MUSINGS

2005

Sunday 18th December 2005

View (and listen to) my online Christmas card here

Finished my last three days' work at Christ Church for this year (except for Boxing Day), yesterday; things were already getting (even) more bibulous and festive there already - although I gather things got a bit out of hand at the custodians' Christmas dinner, when the description 'riotous' was apparently almost literally the case. It's quite a funny set-up, altogether, but I have been most grateful for the funds I've earned there over the last months - I hardly know how I would have survived otherwise. I hope to return in the spring - probably to do tours, which could be quite fun in a way. Today I went to my last evensong of the year in the cathedral; it was rather nice - some very pleasant canticles by Watson, and Gibbons' This is the record of John. Once again I got that feeling that I was experiencing a little bit of the real England, miraculously preserved amidst all our contemporary squalor and vulgarity.It's one of the things I came to Oxford for, and would miss terribly if I had to leave; though I have been wondering recently if I might have to retreat even further into the wild to try to discover civilisation in this country. There was a funny moment near the end when the organist played an unexpected note, and the assistant choir director disappeared and the left the choir to finish the service on their own. The boys seemed rather diverted by it all, and there was a slightly hilarious hesitation at the end before they led themselves out. Actually I think it may have been planned so the director chap could play Bach's famous Toccata and Fugue in D Minor (possibly not by Bach) as a voluntary, which made a rousing end to proceedings. (Talking of Bach, this Bach Christmas thing on Radio 3 is absolutely amazing - every time you switch the radio on there is marvellous music pouring out; it's just incredible what that musical mind produced. I've been particularly enjoying the cantatas - as I've said before, and endless source of riches.)

Last night I was invited to a little party and carol-singing session, which was really great fun. I so rarely go out these days, it's almost too exciting. It was very enjoyable to have a good festive sing-song and celebrate the season on such an old-fashioned way; I can't remember the last time I did anything like that. People brought instruments along ( I was allowed to play a sort of keyboard thing.) People ought to do that sort of thing more often.

So now I feel ready to get myself organised for the festivities - I have a few days to tidy up and clean and touch up some paintwork on the boat, not to mention do some shopping. Then the party will begin on the 23rd when Marion, a friend from Edinburgh, arrives, then there is The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe on Christmas Eve, and the usual seasonal prandial excess. And then off to Edinburgh for Hogmanay and the rest of January. I hope this year things are a bit more fun that the bit of a nightmare I had last time; I'm reasonably hopeful they will be.

Sunday 11th December 2005

Today was a bright, clear, sunny winter's day of the best possible kind. Having finally escaped from Osney after being trapped there for nearly two weeks by river conditions and work I'm back opposite Christ Church, which is quite apposite, as this evening Mr. Henry Parkes, one of the organ scholars, played my little Prelude on a Norwegian Carol in the cathedral at the beginning of evensong. Needless to say, two large noisy people decided to barge into my pew and fall over the hassocks about three quarters of the way through the piece, which somewhat disturbed my appreciation of the occasion, but on the whole I thought it sounded quite nice, and judging from peoples' expressions it seemed to go down quite well. I hope to get a recording of it which I will make available as an mp3 either here or on my sibeliusmusic page.

Sunday 4th December 2005

Things have suddenly started feeling very wintry and end-of-the-yearish; partly because of Advent and the appearance of carols, christmas trees and santa hats, but also because after being amazingly placid for most of the year the river has become dramatically turbulent and threatening. Towards the end of the week it started raining, hard, and went on raining almost continuously for about the next 40 hours! The result has been absolutely phenomenal - the river turned overnight into a raging torrent, and has continued to rage for the last two or three days unremittingly; I've never seen it quite so fierce, and I have no idea how long it will take to subside. Fortunately I happened to be at Osney, in the centre of Oxford, when it all started, and am now obliged to stay here for the time being. I do hope things calm down soon, though, as I'd like to go down river for a change of scenery this week, to get some more wood for the stove and, not least, to pump put the loo. The weirdest thing is trying to sleep at night with the sound of thousands of gallons of water rushing violently under and along the side of the boat all the time, just feet away - not the most lulling of sounds! Otherwise, the university term has just ended, with many festive students cavorting, parties, balls, farewell services, etc., and I am now contemplating my winter interlude - alas, once more not in India or Sri Lanka, but starting again in Edinburgh for New Year, and then - who knows where? This time I am determined not to let it drag out and become anything like as tedious and dispiriting as last time; my intention is to return to Oxford properly by some time in March, ready for Spring on the river, which I completely missed this year.

Owing to the kind generosity of Mr. Wicker I now have a working printer, and so am planning which scores to print out in order to have another go at getting people in Oxford interested in some of my stuff. (My ambitions don't really reach further than local performances, nowadays. Even some of them would be an achievement). I've been working away at the Missa Brevis, which I'm quite pleased with so far, though my work has been rather disrupted by having to move the boat and go off and do menial work to earn money - I need to earn as much now as possible in order to last till I get back again.

I'm contemplating going to see the new film of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe - initially I was suspicious of a Disney version, but from what I've read and seen it looks reasonably OK; no doubt there will be things about it I absolutely hate, as with the Lord of the Rings films - I mean gratuitous and invariably crass and unnecessary changes introduced by director and semi-literate scriptwriters, as with the Tolkien, but I hope that somehow the spirit of the thing still survives. Talking of C.S.Lewis (again), I've been reading his The Problem of Pain - clearly a key work. One of the things Lewis mentions often - and I remember it very well from years ago - is the concept of what he calls the 'numinous'; a sense of something 'other' and 'beyond' or 'behind' every-day experience. It's made me reflect that I used to have an incredibly strong sense of something of the kind, ever since childhood, and it's the thing I seem to have lost so much in my life these days. I don't understand why. The only times it returns, generally speaking, are with certain experiences of nature, and through music. If it wasn't for the latter, I think I would have become completely withered and dried up inside. Does this sort of thing have to happen as you get older? Surely not? It reminds me of a Yeats poem I came across again recently and felt I understood properly for the first time; the one with the refrain 'Who could have told That the heart grows old?' C.S. Lewis seems to have retained, or re-discovered, this quality in life (he also called it 'joy') even when he was my age, so maybe there's still hope; I know it's the one thing I really want to re-capture in existence.

Sunday 27th November 2005

I've been feeling a little strange this weekend - partly because of working very long hours in the freezing cold while having problems getting adequate fuel for the stove on the boat (that problem is now solved) and having had a bit of a shock on Friday when I received news that my brother died earlier this year. Now, I haven't seen him or had contact for well over 30 years, and we really never got on at all well, but the effect of the news was more disturbing than I might have expected. It brought up all sorts of memories of childhood - it all seems so far away now, but the emotional content is still very strong - and made me feel that the story of my immediate family has been really rather a sad one. And I'm the only one left, now. The odd thing is that I'd assumed that he would have been married, with kids, well-off, etc., but apparently not. I know nothing of the circumstances, but reading between the lines of what I do know it sounds as if he was on his own (living in the States all this time) and not actually very successful. It makes me wonder if there is some sort of self-destructive syndrome in my family history - which doesn't bode too well for me (though it certainly seems to fit). What a strange world.

The weather has continued absolutely freezing; I don't mind it too much if it's bright, but hate it when it's dark and grey (like today). Things have gone very quiet on the river, even though navigational conditions are still perfect. Though 'quiet' is hardly the word to describe things yesterday here opposite Christ Church Meadow, as there was an end of term university regatta, with wild excitement, shrieking and yelling, cheering and boats and very over-excited young people dashing frantically about all day. They do take it all very seriously - I was quite worried by the state of some of the crews after they'd passed the finishing post (just next to my boat); there was one lot that won a race, but were in a state of total collapse, actually moaning and crying out in pain; I felt quite concerned for the poor boys. (No doubt they celebrated raucously and in full vigour later on, when they'd fully recovered). Personally I think rowing is far too much like slave-driving and torture for my liking - I'm glad now I didn't do it at school, after all.

The one major musical event this last week was a fascinating TV programme about Elgar's lost Piano Concerto; the piece put together from fragments by Robert Walker was very impressive and convincing, and contains some truly glorious authentic Elgarian inspirations - there's one particularly magnificent, sombre brass outburst in the first movement. The effect was terribly poignant and moving - as one the members of the orchestra said, the music was like hearing the ghost of the composer speaking again. I'm so glad the music has been rescued - even though, as with the 3rd Symphony, we will never know what the completed piece would really have been like, it's still tremendously precious to have these fragments saved and re-presented. What an amazing musical mind that was!

Sunday 20th November 2005

Today the icy mists never actually cleared at all (see below), and I made my way down river to a mooring opposite Christ Church Meadow through a weird veiled winter landscape. Actually I felt ridiculously pleased with myself at continuing to operate quite efficiently amidst these rather extreme weather conditions. I sounded my horn emphatically as I came through Folly Bridge, and sure enough, there were rowing eights charging about all over the place in the stygian gloom, including one that was sideways across the river (apparently there are some important races coming up soon, so they're all practicing fanatically whatever the conditions. I managed to weave my way between them and moor up, and then popped round to the College to have a hot bath, using the facilities I've discovered are available to staff - what bliss. (Hot baths are the one thing I really miss, living on this boat, much as I love it in every other respect.) I then spent a rather hilarious hour in the custodians' messroom partaking of banter, not to mention some of the rather strong refreshment they were using to keep out the cold. And then I went round to the cathedral for Evensong, through the incredibly evocative misty quadrangles - they were doing Purcell's O God, Thou art my God - rather a favourite of mine; they sang that and some Sumsion canticles rather well. As usual I returned to the boat and The Antiques Roadshow feeling curiously uplifted; rituals like that are such an important and valuable part of our traditions in this country - it seems incredible that the majority are wantonly denied them and left to live in chaotic relativistic squalor.

I am aware that this journal has veered rather drastically away from its supposed main subject of music. I suppose occasionally (well, all right - quite often) I just feel so overwhelmed by the state of things around me, not to mention my own life, that it's difficult to resist socio-political speculations. The book on Edmund Burke has certainly struck a chord. Musically speaking I've not been totally inactive, though. With the stimulus of some contact with the choral and organ scholars at ChCh I've been going through some of my choral works, especially those for men's voices. I also just put my Concertino Grosso (written ten years ago for a girls' school in London) up on my sibeliusmusic page - I must admit I'm rather pleased with it (you can play it through from my page at: http://members.sibeliusmusic.com/lah/ And, inspired by hearing Britten's Missa Brevis more than once at Magdalen, I've started writing my own Missa Brevis - quite an interesting challenge, to provide music for such an age-old text that's hopefully fresh without being gimmicky. It seems odd, in a way, to compose a setting of something I don't actually subscribe to, but there is a timeless ritual quality to the text, not to mention all the glorious settings that have gone before. So far I've just about done the Kyrie, and I'm fairly pleased with it.

