DYLAN JONES-EVANS: Bute Park
I would very much like to be updated on the campaign's development - although am now I am an ex-patriot South Walian based in Kent, I worked for some time at the Temple of Peace at the WCIA and know and love Cathays Park - the centre-piece of the capital.
Thursday, 11 December 2008
Monday, 13 October 2008
Reflections on the art of the eulogy
In the last month this correspondent has had sad family news. Not only did we lose my dearly beloved maternal grandmother but also my wife's sister-in-law. One aged 97 after a long, eventful and rather wonderful life and the other too young, in her fifties, to cancer. I was privileged to be able to give the eulogy address at my grandmother's funeral. Herewith in memoriam to Grandma, Joan Elsie Blair, nee Haines:
Joan Elsie Blair – Little Haines / Big Joan
‘A Talent to Amuse’
" Joan Elsie Blair (nee Haines) – wife of Hugh Dickie Blair, mother to Sally, Juliet and Meg; mother-in-law to Anthony and Eliot, grandmother to Claire, William, Madeleine, Richard, Charles, Tom, Jess and Sam; great-grandmother to Daniel, Charlotte and Tom, and adopted Grandma to her ‘beautiful’ Karolina and steadfast Magdalena – long-time companions at 165 Lake Road West or ‘international house’ as it became known in recent years. She had many roles, played many parts. She touched many people’s lives in her 97 years upon this earth, whether you knew her as Grandma, Joan, Mummy or Mrs Blair. She encouraged, advised, occasionally cajoled, and often-times persuaded. She could also be provocative and at times a little acerbic - I sometimes teased her about going into ‘Little Haines’ mode – the nickname she was given by a jolly hockeysticks gym mistress at her boarding school in Southport. Her patience, kindness, forbearance, courage, humour and great sense of fun was inspiring. She was a guiding star twinkling and shining - leading by example. Grandma once told me that the central priorities in her life with Grandpa were other people, the children and only then themselves. In this way her focus on other people’s welfare was an animating feature in the way she lived her life. Indeed as the song (It’s a Lovely Holiday) from one of her favourite films – Mary Poppins – has it “forbearance was the hallmark of her creed” and this is neatly summed up in one of her favourite phrases – “ oh well, don’t worry, it can’t be helped “. And through this interest in others she was that rarest of breeds – a life-enhancer. She had a natural spontaneous gift for building up confidence in whomsoever she met. She found the positive aspect of a personality or a character trait or a person’s point of view and highlighted it. She quite simply made people feel good about themselves – she truly enhanced their lives. As Susan Caree-Roberts, daughter of Grandma’s great friend Margaret Roberts, has put it in a card: “ who could forget that little figure, thatch of white hair, advancing resolutely along the pavement towards the chosen goal – to the shops, to visit a neighbour, to Church: what will they do now for a guardian angel in Lake Road West? “
And I have been the recipient of this loving bounty all my life: as a boy who often felt awkward, with a tendency to fall over his shoelaces and burdened with a speech difficulty, it was Grandma who sent me to elocution lessons to build up speaking confidence, nurturing a love of literature, theatre and performance in the process. [And when in recent times a hearing problem was diagnosed it was Grandma who enabled its treatment]. She used to say by way of encouragement “but darling, for someone who walked late and talked even later you are doing well”. And these comments were not confined to her immediate relations. On meeting my wife’s grown-up son and daughter Grandma declared “Karen my dear, I am very pleased with your children”. We felt we had received the Grandma Blair benediction. We all have similar stories.
Grandma was always ready for a trip. I had occasion to go with her to the London opera starring one of our favourite singers, Lesley Garrett, in The Barber of Seville. At this point she was a mere spring chicken in her late 80s. We went up on the train to Paddington (in past times it would have been the theatre train). She joked with the taxi-driver about her forebears hung at Tyburn as we passed Marble Arch and casually mentioned her family relation to Sir Christopher Wren. We arrived at the ENO as the curtain went up after negotiating a long flight of stairs to the upper circle. We of course had seats in the middle of the row. The usual ‘excuse mes’ led to po-faced audience tut-tutting. Grandma’s indignant response delivered in a commanding voice that she thought was a whisper reverberated around the auditorium “well we don’t get this sort of reception in Wales you know! “. I had learnt at Grandma’s knee to be nonchalant in the face of embarrassment. The girl of the 1930s London theatre, who met her future husband through friendship with his cousin Tana , was always full of praise for her adopted homeland – Joan Elsie Blair was a Cardiffian for 50 years. Grandma passed on her love of music and theatre to all of us. I was lucky enough to go with her to many shows – she was a generous audience and a sympathetic appreciater of other’s artistic efforts.
Grandma’s professional singing career coincided with that of the Noel Coward era and she appreciated his sense of humour and sometimes bittersweet lyrics. One of his songs, to my mind, will forever remind us of her. It for me expresses her optimistic hope that all shall be well at the last (and we shall all meet again)
I’ll See You Again / Whenever Spring breaks through Again /
Time May lie heavy between / But what has been is past forgetting
Your Sweet Memory / Throughout my life will come to me
Though the World may go awry / In my heart will ever lie
Just the echo of a sigh / Goodbye…..
Grandma, Joan Elsie Blair nee Haines, God-speed. We shall miss you "
We said goodbye to another remarkable woman called Joan this year - Joan Smith. She served as the right hand to my father in the family law firm over four decades, and had known my father for nearly 50 years and my siblings and I all of our lives. She worked right up till her death, in her eighties, still serving her clients whilst battling with cancer. My father spoke movingly about his old friend at her funeral, reproduced below, capturing her for those who knew, worked with and admired a devoted servant of humanity:
Joan Smith – an appreciation
Taken from the eulogy given by Anthony W Jeremy at the funeral service, Thornhill Crematorium, 2pm Monday 14 July 2008
" As we sorrow for our loss, it seemed to Marie and the Minister right that I should say something of Joan’s professional life, although she was of course not merely my colleague but effectively a member of my family – one of my oldest friends. So let us reflect on the qualities which inspired such respect from the profession and affection from literally hundreds of clients whom she served in the course of a long and successful career.
Many practitioners in the law are appreciated for their efficiency, skills and dedication to their work, but few are so highly valued and esteemed by clients and indeed professional colleagues as was Joan. Why was that?
Well firstly, she had an unswerving professional commitment which I encountered early on as a raw recruit, fresh from the leisurely pace of University life. In the firm which I joined as a raw recruit, Joan was briefed to monitor the often wayward activities of the law students grappling with the urgencies of legal practice. Her no-nonsense, disciplined and sharply focused approach to us made a memorable impact, not unlike experiencing the close attentions of a sergeant major on entering military service. I hasten to add Joan was much gentler, but equally firm. We learned fast and never forgot.
Some years later, when we formed our own firm, my then partner and I counted ourselves extremely fortunate when she joined us. Joan was to prove a pillar of my practice for over 40 years. Her importance to the firm cannot be exaggerated. My work as a civil court practitioner took me away for long periods. Aggregated over the whole of our association these absences amounted to literally years, and in all that time Joan was the proverbial rock in all crises. A steady, calm voice in a sea of troubles she always responded to the challenges with impeccable judgement. She had a rare ability to analyze complex facts with an insight into the essential relevant considerations – a gift which was most evident in her cases of family disputes and matrimonial litigation. To those caught up in the highly charged emotional maelstrom of marriage breakdown, Joan brought wise counsel, clarity of thought and powerful support. Her uncompromising professionalism was respected throughout the legal fraternity by a garland of friends and acquaintances – legal executives, solicitors, barristers and judges – and was recognised in her appointment as one of the fist Fellows of the Institute of Legal Executives. In the affairs of the Institute she played a prominent part in its growth throughout South Wales. Joan was especially concerned to encourage and inspire new entrants, particularly young students.
But what set her apart was that she gave herself to her clients without restraint and without reserve, placing her counsel, experience and skills at their service, often at the cost of personal sacrifice. This she did right to the end of her working life. Only a few weeks ago, at the height of what we now know to be her last illness, Joan was applying herself to clients’ matters and the protection of their interests in spite of considerable discomfort and pain. It has been said that ‘ when you give of yourself you truly give ’ and Joan proved the truth of that proverb to the full.
That dedication was motivated by her compassion for others, a compassion inspired by the ideals and teachings of her Faith. In the chances and changes of life, in times of misfortune, trauma, distress and uncertainty, clients found in Joan not merely someone with whom they could share their pain and problems, but a source of strength, comfort and true understanding – a light in their darkness to set them on their way. That is why so many clients came to regard her not as a legal adviser but as a loyal friend, and many of those friendships have lasted to this day.
And now in this hour of separation, everything which we loved and admired in Joan will become clearer – to us irreplaceable. We shall miss her humour, her wisdom, her commitment and concern for clients. And yet what we miss is in reality her legacy to us. What Joan has left behind is more than a record of professional success but an incomparable example of selfless devotion to others. Those of us who were fortunate enough to know her as clients or colleagues will never forget her. Your presence today is the most eloquent testimony to the admiration and love in which she was held.
I am reminded of Shakespeare’s Sonnets:
‘ When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughts I summon up remembrance of things past
Then can I drown an eye unused to flow for precious friends hid in death’s dateless night
But the while I think on thee dear friend all losses are restored and sorrows end’
And so, although we say farewell to Joan with tears, we shall always think on her with happiness and gratitude for her life of true humanity and service to others.
May she rest in peace "
In penning my thoughts about my grandmother I was much inspired by a number of eulogies written by various members of the family and friends. The art is to capture the person both for those who knew the person well and for those who knew them little or not all - to 'capture' the life lived for all there, and sometimes for those not present to read in print. Herewith two more.
My uncle Eliot wrote and presented the eulogy for his father Winston. As can be appreciated by the reading, they don't make them like him anymore - if they ever did in the first place:
" Winston, we shall miss you.
You were an unusual man. We all respected your wisdom and advice, even if sometimes we found it hard to follow. You were usually right.
You were a man full of surprises. None of us knew until recently the degree to which you had worked with British Intelligence for many years both before and after the last war. We knew you had something to do with camouflage but little more than that. That your department was “concealment, deception and counter measures” sounds quite dramatic, but not half so dramatic as going to Spain as a spy during the Spanish Civil War to study the effects of bombing and meeting Franco, then a Colonel, in passing.
You came from a simple and very poor background, your father was a butcher and your mother a nurse who rose to become a matron.
You and your brothers were bright. Raymond in particular was a brilliant draughtsman. This was recognised and a wealthy patron by the name of Alex Keighly supported you and Raymond financially through higher education firstly to Leeds School of Architecture and then by scholarship to the Architectural Association in London. At the AA you met a fellow student, Kitty Holman, of Scottish and Norwegian extraction. You married her and had a son, David. Tragically, she died in childbirth.
By 1936, you were in Spain and there you met an extraordinary English colonel by the name of Wintle, who eventually became Secretary for Air. It was through him that gradually your career moved from architecture to military matters. Your architectural interest in the design of aerodromes was recognised by the Air Ministry and you were sent to Germany to study the aerodromes being secretly built there. You bought back news of the autobahns being designed as runways and the secret hangers being built in woods nearby, and of the extensive ‘gliding clubs’ which were a thinly disguised basis for a developing airforce.
Back in England, you were put in charge of the ‘L’ expansion scheme, which was semi-secret as it fell outside the Geneva Convention, to develop our own airfields in case of war. The success of this scheme was the key to winning the Battle of Britain as without airfields we would not have been able to defend ourselves when war came.
You started to specialise in camouflage and flew thousands of hours studying different treatments and disguises from the air. At some point in time you had worked in the film industry as an art director making three very bad ‘B’ movies. But you used your experience of film set design to create false buildings, shadows and ‘street lighting’, even mock towns and cities during the War. The success of one of these outside Cardiff can be seen today. Bomb craters are still visible where German bombers dropped their loads on what they thought were the docks, but were in fact only lights and tin foil.
During the war you had married an actress, Everley Gregg, but the marriage was not a success. Immediately, after the war you met Maryel, also an architect who had studied at the AA, and you had a son, Eliot, followed by a daughter, Louise.
For a period you were head of the Hammersmith School of Architecture and then moved to teach at the AA. There, your anti Communist views were not popular but with your background understandable so you went to work in the offices of T P Bennet, a well-known commercial architect.
Once again you received a call, this time from the Admiralty where you secretly worked on a study of the outlying reaches of the Empire to see if they were defendable or should be given up. To your amusement, when you called up the files they were the same ones you had worked on during the War, and had been untouched since. Your conclusion that defense was impractical was as ever logical and pragmatic.
On the death of Maryel’s mother you moved to Cleavers and lived there for almost forty years. After a spell with Howard Hicks in Stratford on Avon you returned to teaching architecture and had many happy years with the students at the Leicester School of Architecture.
You helped start the Stratford Society and were the scourge of planners everywhere. You found time to take a degree in Urban Conservation and used your experience gained as a Planning Inspector to pursue the Stratford Council in ever more ludicrous and complex planning applications. This I suspect you did for your own amusement as much as anything else. You always had a hatred of blind bureaucracy and were a great defender of the individual’s rights against monolithic government and the nanny state.
I have not mentioned your friendship with the De Havilland family or your friendship with Basil Winham, at that time Charlwood Alliance, but subsequently to become a main board director of P & O. You seem to have crammed so many things into your life that it is hard to keep track of them all.
Perhaps it is the ease with which you made great friendships and sometime great enemies that was both your strength and weakness. Your blunt speaking was not always welcome but you were afraid of nothing and always had a sense of justice and a love of freedom.
I hope you are now free to pursue all the things you loved in life because we shall miss you now you are gone.
