The Funeral

Richard

Monday saw a large group of family and friends coming together at Canley Crematorium in Coventry for the funeral of my brother, Richard. Funerals can be times for great sadness as we loudly weep for the one we have lost, or they may occasionally be raucous with cheering and laughter as people celebrate a great life. The funeral for Richard was quiet, dignified, almost solemn, as was the man. A complete contrast to me, he lived a quiet life, without great drama, and was spoken of as a peacemaker. His memorial too was quiet and pensive, and led to reflecting on how he had touched our lives rather than how he had changed the world, though he did have fame in entering the Guinesss Book of Records for visiting all the Anglican cathedrals in the UK and Northern Ireland. On the coffin, a large, framed photo showed him laughing, yet the Richard I remember rarely roared with laughter; rather, he had a quiet smile that reassured, and that was the brother I remember. With any death, we remember all the other people we have lost over the years. The greatest sadness is how little we tell the people we love what they mean to us while they are still with us; only with their loss do we reflect more deeply what lies behind the love, and how we ought to tell it while we have them with us. It would have meant so much to them. 

A good number came to the wake, for Richard was popular and well liked. It was held in a function room with a number of large, round tables but, as so often happens, our family divided into factions, the result of remarriage and the role of the step-parent. Annie ended up at one table with her immediate family, Edwin and Andre, while I was at a separate table with Peter, the children of my first marriage and their spouses and two of their children. Chris, now the new widow, was devastated and seemed to move in a trance, though she invited us out her for a coffee where we met Peter and his daughter, Laita, then back to her house for the afternoon. Her solicitor phoned while we were there, a reminder of the complexity that can follow a death; she wanted to talk of getting probate, the re-registration of the deeds of the house, and reassignment of powers of attorney. It was too much for me and Annie to take in, let alone poor Chris who was dutifully taking notes in the midst of her confusion and grief. 

Peter is a heavy smoker and drinker, five years younger than me, yet looks older but remains fit and healthy. He left the next day for Egypt where he likes to spend the long winter. He travels light with just a carrier bag containing a T-shirt, sandals, and underwear. Living is so cheap there he saves money living near a marina on the Red Sea, and buys anything he needs from the bazaars. He has always done what he wanted in life answering to no one, a complete contrast to Richard whose duty to his family and work was exemplary.

Annie does her best to give me a healthy diet and keep me going. She cooked a lovely piece of fish last night, but I had to take a knife to cut through the thick skin and found it difficult to chew, blaming my missing teeth.  As usual, it was totally my fault. I then noticed I had cut through the foil backing paper and was trying to chew that!

Naught for your comfort...

Living with cancer, the comments I received tended to wash over me, and I never thought too deeply about them. But with Richard's death, the internet is aflood with inane words of sympathy and encouragement, and suddenly they have swum into focus. The sort of comments we see are: Be positive! Oh I am, positive - positive I am going to die; and a favourite, more to Annie and me than for Richard's death, Keep making memories! Again, we do; we have multiple hospital visits and blood tests to look back on, for Annie always comes along to support me, or less frequently I have accompanied her for to her cardiac clinics.

Other comments are, You are very brave, as though I have much choice; perhaps the alternative might be to take to my bed and moan, Pity me, the wife and the wains, in the words of Annie's Glaswegian father. I am fortunate that there is not much pain with the cancer at the moment. and I am still mobile and independent, so it's easy to "be brave", but I know that could change in an instant. Believe me, if I start to get uncontrolled pain, the world will see little bravery in this soldier. I know what it feels like, is another remark gets under Annie's skin: "No you don't," is the response, unless you too have had seven years of being told your husband is living under a death cloud, yet somehow he is still here; we can make no long-term plans, or hopes for much of a future together. Another little hiccup, is a more true appraisal, but We are here for you! gets the rejoinder, "Yes, but you're 300 miles away!" 

Regular phrases that pop up are: It's not a good day; It's not the end of the line; No one knows when the end will come; Make every day count; We are so proud of you; There is always hope. Though well intentioned, these trite comments do not really bring comfort, except to the people making them, for there is little people can say who have not lived through it, who have not experienced the night-time dreams of lonely despair. This remains well suppressed in the day, when I live a cheerful everyday existence, but in the dark night of my deep being does this dread emerge; of treading a barren path through empty hills, or of inhabiting a large, once glorious, house whose walls are cracking and falling away, a house that is becoming a ruin even while it is occupied; or tracking through a cold, bare mountain pass on a road to nowhere. Know these dreams, and perhaps then you can truly say, I know your pain. For, in the words of Chesterton, 

I tell you naught for your comfort,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.

I have not chosen hymns; I suppose my conscious being doesn't like to face the inevitable end, but they will be expected. I like the opening to The St Matthew Passion, "Come, daughters of Zion, and weep!" More emotionally, I always feel a deep empathy to Berlioz Les nuits d'été, with their message of hope and love, finally turning to despair and inevitable loss in what is surely some of the most melancholic poetry written, yet set to incredible music that stirs the heart. For anyone looking for morbid songs, I cannot recommend them enough, with verses such as:

My beautiful friend is dead,

I shall weep always;

Under the tomb she has taken

My soul and my love.

To Heaven, without waiting for me,

She has returned;

The angel who took her

Did not want to take me.

How bitter is my fate!

Ah! Without love to sail on the sea!

Annie at least has firmly stated to Edwin she doesn't want The Lord is My Shepherd at her funeral, or she will come back to haunt him. Edwin's response was, "In that case, I will play it, so I can see you again." 

Putting up the tree

Britain has been battered by a series of storms, the latest of which hit yesterday with winds of 90+ miles per hour when it struck the west coast of Wales, but it seems a poor thing when we read of the hurricanes experienced abroad with winds of over 150. Certainly, walking between squalls in Clare Park yesterday it seemed little more than a bit breezy; my hat didn't blow off, and it wasn't even raining. 

While in Clare, I picked up the paper from outside the Co-Op and was about to go in to pay when a loose dog ran in front of me. I looked around wondering where it had come from, then realised it was my dog. For some mysterious reason the boot of the car had opened, so naturally Byron jumped out and ran up to me. Lucky he is such a good dog, or he might have run off in the traffic. He walked at heel back to the car, when I noticed I still had the paper in my hand. Luckily, I was not stopped for shoplifting as well as having a dog wandering the roads off his leash. The boot does not usually open itself, but I did once drive home with the boot open and both dogs in the back. Happily, when I realised, they were just sitting there looking bemused and wondering just what idiot they had for a master. 

