Life must be filled up

The Gun, The Ship and The Pen, Linda Colley (2021)
Die Laughing Carola Dunn
Miss Granby’s Secret or The Bastard of Pinsk , Eleanor Farjeon
London Bridges, Jane Stevenson
The Marches, border walks with my father , Rory Stewart
From a Far and Lovely Country, Alexander McCall Smith
A Mourning Wedding, Carola Dunn
The Wintry Years, O Douglas
An Assassination on the Agenda, T E Kinsey 11th Lady Hardcastle
Fall of a Philanderer, Carola Dunn.
Quite a lot of Sherlock Holmes
( the books )

Just heard The Eagles on the radio, which reminded me that, uncool though it is to admit it, I love them. Hard to choose but here’s one, live performance from 1977.

The idea was that Rory Stewart would walk Hadrian’s Wall with his ninety-year-old father. His father didn’t last long on the walk and went home, from where he bombarded his son with emails and occasionally swooped down to meet him. They were trying to decide whether Hadrian’s Wall was a purely arbitrary line drawn across Britain. Was it to keep the ‘barbarians’ out or those south of the line in? No conclusions were drawn, although there are some interesting thoughts on the Romans.

Stewart then set out on a long, solo walk from his home in Cumbria to his father’s house in Scotland. This trip was obviously carefully planned and some of the apparently random meetings pre-arranged. He was often moving from one side of the border to the other and in what he calls ‘Middleland’, a border area which is distinct, neither Scotland nor England. This is an area whose early history consists mostly of slaughter. The romanticised ‘reivers’ were nothing but cattle thieves and murderers. I can’t think why anyone would want to celebrate such a past, yet they do. This is my own opinion; I have a great respect for Scottish achievements and no time at all for the romantic view of Scottish history, which is based largely on myth and lies.

The land Stewart was walking through was depopulated and in places the landscape was being ruined in the name of ecology. Some of the people he met seem to have been quite mad, while others talked a lot of sense. One thing is clear: central government has little idea what is going on in these former sheep farming communities. The walk over and ‘Daddy’ rather disappointed in the results, Stewart returned to work before being summoned home urgently. We are then treated to a detailed account of his father’s death, which I could have done without. Brian Stewart, distinguished and remarkable though he was, remains an enigma. ‘Dear sweet Daddy’? Such filial devotion is touching but I think the jury’s out on the man’s character. He was so contradictory: voted for Attlee in 1945 yet at ninety-three still defending the Empire as a good thing. In Stewart’s acknowledgements, he thanks someone for cutting 300 pages from the book. I thank them, too. Walking the borders is nothing like as interesting as walking in Afghanistan, as recounted in The Places In Between.

Occupational Hazards, My Time Governing in Iraq, Rory Stewart
142 Strand: A Radical Address in Victorian London, Rosemary Ashton
Daisy Dalrymple books by Carola Dunn
Murder on the Flying Scotsman
Damsel in Distress
Dead in the Water
Styx and Stones
Rattle his Bones
To Davy Jones Below
The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
Mistletoe and Murder
Murder in the Bookshop, Anita Davison
Currently reading
The Gun, The Ship and The Pen, Linda Colley (2021)
Die Laughing Carola Dunn,
Miss Granby’s Secret or The Bastard of Pinsk, Eleanor Graham
( thoughts )

Occupational Hazards, My Time Governing in Iraq, Rory Stewart
142 Strand: A Radical Address in Victorian London Rosemary Ashton

After the fall of Saddam, Rory Stewart was appointed governor of a large province in Iraq. In theory, he was temporary ruler of millions of people and had millions of pounds to spend on rebuilding the infrastructure. In practice, he was coping with ancient tribal feuds, murder, torture, corruption, religious fundamentalism and general unrest. No matter how well intentioned the allies were, they would always be seen as infidel occupiers. Pylons were knocked down by tractors and the copper wire stripped and sold in Iran. Contractors supposed to build new schools and clinics were corrupt and theft rife. The Iraqis couldn’t agree with each other and Stewart had trouble getting them to elect the Council he wanted, to allow them to a certain extent to govern themselves.

In one particularly hair-raising incident, they got hold of a mortar and began firing into the allied compound, Stewart’s HQ. Italian troops stationed nearby promised help but did nothing because Berlusconi didn’t want bad news at home about dead Italian soldiers. Eventually, a single plane put the mortar out of action, which probably stopped the whole compound being destroyed and everyone in it killed. Blimey, it was like Gordon at Khartoum! Stewart was much praised for his leadership during this crisis. One admires his idealism, courage, organisational skills and can-do attitude but the odds were against him and always, in the background, was the malign influence of Iran. What were we thinking? I can never forgive Tony Blair for this.
( the other one )

At the weekend, I watched A Man for All Seasons. Directed by Fred Zinnemann and scripted by Robert Bolt from his stage play, it won the Academy Award for Best Picture and an Oscar for Paul Scofield, who starred as Sir Thomas More. I probably hadn’t watched the film since it came out in 1966 yet I remembered whole scenes and even chunks of dialogue; it’s that good.

You can see More as a Catholic martyr, a man too principled to betray his beliefs or, as Hilary Mantel does in Wolf Hall, a persecutor of ‘heretics’. The standard work on the subject is R W Chambers’ 1935 biography. More’s son-in-law Will Roper wrote The Life of Sir Thomas More. These books are favourable to More. Peter Ackroyd’s biography was brilliant at evoking Tudor London but disappointing about More, with nothing new to say. It’s years since I studied this period, so I’m not up to date with current thinking on the subject.

