Underrated

Falls at Ystradfellte

Often when I walk with Jane she says I may as well be somewhere else. Other couples she points out, use walking as a chance to chat and hold hands, whereas more often than not I'm striding ahead and miles away in my mind  If this seems selfish, then I must beg forgiveness or at least understanding.  It's as if the repetitive act of this simplest of exercises gives rise to meditations that I'm powerless to resist. 

In truth, I'm glad of her presence even if inwardly elsewhere. So in an attempt to bridge the divide, I've recently taken to sharing more of what I'm thinking. I call it 'the kind of things I ponder' conversation and though more often as not it elicits an eye roll,  just occasionally it engenders a discussion that slows my pace and brings us together.  

'Things underrated' I said the other day, is one of my go-to ruminations.  We all have our lists of the best and the worst—the finest restaurant, the funniest book, the town we'd least like to live in... Whatever category takes our interest it's natural enough to rank and rate it in an order of excellence. So much is commonplace and pleasant enough to debate on a hike or a wander.

But 'underrated' is something slightly different.  It's not about what or who is the best or worst, it's about the gap between our perception and reality; it's about changing our focus from a scale based on excellence to a one of latent potential or unrecognised achievement.  

We all know that Pele and Maradona are among the best footballers of all time; but who are the lesser mentioned players that have a claim to be up there with the greats?  And while we're at it, considering what's overrated is a good muse too; which towns and counties, for example, have reputations (or house prices) that far surpass what they actually deliver?

I was thinking of all this in a slightly different context when walking in the hills this weekend.  My son had asked me earlier if I'd visited every national park and which I thought was the best.  I told him I had and although it was hard to pick a favourite I'd probably opt for The Lake District as the quintessential UK example.  Others might disagree with my assessment but that's not the point—which is that I picked an option that would almost certainly be pretty high on any public vote.  

I've no idea if such a survey has ever taken place but if one has I'd bet a lot of money that the Norfolk Broads or South Downs were not contenders for the top medals. And just to add a bit of speculative spice, if I had to declare my choice of 'least favourite' national park, I'd opt for the New Forest. This will no doubt offend some, but then we all have our preferences. And a good thing that is too.

But returning to my theme, and what occupied my walking meditations, which national park is the most underrated?  

Now that's much harder to decide.  Northumberland is the least visited, but for all I love that land, it is actually the coast (not in the park) which draws most visitors.  The North York Moors is relatively little known too, as is Dartmoor; the Trossachs are often passed over in favour of the Highlands or West Coast. And what about Exmoor, surely there's underrated potential there...  

Magnificent as these parks are I fear they will always be overshadowed by other attractions—none of them has the latent possibilities I'm looking for. On the other hand, I can't in all conscience choose the Yorkshire Dales, the Peak District or the Cairngorms: these are obvious star performers, well known and well-trod by millions.

There's no right answer of course.  

For what it's worth I'd make the case that the Brecon Beacons is the UK's most underrated national park. It's within an hour's drive of four large cities, has some of the best mountain walking south of Scotland and is vast and varied and lonely and lovely... 

Why is it so little visited compared to others?  Frankly, I'm mystified but I sense the lack of an obvious tourist centre (like say Keswick or Hawes) plays a part—so too that its major peaks are just a touch under 3,000 ft.  Maybe the Welsh language is off-putting to some - all those consonants and not enough vowels. 

The trouble of course is that what would make it more attractive to many risks destroying why it's so brilliant for the few. 

On Saturday we stopped by Maen Llia, a standing stone of  4,000 years provenance; erected by the Beaker people, we can only guess at its significance. Legend says it occasionally walks to the nearby stream for a drink—waters that feed the magnificent falls at Ystradfellte, and which hollow the caves at Dan yr Ogof, the biggest underground system in the UK.  From the hills above here, you can see the Carmarthen Fans, the Brecon Beacons, the Black Mountains; hundred of miles to explore.

And you can do so alone, or together, or like me and Jane, a bit of both! Because other than the honey pots (of which the waterfalls are one) the visitor density here is among the lowest of any high mountain area within easy reach of millions of people. And because, in a landscape like this, we are drawn to looking in as much as out, and to talking to ourselves, as much as our closest of loved ones. 

And I reckon that's underrated too. 

Dogs know what to say

'Dogs are good when you're going through tough times - they just know what to say.' Those words came from a text my friend sent me after they learned we've had sad news. For the last fortnight, Jane has been nursing her mum, our lives temporarily upended—suspended even—as we come to terms with the limits of life.

