Month: April 2015

Plymouth Bites (part three)

‘Plymouth Sound’ is the name of the wide inlet around which the city of Plymouth is built, and essentially the reason for the existence of the city. But why ‘sound’? why not ‘bay’ or ‘straits’ or ‘harbour’? ‘Sound’ is one of those words, like ‘fret’ (see entry for April 9th), that has multiple meanings, each of which adds to the richness of the word. Sound: not only a noise, both uttered, made, or occurring and usually heard (though Bishop Barclay had some doubts…); sound as a sense of wholeness and solidity (your reasoning is sound, the timber is sound); sound as in deep (I slept soundly); then there is sound, as in to ascertain, to sound out, to test, to probe – and, specifically it seems, in relation to sounding the depth of water using a line, pole or, more recently, sonar.

The reason for these differing uses comes from the fact that the word has several etymological origins: the Middle English soun, from Anglo-Norman French soun (noun), suner (verb), from Latin sonus (The form with -d was established in the 16th century); Middle English: from Old English gesund (healthy), of West Germanic origin; related to Dutch gezond and German gesund; Late Middle English: from Old French sonder, based on Latin sub- ‘below’ + unda ‘wave’

I had thought this last origin was the reason for the choice of word, being based on the need to navigate a safe passage through the waters forming this area of coast, but then I found a further possible meaning: ‘A narrow stretch of water forming an inlet or connecting two wider areas of water such as two seas or a sea and a lake. Another name for Øresund from the Middle English, in turn from Old Norse sund ‘swimming, strait’; related to swim’.

At first I was disappointed by this discovery. While this is most likely the reason, it seemed prosaic to name the place purely because of its geographical particulars. But then I thought, was it just because of this one definition? Perhaps whoever christened this stretch of water was well aware of the other meanings and it was a stroke of brilliance to use a name that could encompass so much.

I was having a final cigarette on my last night in Plymouth, listening to the sound of the lapping waters magnified by the sea mist, when the stillness was punctuated by the great boom of an invisible ship off the coast. In that moment the name for this stretch of water seemed to capture, not only all that the word ‘sound’ could have stood for at the time of its naming, but what it would become centuries later.

Reference: http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/sound

Surge – Thurs 15th April

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

‘The force that through the green fuse drives the flower’ (1934)
Dylan Thomas

Platform – Tues 14th April

“True, there are revolts against bourgeois ideology. This is what one generally calls the avant-garde. But these revolts are socially limited, they remain open to salvage. First, because they come from a small section of the bourgeoisie itself, from a minority group of artists and intellectuals, without public other than the class which they contest, and who remain dependent on its money in order to express themselves. Then, these revolts always get their inspiration from a very strongly made distinction between the ethically and the politically bourgeois: what the avant-garde contests is the bourgeois in art or morals–the shopkeeper, the Philistine, as in the heyday of Romanticism; but as for political contestation, there is none. What the avant-garde does not tolerate about the bourgeoisie is its language, not its status.”

(Roland Barthes: ‘Mythologies’, translated by Annette Lavers, Hill and Wang, New York, 1984)

And back again – Mon 13th April

The trouble with writing blogs, especially when you’re publishing things that have happened that day, is that you just don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. Having expounded several theories yesterday regarding why the birds have vanished…

Today I’m sitting drinking tea on the sea front in thick fog, the café is about to close, no tourists, indeed very few people at all saving those of us who seem to like standing on the beach in weird weather (what is it about fog? It’s like staring at nothing, but at the same time, the nothing is so clearly, palpably, something) and then there’s a pigeon by my feet, and then another, and then the family of crows arrives with a great chorus of croaks. So much for my observations then… only maybe they do keep a safe distance when there are too many people at the café, especially if one of them is waving a broom around. And it’s good to know that the birds are just biding their time in the certain knowledge that people are really only a transient phenomenon.

Missing! – Sun 12th April

I’ve been wondering where the birds at the café have all gone. The starling will have flown north but what about the wagtail, the crows, even the pigeons? Only a few seagulls remain (nothing is going to put them off, they own the beach). Is it because all the others had flown inland for the breeding period, maybe to find trees to build nests in? Is it because there are too many tourists around? After all, it’s the Easter school holidays still, the weather has been uncharacteristically good, and I too am finding it a bit of a shock seeing so many people around suddenly. Or…

There’s a new guy at the café. His seems to be a bit of a lowly job: collect plates, wipe the tables, do a bit of sweeping up, but all of these tasks he undertakes with creditable gusto. However, it seems he’s also decided the area needs to be a bird-free zone and he now patrols the café with a long-handled brush, swinging it wildly like a polo mallet while charging any hopeful avian that chooses to land anywhere near a plate (or anywhere else for that matter). Given there are a lot of tables and, because of the Easter break most of them are full, there is, therefore, a lot of rushing around going on.

