I’m off-air while Liam and I are perking our pansies on pretty Paxos. While we’re away, here’s a selection of photos that ended up on the cutting room floor, blog-wise. It’s an eclectic mix of random snaps – local and London – plus a really ancient polaroid of me back in the eighties on godfather duty. The babe in arms is now in his forties and his own babes in arms have reached school age. Yes, I feel really old.
I know I sound like a stuck record, but we’ve really had it with endless drab skies and drizzle. A few sunny days does not a summer make. So we’re off to catch some rays in gorgeous Greece, returning to the pretty resort of Lakka on Paxos, followed by a couple of days wandering around Corfu Town. We’re flying from Norwich’s very own international airstrip. Let’s hope we don’t take the rubbish weather with us. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve huddled beneath a dripping parasol while the folks back home sweltered through an unexpected heatwave. Wish us luck!
Day two of our merry Windsor trip was big castle time. I’d forgotten how relentlessly busy the town gets. The castle receives about 1.5 million visitors a year, and for a small town of only 32,000, that’s a lot of bodies. By the mid-afternoon rush hour, you can hardly move for slow-moving happy snappers.
These images were taken in the early morning before the hordes of day trippers arrived.
The queue into the castle was snaking, and security was airport-style. The weather was stuck in April, and as the forecast wasn’t good, we thought we were in for a drenching. But the sun poked through the low clouds and the rain held off. We spotted the Royal Standard flying from the Round Tower, so His Maj was at home. Sadly, we weren’t invited in for tea and cake.
First stop, the series of interconnecting state rooms, a riot of Georgian bling – lavish and impressive with walls plastered with old masters, perfect for hobnobbing with presidents and prime ministers, princes and potentates. Way too gaudy for my tastes, though.
I much preferred the elegant interior of the 14th-century St George’s Chapel, which was up next on our agenda. It’s called a chapel but it’s the size of a cathedral. And it’s gorgeous.
Visitors are not allowed to take photos inside the castle buildings, so these internal pictures are all stock images.
It had slipped my mind that the late Queen is interred in the chapel, in a modest roped-off niche she shares with her parents, sister and husband. It took us by surprise. We joined the mourners filing past in silent respect.
In fact, the chapel is pretty much stuffed with the bones of long-dead monarchs and assorted worthies. Liam even stumbled over the grave marker of that much married, lecherous old tyrant, Henry the Eighth. Off with his head!
After our big castle fix, we dodged the click-clicking throng by escaping across the river to Eton. Despite its famous school for the grossly over-privileged, pretty Eton is much quieter than its big sister. We polished off the afternoon, tourist-style, with the tea and cake we weren’t offered by Charlie in his castle on the hill. Another merry day.
For about six years until 1993, I lived in Windsor. The pleasant Berkshire town is famous for one thing – an enormous, sprawling castle. Established in the 11th century shortly after the nasty Normans conquered Anglo-Saxon England, the castle has a commanding position overlooking the River Thames, guarding the western approaches to London and dominating the town that grew around it from virtually every angle. The vast pile has been a royal residence for most of its millennium-long history, projecting muscular power and proclaiming who’s the daddy now?
Although I’d often wander around the castle grounds back in the day, I never once ventured inside for a nose about. ‘Let’s go, then,’ said Liam. Sure, I thought, better late than never. Besides, I fancied a mince down memory lane and a chance to show Liam my old manor. So off we went.
First up was a short walk away from the town centre to a terraced house on Albert Street which I once shared with a man with a cloney moustache, drop-yer-knickers eyes and a naughty, licentious grin. We’re still friends – in a Faceache kinda way. Every Englishmen’s home is his castle, so they say, though ours was a bit smaller than the big one up on the hill. The street has changed little in the 31 years since I was in residence, except our old gaff is now a different colour and has replacement windows and a new front door.
After the photoshoot we retired to the pub round the corner for a wine-fuelled memory-rich chat. I recalled the time when I’d been out on the lash with some fellow bean counters from work and got back late. It was November 1992. As I staggered out of the train station, I saw flames rising above the castle, lighting up the night sky. Being three sheets to the wind, I thought I was imagining it. But no, the castle really was on fire. The blaze destroyed nine of the principal state rooms and damaged countless others.
After the dose of nostalgia, we wandered back into town for cocktails by the river. And these husbands got very merry indeed.
Sometimes something just turns up without warning, punches you in the gut and has you reaching for the Kleenex. Such a thing is Lost Boys and Fairies, the three-part prime time BBC drama about a gay couple – Gabriel and Andy – applying to adopt a child in Wales. No big deal in these more liberal times, you might think. It’s all about love, right? Except it is a big deal. Not because of the gay angle but because the adoption process is forensic and intrusive. It has to be. Kids in the care system are often already badly damaged, and getting it wrong can finish them off for good.
Cue the gradual opening up of old wounds for lost boy Gabriel – the strict chapel upbringing, the relentless bullying, the repression, depression, an over-fondness for risky pleasures and eventual salvation through sequins and song. Brilliantly scripted, peppered with Welsh, tender performances and gloriously showy musical interludes. Glitzy and graphic, the drama pulls no punches. At times, it’s uncomfortable viewing. Does it end well? Watch it to find out, but don’t forget the tissues.