You were an unusual man and we loved you very much "
Some years ago I went with my cousin and his family to the funeral of a lifelong friend of his and fellow pilot. Jeremy's friend had died too early from cancer and his funeral took place in a small, ancient Oxfordshire Church. The friend remembered, Chris Cowper, and my cousin had been comrades since joining British Airways together after service in the RAF. This address also captures the life and the friendship between them shines through:
"Chris Cowper 1936 - 2005
Chris died just over a week ago, early in the morning on Thursday 15th Sept. perhaps appropriately, in view of his aviation career, it was Battle of Britain commemoration day. He was diagnosed with prostate cancer in November 2003 and had, initially, a long period of containment. He could even play golf during this time. However in the past few months there were increasing difficulties, culminating in a sudden inability to walk or use his legs at all. Tests and treatment followed for 2 weeks at the Churchill hospital in Oxford but it was realised that this condition could not be reversed. Chris wanted to come home and not stay in hospital or go to a hospice. Judy, calmly, methodically, and efficiently took on the role of organising all that this entailed, a hospital style bed downstairs in the dining room, a wheelchair, a commode, and crucially a range of support services, nurses and carers. Chris was fortunate to die at home, where he wanted to be, surrounded by his family in familiar, friendly environment, listening to and watching the recent memorable cricket Test matches. His death was comfortable and peaceful at the last. The support Chris received, not only from Judy, Marcus, Jamie and Claire, but also absolutely crucially, from the health services, was wonderful. Chris had great trust in the medical services, the GP, the Health Centre, District nurses, the specialist cancer consultants and services, the hospitals at Stoke Mandeville and Churchill in Oxford, the carers, the Macmillan Nurses and finally the Marie Curie support from the Florence Nightingdale. They were all caring, amazing and first rate. This is a tribute to them all. Thank you.
Chris has died too soon, much, much too soon but we can celebrate his life because he regarded himself as a fortunate man. He had a good innings. He was not a man given to introspection but, a few months ago, said to me that if he had to go he had enjoyed a good life and could not complain. That good life included a close knit family, Judy his wife of 44 years and his three children. I know that he was thrilled to have a grandchild, Daisy, He had her picture as the wallpaper on his computer. In his chosen career, he was also highly successful as a pilot, firstly in the RAF as a fast jet pilot for 9 years and then as a commercial pilot mainly with British Airways for 27 years and subsequently with smaller charter companies. Chris loved flying, it was his career, vocation and hobby. He wondered that he was being paid for doing something he loved so much. His aviation interest and knowledge were encyclopaedic. His aircraft recognition was phenomenal; he could identify an aircraft from the smallest dot in the sky.
So where and when did this enthusiasm arise. Born in 1936, an only child, his Dad was a tea broker and after school at Canterbury- an experience which I think he enjoyed but in which he claims to have been rather undistinguished- he was destined to follow his Father into tea. But Chris’s interests were already in aviation. He was a modelmaker and apparently an avid reader of aviation magazines. He applied and was successful in obtaining a short service commission to become a pilot in the RAF. On 8th October 1954 Officer training started at Kirton in Lindsey, in where he met his oldest and firmest friend John Cray and his future best man at his wedding, Tony Netherton, both here today. Flying training at Ternhill, on the Provost and Oakington on the Vampire culminated in the award of the coveted wings in 1956 and a posting to the Hawker Hunter, the premier fighter aircraft of its day. These were the days of the cold war and Chris, John and Tony all went to the Second Tactical Air Force in Germany. Chris was with 26 Squadron, followed by 14 Squadron. Apart from the flying this appears to have been a giant never ending party experience in a Germany going through its miraculous economic recovery from the war.
After 3 years in Germany he was fortunate to get a second flying tour as they were called- this time on the twin engined, two crew, delta wing fighter, the Javelin. The fortune, one might say, was short lived as, on one of his early flights at the OCU, he suffered an engine fire, closely followed by a second engine fire, the inevitable conclusion of which is to leave the aircraft, so both he and his navigator ejected, as it is called and descended by parachute. This made him a member of the distinguished club ‘the caterpillar club’, reserved for those who had been compelled to parachute from an aircraft. Chris, typically never made a meal of this very rare experience. Apparently he did say the burning aircraft wreck had ‘set Lord Bolton’s grouse moor on fire and it would burn till Christmas’ but he was, as always, very self effacing about what must have been a terrifying and unique experience. Tony Netherton played golf with Chris shortly after this incident. Chris casually mentioned, between shots, that he had bailed out. There was no aggrandisement; typical Chris; most people would have dined out on this for ever. He did, however, injure his spine in the ejection and spent some time at the famous rehabilitation centre at Headley Court. This spinal injury occasionally caused some pain in subsequent years and latterly he thought this was the cause of his back pain which eventually, tragically, transpired to be the developing prostate cancer.
Chris spent a further 3 years flying the Javelin on 25 Squadron. Somehow he found the time, before the Javelin course, to woo Judy, a neighbour from home, (how he got such a fantastic girl is beyond me) and they married, with Tony Netherton as best man on, 9th. September 1961. They moved to RAF Leuchars, St Andrews. For the first 6 months of his time there Chris was on detachment in Cyprus. I doubt whether this was part of the bargain for Judy!
And so after 9 years in the RAF Chris left to join British European Airways on the Vickers Viscount. It is here that I met him We were on the same course starting 2 days before president Kennedy was assassinated (so we know where we were—probably being taught Viscount electrics at the BEA Heston Training centre). From the every first I knew Chris as very special. What is the touchstone of friendship? I don’t know but we, quite different in temperament, hit it off. This character had the ability or knack of defusing a tricky or difficult situation by making it funny. He didn’t tell jokes but, as we all know, was the ultimate master of the pun. Chris could make a pun out of any statement. Yes we all groaned but we laughed as we groaned and then we prepared to groan and laugh again as pun followed pun. It was great fun, sometimes culminating in side splitting, uncontrolled fits of laughter. Tony Netherton reminded me that Chris would make the pun, stare at you waiting for recognition and then tell another one. We will all miss that.
Chris was an excellent civil pilot. We know that because he came out ahead of all of us on the course and consequently above us all on the infamous seniority list which governs life in the realms of civil aviation. He was also a wonderful crew member; a pilot everyone liked to fly with - and not all outstanding pilots make good members of a crew.
He flew the Viscount and Trident as co-pilot and the Viscount, Vanguard, Trident and Boeing 757, on its introduction to British Airways, as Captain. I remember he was interviewed for a position as a Route Check captain. I asked him how it had gone. He replied he didn’t know but he had made the panel laugh – typical Chris. He was offered the job but the aircraft was withdrawn from service before he could take it up.
So at age 55 in BA, all good things come to an end and one is compelled to leave. Chris flew the 757 with a number of charter airlines, realising what we had all suspected, that BA had been an excellent outfit to work for. Finally he became less than satisfied about some of the safety issues in one operator and he retired, aged 61, in January 1997. His last pilots log book entry simply says ‘Finis’.
So that is the career. He came home to the Old Parsonage, Nether Winchendon , the family home of 21 years after many happy years in the delights of Bryn Cottage, Speen which became too small for the brood, at one time 3 children under 2. Chris had spent a lot of time away from home both in the RAF and in civil flying. Nonetheless he had a strong family and a vast range of interests. These were mostly centred around things which move, mainly with wheels. Aeroplanes, cars, motor bikes, trains, cycles, and, without wheels, canal boats. Chris knew all there was to know on these subjects. And he and Judy also had, at one time, a mini sail. Interest diverged to birds, feathered which also move a bit. Rather like his aircraft recognition skills, Chris took pride in his bird recognition.
He had a combined interest in choral music and churches and cathedrals. Living near Oxford, he and Judy went to the beautiful college chapels to hear glorious choral music.
They also visited the great cathedrals of England and France There was also an interest in Jazz. We all did a course together on art appreciation in Oxford. Chris was very proud of and supported Judy as her sculpturing talents developed.
So what manner of man is emerging? Well, like most of us, a patch work quilt. A family man of absolute integrity, he had a wide circle of acquaintances but was content with a few friends and very happy in his own company, sometimes solitary, even reclusive, doing his own thing, perhaps establishing his amazing model railway system. He did not like large crowds and avoided London, except for a specific occasions; a traditionalist and conservative; rather old fashioned in clothing. I would tease him about his ‘demob suit’ and his panama hat – perhaps it was a Noel Coward influence. I think he thought Armani was some far away Eastern European Republic. He was offended by the word ‘toilet’ it was ‘lavatory’ and certainly some humour was distinctly lavatorial. I have been reminded by Tony Smith of what is, loosely, a golfing story. For many years I didn’t know that Chris played golf. During his working years he, apparently, played occasionally in Scotland, having learnt, to some extent, the game in his youth. On retirement, golf became more important and a source of pleasure, especially to those playing with him. Chris would turn up, immaculately dressed in knickerbockers, polished shoes and shirt and tie (I think he must have worn a tie with his pyjamas). Chris’s golf was pretty erratic, sometimes lousy, but not as bad as mine. On one occasion he hit a diabolical shot; ‘S…T’ was loudly broadcast down the fairway closely followed by the response ‘said the king and 10,000 courtiers struggled and heaved to his command’. We were in stitches only to be brought up short by the admonition of other, more serious, golfers for our excessive noise and hilarity. This was decidedly a reversion to childhood but we revelled in it. There was something of PG Wodehouse in this upright Englishman, (he liked ‘spotted dick’ for pudding), a fantastic sense of humour and a natural clown. Yet Chris could be quite radical in opinion and had firm, diverse and controversial (to me) views on national and world events which he would argue with conviction. He had great interest in books, especially military history as well as anything on transport, aviation, railways, cars, Etc. He would like to find the reference for anything of interest. He was very keen on maps, but I became less enthusiastic about his map reading skills after a jaunt in the Lake District when with supreme confidence, he got us lost. John reminded me that, at Marcus and Jo’s wedding, Chris decided to drive the ‘pretty route’ from hotel to church. We all dutifully followed to be led up an increasingly narrow lane going nowhere. Lots of manoeuvring was required. We just made the church on time!
Chris was very good with words. He wrote a fantastic account of a joint holiday we enjoyed in Kenya in the early 1970’s. Very recently, only a few months ago, he wrote a letter to the Log, the journal of BALPA, on the Hawker Siddely Trident aircraft. This was a fascinating, detailed, historical, account of the aircraft and its characteristics. This article, I am delighted to say, was published as a two page spread in the Log which arrived last month. Chris was thrilled. It is a lasting, worthy, tribute to his aviation knowledge and skilled writing.
He was most amusing, good company, usually easy going but sometimes he would grab hold of some idea and worry it to death. He was far too modest. He certainly undersold himself and his abilities. He was unnecessarily self- effacing, sometimes deliberately playing the fool, as a mask. He was as straight as a die. He was much more sensitive and caring than is perhaps recognised. He was not into possessions. He liked the ‘wireless’ as he called it, especially radio 4. He was always true to himself and his beliefs. He was very fortunate in his chosen professional and private life. He had many hobbies and was happy in his leisure time.
I would like to conclude with a quote from John Cray: ‘Chris had a love of the countryside, particularly the remote areas and of course the wild life, particularly birds. He loved old buildings and, probably influenced by his schooldays in Canterbury, the churches and, cathedrals and though he did not sing well or play an instrument, he was very keen on jazz and very much taken with early English church music, Tallis, Byrd etc. and would listen to choral evensong on the radio or attend evensong if the opportunity occurred. He was a very balanced man. He loved and was very proud of his family and the achievements and skills of all of them. The focus of his life had been flying backed up by his keen interest in all things mechanical and powered. But his interest in, and knowledge of, the arts and also of the countryside and its natural history was also part of the character of an intelligent, thoughtful, loyal man. A friend of more than 50 years’
So Chris has gone, leaving his close family Judy, Jamie, Marcus, and Claire, his wider family and his friends to mourn but above all to remember with pleasure and gratitude what Chris has given to us.
“The rest is silence” "
Rest in peace all.
Joan Elsie Blair – Little Haines / Big Joan
‘A Talent to Amuse’
" Joan Elsie Blair (nee Haines) – wife of Hugh Dickie Blair, mother to Sally, Juliet and Meg; mother-in-law to Anthony and Eliot, grandmother to Claire, William, Madeleine, Richard, Charles, Tom, Jess and Sam; great-grandmother to Daniel, Charlotte and Tom, and adopted Grandma to her ‘beautiful’ Karolina and steadfast Magdalena – long-time companions at 165 Lake Road West or ‘international house’ as it became known in recent years. She had many roles, played many parts. She touched many people’s lives in her 97 years upon this earth, whether you knew her as Grandma, Joan, Mummy or Mrs Blair. She encouraged, advised, occasionally cajoled, and often-times persuaded. She could also be provocative and at times a little acerbic - I sometimes teased her about going into ‘Little Haines’ mode – the nickname she was given by a jolly hockeysticks gym mistress at her boarding school in Southport. Her patience, kindness, forbearance, courage, humour and great sense of fun was inspiring. She was a guiding star twinkling and shining - leading by example. Grandma once told me that the central priorities in her life with Grandpa were other people, the children and only then themselves. In this way her focus on other people’s welfare was an animating feature in the way she lived her life. Indeed as the song (It’s a Lovely Holiday) from one of her favourite films – Mary Poppins – has it “forbearance was the hallmark of her creed” and this is neatly summed up in one of her favourite phrases – “ oh well, don’t worry, it can’t be helped “. And through this interest in others she was that rarest of breeds – a life-enhancer. She had a natural spontaneous gift for building up confidence in whomsoever she met. She found the positive aspect of a personality or a character trait or a person’s point of view and highlighted it. She quite simply made people feel good about themselves – she truly enhanced their lives. As Susan Caree-Roberts, daughter of Grandma’s great friend Margaret Roberts, has put it in a card: “ who could forget that little figure, thatch of white hair, advancing resolutely along the pavement towards the chosen goal – to the shops, to visit a neighbour, to Church: what will they do now for a guardian angel in Lake Road West? “
And I have been the recipient of this loving bounty all my life: as a boy who often felt awkward, with a tendency to fall over his shoelaces and burdened with a speech difficulty, it was Grandma who sent me to elocution lessons to build up speaking confidence, nurturing a love of literature, theatre and performance in the process. [And when in recent times a hearing problem was diagnosed it was Grandma who enabled its treatment]. She used to say by way of encouragement “but darling, for someone who walked late and talked even later you are doing well”. And these comments were not confined to her immediate relations. On meeting my wife’s grown-up son and daughter Grandma declared “Karen my dear, I am very pleased with your children”. We felt we had received the Grandma Blair benediction. We all have similar stories.
