Evening Hill Diaries Number 21. Summer and Autumn 2026.

 

Evening Hill Diaries 21

Midsummer onwards

Around Midsummer, I travelled to the Cotswolds.  Baked, parched, aching in the heat.  Playing golf in Minchinhampton, the untouched ‘rough’ was a mass of tall strands of dry straw.  Beside one fairway, over the dry-stone wall, the farmer’s field was a sea of rich blue.  ‘Lavender’, asserted one of my companions.  Closer inspection suggested that it was Phacelia (purple tansy), a plant that is useful for reducing soil compaction, scavenges and retains (though does not fix) nitrogen.  A cover crop which reduces weed infiltration and is attractive to pollinators.  Ploughed in, it can also be used as ‘green manure’.

 

Phacelia in the Cotswolds

The last entry also ended with the fierce heat of an unprecedented heatwave, or ‘La Canicule’ as the French have it.  And fierce as it has been here, with temperatures in the low 30s, France has suffered more.  Wildfires have been a feature here, but worse in France, where several firefighters (pompiers) have died.  Around 10 to 18 deaths of firefighters occur per year in France.  In the UK the figure is usually zero.

In early July, I took my bike over to France on Brittany Ferries’ M.V. Barfleur.  Sad that this service is being withdrawn later this year.  A 35-year-old vessel, increasing prices, falling passenger numbers; these are the stated reasons for the service cessation.  The knock-on effects on trade in the Cherbourg peninsula (Cotentin) will be substantial.  As the summer has progressed and the final day draws near, I have taken many photographs of Barfleur as she leaves Poole Harbour.

 

 

My brief trip encompassed longer visits to places we have explored before, particularly Utah beach.  The temperature was marginally cooler than in June, but the South of France was still 40°C:

 

The French weather girl tells me what my riding day is going to be like

 

A peaceful scene in Le Vast, Val de Saire

 

Harbour scene, Barfleur, Manche.

U.S. infantry memorial, Utah Beach

And finally some sunset scenes to celebrate returning to Poole on the M.V. Barfleur:

Brownsea lagoon and the Wych Channel

Now, as I write, July 14^th, Bastille Day, celebrations are somewhat sombre in France where the national football team have been beaten 2-0 by Spain in the World Cup semifinal.  Our heatwaves continue.

 

July 20^th

I am sure I echo the sentiments of many when I say, ‘Thank heavens the World Cup is over.’  Adieu to the pundits, at least for a few weeks until the Premier League starts again.  The most comprehensible utterance from Wayne Rooney (about the final game half-time show) was, ‘I like some of them singers, but the show was crap.’  And football was the loser – until the subtle and not-so-subtle fouling is sorted out, and some respect is shown to the referee, as in rugby, for example, the ‘beautiful game’ will be the loser.  It could be said that Argentina’s best ‘shot’ was the punch thrown at a Spanish player after the final whistle.  The best game of the entire farrago was England vs France in the ‘losers’ match when ten goals were scored.

 

Shortly after the end of the World Cup, we were surprised to see these two figures on a Monday morning, cresting Evening Hill.  An accompanying outrider told us that the girls had lost a bet on the outcome of the event and were obliged to do a 5Km walk in fancy dress.

 

 

Sad news for cricket lovers with the death of Sir Gary (Garfield) Sobers at 89.  Although I saw him in test matches on TV, and also as an exceptional golfer in the series ‘A Round with Allis’, the only time I saw him bat in person was during the tour match against Somerset on the Bath recreation ground in May 1963, when I would have been 15.

I think we went on the second day, by which time Basil Butcher had already scored a century.  Sobers was clearly batting for fun.  He carted the Somerset bowlers around and scored an easy century himself.  In those days I used to take binoculars to watch the cricket.  I saw Sobers advance down the wicket to play an attacking shot to Brian Langford, and then suddenly retreat and play a dead bat defensive push.  There was an enormous grin on his face – a sort of ‘You nearly got me there, but not quite,’ type of grin.  Cricket for him was fun, and it was fun for anybody watching.  An excellent obituary in The Telegraph (often the column which carries the best written articles in the entire paper) states:

‘Yet to present Sobers in statistical terms is no more to convey the essence of the man than to describe Beethoven by the number of his symphonies.’

I like that.

 

Sunday 9^th August

The heatwave faltered briefly and then reinstated itself.  Cycling in West Dorset today the average temperature was 30degC.  This was a ‘shakedown’ ride prior to trying to cycle the North Brittany coast in September.  As we cycled up the hill out of Cerne Abbas (e bikes) I marvelled at how we used to accomplish the same challenge in the past without electrical assistance.  Anno Domini.  After only 24 miles we felt we had done a good day’s exercise.  And yet, my daughter Anna cycled the Dorset Divide the week before.  330 miles in three days – mostly off road, and entirely unsupported.  I must buy some of those ‘Stryker’ gels and see if they have the same effect.

Anna looks back at Weymouth and Chesil Beach as she climbs the last hill to Portland after 42 hours and 330 miles of cycling, mostly off-road.  Chapeau!

 

We came across some bizarre signage in Cerne Abbas.  Perhaps someone who feels a yearning for the ‘Old Country’.

 

 

Part of the excuse for the trip was to pick blackberries at a spot we have noted before.  A difficult task this year.  They are sweet but small – a result of the drought, and difficult to pick.