It seems (at least in our case) that we settle quickly into roles laid down over millennia: the women caring, the men keeping going; each clutching to some semblance of normality. This week I have been in Pembrokeshire, writing and working—they merge into one, like sky and sea. Time alone feels like an indulgence, and yet there's pragmatism in it too; life goes on, jobs to be done...

Yesterday I walked with Oscar to the high cliffs at St David's Head. There were many other pilgrims, stopping for photographs at what's a highlight of the modern-day coastal path. People have been coming here for generations, seeking solace and salvation at this ending of the road. Near the car park, archaeologists are excavating a mediaeval chapel; one hundred graves are aligned east to west in the path of the sun.

It doesn't take us long to reach the cove at Porthmelgan, but already, I sense Oscar knows things are not right. Where is his pack, why are we not together on the beach?  He walks close to my knees, not from any shortening of the leash but because he's done so all week, his eyes check me every few yards. When we reach the Head he settles by my side, nose on my shoulder, snuffling in a soft steady rhythm.

Out at sea, there are gannets patrolling the flows and avenues of the tide, gliding effortlessly over what to them is its limpid surface. On the cliffs, there's a band of orange lichen that marks the limits of the salt spray, a hundred feet above the water. The rocks it washes are a mixture of granite and sediment that's half a billion years old. 

In places like this, it's natural to see our lives in perspective. We talk of being grains of sand, stars in the heavens... insignificant moments in a landscape of space and time that's beyond our knowing. And yet we come here to make connections too. For we are as much a part of this place as it is of us— like the countless trillions of quarks and atoms and cells which make up our collective whole. Had we the capacity, we could trace our roots to the genesis that brought all this into being and will ultimately bring it to an end.

The philosopher John Gray says we humans are straw dogs, fated to be forgotten and deluded by our sense of difference as a species. His reasoning—and his writing—is compelling and persuasive for those of us without faith. And yet, for all its deductive potency it somehow ‘feels’ wrong, because we don't sense or act as if our lives were insignificant, whatever the lack of a greater scheme.  

The problem with metaphors like 'grains of sand' and 'stars in the heavens' is that they are too static and temporally removed; they take no account of our churning of the waters; the disturbance in the sediment created by the waves and wakes of our lives. Our actions may not make much impression on the granite rocks of time, but there's value in the here and now, in the love and care and difference we make to our fractions of the universe, which are just as essential and eternal as any other.  

Across the ridge to the north of the headland is Coetan Arthur, the capstone remains of a neolithic burial chamber. It seems our forefathers' found significance here too, and walking towards it I find myself wondering if it also was aligned to the sun. Jane loves this sense of history, the thought that people before us were thinking and acting just as we do. She would like to be here I'm sure, but wouldn't have it otherwise for now.

As I sat with Oscar looking back on the path we'd taken, I wondered what he saw and was thinking. His ribs were pressing on my back, and I remembered that message from my friend—that dogs know just what to say.  That's a non-sequitur of sorts because, of course, we know they can't speak. But perhaps that's the point; that being present is all that matters—that sometimes, there's nothing to be said.

Red dots and the quiet life of an introvert

#reddotting on Helvellyn

Last week the Sunday Times carried an article that caught my eye. A gathering of academics at a conference on transgender issues had suggested delegates might apply colour codes to their name badges. A green dot indicated the wearer was happy to be approached for discussion; amber, that they would prefer to speak first; while a red dot signified a wish to keep one's counsel.

This struck me as a fabulous idea. Transgender might be a controversial topic, but frankly, I'm just as uncomfortable at the over-friendly chit-chat of the ladies in Waitrose. Corporate events are even more toe-curling - some years ago, until they took the responsibility off me, I set my firm's budget for client entertainment at zero! And as for any occasion with the mention 'networking'...

Just off to the shops..😂

My friend agrees - I sent her the article and suggested we could glue red discs to our respective front doors. Why restrict it to home? she replied. How about a badge for schoolyard mums, and maybe another for walking in the hills? Good shout, maybe we could launch a campaign: #reddotting - for those who don't want to be mugged...  or hugged for that matter!

The possibilities seemed endless.

And yet, when I mentioned the idea to a different friend, they were horrified. Another example, they said, of the narcissistic over-curation of our lives; why can't we just talk to each other without artificial interventions?

