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Posts tagged ‘Jerome K Jerome’

But are not all things beautiful?

I have a theory that we are each of us born an age which is our default real age  our whole lives through.  For example, I have known babies and toddlers like tiny old men and women and equally I have known consenting adults of several decades who are consistent in their infancy.   My age, I am sure you are fascinated to know, is six.

At six years old I was taken on my first skiing holiday.  We travelled on what used to be called ‘The Boat Train’ from London Victoria leaving at night, to Dover whence we boarded a ferry and then another train to take us across Europe.

I don’t remember much about the first train, I do remember my mother getting increasingly taut when my father refused to stop and ask directions despite having no clue where on earth he was going in a vast after dark London.  I now know this is a cliché of male-female behavior but at six years old I merely thought it hugely entertaining that my mother was making hissing noises like a deflating bike tyre and gradually turning purple under her (entirely natural if you please) platinum blonde coiffeur,  my father seemingly oblivious (which remained his constant default) to the combustable woman beside him.  I suppose he must have found the station and parked the car and we must have taken the train to Dover but I don’t remember it at all.  I remember a dead dog floating in the dock at Calais the following morning which instilled an unfair prejudice to the place that lasted over thirty years until I visited on a whim and found it to be not unpleasant at all.

We were greeted by our ‘courier‘ who was Austrian and called Ernst, had blonde hair, was very kind and thoughtful and whom I liked tremendously – in fact, if I close my eyes, I can still see him in his bright blue turtle neck which matched his eyes and jeans a shade or three darker.  I imagine he was in his just-crowned twenties and so, to a six year old with an array of older male cousins, he fit nicely into a niche that I was comfortable with. For reasons I cannot discern I remained convinced that he was Norwegian for many years until, in my forties trotting out a memory or asking a vital and, til then dorment question or idly wondering if Ernst would still be waiting for me, I included this erroneous fact in my chatter and Mother corrected me.  I admit to feeling momentarily crushed. I haven’t any idea why I thought he was Norwegian – I’m not even sure I really knew where Norway is.  But he was so nice and smiling and friendly and he wore a large shiny badge loudly declaring the firm he worked for, all beguiling features to a six year old girl positively beyond effervescent with excitement.  He ushered us onto the train and into our compartment which had, joy of joys, ‘couchettes’.  This meant that at night we could turn the deep leather bench seats into bunk beds.  Imagine the absolute heaven of that!  I fancy we must also have slept on the ferry but sadly the shocking incident of the deceased dog at dawn eclipsed all else and I have no recollection at all of a cabin.  After some while there was a mighty wheezing and blowing and the noise of metal being tapped upon metal and a scrunch and a lurch and off we groaned gradually, gradually gaining momentum.  I can still remember the sound – not so much the rhythmic slide and clatter of the wheels on the rails but the chuff-puffing-puff-chuffing.  Because we were being pulled by none other than a steam train.

I had only ever been conscious of one steam locomotive before (this was 1967) and that time we had been standing still and chill on the platform of our village railway station, my father, older brother, granny and I, solemly waiting with a crowd of others for Winston Churchill to pass on his final journey to burial after his funeral in London.  He had died the day before my younger brother was born.  I was four and even at that age I understood that this was momentous and I remember peeping through the steam and knowing the train was carrying a most important cargo and that it was extremely sad.  Of course in my reality I was a very grown up six rather than the four any notional calender assumed me to be, which may account for this mature attitude to treating things with respectful gravity and deference.

This steam train, though had my now two year old brother aboard and he was extremely over-excited and equally over-tired.  We were subjected to him repetitiously singing ‘I Did It My Way’ (not the whole song, just that line) having been so moved by Frank Sinatra,  with whom my mother was smitten, singing on the television, at yet another final concert that wasn’t, when we were waiting in the night to get in the car and set off on our tremendous adventure.  Bedtime at that age was six o’clock, except on Tuesday’s when I was allowed to watch ‘Bewitched’  meaning I retired at seven,  so the fact that we were catching a night train in London meant we were up giddyingly late.

The journey passed as journeys do with cards and colouring and playing games that involved looking out of the window and spotting things to fit whatever theme my mother had invented in her desperation to keep us amused.  Far too often, the bumptious brat would chime up with another chirpy chorus of ‘I Did It My Way’.  At regular intervals, possibly to try and stem this vocal flow, Ernst would appear with refreshments in boxes or on trays depending on whether it was a cold or a hot repast.  Having never eaten anything from a box before it was beyond exotic and things like cold chicken and salad took on a whole new allure that was positively glamourous to a six-year old.  And those little packets of salt and pepper?  Thrilling! I didn’t actually use them, you understand and I think I may have been thirty-five before I finally conceded that my little collection of identical squares was serving no useful purpose in my life. When they gave us warm croissants and other viennoisserie for breakfast a life-long and unquenchable obsession with pâtisserie was born.

