Feb 1st - Life in Lincs

It occurs to me, that while I send you these letters, misleadingly entitled - ‘Letters From Lincs’, they contain very little about actual life in Lincs. I should change that. This letter is about the life I have experienced since April. Today, Sunday January 27th, is as good a place as any to start. Last night’s torrential, window-hammering rain has washed away every last vestige of snow and ice and today is sparkly bright, and, according to weathermen, milder than of late. Breeziness was forecast but in looking at the trees in my garden, it didn’t seem that bad, resulting in a walk into Moulton, a charming little village two miles from here. Worth a butcher’s, I thought.

Setting off, armed with only a camera, I took the back way into Moulton; a route to make John Denver wistful - country roads - nothing but flat fields in any direction.

 

 As there are no pavements, it took my superpowers of ninja alertness and nimbleness to survive the truckers coming and going from the nearby veg packing plant and busy Sunday drivers, ever-eager and over-eager to be somewhere else. In the moments not dedicated to survival, I managed to get some photos of newly-ploughed fields, experimenting with textures, lines of furrows and reflections in puddles. These photos are small. Click on any one to get a bigger presentation.

  In the distance, I was surprised to see 50 or so sheep grazing. You may ask “Why surprised? Sheep in fields - what’s so unusual about that?” Well, very few fields here have grass. Mostly, they grew daffs in the Spring, then pumpkins, sprouts and cabbages through the Summer and into late Autumn. It seems the sheep were there now to graze on the stumps of harvested crops, trading that for fertilizer. How’s that for green credentials and reducing waste? I suppose to a sheep, fresh cabbage or sprout stalks and unwanted leaves are a welcome change from grass. A bit like us drinking St. Miguel instead of Watney’s Red Barrel when we go on holiday. A change is as good as a rest.

Entering Moulton by the back door was a bit of a surprise, as you’d expect. This is the view;

a tiny village green, a church and a working windmill. The Grade 1 listed windmill is staffed by friendly, pleasant and chatty volunteers.

For the pensioner rate of £2.95, I got a one-and-a-half-hour personal tour and was astonished at how much there is to know about flour. The Homepride flour graders always seemed a pleasant-enough bunch, well-mannered and cheerful, but I never appreciated what a technical, complex and scientific job they had. Having the engineering explained to me in lay terms, once again, I was in awe of the minds that gave us the Industrial Revolution. This mill was built towards the end of that period, thereby benefitting from the preceding 60 years of world-changing leaps in engineering. For instance, there is a big cog (about four metres in diameter), that is key to the system for transferring energy from the sails to the stone grinding wheels. The cog’s teeth are made from applewood so that when worn or broken, they can be knocked out and replaced individually. So much simpler, quicker and cheaper than replacing the whole cog. Clever eh?

In all, I spent about four hours out and about, strolling, taking pictures of whatever caught my fancy, hearing about how a windmill works and learning a little about the area. Turns out that they stopped growing tulips here a few years back and while still sporting a flower festival with a gazillion tulips, they’re all imported. Years of trying to meditate and empty my mind, paid off at last. Pleasantly relaxed, after hours of nothing but a wash of light information, I left Moulton with mind unencumbered, and a ravenous camera. I had discovered Enlightenment, by way of a house name …

As with many of you, I'm guessing, the Christmas period saw a decline in exercise and an escalation in eating. Not only too much but probably also seeking comfort with nose in the Indulgence end of the trough. Consequently, new weight and the full moon aspect to the tum brought sadness and self-rebuke.

Past letters have spoken of gym membership. At one point, worth every penny of the modest fee, but lately, largely a cloud of good intentions. At the sudden, almost overnight appearance of half a stone cutting off cliff-top views of my feet, alarm bells rang. Consequently, rather sulkily and with ill-grace, I am ashamed to say, I've started attending the gym once more.

