GONE TO THE PANTO
by
Walter Munns
UPDATING:
THE CHRISTMAS SOCIAL
The annual Christmas Social brings to mind cold turkey, tasteless stuffing, over cooked vegetables, lumpy cold gravy, paper tablecloths, raffle tickets, chairs and tables scraping across the floor, a badly decorated Christmas tree - most likely a fake one, and a group of old dears going on about their ills during the past year! Isn’t that unkind? But you must agree it is very true. I forgot to mention the shades of hair colours from bright yellow, to light blue, to a pinky white, and the always dark red hair-do that no one had the nerve to tell Hilda how bad it looks! Then there’s the music. The last Christmas Dinner & Dance Social I went to, some sweet old lady plonked out some old wartime tunes on an upright piano that really belonged in a NAAFI canteen. The disc jockey who followed the singalong thought we were all deaf and he was the King of Pop playing in front of an audience in their teans and jeans, not ours, who were in their old clothes and support hose!
But dear Charlotte insisted last Christmas [2004] that I attend the Christmas Social in nearby Wiveliscombe put on by a W.I. group she belongs to called ‘The Women of The Vale, ‘ being the Vale of Taunton Deane, (not Nuns!) who do good things for the local ‘aged and sick’ - as she puts it. How do I dress I asked and she advised a dark suit and tie would suffice, she following that up by asking me if I could sell a few tickets at the bar. Of course I replied with gusto, my thoughts being that if I got really bored I could always get drunk!
Came the fateful night. The gathering of the ladies with walkers and bent-over husbands arrived in various taxis and the cars of friends and family with cries from the young drivers saying, ‘will you be warm enough Gran?’ I assisted the arriving ladies (being about 2 to 1 over men) to their long communal tables trying as best I could to sit them near someone they liked if not knew. Soon everyone was seated and the MC, a ex-military type with a large row of medals called for grace to be said, and a toast to The Queen. A bevy of younger ladies then began the serving of dinner, which I was happy to say was piping hot, well cooked, and served very quickly. I heard Ethel say,’ but I don’t like brussels,’ with her friend replying, ‘well push them to the side of the plate.’
After a better than usual dinner a few speeches were made, mostly about upcoming events, along with a short list of those that had passed on in the past year. No one played the piano this year (hurrah!) with our disc jockey going straight into a few Christmas songs and carols followed by a motley number of tunes we oldies could all recognize. Twice he was told to ‘turn down the volume’ and twice he did. We might all be bordering on going deaf but Max Bygraves singing all his singalong songs only needs to be so loud.
The bar flourished. At £2 a drink we were doing very well. Not everyone was on hot milk and bread, with many saying the brandy was ‘needed on such a cold night.’ The scotch and gin moved well as did the vodka, and a local current craze we catered to being Italian Grappa. I danced with my lady, and a few other ladies. I sang along with Max, and I was quietly moved as we all sang ‘Silent Night’ with all the lights out except a few candles, and the lights on the tree. I just hope the upcoming Christmas Social this year [2005] is as good.
NOVEMBER ESSAY:
When the chill winds of winter blow hard across the moors and the leaves are stripped from the trees, there’s nothing more a person can do but sit himself or herself down in front of a large fireplace and burn some wood. I’m lucky. I have such a wonder. It sits gracefully resplendent on the west side wall in the front room, has a long mantlepiece at eye level, has a hearth that is dark stone surrounded by a low railed fireplace border. To the left is an old brass scuttle in which sits several logs, and to the right is a set of brass fireplace utensils that comprise poker, shovel, and brush. In the grate is a large iron rack to place logs on, with a small hotplate pot holder to the right, and a hook in the upper proscenium arch of the fireplace once used to hang a black pot of perpetual stew!
All a person requires to bring this magnificent wonder to life is some good dry wood, which sadly is not easy to acquire and very seldom free. If one has to pay for such pleasures then it is best to seek out the best areas where good wood is available and at a reasonable price. With so much building going on everywhere it is common to see a clearing here and there where great tree trunks lie ready for the lorry to haul them away to a saw mill. Driving around in October I did see several such clearings and inquired at two, only to be told the ‘wood’ had all been sold and would be collected very shortly.
