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Life as we know it

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Photo by Peter80 on Wikimedia CommonsOne of our reasons for choosing the Dordogne for this brief break from our daily grind in the UK is that the Kickass Canada Girl has an enthusiasm for pre-historic cave art. I found myself wanting to write ‘Neolithic’ then rather than ‘pre-historic’ because it just somehow felt right, but the period in question is actually the Magdalenian, of which – I must confess – I had no previous knowledge at all. This is – however – from the man who complained after sitting his physical geography ‘A’ level paper that there had been no question on glaciation – a subject on which he had particularly ‘mugged up’. Sadly that mugging up had not included the key phrase ‘Pleistocene Era’. Doh! My, how the other kids laughed!

Anyway – the Girl came to the subject through the works of the American authoress – Jean M. Auel – who wrote the ‘Earth’s Children’ series of books, of which ‘The Clan of the Cave Bear’ is the first and – possibly – the best known. Now – I must admit to not having read any of these titles but – as those who know me will be only too aware – I have always been drawn to those who have an enthusiasm for pretty much anything and in this case the Girl’s avidity was infectious. Hence, the Dordogne… hence, trips to a number of cro-magnon sites.

We have in the last few days visited cave sites at Rouffignac, Lascaux and Peche Merl. All were fascinating in equal measure, whilst all being at the same time completely different.

Rouffignac is an extensive ‘dead’ limestone cave system. In other words, though the caves were formed by the action of acid-laden water they are now completely dry. The system is sufficiently extensive that visitors travel to a depth of approximately a kilometer underground on a small electric railway that winds its way through the subterranean passageways. The caves feature both engravings – many of which are of mammoths – and drawings of horses, bison, ibexes and rhinoceroses. One of the many mysteries of this cave art is that there are no representations of the animal with which Magdalanian Man was most familiar (it comprising the better part of his diet) – the reindeer.

Several days later we paid an unexpected visit to Lascaux. The reason I say ‘unexpected’ was that all of the Girl’s research prior to our journey south suggested that getting to see any of the cave systems might prove difficult. The numbers allowed into the caves on any given day are extremely small since preservation of the fragile drawings is the imperative and they can be damaged by an excess of carbon dioxide in the air. Visits to most sites – according to the literature at least – cannot be booked before the day concerned and thus queues form very early in the morning to ensure entry.

Our hosts in the Dordogne – of whom more in a later post – advised us that this was a gross exaggeration, and indeed we arrived at the ticket office for Lascaux (in the neighbouring village of Montignac) at 10:30am and acquired tickets for an English tour at 11:00am. Not much of a wait there! A similar story could be told concerning Peche Merl. The website advised that tickets could be reserved in advance, but that to do so one had to book a week or more ahead. Ploughing ahead regardless I was able to book tickets just a couple of days in advance – and for the time of our choice. The lesson is – don’t at believe everything that you read on the InterWebNet – though I expect that you knew that already.

At Lascaux – of course – one cannot see the original cave itself, it now having been sealed safely away from heavy-breathing visitors. The clever French have – however – created a complete underground replica of the cave which they call Lascaux II. This millimetre exact copy of the original is made of concrete and is thus not prone to the decay that is endemic to the limestone equivalent. Even in copy form Lascaux was exquisite.

However beautiful it may have been, however, we had clearly saved the best until last – with Peche Merl. This cave is in the valley of the Lot, rather than that of the Dordogne, and was a two hour trip from where we are staying. It was – as you will see if you follow the link above – completely worth the trip, with fabulous and moving drawings of horses, mammoths and outlines of the human hand, but also with a dazzling display of stalactites and stalagmites. Those of you who remember the works of Roger Dean will recognise clearly the organic forms built up over the millenia in the rock formations. Perhaps the most moving details of all were the footprints of a cro-magnon adolescent which had been preserved at the bottom of a dried out pool. Really quite spooky.

There are many strange and unexplained phenomena in these eerie grottos in the limestone hills of the Perigord. I may revisit the subject in a future post – or perhaps even persuade the Girl herself so to do.

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidTomorrow the Kickass Canada Girl and I head for France. As mentioned previously we intend to meander slowly down to the Dordogne over a period of some three days in the Girl’s spanking new convertible (well – new to her… You know what I mean!).

