no egrets

Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly, -
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.

After the excesses of the previous evening, a familiar walk close to home was exactly what was needed.  We'd not gone to bed until one in the morning after enjoying an evening with friends: plenty to eat, drink, laugh and listen to some great music. As David Crosby had just shuffled off this mortal coil the day before, there was a lot of his beautiful voice and adventurous guitar music to enjoy, even if a bit misty eyed.

A beautiful late Sunday morning presented us with the opportunity to have a relaxed walk from the house across lanes, fields and marshes that we have known for some thirty years. The walk is usually identified by locals as the "Deserted House" walk, for reasons which may be obvious but will become apparent. It was cold so we dressed up cosily and set off with sunglasses on and a spare hat in case my ears got cold (they often do). The walk takes us through a few streets until we get up to the more rural edges of the town. However, the amount of building that's going on currently suggests even more streets to trundle through in the future. Plenty of birds flitting about and some early song accompanied us along the way. Robins singing and I spotted a blackcap too.

Once we get to the few small farms and large houses we're in Big Sky country. Wandering along gave us a chance to check out where an unfamiliar track we had seen a week before can be accessed - something for another day. The gate marked 'Private' was open which saved a scramble over it. Despite it being private property, there is open permission for everyone to walk through, obviously as long as we keep to the track. Whilst walking up the track - I say up but this is East Anglia so along would be more accurate - we noticed how few people we had seen. There were hardly any others walking apart from a the occasional dogwalker or two. There weren't too many birds either. As the track bends I stopped to look through a reed bank but nothing there either. There is an old building along here that must have been an old barn or cottage many moons ago; this is so visible for most of the walk, and one of the only buildings in view, that everyone tends to refer to the whole walk as I mentioned above.

Just after we passed the dilapidated hulk, mostly boarded up long ago, I noticed a familiar bird in a field but one we haven't seen around here for quite a while now. A lapwing flying up with its squarish wings. As we climbed up the small incline up to the marshes by the Deben another one was standing on the path in all its Prussian Cavalry officer's glory. The sun glinted off of its beautiful green back whilst its white front stood out against the muddy path and the proud black crest stood to attention. Mrs Dave saw it through the binoculars and was quite surprised at how lovely it looks. He flew off ahead of us for awhile just to show off I guess. Across the marshes a flock of redshanks were busying themselves with wading through the pools and slecks* in an amiable lazy Sunday sort of way. There must have been thirty or more. Meanwhile surprised oystercatchers began flying up and across piping their alarm to one another. They were more often grazing alone or in pairs as opposed to the redshanks who found safety in numbers. The sun continued to shine and the reflections in the pools and creeks was gorgeous.

A few minutes later a cacophony of honking became  practically the only thing we could hear: hundreds of over-wintering greylag geese were engaged in a feeding frenzy and making sure that everyone knew where they were. Too far away for a decent photo but more and more were joining in and the calling was getting to crescendo level. Oystercatchers were still piping out their 'kleep kleep' alarm to each other and flitting across the marshes to safer areas. There were plenty of other smaller waders too but I really must try to recognise a few more, all a bit grey and difficult to tell apart.

We had to leave the path then as the mud became quite difficult to deal with, we were slipping and sliding at this point, so we scrambled along until we could get back onto the path. We were getting towards the end of the marsh walk by now and a handy post by the gate allowed us to scrape off quite a lot of the mud accumulated on our boots. As we wandered along past the row of boat houses I realised we hadn't seen any egrets which was quite unusual. Crossing across towards the pub, the Ferry Boat Inn, I finally saw a cormorant, the first of the day. These were rare when we moved here in 1988 but now an established colony has meant that they are quite ubiquitous now. Someone told me they saw a kingfisher here a few weeks ago but in all the time I've lived here I have never seen one. Or heard anyone else make that claim.

The sun seemed to disappear behind some grey clouds and a dullness settled. A very welcome pint of Adnam's Southwold in the busy warm bar and a favourite lunch of whitebait for Mrs D and pilchards for me. Sorry, I meant "Cornish sardines" as we have to call them now. Everything changes. Southwold is basically what we used to call Adnam's Bitter. Evidently that's an old man's drink. Everything changes.

It was time to get going back on the home stretch. As we passed the Martello tower next to the path that winds past the Links golf course and into the old town I realised how calm the sea was. The sun had come back out whilst we were in the pub, so a pleasant wander back home was in store. There was no breeze so I never needed to wear the other hat as my ears didn't get cold. There was an absence of the usual accompaniment to this walk back home. The absence of the sea rolling in to the shore. Even the gulls were quiet. 