During a stop at the pub in Chetnole (real Dorset/Somerset country), some aged cricketers were discussing local cricket (I think they were from Yeovil C.C.).  One retailed to the others the famous story of W.G. Grace being given ‘out’ off the first ball from an enthusiastic young bowler.  The great man calmly replaced the bails and refused to leave the pitch.  ‘They came to see me bat; not you bowl,’ he said.  I suspect his companions had heard it many times before.  The story may have some truth in it, but in some versions, Grace was not bowled but given out L.B.W.

Had we stayed longer I would have recalled the story of, I think it was W.G.’s elder brother Ted, always known as E.M. (born 1841).  The Graces were famous and ferocious leaders, so few dared to cross them.  E.M. was captaining a side which was scoring freely against his bowling (at that time strictly underarm).  Eventually, a more senior member of the side timidly approached him.  ‘Sir, do you think it might be a good idea if we had a change of bowling?’  E.M. pondered the suggestion for a moment or two.  ‘Good idea,’ he said, much to the surprise of his colleague.  ‘I’ll go on at the other end.’  I do him a disservice if I don’t also record his most famous match.  Playing for the M.C.C. against The Gentlemen of Kent at the age of 20, he scored 192 not out and then proceeded to take all ten wickets in the Kent innings.  Pedants will point out that this was a twelve a side match – true, but one of the Kent batsmen did not attend the crease.

Perhaps cricket has such legendary stories and such wonderful commentaries because of the length of the game, and the need to spend many hours over five days describing play.  The game has occasionally had true masters of language such as Alan Gibson; or John Arlott, a published author and poet who delivered his assessments of play in a delightful slow-cadenced Hampshire burr.  When South African bowler Norman “Tufty” Mann was tormenting England batsman George Mann with some slow left arm spin.  Arlott observed on the radio, ‘What we have here is a clear case of Mann’s inhumanity to Mann.’  There are many other examples of his wit and descriptive powers, easily found online.

Very occasionally, some of the less intellectual of cricketers have weighed in with apposite remarks.  Exaggeration of scandals in the press frequently irritates sportsmen in the spotlight.  On one occasion, it was alleged that Mike Gatting, the portly England cricketer, had invited a barmaid up to his hotel room.  Ian Botham observed, ‘It can’t have been Gatt; anything he takes up to his room after 9 p.m. he eats.’

To round off the cycling trip, we approached Cerne again from the steep hill out of Sydling St Nicholas, which affords a fine view on the descent of the famous Giant.  For some reason, I always think of ‘The Jolly Green Giant’, the ubiquitous figure on our tins of sweetcorn in the 1950s and onwards.  Dating from 1925, the Green Giant was originally the symbol of the Minnesota Valley Canning Company.  His first appearance was on canned peas.

Green giant peas picture  Picture (Ladies Home Journal 1948 from Wikipedia)

 

Of course, our Cerne Abbas Giant is not green, he is a dazzling white, carved into the chalk, but around him the hillside usually displays verdant grass.  Today – though vigorously brandishing his appendages as usual, the Giant could be described as ‘browned off’.  A picture from close-up in 2024 shows a dim outline against the vigorously growing grass, but today, as the grass has burned away his chalk outline is magnificently clear.

 

(I have written before about the possible link of the Cerne Abbas Giant to Dylan Thomas’s poem, ‘In the White Giant’s Thigh’.)  See:

https://blogdoc-andrewmcleod.blogspot.com/2024/09/

 

 

During the succession of heatwaves, the beach has been crowded of late.  One afternoon, a youngish woman approached us.  ‘Excuse me, are you local?  Can you tell me what that white rock out there is?’

‘Yes, it’s the Isle of Wight.’

The lady told us she was from Leicester and had never really paid any attention in Geography lessons at school.  ‘I wasn’t very good at Geography,’ she said.  A stock response in numerous quiz shows, I find.  Together with the usual response to any question involving History.  The answer given, whatever the question, is usually ‘Henry the Eighth.’

 

On August 12^th, we experienced a near-total solar eclipse at around 7 o’clock in the evening.  Vantage points around the perimeter of Poole Harbour were thronged with vehicles and people.  But it was only really visible and remarkable when viewed through ‘eclipse glasses’, and the dimming of the light was minor and temporary.  Nonetheless it was a beautiful evening.

An unusually crowded Evening Hill

The 'bite' out of the sun was only visible through eclipse glasses

The following day, a record temperature of 38.1 degrees C was recorded at Kew Gardens.  Our digital thermometer placed outside in the sun briefly recorded 50 degrees but then registered ‘Over Maximum Temperature.’  Nights have been sultry and humid.

 

The country has experienced horrendous wildfires, including one in Stourbridge, West Midlands, which started in a tinder-dry field, crossed a road, engulfed a golf course, then rapidly burned and destroyed several houses nearby.  A post somewhere online shows a revisitation of Constable’s famous ‘The Hay Wain’.

A friend recently posted a picture of a field fire too close for comfort near their house in East Morden.  A farmer was ploughing or cutting a field.  It is thought that a metal blade struck a flint (there are many of these in Dorset) causing a spark.  It was contained quite quickly.

 

Late August.  Fire and Rain?  Could it have something to do with the climate and weather?  This morning, for no obvious reason, as I woke up, I was rehearsing the James Taylor song, ‘Fire and Rain’.  It is plaintive, as are most of his songs.  When working, morning thoughts seemed to be much more disciplined, but retirement does funny things.  Perhaps it is just the aging brain.  Do others get earworms like me?  Please tell me.  All responses will be acknowledged.  It could be (and has been) as diverse as the Adagio for Organ and Strings (Albinoni), or as seemingly trite as an early Elvis Presley song.

