A Very Happy Christmas 2012

At the close of 2012, which continues with monsoon weather conditions in the UK, I wish all my readers a very happy Christmas and a good New Year in 2013.  This forum is generally not for serious discussion, but since this is partly intended as a ‘Letter to America’ it is difficult to ignore the recent tragedy at Sandy Hook school in New England.  As a resident Brit, though one who has enjoyed life in the United States, my first thought was ‘Oh no, not again’ closely followed by ‘Nothing will be done’.  And it seems I was right.  With the proposal to ban the sales of ‘assault weapons’ being mooted, sales of such firearms have soared dramatically.  The much touted Second Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, the right to keep and bear arms, has probably cost many more lives that it has protected in its 221 year history.  In writing this I have just missed its anniversary, adopted in the Bill of Rights on 15^th December 1791.  After a suitable interval, the NRA (National Rifle Association), that legendary right wing organisation, has suggested that the solution isn’t to prevent people keeping guns, but to post armed guards in every school or institution to keep psychopaths like Adam Lanza from doing what he did.  ‘Guns don’t kill people, people kill people’, a slogan that goes back a very long way, originally appeared as a bumper (fender) sticker from the NRA.  The British comedian Eddie Izzard has said, ‘Guns don’t kill people, people kill people – but I think the gun does help.  If you just stood there and shouted bang very loudly I don’t think that many people would die.’  Critics of the NRA, and there are many in the U.S., have pointed out in response to the NRA statement that there was in fact an armed guard present during the Columbine High School massacre in 1999, and yet 15 died and 23 were wounded.  A final fact: in 2011 there were 51 people in the UK killed by guns; in the USA the figure was 8,583.

I’ve neglected my blog of late.  I don’t wish it to morph into an extended Christmas Round Robin, a format that has been much in the news lately, and has also occupied the Telegraph letters pages.  All over the country, people are eagerly awaiting the latest sickeningly proud news from relatives or friends about their children, pets, homes, second homes, holidays, wealth etcetera.  ‘Three jeers for the Round Robin’ writes Oliver Pritchett.  ‘Tis the season to be snooty!’  ‘For the fact is that however much we ridicule the GCSE triumphs, the pet tragedies, the over-detailed accounts of home refurbishment, the take-it-on-the-chin attitude to the disastrous walking tour in Wales and the latest hernia update, we would miss them if we didn’t get them.’

Another magnificent article by Neil Tweedie speaks of the authors as ‘overwhelmingly middle-class, invariably endowed with children of frightening precocity, and what management consultants would term “achievement-orientated”’.  It can be found at

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/features/3635148/The-round-robin-that-makes-you-see-red.html

There is also a perfect example by Marianne Kavanagh – search ‘Telegraph Round Robins’ – giving a template which all who aspire to Gold Medal standard in Round Robin writing should read.

The art of criticism of the RR goes back quite a long way.  As a friend who sends his own every year pointed out many years ago, a fine article in The Times stated that while reading the news from ‘friends’ that one never sees from year to year, ‘It is a matter of polite indifference to learn that a dog you never knew has died’.

After that, it would be de trop if I embarked on my own, so I’m just going to state that we are all still alive.  I hope to put some photographs of our year on this blog, which I suppose in their own wordless way may also achieve what Round Robin authors do.  My apologies in advance if this is the case.  We feel however that our time of mobility and health may be limited, so ‘Carpe Diem’ is our watchword.

I would like to leave you with two other articles from British newspapers.  One is by the veteran critic Clive James.  The other by the young doctor, Max Pemberton, who is, I think, working as a psychiatrist.  I always give at least a glance at his writings.  He is a young man of much empathy, evident from the time that he first started to write as a medical student, or possibly as a newly qualified doctor.  He has managed to give us a flavour of what is wrong with the British NHS today:

‘So much of what is wrong with the NHS was crystallised in a job advert that a reader sent to me last week.  It was for a “head of brand” and the post attracted an eye-watering salary of nearly £100,000.  It says so much about what is now valued in the NHS.  The job is based in Leeds.  A search for other jobs in the NHS in the same region exposes the reason why so many people feel that the NHS is no longer about patients but has become a cash cow for a select few.  A mental health support worker is needed: £16-19,000; a senior staff nurse on a salary of £25,528; a respiratory middle doctor starting on £29,705; a dietician on £21,000.  Now compare these salaries with what the paper-pushers get in Leeds.  There’s an advert for a “corporate and development director” for £112,500; a “director of improvement capability” and an “improvements programme director” for £110,000 each; a “corporate governance manager” on £54,000; a “head of strategic intelligence” starting on £77,000 rising to £97,000.  It’s an utter disgrace that those who are on the front line are so undervalued compared with paper-pushers who sit behind computer screens drawing pie charts and don’t actually do anything to help patients.’

Students of the British scene, and particularly the British television scene, will have been aware that for many years, at least until 29^th October 2011, a bizarrely costumed and bleached blond former wrestler and disc jockey called Jimmy Savile, was a regular feature on many programmes, mostly involving children.  All too late it seems that the reason for the partiality for children has become clear when shortly after his death, the first of many allegations of sexual abuse surfaced.  The BBC in particular has been criticised for withdrawing a Newsnight programme which researched the unsavoury aspects of Savile’s life.  Clive James, the veteran critic and TV programme maker, now seriously ill with some form of leukaemia, has recently returned to writing about television programmes.  I quote:

‘The Olympics were well done by their various deliverance commissions, and reasonably well done by the BBC.  Earlier in the year, in an episode we need not dwell on the Beeb had royally screwed up their presentation of the Queen’s Jubilee river pageant.  With the Olympics the Corporation got some of its act back together, although it was depressing to find that absolutely all of the presenters used the word “absolutely” absolutely all the time, even just to mean “yes”.  If only for the weakness of the on-screen language, the BBC coverage lacked authority.  It was notable that the Paralympics, which were held later on, drew, from Channel 4, an object lesson in how to do it.  Ideally the BBC should be giving the object lessons, but it was a year in which the world’s greatest broadcasting organisation was hit by a series of blows.  Most notable of these was the revelation about Jimmy Savile.  I have never been much impressed by the sound of my own voice when exercising the privilege of hindsight.  Other people are more comfortable with the noise they make when thus occupied, and I prefer to leave it to them.  Like Saul in Homeland however, I can’t resist a wise word, and it is this: if you have a job open for a disc jockey and you are approached by an ancient clown with a brainless line of chat, try to grasp the possibility that he might be a waste of space anyway, even if he doesn’t chase children.’

