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’.
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| 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service is being withdrawn later this year.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.
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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:
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| The French weather girl tells me what my riding day is going to be like |
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| A peaceful scene in Le Vast, Val de Saire |
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| Harbour scene, Barfleur, Manche. |
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| U.S. infantry memorial, Utah Beach |
And finally some sunset scenes to celebrate returning to Poole on the M.V. Barfleur:
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| Brownsea lagoon and the Wych Channel |
Now, as I write, July 14th, 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 20th
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 9th 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.
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| 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)
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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.
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(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 12th, 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.
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| An unusually crowded Evening Hill |
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| 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 17th
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 1st.
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:
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| 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. |
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| 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:
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| Crossing into Finistere |
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| Ile Vierge - the tallest stone lighthouse in the world |
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| Sunset, Landeda |
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| Artichoke heart in crust with local sardine and pancetta crisp |
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| 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.
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| Swimming at the September equinox, Sandbanks |
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