SNOPPER`S CAREER ON KNIFE EDGE....

(From our Golf Correspondent)

Despite a threatening weather forecast, yesterday afternoon at the Poult Wood Golf Course turned out to be bright and sunny with a stiff breeze cutting across the more open parts of the course.

After a couple of weeks or so on the sidelines, Snopper returned to the fairways (well, occasionally) in a renewed attempt to build on the progress made in his last outing, when an encouraging card in double figures was returned. The other bright spot on that occasion was the loss of only five balls, another statistic he was looking to better yesterday.

Sadly, things didn`t quite go according to plan. A decent start went awry as Snopper found assorted ponds and nearby woodland as he attempted to round Amen Corner - the formidable 5th, 6th and 7th holes - which has been known to cause mild irritation to other golfers in the past. These setbacks contributed to a front nine score of 64 - one of Snopper`s least prepossessing efforts.

The back nine saw a distinct improvement, however, with a total of 47 being recorded, including one unlikely par on the par 3 14th. This produced a total of 111 for the round, which was the highest score Snopper has recorded since he started playing at Poult Wood some 25 years ago. There were vain attempts to reduce that score by various means, including some creative accounting, Snopper`s insistence on maintaining a handicap of 28 and also a suggestion that he might be awarded a further 10 strokes to take account of his status as an old age pensioner struggling to survive on a fixed income. The R & A have heard it all before, though, and are not prepared to bend their rules for anyone.

The lost ball count has, sadly, risen to 10 for this round - no less than four coming in the space of two holes. Snopper`s attempts to find them are, of course, curtailed by his reluctance to get his feet wet and also a pathological fear of reptillian life that may be loitering in the undergrowth.

The whole experience has left his golfing career at a crossroads - it is going to be difficult for him to come back after this setback, but I think we can look forward to covering his exploits in future on the simple basis that things really cannot get any worse. Can they?

IT`S REALLY NOT GOING VERY WELL...

I don`t want to burden you with troubles of my own - I really don`t - but I need to tell someone about this; it might make me feel better if I unburden myself a little. I`m sure you will understand when I tell you.

Two games in to the new season and Southampton FC have slumped to two embarrassing defeats in the space of three days. The first was a 4-1 drubbing at home to Crystal Palace - the biggest defeat at home since our lovely family-friendly shiny new stadium was build about four years ago. This defeat was mainly due to defensive blunders of heroic proportions - apart from that, it was ok. Then on Monday evening - in front of a world-wide tv audience on Sky - Saints lost 2-1 to Peterborough, who are lurking in the fourth tier of English football.

Looking on the bright side, there are 45 more league games to come this season, so plenty of time for manager George Burley to put things right, assuming he gets the funds to do so. Not sure about that though, as it has emerged that the sale of three of our best players from last season was forced upon us in order to avoid going into administration, with all the horrors that implies. Just ask Leeds fans.

However, I have at last discovered the art of philosophical acceptance, so it is with a shrug of the shoulders and a rueful smile that I turn to Doris Day for my salvation:-

There, that`s better, although I strongly suspect I will have to unburden myself quite frequently as the season unfolds. Thank you for listening.

CINEMA NOIR......

Speaking of the Lake District, I was reminded of the first and only time I have been there.

In the harsh, long winter of 1960, I was enduring my six weeks of `basic training` as a National Serviceman at Catterick Camp in North Yorkshire. The whole experience was memorable and, in some respects at least, useful - I was taught how to turn right and left and walk quite quickly and even to turn around.

After the first four weeks, we were all given 48 hours leave, which meant that those who were able to, could go home to their loved ones. I, however, along with a fellow conscript, lived too far away to be able to get home and back again within the 48 hour period - to make it worthwhile at least.

So, on the Saturday morning, we dressed up in our army uniforms and proceeded to hitch-hike across the Yorkshire Dales - Hawes, Leyburn, Sedburgh - being given sympathetic lifts which our uniforms encouraged - until we reached Ambleside in the Lake District in the late afternoon.

We found a bed and breakfast place to stay the night and then proceeded to hit the town. Trouble was, there was nothing in town to hit apart from the local cinema, which was showing `Carry on Sergeant` - just what we could have done without when trying to banish thoughts of Catterick for 48 hours, but there was nothing else to do (so our naivite dictated!)

We slept well and, refreshed by Mrs. Miggins breakfast, we made our way back to Catterick, where the real comedy of our lives was resumed:-

(click for larger image - it`s worth it!)

