I Must Go Down To The Sea Again…
My first few weeks in Weymouth are brim full of experiences, pleasures, delights and precious few disappointments.
Here I am, nestled away in the delightful village of Sutton Poyntz in a deep cleft in the chalk hills in the biblically named valley of the River Jordan. Behind me, to the north (for an old sea dog always looks towards the water!) is my mountain. In fact, my recent purchase of an Ordnance Survey map has revealed that it achieves only one quarter of the height needed to qualify as such. Believe me, when you climb it, as I do most mornings, it seems plenty high enough. I used to think the miles that I walked with Capone and Carla around Chichester Harbour meant I was fit but in Dorset there are hills!
To the south is the most stupendous view across Weymouth Bay to Portland. The Jurassic Coast tumbles away towards Lulworth. The monstrous cliffs of Portland join the town’s Esplanade along the great shingle isthmus that is Chesil Beach and the sky, usually blue, reminds me every minute that I must be close to paradise.
It is not always a peaceful scene and I look forward eagerly to some vicious winter storms. Last weekend, Portland was hosting its speed trials and, sure enough, a 40 knot wind was blowing across Chesil Beach. The wind and kite surfers sailing parallel to the road were clearly outstripping the cars and the breeze was very much more than brisk.
I parked up, released the beasts and we set off to walk west over the shingle spine. The wind was as fierce as any I have known. Carla whimpered. Capone struck on. I struggled. Chesil shingle is large pebbles, difficult to walk through and with the blast in our faces almost impossible. As my head peeped over the crest I remembered what real wind means. Reaching the top I could lean my whole weight into it and riding the gusts, stand like Kate Winslet at the sharp end of Titanic, supported on air, resplendent in space.
We stumbled down the far side, an awe inspiring sight before us. Eight foot monsters pounding down. Spray flying thirty feet high. The majesty of the ocean before us. The huge, roaring, raging, thundering of the shingle dragged back in the undertow. A lump in my throat, my tears mixing with the stinging spray. The overwhelming, compulsive, massive power of it. I am part of an island race. The salt must run in my veins because this is being alive. Nothing can be more complete, more absolute, more real. Time stands still while the incomparable terror and beauty of nature displays itself.
The walk back is much easier with a helping hand up the hill and in the lee of the shingle mountain the wind now feels gentle and modest. This is why I came to the ocean. This is what feeds my soul.
I remember more than 20 years ago standing on the north coast of the island of Iona with my four month old son in my arms and being similarly overcome. If this is what Weymouth offers me in the first month then i am here for life.
Today, it was blissfully calm. The sea at Bowleaze Cove was as flat as the millpond at Emsworth. Above a million feathers of high cirrus cloud, slightly below, scudding cotton wool puffs, dark at the edges, a Dali-esque caricature of a sky but real not surreal. This is my new home and I love it!
…And He Can Walk On Water
Or so Peter Mandelson would have us believe! Congratulations to him. If he can do it so can I. I can reprise him too. My first ever published article in the national press (The Independent) toyed with my confrontation with the man himself at the junction of Ledbury Road and Westbourne Grove. 
It must have been about 1994. I think around the time of his mortgage scandal. I was gently cycling southwards and as I crossed over this dishevelled, unshaven and grumpy looking character loped along the Westbourne Grove pavement and wanted to cross. The look he gave me when I didn’t give way was enough to freeze the blood of any parliamentary minion and only then did I realise who he was
My abiding memory is of his crumpled shorts – so crumpled. As if they’d been screwed up tight in his fist before beng worn.
And at the instant I think to myself “hasn’t he aged?”, I know the same must be true of me. He has done so with dignity and now looks more the statesman than the aggressive spin doctor.
All hail Peter! You’re back. And in fine fettle!
The Eagle Has Landed
I have now found my feet in Weymouth or, to be more accurate, the delightful, picturesque village of Sutton Poyntz – and what a place it is!
This is the view from the “mountain” behind my house. Any words are simply an injustice…
So this is my first post in weeks. At last my broadband is on and my office is beginning to come together.
Expect much more soon!
Gypsies, Tramps, Thieves And Estate Agents
The property market is, once again, difficult for everyone. In recent weeks we have even been asked to have some sympathy for that most despised group of parasites, estate agents – but I have none. Truth is that their “profession” is a necessary evil and in good times as in bad it is only those with some standards and, maybe, a little integrity that are worth dealing with.
In the past twelve months I have had comprehensive experience of the estate agents in and around Emsworth, Portsmouth and Chichester. There have been one or two who have been a pleasure to deal with, who have been professional, efficient and helpful. Others have been uninterested and disinterested, unethical, inefficient and some are little short of crooked.
First, the positive. There is one firm that shines out as example to all others – Henry Adams. I have not bought, sold, rented or let a single property from them but I have viewed many and I can truthfully say that every transaction has been smooth, easy and as it should be. If only I could say the same for the rest.
