Author Archives: Tim Lenton

I live a few yards from the river, so I’m tempted now and again to grab one of those “Flood” signs that litter the highways in random fashion and put it at the bottom of our road. It wouldn’t do any good, but then I have never come across a “Flood” sign where there actually is a flood, so I would be doing it out of compassion for the sign: at least at the bottom of our road it would be within sight of water. 

Happily, as I’m about 40 feet above the river, there isn’t much chance of my house being flooded unless the drains pack up, or a waterfall hurtles down out of the Old Library Wood. It never has, but you never know.

There is however a flood in Norwich as I write. It does not involve water: it is a flood of signs. Some people might say it was a flood of road works, and it would be hard to disagree. One leads to the other, of course, just as a warming of the atmosphere leads to an increase of carbon dioxide in it.

Road works are hard things to contend with unless you’re a cyclist, in which case everything will be made easy for you. But the signs erected by the authorities are aimed at drivers. 

They have a lovely, standard sign that says ROAD CLOSED AHEAD. What it hardly ever says is how far ahead, or whether it’s the road going straight ahead that’s shut, or the one going off to the left at the next junction. This leads to credibility problems, with some cynical car drivers proceeding until they actually reach the barrier across the road, and then going back, or trying a last-minute side road that turns out to be a cul de sac. 

Stupid? It would be, except that sometimes you can in fact get through, and maybe it’s not that road that’s shut anyway…

On the way back to Norwich on the A11 the other evening, we were diverted off the main road because they were about to do some pretty drastic work on it – involving a bridge, I believe. We followed the DIVERSION signs until they petered out and we found ourselves back on the A11 – going in the opposite direction. I still don’t know where we were supposed to go, but thanks to years of driving round Norfolk as part of my job I was able to undertake an innovative one-off diversion of my own and add only 20 minutes to my journey. 

But if you want to while away a summer afternoon, I suggest you walk round Norwich following the DIVERSION signs. I would be interested to know where you end up. Practically everywhere in the city is part of a diversion, and halfway through one diversion you often find yourself embroiled  in another one. They may or may not fit together.

A few days ago I couldn’t help noticing that as you came away from the rail station along Riverside there were two large signs warning ROAD CLOSED AHEAD and THORPE ROAD CLOSED. Since there was no right turn into Thorpe Road anyway, the sign was totally superfluous, not to say confusing.

But of course I’m being picky. Could I do better? Possibly. Some people say there are people in City Hall and County Hall whose main aim in life is to make life more difficult for motorists, but I couldn’t possibly comment.

So Bob Dylan is in his 80s. Bet he never thought that would happen, back when he was blowing’ in the winds of change during the fragile 1960s. Most people then were pessimistic about longevity, what with the threat of nuclear annihilation and the Cold War. “Hope I die before I get old,” as The Who put it in one of their less inspired moments.

I was there, in London during the Swinging Sixties, though I didn’t really notice. It all seemed pretty unremarkable to me, and I never thought those nuclear attacks would happen. I lived to start with in a bedsit in Stamford Hill, in a road that was predominately the home of Orthodox Jews. Not much swinging there. I had a Jewish doctor, who was great. You could see him face to face.

I did go to a few parties, but I don’t remember much about them. That may or may not be a bad sign. I was working five days a week and at university four evenings a week, which didn’t leave a lot of time for exploring inner space, with or without mushrooms.

It wasn’t as boring as it sounds, partly because London is never less than interesting, and I listened to Bob Dylan a lot. I don’t want to beat about the bush: in my opinion Dylan was a totally brilliant singer-songwriter, outstanding in a time of many talented songwriters and performers. Was? He still is, of course. I never expected that.

I bought his first record, Freewheelin’ (actually his second, but the first that was entirely self-composed) without ever having heard him, on the recommendation of a friend. At the time we were visiting Coventry, where I had lived a few years as a child, and I remember going back to the friend’s house where we were staying, taking the record up to the bedroom, where for some reason there was a portable record player, and putting it on. I had to be hauled down to supper. I was mesmerised. I couldn’t believe how good it was.

