Views from the bike shed

Winter reflections

2009-12-11T09:08:00.022Z

'Is it winter ?' Dylan asked as we walked to school this morning.

'Almost,' I replied.

'But there's no snow and it's Christmas after 14 sleeps.'

'Yes but it's December and winter sort of starts in December.'

'What do you mean, sort of.'

Like father; like son, I thought.

Philosophers like their definitions to be complete - preferably encompassing what is necessary and sufficient. For example,in defining the requirements for a glass of orange squash we might identify three elements: water, orange cordial and a glass of some sort. Each of these is necessary but none is sufficient without the other two. A glass with water is, well, a glass of water; much the same for a glass filled with cordial; and water with cordial but no glass is ...

This approach works well for glasses of squash, but things get tricky when we use the same technique to define less tangible concepts. For example, a definition of art might view it as representation, or emotional response, or formal structure or historical concept. And what of the line between art and craft, or art and nature?

Sport is similarly difficult to define. Is mountaineering a sport? And why does the Olympics include archery, but not ballroom dancing? When I was involved with Sports Council Wales they refused to recognise darts, regarding it as a pastime. We all have our prejudices: personally I'd disqualify any sport that uses an engine.

One way round this problem is to say that ideas like art are simply, whatever we consider them to be. In other words they are relative to our culture and thinking. I find this unsatisfactory; imagine a culture which considered the moon to be a work of art - does that mean it is really a piece of art? I say it's a natural object which orbits the earth and is no more art than the soil in my garden; others would disagree.

An alternative, and to mind more satisfactory approach, is to acknowledge this as a problem of language. Some terms and concepts are not amenable to strict definition - it is better to think of them as having a family resemblance. Walking to school with Dylan I can usually recognise other children's mums or dads, it is more difficult when it come to Grandma of cousins. Perhaps our understanding of what makes art or sport is a bit like this. We can all agree on the core family members (athletics, football, rugby) but views begin to differ as the family tree spreads out and new generations replace the old (bungee jumping, hare coursing, shooting).

These are interesting questions or pointless ramblings, depending on your point of view. But be aware that definitions matter. Jane's mother was taken into hospital this week with a heart problem; last year, at around the same time, my father died of cancer. The NHS judged my mother in law to be worthy of treatment; not so my father. Ultimately, similar categorisation will affect us all.

So what of Dylan's question? As the world gets warmer is it winter in Britain in December? Is snow necessary or indeed sufficient - or is there a Rubicon date beyond which we are in its grip, whatever the weather?

For me, winter begins with the nativity plays and ends as the crocuses push through my lawn - the quicker the better; the sooner to start afresh.

Genius at work

2009-09-05T20:39:00.021+01:00

One of my favourite blogs isn't a proper blog at all. It is the Orwell Prize, the first on-line publishing of George Orwell's personal journal. Each entry is released exactly seventy years to the day he wrote it - his life and the world around him, gradually unfolding. It is an extraordinary read.

For months the diary covered little more than his kitchen garden, recording the progress of flowers, vegetables and chickens. Typically he'd write: dug a patch for the leeks, gave liquid manure to the Larkspurs; planted Godetias. 12 eggs (4 small). Orwell seems obsessed with his chickens, recording their broody moods, egg production, the amount he sells and at at what price. Some days he simply writes: 12 eggs (1 small)

But in recent months (the daily publishing makes it seem contemporary) he has also recorded the build up to war. In the entry which follows the one above he writes with equal calm: Invasion of Poland began this morning. Warsaw bombed. General mobilization proclaimed in England, ditto in France plus martial law.

This is typical of Orwell, recording his mundane chores alongside world changing events, the banality of his domestic life contrasting with profound observation of the wider world. Part of Orwell's genius was to pass comment as if he were an innocent outsider - giving the impression of a naive wisdom, and tricking us into believing we might have had the same insight.

In fact, the diary is steeped in careful scrutiny. His recording of the build up to war is meticulous; sources noted, newspaper articles appended, due consideration given to other nations besides Britain. Similarly his garden diary records the seasons and the nature of his district: Blackberries are ripening... many Finches beginning to flock.

Seventy years ago last Tuesday he recorded the British Declaration of War. There is an irony that after following events so diligently he misses the broadcast. I found the transcript on Google, it is worth reading in full, but the extract below illustrates well enough:

We and France are today, in fulfilment of our obligations, going to the aid of Poland... and now that we have resolved to finish it, I know that you will play your part with calmness and courage...

By Thursday, Orwell has returned to his home after travelling to London. He writes, 'returning to Wallington after 10 days absence find weeds are terrible. Turnips good & some carrots have now reached a very large size. Runner beans fairly good. The last lot of peas did not come to much...

There is something about the juxtaposition of the two worlds that fascinates and moves me. I think it's because my life is so far removed from either of their concerns. If I need eggs or carrots, I go to the supermarket; military conflicts are generally distant, experienced through a TV screen or the Internet. The tone of the British Declaration is from a world beyond my comprehension. I can't imagine a general mobilisation, or how I'd feel if my sons were called up to fight. And yet I know all this happened a mere fifteen years before I was born - and more than that, both of Orwell's concerns (food and war) are still the dominant fears in the world today. Orwell's diaries remind me how lucky I am.

I can't think of a contemporary equivalent to Orwell. At his best, Tim Garton Ash can write with great intelligence and liberalism of thought - but not with Orwell's range or skill. There are others who have written of the same events with the benefit of hindsight and detailed research (Jonathan Glover's, Humanity, a moral history of the twentieth century is a stunning work that comes to mind) - but that is different to writing 'live' and recording the world as it changes around you.

My friend Sara once said to me that Orwell gets better with time; it's only now that we realise just how good a writer he was. I agree. Oddly enough I'm not a huge fan of his most famous books, 1984 and Animal Farm; I prefer his essays and documentary writing. And his diaries too are fascinating insight into genius at work.

A true likeness?

2009-11-28T05:00:00.021Z

My middle son is creative, and like me he's interested in drawing. He's at that stage when graphics still have a strong appeal, but he increasingly knows there's more to art than cartoons.

Yesterday, he was engrossed at the computer. What was he doing I asked? 'Just some drawings,' he said,'I often make pictures on this programme.' He showed me a large collection of images; some were simple patterns, others more intricate op-art illusions; some, like the picture below, were striking poster- style graphics.

I told him they were excellent. But as we looked, he said. 'The one I like best is the tortoise, only I can't understand why.'

My heart sang, for I'd noticed that image and not said anything. It was far and away his best picture - but explaining why is not easy, especially to a thirteen year old.

It is good, I told him, because it is like a tortoise and yet not like one. Did you draw it quickly? I asked. He told me had, though he'd tried a number of times, deleting each failed attempt. 'This one just felt right,' he said, 'so I left it.' Again my heart sang.

For fiddling is the curse of good art. And had he done so I have no doubt it would have crossed that imperceptible line and become a cartoon. Look again at the images above - the tortoise is not a caricature in the way the face is; it is more like a child's drawing, though again, not quite.

The size of the head is important. For the head is the most fascinating part of a tortoise - it is what we peer at and what peers at us - hence its oversize renditions works all the more effectively. As does the mouth, a slash, a half smile - and the two pinpoint eyes. Anything more, round eyes with pupils say, and we'd be back to cartoons. As I said before - it is like, but not like.

