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2014

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All earthly things above – 2

October 18, 2014 in Life as we know it | Permalink

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidThat great national favourite amongst English hymns – Sir Cecil Spring Rice and Gustav Holst’s “I Vow to Thee my Country” – is apparently no less popular at funerals than it is at weddings, having been intoned during the solemnities for no lesser luminaries than Winston Churchill, Princess Diana and – no surprise – Margaret Thatcher.

The hymn itself is – however – the subject of considerable controversy.

These attacks emanate from more than one quarter. There are those to the left of the political spectrum who are perturbed by the jingoistic overtones of the piece – the thinking being perhaps that such patriotic sentiments are but a short step from something considerably more akin to imperialism.

This nationalistic tenor also seems particularly offensive to some members of the Anglican congregation who perhaps deem it impious to make such vows to earthly powers rather than to god. Some amongst this ecumenical number further point to the fact that the ‘hymn’ actually makes no reference to god at all. In 2004 the Anglican Bishop of Hulme called for the canticle to be banned as being heretical – a view that I find – frankly – itself more hysterical!

In an article in the Church Times in 2013 the Reverend Gordon Giles – Anglican vicar of St Mary Magdalene’s Church in Enfield in the UK – suggested that Spring Rice’s poem should be re-written to make it more acceptable. His doctrinally ‘correct’ version replaces – for example – the original’s opening couplet:

I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love

…with this – er – improved variant:

I vow to thee, my country, the service of my love,
 in full and free devotion, all lesser claims above

Oh dear!

What these strangely earth-bound zealots seem to have missed is that what Spring Rice originally wrote was a poem! To insist upon a literal interpretation is to completely misunderstand the purpose and meaning of art. Ambiguity is essential – the pursuant intention being that each of us should discover our own meaning in the work.

This truism is made manifest by the variety of views that are to be found on the InterWebNet. The first stanza of the hymn may be read as a peon to militaristic imperialism, but just as readily as a lament for the fallen of the Great War. Those with an axe to grind might detect in the second verse either proof positive that ‘another country‘ – ‘most great to them that know‘ refers to the kingdom of god, or conversely evidence that the poem is nothing more than a puff of secular doggerel – in decidedly dubious taste.

I would like to proffer another interpretation…

Unlike that other great patriotic chorale – “Jerusalem” – “I Vow to Thee my Country” actually makes no explicit reference to England or to Britain at all. If the ‘other country’ of the second stanza can be taken as a metaphor for heaven, then why should the ‘country’ of the first verse be interpreted literally? It could – of course – refer to any country, but taking it further – it might not refer to a country at all. The metaphor could stand for a race – a community – a faith – an ideology…

What this first verse surely alludes to is the notion of tying one’s colours to the mast – to making the ultimate sacrifice for something – anything – that one believes in.

The second verse then adds to this – with a glance back over its shoulder to regard again the lessons of history – a terrible warning of the costs of misguided beliefs – be they patriotic, spiritual or ideological. Spring Rice must have been acutely aware when he re-wrote his original verse in 1918 of the paradoxical nature of the war that was shortly to end – caught between the fervour of patriotic support for his country and the knowledge that the powers of Europe had sleep-walked senselessly into an unforgivable and avoidable calamity that had resulted in the tragic and pointless loss of a generation of young men.

In this centennial year of the start of the Great War it is perhaps no surprise that I was overcome by emotion the other day in St Paul’s Cathedral, when attempting to sing this most moving of compositions. This is – after all – what good art does.

And if you should doubt that Spring Rice’s verse and Holst’s powerful melody – accidental partners though they may be – do in fact represent the highest forms of their respective crafts, then you need only look at the suggestions that others have made to ‘correct’ what they see as the hymn’s shortcomings.

If you have no understanding of the power of poetry this might not be a bad place to start.

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All earthly things above – 1

October 13, 2014 in Life as we know it | Permalink

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidThe School’s annual outing to St Paul’s Cathedral to celebrate its foundation took place late last week. I was – as ever – an eager participant in this expedition.

My pleasure at being able to re-visit what has become such a significant symbol in my own personal mythology (a grateful prayer of thanks was once again offered on the spot directly under the centre of the dome) is always augmented by the slightly perverse delight that I take from the absurdity of transporting the entire population of two schools (our sister school joins us for the day) across the breadth of London in a fleet of coaches for a fifty minute ceremony. The logistics are a nightmare and the journey takes at least three times as long as the service itself.

