Riding a bicycle

     I believe I was either ten or eleven years old and had never owned a bicycle. Living on a busy main road, it certainly would not have been safe to learn to cycle outside my childhood home, and I had to make do as a child with a scooter or pedal car in the garden.

     For reasons that I am unclear of, I went to stay for a couple of weeks in the summer with my cousin, Diane, who lived in Northern Ireland. She was eleven months older than me and more like a sister than a cousin as we were 'double cousins', her mother being my mother's sister and her father being my father's brother. She was the eldest of a family of five.

     It was a glorious summer and she and I and her two younger siblings played outside every day. The house, a bungalow, was situated on a very quiet crescent, well away from busy roads with no through traffic. We congregated in the garage, playing music on a portable radio. One day, Diane had acquired some bottles of Coca-Cola. I tasted it for the very first time and detested it, but sipped it slowly, pretending I liked it. To this day, I cannot drink Coca-Cola.

      There were several bicycles in the garage.  Each day I would take one out to the road and attempt to ride it, wobbling precariously. I was a bit embarrassed at not knowing how to cycle, and did not let my aunt and uncle know what I was trying to do, but they had probably glanced out the window and seen the red faced determined girl in shorts , T-shirt and hand knitted cardigan, struggling again and again to balance on the bicycle.

      We would attach old playing cards to the spokes of the wheels, secured by wooden clothes pegs. No need for a bell to announce our presence as the wheels made a pleasantly addictive whirring noise, alerting pedestrians, as we cycled by on the pavement.

     One memorable morning, I climbed on the bicycle and began to pedal. A slight wobble as I sat on the saddle, and then away I went, passing all the neat gardens, up the gentle slope, and then with the wind in my hair, freewheeled down the other side of the hill to arrive back at the house with a big grin on my face. It was almost as if I had added another dimension to my life; a skill to add to the milestones achieved during childhood. The next challenge was to learn to swim, and I did not achieve that until I was more than twenty years old!

Smugglers Cave

My passion from the time that I left school was for caving. My classmate Jim and I met up almost every weekend to pursue this hobby. We did not spend our earnings in the pub like most of the lads at that time, but on ropes and gear for caving.

The thrill of finding a new cave system and knowing that no one had ever stepped foot there before was akin to an addiction. On the weekends when the weather was too inclement, we would pour over old maps, eagerly planning the next trip.

We heard an old folk tale about a smugglers cave in Devon, where kegs of whiskey and other contraband used to be stored, but the exact location was no longer known. This was a challenge which we embraced gladly. We read old newspapers dating from the early 1800s and examined ancient maps. We identified a cove where smugglers boats had been known to land and knew that this would be our starting point.

We chose a Bank holiday weekend for our search to allow us extra time, packing our tents, provisions and gear well in advance in order to make an early start. The weather was glorious, cloudless skies, bright sunshine and a hint of a sea breeze. Arriving at the location we set up camp and commenced searching among the craggy rocks above the secluded cove.

Our first find was of a sink hole, far too small to enter, but on dropping a stone down, we heard the splash of water far, far below. There was definitely a cave system underlying the sloping cliff surface. Then I heard Jim call excitedly from 100 yards or so to my right. He had found the entrance to a cave, narrow but passable.

We geared up with our ropes and head lamps and I went first, squeezing my way through the opening. I had to crawl on my hands and knees for some distance until the passageway began to open up. The ground underfoot was dry and sloped quite steeply as it widened out eventually into a large cavern.

We stood together and marvelled at the large space. Several chinks of light played on the floor of the otherwise dark cavern. There was an ink black small pool in the centre, but the perimeter was dry and there were natural rock ledges on one side which would have been perfect for storage of wooden boxes or kegs. The roof and walls were solid and there was no evidence of any recent rock fall.

We continued to stand, playing our headlamps around the walls and roof until we both intuitively moved to the perimeter, examining the rock and looking for clues as to the possibility that this was the smugglers cave. Jim walked around the dark pool and began to explore an additional small chamber. I thought I saw something glinting in a pile of stones and went over to investigate it more closely.

I put my hand down and picked up a silver coin, dated 1850. As I turned it over in my hand, I suddenly felt as if there was a presence beside me and turned to see a shadowy figure in the gloom; a tall, wiry man in a rough leather coat, with his long lanky hair tied in a ponytail. He seemed to look at me before very quickly disappearing from view. Instinctively I did not shout for Jim as this seemed to be a private,personal experience which I did not want to share. There was an overpowering aroma of wet tweed mixed with sweat which lingered for a minute or so.

I put the coin in a pocket, determined not to show it to anyone. As we clambered out into the sunshine again, I wondered if I had imagined the figure in the cave, but the coin was very real. To this day Jim is unaware of my find. Sometimes I pick up the coin again and turn it over slowly in my hand, and can still smell that intriguing, unpleasant aroma briefly.