The body too - bang, bang, bang - a few lines and you're there; it's obvious what has been drawn, no need to pretty it up. And three legs, not two, or four - the rear one cocked by a stroke of luck that is common in art, but which requires the judgement to leave it alone.

When you look at the tortoise you know it is 'wrong' and yet it feels more 'right' than a careful rendition could ever be. Why is this and what does it tell us?

In the age of photography and graphics, the role of figurative painting is diminished. Cezzane said that the purpose of art is not to copy, but to make real our sensations. Putting this another way - photo-realistic representation may be skilful, but it is also sterile. This is exactly what Michael's image avoids.

But now for a little perspective: this is not a work of genius; it is a teenager's picture of a tortoise. That said, it has within it all the elements that make for good drawing - real drawing - a sense of likeness, a feeling for the subject, and a primacy of image over craft. These things are vital and in these respects the picture shows promise.

I have only one gripe: it was done on the computer. For all its merits, the screen cannot match charcoal on paper - nor can the cursor replace the hand.

And neither will the processor - dual core or otherwise - ever replicate our instinctive response, which is the basis of all great art.

Talking to strangers

2009-11-20T17:54:00.041Z

Not me - I promise

Last night, in a swanky London restaurant, I had dinner with some colleagues and our company's lawyers. It was a pleasant evening; we were celebrating a successful deal; intelligent, interesting company, and surprisingly, we didn't talk about work. In fact, we talked about blogs.

Not just blogs, but Twitter and Facebook and social media in general. And their question was, why? Not only why I write a blog - though we'll come to that in a minute - but why is there such a demand to connect with strangers? Their premise was: communication between friends is one thing; talking to anyone and everyone is bordering on the weird.

Now it has to be said this was a typical lawyers' conversation - bright minds, but somewhat theoretical. None had ever read a blog, they were not on Twitter and their experience of Facebook came from their children or a 'friend.' My colleague admitted to being addicted to his Blackberry, and there were empathetic nods over the Cabernet Sauvignon. But aside from email, it was clear that social media had not penetrated the Magic Circle.

The first question was why write a blog at all? Because I enjoy it, I explained, and writing is important to me - when you come to think of it, why paint, or make models or play golf? But couldn't I write without posting it online - why the urge to share? Because publishing gives me an incentive to write more clearly, to care about the words.

Fair enough, but isn't it narcissistic to be writing for strangers? Is that so different to exhibiting paintings, or publishing a book? I replied. When we do those things, we invite people to take a look - to come and see what we have found - sharing our experience is part of the point.

And in practice I do know many of the people who read my blog. All my family read it, including my wife and my children - even Dylan looks in occasionally. Today I received a letter from my father-in-law, describing it as a 'splendid project' and listing his favourite posts. Friends and work colleagues read it too, though interestingly only Sara (who also blogs) leaves comments.

I wasn't getting off that easily. Writing for family and friends is one thing; a putative relationship with other bloggers is surely another? I could argue a few semantic points on this, but the general sentiment is a fair one. I had not envisaged this when I started blogging and yet I value the comments I receive; it gives me a kick that 'strangers' read what I have to say and are prepared to acknowledge it. More than that, I am prepared to return the favour.

Though in practice it's seldom a chore. As in 'real life', where people become friends because they have shared interests and values, I follow the blogs I like and skip those I don't. This is similar to joining a writing group or a cycling club - we look for like minds and shared interests - but in doing so, we understand the unspoken rule of contributing to a spirit of community.

So thanks to all of you who share your writing and comment on the bike shed. To my friends up north, Steve and Dan, Hadriana and Her on the Hill. From Wales: Maggie, Cait and the Celtic Heart. To those sharing life abroad: French Fancy, the Fly in the Web and Abe Lincoln. And nearer to home: Carol and Darren and Michelle at Veg Plotting. As well as all the others: the Zoo Archaeologist, Mrs OMG, Catherine, Sara, Jimmy Bastard and my favourite name of all, the PinkFairyGran - I wonder how those last two would get on together? Apologies to those I forgot to mention.

And so we come to social media - where blogging gives way to Twitter and Facebook - where it is less about writing and more overtly a means to connect. This is not for me, and a side of me empathises with last night's chatter. I find it hard to envisage how it works; twitter is too short and Facebook remains a mystery. But I recognise that others have different attitudes - and where those are shared, friendships (perhaps fellowships is a better word) will quickly form.

I am conscious too that businessmen and lawyers, dining in a London hotel, are not the best judge of these things.

Last Sunday I took Daniel to task for his casual attitude to Facebook invitations. Tell me how many friends you have, I demanded. About 150 was the answer. Then I want you to delete anyone you do not personally know! 'But I know them all,' he replied, '...not like you on your blog.'

I didn't argue. But you know, I think he's not quite right on that one.

Nablopromo

2009-12-01T16:26:00.016Z

Thirty days has September,
April, June and November...

Was it really thirty days? Now it's over it feels like fewer - and yet it was certainly more than I expected.

I estimate it took me somewhere between sixty and ninety hours to write a blog post every day in November - mostly in the evenings, seldom taking less than two hours, more usually three. I write slowly, constantly revising and reading aloud what I have composed; adding links, further editing and replying to comments took another hour a day.

But I enjoyed it: the hours at the computer, the time to myself, the planning and researching, and the interest shown by my family. By declaring a commitment I had more motivation to see me through and more support too. 'Leave your Dad alone, he's doing his blog,' was a regular call from the kitchen.

There was much that I missed as I sat here: my hundredth post, twenty years since I moved in with Jane (she forgot too) , bonfire night parties, Strictly Come Dancing... so no loss there, then! But there was also much that I found: new words, new themes, new readers - and a little more knowledge of what works and what doesn't.

In my first piece of the month I wrote about the tension between quality and quantity. I said I hoped to experiment... be prepared to make a muck of it – fail spectacularly if necessary. I don't think I quite achieved that, but I hope I made some progress and made the Bike Shed more distinctive in its way.

I said too that I wanted to use the blog as preparation for the final module of my degree - it begins in January and I have submitted a proposal for my assessments to be based on the writing I produce here. If it is accepted, you can watch and share in my progress.

I have long felt that the writing establishment underestimates the potential of blogs - indeed, I've written about it here, arguing there is an element of snobbery to it. So I was pleased to learn that the Open College are encouraging students to start a blog as a learning journal. We bloggers are making progress; slowly slowly...

A bit like Views From The Bike Shed. After more than 120 posts it has grown from a throwaway notion into something I value highly - enough to spend the equivalent of two working weeks in November writing for it.

Earlier today I checked my blog archive. I was surprised to find that my first post was published on 2 December 2007 - happy birthday tomorrow! I also looked twice at the first words - in one of one's life's amazing coincidences they were:

Where did November go? I seem to have missed it this year.

The Great Cyclist’s Caff

2007-12-11T22:14:00.006Z

The subject of good caffs, or rather the lack of them, was in the air at my cycle club the other week. It's all supermarkets now was the cry, and they're not proper cyclist's caffs are they?

This got me reminiscing about the great caffs I've known, and being in a philosophical sort of mood, to thinking exactly what it is that makes a proper cyclist's caff.

For starters, you notice that I've used the word caff; not café, or tearoom, and certainly not coffee shop - all a poor substitute for the real thing.