You may remember that my exercise strategy at that time (June?), was based on the then new fad the ‘Three minutes a week’ approach. That comprises employing a steady pace on any piece of equipment (to loosen up), then three 20 second bursts of going at it like a rabbit, to get the pulse racing; not unlike the short stokes in the days of rumpy-pumpy, back in the mists of time.

Do that three times a week and you can see from the maths, it equates to three minutes of Flat Out, Full On, Give It Your All - per week, recommended again today on Breakfast TV. It now has an official name resulting in an unfortunate acronym - Short High Intensity Training (true). The plan is to immerse myself in Short, High-Intensity Training - until my shape and weight are less of a disappointment. Let’s hope that fragrance is unaffected.

I left Sainsbury’s today, via the small corridor for exiting the newer stores. In this tight walkway, littered with chairs and trolleys of  boxes supposedly for your convenience, which in reality reduces an already small gap even further, I was confronted by an old chap pushing his wife in a wheelchair, towards me against the flow (possibly to the toilets - which was all that lay in that direction). Disappointingly, people leaving pushed past them with little or no regard for her wheelchair or his saint-like patience as he waited. Facing them, catching his eye and smiling, I moved to one side, into the gangway of a closed till. Given a gap, he started to move forward but stopped immediately, as the bloke behind me overtook me to take advantage of the new gap and push past, apparently, not even seeing the wheelchair. The words of the great philosopher Jar-Jar Binks came to mind - “How wude.” I almost gave him a look.

We live in a world of ego-centricity where that contemptible American attitude of 'Look after Number 1', has been adopted so eagerly by the British culture, where showing consideration to others (once a mark of ‘British’ good manners), is now so rare and so unnatural, that it is viewed with suspicion or at best, as today, missed completely.

That man’s self-centred rudeness must be accepted for the shallow, thoughtless act that it was. The discouragement it carries is no reason to give up. Any act of consideration will have an effect - albeit small. Persistence must prevail. "He who saves one life, saves the world (one step at a time)". This is wisdom from The Talmud, adapted for Ripper Street. Wisdom is everywhere, even on ITV.

In travelling back to Essex, I used to use the satnav. Nowadays, having done the trip so many times, it is unnecessary. However, for new or once-in-a-while journeys, like trips to National Trust properties, the expedition to the Lake District in Nov and the funerals of a couple of weeks ago, one in Burnham and one in Ilfracombe - a 900 mile round trip, it was invaluable.

Between these trips, in the long periods when it is idle, the satnav just sits in the car in its case - switched off, with a full battery, as it had been plugged into the cigarette lighter when in use - and is then left in the car till next time. Although switched off, as it nears battery evaporation through lack of use, it switches itself on again for one last Swan Song. Don’t know how or why; perhaps as a warning that the battery is running low - who knows? BUT now, switched on again, it wants to carry on with its last journey and, for a while, till it gets its bearings via a satellite link (which may take a minute or two), it thinks it is still where it was when switched off, so continues to give advice based on that premise, till it re-orientates.

On returning home from any long journey, I use the satnav till I am on known roads, then switch it off once in familiar territory. This means the planned route is incomplete, curtailed early, often ten miles or more from Spalding. As described above, when switched on again, it tries to continue the interrupted route it had planned. Momentarily though, it is a little confused - dazed as it were, till the satellite link is re-established, believing it is still where it was when switched off.

In that intermission, while the link is made, embarrassed by the silence, Sally Satnav chips in with some sage advice. Sadly, Sally, in her confusion, usually advises you to “Turn Around When Possible”. While she delivers this in a wonderfully sexy Irish brogue that brings a shiver, there are times when this advice, charmingly delivered as it is, doesn’t make much sense. ‘Once you’re home’, is one of them. After the last time I used the satnav - the week of the funerals in mid-Jan, for some reason yet to be satisfactorily explained, I brought the device into the study rather than leaving it in the car, placed it on a shelf behind me and forgot all about it.