Our Tree

After last weeks dispirited blog when they oncologists told me nothing more could be done (Hope was but a timid friend), I feel a more cheerful again. I do not know how long is left to me, and we did not ask, for last time they had said only twelve months, but I am still here two and a half years later, so I shall press on with life as though, as in childhood, we have for ever and will never die. I can't say I stride onward, for like all of us of a certain age, I have many little aches that pop up uninvited in unexpected places, but I will continue to limp forward and get on with what I may. Yesterday, in a spirit of festivity and hope, we put up our modest Christmas decorations. We only have a miniature tree these days that sits atop the bureau, but we are going to look for some suitable windfall small branches to make a display that Ann sprays with snow and glitter to complete the display. Not that many will see it; for even Mary-Anne and the girls will not come round on Christmas Day, as Mae will be covering Christmas dinner in the pub where she works part-time. She gets double pay at Christmas, as well as good tips, so is looking forward to a boost in her income.

Hope was but a timid friend -

Brandy at The Rose

The news yesterday was bleak. A junior registrar was tasked with telling us the two tumours were inoperable and nothing more could be done. He did his job professionally without emotion, with nothing in his voice or look to suggest sympathy or loss; unlike the maternity unit where a box of tissues was at hand when the news of Annie's miscarriage was given, we left dry eyed to take in the news of certain death, and walked out in silence. We stopped at The Rose in Cambridge on the way home, for drinks and a Thai meal, and let the future sink in. The barman greeted us, saying "I've only just come out of Addenbrooke's", and went into great detail about the complications of his hip replacement, requiring a second batch of cement after they'd reached the bone, and breaking the leg to lengthen it so he wouldn't walk with a tilt. I refrained from trumping his story by relating mine, by telling him I too had just come out of hospital, but they could do nothing for terminal cancer. The worst thing for us both is not the inevitability of the ending, which we have had to live with for seven years now, but the removal of hope, so ably summarised by Emily Brontë:

Hope - whose whisper would have given
Balm to all that frenzied pain -
Stretched her wings and soared to heaven;
Went- and ne'er returned again!

Many commentators seem to consider Emily's poem reflects a general loss of hope in the Victorian era. I disagree with this assessment; I believe her poetry to be deeply personal, and always to reflect Emily's own moods or beliefs, and I suggest this poem too must reflect a period when she felt deeply alone, with little to live for. Certainly it reads deeply personal to me: hope has always brought balm, but the message from the junior doctor underlines that she, hope, has finally fled, ne'er to return again! 

The registrar had explained our three options: "first, with the cancer now spread to two sites, one large and difficult to access without removing much of the lung, we do not recommend surgery. Second, we can reserve radiotherapy as an option to treat pain if they start to be troublesome or ulcerate. The third is to just leave it alone, and that is what we have to recommend in your case."

Without hope, suddenly the future has darkened, its light extinguished in a few words. The only uncertainty now is time, but that is the same position for every one of us, not knowing how long we've got. But it has changed my outlook in an instant. Yesterday, I was pontificating about world leaders, Trump and Borris; today, none of that matters. The world will roll on. Macron's government collapsing? European unity in disarray? Russia may bomb us all or cut all the undersea data links? Starmer continuing as a piss-artist? Miliband continuing to gurn his way into the Guiness Book of Records as Britain's silliest clown? All this will continue without my bemused commentary. 

Without hope, we are truly alone, and life suddenly seems very empty. Belief in God may give hope for a life to come, but it is the life here and now I have always enjoyed, and always lived with hope of more to come. Without hope, we wonder if any plans are worth making, for without hope, all is dark with nothing to illumine things to come, and we may only await external events beyond our control.

Predicting the future

 Politics is a dangerous area for the blogwritter to tread, for any view invariably falls between two contrary opinions, so I will try to avoid giving any opinion. Instead, I will venture two predictions. This too may be a vain venture, but if I am right, I shall have written evidence rather than the trite "I said that would happen", and if wrong they will be buried beneath the rolling seas of history. 

The first concerns Trump and Musk, two figures so far from my own modest circle I would normally barely notice them; but I can't help but be struck how two such massive egos have come together for mutual benefit. The only speculation here is how long the relationship will last. Both men are renown for using the law to attack their enemies: "Trump sues for billions from media he says is biased against him", says one headline, and "Trump has sworn he'll get revenge on a long list of enemies" is another. In the case of Musk, his love of litigation is legendary. He and his companies have filed at least 23 lawsuits in federal courts in the last twelve months. They have sued competitors, startups, law firms, watchdog groups, individuals, the state of California, federal agencies, and pop star Grimes, who is the mother of three of his children. Musk has been so legally aggressive that one judge decided his litigation was more about revenge than justice: “This case is about punishing the defendants for their speech,” the judge said. Two such self-centred, volatile, opinionated people will clash and when they do, there will be consequences. The relationship will explode, wrecking all who are too close; neither will win, for Trump will have all the power, and regards himself as a deity who sets the law; Musk has his billions and a massive popular following and will seek revenge in generating reams of avenging publicity. The only question, really, is how soon will it happen? Probably within a few months is my guess.

My second prediction, somewhat less certain, is about Boris. I have just completed his autobiography, Unleashed, which in fairness is a well-written and insightful account of his time in power as Mayor of London and Prime Minister, although inevitably somewhat biased towards his accomplishments and achievements while somewhat lacking in his failures. Notably lacking is any mention of his future direction; thoroughly enjoyed his time of power, and shows no wish to move on from politics, although the world of journalism remains wide open to him. The conservative party is beginning to increase in popularity, perhaps not surprising considering how low it had plunged, but at the moment it seems to be at the expense of labour. With the inexorable rise of the Reform party, especially if backed by money from Musk, its continuing rise will come from both parties, and the Torys' popularity will stall. Worse, from Johnson's point of view, there is no way they will want him back. I see his only avenue for political re-entry as through Reform, and I suspect in the next year or two, he may seek to join Reform as I way to rebuild his public reputation, perhaps by becoming a candidate for them to see what popularity he still draws. That should be an interesting future. 

