May the force be with you...

Had a few days socialising in Halifax, including seeing the new Star Wars film at the Vue multiplex cinema in town. It was… OK. It seems odd to be ambivalent about a film that cost $200 million to make, but in three weeks I will have forgotten all about it. I didn’t really care about the characters and the po-faced space politics: the good guys versus the totalitarian forces of darkness. There were a few lighter moments, thankfully…

New Year’s Eve: another midwinter ‘celebration’ I’m happy to sit out… It’s a countdown to nothing. I can’t see the point of celebrating an ‘event’ which has all the significance of watching your car’s mileometer tick over from 99,999 to 100,000. Hey, every day is new. And I’m unimpressed by the awarding of honours to successful people who, by definition, have been handsomely rewarded already…

No particular resolutions… though I hope to enlarge my portfolio of online photographs from 15,000 to 20,000 (won’t happen), and I want to get stuck into my book (will happen)…

Floodwater...

On a day like today it doesn’t really matter where I am. The rain continues to hammer down on the roof; it feels like it could rain till doomsday, though the weather forecast suggests that it will stop tomorrow. Just seen a video on the Guardian website, showing water rushing down Bridge Gate in Hebden Bridge. It brings back memories of the floods of 2004…

Sams...

Spent Christmas Eve in Hebden Bridge. I popped into my old local, where conversations seemed to revolve around what would be the main attraction the following day: turkey, goose, pheasant, pork or - this being Hebden Bridge - lentil soup. A few folk were rehearsing the arguments they would be having in a few hour’s time, once they’d been fortified by a few glasses of Bailieys. I had an early night…

Many years ago I got sick of the ludicrous excess that typifies the average Christmas Day, and I was equally sick of the sound of my own voice whining about it. So I would put my name down for a long shift at Samaritans on Christmas Day. It was always the right place to be, never wrong. It felt realistic to acknowledge that Christmas, for many people, was a particularly unhappy time of year. Lonely people felt even more isolated. People felt obliged to spend money they hadn’t got, putting themselves into debt for months. Closetted in a room for a few hours, with too much to eat, too much to drink and festive rubbish on TV, disfunctional families were liable to implode.

Callers didn’t have to plaster on a fake smile and pretend that everything was OK. They could say how they were really feeling. It may have been as cathartic for the volunteers as it was for the people on the other end of the phone. Christmas was generally a busy time at Samaritans. I felt I was doing something useful by being there, giving callers my undivided attention. The Samaritans branch in Halifax was warm and welcoming, and I didn’t mind the decorations, the tiny Christmas tree, the biscuits, the box of Quaity Street chocolates and the cards hung around the room… many of them from people thanking us for being there when they needed us.

If there’s really such a thing as the spirit of Christmas, I found it there. I wish I was there today…

Special...

Christmas is special. I’m not asked “where will you be?” with reference to any other day of the year, and the idea of spending the day doing nothing in particular seems, to some folk, like a crime against nature. We spend a small fortune, trying to make Christmas even more special, but where does all the money go? Presents, a meal and enough booze to sink a battleship. It’s a stressful few days, and, we suspect, if Christmas isn’t stressful then we can’t be doing it right. Everything has to be perfect, everyone must be happy; no wonder we fall short, when our expectations are so high…

Socialising...

I’m on day three of socialising; after excellent evenings out in Coventry and York, I’m heading for Scarborough.

Today is ‘Panic Saturday’, according to the Guardian’s website, with twelve million people expected to be looking for last-minute Christmas presents (and maybe bargains too, as some shops are starting their sales earlier and earlier. At this rate we’ll soon be starting the January sales in November). Feeling the compusion to buy something - anything - for every member of the family seems like an insanely stressful way to begin the holiday season...

Eating out...

I walk past most restaurants without wishing I was inside. Crisp white tablecloths, sparkling wine glasses, table napkins and hovering waiters do nothing for me except make me feel mildly uncomfortable. I don’t like formality, never have, never will. I don’t want deference from the people who serve me with food and drink… not least because I know I’ll have to pay for it. Anyway it’s always a pantomime of deference. The restaurant staff knows it means fuck all, except to justify higher prices; I know it means fuck all, and I don’t want to have to pretend that I’m flattered by the waiters’ attentiveness.