A pleasant familiar Sunday walk where little happened. It was nice to see a few lapwings and the various winter visitors gently enjoying the moment too. The geese were pretty noisy but, on the whole, it was just a quiet few hours of peace with a fantastic backdrop taking in the natural world. We are constantly being told this is exactly what we need for our mental health. I couldn't agree more.

* slecks: a North Sea coastal word for mud at a river where the tide goes out.

never the same

Now that the singer is gone 

where shall I go for the song?

A post came up on Twitter today that prompted me to write about something I've been thinking about for a while. The post was a picture of some granny kissing an Elvis impersonator (not Costello, the other one). I had also sat in a café yesterday having to listen to a bore telling his companions (and dog - who was obviously really bored by the way it was grizzling) about his experiences of seeing The Australian Pink Floyd live. I would love to have told him I'd seen the Floyd free at Hyde Park when I was 14 and they were performing Atom Heart Mother, or at Knebworth when they did both Dark Side of the Moon and Wish You Were Here. He might have been jealous. Or maybe he didn't care as the Aussies were much better. So, where are we heading? Yep: tribute bands.

I must admit that I'm not a huge fan of tribute acts. There are many reasons for this but I do understand why they have become very popular in recent years. Now, in the case of the Café bore, he may never have seen his favourite band live. He was obviously younger than me by some 20 years and if he's going to see them because they play his favourite Floyd stuff - probably mid-70s - then maybe he missed the boat. Perhaps he did see them then and he just wants to relive his youth. As I was mostly trying to block out his monotonous reminiscences, I didn't hear that bit. still, what I did hear was really what prompted me to write.

Very often I have heard comments that when one goes to see these bands they are "as good" (sic) or "better" than the bands they emulate! Well, we can easily sort that one out. The original bands were pioneers; creative meetings of like-minded individuals who found a whole new way of expressing themselves. Following on from The Beatles and many others, young - mostly self-taught musicians - began playing together, and of course copying their heroes and, eventually, started writing their own songs. The songs were usually derivative, of course, but many grew quickly and began whole new movements in popular music genres. The equipment available back then was expensive and often not that good or reliable. As I said, they were pioneers: challenging the norms and inventing whole new ways to express themselves. Many of these bands and artists disappeared after only a few albums - often only one - and, of course, nowadays there is a whole industry in digging up much of this stuff and presenting it to a modern audience.

I have only ever seen a few tribute bands, and I have never gone out of my way to see any. By the way, we're not talking about covers bands here but acts whose whole raison d’etre is to perform/worship at the alter of their gods. I once saw a Santana tribute band at a festival, at the end of the set the guy shouted out to the audience that if we'd enjoyed his act then please go and buy his CDs! I thought that if I had have enjoyed his set (mediocre) then I'd gone to listen to Santana. Maybe it's just me. I also once saw The Bootleg Beatles - they were a support band - it was quite a few years ago. They were okay and very well-studied. They could play exceptionally well and covered all those songs that the Beatles could never have performed live. It is because they have studied this stuff for years and the availability and ubiquity of online tuition and tablature means many "secrets" can now be common knowledge. Equipment is trustworthy now. Modern keyboards are much lighter - nobody has to try to struggle up the winding stairs of a tiny venue with a Mellotron or Hammond Organ. Amps are reliable, guitars are so well made they stay in tune. Mind you, singers can still be a liability.  At the Cropredy Festival last Summer I stayed up to watch Steve Hackett performing early Genesis stuff. A bit noodly to say the least, but when the singer came on Mrs Dave and I stared at each other in disbelief and decided to call it a night. Let's just say he certainly was no Peter Gabriel, or even Phil Collins for that matter. Anyway, that's a whole other area of discussion, concerning bands that are their own tribute acts*. For another day I guess.

So, for me, the problem is one of creativity. Yes, some of these tribute bands can play well and put on a good show. Many of their audiences missed out on the original bands for sure. The original bands were gigging, writing, making albums and creating their own brands (if I may use such an awful modern term). Many had also spent many years "paying their dues" through playing in covers bands and sensing which way the wind was blowing, went on to write their own stuff. Many fell by the wayside of course. That's why collectors will pay hundreds of pounds for original vinyl lps of obscure acts. My problem has been for many years that with many venues only willing to book tribute bands into pubs and small theatres, any originality seems to have been stifled. There doesn't seem to be the sort of circuit now that inspired so many young bands back then (60s & 70s)  - the 50p circuit we called it. When I was the Social Secretary of Stevenage College in the mid-70s I could book local acts as support for the, slightly, bigger names. Many of the local bands did covers of their favourite stuff but some of us wrote our own material too. I have friends in a band that did 95% original material now but could hardly ever get gigs without putting them on themselves. That was heart-breaking for them but Times have changed so much.

