Merry Christmas!

Christ's Nativity

Awake, glad heart! get up and sing!

It is the birth-day of thy King.

Awake! awake!

The Sun doth shake

Light from his locks, and all the way

Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Awake, awake! hark how th' wood rings;

Winds whisper, and the busy springs

A concert make;

Awake! awake!

Man is their high-priest, and should rise

To offer up the sacrifice.

I would I were some bird, or star,

Flutt'ring in woods, or lifted far

Above this inn

And road of sin!

Then either star or bird should be

Shining or singing still to thee.

I would I had in my best part

Fit rooms for thee! or that my heart

Were so clean as

Thy manger was!

But I am all filth, and obscene;

Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.

Sweet Jesu! will then.  Let no more

This leper haunt and soil thy door!

Cure him, ease him,

O release him!

And let once more, by mystic birth,

The Lord of life be born in earth.

Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)

Lovely intangibles

So we arrive, slightly embattled, at Christmas Eve, and this year it really feels like a much-needed shot of cheer.  I think in troubled times, we gain a great deal of comfort from traditions - they give us a certain surety, and stand concrete in their reliability, so you know that after a torrid year, things are going to be ok.  Christmas traditions link us to our past and the people who shaped it, bound up in the happy memories.  I always watch Carols From Kings because it reminds me of my Grandma.  I like to open a tin of shortbread on Christmas morning, because that always seemed to happen on Christmas mornings at home.  And I always watch the film Holiday Inn on Christmas Eve - that's sort of a tradition I started myself.  What I love is that people across the globe are doing similar things, keeping their traditions and versions of Christmas alive throughout the ages, defying the difficulties that the world has thrown up this year, and delighting in those often-intangible joys.

I believe it is this warmth in the human spirit, this will to seek happiness, which so rejects the coldness of winter - both physically, and metaphorically.  In another of my favourite Christmas films, Miracle on 34th Street (the original Maureen O'Hara version obviously), a desperate Fred Gailey tries to convince love interest Doris Walker that her cold, cynical outlook on the world simply won't cut it, and that the only way you can make it through this life with heart and soul intact is if you let yourself linger on the small pleasures, however irrational or foolish they may be:

"Look Doris, some day you’re going to find out that your way of facing this realistic world just doesn’t work.  And when you do, don’t overlook those lovely intangibles.  You’ll discover they’re the only things that are worthwhile."

And really, isn't this a motto for our current time?  In a year where we've had to refocus our enjoyment and look inwards for our pleasures and our passions, do those lovely intangibles not mean more than ever?  To me they do, and I think to others they do too.  You only need to look at how early the Christmas trees went up in people's homes this year to see it - 2020 was the year that life fell back on some of the old fashioned things that we've always cherished, and often taken for granted - love, family, friends, unity, and home.

From the end of a truly tumultuous year, I as writer of this blog wish everybody reading a peaceful, loving, meaningful Christmas.

The Christmas Kitchen II

If it's the night before the night before Christmas, then it must be time to get busy in the kitchen.  I circled this day in the calendar as the day to get ahead of the game in the kitchen, and my productivity certainly didn't disappoint!

First up, homemade Christmas coleslaw.  Now, I love coleslaw (as long as it's good quality) but here's the thing - I'm the only person who has managed to make a coleslaw that Lizzie actually likes.  Even better, it couldn't be simpler - finely grate a few carrots, finely chop one onion, thinly slice half a cabbage, and mix together with mayonnaise.   Red cabbage arrived from the farm shop this week, which I think is just perfect for this tasty side, and to add an even more festive twist to it, I've chucked in a good number of dried cranberries - trust me, it's absolutely delicious!

Next up, a very simple potato salad.  Ensuring there are plenty of potatoes left for Christmas dinner of course, I peeled, sliced and boiled these for about 20 minutes, so that they're soft but not falling apart.  When cooled, I add a very finely diced onion, and stirred in with a copious amounts of mayonnaise.  It's really straight-forward - and you can garnish with chopped chives if you'd like.

