A Long Way From Anywhere

Every time I go to Cornwall I wonder why I don't spend more time there. It is a magical county. And then I endure six or seven hours on the M5 and I remember why we bought in Anglesey instead. Cornwall is a long way from anywhere - nothing can be done about this, nor indeed should anything be done. The otherness and remoteness are part of the charm.

This time we went all the way down to Falmouth to attend the wedding of H and S. H is my nephew - he teaches down there and has gone fully native, an enviable state. What a great day the wedding itself proved to be - the sun shone and H's speech even brought  a tear to these cynical old eyes with an affectionate reference to my late father.

The Clan Roberts had descended en masse on Cornwall for the week. The Groupie and BFP were accompanied by Daughters Numbers 1 & 2 and their respective husband and partner. We had a whale of a time. Indeed whale was one of the few acquatic species not represented on the seafood platter I gorged myself on at the Muddy Beach Cafe in Penryn. No pretensions, just good service and top food. Now I style myself a good judge of a seafood platter and I have to say this was superb. If you have the chance to try it, eschew a starter and go for the platter with optional extra of a dressed crab. Squid, scallops, king prawns, shrimp-loaded skins, mussels, crab. Superb. I never usually bore you with photos of the Pig in action but I will make an exception so that you can see the plate (or rather board) before I tucked-in. And no I didn't have a pudding. Superb.

The State Of The Nation

What exactly is the point of Kemi Badenoch? No seriously, what has happened to right of centre politics - we seem to be left with a vast wasteland where once was important ground. Still we can at least take some comfort from the fact that the morally ungrounded Keir Starmer is turning out to be the best Conservative prime minister since that nice Tony Blair.

Enough of such gloom (well actually ther might be some more to come - sorry) because I am on one of my flying inspection visits to Plas Piggy. The sun is shining and the Great Orme smolders in a heat haze in the distance. The wretched flying vermin gulls are nesting on our roof again but that cannot take away the attractiveness of this place.

And last night I watched an interesting film, a Danish/Icelandic speculation on humanity and morality - Godland.  It follows the travails of a Danish pastor tasked with building a new church in the remoteness of South-East Iceland. It is a tale of endurance and obdurance. Three men die, as do two horses. The pastor is a pioneering photographer and the movie is shot in an almost square ratio with rounded corners that mimics his glass-plate photography. A serious film. A good film. Available on iPlayer. 78/100.

The VE Day celebrations last week were moving. I particularly enjoyed how much it all meant to my mother who remembered the sheer joy and relief of that end to war, celebrated in her case as a ten-year-old in Gloucester. That generation who lived through WWII have been the guiding influence on my generation and as we lose them we need to reflect on our own actions upon those growing-up behind us. Are we, the baby-boomers, as wise an influence as our own parents have been? Such thoughts can cast a pall over my day so I have risen from my desk and looked out once again over the sun-dappled sea. I may even have a third cup of damned fine coffee. Life's been good to me so far.

 

Manifest Destiny/The Mystery Of Faith

I have wrtitten before about the doctrine of Manifest Destiny that drove the white American conquest of its continent. It is one of my principal obsessions and I have come to realise that a misguided modern conception of the doctrine drives much of the putrid immorality of MAGA. 

A more measured contemplation of Manifest Destiny can be found in the cumbersome 1962 Cinerama movie, How the West Was Won. Fealty to the original Cinemascope  format means that the modern televisual print is shown in a distracting letterbox but that is better than a truncated cut. I would like to see this in proper cinematic projection but I don't run to my own theatre.

I say that this is a cumbersome film and so it is. Three strands held together by the constant presence of Debbie Reynolds, each with its own director and a fleeting appearance in each chapter by a giant of the western genre, James Stewart, John Wayne, and Henry Fonda. It even has three directors. Ponderous it may be at times but it should not be dismissed. Its examination of Manifest Destiny is modestly nuanced. 68/100. I depart from my usual layout and reproduce the poster in an imitation of Cinerama.

A recent film to have been given a boost of relevance is Conclave. It records the imagined machinations and political manoeuvres of a papal election. Quite early in the piece the central character makes a cogent case for the important differences between stubborn certainty and its more flexed cousin, faith. I'm not at all sure that this film is quite as good as it wants to be but it rattles along nicely and is buoyed by a proficient cast. 70/100.

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXVIII

It must be my age because here I go again repeating myself. However as a small tide of wisdom laps at my weary feet, I have to concede that certain things are worth repeating, especially if they relate to sanity (mine not yours).  

My own experience of manic depression is that you are never rid of it. It lurks and some days it stands up and slaps you in the face. In my particular case it is the depressive side of the coin that has to be watched out for most often, though, just to keep my poor minders on their toes, the manic stuff comes ranting out of the shadows when you least expect it.