Posh restaurants create expectations, which fail to make the food taste any better. Even not-so-posh restaurants and gastropubs are getting in on the act these days. I don’t want to sample the wine; just pour it out (better yet, I’ll do it). I don’t want to be made to feel ‘special’ (I’ll be paying for that too). I don’t want the menu to be in a foreign language, and I don’t want to read a list of aspirational adjectives (‘natural’, ‘farm-fresh’, 'country', etc. I’ll be paying for them: a quid a time, I reckon. Has the chicken been ‘pan-fried’? Well, that’s ‘fried’, as far as I’m concerned. And 'oven-baked' is 'baked'). I don't to read a story about what I'm eating, and I don't need to know the name of the farmer who supplied it. Don't tell me the chicken's been 'corn-fed'. Don't tell me a sandwich has been 'hand-cut'. I can remember when 'artisan bread' was just 'bread'. Let's dispense with the florid, overblown lexicon of restaurant food (puffed up like the pastry pompadour on a beef-in-ale pie). I have a pretty good vocabulary for a man of my age, weight, height and disposition; don’t make me learn new words for no reason.

Don’t pile my food up into a tower; I used to do this when I was a child, and then I stopped. I want to eat the food, not dismantle it. Don’t put things in separate containers, so I have to dole them out onto my plate (chips don’t need to come in a metal pail or a miniature chip fryer. And they don’t need to be “cooked three times”. Has everyone been to the same food-serving seminars?). Don’t make eating a meal into a pointless chore. Don’t sprinkle the edges of the plate with white powder. It could be talcum powder for all I know, or care. I don’t want anything ‘drizzled’. Give me some food, on a plate (not a wooden trencher, note, or a piece of slate), then leave me alone. I don’t want to spend the last ten minutes of my meal speculating how much I should leave as a tip. And don’t give me a hot face flannel; that’s what sleeves are for.

This means that my ideal restaurant is a basic curry house in Bradford, where the curry comes in a chipped white bowl, with three chapattis and a glass of water (yes, downstairs at the Kashmir will do nicely). If you want cutlery, you have to ask for it. No-one will enquire how the meal was; you haven’t paid enough for these niceties, which is a relief. Hell, you know how it was. If it’s Madras, it’ll be quite hot; if it’s vindaloo, it’ll be very hot. If it’s a ‘meat’ curry, you can draw your own conclusions, or, better yet, no conclusions at all. If I’m in West Yorkshire, but not Bradford, then give me a portion of fish & chips & scraps (and maybe a pickled onion on the top). I’ll put the salt and vinegar on myself, thanks. Back in Yorkshire tomorrow, and one of my favourite chippies will be my first port of call. Mmmmm… I can smell newspaper soaked in vinegar - it's the English marinade - as I write…

Xmas...

It’ll be good to see the shortest day come and go. When the weather’s gloomy, as it is today, there are only about six hours of daylight. I can edit picture on dull days, but only if I’ve taken enough pictures to make it worthwhile to fire up the computer! At least I can always do some writing.

I’ve no real complaints: the weather may be dreary, but it’s mild, and I watch Christmas approaching with a puzzled detachment. It really does look like a collective neurosis. If the festivities increased the sum of human happiness - even slightly - I’d be all for them. But they don’t. I gave up Christmas nearly ten years ago, because it had gone too far. There were withdrawal symptoms, for a year or two, but they’ve all gone now. I have a packet of turkey and stuffing flavoured crisps; I’d eat them on Christmas Day if they weren’t past their sell-by date…

Fire at the Fleece...

The Fleece, Bretforton...

Just been watching a kite. It didn’t soar on stiff wings, like a buzzard; in a strong, buffetting wind it was constantly making tiny adjustments to wings and forked tail. The red kite was re-introduced, a few years ago, at many sites around the country (including familiar territory: Harewood House, near Leeds), and I’m amazed how well they have adapted to such varied terrain, not just the mountains of Wales. This suggests that their numbers declined through being hunted to near extinction, rather than any shortage of suitable habitats or sources of food…

Called in at one at my favourite pubs today: the Fleece Inn in the village of Bretforton. It’s got a special atmosphere, helped along by having an open fire in every room: very welcome on a wet day in December. I got permission to take some pix. A guy was sitting by the fire on one of the high-backed settles. He looked great, with his pint, like this was where he belonged. I asked if I could do some pix. “No”, he said, “I’m not supposed to be here”. Shame. But I got chatting to this elderly man, who had come, with family, to have a birthday lunch. I did a pic for them - in a group - and this one for me…

Burford...