On a more personal note, which this blog is supposed to be about, Annie and I meet the oncology team again at Addenbrookes this afternoon when they will discuss my options, and decide if I might be a candidate for further surgery or radiotherapy, or if they will simply wash their hands of me as they did two and a half years ago, when they told me I had less than twelve months to live and just to go away and die quietly (no, not in such blunt terms, obviously!) On this, I will make no prediction, but I will keep people posted. Incidentally, no one else seems to want to read Unleashed, but if readers know anyone who wants a very clean copy, I will pass it on.

Of Papworth and Paris

On Monday, whilst still dark at 6a.m., Andre came to take me into Papworth Hospital for the lung biopsy. He had been to Paris with his parents, only returning at 1a.m., yet was up again at five to collect me, as Annie is unable to drive at night. 

I gave my date of birth at the desk, and the receptionist said, "Oh, that's the same date as me!" Another patient overheard and said, "but not the same year. I too was born in 1942." I guess one in every 365 people must be born on 27th December, although the receptionist was the first person I have met to make the match; strangely, I calculated the odds of other people born in 1942 and they must be very similar: approximately 1:300. 

PET scan: metastasis
in the lung 

The radiologist came onto the ward to share her intimate pictures of my insides. She pointed out the area of the new tumour metastasis: a massive bright area of the lower lung, glowing in brilliant yellow and orange like the sun where the rapid metabolism of the cancer had avidly taken up the lion's share of the radioactive sugar tracer. "But unfortunately, we found a second metastasis," she added. Then, by way of compensation, she said, "but it's much smaller." She then showed a small, inconspicuous, yellow spot high on my back in the muscle layer. They then laid me down on the CT scanner on my abdomen and poked about for nearly an hour. The first biopsy, though to a much smaller target, was easily done in a few minutes, but unexpectedly, the second to a much larger target was more difficult. Initially, a trainee doctor was doing it, but after a few attempts with the senior consultant guiding him, she took over to complete the job; it was clearly not straightforward, and she too was a long time poking the long needle in and out until she was finally satisfied and a loud click announced she had taken the sample. The hospital keep the heating low, and I was shivering in just a flimsy hospital gown on the cold metal table, being constantly slid in and out of the scanner to check the position of the needle tip, although they threw a thin blanket over my legs. When they finished, I asked her outright, "what was the problem?" "It was its position," she said, "the diaphragm kept getting in the way every time you breathed."

Later, the check X-ray showed a small pneumothorax where air had escaped into the pleural space between the lung and the chest wall and I was kept for longer until a repeat X-ray confirmed it was not continuing to enlarge, so I was cleared to go home. It was well dark by this time, so again Annie could not collect me, so the taxi service was provided by Edwin.

Andre's parents will be with them all week. The boys brought them up from Heathrow; they had five large suitcases for Edwin's small car, so the parents had to sit in the back with a suitcase each on their knees. November is not a good time to bring older people from just south of the equator, where the summer temperature is 30C, to a snow-covered Suffolk, but they were so keen to visit and see Andre's and Edwin's house. They called in to visit us last week, and his mother sat wrapped in a blanket, saying she wanted to stay with us and abandon their cold, wet, Paris trip. She did of course actually go, and I think they will have enjoyed it: they saw Rome and Florence on their last European visit, and wanted Paris to complete the itinerary. They will be coming to stay with us tomorrow for one night, so we shall have a full house.

Death - the herald of change

He Is Gone…

He is gone, my gentle brother,

He who felt the sun upon him,

He who walked the fields in summer,

He who loved the green-treed pathways,

Over whom the birds soared skyward,

He is gone with summer’s end.

He is gone, the gentle father,

He who loved his grieving daughters,

He who loved them from their birthing

And who coddled them through childhood,

Loved them through the hours of darkness,

He has followed swallows’ flight.

He is gone: such quiet friendship,

He with care his garden tending, 

He who loved to walk with nature,

Driving through the rolling country.

He who lived a life so peaceful,

Gone to peace for evermore.

He is gone, the steadfast husband,

Through the years of tears and laughter,

Through the hours of quiet disaster,

Through the pain of grief shared with her,

Through sweet moments spent together,

With night’s darkness he is gone.

                                            JHM

Chris has phoned with the date for Richard's funeral, in mid-December. The death of my younger brother, barely three weeks ago, has induced an introspective depression and heralded more troubles, though mostly of my own making. As always, I know the pain for Chris and her family must be immense, yet like so many of us, I become self-centred even in the presence of death. Most recently, I had felt a rough edge on a tooth with food wedging. A visit to the dentist on Monday diagnosed a split lower molar, which now faces extraction. I am booked for this cruel procedure tomorrow morning. Having suffered the gruelling pain of a previous molar extraction, I do not welcome this news; I should not have vainly crunched hard nuts.

On Sunday, we went to a magnificent broadcast production of The Phantom of the Opera at the Abbeygate cinema, with the rare encore of five previous phantoms singing with Sarah Brightman in the presence of Andrew Lloyd Weber. Returning to the car, I had a parking ticket - the first for many years. Again my own fault - I had neglected to renew my disability badge in time (it takes up to 16 weeks to come through).

Now, in addition to the tooth, I am faced with a series of hospital visits to Papworth and Addenbrooke's following a PET scan last week. This was an impressive procedure where I was given a personal dose of highly radioactive glucose that arrived hot from Amersham in a huge steel syringe contained in a lead box. I was told not to go near pregnant women or children for a minimum of four hours, and avoid close contact with anyone on trains or buses. Once again, poor Annie had to suffer waiting in a chilling hospital cafeteria for nearly four hours for me to be done. That poor girl suffers much in her life, mainly through me: my decaying body, my actions, my thoughtlessness. 

Death is the herald of change. For some, the changes are unimaginable; for some, minor inconveniences, but always the ripples spread and disturb all they touch. Perhaps, if we get through all this, I will whisk Annie off to a glorious break away from here where she will be pampered and fussed for once. Alas, I can also imagine Annie rolling her eyes and saying, "very likely!"

Richard & Chris with Edwin

He is gone, my brother

 

Chris and Richard with Annie and me at Ed's Wedding. 2024

We have always been three brothers: myself, Richard in the middle, and the youngest, Peter. One episode of Still Game, the Glasgow sitcom centred round a group of old men, sees them in their local pub in the depths of a viciously cold winter, running a book on which of the group will die first. I do not know how common such thoughts are, but Annie and I too would sometimes run through the ever-shortening list of friends and relatives wondering which of us would be next. Richard was always placed last in the running order; he was rarely ill, had no major disease, never smoked, drank little, ate healthily, and took good, regular exercise. When Chis phoned early on Monday, 21st October, with her voice and tone conveying bad news, my immediate thought was one of her family was ill and she was phoning to excuse them from next day's planned visit; how very wrong was my assumption. 

