Bringing up Charlie

Britain at its Best: Knaresborough

2023-06-05T09:08:00.005+01:00

This piece was supposed to be in the Daily Mail as one of their "Britain at its Best" features. But the commission somehow got overlooked in the confusion of the merger of the Mail and Mail on Sunday and they ended up somehow publishing someone else's piece about this really interesting Yorkshire town. At least, that's what they told me. Still, they paid me for the article, and it's too good (I think) to go to waste so, here it is...

Britain at its Best: Knaresborough

Tim Atkinson goes rowing on the river before testing the health benefits of the local ice-cream

Houses hewn, troglodyte-style, out of rock; an ancient cave with a history of witchcraft and magic; a winding river in a steep, wooded gorge overlooked by the ruins of a Norman castle…. Is this the valley of the Lot or the Dordogne? Or some fairy-tale landscape on the Rhine in Germany? No, it's Knaresborough, North Yorkshire – a hidden gem, filled with history, and beauty.

For a honeypot, it's surprisingly easy (and cheap— £1.80 for a whole day in the Waterside car park) to find a place to park, even in the height of summer. The gorge, up to 120 feet deep and carved into the magnesian limestone and sandstone rock by the River Nidd, is over 16000 years old. It's the reason for Knaresborough's existence, and it's always been important to the town.

On the far bank is Mother Shipton’s Cave, England’s oldest tourist attraction. A walk through the remains of Knaresborough’s Royal Forest leads to the eponymous cave and neighbouring petrifying well. It’s a scene that’s hardly changed in centuries. But across the river this tourist hotspot was once a hive of industry. In the 1800s the river powered mill wheels for flax spinning and Knaresborough became so famous for its linen that it received Royal patronage from Queen Victoria.

In 1851 the railway arrived, connecting the town to Harrogate with a four-arch viaduct of stunning beauty. But the one we walk beneath today - spanning the 200 metre gap with four 57ft arches - is the second to be built. Just days before its official opening in 1848, the first viaduct collapsed, its debris raising the river level by 12 feet and lime from the mortar killing hundreds of fish.

Higher than the viaduct, at the top of the crag, is Knaresborough castle, built by Baron de Burgh as a stamp of Norman authority on land granted by William the Conqueror. King John not only used the castle as a base for hunting expeditions but made the first recorded Royal Maundy presentation here in 1210, giving gifts to thirteen Knaresborough paupers. Captured during the Civil War by Thomas Fairfax, the castle was slighted, leaving only the ruins visible today. The view from the castle, taking in the viaduct, is among the best vistas in the UK. Worth the steep climb, and perfect for pausing and catching your breath.

After all that exercise, we’ve certainly earned an ice-cream. There are plenty of shops to choose from; one has a sign in the window quoting a study by London's Institute of Psychiatry: "just one lick is enough to stimulate the orbitofrontal cortex", it declares, “an area of the brain associated with the pleasures of eating!” We sit and light up our brain’s pleasure zones on a bench in the marketplace, next to a bronze statue of Blind Jack of Knaresborough, complete with trademark 'viameter' or surveyor's wheel. Sightless from the age of six, John Metcalf (to give him his proper name) nevertheless became the "father of modern roads", responsible for building hundreds of miles of well-drained turnpikes the like of which hadn't been seen in Britain since Roman times.

Refreshed and inspired in equal measure, we feel strong enough to track back down the hill, passing the chapel of Our Lady of the Crag, carved into the rock in 1408 by John the Mason as thanks for his young son miraculously dodging a falling boulder. There’s just time for an hour on the river (£25 for a family ticket from Blenkhorns) and, while the kids argue over who should take the oars, we're suddenly stunned by the sparkling green jewel of a Kingfisher flashing past just inches from our boat. It's a breath-taking glimpse that somehow makes the stress of navigating past dozens of other zig-zagging rowers (and a few near misses) all the more worthwhile.

Besides, we’re still on a high from our ice-cream!

Migrants, by Eduard Altarriba

2023-05-22T17:53:00.007+01:00

I was sent both these books recently by Paul Eckersley, the Publicity Manager at Button Books. He knows that, living where I do, I know a thing or two about explaining migration to children. Not that it should matter where you live. I don't, for instance, live in a war zone. But I still have a duty to explain it to my own and other people's children, from time to time. And the number of migrants in our community has recently been swelled in large numbers by those fleeing war zones in Syria and Ukraine, so... they two are often, inextricably, linked.

I liked both books and can see them being immensely useful in schools and libraries. Our children have got to have the information they need to make sense of the changing world around them and, unfortunately, the examples set by some adults, including those in politics and others with high media profiles, isn't always what we'd wish for. So...

March the Month (in aid of @TPCCUK)

2023-03-16T16:13:00.005+00:00

March the Month is pretty much what it says on the tin... you march (or walk) 11,000 steps each day in order to raise money for Prostate UK. Why?

Well, because I know people currently undergoing treatment for prostate cancer, and someone who has just had prostate surgery.

And because prostate cancer is the most commonly diagnosed cancer in the UK, killing one man every 45 minutes. It kills dads, partners, sons, brothers, grandads, uncles and mates.

But it doesn't have to be that way. The funds we're raising money will help fund lifesaving research for men and their families affected by prostate cancer. And 11k steps sounds easy... but I reckon for me, with inflammatory arthritis and all that goes with it, it's the equivalent of the London Marathon!

Here's a link to my JustGiving page: https://marchthemonth.prostatecanceruk.org/fundraising/tims-march-the-month-challenge2023

If you can donate, please do.

And if you already have, thank you!

Books of 2022: A Selection

2022-12-12T14:13:00.006+00:00

Reading has sometimes been hard this year, for no reason I can put my finger on. I've got into audio books in a big way, and sometimes holding a big hardback (with arthritic fingers) can be hard, but... that's no excuse when you also read (and enjoy reading) on a Kindle. And, of course, my reading - as always - isn't confined to what's just been published. I'm still playing catch-up with books I find, or read about, or hear about, and can't believe I've never read. The Unbearable Lightness of Being was the latest. Unbelievable lack of reading.

