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. 

The Service is Resumed

Writing a blog is hard work. Not just the time spent on writing, but also the mental drain of having to think, and trying to generate coherant chunks of clear prose from vague, nebulous thoughts. For the few readers I seemed to have, mostly family, it hardly seemed worth the effort, so the blog ceased for this long while, until I recieved an unexpected email from an unknown reader who describes herself as "a passionate advocate for cancer awareness and support".

She has asked me to promote a site for cancer support: Resources for Cancer Survivors. This led me to revisit the blog, and I suddenly found a good number of comments (mostly positive!) which for some reason the site had not forwarded to me, and I have now added them manually to the various articles. So appologies, if you, dear reader, had contributed a comment and been ignored! It was not intentional. One reader, for instance, commented: "Its been awhile since you last posted, Jhon. Is everything alright? I love reading your blog and although I have been just a silent viewer for much time I cannot help but feel the need to check in right now. Best wishes." I did not realise I still had an audience; yet last month, even with no new posts, I seem to have had 688 visitors, and over time nearly 60,000 reads of my blogs. I am encoaraged therefore to try and write a little more.

The unknown person who asked me to promote  Resources for Cancer Survivors made me think about support generally for people who suffer. With my usual suspicions about unexpected emails asking me to click on a site, I naturally checked it through very carefully before clicking blindly, but the site is genuine, though situated on the website of Mystic Meg. I suspect she must get many questions from people affected by cancer as much as by problems in their love life, though for the young the problems of love can be every bit as painful. 

Nobody in this life has a pain-free existence, whether physical or mental - we all experience suffering in some form, and at some time. The question then is, where do people turn for support? For some, no doubt, it may be Mystic Meg, or the Tarot, or other suppliers of words of universal or vague comfort. For many, it may be family or friends, and if you have such support (as I do), be very grateful, and don't forget that they in turn will need your support: be not slow to provide it. Some may turn to vengeance, seeking to alleviate their pain by transferring it to those they believe were its cause. Others turn to religion, seeking balm from silent prayer or mesmerising clapping or chanting. That is good, and should not be despised by empty agnosticism that may offer no solace. Whatever one's belief in the reality or otherwise of faith, I do believe that there would be fewer suicides of these desperate, lonely, people could join some group offering support, be it of prayer or simple words of comfort.

For myself, I seem to be in remission at the moment. At the last scan, the melanoma had stopped spreading and even seemed to have regressed a little. I do have good family support, for which I thank them. I also know a lot of people were praying for me in their various homes and churches, and I thank them too. But I was also started on a new treatment for atopic dermatitis a year ago, and I suspect this may have had unexpected beneficial effects too. I have therefore written a paper on this drug, and enlisted the support of my dermatologist who has agreed to add his name to it. We hope to get it published next year, possibly in the British Journal of Dermatology, in the hope that it may mark a new option in the management of metastatic melanoma. I will keep the blog posted about any progress with this.

Andre and Edwin in the choir

On a more cheerful note, we trogged north through the snow at the beginning of the month to visit family members. I try to make it in daylight now as I don't like driving at night, but it's good to still be able to make the journey. Then on Sunday, we went to a carol service at the Methodist church in Bury-St-Edmunds, where Andre is choirmaster and Edwin sang a tenor role. Afterwards, they treated us to a welcome, warming Indian meal.

Celebrations and consternations

Ann on the roof terrace of the Thames House

 Again, we oscillate between good news and bad. Dan and Faye have looked after a house on the Thames during the owners' absence, and on Thursday they invited us to stay for a night. Cardinals Wharf on Bankside sits between the new Globe theatre and the Tate Modern. It is a house of three stories plus a basement and a roof top terrace, where we enjoyed tea in the sun overlooking the Millenium Bridge and St Pauls Cathedral, while watching curious passers-by walking along the embankment. The house is very old, and has survived the blitz and massive redevelopment over the centuries across the rest of London. The basement is on the site of an old inn where it is said that Shakespeare may have trod the same flagstones after his stints treading the boards of the original Globe.

Welcoming the grandchildren

Then on Saturday we welcomed a good crowd of thirty plus to our "Heave awa'" party, celebrating my survival twelve months after the oncologists pronounced that I only had a year to live. Mind you, sometimes it has seemed touch and go, especially with the pains I now get, possibly from gall bladder inflammation, but they're controlled with good pain killers. Ann too continues to get breathless and coughs badly with her heart failure, but we're hopeful that it will be controlled once she gets some treatment. The doctors' repeated strikes do not help.

Today, Bronte is ill. She has a massive swelling in her abdomen about which the vets can do little, and she too is on Metacom, the canine equivalent of ibuprofen. She has had periodic diarrhoea and incontinence for some time, but today she has lost her appetite and been repeatedly sick. We will take her to the vets again tomorrow and let them decide her fate. Then, to add to our problems, both cars have developed a fault in sympathy with each other. The windscreen wipers on Ann's car have become erratic, stopping mid-wipe and leaving us blinded by the rain and wondering when they will restart, so I dare not risk a dirty motorway journey with them. And today, a warning light has come on in the Teguan, which our garage man diagnoses as a glow plug failure; these are things that pre-heat the fuel before the engine will start, so as we don't want to end up stranded miles from anywhere, I may need to get it fixed urgently.