Author Archive
Walking The Dog 12
We returned to lashings of ginger beer and a plateful of scrumptious ham sandwiches. That’s not the actual menu but as we had been struggling in Kimmeridge clay all morning, the Famous Five comparison felt right, particularly as we’d just had a huge adventure, even bigger than we’d expected!
It wasn’t the Famous Five that set off from Ringstead that morning but the Intrepid Three: Carla, Capone and me. We were set on continuing our Jurassic Coast walk and so drove to the end of the last episode – and the beginning of the next!
The White Nothe
We were heading for the White Nothe headland. It’s the tallest and furthest headland you can see from the top of our mountain above Sutton Poyntz.
We left Ringstead Bay but then cut back towards the beach and descended using the sort of steps that are just pegged shuttering into which the hill slides. Onto the beach and the dogs wanted to swim but there was no time for that. I planned to keep along the beach as far as possible and then climb up the fallen clay cliff before we reached the towering chalk cliffs of the the White Nothe itself.
So, at what seemed a sensible point, I turned away from the sea and started to pick my way up through the clumps of clay, each surmounted with a brush of coarse grass. Climb up further and there are vicious gorse bushes and and little trees with thorns like hardened steel. In some areas a raw wound of open clay has appeared where a minor landslip has taken place. This was almost real climbing, all the weight on the feet but still reaching up at head height and above for support.
The Burning Cliff
This, in fact, is the Burning Cliff. In 1826 a landslide uncovered deposits of gas and oil which caught fire and famously smouldered for about three years.
At last, at the very top, the thickest brush of all so, heroically, I rolled into it with my back and the dogs slipped through underneath me. Then a semi-tropical glade, completely enclosed by thorn and flower. A strange, even light and ferns of all sorts rooting in the carpet of leaves. We were trapped. The way back out was prickly and difficult. In every direction was more thorn and bramble. I swung at some branches to clear a path and I was cruelly shot in the eye by a sloe berry hurtling back towards me, an eclipse of the sun seared in my eyeball and I actually felt dizzy and slightly feint. Had she been there, George would have immediately volunteered to go for help.
No such rescue was open to us though. Forcing our way back out through the thorns I picked, slipped and slid a perilous path back to the beach. No option for it but to go back up the way we had come down. That was hard work too. We wearily resumed the footpath but when I saw that we had made exactly half a mile’s progress from our start, discretion proved the better part of valour and and we returned to the car.
Undaunted, undefeated and determined to reach our goal we returned this morning. Avoiding the pull of the sea and the beach itself we stuck to the path winding upwards through an area that reminds me of Fern Gully, near Ocho Rios in Jamaica where are there is supposed to be a greater variety of ferns than anywhere else on the planet. Here, now safely above the Burning Cliff, this area has a similar ambience.
Finally up onto moorland then close to the edge of some truly scary cliffs. This was “Vertigo City” for me and I was filled with that priomordial fear that at any moment I might flip, run and throw myself headlong into space. Concerned only as to who would look after the dogs, I restrained myself and we made the summit. There we sat and communed with nature until that intense moment of peace arrived. It comes very easily. You just sit, look around you and wait. The very moment you forget yourself it arrives.
So Carla and Capone scampered down the hillside with me in close pursuit. Another thrilling and exciting adventure completed! I wonder what will happen on our next visit!
Charles At 60: The Passionate Prince
This was a gem of a TV programme. I have always been a fan of our Prince Of Wales. I remember his investiture vividly as a major event in my childhood.
It is also worth saying that I am one of the silent majority who, I believe, as well as loving and admiring Charles also felt the same way about Diana. The two points of view are far from incompatible and Charles himself is the best example of this.
I was tempted to title this post “Supreme Intelligence” because that is how I would sum up what I saw. He is a man of great wisdom, insight, patience and vision. It was good to see his mother’s endorsement of him yesterday too.
One of the issues addressed in the programme was how, when he assumes the throne, he will be have to abandon his “hands on” involvement with issues. This, I believe, is wrong. In fact, this will be his contribution to the modern monarchy. He already treads a difficult tightrope between involvement and detachment. I believe he has the ability to continue to do so in a way that will be to the great benefit of our nation.