Putting jokes aside, I reflected that there's much truth in this. Transgender is a prime example of an issue so politicised that even curious exploration is now fraught with anxiety; colonial history is arguably another, and views on climate change are in danger of acquiring an evangelical purity. Certainly, we've come a long way from the old pub maxim that the only topics to avoid are politics and religion.

But my attraction to 'red dotting' - that hashtag idea isn't quite dead yet - is founded on a subtly different notion: that too much of our culture - and especially those behaviours we consider socially polite - are shaped by extrovert values. The line between shyness and perceived rudity is gossamer-thin, in contrast to the robustness of commonplace assumptions that silence confers a lack of interest, or not mingling at a party makes you a miserable sod. To make matters worse, many extroverts, whose preferences so dominate our norms, are constitutionally resistant to seeing it differently.

Malcolm Gladwell touches obliquely on this problem in his recent podcasts, Talking to Strangers. Why he asks, are we so poor at interpreting the feelings and intentions of others? Using examples from Chamberlain's appeasement of Hitler to the trial of Amanda Knox (as well as her trial by media), he explores how our cultural norms lead to errors of judgment. Among our chief failings is what he calls the 'illusion of transparency', an entrenched preconception that a person's outward appearance is a mirror to their soul: smiling means you're happy; hesitation that you're lying; eye contact shows you're trustworthy.

But if this is an illusion, it's one that stubbornly persists.  Discussing Gladwell's podcast with Jane - who's a champion mingler and extrovert in the very best and kindest sense of the term - she countered that surely our instincts are 'right most of the time'; that these types of shortcuts make for a more efficient and smoother sociability. I sense there's truth in this too - except why do we default to the extrovert view?  Why not see silence as reflective, hesitation as truth-seeking, and eye contact as deception?

Shhh... Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

My mother in law, bless her, kisses every family member who comes through her door, usually clasping their face in both hands. As it happens I don't mind (truly I don't), but it would no more occur to her that some people might find cheek kissing mildly uncomfortable than she could conceive of a less demonstrable welcome being just as, if not more, friendly. In a similar vein, a good pal has a habit of talking at length - and I mean great length - to random passers-by; I enjoy chatting he says - yes, but do they, I reply!  To a stereotypical extrovert, what they like, and what's socially 'right' or 'correct', are inextricably linked. It's called preference bias - and we all exhibit it to some extent.

I should add here that there's nothing wrong with being an extrovert, just as there's nothing wrong with rain, or trees or choosing pudding over cheese. Extroverts can be brilliant and funny and a million things more. The problem is not being an extrovert, it's presupposing that everyone else is too - or more to the point, establishing an orthodoxy that assumes the same. Introverts are estimated to account for up to forty per cent of the population, so the notion that one's preferences are inherently 'right and proper', or for that matter 'right most of the time', is hard to sustain.

Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash

In truth, the introvert: extrovert distinction is more of a spectrum than a divide. Most of us are not wholly one or the other - though the uber-chummy cashier in our local convenience store comes close (tip if ever you're in my town - avoid his queue no matter how short). But this seems to me to make red-dotting even more attractive - for why wouldn't we want to know how others would like us to be? After all, you wouldn't serve only beef at a dinner party without first checking if there were any vegetarians.

I'm not hopeful though.  Even as I write, I can sense my more ebullient friends muttering - fiddlesticks, of course it's more friendly to be like us... 

And perhaps they have a point. For according to Gladwell, our behaviours are intrinsically contextual - even suicide is often specific to location; evidently, those prevented from jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge seldom try elsewhere. The workplace is another context where our characters can change. I'm reminded too, of Jane's regular complaint at my silence when she's driving - I feel like a chauffeur, she says - and yet with certain friends, she can't shut me up.

Perhaps it's inevitable then, that in social settings, those who project themselves on the world should take the lead in setting the norms. It wouldn't work to entertain in silence, just as singing in the library doesn't go down a storm. And much though I like the idea, I'll concede that it would probably be weird to don badges in the pub. 

Though, on second thoughts, if they were all red, I'd give it a whirl.

Words and pictures

'In my craft or sullen art' - the desk of Dylan Thomas 

For the last three months I've been lecturing at the University of the West of England, teaching copy writing and professional practice. It's been as much a journey for me as my students, and a tonic, in the twilight of my career, to feel I have something to offer.  But more than that, it's been a period of self reflection, for if I've learned  one thing about teaching undergraduates, it's that it requires looking as deeply into your own practice as theirs.

