Books – Page 34 – derrickjknight

The Young Visiters (Sic)

Mat and Tess went home last night.

This morning normal family life was resumed.

After lunch Becky had us all screaming with laughter as she continued ‘The Young Visiters’ reading. For those unfamiliar with nine-year-old Daisy Ashford’s 1919 masterpiece it is highly recommended for its juvenile spelling, observation, and hilarious gleanings from adult conversation. It is regarded by many as one of the most humorous works in literature.

From her perusal of older blog posts our daughter recognised that Jackie’s pose in Helen’s rugbyfest photograph of 9th March was almost identical to the one in my drawing of her made in 1965.

After I’d had an uneventful walk on this comparatively mild afternoon down to the postbox and back, I accompanied Becky, Ian and Scooby on the Seamans Lane/Bull Lane loop. This was to be more eventful for Flo’s little dog, who was to receive his own young visiters (sic). A particularly frisky foal on the road took an interest in Ian, whose sleeve it kept nipping. Ian sought Scooby’s protection. Scooby opted for discretion and conducted the face-off from the safety of the far side of Becky’s legs. These larger animals can really be quite frightening as they quite silently advance upon you. Small dogs obviously feel the same.

Earlier, a much larger puppy had rushed out of its garden and attempted to frolic with Scooby, who gave the younger creature a piece of his mind. This was administered with a suitable amount of heroic yapping and snarling. The puppy’s owner had explained that the reason their gate was open was that it was electrically operated and there had been so many power cuts recently they had disconnected it for fear of being unable to get out if the power went down when it was closed. With the pony our hero remained as quiet as that particular young visiter.

Our dinner this evening was the symphony in white and cream. Rose and red wines and elderflower cordial were the accompanying drinks.

We are now about to settle down to watch The Matrix on TV.

John Lawrence

Reindeer was the theme of 1964’s Regent Street lights. I was there that December, never dreaming I would one day send the image around the world as an advent calendar picture.

I very rarely read a book twice, especially by accident. In my ‘Bookmarks’ post I explained one of my methods for ensuring this. When I recently began to read the Folio Society ‘The Best of Raconteurs, I felt sure I had read this collection of anecdotes, but a quick glance didn’t trigger any memories, except for one extract from Jessica Mitford and another from Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle. I knew that I had read the books from which they were taken. Not only that, but there appeared to be no marker enclosed. Imagine my dismay, then, when last night between pages 236 and 237 I found a very thin till receipt from Headmasters (my hairdressers at the time) of Wimbledon Village dated 11.11.10. There is no escaping the fact that I have almost finished reading a book twice.

Pondering the receipt’s date I realise that I read the book in my post-operative state in our Ridgway flat. Still on pain relief and precautionary blood-thinner; suffering from an infection picked up in my two nights and one day in hospital; and recovering from the anaesthetic required for a hip replacement, I wasn’t really very with it. That’s my excuse, any way. It is absolutely nothing whatever to do with my age. Now, where was I?

Enhanced by John Lawrence’s delightful illustrations, the selection made by Sheridan Morley and Tim Heald consists of snippets of a few lines, or pieces ten or more pages long; some humorous, some descriptive, some historical, some salutary.

The artist is one of my favourite book illustrators. His deceptively sketchy style belies the careful work that has gone into making the numerous humorous and lively little vignettes scattered amidst the text. The cover boards of the slender volume bear representations of examples of some of the contributors seated around an after dinner table. As the front cover alone shows, Lawrence has provided images of such articulate accuracy that we immediately know that we will be treated to pieces from the pens or the mouths of, clockwise from top left, Joyce Grenfell, Groucho Marx, Woody Allen, George Bernard Shaw, Robert Morley and Dr Samuel Johnson.

This afternoon I made a start on Voltaire’s ‘Le blanc et le noir’.