A proper caff must have:

Formica tables with wooden or wipe down chairs
Big mugs of tea, preferably served from a huge pot
Serve greasy English breakfast and bacon butties
Open on a Sunday, and
Be situated on a cycling route

Equally, it mustn't have:

Customers that look as if they're going to a craft fair
Lace tablecloths and fancy menus
Carpets
Self service counters
Cream teas

Your definition might be different to mine; it's a bit like good art: hard to pin down, but you know it when you see it. But if defining the perfect caff is tricky; finding one is altogether more difficult. Do any still exist, and if so, where are they?

The far north still has many good caffs, but that's a long way to ride for a cup of tea. A little closer, there are some good ones in the Peak District: Lovers Leap caff at Stoney Middleton takes some beating, as does Grindleford Station caff, tucked away under Froggat Edge. Both of these are climber's caffs, but this makes little difference; climbers, kayakers and cyclists are much the same – except cavers, who are very dodgy in my view, but that's a different story.

Wales also has some excellent caffs too. Pete's Eats in Llanberris even gets a mention in some good food guides. They used to offer a prize if you could eat all of the Big Breakfast - another free breakfast! Just up the road in Capel Curig is the Pinnacle Cafi ( Welsh for Caff); I once saw a cyclist there wearing shorts and a string vest when there was three inches of snow outside – he asked for a glass of orange squash.

In fact, my all-time favourite caff is in Wales. It's in Bala, renowned for its lake, its fair, and as a place you couldn't fail to score on a Friday night unless you were very, very ugly. In the middle of the High Street, just down from a hardware shop that displays most of its wares on the pavement is The Cyfnod. It is a shining beacon in a town without any supermarkets.

As soon as you walked through the door you could sense The Cyfnod was special. Its tables were pale yellow Formica, contrasting with the red leatherette benches that were screwed to floor so you had to slide between table and chair. On the walls, pictures of the Bala Women's Institute, circa 1971, (sitting proud and bandy legged in Welsh knitted tweeds), were placed side by side with photos of old Bala that looked much like the High Street outside. The serving counter was one of those glass chillers with a Frigidaire logo and the whole place doubled as the local chippy in the evening.

The smell of tea and sizzling bacon hung in the air as you waited for your breakfast, passing the time by trying to lift the vinegar bottle using only its spout and the tips of your fingers. (Never played this before? You've missed out on hours of fun) Even the waitresses were pretty.

The Cyfnod may have changed by now. But I hope not - for it was a Mecca to those of us who appreciated the finer things in life. In fact, I think I'll make a pilgrimage soon.

Flapping about at dawn

2008-08-12T16:10:00.017+01:00

Ever since I read Mark Cocker's Crow Country I've been watching crows and rooks. I like the idea that they return to the same place each evening, travelling miles to sit together. And I like knowing relativey useless things about them, such as the way they find small worms by stabbing their tough beaks into soft grass using a sort of hit and hope technique.

There's an old Scots Pine that stands in the churchyard of our village, where the rooks gather in the morning. I can see the tree from my bedroom and sometimes I watch them flapping about at dawn. After a bit of tooing and froing between the tree and the telephone wires they fly off in small groups. Some go west, the majority seem to go north. I counted fifty birds this morning. It's hard to tell which are rooks and which are crows, but I don't worry.

My neighbour tells me - with some glee - that they used to cull the rooks each year. It brought back memories of the photographs in one of our local pubs - of men carrying the dead rooks, caracasses tied at the feet and hanging in bunches. A good cull would take more than a hundred birds.

Clear skies

2008-08-17T20:49:00.014+01:00

There were about 100 rooks gathering in the village this evening. They were joined by dozens of seagulls, all of them freewheeling in great arcs over Sunny View, one or two gulls landing on the roofs. The wind was bending the old Scots Pine so some of the rooks took shelter in the fuller trees at the back of the graveyard, but most flew on towards Llochmeyler and Llanrhian. I think I'll try and find their roost later this week. Very wet and windy all day until the sky cleared at night - so many stars it was hard to identify the constellations.

Jane starting to point out the crows.

Strumble

2008-08-25T10:11:00.010+01:00

Strumble Head. Two birdwatchers at the hide, scopes pointing at open sea; notebooks, flasks and sandwiches by their chairs. Evidently they sit there most days, posting their sightings on the internet each evening. I liked their watchful patience - like fishermen with telescopes.

I spotted some porpoises in the run of the tide - perhaps eight or ten, but hard to tell as I may have counted twice over. They are common here. No sunfish today, but they are seen regularly in the summer. A heron flew out to sea.

Both of the spotters' scopes had a large foam shield (10 x 6 inches) fixed around and to the side of the lens. This allows them to look through the eyepiece with both eyes open. 'No need to squint,' one of them said.

Staying Local

2008-08-29T20:12:00.006+01:00

Weather improved these last few days, though still cloudy. I heard today it was the worst August on record for Pembrokeshire.

Whitesands heaving with tourists the moment the sun came out; families cheek by jowl either side of the slip way. 300 yards toward St David's Head is Porth Melgan, a steep sided cove with aqua-marine water and fins of black rock - one family had the place to themselves.

A couple walked past us as we sat at the headland, they were taken aback by the view - a gentle reminder of how special this place is. Wind picking up the tide in Ramsey Sound but I saw at least one porpoise. No seals today.

Rock pooling at Abbereiddy we catch a dozen small fish, a few miniature shrimps and a blenny. At Blue Lagoon the youngsters were jumping from the old quarry platforms, watched by small crowd. I am sunburned this evening.

Grey skies

2008-08-18T21:47:00.009+01:00

The rain returned this morning; had to dash to the car, the trees bending further than I've ever seen in August. A few diehards at Newgale campsite, otherwise deserted; waves breaking on the stones, spray covering the road.

The osteopath asked me lots of questions gave my back a rub and charged me forty five quid - nice bloke, interesting books on his shelves. First quack I've seen that said I wouldn't need more treatement.

Friends came in the evening; chatted around the usual middle class worries: pensions, our kids' futures, the cost of housing. The children played in the annexe, unaware of concerns next door.

Only a few rooks today, though a flock of gulls came over early evening.

The Parrog

2008-08-25T16:27:00.008+01:00

High tide at the Nevern estuary. Walking the path towards Parrog there is excitement that someone has seen an otter in the reed beds. Few birds of interest - the egret has gone for now. Only one speckled wood and one small white butterfly; a very poor year for butterflies.

The boatclub was full of 'hoorays' wearing sweatshirts, baggy shorts and flip flops. Very few appear to be going sailing. Not sure why I object to them so much - in many ways they are little different from me. Jane says it's a form of class consciousness, which is probably correct, but I sense there is something deeper.

I made a model of an old mine for Dylan's railway - papier mache and poster paint - he seems to like it. Mike plays with him well.

On the internet there is a report of a sunfish and large basking shark sighted at Strumble Head.

North Wales

2008-08-23T16:22:00.009+01:00

A few days in North Wales; a touch nostalgic as we stayed at Cobden's Hotel where we held our wedding reception. It has new owners and was much run down. Sad.

A good day taking Dylan on the Padarn Lake Railway then walking in the quarries at Deiniolen, watching climbers on the slate slabs and marvelling at the men who had worked the quarries out of the mountain. Deiniolen is similar to the villages in the Rhondda.

