Arboricide

I've been putting it off.

They are tall, strong trees, probably native to the west coast of North America. I don't know the species, but one is what we call The Blue Pine, a particularly handsome and vigorous plant that has doubled its height in the twelve years we've been here, to about 30 metres. And it's about ten metres from the house. If it were to fall in various other directions it would flatten one of three neighbouring houses. And it might fall, because our topsoil is about nine inches, and below that is chalk.

The other conifers are a different sort with softer needles, nearly as tall but much nearer to the house. Their tops foul the telephone wires and the roots foul the drains. One blocks the light to J's study. If they toppled, they would flatten our house or next door. We used to have a goldcrest nesting in one of them, but I haven't seen it for about ten years. We have quite a large garden, so it is a mystery why a previous owner put these tall trees so close to the house, and to next door properties. It must be that they simply had no idea how big they would grow. And neither do we. We have watched as they soar. And we love them.

I have been putting it off. We keep hearing warnings that extreme weather will be more frequent. High winds kept us awake in our last house, and in October 1987 a neighbouring ash tree crashed into the garden, smashing a window. That has probably made me more risk-averse, and I'm rather ashamed of that. I'm even more exercised by the idea that one of these trees might kill someone because I'd failed to do something about it. We live in a conservation area, where you have to get permission to prune anything thicker than your finger. And even the Council thinks the trees ought to come down.

When the tree surgeons rang today because the weather forecast was good for tomorrow, I didn't say yes straight away. I dithered and maundered for an hour before giving the go-ahead.

I feel like a criminal. I can already see our impoverished skyline and the bare ground. We have used these tree surgeons several times before, so know they will leave no mess. That's worse, somehow, like editing it out.

We will plant some new trees. What, though?

Six Flags

This amusement park in New Orleans was abandoned after Katrina and is due to be demolished next month.

What is the fascination of ruins? Partly that they show us what will happen. In one version, we look back from the future and see a morality tale of which perhaps the inhabitants were unaware. In another version, we can see there our own future undoing. And in this case, any easy romanticism is blown away by the horror of that storm, and the cruel ineptitude of a government that allowed people to drown and a way of life to perish.
Via

How different from the home life of an ordinary person

For reasons we won't go into, this morning I found myself listening to William Shawcross being interviewed by Jenni Murray on Woman's Hour about his new biography of the late Queen Mother. What an extraordinary piece of radio. The Royal Family is an anachronism, useful as trade ambassadors and tourist attraction. And - in principle anyway - it is a good thing for the Prime Minister to have someone to defer to. (Imagine Blair as head of state. Or Cameron for that matter.) But, while Murray has no time for this gilded, profligate life and sense of entitlement, Shawcross adores his subject. I'm on Murray's side in this. Yet through Shawcross's passion one can also glimpse Murray from his point of view: shrewish, petty, practically philistine. But she keeps her cool.

After the abdication, the war, Diana, the alleged colostomy - the fun starts at around 11 minutes in:

JM: One of the other things she was criticised for was her profligate lifestyle, and she seems to have almost gaily announced that she might go bankrupt. Why did she live in such splendour?
WS: Because she enjoyed it. Because she grew up to that. She was one of the last of generations of people, of aristocrats, who weren't ashamed of their birth and the concept of noblesse oblige, she wasn't ashamed of giving employment to lots of people and having a jolly good life. And she enjoyed it, she could afford it, and she certainly lived better than you and I do. And why not?
JM: Could she afford it?
WS: She gave a huge amount of pleasure -
JM: She did have an overdraft
WS: Of course. Have you never had an overdraft?
JM: (Pause) I'm not the Queen Mum.
WS: I've had overdrafts. I couldn't live without an overdraft. (laughs) Always begging the bank manager not to come down too heavy on me
JM: But she had thirty three staff and she had -
WS: (interrupting) Why do you go on about this?
JM: - she had - Because it's fascinating -
WS: It's so silly, Jenni, this is an incredibly important woman, who epitomised this country through the whole of the second world war. She held the country together after the abdication, she created - she enabled her husband who was a hesitant, but adorable man, whom she was devoted to, she enabled him to take over the throne in very difficult circumstances, when a lot of people thought the monarchy was finished in 1936. She personified and symbolised this country. Churchill won the war for us but she and the King sustained the British people through six years of terror and horror, and that's what matters, and you go on about her staff. It's pathetic actually,
JM: - it -
WS: that doesn't really matter, I'm really surprised at you.
JM: - if she -
WS: You're one of the, you're the Queen Mother of Broadcasting and all you can think about is her staff and her illnesses. (fiercely) It's very very funny -
JM: I think people would be fascinated if they thought I had my menus hand-written in French every night, don't you?
WS: No - I well, they might well be fascinated if you do but why shouldn't she?
JM: You met her didn't you -
WS: Yes
JM: - on a couple of occasions and you clearly adored her.
WS: Yes I do adore her! And everyone adored her! Her staff stayed with her for thirty years. Nobody wanted to leave her. One of her pages who'd been with her for twenty five, twenty six years, um, on her hundredth birthday, he was very very ill, he stayed with her till her hundredth birthday so he could take her her morning coffee but went into hospital and died two days later. He kept himself going for her, just to be there for her hundredth birthday. And I hope this is what this book puts over, that she was a woman who was much loved, not just by the millions of people who didn't know her, but even more importantly by the people who worked for her, who knew her well, and I think that's - well, I mean - that's a celebration, something to be celebrated, and I was jolly lucky to be able to have this treasure trove of all her letters of a hundred years.

(Etc.)


...an incredibly important woman... What?
Do listen again before it disappears.

That story of the servant disturbs me. What was his name? Was his loyalty, sense of duty, misplaced? You'd think a sensitive employer would have had him off to the doctor sharpish, but people are not easily or kindly separated from their objects of veneration. He might have been cruelly disappointed if denied the opportunity to serve. Perhaps HMQM was working on that assumption.

By the way, Shawcross and Pan MacMillan are getting a lot of mileage on the BBC today. Nice publicity if you can get it.

William Shawcross is 63.

You are everything you feel beside the river

Diamond Geezer ponders fishing:

I was out walking beside a particularly long lake at the weekend [...] and I noticed a heck of a lot of people out fishing. Every few yards another chair, another rod and another sprawled-out display of angling paraphernalia. And I thought two things. Why do people fish? And why are they all male?

I can't speak generally for anyone, but here's one woman's take.

I used to muck about in rivers and streams when I was a pre-teen, back in the days when children were out unsupervised all day (and no doubt some of them drowned, though I never heard of any). I learned to catch fish with bare hands, which for child's play is an amazingly satisfying skill. First you have to find your fish - camouflaged, shy, alert - wait for it, your hands already underwater so there is no splash. To lose yourself knee-deep in a stream pitting your wits against a wild creature in its own element is worth all the aching hands, wet wellingtons, muddy coat and the scolding when you get home. You learn to watch the fish very carefully, and learn patience and disappointment. And you distinguish species, "which are easiest and valueless to catch." Some people go into Big Chief I-Spy twitcher mode, but I knew we didn't have all those fish in our streams, so I didn't.

When I started getting pocket money and an even greater sense of self-importance I could do some proper fishing - bought a second-hand rod and a rubbishy reel. That's where the trouble starts. If you are going to be serious about fishing, you need fishing tackle. It gets expensive, nerdy and competitive, and I couldn't be bothered with all that. And you do it in proper places like the Brick Pits, where you have to stand on the bank because it's far too deep to wade in. There are rules for grown-up fishing - things like pitches and licences, which spoil the Rousseauian fun. And there seemed something faintly cheating about bait, and cruel about hooks. I was never persuaded that fish don't feel pain.

Anyway, I needed money to raid the junk shop every Saturday for second hand books.

