England Expects That Every Man Will Do His Tea

Ah, that's better! A nice hot cup of Earl Grey at 3.10 on the last Sunday afternoon of British Summertime, after a satisfying siesta. What better way to pass the Lord's day, I ask myself?

There's a sacredness about this time of the week like no other, I find, equalled perhaps only by the cosiness of Sunday night, when it's become domestic practice for my brother and I to have our main Sunday meal settled in front of the telly watching Hertbeat or some similarly familiar but undemanding fare. The meal, meanwhile, is the best one of the week. With apologies to my veggie friends, tonight it will be the roast beef of Old England, doubtless with all the trimmings and washed down with a glass or three of a decent red. I used to be rather partial to a nice Corbieres after an early duty-free excursion introduced it to my palate, but haven't had this particular wine for a while so tonight will be the chance to return to an old friend in a glass.

MEANTIME IN GREENWICH

Trafalgar 200 week brought for me a much-needed break from the stresses, strains and mistakes of my labour which have been giving me some grief of late and are still causing me worry on a Sunday afternoon when as I said above, my thoughts are normally far from my workaday woes. However, this is not the place to go into them.
I have been careful in these blog postings not to name my employer although there is an early clue for those that want to go looking for it. Be a code breaker if you like, and if you're a new reader of this blogspot interested enough to read more of these thoughts, see if you'd agree with the final school report comment of one English teacher of mine which has remained with me, yet inspired me, through close on three decades of adult life:
"Mark could do very well, if he tried. He remains an enigma".

Quite possibly I am, still, Mr Duggan-but cracking the enigma code was a vital contribution to the winning of the Second World War! I thought about those words again as I passed through Bletchley earlier this week on my first trip on the finest ship of the rails of Richard Branson's fleet, the Virgin Pendolino. My destination was Manchester, that hub of all that was both good and bad about the industrial revolution just beginning as Nelson took to sea.
Ever since the autumn reunion retreats I'd hitherto enjoyed in Wiltshire with my ccompanions from a 1990 Holy Land pilgrimage came to an end, I'd been at a bit of a loss of how to fill this too long a period between the summer holidays and Christmas with an alternative way of re-charging my batteries before the dark evenings draw in and November nothingness takes hold of the soul with it's depressing greyness for another thirty days.
Step forward then the North-West of England with all its delights, from the cosmopolitan metromix which is modern Manchester, to the awe-inspiring serenity and natural, timeless beauty of the English Lake District. Yes, the Lord is my shepherd, and he leads me beside still waters [where] he refreshes my soul indeed, but from time to time he uses places and people to do it. This week, the comfort and counsel of treasured and trusted friends in the North were just what the doctor would have ordered, had he seen me- and indeed did when I was suffering from stress in an earlier period of worry about this time of the year.

No Lake District this year, though after honing my 'brand awareness 'and taking in the beers and other tangible delights of Greater Manchester, I also managed to fill up on a spot of spiritual refreshment beside two very different bodies of water this week. Thursday saw me in Disley, a pleasant village in the High Peak area of England's first national park, marred only by the peace-challenging artery which is the A6 trunk road between Manchester and the historic spa town of Buxton (where I must go some day). The still waters through here include the Peak Forest canal, a lovely discovery for me where I sat down on the banks where horses once pulled the cargoes of industry and brought my own burdens before the Lord. It could have been a million miles from that other metropolis I currently have to commute to five days a week and my soul was in another realm far beyond the affairs of men.

Friday brought my departure from Manchester, and a thoroughly enjoyable and impressively prompt journey back down South on another Pendolino, aurally punctuated by one of the best episodes of Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy courtesy of the on-train audio system and a spot of rolling radio. More on the permanent way anon, although my own permanent way never leaves the rails, alleluia!

En route to my "must be there" destination on Trafalgar Day itself, I had my dose of enduring the misery line, much beleaguered this last month due to the failings of the fiasco which is the Private Public Partnership [sic] on the London Underground Northern Line. At Bank, I was glad to decamp onto an altogether lighter railway for my first journey on the recent extension of the Docklands Light Railway south of the river down to the home of time and an afternoon in Greenwich.

