Over my lifetime there has been a huge change in the type and style of shoes, both for men and women, what has become acceptable and what not, so I thought I would scribble about footwear!! This is, I should hasten to add, a predominately male piece!

Unless you joined some institution like the Armed Forces or the Police, it’s unlikely you had any training in how to clean your shoes, for they were nearly all made of leather and that required cleaning. A toothbrush was useful for cleaning the welts and the piece between the heel and the sole needed as much attention as anywhere else. God forbid if, when you placed one leg over the other when sitting, the underside of your now exposed shoe was dirty. Despite the need to polish your own drill boots and George Boots, at the Royal Military Academy we had a batman who took care of the other leather items – Sam Browne’s, shoes etc. Your ‘best boots’ were shined to within an inch of their lives. Polish was applied and a spoon, heated over a candle, was used to melt the polish and soften the slight bumps in the leather; then you ‘bull’d’ your boots, applying spit and polish around in little circles to create a shine – hours and hours of work!!

Of course scribbles about shoes must include the lovely story that illustrates how you see life, the ‘half empty – half full’ glass. Back in the late 1880s, Clarkes the shoemaker decided that they wanted to enter the East African market. They planned to send two people, James who had been with the company a long time and was considered quite senior despite having a mixed track record of success, and a relatively new hire Mark. Recruited against the Company’s competency profile, he had a very positive attitude and was a good match. The pair duly caught the train to Dover for the long overland journey by train and boat to Mombasa.

Despite an initial telegram saying they had arrived, nothing was heard from the pair for a few weeks. Eventually James telegraphed from a hotel in Nairobi and wrote: “Been all over the country. No one wears shoes here. Completely wasted exercise. Returning home” A few days later another telegram arrived, this from Mark. “Been all over the country. No one wears shoes here. Great opportunities. Have opened office and initial order to follow.”

One of the main aims of joining the Army was to wear the traditional mess uniform – actually I joke somewhat but we did enjoy dressing up (overgrown schoolboys I guess!!). The formal attire for dinner was Mess Dress – a sort-of blouson jacket with skin-tight trousers, known as overalls. These had a thick red strip running down the outside and were strapped under the bottom of one’s Mess Wellingtons, a tall boot that almost reached one’s knee and worn on the inside. And spurs! Soldiers who went into battle on horses (before my time, I should hasten to add) used a metal spike in their boot to encourage the horse to gallop faster – to ‘spur it on’!! These accoutrements became part of one’s dress uniform, indoors and out, and they fitted into the heel of the boots in a special box. I was lucky enough to have my step-father’s, which had an old sixpenny piece as the roundel.

In civilian clothes, in mufti, you wore leather shoes, which of course had to be polished to the same standard! I suppose the constant need to have one’s uniform shoes clean meant that when I could relax, I developed a penchant for light brown suede boots – a quick brush and they were good.

Avid readers of my postcards will know that I spent a great deal of my twenties sailing. Wet weather gear was essential and I bought some sailing wellingtons – yellow on the outside, blue on the inside with a sole which gripped on the yacht’s often wet slippery deck. They eventually perished as rubber will– but I loved those boots; I wore them to a party once!

At one time in my life I got stuck on having some red shoes and still have a pair of red Timberland boots. But then in Russel & Bromley I saw these lovely Italian red suede Chelsea boots. One of those ‘I must have these’ moments. I’m sure  Elvis would have been jealous as he had to do with blue ones.

I should say at this point that I take a size 11 or 12 shoe, a size which often is not available in the more fashionable brands. I saw a gorgeous pair of Gucci loafers once and, despite the fact that there were a tad small, I bought them, thinking the soft leather would stretch. It didn’t and on one occasion I wore them on a long flight. Big mistake!! When I walked off the aeroplane I could only fit half my foot in!! They were too narrow a fitting and I would have benefited from using one of those machines that was in pride of place in a shoe shop. You never see them today; you climbed onto the step and looked at your feet in the shoes – in a vaguely green light. Then you could see if they were a good fit or not.

Do you remember Winklepickers, long and pointed shoes for men? Or Bovver Boots, so basic and chunky? Shoes with ‘Cuban’ heels for those of us who are vertically challenged? If I wasn’t so politically correct I should say ‘short’! Then there were Chelsea boots, Desert boots, George Boots, Boat shoes, canvas shoes, jellies for a rocky shore, the list could go on and on. Getting my first pair of Rugby boots was a defining moment in my upbringing, but they were black, because all rugby boots were black. Nowadays it’s as if the team wants to dazzle the opposition by the colour combinations of their boots

The only sort of ‘trainers’ were ones you used for sports or tennis and the latter had to be green flash Dunlop. Now, if you are a “Dedicated follower of fashion”, as The Kinks sang about in 1994, you will no doubt possess many pairs of ‘trainers’, for they have become the only form of footwear for the younger generation …… and for some of the older generation too. Mintel’s senior fashion analyst recently wrote that “there has been an increasing trend for consumers to integrate sports clothing into their wardrobe; trainers have become the second favourite item of footwear after flat shoes for women.”

It seems now that the world has turned full circle. From the time at home growing up, wearing socks and lace-up shoes, to our way of life now – the ubiquitous wooden-floored apartment, not wearing socks in the summer months and never wearing shoes inside. Now! Where are my slippers?

Richard 31^st October 2016

 

In England there is an old belief that if you’re waiting for a bus, eventually one will come, very closely followed by another  …… and then another! In reality the phenomenon has some truth to it, and even has a choice of names – bunching, clumping, convoying or even platooning. Mathematically it’s bound to happen if several buses are serving a single route. I mention this as in early September I lived through another 24 hours of amazing coincidences (see PCs 19 & 48 for previous examples).