I feel sure that if you have followed me thus far, you will be reaching for the Christmas cheer, so may I wish you the compliments of the season and good health and enjoyment of the same in 2013.

I should also mention that I have put in my notice of resignation to Poole Hospital, effective end March 2013, but I don’t think I am quite ready to stop working.

I hope that some photographs may now appear...

Katie and Sir Chris Hoy's Postbox, Edinburgh

A typical group in Cusco, Peru

Marina, Philippa, Lindsay, Xerxes, Andrew, Salkantay Pass, Peru

4650m on the Salkantay Pass

David Espejo Chavez, our guide, Salkantay Pass

Lindsay's Jubilee Cake

Andrew, Lindsay, Lynne, Deana, Mike, Nick, Jubilee Weekend

Katie, her 21st, and her grandmother's restyled ring

Lenzerheide, January 2012

Not all of us could carry a real jubilee torch

Our friend Morag Day, a worthy Olympic torch bearer

Katie and Anna, evening, Wahiba Sands, Oman

Katie, Mohammed, Baby Goat, Anna, in Nizwa, Oman

Sunset, Galle, Sri Lanka

Mount Teide and the Roques Garcia, Tenerife

Walking the Northeast coast of Tenerife

Nati and Ben, Railay, Thailand

TATE BRITAIN – AT HALF TERM – YOU NEED MORE THAN A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR

TATE BRITAIN – AT HALF TERM – YOU NEED MORE THAN A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR

I’m a traditionalist at heart, which is one way of saying only a generation separated from a dinosaur.  Having loved the Tate for many years, I was distraught when it was given its new title, and its companion art gallery on the South Bank termed Tate Modern.  Personally I think the modern era probably ended sometime in the 1970s, and we are now in the later ‘proto-barbarian’ era.

So if you read no further, just read this: never visit Tate Britain at half term.

In its efforts to increase ‘footfall’ and to therefore justify its existence, the Tate is being revamped, and the rooms subdivided into ‘a walk around the 20^th century’ and ‘the historical collection’.  In the middle of the historical collection room, the entire floor had been given over to children – from the tiny tot stage to the pre-teens, all earnestly constructing items from cardboard bricks.  Narrowly avoiding the pudgy hands of some four year old putto from Clapham, I managed to squeeze a look at Richard Dadd’s ‘Fairy feller’s master stroke’, which I never miss, and one or two other wonderful pieces of Victoriana, but eventually gave up when I couldn’t step back enough to see properly ‘A hopeless dawn’, which like so many other works, now seems to have been crammed in with everything else.  So I gave up.  ‘A hopeless Saturday afternoon’ might have summed up my visit.  I was curious though as to why there were so many cameras filming the scene.  A difficult to see disclaimer in the main entrance area warned people that one might be filmed during one’s visit.  Was it a last posthumously arranged event by the late Jimmy Savile?

Travels in the Far East - of England

How to visit the Far East without leaving Britain

Yes you may have guessed at this somewhat jokey allusion – the East of England, or at least Suffolk.

Willy Lott's Cottage, Flatford

Saturday 29^th June.

After a somehat frustrating day at Wimbledon in which Lindsay manages to lose her phone, and we have to leave before the end of the Federer vs Bennetau match because of a timed rail ticket, we start early and fix our new BMW bike rack to the tow ball of the X3.  The rack is the most impressive piece of German engineering and is rock solid.  It comes complete with its own lights and light connection.  Of course it costs a fortune, but will be perfect for ever so long as we own a BMW with a tow hitch.  Off to Essex.  Reasonable journey despite the heavy traffic and arrive in Langham, at the house of Paul Armstrong, whose company, Coolpedals, is coordinating our trip.  Paul, or Mr Cool as we have named him is a fairly typical keen biker.  His website says ‘plenty of off-road parking’ so we miss the bungalow first time around as we drive along his road.  More a bungalow industry than a cottage industry then.  Equipped with maps and with a GPS affixed to the stem we are off up the Box valley and down the Brett valley – a rather roundabout 18 mile route for getting to Dedham, which is our first night’s stopping point.  Dedham is in fact only 3 or 4 miles as the crow flies from Langham.  A breezy afternoon of open skies and fields, breezy, and sunshine, tiny streams and short steep descents and climbs.  An unconcerned partridge looks at us from the opening of a wheat field.  We miss Milsom’s Hotel as we cycle past and detour into Dedham for a quick first look at Constable country.  JC was born nearby in East Bergholt, and many of his landscapes include Dedham Vale, or the church, the building of which was started in the year Columbus discovered America.  One of Constable’s only 3 religious paintings, an Ascension, is in the church.  It’s a somewhat unimpressive imitation of many Renaissance pieces, and we are sadly underwhelmed by it.  Apparently the purchaser defaulted on payment and Constable is not thought to have worked too hard on the lower half.  Good job he stuck to landscapes.  In fact he was only modestly successful during life, despite his admittance to the Royal Academy.  For example he sold more paintings in France than he did in England.  Curiously, during the week we are in Suffolk and Essex one of his paintings, ‘The Lock’, sells for about £28 million.  Xerxes would rather like to visit his grave, but unfortunately that turns out to be in St John-at-Hampstead in London.  Of more interest in the church are the tablets recording the passing of its residents or their relatives, in the great era of colonial expansion.  One inscription which catches my eye is a plaque dedicated by a widow to her late husband, the final line of which states something like ‘… this stone was caused to be placed by his affectionate relict.’  ‘Would you be my affectionate relict?’ I ask Lindsay.