Threatened with a storm to render our journey dangerous, we set off earlier than usual for the annual prebendal choristers’ carol service at Chichester Cathedral, after which, along with Becky, Flo, and Ian we are booked into The Crown at Emsworth for our dinner. By the time we return home it will be too late to post the events, so I will report again toorrow.

Remembrance In The Stone

We have experienced no snow in the forest yet this year, but no advent season could be without anticipation, eager in the young, apprehensive in the elderly, of white flakes falling on Christmas Day. Where would we be were our television screens devoid of ‘The Snowman’, the 1982 adaptation of Raymond Briggs’s timeless and beautifully depicted 1978 cartoon story? It is always a snowman who appears on lawns throughout the land. Never, in my experience, except in Selfridge’s window in Oxford Street in December 1963, a snowwoman. She is my advent picture for today.

The two stores whose windows attracted Mike and me on our expeditions to see the lights, were the above-mentioned Selfridge’s and Liberty’s in Regent Street. It is just possible that after fifty years my memory has confused the two. If the snowwoman belonged to Liberty, I extend my sincere apologies to their inspired egalitarian dresser. My friend Paul Herbert yesterday wished for an application that would produce a small chocolate at the touch of a finger on these electronically produced advent pictures. I am afraid we still await the arrival of that facility, so the reward for opening the post must, for the moment, be virtual.

This morning I finished reading ‘Zadig’, Voltaire’s tale of a philosophical journey that manages to be reminiscent of both ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ and ‘The Thousand and one Arabian Nights’. I am not a fan of these stories, especially when they follow a formula. Voltaire is of course sending up the romantic geste, and we are meant to discern meaningful truths from his carefully crafted yet apparently light-hearted work. It is, however, simply written, and therefore an excellent vehicle for sharpening one’s French.

Before lunch I walked down to the village shop and back to buy some stamps. Perpetual motion in the form of a string of primary schoolchildren pulsated on the green.

This afternoon we drove to Ringwood for banking, sorting out documents at the solicitor’s, and collecting photographic inks. On our way home, Jackie, who has not before visited it, turned off the A31 to look at Rufus Stone. Until now, her only experience of it had been in reading my blog post.

There is a heavy metal grill forming the top of the iron casing that conceals the actual stone. Glancing down at the pebbles and oak leaves that occupy the space beneath it, Jackie spotted an item which she managed to extract and return undisturbed. This is a card of some plastic weatherproof material in remembrance of Michael Charles Daniels 1996 – 2010. May he rest in peace.

A beef and peppers casserole so tasty I have run out of superlatives; duchesse potatoes; and crisp carrots and brussels sprouts provided our dinner this evening. Well, actually Jackie provided it. She enjoyed a glass of Hoegaarden and I drank Campo de Borja Caliente Rojo 2012. The provenance of the wine is interesting. Jackie bought it because it was half price in Morrison’s and she thought they must be having to shift it because the label was so naff; thus indicating that it must be a good wine. There is a logic there. She was right.

A Philosophical Journey

By coincidence, today I finished reading two works of philosophy. These were Nietzsche’s ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’ and Voltaire’s short story ‘Micromegas’. Each, in their own way, put me in mind of Swift’s ‘Gulliver’s Travels’. Voltaire’s piece was in the well-tried form of a philosophical journey, the device used in the English writer’s political allegory. These two tales can be read simply as entertaining stories without understanding their deeper meaning. Like most of us, I read of Gulliver’s adventures as a child without having a clue about their satirical political undertones. Having no idea, half the time, what Nietzsche is on about, was for me a link with this sublime ignorance.

Never having read the German before, I am now clear about why he was so frowned upon by the Jesuits who educated me. This man was no lover of God, and an implacable opponent of Christianity. He doesn’t much seem to like humans either. My Folio Society edition has been translated by Graham Parkes. He has no doubt assisted in the ease with which one can, if not struggling too hard for fuller comprehension, read what must be the original flowing, yet experimental, prose. I enjoyed the language and the style, if not the cynical sentiments.