Now – the boot (Canadian – trunk!) of the Mazda (Canadian – Miata!) is the cutest wee thing going. It is good to see that the Japanese made no concessions whatsoever to utility when designing the ultimate ‘British’ sports car and that they wasted no efforts either there or in the strictly two-seater cabin on such fripperies as storage. As a result packing for the trip presents an interesting challenge.

I have discoursed briefly before on the Girl’s packing habits. She has – naturally – been working on the problem already for the best part of a week. It might appear – to the uninitiated – that her method consists of emptying out her entire wardrobe and then successively dismissing items ‘not required on voyage’ until such time as she can shoehorn the remainder into whichever trunks, valises and other items of baggage have been selected for the journey. To suggest that this were indeed the case would be a scandalous calumny and a terrible mistake, which I – for one – do not intend to make. However, given that the sum total of her travelling wardrobe must fit into two small soft bags I sense that this time her skills may be tested to the limit.

Being a chap – of course – I will simply toss a couple of t-shirts into a bag at the last possible moment and call it good. Well – there have to be some advantages to chapdom!

And if – by chance – I find that I have forgotten something, then the odds are good that the Girl will have packed said item instead – and I can simply borrow it!

Good luck with that one – as they say…

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Photo by Lazellion on FlickrIt occurred to me – in the days leading up to my recent furlough from the world of work subsequent to the culmination of the summer term – that I might take the opportunity to conduct a small and not altogether scientific experiment. To whit – I would treat my time at home as an analogue for my eventual retirement. In this I was abetted by the fact that the Kickass Canada Girl had – somewhat to her chagrin – to go to work whilst I enjoyed my days at ‘leisure’.

I duly spent the week imagining that my time was my own – not just for the duration – but in perpetuity….

…and I have to say – I loved it!

OK – now I know that this was not a serious test and that my actual retirement – when it finally comes – will indubitably prove to be a very different experience. However, this experiment felt particularly good to me – and what I loved most was having the time to do things properly. So much of modern life seems to me these days to consist of rushing from pillar to post – squeezing ever more effort into a limited period and in return being rewarded with ever increased stress. I know that this is all about ‘efficiency’ and ‘productivity’ and that these are undeniably ‘good things’… except that as I grow older I find myself more and more doubting that they truly are so.

My one serious gripe with this leave of absence was that the days were quite simply not long enough! I have met all too many retired folks who complain that they don’t know what to do with themselves – that their lives have no structure and that they miss the motivation of having to work. I don’t get that at all! I read. I pottered about. I did some chores. I ran some errands. Sometimes I sat and thought. Sometimes I just sat!

I had time to do some work on a long-uncompleted song. The piece needed some serious thought and care lavished on it so that it could find its true form. I was able to devote such time to finding suitable sounds and to gaining a clearer picture of what it wanted – what it needed – to be. It is not yet finished, but I am already particularly pleased with the way that it is progressing.

I lunched with the Girl. Lunch at work is a rushed 10 or 15 minutes spent grabbing some sustenance before heading back to the desk. Lunch when one’s time is one’s own becomes what it really should be – the reward for a morning’s attention to detail and an opportunity to share all the delights of the day with those whom one loves.

Will I miss work when I do retire? You know – I truly don’t believe that I will.

When the time is right – it’s time to go.

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidToday is the last day of the year – in academic terms at least. At this time last year I was on the verge of flying off to Victoria (leaving for the airport straight from the School just as soon as the boys had departed) for what turned out to be my last (to date!) visit to BC.

Time to take stock…

 

A great deal has changed over the course of the year. My visit to Victoria last June/July was not to have been the only trip of the year. I was also expecting to join the Kickass Canada Girl and our lovely friends in Saanichton for Christmas – which would have been my first such in Canada and to which I was looking forward immensely. When I left BC in mid July I was thus expecting to be back before the year end and made my farewells accordingly. By the time I do visit next – this coming Christmas – eighteen months will have elapsed and many things will inevitably have changed. If nothing else, our beloved friends’ young boys will have grown (almost) beyond recognition.

