Back in the 1950s, people used to attach a small clump of
heather to the bonnets of their car to signify they were on holiday, typically
to the West Country – something to look out for when stuck on the gruelling,
hot and choked A36 and the A303 before they were widened, went round
bottlenecks like Honiton and were supplemented by new motorways. This Giles
cartoon nicely captures the spirit of the ‘escape to the West’ that we used to
endure back then in order to celebrate the summer.
We Tills certainly used to do indulge in the heather option
and being a true historian I have maintained the tradition. I even remember
seeing another car similarly adorned, just the once in the last decade, so I am
not entirely alone in this. Accordingly when coming back through the New Forest
after the July Portsmouth conference (and a glance at the map will show that
this was an indulgence for a start) I
brought back a sprig of heather, properly installed it and decided that I would
treat the next few weeks as a holiday and really make the most of them. A
succession of family visits, culminating in a grand reunion when for once we
manage to assemble the whole dynasty in one place at one time helped sustain
that ambition. It was a great few days, which included a trip up to the top of
the tower of Salisbury Cathedral with all the Powells bar Chiff who was away
earning a crust for the family. The view from there up inside the spire and
also out from there down over the city far, far below was extraordinary. I have
to record that Barney and Martha were much braver about the dizzying and
sometimes frankly terrifying stairs one had to climb up than either their
mother or even more their Grandpa. The only way I got up one open wooden
circular stair was by resolutely focussing on the sneakers of the person in
front and carefully not looking at anything else ! Coming down was fine; it was
going up that unnerved me. The subsequent sense of achievement though was
tremendous, celebrated of course in the refectory. A walk to the canal and barbeque between
spitting rain showers and a trip to Bristol for lunch with Shelagh and a visit
to the University’s impressive Botanic Garden completed a long and jolly
weekend. The day after, Philippa insisted on taking me to the RUH in Bath
(unecessary but nice) for another scan and the kids to the Roman Baths and the
Abbey. On my own again I managed another day in the Forest at ‘Studeley Castle’
now downgraded to just an ‘enclosure’ I noted on the latest map –with
speculations about Vespasian’s Second Augusta legion passing through 2000+
years ago beginning to evaporate.
A trip to the Orkneys with Christopher, though was a
definite plus for the holiday spirit. On the first day the wind whipped off my
hat when we were at the top of the tower of the Bishop’s palace in Kirkwall
depositing it incongruously in the middle of the road far below. Christopher raced down to get it for me,
emblematic of the extent he looked after doddery old me for the rest of the
week, which was nice- even to the perilous extent of backing our car onto a
tiny island ferry because I couldn’t turn my head around far enough !
Apart from eating and drinking and the obligatory whisky
distillery tour ( conducted of course these days by an Italian), walking,
wildlife and inspecting historical sites
(ranging from the Neolithic to the Second World War) were the main
staples of our week, plus just for Christopher diving on some of the wrecks of
the German High Sea Fleet, self-scuttled in 1919. Its pre-nuclear radiation
steel has mostly been translated into razor blades and medical instruments, but
enough remains to form one of the UK’s premier diving sites.
As for me, I was bowled over by the romantic remoteness of
the place and can well understand why disillusioned city folk seem often to end
up here. Cherry was always alarmed at this aspect of my imagination and would
have been the first to point out that even now in the height of summer so many
people went around in anoraks and scarves. ‘So what’s it like in Winter ?’ I
could almost hear her ask. Seriously, I was totally hooked by the Neolithic and
Viking sites, realising how relatively advanced they were. Profiting from the
then warmed climate Neolithic folk probably only needed to work two days a week
for the necessities of life in this extraordinarily fertile area, which
explains the numbers of dice that haven found, the elaborate housing of Skara
Brae and so forth. As for the Vikings, who wouldn’t be enthralled by the
exploits of Thorfinn the Skull-splitter in the Orkney sagas. Wonderful stuff
which has already found its way into recent lectures.
I also hadn’t realised how much Christopher had been
infected by his Mother’s interest in birds and in the Orkneys you can hardly
turn round without being watched by wary fulmars or passing sea skuas. The
highlight for both of us though had to be watching through a RSPB telescope a
young white-tailed eagle flapping around while its anxious parents anxiously
wheeled around overhead. He has also inherited his Mother’s fearlessness in
standing awfully close to the edge of precipitous cliffs, as he did when we
were looking at the Old Man of Hoy: I couldn’t bear to look at him and also at
the insensate people cavorting around on the top of it.
