New Anzac musings

Francois Chevalier

2012-02-09T09:53:00.000-08:00

Whilst visiting the Rétromobile exhibition of Vintage and classic cars in Paris last week I had the enormous pleasure of meeting the extraordinary Francois Chevalier. This beguiling gentleman is a self taught artist, caricaturist and sculptor of great talent. Having run the famous Paul Ricard motor racing circuit for many years he has turned a hobby of making drawings into his main profession. He always has a small booth tucked out of the way at the show but those in the know make a beeline for it. Here you will be entertained, for he is almost as good a raconteur as he is an artist and there is always a drawing of his that is affordable and appropriate. If you're lucky there's a glass of wine on offer too. His loose style of drawing belies an innate understanding of exactly how things work, and therein lies his great skill. Sometimes he jokes with us through his monstrous inventions and adaptations of famous and historic cars....his six-wheel Bugatti Royale transporter being a great example. At other times his drawing is reportage and you are convinced that HE WAS THERE, when the event in question was aeons ago,

He doesn't confine himself to cars either. The drawing here is of a Vincent motorcycle having its clutch attended to - an event not unknown in my experience. And just look how he captures the wiseacres standing around 'assisting' the mechanic in blue with ever more helpful suggestions. The sculpture is in bronze and of Lockhart's Stutz Black Hawk in which he was killed aged but 26 years. The book jacket is of his superb 'Le Petit Bugattiste Illustre' a volume of 'cartoons' and captions.

He's a lovely chap and a fine and often humorous draughtsman. Do seek him out.

Moonscape

2012-01-09T02:13:00.000-08:00

A recent stroll along the cliff top at Saltdean brought a view of this 1920's futuristic house. It's a real survivor although it's singular pedestrian entrance way is no longer used. The door circled on the photograph leads to a flight of steps which passes up through the cliff to the garden in front of the building. This is ably demonstrated by watching the wonderful Pathé News clip from 1928. My late dad-in-law went to school with the son of the builder of this house and confirmed the several fascinating features. It sits above the main South Coast Road, the A259 in an area euphemistically named 'Rottingdean Heights' by hopeful estate agents.

http://www.britishpathe.com/record.php?id=9881

Oh my head!

2011-12-13T08:29:00.000-08:00

Now is the time to beat a path to the achingly wonderful Harvey's off-licence. Stocking up on Christmas booze from our favourite local brewer - Harvey's of Lewes is one of life's great pleasures. A visit to Lewes is a treat in itself but get thee to Cliffe High Street and really put the brandy butter on the Christmas cake! The low black and white building has large windows displaying every kind of refreshment you can imagine plus breweriana in the from of jugs, glasses and clothing sporting the name of Sussex's finest. Enter through the narrow doorway and step down into the shop - I like stepping down into a premises - so sort of Wind in the Willowsy somehow. You are met with a cornucopia of beer wines and spirits, a temple to tipplers who are there for no other reason than to be tempted. A small glass-paneled office sits beyond the counter where things are still entered in large ledgers...by hand. Helpful staff will nip out the back to the brewery proper and draw off whatever draught beer you want into your container or theirs. Dropped 'bright' this stuff tates better if consumed quickly which all adds to the obligation to polish it off with due dedication. All the bottled beers are there too including the brain-zapping Christmas Ale, which at 8.1% ABV will send grandpa off to the Land of Nod whilst you play a noisy hand of Happy Families - "Mr Bun the Baker" - "Sorry, not at home" - answering with a mere "No' will incur severe penalties in our house...the niceties must be observed. The comically ugly portraits on the Victorian Jacques cards always make the kids screw their faces up with revulsion. Anyway, back to Harvey's. Never ones to waste their profits on uncalled-for slick graphic design, they tend to adopt a minimalist approach and push the boat out on special occasions, and even then you get the impression that the whole operation is more Letraset driven than having had a computer anywhere near it. When you think of what a brewer like Adnams of Southwold, whom I also admire, must spend on their marketing, it makes the Harvey's operation even more remarkable. They don't really advertise at all for goodness sake but do they win prizes...yes they do...by the Tun (TUN..pun) geddit? and deservedly so. You may purchase beer online from Harvey's...I urge you to try it...incidentally I have no commercial association with them...save that of passing them large wads of cash over the years in pursuit of their excellent product.

Lewes November 5th

2011-11-04T08:43:00.000-07:00

Well here's the jolly rhyme which traditionally accompanies Bonfire Night...quite gruesome as you can see.

Tonight Lewes has its night and the town becomes really quite anarchic...you have to be there to 'get it'.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November

The Gunpowder Treason and plot

I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes 'twas his intent 

To blow up the King and the Parliament 

Three score barrels of powder below

 Poor old England to overthrow

By God's providence he was catch'd 

With a dark lantern and burning match

 Holler boys, holler boys, ring bells ring

 Holler boys, holler boys, God Save the King!

A penny loaf to feed the Pope

 A farthing o'cheese to choke him 

A pint of beer to rinse it down

 A faggot of sticks to burn him

Burn him in a tub of tar 

Burn him like a blazing star

 Burn his body from his head

 Then we'll say old Pope is dead

Hip Hip Hoorah! 

Raise the Standard!

2011-10-27T04:11:00.000-07:00

The North Kent Coast has always held a fascination. From the Dickensian locations to Mr. Jorrocks' trip to Margate...there's a deep attachment. We decided to share this enthusiasm with some American friends who soon became equally entranced. From the wonders of the fabulous architecture of the Chatham dockyards via Faversham to the recently Islingtonised Whitstable (which succeeds, despite all, in clinging strongly to its roots) - Reculver, with its own twin towers of great antiquity and on to the new Tate Gallery outpost in Margate. The Tate I feel works better than its cousin in St.Ives, although maybe lacking the views, it enjoys better gallery space. Blessed with fine weather we enjoyed every moment. No trip for me is complete without a little automobile archaeology and the now quite rare gem shown was unearthed behind some buildings in Whitstable. It's a Standard Ensign the basic model of the Standard range introduced in 1957 and made up until the mid sixties. It seems that few of these bread and butter cars have survived and the Standard motor company has dissolved into that great scrapyard in the sky. I rather like the old Avery scales weight used as a chock in front of the offside wheel. Surprisingly she appears relatively rust free although it would require some diligent work to enable her to cruise the 'B' roads once more. Break open the Erinmore, suck on a Callard & Bowser boiled sweet, open the AA road book and discover the North Kent Coast!

Bugger!

2011-08-23T17:06:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, for reasons too curious to mention, we found ourselves at The Beautiful Days Festival in Devonshire. A well run event sponsored by The Levellers, it provided bands for all tastes in music. As I trekked about the site there were, as you can imagine, many sights of a highly entertaining and diverting nature to provide distraction - let alone ample opportunities for refreshment. The combination of slippery wet slopes and pouring rain made progress 'random' to say the least. As I slithered down one particularly damp incline I saw a fellow struggling, and he was struggling, to walk up it. Far from being able bodied he was using two walking sticks and clearly had severe disabilities. Hearteningly, several young people offered to give assistance, which he politely declined with good grace and a cheery smile, preferring his independence. As he got closer I could see that the t-shirt he wore carried but a single word message on it - BUGGER. How stoical, that message spoke volumes about his condition - to my eyes almost as bad as it gets but which he portrayed as a minor inconvenience - how brave. I could have wept, and I certainly wouldn't have dreamed of taking a photograph.

Arlott country

2011-07-27T04:17:00.000-07:00

We had the extreme good fortune to spend last weekend in Hampshire. Now although Sussex is our home...Hampshire runs a close second and my wife's family spent two idyllic years in the charming village of Cheriton back in the 1950s. We stayed in nearby Alresford (pronounced Awlsford) once home to John Arlott and possessed of one of the most lovely streets in all of England. Of course the town is famous for its watercress and even today it's a large industry. Our accommodation was the Bell Inn on the High Street, run by young, enthusiastic Frenchmen, serving good food and wine with a smile and witty repartee. A short walk took us to the railway station and the preserved Watercress Line which runs to Alton...the day we visited there was some sort of wartime re-enactment going on, peopled by elderly, time-served policemen (2), vicars (several of these), agricultural labourers (one), spivs (2), ARP Wardens (2) and ladies of indistinct casting although very much of the nylons and fox fur persuasion (many). After foregathering, this unlikely ensemble all boarded the train together - as if! in the day! But all good fun, and I particularly liked the camouflaged Austin 7 box van with which to defeat the might of the Third Reich's Panzer divisions.

Sunday found us driving, just for the sheer pleasure of it, through the quiet narrow winding lanes that are such a feature of this area. A look in at Hinton Ampner House and gardens gave us the sight of the unusual church tower in the grounds. The views to the South are fabulous, stretching, unspoilt for miles. A pint at The Tichborne Arms was a delight. The locals are still entitled to The Tichborne Dole, a charitable donation to the villagers of Tichborne and Cheriton of a gallon of flour for adults and half a gallon for children. Originally instituted in around 1150 by the ailing Lady Tichborne, her mean and spiteful husband didn't share her generous plan and came up with the novel scheme of agreeing to it on the basis that produce would be made available from land around which she could crawl whilst holding a burning torch. The plucky lady managed to gird twenty three acres until the flame died - an area still known as 'The Crawls'. Like all good stories there is, rightfully, a mathematical/child bearing curse attached to it which runs thus: If the family decided to stop providing the dole, then it would first have seven sons followed by seven daughters and then...zilch! the family name would vanish forever. Well blow me down, it was banned because it had become too rowdy a ceremony - the then baronet was (you're there before me) the seventh son and he had seven daughters. In order for the curse not to take effect the dole was restarted and from then onwards the details of the family inheritance became confused, tragic and convoluted...culminating in the famous Tichborne inheritance trial...one of the most celebrated in English legal history involving a false claimant to the family title.

The countryside and cool chalk streams of the Itchen valley are magical at this time of year. Taking the time to stop, look, and listen, has been a most theraputic experience. Try it.

The Garden City by the Sea

2011-06-09T20:03:00.000-07:00

I am reminded over on Philip Wilkinson's excellent blog 'English Buildings' of the plotland developments which took place in various parts of England. As this blog is named for one such, it's worth a mention. New Anzac-on-Sea was the prizewinning name resulting from a competition, set by Charles Neville, to christen his baby town. Later of course it became Peacehaven, a place reviled by planners throughout the land. Some plotlands grew up as a result of like-minded religious or political groups wishing to establish very basic self-sufficient communities. The homes they built were often rudimentary and made from that most adaptable of materials, corrugated iron - often redundant railway carriages were purchased and, devoid of their wheels, set Rowland Emmett-like upon railway sleepers - to my mind a most attractive and commodious dwelling. A wonderful hangover of this 'adaptation' still sits, not in a plotland at all, but in the chocolate box village of Slindon West Sussex, where one such carriage is wonderfully preserved and thatched to blend into its surroundings. Peacehaven however was born of no such social or altruistic intentions, rather it was the brainchild of the entrepreneur Charles Neville a land speculator whose sometimes questionable interests had taken him to Canada, Australia and beyond. During the Great War he purchased his first tract of land which comprised some of the coastal strip running from Rottingdean in the West to just shy of Newhaven in the East. Ever the grand publicist Neville used press advertising and direct marketing to great effect and one of his first stunts was to run a competition to name what he would later describe as his 'Garden City by the Sea' and from some 80,000 entries, the name 'New Anzac-on-Sea' was chosen, it is said as a tribute to the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps who served so valiantly in France. The prize for naming was £100 and the runners-up were to receive building plots to the value of £50 each...the straws were in the wind however and instead of there being just a few second prizes, there were 12,500! and these were then asked to pay various 'registration fees' . Once these were gathered in the number of takers dropped considerably and eventually Neville made a considerable profit on his 'Free' plots. Subsequently with the backing of The Daily Express 150 plotholders succeeded in suing him for fraud and he was forced to pay back his ill gotten gains. Ever the fighter, Neville counter-sued the Express for libel and won £300 damages. This then was the inauspicious birth of 'The Garden City by the Sea' - I will return to its history for as well as being an object lesson in how not to plan a town, some of its early social manifestations were luadable in their intent. As I think John Seymour said, what was so awful that men returning from the horrors and carnage of The Great War should spendtheir pathetic little gratuities in an attempt to find calm for their souls and troubled minds in such a perfect South facing strip of Sussex downland.

By the way, the picture of the thatched railway carriage is by Simon Carey and used under The Creative Commons licence.

Sea Cloud

2011-05-23T03:37:00.000-07:00

A brief glimpse into the past. Last Friday, the 360 ft full-rigged ship 'Sea Cloud' docked at the nearby port of Newhaven. Her passengers (for she is luxuriously equipped) apparently were whisked off to Brighton to savour the City's charms. She made a fine sight too moored at the East Quay as the sun went down with her white hull shining brilliantly. The towering masts gave just a hint of how the port must have looked like when sail held sway. Poor old Newhaven - abused, neglected and largely ignored, is such a historic port and town deserving far better treatment. An unwise town centre development in the 70's placed a blight on the once-bustling high street and since then it has failed to recover. We still have a ferry crossing to Dieppe which is a blessing and a boon, although sadly, busy Dieppe only serves to highlight Newhaven's current state. Sea Cloud returns briefly on the 30th May where once again she will moor adjacent to the scrap metal wharf!

