Evening Hill Diaries 11
Spring 2024
February 18th.
Some sunshine, and near record temperatures for the time of year. In the distance the mist sweeps up over the
Isle of Wight and the Needles.
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| Mist over the Needles. February 18th. |
A very ancient paperback has come back to me after about 30
years. ‘Out of Practice’ by Rob
Buckman. Nearly 50 years after
publication it hasn’t aged well, but Buckman was a successful member of the
famous Footlights at Cambridge, appeared with Diana Quick, Julie Covington,
Clive James and Pete Atkin, and after transferring to University College
Hospital, had West End forays and the occasional TV comedy series with his UCH partner
in crime, Chris Beetles. Beetles
nowadays is best known for leaving the medical profession and pursuing his
hobby of collecting Victorian prints. He
runs a successful London art gallery and has another claim to fame: he was one
of Jeffrey Archer’s prison visitors.
Rob, because of his wit, and his communication skills, could have graced
any branch of medicine, but became an oncologist. Although the same age as me, he did the
surgical firm first, and he it was who first taught me to tie surgical knots –
you know the ones where you tie the knot without losing either end of the
suture. I met him again sometime later
in the 70s when I was a research registrar and he was gloomy about the poor
career prospects in British cancer medicine.
He fronted some excellent TV discussions on talking to cancer patients
and their relatives, but eventually emigrated to Canada. He became a humanist, a decorated one, hugely
respected in Canada, and his early death following connective tissue disease
was a tragedy.
‘Out of Practice’ does not wear that well, though there are
some chuckles.
‘The medical profession throughout the centuries has always
been held in the highest regard by the medical profession’.
He also recounts the experience of a colleague who was
concerned about the health of a young girl he had admitted as an
emergency. A chest X-ray was
obtained. At a time when to call your consultant
in to a case was almost tantamount to committing professional suicide, he
decided that, nonetheless, a senior opinion was required. He telephoned the boss and reported the chest
X-ray as follows: ‘Bilateral upper zone
opacities, vertically disposed, and somewhat patchy in distribution’.
The boss asked what he thought they were. ‘Query
nature, Sir’, was the reply. ‘Right, I’m coming in’ said the chief.
The boss came in, looked at the X-ray; then looked at the
young girl. ‘Those are her pigtails, you fool’, he said.
Ever after, when asked what he wanted to drink or eat, his
pals asked him, ‘Drink, query
nature?’ Or Pie, query nature?’ He went
into politics, and subsequently did well.
March 1st, 2024
After the Covid years, the first long haul holiday in five
years is a trip to India to watch England play cricket. Exiting the now modernised Indira Gandhi
airport in Delhi along immaculate roads lined with bedding plants, the first
reminder of cricket comes in the shape of a giant illuminated advertisement
arch above the road – Virat Kohli, a beguiling look on his face, brandishing a
particular brand of mobile phone. It
might be a long time before Ben Stokes has a similar presence outside Heathrow
airport. But it serves to remind us how
fixated Indians are on cricket.
Driving in India is much like driving in many overcrowded
cities of the world, though with extra cows.
It is said that a driver in India needs three things: a good horn, good
brakes, and good luck. The snarl-ups
which inevitably occur are mostly good tempered. We are reminded of this soon enough when we
reach Dharamshala, a 250 mile flight north from Delhi. Several of the airports in the north of India
have large hoardings proclaiming ‘The Purple Revolution’. On inspection this turns out to be the
growing of lavender, for oils and perfumes, which is already being successfully
grown in some Indian provinces. Given
the low cost of labour here one fears for the future of the lavender fields of
Provence.
England
Cricket
The excitement of a narrow victory in the first test was
steamrollered by three successive victories for the Indian team. Could England bounce back? The answer was no – but we had a remarkable
experience with delightful English and Indian supporters all around us. The fifth test match was held at one of the
most photogenic cricket grounds in the world, and we wanted to be there to see
it.
