Total Pageviews

Showing posts sorted by relevance for query "a richer dust". Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query "a richer dust". Sort by date Show all posts

Tuesday, 13 November 2007

A richer dust concealed

22 Oct 1946. Photo: T A Russell D/KX100469
I received this e-mail yesterday from Frank Carrick, a veteran of the Royal Navy living in Ayrshire:
The British Cemetery and The Corfu Channel Incident*
As a regular visitor to Corfu I thought I had seen most of the island and places of interest. However about three years ago one of my Greek friends asked if I had ever paid a visit to the British Cemetery in Corfu Town. To my shame I had never even heard of it! The very next morning I set off for the Town and the Cemetery thinking it would be difficult to find as I had never seen it in all my visits to Corfu, but my fears were unfounded; just crossed San Rocco Square to the Airport Road, walked about a hundred yards and there it was, the gate to the British Cemetery. As I opened the gate it was like entering another world, it was so quiet, tranquil, and after the traffic noise and the hustle and bustle of the dusty town centre it was like heaven, unbelievably peaceful and quiet. A little bell disturbs the peace for a second as the gate is opened, and almost instantly the figure of the caretaker appears before you. He enquires as to your preferred language, introduces himself and then proceeds to give the visitor the history of the cemetery, locations of certain memorials and a bit of his own life story, and offers a guided tour. The caretaker is called George Psaila and he was born in 1927 in the Cemetery. He was married in the Cemetery and he will show you where he will be buried when his time comes. George took over the duties of caretaker in 1944 on the death of his father, who had looked after the Cemetery since 1924. The British Cemetery in Corfu town is also famous worldwide for the orchids that grow in the gardens. Some, so I've been told, grow nowhere else. Visitors from all around the world come to see them bloom in I believe March/April/May. In addition to the supervision of the cemetery, George is also responsible for the orchids and is a bit of an expert. On my first visit George accompanied me around the cemetery gardens pointing out interesting monuments and telling me of some of the people buried there. In the main the cemetery is the last resting place for British soldiers, sailors and members of their families since 1814 when Corfu was under British Protection (1814-1864). However there is a section dedicated to Germans killed during their occupation of the island (1943-44) and even some from the Kaiser's time (his personal boat crew). Most of the German remains have been returned to Germany although the monuments remain. One interesting German grave is of Erich Kerizen (09.10.1944), murdered by his own men after he prevented the destruction of the harbour in Corfu by cutting connections to the explosives as the Germans were leaving at the end of the occupation. The cemetery also contains the remains and memorial to British VC holder John Conners (1830-1857). He was about 24 years old, and a private in the 3rd Regiment, (later The East Kent Regiment - The Buffs), in the British Army during the Crimean War when the following deed took place for which he was awarded the VC.
On 8 September 1855 at Sebastopol in the Crimea, Private Connors showed conspicuous gallantry at the assault on the Redan in personal conflict with the enemy. He rescued an officer of the 30th Regiment who was surrounded by Russians, by shooting one and bayoneting another and then for some time carried on a hand-to-hand encounter against great odds until support arrived.
He survived the war and died in Corfu 29th Jan 1857. There are a few more interesting monuments all around these quiet gardens, with their own captivating tales, but the area I personally found to be most intriguing was the memorial and graves of British sailors killed during what became known as 'The Corfu Incident'. In the far left hand side of the cemetery, deep in the shade stands a large white stone, with the names of 32 Royal Navy personnel from the ships HMS Volage and HMS Saumarez, killed by Albanian mines in 1946, and whose bodies were never recovered. In a neat line leading away from the main memorial lie another 13 smaller white stones. These mark the remains of those 12 sailors recovered from the ships, plus the remains of a young midshipman (18 years old) from HMS Forth who died in Gibraltar in 1951 and was transferred to Corfu. Being ex-RN I became intrigued by these graves and the story surrounding them. I had never heard of the 'Corfu Incident', and yet here lay the remains of 44 British Seaman killed by mines one year after the war had ended. Why and how? I decided to find out not only for myself, but to keep the story alive in the hope that these sailors would not be forgotten. Here is what I've found out so far. In May of 1946 Albanian shore batteries fired upon two British cruisers, HMS Orion and HMS Superb. As Britain had just won the war and supposedly ruled the seas, they could not ignore this episode had to make the point that the straits between Corfu and Albania could and should be used freely by ships going about their lawful and peaceful business. In a show of force designed to demonstrate who was boss (my opinion), in October 1946, four British ships led by the cruiser HMS Mauritius sailed through the narrow channel, which were at the time recognised International Waters. HMS Saumarez, a destroyer, was in second in line, with the cruiser HMS Leander and destroyer, HMS Volage, following behind. Just off Saranda, HMS Saumarez struck a mine. It was a massive explosion just below her bridge on the starboard side. HMS Volage was ordered to aid the crippled ship and if possible take her under tow. The Volage managed to secure a tow rope, (despite the surrounding sea burning with oil) and start the tow. Tragically as she moved off, she herself hit a mine which blew off her bow, the tow and instantly killed eight men. Despite the damage and loss of life to HMS Volage her crew courageously manoeuvred her back to a position where she could recover the tow. She accomplished this but had to tow the Saumarez astern; that is both ships sailing stern first. What a feat of seamanship and real bravery. It took thirteen hours to travel the sixteen miles to Corfu, it must have been a terrifying experience for all the surviving seamen, living through the horror of the explosion and the loss of their shipmates and friends and for every minute that passed of those long hours at sea, the thought in the back of their own minds must have been are there any more mines? Thirteen hours of expecting another explosion, of 'is this my last moment?' The channel had been swept clear of mines after the war. The straits had also been used recently without incident. so there was no way of knowing if the rest of the passage through the straits would be safe. Terrifying indeed. They must also have been very brave. A total of 44 men were killed. There were also another 50 men who suffered serious injuries. Albania denied laying the mines and any knowledge of them. However the Royal Navy swept the Straits and found that, in all, there had been a total of 25 brand new mines in the channel. This proved they were not rogue mines left over from the war. The League of Nations proved that the mines could not have been put in position without the knowledge of Albania, who had manned look-out points and shore batteries all along the coast. Albania counter-charged Britain for trespassing in Albanian waters without permission and sweeping for mines. Britain was found guilty of this charge! Albania was found guilty of laying the mines or having knowledge of them and fined about £830,000. The fine was never paid nor an apology ever received for the murder of those sailors, for that was what it was. Murder!! In June of this year 2007, I returned to Corfu with a wreath from the RBLS Irvine Branch and placed it at the memorial to the men killed in the Corfu Incident. I was accompanied by a friend Dave Hughes (ex-Para). It was his first visit and he was quite moved by, not only the incident, but the British Cemetery and the dedication of George Psailas to his task of looking after the gardens. I say 'gardens', for that is what they are. Every grave has wild flowers growing on them, and although it is a cemetery it is still a delightful place to have a stroll or even spend some time watching the resident tortoises wander around (George also puts out fresh fruit and veg for them) in the shade. It must be really beautiful when the orchids are in bloom. On leaving the cemetery there is a visitors' book and many messages in many languages appear here. You can also leave a small donation to help with the upkeep. You don't have to and no offence taken if you refrain. The wreath laid this year was dedicated not only to those men lost during 'The Incident' but to the Late Peter Smith who served on HMS Saumarez and survived the mine. He died on the 28th April this year. Peter's best friend or 'Oppoe' was AB Vernon Francis who was killed by the mine and his body never recovered. Peter named his son after his pal, and that son, Vernon Smith, asked me to say a few words on his behalf at the memorial. Vernon also told me his father was always troubled by the fact that he never knew if his friend Vernon's body was ever recovered. It is to my regret that I could not give a definite answer to him before he passed away. I have included some pictures with these notes, most are my own. Two B/W of the funeral in the British Cemetery are by kind permission of George Psaila the caretaker of the British Cemetery Corfu and are featured in a little booklet he wrote 'The Orchid House' in 1984 Martin Richards for the B&W pictures of HMS Saumarez and HMS Volage. I don't know him personally, but the pictures came to me via a very long route.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
The words written in the previous pages are my own, as are the opinions. The whole incident has been covered by better and more informed people than me. There has been a book written on the subject, which I have been unable to acquire at this time. The title is 'The Corfu Incident" by Eric Leggett. New English Library: 1976 ISBN-13: 9780450024740 ISBN: 0450024741 George Psailas attended the funerals of the sailors killed by the mines in his second year as Supervisor. The Commonwealth War Graves Commission awarded him a prize of honour in 1977. It reads:
Certificate Presented by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission to George Psailas In Recognition of Long and Devoted Service


