Progress

It's been a while since I wrote a blog, my own fault, (if fault it is), because I've been concentrating on other things and have largely forgotten about it. I daresay there are many who think that this has been a benefit! Anyway, I thought I'd start writing one again, and then came the usual dilemma: what should I write about?

 

As ever, I thought I'd start with the grain of an idea, and just rattle away, see where it takes me.

 

Many years ago, we were booked for a family holiday abroad, and the day came when we were due to set off, early the next morning. That evening, dad's car broke down. I guess perhaps we shouldn't have been that surprised, he had bought the car (a Mk9 Jaguar) second-hand a couple of years previously, and in that short time it seems to have a habit of things breaking or going wrong.

 

If you don't know the Mk9 Jaguar, it looked very similar to a Rolls-Royce or Bentley of the day, quite a tall, imposing car, with a fair dose of power under the long bonnet and a pair of large headlamps each side of a tall radiator grille. It had a fair turn of speed, and two fuel tanks (one in each wing) to satisfy its thirst.

 

But not the night before we went on holiday, when a big end went on one of its six connecting rods, and it had to be towed to a garage. Clearly, it wasn't going to whisk us across Europe the next day, it wasn't going anywhere for a while. So we postponed the booking for a day, and the very next morning then contacted a local Ford dealership to arrange for a new Zodiac (Mk3 in those days). There was one at Ashford, "take it or leave it", so he took it, and they spent the day getting it prepared and on predelivery checks.

 

It arrived after work that evening, a nice looking car the Mk3 Zodiac, for headlamps, and two wings, it would have been perfect, but it was battleship grey with a red inside, a most peculiar mix, and not difficult to see why it had gone unsold, still, beggars couldn't be choosers, so we loaded it up with our luggage and parked it in the garage overnight.

 

The next morning we were up early, it was the second half of August, and basically just beginning to get light. We all piled in and the short trip to Dover to catch the car ferry (12 miles?) Was our first journey in the new car. We were all excited by the prospect of going on holiday, and I guess the new car, with its new car smell, and unfamiliarity, added to that.

 

There were downsides to a new car back in those days, downsides which have largely ceased to exist in modern times, and we found ourselves limited to 45 miles an hour of the first thousand miles to run the car in. Back in those days, there were few motorways across Europe, other than those that Germany built in the midthirties, and we pottered along what were generally "A" roads, with the odd "B" added for good measure.

 

We got to see a lot of the towns and countryside where we went, lots! Certainly in far greater detail than we would have done. I remember being on a long straight Avenue in Holland and seeing a church spire at its end, the church spire that didn't seem to be getting any closer for quite some time, and similar things happened with windmills and other landmarks.

 

It was a strange journey where most vehicles passed us, usually staring at us because we were going at a slow speed, sometimes hooting, and occasionally, gesticulating. You make many friendly people travelling in Europe but on this journey we seem to see more than our fair share of angry people, and it was mum in the passenger seat (sitting on the left) that took the brunt of the anger.

 

The original journey had been planned to overnight somewhere well into Germany, or near the Danish border, but our sightseeing tour became a two-stop extravaganza. The first evening we got well into Holland, and ended up in a motel not far from the German border, the next night was spent in a motel in Denmark, and eventually we completed our journey in Sweden, about two days later than planned, or three, by the early evening that we finally got there.

 

A couple of weeks later we returned through Europe, and although the car was perhaps well on its way to being officially run in, we took it fairly easy back and still stopped twice. I remember being in Holland early on the second day and thinking how odd it was that there I was in Holland having breakfast and the next morning I would be starting primary school with a new winter term. Of course, in the meantime, travel has changed for everybody and you can wake up in your own home, and find yourself going to bed in another continent. Back in the day, holidays were infrequent, and distances far more modest.

 

Is there a point to this tale? Well, yes there is (although it seemed to take me forever to get to it!). We lived with the grey Zodiac for perhaps 18 months, but eventually it was decided to replace it with another that was more cheerful, and so dad ordered a white Zodiac with black interior, and traded the old one in.

 

Exactly the same model, but in the intervening months there had been a few cosmetic changes, and one or two additions. The rear chrome bumper now sported two built-in reversing lights which in those days was quite an innovation (they actually came on by selecting reverse gear, how clever is that!), And there were changes to some the instrumentation and switches. All changes for the good, and I daresay one or two modifications mechanically, what is certain is that the later car was a lot better than the first, and I don't think it was just the colour, I think the production line had settled down in the meantime.

 

Which finally gets me to the point.

 

Today, change is an integral part of life. We buy a new whatever, are happy with it, find it does exactly what we want, is well made, and reliable. Then the next thing you know a new one has come out, and the one that you had is no longer front runner. It does everything that it did when you bought it, and does it well, but its list of features looks decidedly short when compared against the new model, in fact, you wonder if you can still cope with it!

 

That, is my point. Today's products are so refined and superb that even years old they are better than what we once bought brand-new, yet despite that the world's economy has been set up to keep producing in vast numbers and keep selling, and we all seem to be trained in this to a greater or lesser degree. Well, some of us are, anyway. Enough, no doubt to keep the factory in full swing.

 

These days I look at what I have and tend to hang onto it for quite a while, and the important thing is to choose carefully in the first place, not buying with the idea that if it doesn't work out you can soon replace it with another. It's best to choose the best spec you can afford, rather than by cheap and often. These days,

 

I’d wait for the white car to be available rather than simply by a grey one.