Up to then I had been a big fan of Buddy Holly, who really did die before he got old – or even middle-aged – and through no fault of his own. But Dylan was something else. Everything about the songs was wonderful. The words, the music, the timing. 

Needless to say, I now have a large collection of Dylan records.

He is human, of course, and he has written some poor songs. Not many, though –  and they are eclipsed by the sheer weight of the brilliant ones. I bought the double album Blonde on Blonde in Minneapolis when I was on a brief visit to the States, and it contains probably my all-time favourite, Visions of Johanna. But then Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands on the same album is also exceptional, and there there is Like a Rolling Stone, of course, and All Along the Watchtower – the only one of his songs I can think of that someone else (Jimi Hendrix) performed even better than he did.

Chimes of Freedom was always underestimated, and later on we had the stunning Hurricane, Jokerman, Mississippi, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door, and more recently Not Dark Yet and Things Have Changed. Not to mention the last album, with its tour de force, Murder Most Foul. There are so many more, it’s actually laughable to  pick those out. 

These are songs that lift the spirits, and you just wish that the younger generation would give them a shot. But of course the younger generation rarely does. When I was young, my parents and their friends loved musicals, crooners and big bands, and really never “got” rock and roll, or Bob Dylan. I never got the ones they loved, and I probably still don’t. 

There are exceptions to this rule. When my son went to university in the early 1990s, he used to bring home albums and play them to us. Some of them I quite liked. But then he brought home Counting Crows’ album, August and Everything After. I loved it. It was brilliant. It reminded me of Bob Dylan. And to be fair, my son likes Bob Dylan too. 

At this point the analogy breaks down. All analogies do, eventually. I think Abraham Lincoln said that. I’ll let you be in my dream if I can be in yours. Dylan said that.

As age creeps up and taps you on the shoulder day after day, you ask yourself various questions. These are usually prefixed with “When?”, but sometimes drift on to “Who?”, “What?” and quite often “Why?”

Recently I have been thinking about songs. The ones you really love usually date back to your youth and stick with you: I don’t listen to very much modern music – not because I don’t like it, but because I am full of the music of my earlier years.

What are my favourite songs of all time? I could give you a list, but I would almost certainly forget an important one or two, or three. My favourite songwriters are pretty easy – Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen – but favourite songs are more difficult. If pushed, at this point in time and space, I might say Dylan’s Visions of Johanna and Cohen’s Alexandra Leaving.

But maybe my favourite song of all is not by either of them. It could be the breathtaking Fountain of Sorrow, by Jackson Browne, or the almost perfect Lady with the Braid by Dory Previn. Perhaps it changes every day.

The other day I came across a new contender for the very long list. It is not a new song: it was written in the early 1970s by Townes van Zandt – a great songwriter but one who perhaps because of his character and lifestyle never really became widely popular. The version that did it for me, however, is by Emmylou Harris and The Hot Band, performed – also in the 70s – on the Old Grey Whistle Test, perhaps the best of all pop music TV shows.

The song is called Pancho and Lefty, which I have to admit is not a promising start. But the words are beautifully understated, with a great deal left unsaid and a tragedy that unfolds and then folds back. The music is perfectly attuned to the lyrics and – as performed by The Hot Band, featuring the brilliant guitarist Albert Lee, who I should know much better – heart-rending and uplifting at the same time.

There is mystery too, of course. The story sounds as if it should be true, but even the writer couldn’t or wouldn’t say: he even claims he didn’t really write it – it came into his head out of the blue.

Anyway, see what you think. You can find it here. And, as Groucho Marx almost said when asked about his principles, if you don’t like it, I have others.

PS If you have problems hearing the lyrics, which are pretty important, you can hear them clearly on the same song sung by its composer, Townes Van Zandt, here.

Is it possible to have too many books? When it comes to moving house, as my brother is about to do after some 40 years, the answer is a resounding yes. But in normal circumstances, it is a comforting thing to see the number of bookcases in a house increase, even when they are not being used as a backdrop to a Zoom conference.