Much later I had a boyfriend who was a keen fly fisherman. So I tried my hand too, and seemed to have a beginner's knack for casting. We fished chalk streams in Hampshire and Wales, Highland rivers, wildernesses. There's a fair bit of skill to it, and you can eat some at least of what you catch. Hot-smoking a trout you've just caught by the side of the loch where you just caught it satisfies something pretty primitive. But fly fishing is expensive, and some of the people who do it can be snobbish. (I wouldn't have minded going fishing with Ted Hughes though.)

I married someone opposed to blood sports.

Incidentally, I picked up a book on freshwater fish the other day and was shocked to see how many fish I guddled thoughtlessly out of the Waring and the Bain are now rare or endangered.

But to go back to DG's question: Why do people fish?

O, Sir, doubt not but that Angling is an art; is it not an art to deceive a Trout with an artificial Fly ? a Trout ! that is more sharp-sighted than any Hawk you have named, and more watchful and timorous than your high-mettled Merlin is bold ? and yet, I doubt not to catch a brace or two to-morrow, for a friend's breakfast: doubt not therefore, Sir, but that angling is an art, and an worth your learning. The question is rather, whether you be capable of learning it? Angling is somewhat like poetry, men are to be born so: I mean, with inclinations to it, though both may be heightened by discourse and practice: but he that hopes to be a good angler, must not only bring an inquiring, searching, observing wit, but he must bring a large measure of hope and patience, and a love and propensity to the art itself; but having once got and practiced it, then doubt not but angling will prove to be so pleasant, that it will prove to be, like virtue, a reward to itself.
Izaak Walton

And why are they all male?
I don't know. It sounds as if DG was witnessing a fishing match. That never appealed to me. The regimentation and competitiveness seems more about the technical side of things, rather as motor racing is more about the cars and driving them than about getting to a destination or even the journey. (You will find more women rally-driving than on the racing circuits.)

Angling may be said to be so like the Mathematicks, that it can never be fully learnt; at least not so fully, but that there will still be more new experiments left for the trial of other men that succeed us.
Izaak Walton

What I liked about fishing was being out of doors, hunting, that sense of being wild.

But the men with all their state-of-the-art tackle and half-dozen rods side by side on their rod rests (and what is it about rod rests? and bite buzzers? How disconnected is that?) do care about fish, in their own way. Here is (or was) Benson.

Chestnuts

Let's go back to happier, more innocent times - oh, about a fortnight ago:

Each year I think it's going to be the last time they flower. Right now, they are magnificent along the approaches to Cambridge, in the allées on Jesus Green, and in parks and avenues up and down the country. The leaves have shaken themselves out to their full extent. While some buds are still opening, other flowers are on the point of fading, and fruits begin to set.


By June, the leaves will be covered in mottles, by July they will be shrivelled and it will look like autumn. When autumn comes, there may be a few small conkers. Not that children bother much these days to be first out after a big wind, scuffling for a gleam of treasure in the grass.

In October last year among the blasted trees in Richmond Park, one or two branches were sporting spring candles, a desperate measure against the ravages of the leaf miner moth. However devastating it looks, apparently it's not fatal. But another rapidly spreading blight of chestnuts can be.

I had thought of ending this post with some links. But let them just be chestnuts for now.

La Vie Moderne

When I first visited rural southern France in the early 70s, some farmers were still ploughing with oxen. Even now, you can find old ox-ploughs rusting under a hedge – where there are still hedges. My parents have lived there nearly 30 years, and during that time we have seen farmers retire, their children move away, cattle sold, vineyards grubbed up, fields amalgamated, and the growth of tourism.

In La Vie Moderne photojournalist Raymond Depardon records the life of farmers in the Cévennes. It is part of an ongoing project dear to his heart. As a farmer's son, he has a great sympathy for them, and they open up to him as best they can, though it’s clear some of them are not completely at ease with the camera. The interiors are so familiar: the solemn pendule in the background, the open fire, the long kitchen table with the oilcloth, the plate of vanilla flavoured biscuits, the scuffed tin of sugarcubes pushed towards the visitor for the bitter coffee. You have to keep them in a tin because of mice.