 

Wessex Water announced a hosepipe ban on 17^th August.  Later than many other companies.  Apparently their first such ban since 1976.  With delicious irony, rain fell for the first time in two months immediately afterwards.

 

September 1^st.  Cycling the north Brittany coast.

 

Passing the Côte d’Emeraude a little west of St Malo, we started on the Côtes d’Armor (which in Breton means coast of the sea).  It begins at St Brieuc.  Beyond this the Côtes de Granit Rose; then the Pays des Abers (the country of the inlets or rias), and finally the Côte d’Irois, or the Irish Sea (sic).

We followed the Vélomaritime, which officially ends as one enters Finistère, and is replaced by the Vélodyssée or Littorale.  We planned it ourselves and took all our gear in panniers.

 

 

But first, a parenthesis, though perhaps it is relevant to our visit.

 

A chance song on the radio – ‘La Vie en Rose’, sung by Michael Bublé in a duet with Cécile McLorin Salvant, which slips between the French and English versions of the lyric, reminded me of the delight of listening to the French language in song.  Tunes such as ‘Hier Encore’ (Yesterday When I Was Young), co-written and sung by Charles Aznavour has bewitching French lyrics, though the version in English by the lyricist Herbert Kretzmer (most famous for ‘Les Mis’) is poignant too.  The English version of this song has been recorded by at least 90 artists.  'Hier Encore' has a beautiful melody too.

 

But my point is that French is smoother, softer, and flows more elegantly.  Those interested in the sounds that we make when we speak can look it up – English has more ‘fricative’ sounds than French.  These are the explosive sounds that we make by forcing air through narrowed mouth, teeth, or throat, such as the ‘f’ sound or the hard ‘j’.  Vowel sounds, at least when firmly produced, all involve vibration of the vocal cords.  If you sing the vowel ‘a’ as aah, then you will notice that by narrowing the vocal cords you can produce this as virtually any number of notes.  If you are a good singer, such as the recently deceased Dolly Parton, you can sing the sound over four octaves.  But not fricatives.  Try it with fuh, for ‘f’!

 

AI confirms my thoughts about French – for three reasons:

1.      Softened or dropped consonants at the ends of words.

2.      Liaison.  The final consonant of one word joins with starting vowel of the next word (an example, mine, not AI, would perhaps be ‘mon amour’.

3.      Vowel dominance in French words.

 

My English teacher at school had a theory – it may not have been original – that the warmer the climate, the more relaxed and ‘oozy’ the language (for example in the South Seas).  In Northern climes, his idea was that curtness and ‘clipped’ speech was more efficient and wasted less time for those of us who live in the higher latitudes.

I also confess that my thoughts on this subject arose because the charming (and pretty) receptionist at our hotel in Le Conquet, Brittany, when asked her name, said ‘Julie’ (zhoo-lee), with a soft ‘J’ rather than the fricative English version.

 

Enough already!  I do suggest listening to the Bublé/Salvant version of ‘La Vie En Rose’ which clearly points the difference because they sing both in English and French.  And for the ultimate ‘flow’ version with elisions, where the words seem to be joined together, I recommend the recording by Marlene Dietrich and Bing Crosby, with Joe Venuti on violin, recorded in 1950.  It is extraordinary!

 

To tell briefly of Brittany, perhaps with some tips for cyclists.

EuroVelo 4, the Vélomaritime is a 1500 Km route from the Belgian border at Bray-Dunes to Roscoff.  The continuation to Brest and beyond is La Littorale (V45).

Signage is mostly good, but as a Chambres d’hôtes host (Belgian, and thereby, almost by definition, a cyclist) pointed out to us, the route often misses out beautiful sections of coast, taking you inland past seemingly endless maize fields, and is sometimes hazardous – steep off-road paths where the combination of leaf fall and damp creates danger.  Sometimes there are the most frustrating detours on tiny roads and paths, only to rejoin the minor road you have left just a few hundred metres from where you turned off.  Sometimes the route is not that well maintained.  For example, in Normandy, cycling between Saint-Vaast La Hougue and Barfleur, the route along agricultural paths has been ‘improved’ by the dumping of vast amounts of sharp and sizeable rocks, where really a steamroller to crush the track to a more manageable hardcore size would have been desirable.  But apart from a few wrong turns and some bone-shaking off-road sections, we traversed the way without incident.  And French roads are generally less crowded than English ones, a real plus.

Here are two examples of our track:

Day 1.  From Pointe des Roseliers near St Brieuc to Cornec near Ile de Brehat.  The cliffs are at their highest on this section - see profile below track.

Day 4.  In Finistere.  The least hilly day.

With one exception, all of our six stops along the Vélomaritime and La Littorale (V45) gave onto sea views, sometimes of stunning beauty.  As sailors, we gained great respect from looking at these harbours, most of which were fringed with terrifying looking reefs.  Given the massive tidal ranges in Brittany (six to fourteen metres), the seascape changes dramatically.

