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Life in England

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admittance-98620_640I have been fortunate enough – for the past several years now – to have been the recipient of a kind invitation to spend a day as a guest at the Henley Royal Regatta.

The Stewards Enclosure at Henley is the most extensive of the spectator areas along the course and also encompasses the finishing line – which naturally makes it the most desirable spot on the river bank. The enclosure is – unsurprisingly – open only to members and to their guests. Such membership is primarily available to those who have at some point in their lives actually competed at the regatta – which encompasses a surprisingly large number of former boatmen (and occasional women). Fortunately my host – an old boy of the School – is one such.

The Stewards Enclosure enforces a strict dress code which – you may be surprised to learn – troubles me not at all. It also – however – apparently adheres to other codes concerning which I am less acquiescent.

My progress was arrested at the entrance to the enclosure by the now ubiquitous security operative. He invited  me to don my blazer, which garment – since the day was already agreeably temperate – I was carrying over my arm. I agreed so to do as I moved to enter – reluctant to hold up the queue. He stopped me…

Before you go in…” – he instructed.

I raised an eyebrow but – being English – acceded politely. I had – however – by this point clearly irritated the man. I was carrying – amongst other items – the reporter bag concerning which I have posted previously. He scented an opportunity.

“What’s in the bag?”

I offered him a guided tour. He took a cursory look.

“Sorry” (he obviously wasn’t!) – “You can’t bring that in”.

I enquired as to why not. His eyes lit triumphantly.

“It’s the policy!”

To this there was no profitable answer. He pointing out the Left Luggage tent adjacent to the entrance. I sighed. Smirking a not inconsiderably unpleasantly smirk he applied the coup de grace…

“Of course – if you were a woman – I would have let you take it in”.

Now – I sense it likely that some readers of the gentler sex – and I include Canadian girls amongst this number – might consider this rank discrimination to be merely a much overdue rebalancing of the books when it comes to the treatment of the sexes.

Fair point!

Needless to say – I was far from amused!

 

 

 

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For me nature is not landscape, but the dynamism of visual forces.

Bridget Riley

High time for some piccies…

Here are some random summer shots from the garden:

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidLast Sunday there was a break in what appears to have become in recent years the accustomed pattern of weather for the English month of May – chill, damp and unremittingly grey! The cricketing gods clearly smiled on me, however, for the day marked my first (and quite possibly only – though who can tell?) appearance in whites this season. The match was to be played on the downs above Guildford.

Long-time scholars of these humble scribblings might sense at this point that they can distinguish the sounding of some distant carillon – and they would be right so to do. Two years ago – almost to the day – I posted a screed entitled ‘Perfect Day’ in which – amongst other things – I extolled the simple pleasures obtained from the equivalent fixture then – the which was played on the self-same spot.

To quote myself (odious practice though that might be):

“The match was played in a suitably amiable spirit, I scored a few runs and the right side won. It was, all in all, a most satisfactory result and I rolled home close to 9pm tired but happy.”

I am delighted to report that I can repeat that sentiment word for word this year, even though – on this occasion – the spoils went to the opposition. The match had gone to the final over, was close and satisfying, and everyone was content.

The substance of my posting two years ago – however – concerned less the Arcadian charms of the occasion itself, but more the fact that such pleasures counted for little if one happened to be – as I was then – separated from one’s significant other. The Kickass Canada Girl was at the time but a few months into her sojourn in Victoria and I was missing her badly.

How different are things now! Not only was the Girl waiting to greet me when I stumbled back home after the match, but she had earlier driven over to Guildford to watch a little of the game – in spite of knowing that I would be in the field at the time and thus unable to speak to her beyond the odd snatched exchange. She strolled instead around the boundary – looking particularly windswept and gorgeous in the sunshine – and I found myself accruing serious kudos from my fellow flanneled fools for having snared what the tabloid press would most certainly term ‘a stunna!’ (defined by the Urban Dictionary as – “Someone who is always fly with gear, cars, jewelry.” – whatever that means!).

I am minded of a comment made by Oldest Friend (of whom I have written previously in these annals) concerning his wife. “A day not spent in her company” – he opined – “is a day wasted”.

He’s not wrong…

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Photo by Jane HoltWe flatter those we scarcely know
We please the fleeting guest
And deal full many a thoughtless blow
To those who love us best.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I recently made reference to our most welcome guest – our visitor from Canada. As far as is possible for me to discern she and the Kickass Canada Girl are having a whale of a time seeing the sights and catching up with each other. Our dear friend has not previously visited these shores so there is much to be covered in a short space of time. Tomorrow morning the two of them are off to Paris for a few days. Lucky things!