It’s a lovely warm afternoon with big skies over Dedham Vale and typical Constable fluffy white clouds in the skyscape, so we are not sorry that we cycled past Milsom’s.  We’ve booked in at Le Talbooth for dinner, and this is excellent, Michelin star standard cooking, with a wine list to match, although, understandably, not cheap.  In fact it’s the most expensive meal of the holiday, but the value of the pub and hotel food that we find after this is pretty good.  After an initial celebratory glass of Moet we select a Thelema 2007 Cabernet Sauvignon, which is gloriously smooth and rich.  The choices we make include pigeon, rabbit, scallops, ham hock terrine, lamb, venison, fillet of beef.  On return, Murray vs Bagdatis is still in progress at Wimbledon and sets a record for finishing at two minutes past eleven.  The first day of Le Tour (de France, not Suffolk) features Cancellara as the winner of the time trial.

At Le Talbooth, the bridge marks the old boundary between Essex and Suffolk, crossing the river Stour.  Around us on the terrace (it’s a lovely warm evening though space heaters are also needed as night draws on), Essex man is in his element, distinguished by open neck shirt and tan, and Essex woman is also on display, distinguished by short skirts and teetering high heels.  Mercurey Premier Cru is going down well at the table next door.

Le Talbooth

Sunday July 1^st.

 A long ride ahead so breakfast at 8 and on the road at 9.  Back into Dedham and then a roundabout route to East Bergholt with its beautiful old church and unusual bell cage.  Then down to Flatford Mill, Willy Lott’s cottage, etc, the scenes of Constable’s most famous paintings.  Unfortunately one wouldn’t really recognize the ford and there is no haywain.  There is a long diatribe in the visitor’s book about the building of the tea rooms which apparently prevents one from observing the ford and bridge as Constable might have seen it.  The atmosphere is peaceful and it is sunny and warm.  Roses on the red brick walls, more fluffy white clouds, a swan on the pond.  It’s the front of a chocolate box or perhaps possibly a jigsaw.  In fact, throughout the trip there are many scenes that remind me of my childhood jigsaws –‘Now does that yellow rose go there by the wall or is it part of the one by the gate?  Shall I start on the thatched roof, or are there too many pieces to get into it first?’

Chocolate box scenes

East, along the Stour, towards Shotley.  Detour around the massive Royal Hospital School, then past the church at Erwarton, where legend has it that Anne Boleyn’s heart was secretly buried, and indeed a heart shaped casket was found there in 1838, set into an alcove in the church…  Erwarton Hall next door is a magnificent 16^th century manor house.  We stop in the pub before Shotley and enjoy excellent pasties, before cycling on a rather bad (footpath) route to Shotley itself and its marina.  I’m told that we must have cycled past Griff Rhys-Jones’ cottage, but we didn’t see him…

Erwarton Hall

It’s a very windy grey day and it’s easy to spot the rather peculiar shallow draft ferry that is buffeting its way towards the dock.  It’s a truism that all professional mariners grumble, and the crew of the Harwich, Shotley & Felixstowe ferry are no exception.  There is a sign in the wheelhouse which says ‘We hate tandems’, and this is not surprising because the arrangement for bicycles is a sloping bow section which has wheel racks for six bikes.  Then they are lashed down, and with us and a few tourists plus dogs we set off.  The crew of two are accompanied by a third who turns out to be the engineer.  The very substantial diesel engine is purring beautifully under the floor.  To try to cheer up the morose skipper I remark on this.  ‘Bloody miracle it goes at all’ he says.  ‘The man who services it is standing next to you and he retires next week’, he adds gloomily, looking reproachfully at his colleague.  The other passengers have two dogs.  The Alsatian doesn’t look too keen to come aboard and stands uncertainly looking as though it is going to be sick at any moment.  The dim owner decides this is the time to try it with a grape, but neither the Alsatian nor the lapdog is keen.  At least they have more sense than their owners.  Fortunately they alight at Harwich quay.  Xerxes has assured me that Harwich is a lifeboat repair centre, but since there is only one lifeboat visible and there are a surprising number of lightships everywhere he recalls suddenly that it is for lightship refits that Harwich is famed.  We set off again for the Felixstowe shore.  This time it’s straight into the chop and salt water comes over the bow and onto the bikes.  At last we discover that the landing craft morphology of the ship’s bow is there for a reason.  The helmsman just drives the boat into the beach.  They slide a gangplank from the bow of the vessel and we gingerly wheel everything ashore.  This method obviously can only work because the beach shelves steeply, and the stern and the prop remain in deep water.  We still have one more ferry crossing to make, the so-called Felixstowe ferry, though it is somewhat north of Felixstowe and crosses the River Deben.  On the Shotley crossing the crew warn us that the skipper of this boat is ‘short, sharp, and miserable’.  The contrary proves to be the case, unsurprisingly because John the ferryman proves to be quite genial, and he charges about twenty times as much as the Shotley ferry’s charge when calculated as distance run.  ‘Oive got an ‘ernia’, he says as he watches us struggle with lifting the bikes over the rail of his boat.  He is as brown as a berry, with a piratical ring in one ear and curly grey hair.  In costume one could imagine him as a seadog of Nelson’s time, though in merely taking passengers across the river mouth he has a somewhat easier time of it.  Prior to the Deben we pedal along the seafront at Felixstowe which reminds me of Bournemouth, but Lindsay finds it enchanting, and I suppose that it is somewhat more genteel than Bournemouth.  Large tankers and container ships pass offshore, and there are glimpses of the treacherous sandbanks which lie far out to sea.