The Indian state of Himachal Pradesh was hived off from the
larger state of Punjab in the 1970s.
Dharamshala, a large town nestling under the Dhauladar range of the
Himalayas is the location of the cricket ground, sited at about 1500m of
altitude.
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| Dharamshala Cricket Stadium - Himachal Pradesh |
The area is interesting for a number of reasons. Students of history will recall that China
invaded Tibet in 1950, and eventually the Dalai Lama and many ethnic Tibetans
fled Chinese rule in the late 1950s.
Jawaharlal Nehru agreed to provide Tibetans refuge, initially in
Southern India. Unsurprisingly the
Tibetans found conditions uncomfortably hot and quite unlike their home. Eventually agreement was reached to allow
them to settle in the foothills of the Himalaya, some 600m above Dharamshala,
in McLeod Ganj. Donald Friell McLeod
seems to have been a relatively philanthropic 19th Century Lieutenant
Governor of Punjab (honour of McLeod clan preserved); and Ganj means
neighbourhood (of Persian origin). We
visited the Dalai Lama’s temple in the town and stayed overnight in Norbu
House. The chilly weather and the
absence of heating in most Indian buildings meant that down jackets were
mandatory, even in the restaurant.
A nasty surprise when reorganising my packing. A scorpion among my underpants. Fortunately the cold has made it extremely sluggish and easy to dispose of. Gerald Durrell wrote a book called 'A Zoo in My Luggage' but did not mention scorpions.
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| Stowaway |
Next day a challenging trek up to the plateau of Triund, the
last half in the snow up to 3000m, brought us closer to the wall of the
Himalayas, but soon it was time to move back to Dharamshala and the hotel with
a slight misnomer – the Divine Hima – the brainchild of an eccentric
ex-geologist.
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| Mustard and corn in the Himalayan foothills |
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| Nandi village, above McLeod Ganj |
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| A tough trek to get closer to the Dhauladhar range |
Cricket Day 1
Indians have refined British bureaucracy to a fine art. It is one of the trappings of colonialism
they have been reluctant to abandon. So
the checking process at the cricket ground is prolonged and tedious. There is a separate line for women (2 minutes
wait) and one for men – at least 45 minutes.
We hit on a brilliant idea.
Lindsay puts on her dark glasses and pretends to be blind. Shuffling along clutching my arm, we come to
the ladies’ security metal detecting cubicle together. The ruse works. We’re in!
Indians do get tired of their bureaucracy however, and the next day and
the next there is no queue for either men or women. Just a casual wave of the metal detector
wand. The traffic policemen who waved us
away on a huge detour around the north of the ground on Day 1 are also nowhere
to be seen. Our driver is able to drop
us off very close to the ground. Around
the ground, apart from the very visible cadre of the ‘Barmy Army’ there are an
estimated 5000 England cricket supporters.
England win the toss and bat first. They are all out for just over 200. Idiots.
India start to bat and immediately the game looks easy. Their new rather special opening batsman, 22-year-old
Jaiswal, hits Bashir for three successive sixes but is out for an entertaining
57.
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| The AFCB kit was a good ice-breaker and something for the cameras to dwell on when England's cricket was too excruciating |
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| Plenty of England support |
Cricket Day 2
The following morning, the Dhauladar range is crystal clear
in brilliant sunlight, and Shubman Gill and Rohit Sharma take the game away
from England. India do not need to bat
again…
Cricket Day 3
Highlights of the match included Stokes bowling Rohit with
his first delivery after nearly a year, and Jimmy Anderson’s 700th
test wicket. Two lovely little Indian
boys, with their mum, come and sit near us.
They are carrying a placard – ‘The Devil wanted to play cricket. So Jadeja was born’. They are in raptures when one of their heroes
waves at them.