Often I start my lectures with a video, illustrating a notion that's caught the eye or snagged my memory. In part, I use these to settle the class, buying time for the inevitable stragglers; more substantively, I'm offering a sideways look at the creative processes, with a hint at its relevance to writers. Most times there's a tangential discussion, though occasionally I sense the gears and levers of my students' minds wondering if I've lost the plot.

Bacon in his studio

Over the weeks I've shown clips of Picasso at work, excerpts from documentaries, wildlife films, jazz improvisations, poetry readings...  At my last lecture we watched Damien Hirst discussing the paintings of Francis Bacon - one of my more esoteric selections. Yet despite a few blank looks, I was delighted when a student came up after class and said, I'm beginning to see where you're coming from.  

In many ways I learned to write through pictures. Not literally of course, but in the way that for words to have depth of meaning, we're required to pay close attention, the same is true of painting. As Hirst points out, Bacon's works are much greater than our first impressions. Look closely at his images - so immediate and visceral - and you'll find they dissolve into thousands of marks: each a deliberate placement, whether delicate or violent, carefully considered, worked and reworked...

Chaim Soutine
- the painter's painter 

This is the craft behind the creation. And it comes less from technique than it does from care. More than any other advice I've given my students, is that they should pay attention to the detail. And by that I don't mean checking for typos; I mean being precise, taking heed of the words - shaping the sounds - to the point of exhaustion if necessary.

How long do you think it took to write that last paragraph?  And how many edits would you guess I've made?  If I told you in minutes I'd be lying. And as for the changes - as I type this sentence I've gone back twice more. In the video of Bacon's paintings, Hirst draws attention to the image of an ear that's been overpainted so often the layers of pigment have congealed into sculpture.

I sense that all discovery is like this - a combination of creativity and craft.  Creativity is what consciousness is to philosophy: something we experience and yet can't pin down.  Craft, on the other hand, we can see and learn, and through long practice, even master. I was once rather sniffy about the idea of reworking, believing some 'deeper inspiration' to be the vital ingredient. But this is naive; a misunderstanding of what craft is, and the role it plays.

One of my own

In seeing craft as care rather than effort, we gain a different perspective. We also learn that 'process' is not only necessary for the communication of our ideas, it's a gateway to creativity itself. In this respect, I suspect that most epiphanies - be they in art or science - come as described by the mathematician Andrew Wiles, 'after stumbling round in the dark'.

For me, the practice of refinement is as critical as ever - be that as a copy writer, essayist or blogger.  First drafts are interminable: the movement from notion to form, at times glacial and always fractious. But to sense the shape emerging, to respond in turn - and to do so with truth - is the greatest joy in writing.

I hope my students feel that too, and come to see it all around them.

On seals and boxing and deeply felt aesthetics

'Make the boy interested in natural history if you can - it's better than games'

Robert Falcon Scott in his last letter to his wife 

(quoted in today's Times Universal Register)

Last Friday I walked with my eldest son from Abereiddy near my home to St David’s Head – nine miles of rugged splendour: five seals in a bay, a kestrel at Carn Llidi; my first butterflies of the year.  The next day I drove to London with my middle son and cheered as Carl Froch bludgeoned George Groves with a right hand we could feel from the second tier of Wembley Stadium.

Those who know my writing won’t be surprised by Friday’s walk, but I suspect they might be perplexed by the boxing. ‘How can you like such a violent sport?’ my mother in law often asks. ‘With what you’ve written about your father, I can’t understand it.’ Like many people, my mother law in law regards boxing as horrid; a form of institutionalised violence, which has no place in the athletic world – I’m paraphrasing here, but the sentiment will be familiar.

And I understand it too. Boxing is violent in the sense that the pugilists are – to put it plainly – trying to hit each other as hard and as accurately as they can. What’s more the obligatory trash talk before the fight creates an atmosphere of aggression that can be unsavoury to say the least. The crowd on Saturday was a disconcerting cocktail of gangster suits and fake tanned peacocks.

But then other sports are aggressive in different ways. My mother in law loves rugby – and I know of no one who is more vicarious and visceral in her support of the national team.  ‘Get him; punch him; get in there…grrr…’ Most rugby matches I see involve regular punch ups, often gruesome injuries – and here’s a point to ponder – behaviour that outside of a rugby pitch would invite criminal prosecution. Football is less violent on the pitch, but I’d not take my young son to a match because of the tribal intimidation of the crowds.

