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?

And we have a new pope. I predicted it would be Cardinal Ratzinger. Not being a catholic it's not really that important to me, but there is a sort of historical curiosity about it all. And Pope Benedict has a nice medieval ring about it. But his extremely reactionary views seem to confirm a general tendency towards fundamentalism amongst world religions in general, not just Islam, which bodes ill. Although in a way something he said about moral relativism rang true - it is better to believe in something rather than nothing - it's just a pity that believers so often seem to end up killing one another over their beliefs.

I have managed to insert some photos in the last section, now.

Saturday 16th April 2005

I can't believe I'm still stuck here in Shropshire; not that I don't like the place, but I've been here twiddling my thumbs for about six weeks, now! The boat business is dragging on and on, with further complications, and I can't help reflecting that if the boat had been delivered to the boatyard when it was supposed to have been, rather than five weeks late, I would probably be back in Oxford - or nearly - by now. It's not that I've got anything that important to do there, but at least I can get odd bits of work, and I particularly wanted to be back for the university summer term, which is the nicest time of year there. Also it now looks as if I'll be very lucky to get back by May Morning, which I was looking forward to, based on the boat. It's all horribly frustrating, and also when I get stuck in any situation like this, the utter futility of my existence in general is brought home to me all the more forcefully; at least when I'm moving around in different scenery I am distracted from this fundamental fact. My theory is that if one must lead a futile life, at least it can be a varied, reasonably pleasant sort of futile life, rather than a bored, frustrated and depressed one. As I've said before on here, if I can have a quiet life doing the sorts of things I find congenial and not being bothered by too many problems, even if I'm not doing what I feel I could and should be, I can find existence at least bearable, if not exciting or fulfilling - something I have virtually given up any hope for, anyway. The other thing I notice is that when I am in this state of mind, any problems or delays, such as with the boat, seem to really throw me and get me very put out and upset. I always understood that as one got older one was supposed to get more philosophical and steady; if anything, the opposite seems to be happening with me - I seem to be losing all my resilience. Which is why I need to lead a quiet life, I suppose. I know that once I finally get back on the boat and get going I'll cheer up, but the waiting is driving me round the bend.

The boat has failed its safety certificate, and needs various things dealt with to bring it up to scratch - the annoying thing is I didn't realise it then had to have another test - which will take even more time to organise, which means at the moment of writing I have no idea when I'm going to be able to set off. And as of today today (Wed. 6th April) I have discovered that the boatyard can't fit in the work until the beginning of May! So I'm going to be stuck here for about another month, and even after that it will take nearly three weeks to get back down to Oxford. So, incredibly, I will have wasted about 5 months waiting for the boat to be fixed, and will have missed most of Spring and part of summer on the river. I am 'gutted', as they say in football circles. At least I now know from experience not to get myself into this sort of situation again - I could have stayed down in Oxford and got the work done there, and missed 5 weeks' grind up and down the canals into the bargain. And I am not actually earning any money over this period, which is beginning to be problematical, even for me. Oh well - all part of life's rich tapestry, as they say.

I am trying to turn the situation to some advantage by going over and spending as much time as possible on the boat in Market Drayton, getting into order, spring-cleaning and doing a lot of paintwor, so that hopefully it will be in a vastly improved state by the time I finally set out. There may therefore be an absence of photos on this site for the time being, as my internet access from the boat is very limited.

Meanwhile I am still trying to keep going on the symphony project, although I have a nasty feeling that it's all getting very rambling and incoherent, and I am still uncertain about the quality of the musical ideas. Though there are one or two orchestral effects I am quite pleased with. I'm worried that a lot of it seems to be texture and process, whereas when I go for melody it has a habit of turning into Vaughan Williams. Apart from this I am mainly boring myself rigid watching too much TV, playing silly computer strategy games, and in my higher moments, reading. I have finally got round to reading Herodotus (though I have a sneaking feeling I may have read it all before many years ago); marvellous stuff - what I like about him is that it is all so vivid and immediate, as though written only the other day, rather than two and a half thousand years ago. I imagine this is partly because a lot of it was based on persobal observation and experience. His description of ancient Babylon is stupendous; if it's at all accurate it must have been one of the most impressive places in the history of the world! I tried again recently to read a study of Edmund Burke by Conor Cruise O'Brien - Burke is someone I would like to know more about, as I suspect my view of the world is rather similar to his - but again I found the book unreadable. Far too discursive and involved. Sorting out my books that have been in storage here, I have come across quite a few old favourites. I've re-read for the umpteenth time a couple of old E. Nesbit classics - they really never fail to delight. Also some Hornblower - favourite of Churchill, I believe, and vastly superior to the silly TV versions. Also a remarkable work called Foreign Devils on the Silk Road, all about late 19th century explorers and archaeologists discovering lost Buddhist civilisations in the howling wildernesses of Chinese Central Asia - most fascinating, specially as it's a part of the world I know almost nothing of. And so I while away the futile weeks - words, words, between the lines of age - in the immortal words of Neil Young. I have also unturfed a copy of Marcus Aurelius's Meditations, which I seem to have bought when I was 19; it doesn't seem to have had any noticeable effect on my life since, but perhaps now is the time to acquire a bit of stoicism!

Today, April 8th, I have just finished watching the funeral of John Paul II on TV. Quite a strange, mesmeric occasion, despite occasional slightly messy moments - only to be expected, I suppose, in a ceremony on that scale conducted out of doors in gusty winds with a lot of amplification. I thought the most effective moments were the most timeless ones, in the shape of the actual mass and prayers for the dead, all of which were conducted in Latin, I'm glad to say. It revived the whole concept of Latin as a universal, immemorial language, and gave it all great dignity; I was also gratified to find that I could remember enough Latin to follow quite a bit of it. I was also pleased to find that the Vatican does seem to be able to summon up what I would call a 'proper' ecclesiastical choir, of boys and men - I was rather dreading a possible group of warbly elderly ladies or the local choral society, given the pathetic state of church music in Latin countries these days. I thought they did quite well, really, specially as they were singing in the open air, in difficult conditions; (from a purely musical point of view it would have been much better if they'd held the service inside the basilica). Also the standard chants with banal organ accompaniment don't really bring out the best in any choir, whereas when they had some proper polyphonic music to sing they weren't bad at all. Of course if it had been an English choir, like that of Westminster Cathedral, for example, it would certainly have been better. Just the sheer scale of the ceremony was impressive, with all those hundreds of cardinals, bishops and priests. Cardinal Ratzinger, the celebrant, was very dignified and moving; perhaps the most extraordinary and in its way powerful moment was when the patriarchs and bishops of the Eastern Church did their prayers around the coffin; the chanting, in Byzantine/Oriental style, unaccompanied, was immediately effective, and at least one chant, from the Patriarch of ?Jerusalem, sounded to my ears as if it was in Arabic, which was interesting, especially given the presence of a number of Muslim leaders and clergy in the congregation; that was, in the end, one of the most remarkable things about the whole occasion - the extraordinary selection of dignitaries from every part of the world and every religion you could imagine who were present. I can't think of any other occasion that could have brought such a thing about. Whatever you think of John Paul II - and I disagreed strongly with some of his ideas - you have to admit that if there really is such a thing as true greatness, he possessed it, and will go down in history as a result.

On Easter Monday I went on a most enjoyable, if exhausting, cycle ride - down to Haughmond Abbey, a ruin I have been meaning to inspect for some time.

