A German musical coincidence

Last Friday K. and I went to a birthday party in Llanfoist, outside Abergavenny. The host had invited a recorder orchestra made up of mostly middle aged ladies from near Stuttgart who were performing in the area. They played some mediaeval-sounding numbers which were charming, but after the fourth one I went outside where little A. was complaining that she didn’t like it. Made me reflect on how the world would be if adults were as frank as children.

By chance, tonight, I’m singing barbershop songs with the Wye Valley Chorus to a group of Germans from Monmouth’s twin town in the Black Forest. I hope our performance we will be sehr gut.

Alien Fungus in Monmouth

Saw this growing in the woods by the river a couple of weeks ago and felt moved to take a photo:

The same wood is now full of wild garlic, some of which I have harvested and frozen in hopes of making a sort of pretentious champ. I also noticed that there are large carpets of blubells coming up which promise to deliver a magnificent show when they flower in a few weeks.

Bow ties, cricket and close harmony

This month has been notable for singing. The Wye Valley Chorus, with whom I sing songs in the barbershop style took part in the Herefordshire Festival last week. We were pitted against one other choir in our class on Tuesday night, singing “When I’m Sixty-Four” and “Yesterday” with camp actions and sentimental yearning respectively. Winning the class, as we eventually did, was less memorable for me than the vignette with which I was briefly presented shortly before our performance at the Hereford Cathedral School.

Having arrived at the wrong venue, we eventually turned up at the school and were ushered into an old fashioned gymnasium, about a hundred feet long, with high ceilings and windows with a pair of cricket nets at the far end. As we came in our rivals were changing, some standing bare-legged as they put on formal white shirts and bow ties. We did likewise, then started warming up by singing some old favourites as two of our number bowled cricket balls in the nets. At one point I stopped and pondered the scene: bare legged men in shirts and bow ties, a huddle of nervous men singing barbershop songs in an echoey (I know that’s not in the dictionary but you find an alternative) acoustic while others bowled overarm at non-existent batsmen.

Looking back on it I can better appreciate its mild absurdity. I’m beginning to think that Proust was right to suggest that we miss so much in everyday life that can intrigue, amuse and enlighten, if only we would take the trouble to look.

Save the Radio Four Theme

I’ve been quiet of late, not because nothing has happened to me but because none of the things that have happened to me have stirred me to put fingers to keyboard. Well, something has happened that has done the requisite stirring.

BBC Radio 4 is planning to stop playing their “UK Theme” at 5.30 am. This is an orchestral arrangement of traditional songs from the four nations of the UK that starts every day’s programming. Much loved by insomniacs and early risers, it has, for many, become a comforting and uplifting soundtrack to pre-dawn preparations for the day: the groping for the alarm clock’s snooze button, the bleary-eyed shambling into the bathroom and fumbled coffee making. Unashamedly old-fashioned, its stirring melodies manage to be both reasssuring and uplifting just when you need some reassurance and uplift – er, -ment.

So incensed is one listener, he has produced a web site with a petition to sign. Sign it and lobby your MP. Raise Hell!

Save the Radio Four Theme

This weekend I blow-dried my hat

I had noticed that my hat – an American broad-brimmed brown leather thing that startles the citizens of Gloucester – needed some waterproofing. So I bought some special wax, painstakingly rubbed it in and went out in the rain, feeling smug that my bald patch wasn’t getting cold and wet any more. True, but when I got home, the wax had come to the surface of the leather and created a whitish patina.

Having just bought a tin of wax for my (fake) Barbour jacket that recommended blow drying the jacket after application, I thought I’d try the same trick with my hat. I duly found K.’s blow drier and gave the hat about five minutes on maximum. The patina has gone and the hat looks much better. But I’m still waiting on a downpour to see if the patina comes back: today the weather had been lovely. Watch this space for an update on the hat wax saga after the next rain shower.

Welsh, Waxed Jackets and Close Harmony

Autumn is here. I know this because I have started wearing my waxed jacket and turning on the heating in the car during the morning drive to work. Oh, and I suppose nature is sending the obvious signals too, like turning leaves a different colour. I expect the Wye Valley will be glorious in a week or two. I don’t resent the onset of Autumn with its leaden skies and winds as I used to: the landscape around here is still beautiful.

K and I have signed up for a thirty-week course of evening classes in Welsh, on Friday nights (yes, Fridays!). Not sure why my lovely wife is doing it: probably to humour me. I’m doing it a) to get me out of the house b) to stimulate the little grey cells and c) (this is the really pretentious one) because I’m trying to make a connection with the language that used to be spoken in these islands before the Saxons arrived. My colleagues and elder daughter think I’m mad, but I insist I’m not trying to be pretentious. A possible d) might be because, as an immigrant to Wales (by quarter of a mile or so) and as a sometime linguist, I think it’s only polite to try learn the language of the country one inhabits.

Oh, and I’ve started a course in barbershop/acapella singing with a local male chorus on Tuesday nights. I am singing “bom, bo-bum-bum bom bum” so much around the house that little A. thinks that particular phrase is one she should add to her vocabulary. The latter, incidentally, has now, at K’s reckoning, about a hundred words. Little A. will soon start putting them together in two’s! Most charming is the way Little A. says “goodbye” which varies with the person concerned. “Goodbye Daddy” is “Da-da-da-da-da-da Daddy”, while “Goodbye Granny” is “Na-na-na-na-na-na-nanny”. “Finished” is “finith” and “Here, take this” has become “fankoo”.

We are looking for a place to buy in Monmouth. Hard work as we don’t want to compromise and Monmouth is pricey. British houses are so small and overpriced! If you ever visit us and you come from another country, yes, small houses with low ceilings and tiny front lawns are the norm and no, we don’t like it either.

Food, mostly.

Religion, Philosophy & Ethics

The RPE course at the University of Gloucestershire.

Vridar

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History of Philosophy

summarized & visualized

Donald J. Robertson

The author of How to Think Like a Roman Emperor

Dave Webster

Professor of Philosophy & Pedagogy

Wyesham Community Woodland Project

Community Woodland Information

AwayPoint

Between An Island of Certainties and the Unknown Shore