Monthly Archives

July 2016

The Casual Vacancy by J. K. Rowling

I don’t know why I avoided reading The Casual Vacancy for so long. I get funny about books. So many of them sit on the shelf watching me, waiting for the right moment to pique my attention.

Part of it was probably that the impact of The Casual Vacancy was always going to be compared to Harry Potter. The summer the fourth book was released I remember watching a news piece about the release on Newsround, not knowing who or what Harry Potter was, but knowing that I wanted to read it. I devoured them during the family holiday. For me however, Harry Potter wasn’t the momentous realisation that imagination, magic and reading could bring joy to my life that it was for many other children. It was good, but I already loved reading anyway.

So why did I hesitate at The Casual Vacancy? Maybe, it’s off putting because my copy is a large hardback. I say mine, but whilst it’s spent four years sitting on my shelf, I don’t actually know who owns it. I knew that I would need to have enough time to read it quickly over a short period of time without too many distractions, for whilst Rowling might not be writing about wizards, it’s still her voice that speaks and there’s something about the smoothness of her writing that destroys my awareness of time and compels me to keep going.

Then there’s the dismaying fact that right at the beginning, Barry dies. I’m uncomfortable with death and was quite afraid that things would turn dark and sinister. Voldemort was horrendous, and that’s Rowling being restrained in a children’s book. And yet, whilst the book can hardly be called light and fluffy, it avoided scaremongering. Pity outweighed fear. Each time someone did something atrocious, and the whole book was filled with atrocious acts, I didn’t feel overwhelmed with horror. I felt grateful for my own life and the comforts and protection I’ve been afforded.

The time felt right to read it, and I’m really glad I did. It’s not a fast paced book. It’s more of a journey though cause and effect within society than a streamlined plot with a firm ending. There’s no illusion of ‘happy ever after’ but a recognition that lives don’t just end. When the breath stops in one person the clatter of consequences goes on being absorbed by others.

The Casual Vacancy is a book about society. It’s many perspectives show the blindness we all exhibit towards each other. It highlights the blinkers we wear, like class, education and familiar beliefs, that keep up a wall so that we don’t need to empathise with those different to ourselves. Rowling shows that the spectrum of Padford citizens, including those struggling with fear, hatred, drugs and abuse, are all interconnected human beings. Yes, they’re difficult, tempestuous characters who aren’t always easy to read and at times made me feel nauseous, but they were trying to do the best they could with the limiting beliefs and understanding they had.

Fiction is a route to empathy. And in a divided society like Britain today, we could all do with a little more empathy.

 

Without imagination, how can we achieve anything?

This isn’t about cycling, but…

Cycling has become interesting over the last few days. At one point, my cycling buddy pointed out, the section of hill I’d just come to the top of would have been coloured black on the Tour De France magic map. And black means steep. I was too exhausted to respond with anything remotely intelligent. My thighs were burning.

Not every hill has been a successful climb. Luckily on the rural roads there’s nobody who could hear me curse, loudly, as I struggled to push my bike up the last few metres of a particularly steep section in my cycling shoes. It’s like trying to walk with a pair of heels on back to front.

Côte de Goose Eye
A short and savage little 20% ramp, yes 20%, that will hopefully catch many by surprise. There will be those powerful riders who will eat it up like a ripe apple but the rest will grind to halt on its savage slopes that rise, twist right then left and will hopefully provide one of the highlights of the whole weekend.

Cycling Weekly

I’ve cycled most of Goose Eye, but ‘grinded’ to a halt not far from the top of the particularly steep initial ramp. However, by the first twist right I was climbing back on my bike with my determination to keep on going.

Jelly babies I adore you.

…imagination…

The other night, I watched the Imitation Game, the film about Bletchley Park which is a place I’ve visited a number of times and is held in a warm place in my heart because it reminds me of watching the father excitedly talking about valves and British genius and maths and logic and secrets. Such excitement is infectious.

The repeated quote in the film is:

“Sometimes it’s the very people who no one imagines anything of who do the things no one can imagine.”

Which is a beautiful way of saying that sometimes people surprise. Now I wouldn’t make any comparisons with people who are real cyclists or real geniuses, but the one person I can compare myself to is myself. A number of years ago, I remember having a big stress about a hill which was 0.8km, had 26 metres of elevation gain and an average gradient of 3%. This week I’ve done much more than that, much more than I could have imagined anyone imagining me doing.

However, I don’t believe The Imitation Game quote really works. I struggle to believe that if you are someone ‘who no one imagines anything of’, then you will ever gather enough self-belief to imagine much of yourself at all. If you can’t dream of having a success, how are you going to walk the path? Alan Turning had Christopher, Joan and presumably his mother, not to mention he was generally known to be incredibly intelligent from a very young age which inevitably results in academic support (even if he was a pain to teach).

I couldn’t cycle the route I’ve cycled without believing it might be possible. I’ve looked into a pair of eyes which taunted ‘you can do this’ and this made me believe.

Failing to imagine the possibilities of life keeps us grounded at the bottom of the hill looking down at our chubby thighs. Perhaps the step between the ego driven dream and the impossible ‘just do it’ is imagining ourselves actually pushing through the pain. It’s easy to laugh at our inadequacies; it’s harder to imagine that you could actually have success.

The friend, the colleague or the coach who believes is the catalyst. Maybe the biggest gift anyone can give to another is to believe in their potential.

…and belief

At the beginning of the week I considered Goose Eye, laughed and said no. Despite this, and despite failing to get up it, I believe I will climb that hill.

Yorkshire. Home sweet home.

Yorkshire cowsCows graze in the field opposite. The grass they chew is brighter than I remember, as if someone had added a little extra yellow from the paint box. Unlike the neatly mowed lawn of the house, the field is uneven, scattered with thick tufts of dark green and clumps of light brown that catch the sunlight and almost look pink.