Apparently in days of yore the pupils were simply instructed to make their own way to the cathedral – being given no more than a time to be outside the west door and a strict admonition not to be late. I find it rather sad that such a practical course is – in these health and safety obsessed times – no longer viable.

The form that the service itself takes barely varies from year to year. Having in my pre-pubescent existence played the part of the boy chorister, I do still enjoy the chance to belt out some of the hymns with which I fell in love and which were largely responsible for my later and lasting involvement with music.

One such much-loved chorale is the setting of Sir Cecil Spring Rice’s 1908 poem – “I Vow to Thee my Country” – to the music of Gustav Holst – specifically to an extract from his “Jupiter” movement from “The Planets” suite. This stirring hymn makes frequent appearance at our Founder’s Day ceremonies largely because Holst was for an extended period employed as the Musical Director at our sister school.

Spring Rice’s poem – written whilst he was serving at the British embassy in Stockholm and originally entitled “Urbs Dei” (“City of God”) – was at first quite unlike the version that we know today. In 1912 Spring Rice was appointed Ambassador to the United States of America and in that role played an instrumental part in persuading the US to abandon its neutrality in the Great War. Shortly before returning to the UK in January 1918, Spring Rice re-wrote and renamed the poem, significantly altering the first verse to reflect the huge losses suffered by British soldiers during the intervening years. What had been the first verse morphed to become a second verse that is now widely disregarded.

In 1921 Holst was commissioned to set the poem to music. He was, at the time, extremely busy and was relieved to discover that – with only minor modification – the grand theme from “Jupiter” fitted the lyric well enough. Upon such small ‘accidents’ great moments of genius do often seem to hang.

Finding myself in harmony with a two thousand voice impromptu choir for  “I Vow to Thee my Country” in the sublime setting of St Paul’s Cathedral last week proved such an unexpectedly emotional experience that I found myself struggling to give voice at all to the second verse. I was sufficiently moved that I find I must needs say more on the subject…

…but that can wait for a second post…

 

 

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Bath

October 10, 2014 in Life in England | Permalink

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidI do not intend that I should spend the next nine months composing a series of valedictory posts for this blog prior to our departure for Canada – though it is fairly inevitable that there will be some such. In the case of a Bath – however – I feel that I must!

For the Kickass Canada Girl and I Bath has long been – as it has for so many others before us – a place to which to run away for a break when the rest of life becomes just too much to bear. I have posted before concerning these escapes on more than one occasion – which homilies may be found here and here.

We have been in Bath at many times of the year, but perhaps our favourites have been those visits that have taken place in the spring – to break the long hibernation of winter – and in the autumn – to celebrate the Girl’s birthday.

Amongst the many attractions that Bath has to offer may be numbered:

  • the classic beauty of the Georgian architecture
  • the abundance of decent restaurants
  • the plethora of stylish hotels and guest houses
  • the spa(s)
  • first class rugby played in an unparalleled setting
  • the highly acceptable (to the Girl – which is a tough test!) array of retail outlets

As the saying goes –  what’s not to like?

Our visit of last weekend followed the form – a well established and much-loved routine. Splendid repasts were partaken of – excellent wines were imbibed – the corpus inperfectus was subjected to steam, dry heat, water jets and vigorous massage – retail therapy was undergone and rugby football was enthusiastically followed. A good time was had by all and the Girl’s birthday was well and truly celebrated!

 

On the subject of rugby… I had mentioned in my previous post that we would be present on the Friday at the top of the table clash between Bath and Saracens. The latter only narrowly lost out in several competitions last year – finishing as runners-up both in the Premiership and in the Heineken Cup. Their defence is well organised and impenetrable – their attack is remorseless if somewhat unimaginative. Coming into the match last Friday they had not yet been beaten this season.

Bath play a much more adventurous style of rugby, relying on scintillating line breaks and penetrative running. Those – such as I – who love the fluid game, support the club for just this reason. They have in past seasons suffered when their pack have been ground down by stronger opposition, and when as a result they have not had an adequate supply of good ball with which to operate. Over the last few seasons – however – things have been moving in the right direction and they now seem to have a much better balance between an aggressive and fearless pack and a truly exciting group of backs.

Cutting a long story short – last Friday – in front of an excited and highly partisan crowd – Bath overwhelmed the Saracens by 22 points to 11 to record a famous and excellent victory, the first against them in eight attempts. It was a wonderful night to be at the Rec and capped the weekend perfectly.

