Author Archives: Tim Lenton

Flood levels

looking for dry ground,
he quarters the fields
but the flood plain here
could swallow an army

and suck birds from the sky

his unnatural boat
crawls from lane to lane
obeying speed limits
colliding with the unknown

something moving under water

it is too late for retreat
strategies have gone down
and do not resurface:
a new landscape is being formed

grey islands taking shape

there are rumours of different tides
retrenchment
new offensives
brave new worlds

cures for drowning

looking for dry ground
he searches the old maps
the front lines
the ways home, seeking

the infinitesimal edge

 

 This poem relates firstly to the floods in Somerset and secondly to the mud in which so many soldiers drowned in the first world war: so it is doubly topical.

No longer in the driving seat

A recent journey with car-averse friends from Norwich to the wilds of Iona brought home the pros and cons of public transport.

  • Taxis are comfortable and convenient, but expensive. Buses are often not where you want them to be, and even when they are, the drivers may ignore you (note to Glasgow visitors – if you want a bus to stop, stick your arm out and make unquavering eye-contact with the driver).
  • Aircraft have the benefit of speed through the air, but airports are hell on earth for too many reasons to list.
  • Trains are good, except when they are late, or there is engineering work, or the train doesn’t appear at all (as in the 1411 from Oban to Glasgow which, it turned out, did not run on a Saturday).
  • Ferries are pretty reliable in good weather, but the waiting rooms sometimes remind you of airports, which is bad. And they do not always make the connections you expect them to (the 2pm from Oban mysteriously does not connect with a vital bus from Craigmure to Fiannphort on Mull).

 

It may be that I am simply unlucky. I did twist my ankle badly on the quay at Iona, which is normally a pretty benevolent place. And it may be that I don’t like to depend on the reliability of other people.

Or maybe I just like the comfort zone of a car, which is very forgiving, as long as you treat it properly and enjoy driving. And you can get lots of stuff in the boot.

Of course there are those who don’t enjoy driving, or who think there’s no skill involved. These are the people in favour of lower speeds, road humps and cameras. They may also be in favour of the latest little device from Google, which is the driverless car.

Apparently this will “effectively end the distinction between private and personal transport”. The first step will be to use these driverless cars (maximum speed 25mph) in towns and cities. According to the Scientific Alliance, “they would be guided by a combination of cameras, laser and radar sensors with routes determined using the company’s own map database. Essentially, this would be like letting your satnav take over driving, with the ability to avoid cars, pedestrians and other obstacles.”

It would be quite a leap from there to driverless cars all over our roads and motorways, but no doubt it will come. Things do.

One advantage (assuming everything works properly) will be safety. One disadvantage will be the loss of a skill which many people enjoy. I have always loved driving and regard it as a skill worth mastering: this requires giving it your full attention, which it is clear many people are not prepared to do – the real, unacknowledged cause of most collisions.

Lost driving skill? Too bad, you may argue. Progress is progress.

Indeed it is, though I have a sneaking regard for James Thurber’s view that “progress was all right. Only it went on too long.”

But the driverless car will surely come, if Near-Eastern extremists don’t blow us all up first. And the skill of driving will be forgotten. Which is sad.

Any lost skill is sad. When I started working in newspapers, as a sub-editor I had to work with the printers on the “stone”, whose skill was arranging the metal type and blocks in columns to form a page. This required careful “leading” and appreciation of balance and feel for something that could only be viewed upside down and back to front.

I once made a suggestion for a correction that was a short cut. “After all,” I said, “it’s not an art form.”

I was rounded on by the compositor working on the page – a heavily built, no
-nonsense, affable guy who liked his beer and who had once offered to fix me up with a young woman. “Yes it is,” he said. Or words to that effect.

And he was absolutely right. What he could do brilliantly was certainly an art form, even though the page he composed would probably be read once and then discarded. He and his colleagues had developed a skill that was real and brilliant.

And overnight it was lost. Hot metal typesetting disappeared, to be replaced with computer setting. The top old men of compositing were overtaken quickly by younger, more adaptable hands. It was a sad thing, but not unique. It happens in different forms throughout industry and elsewhere.

So it would be self-indulgent of me to bemoan the prospective loss of my driving skill. But it will be a sad day when there is no more use for it. Death is always a sad thing.

I read the other day that the skill of handwriting is fading away, because children now use keyboards for everything. That’s sad too.