Grandma was always ready for a trip. I had occasion to go with her to the London opera starring one of our favourite singers, Lesley Garrett, in The Barber of Seville. At this point she was a mere spring chicken in her late 80s. We went up on the train to Paddington (in past times it would have been the theatre train). She joked with the taxi-driver about her forebears hung at Tyburn as we passed Marble Arch and casually mentioned her family relation to Sir Christopher Wren. We arrived at the ENO as the curtain went up after negotiating a long flight of stairs to the upper circle. We of course had seats in the middle of the row. The usual ‘excuse mes’ led to po-faced audience tut-tutting. Grandma’s indignant response delivered in a commanding voice that she thought was a whisper reverberated around the auditorium “well we don’t get this sort of reception in Wales you know! “. I had learnt at Grandma’s knee to be nonchalant in the face of embarrassment. The girl of the 1930s London theatre, who met her future husband through friendship with his cousin Tana , was always full of praise for her adopted homeland – Joan Elsie Blair was a Cardiffian for 50 years. Grandma passed on her love of music and theatre to all of us. I was lucky enough to go with her to many shows – she was a generous audience and a sympathetic appreciater of other’s artistic efforts.
Grandma’s professional singing career coincided with that of the Noel Coward era and she appreciated his sense of humour and sometimes bittersweet lyrics. One of his songs, to my mind, will forever remind us of her. It for me expresses her optimistic hope that all shall be well at the last (and we shall all meet again)
I’ll See You Again / Whenever Spring breaks through Again /
Time May lie heavy between / But what has been is past forgetting
Your Sweet Memory / Throughout my life will come to me
Though the World may go awry / In my heart will ever lie
Just the echo of a sigh / Goodbye…..
Grandma, Joan Elsie Blair nee Haines, God-speed. We shall miss you "
We said goodbye to another remarkable woman called Joan this year - Joan Smith. She served as the right hand to my father in the family law firm over four decades, and had known my father for nearly 50 years and my siblings and I all of our lives. She worked right up till her death, in her eighties, still serving her clients whilst battling with cancer. My father spoke movingly about his old friend at her funeral, reproduced below, capturing her for those who knew, worked with and admired a devoted servant of humanity:
Joan Smith – an appreciation
Taken from the eulogy given by Anthony W Jeremy at the funeral service, Thornhill Crematorium, 2pm Monday 14 July 2008
" As we sorrow for our loss, it seemed to Marie and the Minister right that I should say something of Joan’s professional life, although she was of course not merely my colleague but effectively a member of my family – one of my oldest friends. So let us reflect on the qualities which inspired such respect from the profession and affection from literally hundreds of clients whom she served in the course of a long and successful career.
Many practitioners in the law are appreciated for their efficiency, skills and dedication to their work, but few are so highly valued and esteemed by clients and indeed professional colleagues as was Joan. Why was that?
Well firstly, she had an unswerving professional commitment which I encountered early on as a raw recruit, fresh from the leisurely pace of University life. In the firm which I joined as a raw recruit, Joan was briefed to monitor the often wayward activities of the law students grappling with the urgencies of legal practice. Her no-nonsense, disciplined and sharply focused approach to us made a memorable impact, not unlike experiencing the close attentions of a sergeant major on entering military service. I hasten to add Joan was much gentler, but equally firm. We learned fast and never forgot.
Some years later, when we formed our own firm, my then partner and I counted ourselves extremely fortunate when she joined us. Joan was to prove a pillar of my practice for over 40 years. Her importance to the firm cannot be exaggerated. My work as a civil court practitioner took me away for long periods. Aggregated over the whole of our association these absences amounted to literally years, and in all that time Joan was the proverbial rock in all crises. A steady, calm voice in a sea of troubles she always responded to the challenges with impeccable judgement. She had a rare ability to analyze complex facts with an insight into the essential relevant considerations – a gift which was most evident in her cases of family disputes and matrimonial litigation. To those caught up in the highly charged emotional maelstrom of marriage breakdown, Joan brought wise counsel, clarity of thought and powerful support. Her uncompromising professionalism was respected throughout the legal fraternity by a garland of friends and acquaintances – legal executives, solicitors, barristers and judges – and was recognised in her appointment as one of the fist Fellows of the Institute of Legal Executives. In the affairs of the Institute she played a prominent part in its growth throughout South Wales. Joan was especially concerned to encourage and inspire new entrants, particularly young students.
But what set her apart was that she gave herself to her clients without restraint and without reserve, placing her counsel, experience and skills at their service, often at the cost of personal sacrifice. This she did right to the end of her working life. Only a few weeks ago, at the height of what we now know to be her last illness, Joan was applying herself to clients’ matters and the protection of their interests in spite of considerable discomfort and pain. It has been said that ‘ when you give of yourself you truly give ’ and Joan proved the truth of that proverb to the full.
That dedication was motivated by her compassion for others, a compassion inspired by the ideals and teachings of her Faith. In the chances and changes of life, in times of misfortune, trauma, distress and uncertainty, clients found in Joan not merely someone with whom they could share their pain and problems, but a source of strength, comfort and true understanding – a light in their darkness to set them on their way. That is why so many clients came to regard her not as a legal adviser but as a loyal friend, and many of those friendships have lasted to this day.
And now in this hour of separation, everything which we loved and admired in Joan will become clearer – to us irreplaceable. We shall miss her humour, her wisdom, her commitment and concern for clients. And yet what we miss is in reality her legacy to us. What Joan has left behind is more than a record of professional success but an incomparable example of selfless devotion to others. Those of us who were fortunate enough to know her as clients or colleagues will never forget her. Your presence today is the most eloquent testimony to the admiration and love in which she was held.
I am reminded of Shakespeare’s Sonnets:
‘ When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughts I summon up remembrance of things past
Then can I drown an eye unused to flow for precious friends hid in death’s dateless night
But the while I think on thee dear friend all losses are restored and sorrows end’
And so, although we say farewell to Joan with tears, we shall always think on her with happiness and gratitude for her life of true humanity and service to others.
May she rest in peace "
In penning my thoughts about my grandmother I was much inspired by a number of eulogies written by various members of the family and friends. The art is to capture the person both for those who knew the person well and for those who knew them little or not all - to 'capture' the life lived for all there, and sometimes for those not present to read in print. Herewith two more.
My uncle Eliot wrote and presented the eulogy for his father Winston. As can be appreciated by the reading, they don't make them like him anymore - if they ever did in the first place:
" Winston, we shall miss you.
You were an unusual man. We all respected your wisdom and advice, even if sometimes we found it hard to follow. You were usually right.
You were a man full of surprises. None of us knew until recently the degree to which you had worked with British Intelligence for many years both before and after the last war. We knew you had something to do with camouflage but little more than that. That your department was “concealment, deception and counter measures” sounds quite dramatic, but not half so dramatic as going to Spain as a spy during the Spanish Civil War to study the effects of bombing and meeting Franco, then a Colonel, in passing.
You came from a simple and very poor background, your father was a butcher and your mother a nurse who rose to become a matron.
You and your brothers were bright. Raymond in particular was a brilliant draughtsman. This was recognised and a wealthy patron by the name of Alex Keighly supported you and Raymond financially through higher education firstly to Leeds School of Architecture and then by scholarship to the Architectural Association in London. At the AA you met a fellow student, Kitty Holman, of Scottish and Norwegian extraction. You married her and had a son, David. Tragically, she died in childbirth.
By 1936, you were in Spain and there you met an extraordinary English colonel by the name of Wintle, who eventually became Secretary for Air. It was through him that gradually your career moved from architecture to military matters. Your architectural interest in the design of aerodromes was recognised by the Air Ministry and you were sent to Germany to study the aerodromes being secretly built there. You bought back news of the autobahns being designed as runways and the secret hangers being built in woods nearby, and of the extensive ‘gliding clubs’ which were a thinly disguised basis for a developing airforce.
Back in England, you were put in charge of the ‘L’ expansion scheme, which was semi-secret as it fell outside the Geneva Convention, to develop our own airfields in case of war. The success of this scheme was the key to winning the Battle of Britain as without airfields we would not have been able to defend ourselves when war came.
You started to specialise in camouflage and flew thousands of hours studying different treatments and disguises from the air. At some point in time you had worked in the film industry as an art director making three very bad ‘B’ movies. But you used your experience of film set design to create false buildings, shadows and ‘street lighting’, even mock towns and cities during the War. The success of one of these outside Cardiff can be seen today. Bomb craters are still visible where German bombers dropped their loads on what they thought were the docks, but were in fact only lights and tin foil.
During the war you had married an actress, Everley Gregg, but the marriage was not a success. Immediately, after the war you met Maryel, also an architect who had studied at the AA, and you had a son, Eliot, followed by a daughter, Louise.
For a period you were head of the Hammersmith School of Architecture and then moved to teach at the AA. There, your anti Communist views were not popular but with your background understandable so you went to work in the offices of T P Bennet, a well-known commercial architect.
Once again you received a call, this time from the Admiralty where you secretly worked on a study of the outlying reaches of the Empire to see if they were defendable or should be given up. To your amusement, when you called up the files they were the same ones you had worked on during the War, and had been untouched since. Your conclusion that defense was impractical was as ever logical and pragmatic.
On the death of Maryel’s mother you moved to Cleavers and lived there for almost forty years. After a spell with Howard Hicks in Stratford on Avon you returned to teaching architecture and had many happy years with the students at the Leicester School of Architecture.
You helped start the Stratford Society and were the scourge of planners everywhere. You found time to take a degree in Urban Conservation and used your experience gained as a Planning Inspector to pursue the Stratford Council in ever more ludicrous and complex planning applications. This I suspect you did for your own amusement as much as anything else. You always had a hatred of blind bureaucracy and were a great defender of the individual’s rights against monolithic government and the nanny state.
I have not mentioned your friendship with the De Havilland family or your friendship with Basil Winham, at that time Charlwood Alliance, but subsequently to become a main board director of P & O. You seem to have crammed so many things into your life that it is hard to keep track of them all.
Perhaps it is the ease with which you made great friendships and sometime great enemies that was both your strength and weakness. Your blunt speaking was not always welcome but you were afraid of nothing and always had a sense of justice and a love of freedom.
I hope you are now free to pursue all the things you loved in life because we shall miss you now you are gone.
You were an unusual man and we loved you very much "
Some years ago I went with my cousin and his family to the funeral of a lifelong friend of his and fellow pilot. Jeremy's friend had died too early from cancer and his funeral took place in a small, ancient Oxfordshire Church. The friend remembered, Chris Cowper, and my cousin had been comrades since joining British Airways together after service in the RAF. This address also captures the life and the friendship between them shines through:
"Chris Cowper 1936 - 2005
Chris died just over a week ago, early in the morning on Thursday 15th Sept. perhaps appropriately, in view of his aviation career, it was Battle of Britain commemoration day. He was diagnosed with prostate cancer in November 2003 and had, initially, a long period of containment. He could even play golf during this time. However in the past few months there were increasing difficulties, culminating in a sudden inability to walk or use his legs at all. Tests and treatment followed for 2 weeks at the Churchill hospital in Oxford but it was realised that this condition could not be reversed. Chris wanted to come home and not stay in hospital or go to a hospice. Judy, calmly, methodically, and efficiently took on the role of organising all that this entailed, a hospital style bed downstairs in the dining room, a wheelchair, a commode, and crucially a range of support services, nurses and carers. Chris was fortunate to die at home, where he wanted to be, surrounded by his family in familiar, friendly environment, listening to and watching the recent memorable cricket Test matches. His death was comfortable and peaceful at the last. The support Chris received, not only from Judy, Marcus, Jamie and Claire, but also absolutely crucially, from the health services, was wonderful. Chris had great trust in the medical services, the GP, the Health Centre, District nurses, the specialist cancer consultants and services, the hospitals at Stoke Mandeville and Churchill in Oxford, the carers, the Macmillan Nurses and finally the Marie Curie support from the Florence Nightingdale. They were all caring, amazing and first rate. This is a tribute to them all. Thank you.
Chris has died too soon, much, much too soon but we can celebrate his life because he regarded himself as a fortunate man. He had a good innings. He was not a man given to introspection but, a few months ago, said to me that if he had to go he had enjoyed a good life and could not complain. That good life included a close knit family, Judy his wife of 44 years and his three children. I know that he was thrilled to have a grandchild, Daisy, He had her picture as the wallpaper on his computer. In his chosen career, he was also highly successful as a pilot, firstly in the RAF as a fast jet pilot for 9 years and then as a commercial pilot mainly with British Airways for 27 years and subsequently with smaller charter companies. Chris loved flying, it was his career, vocation and hobby. He wondered that he was being paid for doing something he loved so much. His aviation interest and knowledge were encyclopaedic. His aircraft recognition was phenomenal; he could identify an aircraft from the smallest dot in the sky.
So where and when did this enthusiasm arise. Born in 1936, an only child, his Dad was a tea broker and after school at Canterbury- an experience which I think he enjoyed but in which he claims to have been rather undistinguished- he was destined to follow his Father into tea. But Chris’s interests were already in aviation. He was a modelmaker and apparently an avid reader of aviation magazines. He applied and was successful in obtaining a short service commission to become a pilot in the RAF. On 8th October 1954 Officer training started at Kirton in Lindsey, in where he met his oldest and firmest friend John Cray and his future best man at his wedding, Tony Netherton, both here today. Flying training at Ternhill, on the Provost and Oakington on the Vampire culminated in the award of the coveted wings in 1956 and a posting to the Hawker Hunter, the premier fighter aircraft of its day. These were the days of the cold war and Chris, John and Tony all went to the Second Tactical Air Force in Germany. Chris was with 26 Squadron, followed by 14 Squadron. Apart from the flying this appears to have been a giant never ending party experience in a Germany going through its miraculous economic recovery from the war.
After 3 years in Germany he was fortunate to get a second flying tour as they were called- this time on the twin engined, two crew, delta wing fighter, the Javelin. The fortune, one might say, was short lived as, on one of his early flights at the OCU, he suffered an engine fire, closely followed by a second engine fire, the inevitable conclusion of which is to leave the aircraft, so both he and his navigator ejected, as it is called and descended by parachute. This made him a member of the distinguished club ‘the caterpillar club’, reserved for those who had been compelled to parachute from an aircraft. Chris, typically never made a meal of this very rare experience. Apparently he did say the burning aircraft wreck had ‘set Lord Bolton’s grouse moor on fire and it would burn till Christmas’ but he was, as always, very self effacing about what must have been a terrifying and unique experience. Tony Netherton played golf with Chris shortly after this incident. Chris casually mentioned, between shots, that he had bailed out. There was no aggrandisement; typical Chris; most people would have dined out on this for ever. He did, however, injure his spine in the ejection and spent some time at the famous rehabilitation centre at Headley Court. This spinal injury occasionally caused some pain in subsequent years and latterly he thought this was the cause of his back pain which eventually, tragically, transpired to be the developing prostate cancer.