The clocks went back the day before, and the sun came out, and the effect was miraculous - I actually got quite hot cycling and had to stop for an ice-cream at a village shop. The extra hour of daylight also makes a huge difference - you don't have to hurry quite so frantically to get back before dark (I hate cycling on country roads in the dark - I had quite enough of that in Combe for a year). I found a rather nice route along very quiet lanes, and it was idyllic - just as the English countryside should be in Spring; only I managed to take a wrong turning and had to do about 3 miles extra along a nasty busy road with the usual maniacs zooming past at 60 mph. I wanted to have a look at a hillfort at a place called Ebury, but when I go there it seemed to be a caravan site, so I hurried through it to find an old track down to the Abbey. About half way down I met an old farmer filling in holes - he was like a character out of a novel (probably Mary Webb or someone), and was very friendly. According to him there were remains of the hill-fort on the other side of the caravan site, which I had missed. He had been planting a new hedge, and we talked about how old the former hedge might have been - apparently it dated back to around the Enclosures Act of 1760, he thought; he also told me that the track was the old main road to Shrewsbury, and 'even in my young days' the farmers' wives used to go along it with their produce to market. He directed me to the Abbey, and we speculated on the fate of all the poor old monks when they got thrown out. It was the kind of country encounter you have so rarely nowadays - he seemed so cheerful and contented with his lot. I thought about what an utterly different mental and cultural world he inhabits from the majority of people in this country now.

It was all tremendously atmospheric, if forlorn. Being so extremely impecunious, I had to affect an entry under some barbed wire at the back (most undignified), but it proved worth it. Parts of the ruins were surprisingly well-preserved, with sculptures of kings, queens and saints still ornamenting tthe doorways, and some whole rooms surviving -

even one with a complete carved wooden roof, which is amazing after nearly 500 years. I expect some farmer used it as a barn or something. The whole place evoked the usual reflections on the transience of human aspirations, etc.No doubt if I had been a Metaphysical poet, or even T.S. Eliot, I would have written a contemplative poem inspired by it all. Or even a symphony, like Mendelssohn did after visiting Holyrood Abbey - but you're not allowed to do romantic things like that these days, are you?

On the way back I encountered some charming pigs. Why is that young animals of all varieties are so appealing and amusing? (With the exception of the human animal, perhaps - though even some of them can be all right, if properly brought up.)

Another cycle outing recently was to a lovely, lonely, out-of-the-way lake called Crosmere - I used to go there years ago when I visited these parts. I even swam in it once, one very hot summer. It has a very strong atmosphere, which somehow reminds me of Yeats's poetry. There is an ancient Iron Age mound just by the lake - I sat on top of it and thought of the people who lived there all those centuries ago, and what they might have been like. 'Then 'twas the Roman - now 'tis I'

Good Friday, March 2005

It's a strange thing, but although I am an agnostic, I always find Good Friday a very moving occasion. The whole story of the Passion is certainly one of the most poignant accounts of human suffering and injustice ever written, and I feel pretty sure that something like that actually did happen, two thousand years ago in Jerusalem, whatever religious/supernatural conclusions you may or may not draw from it. And the associations of those events are so very powerful in our culture. The fact that so many seem totally unaware of the significance of this day and simply treat it as another Bank Holiday to have fun and get drunk on is more of a condemnation of the state of western culture than anything else. There was a very remarkable thing on BBC Radio 3 called 'A Passion for Radio', collating the four gospel accounts and weaving in words from people in Jerusalem today, plus music from Bach and other sources. I went for a walk through the fields by the river and just sat and listened to it on my little transistor radio on headphones. It was a surprisingly powerful experience. It was a beautiful spring day, with the birds singing all around and children playing by the river, which somehow made the ancient story all the more poignant. Whatever else it may be, the Passion story is very compelling - perhaps the most compelling story of its kind ever written.

I'm back in Shropshire now, thank goodness! I suppose variety is the spice of life, and that I will have to visit London occasionally, if only because there are people there I want to see. But in general I am quite content to stay as far away as practical in future. We went over to the boat the day after I came back, and found her out of the water, finally having her bottom done; it was strange to see her like that - generally there weren't too many nasty surprises, but it turns out the rudder and tiller mountings have had it, and need to be replaced - yet more expense, but apparently unavoidable (even I could see that otherwise the whole lot will probably drop off quite soon). I did some work filling in holes in the paintwork on the hull, preparatory to repainting and finally putting proper name plates on the thing. So, hopefully, if all is completed in time, I should be able to set off down south again just after Easter. I will be very pleased to do so - I have felt that my life has been somewhat 'on hold' for the last three months or so (though on hold from what I am not quite sure). I've quite enjoyed this little holiday, but I need to get back into my own routine of existence, in my own territory, without irrelevant distractions from other peoples' problems (I have enough of my own, thank you). I think I've said all this before, haven't I?

London was not entirely nightmarish - there are still places and things I enjoy there. I took a friend, Cassandra, to see Old St. Pancras Church and churchyard, behind St. Pancras Station.

This is a fascinating place I have been acquainted with for years - a church so ancient its origins are lost in the mists of time; it may have been founded in the 4th century A.D. by Roman soldiers, which would make it the oldest church in Britain, if not in Europe (Pancras was a Roman martyr). The present building is quite small and in the form of a rustic Norman church, though it has been restored so often little of the outward fabric is probably original - but you still get the idea. Years ago I was wandering past and had a rather Dickensian conversation with a stonemason who was working inside the church. They found a 7th century altar stone there during restorations in Victorian times. There is a macabre description in Dickens of the scenes when the railways cut through half the churchyard and lots of bodies had to be moved. Hardy also worked there, in his early days as an architect.

The other thing that's intriguing is the very Victorian churchyard contains the graves of many eminent people, including Sir John Soane, architect of the British Museum (he designed his own mausoleum), Mary Wollstonecraft and the last survivor of the Black Hole of Calcutta, amongst others. The other thing that's intriguing is the very Victorian churchyard contains the graves of many eminent people, including Sir John Soane, architect of the British Museum (he designed his own mausoleum), Mary Wollstonecraft and the last survivor of the Black Hole of Calcutta, amongst others.

At this time of year the place has a certain melancholy charm, with the crocusses and daffodils flowering amidst the mouldering tombs. Elsewhere in London there are similar havens, such Waterlow Park, in Highgate, where the crocusses were in full bloom, too - but otherwise London seems to me to be sinkng into the abyss. The following two photos rather sum up my perceptions of a once-great city these days:

I suppose being elbowed off the pavement by gangs of loud foreigners pales into insignificance compared to being stabbed, shot or beheaded in the street - not to mention being murdered by a random lunatic and having your brains eaten, as was announced in the London news the day after the beheading! (Apparently you are 6 times more likely to be mugged in London, nowadays, than in New York, and the murder rate is going up inexorably - gun and knife crime, foreign criminal gangs conducting blood feuds, etc, etc. - and people still wonder why I don't like London any more).

I am tending to go into Shrewsbury most Saturdays - it has a pleasant, bustling atmosphere a million miles away from the horrors of the metropolis. I took a photo of Wilfred Owen's monument, by the abbey - a strange but not inappropriate sculpture commemorating the pontoon bridge on which he died. You can just make out the line from Strange Meeting - 'I am the enemy you killed, my friend'. The abbey is a fine old building, though of course as usual you can never get a picture of these places without some sort of ugly motor vehicle intruding.

Another place I frequent is the central library, which is in the old building of Shrewsbury School - I sit and look at scores and read in the music library; it reminds me of the happy years of my youth when I was discovering it all for the first time in such places. What would I have done without the public library system!

A rather touching thing about the music library is that it is in the old main school-room, and all round on the wooden sills below the windows generations of schoolboys have carefully inscribed their names. It gives a strange feeling - a very personal link with the idle moments of young lives now long gone. No doubt with the usual insouciance of youth they all thought at the time that they would live forever. F. Hare' and 'T.S.M. Richards' seem to have been particularly industrious! (Though who was the mysterious giant 'J', I wonder?) I hope they had happy lives, anyway. Not long, now, and we'll all be joining them. Perhaps I should inscribe my name somewhere or other, before it's too late? Any suggestions as to where?