A few days ago the weather suddenly took an alarming turn towards arctic conditions, and we have since rejoiced in temperatures constantly at or below zero - quite unusual for late November, really. At night it's been going down to minus 7 or 8. (If this is just the beginning of the severe winter they've been promising, things look pretty grim!) On the whole, though, it hasn't been so bad, as the days have been very bright and clear, and I've managed to keep things going OK on the boat - I was a bit worried about getting the engine to start in the morning after sub-zero temperatures, but although it's taken a bit longer than usual, I've manage to do it all right, and I feel that if I can survive these conditions afloat I can survive virtually anything; plus the stove has been perfectly effective at keeping things warm inside, despite the ice and mist outside. The only problem is that I've been static for three days, as I've had long shifts at Christ Church, which has made it difficult to keep things charged up properly, but I've managed quite well. The job at Christ Church can be pretty excruciating when it's this cold - today I spent 3 hours standing outside from 12 o'clock, and was almost frozen by the end of it. Everyone got a bit irritated by the arctic conditions, I think, but the tourist hordes kept coming, and behaved particularly badly, as well. 'The public' can be very annoying, and the general collapse in manners and standards of behaviour seems not to have affected this country alone.

As a sort of footnote to my meanderings about war, pacifism, etc., I was just reading a book of essays by C.S. Lewis in Blackwells' coffee-shop (as is my wont) and something came up that seemed very relevant. I've mentioned before how fascinating I find Lewis's writings - I don't think he ever wrote a dull word; and he has this knack of coming up with statements about things that seem completely obvious and yet totally original at the same time. The particular essay is called The Necessity of Chivalry. A title that most modern intellectuals would find almost inconceivable. And yet the point Lewis makes is just as important now, if not more so, than it was in 1940 when he wrote it. What he says is that the ideal of chivalry required that a man be incredibly brave, strong and ruthless in war and yet simultaneously meek, modest and gentle in civil life. The problem is, as he puts it, that '"in the world today there is a 'liberal' or 'enlightened' tradition which regards the combative side of man's nature as a pure, atavisitic evil and scouts the chivalrous sentiment as part of the 'false glamour' of war," according to that tradition it is impossible for anything good to come out of warfare, and chivalrousness is a (probably hypocritical) delusion. But the whole point is, as Lewis explains, that even if an ideal like chivalry is idealistic and unlikely in the 'real' world, that is the very reason why we need to cultivate, and if necessary, construct and implement such an ideal. Otherwise humanity ends up divided into two halves - those who are brave but brutal and those who are meek but ineffectual - " wolves who do not understand, and sheep who cannot defend, the things that make life desirable." Does any of this sound applicable to the modern world? I think so. People like Tony Benn, to my mind, are members of the flock of sheep - they mean well and try to do things for the best, but because of their naive pacificism the only result is that the wolves grow stronger and rampage all the more fiercely. (Someone - actually I think it might have been Burke - once said, "the only thing necessary for evil men to triumph is for good men to do nothing"). The (almost extinct) concept of chivalry could be so useful - because it teaches the strong to restrain their strength, and the weak to be brave. Which brings me round to my current fascination with Edmund Burke.

This book, Edmund Burke and our Present Discontents, by a certain Mr. McCue, has been quite a revelation. While I wouldn't say I agree with absolutely everything the author says under the inspiration of Burke, I do find I agree with about 95% of it. The trouble is that since I usually write this journal, as now, on Sunday evenings after imbibing my standard half-bottle of wine, my literary faculties though possibly inspired are not perhaps at their most razor-edged - so any exposition of Burke is bound to be a little fuzzy round the edges. What I find interesting about him is that he seems, more than two centuries ago, to have formulated an amazingly coherent and subtle philosophy of conservatism that even the most rabid 'left-wing' bigot couldn't honestly dismiss as merely 'reactionary' - it's far too self-evidently intelligent for that. (No doubt many dismiss it as such quite dishonestly - but that's another matter. Intellectual dishonesty is hardly a new phenomenon on the 'left'.) Furthermore, Burke was in fact not a Tory, but a Whig. And yet his whole life was essentially dedicated to describing, and defending, what he saw as the unique and remarkable constitution and political, legal and social culture of the United Kingdom, which even in his day he saw being attacked and undermined by dishonesty, cynicism and opportunism; and, even worse, by the pernicious influence of Jacobinism and the French Revolution. How much more relevant could his ideas be now, when that constitution and way of life has been wantonly attacked and actually dismantled, over the last forty years or so, by those of the 'progressive' tendency? Tracing Europe, and the world's, present ills back to the French Revolution is such an obvious, and yet such a tremendously, unexpectedly true idea, it's amazing it's not a commonly-held and discussed point of view - and yet I fear it isn't. In fact that Revolution is still held in respect by at least some people as a sort of prototype for the endless wretched 'liberations' and their concomitant mass sufferings, that have happened with depressing regularity ever since. Perhaps it isn't inappropriate to mention here that the very terms 'left' and 'right' and the accompanying crippling ideological conflicts that have cursed us ever since, actually derive from the seating plan of the National Assembly set up by the revolutionaries, briefly, before the inevitable descent into terror, mass executions and tyranny. Interesting, eh?

(To be continued)

Incidentally, another essay by C.S. Lewis that seems terribly relevant, again, to our times is one entitled Democratic Education. It starts: "Democratic education, says Aristotle, ought to mean, not the education which democrats like, but the education which will preserve democracy. Until we have realised that the two things do not necessarily go together we cannot think clearly about education'. And so on. Needless to say, everything that Lewis mentions in the essay as being a looming threat (in 1944) has been brought to fruition under new Labour and its recent predecessors. I wonder how it is that highly intelligent and respected writers like Lewis could have warned us what we were doing, apparently without any effect whatsoever? I suppose the trouble was that even in his time Lewis was only respected by 'ordinary' people - the 'intellectuals' despised and scorned him as a hopelessly dated character, with the nerve, of all things, to be a sincere Christian, to boot. Personally I don't think you even have to be a Christian, sincere or otherwise, to perceive the immense wisdom of most of what he wrote.

Remembrance Day, 13th November 2005

I'm sitting in my boat across from Christ Church Meadow, under the frosty starlight, listening to Sir Arthur Bliss's Morning Heroes - his great commemoration of the heroism of his brother and the other thousands in the Great War. Today, as ever, was a strange day - it always gives me very mixed feelings. As I wasn't working, this morning I watched the ceremony from the Cenotaph in London; it was as moving and dignified as ever. Somehow, it's one of the very few - perhaps now the only - national occasion when I feel that we as a nation live up to the best of our traditions. Solemn, simple and understated, and yet terribly moving - it strikes me as typifying everything that we used to do so well, and so effortlessly, in this country, and which was so characteristic of our particular culture and outlook. Now it is of course an exception. Even the BBC seems to suspend its relentless political 'correctness' temporarily, on this occasion, and the politicians visibly take second place to the Queen and the representatives of the armed forces. What a refreshing change! But is one day of the year enough to reassure us that we are still who we used to be? I don't really think so. As the ranks of elderly veterans marched past, I had my usual thoughts about the sad futility of their sacrifice, and even more the sacrifice of the many thousands who died, given the foul, corrupt, cheap mess of a society we now live in, 'rejoicing' in the freedom they died for. Not to mention the sovereignty they defended, that has been handed over wantonly to a foreign bureaucratic dictatorship. What more can I say? Every Remembrance Day, to me, is like a dagger twisted in the heart of the Britain I was born and grew up in.

I went in the evening to New College, where at Evensong they were singing one of my favourite anthems, and one intensely appropriate to today, Howells' Take Him, Earth, for Cherishing. Unfortunately Tony Benn was 'preaching' at the service, which was bad enough; but I was absolutely disgusted when I got there to find that there was a huge queue, and the place was packed. Half of those present, I would guess, would never normally have thought of going to evensong at New College, but such is the 'celeb' obsession of our society these days, even amongst the woolly liberal-left, that the mere presence of Benn brought them out in droves. And what droves! The hairy, bearded brigades of the 'left' had emerged from the woodwork en masse for the occasion; what universe is it these people inhabit - have they been in hibernation since the 1960's, or what? I greatly resented their presence; I had intended to sit quietly in the antechapel to listen to the music, and then depart discreetly, but instead I was surrounded. I still left discreetly after the anthem (beautifully sung) and before Benn - but the presence of these massed ranks, as if for a political meeting, rather spoilt the occasion for me. Now - to be fair to Benn, he might well have said something worth hearing (I do after all agree completely with him on the issue of the EU, though on little else). He might, for example, have said something about the sacrifice of the war dead being betrayed by the handing over of our parliamentary democracy to an unelected alien power. But I somehow doubt it. This was the man who had the nerve to have himself filmed having tea with Saddam Hussein just before the 2nd Gulf War; just how low can you sink? Did he not remember those pathetic images of Neville Chamberlain 'having a chat' with Hitler during the Munich Crisis? Do politicos never learn? So I expect his address was the usual well-meaning, self-deluding, compromised pacifist stuff; in any case I couldn't bear the suspense of waiting to find out. Perhaps Mr. Benn should re-read George Orwell?- 'Sometimes war is the lesser evil'. No sane person can doubt that war is terrible, but if it brings out the worst in people, it can also bring out the best. To deny this is to insult those who died doing their duty, for better or worse. If war must happen, then surely we must be able to commemorate and honour sincerely the dedication of those who fought and died, even if we may have doubts about the final results of their sacrifice. (Though who can doubt that liberty was worth fighting for, even if so many choose now to abuse it?) Which brings me back to Bliss's choral symphony; it's called Morning Heroes - and really, it's more about heroism than war as such. Which is perhaps why I like it so much - it's more positive than negative, and acknowleges the sorrow while celebrating the courage and selflessness. Apparently Bliss wrote it to exorcise repeated dreams he had of the trenches; I suppose, to acknowledge and immortalise the heroism amid the carnage. Wilfred Owen also understood this: 'They who love the greater love Lay down their lives - they do not hate'.

In connection with all this, in a way, I've been reading this absolutely fascinating book just recently. It's called Edmund Burke and our Present Discontents. I've been looking for something readable about Burke for some time, as I suspected his ideas would be highly relevant to my present view of the world. How right I was! The book has been quite electrifying - and the best thing is, it has somehow crystallised and illuminated all the things that have been bothering me about the state of Britain and the world for the last few years. I shall talk about it more next time.

All Souls' Day, 2nd November 2005

I was reminded of today's sombre associations by switching on Choral Evensong on Radio 3, and hearing the most glorious rendition of Durufle's Requiem from Winchester Cathedral - the cathedral choir there sounds on absolutely top form. There was something so very appropriate in being moored here on the autumnal river in the middle of nowhere, with just the rustle of the trees and the occasional bird, listening to this terribly touching music. I usually go to Magdalen or New College, but somehow this disembodied version coming out of the ether was just as moving. And the words of the service are so affecting, too; it's not that I actually believe in the resurrection of the dead through our Lord Jesus Christ, but just thinking about the possibility of meeting the departed again in some future world is almost unbearably poignant, accompanied by this beautiful music. It's difficult not to wish it might be true. I very much like the way Durufle uses the lines of plainsong, interwoven with subtle harmonies - it's somehow empathetic to the way I think musically. I did have the idea of organising a CD of my Requiem, coupled with the Durufle, though at the moment the prospect of getting any sort of recording project together seems rather remote.