Richard had complained of a slight headache in the evening so they'd retired at 10pm. In the night, he'd woken then lay still; Chris tried to rouse him, but he was already dead. The ambulance was called and resuscitation attempted, but finally abandoned. Chris was left alone to contact her daughters and then myself and Peter. The shock and the loss are immeasurable. They were in Barnstable celebrating his eightieth birthday only a few days ago, and he has been part of my life for the full eighty years. As children close in age, we did so much together and had such shared memories. Our meetings always tended to centre round those childhood memories, now silenced for ever. 

Clare Priory, In Memory of Richard

It is said that people only speak well of people at their death, saying all the things that should have been said while the person might have benefited from knowing how much they were loved and missed. This is especially true of Richard. Looking back now, I see a good man, a man who always placed himself unselfishly at the centre of his family, with total love for his children, grandchildren, and of course Chris herself. He was quiet; self-contained; a man I never heard shout or swear; a man who never spoke viciously or gave gossip; a man with a love of life and simple pleasure. Even under my tongue, which may have teased or sometimes even been cutting, he took no offence and was always ready to forgive. He lived as he always wanted, a man of peace, and there are few of whom we can say such. Goodnight my brother, and 'God Bless'. We miss you deeply.

The ups and downs of living with cancer

Monday was a strangely hectic day. For some weeks Ann had had a glaucoma test planned at the clinic in Bury, but just as we were about to leave the plumber phoned to say he'd got the valve he'd ordered and could come round to repair the system so we could have hot water again. We intended to go on to Edwin's house to water the plants and check all was well, so I said he could come after 3pm. Then the secretary at West Suffolk phoned to say I must have a blood test before my referral letter could be written; luckily there had been a cancelation and we could book a slot at lunch time. Then a red light came on in the car to warn that there was a puncture. I dropped Ann at Edwin's, went for my blood test, then went for a replacement tyre at one of the Bury tyre centres. Annoyingly, at was a screw through the edge of the tyre preventing them from simply repairing the puncture; exactly the same thing happened before, and that tyre was only two months old! By the time we got back, at was ten minutes after the plumber had been, so he had to return next day.

Ann enjoying her wine-tasting

Ann has received a complementary copy of a new book of poetry, Echos in the Sagebrush, by her cousin Betty in America, for which Ann had writtena review. The book includes a quote from Ann's review on the back cover, which is very gratifying. Edwin and Andre are enjoying wine-tasting at a South African vineyard, sending photos of the row of drinks laid out before them. Ann sent back a photo of her wine-tasting while she had her hair done at Kelly's. 

Having just taken the dog for a (longish) walk, completed another piece of work for Galen, and now listening to Bach's 48 Preludes and Fugues while typing this blog, it is hard to reconcile the peaceful and enjoyable life I lead with the deadly growth extending in the dark recesses of my lung. The consultant at West Suffolk clearly thought it might be worth attempting further heroic surgery to remove the beast and referred my to Papworth. However, the referral has now been batted back to the oncology team at Addenbrooke's for further assessment. This is the same team that told us over two years ago that I had less than twelve months to live. The cancer nurse phoned this afternoon whilst we were enjoying drinks in the warm October sunshine in the garden of the Swan to quiz me about my state of being, and whether I really want to go through the risk of a major operation. I suspect she may be a little narked that their gloomy prognosis has been demonstrably out, so I laid emphasis on my present good health, stressing that I am still living a full and active life with trips away, and hold hopes for a little longer to enjoy a semi-working retirement. She sounded doubtful but has promised to make a fast-track appointment with the full oncology team at Addenbrooke's Hospital next week. I am now awaiting that appointment and will keep this blog posted with their assessment. 

As usual, it is poor Ann who suffers more than I do through all this turmoil. In the absence of pain, I have a certain equanimity about things, taking setbacks as they come and living to enjoy the moment, but for Ann it is an unmerry-go-round of hope and despair, never knowing if I will still be here in three months' time. The uncertainties have gone on for seven years, causing us repeatedly to postpone the possibility of moving house and causing the loss of several big holidays abroad. We were planning to visit Brazil next year with Edwin and Andre to guide us, but again we may have to defer such a trip as we don't know what state my health will be in or if it will coincide with further hospitalisation. We will try to have a quiet week away next month to have a break from these worries.

The Enemy Returns

Several unexpected events jumped into our lives this week. First to happen, the hot water system went off, discovered when Ann came down from a tepid bath. Our plumber said a valve had failed; he has ordered a replacement but is yet to return to fit it, so we are using the inefficient immersion heater as a standby. 

Then early yesterday, I was woken at 4 a.m. by a loud crash from the wardrobe as Ann slept peacefully on. Having listened in case it was a burglar, my guess was a hanger had given way and some clothes had fallen down, so I went back to sleep. Later, Ann came to tell be the whole rail had collapsed; all her dresses were in a heap, so I was out early to buy a new rail and fittings as Ann sorted through and reduced her stock considerably, to the benefit of the charity shops.

Afternoon tea at the Swan, Lavenham

In the afternoon, we are in Lavenham for an afternoon tea at the Swan, a splendid Tudor coaching inn at the heart of England's most unspoilt medieval town. The tea is a treat for Ann's birthday from Richard and Chris; it is over four months since the birthday, but the long delay is ours: the gift card was sent on time but we have been busy, and anticipating our delayed gratification in this splendid dining hall. We are greeted by the maître-d' in his elegant suit and waistcoat, who informs us to proceed to the desk in the restaurant whence we will be shown our table. At the desk, I am greeted again and give our names; "Yes sir, I know", he said. Ann whispers to me, "it's the same man, idiot!". He had raced through the kitchen and popped up at his other desk before we reached it, but I hadn't noticed. This often happens in our lives: Ann is far more observant than I, especially when it comes to people. Perhaps it's a woman thing; Ann always says women make the best spies. Little seems to escape their eye, and Ann certainly always seems able to read my mind just from my expression or body language; nothing escapes her. No wonder some women used to be considered witches; they appear to possess the ability of second sight.

