Summit

There seem to a lot of anniversaries going around at the moment. I'm sure it's not usually like this. I know Google manage to find something to commemorate with a doodle every other day, but then they do plump for somewhat obscure things like the 173rd anniversary of the invention of the potato peeler. But in the last day or two there have been some interesting ones, such as the 60th anniversary of the conquest of Everest, and the centenary of the first performance of The Rite of Spring.

I'm not sure these events are necessarily related. Presumably not, as it's unlikely that Edmund Hillary or even Tenzing Norgay were so inspired by Stravinsky's iconoclastic ballet score that they timed the final stage of their ascent to coincide. You would have thought the prevailing weather conditions would have been more relevant. But who knows. There may be exciting new opportunities to be developed here: a novel art form, a fusion of classical ballet and extreme mountaineering. Let me work on it.

Duck. Pond. Could have been made for each other.

Path

I have been reading The Path to Rome, Hilaire Belloc's timeless account of his epic walk from Toul in France to Rome. A journey of about 700 miles or so, depending how straight a line you keep, which he seemed to manage quite well, traversing whatever mountains and valleys and rivers got in the way. I have read it several times since my youth: one of those books you want to keep revisiting, a mixture of  evocative travel writing and rambling anecdote, punctuated by sketches of the sights he saw along the way.

His journey comes to mind at times when I am wandering over the more modest hills hereabouts, as I have been doing recently with the advent of milder spring weather. Strolling gently along the rock-strewn paths of the Gritstone Trail, for several hours at a time sometimes, makes me think of the weeks he spent tramping across the Alps, sleeping under the stars, bargaining for food at passing inns to make the most of his diminishing funds, walking through the night to avoid the sultry heat of Italy, communicating with the natives as best he could in his own hybrid French-Latin. It seems to belong to a forgotten age, a simple act of pilgrimage to the heart of Europe, a reaffirmation of his cultural roots.

You wonder what the journey would be like if you could re-trace his steps today – presumably a passport would prove handy, as would a detailed map of where to find suitable cash machines en route. And possibly a GPS device of some sort to be on the safe side. Not to mention one of those courier services whereby you can get your luggage delivered ahead of your arrival at the next overnight stop. But you easily forget that, making the journey at the start of the twentieth century, he was deliberately trying to avoid the trappings of modernity that he saw around him, but instead connect to a simpler life, at one with the landscape and faith of his youth.

Moss

The hard work is done. Now it is a matter of waiting. And seeing what happens.

Hopefully, nothing will happen quickly. I am going for the slow, steady response. The green shoots of recovery. Literally. I planted a new lawn today: the lawn at the front of my house. Which is hardly a lawn, to tell the truth, but rather a strip of grass adding a little bit of colour to an otherwise drab frontage. The colour is predominantly green, though over the years it has been less the vivid green of thick, luxuriant grass but more the somewhat mossy green of thick, spongy moss.

I am not sure where it came from. Perhaps the seeds (or spores? does moss have spores?) were wafted passively here on a passing breeze. Or perhaps they were sown surreptitiously in the middle of a moonless night by a malevolent neighbour. These things happen. Either way, the moss seems to have thrived in a worryingly enthusiastic way, to the extent that the indigenous grass blades have hardly had a look in. Having watched helplessly for several seasons now the relentless annexation of the lawn, and having tried unsuccessfully to rake out the offending intruder with a rake, I thought enough was enough: it was time to grasp the metaphorical nettle. So I dug up the lawn, returning it to its primordial uninhabited state, and painstakingly laid some virgin turf. I was assured, by several websites that professed to know about these things, that this would yield an instant new lawn, as opposed to the old fashioned approach of sowing seed, which was a bit more hit and miss, and susceptible to crows, or other winged creatures, stealing the seeds, and would anyway take months to produce anything worth getting the mower out for.

So, it is done: now it is a matter of waiting. And seeing whether it shrivels up into heartless dust, or whether it survives, flourishes, colonises a New World. One small step.