"But what are you going to do with the remaining red cabbage?" I hear you ask.  I could save it for Christmas dinner of course, but since there's only so much room on the plate, I decided to pickle the remaining cabbage, as I know Lizzie's fond of it.  It's simple too - bring about 400ml of cider vinegar to the boil, and simmer with some bay leaves, dill, sugar and cracked black pepper (the recipe I read also throws in some red wine, but I'm not doing that.)  You should allow this to simmer for ten minutes.  In the meantime I thoroughly sterilise the (recently vacated) old mayonnaise jar using boiling water, then pack in the red cabbage.  Once the vinegar is ready, sieve and pour over the cabbage until the jar is filled.  I've also thrown in a tablespoon of mustard seeds.

Of course, you need something to go with the above, and what could be better than a festive bread?  I've found a brilliant bread flour made by Allinson's, called country grain, which I've found makes really delicious bread.  I use a fairly basic recipe - 400g country grain flour, 100g wholemeal bread flour, 20g dried yeast, 50g butter, and a pinch of salt.  Throw in a large handful of dried cranberries, mix it all together with 350ml of warm water, and then knead the dough for a number of minutes.  Then rest for an hour before transferring to a loaf tin, leave to rise for 30 minutes, then whack it in the oven for 40 minutes (I go longer than most recipes because I find it gives a much nicer crust.)  This will go with anything - for the best tea, I'm happy with a bit of butter and a nice wedge of cheese.

So there you go, a good festive morning in the kitchen, which frees me up to watch It's A Wonderful Life in the afternoon, safe in the knowledge that Christmas food and drink is well under control.  Unless, of course, the local puppy wants to stick her nose in...

Season's greetings

Well the tree is up, the lights are strung, each decoration has been lovingly placed upon its branch (and moved when it was found to be in reach of the puppy.)  Christmas is here once again!

I can't start a Christmas decoration blog without first showing off the nutcracker collection.  As a collection I think it's stopped growing now, but I do so love them, and they look so festive on our long windowsill (in fact if you trawl back through my blog, you'll see them on parade here pretty much every year since we moved here).  This year I've even given them their own set of lights, and I hope you'll agree that they look pretty excellent illuminated against the night sky.

Our tree is always an eclectic centrepiece.  Hanging off its branches are some of the decorations from our childhoods, ones we've given each other over the years, and ones we've collected from our travels.  We both like picking up a decoration when we've been somewhere memorable - a star from the Christmas markets in Salzburg; an Easter Island head from the American Museum of Natural History in New York; kiwi baubles from Auckland; a wooden harbour bridge from The Rocks in Sydney.  It makes our tree feel personal, like we're hanging up our own unique memories.

Of course, Christmas isn't just about decorations. One of the old-fashioned joys of the season is to sit for an hour or two and flick through the Radio Times, highlighting things that I'll never remember to watch, and inevitably ending up on a classic Christmas episode of Morecambe and Wise, the Two Ronnies, or a Top of the Pops Christmas Special from 1993.  And if that's not enough, I know a couple of links on Youtube that'll take me direct to the Dean Martin Christmas Show (1968) or the amazing Andy Williams Christmas Show (1966), all of which goes to show that the oldies are indeed the goldies.  And if the viewing runs dry, well that's ok too - one of the absolute pleasures of this time of year is that it allows time for books.  I've just finished A Maigret Christmas by Georges Simenon, and am moving onto a British Library classic crime novel The Christmas Egg by Mary Kelly.  Then of course there are the anthologies, which I'll dip in and out of as the season winds on.  I'm loaded up with books for the next several years I think, so time to pause and snuggle into the armchair on a winter's night is music to my ears.

So it's fair to say that Christmas has arrived, and we intend to make the very best of it here at home.  How are you spending your Christmas, this year?

Thought of the Month - December

 Watch the sunrise at least once a year, put a lot of marshmallows in your hot chocolate, lie on your back and look at the stars, never buy a coffee table you can’t put your feet on, never pass up a chance to jump on a trampoline, don’t overlook life’s small joys while searching for the big ones.

The Christmas kitchen I

 So really this is a follow-on from the last blog.  As I mentioned, I've been spending a lot of time in the kitchen lately, especially on my Wednesdays off work, where I've been busy producing pies and soups for lunches and teas.  On my last Wednesday off, I decided to get ahead a little bit with Christmas dinner, by making the Christmas gravy.  I use a Jamie Oliver recipe (more or less) which really hits the spot, in my opinion.  