`Carry on Sergeant` was shown again on Channel 4 last week - it wasn`t funny when I saw it in Ambleside...and it`s even less funny now.

I FELL FOR IT......

Sometimes I complain about the BBC - the rubbish programmes, especially in the daytime, the blatant disregard for any sense of value for money, the unavoidable tax of the licence fee, the political correctness* and the obscene salaries paid to mediocrities like Jonathan Ross.

(*On the political correctness thing, there`s a report today concerning domestic goddess Nigella Lawson`s new cookery series. It seems the theme of the series requires Nigella to cook for a dinner party of her guests; no problem, you would think....except that the BBC compliance unit has insisted that one of the guests must be from an ethnic minority background. Yikes!)

However, I digress - the point of this rant is actually to give the BBC enormous credit for some of their recent offerings - `Building Britain,` `Mountain,` `Atom ` and the new series of `Wainwright`s Walks.` Now, this latter series depicts walks in the Lake District as explored and described by legendary fell walker, Alfred Wainwright. The series is beautifully filmed and is presented by Julia Bradbury (pictured above.)

A feisty girl is our Julia - all long legs, hair and teeth - and she strides effortlessly up the fells, across ridges, for mile after mile. She must be very fit and the gods clearly smile on her, as each day seems to be bathed in sunshine even though the Lake District is England`s wettest region.

(Click on photo for larger image)

I think I fell for Julia`s obvious charms....but also for the scenery, exemplified by the above view of Windermere and Ambleside.

A LITTLE SELF-INDULGENCE

I`m never too sure what blogs are supposed to be used for. Wikipedia`s definition says:-

"Blogs provide commentary or news on a particular subject such as food, politics, or local news; some function as more personal online diaries."

As you may have noticed, dear reader, mine tends to be used for a number of things - insightful commentaries on things that are going on in the world; rants against stupidity (normally associated with the antics of our politicians;) reminiscences over a long life full of experiences in places I have known and, of course, the fortunes of Southampton Football Club.

However, perhaps the time has come for me to use this blog to perform a vital function, one that is of crucial importance to the `senior citizens` of this world - namely, as nothing more than a reminder of things that may have slipped the memory.

It`s a sad truth that the older I become (three score years and ten are looming on the near horizon) the more I seem to forget things. I come upstairs for something and by the time I`ve reached the top, I`ve forgotten what it was. I can`t remember what amnesia means and quite often I can`t remember what it is I have forgotten.

For some time, something has been niggling away in the back of my mind about the number 26.

I knew I had read or heard about some unique property associated with 26, but I couldn`t recall what it was. I hate things like that, so I searched the internet without any luck (possibly because I wasn`t sure what to search for) and finally, in desperation, I stayed up until the early hours of this morning combing through my extensive and eclectic library until I found it

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What is so very special about 26 is this - it is the only number in the whole panoply of numbers from one to infinity and beyond which is sandwiched between a squared number and a cubed number (25 = 5x 5; 27 = 3 x 3 x 3) and it was our old friend Fermat, pictured above - he of the famous last theorem - that not only discovered this fact but also a proof for it, which turned out to be infinitely more difficult than the fact itself. So, 26 is, indeed, a very special number. Fascinating, isn`t it? But I expect you knew that anyway.

So, having recalled it to mind, having `blogged` it, I will know in future where to look should it slip my mind again. Maybe now I can also remind myself of the other things I have forgotten - prime numbers, perfect numbers, Pythagorean triples and other wonders of the elegant world of mathematics. Now, what was it I came upstairs for?

I bet Andrew Wiles doesn`t have these problems - have a look at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Wiles

ANOTHER DAY....ANOTHER DRAMA

Sunday`s `walkies` evoked echoes of Thomas Hardy and Jude the Obscure with the distant glimpse of London`s Canary Wharf. This morning, Henry and I took an hour to walk around Leybourne Lakes Country Park, about a mile from home, where another more recent drama came to mind. It was a fairly brisk walk on a fresh morning and it blew the cobwebs away from both of us.

The Country Park (pictured above - please click on photo for very large image)) was one of those `planning gains` which are pretty common these days. In return for the granting of permission for housing development on what was a very large derelict area of former gravel workings, the local council agreed to take on the maintenance and upkeep of a sizeable chunk of the area, which had been turned into a country park by the housing developers. And a very good job they made of it too - the park is welcoming, well managed, with good access and varying habitats which form a significant nature reserve.