The food was often magnificent.  Here are some representative pictures:

Crossing into Finistere

Ile Vierge - the tallest stone lighthouse in the world

Sunset, Landeda

Artichoke heart in crust with local sardine and pancetta crisp

Langoustine bisque

 

Here is an example of a famous local pastry, the Kouign-Aman.  The words mean ‘butter cake’ in the Breton language.  It is possible to find Kouign-Aman which are not quite as perfect as these, but as provided by Nicolas Carro in Carantec, they represent the acme of the genre.  To make them, pastry is enriched (with layers of butter) and laminated, just as a good croissant is laminated.  The difference is that into the butter separating each layer, substantial sprinklings of sugar are added and rolled in.  The final multilayer creation is then curled around and placed in the cups of a deep biscuit tin.  The result is shown in the photograph below.  The sugar should be melted in and very slightly caramelised.  I have made Kouign-Aman.  It took two days and although the results were edible, I decided to leave it to the professionals.  But, unfortunately, this generally means a trip to Brittany.

 

Time for tea.  Note the perfect whirls, laminations and slight caramelisation of the Kouign Aman

Our September meeting of the book club was to read and review ‘The Siege of Krishnapur’.  Just in case my readers are short of reading material (this blog was one of the shorter at around 3000 words before inserting this); here is a brief précis of my thoughts:

The Siege of Krishnapur

J G Farrell (1935-1979).  Published: 1973

The wrongs wrought by Britain during its colonial expansions and expeditions must surely make up around half of British literature?  The pace of colonial and post-colonial writings seems to have gathered momentum since WWII.  People always answer the question, ‘What have the Romans ever done for us?’ with multiple affirmations of their wonderful legacy, but the tide has not yet turned for Britain and its Empire.  There is one vocal historian who has addressed the plus rather than the debit side, Professor Nigel Biggar.  Most do not raise their heads above the parapets on this issue.  Who for example is going to take on the ultra-cool, long-locked historian David Olusoga, for instance?

 

In parenthesis, here is a quote from Prof Biggar written about Prof Jason Arday.  You may quickly see that it was written before Arday’s death and it is prophetic:

 

“He’s trapped in a world of fantasy. Whatever his personal guilt, there’s a tragic quality to his predicament. For, when reality does finally break through, Nemesis will enter, too. A terrible reckoning will cause the self he’s constructed to disintegrate. I fear for his life. And that makes me angry—not with his critics but rather with the adults who failed to call him out. Who lowered the threshold so he could clamber over it. Who encouraged him to dismiss criticism as expressions of racist bad faith.”

 

Back to India…

The Indian Mutiny (or the first Freedom War if you will) could not be documented as, say, the recent Irish Troubles were.  For example, the massacres of British women and children at Cawnpore after apparently being given safe passage are a tiny footnote in history.  Everybody knows about the deaths in Northern Ireland's Bloody Sunday.  Almost nobody knows about the Indian Mutiny (I too confess my ignorance).

It is a well written book though I thought that some of the metaphors were striving for the extremes of expression – but that could well be writer’s jealousy.  Here are a few examples:

A character, realising that his Christian faith is ebbing during the siege:

1.      ‘From the farmyard in which his certitudes perched like fat chickens, every night of the siege, one or two were carried off in the jaws of rationalism and despair.’

2.      The survivors captured and ate a horse: ‘After the besieged had licked the corners of their mouths and sucked their fingers clean one by one, the cold ocean of hunger closed over their heads again with scarcely a ripple to be seen.’

 

Just occasionally, I had a cynical thought.  ‘This is a bit like ‘Carry On Up The Khyber’.

 

It made me go and look up some of the details of the Indian Mutiny.

 

 

Now past the September equinox, we are still swimming in the sea, usually when the wind is light, and the water temperature is still in excess of 18°C.

 

I will end by telling of a curious encounter.

A friend dropped in last Sunday morning.  There was something different about her.  Then she told us her story.  She had left her husband.  She walked out in the middle of the night and took her car.  In the clothes that she stood up in, she drove off.  Given her husband’s capacity for persuasion (and control), she didn’t dare to go back or even communicate.  She had £150 in her pocket.

She was totally changed in appearance and personality.  It was like meeting a different person.  She was happy, smiled a lot, her hair had lost its rather severe, professional appearance, and her clothes were casual and relaxed.  She had left her entire previous wardrobe behind.  We talked about the support that she had received, from her HR department, from friends, about the new sports and activities she had taken up, and the future.  I know that she felt liberated and at ease with herself.  The experience, listening to her, was exhilarating.  Sunday morning seemed brighter.

And I hope, as we move onto into darker days, that your day may be brightened too.

Swimming at the September equinox, Sandbanks

 

 

 

The Evening Hill Diaries - Volume 20 - from Easter into the heat of summer and beyond

 

The Evening Hill Diaries.

11^th April 2026.  At the RAF club, London.  I always walk along the corridor to the north end of the building to look at the Battle of Britain stained-glass window.

A new and beautiful window commemorates the women of the air services – the WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force), the ATA (Air Transport Auxiliary), and the WRAF (Women’s Royal Air Force).  Several members of these services won the George Cross or the George Medal, which is also displayed here.

My father-in-law's squadron was 225.  All of the squadron badges are displayed on the walls of the first floor.  This is possibly the most well known.  Can you identify it?

The clue is in the motto.

