Jun 30

The Day Before – A Breath of Fresh Eyre

Subaltern days

I attended a regimental dinner the other day, it was memorable on a number of counts. The first is that I was breathalised on the way home by a couple of smirking cops who saw an old geezer in a dinner jacket. I knew I had had nothing to drink but one always has a guilty feeling nonetheless and the fear that rather like the Scottish referendum, something might go wrong. .

Of course it is true that “the past is a foreign country and they do things differently there”. It is comforting that all the regimental traditions that must seem absurd to many of the young are still in place. It was good to see some people I have not seen for many yeays, a tad stooped and sprouting hearing aids, yet still more or less recognisable.
Looking back I served in Kenya in the army in the dying days of empire.
I recall well the totemic moment of the assassination of Jack Kennedy – all of those of a certain age will recall where you were at that moment, and where you were at Diana’s death too – and those were carefree days. I met Murray Naylor at the dinner, he was then the adjutant and in charge of discipline and later rose to the rank of general. I recall I was seeing him for disorderly conduct when the news of the death occurred.
I was serving in Kenya during “Uhuru”  the hand over of power from the U.K. to the new independent country.
The Duke of Edinburgh represented the queen at the handover ceremony.  Apparently at the key moment when the Union Jack was to be lowered and the new Kenyan flag was to be raised, the new flag stuck. The duke then told the new Kenyan president Jomo Kenyatta:
“It’s not too late to change your mind”
We are staying with Mary. A delightful widow who lives in a lovely house  on the edge of the lakes. She has just become a new church warden. She was hugely hospitable and kind to us. My knees and ankles are playing up slightly so I am having to reprove my theory that if you simply ignore mild discomfort and walk through it the pain will gently subside.

Changing Times
 
Today, the day before we set off on this walk, we visited William Wordsworth’s beautiful home in Ambleside. The poet’s letters with his crabbed writing are on display; he wrote much about walks, nature and country living. Life seemed more innocent then, with far less clutter and noise.
 
After experiencing the turbulence of France during the revolution, Wordsworth devoted his time to reading, tending his beautiful garden, talking and corresponding with his friends, and of course writing his immortal poems. There were no newspapers, emails, mobiles, television or radio; no cars or planes; and no advertising industry to persuade him to buy things he didn’t want with money he didn’t have to impress people he didn’t like. A trip to the local village was an adventure in itself. Wordsworth was absorbed in nature and he seemed content. Although he wasn’t a traditional Christian but a pantheist, everyone in those days had the basics of our Judeo/Christian inheritance settled deep in their DNA.
 
Judge Not!
Are we happier now we have swept moral teaching away from children as prejudiced rubbish? I doubt it. A couple of weeks ago, old friends told us at supper that their daughter was mother to three boys from two different fathers and married to neither.
 
My friend – Winchester, Trinity, Oxford and a retired banker – grunted darkly, “I really don’t like it, I have no idea what to say to her. But that’s the way it is these days. Of course times have changed, and I don’t want to be judgemental.”
 
Being judgemental is of course the great sin of our times. I made sympathetic noises, for what’s there to say? The implication is that living without rules is better than suffering the stuffy inhibitions that constrained the lives of previous generations. It’s a given today that people will be happier without moral teaching so we can invent our own rules as we go along. My friend’s story has become commonplace, but what’s to be done? And does it matter anyway?    
 
How we have changed. We visited a church earlier today – an inscription on the memorial read, “They paid the ultimate sacrifice”. Sacrifice – that seems a rare word these days. There are a great many such words that would have been daily currency to the likes of Wordsworth or those who fought during the First World War that now seem quaint and old-fashioned. They are the words that crop up in satirical TV shows like Blackadder – how about service, courage, selflessness, nobility, duty, virtue, chastity and modesty. If people didn’t always live up to these values, then at least everyone understood their importance as part of the very fabric of society. And when people sinned, at least they knew they were sinning.
 
A Game With No Rules
Is our ancient moral code nothing but a series of tedious rules promoted by old killjoys, designed to stamp on the fun and pleasure of being young? Can we live happily whilst abandoning the precious wisdom handed down from generation to generation? Can we live without these age-old teachings and not suffer dire consequences? What are we putting in their place? I’m not convinced that you can play football without rules for it sounds like total chaos to me, but what do I know?
 
So “moral teaching” does not seem to be taught much either in schools or at home. One consequence of this is the dismay and contempt of our neighbours from different cultures. Who can blame them for wanting to protect their young from some of the grosser manifestations of our permissive society? I recall Ghandi who, when asked what he thought of Western civilisation, retorted, “It would be nice.”
 
Veins Running Fire
I have been re-reading Charlotte Bronte’s classic Jane Eyre. Parts of it have leapt out at me. As is well known, Jane falls passionately in love with Mr Rochester. Then she learns he is married and that his mentally ill wife is living in the attic of his manor house. Mr Rochester urges Jane to become his mistress. She is poor and lonely while he is rich and attractive. His offer sets off a storm of passion and conflict in her heart. She desperately wants to comply:
 
“…soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who in the world cares for you? Or who will be injured by what you do?”
 
Then she identifies different rooms or faculties in her soul. There is reason and conscience, and there is feeling, and they all argue that she should do what Rochester asks. He is lonely and miserable and she could comfort him. He is rich and adores her. After a life of misery and hardship, surely this is her due?
 
