Weather update

So there was a little sun last week hereabouts - enough, as I have already mentioned, to bring the first crocuses into bloo.  That was on Friday.  Sadly, since then the weather has been dreary.  Indeed, it was so wet yesterday that I decided one walk was enough as I could see absolutley no point in both the dog and me getting soaking wet.  This morning when I drew back the curtains it was more of the same - except is wasn't raining at that particular moment.  On my return from the shower room I glanced out of the window again to see white stuff coming down.  Just over an hour later, as I took the dog out, it was still snowing and the snow was beginning to settle.  I know what we have here on the south coast of England is but a flea bite compared to the elephant's kick they are getting on the east coast of America, but we could still do without it, thank you very much.  Thankfully, it has now turned more to sleet.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Meanwhile, our own particular scandals have provided a fair amount of material for the weekend papers.  There is the ongoing trial of the ex-wife of an ex-Cabinet minister and ex-MP who persuaded said wife to say she was driving his car when he was caught by a speed camera.  The NHS is also hit by scandals in a number of hospitals where patient care has been, frankly, callous.  And there are still many questions about the 100% beef meals which have been 100% horse.

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I was thinking I could do with some cheerful music when I chanced on Buck's post.  Peggy Lee is now telling me I'm Mr Wonderful.  Good job somebody thinks that.

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On one of last week's sunney afternoons I took the dog for a walk in Stanmer Great Wood where the bluebells are pushing through the dying beech leaves.  It's nice to think spring might be coming.  This winter seems much longer than it should be.

The White Cliffs of Dover

To my parents' generation, and to many of about my age,mention of the white cliffs of Dover immediately calls to mind the World War II song sung by the then forces' sweetheart, Vera Lynn.  Or, as I should have written, the now Dame Vera Lynn.

Digression for those unfamiliar with the British system of honours.  When a man is knighted, he can put the word Sir in front of his name so he becomes Sir John Black KCB instead of plain Mr John Black.  The dubbing ceremony (a man is dubbed a knight) involves him kneeling before the Queen as she touches his shoulders with a sword, reputedly then saying, "Arise, Sir X".  Dame is the feminine title but I don't know what the ceremony is called or what it entails.  On an etymological note, the word sir (or sire) comes from the French monsieur (my sire) and dame comes from the French madame (and English madam) (my dame).

Dame Vera lives just over the Downs from here but I have never had the honour of meeting her - and it would indeed be an honour.  I have watched her performing live on television and even at the age of 80 she had the most terrific stage presence and charisma.  They even managed to come across the air!  And her voice, perhaps not quite as strong as in the 1940s, was still as magical.

There are, of course, plenty of videos on YouTube but this is a good one.

1066 and All That

My mind wandered in the way it so often does and after posting yesterday about the Hundred Years War and the battle of Poitiers, I drifted to other battles.  In particular, the Battle of Hastings, the battle which, more than any other, changed the course of England's history.   I suppose that if there is just one date set into the minds of Englishmen it is 1066.  That was the year of the Battle of Hastings, the last occasion on which any foreigner successfully invaded England.  (Since then there have been incursions by the Scots and a couple of abortive French attempts to land soldiers.)  The ultimate aim, almost the Holy Grail, of genealogists is to trace their family tree back to Hastings.  So 1066 is the pivotal point in the history of this country.

Many years after the Battle of Hastings, an abbey was built on the site of the battle and a small town, known as Battle, grew up around it.  However, there is now some dissension about the site of the battle with at least two other hills (it is known that the battle site was a hillside) being suggested as more likely. But I have no opinion about that.

Years ago I owned a history book entitled 1066 and All That.  I say it was a history book, but it was really a brief summary of the history of England over a period of 900 years, and historic events, such as the signing of Magna Carta, were described as either "a good thing" or "a bad thing".  In much the same vein, Stanley Holloway (best known for his part in the film My Fair Lady in which he played Eliza Doolittle's father) recited this piece of verse.  (You will need to read it in a Lancashire accent.)

Oh heck, I'm not at all sure that I can be bothered to type it all out - and you most probably wouldn't be bothered to read it, so I won't.  Instead, I'll drop in a picture of what many people have claimed has prevented other invasions - the white cliffs of Dover.