The other significance of this particular day is that – had things gone to plan – this would have been my last day of term before retirement. Though I had intended to work until the end of July the serious business of education would have come to an end. Throughout these last two weeks I have been attending the farewell presentations and speeches to the Common Room of those who are moving on or retiring. I must admit to the odd twinge of envy for some of those who are hanging up their gowns and preparing for their post-School, post-work lives. It has not been easy adjourning this particular dream, though of course the presence by my side of the KACG makes up for pretty much everything. More than anything we are both eternally grateful that we no longer have to live on different continents.

The Girl herself is thriving. She loves her new job and now has the bit firmly between her teeth, already starting to build the role into something significant and substantial. She loves her rag-top roadster – in which we are intending to meander down to the Dorgdogne for a break in the sun (hopefully!) towards the end of July. She loves being able to go the the theatre and galleries in London – and she would be loving the bucolic English summer were we ever to get one!

All is good – all is good! Our lives are so blessed when compared with the travails of so many others in these uncertain times – and it is good for us to remember this.

These blessings we count daily!

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Image taken by Mark Barker on 9th May 2006May 15th was International Conscientious Objectors Day.

I had not realised – until I read this article in my regular Saturday newspaper, the Independent – that there even was such a thing. This is remiss of me, particularly given that the subject is of considerable personal interest.

It is sobering – given the appalling treatment meted out to those who sought to be to be regarded as conscientious objectors during the First World War – that they are now viewed with increasing respect – their courage and fortitude in making a stand for what they believed being at last recognised as such. One can only hope that the same emendation is eventually extended to all those who make such commitments – regardless of origin or circumstance.

Growing up – as I did – during the late 60s my youthful ideals were strongly slanted in the direction of pacifism. Decades later I find myself grateful that – in spite of the inevitable realignments that occur with age and in the light of experience – my position has not changed as much as it might have done. I still believe that violence – if it can be justified at all – must only ever be used as a last desperate act of defence, when all other avenues have failed. War is always an admission of defeat – of failure to resolve a situation by more civilised means.

Lest my comments here be misconstrued it should be understood that I have the greatest respect for our armed forces – for what they do and the way that they do it. They should not however – in my view – be placed in such positions as those in which they frequently find now themselves.

I was horrified – for example – in the early 80s to learn that the Argentinian Junta had sent its brigades of teenage conscripts to occupy those godforsaken disputed islands off the Argentine coast. That this had been done for purely political reasons – to prop up an ailing regime – was abundantly clear. My horror increased a thousandfold when it became apparent that our own government intended sending our young men thousands of miles to kill other young men – and to be themselves killed. No desperate acts of defence here – but a call on the young men of two nations to sacrifice the most precious gift that they would ever possess for reasons that primarily amounted to the saving of political face!

Lest this anachronistic war be considered in some way exceptional I surely need only draw attention to the farce that was the justification for the war in Iraq – not to mention the shameful political maneuverings that have led to the current stalemate in Afghanistan… and if there ever was country that has suffered enough over the past few centuries this must be it!

The Great War itself – of course – epitomised of the hypocrisy of modern warfare – as a brace of Queen Victoria’s grandchildren and their cousin oversaw the laying waste of a continent and the destruction of a generation. If we as a race are truly incapable of conducting our affairs without recourse to violence then at least let our kings and barons – or their contemporary equivalents, our leaders and generals – lead their troops into battle personally – as once they did.

And if they will not do so then there can be no surprise when some amongst us also decline to participate.

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidThere is a defined gulf
Between credit and character
If you doubt this, ask any banker;
He will advise that character is nice
But it is not collateral.

Evan Rhys, Poems from the Ledge

I am mindful of the fact that I promised a brief note on the… challenge – shall we say… of recovering monies from Canada to the UK once thence transferred. I am aware that in the normal run of things this would not pose any particular difficulty. Our case – as you might expect – does not entirely fall within that disposition.

Last year – whilst the Kickass Canada Girl was living in Victoria – we evolved a stratagem in service of which we would transfer to Canada such of our savings as could be spared, preparatory to the purchase at the appropriate point of a property there. To this end we opened a joint bank account and transferred funds to it using an online currency exchange – both of which operations were accomplished with encouraging ease.

When the situation deteriorated and the Girl was forced – immediately before Christmas – to return to the UK we agreed that – since our long term plans remained essentially unchanged – we would leave our funds in BC. Shortly thereafter – however – it became apparent that we would need to recover a small percentage of the monies to the UK to cover immediate expenses. At this point things became messy.