However, however, however... The Goodreads review page might be a bit neglected but here, for what it's worth, are some of the books that I've most enjoyed this year:

The Painful Truth: The New Science of Why We Hurt and How We Can Heal, by Monty Lyman (Penguin, Feb. 2022) is one of those books that has a foot in both camps - that of patient and doctor. Lyman is a research fellow at the University of Oxford, and a trained medic. More importantly, he has lived experience of chronic pain having suffered for years from debilitating IBS. Adding clinical validation to his intuitive conclusions on the cause and nature of his own illness leads both to an epiphany, and recovery. Lyman’s book is both a vivid and readable introduction to the latest pain science, and a valuable self-help guide. Knowing why you hurt really can help you feel better!

Beware of the Bull: The Enigmatic Genius of Jake Thackray (Scratching Shed Publishing Ltd 11 Aug. 2022) is the long-awaited biography of the Yorkshire chansonnier by Paul Thompson and John Watterson. Thackray was a song-writing genius. He deserved much wider recognition, and much better than the lonely, alcohol-related death he suffered. This book is a gem, putting the record straight but without pulling any punches. Jake was a complex man: who wouldn't be, given his upbringing, his Catholicism, his demons? The well-spring of true genius is often torment of some kind and the cliché of the sad clown isn't always that wide of the mark. What isn't in any doubt is that Thackray's complex genius is brilliantly served in this very special biography.

Murder Before Evensong, by Richard Coles is the eponymous priest and former pop-star's first foray into fiction. I'm not a natural crime fiction fan, although I've enjoyed a few of Kate Atkinson's Jackson Brodie books and the odd Val McDermid crime thriller. But I had the great good fortune to host Richard in discussion about his latest book at this year's Boston Book Festival, and read his first venture into the genre as preparation. And a thoroughly enjoyable duty it turned out to be, meeting a colourful cast of characters that includes Stella Harper and Anne Dollinger, the church flower arrangers, local worthy Bernard de Floures and retired headmaster Ned Thwaite all of whom orbit the vicar-cum-detective Daniel Clement and his feisty mother, Audrey. Oh, and there's a loo, too!

Next up is a children's book. I still sometimes get sent books to review and this one is especially useful to any parent wanting to steer their child through the ever-rougher waters of human social interaction. I mean, is it just me or is everything, these days, freighted with more meaning, more potential pitfalls, more minefields of danger than ever before? I don't long for the old pre-social media days of everything being settled by a playground punch-up. But the invidious, poisonous social media-type pile-ons of today and the way they now seem to taint IRL conversations and relationships is a nest of rattlesnakes. Polite disagreement... is that even possible?

Yes, according to award-winning and bestselling author, Matthew Syed, whose new book helps young readers discover how debates and disagreements can give them new ideas, stronger friendships, and help change the world for the better. What Do YOU Think? (Hachette Children’s Group, Oct. 2022) is a positive and empowering toolkit for kids looking to be heard and understood in an increasingly polarized and argumentative world. It will help them (and help parents, carers and educators supporting them) gain the tools they need to navigate a world that’s increasingly at odds and inspire them to form their own opinions and communicate them with confidence and kindness.

And another one intended for the kids, especially kids in pain, is the latest series from Australian NOI Group entitled Zoe and Zak's Pain Hacks. Written by Dr Joshua W. Pate these colourful and engaging books are a fabulous attempt to share the latest brain-based approaches to pain management with a younger audience. Written in rhyming couplets, the five books are designed to help children, family, friends, teachers and health professionals all learn about pain and help children thrive! There's so much about pain that is downright strange as well as fascinating and knowing just a little bit about your body in this way can be hugely empowering. Niche, maybe - but necessary!

Talking of our amazing brains, July saw the publication of another truly amazing book about them. How the Mind Changed: A Human History of our Evolving Brain by Joseph Jebelli is described as "a seven-million-year journey through our own heads, packed with vivid stories, groundbreaking science, and thrilling surprises... Discover how memory has almost nothing to do with the past," the blurb goes on; "[how] meditation rewires our synapses; magic mushroom use might be responsible for our intelligence; climate accounts for linguistic diversity; and how autism teaches us hugely positive lessons about our past and future." Highly recommended.

On the face of it, Muzungu - a memoir by Rod Madocks subtitled 'A Rhodesian Testament' - is a straightforward tale of growing up in Africa as neither Englishman abroad nor true native. But the book is full of surprises. Not least is the fact that Cecil Rhodes himself could be quite the humanist, rather than the cancelled old-colonial he now seems destined forever to be. It's a book full of such apparent contradictions, painting a tender portrait of a lost land of colonial life that could also be nasty, brutish and short (and that's just for the ex-pats - Madock's mother had a penchant for stubbing out her cigarettes on the boy's chest, and he was so brutally beaten at school he still bears both physical and mental scars). Despite everything, and especially its colonial faults, the land of Madock's birth clearly casts a long and lingering shadow over the author's subsequent life.

God: An Anatomy, by Francesca Stavrakopoulou was actually published in hardback last year, but the audiobook only came out in 2022. Actually, although I began by listening, I had to switch to reading the book instead; the author has written a fabulous book... but she isn't (to my ears) its best narrator. Nevertheless, if you want to wrestle with the intellectual muddle of the Western concept of god (or gods) then this is a highly entertaining as well as academically well-argued book. But one to read, rather than listen to. At least, in my opinion!

Why Has Nobody Told Me This Before? by Dr Julie Smith is out in paperback on January 6th 2023, so if you've got some Christmas money left and you need a little help facing the grim remainder of winter, this could be for you. It's therapy as common sense, based on science. No wonder the book is a No 1 Sunday Times Bestseller! Smith draws on years of experience as a clinical psychologist, sharing "secrets from a therapist's toolkit" in order to produce a self-help book with a difference.