The most attractive and well-used feature are the lakes themselves, popular for angling, sailing and other water sports and Henry and I enjoyed our walk around the perimeter of the largest of them.

However, as with so much in life, all is not what it seems. Just across the road there is a big - and I mean big - Tesco Supermarket; just down the road there is a large industrial and commercial `complex` and, of course, there is the recently constructed housing development, much of which overlooks the lakes. The houses are certainly different but the setting is unique enough for it to be used as the location for the recent Channel 4 drama `Cape Wrath.`

So I was left with the puzzle as to whether The Lakes housing development was really the Stepford-esque, neat and tidy, idyllic place to live it might appear to be.....or whether it hides the dark, oppressive, threatening raison d`etre so vividly portrayed in Cape Wrath.

Either way, it`s a nice walk and Henry was much taken with the up-market sniffs which abounded in the undergrowth. Oh...and of course, we cleaned up afterwards!

A WALK IN THE SHADE

This is the view from the escarpment of the North Downs looking down across the valley where I live. It`s a lovely view, but not really the sort of place to be walking the dog on what promises to be the hottest day of the year here in deepest Kent. So, this morning, Henry our Golden Retriever and I looked behind us from this spectacular vantage point....and this is what we saw:-

(click to enlarge)

......a shady walk beckoning through the nearby woods of Holly Hill. Henry loved it - new sniffs, a change of scenery and the cool overhang of the trees. Holly Hill is a bit remote - and all the better for it. It was given to the former Malling Rural District Council in, I think, 1943 by the bequest of one Mr. F. Cripps-Day and is now in the charge of Tonbridge and Malling Borough Council, who have the duty of maintaining it as a public open space.

Fortunately, the Council`s enlightened attitude towards the maintenance of Holly Hill has not extended to tidying it up too much or trying to `formalise` it in any way. It is still in the semi-wild state its location demands, but there have been one or two `enhancements.` Perhaps the most valuable is the provision of a plaque on the top of the hill which gives a potted history of the nearby triangulation beacon but also gives a photographic pointer to the places that can be seen from Holly Hill. These include Canary Wharf, the QE bridge across the Thames at Dartford, Littlebrook Power Station and even Gravesend. The only thing is that you can really only see these wonders during the winter months, when the foliage has gone from the trees.

We enjoyed our ramble this morning - away from the shimmering heat of high summer - and what struck me most was the quiet, which was absolute on this still morning.

(click to enlarge)

The whole experience was reminiscent of my visit to the obscure village of Fawley, high on the downs of Oxfordshire, where Thomas Hardy set his Marygreen and from where Jude would look out across the scene pictured above towards the dreaming spires of Oxford.

All I had this morning was a hazy glimpse of the nightmare spire of Canary Wharf, but I wondered how much its inhabitants would prefer to be with Henry and me on this peerless day.

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WHOOPS !!!........

We`re having a regime of `traffic calming measures` installed in the main street through our village. These are being provided so that traffic will be encouraged away from the village centre and on to the recently constructed by-pass.

Strikes me as a little odd that traffic has to be encouraged onto a brand spanking new road which avoids going through the middle of the village, but who am I to question the wisdom of officialdom?

Yesterday morning, a wayward pneumatic drill sliced through the water main, sending a spectacular sheet of water soaring into the sky. The village green became flooded and an air of panic and confusion descended on the traffic calming gang.

At a stroke, our water pressure dropped - there was barely a trickle coming from the taps and we resigned ourselves to the prospect of having a dribble rather than a shower. Now, the inconvenience we may have suffered was minimal and temporary, with the water main being repaired and the supply back to normal in a few hours. But it did bring it home just how awful the effects of the recent floods must have had in Yorkshire, Worcester, Gloucester, Cheltenham and especially Tewkesbury. The water supply to Tewkesbury was restored only yesterday after about two weeks.....and they still can`t drink the tap water even if it has been boiled.

We had a brief `taste` of being without yet another service which we take for granted yesterday and it was disconcerting. Thank goodness it`s summertime, so at least some people were able to make the most of it:-

It is indeed an ill wind that blows no good and, as the summer progresses and the work on the traffic calming continues until October, who`s to say we won`t have a repeat performance? Now, where did I leave my pneumatic drill?

A KNOCK AT THE DOOR......