I have not read the Avesta, scraps of which are all that remains of the writings of that ancient Persian mystic, Zarathustra, but it is evident that much of what Nietzsche puts into his mouth are the author’s own thoughts. Unless that earlier teacher was able to see into the future he could not have known about ‘The Last Supper’ which Nietzsche chose to parody.

Peter Suart’s illustrations skilfully and approprately supplement the Folio edition.

‘God is dead’ for Nietzsche, yet not for Voltaire. The Frenchman, in his short story, presents man as delusional, but demonstrates humour and sensitivity I find lacking in the German born writer. The little tale seems to be, both literally and metaphorically, about cutting humanity down to size. Two giants from other planets, on a journey pre-dating twentieth century space travel, seeking other life forms, land on a minuscule Earth peopled by ‘insects’ they need a microscope to view. Discovering that they are dealing with men, they engage in discussions on such topics as the soul and warfare. Voltaire, in debating the indefinable spirit introduces the views of other philosophers. Interestingly, Nietzsche’s references mostly seem to be from the Bible.

Voltaire’s precursors of the ‘Star Trek’ crew find, on Earth, a boatload of philosophers and teachers who introduce the subject of war, through allusion to the Turko-Russian wars of the 1730s. He writes a few simple sentences which should be rquired reading for world leaders throughout the globe. One of the travellers demonstrates how it is possible to amend one’s pre-determined views by listening to reasoned argument.

This evening Maggie and Mike will collect me and drive me to Eymet for a meal at their home. Gourmands who are hungry for information about the repast must starve until tomorrow.

The Melisende Psalter

This morning I finished an excellent book lent to me by Margery. It is Thomas Asbridge’s history of ‘The Crusades’, subtitled ‘The War for The Holy Land’. The research has been immense; the all-embracing viewpoint is unbiased; the writing flows, and consequently this thick tome is entertaining and gripping. Simon & Schuster’s edition is illustrated with enlightening maps and photographs. It is a shame that the quality of the paper is such that it will soon discolour, but that has probably been an economic consideration.

I have learned much from this work about a two hundred year conflict of which I previously knew very little. I knew Richard the Lionheart led the third crusade and that he only spent one year of his reign in England. I didn’t know that he was a Frenchman from Aquitaine, with difficulties to attend to there, and consequently wasn’t actually in the East for all the other nine years, nor that he shared the crusading leadership with the French king. I had no idea how many crusades there were, nor that it took so long to end the struggle. Asbridge unravels the complexity of the protagonists in the struggle, and is intelligible to the layman. He does have a tendency to disparage what he sees as the simplicity of other modern historians. Maybe he has earned the right.

The author demonstrates how, albeit undoubtedly genuine, religious fervour was used for material gains, and as an excuse for pursuing personal ambition. He shows how this forgotten period of the past has been revived in the memories of those in both the East and the West, by leaders in whose interests it has been to do so. Throughout history, of course, ruthless men and women have harnessed religious zeal as an excuse for perpetrating persecution and execrable torment of others. Christianity may well be losing ground to Islam, but as long as people truly believe and follow their faiths, allowing others to have theirs, does it really matter? If there is only one true religion there must be an awful lot of misguided people in the world.

The Melisende psalter:

is ‘one of the rarest and most beautiful treasures to survive from the crusading era’. It has a greater significance for Asbridge ‘for [its] construction and decoration seem to speak of an artistic culture in which Latin, Greek, eastern Christian and even Islamic styles have intermingled’. On this project at least, adherents of different faiths had been able to cooperate.

President George W. Bush infamously used the word ‘crusade’ after 9/11, but, to me, it seems that the West’s current fervour has more to do with secular ideology than with religious faith. Democracy is the new Deus.

The preceding part of today’s post was written this morning. As she often does, without knowing what I had just produced, Jackie read out an extract from BBC News. This concerned the death of Noel Harrison, Olympic athlete, actor, and singer. Using her laptop she had been led to his blog site on which he had listed his ‘pet peeves’. One of these was: ‘Religious extremism in all forms, whether Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Hindu, or any other dangerous narrow-minded bigoted “our way is the only way” belief of members of the human race’.