Ooh er missus!

2011-04-07T06:28:00.000-07:00

What do you think is going on here ? We are all travelling at 60mph plus; this was taken on a recent road trip through North Carolina, I took it on an iphone...clearly I didn't die unless this is being sent from the spirit world...

Land on Sea

2011-03-04T23:31:00.000-08:00

Down here in the sunny South we have seen many wonders, but one of the most extraordinary must surely have been 'The Daddy LongLegs'. Designed and built by the man who gave us Britain's first electric railway (also in Brighton), Magnus Volk's scheme was to extend the line from Black Rock to Rottingdean across the seabed. Track was laid on concrete blocks which formed the sleepers and many are revealed, ghost-like at low tide. The device was virtually a giant Victorian drawing room standing high above the sea on four legs through which were driven the bogies. Power was supplied from overhead cables and the thing resembled a teetering tram on stillettos. A sort of show plough arrangement was fitted to clear the shingle which inevitably washed over the track. Travellers could enjoy the saloon and chintzy comforts of 'The Pioneer' (for that was its name) or take the air around the deck...in plan view it was boat-shaped. Trippers ploughed the raging ocean to the inventor's son's seaplane station at the terminus of Rottingdean some 3 miles distant. Sea travel without sea sickness! Marvellous on a fine calm day but hopeless in any sort of 'weather', the whole plot was virtually scuppered only a month after its opening when a storm wrought huge damage. Undeterred, Volk rebuilt, but various sea defence and groyne works by Brighton Corporation meant deviations and alterations to the track which proved beyond his resources. The car was eventually scrapped around 1901 and so ended surely one of the most curious railway experiments ever. Volk himself was a true pioneer of electric transport and his 'Volks Railway' still runs its Victorian carriages between Black Rock and the Palace Pier Brighton...he even supplied an electric dog cart to Sultan Abdul Hamid of Turkey. What I'd give for a one way trip to Rottingdean on The Daddy LongLegs today.

'The Right Crowd and no Crowding'

2011-02-10T10:05:00.000-08:00

That was the slogan of Brooklands motor racing track...so clearly related to its horse racing cousins, it even had bookies. Here are a couple of snaps taken recently at the old place. Although a shadow of its former self, the pre-war banked circuit survives in part. The Club House and the tuning sheds plus a few hangars have been restored and are in use being managed by the Brooklands Trust. Part of the old concrete track still lives. When it was built I believe it was the largest concrete project in the world, its length being 2.75 miles. Hugh Locke-King constructed and completed it in record time; the opening was on 17 June 1907. This was a great British first - the original purpose-built banked motor race circuit - Indianapolis was to follow later. The place still oozes atmosphere and it requires little imagination to hear the roar of the cars and catch the aroma of Castrol 'R' on the breeze.

It's worth a visit if you have any interest in such matters...lots of old iron to drool over in the sheds and charming vignettes of the class-ridden society of the 20's and 30s in the gentlemans clubby atmosphere where drivers and their guest drank and made merry...the stiltedly precise english of the signage brooks no flouting of the rules.

When I was there I took the opportunity to capture the image of the radiator badge of a delightful Vauxhall 30/98 with its reminder that proper Vauxhalls, after their namesake were made in London before Luton.

Carols at the forge

2010-12-21T04:07:00.000-08:00

Very very rarely do you stumble across an event so life-affirming it makes you take stock and want to re-arrange your priorities. Last night was one of those however. A simple gathering in a blacksmith's forge. Mulled wine, chestnuts roasted on the hearth and carols, sung with a compelling sincerity. The smith, a talented man whose hands forge weather vanes, gates, hooks, latches and all the impedimenta surrounding local rural life. His wife, a happy contended hard working woman, organising, bustling and contriving to make their lives rich in experiences of simple artistry. The darkness of the forge, the heat from the fire playing on our faces, and the warming glow of the spiced wine conspired to successfully charge us with a hankering for simplicity, making and growing things, and being extraordinarily thankful and content with our lot. A very Merry Christmas.

Ironing in Orford

2010-11-18T09:40:00.000-08:00

I do like a nice bit of corrugated iron.

Getting rarer in our relentless pursuit of having the countryside made all spick and span, this quintessential man-made building material seems to adapt very well to its surrounding environment. Providing it is not bothered by regular applications of paint and the natural galvanised finish is allowed to weather and lose its effect,then nature takes over in a most delightful way. This example was spotted in a lane which spurs off the road leading from Orford Village down to the quay and I especially admire the equally distressed ventilators. Goodness knows what it once was, certainly not a church, maybe a dwelling although quite large, or maybe even a hall. It looks empty now but I suspect that it's still tinder-dry inside and houses (in my imagination) all manner of redundant garden machinery, paraffin stoves (Aladdin of course), half used tins of prewar paint, old 'Flit' guns and maybe the odd Lister or Blackstone engine. Rusting spanners are hung from nails on the matchboarded walls and coils of proper binder twine still festoon the rafters. Sadly I didn't have the nerve to enter the property so it's probably had a second carcass built inside and furnished with all the latest from IKEA. If you know, please tell me.

Remember, remember...

2010-11-04T11:15:00.000-07:00

"Look out there's a Health and Safety inspector about", mother's saying to father.
There's not long to go now. Lewes is preparing itself for the big night once again. The tradition continues despite efforts over the years to emasculate it. For the Bonfire Societies this will be the culmination of a year's planning and excitement will be running high - who will be the 'enemies of bonfire this year' - always topical, the huge effigies of these unfortunates will be dragged through the streets of the town before being consigned to the fire. Cameron and Clegg maybe? we'll have to wait and see.

The Yellow Lantern

2010-10-14T06:57:00.000-07:00

Oh dear - nostalgia again. And possibly the most boring photograph ever taken.

This illuminated AA sign in Tetbury brought back all sorts of memories. Once a common site outside hotels all over the country these shining beacons seemed to promise a cosy and comfortable welcome within. Not sure if that was always true, but to a kid in the back of the family Vanguard looking out on rain streaked streets they delivered a strange feeling of comfort and familiarity signalling endorsement by that august body The AA; after all, weren't they the trusted friends of the motorist? (help always at hand from a friendly patrolman on his motorbike and sidecar in his leather gaiters and sturdy gauntlets) - not to my dad they weren't, he thought that anyone posessing a car should also be privy to the sort of mechanical know-how which could effect a roadside repair should a breakdown occur. Of course he forgot that not everyone was a skilled mechanic nor did they have the inclination to be one. Perfectly relishing the prospect of a disconnected propshaft or some such calamity he would fling open the boot of whatever old banger was our current family transport, throw on an ancient oil-stained macintosh and lay down in the road to scrabble under the car. It mattered not where the trouble lay, it always seemed to involve lying down in the road first - the underpinnings of motor cars were always the root, it appeared, of all maladies.

Other members of our family were less inclined to plunge around in the darkness when disaster struck. My mother's sister was a confirmed motorist and staunch AA member- her yellow 'Members Handbook' arrived promptly every year and I found it absolutely fascinating, listing, in the sort of detail in which trainspotters delight, garages, the type of cars they specialised in, petrol they sold and of course the hotels where it was suitable for members to stay. Maps too, distances to and from major towns and all the minutae deemed to be vital information for fifties motorists. She proudly carried an early brass version of the AA badge which had belonged to her father on the radiator grill of whatever was her current car. Oh yes, she was the living embodiment of what the AA liked to think it stood for - representing the middle class motorist of the Wolseley, Riley, Humber kind - motoring for the masses brought an influx of Ford, Austin and Morris drivers too, let alone the occasional (heaven forbid) Bond three wheeler owner too. Mind you, the AA was always rather eclipsed in class terms by the RAC - they couldn't fail to be, what with the word 'Royal' in the title and a very swanky club in London. It was rare for us kids to spot an RAC roadside 'Box', with the 'AA's' being far more common. For those who don't remember, both the AA and RAC had what were in essence private telephone boxes dotted about all over the country - no mobile phones remember - and every member was given a yale key which opened them in order to summon help from a patrolman. Of course each patrolman had his own patch and took great pride in maintaining the appearance of his call box. Some even planted flowers and erected miniature white painted picket fences around them. One such was always a marker for us returning home from a day at Walton-on-the-Naze, we passed it at Takely, close to where Stansted Airport now sprawls into the countryside, and the patrolman, looking very military in said jodhpurs, gaiters, cap and gauntlets would not have been out of place on the parade ground at Sandhurst. Passing him, it was a matter of fifteen minutes before we reached home, but not until the illuminated AA sign for The Foxley Hotel hove into view. All 'Jacobethan' flummery and strictly saloon bar only, this is where the aforementioned aunt and her 'boyfriend' used to stay for an illicit night or two on the pretext of visiting us. I'm sure the AA never had this sort of risqué behaviour in mind when making their recommendations - or did they? Our passed-on copies of previous AA guides had strategic hotel entries discreetly marked in pencil, mainly around the Thames Valley and Surrey area. What fun! You knew the day would be taking a turn for the better when you saw the welcoming yellow lantern.

Quocunque jeceris stabit

2010-09-09T03:43:00.000-07:00

Or "whichever way you throw, it will stand" (Isle of Man motto)

Without doing the whole 'bucket list' there are very many things I would like to do before finally expiring. I (quite erroneously I'm sure) believe that by keeping the list long and difficult I will somehow cheat the inevitable.

Visiting The Isle of Man was one such thing 'to do' and being rather partial to motorcycles it had to be at the time of The Manx Grand Prix, a quieter event than the world famous TT held earlier in the year. A virtual monopoly of sea crossings is held by the Victorian sounding Isle of Man Steam Packet Company and booking early is advisable. I wasn't at all prepared for the beauty of the place, helped immeasurably by a week of glorious weather...vast expanses of high, wild moorland, rocky glens and lush meadows in the lowlands. Standing at Snaefell the views are stunning - you can see the Mountains of Mourne, The Solway Firth and Wales.

The beauty of The Manx GP is that racing is held on alternate days...which as racing is over some 37 miles of public roads, means that the rest days allow travelling all over the Island rather than being confined to either the inside or outside the track. From the beauty of the Calf of Man at the southernmost tip to the purple heather moors of the mountains it's difficult to believe what gladitorial mayhem is acted out on racedays.

Bear in mind that the TT lap record is some 130+mph average speed over narrow, less-than-perfect country roads and you'll get some idea of what I mean. Young men (the eldest of whom this year was 71) are flagged off at intervals and essentially race against the clock as well as each other at what can only be described as an insane pace. I have never seen two wheeled devices travel so fast and furious, made all the more breathtaking by their being on not much more than country lanes. Our group of MGP 'virgins' were so affected by these sights that we needed the following day to get over the adrenalin high...mostly by walking and in some instances circulating the course as pillion passengers on my elderly British 'bike at a less than breakneck speed.

Watching the racing means that you need to duck down country lanes to reach suitable viewing points. One such is Hillberry which has a pure 1950s feel to the facilities offered to spectators...plenty of nice fried food sandwiches and glasses of orange squash. Within feet of your nose 'bikes career past at 170mph which has the ultimate effect of driving one to the excellent 'Trafalgar' pub in Ramsey after racing's over for the day. Here I met the gentleman pictured with the ancient Norton and double adult sidecar - he arrived with two young daughters in the 'chair' and long suffering wife on the pillion having dragged the whole plot up from Gloucestershire behind an ancient bus at a stately 46 miles per hour.

One last nice touch is the way the race timings, rather like 'I'm sorry I haven't a clue's' laser display board, are offered to the public in the grandstand...a real signwriter in overalls with a bucket of whitewash, writes them up!

I think I might return.

Double Gloucester

2010-08-10T03:20:00.000-07:00

Prescott, near Cheltenham is one of those places where the eccentricity of the English is on full display and my goodness it takes many forms. I should explain. Prescott is the venue where over the course of a weekend in early August the Vintage Sports Car Club (think cheese-cutter caps, Tattersal check shirts, plum colour corduroys and well worn brogues) holds a hill climb for members owning suitable cars. The event is held at the hill owned since the 1930s by the Bugatti Owners Club, and as I have described before is in an idyllic setting. The paddock for the competing cars is an orchard and each small 'equipe' sets up base around the individual vehicles. Most devotees have been attending for donkeys years and choose to camp in the considerable acreage set aside for such an uncomfortable pastime. They are rewarded throughout the evening by impromptu jazz sessions, outdoor cinema shows and talk of cylinder heads, superchargers and magnetos. A sort of internal combustion Glastonbury. There's a fine mix of accents to be heard too, from the decidedly cut glass "phar phar phar" of the PSBs to the "eeh lads" of the bluff Yorkshiremen to the "well oyl be's" of the West Country farmers. This is a place where millionaires mix with mechanics and some are both. There's an overwhelming sense of appreciation of the way in which these arcane vehicles are put together and the skill and verve with which they are driven. People get as much satisfaction competing in a home-built Austin 7 special as a pristine Grand Prix Bugatti and the lack of sponsorship means that it's individual effort that counts. The car above captures perfectly the spirit of the event. It was built prewar by Basil Davenport and consists of an early GN cyclecar chassis with a powerful V twin Vitesse engine. As you can see it carries the scars of decades of competition and wears no front wheel brakes, its uncompromising aluminium bodywork carries the driver in the most narrow of seats. Despite its spindly and what might by some to be considered 'unkempt' looks, it still has a remarkable turn of speed and is capable of competing with far more modern machinery. It is the essence of the spirit of the pre-war amateur driver and constructor and will always be associate with that other mecca of speed hill climbing, Shelsley Walsh in Worcestershire.

