red kites in the sunset

A couple of weekends ago we trundled the motor-home down to Henley-on-Thames. As I fumbled to untangle the electricity cable, I glanced up and saw immediately above my head a red kite soaring low and languid. Then a second appeared, and a third, and yet a fourth.

What amazed me is not that these powerful birds of prey are here on the Buckinghamshire/ Oxfordshire border, but that everybody else on a packed camp site ignored them as if such sights are everyday occurrences. A man walked past carrying his toilet (we do that sort of thing when we’re camping) and he shrugged as if to say ‘so what?’

With friends, we walked into town. Close to the old bridge over the river (engines one at a time please) we encountered more red kites. They are everywhere. The lovely and knowledgeable lady in the Tourist Office bubbled as she explained that now they reckon to have over 200 breeding pairs, and the families are slowly fanning out over wider and wider territories as the wily birds organise themselves not to compete with each other for food.

They ARE everyday sights then. The last time I saw one was on the Black Isle some years ago and then it was quite a rarity. Now, it seems, just to the west of London they are more common than house sparrows.

Of course I exhibited my tourist’s credentials. Instead of enthusing over the phalanxes of rowing boats sculling up the Thames, I focussed my monocular on the sky to watch graceful kites wreathe and loop over the brows of Remenham Hill. In fact, I was so engrossed I became an obstacle to the many cyclists pounding along the tow path in pursuit of the boats. Furiously pedalling team managers breathlessly exhorted “keep contact with the water,” a little pointlessly I thought for an oar-centred propulsion system. But I suppose they have to feel they’re making some contribution other than pushing me off the footpath.

The people of Henley seem blasé about these wonderful birds in their midst. We have marsh harriers around us, but I can’t believe I’ll ever stop being excited at the sight of one quartering the dykes and field edges.

So, good luck to you Henley. Apart from red kites, the Thames and the remarkably patient staff in Pizza Express, you have very little going for you.

swing to bop

Any jazz lover will know what BOP is. On the other hand, a birder will instinctively interpret the term as an acronym for bird of prey. Men of a certain age will give it yet another meaning: Boy’s Own Paper. I’m a jazz lover, a birder and a self-confessed former avid reader of the magazine. Note the apostrophe in the title, suggesting the magazine was mine and mine alone. If I was intended to share it, I figured the apostrophe would come after the s.


I hadn’t thought about BOP for about 50 years until I encountered a herd of cows. And I immediately recalled a tale I read from its pages when I was about 9 years old.

In the story, an intrepid explorer found himself alone and lost during a trek in the African jungle, or perhaps it was a remote part of the Hindu Kush. He’d left his gun behind, or maybe he’d lost it or run out of bullets. My memory is not what it used to be.

When he was at his weakest and most despairing, he suddenly found himself surrounded by a pride of lions, or tigers, or cheetahs. His situation was desperate. The panthers, or cougars, were evidently hungry. They sat eyeing him, slavering at the jowls and licking their licks with all the delicacy of a pack of starving wolves. Maybe they were wolves, come to think of it.

Then, the creatures started to circle him, crouching low like tabby-cat stalking a mouse. The explorer reached for his gun which would normally have been slung across his back. His hand felt something hard and long and he grasped it with a trembling fist, and dragged it quickly round to the front. With a sinking heart, he discovered it was no more than an umbrella. He was English, obviously.

What does the man do? As the big cats slowly close in for the kill, he waits until he can almost smell what they had for breakfast. And, as the leader of the pack (pride?) crouches for the ultimate tail-swishing gory leap, our intrepid hero opens the umbrella at the same time as emitting a blood-curling yell. The cats scattered and disappeared back into the bush, frightened by the awesome sight of an Englishman armed with a decorously rose-printed small bore umbrella.

If you’ve ever walked over London Bridge during a wet rush hour, you’ll appreciate that fear of the umbrella is not irrational. Big cats never risk having their eyes poked out.

The explorer lived to tell the tale. So did we. Cows can be dangerous, too. A herd of them were grazing below the bank of the River Great Ouse. As we approached, the entire bunch of them suddenly broke into a canter and hurtled up the grassy slope to greet us in one beef-mountainous stampede. I had an instant replay of the story from BOP and cursed my foolishness for not carrying a gamp. I’ve always wondered why Nicholas Crane always has an umbrella strapped to his rucksack. He never uses it in the rain, but then as far as I’m aware he’s never been attacked by a herd of thirsty jaguars. But I suppose it’s there if he ever needs it on his walks into big game jeopardy around Beachy Head.

Lacking umbrellas, we utilised our cameras so at least our next-of-kin would have photographic evidence of the culprits should we be trampled underfoot. The cows halted instantly and posed considerately, turning their more elegant profiles towards us and, while they were engrossed in their own self-importance and conceit, we slipped by unharmed.