[Directions: From Corfu seafront to south of the old town and turn inland onto Alexandras Avenue, which is a big tree lined avenue. At the top of this is Place George Theotoki which contains a roundabout. From this roundabout follow the signs for the hospital and the British Cemetery down Polichronis Konstanta. The cemetery is to the left and very close to the prison.] Further accounts by Thomas Arthur Russell gathered on the BBC People's War site (he is the source of the photo at the top of this entry. It cannot he by him as he was on HMS Saumarez.
* * * * *An earlier 'Corfu Incident' occurred after four Italians, including General Enrico Tellini, were stopped on 23 Aug 1927 on a road between Greece and Albania by a fallen tree. They were shot and killed on the Greek side of the border. Mussolini sent an ultimatum demanding 50 million lire reparation and the execution of those involved. [see Corfiot Italians used as a pretext by Mussolini for Italian expansionism] Greece was unable to identify them. Italy bombarded and occupied Corfu on 31 August, killing at least fifteen civilians. Greece appealed to the League of Nations, which handed the issue to the Conference of Ambassadors - set up by the allies to deal with problems arising out of treaties following WW1. Italy and Greece agreed to be bound by its decision. The Conference ordered Greece to apologise and pay reparations. Italy left Corfu on 27 September 1923 after Greece accepted the Ambassadors' decision. This incident enabled Mussolini to use Tellini's murder as a pretext for seizing a strategic foothold on Corfu and, even more important in terms of his reputation, to show that he could use force majeure to achieve his ambitions. The 'Corfu Incident' of 1927 comes up on Google before the one in 1946. It is far better known among Greeks. It was the first and highly public failure by the fledgling League of Nations' to resolve an international dispute. The incident of 1946 is a vicious footnote to history. The incident of 1927, or how it was handled by the democracies of Europe, helped to make history by sending a message to the world that might makes right. A picture I requested from Frank Carrick, which captures the serenity of the British Cemetery in Corfu. Thanks to George Psailas for his stewardship of 'our people' in this green plot under a Greek sun:
If I should die, think only this of me; That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
[My Iraqi friend said: 'A smile starts on the lips, A grin spreads to the eyes. A chuckle comes from the belly. But a good laugh bursts forth from the soul, overflows, and bubbles all around' Rupert Brooke, poet and officer of the Royal Navy who died on a transporter off Lemnos departing for the fighting at Gallipoli, is buried on Skyros in the Northern Sporades. I've added for pleasure and joy another English thing (er - actually - a German born composer sung by a New Zealander), Teddy Tahu Rhodes, on the edge of triumphant laughter, singing Handel's 'The Trumpet Shall Sound' to a fine trumpeter. Were I to name a British Zorba , T T Rhodes would be he. Note to perceptive Greeks: I use 'English' in its archaic sense to mean 'British'. Now we are becoming four nations again, I refer to those from England, Wales, Scotland and N.Ireland as 'British' but I'm 80% Scots. Linda is all English, Frank Carrick is surely Scottish, and no doubt all these, and probably more, are to be found among the men of Saumarez and Volage who lie in the cemetery near San Rocco Square.]