Back in the seventies, catalogue shopping was all the rage and buy now, pay later was my old Mum’s mantra. The entire family was kitted out on the never–never, all for a few shillings a week for 52 weeks. Her catalogue of choice was Freemans and no one was more excited than me when the latest glossy collection dropped on the mat. For some strange reason, I was always drawn to the men’s underwear section – endless hours of fun thumbing and fumbling. I can’t think why. But, for me, it brought a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘mail order’.
My best friend at primary school was a boy called Christopher and, one Saturday, Christopher and I decided to go newt hunting on Wimbledon Common. He arrived at my gaff fully prepared for our safari in all-weather gear – sensible shoes and waterproof anorak. And what was I wearing? A little two-piece number I’d picked out from Mum’s catalogue – matching tight t-shirt and skimpy shorts in sunny yellow towelling with bright blue piping.
I was 10. Not gay at all. And, yes, it rained.
These constant rainy days are really starting to get on my tits. I’m not unfamiliar with big weather. As an army brat in faraway Malaysia, there was the annual inundation during monsoon season, with overflowing sewers and flooded classrooms. And then there was the ‘Great Storm’ of 1987, which barrelled across the land and ripped off half the roof of my house. In more recent times, as semi-retired Aegean gentlemen of leisure, Turkish winters taught us a lesson or two. Spare towels were requisitioned to stem the relentless tide of water flowing under windows and doors as angry tempests crashed ashore, overwhelming storm drains and trapping us inside for days on end. Our Bodrum gaff was only saved from flash floods and floating cars by stout stone garden walls. They don’t tell you that in the guidebooks.
Norwich may well share the same latitude as Calgary in Canada, but the Gulf Stream flowing up from Mexico keeps our islands relatively warm, winter-wise. It also keeps them damp. But enough is enough. We’ve just endured the wettest winter since 1836, and so far this spring, hardly a single dry day has gone by. It’s not big weather, it’s boring weather. Even the ducks are pissed off.
But to provide some cheer, I finally got to see seven swans a-swimming. Two proud parents and five cygnets were spotted mucking about in Loddon Staithe*.
The photo is courtesy of Loddon Town Council
*A staithe is a riverside dock traditionally used for loading and unloading cargo. These days, they’re used for mooring leisure boats.
With the sun finally poking through the grey clouds, we grabbed the chance to take a walk down by the River Chet for the first time in an age. As we strolled between the reeded bank and boggy fields past cattle and ponies chewing the cud, we thought it would be fun to repeat our The Twelve Days of Christmas theme to pick out more calling birds. I know, we really ought to get a life. When we approached the bird sanctuary at Hardley Flood, Liam whipped out his handy Merlin app. Ironically, we get a stronger signal down by the waters.
And, yes, smart-arse Merlin identified a few more birdies. I give you an oystercatcher, robin, greenfinch and warblers, sedge and cetti. And then there was the magnificent kestrel stalking its mousey prey from above.
Ok, we didn’t get seven swans a-swimming, but I think a regal pair, flirting in the murky waters churned up by passing pleasure boats, is good enough for anyone.
The rural flatlands of Norfolk are habitat heaven for the birds – fields and forests, rivers and wetlands provide the perfect breeding ground for an eclectic collection of feathered flocks. The springtime chorus in our small garden can sound almost symphonic when the competing bands of tweeters all strike up together. We have front row seats. But what are these calling birds?
Liam downloaded a handy app called Merlin to his smarty phone. The app identifies bird song just by listening. And what did it hear? An amazing avian gathering – blackbirds, blackcaps, chaffinches, chiffchaffs, collared doves, dunnocks, wrens, wood pigeons and tits great and blue. Of these, the wrens were the most melodious and the wood pigeons were the most prolific. We see wood pigeons all the time. They spend their days shagging and shitting without a care, right before our eyes. I’m forever wiping down the garden furniture with a wet cloth.
We’ve also heard the occasional cuckoo, cuckooing as they do, in the trees of the old churchyard next door. And sometimes when Liam can’t sleep, he’s soothed by the twit-twoo of a lone tawny owl.
And then yesterday we spotted a pair of love-struck partridges waddling across the grass searching for a pear tree to canoodle in. Except, of course, partridges feed and breed on the ground. But let’s not spoil an evergreen Christmas carol with small details like the truth.
Earlier this week, I sprinted through the half a million barrier for pansy hits. When I say sprinted, it’s been more of a gentle stroll, and it’s taken nearly fourteen years to get there. Back in October 2010 when I published In the Beginning, my first ramble, the whole social media-verse was pre-big bang. Faceache and the Tweety Pie were only just taking off, and Instapout and Tik-Tac-Toe-Tok were still forming in the ether.
But things move on as they must – technology has become faster, smarter and more accessible. As a result, we now live in a world of information overload where separating the wheat from the chaff is too much of a faff. For the time-poor in a constant rush, it’s just easier to watch and listen rather than read and think. For many, vlogs and podcasts have become must ‘go-tos’ making instant cyber-celebrities of random nobodies. The fifteen minutes of fame we were all promised have been cropped to fifteen seconds to fit. And for the really attention-deficient, there’s a thin diet of cutesy pet pictures and short videos. And who doesn’t love a thirty second TikTok clip of a couple of hunky plumbers lip-syncing to Kylie while waving their heavy tools about?
So what that traditional blogging is old hat. Half a million hits in fourteen years may be small change to the new cyber-kids on the block, but I shall keep on scribbling my old nonsense, regardless – until I don’t, that is. ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ as they said in the War. Victory will be ours.
Perking the Pansies 