Before setting off for various visits this afternoon, I read Jonathon Ree’s introduction to Friedrich Nietzsche’s ‘Thus Spoke Tharathustra’.

Jackie drove us to Elizabeth’s where we collected the unsold items from The Firs Open Studio; then the three of us travelled in Elizabeth’s car to Visit Margery and Paul. I returned the Crusades history and delivered eleven cards and two framed photographs for their forthcoming Private View. I had been asked for ten cards but slipped in another one because I thought it very Margery. This was ‘The Bridesmaid’. Margery also asked for another picture for the exhibition. It has to be this one, so off Jackie and I went to Hobbycraft to buy the materials for a frame which we will put together tomorrow. Madeleine’s niece was a bridesmaid at her wedding to Tony in 1970. At the end of the day she was out on her feet, her eyes like black currants kept open by sheer willpower.

Our next stop was at Mum’s where we had a usual reminiscence session, in the course of which she was able to locate the next photograph in the ‘through the ages’ series. Number 29 was taken so close to number 28 that I was confused because the location had to be different, yet some of the personnel were the same. Chris and I were in the foreground, Roy Wilson behind me, and Audrey to my left. Mum sat on the far left from the viewer’s perspective, and her parents on deck chairs in the background. But it didn’t look like Carshalton. So where was it? It was in my grandparents’ garden in Durham, presumably just before the street party. Audrey and Roy had spent a summer holiday there before returning home for the great event. Today Mum described scratching around for the material to make the outfits my brother and I wore for the occasion.

On our way home from West End we realised that it just wasn’t acceptable to be so close to Eastern Nights at Thornhill and not dine there, so we turned around and did just that. Rain had clattered on Mum’s conservatory roof, but had been short-lived. By the time our food arrived, lightning was bringing daylight to the night sky and glitter to the streams of water bouncing off the cars parked outside. We had the usual enjoyable fare, Bangla, and Cobra.

Sam’s Dad

This morning I finished reading Henri Troyaut’s novel ‘Grandeur Nature’, which I understand, not quite literally, to mean ‘Real Life’.

It is the story of how a son’s success in a similar field to his less talented father destroys what is otherwise a loving family of three. Despite Antoine Vautier’s unsuccessful struggle to land suitable acting roles, his wife Jeanne is most attentive to him. Their teenage son Christian is then persuaded to appear in a film and is an overnight sensation. Antoine becomes imbued with jealousy. Jeanne, having thoughts only for their son forgets her husband. He has a brief affair. Christian has a bad review and becomes ill. The remorseful husband returns home. Although old family routines continue, nothing will ever be the same again.

The author has a beautifully flowing style and an ability to bring characterisation to life with detailed description of simple things, like Jeanne’s laying out Antoine’ s cigarettes and other requirements on the table for his return home. The contents of rooms, the nature of accommodation, or the style and condition of clothing are all revealing. I first encountered such skill when I was a teenager reading Chaucer. Troyaut is equally at home when writing of thoughts and feelings.

What really destroys poor Antoine is that he has become, to reviewers, nothing more than the father of the young star. All his acquaintances wish to hear about is the latest news of the boy.

The day in March 2004 when Sam rowed into Port St Charles, Barbados, was the day I became Sam’s Dad. Rather than be destroyed by it, I basked in parental pride and satisfaction in his achievement. During the two weeks Jessica, Louisa, and I were there, before and after the arrival, powerful rum punches were administered each evening, and after the delighted Kenneth Crutchlow, founder of the Ocean Rowing Society, and the race organiser, had had a few, he would lapse into cries of ‘Who named that boy (Samson)?.

Ken had been at the quayside to join in the family photo. That was the moment a Nottingham radio station chose to ring me for an update. I was on air.