I am still walking and cycling around the neighbourhood of Wem. I often pass the old parish church, with the mound of the Norman castle in front of it (someone has the castle mound in their back garden - put by some villainous old Norman friend of William the Conqueror when he moved in with his henchmen to take over), and in the fields about the lambs 'have fair their fling'. I managed to get rather a good shot of one of my favourite spots - a slope over on Grinshill with a delightful airy pine wood and views of the Shropshire hills - on a spring day like that it is quite magical. I must say it is a county I could live in, if I had the means and wasn't living on a boat.

And on Saturday I committed the outrageous extravagance (in the circumstances) of going on the train to Chester, and finally visiting that ancient city. I couldn't resist the trip, specially as I had to change at Crewe - legendary railway junction and, I seem to remember, the poignant setting for Brief Encounter.

It is a remarkably extensive place from which you can get a train to all sorts of quite unexpected places like Aberdeen and Bournemouth, and even Penzance, I think; and it does have a certain poetry of its own - there is even still a W. H. Smith's bookstall, though not much like the kind that Celia Johnson would have encountered. And no atmospheric smoke and engines steaming and hissing any more.

Chester station is also quite impressive. I like visiting these far-flung monuments of Victorian expansion (the most unexpected was perhaps the huge classical Greek edifice in Huddersfield.) It was a superb spring day, by the time I got there, having been rather murky earlier - I walked along one of those funny long streets that often lead to Victorian raliway stations and approached the city walls, with the great bulk of the cathedral looming over them. I must say the Chester Cathedral is certainly not the most beautiful in the country, by any means - it doesn't compare to York Minster, for example, and the outside has been heavily restored - but it does have a certain dignity. And I like the unusual big square central tower.

There are distinct similarities between Chester and York, though. You can walk round the city walls, though they were converted into a rather tame walkway in the 18th century, and lack proper towers and barbicans like the wonderful ones in York. There was one bit where a bridge went over the central street, which was absolutely heaving with activity. The old streets are pretty atmospheric, with massive old medieval gabled houses. And the views from the walls generally are rather good.

Another interesting thing about Chester is that it was of course one of the most important Roman bases in Britain, and the medieval city follows the shape of the Roman one, so that the town square, with a rather fine Victorian town-hall, is called 'The Forum' - it's right opposite the cathedral, and I wouldn't be surprised if the main temple, to Jupiter or the deified emperor, was where the church is now. It wasn't too difficult to imagine the place similarly bustling with Roman citizens and Britons, out for their Saturday ('Saturn - day') shopping.

There are some quite interesting Roman excavations, like the massive amphitheatre (see left) - half of which is visible. Further along there is a nice frontage along the River Dee - not a river I have ever encountered before. Not many boats, though - just a couple of pleasure steamers. There is a large medieval stone weir across the river, which cuts off the tidal part and prevents navigation above the city.

When I looked, there were three cormorants and a heron sitting in a row along the weir, fishing! Which shows that the river must be pretty healthy. Further along, past the weir, was the race course - a great sweeping expanse which is apparently on land that was once under water, and is where the Roman and medieval port was. All gone now, but you can still see bits of the massive stone quays built nearlt two thousand years ago.

There is also a canal which goes past the walls, and you can see quite a bit of the original Roman stonework there, too. Clever chaps, these Romans, if brutal. I used to be very keen on them as a kid. One thing they didn't invent, I presume, was the fascinating walkways, or 'rows', which are sort of elevated timber streets built along the first stories in the medieval centre - very atmospheric. (Not all them were as light or airy as the bit to the right). There seemed to be quite a lot of nice teashops and places, but unfortunately I didn't have much time to see the city, so I wasn't really able to stop and sample their delights. I did buy a fruit cake to take back with me in the rather good city market. I managed to go to Evensong in the cathedral (not bad - Hosanna to the Son of David - a premonition of Palm Sunday).

Then I caught the train (only about 5 minutes late!) back to Crewe and then to Wem. Rail travel can still be quite fun, when things are working properly, that is. I was quite tired when I got back, but after food and liberal vinous sedative I settled down to watch the Doctor Who evening on BBC2. Regrettably I will not be able to watch the new series, even though I have been a fan since the very first programme of the first series, as they have chosen a shaven-headed Mancunian thug as the new Doctor, and an assistant who looks like one of the Spice Girls! How sad.

On the music front, nothing continues to happen, with monotonous predictability.. Apart from a message from a Marine sergeant saying he'd passed my email on to their 'higher training department', I have received no response whatsoever from the various people I alerted regarding my Trafalgar march, even though I'v esent reminders. I know it's only a 'light' piece, and not very important, but I really do think that it's at least passable, of its kind, and merits some kind of a response, even if only a polite 'no thank you'. I've lost count of the number of times I've sent pieces to people only to have them completely ignored. I honestly don't understand it - what do you have to do to get a response? Go the 'right' dinner parties? (But even if I knew which the 'right' ones were and was ever invited to dinner parties these days, I'm sure I wouldn't enjoy them). Sleep with a BBC producer? (God forbid, even if I had such an offer!) Attempt bribery? (Surely not!)Is everything done entirely on the basis of nepotism, 'who you know' and 'a word in the right place'? I suppose it is. In which case, as I have no influence anywhere, know virtually nobody of any importance any more and apparently say the wrong words in the right place, or vice versa, or more probably don't understand what the right words or the right place are in the first place, the situation appears hopeless. Nevertheless, I suppose I will persist - I can't think of anything else to do, anyway. Perhaps if I pursue these CD projects, at my own (ill-afforded) expense, I might at least have something to show for my trouble. Perhaps I can force CD's on acquaintances, or even hawk them outside concert halls, like that man I found selling his poetry by Embankment tube station? It's ironic, isn't it, that meanwhile people like Pierre Boulez, who has done everything he can to destroy classical music singlehanded and produces 'music' that no-one apart from a handful of deluded fanatics would want to listen to if you paid them, is a comfortable establishment figure rolling in money and respect and viewed by the arts lobby with extreme reverence in his dotage. I won't even mention his British equivalents - we all know who they are, anyway! Ho-hum. Oh - and the brass band pieces have similarly evoked a stunning lack of response. If I can't even get small 'light' works performed, what conceivable chance is there for my 'serious' music? Excuse this outburst of bitterness, dear reader(s), but there are days when it all gets quite difficult to bear. Ironically enough, though, I don't seem to be having much trouble with the music I'm working on at the moment - both the symphony project and the sonnets seem to be coming along quite well, with the ideas flowing quite easily; the only problem is I can't tell if they're any good or not any more. I fear I really am losing contact with musical reality - just one decent performance would make such a difference.

I fear that the boat may be a little delayed at the boatyard - it has to have a safety inspection before I can set off, and may fail. It didn't help that my 'friend', Gordon, when we went over to do some small jobs inside the boat on Wednesday, managed to offend the boatyard manager with his usual unnecessary belligerence, with the result that all work on the boat by boatyard staff was stopped for the rest of the day. It really is impossible, being 'helped' by people who cause as many problems as they solve and are impervious to other peoples' feelings. I hope and pray I can get back on the boat soon after Easter, as I need to get my perspective back and also return to some degree of sanity in Oxford - preferably by May Morning, which I would hate to miss.