The Corfu Channel. Saranda in the distance - September 2006
[Back to the future: My visit with Frank Carrick, writer of most above's post, to the British Cemetery this September 2009]
[Back to the future 3 Nov 2009: I've just seen a story by Malcolm Brabant reporting the discovery of remains on a stern portion of HMS Volage. ... 12/11/16 The link to this story no longer exists. Try HMS Volage - see final paragraphs]

Thursday, 4 October 2012

Η γάτα είναι εφτάψυχη

Among the regularly shifting family of cats that live between our houses, using their claws to make effortless ascents of walls and trees, Linda had taken a liking to the ginger kitten which has been around since April. It was killed by a car on Democracy Street the other evening. Katerina, her sister Nectaria and Vangelis and a couple of other children, used to the same cats as us, were standing around in the dusk looking down at its small broken body lying in gouts of congealed blood close against the corner of Lefteris’ house. The children drew our attention to it as we came up the steps to the street the other evening on the way to supper with friends.
“Oh no” said Lin
We looked down in the gathering dark on the little corpse. I contemplated collecting it up.
“If it’s still there when we get back I will”
We walked on. The body had been removed when we came home.
“I could never get near that kitten, you know. It was so wary, yet it was hit by a car”
The cats – our cats – are of course not ours. They’re feral, uncollared, living among us, valuing us for the food we give them, alley cats κεραμιδόγατος.
When we come to the door they will sometimes gather looking up expectantly tails high, waving. If they are nowhere to be seen we will tap a plate against a wall and cry “Γάτα! γάτα!” or “Naps! Ναπς!” Drawing out the ‘a’ – “naa-aaps!” - so that they gather for our gift, imparting the suggestion that we have influence in their lives.
It is a duty to feed a dog that is of your household, as much as to feed a child. In the case of cats we are making offerings. The pet food marketing people figured this out years ago and wrote copy that repeated an ancient distinction in the contrasting ways humans viewed cat and dogs. Dogs whether treated well or abominably, as some are, belong to people. Cats invoke superstition in humans. They are household divinities, seen by some as familiars, “which is why” I read in some study long ago “humans when cherishing dogs will love them like their children and when cruel to dogs will abuse them as some humans abuse children; while humans when cherishing cats will come close to worshipping them or, when cruel, will torture them in inventively brutal ways.”
Cats are not parasites. The presence of these beautiful beasts around our cluster of houses is encouraged by gifts of food. They are never allowed inside houses.
“Έξω! exo!” we cry to the bolder kittens that haven’t learned about thresholds, crying out “cat in the house” and chasing them out. Most understand and obey this convention despite exhibiting intense curiosity about the interiors of our homes. Once I found the desiccated skeleton and pelt of a kitten that had hidden and got trapped in the house when we’d left for England for three months. An awful fate. Now we take more care to check rooms for cats on departure.
A queen and her kits in Venetia
Two adult cats presently allow themselves to be stroked, even purring and looking up ecstatically with half-closed eyes when gently scratched and caressed. I don’t understand why these particular cats decided to be trusting.
“There's a family I know” said a British friend the other day “who paid €500 to have a cat’s broken leg set, and to take her and her kittens to England. It’s a bit over the top when there are families trying to live on €30 a week”
“They have a way of dashing out in front of the car” added her husband “and as we miss them I mutter, ‘there goes one more of your nine lives’” In Greece the British saying is altered - they have just seven lives - Η γάτα είναι εφτάψυχη.
I don’t worship cats. I delight in the look of them. I’d be fascinated to learn more about their habits, especially how they determine each other’s rank and territories and how far different cats roam the village - their beat as it were - and where they live in the cold and wet of winter.
We see them growling at each other, slashing out at other cats to defend their space and we hear, and now and then see, them screeching during violent mating. I’m pleased they kill the occasional rats; less so that they leave their small savaged corpses near our front door as misguided gifts.
When we came home the ginger cat’s body was gone. In the morning young Katerina explained that she and Vangeli had wrapped it up and ‘taken it away’. Only a small map of dried blood remained in the gravel at the side of the road.
“I really liked that cat” said Lin.
*** ******
There came a local wind – in the heat of the midday – that lasted hardly a minute as though some great tree had fallen or rock had tumbled displacing air. It blows across the village, gusting through and around the houses slamming loose doors - close and far – momentarily raising our curtains like streamers, moaning through the roof, sending a plastic bottle poppity along the alley, lifting loose paper; gone as abruptly as it arrived. A portent from the north. Yesterday these great gusts were coming at regular intervals blowing up little dust storms along the mole at Ipsos.
A catamaran we knew was in sound condition but whose owner died has been shifted from its original mooring in the harbour, where it had sat unattended for over five years. It's been beached on the shore where it lies forlorn - a desolate sight - halliards loose, its jib unfurled, slowly shredding, its dirty hull half in and out of the sea, at the mercy of waves from a southern storm.
