Rob’s CV diaries 5: Beer, conscience, germination and viruses

Well, it’s been over three weeks since I left Oxford for isolation in Stow and it doesn’t seem that long. Of course I vaguely miss visits to the city’s many pubs and their wide selection of real ales, I miss the music and the intellectual stimulus of lectures and so on and on, but I’ve been busy and spirits are high. I did have one bad night when I feared that the breweries might have to close because of the lock down. But next morning when out running I paused to talk to an old man (my age possibly) who seemed quite desperate for a chat. He told me that he had done all he could to the garden and that his daughters kept him supplied with the essentials.

“What about booze?” I asked semi-jokingly, but actually a question that was at the top of my mind.

He told me that he was a Mason and could get all he needed from the Lodge in Stow, so I asked him if I could sign up. Not really, I’m sure I would be black balled. But he did tell me of a brewery which provided home deliveries in these strange times. I contacted it, but Stow was too far away - so convenient for Cheltenham, Oxford, Cirencester and so on, the town is in fact distant from them all. But then I remembered Purity, one of my favourite beers. I contacted the brewery and they did deliver beer and it was free (the delivery not the beer) provided you ordered enough, I did, and now have it, so that’s something else I need not worry about.

Meanwhile I have been rejected. I volunteered to help the NHS as a home based support caller and was accepted subject to my identity being confirmed. It wasn’t. No idea why, apparently they (RVS) cannot tell you that but provide a long list of possibilities. So I tried again, but no good. They are no longer accepting volunteers. Such a pity. All my Samaritan training going to waste – and I so wanted to do my bit. I feel a little guilty pottering around my little bit of the Cotswolds when others are doing so much to help.

But I’m busy. I’ve knocked a few things off the to-do list and I finally managed to find someone on the web who could supply hedging. I immediately ordered a bargain bundle of 100 hedge plants of unknown variety for the northern perimeter of our field and ten more specialised shrubs to grow next to the field pond, hopefully the latter will attract birds other than the regular pigeons and crows. The order came much more rapidly than I expected: a huge bundle that I left untouched for the requisite few hours and then set to work, hard work. For each tree I dig a hole in the field (which is not easy because I usually hit stones quite quickly) then I set up a support stick, after which I put a little root growing magic stuff in the hole and then the hedging plant itself. I backfill, water, then replace the turf – upside down. Each planting takes about ¼ of an hour and I have well in excess of 150 to establish – you can do the arithmetic. It’s a big job and a hot one, but the weather is so good that I can mostly work with my shirt off (no photos). And it’s nice to be planting more greenery.

On the green front my early potatoes are just peeping out of the ground and so are some of the other seeds. I now have 25 lines of vegetable, etc coming on. In normal times I hurriedly dig my plot and prepare it, throw a few lines of seed in then dash back to Oxford for my other life. Now, I have no other life so, day by day, I can watch the seeds grow (hour by hour sometimes). This might sound like watching paint dry, but it is not for me. It is still a thrill to see the seedling appear and gradually form themselves into the adult plant. One of the most interesting to observe is leek. It takes some time to germinate, then pushes up a green loop – a bit like an onion seedling with the point stuck in the soil. Then, after a few days the pointed end springs free of the soil and reaches for the sun. Wonderful, I wonder why it does that.

Like many people just now I have begun to wonder exactly what viruses are and how they work. Fortunately there was an excellent TV programme on this just the other night. It graphically explained how the things get into the body and use no end of tricks to dig right into the nucleus of cell then take it over so that it starts replicating the virus. 

No one seems willing to define these viruses: are they actually alive or not? Whatever the answer to that may be, this Corona virus is virulent: its contamination rate is such that two people with it are likely to pass it to five more, then 12.5 and so on, and this leads to really scary graphs like the one below. This is why we have to isolate ourselves. That is why there is no excuse for getting the thing and passing it on. And after that…

Rob’s CV diaries 4: On the lighter side

In an attempt to inject a little humour into the dire shadow created by the Corona Virus, I copied a few friends in on this modified first line of The Hobbit: In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. He planned to stay there indefinitely in order not to make the lives of essential healthcare personnel more perilous.  

I did not invent that modification to Tolkien’s book, but I thought I might have a go at his magnum: The Lord of the Rings. Here’s the modified first line: When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, he received a visit from the Hobbiton constabulary who explicitly apprised him of the recent restrictions on social gatherings.

Parody is one way of keeping the spirits up and a take off of Queen’s famous song certainly made me smile – and it ends with a serious message. See and hear it as Corona Virus Rhapsody.

And then, for me, it was April the 1^st. Back when we had our smallholding and children of varying ages I made a great thing of that day. My favourite prank was to create what looked like a hand part submerged in our pond holding a notice. The notice said something silly like ‘Save me!’, and I think I found it funnier in the execution than the kids did when they first looked out of their bedroom windows. Isolated in Stow and with children now mostly far away and with kids of their own, I am spending some time clearing up  my garage (really my shed, no room for a car) and came upon a golden egg. No idea where it came from and why I kept it, it’s made of brass I think and looks like a chicken egg, but golden and heavy. So, when I let the chickens out on April Fools’ Day, I placed it amongst the hay in one of the new nest boxes I made for them. I then waited for a scream from my wife when she discovered it. Sadly, there was no scream, just a bland aside later in the day: “Oh, I saw the egg. Very funny”. Ah well, who was the fool?

 Back at the farm, well not quite – still no sheep and no eggs - I dig and I rake the garden in preparation for the biggest crop I’ve ever grown since we had the smallholding. In those way gone days I did have a little help: in particular my old, but game, grey Ferguson tractor and all the bits to put on the back (including a potato planter and spinner). Nowadays everything I do is by hand and on a smaller scale. Nevertheless I’ve seeded purple sprouting, cabbage, radishes, lettuces, carrots, turnip, swede and, well, quite a lot of stuff really, not to forget a few rows of early and maincrop potatoes. Now we need warm spring weather, but Stow-on-the-Wold (where the wind blows cold) has lived up to its name over the past few days, so the seeds are biding their time.

Rob’s CV diaries 3: Isolation relieved by four young and pretty birds

I suppose we transgressed the social isolation rules by collecting the chickens, but at least the lady at the cash desk wore gloves and wiped my credit card with an antiseptic tissue.

The chickens were subdued as I drove more placidly back to Stow-on-the-Wold, but they did not know that they were now homeless. Fortunately, I knew what I had to do. I left them in their cardboard box and entered our small garden shed. I removed the two bicycles, many buckets of hand tools, the recycling containers and no end of bags of stuff for Margaret’s flower garden. I then cut a small door into the rear wooden wall which faced the back garden and started to make a run for our guests on the garden itself. Luckily I have lots of stuff for this sort of thing. I made the run from beanpoles, surrounded it with some rusty chicken wire I had stored in the field and then covered it with netting from an old fruit cage. After that I used an old gate and other stuff to section off the chicken area of our little shed. I then placed the cardboard box on the hay-strewn floor and opened the lid.