All of which is a way of saying that for no reason at all I found myself feeling shit this weekend. Thanks to my medical and spiritual minders (chief amongst these the Groupie) I have got much better at dealing with these incursions into my well-being. Which in turn brings me back to the subjects of this blog - most of them things I have touched on before. 

OG's precious mower

The precious petrol mower has been serviced by the estimable people at Hughie Willett Machinery. On the basis that good service should be applauded I recommend Willett - Hughie Willett . The precious mower is cutting beautifully and the act of cutting the lawn dipels depression. 

OG's precious bike

This one will not surprise you - after a moderately major crash last Summer (see blog 5 August 2024) I am at last back on the precious bike. Having head-butted the highway as part of my crash, I have done as advised and thrown out the old helmet (which bore the brunt of my arrested decent) and bought a new one. I also had the bike thoroughly gone-over by Sutton Runner and they have done a bang-up job. New brakes, cables and chain and she's running like a dream. It is good to be back in the saddle and the knee that I tried so hard to ruin in my crash, is very much better. Running will be the ultimate test. One step at a time Pig. Bike repairs at Sutton Runner 

OG's precious Jag

Last of all and the most expensive item in my holy trinity of precious objects - the Jag. I took this out for a run in the countryside yesterday. The misfire that had plagued the car for several years has been cured by the good souls at Mere Green Motors and the full thrill of motoring has been returned to me. They also service my workhorse Kia Sorento (eleven years old and seemingly bomb-proof) and I cannot recommend them too highly. In a nice old-fashioned touch they don't seem to have a website! Don't let that put you off, they are seriously good at what they do and don't overcharge. 

So, in conclusion, (not that you would) don't worry about me, I'm feeling better already.

The First Thing We Do, Let's Kill all The Lawyers

The above line in Henry VI Part II always gets a laugh, even from the affluent lawyers who make up an inevitable portion of the audience at performances of Shakespeare's lesser plays. Quite right too.

Q: Why don't man-eating sharks attack lawyers?

A: It's a matter of professional courtesy.

Q: What do you have if you have a lawyer buried up to his neck in sand?

A: Not enough sand.

Q: What do you call one hundred dead lawyers?

A: A start.  

I've heard them all before and am quite happy to join in the laughter. The lot of the lawyer is often a lucrative one (not always and not to the unworthy extent of some other professions) and, done properly it is a job that can be spiritually rewarding - yes, I do mean that. Good lawyering is important labour.

But something has happened to cast us all in an unfavourable light and that is the advancement onto the world stage of J.D.Vance, Vice President of the United States. Vance is an odious bigot and a massively educated (Yale Law School no less) lawyer. This, I'm afraid, casts a shade over all of us and we must call it out. So here is a variation on yet another of those lawyer jokes.

Q: What is the difference between lab rats and J.D. Vance?

A: You can get attached to lab rats.

 

Odeon Ynys Mon

 I am on one of my solo sorties to the island. Yesterday was a fine day. I went to C.G. Ynys Mon and spent a fruitful (well hopefully) hour sharpening (it was very blunt) my short game. As if that was not enough I wasted my money backing Perceval Legallois in the Grand National and found time to watch two very different films.

Father Brown is a 1954 piece of British whimsy capped by a superb performance from Alec Guinness in the tile role. It puts the flimsy modern television version of the tales of the priest/sleuth to shame. Somehow films of this idiom are all the better for being in black and white. A wholly worthy piece of movie-making. 70/100. 

Hang 'Em High (1968) is an altogether different kettle of fish. In fact not a kettle of fish at all, rather a plate of spaghetti americano. Hard upon the success of Sergio Leone's three Clint Eastwood westerns, America reclaimed Eastwood as its own and made this paleish imitation of a spaghetti western. Eastwood speaks more than in his seminal role(s) and the sheer visceral quality of Leone's pictures is missing. Notwithstanding this daub of filmic polish, there is enough to get your teeth into and there is, if you look hard enough, a moral speculation trying to get out. Worth a watch. 64/100.

The Quality Of Mercy

A vote of thanks to ICW who stirred me from my intellectual torpor and organised our outing to the Birmingham Rep to see The Merchant of Venice 1936 last week. I like the Rep, a theatre where you are guaranteed comfort and an unobscured view.

You don't need me to tell you that The Merchant of Venice is a troublesome text. I last reviewed it in these pages on 26 May 2011 and my re-reading of that blog confirms that I enjoyed the production at the RSC. Merchant 1936 was better - a provocative pitching of the action into the East End of 1936 with Mosley's British Union of Fascists properly excoriated. even if the climactic political message goes mildly over the top. Tracy-Ann Oberman's female Shylock is forcefully rendered and I didn't mind at all the skilful editing of Shakespeare's text. At the end you are left pondering not only the disease of intolerance but also just how many wrongs can make a right.

And how nice to be in a full auditorium.