The holiday ends

Unfortunately, our magical week in Pembrokeshire ended today. We returned to London in a storm not dissimilar to the one we’d left in, having been remarkably lucky with the weather in between! We had a shedload of sunshine which was usually accompanied by battering sea breezes which chiselled our skin like old gravestones in Whitby. I studied my face in the mirror yesterday and saw an old, tanned sailor looking back. That, or a big leather boot!

This week has been very good for Nathan’s mental health. We’re surrounded by old, true friends, who have protected him fiercely and kept him buoyant. Furthermore, hanging out in a gang which includes so many sparky, highly intelligent, enthusiastic young people is always good for keeping any woes you might have very firmly at the back of your mind.

Messages of support continue to come in from very kind and loyal members of the knitting community. They give Nathan a great deal of comfort and we are getting close to a time when I think he will be strong enough to reveal the full, horrific truth of what happened to him. The story is staggering enough in itself, but the most astonishing aspect was realising quite how far people were prepared to take matters, purely to save their own skin. And quite how far the mob was prepared to go in their attempts to get people to publicly denounce Nathan. “I saw Goody Nathan with the devil.”

We went for a wonderful walk yesterday along part of the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, which must feature some of the most spectacular views in the UK. This vertiginous walkway snakes its way along the tops of tall cliffs, through flower meadows and blackberry-laden hedges. There are charming beach-lined coves where little ice cream stalls sell cups of tea and lollypops to weary walkers, and then the path heads up onto the headlands again, where ramblers are forced to contemplate stomach-churning 100-foot drops into the sea below. 

I walked some of the journey with Ivy, Tanya’s four-year old daughter. “Hold my hand”, I kept saying, as she merrily skipped along the path. “Why?” She asked. “Because we’re a long way up and I don’t want you to fall!” “Do you not like heights?” “Not really,” I said, starting to sweat. “I LOVE heights,” she said, “shall I hold your hand to make you feel better?” I suddenly realised she’d got it the right way round!

Yesterday, the sun shone constantly to accompany our walk and the sea was every shade from yellowy turquoise, through azure and royal blue, all the way to a deep purplish grey.

We ended up drinking tall glasses of refreshing lemonade outside a little pub on Pwllgwaelod Beach. The man behind the bar seemed incredibly stressed and apologetic. The sunny weather had brought a lot of walkers out of the woodwork, the kitchen had entirely run out of food and most of the drinks behind the bar had been consumed, so he was waiting desperately for a delivery to arrive, which he hoped would be coming later in the day. I guess it’s a common problem associated with running a business in a deeply rural location!

I ended the day with a swim in the sea, my first since the holiday began. Everyone else had been in and out of the water like aquatic monsters, but I was nursing an injury to my hamstring which I’d picked up playing rounders on the first day. It turns out that I’m now of a boring age where I need to warm my body up before a blast of physical exercise. Also, the sea had hitherto not looked massively inviting. Why would anyone wilfully throw themselves into refrigerated water?!

The journey home to London was absolutely ghastly. It rained solidly - an aggressive, hail-like rain, which felt like needles on the skin. I drew the short straw and ended up driving from just north of Swansea all the way to Swindon, which was the section of the M4 where most of the weather-related traffic jams were happening. There were all sorts of signs by the side of the road warning motorists about the perils of driving in such terrible weather, and we watched our estimated time of arrival slide from 5.30pm to 7.45pm. A day of driving. Hurrah!

I heard someone in a petrol station telling the person behind the counter that she was returning from Tenby (also in Pembrokeshire) and that she’d been sitting on a beach the day before in glorious sunshine. I knew exactly how she felt! We exited the petrol station shop at the same time, and ran for our cars, swearing miserably, no doubt both wishing we were in Spain.

Good Shabbos. And over and out!

Pembrokeshire

We’re in Wales again. More specifically, Pembrokeshire. Each year a group of friends that I made at university goes away together. This time there are fifteen of us - eight adults and seven children - and we’re staying in a glorious cottage which sits on a headland directly above what is effectively our own private beach situated in a secluded cove which you can only access by foot. A little path snakes its way from the house down the hillside to the beach. It’s completely magical, particularly for the kids. Lola, Raily and Iain’s 19 month-old pointed upwards at one point and said, “big sky.” She was right. It’s the sort of place where nature encourages you to simply be.

We went down to the beach at twilight last night and stood on the beach, skimming stones as the waves crashed and roared. The braver ones amongst us swam. Meriel said it wasn’t cold. I didn’t believe her.

The last vestiges of yesterday’s big storm were still present and the clouds were moving very speedily across the giant moon.