 

CPJan2014

The Attic

I thought I would like to tell you about the attic in my childhood home. The house is currently up for sale and my brother and I spent several days at different times, clearing out the accumulated mass of items which had been stored there. It was a large attic, covering the entire footprint of the house, with a squeaky metallic ladder to gain access, and electric lighting to illuminate the gloom.

My parents had lived in the same house for over fifty years. It was their first marital home. Not only did they bring all their own belongings, but my mother's parents also moved in with them bringing many personal items when they left their very substantial house.

There was no concept of recycling in years gone by, and my parents were loathe to throw anything out. Broken electrical appliances, old televisions, crockery no longer in use, children's clothing, all were relegated to the attic.

On the death of an uncle, his belongings also joined the extraordinary collection, and I am ashamed to say, some of my unwanted wedding gifts, university notes and books were added also.

It became apparent in more recent years that the weight of the stored items was causing cracks to appear in the walls. Initially thought perhaps to be due to subsidence, this was disproved by an engineer, and so the process of clearing the attic became  more urgent.

As children, we were sometimes allowed to play up there because my brother's Scalextric track was set out on the floor- boarded area of the attic. There was no heating up there, and extra sweaters had to be worn in the cold winter months. We were strictly told not to delve into the piles of bags, boxes and other items, but of course from time to time we could not help ourselves.

Over in a dark unlit corner lay the upholstered mattress- like seating from a metallic swing garden chair. There are photographs of my grandmother seated in this chair, knitting in the summer sunlight, at her house, decades before my childhood home was built. Next to that, an old pram, and a cot, with some bags of old clothes, dusty fabric, and unwanted bed linen strewn around.

 

 

 

 

Moving in more towards the centre of the attic, a large pile of church organ music and scores for church choirs, preludes, hymn books, copies of  The Messiah, Elijah, all a legacy from the time that my grandfather was a church organist. Beside these dusty music books, a violin in a black leather case. This was my mother's. Before her marriage, she used to play violin in an orchestra but for inexplicable reasons, the violin became relegated to the attic after her marriage, and I cannot remember her ever playing it.

In the far corner, old copper kettles, warming pans, boxes of ornaments and crockery, rolls of unused wallpaper. Many paintings which used to hang in other houses and boxes full of old family photographs. One  small framed photograph showing forgotten relatives in early 1900 clothing, fell and smashed as we picked it up. Behind the framed photograph, another one tucked away, showing two small girls with stunted growth. No-one talked about these unfortunate children , genetically abnormal, apparently sent away to spend the rest of their life in a distant care home.

A bookcase stood against the far wall, crammed with old books, Victorian children's novels, bible study aids, poultry keeping guides, silk rearing textbooks and memorabilia from the Methodist Church in Ireland. A number of very beautiful old  cameras in leather cases and a lantern viewer from the early 1900s placed on the lower shelves.

There were many old leather suitcases, filled with hats, old clothing, scraps of leather, patterns for making hand- made leather gloves, and battered toys. Some dolls that had lost limbs and bags of dolls clothing lay on the floor. One large case containing children's sandals, unisex, passed down from one to the other, then placed here when grown out of.

Hidden under the eaves, a brown paper parcel, bulging and soft. When opened, it caused amazement, as it contained silk samples, documents, Royal Warranties  all from the early days of the Atkinson Silk Poplin Company which had been a very successful business developed originally in 1820. Kings and queens from European states had ordered silk for gowns, and the samples of the fabric were still in good condition. These extraordinary items have been donated to the National Museum  to take their rightful place in the industrial history of Dublin.

The death of my mother's uncle resulted in all his books being added to the attic. He had worked in his younger days in the Foreign Service and had learnt several languages. There were huge leather bound textbooks on learning Mandarin and other oriental languages. Many of these we donated to the Chester Beatty Library. He also had an interest in scientific development and there were large numbers of  books on physics, chemistry, mathematics and astronomy dating from the 1940's and 1950's.His collection of glass photographs, many of 1920's China,  gave a glimpse into a long lost culture.

Cleared of the vast quantity of stuff, I believe the house has now been freed from the responsibility of holding all the combined memories of several generations; free to begin a fresh  phase of life and provide a comfortable home for another family. That is a comforting good feeling.

Newspaper cuttings 1940 The War and Christianity

I assist my husband in the cataloguing of books for sale for his on line bookstore. It is not uncommon to find old postcards, notes, or newspaper cuttings within the books. These are interesting in themselves, but usually end up in the rubbish bin.

I propose to give these items an opportunity to reach a new audience by publishing them on my blog.