Last, but by no means least, Super-Infinite: The Transformations of John Donne by Katherine Rundell was Winner of the Baillie Gifford Prize for Non-Fiction and a worthy winner too. John Donne is a fascinating subject: pirate, law student, prisoner, poet and priest, the Dean of St Paul's didn't do anything by halves. And neither does this excellent biography, which treads the line between telling the story and trying to explain it, not least by reference to the poetry, with deft skill. Whether you like Donne's poetry, or loathe it, you will love this book because the life is fascinating, and the way it's told here is so exciting. As the man himself wrote: "Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book."

Happy birthday Classic FM!

2022-10-11T20:54:00.005+01:00

I was a bit of a weird kid. My idea of rebellion wasn't following the herd to the latest trend in pop, rock or punk (though I was nothing if not catholic in my tastes, and still enjoy a bit of the latter!). No, my idea of kicking back involved BBC Radio 3 and classical music. And in those days (early eighties) it was anything but "accessible".

I'm sitting, this evening, listening the Classic FM's thirtieth anniversary concert from the Royal Albert Hall. The Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra are on fine form, soloists (including the amazing Anna Lapwood) too, but... despite the dulcet tones of Zeb Soanes, it's not always been my cup-of-tea.

But then, neither is Radio 3, a lot of the time. I can imagine the old presenters of my youth spinning in their graves at the desperate attempts made by the current crop at audience engagement: tweets, email, anything to get in touch. Because if you're in touch, you're... what, exactly?

Trendy?

Well, maybe. But that's not what serious music if for, is it? That's not what BBC Radio 3 should do, surely? No. It should administer the sacerdotal rituals of classical music like a sacrament, with none of the chummy "let us know what you think" nonsense, none of the "join in the game we're playing" justification for taking up airtime. After all, Classic FM is doing that right now. And doing it jolly well. And although Radio 3 has made some welcome changes as a result of the "new", thirty-year-old kid on the block (like poaching Petroc Trelawny) it should never try to be an ad-free version of the same thing.

Classic FM is doing that just fine, thanks. Here's to the next 30 years!

National Poetry Day

2022-10-06T09:21:00.005+01:00

Yes, it's here again. But remember, poetry isn't just for one day - it's for everyday, always. I find myself with poems going round my head (or parts of poems) almost constantly and am forever thankful for the few I know by heart. Because they come, unbidden, often when I least expect them, and work a kind of magic that is hard to replicate. They seem to have a life of their own. It's as though they live in my mind, independent of "me", and emerge from the mental shadows to sooth, console and inspire at times of necessity.

Here's one I can just about recite by heart (even though I do have the book as a prompt!) and it's always been one of my favourites, even though the title is simply "Poem XL", which means "Poem 40", from A.E.Housman's lesser-known collection called (prosaically) "Last Poems".

I hope you like it!

Back to school...

2022-09-06T08:31:00.004+01:00

Back to school, back to work, it's that time of year.

Personally (and following on from my last post on the subject) I'm convinced this is the ONLY way to commute... good for you, good for the environment - win, win!

On yer bike...

2022-08-16T12:00:00.001+01:00

Cycling. It's the kind of thing you do when you're young, before you learn to drive, when you can't afford a car (or the petrol to power it!)... to say nothing of the insurance, road tax, MoT etc.

Isn't it?

No!

For a start, even those of us (like me) who've been driving for years are finding filling up the car increasingly expensive, to say nothing of the other costs. But can you really, as an adult, swap your car for a bike? What about those hills? Or a head-wind? Imagine turning up to work with your shirt soaked in sweat!

Well, here's the perfect solution. An e-bike. And not any old e-bike, but the beautiful Eskute Polluno. As they say on their website: "With five pedal-assisted speed settings and the 250 Watt Bafang G010 rear electric hub motor, the electric bicycle Polluno can make light work of hills and make easy riding against strong winds. You'll never be out of breath when you arrive at your destination."

What you will be when you arrive, however, is fitter. Power assisted pedalling doesn't mean no pedalling at all. And you'll be doing your bit for the environment, too. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, after all. And everyone who cycles instead of driving is reducing air pollution. Little by little. Petit a petit l'oiseau fait son nid, as the French say. Or so a little bird told me!

Anyway, if none of that persuades you, perhaps the fact that they've got £50 at the moment will? Or even £150 if you want to buy 2! I know, expensive, but these bikes really do represent great value for money... as well as huge savings for the environment and your bank balance when compared to the spiralling costs of motoring.

And you're cycling again!

Back in the saddle!

What's not to like?

An author's lot...

2022-06-25T19:24:00.004+01:00

... a bit like a policeman's, is seldom a happy one.

But being asked to add my bit to a discussion on publishing on BBC Radio 4's Money Box this week set me thinking. As the host, Felicity Hannah said (channelling her inner Steve Harley!) I've "done it all" - trad. publishing, self publishing and crowdfunded publishing. The only thing I haven't done - and which the programme was actually examining - was hybrid or paid-for or 'vanity' publishing. I've not had to pay, directly, to have anything published. Mostly, I've been paid, sometimes up-front. But there was that time I decided to try crowdfunding, and spent a lot of hard yakka trying to raise the upfront costs to have my novel, The Glorious Dead, published. And that, I think, was why I was invited to take part.

But the discussion itself was quite wide-ranging and set me thinking about why, in the broadest sense, I do what I do, which is write. It certainly isn't for the money. As the Society of Authors (whose Chief Exec was also on the programme) points out, 90% of book earnings are earned by the top 10% of authors. I'm definitely in the majority, being one of the 90% who have to fight over the remaining scraps.