The beach at Felixstowe

The piratical John, and his crew.  River Deben, Suffolk

The route to the Felixstowe ferry takes us through the golf course to the north of Felixstowe, and having made the two minute crossing of the river mouth, and handed over the sum of £14 to the cheery John (perhaps our former shipmates were jealous of his comparative earning capacity), our route lies along the north side of the estuary heading inland in a Westerly or Northwesterly direction.  Our route from Mr Cool detours us to Ramsholt, a pretty sailing village on the side of the Deben, where we get lost trying to follow his off road directions, but eventually return inland to the ‘B’ road, and give further diversions a miss, because it is getting late.  Regretfully we give Sutton Hoo a miss, and having crossed the river from Northeast to Southwest bank we strike a bridleway inland and emerge in the little village of Melton, which is more or less conjoined with Woodbridge.  Leaning on the wall of St Andrew’s church, sitting on my bike saddle I can see a vicarage tea party taking place.  The vicar, in that type of soft hat, and down-at-heel jacket over a black clerical shirt that only vicars seem to manage to acquire and carry off successfully, sees me waiting for the others and calls us in for tea.  A wonderful opportunity to use the Tony Hancock line, ‘More tea, Vicar?’ and we don’t need much compulsion after 50 miles in the saddle.  The price for his strawberry cream tea is a modest £5 a head, with unlimited tea, a piece of fine cake, sandwiches, and a scone with jam, cream, and strawberries.  How they will ever make enough for whatever it is they are saving for I don’t know.  This providential experience is just what we need.  The vicar warmly invites us to stay on for the multi-denominational service which is to take place later, but he is a bit nonplussed when Philippa plays a masterstroke and announces that Xerxes is a Zoroastrian, being Parsee, and admits that he is not sure that this has been included.

At any rate, it is now getting quite late and we still have a couple of miles to pedal into Woodbridge where after a short delay, we find the B&B, St Anne’s Schoolhouse, located in a secluded road just behind the main street, and only yards from The Crown where we have booked for dinner.  After dinner, which is good, the others forage around the boutiques of Woodbridge, but I return to catch the end of Euro 2012 (Spain 4, Italy 0).  Paper, diary and bed.  Over 50 miles and 2600 feet of ascent and descent.

The Deben

Monday 2^nd July.

Very tired last night and slept well, despite rain occasionally drumming on the Velux windows.  Today is not such a long itinerary, about 36 miles.  We cycle north then east, sandy and gravelly woodland trails, separated by some open land with piggeries, and subsequent fields immaculately planted with pink flowering potatoes, to the pretty village of Orford, low-lying, grey, and gusty, with its boats rocked by a howling wind.  There is a welcoming café, for drinks and a cake.  It has a castle and a famous oyster shop called Pinney’s.  Leaving here, it’s an enjoyable ride along small lanes on the ‘Suffolk coastal cycleway’ up to the top of the Alde estuary at Snape, the famous Maltings and concert hall.  It is sunny and warm when we get here, though breezy still, and we wander the grounds admiring the sculpture (if that is the right description) by Henry Moore, Alison Wilding, and Barbara Hepworth.  In the distance, I can see a few families admiring a Suffolk punch horse and cart, no doubt waiting their turn for a ride.  We do not visit because we are anxious for lunch, but I discover now I am writing this that it is actually a painted bronze statue by Sarah Lucas!  The fish soup in the Plough and Sail pub is excellent.  Then it is back towards Woodbridge and Lesley’s excellent B&B, but first we have to negotiate some more forest tracks which are becoming muddier.  Eventually deciding that tractor ruts and deep grass were not for us we detour via Wickham Market to come down into Melton via Ufford.  A good dinner at the very traditional ‘Ye Olde Bell and Steelyard’ pub.

Tuesday July 3^rd.

We leave Woodbridge sharp at 9am.  The rain has drummed on the Velux windows during the night but it is only grey above us as we cycle down to the Deben, and then turn up Martlesham Creek, with remote and beautiful mud flats, the cries of burbling curlews in the air.  Across the dam and sluice at the top; it is not so funny of Mr Cool to give us a route up through the woods which involves carrying the bikes up steps.  Meandering through small roads we eventually track onto the main ‘A’ road which crosses the Orwell South of Ipswich.  Finding the bicycle route is tricky and the track beside the main road is covered with debris.  The screaming of cars and lorries beside us on the other side of the crash barrier is unnerving, but we lift our bikes over the bank at the end of the bridge and join a small road towards Woolverstone.  Pedalling past the magnificent Woolverstone Hall, aka Ipswich High School for Girls, we take some small roads and tracks, crossing fields of pink flowered ‘Maris Pier’ potatoes, down into the picturesque village of Pin Mill, scene of two of Arthur Ransome’s books for children in the ‘Swallows and Amazons’ series.  It is the ‘Butt and Oyster’ which claims our attention, and Lindsay, first inside, finds us a lovely table in the window where we can gaze out at the yachts and the few remaining Thames barges which still ply the river.  The beer is welcoming and fed by gravity feed, and the food is good.  Xerxes’ sea bass in paper looks excellent.  The fish stew and Philippa’s roll mops are good too.  Regretfully leaving PinMill, it is quite a steep haul up to the top of the peninsula where we cross to the other side and back to the Stour.  Around Alton Water again, this time on the east side, we move inland and gradually make our way to a disused railway track which takes us into Hadleigh.  Unfortunately it is another five miles in drizzly rain, our first real encounter with it, to Stoke by Nayland, arriving at The Crown, where we have lovely rooms and the misery is forgotten in the bath and the warmth of the white fluffy robes.  A good dinner – but I don’t remember it.  We have done 52 miles and experienced three punctures, the last one of which was in my back tyre a mere half a mile from the Inn.

Wednesday July 4^th.