Albany Villas where we live is a suburban street here in central Hove; like most inner city areas parking for cars is often difficult and the spaces fought over. Outside Amber House is a bay reserved for those drivers with disabilities; a ‘blue badge’ bay. There was often an ancient Jaguar XJ10, in immaculate condition, parked there. The driver, an oldish chap with a white ponytail (this being Brighton these things hardly raise an eyebrow) used it for driving his very elderly and infirm mother about. Seeing them regularly we got used to nodding, saying whatever greeting was appropriate depending on the time of day etc. And then they disappeared ….. completely ….. for over a year. On the first of September we remarked to each other: “I wonder what happened to them? Haven’t seen them for ages.” Later in the afternoon, the car is back. Weird or what?  First Bus!

We had spent the previous evening with Ted and Richard. Ted has taken some beautiful photos, not only of us towards the end of last year and then of Jade and her family, but also some gorgeous ones of our wedding in August. Before going out to a local restaurant for supper, we joined them on the terrace of their large apartment in Palmeira Square, famous for its large terraced houses of the Regency period. Over drinks we caught up with events over the summer and somehow the conversation came around to Scotland and the Orkneys. I hadn’t been so far north but Celina had. And then I mentioned that way out into the Atlantic Ocean is the island of St Kilda. Nowadays the only human inhabitants are Army personnel, manning the radars used to track the surface-to-air missiles test-fired from the range at Benbecula. The soldiers are commanded by a junior Royal Artillery officer and spend six months there. I would probably never have heard of St Kilda if I hadn’t been in the Royal Artillery, and ducked down when the postings branch started looking for the next Officer Commanding St Kilda! It was a posting most of us did one’s best to avoid; if you were an ornithologist it was OK, if you weren’t you soon became one, for there was nothing to do in your spare time, unless you liked counting seabirds and sheep. (This before the age of the internet – and ‘no’, that’s not called ‘The Stone Age’!)

Apart from a rock called Rockall (an original name you might think!!) even further west out into the Atlantic, this group of islands is Britain’s most westerly point, a speck in the North Atlantic more than 40 miles off the Outer Hebrides, over 100 miles from the mainland of Scotland. St Kilda is a place of extremes. It has the highest cliffs in the UK, plunging 1,400ft to the sea. It has recorded the highest wind speeds in the country, 198mph (320kph), which explains why there are no trees!! More rare seabirds nest here than anywhere else in Europe. Not for nothing are these islands described as “the edge of the world”.

The last permanent civilian inhabitants of Hirta, the main island of St Kilda and the only habitable one, requested evacuation in 1930. There were just 36 of them: with numbers of able-bodied men dropping year on year, the people were more and more dependent on supplies from trawlers that might sail past or, failing that, handouts from the Scottish mainland. During the winter months, the St Kildans could find themselves as cut off from the world as they had been in the Middle Ages.

The ruins of houses on St Kilda

Not surprisingly, neither Ted, a Canadian, nor Richard, English as the day is long, had heard of St Kilda. I hadn’t thought about it since the 1980s, so it was quite extraordinary to open the second section of The Times the following morning to find: “A composer, a piano and a concert at the edge of the world”, an article about recording the once-lost songs of the people of St Kilda (Times 2 September 8^th 2016). Weird or what? Second bus!

To keep my little brain from turning to mush, most days I do a very quick crossword in The Times newspaper. The day after the St Kilda article was in the paper, the crossword contained a clue ‘senseless talk’ for which the answer was ‘Twaddle’. (Pretty easy crossword huh!) The dictionary says:  “Twaddle/ Trivial or foolish speech or writing; nonsense.” Such a lovely truly English word, ‘twaddle’; sort of rolls off the tongue after a glass of wine or three, in a speaking sense rather than a nonsense sense, but not one in common usage these days!

 

 

I love the author Bill Bryson’s works, especially his ‘Notes from a Small Island’ and the latest update to his amusing observations of Britain, ‘The Road to Little Dribbling’, a book I had been given for my birthday last year. And as part of my ongoing very necessary education, I also got given a copy of Bryson’s ‘A Short History of Nearly Everything’.  In six sections he attempts to explain the why, and where, and how of what Earth is and about life itself. Painstakingly researched and stuffed with amazing facts, figures and anecdotes, he’s traced scientific studies and the development of our understanding about ‘being’. You can plough though chapters such as ‘The Richness of Being’, ‘Cells’, ‘Darwin’s Singular Notion’, ‘The Stuff of Life’. And plough you do, as there is so much information there is a danger of overload; I suspect it’s a book to read more than once. Bryson of course clearly loved researching the very people who have contributed over the centuries, some earnestly , ……. and in the evening of the crossword containing ‘Twaddle’ day, I read …… “some very casually but significantly and some writing ‘twaddle’” Weird or what? Third bus!

Mere scribbles for autumnal reading

Richard 14^th October 2016

PS Just in case you are reaching for your iPad, I also got the answer to 20 Across – ‘Walk Wearily’!

It sat on the shelf in the kitchen, all forlorn, sort of pulsating and sending out a message …. ‘my shelf life expires in April next year’ ….. ‘eat me’! All wrapped up and pretty, but sad and unloved. Should it be taken back to whence it came or would that be completely ridiculous, as it weighed over a kilo? The packaging looked good and neat; shame to unwrap it.

But unwrap it we did ….. yesterday ….  knowing that over a few days it would be reduced to a few crumbs.