If you decide to make the pilgrimage to Prescott don't forget to visit The Bugatti Trust as well. A superb facility tracing the design and production of Bugatti cars, but also the furniture of Carlo Bugatti and the sculpture of Rembrandt, Ettore's brother.

Eric and James Ravilious

2010-07-06T02:07:00.000-07:00

A superb exhibition opened last Friday at the Towner Gallery, Eastbourne. The Towner, long a repository of some fine work by that most English of watercolourists, Eric Ravilious, has a show featuring not only his paintings but also a photographic collection of the work of his son James. Sadly the two never knew each other as Eric lost his life in a flying accident during the war whilst employed as an official war artist. James grew up with his father's eye for truth and observation though, and his recording of scenes of village life and landcsape around his home in Devon never lapse into either chocolate box or have so much 'verité' that they become inaccessible - simply, it is as if the photographer is not there, his presence never trespassing upon the scene - a rare gift and proof positive that James was completely accepted by his subjects with an ability to blend into the background. Never asked to pose, the characters peopling his work are consequently full of life and vigour. Eric's work has always been amongst that of my favourite artists...watercolours and yet not in the conventional style, a dry brush, cross hatching, muted colours, extreme detail but also expanses of landscape and sky with hard edges to the clouds. Of course I'm no Bernard Berenson so my analysis is a bit thin and it sounds like it shouldn't work, but it does, triumphantly! There's a lot about his chosen subject matter that pleases a Sussex person and indeed much of the exhibition contains work from my area, but again not always the obvious...of course The Downs, but also Newhaven Harbour and the long-gone Cement works only a couple of miles from the highly decorated Charleston 'set'.

On show too are Ravilious' wood engraving (his engravings are stunning works in miniature by the way) tools wrapped in a velvet cloth and James' beloved Leica camera with its customised lenses. Thinking I might finally avail myself of the reproduction Ravilious 'Alphabet' mug by Wedgwood at the gallery shop I was told that they are no longer available and the manufacturer's future is far from rosy...sad but there were two lovely books to be had featuring the work of father and son to which I can turn whenever I need a Ravilious fix.

Without a safety net.

2010-06-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

As life grinds inexorably towards its dusty conclusion (you're particularly cheerful today - ed.) one wonders at what possibly could excite and stimulate more than the things one has already indulged (or in some cases, over-indulged) in. Yesterday's 'first ever' was a Gliding experience. A present from my wife for the significant birthday, a mixture of apprehension and procrastination pushed the event right to the wire and Sunday was the final opportunity before the voucher ran out. Providence provided the most glorious weather and an amiable and experienced instructor. Our local gliding club at Ringmer near Lewes was the location and we opted for an aerial tow whereby an aged Piper aircraft drags the glider by what looks like not much more than a piece of washing line, up to 2,500 feet. A parachute is helpfully provided accompanied by the words "bend your legs when you land"...which makes the EasyJet lifebelt instructions sound rather wimpish in comparison. After a thorough briefing we we were cocooned in our two seater tandem cockpit and airborne almost as soon as we were moving. Cast off somewhere over Firle Beacon, the flying tug veered sharply away towards Brighton whilst we banked towards Eastbourne. Silence! except for the rushing of the air around us, this was more akin to sailing...wonderfully graceful movements and changes of direction make one feel a part of the whole plane. The flat lands of Sussex lay spread out below us whilst the high Downs in their magnificence rise up against the channel beyond, a living Ordnance Survey map with all the features beautifully defined and laid out for me to spot. I felt as if I was the first person ever to have flown, so different was the sensation from that of package travel, and imagined what life must have been like for the young men stationed at the tiny Battle of Britain airfield beneath us at Ripe. Their view was much like mine but overlaid with a terrible purpose in what could at any time have become a life or death struggle. I counted my blessings. Through lack of thermal activity we swooped low over the trees and made a most dignified landing - total time in the air, just 18 minutes, and I luxuriated in every one of them. I'd definitely repeat the experience although being caught in a turbulent storm doesn't appeal much; apparently it requires a five hour solo flight before you get your 'wings' as a glider pilot - up there, alone with just your thoughts - it has an appeal...

The sepia picture is of Herr Fokker who gave several demonstrations of gliding in Sussex in the early 1920's. The Daily Mail also ran an international gliding competition at Itford Hill, close to Lewes, in 1922. Sussex can rightly be said to be the birthplace of gliding in England - hooray!

Nuclear near Romney

2010-05-10T06:31:00.000-07:00

The little lanes of East Sussex, and there are many, afford the finest views and virtually the only remaining opportunity within the county to capture the essence of what motoring must have been like in the twenties and thirties of the last century. Our journey from New Anzac takes us to Burwash where Kipling made his home at the fabulous ironmaster's house of Bateman's and then eventually to far Dungeness. The day is far from clement and a bitter wind reddens our faces as we negotiate the twists and turns of the lanes 'Dumb Woman', 'Float' and 'Poppinghole'. Driving across the flatlands teeming with sheep and wildlife the roads brings us to ancient Winchelsea and our route leads through its ancient streets, emerging onto the Rye road. Skirting Rye, destined now forever to be an inland port, the tourists are already gathering and defiantly licking their ice creams, collars turned against the chill easterly. Towards the remote church of East Guldeford, we turn south for Camber and unlike most of the stony Sussex coast...sand! The holiday camp, so redolent of the 50's now sports a fine new overcoat but somehow you know that underneath it's still very much 'Hi-de-Hi' with red-nose comics telling questionable jokes and much boozy nocturnal activity between the 'huts'. Soon we are at our destination, although the nuclear power station curiously juxtaposed with a spanking new wind farm has been visible for quite some time. Past Derek Jarman's lonely hut with it's nature-defying garden and driftwood sculptures, we pull the Delage onto some shingle in front of The Britannia pub indulging in a pint of Shepherd Neame and a lunch of extremely good fish and chips. The unmistakable sound of an American steam whistle somewhat incongruously attached to a narrow gauge English 'Pacific' miniature locomotive draws us from the pub as one of The Romney Hythe and Dymchurch's finest drags in it's rake of carriages. We gaze at the lighthouses, and freeze quietly in the wind as the silent power station sends its charge down the arteries and veins of pylons spreading across the flatlands and beyond our view. We snap Jarman's hut as we leave this otherworldly part of Kent and and half expect to see his gaunt features framed by a hat and scarf appear in the doorway - we don't, but of course this unusual place is also one of ghosts.

Hedge Fund

2010-04-09T02:47:00.000-07:00

This is not as common a site as it once was. A properly laid hedge and right on the boundary of urban Brighton. Such skill, such precision, such artfulness in bending nature to man's will. They say that a job done well will last fifty years before it'll need doing again. Probably the finest livestock barrier devised, and growing and enriching itself naturally after this drastic surgery, although in this case the livestock is human on the eastern edge of town. Bordering land owned by the City, one can only assume some sort of unusually imaginative and benign decision was taken to adopt this far-from-cheap form of hedge maintenance. If you want chapter and verse on the craft of hedge laying, and it is poetry! - read Roger Deakin's 'Wildwood' which covers the subject wonderfully well.

Brighton or bust!

2010-03-12T06:27:00.000-08:00

The pictures remind me that this coming Sunday is the annual Pioneer Run from Epsom to Brighton for veteran motorcycles. This event always attracts the best of British eccentricity. These shots demonstrate it perfectly. Not content to hitch a wheezing ancient motorcycle to a heavy sidecar, the hopeful owner then fills it with a wife and two dogs. Obviously one wears a tie when riding such machines...and a deerstalker hat if possible too. The De Dion tricycle (I think that's what it is), being rather sporting and fast requires its owner to sport a conventional crash helmet.

Nery-a-cross word

2010-02-28T04:38:00.000-08:00

This curious device is named a 'Ner-a-Car' and aptly too, for it is neither a motorcycle nor a car but successfully combines the bad points of each. Heralded as the new 'best thing on wheels' by its inventor, one American gentleman named Carl Neracher, it was made under licence by the grandly titled Sheffield Simplex company of Kingston upon Thames. For the mechanically inclined it has friction drive involving the forcing of a buffalo-hide covered roller against a brass flywheel which effectively, or rather, ineffectively gives speeds of slow and not-so-slow. It has two brakes, both on the rear wheel and operated independently. The handlebars are really there as a place to rest your arms, for the device is hub-steered like a car and despite the primitive appearance the motorcycle can be manouvered by moving your bodyweight in the required direction. The handling is extremely stable and quite in advance of anything of its time.

Having always been fascinated by the off-beat when it comes to transportation I heard of this device languishing in a disused fish shed in Maldon, Essex. The owner was charming but already had too many sick donkeys in his sanctuary and saw that I would give it a warm, dry stable. It is in what we old vehicle freaks call 'oily rag condition' which means that it's very original but has never received the dignity of polish - rather it has been preserved by liberal applications of a diesel-soaked rag. Consequently it looks (and smells) quite delightful. Having lugged the beast home I studied the miniscule instruction manual and it struck me that here was a machine that was quite serious in its intent; it would be laughed off the market today but must have been quite a revelation back in 1922. Apparently the Ner-a-Car was advertised in magazines like Country Life as well as in Legal and professional medical journals. Many found a following amongst midwives and country doctors, particularly attracted (it says here) by the ease of control and the comprehensive weather equipment. I can tell you that I doff my cap to the sturdy midwives of the 1920's for it is anything but easy to ride requiring octopus-like dexterity to even start the machine in motion. However, on a flat surface, like a billiard table, say, and with a fair wind behind you on an extremely quiet country road there is a certain charm with the tiny two stroke engine emitting clouds of noxious fumes which are thankfully left far behind as you buzz serenely along at around 25 thoroughly English miles per hour.

Last summer the lanes of a remoter part of East Sussex were home to me and the Ner-a-Car as I triumphantly completed a journey of some twenty or so miles, much of it spent with my 'assisting' the little 'bike up the mighty hills thereabouts. But I made it! and my triumphant return to that most delightful of pubs, the Six Bells, Chiddingly was greeted by gales of laughter by the crowds of young motorcyclists who gravitate there on a Sunday. Their mockery turned to undisguised amazement when I parked in their midst and to downright admiration when I regaled them with my (slightly exaggerated) tales of the open road. Ner-a-Car, Ner-a-Bike, Ner-a...nything really, just a huge amount of fun at the expense of its thoroughly worthy inventor - I love it.

Government business...

2010-02-22T06:53:00.000-08:00

Going through all the stuff that's left behind when people shuffle off this mortal coil there's always a quantity of what the dealers like to call 'printed ephemera'. This is an example. Nothing remarkable but somehow it sums up the austerity Britain in which I grew up. Of course I had no idea that I was living in austerity Britain at the time what with my free clinic orange juice and cod liver oil and machines in shoe shops that x-rayed my feet. The point is that we were being taken care of, and the government was providing for us. This notebook, dated (can you believe they'd bother to do that?) 1952 proudly states that it is 'Supplied for the Public Service'. The cover is set in Gill in just two weights with a little Times for the reference number and has the look of those 'Don't Panic' posters so popular these days - consequently it appears really quite modern. How nice it would be if rather than the ubiquitous 'red and black' notebooks so beloved of account managers today, someone would produce one of these little beauties or it's foolscap equivalent and start taking down the great matters of pith and moment. My aunt who worked for the 'Min of Ag and Fish' scribbled in thousands of these cream covered notebooks as she tramped the dairy farms of West Kent and East Surrey in her mission of enforcing dairy hygiene and eradicating TB. Her journeys, upon which I occasionally accompanied her took place initially in her MG 'Y' Type sporting saloon, actually a rather underpowered device which however smelled delightful and gave one the impression of traveling around in a drawing room. As dusk approached the orange glow from the octagonal dashboard instruments proved mesmerising and I was normally sound asleep by the time we arrived home. I can still catch the aroma of her Chanel Number Five mixed with Morney's Lilly of the Valley...a curious juxtaposition with her stout brogues, tweed suits and beret...there was something of P.G.Woodehouse about her. She used cattle artificial insemination rods to prop up her Chrysanthemums and took great delight in telling the vicar when he asked where she managed to find such useful items. Funny how such an insignificant object should awaken those memories.

White Castle

2010-01-22T07:28:00.000-08:00

We were introduced to White Castle Hamburgers by some American friends on a recent visit to the USA. Travelling between Indiana and North Carolina and visiting various historic Civil War sites en route we detoured especially to take in this regional chain. Our friend had fond memories of dining out 'en famille' during the 1950s with her father bringing out bags of the tiny square steamed burgers named 'slyders' to a car full of excited kids. Based in Columbus Ohio this was the first burger chain so you know who to blame. The first 'restaurant was opened in 1921 in Wichita Kansas and the whole thing grew from that. None of us admitted to being great burger fans and yet there is a sort of country innocence about these places that you don't find at a Burger King or a Mcdonalds. The company pioneered portable and prefabricated structures with wipe-clean interiors made of stainless steel and enamel, thus anticipating the bigger players by many years. Architecturally styled with crenelations based upon the Chicago water tower they emulate stereotypical fairytale castles, given a deal of artistic licence...incidentally much in the same way as some of the more 'historic' buildings here in New Anzac on Sea. For a hamburger chain it's miniscule with almost 400 outlets, none of which is franchised and the company is unencumbered by debt. They also pioneered the disposable paper hat (a bit like a printers origami hat but cleaner) for their kitchen staff who are immaculately turned out. Our sole visit to a White Castle was fun, not least in the ordering of some twenty hamburgers between four of us plus the obligitary hogshead of Coca Cola. It was all very blue collar and we lucked out in the chat with some jovial staff members who quite naturally failed to understand what the hell we English were talking about. A little piece of lost America that's still hanging on...

