One foot in each world

It rained heavily for a few hours this afternoon, and as the storm started to clear, the sky turned an extraordinary sickly colour, the like of which I'm not sure I've seen before. It had a sort of greeny, yellow hue, which made researching gas attacks at the Battle of the Somme particularly gruelling.

I've just finished reading Covenant with Death by John Harris, which is a loosely fictionalised account of what happened to the Leeds Pals regiment in the First World War. My previous assumption was that these Pals regiments (non-soldiers who signed up on a wave of patriotism at the start of the war) would have largely been made up of working-class lads, steel workers, miners and the like, but I'm fast discovering that they came from all walks of life; university lecturers, press men, the sons of families who'd made their fortune in the industrial revolution. Their only commonality was the town from which they came; towns which would struggle to recover if the regiment found itself in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

The Leeds Pals were in the first wave of attacks at the Somme and were mowed down in their thousands by machine guns. "Two years in the making. Ten minutes in the destroying," as Harris writes in the postscript of his book, which is one of the most brutal and detailed accounts of the war I've ever read. Utterly compelling and relentlessly upsetting. No book has ever touched me like this. 

As with the Pepys Motet, doing detailed research for this project has led to my feeling as though I've permanently got a foot in two worlds. I'm pretty sure historians must feel like this all the time. There's a little space in my head where an ever-growing battery of First World War images is being stored. Some are becoming so life-like they almost feel like memories. As the project begins to develop, so this particular area of my brain will grow. 

I'm certainly not making things easy on myself. At every twist and turn on this particular journey there's a tragedy lurking. There are no happy endings in the Great War. None that I've found anyway. Even the lads that came home physically unscathed left something of themselves behind in France. 

The rain has stopped, we've opened the window, and the glorious smell of pizza dough and garlic is drifting up from the restaurant next door. It's making us hungry. 

Yesterday!

...And suddenly he realises his life is so dull, he's forgotten to post a blog for yesterday, which was actually a thoroughly decent day!

Brother Edward came up from Canary Wharf and we had a glorious afternoon eating a Prix Fixe at Cafe Rouge, and then going for a long walk through Waterlow Park, down Swain's Lane and then back up to Highgate via the Heath, which looked absolutely glorious in the sunshine. 

We were all quite tickled to stumble upon the little patch of the Heath, just next to the male-only bathing pond, which seems to be almost exclusively peopled by gay sunbathers. Only on the Heath! 

I think this area also featured prominently in a rather bizarre 1960s film called Blow Up. I've seen the film a number of times and I'm pretty sure one of the sequences is shot there, or thereabouts. 

We came home and I played Edward a number of the films I made in the year I worked at HSBC, which seemed appropriate seeing as he works there these days. They all felt hysterically out of date, not just because the various programmes and projects the films were promoting seemed to come from a bygone era of pre-recession banking, but because the after effects and grading I'd used all looked so horribly corporate, gaudy and "naughties!" Not a single piece of text sailed across the screen without some kind of whooshing sound or thunder clap! Ah! The days when banking was sexy and money was no object! 

Bored and a little lonely!

I've been moping around all day today. The most exciting thing I did was go to Highgate Woods with a mug of tea to sit on a bench and read a book about the Leeds Pals. It felt rather decadent and eccentric to be carrying a mug of tea through the streets but better that than drink out of polystyrene!

It was rather lovely to be sitting in the woods, but something about the dappled light and the small typeface of the ancient book I was reading seemed to clash rather hideously and I ended up having to go home feeling slightly fuzzy-headed. 

The only other remotely exciting thing was a 9pm visit to the local kebab shop for my usual treat of halloumi and salad in pitta bread. I try very hard when I'm there not to think where the tongs - which the man behind the counter uses to turn the cheese over on his giant grill - have been. They look rather red and sticky. One day I'm sure I'll be horribly ill as a result of eating there. Or no longer be able to call myself vegetarian. 

The tally of shit telly I've watched today is astounding, and includes three episodes of How to Look Good Naked, a 2010 episode of a property show, and a curiously addictive low-budget programme called "Snog, Marry, Avoid," where lots of silly women mince about slagging each other off for not looking "natural" enough. It seems that "natural" means wearing exactly the same amount of make-up, just in more subtle shades. A variety of boyfriends would periodically pop-up to say how awful it was to wake up and find the bed covered in fake tan, and it struck me how strange that must be. I've always said that being straight is one of the gayest things in the world! You wouldn't find me lying in a bed covered in pink occasional cushions with lacy curtains hanging at the windows!