Watch it: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00fky55/Charles_at_60_the_Passionate_Prince/
No More Excuses In Haringey Or Downing Street
The story of Baby P is a national scandal of monstrous proportions. Appallingly handled by Gordon Brown in the House yesterday, even the silky, smooth Ed Balls cannot cover up the Prime Minister’s inability to deal with David Cameron’s questions. Closer though to the shameful failures that allowed this child to be tortured to death is Sharon Shoesmith, the Director of Children’s Services at Haringey. Putting aside for a couple of sentences the question of her culpability in Baby P’s death, we simply have no room for anyone who demonstrates such utter incompetence in communications. She must be dismissed immediately. No question of being allowed to resign. She must be sacked.
The full story: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7708398.stm
Walking The Dog 11
The lights on Portland are warming up orange in the distance. Everywhere there’s a gunmetal grey murk with a few billowing black threats. It is cold, chilling cold and the wind is biting and penetrating. This is the very nub of dusk and here we are back on the beach after a break of over a week.
It’s been a tough week, travelling everywhere, bad news about my Dad, a disastrous episode with my car. Saturday morning in the valley was a welcome relief. The ground was very very wet but the sun shone strong and as we hit the toughest part of the trek up the mountain a ginger blur up the near-vertical slope, the dogs in pursuit, the healthiest, most muscly fox I’ve ever seen. And on top, two bobbing, weaving white backsides of deer escaping towards Dorchester.
I’m in the little red Citroen loan car from The Cartshed, generously offered as “you’re welcome to put your dogs in there” and I knew I had an appropriate stick stored in the garden. Now I’m slipping and sliding down the grass bank to the beach while Capone and Carla tumble, fight and slither through the shingle to the water.
At high tide a three foot windblown chop is breaking 20 yards out but the undertow is ready to pull Capone 
right back under the next one. Once, twice, three times he is wiped out, thumped in the face and chest with icy white water. He ploughs on like a Chieftan tank, shaken but not stirred and reaches the stick at the very crest.
Around he comes, half drowned, half propelled by another wave, he disappears underneath a crashing cauldron of surf and then he’s back, Carla already grabbing the stick from him. His fierce but playful growl penetrates all of nature’s noise. They scamper away up the beach carrying the stick together and turn to the most satisfying tussle and chew while I give them a few moments to rest.
Carla is no fool and although I throw her a little twig while Capone is busy she frolicks into the shallowest surf but thinks better of it and turns back. It’s much more fun to wait for Capone to go in, do the work and intercept him on the way back.
Man Of The Match - Andy Powell
What more perfect end to a day when Wales have almost beaten the South Africans in Cardiff and shown enormous promise, invention and the usual courage.
In these conditions I have to be careful how much I push him because he would try and try, keep going back, ignoring the cold and the shortness of breath and the sucking, churning, remorseless waves. He tackles the surf like a second row forward and nothing stands in his way.
He wants nothing more than another chance. He would die for me in that seething, heaving water.
This connection with my animals, my countryside, my sea, my sky, my wind is my salvation. When we understand what matters, who matters, whatever happens, then contentment comes a little easier.
Life makes a little more sense.
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE – Bankers On The Run
It is infuriating to see them now scurrying and rushing to reduce their interest rates after the outcry at their dilatory and greedy response to the Bank Of England’s massive rate cut.
We are going to to have to drag the w**ker bankers every greasy step of the way to a place where they start behaving responsibly and fulfilling their obligations to us as major shareholders. We are going to have to watch their dishonest and deceitful efforts to snaffle huge bonuses, in shares if not cash, and we are going to have to treat them as the completely untrustworthy spivs that they are.
What is clear that some of them are already getting away with it because the government has been so weak in stipulating the conditions and “mechanisms”, as Gordon Brown put it, that will control their greed and thievery.
It is time to start naming names and for the work to be done that will uncover and expose those who have manipulated the system for their own ends.