East Coast and Adnams

2009-12-15T04:09:00.000-08:00

Suffolk is surely up there amongst my favourites of the English Counties. I've been living (on and off), and visiting there for the best part of thirty years and it still has the power to seduce. A recent weekend stay in Southwold had, on paper, nothing going for it all; almost continuous rain and the sort of hoorays in the pubs of the type who turn up the collars of their rugby shirts whilst guffawing over-noisily with their chums. And yet I can't dislike a place which still boasts proper greengrocers, butchers and great pubs riven through with a tangible atmosphere of 50's Britain. The WiFi in The Swan gives the game away but the Sailors' Reading Room maintains its inner calm as a sanctuary for the inquisitive visitor as well as being a reminder of the total commitment this town had to its maritime industry. Faded photographs of moustachioed cork-belted lifeboatmen modestly hint at the stories of immense bravery enacted in Sole Bay. Who couldn't fall for a town with a lighthouse at its centre? And the place is benignly overseen by that remarkable firm of brewers messrs. Adnams. A favourable sort of paternalism seems to run throughout the town, for the company owns much that is good and great about Southwold. I visited their small off-licence and was served by a charming local girl. On the following day I bought more goodies at their stunning new 'Cellar and Kitchen' store and was served by the same person. She seemed so happy in her work (as do most Adnams staff) that I was prompted to ask if this were true. She said that they were the most wonderful company to work for and that the chairman knew everyones name...indeed his office was always open if you wanted a chat. Now how many companies do you know that are run like that? Of course I may be wrong and it's all a front - but somehow I think not. They have a knack for doing things right; the pubs are well run and serve good beer and food, the new store has had immense thought put into its design utilising the most modern sustainable techniques in its construction, and the distribution centre just outside Southwold at Reydon is a triumph of modern architecture and practicality. Blimey! even the advertising is great, featuring as it does the inspired illustrations of the highly talented Chris Wormell which are so scrumptious they make you wish you were in Southwold on a permanent basis. What a talented young man he is...he's even produced out-of-register prints to be affixed to the Gents' lavatory doors to remind you of the dangers of over imbibing - sadly the only feature of an otherwise exemplary campaign that failed to work on me.

The pier too is worth a visit. Open every day apart from Christmas day it contains some beautifully comedic 'amusements' for the tripper to enjoy. Needless to say Punch and Judy too 'in season'. Incidentally the only pier to have been totally rebuilt in 21st century Britain.

Sorry about picture quality...operator error and near darkness.

Southwold, I can't wait to come back.

I must go down to the sea again

2009-12-07T09:22:00.001-08:00

A powerfully dramatic sea doing its best to broach the coastal defences. Nothing quite like a bracing walk along the prom on a gale-lashed sunday afternoon. There's an undercliff walk from Saltdean all the way to Brighton thanks to its remarkable accessibilty. The original 'Dover' road along the cliff tops has long since vanished and to prevent further encroachment during the recession-hit nineteen thirties Brighton Corporation embarked upon a programme of sea defences. Huge government grants provided work for ex miners and workers from some of the most distressed areas of Wales which is why there's still a preponderence of Evans' and Jones' in Brighton's eastern Kemptown area. My wife's father and grandfather as locals found employment there after a lifetime of farm work. The labour was hard and governed by the tides and with virtually no mechanical assistance, extremely dangerous. My father-in-law's job was initially as tea boy in charge of producing industrial quantities of the thirst quenching fluid, ready mixed with condensed milk and sugar, served up in scrubbed galvanised buckets. Later he progressed to being a labourer where the combination of freezing water and piece-work eventually drove him to sign up with the Lifeguards (military version) for an equally colourful and character-forming career. The undercliff work was completed and still stands today as testament to those hardy souls who built it.

Log cabin in the sky

2009-11-04T09:37:00.000-08:00

Approximately this time last year we made one of our regular trips to the USA. Guided by good friends we visited hither and yon but were much taken with Beech Mountain North Carolina. This is as far from the America of the tourist books you can get. The cabin is home to some of the most hospitable folks you could wish to meet. No mains water or electricity - just a well and a 'sometime' generator and the glow of oil lamps. Theirs is a tough life of farming, factory work and making do in conditions most of us would find intolerable. We met the family around the kitchen table on a dark rainy day; the cabin was warm and we could have been back in the nineteenth century. The mother, a diminutive woman up in her eighties with sharp attractive features and her nephew in his fifties, skinny, tall and wearing dungarees. Our friend led the conversation around to the telling of stories, for we were with one of several families from whom his parents had collected traditional songs and tales throughout the 30s. 40s and 50s...amongst which was the song 'Tom Dooley' (Frank Proffitt) made world famous by The Kingston Trio. The conversation about kith and kin ranged back and forth when eventually the nephew asked if we'd like to hear one of his 'Jack Tales' - would we! He commenced the story in a most dignified manner with an accent that at times was almost impenetrable; the story is of 'Jack' of Jack and the Beanstalk fame and the different tales are of his many adventures. For a quarter of an our we were transfixed and transported back to a time when this sort of thing was the norm, where the only entertainment was that which you made yourself and the skill of the singer or storyteller was your only theatre. As the story progressed the teller became more and more animated, gesturing to better describe the antics of Jack and the talking animals and laughing at the jokes he had heard a thousand times before. We were helpless with the infectious laughter and felt at one with the tale, the teller and the homespun magic. It was as natural as could be. We had been given a short glimpse back into the time of our ancestors. Even the accent...it was familiar, it was a kind of East Anglian! overlaid with a mountain drawl and added 'thee's' and 'thou's' which were pure Elizabethan English, but it was unmistakable. After the tale was finished the teller was at pains to let us know that the stories "come from England you know, come over with our kin long times ago, even afore they settled on th' mountain". And all those Hicks' and Proffitts' and all, they have something really precious. Something we've lost in our relentless search for the new, the gaudy and the temporary. Something everlasting, an anchor in their own culture that still works just like it always did.

All things must pass

2009-10-02T03:45:00.000-07:00

My old Dad died last month. I wondered if I should even blog this and upon sober reflection decided that it wouldn't be a bad idea if only to record the passing of another from that wartime generation. So no mawkishness, just a brief remembrance. If there was such a thing as a 'good' war my old man had one. As an RAF aircraft mechanic his task was to follow the advancing forces through North Africa and Italy repairing, rebuilding or destroying (if necessary) any disabled aircraft that came his way. Whilst still in Egypt the combined forces thought it would be a jolly wheeze to let the chaps blow off a bit of steam by forming an inter-services speedway league. There was no shortage of workshops, mechanical skills and materials so to the likes of Dad who'd been a grass track racer before the war this was Nirvana. By the time they got to Brindisi things were properly organised with cinder tracks being laid down and specialist motorcycles in full production. Of course everything was make do and mend and engineering ingenuity knew no bounds...from robbing ex-Wermacht BMWs for their prized overhead valve top ends to stripping despatch riders' bikes to virtually nothing, the lads were away. Here's a picture of Dad on his particular mount which followed as closely as could be the design of pre-war speedway machines. Competition was fast and furious and it wasn't unknown to recruit professional riders like Split Waterman as 'ringers'.

Post-war came peacetime flying in Dakotas, Viking, York, Hermes, Britannia, VC10 and 707. The logbook is one of three which covered his career. Remarkable entries in the late 40s carry such matter-of-fact comments as 'coal into Templehof' (airport during The Berlin Airlift) or 'emergency landing, port engine failure' or 'return to Blackbushe twin engine failure'. But I know of dozens of other situations that he was expected to remedy as a flight engineer far from home - I mean even allowing for the fact that most passenger aircraft are now jets, can you imagine persuading the passengers to disembark and yank on a rope attached to a propellor in order to start the engines? He did...the fact that the passengers were all squaddies on a trooping flight home and were marshalled by a barking Sergeant Major doesn't lessen the achievement in my eyes.

A quiet accomplished man, he had more intuitive engineering talent in his little finger than I could ever hope for. Never boastful, always ready to disembowel and put right my mates cars and 'bikes, he was extraordinarily free with his time and knowledge. I appreciated him, I loved him...but did I really know him? I don't think I really did. Should I have made more effort? - you bet. Happy landings.

Methanol and Magners

2009-09-14T09:10:00.000-07:00

One event I look forward to each year is The Brighton Speed Trials. First run in 1903 this makes it one of the oldest motor 'sport' events in Britain. But it's the location that absolutely confirms it. Madeira Drive runs from Brighton's Palace Pier to Black Rock, parallel to the sea and is owned by Brighton Corporation - indeed it was originally surfaced specifically to allow straight line racing there. On this particular Saturday in September the road is closed from early morning until 6.00pm in the evening when it must, upon pain of mayoral discipline, be re-opened for normal traffic. By 8.00am people are already crowding the railings high above the track for a free days' spectating. It's not there you want to be though. Pay up and look big! a ticket will take you wherever you want to go within reason but it's the only way to really soak up the atmosphere. An unlikely assortment of vehicles attempt their fastest times over a standing start quarter mile - it used to be over a kilometre but that got too fast and what with its being an ordinary road, it's now 440 yards in old money. There are modern cars, racing cars, sports cars and vintage cars - then there are the motorcycles, both new and of great antiquity, which for my money provide the highpoint of the day with their ludicrously fast times, spectacular burnouts and gorgeous aroma of Castrol 'R' vegetable oil. Within the pit area vehicles are lined up either side of the road and the drivers and crews are as interesting and varied as the machinery. The immensely wealthy with their exotic cars chat easily with the craggy old rockers and their antedeluvian motorcycles. Indeed with the latter it is difficult to gauge the cross-over between man and machine...oil, petrol, grease, baggy old racing leathers and whispy grey hair combine to produce a kind of all-in-one effect of rider and 'bike. A push start from a smartly dressed young man produces a bark and calico-tearing noise from a 1930's Rudge whilst the elderly pilot acknowledges the assistance with a cheery wave. Meanwhile further up the paddock, retired art teacher, James Augustus Tiller (his parents named him for Augustus John) fires up his tatty orange 1950's Allard sports car - this one's different though and stuffed full of the finest American speed parts you can shake a spangled stick at - the earth shakes as the rev counter rises and falls to the rhythm of his right foot. Soon he'll be attacking the tarmac for his umpteenth Speed Trials and probably winning his class yet again. Rumour has it that the car is already willed to an animal charity to be sold after his death - who knows? the whole thing is an enigma. He's a charming man and willing to answer any questions the young petrol heads queue up to put to him. The white banner proclaiming Start line is stretched above Madeira Drive as I walk towards the 'launch site'. The cars are forming an orderly queue awaiting their 15 seconds or so of glory...as a competitor you'll be lucky to see much more than a total of one and a half minutes of track time throughout the long day! So why on earth is this event always over-subscribed? - quite simply, there's nothing else remotely like it; virtually nowhere else in England do they allow the once-common practice of closing the highway for such a race...that and its unique position. Raffish, naughty old Brighton, the tart with a heart, seems ideal. The smell of fish and chips and vinegar pervade the atmosphere vying for your olfactory attention with the smell of burning methanol and hot oil. Fairground music comes tumbling across the sea from the Palace Pier and a child loses his helium balloon whilst mother chomps into an unfeasibly large hot dog; and everywhere urgent scurrying, scratching of heads and barked knuckles whilst performing a hasty plug change, pouring of petrol, wiping of googles, bravado chat about past runs and every, every year I say the same thing - 'I must have a go before I die'. Of course I never do and probably never will, but as the Magners begins to take hold I see myself crouched over the tank of my motorcycle gunning the throttle, my eyes fixed steadily on Black Rock, I bring the engine to a crescendo, drop the clutch and I'm gone. Unlike TE Lawrence who also loved such things I will never write 'The Seven Pillars of Wisdom'.

Doorway conundrum

2009-08-24T05:00:00.000-07:00

Here's an intriguing doorway. Can anyone tell me why it is this small and where it is located? We spent a pleasant couple of hours at the location in question where I indulged my rather chavvie (and new-found) taste for Magners and ice. Cider is what I started on and I suppose it's some sort of regression. Yes, yes, yes, I know it's not 'real' cider, but that Kingston Black my uncle introduced me to years ago was, and probably still is proper wheelbarrow mixture and not at all suitable for a lunchtime session.