The East Anglian Mark Knopfler

Another thing prompted me to write this today. Jeff Beck died. Now, I have never been a huge fan but have always appreciated his art. On Twitter (yes, I know) Alice Cooper was shown saying that Eric Clapton was a great Blues player and Jimmy Page was a great Rock player but Beck was a great guitar player. There are many tribute bands out there (and many karaoke-style tribute singers) but I bet there isn't a Jeff Beck tribute act. Amongst all the Beatles, Stones, Who, Queen, Take That, T.Rex ad nauseum tribute acts, I wonder if that level of skill can be recreated? Perhaps now he's gone there may be one. Perhaps the player can get up and jam with the David Bowie one.

What was that Marx said about History repeating itself?

* I still maintain that bands that have kept on going with only one or two original members that still write & record new songs are not tribute acts to themselves and their glory days. They are current bands. See Wishbone Ash for example.

peace train

Oh peace train sounding louder

Glide on the peace train

Was it only a week ago I was sitting on a train from Ranthambore back to Delhi?  Somehow it seems almost like another lifetime ago. After touring Northern India for most of November and experiencing the clamour and chaos, Ranthambore seemed like an oasis. We'd had to get up early for the safaris to see tigers - which we were lucky enough to -  but the excitement and thrill still seemed a lot less chaotic than the rest of our encounter with such a lively bustling country. The evenings relaxing in a sunny garden with a swimming pool and bar prepared us for the long journey home. 

However, back to the train. During our tour we travelled on coaches, in taxis, internal flights and a fair few trains. Ah, the trains . . .

Quite a few people mention various rail journey programmes on tv, particularly the Portillo ones. In fact, we even met fellow travellers who were on a Great Train Journeys package tour. We, of course, had never watched any of these televisual feasts so were generally bemused. We actually did travel on the narrow gauge Toy Train from Shimla down to Chandigarh, much as the irritating ex-Tory MP had. That was quite pleasant, just a bit more cramped. But it is the noise of train journeys that made an impact on me. 

The opportunity to look out of the windows and take in the huge landscapes we were travelling through was quite stimulating. Once we were out of the environs of the main cities I could observe the comings and goings of daily life. Yes, the huge amount of garbage, particularly plastic bottles, was astonishing. There were posters at the stations proclaiming an end of plastic waste by July 2022. I'm guessing that's a target that will forever remain out of reach. Given the fact that every time we got in a taxi, hotel room, coach and train, we were handed a plastic bottle of water. As it really isn't safe to drink water for Westerners other than bottled water, there is a huge problem of waste creating a huge elephant in the room for their government.  As we travelled along I observed small towns and rural areas strewn with litter. The Edgelands are an area of interest to me and I will return to the subject soon.

The bustling stations and streets often gave way to massive fields, many of which reminded me of much of the UK. Yes, really. There were several large towns with tower blocks of flats that reminded me of Stevenage New Town in the1970s: High Plash, Brent Court transposed to the rural edgelands of the sub continent. Flooded fields, rivers, pylons strewn across the landscape, random solitary trees, hedges used as field borders all often seemed familiar. Except the scale, of course.

Then there was the excitement of watching black kites over the towns, the common mynas, hundreds of egrets and occasionally various storks flying over or standing idly in fields Black storks, white storks, black-necked or yellow-billed storks. All very exciting indeed.

Ours is the blue one!

Meanwhile, during these lengthy train journeys, often between four to eight hours, there was the noise. The carriages were usually packed - train travel is very popular in India. The ubiquity of noise on the trains astonished me to be honest. Everyone appeared to be on their phones. The world domination of personal phones has a lot to answer for! Hundreds of different ring tones, so many people all shouting in to them, pinging, ringing, humming buzzing constantly. On top of that is the perpetual chanting up and down the carriage, "Chai, chai, coffee, chai! Lamb cutlet, lamb cutlet. . . tomato soup, tomato soup, chai, chai!" There were many other delicacies on offer but spoken, belted out in Hindu too. My head was ringing too from all the noise. Some people seemed to be playing videos and songs -  no headphones in sight at all. Just a constant cacophony.

My mind travelled back in time to when I used to travel a lot on trains. I used to love going on long train journeys. Growing up in Stevenage and being so close to major rail routes, especially into London, and as a non-driver for many years, allowed a rather romantic notion of train travel to develop. I travelled to St Ives in Cornwall a few memorable times, Edinburgh and beyond, and London itself was a regular trip. When I had friends who lived in London, I could often be back home before them so short was the train journey (25 minutes). But that was in the age before the ubiquity of mobile phones.