I start by boiling up the carcass of the roast chicken we had for dinner last weekend - I always make stock from the chicken bones, it's a brilliant way to get as much use as possible from the bird, which I think is the most respectful thing you can do.  Simply pull the carcass apart and place it into a large pan, cover with water and boil for a good couple of hours.  

Next, roughly chop a handful of carrots, a few celery sticks and two onions, and throw into a pot, along with a good helping of sage, rosemary and a couple of bay leaves.  You can also add some good quality smokey bacon of you want.  Jamie chucks in star anise, but I despise the stuff so out it stays for me.  Drizzle with olive oil, season with salt and pepper, then give it a good hour in the oven.

Once it comes out the oven the veg should be tender and smell beautiful. I remarked to myself how this was enough of a meal in its own right, like a pot of winter goodness.  Put it on the hob on a low heat, and if you can resist the temptation to eat it all, get a potato masher and mash the contents.  I took time to mash it really well - the mushier the better.  Once its a total mush, add four tablespoons of flour, stir it in well, then give it five minutes or so to lightly fry.  If you want to add sherry or port, Jamie Oliver says to do it at this stage, though I didn't bother.

Once it's had a few minutes to fry, add your chicken stock, straining it through a colander so you catch all the bones.  You may also need to top-up with boiling water, so you're about 1cm from the top of the pan.  The whole thing now needs at least half an hour on the hob - bring it to boil, and then just let it simmer, stirring occasionally.  The stock will absorb so many of the flavours released from your mashed veg (it's making me hungry just writing this).  After half an hour or so, the gravy should have thickened and should smell and taste wonderful - this is where I get a spoon and have a taste.  I then add three teaspoons of cranberry sauce, stirring it in well.  Finally, strain the gravy through a sieve, making sure you push lots of the flavour through with the back of your spoon.  And voila!  You have Christmas gravy.

I made mine early this year because a). I want to get ahead of the game, and b). I had celery at home, and didn't want it to go to waste (neither of us can stand the stuff in any other form so it is not a regular feature, but its pepperyness is perfect for gravy.)  So off the gravy goes in a big Tupperware box, into the freezer for the next three weeks, ready for the big day itself - beautiful!

The kitchen really is the heart of the home, so I might share a few more recipes over the festive season, as I discover them.  In the meantime, we also added a couple of festive touches to the kitchen sideboard - I can't wait to see those platters stacked high with mince pies!

Home improvement

Mmm, yes.  It has felt a bit like Tim "the toolman" Taylor has been living with us, this year at Oak Tree.

Two years ago I sat with Lizzie and we talked through our thoughts about our home.  On my part, I've wanted to rip the kitchen out since the day we first moved in, whilst we were also aware that for a bit of "future-proofing", another bedroom would be a massive plus.  You see, we really like where we live - its convenience, its proximity to coast and country, the peaceful streets, the local walks, and the garden.  Not enticed to spend thousands of pounds moving, we eventually arrived at the idea of extending - knocking through the kitchen into the adjoining garage, keeping the front end of the garage for a utility area, and sticking a bedroom and en-suite shower room over the top.  

Well fast forward through the builders' quotes, architect's plans, council planning permission, ecologist report and building control, and what a transformation it has been.  I'm going to gloss over the year of absolute misery (we didn't even bother celebrating Christmas last year, most of our new kitchen units were piled up in the lounge and there was nowhere to put a tree) and tell you that it has turned out to be one of the best decisions we've ever made - to the point where it feels like we've bought a new house.

This is how our house looked in September 2019.  Amazing really, the bobcat's sitting roughly where our oven now sits, in the corner of the kitchen.  And the kitchen is the best place to start, because it's my favourite part of the build. We've transformed it from a dingy, small cooking space of "utility" feel, to a whole new living space.  Yes I cook here more than ever, but it's also a wonderful place to sit and read the paper, listen to the radio, or (if coronavirus ever desists) host friends.  I'm naturally drawn to the space now - we've made it bright and inviting, and I also love that because it's at the back of the house, it's completely out the way.  The eagle-eyed will even notice that we've re-positioned out "ooh la la" Becky Bettesworth print, which hung in the old kitchen - it looks better than ever and, well, who doesn't love a bit of continuity?

