A Letter from England February–March 2019

Put any two Englishmen together in a room, they say, and their first topic of conversation will be the weather. With good reason: English weather is so variable. A cynical remark, often repeated, refers to four seasons in one day.

It has to be said that February's weather is worthy of mention. Extreme it was; variable it was not. Town, villages and farmland the length of the country were inundated with once-in-a-century rainfall and flooding for the second or third time in a decade. Television news bulletins showed images of rivers that had lately been streets, lakes where crops were now drowning in their fields, islands where there once had been rolling countryside. In some places emergency flood defences succeeded in holding back the floodwater—flimsy metal frames festooned with blue plastic sheeting along river banks, sandbags stacked in doorways or dedicated permanent barriers installed after recent flood events. In other places they failed. They River Severn spilled over its banks in Shrewsbury, rendering the town a virtual island. 

In south Yorkshire the River Aire encroached upon untold acres of farmland and the unfortunate villages of Snaith, East Cowick and others. Chillingly, television images from these villages told a longer story. On the far horizon the grey cooling towers of Yorkshire’s Drax coal-fired power station loomed, ominously reminding us of the cause of it all.

February gave way to March. In like a lion, in keeping with the old adage, but now there was a new worry. The corona virus was finding its way across the world from China and had reached our shores. On March 5 it took its first English life, and it was clear that it would take many more. In common with other lands around the world, special measures were put in place. Pubs, restaurants and, eventually, schools closed. The old and vulnerable were advised to stay home for safety. The advice soon became an instruction, and extended to others. I need not elaborate. It will be a familiar scenario to all. The roads and streets are now empty of floodwater: and of people too.  

A Letter from England: January 2020

So the decision is made. On January 31 Brexit happens. After year of indecision and division the country seems to have found a consensus. 

Before December’s General Election we all seemed to be evenly divided on the matter. The result of the 1916 referendum—was it really so long ago—was almost an equal split 52% for and 48% against. What kind of Brexit did that imply? ‘Hard’ Brexit or ‘Soft’ Brexit? There was no consensus, and our politicians spent three years dithering. 

The population had become impatient. We needed a decision: one way or the other. Eventually we had a general election, and Boris Johnson was the only leader with a clear plan for Brexit. Others wanted another referendum, or to remain, or to continue dithering.

Of course Boris Johnson won—massively—and it will be his ideas that go forward. Everybody is glad that the uncertainty is over—even those who wanted to remain—and accept that we must all now work together to make the best of it.  The decision is made, so we must proceed.

There is still worry about a few matters. The difficulties with the Irish border will not be solved easily, and there is increasing pressure in Scotland for secession: in Scotland there was a majority for ‘remain’.

I hope now that Britain will stay friends with Europe, and that all our leaders will work towards a sensible deal. We don’t want to see previous mistakes repeated. The common fisheries policy has been very bad for Britain. Our fishing fleet has declined whilst Spanish and French ships have plundered our waters. That must change. There is a feeling that it was also a very bad idea to allow so many people from Eastern Europe to come here. They are nice people, but they have overwhelmed our schools, living accommodation and social services, and they accept lower wages so they take jobs from the indigenous population.

There is growing confidence that these important matters will be sensibly dealt with, and there is a growing determination to make a success of our new place in the world. There are certainly challenges ahead—hardships, possibly—but the country now seems to be ready to move forward.

 

A Letter from England: December 2019

At this time of year people in England, as elsewhere, focus on preparation for Christmas. There is much to do: choosing and wrapping gifts, planning the big feast on Christmas Day and, of course, the rituals of decorating our homes in celebration of the season.

For me, arranging the Christmas tree is an annual trip down memory lane. Every bauble has its own story which it re-tells as it is hung in its place: memories of holidays; of loved ones, some of whom are no longer with us; of the special events; of the way things used to be.

There is the big red star we got in the Quincy Market in Boston, the crystal angel from New York, the cute little girl on the toboggan from Ireland, the grotesque little Yule Lads from Iceland. It has been our habit to collect souvenir Christmas baubles whenever we take a holiday, and now they make a treasure trove of happy memories.

Little figures made of beads—Angels for Africa—made by a self-help group of ladies in Africa and sent one by one over the years by friends in Germany are dotted around our tree as are other gifts from friends: tiny musical instruments made of brass, a little snow storm scene, small wooden roundels with seasonal greetings.

There are little wooden lettered cubes chosen when our children were learning to read, little red wooden apples acquired whilst they were toddlers and special baubles chosen by them as they were growing up, and by us too.

As children we would help our parents to decorate the trees. Great care was called for; in those days the baubles were made of glass, and very fragile. Expensive, too—we didn’t have many. Yet a few survive: a little silvery bell that actually rings, a spiky clear glass star, and a glittery teardrop-shape with a coloured motif on the front.