The weather has changed dramatically in the last few days, with torrential rain and strong winds, and it suddenly feels and looks fully autumnal, with a hint of winter in the offing. The river has certainly livened up quite a bit - if it goes on like this for long it will start getting a bit too lively! And yet it isn't really cold yet, and there have been some beautiful golden days; and at night when the stars are out Mars is currently incredibly bright and fierce, glowing in the east. Orion should be appearing soon - my favourite constellation.

The majority of boats have suddenly disappeared, and I have the river to myself, with one or two others. It can feel a little lonely at times, but on the whole I enjoy it. On fine days autumn on the river is quite exquisite. I still meet rowers and occasional canoists from Radley and Abingdon, toiling along, in the afternoons, and sometimes a flotilla of sea-cadets in dinghies haring about. And I have my little friends who call by at my side window, like the ubiquitous and foolish geese, and a pair of coots who seem to have adopted me when I'm moored in the centre of Oxford.

Things are still surprisingly busy at Christ Church, where I am still (thankfully) doing some custodian duties. Apparently there are quite a few visitors even in the winter - it's the curse of the dreaded Harry Potter, of course. And yet some of them don't even quite know what they're looking for - "Where's the Harry Potter, er, stuff?" was what I got from one tourist. And yet most of them are oblivious to the rich 400-year history and miss the really curious and interesting aspects of the place, like the statue of Mercury and the cathedral choristers flitting by in their cloaks and funny Tudor hats.

Another interesting little outing on my last trip of the eason up-river was to Farmoor reservoir - the nearest Oxford has to a seaside.I also defied the attempts of the Blairite 'pc' BBC to ignore the 200th anniversary of the glorious victory of Trafalgar, and the heroic death of Lord Nelson, by flying a huge Royal Navy ensign on Trafalgar Day and over the weekend and having a roillicking Trafalgar tea-party and boat-trip down to Iffley, culminating in an interesting commemorative Evensong at Christ Church attended by the Lord Lieutenant, High Sherriff of Oxford and an Admiral! They did Purcell's They that go down to the sea in ships - quite well, though to my mind the music wasn't quite solemn enough for such an occasion, however appropriate the words.

Still - at least the occasion was marked properly in Oxford. Incredibly, though there were massive celebrations all over the country, and a solemn ceremony on the Victory in Portsmouth and a big service at St. Paul's attended by the Queen, the BBC in its grotesque 'politically correct', 'multicultural' and inanely woolly lefty-liberal way virtually ignored it all. What an absolute disgrace. Why is it that those in charge of our culture and history in this country today hate it so much? Why should we be made to feel as though celebrating our amazing history and achievements through the centuries is something somehow shameful and unacceptable? Other countries aren't ashamed of themselves - why should we be? As for the idea of it 'offending' the French and Spanish - what nonsense; if they have a problem with Trafalgar they should perhaps reflect on why they and their militaristic leaders were engaged on a ruthless campaign of plunder and domination across Europe that necessitated such a battle in the first place. And no doubt the BBC think the anniversary wasn't 'relevant' to the 'diverse' communities of modern Britain. My answer to that is that if wasn't, it should have been. Events like Trafalgar shaped the whole destiny of both this country and Europe as a whole - if people from whatever cultural or ethnic background want to be fully part of this country and its society and culture, they ought to be interested in its history and feel they can take pride in it as much as anyone else. Anything else is merely contributing to the divisiveness and ghettoisation that is the curse of our time and for which we are beginning to pay dearly.

Sunday 25th Sept. 2005

Things have ameliorated just ever so slightly lately - although my bust-up with the Museum was a little painful, fortunately Christchurch have been providing me with a bit more work, which rather makes up and which I prefer anyway, and there seems a reasonable chance I might get some fairly regular work with them up till Christmas, which means total destitution should be staved off for a bit longer.

I quite enjoy working at Christchurch, even though the job itself is fairly humdrum the atmosphere appeals to me. And of course it's all frightfully old and grand, even though the tourist hordes are sometime vulgar and annoying, even at this time of year - the nicest time is after Evensong, when it gets very quiet and empty and timeless. I am usually on duty just outside the Cathedral, and hear the strains of Evensong from within, in between intercepting stray tourists attempting to sneak into areas clearly marked 'private'. And of course I still go to Evensong when I can.

Naturally I enjoy being surrounded by ancient grandeur and feel thoroughly at home, although of course I will never really be part of it all, in any proper sense. Even so, when events happen like the Autumn Gaudy the other night, when old members came to feast in the great Hall, and the guest of honour was the Archbishop of Canterbury, I feel a certain frisson (pardon my French) at the splendour of it all.

The custodians are mainly in their 60's and 70's and I find I seem to empathise with them quite well. Also I quite often work with Paul O'Donovan, erstwhile colleague in St. Giles's Church Choir, and now an undergraduate at Queen's, who is at the other extreme of age and with whom I have some good laughs and some interesting conversations - he reminds me of what it was like to be young and a university student, when everything seemed so exciting and optimistic, and possible.

Today was rather a beautiful, benign autumn day, and I went and gathered blackberries to make jam. My hands are a bit scarred as a result, but the bramble jelly turned out quite well, and I do love doing things like that. Then after some tea I went to the Cathedral as this evening's anthem was Howells' Like as the Hart, which they sang beautifully. It just has to be one of the most poignant pieces of its kind, and always brings tears to my eyes - even more so because of the particular association it has with the suicide of a friend, about twenty years ago now. I've found a rather good seat, from which I can look straight down the church to the high altar; although it was very crowded this evening - a thing I greatly dislike - there is something terribly warm and consoling about the whole thing which is so very appropriate to a Sunday night. Paul has introduced me to an organ scholar at Christchurch who has been quite friendly and approachable, so of course I've foisted a couple of pieces on him; he seemed genuinely interested. I do feel so cheap when I do these things, but how else can I hope to get anything played at all? It's pleasant to feel some connection, however remote, with musical life in Oxford again.

There have been some quite interesting boats on the river around Oxford lately. Like the Dunkirk veteran Orage, that was moored next to me at Iffley, and an amazing great big Dutch barge with a huge sail that looked like something from a 17th century painting. I'd love an old wooden boat, but I suppose the maintenance might be problematical.

The other week I ventured up-river further than ever before; not quite as far as Kelmscott, where I still haven't visited William Morris's house, but as far as a place called Newbridge. It was rather lovely - the weather was perfect for autumn - the skies wide and uplifting - the countryside quiet and unspoilt. I walked on a bit further up the river, and found a delightful green lane of the type I am most fond of on the way to a charming little village whose name I now forget. I keep having these idyllic moments, usually out in the middle of nowhere, in the midst of all the chaos and despondency. Nature is a great consolation - which is why I now live in the middle of it most of the time, nowadays.

I managed to visit Stanton Harcourt again, in good weather and with my camera. It's a remarkable place, with the old fortified manor house, church, stables etc. surrounded mostly with slightly tatty and dilapidated fields and outhouses, just as it must have been for centuries, No doubt some awful character will come along soon and 'tidy it up'. But in the meantime I find it all rather appealing.

The light was good enough to take pictures in the church, which is such an atmospheric place. The shrine on the left is that of an Anglo-Saxon saint (was it St. Ethelburga?), transferred from some local priory at the Reformation. If you look carefully at the photo on the right you will see above the tomb of a medieval Harcourt the very banner he bore at the battle of Bosworth Field. It's wrapped in a muslin cover and doesn't look anything much, but the mere fact that it's survived nearly 500 years and is there as a direct link back to a lost world amazes me.

Wednesday 14th Sept. 2005

Well, I was wrong about the weather. It's gone back to being sunny, but with a delightful cool autumnal touch (and getting quite chilly in the evenings, now). Generally recently I've been feeling tense and worried (about the usual things - money, the futility of my existence, etc.), but today, coming up-river from Abingdon, where I'd filled up with water, it was just so absolutely beautiful, serene and perfect on the river I suddenly got this momentary glimpse of the sort of sense of joy in life that I once used to have quite often. Despite the frustrations and disappointments of my life these days, I am aware at times of just how lucky I am to be able to live like this - to be a free spirit, surrounded by nature and mostly away from the chaos, noise and brutality of contemporary urban Britain (including, sadly, these days even parts of Oxford). I moored opposite Nuneham Courtney, with its charming palladian mansion on a hill, and walked up to Radley College boathouse, where I sat surveying the idyllic scene and listening to a broadcast of Orthodox Vespers from a monastery in Moscow on Radio 3. There's something very emotionally satisfying about Russian Orthodox music. It was the festival of the Holy Cross. I must admit, I've been wondering lately about abandoning rationalism as a basis for life (it certainly doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere much, certainly); perhaps I should just 'go for' religion, on the basis of emotion? In a way it would make things simpler, to be able to throw oneself and one's misery at the foot of the Cross! And yet there's something in me that resists such extremism - I must be more reasonable than I think! But it's not so difficult to understand why people do suddenly 'get' religion - at times the conundrum of existence is so untenable there's an overwhelming need for some way out. Of course, the real way out, I'm sure, is to immerse oneself in a fulfilling life's work; that's what I so much long to do, but for some reason am not allowed to do.

Radio 3 are having a Webern Day. Why oh why do they keep on flogging this particular dead horse? Once again we're to hear the complete works of the master, and lots of 'experts' saying how wonderful and life-enhancing it all is, when surely anyone with ears and any musical sensitivity can hear it's all a series of excruciating, fragmented and dreary dissonances that lead nowhere? Still the same old 'contemporary music' establishment peddle the same old stuff, and feed it to each new generation of music students, and we can never seem to move on, and free ourselves from the tyranny of the 2nd Viennese School and arid academic modernism. It's incomprehensible. I suppose as usual it's all about vested interests - those in the 'establishment' have comitted themselves to a particular position, and will lose 'credibility' if they turn revisionist, while those who aspire to be part of the establishment feel they must follow the party line; it is all remarkably reminiscent of the old Soviet communist party! I expressed myself rather fiercely about it again on SibeliusMusic - provoked by a complacent little thread about how wonderful and 'romantic' Webern's music is, 'really' - no doubt I caused great offence once again; but I do feel that the self-satisfaction and self-absorption of the 'new music' brigade needs to be challenged. God know why I bother, though - it won't make the slightest difference to them!

Sunday 11th Sept.

