Full circle

Above Corvus on Raven Crag, Borrowdale.

Somewhere in our album of family photographs is a picture of my father being held aloft as a baby. He must only be a few months old and presumably, the arm holding him skyward is that of my grandfather.  Turn a few pages and you'd find an almost identical picture of my elder brother in the same pose, his christening shawl bright against a Northumbrian sky. I've no memory of it being taken because I wasn't yet born, but I do distinctly recall my dad referring often to the images, and musing, in philosophic tone, how history repeats itself in families.

It's strange the incidents and words we remember. My father must have spoken of a thousand other events, sharing his past life (as we all do with our children) through recollections that would invariably shape mine, or at least my outlook on it. The reason some stick and others are lost is more, I suspect, a matter of chance and circumstance (was I hungry or distracted as he spoke) than any logic or weighing of import. Often, as in this case, it is particular images or phrases that trigger our recall. And with each repetition, what we actually remember is our previous recollections...  such that over time, our memories become as fixed and falsely representative as snapshots in an album.

Quite why I was drawn to compose this introduction is in equal parts obvious and obscure. As will become clear, I've recently been revisiting my past by proxy, returning to rock climbing after a gap of nearly thirty years. I'd planned to open by describing how as a young man I was so determined to achieve and experience as much as I could; how even in my twenties there was a certain rage against the dying of the light— a feeling that our time was limited and that we a had duty to make the most of it; carpe diem, gather ye rosebuds... make hay while the sun shines...  

I feel much of this urgency still, though as I grow older I find that I'm less concerned with pressing on than doubling back. Perhaps at some level I'm afraid the memories I hold most dear will otherwise fade or falsify, and hope that by re-experiencing them I might somehow remaster their clarity. There could be truth in that I guess... But returning to why I wrote the introduction, I sense my recent reliving of past passions is less about history repeating itself than a desire to come full circle. 

Earlier this month I went with my eldest son to Raven Crag in Borrowdale. We climbed a route called Corvus that's about as old school as it gets. Tied together for seven pitches we ascended a line I'd last followed, according to the notes in my guide book, thirty-three years previous. The small blue volume has a grainy photograph depicting an exposed hand traverse that's the crux of the climb and an iconic image of mountaineering from a bygone era. What it doesn't show is the big ledge below and out of shot — the only part of the route I remembered correctly. 

The following day we visited Langdale to climb Middlefell Buttress - ironically on a cliff also called Raven Crag. This time my old guidebook had no notes and although I distinctly recalled the situation and indeed my former ascent, I could not for the life of me— at least with any certainty— remember my partner.  We joked about whether I'd climbed it with his mum or my first wife years before; 'awkward' he laughed. True—but in that shared humour we forged a  moment that will live with us both and likely be more genuine than any memories of the holds or stances or sequence we followed. 

I've long felt that the best and most satisfying journeys start and finish, if not always from home, at least from the place we began. In my father's case, his memories were invariably sentimental though in fairness, often funny too. What struck me at the time, and to some extent troubles me still, is how at odds they were with the depression and self-loathing that so coloured his adulthood. It was as if by seeking to forge a supposedly better future he'd severed all connections with the few happy years of his life.

Memories of course are not located in a physical place or moment in time, rather we carry them with us as bounty or burdens depending on our state of mind. I know that I will never again climb with the skill and strength I once possessed. I know too that my son must find his own routes and not live in the shadow of mine. Perhaps that's why I took no photographs of us roped together; because I don't want him to be tied to my past just as I don't believe that history must repeat itself in families. And yet, conversely, might sharing and showing him where I came from, be just enough for our circles to overlap?  

Stuffed

It's tidy, so I'm probably writing...

Last Saturday I made a flying visit to our local independent bookshop and handed the sales assistant a box. 'I hope it's some use...' I said, before dashing back to my car that was on double yellow lines. Inside the box was an antique typewriter that we'd bought at a jumble and stored in the loft ever since. The shop has a quirky display of vintage models and I happened to know they were looking for more. 

I guess we could have sold it, but then we probably never would...

Malcolm Gladwell's latest podcast series begins with two episodes that explore the compulsion of museums to horde their collections. In many cases they have so many items in storage they haven't even catalogued their worth, let alone shown them to the public. The idea of giving away items that might be of more value to others is anathema to their thinking. Gladwell calls it dragon psychology after Smaug in The Hobbit, who sat on a mountain of gold.  

I don't have treasure to spare, but I do have a surplus of 'stuff'. In this regard, I'm no different to most people of my age and status. Actually, that's probably not true, for as Jane points out, we're pretty ruthless at sorting and disposing. She likes to remind me that at our last house move the removal people were disappointed at how little we had for the size of the property.  In the end, we hired a van and did the job ourselves.

Six years later and we're relocating again, this time to a cottage we've owned for three decades but will now be our permanent home. Space is at a premium and I'm continually thinking of what to leave, what we need; what to pass on or sell?  We're in no rush, says Jane—after all, we haven't yet put our current house on the market.  

But that would be missing the point.  

For I know that my compulsion to sort and simplify is something much deeper. In part, it's a stress thing (don't let anyone tell you that moving home is easy); whenever pressure mounts my first response is to make lists of tasks and chores, working to a pedantry that borders on obsession. It's part creative too: my writing process invariably sees me sorting and stacking before I sit down to work; too much in my head and I can't find the room for words.

Which is relevant, but not sufficient explanation for how I feel. There's more going on that I'm still working through and it's to do with age and aesthetics.  This summer I turn 60 years old, a landmark that was always for others...  as if!  