The plan this afternoon for our trip to Hare Lane, New Milton, to look at a house, was that I would leave on foot a bit ahead of Jackie, and she would follow on and pick me up in the car. If I reached Swan Green before she arrived, I would turn and retrace my steps. There is a fork in the road just above ‘The Splash’. As I arrived at that point first I had to make a choice. Left or right. Now Jackie always takes the right fork, but she knows I always take the left one. If I took the wrong fork she could well arrive in Forest Road before me. I decided that because she knew which one I normally took, she would do the same. As I approached the main road to Emery Down I half expected to see her sailing past. She didn’t, but as I continued in the direction of that village, she drove along the road towards me. She had, of course, decided I would take the right fork because I knew that was the one she normally took. I must confess she had wondered how on earth I could have reached Swan Green, where she dutifully turned around, in the time available.

‘Leathers’ in Hare Lane had, apart from its size, and the fact that it backs onto fields, nothing to attract us. I wandered into one of the fields. There was enough equine excreta to suggest that horses were kept there, but it was only a pair of deer that high-stepped away from my intrusion.

We went on to ‘The Cottage by the Green’ in Pennington. The location is attractive and the house characterful, if rather small.

September Cottage in Brockenhurst has a garden which is completely concreted over. The building itself looks interesting. To the side of it lies Brockenhurst College and the bus station. Opposite is a pub car park. We arrived at the optimum possible time to savour the thriving ambience of hoards of teenage students streaming from their daily confinement. Many poured on foot through the car park, skilfully avoiding their fellow escapees who sped past in their motors. A scooter and motor cycle enclosure was rapidly emptying whilst a whole garage of buses was filling up.

We went home for dinner, which, after Jackie had cooked it superbly (I have to say that in order to persuade her to like my link), consisted of roast lamb followed by New Forest ice cream – in her case strawberry, and in mine rum and raisin. I drank Wolf Blass Winemakers’ Cabernet Sauvignon 2012. Jackie had been quite rightly encouraged to buy this after Luci had served a wine from this vintner’s on 21st September. I had not sampled it before.

Carthage

We are currently basking in an Indian summer, so it is quite appropriate that Jackie is so proud of her Star of India clematis that, at a cost of £1.99 she rescued from Morrison’s shelves. Baby Bio, regular watering, and plentiful sunshine have done the trick.

Late this morning, I walked down to the village shop and back, for New Forest ice cream. In tubs for the freezer, of course. I wouldn’t have got very far with cones, in a temperature in the high twenties.

Blackberries in various stages of ripening now festoon the late summer hedgerows grasped by their thorny stems. We’ll probably have to pick some sometime.

Against the background thrum of the ride-on lawn mower shaving the grass of a house labelled Yew Tree, those not to be ridden-on taking care of the frontage of Bay Tree Cottage opposite, were positively silent as they cropped away.

This afternoon I finished reading Serge Lancel’s tome, ‘Carthage: A History’. The writer himself, I understand, simply called the book ‘Carthage’. To my mind it really represents a search for the great pre-Christian African city state. An endeavour to find the meeting points between archaelogical research and the classic authors’ annals. The difficulties beset by the historian working with early texts and largely vanished remains are as painstakingly confronted by Lancel, as if he himself were digging in the sand.

Carthage was completely destroyed by the Romans in 146 BC. The victors used the stones of the original city to build their new one. There wasn’t much left for the early archaeologists, who, in a less carefully regulated age, plundered the tombs. There was even less for the modern ones. Nevertheless the story is slowly being pieced together.

Although the book’s later writing demonstrates that Lancel, no doubt assisted by Antonia Nevill’s translation from the French, can write elegant prose, I found the bulk of the earlier chapters somewhat difficult to absorb. I am never entranced by figures and careful measurements which were used to explain conclusions. There were lots of these. The author is also committed to examining in detail other possible alternatives. I struggle not to skip these sections.

My Folio Society edition contains many detailed drawings and informative photographs. These aided my understanding of what is known about a place that was just a name to me before reading this work.