'Hey -ho, the wind and the rain'! It seems autumn has finally come - the hot sun and ongoing sweaty weather has suddenly broken, into dank cloud and rain, casting something of a pall over the final Test Match of this year's epic Ashes series - not that it's all over, yet - tomorrow promises to be a real cliff-hanger and not recommended for those with weak nerves. Not that it's all bad - I find it something of a relief to be cool again, and not sweating profusely all the time; this evening it was so cold I actually lit the stove on the boat - perhaps a bit of an over-reaction, but it does make things so much cosier. The Last Night of the Proms has been and gone; even though they've got rid of the dreadful Leonard Slatkin, I still felt uncomfortable with the 'contemporary' version; inserting songs from the four corners of the kingdom is not such a bad idea in itself, but sticking them right in the middle of Henry Wood's Sea Songs is crass, and then jerking abruptly into a clumsy version of Rule Britannia, minus soloist, really messes up one of the favourite moments of the evening. Why is it the 'pc' Blairites at the BBC feel so very guilty about the slightest hint of patriotism, even of a good-humoured and unaggressive kind? As for their idiotic dogma of 'inclusiveness' - I hardly think having the TV presentation given by Alan Titchmarsh, accompanied by two very opinionated complete nonentities (presumably representing 'the people') quite does it. Of course they could include African drumming, rap 'music', heavy metal and belly-dancing and have it all presented by the Chief Rabbi accompanied by a panel drawn from random pubs, or something, to make it really 'accessible'. And why stop there? I mean, this classical music stuff is obviously totally posh and elitist, so why not eliminate it from the proceedings altogether, and substitute Robbie Williams singing Andrew Lloyd Webber, presented by David Beckham? But then it wouldn't be the Last Night of the Proms, would it? Which is supposed to the point of the whole thing. Why can't they just leave well alone, for god's sake? Bring back Richard Baker, say I.

I have been feeling a little fraught over the last day or two, largley as a result of a slight falling out with the Museum where I sometimes work. The atmosphere there has got increasingly petty-minded, bureaucratic and oppressive of late. Anyway, I've solved the problem in my usual way, by declining to work there any more; not a very good decision financially, but a great relief to my mind nevertheless. Now only the part-time job at Christchurch is keeping me going at all. And yes - I am aware there is a pattern of behaviour here, but frankly I don't care - I have my own standards about how I'm treated, and I stick to them. Which is why I'm where I am now, I presume. I can't pretend about things.

Talking of Christchurch, thankfully the Cathedral choir have returned, so I'm again able to attend an authentic Evensong, when I am not outside with a walkie-talkie ordering errant tourists around. This evening they sang some rather quirky canticle settings by someone called Orr, and a lovely little anthem by Samuel Wesley, which made young Paul O'Donovan, who was with me, get all sentimental and nostalgic about his days as a treble in St. Giles's choir of late lamented memory. How nice to have musical memories like that from your childhood. I still get these lovely moments when I feel I'm back in the 'real' Oxford. As opposed to when I have to go to Sainsbury's or somewhere, and feel as though I'm in one of those delightfully 'multicultural' ghetto zones that constitute most of our major towns nowadays.

Monday 22nd August

Gloom and frustration continue to overwhelm me; once again owing to financial and other problems I feel I'm losing control over my life - I couldn't even manage to get down to Dorset for two or three days to be by the sea and get things in perspective. I can't make any plans for going to Sri Lanka or India this winter, as I had intended. My CD projects, like everything else I try to do these days, seem to be still-born. However - I am continuing to read Gibbon's Decline and Fall, and find it curiously consoling; it confirms on an epic scale the obdurate asinine stupidity of humanity en masse, and the ultimate utter futility of all human effort in the long run. So it's not just me!

Friday 19th August 2005

I've been feeling a little down again over the last few days - partly because I'd planned to go down to Dorset for a short trip to see the sea again, but had had to postpone it because Mark and his son Edgar were coming to visit at the weekend. So of course from Sunday the weather turned absolutely perfect for the seaside and continued for exactly the number of days I'd intended to be there for, then promptly changed to rain and cold! No doubt even if I tried to go next week the weather will be appalling. The visit went quite well, though - we went down the river to Abingdon for a couple of days; Mark and Edgar preferred to camp in their tents next to the boat, and the first night as it had been a bit wet and cold we had a little camp fire, which was rather successful, though I say it myself; it's something I've always fancied doing but never have before - it appeals to something primeval, sitting round a camp fire in the open at night. According to Edgar (aged 10) they still do it in the Scouts, but sadly they apparently don't sing songs any more. On the Saturday the weather turned dreadful, and it poured with rain and I got soaked and rather cold. But the next day it was much better, and we had quite a lot of sun, and roast chicken for Sunday lunch, and the very exciting Test Match to listen to. On Monday we sailed back up to Oxford, with the even more exciting Test Match (even though it ended in an excruciating draw). I think the expedition was a success - I certainly enjoyed it, as it was nice to have some company and people to talk to. Edgar turned out to be quite a good trainee steersman. We listened to The Planets, among other things (see below). Unfortunately I somehow forgot to take any photos of our expedition at all.

Part of my current depression is to do with the abysmal feeling of being let down (again) by friends who were supposed to be helping me get a CD of songs together; I now feel as though yet another year has passed by without any significant creative achievement whatsoever; an unpleasantly familar feeling these days. In order to divert myself further from recurrent thoughts of frustration and failure I have started writing my own 'Planet' - partly as a reply to the horrendous Pluto monstrosity, and partly to show how it could be done without damaging the original. I'm not going to say any more about the piece yet, just in case, but I'm quite pleased with the beginning, anyway. It's great to write for the vast orchestra Holst chose - solos for bass oboe, etc. - most exciting! We shall see. At least it passes the time.

Thursday 11th August

Had to come a little further up-river than usual today to get some diesel - the man who sells diesel from his boat had run out. Actually it's quite nice up here - even more rural and idyllic; today turned out to be sunny and pleasant, thought there's still this rather cold wind for August. There's a bright crescent moon currently reflected in the river, and the stars are very beautiful tonight.

My routine has been a little diverted this week, as on Monday I was prevailed upon to go to London to another Prom; this time Nick brought along a friend of his, who also brought two friends of his. They were very young - just about to go to university; quite pleasant, though as one of them was sporting a Morning Star newspaper we had a conversation on the bus which verged on dangerous territory. They didn't get it when I pointed out that the paper's interpretation of the Hiroshima bomb as having nothing whatever to do with the Japanese surrender (which was 'actually' brought about by a Russian offensive in Manchuria no-one's heard of!) was nonsense. Whereas of course according to them papers like the Daily Mail are 'fascist' and 'racist'; (admitted one of them immediately confessed he didn't really know what fascism was). They couldn't see that the political bias and distortion of the 'left' is at least a blatant as that of the 'right'. I found it rather strange and bothersome that middle-class student types of that age still have exactly the sort of uncritically 'left' attitudes that I did thirty years ago. Do we learn nothing as a society? Probably not.

The concert itself was fun, though. I also met up with a London friend, Mark, and his 10 year-old son, Edgar. I thought it would be a good Prom for them, as it featured Holst's Planets. I first heard them myself at that sort of age, and they captured my imagination. The concert also contained Vaughan Williams great Tallis Fantasia, and Tippett's Piano Concerto. The BBC Scottish SO under Brabbins did the RVW very well. The Tippett had its longeurs, I must admit - it really does have rather too many notes - but it was nice to hear it again. Edgar seemed to like the Vaughan Williams, which I must say shows good taste, and he bravely sat through the whole of the Tippett, too. I think it was helpful that we were in a really good position, just behind the fountain, where we could see everything quite well, and we even had seats, even though they were facing the wrong way. The Planets was tremendously exciting - Brabbins produced a pretty good rendition, specially in Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, I thought. Mars was quite shattering - specially with the newly-restored RAH organ lending its massive weight at strategic moments; and I've never heard the outrageous organ glissando in Uranus sound better. Unfortunately the unspeakable intrusion called Pluto, by Colin Matthews, was tacked on to the end of the piece, and completely ruined the magical ending of Neptune; the women's chorus were put off and made a complete hash of their part. I was furious. I had already arranged things so I could leave at the beginning of Matthews' piece of tawdry nonsense, and I wasn't the only one. What a piece of incredibly crass arrogance, presumption and musical vandalism, to add on to one of the most beautiful and original endings in 20th century music! I was so annoyed by the effect it had I wrote a letter to The Independent, and also posted a protest on the Proms website message board. I've no idea of the letter was published (if only I'd still been reviewing - I could have had a field day!) - but at least I made an effort. I think Edgar liked The Planets, anyway; hopefully he'll get a decent CD of it some time - without Pluto!

Wednesday 3rd August 2005

Being a 'down-river' week, I find myself moored this evening at a new place not far up from Abingdon, listening to Ravi Shankar playing at the Proms. Earlier I was listening to his Sitar Concerto No. 2 , while watching the very beautiful sunset over a cornfield - now he's playing himself, with his daughter Anoushka. It's incredible that he's still going strong at the age of 85! It brings back memories of years ago, when I went to the famous all night Indian music Prom - I can only just about remember the end part of it, with a group of singers greeting the dawn with devotional chants. I can't even remember when it was - was it the 60's, or maybe very early 70's? I was very much involved with, and influenced by, Indian classical music at one time; I even learnt to play the tablas a bit when I was at York University, and I wrote a few pieces myself under the influence. It all seemed so exciting, ancient and exotic; actually, it still does, on the rare occasions I hear it. I have occasionally thought of going to a music academy in India for a while to try to recapture some of the intensity of my original enthusiasm. I think there is a sort of integrity in Indian classical art which we've largely lost over here - the artistic, philosophical and devotional are combined quite unaffectedly and without all the deadly self-analysis of the west; not to mention our sensationalism and the cult of 'originality'. In fact listening to this music makes me want very much to go back to India. I have been wondering about going there this winter, if I have the funds; I feel torn, as I feel a certain duty to return to Malamulla, in Sri Lanka - I know they want me to go back, which is after all a great compliment, and I think I can do some good there, which is more than I feel I'm doing here. On the other hand, the more self-indulgent side of me longs to realise my life-time ambition of seeing the Himalayas. Perhaps I can somehow combine the two, even though of course they are at two opposite ends of the sub-continent?

I hope the music will have a soothing effect; I'm absolutely exhausted as I've had two very bad nights' sleep - rather unusual in recent times, as I've been sleeping pretty well on the boat. Even reading the Moomintroll books again last thing at night hasn't helped much. I think it's just because I've been so desperately worried about money again. I've been working since I got back to Oxford, so there is money in the pipeline, but as seems to have been the theme for the whole of this year, there have been problems and delays with payment, so I am once more at destitution's door. It's becoming almost monotonous! You'd think I'd be so used to it all by now as to be completely philosophical, but this is not the case; the sense of insecurity preys on my mind a lot. If only I could get this whole business of selling the flat in London over and achieve some degree of financial stability again. Seven months without income is pushing it a bit! No doubt it's all my fault for leading such a wildly impractical and unrealistic life.

Monday 1st August

I survived the crayfish!