Upstairs, the new bedroom sits atop the kitchen and garage space.  We put in a south-facing Juliet balcony to maximise the light, and I'm particularly looking forward to spring, as we overlook next door's magnificent magnolia tree - that'll be a treat indeed.  The view from the window (particularly in winter, when the trees are bare) also stretches out to the countryside surrounding our town.  The bedroom is well insulated, and really cosy - perfect as we head into the bleak winter months.  

The front of the property has taken the longest time to get right - there was a huge delay in the manufacture of the new garage door, and then delays with the renderer coming due to the rain.  It's pretty much there now, barring another coat of paint around the frame.  We're hoping to get a nice climber growing up through the trellis next summer - a clematis (if it reaches) and a Virginia creeper (if it's safe enough) are both of standby and will provide a lovely covering.  Meanwhile at the back of the house, we also undertook a full refurb of our decking.  This wasn't in our plans for the year, but I put my foot right through the rotten old boards back in the spring, so it had to be done.  The decking we've chosen is a composite, which should last for years and years, and requires only the occasional soapy scrub (being relieved of the misery of having to stain and treat the deck every spring is worth its weight in gold, as far as I'm concerned!)    

It would be a lie to say that we're not both a little scarred by the goings-on here this year, but in many ways that makes the enjoyment of our new spaces all the better.  And as we head into the Christmas season, the bond we're feeling with our home is going to grow stronger yet.  So here's to a more relaxed home life.  And as for the question of whether we'd do it all again, well...

(apologies to the non Home Improvement fans, to which this will mean absolutely nothing!)

Makin' mosaics

Lockdown (the second) has given us all a chance to slow down and look at things in a more leisurely way, and for me it's taken me back into  some of my travel photos from my past.  In 2008 I interrailed around Europe, visiting several  amazing cities and fabulous sites along the way.  On one sunny morning in Rome, I took the Metro out of the city in the direction of Ostia.  Something incredible happened that day -  though descended underground in blazing blue-skied sunshine, our train emerged 20 minutes later into a cacophonous thunder storm, and some of the heaviest rain I've ever seen.  Flashes of lightning and howling winds gave an apocalyptic feel - and I made an about-turn and caught the very next train back to Rome.  Incidentally it was on exiting Rome's Porta S. Paolo station that I ran into the Pyramid of Caius Cestius.  "A pyramid in Rome?!?", I hear you scream?  Well, yes, actually.  Built between 18-12 BC, and thought to be based on the pyramids of Nubia (which had been attacked by Rome a decade earlier), the structure is the tomb of the aforementioned Caius Cestius, who may have been a Roman general on that military campaign.  You can only imagine how exotic it must have looked 2,000 years ago.  

Anyway, I digress.  Take two, and the following day my train did emerge in more palatable weather, delivering me at Ostia Antica, the remains of an ancient Roman city, the major port of Rome itself.   In its heyday it sat at the very mouth of the Tiber, although two millennia of silt have had the final say, and the remains of the town are now a good two miles inland.  British archaeology is my true calling, but Ostia Antica must stand alone as the singular greatest archaeological site I've ever visited.  Now, granted I haven't yet been to Pompeii, but I defy even that famous city to impress me more.  It wasn't just that the site was so amazingly preserved, with its street system and buildings, its theatre and its mosaics - it was that on this day, I had the whole place virtually to myself, the town mine to wander and explore to my heart's content.  And I did. I spent all day there.  They couldn't get me out of the place.

One of the things that most stuck with me at Ostia was the abundance of mosaics, both on walls and floors.  And even more amazing to me was that, with a few exceptions, they didn't even bother to fence them off - you could walk on actual 2,000-year-old Roman mosaics of the highest quality.  Now as someone from Britain who sees even the most basic Roman mosaics placed behind glass in order to preserve them (Dorchester literally built a house over theirs) this was something of a revelation, although I couldn't bring myself to trot over them, but diligently marvelled from the sidelines.  

There are many - many - mosaics at Ostia, but my favourite depicts scenes of great importance to the city - fishing, shipping, and trade.  Far beyond anything else, they've stuck with me, and are probably the first thing I think of when I think of Rome (sorry, Colosseum!)  I forget, and cannot find any authoritative source to tell me, exactly where this mosaic was situated - could it have been a market, or a merchant's place of business?  The amphora clearly suggests trade to me, and it's an activity taking place with northern Africa (the palms are the giveaway - palms aren't native to Italy).  Whatever your interpretation, they're just stunning in my opinion.