I’ve now bought an umbrella and give thanks for the wonderful Boy’s Own Paper

there - I've said it again

Here he goes again: recently I had an encounter in a charity shop in Sleaford. A solitary woman slouched over the counter looking bored in her job. She was a volunteer and I suppose we can’t expect unpaid staff to look as if they’re enjoying themselves. The charity is no doubt grateful for what it can get to run the place on a quiet weekday afternoon.

To her left, on a shelf below the ceiling, a vibrating loud speaker blasted out heavy rock music. It sounded like 1980s punk, but then I’m not the best judge given that I consider anything recorded after 1935 as modern music. Presumably she was either deaf or inured to the onslaught of unnecessary volume. I would have written immured there, but you’d probably think I was committing malapropism, even though ‘immured’ is probably more apposite.

As I grazed for my jazz LPs, or books not dominated by a photograph of Sharon Osborne, the music began to jar. The shop had about four customers raking through racks of clothes. They were all my age (elderly) or older. Admittedly, I seemed to be the only one flinching.

I bought a book of poetry by Ted Hughes. I’ve never understood much of his writings, but I’m a believer in trying a second time if I don’t at first succeed. As I paid, the music switched tracks to a ballistic attack of discordant guitar and pitch-free shouting.

Unfortunately, I’m generally too much of a coward to complain. But this blast of hot notes was too much. I said to the woman: “I must admit I’m not a great admirer of your choice of music.” She sniffed and replied “It’s not my choice. They insist on playing it.” We all know that ‘I’ am never responsible; it’s always ‘they’ who carry the can. But I could sense she hated me for daring to criticise. I was already identified as the day’s grumpy old man.

But damn it! I’m proud to be a grumpy old man. If we had more grumpy old men and women, albeit braver than I, this country would be a more pleasant land. Instead we accept whatever is thrown at us. I responded “Well please tell them that I find the music very off putting” and I walked out, unfortunately tripping over the doorstep as I went. I think hubris is the word; my dignity trailed limply behind me.

This is an appeal. I made the same appeal last year i.e. in the approach to Christmas. The situation seems to have deteriorated in the past 12 months. Loud inappropriate music is now becoming endemic in shops, malls, stores, narrow streets, pub, restaurants and most public places. STOP. Switch off your boring, insensitive, infuriating mechanical music and save those inevitable and unwarranted payments to the PPL and the PRS.

Shopkeepers and publicans – the fact is that the majority of your customers don’t even notice whether the music is on or off but we who are aware of it detest our lives being invaded because you are under the false belief that loud music improves trade. It doesn’t.

Let me prove it. A couple of Saturdays ago we ate at the Ebrington Arms in Kirkby-on-Bain. We heard no music at all. And the pub was heaving with customers of varying ages, all spending good money on food and drink. This amiable experience was repeated in the Wig & Mitre in Lincoln; the peace was almost sublime. On the other hand, musically-explicit pubs were standing empty, except for the ubiquitous young lad feeding a juke box over a single Diet Coke (£1.50) while his girlfriend allowed the baby to crawl all over the floor.

Peace be with you.

Kith & Kindle

The 21st Century has taken me by the scruff of the neck. Even as I search the charity shops and second-hand stores for a record player with a crank handle and a 78rpm setting, I’ve invested in an Amazon Kindle.

It’s lovely. It’s compact and as slender as Mr Creosote’s ‘wafer thin mint.’ The software is so easy to use even I can operate it without having to call for my wife’s help (she is, incidentally, the technical manager of our little partnership, as well as CEO, treasurer, social secretary, head chef etc etc – I have yet to find my true role but I’m tolerated on the board because I own 50% of the shares).

The Kindle came with a ‘leather’ cover (optional extra). I chose the red so it stands out in a crowd, but the limelight never suits my complexion so I swapped it for Mrs Dodman’s more modest tan version. Sitting in the palm of my hand, with the ‘leather’ cover open, the Kindle feels almost like a real book. It’s a virtual book, a sort of solid textual hologram. If I want, it will even read the story to me, albeit in a voice that comes across the way Prof. Hawkins would sound if he had no idea about English punctuation and word modulation.

My first Amazon download was “The Finkel Question” by Howard Jacobson. The initial chapter is so witty and clever that I shall probably never write again. Who needs mediocrity when excellence can be had for the same price? I’m enjoying the author’s writing immensely.

BUT – I’m not reading a book. I’m reading a lot of dots on what is in reality a computer screen. Although I can pretend it’s a real book, I can’t smell the paper; I can’t turn the cover back and forth to skim quickly to see when it was written. I can’t indulge in little fantasies about he or she whom last held the book, or imagine the true meaning behind the coded message hand-written in blue ink on the frontispiece (I love second-hand books with inscriptions). And it looks very lonely on the book shelf, although it purports to be capable of holding more volumes than Sleaford library.