Elizabeth came to visit and share our evening meal. Jackie placed the bottle of La Patrie Cahors 2011 malbec in the sunshine. After a very short time the bottle became very hot with the wine erupting through the cork. A lengthy period in the fridge was then required. Readers who feel inclined to read ‘The Village Shop Revisited’ of 20th October last year, will discover that I am quite practiced in this method of acquiring the correct temperature.

Whilst we enjoyed Jackie’s wonderful beef stew, with a smattering of carrots, we got talking about a trip to The Hampshire Bowman. This was because they served feather blade steak, which is often used for beef stew. None of us could remember what we had eaten on our visit there. The solution was simple. Across the room on my Apple, was all the information required. Should you be interested, you can do what we did, which is look up the Renovations post. The malbec was the drink for Elizabeth and me, whilst Jackie’s was Blue Moon. Dessert was the New Forest Dairy Oriental Ginger ice cream I had bought this morning.

Rabbit-Proof Fence

As I dug out the trench this morning for Jackie’s protective netting, and she was planting seedlings in pots, I noticed that blossom has indeed come to the Lodge garden. By mid afternoon the sun has always moved across to the other side of the garden. Today John’s lawn mowing looked splendid in its light. The natural landscaping, presenting different sweeping levels, with a distinct slope down to the East, reminds us that the building occupies the site of an Iron Age hill fort. Unfortunately my enjoyment of the sunshine was somewhat curtailed by my spending much of the day on administration, too boring to record, most of which should have been done months ago. I just managed to get to the village shop in time to post ten letters and collect my dry cleaning.

It was still a glorious day. The slow clip-clop of the wild ponies’ hooves as they strolled down and across the road, their haunches undulating awkwardly and their heads imitating car drivers’ nodding dogs, was almost all the sound I heard. There was also the occasionally purring of the engine of a car brought to a standstill when one or all of the animals decided to take a diagonal amble. When they are headed straight for you it is still a bit disconcerting. It is best to convince yourself they are not going to bite you. A snorting I heard came from two magnificent farm horses, which must be a particular breed, now occupying a field across the road from Minstead Hall. I don’t think the ponies have the energy for blowing air through their noses. By the time I returned home, Jackie had almost completed her little garden fence.

When preparing the ground for this rabbit and deer proof structure, I was thinking of ‘Rabbit-Proof Fence’. This is a marvellous Australian film drama from 2002 directed by Philip Noyce, adapted from ‘Follow the rabbit-proof fence’, the book by Doris Pilkington Garimara. It tells the story of the author’s mother and two other dual heritage Aboriginal girls who ran away from Moore River Native Settlement situated to the north of Perth, Western Australia, where they had been forcibly placed in 1931. They knew that if they followed the 1,500 mile (2,400 km) fence it would take them to their families in their homes in Jigalong. They covered this ground in nine weeks, all the while being pursued by a white authority figure and an Aboriginal tracker.

It is some years since I saw this film, but it is not one I am likely to forget. The terribly mistaken policy that separated so many families; the cruelty to which the children were subjected; the pain of the bereft parents; and the magnificent fortitude shown by the escapees burns in one’s memory like the searing heat which they endured.

The tasteful symphony in white and cream with an intro of orange that Jackie served up for our evening meal was smoked haddock, cauliflower cheese (recipe), mashed potatoes, and carrots. Accompanied by a 2012 Bordeaux sauvignon blanc, it was followed by a delicious plum crumble.

The Magnificent Seven

6.4.13

This morning was spent accompanying Maggie, Mike and Bill wandering first around the industrial centre outside the town and then around Bergerac itself. The other customers in the large supermarkets on the outskirts were mostly French, whereas the Saturday market sprawling across streets both old and new, featured a fair smattering of English accents. Although larger than most it has a pretty familiar set of stalls; cheap clothing and nicknacks; CDs and DVDs; vegetables and much else. Maggie was attracted to tables containing crumpled, presumably second-hand, clothing priced at 1 or 2 euros. The men weren’t.