A few days ago, there was a knock on my front door. I rushed down stairs expecting it to be our local postman (who, incidentally, originates from the same small Hampshire village - over 100 miles away - where I spent my boyhood; such a small world)....only to be confronted by two charming and very presentable young ladies.

They had come to spread the word about the qualities of and their their devotion to Jehovah`s Witnesses.

Now, I can well imagine that they had perhaps received a less than enthusiastic welcome in most of the houses in our Kentish enclave, but they launched straight into their `sales pitch` which made it difficult for me to bring the encounter to an early conclusion. And, of course, I am by nature a tolerant individual, disinclined to invoke aggression without provocation....just ask the members of my football `crew.`

However, my visitors went through their routine but perhaps failed to realise that I quite like a good `debate` now and again and, indeed, we had one - which polarised on the true meaning of religion, its place in the modern world and its history in shaping the advance of civilisation.


I have absolutely no problem with Jehovah`s Witnesses, the Flat Earth Society, Pan`s People or any other group or individual who hold dear the things which are important to them. I believe in tolerance in most things and all I asked in return for listening to what my visitors had to say was that they might just spend a moment or two listening to my own conviction.

And so it came to pass that I might just have convinced them that the one true religion is, after all, football. And that Matthew Le Tissier is not known as Le God for no reason. And that the Barclays Premier League with all its arrogance, greed, avarice and falsehood might, just might, represent the forces of evil, with the risible Alex Ferguson taking the leading role, soon to be ably supported by that paragon of human rights virtue, Thaksin Shinawatra.

It may be some time before they knock on my door again. Especially as I suspect I may dwell in the enviable landscape of the Coca-Cola Championship for some years to come.

MAMA MIA !!

Here we go again! Yesterday saw my first visit to St. Mary`s Stadium since the end of last season. Southampton FC were `entertaining` Lazio of Rome in what was billed as a pre-season friendly.

Now, Lazio are no pushovers. Last season, they finished third in the Italian Serie A, despite incurring a considerable points deduction for some misdemeanour or other. Whereas my beloved Saints are languishing in the Coca-Cola Championship (which used to be called Football League Division Two in the days when Dubbin was the only performance enhancing substance known to the football family.)

It was soon apparent that there is an enormous gulf in class between us and them - Lazio were 3-0 up after a quarter of an hour and the game eventually ended up with a 5-2 vistory to our Italian visitors. Saints` goals came from two generously awarded penalties and I got the feeling that Lazio were always able to go up a few gears if they felt like it.

It brought it home just how far Saints have come since our 27-year stay in the top flight of English football was ended with relegation a couple of years ago. OK, we missed out on promotion last season in a penalty shoot-out with Derby County, but we are light years away from being serious contenders this season.

Yesterday we had a nervous goalkeeper, a non-existent back four, a fragile midfield and a powder puff attack - apart from that, it was OK.

I`ll be watching Lazio`s progress this coming season....but I doubt their supporters who graced St. Mary`s yesterday will be returning the compliment. And who can blame them?

THE CONGREGATION THAT WOULDN`T CONGREGATE

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Deep in the windswept hinterland of Bodmin Moor in Cornwall lies the remote, tiny village of Warleggan. Off the tourist route, with no apparent reason for anyone to go there, it holds a remarkable, true story of recent times.

The church, pictured above, is dedicated to St Bartholomew. The church was one of the few on Bodmin Moor to have a spire, until in 1818 when it was struck by lightning.

Until a road was built in 1953 linking it to the A38, it had the reputation of being one of the most remote areas of Cornwall.
The priest from 1931 until his death in 1953 was Frederick Densham. Frederick, to say the least, was an eccentric: painting the church and vicarage in garish colours of yellow and blue and surrounding the church and the rectory with a barbed wire fence. He also kept dogs and would persist in letting them out to run wild on the moor, where the local farmers` sheep were grazing.

All his parishioners eventually shunned the church and the poor vicar was reduced to preaching his sermons to "cut out cardboard figures" propped up in the pews. In 1953, many years after he had preached to his last “live” congregation, Rev Densham’s body was found in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs at the rectory. It had laid there for over a week....and no-one had missed him. For more on this curious tale, see http://www.kernoweb.myby.co.uk/spiritsofcornwall/houses03.htm

A book by Daphne du Maurier was based on this story.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, dear reader, is to find out which book that was. Answers via the `comments` link below, please.

IT`S A WONDER THAT I`M HERE AT ALL.......