Which always seems unfair. There are, after all, plenty of people making money out of authors: agents, publishers, booksellers to name just three. When I successfully crowdfunded The Glorious Dead it ensured that Unbound could pay its staff, maintain its website and cover its many costs, most of which seem stacked up in the debit column of my twice-yearly "royalties" statements!

As yet, I haven't made a penny. But not only did I write the book, I (and it was largely down to me) crowdfunded it, covering all Unbound's production costs and thereby absolving them of the risk normally borne by the publisher. And therein, maybe, lies the rub. Because, having already covered its costs, and without any further vested financial interest, has Unbound really got the incentive to do what traditional publishers (who have taken a financial risk) do, and promote and sell the book?

Don't get me wrong, I don't regret it. As a relative late-starter I was keen to get as much experience of as many different publishing deals as I could, and Unbound has a well-deserved reputation for producing great books. And The Glorious Dead had garnered little interest from mainstream publishers (no surprise, a work of literary fiction by an unknown author) so I knew at the time of writing that the window of opportunity for a book set in the aftermath of World War One was small as the centenary of the Armistice approached. Ideally, it would be published to coincide with the 100th anniversary of when the guns fell silent. Because this is when the work of the novel's characters began.

I decided to crowdfund with Unbound having already supported several of their books. I knew the editorial process was rigorous and that the books they produced were good - both as physical objects and as examples of their craft. I knew next-to-nothing about crowdfunding but reckoned with a bit of hard work (which turned out to be a year of a LOT of very hard work) I stood a pretty decent chance of raising the ten grand that a hardback took to produce. I was also genuinely supportive of a model that took the financial risk out of the publication process, allowing greater editorial (and authorial) freedom by the simple expedient of covering costs in advance. And after that, of course, it was an industry-busting 50-50 profit share of sales.

Or so I thought.

I should explain I've not gone back over my contract with a fine toothed comb or had it scrutinised by the legal department at the Society of Authors. I ought to have done that at the time. But apart from a few typos and the odd grammatical infelicity it read pretty much like the other contracts I had signed. Except, of course, that in this case publication was contingent upon raising upfront the cost of the book's production.

I should point out that it doesn't have to cost ten grand to produce a book. It can be done well for far less. But Unbound weren't cutting any corners and the product would be given lavish amounts of attention for the money I was raising. I should also point out I was delighted with the book. It came out on November 1st 2019, the near-perfect time, and received some praise and a modicum of attention. It appeared in bookshops. It was spotted! Friends kept sending me photos of it on the shelves. One of my own proudest moments was seeing it displayed on the 'Books for Christmas' table in Heffer's, rubbing shoulders with Sally Rooney and Joyce Carol Oates...oh, and Anton du Beke, too (but you can't have everything!).

Sales seemed to be going well, I was told. If it wasn't flying off the shelves it was certainly moving, if slowly. I expected nothing from the first statement, but was confident by the second I might have made enough to celebrate with a decent bottle of wine. Since then I've had several more statements. And I'm still waiting for the money to buy a packet of biscuits, let alone a bottle of wine. Because, in spite of raising enough to cover the publication costs, costs keep being added and money earned from sales held back against future loses (such as trade returns). At my lowest ebb it seemed that everything short of the office tea money was being added to the debit column of my statement.

I'm no accountant, obviously. Neither am I a businessman. I might be naive but still, the question nags me: how can a model where the upfront costs are covered in advance produce so little from subsequent sales? Surely each and every sale should, technically, yield a profit? I've gone from being an eager enthusiast for a new model, to a rather impoverished critic. Cynicism has now set and hardened like cement. But it’s not difficult to feel bitter when everyone else, or so it seems, has been paid.

Except me.

Which is why, as the programme seemed to hint, as and Adam Croft - author of the Rutland Crime series confirmed - self-publishing is becoming increasingly popular with authors. Because the antiquated so-called 'industry' that is publishing and selling seems geared up to make money for everyone except the one person without whom it wouldn't exist... unless you happen to be in that happy 10% of authors mentioned earlier.

But things are changing.

And it's refreshing to hear how on programmes like this, which you can do (should you wish) all year!

A Mediaeval Marvel

2022-03-26T12:46:00.002+00:00

My article on Beverley in today's Daily Mail...

Great for both children and adults!

2022-03-15T14:51:00.003+00:00

Operation Ouch! magazine is the official children’s magazine of the award-winning BBC TV show. Packed full of interactive puzzles, eye-opening experiments and awesome facts, it follows twin doctors Dr Chris and Dr Xand van Tulleken alongside Dr Ronx as they explore the fascinating worlds of medicine and human biology.

We were sent a copy for my daughter to review. Here's what she thought...

In "Ouch!" magazine you can read all about the body, how it works, and get tips on how to stay healthy. I enjoyed reading it and I think it is a good magazine.

I especially liked the section on pages 22-23: ‘Can you run barefoot?’ It taught me a lot about the soles of your feet and why it is very important to have sensible footwear on whilst running. I was extremely surprised when I found out that your feet have 200,000 nerve endings! No wonder stepping on a piece of Lego hurts so much! I also enjoyed reading about hiccups and what causes them. It helped me understand where they come from and what you can do to stop them (nothing). I also tried the balloon breaths on pp. 58-59 but that didn't go well as I couldn't stop laughing.

If there was one thing I think they could improve it would be the contents page. A few of the subjects covered in the magazine are listed on the back page but I wasn’t told where to go to if I wanted to read about eyes, for instance. I think that a more traditional contents page would have been better.

Overall, however, I think that this magazine is great both for children and adults. You can learn lots from it and has bits in that will make you laugh. I would recommend it if you are into the body and how it works, and if you need to do some research for a project.

Out of the mouths of babes, eh?