It’s interesting to me that almost anyone I’ve spoken to about boxing – who has also been on the end of domestic violence – can see the distinction immediately. Violence is the unlawful use of physical aggression; it involves one party assaulting another; a resort to force to impose their will, whether that be on a playing field, a backstreet or a bedroom.

And that’s an entirely different thing to two adults entering a boxing ring, each voluntarily present, knowing what’s involved and happy to accept the outcome. I could go on about the adherence to rules, safety concerns and more, but it’s all a bit peripheral.  Better simply to declare that there is aggression in boxing, and lots of it - but it not uninvited, and that’s the key point.

For all this defence of Saturday night, I should point out that I don’t think my mother in law is entirely wrong. It seems to me that it’s possible to hold an ironclad objection to boxing on aesthetic grounds – it just feels wrong, and for all the talk of rules and safety and voluntary participation, the fact that grown men are punching each other is at odds with what we ought to consider as sport.

I don’t share that view, but I can understand it.  My dislike of fox-hunting is something similar – there are flaws and inconsistencies all over the place if I try and articulate it.  But deep down, I can’t reconcile myself to people taking pleasure from hunting a beautiful wild animal – uninvited violence of a different sort, perhaps?

Returning to Saturday. It seems to me there is something deeply pure about boxing, which, more than any sport I know, connects us to our most primitive emotions. As we watched from high in the new Wembley gantries, the crowd turned to cheer at Daniel Craig (who waved from the VIP box behind us). I said to my son – it’s not very different to the coliseum is it?

Then the fight began and we were lost in the noise.

Nigella and the Gogglebox

I returned to work yesterday having recovered (almost) from this dreadful man-flu. It was good to see my colleagues again and enjoy a little office banter.

Topic of the day was Nigella Lawson and whether she's 'a lovely lady with a dreadful ex-husband who's using a court case to destroy her reputation'  or  'a coke-head and a bad role model at odds with her public image.'  I've simplified the two positions of course, but I'd say opinion was fairly evenly divided.

Frankly, I'm not taking sides but I did ponder on two thoughts on my way home.

The first was to note the relatively restrained tone of the assessments towards Nigella - in the press as well as by many of my colleagues - compared to that meted out to other cocaine users: the disgraced former chief of the Coop bank would be a good example. If the allegations are true I'm not sure there's much difference in what either was up to?

The second was a remark I overheard, claiming that to describe Nigella's drug habit as criminal wasn't correct. Excuse me - buying huge amounts of cocaine, and allegedly for her daughter too? Yes but she wasn't dealing! I can understand why someone might regard dealing as more serious, but possession of a Class A drug carries a seven-year sentence - that's a criminal offence in my book. Whether it ought to be is a different issue - in the meantime see yesterday's post on truth and logic.

But much more fun than Nigella was the chat about Gogglebox.

Universally loved by everyone in the office - it's the most weirdly compulsive programme I've seen in years. The format, if you don't already know, is a fly on the wall of various couples and families watching television. This week the cameras captured their reactions to Doctor Who, the Ashes defeat, a Star Wars Movie...

The characters are all larger than life and I guess everybody has their favourite - I especially like Leon and June the retired teachers from Liverpool; Jane likes the posh hoteliers who are always sloshed. Evidently Gogglebox has proved so popular they've already sold the rights to America, and China is considering a series.

But what I find most fascinating about Gogglebox, is the uncomfortable realisation that we've come to the point where TV is so dull, we'd rather watch other people viewing it than sit through the programmes ourselves!

I wonder if that principle could ever apply to blogs - don't bother reading the Bike Shed, just click the webcam to watch me typing... and sneezing (though not from cocaine I assure you).

 Somehow I don't think it would catch on.

Truth and logic

The other week I read a quote in passing which went something like: 'think wrongly if you wish; but whatever you do, think clearly.'  The exact words aren't important; it's the distinction between truth and logic which is.

I often meet people who say If it's not true, then how can it be logical?  The reason is important to all critical thinking, and especially to philosophy - it's not difficult to grasp, though to some it is clearly counter-intuitive.

One of the characteristics of studying philosophy is that it teaches us to evaluate arguments, not only in relation to evidence (which remains vital too) but also by reference to their consistency. For an argument to be logically sound it needs to expressed in a way that the constituent parts are compatible and not contradictory.  Being logical does not mean that you are 'right' in the sense of the facts and evidence  - but it does mean that you 'could be right' in 'some possible situation'.