Doing this blog has just brought it home to me just how fortunate I seem to have been to still be here.

Being born six weeks before the outbreak of WWII was not the most auspicious start, followed by five years of bombardment.

Then I was thrown into Southampton Water in the hope that I might swim (at least I think it was in hope.) Then a year off school with a life-threatening illness.

Then the London Smog....then 731 days of military service....and so on through a chequered career and an interesting life which has just passed 68 years.

Seems to me I`m lucky to be here at all.

WELCOME TO LONDON....(cough, cough...)

When the old BOAC Flying Boats operation finally closed down, my father needed to find another job. Now, both my parents had always been keen on the `licenced trade` and took the opportunity to learn the business from my mother`s sister and her husband, who had a `pub` of their own.

What followed was nothing short of a traumatic life-change for me. From that sleepy village on the shores of Southampton Water, we moved to an off-licence in, of all places, Catford in the south-east of London.

This was late 1952 - just in time to experience the worst smog London had ever seen (or not seen, if you get my drift.)

The Great Smog befell London starting on December 4, 1952, and lasted until March of 1953. It was a great disaster that killed thousands and formed an important impetus to the modern environmental movement. In early December of 1952, a cold fog descended upon London. Because of the cold, Londoners began to burn more coal than usual. At the same time, the final conversion of London's electric trams to diesel buses was completed. The resulting air pollution was trapped by the heavy layer of cold air, and the concentration of pollutants built up dramatically. The smog was so thick that it would sometimes make driving impossible.

It entered indoors easily, and concerts and screenings of films were cancelled as the audience could not see the stage or screen.Since London was known for its fog, there was no great panic at the time. In the weeks that followed, the medical services compiled statistics and found that the fog had killed 4,000 people—most of whom were very young or elderly, or had pre-existing respiratory problems. Another 8,000 died in the weeks and months that followed.

All this on top of having to move to a school where my Hampshire burr set me apart from the rest and provided a grim introduction to life in the metropolis. I guess that is why, ever since, apart from the occasional peaceful Sunday visit, I have only been to London when absolutely unavoidable......the last occasion being about four years ago. I have no plans to return there any time soon, even if it is only an hour away.

SNOPPER IN GOLFING COMEBACK

(from our golf correspondent)

In a surprise return to the fairways of Poult Wood, yesterday saw Snopper celebrating his 68th birthday with an improved performance. Coming after a disastrous display a couple of weeks ago, when I reported the loss of at least 12 golf balls during an unrecorded round (Snopper had conveniently lost his pencil) yesterday saw him return a score of 99, which was partly achieved by a liberal interpretation of some of the Royal and Ancient Rules, coupled with some dubious arithmetic. In addition, a generous handicap of 28 meant that he was only a few shots over par for the course at the end.

This could be a turning point in Snopper`s faltering career, especially as yesterday`s lost ball count reached only five. Titlelist & Co might just be a little concerned. Well, maybe not.

47 YEARS AGO YESTERDAY.....

.....I was celebrating my 21st birthday. In those days, the 21st was THE big birthday - the introduction of 18th birthday celebrations had not happened, so the 21st was the ultimate rite of passage. Well, for most, I guess it may have been.

For me, it was anything but. The reason? I was being detained at Her Majesty`s pleasure by doing my National Service with one of the country`s finest cavalry regiments - the 10th Royal Hussars, no less

And it just happened to be that my 21st birthday coincided with the annual tank manoevres which took place close to Schneverdingen on Luneburg Heath in northern Germany.

And it just happened to be that those in charge of the regiment thought it would be a good idea to assign me to the job of guarding the tank park overnight. (I always thought the idea was that the tanks were there to guard us, rather than the other way around.) I was convinced that my posting on guard that night was an act of deliberately evil intent on the part of the military, presumably thinking that such malevolence would teach me not to react in a way which would be "contrary to good order and military discipline."

Now, the army`s idea of how to effectively guard a regiment of tanks and other assorted armoured fighting vehicles was to equpip the person on guard with a wooden stick. So when, at about 3.00am in the middle of this teutonic wasteland night, a loud bang is heard emanating from said tank park, yours truly charges forth brandishing the wooden stick and shouting "How dare you interrupt my 21st birthday?"......or words to that effect.

Later I discovered that it was the work of an upstart subaltern who thought it would be a jolly jape to unsettle the guard by throwing a firecracker into the middle of the serried ranks of vehicles. I seriously doubt that the military careers of either of us were enhanced that night - he for being up so late and me for not really troubling myself too much to apprehend the culprit.