Sunday 13th March

I am writing this in London. I am here for a brief visit over a weekend from Shropshire. I have to say that every time I come to London I like it less and less. At the risk of further abuse from anonymous readers, I can't help stressing how completely alien my native city has become to me - every time I step out of the house, walk the streets, get on a bus, etc., I find myself completely surrounded by foreigners; it is literally the case that you rarely hear English spoken in the streets of Britain's capital nowadays. There have always been some foreigners here, but the situation now is absolutely preposterous, and it cannot be right that this has happened - a city with London's incredibly rich history and culture, at the heart of this country for almost 2000 years, has somehow been 'disconnected' from the rest of Britain and dropped into some sort of grotty 'cosmopolitan' limbo. Something has gone seriously wrong, and it's very sad. I suppose coming from somewhere like Shropshire, which is so very English and British, I feel it all the more, but to me modern 'multicultural' London is not the 'wonderful, vibrant world city' depicted by people who live in Hampstead, it is a disfunctional, dirty, chaotic, unfriendly and culturally rootless nightmare. And I refuse to apologise for saying so. I shall just have to spend even more time elsewhere (though even Oxford has its failings nowadays) - and be a permanent exile from the city of my birth, which I used to be so proud of.

Talking of places 'elsewhere' that still feel like Britain, I went to the annual composers' competition at Eton College yesterday evening. As I've probably said before, I do find it tremendously reassuring that places like Eton still survive - nowhere could feel more like 'English and British' - though of course they have pupils from many different parts of the world; only they are integrated into the very specific and admirable cultural tradition that is still self-confidently maintained there. Such places ought to serve as a model for the rest of us - except, of course, they won't be allowed to, by the current ruling elite. Anyway - enough of politics: musically it was quite an impressive and intriguing occasion. Some of the compositons were of course not fully realised or achieved - but then some of the composers were extremely young - but overall there was a remarkable amount of variety and imagination displayed, and one or two genuinely impressive and haunting musical moments. How inspiring that there are places where youthful talent and enthusiasm are so magnificently encouraged. The adjudicator was Howard Skempton, and he was almost excessively complimentary about all of the pieces - there were useful criticisms that could have been made (for example, not letting the use of computers distance you too far from the practical realities of live performance), but then I suppose one shouldn't discourage people at such an early stage, and I'm glad to say that I did in the end agree with his choice of winning work, which was gratifying.

Monday 7th March 2005

It has been absolutely freezing for the last week or so - as so often happens, we had a mild spell and everyone thought spring was here, then it started snowing and freezing over. Still - it could have been worse - it's certainly much pleasanter to be in the country, to my mind, when it's like this, than in London, and in any case this part of the country has escaped the worst of it. Actually, some snow would have looked quite nice round here - you can see the Welsh mountains in the west all gleaming white in the sun - quite romantic. And the other thing is that it's been sunny and bright most of the time. Yesterday was the most glorious bright sunny day; annoyingly, I had planned to get the train down to Church Stretton and the hill country, but i didn't get up in time. I could have kicked myself, as it would have been superb. I'd also be quite interested in taking a train from Shrewsury along one of the little lines into Wales - I haven't been that way since I was a kid, and I'm sure it would be beautiful at this time of year. The trouble is I am really so poor at the moment I have to be really careful about spending anything at all. But I am quite enjoying leading a quiet life out here in the middle of nowhere; it suits me - a life of meditative leisure and solitude. Though I am also looking forward to getting on the boat again and being in my own little 'territory', on the water. There is some chance the boat may be taken out of the water this week for her bottom to be dealt with - I hope this happens, as I would like to get back to Oxford in time for the summer term, which is the best part of the year. I notice from emails I receive from the university that it is almost the end of term already - Easter is so early this year.

Thinking back to what I was saying about working as a composer in a vacuum, it is a problem, but my way of thinking about my situation is this: I may be leading a rather odd and socially unuseful lifestyle these days and be seen to have to some extent 'withdrawn' from the world - by some peoples' standards, just 'lazing about' - but I have come to feel that if I am not to be allowed to make myself useful to society by using the talents I actually possess, as seems to be the case, then as a consequence I am justified in living exactly the way I like. In fact it's a poor substitute for what I would really prefer to be doing, which is earning a living composing music and teaching composition, but at least if I can lead a quiet life just working on my own and keeping away from the things that drive me so mad about the society we now live in, I can at least remain reasonably calm and avoid stress; I have felt a lot better since I got the boat, and am really not unhappy, even though I remain creatively frustrated and disappointed with the way things have turned out. I have been thinking a bit about Michael Tippett - it being his centenary year - and the huge influence he had on me in my teens and twenties, and on my whole idea of becoming a composer. In a way, his example was good, as it inspired me with the idea that it was possible to do something like that, even if you came from an essentially unmusical background and had no money; but in another way I think perhaps he was a bad influence, as his whole conception of the role of the composer was basically so idealistic - the idea that one was acting in some sense involuntarily, as an agent of the 'collective unconcious' - the resulting total unworldliness, etc. In Tippett's case he was quite lucky - at the time he was struggling to establish himself it still was possible to exist on a few shillings a week in a cottage in the country, and somehow he seems to have got work and performances in a way that I don't think would be possible these days. You have to be so hard-headed to get anywhere now - the arts, like everything else - are essentially a business. I wonder very much if Tippett would have got anywhere now; and one shouldn't forget that he went through a phase of considerable neglect until he was discovered by the Americans - it was that that really made him a 'major' figure over here, too. So I have slightly ambiguous feelings about him now - I used to hero-worship him at one time. And listening to A Child of Our Time this evening on the radio, I was struck again by the fact that, though it has some great moments in it, it is rather an uneven work - even clumsy in places - full of half-digested influences; and yet somehow it has a certain greatness about it. (I reviewed it once in the Usher Hall, and said as much, then.) Oh well. Mustn't blame poor old Tippett for my situation - he had enough struggles in his life, too, the cranky old so-and-so. And yet - I wish they show a marvellous TV documentary again which I think I saw in the late 60's or early 70's - I remember finding it terribly moving and inspiring. I never did meet Tippett, though I did sit just in front of him once in the Queen Elizabeth Hall at the first performance of one of his late quartets; and of course I saw him lots of times at the Proms, etc. I did dedicate my Purcell Tercentenary piece, The Power of Music, (performed, once, at St. John's Smith Square - my last 'major' public performance) to him, and he was apparently touched by the thought. (Later in the week they featured music from The Midsummer Marriage, and the glorious PIano Concerto - with pieces like The Fantasia on a Theme of Corelli,,t he first two quartets and some of the songs, these really are my favourite period of Tippett's music, and I think they are the ones that will last, with their marvellous abundant lyricism and warmth.)

Sunday 27th February 2005

I have adopted a new font for Musings - I hope you like it. It's called 'Footlight MT Light' - fortunately its appearance is more elegant than its name.

Being here in Shropshire has its points. I am staying in a small country town called Wem - curious name; it apparently derives from an Anglo-Saxon word for a 'low marshy place'. It certainly is quite flat and muddy in the fields about. I used to come here quite often a few years ago, so I have explored and know the countryside roundabout for some distance. Shropshire is a delightful county, and fully bears out my dictum that the further you go away from London, the more like England England is - until it becomes Wales or Scotland, that is. The contrast even with Oxfordshire is remarkable - there is far less noise, fewer aircraft and fewer roads, and a lot of the small roads are virtually deserted. The London malaise is creeping out inexorably, but it hasn't quite reached here yet. The boatyard where Salaga is undergoing her winter maintenance is only about 10 miles away, in Market Drayton - another little Shropshire country town (where Clive of India was born and grew up), so it is quite a convenient place to be based until I can get back onboard and set off again for Oxford and the Spring. The most beautiful part of this county is in the south, around Ludlow, in the Shropshire hill country, which is quite breathtaking in places, and a bit eerie at times. (If you want to get an idea, try and see a Powell and Pressburger film of the Mary Webb novel, Gone to Earth - that captures it quite well.)