Let's take an example.

George believes that the threat of prison makes no difference to the way people behave. At the same time, he thinks we should give tough sentences to those selling heroin because it might deter young people from becoming dealers.

George may well be right in his conclusions that tougher sentences would deter drug dealers - but his reasoning is not logical.  If the threat of prison makes no difference to the way people behave, then it follows that tougher sentences would not deter a young person from becoming a dealer. The two beliefs are incompatible because in no possible circumstance can they both be true.

Here's a different slant.

Susan explained she held five dinner parties last year; at everyone she undercooked the main course and on three occasions her guests suffered food poisoning - the puddings were so inedible they've become a standing joke amongst her crowd.  Despite this Susan says she's an excellent cook - she's just been over ambitious in her choices given she's had no formal training.

Now Susan is almost certainly delusional- all the evidence suggests she's a dreadful cook and ought to get the caterers in. But although her assessment may be silly and irresponsible, it is not illogical in a formal sense. That's because her view is not strictly incompatible with her attempts at entertaining - there is some possible (albeit highly improbable) scenario in which she is correct.

The test of consistency can be applied to simpler beliefs too.

For example, if I say  'all the males in Lincoln are dowagers,' then I'm saying something that is inherently contradictory (only women can be dowagers) and therefore, necessarily untrue.

We need also to watch out for the trivial - some beliefs can be logical and true - but frankly, they don't say much.

Saying 'all eligible bachelors are men,' is self evident because to be a man is a requirement of being an 'eligible bachelor' -  dropping 'are men' from the sentence wouldn't change its meaning or truth.

These are only a few examples, but hopefully, they illustrate the distinction.  The key point is that logic requires our beliefs to be consistent with each other; for conclusions to be compatible with the premises.  It is possible to be logical in our reasoning but get the facts wrong and vice versa.

So why does all this matter?

Because in the real world, many things we debate are not 'true' or 'false' in the sense they can be proved. And even when there is persuasive evidence it may be disputed, the factors weighed differently, interpretation coloured by cultural or political bias...

Economic theory is a contemporary example of this - you'd think by now we could simply measure the 'facts' and determine what's the best route to achieve a given set of objectives? But in reality, extremely intelligent professors are regularly at loggerheads over the importance and implications of one statistic or another. Despite decades of study, there is no agreement akin to that in say, chemistry.

And when we come to examine issues such as 'morality' or 'wellbeing' or 'justice' then we've moved even further from any possibility of pinning down 'truth'. Here consistency especially matters in testing the compatibility of our beliefs across different but related issues. For example if we believe in freedom of information, then that has implications for our policy on the press, the internet, accessibility to government documents, etc.

The reality is that only a small percentage of our beliefs are evidence based - many more, and especially those related to our views on right and wrong, derive from a cocktail of intuition, emotion, cultural background, personal bias, self-interest, ignorance, and sometimes, plain old confusion.

What philosophy tries to do, is bring some order to the jumble - to rationalise the inconsistencies and create as coherent a system of beliefs as is possible. It regularly fails of course - and philosophers are as apt to think wrongly as the next man.  But to be fair - most of them will at least try to think clearly.

More things we desire

Last night Dylan was writing his Christmas list. It included various electronic games, a boxing head-guard and big brother crusher!  In truth, he doesn't really know what he wants, because, like a lot of nine year old boys in happy and relatively prosperous families, he has everything that matters.

Later, I was pondering what presents I might fancy opening and came up with an equally vacuous list. For a moment I felt quite smug that I'm not burning with material desires. But before getting too self congratulatory, I remembered it's easy to be less-materialistic when you're comfortable.

It also misses the point about presents, which are about more than satisfying needs and desires - but that's not really my subject for today

Some years ago I met Satish Kumar and recall him saying that material goods don't make us happier.  He claimed that our cravings for the latest fashion, for washing machines and gadgets and bigger cars and patio furniture, don't lead to fulfilment - in themselves, these 'things' seldom change our lives and often the constant desire (and the envy of others) can be self destructive. I buy all that (what a delicious pun).

But I don't buy the idea that the worth of material progress and possessions is a chimaera. Indeed, I also remember Satish balancing his spectacles and me thinking, somewhat unkindly, try going without those!  