Travelling in the past seems to me now to have been a much quieter and calmer experience. Peaceful, almost. Thinking back to, say, a journey down to St Ives in 1973, people sat on the train reading newspapers or books (that was me), doing the crossword, occasionally talking quietly so as not to disturb fellow travellers. There were no portable methods of music beyond transistor radios then. Nobody ever seemed to play them. Earphones were available of course, so maybe some people did listen to them. I never did or noticed others doing so. Sometimes a conversation could be struck up between strangers. I still remember a few conversations (I used such an experience in a song not long ago). Occasionally the ticket inspector came along and politely, quietly, asked to check your ticket. When we pulled in to a station there was a little bit of kerfuffle and disturbance as travellers got on or off. Cases were placed in the rack and a newspaper was rustled to find the crossword. A harrumph here and there if a baby cried or a toddler spoke out of turn. But the general ambience of a train journey was of a calm atmosphere. There was a politeness and general feeling of almost tranquillity; a time to think and get totally lost in your own thoughts. Or fall asleep and miss your stop. That happened too! I remember travelling back from a gig at the Marquee with my mate Andy late one night (yes, a school night) and we espied our dreaded headmaster on the same train. He fell asleep before Stevenage. We got off quietly and closed the door as silently as we could. We watched the train depart - next stop Peterborough. Despite what he told Andy, he didn't get off the train at Stevenage. A well-deserved payback.

Anyway, calm travelling, what we would call Slow Travel nowadays I guess, seems to be a thing of the past. Even so-called "quiet carriages" appear to be a misnomer, evidently. Modern train journeying in the UK may not be quite as raucous and chaotic as my experience in India but I think long gone are the days of calm reflective excursions where one felt whole books could have been written on those long tranquil journeys. Little noise; and just the gentle rhythmical movement of the train to lull you gently into a reverie.

The train goes running along the line,

Jicketty-can, jicketty-can,

I wish it were mine, I wish it were mine,

Jicketty-can, jicketty-can.

The Engine Driver stands in front - 

He makes it run, he makes it shunt;

Out of the town,

Out of the town,

Over the hill,

Over the down,

Under the bridges,

Across the lea,

Over the bridges And down to the sea,

With a jicketty-can, jicketty-can,

Jicketty-jicketty-jicketty-can,

Jicketty-can, jicketty-can . . .*

* Clive Sansom (1965) A poem my children loved at bedtimes.

last leaf of autumn

How I wish I could return to those summers once again
How I wish I could just sit in the presence of a friend
Making music or just listening to the birds so far from sight
Watching as the dark shades of evening turn to night
Gone the sun...

I was away in Wales the other week when the sudden, unexpected, news of Michael Chapman's death came through. Okay, he was 80 and that's not a bad innings.

Whilst Michael wasn't a household name, and his passing was fairly ignored by much of the media, I feel I need to comment. I have written before about him both in relation to the passing of Derek Brimstone and in my re-review of his album Deal Gone Down. The fact that he has been a major influence on me means I want to note his passing but, also, I think it's important to remind anyone with even a vague interest in music how influential he had been.

You can, of course, look up the obvious biographical details on Wikipedia and I do not want to reiterate that here. What I'm interested in noting is a few points about his influence and maybe an anecdote or two.

I became aware of Michael initially through Derek Brimstone who had recorded March Rain on one of his albums (and he later recorded Michael's Shuffleboat River Farewell on another album with Mr Chapman himself on lead guitar) and whilst not thinking too much of it at the time, I came haphazardly on an MC album. During a wander through Soho in 1972, at the tender age of 16, I saw a Cube Records display in Berwick Street, the albums were the first T. Rex album and a few compilations such as Procul Harum and an interesting looking one called Michael Chapman Lived Here 1968-1972. For some unknown reason, I was quite taken with it. And not long afterwards, I bought it.

I have no intention to say too much about it but the point is made that musically I loved his stuff. What I really want to mention is how influential he was. And I don't mean on me. His first two albums were produced by Gus Dudgeon and strings were arranged by Paul Buckmaster. The fact that Elton John and David Bowie were both heavily influenced by those two albums alone suggests that the mid-1970s owed much to our intrepid hero. Elton John asked him to become his guitarist (Chapman suggested Davey Johnstone instead) and the future Thin White Duke ripped him off Lock, Stock and Barrel. 

Because both Elton John and Bowie were enamoured with Chapman's first two albums they both decided to utilise a similar modus operandi: they both used Gus Dudgeon as Producer, Paul Buckmaster as orchestral arranger and the former Mr Jones even took Chapman's guitarist. Yes, it was MC who introduced the World to Mick Ronson's guitar playing on record. Bowie took Ronson and his band the Rats and turned them into the Spiders From Mars. The rest is history. 