A phone call from the consultant's secretary to ask when I will be free to speak to him sets alarm bells  clanging ominously. Sure enough, he phones to say my recent scan shows a recurrent growth on one of the lungs. I wait to tell Edwin, hoping not to spoil their holiday in Africa, but conscience beats back caution, as we have always promised to not keep anything from him, so I say that a cyst has been found on the lung. He immediately replies, "how big is the tumour?", for like his mum, he has great insight into people and events. I tell him "six centimetres diameter." He sends sympathy, and a fine picture of wild penguins bathing off the rocks on Robben Island. He is now at Victoria Falls, where I note there are such wonders as the Elephant Walk, Rainbow Hotel, Lookout Cafe, The Three Monkeys Restaurant, and Shoestrings Backpackers' Lodge. It all sounds very American commercial. 

Strangely, despite the recurrence, I feel fine with the little pain controlled with paracetamol. True, I get breathless walking up slight hills, but on the straight it is more the pain in my feet and legs that limits me, rather than the lungs. The future is clearly uncertain (well, the timing I mean; the outcome is all too certain!), but I continue to enjoy life, write this blog, and do as much as I can in the world. One advantage now is that major events seem to pass me by as I ignore the looming world catastrophes, for I will probably not be around to see their outcome.

Happy 70th Birthday, Caludon Castle School

Yesterday was brother Richard's birthday, celebrated by him and Chris in Barnstaple. He was eighty, a significant milestone, and the date coincided with the 70th anniversary celebration of the opening of our old school, Caludon Castle in Coventry in September 1954. I was just 11, and therefore the first first-year student to stand at the great entrance above the school as a young 'scrubber', still in short trousers but with a new tie, blazer and school cap. Second-year boys were 'scrubbers', with the privilage of being able to grab a first year and 'scrub' him with a piece of coke on the furze at the back of the neck. The school was then all boys, with just six houses initially, all named for former knights of the castle: Morgan, Seagrave, Chester etc. As the other four houses opened, they gradually took the first two year's boys who then transferred to the more senior houses, but I was in Howard and stayed there right through to sixth form. Now, even the house names have changed to famous sports people; no one will remember the old punishments of general demeaning and caning; and it became fully co-ed after we left, with new possibilities for friendships and relationships that engenders, whereas I had no sisters, no cousins, nor aunts, and we didn't see girls until I left school at eighteen.

The head-teacher was Mr. Tilley, the figure of supreme authority who alway wore a red tie to boast his socialist beliefs. He used to teach a class of first-year boys each week, in a lesson colled 'lecturettes', whereby each boy chose someone to be his chairman and introduce a mini-lecture from the boy, on any subject he chose. In retrospect, what an amazing way for a headmaster to learn the names and personalities of every child who ever passed through the school.

We didn't come out of short trousers until we were thirteen - a great milestone for a young lad growing into manhood. I remember being very impressed on a pre-opening tour with my mum through the well-equipped labs, with separate physics, chemistry and biology sections. As befitted a school built to support a transition into the industry for which Coventry was famed, we had superb wood-working shops and a metal-working shop with heavy lathes, huge drills and presses, individual work benches, a welding section, and a full blacksmith's shop. I seem to remember the physics classes laid emphasis on water pressure and flow through pipes, and the mechanics classes included full calculations for beams, levers and stresses, no doubt to encourage the engineering students ready for the town's apprenticeships, but the school still taught Latin, a hangover from the teachers who transferred when the grammar schools closed and Coventry became an innovative educational centre for comprehensive schools. Most boys left at 15 or 16. To go into the sixth form was rare, and I think there were hardly ten of us staying on for 'A- levels'.   There cannot be many from that year left, who went through the whole school from the day it opened, so I don't wish to attend the reunion, for the whole school has changed and I will have little in common with those who attend.

Northern Lights over Hundon

There was an impressive display of Northern Lights last night - great sheets in red and blue. Ben told me he could see them in Telford, so I went out to look. They are very faint and require well dark-adapted eyes, but even to the naked eye the streaks and faint red glow were apparent. The camera has much greater sensitivity and can run an exposure, getting more light in. Even the stars are bright behind the lights. This morning remains clear, with a heavy, early Autumnal frost. Unfortunately, our heating system is misbehaving again, with no hot water. Our plumber has ordered a new valve, but it has failed to arrive, so we are using the inefficient and expensive immersion heater; happily the central heating still comes on, or we would be shivering in our beds. Winter heating is currently hitting the headlines with Labour's attack on the poorest and most vulnerable in society, so I feel great sympathy for people with no heating through poverty or neglect.

Edwin and Andre are in South Africa for their great holiday. We drove them down to Heathrow to wish them farewell; theirs was one of the last flights of the evening before the airport shuts to overnight flights as part of their attempt at noise abatement, so we ate late before tackling the motorway home in blistering rain. They have sent some fine views of Table Mountain, and visited Robben Island and the cell of Nelson Mandela. Later in the week, they have booked a safari, so we await pictures of some of Africa's iconic wildlife.  

Swaledale and the Eden Valley

Ann and Theo

 It is grandson Theo's birthday. With distant separation we see him rarely, but had several good days together in the summer at Lucy and Andy's cottage above Gunnerside (The End of a Great Holiday). Looking at that photo now brings back thoughts of that good time in Swaledale, and when we met at our rented house in Eden Valley below Kirkby Stephen. 

The owner thoughtfully sent me a book called The Shepherd's Life by James Rebanks, a wonderful, well-written account of managing the fell sheep and the land in which they exist by someone who spends his whole life there. To read at first hand of the harshness of deep winter snows and the duress of gathering sheep for winter feeds of hay, while recording the losses each year of favourite breeding stock that don't survive the winter, is an eye-opener and counterweight to the idyllic summer skies we were under. The fells are a beautiful landscape, but it is tough when the deep snow drifts block roads and doors. In Hundon in Suffolk, we have had but a handful of days when ice or flooding imprisoned us; but on the high moors, every winter brings entrapment when snow ploughs give priority to motorways and towns, and only tractors can get through on the high, narrow country lanes. Lying between the Cumbrian Mountains and the northern part of the Pennine Range, The Eden Valley is at the western-most end of Swaledale, criss-crossed with tiny, steep roads. We have hopes for a return visit in the New Year to witness the different winter scene, but will need a glowing, warm house to stay in and to stock up well with contingency food. 