Bundles of wood, about five small split pieces, can be bought at petrol stations of village shops but the price they ask for these range from the incredible to the ridiculous. I just had to find a local farmer who was in the process of clearing a small part of his wooded property and make him an offer. My needs would only run to about a cord (8’x4’x4’) cut into appropriate pieces for which I’m sure an offer of £50 would not go unwelcome. All I needed was a small trailer I could hook on the old station wagon to haul the wood home.
My dreams were soon answered. Along by Wheddon Cross just east of Exmoor I spied a farmer clearing some wooded land. The thick grey smoke that curled upwards from a fire of branches and twigs caught my eye, so I drove over and called out to him across a chest high slate wall. ‘Well depends,’ he says in that Devonshire accent you’d associate with old Uncle Tom Cobley, ‘how much you be willing to pay.’ I said a cord of cut wood would be worth to me £50. ‘Fifty pound you say,’ says he thinking hard. ‘But I’ll not deliver it you mind.’ We struck a deal and he set about sawing the wood into nice round sections that I would of course have to split. It was birch which burns quickly but brightly. It would have to do.
Later that afternoon I had rented a ‘tow-all’ trailer and loaded up the wood. It was a generous cord indeed. I gave him the £50, he spitting on his hand as he took it. At home I put it all in the shed to keep dry and split a few cuts to place on the fire right away. There’s something about getting wood, splitting it, then watching it burn. It takes us back I think to when we lived in caves and the fire was the centrepiece of life. As darkness fell the fireplace crackled softly and the flames threw shadows across the walls. It had been a good day.
GONE TO KINGSBRIDGE
You probably don’t know much about Kingsbridge. It’s a small village below the Brendon Hills in a most beautiful part of Somerset that still remains to this day untouched by the steady encroachment of modern life. It is in the Forest of Brendon where old stretches of evergreens, beeches, ash and elm give way to a peak of hills none much higher than a thousand feet. It’s in Kingsbridge that an old friend of mine lives by the name of John Harlow. John is in his late eighties, and every now and then I get a short letter from his local in-home help, a charming lady by the name of Belle, who advises me of his welfare. John is not worked up much by visitors and prefers to keep his own counsel, as he terms it. The last letter I received from Belle advised me that John is getting close to having to see his days out in a seniors home, and it would help her if I visited him and helped John come to that conclusion.
My decision to go and visit John was not so much to help him decide to leave his home but more in line with finding ways to help him stay there. I didn’t tell Belle that, saying only I’d come by to visit John the following sunday. A postcard was sent to John advising him I was ‘passing by on sunday’ (a little fib) and I’ll stop in for a cup of tea. I hadn’t visited John in over four years mainly because I’m aware he has become more of a recluse as the years go by and visits tend to be silent affairs where conversation is totally one way. I knew of his welfare, thanks to the letters from Belle, and therefore gave him little concern. But moving him out, if there’s an ounce of life left in him, would not be my idea of seeing him better off. I had to see for myself.
Came the sunday I gathered a few jars of Charlotte’s best preserves and made my way to John’s charming little cottage on the outskirts of Kingsbridge. It was a sunny day, quite warm for September but I still noticed a curl of grey smoke coming from the chimney. John had a fire going and he was probably sat around it clothed in sweaters and cardigans. I knocked the door. A voice called out, ‘come in.’ John was as I expected in his old armchair dressed upto his ears in woolly clothes in front of a small wood fire. He didn’t get up, saying I should go in the kitchen and make a pot of tea.
We sat by the fire, which was most comforting, even though the weather outside was pleasantly warm. We drank our tea and as usual I did all the talking. Looking around I could see the place is well cared for; thanks to Belle, but I also saw that the kitchen was seldom used and there was little food in cupboards or in the refrigerator. John was not functioning well. His countenance was one of drooped head, stiff arms and legs, and he appeared to be continually sniffing and wiping his nose. He had a small sore on his right cheekbone that he seems to have not taken care of. I asked him point blank if he’d not be better off in a seniors home. He did not reply. I asked him again. He whispered, ‘just like Belle, trying to get me into a home.’ It’ll be for your own good I told him, reminding him he can hardly look after himself anymore. He said nothing. I helped him to the toilet and brought him back to his armchair. He cannot even walk properly.
The following day I called Belle and told her I was convinced he needs to be in a home as soon as possible. She said she’d deal with it all and get back to me. I felt awful.