My experience is that there are many possessions (often long wished for) which turn out to make little difference to my life - and there are others, which (often unexpectedly) have enhanced it immeasurably.  The interesting thing is that there seems to be no pattern or relationship to the cost.

Certainly, the new possession which has given me the greatest pleasure this year has been my saxophone - coincidentally, a Christmas present last year, and something I'd long desired. It wasn't exactly cheap, however, it cost less than some folk would spend on a trip to London. If I had to choose a second item it would be the coffee machine I use every day - price £180. Again, not trivial, though hardly exorbitant for the number two slot.

As a bit of potted bike shed philosophy I'd say there are three types of materialism I see.

The first is a legitimate desire for goods which genuinely improve our lives - of course, we misjudge this at times, but wanting warm and secure housing, refrigerators and computers and spectacles... are to mind reasonable aspirations in a modern world. That the distribution of these goods is unequal and unjust is an important but different matter.

The second is the desire for goods which deep down we know to be trivial. I have a homespun theory that the more heavily something is marketed the less intrinsic worth it has: cars and beauty products spring to mind; kitchen gadgets (to which I'm especially prone) would also fit. This is where Satish is right and where it's hardest to resist.

The third and most toxic form of materialism is when we measure our self worth through the goods we own. An image of the balding business executive, drooling over his bigger and faster car, is a stereotypically sad example. But it applies equally to the other end of the social scale. And it's not just a middle age crisis - for teenagers, the minutiae of possessions can acquire an importance which mystifies those of us who've forgotten what it's like to be sixteen.

In finishing, let me dismiss any idea I'm uninterested in possessions. The other week Dylan asked me what was the best thing I'd ever bought? Our house in Wales, I replied. That alone tells you something. I'd like to think that it costing less than a mid-range car today is relevant context - but in truth, it is a materialistic privilege which has given me more pleasure than any other.

Perhaps the important thing is I'd sell it tomorrow if it threatened his happiness or that of any of my boys. Quite whether a 'big brother crusher' will do the same I'm still debating.

Writing and other art

Notes in a sketchbook

A few weeks ago a friend of mine asked my view on the difference between writing and other art forms - in terms of producing and receiving it.  It's a vast question, and not one I can hope to answer fully, but yesterday's post of old paintings reminded me of the request, so I thought I'd offer some potted wisdom.

Of course, it all depends on what you mean by art - so let's get that out of the way.

To me, art's defining characteristic is that it is both a 'response' to the world and an attempt to communicate beyond our everyday senses. This is different to 'craft', which however skilful, is the result of a predetermined process. The making of exquisite furniture or quilts or Faberge eggs is not to my mind art - though crude children's drawings often are!

This notion of 'art as response' and art as 'communication beyond the literal' is important - for different forms, necessarily approach it in different ways.

Painting, as my tutor used to say, is the silent language of marks - all true painting shows a 'control of' and 'response to' the chosen medium. Anyone who has painted for even a short time will have experienced the shifting relationship between artist, medium and image - and understand that the outcome is never certain. This applies to figurative as well as abstract painting, though to the layman it is perhaps more obviously so in the later.  That painting is occasionally used as therapy, is testament to its ability to create connections and resolutions which we struggle to 'put into words'.

Music I can say the least about with any authority, but it seems to me there is a huge artistic difference between interpretive music and original composition - not dissimilar to the distinction I made between craft and art. Unlike traditional notions of painting, we have an intuitive expectation that music will not simply replicate the sounds we could hear in the natural world -  rather, it will reinterpret those experiences and in so doing, heighten our experience it.

The philosopher Brain Magee argued that classical music was the most powerful of art forms precisely because it was the most disconnected from the physical world. I don't share his conclusion, but I agree that music's strength is we tend to approach it with less need for 'literal' explanation.

The Ancient Greeks considered writing and drama to be the greatest of the arts. I'm not sure these hierarchies are relevant, but I do understand that writing has a capacity to involve the recipient in a way which is different to other forms. The very first thing we learn as writers is to 'show not tell' - in a sense, to let the reader be part of the outcome. Words are also less fixed than we might imagine - anyone who writes a lot will know how ideas 'happen' on the page.

It seems to me that writing's great strength is that it uses the language we all understand - this makes it accessible and perhaps the most outwardly literal of the arts. The corresponding weakness is that often we can't find the words; that we resort to cliche - and that because of its very literality (is that a word?) we hold back on the truth.