Our gardening contacts have come to cut back the trees and clear out unwanted growth against our neighbour's garage, behind the oil tank where I cannot reach. Henry and Harry are young men, each with regular week jobs but keen to build a successful business, who always do a reliable job. Above the roof of the garage, Henry reports a hole in the tiled roof above the art studio, about an inch in diameter, though none of us can imagine how such a hole could have got there. When they leave, but I mount the ladder to fill it with glassfibre sheet and epoxy resin. These are still in the garage from our boating days, and have an expiry date of 2011, but they still seem sound and mix to the old familiar bonding paste. I will know if it is successful if I don't get a douche next time I'm painting.

On acquiring art

One of the pleasures when Ann and I ran our modest antiques stall in Clare was visiting the auctions and bidding for a miscellany of items. Books always seemed to do best, but art too generally sold well if not overpriced. Books were easiest to value, as they could usually be identified and dated online, and other copies might be for sale to suggest a retail price. Art, however, was much more tricky. Occasionally we got lucky; one picture, for instance, didn't strike immediately as impressive, and attracted little attention, then the auctioneer said, "Does no one want this fine example of Kiro?" My hand shot up and I secured a good picture for a few pounds which now hangs on our wall, though I admit I'd never heard of him. I think I was more sold on the auctioneer's speel.

Persian Market

On another occasion, we bought a large bundle of animal pictures in oil-on-canvas, again for a couple of pounds to save them from the auctioneer's bin. These were by a local artist, and I phoned her to say we'd just bought some of her pictures, and how much we liked them, though not mentioning I only bought them to resell. She said she had donated them to a charity shop to raise some money; the shop must have put them into the auction, where they didn't fetch much, but we priced them at £15 each; they were hugely popular and sold out within a few weeks. 

Another batch we bought as an assorted box; most were poor quality, but two caught my eye. The loupe clearly showed they were originals rather than prints, being opaque watercolour, ink and gold on silk; they looked like ancient Persian Art, so I had hopes that they were truly old and valuable. Edwin has a friend who is just starting to work in the British Museum art section. She wrote back with the incredible detail of a true professional, "Your artworks depict scenes in the manner of Persian/Safavid manuscript paintings, but the figures look noticeably different, particularly in their clothing and facial features.  It struck me though that in one of the artworks, three of the figures in the image are wearing the ‘taj’ - a cap with a tall, thin shaft that is seen in early Safavid paintings, during Shah Ismail’s reign (1501-1524), as the characteristic headdress of so many figures.  This continued during Shah Tahmāsp’s reign (1524-1576) with the addition of feathers.  But by the reign of Shah Abbas the Great (1587-1629), the headdresses lost the shaft, and the turbans became more elaborate.  So my guess is — the artist was trying to depict a Persian/Safavid scene and appropriated the Safavid 16th-century headdress."

Persian Camping Scene

She continues: "Tent and canopies, ornamented on the interior and exterior can be seen in 16th-century Safavid paintings.  A ravishingly idealised portrayal of a desert camp in a painting from a Haft Aurang by Jami demonstrates this point.  The complex pictorial structure is anchored by a half-dozen brilliantly decorated tents and canopies.   Reciting poetry during feasts, between hunts, was a favoured courtly entertainment." 

Alas, she concluded: "It is noteworthy that in 1555 the members of Shah Tahmasp’s court and his great amirs took an oath to renounce all acts forbidden in Islamic law.  The puritanical turn of the Shah’s mind also resulted in his releasing artists, musicians and poets from the court service.  Many of these artists, scribes and poets emigrated to India and served in the Mughal court. It is possible that the images in your artworks were produced by an artist in India who took inspiration from Persian manuscript paintings which were prized in India, particularly the Mughal emperors and members of their court in the 16th- and 17th- centuries." 

We have since discovered copies of prints on Google showing similar themes and compositions at modest prices, that probably were created in India. Our pictures seem to be low quality copies of copies, produced for the tourist market. Therefore our two, though still attractive and interesting, are unlikely to swell the inheritance sufficiently to add to the death duties.

 

The end of a great holiday

Ben and Luke up Helvellyn

 We returned from our two weeks break in Cumbria yesterday, a long seven hour drive though not so hard as the drive up, when both the M6 motorway to the west and the A1 Great North Road to the east were closed due to accidents.

The first week, sharing the house and the wonderful, warm Autumnal weather, were Edwin and Andre (see A Whimsical Return). Andre had been at the hospital with his eye infection for 12 hours, not returning till 4am once he'd been assessed, and had to return next day for an appointment with the ophthalmologist who was Brazilian, so they conducted the consultation in Portuguese. They finally left with instructions to attend for follow-up at West Suffolk Hospital. There, the referral letter was missing, so they had to repeat the whole performance just for a checkup.

The children enjoy the gardens

On Sunday, other family members came to share tea and the good weather; Matthew and Rosie with the two little ones, and Lucy and Andy with Theo. Ben and Luke also shared time with us; earlier they climbed locally to Mallerstang, a Celtic name meaning bare hill where we were staying, but with rain and a gale blowing. Yesterday on their last day, they tackled Helvellyn, the third highest peak in England before setting off on their own return. All in all, a very worthwhile two weeks, with the potential for a romantic retirement, if we can ever summon the energy.

A strange day in Lancashire

Brief Encounter, filmed in the war and released in 1945, is a much-loved Noel Coward classic filmed by David Lean, has become a British classic. Carnforth Station, where the major scenes were filmed, was only saved from the Beeching axe because of the film's fame, and we had intended to pay homage to the station on this trip to the Northwest. First off was to stop by the tearoom, famous for where Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard met and fell in love. Far from the stale, dried sandwiches of that era, we had delicious jacket potatoes and herbal teas served by unusually quiet staff. 

A small art and craft shop next door provided Ann with a new hat with a bright red rosette, in the style of the French revolution, but the man running it broke the news that the heritage centre was to be closed through lack of funding and increased costs of heating. The staff had only been told that morning that they had three weeks left, so that explained the gloomy atmosphere in the tearoom. We immediately went to the heritage centre, where they were so upset they were waiving the admission fee for the day, but there they were very talkative, sharing their disappointment at the lack of consultation. The exhibition was a mix of remarkable film memorabilia, including a full exhibition celebrating David Lean's work, and separate rooms of old railway exhibits. 