GONE ON A BANK HOLIDAY. (September essay)
Bank holidays, when you’re old, retired, and living each day as if it were in slow motion, are indeed superfluous to ones requirements. In fact all holidays are. At my age, being well past my sell-by-date, a day off here and there is nothing new. Every day is a day off. In fact it’s hard to fill each day with meaningful activity. Yet one must, or you seize up, you become chair-bound, start believing you have every ache and pain under the sun, and become a regular in the doctor’s office and keep asking the receptionist why doesn’t she get a few more up-to-date Reader’s Digests!
This last monday is the final bank holiday of the year, and living as I do in supreme Somerset I expect to witness the passing of endless lines of cars on their way to the sea. They come hurtling down the M5 from as far away as Birmingham and by mid morning they’re streaming through Bridgwater heading west past the Quantock and Brendon Hills to the north Somerset coast. The A39 comes close to where I live so I’m privy to these happy folks who have spent hours on the roads just to get within a stones throw of where I live. They are not a nuisance to me as they seem to be to others, after all they’re only here for the day, and when this last weekend was nothing short of a heatwave it is so good to see so many young families out to enjoy themselves. The exodus to the coast is an old English tradition, and if you sit back and just watch these folks enjoy themselves it can make your day a lot better than the average one.
From Watchet, along the coast by Blue Anchor Bay, the cars and vans park, and out comes the modern picnic baskets, all insulated against the heat and full to the brim with everything from cold chicken, salads, cold drinks, and assorted fruit. Sure beats the boiled bacon sandwiches of our day that were washed down with warm lemonade! Many lock up their vehicles, don a backpack, put on a hat, and head out along the Southwest Coast Path, clearly marked and designated for walkers and hikers. This path takes you along the top of the high Porlock Hills and the view out across the sea as you walk along is magnificent. I usually set out myself and mingle with these vacationing folks, but this bank holiday weekend I chose to just sit and watch, the weather being that wonderful.
Many have been camped out in their tow-along caravans and mini recreational vehicles since saturday morning. From Watchet to Ilfracombe there are scores of caravan and camping sites, most with their own shops that sell everything from provisions to souvenirs. The townsfolk in the bigger resorts do a roaring trade in seaside gifts, ice cream, and fish and chips. Although a family likes to get away from the confines of the big inner-cities they still like to tour the local High streets buying up all sorts of local things. The pubs overflow with a lot of midlanders putting on their best Somerset accent by ordering ‘a pint of ya best zider my dear,’ washed down with a plate of cockles or a local mincemeat pie.
Come late monday afternoon the roads get busier, as the sun-burned, rosey faced holiday makers head home. A slower pace now. Lots of waves as they pass by. And all the hustle and bustle to get here has been replaced by the relaxed pace a few good days will earn you - on your Bank holiday.
AUGUST ESSAY:
I was planning to go upto London sometime in July to visit a few book stores and some specialty food stores. I always like to take a tour of Harrods and walk around Covent Garden then over to the London Transport Museum. These were all on my list of things to do in London. After the bombs on July 7th I became a little apprehensive but set my plans out all the same to go up on thursday July 21st, the day of the second wave of bombing. Charlotte had called me on the wednesday and said she was planning to go up to London on monday July 25th and would I care to join her. So, one way or the other I had managed to avoid the second wave and I now had to await until the monday hoping there would be no more bombs.
Charlotte had changed her mind, saying she’d wait ‘until things settle down.’ But I decided I had to go. I was spared the second wave and if there is a third wave then it’s my bad luck. I also wanted to see how London was coping, how the people who work and live there are dealing with the constant fears of huge explosions. I got the train upto Paddington on a most beautiful day (it always helps any situation if the weather is good) and mingled with the crowds on the platform in their usual rush and hurry. I love big stations. Loud announcements you can hardly hear, honking taxis, and big rumbling engines of the diesel-engined trains. The high station roofs aid the magnification of sound, and on this hot, clear, midsummers day London smelt of fumes, and dust, and cooking, and of all things different to dear old Somerset. I set out on foot so that I could cast an inquisitive eye on my fellow humans.