But the way they use keyboards is brilliant. Maybe the way we use driverless cars will be brilliant. Let’s hope so.

Breakthrough

After months in the trenches
unexpectedly
daffodils broke through at dawn
and have occupied
the back garden

They make no onward move,
standing at ease as if
awaiting further orders

It should all be over soon:
there is thunder in the distance

But for the moment
a still sky spills sun
on to the tortured earth,
over the top,
creating a masterpiece

Growth – is it good or god?

Growth is good: it is evidence of life, and we all need evidence of that sometimes.

Except, of course, that if you and I grow too much, we become obese, and that is bad. So in our particular case, growth should be reined back, so that we remain capable of moving about.

As far as house prices go, you can look at growth in various ways. Growth in the number of houses is widely accepted as good, because it will enable many people currently homeless to get a roof over their heads. On the other hand, it means that we lose many acres of countryside, which is bad.

So it becomes a question of the greater good. Do we sacrifice our green and pleasant land so that people have somewhere to live? Put like that, the answer is straightforward – until so much countryside is covered with concrete that it is hardly worth living at all. (This is also known as the wind farm paradox.)

Then there is the question of house prices. If they grow (as they are doing at the moment), you could argue that to a buyer it doesn’t matter, because the house you sell is worth more too. But what if you don’t have a house? Growth in house prices is clearly bad for you.

And yet the economy needs to grow, doesn’t it? Not necessarily: a stable economy works perfectly well.

You wouldn’t think so, of course, when you listen to the news. The people at Tesco are worried at the moment because the company is not growing. And to listen to political analysts, you would assume that if companies are not growing, they are doomed.

In fact, this is rubbish. How can it possibly be true? Say I shop at Tesco. (I don’t, but let’s overlook that for the moment.) I buy my groceries on a fairly regular basis; I need roughly the same amount each week. But for Tesco to be “successful”, I would have to increase my purchases on a regular basis. This would mean I have to eat more, and this would mean I would grow in a very personal way – which, if you remember, is bad.

So how can this constant search for growth be made to make sense? Well, Tesco could encourage immigration, which would not be popular in a country the size of ours. Or they could urge customers to switch from other supermarkets. What is the point in that?

It makes much more sense to maintain stability, and this goes for most companies. It  would be good for the poor, but it would be bad for rich investors, who are basically gamblers. I bet you know whose side I’m on.

To western democracies, growth is a kind of god. But it’s a false god.

At this stage someone usually pats me on the shoulder and says patronisingly: “Tim,” (they always use your name, as if you need reminding), “you don’t really understand.”

And they’re right. I don’t. Or maybe I wish I didn’t.

The things I go through for pelicans

Holidays are generally regarded, I think it’s fair to say, as opportunities to relax. When this relaxation can be coupled with guaranteed warm weather, this is regarded as a plus.

But do we really think about the effect holidays have on us?

Let me say at the outset that Captiva Island, in the Gulf of Mexico, is a lovely place that I would return to time and again if I could do so by pressing a button. But is it worth the hassle of getting there and back?

I am the kind of person who can envisage snags vividly. I subscribe heartily to Murphy’s Law – “If anything can go wrong, it will” – even though experience misleadingly shows that it sometimes doesn’t.

The list of problems with foreign holidays is endless. First, you have to book flights. Getting this right requires close calculation, which can easily go wrong. When do we need to get to the airport? What is the chance of a major hold-up on the motorway? Quite high. Should we stay the night near the airport, or travel on the day? Should we book seats, and if so, which ones?

The filling in of forms goes on and on, and still you are uneasy. What if you’ve made a mistake with the visa waiver?

If a connecting flight is necessary, the potential for disaster increases exponentially. Our recent holiday to Captiva included a change at Dallas, and we had two hours to do carry this out. Ample? You might think so. Unfortunately, British Airways were well over an hour late leaving Heathrow (checking the engines, they said reassuringly) and made up no time in the air.

Still no problem, you might think. Except that the passport control queue in Dallas is ten miles long, you have to  collect your luggage yourself and transfer it to American Airlines – and your connecting flight departs from a different terminal.

Murphy’s Law triumphs. All right, we got a free night in a quite nice hotel, free supper and free breakfast. But no sleep, and I had to cancel a hotel in a different state and let the car hire company know what was going on.

In the morning the flight on to which we had been transferred the previous night left from a different gate and a different terminal from the one promised. Luckily, the hotel had an updated list, and I spotted it.