 

Will it Snow This Evening, I Wonder?

I’m sitting in my office (or den, as I prefer to think of it) waiting for some tasks to complete on the computer. As ever, there are other things I’d rather be doing on the computer, which, despite working very well at the moment, is overdue a bit of housekeeping, and another backup of the C drive before I do.

 

Which finds me where I am, waiting for a backup to complete that initially said 28 minutes, and now says it will take considerably more. However, not all is lost by a long way because I’m able to use the computer while this is going on in the background.

 

My office is basically a small single bedroom, which, with the bed removed provides more than enough room for me. It’s easy to keep warm, has plenty of space for storage and files, my computering bits and pieces, and the like. One of its best assets (apart from an old but restored pedestal desk) is the large window across one wall. From it, I see out across the garden, across a field and way into the countryside. It is a view that always excites the eyes. I can see a neighbour’s house, but I have to look for it, which for me is as good as it gets.

 

On the windowsill is an insulated mug of black coffee. More often than not, I have mug of coffee to my left, within easy arms reach, but not where I’ll inadvertently knock it over the desk, keyboard, my graphics tablet, or myself! These things happen, sometimes I drift, and (dare I admit it?) nod off occasionally!

 

Looking out of the window today, I’m glad that I’m indoors. There is a strong wind blowing from the South, rain is striking the window, and there’s enough snow mixed into what is in effect a sleet shower, that it is clouding the near distance and removing the view somewhat. Not simply falling either, it is almost horizontal, such is the strength of the wind.

 

Our forecast today predicts the possibility of heavy snow in the next three hours, but in my opinion before that happens we need to see the wind veer round more towards the east (currently we are West of South, and we need to be at least east of South for the cold air over Europe to blast in on our little corner of Britain).

 

In my neck of the woods, it’s the chilly east wind in winter that really brings heavy snow. Back in the 80s, we had a spell of about a week suffering easterlies and the temperature plummeted to more as you would expect in Siberia. It tends not to work its way inland too far, and so the eastern half of our County (Kent) basically seized up with the band of snow extending as far as East Sussex, and perhaps just reaching London to our North East.

 

I remember that the rest of the country was more or less snow free, (east wind precipitation hereabouts be it rain or snow tends to be heavy, and it finishes somewhere to our west as a definite line-you can be soaking wet, and 10 feet further westwards, be dry) and for us, travel became very difficult for a few days. The trains couldn’t run, and in those days of British Rail, they were able to bring in special snowplough trains from “up north”, with even some from Scotland that took more than a day to transport down the network.

 

Well, that was then, this is now. We may well get the heavy fall of snow within the next 3 to 4 hours, and it may well keep snowing into the night, but if it does, it will stop before dawn, I reckon, and the air will warm up noticeably (if the forecast is to be believed!).

 

During the meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy doing Photoshop on my computer, watching the snow come down outside my window, possibly building on the windowsill, as it does, and I will enjoy keeping my mug of coffee on the go, keeping snug and warm, and glad that I have no need to go out!

 

The only downside to my plan is that every Sunday Anna and I like to go to The Bowl Inn in Hastingleigh, which is about 7 miles away, is one of Kent’s highest pubs, and as such subject to the worst of severe weather (as well as some of the best the good weather!). Each week, we see many of the usual regulars, and is always pleasant to do so. If we don’t go, I know I’ll miss it, the company, and on winter evenings, sitting around one of their roaring fires.

 

I will miss it, but it makes no sense to risk driving through remote snow covered lanes just to avoid some regrets, by possibly adding others!

 

Time will tell.

Petrol

Petrol

 

The other day, I got to thinking about petrol, what I knew of it, and what changes I’d seen regarding it, throughout my life.

 

In the first half of the 19^th century, crude oil, or petroleum (a combination of two Latin words meaning “oil from rocks”) was first distilled into paraffin and generally used for lighting oil lamps. This was in the “horse and cart” days before internal combustion engines had been invented.

 

Mechanical Power, for manufacturing, propulsion, and pumping water (amongst other things) was provided by steam, heated by coal.

 

The basic principles of an internal combustion engine began to take shape around the same time, although initially these used hydrogen gas in the main, usually triggered by electric spark. Later on, experiments were conducted using paraffin, but paraffin was less volatile and it was harder to produce a satisfactory mixture.

 

By heating crude oil further, more volatile distillates are produced, and these are distilled into petrol. With these heavier vapours it was possible to obtain a far better explosive mix, and the internal combustion engine that we know today gradually came into being.

 

Early engines were single and sometimes twin cylinder, somewhat crude by today’s standards but they established the benefits that a few horsepower can bring. Towards the end of the 19^th century the first four-cylinder engine had been built, and the foundations of the modern car were being developed.

 

Engines continued to be developed and improved. Over the years they became considerably more powerful, light enough to allow powered flight, and efficiencies have improved to levels that were once only dreams. All this has taken place in little more than a century, and

 

Initially, petrol was sold in cans in chemist shops, and garages. Later, as demand grew, it was sold in bulk and delivered by pump from a tank. Not so long back, they were filling stations everywhere with an attendant to operate the pump, but in recent years profit margins shrank, and regulations ballooned, which made even self-service pumps a liability for all but the very biggest filling stations.

