Henry Cruger

Some people have busy lives. Me, I've been in this house for twenty-five plus years, and have stayed staid and happy as a salesman. But Cruger did pretty well for himself. He married a slave-owner's daughter, and for a New Yorker moved around the world.

But how could any one person manage to be all of the above?
The Mayor of Bristol, yes. In those days it wa England's second city.
The promotion or move to become MP, I can understand.

But to have been a US Senator as well is beyond belief.

Art

It's difficult to concentrate on art of any sort for more than an hour or so. Generally, I prefer to dip into a gallery for just twenty or thirty minutes, as that sort of time provides some stimulation without being overwhelming. It's one reason that I object to paying for access to public collections, because once I pay I want to get my money's worth, and usually spend more time than is best.

That's why I like the National Gallery's travelling exhibitions which spend a couple of months in Bristol each year. This year, the subject is "Work, Rest & Play". To view it takes about half an hour, and amongst the Old Masters & Impressionists are some real gems. Yesterday we walked over for a second viewing, and confirmed that Ruby Loftus is a masterpiece. The look of concentration on her face is so lifelike, and you can see the dirt under her fingernails if you peer close to the original. I like industry, the power of making things.

My other favourite picture from this exhibition is The Iron Forge by Joseph Wright. There, it's the use of light that appeals, the idea that manual work can provide illumination both physical and metaphorical.

The Louisiana

You can check for more information on the Louie on the web. It's been a few weeks since Moonface & I went there, but that was a significant occasion.

The Louisiana is a pub by the docks in central Bristol, opposite the old prison on Spike Island, close to the General Hospital. I guess that it's a couple of hundred years old, and now the upstairs room is a venue for loud live music. It's famous for catching big names before they become well-known. in the last couple of years they've had Coldplay, Scissor Sisters & Corinne Bailey-Rae play there. I like it because it's hot, intimate and sweaty, and it gets the best out of unknown bands. Last month, Moonface & I went there to see Santa Dog, and Rio & Jason went to see another band on the same night. My mate is in Santa Dog,and a friend of Rio's plays in Countryside; it was special to have both generations attending the same event.

The third band of the night was superb, a French group of three from Bordeaux called Noemi. Their lead singer is a big girl, not beautiful but stylish and striking, with a loud voice and tons of stage presence. She should be famous. The supporting musicians were together, competent, and made the ensemble complete. I hope that they return.

Invictus

Invictus
William Ernest Henley
1849–1903

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

***************************************

Our old friend, Ian, died last weekend.
His daughter read that poem at his funeral service, her voice faltering as she read.

The service was held in a crematorium chapel in the woods, at which Moonface & I had to listen from outside the chapel because of the large numbers of mourners. Listening from outside was very emotional, as in addition to the words of the service, we could hear the wind in the trees around us, could hear the birds singing upon all sides: blackbirds, tits, finches, robins. We could feel the cool wind and watch the other mourners huddle together to keep out the chill.

Porlock

Last weekend, returning from Lynton, we passed through Porlock at the foot of Exmoor, and spent a while wandering around the small dock at Porlock Weir.

Coincidentally, Moonface received an email from a distant relative offering her a copy of a postcard of Porlock in 1918, sent to one of her ancestors; possibly the one killed in the trenches of the First World War. The card shows a temporary camp beneath the hills with a small troop of mounted men riding along a country lane.

Shaving a beard

Growing a beard is slow, gradual process, and the few times that I have grown one I hardly notice myself change. Rather than my appearance, it's the change in texture that I feel: the transition from freshly-shaved smooth skin to stubble, to abrasive shoots, to bristle and to the rough texture of short hair. I've never grown it beyond a centimetre of two, so I don't know what a long beard would feel like upon my face.

On shaving the beard, the change is sudden and stark. My cheeks and chin feel cold and naked, and so smooth, and the different face in the mirror is startling. Friends notice the change in both directions, if they don't see me for a week or so, and reactions to my bearded face vary from very positive (usually from women), to mockery from men.

Men have such a variety of types of head hair. The ordinary hair on the skull (assuming that one has some, and as I'm going bald, I haven't much) is different from beard, and eyelashes and eyebrows are different again. Then there's the changing nature of all types; the gradual slide into grey or white from the original colours of both skull hair and beard, the coarsening on eyebrows - which my daughter plucks for me - and the appearance of longer thicker hairs in the ears and nostrils. And there's the almost invisible down of velar hair, the wisps of nothing upon the smooth skull where head hair used to grow before maturity or age took their revenge.

I guess that in this aspect, women's faces are less interesting than men's when examined intimately in close-up, although the shapes and curves and lines are also there to be wondered at. Most women that I have known seem to depilate themselves obsessively, but the few women's faces that I have seen and pored over with a fine down or trace of moustache, have not been less attractive for that. In my opinion, anyway.

Stupid lads

The weekend was spent in Lynton, at the Youth Hostel with a crowd of friends. We had a wonderful time until we returned home, when we were phoned to be informed that several of the adolescent boys with us had broken into the hostel warden's area and stolen stuff........stupid stupid lads. They'd damaged property, opened a charity box, stolen food and so on.

Idiots.