At Fort Myers – a nice little airport – we simply had to pick up the hire car. But the company we’d chosen was not one of those with desks in the car rental building. What to do? Re-read the form I’d downloaded from the Internet and discover that our car company was using a different name, but it was still not where it should be. We enquired at one of the less busy desks and discovered there was a booth round the back of the car park, from which a shuttle ran to an office ten minutes away. Nice. Almost intuitive.

From there, everything went smoothly – and it went smoothly on the way back, if you ignore the fact that airline economy seats are designed for contortionist dwarfs. Unfortunately, being the sort of person I am, I spent most of the holiday worrying that Murphy would intervene, and it wouldn’t go smoothly. And snapping at people.

Most of the week after our return was spent trying to catch up on lost sleep.

I would undoubtedly have been far more relaxed if it had never happened. But of course I would have missed the pelicans.

Pelican

And so I have gone over
to the other side:
fresh voices echo into the future,
becoming distant,

and leave me behind,
sitting on the dock,
the wind sweeping lazily across
unfamiliar shallows

An absence of snakes
fills me
with foreboding

Heavy-bodied,
I am a pelican
waddling on the boards,
mouth sharp, grotesque,
getting nowhere

I know there is more:
I watch my brother birds
launch themselves
into the grace of God

where they transform,
skim the waves,
fly like a dream

Holding my ground,
I wish I could let go

Farewell to Philomena

Farewell to Philomena
Farewell to Bantry Bay
The blossom’s out in Baltimore
But no, I cannot stay

I will not say I’m dreaming
The sun is coming through
God knows there is a meaning
In everything you do

Yes, I remember Skibbereen
And the cliffs at Mizen Head
I cannot see you any more
The living or the dead

Farewell to Philomena
Farewell to Bantry Bay
The blossom’s out in Baltimore
And no, I cannot stay

You stood there on the mountain road
With angels in your hair
You tried to see the future
The future was not there

I will not say I’m dreaming
The sun is coming through
God knows there is a meaning
In everything you do

Farewell to Philomena
Farewell to Bantry Bay
The blossom’s out in Baltimore
And no, I cannot stay

 

These are the lyrics to a song inspired by my neighbour, Philomena, who died recently.  She came from Baltimore, in an area of southern Ireland I happened to visit a few years ago.

They’re closing in on me

I was born in Norwich, and nearly 70 years later, I still live in that “fine city”.  Yes, it is fine. We have no truck with modesty here.

I am not completely immobile, though. During some early years of my childhood I lived in Coventry, and for a while in the 60s and early 70s, I was in London. After that, I spent 12 years in the Norfolk countryside, driving into Norwich from Yelverton every evening to work as a sub-editor on the Eastern Daily Press.

But for 30 years now I have been back in Norwich again. Of course there have been many changes in the 68 years since my childhood adventures in Brian Avenue, but not so many that I get lost. I do, however, have to find different ways of getting to places, because my freedom to move around has been considerably restricted.

Strange, that. You might think that moving around in 2014 should be easier than it was in the 1950s and 60s. But no – and I am not talking entirely about road humps, though it would be hard to conceive of a less intelligent way of slowing traffic down than dumping lumps of tarmac in the middle of the road.

What really interests me is the number of streets that are now closed to me as a driver.

When I passed my driving test, a little over 50 years ago, I could drive from my home in Brian Avenue through Mill Close to Southwell Road – a useful short cut, or rat run, as I believe they’re called now by people who think twenty is plenty.

This was stopped by the rather radical method of building a series of apartments across the road.  In more recent times a similar fate has befallen Bishopgate, St Georges Street and Princes Street, though in these cases bollards were the preferred method. Castle Meadow is now also off limits to me, to say nothing of the handy route round behind the Assembly House and out on to Rampant Horse Street by what is now an extended Marks & Spencer.

Queen Street, Brazen Gate, Wessex Street – I’ve travelled them all, at all times of day.

Of course I understand that cars are bad, and pedestrians (and of course cyclists) are good. So getting cars out of the city centre is obviously desirable, which is why Norwich City Council are now planning to close St Stephens and several other city centre roads to me and my car as well.

On returning from the south late at night along the A11, at the moment I enjoy driving straight through the city, down an empty St Stephen’s, round the cuddly one-way system and down Prince of Wales Road to where I live, off Riverside Road. This clearly has to be stopped, and the city are all ready to do it.