Saturday 30th July

I'm waiting to see what the effects might be after having made a meal of some crayfish actually caught just by my boat yesterday. People seem to think I'm mad to eat them, but I can't see why - the river is absolutely teeming with life, so it must be pretty healthy, and I don't see why the crayfish should be particularly dangerous; I would be wary of shellfish, which are filter feeders. Yesterday I was moored at Osney - admittedly a slightly industrial-looking location just near the railway station - and hearing a commotion outside I found a group of adults and children hooking out the aforesaid beasts with bits of bacon; I was quite surprised, as I had no idea there were any there, let alone such a lot them. They must have caught about 20 of various sizes - some quite big. A small boy took half off in a bucket, and as no-one else seemed to want the rest I offered to take them. In fact it's a public duty, as they are American crayfish, which are killing off our native species - so eating them is a good thing. I looked them up in Florence White's Good Things in England and had them this evening with rice and M&S hollandaise sauce. They're a bit fiddly to prepare, but are essentially like large prawns or small lobsters. Unfortunately I have to report that they are, though not unpleasant, somewhat bland in taste - they don't have the salt-water tang of crabs and lobsters. I ate them about five hours ago, and so far I feel fine. It's given me ideas about getting a supply of fresh food from the river outside my window - the mind boggles at the thought of fresh trout, etc., strsight form the river, and freeI'm going to get some basic fishing tackle and have a go, anyway.

Wednesday 27th July

Moored up-river near Eynsham, in a peaceful spot. The most disgustingly horrible day - wet, cold and overcast (I actually had to light the stove, it was so chilly!). But - I went for a most interesting if rather long and tiring (about 10 miles) walk, to a place called Stanton Harcourt, where there is a celebrated medieval manor house and church. Like an idiot I forgot to take my camera. However - the walk itself was quite interesting, by obviously ancient footpaths and tracks, along the river, and then across to this rather fine old village, full of thatched cottages. The manor house itself is magificent, with a crenellated wall around most of it, and various towers, turrets and battlements within - I don't know if it's open to the public or not, as I couldn't actually find the way in, but the church next door was definitely open, and very interesting. Evidently largely Romanesque, but extended as usual in later centuries. The best thing was that it was largely untouched by the well-meaning but devastating hand of the Victorian restorer, so it had some amazing remnants - not least apparently the oldest surviving wooden rood screen in the country - 13th century, no less, with original metalwork in hinges and locks; it also had mysterious piercings in the form of various kinds of crosses and other symbols, the significance of which are unknown, plus a surviving medieval painting. In the Chancel, itself a remarkably unspoilt example of Early English, there was a remarkable shrine of an Anglo-Saxon saint, St. Edburga, which had been transferred from a local monastery at the Dissolution, plus a couple of fine medieval tombs, one also with an original 15th century ornamental iron railing around it. Most extraordinary of all was the chapel of the Harcourt family, with more magnificent tombs with effigies, and above one a standard with, hanging from it wrapped in muslin, the remains of a banner carried by the Harcourt of the time in Henry VII's army at the battle of Bosworth Field - in other words about 550 years old! There were many other fine features in the church, though unfortunately nearly all the medieval wall paintings had been destroyed. But the whole place had this wonderful quietness and sense of connection with the remote past - the sort of thing I absolutely love - with no sound but that of the rain beating on the windows and trickling down the gutters. I can only suppose it's all survived so well partly through the patronage of the Harcourts (I noticed two or three quite recent monuments in their chapel, so they're still around) and the fact that it's a slightly out-of-the-way place. Long may it remain so. I felt a distinct sense of achievement at having found it, as I squelched back across the fields to try and catch the news and hear the latest on the terrorist plots. I do love places like that, where UI can forget the foulness of the modern world - I really do feel so out of place in the Britain of today - it's a largely alien culture of trashy populist materialism and brutalism, mixed up with empty, fake sentiment and bogus 'community' rhetoric, with which I feel little or no connection.

Monday 25th July

After seemingly endless scorching sun and no rain for weeks, it's suddenly gone all wet, cloudy and surprisingly cold. Still - it's just as well, in a way, as we desperately need some rain; they've had water-saving measures on the river for some time now - it's supposed to be the worst drought since 1976. I remember that quite well - it was when I got sunstroke in Yorkshire! The river has been very (too?) busy, and the school holidays are only just about to start; it's OK, but you have to put up with some annoying people who don't really know what they're doing and behave in a loud, drunken way because they're on holiday, apparently. Of course I can still go up or down river for a bit of peace, though even there 'my' favourite mooring places are sometimes taken when I arrive. I was a bit peeved the other day when I arrived at one, to find a large new notice saying 'Private Fishing - Strictly No Mooring'; apart from anything else it was one of the few secluded places where I could swim 'au naturel' without potentially outraging the proliferating prudes of our time or offend new Labour feminist sensibilities by being too obviously male. Most annoying. I still swim in the river anyway, when it's very hot - people seem horrified at the idea, but it's been going on since time immemorial, and I'm glad to say is something of an Oxford tradition, despite the demise of the late lamented Parson's Pleasure. (I've been wondering about trying to initiaite some sort of 'reclaiming' of the latter, but I don't know if I'm dedicated enough to cope with the publicity, etc, or even whether anyone would support the idea.

There was a very interesting TV programme last night in a series about class, on the Upper Class. The man presenting it was a bit of a prat, but what he had to say was most fascinating. After visiting various surviving upper-class events, including a 'final' fox hunt and hare coursing, not to mention an absolutely terrifying toboggan run for 'toffs' in Switzerland, he concluded that the virtues of the upper classes were things like honour, courage, patriotism and sheer toughness, all of which were being derided and steadily destroyed by new Labour, to be replaced with their mediocre concepts of enforced 'equality' and utter mediocrity - the revenge of the 'play it safe' middle classes on the rest; and that these qualities are the very thing that made this country distinctively what it was, and that as we lose them and the upper class way of life is destroyed, we shall be very much the poorer for it. I agreed with evry word he said, and it's something I've been saying for a long time; the utter, crass, sickening lowest-common-denominator mediocrity, falseness and shallow egalitarianism that is constantly being shoved down our collective throats by interfering little politicians, local government and bureaucrats is the most terrible evil of our time, and it makes me very angry. If they're allowed to go on doing this much longer there will be nothing left of what used to be such a very distinctive and admirable country and culture. The last election was a terrible disappointment, of course, but I somehow think that the upper classes, and the tradition of British individualism are stronger than some might think, and there is hope of some sort of reversal and re-assertion of identity, especially now we are so obviously and directly under attack by an alien and objectionable ideology of religious fanaticism. Let's hope so.

As regards the terrorist attacks in London - if I started writing to any extent about them I wouldn't be able to stop. The only thing I can say is that, horrible as they were (and probably will be again), these attacks are something of a 'wake up call' for the majority of people in this country who have preferred to live in a complacent dream of materialistic self-indulgence and facile 'multiculturalism', in the face of the terrifying chaos and violence of the rest of the world. If they help to destroy the nonsense of multiculturalism and move things towards a sensible policy of integration - not to mention some sort of real control of our borders - they will perhaps have some positive results. I'm not over hopeful, though - the blinkered fools that control so much in this country nowadays are always so eager to resume their blinkers.

I actually made it to a Prom on Saturday, I'm glad to say. It's a bit of a trek on the bus to London, but I went with NZ friend Nick to Vaughan Williams' Sea Symphony. It was 'only' the Liverpool Philharmonic, but in fact they were really very good, under a conductor called Gerard Schwarz. It was lovely just to be back at the Proms again, in the Arena with the plebs, where I belong, after my grandiose years in the stalls for The Independent. I do love the piece - full of optimism and hope; Walt Whitman's words and RVW's music the epitome of Edwardian idealism, before the cataclysm. Despite everything that's happened (and is happening) since, it still has the power to move and inspire. I've probably said so before, but it was works like this that really made me want to become a composer, when I discovered them in my early teens. All I ever wanted to do was write music that had something of the same quality of energy and joy - and to some extent, after years of struggle, I think I did. Which makes me feel so very sad, now, that having managed by some miracle to realise my dream and to produce music of at least some merit, nobody seems to be interested in it. So it's a bitter-sweet experience, revisiting the favourite music of my youth like that; but still, on balance, more sweet than bitter - just.

Friday 15th July 2005

Tonight is the First Night of the Proms, once again. What a strangely different one to last year (when I was celebrating finally being in sole possession of my new boat). I missed the first half as I was working at Christchurch (a part-time job as a 'security' person), but got back to the boat in time for the second part, which was Tippett's A Child of Our Time. I've written about this piece before in this journal - it was curiously apposite that it should begin the Proms, after the events in London in the last week. It's such a strange work, with it's Jungian mumbo-jumbo and at times terribly clumsy - even incomprehensible - words, but when the first trumpet chord sounded and the chorus sang 'the world turns on its dark side...' it was all suddenly so very relevant. Even the fact that the TV presentation was by Alan Titchmarsh, of all people, and 'experts' on Tippett's work like the very irritating Steve Martland (in a tight T-shirt and flat-top, for all the world like a wizened, prematurely-aged bovver boy) couldn't detract from the effect that this strangely flawed and dated work has, with its moments of real power and emotion. That peculiarly British form of liberal-left, pacifist eccentricity that Tippett represents is something that I once identified with, when I was young and naive; now I find it slightly embarrassing, simplistic and sadly inadequate. As far as I'm concerned, the world is always 'turning on its dark side', and it always will, and there is no utopian era of peace and universal brotherhood just round the corner, if we're only all 'nice' to one another; human beings will always have to make a choice of various shabby and ambiguous alternatives, and, as the Buddha pointed out, human existence simply is suffering. But..but..but - there are moments, especially in musical works, when something else seems almost possible. Anyway - I wish I'd been in the Albert Hall tonight - I think it would have been very moving. Sir Willard White was magnificent, and the soprano, one Indra Thomas, was very impressive too. I must admit, when those marvellous negro spirituals came in - specially the last, and my favourite, Deep River, tears came to my eyes. Don't we all, in the end, on some level or other, long for 'that land where all is peace' ?

I've finished reading Elgar's letters. As usual, it all got rather sad towards the end, with his wife and all his old friends dying one by one. What makes it so very poignant in his case is that he seemed to have this sudden renewal of creative energy towards the end - if only he hadn't tried to write an opera and a symphony at the same time, we might have had one last, great, magnficent masterpiece before the end - and Elgar might have died more fulfilled. The completion of the 3rd Symphony by Anthony Payne is fascinating and moving, and gives us a wondeful chance to get an idea of the composer's final inspiration, but of course the proper completed work would be far better. It all makes you wonder about the futility of human effort, etc. Still - at least Elgar's work lives and is remembered, which is more than many can hope.

I'm still enjoying being back in Oxford, despite the awful hordes of tourists and mobs of foreign school-kids blocking the pavements. If you look, or point a camera, in the right direction at the right time, Oxford still has the ability to be almost unbelievably beautiful/picturesque.