My mind went off on another perambulation about the white cliffs of Dover, but perhaps I'll save that for tomorrow.  Meanwhile, I've changed my mind.  Here's that Stanley Holloway monologue - in full.

I'll tell of the Battle of Hastings,
As happened in days long gone by,
When Duke William became King of England
And 'Arold got shot in the eye.

It were this way: one day in October
The Duke, who were always a toff,
Having no battles on at the moment,
Had given his lads a day off.

They'd all taken boats to go fishing,
When some chap in t'Conqueror's ear
Said, "Let's go and put breeze up the Saxons".
Said Bill, "By gum, that's an idea".

Then turning around to his soldiers
He lifted his big Norman voice,
Shouting, "Hands up who's coming to England".
That was swank 'cos they hadn't no choice.

They started away about tea-time
The sea was so calm and so still,
And at quarter to ten the next morning
They arrived at a place called Bexhill.

King 'Arold came up as they landed,
His face full of venom and 'ate,
He said, "If you've come for regatta
You've got here just six weeks too late".

At that William rose, cool but 'aughty,
And said, "Give us none of your cheek.
You'd best have your throne re-upholstered.
I'll be wanting to use it next week."

When 'Arold heard this 'ere defiance
With rage he turned purple and blue
And shouted some rude words in Saxon,
To which William answered, "And you".

'Twere a beautiful day for a battle;
The Normans set off with a will
And when both sides were duly assembled
They tossed for the top of the hill.

King 'Arold he won the advantage,
On t'hill-top he took up his stand,
With his knaves and his cads all around him
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.

The Normans had nowt in their favour,
Their chance of a victory seemed small
For the slope of the field were against them,
And the wind in their faces and all.

The kick-off were sharp at two-thirty
And as soon as the whistle had went
Both sides started banging each other
Till the swineherds could hear them in Kent.

The Saxons had best line of forwards,
Well armed with both buckler and sword,
But the Normans had best combination
And when half-time came neither had scored.

So the Duke called his cohorts together
And said, "Let's pretend that we're beat.
Once we get Saxons down on the level
We'll cut off their means of retreat."

So they ran - and the Saxons ran after,
Just exactly as William had planned,
Leaving 'Arold alone on the hill-top
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.

When the Conqueror saw what had happened
A bow and an arrow he drew;
He went right up to 'Arold and shot him.
He were off-side, but what could they do?

The Normans turned round in a fury
And gave back both parry and thrust
Till the fight were all over bar shouting
And you couldn't see Saxons for dust.

And after the battle were over
They found 'Arold so stately and grand,
Sitting there with an eyeful or arrow
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.

Our first crocuses were in bloom yesterday when the sun came out.

1356

I have recently finished reading Bernard Cornwell's latest book, 1356.  The setting is, once again, France during the Hundred Years War - in particular, the Battle of Poitiers.  It is ten years since the third book in the Grail Quest trilogy was published, the trilogy which was also set in France during the Hundred Years War and which featured Thomas of Hookton.  Thomas rides again in 1356.

Mr Cornwell is something of an expert when it comes to British military history, especially concerning the 14th and 15th centuries and the Napoleonic wars.  Indeed, his research is so thorough that we are given what appear to be accurate descriptions of the battles concerned, in this case Poitiers.  I was never exactly enamoured of history at school but I'm sure if my history teachers could have got their subject across in the manner of Bernard Cornwell I would have been anxious not to miss a minute of a lesson.

Coincidentally, the Beeb are to air a series of programmes about the Hundred Years War starting next Monday.  This will be on a fairly obscure channel - and will clash with the latest series of Lewis - so I shall record the programmes.  I shall be interested to see how they cover such battles as Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt.  The presenter, Janina Raminez, is to visit the battlefields.  I hope she finds more at Crécy than we did - or is able to explain what we did see.

And playing in the background is a James Last CD - Classic Touch - which features a range of classical pieces by Beethoven, Schubert, Mozart and the rest of the boys in the band.

All the Cs

I don't seem to have found much time for reading during the past few weeks, or even months.  I'm not entirely sure just why that is; probably too many interesting programmes on television (now there's a wonder!) and too many evenings not at home.  It is only in the evenings that I feel able to sit down with a book, except when we are in France.  Daytime reading, like daytime television, seems to me to be indolence.  I know there is no logic in that, especially as I am more than happy to fritter away the hours reading blogs and other interesting bits on the internet.  Perhaps it is something to do with the fact that before I retired reading was actually part of my job.  The newspaper for which I worked published reader offers which were usually books, and I got to choose the books so I considered I should read the possible selections before deciding which to run with.