It had been bought with the best intentions, flown for 11 hours, arriving without mishap ……. but the world into which it arrived had emotionally changed and its presence was really not wanted, not then …….. so it sat on that shelf ….. looking at those who went by, hoping that someone would pick it up and make a decision. Returning it to the country where it was bought would have been a little like the reality of that saying ‘coals to Newcastle’. (Ed: Newcastle is a university city in the north east of England. At one time its port would have shipped coal overseas …… and the last thing you would have done would have been to take coal back to Newcastle.) It could have been returned to the supermarket where it was purchased for on the packaging it offered: “Should you not be happy with this product please bring the packaging back to any Waitrose branch and we will replace the item and refund you.” What? Over a year ago? Really?

So maybe we could use it this year? …… Why not now? …… The weather in spring here has been so cold (OK! Tropical ‘cold’, not northern Europe ‘cold’) ……. So it was taken down off the shelf and the instructions read. Microwave or cook properly? Time saving at the possible expense of taste and texture – ‘for best results do not microwave’. What? Steam for three hours? You must be kidding; we’ll need shares in the company who supplies the gas. No! No! That’s what it says …….. in addition to making sure that the water is no allowed to bowl away.

So it was that on the last night of September we had a new pudding, a Christmas pudding. Does this sound ridiculous? Well maybe it does but do you know what away from all the over eating and stuffing both the birds and ourselves and eating rich food and drinking funny drinks and making merry etc etc  it was such a joy to open the cooked pudding, turn it out and smell that gorgeous aroma of fruits and currents and peel and cherries and ….. We didn’t have any Holly, as Holly doesn’t grow in the tropics, or indeed any brandy to ignite …… and actually no brandy butter because you need brandy and we didn’t have any.

Just a small plate …… with a little heap of Christmas pud on it ….. and a fork. Yum! Yum! Yum!

These are seriously inane scribbles

Richard 1^st October 2016 Rio de Janeiro

PS There was sadly no Uncle Tommy (see PC 27) to watch our antics but perhaps that was just as well. Any more please?

‘Uncle Tommy’

 

We Brits rather pride ourselves in doing things well and there is a general consensus that the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympic Games in London was brilliant. A recent documentary on the BBC showed the year’s work that went into that spectacle; absolutely amazing. So we anticipated a similar spectacle for the 2016 Rio de Janeiro Olympics, particularly as the Brazilians know how to party. Straitened circumstances meant less money was available but all agreed it was, in the event, a great opening.

The closing ceremonies are often a little less dramatic, the contests over, the medals won, time to go home. But in Rio, somewhere in that kaleidoscope of colour, fireworks and electronics was a dance group that took my breath away. Probably if my memory serves me well, some 8 men and 8 women, dancing a modern composition  that I found completely mesmerising. Such fluidity, such confidence, such elasticity, such timing. You can tell I thought them pretty damn good! Further inquiry revealed them to be a troupe from Grupo Corpo, a dance company from the State of Minas Gerais, whose style is to mix their own Afro-Brazilian genre with other familiar contemporary styles. The group performed part of their show Parabelo and new dancers appeared dressed as clay dolls, a common sight in the festivals of Brazil’s north east.

Grupo Corpo Parabelo

It helps to have a Brazilian wife! No sooner had I said I thought they were wonderful, she tells me who they are. I am not a dance aficionado but have watched classical ballet and don’t quite get the whole thing. The story of Billy Elliot, about a northern boy who wants to dance, was captivating from the story point of view but the dance? Nah! Have even fallen asleep watching Sylvie Guillem at Saddlers Wells. Actually if the truth were told, every time I go into somewhere dark and cosy and warm, be it a theatre, cinema or lecture theatre, I can nod off quite easily; even the latest James Bond movie we saw last year couldn’t compete with the need to close my eyes. But I digress.

Then out of the blue I am told we have been given some tickets, through a cousin’s father who worked at the Theatro Municipal here in Rio de Janeiro, for Grupo Corpo. Wow! What a great chance. The theatre itself dates back to 1905, when work started to provide the city, then the capital of Brazil, with a major venue for opera and music. Completed in 1909, it’s a wonderful example of eclectic architecture, where the imagination was allowed to run riot.

Theatro Municipal Rio de Janeiro

 Mosaic tiles, stained glass, gold leaf, and large sculptures adorn every nook and cranny of this building. It’s been given various make-overs during its lifetime and today just under 2500 people can watch ballet or listen to classical music. The restaurant Assírius in the basement is peculiar in its impressive Assyrian decor. The connection between ballet and the Assyrians somehow escapes me. Any learned readers out there?

We watched two pieces from Grupo Corpo’s repertoire, their recent Danca Sinfonica (2015) and Lecuona (2004). Both quite different and visually stunning in so many ways. There is something about watching people with skill and energy tell a story, interpret music, that gets under the skin, almost as if you want to get up and ….. dance?

I saw from the little programme that the group has toured extensively, particularly in the UK, including Brighton. Maybe we’ll see them when they come around again. Said cousin, Bel Gasparian, found the link for the Parabelo performance and has posted it on Facebook – and shared it with me. So if you didn’t see it at the time, go to my Facebook and have a look courtesy of ‘You Tube’.

And these definitively are mere scribbles …… but hopefully you’ll engage in the technology and see what I mean.

 

Richard 22nd September 2016

PS “If you can talk, you can sing; if you can walk, you can dance; anyone can juggle and ride a unicycle, including you; but you have to want to.”

 

 

 

 

On Wednesday evening Neia skilfully negotiated her taxi through the evening traffic, in from the Rio de Janeiro international airport, around Lagoa and on to Sāo Conrado. We arrived in the warmth of a tropical evening, 11 hours out of England, 4 hours behind British Summer Time.