The first thing one notices is there is nothing new to notice. All about me seemed as normal as London on any work day. There were of course lots of tourists, in coaches, with cameras, all brightly dressed, but outside of that, all seemed very normal. I walked down the Edgware Road to Marble Arch and along Park Lane with Hyde Park on my right. It was packed. People, cameras, laughing, eating lunches (it was around noon) and traffic everywhere. I took off up Upper Grosvenor Street to bypass the American Embassy and there was the eagle of freedom with a Union flag alongside the Stars & Stripes. It’s good to have powerful friends!
Crossing Regent Street I continued into the Soho district looking for a light lunch. All the pubs had their doors wide open, and in passing I noticed a cool corner in a wood paneled older pub, so I went in and parked myself down. Musty beer smells and happy voices. ‘Half of best Bitter please and a pork pie.’ ‘Salad with that?’ asked the young man. ‘Why not,’ I replied. There was a quiet unhurried peacefulness in that pub. No one talked of bombs or bombers. One of the barmen was obviously Indian or Arabic, and two men standing by the bar were also in that category. London is, as ever, a place where all nations meet.
A slow walk down to Covent Garden brought me to the ‘Buskers.’ I love watching these jugglers, musicians, and assorted clowns and dress up artists. One took on the dress of a Disney-like Arab, holding a big black ball with a wick on the top. ‘Hisssss,’ he went as he walked round the crowd. Then he clapped the ball between his hands, and it went off with a bang. Most of us jumped. Then we all laughed. We’re British remember
JULY ESSAY:
GONE TO POMPEY
by
Walter Munns
Walter is a retired English gentleman living in Somerset. Each month he travels to some interesting part of England and tells us all about it.
Where else would I go this summer? There is only one place a proud Englishman would go and that is to Portsmouth to watch the celebrations in honour of the Battle of Trafalgar that took place exactly 200 years ago. It was a battle to end all battles, for the ships and men of that era. Out-numbered and out-gunned and a long way from home Lord Nelson out-fought a larger force, in their own waters.
Aboard his flagship, HMS Victory, Lord Nelson grouped his 27 ships off the Cape of Trafalgar and awaited the Franco-Spanish fleet of 33 ships under the command of the French Admiral, Villeneuve. It was at this time Lord Nelson sent out his famous signal to all his ships: ‘England expects that every man will do his duty.’ The famous Admiral Collingwood was Lord Nelson's right hand man in this battle, and with his own 100 gun ship, HMS Royal Sovereign, he took on the first encounter with the Spanish. He opened fire on the Spanish flagship, Santa Anna, and before any shot was returned he almost sent her to the bottom, with just one volley. Quickly Lord Nelson bore down on the French flagship, Bucentaure, putting it out of action, and then engaged the Redoubtable. All this took place from the deck of HMS Victory, a ship you can still visit in Portsmouth harbour.
As the engagement between the Victory and the Redoubtable continued a sniper took aim at Lord Nelson from the rigging of the Redoubtable and put a bullet through Lord Nelson’s lung. Lord Nelson hung on to life below decks for three hours, receiving reports of the battle and how the French lost eight ships and the Spanish lost nine, without one single loss to the British fleet. At 4.30 pm that day, below decks, surrounded by the men who made the British Royal Navy the proudest and the very best sea going power the world had ever seen, Lord Nelson gave up his last breath. A strong story persists that he said, ‘kiss me Hardy’ to one of his Lieutenants, but records do not prove this. What is known is that Lord Nelson, struggling to speak, was seen to whisper some final words into the ear of Hardy, and as he died the officer took the face of Lord Nelson to his own face, and was seen to hug him closely, as the tears ran down down his face.
The celebrations of this great moment in our great history in dear old Portsmouth, on Tuesday June 28th, 2005, were absolutely magnificent. I’m told 167 ships from 53 countries around the world attended, including the French nuclear-powered 'Charles de Gaulle,' a gesture not gone unnoticed in todays touchy tit-for-tat world. And to be fair there was no playing of Rule Britannia, and the two teams that acted out a magnificent 10,000 canon fireworks display to commemorate the battle were refered to as the ‘red’ team and the ‘blue’ team! Every nation was there from the Japanese Navy, to the Indian, Chinese, Pakistan, with the USA sending the Carrier 'USS Saipan.' 10,400 other smaller ships filled the harbour and out-lying coast areas with a large number of tall ships also in attendance.
But wait - there is more! On October 21st, the actual date of the battle, a more British and less international commemoration will take place, with most of it going on in and around HMS Victory. Try and be there - after all - England expects.....you know the rest!
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