Dreich

Bowketts have no need for a website, nor call on the social web or food bloggers to pass the word about their wares. Given a choice between heading out on a rainy grey May afternoon in the Midlands with time on our hands, Richard and I could go to a film - which we did yesterday, watching Four Lions at Five Ways - quite funny, quite brave and clever but not that funny given Chris Morris' previous - have a meal at one of our favourite places in the middle of town - Village Café or Café Soya, or visit the finest butcher in the Midlands to buy their Champion thick pork sausages - weighed on a metric scale translated to avoirdupois for customers - and from the hot food counter, a warm crispy crusted baguette filled with roast beef, horse radish, onions, mushrooms and gravy and an equivalent in roast pork for my son. "I enjoy this weather. It reminds me of Giles' sodden English landscapes". We sat in Richard's grey Mondeo, happily grazing, before driving home through the grisly marches twixt West Brom and Brum.

Sausage counter at Bowketts of Oldbury

The first time I cycled outside summer was with my friend John Richfield in 1993 or 1994. It was either early October or early November - probably the latter. Leaves had fallen. It was a chilly, grey Friday afternoon turning into a dank evening. Somewhat gingerly I got out - unearthed from summer storage - the old Raleigh I'd bought for under £50; pulled on a second jumper and wrapped myself in scarf and beanie.

John'd chivvied me into joining a late afternoon critical mass involving a group of cyclists who wanted to make a point about their right to cycle with the rest of the traffic in Birmingham city centre - England's motor town. John lent me a luminous tabard and we set off from Handsworth, the mile and a bit into St.Philip's Square where there was a gathering of about fifty other people on bicycles. It was exhilarating to ride with the herd, enjoying the strength of the convoy, occupying spaces I'd never have risked using on the inner ring - like the Queensway and the road that runs beneath the city centre library that leads to the top of New Street, then up via Smallbrook Queensway to hideous New Street Station and on to a pub on the canal at the top of Farmers Bridge Locks where someone I knew, vaguely was inviting involvement with protests against the Newbury bypass.

Something clicked. We'd lived in Bagnor - a decade before it went metropolitan - though we'd started that 'rot' - as my stepfather put it pithily when I asked him innocently about a new neighbour 'doing up' his house. I'd grown up in a hamlet, during long holidays from school in London. We'd lived in Bagnor since 1948. Jack had seen the way the wind was blowing long before. Delivering imprecatory asides about the Tragedy of the Commons, with a passion he'd never use on television, he'd had us decamp for deeper countryside in Hampshire in 1960. I'd known in the 80s, from my home in deep Birmingham, that one of our new Bagnor neighbours, Michael Horden, had been campaigning in the conventional way against the new road. I'd written a letter to the local MP and later to the Minister Brian Mawhinney - along with thousands of others. Futile - in a land in love with cars on a roll from predict and provide and Thatcher's 'great car economy'. Apart from present harem, this bypass would drive through a childhood idyll. Jack, by then living in Dorset, wrote me that the project was inevitable. He was disinclined to rage. Privately he'd written '

But I was angry and - as the Japanese say - to be angry is only to make yourself ridiculous. So we will live out our days in the cracks between the concrete. And then they will pour cement on top of us.'

I was ripe for engagement - and became with other green Brummies a supporter, a weekend warrior - in the Third Battle of Newbury, a series of marches, confrontatory conversations, direct action including lock-ons, the occupation of trees and many noisy meetings. There would be no victory for those opposing the bypass. Strategy, such as it was, involved the orchestration of a noisy defeat without violence, and so it was - a prolonged symphony of shouting and crying amid the buzz of chain saws, the roar of cherry picking tractors and crashing of high trees and astute public relations that turned a local defeat into a pivotal event that changed road building policy across the UK and made a career for the clownish Jeremy Clarkson and his laddish sidekicks. Lin and I are even casual fans of Top Gear - TV entertainment that, like many life choice programmes, makes drudgery fun.

