The Elements of Pembrokeshire or Anywhere Else

Earth, air, fire and water: the four classical elements that make up our existence. The four elements that make up our essence, our spirit our self. The four elements that combine with such force of energy, to interact and flux constantly; ever changing – xing.

I wonder how many times people consider the make-up of their spirit. I wonder if people consider what it is about these elements that drive their decisions, their thoughts, their feelings, their passions, their wonderment at the world.
My son, having being relatively well read for his age in the philosophies of the East, is constantly considering his elements. Born under a water sign has become a sort of raison d’etre for him. He believes this is why, as a child, he could spend up to six hours in the sea without respite. This is why he loves the mythical creatures of the ocean and imagines himself, one day, to live his life close to the water’s edge as he feels this is where his element is directing him to be. As a fixed sign, he can rely on his deep imaginings and dreams. It will serve him well.

But he is also a Fire sign, according to the Chinese New Year; A fiery rat. Maybe the water from his Scorpio being will bring enough equilibrium to counteract the fire, and visa versa. It seems like a good combination to me.

But what does it all mean? Are people really defined by these elements? Am I?

I’m afraid I am; a double whammy of fire from both sides of the Greenwich meridian but it has its positives too and my persistent passion for the very best of life drives me positively in the main.

Earth, air, fire and water; these things combined make the soul, create the energy that we all need and focus ourselves on the natural world and the natural way for us. But how often do we bother to even consider these elements in the abstract let alone what they do and how they work within ourselves as human beings?

It’s holiday time; not a bad time to reflect upon the world, oneself and those who are the most significant in your life and I certainly shall be doing that over the forthcoming days. It is actually something that I do quite frequently without being so introspective that I forget to look outside myself and see what is happening to others and what is happening in and around our world.
It is all about balance, and all about change.

Well sometimes it is about change, for I find myself once more in the throes of a Pembrokeshire summer. It is 11.45 on the last day of July and I am writing now because there is no sign of the fire that burns in the sky, inviting me to spread my beach mat on the sand and fester in the flames of warmth. It will come, maybe, for a day or two but us Brits will stoically sit there inviting the fire to join us, whether it emerges from the clouds or not.

Yesterday my horoscope said that I should reconnect with nature. Part of that is about reconnecting with who I am; something I have lost sight of during a period of change both expected and unexpected, invited and not. That is a reconnection with nature that is for me to do, and me to share with those I feel ought to know but what I want to write about today is a reconnection with nature that is the natural world.

City dwellers like me, or suburbia slumberers, tend to lose sight of the natural world. Of course, I generalise because I don’t actually think that I do and I think there are plenty like me but there are some amongst us who lose sight of what is brilliant, what is natural, what needs no definition and yet remains ill-defined without consideration, without thought, without feeling.
It is vital to reconnect, even for those of us who think we do it more or less on a daily basis.

Every single day that I get up, I thank the world for being there. Every single day, the very first thing that I do after raising myself from my bed is look up. And what do you see when you look upwards? Are you a half empty person looking up into the sky and seeing nothing but grey or like me do you search for the sign of the fire?
Every day, as I journey through London, I look to see if I can see something new. I look up once more to see the skyline where the natural world joins with the creation of humankind in the buildings and the smoke that averts our eyes from the clarity of the world in which we live.
How often do we allow children time to do such things? How often do we let them pause from their days and let them breathe in the sights of their own world to appreciate and understand for themselves? How often, like my own child, do they even know what their core element is and how that affects the way that they interact with others, with life, with themselves?

Sometimes, it is good to get away. Sometimes, however much you embrace the natural world within your own dirty city dwellings, you still need to look up and out. Not everyone has the opportunity afforded to the likes of me to truly wander away from the city, and I am certainly not suggesting that this link with the natural world can only happen in the countryside. But sometimes it helps.

So I thought I would reflect on the natural world as far as this part of South West Wales is concerned, and what it is about the place that draws me back time and time again without the lure of the people whom I share this place with.

Earth: fertile and stable, the mother of creation, the place of birth, life, death and possibly rebirth depending on what you believe.
The earth here is fascinating, if you include the rock formation and the layout of the land. As I sit, I can look out to the island three miles off shore and just about make out the incredible natural divide within the island; half of it being limestone and the other half the reddish allure of the sandstone. How utterly incredible is that? That this island has its own natural divide, its own yin and yang that travels right down beneath the feet of the visitors to this place; one foot on grey rock, the other on that red stuff. How and when did these two fuse to create the island that I see in front of me? What wonderment of nature that thrust these two unnatural partners together to link together into the most straightforward and obvious of combinations.

And then there is the spread of the sand, all two and a half miles of it, limestone havens to the east, sand dunes and grass covered cliff tops to the west. The contrast and connection is breathtaking in itself, each part of the beach somewhat unique and that is before you get down to the level of the sand, holding it in your hand and inspecting all the living creatures that have created the diversity of every speckle in sight.

Even if you are not at a beach, it is worth taking the earth in your hand and just feeling its strength, its power, its life. For this soil beneath us is not dead. It is life-giving and full of rebirth for other things, other beings.

Air: the breath of life, the carrying force of shedding worries or enveloping delight, symbolising the power of the mind and perpetuating positive thoughts.

I need the air to breathe over me. I need and desire its turn, its change, its ability to flow through me, within me and over me, releasing my mind from its reckless thoughts.

Well, I am in Wales. It’s windy. Why are the Welsh so miserable sometimes when they have all this wind freeing their souls from underlying tensions, if only they embraced the power of the natural world?

I love taking a walk in the breeze. I love the combination of the wind and the sun as it scorches my back (in my dreams, or in a distant memory when we used to sit on the beach more regularly). I adore feeling the wind rushing through my hair, oblivious to the look of distress it is creating. It can create all manner of distress to my physical appearance if it blows my mind afresh.

Yes, Wales is windy. They talk about the rain but they tend to discuss the wind with less resolve.

The other day, whilst taking a relatively long walk from Manorbier to Tenby, I came across a small tree, alone in a field. Its shape had been completely moulded by this element, being continuously battered from the westerlies so that despite its natural inclination to climb towards the sky, it was squashed eastward. It really did look rather beautiful.

But it is not all about wind. What about the air? I love the cleanliness, especially living in a city when the air is so infected by its purpose. Just being able to walk out into the street and breathe in, knowing that there are no unnatural substances is edifying in itself. When the cleanliness of the air combines with the rays of sunlight being drawn towards the earth, across the sea to land on your back – well, there is nothing quite like it.

The sweetness of the air increases as you move away from the coast and walking through an avenue of hedgerow is the most gratifying experience on a warm, even overcast day.

The air in Pembrokeshire is clean. I wonder if the minds of the residents are too. I wonder how often they walk out and just take some deep, meditative breaths and be grateful for what they inhale.

Fire: my sign in all forms, the masculine element, the drive, the passion. Creation and destruction in its midst. It can heal and harm. Fertility. Strong will is its force.

Create, create, create, for good with a little blip in there from time to time, eh?

There is no fire in Tenby at the moment but there certainly was yesterday.

When the sun is desperately trying to come between the clouds it is a fascinating battle to watch. Which of these elements is going to be the victor? Which one will champion and declare its worth above all? Usually it is the unspoken element that wins but yesterday, the sun finally championed and brought forth the most delicious of summer evenings.

But there is warmth and fire elsewhere within this town that is worth a mention, admittedly not the most natural of light but there is warmth and presence in it nonetheless.
Last night, having eaten a pleasant family meal in the hotel, I wandered down to the harbour with my camera and borrowed mini-tripod in hand. The fire within the dark was all around; twinkling brilliance from the electrical glitterings across the harbour that were further enflamed with the reflective element of the water. It is sight to behold. It is the feelings that are generated within. Pure passion and brilliance. Pure energy.