Over the years I managed to see Michael Chapman in various guises. I remember a ridiculous gig in London where he played a gig in some god-awful disco with a keyboard player with an occasional extra musician, none other than Phil Palmer who is best known for being a) Ray & Dave Davis of the Kinks' nephew or b) a Pink Floyd guitarist.  Also, he played late last Century at a tiny pub in Woodbridge in Suffolk. I went up to see that one Sunday before work on the Monday. Fabulous: a lone long distance guitarist at the height of his powers. He played a gig (can't remember the band - do forgive me Mr Clements if you were the bassist in Suffolk called the Suffolk'n'Good Festival (read it again, slowly). But best of all was in 1977 at the Chorley Festival where Chapman played in a three piece with Keith Hartley on drums and the wonderful Rod Clements (Lindisfarne) on bass. That was one of those gigs I will put as one of the most memorable ever. Not least because my girlfriend and I hitched up to it and were given a lift in a refrigerated lorry - guess where the driver put our tent. Yep, it didn't thaw out until we got home the following week. . . anyway, it was well worth the agony & angst. Having a lot of friends in those days helped! 

In more recent years, he has been influential on many young American guitar slingers - I have been introduced to the music of Steve Gunn because of this. 

Anyway, I just wanted to mark the passing of an important artist because he has been important to me. Just one more thing: you will read of his dour personality. A gruff Yorkshire man who didn't suffer fools gladly, or waste money*. However . . .  however, one last story. I went to see him appear at a tiny pub in Manningtree where he was appearing on the same bill as the aforementioned Derek Brimstone. Evidently they had never actually appeared on the same bill despite being great friends. I still maintain that Michael had borrowed the "banjo from a friend" from Derek. It was a great gig and I got to have quite a long chat with the great man himself. I mentioned that I had seen him many years before on BBC 2's Sight and Sound concert on a Saturday evening around 7 pm. I said I would love to have had a recording of that programme. Do you know what? He gave me his address and said send me an sae (cf the point about being a tight Yorkshire man*) which I did, of course. A week or so later, a cassette of the gig, recorded through the mixer so not a crap off-tv recording turned up. I've still got it. Okay, I haven't got a cassette player anymore but the point still stands.

I sincerely hope that Michael and Derek have met up again and that Mr C has had the banjo fixed and was able to hand it back. 

Michael Chapman 1941-2021 R.I.P.

we're all doomed!

Hear the trumpets hear the pipers

One hundred million angels singin'

Multitudes are marchin' to the big kettledrum

Voices callin', voices cryin'

Some are born and some are dyin'

It's alpha and omega's kingdome come . . .

We jumped into the car and headed off further up the coast; Mrs Dave said she had forgotten to take any anti-histamine but it wasn't the end of the World. Actually, it could be I told her. We were heading up to look at a Medieval Armageddon scenario after all, so it was possible.

With all the cuts and everything, the First Horseman of the Apocalypse© seems to have taken over the pestilence of Roadworks and House Building, so the journey of a mere 35 miles would take about an hour. Coming back . . . Ha! Just wait . . . 

Anyway, it being a blistering late Summer day (mini Indian Summer?) meant getting up reasonably early and travelling to the wilds of Suffolk where all the best-tasting pigs come from (or kale for those faux-vegans amongst us). Mrs Dave had read a book about The Doom at the church in a tiny village called Wenhaston* and it seemed like a good opportunity to visit it. Whilst we were there, an even better idea occurred to us that we could take in the "Cathedral of Suffolk©" at Blythburgh and - even more exciting - have lunch at the White Horse in the same village. Ah well, the best laid plans and all that . . .

So, we reached the church car park at Blythburgh, put on our walking boots and off we set. The plan was to have a pleasant stroll by the river, poke about the Doom church, head back and have lunch at the aforementioned pub followed by a look around Suffolk's finest Cathedral-in-all-but-name. 

It's a lovely village and we have walked around the area a few times before. However, the first fly in the ointment was a red sign - quite prominent - that said the the river path was no longer open. Evidently, a part of the "wall" had been flood-damaged and walkers should keep away. Nearby was a lone fisherman so I decided he was probably local so we should check with him. We approached him as a possible catch seemed to be getting away from him. I thought I should see what he was hoping to catch. Interestingly enough, he was fishing for mullet. Given the length of the white pony-tailed hair poking out of the back of his baseball cap, I thought he already had one. Anyhow, he informed us that the sign had been left up for years and the path was certainly "fine." We wished him a good day's fishing and off we went. As we wandered off, another white fisherman of the bank rose up into the air. We had disturbed an egret and he haughtily flew off to start his vigil for lunch elsewhere.