Of course road closures mean you have to drive further, which wastes fuel and is not green. I just thought I’d mention that.

One day, I imagine, I shall emerge from the street where I live, which is a cul de sac, and discover that the road at the bottom has been closed. But that will be OK, because I will be able to walk, or get on my bike. Oh yes, I have a bike.

Meanwhile I used to be able to simply walk straight into the Cathedral by the main door, and also straight on to the platforms at Norwich Station. Both these freedoms are now also denied me.

How worried should I be?

stillness inside

reeds by the stream
direct the sun downwards,
opening doors:
I stand rooted to dry land,
locked in an old landscape

a bare branch
above the water
a scratch of stalks –
as harsh and as sharp
as this life torn by pain

no clear path here
in this shadowy web
of tangled twigs:
I tilt my head to discern
ripples of the future

listening
for small sounds of life
and renewed hope – 
the splash of a fish
catching frail damselflies

sounds of the past
roar along the river,
shifting focus:
here at the eye of the storm
stillness reaches inside

 

[This is another of the tanka strings from my new book, written in conjunction with Joy McCall and called Stillness Lies Deep. Joy’s words are in italics. The book is available from Mousehold Press.]

Thirty-five keeps you alive

Dropping the mask of democracy and going straight for totalitarian rule, the slower-driving campaign group 20’s Plenty for Us has suggested that councils should implement 20mph limits without public consultation.

Consultation “creates a perception of indecision rather than leadership or vision”, says the group.

Well, quite. Why ask people what they want when you already know the answer? It’s a no-brainer, especially if you don’t depend on votes to get into positions of power. Genghis Khan would be right behind you.

Of course it’s possible that you don’t know the answer. It’s possible that you have a built-in prejudice and a gimmicky name, and not much else.

Brighton & Hove City Council recently dropped plans to introduce 20mph limits in a number of areas after consultation revealed that most residents in those areas opposed the plans. How’s that?

Commendable in the extreme, but not the normal approach. Consultation nowadays is a cunning way of making people think they have a say. It was introduced, as revealed by my column in the Eastern Daily Press, by the Autonomous Republic of Hingham, and became known as Hingham Democracy.

I wrote: “Some years ago now, in the last century, there was a dispute over whether the (scout) hut should be sold or not. It was decided to take a poll of residents and to abide by the result – as long as 300 votes were cast. The result went the wrong way, but as luck would have it, only 299 votes were cast – once it was established that the 300th was a spoiled paper. So the referendum was set aside.”

Is this a trick that 20’s Plenty for Us are willing to cast aside in their rush to dictatorship?

Surveys, they say, “prove” that 20mph is right – but then surveys can prove anything, if you ask the right questions.

Bristol City Council know all about that. They tried to justify the imposition of 20mph limits in two pilot areas by “showing” that it increased walking and cycling by 23% and 20%. But it was revealed by an expert that their methods of arriving at these figures were deeply flawed. They came back by blustering: “If we want safer roads we need lower speeds; if we want lower speeds we need lower limits.”

In other words, we have made up our minds and do not want to be confused by the facts. In fact, we would rather you were confused, if you don’t mind.

Not at all; of course we don’t. Or do we?

In fact their prejudice is unsustainable. Look with a cool eye at the causes of accidents, and you will see that speed is way, way down near the bottom. Fatigue, boredom, inattention and incompetence are much higher in the list, and all of those increase at lower speeds.

Excessive speed is certainly dangerous, but that is not the same as exceeding the speed limits, unless they are set by experts. Sadly, they are not.

But I am not going to persuade you of this if you have already bought into the slowness=safety daydream.

After all, look at the huge numbers of road deaths in towns since the dreadful automobile was invented. To keep a clear head, of course, it’s essential that you overlook the 1000 or so deaths caused each year in London alone before that by horses or horse-drawn vehicles.

Irrelevant? Of course.

So how to get through to the public what 20’s Plenty are up to? My current plan is to form some more campaign groups with cute names. Thirty’s Flirty may not do it, but how about Thirty-Five Keeps You Alive? Or Fifty’s Nifty?

Not serious enough? Well, I’m not sure serious does it. After all, Oscar Wilde said seriousness was the only refuge of the shallow.

Anyway, I’m not asking you: I’m telling you. That’s the way to do it. There should be an MBE in it, don’t you think?