Chris spent a further 3 years flying the Javelin on 25 Squadron. Somehow he found the time, before the Javelin course, to woo Judy, a neighbour from home, (how he got such a fantastic girl is beyond me) and they married, with Tony Netherton as best man on, 9th. September 1961. They moved to RAF Leuchars, St Andrews. For the first 6 months of his time there Chris was on detachment in Cyprus. I doubt whether this was part of the bargain for Judy!
And so after 9 years in the RAF Chris left to join British European Airways on the Vickers Viscount. It is here that I met him We were on the same course starting 2 days before president Kennedy was assassinated (so we know where we were—probably being taught Viscount electrics at the BEA Heston Training centre). From the every first I knew Chris as very special. What is the touchstone of friendship? I don’t know but we, quite different in temperament, hit it off. This character had the ability or knack of defusing a tricky or difficult situation by making it funny. He didn’t tell jokes but, as we all know, was the ultimate master of the pun. Chris could make a pun out of any statement. Yes we all groaned but we laughed as we groaned and then we prepared to groan and laugh again as pun followed pun. It was great fun, sometimes culminating in side splitting, uncontrolled fits of laughter. Tony Netherton reminded me that Chris would make the pun, stare at you waiting for recognition and then tell another one. We will all miss that.
Chris was an excellent civil pilot. We know that because he came out ahead of all of us on the course and consequently above us all on the infamous seniority list which governs life in the realms of civil aviation. He was also a wonderful crew member; a pilot everyone liked to fly with - and not all outstanding pilots make good members of a crew.
He flew the Viscount and Trident as co-pilot and the Viscount, Vanguard, Trident and Boeing 757, on its introduction to British Airways, as Captain. I remember he was interviewed for a position as a Route Check captain. I asked him how it had gone. He replied he didn’t know but he had made the panel laugh – typical Chris. He was offered the job but the aircraft was withdrawn from service before he could take it up.
So at age 55 in BA, all good things come to an end and one is compelled to leave. Chris flew the 757 with a number of charter airlines, realising what we had all suspected, that BA had been an excellent outfit to work for. Finally he became less than satisfied about some of the safety issues in one operator and he retired, aged 61, in January 1997. His last pilots log book entry simply says ‘Finis’.
So that is the career. He came home to the Old Parsonage, Nether Winchendon , the family home of 21 years after many happy years in the delights of Bryn Cottage, Speen which became too small for the brood, at one time 3 children under 2. Chris had spent a lot of time away from home both in the RAF and in civil flying. Nonetheless he had a strong family and a vast range of interests. These were mostly centred around things which move, mainly with wheels. Aeroplanes, cars, motor bikes, trains, cycles, and, without wheels, canal boats. Chris knew all there was to know on these subjects. And he and Judy also had, at one time, a mini sail. Interest diverged to birds, feathered which also move a bit. Rather like his aircraft recognition skills, Chris took pride in his bird recognition.
He had a combined interest in choral music and churches and cathedrals. Living near Oxford, he and Judy went to the beautiful college chapels to hear glorious choral music.
They also visited the great cathedrals of England and France There was also an interest in Jazz. We all did a course together on art appreciation in Oxford. Chris was very proud of and supported Judy as her sculpturing talents developed.
So what manner of man is emerging? Well, like most of us, a patch work quilt. A family man of absolute integrity, he had a wide circle of acquaintances but was content with a few friends and very happy in his own company, sometimes solitary, even reclusive, doing his own thing, perhaps establishing his amazing model railway system. He did not like large crowds and avoided London, except for a specific occasions; a traditionalist and conservative; rather old fashioned in clothing. I would tease him about his ‘demob suit’ and his panama hat – perhaps it was a Noel Coward influence. I think he thought Armani was some far away Eastern European Republic. He was offended by the word ‘toilet’ it was ‘lavatory’ and certainly some humour was distinctly lavatorial. I have been reminded by Tony Smith of what is, loosely, a golfing story. For many years I didn’t know that Chris played golf. During his working years he, apparently, played occasionally in Scotland, having learnt, to some extent, the game in his youth. On retirement, golf became more important and a source of pleasure, especially to those playing with him. Chris would turn up, immaculately dressed in knickerbockers, polished shoes and shirt and tie (I think he must have worn a tie with his pyjamas). Chris’s golf was pretty erratic, sometimes lousy, but not as bad as mine. On one occasion he hit a diabolical shot; ‘S…T’ was loudly broadcast down the fairway closely followed by the response ‘said the king and 10,000 courtiers struggled and heaved to his command’. We were in stitches only to be brought up short by the admonition of other, more serious, golfers for our excessive noise and hilarity. This was decidedly a reversion to childhood but we revelled in it. There was something of PG Wodehouse in this upright Englishman, (he liked ‘spotted dick’ for pudding), a fantastic sense of humour and a natural clown. Yet Chris could be quite radical in opinion and had firm, diverse and controversial (to me) views on national and world events which he would argue with conviction. He had great interest in books, especially military history as well as anything on transport, aviation, railways, cars, Etc. He would like to find the reference for anything of interest. He was very keen on maps, but I became less enthusiastic about his map reading skills after a jaunt in the Lake District when with supreme confidence, he got us lost. John reminded me that, at Marcus and Jo’s wedding, Chris decided to drive the ‘pretty route’ from hotel to church. We all dutifully followed to be led up an increasingly narrow lane going nowhere. Lots of manoeuvring was required. We just made the church on time!
Chris was very good with words. He wrote a fantastic account of a joint holiday we enjoyed in Kenya in the early 1970’s. Very recently, only a few months ago, he wrote a letter to the Log, the journal of BALPA, on the Hawker Siddely Trident aircraft. This was a fascinating, detailed, historical, account of the aircraft and its characteristics. This article, I am delighted to say, was published as a two page spread in the Log which arrived last month. Chris was thrilled. It is a lasting, worthy, tribute to his aviation knowledge and skilled writing.
He was most amusing, good company, usually easy going but sometimes he would grab hold of some idea and worry it to death. He was far too modest. He certainly undersold himself and his abilities. He was unnecessarily self- effacing, sometimes deliberately playing the fool, as a mask. He was as straight as a die. He was much more sensitive and caring than is perhaps recognised. He was not into possessions. He liked the ‘wireless’ as he called it, especially radio 4. He was always true to himself and his beliefs. He was very fortunate in his chosen professional and private life. He had many hobbies and was happy in his leisure time.
I would like to conclude with a quote from John Cray: ‘Chris had a love of the countryside, particularly the remote areas and of course the wild life, particularly birds. He loved old buildings and, probably influenced by his schooldays in Canterbury, the churches and, cathedrals and though he did not sing well or play an instrument, he was very keen on jazz and very much taken with early English church music, Tallis, Byrd etc. and would listen to choral evensong on the radio or attend evensong if the opportunity occurred. He was a very balanced man. He loved and was very proud of his family and the achievements and skills of all of them. The focus of his life had been flying backed up by his keen interest in all things mechanical and powered. But his interest in, and knowledge of, the arts and also of the countryside and its natural history was also part of the character of an intelligent, thoughtful, loyal man. A friend of more than 50 years’
So Chris has gone, leaving his close family Judy, Jamie, Marcus, and Claire, his wider family and his friends to mourn but above all to remember with pleasure and gratitude what Chris has given to us.
“The rest is silence” "
Rest in peace all.
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
September songs and island dreams
As September breaks and the dreaded back-to-school type feeling descends, something which afflicts the British and possibly the Anglo-Saxon world in a particular way, thoughts turn to times not-so-long past when early September found this particular correspondent-blogger in the Mediterranean, on an island off the coast of Italy to be more precise and on Ventotene to be even more accurate.....
If the discerning traveller was to take a train from Rome southwards they would eventually arrive at the coastal town of Formia. If the same traveller was so inclined, he or she could take a boat ferry or hydrofoil (a sort of cross between a hovercraft and a jet-propelled passenger boat) to the island of Venotene. Not as well known or as glamorous by reputation as Capri, although the island made famous to postwar Britons by Gracie Fields is not far away across the water, it is where a certain Altiero Spinelli was exiled by Mussolinni's fascist regime during the Second World War. Altiero Spinelli is honoured by the Italian federalist movement as its founding father and also as a pioneering thinker-politician behind the development of the European Communities. Spinelli's work influenced the architects and guiding spirits of those who built the institutions that were to grow into the European Union. Whilst imprisoned on the island he wrote the Venotote Manifesto which promoted the idea of a federal Europe and developed the federalist political philosophy. There is an institute - the Spinelli Institute - which exists to further his work and every year holds a conference on federalism to discuss, debate and celebrate his achievements.
The international young Europeans known as Jef, send members to participate in these conferences and the week-long seminars which form a part of the ongoing work of this international organisation. It is a conference like no other: a mixture of lectures and workshops, beach afternoons and the sublime food and drink that Italy offers in her unique way. Evenings are spent carousing under the stars and weighty matters debated and such as the committe membership of the European Parliament and the extension of qualified marjority voting in EU decision-making. There is also a lot of music to go with the wine...
If the discerning traveller was to take a train from Rome southwards they would eventually arrive at the coastal town of Formia. If the same traveller was so inclined, he or she could take a boat ferry or hydrofoil (a sort of cross between a hovercraft and a jet-propelled passenger boat) to the island of Venotene. Not as well known or as glamorous by reputation as Capri, although the island made famous to postwar Britons by Gracie Fields is not far away across the water, it is where a certain Altiero Spinelli was exiled by Mussolinni's fascist regime during the Second World War. Altiero Spinelli is honoured by the Italian federalist movement as its founding father and also as a pioneering thinker-politician behind the development of the European Communities. Spinelli's work influenced the architects and guiding spirits of those who built the institutions that were to grow into the European Union. Whilst imprisoned on the island he wrote the Venotote Manifesto which promoted the idea of a federal Europe and developed the federalist political philosophy. There is an institute - the Spinelli Institute - which exists to further his work and every year holds a conference on federalism to discuss, debate and celebrate his achievements.
The international young Europeans known as Jef, send members to participate in these conferences and the week-long seminars which form a part of the ongoing work of this international organisation. It is a conference like no other: a mixture of lectures and workshops, beach afternoons and the sublime food and drink that Italy offers in her unique way. Evenings are spent carousing under the stars and weighty matters debated and such as the committe membership of the European Parliament and the extension of qualified marjority voting in EU decision-making. There is also a lot of music to go with the wine...
Friday, 29 August 2008
45 years after Luther King the dream is still alive.....
For once it is not hyperbole to use the word 'historic'. Forty-five years after Martin Luther King delivered his impassioned speech - that resonated around the world and became known by the short-hand I Have a Dream - in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, a young African-American has stepped on a stage at a football stadium in Denver Colorado and accepted the nomination of the Democratic Party to run for the Presidency of the United States. Barack Obama, of Kansas and Kenyan parentage, has lived the American ideal and embodies the dream itself - that anything is possible in America with hard work, belief and opportunity. A young, articulate, idealistic, mellifluous, brilliant black man has a chance of becoming the next President of the United States of America. He has risen from community organiser in the South Side of Chicago to the first African-American chair of the prestigious and influential Harvard Law Review and via a stint at the Illinois State legislature to be elected junior Senator for the State of Illinois in the US Congress. This man, who grew up in difficult circumstances with an absent father and a mother faced with major economic and social challenges with the family moving from Indonesia to Hawaii and grandparents having a major input into his upbringing, emobodies what is possible in America.
Politically he represents change from the Bush era and the old, exhausted, bankrupt non-solutions to the problems of the US and the world. Biographically, his is the story that the American elecrorate may wish to have reflected back at them to show them and the world at their best. One of the themes of Obama's book Dreams From My Father, which chronicles his early life and struggles, is that the problems encountered along the way - racial and other prejudice - are not about him and him alone: 'it is not just about you' resounds through the book. And on that platform in Denver Obama echoed that message as he told his audience - both in and outside the stadium - that in the end his candidacy is about them and not him. If they have a vision of themselves reflected in him, he could occupy the White House in 2009. In framing who they are, Americans often re-visit the words of the founding fathers of the Republic as laid down in the Constitution - we hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are made by their Creator equal......and certain inalienable rights among them life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness... What a manifesto for change. In the words of the Obama team - yes he can.
Politically he represents change from the Bush era and the old, exhausted, bankrupt non-solutions to the problems of the US and the world. Biographically, his is the story that the American elecrorate may wish to have reflected back at them to show them and the world at their best. One of the themes of Obama's book Dreams From My Father, which chronicles his early life and struggles, is that the problems encountered along the way - racial and other prejudice - are not about him and him alone: 'it is not just about you' resounds through the book. And on that platform in Denver Obama echoed that message as he told his audience - both in and outside the stadium - that in the end his candidacy is about them and not him. If they have a vision of themselves reflected in him, he could occupy the White House in 2009. In framing who they are, Americans often re-visit the words of the founding fathers of the Republic as laid down in the Constitution - we hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are made by their Creator equal......and certain inalienable rights among them life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness... What a manifesto for change. In the words of the Obama team - yes he can.
Saturday, 16 August 2008
From Scarborough to Salcombe - a Summer tour
In the last fortnight or so a Summer's journey has taken in Yorkshire, Kent and Devon and counties in between. The first weekend in August saw my wife and I heading for Yorkshire to visit her parents in Withernsea, outside Hull. Withernsea is a seaside resort out on the East Ridings and journeying to it feels a little like voyaging across a land-sea of endless flat fields comprising some of the the most arable farming land in the county, England and the UK. The landmark that heralds our destination is a tall white structure visible from some miles off. Known as the Kay Kendall lighthouse it is named after the town's most famous daughter - the actress Kay Kendall, star of films such as Genevieve (with Kenneth More, Michael Redgrave and and once married to Rex Harrison, star of stage and screen with appearances of varying quality from the incomparable My Fair Lady through to the less illustriuos Dr Doolittle to wonderful, almost half-forgotten, gems such as The Yellow Rolls Royce (also starring Omar Sharif). It was said that Kay Kendall was the love of the much-married Rex Harrison's life and when she died young of leukemia he was inconsolable. In a way it is fitting that this vivacious woman who managed to shine a light into the heart of a gifted but in many ways impossible man, should be remembered in her home town by a lighthouse however landlocked. Needless to say it is only open on high days and holidays in the season when the moon turns into a balloon (as observed by her friend and fellow actor David Niven).