We are certain – of course – to re-visit Bath when we come back to the UK from Canada – but I know that we will also really miss these splendid retreats.

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A slow perversion…

October 7, 2014 in Life in England | Permalink

ballot-box-32384_640“Experience hath shewn, that even under the best forms of government those entrusted with power have, in time, and by slow operations, perverted it into tyranny.”

Thomas Jefferson

The final UK party conference season of the current parliamentary term draws creakily to close with the Liberal Democrats somewhat bravely gathered in Glasgow. The extravasate of the drab convocations that we have had thus far to endure has left us – frankly – numb with disbelief at the grim prospect of the eight months of campaigning that will now follow – in the run-up to the election next May.

The recent referendum on Scottish independence – along with the concomitant hullabaloo south of the border – has provided us with several excellent examples – in both positive and negative veins – of exactly what is wrong with the current political process.

My previous post on the referendum provided the positive illustration. It is quite clear that the splendid and unprecedented turnout on that occasion was the result – not of the frankly ludicrous posturings of the political parties – but of the Scots recognising that, for once, they actually had a say in something that mattered – a chance that they took with both hands.

The flipside side of the coin was – true to form – all too clearly demonstrated by the parties at Westminster. Having until this point remained nervously aloof from the proceedings they were finally galvanised by the single, erroneous poll a week or so before the event that suggested against all the odds that the ‘Yes’ campaign might actually triumph. The panicky political denizens of the capital at once scrambled to Euston station, took to Virgin Trains and headed north.

Once there the three main parties – Tories, New(ish) Labour and the Lib Dems – cobbled together a shaky agreement to dangle before the Scottish people an orange(ish) vegetable in the shape of an extension to the devolved power that they already had – in return for their remaining in the Union. Thus far all entirely predictable – the only surprise being that the consensus held just about for long enough for the poll to actually take place.

What happened next was – sadly – just as predictable. Scarcely had the Scots taken the bribe accepted this generous offer than Tory leader David Cameron scurried from the door of 10 Downing Street to issue this breathless edict. The government would – he insisted – most certainly honour its pledge to the Scots, but in the interests of fairness it would at the same time legislate for a devolution of powers to the poor downtrodden English – which latter must be effected concurrent with the former!

Was this mayhap a noble gesture – the righting of some ancient wrong – the far-sighted act of a great statesman?? Not a chance! It was a piece of shameless, shabby political maneuvering!!

Cameron knows all too well that this belated resolution of the West Lothian question would deprive Labour of its healthy rump of 41 Scottish MPs – and thus of any real chance of a future Commons majority. He further knows that Labour therefore must needs oppose the issue, and that when the Devo-Max process inevitably breaks down as a result he will be able to place the blame on them for the resultant broken promises to the Scots. This has nothing to do with the desires of the English for self-determination. It has everything to do with Cameron and Osborne’s desire to fatally wound the Labour party.

“So what” – I hear you say? “That’s just politics. If you can’t stand the heat…”

“Well” – say I – “that’s just not good enough!”

Had Cameron announced his intention before the referendum – instead of after the count – not only would there have most likely been no agreement to ‘save’ the Union at all, but also a fair chance that the Scots – seeing which way the wind was blowing – would have modified their thinking and given Cameron and Co the kicking at the poll that they so richly deserve!

And these are the men that want us to entrust them with our precious votes?!

Don’t get me wrong – I have no more truck with the shameless hucksters from any of the other parties either – that dare to perch so precariously on the shoulders of giants – those worthy statesmen of yore who so richly decorate the tapestry of the history of this land. It comes as no surprise that the impossibly patient inhabitants of these fair isles now clearly regard politicians as ranking even lower on the scale of pond-life than do tabloid journalists! How many now must be wishing fervently for a ‘None of the above‘ option on the ballot paper?

 

I would like to think that our forth-coming emigration to Canada will lead to our escaping into clearer air. Sadly – everything I read about Canadian politics suggests that things are just about as bad there as they are in the UK.

Sigh!

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Breathe deep

October 4, 2014 in Life as we know it | Permalink

BreathAnd when I breathed, my breath was lightning.

Black Elk

Amazing! Here I am in my seventh decade and I am still discovering absolute fundamentals about the business of living that I would have expected to have learned long, long ago.