 

So now, with more vehicles on our road than ever before, we find ourselves travelling further to use fewer filling stations, which seems odd. When I was a youngster, many people ran mopeds which had perhaps a litre tank capacity, or less. There was always a local filling station where they could fill up (every couple of hundred miles?!). I wonder where they go these days? I guess a 12 mile round trip instead of no more than half a mile?

 

Anyway, I thought that occurred to me was: If petrol was invented today, would it be allowed? In our safety conscious modern world, a highly flammable liquid giving off explosive vapours, would, I think, be banned.

 

Unless, that is, we were still in a horse-drawn era!

 

Makes you think, doesn’t it.

 

Hitting the Buffers

 

 

With one exception, these days I tend not to buy newspapers. Far from being a cheapskate, when I did buy them I didn’t have enough time (even retired) to read them. I don’t read enough anyway, I think in recent years my eyes must have slowed down a bit because I used to read lots.

 

Anyway, I’m not a complete skinflint (a large percentage of my hair has vanished over time, so at least some of me is incomplete!), Also, I subscribe to the Times online, where I’m often found griping, and perhaps building a reputation as a curmudgeon, although I’d be happier to be known as a grumbly old git.

 

Enough of that. The exceptional newspaper I refer to is our local rag, the Folkestone Herald. “Rag” is a bit disrespectful, but it often fits the bill, and I really enjoy the use of slang.

 

In my youth, it was housed in a large printing works that more or less backed onto my primary school playground, and in those days it produced two newspapers a week, start to finish with the “black art” of printing carried out on premises.

 

There was always activity around the printing works, and the “industrial” Baker’s next door which wafted us baking bread smells every morning. When I was a lad, everywhere had industry, everyone worked somewhere, and each district had its factories, some quite large.

 

Now all those bustling sites are gone, and in the case of the printing works, the site is now occupied by a large block of upmarket retirement flats. They look really good, well situated in the centre of town, but unlike the printing works they provide very little regular employment.

 

That is the way of things. What once would have taken up to 30 men can quite often be done by one these days, and probably much better, because a machine does the majority of the physical and mental work. However, there aren’t machines (yet) that do the actual reporting, and so the local paper is still run from a small office a couple of hundred yards away from the original printing works.

 

Mind you, I wonder sometimes if the local paper isn’t trying out robots, because far too many of the articles seem to be lacking in some of the logical basics. It’s quite common to read about a shocking crime, or even something wonderful, and by the end of it be almost none the wiser!

 

Many’s the time that I have read and reread an article struggling to find pertinent data. (Who, what, when, where, how, and why?), you wouldn’t think it possible, but it seems that a reporter knows all the facts, and then writes an article forgetting to put them in! If they didn’t know all the facts, they should ask.

 

 

So reading the local paper has its moments at times. We know perhaps that a new cafe or restaurant has opened in the town, but we don’t know where, or, that a celebrity is coming to give a lecture, but we might not know where, or if we do, when. A Club is holding an open day, or exhibition this weekend, we know the name of the person selling tickets, but we don’t know where it’s being held. So apart from a few locals who hear about it on the grapevine, this likely going to be a lot of effort put in for little reward, quite unnecessarily so.

 

As I say, the basics are lacking, and I take it nobody reads through the thing before they push the button and spew out several thousand copies the evening before publication day.

 

As ever, I’ve digressed a bit. Are you keeping up with me? (Or are you actually bothered? I have a feeling I might be getting long-winded again, and lacking humour, but I will press on, nevertheless).

 

Anyway continuing with the Folkestone Herald which comes out every Thursday, I buy a copy and apart from the front page (another crisis, probably, often to do with the oppressive local council and its attempts to bolster finances by imposing terrifying fines on the local population for littering, or its cornering the market in car parking spaces), what I read first, are the obituaries.

 

I’m not morbid, but I do like to know who is and who isn’t. Sadly these days, I see more and more people who I know or have known, perhaps not well, and perhaps some met in passing (if you’ll excuse the pun!).

 

It’s grimly inevitable, and perhaps a little sad that every now and again I find one to cross off my Christmas card list. Many people who at one time or another (if not currently) have been part of my life in some way as I meander through it. All will be missed in their own way.

 

It would be wrong to say that I never go to funerals, but you would be hard pressed to find anybody that remembered me being at one. I think I’ve been to 5 funerals in my life, give or take, but it isn’t many.

 

Some might think this is disrespectful, so be it, we all have opinions. In my case, the few that I have attended left me with a strong opinion that a funeral is for those left behind rather than for the unfortunate whose funeral it is.

 

Although I have not studied it in any depth, I understand that funerals as we know them are a fairly modern thing derived from a (Victorian?) desire for ceremonies. Certainly I know that going back away, the “bring out your dead!” street crier with his cart was the usual undertaker service. I still think that would be a better way than the lingering grimmer alternative we have today.

 

A few years ago, the landlord of a pub I was lucky enough to be a regular of (one of many!, Although this was in some ways “special”), died suddenly after checking in at a hotel on holiday in China, victim of deep vein thrombosis I suspect. His ashes were brought back, and a sort of memorial celebration was held at the pub. Without doubt, if you’re keen to have a funeral, this is the way to do it.

 

He was very well liked, and many people travelled from many continents to be there, past regulars we hadn’t seen for yonks, made a point of being there, even if it meant travelling thousands of miles (the landlord himself had to do so, didn’t he!). If I had to have a funeral (and one day, who knows, I might!), then this sort of thing would suit down to the ground.