But if it were for me, then in my mind it was connected to retirement and security and having everything I needed and all I'd acquired around me to enjoy.  Yet here I am with a desire for less, for a freedom that comes with simplicity; a want to let go and let fly.

If only it were that simple.

The objects we gather around us are important, said my friend the author Jan Fortune.  She's right, and on this blog I've written often of the collections and belongings that have meaning and significance to my life. At the other extreme are those possessions we acquire without much thought and even less care: our kitchen cupboard has two shelves of beer glasses from a party I can't remember—I don't even drink anymore!. 

If these examples are obvious, the more difficult bit is the stuff in between: the items of putative value; the gifts it feels wrong to throw out; the pictures I painted and the boxes of toys... the bikes that hold memories of miles long past...  

Which is perhaps, the operative word.  

These items and their memories are part of my history. I don't need five bikes (I'd use two at most), nor for that matter three kayaks or all the paintings I'll never hang on a wall. And yet, to let them go feels like giving up a part of me; as if by holding onto the object I'm somehow not 60, but all my ages. It's nonsense of course, but powerful nonsense nonetheless. 

And so, what to do?    

Last year I read a great deal about minimalism; there's a popular documentary on Netflix of the same name. But the reduction of my possessions to a bare minimum is not for me—apart from anything else, there are my books to think of, and frankly, Jane's wishes too.  More to the point, I like having good things around me: they bring me pleasure and enrich my life.

And isn't that what matters most?  If it makes my life better, either through use or love, or even significant worth then I shall keep it; if it doesn't, then it's become the equivalent of Smaug's gold—like an artefact in a vault with a curator who doesn't care.  These items are possessing me not the other way round—they should go and preferably to a home where their presence is valued.

An old friend used to photograph her paintings to capture the memory, before burning them to clear the space for new ones. Maybe this should be my modus operandi. That's a term most usually associated with criminal behaviour, hardly the 'stuff' of giving 'goods' away.  But then I like contradictions, almost as much as I do consistency... which is itself a perplexing thought... and one that for now, I shall let go too.

Land of my fathers

Russell's Cairn on the summit of Windy Gyle.

Next winter, it will be three decades since I came to Wales; more than half my life, and a long time more than the 'two or three years' I'd planned to stay. I love it here and suspect it's where I'll see out my time. But the true land of my fathers is Northumbria, at the edge of England, where the sky is sharper, and the sun rises over the sea.

I wrote recently of the backpacking trips I made as a student. That was in the early Eighties, around the time I became closer to my maternal grandfather. He too loved the outdoors, and though in his seventies, came with me on many trips to the mountains. I remember in the summer of 1981, climbing the Simonside Hills on the morning of the Royal Wedding, where we met a group of similarly lost souls, looking for somewhere to escape the madness. And I remember too, around the time I returned from university, me showing him the route to Windy Gyle.

Last week I was there again; this time with my son Daniel. He's just finished his degree and wanted to talk about his plans. I suggested we go to the hills but chose the route without any conscious nostalgia. For all that, it never fails to surprise me, how our histories have a habit of repeating themselves - as we set off, I packed my bag with the same OS map I'd used thirty-five years before.

The walk begins about as far into the Cheviots as you can reach by road. To get there, you must first pass the Rose and Thistle at Alwinton, where Sir Walter Scott wrote Rob Roy. There were cyclists heading our way, waving us through as we drove by the banks of the upper Coquet. It was warm for early morning, only thin trails in the sky; the deepening valley stirring memories of times that that had shaped me, and yet lain dormant for years.

Not everything is the same as it was: there's now a car park at Barrow Burn and new information signs from the National Park - but otherwise, this place feels timeless. Our route follows the drover's road to the border fence, briefly joins the Pennine Way, ascending to Russell's Cairn on the summit. Like much of the Cheviots the path is soft underfoot, the climbs more rounded than steep; a view that relies on the changing light to give form to its barren beauty.

We reach the cairn in less than two hours and drink greedily from our flasks. My thirst reminds Daniel of a trip ten years earlier, when we had walked together along the Preseli ridge back home in Wales - it was he who stumbled on the hidden stream that allowed us to camp by the bluestones at Carn Menyn.  The story of that journey - and how it helped me see Daniel anew - became the opening chapter of my book, Counting Steps.

You're not going to write about this as well, he asks?

We returned down the valley past Row Hope farm, drinking our fill from the clear water springs. There were skylarks above us, small heath butterflies in the dun grass, and two ravens patrolling the slopes to our left. I check the map and the words on the battered paper invoke a subconscious smile: Headless Clough, Mosie Law, Rough Knowe, Black Braes...  These are names and language of the northern fells; a lexicon that was once as familiar to me as the Celtic equivalent of where I live now.

But I sense there was more to my involuntary smile than a recalled familiarity. The landscape of our childhood - or more particularly, the place where we 'come of age' - has a profound hold on our sense of self. I'm sure that's why so often we define ourselves in relation to where we were born; why so many of us, despite our peripatetic lifestyles, seek to return 'home' in later years; and why, on the occasions that we do, we feel a depth of belonging that transcends the here and now, connecting our presence to the past, and even to lost generations.  As I've got older, I've come to realise, that what in Wales they call Hiraeth, is not unique to the Welsh.

Ironically, my own father did not like the hills, preferring the town, or at a push, the sea. But in fairness, he too stayed resolutely a man of his place. One of his few questions, when I visited before he died, was to ask how it had felt to cross the River Tyne - true Geordies cry, he'd said.  I lied, (though not with intent), telling him that home meant nothing to me now - I'd moved away and wouldn't be coming back.