Within a couple of years Lin and me were no longer delayed at Newbury on our regular drive to catch the ferry from Southampton or Portsmouth to enjoy twenty years of summer holidays in Brittany. I'd become a cyclist with attitude, the man who loved bicycles, interstitial living. Still am - but tempered by cycling's pleasures. Motoring has become a loveless marriage, and cycling so embedded in central and local government policies that now and then I yen to have a car and drive it places - a Morgan? Not really but...The pleasure I get from being in the open air all year round has changed my attitude to weather. I no longer value being insulated from it. It's a return to an infant impermeability when rainy days signalled things to do. A car can even feel claustrophobic. I embrace the Norwegian maxim - or was it Billy Connolly on Scottish weather - "there's no such thing as the wrong weather, only the wrong clothes". All edge has gone from my tediously enjoyed moral superiority, an aura around some cyclists that doesn't only reside in the paranoia of fuming motorists. How could I claim such a thing given the flying I've done? And now my daughter's just married Guy who sells Fords in Sutton Coldfield - very well. I share the road, enjoy the company of others in the city - cars, buses, trucks or motorbikes and people walking - all traffic. I thread the city traffic, especially in London, weaving wet city streets past bright shop fronts, crossing the Thames, commuting between the mainline stations on my way to other places or to work in the capital, navigating canal towpaths, river banks and linear parks snaking alternative ways through the urban landscape. Psychogeography - bring it on! It's been a privilege to be lent or to hire bicycles in great Australian cities and to ride through the back streets of Corfu town. I enjoy most weather, embracing the Gaelic word Dreich - a condition and mood I can name and dress for; certainly part of blessed Corfu's repertoire - as winter mist glides between cypress tops ascending the ravines of Trompetta.

Dreich weather above Ano Korakiana

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My comment about the celebration of Ionian enosis quoted on page 3 of the June Agiot - newsletter from Agios Ioannis, but on the wider contemporary stage Teacherdude, English citizen journalist in Thessaloniki, captures street reaction by Greek citizens to their government's policies on Europe's sovereign debt crisis.

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The news in the world - narrow'n'broad-cast is full of Israel and Gaza. Sometime in 2007 I wrote that ...

I'd been playing a tennis court witness between John Mearsheimer’s and Stephen Walt's book The Israel Lobby and Alan Dershowitz's rebuttal Debunking the Newest – and Oldest – Jewish Conspiracy. All these authors have a case and so I am for the moment intellectually paralysed - my normal condition - except when humour enters, but this matter is remorselessly devoid of humour. [The letter cost but then...]

This morning G emailed me:

Simon...if you owe yourself one big treat it has to be a movie called Lebanon. I saw it last night. It's Israeli-made and (to no one's surprise) won the big prize at the Venice Film fest. It's the first day of the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in '82. The action takes place entirely inside a Merkava tank. The rookie crew, four guys, are shit-scared. The atmosphere reminded me of the best of Das Boot. It's hugely claustrophobic and the exterior narrative unfolds through the lens of the aiming optics. The tank ends up in the recently flattened ruins of a township in South Lebanon, surrounded by Syrian commandos. The battleplan has gone seriously off-piste and I won't ruin the rest of it for you except to say that I've never seen a better war film: graphic, credible, ghastly, and deeply compassionate. The irony, says me, is that this could have been made by Robert Fisk. Yet it comes from Israel, made and co-funded by Israelis, which I guess says something about the ever-deepening puzzle of the Middle East. A truly astonishing piece of work. Unmissable. G

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Cavafy's arrived - a newer translation with Greek on one page, English the other

"The past is another country"

A happy old fool at the Chequers in Slaugham, enjoying a gathering of 38 of us who'd been at Ashfold School long ago. I've borrowed a school cap, its badge showing our three Houses - Lions, Griffins and Dragons. I'd left Birmingham on the 0600 train, cycled from Euston to London Bridge, arrived at the remains of the school grounds near Handcross at 1015, having pedalled up the long hill from Balcombe Station. The weather was dreich. From a beech-sheltered rendezvous off the Horsham Road, groups of us strolled the grounds of the old school, sharing memories, recognising hints of the past despite transformations of land and buildings, before gathering at the pub, continuing conversations started fifty years ago.

[17/01/11: unknown error - this small film no longer shows, its URL has disappeared and been replaced by a repeat of the link in the first sentence of the indented para below.]

We'd recognised one another in seconds - sighting features, recalling inflexions - relaxed in each other's company, chatting like sparrows, gathered to celebrate - by being happy - the character of Ashfold's headmaster - Jim Harrison - and the family of teachers he recruited. Later I found - on the internet - Edward Fox's memories:

At eight, I was a border at Ashfold School near Handcross, also in West Sussex. It was run by such kind, brilliant, eccentric and wonderfully English staff. Miss Ticehurst, who was known as 'Tishy' and taught music, was one of the great teachers. The headmaster was James Harrison. If there was a caterpillar on his lettuce, he would eat it, to teach us not to be dripping wet.