The landscape is achingly beautiful. To strains of Fauré, the camera tracks up and down narrow country lanes, dives into valleys, past snowbound forests and shuttered houses, halts at a barbed wire gate. The people who scrape a living from the mountainside are dying out. Villages are ghosts of themselves. It’s heartbreaking to hear the stories, to contemplate the passing of a whole way of life, something which for generations had seemed so permanent. The way of life was backbreaking and brought little reward. Young people these days demand more. It is the loss of a culture. The loss of the language (Occitan) began even earlier.

Even here they now use tractors. Little of the old soundscape remains now but the bells on the brebis as they scramble down over the rocks to their barn for the night.

The film makes no argument beyond presenting a few farmers and their families to talk about the hardships of their existence, their hopes and fears for the future. The first family consisted of two elderly bachelor brothers and their nephew, who had got himself a wife from up North via a lonely hearts ad. He seemed well pleased with life, apparently oblivious to the jealousy and pain occasioned by the introduction of his new family - a wife and her daughter, people from elsewhere, who didn't understand the district, or farming, and showed insufficient deference to their elders.

One of the most poignant was a man who lived alone in a state of some neglect. His hair was long and matted, and he chainsmoked. For the entire session, he was glued to his ancient television watching the funeral mass for Abbé Pierre (founder of Emmaus). Without taking his eyes off the screen, he answered the questions almost monosyllabically:
- Are you a Catholic?
- No.
- Were you baptised a Catholic?
- No. I’m Protestant.
- Do you go to church?
- No.
And so on. I found all this disconcerting. The television was clearly his constant companion, and on this occasion enabled him to share in a national day of mourning. It seemed rather rude to persist in questioning when the interviewer had dropped in unannounced on this particular day. For all his sensitivity elsewhere, Depardon seemed curiously unalert in this instance - except that it made a telling piece of film, albeit partly at his own expense.

Although the film has received rave notices, it is not an obvious hit. There is little pacing, no polemic. There are odd flashes of wit but nothing to stop the viewer from nodding off for a minute or two. The voice of the interviewer slows things down, keeping a sense of distance between audience and subject.

I never saw any of those programmes about Hannah Hauxwell, but suspect that focusing on one family in the Cévennes might have made more engaging viewing than La Vie Moderne in its dutiful progress round the valleys. But Depardon’s aim is to be more faithfully representative of the different types of farmer and family set-ups. He is more of a collector than a specialist. Nor is this a visual Akenfield. We are so used to documentaries which edit out the questions, giving the impression that the participants are speaking freely for themselves, that the questioning, with all the rephrasings, repetitions – one of the participants was pretty deaf – and awkward silences, feels rough-hewn. Perhaps the documentary maker who is also a photojournalist wishes to display more regard for the “truth” of the present moment, even if that includes the non-answer and considerable longueurs. Why not say what happened? Yet he doesn't hesitate to stage a shot, to position the camera in the best place - the far side of a cow who is crumpled on the floor with mastitis, her grieving owner beyond... And heaven knows what went on the cutting room floor. As a photographer, he'd be used to culling the one image out of a thousand. Perhaps it's a category error to want something more rigorous from a documentary too.

However, that's a personal gripe that no-one else seems to share. And this is without question a valuable record of the remnants of a community that will have disappeared the way of the ox-plough within a generation.

O'Ryan's Belt

That's four pubs down, three to go. We lost one in the last credit crunch in the early nineties, and three in the past six months. We have also lost in the past six months: two freesheets, an estate agent, a shop selling nursery goods, a shop selling dresses sizes 16+, a shop selling sports gear, and our independent bookshop. This last was an amazing place in its heyday - they would order anything for you, often going to a great deal of trouble to track it down, with most things being available the next day. And we had poetry readings. It was tiny, and there were only about 3 stools available, so it was très intime. The owner had some kind of direct line to OUP in the good old days when they published poetry. So we had visits from Anne Stevenson, Michael Donaghy, Peter Porter, Stephen Romer, Katherine Porteous (who had only just had her first collection out) and, anomalously, Kevin Crossley-Holland.

The reading I remember best - it must have been at least 15 years ago now - was Michael Donaghy's. It was the first time I'd heard him, and he was witty and wild. Anyone who's ever heard him will know how privileged we were. He is the measure of performance.