But yesterday I actually sat and read for an hour or more during the evening.  I have just borrowed Michael Connolly's latest - The Black Box - from the library and am now half way through.  Another "C" author I enjoy is Bernard Cornwell and I have recently read his latest - 1356 - about which more another day - tomorrow, possibly.

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And so to the music of the moment.  Coincidentally, right now I am listening to the plangent notes of the second movement of Mozart's clarinet concerto, thereby keeping to the C theme.

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Still with the Cs in today's photo.  I have only recently discovered Crowhurst Corner despite this stretch of ancient chalk grassland being council-owned and open access land.  I had always thought it was used by a tenant farmer but no.  The council occasionally graze sheep there.  The views from here across the Downs are hardly idyllic but at least the Hollingbury industrial estate is pretty well hidden in a valley.

Oh, my paws and whiskers

I started out on that post about having seawater in my veins with the idea that every Englishman has that.  We are a seafaring nation, after all, and have been for centuries.  Britannia rules the waves and all that.  And all this started because I somehow got it into my head that there is nowhere in England more than 75 miles from the sea.  Not even right in the heart of England, which some claim is Leamington Spa, is one more than a hop, skip and a jump from salt water.  That was the premise; that was what I recalled reading or being told aeons ago when the world was young and I even younger.  I had intended mentioning this trivia in my seawater post but it somehow managed to get itself left out.  That often happens to me.  Anyway, I thought I really ought to check out the accuracy (or veracity - take your pick) of the statement so I Googled it.  That was when I found myself entering a parallel universe, a different world from the one I usually inhabit.  It was, I tell you, an Alice in Wonderland moment.  I was in an alien world, in more senses than one.  I had managed to enter a world I suppose I knew existed but one of which I had no real knowledge, far less experience.  It was the world inhabited by people wanting to become British citizens.

I imagine that every person born a British citizen who has reached the grand old age of 15 or 16 will have an opinion on this subject.  They will know what they consider to be the attributes needed by anybody wishing to join this select band.  And one doesn't need to have political leanings to the right of Gengis Khan to say that anybody becoming a British citizen should have some knowledge of how we got where we are, where we are now, and where we are heading.  And what better way to assess the applicant's knowledge than setting a test?

When I Googled the thing about nowhere in England being more than 75 miles from the sea, I clicked on a link which took me to a forum where potential test candidates were seeking information.  It seemed that the most common question was asking if it was necessary to read Chapter 1 of the Government-produced (I presume) book as all the questions in the tests are based on Chapters 2 - 6?  Seemingly, it is not necessary to read Chapters 1 and 7.

From there, I found my way to another site which sets sample test papers.  It was here I learned that the test comprises 24 multiple choice questions to be answered in 45 minutes.  It was in the first of those test papers that i found confirmation of the fact that nowhere in Britain (not just England) is more than 75 miles from the sea.  But I confess to some puzzlement, amazement even, at some of the questions asked.  Like the number of members of the Welsh Assembly -  40, 50, 60 or 80?  I hadn't the foggiest idea - and nor, I would suggest, would at least 90% of the population.  So why does an aspiring British citizen need to know?  Unless they intend living in Wales, of course.

And how about: "Where do you normally go first if you wish to buy a house in Scotland - solicitor, estate agent, building society, local bank?"  The cynic in me immediately asked, but who would want to buy a house in Scotland?  But more seriously, the vast majority of people in England would have answered "estate agent" - but not me, as I recalled reading somewhere sometime that, in Scotland as in France, solicitors sell houses.

But I didn't know the percentage of the population that lives in Scotland or the percentage of the population that is Jewish.  And this latter question seemed to me to have potential racial problems.  I attempted five different sets of questions and passed each test - just.  The pass mark is 75% and that is exactly what I scored in three of the tests.  Given how obtuse some of the questions were, I thought that satisfactory.  And no test had taken me more than three minutes - nowhere near the 45 minutes allowed.