We metaphorically fell out of the taxi as Celina’s mother came down the steps to unlock the gate and let us in; the number of suitcases suggested we were staying for a month ( I wish!). Gradually we carried them inside the house ….. and took a breath. Something, someone, I sensed, was very definitely missing. After quickly unpacking the essentials, for bed beckoned, it wasn’t until I was actually in bed I realised what it was that I craved – the reassuring presence of Celina’s father, now departed from this world some nine months. Not that we normally saw him when we had arrived in the evening in the past, as it was way past his bedtime; a man of habit if ever there was one  but you sensed his presence.

 

Carlos with his first Grandchild Tiago

It was only in the morning we met him, at breakfast around the small table in the kitchen with Ze the green parakeet squawking his raucous calls from the cage outside. The first time, back in April 2012, it was a rather amusing meeting, him in his rather large GAP hoodie feeling the cool of a Brazilian autumn, me in a T shirt sweating in the warmth of a tropical morning – takes a while to get acclimatised huh! He loved his Oxford Coopers vintage marmalade and would be grateful for exports from England.

That visit we drove to their house in Buzios, three hours out of Rio, a small seaside town made famous by Bridgette Bardot and others of that ilk. Carlos and I walked along the sand and he told me of his life’s work, his fascination with what goes on inside our brains. He was a Professor of Neurology and well respected in his field. At times he lost me with his descriptions of experiments using animals, particularly Possums, for dissection, such was his grasp of the technical English of his trade. Around the lunch table he delighted in bringing out a Conde, a fruit that I hadn’t seen and one that I was invited to try.

And now he’s not here! We had sat down just after his 80^th birthday, and talked through the new iPad that Celina had given him. “No! he’ll never use that …..” his son had suggested but step by step he mastered it just like he had any new technology that had come along. Interesting how slowly some grapple with the ‘swipe’ and ‘touch’ interfaces and then get it; in no time it’s old hat. Within six months he’d upgraded his phone to be constantly connected to the internet. But he had that old world charm, and if we were out at dinner, would abhor other diners using their phones rather than talking with those around them. The strength and continuity of the internet is not the greatest here, just as in some parts of the UK (!) and we often sat in his office, almost on top of the router, to download emails. Additionally being Brazil, we had to cope with the power cuts which are a regular feature of living here.

In September last year he showed me his rowing machine, something he used regularly to augment his time in the local gym; he seemed fit and took care of himself. Despite his career in science, which nowadays has a relevant and understandable explanation of how the world was formed, Carlos was a deeply religious man. For those of us who are not, it was a slightly unnerving sensation to be in his presence when he described his fervent beliefs in the power of the Christian message and of the omnipresence of God. The bookshelves in his study are lined with books such as ‘Monastery without Wall’, the spiritual letters of the Benedictine monk John Mann and a few on Padre Pio, an Italian priest who became St Pio of Pietreleina after his death in 1968. Carlos admitted reading few novels in his whole life, preferring the worlds of scientific facts and religion. He and Celina’s mother would meditate in the evening every day and he was convinced of the power of prayer.

When we first met he was already in his late 70s. He had lived in Paris, Boston and Washington, working on research projects, but was now content to stay at home, read, meditate and stay fit; a wonderfully warm and special man. And he’s not here. And I was not his son, had not known him for 65 years of my life, a time when he became a famous neuroscientist, but in those short weeks and months we stayed here in Iposeria, in this lovely house under the shadow of Pedro de Gavea, I felt very close. And get this! He even allowed me to load the dishwasher! You know how it is, everything has a place, and everything in its place. So why couldn’t others learn from him the ‘right’ way to do it. Me? I just observed, understood the importance (to him) and suddenly he says I could load his dishwasher, the only person given permission! Mind you, he was not a domesticated man at all, so it was funny to see how he had made this kitchen labour- saving device his own.

And he’s not here! But his presence is very powerful. Everyone struggles I guess with getting rid of the clothes of the recent departed and, after an initial clear out, the house still contains his possessions, still oozes his personality and character. And life moves on, thoughts turn to the future, and the ‘What?’ and the ‘Where?’ and the ‘Why/why not?’

In October last year, the last time we saw each other when we were both compos mentis (well, in my case that’s a debatable state!), we loaded up the taxi in the rain, another stay here at an end. Carlos was again wearing his GAP hoodie and we hugged and did all those things that you do when you say “Goodbye”, only this time neither of us thought it would be the last time.

And he’s not here! Actually, I think that’s bollocks. He’s here just as he believed his God was here, all around us, still guiding us, still loving us.

From a warm evening in Rio de Janeiro

 

Richard 16th September 2016

*Some of the music we played is shown at intervals in the text

In The Times on 22^nd August 2016:

“Mrs Maria Cecilia Rocha Miranda is delighted to announce that the marriage of her younger daughter Celina Guinle and Richard Corbett Yates took place on Saturday 20^th August 2016 in Brighton, England. After a reception at Amber House in Hove, family and friends gathered at Blanch House in Kemptown for an evening dinner party. The honeymoon will take place in January 2017.”

“And now, pray silence for the groom.” Well, we didn’t have a ‘master of ceremonies’ so it was up to me when to tap a glass to ring for quiet! What a lovely group stood in front of me, all expecting I guess that I was going to say something funny, poignant, romantic, risqué or was I just going to be my boring self?

‘You’re the Best’ by Tina Turner

Those who know me well will appreciate that this wasn’t the first time I had had to make the bridegroom speech, and my long-suffering brother needed thanking first. I hope he was reassured that this would be the last, the very last time he would have to listen. Relatives from Brazil and from New Zealand, some old acquaintances and some new friends; a gorgeous warm loving bunch waited expectantly.

