Camp Friends

Who in the world would want to spend a weekend with a single toilet between fourteen people?  Especially as the toilet had no door and its walls were loosely woven and see-through.  One shower too, but only for people who didn't mind cold water and a strong smell of gas.

Let me put it differently. 

Who would want to stay in a tucked-away field, bordered with poplars and a gurgling stream, bounded by a drift of buttercups and lady’s smock? In the distance, the purple haze of a herbal ley.  Over our shoulder, a ploughed field with a hare bounding across it. Beyond, a paddock with a new-born foal.

But whether you see the environment as hell or paradise, really the surroundings are not the main thing.

It's the chance to catch up and debrief with a dozen of our oldest friends. People we met when we were eighteen or so at uni, and still working out who we were.

When we share the food we’ve brought and cooperate over cooking in a cauldron above a firepit, we accidentally recreate the community of our long-ago youth.  And we talk and talk and talk. 

And guess what, we are still working out who we are.

One Funeral and a Road Trip

We went to Wells for my Uncle’s funeral. 

When I first rang to say I would be there, it looked as if it would be a long drive towards sadness.

Then Pascoe agreed to come with me. 

Suddenly it was a road trip that would be companionable instead of lonely.

I had not seen my uncle or his family for a number of years, but wanted to show support.

The funeral was touching and my cousins’ eulogies captured vividly the man I remember.  The excellent final gesture was my Uncle’s coffin being carried out of the church to a spiritual by Elvis – his life-long idol.

At the funeral tea,  I caught up with cousins who for so long had been only "best wishes" in a Christmas card.  Afterwards, Pascoe and I retired to the inn where we were staying.

That evening, we discovered the door of Wells Cathedral still open and we explored the lofty interior where sunset poured in through stained glass.   Wells Cathedral is an epicentre of tourism, but surreally, we were alone in there, drifting about in the airy space between the vast columns.  A once in a lifetime experience.

Next day, we walked Cheddar Gorge together in bright weather.  We saw wild goats and a mass of flowers and birds.  And we caught up with each other’s lives.

It may be that sadly, due to geography, my lovely cousins return to being the senders/recipients of Christmas cards rather than people I am able to see regularly.  But if family was the focus for the trip, then it was a success.  I had time with Pascoe (who currently lives in Edinburgh) to restore the bonds between us.

Back to the Seventies

This week there were news items about mothers marching against climate change with their small children.

But today’s children are not the first generation to have a sharp awakening to our violation of the environment – pollution was a major concern for youngsters of the 1970s. 

As a child my cultural heroes were environmentalists. The Wombles recycled rubbish, singing ‘Pick up the papers and make ‘em into something new. It's what we do.'  Bagpuss was an expert in thrift: ’We wiĺl mend it. We will fix it. We will make it like new, new, new.’

As a teenager, instead of buying new, I embraced the 1970s’ revival of handicrafts and made my own leather bags, floaty skirts and bead jewellery. Cars were a rarity and I travelled by bus, bike or on foot and got to know my neighbours.

Reducing our carbon footprint could take us back to the 1970s.  But would that be completely bad?
Today’s notoriously stressed youngsters might well enjoy the benefits of a less commercial society.  Once we have begun to tackle the emergency of climate change, there may be space for a better way of life.

This blog is taken from a letter I just had published in the Guardian https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2019/may/15/if-climate-change-sends-us-back-to-the-70s-would-that-be-so-very-bad

A total white-wash!

Dawn and Steve, it is your fault that we ran out of excuses. 

It was going to be impossible for us to paint the bedrooms at the weekend because we were meeting up with you.

We were saying things like “We would love to paint the upstairs but unfortunately we can’t – we are meeting Dawn and Steve.”  And then we had to try not to look smug.

But then you baled on us.  And ever since, our life has been dominated by the ominous rumble of paint rollers on walls and the stink of white spirit. 

For the last week, our home has been a man-trap of vicious exposed carpet gripper and tacky white gloss.

After an hour or so undercoating skirting, I decided to WhatsApp Pascoe.  He was probably as bored as I was, writing up an academic paper.  But no, he and his pals, Caroline and Ian, had just completed the Yorkshire Three Peaks Challenge on unicycles.  Not only that, but they had then discovered a bluebell wood and a magical cave from which ran a spring.

The following morning, I texted Carenza – “Thought you might enjoy a chat while you trudge to work.”

“Not trudging today, Mum.  I’m on holiday in Seville with my girlfriends.”

So, Dawn and Steve, we are the only ones having a bad time.  And it is all your fault.

A Telling Experience

At the local government elections on Thursday, our friend, the Lib Dem Councillor, Robert Donald needed Tellers. 

These are the people who sit outside the Poling Station and ask you for your voter number.  The purpose is so that the candidates can see which of their supporters have not yet voted and might need encouraging.

The slot left to fill was the graveyard shift, 9 – 10 pm.

But we hadn't been tellers before and weren’t sure what it involved.  Plus Nigel had a work event earlier that evening.  And neither of us was keen on me as a woman sitting on my own in the dark outside the polling station late at night. 

In the end, we went along together.  

 It was a cold evening with occasional dramatic downpours and we arrived muffled up to the eyes in ancient wax jackets. Our departing Lib-Dem friend passed on the by-now slightly droopy orange rosette.

There were two other tellers, one Labour and one Conservative, and to our delight, they had inveigled the tellers’ chairs into the porch of the Polling Station, out of the worst of the weather. 

The first thing we learnt was that the other tellers were smartly dressed, unlike us.

The second thing was that we were all politely working together – anybody who obtained a number shouted it out for the other tellers. I needn’t have worried about going along on my own.

The Conservative teller worked in Westminster and was a mine of information on matters procedural – for instance, no rosettes are allowed within the voting hall itself as it could constitute intimidation – also the reason why the tellers are meant to stay outside.  It was also interesting to hear his view of recent controversies.

All in all, it was a privilege to take part in our well-ordered democratic system, to learn more about it.  

And best of all, Robert had a huge win for the Lib Dems.