At both ends of the Orkneys week Christopher and Beth
reintroduced me to the genuine delights of trendy Walthamstow. It’s shoulders
deep in vegans and vegetarians (including them of course) and I came to the
conclusion that no-one over 40 actually lives there. It was great. In return I
investigated boxfuls of Beth’s Gran’s crockery prior to their disposal; a lot
of I think nice stuff but they wouldn’t be able to retire on the proceeds.
Other than that the rest of the ‘holiday’ period was spent
back in Wansdyke, where there was a lot going on. Two barbeques on successive
nights, one with Mhairi, Andy, John and Belinda in Devizes, one at the Village
shop, a garden party at Rosie’s which provided an opportunity to wander around
their impressive grounds which make Wansdyke Cottage look like a window-box,
two acres notwithstanding. I finally managed to link up with Debbie Peach to do
some field-walking looking out for bits of iron-age pottery (All Cannings Cross
just up the road is an iron-age site of national importance even with its own
recognised pottery-ware). I had coffee with Peter and a wonderful reunion in
Salisbury with John, Melanie, Tony and Maya. This though ended late because we
were all having such a good time but ended in disaster.
When I got home I quickly became aware of a strange noise
emanating from the pond and found that when I cleaned it out (a disgusting job
after several months of absence) I had inadvertently left on a switch that
shouldn’t have been, and it had sucked all the water out except for a tiny bit
in the very bottom. All our big Grey Ghost Koi (15 years old and 18” inches
long) were dead or terminally distressed. I felt terrible and also had to bury
them all in successive days as they came back up to the surface of the refilled
pond. A few days later I saw that something had dub them all up again and eaten
them. Fox ? Badger ? Passing Brontosauruas ?
This sad event is an indication of the strains of trying to
run two households simultaneously on both sides of the Atlantic. I had
seriously underestimated this aspect of my new life, post Cherry. But I still
think keeping hyper-busy helps. The passing of our second wedding anniversary
was undoubtedly eased by the distraction of the return trip from the Orkneys.
Keeping Wansdyke up to scratch does the same and keeps the associations with
Cherry alive. She thought those associations would be so painful I would have
to move on; in fact the reverse is true, it’s the associations that make me
want to stay as long as possible, although the fish event does suggest this
intent might be more vulnerable to adverse circumstances than I would wish.
A resumption of foreign travel at the beginning of September
with a trip to Brazil helped too. I was disappointed not to be able to add more
to the lighted-candle-for-Cherry list as the two churches I tried in Rio (wonderful
in themselves of course) the Igleja Sto Jose and Nossa Senora de Carmo (unlike
Salisbury cathedral and St Magnus in Kirkwall) have invested in that
abomination – electric candles which simply don’t count. On the other hand, I
was delighted to have been awarded my first wearable medal as a formal ‘Friend
of the Brazilian Navy’.
Cherry knew the Admiral to my right from a previous
visit and would have giggled herself silly at the whole event, totally fun
occasion as it was even though performed with admirable
solemnity. Brazil ended with a trip up the Amazon. Although it was at the
height of the dreadful fires there I
didn't see any sign of them. I was told that they were 800 miles away to the
south (which gives you the sense of scale) and their extent in any case had
been exaggerated. Well, maybe. I hadn't realised that 4 million (mainly poor)
Brazilians and about 300,000 'indigenous' peoples live there. The Navy
certainly said all the right things about their responsibility to protect the
forest and its 'real owners.' They have
gave me a time, helicopter trips, patrol boat and hospital ship voyages. I saw
the extraordinary sight of the mixture of the two rivers which go to make the
Amazon proper, one old and dark, one
relatively new and mud coloured.
A bunch of Marines introduced me to boa
constrictor snake thing that writhed up my arm. A baby one fortunately; grown
up it would have tried to kill and eat me.
The
final event was the family get to get together to turn the Wansdyke apples into
juice - and this year for some of us to make an excursion to our 96 year old
'fishman' to restock the pond. Accommodating them required poor Christopher to
wriggle into the pond under the net in his flimsies to reposition the special
pump we needed for the exotic bottom-feeders that looked like sharks. Another new one had a tasteful toothbrush
moustache whom we naturally christened Adolf. The serious business of the day
produced 27 litres and ended with a grand barbeque. A great way to end my
summer holiday before going back to Newport, though I did spend some of the
final few days in a jail in Oxford (now a rather idiosyncratic modern hotel)
for a Russian Navy conference at Pembroke College. And so back to the Carriage
House....................