I occasionally remember that this journal is supposed mainly to be about music. I suppose the problem is that so little is happening in my life on this front nowadays that there isn't that much to say. While I was up in Scotland I composed a slightly silly but quite 'fun' Scots Medley for brass band, which I will put on my sibeliusmusic page soon; I also went to see the director of the local (quite good) brass band to give him a CD with some midi 'demos' of some of my brass pieces on it. He seemed quite friendly and interested at the time, and said he'd get in touch, but that was about a month ago and I've heard nothing. Perhaps I should contact them again? I have also been a bit disappointed that an idea to record my Requiem with quite a well-known choir and conductor, which had actually seemed a possibility for a while, has now turned out to be not feasible after all, owing to too many other commitments. So I will have to try to find someone else really good- this is to do a CD as a substitute for the one of songs that has had to be cancelled because the performing group that was going to do them has suddenly fallen apart. So as usual my luck hasn't been too good. I am hoping young Mr. Gabriel Gottlieb (who you can hear elsewhere on this site as a counter-tenor, but has now transmogrified into a baritone) will be more reliable with yet another idea I have proposed for a CD of songs. Also the Trafalgar 200 march which I alerted various naval personages to hasn't evoked much of a reaction, yet - though the people at the Naval Museum at Portsmouth have promised to listen to another midi 'demo' I have sent them; the trouble is that midi versions are so inadequate at giving a decent impression - specially to people who are not that experienced in musical matters. The funny thing is, though, that amid all this customary discouragement I have had an upsurge of energy for working on 'serious' music, and have started expanding some sketches I made for a third symphony in 2003. I think of it as a sort of 'fractured pastoral' - Vaughan Williams' Pastoral Symphony is one of my absolute touchstones in music, and I would like to 'follow on' in some sense, from that - but to write a pastoral work in early 21st century Britain is somewhat problematical, to say the least. RVW was dealing with the destruction of the old countryside and its life by the holocaust of the 1st World War and industrialisation, which was bad enough. The situation now, nearly a century later, is ten times worse, as rural existence itself is under threat - not least from the great tide of noise pollution overtaking us. The piece might well be 'about' that sort of thing. Of course, even if I do write it I don't actually expect it to be performed, (in that respect it will join my first two symphonic efforts) but it would be good to keep the thread of 'serious' musical creativity going, a la Havergal Brian, regardless. We shall see. Perversely, at the same time, I have started thinking again about my Shakespeare opera idea - it seems such a good notion, I can't bear the idea that somebody else might do it first. So I've started working on some material for that, too. I don't know if this burst of energy and ideas will continue, or whether it's just a flash in the pan produced partly by the fact that at the moment I have little else to do. Again, we shall see. I do have this worry feeling that I am getting out of touch with real music. I think when you don't hear your work actually performed it starts getting rather abstract - it's so important to keep in touch with the actual sound, not to mention the practicalities of real human beings playing and singing. Havergal Brian is a case in point - a work like the extraordinary Gothic Symphony is a true masterpiece, in my opinion, because it was written at a time when Brian's music was still being performed. Later on, as he fell into obscurity and adjusted himself to about 50 years of total neglect, although he went on composing all that time, until his rediscovery in his 80's, I think you can hear from the works of that period that he was getting more and more out of touch with the reality of the thing, and retreating further into a sort of abstract self-involved world of his own (quite understandably, in the circumstances). I am afraid this is happening to me. It's very difficult to keep one's work in some sort of perspective when it doesn't really exist outside of one's own mind, or perhaps computer. (I suppose on some level I also harbour secret fantasies about being 're-discovered' (or rather discovered?) at some point, though I must say I'd rather not wait till my 80's, even supposing I survive that long!)

Much to my relief, the very first day I was here we finally moved the boat through the now open locks at Tyrley to Ted's Boatyard, at Market Drayton, where she is currently resting - only about six weeks late! - awaiting the maintenance work. The last bit of the trip was quite atmospheric - very Shropshire, and a reminder of the rather special qualities of the countryside in this part of the world.

To be honest there isn't a huge amount to do hereabouts - it's not exactly Edinburgh - so I am going on little expeditions by bike or bus. I would also like to go down to the spectacular hill country in the south of the county, around Ludlow, on the train - it's rather expensive, though, so I must wait for the right weather to make the most of it. You can also get north by train from the little station here to Chester, a cathedral city I have never yet visited, so I will try to do that. Meanwhile, the local 'big city' is Shrewsbury - a town I have always rather liked. It is a very typical old-fashioned county town, and fairly unspoilt, all things considered (they've even started knocking down some of the worst 60's eyesores). It reminds me somewhat of York when I first went there in the 70's. It has a marvellous central market with genuine local country produce, and a number of funny old local shops, not to mention umpteen excellent tea-shops. What a contrast with Oxford these days, where there's hardly a local shop left, the Market is half tourist boutiques, and there isn't a single decent tea-shop in the place, unbelievably!

Shrewbury also has a castle - a fairly modest affair nowadays; I had never actually ventured in before - it has fine views out over the town and the river Severn, which almost encircles the place in a great loop:

'High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam, Islanded in Severn stream', as A. E. Housman neatly put it.

I particularly like the park alongside the river on the south side, known as the Quarry - pleasant tree-lined walks, and Shrewsbury School on the other side, with the odd rower sculling past. Strangely, the Severn is no longer navigable up to Shrewsbury, which seems extraordinary - it was certainly quite an important quayside once, and would be a tremendously popular boating destination. It seems such a pity to see such a substantial waterway so empty - just lack of imagination, I suppose, though it does give it a peaceful feel.

The old Shrewsbury School greets you when you come out of the station - rather a fine old building, with a statue of its most illustrious pupil, Charles Darwin, outside. It's now the Public Library. Another person who went to school in Shrewsbury, though not to public school, was Wilfred Owen. In 1993 I organised a small concert in the arts centre here with the Wilfred Owen Society, featuring my settings of some of his poems, for the 75th anniversary of his death. I was fascinated to meet his nephew - a direct link with an almost legendary figure.

Another expedition I am fond of is to a place only three miles from Wem called Grinshill. It features a high outcrop of rock with the most tremendous views. On a clear day you can see all the south Shropshire hills, Wenlock Edge, the Wrekin, the Long Mynd, etc., plus many of the Welsh mountains, to the west. These photos were taken on a rather hazy day, but still give quite a good idea. You approach the hill through a charming little village named Clive, whose church has a high spire you can see for miles around (you can see the great whale-back of the Wrekin in the distance). Shropshire really is a most lovely county.

'Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows. What are those blue remembered hills, What spires and farms are those?'

'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I'

(What is it about Housman's lines that makes them so heart-piercingly poignant? To me, at least, anyway.)

On the way up the hill you go past the quaint little village school - still in use. The setting is amazing, with lovely views all around, and the way the children take to school is up an extraordinary natural stone cart-way known for some reason as 'The Glat'. (I think it was one of the tracks up to the quarries on the hill). What a marvellous way to get to school (getting down again whe it's covered in ice in winter must be even more fun!), and what a fantastic place to grow up!

I've been getting out on my bike a bit, too - a good idea, as my relatively inactive life of late has led to my putting on a bit of weight, to my extreme horror. This area is quite good for cycling, as the country lanes are pretty quiet and pleasant - just the odd farmer in a tractor or jeep to look out for, rather than the endless BMW's, Mercedes and Range Rovers of Oxfordshire. Another little town about 10 miles north of here, Whitchurch, makes quite a nice little outing -specially as - joy of joys! - it has a delightful traditional bakers and teashop, Walkers, which doesn't appear to have changed much for about the last century. It's the sort of place you used to find all over the country once, but sadly don't, most of the time, now. I love the Victorian/Edwardian shop-front. The tearoom is upstairs and has a sloping floor and ceiling. They do a good line in Eccles cakes!

Another curious feature in Whitchurch is the church itself - unfortunately the medieval building was replaced by a rather ugly 18th century effort, but it still has a stone set into the floor in the church porch, recording the fact that Talbot, first Earl of Shrewsbury and scourge of the French in the 100 Years' War, had his heart buried here. A weird thought, though I believe at one time it was quite fashionable to leave various parts of oneself about the place after one's death. (Hmm - I wonder where I would choose to leave my heart? Nowhere very obvious occurs to me, offhand.)