I'd been down to inspect Summer Song, to check her moorings and cover. As Lin and I sat on a bench I noticed a new boat in the harbour, moored cosily among small fishing boats - of all things a Westerly 22, and not only that - with a gunter rig. I suspect these coincidences. This useful rig is so rare on anything but dinghies and I've not seen another boat of this kind all the time we've been in Corfu; yet here it was in Ipsos harbour only yards from our own boat. I made enquiries and by evening knew her owner and how she came to Corfu - sailed all the way from England.
I was entranced and filled with pleasant nostalgia, even a little envy, to see in such good condition a small boat of exactly the same type and rig as I and a friend had sailed across the Atlantic in 1965-66; a boat I'd know my way about in pitch darkness. Lin and I had been lent the same kind of boat in 1975. We'd sailed her from near Bristol to the Scilly Islands and back over a wet and stormy August. In the wiki piece I wrote about the man who taught me about the way to sail and attend to a small boat at sea, Denys Rayner - nickname 'Ben' his RNVR call sign during convoy duty - inventor of the Westerly 22:
...Ben Rayner's greatest peace time contribution lay in his approach to designing, building and selling such small craft. A fascination with making model destroyers at school evolved into the making of Robinetta in which for a few years he voyaged for pleasure - a pleasure which, after his long war service, he made available to thousands. Starting with Robinetta - based in 2006 on the River Orwell near Harwich and still sailing, and then the rebuilt Orchid to share with his youngest son, Rayner graduated via the one-off Corvette to the Westerly 22, to the Westerly 25, the Westerly 30, the Windrush (a re-worked W25), and the Nomad (a re-worked W22). Applying the husbandry, and inventiveness, that characterised his years as a professional sailor, Rayner applied design and techniques, including the crucial process of curing now recognised as so vital to enduring fibre glass construction, to products that sold themselves. In the recent words of one of his sons, "He was delighted when the butcher, the baker and candlestick maker arrived at the London Boat Show in the early 60s and put down deposits in cash. Boats at that time were produced by 12 men at 6 vessels per annum. With 12 men we built 50 a year. Their yachts cost £6,000. Ours were on a trailer for £1800." But if these small craft were swiftly made and so affordable, none left Rayner's factory unfit for the sea, of which he wrote "neither cruel nor kind ... Any apparent virtues it may have, and all its vices, are seen only in relation to the spirit of man who pits himself, in ships of his own building, against its insensate power."...
*** ***
The other evening, with Lefteris and his grandson and Adonis, I helped crush a 1000 kilos of red and white grapes for next years wine. Lin peeked at us over the garden fence as she cooked supper.
This evening after decanting the first fermentation the press will be applied to the crushed grapes, and the pomace composted.
*** ***
WiFi'd Amy who'd driven up to the Highlands with Oliver and Guy to be with her grandmother, and my sister Bay now at Brin Croft with mum after her flight from New York. I was showing Lin some pictures of Mum when she was a young woman and a girl. For all my pleasure in leafing through large books or drawers full of photos, it's good to have technology which so swiftly recovers a couple of pictures I had in mind - ones I scanned only a year or so ago.
My mother in the lower meadow at Mill End on her horse Oyster. The shadow of the photographer, my grandmother Bar. This must have been sometime in the mid-1930s. Another during a haymaking - mum and her sister with Gypsy, taking a mouthful from my mum's pitchfork.
Gypsy was still around when I was born at Mill End and old enough to be perched on his back in straw hat against the brightness of the sun. Yesterday afternoon I was skyping Amy and Guy, with my grandson Oliver sat between them, in the conservatory at Brin Croft.
There's a Greek philosopher whose name I can't remember. He was, I'm sure, one of the Stoics, a school of thinking - στωικισμός - that emerged, with other guides to life, after militaristic hubris had ended everything that made that brief brilliant era begun with the victory at Plataea, with the fragmentation of city states - the polis - entities which imparted identity, structure and meaning to their citizens; giving commonality to the Golden Age. The philosophy of stoicism is a richer vein of thought and feeling than the simplistic definition contained in our present notions of that word. As those organic societies withered, Greeks had to find an individuality separate from the body politic. It must have been dreadful - for all the liberties the loss of community may confer on people previously fixed in the amber of custom and tradition.
Human life, said this Stoic, could be compared to a great crowd toiling in a vast quarry from which, now and then at random intervals, a cutting out party would select an old man or woman, a mother, wife, father, husband, brother, sister, a suckling child, maiden or youth and take them away, never to be seen again. This image comes to me - one who delights in my surroundings in Greece, in England, in Scotland - with the words of Matthew Arnold
...for the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain...
No place means anything without the people in it that you love, your dear neighbours and friends; the most sublime, most beautiful landscape on land or sea, whether the close-ups of exquisite detail or the distant prospect of mountains and plains at the rising of the sun or its going down, enchanted by moonlight as was the sea below the cliffs of Dover Beach, as Arnold strolled in the sweet night air with his new wife; none of this affords an iota of consolation when the cutting out party arrives in the quarry for someone you love. 