Father of Chapel

2009-08-13T09:04:00.000-07:00

Wandering around Lewes in the early evening I looked again at a building with which I was once very familiar. WE Baxter Ltd, printers and bookbinders, a company with its roots right back in the early nineteenth century. Its founder George Baxter was a pioneer in the craft of colour printing and the prints he made are now highly collectable. Utilising a laborious method of separate engravings for each oil-based hue, the image was built up with many layers of individual colours all needing to 'register' perfectly one upon the other. None of your 4 colour process or CMYK here, then. Enormous numbers of these prints were produced, some estimates exceeding 100,000 which is nothing short of remarkable when you consider the primitive hand production methods. I worked at Baxters back in the early nineteen seventies and even then it was a business somewhat lagging behind the times. Theirs was a letterpress shop rather than having adopted the soon-to-be-universal photo-lithography. A world of hot metal type individually cast at great speed by Monotype casting machines. There was the clatter of the compressed air keyboards with anything up to a dozen men tapping away on what looked like vast typewriters producing spools of perforated paper making up the coded copy which, when fed into the casting machines on the floor below told them which fonts, upper or lower case letters, punctuation marks and numerals to use. If the keyboard room was loud, then the casting room below was like Dantes Inferno - everyone who worked there was practically deaf and wore no ear protection. The stifling heat radiated by the individual cauldrons of molten type (hot) metal was almost unbearable. Great shiny ingots of lead alloy embossed with the name 'Fry' were automatically lowered into the melting pots to replenish the quantities required to make all the letters needed to set a book, or a magazine or any of the printed ephemera we produced. The caster operators selected the correct Monotype matrices for whichever font was specified and the machine cast the words letter by letter in a continuing stream of fresh, hot type. The trays of type would then be rushed to the composing room where the overseer would select which compositor would be suitable for a particular task. Everything now was made up into paragraphs, have illustrative blocks added and the whole locked up in a 'chase'. Laid on a proofing press, the virginity of the type was deflowered by the application of a roller full of black ink. The resulting 'pull' usually on newsprint was then looked at by the compositor who rectified any defective characters, rising spaces or obvious spelling errors before passing a fair copy to 'the readers'. If all else was racket and mayhem, then the proof readers room was perfect quietude. Here, ancient men sat in Dickensian splendour on high stools with writing slopes before them. It was their job to read and correct all copy set by the company. Referring to original manuscripts or text supplied by customers they were tasked with reading every word and numeral to check for spelling, punctuation, style and even sense. They used hard blue long-leaded pencils to make their marks and when their work was complete, the copy was returned to the 'comp room' for correction. Then the whole process was gone through again. Finally, passed for press, the chase with its locked up type went into the machine room and was delivered to a machine minder whose task it was to print the job. As I sit at my Mac, the whole damned thing seems unbelievable now.

Of course the printing works has long since gone becoming a development of bijou residences called, unremarkably, the Printworks. The facade you see here is of the only remaining part of the original building and fronts onto School Hill. Thankfully it was a requirement that the gilded lettering and signwriting be restored and it is well maintained. I spent five happy years at Baxters with a workforce mainly of 'Rooks' (Lewes born residents). I like to think that the ghosts of printers and compositors stalk the trendy Ikea-bedecked rooms of the new flats and tut-tut at the slipshod grammar and typos (just like mine) in virtually every publication they might pick up. No 'spill-chok' for them, just ghostly blue pencilled proof readers marks in the margin of Wallpaper magazine.

Misspent youth

2009-07-14T03:39:00.000-07:00

One of my earliest memories is of being taken into a pub. A country pub, where such niceties as 'no children admitted' were sensibly ignored. Of course, as well as expanding my horizons it instilled in me a lifelong fascination with the places and a taste for alcoholic refreshment in its manifold forms. Pubs were wonderful back then. Well, not all of them, some were real dumps and had reputations for being the sort of places you could go for a good fight or to find female (or male) company of the kind which necessitated money changing hands. I suppose those places still exist but they are no longer thick with the fug of cigarettes and pipes, the lamps no longer glow hazily and the back of bar displays no longer hold packets of the numerous brands of cigarettes and tobacco. Neither do they dispense Mars Bars, Biscuits or Smiths potato crisps...all of which, apart from the nicotine-based items seemed to be purchased as placatory take-home items in a vain attempt to restore domestic bliss after an evening's indulgence. Quite how that worked when wives were being presented with a pickled egg wrapped in greaseproof paper, and the old man whispering booze-fumed entreaties I'm not sure - the promise of cupid's intentions was rarely matched by any sort of action. But back to pubs. My favourite aunt was involved for many years with a gentleman whose business was photography and his main client was Watney's brewery, both pre and post Red Barrel. Consequently I was the grateful recipient of numerous Watneys trinkets which had been left over from photo shoots - those little red barrels which seemed to adorn every keyring of the string-backed motoring glove class, and the collar of every dog of breeding. My bedroom was corrupt with virgin beer bottle labels, uncut and fresh from the press - Watney's Pale, Watney's Brown, Cream Label Stout - all highly collectable today, but mere trivia to me then. My night time reading was illuminated by a Watney's beer barrel shaped lamp and suruptitious Players cigarettes were extinguished in a Watney's barrel shaped ashtray, I'm surprised that they didn't produce a branded potty for the loose bladdered drinker. Needless to say all this breweriana has vanished and I don't even have a red barrel for my keyring...today I suppose it would be a symbol of what havoc the great brewing giants wrought on the small regional brewers.

The country pubs I knew were a very different pint of mild. From the unbelievably rustic and sparse to the 'Your hosts Den and Gwen welcome you' variety boasting extreme middle class comforts in the form of electric log fires and all the above breweriana strewn around the place for want of any other decoration. But they were cosy - a warm glow exuded from the moustachioed landlord as he dispensed the beer to the merry accompaniment of a saucy jest with a "don't mind if I do squire - just a shilling's worth" as the whisky tumbler was aimed precisely at the optic of the White Horse brand. Saloon and Public...everyone knew their place. My aunt aspired to the saloon bar class although she spent most of her time working with cowmen and farm labourers...that's what the Land Army does for you. My rose tinted spectacles take me back to The Greyhound in Hever, Kent where, courtesy of the sainted aunt who'd leave a few quid behind the bar, my cousin and I learned the delicate art of getting intoxicated whilst being of little trouble - behaviour which has stood me in good stead ever since.

The technically appalling shot is of a bar tray promoting soft drinks and mixers by Messrs. Hooper Struve and which neatly sums up the late 50s pubby atmosphere as the retailers would have had it. No leggy lovelies like her in The Greyhound alas. But maybe in the Coach and Horses, Danehill, where the tray is in the back bar.

It's a Nash, Frazer

2009-06-25T07:25:00.000-07:00

The pensive looking chap looking into the engine compartment is my 'beau frere'. He has just acquired this extremely purposeful 1929 Frazer Nash Super Sports. To be honest it rather suits his devil-may-care attitude and he will soon be terrorising the roads of East Sussex with it. For those of you who are interested in such matters, despite the car's relatively late date, it is driven by chains - several of them, in what is a theoretically highly efficient method of transmission. However, these chains break every so often necessitating much struggling at the roadside with the oily objects, re-connecting them, shortening them or throwing the worn out ones over the nearest hedge. The Frazer Nash has a marque following with an entusiasm bordering on the clinically insane. Huge journeys are undertaken in them, and due to their favourable power to weight ratio and fast acting transmissions they often win vintage races against much more esoteric machinery. Personally I like the unpolished Brillo-padded aluminium finish and the general touch of the smithy that characterises many of its fittings. As you can see it won't be long before it requires new tyres which, driven in the manner intended have a half-life of about 25 miles. Behind the wheel there are several items to amuse the conductor such as an object which looks like the handle from a garden syringe - this you pump furiously in order to build up enough pressure in the fuel tank to propel the motor spirit from tank to engine. The dinner plate size revolution counter would look more at home in the treadmill room of a Victorian house of correction and the other gauges, such as they are, have an air of The Great western Railway about them. All in all this is my type of car. Quite fast enough to frighten yourself, yet not so hot rod that it doesn't draw admiring looks from tweed-capped old gentlemen who nod sagely and talk animatedly of the late 1930's and tales of how you 'could buy a good one for fifteen quid in those days', etc., etc. It's nice to see this old iron being used for as long as possible before the powers that be declare how dangerous and antisocial it all is and that we should jack them all in for 2000 quid each and buy electric cars instead.

Still earning its keep.

2009-06-18T06:53:00.000-07:00

Here's a recent glimpse into a French shed. A wobbly and out of focus shot due to a half-starved Alsatian straining at its chain intent on grabbing what little virility I have left, I'm relying on more knowledgeable blogistas to identify the vehicle therein. From the little to be seen, it is utilised on a very occasional basis to gather the winter log supplies and has sacks thrown over it after its spells of duty. The registration number '89' gives its location as The Yonne and this is The Puisaye area. It looks to be American and I suppose was either abandoned there after the War or became one of the many French governmental vehicles which were drafted into the likes of Les Pompiers. This one's still in Olive Drab so maybe it was 'liberated' after all? The region of The Puisaye, whilst only about an hour and three quarters from Paris remains largely 'undiscovered', particularly by Brits although the Dutch have caught on in a bigger way. It is an area of blissfully beautiful countryside peppered with quiet villages and hamlets. If you are a night owl - forget it - everything closes down at around 7.00pm. On the bright side you can get a nice drop of Pastis 51 at 6.30am! Should the mood take you, they do a fine line in scythes and effective hand tools at the local agricultural merchant, all designed to help you tackle the wilderness you'll have to cut through to gain access to the 85,000 euro farmhouse, barn, seven hectares of woodland and a sizeable lake you've just purchased (having spent an expensive morning in the bar with the friendly local estate agent - see earlier reference to Pastis)

Ploughs and pasties

2009-06-05T01:57:00.000-07:00

St Winnow, Cornwall near Fowey. Where else, at the end of a gorgeously remote lane would you find a roadside caravan dispensing exquisite food and providing a diversion in the form of a farming bygones and miscellany museum? The weather was kind as we sat and munched our way through homemade pasties, farm-reared pork and South Devon beef rolls of such ample proportions that we were fair tuckered by the end. The museum (or large shed as it should better be described) is educational in its diversity, covering such miscellany as wheelwrights tools, primus stoves, gas masks and what can only be described as a devotional to David Brown tractors. These red prime-movers are scattered throughout the place, poking out from under sacks, standing in dusty formation and in one unlikely pairing, hitched to an old fashioned threshing drum. I say 'unlikely' for the tractor concerned is one of those airfield jobs which used to tow bombs and aircraft around the bases of Britain - all nicely faired-in and streamlined,surely only to satisfy the designers eye, as no possible aero-dynamic advantage could be gained. The building in which this lot is housed has a familiar construct about it; telegraph poles with their id. numbers still attached and clad in that perennial favourite, corrugated iron. The smell is delicious and well known to those of us who enjoy visiting such places...oil, grease, paraffin, diesel fuel and grain, with a mixture of old sacking and hay. A short walk down to the river brings you to St Winnow Church where episodes of Poldark were filmed...which applies to most of Cornwall...but it is a fabulous building with a barrel vaulted roof and wonderful carved pew ends. The day for us was rounded off nicely with a few pints at the admirable New Inn at Tywardreath - no food, just 'salt and vinegar' or 'plain' - and a great bunch of regulars.

Thomas, titfers and tobacco

2009-05-15T04:06:00.000-07:00

Lewes - although but a short distance from the questionable beauties of New Anzac is culturally, architecturally and socially on another planet. The beautiful county town of East Sussex has, since the founding of nearby Sussex University, become home to a sort of intellectual upper middle class. Despite this it has an underpinning of anarchy in the form of the famous bonfire celebrations and their associated societies and also a deep-rooted radicalism. Arguably Britain's greatest radical, Tom Paine was an exciseman here and debated his influential politics in the historic White Hart Inn - a plaque outside commemorates his influence and records the part he played in the establishment of American independence.

Lewes abounds with pubs, the best of which are fed by the town's brewery and lynchpin, Harveys. It also has some interesting shops...avoid the usual 'one candle and a bolt of bleached linen' designer-homes variety of which the town has its share and instead head for Messrs Hugh Rae, Gentlemens Outfitters where you may purchase regimental or squadron blazer buttons to complete the caddish look. Why not buy a cravat? there's a range of paisley and military designs from which to choose. Or a very nice line in Tattersall check shirts. Trilby hats, Panamas, and Deer Stalkers are the favourites here along with those camel coats with velvet collars so beloved of the racing fraternity. Should clothing not be on your agenda, there's Catlin's just along the road - a proper tobacconist selling the substance in all its infinite variety from cigars, to cigarettes, to loose pipe tobacco to snuff. For all I know 'RedMan' chewing tobacco may be offered illicitly but I doubt it, the pavements give no evidence. Choose a pipe, or a cigarette holder, a tobacco pouch or a cigar cutter, indeed all the impedimenta of smoking, all the stuff that makes it so satisfying, and it's there just for you. However, if like me you are a lapsed smoker you cannot help but be seduced by the smells and packaging and remember the days. I no longer smoke but I still find the scent from a freshly opened jar of pipe tobacco absolutely heavenly. One glimpse of an old packet of 'Paffing Cloud', 'Gold Flake' (my favourite) or even 'Nelson' gets me coughing with excitement. She's a cruel mistress, tobacco, but to assuage your guilt you could pretend you were nipping into Catlin's for a bar of chocolate...