Most of the day's big ceremonial events of course were reserved for royalty and today's great and good, so I did not even attempt to go to Portsmouth nor to buy ticket costing a Nelson's arm [ and a leg] on board the senior service's senior ship. However, Greenwich as the home of the old naval college and the world heritage sites where Nelson's body lay in state on return from battle, was the next best place to be to discover more of his heritage and toast his memory with a pint of Fuller's special brew in honour of him, Nelson's Blood. A pint of rum, to which this nickname usually applies, would have rendered me even more senseless than some might say I normally am!
Before the beer though came the sightseeing, and quite apart from another due tea in the cafe, surrounded by naval memorabilia and the white ensign, given dispensation to be flown everywhere this weekend, I had looked round the extraordinarily beautiful Hanoverian masterpiece which is the chapel of the Old Royal Naval College, now leased to Trinity College of Music.

The sound of sopranos wafted across the air as I walked across the quad to the chapel, and the sight of the gilded altarpiece which was St Paul's escape from death on Malta drew me to my knees in prayer. Having enjoyed the architectural landmarks of the temples to industry of Manchester earlier in the week, here at last was man meeting with his creator in the skill of his hand touching the everlasting arms of the one who made him. Does it say something about contemporary man that so much modern architecture owes nothing to worship of God yet everything to idolising the "triumphs" of consumerdom?

Finally, my watery celebration of Trafalgar Day told me I must go down to the sea again, so it was off to Eastbourne for the Ceylon Place house group, another beer and an overnight stay in my other home

BATTLES AND BOTTLES
It was Adnam's Broadside to end my Friday night in Eastbourne, and Shepherd Neame Spitfire with supper and Casualty back here in Feltham last night.Drinks a plenty will have been supped up and down the land this weekend in honour of the man of the moment, Horatio, Viscount Nelson. Let's not just lump him in with the lesser league of Lords, please: the title he died with acknowledges not just Britain's but many navies' recognition of him even two centuries later as the C in C, fleet to excel them all. Even a pacifist like me is moved by the victory he secured for liberty from Napoleonic oppression off Cape Cadiz in 1805, but the more so by the man's humanity and humility which have been much trumpeted in this bi-centenary year of the Battle of Trafalgar.
A cossetted 21st century man like me could have no cognisance of the dreadful conditions of service life of 200 years ago, were it not for the history books and the museums and now the websites which tell so much of the life of the sailor or indeed the ordinary toiler of that time. In an age of cruel discipline and marked disregard for the failings and frailty of man, Horatio Nelson gave those who served under him -including a few closet women, actually!- a reason for respect far removed from the savagery of so many of his contemporaries, yet which even in another millennia is the lot of so many souls in other conflicts, other countries, other cultures.
The Battle of Trafalgar may have been our triumph, and France and Spain may now be our allies in a very different Europe to that of the early nineteenth century. But let nobody pretend the battle for the human soul has yet been won, although victory is actually foretold. Evil stalks in so many guises in contemporary society throughout the world, and modern media bring it so close to our attention that nobody can turn a blind eye to it, even if it be the blindness of convenience which caused Nelson to put a telescope to his sightless eye to ignore the signalled orders of his superior and thus win the Battle of Copenhagen.

Wretched events no better than the ruthless ones witnessed by our forebears are so close at hand on both land and sea so often in this infant century. Let nobody pretend that the liberty Nelson toiled for or the Victory he won has brought us freedom from the prison of our own selfishness, pride and apathy. Great though he may have been, seeing the battle won before his death and ever-lauded for his heroism, Horatio Nelson's sacrifice aboard a vessel of oak is as nothing compared to what was given up for all humankind by one man's broken, pierced, blood-spattered arms on a cross of crude wood twenty centuries ago.

So what a sad homage today is then to Britain's greatest naval hero, the son of a country parson and a devout Christian all his days yet in his private life so obviously a flawed human, On this Lord's day, fewer folk will have gathered in churches and houses of prayer to honour the man who is the Son of God, than will have huddled in pubs and ships with a gill or two in these last days to honour a much lesser man. Would the Nelson whose prayer on the eve of battle has been described by some as a masterpiece of English prose, have fought so valiantly had he known what a sorrowful, sacreligious nation we would become:

May the great God whom I worship Grant to my Country and for the benefit of Europe in General a great and Glorious Victory, and may no misconduct in any one tarnish it, and May humanity after Victory be the predominant feature in the British fleet. For. myself individually I commit my Life to Him who made me, and may his blessing light upon my endeavours for serving my Country faithfully, to Him I resign myself and the just cause which is entrusted to me to Defence - Amen Amen Amen

These were the words quoted just two days ago over the spot where the great man fell on his flagship, and doubtless repeated countless times over this weekend in the numerous ceremonies and special events to mark this momentous moment in history. Yet I'll wager a ha'porth of tar that Horatio Nelson would put aside all his great victories, all the glory of the moment and the defeat of an alien foe, to see the land that he loved come back to the Lord of all and the Saviour of the world. To that fact and that redemption indeed, sealed in blood and born again in the victory of the Resurrection, I cry this Sunday AMEN, AMEN, AMEN- so be it! Amazing Grace indeed: time for another tea and Songs of Praise counting down the nation's favourite hymns.