And what happened? Nothing! The girls had either taken to the box or were terrified of entering their new home, perhaps both. I tipped the box up a little, the poor things hung on for dear life. Then I tipped it right up and three fell out, fluttering and squawking. The last one, Blackie (they suggested their own names) would not budge, even with the box upside down. I had to give it a sharp tap and then she too fell out with a resentful squawk.

It took a while before they ventured into the run. Whitey was first. She stepped very cautiously down the drawbridge which also serves as their door to the outside. Taking a quick look around, she presumably decided that she did not like the place and re-entered the shed. The others watched in wonder. However, after some time they all ventured out and did what chickens do: they pecked away at the ground searching for edible morsels. It felt nice to have them.

Then I had a thought. This corona virus thing will not go on for ever, things may never return to what we now regard as normal, but, assuming that we do survive, we will be able to associate again. I will return to Oxford to resume guiding and my other pursuits and we will be able to visit our home in Spain. But what about the chickens if we do all that? This is the moment when I started work on my prototype automatic chicken feeder.

I am still running every other morning. There are not many people about and those that are look worried, as if I might transgress the two meter rule. On the other hand it can be difficult to avoid close encounters, especially on narrow pavements. This morning I ran away from Stow towards the village of Broadwell, then took a footpath back towards the town. As I turned a corner towards home there was woman just in front of me, walking in the same direction. I could smell her perfume! Social distancing had been transgressed!

Perhaps I should run around our field where the only person I might meet is the woman I sleep with! Be a bit dull though, the running that is. That morning I saw the three llamas that live in a field near Broadwell. As usual they looked shocked to see me, like giant rabbits caught in a car’s headlight.

No eggs yet. Yesterday we went to the nearby supermarket to purchase supplies in the hour allotted to over 70s. The place was packed, almost every trolley was taken and the car park full. People were waiting outside in a spaced-out, highly-organised queue. Surely that spoils the whole point? This arrangement created a false peak in shopping. We did not wait. Fortunately Margaret, after much groaning at her phone and general frustration, managed to acquire a slot for deliveries from the Sainsbury supermarket. Phew, my small emergency beer hoard remains intact.

There is some light at the end of this strange tunnel though. I see that scientists from Oxford are recruiting healthy people to sign up as guinea pigs for a potential coronavirus vaccine. And someone else is working on the use of infected blood as short term method of training our immune systems. Worrying news from the USA though where the death rate seems to be running high.

Rob’s CV diaries 2: Isolation

I am, by nature, a little bit of a list maker so, on arrival at Stow at the commencement of our social distancing, I began. I managed to list twelve things to do of varying duration, complexity, cost and creative content. The priority, it seemed to me, was to plan ahead with regard providing food for ourselves on the assumption that things might get worse, an assumption reinforced by the then daily anxious pronouncements of our Prime Minister and the news from Italy, Iran and Spain.

The gardening year starts for me on or about 21^st March which is the vernal equinox and potato planting time. However, this year I began more seriously than ever: digging over my vegetable plot and bring more of it into use. I also surveyed my seed tin. In some ways this did seem like moving the deck chairs of the Titanic since the immediate problem was empty shelves in supermarkets created by the irrational but increasingly hysterical hoarding hordes. But there was little that I could do about that - except join in! Hence I was taking the long term view: I ordered more seeds. Of course there are some foods that you cannot grow in the garden particularly meat and eggs, and so I added sheep and chickens to my action list.

Margaret was not keen on the sheep idea, partly because she doesn’t like the meat but, I suspect, more likely that she did not savour the thought of the wooly ones eating her carefully planted wild flowers – sheep are however still on my list. On the other hand she was delighted with the prospect of keeping chickens, she wanted them anyway. This is of course déjà vu for us. In our smallholding days we kept many things including: sheep, pigs, goats, chickens, geese and peacocks: the sheep and the peacocks were the least successful.

So, chickens topped sheep and I set to. First, I thought, better get a chicken coop and a run to go with it. No good getting birds if they have nowhere to live. So I advertised locally, but got no response and began searching the web. The coops advertised were too small, too expensive or already sold. I began to panic, if coops are in short supply, what about the chickens themselves?

I think that as you read this blog during the current crisis you might think us a little uncaring and petty. I was beginning to feel that myself, was I doing my bit? I had offered to work from home for Samaritans, but the rules do not allow that (so far) so I then offered my services as a trained listener to the RVS who are handling the spectacular tsunami of NHS volunteers, but have heard nothing back as yet. I also laid some vegetables on my ageing neighbour’s doorstep and she phoned her thanks – from a distance.

But, back to the chickens. On the morning of Sunday 22nd March I began searching the web for chickens - coop or no coop. I called a number of local dealers and began to panic. People had already begun to hoard point-of-lay pullets it seemed. One lady from Gloucester sounded very tired, but kind. “I’m expecting some Golden Comets on Tuesday afternoon, but it’s first come first served and I’ve no idea of price”. Most of those I called had sold out and had no idea when or if more would be delivered. Then, at lunch time, I struck lucky. I called Cotswold Chickens and a very distracted lady shouted down the phone.”We’ve just had a delivery of 200 and there are ten cars waiting already.” The line then went dead.

I’m not sure that Iverley House has ever seen such a rush. We were falling over each other searching for a cardboard box, money, keys, and coats and were out of the door and into the mini in no time: lunch entirely forgotten.  As I sped north up the Foss Way we both giggled, this was rather fun. When we arrived the car park was full, no room for a mini amongst the Range Rovers and such, but an ample lady walked over and gave us a torn off piece of paper with the number 34 on it and said that someone would be leaving soon and we could park and wait in the car. Thirty-four! There were only ten waiting when I called a half-hour before! Would we get our birds? Panic had abated a little now that we were at least in the queue, though any concern about price or breed had flown out of the car window. We were desperate for chickens.

The ample lady occasionally wandered over to a car whose number was up and they were led to a hut around the corner. Ten minutes later they walked proudly back with their chickens: one person had three boxes of them: a real chicken hoarder! If she had peered through our windscreen our look of disgust would have persuaded her to give one box to us – or not, probably not.

After nearly two hours our number 34 was reached and we were so grateful. There were still about twenty hybrids left and we chose a black, a white and two pretty greys, paid £20 each (a lot) and bought up what little was left of the food plus a chicken drinker. We had made it. We had chickens, but where were they to live? In the kitchen?

Rob’s CV diaries 1: Eruption

I’m sure that lots of people are, or will be, writing about the corona virus epidemic: not surprisingly since the news is chock-a-block with articles, reports, opinions and so forth. I am no expert of course (there seem to be more than enough of those around) but thought it would be worth recording my own experiences and feeling whilst the crisis unwinds. If you’ve had enough of this whole topic then ignore the CV diaries: normal service will be resumed … as soon as possible.