In the evening we all walked to Cwm Idwal, the older boys scampering up the rocks, Jane and I remembering our first visit twenty years ago and the kiss by the lakeside. We used to go there often. Once we found a red rose tucked into a crack on the Idwal Slabs, with it a note in a plastic bag, from a girl to her boyfriend who had died in the Himalaya.

On our return we stopped at Machynlleth. I liked its higgeldy piggeldy mix of shops, ranging from organic greengrocers through traditional hardware and gift shops to upmarket boutiques selling household trinkets - a number of charity shops too. Museum of Modern Art Wales (MOMA) was disappointing.

Back at Llandeloy the crows are gathering on the wires.

A hierarchy of sports

2007-12-02T21:20:00.003Z

I see that voting has started for the BBC's Sports Personality of the Year; it's one of those years when there's no obvious candidate. Not that it would make much difference, because such is the perversity of the British public that anyone driving a car is almost certain to win. I'm certain Damon Hill won it the same year that Linford Christie took gold in the Olympics - what were people thinking?

To my mind, if it's got an engine it's not a proper sport - a gross exaggeration of course, but broadly I'll stand by the basic idea. To me, sport at it's best is about running the fastest or throwing the furthest; it's about athletic endeavour and individual skill; it's not about piloting some super-tech engine designed by a team of boffins to give no one else a look in. This, of course, is my own prejudice, but it did get me to thinking about a hierarchy of sports...

Top of the pile are the pure athletic sports. This is the 'running the fastest' stuff I was talking about before. At their purest these sports have a simple objective measurement and involve minimal or limited equipment. It's the athlete that wins not the technology. As well as athletics I'd include sports like swimming, rowing and cycling.

Next comes competitive games: football, tennis, rugby, basketball, badminton - you know the sort of thing. Athletic ability is important but it isn't enough as these sports combine physical fitness with skill and coordination - always they involve a contrived set of rules with the aim of beating an opponent by scoring points - luck can play a big part as can the judgement of referees. Often, but not always, they are team games.

An odd category next: subjectively measured sports. These sports can be just as physically demanding as pure athletic sports, but they differ by including a subjective judgement of 'style' as key part of the competition. There are not so many of these around these days, as increasingly the governing bodies favour more objective judging. Ice dance springs to mind as a good example, as does the floor routine in women's gymnastics (remember Olga Corbet and those marks for 'artistic interpretation') - and I've never understood why ski jumpers get marks for 'style'. What does it matter if my jump is plain ugly, so long as I can travel further than the next guy? Beats me.

Of lower status to my mind (showing my prejudices again) is the category of skill and accuracy. Not much need for athletic ability here; it might help a bit, but it's not the main ingredient. Sports in this category include golf, snooker, shooting, perhaps darts (though I'm not sure if the Sports Council even recognises darts). I once had a row with someone who told me you had to be very fit to play golf at the highest level and gave the example that most top golfers runs every day; get real, I say.

And last, piloting sports. The idea of these is to steer your 'craft' round a course to victory. Your craft might be a car, motorbike, boat or even a horse. The problem to my mind, is that in many cases, the object being piloted is more important than the pilot: even the best drivers won't win many races in the third best car; the same principle applies to jockeys. At their worst, these sports are all about the machine and hardly a jot about the person - think Americas Cup.

You can have some fun with this list, working out where your favourite sport might fit. For example, I think of boxing as a competitive game, but you could make a case that it's somewhat subjectively measured (though not, I'd argue, on the basis of style); cricket is another sport on the cusp - competitive game (probably) or skill and accuracy? Mike Gatting wasn't exactly super fit was he?

And finally, on the basis that all sports featured on Grandstand should be capable of finding a home, we need to add an extra category:sports involving no humans at all. This will allow for greyhound racing, and I reckon are a few greyhounds who'd be just as worthy winners of the BBC Sports Personality of the Year.

Filling our heads with rubbish

2007-12-17T21:26:00.004Z

A colleague of mine had a go at me about my piece on composting. You're just being obtuse, she said, everyone knows composting is good and landfill is terrible.

'I never said composting was bad,' I pointed out. 'I said that I didn't understand why it got so much attention. My concern is that it diverts us from taking more significant action and frankly, I think most of the stuff we read about landfill is tosh.'

'There you go again,' she said. A friendly row followed...

The sentiment around the landfill issue is almost universal: landfill is ugly, landfill is smelly, landfill is deadly and lasts for ever - just think of all those nappies and plastic bags - if you think otherwise you're just being obtuse.

Actually I agree with most of this. I suspect, however, that our dislike of landfill is far more to do with aesthetics and a guilty conscience than any particularly detailed reasoning about its impact on carbon emissions. And importantly, my agreement on landfill, doesn't mean I'm prepared to forgo critically assessing anything vaguely connected to it - like composting, for instance.

The problem with sentiments that become generally accepted is that it's near to impossible to have a reasoned conversation about the underlying facts. Much worse, it's open season for absurdities posing as truth. The other week I read an article which claimed that within a few years there would be no room for any more landfill - all the countryside would be a rubbish dump. Just think for a moment about the full extent of that claim - all the countryside a rubbish dump! Really? And yet people seem to believe it.

Similar 'no go' areas for any critical reasoning are subjects like nuclear energy, GM foods, the Queen Mother when she was alive... If any of this strikes a chord, there is a great little book you might like by James Whyte, 'Bad thoughts: a guide to clear thinking' - a wonderful expose of the nonesense we accept from the media.

But perhaps there is potentially more importance to sentiment than I'm allowing? Anyone close to the stock market knows its power; sentiment makes and breaks companies, inflating and reducing stock prices for little tangible reason. The property market is another example; the transition from property slump to property boom and now property crisis was in large measure driven by sentiment - not an unimportant issue for the hundreds of thousands of young people wondering if they'll ever afford a house.

So perhaps there is benefit in composting after all? If it changes our collective sentiment maybe it will lead to more significant action. Perhaps I'm not ready for what needs to be done and composting is a way of preparing me? Maybe the fear of landfill is an easier sell than asking us more directly to reduce what we consume? Just maybe someone more in tune with these things imposed the targets and delivered my plastic bin for precisely that reason?

I wish I could believe it.

November reflections

2007-12-02T13:44:00.003Z

Where did November go? I seem to have missed it this year.

November marks the end of the cycling year. As the nights close in the racing schedule gradually dies away and evening rides become ever more snatched. By the time the clocks go back the racing season is all but finished. Only a few diehards turn out the peculiarly British torture that is the round of autumn hill climb championships, a simple activity that consists of riding up the steepest imaginable hills in the shortest possible time, usually in driving rain. Thinking back, I once won the Tandem Club’s championship for doing just this up Horseshoe Pass, assisted by a partner with an crude indiference to pain.

And for those who really don’t know when to stop, I suppose there is always the cyclo-cross season, which requires much the same indifference, except this time, to sanity. For cyclo-cross is all about riding rough shod bikes through muddy fields until you are head to toe in muck and the whole contraption - usually body and bike together- breaks down.

But for most cyclists November is for sitting down with the latest edition of Cycling Plus, scanning the rehashed articles on winter lighting and reflective clothing - Be seen; Be safe - and the hearty encouragements to keep you riding through the depths of winter - Your Ten Step Guide to Winter Training. November isn’t so much about riding; it’s about cleaning the club trophies and electing the Committee; it’s about old pedants proposing absurd resolutions at the AGM which nobody cares about but lead to a row anyway. Most of all November is a time for winding down and reflecting on the year just gone.