The book that I was cataloguing today was called 'Thinking aloud in War-time' and was published in 1939. The cuttings I found inside the front cover relate to the topic of how a Christian behaves in war time .

The first is dated 13/6/40 and entitled 'The Methodist Church and the War'.

     'The  Conference of the Methodist Church in Ireland, assembled in Belfast, expresses its judgment on the international conflict as follows:

1.     It is convinced that this is a war between the principles of pagan barbarism and the ideals of the Kingdom of Christ. It realises that the authority of God is being challenged, denied and spurned, and that the existence of human freedom, and of those moral principles which can alone provide a foundation for true living for men and nations, is gravely imperilled.

2.     The Conference calls upon our people in these days of stern trial to stand fast in their loyalty to Christ Jesus, to give an unwavering witness to their faith, and by their courage, sacrifice and prayer, to help to bring the war to a victorious end.

3.     It urges all Methodists to continue to show themselves worthy citizens of the Commonwealth, to assist the constituted forces of law and order, and to exercise with wide sympathy the ministries of comfort, friendship and encouragement.

4.     It assures the men in the Royal Navy, Army, Air Force, Merchant Navy, and the men and women of other war services, of its appreciation of their heroic and self-sacrificing labours, and of its continued prayers that they may be sustained and protected in these days of ordeal. It also remembers with prayer and sympathy those who are  broken in mind or body, all who are bereaved, separated from their loved ones, or torn with anxiety concerning those who are in peril. The Conference also feels deeply for many of its people who are finding business life very difficult and trying.

5.     Finally it calls our people to prayer, to ask God for an early victory for the allied peoples, over the power and brutal tyranny that have set this war in motion, and to supplicate the Throne of Grace for the coming of a new world-order, in which peace will reign, and which will be founded in God's righteousness and justice, and in human brotherhood and goodwill.

 

Secondly, a letter cut from an unknown publication dated 28/6/40, entitled 'The War and Christianity'.

Dear Sirs,

     Unfortunately some eminent people have said this war is being fought for Christianity; for this is likely to do incalculable harm not only to the war effort but even to Christianity itself. In the hope that at least some preachers may be deterred from repeating the cry, I ask, are the millions of Turks and Arabs, and the Muslims and Hindus of India, to be told so? Will they not read it as a call to a Christian  jehad? At present many of them can see Britain and France in definite opposition to international gangsterism, and are disposed to be generous with their blood and treasure, and even the shelving of their political aspirations, to join in the fight for the great cause of humanity.

     Christianity is only one of the religions of the peoples of this earth, and should not claim to monopolise all that is good. It is not propagated or defended by the  sword. That our esteemed President should appear to endorse such a view, in appealing "to all who believe this war should be fought to a righteous finish for the sake of the decencies of life and the Christian faith", is regrettable. Perhaps the above considerations have not been fully weighed by him.

       Yours faithfully,

                                                  Charles J. Rowe,

Richmond , Wexford,

 

It is worth reading these in the knowledge that the Methodist Church in Ireland  ministered across the border to both Southern and Northern Irish congregations despite the political differences.

The Ladder

John was feeling very disgruntled. For the second time in less than two weeks, Mike, the odd-job man, had let him down. He had been due to arrive at 10 o'clock this morning to clear out the gutter at the back of the house. The damp patch on the wall of John's bedroom was increasing in size since the week of heavy rain, and water had been pouring down the wall outside the window from the blocked gutter.

Life had begun to be a trial for John. His arthritic joints gave him severe discomfort when he tried to sleep. His fingers had become stiff and unwilling to respond to the messages his  brain sent. There had been many glasses and plates which slipped out of his hands and ended up smashed on the floor. Since his heart condition had deteriorated, he had been advised not to drive, and he felt like a prisoner in his own house. No more trips to the fishmonger by the quayside, or the little cafe where he had met two of his old mates for a chat on Tuesdays.

His daughter, Marion, had done her best to set up help for him. She taught him how to upload his shopping list on line to the local supermarket and his goods were delivered once a week to the door. He enjoyed chatting to the delivery man as he brought in the purchases and left them on the kitchen table. Marion popped in after work on a Wednesday evening and brought a cooked dinner to share. She came on Saturdays for an hour or two and did some cleaning and washing for John. He was always pleased to see her, but resented having become so dependent on her.

John finished his bowl of soup and threw out the crumbs from the bread for the birds. He could feel his frustration building up and whatever he tried to put his mind to, nothing helped. The messages he had left for Mike had gone unanswered. He knew what he was about to do was foolish, and that Marion would be upset, but his mind was made up.

He went out to the shed first and got a small hand trowel which he put in his back pocket.  He opened the back door of the garage and moved some boxes until he found the old ladder laying along the side wall. He began to pull it out, stopping every few minutes to wipe the beads of perspiration from his brow. Finally, he had the ladder outside, extended it to its full length, and leaned it comfortably up against the back wall of the house.

