Christmas 2009

41 Albion Street,
Stratton,
Cirencester,
Gloucs.
GL7 2HT

December 2009

Dear all you jolly folks out there,

Ah ‘tis that time of the year when you all go running for cover as the over-stuffed Irving Christmas letter hoves into view through the letterbox, slamming you against the wall, knocking you to the floor, – so, no different from everything else at this time of year, then (“.....wow! ... like .. how much booze went into this pudding? ...”). Our sheep-based theme for this year is sheep-poo! The cards are made from it .... (ee-eugh! ... sudden clatter as it drops from thy delicate mitt to the floor ...). Yes, this year the sheep are wishing you all a Merry Christmas in the only way they know how ..... (?) .... and it’s also very green (picks up card ... stares at it with deep suspicion ...). Yes, poo has now entered our lives, instead of merely leaving it ......

On a similar poo-based theme, the weed police from the Bathurst Estate have pronounced our attempts at allotmenteering as not fit for purpose and have chopped the plot in half. Gone are the damson trees and blackberries – scavenging will never be the same again (sniff)! I’ve rather lost heart (sigh). Allotmenteers appear to fall into two categories – those with time on their hands, and those for whom time is an illusion (lunch-time ... doubly so). It is an unfortunate situation that the Bathurst Estate looks kindly upon those who hoover their allotment and polish their veg., and believe that a weed is the Devil incarnate, and that an allotment is a battle-ground over which they must enact their battle strategies daily (“exterminate! exterminate!”), in order to keep the Devil’s spawn at bay. “Into rows you ‘orrible lot, straighten that stem, left! right! left! right! left! right! .... atten ... shun! Get those ragged leaves cut, you ‘orrible little plant!” ........ And then there are those who sub-let their allotments, due to lack of time, and appear to have another life .... ‘The weeds they do grow high and the weeds they do grow low’ (ye olde folk song – slightly corrupted) ... the result of which is .... tension! grrr! Life just doesn’t contain enough rain-free Saturdays .... but too many hot, hot, work-filled weekdays. Result : crop misery and joyful weeds!

The tendrils of the Green Party have twisted and tightened their grip on us this year, due to the European and County Council Elections. Bob was persuaded to put himself forward as a candidate for the County Council Elections, campaigned on two Saturday mornings for the European Elections only, and with the MPs’ expenses scandal still rankling with the public, he managed to get 929 votes, which was 10% of those who voted – quite respectable in this true-blue Tory heartland! On the strength of this, the Stroud & District Green Party to which we belong, decided that it might be feasible to start a Cotswold sub-branch (hey! ... stranger things have happened).

I, too, have spent time on the streets (nooo! not in that capacity! ... behave yourselves!). Leafleting and canvassing in Stroud and Minchinhampton ... tramp! tramp! tramp! ... Throb! Throb! Throb! ... aah! me feet! ... How big is this ward? .... more hills than Rome .. mind wandering ..... fingers trapped in vicious sprung letterboxes ... scary humans .... scary vicious dogs ... oh the heat, the flies, the dust , the horrible heat .... water! ... water! .... spare a thought for the hard life of a party activist, guv .... vote Green on Thursday ... cough! .... thud! ... (expire) ...

Actually, we had great fun this last Saturday! Instead of increasing our carbon footprint by going down to London to be on the Climate Change March, we stayed put in Cirencester garnering signatures to send to Copenhagen in the hope that if the negotiators see that there is a groundswell of public support for binding carbon emissions targets, then they might be spurred on to reach an agreement this time, instead of the waffle that was Kyoto (sigh). I mean how could the public resist this manic-looking woman leaping out in front of them – “... oo-er! .... let’s sign it and get out of here!” I’ve decided the key to getting people to notice you is optimism and weirdness – a lethal combination (!?) I managed to fill six sheets of paper in a bit less than two hours .... no, they didn’t all read Mickey Mouse ... It was good that we represented lots of organizations who care about the environment – Friends of the Earth, Christian Aid, United Nations Association (no, I don’t know much about them either, but hey, they organized the whole thing). Of course, it helped that it wasn’t raining.... !

Yes, I’m still Treasurer for the South West region of the Green Party. I think it definitely requires a special (?) kind of person for this job ........ gold! gold! (cackle! cackle!) .... The Euro Elections (in addition to Local Party Support) are our raison d’être and so this year has been busy. But even though I’ve made some mistakes and taken some decisions that I now feel were wrong, I feel strangely rather more confident about my abilities ... a novel sensation this! They’ll probably chuck me out at the A.G.M. .......