In my case it's been a paradoxical year. I've cycled less than at any time in the last decade and yet I'm probably more involved than ever before. After years of avoidance I joined on the dreaded Committee, organised a packed youth programme and spent the best part of the summer chasing round the country taking my son to races. To keep track of it all I had a colour coded year-planner on the wall of my study; at one time there wasn’t a free weekend all summer.

For my son it was meant to have been a year of transition. The previous year he'd won all but a handful of his races. This year he had moved up a category and was racing against older and more experienced riders. 'We’ll take it easy this year,' I’d said, and see how he gets on. My wife knew better, ‘So you’ll be off every weekend then.' As it turned out we were both wrong.

His first race was in March, it was sheeting hailstones and we huddled in a shelter as he rode round some godforsaken airfield to finish ahead of only a handful of competitors. He found the new category difficult at first but by the early summer he was racing well, getting reasonable results in the national events and riding particularly well on the velodrome. Then in May he broke his jaw, falling off a BMX bike on an evening which was meant to be fun but became, in a single slip, one of the most frightening of my life.

He recovered quickly, but in a way it was a wake up. I realised I was becoming one of those parents who, living vicariously through their children, lose all sense of perspective. We backed off after that, skipping most of the major events. By the last weekend of the season we choose to ride locally rather than trek up to London for the last of the national series.

This year has also been about the riding the track. I realised yesterday that we had made the ninety mile round trip to the velodrome over a hundred times. It’s ridiculous of course. But to watch him, circling the boards with effortless grace, is one of my greatest pleasures

Making plans on a beermat.

2007-12-29T15:51:00.004Z

Writing a list of goals for the year is a bit of a tradition in our family. It began one New Year's Eve, in a bar in North Wales, when I tore the back off a beermat and wrote, Things to do this year: Get Divorced, Get Married... I did both, which means it must have been 1991.

Every year since I've written what's become known as the beermat, though more recently they are kept in my notebooks rather than cardboard squares. Most years I'm able to tick the best part of the list by the following December. I've been told that simply writing down your goals increases the chances of success; I guess it focuses the mind, though probably nothing much beyond; certainly, I won't have any truck with those who claim some sort of spiritual connection.

But in fact the main reason I write lists is not so much to plan ahead as to look back. I like to remember what I hoped for, relive the days that worked out, and maybe reconsider those schemes I'd thought better of by the time it was snowing in February. I have kept nearly all my beermats; they are as good a summary of what has mattered to me as any.

I like making other lists too; a favourite is a 'Best and Worst of the Year'. Interestingly, the highlights never quite align with that year's beermat, reminding me that while planning is good, serendipity often shapes our happiest moments. This year was no different. In August as the sky pinked over the Irish Sea, we watched two seals playing in the harbour at Abercastle. At a dull business dinner that I'd tried every trick to avoid, I drank a sublime Puligny Montrachet and suddenly it wasn't quite so bad to be labeled an Executive. In a rare gap between June's showers, we visited Hidcote Gardens and I loved the eccentricity and sheer extravagance of it all. This autumn the badgers came to snuffle on our lawn by moonlight. Only yesterday, we huddled on Abereiddy beach as billows of foaming spume covered the rocks and the onshore gale reminded us how small we are...

And this year's beermat?

In no particular order of preference, I'd like to:

Make a self supported journey – doesn't have to be long, three days perhaps, but somewhere remote and with a reference to my past.
Read at least 20 books
Take the railway from Swansea to Shrewsbury, because I love the sound of all the station names.
Go cycling in France
Snatch a weekend away with J. and without the kids.
See Michael win a medal at the cycling championships
Complete my advanced writing course
Renovate the upstairs of our cottage.
Climb at least one new mountain
Drink no alcohol in January and less than usual thereafter
Spend more time with Daniel
Catch a fish that isn't a mackerel!

I could add more, but too many would mean there are no real priorities. I also like my plans to be 'dooable', and not simply a wish list in the sense that it's nice to dream but they're never going to happen. I notice there's nothing about my work or career, or any of that crap they call 'personal development' (there never is). I suppose too, a lot of it is quite self-centred (typical, some would say). Maybe my list is nothing more than a way of carving out some time in what seems a very busy life; if so, that's no bad thing.

Whatever the underlying reasons, I think having goals matters and it seems right to record them - even if that's only on the back of a beermat.

Composting

2007-12-16T19:01:00.006Z

Can anyone tell me what all the fuss is over composting?

In my town it began with a brochure from the council, quickly followed by the unsolicited delivery of an oversized compost bin, whether your house has a garden or not. Soon after there were leaflets explaining why we could no longer put grass clippings in the wheelie bins. Then posters appeared at the tip, the library, the garden centre... For some people, it’s become a quasi moral crusade; the other week I met a woman who actually described herself as a ‘composting guru’. She told me that recycling had given her a meaning in life.

Making matters worse, some of my greener friends appear to regard my lack of enthusiasm as a serious character trait. Admittedly, she wasn’t exactly a friend, but the compost guru felt it entirely acceptable to publicly chide me for throwing away a tea bag, promptly rooting in the canteen bin to dig out any vegetable scraps she could find.

None of this is a big issue in itself; in fact I quite like the idea of the occasional free bag of mulch. My problem is that despite all the publicity and the right-on pressure, I truly don’t understand how composting my veg and cardboard is supposed to save the world – or even a tiny little bit of it.

Let me not be deliberately naive. I have no doubt that central government has imposed a bunch of targets on our local council, which probably accounts for the publicity and the delivery of the black plastic dalek. And I can see too that the idea has a certain feel good factor which might appeases guilty consciences over the amount of ‘stuff’ we consume. But that’s a far cry from tangible evidence that this will have any real impact on global warming, even if we all went composting crazy.

In simple terms what I don't understand is this: if the stuff we’re composting decomposes quickly, then what’s the problem with land filling it? What’s so special about my garden that means we help save the world by improving the soil in my flower borders and not that of the local tip? I thought one of the problems with some landfill sites is that the soil is so poor thereafter.

I’m sure my green friends would point out that composting saves on bulk and reduces the weight on council vehicles. But given the amount that most of us compost it can’t be much, and in any case we could save just as much fuel by more efficient logistics. Even if there were clear benefits I can’t believe they are proportionate to the amount of effort that’s gone into persuading my corner of Wiltshire to save its potato peelings.

Virtually all environmental scientists accept that we need massive - no, really massive - reductions in emissions to stop global warming. In which case why are we faffing about with tea bags and banana skins? Frankly, it can’t be significant to the big picture. The odd thing is that those in power are arguing the same logic as the normally more militant green warriors; if we all make a little effort it will add up to a huge difference. Well let me tell you, it won’t.

In fact the ‘we should all do a little bit’ approach can be hugely counter-productive, Where I live the recycling centre just happens to be five miles out of town; yet on Sundays there are queues of middle classes families in estate cars smugly unloading last week’s wine bottles (New World of course). I wonder how many of them know what happens to recycled glass – do they think it get turns into bottles again? Road surfaces, actually.