So I was more than happy in the past few weeks to obtain three new books from fellow Norfolk writers who I have had the honour to be associated with over some years.

One is Shifting Sands by Godfrey Sayers, who is probably the most reliable source of information about the history and geography of North Norfolk to the west of Salthouse. He has lived in the area since he was a child and has wide experience of walking and fishing (professionally) there. His latest book, a follow-up to the very impressive Once Upon a Tide, looks at the rise and fall of the Glaven Ports, what happened to the coastline there over the centuries, and why – as well as what might have happened if different decisions had been taken.

Like his earlier book, this one contains many examples of his paintings, for Godfrey, as many of you will know, is also a first-rate artist as well as a renowned campaigner for the environment and a bit of a minor prophet when it comes to what might happen next. A book well worth reading if you have any interest in the area and want to know more about its obvious beauty.

The second and third books are about chess – a world away? Not really, because the attraction of chess is its wild beauty. Not easy to convey to non-players, but once you are grabbed by it, it never lets you go.

I have known Mike Read and David LeMoir for many years. David is editor of the Norfolk chess magazine, En Passant, as well as being a very strong, exciting player and a brilliant writer about the game. His latest book, Chess Scribe: a 50-Year Anthology, is particularly compelling as it looks back over a whole lifetime of his chess writing, coming up with many famous names along the way.

I especially enjoyed the section on Owen Hindle, probably Norfolk’s strongest ever player, as well as, scattered through the book, many games from friends I have fought with over the years, especially those at the Norwich Dons Chess Club.

One thing I would have liked is an index, just to check that my name didn’t crop up anywhere, but why should it? If it did, I would have to mention it, which would be embarrassing. Mike Read’s name does crop up, of course, as he is, with Owen, another very strong Norfolk player who is internationally recognised.

He has recently published his second book – another collection of his correspondence games which this time includes draws and defeats as well as victories. It’s called Triumph and Disaster and, as with his first book containing 120 of his games, it has the outstanding merit of being attractive to read. Mike has the gift of making his games, which are often complex, easy to understand for lesser talents, but still compulsive for strong players.

All of these books are available from Amazon. Do not buy them if you are about to move house.

There was nobody in the cemetery today. I don’t mean that the way it sounds. I’m sure there were a large number of bodies in the cemetery, because that is what it’s for. But there was nobody above ground, apart from the maintenance staff.

You may think this is a strange thing to be remarking on, but it was a sunny day, though a bit chilly, and during the various lockdowns we have been enjoying over the past year or so, the number of people walking round the cemetery has grown gradually, until last week we were remarking on how many there were.

The Rosary, as I have mentioned before, is a beautiful place to walk round. It is hilly (for Norfolk), wooded and beautifully laid out – in that rather unusual way that makes you think subliminally that it hasn’t been laid out at all.

It is easy to see why it should attract people who want to walk for exercise (what other reason could there be?). At the outbreak of lockdowns, hardly anyone was there. Then gradually people noticed it, but it never became crowded. Crucially, dogs were banned, and still are.

So why nobody today? Because today people can go to non-essential shops. There are queues outside Primark and Debenhams. The roads are full of traffic. And of course if you can queue outside a shop or sit in traffic, why would you want to walk round a cemetery?

I sometimes think there are two different human races, and I don’t mean a sprint and a long-distance. There is the race that will stand in long, cold queues for non-essential shops, buy a dog during lockdown, drop litter without thinking about it, and rush out to the pub and sit outside in a bitter wind drinking a pint, just because they can today and couldn’t yesterday. And there is the other race.

It would be invidious to say one is right and the other is wrong. I wouldn’t say that, obviously. But there is a gulf fixed between them. Isn’t it remarkable how different we are?

I know what you’re thinking. You like dogs but don’t stand in queues. You like pubs but don’t drop litter. Perhaps I’d better rethink it. There must be an equation that solves it. Let’s put Sage on to it, do some computer modelling and invite a few research studies.

I know what will happen. We’ll end up with several million human races – or mutations or strains, as they will be called – and we will need another lockdown to cope with it. That’s when I shall head back to the cemetery, possibly for the last time.