I was angry to see the BBC trolling out an ancient episode of Escape to the Country, particularly in light of the fact that it looks like there may not be a slot to broadcast the White City film, which is daring, extraordinary - and already paid for! And yet, they're happy to trot out something which was cheap, throw-away daytime telly three years ago! At one stage the presenter went to look at a field of newly-planted roses somewhere in Cambridgeshire and asked when they'd be ready to pick. "2011 or 12" came the reply, and the presenter looked surprised; "gosh, a long time away then." I assume she was also thinking about 2012 being the year of the Olympics and wondering how bizarre it would be to host such a mega-event! 

We haven't had any Internet for the last two days, which, on a day like today, when I'm a little bored and lonely, is like hell on earth! Damn Talk Talk and their uselessness. They tell me it might not be fixed before August 6th. What will I do?

Nothingness

A day of next-to-nothingness. We had a lie-in, read a few books, tried to work out why our Internet wasn't working... Again... And then tried to work out why Talk Talk didn't seem to want to call us back at the time agreed. Again.

By the time we'd defrosted the freezer, it was time for Nathan to hot-foot it to Wiltshire to rehearse Much Ado About Nothing and time for me to disappear into a world of crappy telly, wishing profusely that Nathan's gig tomorrow night hadn't made it difficult for me to go with him to rehearse. 

Still, having been surrounded by people day and night for the last week, it feels like it's time for some peace and quiet. Sometimes it's good to feel a bit lonely! 

Missing!

We're driving down the M1 on a beautiful summer evening. The corn fields by the side of the motorway are glowing bright orange. The sun is melting into the ground behind a dark forest. It's 8.30pm and it's still 30 degrees outside. This really has been the most splendid British summer. 

We spent our last day of camping in the familiar environment of Tynemouth, and stopped en route at the quayside in Newcastle. Neither Sam nor Meriel had ever visited the city, and I wanted to show it off a bit. We had a stroll along the river front, and I pointed out various bridges, buildings and spots where Keith and  I had filmed Metro: The Musical and some of the numbers we'd used in 100 Faces. 

We got back in the car and snaked our way along the river, through Byker, Walker, Wallsend and North  Shields to Tynemouth, where we parked down by the lighthouse. 

The rest of the troops arrived and we walked along the harbour wall-cum-pier to the lighthouse. It's quite a journey. It probably stretches half a mile into the sea, and by the time we'd reached the end, the wind was buffeting us all over the place. 

We walked up into Tynemouth village. Nathan, Sam and I went for some chips whilst the others went down to the beach to eat sandwiches. The queue for the chippie was long and seemed to be in a horribly claustrophobic corridor, which instantly started to make me panic. As we placed our order, Sam decided to head back to the beach without realising that the onion rings we'd asked for were going to take 15 minutes to arrive. As I waited with Nathan, I felt myself panicking and decided to leave him in the queue whilst I went to find a drink. 

I ended up stuck in another queue in the Co-op, waiting for a series of silly old ladies to fumble with the piles of loose change in their purses, all the time feeling increasingly anxious and rather tearful for some reason. 

Nathan finally emerged from the chip shop as my mobile came into signal and I noticed a number of missed calls from the others. Worrying, I thought... 

We walked down to the beach, but could see only Hilary with Jago and William and Jeanie playing quietly in the sand. We instantly realised something was wrong, but fortunately walked into the scene just as the panic was subsiding.

Little Lily, Tanya's 6 year-old daughter, had gone missing. They'd started walking down the steps to the beach and suddenly realised she wasn't there. When you're with a large group of friends, kids tend to glue themselves to any of the adults they know, so the initial thought was that she might have tried to find Nathan, Sam and me. Literally one moment she was there and the next she'd disappeared... 

It seems that all hell immediately broke loose, with Railey, Mez, Tanya, Paul and little Tomas running along the headland, calling for Lily and stopping passers-by to ask for their help. Within seconds an entire group of people were searching the streets. The good folk of Tynemouth had stepped right up to the mark. 

She turned up. Of course she turned up. She'd dawdled a foot behind everyone else in her own little world and simply not seen the group disappearing down the steps to the beach. Tanya realised within seconds, but by then Lily had walked onwards and of course everyone's instinct was to rush back the way we'd come. Lily had been very sensible; when she realised she was lost, she'd found a family and asked for their help. She'd been crying and was obviously a little frightened, but fortunately Iain had found her before the police (who had been called) turned up. 

There were tears from everyone. Tears of relief. Tears of what ifs. I'm sure my panic was as a result of a weirdly claustrophobic corridor couples with going low blood sugar before eating, but it seems rather odd that I'd got into such a state, whilst my very close friends, just down the street, were having a terrible, frightening time. 

We were all hugely relieved and spent a golden time this afternoon, like one giant, eccentric family on the beach, burying Will and Tomas in sand and swimming in the sea. We'd never admit it, but I'm sure none of us let Lily out of our sight... Not for a second.