News of the outbreak of the infection came in December 2019, its origin being in Wuhan, China, a city that my wife and I visited during one of out teaching stints in that country. Known as the oven of China it was certainly a hot place, but I have no strong memories of it and cannot find my notes on that visit. When we heard the news I was already arranging our travel details for a trip to Taiwan, Vietnam, Cambodia and Australia. Should we have abandoned that trip in the light of the news? That really never occurred to us. The Wuhan virus seemed to be something local to China and, though we had a very brief stopover in Beijing en route to Taiwan, no precautions were even suggested as we took off on the sixth of January 2020.

As our trip progressed, awareness of the virus could be tracked by the proportion of people wearing face masks. These are not uncommon in Asia anyway, but during January and February their use grew and grew so that even I tried to purchase some in Ho Chi Min City. This was not easy, many convenience stores had sold out by that time. Nonetheless I was derided for wearing one in a hotel in Phnom Penh by a fellow visitor and one Cambodian told me that his country was too hot for the virus! In Australia we heard that only one person had tested positive for the infection and the only people wearing masks there were Chinese.

How things can change is such a short time. We returned to the UK at the beginning of March and found the country pretty much unfazed, but fear was growing - albeit quietly.  The first death from the disease was reported a few days after our return and another soon followed: both had what soon became a common term ‘underlying health conditions’ and were in their late seventies and early eighties. Two things followed that. On a personal front I decided that the sooner I contacted the disease and got the whole thing over with, one way or the other, the better. Then the government and its advisers became more engaged and seem to agree with me: the sooner sufficient people became immune the better - even though some would die in the process.

That initiative did not last long, it was followed by serious warnings to those most at risk to isolate themselves and for those likely to be a load on the NHS (particularly the over 70s) to take similar precautions – that included myself and Margaret.  Meanwhile my main activities in Oxford were being wiped out by the virus and through government warnings. Tours were being cancelled at an exponential rate, I only took out two groups in Oxford after our return from Australia, and the last, on the 15^th of March, was for just three people rather than the usual 15-19! It was also clear that my Samaritan shifts would have to go; I did my last on the same day as that final tour. That was also my final weekend in Oxford – and it was great. We attended a wonderful concert featuring the music of Rachmaninov, Tchaikovsky and Borodin on the Saturday evening and a great open-mike night at the Harcourt Arms on the Sunday. Next day we moved down to our house in Stow-on-the-Wold for no one knows how long.

How did I feel? Mixed emotions really. Though I prefer to spend much of my time in Oxford, we do have a very nice house in Stow and, with the vegetable garden and our very own field I would have plenty to do. And, though I realise that for many social isolation is a frightening and depressing prospect, for me it seemed a little bit of an adventure.

Rob's best reads of 2019

As I’ve written here before, I get most of my reading material via Bookbub and so it is quite arbitrary stuff. Also, I almost always read on my Kindle and that can influence what I read because of the ridiculously high prices imposed on eBooks by the big five publishers. That said here’s the best of my best from books read last year.

I rarely read a book twice, but last year I did just that. I had forgotten entirely that I had read Tony Parson’s Man and Boy some years before as a paper book and hence bought it cheaply as an eBook. Some pages in I realised my mistake, but was so entranced by the sad story and the recollection of how much I had enjoyed it that I ploughed on. It is a fictional account of a marriage break up involving a very young son and the tussles between his mum and dad for custody. In the end the father steps back for the sake of his son and finds a solution that works even though his lawyer assures him that he could have won custody. An interesting and moving tale – very well written.

In the biography department, I read Frank Gardner’s Blood and Sand. His life, first as a banker then as BBC reporter, nearly ended as he was repeatedly and cruelly shot at close range in the city of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.  Almost miraculously he survived and, though disabled, returned to journalism. It is a harrowing story, but leavened by his early successes in life and his courageous recovery.  Altogether a riveting read.

That’s a couple of mainstreamers, now for some odd balls.  Metropole by Ferenc Krinthy is a strange novel where this middle-aged linguist takes a plane to a conference somewhere in Scandinavia. But he lands in a strange city where the people speak a language that has no relationship to any that he knows. He is rushed to a hotel and given some money and a room. He cannot read any of the signs or communicate with anyone – and so the tale gets stranger and stranger. There seems to be no escape from this packed citadel where everyone is in a rush and all transport is overloaded. It is a weird scene, yet portrayed believably through the eyes of the confused yet rational Budai, the main character.

Then there’s another glimpse into a strange world, this one real. In To the Moon and Back, I gained some idea of what it might be like to be a Moonie. Lisa Kohn spent her childhood as a member of the Unification Church, that strange movement founded by South Korean Sun Myung Moon. In describing her life, including the long period when her mother left her to serve the church, I began to understand the silken chains that tie people to such communities, how they can be so happy within it and how difficult it is to leave.

Back to fiction, glorious fiction, with The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. I love magic and this book is magical, really magical. The night circus is exactly what its name suggests and more. Many of the acts and displays are beyond physics, beyond trickery, and even the transport of the vast tented circus is magical: it appears overnight very suddenly, without sound or fuss. Within this strangely entertaining book there is an even stranger love story and a plethora of odd, but interesting characters.

As an Oxford guide I often mention the Rhodes Scholarship and its founder, Cecil. So, I thought I ought to delve into his life a little more by reading Rhodes: The Race for Africa by Antony Thomas. It’s an interesting and sometimes shocking biography of a driven man who seemed to exert power over so many during his short, but influential, life. It certainly adds fuel to the campaign by students who demand the removal of the man’s statue from the fascia of his Oxford College – Oriel – though I still do not think that is the correct course of action. One disappointment in life for Rhodes (and for me) is that he concluded that there was no-one whom he could not buy. I think that’s a double negative, but you know what I mean.

Finishing this much curtailed list with another fictional book, I did enjoy A Ladder to the Sky by John Boyne. This is an intriguing tale of an amoral young man who has two ambitions: to be a famous writer and a father. In pursuing the former he has a major weakness, though he writes well he is unable to create a great story line – so he steals them from the people who love him. He is a very attractive man, sexually ambivalent, and entirely without conscience; so it is shocking, but perhaps inevitable, that his thefts lead to the deaths of many who become trapped in his web. I think I’ve written enough already about this book since anything more would spoil a gripping tale which is very well written and capable of making the unthinkable tenable. John Boyne certainly does not have his main character’s weakness.

Oh, but just a mention of the rather zany What’s Eating Gilbert Grape by Peter Hedges. How could I forget Gilbert’s gargantuan mother?

And so, on to 2020 which has a nice ring to it: provided each of the four ‘t’s are clearly enunciated. This coming year will undoubtedly provide me with another feast of fiction, and it looks like I’m going to need it whilst sequestered in my country retreat for who knows how long.

Contrasting Australia and Asia

Well, not contrasting the whole of Asia of course, that’s just too much, and actually just the Adelaide area in Australia. Starting point was Taiwan as in the previous blog, definitely part of Asia but well-advanced along the path to … to what? Let’s leave that to later. Next came Vietnam, then Cambodia, then briefly Thailand and finally Adelaide.