Our wandering minstrel, Tamsin, should be returning unto the bosom of her loving family very soon. Our itinerant Sir Galahad spends part of her life rescuing tomatoes from the jaws of hell, hacking her way through forests of triffids, doing battle with frustrated rams (??), and murdering the odd unfortunate chicken, usually in Holland, where she lives on a smallholding, in an official squat. The summer sees her tackling the highways and byways of England, attempting to entertain small children at festivals, and trying, but not quite managing, to earn money ..... (sigh). Actually she did manage to get a paid (yes, we fell over in a dead faint, as well!) job clearing up after the plutocratic hoards at Glastonbury this year. It’s amazing what people leave behind – some people work just for what they can collect afterwards – it’s that lucrative! We ended up with some interesting (!) articles of clothing ...

Her Court Case is coming up just before Christmas, and we still don’t know the details of what she is accused. Mystified? Yes, so are we! Apparently, as far as anyone knows (except the solicitor that is, who refuses to tell us, and isn’t trying hard enough to contact Tamsin) she is accused of ‘Driving without Due Care and Attention’, and not stopping at the scene of an accident. Now this sounds serious, but actually, according to what little we can garner from the police, it seems that whilst driving her van in the middle of Cirencester, Tamsin clipped someone’s wing mirror, causing a scratch, and then failed to stop when told to by a member of the public. Tamsin wasn’t even aware that she’d done anything, and so, of course, she didn’t stop, and she wasn’t aware that anyone had asked her to – bit of a catch 22 situation this! The solicitor can’t understand how it ever reached the Court – perhaps they’re short of convictions this year. Since Tamsin doesn’t have any valuable possessions (even the van is in Bob’s name) or even a job, fining her would actually be a waste of time. Now I cannot understand how a clipped wing mirror constitutes ‘Driving without Due Care and Attention’, as I was convicted of this offence 30 years ago for bumping a car at a set of traffic lights – rather more serious I think! This is quite a bizarre situation!

Our permanent lodger, Rupert, is beginning to re-think his life, deciding that having a plan B might be a good option, even when Plan A is still fully functioning. This recent flurry of activity has involved taking Grade 5 music theory, winding up to taking Grade 8 singing, applying to Brighton College (actually in Bristol ... (!)) to do drumming, and thinking about reapplying to Trinity Music College in London, where he obtained a place years ago, but turned it down – oh, what to do? I am suspecting the influence of the fair Lizzie, Rupe’s girlfriend, who is currently at UCL reading Psychology, is amazingly well-organized, and isn’t one to let grass grow under her feet .... Rupe’s just gonna have to keep up!! Read into this what you will ....

Just recently, we’ve seen rather more of Rupe, as he’s taken up ..... cooking!! Due to his desire to become fit, whilst at the gym, a trainer made up a diet sheet for him, and Rupert is actually preparing food from scratch – and enjoying it! I never thought I’d live to see the day! He’s become instantly confident in his newly-acquired skills, such that he’s now planning a welcome-home meal for Lizzie ( ...“quick, where’s the smelling salts?) ... she’ll be bowled over! It was enlightening listening to Rupert persuading his friend Jamie of the benefits of eating healthily. Jamie said that he found white rice very boring and tasteless, but when Rupe cooked him some black Canadian wild rice, Jamie loved it ..... Hoorah! a convert! .... boo! the cost! ... looks like we’ll be subsidizing his eating habits for some time to come ... (sigh).

During the brief interlude that passed for the dry season, I spent many happy (???) hours ... days .... weeks .... years ..... (“I’ve told you a million times- don’t exaggerate!”) ...... scraping my fingers to the bone (ouch!), and perching precariously on window-sills, causing a semi-permanent ridge along the less-than-padded backside. This was to enable the sashes of two of our upstairs windows to be brought back to their original wood perfection at last, ready to receive their proper old-fashioned, but long-lasting, coats of linseed-oil paint. Weather-watching was a rather more popular activity than normal this year, as we avidly scrutinized the BBC web-site hour-by-hour, almost minute-by-minute, to see whether we could risk placing Bob outside to be either frazzled by the sun or shrunk by the rain, or blasted by gritty gales (or possibly even Gaels) from the North ...... only two more windows to go now ..... mañana ....

And then, we thought .... “Let’s have a holiday!” Wow! novel! ... pushing the boat out here, what? In Scotland? .... in October? .... madness .... but as it turned out, October was an amazing month, and Glasgow was not quite as grim as Bob had remembered ... ah, those sweet childhood memories ..... (???) Again, we went a-Landmark-Trust-ing, more specifically, we stayed in two properties designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh, one at Comrie, a small town in the Highlands, and then the famous Hill House at Helensburgh. Yes, we decided to immerse ourselves in all things Mackintosh for a week.