 

I should also point out that the pub was open all day with all takings going to charity. I’ve long approved of the practice of leaving enough money behind a bar that nobody should leave sober from a funeral or wake.

 

To me, that seemed a better way of saying goodbye to a friend or acquaintance than any amount of embarrassed second-rate singing in some dank, cold church or chapel. All trying to look (or actually be) sombre, all playing a part that most would rather not be.

 

A past life should be celebrated, not regretted it’s inevitable that each one of us will eventually “hit the buffers”, hopefully after a long and happy journey.

 

 

Good of you to read this, if you’ve made it as far as here, you’ve done exceptionally well. Perhaps, if it stirs any reaction (extreme boredom comes to mind!) And you feel like a grumble, make a comment and I’ll be delighted to see if I can improve in future! (Although a grumbly “set in their ways”, old dog, might struggle with new tricks!).

 

Regards, Dan

Generation Gap?

Generation Gap?

 

A couple of days ago, I was having lunch in a “family” type pub restaurant, one of a national chain, serving all day, which caters for volume and those seeking good value. I go there from time to time, and enjoy it, often turning up during the quieter period (after lunch, but before the evening crowd arrive).

 

Anyway, there I was, a couple of days ago having lunch with the missus on a particularly nice table for two overlooking a pond.

 

Perhaps oddly, we’d had exactly the same table a couple of weeks previously, and on that occasion my lunch had been slightly “dented” by the badly controlled kid on the table behind me, a puffy-faced tyke roughly 7 years old, at a guess, who’s idea of going out for a meal was to constantly fill a salad plate, plus his “never-ending” fizzy cola, and to see how many rolls he could balance on a small side plate. In other words, all the “help yourself to as many as you want” items.

 

His mum wasn’t bothered, in fact, she openly encouraged him by laughing at the piles of excess that he bought back to the table, and didn’t consume.

 

However, the thing that really annoyed me was the determined shove in the back, and the treading on my coat as he passed. Had it been me, (an adult of considerably greater size than “Little Johnny”) I would have been able to pass his chair without him even knowing. Just good manners, apart from anything else.

 

Had I been a wizard or Genie I’d have cast a suitable spell that brought realisation to the kid and maybe helped his future prospects. Turned him to a Pig or similar! (only for a bit!).

 

Which brings me neatly back to yesterday, wife and I sitting at the aforementioned table, enjoying our meal, watching the goldfish, when again, I was barged in the back by a kid on the table behind. This time, the culprit was a snooty-faced blonde girl of about six or seven in a blue school uniform, a little bigger than I remember “Little Johnny” had been, but no less active or annoying. From her expression she’d been told that she could do no wrong, and again her mum did nothing to correct her as she jogged backwards and forwards collecting fizzy drinks, and bread like a squirrel stocking for a cold winter.

 

What a difference there is between children these days, and what a difference between parents.

 

When I went to school, whatever our background, whoever we were, we were moulded as one, generally by a seriously outnumbered teacher, but despite this, discipline was enforced. Any thought that we could do as we liked was soon dashed, whilst we also learnt respect for elders.

 

The reduction of convention over the years (rightly so, in my opinion) has meant that everyone these days is able to pick and choose for themselves. Unfortunately, we haven’t really addressed the fact that with greater freedom you need greater individual responsibility.

 

As for manners…….

Two Life Observations

Two Life Observations 09/09/2012

 

What a fantastic week this has been weather-wise! So much sun, and often just enough breeze to make it pleasant. I feel spoilt.

 

The missus and I have been out enjoying the weather most days, it's been a sort of holiday. We don't go away much, and we are in the lucky position of being able to take advantage of good weather, with the added bonus that with the schools having gone back, availability improves.

 

The longer you bumble through life, the more you notice things, sometimes these are more perception than fact. As a schoolboy, summer seemed to last for ever, and every day was blazing hot (it can't have been, can it. Memories play tricks, and erase the bad days along with the bland).

 

I remember acres of peeling skin every year (I was a big lad!), because I spent a lot of time swimming in the sea, and afterwards in the sun, drying on the beach (along with the tanning multitude!), and because I am basically designed for colder climates. I turn red like a lobster, I reckon I'd burn in front of a candle!

 

In those days, there wasn't really UV protective sun cream, there were tanning lotions (brown coloured oil) that helped turn your skin to a film star tan. My school bus journey always took the seafront route, and on hot days you could smell the hot Ambre Solaire over the whole mile!

 

I used to imagine there were men with giant spatulas turning the sunbathers over like sausages on a grill. The beach reeked of it, by rights, the beach should have been a skid pan of oil soaked pebbles, and the sea covered with a rich coating of rainbows like spilled diesel when the tide came in!

 

One of my "rules of life" is that whatever weather the summer brings, you can generally rely upon having a spell of good weather in May and September. Perfect months to take a holiday if bringing up children isn't one of your tasks!

 

That's what we've done this week, me and the missus have been out and about to local places we enjoy, spiced up by visiting some we've never been to.

 

And so it was that we found ourselves in the fish market area down at the harbour this week. These days, there isn't much of a fish market, and the fleet is considerably smaller than even 20 years ago. It's still a dangerous occupation, and one best suited to hardy individuals, "characters" in the main, more often than not, those following family tradition.