We first had to drive around in search of a parking space. This took some considerable time because the main carpark was occupied by a funfair.

By the time we returned, and Bill and I were dropped off at Sigoules, the acute headache I had woken with was considerably worse and I felt a bit queasy. There was nothing for it but to lie down. I divested myself of my raincoat, shed my shoes, and fell on top of my duvet. I dozed for about five hours, stirring to climb under the duvet when I felt cold. In the early evening I took three paracetamol, made scrambled eggs on toast, and returned to bed after eating them. I was now well enough to finish reading ‘Her Fearful Symmetry’ by Audrey Niffenegger and begin Philippa Gregory’s ‘The Other Boleyn Girl’. Before settling down to nine hours sleep, I remembered to take off my jacket, otherwise I remained fully clothed.

Some five years ago now, I received a telephone call from Mike Kindred telling me that his friend John Turpin, whom I had met once or twice, had asked him if he knew anyone who could take the photographs for a book he had written about the seven landscaped Victorian cemeteries known as ‘The Magnificent Seven’. He sought my permission to give John my name. This I gave willingly. For the next two years, covering different seasons, John and I visited the venues for the purpose of photography. From Kensal Green and West Brompton in the west to Abney Park and Tower Hamlets in the east, I became very familiar with the Victorian way of death. Usually travelling with John, who knew all the cemeteries backwards, I sometimes returned alone to those in the west to which I could easily walk from W2 where I was living at the time. One winter’s day John rang me to tell me about magnificent sunsets he had seen at Kensal Green. Off I went and took what I think were stunning sunsets against the various extravagant monuments in that, the first of these cemeteries. It was a great disappointment when Amberley Press chose, for reasons of cost, to publish in black and white. As I am not at home I cannot illustrate this post with a picture from the book.

Sigoules cemetery will have to do.

My friend Alison knew of this publication, so when she discovered that ‘Her Fearful Symmetry’ was set in and around Highgate cemetery, perhaps the most famous of the septet, she lent me the book. Once I got over one or two early similes which I thought rather fanciful, I thoroughly enjoyed the beguiling novel. It is a ghost story like none other. It is about love, grief, loss, and relationships, displaying a sound knowledge of humanity. It provides evidence of a familiarity with London, introducing me to the intriguing Postman’s Park, of which I had never heard. And it has a surprising denouement.

Postscript 10th September 2013:

Now at home, I add a few random (except for the sunset) pictures from the cemeteries.

The book’s ISBN number is 978 – 1 – 4456 – 0038 – 3. Published by Amberley, it is by John Turpin and Derrick Knight.

Perseverance

Yesterday afternoon I finished reading ‘The England of Elizabeth’ by A.L. Rowse. This Elizabeth was the first English queen so-named. I am aware that most people alive today have known no other than Queen Elizabeth II. First published in 1950, during the reign of our Elizabeth’s father, King George VI, the book was researched and written without the aid of modern technology. Rowse had no computer and no internet. His work is the result of a lifetime’s scholarship. It is packed with information about how people lived in the sixteenth century, how they were educated, how they were governed, and what they believed. Detailed references abound. The author’s own reading was immense.

There is much to admire here, but I cannot say I enjoyed the writer. His attempts at humour, mostly in the sections covering religion, fell short for me. More than once he voices the opinion that works of art are more valuable than human lives. If that is indeed his opinion it was patently not shared by the makers of ‘Resistance’, described in yesterday’s post. Sarah’s symbolic burning of the mediaeval map, which is what the Germans were really after, is a clear statement of the opposite view.