I can understand this is done for the benefit of the customers. It’s not easy eating a plate of chips when your table is covered in pigeons, and they are pretty persistent (though its much more fun watching someone else grappling with the same problem, especially when they make the mistake of throwing a few scraps in the mistaken hope that it might appease these winged vacuum cleaners) but somehow the place isn’t the same without the birds. My only consolation is that, as far as having something to watch while drinking my tea, the spectacle of a maniac lunging at anything with feathers does seem to pass the time.

Shipwrecked – Sat 11th April

There was once an old sailor my grandfather knew
Who had so many things which he wanted to do
That, whenever he thought it was time to begin,
He couldn’t because of the state he was in.

He was shipwrecked, and lived on a island for weeks,
And he wanted a hat, and he wanted some breeks;
And he wanted some nets, or a line and some hooks
For the turtles and things which you read of in books.

And, thinking of this, he remembered a thing
Which he wanted (for water) and that was a spring;
And he thought that to talk to he’d look for, and keep
(If he found it) a goat, or some chickens and sheep.

Then, because of the weather, he wanted a hut
With a door (to come in by) which opened and shut
(With a jerk, which was useful if snakes were about),
And a very strong lock to keep savages out.

He began on the fish-hooks, and when he’d begun
He decided he couldn’t because of the sun.
So he knew what he ought to begin with, and that
Was to find, or to make, a large sun-stopping hat.

He was making the hat with some leaves from a tree,
When he thought, “I’m as hot as a body can be,
And I’ve nothing to take for my terrible thirst;
So I’ll look for a spring, and I’ll look for it first.”

Then he thought as he started, “Oh, dear and oh, dear!
I’ll be lonely tomorrow with nobody here!”
So he made in his note-book a couple of notes:
“I must first find some chickens” and “No, I mean goats.”

He had just seen a goat (which he knew by the shape)
When he thought, “But I must have a boat for escape.
But a boat means a sail, which means needles and thread;
So I’d better sit down and make needles instead.”

He began on a needle, but thought as he worked,
That, if this was an island where savages lurked,
Sitting safe in his hut he’d have nothing to fear,
Whereas now they might suddenly breathe in his ear!

So he thought of his hut … and he thought of his boat,
And his hat and his breeks, and his chickens and goat,
And the hooks (for his food) and the spring (for his thirst) …
But he never could think which he ought to do first.

And so in the end he did nothing at all,
But basked on the shingle wrapped up in a shawl.
And I think it was dreadful the way he behaved –
He did nothing but bask until he was saved!

(AA Milne, The Old Sailor)

Plymouth Bites (part two)

I’m sitting outside the café at Jennycliff. A poodle paces slowly into view. It’s one of those big black ones, coat not shaved but cropped close all over except its head which sports an outrageous quiff. The muzzle underneath this coiffure seems to be razor thin, beak-like. Dogs of course do not have arms, let alone hands, but the way it carries its ball in its jaws implies holding something at arm’s length, gracefully, but with a hint of distain, perhaps in the manner of a dowager aunt handling the sugar tongs.

After a few yards the poodle drops the ball and walks off. Shortly after, its master appears, picks up the ball and throws it a few feet away from where the dog is now standing. The dog walks over to the ball, looks at it, picks it up and drops it again on the same spot. This ritual is repeated a few more times and then the man, having picked up the ball once more, heads slowly uphill to the car park. After a while the dog follows, occasionally pausing to look at its master from beneath it’s towering bouffant.

–

There’s a woman talking to the bus driver. The conversation is involved and I assume she’s a relative. This exchange goes on for some time and every so often she makes a sort of lunge for something on the shelf below the windscreen. ‘Sort of’ because she seems to be reaching out but at the same time not able to touch it. At first I assume its because its out of reach and the bus is moving, but when the bus stops, this act of reaching/withdrawing continues. As the engine cuts out, I hear the conversation better:
“I’m telling you the truth!”
“I don’t care madam, there are rules”
“But it’s mine I tell you!”
“Then tell me what’s inside”
“That’s not the point”
“Madam you have to tell me what’s inside the bag so I know its yours”
“I don’t know what’s inside!”
“Then how do I know it’s your bag?”
“I’m not interested in the contents, they aren’t mine, but it’s my bag I tell you!”