When the sun does shine, it shines divinely. Having spent so many years down here, I merely look up at the sky, see the position of this great flame of fire and can identify what time it is without getting anywhere near a watch, clock or mobile phone casting out its digital reminder of the minutes passing by. How much more in contact with the natural world can you be? Telling the time by the strides of the sun is exactly how we should all be living; in the now that is not determined by the precise minute or second but my the generality of a sun in a sky and its proximity to the open horizon.

Water: the healing, the cleansing, the purification, the symbol of passion and emotion, apparently. I wonder what emotion (in the singular) that this particular definition means.

For many many years, I have been convinced that I would like to live by the seaside. I would certainly like to live closer to real seaside sometimes, within forty five minutes of open beaches to walk along. That is what I would really love to do, but I am now convinced that my preferred way of living would be next to a river or a gushing brook. Yes, this is an element that my fire needs to soothe, to suppress without the effort of doing so. I love the uniqueness of water.

A couple of nights ago, I lay in bed trying to eradicate certain noises by listening to the most natural of water sounds; of waves crashing down on a deserted beach. The sea was directly beneath my feet, or so it seemed, and falling into a much needed sleep in those circumstances, listening to those naturally repetitive sound is something that everyone should experience at some point in their lives.

The sea, according to the sign within the town, washes away the ills of all men, or all the ills of men, dependent upon the translation. But the sea can only wash away your ills if you are prepared to acknowledge their presence. You can only be cleansed if you have opened your mind to be cleansed.

The natural world can work wonders but it cannot always work alone.

I could sit for hours looking at the combination of earth and sea as it moves forth with the helpful assistance of the moon in its lunar journeys up and down the beach twice a day. What utter fascination and bewilderment to see this natural world in practice, earning its right to overpower and monopolise our world, if only we allowed it to take its rightful place. And as I look, and as I feel and as I embrace the salty smells that this combination provides, I slip into my soul and ponder, or not if it is not the time to think.

The natural world continually invites us to join them in their existence and time and time again we ignore their call.

Perhaps it is time to reflect on the elements more regularly. Perhaps it is time to embrace the spiritual power of these forces that are such an integral part of our lives. Perhaps we ought to, like the Buddha himself, reflect on the fact that these elements and their power within us should not remain stagnant and should constantly be changing, constantly moving on. Important things, important people, important places will still remain within that constancy but in order to appreciate the oneness and the wonderment of the world, subtle changes need to take place to remind us all of the power of life.

Cohesion, solidarity, inertia, expansion, vibration, heat and energy – all forming the change, all forming the xing, all qi, all key, if you want to live your life with spirit.

The Virtues of Suffering

On Friday afternoon, I had my pen and paper to the ready. Riding on a bus, this woman suddenly broke out into song and she had a spectacular voice. God given? It was certainly very special. It was just a pity that she was singing about the Lord rather than using such talent for the Bluesy/Soul music that would have suited her voice so well.

I don’t resent people like this. I mean, there is something rather brave about bursting into song on a packed bus in the middle of July. However, there is something about Evangelism that sits uncomfortably within me. Well, actually, there’s quite a lot that sits uncomfortably for personal and more objective reasons.

I find mind manipulation of any sort distasteful and terrifying. Some people are so resolute in their own opinions that they are not even aware that they are being manipulative; every time they open their mouth, every time there is a silent pause, every time they subtly comment on day to day issues. There was a good example of manipulation this week, if you watched the supposed geriatric figure of Rupert Murdoch being questioned by the parliamentary select committee. Don’t tell me that this man did not know what he was doing, playing the humble, bumbling old fool who “knew nothing”.

Any extreme views are pretty vile, especially when they are rammed down the throats of unsuspecting and vulnerable people.

The woman sang. I listened. Others listened. The day was full of sunshine and if you didn’t listen to the words, then the song was uplifting.
And as I listened, a madman was ripping into the hearts and souls of some unsuspecting victims hundreds of miles away in a distant land with bombs and shooting sprees and a warped conviction in his mind.

Listening to the woman made me want to write, and I wrote this, amongst other things.

“Your God. Your God brings devastation to the world. Your God is hierarchical and is the reason why people start wars. Your God creates havoc, admittedly not on his own, but with a very strong helping hand from a fucked-up bunch of people who always think that their way is right and there is no alternative.”

I continued to say that there was something that appealed to me about Buddhism because of the fact that there is no Deity to hang all the woes and the positives of the world on. As far as Buddhism is concerned it is people that are responsible for the problems of the world, collectively and individually. It is the people who are so greedy that they rob the world of its natural resources that create devastation to the natural world. And sometimes the natural world bites back and has its own moment of retribution.

It is people that fight and taunt and harm and manipulate, not God. It is people who have the capacity for love and compassion and understanding and affection.

I wrote, “Buddhism offers no God. No God to blame for tsunamis and earthquakes. No God to lambast for the violence and murder. No God who is culpable for the illnesses and the destruction that we inflict upon ourselves and others. The responsibility is with us, as is the pleasure.”

The news that night, after the bombing in Oslo and before the real devastation of the events on Utoya had emerged, concentrated on what could have driven someone to be so evil? Why had someone decided to blow up buildings in this quiet and calm town in a peaceful part of the world? Why had this mad, mad person taken a gun over to an island and massacred innocent victims with no respect for the wonderment of life?

Well, the first suggestion was of religious extremism. But nobody suggested at that point the truth of the matter. Nobody suggested that this murderer was going to turn out to be a right-winged Christian. What they thought in the immediacy of the attack was that this atrocity was being carried out by an Islamist extremist, annoyed about Norway’s involvement in Afghanistan. Admittedly, later, there were people who suggested that it could be a “home-grown” attack but that initial thought was that this was in some way related to the work and the views of an organisation like al-Qaeda.

It is no wonder that our Islamists brothers feel oppressed and victimised. Every single time an unknown or inexplicable event takes place, they are blamed or certainly they are the first culprit in peoples’ minds.

When the news progressed and it was evident that this man, this Anders Behring Breivik, was allegedly acting on behalf of his God, there was exacerbated shock around the world, and I have to admit that I felt a certain anger that this prejudice had taken place once more, just as it had done when Timothy McVeigh caused the devastation in Oklahoma City in 1995. Surely a man of the country could not be responsible for such horrors?

The fact that he looks as though he was just walked straight out of the Hitler Youth is particularly chilling.

Apparently he is going to get his time in court to explain his actions but it is now known that he was looking at right wing organisations on his computer and was described as a Christian Fundamentalist: an interesting phrase in itself. He says that his actions were atrocious but necessary.

On his social networking page he had a quote from philosopher John Stuart Mill, “One person with a belief is equal to the force of 100,000 who only have interests”.

Poor John Stuart Mill to have one of his statements abused in this way! The man was a liberal who had a clear vision of what the state should do and what should be the responsibility of individuals within a society. Here was a man who, had he been alive today, would have struggled considerably with the Nanny State. He was a Libertarian and held strong views on how people could and should be free. He advocated the “harm principle” whereby he believed that the state should only intervene if people were doing things that harmed others. He believed that every person had the right to act in a certain way as long as that did not harm others. I think I might return to this fascinating man later but I’ll finish this paragraph with another of his quotes.

“Although it is not true that all conservatives are stupid people, it is true that most stupid people are conservative”.