On yer bike

2009-04-30T00:51:00.000-07:00

They don't produce catalogues like this any more. A seductive drawing by Sydney R.Jones sets the scene for life in BSA land. No rain here, just a blustery day, and the countryside of England and Arthur Rackham woods within easy reach. The 1920's when a working man could buy (on easy terms) a motorcycle to liberate him and his family - should he attach a sidecar - to explore the open road. Cap reversed, a pair of Gamages shatterproof goggles a pair of stout boots and waders, and father was ready for whatever the elements could throw at him. A seaside trip to Dungeness or Camber Sands maybe, or a run over to Ashdown Forest for a picnic, the missus on the pillion (or 'tart tray' as it was unkindly known), accompanied by a couple of kids safely swathed in tartan rugs in 'the chair' - what fun! what an adventure! A stop for petroleum at the wayside garage where the kindly attendant, quite often a superannuated blacksmith, would hand crank the pump up and down its ratchet, delivering half a gallon a time of R.O.P. or 'the cheapest'. Top up with Castrol served in a thick glass bottle, maybe buy half an ounce of St.Julien and a packet of green papers and we're off again. The trusty BSA thumping away until the destination is finally reached. Buckets and spades are distributed and the kids charge over the Camber sand whilst father pricks the jet of his brass Primus stove and sets the kettle to boil for the ritual mug of tea. Mother, her Marcel Wave seemingly set in stone elegantly stretches out her legs as she reclines on fathers mackintosh. By lunchtime the kids are starving and the Shipham's paste sandwiches are dispensed from their greaseproof paper wrapping washed down with Fryco lemonade, the meal concluding with a giant Arrowroot biscuit. A post prandial nap for mother and father and a contemplative cigarette heralds an all-too-soon departure. The nights are drawing in and they've stolen a beautiful Autumn day. It's only wise to prepare for the final few miles home in the dark so dad tops up the carbide container on the acetylene lighting generator. This time he's remembered to bring a bottle of water from home but many's the time, 'in extremis' he's had to use his own, and a pretty precarious and difficult operation it's been. All aboard!, and one long swinging kick brings the BSA back to life, settling down to a steady rhythmic beat, push the hand change gear lever through the gate to first and we're homeward bound. Just another great day in Beeza - land.

Elephant Bug

2009-03-27T05:39:00.000-07:00

The Bugatti family were certainly a talented bunch. Carlo, the patriach was a designer of extraordinary furniture and jewellery whilst sons Rembrandt and Ettore were sculptor and automobile designer/manufacturer respectively. The picture taken at the HQ of the Bugatti Trust at Prescott near Cheltenham shows the radiator of one of the world's largest and rarest cars, the Bugatti Royale. Truly a leviathan, the 12.7 litre cars of which only six were built were a bit of a white elephant for Bugatti and he found them difficult to sell, even to the super rich of the day. Powered by an exquisitely sculpted and engineered motor it had but three speeds in its rear-axle gearbox of which top was only really necessary. Despite the size it looks perfectly proportioned in the metal with wonderful detail touches such as hand scraped finishes to the engine castings and sublime (and enormous) cast aluminium wheels. This example is now owned by the current Bugatti manufacturers, Volkswagen and is maintained by English specialists. The nice touch of using an elephant as a radiator mascot was, I like to think a touching memorial to Ettore's brother Rembrandt whose work it is - poor Rembrandt took his own life in 1916 at the age of 31. Ettore Bugatti was quite an extraordinary man and ran his factory from a chateau at Molsheim where he could also indulge his love of fine horses and carriage driving. His automobiles, among them the beautiful Type35 racing car were known as 'Pur Sang' or 'pure blood' just like his nags. The adoption of the eliptical logo with a capital 'E' reversed and conjoined with a 'B' over the name Bugatti on a red ground is iconic, and to carry the equine theme through, most Bugatti radiators were horseshoe-shaped; simple, distinctive and beautifully made of German silver. If ever an automobile designer got it right, it was Bugatti. The smallest details like bolts manufactured with their own distinctive built-in washers, were his trademark. Ever resourceful and pragmatic, the manufacturing capability was there for The Royale, so he built more engines and created innovative railcars for the French government. These were in use up until the war setting speed records along the way and utilised four of the mighty Royale engines...what I would have given to have stood next to a fast stretch of line to hear one go by on its open exhausts. After the death of his beloved son Jean, Bugatti carried on with many projects, working on new designs throughout the second world war and indeed created the exact opposite of the Royale in the Type 72, a 12.6cc supercharged cyclemotor designed for use in post-war austerity France...like it's big brother it never caught on. No detail was too small to escape 'Le Patron's' eye from the hinges on the doors at Molsheim to the design of carriage harness, to his clothes. I give you Ettore Bugatti - a jolly clever man.

Lido Land

2009-03-19T10:34:00.000-07:00

This gem of a lido lies adjacent to the busy A259 South Coast Road at Saltdean near Brighton. Built in either 1935, '37 or '38, depending upon who you believe, it was designed by RWH Jones and owes a little to the De La Warre Pavilion some miles East. It's now designated a grade 2 listed building which unfortunately doesn't guarantee its future (but helps) and seems to fall in and out of favour with the local authorities. It was grandly overhauled in the '90s but is beginning to look a little neglected again and could do with a lick of paint. Jones also designed the Ocean Hotel further up the hill which must have seemed opulent indeed back in the '30s...it became Butlins Ocean Hotel in 1952 having served its country throughout the war as The Auxiliary Fire Service College. Billy Butlin paid a quarter of a million for its 350 rooms and it remained a hotel until 2005...it's now a halting development project. Back to the Lido - it's a confection of concrete, crittalls, curves and ship-like structures with a terrace and sun deck. It has a proper childrens pool next to the adults one and now sports a sort of sail that is unfurled in the unlikely event of anyone being in danger of burning by the sun - a bit like they used to do in ancient Rome at The Colloseum, except in Saltdean they don't need half the sailors in the Roman Navy to unfurl it. It's not such a leap of imagination to visualise lying out on the grass in woolen bathing trunks, with a plate of dressed crab and a Thermos of tea, News Chronicle at the ready to swat the flies, whilst watching the gay young things in their bathing caps disporting themselves in the icy waters. On fine summer days the place is as popular as ever and the ghosts vanish. Why, isn't that Henry Hall I can hear wafting out of the Tannoy speakers?

The human G-nome project

2009-02-16T00:39:00.000-08:00

English front gardens 'peopled' with gnomes and ornaments are getting more scarce as gardens become parking places. Here's a choice example from our Cornish trip, which county incidentally, seems to sport some real exotica. This was in an urban location not far from the excellent art gallery and museum in Penlee House, Penzance. What a cornucopia of plaster people, animals and plaques, upon which are writ sincere thoughts of the 'arrive a stranger, leave a friend' variety. There's something about this wish to 'improve' upon nature that I find rather charming in a perverse sort of way. Are garden gnomes merely the natural external extension of plaster flying ducks across the sitting room wall or have they a more subtle meaning? That's the burning question of the day.

Toys were us

2009-02-03T09:18:00.000-08:00

Having re-met a friend with whom I was at primary school more than fifty years ago, it was remarkable how much we still had in common and how little in so many ways he had changed. I suppose neither of has grown up if the truth be known. On a recent visit to his home the conversation (rather naturally for boys of a certain age) turned to Dinky Toys, and without ado he rushed upstairs returning with a small pile of yellow, and blue and white striped cardboard boxes. At this point I realised that I had disremembered his penchant for tidiness, keeping symetry in all things...even his fighting in the playground would be addressed with an almost Victorian pugilistic stance. I then realised that 50s boys were divided into two camps...those who returned their Dinky Toys to their boxes after play and those who merely chucked them in a box. I fell into the latter category, which also meant that mine were played with al fresco. An orange Field Marshall tractor pulled its blue plough through soft sand and made very passable furrows. A Leyland Octopus pulled its mighty load of pebbles up impossible inclines whilst the Capstan Full Strength badged J-type Morris van delivered soil to the building site. Quite what the Centurion Tank and Mighty Antar Transporter were doing there is a bit of a mystery but was perfectly logical back then - who wouldn't want a tracked vehicle leaving its imprint all over wet cement outside our Prefab's front door? The cheeky Commer drop-sided wagon hove into sight with another load of soil to be dumped ready for Green Field Marshall number two to harrow satisfactorily into the surrounding field. All this was accompanied by much raspberrying and gutteral roaring as we emulated these leviathans climbing a nearby stretch of the A11. Thus passed just one pleasant morning of our 1950's childhood idyll. An apple pie cooled on the window sill and the unmistakable aroma of seived tomatoes on toast wafted out into the garden when the sound of Dad's pre-war Light Fifteen Citroen approaching alerted us to 'dinner', which was years before lunchtime had been invented. My friends all disappeared back to their prefabs for their 'dinner' only to return in the afternoon and commence play from where we had stopped...with MY batterend, scratched but much-loved Dinky Toys, obviously. Theirs were safely stowed away to be produced years later with barely a mark of use upon them. I wish I'd had just a tiny part of that self control, because I love, absolutely love, the fragile evocative well designed packaging. Sadly the photograph is of the mobile phone variety which I handle badly, but you get the idea.

Phoney Pharoah

2009-01-30T05:45:00.000-08:00

Excuse the Private Eyeism. This building is perfectly real. Being ignorant of The Egyptian House's very existence, imagine the surprise when I stumbled across this masterpiece on a recent visit to Penzance. It is simply magnificent and beautifully maintained by the look of it. Owned by The Landmark Trust, it's a mixture of shops and rentable appartments - what a fabulous place to stay! Designed by John Foulton of Plymouth, it was built around 1830 in the fashionable Egyptian style, originally serving a similar function to the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly which exhibited curiosities from all over the world. From memory I believe Gideon Mantell, the famous geologist and paleontologist (of Lewes) records visiting the London building and being much impressed. Having read some erudite architectural deconstructions of Penzance's pride and joy I find myself even more surprised that not only is it where it is but the fact that it got built there in the first place. The answer is of course that where there is money, just occasionally and deliciously, philanthropy sometimes follows. This is the product of a mind that clearly wished to create something absolutely unforgettable amongst the sturdy granite and brick fishing buildings of this West Country outpost...maybe something he'd seen on a rare trip to 'that London'. The Egyptian architectural and symbolic references apparently stand little scholarly scrutiny, but what do I know, its bloomin' marvellous and a real breath of (albeit 170 years old) fresh air

Window shopping

2009-01-21T08:12:00.000-08:00

When is a shop not a shop? Answer, when it's a cabinet of curiosities. This weird and wonderful collection of ephemera is subtly altered around (balloons are deflated sometimes) and objects changed/substituted on a random basis. You can't see the tinplate flying boat unfortunately but the sheet music to 'The Teddy Bears Picnic ' is clearly visible. Behind this old shop window lays a dwelling and a recording studio. It's owned by Patrick Berge(i)n the actor famous for playing Robin Hood and Julia Roberts' husband in 'Sleeping with the Enemy' amongst others. I rather like the surreal nature of a shop that sells nothing and displays all the goods it doesn't have for sale in the window which isn't a shop window anyway...if you see what I mean. Anyway it's in the village of Rottingdean, East Sussex and lies to the South of the Coast Road next door to possibly the finest Thai restaurant in the greater Brighton area, the 'Ros Thai' run by the unlikely sounding Gus himself a son of Siam. Not far away used to be the landing stage of the wonderful but ill-fated 'Daddy Longlegs' electric railway which once ran all the way to Black Rock, Brighton. Designed by Magnus Volk it was a crazy Victorian contrivance that actually worked but not well enough against prevailing South Westerly winds and died the night the old Chain Pier (see painting by JMWTurner et al) was destroyed. More of that another time when I can get a shot of the giant concrete sleepers which are still evident at low tide.

In Kent he made his Marc

2009-01-06T09:11:00.000-08:00

A winter jaunt took us along the coast eastward from New Anzac and beyond Hastings and its tarred netsheds, whence we struck up inland gradually moving towards western Kent. Our goal, under a grey sky was to seek illumination through the work of Marc Chagall. Not the most obvious place to look, yet in a small village near Tonbridge, the church at Tudely has a complete set of Chagall stained glass windows. Made in memory of Sarah d'Avigdor-Goldsmid they are a remarkable sight and somehow flood the church with a brightness not always associated with that medium. Chagall, often cited as the most important Jewish artist of the twentieth century seemed to struggle with his faith and sought ways of reconciling Judaism and Christianity - hence these and other pieces. He was a thorough Modernist and a contemporary of Miro, Picasso and Modigliani. Throughout his long life he worked in most mediums producing pieces for august bodies like the U.N. It is therefore a real surprise to find these windows in such an out-of-the-way place - although Tudely appears to be in the middle of nowhere it is cheek by jowel with busy Tonbridge and readily accessible. We were led to this place by a friend, herself a stained glass artist and it's fair to say we were all moved at such work being so natural and approachable. Funny stuff, stained glass, and very difficult to 'get right' if you know what I mean. From a stylised sailing boat against a setting sun in the fanlight of a 'twenties' front door to work like this, stained glass moves in mysterious ways its responses to elicit.