 

It was a bright cold day in April… and we were in London with the excuse that our minnows (AFC Bournemouth) were playing against the big fish – Arsenal F.C., at the Emirates stadium.  And on this occasion the minnows won.  The clocks struck thirteen…

Alex Scott scored the winning goal just in front of us

 

Buoyed by this unexpected result, I went to Covent Garden (The Royal Opera House) to see the ballet of Mayerling (music by Liszt, choreography by Kenneth MacMillan [Sir Kenneth MacMillan, see:   https://www.kennethmacmillan.com/best-friends ] ).  MacMillan has created some of the most dramatic and lasting of modern ballets – Elite Syncopations, The Rite of Spring, Romeo and Juliet, The Prince of the Pagodas (for the 20-year-old Darcy Bussell), The Song of the Earth, and Mayerling.  Born and raised in hardship, his story reads like that of Billy Elliot.  MacMillan was deservedly knighted for his services to the arts.  I have long wanted to see this ballet, knowing very little of the story, other than that the heir to the Habsburg empire, the Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria, shot himself and his 17-year-old mistress, the Baroness Mary Vetsera, in the hunting lodge of Mayerling, outside Vienna, in 1889.  The true story, and the elaborate cover up which ensued, is remarkable, and the choreography spectacular.  To paraphrase a theatrical blurb, the dancing and athleticism of Rudolf and his various inamoratas (sic) made Dirty Dancing look like a pensioners’ line dance session.  Now, I am no expert in the various ballet moves; I have difficulty knowing a plié or assemblé from a retiré, but the joy of ballet is in the physical expression of the story and the emotion, and modern choreographers such as Ashton and MacMillan achieve this without the need for the audience to know anything very technical.

In an extraordinary echo of the final funereal scenes of the ballet, MacMillan himself collapsed and died backstage during curtain calls after a revival of Mayerling at the ROH in 1992.

 

At Covent Garden, the ambience is different.  The high price of the programme, for instance, at £10.  But for this one gets what is almost a textbook, with every possible nuance about the ballet or opera being performed.  Rehearsal photographs; profiles and portraits of all 60 of the principal dancers, and photographs of the 44 named dancers of the corps de ballet.  One appreciates there is a difference, even from the back cover of the programme.  The advertisement is for ‘Van Cleef & Arpels.  Haute Joaillerie, place Vendôme since 1906’.  After victory at The Emirates, I needed no encouragement to visit the very busy champagne bar.

Curtain Call

Ryoichi Hirano and Melissa Hamilton as Crown Prince Rudolf and Mary Vetsera.  The Royal Ballet now employs an 'intimacy consultant'.  You may be able to see why.

Natalia Osipova as Mary in the production I saw

 

But in a reverse of the old farmers’ almanacs, March came in like a lamb and went out like a lion.  Or at least, it was rather contrary, which sums up our weather these days.

 

I re-established contact with an old colleague, a former charge nurse at Poole Hospital, subsequently ‘modern matron’ who worked with me to establish the first coronary care unit in Poole.  He trained in West Cumbria, in a hospital environment which was in some ways near Victorian, and in others, full of eccentrics.  Sitting in a nursing office on the ward, the Senior Sister announced she needed to visit the toilet, and reaching into the filing cabinet, took out a roll of white toilet paper.  Geoffrey pointed out that there was already toilet paper in the toilet.  ‘I know’, she said, ‘but it’s pink – it gives you cystitis.’

On another occasion, a very starchy paediatrician rang the district nurse who was on the ward.  One could almost hear his hiss of disapproval down the phone as he was greeted with ‘Eh, ‘ello Luv’.

‘Nurse’, he sniffed, ‘Mrs Walburn’s child is malnourished.  Cannot you improve this?’

‘Doctor – I’ve told her and told her, time and again, how to mix feed and prepare food.’

‘Hmm, that’s not very efficient nurse.  Perhaps you’d better write it down.’

‘Right doctor.  But then I’d have to bloody teach her to read first.’

The doctor rang off.

 

Geoffrey was recently finishing his career as a senior nurse advisor at another hospital.  He was horrified one day to discover that the senior ward sister was planning to work from home the next day.  ‘Lots of paperwork to do’, was the excuse.

‘I’m sorry’ (said in gentle but firm West Cumbrian accent).  ‘That’s not good enough.  Your staff need you here, whether you are doing paperwork or not.’

There were protestations, and the ruckus was escalated to the Chief Nursing Officer, who agreed that Geoff’s suggestion was correct.

And this is the state that our nursing profession has reached.  It’s symptomatic of the malaise which afflicts the health service at every level.  Junior doctors and students walking off the wards at 5pm when there are still patients to see (they are not allowed to stay, thanks to the appalling European Working Time Directive – and now they regard it as sacrosanct); endlessly rotating consultants in charge – so there is no personal responsibility for care.  There is no apprenticeship system any more, so there is no individual responsibility for training.  A friend and former colleague of mine was recently in ITU with a critical illness.  ‘Look above the bed’, he said.  ‘There is no named consultant who is looking after me.’  I could go on…

 

 

April, 2026.  Storms of hail; walking in North Dorset; fields of yellow rape; clear chalk streams; spring blossom.

 

During a few days of Lindsay’s absence in Canada in early May, visiting relatives, I cycled around some West Sussex lanes.  Such a beautiful county.  A nightmare for drivers on twisty single-track roads.  I started at Uppark House (built 1690), a National Trust property set on the South Downs.  The next day the longer route took me through West Chiltington, where St Mary’s Church is a remarkable 12^th century Grade 1 listed building.  Its interior is decorated with well-preserved 13^th century wall paintings, primarily displaying the Passion of Christ.  The villages around about, and the south facing slopes of the hills are a centre for the renascent wine industry, particularly the vineyard of Nyetimber.

Uppark House, West Sussex (National Trust)

 

St Mary's church, West Chiltington.  A typical Sussex village architectural style.

An interesting homily on the Old Rectory wall, Kirdford, West Sussex.