Monday, 16 July 2012

Selection from 'Democracy Street' <Οδός Δημοκρατίας>

On Democracy Street, Ano Korakiana, Corfu
Democracy Street Οδός Δημοκρατίας Odos Dimokratias is the street that runs through the centre of Ano Korakiana, a village in the centre of Corfu, part of the Hellenic Republic of Greece - Άνω Κορακιάνα, Κέρκυρα, Ελληνική Δημοκρατία, Ἑλλάς. On Google maps the street is (2012) still called Επαρχιακή Οδός Αγίου Βασιλείου or St.Basil's Provincial Road - 39° 42.438', 19° 47.679', even though a name change occurred during the Regime of the Colonels - a tale that will be told in another place. I started this blog on 1 April 2007 with a reference to our home in Handsworth, Birmingham...and in the years since Linda and I have gone to and fro - πέρα δόθε - between two places of matching importance and on the blog indulged in the happy technology of hyperlinks - something not so possible in the written diaries I've kept since 1975.
My Birmingham - no mean city
I also use Democracy Street to explore my enduring interest in the working relationship of politicans and managers in local government - relationships that make democracy.
I also use it to record my interest in preserving, keeping on record, the television work of my stepfather, Jack Hargreaves...
...who among many other things was the inventor of an entertainment broadcast by Southern Television between 1959-1981 called Out of Town, commenting without sentiment or nostalgia on a growing disconnect between men and the land (see also Facebook) - On Parsonage Down. He also invented the children's programme 'How' - about which Richard Dawkins, years later, wrote:

I use the blog to speak of Greece, my feelings about the 'wondrous land', of memories of the Marble Emperor, and of Corfu Κέρκυρα and 'our' village - now and in history - especially the British Protectorate of the Ionian Islands between 1815-1864
I also speak of my allotment, Plot 14, on the Victoria Jubilee Allotments, subject of a ten year local campaign - 'small island in which I rejoice', 'worth a few onions and a turnip' - which continues.
I also write, have written papers on local government, on political skill - Owl, Fox, Donkey, Sheep...
Baddeley, S & James, K (1987) 'Owl, Fox, Donkey, Sheep: Political Skills for Managers', Management Education & Development, 18 (1) Spring, pp. 3-19
- and on Political-management Leadership and my preoccupation with agency - Internal Polity and information technology, the governance of cyberspace - Governmentality. Taught in different lands, most recently in Australia and New Zealand.
I dreamed of sailing on the sea. I think my mum and dad had taken the train from York to Scarborough in 1944 where perhaps they bought the toy boat. It's tin keel cut me. How? I remember the cut and I still have the small white scar on the inside of my right knee.
I remember days and months I've spent at sea in small boats, my first steps mentored by Denys Rayner who wrote:
In any reasonable weather it is the diminutive size of the yacht which makes long passages under sail such thrilling affairs, and one of the reasons why I, for one, find the smallest possible craft the most rewarding - as well as costing less.
- once crossing an ocean, other times voyaging in the Mediterranean, sailing to Athens from England and back, borrowing old photos from drawers and boxes.
Of course I write about cycling, about my Brompton folding bicycle. It's an indulgence I can enjoy parading - moral mobility - since I and my car conducted an amicable divorce.
I've explored family history - especially the more or less invisible one that took in my Dad and my maternal grandfather, grandpa Henry - both spies. Also his grandfather, Sir Henry and Mill End Dairy Farm in Clavering, Essex, where I was born in 1942.
I do voluntary work as lots do, because I get annoyed and excited about things - green spaces in cities including playing fields, allotments and parks, especially Handsworth Park - about whose early history I wrote an essay -  and Black Patch Park and now Lin and I and friends are running Handsworth Helping Hands (ditto Facebook), and all through runs the lovely catalogue of friends and neighbours, some fleeting, others lifelong, my family - odd and as we all admit semi-dysfunctional, therefore I suppose close to the norm, as if that mattered much. There's cat Flea and dog Oscar, who comes with me to Scotland, travels in my cycle pannier and stays with friends when we're away....
...and then there are parties and parties and parties - especially Easter, meetings, Carnival, encounters.... Lefteris, Natasha, Foti, Jim, Maria, Dimitra, Effie, Adoni, Aleko, Pavla and Andrea, Niko our Greek tutor, Nico and Sophia, Sebastiano, Katya and Thanassis, Mark and Sally, Paul and Cinta, Richard P, Paul again and Lula, John R, Rajinder, Ziggi, Denise, Robin, Tony and Helen, Karen, Emma, Phoebe, Liz and Matt, Danica, Kim, Tanya, Leslie and my cousins, my sister, my half-sisters and half-brother - Maria my late stepmother on the Greek side
Maria Roussen by Yiannis Moralis, her first husband
 - my mother Barbara Theodora in the Highlands which I've known as a visiting place since I first took the night sleeper from Euston to Inverness when I was 9 years old.
I'm 80% Scot. I relish the train labouring through Drumochter; I'm sad when going south it speeds up on passing the watershed between Dalwhinnie and Blair Atholl.
our children

