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

Another Blog

Another Blog

I've been writing a blog since the end of May, and struggling a bit. I haven't published one for a few days, and thought I would today, but so far I have written two to the point where they became waffly, and, I felt pointless.

Writing should be easy, but I'm struggling, first to find an interesting subject, secondly to write it in a manner that makes it readable. I'd say, that so far today I failed on both counts.

I obviously need to write more to sharpen myself up, and get in the flow of these things. Anyway, here I go again.

I wrote about a visit to see a play at Eastbourne recently, on Wednesday Anna and I returned to see Noel Coward play: "Volcano", a play "wot he wrote" while living as a tax exile in Jamaica in the 60s, and which was never performed until after his death, oddly. Or perhaps not oddly, as it's a play set on a fictitious tropical island, about the complicated love-lives of a small group of expat colonials living there. Probably very true to life at the time, and no doubt controversial in its day. Pretty tame by today's standards, so I guess that tells you how far we've progressed, or regressed, depending on points of view. They lived on the side of a volcano that erupted, and provided tensions.

We arrived late and had to sneak in at the back, as the journey hadn't improved, with more roadwork’s in more places than last time. I still think it's a mad time to be laying new road surfaces on the seafront's of two resorts, but what would I know? I'm only a road user.

If I'd been told that Eastbourne was the walking stick and crutch capital of England, I wouldn't be surprised. I have never seen so many people using walking sticks, or on crutches, and often one on each arm. Their progress often looked painful, and I felt for them. After all,  like all of us they still have the same youngster at the controls, but their bodies are letting them down. Many of us still have that to come, and we, in our turn, will also have to make the most of our circumstances.

After the show, not having had lunch (travelled late, went without!), we took advantage of one of Eastbourne’s many cafes to grab a sandwich and a coffee, very welcome it was too! We also had time to wander about a little bit, and strolled down the promenade to the Pier, and out on it to the end and back. Eastbourne is well-ordered sort of place, open, comfortable, easy, and well laid out. It has its theatres, which cater for most tastes.

Eastbourne is 55 miles from my house, within that range there are very few places that offer plays on a regular basis. In fact, I'm still looking for others. Now that I have "discovered" an interest in seeing plays, it's likely I will want to continue doing so from time to time, and so like as not, I'll get to know the Eastbourne a bit better.

I don't go away on holiday as a rule, but a day away somewhere like Eastbourne leaves you feeling as though you've been away a week anyway. I guess it's the complete change of scenery and atmosphere.

As ever, I'm still not happy that this blog is interesting, or worth reading. I'm tempted to write a fictional one next, I think it would be more fun to write, and maybe easier on the eye of the reader. Let me know what you think, be honest, I appreciate honesty, you won't upset me.

Thanks for reading, regards Dan

Graphics Tablets and Things

Well, it's a Sunday and I find myself in my den (my office, or computer room as we oft refer to it). I felt it was time to write another blog, as much to keep me progressing with them, as to bore the reader with! So here I go:

Often I think of subjects to write about, but as fast as these thoughts arrive, they seem to dissipate when I'm actually faced with the microphone I dry up, (I dictate, because my typing speed is appalling, a tortoise in boxing gloves could get away from me!).

So what have I been up to recently? Good question, and one I'm keen to know the answer to! Over the last couple of days the missus and I have been de-weeding a couple of flowerbeds next to the house, and then planting them out with some flowers that we bought.

The weeds would have been all right if they had decent flowers, but they were those annoying weeds that are all foliage and vigourous, spreading over any open soil like a disease. So we pulled them out, and hoed them until the soil returned. I'm not a keen gardener, and Anna is even less so.

There are pleasures to be had seeing the difference you make through your own efforts, enjoying the open air, the view, the birdsong, etc. Which is just as well to offset the myriad of aches and pains that seems to result! I have quite hard skin on my palms (time was, in my labouring days when I had what used to be called "horny hands", before it meant something else). Well, that was obviously some time ago, because having hoed enthusiastically, I've worn a hole in the palm of my right hand, and wouldn't you know, everything I grip, or touch seems reliant on this one spot, ouch!