A little research indicated that we would need to initiate the funds transfer from our bank in Canada. A call to their telephone banking line was not particularly helpful. I learned that – whereas small transfers could easily be made – anything above a few hundred dollars would rapidly fall foul of the limits imposed on daily, weekly and monthly total transfers. The telephone banking operative suggested that I should speak directly to the branch in Saanichton.

The call to the branch was not much more help. I was told that I could certainly transfer the funds required – by making an ‘arrangement’ so to do. Unfortunately this could only be done by visiting the branch in person. We had not made any such arrangement before leaving – of course – because we didn’t know at the time that we were going to need so to do.

Given that a personal visit was clearly not possible I was advised instead to consult my bank in the UK, the implication being that they might be able to effect something by themselves calling Canada in my presence. I duly paid a visit, queued for an advisor and was told in no uncertain terms that they could do nothing to assist and that the onus was on the Canadian end to instigate the transfer.

I called the branch in Saanichton again – this time speaking to the lady in charge of our account. She was sympathetic – but ultimately unhelpful.

At this point – rapidly losing patience with a system seemingly designed to render impossible that which should have been a relatively simple operation – I called Canada again, this time to the bank’s customer service line. I finally encountered someone helpful – an eager and charming young lady. Why – she said brightly – did I not simply write myself a cheque?!

I pointed out that I didn’t actually have a chequebook for this account.

No problem. I could order one online…

It is – apparently – quite impossible to arrange for funds to be transferred from Canada to the UK – either online or by telephone – unless one is actually in Canada at the time or has had the prescience to make the necessary arrangement. It is – however – a trivial matter to order a chequebook online – have it delivered to a Canadian address (our dear friends in Saanichton, who forwarded it on to the UK) – and then to write myself a cheque for any amount that I please.

My attempt to pay in this cheque-to-myself at my bank in the UK caused only momentary confusion for the front of house assistant, the resolution of which involved my being whisked peremptorily to the front of a long and somewhat irritable queue of other customers to obtain the necessary advice. I beat a hasty retreat before the murmuring behind me turned nasty – content that I had finally been able to get my hands on my own money!

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OK – so there are two possible explanations for the preceding and somewhat grouchy post on the subject of the current state of the British weather… The first is that my natural optimism had temporarily deserted me – prompted in no small part by the dogged insistence of our forecasters that the immediate future – in meteorological terms if no other – looked grim. The second is that I was actually practicing a subtle form of climatic voodoo – the intention being to goad the weather gods into an antithetical response. If this latter were indeed the case… well, it worked like a charm!

Contrary to all of the forecasts – including those on the day itself – the clouds cleared from the sky, the wind dropped to a balmy breeze and the temperature soared by a good five degrees. The ground – previously unknown to me – was pretty as a picture. Our opponents were good-natured and sportsmanlike – and we contrived not to lose. To be entirely fair we managed only what might be considered a losing draw – a concept almost certainly completely alien to anyone not conversant with the arcane nature of the game. I will happily explain should anyone so desire…

Today – naturally – it is once again grey and cold!

Anyway – here are a few snaps…

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidThe offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water-way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky – seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness. 

Joseph Conrad

Just under a year ago this weekend I posted thus on the occasion of – amongst other delicious happenings – my first game of cricket of the season. I am – in theory – due to turn out for this year’s corresponding fixture this coming Sunday. As things stand I would say that the odds on the game taking place must be on the longish side – and that’s putting it mildly!

Now – I wouldn’t want to intercede in the argument between the global warmists and the climate change deniers – sorry, sceptics! – but from my entirely partial standpoint I think there can be no doubt that there is “summat oop wi’ t’weather”. (No idea why I came over all cod-northern there… Must be a hot flush or something – or a cold one, mayhap!)

At this juncture last year we had just experienced one of the dryest winters on record and dire warnings of droughts and hosepipe bans were still ringing in our ears. Had we but know it we stood on the cusp of one of the wettest summers in living memory, which intemperate season saw the cancellation of many of the great game’s fixtures at everything from national to village levels. As we now emerge, blinking, from one of the darkest winters of modern times – featuring as it did the coldest March for fifty years – we find ourselves waiting with some trepidation to see what the summer – should it ever arrive – will bring.