So stunning, in fact, that over lockdown #2 I decided to grab a slab of air-drying clay, a big bag of glass pieces, and attempt my own version for the garden.  Now, I know it's a shadow of the original, but in a weird and wonderful way it ties in with our location - the Roman Army are known to have camped at Milber Down hillfort just up the road from us, and I have often sat in the garden imagining Imperial soldiers scrabbling down the slopes of what now forms our decking.  Fanciful maybe, but the mere fact that the same people who camped so close to here were also trading with Egypt across the Mediterranean should make us all marvel and the extent of the Roman Empire.

You can see all my photos from Ostia Antica in my photo album.  So that's how my lockdown's been going - what home adventures have you been on? 

Thought of the month - November

People don’t always say "I love you." 
Sometimes it sounds like: "Be safe. Did you eat?
Call me when you get home. I made you this."

Remembrance 2020

Remembering those who gave their lives in war, that we might be free.

This year I have taken part in BBC local radio's Remember Together campaign, in which you upload a photo of yourself holding up the name of a person remembered.  The photo will form part of a giant poppy mosaic, which will go on display in the REME Museum at MOD Lyneham in Wiltshire, and hopefully online.

I know of two people in my family who have died in war.  You can read about John Frank Turner and Wilfred Roy Major, remembered always, on my blog.

England Expects That Every Man Will Do His Duty

And women too, of course.

So signaled Horatio Nelson from HMS Victory, in what has become one of the most famous moments in our history.  So, where are we at with this?  What duties does England expect now from its people?  And what do we expect back from the state?

If Coronavirus has done anything, I think it's confirmed what we already sort-of knew about British society in the 21st century - that it's become inherently selfish, self-serving, and individualistic.  The notion of pulling together, of battling through as one united nation, of facing down our collective threats together, is dead, isn't it?

Why do you say this Nich?  Well, firstly I know that a lot of good things do go quite unreported in this country, instigated by people with big hearts which are full of compassion.  But we're in the midst of a very unpleasant global pandemic, and all some people seem to have been able to do so far, is try and exclude themselves from our collective responsibility.  Rather like the BMW driver in Torquay last week that cruised up the wrong lane and then tried to push in front of me because they couldn't be bothered to wait in the queue along with everyone else: "Those rules are fine, but surely they don't apply to me."

The BMW driver, by the way, was left floundering in no-mans-land because I stood my ground and refused to let him bully me into submission.  But alas I cannot do the same about the idiots in Nottingham last night, who went out in their huge groups, observed no social distancing rules, got plastered, got off with each other, fought the police officers who had to attend, and generally spread their germs around the city.  Slow hand clap all round.

I should say at this point that I'm generally a fairly conservative human being; I don't believe in big state; I'm not a massive fan of Government intervention; and I think people should be allowed to live a free life, uninhibited by the powers that be.  But you know what, I'm in Nelson's camp with this one - England expects that every man does his duty.  Because these are not normal times - we're at war with a virus, and we have to start pulling together if we have any chance of winning and getting our lives back to normal.  The state's not asking anybody to pick up a gun and jump into the trenches, as our forefathers were made to do.  It's not asking you to parachute out of a skytrain and secure Pegasus Bridge.  It's not asking you to lay down your life for your country, as Nelson did.  So is it really that much of an ask to curb your activity a little bit, for the good of the entire nation?  I'm managing to do it, and so is everyone else that I know, even though some of the things we've lost are of far greater value than the memories of a drunken night out.

To conclude, if you were out in Nottingham last night grappling with police, then you're a moron who should be placed at the back of the queue when it comes to medical assistance.  But you won't be, because even though you've failed to do your duty, you'll still be looked after and given the best care available.  That's the daft and beautiful thing about this country - it will try to look after you regardless.  And maybe that's a lesson that everybody needs to take away from the present, and put into their every day lives.  England's expecting - let's not let it down any more.