On another day I cycled over to a rather mysterious place not very far from here, and easily visible as a great wooded hill, called Hawkestone Park. This is the site of a large house and a celebrated selection of Gothic follies and grottoes set amidst solemn, tree-crowned crags and gorges. I went and wandered around there some years ago - nowadays you have to enter by a formal entrance and pay some outrageous fee. Curiously enough, after Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland, this place has also recently been brought up as a possible resting place for the Holy Grail. Apparently it was all created by a strange 18th century gentleman with a penchant for holy mysteries, and a cup of some kind actually exists.

Anyway, there is a beautiful lake, and the scenery is romantic and highly suited to the early 19th century fashion for the picturesque (a la Nightmare Abbey, perhaps). Despite the time of year there was a kind of clean, cool quality about it all that I enjoyed greatly - the path through the woods reminded me somehow of Kipling's poem, The Path Through the Woods, though that path is on the Sussex Downs - and I've walked along that one, too.

Sunday 20th February 2005

I am now in Shropshire, as my curious odyssey around Britain continues. I have been going through some more of the photos of Edinburgh, which reminded me of lots of other things I did while I was up there. It really was rather a good expedition; and a change is always as good as a rest. (That should be my motto, I think.)

Near where I was staying is a small stately home called Newbattle Abbey - home of the Lothian family, it is now an adult education college. Marion, with whom I was staying, works there, so I was able to go and have a look round. Some splendid grand rooms, though all a little dilapidated. I was treated to a short tour by the equally dilapidated janitor, who showed me the font in which Mary Queen of Scots was reputedly christened (it did have the royal coats of arms of Scotland, England and France on it), and told me the story of the 'Grey Lady' and various other ghostly monks, etc, who haunt the precincts.

As you can see from the first photo, the Abbey is by the charming little river South Esk, and the walk along it from Newtongrange is absolutely lovely on a fine day - like somewhere in the Highlands, almost. And it was already very spring-like, with the snowdrops all out.

The grounds were also quite decayed, though there were some nice old formal 17th century gardens, with various quaint sundials, etc, with remarkable naive sculptures, like this charming sphinx.

Another day I went on a walk across country to the legendary Rosslyn Chapel and Castle - currently source of many a curious speculation involving the Kinghts Templar, the Holy Grail, the Ark of the Covenant, etc. If half the things supposedly buried there are really there, it is certainly one of the most important historic sites anywhere. But its secrets seem curiously impervious to modern investigation.

The walk across was quite pleasant; I got slightly lost in some fields, but came out on a delightful secluded and sunken old track with a completely timeless atmosphere. One of the nice things about Scotland is that there are far fewer people than in England, so even relatively populous parts are fairly unspoilt. You can see the Pentland Hills in the distance - Robert Louis Stevenson's 'hills of home'. The Lowland scenery of Scotland is very distinctive and delightful, and not as well appreciated as it might be. And much of it is remarkably close to Edinburgh.

Unfortunately, what with the time of year and the time it took me to walk across to Rosslyn, it was getting on a bit by the time I got there, so the light wasn't too good. The castle is on a crag (see above) overlooking the river North Esk, which runs in a very romantic and dramatic gorge you can walk along; I have often done so in the past, in the spring and summer when I used to spend quite a lot of time in Edinburgh. Much of the castle is ruined, but there is still a habitable bit, which you can see in the photo peaking above the trees. It still belongs to the Earl of Rosslyn, whose family has lived there since Norman times, I believe. What a wonderful place to live - some people have all the luck. Though apparently the current Earl spends most of his time 'down south' - typical! I walked up the brae to the Chapel, which is unfortunately though necessarily currently encased in a huge canopy to try to dry the stonework out. Nowadays there is a 'visitor centre', etc, and it costs £5 to get in. When I first visited about 10 years ago there was just a wooden hut and it cost about £1 - but that was before all the books were written and it became world-renowned.

I arrived just as they were about to close, at 5, but noticed there was a service on (it was a Sunday), so they let me in to attend. Strangely enough I found I couldn't open the door into the church - I was reluctant to try to forcefully in case I crashed in in the middle of things - so in the end I just sat on a bench in the churchyard for a while and soaked up the atmosphere. It was dusk, and I must say it was very atmospheric. I took some photos which, owing to the low light level, came out like very early Victorian prints. I think the effect is distinctly mystical.

Rosslyn Chapel is a strange place, and the extraordinary intensity and exuberance of the carvings within do seem to indicate some special significance about it. I wouldn't be surprised if it did house some amazing secret - but will we ever know what it is? And if we did, would it be an anti-climax, in the end?

Edinburgh, as I have mentioned, is a remarkably photogenic place. How many cities have an extinct volcano in their suburbs? I went on another of my favourite walks over Arthur's Seat (the aforesaid volcano) - you just walk from one of the city's main streets into Holyrood Park, and there in front of you is a sizeable mountain like something out of Glencoe or somewhere.

You can walk over a sort of saddle in the middle, and across to the east of Edinburgh, past a loch and some woods, and the odd ruined tower, etc. Or if you turn left you can ascend to the top of Salisbury Crags, which command tremendous views over Edinburgh and the Firth of Forth. You can often see as far as the Forth Bridges and over to the beginnings of the Highlands around Stirling. On this particular day it was rather hazy, but still impressive. I do love high places and sweeping views - it's the one drawback of living on a boat most of the time; everything around you is up.

Below the north side of Arthur's Seat is the distinctly underwhelming edifice of the new Scottish Parliament. It has all the grandeur and dignity of your average shopping centre or multiplex cinema - which, considering it cost some fantastic sum like £400 million, is a little disappointing. The 'twig' motif over the windows is particularly tacky, I feel. I was a great supporter of a revived Scots Parliament, but I think it's a bit sad and a bad sign that they went for 'trendy European' style rather than something in keeping with the sweep and drama of Scottish history and culture. I suppose it's in keeping with the current relentless 'new labour' 'modernisation' of everything - which appears to mean reducing everything to the most tawdry and superficially 'flavour of the month' nature possible.

Although even Edinburgh has changed in the time I've known it, and it's quickly losing most of its characteristic shops and institutions, when a haircut became urgent (I considered shaving all my hair off, but didn't quite have the nerve) I went to a wonderful old barber's I'd often noticed in a place called Stockbridge. It was a postive time-capsule of the 1920's, and quite lived up to my expectations. The barber was in fact Australian and not from the 1920's, but he did a very efficient 'short back and sides' which greatly improved my morale:

Another favourite place I revisited was Silverknowes and Cramond, along the shores of the Firth. Another great feature of Edinburgh is the closeness of the sea. From Silverknoews you can walk along the shore - I often did so in all kinds of weather, including winter storms with great crashing waves - to Cramond, a little former fishing village with a remarkable island with the remains of a Roman naval base and lighthouse on it - almost as far north as the Romans ever got in Britain. There is a causeway out to it, but I have never managed to get there when the tide was right to walk out there.

Most of the year you can hail a ferryman across the narrow river Almond, then continue along the Firth to South Queensferry and the towering Forth Bridges. I have very good memories, generally, of that walk - it always used to cheer me up even on my down days during the 90's.

Altogether I'm very glad I went up to Edinburgh - it's a great place, and I do feel strangely at home there. I don't know so many people there as I used to, but it was nice to meet up with my old friends Messr.'s Laird and Brodie, and mull over old times and the state of the world with them. I must make it a regular thing in the future; which will fit in with my new 'peripatetic' philosophy.