The film opens with Cardinal Wolsey (Orson Welles, like a great red jelly), summoning More and saying, ‘The king wants an heir. What are you going to do about it?’ Ever the cautious lawyer, More replies that he’s sure the king needs no advice from him on the subject. Wolsey dies and More is appointed Chancellor in his place. HenryVIII has now convinced himself that he is incestuously married to his brother’s wife. The only person who can dissolve his marriage to poor Katherine of Aragon is the Pope. Henry decides to make himself head of the church in England, a break from Europe far more serious than Brexit. Those who matter, like More, are to swear an oath to this effect, which More refuses to do. Bolt’s Henry is desperate for More’s approval. The king’s ally in promoting the split from Rome is Thomas Cromwell, played by Leo McKern. The Duke of Norfolk (Nigel Davenport) tries to persuade More to sign, as he has done. More’s wife (wonderful Wendy Hiller) thinks he’s unreasonable. There’s great distress for his clever daughter (Susannah York) and her new husband, Will Roper (Corin Redgrave). It’s interesting to see Colin Blakely playing a small part as More’s steward and John Hurt in his first major screen role as ambitious Richard Rich, whom More distrusts and refuses to employ. And who is that beautiful woman who appears briefly (and silently) as Anne Boleyn? Vanessa Redgrave.
( more More )

It’s a complete coincidence that I read this book during what I now know is the year of the fortieth anniversary of Betjeman’s death. Last week, BBC4 had a ‘Betjeman evening’, showing some old films and interviews. I’d already, while reading, watched my DVD of Metroland and found on YouTube his programme about parish churches in the diocese of Norwich. The part of Betjeman evening I did watch was an ancient Monitor programme about Betjeman and Philip Larkin. I found it contrived and unenlightening. Incidentally, if you ever see anything about Larkin on TV, it will include a clip from this programme of him going to work at the library. I must have seen that section about a dozen times. Betjeman and Larkin admired each other’s poetry because it was intelligible.

John Betjeman was born in 1906. Like his contemporary, Evelyn Waugh, he rather looked down on his own perfectly respectable middle-class family and came to enjoy the company (and the homes) of his social superiors. He was unhappy at Marlborough and left Oxford without a degree (largely due to his tutor, C S Lewis, who obviously didn’t like him). In spite of this, he was widely read and very knowledgeable about architecture for someone his age. His first proper job was writing for The Architectural Review, before being asked to edit the Shell guides to English counties. He married Penelope Chetwode and they had two children. Being highly susceptible, he was always falling in love but these crushes rarely developed into affairs until he met the aristocratic Elizabeth Cavendish, who became his mistress and later his carer, until he died. This Penelope/John/Elizabeth love triangle was never resolved. He had a great capacity for friendship and had a very wide circle of friends.

The longest-lasting friendship was probably with John Piper and his wife Myfanwy (Myfanwy of the poems). The two men went church crawling together and collaborated on the Shell guides. The Osbert Lancasters were also lifelong friends. Evelyn Waugh was always trying to convert him to Roman Catholicism and Betjeman was devastated when Penelope did convert because going to church and working in the parish at Uffington was something they shared, He remained a devout High Anglican (he said, Catholic, believing it to be the true catholic church). He managed to be friends with the Mitfords, Philip Larkin, Kingsley Amis, the younger generation of Auberon Waugh and Richard Ingrams and even Princess Margaret. How did he do it? ‘Blinding charm’, according to ‘Debo’, the late dowager Duchess of Devonshire.
( in which I go on a bit )

You can’t glance at a newspaper or switch on the radio at the moment without some cheery soul telling you that spring is here and All’s right with the world! I don’t know about the cruellest month but April should certainly be one of the busiest months of the year in the garden. If only. As storm follows storm, it’s either pouring with rain or blowing a gale. The bottom of my drive had been flooded for ages, there is standing water in parts of the garden and water is still running down the road. Apparently, this is the wettest it’s been since 1836.

I’m under strict instructions not to do more than fifteen minutes’ work in the garden at a time, which is nothing, so I’ve had to develop a new strategy of ‘little and often’. Often is the problem, see weather. The other day I did a few small jobs then saw some annoying grass in the border at the front of the house. As I forked up the clumps, I found that the soil there was actually liquid, about the consistency of a Christmas pudding mix. I’ve never seen anything like it. I feel sorry for owners of garden centres and nurseries because who is going to buy plants they can’t get in the ground? Watch out for bargains later.

The great joys of spring in my garden are the daffodils (nearly over) and the primroses (my favourite flower) which grow like weeds absolutely everywhere. I especially love them at dusk, when they seem to glow.

Earlier this week, I went to put something in what I thought was my empty recycling bin. I found a lot of empty Strongbow cans in there. I’ve just been to put the bin out and had a few more items to put in it. I found a load more cider cans, neatly tied up in a plastic bag (you’re not supposed to put bags in this bin). I hate the thought that someone has been coming into my garden at night and putting stuff in my bin. I’ve reported it to the police online. It may not be a crime but is a social nuisance and a worry. Fuming. This is such a respectable area!