and grandchild
Amy and Oliver
What else? The search for the 'letter' from Ano Korakiana prompted by Kostas Apergis,village historian and Thanassis Spingos, who runs Ano Korakiana's website. There are lots of entries on this subject. It revolves around the rather conditional relationship of Corfu with mother Greece, the story of the Ionian rizospasti, revealed by Eleni Calligas, and why for many years while celebrating the anniversary of  Greek Independence on 25 March neither Ano Korakiana nor Kinopiastes celebrate the anniversary of Corfu's 1864 enosis with the Republic in May.
Mother Greece over the Sea of Kerkyra
...and my enduring annoyance with bottled water and commodified philotemo, expressed in passionate anger by Maria Strani in The Pimping of Panorea
Το πούλημα της Πανωραίας 
Other pages:
A chance to talk about my stepfather Jack Hargreaves
On Bell Hill, Lydbrook
The realm of wonder
The banality of good - Η κοινοτοπια του καλου?
I entered the home of a women...German Occupation of Greece
Dimitra's 16th birthday party
What it means to be a Brummie
Carnival in Ano Korakiana, Corfu ~ Καρναβάλι, Άνω Κορακιάνα, Κέρκυρα
Phaedo
In the Highlands - "Love let us be true to one another"
Visit to Butrint
The best of all possible worlds
Written stuff
"'Like' is not strong enough"
Golden Dawn
Kevin Andrews - understanding blame for the Greek Civil War
What makes a village?
Ano Korakiana pastoral - friezes of Aristeidis, the village sculptor
Carnival Guignol and the King James Bible
Όλοι μαζί
Tour of Greece
Political-management leadership - negotiating the overlap
Managing in a political environment
Phew! Μολὼν λαβέ 
All of a sudden the fine weather's here
What the Greeks went through
Σκέπτομαι
The earth turns towards the sun - civil war
Beware the gentry when they get scared
Seeking Sir Henry in British Columbia
A ladybird on my specs
Bacon and eggs
Μόνο αν κερδίσουμε την κοινωνία
Nightmares of the contented
Η γεωγραφία της φοροδιαφυγής
Voyage to England
Learning Greek «Η ζωή είναι δύσκολη»
"The horror" ~ how corruption works
Third visit to Greece
My mother in Ano Korakiana
At Kernovel
Πλήρης ημερών ~ farewell to mum
Cycling to the top of Mount Pantokrator
Handsworth
"..while there's moonlight and music and love and romance"
A missing commentary
ΑΣΩΤΟΣ Β΄
Work and play ~ learning about the rizospasti
Independence
A bumblebee in the cockpit
Others
She got married
ΤσικνοΠέμπτη
"No, don't blush"
"Να μη γίνει η Κορακιάνα "μη-κοινότητα"..."
Albania
Another village - Distomo
Kanun and the public law of Europe
A richer dust concealed
"...Think of the effect of your work on other people's views"
Our shed and all it contains
A walk in the snow
Putting cycling on the map
Βρεκεκεκέξ κοάξ κοάξ
On such a day as this
Small island in which I rejoice - allotments
Power cuts in Ano Korakiana
Dreams and scorpions in the woodpile
Pontikonisi ~ being economic with the truth
The blue of the sea we've left behind
Golden Dawn
Sept 2017 - my allotment after 6 years
Jan 2018 Christmas in the Village

Australia
Albania
New Zealand
Japan
France
Jersey
Venice
Rome
Sophia
Athens

Dancing at Effie's and Adoni's
*** ***
The sun was out for several hours on Sunday and I had time to mend the re-roof our garden shed and extend the allotment shed veranda, and feel warm especially as more or less rain is forecast for the rest of the week and I have a 'to do' list.
*****
Pual McGovern in Ag.Ioannis has sent me a circular about a collaboration between his company OCAY - which started and runs Agiotfest - and the photo club (Photoleke Η Φωτογραφική Λέσχη Κέρκυρας ΦΩΤΟ.ΛΕ.ΚΕ.) and the Corfu Environmental Initiative NGO (EcoCorfu) - a non-profit organisation to help needy people and improve the environment. The photo club's Journey of Life exhibition opens 18th Jul-3rd Oct'12 at the Asian Art Museum at the Palace of St. Michael & St. George in Corfu Town (see also this facebook page - Επιτροπής Αισθητικής Δήμου Κέρκυρας Committee for the Beauty of the Municipality of Corfu with images and conversations - in Greek -relating to improving the environment)
Young Tiger - we sailed her across the Atlantic

Tuesday, 22 June 2010

Résumé

I woke early at Roffey Park, where I cycled last night from Horsham Station - to do a second session for MoJ people on their Leadership Programme - and picked up an email from my old and dear friend Anthony Scoville who I knew in 1966 and started, in anticipation of his first visit to Greece next year - fate and volcano and other slips twixt cup and lip allowing - to put together a briefing on the wondrous land. Then I thought why not let him be his own guide - he and his wife Helen? By then I'd put together a set of hyperlinks from Democracy Street as much for me as for Tony. Within each link are others. As with memory - there's scant respect for chronology:
Relationships that make government ~ constructing trust
Liz and Matt get married
Found in translation 
"This what we did and this is what happened"
A bump in the night
Weather, dreams and scorpions in the
Fog in Venice
Έν τῇ οἰκίᾳ τοῦ πατρός μου...
Mum's memories
Christmas in a village
Aotearoa
A walk in the snow
Good men and women of Ioannina

Back numbers

Simon Baddeley