Once a year

2008-12-22T01:11:00.000-08:00

And so it came to pass. Saturday night saw us in the East Sussex village of Rottingdean with the Mummers Play peculiar to that place. Most villages in England had their own version of this traditional drama in years gone by. Folklorists such as the redoubtable Doc Rowe have made proper studies of this bucolic street (or to be more accurate) pub theatre and have amassed scores of different texts. The thread that joins them all together however is the age-old theme of death and resurrection but their origins are lost in a swirl of time and beer. Characters vary but are likely to include any or all of the following, or more - Father Christmas, The Prince of Wales (or any other monarch) A Soldier, Twing Twang (or any other ridiculously-named village idiot), The Doctor, A Turkish Knight, Little Black Jack or Beelzebub, and a Widow. I believe the purists call this a 'Hero Combat ' play but since I haven't Wikepedia'd it I couldn't comment one way or the other. What I do know is that the Rottingdean play was committed to paper by it's last surviving performer, my wife's grandfather, Jim Copper. Tellingly he wrote beneath the text, 'Faded out 1896'. He was right, too, for his contemporaries had either lost interest or the older players had died and Jim performed the whole play himself one last time in (I imagine) a sort of Tommy Cooper fast hat changing routine. As with his repertoire of songs, however, he was determined that the play wouldn't die, but it was a long delayed fuse that was re-lit in 1971 when various members of the family resurrected it and it's been going ever since. The veracity of the play is confirmed by Angel Thirkell, novelist and granddaughter of Burne-Jones who lived in Rottingdean. The play was traditionally performed in the pubs and the big houses around the village centre and she lived in three of them; in her book 'The Three Houses' she records the annual visit of the Mummers to her home, describing the mens uncomfortable shufflings and awkwardness, also the smell of sweaty corduroys after they'd left. Still, they'd picked up a few shillings in beer money from the wealthy and great. We now confine our 'performances' solely to two pubs in the village and one back at our 'Prince of Wale's' own establishment just up the road in New Anzac. This provides more than enough opportunity to become refreshed with Harveys best bitter and the sword fights, an intrinsic part of this jolly drama, become ever more daring and vibrant. The play concludes with our ringing the ancient Rottingdean handbells, the sight and sound of which is well worth the (non) price of admission, what with there not being quite enough bells, some of the clappers being missing and nobody possessing any skill whatsoever. This does not deter however and we make a brave, if confused stab at at least five carols. The audience, all valiant with ale themselves applaude rapturously as we tumble towards the welcoming bar for a fresh injection of the Lewes medicine. Having been killed for the third time this evening I am once more resurrected, and live, I sincerely hope, to fight another year.Christmas has finally arrived and through this ridiculously charming play we've been given a small glance into what passed for entertainment in years gone by. One thing's for sure...they had fun.

Tricycles are nicycles with icicles

2008-12-15T09:43:00.000-08:00

More petrol-based stuff I'm afraid but Sunday was my baptism of fire concerning the Morgan Trike. My bro-in-law has recently purchased one of these devices, a Morgan Aero circa 1932. The occasion of our journey was a meeting of The Morgan Three Wheeler Club in miserable weather conditions but taking us on a wondrous route through darkest Sussex. Eccentricity is the name of the game where these game little cars are concerned. Fortunately, 'ours' has three speeds and reverse, whilst earlier models have two speeds and no reverse which makes for interesting manoevering. The ice generated around the carburettor on such a day as Sunday would have gladdened the heart of Frosty the Snowman and seriously increased our fuel consumption. Naturally, once we had become lost a couple of times we ran out of petrol, and whilst contemplating our lot, what should hove into view but a half-timbered Morris Minor, the jovial driver of which made free with his spare can of the precious fluid. On our way once more we fair scuttled along scattering leaves and squirrels before us. The sensation of speed is heightened by the vehicle's being so low - you can place the flat of your hand on the road from the seated position when stationary. Nevertheless it will achieve around 80mph which I should imagine is a truly trouser-changing experience. Not being the sort of fellow who is naturally clubable I was pleasantly surprised by these Mogmen and women...a usefully eccentric bunch, they more than matched their cars which happily took them on jaunts across the Channel to places such as Latvia. Suffice to say we had such fun in this car that I have to say I wouldn't mind one myself. The game's afoot!

Gordon's for a tonic.

2008-12-12T02:23:00.000-08:00

Another extremely poor shot grabbed on the camera phone as I went in. I almost hesitate to mention this place. It's so wonderful. In Villiers Street the institution which since the 1890s has been Gordon's Wine bar never fails to provide a haven for the weary ad man. An unprepossessing entrance takes you down into, well, a cellar, or series of them. In some parts it's barely posssible to stand upright - and that's before you've imbibed. It's quite gloomy down there as indeed it should be with candles providing much of the illumination, and the flaking walls carry an eclectic mix of printed ephemera - a brave Victorian lithograph of some Boer War action here, or an old Music Hall poster there. You come here to drink wine or it's fortified cousins, sherry or port. Nothing else. The bottles are stacked behind the bar in rank after gorgeous rank and the soft squeak and 'pop' of corks being drawn is the only musical accompaniment to the jolly badinage of the disparate clientele. A perfect spot for assignations, couples who shouldn't be, huddle at rickety tables their faces desperately longing, candlelit in a sad chiaroscuro. Tragic and romantic. Merry businessmen of the camel coat and velvet collar kind get stuck into port and talk of National Hunt Racing and the 'little filly ' who's Robert's new secretary. Tourists sit in wonder and can't quite believe where it is they are - it's so far removed from the London of gloss and glitter. It's rumoured that 'operatives' of HM government frequent the place...but how could we tell if they did? If you've had a good lunch somewhere in Town I recommend that you skip the dessert and make for Gordon's and enjoy a glass or two of Port and a plate of Stilton. Cool in Summer, warm in Winter, Gordon's is the perfect place to waste your time.

Is it a plane, is it a car?

2008-12-08T04:33:00.000-08:00

This wondrous device was seen at Prescott earlier this year. Constructed by the omni-talented Roger Smith it is a reconstruction of the French Leyat propellor-driven car of the 1920's. There are contemporary photographs of such devices cruising the Champs Elysées although the handling with their rear wheel steering must have been 'exciting'. You'll note that there is a pedestrian strainer across the front of the prop and the whole shebang is powered with, I believe a flat twin ABC engine contemporary with the period. It seems unbelievable now that such a machine could have been developed as a serious competitor to the regular motor car and indeed its survival rate appears to be quite low. There exists a wonderful book covering the exploits of the 'constructeur' as he demonstrated his brainchild throughout France. A fine heavily patinated touring example is on display at the fabulous Musée des Arts et Métiers in Paris. The one illustrated is a saloon and true to the original is built entirely on lightweight aircraft principles with much wire cross-bracing and canvas seating. This crazily exotic contraption is a joy to behold as it tail-twitches its way up the road conducted by whom?...a pilot or a driver?

Cinquecento in a corner

2008-11-25T07:14:00.000-08:00

In Dublin for just two days last week and among the modern buildings and re-development was a phenomena which I thought had all but dissappeared. The city centre garage. High rates and property prices have driven away many lock-ups and 'maintenance' sheds that were once a feature of railway arches and the less than salubrious parts of our cities. But here in a side road not far from Pearce Street is one such place. Gleaming at the back is a Fiat 500 surrounded by the detritus of the motor trade. The shot is not brilliant because as I was busy 'Litchfielding', a surly son of Erin arrived back after a test drive and I beat a hasty retreat lest I should feel the power of his mighty knuckles which definitely looked on the cards. I remember working late into the night in such dens trying to coax old bangers back to life or through a final MOT. There's something about the heady aroma of oil, petrol and residual carbon monoxide all bathed in stark neon lighting, that makes me think '"I'm glad I haven't got that corroded Ford Anglia anymore".

Bauhaus in Bexhill

2008-11-16T06:06:00.000-08:00

The shabby gentility that is Bexhill-on-Sea boasts the wonderful De La Warr Pavilion. This 1935 Modernist masterpiece was the work of Erich Medelsohn who won the RIBA competition for its design. Mendelsohn, a contemporary of Bauhaus stalwarts, Walter Gropius, Breuer and Moholy Nagy came to Britain following the rise of German Nazism. The Earl De La Warr was socialist mayor of Bexhill and it was he who persauded the local council to develop this prime site for their own social purposes. Mendlesohn, in partnership with British architect Serge Chermayeff presented a radical design involving ferro-concrete over a steel frame. The building was to comprise a hall seating 1500 and also included a 200 seater restaurant and other areas which would probably be described as ‘break-out zones’ in ghastly modern parlance, which now serve as shop, galleries and public spaces. The result remains a triumph - the perfect seaside building, so light and airy and where you are always aware of the outside weather conditions. To the South there’s a fabulous spiral staircase which takes you to the restaurant and which contains this extraordinary lamp of polished aluminium and neon tubes. Set in the floor is the circular plaque reminding us of the designer and of the opening date. On a sunny day this stark white building is incredibly dramatic and still has the power to inspire. Do visit if you get the chance - the restaurant and bar serve good food and there’s usually an interesting exhibition in progress...which is why I was there. There's a Ben Nicholson exhibition until January and it's a real stunner! A well curated show of works made throughout his life, from figurative to abstract and back again. I’d always admired his father William’s work as illustrator, lithographer and creator of that beautiful graphic alphabet - his son is very different, but equally fascinating. Ben was married to Barbara Hepworth, the second of his three wives and clearly the two fed off each others prodigious talents. The Pavilion somehow seems the perfect space in which to view these paintings.

Winged Wheel

2008-11-12T03:39:00.000-08:00

This sign is to be found on the wall of 'The Smugglers Inn' Alfriston, East Sussex and is kept in good repair. When first erected, you can imagine the Edwardian scene as intrepid bicyclists rode out from Lewes or Eastbourne to descend upon this picturesque Downland village - daring 'gels' and dashing blades speeding along on their single speed Rudges and Sunbeams with probably an enforced break or two to mend a puncture caused by the horseshoe nails that would have littered the lanes. The reward of a refreshing glass of Fryco lemonade and a plate of scones at the end of the ride would have spurred them on to greater feats of derring-do. Long beloved of tourists, the 'tea Shoppe' trade still flourishes here and yet the pubs too have their place. The ancient 'Star' with its George and Dragon carvings over the door and its ferocious carved lion ships' figurehead is simply beautiful in its gloomy 'shaft of sunlight' saloon bar way. An early 'Trust House' Inn, it has been 'got at' over the years but still maintains a majesty that would be difficult to subdue. People like EV Lucas and the early guide book pioneers never failed to list its charms. Alfriston also supports the admirable 'Much ado about books' bookshop; run by a charming Bostonian (that's Mass. rather than Lincs) they specialise in the sort of titles that might find favour and stimulate the interest of the readers of Peter Ashley's 'Unmitigated' books for instance. It's a pleasant village probably best visited in the Autumn, Winter and Spring, for the tourist hoards can be oppressive. Not to be confused with Alciston, which Sussex in her perverse way places about four miles westward...nice and much loved by author and film maker Peter James.

By the side of the road

2008-11-08T07:28:00.000-08:00

All over France, just as in Britain, there are memorials to the dead of both the previous world wars. Sometimes in the middle of nowhere you catch sight of a simple engraved stone at the roadside and I've made habit of stopping and looking at them when time permits. Mostly these 'hidden' memorials are to members of the Maquis, the partisans, who continued the fight for France after she fell into German hands. Sometimes they are placed at the site of a skirmish, at other times where there had been a pitched battle. On French Armistice Day, however remote these these locations may be, they are decorated with tricoleurs and flowers. There is something so enduringly moving about the fact that young men and women who died in such tragic circumstances are sought out and remembered in this way, that it makes an old cynic like me feel not only humble but thankful too. Forgetting the politics and the machinations of nations, I think instead of the individual human sacrifice; each has a story to tell, each had a life unfulfilled each left a terrible void in a family somewhere. Here too at this time of year I make a personal pilgrimage to a lonely churchyard carved into the side of the North Downs. The tombstone in the South East corner of the graveyard bears my name, the same as that of a Sergeant Air Gunner, killed at the age of just twenty, the uncle I never knew. I spend a few moments in quiet thought, remove the small wooden cross that's still there from last year and replace it with a new one. In the unlikely event that people pass this way, they will know that this young man is still remembered.

The last, I promise...

2008-11-06T02:21:00.000-08:00

After all my fine words, I had to stay in and do my homework last night. The nearest I got to Lewes was to experience the aural sensations of the big societies' set-pieces exploding with a noise like thunder and clearly felt down here on the coast. Judging by the number of maroons going up, the Newhaven Lifeboat must have gone in and out at least fifty times. By all accounts it was a successful night with a fine construction of Messrs. Brown and Darling being exploded by the Commercial Square Society as their set piece. Numbers were down a little with normally difficult-to-get-at vantage points being (relatively) easy to secure. A combination of bad weather and it being mid-week were contributing factors to the smaller crowds but the atmosphere was reportedly as good as it ever is. The photograph taken by my mate Paul Lucas is not from this year but is pretty representative of the scene viewed from the bottom of School Hill. As I spoke to him in on his mobile in the town this morning I could hear Rook Scarers still going off...they don't let Bonfire go that easily.

Crash, bang, wallop!