As the man on the television has just said, where does extremism start and insanity stop or where does insanity stop and extremism start, or more honestly, why do people not realise that any form of extremism is insanity in itself?

Of course, one of the other reasons for writing is to make a comment about the whole aftermath of this atrocity and how it has been dealt with; in Norway, by the media here and by the poor, devastated individuals who hid themselves from the gunman as he rampaged through the island randomly killing anything and anyone that moved, or didn’t.

What has struck me has been the immense and overpowering strength and calmness of the people involved; the victims, the police, the media in the country and hopefully our media are learning from recent misdemeanours and keeping away from their mobile phones.

How can you be calm in such circumstances? How can you just turn your back and walk away without anger and hatred and a need to take revenge? I may be proven wrong. There is every possibility that as this man takes his place in court, some assassin or another could come into the building and shoot this man in revenge for the devastation that he has caused. But generally, and collectively, the nation is mourning quietly, calmly, peacefully, rationally. It is not hysterical at a time when hysterics could be seen as completely understandable.

Brian Paddick has just made the interesting comment that had this happened in the UK or the USA, Anders Behring Breivik would not even be alive right now. Police marksmen would have taken him down. That is not the Norwegian way.

This nation of people appear, on the surface to a person who only knows one Norweigian, to have a serenity and dignity and a peacefulness that everyone should be regarding with interest at present. As I write, the anchorwoman on the BBC is pushing and pushing a man involved in the rescue for further information, such is the learned instinct of the British journalist. He is resolutely and politely refusing to give her the tittle tattle information that he is seeking. He says that it is not good to speculate at this time, that he is not prepared at this point to discuss certain issues. This is a time for getting on with the job in hand and recovering the bodies of the poor young people who thought that the best way of escape was to dive into the icy waters and swim away, not realising that their fleeing bodies would wilt away with horrendous hypothermia.

The Norwegians are showing signs of being extremely enlightened in their approach to madness. They are actually bearing some signs of the virtues of Zen, even if they are not aware of it; non-attachment, giving and receiving for the good of others, caring. Without necessarily realising, the state of Norway is collectively working towards the four noble truths of Buddhism:
Life means suffering – human nature is not perfect and neither is the world in which we live. The Norwegians are painfully aware of this truth right now.

The origin of suffering is attachment – attachment to transient things which do not have to be objects but can also be ideas. Ignorance comes from a lack of understanding how our minds attach themselves to impermanent things.

The cessation of suffering is attainable – Finding dispassion is vital. Embrace freedom from suffering, worries and complexities.

The path to cessation is suffering – Between hedonism and asceticism is a Way. Within the Way, delusions are extinguished as you wander, sometimes in pain, along the pathway.

This event has portrayed suffering at its rawest. Life does mean suffering but once we have suffered we can look at where it has come from, and why without dwelling on it. And once that is done we can become non-attached to its pain. And we can move on, knowing that further pain is there waiting for us but we are not walking alone and we will overcome suffering.

I hope the people of Norway can do this. Early signs show that they are working along this route. But is also important to look at the Pathway itself: Right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, right concentration.

Who amongst us can say that they have been following this path in all of the recent and previous actions? Who amongst us can say that they are even trying to follow this path now?
Let us hope that the strength and determination of the collective consciousness can help the people of this country to walk together along this route.

And back to the singer on the bus. And all those who accompanied her on her journey. And indeed anyone reading this.

Shouldn’t we look at the Noble Truths too? Shouldn’t we be a little bit more mindful of the Eightfold pathways in the way that we behave towards the people we allegedly love? Shouldn’t we be living life with wisdom and ethical conduct and mental development. Shouldn’t we be thinking about what we do every day for our head, our hands and our hearts?

There is too much suffering in the world, and whilst the singer offered salvation in the Lord, and whilst some people take solace in this path, I suspect that there is a greater and clearer message within the Truths described that the people of Norway, unlike the people of the US or the USA are demonstrating in their response to this atrocity.

Serenity, peacefulness and calm with others and within ourselves through the way we behave towards others has to be a goal for each and every one of us.

I’m fed up of suffering. I’m fed up of extremism. I’m fed up of people not looking at the pathway and the guidance that has been there for centuries, or even worse manipulating it for their own selfish standpoint. I’m fed up of people misinterpreting quotes and visions from peaceful people. I’m fed up of people not giving a damn about their fellow human beings.

But there is a Way.

Who understands the world is learned;
Who understands the self is enlightened.
Who conquers the world has strength;
Who conquers the self has harmony.
Who is determined has purpose;
Who is contented has wealth.
Who defends his home may long endure;
Who surrenders his home may long survive it.

Tao Te Ching: Chapter 33 - Virtues

The Chipping Norton Set

When I was a fifteen year old child, I frequently used to sit with my parents and watch television with them in the evening. Nowadays our children have far more exciting things to do. There’s music to listen to, computer games to play with, ‘conversations’ to be had with their closest and not so close friends on Facebook amongst other things.

As it happens, I am not too concerned about this detachment because young people do need their own space and time, and some people tend to forget that. Also, in my particular case, my children have always had this ‘independence’. Even as toddlers, they were incredibly self-sufficient about play; something that my mother always said had not happened by default but had been good management on my part. That is not to say they were abandoned. It is just that I ensured there was a balance so that they were never wholly dependent upon me for entertainment.

I obviously did a decent job because there are days that I hardly see them, so preoccupied are they with their lives behind the bedroom door. However, occasionally they will come and watch something on the television with me, particularly the older one who is now adopting a healthy interest in the world beyond Jeremy Clarkson and his mates on Dave, as far as box-watching is concerned.

Which conveniently brings me to the purpose of my blog today; not Jeremy Clarkson and his mates on Dave but Jeremy Clarkson and his mates - including Dave and Becky.

As I said, my television evenings with my parents were enjoyable. I loved sharing television stories and dramas with them, and one of them was Evelyn Waugh’s “Brideshead Revisited”. To be historically correct, my father loathed and detested every single second of watching the series. My older brother was banned from the room, such was his disdain for the programme but my father, being an actor, sat and watched it for technical purposes. Meanwhile, my mother and I became thoroughly involved in the characters and their tawdry and pathetic lives.

The Oxford Set was despicable. Their privilege was abhorrent and at no point in the watching did I ever want to emulate their revolting existence. But I enjoyed watching their decadence and it was such a contrast to the literary brilliance I was studying for ‘O’ level; George Orwell’s “1984”. Besides, in my teenage naivety, I fell in love with Anthony Andrews, or was it his character of Sebastian that I loved, wanting to help him and look after him as he slipped into a spiral of self-destruction?

The Oxford Set was despicable with their inherited monies and their grand titles. The Establishment, the political powerful and the downright stupid all seemed to belong to this Set. Everyone was interconnected through marriage or friendship. They perpetuated one another’s greed and power in a cycle of nepotism.

How things have changed!

Er well, have they?

Jeremy Clarkson lives in the Oxfordshire countryside along with our esteemed Prime Minister, who somehow manages to conjoin the Old and New Order of Oxfordshire elitism. It is also home to Rebekah Brooks and her second husband Charlie Brooks, and they all live together very happily according to the Top Gear man, who boasts his connections during a piece of writing for that independent of papers, The Sunday Times.

“What Rebekah and Cameron talked about most of all ............ is sausage rolls. We were planning a big walk with all our kids over Christmas and thought it might be a good idea to build a fire in my woods and stop off for a picnic. Rebekah was worried about what we’d eat. Cameron thought sausage rolls would be nice. My wife said she’d get some”.