Filling a tree needed more than these. I have memories of helping my mother to make little umbrellas out of pipe cleaners, crepe paper and cotton. Very affordable, very satisfying, and very effective. Sadly, none of those survive, but we do have a collection of little Christmas parcels made of foil paper and ribbon: very simple, very durable,very cheap. They still go on the tree, even though we can easily afford much fancier ornaments now. They remind is of the times when we were not so well-off, and that our plight of yesteryear is that of many folk right now.

The memories evoked in adorning our tree echo back to childhood, through good years and bad, recalling joy as well as sadness, and remind us to be grateful for the lives we have enjoyed.

Perhaps that is partly what Christmas is all about; reflecting on our lives and our place in the world, and on our interactions with our fellow men.

With that in mind, we send best wishes to all for a happy and peaceful Christmas and, of course, a prosperous New Year.

Time for a Party

Once in a while a touch of joy or sadness steps into every homestead: a wedding or a funeral.

Both events can bring a family together, if only for an hour or two. Whenever it happens the familiar cry rings out: ‘Why can’t we sometimes get together just for the sake of it?’ The thing is, family get-togethers are delightful, and ought to need no excuse. It used to happen every Christmas when I was a kid. I remember the whole clan gathering at Grandma and Granddad’s house: seven sons and a daughter with wives, girlfriends, children, sundry cousins and honorary aunts and uncles all squeezed into one house. Thirty in three rooms, yet there was a comfy seat for everyone, food and treats aplenty, and good company at every turn.

It didn’t last of course. Llittle by little uncles and aunts found other calls on their attention, and numbers depleted. Grandma and Granddad found themselves invited to several much smaller gatherings over the festive period which for them, I am sure, had its compensations. But the big gatherings became reserved for weddings and funerals. Sadly, in our family, the latter have outnumbered the former in recent times, so get-togethers have inevitably been tinged with sadness.

We did have a couple of grand reunions around the millennium. Twice we hired a village hall and made a big party of it. We mustered numbers of over eighty on both occasions.

There are fewer of us now but, by consensus, it is time for another.

So here we go. Next May. In Ashton-under-Lyne.

Anyone descended from or related to the late Frederick Thomas Langridge and Alice Jane (née Over) is included. DM me for details.

A Letter from England - November 2019

Dear Friends,

Just now people in England are much concerned with two related matters: a forthcoming general election and Brexit—the United Kingdom’s secession from the European Union.

The outcome of the referendum held on 23 June 2016 (to decide on our continued membership) was very close: 52% in favour of leaving to 48% against, with an unusually large turnout of 72%. One might have expected general acceptance of the result, and our politicians to have set about implementing the expressed will of the people. Alas, the reality has been otherwise.

The closeness of the result was one problem. If those who voted leave had travelled in coaches to vote, only one or two on each would have needed to change their mind for the outcome to have been quite the opposite. To complicate matters, the pattern of voting was not uniform across the Kingdom. Voters in Scotland and Northern Ireland preferred the remain option, the result provoking a renewal of the Scottish National campaign for secession from the United Kingdom, and fuelling unease in the nationalist community in Northern Ireland. Since the UK and Ireland joined the EU the border between them has been so open as to be merely notional for most purposes: a great benefit to both communities following decades of ‘the Troubles.’ A new ‘hard’ border is no welcome prospect. 

A further, and perhaps more challenging, problem was in interpreting the result of the referendum: What did ‘Brexit’ actually mean?  The terms ‘hard’ and ‘soft’ Brexit were bandied about to describe the various options, such as maintaining, or not, a customs union or a single market with the EU or making a clean break and building a new relationship from scratch with the EU. Those at the extreme ‘leave’ end of the spectrum of opinion declared that anything other than a ‘hard Brexit’ was no Brexit at all, and therefore the country had clearly chosen the hard variety, whilst it was clear that Members of Parliament who, whilst accepting the result of the referendum would have for the most part preferred to remain, did not accept this interpretation, declaring it to be potantially ruinous. 

The   first deal brought back to them by new Prime Minister Theresa May after negotiations with the EU was neither a fully hard deal nor a fully soft one. It was rejected repeatedly by MPs from both ends of the spectrum, and opinions were hardening all the time. At length Mrs May left office and a new Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, replaced her, promising to get the job done. He negotiated a modified deal which, although just approved by Parliament, brought new concerns which delayed its implementation—at which Mr Johnson called a General Election in the hope of increasing his majority and forcing the deal through.

After three-and-a-half years of delay here is much exasperation with the political establishment. To a large extent the usual political party loyalties appear to have been replaced by allegiances to the ‘leave’ or ‘remain’ camps. There are growing concerns about the nature of the Irish Border and indeed the future status of Northern Ireland, the prospect of Scottish secession, the possibilities for new trade deals and the outlook for British industry after Brexit. 