But still she resists. “The more solitary, the more friendless… the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man.”
 
Then this is the bit that gets to me and it’s never detailed in the TV dramas or films. Jane ruminates thus:
 
“I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad – as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the time when there is no temptation; they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be… they have a worth – so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane – quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.”
 
Wow! Come on, silly old Jane Eyre! We’ve all been mad in our time, with our veins on fire… so why doesn’t she just give in to her feelings, hop into bed with Rochester and bam! We only live once, so why on earth not? Who would be harmed, or even know?
 
Today, in our “enlightened” times, Jane Eyre’s reasoning seems incomprehensible, a load of moralistic, ancient tosh! But is it? At least Jane Eyre had a choice. Christian teaching was part of her make-up. Charlotte Bronte’s father was a vicar, so Charlotte gave her heroine options: reasons to give in to Rochester and crystal-clear reasons why she should not. Jane made her choice.
 
Today’s young appear to know nothing of “preconceived opinions” or “foregone determinations” – it’s all about pleasing oneself. However, it seems to me that this so-called freedom limits choice. I reckon the young are far less free today than they were in Charlotte Bronte’s time.
 

Jun 29

Pre-Walk Check-Up

Never Too Young to Die

It all began after the last walk.

I decided it would be prudent to see my doctor before contemplating any further marathon treks, so I booked in for a check-up. I had spotted a few symptoms that I will not detail in a family commentary; suffice it to say, they were enough to set me worrying. A cheerful soul recently quipped, “You’re never too young to die.” I suppose that since a good deal of my time is now spent traipsing round funerals and memorial services, I can hardly say I hadn’t been warned…

Dr Death

I thought it would be wise to do some homework before my appointment, so I Googled some of my symptoms. Have you ever done this? It’s definitely not for the faint-hearted – anyone venturing down this path had better be sitting comfortably and braced for bad news!

I was profoundly shocked to discover things looked grave. All the signs pointed towards Tourette’s syndrome and Parkinson’s, and I was clearly in the early stages of prostate and bowel cancer. The beginnings of a brain tumour were evident and I became convinced I had recently suffered a mild stroke. Blindness was a looming possibility and it was only too obvious that I was trotting gently up the lower foothills of dementia.

I also noted that I had almost certainly suffered from tick bite fever and mild malaria in the past. In fact, for each illness studied, it was clear that I had either already had it or was about to get it: all bar the clap, that is. (Jane will be pleased to hear that). Incidentally, I have no idea why I have been spared this particular affliction – it seems less than complete and rather unfair somehow.

After I recovered my poise, I dusted down my will. Letters were written to loved ones and duly sent to my solicitor for despatch after my just-around-the corner-death. I then set about planning my funeral in some detail.

When I saw the doctor, I declaimed the bad news and offered myself at Barts Medical School as a sort of one-stop exhibit. (All students would have to do to get their degree is determine what illnesses and diseases I didn’t have.)

The doctor’s rubber gloves snapped ominously and there was a faint squelch of lubricant. Lying back, I tried to think of England as the examination got underway. Suffice to say, I was spared nothing. The doctor peered into my ears and eyes, and tapped my knees; I was commanded to balance on one leg then hold out my hands for inspection. After my heart and chest had been listened to, I was then asked to name members of the cabinet, recite the alphabet and whistle a tune. And I thought I was the one threatened with dementia…

The doctor’s face looked stern as he prepared to deliver his diagnosis.

“How long do I have?” I asked tremulously.

“At your age you should know better than to drink wine and slugs of whisky in the same evening,” he replied brusquely. “May I advise you, too, that if you choose to consume beetroot, you should be prepared for some unusual symptoms. All in all, though, you are amazingly fit for your age. In future, please refrain from researching illnesses and symptoms on your computer, and stop wasting my time. Next patient!”

Dear reader, there’s no getting away from it – it seems I am in rude health, and quite fit enough to face the challenge of another walk.

Out With the Old

I have purchased a new car and it’s been a dreadful mistake. It may sound foolish, but I miss the old one terribly. However, it had completed 180,000 miles and generally I do need to get to where I’m aiming for – and, of course, we need a reliable car for the walks.

I failed to see that the new car had such complicated controls though – I have no idea how to turn the heater on and off, or the side lights for that matter. These days, it seems that a degree in electronics would come in handy just to navigate around a car’s basic functions.

Worst of all, though, I didn’t notice that the car had tinted windows until it was too late. My children jeered. “It’s a drug dealer’s car,” they whooped. “How much for some weed?”

The producer of the Woodstock Passion Play is a leading undertaker. In fact, last year he was honoured with the “Undertaker of the Year” award (I know, it’s beyond parody). He swooped on me as I arrived for rehearsal. “Can we hire you and your car? I will have a child walk in front of you with a top hat and a silver stick. We’ll make a fortune!”

I do miss my old car.
 

Jun 26

Tom’s Walk Blog 2014: Ambleside to Oxford

Tom writes his blog at night with fat fingers on an iPad and it is then spell-checked and posted online each day. You will be able to read entries day-by-day as they are posted.

A fully edited and illustrated version will be printed and sent to all donors after the walk, so if you are a ZANE donor you should receive one towards the middle of September 2014.