Merry Christmas

But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,

though you are small among the clans of Judah,

out of you will come for me

one who will be ruler over Israel,

whose origins are from of old,

from ancient times.

Therefore Israel will be abandoned

until the time when she who is in labour bears a son,

and the rest of his brothers return

to join the Israelites.

He will stand and shepherd his flock

in the strength of the Lord,

in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.

And they will live securely, for then his greatness

will reach to the ends of the earth.

Micah 5: 2-4

Nativity scene from the south window, Church of St. Thomas a Becket, Tugby 

The Season of Giving

I love a good Thomas Kinkade painting at this time of year, and the gentle snow falling on this pretty community really appeals to me.  There's nothing quite like those freezing December dusks, the big day so close you can touch it, and an extension of good will presenting itself from shoppers, travellers, and musicians on the icy pavements and sidewalks of our cities, towns and villages.  Not that we get ever so much snow down here in the balmy Westcountry, but it's still a wonderful, beautiful, heart-warming time of year that makes you appreciate just how good it is to be home, sweet home!

I hope everybody enjoys this season of giving, and finds some time for peace, love, and human spirit, in an often-weary world.

Starting out

I don't think it ever crossed my mind how much there is to do when you move into a new place.  First, there's all those companies to notify; energy suppliers, insurance firms, not to mention those all-important magazine subscriptions.  Then there's the council.  Oh, and the bank.  And, if you're like us, you also have to order virtually every piece of furniture and arrange deliveries around work hours.  The joys of moving... Now I understand why parents always used to moan so much about it!

Lizzie works out the intricacies of clothing rails

Seriously though, after what has been a very busy few weeks, we're finally getting settled, and people can expect invitations soon.  Last week alone we've got hold of a new bed, a new mattress, a sofa, a coffee table, bookshelves, a washing machine, drawers, clothing rails, bedside tables, and we've finally reconnected to the World Wide Web.  In short, normal service has resumed, and just in time for Christmas.

Chaos in our new lounge

A more relaxed living space

We're renting a second-floor flat in a lovely period property, with front-facing views onto golf range and Exeter's dry ski slope, in a very quiet part of the city centre, ten minutes' walk from the shops, a twenty-five minute walk to work, and absolutely no reason to use the car again in that awful Exeter rush hour that has claimed so many hours in recent years.  I'd go so far as to say it's a joy being able to leave the office and walk home, when I would usually be stuck amidst thousands of other stressed motorists, trying in vain to get out of the city and home for the day.

Our new dining table and chairs

Our lovely new bed

So, this is where all my blogs will be coming from for the next few months at least - not too shabby, I'm sure you'll agree (and sometimes when I come through the front gate, I pretend we own the whole house!)

Home (or at least part of it)

150 years ago...

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate - we can not consecrate - we can not hallow - this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us - that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion - that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain - that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom - and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Abraham Lincoln
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

November 19, 1863

Back in time on the Weald and Downland

A crisp and sunny November day saw Lizzie and I venture into West Sussex, and the Weald and Downland Open Air Museum.  The museum opened in 1970 and since that time has been collecting dilapidated historic buildings of southeast England, bringing them to the site, and restoring them to their former glory.  By doing this, the site preserves these important historic structures, opening them up for people like us to go and have a nose around.

The open air museum is spread around a 50-acre site nestled snuggly in the heart of the Sussex countryside.  The reconstructed village has over 50 structures, ranging from the rather modest peasant’s cottage, to the grand medieval houses, an old market hall from Titchfield in Hampshire, workshops, a school house from West Wittering, and a church to name but a few.  Many of these buildings have a certain atmosphere to them, and their largely bare, often dark interiors hint at the hard, difficult life endured by our forefathers.  This is particularly poignant in the peasant's cottage from Hangleton in Sussex, a single-roomed house with a wattle-and-daub partition, a little wooden bench and a pile of straw on the cold, hard floor, something of a primitive bed.  The experience here is strangely humbling, and makes me pose a series of questions; did the people who lived here think they had a hard life?  What would they think of my life?  And what will people think if they looked back on my life, 500 years from now?