I despise tokenism, even more I despise misinformation and crap logic. If there’s a genuine reason why we need to compost can someone please explain it to me? And can anyone tell me why decomposing my peelings in landfill is so environmentally bad; my local council can’t, and neither can anyone else I’ve asked.

More importantly, can someone explain why the promotion of composting should take precedence over, for example, a proper and reasoned debate on nuclear power, or implementing policies that would seriously change consumption patterns for the better, or imposing real and meaningful targets on businesses, or investing properly in technology solutions to reduce global warming, or riding a bike instead of taking the car? I could go on.

The truth is, much of what we’re told on green issues is nonsense, collapsing under a little critical assessment. It seems to me that those peddling this well meaning rubbish rely on a combination of people’s natural deference to authority and a general reluctance to face the real issues. Taking a step back and seriously assessing if it makes sense to sort your organic scraps before jetting off on yet another foreign holiday is, for many people, just a little too uncomfortable.

Composting doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things; it’s just an example of the tosh we’re asked to accept as Gospel. Green issues are riddled with misinformation, poor logic, appeals to sentiment and blind faith in gurus – is it any wonder that for some people saving the world has become a quasi religion?

Don’t like; don’t do; don’t get.

2007-12-05T22:32:00.004Z

'Have you noticed,' I was ranting in the car the other day, 'That people don't dislike things anymore; they don't 'do' them.'

'They're not the same thing at all,' my eldest son corrected me. 'There are lots of things I don't like, but there are only a few I don't 'do'.'

'And there are some things I don't 'get,' piped in my second boy.

This seemed like an interesting idea, so I probed a bit.

Disliking things was straight forward. My boys took the opportunity to reaffirm that they really don't like sprouts; neither do they like their French teacher, and for that matter they don't much like girls - at the moment anyway. For my part, they reminded me, I don't like Harry Potter, visiting castles on rainy days, or being disturbed at the computer. We each had our own list that took some time go through.

Not to 'do' was something quite different. Not to 'do' means not only that you dislike it, it means active avoidance. More than that, in some cases it means you won't even contemplate the idea. 'I don't do pizza,' said my second boy, 'there's nothing that would make me eat it.' And after years of cajoling, subtle persuasion, bribery even, I can agree: he doesn't 'do' pizza. Our lists were shorter this time; Christmas shopping was pretty high on mine.

But not to 'get', it turned out, was different again. Not to 'get' means that no matter how hard you try, you simply can't comprehend what the attraction is. 'So it's not like when you don't 'get' the answer at maths?' I asked. Not quite, they told me, it's more that you don't know where to begin; you don't understand how anybody could possibly like it. 'Give me an example,' I said. Opera, they replied. Good choice boys.

I liked their distinctions and I liked it too that our lists got shorter as we went through each one.

We all have our dislikes, they are commonplace, they express our preferences (or at least one side of them) and to some extent they help define our personalities. If we liked everything, or if we all liked the same things, the world would be a less interesting place. And sometimes it's fun to list them; think of Room 101 – oh, there are so many things I'd put in.

As for not 'doing' things, I think it's a useful concept. All but the most bigoted and limited can see the value in new experiences, and hopefully we give things a fair try before passing judgement. Those who turn their nose up at anything new, or back off at the first sign of unfamiliarity, limit their choices and ultimately their enjoyment in life. But to plough on regardless is equally daft. So there are things I don't 'do' and I think I'm happier for it. Thankfully, there are not many, but having a few non negotiable seems no bad thing – especially when it comes to dancing.

I'd like to think there is very little in which I can't see any attraction at all. Musical theatre comes close; laddish banter defeats me; my wife says I don't get empathy (I can't understand what she's on about). If I tried hard I could list some others; obscure poetry perhaps, synchronised swimming. I'm not saying these are bad, it's just that try as I might, I simply don't 'get' them.

The good thing, is that this is the smallest of lists. I want to make choices, and I want my boys to make theirs, based on an appreciation of all that life has to offer. No doubt we'll dislike a fair amount of what we try; we might even choose not to 'do' a few; but hopefully, there is very little that we simply don't 'get' at all.

I have always loved bikes

2007-12-07T16:28:00.001Z

I have always loved bikes.

My mother bought my first from the bin-men; I’d spotted it hanging from the back of their cart as they passed our house. She paid them ten shillings and told me to share it with my brother. It was purple and red with a step-through frame and a white sprung saddle. I learned to ride with stabilisers, removing one, then the other a few weeks later. When I first rode without them, I peddled straight into the back of a parked car and knocked myself out.

That bike gave me my first taste of freedom. I’d cycle down our tree lined road, turning right into Etal Avenue, then left to the cul-de-sac by the station, where I’d watch the children on the other side of the line, laughing as they sledged down the railway sidings on wooden boards.

Later I was given a green Hercules that had been standing outside for years. I spent days taking it apart, scraping off the rust with brillo-pads, polishing the chrome. It had a three speed Sturmey Archer hub, but only two gears would ever work. Not that it mattered; to my eyes it had a cross bar, thin wheels and, most important of all, drop handlebars. It was a racer!

I soon learned, that my Hercules was no racer at all, and that Sturmey Archer gears were the stuff of derision amongst the cognoscenti at school. Ten speed derailleurs were the right stuff; Raleigh Choppers were acceptable too – they were best for giving ‘backies’ and were popular with the kids from the council estate.

You’d find it hard to buy a junior racing bike nowadays, though the Chopper is making a comeback, re-launched as a retro alternative to the mountain bike. My boys don’t see the appeal. ‘One wheel’s smaller than the other. It’s like a girls bike,’ they say. I think it’s marketed at Dads – like those, who years ago, longed to ride on the other side of the tracks.

Past imperfect 2 - Argyle Terrace

2009-11-30T16:10:00.008Z

3 Argyle Terrace

In July 1982 I bought the ground floor of a Victorian terrace on the edge of North Shields in Tyneside. I paid £7,700 including legal fees. In return I got a huge flat with high ceilings and original features, a great view over the fields and a neighbour with a punk daughter who played the drums at all hours!

I was twenty years old and had just returned from my third year at university. There were three million people unemployed and somehow I landed a job as a sales rep for a newspaper. That single break allowed me to buy the flat and in so many ways affected the course of my life.

Putting the price of the flat into perspective, it was exactly the same as my first annual wage. I remember I borrowed £300 from my mother to cover the deposit. I was so determined to repay her that I barely did more than eat for two months. Looking back, quite why I was so fiercely independent I can't say, but I don't regret it, or what it taught me. I have remained so ever since.

I lived at Argyle Terrace for three years before moving north to Northumberland. They were three good years - formative, fun, and a long time ago in more ways than one. It would be almost inconceivable now for a young person to buy a decent first home for the equivalent of a year's wage.

And you know, it is not a good thing that they can't.

I feel immensely lucky to have reached adulthood at a time when buying a house wasn't the crippling expense it is today. A blog isn't the place to discuss detailed personal finances, but in the twenty seven years since I bought Argyle Terrace I have never had to take a mortgage more than twice my salary. That combination of good fortune and circumstance (and huge a slug of prudence) has afforded me a freedom from debt that many people only a decade younger, and for no fault of their own, have struggled to achieve.

The view from my window - and my first company car!

My Grandfather lived not far from Argyle Terrace. He bought his first house when he was in his twenties and never thought to move until he was seventy seven. His house wasn't an investment; it was somewhere to live and raise a family. That might sound old fashioned, Romantic even, but it has always struck me as the right way to look at it.