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| Our Indian friends |
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| Jimmy Anderson's 700th Test wicket |
We had signed up for the Barmy Army (group of die-hard
England supporters for readers in the U.S.) party on the night before the test
match. 350 of them have come on the
tour. Special guest is Graeme Swann, who
is malevolently entertaining as a raconteur.
The food is excellent, and as well as ‘Swanny’ I get to talk to Simon
Finch, the Barmy Army’s trumpeter, who leads them in all their songs. ‘Finchy’ is happiest when playing for the
Barmies, but he has headlined Glastonbury, played for Blur, Liam Gallagher, and
Beyoncé – as well
as many jazz and classical gigs. The
evening ends with all of the Barmy songs; Finchy leading us off. Jerusalem is the warmup. Then all of the tunes which accompany each
England player – to various well known airs.
The composer of the ‘Joe Root’ song is invited onto the stage. No shrinking violet he, preceded by a
substantial stomach in a Barmy Army 2024 tour shirt. He struts to the stage and
proudly sings his lyrics to the tune of ‘Annie’s Song’.
Some of the songs are better than others – fitting neat
lyrics into well-known hits, e.g. ‘Here’s to you, Ollie Robinson’. Others lack inspiration. A clever touch, which I hadn’t appreciated
before: an England batsman is given out LBW.
He appeals. Turns out there is an
inside edge onto the pad and the decision is reversed! Cue for Finchy to play the main theme from
‘The Great Escape’.
It is amazing how enjoyable two and a half days of just
sitting watching cricket is, and how quickly the time passes.
Thereafter a long drive to Dalhousie, a hill station at about
2000m. We stay in a heritage hotel. This means it was built for a British
officer’s family in 1939 and hasn’t really been modified since. It is very cold. Fine views of the Pir Panjal range of the
Himalayas – a spur which extends all the way to Kashmir.
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| Chilly in Dalhousie. The Pir Panjal Himalaya behind |
Dalhousie is a little underwhelming. The usual street markets. Our visit to Kajjiar meadows (aka Little
Switzerland) is slowed by excited Indians getting out of their cars and photographing
themselves in the snow (at about 2500m).
Kajjiar meadows features picnicking, horse rides, paragliding (from the
hillsides above), and zorbing. It is not
necessary to leave Dorset for this.
But a subsequent highlight is Amritsar, the Holy Grail (an inappropriate
metaphor) of Sikhism. The Golden Temple
is a truly magnificent sight, especially at night. The name Amritsar (Pool of Nectar) dates from
a miraculous supposed cure of leprosy several hundred years ago. Many Sikhs choose to bathe in it, and the
whole atmosphere is one of pilgrimage and peace. A visit to the amazing kitchens where up to
100,000 meals a day are prepared for pilgrims is a must. This is staffed entirely by volunteers.
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| Amritsar's Golden Temple. Spectacular at night. |
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| A dip in the 'Pool of Nectar' is a must for this charming 78 year old Sikh |
A different experience is the now standard visit for tourists
to the closing of the frontier ceremony just a few miles to the west of the
city at the Attari-Wagah border with Pakistan.
Lahore is just a few miles further on.
This display of mock warrior marching and mimed fighting is
either important, symbolic, or pathetic, depending on your point of view. The bizarre march steps remind one of the
Monty Python Ministry of Silly Walks…
A sobering note is set by the visit next morning to the
Jallianwala Bargh (Jallianwala Garden) where the infamous massacre of 1919 took
place on the orders of General Dyer (subsequently exonerated from
wrongdoing). Unarmed peaceful protesters
were fired on by the British Army. The
justification for intervention was the passage (in London) of the Rowlatt Acts,
designed to forestall protests against British rule in India. Subsequent investigation revealed that 1650
live rounds were fired in around ten minutes.