First thing that hit me in Adelaide was the traffic. Not literally of course, that was much more likely in Asia. Crossing the road in Hanoi, Ho Chi Min City, Phnom Pen and so on takes bravura, confidence and luck. Pedestrian crossings do exist, but are ignored. The traffic forms an almost constant rapid stream and consists mainly of motor scooters, some carrying entire families. The pavements are littered with the remains of people who gave up on crossing or were slaughtered in the attempt. That last is an exaggeration of course, but the rest is not. No one is going to stop to let you go, so you just have to go. And somehow, miraculously, the traffic forms a bubble around you as you pass. It is actually very efficient. In Adelaide  I was castigated for daring to cross the road where there was no crossing, and was amazed to see groups of people waiting for a crossing light to turn green when there was no traffic on the road at all. Fresh from Asia I had to constantly restrain myself.

In Adelaide the roads are generally excellent, in Cambodia and to a lesser extent Vietnam; they are likely to have stretches that are not metalled, possibly never have been. The dust kicked up by cars speeding over these stretches is spectacular, and for cyclists such as myself suffocating and blinding. In Cambodia people are packed tightly, standing room only, into open trucks. I saw this soon after crossing the border from Vietnam and was both amazed and appalled. Yet as we, seated comfortably in a bus, passed by them they waved and smiled at us.

As an ex-telephone engineer I take a passing interest in wiring. In Adelaide there is not much to see, in Vietnam and Cambodia you cannot miss it. Multiple cables hang like tangled liquorice from poles, buildings and anything that is stationery. A puzzling mesh which would seem impossible to maintain and is possibly dangerous, thus similar to the public transport networks of those two countries.

May I mention toilets? Yes I can. Oddly enough I prefer the miniature hand operated shower heads attached to each of them in Asia over the wasteful use of tissue paper. That said the general standard of toilet repair and cleanliness is far superior in Adelaide.

Now a rapid switch of subject to wildlife. I saw little in Asia (apart from the Kratie rats and dolphins); though I must confess I did not visit many national parks. However, the fauna of Australia is in your face: in the gardens, parks and roadsides in fact almost everywhere. I especially enjoyed the Australian birds: from the tuneful magpie to the friendly willy wagtail and the colourful eastern rosella and more. Then there are the koalas, kangaroos, echidnas and so on – wonderful.

With regards to people, well its all so mixed up nowadays, but I found the Cambodians the friendliest, possibly the most relaxed and probably the most attractive.

The currency in both Vietnam and Cambodia is quite ridiculous. I regularly drew two million dong from the cash machines in Vietnam, those that worked for me that is, so I now know how it feels to be a millionaire.  Cambodians have a similarly inflated riel but most business is done in American dollars there. I carried one 10$ note with me during all my time in that country and, though I regularly offered it up as payment, it was always refused because it had a minute tear along one edge. Yet in Australia it was changed without a glance.

Then there is food, a sensitive topic for a man with a sensitive stomach. Vietnam leans towards China for many things, yet it also embraces bread as well as rice. Cambodia leans more towards India but has its own recipes, I particularly liked ‘amok’ - curried fish in coconut milk eaten with boiled rice. And Australia leads on snitzel which the sensitive stomach appreciates. But in truth there is little contrast here since Adelaide offers food from all over Asia in addition to British and American staples.

In terms of development Adelaide is a nice clean city with beautiful parks, and everything works. Taiwan could be regarded similarly in relation to the rest of Asia and Thailand is not far behind it. Vietnam comes next displaying a remarkable recovery from that dreadful war with America and, though there is some way to go, the improvements wrought by a capitalist based economy are visible everywhere. Cambodia must be regarded as a work in progress on many fronts, yet blessed with a pleasant capital and lots of temples – oh so many temples. Please, no more temples.

Finally, I haven’t mentioned pubs. All I can say is how nice it was to return to England and drink a few pints of real ale in my local.

Temples, rats and giant insects

Having whipped through Vietnam with Margaret, I am now in Cambodia, alone. Though sharing a border and a long history, the two countries are quite distinct: if nothing else in language – written and spoken. I couldn’t say which I prefer, though I have fond memories of the exciting local bar life (with music) in Hue, Vietnam and the lovely position of Hoi An where we celebrated the Lunar New Year. Tet, as they call it, played havoc with my usual last minute travel plans from there. At one time we were stranded in the place we liked least, Nha Trang, but rescue came through a Chinese mother and daughter who shared a taxi with us to the hill town of Dalat.

For a tourist Cambodia is Angkor Wat and vice versa, but that is not entirely true. On arrival in the capital Phnom Penh, I found myself in a horrible cheap hotel in an equally nasty area and could not wait to leave, but I found a better hotel near the Mekong river (a river that dominate my travels) and, hey, everything was fine. Fine that is, except that I became a little depressed when visiting the ghastly detention centre used by that unforgiveable communist organisation, the Kmer Rouge, to torture and kill thousands of innocent people.

I moved upriver to Kratie in search of dolphins, these freshwater creatures inhabit a stretch of fast flowing water about 15 Km above the town and are a delight to watch from an open boat. Have a look at the name Kratie and you will find something not so nice in the middle, and that’s what I found there. On my first night, after shrugging off an old woman who attempted to give me a massage right there in the bar I saw four of the devils running along the gutters, ignored by the arrogant street dogs who accept them as do the locals. I know rats are everywhere of course, but these were big ones and not at all shy.

On my last night in rat town (otherwise a very pleasant place) I decided to eat in a corner restaurant near my hotel, partly because I admired the heavy wooden furnishings of the place and also because it seemed popular with the local. As I stood at a table studying the menu, something ran over my sandaled foot – you’ve guessed what I’m sure. To the amusement of the waitresses I threw the menu down and commenced a hasty retreat, my hunger had suddenly vanished. The rat preceded me, it was an ugly fellow with patches of hairless, grey skin and seemed determined to block my path. Ugh.

I left Kratie the next day for an interminably long journey in a packed minibus bound for Seam Reap, the capital of Cambodia’s tourist industry. The so called VIP bus seemed to stop everywhere and more and more people and luggage and boxes were piled in until the narrow corridor form my back seat to the exit door was completely blocked. But the journey had to be done, the temples of Angkor Wat and many others are the main reason for visiting this country, and Cambodia, ravaged by war and communist idealism needs the US dollars ( their main currency, by the way).

My hotel, owned by a Brit called Scotty as it turned out, was fine for the price I was paying and I soon had an agenda for the following day – a tuk-tuk driver would pick me up and drive me to many of the nearest temples, including the most famous, Anghkor Wat, at 7am. First we had to visit the ticket office where I shelled out £37 for a one day ticket to the temple area – a fortune in this country where a glass of beer cost as little as 50p. But the money, hopefully, helps with the restoration and ongoing maintenance of this vast inheritance from the ancient Cambodian empires.