"A very powerful and much-needed addition to the library of pain-related literature"

2021-11-02T17:19:00.003+00:00

I was delighted to meet Dr Deepak Ravindran last month as part of the Flippin' Pain community outreach
tour of Lincolnshire. I'd read his excellent book The Pain-Free Mindset: 7 Steps to Taking Control and Overcoming Chronic Pain this summer and thoroughly enjoyed its accessible and digestible mix of pain science and common-sense advice. Dr Ravindran is consultant pain specialist with Royal Berkshire NHS Foundation and has many years experience of helping patients (like me) to cope better with chronic pain.

So, as a patient, I thought I'd offer him the chance to read my patient's-eye book on the subject, Where Does It Hurt? This is what he had to say...

Reading the biography of someone with lived experience of pain is always a honour because it gives us the opportunity to look behind the curtain of someone who looks 'normal' to the rest of the world but is living with an invisible illness that can easily prevent them from living their lives to the full.

Tim Atkinson shows the unique issues of a lived expert in pain management in this book. An accomplished writer, he uses his diagnoses and management of his psoriatic arthritis to chart the difficult and time-consuming journey while observing the unique eccentricities and foibles of primary and secondary medical care with a great sense of humour and liberal references to other major writings.

Tim takes us on a journey through the most common treatments offered for pain management in the UK with a scenic detour through their history and an explanation of how they came to be. I found the chapter on history of opioids, mindfulness and BDSM particularly fascinating. He has also been able to present the newer understanding in a simplified and easy-to-grasp manner and as a clinician, I found seeing how a patient is able to distil and present the new complex science of pain processing very useful.

Ultimately, Tim talks about expectations and understanding the power of taking back control and agency as being key to manage and overcome pain. He has tried a variety of therapies and comes away with that powerful message that the language of pain needs changing. Even more important is the belief and ability to take control and do something about pain rather than being a passive recipient of healthcare. Coming from a patient advocate who lives with pain, that is a very powerful and much needed message to everyone who suffers from chronic pain.

Thank you, Tim, for writing this book. It is a much needed addition to the growing library of pain related literature for patients and healthcare professionals.

Lest we Forget...

2021-11-02T13:17:00.003+00:00

It's the centenary of the Poppy Appeal and if you'd like to know more about the history of this fundraising initiative, look no further than this month's Reader's Digest magazine, where my article entitled "Lest We Forget" explains its humble origins with handmade flowers through to the multi-million pound fund-raising appeal of today.

Entasis

2021-10-04T16:44:00.005+01:00

I don't often post about the Great War anymore. But it has not lost its fascination!

Today is World Architecture Day and it's an appropriate time to consider the enormous achievement of the Great War's chief architect, Edwin Lutyens. Famous, of course, for designing the Cenotaph in Whitehall, Lutyens had been involved since before the war's end with plans for its commemoration, and plans to the remembrance of the war dead.

On a trip to France and Flanders in 1917 Lutyens spoke about the "the ribbon of isolated graves like a milky way across miles of country where men were tucked in where they fell." Those haphazard battlefield burials would be tidied into the great military cemeteries we know today and in many, there be be a white stone altar (known, non-liturgically as the Stone of Remembrance) inscribed with the words (chosen by Kipling) "Their Name Liveth For Everymore".

Both the Stone (relatively small, at 12ft long and 4ft high) and the Cenotaph (over 30ft high) are built using the ancient architectural principle of entasis, used in the building of monument like the Parthenon. What this means is that neither the horizontal nor the vertical surfaces are truly straight: they taper, imperceptibly, according to mathematical calculations that were apparently so complicated they covered 30 pages of Lutyens notebooks!

To the naked eye, the lines look straight. But they curve, very slightly and if you were to continue the vertical lines of either the Stone or the Cenotaph they would form a great arc meeting 1000ft above the ground. The horizontal lines, meanwhile, would extend to form a circle whose centre would be 900ft below ground.

It's a subtle effect that gives both monuments a sense of hidden grandeur and a connection with the eternal. If you've ever stood and wondered just what it is about such otherwise plain, straightforward monuments that makes them so impressive, entasis could be the answer.

A Northern Light

2021-07-24T13:52:00.004+01:00

The chances of finding an article you've written published on the very day you're visiting the town in question must be pretty remote, I'd have thought. The chances of then seeing it while casually browsing in a newsagents are pretty low too, especially when it's tucked away on page 58!

We visit Ripon regularly and I'd often thought I ought to write about this small, overlooked part of Yorkshire. The cathedral hasn't got the scale and grandeur of nearby York Minster; Nidderdale is hardly known compared to neighbouring Wensleydale and Swaledale.

But Ripon is a forgotten gem among English towns (a city, really, having a Royal Charter dating from the ninth century) and it deserves to be better known. Just not too much better known... after all, one its many charms is its tranquility.

Anyway, if you fancy a read, here's the link: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/travel/escape/article-9820837/UK-staycation-joys-Ripon-one-Englands-oldest-smallest-tranquil-cities.html

Diary: Welcome Back!

2021-05-22T18:55:00.002+01:00

Everyone's making a big thing about the return of audiences, spectators, paying punters to concerts, matches, gigs and so on now that lockdown is finally easing.

Personally, I've quite enjoyed hearing (and seeing) live music relayed via the internet or broadcast over the airwaves without the shuffling, coughing distraction of real people in the audience. I know, I know... they're needed, if only for their cash; they rarely bring caché. More often their behaviour ruins concerts with ill-timed sneezes and other outbursts, to say nothing of the competitive 'who can be first off the blocks' clapping, which means the applause shatters the magic silence at the end of the music when the performance casts its mystic spell.

I know people want to show their appreciation. Orchestras have been doing it to each other (and to soloists) at the end of their behind-closed-doors live performances. Just not in the nanosecond of silence once the last note has been played. And I know people (sometimes) can't help coughing. But you never see (or hear) members of the orchestra (or choir) doing it, do you? Even when they've got several hundred bars rest in which to sit in silence (and sit still)... listening.