A spot on the palm of your hand is only really a worry if your pirate, and I guess, if it doesn't heal, whereas mine will heal once I stop bashing it (a plaster is no good, I've tried that until I got fed up).

Anyway, we went down to the local garden centre, a place that was built in the early 70s, and one I used to enjoy visiting in my younger days. Back then, I'd sometimes pop in, have a wander round the gardens, and grab a coffee, as a pleasant way to spend time.

In more recent years, I've only been there once or twice, but needing a few plants, I thought it would be good to have a look, see how it had changed.

It is now owned by larger group, who seem to own most of the garden centres in our area, and all somewhat similar, at least, in terms of what's on offer. The old garden centre is still there underneath, older, and perhaps a little less cared for, but I guess like many businesses, garden centres are not the goldmines they probably were in the past. These days, customers are price conscious, there’s greater competition, and profit margins are squeezed as a result.

All in all, the experience was good, the cafe was pleasant, great coffee, and I expect we'll go back again from time to time. We were able to buy some bedding plants as part of the half price sale. We were careful to pick "Rabbit proof" (hopefully!) plants.

All the plants looked a bit dry, and worse for wear, so hopefully they'll appreciate a good home and bloom. On the other hand, if they've given up the fight, our efforts we will have been annoyingly wasted! Time will tell, but last night's rain has done them a power of good.

I've mentioned my photography before, probably bored you with it, and therefore won't do so now. Oh, you want to hear about it? Alright then, you twisted my arm!

Looking at Photoshop lessons on disc, and online, it's been obvious for a while that using a graphics tablet has certain advantages, at least at times, and so I decided to have a go. I've had a graphics tablet for some years, but never really used it, so dusted it off, and plugged it in.

It's like starting all over again, a whole new science, and somewhat different to what I'm used to. I reckon I will need to take time to learn this, and so will initially put a little bit of time aside each day to practice. Probably, if I’d been doing so since I bought the tablet sometime back, I’d be ahead of the game instead of just setting out., but what’s done, etc….

I'm still discovering features and experimenting simply to understand what it can do, and how. I'm finding it a bit daunting, and, as ever with Photoshop there are so many variables possible with each aspect. If I knew what I wanted to achieve I'd have some idea about how to get there, but I'm still exploring possibilities.

It's exciting having a lot to learn, I'm still getting to grips with Photoshop, and Lightroom, both of which are likely to be "icebergs" in that you will only ever use a small part of them. So boredom is impossible. Now I have the graphics tablet to master as well.

With a graphics tablet, you can progress into the areas of drawing and painting, as well as use it on photographs and similar. Perhaps some of my problem with a graphics tablet is that I've always been pretty useless at drawing? I suspect it has a lot to do with it, and if so, that's another skill to master, another learning curve.

So for the foreseeable, and beyond, this old dog is going to have to learn a whole lot of new tricks, and he's going to enjoy doing it too! If there's one thing the mind needs, it's something to occupy it, without a bit of load, the machinery whirrs round and shakes itself bits!

This brings me neatly back to graphics tablet practice, which is my next task after writing this. In the meantime, I'll watch our bedding plants take off with all the extra water they're getting, and nurse my aching back.

Hope I haven't bored you too much? Feel free to leave a comment, good or bad, and I'll see you next time.

Thanks for reading this, regards, Dan

A Trip to Canterbury

The road to Canterbury passes our Castle. When I say Castle, I actually mean bungalow, but I was trying to impress! Anyway, from the end of our drive, turning right and following the main road finds you in Canterbury after about 13 miles. Turning left, and then right 500 yards down the road also takes you to Canterbury after about 15 miles or so. Both are scenic rural routes and both pleasant.

One of these routes is via Stone Street, the old Roman road from Lympne (a one-time Roman port, now 1 mile inland), to Canterbury. Throughout much of its length, Stone Street is straight as a die, and passes through the oddly named locale of "Six Mile". Odd, that is until you put two and two together and realise that it was a Roman fort 6 miles from Lympne to protect the road. They say nothing changes, well, maybe change is a little bit slow in some parts of the world!