I am not going to describe the temples, there are plenty of accounts around that can convey the splendour of these unique creations set in the midst of the Cambodian jungle better than I can. My own reaction was wonder at the size, extent, amount and detailed stone work and bas-reliefs. Some of the carvings are in great shape having been there for some thousand years, and there are so many finely carved walls representing battles, daily life and processions. The buildings are not so well preserved as photos may suggest and some, like Ta Keo, have been almost ruined by the incursion of the vast trees of the jungle.

By lunch time, to the confusion of my driver, I had had enough. In the heat, the crush of people in some temples, the interminable ascents and descents of dodgy stone steps, the incessant drone of multilingual tour guides and pressure of touts selling everything from books to fridge magnets, I became over-templed. Lunch helped to set me going again and I did finish my tour at a mountain top temple where the masses gathered to watch the sunset. Disliking masses I decided to forgo the sunset itself and make my descent when there was a cry from a man in the crowd, “You have an insect on you!” I looked down to my legs but could see nothing. “On your sock,” he shouted. And there I saw this very large green thing. I was horrified and tried to brush it off, but it would not let go. Then someone came up to me saying, “It’s a praying mantis”. Now I really like those things, but am not so keen on having one attached to me. The man crouched town and gripped the thing behind its head and fortunately it released me. He then placed it on a post where he and I photographed it. This caused great amusement in the many people nearby. Perhaps they will remember that incident over the glory of the sunset.

Letter from Taiwan: Elections and Electric Scooters

I have written about Taiwan before in this blog, and my first impressions are reinforced with every return trip. However, visiting with my son and his family in Judong, a township to the south and west of Taipei, we do get to know the place a little better over time. On this occasion two things stand out: one political, the other environmental.

I jogged most days through the busy streets of the town and up into the surrounding hills. As I ran the first thing to strike me was the sheer number of national flags that were on display: elections were coming and we would be present while they took place. Usually elections in a foreign country are mysterious and of little concern to a visitor, but we, embedded in a mixed race family home, were soon enmeshed – especially since my son arranged a family sweepstake around the presidential candidates.

The election was called to determine the next president together with new members of the legislature and, though the inevitable complexities were beyond me, the basic issues seemed clear and very Taiwan specific. Of the two main parties the DPP stressed continued independence from China (which claims it as part of their republic), whilst the KMT had a very different view springing from its historical claim to be the Republic of China. Naturally, there is a lot of history here and gathered behind those two key viewpoints there are many other political differences.

The initial results of the election, though totted up manually and in a very open fashion, came in very quickly. It was soon clear that the incumbent DPP president had swept the board as had her party in the legislature and so I lost my bet.

I was intrigued by the reaction of the KMT’s top dogs as their defeat became clear, many of them were crying openly as their leader made his parting speech. The re-elected president, Tsai Ing-wen, was much less emotional when she gave a very serious press conference to international reporters. During this she did not smile once and was flanked by three dark-suited men who were immobile throughout. The first query was from the BBC reporter who asked a clever-dick question implying that Xi Jingpin, China’s president, had won the election for her. She replied diplomatically, asserting Taiwan’s independence, but willingness to work with its dominant neighbour.

Later we saw her with party compatriots and here she was dressed much less formally and was all smiles. Later again I saw an interview where she was pressed on her position as a woman at the head of her country where she made it clear that this was not a gender issue, but solely concerned with having the right qualities for the job. She also stated that Taiwan was an immigrant country which also respected its aboriginal citizens - who were traditionally led by women.

On the environmental side Taiwan, together with many other Asian countries, is scooter land. These two wheelers buzz around the streets and countryside like petrol driven flies, noisy and polluting. But a revolution is in progress in Taiwan. My son and daughter-in-law both have electric scooters now, as have many Taiwanese. In fact they have Gogoro scooters a brand that saw sales more than double in 2019 making it the second- largest motorcycle brand in Taiwan. It’s an interesting development and key to Gogoro’s success, I believe, is its elimination of the battery charging problem for users. They pay a monthly subscription then simply ride to a battery swapping centre and change the battery for a charged one, a process that is much, much quicker than filling the tank with petrol.

The scooters look good and are user friendly in surprising ways. It was my son’s fortieth birthday during out stay in Taiwan, the scooter knew this and played the happy birthday song to him! Naturally enough, you can link your scooter to your phone and they have even built in a reversing function for ease of parking. In use the scooters make a whining sound so that pedestrians know of their approach, but they are much quieter than their petrol equivalents. Finally, by the nature of brushless electric motors, the scooters are almost maintenance free. See here if you want to know more.

Could this business model apply in western countries? Probably not since the popularity of scooters is much less there. Good idea though.

And there’s a glimpse of Taiwan for you. Next stop Vietnam.

Oxford, my Oxford

It’s the end of a year and the new one has a great ring to it: 2020. That’s pronounced twenny-twenny if you cultivate the currently trendy glottal stop – or, if like me you doan’ speak proper. Looking back over twenny-nine’een I think how lucky I am to live in this great ci’ty with its history, fine buildings, good pubs, live music and free lec’ures.

Enough of that, it’s the lectures I want to reminisce about. I probably go to two or three a week when I and the students are in residence (not many outside of term time). They span a universe of subjects from politics to geology, quantum computing to genetics. Here’s a few that have stuck in my memory from last year.

A very topical one held at the Martin School was entitled ‘How China will save the planet’. That brought them out – or was it the free wine following the lecture (happens sometimes)? The lecturer shocked us by saying that China has the most solar panels in the world. What’s more China has the most wind generators in the world. But then again he told us that China burns more coal than any other country in the world. Actually, he told us, their use of coal had been declining, but economic incentives to encourage that were removed and it has risen again. I have seen piles of the stuff lying about in the streets of some Chinese cities.

Then there was the lecture by the Geology Group on the origin of plant roots. There were very few of us there for some reason but I found it fascinating. Most fossils are derived from quite large things of course, but roots, especially pre-historic roots are thin and wispy, hardly likely to become fossilized. But there is a fine grained rock called chert in which fossilized plants have been found in extraordinary detailed form – particularly in Scotland. This provides views of root formation from the Devonian period some 400 million years ago and provided some strong theories of how plants evolved roots .It might sound a dull subject, but with a good speaker and many colourful slides it was fascinating.

Around the same time there were a couple of lectures which updated the whole subject of human migration out of Africa. The lectures were intent on combining knowledge gained from the fossil record with that available from the analysis of DNA. They introduced me to the term anatomically modern humans (us) and how our genetic make up contains DNA from other extinct human groups such as the Neanderthal, which I knew of, but also the Denisovan which was new to me and contributes as much as 5% to the DNA in Asians, including, presumably, my half Taiwanese grand-children.

Another lecture addressed time: its measurement over the ages from the basic egg-timer to today’s cesium clocks which are accurate to one second in 150 million years! The lecturer was quite old, which sort of befits the lecture, but his lecture was bang up to date. He told us that all the measures that we use in everyday life, like the meter or kilogram are derived in some way from the measure of time and other constants of nature. Disappointing really, I always like the idea that that there was a rod and a ball which standardized these things in a triple locked cellar somewhere near Paris.