‘The England of Elizabeth’ takes a certain amount of stamina and determination for the layman to get through. Some of the later pages of my 1953 Reprint Society edition, which the flyleaf indicates has had at least one previous owner, were uncut. There have only been two books in my life I have been unable to finish reading, two hundred pages being my limit in each case. The first was Sir Thomas Mallory’s ‘Morte d’Arthur’ which, like certain sections of the Old Testament, bored me with its long lists of names; the second being James Joyce’s ‘Finnegan’s Wake’, which I couldn’t grasp. It is a mistake to attempt to read the latter as a narrative, although, if you can decipher them it does contain such episodes. As an inveterate punster – Jackie says it’s pathalogical, and the Greeks have a word for it – I should have enjoyed Joyce’s language. The trouble is he made it up, and his puns involve six languages – far too many for me.

Later, I watched ‘Stigmata’ on DVD. This psychological thriller, directed by Rupert Wainwright, was ‘a scary movie’ even before I was able to play it. At first, I couldn’t because a box on my laptop told me it was configurated for a different region. What on earth did that mean? The box told me I could manage the DVD region. How was I going to do that? I had to find device management. Well, following various paths by accessing, by trial and error, a number of different control panels on the desktop, I eventually unearthed it. Apparently my normal region is 2. There was a vast number of countries I could choose. Which one, for goodness sake? Closer investigation of the small print on the DVD sleeve, which is in any case minute, revealed that it was produced by Virgin Records of America, Inc. I picked United States. Given that I had bought the film in Wimbledon Village’s Oxfam shop, I found this rather surprising. But then not many people other than Americans can afford to live in that part of London. The U.S. is in Region 1. A warning informed me that there was a limited number of times I could change the region. So, even if I could remember the path would I be able to revert to Region 2?

The film was quite a contrast to the gentle ‘Resistance’. Violent action; strange, strident sounds; extravagant special effects; kaleidoscopic camerawork, it had them all. The depiction of the inflictions of the stigmata on the female lead was reminiscent of Mel Gibson’s horrific representation of ‘The Passion of The Christ’, which I could hardly bear to watch. Patricia Arquette and Gabriel Byrne were excellent in the main roles. Notes provided in the container offered two alternative endings. Having watched the incongruously romantic ‘theatrical’ coda, I decided to view the director’s original. He recommended watching the whole film again, rather than just his final scene. So I did. The original was much more convincing, but hardly worth a repeated complete viewing.

Afterwards, with much relief, I managed to revert to Region 2.

This morning I walked to Pomport and back. Just outside Sigoules, as usual, my friend the donkey was at home with his goats. Judging by the position of his ears, he wasn’t too pleased to see me at first, but soon, ears to the fore, happily tracked me along his fence, uttering a plaintive honking when it prevented him from continuing.

It was a bit breezy up at Pomport, so I had to walk rather briskly. Clad in fleecy jackets, hats, and gloves, like frozen market stallholders, an isolated elderly man and, elsewhere, a young woman were tending vines. Once again I beat the rain. This time it set in for the day.

The whole purpose of my trip in this cold month of January was to have some internal doors replaced by Huis Clos. The first appointment was 10 a.m. this morning. I received a phone call deferring this to 11.30. I stayed in from 11 to 5.30. No-one came and I heard no more.

I consoled myself with reading a little more of Andre Gide’s ‘La Porte Etroite’ and watching a DVD of Trevor Nunn’s acclaimed Royal Shakespeare Company’s stage-to-screen studio production of William’s great timeless tragedy ‘Othello’. Willard White’s performance as Othello was most powerful, and Imogen Stubbs’ Desdemona superb. Of the supporting cast I would single out Zoe Wanamaker, flawless as Emelia. Ian McKellen richly deserved the awards he won for his odious Iago.

This evening in Le Code Bar chicken noodle soup; a plate of mixed meats, avocado, and salad; superbly cooked steak with a mound of fried potatoes done with bacon, garlic, and some herb or another; followed by my choice from a huge basket of fruit, from which I just managed a pear; and a quarter carafe of rose wine assuaged the day’s disappointment. What makes it even better is that, although they don’t open the restaurant in the winter, David himself offered to feed me in the evening if I preferred. Which was just as well today.