The Kickass Canada Girl and I have colds. Fairly minor colds it must be said – and they didn’t disturb our trip to Bath (of which more anon!) so we mustn’t complain. The first cold of the season is – however – always somehow more annoying than any other – particularly if the sun is still shining – which it has been…

My cold came out last week and I had a couple of uncomfortable days at work as a result. At lunchtime on one of those days I was browsing stuffily on the InterWebNet trying to discover if there was any truth in the dictum that one should feed a cold – in other words, wondering if I should force myself to have some lunch. The advice I uncovered – that one should eat if one were hungry – was not exactly earth-shattering, nor particularly helpful.

I did – however – discover from one of the articles consulted something else entirely – which stunning piece of advice was simply to breath deeply!

Now – I expect that all of you already know this, but if that’s the case then how come no-one has mentioned it to me before?

The premise is this: when you have a cold and your nose is blocked and your throat is sore, then you are also most likely to have a thick head and to feel all-round miserable as a result. The feeling miserable actually inhibits recovery, since the resultant dejected slump does nothing to haste its progress.

The thick head is caused by a lack of oxygen to the brain, which is in turn the result of the shallow and ragged breathing by means of which one tends to try to mitigate the discomfort in nostrils and throat. The answer – stunningly – is to make an effort to breathe more deeply and, in particular, to do so outside in the fresh air. After a short course of such treatment – the argument goes – your head will clear, you will feel considerably better, and the rest of your body will more rapidly follow suit.

Well – I tried it – and you know what? It worked – at least, it did for me!

Now – how many colds have I had over the last sixty years for which this simple trick might have helped?

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Pirouette and flourish

September 30, 2014 in Life as we know it | Permalink

Image by Andy Dawson Reid“I was pirouette and flourish,
I was filigree and flame.
How could I count my blessings
when I didn’t know their names?”

Rita Dove – ‘On the Bus With Rosa Parks’

We who are the fortunate ones should by now know most intimately the names of our blessings and thus meet no such challenges in the area of numeracy. Our blessings are counted daily and grateful thanks are offered to our gods – whatever form they may take.

This week brings yet another such benediction. We have to be at work for only three of its working days!

Yippee!

On Thursday it is the Kickass Canada Girl’s birthday and – as is our wont – we will be celebrating in some style. We escape in the morning to that favourite haunt of ours – the lovely Georgian city of Bath. Owing to a turn of outrageously good fortune I am in grateful possession of a gift voucher for the night at an extremely prestigious spa hotel, to which we will repair forthwith. Spa treatments for the Girl and extended exposure to sauna and steam rooms for me will be followed by a splendid repast at the hotel’s Michelin-starred eatery – and all as a result of a favour that I did for someone. Truly what goes around comes around.

Sadly we could not afford to extend our stay at this pleasure dome to a second night, and Friday thus finds us downgrading to a rather more humble hostelry. We should not complain though, as this one also has a pretty decent restaurant. We will not be able to tarry in any case as we must make our way over to the Recreation Ground – being lucky possessors of tickets for the Bath/Saracens game on the Friday evening. Those who follow such things will know that the top of the table in this year’s rugby premiership is currently fairly tight, and that as a result this particular clash carries great import.

Saturday will – the Girl assures me – be given over to shopping. There is the small matter of a birthday gift to be purchased, in the form – most likely – of a new outfit. I wouldn’t want to give too much away – however – so we will have to see what transpires.

We are very aware that we are extremely lucky souls and we are filled with gratitude for all of the wonderful gifts that are bestowed upon us. It behoves us not to take these things for granted – and we will do our darnedest so not to do.

Blessings, blessings, blessings…

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Bitter – sweet

September 26, 2014 in Moving to Canada | Permalink

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidBitter:

Some things are just very sad…

I have mentioned in these dispatches on numerous occasions this particular of the lovely ‘ladies’ by which my life has been blessed. I refer, of course, to Pearl – my beloved Mercedes 300SL – which may be observed here posing decorously on the Cote D’Azur a couple of years back.

No point in beating about the bush. This is a sad occasion. She and I have finally had to go our separate ways.

I have owned the car for more than a decade. In that time we have traveled extensively together. We have toured on the continent. We have driven through the street of Paris and London on summer nights with the top down. We have posed together outside stately homes. She bore the Kickass Canada Girl and I up to the English Lake District on our first major adventure together. She has been an utterly constant and reliable companion.