 

I recently spent an enjoyable few hours in Winchester Cathedral.  The tour was delivered by a very knowledgeable elderly volunteer who knew a lot of the history.    I was told that the tours began on the hour and the half hour.  Arriving at 2 minutes to the hour, I was directed to the nave where the tour had already started.  ‘I’m sorry’, I told the senior organiser, ‘I was told that they were on the hour and the half hour.’  He smiled benignly.  ‘After nearly ten centuries, I’m afraid we don’t have quite that precise sense of time’, he said gently.  I then put away my ‘Type A’ inclinations for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Two Americans were with us.  During any items of history prior to about 1776 they looked vague and smiled.  The guide tried to explain that the West window looked like a kaleidoscope because Cromwell’s soldiers, in about 1642, had looted the castle’s liquor, and smashed as much as they could find in the cathedral, attempting to find treasure.  The people of the city gathered the broken glass and some 20 years later the window was restored in its present form.  The Americans looked very puzzled when the subject of the Reformation came up, and the destruction of idolatrous images or statues.  After the tour, I attempted to help them make sense of the general lack of catholic imagery and hagiography in English churches.  ‘Have you been to Edinburgh?’ I asked.  ‘Oh yes’, was the reply.  ‘We’re going there.’

‘Well, Scotland was rigidly Presbyterian, and against any images at all.  If you go into St Giles’ church in Edinburgh, you can see that it took them several hundred years before they replaced plain glass with any images at all.  So, in the late 19^th Century the beautiful stained glass was designed and constructed by the Pre-Raphaelites.’

‘Who were the Pre-Raphaelites?’

At that point I decided that I wasn’t cut out to be a tour guide, particularly for Americans.  It reminded me of Lindsay’s Viennese tour, where, stopping in front of the Hofburg Palace, the guide explained to the largely American tourists, that it had been the Imperial Palace of the House of Habsburg for some 600 years.  ‘Did the Habsburgs change their name to Hofburg, then?’ was the enquiry.

It also reminded me of the time when I was asked by an attractive American girl, who also lived at International Students House, if I knew anyone who could take her to a cricket match.  I would have loved to but was busy with medical school attachments.  My best friend from school was approached, and he agreed to take her to Lord’s to watch an MCC match against New Zealand.

‘How did it go, Mike?’, I enquired when next we met (there were no mobile phones in those days).

‘Mac’, he said, ‘Never do that to me again, will you?’

 

Now, continuing my Winchester theme, who is this, commemorated there in a stone tablet on the floor of the north aisle?

 

‘In memory of…

The benevolence of her heart, the ∫weetne∫s of her temper, and the extraordinary endowments of her mind obtained the regard of all who knew her and the warme∫t love of her intimate connections.

Their grief is in proportion to their affection they know their lo∫s to be irreparable, but in their deepe∫t affliction they are con∫oled by a firm though humble hope that her charity, devotion, faith and purity, have rendered her ∫oul acceptable in the ∫ight of her

                                                                REDEEMER.’

 

Here is the marble stone:

 

 

Jane Austen died at the early age of 41.  For my medical readers, the subject of her final illness has been a lasting and much speculated condition.  Both Northanger Abbey and Persuasion were published posthumously.  She came to Winchester for help in her illness, but to no avail.  It seems likely that her burial in the cathedral was facilitated by the fact that her father was the Reverend George Austen, formerly rector of Steventon in Hampshire.  Otherwise, it would have been unusual for a commoner to be buried there, particularly as she was not yet celebrated for her authorship.  Her writings were not mentioned until a much later brass plaque was placed on the north wall of the cathedral nearby.

 

Sir Zachary Cope, a famous surgeon, first suggested that Jane may have had Addison’s Disease (adrenal gland failure), because about the only medical description we have of her condition is in a letter from her elder sister Cassandra to her niece, Fanny Knight.  Pigmentation of her skin is mentioned (a feature of Addison’s Disease).  Other features of her illness do not necessarily confirm a diagnosis, and some have suggested that Hodgkin’s lymphoma, with its remitting fever, may have been responsible.  Cope believed that her Addison’s Disease could have been due to tuberculosis – then a common cause of widespread destructive inflammation.  When I was a student, we were taught to remember TB in cases of lymphoma.  The famous phrase, ‘TB follows Hodgkin’s Disease “Like a Shadow”’.  The two illnesses are not mutually exclusive, therefore.  Others have suggested lupus and the short answer is that we cannot know, partly because much of her correspondence was destroyed after her death.

 

The visit to Winchester was occasioned by my wife having some eye surgery at a hospital near Southampton.  While awaiting ‘check in’ it was mildly amusing to watch the discomfort of a gentleman, whom we shall call ‘Mr Davis’, also registering for some surgery when the receptionist said, ‘Oh and we have as your next of kin Mrs Samantha Davis.’  His new and much younger model was sitting nearby, and he had to explain sotto voce that his ‘next of kin’ had changed.

 

 

I came across a rather sad and poignant item.  Searching for another player’s golf ball, I picked up, deep in the heather and gorse, a near perfect ball which bore the printed inscription ‘Happy Birthday Dad.  Here’s to an Ace.’  An Ace, for those not of a golfing persuasion, is a hole-in-one on a par three hole.  The poignancy reminded me of the famous shortest ever story (six words), even more heart-rending: ‘For Sale.  Baby shoes.  Never worn.’  It is misattributed to Hemingway but appeared early in the 20^th century when Hemingway would have been a child.  Similar hopes and dreams…

 

 May 10^th et seq.