Other lectures covering everything from the gig economy, to fracking to Brexit filled many pages of my indecipherable notes and maybe, just maybe, improved my understanding of the world in 2019.

In conclusion don’t forget to listen out for the glottal stop in twenny-twenny. Still not sure what it is? Laager drinkers can try the Elocution Bar within my website pub for elucidation.

Rewilding: Green or Greener

Yes, I’ve learned a new word. I hated it at first: my normal reaction to hearing a new word is revulsion and deep suspicion that somewhere in the OED there is already a perfectly good word with the same meaning. But then I realised that we are rewilders and this new word has swiftly been added to my vocabulary!

Since we managed to buy the field behind our 

house in the Cotswolds we have planted many trees, hedge plants and wildflowers and I have created a pond. I had been feeling a little guilty about owning a few hectares and not farming it productively, but now I find that as a rewilder I am actually part of the growing army who claim to be saving the planet! Gosh. And there’s more: I am one of the few people who, during trips, collects their own urine, brings it home and pours it into the compost bin! I know you do not want to know the details of that so let’s just recall, and slightly rephrase, the words of the Yorkshireman from the Fast Show: “I’m considerably greener than you”. 

In fairness we were green before the word was ambushed by conservationists.  We dutifully took our old newspapers and magazines to a place that recycled them, we grew a lot of our own food, why, at one time we kept goats, pigs, chickens and sheep on our smallholding where we planted hundreds of trees. We also composted, manured and ploughed the fields and scattered. Yet, somewhere along the line we have developed an antipathy towards the near religious zeal of many of the greenies and hearty dislike for the Green Party’s sole MP. How has this arisen?

For one thing, though always concerned by my own, often grudging, use of the air transport, I am constantly amazed at the vast number of activists who fly to conservation conferences. Also I began to sense that the core activists have agendas which are not centered on conservation. My personal belief is that the problems caused by technology will be solved by technology – not by zealots who are anti-technology, have strong beliefs in controlled economies, collectivism and the like and imagine a paradisal society of low population living close to nature yet with all the benefits of modern medicine. They reject the potential technologies of ocean cloud whitening, carbon capture or fusion, yet embrace a future where the planet is densely covered in ugly, destructive wind turbines and solar farms. What’s more they delight in a future imagined by a sixteen year old child of high intelligence but little experience or breadth of knowledge and are often vegans with a wish for us all to live amongst soya bean plantations without a cow, sheep or pig in sight.

Yes we are rewilders and in the pub I only drink real ale (no added CO2). But I’m sure we can do better. Less travel, less meat, scrap the diesel motor caravan and buy an electric version, etc, etc. Then again perhaps I can offset my warming sins with our rewilding activities on the field? Is that permitted?

Being well-read

At least ten years ago, probably more, I went on a literary tour of Oxford, a tour I nowadays enjoy leading. It was organised by Writers in Oxford of which I was an active, now inactive, member, and conducted by Peter, an independent guide who worked, and still works, through Blackwell’s the famous bookshop in the centre of the city. That bookshop is claimed to have the largest underground display of books in the whole of Europe: so many words, so many sentences, paragraphs, chapters and of course trees. Our group were not very impressed by the tour and, after it had ended, we walked away chatting about this and that. It was then that one of the more pleasant lady members of what we then called WinO said pleasantly, “Rob is the least well-read person that I know”. I was taken aback rather than offended and responded by asking if she had read the books of Douglas Kennedy, whose novels I was reading at the time. She had not and had not heard of him. I could have gone on by mentioning a long string of science fiction authors who had fed my hungry mind through teenage and beyond, or asked whether she had read everything that George Orwell had written and so on and on.  But this would not have changed her mind. She assumed that I had not read the books that she had read, and also, probably correctly, that most members of WinO would share her canon.

Where do people get their reading material from? Many, I think, read the books recommended by newspapers or magazines and thus Guardian readers would be exposed to a different choice to, say, Telegraph readers. Some are inspired by radio or TV reviews programmes, others by the short lists for famous prizes such as the Booker, and yet others by the many books that describe the books you must read before you die. And, of course, for many there is the well-established practices of bookshop browsing, visiting the local library or simply following up recommendations from friends.

Nowadays my source (as exclusively a Kindle reader) is BookBub which suits me entirely. Everyday I receive an email listing books on special offer (mostly £0.99) with a short description and a link to the book via Amazon. Mostly I reject the lot at that stage, but every now and then a book attracts me so I examine the more detailed description on Amazon and then reject, sample or buy it – mostly the former. For me this is great. I do preselect which categories of books I want to be offered, and within my categories I get some wonderful reads. What especially attracts me is that it is all so random: no political, sexual, trendiness, geographical, or intellectual bias as far I can tell.

I read a lot when I’m in Spain, especially now that my main building project over here is complete. Currently I am reading a grand overview of human history, a book on factfulness and a fascinating autobiography by Frank Gardner of Middle East reporting fame.  I have recently finished the riveting account of Alfred Wallace’s nine year expedition to the Malay Archipelago and plan to follow in some of his footsteps next year. And whilst travelling I have also read a couple of good novels: one for the second time – a first for me.

So, am I well-read? Well, I certainly wish that I was as an author, but as a reader it all depends on who is asking the question. I certainly do read a lot, and widely - which is why if I suddenly lost all of my possessions one of the first things that I would miss would be my Kindle – followed by my smartphone, from which I can also access my Kindle store of books.

An everyday story of (Spanish) country folk

It’s so hot here in La Fresneda on the final Sunday of September that I am sitting in our old stone house as far from the windows as possible, writing. Actually I should be pursuing my latest project down at the huerto which involves digging a fairly deep hole in dried clay and rock, but at 30 degrees plus on this day of rest writing seems infinitely preferable. When I do complete my hole in the ground I plan to construct a large concrete settling pan in it that will hopefully precipitate out the sand and dust suspended in the water delivered by our irrigation channel. I will then connect up my network of tubes that drip feed our fruit and nut trees so that I can leave here confident that the pipes will not block while I’m away.

As the sun beats down on the golden limestone walls of our village, all is quiet at present. Though the two clocks compete in ringing the hour and half hour, the church bells have ceased their insistent ringing and believers have or have not answered the call. Most people are indoors for the afternoon preparing a heavy lunch to be followed by a soothing siesta. But the two bars will remain open as they compete for the odd tourist who might wander in. We love to sit outside one or other of the two bars of an evening. They are situated so conveniently on the village’s splendid plaza and there, as the locals ebb and flow, we can create our fictional version of La Fresneda.

This time we have been away for almost a year so some changes are inevitable. Vincente, who runs our favourite bar, has lost his wife. We are told that she went off with another man during the boat crossing from Barcelona to Mallorca, but I do not know if that is true – anyway her buxom presence is no more. And next door there has been an even bigger change: Ramon and Montse, whom I have written about in previous blogs, are no longer the proprietors! Oddly enough they are still hanging around as if no one has told them that their head waiter has usurped their position. He is the brother of the ex-shepherd and poet, Juli, and has a strong predilection towards moving the tables and chairs around in his section of the plaza. We knew the two brothers’ father and mother who lived nearly opposite the other bar, but they have both passed on.