 

Times change, and these days fishermen are severely restricted by a plethora of rules and regulations determinedly enforced. If their forebears returned by some miracle, they would have a shock. The massive improvements in technology and equipment weighed against crushing regulation, much of it contrary to its intention, today's world doesn't favour individualism or freethinking. Government at all levels baulks at anything that counters their total dominance.

 

I daresay though, that an old forebear brought back in a tardis would also have great difficulty coming to terms with the idea that cod and chips could cost more than a shilling!

 

Anyway, there we were in the harbour with the tide in, blue sky, seagulls, boats manoeuvring, and even people swimming! Come to think of it, some schools can't have started, because there were several youngsters. Some were throwing themselves from the harbour wall and "bombing" into the water.

 

I guess they must have known it was safe to do so, but it makes me cringe nevertheless. Harbours are working places, and whilst underwater obstructions are very unlikely where there are moorings, low tide reveals all kinds of junk that has found its way over the railings.

 

There's been a four-star restaurant in the harbour for about two years now. Architect designed, and very posh, it has a huge glass fenced veranda on the sea side with tables for good weather, in front of a large glass fronted restaurant. The view is exceptional, especially so when the tide is in. If you had to put a value on the view, I'd say it would probably equal the cost of the food, but of course the view is free.

 

There was a table that seems to have our name on it (my long-range vision is pretty good!), So we decided to give it a try (having already glanced at the published menu outside). It's quite an experience. As you enter, you can see into the kitchen through a large plate glass window, which was a stainless steel hive of activity. As one would expect, staffing levels are high, and the experience has been well designed, along with the building.

 

It's not cheap, but if you choose from the lunchtime menu, you currently can get three courses for roughly the same price as a main course on the main menu, and that's what we did. Looking around, at the operation and the building, I was very conscious of costs. I wouldn’t like to have to pay the weekly bills. That its successful is very largely due to premium prices, and its continued success can only be welcomed locally.

 

Sitting out in the sun, overhanging the harbour on the corner of the veranda with a 270° view of all the activity going on, was a wonderful experience, a memory that will last forever.

 

The food was a work of art, well presented, and cooked to perfection. We slipped up by not ordering vegetables, and so ending with sweet, itself "exquisite" in its small iron pot, I wasn't in any danger of putting on weight. Good for me, as I'm always watching my waistline, bad for the missus, who likes her food, and doesn't put any weight on (nor did she get the chance to that lunchtime!)

 

Nevertheless, I'm glad we went there.

 

Since we've been, we've met one or two people who have also been there "once", and I think we must be in a growing group of “one-timers”, because the remarks always seem to follow the pattern that the food is great, but there's not much of it. At least one told us that many husbands head for the chippy opposite after leaving!

 

Which brings me to one of my life observations: it seems to me that the more you pay in a restaurant, the less food you actually get.

 

Okay, you get attention to detail, like visiting a consultant privately, you get at least a few minutes personal attention from the “main man or woman”, a person at the top of their profession.

 

However, despite this, if I ran a restaurant I would hope that nobody left it hungry, and would "pad out" the morsels on offer with freely available bread, and carbohydrates of some sort with the meal. An 18p can of Baked Beans perhaps?

 

Thus, for a few pence you could stuff customers (literally!) making the food seem far better value by sending your punters back onto the street with protesting trouser buttons. Not doing so, to me, is false economy, although……. the same restaurant also owns the chippy opposite, I’m given to believe.

 

Many decades since, I knew a couple who owned a prestigious restaurant. He was "front of house" and management, she was chef, (and as wife, perhaps the boss?!). More than once he “justified” his high prices in conversation with me by asking the question: " Pleeease….” (He often began a sentence with an overly extended “Please”) “Would you rather sell one meal for £10, or 10 meals for one pound?"

 

I could see his logic, they kept nicely busy, and seemingly profitable, in an upmarket niche. He wasn't rushed off his feet, as maybe he would have been operating a "greasy spoon" and probably struggling for market share in a value-conscious business.

 

Once or twice, I ate there myself, on "special occasions" like perhaps a birthday party. Again, the food was superb, carefully selected, well-cooked by a creative chef, and then, (as recently), when the time came to leave, you wondered if McDonald's was still open?!

 

I don't have a comprehensive lifetime's experience of four-star restaurants, but I have been in a few over my time, and I think my life observation holds good! Certainly, what you pay in life is no indication of the quantity that money buys!

 

It’s also equally true that there’s more to value than simply “bangs for your buck”. Often you can pay more for the same thing and it’s the right way to go.

 

The View was special; it helped to make my day.

 

Getting Away

Getting Away

One of my pleasures in life is to "pop out" for a few hours, or perhaps a day, touring round, seeing the sights, and meeting the people. Usually in our local area, and usually less than 50 miles from home.

I'm not much of a "Christopher Columbus", I like to explore, but have no wish to travel to distant lands. I'm more than happy where I am, I have my life arranged as I want it, which provides contentment, and if you have that there isn't much else you lack.

This wasn't always the case, and I often longed for my annual holiday and the chance to experience life elsewhere. In those days, I remember the suspense building up to the next which holiday, buying "needed" items for a week or two prior to departure, and ecstatic, almost boiling over excitement when departure day dawned.

