Author Archives: Tim Lenton

I have to admit that I am over 70. I am therefore at risk and cannot be allowed out of the house except for exercise. I cannot buy my own food. My wife and I cannot help anyone else and have to depend on a friend to keep us fed. Neither of us is knowingly ill: I do feel short of breath occasionally, but that is just when the word “coronavirus” is mentioned. Unfortunately that is quite often, especially on the BBC.

It is a long time since I have hugged anyone except my wife. She views this as a good thing, but I am not so sure. My son is in Canada, and my grandchildren are in Buckinghamshire.

On the plus side, the sun is shining, and we have had some very warm days. I have in fact been getting more exercise than I normally do, though I cannot admit that, in case the Government tells me I don’t need it and locks me in the attic. We are eating pretty well and are improving our house and garden considerably.

Not only that, we now understand Zoom. I’m not sure “understand” is the right word, but we have used it to talk to friends, have meetings and “attend” church services. It is astonishing how many elderly people seem able to do this – not to mention FaceTime and Skype. In many cases these are people who would not in normal circumstances admit to any understanding of technology more advanced than e-mails.

My wife and I have now made friends with two blackbirds, who recklessly approach much nearer than two metres whenever we go into the garden, possibly because we feed them.

So where is it all leading? No-one knows, of course, but I am aware that I am extremely fortunate and could continue like this for some months. I don’t want to, but I could. Others, however, could not – especially those who are being deprived of work and money through no fault of their own.

Is it really necessary? Again, no-one knows. Is it all being done to save the NHS? The NHS is an expensive organisation, being operated at face-to-face level by courageous, skilful and caring people. But I suspect at management level it is in need of severe shaking up, and has been for some time.

It needs more money, but money does not appear magically out of thin air. Are we prepared to pay more tax? If not, it’s no use running campaigns to “save our NHS”. Clap by all means on a Thursday evening. We do. But we need to put our hands in our pockets too.

Many more people will die of COVID-19. Other people will die of other things. People die, sometimes in horrible ways, and we have to accept this. We may or may not think it’s the end of everything. I have lost a cousin to this virus, and it was devastating for his family. But are we so afraid of death that we will do anything to avoid it? Anything? Including making life intolerable for others?

If so, we should remind ourselves that those for whom life is being made intolerable are largely the young people who are the future of our country. They are vulnerable too, and they need some of the love that has been shown to so many others.

This is not a criticism of the Government. I don’t know what decisions I would have made, and I am grateful I didn’t have to make them. It’s just a question. What kind of people do we think we are?

As it’s Easter week, I decided not to write anything about Palm Sunday, Good Friday, Black Saturday or Easter Sunday, on the grounds that what I say will already have been said by members of the clergy not allowed into churches and running desperately to the internet in order to write or stream, or zoom, or do something else I haven’t come across yet.

It is very hard to stop clergy expressing themselves. In that respect they are much like journalists. So instead of writing anything coherent in the way of journalism (Did I ever? you may ask), I am simply giving you a poem this week. Totally free. Not reduced in any way. No response necessary. I advise you to stand a good two metres away from it.

This would be a good time to be walking on the breathtaking beach at Luskentyre in the Outer Hebrides – assuming the weather is as sunny and (fairly) warm as it is at the moment in Norwich. Last time I was there – at the height of summer – it would have been a real challenge not to distance yourself socially from other beach-users, because there were so few of them.

Of course there might be good reasons not to isolate yourself in Luskentyre. I’m unsure about the toilet roll situation there, not to mention the food supply, and supermarket deliveries might be a problem.

But it’s definitely a good place to get away from it all in these stultifying times. I am fortunate in being forced to stay in a reasonably sized house with a beautiful woman, which is not something I’m desperate to get away from. Others are stranded on their own, or with someone who does not appreciate their finer qualities, or someone who abuses them, physically or verbally.

We do have a garden, and it’s in fine condition, because my wife has been working in it almost all this week. What have I been doing? Well, being a writer means my workload has increased, if anything, and I still can’t catch up. She likes gardening. Honestly.

I do try to get some exercise, and our neighbours, the Norfolk Wildlife Trust, who are naturally closed, kindly left their gate open a for a couple of days so that I could take my daily exercise in their empty car park. However, they have now radically closed it, and my garden is not really big enough to get going in. A great deal of intricate manoeuvres are necessary to get from one end to the other, and even if you wiggle your hips, it still isn’t very far in terms of steps, which is what we all measure our fitness in nowadays.