Great little tell-tales in that small extract; my woods and long walks. Yes, Jeremy, we know you are considerably richer than us. Sausage rolls? Not sure I have ever eaten barbecued sausage rolls. Perhaps this is an Oxford Set delicacy. I’m not surprised that Rebekah was worried about what they were going to eat with that sort of suggestion.

However, I digress. Clarkson then continues with his writing to say that there was nothing inappropriate about the relationship between Brooks and Cameron. They were merely neighbours who were almost thrown together out of geographical proximity. The powerful media and political figures of our time just happen to live near one another and occasionally have gatherings just as any other friends might. According to Clarkson there is nothing amoral about it and there would and was never any discussions regarding the take-over of BSkyB amongst other unmentionable potential conversations.

I once went to a party at the house of my husband’s boss. He was an accountant and his boss had invited the majority of the office to this Christmas gathering. Her partner was a teacher, and he had invited half of his colleagues to the party. Can you imagine a livelier gathering? A room full of accountants and teachers on the outskirts of South East London?

There was little commonality between us other than the bleeding obvious; our professional spheres of interest. It wasn’t long before the groups had conveniently split with the math-heads at one end of the room and the educationalists at the other; all talking, debating, considering the perspective of their fellow workers.

The British are often ridiculed for talking about the weather at such gatherings, indeed at any gathering. But once the level of precipitation for the month has been discussed, one tends to return to the comfort of the known; i.e. what one does for a living.
Once that has been exhausted, there is always sport and politics to meander towards and at some point the unhealthy interest in the lives of the elite and the Z-listers may be discussed.

So are we honestly expected to believe that there was no conversation whatsoever amongst these gathered Chipping Nortoner’s about politics or media or viewing figures or their own sense of worthiness? Did none of these people try to display their sphere of influence like the proud peacocks that they are? I find that almost impossible to believe.

It was just like “a million other Christmas-time dinners being held in a million other houses around the world” justified Jeremy.
Oh yes, I frequently attend such gatherings in the home of the daughter of the biggest media mogul of our time, together with her insipid bespectacled brother and the Prime Minister of the day and the Chief Executive of a news organisation that accounts for 38 – 45% of readership in the country, depending upon which statistic you have rammed down your throat today, not forgetting the talented Mr. Clarkson, who has somehow made himself so popular that the BBC offer a regular platform for his bigoted and racist behaviour.

One begs to ask the question, if they did not talk about anything to do with any one of their work, what on earth did they talk about? The environment? – Mr. Clarkson’s particular pet-hate. The weather? – everyone can join in that relatively scott-free. The state of play in Eastenders? Not sure Rebekah would be into that conversation given her potentially uncomfortable proximity to the subject by the nature of her first husband.

If Clarkson honestly expects us to believe that there was no conversation about politics or media or anything of substantial interest other than toasted sausage rolls, then he is even more stupid than I thought. They may have conveniently changed the subject as he was approaching them with his canapé of stuffed deer in a horseradish coulis because they probably wanted to avoid the sort of brash bollocks that we have to listen to should we decide to watch his rants. (An aside here: Top Gear is an entertaining programme and I have respect for all involved to create something that families do enjoy watching together. However, unlike my husband, I sit and watch this with my children because I want to be there to correct or point out some of the revolting sexist and racist things that Clarkson gets away with. It is important for me to know that what is being said is being scrutinised and doesn’t insipidly spill into my children’s psyche by default)

But no conversation about politics? Have you ever met a politician? They twist everything around to the subject of politics eventually, and more often than not, it only takes them a matter of moments. Have you ever met a rich boy? They too like to divulge the vastness of their wealth in a matter of minutes. Look at Clarkson himself in this article. “MY woods” – just a subtle and speedy reminder to the world about how much he owns. Have you ever met a journalist? They’re not exactly the shy retiring type and they are perpetually “on the job” so to speak. It is within their blood. Have you ever met an ambitious woman with no children (sorry Rebekah. This is not a dig but a fact)? They don’t have their conversation diluted with anecdotes about what is happening at home. It is all about work.

Yesterday in parliament Cameron stated that all his meetings with media bods were carefully recorded. Every time someone from News International had crossed the No. 10 threshold, it was recorded in a little black book just in case anyone pulled him up about it but does this include the times that there were meetings between Brooks and Cameron of a more personal nature? Has every incidence of them bumping into one another at the local corner shop been recorded? And what about the country walks that Clarkson so dreamily recalls? Were they noted or were these seen as off-the-record because they took place away from Chequers and Downing Street?

Cameron accused the ‘other side’ of having a far cosier relationship with News International and pointed out that Rebekah Brooks had attended events at Downing Street far more frequently under the previous New Labour administration. That may well be the case but Blair and Brown did not live amongst the Chipping Norton Set, as much as one of them may have aspired to do so.

Power corrupts and even those who have not read that ‘O’ level script of mine should realise that transparency is not something that either politicians or journalists do too well. What they do do well is cover one another’s backs and perpetuate power in the places that they want, right until the point when it all comes crashing down in front of them and they have to backtrack and foot-jump until another natural disaster in Outer Mongolia conveniently knocks them off the front page.

This is a sick, unjust, corrupt and unintelligent society ruled and influenced by sick, unjust, corrupt and unintelligent people, and I haven’t even started on the police yet.

Today, I am sure in Blogsphere there is an abundance of commentaries from the last few days. Some will be thought-provoking pieces but others will just tittle-tattle over the intricate details of every non-admittance from the Murdoch’s, the Prime Minister, his neighbour and all others associated with the hacking debacle.

These details are important, of course, but who is going to get down to the nitty gritty of the nepotism and the corruption and the relationship between those that govern, in whatever position, and those that hold the power of what we as a society are indoctrinated into thinking.

Newspeak, the gloriously tragic phrase created by the master Orwell, is alive. It is here in our society. The media drip values into people without them even realising that it is happening to them. Their minds are manipulated into thought patterns that suit the powerful and perpetuate their power.

Clarkson isn’t the most influential person in the world but he carries far too much prejudice into the minds of our children without them even realising it is happening to them. His country gatherings over a sausage roll in the woods encourages, as if it is needed, the powerful to interact in an informal manner that once more perpetuates their interconnection and interplay.

Today it is about the Chipping Norton set and the Bullingdon Club and the ex-Etonians and the rising (and hopefully fallen) stars of News International. A decade ago, it was about the high-risers and aspirationals of another political party, and I cannot conclude this piece of writing without expressing my abhorrence of how the previous administration and Prime Minister’s played an extremely dodgy and dangerous dance with people they should have been running away from.

In 1997, Blair did not even need the backing of the Sun in order to gain a workable majority. Campbell did not need to send out olive branches and promises to Murdoch. And yet, throughout their reign in power, they continually licked the bottoms of the people that they felt had a sway over society rather than considering the inappropriateness of this level of influence.

I am sickened by all of this, and despite the media and politicians suggesting that the public are fed up and bored by the whole events of the last few days, I for one would like to say that as far as I am concerned, we haven’t even begun. This is, I hope, merely the start of it all, and it really should be of the highest interest to all in this society who have been sapped of basic needs to consider just why they are still down-trodden when the Chipping Norton clan can march around, collectively and even sub-consciously plotting to keep themselves in power allegedly at the behest of those who don’t even realise that they are being indoctrinated.

Quite frankly, Evelyn Waugh’s little set of spoilt morons look like a gentle walk in the woods compared with this lot, and you can bet that they didn’t settle for a shop-bought sausage roll for sustenance.