At the end of such holidays (the first week passing leisurely, the second, seemingly gone in a flash!), I felt sadness, almost depression. The thought of returning to "normality" left me in the "dumps". I remember returning to Tilbury docks once, on the ferry from Sweden, seeing the dockworkers marshalling the ship through the locks, and teeming rain pouring down from a grey sky, and thinking:

"God! What on earth am I doing here, swapping Sweden for this place?".

I used to visit Sweden a lot, I have relatives there, it is, and will always be a favourite destination of mine whenever I decide to travel abroad.

There seemed no comparison then, Sweden being a huge, sparsely populated scenic country of Lake and Forest, with an impressive network of empty high quality roads, a free and easy lifestyle, and a high standard of living. Back here, it was much as ever, too many people with little space, highly industrialised, and everybody seemingly racing to catch up, whilst not always being sure what you are chasing.

I was young then, green, inexperienced, and what reasoning I had wasn't always well considered. It lacked reality, my vivid imagination painted dreams, occasionally of such quality that they perhaps eclipsed reality. The heavy industrialisation of the past has faded over the years, there were forests of cranes at Tilbury docks, and dirty smoking chimneys along the route. All gone, along with all the work that went with them.

These days, I have come to see things generally for what they are. There is usually (perhaps always) a great depth to reality, although I feel it is not always appreciated. We tell the time by staring at the clock face, and although all are aware that there is a mechanism driving the hands, few, I think, appreciate what it is, or how it works.

For some odd reason (or is it that odd?), Nowadays, I always appreciate the mechanism as well as the clock face. I seem to understand what's going on behind, why things interact as they do, the thought behind the design.

I guess what I refer to is experience. You can't teach it, but we all gain it as life passes. Many times lately I find myself wishing that those pulling the levers of power had more experience on which to base their judgement, but I guess they're busy gaining it as they go!

I wonder sometimes if having a greater sense of reality reduces one's imagination? I still have my imagination, and it remains vivid, but is it is as lively as it once was, I wonder? Could it be that getting older and the daily loss of brain cells associated with age has blunted imagination, or perhaps that dosing with reality is an antidote to it?

Unfortunately, I don't have a young me to compare against this old, worn out one, if I did, I might know the answer. Certainly, I don't seem to get the same excitement from things that I once did.

Anyway, having all this vast experience gained over the best part of 60 years (I don't believe it either! No one is that old, and especially not me!), I've come to realise that Great Britain (well, the Olympics have just finished, and the title has been foremost most days recently!) Isn't such a bad place to live at all.

To me, it takes a lot of beating, more beating than other countries have a hope of persuading me otherwise. These days, the thought of going away on holiday almost makes a shudder run down my back at the thought. All those arrangements, working to schedules, allowed extra time (which is then wasted, in the main), What is the point? Where is the fun?

I may well be odd, thinking like that, probably am, but you know what? I don't care.

But now, I'll wind up this blog by returning to my opening line about one of my pleasures being to pop out for a few hours to see what's going on, experience life, meet people etc.

From time to time, I find myself travelling through a village called Rolvenden which is a village that existed in Saxon times, (sometime before the year dot I think). It's a picturesque village sitting on a hill. At the bottom of the hill is Rolvenden station, the main station on the Kent and East Sussex Railway, which stretches from Tenterden in the East, to Bodiam in the West along a river valley.

I'm sure the Rolvenden has many claims to fame, but for me it's sausages.

For many years, approaching it from the South West, I'd pass farmland with signs in the hedge proclaiming; "Free Range Sausages". I was always tempted, and in fact stopped a couple of times to buy some, but free range sausages are shy creatures, and it was rare for them to be caught. I think that the usual method was to lure them into pots, much as you would crabs. I believe they used mashed potato with a bit of gravy as bait!

Seriously though, every time I saw the sign I imagined strings of sausages coiled in the sun, or slithering under the hedgerows, in the manner of snakes. It always brought a wry smile to minutes, and a chuckle!

These days, Rolvenden is home to "Hoad's Corkers" which are proper Kentish sausages in every sense of the word. In my estimation they are never less than equal to any other sausages, and more equal than most. Since I'm invariably dieting, Hoad's Corkers are rarely on my menu nowadays, and I look forward to the rare times when they are.

It All Started with a Quiz Night Conversation

A couple of weeks ago I was in the pub (I ought to say "in a pub", because there is more than one in my life, not that I drink much, more that I go out, socialise, and often have something to eat. Anyway, "the Pub" in question is a regular haunt of mine, on a Sunday evening, and as I say, there I was, with the subject under discussion being quiz night.

A few of the previous week’s questions were bandied about, and one referring to dates in the 60s, got me thinking.

Having lived through nearly 6 decades, I remember a thing or two over that time, and the 60s was a notable era, perhaps the most influential decade of them all? (if you can classify decades that is!). It was a bridge between the past and the future, what followed, where we are now, is to some extent built on a 60’s chassis.

I have long held the opinion, perhaps always held it, that when it comes to the 1960s timeline, if you don't know the actual year something happened, then 1967 is an excellent choice if being right matters, such as on quiz nights.

It is a year that stands out from all the rest of my experience. Such a lot happened, or resulted from actions taken in 1967. It was definitely an historical "turning point".

In 1967 I was 13, becoming 14 right on the tail end, in December (oddly, my birthday has always been in December, but I can't really claim any records!). I was at secondary school, and on January 4^th my school had organised a day trip to London during the Christmas holiday.