Now, many of the books of local walks we have collected over the years we've lived here could actually be re-printed in a sort-of Best Of omnibus. It could be called, for example, "How To Get Lost In Suffolk."  Given this was the second time this week alone rather badly worded instructions had meant a retracing of our footprints, I'm guessing that some bad language can be forgiven. Of course, being savvy technically minded silver surfers, we also have the OS App on our phones. So, after wandering off in completely the wrong direction far half an hour, we looked at the App.

After retracing our footprints, we certainly got onto the correct path. I'm assuming that the aforementioned sign telling Walkers that the path was closed has meant that the path hasn't really been walked for possibly a few years. The reeds were overgrown so it wasn't that easy to see the river. Along with the overgrowth of reeds, grasses, thistles and nettles were in total abundance. It just so happened that Mrs Dave had decided that today was a good day to try out her new walking shorts. After an hour of redecorating her lower legs in little red bumps she asked whether I had remembered to pack the First Aid kit. So that was a negative. Well, we're only wandering along a river locally; surely we don't need a full First Aid kit, do we? Well, honestly, the language!

Anyway, we continued on a while longer with me wishing I would actually fall into the river to escape the agony of causing her so much pain. Nothing compared to the agony she was suffering of course but we're nearly there now.

Once we had turned away from the "path" by the river, we walked across fields and into the village of Wenhaston fairly quickly. Although, to be honest, the idea that we were going to get back to where the car was parked and get lunch in the local pub was beginning to look rather remote. As we entered the village, we discovered they had a Post Office with a meaningless sign announcing a café. Obviously they didn't. So we wandered off to see The Doom. The whole point of the walk. I'd heard much about it and we were finally going to witness it. When I was told about the "amazing" church at Huntingfield**, I was unsure what to expect but was blown away with how spectacular it is. This is on a completely different level. Whereas the Huntingfield church has a spectacular ceiling full of beautifully painted Victorian art and decorated angels made by a Norfolk shipwright, this church had eleven planks of wood painted by an amateur in about 1489 that had been damaged over the years - some bits cut away to allow various pipes to be fitted into the church. Now, the fact these painted planks of wood have survived many years - quite a few whitewashed over since the Reformation - is historically exciting. However, it is a little underwhelming. I may have been a little less than charitable after stumbling through what seemed rather jungle-like, and it was, after all, great to see such a striking piece of Religious Art that has stood the test of Time.  In fact, it is now considered to be the finest Doom painting of its type in England.

Doom paintings were produced to give a visual document of the End of Time to essentially illiterate working class people. Blythburgh Church was built from the proceeds of the wealthy who wished to buy their way into Heaven. I must admit, looking at the lower right-hand part of the Doom - the weighing of the souls - would have put the frighteners on anyone staring at it whilst the priest ranted and raved and damned them all to Hell (I think that's what they did). Some of it is missing: possibly the nice bits or more hopeful pictures of Angels playing trumpets. But, generally the concept it was trying to get over still get their point across. Modern congregations may have even more realistic and frightening visions of what eternal damnation may hold for all Sinners from modern CGI effect-laden films and box-sets but I think our Baldric-like ancestors had a fairly good idea of where it was all going (Hell in a hand-cart, I believe) just from the vivid pictures from these artefacts. They may have been painted by amateurs (some may have been painted by Journeyman-wandering-Netherlanders) but the point was made. Sitting in the congregation looking at these visions whilst being berated by the local priest would have been quite a thought-provoking part of Sunday morning whilst trying to remember exactly it was they got up to after last night's carousing was anything to go by. Especially if they had tried the local Scrumpy.

Having managed to take far longer than planned, we ended up for lunch at the local hostelry, The Star Inn. I'm very glad we tarried too. It was a great find - I had never heard of it before, let alone been there. A couple of pints of Green Jack Brewery's Trawlerman Bitter (4.6% in case you're asking Martyn & John) and an excellent ham and mustard roll and I was happy to wander off towards Blythburgh - as long as I didn't have to walk by that bloody river again. Mrs Dave tried the local cider (I didn't ask the landlord for the abv as I had no intention of driving home - she only had a half) and we walked it all off. Not quite following our book's instructions meant that, yes, we had missed the path but we did manage to get to the car park. A quick look at the self-proclaimed Cathedral of Suffolk© - okay but a little underwhelming - meant we had to go and spend about two hours travelling back. Given that my usual Navigator was now driving and I (not that good at Navigation to be perfectly honest - I had an argument with the Google Sat Nav. That's how bad I am at it) we managed to take an even longer route back home through the wilds of Suffolk. 