‘Je T’aime, Till My Dying Day’ by Enigma

I recounted how I had started going to Bikram Yoga in 2009, plucked up courage to talk to Celina sometime in late 2010 as we lined up for the next session, and was delighted that she agreed to have supper with me a year later. “One day at a time.” we promised ourselves as we came together, out of our individual tactile and sexual deserts ……. and then it was a month and now, on the 16^th of this month, five years. Wow! The naysayers had said it wouldn’t last and I know how complex an emotion love is. One always thinks ‘This is it!’ and then time moves and we move and suddenly the love that was contagious and all-embracing is destructive.

‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ by George Michael

Indeed, during our ceremony earlier in the Regency Room, at Brighton’s Town Hall, our readings had reflected the opposites of love’s effect. The romantic poem from Christopher Marlowe ‘The Passionate Shepherd to his love’ starts: “Come with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove.” This was the first, and the male guests collectively contributed to its optimistic view. Sadly Sir Walter Raleigh’s reply on behalf of the Nymph recounts all the things that go wrong – “The flowers do fade, and wanton fields to wayward winter reckoning yields” – until the promise in the final verse “….had joys no date nor age no need, then these delights my mind will move to live with thee and be my love.” So a realistic pragmatic view read by the ladies in the gathering.

Sometimes in life you read something that hits the spot, just at the right time. We’ve all read the rather syrupy rather saccharine sayings that are meant to lift our hearts and an example of this genre, a daily quote from Brahma Kumaris, is available to read in our local Hot Yoga studio. On the day of our wedding (yes I went! Well; I had time to!!) it said: “Relationships are like a tapestry. The fabric is strongest when the threads are spun from openness, love and trust.” And that’s how Celina and I have spun our tapestry, with honesty, openness and trust – and enormous love!

 ‘The Power of Love’ by Jennifer Rush

The recent Olympics had its part in our decision to get married! Celina’s parents wanted to escape Rio de Janeiro, so booked three weeks with us here in Hove. I had this thought; we would surprise them during their visit by an innocent visit to the Town Hall. But then Carlos became very ill in mid-December and I told him of our intentions by hand-delivered letter. So the cat jumped out of the proverbial. Anyway, he had always called me his son-in-law – so no pressure then – but I guess he saw the happiness in his daughter and was acknowledging what was apparent. He also promised to assist me with the development of my spiritual side, something he saw as abysmal! Celina’s mother came over as planned and the participant numbers grew.

 ‘Tell Him’ by Celine Dion & Barbara Streisand

Three weeks of warm weather descended into an Autumnal-like low pressure system the day before the wedding. The day itself was characterised by sunshine and torrential rain showers and blowing a hooley. Two days later summer returned with 28C. You can’t say God doesn’t have a sense of humour?

‘A Million Years Ago’ by Adele

I looked around our guests, some eating the rather doorstep-sized egg & cress sandwiches (I had imagined something more delicate, with the crusts removed but ……!!) all relaxed. Jonathan found my Royal Artillery Officer’s sword and that was used to cut our Clementine cake, which my daughter had very kindly made. Before we toasted the bride, love and life, I did remind everyone that my great grandfather Richard Sydney Corbett had been born in Recife, Brazil in 1850 and that there are still Corbetts, living relatives as it were, in Brazil. So this South American connection was well and truly re-established with our marriage.

‘Santa Monica Dream’ by Angus & Julia Stone

We were spoilt by the generosity of our guests, despite imploring them that we really didn’t want more toasters and that, if they felt they couldn’t come to a wedding without buying a present, they should buy something for themselves! So it was such fun to open our gifts the following day.

By the following Wednesday the apartment was empty, apart from ourselves, so now we can really start to enjoy our married life. Did something happen? Just a very public display of the love and affection we hold for each other …… oh! and a little band of gold on that third finger of the left hand.

These are slightly more than ‘mere scribbles’ but I hope you’ll get a sense of what happened on that lovely day.

Richard 2nd September 2016

For all sorts of reasons my latest scribble is taking longer than normal. For those of you who like the regularity of my musings I post this little tale, written many years ago; you may have read it before. Enjoy?

It was a gloriously hot and sunny day in early July. The roses were at their best, the garden alive with colour. She sat quietly on the grass, soaking up the sun, enjoying watching the birds whirling through the sky. “Lunch!” I called through the open kitchen window; her ears pricked up at the sound of my voice and, lazily raising her body upright, she strolled across the lawn and into the coolness of the flat. I took my own lunch outside to the bench, to read the newspaper and enjoy the sun. Sometime later I walked back into the flat, put my dirty plates in the dishwasher and walked into the bedroom.

The sun streamed in through the open window, casting shadows across the blue and white counterpane that covered the large double bed; a gentle breeze ruffled the white curtains. She lay across the bed, eyes closed, legs curled up close to her body; to all outside observation, she was asleep. Every now and again the rib cage expanded, as air entered the lungs, and contracted as it was expelled. The movement seemed so perfectly natural, reflecting the rhythms of life itself. Slight twitches of her body suggested her imagination was working overtime in some dream, a movement of the shoulder here, a curl of the toes there.

She made no outward sign that she had sensed my entrance, but I knew her too well. Nothing would have been missed; it might have been the creak of the floorboard, the squeak of the door hinge or even the sound of my own breathing that alerted her, but her senses would have switched from passive to active mode. I walked slowly, quietly, towards the bed and stood over her, looking down at her ‘sleeping’ form. An eye half-opened, not in fright but inquisitively, as if to ask: “Yes?”

She felt me lowering my body onto the bed, quite close to her, but not so close as to touch her. This was familiar to her, this preamble of pleasure to come. The weight of my body moved the bed, altered the duvet cover, causing her to roll ever so slightly towards me; she looked at me directly, now with both eyes fully open, expectantly. I raised my hand, reached out towards her; she uttered a sound, the sound of anticipation. How long this moment lasted is hard to tell, this anticipation.