If only life, and the paths we take, were that simple.

Lockdown

There are times when resistance is pointless; when whinging and railing is as far as you'll get. Like Canute, great warrior though he was, you learn it's folly to fight the tide.

Any parent knows there are days when it's best to give way. I recall weekends nursing fevers; cleaning up kiddie puke instead of the walks and picnics we'd planned. Once, the car packed and the weather set fair for a trip to the Lakes, Daniel ran full pelt into the door, blood gushing and a swelling the size of an egg. Two hours and five stitches later we phoned to cancel the hotel. 

But those days were few. When I set my mind to something, I'm more determined than most. I'm diligent too - it's seldom a lack of organisation that leads to failure or disappointment. If things go wrong, I swear more than I should, curse the flat tyre, the sod's law, the bloody weather, the idiot who caused the traffic jam...  And after Jane's calmed me down, I find we're usually not quite as late or as ill-prepared as I'd feared. There is little that actually stops us.

Snow is the one big exception. 

I hate snow with a passion reserved only for things most foul. It comes from childhood I think - the knowledge of certain disappointment; that the car wouldn't start, that we'd not see our grandparents, that on Monday school would be open regardless. Why doesn't it ever snow when nothing much is planned?

So this weekend I've been in lockdown, physical and mental - keeping my frustration in check with a mixture of good whiskey, bad banjo playing, and the odd walk across the fields. Don't fight the inevitable, I told myself - look for the positives. I even had a shed-night sleepover with Dylan so we'd get our 'sub-zero' wings.  

Has it worked?

Mmmm...   

I still long for what might have been; I calculate the lost opportunity, can't quite embrace the second rate options.  But at least I'm not punching the walls, and interestingly (a sign of age perhaps) I'm not trying to ride my bike or paddle my kayak regardless. There are even some aspects of the weekend I've truly enjoyed - the whiskey, for instance, the meal I cooked last night.

I wish I were more sanguine about the weather - it would make for a happier life. 

But If I'm honest I wish even more that the darn snow would go.

Past perfect - anniversary

It's our wedding anniversary today.  Twenty one years since we stood in the doorway of the Brynmawr Chapel at Betws y Coed, rain lashing the porch and the wind sending ladies' hats skyward. There wasn't a chink of sunlight all morning - we have no outdoor photographs - and yet it was perfect in its way.

Friends still talk of our wedding - for many years some actually asked to see the video! The highlight was Mrs Morgan (on the organ) who was stone deaf, wore a knitted bobble hat and played All Things Bright And Beautiful as the congregation sang Lord of all Hopefulness. 

Then there was the party who arrived late and got changed in the back pews. And a couple from Conwy who arrived by tandem - another did the same but rode from Northumberland. The minister forgot his lines and missed a page of the ceremony - and to cap it all, one of the bridesmaids was our dog!

If all this sounds wacky, it would give a slightly wrong impression. In many ways, it was quite a traditional wedding - but the delight of the day was the way it was so relaxed. The hymns were off-key, the weather was foul, some people were late - but no matter, it was wonderful.

I've often pondered about weddings since - not just at the expense, but the amount of time and effort invested in seeking a putative 'perfection' - as if one little hiccup will ruin the day, be an omen of disaster. Some cultures invest extraordinary amounts - I attended a Hindu wedding last year which had, quite literally, over a thousand guests, the celebrations extending to days. It was an amazing experience, and I don't want to criticise (I was delighted to go) but I was struck by the contrast to our own,  and wondered if we had missed out?

I don't think so. We hired Cobdens Hotel in Capel Curig for the weekend, putting up friends and family and asking others to make the trip rather than buy presents. After the ceremony, we served Cawl y Caws (soup and cheese),  before taking a walk (and getting drenched) in the mountains - in the evening we had a traditional banquet. I remember my father in law foisting drinks on the guests and fretting the whole affair hadn't cost enough! 

In fact, it cost about two thousand pounds - cheap even then, but more than I was comfortable accepting as a gift. The next morning we walked with friends and family to Cwm Idwal, before they departed: my family to the North, Jane's to the South; none of them lived in Snowdonia. That was why we had chosen it - and because we loved it too.  

I listened the other day to a reading on Radio 4 in which the narrator claimed our experience of time hastens exponentially as we age - that our first twenty years feel twice as long as the second, the next twenty, quicker still. I sense there's some truth in that - but it misses the point about happiness. Time goes more slowly when we are malcontent. 

Twenty one years - is it really that long? Of course, we row occasionally, we've had our ups and downs and countless other hackneyed descriptions of married life. But I never regret that day, not for a second - it made us who we are, as surely as our childhoods and our children.  It was, I know for sure, amongst the best that's happened to me. 

Happy anniversary Jane - I love you dearly.

Of sheds and dens and being a boy

Last week we had the builders round. Ostensibly they came to mend the fence, but before that I had a couple jobs which needed sorting in the potting shed. Just a bit of a tidy up, I said to Jane, and the electrics look ropey too. (I find that dodgy electrics is never questioned).

There followed a trip to B&Q: reels of cable, new sockets, masonry paint, thirteen lengths of 'two by four', three plywood boards, door hinges, polyfilla, junction boxes, woodstain - and a bill for two hundred quid (shhh...). Like I said, just a bit of a tidy up.

My grandfafther had a good shed; he called it his cabin. It was a gimcrack lean-to, painted pillar-box red and furnished with a bed for his afternoon naps after a few pints at the club. The shelves were stacked with jars of string or screws and bottles of unspeakable potions; he'd pasted the walls with our childhood drawings and we played there while he snored and the afternoon sun filtered through the net curtains. I'd have stayed there forever had there not been a time to go home.