There was something on the news the other day which suggested that London was now the 16^th most expensive place to live in the world; a fall of many places as last year it was 3^rd. I wonder why there was such a change from the previous year. Obviously something to do with the economy but there has been global recessions so I am not quite sure why London has changed so significantly.

Japan took the top two places with Tokyo and Osaka, toppling Moscow from its premier position.

Now I know that one of the main factors in the cost of living is about housing. The prices, despite the recession, seem to increase perpetually in certain parts of our city and as the place continues to grow, areas that were once seen as the most deprived and treacherous parts of the conurbation have now been upgraded to the place where everyone wants to live. Take Dalston, for instance, in Hackney. Now that it has the ever increasingly used over ground rail connection from north to south as well as east to west, it is a seemingly useful place to base yourself. This coupled with the fact that there is a vibrant sense of multiculturalism as well as a growing Arts scene, and you can see why people are beginning to be prepared to pay astronomical prices for property; both modern, swanky apartments and the enormous converted Victorian houses, or the whole of a Victorian terrace if you have a cool £6 – 800,000 lying around.

But cost of ‘living’ is also down to other things, such as transport costs, food costs, the price of going out for an evening, etcetera.

The other day, for instance, there was a concert at the Hackney Empire; the very brilliant Hugh Masekela. My friend decided to attend this concert with his partner. The tickets, to see one of South Africa’s most brilliant of musicians, cost £15. The maximum cost for this event was apparently £25. Before the concert, they went for a meal in a small Chinese restaurant opposite the Empire. Three meat dishes, some special fried rice and two lots of Chinese tea came to an astounding £15. A further fiver for drinks in the theatre and the whole evening cost the pair of them £25 each.

As for the concert itself, it seems to have been a wonderful spectacle with Hugh Masekela managing to gather together some of his countries very best singers and musicians to accompany him in a tribute to his former wife Miriam Makeba; Mama Afrika.

Here are a couple of links that review the evenings.

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/music/review-23968800-hugh-masekela-hackney-empire---review.do

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2011/jul/12/hugh-masekela-mama-afrika-review?INTCMP=SRCH

I wish I had managed to get tickets myself. However, it did make me think when I was listening to my friend talking about it just how much the world had changed in the last twenty years. I remember being on the marches for freedom and the celebratory hopefulness of Artists Against Apartheid, coordinated by the very brilliant Jerry Dammers. Mandela was not free but as students of the time, the boycotts of Barclays and Rowntree were having an effect as well as a more wide-ranging refusal to buy South African products. If Thatcher had bothered to have an ounce of empathy in her body, alongside her counterparts in the USA and affluent Europe, the various boycotts could have brought down this tyrannical system long before 1989, but no, capitalism at all costs.

Of course, the government of South Africa had a role to play, and F.W de Klerk’s role in the demise of Apartheid was significant. But it is so easy to reminisce and look at this time with rose tinted glasses. There was such elation when Mandela raised his fist to the world in February 1990 as he took his first steps of a new long walk to freedom. I can remember the moment vividly. In some ways it felt like a personal victory and vindication but it had nothing to do with me really. I was a mere spectator.
And after the rush of adrenalin, I for one took stock and remembered the horrific scenes of decades of violence in Soweto and the other townships of torment across the nation. I can remember time after time after time watching the television and weeping at the violence and injustice but once more, I was a mere spectator.

And those people on the stage in Hackney some twenty years later had been an integral part in the whole proceedings; suffering for their skin, living in appalling conditions, being treated like animals by the ruling classes. I can hardly bare to think about their suffering. Yet they stoically stuck to their principles knowing that it could culminate in a death sentence, and they sang their protest songs, and the danced in the streets in defiance, and they let the true voice of South Africa be heard across the nations of the world, even if bitches like Thatcher would not open their minds.

Respect to those who did this for their country, themselves and to ensure that the cultural brilliance was not only maintained but driven into the souls of others who were ready to embrace them.

I, on the other hand, was in a different type of city yesterday; one so diverse from London that it is hard to imagine they are in the same country. Well, effectively they are not because the city I was in was in the principality of Wales. St. David’s boasts of being the smallest city in the UK. It gains its status from having a large cathedral crouched into the rock western side of the place. It is a stunning place and well worth a visit if ever anyone is in this part of the country but returning to the cost of living, it is not a cheap place to be.

It may not have the pleasures of reasonable and good quality Chinese restaurants on tap, or a theatre rich in diversity as seen in Hackney. It may not have national musicians coming to its city to perform to an awaiting multicultural audience, or maybe it does.

And this is why. Just a few miles outside St. David’s is a small estuarial village called Solva. It is a beautiful place, one of my favourites in Pembrokeshire. It has a linear street full of art shops and galleries, a pub at the top of the small estuary and a collection of walks either along the river or up the cliff top to an almost unvisited beach. It really is a haven, and I am somewhat selfishly troubled by the fact that there seems to be more and more people visiting the place. Thirty years ago, it was mine. Now other people have realised that the place has soul.

One of the people who has embraced the delights of Solva is an artist by the name of Raul Speek; a Cuban artist and musician who has decided to settle in this most western parts of Britain.

http://www.raulspeek.co.uk/

He is one talented bloke. Not only has he produced some sensational pieces of art, he also plays a range of musical instruments and as I walked into his studio yesterday, he was standing in the middle of his studio, playing what I can only describe as Cuban influenced Blues with such expertise, I was quite taken by the entire atmosphere; that and the mass of photos and paintings of Che. How wonderful to walk into a converted chapel to find this revolutionary shining down at you amongst the other vibrant paintings that certainly seem to capture the essence of what Cuba is all about.

There were two particular paintings that I was really interested in buying. One was a linear piece, about a foot long with a thick, swirling black paint on a white background, carving out a stormy night scene. On top of this steamy view was the most intricate and clever cascades of gold paint, raised in its depth to create a moon or sun and its reflection. It was beautiful.
Once Raul had finished his jamming, I approached him and asked if I could take a couple of photos, as per the sign outside the gallery asking you to request permission. He stared at me for a while, looked around at his painting, returned his gaze to me and after far too long gave me an emphatic “no”. Why bother putting the sign outside which said, “No photography without permission. Please ask inside”?

On returning to Tenby and looking on the internet, I found a Tripadvisor review of the gallery. Although there were only two reviews there, they were extremely complimentary and it appears that I must have caught the man on a bad day.

http://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Attraction_Review-g1475009-d1489157-Reviews-Raul_Speek_Gallery-Solva_Pembrokeshire_Wales.html

Whilst we were looking around, his co-worker approached him and reprimanded him for speaking aggressively to one of his cafe assistances. He was dismissive, refused to apologise to the girl who was apparently in tears due to his abruptness and he simply wandered off into his studio and started spreading some more golden touches onto a canvas of black. I wasn’t impressed and it did actually deter me from buying a piece of his work that I would happily have taken home with me.

Quite a contrast to what my friend had said about the warmth of Masekela and his joy at accepting the appreciation of his contented audience in Hackney a week ago.

However, I like to think that I am not too judgmental about people the first time I meet them and you cannot take away from the talent of this man. Not only can he paint but he is also an accomplished musician and at the end of August he is performing at St. David’s Cathedral. Maybe it is worth giving him a second chance. I wish him well in spreading happiness and culture to this mono-racial part of the country.

Solva is not a cheap place. The Old Pharmacy, the best restaurant in this seaside town, is as expensive if not more than many a West End eatery. The photographs and drawings on display in the three places that we visited were, quite frankly, astronomical. A quick search on Google tells me that a four bedroom without a sea view would put me back about £450,000. The nearest supermarket is a good twenty minutes drive away and a car would be a necessity should you choose to live here. So I wonder how the cost of living in a place like Solva compares to living in the newly refurbished Dalston. And once the property prices have been paid for, what value for money and value for life would the two places offer?