Thus far the omens are not propitious. With the exception of the odd – and unexpected – springlike day the temperature has struggled to creep into double figures. On the infrequent occasions that there has been some variation from the ominous grey that habitually covers the UK at this time of year the alternate fare on offer has tended to comprise bitter winds and stinging horizontal rain.

Who knows? Maybe the rain will hold off for long enough for twenty two ragged-arsed cricketers – clad between them in getting on for fifty sweaters – to brave the elements and attempt to remember why they play the game at all.

I’ll let you know…
rain

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Photo by Andy Dawson Reid“Life isn’t a matter of milestones but of moments”

Rose F Kennedy

Here is one such moment – though one that does, as it happens, feel like something of a milestone…

Regular readers of these random jottings will be aware that – over the past 16 months or so – a number of targets, deadlines or turning points – what the navigators amongst you might call waypoints – have materialised only subsequently to evanesce. Amongst these were the movable feast that was to be my retirement, the uncertain date of my emigration to Canada and the point at which we might finally sell our apartment in Buckinghamshire.

All of these uncertainties give the whole process something of an air of unreality. It is all well and good laying plans and scheming schemes – deciding that such and such will be so – but until something concrete actually happens there is always a slight nagging feeling that one might just be pissing in the wind!

Well – an event has now occurred regarding which there can be no doubts.

At my previous school my pension age was sixty. Had I remained there I would now have been contemplating retirement in just over seven months time – regardless of any other plans that might have been made, or even of my own whims and fancies. Even so, the side-effect is that my pension from that school’s rather splendid scheme kicks in regardless shortly after the turn of the year – on the occasion of my sixtieth birthday.

I thus duly received – earlier this week – the forms necessary to set the process in motion. I have completed, signed and returned them. Though not in itself a particularly dramatic or life-changing event, it is the first real indicator that I am indeed approaching retirement – which occurrence itself truly will be momentous.

Now – that is a moment to celebrate!

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Lies“In this treacherous world
Nothing is the truth nor a lie.
Everything depends on the color
Of the crystal through which one sees it”

Pedro Calderón de la Barca

As I write the streets are closed in the centre of London for the burial of the Baroness. Hectares of news print have already been expended on she-who-was-not-for-turning – seemingly as divisive in death as she was during her political career. I do not propose to add anything of my own in that regard.

I cannot – however – let the occasion pass without observing that the echoes of that time and of that particular administration still reverberate throughout modern Britain today and that – to my mind – much of our recent anguish has its origins in that period. One trait which first became apparent to me then and which I cannot abide – effectively that of kicking a man when he is down – seems again to have become accepted practice in recent times. This is – there can be little doubt – yet another side effect of the big lie that is at the heart of capitalism.

That lie – and it is a pernicious lie – holds that if the competitive free market were given its head and if we all take full responsibility for ourselves and strive with all our might, we can each attain the holy grail of success and fortune. The truth is that we can’t – any more than can each of the runners in the 100 metres final take home the gold medal. Any one of them might win – but not all of them can.

An alternative analogy. The lottery…

The focus of public interest in the lottery is, somewhat inevitably, the big winners. It should perhaps more pertinently be those who do not win. Were it not for the individual pounds or dollars that they contribute there would be no jackpot and thus no jackpot winner.  Again – though everyone that buys a ticket has a chance to win – not all of them can do so. Should – by some miracle – all those purchasing tickets just happen to chose the same numbers and should – by an even more miraculous occurrence – those numbers actually come up, then each contestant would simply win back their original stake… minus expenses! The lottery would stop working and no-one would ever play it again.

That this does not happen in practice is because the lottery is engineered not to work that way – in exactly the same manner that capitalism is engineered. Thatcher apparently held the view that those who were poor were responsible for their own condition and that to be poor was indicative of a flawed character. This is simply not the case. The poor are poor because – if this were not so – it would not be possible for the rich to be rich.

Capitalism relies on competition. Competition requires the incentive inherent in there being winners and losers. Though the prize money pot may grow bigger as the number of competitors increases, it does not do so because they compete harder! Capitalism – though probably the best we have – can never provide prosperity for all!

I have no issue with lionising those who win through their own hard work (though I do with those who cheat, lie or exploit the weaknesses of others) – what I can’t stomach is the demonisation of those who don’t.

 

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