Comrie is a small town set in aspic, and, if the tourist literature is to be believed, appears to be the ‘Earthquake Capital of Britain’. But ‘though the Highland Boundary Fault lies just 2 kilometres south of the town, it may not necessarily be responsible for the earthquakes. A tiny stone-built one-roomed ‘hut’ was built in the first half of the nineteenth century, after a number of prominent local bourgeoisie with much leisure time and an interest in things scientific, decided to set themselves up as the ‘Comrie Pioneers’ to investigate earthquake activity in the area. Being enthused by what we had read, and having a desire to commune (?) with a few fellow sheeply creatures on the way, we set out a-walking. Two miles further down the road ... “Aarrgghh!! I’ve just worn a hole in my ankle! ...... Oh, that’s why I haven’t worn these boots in years .... oh, bugger ... it’s no good .... I can’t go on! ....” “Sorry, old girl ... I’ll have to leave you at the side of the road with the ostrich egg full of water, as wolf-fodder ...” An hallucinatory cup of tea and accompanying biscuit suddenly loomed large .. as we hobbled off in search of the ‘Earthquake House’. After a while in the middle of the wood, and up a steep slope, we came upon a house made from gingerbread .... (wishful thinking, old girl!) ... quick reconnoitre ... no witch in sight, as yet ... peered in through the windows .. no bread-oven ... but there on the floor, surrounded by the more modern seismometers of the British Geological Survey, was ..... a skittles game! .... or .... a square of loose sand with a wooden cross, the arms of which were pointing in the direction of the four points of the compass. Upon each arm were three ‘skittles’, the one closest to the centre was the thinnest, and then in progression, wider towards the outside. Depending upon direction of fall and which size(s) of ‘skittle’ fell, a crude estimation of the direction and strength of the earthquake could be inferred ..... not quite as pretty as the Chinese version of the four dragons’ heads releasing balls from their mouths ...... Gradually, we became aware of a shuffling sound and heavy breathing ..... the witch? ..... the local itinerant pervert? Hearts thudding, we turned slowly around (gulp). We were being eyed suspiciously by ... a cow (or two).... (phew). Could it be the witch in disguise ... (?) These remote communities, you know ..... I’ve seen ‘The Wicker Man’ .... We beat a hasty retreat (or in my case .. a slow shuffle) and, as I staggered back into town, with a bruise the size of a hen’s egg, and a swollen ankle, and cursing myself for bringing the wrong boots, I found myself pondering why it was that so many geographical features and businesses had incorporated the name of ‘the De’il’ ...... and where were all the children ... in this town of rich old folk .... (“quick! .. get a cup o’ tea into ‘er, before she really goes off the rails!”). Ah .. just like the community of folk living in the woods in railway carriages .. but no rails ... (sorry, I promise to get back on track ... groan!).

Comrie must have always been prosperous, since there was also a magnificent glass observatory built on the roof of the Mackintosh building, pre Mackintosh, as it were, before the conflagration that was the cause of its re-design by the young architect from Glasgow. The Mackintosh building was in the most prominent place in town, next to the square, and on a sort of cross-roads, overlooking the river. The sitting-room incorporated this rounded turret, which gave the flat a feeling of being central to all the life of the street, even though up above it – a view in almost every direction – fantastic! And, as all the visitors to the Landmark stated in the obligatory log-book, “It’s just yards from the local chippie!”. The building is not in most books about Mackintosh’s work, as it had been forgotten until an architectural student from Glasgow started looking through old Mackintosh commissions for his Master’s thesis, in the 1970s. He arrived to find this old couple in residence, proceeded to tell them of the building’s history, whereupon they admitted to him that they were just about to refurbish the place, and this was going to involve pulling out this ‘old, dark fireplace’, as it didn’t fit in with their colour scheme!!! Once they realized the significance of what they were living in, they decided to move and sell it to the Landmark Trust, ostensibly to allow it to be gazed upon by a wider public, but probably because they were fed up with people banging on their door wanting to be given the guided tour!! After much haggling (sorry ... negotiations), the Landmark Trust finally managed to acquire the whole building, which meant that the Mackintosh fitted-out shop below the flat was safe from future developers as well. It’s amazing that the shop fittings have survived for a century in their original state - it’s probably just that the shop has always been a ‘general stores’, selling anything and everything, and the layout just ... works!