When I write ‘knew’ I exaggerate. We ‘know’ lots of people in La Fresneda in a ‘hello, goodbye, how are you’ sort of way – but beyond that the language barrier drops and we have to rely on other sources of news. One of those sources should be the ‘pregon’ which I have written about a number of times in the past. Whilst we were sitting in the plaza observing and fictionalising the other night, the lanky town clerk came along on his, much too small for him, scooter. He whistled, waved and nodded to all and sundry then slipped into the town hall which impressively terminates the plaza. Within a few minutes passionate ‘jota’ music flooded the streets of La Fresneda carried by the network of speakers in each and every street and was accompanied by the usual howling of dogs who dislike the sound. The music stopped abruptly and was replaced by the clerk’s calm voice as he read out some item of news. Mostly these announcements tell us that the regular market is coming to the plaza and lists every item that will be offered for sale. On this occasion we believe the hot news concerned the closure of the plaza to traffic for the weekend, as happens every weekend.

Earlier in the week the loudspeakers crackled, then, instead of the expected jota music, we heard the plaintive chanting of monks. While this is playing the dogs do not howl and silence descends followed by the sad announcement of the death of someone in the village. These occur quite often, but on this occasion I though I picked up the name Antonio from the announcement and feared that the ex-mayors father who we ‘know’ very well had expired. However, the next day as I passed through the plaza on my motorbike, there he was, so some other Antonio has died. He will be buried within a day or so of his passing as is the custom here.

Shocks occur. Recently whilst walking down to the plaza we passed the door of the cellar of Manuel, a near neighbour. There was a loud shout and we turned to see him displaying the biggest pair of onions I have ever seen! They were the size of cannon balls, yet perfectly formed and trimmed. Meanwhile there is an almost complete lack of almonds this year: one of the area’s main crops. On the other hand we are dining regularly on our own fresh grapes and delicious figs. The mayor has been ousted! She has not been in place for very long, but was recently trounced in an alliance between two minority parties. This is a great pity, I liked her and she spoke perfect English. And to add to all of this the ruined houses that have gradually crumbled away for years at the top of the village have been demolished.

Life for us here can be compared to living in Ambridge, the fictional town in the radio soap the Archers, but with one major difference – everyone here speaks in a foreign language which we have not mastered.

Clutched by Cambrai: the joy of travel

Sitting in my campervan looking out at a rain-pitted puddle near the entrance to the first campsite we had used thus far on our journey to Austria and onwards, I had little to do but reflect on our journey so far. We had left Oxford just one week before, where, after a great struggle was ended only with help from a removal man, I managed to manhandle a double mattress onto the top of the van (don’t ask) and strap it down for the thousands of miles to come.

Dover was dowdy and seems to be going downhill fast: closed shops, dirty streets, crumbling buildings, dubious characters. But as usual there was a bright side. I found a decent brew-pub with good ale and a cheery crowd and we ate a good English meal in our regular pub – Blakes.

After a calm channel crossing we were soon on our way eastwards across France leaving the toll road at Cambrai then taking normal roads towards Luxemburg. We did not make it. Whilst approaching the village of Le Catou, my clutch failed spectacularly and definitely. I just managed to pull onto a verge before onward progress halted entirely. We spent one night on the forecourt of a rip-off garage that could do nothing for us and the next in the wreck-strewn yard of a real garage (next to the remains of a red double-decker bus) on the outskirts of Cambrai, a city that became our headquarters for some time. On the first evening we walked into the place and found it decent enough with some impressive buildings and a few good bars. On the second day, while the van was under repair, we visited a number of excellent churches and chapels, the ‘port’ where Cambrai’s canals meet and the excellent central park full of teenagers doing the things that teenagers tend to do (still). By three we had exhausted Cambrai and ourselves, we then just hung about before beginning the three kilometer walk back to the garage. I went ahead and was delighted to see my van nosing its way out of the garage – it could go again and was out under test. I paid the heavy bill and smilingly shook everyone’s hand before resuming our journey.

We got a little further this time. About two hours out of Cambrai it became clear that we had to return! The clutch was OK but the gears were not and red lights were flashing on the dashboard.  By then the garage had closed so we slept at Hirson and met a few local bar-room characters there who told us that Hirson produced a special cheese which smelled strongly. One of the men tried to abduct Margaret on the strength of that cheese.

Next morning we struggled all the way back to the garage at Cambrai and kicked our heels whilst adjustments were made to the van, then on again at last. But would Cambrai let us go? Not quite. I had more red light flashings so had to pull in to a rest area where I pushed a few things around beneath the van with advice of a helpful fellow Brit, but found nothing amiss – yet, fortunately, that problem did not re-occur.  And so we were really on our way, finally leaving France on the sixth day after our departure from Oxford. Hey, ho.

We finally reached our home in La Fresneda after some two and half weeks in all, having visited some wonderful places and driven through stunning landscapes in Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Southern France. I think my top spot was Bad Gerstein in Austria. I knew something of the place through my research for the Hedy Lamarr book. It is a resort in southern Austria that is characterised by its unique position snuggling amongst mountains at the end of a long flat valley; by the incredibly white and noisy waterfall that crashes right though it; by the plethora of tall majestic buildings which were frequented by Sisi, the wife of the Austrian Emperor in the “good” old days; and finally by the eerie realization that it was virtually deserted – a ghostly watering hole.

Our Spanish village was a complete contrast to Bad Gastein. Racing was on at the nearby track so the village was full of black sheathed figures on their shining motorcycles. Our very special plaza was noisy and lively, the  crowds centering around the two bars. We were greeted in our favourite watering hole – Bar La Plaza – by people who had, for once, noticed our absence (nearly a year since our last visit). We answered the usual questions: how are you, when did you arrive, and when are you going? Then, our Spanish having been exhausted by these three questions, we were left to enjoy the comings and goings in the plaza over beer and tapas. 

How China can save the planet

Ridiculous title I know, but it wasn’t of my invention. It was the last lecture that I attended in Oxford before the ‘great intellectual desert’ began. This is something that happens regularly at the end of the academic year when Oxford is transformed. The city is then invaded by youngsters from all over the world who come here to learn ‘Oxford English’. Funnily enough there is no such thing. As I often observe, the people of Oxford talk, “like what I do when I be ‘appily speaking in me properrr coun’ry accent with no ‘h’s and lots of ‘rrr’s”. And, of course, the people of the University itself are from all over the place. I suppose the myth derives from that phenomenal creation The Oxford English Dictionary, but I won’t bang on about that since I put all I know of it in my book.