Ring

– Do you realise it was the anniversary of Richard Wagner's birth yesterday? Two hundred years.
– I suppose that's quite a significant birthday. A lot of candles on the cake. Were he to be having a cake.
– I'm afraid cake would not really be appropriate. I don't even know if he was particularly fond of it. One of those topics on which I suspect history is stubbornly silent.
– Why do you mention it? The anniversary; not the cake.
– I just happened to notice it. A significant figure in the development of nineteenth century music. Controversial in many ways – politically, especially. And probably not the jolliest of people. I suppose he typifies the dilemma of how do you separate the character of the artist from the art they produce?
– And how do you?
– I don't know. It's a dilemma. I know when I was a teenager I was quite fond of his overtures.
– I suppose there's not much singing in the overtures.
– Indeed. That was what probably attracted me to them. I've never managed to sit through the entirety of any of his music dramas.
– Life is short. Art is long. Never more so than in this case.

Euro

There has been a lot of discussion in the news recently on the subject of Europe. Especially regarding Britain's future role. Or lack of it. I say discussion, but  it is often more of a rant, which sadly seems to be the norm for much political debate nowadays. Amid the heated rhetoric directed at single currencies and immigration policies and North Atlantic fishing quotas (the latter having not really figured prominently in recent months but is doubtless due for a resurgence of interest, along with misshapen bananas), politicians and public alike seem too easily to forget the benefits of being part of the broader European community. This is highlighted by the Eurovision Song Contest, which graced our television screens and radio antennae a couple of days ago. It is a welcome annual event, although there are those who suggest it may be even more welcome were it to come round, like the Olympics or the World Cup, every four years. The extra wait would whet the appetite and make everyone far more appreciative of the delicacies presented to us in the name of music.

I, for one, actually quite like Eurovision. I suppose I have many fond memories of eagerly watching it as a small child, which my jaded grown-up cynicism cannot quite dispel. While it is fashionable, at least in this country, to deride the contest, with its mixture of glitzy pop songs and heart-rending power ballads, and occasional weirdly outlandish performers, not to mention even a few brave souls having the temerity to sing in their native tongue rather than English, it usefully serves to emphasise the cultural diversity within Europe. Despite being a relatively compact continent, with countless opportunities over the last few millennia for our myriad cultures to be integrated and homogenised, we Europeans are a strikingly disparate collection of nations. Eurovision helps to highlight these differences, and makes us realise that there are still people out there with tastes that are a world away from our own bland Anglo-American popular culture. And perhaps sometimes this glimpse of diversity makes us feel uncomfortable, as if we assumed that everybody must think the same way we do, and we are somehow surprised to find that they don't. And to top it all, as the final death knell to the supremacy of the old Empire, we are no longer able to make a decent attempt at winning Eurovision. It's almost like a Greek myth: despite our Herculean efforts, we are fated to end up perpetually at the bottom of the rankings.   

Watch

I've finally got a new wristwatch. The previous one started to disintegrate. Not the casing, which was, I think, stainless steel – presumably the best sort of steel for this type of application, especially as I get a creepy sensation in the presence of rust, and wouldn't really want to have a lump of corroding metal strapped to my arm all day. Not the casing, as I was saying, but the strap, which was a rather attractive fabric-leather hybrid and looked quite smart but had a tendency to fray too readily. Probably needed a hem of some sort, but I don't claim to be an expert in these things. To cut a long story short, after years of frustration and replacement straps (unfortunately you could only replace it with exactly the same sort of strap, which I count something of a design flaw) I gave up on it. This part of the story is not really that interesting. Neither is the next part, of spending weeks looking for a watch that I actually liked, deciding to order one online (a dangerous thing to do, I know, but it seems to be catching on), receiving a wrong (but closely related) model, sending it back, deciding I didn't really much like the one I was originally going to get anyway and so having to start all over again with looking for another one that I actually liked. And so on.