There is little that dismays me more than the property boom of recent years. At times I have wanted to scream. We are not richer when house prices rise - and certainly we are not richer as a society. Even at an individual level the 'I have equity' school of thought seldom stacks up. In my case I have supposedly made a handsome profit - but what about my children who will need a home sometime in the future? As a family we are immensely poorer.

A typical home in the UK is worth three to four times its price in 1995. But how does that supposed wealth manifest itself? It's not as if people can cash in and live for free elsewhere. In practice, the real wealth of home-owners of my generation (providing they have been prudent and not borrowed against their equity) is in having a smaller mortgage - something everyone could have enjoyed if prices hadn't risen so aggressively in the first place!

And none of this even touches on how the housing market has skewed our economy, left millions in a mortgage trap, warped our values about what is important. I could make some jokes here about Home Front and Location bloody Location having a lot to answer for - but it's way too serious to laugh at.

I feel most sad for those starting out. A few years ago young people were damned if they did and damned if they didn't. A friend of mine said recently, ' They should rent, like everyone does in Germany.' But that is unrealistic; we don't have their housing infrastructure and in any case cultural norms are an important part of our self worth - in the UK owning a house is, for the vast majority of aspiring people, an central aspect of making progress in life.

But if ownership is legitimate, a lust for rising prices and the putative wealth it brings is destructive. It has always struck me as perverse that housing is the only essential product we want to see increasing in price - imagine if we had the same attitude to energy or food. I could go on, but I would probably scream after all.

I know that every generation has its trials and fortunes, but as I look again at the photo of my first house, I think it was truly a lucky break to be starting out then. I hope one day the cost of housing will return to something near affordability - though I doubt my particular definition of that word would be possible.

More's the pity, because I suggest we'd be better off if it did.

**********

P.S. And there you were thinking my last post of November would be a nice quiet round up. Nablopromo - no problem!

The creative vocabulary

2009-11-29T19:46:00.020Z

Seascape - M Charlton

Oil painting, using only my fingers

My post yesterday was about images; it concluded with the opinion that computers are not equal the possibilities of traditional drawing and painting. The response from followers was largely in agreement, but one of the comments made me think: Elizabeth asked, 'are we just old gits?'

I don't think so. But first I should say some positive things about computers - or more correctly, digital media - lest I seem too much of a Luddite.

Digital media has brought with it a vast range of new and immensely creative possibilities, many of which we now take for granted. It's capacity to incorporate images (moving and static) with sound, words and interactive components is unsurpassed. What's more, you can create digital media at home, production is quick and cheap, and distribution to millions of people is near instant.

In a more direct comparison to drawing, programmes like Paint or Draw offer a simple and intuitive means to create images - even young children can find their way within minutes. There is barely a PC without a similar programme and printing, even from a cheap home printer, creates good quality images.

So why, with all this possibility, why do we not have more iconic images produced by computers? (I'm not talking about cartoons and moving images here - but plain images that would compare to a painting or drawing) And of those we do, why do they concentrate into the sphere of graphics rather than fine art? Accepting it is a huge generalisation, what is it about these images that makes them so much less interesting than 'proper drawing'?

I put it to you that they are flat! And that in using pixels rather than 'marks' to produce the image, they lack the creative vocabulary of drawing and painting. To extend the metaphor, computer images converse with the minimum of words - at best, this limited vocabulary encourages direct speech, easily understood and immediate on the senses (such as most graphic art); more often it is limited, crude and uninteresting. Drawing and painting, in comparison, has a vocabulary that is unbounded.

For many years I painted with a group of artists. We would meet six times a year, taking over a studio for the weekend. Always, at the start of our meetings we would begin with an exercise called mark making. I will describe it in detail, because in doing so I think it might explains what I'm struggling to say - it is also a fun exercise to try, by yourself of with your children.

Mark making

Start with a large piece of paper on an easel or a table. Take a pen, charcoal, pencil - whatever - and draw a line. Look at it. Then make a different mark: some shading perhaps, or a thinner line. Repeat the process, always making a different mark: dot, dash, smudge, splatter, wide, immense, longer, shorter...

When you've exhausted the possibility of one item - say charcoal - move onto another: pastels, acrylic paints, pencils... Try different colours, different textures - always you are trying to make a different type mark.

Gradually all your art equipment should be unpacked- oil paints, chalks, rollers, brushes, palate knives - nothing should be left unused. Remember, you are NOT trying to make a picture - you making as many different marks as you can.

And when your equipment is all laid out and you've exhausted your ideas, think again. What about complex marks (one colour or line drawn over another) or negative marks (scratching away at what is already there) - maybe you want to spit on the paper, or add some earth, or stick on a toffee wrapper, or print with potato, or your hands, fingers, nails.

Keep going - how many more can you make? Is there a mark somewhere else in the room that you can steal? How about taking a tube of paint and squeezing it thickly onto the paper - then smudging some of it, adding some sand - building an impasto for more variety. Or perhaps use a domestic paint brush and swipe it across the paper.

Don't be precious. Remember, you're not making a picture. And now I think of it, why not rip it in half and stick it back together like a collage. Or pass the whole thing through a mangle, walk on it, cry over it, kiss it.... We usually stopped after twenty minutes but I reckon I could have gone on for hours. My record was over five hundred marks.

And ultimately, this is why paintings and drawings are more interesting than graphics and computer images. Of course, this isn't universally so - there are excellent graphics just as there are dreadful drawings; there are superb books written with limited vocabulary (Runt by Niall Griffiths uses only 700 words) and iconic pictures with minimal marks (Andy Warhol). But I am talking in general terms not absolutes - and I haven't even touched on the question of feel and the physical response that you cannot have with a computer.

Digital media has undoubtedly added to our creative possibilities, as did photography before it. I am glad it has arrived in my lifetime, but I am equally glad that new media seldom kills the old. And when it comes to drawing and the images we hang on our walls, I believe the 'old gits' still have the upper hand.

So near and yet so far

2009-11-27T17:16:00.015Z

Jane and I have just returned from lunch with some friends. They live eighty miles to the east, so we met half-way at a country pub. It was great to catch up: a few hours chat, a glass of wine, an excellent menu. We must do it more often.

Our friends had flown home from Australia last week. They'd been to visit their son who emigrated two years ago; a four week trip - their second in a year - and they plan to go again in March.

The motivation isn't only their son: they have a new grandson, born earlier this year. 'It's lovely out there,' they said, 'but it's so all or nothing. By the time you get there, you've got to make a trip of it - and of course, there's the expense.'

My mother lives round the corner. She used to live four hundred miles away, and I preferred it, but that's a long story. To be fair the proximity has certain advantages: she babysits occasionally, Dylan goes for tea on Tuesdays, she can feed the tortoise when we're away. She can also pop round unexpectedly, phone up because a light needs changing, and when she was ill guess who did the nursing? Jane, you're an angel.

Our friend's daughter lives in East Anglia, she has a baby and another on the way - understandably she'd like her mum around. 'It's a difficult distance,' they said, 'not impossible now we're retired, but too far for a day trip.' Longer term, and after much consideration, they plan to move within fifty miles. 'It's a big upheaval, but then you think about your real priorities.'