Yes, for a few months the streets are full of young people often clad in the colours of the many language schools that sprout like mushrooms around the city, and then lie dormant for nine months until the next big influx. Added to that we have a massive peak in the number of tourists visiting the city (yearly around nine million and growing) during the months of July and August. These are the months when I am filled with both guilt and shame through my association with the Oxford tourist industry.

It’s funny, but the ‘great intellectual desert’ begins with music – classical music. I have never understood why, but the number of concerts held in the city seems to reach a peak as the student go off for their long break. And there is also an outburst of outdoor Shakespearean plays, many held in college gardens. So maybe it’s not a desert at all, but for me it is since there are virtually no public lectures.

My pitiful life in Oxford is mainly controlled by a website called Daily Information where I zoom straight into the What’s On section, then to the Lectures and Meeting bit, followed by the Gigs and Comedy bit and finally the Concerts. Sometimes I have a hard time choosing which lecture to go to since they are mostly bunched in the five until seven evening slots of the day, but meeting tend to be later and gigs later still. So, in August, I am starved of thought provoking lectures, but I still have music and the last few days have been particularly good. On Thursday night I cycled down to the Cape of Good Hope pub on Oxford’s busy roundabout The Plain. There were not many players or listeners around, however one guitarist was brilliant. He could really belt it out and started his spot with a reggae number and stuck to that as a theme through a series of songs which were not actually reggae.

On Saturday night I took Margaret to the Tree Hotel where Pete Fryer was celebrating his 70th birthday by playing a gig. This place was packed and Pete sings great oldies with verve and passion. He is backed by his brother Phil on lead guitar, Phil’s partner Sue on bass and on this occasion the son of Pete’s partner Liz’s son on drums. These people are legendary in Oxford having entertained the populace in various ways since the sixties. I particularly liked Another Brick in Wall and decided that night that I would like to rewrite the lyrics to emphasise the dark supremacy in today’s classroom, but wonder if my near namesake, Roger Waters would approve? All in all, it’s just another kick of the ball.

On Sundays we usually go the Harcourt Arms in Jericho for open-mike which is always good fun. But instead we walked a little further to the Bookbinders where the beer is better and the musicians often of higher quality (imho). It was almost deserted and the barmaid tried to overcharge me for drinks, so this was not a good start. Then two fellows took the stage, one with harmonica, the other with guitar and vocals, and magical music poured forth and the beer was great and there was nowhere I would have rather been. I suppose they played six or seven songs, all excellent and everything from Blue Moon to Willie Nelson, and the entirety played their own special way. The harp was the best I have ever heard and singing and guitar playing excellent.

Now I’m sure you're thinking what has all that got to do with China saving the planet? Well, the speaker at the lecture told us that China has the most solar power in the world and the most wind turbines. Unfortunately it also burns the most coal. So all they have to do is stop burning coal and start playing music instead.

Licking cows, flat batteries and good Samaritans

Imagine a powerful computer that is so small it fits into the palm of your hand, can listen to geostationary satellites way up in the sky and communicate with any other device like itself in the world; something that can be calculator, can recognise speech and turn it to text, is a word processor, a diary and a source of all sorts of applications including one for bird spotting. No need to imagine it though, because it is today’s smartphone – wonderful.

I recently walked from Wantage, near Oxford, to Lyme Regis on England’s south coast following the ridgeways which make up the country’s oldest travel routes.  I did it the wild way: no forward booking, no cloying timetable – simply a return date on which I was booked for a tour some nine days after my departure. Freedom: but at a cost. The cost was the weight on my back of the tent, sleeping bag, mattress thingy, clothes and footwear, water, food, books and maps. The desire to minimize that weight became almost paranoiac.

I would have needed four or more maps, why not use phone? I tried it out using something called OS maps and it was great, the phone knows where it is from GPS and the app projects that onto a map. It’s a bit small in coverage at times but otherwise probably better than a map. But I needed books, particularly my bird book. Here a friend recommended a bird spotting app and that was great too. I didn’t even need to take my Kindle because I could read my current novel on the phone. Great, everything great and light. But what about charging the phone? I bought a battery pack with a solar charger, a bit heavy yet only about the size of the phone itself – I was off grid!

All went fairly well. The load I carried was still quite hefty and so my feet began to ache and my posture to sag as each day wore on, but I could cope and cover the 15 plus miles a day needed to reach my goal. I met many interesting people along the way or in the pubs where I ate each evening. I did not see many birds of interest, but had a good sighting of a country fox and an unaware hare. 

Each day I rose very early and walked some way before stopping for a simple breakfast. On one occasion I sat on a bank to change from sandals to boots and to eat. The location was pleasant: a hill rose up behind me dotted with cattle and to my fore I had a wonderful view over a valley. I noticed the cattle coming towards me as I finished my meal, about twenty of them. I was ready to move on but they were upon me before I could pack up to go. Usually cows do not come too close and a shout or a wave deters them. Not this lot. Led by an aberrant one, let’s call her Kate, they crowded around me. Kate was determined to explore my bits and pieces which were strewn on the ground. She licked my tent bag (green) dripping saliva over it. I hit her on the nose – no effect. I grabbed the tent bag. She turned her tongue to my sleeping bag (not even green), slurp, slurp. The others kept pushing forward, but left it to Kate to do the exploring. I grabbed the sleeping bag so she started slurping away at my mattress whilst ignoring my heavy blows to her snout. Awkwardly hanging onto my bits and bags I managed to struggle out of the crush at last and luckily Kate did not follow.

Entering Dorset I found the countryside particularly stunning. It’s Thomas Hardy country and best described by him, but here goes: rolling hills, valleys full of irregular fields bordered by thick hedges and fulsome trees. Every shade of green imaginable and so little in the way of human habitation that the scenes slumber in the warm sun evincing feelings of softness, peace and harmony.

My favourite village was Cerne Abbas: beautifully kept with three pubs one of which does not sell Palmers beer, thanks be. My nemesis was the next stop – Beaminster. I found a nice spot beyond the town in a wood near a stream (for my ablutions) and apparently only visited by dog walkers who seemed a friendly bunch. The only cloud on my horizon – the phone had stopped charging though I had juice in my battery pack. I could no longer access the maps  and without maps I could not follow the Wessex Ridgeway to Lyme because it was not well marked. I walked back into Beaminster and tried to get someone to charge me up in the pubs – no success. I did not sleep much that night since I thought that I must abandon the walk at that point: so near and yet so far. 

In the morning after my “showering”, a dog walker passed by and I asked him if I might buy a map in Beamister. He said no because there were no shops of that sort and besides it was Sunday (I had lost track of the days).  However, he and his wife said that they had maps I might borrow so we arranged to meet at their car and they did indeed lend me a perfect map. Using that I pushed on, finally arriving in lovely Lyme Regis at seven-thirty the next morning for a quick swim in the cold English Channel followed by a journey by public transport back to Oxford.

Moral of the story: do not rely on mobile phones too much (actually it was simply the connecter that had failed) and be grateful to good Samaritans (I am returning their map). Steps completed approximately quarter of a million. Blisters – none. Beer consumed – lots.