My grandfather was clinically blind, and yet he had knack for dens. Once, he took us 'camping' (effectively a day trip to some wasteland) and we cooked sausages on an open fire, baked potatoes in the embers. I'll show you the tramps nest now, he said. And he led us to a tree with a whacking great platform of straw - it was big enough for two small boys, or a tramp, to sleep in I suppose. I remember him leaning on the trunk as we climbed the boughs; I'll just close my eyes, he said. I've never found a tramps nest since, and I've always wondered how he knew it was there. Wonderful man.

All my life I've delighted in sheds and tents, even mountain bothies. In a way they are all the same - a haven from the stress and pomp of the everyday world. It's an irony that by cutting out all the 'stuff' we work so hard to accumulate, we find a simpler, more profound pleasure.

But let's not get too philosophic. For there is something very uncomplicated about building dens. When my boys were small I taught them how to make shelters from sticks and bracken - now they are older they do the same with their younger brother. And when they get too distracted by their girlfriends or just generally surly, I and the little one go camping. Mostly we go a few miles from home, sometimes to the garden; it's as much about process as place.

All of which is long digression from my builders and the cost of materials. I left them to it as we headed to London - posh hotel, chaotic tubes, expensive restaurants - had enough after a couple of days. And driving back I mentioned casually, wonder if they've finished the fence?

As it turns out they did. But more importantly my new den was ready. My grandfather would have built it himself, before he lost his sight. But I'm time poor and I think he'd at least approve of the design. It has storage locker that converts to a bed, electrics (no longer dodgy) for a kettle and and a bench for writing. There's room for some homebrew, walls for Dylan's pictures, even shelves for a printer, books - perhaps jars with string and unspeakable potions.

And on Thursday night, before we'd even unpacked, Dylan and I tried it out. Your great grandad had a shed like this, I told him, his eyelids closing. He called it his cabin and I used to ...

Welcome everyone, to the new home of the bike shed.

Sound of the sea

In the morning early
I go down to the sea
And I see the mist on the shore;
I listen and I listen.

I was brought up near the sea and have listened to it all my life.

My junior school was an Edwardian edifice called Rockcliffe, and the name describes well its positioning above Browns Bay near Cullercoats on the North East coast. In winter the windows were streaked with salt, and at break we'd huddle behind the playground walls thinking of the fishermen in peril who were a regular subject of school assembly. One of my earliest memories is playing dare with the swell as it drenched the railings on the lower cliff path.

My mother was a teacher at Rockcliffe. One evening she wrote a song using chime bars to tap out the tune. Later that night she allowed us down from our bedroom to try out the verses and the next day her class sang it in school. By coincidence the school was preparing for a radio broadcast and the producers asked if they could use the song to introduce the show.

That song is now published across the world. It's been a staple of the BBC's Songs for Schools and Come and Praise for forty years. Despite this, my mother received only a few pounds from royaltes until she learned a recording was being used by the BBC as a radio theme tune. She contacted the performing rights society, was given a substantial backdated compensation, and now receives a small, but not to be sniffed at, income from royalties.

A few weeks ago I told this story to some friends on a writing course; one of them remembered the song from her childhood. I sang it in faltering voice, the first time in years. And as I did so it was clear why this simple hymn has been so popular. It is a primary teacher's dream - the perfect musical accompaniment to a project on the seashore. But it also has that quality of drawing our attention to something we're not always aware of, and yet is vital to the experience.

Yesterday my middle son was fifteen. After giving him his presents we went for a walk from Porth Clais on the Pembrokeshire coast. The sky was streaked with plane trails, a sharpness to the air after a morning of rain, the swell on the rocks, ice white. After a mile or so we lay down in a hollow and I sat watching the tide run through the reef between us and the bird island of Carreg Fran.

We must have been there half an hour: Daniel flat out in seconds, Mike cradling his girlfriend, Dylan's imagining himself a Jedi knight and Jane snoozing in the heather. I counted boats (five), watched a cormorant steal a fish from a gull, and tried to remember when I'd last kayaked this stretch of coast. But most of all I listened to sea.

Our thoughts about the sea are tied up with the view, the horizon, our history and memory -  the taste and the smell too. So many things. But I'd defy you to experience the sea without hearing its voice; indeed the sea without sound would be a strangely dead place. Yesterday, with my family on the cliffs above Porth Clais and the wind sucking at the swell, I hummed my mother's song. As the words came back to me, the sea felt more alive than ever - and, just for a moment, so did I.


Here is the song in full.

In the morning early
I go down to the sea
And I see the mist on the shore;
I listen and I listen

When I go to the rocks
I go looking for shells
And I feel the sand beneath my feet;
I listen and I listen

When the stormy day comes
Waves crash on the cliffs
And the wind whistles through my hair;
I listen and I listen

And at night when I sleep
And the sea is calm
The gentle waves lap the shore;
I listen and I listen

I sometimes think that God
Is talking to me
When I hear the sound of the sea;
I listen and I listen

                                  Hazel Charlton

Aunt Kitty's gift

My Great Aunt Kitty lived in a fading two bed terrace in Newcastle on Tyne. It had threadbare carpets and horsehair sofas that once were stylish - she wore copious jewellery, too much rouge and was entirely dependent on the help of others. She ought to have lived in Paris.