We do have thoughtful neighbours and friends, which means that we are not hungry. Amazon have just delivered some olive oil, so that’s all right. I am expecting some peppercorns later. 

I am also doing what the Government tells me to. I am like that.

But I am paying little attention to the statistics on television or in the paper, because I still believe what my father told me over 60 years ago: “There are lies, damned lies and then statistics.” It wasn’t original to him, but he liked it.

I don’t actually think most statisticians make it all up; it’s just that there are so many unknowns, especially where viruses are concerned. It’s like economic forecasts – they are always wrong, and there’s always a good reason. Really.

Shortly after we left Bethlehem, they closed it down. If our journey had been a week later, we would probably still be there, stranded by the coronavirus. We would not even be able to wander round the rather beautiful Church of the Nativity – the oldest church in the country – because it is now locked. Manger Square, I would imagine, is open, because you can’t really close it.

I didn’t catch the coronavirus in Bethlehem, but I did get a rather nasty bout of diarrhoea and had to miss our group’s visit to Old Jerusalem. Annoying, but it could have been worse. I recovered sufficiently to get home in relative comfort.

Funny place, the Holy Land. Who would have guessed that Bethlehem actually adjoins Jerusalem? There is no countryside between – just a checkpoint and a wall. Bethlehem is in Palestine, whereas Jerusalem is mostly in Israel.

We spent quite a bit of time in Palestine (or the Palestinian Territories, or the West Bank), and mostly you wouldn’t know the difference, but of course differences are not always visible. Freedom of movement is not visible. Human rights are not visible.

I’m note sure what I expected in terms of the biblical sites, which were the main reason for our pilgrimage. Basically, if you could build a church on something, there was a church there – or two, or three. This did not really help. The only place they didn’t seem to have built a church was on Lake Galilee, which was as lovely as I expected.

But the most beautiful site was Caesarea Philippi, on the edge of the Golan Heights, almost within arm’s length of both Lebanon and Syria. A low ridge, a huge cave, sparkling water, acres of Roman remains – what more could you want? It is said to be the site where Jesus asked Peter who he thought Jesus was, and Peter’s reply – “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God” – gains extra power when you realise that they were surrounded by temples to Roman deities and a cave that was supposed to be the entrance to hell.

I suppose what stuck in my mind was not so much the sites – though many were striking – but the distance between them. We are sort of used to the idea of Jesus wandering around, preaching and healing, but he had to make some pretty serious treks. Nazareth may be only three or four miles from Cana, but it’s about 70 miles from Jerusalem and 25 miles from Capernaum, which itself is about 90 miles from Jerusalem. Caesarea Philippi is about 125 miles.

And it’s not just distance. Practically everywhere we went was accessed by steps: it’s a very up-and-down country. The 15-mile road from Jerusalem to Jericho – setting for the parable of the Good Samaritan – drops about 3300 feet – higher than the highest mountain in England. Jericho is the lowest city in the world, at nearly 850 feet below sea level. Not an easy commute, on foot.

 As I sit here in the middle of Storm Ciara, well protected (I hope) by several walls and a roof, my thoughts turn to Westray, in the Orkney islands, where there are no trees.

Admittedly, that does avoid the possibility of one falling on you, but it also means that the wind sweeps across with virtually nothing in its way, which can be annoying. Apparently you get used to it – or so I was told when I was there last summer.

We went by air – in a very small plane which held eight moderately sized people – and we were deposited fairly early in the morning on a very small airstrip at the north of the island, from where we were transported to our B&B some miles away, the other side of the main village, Pierowall. 

Unfortunately the B&B was not ready to accept us until 4pm, which meant that we had about six hours to kill. We had no car and no provisions. There were no buses. The weather was not exactly warm, and there were very few people, but at least it didn’t rain much.

Nothing much happened, but it was one of the most memorable days of my life.

We took in a castle, a white beach, some links, a number of tracks and the only café on the island, which served me some absolutely stunning raspberry and rhubarb cake. We then found an ancient church and a hotel that served the only evening meal on Westray. 

We booked, and then found that we had to walk over a mile to the B&B, back for the meal, then back to the B&B again. If there had been a choice I would not have contemplated this. There was no choice. We did it. It was amazing.

It is often said that Westray is beautiful, and it is. But I’m not sure why. A lot of it is quite ordinary, with abandoned farm vehicles, wire fences, uncared for tracks and no hills to speak of. The coast is something else, but it was not so much the view that entranced us as being thrown on our own resources, with nothing to do but walk.

Sometimes not having a choice can turn out to be the best choice possible.