Back in the centre of the village, the shire horse was hard at work, whilst the museum's cows and chickens rested lazily in the shade.  At the centre of the site lays the museum’s commercial structures, amongst them a plumber’s shed, a carpenter’s workshop, and a wonderful old blacksmith’s, iron tools hung up on all four walls.  The blacksmith was hard at work creating a tool for fruit picking, and his shack is probably my favourite building – it is reminiscent of a very bygone age, where people had a lifelong trade, and the community worked together, like a well-oiled machine.

Talking of well-oiled machines, the last building we visited was the Lurgashall Mill, an old working mill that is still producing flour by way of an enormous water wheel.  Upstairs, the mechanisms can be seen up close, the clattering of ingenious cogs going around and around, powered solely by the overflow from the museum’s lake, whilst at the door of the mill, waiting for titbits, is the biggest crowd of well-fed ducks I have ever seen.

What a great throw-back to the days of our forefathers, and both an enjoyable visit, and a real eye-opener into just how our ancestors were surviving in the world prior to our more technological times.

Remember

"Summer 1918. Never has life in its simplest outline seemed so desirable to us as it does now; the poppies in the fields near our base camp, the shiny beetles on the blades of grass, the warm evenings in the cool, half-dark rooms, mysterious trees at twilight, the stars and the streams, and the long sleep. Oh, life, life, life.

Summer 1918. Never has more been suffered in silence as in the moment when we set off for the front. The wild and urgent rumours of an armistice and peace have surfaced again, they disturb the heart and make setting out harder than ever.

Summer 1918. Never has life at the front been more bitter and more full of horror than when we are under fire, when the pallid faces are pressed into the mud and the fists are clenched and your whole being is saying, No! No! No, not now! Not now at the very last minute!

Summer 1918. A wind of hope is sweeping over the burnt-out fields, a raging fever of impatience, of disappointment, the most agonizing terror of death, the impossible question: why? Why doesn't this stop? And why are all these rumours about it ending?"

(Erich Maria Remarque, from All Quiet on the Western Front)

Penny for the Guy

Welcome to Bramley, a village near Guildford that, every November for the last 40 years, has produced a stunning evening of lanterns and illuminations to commemorate the Gunpowder Plot.  I love the celebrations on 5 November, its cold dark evening a reminder of Autumn’s tightening grip on our lives, confining to memory the sunny days of summer, and forewarning us instead of the winter that lays inevitably ahead.  It’s also such a particularly British festival, arguably the most visible annual celebration of our national history, and here at Bramley, they really do it properly; no tasteless fairground rides, no tacky plastic wands, no booming music that is better suited to city clubs and bars…  In fact, the evening begins in wonderfully traditional style, with the judging of village children’s Guys.

Bramley is well-known in these parts because of its November 5 lantern procession, which makes for a stunning and atmospheric evening.  The long procession leaves the village centre and heads, slowly and carefully, for the massive bonfire, in the spirit of Walt Disney's Night on Bald Mountain.  When the torch-bearers have all assembled (and they circle the bonfire three-or-four people deep), we are reminded of the Gunpowder Plot, the crowd chanting those famous and traditional words:

Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament
Three score barrels of powder below
Poor old England to overthrow
By God's providence he was catched
With a dark lantern and burning match
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

The Guys are placed lovingly on the bonfire, which is then set ablaze by the lantern-bearers.  Fire rips through the material, taking hold at an astonishing rate, illuminating the field and the crowd with awesome brightness.  Fortunately, the wind is on our side, the heat blowing away from the gathering and up into the dark, starry sky.

As the bonfire begins to die down, a single rocket firework flies up into the heavens; a warning for spectators to shift their focus upwards.  What follows is an awesome display of noise, colour and light, an inspirational show to celebrate the 40^th anniversary of Bramley’s brilliant event.  The crowd cheer, clap, ooooh and aaaah, as do Lizzie and I, for this is the best display we have ever seen.  It’s hard to get good photos of fireworks, but I think this video gives a little taster of just how good these illuminations were:

So, how do Bramley get it so right and produce an evening better than so many others?  In my mind, it comes down to tradition, community, and generosity.  The celebrations are handled in the most tasteful, timeless manner, they’re organised by volunteers in the community, and they rely on donations, the sale of lanterns and refreshments, so that they can make next year’s event every bit as good.  Everyone plays their part which, speaking as someone from outside the area, is very noticeable and says much about the village.