Because that's what they're doing. Listening. And it's not, on the whole, what the majority of audiences do. Of course, they hear the music. But they're flicking through their programmes or ferreting through their handbags, unwrapping sweets. And coughing. Personally, I'd make the whole bloody lot of them submit to a thorough medical before letting them through the door!

In other news, things just get odder and odder. We have a serial adulterer and liar at the ship of state's helm, a cabinet of (at best) curiosities and, at worst, inanities. And now we have an heir to throne thanking... tabloid newspapers?

Of course, the Bashir affair is a disgrace. Quite how the man was ever re-employed by the BBC is a mystery. And the cover-up and scapegoating of whistle-blowers is, rightly, being called a scandal.

But... but... I'm at a loss to know what Alice-in-Wonderland rabbit-hole could possibly see the tabloids, which did nothing but hound Diana for years both before and after the Panorama interview, suddenly becoming the good guys in this sad, sad story.

What next? Dominic Cumming's coming back to tell us all he was the good guy all along?

Watch this space! That particular shit-show is on Wednesday.

And talking of morals, my book on Moral Philosophy is free to download this coming week (Monday-Friday). So, if you know anyone doing, or thinking of doing, 'A' level RE, spread the word!

Mental Health Awareness Week 2021

2021-05-15T15:46:00.001+01:00

It's been Mental Health Awareness Week this week. We're all now more aware of mental health, this week and every week, and certainly more respectful than when I was a boy and the name of the local lunatic asylum (as it was officially known) was banded about as a playground taunt. And that's undoubtedly a good thing.

What many people may be less aware of is the link between physical and mental health. I suffer from chronic secondary pain, thanks to early-onset arthritis among other things. In what Susan Sontag describes as the dual citizenship of health and illness, some of us have seem to have been deported: put on a plane and flown to a land of permanent pain. No wonder depression is four times more common in people with persistent pain; no wonder studies show that ‘individuals with chronic pain are at least twice as likely to report suicidal behaviours or to complete suicide.’

No wonder. And yet our piecemeal medical treatment still fails to recognise the impact that one thing (like inflamed and painful joints) has on another (like mental health). Chronic pain patients are passed from one specialist to another like broken down machines on a (re)assembly line where no-one standing on the factory floor knows (or cares) what the finished (or, if you're lucky, repaired) product looks like. Or should look like. As long as they've done their "bit" then it's on to the next stage and on to fiddling with another patient.

When I was at university, studying philosophy, the problem of personal identity never seemed as if it would ever have a satisfactory solution. "If the brain (or spirit) of a cobbler were transplanted to the body of a Prince" ran the question, "who wakes up?" At the time, many people suspected that the cobbler would be the one coming round from the anaesthetic, so sure were we that the brain was the big be-all and end-all of our personalities.

The problem is almost as old as philosophy itself, and the brain-body dichotomy comes down to medicine through the works of Descartes, by way (perhaps) of John Locke's socks. But scientifically we now seem to know much more that makes such blithe assumptions insecure. The notion of neurons (basically, brain cells) in our guts, for instance, which certainly gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "gut instinct"!

Whatever we are, it seems certain that we're not now centred in one bodily area; we aren't (just) our minds - in fact, what our minds are (whatever that may be) may be inextricably linked to our bodies. We're a unity, a whole. And yet most medics still want to take us to pieces and deal with their "bit" of the problem of our ill-health. No wonder some of us don't ever get better!

In other news this week I was again asked to sound off about something on local radio. They seem to ring me whenever they want to get a phone in going, as if an anecdote of mine will somehow kick things off for them. I've no idea if it does. But I'm usually happy to help. After all, they've been very helpful to me. If you want to know what it's all about it remains available on BBC Sounds for a few days, and if you'd rather not listen to the entire four hour programme, fast forward to about 1 hour 40 mins and you should here your truly after just a little bit of context.

And just watch out if you're wearing headphones!

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p09ftc46

Diary: No Man is an Island

2021-04-10T13:22:00.001+01:00

"Any man's death diminishes me," wrote John Donne. And while, as any other human, I mark the passing of anyone with anything but joy, I can hardly jump on the "deeply sorrowful" bandwagon of mourning that seems to have gripped the nation (well, those involved in broadcasting) since the announcement of the Duke of Edinburgh's death yesterday.

The North Korean-style solemn music across BBC radio, the clearing of the schedules, cancelling of BBC Four and rolling news across all media seem to indicated more the desperation of journalists and broadcasters indulging their own passion than the properly respectful marking of the man's passing.

It's not just the BBC, either. (Although quite why repeats channel Radio 4 Extra had to be given over to special news bulletins for nearly two days is another matter. What were they doing, repeating coverage of Queen Victoria's passing?) Cathedrals and churches up and down the country competing with each other to say how "deeply saddened" they are, and how quick they've been to open up for "private prayer" and provide books of condolences to sign.

The man was 99. He'd led a good life. So have many, many others whose passing we either fail to notice or ignore. Ok, he was a public figure but the role wasn't exactly that of an NHS doctor on covid duty, and it came with considerable privilege. Surely the most appropriate response is to celebrate a life lived well (and at our expense) rather than pretend it's the death of Diana all over again.

In other news, I’ve been trying to get Faber to give me permission (at a price; they’ll do nothing for nothing) to use a line of Larkin’s as an epigraph in my latest book. Things started well: the Society of Authors thought they could help, as his trustees. Then a nice lady at Faber said I needed to use their bot: I did. The book I need t quote from wasn’t there. I chose the nearest I could find, the bot duly spewed out a licence and demanded payment. But I wasn’t going to part with cash for something that some lawyer somewhere might want to challenge in the future. So I emailed again: and again; and again. But the nice lady isn’t answering.

Perhaps the Faber offices are closed for mourning?

I wonder what the man himself, who was nothing if not obsessed with death, would have made of that?