I must have been about thirteen when I first met her. Would you like a shandy? she asked, pouring me half a tankard of ginger beer and topping it up to a pint with dark sherry. It's one of my specialities, she winked - we used drink it at sea. Aunt Kitty had lived a full life that I suspect was half real and half fantasy, but we took to each other nonetheless.

Her house could have been an antique shop; not just for the furniture, or the immaculately displayed china - but because of the labels! I can't be bothered with a will, she'd say, I just scribble who it's to go to and stick it on the back. If you lifted a cup or turned plate it would have a yellow label with the name of friend or relative. And if she had a row with someone, she'd cross their name out and replace it with another. They can all see what they're getting, she'd say, everyone wants the pictures.

My Grandfather's name was on those: magnificent Victorian seascapes, framed in gilt and mercury glass. He was given the house too when she died, for looking after me more than the others - though when it sold, he insisted on dividing the proceeds with the other relatives. Fifteen years later he died, and I advised my mother to auction the seascapes  - she had no use for them and they raised a good price - but I've always rather regretted it.

My name was on two boxes. The first was a collection of tiny exotic beetles, which she'd collected on her travels - I keep them by my desk still. The second I had not looked at in years; a small jewellery box containing a gold cravat pin and a retractable pencil.

They are beautiful, especially the gold pin, decorated with turquoise stones and fine leaf engraving. The pencil is made, I think, from Tiger's Eye, and can be worn as pendant. Inside the lid of the box came a note from my Aunt. 

It explained they were curios collected by my Great Great Uncle, William (Bill) Page. As a teenager he had enlisted as a ship's engineer, led an adventurous life and gathered a reputation for the ruination of beautiful women - including his cousin Ada! He was accompanied everywhere by his faithful servant 'Coffee', and loved gambling at the Newcastle races. Bill met his end on the Congo: electing to sleep in deck he presumably fell overboard and was devoured by crocodiles.

How much of this is fact is questionable. My Uncle was certainly a sea going merchant and he collected items from Africa, but the mention of servant called Coffee seems fanciful - and a touch too close to the Geordie song, The Blaydon Races, a verse of which mentions the character Coffee Johnny. 

Aunt Kitty was considered the oracle on our history, so in the days before Internet searches, it was her we went to for stories about our relatives. It turns out she wasn't averse to a little invention to fill any gaps in her memory. We now know that uncle Harry was not  lost on the Titanic, that various 'ruined' sisters were far from innocent victims, and that Uncle Bill probably died in a nursing home rather than the Congo.

But in a way I prefer the stories; her gifts are more real for the past she gave them. And she was right about some things too - relatives always fight over wills, and sherry with ginger beer is surprisingly good. We should have more Aunt Kittys, I think. 

Puppet Daddy

When my older boys were small I bought them each a cone puppet. They were from Paris, very expensive; the sort of toys that parents like. The boys thought they were spooky, and perhaps because they played so much together they didn't feel a need to involve other characters. Hence the puppets languished in a cupboard for a decade.

Dylan discovered them when he was three. Next to trains I'd say they are his favourite toys, especially Puppet Daddy, who Dylan insist is controlled by me. This is interesting in itself, because to Dylan the whole point of the game is to talk to the puppet rather than handle them.

Puppet Daddy speaks with a screeching Welsh lilt, modelled on Norma Price from Fireman Sam - Dylan won't let me change it. But he's a boy, I say. He's a puppet Daddy, Dylan corrects me. 

He's a nervous puppet too, retreating often to his cone, especially at any sign of his nemesis, Boppy Jester. Boppy Jester speaks incredibly fast and plays the singular role of bashing Puppet Daddy on the head at any opportunity. And so the game goes on.

Puppet Daddy's great sadness was that he had 'no legs'. This regularly caused him, and Dylan, to cry. He couldn't go to school, or escape his enemies, or play football; he was confined to his cone and hours in the dark. Perhaps he could hop on his stick? I once suggested. You can't hop without legs Daddy... tears flowed.

Until that is, Dylan found some plastic boots from an Action Man toy. Puppet Daddy's legs, he cried, I've found his legs. Where is he; go and tell him Daddy; go tell him now... we've found his legs!

And so, Puppet Daddy has new legs. He remains nervous of course; after all, he is only learning to walk - and Boppy Jester is still to be avoided. But great was the joy the day those boots were found.

And great joy we have had together since: the mornings I've been woken with, Will you be Puppet Daddy now?; the ongoing saga of Boppy Jester (don't find HIS leg's Daddy - he'd be too boppy); the surreal time Puppet Daddy accompanied us to Wales and I spent the weekend talking in a high pitched woman's voice; the videos we've made, the cuddles, the laughs, the insanity of it all.

Almost every parent can tell you of a time they bought some expensive gift only for their little darling to spend more time with the cardboard box. I know very little about the psychology of play, but I suspect there is something important in allowing children to transcend themselves. The problem with so many of the branded toys, is that they are based on formulaic characters that limit possibilities and contain the imagination.

Toys like Puppet Daddy are different. They are about invention and sympathy and absolutely believing in and living with every turn and detail of the story. Nobody could design Puppet Daddy, he just was, and is. In a few short years he has grown into a complex, lovable, irreplaceable  character.

And as Dylan sneaked into my bed with him this morning, I realised how much toys can imitate life.

The perfect present.

I've written before about jam; a high contender for my last meal on earth would be fresh croissants with blackberry preserve. Jam is a small delight each morning; a taste of sunshine; a moment's pleasure before the drudgery of the drive to work;... ok, ok, you know I like jam.

So how wonderful that my new garden has a prolific quince bush. And even better that my mother had time on her hands to transform them to jelly.