Would the last Twit out of the building, please turn out the lights

 

October soliloquy from an autumn child

Let me photograph you in this light
In case this is the last time
That we might be exactly like we were
Before we realised
We were sad of getting old
It made us restless

The dreams are strange.  They come in the night and wrest me from my peaceful slumber, they dance with me and push me around, and they take me on constant circles, revisiting the same old ground time after time after time. I'm not brilliantly well at present, I have no resilience, my confidence has been shot to absolute pieces.  Problems and issues, which a year ago I would smash out the ballpark for fun, now weigh heavily on me, and become exaggerated into mighty mountains within the confines of my mind.  At the age of 34, I seemed to be all over life.  At the age of 35, it all seems to have come crashing down from the inside.  What happened?  COVID, I suppose, changed everything.  Work pressures, home pressures, family pressures. And I think the eradication of so much in a social sense - be that watching the Gulls, meeting friends for a drink, shopping, and so on, has taken a substantial toll.

Thank goodness for English history, which has become my primary means of escapism during this whole sorry episode.  At least there's Simon Schama's inimitable A History of Britain DVDs, which I put on whenever there's a spare hour, and plenty of books to crack through.  There's a comfort that I've always found in studying our history - first of all, it reminds you of the hardships and battles that those before us had to fight, thus instantly connecting our struggles to the bigger picture; and secondly, it remains unchanged as the years draw ceaselessly on.  And I suppose that's comforting to me because I've realised that I'm getting older too, and that nothing is static, everything is always moving, evolving, becoming different.  And I'm not comfortable with that - as inevitable as it is, it scares me, and it makes me sad because I feel as though with every passing year, I'm losing my connection with my past, and with a lot of the people who are, or were, important to me.

I realised not too long ago that life is all about those people.  I don't know if I'm late arriving at that conclusion, or if I'm early for my age.  In Club 18-34 you live for yourself, your mind's busy grasping everything that life throws at you. It's a very exciting time, and I suppose that as you travel along your own road, you tend not to give too much thought to all the other drivers.  But then you realise - or at least I have - that without your fellow travellers, the road is barren and pointless.  So you make more frequent stops, you check in more with your friends, reconnect with the ones you haven't seen for ages, and try to reconcile your differences with the ones that have slipped away.  Then along comes COVID, and we're back to square one.  Nobody wants to go out anywhere because it's miserable.  You can't invite people over because it's no longer comfortable, or even permissible.  So what do you do?

The truth is that I'm tired of caring so much about things like this.  Absolutely, utterly tired of it.  I've tried so hard to make all kinds of things work this year, and I'm exhausted.  There have been some successes, of course - we finished the building project; I have a good core group of friends who are important to me; I think my marriage is in a good place.  But honestly - I'm all over the place at work; I can't deal with all the demands of family; and I miss too many people.  And I just don't have any answers to these problems at the moment.  So I'm trying to do what you're told to do; to be kind to myself, and take breaks, and go for walks, and get plenty of sleep, and so on.  Because I'm aware that I'm not firing on all cylinders right now, and I need to spend the remainder of autumn putting myself back together again. 

Autumn itself presents a dichotomy of joy and melancholy for me.  It's hands-down my favourite season, not because it brings a birthday, but because of the crisp clear mornings, the colours in the falling leaves, the early nights, the cosy house, the smell of stews, the thick jumpers, and the earthiness that speaks straight into my soul.  But these same aspects are also the ones that make me so very reflective - they always have done.  If spring and summer tune your senses to the optimism of the future, then autumn makes you look back, sometimes years, and offers the natural time to think, to remember, to grieve - and possibly also to atone and to forgive.  Autumn is the time when the bandages around my heart are liable to slip just a little bit, when ancient wounds unpick by a stitch or two, and when the questions of "why" and "what if" make their subtle creep out of the undergrowth and into the consciousness of the season.  It's not a great thing, but I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing either - I accept that I am a product of everything that has happened in my life, and with this version of self-awareness comes the memories.  It's just an inevitable part of me, so if you see me around town in a nice thick coat, kicking through the leaves and watching my breath dissipate in the morning air, be aware that my mind is likely to be nowhere near the rest of me.

