Author Archives: Tim Lenton

Strange thing, snow.

Not scientifically, of course: it’s quite easily explainable in terms of how it happens and where it comes from, if you stick to the realms of physics and chemistry.

But looked at in a different way, it’s totally mysterious.

We all know it’s unpredictable, and that meteorologists have difficulty knowing exactly how much, exactly where and for how long. But then so is rain.

What makes snow different is that it’s beautiful. A sprinkling of the white stuff sends us dashing for our cameras or reaching for our phones. We love the way it improves the landscape, making it softer and cleaner.

So what’s mysterious about that?

The fact that as well as being beautiful, it also makes life extremely difficult. Travelling becomes problematical. Snow is dangerous because it’s cold, and as well as freezing you, it can bury you.

We use up huge amounts of energy – our own and the national grid’s – combating its effects. Vehicles slide into each other; people break bones. Businesses lose money.

Logically, we should hate the stuff. So why do we find it beautiful? If we simply evolved from nothingness, we would expect to like what’s good for us – what makes it easier for us to survive. Moderate rainfall, sufficient warmth, enough food: a smooth ride, gradually improving.

But in fact we’re beings who have a capacity for wonder, particularly at things that are dangerous, risky and on the edge. On the edge of what? We don’t know, but something that we really want. Something we can’t control.

Poet Rainer Maria Rilke said that beauty is the edge of terror that we’re just able to bear. In other words, there is something out there that we couldn’t survive in our current state, but we desperately want it. Beauty is the nearest we can get.

Snow is like that. So are mountains, storm-tossed seas and killer deserts. Touch and see, but don’t get too close, or stay too long.

I’m struggling a bit. For years now, I’ve been responsible for writing an alternative carol service for St Augustine’s Church in Norwich. I don’t know quite how that happened, but I suspect it’s because if you volunteer to do something once in the Church of England, you’re pretty much landed with it till the end of time.

The idea is probably that you get to think about eternity quite a lot.

It’s a bit of a challenge, thinking up a new way of working songs, poetry, monologues and drama – not to mention carols and readings – into a period of about three quarters of an hour when most people have their minds on the Christmas lunch to follow.

I have also tried to work in a few topical and local references, with the result that when you go back and read the scripts (as I have recently been doing) some elements come over as rather mysterious. Which again, I suppose, is not a bad thing.

We have had the Nativity as reported on radio and in newspapers. We have had a talking sheep, and an angel on Mastermind. We have had health and safety calling the whole thing off. We have had incompetent soldiers, unwise men and … well, you get the idea. Our most recent vicar, now resident in Aspen, Colorado, always called it a Christmas play. I don’t know why. Perhaps because he used to be in advertising.

What, you may justifiably ask, is this alternative carol service an alternative to? I have been asked that before, and the answer is that it’s an alternative to not having one. I don’t know if that clarifies things.

Anyway this year, as I said, I’m struggling. What new approach can I try? Last year I went for radical ideas about what the first Christmas was really like, and I’m not sure that worked. Too much comfortable propaganda for the traditional tales. I have tried repeating excerpts of previous years; so I can’t really do that again. I need something really new.

Or do I? Maybe I’ll just go for a traditional carol service. A bit of singing and reading. That should confuse them. They’ll probably be thinking about the turkey anyway.

To previous generations, flight was a vision of freedom. We looked up longingly at the birds and saw them released from the chains of gravity, able to float like angels on the invisible breeze and get a whole new perspective on life.

This was what we wanted, wasn’t it? To be released?

So it’s ironic that when most of us fly nowadays – now the miracle has happened – we find ourselves much less free than when we walk around, tied to the ground.

Airports are prisons, with strict rules about where you can venture and what you can take with you. You are forced to wait in a cell-like area for much longer than is necessary, you may be searched, and your belongings are examined. Flights are always late taking off. It’s a nightmare.

And even when you get airborne, there is no experience of freedom. You are shut into a metal tube with not enough room for your legs or any other part of your body. There is a risk of blood clots, and a much higher risk of catching something from one of the other passengers, since the air you breathe is constantly recirculated, together with the germs and viruses. You can’t sleep.

You may catch a glimpse of the huge airy spaces outside, but more often than not, there is nothing to see. The whole experience has to be endured, rather than enjoyed. Freedom doesn’t enter into it.

This is all true for the average human being. For the more fragile among us, it is much worse.

Of course the more privileged – by which I mean the rich (and there seem to be a lot of them) – have a rather more benign experience, involving special lounges, beds, silver service and unlimited drinks.

While imprisoned in a departure lounge not long ago, waiting to board, I discovered just how many people were more privileged and shiny than me and who would therefore board first. It started with ruby and continued through platinum, sapphire, executive platinum, emerald, business and, eventually, first class. Then, at last, came groups one to four. I was in group four. I know my place.