My hand touched her back, at first so gently as to hardly touch, but enough to convey the vaguest hint. A light brush along the line of the back, starting at the nape of the neck, one finger tracing the curvature of the vertebrae, down to the coccyx and beyond. She raised her head, arching to establish a firmer contact; my finger withdrew, teasing her to move. Her head began to turn, her eyes wanting to tell me how she felt. At the renewed contact of my finger, she returned to looking, through half-open eyes, out of the window. My hand touched. Light pressure down the spine, wider than before, more confident of its effect, down to the hips. I brought the other hand up to join the first, and began a hand-over-hand stroking, sometimes so feather light you could feel her body rise urgently to maintain the contact and the sensation, at times so firm and dominant that all she could do was make sounds of pure pleasure.

The sun caught the glistening body, highlighting the delicate shape and form that made up this sensuous creature. I massaged her neck, letting my fingers drift around the side of her face to caress her ears. I massaged her shoulders and was rewarded for my efforts by moans of delight. At some point, I was not quite sure when, she began to salivate with pleasure; Oh! such pleasure. She forced her belly into the duvet, allowing my hands to roam freely over the length and breadth of her body, but wary of any movement towards the extremely sensitive area of her tummy; maybe she is ticklish, I thought.

One could sense that she was happy for this massaging to continue ad infinitum, as with each caress she squirmed more, moving her body to meet the hands, and with each passage of the hands over her body emitting sounds of ecstasy, which seemed to rise and fall in pitch according to the pressure of the hands. But one might say nothing lasts for ever!! Eventually, beginning to tire of the exercise, she moved away, sat upright, teased some dirt from between her back paws with her tongue and jumped through the open window. Muffin was a fine looking cat.

 

So there you have it, a little tale for a mid-August weekend.

Richard 13^th August 2016

I saw a copy of the Newquay News online, dated 17^th July 2016, and read this rather seasonal piece:

 

“Strangers sighted in Cornwall” writes Timo Poldark, “Various people reported seeing strangers in north Cornwall this week: –

Petrol Pump Attendant Service Station A30. “Well, I remember the car, an old Saab, loaded to the gunnels with all sorts of clobber. Think I saw a Gaggia coffee machine on the back seat. Ironic really, on such a sunny warm day having a convertible …. without the roof down …..  but I suppose the boot was as full as the back seat! There’s nowt so queer as folk – particularly foreigners and to us in Cornwall that’s the rest of the inhabitants of the United Kingdom!!”

Local map showing Crantock and West Pentire to the west of Newquay

Naomi Property Manager Cormorant Cottage, West Pentire. “We’re into the busy holiday period and we get all sorts of families coming down to enjoy the north Cornwall beaches. This lot respected the check-in time so I had opportunity to get it 100% ……. and they left it pretty clean. You should see the state of the cottage after some people leave. Maybe they live in a pigsty at home ….. Oh! Don’t get me started.”

Waitress Bowgie Inn, West Pentire. “Almost two o’clock, Saturday, when the couple came in, ordered some soup and Ratatouille with rustic bread …..  started off at a table outside in the garden overlooking Crantock Bay, but changed their mind as it was a little cool …”

Owner Crantock Village store and post office. “We get them all down here during July and August and this chap came in offered a coupon for his Times newspaper and then his girlfriend came running up with a bag of salad and there was some discussion about whether his daughter wanted blue top or green top for the morning milk. I think they bought both. Not a particularly safe walk back to West Pentire as the road’s narrow and the hedges uncut, so visibility for everyone is poor Saw them most mornings that week.”

Brian – Dog Walker. “It’s a friendly village, Crantock, and that Saturday this couple came up out of the village with their newspaper and milk, with a red Labrador, on their way to West Pentire. We chatted, their first visit down here; I told them I came on holiday 40 years ago and stayed, never regretted it for a moment. The woman said she came from Brazil and was wrapped up against the cold ….but it was about 18C!!”

Crantock Beach

Tom Ocean Flow Yoga Newquay. “We had had a couple of telephone conversations and I’d booked them in a month ago, as my studio is very small. Two hot yoga classes, the Tuesday and Thursday if my memory serves me well. I love going to a different studio and having a change of scene and their email ‘thanks’ said they had had a couple of good sessions, so maybe I’ll see them back next year.”

Waiter Headland Hotel. “At this time of year the hotel gets pretty booked but we do get the occasional group come in for supper ……. providing they’ve made a reservation ….. but actually we always sit the hotel guests along the windows in the Terrace Restaurant so this foursome had to make do with an inner table. Must have been from London, as one of them complained about the cold main. It said “Sea Bass on a bed of olive and potato salad with spinach.” He thought the spinach should have been hot. London types huh!”

Renter of cottage next to Cormorant. “Being next to a family with two young exuberant boys was always going to be a bit noisy, especially as they loved the hot tub. Their mother was good in the evening, though, and the routine of ‘supper, bath and bed’ meant that peace descended by about 6.45pm!”

Hot Tub (An inanimate object) “I like being used and fortunately the son-in-law of the chap booking the cottage knew about items like me and paid extra for my services. Most days I warmed ‘em up, adults and the two boys, got my pressure hoses working well and changed the colour of my lightning regular. Oh! And I listened to the amusing conversations they had.”

Laura, gallery owner and artist, West Pentire. “I have a sign out on the track and people drift in and out throughout the day. Tall chap came in one day, showed interest in the pottery which a friend does, but showed no interest in my paintings. Didn’t buy anything but said he might come back; he didn’t!”