So, here we are - late October 2020, Halloween on the way, Christmas inching into view.  And thank God for Christmas, for it's my sole aim at present.  At Christmas time we will make merry, we will watch the old familiar films, we will sing the timeless festive songs, we will breathe easier, we will love deeper, we will reconnect with each other, and we will reaffirm just how wonderful life really is.  In the meantime, I'm keeping my head firmly down as a means of pure self-preservation from the battering autumn winds and the driving autumn rain.  And I guess that's enough right now - the better dreams can happen another day.   

Blog, meet Schnitzel. Schnitzel, meet blog.

Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades

For ever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

        This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

        There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Seen around Dorset - Abbotsbury Subtropical gardens

Wonderful Winchester

There's something I like about Winchester, and I instantly know what it is - the city is just so historic.  Is there anywhere in England with more of a claim on English history than the Hampshire county town?  I don't think so - the surrounding countryside is home to at least three Iron Age hillforts, including the very near St Catherine's Hill, from whence the Belgae tribe eventually left the slopes and formed the first town-like settlement here, likely known as Wenta, which the Romans adapted to Venta Belgarum ("Venta of the Belgae".)  There's not much Roman remains still visible in the city, for the sheer reason that after the Roman withdrawal, Winchester continued to serve as an urban centre (albeit on a reduced scale) thus developing the city ever forwards.  Winchester famously became the Capital of Wessex under Alfred The Great in the 800s, who obliterated what remained of the Roman street system as he reorganised the city to counter the Viking threat.  From here, it just stayed, a permanent English fixture, important and influential.  After the Norman Conquest, the Bishop of Winchester (one Walkelin) began work on a new cathedral to replace the Old Minster that had served as cathedral since 642, eventually creating one of the largest cathedrals in Europe.  At its consecration in 1093, the Annals of Winchester tell us that "in the presence of almost all the bishops and abbots of England, the monks came with the highest exultation and glory from the old minster to the new one; on the Feast of St Swithun they went in procession from the new minster to the old one and brought thence St Swithun's shrine and placed it with honour in the new buildings, and on the following day Walkelin's men first begun to pull the old minster."  Much of Walkelin's work survives, nearly a thousand years later.  It just doesn't get more historic than this.

Now for my sins, having family connections to this area and having visited Winchester so many times in my life, I've never actually been into the cathedral before.  Until now.  The cathedral will probably feature on my blog series "The Archaeology Files" at some point, so I'm not going to delve too deeply on this today - suffice to say, it's another stunning and quite moving place to be, and whilst the tourists gather like sheep around Jane Austen's tomb, I'm delighted to have found the memorial to Devonian General Sir Henry Redvers Buller (although his final resting place is Crediton Church), even if he gets a bad rap nowadays for daring to have Victorian ideas during the Victorian period (gasps!)  Elsewhere in Winchester Cathedral is the aforementioned shrine to St Swithun, Anglo-Saxon Bishop of Winchester and the world's most famous weather forecaster.  I love to see an old shrine in an English cathedral, and St Swithun's is certainly rather charming.

With apologies to Lizzie, our trip to Winchester descends into a proper history tour, as we follow the high street towards the Great Hall, to take in the famous Round Table.  The Great Hall dates back to the 13th century, and was once part of a bigger castle complex, the majority of which has now been sadly removed.  The Great Hall itself was built by Henry III, and has an interesting history of justice - Sir Walter Raleigh went on trial for treason here, conducting his own defence in the process; the Bloody Assizes started here, and amongst others saw the trial of Lady Alice Lisle, shockingly sentenced to death on a false charge of harbouring fugitives (Westcountry folk are all too familiar with Judge Jeffreys, the "Hanging Judge", whose shocking version of justice puts him firmly in the seventh circle of hell); and in more recent times, the Great Hall played host to an IRA trial after one person died, and 200 were injured, when two car bombs were set off outside the Old Bailey and Scotland Yard.  That November day in 1973 saw a heavy security presence, with all doors to the Hall bolted, and 15 police officers surrounding the accused.  I prefer it on our visit - calm, peaceful and basking in its own glory.