This get-together - first of its kind - was proposed only three weeks ago, intiated by a class mate, mainly coordinated by 'Cyprus Sue' at the other end of the Mediterranean. [Mr Chips - about a public school rather than prep of course and much earlier, resonant on a theme of long association "..a long time ago...yes...a long time...things are different now" ~ extract] Later, Brompton folded in the boot, I was given a lift to Eastbourne Station, with a stop for tea and cakes and more conversation. At 1900, a ticket seller, called Patricia, seemed to take genuine pleasure imparting, through a glass screen, the news that 'reduced Saturday services' meant our rail system couldn't get me to Birmingham that night. ("Sometimes a good day needs a piece of crude punctuation" said the classmate who'd offered a room for the night). Despite his kindness I wanted to get home. Rain and wind increased, puddling the dark platform at St Leonards. I waited an hour for a train, having heard from Lin - checking the internet and phoning my mobile - I could catch a coach from London or take a room at a hotel in Kings Cross ("five left at £29"). Once aboard a trundle-train to Charing Cross, in company with a clutch of Saturday night police in yellow tabards, readying for post-Halloween passengers expected to join a returning train from Battle, I grumbled to a young woman on her way to Aldershot. She was in the middle of custody litigation over her five children, one of whom was about to be a mother, making Charlotte a grandma at 34. I censored my vexation at our railways as our separate tales unfolded. She showed me photos of her sons and daughters. I showed her a picture of me with a jackdaw on my head. "Thanks for your company" I said, as she got off at Waterloo, "Good luck with your life." From Charing Cross concourse with police, security and PCSOs warily circling tipsy screamers, I cycled swiftly along wet Whitehall, past the House of Common down to crowded Victoria Coach Station, to hurry aboard the 2300 bus home - the young driver, firmly but politely, rejecting a swaying man who wanted a seat to Brum ("See how you feel later. There're two more to Birmingham tonight") - arriving at Digbeth at 0140, pedalling happily through chilly driving rain to home at Handsworth at 0200 - a long happy day for one who avoids reunions. "Cup of tea?" "Yes please" One of our oldest e-mailed on Sunday: '... a great day and it just showed how much the old school means to us! It was amazing to meet up with people I probably hadn't seen for 58 years but also amazing that we picked up the friendships straight away.' I found an old School Report signed off by Jim Harrison when I was 9. When the children were young I found a very small slug in my lettuce one day and ate it, to show off a little, and show them that a slug in a salad wasn't the end of the world. They thought I was silly but amusing. Could I have learned that long ago? Like the prayer we sang at evensong - its first line the school's motto * * *

VICTORIA JUBILEE ALLOTMENTS: S106A?

I'm writing in connection with what should be the final stage of our campaign, going back over ten years, to see new playing fields and eighty allotments laid out beside the new houses built next to Handsworth Park, as part of the developer's 2004 S106A with Birmingham City Council (see earlier posts):

Dear Cllr Brom VICTORIA JUBILEE ALLOTMENTS It was good to see you the other day at PC Nigel Smith's retirement event at the Tennis Club in Handsworth Wood. You mentioned that the VJA and the future of the Section 106A on that site was on your list. You will recall that when we (including Basil Hylton, you and Cllr Hussain) met Alan Orr, Constituency Planning Officer, on site on 22 May this year he said things should be starting to move by this August. Birmingham City Council's website claims that: 'In Handsworth, the final phase of development of the former private Victoria Jubilee Allotments will soon be underway. This comprises the complete restoration of an allotment site of 80 plots and is expected to be completed during 2008.' (but although you can find an allotments page on the BCC website various links are on 2/11/08 returning error 500 messages) The current financial situation with its potential fall out for the population of the area may be a reason for delays, yet it should also bring greater urgency to plans for new playing fields and allotments. Kind regards, Simon. Handsworth Allotments Information Group

And a few day's later:

Dear Cllrs Brom, Hussain and Brown and Mr.Khalid Mahmood MP, Any news of progress on the future of the VJA? I attach an air photo that I find rather troubling in terms of the incursion of building or at least hard surface into the area reserved for green space under the S106 Agreement between Birmingham CC and the developer. Compare the layout agreed by BCC Planning Committee with a recent air photo . Kind regards, Simon Baddeley

Adrian Goldberg at The Stirrer says he'll run this - he's been very helpful in the past, ditto Nick Booth who'll reference via Podnosh on the Grassroots Channel.