Sunderland Point, just past Carnforth. In the 16th Century, it was a small port serving slave ships from the West Indies and North America, but is now the burial site of a black cabin boy or slave on unconsecrated ground in a field near the small village. It is only accessible via a narrow road, which crosses a salt marsh and is cut off at high tide. We checked the tide table and noted high tide was not due for an hour, so decided to risk the crossing, but unfortunately lacked the time to explore of find the grave for already the water was lapping the edge of the roadway, so we turned round to retreat. As this picture shows, many people still remember the child and those dreadful times, now leaving painted stones in memorial.

Following our causeway adventure, we went on to Lancaster to see Glasson Dock on the opposite side of the River Lune, whose opening brought about the decline of Sunderland Point. The peninsular is approached by a small swing bridge over a lock, which was currently shut to allow a waiting craft to enter. We joined a queue of cars, and I got out to lean over the fencing and watch the locking in. The lower gate was closed, the water emptied, the lower gate opened, the boat entered, the gate closed again, and water allowed to refill the lock.  During all this, all the cars in front of ours had turned round and left, so Ann was left behind and had to get across to the driving seat to move up to the lock gate. Meanwhile, an Amazon driver who had been cursing at the delay decided to walk across the gate to do his delivery, rather than wait in the queue. He had an armful of parcels, and two or three slipped from his grip to fall on the narrow walkway over the water; he was lucky not to lose them in the water. Some minutes later he was back, one parcel still in his arms that he'd been unable to deliver. Gradually the boat before us, rising from level with the roadway to a height where we could see the hull. The lockkeeper, an old, grey-haired and bearded man, was winding up one of the sluice-gates when there was a sudden crack and rattle of a chain running out. He stooped and picked up a piece of ironwork and said, "it's broken!" The pawl had snapped off and the chain had disappeared, so he walked over to our window to announce the obvious: "The lock's broken; the bridge won't open." We were now the only car remaining, so I turned round, leaving the lock closed, and the ship still trapped between the gates and blocking the swingbridge from turning back.

 

A Whimsical Return

Two days ago  was the second anniversary of the day I was told by the oncologist at Addenbrooke's that I would be dead within twelve months. I have now survived five years since my first melanoma operation, and six years since my bladder carcinoma treatments. We are celebrating with a long holiday in Cumbria, enjoying lakes, sun and mountains in an old farm cottage near Kirkby Stephen. It is a bit of an extravagance, but with Kier Starmer newly named the "Grannie Harmer", we feel there's no point in conserving our savings too tightly. This government will either tax them away, of take them from us at death so no one will inherit much anyway, so we might as well spend our savings while we can enjoy them and give pleasure to others. 

Returning the sheep

The cottage is accessed up a footpath and behind a gate, which the owners emphasised must be kept closed to keep the animals out. We stayed in a similar place in Western Ireland once, and the woman told us to "keep the gate closed to keep the darkies out". We were bemused until we realised, with her heavy Cork accent, she'd said "keep the donkeys out". Yesterday, Ann went out to open our gate and suddenly noticed a herd of sheep in a pen by the footpath had nudged open their own gate and were now trotting down to the road. I banged on the door of a caravan in the field and told a distrusting shepherd - who seemed to think we must have tampered with his gate - that his sheep had forced their way out and were now down to the road. He went to his barn, came out on a quadbike with his old collie on the back, and set off in pursuit. Sure enough they were all heading back in a few minutes, neat as a show trial.

We now enter Autumn, a mellow season with warm skies and days still long enough to enjoy before the chill sets in. I chose to remember summer with a fresh painting for Ann, a solitary sunflower she was given as part of a bunch of flowers. It now lights a dark corner of our hall. 

The End of Summer

It has been a glorious week of Indian Summer, with exceptionally high temperatures, clear blue skies, and no wind. We have made the most of this unseasonal weather, with long walks and outdoor pub lunches. I even managed to walk to the Ribblehead Viaduct, nearly two miles in total, the furthest I have walked since my pre-cancer days. This clear, pure Cumbrian air is clearly doing me good.

Edwin and Andre are staying in the cottage for a few days, but today Edwin shot off first thing to buy his new Apple phone, insisting he gets it the day it's released. He looked up the nearest Apple centre to Kirkby Stephen and it was either Leeds or Gateshead. Andre unfortunately has developed an eye infection and is resting in the cottage, so Ann had to leave early on an unexpected side visit to Metroland. 

A story from Suffolk Trade Centre

My model of Jaguar is based on the Land Rover SUV model with a heavy chassis, four-wheel drive, and a Land Rover 2 litre diesel engine that chuggs along. It is built like a tank, and with the car lock broken, as hard to get into. This is a common problem on this model, but very difficult to fix oneself. It still has some warrenty on it, but the garage that sold it to me said, "Oh, that's a simple problem to fix. It'll be the door lock. You just have to phone the RAC under their scheme and they'll sort it out."

Eventually I got through to the RAC who gave me the number of a local garage that they use. I explained the problem, they said they were busy, so gave me a booking in two week's time. Early on that day, I duly did so having woken Ann early so she could pick me up. Three days later, I phoned them to ask if it had been done yet. "Yes, you can come to collect it," they said, but when I got there, it turned out that all they had done was diagnose the problem (a broken door lock). Now they were waiting for the RAC to respond to authorise the repair, which they explained could take some time, before a further delay while they got the part and booked it in again. 

Driving a featureless, basic tank with a broken door was not what I expected after my previous experience of Jags as luxurious cars with every feature imaginable, so we were already considering changing it. Because of this enforced delay in repair, I went to our local garage (Suffolk Trade Centre). The two men who run it, Trevor and Duncan, we have known for many years and have always trusted them. I explained the problem, and Duncan immediately said, "the solenoid breaks in the door lock. It needs a new lock. There's been a lot of delays in getting new Jaguar parts now, but I think they have a stock of locks. Would you like me to order one?" 

Then Trevor cut in, saying "how much do you want for the Jaguar? We'll buy it from you as it is." We negotiated a price, I checked with Ann, then said "yes please." 

When he took the car for a test drive later, he jiggled the lock half-a-dozen times, and it suddenly started working. "I wish I'd know that," I commented, "you'd better sell it quick."

"No, we won't do that," Trevor explained. "It might be bought by a customer who lives a long way away. We'd then have to loan them a vehicle and bring it back. It would cost us much more than to fix it." A wonderful example of genuine concern for the customer, combined with self-interest. 