The breakfast at the Crown is a gourmet one, which has to be ordered, so delays us a little, though pleasurably.  French toast, eggs royale, etcetera.  We leave to the West, going downhill past the church on a tiny track.  A circuitous route around Stoke by Nayland golf club and a longer detour because of a closed road, and then I have yet another puncture.  On a stone concrete hard standing outside somebody’s house, it turns out that the owner is indoors, and far from being offended he offers us coffee and biscuits.  Moving on through small roads our final route into Lavenham is along the inaptly named Clay Lane, which is neither of clay, nor yet a lane.  It is a muddy track, our wheels becoming caked with mud, and we have to stop several times to clear Lindsay’s mudguards with a stick.  Careering along, rather too audaciously, eventually my wheels slip suddenly sideways and I am off my bike, through the nettles and into the ditch.  A few scratches and grazes, but fortunately no damage.  There has been sufficient nocturnal rain for us now to decide to avoid Mr Cool’s tracks altogether, and to find substitute routes, preferably on small roads, which avoid them.  In addition the extensive rains in June have increased the grass and nettle cover alarmingly.  Arriving in beautiful Lavenham we are able to sit in the sun opposite the Guildhall and outside the Angel Inn.  An excellent loo allows me to clean the mud and blood off, and some beer and a light lunch from the Marco Pierre White menu makes us feel better.  We visit St Peter and Paul church, Lavenham’s famous landmark (late perpendicular; built 1485 – 1525) and pedal on to Long Melford.  Then West to Liston through idyllic pastoral countryside, full of meadows, brown cows, ponds, rushes and swans.  The edges of the roads are decked with wild flowers and purple mallow.  On small roads, we eventually reach the George at Cavendish.  Our only disappointment of the trip is that Lindsay and I have a disappointingly small room instead of the one that we have paid for.  However; off to Water Street, where Xerxes’ cousin lives.  Firoza, and her husband Geoff, provide us with Crémant de Bourgogne and then we retrace our steps to the George, where the landlord, obviously feeling guilty, provides us with a bottle of house wine – a not too generous recompense.  After this though we order a decent bottle of Chianti Classico, so the house wine becomes a distant memory.  Good scallops and langouste, steak, chocolate mousse, and bed.  A route of about 38 to 40 miles to get here.

The Guildhall, Lavenham

Thursday 5^th July.

This is rather a noisy location.  The traffic starts going by just after 5 am, so the window has to be closed.  The breakfast is good.  We start by retracing our steps, or route, before heading North in a big anti-clockwise loop.  Unfortunately two more punctures in Philippa’s front wheel and another slow puncture in my rear wheel lead us to feel that we need a bike shop and some new tyres.  A low point is reached as we pass through Steeple Bumpstead towards Hellions Bumpstead where Xerxes remembers attending a wedding, and there is a pub.  Sadly the pub is closed, as are quite a few of the old country pubs.  On into another village which fortunately has a shop.  Drinks and ice cream are all that is available, but they are welcome.  As we travel on Xerxes remembers that the wedding wasn’t here after all.  Surprisingly I feel no sense of enmity towards him, realising that all of our memories of our youth are pleasant, but fickle.  The pub’s loss was also the village shop’s gain.  Passing on into Saffron Walden, a town with a pretty centre is distinguished for us by finding a wonderful bike shop in Hill Street, Newdales, with a real expert in charge, and yards away, the popular tea shop, Cou Cou’s.  A remarkably short time later, and Philippa and I now having puncture resistant tyres, we confidently travel on past Audley End House, then South, then West, and finally South again to the Cricketer’s Inn at Clavering, a distance of about 38 miles.

The Cricketer’s is well organized and we are in a separate building with smallish but very adequate rooms.  The keys come attached to a beautiful new looking genuine 5½ ounce cricket ball, so it is unlikely that one will decamp with them.  The food is good and the pub is busy.  It’s a lovely evening.  People are sitting outside and there is a beautiful open top Ferrari sitting next to an equally immaculate Morgan.  Inside, more Essex man, a somewhat pluffy (as my mother would have said) young man in jeans and white T shire with a very shapely blonde in full Essex war paint, and pencil slim white sheath skirt and leopard print top, the obligatory heels visible underneath the table.  They order ‘blush’ wine…  Unfortunately we don’t get to meet Jamie Oliver’s parents, for it is they who own and run the Cricketers.  (A note for our transatlantic friends – Jamie Oliver is a TV chef, big on personality and Essex/Cockney style familiarity.  He has, unlike others, tried to tackle issues as diverse as restaurant unemployment and school dinners.)

Friday 6^th July.

At last we get to meet Trevor Oliver, Jamie’s dad, for it is busy at breakfast and he is obviously drafted in to help where he works busily waiting tables.  He’s an easy-going, friendly man, and sounds just like his son.  His breakfast sausages are fantastic – almost pure meat – so we engage him in conversation about them.  He’s proud to tell us that they make them on the premises, ever since his butcher retired.  Trevor manages to insert the interrogative ‘Yer know what I mean’ in a terrific Essex accent at least five times in the space of two minutes.  Jamie’s TV training has obviously cured him of this habit.  Another table is occupied by an entirely Asian group of young men, about 12 in all, and one woman, who are recovering from attending a wedding.  Despite the now steady drizzling rain outside most of them are wearing dark glasses, and either still intoxicated, or more probably trying the imitate the dancing shambling gait of a rapper, or as I still think of it, the style of ‘Huggy Bear’ in the Starsky and Hutch TV series (Oh dear, dated again!).

The rain is now a rather steady drizzle, but there’s nothing for it but to saddle up and pedal off.  We shorten our route to about 36-38 miles, and avoid any off-road.  As the drizzle intensifies, Xerxes is wondering where we can stop for shelter.  The first point is in fact under the helpful roof of an underpass under the M11, but a rather more attractive stop is in the tiny village of Henham, where our attention is drawn to the Church of St Mary the Virgin by the fantastic pealing of the bells from the tower.  Having ascertained that this is not for a wedding we creep inside and spend a few minutes of sanctuary here.  It would be nice to know what the peal is, for it is certainly being very evenly rung, and dare one say ‘appealing’.  A notice says, ‘Do not disturb, peal attempt in progress.’  I am making enquiries as to the nature of it and if I should discover I will append it to the blog.  Who can forget the sinister implications of change-ringing in Dorothy L Sayers’ famous detective thriller, ‘The Nine Tailors’?