After Comrie, we drove along the shores of Loch Lomond to Helensburgh, and actually stayed in a flat at the top of the most famous of Mackintosh’s buildings, The Hill House. Along the way, our attention was diverted by a choking cloud of smoke, and many cars swerving and screeching to a halt, before disgorging blokes with a desperate air, armed only with cameras, who rushed off into the evil black fog never to be seen again. Bravely we followed into the centre of this nightmarish vision of hell (cough! cough! wheeze!) ... eyes-a-watering ... where we came upon .... (click! click! whirr! click!) .. a scene reminiscent of paparazzi around a celeb! It seems that Ivor the Engine’s Scottish cousin was being taken to his holiday home in Mallaig for the winter, before again being wheeled out for the tourist hoards in the spring.

Having been booted out of the Comrie flat at the crack of dawn ... (yawn) ... well, 10 a.m., ... we found ourselves at Hill House before even tourist opening time, which was at least three hours before the time allowed to get into our holiday flat. Panic sets in ... eyes glaze over ... brain shuts down ... “must have cup of tea .... cannot function without cup of tea ....”. Eventually, wandering aimlessly around the outside of the building, a particular type of sound .... clink! clink! crash! ... chisels it’s way into the sub-conscious, and almost instantaneously, the conscious brain, in a very English Pavlovian way, conjures up the image of a giant cup of tea .... “A café! .... tea at last”, she sobs joyfully (!) Our heroine is saved ... but .... how to get past the guards? A plan is hatched. We must appeal to their kind understanding of the tea-less condition. We begged ... we cajoled ..... we were contrite ... we were English and we needed our tea ... “We promise to come back tomorrow and pay to get in, honest!” The guards relented ... who could stand in the way of a tea addict and their ‘fix’ ... the situation could become dangerous. “You will go straight to the door at the end of the corridor which will lead to the café.” “Do not pass Go.” “Do not collect £200.” “If you look at anything Mackintosh, you’ll be turned into giant pumpkins ...” So, looking neither right nor left, we eventually chanced upon a most welcome scene ... carrot cake ... chocolate brownies .... Chelsea buns ... and .... TEA!!!

Replete, we staggered up to the top floor of Hill House, overburdened inwardly by cakes and outwardly by luggage ... up and up the spiral staircase, past bemused visitors looking through the looking glass into another world ... until finally (gasp!) ... we found ourselves in the servants’ quarters and the ‘school-room’, which would be our home for a few days. Hill House was designed for the Blackie family, of book publishing fame, and stayed in family hands until the early 1950s, when the patriarch of the firm at that time, died, and the house was sold to someone else. It deteriorated and was eventually rescued by the Royal Incorporation of Architects in Scotland, who didn’t have any money, didn’t know how to conserve early 20th century concrete, used inappropriate materials which made the house non-breathable, leading to damp problems (sigh), which ultimately was the cause of the parting of the ways between the outer concrete coating and the sandstone walls ... oops!

The next day, after scabbing loads of apples of different unusual varieties from the orchard (a perk of staying at the flat) we did indeed pay to look around, and were very impressed. The Scottish National Trust, the current owners, had done a good job of restoration and gathering together much of the original furniture. When the rest of the Edwardian world was into dark furniture and heavy wooden panelling, this was so different, being light, delicate and white, with judicious use of coloured glass to create interesting light patterns everywhere, and of course, all hand-made. The hand of Margaret McDonald Mackintosh was everywhere - you can see that, especially with interior design, there was a true collaboration between the two of them, though of course, Rennie Mackintosh, being a bloke, gets much of the credit (sigh). As we were looking around the large sitting room, with its big square bay window and window seat, we were wondering .... it would be cold sitting here in winter ... “Oh look ... a typical little-squares pattern in the wooden arm- and back-rests ....” .. “Hmmm ... this looks rather like what we have in the Museum ....... wonder if there’s a large radiator behind here ....” “Quick! the guide’s left the room ...” .... a little light grovelling on the floor, underneath a little curtain ... “Ah yes, there it is ..” “Oh oops!” ... the little curtain had unclipped itself ....... guide returning .... (gulp!) ... “Oh hell! there’s no time to clip it back on!” .... red faces .... exit room trying not to look guilty (phew) ....

Glasgow now beckoned. Thirty years and a whole City of Culture had been and gone since Bob had fought his way out of its gloomy rain-sodden streets, to somewhere more congenial down south. We boarded the train cursing a system that didn’t allow you to use Student Rail Cards until 10 a.m., but praising the regularity of the trains and the clarity of the information given both verbally (“Wow! you can hear what she’s saying, now that‘s novel!”) and on a screen in each carriage. Perhaps in England, they just like to liven up each boring journey by keeping you in the dark (?), whilst they take you on a Magical Mystery Tour, which may, or may not, involve a bus at some point (sigh). Alighting from the train, Bob felt a little strange. “Odd ... there’s something amiss here ... ah! ... what’s that bright light in the sky?” .... (frazzle!) ... Bob turns into a little pile of dust ... (don’t worry, folks, a cup of Darjeeling reconstitutes even the most intractable of English middle-class dusty vampires!).