Whenever the train stopped we were allowed to get off and walk around.  I have no idea now where we stopped but it was quite often and it was quite fascinating … up until then I really had no notion that the French Miss Scrivener taught us at school was actually relevant, that people really spoke it.  I had no idea that grown men might wear berets just like the one I had to wear to school. And all the while there was Ernst elegantly and seamlessly looking after us, making sure my nine-year old big brother who preferred not to be seen anywhere near his siblings  didn’t wander off too far and that we were all back safely on the train in good time for the whistle to blow.  I was certainly in love with him and convinced we would get married when I grew up by the time we got to what I imagine may have been Strasbourg.  When it was night we slept, or tried to, with the increasingly bawdy toddler still shouting ‘I did it my way’ every time morpheous silently, smoothly snuck in with her soft arms ready for the fall.  I decided that I positively did hate him and made a mental note to ask Daddy if it honestly was too late to send him back.

Eventually after what seemed like a month but was probably a day and a half, we reached Innsbruck where we had a break of some while before boarding our onward train.  Looking back  from the lofty position of having mothered several children, I imagine our mama must have been sleep-deprived and virtually desiccated by this point.  Therefore, when she rattled into the cafeteria to extricate my father and I, he in the process of buying my first ever bar of Ritter Chocolate, a hallowed moment to be savoured, not interrupted, it is fair to say that brittle would be the word that described her mood best.  She was shrill in her insistence that we were about to miss the train and dragging my older brother and carrying the tot she advanced purposefully towards it and, in fairness,  it did indeed appear to be revving up for an imminent departure.  My father didn’t question her (he knew his place) and we all boarded and sat neatly in rows. Even the blessèd bellowing boy was decorously calm and still.   As the platform official raised his flag and puffed his whistle-blowing cheeks in readiness for the off, all hell let loose and suddenly there was the heroic Ernst banging on the window with one hand and yanking at the carriage door with the other.  My mother stared at him glassily as though she had never seen him before in her life and my father didn’t notice at all.  But I did notice.  I noticed because, be reminded, this was my husband-to-be.   I tugged coats and bounced and squeaked and eventually my parents collectively engaged their brains and peered at the apperition now almost glued to the window.  He was mouthing something urgently.  Father stood and pulled down the little openy bit of the window through which, if tall enough, or lifted by someone who was, you could wave to your adoring public on the platform as you departed.  The now near hysterical Ernst managed to emit the word ‘Budapest’ before collapsing.  My father gathered us all and shoved us through the door that had dangled Ernst, calling on all his skill as a one-time rugby player of some talent, before it slammed shut behind us, the platform official looked at this disgraceful tangle of gaping fools in disgust and blew his whistle, dropped his flag and the train departed for Hungary.

The actual train was barely a train.  It was tiny and the seats were wooden slats but I was certain it had taken us to heaven.  So high above the world, so clear the air, so blue the sky, so diamond sparkling the snow.  Actually it took us up into the Tyrolienne Alps with which I fell in love as instantly and as deeply as I had with Ernst.  The difference was that Ernst, I am ashamed to say, would be replaced many times over as my one object of undying love,  but the mountains never will be.  And neither will Ritter chocolate which remains a guilty pleasure to this day.

The picture was taken at Les Lacs Robert in the  Alpes Belledonne, one of the three mountain ranges, two of them Alps, that surround Grenoble, where I live.  We enjoy walking up there.  The shot was taken in June.  Today being January it is thick with snow and peppered with skiers.   The Alps are relatively young mountains as you can tell from their sharp silouette, older mountains have been eroded more and are less craggy, more buxom in appearance.   It was the Weekly Photo Challenge labelled ‘Weathered’ that prompted me to post the picture.  The gallery is brimming with admirable entries, should you be minded to take a browse. 

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PS:  The title comes from Jerome K Jerome, he who is best known for his wonderful ‘Three Men In A Boat’.  This is taken from a short story, ‘The Passing Of The Third Floor Back’, a slightly strange and whimsy tale told with his usual acute eye for characterisation and wry humour.  I recommend it if you have an idle half hour – it isn’t arduous nor long.  In it, the main character, referred to throughout as ‘The Stranger’ says ‘Nothing, so it seems to me, is more beautiful than the love that has weathered the storms of life, the sweet tender blossom that flowers in the hearts of the young, that too is beautiful.  The love of the young for the young, that is the beginning of life.  But the love of the old for the old, that is the beginning of  – of things longer’.  Miss Devine responds ‘‘But are not all things beautiful?’  I find the observation of the stranger quite lovely and something one can only hope one is fortunate enough to attain.

To square the circle, when I saw that very first steam train taking the greatest of men to his final rest, I was on the station platform of the same village in which Jerome’s Three Men noted that ‘the reaches  woo one for a sunny sail or for a moonlight row, and the country round about is full of beauty’.  And there, I shall always be six.