O to be in England?

2021-04-01T17:19:00.008+01:00

"April is the cruellest month," according to T.S.Eliot. It certainly seems to have played the fool today with the sudden (and precipitate) drop in temperature. But... but... it's still April. The birds are singing, the blossom is budding, the grass is growing. I've heard three blackbirds, seen a house martin, and enjoyed some lovely spring walks in the sun until today.

Today, I've been looking at some of the photos that I've taken. And listening to the words of Robert Browning going round and round in my head as I do...

Diary: No more heroes...

2021-03-28T11:30:00.006+01:00

It’s been a week of concerts from Media City this week (for those of us perpetually tuned to Radio 3) and jolly good they’ve been. Chamber music at lunchtime, orchestral concerts in the afternoon and culminating on Friday evening with a fine live concert from the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester. All the concerts have been introduced by the ebullient Tom McKinney, complete with the emphatic local pronunciation of every ‘G’ in the script... choral evensonG, lots of sinGinG and so on. Someone on Twitter a few days ago asked where all Priti Patel’s absent ‘Gs’ have gone.

Well, we now know the answer.

When not listening to Tom using up Priti's scorned "g's" I've been tramping the pavements on my daily walk while listening to Stephen Fry narrate his re-telling of the Greek myths, Heroes. Not only is the prose masterful (I've got the book, too) but the reading (as you'd expect) is amazing. The range, the voices and the choices... for example, the pitch-perfect Norn Iron contortions of the language given to king Eurystheus! You can almost see the wicked twinkle in Stephen's eye. It's not (just) a well-told tale of ancient deeds and derring-do, either. Fry isn't averse to adding the occasional observation of the universal truths the old tales sometimes tell. "[R]ebellions from the outside nearly always fail: familial quarrelling, dynastic feuding, party disunity, the palace coup and the stab in the back... these are what dislodge regimes and topple tyrants."

And there's been proof of that a-plenty, this week!

Proud Songsters

2021-03-21T11:47:00.010+00:00

National Poetry Day is in October, but that's too long to wait to share this wonderful poem of Spring. It's one of my favourites by one of my favourite poets, Thomas Hardy. (Such a favourite that I've edited my own anthology of his poetry, should you be interested). And I know this is technically a poem of April, and it's still March. But it is, at last, Spring. The birds have started singing. And it's #WorldPoetryDay today. And that's what matters...

Proud Songsters

The thrushes sing as the sun is going,

And the finches whistle in ones and pairs,

And as it gets dark loud nightingales

In bushes

Pipe, as they can when April wears,

As if all Time were theirs.

These are brand new birds of twelvemonths’ growing,

Which a year ago, or less than twain,

No finches were, nor nightingales,

Nor thrushes,

But only particles of grain,

And earth, and air, and rain.

Hardy's birthplace, Lower Bockhampton, Dorset

To read more by Thomas Hardy, I can't do better than recommend you start here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/If-Its-Ever-Spring-Again/dp/B0851KBXMG

And to hear this poem read, and read beautifully, click here: https://soundcloud.com/dotterel/proud-songters

Diary: A Farewell...

2021-03-20T16:00:00.000+00:00

Open-air, woodland burial funeral for an old friend far too young to die, another of cancer’s many early victims. The ceremony is arranged so various people speak about his life from each of the spheres in which they knew him: work, music, village, volunteering and so on, the common thread being that there’s so much of the man that none of us alone can do him justice.

Later it occurs to me that today was unique in another way in being all about him, because this polymath of a man was never known to put himself first. He was interested, curious, inquiring and inquisitive of everything and everyone around him. The only time, ironically, I ever knew him talk about himself first was at work (we were teachers) when his attitude to troublesome students, uniquely among staff at the time, was always a genuine “what more can I do? What else can I try?”

If a student wasn’t engaged, didn’t produce work or was generally lacking in any way this man’s default position was always to look to himself, not the student, not the Year Head, not to parents or to God (in whom he had no faith anyway) but always to ask what else he could do or try. A remarkable man and a great loss.

In other news I caught a train. I know, I know... but it was the first time in over a year, and I realised that - apart from swift forays into supermarkets planned with all the precision and timing of a raid on a nuclear power station - I'd been nowhere 'public', apart from the pavement, in all that time. As the train pulled in to the station I almost began hyperventilating. My heart rate certainly started rising. All very worrying. And yet, mentally, I felt strangely disconnected from my own exaggerated physical responses. It was rather like observing someone else: look at him! Oh dear! Once aboard (thankfully the train was almost empty) and once I'd wiped the table with my antiseptic wipe I felt ok. I felt even better when someone with a "Covid Cleaning" tabard came and started wiping down the other tables. I'd wondered why they looked so clean. No crumbs, no coffee rings, no sticky patches of... god alone knows what.

I used to catch the same train, early in the morning, to a school where I once worked. I'd always try and bag a table so I could spread out and do some last-minute marking. I know whereof I speak. So, Covid has this, at least, going for it. And not for the first time I find myself really hoping that things won't go back to "normal" once this awfulness is over.

We need to do better than that, after all this horror.

Diary: Testing times...

2021-03-17T11:10:00.055+00:00

Well, that didn't last long. Just under a week since starting back at school and Charlie's home again, in isolation, one of his friends having tested positive in that morning's school administered lateral flow test. He seems genuinely upset; I can't help reflecting on how pleased I'd have been, at his age, to be sent home from school again. I think lockdown would have suited me perfectly. I always fantasised about living in Australia, in the outback, and attending school over the airwaves. I have a Ladybird book to thank for that. But I digress...

Charlie, like most people his age it seems, unlike his dad at a similar age, wants to be at school. His dad - at the age I am now - wants him to be at school, too. But he can't go. He can't return until March 29th, just in time to get a few days in before the Easter hols. By the end of this term, he'll have physcially attended a total of about eight days since mid-December 2020.

