time financially as well as emotionally, when my children were younger), and who never sought her own advantage, though she was universally respected as a researcher in public services for children. It is both a pleasure and a privilege to be able to be with her for a few more years, perhaps longer.
Jean's mother cared for her father, her parents-in-law, her brother-in-law and her husband for over 40 years; Jean herself cared for her parents. As you sow, so shall you reap.
Friday, 10 August 2012
The Big Society? Do It yourself
The three of us (see previous blog) are all sociable, but in the winter we sometimes feel a bit isolated from the wider world. At this time of year it all changes, with visits from family, friends and ex-students, seeking some Devon sunshine and relaxation. We are looking forward to a month of entertaining and sharing our home-grown produce (some of which has survived the monsoon rains and unseasonal frosts) and several glasses of wine.
We are a kind of micro-community with our friends and neighbours, Chris, Pauline and their daughter Tamsin (17) and son Damian (16). They live in the renovated barn which is a part of the complex of seventeenth century farm buildings here, and they keep animals and poultry (sheep, goats, geese, chickens and ducks) in the orchard where we grow fruit and vegetables (some of the browsing animals, especially the goats, have to be confined in electric prisons, because they would destroy the trees). It is just coming up to the season for picking up the apples and transporting them to the cider factory (in Chris's land rover and trailer). Anna and Jean are very effective apple-gatherers.
Anna and Jean also like singing, and this prompted the idea of a concert, in which they performed Slovak folk songs, accompanied by Tamsin and Damian on violins, as would be the tradition in Slovakia. It went very well, despite deteriorating into vulgarity when Pauline, her mother (who was visiting from South Africa) and myself ended the evening with renditions of well-known Afrikaans and Xosa anthems.
So enjoyable was this that we all decided to be more ambitious, and put on a series of summer concerts for our friends in the barn, which has one very large room that is ideal for the purpose. Tamsin and Damian both play piano, and Damian is an excellent classical guitarist also; we brought in Jamie (13), a harpist, and Kiko (11) who plays clarinet and piano. My role is roadie for Jamie, whose harp has to be transported each time she comes to rehearse or perform.
Last night was our first public concert, and several friends came. Rachel and Jonathan rode the 10 miles from Exeter on a tandem. The programme was much more ambitious, with pieces by Beethoven and Mozart as well as traditional folk music and Anna and Jean's Slovak songs. Everyone is looking forward to the next one in two weeks' time, when we hope for a larger audience.
It all reminds me of the success of the Olympic Games, where volunteer effort and the friendly and humorous welcome of the police and armed forces made visitors from abroad so welcome, and a real community spirit was created - despite the G4S fiasco and government's attempts to free ride on the goodwill that has been generated.
There is such a thing as the Big Society, just don't look to our current rulers to enable or promote it. They are too busy with cuts and privatisations.
We are a kind of micro-community with our friends and neighbours, Chris, Pauline and their daughter Tamsin (17) and son Damian (16). They live in the renovated barn which is a part of the complex of seventeenth century farm buildings here, and they keep animals and poultry (sheep, goats, geese, chickens and ducks) in the orchard where we grow fruit and vegetables (some of the browsing animals, especially the goats, have to be confined in electric prisons, because they would destroy the trees). It is just coming up to the season for picking up the apples and transporting them to the cider factory (in Chris's land rover and trailer). Anna and Jean are very effective apple-gatherers.
Anna and Jean also like singing, and this prompted the idea of a concert, in which they performed Slovak folk songs, accompanied by Tamsin and Damian on violins, as would be the tradition in Slovakia. It went very well, despite deteriorating into vulgarity when Pauline, her mother (who was visiting from South Africa) and myself ended the evening with renditions of well-known Afrikaans and Xosa anthems.
So enjoyable was this that we all decided to be more ambitious, and put on a series of summer concerts for our friends in the barn, which has one very large room that is ideal for the purpose. Tamsin and Damian both play piano, and Damian is an excellent classical guitarist also; we brought in Jamie (13), a harpist, and Kiko (11) who plays clarinet and piano. My role is roadie for Jamie, whose harp has to be transported each time she comes to rehearse or perform.