The number killed is unknown, but possibly more than a thousand. Michael O’Dwyer, Lieutenant-Governor of
Punjab, who endorsed the military action, left India and returned to
England. Remarkably, Udham Singh, a young
man who survived the massacre, eventually came to Britain, and in March 1940,
while O’Dwyer was speaking at Caxton Hall, he shot and killed him. A 21-year trail of revenge. The exhibits in the small pavilions around
the gardens are excellent. One can hear
an actor’s recitation of the words Dyer spoke at the Hunter Commission of
enquiry into the massacre. It is the voice of uncomprehending English superiority of the colonial era. Nonetheless, the episode haunted Dyer for the rest of his life. A reported quotation before he died, only eight years later, was: "
The Partition Museum is also sobering. Those who wish can of course read about the
arbitrary division of the country, creating modern Pakistan and modern
India. Sir Cyril Radcliffe, a lawyer who
had never been in India, was tasked with determining the line of partition in
just five weeks. It is said that part of
this strategy was devised by Lord Mountbatten to avert blame for his hasty
decision to proceed with the division of India and Pakistan, which took place
on the 14th and 15th of August, 1947.
The acronym, ‘PAKSTAN’ was coined in 1933 in Cambridge by law student Rahmat Ali, and signifies Punjab, Afghania, Kashmir, and Sind, together with BaluchiStan. It is a sad indictment of the vicious results of the partition that Sind, for example, initially with a substantial Hindu population, now has almost none left living in it and is almost entirely Muslim. This represents a fraction of the 18 million people who were thought to be displaced following the drawing of the line. Curiously, Rahmat Ali returned to Pakistan in 1948 but was expelled by the Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan. He died destitute in Cambridge in 1951. His funeral expenses were paid by Emmanuel College.
In
response to Muslim policies, the BJP (main ruling party of India) pursues, under its prime
minister, Narendra Modi, a policy called ‘Hindutva’ – a Hinduisation of modern
India.
The previously contentious province of Kashmir is our final
stop. Flying up to Srinagar the tension
is increased and bureaucracy and evidence of security forces is all around. But tourism here is now thriving, based very
much around Srinagar’s famous Dal Lake, ‘The Jewel in the Crown’. The ‘feel’ in Srinagar (primarily Muslim
population) feels more like Kabul and Afghanistan than elsewhere in India. The architecture also borrows from
Tibet. Sufism is quite a strong religion
here too.
We are a little too early for full springtime flowering
(blame the cricket timetable for this) but it is a fine experience and end to
the India visit.
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| Himalayan bulbul, Kashmir |
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| Srinagar. Laundrymen washing pashminas in the river. Note gigantic washing line. |
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| Colonial relics of buildings by the river, Srinagar |
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| Bungalow retreat at Qayaam Gah. A must if you visit Srinagar. |
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| Dal lake, Kashmir |
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| Qayaam Gah |
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| Dal lake at sunset from Qayaam Gah |
March 23, 2024
Cold northwesterly wind.
Bright sunshine but cold showers including hailstorms. Glancing out to sea at about 9.15am the
welcome sight of the MS Barfleur (Brittany Ferries) steaming her way out towards
Cherbourg. Spring is here.
In Lilliput a large boat is trailed around the corner towards
Salterns boatyard. A jogger with that
fixed look of internalised concentration suggesting focus on a Strava PB
narrowly misses me on the pavement and nearly runs into a postbox. A bit like ski slalom.
April 15th
Easter has come and gone and apart from one or two warm days
(only because of storms sweeping in from the southwest) the weather remains
resolutely poor. I have been revising my
pandemic diary writings, and you may recall that the weather at lockdown in
March of 2020 was wonderful and continued so for a long time.
May 5th, 2024
A period of writer’s block has ensued. It is hard to write against a backdrop of war
in Ukraine, war in the Middle East, and crazy and reprehensible politics on
every side. Bertrand Russell said: ‘War
does not determine who is right, only who is left’.