With steely determination he grasped the sides of the ladder and painfully lifted his right leg to the first rung, then the left leg to the second rung. He gripped the ladder so firmly that his hands were icy white, and moved as if in slow motion. He stopped for a few minutes to catch his breath and the heavy discomfort in his chest eased a little.

 He had reached the fifth rung now, and he felt more confident about the task. As he put his foot on the sixth rung, the sun came out from between the clouds and he felt its warmth on his back. He was at the level of his bedroom window, and he brushed away a few leaves from the windowsill. The heat from the sun was penetrating through his old jacket and his body began to feel strangely lighter. The ladder no longer swayed with his movement. His previously white contorted fingers now held the ladder effortlessly.

He looked upwards and the glare from the sun almost blinded him. He could not see the edge of the roof. He continued to climb, his heart pumping with the anticipation of success now. He felt the freedom of youth for a delicious moment as he climbed further into the sun.

Marion was worried when she could get no reply from her father's phone. She rushed over to the house after work, let herself in and immediately saw that the back door was open. She found him, lifeless, in a crumpled heap on the lawn, with the golden leaves from the cherry tree already settling on his body. The ladder had mysteriously disappeared.

 

 

 

CPNov 2013

Satyagraha. A review

Satyagraha. A review

 

 

This week I travelled to London with my daughter to see Philip Glass's opera Satyagraha at the Coliseum. I am not a regular opera goer, but have always loved Philip Glass's music and was excited to have the opportunity to see this performance.

The autumnal colours of the set contrasted with the Victorian sombre costumes and the bright yellows and whites of the Indian saris in the First Act. The balletic slow walk of the performers gave a meditative processional quality to the work, with the extraordinary puppets adding mystery and humour. Imaginative use of newsprint as a projection screen and transforming linked pages  into a dragon like creature provided constantly changing scenarios.

There was a quality of serenity about the performance despite the references to violence. Glass's characteristic repetitive phrases and subtle key changes, though anticipated, contined to surprise.

The clarity and purity of Alan Oke's singing and his characterization of Gandhi was spell binding. His vow in the Second Act entranced the audience and was incredibly moving. The recurring rising phrase in the Final Act was mesmerising. While he sang, a representation of Martin Luther King preaching, stood high at the back of the stage at a pulpit facing away from the audience, orchestrating the clouds with his definitive arm movements.  I wanted it to continue forever.

I can't begin to understand the depths of this work, but I am left with a hunger to discover more about Gandhi's early life and the development of his spirituality. If you get an opportunity to see this work, I can guarantee you will not regret it.

http://www.eno.org/satyagraha

 

CPNov 21013

Breakfast in Kefalonia

It may have been a mistake to pre-arrange breakfast at our apartment complex. When we arrived, we asked the girl who was standing behind the pool bar when should we appear for breakfast . There was no separate dining area, other than the tables under a canopy by the swimming pool.

'Nine o'clock,' she answered emphatically. It was clear from her reply that before nine would be unacceptable.

We arrived at the pool at nine o'clock promptly the next morning. The girl we had spoken to the day before had just opened up the bar and said good morning to us as she collected the empties from the previous night and tied back her hair. She was dressed in a pair of tight grey track suit bottoms with a sleeveless white T shirt. We asked if we could have breakfast.

She smiled and brought some paper table mats which she placed on the table along with knives and forks individually wrapped in paper serviettes. She then brought us each a menu. There were three breakfast options: a continental breakfast which consisted of fruit juice, coffee, croissants and toast, a cooked breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, beans and toast also with fruit juice and coffee, or a Kefalonian omelette containing bacon and feta cheese but without fruit juice or coffee.

We were hungry  and decided that we would probably not have to wait too long if we chose the continental option. We ordered two continental breakfasts with orange juice and filter coffee.

She returned to the bar area and picked up the telephone. There followed a lengthy conversation in Greek during which we heard the word 'continental'. She remained behind the bar for some time, probably making the filter coffee we supposed, but no food or drink materialised.

After about twenty minutes, a car sped up the track and stopped by the bar, and gave one toot of its horn. The girl went out to meet the car and returned soon after carrying two plates on each of which were several slices of toast, a large croissant and two individual servings of butter and marmalade. She placed these in front of us and returned with two glasses of orange juice and two cups of coffee.

'Sorry,' she said, smiling delightfully, as she placed each of these items in front of us.

It was clear from the temperature and consistency of the toast that it had travelled some distance following the toasting process. The coffee could only have been described as luke-warm and had clearly accompanied the toast on its journey.

Well, at least we knew what to expect on the following mornings!

CP Sep 2013