With Canterbury so close, it is perhaps surprising that I rarely visit it these days. In the past, I was often there, frequently for shopping as it has some of the best shops in the area. These days though I don't shop very often, buying only what I need, as I need it. My days of traipsing round the shops looking for something to buy are long gone.

We've spent the last year getting rid of stuff that I bought needlessly over decades, which simply cluttered the place up, and wasn't really used. As a bachelor, I was a bit of a hoarder, but five years ago Anna and I surprised ourselves by getting married, as both of us had decided that we'd stay single. That was before we met each other!

Anyway, my hoarding bachelor lifestyle ground to a halt as the place now had a new mistress, and nowhere for her stuff (always far less than mine!). Eventually, she called time, and so a year or so ago we began a spring-clean that involved two skips, at least another skip's worth by car to the tip, and several trips to charity shops. At last the place is tidy, (oddly, just how I like it, although nobody will believe me having seen what I had let it become!).

Perhaps surprisingly, the place doesn't echo, but then it still has all we need within it. It's a pleasure to pull open a draw and find it empty instead of stuffed to the gunwales with all sorts of tat.

I have digressed! This was supposed to be about a trip to Canterbury, so I'd better get back on track.

With the need to shop now a distant memory, driving to Canterbury, parking up somewhere (and isn't parking always a problem?), and then wandering the streets and shops seemed like a self-imposed nightmare. Added to which, the thought of choosing a crowded town centre as opposed to open countryside as a place to visit seemed a no-brainer.

Until recently. About three weeks ago Anna wanted to see and show me an Italian cafe in Canterbury that she used to visit in the past, and so (somewhat reluctantly) I drove us over there, and parked up near the shops.

Canterbury is a very historical city, most of it is very old. Some of it was bombed in the Baedeker raids of the Second World War, and in my youth, the bombed parts had been replaced with the sort of lightweight modern buildings that were everywhere in the late 50s and early 60s. The sort building style that epitomised 60s secondary modern schools, and hospitals, brick walls with wood and glass infill.

Many of these buildings have themselves since been replaced with far more substantial buildings close to the original (a great deal of Canterbury is original, most of it, in fact). There is also an up-to-date shopping centre, with architect designed high quality shops, built over the same recent period.

The city has become one of England's most popular tourist attractions. It's within easy reach of Dover and the Channel Tunnel, and a constant stream of continental coaches arrive daily. Many foreign students and schoolchildren visit each day, and columns of them pass you by in the street, almost everywhere, it seems, at times.

It is very easy to see why Canterbury is so popular, always lots going on, and so much history at your fingertips. We enjoyed our visit. So much so, that we intend to go far more in future.

A couple of days ago, we went again, this time to a different part of the city, and then walking in towards the centre from another direction. As previously, lots to see, and as ever I had my camera with me and took a few photographs. At one point, we wandered into the Cathedral precincts. Canterbury Cathedral is an impressive building built on a grand scale, and towering above us mere mortals at its base.

Sometime later, we walked up to the new Marlowe Theatre, a modern architect designed edifice, but Canterbury Cathedral, it isn't. I guess it has "presence", but I'm not sure it has "character". No doubt it's a technical marvel, but I wonder if it's perhaps a bit "cold" rather than "warm, and welcoming"? I really have no idea, having not been inside. We had intended to go in and maybe get a program, but as we approached, a security guard was rapidly locking the doors whilst another put up signs making it clear they were closed.

Naturally, we must reserve judgement until we attend a performance there. Having been to the Devonshire Park Theatre in Eastbourne last week, which is a characterful and friendly place, the Marlowe has some steep competition for our affection. Looking through its acres of glass window, the one thing that struck us was the number of stackable plastic seats, something that didn't really show a lot of promise, but as I say, we will have to wait and see.

As I write this, it's just a few minutes to midnight, and probably time I was looking to turn in, so I'll leave it there. I've gone on far more than I planned, meandered off piste a little, but hopefully there's something worth reading amongst this text.

Thanks for reading, if you've made it all the way to the bottom, you probably deserve a pat on the back! As ever, if you feel like making a comment, I'd be interested, whatever you think. Dan