Does jelly count as jam? Daniel asked, after she brought the jars round. Or is it a type of marmalade?

There's no time for classifications, I told him -  get the muffins in the toaster!

It was years since I'd tasted quince jelly, but worth the wait. I'd forgotten the slight tartness that follows the sweet bite, and the pleasingly wobbly quality of a dollop on bread.

Why is it red, Daniel asked?

Who cares - put some more of those muffins on will you.

My mother says I am impossible to buy presents for. She has laboured for years to find the perfect gift, too often seeking inspiration in the Sunday supplements. Part of the trouble is the looks I get from Jane when I open her presents, making it clear that I'm to keep any ironic laughter in check. The result is the unwanted gifts continue and the charity shops do well with 'as new' donations.

More recently, she has focused her giving around consumables. This is a good development, but there's still the risk of a too inventive trip to the delicatessen. The other year she had a thing about Kendal Mint Cake - often gift wrapping it with a pot of lump fish caviar...?

So Quince Jelly seems the perfect answer. It takes ages to create (lots of straining evidently) and therefore feels like a special gift to those who make it - and I genuinely appreciate both the effort and the end product.

Last week, my mother asked if I would like a gift for the new house. I refused; couldn't think of anything to be honest. But then I noticed some more windfall quinces...

 More Jelly? Was I sure it was all I wanted? she asked.

Absolutely.

After all, jam is food of the Gods; a taste of sunshine in the morning; a contender for last meal on earth...

Lovely - but why the funny cloth lids?

Taking the biscuit

'Should we have a biscuit?' Dylan asked, this evening after dinner. 

'All right,' I agreed, 'But just one... so long as you clean your teeth afterwards.' 

'Of course,' he replied, taking two from the tin. 'One's for you,' he grinned... 'while we watch the video.' 

'I thought you were going to bed?' 

'Not till eight,' he pleaded... 'Come on Dad, you know you want to.'

And so I'm typing this post on the laptop as we watch the Big Rock Candy Mountains (for the tenth time). I'm also smiling, because as we left the kitchen Dylan made what might be his first step to a future career.

'Have you been in the sweetie tin?' Jane asked, blocking his exit.

'No,' he replied, holding the biscuits behind his back. 'Just going to watch a DVD with Dad ... '

And as he squeezed past her, he moved the biscuits carefully to his side, keeping them out of sight. By the time I joined him in the lounge he'd eaten one chocolate chip cookie and was looking longingly at the other. Do you want your biscuit Dad? he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. 

I'm a soft touch and he knows it. After a dull day at the office there is no one who makes me happier and he knows that too. Had I told him to put the biscuits back he'd have done so, and I doubt he'd have whinged if I'd said it was bedtime. That's because he's learned outright defiance doesn't work half as effectively as being my buddy and cuddling up on the sofa.

He's always been cute, but his little deception tonight was something different. He knows full well there is no substantial difference between biscuits and sweets as an evening snack - and by hiding them behind his back he proved it. Whilst he didn't exactly lie to Jane, he deceived her by omission. 

That's quite subtle for a child of six, I thought - a sign of intelligence I'm sure (must get it from me) - but it could lead to trouble in future. Mmmm...

Perhaps I should talk to him; explain how deceptions lead to mistrust; show the distinction between 'acts and omissions' to be morally spurious... 

On the other hand, the Big Rock Candy Mountains is a great video. 

And on reflection, I should perhaps encourage it - in moderation of course. After all, a cute manner and a little deception bodes well for a successful career... 

...in politics! 

And that really would take the biscuit.

New house - with gates

On Wednesday, we took possession of our new house, after months of conveyance, and to some extent indecision on my part.  I was away this week but I've paid the price in ferrying carloads of 'stuff' today. We haven't moved in; we are migrating over the next week or so. But by next Saturday we should be fully installed. 

It's a lovely old house, bigger than our last, with a large mature garden, but not so big that that I’ll feel uncomfortable. We are very lucky, and of course the kids are excited and Jane is organising like a mad thing: cleaning and sorting and deciding on this and that and the other. I particularly like the shed, as does Dylan, the rest is incidental!

I'd forgotten what a hassle moving house can be: my lists of people to contact runs to three pages and that's just service providers and banks and the like. As for the expense, aaggghh! – in addition to the stealth tax called stamp duty, I seem to have paid out thousands and I can't see an end in sight. It had better be worth it, I moan to myself on bad days. Actually, I'm sure it will be.

In fact, now we've got the keys, only one thing is worrying me: the drive has iron gates!

Apart from their Gothic appearance, there is something about the psychology of an urban house with gates that mildly disturbs me. Let’s be honest, they have no practical function - they are not going to keep any undesirable out, and it's not as if we have cattle wandering over from the park. In fact they narrow the drive (which isn't so big as to justify gates in the first place) and I'll bet it won't be long before someone catches their car turning off the road. 

So what's the point of them? 

I worry their real purpose is to make a statement. Gates in an urban setting don’t say ‘WELCOME!’; they say 'grand' or 'keep out' or 'prat lives here' or 'don't bother trick or treating’ or ‘I’m scared of you’.  None of which I'd want people to think about me or where I live. And yet at least one current neighbour has already commented – in jest of course, but I suspect with hidden meaning.

So I’m for getting shot of them.  Sadly, I won't win this argument. The gates are regarded as an original feature, and as such have iconic status in the eyes of estate agents, putting ‘value' on the house. I shall, however, in my curmudgeonly way, refuse to use them, and perhaps find ways to jolly them up for the occasional blog post photograph.