But even for the exalted creatures who go before me, it’s still a long way from freedom, and not at all what our ancestors might have envisaged.

Should we abandon the whole idea and revert to roaming free on land and sea? Should we try paragliding or Autogiros? Perhaps a Cessna would be a step in the right direction.

Sadly, having stepped into the prison of commercial flights, it’s hard to step back. The time saved in reaching “desirable” destinations is a magnet to which we become firmly attached, and we accept the huge restrictions that it involves. I wish I never had to fly again, but I will.

In my dreams I tell myself it’s for the birds. But I’m locked into it. I have to get away.

Deep in the heart and soul of Norfolk are a handful of places that none but a tiny minority of travellers have heard of. Take Swacking Cuckoo, for instance. Or Mount Ephraim. Or Little London, near Corpusty…

If we still had parlours, it might make a challenging parlour game for Norfolkmen and Norfolkwomen to attempt to name a village or hamlet that could not be accurately located by the remaining company.

In the event of my becoming involved in such a raucous pastime, I might go for Oxnead.

It’s not too far from civilisation, and in recent times, a sign has even been installed on the approaches. But ask your average citizen from Norwich, only about ten miles away, where Oxnead is, and the stare you get in response may well be completely blank. Or they may head off for Oxborough, which is somewhere else again.

Times change. In the 16th and 17th century at least, Oxnead was well known as the main seat of the distinguished Paston family, from whom stemmed a unique collection of letters – most in the 15th century, when their main home was Paston Hall, on the coast, but also in the 17th century, when most were written by the 1st Earl of Yarmouth, Robert Paston.

Oxnead Hall today is a private house owned by the Aspinalls, who are interested in their Paston heritage and have a strong rapport with the Paston Heritage Society. So it was that they opened their gardens to more than 80 invited guests recently and allowed us to celebrate the society’s 21st birthday there, including a performance of poetry, prose and song.

It is easy to see why the Pastons valued the hall. In its rebuilt state (only one wing of the 17th century hall remains, and the relatively new, in-your-face front structure – built before the Aspinalls moved in – is said to be uninhabitable for structural reasons), it still presents an imposing spectacle, not least because of the extensive gardens descending towards the River Bure.

These can be seen quite well from the footpath on the other side of the river, or from the track running to the east of the hall. They can also be glimpsed from the grounds of the old church, not quite so imposing but containing interesting relics of the Pastons, including a bust of the much-loved Lady Katherine, who died in childbirth, and the tomb of Admiral Clement Paston, a nationally admired figure who carried out much of the 16th century rebuilding.

It is hardly surprising that the site is being advertised as a wedding venue for 2015: it is romantic and picturesque, with a church in the grounds. But you don’t have to ditch your current spouse and start again to enjoy the delights of Oxnead. A stroll around the hamlet, starting at Brampton, perhaps, provides a glimpse into both the past and the future.

Assuming you can find it, that is.

During our annual stay in Scotland – Aberdeenshire, the Dee and the Cairngorms – we noticed a new feature of the landscape: posters and banners bearing the words Yes or No. Something dramatic was clearly taking place.

Not being Scottish (although my wife was born in Glasgow), we felt this had little to do with us. Even if Scotland votes for independence, it is hardly likely to affect our regular journeys north. The natives are more than friendly to us, and will doubtless remain so, even if they become another country and do things differently.

We have not been able to avoid catching the odd soundbite from Alex Salmond, who strikes me as the kind of populist politician who will not let his opponents complete the answer to a question if half an answer suits him better. In this he has much in common with certain broadcasters who I instinctively distrust, but as I am English I cannot possibly comment on his arguments.

I was once harangued (and not many people can say this) when I said I couldn’t understand why Berwick on Tweed would want to be independent. Conversely, I come from Norfolk, which claims to “du different” and therefore might want to go it alone, with or without the drawbridge advocated by some of its inhabitants. So I have given UDI (a unilateral declaration of independence) some thought.

Should Scotland go it alone? And if I think not, how does that square with my instinct to get out of what I see as an undemocratic European Union?

My misgivings are straightforward. If you want to win a referendum, what do you do? Well, you could start by giving the vote to people you think will vote in your favour and take it away from those who probably won’t. For instance you could give it to 16- and 17-year olds, who are more likely to be rebellious, and take it away from Scots who are not resident in Scotland.

Oddly, this seems to be what has happened. But as I say, I am not Scottish. Who am I to complain?

What does worry me is that if the vote goes against independence, Mr Salmond will have created a very large minority who are angry and frustrated, and who may well be unhappy with those who voted against them. Being Scots, they are unlikely to resort to arms, but we cannot rule out the odd angry glance.