Jane would live nearer her parents. When we first met she lived half a mile away; her brother lives in the same village as do the other grandchildren - his divorce proving no barrier to proximity. I suspect we will move back one day, though not to the same village. For there is a fine line between closeness and claustrophobia; between living our own lives and sharing in someone else's.

Where we live now, Jane's parents are an hour's drive. They come once a fortnight and usually stay over; we look forward to it. And they, in turn, enjoy us visiting them; they live near the mountains so we can combine it with a weekend break. This arrangement has worked perfectly for fourteen years; so long as everyone is fit and has access to a car it is a good compromise.

But there is no set formula. And I often wonder how I will feel when my boys move away. I can rationalise their need to move on, the requirements of their careers, the opportunities of bigger places. And yet beneath the surface - not even deep down - I know I will be bereft.

For years our only discussions on their personal space have revolved around tidying bedrooms. But gradually their horizons are expanding: trips into town, overnight parties, can we go to the festival please? This week Daniel signed up for an expedition to Borneo. I have told him he can go, so long as he earns his passage and keeps our trust.

This is all as it should be - it is part of the growing up and away from us that they need to do. I know it is not healthy to hold them back. But just occasionally I think, 'not so fast.' And I know that all too soon I'll be hoping, 'not so far.'

The F word...

2009-10-04T14:00:00.013+01:00

Jane was making lunch as I worked in my study on Friday. 'What are we having?' I asked. Just some ham and pickles. 'That's nice, isn't it,' I called to Dylan, who was at home because of a Teacher Development day. 'Oh, I don't know,' he sighed from the dining room next door, 'It's all fuck fucky fuck!'

There was moment's silence; my fingers stopped typing as I sat back to consider his reply. Jane, who is less contemplative about these things, came storming in from the kitchen. 'Who told you THAT word? It's a VERY naughty word.' You can imagine what followed.

Evidently he'd heard it at school - or so he says. Someone taught him it, but he's not sure who. Jane left him in no doubt that regardless of where he'd heard it, if he wanted tea, TV or indeed any sort of niceness he's better not use THAT word again. He's been at school a month, she moaned, and look what happens. At least Dan and Mike took about a year!

I tried a little diplomacy. After all he has no idea what the word means - and to be honest his Dad's pretty free with the odd 'fuck it' and worse when things go wrong. 'We're having none of your clever stuff, over this,' said Jane. 'If his teachers hear him speak like that, he'll be in big trouble. And in any case it's rude and uncouth.' I've learned when it's best not to argue a philosophical point.

All was soon smoothed over,the incident put down to a one-off. Until early on Saturday morning, when Mike was winding him up in a big brotherish sort of way. 'Stop being a fucker,' Dylan shouted from his bedroom. I turned over and looked at Jane...

Five minutes later Dylan was in no doubt at all about the F word and it's multi-variants. There would be no beach today, and no ice cream -there was even talk of soap and the washing of mouths. I stayed out of it, silently suppressing a smile at the accuracy of his comment to Mike. After all, he was being a nasty... brother. I doubt we will hear the F word again though, at least not for a few years.

Some parents get very wound up over swearing. I've seen mothers demanding to see the teacher, speak to the the Head, squaring up to other mums in the playground -on one occasion swearing so liberally it was fairly obvious where the bad influence might have come from. I'm more relaxed; it's a phase kids go through and usually a few tellings off will sort it. If they knew what they were saying it might be different, but frankly, Dylan could just as easily have said 'Tickety boo boo boobies'.

Jane wouldn't like that either. And neither would I, for though I might be bit less outraged than her at the F word, I basically agree: swearing is rude and uncouth -and somehow particularly so in children. Jane almost never swears and we none of us would in everyday speech. If I occasionally let fly, it's through anger or a stubbed toe - come on, everyone swears when they stub a toe, don't they? As my Mum would say, it's common.

I think the the subtleties of language are best left to adults; as far as Dylan is concerned it's a case of do as I say, not as I do. Which he's generally taken to heart - certainly he was repentant yesterday. And in the afternoon, as we gathered for some tea, he sat in his chair uncommonly silent - before letting off a long, and I have to say melodious, fart! Jane stared daggers at him as the three of us bigger boys suppressed our giggles. He looked at each of us in turn...

'Pardon me,' he said.

Narberth

2009-11-26T19:01:00.008Z

Town Hall - Narberth (image from Narberth COT)

When I first came to Pembrokeshire I would smile at a particular road sign on the A40: it read, Arberth Narberth. Bilingual roadsigns are commonplace in Wales, and though this one appealed me for its rhyme I never thought to visit the town. It was only when a traffic accident diverted me that I chanced upon one of the hidden gems of West Wales.

Narberth (or Arberth if you're talking Welsh) is about as untypical for Pembroke as it can get. For a start, it is not near to the sea, lying pretty much in the middle of the county. It is on what is known as the Landsker, the line dividing the English and Welsh speaking areas in South West Wales. The line is pronounced, but I have a feeling the people of Narberth knew something of the best of both cultures. And perhaps that explains the subtle and slightly poetic variation in the two names.

For Narberth is a sophisticated town. It has the best and most concentrated collection of boutiques, galleries, delicatessen, dress shops, antique dealers and cafes this side of Cardiff. It has a thriving arts scene too, and for years the Queen's Hall played host to bands which would never usually venture this far. It's a sort of Notting Hill in Wales, but much much better - because it lacks the pretence as well as the prices.

This morning Jane and I sat in the Ultracomidia delicatessen and had brunch. I ordered the set breakfast: toasted ciabatta with olive oil, Serano ham, tomatoes, a glass of freshly squeezed orange and think Spanish hot chocolate. It cost less than going to Mcdonalds. Jane had the same with Comte cheese and a cappuccino. We mixed and matched and decided we really ought to book for one of the tapas evenings. Frankly, I could have sat there reading Baudelaire and not felt out of place.

Cheese at Ultracomidia

And, dare I say it, this is rare in this part of Wales. Readers of this blog will know of my affection for Pembrokeshire, but one of its lesser aspects is that the heavy influx of summer tourists means there are few businesses with aspirations beyond this obvious source of income. Much of what passes as quality is little more than polished veneer.

In many towns - St David's is a good example - the low season feels deserted and shabby. Even in high season there is the seaside equivalent of pile it high - sell it cheap with a mix of dodgy crab sandwiches and tacky souvenirs. I'm being a touch harsh here - the lack of pretension is one of Pembrokeshire's delights too - but just sometimes I need a more sophisticated fix.

Narberth gets the balance right and works hard to keep it going. In the summer there is a food festival, an arts festival, and a brilliantly conceived children's festival - nicknamed the Narby Gras. In December there is a winter carnival and, of course, they do Christmas with lights and street sellers; similar efforts are made at New Year, Easter, Halloween.

If all this sounds a touch upmarket I guess that is true. But the important phrase in that last sentence is 'a touch', because the real delight of Narberth is that it is accessible to almost all. It is not expensive - eating there is cheaper than the tourist traps - and the town actively markets itself as offering superb value. Nor do you have to like bruschetta and olives to enjoy the place - the butchers does the best faggots I know of, and the chippy on the corner (The Contented Sole) does a great fish chips and curry sauce.

I could go on. But you can already tell I like Narberth. And you probably have as good an idea as you're going to get without going there. If you are down in West Wales, I'd strongly recommend you do.