From this you will deduce that I am staying here and working.

Hmmm!

We have – coincidentally – also found ourselves of late playing ‘host’ to an altogether different guest. Some months ago, now, we – in common with those who live in the surrounding apartments – could not help but notice that a rather splendid Pea Hen had taken to paying us irregular visits – popping up in the vicinity of the garage block. Finally – about a month ago – she moved in more permanently, taking up residence and becoming a fixture on our lawns.

Now – I really like peacocks. There is something about the shameless splendour of the bird that just looks right in the grounds of a country house. I personally also love their plaintive and melancholy call – though I do realise that I am in a serious minority in this regard. As is often the way with… ‘other‘… animals the female of the species pales by comparison with the male – but in this case I considered our unexpected visitor to be a welcome (if somewhat messy!) addition to the estate.

The question remained – however. Whence came this unlooked for lodger that had of late adopted us?

One of our neighbours did some digging. It turns out that the Pea Hen had belonged to a lady who lived in a nearby residence. She had moved away – leaving the Pea Hen behind – and the house was in the process of being demolished for redevelopment. The Pea Hen – very sensibly – had located a new safe haven.

Sadly not all of our neighbours feel the way that I do about these magnificent birds. Apparently they object to the increased car cleaning costs that seem to have become a necessity. Moves were made to find our new friend an alternative home and on Saturday last we received this email circular:

“We are sure you will be delighted to know that the Pea Hen has moved on. She was humanely caught this morning by the people at Tri Lakes*. They need to cage her for a few weeks otherwise the home sick bird will return to us. She will be introduced to a number of other peacocks so should have a happy and contented life with lots of friends. She will be happy to receive visitors any time you are passing.”

I miss her already!

 

* a nearby country park!

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A year has passed in a flash and it is May again. The first of the UK’s two May Bank Holidays has already been and gone. The azaleas are early this year – it would seem – and it was time once again to unearth some gardens in which to celebrate the nascent summer.

Naturally, where I go the Fuji x10 goes also…

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidThe gardens that we chose – at Hollycombe on the West Sussex/Surrey border – encompass some additional attractions:

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

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Photo by Ian Britton at www.freefoto.comThe rule of thumb regarding survival of the first three bitter months of the year is to ensure that the Christmas/New Year spirit lasts as long as possible, before hunkering down and digging in for the long haul through to spring – pausing only to offer a grateful prayer of thanks that – as winter months go – irksome February is at least numerically challenged!

And then – all of a sudden – everything changes!

These are amongst the happenings that occur over a relatively short interval:

  • March finally limps to a close and we find ourselves on the threshold of the spring.
  • In the UK the clocks go forward to British Summer Time, thus ensuring that – for the first time in the year – my journeys both to and from work are accomplished in daylight.
  • The spring term at the School comes to an end and we are suddenly two thirds of the way through the academic year.
  • The sun puts in a proper appearance and nature starts to awake. Those bright munchy greens presage my favourite time of the year.

Following last year’s ridiculously early Easter, this year’s is nearly as late as it can be. Before that feast is upon us The Girl and I are heading to Barcelona (leaving – in fact – on the morrow) accompanying the A level Theatre Studies boys on their field trip to the Institute of the Arts in Sitges.

The Fuji x10 and the School’s iTablet will – naturally – be accompanying us.

Expect pictures!

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Baby_feetBob:    I can’t do that. It’s too big!
Dr. Leo:    Baby steps Bob. Baby steps.

From the movie: “What about Bob?”
Written by Tom Shulman
Directed by Frank Oz

The illation of this post from January of this year – wherein I pondered the next steps in our glacially slow progress towards a new life in British Columbia – was that all depended on our being able to sell our property in Buckinghamshire… which objective would – in consequence – be our main focus over the coming months. The first landmark along this route was to be the date in March on which the tenants currently occupying our apartment could be given notice to quit –  after which we could move to bring the property once again to market.

On Wednesday this week such notice was duly served.

We are currently in discussion with several local estate agents with a view to establishing a fair and reasonable price for the property – subsequent to which we will stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, take a deep breath and return to the affray! Fingers – and much else – firmly crossed…

Now – because selling a property in the UK is such a big, grown-up, scary prospect we have decided – instead of taking the risk of biting off more than we can reasonably chew – to sell the apartment bit by bit!