For all of that, however, I still retain some kind of warped affection for the regiment and a real friendship with some of the people with whom I was conscripted all those years ago. However, I did feel a slight sense of revenge when, in 1969, the 10th Royal Hussars were amalgamated with another regiment and so were no more.

And with each and every birthday that comes around, I think back to that long, dark night in that faraway wilderness on that pointless task and wonder whether I should sue the Government for the psychological damage I have suffered ever since for being denied my 21st birthday.

WHY DON`T THEY WORK WHEN YOU NEED THEM?????

This is my mobile phone - at least it was until yesterday.

I was heading along the M25 motorway en route to a series of `engagements` in Berkshire and Hampshire, when my progress was halted by a huge traffic jam. Apparently, there had been a bad accident along the stretch of motorway between Wisley and Chertsey earlier yesterday morning. I didn`t know this, as I hadn`t checked the traffic reports before I left home and I was enraptured by the CD I was playing of Ray Conniff, his orchestra and chorus. Well, who wouldn`t be?

After over two hours waiting in the traffic queue, it became obvious even to me that I was not going to be able to keep an `appointment` I had at 1.00pm in Southampton. So, I switched on my mobile phone to make the call, only to get a message that `IMSI failed.` Whatever that meant. What to do? Of course, use my winsome charm on the young lady sitting in the stationary car in front. I tapped on her window, showed her the message on my phone, asked if she had one (a repeatedly rhetorical question these days) and asked if she could dial the number I showed her, so I could explain my predicament.

She was very obliging - and my appointment was duly postponed for another day. What`s more, she very kindly refused to accept money from me to pay for the call - it may have been her `Help the Aged` Day.....but I was most grateful.

The question now is what to do about the mobile phone (it still doesn`t work today.) It`s just typical - you have the phone in the car for months on end, you take it for nice long drives, you don`t bother it much by making daft calls from supermarkets to enquire what size bananas she might fancy today and what happens when you really need it.....it doesn`t work. Wonderful!

There seems to be a choice between getting a new one, the technology of which might just frighten the life out of me, or not bother. Since I only have cause to use a mobile phone about once every millennium, I`m not sure I`ll bother, preferring to rely on my winsome charm, my codgeresque innocence and an endless supply of obliging young ladies.

Don`t ring me, `cos I`m not sure I can ring you.

(click to enlarge)

AN INCIVILISED COMMENT.....

There have been very few occasions when I have genuinely been awestruck . Seeing the interior of St. Paul`s and Winchester Cathedrals are two examples but the world of the visual arts provided another.

A few years ago, on an impulsive Sunday morning, my eldest son, David and I visitied the National Gallery in London for the first time. It`s a wondeful place - all the usual suspects are there to be seen, the great and the good throughout the history of visual art. But however long you might reel off the familiar names, it`s a matter of some doubt that you will utter the name of Joseph Wright of Derby.

Now, the National Gallery has countless `rooms` and on a Sunday morning they all tend to be well populated, people going round them in an orderly fashion, seldom forming what you might call a crowd around any particular exhibit. Until, that it, you come to `An Experiment on a bird in the Air Pump.` On the Sunday morning of our visit, we went into the room and there were the people crowded round this quite stunning work. It is Joseph Wright`s crowning masterpiece - and it`s huge, 183 x 244cm - and it shows a travelling scientist demonstrating the formation of a vacuum by the withdrawal of air from a flask containing a white cockatoo.

The point of the painting is not so much to demontrate the science but more to show the human emotion which the experiment brings to the onlookers. The little girl is worried whether the bird will die - Wright leaves the question unanswered; the young lovers on the left seem only to be concerned about themselves. The painting also demonstrates Wright`s mastery of light - the whole scene is lit by the one candle on the table. There is so much to admire, so much to contemplate - small wonder the Sunday morning crowd were as much in awe as I was.

Years ago, the BBC produced a groundbreaking series by the then Sir Kenneth (later Lord) Clark - `Civilisation` which tracked the growth of civilisation as seen through the arts, music and architecture of the ages. In it he dismisses Wright as `a mediocrity.` If the visual arts are about anything, they are about lifting the spirit, which Wright`s painting surely did on that Sunday morning. Much as I admired Lord Clark`s intellect, I fear he has misjudged one of the finest artists of the 18th century by his uncivilised comment.