It only goes to prove a couple of irrefutable points. Firstly, that we were far better off in antiquity with physical shops that you could actually walk into. You may have had less choice, but it somehow didn't seem to matter. There may have only been three styles on display, but they all looked fine. Now we can browse thousands of models online, all of which look ridiculous. Secondly, that despite generally having little interest in what might be called fashion, or style, or even how I look, I did find myself to be unusually fussy in choosing a watch. I think it is something to do with the watch face. It somehow seems as personal as a human face, rather than being an anonymous consumer product like a washing machine or sandwich toaster or whatever. I am not sure what this means. Thirdly, I somehow managed to cope for several weeks without a watch on my wrist. Observing the position of the sun was an enormous help, at least in distinguishing night from day.

Envy

– It's still raining.
– Yes. It's been going on for a while now. I had thought about doing some planting in the garden this evening. But it looked a bit too wet to venture out. The plants will have to wait.
– It's not what you expect from May. Should be warm. And balmy.
– I know. We had some hail yesterday. Quite a lot: the ground was covered in a carpet of hailstones. The weather is certainly unseasonal.
– Even the cat seems confused by it all. Not sure whether to stay in or go out.
– To be honest, the cat is pretty indecisive at the best of times. I don't think she really appreciates the passing of the seasons. She probably doesn't remember much from one year to the next. In cat years, last summer must seem a long time ago.
– She remembers some things. Like where she lives. And when mealtimes are. And that the fridge contains stuff to eat.
– When you put it that way, she does seem fairly bright. Perhaps I don't push her enough.
– Where do you want to push her?
– I mean intellectually. To try and develop her full potential. Expand her horizons.
– It could be dangerous.
– How do you mean?
– She may start to feel frustrated at the emptiness of her life. And resent you for the opportunities you enjoy.
– To tell the truth, she does look a bit peeved sometimes. Usually at the contents of her food bowl. Especially when she sees what I'm having for dinner.
– There you go. It's starting already.

Windows

Having admitted recently that I know almost next to nothing about Association Football, I find myself writing about it for a second time in a matter of days. Apologies to anyone reading this who isn't interested in football. And also to anyone who knows anything about it. And to anyone who recorded the FA Cup Final yesterday and wanted to watch it in the near future without hearing the result first. I know I do this quite often myself. But not usually with the FA Cup Final. If only because it's difficult to avoid seeing the result splashed across the newspapers or trumpeted from the radio (though perhaps not literally: the BBC rarely announce the sports results with a fanfare. But it's an idea worthy of serious consideration). Especially when the final ends in such a dramatic fashion, with Wigan Athletic snatching a last-minute winner against the might of Manchester City.

Occasionally, there are moments in life when the underdog comes good. Perhaps not very often, but occasionally. It gives us all a bit of hope that, when faced with overwhelming opposition, sometimes the overwhelming opposition can have an off day, and we can do some fancy dribbling around them without their noticing, and, if we are very lucky, head the ball into the top corner of the net from a well-executed corner. Not very often. But occasionally.

 

Windows. Quite a lot of windows.

United

I don't write much about football. Despite it taking up a large proportion of my television-watching leisure hours, I suspect my knowledge of the beautiful game is a rather too patchy compared to dyed-in-the-wool fans: the sort who actually go to football matches, who manage to watch dozens of live games every day on satellite, who succeed in topping fantasy football leagues because they can predict exactly which players are about to hit top form or succumb to season-devastating sprains and strains. Compared to men and women of such genius (and I have known several as friends over the years), I must admit I am merely a novice, and a pretty witless one at that. And I also get put off by the comments I occasionally read on football websites: it seems that ardent football fans are sometimes not the most broad-minded or generous-hearted of people. They can be a little one-sided in their allegiances. Whereas I find myself empathising with both sides of the argument. Which doesn't always go down well.

