Lists

I may have mentioned this before. . . No, not "may have"; I'm pretty sure that I have actually mentioned this before. It's just that I can't find exactly where I mentioned it. I'm a list person. No, not Brahms and Liszt. That's Cockney rhyming slang for. . . Anyway, I'm the sort of chap who makes lists. If I had been on the Titanic I would probably have been making a list of how many deckchairs were floating off to sea or something just as idiotic. But I did find when I was working that a few minutes spent at the end of the working day drawing up a list of the important things to be done the next day paid off. Now I'm retired I still make lists. Lists like shopping lists. Even if I have only four or five things to buy, if I don't take my list with me I'm bound to come home without something vital. Before going to a Lions meeting, I make a list of the things I need (or want) to say. I don't always say everything on the list but at least I have thought things through. This train of thought comes courtesy of Skip, via Matt and Suldog, all of whom have posted lists on their blogs in recent days (or weeks or even months/years). Having seen their lists, I have felt the itch, the yearning, the burnig desire to create another list. But what should I list? My CDs? No, perhaps not. Books I plan to read in 2012? Hardly, since I never plan to read books, I just pick up those that look interesting. No, none of those. I'll make it a list that might, just might, be of interest or use to other people, other people who are travelling in Europe. Here are a few of the things that I have found in cities across Euro pe and that have delighted me. Whimsical, stunningly beautiful, just plain surprising: all, to my mind, well worth seeing.


Postman's Park, London. This is one of the many parks in London and is one of the smallest and least well-known. It gets its name from its situation, very close to what was at one time the General Post Office, which itself is close to St Paul's cathedral. It is this park that one finds a very moving memorial, the Watts Memorial, which has over 50 plaques made of Royal Doulton tiles, each commemorating somebody who died trying to save another life. Each is full of tragic detail, like that to David Selves, aged 12 of Woolwich who "supported his drowning playfellow and sank with him clasped in his arms".

Begijnhof, Amsterdam. I found this delightful little square when visiting Amsterdam with my family (wife and three children) and with my friend Chris and his family (wife and two children). It offered a peaceful spot for a picnic in a city with few green spots in the centre.



Sainte-Chapelle, Paris. Paris, like London, abounds in tourist attractions but, to my mind, this is the most magnificent and yet it is one of the least known. Situated on the Île de la Cité not far from Notre Dame and tucked away behind the Ministry of Justice. Another of those places I have found by accident,the first time I visited was a sunny morning. The stained glass around the upper chapel is absolutely stunning with the sun shining through. I have not found a picture to really do it justice but the rose window gives a taste of what is there.

Florence - the Baptistry. Forget the cathedral, the Ponte Vecchio, the statue of David and the art galleries. Facing the main west door of the cathedral is the Baptistry. The doors of this building consist of several metal panels - highly polished brass, I should think - on which are depicted biblical scenes such as the one on the left. Absolutely stunning.













Jeanneke Pis, Brussels. Possibly the best known attraction in Brussels is the Manneken Pis, a statue of a small boy urinating and thereby providing an amusing fountain. The original statue dated from the 14th century but was replaced in the 17th. However, in a nod to feminism, another statue was made in the 1980s - Jeanneke Pis. This is a little girl squatting and urinating. Tucked away in a narrow, dead-end alley, it is found by few tourists.


Figline in Val d'Arno, Italy. Greve-in-Chianti is noted for its triangular piazza but when I visited I found it unpleasantly crowded. A few miles away the little town of Figline also has an attractive, triangular piazza where it is possible to sit at a cafe terrace enjoying a coffee while locals go about their business without the hassle of umpteen tourists.

And, in my opinion, two well worth not visiting: the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen Harbour is too small to be worth bothering with and is poorly situated. You can't get close enought to the Mona Lisa to see the picture, which is behind thick glass anyway and always has a hundred or so people elbowing each other in an attempt to get closer.

Cheers!

It couldn't happen nowadays - and even back then it was probably not that common. I don't remember when the traditional morning tot was abolished by the Andrew - and I have never found out just why the Royal Navy should have been given that nickname - but the story I am about to relate dates from the days when every matelot aged 18 and over was entitled to it. I had pretty much forgotten this little episode until I read a post by Stephen Hayes, aka the Chubby Catterbox, sorry, that should read Chatterbox. He describes (here) what Manhattans and a drink known as AMF have done to him in the past and goes on to ask what drinks do the same for others.