Thursday 3rd February 2005

I have been quite enjoying being around Edinburgh again, though being based miles outside the city is a bit tiresome. It is such a remarkably photogenic place

(The Castle looms - as does my favourite sweetshop, the timeless Caseys)

(Scenes along the Water of Leith - the unexpected Highland river hidden in the middle of the city)

I often wonder whether I should have moved to Edinburgh, instead of Oxford, when I left London. It has many good qualities. Then I contemplate the parochialism of Scottish politics and public life, and the tedious anti-English obsession, and think it may have been as well that I didn't. I can always visit when I want to. One thing I will say - Edinburgh is far more Scottish in every way than Oxford or anywhere else similar in southern England feels English; they haven't yet been swamped by 'multiculturalism' - though if they go ahead with plans to invite large-scale immigration to compensate for the declining population, things may change.

Although in a state of near-destitution, I decided that for the preservation of my sanity I needed to listen to some Vaughan Williams, so I got a rather good double CD in the HMV sale. It includes some old favourites, like Dona Nobis Pacem, and some that I hardly knew at all, like the Partita for strings, and the absolutely exquisite and haunting Magnificat (anything further from the standard Anglican setting could hardly be imagined) - it has distinctly Holstian mystical tendencies in its musical language. I've probably said this before, but I find RVW's music endlessly enjoyable and uplifting; he was such a genius - I can never understand people who don't see this. His and Bach's music are something I can listen to any time and receive emotional sustenance from.

Wednesday 2nd February 2005

I have been horrendously dilatory getting this journal updated, despite - or perhaps because of - the fact I have been lazing around on 'holday' here in Scotland for weeks. I find I can't keep up with life - even though so little is really happening. And dredging up the past - even the very recent past - is always so dreary. Still - here it is, for what it's worth:

Phew! Getting into 2005 has been a bit of an exhausting experience! But here I am. I am having a 'holiday' in Edinburgh for a few weeks - which sounds a bit ridiculous, really, as my entire life is more or less a permanent holiday these days. But I certainly need a bit of a rest after the last few weeks. The whole saga of taking the boat up to Shropshire could fill a few chapters. And even now it's still not actually at the boatyard where it's due to have work done on it. The journey went quite well up to Christmas, but after that it started going downhill rapidly, and the last few days were nightmarish. This was partly due to the fact I was ill with food-poisoning, and also having to go through the wastelands around Birmingham and Wolverhampton, which are enough to make anyone ill, anyway. None of this was made any easier by the fact that the 'friend' who joined me after Christmas got insanely drunk on New Year's Eve and proceeded to go berserk, smash up half the inside of the boat and make himself otherwise extremely unpleasant - I am still recovering from the experience. In a way it almost 'polluted' the boat for me - up till then it had felt like a refuge from the insanity of the 'real' world, but it appears the insanity can pursue me even there. Needless to say I am going to try to avoid ever having this particular 'friend' aboard again; but it was the kind of experience that can make one doubt one's judgement of human nature. I have lots of pictures of the earlier part of the voyage, which are quite atmospheric - it was bright, cold and frosty - which I will endeavour to display below. Apart from being rather cold, it was all quite pleasant (and once the stove was going properly it wasn't even cold) - the only drawback to me was the extreme slowness of progress on the canals - those bloody locks all the time! The worst part was doing a flight of 21 locks all by myself at Wolverhampton, while I had food-poisoning. I have decided I am very definitely a rivers man, and intend to remain so.

Meanwhile on the music front things continue as frustrating as ever. After ages and ages I finally managed to get my application together to the RVW Trust for the projected CD of songs with the Artsong Collective, only to find when I contacted their pianist for a covering letter that they have for some unexplained reason suddenly become 'defunct'. I was so terribly disappointed - I had invested so much importance in the whole idea; in fact it was the only concrete project I had going currently to promote any sense of my own musical existence, and they were the only really good professional performers who had shown any real interest in my work recently. My idea was that if I could get one or two decent recordings 'commercially' released on small labels, even if they didn't sell much I would at least feel I had some sort of objective existence 'out there' as a composer. So now I'm back at square one again. I have decided to try to go for my other idea for a CD - of choral music - instead, now. But that will be equally difficult to organise and fund. What else can I do but keep trying, though? Otherwise, I have written a short march on the theme of 'Trafalgar 200' - both because Nelson is one of my great heroes, and also because I thought the 200th anniversary might create a demand for such pieces. I've done it for military band and for orchestra, so I'm going to try to send it to the Royal Marines and the BBC Concert Orchestra. Rather a long way from symphonies and requiems, etc, but there you are. I have also had a word with the director of the silver band, here in Newtongrange, just outside Edinburgh, where I am staying, in the hope they might like a piece. He seemed potentially interested. I do try.

This evening I listened to the mp3 of the Arcadian Singers doing one of my Blake Songs, which is on my page at sibeliusmusic.com, and thought again how good it sounded. I can't help feeling that it is worth a wider hearing. If you're interested, please do go and listen to it, on:

http://members.sibeliusmusic.com/lah/

- it's in the choral music section, and you have to click on the lttle 'mp3' symbol. If by any chance you are a choral conductor and would be interested in doing the piece, please, please, let me know - it would be so encouraging.

Here follows a brief account of my winter cruise:

I had stocked up on solid fuel as well as wood, as the weather worsened:

Which was just as well, as it got quite cold at times:

I had intended to start off on 18th December, but owing to a delay in a stoppage near the bottom of the Oxford Canal, I was delayed until the 20th, which turned out to be an important and inconvenient factor by the end of the voyage. The idea was to make a leisurely progress up the Oxford Canal to the Grand Union, through Warwick, Birmingham and Wolverhampton, onto the Shropshire Union, to the boatyard at Market Drayton where the boat would have lots of maintenance work done on it and be ready for me to pick up after the 20th March to take back down to Oxford. Put like that it sounds simple, but it turned out to be an epic voyage of two and a half weeks in some pretty fearsome winter conditions, with a slightingly annoying sense of haste intervening - something I dislike intensely when travelling by boat. After the river, with its hydraulic locks operated by (more or less) obliging lock-keepers, I had forgotten the utter tedium of the endless locks on the canals, and the physical labour involved. Also, I do find canals rather tame and limiting after the Thames. However, the earlier part of the journey, at least, was quite fun. Nick, a friend from Oxford, kindly helped me up the beginning of the canal on the first day, through the several highly impractical lift-bridges, and arranged to meet me later at Banbury for Christmas. We managed to make it to the section where the canal joins the river Cherwell for about a mile (a curious arrangement), and I spent the night there. It had suddenly turned really cold, and in the morning there was a splendidly frosty scene:

But with the stove going I was perfectly cosy during the night. I felt that feeling I often get on the boat in new places - a pleasing sense of self-sufficiency and independence in the midst of the wild. I progressed quite comfortably up to Banbury, though a couple more lift-bridges gave me some trouble on my own; the locks weren't too bad - they never are if you're not in a hurry and they're aren't too many of them one after another:

The conditions were quite bright but windy, with nice scenery. I kept the old flag flying, as ever:

Banbury was quite useful for stocking up on Christmas food and drink, and Nick joined me there. For some reason I didn't take any photos there. I had a bit of trouble starting the engine when we were about to set off again - something I had more trouble with later, though I finally worked out a knack of doing it in very cold weather. The weather continued cold but bright up to Napton Junction:

The journey up to Napton (where the Oxford Canal joins the Grand Union) seemed interminable, so when Napton's distinctive hill-top village with windmill finally went past the starboard bow it was quite a relief. And quite picturesque it looked, too:

I had expected it to take three days from Oxford to Napton, but it actually took five. By Christmas Eve we had made it to Cropredy, which is quite a nice little village - by that time we were breaking through ice; a slightly alarming process which made a terrible racket, though luckily some early bird had always started the process already. (There were a fair number of boats around, though nothing compared to the summer). So conditions were pretty right for Christmas, even though there was no snow where we were:

Christmas on the boat was rather successful. We had plenty of festive supplies, and I cooked what I must say was a pretty damned convincing Christmas dinner, helped by the fact that I had finally worked out how to get the oven going. Not turkey but salmon in a pastry case, with lavish trimmings. Poor Nick had to put up with watching my traditional Christmas video, The Box of Delights, which I have watched regularly for about 20 years (!). I do love it - it never fails - you can get it on DVD nowadays, which I really must do, and the old VHS tape is getting a bit tired. I think Nick got into it in the end. But we did also watch his DVD about Pink Floyd, and also Once Upon a Time in the West, which was extraordinary. We kept cruising, though, even on Christmas Day (not much else to do in the middle of nowhere). Of course, on Boxing Day we woke up to the news of the tsunami disaster in the Indian Ocean, though at first the scale of it didn't quite get through. Put a slight damper on proceedings, but we continued, anyway. When we got to Leamington Spa Nick had to go back to Oxford on the bus. Leamington was quite an interesting place - a curious mixture of Midlands industrial by the canal and elegant spa town in the centre, which was strongly reminiscent of Bath. This was the first warning of the ghastly post-industrial wastelands further north. I kept going alone through Warwick and reached a huge flight of over 20 locks west of that town, which were rather a daunting sight:

The locks on the Grand Union are much bigger than those on the Oxford Canal, and a bit of a handful, though quite efficient and well-maintained. Luckily another boat was going through which made it easier, as we could team up and go through together. At this point I was to meet my next crew-member, Gordon. I did two or three locks on my own before he arrived, and then we moored overnight and did the rest the next day. We made good time, then continued up to a very quaint junction where we turned off on the Worcester-Birmingham canal, which was more rural, again. After doing a flight of a mere 15 locks we got on quite well towards the outskirts of Birmingham, where we arrived in the salubrious suburb of Shirley for New Year's Eve. The occasion got off to a good start, but very soon deteriorated into scenes of unpleasantness involving aggressive drunkenness (not on my part) over which I will draw a veil forthwith, not wishing to dwell on unpleasant memories. The next day I took the boat on my own right up to the centre of Birmingham (the rest of the crew was sleeping it off), through some increasingly desolate landscapes and in a freezing wind, and moored at Gas Street Basin - a Mecca for narrowboaters, it seems. The views from the boat in the centre of the city were somewhat unusual, for a canal.

Once I was 'liberated' from my crew,, that afternoon, I felt a bit calmer, and had a reasonably good night's rest, although I was disturbed at some unholy hour by drunks having a fight outside (one of the problems mooring anywhere in a large city). The next day I had to try and make some time up, as I had only four days to get to my destination, and still quite a long way to go. It was bright but absolutely freezing cold, and as motored on through the derelict post-industrial landscapes,

I started feeling more and more ill. In the end from the symptoms I realised I must have food-poisoning; I guessed it was some half-heated vol-au-vents I had been stupid enough to eat the night before, in my exhausted stupor. A bad move. It lasted three days - and I do not recommend taking a boat singlehanded, under pressure of time, through the industrial Midlands, in winter, in such a state. In retrospect I don't quite know how I did it - I must be tougher than I thought. The first day I managed somehow to cover quite a distance, and made it to the centre of Wolverhampton - an even more god-forsaken place than Birmingham, to my mind, but I was probably delirious, anyway. By this point I could hardly eat anything, and felt very shaky and weak. I shall remember the place with loathing ever more, as after a bad night's sleep with my stomach doing all sorts of horrible things, the next morning I had to face the 21 locks of the Wolverhampton flight! And they were murder - no-one else going through to help me, and some rather nasty little boys pestering and obstructing me part of the way (this and Birmingham were the only places I had stones thrown at me on the boat). In the end I couldn't quite make it through all 21, as I was dropping with exhaustion and feeling pretty bad, so I had to stop in a lock pound - something you're not recommended to do. To make it worse I had opened the next lock, and forgot to close it again, so I was awoken early the next day, feeling like death, by a British Waterways man with a bike, who informed me I lost lots of water, and was lucky not to be aground. I felt a complete idiot. So I just had to have a cup of tea (I couldn't eat), and rush through the last four locks to get away. I didn't take any photos at this point, but I was so glad to get through! Once I got round onto the Worcester Canal, I stopped at a boatyard to get some diesel, then moored and lay down and slept for a while. I felt a bit better when I got up, and was able to have a little bit of sustenance, then continued on round into the Shropshire Union - immediately lovely and rural and a complete relief after the horrors of the BCN:

The sun was shining, though my stomach was aching, and I felt I was almost at my goal, so my mood lightened somewhat. Actually I wasn't, quite, as two days later I had to leave the boat a mere one day's journey from Ted's Boatyard at Market Drayton, in order to come up to Edinburgh. Actually I don't think I did too badly, in the circumstances; if British Waterways hadn't delayed my start by two days, I would have made it, food-poisoning and all. Gordon, whose house in Shropshire was not too far away, was supposed to take the boat on the next day, after I had left for Scotland. Very annoyingly he let me down, and started far too late in the day, and the boat ended up being stranded just above Tyrley Locks - only a mile or two from the boatyard - as maintenance had begun again on the 10th and will last until 11th Feb. So I am a bit worried about my boat and my belongings left untended in the middle of nowhere, but there is nothing I can do about it until I get back down myself on the 10th. It all confirms just how unreliable people can be - as if I didn't know already. Anyway - although the trip had its good moments, one thing I have decided is that I am not going to do it again next year. If I go on a winter cruise, it is not going to be under pressure of time, and it will have to start and end somewhere around Oxford, and probably be on the river - I have decided I don't really like canals that much; give me the Thames, any time.

Sunday 12th December 2004

'Poverty is a great enemy to human happiness:it certainly destroys liberty; and it makes some virtues impracticable, and others extremely difficult'

I found this quotation in the immortal Boswell's Life of Johnson; it is so very true - it is difficult to retain any kind of dignity, freedom or virtue when suffering from perennial poverty. I am so horribly poor again, at the moment, and I have been reminded of these depressing facts. When my resources dwindle to a certain point I find it almost impossible to think about anything important or worthwhile - I just worry all the time. Hopefully I can survive the next few months until various plans I have mature (fingers crossed) and put me in an altogether more solid situation, materially speaking, next year. In the meantime I am trying to hang on to some sense of proportion and keep thinking about important things like music. I am about to set out on my Christmas cruise up to Shropshire, so I went to Evensong at Christchurch this evening to enjoy a last burst of typical Oxonian atmosphere. It was enhanced by meeting young Mr. O'Donovan on duty at the main gate, who was full of enthusiasm for all his musical experiences in his first term at the university - the energy of youth! They did Purcell's Rejoice in the Lord Alway, which was delightful to hear and rather better than when we used to do it at St. Giles's. I shall miss Oxford for a while - despite the rather cold and dank weather, the place has been rather atmospheric in the last few weeks, with a nice Christmassy sort of feel, but a change is as good as a rest, and I am quite looking forward to my approaching voyage. I have been having a go at piece for band on the theme of Trafalgar - I was given the idea by a message from one of the readers of this column; I'm sure lots of people will have the same idea, anyway. I thought I might try sending it to the Royal Marines' band - it's rather breezy and somewhat in the style of Sousa, at the moment., so perhaps they'll like it. I know I'm writing rather a lot of 'light' pieces at the moment, but it's not because I've completely lost interest in 'serious' music - just that lighter works for specialised areas of music-making seem to me to have slightly more chance of a performance. I only wish someone would commission a big serious piece from me right now - that would soon get the creative ideas going, I'm sure.

I am pleased to say that young Mr. Christmas from New Zealand is visiting our fair country at the moment; I feel encouraged by the presence of an ally on the same soil. Welcome to Britain, James - have an excellent time!

MUSINGS 2004