One incident can trigger distant memories. We were travelling around the roads to the
south of Manchester, mundanely behind a cement lorry. Suddenly an ambulance shrieked up behind and
the cement lorry pulled abruptly into the leftmost space it could find. As it did so, its cement container made
vigorous contact with a huge overhanging flowering cherry tree. A wonderful rain of pink blossom filled the
air as we whirled through it. This
triggered what I think of as ‘The Butterfly Experience’.
When I went to Duke University in 1981, my research
supervisor in cardiology, like most of the faculty, was a driven man. The best way of getting to discuss one’s
research with him was to ask to join him on one of his jogging sessions – usually
about 7 to 8 Km. To be able to speak as we ran required physical fitness. One Saturday
morning, as we jogged through Duke Forest, a vast area to the west of the
campus, discussing the effect of beta-blockers on exercise training, we came to
a clearing in the woods where a little stream ran through. By the side of the trail, seemingly attached
to the mud, were a multitude of butterflies.
As we ran down to the little bridge they all took off
simultaneously. The air was filled with
a white whirling mass of butterfly wings.
I have never forgotten this miracle.
The butterfly behaviour is called ‘puddling’. They are trying to absorb salt and other
minerals from the damp soil.
After Manchester, there is a brief stay in the Peak District
for walks.
But sadly, on the way home, we receive a message that one of
our closest friends has died. This comes
hard on the heels of other friends.
There is little else I can write of this.
So, I will interpose a review of our latest book club
discussion topic – Joseph Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’. It was interesting that most of the club did
not rate this book very highly, despite its undoubted fame, or should that be
notoriety?
Here goes:
Heart of
Darkness
‘There are
only two plots: A Man Goes on a Journey; or A Stranger Comes into Town’. (John Gardner, U.S., attrib.)
I have read
this three times, one of which was for my second level degree course at the OU
in creative writing. This was mainly
studying style and observation.
F.R. Leavis
wrote, ‘Conrad is the greatest novelist writing in English, or indeed in any
other language.’ It is a good question
to consider whether those such as Conrad and Nabokov are the finest writers in
the language because it was not their first language. A discussion for another day.
Nostromo is
reckoned by many to be his finest novel.
I have not read it but I have read the short stories such as ‘Typhoon’
and ‘The Nigger of the Narcissus’. I
have lost my copy of this, but I recollect that the ‘Nigger’ was portrayed as a
malingerer until the crew realised he was dying of TB, and was then treated with
great empathy (important) by most of the crew with one exception. The portrayal of the sea in these two short
stories/novellas is unparalleled.
Note that
there are no women in these stories – it is all about men, and Heart of
Darkness has little other than the influential aunt and the black native woman
at the end. The two knitters in the
Belgian office are thought by some to be the Fates, who you will remember wove
the rope of life.
My favourite
part of Heart of Darkness (and the most brilliant writing) is exactly that of
Typhoon and TNON – the sea; and encompasses only the first few pages of the
book. The description of the yawl, the
other boats, and the Thames estuary as the crew wait for the tide to turn is
fantastic. After the first few pages,
and the voyage out to Africa, it becomes more problematic and I enjoy it less.
To many
critics, this is supposed to be Conrad exposing the horror and wanton rapine of
the Congo under Belgian rule by Leopold II.
But in many respects, he does not portray the indigenous population
sympathetically. The steersman of the
vessel, for example, is portrayed as ‘thick’ and not bright enough to avoid
being stabbed with a spear. It is true
however that he characterises the colonial agents and ‘The Pilgrims’ in a very
unsympathetic light. His description of
the unfortunates of the Chain Gang is very powerful, and surely argues in his
favour.
The most
damning of the accounts of the book is by Chinua Achebe, in his paper ‘An Image
of Africa: Racism in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness’, which I confess I have not
read.
But, also in favour of Conrad, are Marlow’s words, right at the beginning of his tale:
‘The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it
away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than
ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much.’