Given the First Horseman of the Apocalypse seemed quite prevalent today, I was surprised that none of the horsey-types were represented on the old Doom painting. Lots of St Michael, demons and naked souls but no horses. Maybe it's more to do with the fact that even good artists can't draw horses. Ah well: that's for another time.

*Wenhaston is, according to the landlord of the Star Inn, pronounced' "Wenaston", as in the h is silent. So definitely not pronounced like the fromer "dolly bird" hostess of The Golden Shot in the early 1970s.

**I honestly though I'd written about it but obviously haven't: apologies - another time.

 

if i whistle, will they come to me?

Oh, Whistle' and I'll come to ye, my lad, 

O whistle, an' I'll come to ye, my lad;

Tho' father, and mother and a' should gae mad, 

Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

 Reading Rob Young's The Magic Box reawakened my interest in finding out exactly where M.R. James had set The Globe Inn in 'Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad.' It's a well-known fact the the seaside town Burnstow is a fictionalised Felixstowe but as the Globe Inn doesn't exist - nor has it ever - he must have based it on somewhere. Over the years I have assumed that it could have been The Victoria, now a disused pub slowly decaying as it has been left to rot by a miserable local resident*. As it is situated at the hamlet called Felixstowe Ferry next to the Links just northeast of Felixstowe itself. When I used to teach the story and, indeed, the film version, I always referred to it as where the story was originally set. However, over the years other suggestions have been made. Indeed a good friend of mine recently told me that The Fludyers Arms was a highly likely candidate. The curiously named Fludyers Arms** originally opened in 1839 and is probably more likely to be the Globe than The Victoria. The latter pub was open then and photos of it can be found from 1894. James wrote the story in 1904 and he definitely visited the town, quite often by all accounts. However, for some reason, I have never considered it as the Globe. I'm really not sure why, but somehow it doesn't quite fit the bill even though it is in about the right place. A BBC news story from October 2020 suggests a building close to what is now the refurbished The Fludyers Hotel and to me fits the bill more easily. M.R. James was a medieval historian and provost of King's College, Cambridge. His good friend Felix Cobbold, from the Suffolk brewing family, was the college's bursar. Cobbold lived in The Lodge, Felixstowe. James often spent time, particularly New Year at the Lodge. According to Robert Lloyd Parry, an actor interviewed for the BBC story believed the story was partly inspired by his stay at the house. In the story James describes the view from his protagonist's room at the fictional Globe Inn:

On the south you saw the village of Burnstow. On the north no houses were to be seen, but only the beach and the low cliff backing it. Immediately in front was a strip - not considerable - of rough grass, dotted with old anchors, capstans, and so forth; then a broad path; then the beach.

According to Parry it is clearly the view from the upper storeys of the Lodge as, "It's the only place you can get that view." Well, I will have to take his word for that. As for the Lodge, well it's now called Cranmer House and is a Grade II Listed Building worth £1.5million. I'm guessing I'm not likely to be popping upstairs for a butchers for sure. So, having lived here in the town since 1988, I have often walked past this house regularly. In fact, there's hardly a week goes by that I don't walk past it unless I'm away, of course. Neither of the two film versions of Oh, Whistle were filmed in Suffolk. The 1968 Jonathan Miller version for the BBC was filmed in Norfolk and the 2010 remake with John Hurt was filmed in Kent. Obviously I feel that's a shame but, presumably, those alternative locations lent themselves better to the wild, solitary coastlines more in keeping with the story than modern Felixstowe. James wrote a second story partly set in Burnstow, The Tractate Middoth (1911) which has been made into a film by Mark Gatiss. Interestingly, the protagonist meets a Mrs Simpson who runs a boarding house in the town. A real Mrs Simpson stayed in Felixstowe for six weeks in 1936 waiting for her divorce. Evidently she hated it. Still, that's a whole other area of interest to some - certainly not me! As for the James story, it's not one I know so I'm not sure exactly whereabouts it's set.

  I often wonder how much of modern Felixstowe would seem familiar to M. R. James, probably a fair amount to be honest. Ghosts don't seem to be much of a literary topic nowadays. I know the experience seemed to give way to alien sightings towards the end of last Century. Also, horror as a genre tends to be very graphic and, indeed, more horrific now too. I'm sure there are plenty of ghosts out there too just waiting for their stories to be told. 

* The story goes she wanted to stop people from drinking there because they were too noisy! 

 ** Named after an MP but was originally The Felix Hotel.

More on Oh, Whistle & Felixstowe on this post (also currently as Featured Post)

abroad thoughts from home

But I might write a song that makes you laugh, now that would be funny
And you could tell your friends in England you'd like that
But now I've chosen aeroplanes and boats to come between us
And a line or two on paper wouldn't go amiss

Spain was just about to go into lock-down. We were in Seville for a few days - our birthday present to each other. We've been back 8 days now so hopefully all's well. Luckily enough we were booked on a flight out on the Friday and Spain was being shut down on the Saturday.