The first candidate for the WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE poster is Bob Diamond of Barclays.
Bob Diamond, Barclays
It is generally agreed that he has spurned the government’s rescue package in favour of the Arabs so that he can hang on to his outrageous, undeserved multimillion pound bonus. I will be researching his record in more detail.
Please submit your nominations for WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE bankers with as much evidence as you can.
My Father
Last week my Father was told that he has many secondary cancers. If I could be half the man that he is… I am so proud to be his son.
Where Have All The Poppies Gone?
I had the misfortune to have to visit London briefly last week. I was thoroughly disheartened to see how few people in Hammersmith were wearing poppies.
They should be ashamed of themselves. More worrying though was just how difficult it was to buy one. Hardly any of the shops had them available. Even those that we should be able to rely on to show a responsible lead like Tescos and Sainsburys are letting down our heroes. None of the staff are wearing them. What is going on? Weymouth and Dorchester are doing much better and the BBC appears to make it a compulsory requirement – and that’s no bad thing.
London is a miserable place full of miserable, selfish people and it reminds me again how I have no enthusiasm for ever returning there. Tired of London? Yes, tired of death.
“Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”
— Samuel Johnson, 1777
Samuel Johnson
To someone living in 18th century Britain this famous quotation may have had some relevance After all, you could walk from the heart of the city into open countryside in little more than an hour.
Today, any man, with any intelligence, will spend only as little time in London as he has to, for today London is all about death.
The death of our children as they run wild, out of control, knifing, abusing and assaulting each other.
The death of liberty as we are watched and spied on relentlessly without proper cause by jobsworths and parasites.
The death of our culture as we have allowed minorities to create ghettoes that now overwhelm our indigenous communities.
The death of integrity as those who run our government and financial systems become ever more venal and corrupt.
Perhaps the only cause for hope in London is the bright light that is Boris Johnson. This apparent disinterest in the Poppy Appeal, this insult to our heroes really is the final straw for me. London has become a vile, oppressive hot bed of greed, violence and selfishness. I shall fiddle with delight while it burns.
The Heart And Soul Of London
A Billion Words For Barack
I have found it a little depressing to see the acres of newsprint and gigabytes of cyberspace dedicated to anticipating and welcoming the new President-Elect. As a writer it makes me feel I have to shout very, very loud to be heard at all. I am delighted to join in the party though because as many have said before me, whatever his specific policies I do believe he represents a sea change in politics. When will we have the first black British Prime Minister I wonder? His is an inspiring story and a beacon for the spirit of man. I hope that everything looks and feels just as positive in a year’s time.
Jonathan Ross, The Pratt And Incompetent BBC Management
I don’t want even to mention the other one’s name because he is and always has been a complete and utter pratt. His “brand” of entertainment appeals to the lowest common denominator and generally contributes to poorer standards of taste and behaviour. There can be no doubt that he should be removed permanently from the BBC and it would be better for us all if he was never seen or heard of again.
Jonathan Ross though is an entertainment genius. It is deeply disappointing that he has blundered like this but they say that genius is close to madness and participating in this has been insane.
The other one at least has the excuse of a spontaneous mistake. No such excuse can be proffered by the editorial staff who made the decision to broadcast the show even after Andrew Sachs refused permission.
The award for the worst, most incompetent and simply ludicrous behaviour though must go jointly to the Director General and the Chairman of the BBC. What utter stupidity they have demonstrated to flounder about doing nothing for days and days and then to impose these suspensions. This is not a mistake but premeditated idiocy.
We Will Remember Them
The Poppy Appeal is my charity of choice. Of course there are thousands of worthy charities and many cats homes that do good work as well but I believe that this is the one cause that deserves everyone’s full support.
I believe that I am of the generation that the heroes of the Second World War died for. My parents were children themselves at the time and it was for them and their future that our soldiers, sailors and airmen fought. I am that future and I owe an inestimable debt to everyone that fought, was injured or died to give me the freedom that I enjoy.
So give generously and wear your poppy with pride.
Peter Reynolds 