I only mention this because it seems appropriate to say a few words in tribute to Sir Alex Ferguson, who announced his resignation yesterday after 26 years in charge of Manchester United. The greatest football manager this country has known, they say, and who am I (especially with my aforesaid pathetic knowledge of the game) to argue. I grew up in Old Trafford – the district, not the actual football ground. I am sure someone would have noticed had I been trying to live there for years, camping out on the pitch, or having a shower in the away team changing room. With nothing to eat but pies. It would never have worked.

Mayday

– The garden is looking – reasonable.
– Thank you. Reasonable in a positive sense?
– Yes. I think so.
– I spent all day yesterday getting it sorted.
– All day?
– Well, a good few hours. Two hours, at least.
– You've planted – many things.
– I thought a splash of colour would liven everything up.
– Yes. You would have thought so. You've created some distinctive colour combinations.
– I like to be bold.
– Indeed. Bold. In places, almost startling.
– I think you need to make an immediate impression on the viewer.
– You have certainly succeeded. This will live long in the memory. So this is how you spent your May Bank Holiday?
– Yes. It was nice to make the most of the sunshine and potter about the garden. I am not sure how long the fine weather will last.
– I hear rain is on the way.
– That'll be good: it would be a shame for all these flowers I planted to shrivel up before they get a foothold.
– Yes. That would be a great waste.

Chalk

There is a lot of snooker on the television at the moment. It always seems to be the same around this time of year, the May Bank Holiday. It can't just be a coincidence. The final itself takes two days: best of 35 frames, or however many it is. That's a lot of snooker. In my youth I used to watch more of it, whereas now it is difficult to find the time. Especially when the sun is shining and the garden could do with some emergency weeding and I fancy going for a stroll somewhere picturesque to make the most of the balmy spring evening and dinner needs to be cooked and eaten at some point. When there is so much to do, it seems a shame to spend two solid days indoors watching the final. They should work out how to get it over and done with just a little bit quicker. My first introduction to snooker was as a child watching Pot Black (probably in black and white), where they managed to condense each match into a single frame. A little too brisk, perhaps: maybe I would allow them the best out of three to allow some margin for error.

The other problem I have nowadays is not recognising any of the players. When I was younger, the tournaments were dominated by a host of colourful characters: today I hardly know anyone. And the players used to be – not to put too fine a point on it – rather more mature than they are now. In a world where most sports are dominated by precocious teenagers, there was something reassuring in watching middle-aged men compete at the top of their profession. As a child, it gave me hope that, in forty years' time or so, I could be making my fortune on the green baize. As it turned out, I never got round to playing much snooker at all, presumably believing there was no particular harm in postponing it for a decade or so. If I were to have a big enough house, I would be tempted to get a snooker table; though I suppose I should acknowledge that the opportunity for international fame has slipped me by.

Parrot

– The weather has turned up. Nice bit of spring sunshine. Pleasantly warm. In places.
– They say it isn't going to last.
– But what do they know?
– I would hope that, as meteorologists, they know something about the weather.
– Perhaps. I'm not so sure. Anyway, I stopped by the park on the way home. Thought I would make the most of the pleasant evening sunshine.
– While it lasts.
– Whatever. As I was saying, I went for a stroll through the park. Flowers; trees; they were all there.
– I'm glad to hear it.
– But then I saw a strange thing. Up in the trees. Flying around. It was a magpie. But completely green.
– I don't think they come in green. Are you sure it was a magpie?
– Well, it was magpie-sized, more or less. And roughly magpie-shaped. Though the wings were not quite right. And the tail a bit on the long side. And the beak, a little – parrot-shaped.
– Perhaps it was a parakeet.
– This was just down the road, you know. You don't tend to get that many exotic jungle creatures roaming wild in the local woodland.
– But you do get parakeets. They are becoming more common over here. Who knows where they have come from? But they seem to thrive in our mild climate.
– You seem very calm about this. Our green and pleasant land being invaded by wild animals. You used to run the risk of being snapped at by an irate goose, but now it seems you can expect to be devoured by lions and tigers and bears.
– I'm not sure there are many lions and tigers and bears running loose here. I guess there's the odd panther sighting, mind you.