So I decided to see what I could do with a driving theory test.  Sample test papers are available on a Government site.  I was horrified when I learned that I had scored only 46 out of 50, albeit with more than 46 minutes still left to me.  The pass mark was 43.  But they didn't tell me which of my answers were wrong.

I tried a US citizenship test and scored 80%

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I've rather taken to Haydn's Trumpet Concerto, especially the third movement, and that is what is playing as I type this.

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I wonder if they have seawater in their veins?  not a very recent picture, needless to say!

Seawater in the veins

I knew from a very early age that my ancestors for centuries past had connections with the sea.  My father and his father both served their time for pension in the Royal Navy and although earlier generations were not, as far as I was aware, Navy men, I always assumed that they were fishermen.  On my mother's side, her father was a shipwright who worked in the naval dockyard at Chatham but who had also served his time afloat as a ship's carpenter.  His predecessors included Naval officers, dockyard mateys - and the captain of the Isle of Wight ferry.  So it was hardly surprising that,as children, my brother and I considered we had seawater in our veins.

I have always lived within a spit and a jot of salt water.  Not always within sight of the sea, but always pretty close.  I have never measured the distance from our house at Gillingham to the River Medway - not the sea exactly, but tidal and salt - but it must have been less than three miles.  When I was at school in Ventnor on the Isle of Wight I could sit up in bed in the dormitory and look out over the town to the sea.  One of my most vivid memories of the time is seeing a three-masted sailing ship - a tall ship - sailing across the path of the moon.  At Hove we could, if we twisted our necks sufficiently, catch a glimpse of a tiny triangle of sea and here again we were no more than three miles inland.  After I married, the Old Bat and I lived in a flat just a quarter of a mile from the sea.  And now, although once again our house has no sea view, we are no more than three miles distant and can see the sea after walking just a very few minutes.  And so my ambition was to become an officer in the Royal Navy, preferably a navigator.  But it was not to be as my health was not up to it.  Somehow, thought, my brother blagged his way past the selection board and served a short-term (ie five year) commission in the Navy.

Living in Hove, I was not too far away from the headquarters of the Sussex division of the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve and I eventually joined.  I ended up by being attached to an outfit known as the JSIU - Joint Services Interrogation Unit.  The JSIU had two roles to play: preparing to interrogate prisoners in any future war and training our own forces in anti-interrogation tactics in case they were captured.  Most of the members of the unit - the interrogators - were officers in the RAFVR and were fluent in either German or Russian.  I hasten to add that I was not an interrogator, merely a collator of intelligence gained from the interrogations. The unit was very relaxed as far as formalities were concerned.  No-one wore uniform so there was no saluting and there was no distinction made between the officers and the lower deck (or other ranks, as the Army and RAF would say).

We would undertake about three weekend exercises over the course of a year.  These would involve troops such as the SAS and the Paras being dropped off in a wild area in an escape and evasion exercise while other infantry units were occupied in capturing them.  The prisoners would be brought to a field interrogation centre set up in a disused Army camp and it was here that the members of the JSIU would come into their own.  We would be booked into hotels or guest houses in a convenient town and would be bussed to and fro the eight-hour shifts we worked, starting with the midnight to 8.00am on Saturday and ending at 8.00am on the Sunday.  This way I visited places such as Plymouth, Hereford, Scarborough, Castle Barnard and Catterick.

Many of the techniques used in the interrogation centres have since been banned, although we never did stoop so low as water-boarding.  Prisoners were made to stand on their toes leaning with their fingertips against a wall for considerable periods, hooded the while, and the music room was especially nasty.  This was completely dark and the sound of Big Ben would be played backwards continuously for up to half an hour at a time.

But the highlight of the year was the cocktail party.  This was always held at the hall of one of the London guilds such as Goldsmiths' Hall.  There was only one drink served - a champagne brandy cocktail.  The memory became distinctly hazy after a few of those!

I'm sorry to say that the salt in my blood has become somewhat diluted, but I did try, and I did actually get to sea twice with the real Navy!

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Appropriately enough, I am listening to a CD of the Band of HM Royal Marines, Naval Home Command, Portsmouth, playing the marches of Kenneth Alford, including the famous Colonel Bogey.

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Back in Stanmer Park, this clump of trees always attracts me, winter and summer alike.