I journeyed to Scotland for our two yearly Ryder Cup for Cardiologists.  Five days of golf, mostly on East Lothian courses, but with one trip over to Royal Troon.  The weather was challenging and cold for the most part.  We beat the Americans…

12th green, Kilspindie Golf Club, May 12th.  Heavy squalls, including hail

Troon beach from the golf course.  Looking across the Firth of Clyde towards Arran

8th Hole, Royal Troon G.C.  The infamous 'Postage Stamp', surrounded by bunkers

Sunset over Arran, taken from Highgrove House restaurant.

 

This was followed a few days later with a two day trip to Rye Golf Club.  For those who have not been there, Rye is a magnificent town to visit.  Having been a vital port in the 13^th and 14^th centuries, steady ingress of pebbles and sand washed into the bay has resulted in the hilltop town now being two miles from the sea.  The golf club and course has had gradual increments of land such that there is sufficient acreage behind the dunes to create an additional golf course.  Here is a picture taken in 1913.  It shows ‘Mrs Brodrick and Lady Maude Warrender standing on the 12^th tee’.  The vast expanse of sea visible is now land, and there is another half to three-quarters of a mile before one reaches the dunes behind the beach.

 

Rye Golf Club, 1913

 

 

Sunday May 17^th

A letter from Chris Cox appeared in the Telegraph today, which I quote in full:

‘From a Labour era of political heavyweights to a party dominated by shallow careerists’

‘Sir – Fifty years ago, the Labour Party could choose between James Callaghan, Roy Jenkins, Michael Foot, Denis Healey, Tony Benn and Anthony Crosland: a front bench of heavyweights who had read deeply, fought hard and, on occasion, won arguments.  Several were products of the grammar schools their own party destroyed.

Today we are invited to marvel over Wes Streeting, Angela Rayner, Ed Miliband and Andy Burnham, as though a talent for broadcast clips and stakeholder jargon is evidence of statesmanship.  They have all risen without trace: politicians who leave no intellectual footprint, no memorable phrase, no sense that history would notice if they vanished tomorrow.

The ancients warned that those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad.  Ours is a country apparently determined to prove the point, entrusting itself to a political class of weightless careerists who would once have struggled to rise beyond junior ministerial obscurity.’

 

I realise that many of my overseas friends will not particularly know these personalities, but they too have their own problems with those in government who could not be classed as statesmen.  The precepts apply in their case too.

 

When I was a student, I had to give a speech of thanks to Roy Jenkins, who was the speaker at a dinner at International Students House.  His speech was urbane, witty, and highly enjoyable, delivered entirely without notes.  I was in awe.  I gave my pre-rehearsed speech and was afterwards introduced.  I told him that I was impressed at such a fluent and amusing speech delivered without notes.  ‘Well, you see’, he said politely, ‘I’ve had a lot of practice.’

 

I remember he told a story about a member of the House of Lords who was put on some sort of London transport committee.  It was known that Lord … always used his chauffeur to travel.  The problems of London congestion did not seem to bother him particularly.  One exasperated member of the committee suggested that the next time he left his club he should try coming to the House by bus.  At the next meeting he arrived very late, looking hot and flustered.  ‘Did you try the bus?’ somebody enquired.  ‘Yes, I did’, he said, ‘and it was a disaster.  I got on the bus and told the conductor to take me to the House of Lords and he downright refused.’

 

Continuing the theme of those who do not seem to inhabit the real world, a friend who is a JP told me of a judge he knew who was presiding over a divorce case where it seems that mediation had led to an agreement whereby the separating parties agreed to meet at McDonald’s once a week for handover of children to the other parent.  The judge concerned remarked that this seemed quite an imposition for Mr and Mrs McDonald, and did they not mind the responsibility for hosting meetings for the family every week?

 

June 1^st, 2026

 

Coming to the end of a remarkable May heatwave, we journeyed to London to see what was alleged to be Lulu’s last ever concert at the Royal Albert Hall.  The concert was in aid of a mental health charity, so whatever misgivings one had at being once again subjected to ‘Boom Bang-a-Bang’ (Eurovision song contest winner) were put aside.  Lulu hit the top ten of the pop charts in 1964 at the age of 15 with a cover version of the Isley Brothers’ record, ‘Shout’.  Her voice was a literal expression of the song title.  But she could also hold a tune.  Just as Cilla Black proved her vocal worth in her rendition of the extremely complex tune of ‘Alfie’ by Burt Bacharach, so Lulu in her singing of the theme tune from the film ‘To Sir With Love’ proved that she was not just a shouter.  And the original hook to the announcement that she would be accompanied by ‘Friends’ suggested it might be an interesting evening.

 

Dinner at the Hard Rock Café (steak too tough, surroundings too loud, some of the memorabilia not up to scratch, e.g. a Fender Stratocaster allegedly signed by the members of Queen has almost all the writing expunged; difficult if not impossible to find a main course dish containing fewer than 1000 calories) and off to a very warm RAH.  Audience at the Hall mostly of a certain age (some sticks and wheelchairs) and a significant proportion of Scottish accents, but the atmosphere was genial.