Another Yorkshire seaside town with artistic connections is Scarborough. A cross-country drive into North Yorkshire via Bridlington and Filey brings a motoring party to this Victorian pleasure site. Like many such towns of its era it boasts an esplanade, a pier and a grand hotel as well as two beaches complete with promenades. It also has two theatres and a link with the playwright Alan Ayckbourn, whose plays were first performed in the theatre which is named after him - The Theatre in the Round. It was thus the citizens and holidaymakers of Scarborough that were first treated to such modern classics as Absurd Person Singular, The Norman Conquests, Absent Friends and Bedroom Farce . If the works passed the 'Scarborough test' they were ready for the rest of the world - in this way the people of Yorkshire were the literary and artistic arbiters of modern theatrical tastes and trends for where Ayckbourn has trod others have followed.
After such heady artistic pursuits, the traditional beach-side ice-cream experience was deferred for the farmgate produce of Mr Moos, where the challenge is the consumption of what seems to be the largest plateful of chocolate chip-vanilla ice-cream with cookie biscuit base this side of the Yorskhire Dales.
Another county with plenty of agricultural produce is, of course, Devon which is where we ventured post Yorkshire. After a brief administrative stop-over in Kent (Garden of England where the strawberries are boasted of as the best in the UK if not Europe) involving government agencies and paperwork, the caravan rolled southwestwards via the old road connecting South East to South West known to all familiar to it as the A303. Almost a parallel route to that of the Western M4, the traveller passes through counties such as Hampshire, Wiltshire and Dorset before crossing into that deceptively large expanse of south-west countryside known as Somerset. Villages with evocative names abound on this route, including that of Norton-sub-Hampden - for those with political interests it is the place from which Paddy Ashdown the politician (former Leader of the Liberal Democrats) and international civil servant (UN High Representative to Bosnia) takes his title - Lord Ashdown of Norton-sub-Hampden. By sheer chance, when we were sojourning in Devon, the eponymous Paddy A appeared on an edition of the Radio 4 Any Questions programme, which was broadcast from that same village. Once famed for being the only MP to be able to kill with his bare hands - a product of his training as a marine commando - the admirable Paddy still cuts a dash on the stage of public life, where he is noticeably reticent about giving any advice to his successors in the Liberal Democrats. He seems to have taken the advice first attributed to ex-President Harry Truman when counselling others after leaving high office in relation to their successors not to 'talk to the Captain or spit on the floor'. His closing speech to the Party Conference when he retired from the leadership was a masterclass of its kind, ending with the valedictory "and may God continue to hold you in the hollow of his hand". His is a class act in many ways which has developed in adversity as well as truimph since the day he inherited a party, over 20 years ago, that was close to bankrupt. Not that it gets any easier to be a Liberal Democrat when adherents often have to hold simultaneously to two completely contradictory beliefs - and are often hampered by this during election time....or at least are obliged to tell one story at one end of the country and another at the other.
A little like this post, the road eventually leads to Exeter - Devonian market town with a well-regarded University which this correspondent attended in what seems like the increasingly receding years of the late 1980s to early 90s. Follow it south from Exeter and onto what is known as the Devon Expressway which sweeps down the peninsula towards Plymouth, eventually arriving at Ivybridge and Lee Mill, home to my wife's daughter and her Devonian-born boyfriend. Which is how we ended up at Salcombe, for he lived in that fair seaside town which attracts the glamorous and the well-upholstered together with the surfers and boaters of all kinds, urban and sea-prone, townies and locals alike. All this as well as the delights of a visit to the newly revamped harbour area of Plymouth called the Barbican, where we sat and watched as the drama inherent in any activity involving a TV film crew unfolded before us - notwithstanding that what was being filmed rejoiced under the title Come Dine With Me - a day-time cooking show of the variety ubiquitous to the small screen, or idiot's lantern as they call it in some parts. Not far from where we sat, the spirit of Sir Walter Raleigh relives his famous game of bowls upon the Plymouth Hoe - scene of one of the most celebrated pieces of sang-froid of all history: the Spanish Armada was hoving into view carrying the invasion forces of England's rival power and the good sailor and hero of the hour (as the history has it) insisted on finishing his game of bowls before joining with, and ultimately defeating, the Spanish foe. The same chap who cast his coat down in front of his sovereign, Elizabeth I so as to save her dress from a puddle. A hero for history in a long line of naval heroes. Plymouth is an appropriate setting for all this drama - the port of Devonport providing the raw material of the naval power that enabled Brittannia to literally 'rule the waves' from Tudor times to the end of the Second World War. A panolpy of naval heroes echo down through the ages from Raleigh onwards including Nelson as well as all those yachtsmen. Few, perhaps, quite as quixotic as Walter. Could be the effect of the salty air combined with the clotted cream......
Another Yorkshire seaside town with artistic connections is Scarborough. A cross-country drive into North Yorkshire via Bridlington and Filey brings a motoring party to this Victorian pleasure site. Like many such towns of its era it boasts an esplanade, a pier and a grand hotel as well as two beaches complete with promenades. It also has two theatres and a link with the playwright Alan Ayckbourn, whose plays were first performed in the theatre which is named after him - The Theatre in the Round. It was thus the citizens and holidaymakers of Scarborough that were first treated to such modern classics as Absurd Person Singular, The Norman Conquests, Absent Friends and Bedroom Farce . If the works passed the 'Scarborough test' they were ready for the rest of the world - in this way the people of Yorkshire were the literary and artistic arbiters of modern theatrical tastes and trends for where Ayckbourn has trod others have followed.
After such heady artistic pursuits, the traditional beach-side ice-cream experience was deferred for the farmgate produce of Mr Moos, where the challenge is the consumption of what seems to be the largest plateful of chocolate chip-vanilla ice-cream with cookie biscuit base this side of the Yorskhire Dales.
Another county with plenty of agricultural produce is, of course, Devon which is where we ventured post Yorkshire. After a brief administrative stop-over in Kent (Garden of England where the strawberries are boasted of as the best in the UK if not Europe) involving government agencies and paperwork, the caravan rolled southwestwards via the old road connecting South East to South West known to all familiar to it as the A303. Almost a parallel route to that of the Western M4, the traveller passes through counties such as Hampshire, Wiltshire and Dorset before crossing into that deceptively large expanse of south-west countryside known as Somerset. Villages with evocative names abound on this route, including that of Norton-sub-Hampden - for those with political interests it is the place from which Paddy Ashdown the politician (former Leader of the Liberal Democrats) and international civil servant (UN High Representative to Bosnia) takes his title - Lord Ashdown of Norton-sub-Hampden. By sheer chance, when we were sojourning in Devon, the eponymous Paddy A appeared on an edition of the Radio 4 Any Questions programme, which was broadcast from that same village. Once famed for being the only MP to be able to kill with his bare hands - a product of his training as a marine commando - the admirable Paddy still cuts a dash on the stage of public life, where he is noticeably reticent about giving any advice to his successors in the Liberal Democrats. He seems to have taken the advice first attributed to ex-President Harry Truman when counselling others after leaving high office in relation to their successors not to 'talk to the Captain or spit on the floor'. His closing speech to the Party Conference when he retired from the leadership was a masterclass of its kind, ending with the valedictory "and may God continue to hold you in the hollow of his hand". His is a class act in many ways which has developed in adversity as well as truimph since the day he inherited a party, over 20 years ago, that was close to bankrupt. Not that it gets any easier to be a Liberal Democrat when adherents often have to hold simultaneously to two completely contradictory beliefs - and are often hampered by this during election time....or at least are obliged to tell one story at one end of the country and another at the other.
A little like this post, the road eventually leads to Exeter - Devonian market town with a well-regarded University which this correspondent attended in what seems like the increasingly receding years of the late 1980s to early 90s. Follow it south from Exeter and onto what is known as the Devon Expressway which sweeps down the peninsula towards Plymouth, eventually arriving at Ivybridge and Lee Mill, home to my wife's daughter and her Devonian-born boyfriend. Which is how we ended up at Salcombe, for he lived in that fair seaside town which attracts the glamorous and the well-upholstered together with the surfers and boaters of all kinds, urban and sea-prone, townies and locals alike. All this as well as the delights of a visit to the newly revamped harbour area of Plymouth called the Barbican, where we sat and watched as the drama inherent in any activity involving a TV film crew unfolded before us - notwithstanding that what was being filmed rejoiced under the title Come Dine With Me - a day-time cooking show of the variety ubiquitous to the small screen, or idiot's lantern as they call it in some parts. Not far from where we sat, the spirit of Sir Walter Raleigh relives his famous game of bowls upon the Plymouth Hoe - scene of one of the most celebrated pieces of sang-froid of all history: the Spanish Armada was hoving into view carrying the invasion forces of England's rival power and the good sailor and hero of the hour (as the history has it) insisted on finishing his game of bowls before joining with, and ultimately defeating, the Spanish foe. The same chap who cast his coat down in front of his sovereign, Elizabeth I so as to save her dress from a puddle. A hero for history in a long line of naval heroes. Plymouth is an appropriate setting for all this drama - the port of Devonport providing the raw material of the naval power that enabled Brittannia to literally 'rule the waves' from Tudor times to the end of the Second World War. A panolpy of naval heroes echo down through the ages from Raleigh onwards including Nelson as well as all those yachtsmen. Few, perhaps, quite as quixotic as Walter. Could be the effect of the salty air combined with the clotted cream......
Saturday, 9 August 2008
An Anniversary Outing
The end of July saw this correspondent and his wife celebrating a wedding anniversary on London's South Bank. Having investigated West End theatrical offerings we opted for the wider spaces and promenading opportunities provided in and around the National Theatre. One can sit and sample the delights of the passing parade - the comings and goings of late afternoon and early-evening Londoners together with the musical performances in the precints of the National Theatre make wonderful entertainment for theatre goers and promenaders alike. For all the past talk of architectural 'carbuncles', by heirs with airs, the South Bank is a space in the heart of London to be cherished - it is a space on a human scale and facilitates a democratic meeting point for strollers, culture vultures, city workers and artists alike. In a way, the play we saw echoed the theme of people, life and art.
The brilliant polymath playwright Michael Frayn's virtuoso portrait of the life of German theatrical impresario Max Reinhardt, Afterlife, was a joy. Set in Austria in the years leading up to the rise of the Nazis, it follows the career of one of the century's most flamboyant and contradictory theatrical luminaries. The play is a kind of literary dissertation on the themes of life, art, mortality and legacy as seen through the Miracle Plays which Rheinhardt staged at the Salzburg Festival. The premise of these plays had at its centre the figure of Everyman - the universal character beloved of artists from time immemorial to denote humanity in its entirety and in its particularity. Everyman has his time, as Shakespeare has it, 'to strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more' and then has to account for his deeds on earth to the Almighty. Rheinhardt was much preoccupied with breaking down the barriers between what went on in everyday life and what went on on stage, and talked of the 'frontier' between art and life. Frayn brings these themes to life through devices such as blank and rhyming verse - the characters on stage suddenly burst into passages of poetry. The story of Rheinhardt's complicated artistic, personal and political life is told with wit, panache and verve but is also profound and serious in intent. In amongst the stage antics, clever theatrical jokes and visual allusions, the deeply philosophical message of the play is never far from the surface - time waits for no man and death comes whispering 'Everyman' to every man.
Monday, 28 July 2008
First world war battlefield trip, Northern France
In the spring of 1985 school boys trying to take in the awe and majesty of the Menin gate and the uinimaginable horror of the Western Front. Visits to the trenches and the war graves in the vast cemetries: Ypres; Passchendaele; the Somme; miles and miles of trench snaking way through the countryside- scenes of mud, shell, barbed wire and bodies now overlain with grassy banks and flowers. The flat country of Northern France and Belgium as the scene of the slaughter.
Subsequent years have brought an apprecication of the art that tried to describe such horror - poetry, songs, the brilliant O What a Lovely War, the books of Sebastian Faulks, the moving TV series on the monuments to the dead all over Britain, presented by Ian Hislop.
Subsequent years have brought an apprecication of the art that tried to describe such horror - poetry, songs, the brilliant O What a Lovely War, the books of Sebastian Faulks, the moving TV series on the monuments to the dead all over Britain, presented by Ian Hislop.
Friday, 18 July 2008
Summer thoughts of past adventures
In a memorable edition of the Radio 4 personal essay series 'A Point of View', the writer and critic Clive James recounted his battles to give up smoking and how he eventually learned to 'smoke the memory'. Whenever he feels like a cigarette or small cigar he recalls the sensations, the feelings and associated pleasures of the actual act of lighting up, inhaling and exhaling. This helps him both to remember the pleasure and not to recreate it in actuality.
It feels a little like that as we do not contemplate venturing abroad this Summer. Instead of preparing to head off to foreign clime I shall try and recall past trips - to 'travel the memory'. What does the poet say about "summoning up things past, what do I recall?". The first venture starts in the mid-1980s and a school trip to the First World War battlefields of Northern France and Belgium, the latest a wedding anniversary trip to Paris. The travelogue will follow a haphazard, but one hopes interesting path. These are the wanderings of the Oldest Trainee...
It feels a little like that as we do not contemplate venturing abroad this Summer. Instead of preparing to head off to foreign clime I shall try and recall past trips - to 'travel the memory'. What does the poet say about "summoning up things past, what do I recall?". The first venture starts in the mid-1980s and a school trip to the First World War battlefields of Northern France and Belgium, the latest a wedding anniversary trip to Paris. The travelogue will follow a haphazard, but one hopes interesting path. These are the wanderings of the Oldest Trainee...