2008-11-05T02:22:00.000-08:00

It being that most sacred day in Lewes, November 5th this is all I have to offer at the moment. This morning at 6.30am down in New Anzac on Sea I heard an explosion which heralds the days' doings in our county town some five miles distant. The bonfire boys have greeted another anniversary in their long tradition of celebrating the disemboweling of Guido Fawkes and the remembrance of the burning of protestant martyrs outside what is now the town hall. The town supports several bonfire societies whose members spend all year preparing for their day of days. Torches are made by the thousand and 'Lewes Rousers' (a particularly violent and powerful type of Rook scarer) are stuffed into bags ready for chucking around the feet of the crowds tonight. The atmosphere has been building for weeks - collecting tins shaken in the streets, collectors dressed in their costumes, programmes being sold. Giant papier maché effigies are made in conditions of high secrecy in order that the 'enemies of bonfire' are not revealed until the last moment. We've been treated to all sorts over the years from George Bush to General Galtieri, to Maggie Thatcher, to local politicians. They're always superbly crafted, irreverent, often crude in subject matter and stuffed full of fireworks and explosives... at the end of the evening having been dragged through the streets (these things are huge) they are ignited to huge applause and joysome noise. Bonfire concludes with Bonfire Prayers said around the war memorial on School Hill after which rites of passage, lunacy or substance abuse cause some persons to run through the glowing embers of the spent torches. They feel no pain - until tomorrow.

The pound in your pocket

2008-10-26T03:25:00.000-07:00

Introducing The Lewes Pound. Well it's been around for a while now and seems to be catching on in the town. As an idea to stimulate trade within the borough, it's caught on. You can buy your pounds at certain centres including the town hall and spend them in participating shops and pubs (and that seems to include most of the places you actually might want to shop or drink) - naturally Sid the supermarket supremo in any of his guises will have nothing to do with the scheme. If at any time you feel worried that you don't have 'real' money in your pocket you can exchange your Lewes note for a gold coloured clod. You can have them as change and thus increase circulation. The note itself is properly watermarked and has all the familiar swirls and flourishes so beloved of the engraver (sorry, Mac operator), it' s numbered too and the admirable Harveys brewery has a weekly draw based upon such numbers being in the lucky winners posession. A fine study of Lewes' most influential citizen, Tom Paine adorns the front and also an image of Lewes castle creeps into the local iconography. All this as you would expect from the town whose drinkers defeated, nay trounced, the mighty Greene King in a fight to have their local beer still served in one of Lewes' favourite pubs - The Lewes Arms.

How much longer?

2008-10-15T05:10:00.000-07:00

This Victorian letterbox is set in the wall of the old vicarage in Telscombe, East Sussex. Allegedly inhabited by the drummer of a famous rock band, the building is in fine repair and the post is still collected faithfully from this long-serving receptacle. You can't help but wonder how much longer this will all last, what with village post offices closing wholesale and the inexorable rise of email (try sending a parcel, mind). The physical presence and survival of these cast iron symbols of another age is nothing short of miraculous and serves to remind us that there were complaints in late 19th century London that letters posted in the city were not delivered within four hours. My how times change. Still, I for one am pleased that there are so many survivors. Telscombe village by the way is 'on the road to nowhere' and is as pretty a spot as you could wish to find, sitting in a deep hollow of the South Downs just a few miles south of Lewes. The benevolent squire of the village, back in the 'noughties, 'teens and twenties of the last century was named Ambrose Gorham. A successful bookmaker, Gorham bequethed the village and farmland to Brighton Corporation and it belongs, administered by The Gorham Trust, to, I suppose, the City of Brighton and Hove to this day. There was never a pub which has kept the place quiet and largely free of visitors, but the Squire built a social club for the benefit of the villagers. This' turf accountant' owned a Grand national winner 'Shannon Lass' and photographs of various horse racing triumphs once adorned the walls of the club. There is a most attractive church (of St.Laurence) on a site where there has been one since 960 odd. It's well worth a detour as you motor between Lewes and Newhaven or are walking the South Downs Way...for the hardy, there's a Youth Hostel to rest your weary bones.

A Chateau full of surprises

2008-10-13T06:18:00.000-07:00

If you trundle sedately South down from Dijon you will come upon the village of Savigny-Les-Beaune, and there you will find the Musee Du Chateau de Saigny-De-Beaune. A perfectly nice, traditional chateau with those pretty conical tops to the towers, it is in the heart of vineyard country and produces its own wines of that name and very fine they are too. In this rare instance though, my visit was not for purposes of alcoholic consumption but was rather that I was drawn by the sight of what must have been in excess of thirty jet fighter aircraft idling their time-expired lives away amongst the vines. Some had clearly been there a long time whilst others were relatively new arrivals - one thing was certain, they'd never take to the air again, leastways not from their present location. 'Worth a stop' I conjectured and my wife reluctantly, yet supportively, agreed. What we found was an Aladdin's cave of the most fascinating kind. Our journey took us through the wine shop and into a series of stables which housed a stunning collection of Abarth racing cars and equipment on two floors; here too was the reserve collection of unrestored and original motorcycles festering quietly in their own area awaiting either the restorers magic touch or....nothing. Outside and across into the main chateau found us climbing a vast staircase to the first floor where the premiere collectione' was displayed. From ceilings hung Victorian and Edwardian cycles, tricycles and light motor assisted bicycles - even a light aircraft. And then the row upon row of motorcycles down each side of the long narrow rooms; motorcycles of mainly French and British origin in good to mediocre condition, none apparently recently used all awaiting a turn of duty. The towers at either end of the corridors each contain a dais - on either end a collection of Vincents and Manx Nortons respectively. In the niches and fireplaces on the tower walls are shelves of engines of the most esoteric kinds, from Belgian FNs to French Motebcanes, twins, singles, 'V's and flats - everything one can imagine and all with that 'slightly unused, I want to be liberated' feel about them. I'm determined to go back, maybe to coincide with Europe's largest old 'bike event, 'Les Coupes de Motos Legendes' at Prenois near Dijon, next year...always supposing the end of world as we know it hasn't happened by then.

It couldn't be England

2008-10-01T20:11:00.000-07:00

The view from our motel window just couldn't be England. Corn, yes, well we have it, elephantine eye-height too, but those yellow things in the background - we don't have them. Railroad freight cars of great height and length with a suitably low entry to best facilitate the ingress of hobos. We were in Connorsville at the very east of Indiana where once well known automobiles were made, amongst them Cord and Duesenberg. Now it's a fairly ordinary place which we were passing through on our way to Nashville, Brown County Indiana, as part of an extended road trip. Arriving late and in need of both liquid and solid refreshment we were recommended and directed to 'Mousies'. Literally the other side of the tracks, we found ourselves in a packed 'bar-with-food' establishment where, on this friday night locals of all class and colour came to wash away the week's sorrows or simply gather for what looked uncannily like PTA meetings. Smoking's still allowed and virtually everyone lit up after their dinner, which made for a rather surreal experience - how quickly we forget.The waitresses were reassuringly mature, (if anyone has been to a 'Hooters' you'll know what I mean) loud and extremely efficient. Several glasses of the chilled and ubiquitous Chardonnay later we paid the bill to much "where d'yall come fraaam-ing" and exhortations to ~"y'all come back neaow, we never done had no one fraam Eeengland here afore". We probably shan't ever again visit Connorsville, although it appears we missed both the preserved steam railroad and the canal. What we did find however was a genuine, almost naive wish to please and to bid us well, often from people who'd never ever have the opportunity to indulge themselves in such exotic pleasures as we. There's a lot to dislike about the USA (and the UK come to that) in terms of world politics at the moment, but the ordinary folk are decent and friendly with an open, sometimes childlike quality which is most endearing.

Through the gate

2008-09-09T08:07:00.000-07:00

A variation on 'over the hedge', 'through the gate' is pictured in rural France, not a million miles from St.Sauveur en Puisaye in The Yonne. Here there are still a goodly number of aging tractors doing sterling service. This little group comprising a Grey Fergie, Nuffield and a little International nestle behind the gate. There appears to be a plough of the 'towed' variety there too along with the obligatory but thoroughly modern wheelbarrow. All it needs to complete the scene is a blue-jacketed farm worker with a Gauloises drooping from the bottom lip. He will have come to work on his heavily abused Mobylette moped via the village café where breakfast probably meant a strong black coffee and a small glass of chilled red wine. As a treat there might be a tartine, but not if madame at home has any say in the matter, for this stuff costs money and it's still quite poor in the northern Yonne. Situated roughly mid-way between Sancerre and Chablis the area is known for its pottery and clay products although the local brickworks closed some time ago, it still sustains a commercial ceramics factory. Agriculture prevails here with viniculture taking over some forty miles to the south west or north east. The long straight road that leads to Auxerre almost smells of the Romans as it drives arrow-straight for kilometres whilst meandering tracks to left and right offer the most charming diversions through farm, village and hamlet. Here an old lady in the uniform of flowery pinafore and ankle boots, there a knot of elderly men with their large flat caps discoursing beneath a Plane tree - the place is timeless. Very occasionally these days we see a heavily laden 'deux chevaux', its portly driver transporting his seed potatoes or a few chickens, arm nonchalently out of the window and pipe smoking vigorously.

And all this, just 'through the gate'.

Pub with no beer

2008-09-06T09:13:00.000-07:00

This and another painted piece on the chimney are all there is left to tell you that this now fancy dwelling was once a proper pub. The 'HH' stands for Hampshire Hunt and is in the village of Cheriton close by Alresford in Hampshire. My dear old dad-in-law took his family there in the early 1950s and though returning to Sussex they spent two very happy years in this pretty spot. Trade wasn't what you might call brisk in those days and they competed with two other pubs in the same village, but such was the character of the old man and his natural empathy with country people that what little there was soon gravitated to the 'aitches'. The children grew up in an idyllic atmosphere where even at this late date horses were still kept for use on the local farm. Life and soul for the menfolk was generally kept together either through agriculture or working at Freeman's timber yard. Despite the lack of ready cash there was always enough for a couple of pints and a game of 'rings' in the well scrubbed wooden bar - if your fancy turned to other sports there was a skittle alley at the back in its own building. A good old sing-song was always encouraged and there were some fine singers in and around the area - Cheriton's 'star' being one 'Turp' Brown, BBC recordings of whom are now safely lodged with the permanent library of The National Sound Archive.

Sadly, on a visit earlier this year we saw that Freeman's yard is being developed for housing. There is just one pub left, The Flower Pots with its admirable micro-brewery and there is the lasting legacy of that family from the HH Inn - ducks as far as the eye can see.

Beer, burgers and Burrels

2008-08-31T09:19:00.000-07:00

The place - Waldron, East Sussex, almost a year ago, so it might be repeated soon. The occasion - a National Traction Engine Club Road Run with 'The Star' as its destination, coinciding with a Vintage Motorcycle Club jolly. A magical experience with the leviathan steamers parked in the village street as the boiler-suited crews drank, ate, laughed and kept a weather eye open for the water levels. A perfect day for steam and petrol heads as all persuasions conjoin for the purposes of conviviality, bullshit and a general disregard for health and safety.

Over the hedge

2008-08-31T05:21:00.000-07:00

There's much to be discovered over the hedge. A little nosiness goes a long way and can enliven the most pedestrian of walks. Take this scene for example, not five minutes from my own front door. A derelict bungalow on the northern outskirts of New Anzac on Sea sitting adjacent to an unmade road and so redolent of the place only thirty years ago. Lots of exhortations neither to enter nor trespass, and being a law abiding citizen all that was required was a parting of the bushes to reveal this enchanting little scene. An early Renault 4 sits disconsolately rotting in the concrete garage which is in turn being taken over by the undergrowth. Not much longer for this world I feel and probably way beyond being salvageable if my experience of the tin foil thickness of the floor in these cars is anything to go by.

Signs of the times

2008-08-25T07:04:00.000-07:00

Being frequent visitors to France, what with New Anzac on Sea being only 3 or so miles from the channel port of Newhaven, on a recent trip I noticed how much France is changing. Not particularly profound as thoughts go I know, but the changes particularly in rural France really struck me... and it was as a result of being well and truly hooked by Peter Ashley's books 'Unmitigated England' and 'More Unmitigated England'. In these the author presents a fabulous collection of photographs of the sort of urban and rural ephemera in the forms of lettering, street signs, products and the minutae of English life that he had the good sense to record over the past thirty years or so. This stuff (with seemingly no value to planners or modern historians) just goes missing - overnight in many cases - and when it's gone, it's gone forever. So hats off to Peter Ashley for such inspiring work. Anyway, back to France. When motoring (or motorcycling) through rural France it was always the small villages that gave so much pleasure, nearly always with a tabac,a boulangerie or a boucherie, they were the living embodiment of what I considered France to be; that is a France informed by visual references from Jacques Tati films, Cartier Bresson photographs, Rupert Davies' Maigret and resistance movies. Add to this the fabulous advertising signage, the triumphant car design whose quintessential embodiment was for me the Citroen Traction, and the stunning architecture - well France seemed to have it all.

Recently, however things have gone awry. The beloved villages seem to have become pedestrian-friendly with hideous cast concrete bollards diverting the traffic and multi-coloured tarmac informing the motorist where and where not to park. The friendly shops are all too often removed to an out-of-town 'Atac' or other supermarket which serve several outlying villages. The result is a sterile place which, if close enough to large urban conurbations serves as a satellite or weekend dwelling location. It all sounds rather familiar doesn't it?

Vanishing fast, along with the village is the signage. I like the old enamel French road signs, I like the way they cross out the name of the village after you've passed through. The Michelin-sponsored signs too, rather like our own AA and RAC examples are disappearing quickly. And the charming little yellow and white concrete kilometre markers in the verges, they're being replaced by fibreglass ones. Here's a survivor flanked by its two modern counterparts not a million miles from Dijon in the heart of wine country.