Many shops were closing early that afternoon and the bars and restaurants were fairly empty. We had a coffee and some tapas in a bar under Las Setas de la Encarnación (The Mushrooms of the Incarnation) and our waiter explained what was going on. He told us that normally at that time on a Friday afternoon the whole place would be heaving, all the bars full of weekend-starts-here revellers. He looked forlornly around and told us that the schools were closed as of that day so everyone would be at home looking after the kids. He then went into a diatribe about the Chinese which was uncomfortable but when in Rome . . . or Seville in this case. We were able to get to the airport despite the bus being full as an enterprising taxi driver did a deal for four of us so we got there quite quickly. Empty roads. The other two were a couple of ladies who were flying back to Manchester. The Manchester flight was very busy, much busier than ours to Stansted but both were slightly delayed. My understanding is that Saturday was a lot busier and stressful.

We were home just after midnight. It was Tuesday before we were able to buy toilet rolls. We weren't panic buying, just felt we may need more if we have to self-isolate. The unnecessary shortages could have been easily averted I'm sure. The most cynical thing I've seen so far is the profiteering nature of some of the shops. I feel sorry for families with youngsters that need Calpol but find the prices hiked to nearly £10. On Friday I bought a bottle of wine in our local Spar for £6. On Saturday they were changing the prices of all their wines. The same one was suddenly £7:50. It hadn't been on offer the day before, so it was sheer profiteering as far as I'm concerned. Needless to say I didn't buy it.

Seville itself is a city we'd never been to before and we spent four days there thoroughly enjoying it. Obviously we were tourists and felt we needed to see the sights. We went to the Cathedral which is, evidently, the largest Gothic cathedral in the World. Unfortunately we didn't go up the tower as we thought we had to pay more but it was actually included in the price. Never mind. What we did see though as we wandered around was the disgrace of redundant wealth. The amount of gold on show and 'treasures' (sic) were ostentatious in the extreme. I began to feel a little sickened to be honest. In contrast to that we got up earlier the following day and went to the Alcázar, the palace opposite the cathedral. The elegance and grace of the palace was much more to my taste. Yes, it's a huge palace built for royalty but it was far more impressive. It seemed to me that it was here that would normally show more pomp and flamboyance but, no, the cathedral trumped it completely. The grounds were great too. There was definitely a celebration of Nature here as opposed to just the small orange grove in the grounds of the cathedral. Again, the cathedral was definitely all about humanity and its ability to build needless monuments to its "jealous god" whereas the gardens of the palace seemed more about, yes, taming Nature but enjoying it too. Mind you, back in 1978 I visited the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem and was far more impressed with that than any of the Christian churches too. Anyway, no lectures, just an observation.

I have to say that the weather was perfect too. Obviously we hadn't fully prepared but boots, jeans and T-shirts were all we really needed. We enjoyed the Triana market too where we ate Pescado Frito (fried fish). On the whole, Seville seemed fairly quiet so it was easy to get seated and food service was quick. We weren't sure right up until we left on the Tuesday whether or not we'd be able to travel and had been prepared to have the trip cancelled. We were quite lucky I guess. On the other side of the river was the old fish market which is now a gourmet version of the Triana and we visited that on Friday for lunch before we set off home. The river cruise was pleasant and we managed to walk all around the city easily - Mrs Dave's fitbit seemed pleased. Seville seems to be a very beautiful city that enjoys its cultural heritage. A group of buskers performed flamenco at the Plaza de España which was handy as we weren't there long enough to go to an evening performance. Food is a particularly appealing part of a visit. We found a great little bar - and I mean little as it was only about the size of the Nutshell in Bury St Edmunds! The Alfalfa bar was very busy and crowded but everyone was friendly and making the most of the last few evenings of freedom. Or so it seems.

The other thing about Seville is how many parakeets there seem to be. We're used to them on a much lesser scale here in the UK but I was taken aback by just how ubiquitous they are there.I recently saw a small flock of grey parakeets in Manchester and have seen the in London and, even, Ipswich. The noise and sight of these lovely green red-beaked chaps no matter where you go was wonderful. I spent a lot of time looking upwards.That's getting to be a dangerous habit nowadays with so many almost silent electric cars around!

I guess we're all going to have to rely on our memories of trips abroad - or anywhere really - for a while. Mind you, now that exams have been cancelled I won't be marking this year so I probably won't be able to afford to go anywhere for a while.