Samuel Peeps

Do you like being like Mr Nosey when you read books? Do you feel like you want to spy on the author's life and see who means the most to him, or perhaps her? Some writers are very secretive, others say a great deal about themselves. Guess which type I am? What type are you. A bit of both, maybe?

When I buy a new book, often the first bit I turn to is what used to be called in the olden days the "frontispiece". That's the bit where the writer or their publisher has sometimes got someone else famous to say nice things about the new book- especially useful if nobody has ever heard of the writer before and they want to sell more books: I suppose even Roald Dahl had to start somewhere, after all! It's also often called a preface or a foreword.

However, that's not the bit at the front that arouses my curiosity the most: it's the "dedication" or "acknowledgments" that I like to look at. You don't have to include it in a book of course, but doing so says more about you than good reviews ever can. It's where the writer names all those people who have helped them with the book, taught them important lessons in their life,given them advice or maybe just amused them. But just as often too, the Acknowledgments are where you will find out about really special people who the author just wants to mention because they love them!

Thinking all this through today on a historic day in British history, I thought it was high time I dedicated one of these blogs to somebody. Who will it be, you ask yourself? Will it be my favourite teacher? Mr Weir's probably long gone, but who would be yours? Or a relative- my grandma perhaps, who used to love reading my stories of what I had been up to on holiday? I suppose you could even dedicate your blog to a favourite pet- but we've had so many lovely cats, it would be unfair to single any one of them out.

So perhaps I should choose a figure from history. Now, who could that possibly be today, Friday 21st October AD 2005(only just as it's nearly over!)? How about a certain Admiral Horatio, Lord Nelson? Surely on the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar that might be an appropriate choice, and what a day it's been for followers of England's greatest man of the sea and the hero of the moment those two centuries ago.

I wish I could even dedicate these words to my secretary ( I wish I had one!) or to other people who have helped me as I've written these little bits and pieces over the last seventeen months or so. But apart from the encouraging comments that my friends do make, which boost my confidence no end, there aren't any little helpers out there, or even any much bigger ones. I haven't got any gnomes who come in and eat all the brain waves inside my head every night (do you think that might be what dreams are all about really?) and then scamper around like little ants on my computer keys so that you too can feed on my thoughts, for what they're worth.

If I did have Marky's little helpers like this, then maybe you'd have seen a bit more writing from me at this web address over the last month; so sorry, dear reader, if you've been disappointed that the Anyway cupboard's been bare for a while. Truth is I have either been too tired or too weighed down by other cares to say very much in my blogs lately, though I have been very keen to.

However, I couldn't let this auspicious (love the word, but still not sure exactly what it means, are you?) time pass without dedicating this latest posting to one special little boy out there in computer land who had his own great celebration today. I'm going to be Top Secret like the best special agent and not tell you all his name. But he must have a mention, because today remembers the day he battled his way out of his Mummy's tummy back in the late nineties, so now he's celebrating his EIGHTH birthday no less, and days don't come much more special than birthdays, do they!

I was very happy to have a bit of an early celebration with my junior friend Sam this week, along with my (very!) old friends his Mum and Dad on a flying visit (well, by train really!) to the North West of England where he lives. He's a great little guy and such fun! The lad's getting on very well with his sums, is good to his baby brother most of the time, and he even told me some great poems about the seasons.

Mind you, I don't know whether Sam likes keeping a diary or not, like the very famous man of the same first name who wrote so much about the Great Fire of London and also worked for the Royal Navy, I discovered today while visiting a navy museum in South East London. One thing's for sure though: Sam doesn't miss a trick at all and I wonder whether when he's playing hide and seek, Samuel Peeps?

Many Happy Returns of the Day, and God Bless, little man from a rather bigger one!