At this point, I ask you to remember three things: - one is that I live alone. As such, I’m used to the sounds of this house; the central heating’s creaks and groans, the whistling wind on a blustery day or the comforting drumming of rain beating on the windows when I am in the warm and dry, taking me back to my childhood in Basildon in the 50s - the days when we got real rain - stair rods bouncing off roads, flashes of neon lightning, the 1812 crashing above and streets awash with new five-minute rivers. It took just a few months of living here for these and others noises to become reassuring, background sounds that occur throughout the day and night - which, once heard, are identified and instantly dismissed through familiarity. No unexpected sounds occur. All is calm.

The second thing I ask you to remember is that, when I sit at this PC, writing a story, I become fully absorbed in the characters’ feelings. I feel what they feel. I become each character. No longer in this world but in theirs, I experience their crises and dramas, becoming them. I sometime sit here in tears at the intensity of their emotions. Really! I am that absorbed.

The last thing I ask you to remember is that the satnav switches itself on as it nears an empty battery. So you must imagine my less than cool reaction when, deep in the emotional turmoil of a medieval princess about to have her heart broken by her best friend since childhood, the satnav switched itself on and a disembodied voice from behind me advised me to “Turn Around When Possible.” I nearly Short, High-Intensity Trained myself.

To close, let me tell you a little about life in this bungalow. Apart from the gym, the golf course and a bit of shopping in Spalding Sainsbury’s, most of the time, I’m here, indoors. Yes, a bit of a reclusive lifestyle but one that bring with it - peace of mind, and it’s that that I want to share.

Life is now uncomplicated. When an opportunity to travel comes up, as happened last year: - the visit to Ken & Maria in France, trips to Basildon for a week of lunches and dinners or visits to National Trust properties and RHS gardens, I have space in my diary. In a past life, the diary brimmed and new opportunities simply had to be jammed in, adding to existing overcapacity. How short-sighted was that; rushing from one social commitment to another, imagining I was having fun when all along I was just heaping on more pressure?

Nowadays, there are a number of calming influences. Apart from the easier schedule, there is the music I have spoken of in past letters: the CD collection, the iPods and the guitars - and the photo collection that brings so much pleasure. It is this last that I address now. As would be the case with so many of you, I have an electronic photo frame constantly displaying vast savannahs of photos; memories of family, travels or the spectacular photographs circulated by e-mail around the world so freely every day. Here, I’m talking about the ones that we see in PowerPoint shows, in the body of an e-mail or in a web link, glorious photos - sure to catch the breath. They play on the photo frame in my kitchen and on my TV where, so often, with a cup of tea, they seduce me into a warm bath of mind-in-neutral calm.

Better still, having my Chelsea Flower Show - Hyde Hall - Hampton Court photos constantly on display overcomes the ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ attitude that we show towards our photos in the natural course of events. We look at them on download returning from a holiday or a day out, then - probably, never again; perhaps once in a Blue Moon at best. Take the photos of our kids when they were cute and amusing, mispronouncing words to bring a smile to the heart; look at how easily these wonderful moments are lost, lost because we lead busy lives. That’s what I’m regaining now; the time to enjoy simple pleasures. The last time I remember sitting with earphones on listening to an album all the way through, (Simon & Garfunkel’s Bookends), was 45 years ago. I was 19, and without a care in the world. It has taken that long to regain perspective.

I rediscovered the luxury of ‘empty time’ when I came back from the Lake District with 300 photos of fabulous countryside parading its autumn wardrobe. I sat for over an hour watching them in a slide show on the TV. Indulgence, yes, but that’s what life affords now, peace, tranquillity and simplicity of expectation. However, when you sit for an hour to look at photos or listen to music, there is a price, you disregard other aspects of your life. You must choose what you want the most.

So, there you have Life in Lincs; simple, uncomplicated, filled with small gifts. Pleasures like photos, music, frights from a playful satnav, countryside walks and learning about flour. They all add to the rich tapestry of life. Long may it continue.