As with all school trips (certainly in those days, and I assume these) there was some learning involved, as an excuse for allowing some pleasure. We went to an exhibition, as I remember it, something a bit arty, historical, (and forgettable too, it seems!). Then, (having done our learning bit) we went to Coliseum Cinerama and watched "Grand Prix" on the huge three-part, wide, curved screen. A film bejewelled with stars, including James Garner, and with a cameo role for Graham Hill to add authenticity.

It was a realistic motor racing film in its day, full of action, and tragedy. In those days, cars and equipment (although the pinnacle of excellence then) were very crude by modern standards, and nowhere near as safe or predictable as they are today. Schoolboys like me went in awe of the mechanical achievements of the day which we read about in magazines like "Look and Learn".

Towards the end of the film, one of the heroes, an ageing French driver becoming increasingly disillusioned with the sport, and having the greater understanding of life that experience brings, is contemplating getting out of the sport, when he is killed in a spectacular accident after striking debris, his car crashes through the barrier wall at the top of banking and explodes in flames.

To us boys the crash was a shock, and I guess a lesson. As we left the Cinerama, some were chattering about it, some were quiet and pondering. I can't remember now, what I was doing, but as we emerged into the street and the cold, dark January night (it had been light when we went in) there was a newspaper seller outside, and the headline on his board was: "Campbell Killed".

That's how I know what the date was. Donald Campbell had been killed in a spectacular crash on Coniston water whilst trying to break his own World Water Speed Record. I guess he felt the need to push it that bit further, partly to "maintain momentum" in keeping the speed bandwagon going, along with his career, and perhaps more importantly, in those days it was all about achievement, and Britain was still very much a major player.

In many spheres we were world leading, we still had a massive manufacturing industry, that had made spears and was now making ploughshares and we could still make everything we needed. We were inventive and pioneering.

That said, we were increasingly making mistakes, the sort of mistakes that come from arrogance and not paying attention, although we didn't realise it at the time.  We were slower to adopt new methods, in Europe they often had to, because the old had been swept away.

When I was at school, we were shown films of long-established industries in various parts of the country, which we studied, and which then became part of  CSE and O-level geography exams a few years later, (these days, those same films are probably used in history lessons!).

If you want to know all about 1967, you can Google it, but for now, here is a taster:

Harold Wilson was Prime Minister, and he opened negotiations the Britain to join the EEC in January, which had the support of some of the member states, but which was crushed in November by a DeGaulle Veto (I sometimes wonder if DeGaulle was on my side!). I never thought much of Wilson, but as a schoolboy what did I know, or care? Certainly, he was shrewd and cunning, but he couldn't get round DeGaulle!

In Parliament, 1967 was also played its part with change, the breathalyser was introduced (in October, just in time for Christmas!) by Barbara Castle, the Transport Minister who didn’t drive, and the Abortion Act was passed, after much debate.

The supertanker "Torrey Canyon" ran aground on rocks between Lands End, and the Scilly Isles. It began to break up after a few days, and leak its cargo of crude oil into the sea, so it was bombed by the RAF, and (I believe) the Royal Navy. At any rate, they did their best to smash it up and burn it. In those days, airborne pollution wasn't a consideration I guess!

Barclays opened Britain's first cashpoint, so 1967 marks the start of "the hole in the wall".

Radio One went on air for the first time, and its opening DJ was Tony Blackburn, who's been with us ever since, with his distinctive voice, and who is still almost as young today as he was then. (possibly he was born old?!!)

The QE2 was launched, a beautiful ship, and one designed with the increasing air travel in mind, as she was designed to be dual-purpose, Atlantic crossing for 6 months, and cruising for the remainder of each year (they backed a winner with cruising didn't they!). When built, the QE2 was powered by steam turbines, which give a very smooth ride, especially on a calm sea (as you’ll know, if you've ever been lucky enough to travel on a turbine ship).

They don't build ships with steam turbines these days, too much machinery, too much maintenance, and boilers take up too much useful space. Halfway through her career, the QE2 was converted to diesel power, modern, instant, compact, easy to manage, and all the other advantages. However, they vibrate, and when engines are out of sync, make one's coffee go from smooth to rough and back again whilst you watch it, as the mathematics of varied frequencies meet and part on a cycle.

Also, when you go to bed and put your head on your bunk pillow, you hear the deep rumble of all the Pistons firing in succession. I find it reassuring and sleep well, but I'm sure it keeps some others awake. You tend to notice, and wake, if all the engines shut down suddenly at night (it’s happened once to me, and was never really explained – or noticed by a large percentage of passengers).

I digress, 1967 had so much going on, I'm sure a book could be written about it, maybe someone has? (And would they be as boring as this lengthy scribbling, I wonder?!!).

For me, it was the year in which I had three holidays away, a personal record, and one that I have never matched since. I guess it annoyed the people who ran the local newsagents, who had to cover my paper round for me, but hey, it gave them experience of the worst round in the shop (very large, and spread out, with some big customers on it, which meant an enormous paper bag). I guess it must have impressed them, because they put my weekly wages up half a crown! ( a small fortune in those days, an 8^th of a pound, enough for at least two fish & chip suppers, or a small Airfix model kit –a hobby of mine then).