Well – no… of course we haven’t really – though just at the moment that might appear to be the case!

I’m being cryptic! I will stop at once…

We are in the final stages of selling a brick built bin store that is located behind the main house. There are four such stores – assigned to four of the seven apartments into which the original residence was divided – in a row abutting the rear wall of the estate. The roofs of these stores had – of late – fallen into such a state of disrepair that urgent remedial works were required. Naturally the Kickass Canada Girl and I were reluctant to invest further monies into a feature of the property that adds little or no financial value to the apartment as a whole, so a deal was done with one of our neighbours. She will pay the costs of the roof repairs in return for the transfer into her name of the store itself. She can use the space – we can do without the expense!

It would – of course – be really good if the rest of the sale were to proceed as expeditiously and smoothly as this. Let us be optimistic and assume that this will indeed be so.

 

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Each year there is one early weekend – one glorious (if brief!) window – the effect of which is to renew afresh our faith in the continuing cycle of the seasons. However hard the winter may have been (and in terms of storm and deluge this one has been tough indeed) we can once again see the light at the end of the tunnel. We are alerted by the cry of the distant harbinger… “Spring is coming”!!

This was such a weekend…

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

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To the National Theatre earlier this week to catch the inestimable Simon Russell Beale as Lear (he magnificent – the production something of a curate’s egg!). As I hurried along the embankment to meet the Kickass Canada Girl for for a little pre-show sushi I was struck by the beauty of the half-light of the Capital’s dusk. Barely breaking my stride I whipped the the x10 from my new messenger bag (of which more possibly later) and fired off a handful of shots.

What fun!

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

 

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Image from http://www.freefoto.comLord, here comes the flood
We’ll say goodbye to flesh and blood
If again the seas are silent in any still alive
It’ll be those who gave their island to survive
Drink up, dreamers, you’re running dry

Peter Gabriel

It is broadly held that were it not for the weather we Brits would not have two words to say to each other. This is – of course – a vicious calumny, though it cannot be denied that the subject has – of late – provided much on which to confabulate.

Those resident in this green and pleasant land (what can yet be discerned of it through the murky drab by which great swathes of it are currently concealed) will be only too aware that the weather here throughout the past two months has been truly terrible. Ceaseless rainfall – giving parts of the UK their wettest January on record – and a constant conveyor of storm fronts from the Atlantic has resulted in catastrophic flooding, downed trees, damaged property and severed railway lines. Though the recent run of storms has abated somewhat this week there is no sign of an end to the apparently perpetual precipitation, which deluge has nowhere to go – landing as it is on already sodden ground.

Concurrent with this local cataclysm eastern Canada and the US have been experiencing freezing rain, wind and snow, whilst California – conversely – basks in record warm temperatures and suffers an ever-worsening drought.

Clearly – something is up. Equally clearly – to many of us at least – that something is ‘climate change’.

It would appear that the pattern of the jet stream that controls the weather in the northern hemisphere has started to alter – slowing down and beginning to meander in a previously unheralded manner. As a result weather patterns that would once have passed by expeditiously are now becoming bogged down for extended – and dangerous – periods…

…not that you would know any of this should you rely for your information on the say of  the ‘climate change deniers’!

These deniers come in two varieties. The first – and perhaps worst – breed are those who deny that there have been any climate changes at all. These disbelievers hold that there have always been extreme weather patterns – and point out that the recent disturbances are merely ‘once in a hundred year’ events. This view would hold more credence were it not for the fact that the same was said last year – and quite probably a year or so before that. In actual fact, the frequency of these ‘unprecedented’ events appears to be increasing.

The second brood of deniers are those that accept that the climate has changed, but deny that this is in any way a result of man’s activities. This would – by itself – mean little, were it not that these cynics further decree that since we did nothing to cause the change we need do nothing about it. More – that we should do nothing about it. This marvelously perverse view has its roots in the Weltanschauung that is common to all deniers… they are all at heart free-marketeers! As such their blinkered world-view extends no further than the short-term cost of anything and everything, and is informed by the belief that – given its head – the market will resolve all issues. This tenet is adhered to blindly in the face of all recent evidence to the contrary and might – quite literally – one day be the death of us all!

I need to lie down in a darkened room!

Stay dry – stay warm…

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