I always knew that we could not take the SL to Canada, and that she would have to be sold. It was just a question of timing. In the end – because we don’t know how the early part of next year will pan out – I decided that I should try to sell her this autumn. An advert was placed – there was much interest and she went very quickly. I can’t say I am surprised…

Just sad…

Pearl has gone to a firm that restores and deals in classic cars. She will there receive much needed care and attention before finding her way to a new and grateful owner.

Sweet:

The only possible way to consider this turn of events without getting depressed about it is to tell myself that such things represent forward movement towards our ultimate goal – our dream of retiring to BC. The monies realized will be put towards those ‘toys’ without which it seems not possible to truly enjoy the Canadian outdoor experience – the 4×4 – the trailer – the boat…

When other items on the programme are dragging their heels and taking their sweet time it is good to get a sense of things actually being accomplished – of progress being made – and we are grateful for that.

I am also very glad that the Merc will go to a good home.

You might – of course – be feeling slightly nauseous by this point – wondering how such a fuss can be made about an expensive and out-dated mode of transport. Well – if you get it – good for you – and if you don’t – then I guess you don’t… Personally I would much rather experience such enthusiasms and emotions (even should the object of them be inanimate) than not do so.

But that’s just me…

 

DSCF0501

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Bake on

September 22, 2014 in Life as we know it | Permalink

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidThose souls who reside in the United Kingdom and who still consume the products of the organisations both private and public that engage – for better or worse – in the televisual arts, will have been unable to avoid over the last year or so the nationwide enthusiasm for the category of comestible cookery that utilises prolonged dry heat by convection rather than by radiation… known more commonly as baking!

I refer – of course – to the ‘Great British Bake Off’.

The Kickass Canada Girl is a fan. I don’t mind it being on in the background. The recent ructions on the show – which need not detain us here – have done little to impinge on its overall veneer of gentle British whimsy which has proved for many a welcome corrective to the endless diet of so-called ‘reality’ shows.

Naturally, our broadcasting and other media corporations – never known to go easy on an expiring equine – have parachuted aboard the passing bandwagon and all things bakery related have now been hailed as the best thing since – er – sliced bread!

Thus is was that I found myself on a recent Saturday morning listening to one of those Radio 4 (a sort of talk radio, for north American readers) programmes that is a miscellanea of items comprising in the main interviews with interestingly ‘normal’ people (sometimes in extraordinary circumstances but just as frequently not so) only to discover that this particular episode had a ‘baking’ theme.

One interviewee in particular caught my ear. Louise Johncox – a journalist who writes for publications such as The Times, The Sunday Times, The Daily Telegraph and The Guardian – comes from a long line of bakers and confectioners. Her father ran a tea shop for more than forty years in the Home Counties and she grew up surrounded by the smells and tastes of fresh-baked bread, cakes and patisserie.

The object of Mrs Johncox’s appearance on the radio was to promote a book that she has recently had published. The Baker’s Daughter is a charming cross between a memoir and a recipe book. Mrs Johncox speaks well and passionately on the subject and has a clear love of all things related to the baker’s art.

Given my ambivalence on the subject you might be surprised that I am expending precious words on it. Well – as you might have guessed by now – there is a hook. Mrs Johncox’s father’s tea shop – Peter’s, Weybridge Ltd – was located in the small Surrey town in which I grew up.

Peter Johncox and his wife Frankie moved to Weybridge in the spring of 1960 – in the same year as did my parents! I was six at the time and I remember this delightful emporium existing virtually unchanged throughout my adolescent years. Peter’s was famous amongst other things for its Welsh Rarebit which I swear – no doubt erroneously – that I can still remember. The recipe for this treat is – fortunately – included in the book. The tea shop stayed open until after the turn of the millennium, by which point Peter Johncox had become too old and infirm to continue its management.

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidWhat really took me by surprise – as I listened to Mrs Johncox’s reminiscences on the radio – was just how teary I found myself all of a sudden. My mother never drove a car and thus could for many years be seen trundling her shopping bag on wheels the mile or so from our house down to the centre of town to do the shopping. Once all had been crossed from her list she would repair to Peter’s for a much need cup of tea and – mayhap – a sweet treat – as a means of recharging the batteries for the fully laden return trip up the hill!

My mother died in 2010 – a mere two years before Peter Johncox. Peter’s – as with so many other such familiars – is long gone, and I rarely now find myself with a reason to visit Weybridge.

The book is a delight – both as a culinary treat and as a reminiscence of times past. I thoroughly recommend it.