Well, we tramped up and down Sauchiehall Street, with Bob muttering “What a dump!” periodically, as we stared at yet another anonymous burger-joint, coffee-shop, tat-seller, and congratulating himself on his foresight in leaving when he did. What appeared to be so disconcerting, was that there had been a theatre dumped in the middle of the road at some point, cutting the road in two, and this, together with a lot more pedestrianization, had completely altered the whole dynamic of this area of the city. Sauchiehall Street had slid down-hill and Buchanan Street was now the posh bit. The only remnant of its heyday was the Willow Tea Rooms designed for Kate Cranston by Rennie Mackintosh, which, in its upper gallery area, has been much restored to its former glory. The Salon De Luxe was indeed very deluxe .... mirrors, leaded coloured glass, typical Mackintosh floral motifs ... the sheer handcrafted opulence is hard to describe ..... and the cakes .... the teas ... the cream .... the calories (or should that be joules) ..... mmmm!

Apart from the reconstruction of the Mackintoshes’ own house (originally demolished by the University!) at the Hunterian museum, which was unfortunately closed for re-furbishment, we did manage to visit most of the other touristic Mackintosh haunts that we had planned to visit, such as the Glasgow School of Art, Scotland Street School, and bits of the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery, which were all we had time for ... this time around .... The Scotland Street School is now a museum of school life, is extremely interesting, but is a thing of beauty in a wasteland of utter urban desolation. The area was a poor one, and so, of course, had to be blitzed to make way for a motorway. Its hinterland, and therefore its raison d’être, had disappeared, and so it ceased to be a school and became a museum. Now, the nearby subway and millions of multi-storey car parks act as a ‘park and ride’ system, and, all forlorn, stands this building ... so sad. Reading how Rennie Mackintosh treated his clients, the school board in this case, it seems obvious now, in hind-sight, why he found it difficult to obtain commissions in Glasgow, and never had the reputation he deserved in his life-time. He was so determined that the school should be built to his original designs, no matter what the cost, that he agreed one set of (more simple and therefore cheaper) plans with the school board, whilst working to his more expensive plans on the ground with the builders, stone-masons and artisans .... devious or what? Of course, the school board had to cough up once the money had been spent. But can you just imagine the tense arguments?? The artist wanting to follow through his concept ... the client ever mindful of cost .... future generations glad that Mackintosh was such a devious bastard!!!

Looking at each other as we arrived back in Helensburgh, it suddenly dawned upon us .... maybe we shouldn’t have bought these massive hard-back books ....... the Hill House is straight up the hill for a mile or two ..... us folk from the Fens don’t have the blood oxygen-carrying capacity of other mortals ... it be quite remote ... hazy memory .... fangs ... blood loss ..... pallid complexion .... As to the slog up the hill .... “Aarrgghh! I’ve got blisters on my bra straps!” An interesting place, Helensburgh, built on a grid system for rich people, rather like Herculaneum (?), with villas marching up the hill, each one commanding an ever more extensive view of the River Clyde, and unlike Herculaneum ... two railway stations! From the tiny railway station half way up the hill, you can catch the sleeper train to London ... how well connected ... that’s rich folk for you!

Clip-clopping (!) over the sun-frazzled landscape on our way home, cheroot dangling from parched lips, squinting through eyes half-closed against the now-familiar bright light, we scanned the horizon. Fables had reached our ears that told of an award-winning motorway service station in the Lake District, which sells local produce in its shop and serves local food in its restaurant. Could this fabulous place really exist? Calories of untold value await the person who stumbles upon its existence. But just as the stomach-clock had all but given up, a notice loomed .... was this really the place? “At last!” (cackle! cackle!) ..... “Calories beyond the dreams of avarice!!” “Mine, all mine! ... errrm ... that is ... Ours, all ours!” “Oh all right ... theirs, all theirs, as well ...” (humph!). We could not resist .... cheese ... cheese .... and ... more cheese ..... and chocolates (??) “Hmmm ... does the car look closer to the ground .. or is it my imagination?”

So .... holidays in Britain are not necessarily dominated by rain storms and howling gales ... unless you’re camping, of course ... though even Rupert and Lizzie basked in sunshine this year ... (faint!)

Well, dear readers, I must resist the temptation to bore you further, before you lose the will to live, and wish you all a traditional Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Lots of love and best wishes from ..... Joy, Bob, Rupert and Tamsin (“Who are these people?”)

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