The odd thing, though, is that it shouldn't be this way. His friend duly went and got a (much more accurate) PCR test, which turned out to be negative. But none of the bubble is allowed to return until the isolation period triggered by the initial test has been completed, not even if they all do subsequent tests, all of which prove negative.

Am I the only one to detect the cack-hand of Gavin Williamson in all this?

To outline the situation in all its Kafka-esque absurdity, until tomorrow a lateral flow test done in school will trump a PCR even though the latter is acknowledged to be much better and even though the opposite rule applies for health workers.

But AFTER tomorrow a positive LFT will be bested by a negative PCR even though NEITHER will have been supervised in school!

Is it any wonder the DfE makes such a cock-up of every policy and contingency it cooks up to deal with those other tests, the ones taken by kids with a biro in their hand rather than a cotton bud up their nose?

Perhaps the word "test" brings the entire department out in a blind panic, running around like headless chickens until they've settled on some solution Gavin can take back to the House of Commons, to be delivered at the dispatch box by a man with all the intellectual nouse of (together with an uncanny vocal likeness to) Frank Spencer.

Ooh, Betty!

Back to school... but is 'school' holding kids back?

2021-03-08T11:57:00.003+00:00

It's back to school again this week, and parents everywhere are breathing a huge sigh of relief. No more fronted adverbials; no more expanded noun phrases and other ridiculous strictures from the Gove/Cummings curriculum revolution (you know, the one that also replaced GCSE grades A-E with 9-1) designed to make simple things more complicated.

But although parents up and down the country will be cheering, almost 70% remain worried about the impact of lost learning. It's true that during lockdown countless lessons have been lost. But learning hasn't stopped. And although some of the life lessons of the last few months have been painful, generation lockdown may just turn out to be the most flexible, adaptable and resilient generation we've ever seen.

No one can deny the past few months have been hard. Juggling jobs with home-schooling has been tricky for most and impossible for some. In terms of days lost almost half the school year has been spent at home across the two lockdowns. But it's a mistake (unless your kids have been on the Xbox for the entire time) to think that learning has been lost. Learning is never lost. (Even those avid Xbox addicts are gaining skills....)

Most children, especially those at primary school, are resilient and resourceful. After all, it's precisely those genetically-inherited qualities that have made us, as a species, so successful. And, as a species, we're going to have to be more resilient and resourceful than ever as we adapt to global warming and the inexorable pace of change in almost every sphere of life.

Except schooling. Because schools are still based on a "factory" model that takes little account of the huge discoveries made in the psychology of learning. Add to that the Gradgrindian national curriculum and hopelessly outdated and inefficient exam system and you only need the swish of the cane to complete the Victorian picture.

But if the pandemic has proved anything it's that we need to be flexible and resourceful. Scientists adapt to create new vaccines; teachers learn new ways of teaching; workers master unfamiliar technology to work from home. But for schools, from today, the clock goes back a century to a system long past its use-by date well before the pandemic struck.

It's perhaps useful to consider what schools are for, and what kind of education they should provide. As Lucy Kellaway writes in the FT, much of what goes on in school is "boring, stupid and bears no relationship to the economy." Perhaps nothing done in school should be "relevant" to the economy, or any other area, directly. Because above all, the one thing schools everywhere should have to do for everyone is instil a love of learning. Because that's the one big thing Generation Covid will be doing throughout their ever-changing, challenge-ridden adult lives. Learning, changing, adapting. It's already happening. And during Covid-lockdowns our children have got invaluable first hand experience of one of the best lessons anyone can ever learn. It is this. Just because things have always been done in a particular way, doesn't mean it's the best way. Things happen that mean we've got to change, adapt, think outside the box. Circumstances will dictate that we are forced to do things differently. And we can. And that's the best lesson anyone can learn.

Diary: Blowing hot and cold...

2021-03-07T15:47:00.082+00:00

For an out-of-date vestige of a long lost era, the Royals certainly know how to sell newspapers. In fact, come the glorious day perhaps that's the industry a weary nation should set them up in, in return for the palace and pomp and pageantry, in exchange for the backstage influence on legislation, as a more-than-generous trade off for all their corrosive in-fighting and costly domestic dues? In fact, setting the Royals up as Press Barons would be apt, at a time when the newspaper's reign is also slowly drawing to an end.

But who needs newsprint when you've got radio, TV and the internet salivating over every twist and turn? In case I've not already made myself clear, let me put in this way: I'm utterly, utterly sick of the silly soap opera that is this country's out-dated, irrelevant and unbelievably expensive royal family. I don't want a revolution; but I do want to hear a lot less about them and pay nothing whatever to keep them!

This shit show between different members of a family descended from murderers and Machiavellian power-grabbers and in-bred preservers of their own self-interest that we - you and I - still pay for is a joke! And the joke is on is. This week's Royal circus has been worse than #Brexit! Now we’ve “taken back control” can't we grow up?

Of course, I wish no ill will to any of them, least of all the Duke of Edinburgh. I'm delighted to hear of his successful heart procedure, and only wish the same speedy, quality care was available to all men of his age. I doubt he had to answer any awkward questions while someone decided whether or not to slap a DNR notice on his bed.

And on the subject of wind, the actual zephyr of last week did some spectacular damage to one of the old, tall trees in the cemetery. We noticed it today, on our walk through the land of the dead which we take both as a change from our foot pounding perambulations of the living streets and because it's a haven of peace, beauty and wildlife. This part of the cemetery has been closed to burials for years; the trees are allowed to grow and bulbs and wildflowers thrive unchecked. I sometimes think of it as a small aide-memoir of what the world could be like (will be like) once there are no longer human beings to mess it up. The answer, of course, won't be simple; there'll be great beauty and tranquility (just no-one around to see it). But there'll also be acts of violent ferocity, such as that wrought by the recent gales on this tree...