Margo, Red Labrador. “I’d met them at home some time ago so was pleased to see them after I was let out of my car cage in the new place. The garden needed at least 30 minutes of sniffing just to establish who had been here before, leaving their mark, so to speak. I took a real shine to her but he’s a bit bossy, always wanting to remind me who is top dog. And when my owners went out for supper leaving them here to baby sit, I was disappointed not to be able to sit beside the dinner table and look hungry and doleful ….. and believe me I can do that really really well. Didn’t wash at all and got sent to my box! But we had some nice walks and runs on the sand, particularly on Polly Joke beach, so I guess I should have be grateful”

Weathered rocks on Polly Joke beach

Sainsburys check out girl. “You get all sorts in here at this time of year, being the only good supermarket in Newquay. They were obviously staying at a cottage somewhere and bought a load of stuff, then thought they could get it into 4 bags and an insulated one for the Cornish ice cream, fish fingers and the frozen peas – I think they ended up with 9!”

‘Head-to-toe.’ “She wanted her nails done and they had been to the supermarket so he came in too. Nice couple, chatty and all, talked about the recent referendum and we told them you couldn’t get a house down here for all the foreigners so Cornwall voted to leave the EU.” (Ed: Despite having over £1billion in grants over the last 10 years as it’s a ‘deprived’ area)

Car Park Attendant Perranporth “ Overheard them saying what a strange place my town was, full of chavs and grockles, how they had seen the most amazing sights on the beach and how gorgeous the ice cream at ‘Smithy’s’, just around the corner, was.”

Exeter garage owner. “Seemed a bit lost …. not sure whether they wanted to buy something to eat for breakfast …… overheard the woman say ….. ‘good to have got through the roadworks on the A30 near Bodmin by leaving at 0630’.They did make a Costa coffee, grabbed a packet of biscuits and half a tank of petrol and left.”

So there you have it, observations of a couple down here in Cornwall, as seen by the locals. Next week I’ll be down at the Eden Project.   Timo”

 

Summer in the UK is always effected by the weather, a national obsession. We were really lucky and only had one brief shower in the whole week. Cool(ish) and the sea temperature did not encourage swimming …… but it was a good time away with my daughter and family.

 

Richard 26^th July 2016                                         richardyates24@gmail.com

 

 

My eyes are closed in meditation. “Empty your mind, let the thoughts that come just pass through, creating no judgment or comment.” More easier said than done huh? “As you breathe in, imagine the word ‘let’; as you breathe out, ‘go’”. Or we’re told to focus on ‘So ….. Hum’. (A Vedic mantra meaning “I am that” which can be inverted ‘hum …. so’ to mean “that I am.” in Sanskrit). Ten minutes and I open my eyes, look up …….. and take in the scene.

Twenty four people, four men and …… well you do the maths …. have come to southern Portugal for a week’s yoga retreat. Each for their own reason, each with their own but common goal, to do two sessions of yoga a day for six days. For those of you who have never got ‘into’ yoga, it’s never too late, you’re never too old.

 

 

The orange trees

Quinta Mimosa lies west of Faro in the Algarve, in the hills above the little town of Almancil. The 10 acre estate contains three separate houses and pools, connected by orchards containing orange, olive and almond trees; you could simply stroll into the rough grass and pluck an orange off a tree. You could swim in your own pool or take a taxi to the nearby beach. The spacious nature of the place ensures that it feels delightfully empty and we gather at yoga sessions rather like yachts on an offshore race, converging from various directions to round a mark on the course.

The studio is in the old stable block and its heritage is apparent. Large French doors on the south side, a reed-covered ceiling and tiled floor; hooks on the wall that used to take riding tackle now hang with props for Iyengar yoga practice. The occasional ant runs across the old tiled floor …. and you hope it doesn’t come in your direction as you lie is Savasna, ready for the next posture.

 

 

We are all so diverse in what we do, if you tried to describe us for a novel you wouldn’t get the group’s coincidental nature. The research biologist at UCL, an investment banker with Lloyds, two pairs of sisters, one from Walthamstow the other from London, a civil servant from the cabinet office, the blonde running a brand- awareness Internet business, a film editor for TV footage, the doctor running a health care trust, a nanny from Thailand, an Australian Chinese, a photographer, an accountant, an operations manager of a health care company, a French woman married to a Brit, a psychotherapist ….  some with children, some single with ages ranging from 29 to 58 (apart from the author!); all drawn to Portugal in June for a week’s stretching and breathing, to improve one’s practice and so one’s health and posture.

‘Ooommmmmmmm’ – the sound resonates through my chest, as we finish our hour and a half session and just let the breath out.

Food is as one might expect, vegetarian. Actually it’s simpler that way, rather than catering for the likes and dislikes, the allergies and fads, just platters of vegetables fruits, salads and cheeses. The local supermarket is visited by those who need wine or beer to complement the gorgeous food provided by Wendy and her helpers. The routine is yoga, brunch, ‘free time’, yoga, and then a well-deserved supper. We sit at a long table by a swimming pool, the warm sun setting over the hills to the north west. Conversation flows among us, one minute strangers, the next bonded by the power of a yoga practice.

Despite three different routers, the internet provision is poor. You might think this should not matter on a yoga retreat ….. but the majority of us are wired in to emails, digital newspapers, Whatsapp, and Facebook and, between the yoga sessions, you find little groups clustered around a hot spot like wives of miners on the news of a pit collapse or some such.

Ommmm

The common threads are yoga and Paul, our teacher. Students are from three London studios where Paul teaches and over the week we exchange our own experiences of this hot yoga and why we got into it! Interesting! Some are back for their second or third year such is the uniqueness of this week.