So, it’ll probably be Bramley again for next year’s festivities – I just think it’s great, and so unusual, to find an event that seems so dedicated to retaining the spirit of the occasion, and to doing it right.

Huge thanks for a very tiny prize!

We don't win an awful lot here at Nich About Town, but perhaps our luck is changing!  Last week I entered a Twitter competition run by the jolly folk at the Book People on the subject of Tweeters' favourite Lego minifigures of the past 35 years.  Much to my surprise and delight, I was one of ten winners, for the tweet below:

Well a few days passed, and then my prize arrived with a tiny flick of the letter box.  In dropped a mini book charting nearly 50 iconic minifigures, and a limited edition to boot, being number 112 of only 260 printed!

Naturally, this mini edition is the perfect companion for the bigger, more informative cousin I bought recently, which dedicates chapters to the rise of these popular plastic people, and their development through the decades.  Through the pages, a Lego history lesson, and a million memories - spacemen, police officers, knights, pirates, wizards, chefs, kings and cowboys, a wonderful celebration of Lego Man's 35th anniversary.

So thanks very much to the Book People for this great prize!  I'll let these two soldiers do the hard work of finding a space on my bookshelf!

This blog stands against the Government's cruel, unfair, and unscientific badger cull

Limitless possibilities and the greatest toy on Earth

Cor, what a week it has been!  We decided to go on a whistle-stop tour of Europe, starting in our own capital, London.  Tower Bridge, Big Ben, Piccadilly Circus... we saw them all, and even managed to watch the Trooping of the Colour in the company of the Royal Family!  There was also an unexpected journey to the old Wembley Stadium, its twin towers still standing proud outside the Home of Football.

Leaving London, we had a quick look at Stonehenge, made our way to a Shakespeare production at the Minack Theatre in Cornwall, before heading up country, where the iconically rusty Angel of the North pointed the way to Newcastle.  Further north, across the border and into Scotland, we took in some Highland dancing at Blair Castle, and marvelled at the wonder that is Edinburgh Castle.

Not satisfied with our British adventure, we thought we'd hop across the water and see what was occurring in Europe.  Paris was looking splendid, especially the beautiful Sacre Coeur, and we were delighted to visit a traditional Tuscan village market, before heading into the wilds of Scandinavia, where pretty little churches poked up from alpine tundra, and Abba were giving an impromptu concert.  In Holland, meanwhile, the canals were busy as usual, whilst the architecture in Belgium remains simply stunning.

Of course, Lizzie and I haven't been jet-setting at all!  Instead, we took the 08:03 to Windsor and Eton Riverside, and hopped on the shuttle bus to Legoland Windsor, Britain's home of Lego.  Miniland, which is only one part of this excellent park, contains a staggering number of world-famous buildings from cities across Europe and North America.  What I love best about it is the attention to detail - two new parents with a pram outside Buckingham Palace, the Chancellor emerging from Downing Street with a red briefcase, a group of black-and-white-striped footballers loitering under the Angel of the North - a proper examination of the place would take almost as many hours as it took to build in the first place.

Aside from the brilliant models of Miniland, we also met Vikings and Pirates on the park's splash-tastic water rides, took a submarine journey to see real ocean fish, enjoyed an oriental steam train ride, saw incredibly realistic big game animals, explored a medieval castle, and went on a dinosaur safari.  What more could you ask for in one day out?

Lego will always hold a very special place in my heart; it was virtually the only toy I played with as a child, and I collected, built, designed, and absolutely loved it for years.  In tough times, it cheered me up and gave me an escape, whether it was a castle, a pirate ship, a police station... For a child with an imagination, there was no end.  In my more mature years, I may no longer have all the sets (well, I've clung on to one or two), but I've always kept a very close eye on this wonderful plastic toy company, to see where they take themselves next.  And judging by what I've seen, there's another generation of children growing up with their heads full of wonder at the limitless possibilities that this toy provides.  No wonder there were so many happy faces leaving the park's shop at the end of the day; I think I may have indulged a little too:

 

Thanks Lego, for one great day out, and for years of enjoyment!