Borland & Bound of Emsworth, Charlotte and Alison in their lettings department are liars. If you stalk the internet property sites, as I know how to do, you can catch the new properties immediately they come to market. If you’re quick on the draw the truth becomes evident. Agents which pick and choose who they sell or let to and at what price. Whether it is their sister’s best friend’s cousin’s daughter or their next door neighbour’s husband who they share a bottle of cheap white wine with every Wednesday afternoon, there are dishonest people out there that you cannot rely on to deal with you properly. Borland & Bound told me for a week that they just couldn’t get hold of the landlord to arrange a viewing. 
Then I met another prospective tenant outside another property who told me that they’d viewed the Borland & Bound property the day before. Borland & Bound then told me they’d had a “bad” reference on me. I ask, from who, on what authority, when did I give you the information or source from which to take a reference? Is that the best bullshit you can come up with? I wonder what the truth is?
Then there was “Zone” of Chichester. What dreadful 1980s-type “brand” is that and can anyone take a firm with such a name seriously? I had to try to because some unsuspecting property owner who had exactly what I wanted in Bosham had made the mistake of hiring this firm and apparently causing it all sorts of problems. After all, business would be so much easier, wouldn’t it, if it wasn’t for those dreadful people we call customers?
It was so much trouble to arrange a viewing. Five or six telephone calls were never returned and eventually produced the reaction that “we might be able to arrange a viewing in a week or so”. “Please don’t pester us. You’re probably not the sort of tenant we want because you’d be on the phone all the time”.
Eventually a viewing was arranged but when I called to ask for directions I was told “I’m far too busy. Ask someone in the street”. Then surprise, surprise, “the landlord has a prior offer”, “the property is now off the market”.
It must be unpleasant to have to demean yourself, to lie, to cheat, to deceive but perhaps some of these estate agents enjoy their work. I can think of no other explanation.
Olympic Glory
If you haven’t been moved by our outstanding success in Beijing then you have a heart of stone. The commitment, dedication, pride and intensity demonstrated by our sportsmen and women is an example to us all – and that, of course, is the purpose of sport.
The most incisive fact behind all this is that in 1996 in Atlanta, Team GB won just one gold medal. In 1997 lottery funding started. Now, 11 years on, that investment has started to pay off and it seems self evident doesn’t it? Our superstars who are now leading the world, were then just beginning their interest in sport. We have provided proper funding and they are repaying us in gold.
If international sport can replace war and if sporting success can inspire individual success in business, in education, in science and in society then we have a model that deserves even greater support. In itself it justifies the lottery whatever concerns one may have about government sponsored gambling. Our sportsmen and women must now be guaranteed proper funding in future whatever source it comes from.
Wales Leads British Olympic Effort
So Nicole Cooke, carrying the Welsh Dragon high, cycles to a gold medal and sets the standard for the British Olympic team.
Meanwhile, at home, far too many people are adopting a cynical, world weary attitude. Shame on you!
Barbara Ellen, sexy new columnist at The Observer says “Call off 2012, Beijing Is Boring”. Well, she may be appreciable eye candy (useful for all those soirees columnists just have to attend) but she is resorting to the oldest trick in the journo’s book – if you can’t say something sensible then slag it off.
More disturbing is the pub talk, the man on the Clapham omnibus who also claims to be bored.
Listen killjoys, cynics, non-Welsh Brits, in a fortnight’s time there will be a tear welling up in your eye. You’ll want to and, undeservingly, will, feel part of it. Your patriotic spirit will be reborn and you’ll be screaming as the next British runner, cyclist or egg and spooner takes gold.
The Olympics are a wonderful, inspiring celebration of mankind. I remember them throughout my childhood and I am cheering for our boys and girls from the very beginning. The rest of you are welcome to the party however late you arrive.
Russia Invades Georgia
So just as they chose to invade Afghanistan on Christmas Day, the Russians have chosen to invade Georgia on the day the China Olympics open.
It is by no means certain why they choose such an occasion. Perhaps it is to draw attention to the event while the world has an international focus. It may actually serve to emphasise the message they are sending by this action. On the other hand, it may be that Moscow hopes our attentions are distracted by the Olympics and it will
be better able to get away with this sort of conduct now than at any other time.
Russia is asserting its might for its strategic interests in the same way as the USA does. There will be many innocent lives lost. There will be massively increased profits for Russian and Western arms manufacturers.
Ultimately Georgia’s destiny must be to be truly independent so Russia’s action can only fail and should be abandoned immediately. On the other hand there is much talk of agitation in the area by the USA, possibly CIA warmongering.
I fear the die is cast – thousands are going to die. Perhaps it will continue until November when Barrack Obama becomes President-elect and insists on peace.
The worry is that we are all playing with high stakes. Last year Georgia openly cooperated with the CIA to arrest a Russian trying to sell bomb-grade uranium…
Riz Lateef
Sorry, can’t resist this. It always used to send me into fits of giggles at my own stupid joke when I lived in London. I’d forgotten the lady existed until she was on the national news the other night…
She’s been nicking them skins again!!
Peter Reynolds 