More information can be found at http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/cgi-bin/WebObjects.dll/CollectionPublisher.woa/wa/work?workNumber=ng725)

A DOUBLE WHAMMY

When I was about ten years old, I suffered perhaps the first double whammy of my fledging life.....always accepting, of course, that being born six weeks before the outbreak of WW II is not whammy enough.

At the time of these particular episodes, we lived at Hythe on the shores of Southampton Water, where my father worked for BOAC at their flying boat maintenance base.

One day I was taken along to see a brand new flying boat, which had been moored alongside the maintenance apron, which we could see quite clearly from the end of our back garden. I can`t recall which particular flying boat it was - may even have been the one shown above. As part of the `celebrations` I was handed my very first glass of champagne. "Here you are, small boy," said the very proper stewardess in her BOAC uniform, "try this. It`s only apple juice - won`t hurt you."

So, down it went....and very quickly came up again. It tasted exactly like she said - fizzy apple juice - and from that experience, I have only ever enjoyed the odd quaff and never become much of an enthusiast. Cheers anyway:-

A year or two before that event, my father thought it was time I learned to swim, so he taught me by invoking the time-honoured method of taking me to the edge of the maintenance apron....and throwing me into Southampton Water! Sink or swim time - I swam alright. Fortunately for me, the tide was in at the time and no flying boats were in the vicinity.

(click to enlarge)

BOAC (British Overseas Airways Corporation) became British Airways, but the flying boat operation is long gone and the location of my early whammies is now a housing development whose opening no doubt saw the champagne flow once more, but these days small boys tend not to be thrown in the deep end.

C`EST MANIFIQUE !!

It`s confession time!!

Any cynical reservations I may have expressed about the Tour de France progressing through Kent have been well and truly dispelled. I started watching it on tv when the tour reached the part of the Garden of England close to where I live - I suppose it was the novelty of seeing nearby places on television - but I soon became hooked on the event itself.

The organisation, the competitiveness, the teamwork, the individual endurance, skill and courage of the riders were quite stunning and the event was crowned by a quite breathtaking climax at Canterbury when Robbie McEwen came back from a fall and injury to snatch a dramatic stage win.......and all the while, the Kent countryside has seldom looked more inviting.

What I may have thought of as a Tour de Farce has turned out to be a Tour de Force. It`s never too late to learn!

Bravo!!

BIENVENUE AU JARDIN......

Tomorrow the Tour de France will make its way through the county of Kent, marking the first stage of the 2007 Tour by travelling from London to Canterbury on what can only be described as a circuitous route. Part of the route passes very close to where I live, so I`m expecting some restrictions on the local roads, some of which will be closed to all traffic except those connected with and taking part in Le Tour.

This is quite a big deal for us here in the Garden of England (Le Jardin d`Angleterre) and it seems most people are enthused by the prospect of standing at the roadside for hours on end in order to catch a fleeting glance of the competitors as they `speed` by (a word I use advisedly.)

It seems that 150 miles of Kent roads will be closed for much of the day, the Police and other services will be severely stretched and all in all a deal of inconvenience, not to say expense for the local taxpayers, is pretty certain.

For all that, however, the event will - we are told - bring huge benefits to the county in terms of exposure, tourism potential and expenditure by visitors staying to witness the race; Kent County Council have estimated the total financial benefit to be in the region of £37million....which I find hard to believe, but there is no doubt that benefits will accrue as well as the opportunity for local people to be involved in the biggest single sporting event in the world. So you won`t hear me complain. Well, not much anyway. Maybe just a bit. We`ll see what the morning brings.

So, welcome to Kent to the competitors, their support , the spectators from far and wide, the press, television and everyone else who comes to visit our lovely county and all it has to offer. Normally it looks like this:-

(click to enlarge)

Part of the route will be through the town of Tonbridge, which reminds me of the cycling tale that has become legend, for it seems that during the mid-1950s when the Tour of Britain cycle race came through the town, the leading rider, one Bernard Pusey, was stopped in the High Street and accused of exceeding the speed limit.

I imagine that cycle racing and indeed the town of Tonbridge have come a long way since those days.....and I`m quite certain that the Tonbridge Constabulary will be understanding of any such transgressions tomorrow. Won`t they? Sacre bleu!!

LOOKING BACK..........