Perhaps before I go any further I will make it quite clear that these days I drink very little, certainly never enough to land me on my back. I take a regular glass of wine - purely for medicinal purposes, you understand - and have been known to drink the occasional Scotch and water. That's plain tap water, none of your fizzy soda water which just spoils a good drink. And definitely no ice.

Back in the days almost beyond recall I was under the impression (mistaken, as it happens) that my family on my father's side had been deep sea fishermen for generations until my grandfather joined the Royal Navy, in which he served for more than 20 years. Likewise my father. With the youthful enthusiasm which has long since left me, I really wanted to keep up the family tradition. Unfortunately, I had suffered with asthma all my life and there was no way that I could pass the medical for entry into the Andrew. However, we were living in Hove then and, as luck would have it, there was a division of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve with its headquarters on the seafront. One parade night I diffidently showed myself and, much to my surprise, was accepted for entry so long as it was into a sedentary rating and I eventually found myself in the uniform of a Writer, RNVR.

As well as attending weekly parades, all reservists had to undertake two week's training each year. For most, this involved going to sea on board HMS Curzon, the minesweeper allocated to the Sussex Division RNVR. There was no place for a writer on the Curzon so, after I had attended all the obligatory courses at Chatham barracks, I was sent to a proper ship or establishment for my training every year. One year I travelled to Devonport to join HMS Lynx. Almost as soon as I was aboard she sailed. We travelled westabout round England, Wales and Scotland, passing through the Pentland Firth in a force 8 gale soon after eating greasy pork chops. Not a pleasant experience, the Pentland Firth being one of the roughest sea areas around our coast. Our destination was Bremerhaven, Germany, where we were to make a "fly the flag" visit.

We arrived in the morning and shore leave was granted to the whole ship's company from 11.30 or thereabouts. Pretty well all the hands in my mess went ashore straight away, leaving just three or four of us who had decided to eat lunch on board before exploring the town. "Up spirits" was piped as usual at noon and the killick of the mess went to collect the tots for our mess. Naturally, no mention was made of the matelots already ashore who were, technically, not eligible to receive their tots that day. The rum was brought back to the mess and the four of us had our tots. It was not permissible to keep any rum, not even for an hour or so, and there was still rum in the fanny. We ended up drinking about three tots each that day - all on empty stomachs - and Navy rum was slightly stronger than the rum one usually buys in the supermarket. I have a feeling it was about 90% proof.

After lunch we went ashore and piled into the first bar we saw. We ordered a round of drinks (beer) but one of the locals insisted on paying. All the locals, one after the other, bought us a round of drinks until, after four or five beers, we staggered out and into town where we almost fell into a cellar wine bar.

I never did remember anything between the second bottle of wine and me staggering along a railway track at the harbour. Heaven alone knows how I got there! So to answer Stephen's question, it was - on that occasion - a mixture of rum, beer and wine that knocked me on my back.

Resolutions? Not me!

I don't do resolutions at New Year or any other time. If I did, I might just adapt the old fourth Scout law (at least, I think it was the fourth):

A Scout is a friend to all and a brother to every other Scout no matter to what colour class or creed the other may belong.

There are words of wisdom in the Lions' code of ethics as well:To accept no profit or success at the price of my own self respect lost because of unfair advantage taken or because of questionable acts on my part.

• Whenever a doubt arises to the right or ethics of my position or action towards my fellow men, to resolve such doubt against myself.
• To hold friendship as an end and not a means. To hold that true friendship exists not on account of the service performed by one to another, but that true friendship demands nothing but accepts service in the spirit in which it is given.
• To be careful with my criticisms and liberal with my praise; to build up and not destroy.

I do try to remember those words every day, not just on 1st January. It isn't always easy, but who promised that life would always be easy?.


2011 was a pretty tumultuous year in several ways, what with the uprisings in Tunisia, Egypt and Libya, unrest in Bahrain and continuing problems in Syria. Then there have been the deaths of Osama bin Laden, Muammar Gadaffi, Kim Jong-wotsit and the former Czech President Havel. Closer to home we had the excitement (for some) of William and Kate becoming the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and the further excitement of riots in various cities in August for no apparent reason. Even closer, I was introduced to my Macmillan nurse one Tuesday and had almost come to terms with the fact that I had lung cancer when ten days later I was told it wasn't: I just had a lump of mucus in my lung. I wish I could say that every day since then has seemed like an extra one, but they haven't. I think I was reasonably certain in my mind that I was going to beat that bugger - but then I didn't have to anyway, which was a great relief.