At least on the boat I can get away from it all quite easily - I really look forward to my midweek trips up and down river, and to being in quiet places with birds, trees, water and sky.

Wednesday 6th July

Mr. Dickon Edwards, my rather 'strange' friend from London, came to visit yesterday and today. The sight of him in his black suit and tie and Dirk Bogarde white socks attempting to pull the boat in by a mooring rope while adopting what he considered to be a 'manly' expression was somewhat hilarious.

And as we went down river his appearance like some sort of extraordinary figurehead in the bows caused some considerable consternation amongst passing rowers, etc. Unfortunately the weather yesterday was atrocious, with sluicing rain all day, so we went and looked at museums, etc. in Oxford. Today luckily the weather improved greatly, and we had quite a pleasant little voyage down here to Abingdon, where I am now moored, Mr. Edwards having flown back to London precipitately. I fear that in some sense he never actually left; long-term residence in London tends to have that effect on people.

Sunday 3rd July 2005

I already feel as though I've been in and around Oxford again for some time, and the freshness of it all has worn off slightly, though I'm still appreciating being here and not in Shropshire or London. I've started to get back into my routine on the river, and it is all very pleasant - except for the fact it's rather busy, which means it's often difficult to find a decent mooring in places which I had pretty much to myself last autumn and winter. There's the usual element of well-off middle-aged, middle-class people with big flashy boats going too fast, etc., but that's just par for the course in the summer.

I've renewed my reader's card for the Bodleian, which is a great joy. I love just being able to go and sit inside its glorious reading-rooms, let alone read anything. Though I've decided to do a bit of 'research' into music-criticism - perhaps partly to understand what has led to the current dire situation, with the dominance of so much that is second-rate and fraudulent in contemporary music. I shall start by re-reading Bernard Shaw's hilarious and highly acute writings, upon which I attempted to model my own efforts during those heady years writing for the national press. I've continued to read Elgar's letters - most fascinating. He really was the most extraordinarily volatile personality - hypersensitive and emotional to an almost unbalanced degree at times (cf. his famous remark about 'the poor horses during the Great War). And yet at the same time very humorous, witty and perceptive about things. Also re-listening for the umpteenth time to works like the 1st Symphony one realises, under the layers of familiarity, how very strange - haunting, mercurial and verging on the hysterical at times - the music actually is. Nothing further from the clich of the moustachioed representative of the Empire can hardly be imagined; although perversely, he did do that, too - and very well, as in the incredibly brilliant Pomp and Circumstance marches! (But anyone who hasn't noticed the note of sadness that creeps into even these isn't listening very carefully.) There is so much I empathise with greatly - specially his description of music critics as 'reptiles'!

I'm depending for choral music on Christchurch, now that the university term is over; though unfortunately the choir is just off for a month's holiday. I did manage to get to evensong last night, which was very delightful, and, also quite thought-provoking. Each of the the three 'big' choirs in Oxford has its own distinctive style - New College are very expressive, Magdalen very smooth and well-blended, and Christchurch have this very direct, fresh approach. As I've said before on here, they also take the psalms rather slowly and meditatively, which gives more time to take in the glorious words. On this occasion they Psalms 12-14, which seemed amazingly apposite - they described the 'ungodly' walking the streets of the city full of anger and uncleanness and speaking abominations, or words to that effect. It so very uncannily caught the atmosphere I find so disturbing when I walk through certain streets even in Oxford, let alone London. It really struck me how a society that is 'ungodly', or that worships nothing but material things like money, power and sex, as ours now does, can't help but to become ugly, brutalised and abominable. You see it every day in our towns and cities, and it's a tragedy. Whether it means we as a society have to re-discover God, or at least some sort of sense of the spiritual in some form, in order to recover some sanity and balance I don't know - it rather seems like it. I can't say I hold out much hope for such a transformation in the near future. But it is curious to be struck so forcibly by words from two or three thousand years ago that seem so vividly relevant still, and in a place like Christchurch cathedral in Oxford.

Thursday 23rd June 2005

Midsummer is now past, and time races on. For once it's actually felt like midsummer, for the last few days. It's been so hot I've had to resort to jumping in the river every so often, as quite a lot of other people have been doing. I'm glad to see that this ancient, if slightly dangerous, tradition persists, despite the efforts of all the 'health and safety' busybodies to stop it. I've constructed a sort of 'ropeladder' with an old rope fender, which means I can get in and out of the side doors of the boat, which is much more convenient (and less nettley) than from the bank.

I had my orgy of evensongs at the end of last week; the university term is now over. Though the first-years are still up doing exams, and are to be met at various places in the street in 'sub-fusc' in a state of over-excitement and inebriation if they've just finished. Magdalen's final evensong of the year was rather special; they did some Leighton canticles and a quite nice Victorian Evening Hymn - for once I was sitting right next to the choir, and at times when I had my eyes shut it was as if I was actually inside the singing - most extraordinary. The most striking bit was at the end, when there was an extra, 'surprise' item - a new piece by Bill Ives, the Informator Choristarum, in tribute to the President of the college, who was leaving. It was called Sicut Lilium, and was quite delightful - simple but very effective, and in a tonal, layered style I could strongly relate to. It made me wish even more that Magdalen choir would do one of the pieces of mine I've submitted. I'm quite sure at least one or two of them are as good as this particular new work. But then I'm not a 'Magdalen person', I suppose.

The last evensong at New College was rather good, too. Very grand - they did the Howells New College Service, and the anthem was Vivaldi's Gloria - a bit corny, if you ask me, and outrageously long, but it gave good opportunities for some excellent solos - some of the trebles at New College are quite remarkable, and so very confident. By chance I also went to a song recital at New College, by a tenor called Daniel Norman. He did a programme entirely of Britten, including a number of folksong arrangements and the rarely-heard Who Are These Children - a strange and rather dark work. I will try sending him some of my songs - he was very good, with a lyrical approach but power and incisiveness when necessary. I'm reading the letters of Elgar at the moment - they are reminding me of my aspirations and dreams of being a composer, and the strange obessiveness of it all. It's salutary to observe Elgar's sufferings, in terms of self-belief and self-confidence, both when he was being ignored as a 'provincial' and even after he'd achieved national and international acclaim, a knighthood, etc. It reminds me of something someone or other once said: 'everyone's life is a failure, from the inside'.

I've got my river licence and now 'proper' once again. It's lovely to be back on the river again - so much more space and much nicer scenery. I'd forgotten how busy it could be at this time of year, though, specially at the weekends. I've had one or two little technical alarms so far, but nothing serious. I'm hoping things will hold out until I can afford to get the engine serviced - something that should have been done over the winter but went by the board with all the other stuff. Meanwhile I am just trying to enjoy the sense of greater calm and sanity gettin back to my old routine, with all the birds and trees and water around me. I look forward to one or two visitors in the next few months, to whom I can demonstrate the delights of a waterborne existence. In particular Mark and Edgar, who once accompanied me on a boating expedition on the Serpentine - the river and a narrowboat are much more exciting, of course!

Tuesday 14th June 2005

Hallelujah! Made it back to Oxford finally today. I hadn't quite realised just how much I'd missed the place (although I know I've been moaning on about it here for weeks) - I feel as though I've been away for years, not months. It all started taking on a dreamlike quality as I started recognising landmarks as I drew closer; Oxford does have a special magical quality, somehow - difficult to define, but so very noticeable when you've been away in less special places. As I approached slowly down the canal, I realised that if I moored somewhere on the outskirts I could probably cycle in in time to attend evensong somewhere. Time was getting rather short, but I managed to find a mooring just above Wolvercote, leapt on my bike, and hurtled into town - I completely exhausted myself, but made it to Magdalen with five minutes to spare. To my horror when I checked the music list it wasn't the college choir singing, only something called 'Magdala'. Luckily I was able to pop round the corner to New College, where they had a lovely service with music by Pelham Humfrey, with some delightful solos, and an anthem by a (?)french composer called Villette which was rather intriguing and I should think pretty difficult to sing. It was such a joy to be back in an Oxford college - I walked round the incomparable cloisters there before the service; what an atmosphere - it sounds preposterous, but as I sat there in the chapel surrounded by stained glass and stone, and the choir started singing, I was quite overwhelmed with it all - I felt like someone admitted back into heaven after an enforced exile - it's all so terribly important to me, I realise; I can't survive properly without access to such things - order, ceremony, beauty - of which there is so very little generally in our demented, ugly society today. It's agonising that I've missed nearly the whole of the summer term - it was quite poignant seeing the undergraduates wandering around in their gowns, with buttonholes, etc., still doing exams, or in smart suits and dresses on their way to end of term parties and dinners. The joys of youth! And all so very transient. I'm going to go to evensong every day for the rest of this last week of term, to attempt to make up for what I've missed. It won't all start again until October, so I want to make the most of what's left. As I was leaving New College I strolled around the cloisters again, as I'm so fond of them, and the choir were having year photo taken, ranged in ranks on chairs and tables, with the smallest boys sitting cross-legged on the grass. So Oxford, and so summer!

Sunday 12th June

The sun proved a little elusive - as I ground my way southwards there were hours and hours of gloomy cloud and a very cold wind. Yesterday I had a bit of a slough of despond in Banbury - never one of my favourite places. I was making good time and looking forward to mooring in Banbury in time to watch Trooping the Colour, a ceremony to which I've been addicted since infancy, but as usual last minute delays in finding a mooring resulted in my finding myself in a not very pleasant location next to a large and very active factory of some sort. Then I found the TV reception was bad; I got some sort of picture but after the beginning of the programme, then made the mistake of leaving it to record while I went to seek a barber's. Needless to say I didn't find a barber that was open, and when I got back I found the recording hadn't happened for some reason. So far from having a pleasant evening toasting Her Majesty's official birthday, I spent it in rather a bad temper listening to the rumblings of the factory and the shrieked obscenties of the degraded local youth in the park on the other side of the towpath. I also found that the boatyard with the rather cheap diesel was closed the next day, when I set out - needless to say the diesel was much more expensive as I approached Oxford. With such small but testing irritations is a boating scholar gypsy's life plagued in this present age.

Later in the day on Sunday I had my first serious mechanical problem - amazing I'd got so far without major mishaps, apart perhaps form the problem with the gears. I was just going quietly along, thinking about mooring for the evening, when I suddenly noticed that the engine temperature gauge was shooting up dramatically - I expected the engine to burst into flames at any moment, but it didn't. I managed to stop and turn it off, and found the water tank on the cooling system almost empty; some sort of massive leak had occurred. I managed to limp on the next day, stopping to refill the tank about every half-hour, to a boatyard, where they supplied me with a requiste part (something called a Bowman elbow joint, a sort of black rubber thing, had split along a seam), and I managed to fit it myself, rather to my surprise. Even more surprisingly, it held out for the rest of that day and the next, until I got to Oxford. Perhaps it will hold out even longer? Of course it all involved even further expense, and I am now almost completely running out of money, which is worrying me quite a lot. No doubt I will survive, as ever, but I do find it all very stressful. I wouldn't have been in this situation if not for the endless delays in Shropshire - my whole year so far has been thoroughly messed up, I must say.