For the real value in a house, is the quality of the living that takes place there.  And because of that I’m praying there is no inverse relationship between size and happiness.  We’ve outgrown our current home, but in the fourteen years we been here, we’ve had more joy and good fortune than I could have wished for.  I am moving a little over a mile and yet I shall miss this place; the walk to school, my tiny study, the oversize bike shed, and the absence of gates…

One, two, three, four...

4 November 2004

Five years. Has it really been that long? It feels like yesterday and forever. So much life in such a short time.

Time Passes. Tick-tock, Tick tock...

So wrote Dylan Thomas, after whom you are named. I wished you his genius if not his weakness. You have his charisma already, and his bombastic ways - you sing like a Welshman too! But I forgive you your faults, as I always will.

Strangely, I can't remember your birth, perhaps because it was so early in the morning. What I do recall is bringing you home. And your brothers sitting on the bed, looking but not touching, just as they were told - then gently, one at a time, holding your hand. They wanted you to wake, but you slept through it all: oblivious.

Oblivious too of the years of yearning, the three miscarriages, the nuchal scans, the waiting for results, the tests and more tests - and the waiting - always more waiting - until the final phone call. And when it came, the nurse asked if I was sitting down.

'All clear,' she said.

You see that's the thing about probability - it doesn't work in the real world. There is only one you and you were always perfect. Just like there's no probability or quantum for love: you either do or you don't; all or nothing, no half-measures. And every day you remind me of that simple, inexpressible, fact.

Happy birthday Dylan; it's the least and the most I can say.

Lamenting the past; changing the future

A walk on the beach - good place to think. M. Charlton

Time for another pondering. This one's a little harder to get your head round, but I promise it gets more interesting and relevant as it goes along. Stick with it and hopefully you'll see what I mean.

There have been lots of occasions for remembrance this year: in July, the last surviving soldier to see service in the First World War died; in September it was the 60 years since the end of World War II; in two weeks time it will be 20 years since the Berlin Wall came down. Each, in its way, giving us cause to reflect on the more terrible events of the Twentieth Century.

It is common to hear people say these events 'should never have happened'; sometimes they go so far as, 'I wish it had never happened.' We understand the sentiment behind these words, but if you stand back a moment they are fraught with difficulty.

Let's take an example to illustrate - the First World War - and let's imagine you had the supernatural power to go back in time and change events. It might seem obvious that you ought to do everything possible to avoid the human suffering, to stop that terrible war from ever having started. But pause a moment before you raise your magic wand?

The First World War was undoubtedly human slaughter on a grand scale. But consider my question carefully, would you actually chose to change history? Before you decide, consider that altering history will always have an impact on the present. Or putting it more directly, if that terrible war had never taken place, it is a dead certainty that you would not be here now reading this blog - and neither would your children be alive or your grandchildren too. Do you still want to wave your wand?

The First World War may have been a terrible event, but it led to changes in society which led to your grandparents meeting, and later your mum meeting your dad, and the rest, as they say, is history... To answer my own question directly, I would not stop that war happening even if I had the power to do so; I love my own children too much.

Of course, when people say they wished that such and such an event 'had never happened', they don't mean it in quite that literal sense. They merely express their sadness at its consequences; and aside from anything else, they know they cannot go back and change history. So isn't this just a game of words - the kind of academic puzzle which only philosophers enjoy?

Well, not quite. Because if you apply the same principles to the future it gets more interesting, and it can take you to some unexpected and perhaps uncomfortable conclusions.

Take, for example, the contemporary issue of global warming. We all know that we need to do something about the environment before it is too late. If we don't there will be terrible consequences for future generations; people will die, the world will be a lesser place...

But hold on a moment. What if we took only minimal action to reduce carbon emissions; what if the earth heated up and we saw large scale climate change? How then would future generations look back on us? I suggest they would view the past much as we do the First World War - they would lament our folly, but unless their life was so terrible as to not be worth living, they would not logically want events to have actually been different.

The philosopher Jonathan Glover acknowledges this is a serious problem. For if we take this view to it's conclusion it suggests that there is no moral consequence to the actions we take today. Whatever the state of the environment we leave for future generations they would choose to keep it, because to change the past would mean - putting it bluntly - that they personally, would not be alive.

And yet this is so counter-intuitive - on this basis we would take no action at all.

The solution says Glover - and you may have got there already - is that we have to think about 'conceptual' people rather than 'real' people. We know the real people of the future - the people who actually exist in, say, 200 years time - would choose to leave the past unchanged no matter what we do. We know too that whatever actions we take today will affect which real people are born in the future. But Glover says it is not our responsibility to try and chose between different sets of real people who may or may not be born - frankly, we can't do that. Rather, he says it is our responsibility is to maximise the conditions for human flourishing, whoever those people may be.

In a sense what he is saying is blindingly obvious; we should try to make the future a better place - a place where people's well-being is maximised, where there opportunities for a rich and fulfilled life are the best they can be. That is what we all would want isn't it?

But the idea of maximising human flourishing can take us to some uncomfortable places when we apply it to areas that are more controversial than the environment. Glover, for example, discusses all of this in the context of the genetic engineering of children. His book, Choosing Children, is not an easy read, but I suggest it is worth a look by anyone going through the traumas of IVF or genetic issues associated with conception.

If we agree that our obligation to future generations is to maximise human flourishing, then where does this leave us with regard to engineering the genetics of individuals? There is widespread concern over technical advances in this area - we may shortly have the power to influence the genes of our children and yet progress towards this is strongly resisted in some quarters. But leaving aside religious objections, on what grounds can we deny, say, the development of techniques to improve intelligence or physical well-being? Surely these would improve human flourishing too? And this is just the start of our moral dilemmas.