It took time to persuade the warden not to call the police. Now I expect the parents of the boys in question to quibble about who was responsible for what, and the costs of reparation. I hope they don't.

Air and Water

After a wet winter, the hills are full of water. The tarn in the cwm below Pen-y-Fan was full of icy clear grey water, and in the pool in the outlet the waters were in turn full of frogs. There were hundreds, thousands of them, clustered together mating, laying eggs, jostling for position, fighting and dying in a last flush of bright colours after a life of grey. The spawn covered half the surface of the pool, and in other marshy areas formed jellyfish a yard across. In summer, there will be no sign of the frogs anywhere on the hillside.

Pen-y-Fan: 2, Moses: 2

(Our route starts from a point North of this map, a km or so beyond Twyn-Cil-rehew.)


This weekend, we climbed Pen-y-fan again, Moonface and I.

It's only 880M high, and 600M of climbing using the Northern approach, but the mountain seems to attract bad weather. We have twice tried to climb it before in bad conditions, both times in larger group of friends, and both times we decided that the risks were not worth the satisfaction of making it to the top. Once, this New Year, we turned back after half a mile or so because the driving rain and sleet and gales made the walk to the summit just plain unpleasant. There's no fun in being cold and wet and miserable, when there isn't a view to look at. The first time we attempted the walk was about three years ago. On that occasion, we also had rain, but there was also dense fog which reduced visibility to about 10 metres. That time, we walked about two-thirds of the way before deciding that continuing would be stupid and dangerous.

Yesterday's climb wasn't easy, either. There was a very strong wind in our faces, so much so that Moonface wanted to turn back after half way, but we decided to keep going. It's a trudge under those conditions in spite of the magnificent views, all one can do is to keep going, with head down and steady paces. At the summit, the wind was so strong that standing was difficult, so we and the other walkers were huddled together on the rocks in the lee of the wind, for shelter. But although it's not an easy walk up, one feels such a fraud for getting there by the Northern route, because it's so easy to approach from the West. On that side, there's a gentle climb and the start point is so much higher. Instead of serious walkers (do we count?) there are teenagers in groups, wearing trainers and jeans. Many of them were shivering, though.

Instead of returning the route we had taken up, we made a huge loop via the Western edge of the cwm down to the tarn below, then following the streams to the shoulder of the hills separating us from our starting point. Once we were sheltered from the howling winds above, we crossed beautiful streams and waterfalls, walked through gentle fields, and made it back to the van in about four hours.

Maps

I like them so much.

They're an interest , and could be an addiction. I can study them, read them, hoard them.

And now it's possible to get maps online, combined with aerial views, I can see much more.
I've just bought the complete 1:50,000 series of the whole of Great Britain & the islands from eBay, for just £20. A bargain! Now I can waste hours of time planning routes through Scotland, tracking canals across England, and generally having a travelling mental life.

Thank you, Fugawi & eBay.

Spring?

It's the little things that make a difference.

The sun is shining, there is a cold wind and a blue sky, so for the first time this year, I hung the washing outside to dry. It's a ritual: put all the laundry in the machine before breakfast, then by ten hang it on the line and have a cup of tea, to feel that something has been accomplished, however little. I like to see washing blowing in a breeze, there's an atmosphere of domesticity and peace about it.

But my feet felt freezing after walking on the cold sodden grass on the lawn, still uncut and lush, full of moss and worm-casts. There is frog-spawn in the pond, and the tits are beginning to nest in the balls guarding our neighbours' gateposts.

Yes, Spring.

Snowdon (or 1932: 7)

In 1932 my father's family went for a rare week's holiday to Llanberis in north Wales, beneath Snowdon. My father was just seven years old, the second youngest of six children. There should have been seven, but his youngest brother had died shortly before the holiday. I think that the holiday was to help the family recover from Jack's death. There wasn't much money around. The Depression was still in force, and my grandfather had been sporadically unemployed. Only my granny's teaching job kept them afloat for much of that time.

One day my grandfather, took the children for the long walk up to the peak of Snowdon, which is Wales' highest mountain. All except for my father, who was delegated to stay in the village to keep his mother company and to help with the domestic chores. Ever since that day, he has resented the fact that he alone was prevented from making the ascent, and he has never ever climbed it. His younger sister was allowed to make the climb, and all the elder siblings. He still complains about how unfair it was for him, so we need to put things right.

This coming May we plan to finally take him up Snowdon, when he will be 82. He's fit enough,as he walks eight to ten miles twice a week, most weeks, but we don't know how long that will continue.
There will be my father, at least two of his sons (myself & Rick), plus Moonface, probably Tom, and at least one of Rick's boys. The day will be a challenge. Olwen probably won't make the climb,but she may take the train.

Rick has never been up to that area of Wales, and I have only climbed Snowdon once. Roll on May!

Memory Loss

Bloody computers!

I've just changed from an old work PC which has had to be returned, to another laptop.
Like a good lad, I've backed up all my old files onto an external drive for security.

And will the new laptop read the old data?Will it buggery !
I've spent hours wrestling with the damned things, but the drive remains resolutely blank.

I've tried it on a friend's PC and on a seven-year old machine running extinct software, and both of them can see everything, but this brand-new Windows machine thinks that my 100GB of photos and files doesn't exist. AAGH !