I love Solva for various reasons. I am growing to love Dalston for others. One is a sleepy nothingness, the other full of all the evils and the delights of a city living to the full. I’m not sure which I would choose if I was imperatively asked to do so.

Maybe, I would like to do a half and half if I had a choice in the matter as there are pros and cons of both places.

But one of the things that I would have to do is get Mr. Speek to meet Mr. Masekela and learn a little about empathy, modesty and warmth and an appreciation for the people who are willing and able to open their minds and souls to the wonderment of others’ creations.

How to Kill A Primary School Excursion

There was a cloudless sky. The sea was transparent and full of greens and blues. You could see everything within. A seagull darted out from nowhere, swooped into the water and splashed out with an indefinable fish in its beak, and slowly started to take it apart as he stood on the pebbles.

The boat arrived and the grumpy geezer who runs it invited us aboard with about as much enthusiasm as he could muster, which wasn’t very much!

It was a perfect, perfect day as far as the weather was concerned. On arriving at the island, there was a slight disappointment on my part that the puffins were not there to greet us. Yes, they were in the sea, and there were plenty of them but they had left the south cliffs of the island already. There was not one nesting there whereas on the previous visit there had been about 500 as soon as you landed. The steep walk up the hill to the awaiting warden was a darn sight more tiring without the little orange beaked folk. Gone too were the Razorbills. I didn’t see one all day but luckily there were new experiences to be had. The landscape took on a completely altered appearance with the change in the weather. Last time it had been overcast to the point of typical welsh rain at the end of the trip whereas yesterday was the most perfect weather you could imagine.

We walked the opposite way around the island and therefore got to The Wick earlier in the day. This is the main puffin spotting area and once more we were not disappointed. The hue of variant colours across the central part of the island was breathtaking; vivid green, subtle pink, vibrant purple and the most incredibly strong, natural yellow – all topped off with a sky blue sky and a very intense blue within the sea. It was a perfect day.

Continuing across the north face of the island, we eventually settled down for a snack at the Garland Stone. I was hoping to see a couple of porpoises or dolphins along with some wayward gannets from the neighbouring island of Grasholm but none appeared. There were, however, a couple of seals or so, just bathing on the rocks below and there were many groups of people just spending some time, sitting down after their walk and taking it all in. Perfect for all concerned.

And then they arrived; a school party, probably Year Five I would have thought, all with their clipboards and rucksacks and...................... well I was going to go on and say their chatter and enthusiasm and excitement and noisiness and so forth but these children looked as though they had had a bad attack of the Harry Potter Death Eaters; sapping them of spirit and joie de vivre.

Here they were in the most beautiful of settings, admittedly not necessarily one that a ten year old might automatically conjure up as “the place to be” but nevertheless, one would have expected one of them to show some enthusiasm for life.

Admittedly once more, it was mid afternoon and they had probably been walking around the island for some time. It was quite warm and I suppose once you’ve seen one puffin, that is probably enough but why on earth were they so dismal and unenthusiastic?

And then I saw her. Or rather heard her.

“James, Jacob, Liam, and you and you and you. Over there. Sit on the grass. Be quiet. There are people here trying to have some peace. Oy, Liam, SIT!”

“Jem, Kate and Louisa – go over to Ms. Slightly Calmer and look at the seals. Don’t go near the edge”.

“Sit down!”

“No, you will wait your turn!”

“I don’t care if you don’t want to wait. Just sit down”.

“Draw what you see!”

“Alfie, Charlie and James – your turn”

“No Liam – you’ll just have to wait!”

“Oh for goodness sake!”

Mutter, mutter, mutter, hands on hips, arms flapping in the non-existent breeze. Eyes raised to the heavens, sighs echoing across the bay. Moan, moan, moan.

“Liam, your turn and stay away from the edge!”

“As if I am going to walk off the cliff!” muttered Liam calmly as he walked away with his clipboard to look at the two seals on the rock.

Go Liam!

“Right you! Sit down and draw a seal!”

Another mutterer – “I’d draw a seal if I could actually see one!” said one bright spark with the soul of the dispirited.

He couldn’t see the seal because she had placed her group so far above the cliff top that they were actually in more danger of falling over by stretching their bodies to full length and unbalancing themselves in the process.

How I did not stop myself getting up and slapping the woman I will never know. She epitomised everything that is bad about a primary school teacher. She was the living, breathing personification of the didactic, dictatorial monsters that our test driven system has created. I could see she was clearly out of her comfort zone and was obviously desperate to get back to her white board and powerpoint lessons, with her maps of the island and a red line to identify where they walked. Or maybe I am doing her too much justice. Perhaps she preferred exercise books and protractors.

She eventually relaxed enough to sit down with her arms folded across her breast, still barking out instructions, still sullen, still eagerly eyeing every movement from these poor sods, who weren’t moving because they were nullified into statue status.

Have you any idea what you are doing? I wanted to say. Here you are in the most unusual of settings where there are natural colours beyond imagination, where some of us have stupidly waited for forty years to see this incredible island, where the paths are clearly marked so it is perfectly safe for children to wander around and all you can do is bark at these children as though they were infantile morons.

The children, obviously middle-class to the core, sat obediently with their pencils in hand drawing away, writing away, not even stopping to sit and take in what they were experiencing. Everything was so bloody regimented, and the sergeant major was in control.

The children, once seated, were not allowed to get up. They were not allowed to walk behind the cliff top into the space behind. They had a mission, a task and they were damn well going to do it.

I’ve been there. I know it is tiring to take children out. I know it is somewhat nerve-wracking to take children into a place that one wrong-footing could spell out disaster but children have to live, have to experience and have to learn their own methods of safety and protection otherwise they really will never survive, and that is before you get onto the whole thing about what they are learning about social interaction from this woman.

Apparently, once you reach a certain age, with a certain amount of professionalism (!), you can treat little people as though they are sub-human.

I then wondered what these childrens’ parents would make of the way in which they were being spoken to. Personally, if I thought I had spent copious amounts of money in giving my child an experience like this, I would expect, nay demand that they were treated with the respect that their little souls deserved.

I know you shouldn’t do comparisons but my mind swiftly wandered back nearly twenty years when I brought a group of children to this part of the world.

With my leg recently freed from the fibre glass pot of plaster, I couldn’t walk too far but I had meticulously planned an experience for these children that enabled them to enjoy the very best of what this county had to offer.
On our way to St. David’s, where I had planned for them to rush madly around the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace and make up some plays to perform, we stopped at one of my favourite places – a little village called Solva.

As soon as the coach pulled into the car park, the children were off, wandering straight down to the estuary and then walking across the bridge and up the headland. They barely stopped to ask if it was okay to do so, and eventually the head teacher who was accompanying me, wandered off with them.

Half an hour later, with me beginning to wonder where they had got to, I saw these delighted little faces running back down the hill, smiling, laughing, rushing up to me to explain where they had been and what they had seen.

“Did you know there was a beach on the other side of the cliff?”

I hadn’t.

“We ran down the hill and touched the sea and then Mr A suggested we have a race back to the coach!”

They giggled some more, watched the river running under the bridge and reluctantly stepped aboard the coach for the next leg of the journey.

The interlude into our excursion twenty years ago was not planned, well not in that way. As I said, I thought they might take a short wander down the estuary but they had other ideas. They saw a big hill and their curiosity, that I hope I had some small part in developing, made damn sure that they wanted to see what was on the other side.