And after many draughts of white wine from a plastic cup, he took out his tin whistle. That is what it should be like - conviviality, poetry and music.

Beheaded

I return to the village after a few days' absence to find another pub boarded up. I say "boarded up" but like the other pub in the village that went dry overnight, this one has perforated metal sheets nailed to window- and door-frame. Everything bears the signs of hasty departure: a pile of beer kegs in the yard, picnic tables stacked at the far end of the carpark. Hefty concrete blocks dumped inside the security fencing deter any ramraider or passing caravans. They boast the legend "BLOCK AID". Does anyone in this business have a gram of compassion?

It's one of the village's signature buildings: half-timbered with a jetty storey at head-bashing height. In fact, one corner has been bashed by something more substantial than a head, and has remained unrepaired since the tenant before last, along with various scabs of plaster, which have fallen off over the years. The Queen's Head sign looks rather better for her veil of green lichen.

So who is the queen? Anne Boleyn? Lady Jane Grey? Or Mary I? I waste time trying to find out. An entry in Wikipedia asserts (citation needed) that all pubs in the village are owned and run by drug dealers. I wouldn't know, I never go to village pubs.

Update
Of course, if I'd bothered to look up, I'd have seen that whoever secured the pub with its grilles and fencing had also taken a Kärcher to the sign and jetted off the accumulation of moss to reveal the necklace and the wobbly legend Lady Jane Grey.

Update 2 And on the other side of the sign is Mary I. The sign fixed to the gable end is of yet another queen. OH says it should be "Queens' Head" and there ensues an unseemly battle about grammar. I win, but the pub is still shut.

And the first shall be last

Just one of the brief essays on underside of Vulcan fuselage.

moving on

The secondhand bookshop on Bridge Street is closing down. I'd popped in there in between chores, to find most shelves completely bare, and the floor covered with cardboard boxes. There were a few expensive old travel books left to pack. For a moment, I lingered over some Victorian travels in China, with engravings - something I didn't need, just covet...

All the poetry had vanished. Just wooden racks where it had been: startlingly clean and bright, simple pitch pine, never expecting to see the light of day.

I've bought so many books there over the years, and been tempted by many times that number. 30 years, they've been there, the proprietor told me, and now they were returning to their origins, going back on the road while they were still fit enough to enjoy it.

Oh, on the road, and enjoying it!

For a moment there, it sounded romantic. But think of it - the draughty church halls, the muddy tents, the packing and unpacking, the awful b&bs.

And meanwhile, the naked shelves, the cardboard boxes. The dither over how to pack the last few, the precious ones. What's it going to be? Another café, another outlet for chichi clothes.

Another piece of mental furniture shifted out with the trash by economic forces.

The Listener

In Cambridge the other day, I succumbed to an impulse purchase in Oxfam: The Music of What Happens: Poems from The Listener 1965 - 1980 (BBC, 1981). Its 140+ pages are crammed with familiar poems, first published in The Listener. Younger readers might not know that this magazine was a creature of the BBC, and its demise is still mourned. (Budgets, opportunity costs, you know.) It has an astonishing list of contents:

Robert Graves (b.1895)
£.s.d.
Frances Bellerby (1899-1975)
Bereft Child's First Night
Stevie Smith (1902-1975)
The Galloping Cat
Friends of the River Trent
Valuable
C.Day Lewis (1904-1972)
Ballintubbert House, Co. Laois
Geoffrey Grigson (b.1905)
Difficult Season
John Betjeman (b.1906)
A Surrey Crematorium
W. H. Auden 1907-1973)
Lullaby
Nocturne
Stephen Spender (b. 1909)
V. W., 1941
W. R. Rodgers (1909-1969)
Home Thoughts from Abroad
Norman McCaig (b.1910)
Gulls on a Hill Loch
Susanne Knowles (b. 1911)
Diptych: An Annunciation
Roy Fuller (b.1912)
An English Summer
George Barker (b. 1913)
I Met with Napper Tandy
In Memory of Robert MacBryde
Henry Reed (b. 1914)
Returning of Issue
Four People
Gavin Ewart (b. 1916)
2001 - The Tennyson/Hardy Poem
Charles Causley (b. 1917)
Ten Types of Hospital Visitor
Robert Conquest (b.1917)
747 (London - Chicago)
To be a Pilgrim
Robert Lowell (1917-1977)
In Dreams Begin Responsibilities
Iris Murdoch (b. 1919)
Motorist and Dead Bird
P. N. Furbank (b. 1920)
Sundays
D. J. Enright (b. 1920)
The Accents of Brecht
Where I Am
Guest
Edwin Morgan (b. 1920)
A Too Hot Summer
Philip Larkin (b.1922)
Cut Grass
How Distant
The Explosion
The Old Fools
Donald Davie (b. 1922)
Essences
Intervals in a Busy Life
Seeing Her Leave
Kingsley Amis (b. 1922)
Coming of Age
Louis Simpson (b. 1923)
Baruch
Before the Poetry Reading
Chocolates
David Holbrook (b. 1923)
Student Daughter Home for the Weekend
Patricia Beer
Arms
The Estuary
The Eyes of the World
James Berry (b. 1924)
cousin Ralph
Charles Tomlinson (b. 1927)
Tarquinia
Thom Gunn (b. 1929)
Grasses
Expression
The Exercise
Peter Porter (b. 1929)
The Descent into Avernus
Ted Hughes (b. 1930)
A March Calf
Swifts
Crow's First Lesson
Crow's Last Stand
George MacBeth (b. 1932)
The Shell
Eric Milward (b. 1935)
The Girl's Confession
John Fuller (b. 1937)
Aberporth
Dom Moraes (b. 1938)
Speech in the Desert
Ian Hamilton (b. 1938)
Last Waltz
Peter Dale (b. 1938)
Hawk
Seamus Heaney (b. 1939)
First Calf
Limbo
Punishment
Song
Derek Mahon (b. 1941)
A Disused Shed in County Wexford
Veronica Horwell (b. 1948)
Death of a Villager 1200-1740
George Szirtes (b. 1948)
At the Dressing-Table Mirror
Christopher Reid (b. 1949)
We're All in Business by Ourselves
James Fenton (b. 1949)
South Parks Road
Patrick Williams (b. 1950)
Trails
Paul Muldoon
The Cure for Warts
Derryscollop in February
Andrew Motion (b.1952)
The Colour Works

I find this spooky for all sorts of reasons: the fact that so many of them are now dead, the way so many of these poems are now part of the literary landscape, the way some of our most illustrious contemporaries are nudging their way in towards the end, and how few unfamiliar names there are. This isn't just co-incidence: The Listener was one of the places to be published if you wanted to be taken seriously - as a mainstream poet, at any rate. And spooky because when the book was published, the magazine hadn't started the downward spiral that began when the suits started asking the BBC why it was running a literary magazine instead of concentrating on ratings. 1981 still feels like the recent past. But it was a different world.

The editor, Derwent May, was poetry editor of The Listener during 1965-1980. He says the contents represent one in ten of the poems published in the magazine during that period, out of an estimated 20,000 submissions, 'all of which I have looked at, with reactions ranging from delight to outrage.' Some were solicited:

Another morning, Philip Larkin told me on the phone that he hadn't written a poem for over a year; three days later, one of his most beautiful poems arrived for me in the post. Did my phone call, I wondered, precipitate in some strange way the writing of the poem?

You bet.

It's interesting to speculate how many submissions The Listener would get if it were still publishing. Fiona Sampson recently told Woman's Hour that Poetry Review gets more than 60,000 poems a year - all of which she reads, no doubt with similar reactions to May's. If she allows herself weekends off and a bit of holiday, that's an average of over 200 a day. A good many may warrant no more than a glance, but even so, it must take a strong constitution.

I've only dipped in so far, but will read and may report further. Oh, and I had a look on abebooks.com. If your taste runs to historical documents, this Listener collection can be picked up very cheaply.