–

It’s a beautiful day, sunlight bouncing off every surface under a hazy blue sky and I’m sitting on the balcony of my sister’s place. The view is across a small green by the banks of the Plym estuary towards Cattedown where a huge ship is being loaded. I hear someone shouting: “come here you bugger!” so I look down to the grass below and see a man, one hand encased in a plastic bag, chasing a bull terrier who is just keeping out of reach, always facing the man. Every time the man tries to get round behind the animal it turns to once again face him. The dog appears to have two stumpy tails, both of which seem to be wagging, one below the other. The man shouts: “oh that’s really disgusting!” I can’t help but agree, but I’m enjoying the spectacle as he makes another unsuccessful grab for the second tail with his polythene-gloved hand.

Shoreham Fret – Thurs 9th April

‘Fret’ is one of those interesting words with a number of very different meanings. There are the familiar definitions: to worry, both in terms of being worried, but also to ‘worry’ something else, the way a dog might worry a flock of sheep; the metal strips inlaid across the neck of certain types of stringed musical instruments; to adorn or form a pattern on, hence fretwork: the carving or cutting of panels of wood into elaborate shapes. But fret can also mean to eat, fray or corrode; agitate or ripple; an ornamental network (apparently, especially a medieval metallic or jewelled net for a woman’s headdress)…

And today I was reminded of a further meaning of the word as I headed out for a walk. The skies outside my window were a clear and piercing blue, but as I descended to the sea front, only about a mile away, the fog thickened until it enveloped everything in a white refractive glare. You see ‘fret’ is also the name for a particular kind of sea mist, one that Brighton is prone to during the spring and summer. It even has its own local name: the Shoreham Fret.

I’m sorry the word isn’t used much these days in this context, because the sound of the name is so perfect, encompassing the notion all at once of worrying the land, adorning it with tendrils of mist that curl across the ground, fraying the edges of things and dissolving all boundaries.

Plymouth Bites (part one)

The history of the Cornish Pasty is intimately linked to tin mining in Cornwall and Devon, one of the oldest industries of our shores, dating back beyond 2500 BC. The pasty itself evolved as a packed lunch for the miners; a nourishing and hearty meal of beef and root vegetables wrapped up in a pastry case to make them easier to carry down the pit. Also, given that the miners would have had to eat their food in dusty confined spaces and in complete darkness, having your dinner encased in an edible wrapping would have been vital. To get an idea of the importance of this for yourself, try eating your dinner blindfold while hunched up in a cupboard under the stairs (no tables or forks allowed either). For full effect, empty the contents of your vacuum cleaner bag into the space just before starting to eat. Dishes like Salade niçoise or Tagliatelle carbonara aren’t practical in these conditions.

Plymouth’s origins too are closely tied up with the tin mining industry. Plympton, now a district within the city, was one of the key ports for exporting the metal until the river Plym became so silted up with mining debris that it was no longer navigable and boats had to moor south of this original destination. This ecological disaster probably contributed to the development of Plymouth as a major port.

At the time of Christ, the tin mining industry was already venerable and there was significant trade between the south west of England and the Mediterranean countries as far as the Middle East. Indeed legend has it that Joseph of Arimathea, Jesus’ uncle, regularly visited these parts on business as a tin trader and that Jesus, while a boy, once accompanied him. William Blake’s poem (later the anthem): ‘Jerusalem’ celebrates this expedition and I like to think that, while not mentioned in any of the lines, our saviour and his uncle would have stopped off in Plympton for a pasty or two during their time here.

While the tin mining industry in the West Country has now collapsed, the pasty continues as a filling tribute to one of the earliest of British industries. Cornish Pasties are one of a select list of foods produced in the British Isles that have been awarded the status of protected designation of origin (like champagne but so much more satisfying) and justifiably so, you just can’t get a good one outside the region. Locally there are heated debates as to who makes the best ones and the competition between bakers is so fierce (there are even annual championships) that this ensures high standards. However, I was surprised to find that even the packaged ones are good. On a tipoff from the woman in the corner shop (who’d just sold out of hot ones) I tried out one from her fridge and indeed it turned out to be just as good as the freshly cooked versions. It therefore seems appropriate that I should begin my three-part journey through Plymouth with the label from this product.