Where was the curiosity of the children on Skomer yesterday? If they had any, it was quashed completely by this Mrs. Hitler, and I do not use that surname lightly. Where was their freedom in a place that defied restrictions? How was their empathy with the natural world being developed? Where was their initiative? Who was nurturing their creativity? Who was saying to them “Just be, just feel, just imagine, just take in the natural high!”

Eventually I could take no more, and as soon as this woman had stood up, my brother and I marched towards her and pushed her off the cliff to much rejoicing from the much maligned Liam, and then the other children danced and smiled and ran around the island in the way that nature intended them to do so.

Or I just walked away fuming that this beast was in charge of these children who needed to be free.

Lavender Blues

Lavender Blues

There is not a single poem that I can find about Lavender. There is nothing on the internet that resembled anything that I could possibly be inspired to use in a blog about lavender, only a short quote from a Shakespeare play that hardly described the delights of this delicate and diverse little flower. It merely mentioned that it was good luck to plant some in your garden; A Winter’s Tale.
So there is a challenge to anybody reading this blog; get writing about lavender and it is sure to find a place in a search engine that could boost your own blog site, should you have one. I know that I am going to have a go at writing my own Lavender Blues.

“Lavender blue, Dilly, Dilly”. Come to think of it, they didn’t even mention that on my internet search. I wonder if I went onto a French Google there might be something for a “poeme de lavande”.
Oh yes indeed.

Ce soir

Je vais m'eétendre

Dans la lavande

Et voir

Aprés les étoiles filantes.

Regarder

Leur éclat

Lumineux

Comme celui

De tes yeux.

Ce soir

Je vais m'étendre

Dans la lavande

Et voir

Aprés les étoiles filantes

Tout en m'endormant

Je rêverais

A tes bras

Si puissant

M'enserrant.

Ce soir

Je vais m'étendre

Dans la lavande

Et voir

Aprés les étoiles filantes

Tout en humant

Leur odorant parfum

Commelorsque

Je m'imprégnais

Du tiens.

Ce soir

Je vais m'étendre

Dans la lavande

Et voir

Aprés les étoilesfilantes

Je m'évaderais

Dans cette provence

Que je connais

A peine

Mais qui me tiens

Tant à coeur

Comme le tiens

Qui tient au mien

Avec tant d'ardeur.

Ce soir

Je vais m'étendre

Dans la lavande

Et voir

Aprés les étoiles filantes

Je fermerais les yeux

Et je ferais un voeux

Afin de ne plus

Les rouvrir

Afin de mourir

Et vivre

A jamais

Dans ma garrigue

Avec pour seule compagne

La musique des cigales.

Not bad. Or this?

Contemplent,savoureusement,
un doux paysage,
Couleur velouté,
d'un présage argenté.

Une petite fleurs de Lavande
et de son doux parfum chatouillent mes narines
inspirent,vigoureusement l'intense
envie d'une passion,voluptueuse.

Ferment les yeux,de son doux parfum
m'en volent dans son imaginaire.
Au gré des saisons rayonnante, et spontané.

L'envie intense de caresses
s'empara de mon âme toute entier
me suis sentie envahie de tendresse passagère
d'un rêve qui me fit chaviré

Me sentent bercé de se doux envie
sensorielle m'enlacent de ses pétales
Pour ne plus jamais les
L'oublier.

Perhaps I’ll just cheat and translate the significant sections from each of these poems and then make them flow into English.

I would like nothing more right now than to be sitting in a field of lavender as the sun sinks away from the day and the moon takes its position of enlightenment on the tiny purple flowers that emit such a perfectly relaxing smell. Luckily I have that very possibility a mere 25 minutes drive from my house but I it is possibly a little late in the day.

The Mayfield Lavender fields just outside Banstead were an accidental discovery on my way to visit friends in Epsom last year. I vowed that I would return to them as soon as possible but I never did. A couple of weeks ago, I travelled along the same road to the same destination and looked to my left as I passed the fields to see whether the purple pretties were in bloom. They weren’t but it looked as though they were going to appear in about a fortnight. So looking at the website today, I discovered that the main bulk of flowers had appeared on the 4^th July. With nothing particularly planned for today, I took myself off with my trusty camera as the weather looked relatively decent.

Sadly, as I arrived at the field, I felt a few drops of rain and the cloud had well and truly eclipsed the early morning sunshine. I shall know next time to ensure that there was no chance of a change in fortune regarding the weather because I really do want some photos of this field with some gleaming sunshine upon it. However, I was not too perturbed. There I was, less than half an hour away from home in a field of lavender that in my mind at least transported me to the masses of purple fields that I long to see in La France. It gave me a glimpse of what I fully expect to be enjoying on a regular basis one day; that and a field of sunflowers to walk through too.

It is worth a visit though. I am always delighted to support the small entrepreneur who has some soul in the product that they are selling. This field, from what I can gather, is owned by a relatively small group of people. It might even be owned by a couple, perhaps the owners of the adjoining farm building. What they have done is very much on a small scale. They have a canopy that covers a little shop with all kinds of lavender products that are reasonably priced, and all organic to boot. They do not charge you to walk through the field and have even provided a pergola and benches in two different sections so that you can stop and sit and take in the beauty of the surroundings.

Let us not make any mistake. This is not Provence. Indeed it is a poor substitute but it was so lovely to see other people walking through the fields and simply enjoying this unique field in the middle of Surrey, a mere half an hour from the centre of London. Just when you feel as though the world is full of morons craving to get out and buy their souvenir copy of the last News of the Screws, you come across a field in the middle of nowhere with plenty of people choosing to spend an hour there just because there is this natural beauty, unusually placed on the side of a busy road, where two people have decided to share their love of their lavender with their friends, family and unknown passers-by. So lovely.

I’m looking forward to returning soon, at around 7.30 in the evening and seeing what I can capture with my lens. Perhaps I might even enter their annual photograph competition with my efforts.

http://www.mayfieldlavender.com/

Jsut Palin Dfat

There was a little passage doing the rounds on Facebook a couple of years ago. It went like this.

i cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt! if you can raed tihs forwrad it.

I don’t think I have met anyone who has not been able to read this almost as quickly as if it had been written with the correct spellings all the way through. It concludes with the notion that “I always thought spelling was important!” But clearly that is not the case, well not once you have mastered the main strategies of reading. This research from Cambridge University certainly indicates that letter order is not as significant as some might like to think, if indeed it did take place at Cambridge University because a recent article that I found implied that it might not have done so.

http://www.mrc-cbu.cam.ac.uk/people/matt.davis/Cmabrigde/

However, in the above link, despite the academic suggesting that this meme does not work in all situations, there is a valid point that words do not have to be in a given order in order to give meaning to the reader.

Matt Davis cited a few sentences that proves another point in the skills of learning to read.

1) A vheclie epxledod at a plocie cehckipont near the UN haduqertares in Bagahdd on Mnoday kilinlg the bmober and an Irqai polcie offceir

2) Big ccunoil tax ineesacrs tihs yaer hvae seezueqd the inmcoes of mnay pneosenirs

3) A dootcr has aimttded the magltheuansr of a tageene ceacnr pintaet who deid aetfr a hatospil durg blendur

He suggests that these sentences get progressively more difficult. Why? Because they are not using simple, everyday language which implies that certain words need meaning or understanding to decipher their ‘code’. Take the word “seezueqd” in the second sentence. When I was reading this word, I had to read the rest of the sentence to decipher the anagram in front of me. The same applied to the word “magltheuansr” in the third sentence. It needed me to decipher the word “deid” “durg” and “blender” in order to realise that the missing word was “manslaughter”.