Others
disagree and say that Conrad and Sir Roger Casement, with whom he shared a room
in the Congo – (Casement’s report to the British Government exposed the
atrocities of Belgian rule) – thought that British Colonialism as opposed to
Belgian Colonialism was ‘OK’. But that
is just an assertion by the anti-Conrad brigade and is not explicitly mentioned
by Conrad.
So
– this book will forever be on school and university reading lists – it has
spawned many imitators or similar parables, books, films and PhDs, but I find
it basically unsatisfactory in many respects and would give it 6. If one studied only the sea descriptions I
would give it 8 or 9. It is a short book that
everybody should read because sooner or later you will come across it!
Back in Evening Hill – will summer ever come? Spring is surely done with – it didn’t really
exist – and we have not had any consistent warm weather.
I was in Rye last weekend, and visited Henry James’ house. Everywhere in Rye is worth a visit.
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| Henry James' house. 'Lamb House', in Rye. the garden is of surprising size. |
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| The beautiful early flowering rose on the wall is 'Rosa Bankeseia Lutea'. |
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| Clematis climbing through lilac |
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| Rye Windmill from the church tower |
But amongst the political goings on, the corruption, the machinations, the bizarre, there was one item that made me laugh out loud recently.
Liz Truss, whom you may remember, was briefly Prime Minister, has been appearing at every media opportunity recently. On every occasion she has shamelessly plugged her book, ‘Ten Years to save the West’, which many have described as ‘deranged’. Private Eye have predictably had a field day with this. Following a recent BBC interview, the ‘Eye’ headline is: TRUSS BBC INTERVIEW ‘EXCRUCIATING’ SAYS PRINCE ANDREW.
May 4th is usually designated 'Star Wars Day' (May the Fourth be With You), but some in the USA like to designate it 'Dave Brubeck Day'. (It should be straightforward to work out why. Similar to 'Pi Day' which is 3/14).
I cannot close with such trivia, so I will sign off with the words of Henry James. For those of you, as I, who have suffered from shingles, it is surely the best description of the disease ever. It is a typed letter, and the reason for its being typed will become clear. It is dated October 24th, 1912, and on headed paper, 'Lamb House, Rye, Sussex'.
Dear Mrs Ford
Forgive my resorting (to thank you for yours this morning received) to this brutal and legible mechanism; reduced to it as I am by having been this month sore stricken and unfit for any manner of sitting up and driving my pen - like a gentleman and a scholar! I am but just beginning to emerge from a violent and interminable attack of the awful ailment known as "Shingles"; though not known to you, in your proper person, I earnestly hope. It has been truly a devilish visitation - the pain, the persistence, the recurrence, the general villainy of it, transcending at last my powers of expression, now that I am exhausted and depleted with groaning and cursing. I may be really a little better, but have thought that before and have had to tumble, shrieking, back into bed. However, I am, for the day, hoping for the best. But it has all left me much battered and grievously compromised, and very helpless as yet for making engagements or beckoning on excursions and revels. You on your side will have had, really, much anxiety and care - so that we have both been in eclipse; though you, as evidently, shine out more lustrous than I can yet at all pretend to. I am still a more sputtering farthing candle - likely to require more or less snuffing yet. If you have begun again to range on your old great lines won't you come over and have tea with me one of these afternoons, only letting me kindly know which it may be? I am on the telephone now - 51, Rye, if you please - and am quite proud and heartened up at being able to be conversed with. Converse, converse - - though I fear I may seem but to mock at you when, glancing back at your letter, I find in the left-hand corner of your paper beautiful provision, apparently, for everything but conversation. Forgive me then, if this be true, for seeming to flaunt at you my superior power of sound. I've just had the telephone put in, and can tell you all about it and just what endless months it takes, over the teapot. The thing is to let me know then, please, when to put on the kettle. We shall in that case be able to arrange here, by your kind indulgence, for further developments. I do want so awfully to get well first -- I've been trying to so desperately long. My blessing on Mr. Francis and all your house. Yours most faithfully