As the rain relents again to a drizzle, we reach Thaxted, which we instantly like.  It has a fine curving High Street, and a coffee shop and bar called ‘Parrish’s’.  A hot chocolate is required, a little bit like stopping for a break on a ski run.  Wandering up to the church, we stop at the South door.  From within come the strains of Bach’s Partita No. 3, played on the organ.  Coming around the church to the North door which is open, we find Alastair Sampson, retired organist of Eton College, practising for a Saturday evening concert.  At the end of the Bach, he explains that he has to play some Holst (who lived in Thaxted from 1917 to 1925) for local interest, and regales us with an unusual Chaconne, which is apparently transcribed from a military band arrangement.  Now we strike out to the East on our own route, bypassing Mr Cool’s off-road plans, and reach the attractive village of Finchingfield, another place which looks like a chocolate box cover.  In fact, Philippa announces that in her mother’s pictorial needlework days, she once created exactly the view we are seeing, looking across the duckpond up at the whitewashed cottages and up to the church beyond.  The Fox pub beside us is conveniently located for lunch and by the time we come out, the rain has gone and it is hot and sunny.  Our last 16 miles are run in the sunshine and we trundle into a little place, confusingly also called Audley End, in the village of Gestingthorpe, where we stay at The Pheasant, in rooms in their large and well-appointed recently restored coach house – the Thomas Gainsborough and the Mark Catesby rooms.  Now that we have time to dry out a bit and relax, we can watch Andy Murray beat Jo-Wilfrid Tsonga in four sets.  The first British finalist since 1938 (and the rest is recorded history as you are well aware from the following Sunday).  The meal is excellent, tempura prawns, lamb, and tarte tatin.  Complimentary glass of prosecco is a nice touch, and a bottle of Australian Wooloomooloo!

Saturday July 7^th.

It’s rained again, but no major problem pedalling eastwards towards Langham.  Maybe it’s the home journey awaiting us, but it all seems less magical, even passing through Halstead, a finalist in ‘Britain in Bloom’, where we didn’t see much in the way of Blooms.  Out towards Colne Engaine and other small villages.  Xerxes has a puncture – his first – and he is somewhat indignant in view of his ‘puncture proof’ tyres, so Lindsay with her Kenda ‘puncture resistant’ tyres ends up as the only one not to have suffered one.  We stop for a drink in Bures, at the rather grubby pub, where one particular area of the leather banquette seating has been destroyed by the claws of the large Labrador which habitually lies on it.  Good beer though.  The best of the week in my view was the Old Growler from the Nethergate Brewery, Stour Valley, based in Pentlow, Sudbury, and an area we have cycled through, though the Adnams and the Greene King were also very acceptable.  Cycling on through Bures, it is late Saturday morning, very sunny and remarkably, even suspiciously, quiet.  One expects to turn a corner to see Clint Eastwood, clad in a poncho with a cheroot, walking lazily down the middle of the street.  It’s strange how some places in Essex and Suffolk seem like this, and others are busy and thronged with traffic.  After about 28 miles we finally bypass Nayland, do a few steep ups and downs, and return to Langham.  We say hello and goodbye once more to Mr Cool, and it only remains to load up and to return to the rain of Dorset, which starts in an unrestrained fashion at Basingstoke.

Potatoes

Poppies

Village sign

Audley End House

Epilogue:

The week moves on with most of the usual chores, so many things seem to go wrong.  Lindsay’s phone arrives and the SIM is wrong, one of the gates fails to open (it seems that a slug became fried on the motherboard – expensive pest killing), the Satnav is broken and has to be replaced, the 24 hour ECG recorder is not working and a new lead is sent but doesn’t fit; the computer expert has to come and fix the computers, there is a water leak in an upstairs room from an old chimney, etcetera, but the end of the week (Friday 13^th) brings inspiration and enjoyment when we go to watch our friend Morag Day run with the Olympic Torch in Winton near Bournemouth.  The surroundings are prosaic, but at least it means a huge and enthusiastic crowd.  And we always have the evening running of the Tour de France highlights to enjoy, especially with our boy Bradley in yellow.

Lindsay gets into the spirit of the torch relay...

Morag awaits her moment

The run

The Scottish Medical Golfing Society

THE SCOTTISH MEDICAL GOLFING SOCIETY

Subtitle: Rye - with no mention of Henry James, Radclyffe Hall, and E F Benson

The current blog is an unashamed ‘puff’ for this venerable society, which is very much an endangered species, only eleven members attending the AGM meeting in Rye, and only eight remaining to do battle with the Rye club members on the Sunday morning.  Despite having a large number of members on the subscription list, a minority still play.  It has been suggested that any internet activity might be helpful in increasing the profile of the SMGS in our search for new members.  So here goes...

The birth of the society came to public attention in the correspondence columns of the British Medical Journal on June 9^th, 1934.  Those who wish to read the original will find it at:

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2444664/pdf/brmedj07156-0040a.pdf

The first president was Bertram Shires.  The entrance fee was one guinea and the subscription one guinea per year.  The aims of the society were concisely stated:

‘On April 30^th, 1934, a meeting was held at the Langham Hotel for the purpose of giving concrete form to a common desire that Scottish members of the medical profession in the London area should meet occasionally throughout each year for the express purpose of vying with one another in propelling the golf ball from tee to hole, according to the rules of golf.’

There followed an impressive list of vice-presidents, treasurer, secretaries (plural), and councillors.  One of the councillors is given as L E Barrington Ward.  Later Sir Lancelot Barrington Ward, this famous surgeon is thought to be the character on whom Sir Lancelot Spratt was based in the book and film ‘Doctor in the House’.  He was certainly a surgeon at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, which was attended by Gordon Ostlere the author, who adopted the pen name of Richard Gordon.

The BMJ was definitely different in those days: the next two letters deal with alleged poisoning by ground ivy and ‘Tests for Drunkenness’ in which, ‘J.P’, a police surgeon, provides a foolproof defence for anybody accused of being ‘drunk in charge of a car’.  I can’t see the present editor of a journal which now takes itself very seriously allowing us column space to push for members, but we are going to try it.