Friday 10th June 2005

Finally made it across the border into Oxfordshire - great jubilation! It's quite extraordinary what importance such things assume when you are travelling at an almost medieval pace; it is a very different way of experiencing England, as I've said before, and despite the physical exhaustion of standing at the tiller continuously day after day, and a certain monotony of canals, I think it's one of the nicer ways of experiencing perhaps some essence of the country which is otherwise largely inaccessible, except perhaps on footpaths.

Wednesday 8th June

Another ferociously sunny day - it was almost too much at times, specially later on in the afternoon when the sun was baking my back and legs standing out on the stern. I covered quite a lot of distance, despite the searing heat - I've made it onto the Oxford Canal, and am moored just south of Rugby. Although I've been quite enjoying the trip, it's beginning to get just a little bit tedious, now - standing on the stern of a narrowboat all day continuously for over a week, on your own, does get a bit wearing; not that I'm unused to being alone, and enjoying it, but a little variety does help. One way of diverting myself whilst grinding along is to listen to the radio - normally Radio 3. This week it's been quite strange, as every time I've tuned it it's been Beethoven - it being their Beethoven Experience, in which they are broadcasting every note he wrote, and taking a week to do it! I'm not absolutely sure what I think about this idea - it's a bit gimmicky, but at the same time it really brings home to you the massive scale and variety of his achievement, and it's surprising how many things I've heard that I didn't know before. I hope they're not going to make a habit of this sort of thing - though I wouldn't mind if they did it with Bach. I should think that would take considerably more than a week.

Tuesday 7th June 2005

'The journey continues', as they were always rather lamely saying in trailers for the Lord of the Rings films. I currently find myself moored in a quite pleasant, open spot, with some other boats, just east of Coventry. Today the weather changed, and after several days of cloud and intermittent rain, though with sunny spells, too, it became an absolutely classic blazing June day. Which was very cheering, though it made working through locks rather hot and sweaty work. Yesterday I had one or two alarms, as something strange happened to my gears as I was trying to reverse into a mooring place, and the more I tried to reverse the faster forward I went; and the same thing happened in forward, too! With the result that I charged sideways across the canal and rammed myself aground under a tree. I couldn't budge the boat with the pole, but fortunately a boat just behind me pulled me off. I got into the side and stopped to investigate - after a while I worked out that it was because one of the gear cables had jumped out of a metal fixing that held it in place; I managed to get it back in, and to my delight it worked properly again. I was rather proud of myself for working that one out, instead of panicking and ringing for (expensive) assistance. Unfortunately later on, as I was trying to get into a lock, it happened again, and I rammed (hard) right into the doors of the locks (weighing tons) and knocked them both wide open! Most alarming - it says a lot for the solidity of narrowboats that they can stand this sort of thing (I hope). I fixed the problem again and made it to a mooring at Atherstone, a rather nice little Warwickshire town I remembered from bring the boat south last year. I was utterlry exhausted (again) but had a nice relaxing evening eating fish and chips and drinking some cold lager, which I certainly needed. The next day I went to look round and have a very overdue haircut - to my disgust both so-called 'barbers' I found were in fact ladies hairdressers, as far as I could make out. I felt sure a town like Atherstone would have a decent, proper (and cheap) barber's shop - so I'll have to find one elsewhere; I don't want to wait 'til Oxford and fork out £10!

I got some diesel at a boatyard and got the guy to look at the gear cable - he thought it was OK, just that the metal fixing had loosened, and I should use a nut and bolt or something to stop the cable from jumping out; in the meantime he gave me a few plastic ties to hold it in place temporarily, and it seems OK so far, though I've become rather reluctant to use reverse!

There was one rather sad little incident when I saw this very hot and bothered man running towards me along the towpath - he asked me if I'd seen a dog in the canal, as they'd just lost one over the stern! I certainly hadn't seen any dogs, and said so, and suggested it might have climbed out somewhere, but he said its 'back end had gone, as it was 15 years old!' So I fear the said dog was no more, and probably lying at the bottom of the canal at that very moment - what a way to go, and what a wretched way to lose a pet! Although it amazes me the way people let their dogs wander all over the place on boats in motion. But then nothing really surprises me about people's behaviour, in the end.

Sunday 5th June

I did make it over to Lichfield, I'm pleased to say. After some rather tiresome faffing around at Fradley Junction, getting through a couple of locks and filling up with fresh water, I got down to a rather nice little village called Whittington (I think I'm still in Staffordshire), and moored the boat, then cycled the 3 miles into Lichfield. I quite liked it as a place - it was more genteel than Chester, though not as big or grand as York; it reminded me a bit of St. Albans.

The cathedral is most impressive from a distance, with its three spires looming from afar, and it has a certain dignity and symmetry close to, but I was disappointed to find that the Victorian 'restoration' had been so extensive that it is effectively a Victorian building, at least on the surface.

There are a few relics of the ancient edifice remaining, such as a rather weather-worn statue of Charles II, both without and within, but the whole effect, though pleasing in its way, and probably quite close to the look of the original Gothic building, has that smooth, bland quality so typical of the Victorian period.

The surrounding close is delightful and unspoilt, and there is a large lake nearby which makes a rather unusual setting for the cathedral. At first I was most pleased to find that Evensong was at 3.30, in half an hour's time, but then when I went in I discovered a choir of warbly elderly ladies and gentlemen rehearsing, in place of the Cathedral choir, who were on holiday, so I decided to give it a miss - rather disappointing, as it will probably be my only visit to the place. Still - I'm glad I visited the place. I had a wander round the centre - some nice old buildings interspersed among later shopping centres, etc. - and paid my respects to the statue of the great Dr. Johnson, Lichfield's most famous son and a bit of a hero of mine, then cycled back to the boat and continued on my voyage, quaffing tea as I went from a pre-prepared flask.

The statue of the great Doctor is rather dignified - note the elegant modern citizens of Lichfield gathered in homage at his feet!

I really must try to cover a bit more ground - or rather, water - tomorrow, as I've been a bit self-indulgent over this weekend.

Saturday 4th June 2005

I find myself this evening in a slightly gloomy tree-lined section of the Trent and Mersey Canal, just above a place called Fradeley Junction, where tomorrow I shall turn south onto the Coventry Canal. It's always a mistake, I find, on canals, to 'just keep on a little bit further', in the hope of finding a better mooring place - it almost invariably ends with one mooring somewhere not so suitable in a last-minute rush - I always prefer to moor in light, open spots; I knew this place would be jam-packed with fanatical canal enthusiasts at this time of year, and should have moored earlier. However - such is my relief at having escaped from my long forced stay in Shropshire and being on the move again that I don't really care. I set out on Tuesday, having handed over even more money to the leech-like boatyard proprietors, and have since made fairly good progress south. Unfortunately after the first day, which was fine and sunny, it proceeded to pour with rain most of the time since, although today wasn't too bad, with showers and sunny intervals though hellishly windy. But generally speaking it's been quite pleasant, and I hope to arrive in Oxford in a week or so (!). Although my original plan of taking a leisurely three weeks or so and seeing the sights on the way has had to be modified, I've decided to stop and view at least some places - there's nothing sillier than charging through the heart of England without actually seeing anything apart from the banks of the canal and a few distant features. Some of these little Midlands towns are quite appealing - many of them I have never even heard of, like Penkridge, where I visited the church and have a slightly surreal conversation with an elderly couple who really seemed to have been frozen in aspic around 1970, both in appearance and manner.

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Also today I had a look at Great Haywood, which was quaint and quiet, and across the canal and rather delightful river, the grounds and outside of Shugborough Hall, a large classical pile built by Anson, the circumnavigator of the globe.

I love these slightly dilapidated old English country houses and parks - they seem so changeless, it's quite reassuring. Tomorrow I am determined at some point to cycle over to visit Lichfield Cathedral, which I can actually see in the distance from here - it's one of the cathedrals I've never seen, and who knows when I'll ever be this way again, if ever?

During my brief hours of relaxation after 7 or 8 hours at the tiller, I am diverting myself by watching old Will Hay videos, which to my delight I've discovered I can convert into video-CD's on my computer - not as good quality as DVD, of course, but still better and much easier to preserve, and play, than ancient VHS tapes. Also amongst the number of videos I rescued during my final sorting out of my belongings from storage I found Betjeman's wonderful The Queen's Realm - A Prospect of England, one of my very favourite of his TV efforts, in which English music and poetry is featured over a sequence of shots of the landscape from the air. It's pure audio-visual poetry, and I can watch it again and again (specially now I've kept a copy on my computer's hard disk). I am also continuing to read Holroyd's biography of Lytton Strachey and Gibbon's Decline and Fall - the latter a most fascinating and absorbing work once one gets used to the extraordinary stately Augustan prose style. Only I'm so tired after being out in the open air all day on my feet that I usually fall asleep after a page or two!

Saturday 28th May 2005

I've been going slightly round the bend again. For the umpteenth time there has been yet further delay, and I'm having to wait another week for the boat safety inspector to come. The people in the yard here in Market Drayton are dilatory and unreliable characters, if you'll excuse the language, who basically never mean a thing they say and couldn't care less about anyone else's wasted time and money. I am extremely disillusioned with them and will be so glad to see the back of the place, which I hope never to come anywhere near again. Now I am certain to miss pretty much the whole of the summer term in Oxford and lots of other seasonal things I was looking forward to in the vicinity. By the time I get back the place will be ready to become the usual summer vacation wasteland of tourists and drunken townees on disco boats. At least I'll be able to escape up or down the river, but I was anticipating a quieter spring period before the 'holiday' season set in. I got very depressed again about it all over the last couple of days, but I seem to be recovering slightly now. I'll only actually believe I'm going when I actually set sail, though. What can you do? Things just seem to have a mind of their own, and chaos intrudes upon my life however much I plan for things in advance. I should say, however, that the chaos emanates from other people, and not myself. Perhaps this is my big problem, that in my own head I arrange things quite neatly, but make insufficient allowance for the random input of the rest of the world in general? I just don't know. Anyway - there is some faint hope, if all goes according to what I have been told, that might get going back to Oxford on Tuesday - a mere two months or so late. If this happens I will beside myself with joy to the point of intoxication; it will be such a relief to get back to my own life in my own space in my own chosen surroundings. We shall see.