Guess what folks? This is exactly the way children learn to read; deciphering meaning.

They also learn a few key words that become familiar by default due to their frequency. Some bright spark, during the development of the National Literacy programme called these words “frequency words”. Original eh?

And they also learn by looking at a whole word rather than breaking it up into counterparts. And they learn these words.

http://www.highfrequencywords.org/first-100-high-frequency-word-list-precursive.html

They also learn the shape of words through memory and familiarisation so that they can see a physical linear pattern developing. The cursive up and down of the sentence provides meaning for them in conjunction with what they have learned about the shape of the letters, the familiarisation of words and the meaning of the sentence as a whole (to fill in the missing unknowns).

They also learn to read by breaking words down into sounds. Small children can begin to read simple CVC (consonant, vowel, consonant) words for themselves such as c-a-t, or h-o-t. Or s-e-x. Yes, children of a very young age somehow manage to spell that word perfectly well, often before they can even spell their own name.

And so it goes on. Children and indeed adults who are learning to read for the first time use all manner of approaches to this learning which may or may not include phonics, meaning, grapheme, memory, pattern etcetera, etcetera.

Let us return to the original passage of “if you can raed tihs”. It works in this simple form where there are not indecipherable words. You can read this, and read it very successfully without having the letters in the correct order. So, I ask myself, where precisely does phonics fit in with the reading of this text? Can you actually apply phonics to such reading and furthermore, if you were to give this text to a seven year old who has only learned to read through, oh I don’t know – let’s say synthetic phonics for instance, would they be able to determine the meaning of the consecutive words in that passage or would they be completely flummoxed or should I say fxmemluod or should I say flummucsd – the phonetic version?

Perhaps I ought to send this little passage to Mr Gove or Mr Guv has he may need to be phonetically known as. I wonder what he would make of it.

As with most things in life, there is no easy response or solution to a difficult scenario. If you choose to do something one way you may be ruling out help from other sources. This is exactly the way it is with learning to read. There is no ‘one way’. Individuals learn in different ways. My own children are a classic example. One child did learn to read with a heavier emphasis on phonics because that was the way he was. The other used meaning as his primary source but clearly developed his use of phonetics and word building as he came across words that he was unfamiliar with, and let us just remind ourselves that the English Language is not an automatic bedfellow with phonics. There are many, many thousands of words in English that do not adhere to a straightforward phonetic structure.

Which is why it is complete and utter contemptible madness to structure an entire mode of learning on one single method, which is precisely what the government, together with the likes of Ruth Miskin is trying to do. It cannot and will not work, and according to recent articles in the newspaper, there is insufficient evidence to thrust so much value behind this one method of learning to read.

I taught a child once who had learned phonetically to the detriment of all other learning strategies. She came from a very traditional background where her father coached her before she had entered the school gates. On first appearance her reading was brilliant, as was her computational skills. But when you asked her about the books that she was reading, when you asked her to tell you something about the subject matter, the meaning of the words, whether she could predict what was going to happen next in the story, she hadn’t got a clue. The reason for this was that she was totally controlled in her reading by the phonetic structure. All she was doing was functionally going through the text, not taking on board anything to do with the meaning of what she was reading.

It was a tragedy that I sought to put right.

The government now wants to introduce phonic tests for children at the end of Year One to identify which ones need additional support with their reading.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2011/jul/04/national-phonics-test-primary-pupils

What the ****? If I was teaching a group of Year One children, which indeed I have, and it took me to the end of the year by means of an imposed test of forty words to discover that there were certain children within my class that needed additional reading support, I’d hand in my resignation immediately. I would want shooting if I had allowed one single child to slip through unnoticed in this way, and that is before you even get onto to the whole subject of teaching reading purely through synthetic phonics, robbing children of the utter delight of real books that they can share enthusiastically with their parents, developing a love of reading for its own sake rather than a mechanism for finding facts or reading labels or instructions.

This test is an absolute nightmare. It is a total waste of time, if people are doing their job properly, i.e. that they are listening to children read regularly, that they are opening all strategies of reading learning to their pupils, that they are regularly tracking their progress without keeping ‘score’, that they are giving them a wealth of opportunities to demonstrate their reading, that they are giving them a wealth of opportunities to transfer their reading skills to writing. A single, bloody useless test is not going to make a difference.

Now, if, within a special needs department, there is a test such as this that is used as a diagnostic tool, or to determine whether a class teacher was correct in referring a child for additional support, then that is a different matter altogether. As a Special Needs co-ordinator, I might find such a test a useful tool but only as part of a package of diagnoses. I would still use other things to try and ascertain the best method of support for a child in such circumstances like picture impetus, like trying to ascertain whether they can recognise a cursive style of writing, like looking at some “frequency” words to see if they have any idea what they are – ad infinitum of diagnostic tools until I got to the bottom of the child’s learning difficulty.

There is never just one solution and this test would not tell me anything that I did not already know.

The government have even had the audacity to cite professors of education and their research to back up their claims that this test is required.

See their responses in the following clip.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2011/jul/05/children-need-more-than-phonics

But if you don’t want to read it, let me paraphrase by saying that these professors have been mis-cited. Their work has been taken out of context for the political whim of a man who has NO IDEA how to teach reading, or for that matter any other subject judging by his views on the teaching of history and English Literature for instance.

Even those academics who believe in the positive possibilities of synthetic phonics have a problem with this testing approach.

“What the research evidence shows is that systematic phonics teaching within a broad and rich language curriculum enables children on average to make better progress in reading words than unsystematic or no phonics teaching.

There is not yet enough research evidence to show that synthetic phonics is superior to other phonics approaches, though both theory and classroom experience suggest this.”

This is from a supporter of synthetic phonics, who I actually disagree with because of the things that I have already stated. However, each to his own, and if he continues with his research, then maybe he may come to a different view. However, he clearly advocates that phonics is just one aspect of learning to read, not – to coin a phrase – the be all and end all of learning how to read.

The government are wrong, plain wrong in all sorts of ways. Please note, I am actually still talking about the teaching of reading but interpret the previous sentence as broadly as you wish. (See, meaning requires context; something that no amount of phonics is going to provide).

It seems that I am not alone in this conclusion.
As reported in the Guardian this week, there is a group of MPs that has suggested that phonics learning and this stupid test is going to de-motivate children and even prevent them from picking up books for the enjoyment of the fabulous stories that are out there for them to read.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2011/jul/07/report-phonics-children-reading-test

MPs have criticised government plans to test pupils on their reading ability at the age of six, warning that it will put children off reading for pleasure.

The report criticises the government's focus on phonics – in which children learn individual sounds and then blend them to read words – as a "mechanical" approach and warns that it will contribute to a decline in literacy.

Fabian Hamilton, who chairs the MPs' group, said: "If there is a central theme to this, that is, reading must be a pleasure. Of course children need the tools to understand what sounds the symbols make, and what those sounds mean. Phonics is only one way of doing it, there are others."

The rest of the article talks about the “whole word” approach to reading and the combination of reading strategies that most teachers employ. Schools minister Nick Gibb hold the didactic message that synthetic phonics is the only way and that this strategy is the only way to open up a lifelong love of learning.

Believe me Nick, you will have turned many a child off through unnatural, imposed and even made-up words of synthetic phonics before they ever get a chance of becoming familiar with the great authors of the day.

This is a tragedy; a real tragedy and it is time for teachers once more to stand up and fight for what they know is right, i.e. that reading cannot be taught in one way for all, and that the emphasis on phonics is jsut palin dfat.