Paul recognises that there needs to be a little levity during our practice and introduces us to ‘earthquake’ when we suddenly have to drum our feet on the floor as quickly as possible. He also takes us on a ‘walking meditation’ reminiscent of Buddhist monks; we walk slowly, silently through the orchard and around a huge ancient gnarled olive tree, round and around. I sense that northern Europeans find ‘meditation’ a little too alternative, but after a daily 10 minutes before each yoga session one begins to understand not only its benefits but also the difficulty of clearing one’s mind of the chatter – monkey mind as some people think of it.

And so the week draws to a close and thoughts turn to the normality of our lives, so distinct from these glorious self-indulgent days. Back to work, back to families, back to children, back ……. home.

After each yoga session Paul had spoken the word ‘namaste’ … and we would respond ‘namaste’. Namaste is a gesture acknowledging the soul in one of us by the soul in the other. With his desire to keep the sessions lighthearted, at the end of one he simply said: “Namaste …… motherf**kers”.  I think we’ll all be back next year!

 

Richard 15^th July 2016                                                   richardyates24@gmail.com

 

 

Thoughts came tumbling into the empty space between my ears as we walked from the car park up to the Yoga studio with Debbie, a friend who ‘has chickens’. She was explaining that chickens liked to be kept clean and if they were cleaned out every day they appeared much happier. Not sure whether I have the expertise to determine if a chicken is happy; surely a chicken looks like a chicken whether it’s happy or not – or maybe it’s not the perceived happiness of the chicken that’s the issue here …. but how the owner thinks about them? I suggested a shower would keep them clean but not sure that chickens like showers. My thoughts immediately went to a damp dark cottage crowded in by large trees in an area of Scotland that doesn’t really look like Scotland. Er? Sorry?  Well, when someone says ‘Scotland’, I think of long sea lochs, of heather-covered mountains and craggy cliffs ….. and midges …… and rain and sun …. and just a wonderfully empty place with views in every direction. The Isle of Whithorn lies in the south west of the country and is characterised by rather poor farming ….. and has no mountains! The only view from this little run-down cottage was of trees.

My stepmother liked to keep chickens, all part of the grow-your-own culture that you embrace when you move off piste. My father had developed a love for growing vegetables and soft fruit ……. and would tell of the various crops and stuff he produced, over and over again. When my daughter was quite small we  went and spent a few days up north ….. a rare occasion but I felt the need to show my father how his first grandchild was growing up. She was particularly partial to a romper suit in pink and she was at that crawling stage that we all go through. The kitchen floor was next to a sort of pantry where the swill bucket was for the chickens…..

“Why did the chicken cross the road?” “To get to the other side, for some foul reason!”

I watched my stepmother go and feed the chickens from a galvanised iron bucket that contained the scraps from her cooking; it smelt of rotting food! She would scoop out a handful and throw it into one part of the hen coop, another into a different part until she was satisfied that they had enough. She probably checked for eggs and brought them into the kitchen ……… and then started preparing our supper. I know that a little dirt is good for keeping our immune system up to the mark but I watched with horror – she made no attempt to wash her hands, just carried on getting supper ready. Offering to help was always a no-no as she didn’t rate anyone else’s ability to cook in her kitchen. Memories fade but some remain as stark as the day they became etched on the memory card – the pink romper suit was never ever the same colour after a wipe on the kitchen floor and those fingers and nails – yuk! Chickens!

Perversely I have always loved chicken and its variants – do you remember how chicken was boiled until it fell apart, the broth becoming soup? Roast Chicken was a treat at a weekend ….. then cold chicken on Monday  ….. then chicken fricassee on Tuesday ……then soup I guess!

“What came first, the chicken or the egg?” It seems that the formation of egg shell relies on a protein found only in chicken ovaries. Therefore an egg can only exist if it’s been inside a chicken!!

Eating eggs is an acquired taste – as the yolk has a certain smell that some find unattractive but at 80 calories an egg and with 13g of protein, they are good for you. You can now buy only egg whites in our local supermarket, perfect for those who want an omelette without the yolks. We had a scare in the UK in 1988 when Edwina Currie, the Minister for Health, said: “Most of the egg production in this country sadly is now infested with salmonella.” – Sales of eggs went down 60% overnight and no one ate eggs for a while!!

As a single officer in the Army, I was accommodated in the Officers’ Mess, the centre of our social life (Mess? Well some chap’s rooms certainly were but the word originates from old French where mese meant a portion of food). We had three meals a day ….. and tea and toast at teatime …. all very civilised. There was always a choice of food but one lunchtime in the ‘70s I didn’t really fancy anything on offer. I asked the waiter who was cooking that day; “Corporal Matthews Sir” Well, I liked Corporal Matthews and asked that Corporal Mathews cook me an omelette. Well the said Matthews obviously took umbrage at my turning down the other dishes he had prepared …… and cooked me an omelette containing a dozen, yes 12, eggs. It arrived on a huge platter brought in by a waiter with a great smirk on his face. The challenge was obvious!

Not sure when it started but many years ago I started having three soft boiled eggs at breakfast – every day! I hasten to add that both my good and bad cholesterol are within the limits but admit that one egg provides enough cholesterol for 62% of my daily needs!! Bit of overkill maybe, but I certainly ‘go to work on an egg’!

So there you have it, some idle scribbles about chickens and eggs, neither of which you should count ……. or you’d probably get something on your face!! And of course I hope you find these scribbles better than the ‘Curate’s Egg’ and fortunately my grandmother’s not with us anymore so I can’t teach her to …..etcetera etcetera!

 Richard 3^rd July 2016 – richardyates24@gmail.com