A mysterious black dog appeared on the beach at one point to drink from the stream which runs into the sea. It was incredibly friendly but didn’t seem to have a discernible owner which meant that seeing it in the near darkness brought to mind tales of spooky mystical canine creatures from British folk legends. The Black Shug. The Hound of the Baskervilles.

As the stars came out, we looked up at our little house on the hill with all its lights on: beautiful twinkling lights which beckoned us home. It was reminiscent of a scene from my childhood. I couldn’t quite remember which.

Loneliness

My father-in-law, David, said something recently which really struck home. David and his wife, Liz, are presently grieving the death of their dog, Barney and the first thing that talking to them taught me was that it’s all-too easy to underestimate the pain associated with losing a pet, particularly one which has been by its owners’ side for the best part of fifteen years, and seen them through major life changes. They were both incredibly shaken and struggling to deal with their loss. 

However, the thing which David said which really struck me was that losing your dog effectively returns you to the ranks of being a non-person. In an age where people are becoming increasingly suspicious of anyone who smiles at them in the street, or starts randomly talking to them on a bus, having a dog remains one of your only options if you want to make new friends or while away the odd five minutes by engaging in small talk. Human contact facilitated by an animal.

Children, of course, are also great enablers when it comes to strangers talking to each other. People love looking at, and commenting on, babies - and children, just like dogs, will rush off and play with other children without prejudice. Parents often have no option than to chat to the parent of a child their child has discovered!

My friend Philippa, who has both dogs and children, took me on a walk across the park with her extended brood. Sadly, her two dogs routinely snarled at, or ran away from, all the dogs with owners whom we both felt it might be nice to chat to, and almost exclusively bonded with dogs whose owners turned out to be eccentric bores! But, of course, these ever-faithful dogs had done their duty, because it rapidly became clear that we were talking to people who didn’t get a lot of conversation in their lives. Without their dogs, I’m sure their loneliness would have been a great deal more acute. 

I think loneliness is a massive issue in the world at the moment. The more we barricade ourselves into our cyber existences, the more fussy we become about who we actually interact with. People who do online dating end up with almost impossible demands because they can distil their ideal soulmate in the form of a check list. None of this is helpful. 

I remember, as a kid, going shopping with my Mum and our journey being peppered with her saying hello to people. “Who’s that?” I’d ask. “I’m just saying hello” she’d reply. My Grannie, similarly, used to love people-watching. After her mobility was compromised, we’d often leave her sitting on a bench in a park whilst we went for a stroll, knowing fully well that she’d get chatting to someone, or enjoy watching the children playing on the swings. We’d invariably return to find her electrified by the stories she’d accumulated. Nowadays I wonder if she’d be viewed with suspicion, or considered mad. 

In the olden days, of course, older men, were even allowed (and actively encouraged) to seek out the company of children. The great J S Lowry, for example, would regularly go into parks, strike up conversations with kids and offer them sweets. How awful does that sound to our cynical 21st Century ears? But equally, how terrible is it that the modern world requires us to treat this behaviour with suspicion? Young children can gain so much by interacting with older generations. As a teenager, I regularly went into retirement homes simply to talk to people about the First World War. I benefitted enormously by having pen pals who were veterans of the conflict. It led to Brass! 

And yet, as a 44 year old man (for one day more!) the only children I interact with are the children of very close friends. If a child sits opposite me on the tube, I purposely ignore them and I get incredibly uncomfortable if one approaches me or, heaven forbid, makes physical contact in some way.

So, to test David’s theory, I took to the streets of Finchley, willing people to look at me and smile. And, yes, I’m aware that it’s fifty times worse in London than it is in the rest of the UK, but I genuinely couldn’t get anyone to smile back at me. I got a couple of “you’re a crazy person” looks, and I think I might have pulled a seventy year-old man, but broadly speaking, had I been a lonely person hoping for a bit of human kindness, I would have been sorely disappointed. I was a non person.

Of course, if I’d been in a park with a dog or a child, David’s theory would have been bailed out entirely. I did pass a man with a very cute dog and felt that his body language suggested he was both open to, and used to, interaction with strangers.

I have therefore decided to try to be more open to social interaction with strangers. You never know, for a lonely person, or a grieving person, a smile, or a three-minute chat, might make all the difference.

A Symphony for Yorkshire

Ladies and gentleman. It is August 1st, and therefore Yorkshire Day. I can't quite believe we made this film nine years ago, but it's as wonderful today as it was back then. 370 musicians from the four (yes four) counties of Yorkshire. 50 locations. Hundreds of hours of studio time spent layering up the musicians one by one, and then many more mixing the beast that we'd created. I urge you to watch it with a great dollop of love for the proud folk o' Yorkshire! Ta very much

Oh yes... this is cameraman Keith and me wearing waterproofs to film under the Humber Bridge