 

The word ‘Accueil’ appeared on the big screen in front of us, but it turned out to be a flourish of indecipherable script announcing ‘Gcielle’, a ‘new’ singer-songwriter, whose words were entirely impenetrable, even though she proudly announced her latest song was about her favourite city, Rome.  It might as well have been in Latin.  The bass guitar player front of stage made impressive suggestive pelvic movements (copied from Blondie circa 1978), though the finest musician appeared to be the saxophonist.  As was said of the Cliff Richard musical ‘Heathcliff’, ‘After an hour and a half had gone by, I looked at my watch to discover that only twenty minutes had elapsed.’   Thus, Gcielle.  The set lasted just over half an hour, and the next 35 minutes was spent in dismantling her band’s gear and setting up and tuning Lulu’s team’s guitars.

 

But from just after 8pm until 10 it was full on Lulu.  Never mind if her rendition of ‘To Sir With Love’ did not quite display the vocal ability of nearly 60 years ago.  But it was when her guests started to appear that the party really warmed up.  Firstly, Delta Goodrem, a lady who is big in Australia, and mysteriously sang the Australian entry in the recent Eurovision Song Contest (sic).  Then Boy George, flamboyant as usual, but struggling with locomotion (his, not the Little Eva song).  Inevitably it was Karma Chameleon.  Then Gary Barlow, and finally Robbie Williams, to the delight of much of the female audience including my wife.  Robbie shambled on in an impressive suit of large pyjamas (well, it looked like that), but after the first song (Angels, of course), removed the jacket to reveal his ripped torso and tattoos in a small black vest.  Again, cue ecstasies of middle-aged female delight.

 

It wasn’t so much the quality of the concert (even Lindsay admitted it was not the finest she had attended – and she saw the Beatles at the Bournemouth Winter Gardens), but the venue, the good cause, and the uniqueness of seeing Lulu, Gary, and Robbie singing together made it a special evening.  Here is the evidence:

 

Packing activities in, I visited the Imperial War Museum.  I had not been there for about 50 years.  Its exhibitions are superb and I was pleased to see a number of school trips being shown around.  The holocaust section is not recommended for younger visitors, and indeed you need a strong stomach to fully take in the horrors.

There are some magnificent paintings on display, and at least at the moment, there is an exhibition of wartime art in London, 1939-45.  Well worth seeing.

 

Imperial War Museum, Lambeth Road, SE1

The Mule Track by Paul Nash, Belgium, 1918

A curious coincidence.  A poster from 1925.  A very different event to that which we attended.

Shipbuilding on the Clyde.  Stanley Spencer, 1940.  Shows the frenetic need to build ships for the navy.

Battle of Britain, Paul Nash.  Painted 1941.  While not an exact image of the dogfights in 1940, Nash attempted to display the confusion of the war in the skies.

There should be much more to talk about, or at least meander on about.  I should feel guilty choosing the topics I do when there is so much of real import in the world (Wars, earthquakes, crime, deranged Presidents).  I console myself in noting that during the height of the London blitz, George Orwell was more concerned about his geese at his little smallholding to the north of London.

 

I hesitate to bring this forward for readers’ attention, but I was deeply troubled by the turning over of the entire area of Trafalgar Square in London to a Muslim prayer event.  The sight of all those upturned buttocks was not only risible, but depressing.  But then (pace my friends who are deeply religious) I find religion depressing.  Again, I think it was Bertrand Russell who said, or rather, wrote: ‘It is possible that mankind is on the threshold of a golden age; but, if so, it will be necessary to slay the dragon that guards the door, and this dragon is religion.’

 

Belatedly (there are echoes not only of World War 2, but also possibly, The Great War) in our lack of preparedness in defence; announcements have been made about increasing the defence budget.  Our navy is mostly in dry dock; our new tanks do not work.  ‘New’ war is technologically different.  Perhaps all those adolescents who just play computer war games in their bedrooms, will be our saviour in the ‘New’ Army.  (I almost said New Model Army).

 

Matt, in the Daily Telegraph, as usual, has the apposite cartoon.

 

We have muddled through some challenging heatwaves recently, and another one approaches (early July).

 

I will end with two stories.  During the very hot weather, I was playing golf with a Scottish friend, an anaesthetist, who suggested that we cut across from the 12^th to the 17^th hole, and return to the clubhouse as soon as possible.  While walking, our minds not particularly on golf but on survival and the choice of cold drink awaiting.  He asked me about my research on beta-blocking drugs during exercise.  He also quizzed me about intra-operative and peri-operative effects and potential benefits.  He asked me if I had heard of a famous Professor of Anaesthetics who had done much research in the field.  The name was not particularly familiar.  This Professor had been asked to deliver a keynote lecture in Oslo on the topic.  Of substantial self-importance, he complied willingly and was therefore seated as a guest of honour on the high table at a suitably magnificent post-conference feast.  His neighbour asked politely for the Prof’s views on various topics, not least his own research, which he was never shy of talking about.  Eventually, after listening in apparent awe to Prof X’s extensive knowledge of just about everything; anaesthetic, political, geographical, historical; the Prof – as an afterthought – indulged the man by enquiring what he did for a living.  ‘Well, I’m the King of Norway’, said his neighbour.

 

Finally, for almost every entry in the diary, I could quote from Private Eye’s ‘Pseuds Corner’, a column which has been going almost as long as the magazine.  Skewering the pompous, the wordy, and the sometimes near impenetrable outpourings of creative journalists, here is my favourite recent entry from a long list of possibles:

 

The Luce is more than the thinking man’s (or woman’s) Ferrari, the sort of motor car that Hamlet would have enjoyed taking for a spin around Elsinore on a Sunday afternoon between existential crises.  NICHOLAS FOULKES on Ferrari’s new electric car, Financial Times.

 

Until the next time…

 

July 3rd, 2026.