The first golfing meeting of the society was held at Hadley Wood golf club later in the same year.

A number of factors have combined to threaten the Scottish Medical Golfing Society.  When I first joined the society in the mid 1980s, there was a fine selection of Scottish doctors from the Home Counties, and we counted pathologists, coroners, surgeons, physicians, and general practitioners among our number.  GPs made up the backbone of the society, and their contract favoured the meetings of the society because most of them had a half day off during the week, and they were able to extend this to a full day by doing a Saturday morning surgery in lieu of this extra time.  Changes to the contract spelt the death knell of this relaxed and sensible system.  Under the ‘new’ contract, which came about some time in the 1990s, it became mandatory for GPs to be present in surgery on every day of the working week.  Further changes in their contracts have not been conducive to improving this situation.  But another and more important factor is the parochialism of the current system of medical training.  Registrar rotations are now organized such that only local graduates stand much chance of being accepted into their local deanery training rotations.  Scottish graduates are thus an increasingly rare sight south of the border.  At the time when I was seeking middle grade training (what Americans and Canadians would call ‘residencies’), jobs were sporadic, few and far between, and could be as far afield as Inverness.  The Society exists for Scottish doctors (who may have graduated elsewhere) or for doctors who graduated at Scottish medical schools and universities.  It is becoming increasingly uncommon to find Scottish doctors in any posts ‘down’ here in England.  We either need better publicity or an influx of Scottish doctors to the Home Counties.

In considering publicity, our new website will we hope improve our profile, and it is available at:

http://www.scottishmedicalgolfingsociety.co.uk/

Unfortunately, if one puts SMGS into Google, the first entry is the San Miguel Golf Society, and this is followed by pages and pages of entries related to ‘submachine guns’ – otherwise known as SMGS.  St Michael’s Grammar School in Melbourne manages an entry lower down the first page, but that’s it.  Firearms occupy thousands of entries thereafter.

If you try ‘Scottish’, then Scottish Power has the top line.  Scottish Medical produces Scottish Medical Training, and adding the G hits the spot (sorry about the double entendre), though Guidelines feature as well.

It’s been suggested that our name needs to feature in as many internet articles as possible, and anything one can do to make this piece ‘go viral’ would be welcome.

Perhaps, since this is usually my ‘letter to America’, my collaborators can do their best to increase its profile.  Let me describe to you the feeling of this year’s Rye meeting...

Rye is an elemental place.  One of the arbours in Golf heaven.  It was Henry Longhurst who was credited with saying ‘If I could play one more round of golf before I die, I think it would have to be at Rye’.  (Sir Peter Allen has said the same about Deal, the Royal Cinque Ports Golf Club, but I think Longhurst may have precedence).  Despite the despoliation of the Romney Marsh to the east by an enormous wind farm, the elevated position on the two main ridges of dunes that make up the main course gives a wonderful perspective when we visit it in April.  New born lambs, with that perfect creamy white colour that they carry for the first few months of life, lie contentedly in the polders of the marsh, the occasional bleating carrying on the breezes, while above, the glorious song of the Rye skylarks announces to the world that the Scottish Medical Golfing Society is here again.  To the northwest the unmistakable silhouette of a town that is now two miles from the sea, having been lapped by the waters in the 14^th century.  To the west, the headland towards Hastings, and the remarkable sight of sailing boats apparently skimming through the fields, though of course they are down at water level in the River Rother on their way out to the sea.  I have occasionally played at Rye when the winds have been gentle and light, but even when the sun is shining there is usually a stiff breeze blowing.  The humps and hollows of this classic links course mean that it is famous for rarely giving one an even stance.  Bernard Darwin, grandson of Charles Darwin, and the man who could be said to have invented golf writing, was captain of this club on two occasions, separated by an interval of 50 years!  He is famous for inserting quotations from Charles Dickens into his writings – often leaving the reader to guess the origin of the sentence.  When he wrote about Rye he was unequivocal, and he did not need the assistance of the great Dickens when he wrote, ‘Surely there can nowhere be anything appreciably better than the golf to be had at this truly divine spot.’

On Saturday 21^st April, the fortunate few gathered in the clubhouse, exchanged a few words, drank coffee and emerged to do battle with both each other and the elements.  The sun was shining, the larks sang, but the wind was chill, and slow moving and substantial showers were forecast.  My partner and I hacked manfully up the first and retrieved par by dint of holing a long putt to which we had no claim of expectation.  Thereafter the usual in and out experience of golf on these links contrived to put us out of contention in the competition, but the most remarkable feature of the round was the dramatic hailstorm which attacked us on the 10^th tee and continued for a further two holes.  A very satisfying five on the dramatic 13^th hole with its blind second shot (third in our case) over the ridge of the dunes towards its exposed green was our main reward for our efforts.  ‘It is the constant and undying hope for improvement that makes golf so exquisitely worth the playing’ as Darwin observed, and we clung to this hope like drowning men at flotsam.

A substantial lunch was followed by our afternoon singles round in competition for the Shires cup.  On some previous occasions I have been so depressed by my performance in the morning that I have sought solace in the Rye club bitter and claret at lunchtime, making my apologies early in the afternoon by an air shot on the first tee.  With eagle eyed and equally determined members of our society beside the tee it has been impossible to pass this off as an extravagant practice swing, and the die has been cast.  Today however I only drank ‘Gunners’ and water, and was passably pleased by 17 points on the front nine holes, substantially enhanced by a birdie three on the 9^th.  But a vicious and unpleasant shower which lasted longer than the morning’s visitation by the elements put paid to my hopes, though I eventually only lost the competition on a count back to our secretary Iain Dow, who also scored 27 points (poor I know you will agree, but anybody who has played Rye will have feelings of companionship over this).

Our evening meal together in the George Hotel was an occasion for great company and that fellow feeling of bonhomie of those who have striven and at least succeeded in reaching the clubhouse intact, even though their cards have been ruined both metaphorically by their score and literally by the ingress of water.