Yesterday, we took the car into Trevor. As we talked, a police car drew up on the road outside, a policewoman got out and started talking to a man who had been running along the road but now appeared to be sitting under the hedge. They talked for some time before the man suddenly turned into the garage, knocked at the door, and asked in a heavy foreign accent to fill his water bottles. He was short, lean, breathless and sweating, and poorly dressed for running with an old, hooded anorac and heavy shoes. Trevor said, "Of course you can, mate. Are you alright?" then led him to the sink. The policewoman continued standing by the car watching him until he went back to her with his water and was put in the back of the police car.

Trevor wondered if he was an escaped prisoner from the high-security High Point prison, two miles down the road, then told the story from some time ago when he was watching the world cup on the television in their reception room. At half-time he went to the toilet, which was then outside, to find a man sitting there but still fully dressed, who explained apologetically that he just needed time to get his thoughts together. Trevor invited him to rest inside over a cup of tea, and they watched the second half together. Trevor had had a bet on the match, which he won, so at the final whistle he was leaping up and down cheering, with the stranger joining in with evident good humour. But suddenly, the man left abruptly without saying thank you or even goodbye.

His suspicions aroused, Trevor checked on the High Point Facebook page, and there was a picture of the man, an escaped prisoner. In this case however, even as we were sitting there, the police car came back, the two policewomen came in and explained he wasn't an escapee, but if he appeared again, to let them know. So it was an eventful day full of excitement, as well as selling our car. Now I am carless, so we just need to find a new one.

Animal antics

Memorial to a cat

 Clare Country Park has many memorial benches, several trees with plaques, some adorned with ribbons or little toys if to young children, but this is the first I have seen to any animal - and this to a cat! I remember Alby well, named for his albino colouring. He was a large cat with a nonchalant air who strolled the grounds as though they were his private estate. He would lie stretched out in the sun, disdainfully eying any dogs and daring them to take him on. Once, he strolled past Bronte's nose, proudly bearing his whiskers and swishing his tail provoking Bronte to chase him. He reached the great chestnut, scrambled up, they lay on a branch over the dog's head, and I could swear he looked disappointed that Bronte, well trained as she was, completely ignored him.

Byron, as mentioned before, generally returns from his walk with a new ball he's found. The recent one is bright blue and orange with a squeaker. He loves to chew it in the garden, and the squeaker warbles like a bird, its pitch constantly varying according to the pressure of his teeth. In the hedgerow, a blackbird sang with remarkably similar notes; it would sing then pause for Byron to reply, and they went on with this courtship duet for many minutes.

My car, a solid, heavy diesel Jag, has developed a fault. Our granddaughter Mae asked us to pick her up from Clare, with a friend who lives in Stradishall. They slid into the backseats fine, and at Stadishall the friend opened a magnificent sliding iron gate without getting out of the car, using her phone. Then outside her house, the back door wouldn't open. They had to slide across the seats to the other side. It now seems well jammed closed, but thankfully still has a bit of warranty on it, so I've had to take it into Haverhill this morning. I hoped to do it myself, but am reluctant to fiddle with Jaguar trim, and online it says this is a common problem but very difficult to mend. Some videos suggest they have to smash the lock out and buy a completely new one, so I'm glad I didn't attempt it.

The Traitors - a moral for our age

Like many others, I watched The Traitors unfold week by week on BBC television, a game set in a remote Scottish castle where a small group of anonymous traitors are set to beat their fellow contestants to win the pot of gold. Throughout the series, two characters defined the game: Harry, a worldly soldier the arch-villain and Molly, a beautiful, young, enigmatic girl, the faithful friend. As now widely known, in the final episode Molly is betrayed by her friend and loses him, the game, and the gold. The emotions in the final scene were raw, distressing and all too real, and have left me disturbed. But how can two people on a television game show generate such deep emotions? 

For me, this final episode is symbolic of the times in which we live, and touch a deep subconscious awareness of the troubling morality plaguing the world, where duplicitous self-interest and greed win over trusting innocence and naivety. To the world at large, Harry is extolled as a hero who wins by knifing everyone else, while Molly is attracting a crowd of vicious-tongued, anonymous critics on social media, for the simple act of trusting and believing another person. 

Molly and Harry together personify, through the characters they portrayed on The Traitors, and the deep psychological divisions within each one of us. Even in their private lives, they show a major divergence. Molly has a stoma, a severe disability at any age, yet she has overcome this with huge strength, and now has a passion for inclusive representation as a model with disabilities. Harry is hugely fit and able-bodied, with all his needs provided for in the army. 

We are all a conflicting combination of faithful or traitor, good and bad, virtue and evil. It is the balance between both characters that define our own being and behaviour. As people, they both are a balance of these characteristics as we all are, but this, I feel, is why the episode was so disturbing. It reflects a far deeper, Jungian archetypal psychology, to the extent that Molly and Harry have become subconscious icons on a par with the fundamental archetypes of Greek tragedy.  Harry reflects the morals of our age, where in politics and business we see corruption and deceit triumph over Molly, who reflects compassion, loyalty, faithfulness and integrity. These are the two fundamental agencies of humanity, and are the basis, not just of stories or myths, but our own deeper personalities. This is why the episode affected me so deeply, and continues to haunt me.

Colin and Ann

How much this contrasts with our weekend in Luxembourg to attend a funeral of a wonderful role-model of selflessness. Ann Buckland was the wife of my best friend Colin (who died during the Covid pandemic). She had gone for a long walk as she often did, but did not return by nightfall. Her son, Tom, flew out and helped organise a massive search effort, but in vain. Her daughter, Sarah, then tried to retrace the route her mother might have taken, from the evidence of her known walks and where the dogs on the search had led the party. She continued walking, stopping at each junction to reason which way her mother might have turned. Finally, it was Sarah who discovered the body, miles from home, and in deep woodland where Ann had probably become disorientated as it grew dark. Colin, I have already talked about following his death (see Memorial Service for Colin) in 2020. Both were completely honest, trustworthy, and unselfish, doing so much for the community and for the people they met. I had known Tom and Sarah as babies after Ann's marriage, and to meet again was very moving and brought back so many memories of a wonderful couple and two very dear friends. They very much reflected the good in life, supported by their deep faith in something more than themselves.