Of course, dominating the beautiful space is the Round Table itself, thought to have been commissioned by Edward I, who was said to be an Arthurian enthusiast.  The table is a brilliant piece of English history, and is one of my favourites (I bought a fridge magnet and a coaster), but what struck me most was learning how Henry VIII used it for propaganda.  Henry visited Winchester for the first time in 1516, and within days had issued a writ ordering "the repair of the Great Hall at Winchester and the Round table there."  He clearly saw an opportunity - on having it restored and repainted, Henry saw fit to add an enormous Tudor rose into the centre of the table, and had the image of King Arthur painted very much in his own likeness.  When it was finished, Henry brought Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, to Winchester to take a look - it is said that the table reminded Charles of Henry's claim to Arthur's inheritance, and his true links to the ancient British throne.  It's a brilliant example of how English history was written by the victors.

Our day in Winchester comes to an end with a walk through Wolvsey Castle grounds and a stroll along the Itchen.  Even the water here is historic - the Vikings famously sailed up here in 860 to besiege the town in what became known as the Battle of Winchester.  Considering I haven't been here in 13 years, I'm amazed at how well I remembered how to navigate us around, but I suppose its easy in a city like this, where everything is ancient, and little has changed in the course of my lifetime, if not for at least 500 years.  It's a timelessness that's so rare in general, and yet so abundant here, and it makes Winchester a real jewel in the crown of English history. 

The enduring nature of the New Forest

A much-needed week off for the both of us saw us pack up the car and head east, through lovely Dorset and into the wilds of the New Forest.  I've always loved the New Forest - the peace, the ponies, the important opportunity to reconnect with nature.  And nature is all around, as we found when we took a walk around the Hawkhill Inclosure, between Brockenhurst and Beaulieu.  The walk is a classic bit of New Forest, with strolls along pony paths cut through bracken, areas of dense forest, and sunlit clearings along the way.  An old Irish gent, an ex-military man and his dog Magoo started us on our way, by pointing out that it's hard to get lost - "just listen for the trains" he said, speaking of the nearby railway, " and you'll always be able to work out where you are."  Mr Magoo honed his skills on the northern slopes of Dartmoor, where the mist can descend at an alarming pace, but since retirement as walked the many thousand acres of the New Forest, even drawing up his own maps.

There's a fascinating history to the forest, beyond its creation as a hunting ground for William the Conqueror.  At one point on this first walk, we happened upon a long, straight stretch of asphalt.  This is RAF Beaulieu, a former RAF station.  The Royal Flying Corps used an aerodrome here in the First World War, but we were walking along the Second World War section, built on the opposite side of the main road, and used by both the British and American airforce, as both a bomber and fighter airfield.  The aerodrome closed in the 1950s, and the associated buildings demolished, but the airstrip lives on, fittingly used by flying aircraft model enthusiasts.

Of course, the New Forest's chief historic concern lies in its royal connection, and one of my favourite historic sites of all is the Rufus Stone.  Now, as a monument it's nothing remarkable, but as a sense of place it cannot be underestimated.  Here on 2 August 1100, King William II was killed when a hunting arrow, shot by Sir Walter Tirel / Tyrrell, when it entered his lung.  What has followed has been one of English history's most enduring mysteries - not so much a whodunnit, but more a question of tragic accident, or murder?  Some Chroniclers point out that Walter Tirel was a crack shot with a bow, and most unlikely to make such a fatal error.  Others, however, quickly surmised that the incident was an act of God, one which brought a swift end to a wicked king.  Walter Tirel fled to France after that incident, whilst William's brother Henry, who was in the hunting party that day, rode off to Winchester where he had a row over whether he should succeed the throne (for the older brother, Robert Curthose, was abroad on a Crusade) and eventually occupied Winchester Castle, seizing the royal treasury.  A hastily-arranged coronation followed.  Well, I think I know what I think.

I feel that in a way, the New Forest never really shook off this episode, and as we travelled around the forest, you could almost feel the ghost of Tyrrell lurking in the trees.  It's also got an interesting parallel in my own family history, as reported previously.  Perhaps it's because the forest feels so little changed from all those centuries ago - it's so easy to look out on a silent view and see William's hunting party galloping over the heath.  I felt it throughout our stay here, most notably at Kingston Great Common Nature Reserve, where after a short walk from the roadside we appeared to escape every form of human life and effectively step back in history.  This unchanging character is what I love most about the forest - I know it'll be this way next year, or in ten years, or in another fifty, and in our ever-changing, fast-paced world, this is a source of comfort to me.