I stare for a while.

For me, there’s nothing ‘normal’ about this setting. The clouds mask the bright blue sky, with a brilliant white that makes the ceiling of the study in which I work look dull. Bright fuchsia foxgloves grow on the bank of the winding stream, choked by something my mother calls ‘bindy weed’. She has a names for all the weeds which in no way represent their Latin counterparts.

The house smells of freshly baked bread: rich wholegrain spelt flour and the sweetness of honey. It’s deceiving, if you go into the kitchen you might be disappointed to see it’s been me at work rather than my father who actually knows what he’s doing.

There’s a comfort that comes with this place. The house is full of furniture from my childhood. Black and white faces with my nose or my chin look at me from the original black and white wedding photos. My sister and I dominate the coloured photos:  me as a grinning toddler, grinning child, grinning teenager and grinning adult, all with a scrunched up nose. These things make it feel homely, but it’s also the land itself. I can’t say why. I don’t know exactly. I didn’t grow up here. The land is just the right colour.

Our Yorkshire hills aren’t huge, but there are a lot of them. They look down on the valleys and the reservoirs. The roads, with their bends and dips are the sort that bring a smile to your faces as you’re driving along. I often wish that I had tough, strong legs to peddle up the hills like the Tour de Yorkshire riders.

Except, actually got some pretty strong legs now. I sometimes forget how much I’ve changed. I use to detest going on long countryside walks. Some years ago I recall the misery of clambering ungainly up a hill in the Lake District, feeling that it was entirely unfair that I was incapable of enjoying myself as others bounded up the hills in front of me, chatting and laughing without whining for another rest. I was unfit, carrying more weight than I do now, and my unused muscles were in shock.

Today, things are different. Yesterday, I took my bike out and within minutes was heading uphill past a sign that said 17%. I focused on my breathing – a trick I learnt from meditation – dropped down to the lowest gear and told myself that as long as I made a good effort to get as far up the hill as I could then it would count as a reasonable first ride out. I could always cycle a little further the next time.

I had the rubber clips to put on my cycling shoes in the back pockets of my jersey for when I needed to walk. Yet I never needed to walk.

I kept climbing, went around the corner and glanced up and saw the top of the road. At the top I kept on cycling, turning left and heading further up. Up and up I climbed until eventually the road flattened out. I paused for a drink, for my banana and to look out over the stunning view across the valley which is now my home.

If you’d told me a few years ago my life would look like what it does now, I’d not have believed it was possible.

The hidden secret of the house on the hill

vineyard teia

If I were really rich, I’d be tempted to renovate an old ruined stone house in the countryside of Spain or Italy. I’d have an art studio and a veranda on which I could sit and write.

Of course, I’m not rich.

However, there is such a house on the other side of the main street, which is known as ‘the river’ because when it rains the water is channelled along it. It’s got a gorgeous view as it’s propped up on the hill. The village where I live sits between mountains overlooking the Mediterranean. If you look towards the village, you have the church and the town hall.

The owners began restoration, but unfortunately (or not so unfortunately) the banks made some mistakes and the economy stumbled. Lack of funds brought progress to a halt. The story could end there. An abandoned house looking out over the sea from behind locked gates, suggestive of a fairy tale or a tale of horror.

But the real story doesn’t just end there. Unable to make progress with the house, the owners came to an agreement with three local men. In return for making sure the house doesn’t go the same way as Sleeping Beauty’s palace, they can use the land and ruined building.

Teia Vineyards

They planted the vines, bought the bottles and got a small machine to insert the corks into the bottles. A new village vintage was born. A local painter designed the labels. They’re now contemplating using the ground floor as an art gallery of his work.

It’s the sort of place you need to know a person who knows a person to get a private informal tour. If you only speak English, then it helps to have someone who can translate the enthusiastic explanations for you. Otherwise, you miss out on the stories. You don’t learn they initially store the white wine in a metal container; the red goes straight into the wooden barrels. You miss the joke about not tasting cheese before trying the wine because the wine speaks for itself. You can’t miss the pride.

The hard work bottled and stacked. I’ve tasted the results and they’ve the right to be proud.

bottle-cork
Cork machine. Spain, 2016.

Maybe I’m just getting old, but…

getting old
Child’s horse. In the garden, Summer 2016.

I took the two girls I look after to their grandparents this afternoon. It’s an old house with a large garden, like somewhere you might find an unusual wardrobe. The grandparents grow their own vegetables – I’m a great fan of their peas – and have two large friendly dogs. I stood by and watched the girls compete for attention with handstands and roly-polys on the immaculate lawn, with the plastic horse and two bags of swimming kit.

The house has an old fashioned dining-room with high ceilings and paintings of the children, when they were children. Of course, I’m entranced by the artworks. It’s rare to see someone’s house with painted portraits on the wall. It echoes back to a time when people had houses with picture rails. The magic continues with a collection of holiday treasures: Kenyan wooden heads, African masks, glass dishes and a puppet witch that hangs from the lampshade and had something, although I’m not sure what, to do with chocolate. Shelves heaped with travel books line the walls in the basement.

Young and fashionable was my first gut feeling. My brain questioned if this were possible. I describe the couple as young, but what does it even mean to be young? In spite of their appearance, the numbers don’t add up. However much they might want to feel young, we can’t both be young. And yet, they certainly seemed young as they rushed around the house getting ready for their trip out to Barcelona, hopping over the Playmobil pirate ship when necessary. To my surprise, delight and envy, these grandparents have recently come back from climbing Mont Blanc. Next week they’re going on a kayaking holiday. I’m in awe. There are many people my age who could benefit from a little more such youthful zeal.