The accursed Ted's Boatyard, in all its glory. 'Ted' is the name of their dog, by the way, not the proprietor -

Sunday 15th May 2005

Hallelujah! I actually finally made it properly down to the Shropshire Hills. I'm so glad I did - it was the most glorious day, perfect weather, exhilarating landscapes and superb blue skies. It is one of the most beautiful parts of England I know - like a sort of combination of the Scottish borders and the Yorkshire dales and moors. Everything was incredibly clear and vivid - all the greens of the freshest possible spring foliage just come out, with pure white lambs and azure blue heavens, etc. It all reminded me of a painting by a minor PreRaphaelite whose name I forget (it might have been Arthur Hughes), in the Ashmolean, which I think is entitled Spring. I took the extremely sensible and eminently obvious measure of going down to Shrewsbury with my bike on the train, and cycled from there, which meant I had the energy to go right over the top, via the Stiperstones, and round back along through a beautiful valley and along a nice quiet road back to Shrewsbury.

(N.B. The photos in the account below will have to wait to appear until I get back to Oxford and a proper interney connection. They are worth seeing, I flatter myself.)

I must say the climb to the top was pretty exhausting - I hadn't realised quite how high it was; and I got sort of lost in some rather pleasant pine woods which meant I took a long way round. It was worth it when I finally got up on the hills themselves - the views are magnificent. The place has a surprisingly wild and desolate quality - pretty appalling in winter, I imagine - a fact borne out by various celebrated accounts of people 'lost in the snow'.

There are various groups of hills in the area, and the one I went along is a ridge with large jagged outcrops of limestone along it, which create the celebrated Stiperstones (what an odd name - but then there are many odd names in Shropshire, possibly because of the mixture of English and Welsh in the place-names in the area).

At the centre of the ridge is the notorious Devil's Chair (see left), which looms ominously even on a sunny day, and is positively eerie in overcast weather, as I discovered the one other time I visited it, some years ago. Bouncing my bike along all those jagged stones was a trigle ridiculous, but I wanted to ride down the other side of the ridge, which I eventually did. I sat on top of one of the larger rocks and ate my sandwiches, with glorious sweeping views into Wales and across to the Wrekin.

The descent on the other side was into an area very much like the Yorkshire Dales - fresh green hills, a little bare, with farmsteads dotted here and there, and a feeling of space and not too many people. I thought how perfectly idyllic it would be to live in such a place. And it was incredibly quiet and peaceful -n all you could hear was birds and the sound of the wind. But perhaps I am indulging a romantic illusion once again.

I'm awfully glad I made it down there, as don't know if I'll ever be this way again. Frankly, after this long enforced stay in Shropshire, whatever its delights as a place, the moment I get my boat safety certificate I am 'out of here', as the Americans say, like a bolt of greased lightning (well - a waterborne bolt moving at a steady 3mph!)

Saturday 14th May 2005

There have been an awful lot of programmes on TV connected with the 60th anniversary of VE Day. In a way I'm rather puzzled at the fuss that's being made, even though of course I think it's something that certainly should be remembered - it's just that the values represented by modern Britain seem so totally at odds with that long-ago era, I'm surprised anyone bothers. The Britain of 1945 and the Britain (what's left of it) of today are different universes. I know which I prefer. Watching The Dambusters, which happened to be on this evening, I was seized once again by a burning desire that I'd been born 50 years earlier - to have been part of that time, when just for once this country lived up totally to what it was supposed to stand for, and to have felt part of something completely unified and purposeful and morally justified, and totally together with my fellow-countrymen and women - that would have been really something. Instead of now, being a spectator to the gradual inexorable winding-down and destruction of everything I grew up believing in. To have been born 50 years earlier and to have dropped dead during a party on VE Night - that would have been the way to go!

Friday 13th May

Oh god - I've just realised it's Friday the 13th. Not that I'm usually superstitious, but I have a thing about this particular day, based on past experience. Oh well. Anyway - the nightmare continues; I am still, unbelievably, stuck in Shropshire waiting for my boat to be fixed for its safety certificate. I feel as though I've been here forever, although it's 'only' been three months; it's the uncertainty that's made it feel so long - being strung along by the boatyard from week to week and never knowing when they're finally going to get round to doing the work, and thinking each week that this will be the week I escape. Meanwhile the spring and the summer term in Oxford have been steadily trickling away - my favourite time of year there that I'd been looking forward to so much. The latest from the yard now is that they will start the work 'on Monday', but even if they do, the safety inspector probably won't come till the following weekend, so that's another week's delay. The whole business has been a considerable trial, and something I hope I won't have to repeat in a hurry. It probably all sounds rather trivial to get so worked up about, when you think of the terrible things that are happening in the world, but when you have so little else to think about in your life, being able to be where you want to be, living the life you want to live, rather than twiddling your thumbs somewhere you're not interested and are sick of the sight of, assumes an overwhelming importance. Also there is the extremely important point that every week I've spent here has been another week not earning any money, so that I am once again on the verge of complete destitution, and have to worry about every penny I spend, which is so depressing. At least I've made something positive out of the situation by doing lots of work on the boat; in particular the roof, which was in a terrible state. I decided to do 'non-stick' panels, which has turned out to be a lot more work than I expected, but I think it'll be worth it, and it's certainly going to look a lot better than it did. I've been generally painting the rest of the hull and preparing for the proper name-plates finally to go on, whenever I can afford to order them, so the boat will look proper and civilised at last.

The only positive thing that I can think of that's happened recently is that by waving my camera around at arm's length I succeeded in producing the first picture of myself for years that I don't actually find positively objectionable. I felt that I needed a new 'image', as the other photos were getting out of date, so I'll put it on the index page of this site. It does make my nose and chin look larger than necessary, and the angle is a little odd, but on the other hand the strong sunlight helpfully blots out some of the ravages of age (the increasing grey hairs merely lend distinction, I tell myself), and there is something about the manner and attitude captured that reflects how I would like to think of myself. I also like the leaves and blossom in the background. No doubt it is all a delusion of some kind, but at least it made me feel better about myself than the usual hideous gargoyle image. Kindly inclined readers might like to tell me if they think it looks anything like me!

I have continued to make one or two little expeditions around the area. I keep finding interesting new little bits of Shrewsbury - I recently discovered a lane leading down to a delightful medieval watergate through the old town walls on the river. Pretty unchanged for centuries. On another outing, to Whitchurch, I saw an amusing local comment on the election. Blair and Co. may have forced their way back into power with the help of the urban minority of the electorate, but the hatred they are building up in the rest of Britain is astonishing. In the long run there will be a strong backlash, I have no doubt. It has been extremely noticeable that there were nothing but Tory and UKIP posters visible throughout the whole area over the last few weeks. This is truly a divided country, now.

I finally made it down to the south Shropshire hills. Unfortunately I rather madly decided to cycle there and back, which was really much too far, and most of the way I was cycling into a very strong wind, with the result that by the time I actually got to the hills I was so exhausted and it was so late I could only stay a few minutes and then had to toil back to Shrewsbury where, thankfully, I was able to take my bike on a train to Wem. I could hardly walk the next day! As you can see, it really is a lovely part of the world. I'm still hoping to get some better photos of the real high hills.

While I continue in my forced exile up here the Spring is proceeding with great vigour. The new leaves, spring flowers and blossoms everywhere are amazing. I found a nice walk on the other side of the Severn from Shrewsbury with blossoming cherry(?) trees ('loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough') Also there are seas of bluebells about - specially in a lovely wooded valley I cycle through on the way over to the boatin Market Drayton. The name of the valley is - Paradise, believe it or not! You know, the sort of intensity that blazes out of these photos is really how I apprehend the world of nature around me, if I can just get away from traffic and materialistic insanity for a few minutes.

St. George's Day, 2005

One of the positive things about my long forced stay here in Shropshire is that I have had time to sort out all my belongings, many of which have been languishing in storage for years, getting mildewed and covered in dust. One of the problems has been selecting those items I want to take with me on the boat, and disposing of the rest - there is a severe limit to the amount of stuff I can get on a 45 foot narrowboat. Of course I had far too many books, and have given a lot to charity shops, but a very enjoyable thing has been re-discovering and starting to re-read some old favourites. I know my antipodean friend young Mr. Christmas will approve of the fact that I have starting reading the copy of Holroyd's biography of Lytton Strachey, which I purchased in 1978, apparently. It's enormously enjoyable and well-done; what a very curious man Strachey was - but reading the section about his Cambridge days, I can't help feeling rather envious of the fantastically interesting and gifted friends he met with there, and with most of whom he maintained contact for the rest if his life. I had quite an amusing and enjoyable time at university, myself, but sadly I am only in regular contact with one friend from those days. The rest either seem to have died, disappeared into busy careers, or have faded out in one way or another. Sad. In the pages of the Holroyd I found a card from the V&A which indicates I apparently applied for a job there at the time - something of which I have no memory whatsoever; it's curious to think how my life might have gone if I'd got the job - presumely it might have been slightly more sensible and slightly more financially viable, although you never know, as I was a mad idealist in those days. I am also greatly enjoying re-reading Ursula Le Guin's Earthsea trilogy. She is one of the few writers in the mould of Tolkien and C.S. Lewis who in any way truly matches up to them. And from the sublime to - the sublime - I am hugely enjoying for the umpteenth time The Wind in the Willows, particularly suitable for my present waterborne existence; I always identified with Ratty, in some way or other - what a very sensible fellow he is, with an eminently sane philosophy of life; in fact I admire it so much I have decided to put his immortal remark about boating at the head of these musings, as a sort of motto. Those moments like Mole and Ratty finding Badger's house in the depths of the Wild Wood, and the bit where they re-discover Mole's old house, and the field-mice sing a carol in the snow, never fail.

It's already over a week since Charles and Camilla's wedding. I thought it all went rather well - so nice just for once to see Prince Charles looking happy and relaxed, and people actually showing him some support and encouragement. The service in St. George's Chapel was rather good, I thought, though the choice of the rather austere Bach motet for the choir was a little odd - something a bit warmer like Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring would have been more suitable, perhaps. They are a pretty good choir these days - Timothy Byram-Wigfield, who used to be at St. Mary's, Edinburgh, is an excellent director. I remember going through a Mag. and Nunc of mine with him, once. He did say he'd do it, 'some time' - perhaps I should send him some stuff at St. George's? It never seems to work when I do that sort of thing, though. But I suppose I mustn't give up trying. Actually, I really should have written something specially for the wedding and sent it to Prince Charles - you never know, he might have been interested; he seems a pretty cultured and open-minded chap.

I have also been re-discovering more manuscripts of old musical works of mine as yet un-transferred to sibelius. I am now transcribing some settings I did for a young baritone called Stuart van Dijk (I wonder what happened to him?) around 1990. They use poems from the Greek anthology, and are torridly erotic, not to mention homoerotic - what fun. Otherwise I am still slogging away at the symphony; I think it has potential, although much of what I have actually written is more in the nature of a sketch than anything else, and I need to go back through and re-do various things. I think the basic concept is sound, though.

I am trying to ignore the Election campaign as far as possible; the prospect of smirking control freak Blair having another five years to continue dismantling what's left of Britain and its constitution is almost unbearable. I had been hoping that his majority might be reduced to tiny proportions - something that could possibly still happen - but I don't feel too confident. How can people allow themselves to be deluded by these utopian pseudo-socialistic ideologues?