At Whitsun, I went with the family for a week on the Norfolk Broads for the first time (I went again the next year, but never since, despite intending to), which was a wonderful holiday. Then, in July I went to Sweden with my Swedish grandmother, and one of my brothers, that too was wonderful, and the first holiday apart from the family. Finally, when I returned from Sweden the family had booked a cottage in Dittisham, Devon for week. Again, this was a marvellous time, and we hired a beach boat for the week from Roy Andrews, the ferry man. We were able to potter about on the Dart to the buzz of the British Seagull outboard pushing it along, what fun! We went up to Totnes by river in it, and a few times down to Dartmouth.

I didn't believe three holidays in one year was possible before that, and now, years later, I know it isn't!

That's about it for now, except to mention that later on in the year, actually on November 6th (during half term) dad took us to the "Schoolboys and Schoolgirls" exhibition in (I believe) Olympia.

How do I know the date? Well, as previously, it's marked, but this time by a disaster, the Hither Green train crash. It had happened the night before, when a broken rail end caused a Hastings to London train to derail and crash onto its side (I guess at speed).

As normal, we had driven up to London, and were using the South Circular Road which passes under Hither Green Bridge. That wasn't the reason we went that way, we had completely forgotten (or not known about) the crash. We were stuck in traffic close to the bridge, where the carriages were on their side, and with a pair of steam cranes alongside ready them to lift them up. Dad told us not to look, but how can you not?

Anyway, they lifted the carriage immediately in front of us as we remained jammed in traffic.  The entire carriage side had been ripped off as it travelled on its side down the track. You could see the whole inside of the carriage, and what wasn’t fixed had fallen to the missing side. I won’t describe what I saw, but it was an horrific sight, one you don’t forget.

In those days re-opening the line (or road) took priority and I daresay the line was operational by next morning, not (as now) a crime scene for days or weeks of careful forensic investigation.

As you can see, that daytrip was very memorable, although not in the way dad planned it, but the unusual didn't end at Hither Green. A few miles further on we were waiting at traffic lights, when there was a long skid and a car struck us from behind, knocking us forwards. I remember the boot flying up behind us, because the back of the car had been stoved in, and taken the latch mechanism with it.

You can do wonders with a length of string, and we tied the boot down. Luckily, the rear lights (in the wings of a Zodiac) had escaped damage, and the car was drivable.

Eventually we arrived at Olympia and parked in a street full of cars, but when we returned to the car afterwards, it wasn't there! Neither were all the other cars that had been parked nose to tail down both sides of the street, they'd all being towed away! So we got a ride in a London cab to “Mund Street Car Pound” (if I remember right) as a bonus, and dad got to pay an unexpected parking fine, all of which probably made his day!

I enjoyed the exhibition, and came away with John Ryan's autograph (he of Captain Pugwash fame), he even drew me a Captain Pugwash. I wish I'd got it now.

Yet Another Blog

Yet Another Blog

It seems to have been a while since my last blog, time flies I guess, and I seem to have been reasonably busy lately. Not everything in life is rosy, and this last week has been no exception, I've had a bit of a setback. Nothing too exciting, it's more that I'm not good with sudden changes of direction that interfere with my plans, and so for the last few days I've had a few mixed emotions to cope with.

Time however is a great healer, and very soon I expect to be running on an even keel again, my usual optimistic self. Life has a habit of throwing spanners to keep us on our toes and I should be used to that, but I tend to grumble when something happens. Overall it ain’t too bad, and probably won’t make a lot of difference, but that’s not how I see it (yet).

Anyway I’ll leave it there for now, and stay calm.

Yesterday, Anna and I went over to Dover, and then onto St Margaret's Bay where we parked down by the beach. It's a spectacular place with a cliff backdrop, and yesterday it was a real sun trap, despite weather forecasts suggesting dullness and rain.

We sat outside "The Coastguard", a pub with a large patio and a wonderful Sea view. In yesterday's bright sunshine, sitting outside and enjoying the view while listening to the splashing of waves on the beach, was really pleasant. I always feel that it's a great place to have some kind of fish dish, very apt, considering there are fish living just a few yards from the pub. I remember seeing lots of shellfish (winkles mainly) in the past, at low tide, but yesterday the tide was in.  On the beach were half a dozen or so fishing boats, beach boats, drawn up to the wall, above the high tide mark.

In winter, one can sit inside The Coastguard at a table, perhaps in the restaurant and watch the shipping through double-glazed windows.

Talking of shipping, so much passes St Margaret's Bay, that there is always something sailing by. Nearly all the ferries into and out of Dover pass close by, and yesterday there were several, including the new P&O ships, which are the biggest ferries ever to use Dover. The constant passing of ferries suggests that there is a lot of business on that route at the moment (either that, or a lot of spare capacity!).

The coastline around Dover has a great deal of history attached, and the old coast road between St Margaret's-at-Cliff, and Dover is no exception. This small road which follows the coast behind the cliffs passes or goes through many sites of interest connected with World War I, and World War II, as its close proximity to Europe put it in the firing line, so to speak.

This road also passes the site of Bleriot’s landing (more sudden than a landing I reckon! I think he was keen to get down!), He landed in the shadow of the castle, which this road also passes. If you're familiar with Dover Castle, you will know just how impressive it is from any direction, large and imposing.

It was still sunny in Dover, but returning towards Folkestone, low clouds were blowing in over the cliff, and so the weather changed completely within about 3 miles, turning dull. A good trip out, it took my mind off things for a bit.

Thanks for reading, Dan