Wednesday, 28 May 2008
Summoned by Pips
The poet John Betjeman wrote a celebrated book of memoirs in verse, Summoned by Bells, taking as his theme his various experiences of being called to school-room or lecture hall by the ringing of bells - not to mention to church services. Over the last three weeks your correspondent has been at various secondary schools across London, in an exam invigilating capacity, and the sound marking the school day can only be described as 'pips': short bursts of noise as if from klaxon or loud hailer but put out across a tannoy system that reaches everyone on what is referred to as 'campus'. The word campus is used to describe schools as well as undergraduate colleges and the word 'student' seems to have replaced 'pupil'. With an environment, in some places, more akin to further education establishment than high school, the overall effect is one of democratisation of the school experience, albeit an illusory one.
Another innovation, and sign of the times, is that there are now members of staff dedicated to running the exams system. Such is the variety and number of exams these days that the Exams Officer is often occupied with the job full-time. Some schools recruit specialist administrators and some are drawn from the retired teachers ranks, often depending on the size of the school and its catchment area, which may determine the number of pupils with English as a second language. Administering exams in one language is challenging enough but with Asian, African and European languages as mother tongues of students increasingly the norm, particularly in London, the pressures on time and staff attention is that much greater.
From entering high school aged 11, the average pupil faces a seemingly ever-growing list of examinations. There are SATs; GCSEs; AS-Levels and A-levels with the usual provision for mocks and those taking exams early. The exam boards range in difficulty and what is called 'stretch' and schools choose different boards for different subjects - Edexcel for Maths and the WJEC (Welsh Joint Education Council) for RE as an example. A modern variation on the theme of eliminating disruption in the examination hall is the problem posed by that ubiquitous communication instrument of modern times - the mobile phone. The rules laid down by most of the public exam boards is as clear as it is uncompromising - if a mobile rings during the course of an exam the owner can be disqualified from the paper forthwith. Most schools have a system of mobile hand-in beforehand and hand-out afterwards. They are sometimes 'tagged and bagged' in envelopes. One pupil's mobile phone went off during a GCSE art exam causing upset and consternation - the phone had switched itself on so as to activate the alarm whilst it lay in its brown envelope. A case of functionality not having its uses!
The endless debate of the state of education generally and examination standards particularly rumbles on and is as regular as Summer downpours. From personal observation in the last few weeks of this year's season, the papers seem to be as they always were in subjects as English, History and Maths and a little more modular in languages. What does not change is the anxiety, worry and general tense atmosphere in exam halls up and down the land and the accompanying reactions of pupils undertaking them ranging from pyschosmatic illness, through to tears and high-jinks horseplay. Midsummer madness in all its manifestations accompanies examinations, for pupils, parents, teachers and invigilators alike.
Another innovation, and sign of the times, is that there are now members of staff dedicated to running the exams system. Such is the variety and number of exams these days that the Exams Officer is often occupied with the job full-time. Some schools recruit specialist administrators and some are drawn from the retired teachers ranks, often depending on the size of the school and its catchment area, which may determine the number of pupils with English as a second language. Administering exams in one language is challenging enough but with Asian, African and European languages as mother tongues of students increasingly the norm, particularly in London, the pressures on time and staff attention is that much greater.
From entering high school aged 11, the average pupil faces a seemingly ever-growing list of examinations. There are SATs; GCSEs; AS-Levels and A-levels with the usual provision for mocks and those taking exams early. The exam boards range in difficulty and what is called 'stretch' and schools choose different boards for different subjects - Edexcel for Maths and the WJEC (Welsh Joint Education Council) for RE as an example. A modern variation on the theme of eliminating disruption in the examination hall is the problem posed by that ubiquitous communication instrument of modern times - the mobile phone. The rules laid down by most of the public exam boards is as clear as it is uncompromising - if a mobile rings during the course of an exam the owner can be disqualified from the paper forthwith. Most schools have a system of mobile hand-in beforehand and hand-out afterwards. They are sometimes 'tagged and bagged' in envelopes. One pupil's mobile phone went off during a GCSE art exam causing upset and consternation - the phone had switched itself on so as to activate the alarm whilst it lay in its brown envelope. A case of functionality not having its uses!
The endless debate of the state of education generally and examination standards particularly rumbles on and is as regular as Summer downpours. From personal observation in the last few weeks of this year's season, the papers seem to be as they always were in subjects as English, History and Maths and a little more modular in languages. What does not change is the anxiety, worry and general tense atmosphere in exam halls up and down the land and the accompanying reactions of pupils undertaking them ranging from pyschosmatic illness, through to tears and high-jinks horseplay. Midsummer madness in all its manifestations accompanies examinations, for pupils, parents, teachers and invigilators alike.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Reflections on a London journey
The standing joke about travelling in my home country of Wales is that few people realise that we have a Welsh sub-continent, which takes up most of the middle of the country and consists mainly of two counties - Powys and Montgomeryshire - where rolling countryside gives way to small towns and country miles wind their way through hedgerow and field. All this bisected by the Welsh version of the M25, the A470 which runs north-south and is the major arterial route. Thousands of words have been expended on the inadequacies of this road in the form of reports, discsussions, debates, political manifestos. Plans come and go, elections are fought and lost, the talk goes on and still very little happens in the way of change to this enormous piece of tarmac which is literally at the centre of motor travelling life in Wales, apart from the highways in and out and surrounding Wales - the M4 and M5.
Travelling in and around London is a very different experience. Since I have been living in Kent I have cause to undertake journeys into the capital more and more. Yesterday was a case of car, tube and bus out to the East of London via the delights of a the Jubilee line and the DLR (docklands light railway) to Stratford (not the Warwickshire town and birthplace of Shakespeare although it would have been an interesting diversion) and thence to Leyton on the Central Line (did not feel that central at the time as the underground became the overground). The destination was as yet some way off and required a bus from tube station to somewhere near the road I had to walk down to arrive at the street which harboured the school I was visiting at its end. The school building was a revelation, all new architecural design and opened at the turn of this century by the then-Secretary of State for Education, Estelle Morris. Set in a borough of London that has been the recipient of government largesse and increased state funding for services such as education, the Lammas School at least has a modern building to serve the needs of a catchment area which reflects our modern wider community life: a high number of pupils with English as a second language; a sizeable provision of free school meals; special needs coverage (of all kinds).
The infrastructure of education is linked with public policy in a very direct way. In towns, cities and villages all over the UK there are school buildings which are still standing and in use from the 19th century, when the era of state involvement in the provision of public education began with the various Education Acts of the 1870s. Indeed, I had encountered a typical example of swhen I stopped for directions at a primary school bearing all the hallmarks of a 19th century school build: red bricks; iron railings and the separate exits and entrances for boys and girls. A very twenty-first century group of school children, filled with the faces and languages of a dozen countries, played in the yard built by the burghers of Leyton and Walthamstow who had been mindful of their public duty to encourage 'useful lives' among the citizenry when Victoria was Queen Empress of India and Britain had an Empire (run from Whitehall and managed by a few hundred servants of the Crown). If those same men of affairs took a walk past the school they financed they would find that the Empire had come home to the mother country in all its variety, colour and diversity. I crossed the road and travelled over a hundred years in a few hundred yards, to a shining new building proclaiming the same endeavour in pursuit of the virtues of public education of a century ago. A long way to travel in so short a time. The challenges may be different but the ideals of education for all are the same.
Travelling in and around London is a very different experience. Since I have been living in Kent I have cause to undertake journeys into the capital more and more. Yesterday was a case of car, tube and bus out to the East of London via the delights of a the Jubilee line and the DLR (docklands light railway) to Stratford (not the Warwickshire town and birthplace of Shakespeare although it would have been an interesting diversion) and thence to Leyton on the Central Line (did not feel that central at the time as the underground became the overground). The destination was as yet some way off and required a bus from tube station to somewhere near the road I had to walk down to arrive at the street which harboured the school I was visiting at its end. The school building was a revelation, all new architecural design and opened at the turn of this century by the then-Secretary of State for Education, Estelle Morris. Set in a borough of London that has been the recipient of government largesse and increased state funding for services such as education, the Lammas School at least has a modern building to serve the needs of a catchment area which reflects our modern wider community life: a high number of pupils with English as a second language; a sizeable provision of free school meals; special needs coverage (of all kinds).
The infrastructure of education is linked with public policy in a very direct way. In towns, cities and villages all over the UK there are school buildings which are still standing and in use from the 19th century, when the era of state involvement in the provision of public education began with the various Education Acts of the 1870s. Indeed, I had encountered a typical example of swhen I stopped for directions at a primary school bearing all the hallmarks of a 19th century school build: red bricks; iron railings and the separate exits and entrances for boys and girls. A very twenty-first century group of school children, filled with the faces and languages of a dozen countries, played in the yard built by the burghers of Leyton and Walthamstow who had been mindful of their public duty to encourage 'useful lives' among the citizenry when Victoria was Queen Empress of India and Britain had an Empire (run from Whitehall and managed by a few hundred servants of the Crown). If those same men of affairs took a walk past the school they financed they would find that the Empire had come home to the mother country in all its variety, colour and diversity. I crossed the road and travelled over a hundred years in a few hundred yards, to a shining new building proclaiming the same endeavour in pursuit of the virtues of public education of a century ago. A long way to travel in so short a time. The challenges may be different but the ideals of education for all are the same.
Thursday, 17 April 2008
The Lost Baggage Saga or skiing out of Terminal 5 in borrowed salopettes
This correspondent has been away from his blogging duties due to a combination of illness, Terminal 5 Heathrow, lost baggage and ski trip adventures.
The timing was spectacular. Having been excited about the prospect of flying out of the newly opened (by HM Queen no less) and recently operational, many billions-costing, Richard Rogers-designed Terminal 5, Heathrow's newest glory, our party found ourselves in the midst of one of the biggest public project false starts since the Millennium Dome met the Millennium wobbly bridge over the Thames. We being the intrepid school ski party. What should have been Day 3 of the new super-charged Terminal 5 (or T5 as the cognoscenti started calling it - the name got shorter as the baggage trail got bigger) showing the world its wonders turned into the third day of a Very British Airport Breakdown. The much-heralded superfast bag-handling system, capable of processing up to 12,000 bags per hour, had started malfunctioning and sending luggage various to variously different destinations, apart from where the passengers were headed. Flights were cancelled, passengers waiting hours on the concourse for flights delayed - the Chief Executive of BA apologising but not resigning - turning disaster into technical difficulties and a mea culpa into a marketing strategy.
Advised to keep checking the electronic board for news of our flight we had the green light it would be operating via the neon glow of the website, and the Party Leader (also doubling up as travel agent and this correspondent's wife) duly gave the order to implement Phase One of the Ski Party Reach Destination Plan - the airport run. This consisted of 2 school minibuses, about half the party and some of the luggage, driven by Party Leader No 1 Daughter and ex-HM of said school. Upon arrival checked in to an emptier-than-average departure hall (stunningly rendered by the Rogers outfit) due to cancellations, to be greeted by tales of woe from the long-suffering check-in desk staff: management not supporting front-line staff who took the brunt of passenger angst and aggravation. Disgruntlement was taken to an art form that day.
Along the concourse flagged by shops, designer outlets and eateries of one sort or another lay a noticeable lack of seating for those not inclined to shop or eat. After the misdirecting of the departure gate we eventually found ourselves sitting on a plane that was yet to depart for some time. Apparently, there was missing paperwork that had found its way off the flightdeck and had to be re-located. A very embarrassed pilot explained the delay and we eventually took off into the blue yonder. The usual talk on board the plane of family, history, education, careers. The mother sitting in the next seat was a photographer-turned fruit farmer. The party had a late arrival in Munich, and the luggage carousel told the story - 14 bags missing from the 42-member group roster, including all of the party leader's luaggage and her partner's (the author all present and correct). After more delays to fill out forms, collection of BA-issue emergency toiletry bags, food purchasing and general consternation at the lateness of the hour exacerbated by fatigue, the bus left Munich Airport bound for Austria, Salzburg and St Johann im Pongau. Our doughty travel rep, retired teacher who had recently been involved in a horrific car accident and wore a neck-brace, met us with the bus and the journey continued. We eventually arrived at the Hotel Sonnhof, Alpendorf, St Johann im Pongau to be welcomed with the typically Austrian soup dish, gulashsup.
That night the party leader and her assistant (the present author) were left pondering. The thing about losing luggage on a ski trip is that one has packed to ski and the whole raison d'etre, clothing-wise, seems a bit lost if the whole kit and caboodle (gloves, hats, ski suit etc) is having a holiday of its own. This was as nothing, though, to the worry of the missing parents the following day......
The timing was spectacular. Having been excited about the prospect of flying out of the newly opened (by HM Queen no less) and recently operational, many billions-costing, Richard Rogers-designed Terminal 5, Heathrow's newest glory, our party found ourselves in the midst of one of the biggest public project false starts since the Millennium Dome met the Millennium wobbly bridge over the Thames. We being the intrepid school ski party. What should have been Day 3 of the new super-charged Terminal 5 (or T5 as the cognoscenti started calling it - the name got shorter as the baggage trail got bigger) showing the world its wonders turned into the third day of a Very British Airport Breakdown. The much-heralded superfast bag-handling system, capable of processing up to 12,000 bags per hour, had started malfunctioning and sending luggage various to variously different destinations, apart from where the passengers were headed. Flights were cancelled, passengers waiting hours on the concourse for flights delayed - the Chief Executive of BA apologising but not resigning - turning disaster into technical difficulties and a mea culpa into a marketing strategy.
Advised to keep checking the electronic board for news of our flight we had the green light it would be operating via the neon glow of the website, and the Party Leader (also doubling up as travel agent and this correspondent's wife) duly gave the order to implement Phase One of the Ski Party Reach Destination Plan - the airport run. This consisted of 2 school minibuses, about half the party and some of the luggage, driven by Party Leader No 1 Daughter and ex-HM of said school. Upon arrival checked in to an emptier-than-average departure hall (stunningly rendered by the Rogers outfit) due to cancellations, to be greeted by tales of woe from the long-suffering check-in desk staff: management not supporting front-line staff who took the brunt of passenger angst and aggravation. Disgruntlement was taken to an art form that day.