For a few years now, my eldest son, David and I have been interested in tracing some of our family history. I have to confess that he is much more adept, thorough and organised than I am, so I have taken to relying on my memories. One of the most compelling memory I have is of my maternal grandfather, one William Austen of Swindon. (Note the spelling of the surname, which encouraged a brief flirtation with the notion that Jane Austen might feature in our family history and thus we might be in for some hefty royalties....but no.)

The photograph shows the gentlemen of the Morris Street Working Mens Club which existed in Swindon as an `amenity` associated with the Great Western Railway Works, which dominated the geography and the economy of that Wiltshire town for so long.

My grandfather worked there all his adult life as a pattern maker, a skill which he passed on to his only son (another William) ...although he did have four daughters, one of whom was my mother. The railway works was responsible for all the heavy engineering work required by God`s Wonderful Railway (GWR).....

.....and was housed in imposing buildings, surrounded by a huge brick wall, which took up the whole of one side of Rodbourne Road:-



My grandparents lived in a terraced house in Hughes Street which, along with other identical and adjacent streets, were populated almost exclusively by GWR workers. As a boy during WWII, I spent some time in that house along with my mother who, to make ends meet with my father being a prisoner of war, took a job as a bus conductress with Swindon Corporation Transport - many`s the time I sat on the bus in her care as it travelled the length and breadth of that railway town.

My grandfather retired when he was 65 but with a dogged determination borne out of a life of struggle, he survived to the grand old age of 98; and my grandmother wasn`t far behind, living until she was 96. My mother passed away a few short years ago and she managed to get to 90, so I`m fervently hoping that the genes I have inherited for longevity come from that side of the family.

As to the railway works, well it closed down in, I think, 1962 and became a trendy `outlet centre,` which I regret I have not visited, so I have no idea of its contribution to modern day Swindon; except, that is, that it continues to preserve those forbidding buildings which form part of my formative years.

I wonder what the men of the Morris Street Working Mens Club would make of it all.

(click on photos for larger images)

CRICKET, LOVELY VILLAGE CRICKET.......

The past few days have been `difficult` - which simply understates the reality. Car bombs in London, terror attack in Glasgow, devastating floods in the north of England and on this windswept, unpredictable Sunday afternoon I find myself breathing a metaphorical sigh of relief .

On the television, England are playing the West Indies in a one-day international at Lord`s. It`s a peaceful scene - the day is drifting by between the interruptions for showers but cricket - even in the accelerated tempo of a one-day game - seems to provide a constant reminder of quieter, more enjoyable times gone by among good friends playing the eternal game.

I played most of my cricket 50 years ago and more - at a time when there were no `leagues,` no competitions to be won or lost, when a whole season`s fixtures comprised nothing but `friendly` matches against other village teams spread throughout the countryside of Kent. Mostly they were afternoon games - bat for two hours, have tea, then the other team would bat, then down the pub for a convivial retrospect of the afternoon`s events. But there were also rare all-day matches home and away against clubs like Stone-cum-Ebony in the Isle of Oxney, down on the border of Romney Marsh. Another memorable annual fixture was against Dominica, a team of talented, gracious gentlemen of West Indian extraction from south-east London, who relished their visits to the countryside and the sloping ground at Basted. They always beat us quite soundly, but that wasn`t the point for us or for them.

Funny how I remember the fixture lists from all those years ago. They were good days - I filled my teenage weekends playing for Platt on Saturdays and Basted on Sundays and, despite my modest abilities with both bat and ball, I was quite astonishingly made captain of Basted when I was 18. Looking back now, it was the friendly nature of it all that made it so enjoyable....and made my captaincy a joy and not in any sense a burden.

I suppose that when one looks back at anything over so many years, there is the tendancy to reach for the rose-tinted spectacles and I`m no different. But I still cherish those days in the sun - the tea and sandwiches at 1/6d - the very, very occasional 50 - the even more occasional 5-wicket haul - the annual struggle to achieve the `Basted double` of 100 runs and 10 wickets in a season - the way each incoming batsman was applauded to the wicket - the complete absence of `sledging` - the unquestioning acceptance of umpiring decisions.....and the sadness when it all ended once I had been frogmarched away to do my National Service.

I played a bit when I came back, but the teams had dispersed, Basted had moved away from their idiosyncratic ground to the urban environment of Tonbridge and I, newly married, had other calls on my weekend time. But cricket still holds that rare quality of taking me away from the troubles of the `real world` even if there is more at stake in the game these days than just the sheer pleasure of playing it.

......over and out!!