4pm arrived and it was time to go home. I didn't want to leave. I could happily have done another night, but then again, we've left wanting more and not outstayed our welcome. Iain thanked us this morning for giving the kids such a magical time... That was the plan. Happy to oblige. 

Magic in the trees

They play BBC Radio Cumbria in the shower blocks at our campsite, which  is a sound I find deeply comforting for some reason. There's something utterly familiar about BBC local radio, which comes, I assume from my doing so much work around the English regions. There's a certain formula. A certain style of delivery which unites them...

We've just endured a mega-storm. Fortunately whilst the rest of the group are staying in soggy tents, Nathan, Sam and I are "glamping" it in a little wooden hut with a fridge, a kettle and a proper bed. It's all a bit "Heidi" without the bad dubbing, but it's fabulously dry, and we spent the evening playing host to 13 people, who all gratefully crammed inside for a wonderful meal of vegetarian sausages, bread baps, salad and halloumi.

Everyone's now gone to bed, but all the tents are leaking so miserably that I'm half expecting to be woken up at 3 in the morning by a queue of shivering people wanting to sleep on our tiny barn floor. 

Today has been magical. Nathan, Sam, Raily and I jumped in the car first thing and drove 70 miles to a little town in Scotland called Sanquhar. The journey took us around Carlisle, Gretna Green and Dumfries and through some spectacularly beautiful scenery. 

Why Sanquhar? Because it's the home of a very special brand of knitting, which I'm sure I've discussed already in this blog. (The Sanquhar tradition deals mostly with gloves; beautiful, intricate things in black and white which look like ornate timber-frames houses.)

The town itself is rather ordinary, pleasant enough, but really just a little lowlands market town, although it immediately became apparent that the good folk of Sanquhar are amongst the most friendly people in the world. We visited the tiny museum, and a chap called Rab and young girl called Laura took us around in person, showing us a wonderful slide show about the area and pointing out all sorts of curios. 

We had tea in a beautiful craft museum, where Raily bought me a copy of the record of ABBA's Greatest Hits Volume One, which had been turned into a clock! It's the album which shows the band sitting on a park bench and it was the first record I ever owned. To continue the theme of this blog in recent days, one of the tracks featured on the album is Mamma Mia!

We walked down the High Street and into the post office, which revealed itself as the oldest post office in continual use in the world. It opened in the early 18th Century, which I find quite staggering. 

On the way home, we stopped by the town's old castle and parked up outside a derelict building. Seconds later, Raily was climbing into it through a broken window, which felt so decadent and brave that we all followed suit. 

It was some kind of farm house with a stables attached. The roof had caved in and the floor was covered in slate tiles. We nicked four, which we later washed and gave to the kids with coloured chalks for them to draw pictures of what they wanted to dream about tonight. They couldn't have gone down any better.  

On returning to Northumberland, we picked up the others and returned to our beloved Sycamore Gap, telling the kids that the gap in Hadrian's Wall was created when the magic flew out of England many years ago. We assured the kids that, because all the magic had flown out at that point, the tree in the gap had maintained a few little wisps and that if they all pressed their ears to its trunk they'd be able to hear the tree singing. And sure enough, when the kids listened, they heard a curious  choral sound! I can't imagine how it happened. At one point I wondered if the sound was coming from my pocket! What is life without magic? I hope the kids remember these long summer days for the rest of their lives. I certainly shall. 

Cragside

It's 9.30pm and we've just left the beautiful white sandy beach in Alnmouth on the Northumbrian coast. We came here for chips right at the end of the day, and paddled in the freezing water and ran races across the sand as a pink misty light descended on the world and the lighthouses far out to sea began to flash their secret codes. 

We spent the day at Cragside House, a stunningly beautiful 19th Century mansion house set in a ravine in the middle of Northumberland National Park. The weather men forecasted carnage - terrible downpours all day - but we had nothing but blue skies and a gloriously hot sun. Yet another raging success for the BBC's finest! 

We travelled through the National Park on our way to Cragside. It's the first time I've spent any time in these parts and it's absolutely stunning. We had young Will in the car and stopped at one point to take photos of a truck load of sweet smelling pine logs which had been left in a layby. We could see for miles across the hilltops behind. 

I think I'm right I'm saying that Cragside was one of the first houses in this country to be fitted with electricity and the place is filled to the brim with Caractacus Pottseque inventions for turning joints and rinsing plates. Mez even spotted a curious machine which seemed to be a precursor to the Soda Stream. 

We came home singing ABBA at the tops of our lungs on the single carriage stretch of the A1 which runs from Alnwick to Newcastle. Travel further south and the next time the road becomes single carriageway again is outside our house in London. I love the fact that I'm on the same street that I live on, just 300 miles further north. And singing ABBA to boot. As the man who wrote A1: The Road Musical, I can think of no better way to end a day! I am radiantly happy as I write this.