Worst of all, I dare not fall into a doze lest the thing crashes to the floor. If that occurs (and it does frequently I’m afraid) to a book, I’ll have the inconvenience of finding my place again but at least the spine and cover will be intact. How many times can I drop a Kindle before it takes umbrage and shuts down for ever? Manufacturers should cover such inevitable events under modern-day guarantees, but I bet they don’t.

I searched Kindle Store for books on jazz. The selection is very disappointing and the one or two which could be of interest are priced far too high for my meagre pocket.

So, the upshot is that Kindle will form a vital (but secondary) tool in my literary armoury. That’s a terrible metaphor but read paragraph 4 again. However, it’s like a Citroen C8 compared with the Citroen Dolly 2CV. It has Teutonic-style efficiency, but warmth, charm and character have somehow fallen by the wayside. Kindle will be my new friend, but it will never subvert my 60 years’ or so love affair with printed paper, board and spinal glue.

moanin' (again)

A requisite of our rambles is the pint of foaming real ale in a quiet pub at the end of the weary mile. After our promenade along the Sir Peter Scott Walk, we arrived in King’s Lynn full of Friday afternoon anticipation. From Ferry Lane, we turned left and walked into Tuesday Market Place. Here’s a hint for anyone following our slightly damp footprints: don’t. Turn right instead.

The first pub, the Crown & Mitre, was inexplicably closed at about 3pm on a Friday afternoon. Disappointed, we walked around the square. Smoking drunks were lounging in the doorway of the second pub we tried; the booming music from within was noxious. The next pub had a solitary smoker slumped against the doorjamb, but when I opened the door, I saw the floorboards vibrating with the power of music. “Too noisy for us,” I explained to the bleary-eyed and slightly bemused puffing herald on the door.

On a far corner, we found similar at the 4th pub. In the gloom we could see a couple of drinkers at the bar screaming at each other, not in aggression but in a failed attempt to ride above the fusillade of notes wailing from speakers throughout the bar. We turned and left.

Peering through the window of the 5th pub we could see an elderly barman chatting to his solitary customer. A safe haven, we thought, and entered. He had one hand-pump for real ale and the clip for that was turned in the traditional symbol of no hope. No Abbot? On a Friday afternoon? Thirst overcame us and we forced ourselves to drink awful keg swill and, as we took our seats, the 50 inch television leapt into life, blasting us with full-volume drivel from Radio Blabber. We drank quickly and left.

King’s Lynn on a Friday afternoon attracts a lot of shoppers. The pubs should be doing a brisk trade. Yet all the pubs we tried were almost empty. I can’t understand why, because don’t we all love to push past drunks blowing smoke over us as we try to enter the premises? Do we not thrill at the thought of being deafened by music being pumped out at full volume so we have to shout at each other to be heard? Surely it’s a pleasure to drink sub-standard and expensive beer at sticky tables standing on even stickier carpets? Pub landlords obviously think the answer is yes to all three questions.

A typical landlord leans against the bar saying “Drink & drive and smoking bans have killed the business” or “We can’t compete with the supermarkets.” No, my friend. YOU have killed the trade, because you can see only the money you’re taking and not the money you’re losing as a result. You cater for the half-dozen and forget the hundreds looking for solace in a quiet, welcoming and pleasant hostelry. Look around you – peaceful and amiable pubs are thriving. Why do you think that is?

The music, by the way, was not jazz. And even if it was, we’d still have walked away from the clamour and noise. Jazz is not background music; it demands to be listened to and appreciated. It’s for the club, the dance hall and the concert room. Jazz should never be played as a means to smother other sounds the way Pizza Express uses it, and the way pubs use modern pop music. All loud music in inappropriate settings ultimately repels.

Gripe about loud music over. Now – about those execrable fruit machines with the flashing lights and electronic gimmickry…

solitude

One of the great accolades of life, albeit usually bestowed posthumously, is to have a footpath dedicated to you. Wainwright, of course, has a lot in the Lake District. The engineer of the old MGN railway company had bestowed in his memory the cycleway from Aylsham to Norwich - Marriott’s Way. And the name (and maybe the ghost) of Sir Peter Scott, the naturalist, artist and general all-round good egg, accompanied us as we walked along the eponymous path around the south banks of the Wash.


One end of the walk is in Lincolnshire, at the faux lighthouse near to where the River Nene debouches to the Wash. Sir Peter once lived here. Perhaps this east bank lighthouse was the inspiration for him to turn apostate and abandon his habit of firing punt guns at geese in favour of portraying them on canvas. A Peter Scott is now famously a generic term for paintings of skeins of geese over bleak marshland. Certainly he was here when he set about establishing sanctuaries for the creatures. I find a certain irony about this conversion on the road to Sutton Bridge. In those days, geese were prolific; they were everywhere on the marsh. Now, most have gone. Numbers have dwindled, despite the efforts of conservationists. What moral about human intervention in nature can we draw from this?