Water water ….

….. everywhere said the poet and not a drop to drink.  That was the sea of course and the mariner (that ancient one, remember?) was further hindered by an albatross strung round his neck.  What has prompted me to write this post now is, of course, the flooding in the UK and actually in Northern France too though my English friends are probably less aware of the plight of the Breton than we in France are of that sinking feeling in the UK.  One thing I have learned here very quickly is how ludicrous the preconception the British have that the French don’t like the Brits or that they are partisan to the extent that they have no knowledge of life beyond the Atlantic, La Manche and the Med.

The sheer volume of water that is lying idle in the UK is quite breathtaking.  This is a clip sent to me by a friend whose son is at Radley College in Oxfordshire.  The Boathouse submerged: (http://www.radleyvideo.co.uk/clips11.html)

Flood The weather is a fascination for me more than the average Englishman which might indicate a minor obsession. Inevitable probably since I was brought up by a father whose quiet hobby was meteorology.  He kept charts for the entire time he lived in the house I was brought to as a tiny baby and raised in, it finally being sold when I was already in my 40s.  He watched the forecast for farmers and growers every Sunday and somehow the habit rubbed off on me – things evolve of course and my version is not one but four weather apps on my iPhone.  This winter I am accustomed to seeing rain cloud icons all over Northern Europe.  So there we have it – friends with water in gardens and worse, in their houses.  I’m not telling you anything the TV and radio and newspapers haven’t been shouting about since before Christmas.  But its got me thinking about my own relationship with water.

I was raised a mile from the Thames (in the village where J and his chums, not to mention the dog, tricked the boatman in Jerome K Jerome’s tale) and spent most of my life in various locations on his reaches – Oxford, London, villages in between.  The cheese-shop at Streatley was on-Thames.  My daughters spent their baby days and toddler-on-reins times walking the tow-path and feeding ducks.  When the youngest cheeselette was around two someone asked me to get into a rowing boat (a competitive one not a coracle) for the first time and being tall and strong and athletic (genetic fortune not anything I had ever worked at –  in fact being brushing 6′ tall I had always been self conscious) I was attractive to the club that was hosting the ‘fun’ regatta.  They suggested I give it a serious go.  I did and I ended up as an Olympic trialist 2 years later.  I have many memories of the insanity of that time – a single mother of four young daughters takes to the highest level the sport with the greatest ratio of training to competition whilst living on social security benefits.  Another time.  I will tell the story another time.

I don’t do well away from water.  I love the sea and rivers and lakes.  I love rain and I even respond quite well to a puddle.  Here I have them all.  Except the sea.

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Here I live next to La Tarentaine.  She flows into La Rhue – one of my walks is called Au Coin de La Rhue which is a lovely play on words – coin de la rue means at the corner of the street.  La Rhue in turn flows into La Dorgogne.  La Dordogne rises about 30 km from here at the feet of the massif de Sancy.  By the time it reaches Bort les Orgues (my nearest small town) she is already showing herself to have aspirations of greatness.  So many streams have flowed off the hills and into her and she is greedy for La Rhue who has already swallowed my Tarentaine.  That’s how rivers work.  The strong survive, the weaker serve.

It is a myth that all rivers flow to the sea.  Most do.  Some, though, flow to a lake and some actually just meander to nothing.  All flow downwards but there is no law about direction.  I love them all.  The babblers, the strong silent types.  All are beautiful.  All should command respect.  When I am walking with The Bean we cross many streams but I am cautious of her, small as she is, stoic and intrepid as she is – some are just a little too strong, particularly when the rain has fallen for a while or the snow has thawed, and if she got it wrong she would be swept away.  I sat once by the river at Wallingford as they dredged it for a teenager who had gleefully dived in and under and not resurfaced.  A couple of barmy hot sunny days before, out sculling, I had pleaded with he and his mates to respect the river.  When he came up his life had left him.  I will never forget the anguished cry of his mother cutting the air like the sharpest scalpel on the heart.

And there are lakes here.

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Formed from volcanic craters in the main but some the result of a barrage – a dam.  Hydro-electric power is vital to the grid in France.  And they have it right – in the UK we buy much of our power from France.  Water is a powerful force and it seems that water is running amok like a badly behaved toddler in the UK just now.  Perhaps the clever boffins should look at harnessing more of that bad behavior and not just for reservoirs but for its sheer energy.

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For me water has shaped my life.  When I walk, it is by water, through water and often with water hurling down on me from random clouds above. My sculling boat is still in the UK.  I miss that feeling, that weightless feeling and the sound as the blades slice into the water, the boat gliding forwards.  Actually, the reality is that often the boat is tipping from side to side, the blades enter the water unevenly and the whole damn thing is a mess.  Much like the relationship of man to water just now.  Untidy, unkempt and unfortunate.

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