Along the concourse flagged by shops, designer outlets and eateries of one sort or another lay a noticeable lack of seating for those not inclined to shop or eat. After the misdirecting of the departure gate we eventually found ourselves sitting on a plane that was yet to depart for some time. Apparently, there was missing paperwork that had found its way off the flightdeck and had to be re-located. A very embarrassed pilot explained the delay and we eventually took off into the blue yonder. The usual talk on board the plane of family, history, education, careers. The mother sitting in the next seat was a photographer-turned fruit farmer. The party had a late arrival in Munich, and the luggage carousel told the story - 14 bags missing from the 42-member group roster, including all of the party leader's luaggage and her partner's (the author all present and correct). After more delays to fill out forms, collection of BA-issue emergency toiletry bags, food purchasing and general consternation at the lateness of the hour exacerbated by fatigue, the bus left Munich Airport bound for Austria, Salzburg and St Johann im Pongau. Our doughty travel rep, retired teacher who had recently been involved in a horrific car accident and wore a neck-brace, met us with the bus and the journey continued. We eventually arrived at the Hotel Sonnhof, Alpendorf, St Johann im Pongau to be welcomed with the typically Austrian soup dish, gulashsup.
That night the party leader and her assistant (the present author) were left pondering. The thing about losing luggage on a ski trip is that one has packed to ski and the whole raison d'etre, clothing-wise, seems a bit lost if the whole kit and caboodle (gloves, hats, ski suit etc) is having a holiday of its own. This was as nothing, though, to the worry of the missing parents the following day......
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
On David Lean - a film giant
This year marks the 100th anniversary of the birth of David Lean. This giant of the film world was responsible for some of the twentieth century's iconic movies. From working on Noel Coward's In Which We Serve and launching the screen acting career of Alec Guinness in the film version of the Dickens classic Great Expectations, Lean was at the forefront of a dazzling mileu of British talent that adorned the cinema in the post Second World War years. Not an easy man to work with he nontheless helped develop the careers of several distinguished actors, Peter O'Toole and Omar Shariff among them.
He was responsible for some true masterpieces, such as Lawrence of Arabia with the opening desert scene, Dr Zhivago and The Bridge on the River Kwai, with a mesemerising peformance by Alec Guinness as Colonel Nicholson. As for the cream of the acting talent, Lean worked with them all, from Richard Attenborough to Jack Hawkins and Julie Christie to John Mills and many, many more. A perfectionist who drove himself and others to the point of distraction, at times a tyrant, he was not an actor's director or a particularly caring man. He was, though, a great artist and a list of even some of his films is a roll-call of cimematic delights. Read and marvel: Great Expectations; Oliver Twist; Brief Encounter; The Bridge on the River Kwai; Hobson's Choice; Lawrence of Arabia; Dr Zhivago; Ryan's Daughter; Passage to India . Shall we see his like again?
He was responsible for some true masterpieces, such as Lawrence of Arabia with the opening desert scene, Dr Zhivago and The Bridge on the River Kwai, with a mesemerising peformance by Alec Guinness as Colonel Nicholson. As for the cream of the acting talent, Lean worked with them all, from Richard Attenborough to Jack Hawkins and Julie Christie to John Mills and many, many more. A perfectionist who drove himself and others to the point of distraction, at times a tyrant, he was not an actor's director or a particularly caring man. He was, though, a great artist and a list of even some of his films is a roll-call of cimematic delights. Read and marvel: Great Expectations; Oliver Twist; Brief Encounter; The Bridge on the River Kwai; Hobson's Choice; Lawrence of Arabia; Dr Zhivago; Ryan's Daughter; Passage to India . Shall we see his like again?
Monday, 24 March 2008
The triumph of Sunday night television
The BBC would have pulled off a televisual coup if it develops the brilliant series shown on Easter Sunday night, The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency. Based on the book series by Alexander Mcall Smith and adapted by Richard Curtis (of Blackadder and Four Weddings& a Funeral and Vicar of Dibley fame) and the late and hugely missed Anthony Minghella, it is set in Botswana and tells the story of the abundant Precious Ramotswe of the eponymous title. Wonderfully photographed and brilliantly written, it is a 'feel good factor' series if ever there was one, with combining warm African wit with profound messages, all shot on location with fabulous colours. Last night's episode was dedicated to Anthony Minghella (the English Patient, The Talented Mr Ripley and Cold Mountain to name just a few) who died suddenly last week at the achingly young age of 54. The world has lost two of its brightest in the firmament in the space of a week - Anthony Minghella and Paul Scofield. RIP artistic souls both.
Thursday, 20 March 2008
A theatrical light goes out and another burns brighter still
The British theatre has lost one of its great figures - Paul Scofield. Famous for his role on the stage, and later screen, as Sir Thomas More in Robert Bolts's play A Man for All Seasons he was a Shakespearian classical actor of great power and presence. Choosing to remain in the theatre when Hollywood stardom beckoned, he was a modest and sel-effacing man - as his co-star in Peter Shaffer's play Amadeus, Simon Callow, said of him Schofield was not an 'actorly' actor. Having lived through the great days of the theatre in the mid-20th century, Scofield ranks alongside Olivier, Gielgud, and Guinness as masters of the art.
Another contemporary master of the art can be seen at the National Theatre in London playing Benedict in Much Ado About Nothing, Simon Russell Beale. In a truly magnificent performance, playing opposite Zoe Wanamaker as Beatrice, this most celebratory of Shakespeare's comedies is brought to vivid life. Both actors are at the top of their profession and a the top of their game. The cast is wonderful with the likes of Oliver Ford Davies lending his great experience on stage and screen in the role of Beatrice's father, Leonato. Directed with bravura by the brilliantissimo Stephen Hyntner the action is aided and guided by a revolving stage and there is a fabulously conceived, wonderfully funny and perfectly executed piece of stage business involving a sunken bath and the antics of the two warring principals.
It is every bit as exuberant and bouncy a production as Kenneth Branagh's film version set in the Italian countryside and boasting an all-star cast. As they say in the theatrical reviewing world: beg, borrow or steal a ticket.
Another contemporary master of the art can be seen at the National Theatre in London playing Benedict in Much Ado About Nothing, Simon Russell Beale. In a truly magnificent performance, playing opposite Zoe Wanamaker as Beatrice, this most celebratory of Shakespeare's comedies is brought to vivid life. Both actors are at the top of their profession and a the top of their game. The cast is wonderful with the likes of Oliver Ford Davies lending his great experience on stage and screen in the role of Beatrice's father, Leonato. Directed with bravura by the brilliantissimo Stephen Hyntner the action is aided and guided by a revolving stage and there is a fabulously conceived, wonderfully funny and perfectly executed piece of stage business involving a sunken bath and the antics of the two warring principals.
It is every bit as exuberant and bouncy a production as Kenneth Branagh's film version set in the Italian countryside and boasting an all-star cast. As they say in the theatrical reviewing world: beg, borrow or steal a ticket.
Sunday, 16 March 2008
A broken window in Adelaide
As well as the excitement of the finale of the Six Nations rugby football tournament, made all the more sweet by the victory of Wales as champions and winners of the Grand Slam, the Australian Grand Prix in Melbourne is playing out its drama as I write. Melbourne is Australia's 'second city' but it has not always played host to the Grand Prx. For many years the South Australian city of Adelaide gave itself over to the thrills, excitement and glamour of motor sport. Another memory springs to mind.....
In the year of grace 1991, as the long premiership of Mrs Thatcher was coming to an end, marking the close of the decade that would become to be known by the short-hand of ‘the 80s’, and what was to become the shorter but turbulent early 1990s under one John Major was just beginning, the Oldest Trainee journeyed to the other side of the world. At that time it was popular for gap-year students – between school and university or further/higher education – to take time to work and travel and in the Oldest Trainee's case it was mid-degree course and it was travelling to the Southern hemisphere. Due to a combination of academic exhaustion, an understanding university tutor and a suggestable nature, it was South Australia that became the focus of travelling attention . . Suffice it to say, he found a way through the good offices of a sympathetic tutor at the University to persuade the academic authorities to grant him leave of absence for a year – a suspension of studies – in order to take time out from the ‘treadmill’ of study followed for many a year since the age of 4. A friend of the family who had attended Cambridge University in the 1950s with the pater familias of the Legoe family and had subsequently gone out to Australia to live and work for a while, suggested both a visit Down Under and a sojourn with his old friend’s family.
It is not a highly recommended technique to endear oneself to your hosts, but launching oneself through the glass door of the host family on the first night of arrival is exactly what this writer did on his arrival in the city of Adelaide. Having been kind enough to respond to a telephonic entreaty from the airport to pick up the friend of a friend and having furthered that generosity by putting that stranger up for the night, these blameless citizens of the South Australian capital found themselves dealing with a long-haul traveller who leapt through glass doors. He had chosen the family, or rather the family had been unlucky enough to be landed with him by virtue of their names being on a contacts list provided by a family friend (of the Oldest Trainee) who seeded the idea of the Great Australian adventure in the first place.
Thus it came to pass that on a balmy weekend evening in the first flowering of a Southern Hemisphere summer, having left the Autumn in the Northern Hemisphere, the Oldest Trainee found himself in the garden Jacuzzi under an Australian sky in the city of Adelaide. Having been reassured by the host father that he, the father, had not claimed on the house insurance for a while and warned by the host mother not to presume or expect help from anyone just because of the fact of friendship long ago between one family and another, he started his Australian sojourn.
After that window-shattering experience in the capital city of the free-settled state of South Australia – a distinction the burghers of its capital city and across the state never cease to point out, giving South Australia an Anglicised flavour of a certain kind, it was into the hands of the Legoe family of Adelaide and Robe and South east South Australia that he was passed before he could do much more damage.
In the year of his visit, the Australian Grand Prix was still being held in Adelaide. En route to meet George Legoe, eldest son of gentlemen farmers and as near-landed gentry of the South Australian state as it gets, the father of that most forebearing of host families showed him the sights of the city in preparation for the Grand Prix by driving the route that the drivers would race: at that time Adelaide shared with Monaco the distinction of being host to a motor race actually raced within the city itself – Melbourne was to steal the Formula 1 crown from Adelaide, but at that time the South Australian capital was Queen of the Australian motor racing world. It turned out that the Oldest Trainee was to be present at the race which was run in a sustained downpour of rain and viewed from an office block near the track.
The handover of the troublesome visitor to George Legoe having taken place outside the city limits, the journey continued southwards towards Robe in the south-east of the state. George was taciturn but friendly and he indulged the Oldest Trainee's stream of questions.
The Legoe family have major connections with Adelaide, as do half the farmers and land-owners of the state. George’s mother Marianne was from a family connected to the founder of the city and the state itself. Adelaide was named after Queen Adelaide. As was the case with many farming families, the Legoes had a house in the city and his younger brother Will attended one of the Universities in Adelaide (Flinders). The traffic from Robe to Adelaide was frequent and an unremarked feature of their lives: the family networks had friends whose children studied in the city at university or had attended as pupils one of the various boarding schools modelled on the English system. The Legoes themselves had a school link with Geelong in Victoria. All in all Adelaide was the nearest major city and in Australian terms, up the road in journey time: three hours. A country town and a small city, three hours apart, not a problem for citizens of this island continent.
In the year of grace 1991, as the long premiership of Mrs Thatcher was coming to an end, marking the close of the decade that would become to be known by the short-hand of ‘the 80s’, and what was to become the shorter but turbulent early 1990s under one John Major was just beginning, the Oldest Trainee journeyed to the other side of the world. At that time it was popular for gap-year students – between school and university or further/higher education – to take time to work and travel and in the Oldest Trainee's case it was mid-degree course and it was travelling to the Southern hemisphere. Due to a combination of academic exhaustion, an understanding university tutor and a suggestable nature, it was South Australia that became the focus of travelling attention . . Suffice it to say, he found a way through the good offices of a sympathetic tutor at the University to persuade the academic authorities to grant him leave of absence for a year – a suspension of studies – in order to take time out from the ‘treadmill’ of study followed for many a year since the age of 4. A friend of the family who had attended Cambridge University in the 1950s with the pater familias of the Legoe family and had subsequently gone out to Australia to live and work for a while, suggested both a visit Down Under and a sojourn with his old friend’s family.
It is not a highly recommended technique to endear oneself to your hosts, but launching oneself through the glass door of the host family on the first night of arrival is exactly what this writer did on his arrival in the city of Adelaide. Having been kind enough to respond to a telephonic entreaty from the airport to pick up the friend of a friend and having furthered that generosity by putting that stranger up for the night, these blameless citizens of the South Australian capital found themselves dealing with a long-haul traveller who leapt through glass doors. He had chosen the family, or rather the family had been unlucky enough to be landed with him by virtue of their names being on a contacts list provided by a family friend (of the Oldest Trainee) who seeded the idea of the Great Australian adventure in the first place.
Thus it came to pass that on a balmy weekend evening in the first flowering of a Southern Hemisphere summer, having left the Autumn in the Northern Hemisphere, the Oldest Trainee found himself in the garden Jacuzzi under an Australian sky in the city of Adelaide. Having been reassured by the host father that he, the father, had not claimed on the house insurance for a while and warned by the host mother not to presume or expect help from anyone just because of the fact of friendship long ago between one family and another, he started his Australian sojourn.
After that window-shattering experience in the capital city of the free-settled state of South Australia – a distinction the burghers of its capital city and across the state never cease to point out, giving South Australia an Anglicised flavour of a certain kind, it was into the hands of the Legoe family of Adelaide and Robe and South east South Australia that he was passed before he could do much more damage.
In the year of his visit, the Australian Grand Prix was still being held in Adelaide. En route to meet George Legoe, eldest son of gentlemen farmers and as near-landed gentry of the South Australian state as it gets, the father of that most forebearing of host families showed him the sights of the city in preparation for the Grand Prix by driving the route that the drivers would race: at that time Adelaide shared with Monaco the distinction of being host to a motor race actually raced within the city itself – Melbourne was to steal the Formula 1 crown from Adelaide, but at that time the South Australian capital was Queen of the Australian motor racing world. It turned out that the Oldest Trainee was to be present at the race which was run in a sustained downpour of rain and viewed from an office block near the track.
The handover of the troublesome visitor to George Legoe having taken place outside the city limits, the journey continued southwards towards Robe in the south-east of the state. George was taciturn but friendly and he indulged the Oldest Trainee's stream of questions.