 

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Brave hearts

September 19, 2014 in Life in England | Permalink

Photo by W. L. Tarbert on Wikimedia CommonsI have – to this point – made no comment on this blog or anywhere else regarding the recent campaign which culminated in yesterday’s referendum on Scottish independence.

I am a Scot by (slightly remote) ancestry. Though I have never lived in Scotland I know parts of the country pretty well. I was rightly not entitled to vote in the referendum and therefore thought it appropriate to maintain a dignified distance and to say nowt!

I know that the nationalists will be hugely disappointed by this morning’s results. I really do believe – however – that the outcome will in the long run prove to have been for the best for of all of the constituent parts of the United Kingdom.

What has been fascinating has been to observe how the referendum has re-invigorated political debate in Scotland. The Scots have given the rest of us an object lesson in how to address, debate and resolve complex issues. They have done so in the main in spite of the blandishments of the politicians rather than because of them. Voting has quite clearly not split on party lines but rather with disregard for them.

The fact that the turnout was more than 84% – from the massive 97% of the population that had registered to vote – is truly staggering – particularly given that disenchantment with the political process has over recent years become endemic throughout these blessed isles. The Scots showed the rest of us how to energise an issue – how to take debate away from the political elites and to return it to the drawing rooms and kitchens – to the bars and cafes – to the street corner and to the garden fence!

The challenge for the political classes now is to work out out how to enthuse voters throughout the UK with similar passion, enthusiasm and commitment for the regular electoral process. Perhaps the now almost inevitable movement towards a federal framework for this patchwork nation will have the desired effect? Perhaps a re-focusing away from the whims and fancies of the 1% would help? Perhaps a determined ambition to renounce cynicism and self-interest would do the trick? Who knows…

In any event, it is good to see the Scots – as so often in the past – showing the rest of us the way. This evening I will – I believe – raise a glass of good cheer to them…

Here’s tae us, wha’s like us? Damned few an’ they’re a’ deid.

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End of an era?

September 15, 2014 in Life in England, Moving to Canada | Permalink

Saturday last saw the final match of the season for the itinerant band of cricketing misfits for whom I still – on occasion – turn out. The fixture took place in a gloriously bosky setting in the Surrey hills, at a venue which – though I have long known of it – I have never previously visited.

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidThe ground at Holmbury St. Mary is the highest in the south of England and is reached by means of an unmade and deeply rutted track that might feel more familiar to residents of the Canadian wilds than it does to the natives here.

The track up Holmbury Hill is – however – considered a great improvement from the early days of the club, when all concerned had to trek up a narrow path carrying all of the required gear and equipment – not to mention foodstuffs and water, of which there was at the time no supply on site. At the end of the day – of course – everything had also to be laboriously carried by the weary contestants back down the hill to the village.

It struck me – as I journeyed hence – that the occasion might actually represent for me rather more than just the end of another season. It is quite likely that I will not get to play any cricket at all next year, since I anticipate that the preparations for our move to Canada – not to mention the event itself – will occupy much of our time and efforts during the temperate months.

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidBy the time we are suitably established in BC I will be sixty two years old and somewhat long in the tooth for this sort of carry on. I have written previously concerning the cricketing scene in Victoria – the which would seem to be in good health – but I doubt that it will prove a broad enough church to provide a haven for a geriatric veteran of dubious ability such as myself.

If indeed that turns out to be the case then my cricketing days are over and I will have played my last match.

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidI came late to the game – having effectively given up on it (as a participant – not as an enthusiast!) subsequent to my notably undistinguished career at school. I took it up again in my mid 40s at a time when I was re-evaluating many things in my life and have played consistently since. Though never achieving my fondly held ambition of scoring a fifty I have nonetheless derived a great deal of pleasure from the game – not least from some of the characters that I have encountered and from the wonderful mise en scènes in which the sporting drama is frequently enacted.

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPerhaps – now that so many more things in our lives are changing – it might indeed be time to call it a day. Who can tell?

If this does turn out to be the case then this particular game was sadly not (the sylvan setting aside) one which by which I would have hoped my egress would be marked. We had not played the opposing side before (themselves also a wandering side) and it turned out to be a dramatic mismatch.  Having humiliated us in short order – and presumably not feeling that they had had their money’s worth – they insisted that we stay on for a further 20/20 game… so that they could crush us all over again!

I – for one – did not stay on for the beers!

Photo by Andy Dawson Reid

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