Our President, Professor Lindsay Symon was in the chair.  Known as ‘the neurosurgeons’ neurosurgeon’ he must have been a ferocious chief, but his bark is now somewhat worse than his bite, and he is full of wit and anecdote, including one scatological story which I can’t include.  Perhaps his best throwaway remark this evening was when the discussion turned to the SMGS club tie, which is dark blue and carries a wreath and the Scottish thistle as its emblem.  On occasion it has been mistaken for the tie which members of the Scottish rugby football team are entitled to wear.  I asked whether it had proved an entrée to the VIP areas at Murrayfield, to which Lindsay responded that it had not, but it had been a topic of conversation when he had ‘put Gavin Hastings up for membership of the R&A’ and had garnered a certain amount of respect.  Any non-golfers who have followed me thus far might need to know that the ‘R&A’ is an abbreviation for the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrew’s, both the most famous of golf clubs and the body responsible for the administration of the rules of the game.  Gavin Hastings is of course a famous Scottish ex-international rugby player.

Our guest for the evening which follows our AGM is always the captain of the Rye club, a strategy which we think is likely to allow us to continue our privilege of visiting the club every year, but which also allows us to hear some news about the club.  Occasionally there are good jokes to be had.  Nigel Wilkinson, the captain elect of Rye, a barrister and an expert on medical malpractice (sic) did not disappoint.  Although I have heard this before, he produced a fine joke about talking to his wife when his nomination to the captaincy was announced.  He asked her: ‘Darling, did you ever imagine in your wildest dreams that I would one day be the captain of Rye.’  To which she responded, ‘Darling, I’m afraid that you don’t feature in my wildest dreams.’

At some of our finest meetings, the repartee and the recitations of Rabbie Burns have ‘set the table on a roar’ as Shakespeare would have it.  I remember once that one of our members recited the whole of Tam O’ Shanter as a party piece.  I mentioned to Mr Wilkinson that Lindsay Symon, despite being over 80 years of age could not only recite the famous Betjeman ‘Seaside Golf’ poem but also the less well known parody of the poem, which is equally enjoyable.  Overhearing, our President did not disappoint, and duly delivered both.  Some discussion about the authorship of the latter followed.  Lindsay correctly identified it as being by Robin Butler, subsequently Sir Robin Butler, thereafter Lord Butler, best known by the epithet ‘The Butler Report’ apropos of Iraq.  Butler, like Betjeman before him, is a member of St Enodoc, the club in Cornwall which is the subject of the poem.  Here are both, reproduced below:

Seaside Golf How straight it flew, how long it flew, It clear’d the rutty track And soaring, disappeared from view Beyond the bunker’s back – A glorious, sailing, bounding drive That made me glad I was alive. And down the fairway, far along It glowed a lonely white; I played an iron sure and strong And clipp’d it out of sight, And spite of grassy banks between I knew I’d find it on the green. And so I did. It lay content Two paces from the pin; A steady putt and then it went Oh, most securely in. The very turf rejoiced to see That quite unprecedented three. Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves And thyme and mist in whiffs, In-coming tide, Atlantic waves Slapping the sunny cliffs, Lark song and sea sounds in the air And splendour, splendour everywhere. John Betjeman

Seaside Golf – a parody:

How low it flew, how left it flew,
It hit the dry-stone wall
And plunging, disappeared from view
A shining brand new ball –
I’d hit the damned thing on the head
It made me wish that I were dead.

And up the fairway, steep and long,
I mourned my gloomy plight;
I played an iron sure and strong,
A fraction to the right
I knew that when I reached my ball
I’d find it underneath the wall.

And so I did. I chipped it low
And thinned it past the pin
And to and fro, and to and fro
I tried to get it in;
Until, intoning oaths obscene
I holed it out in seventeen.

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
They really get me down;
In-coming tides, Atlantic waves
I wish that I could drown
And Sloane Street voices in the air
And black retrievers everywhere.

Sir Robin Butler

The St Enodoc website is a vision in immaculate green sufficient to make one drool, and to wonder why we do not spend more time in the UK for our holidays.

http://www.st-enodoc.co.uk/the-club/

The George Hotel is an obvious venue for our dinners, attended by history (Rye Golf Club was first proposed and discussed there), but it is certainly expensive.  Our previous secretary, Alasdair Short had chosen three very fine wines for our dinner, much superior to what was available at the George, though with a mouth-watering corkage charge of fifteen pounds a bottle.  We drank two wines of Bouchard Finlayson – a sauvignon blanc and a chardonnay; a Rioja Riserva, and another South African red from Rustenberg.  All were greatly appreciated.
On Sunday 22^nd April, eight remaining members met the Rye Club in our time honoured competition.  The minutes will show the true date of origin, but as far as one can tell this match has existed for around forty years or more.  A brief shower as we started cleared, and we played the course largely in sunshine, but with a steadily freshening westerly breeze, eventually reaching force 6 or thereabouts.  These foursomes games are all enjoyable, friendly and sociable.  Although Tony Strong and I won our game 2 up, SMGS were roundly defeated 3 matches to 1.  A final lunch in the dining room (jackets and ties mandatory) allowed us to carry fond memories back up the road from Camber Sands, and the promise of even better things next year.
If you have enjoyed this blog, please pass it on to any golfers or medics that you know.  Please spread the word of the Scottish Medical Golf Society, and visit the site to make your presence known to our secretary, Iain Dow.

http://www.scottishmedicalgolfingsociety.co.uk/

I apologise to those of my few regular readers who may have no interest at all in golf.  Golf like cricket is however a metaphor for how to conduct oneself in life, and how to bear the vicissitudes of what life can throw at you.  Even for those who cannot play, to study the ebb and flow of fame and fortune during the last nine holes of a ‘major’ championship is an object lesson in fortitude and stoicism.  ‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster’ was never more true than in golf.

Above is a view from the western side of the river Rother, showing Rye clubhouse in the distance standing above the dunes.  Below is a tranquil view of the Rother further inland at Rye town.