“What will you do at Christmas?”, I’m asked. I don’t know. I don’t even know where I’ll be sleeping tonight!

A ‘weeper’ at the Tanfield tomb in the parish church, Burford, Oxfordshire. Such a direct gaze... across four centuries…

Hartley Wintney...

Enjoying some family time in Hartley Wintney, before heading north at the weekend.

A house, for sale. With Cumbria under water - again - I'm not convinced that 'Flood Cottage' is a name that will catch the eye of potential buyers...

Petersfield...

I stayed in Petersfield on Saturday night. The main streets were closed to traffic on Sunday, and were filled with Christmassy stalls. At one end of the hight street was a nativity petting zoo, with tiny goats, chickens, a shetland pony and a little fat pig, and two guys dressed up as shepherds. Next to it was a tent, with a sign inviting people to ‘come inside and pray’. A space had been left between these attractions and the rest of the market, in case all that ‘true spirit of Christmus’ stuff might infect the cheerful consumerism of the other stalls…

I liked the look of this shop in Alton...

Krishnamurti...

I’m driving to the Krishnamurti Foundation at Brockwood Park, near Alresford, Hampshire,

My first ‘meeting’ with Krishnamurti came many years ago - 1973, I think - while browsing in a bookshop. I picked up the Penguin Krishnamurti Reader, for no reason I can recall, and began reading. What I read must have had an instant, electrifying effect because when I left the bookshop I had two of Krishnamurti’s books under my arm.

Something spoke to me, in a very direct way. Krishnamurti seemed unflinchingly honest, almost confrontational, in his refusal to offer comforting platitudes or facile promises about ‘enlightenment’. Instead of giving answers, he asked the vital questions… and invited readers to engage with this spirit of enquiry. It semed revolutionary; I felt challenged, exhilarated. He dismissed organised religions - all of them - with an airy wave of the hand, along with their rituals and practices, threats and injunctions. He skewered the guru/pupil relationship too, stressing repeatedly that he wanted no followers. Even the things I didn’t understand - and there were plenty - seemed to have the ring of truth.

“Truth is a pathless land”, he insisted: such an elegant affirmation. Ten thousand words would not be enough to provide a precis of Krishnamurti’s teachings, yet, ironically, these five words do just that… illuminating that landscape like sunlight breaking through clouds.

I learned more about Krishnamurti and read more of his books; over two summers I attended the talks in the marquee at Brockwood Park. While the talks were as difficult - and uncompromising - as the books, I was glad to see the human face behind the words. I marvelled that a man of his age could talk, without notes, with such power and intensity. I recall his stillness, on those summer afternoons, as much as the words he said. I’m glad I made the effort to attend those gatherings; they left a lasting impression.

I hesitate to say that my understanding has increased over the years. Nevertheless, something must have permeated, through a kind of cultural osmosis (whenever I think I’ve written something particularly insightful, I Google it… only to find that Krishnamurti had written it fifty years ago!). Maybe this is the way his teachings should be absorbed… not through the intellect but by living with them, through them. His words are with me every day; I return again and again to the books and talks, on audio and video, and never fail to find something new.

Bosham Harbour... where King Canute failed to stop the tide...

Langstone Quay...

The Royal Oak is on Langstone Quay, which forms part of the extensive Chistester Harbour. Plenty of birds around this morning, at low tide, including redshank, greenshank, oystercatcher, turnstone, brent geese and a lone little egret. The sky is an unclouded blue, so I’ll hope to get plenty of pix today…

Royal Oak...

The Royal Oak is one of two waterside pubs, immediately north of the causeway to Hayling Island…

Bagpipes...

According to the sign, as I approached Eastbourne, this is is the ‘Sunshine Coast’: an empty promise, as the day is still overcast and gloomy. Still, I had two ‘firsts’. It was the first time I’d ever seen an ‘erotic book’ section in a charity shop - though the choice was limited to shades of grey - and the first time I’d ever heard a busker playing bagpipes. There’s an old definition of a gentleman: someone who knows how to play the bagpipes, but doesn’t.

I also found a fantastic second-hand bookshop, with books piled from floor to ceiling. The proprietor said it would be OK to take some photographs, so I’m going back, with camera and tripod…

Camilla's Bookshop, Eastbourne...