Norfolk plays host to the other end of the trail, about 11 miles to the west, more or less at the landing stage for the little aluminium ferry which plies a dour passenger trade between West Lynn and King’s Lynn’s town centre. From a distance, the boat looks like a sampan crawling across a Chinese harbour, if we disregard the grey murky water. Some five hours after leaving the lighthouse we took our seats on the ferry, grateful to find somewhere to sit after an eleven-mile walk beneath breezy and louring skies.

In between, we’d trudged in solitude along the grassy tops of the earthen sea wall. To our left, a broad expanse of marsh, hatched with small gullies and muddy creeks. From the foot of the wall stretched a swathe of wrack of dried seaweed mingled with plastic jetsam of uncaring coaster skippers. That the wrack reaches the wall is testament to the sea’s determination not to abdicate entirely its claim on what was once rightfully shared territory. The wall is a sea defence, keeping the tide at bay for the moment so the marsh barons can continue to build their fortunes before the next (alleged) inundation because of global warming.

Inside the sea embankment is prime agricultural land, glistening brown soil being ploughed and prepared for the next crop. Don’t believe other writers when they talk about prairies – these are large arable fields, true, but the area is not devoid of trees or hedgerows. Even cows have appeared in recent years, probably to allow farmers to utilise the sea bank for grazing. Farming here is organised and professional and bland.

The skies are paramount here. They form a vast 360 degrees dome; the sea and the land share the same altitude of more or less zero metres. With the flatness of the land, and the smooth calm of the distant sea, the impression of vaulted space is unavoidable. Even RAF pilots love these skies. They visit regularly to practise dropping bombs on a nonchalant and completely tolerant common seal colony that’s been nearby for many years.

We chose the wrong day for the walk. My photographs look dull, flat and devoid of colour. But if the day had been better, we’d perhaps not have been in such splendid isolation. Apart from a couple of bait diggers squelching muddily off the marsh and two dog walkers returning to their car, we met nobody for the entire 11 miles.

memories of you

A few years ago, in the middle of rural Norfolk, at the heart of a small village, an 18th century timber-beamed pub ran live jazz sessions every Friday lunch time. To the surprise, and sometimes bemusement, of casual visitors, food was dished up with a side order of Bessie Smith and Billie Holiday.

“Gimme a Pig Foot and a Bottle of Beer” seemed vaguely appropriate as ham sandwiches whizzed out through the swing doors and pints of Abbot Ale or Wherry brimmed frothily.

Over the months, quite a little clan of faithful followers evolved. Those who came by chance often returned. Village locals were a little doubting at first but soon warmed to the idea when they realised that conversations could still be heard across the low tables.

The singer was a feisty little local girl. She knew the jazz-blues songbook inside out. While she never attempted to plagiarise the originals, her delivery of standards was as good as any cover version has ever been. She was always backed by accomplished musicians capable of understanding what she was doing and where she’d be going next.

Sometimes I’d have to remind myself that I was sitting in an English country freehouse listening to a Norfolk woman rather than in a 1930s Chicago basement being bedazzled by one of the blues greats. When I stepped outside into the fresh air again, I was surprised to find a little shady village green in front of the pub rather than a great American broadway crammed with traffic, steaming vents and US cops.

That singer was Stella Goodey. I guess you’d need to be involved with the East Anglian jazz scene to know of her. She has a regular slot at a pub in Wells-next-the-Sea, has connections in France and appears at various festival venues and jazz clubs. And she’s one of the finest jazz singers I’ve ever heard.

Which brings me to the point. I’m a mediocre sort of chap. Not particularly bad at things, I similarly excel at nothing. I jockey along in the middle of the road, occasionally swerving slightly left or right to avoid collisions. I hate mediocrity, because I see it as a mortal sin wrapped in a highly reflective coating.

And it puzzles me that so many modern “jazz” singers are so mediocre yet receive such critical acclaim on radio, TV and in magazines while the likes of Ms Goodey go unsung (no pun intended). Life is unfair on far too many levels.

I was reminded of this stellar Stella when I stumbled over her website recently: www.stellagoodey.com. The find reinforced my belief in the potential intellectual nobility of the internet. How on Earth did I manage to get a learning (albeit a mediocre one) without it? How fortunate we are to live in these times.

The image above, by the way, is of a fretwork scrolled out of a sheet of timber by the very clever AM in Norwich. He doesn’t know the meaning of ‘mediocrity.’ Mind you, he’s a fan of Leonard Cohen so I suppose nobody’s perfect.