The Legoe family have major connections with Adelaide, as do half the farmers and land-owners of the state. George’s mother Marianne was from a family connected to the founder of the city and the state itself. Adelaide was named after Queen Adelaide. As was the case with many farming families, the Legoes had a house in the city and his younger brother Will attended one of the Universities in Adelaide (Flinders). The traffic from Robe to Adelaide was frequent and an unremarked feature of their lives: the family networks had friends whose children studied in the city at university or had attended as pupils one of the various boarding schools modelled on the English system. The Legoes themselves had a school link with Geelong in Victoria. All in all Adelaide was the nearest major city and in Australian terms, up the road in journey time: three hours. A country town and a small city, three hours apart, not a problem for citizens of this island continent.
Friday, 14 March 2008
On rugby, Ireland, Oscar Wilde and wheelchairs
This weekend marks the closing of this year's playing of the rugby tournament known across the northern hemisphere as the Six Nations championship. In times gone by the championship was known as the 'Five Nations' and consisted of the home nations of the United Kingdom - England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales - plus France (the auld enemy from England's viewpoint or the auld ally from Scotland's). With the arrival of Italy on the rugby-playing scene the tournament opened its doors to its sixth member. Those of us from Wales had a special reason to welcome the Italians, for it is said that the Welsh are 'Italians in the rain'. As if to prove the point, not long ago the Welsh squad boasted a Sidoli, a scion of an ex-patriot Italian family business dedicated to the fine art of making ice cream - Sidoli's are the toast of South Wales to this day.
Last weekend's rugby clash between Wales and Ireland brought back memories of a trp to Dublin in support of Wales against Ireland. If I close my eyes and think hard I will conjure up the scene:
It is not immediately apparent that road travel and the European Union are linked until you travel across Ireland by road. The emerald isle is known for its enthusiastic embrace of all things European and not least because of the opportunity to fund all sorts of projects that membership provides, road-building among them. But with an Irish twist, of course. The story has it that each county in the Republic, large or small, had to have the same allocation of money to put into the highway. This in turn meant that once the fund per county ran dry, so did the tarmacadam. Subsequently there are stretches of road in and between counties that rival the art of the French auto-routes at their best which suddenly come to an end, giving way to the worthy but altogether less magisterial efforts of the local authority. The super-highway trail is once more taken up a few miles further along in the next county.
This observation seemed all the more pertinent at the time of crossing these motor trails for it was on the occasion of the announcement of the death of the much-loved former Irish Prime Minister or Tasoieach, Jack Lynch. As well-regarded for his sporting prowess on hurling and Gaelic football field as in the public arena, it was Jack Lynch who negotiated Ireland’s entry into the European Union, then known as the European Economic Community (EEC). At the time of making the journey, from Galway to Dublin and back, the name Jack Lynch was not a familiar one, although I counted myself as a student of history and politics and of European affairs. Through newspaper coverage and the familiar tones of the BBC correspondent John Simpson on Irish radio I learned of how this sporting political hero was almost airbrushed out, removed from of the annals of Irish political history , through the machinations of subsequent political manoeuvrings.
A view of Jack Lynch as honourable man sketched out in the obituaries was echoed in the confines of the poor Claire convent in Galway by those well-informed nuns whose knowledge of the outside world seems to deepen as a result of their silent contemplative life. “ A good man, was Jack Lynch” they concurred, sitting behind a grille in the reception room, during the audience granted to me as a result of my involvement in conveying a wheelchair-bound friend, formerly of the convent ,to visit them.
The European theme continued in Dublin, with the crane-filled skyline paying witness to the building boom that came in the wake of Irish membership of the European single currency. Obligatory visits to some of the ‘must-see’ Dublin sites: the public sculpture of Molly Malone (otherwise known as ‘the tart with the cart’) as well as the water-monument, popularly referred to as the ‘floozy in the jacuzzi’; the rather moving memorial monument to Oscar Wilde inscribed with one of his greatest aphorisms: “ all of us are lying in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars”.
This tribute to human exuberance links to another Dublin trip and accompanying another wheelchair-user – this time for the ‘rugby and the crack’ – Ireland and Wales. During that festival known as the Six Nations rugby tournament, when Ireland play Wales at home, Dublin becomes a party city. From the rugby stadium known by its shorthand label of ‘Lansdowne Road’ through to late night scenes of comic alcohol-fuelled festival mayhem in Grafton Street and the Shelbourne Hotel on St Stephens Green. The experience of acting as navigator and guardian to a man determined to demonstrate he is making the most of his weekend by launching himself out of his chair at the smallest opportunity, is something of an eye-opener. It seemed to me the on-pitch action was safer. This rocket-propulsion enabled the jumping of taxi queues, much to the apparent consternation of fellow revellers – I will never know whether the arm-waving was in celebration of our leaving the scene or anger at our stealing of the ride home. However, the joviality and inevitable hangover was soon dispelled by an early morning phone call bringing news of the death of my companion’s stepfather, felled by a heart attack.
The journey back to Cardiff was thoughtfully sombre, the atmosphere leavened by (rugby) talk of the weekend with Welsh rugby officials we sat with in the plane – those men in jacket and ties known as the ‘blazerati’. As for the rugby, there’s always the next game, the next trip, another opportunity to stare at the stars whilst lying in the gutter. Jack Lynch would have appreciated the scene as would my friend’s stepfather, Colin. Together, of course, with Oscar Wilde and those well-informed sisters of the poor Claire convent.
Last weekend's rugby clash between Wales and Ireland brought back memories of a trp to Dublin in support of Wales against Ireland. If I close my eyes and think hard I will conjure up the scene:
It is not immediately apparent that road travel and the European Union are linked until you travel across Ireland by road. The emerald isle is known for its enthusiastic embrace of all things European and not least because of the opportunity to fund all sorts of projects that membership provides, road-building among them. But with an Irish twist, of course. The story has it that each county in the Republic, large or small, had to have the same allocation of money to put into the highway. This in turn meant that once the fund per county ran dry, so did the tarmacadam. Subsequently there are stretches of road in and between counties that rival the art of the French auto-routes at their best which suddenly come to an end, giving way to the worthy but altogether less magisterial efforts of the local authority. The super-highway trail is once more taken up a few miles further along in the next county.
This observation seemed all the more pertinent at the time of crossing these motor trails for it was on the occasion of the announcement of the death of the much-loved former Irish Prime Minister or Tasoieach, Jack Lynch. As well-regarded for his sporting prowess on hurling and Gaelic football field as in the public arena, it was Jack Lynch who negotiated Ireland’s entry into the European Union, then known as the European Economic Community (EEC). At the time of making the journey, from Galway to Dublin and back, the name Jack Lynch was not a familiar one, although I counted myself as a student of history and politics and of European affairs. Through newspaper coverage and the familiar tones of the BBC correspondent John Simpson on Irish radio I learned of how this sporting political hero was almost airbrushed out, removed from of the annals of Irish political history , through the machinations of subsequent political manoeuvrings.
A view of Jack Lynch as honourable man sketched out in the obituaries was echoed in the confines of the poor Claire convent in Galway by those well-informed nuns whose knowledge of the outside world seems to deepen as a result of their silent contemplative life. “ A good man, was Jack Lynch” they concurred, sitting behind a grille in the reception room, during the audience granted to me as a result of my involvement in conveying a wheelchair-bound friend, formerly of the convent ,to visit them.
The European theme continued in Dublin, with the crane-filled skyline paying witness to the building boom that came in the wake of Irish membership of the European single currency. Obligatory visits to some of the ‘must-see’ Dublin sites: the public sculpture of Molly Malone (otherwise known as ‘the tart with the cart’) as well as the water-monument, popularly referred to as the ‘floozy in the jacuzzi’; the rather moving memorial monument to Oscar Wilde inscribed with one of his greatest aphorisms: “ all of us are lying in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars”.
This tribute to human exuberance links to another Dublin trip and accompanying another wheelchair-user – this time for the ‘rugby and the crack’ – Ireland and Wales. During that festival known as the Six Nations rugby tournament, when Ireland play Wales at home, Dublin becomes a party city. From the rugby stadium known by its shorthand label of ‘Lansdowne Road’ through to late night scenes of comic alcohol-fuelled festival mayhem in Grafton Street and the Shelbourne Hotel on St Stephens Green. The experience of acting as navigator and guardian to a man determined to demonstrate he is making the most of his weekend by launching himself out of his chair at the smallest opportunity, is something of an eye-opener. It seemed to me the on-pitch action was safer. This rocket-propulsion enabled the jumping of taxi queues, much to the apparent consternation of fellow revellers – I will never know whether the arm-waving was in celebration of our leaving the scene or anger at our stealing of the ride home. However, the joviality and inevitable hangover was soon dispelled by an early morning phone call bringing news of the death of my companion’s stepfather, felled by a heart attack.
The journey back to Cardiff was thoughtfully sombre, the atmosphere leavened by (rugby) talk of the weekend with Welsh rugby officials we sat with in the plane – those men in jacket and ties known as the ‘blazerati’. As for the rugby, there’s always the next game, the next trip, another opportunity to stare at the stars whilst lying in the gutter. Jack Lynch would have appreciated the scene as would my friend’s stepfather, Colin. Together, of course, with Oscar Wilde and those well-informed sisters of the poor Claire convent.
Thursday, 13 March 2008
Kenya days
My collected diaries tell me that almost exactly ten years ago I was in Kenya visiting my uncle, who was in the last few months of his life. Uncle Ted was married to my late Scottish maternal grandfather's sister. A life-long vegetarian he was the eldest of a large Quaker family who moved out to East Africa in the early decades of the 20th century. Ted's mother was a remarkable woman who kept the family going, and as the eldest he supported his siblings by working on a farm in Tanzania (then Tanganika). He eventually farmed coffee near Nairobi and was a pillar of the Museum and a keen tennis player. A pacifist by conviction, he served as an ambulance driver on the East African front during the Second World War and during the Mau Mau emergency slept with a gun under his pillow to protect his estate workers from the guerillas who were waging a terror campaign against farm workers. A very gentle man, his wife, my great aunt Marjorie was quite a tour de force. A teacher at the Agha Khan school in Nairobi, she never seemed to like children and perhaps was as frigtened of them as they were of her. Throughout their long marriage and well into Marjorie's declining years - she was older than Ted and died before him - theirs was a relationship based on trust, tolerance and good humour. So often, when a controversial topic came up and Marjorie was holding forth, whether on children, family or their long-serving cook NuHu, Ted would become increasingly exasperated and suddenly exclaim " O Marjorie! ". In that phrase lay a universe of meaning and comment.
Having no children of their own, Ted and Marjorie followed the fortunes of their assorted nephews and nieces, and succeeding generations. There was something of a tradition in my mother's family to go out to Africa to stay with Uncle Ted and Auntie Marjorie during the Summer of leaving school, before going to University. My mother and her two sisters both made the journey as did I many years later. The African summer was a defining moment in one's life up until then and to have that connection was magnificent indeed. Experiencing the extraordinariness of Africa as a callow youth of 18 for the first time is to enter a different world. Ten years later the magic was just as strong.
Over many years Ted and Marjorie's farm in Nairobi became a place to which friends and family retuned time and again, and was also the scene of an Out Of Africa-style love story between cousins: one a young RAF officer and the other a 17 year old fresh from school.
So it was with great concern that I have followed the events in Kenya these last months and hope and pray that the settlement mediated by Kofi Annan will hold and real political change will happen. Kenya has not in the past been a crucible of trible violence, but once those forces are unleashed they can be very difficult to control. Ten years ago the talk was of the then incumbent President, Daniel arap Moi, being up to his neck in the usual corruption and Richard Leakey, who was credited with saving the Kenyan wildlife industry, was active on the political stage developing a credible opposition to the ruling party. They were balmy days indeed compared with the appalling scenes these last months. The legacy of post-Colonial Africa has too often been one of the 'big man' presiding over a corrupt regime. Let us hope that Kenya moves out of the shadow of the big man into a properly functioning multi-party state as soon as possible and Kenyans once more return to the ideal that they are Kenyans every bit as much as tribal affiliations of Kikuyu or Kalendrin
Having no children of their own, Ted and Marjorie followed the fortunes of their assorted nephews and nieces, and succeeding generations. There was something of a tradition in my mother's family to go out to Africa to stay with Uncle Ted and Auntie Marjorie during the Summer of leaving school, before going to University. My mother and her two sisters both made the journey as did I many years later. The African summer was a defining moment in one's life up until then and to have that connection was magnificent indeed. Experiencing the extraordinariness of Africa as a callow youth of 18 for the first time is to enter a different world. Ten years later the magic was just as strong.
Over many years Ted and Marjorie's farm in Nairobi became a place to which friends and family retuned time and again, and was also the scene of an Out Of Africa-style love story between cousins: one a young RAF officer and the other a 17 year old fresh from school.
So it was with great concern that I have followed the events in Kenya these last months and hope and pray that the settlement mediated by Kofi Annan will hold and real political change will happen. Kenya has not in the past been a crucible of trible violence, but once those forces are unleashed they can be very difficult to control. Ten years ago the talk was of the then incumbent President, Daniel arap Moi, being up to his neck in the usual corruption and Richard Leakey, who was credited with saving the Kenyan wildlife industry, was active on the political stage developing a credible opposition to the ruling party. They were balmy days indeed compared with the appalling scenes these last months. The legacy of post-Colonial Africa has too often been one of the 'big man' presiding over a corrupt regime. Let us hope that Kenya moves out of the shadow of the big man into a properly functioning multi-party state as soon as possible and Kenyans once more return to the ideal that they are Kenyans every bit as much as tribal affiliations of Kikuyu or Kalendrin
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
The blog begins
These are the jottings, writings, thoughts and comments of the Oldest Trainee. They will encompass history, politics, public affairs, education and the arts, all of which are dear to my heart, as well as matters philosophical. The Oldest Trainees has been educated for life if not a career. As one of the greatest playwrights of the English language, Oscar Wilde, once commented - " education is an admirable thing but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught ". How true that is. Would that our illustrious Chancellor and his esteemed cohorts bear that in mind on this the Budget day in the UK - for those watching outside the UK the Chancellor is the government's chief finance minister.
More on these themes anon
More on these themes anon
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