In all this it is surprising that no-one has bothered to ask those one or two coach passengers whether they have changed their mind yet. Perhaps we should.

A Letter form England: October 2019

This time of year sees an annual process that tears families apart: the departure of students to University. I remember tearful and desolate journeys home, having left my own children at their respective temples of Academia. Not only for their first terms, though those were undoubtedly the worst, but through following years as well.

For many young people it is their first substantial period away from home, and without the support of old friends. It is a time of trepidation and excitement, a time for making new friendships and a time of challenge. For parents, too, it is a time of great change and uncertainty. The thought that their children have now fled the family nest, perhaps permanently, is never a comfortable one, and there is always worry about how they will manage in their new surroundings.

Studies apart, the new students have much to prove, if not to learn. Parents hope they have done a good enough job of teaching how to budget and manage money, to cook and feed wisely, to behave and and interact socially in appropriate manner. Students are anxious to prove they can live independently, manage their own affairs, and assert themselves in new peer groups. Mercifully, most succeed surprisingly well, though there is comfort in knowing that support is there for those who find it all less easy.

First-time students are the most likely to find accommodation in Halls of Residence where, it is hoped, someone will keep a caring eye on things. Later, there is generally a move towards less institutional—and cheaper—housing, which can bring its own tribulations. I recall my own experiences of months in a house where one special room was kept eternally spick and span for the sole and exclusive purpose of allowing students to entertain visiting parents. The remainder of the establishment did not bear inspection. The kitchen was was such a disgusting mess that I suspect even the bacteria shied away. Not to worry; we all survived, and I know the place was in no way unique. Of the accommodation enjoyed by my own children, I know what we were shown, and it was better not to enquire too closely.

The purpose of it all though is clear enough, At the end of the day there is great satisfaction when expectations are realised, and parents suddenly realise that their children have grown up whilst they weren’t looking.

Missed Holiday

At this moment I should have been looking back on a splendid holiday in Italy. Instead I am following a regime of regular physiotherapy. I'm sure you will work it out for yourself: our vacation was cancelled at the last minute.
I got out of bed one morning with excruciating pain in the lower back and leg, and unable to stand for more than a couple of minutes. I spent a couple of weeks more or less flat on my back, popping prescription pain killers and being dutifully waited upon be my excellent family, but as our departure date grew near it was clear I wasn't going to be fit to travel, let alone pass a pleasant week walking around in the sunshine of Sorrento. Alas, memories of last year's visit will have to suffice.
That was when I completed two items on my tick list: the Roman sites of Pompeii and Herculaneum.
Mrs did not accompany me to Pompeii. Her mobility is now very poor, and she gets around with a mobility scooter. A little research had told us that the site would not suit her, though in truth I saw that a lot of work is under way to enable wheelchair access to some of the ruins. She might well have managed it, had she not elected to consume indecent quantities of ice cream on the Corso d'Italia instead.
As it was I was able to spend a very pleasant day wandering about (after an excellent guided tour) and enjoying the experience. In a whole day I did not see everything, so I was especially disappointed not to return this year. I have to say that Mrs could not have managed the half-hour train journey from Sorrento to the station outside Pompeii's main entrance. The carriages were packed and there was nowhere to store the scooter, even if she had been able to make it onto the train.
Herculaneum was a different matter. We hired a car and driver and we both went. It is a much easier site for access, and Mrs was able to trundle around the ruins relatively easily—even venturing onto an actual Roman road surface for a little while.
On reflection, that roadway was not much worse than the current ones in the side streets of Sorrento. Mrs was able to get around OK, but it was a bit of a bone shaker.
A planned trip along the Amalfi coast did not take place; we had hoped to rectify that this year. One of the spectacular sights to greet us as we travelled the coast route from Naples Airport to our hotel was a small fleet of Canadair water-bombers landing and taking off in the bay. The reason? A forest fire which caused the closure of the Amalfi coast road for most of our stay.
Getting to Sorrento with a mobility scooter was much easier than you might imagine. We flew with Jet2 whose assistance arrangements were faultless. We were able to drop our luggage the evening before the flight (we overnighted in the Crowne Plaza at Manchester Airport—and left our car there for the week) and presented ourselves at the assistance desk. We were condusted through security and to the aircraft where we were lifted aboard with an ambulift (an elevator mounted on the back of a truck) and the scooter was taken away to the hold. The reverse procedure got us to our taxi at Naples, and the whole programme was repeated on the reverse journey. An excellent experience. It's just a pity we didn't repeat it in 2019.
Well...  perhaps 2020?