Last night was our first public concert, and several friends came. Rachel and Jonathan rode the 10 miles from Exeter on a tandem. The programme was much more ambitious, with pieces by Beethoven and Mozart as well as traditional folk music and Anna and Jean's Slovak songs. Everyone is looking forward to the next one in two weeks' time, when we hope for a larger audience.
It all reminds me of the success of the Olympic Games, where volunteer effort and the friendly and humorous welcome of the police and armed forces made visitors from abroad so welcome, and a real community spirit was created - despite the G4S fiasco and government's attempts to free ride on the goodwill that has been generated.
There is such a thing as the Big Society, just don't look to our current rulers to enable or promote it. They are too busy with cuts and privatisations.
Thursday, 9 August 2012
Thanks Again, Mr Rossi
On Wednesday, we (myself, Jean, and Jean's carer, Anna, a retired volleyball player from Slovakia, who lost an eye as a child) went to Weymouth on the train to watch the Olympic sailing. We took with us the huge, heavy, leather-cased binoculars, made the year I was born, and bequeathed to me by the naval war hero, Harold Bunt.
It's a fair walk from the station to the Stone Pier, from where without a ticket one can get a good view of the sailing (yachtovat in Slovak); the pedestrian route goes past the clock tower, along the sea front, and right past the very spot where, on the forecourt of Rossi's Icecream Parlour, I set up as a Lightning artist, drawing people's portraits with a newly-invented felt-tipped pen, almost 50 years ago. I had never been back there since.
Mr Rossi had taken pity on a student with a pregnant wife who was down on his luck, so he allowed me to use this pad to accost passers-by, sit them on a stool, and execute a rapid likeness. I did 100 of these a day, and made a great deal of money, but he never asked me for a penny.
His grandson runs the business now, and smiled to hear my story. He said that his grandfather died several years ago, but still visited them quite frquently. When I asked him which kinds of occasions he attended, he replied that he came to all kinds, mainly to play practical jokes, such as locking people in the toilet. He had been a bit of a joker during his life. I asked if he would mind thanking his grandfather for the help he gave me back then, when he next turned up.
The weather became quite splendid as we reached the pier, and we had a better view than I expected. The atmosphere was great, and everyone was friendly and helpful.
I don't have the remotest grasp of sailing, so I had no idea what I was watching. Perhaps Anna is quicker to learn such things, or maybe, like Nelson, she has keener vision with her one eye and the aid of Harold's field-glasses. Anyway, she said that New Zealand were winning, Sweden were second, and we were third.
Rossi's Ice Cream Parlour was doing a roaring trade when we passed it on the way back.
It's a fair walk from the station to the Stone Pier, from where without a ticket one can get a good view of the sailing (yachtovat in Slovak); the pedestrian route goes past the clock tower, along the sea front, and right past the very spot where, on the forecourt of Rossi's Icecream Parlour, I set up as a Lightning artist, drawing people's portraits with a newly-invented felt-tipped pen, almost 50 years ago. I had never been back there since.
Mr Rossi had taken pity on a student with a pregnant wife who was down on his luck, so he allowed me to use this pad to accost passers-by, sit them on a stool, and execute a rapid likeness. I did 100 of these a day, and made a great deal of money, but he never asked me for a penny.
His grandson runs the business now, and smiled to hear my story. He said that his grandfather died several years ago, but still visited them quite frquently. When I asked him which kinds of occasions he attended, he replied that he came to all kinds, mainly to play practical jokes, such as locking people in the toilet. He had been a bit of a joker during his life. I asked if he would mind thanking his grandfather for the help he gave me back then, when he next turned up.
The weather became quite splendid as we reached the pier, and we had a better view than I expected. The atmosphere was great, and everyone was friendly and helpful.
I don't have the remotest grasp of sailing, so I had no idea what I was watching. Perhaps Anna is quicker to learn such things, or maybe, like Nelson, she has keener vision with her one eye and the aid of Harold's field-glasses. Anyway, she said that New Zealand were winning, Sweden were second, and we were third.
Rossi's Ice Cream Parlour was doing a roaring trade when we passed it on the way back.
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