Glover describes a particularly difficult case of a profoundly deaf couple who wanted to ensure their child had the best possible upbringing - and so decided they would like to engineer it to be born deaf! Their reasoning was that they were better placed as parents to bring up a deaf child, and that the benefits of their empathetic nurturing would outweigh any disadvantage of deafness - indeed, the child, when grown, would not logically wish to change their disability, just as we do not logically wish to alter the events of the First World War.

The case above is arguable either way, but there are many less controversial genetic interventions we could make, which, for the present, the law prevents us. There are also the equally difficult cases, such as those involving judgements about whether or not to abort a genetically abnormal foetus. Glover's point is that we need something to help guide us in these decisions - something beyond the individuals who will (or will not) be born as a result of the decisions we take. We need this because we know that the individuals of the future would not wish to change whatever decisions we made. His suggestion is that thinking in terms of 'human flourishing' is our best guide to a profoundly complex moral problem.

So it is interesting, I think, how one thought leads to another - and how apparently obvious principles are not quite so straight forward when applied in different circumstances. And though we might think it all very high brow - there are times when such decisions will affect us all. It is conceptual thinking which helps us through this maze. And a starting point, I think the idea of human flourishing, is a good one.

In concluding this piece I ought to make some things clear. I hope it is obvious that I do not think any less of the horrors of the past than the next person. Nor am I taking any particular stance in relation to abortion or genetic engineering. I have a particular interest in IVF because it touched me personally, but beyond that I am interested only in how we find our way through these issues. It seems to me that Glover has something valuable to offer, and that it is worthy of careful consideration. I hope you found it interesting too.

****************************

After thoughts

Reading this piece aloud to someone they said, 'The only thing I don't quite follow is why I wouldn't be alive if the First World War hadn't happened.' It occurred to me that this conclusion may not be as entirely obvious as I thought.

When you think about it, many lesser events could have led to you not being here; if your parents hadn't met at that dance, or they hadn't gone to bed early that night... Of course, someone else might be here instead , someone very similar - but not YOU!

We are all a consequence of the past - both the world changing events and the apparently inconsequential choices made by others. The First World War was merely an example of a terrible event which we might wish to have changed - I could have chosen others further back in time.

It comes back again to the real you, as opposed to the conceptual you - the person who might have been born had events turned out differently. It is odd that in the relation to the present we have a clear obligation to the former and can judge the consequences fairly straightforwardly, but in relation to future generations it is much, much more difficult.

The F word...

Jane was making lunch as I worked in my study on Friday. 'What are we having?' I asked. Just some ham and pickles. 'That's nice, isn't it,' I called to Dylan, who was at home because of a Teacher Development day. 'Oh, I don't know,' he sighed from the dining room next door, 'It's all fuck fucky fuck!'

There was moment's silence; my fingers stopped typing as I sat back to consider his reply. Jane, who is less contemplative about these things, came storming in from the kitchen. 'Who told you THAT word? It's a VERY naughty word.' You can imagine what followed.

Evidently he'd heard it at school - or so he says. Someone taught him it, but he's not sure who. Jane left him in no doubt that regardless of where he'd heard it, if he wanted tea, TV or indeed any sort of niceness he's better not use THAT word again. He's been at school a month, she moaned, and look what happens. At least Dan and Mike took about a year!

I tried a little diplomacy. After all he has no idea what the word means - and to be honest his Dad's pretty free with the odd 'fuck it' and worse when things go wrong. 'We're having none of your clever stuff, over this,' said Jane. 'If his teachers hear him speak like that, he'll be in big trouble. And in any case it's rude and uncouth.' I've learned when it's best not to argue a philosophical point.

All was soon smoothed over,the incident put down to a one-off. Until early on Saturday morning, when Mike was winding him up in a big brotherish sort of way. 'Stop being a fucker,' Dylan shouted from his bedroom. I turned over and looked at Jane...

Five minutes later Dylan was in no doubt at all about the F word and it's multi-variants. There would be no beach today, and no ice cream -there was even talk of soap and the washing of mouths. I stayed out of it, silently suppressing a smile at the accuracy of his comment to Mike. After all, he was being a nasty... brother. I doubt we will hear the F word again though, at least not for a few years.

Some parents get very wound up over swearing. I've seen mothers demanding to see the teacher, speak to the the Head, squaring up to other mums in the playground -on one occasion swearing so liberally it was fairly obvious where the bad influence might have come from. I'm more relaxed; it's a phase kids go through and usually a few tellings off will sort it. If they knew what they were saying it might be different, but frankly, Dylan could just as easily have said 'Tickety boo boo boobies'.

Jane wouldn't like that either. And neither would I, for though I might be bit less outraged than her at the F word, I basically agree: swearing is rude and uncouth -and somehow particularly so in children. Jane almost never swears and we none of us would in everyday speech. If I occasionally let fly, it's through anger or a stubbed toe - come on, everyone swears when they stub a toe, don't they? As my Mum would say, it's common.

I think the the subtleties of language are best left to adults; as far as Dylan is concerned it's a case of do as I say, not as I do. Which he's generally taken to heart - certainly he was repentant yesterday. And in the afternoon, as we gathered for some tea, he sat in his chair uncommonly silent - before letting off a long, and I have to say melodious, fart! Jane stared daggers at him as the three of us bigger boys suppressed our giggles. He looked at each of us in turn...

'Pardon me,' he said.