I am not going to do an Old Moore and gaze into a crystal ball so we shall just have to wait and see what this new year holds in store. Whoever and wherever you are, I hope 2012 treats you at least as kindly as it treats me.

The most satisfying

Or, the end of the ego trip.

The pictures I have shown over the past five days have been among the ones I have taken this year which have given me the most satisfaction. Those I have posted so far have been in completely random order, but this is the one which has given me the most satisfaction.



My inspiration was a man who is perhaps Brighton's favourite local artist, Philip Dunn. Back in the summer I had an appointment at the hospital. I took advantage of the need to go into town to take a few photographs and I wandered down onto the seafront. There I happened to spot these deckchairs with their contrasting vibrant colours almost exactly framing the remains of the seaward end of the West Pier. It is the sort of shot I had been looking for for years.


Given that at this time of the year there is a better than usual chance of somebody playing silly buggers with my credit card, I thought to check the account online. For some reason, I was unable to access my account. According to the message on the screen, I had made more than the permitted number of attempts to log in and failed each time. It was suggested I should telephone. I rang the number and a very pleasant automated female voice asked me to explain in a few words what it was I wanted. I said I was unable to access my account on-line and, after a short pause, the automated lady replied, 'You are having difficulty logging in. Is that correct?' I assured her she had me bang to rights, whereupon she asked for my card number. After I had given it there was another short pause before she repeated it and I confirmed she had it right. She then told me that there was an unusually high volume of calls and the current wait time was eight minutes. However, she kindly pointed out that i could access my account on-line at www... It was tempting to do so, but I did refrain from shouting at her. And why is it that every time I have to telephone they are experiencing an unusually high volume of calls? I decided to suggest to the "specialist" who eventually (after 11 minutes) sorted the problem that the message be changed so that people ringing becuase of logging-in problems should not be advised to go on-line. But I forgot. Again. Maybe next time it happens.


So here we are once again at the end of a year. Despite the evidence of the previous paragraph, I'm not really a grumpy old man - at least, not yet grumpy though I may be old - but spending the night drinking and generally carousing is no longer my style so I fully expect to be in bed and asleep before the New Year is ushered in to the noise of fireworks and the hooters of the ships in the harbour (which we can hear if the wind is in the south-west as it mostly is). So I will wish each of my readers a very happy New Year and retire gracefully.

The end . . .

. . . of the Christmas turkey - in a turkey, ham and egg pie.

Up on the Downs

To continue with the six pictures taken this year that have given me the most satisfaction.

When attempting landscape pictures on the Downs I usually go for two-thirds sky to one-third earth (as with the picture of the signpost earlier this week) in an attempt to stress the openness and distances. So why this one should give me so much satisfaction was at first something of a puzzle. Then it dawned on me that it has many features of the South Downs in it, more than I realised at first glance. There is the old flint wall right in the foreground with hedges and copses further in the distance. And although the Downs run from east to west, there are valleys and ridges running north-south and this picture shows four ridges. The Chattri memorial is hardly a common feature of Downland views, but somehow it adds something to this picture. And if you enlarge the picture sufficiently, you will see sheep in the field above the Chattri and a seagull in the air!


I did say I might tell the story of Minty the Lamb but I have realised that I did that 18 months ago. For those who missed it (or have forgotten all about it) you can find it right here.

To continue the ego trip . . .

. . . we return to Brighton. I go down into the town as infrequently as I can get away with - too many crowds and too much hustle and bustle for me - but on one Sunday in the summer Brighton Lions have a fund-raising fair in the gardens of the Royal Pavilion and I feel I have to attend. This year I sneaked off for a while to take some pictures, including this one of a corner of the Royal Pavilion. This really is a fantastic building in the true sense of the word but the usual pictures of it (showing the back of the building) are terribly clichéed. I wanted something that captured the essence of the building while being fresh. I think I succeeded pretty well, even to the extent of having a seagull in the picture! That, of course, was pure serendipity.


Still amazingly mild out. There are plenty of green shoots showing in the garden - crocuses and grape hyacinths in the main - but that is not particularly unusual for this time of the year. I was surprised by the number of birds singing in the park, though. Robins aplenty, but they sing all winter, but there were great tits and wood pigeons as well (although neither of them can really be described as singing. Calling is more accurate.) and even one lone blackbird.