Dreich

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If I said I love this weather you'd think I was being eccentric, but I do. It's perfect outside if you're well covered and have dogs for company and great to come indoors from and sit by a log fire and have tea and crumpets or a malt whisky. What's the Corfiot word for 'dreich'. There must be one, given the comforting similarity of such weather. See photo below.
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Dear Becky. How are you? I've attached a short piece from Liana's Kerkyra which contains a page she's translated from the Ano Korakiana website which, if you've seen it, is fascinating but all in Greek, so I can only get an impression from the great pictures and the general format. It is interesting to see the names of the old AK families - Metallinos among them, whose name attaches to the sculpture museum and to the local PASOK candidate in the September election this year. By the way if you want to go the website any time go to my blog and go to 'Korakiana website in Greek'. Have fun with the church interiors which are magnificently photographed by vista technology (sorry if you've already been there, done that!) I've also attached a section from a Corfu History website which is helping me make more sense of the history of the island and 'our' village's role in it. Mr Leftheris, our neighbour, had shown me two bricks on which the builder had inscribed dates - one from the 16th and one from the 18th century. Leftheris had found them in his house. He said with a gesture as we chatted about this (with our small shared vocabulary and lots of non-verbals) 'grandfather, grandfather, grandfather, grandfather, grandfather, grandfather...' and so on pointing into the distant past. What I try to understand is why the village has such a grand style of architecture in it. It does not look anything like the impoverished mountain village that has perhaps benefited by one or two grand public buildings from the benefice of rich diaspora Greeks. There seem to be so many finely wrought buildings with lovingly crafted additions in lintels and doorways and arches and other decorative features that suggest prosperous continuity. I have mentioned the thought on the web (Nov 2009 note: Ano Korakiana website has now gone replaced by a blog) about: 'Today, the decrease in the village population is evident, despite the settlement, either temporary or permanent, of foreign families.' Many years ago in my childhood my parents bought and converted an old house in the village of Bagnor near Newbury in Berkshire - being in the van of city people (my parents worked in journalism in London) going for a retreat in the country. When we went there in 1949 we were the first, among about 20 clustered village houses, to have direct water plumbed in. Others went to the clear chalk stream - the Winterbourne - that ran near the village street and got water in buckets. When we left there in 1962 much had changed. The villagers had mostly moved to council housing on the edge of Newbury, and more urban professionals had moved into the area. Of course we are now well aware of this phenomenon. It's happening in villages all over Europe - and no doubt further afield. I remember my father mentioning that much as we all loved where we'd come to live a lot of the year we were also part of what some considered the blighting of the rural economy. In the 1990s I revisited Bagnor. It was just recognisable. I was there to protest with 1000s of others against the motorway that was to be driven through my childhood water meadows. My father (actually my stepfather) wrote in his old age that the incursion against which I was so vigorously (but peacefully) protesting was part of a change that both affected all of us and for which we were in part responsible. Now I write in my blog about 'yearning, burning and earning' to try and get a handle on the consequences of this transcontinental desire for land in dear Greece. Do you think any of us place what might be called the integrity of Ano Korakiana at risk? Are any of us (I'm trying to avoid saying 'we' because you and I and our relatives are unique and I don't want to clump us all together as 'foreigners') to be reproached for our choices in life. I would not like AK to become like the non-communities of Barbati, with their completed new houses and wonderful views over the sea inhabited exclusively by time share visitors. I hope young Greeks born in Ano Korakiana will be able to stay, or if they leave, come back to contribute to the life of the village. There are villages in England which though being transformed have arrived at a new kind of stability with lots of local involvement driven by relative newcomers who've made their peace with the remaining older residents and pressed for the building of 'affordable' housing so younger people can stay in the village. Just some thoughts. You with your work on mosaics are bringing your skills to the island and making something new - drawing on Greek tradition based on your interest in Byzantine churches and doing it in an English way. I am sort of hoping my blog drawn from my love and respect for Greece and for this particular place is making a small contribution. I am pleased it is being linked to Liana's blog and is mentioned on the AK website. Best wishes (from the dreich Highlands - wow! What's that bright round thing in the sky? Och aye we call it the sun! Oh right I thought I'd seen it somewhere before). S

Corfiot wet last week. Above Ano Korakiana

Hi Simon. Thanks for the translations, I'd been getting a 'bastardised' version by putting the Korakiana pages through Babelfish. You get the jist but not the detail! I had had a look a the various photos and 360 degree views of the village, and wonderful they are too, I hope that I get more time to visit all 28 of them in the future - that is if I manage to locate them all. I can only think of half a dozen or so off the top of my head. (Note on Nov 2009. I do hope these photos will return, now the Ano Korakiana website is no more) The histories of the village that suggest that it was a relatively poor mountain settlement have always puzzled me too. in comparison with many other Corfiot settlements, Korakiana does seem to have more than its fair share of grand buildings, and not just houses and churches. It'd be nice to be able to get to the bottom of the village's history, but my Greek is going to have to improve 1000% to get anywhere near it. I have no real concerns about buying a property in the village, as we see it as saving an old property from almost certain collapse, and bringing much-needed 'new blood' to the settlement. I do not believe that AK will fall victim to much more development, it is just that bit too far inland for the hordes (not that Corfu is getting hordes these days!) Again, it seems to me that the indigenous population prefers (and why shouldn't they?) to live in newer houses if they have that choice, so if we can help in any way to extend the villages existence than it can only be a good thing. Rather you than me in the dreich north, but here in the Fens, it has been raining like Corfiot rain this morning, but the sun is shining now as I type this. Regards, Becky