To some, much of this will sound like gobbledygook. A good friend of mine would surely say, painting is about likeness, music is about tunes and writing is about telling tales - end of story!

I believe he'd be wrong.

But I can't prove it -  I can only suggest that experiencing the process is the best way to understand.

When you next have a quiet moment, think for a second or two of how you'd paint the taste of ice cream; of making music in response to a scent; or writing a poem about love.

The John Prescott Test

Some years ago I watched a documentary in which John Prescott made an off-hand comment that struck me as entirely reasonable, especially from a politician. I've tried to apply it ever since.

His point was simply that he had no time for people who moaned about problems but didn't offer solutions.

That might sound obvious, but I regularly read blogs, articles, even books which rail at the status quo, then offer nothing in return.

And when you think about it, that's too easy. Challenge and complaint are fine, but in a world of difficult choices, it's incumbent on us to propose alternatives, and understand the implications of these too.

I've made it a rule on the Bike Shed that whenever I complain - even in my visceral rants at wind farms - I'll try to offer solutions.

And if my reasoning doesn't convince, I suppose I can always apply the other Prescott formula...

... punch 'em in the face!

Law - and its limits

Two of the first philosophy books I studied at university were Thomas Hobbes's Leviathan, and John Stuart Mill's On Liberty. They offer contrasting views on the role of law in society; a debate that's relevant today whether you read dusty old books or not.

Leviathan was published in 1651 and needs to be seen in the context of the civil unrest at that time. Its central idea is that society is a social contract between men to submit to laws, rather than live in anarchy. Without government, there is continual fear and danger of violent death, and the life of man be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.

Hobbes favours a strong monarchy and gives barely a passing mention to the notion of democracy. Clearly, this is out of date, but what's still relevant about Leviathan is the concept that the role of law is to protect us from a worse fate - and that we require strong powers to do so. Hobbes says little on the limits of the law or the concept of personal freedom.

In contrast, John Stuart Mill's On Liberty (published in 1859, and after the impact of the French Revolution), starts with the innate rights of man. Mill says that the only legitimate purpose for which power (laws) can be exercised is to prevent harm to others. On Liberty, sets out the basic liberal principle which remains influential - that we should all be free to do as we please, so far as we don't impact the freedom of others.

This tension between the limits of the State (even if protective of its citizens) and the desire for personal freedom, is still very much alive. The furore over Wikileaks is a modern manifestation, so to is the debate over freedom of the press, laws to fight terrorism...  Less obvious, but essentially a similar debate, is the role and limit that should apply to taxation, welfare provision, social obligations and behaviour.

So for some (Mill), freedom is about an absence of restraint; for others (Hobbes, and ironically many Socialists too) it is about securing the conditions that allow us to meet our aspirations. In practice, we compromise and pragmatically sway between one view and the other. But the side of the divide you're intuitively on has massive implications for the law and its role in our society.

I'll close this post with mention of another book from university: Hedley Bull's, The Anarchical Society (1977). Somewhat out of date already, it nonetheless poses the question of how we best regulate the world of independent Nation States. Oh God, it's getting even more complex...

Another time perhaps.

Capitalism - common currency

The pension fund of which I'm trustee has a number of members over 100 years of age. That's a sign of progress in itself, but even more astonishing is to think of the events those people have lived through - the Great War, Fascism, the Depression, Communism, the Cold War, Welfare State, European Union, Middle Eastern crises (many and varied), the re-emergence of China...

Every century has its seminal events, but there's never been a more turbulent one in terms of political and economic ideas. Europe might feel settled, (though we often overlook the uncomfortably recent conflicts in Bosnia and Eastern Europe) but on a world stage, we still have violent clashes of cultures and aspirations - the Middle East and North Africa being obvious examples.

But if political conflict remains, capitalism has been the clear winner in the struggle for economic ideas. There isn't a single major economy which isn't essentially capitalist - including China - and it's hard to think of emerging ones which aren't.  There are a few rogue states such as North Korea and Transnistria (look it up), and a few outliers such as Bhutan - but essentially we live in a capitalist world.

Of course, there are still debates about the shape of capitalism - largely around the level of social equality and extent of welfare provision - but very few are seriously postulating an alternative model. Frankly, the days of Socialism in its purest sense are dead - we've moved to other debates. Arguably, the biggest contemporary challenge to Capitalism comes from the 'Green Movement' and its concern over the sustainability of economic expansion.

I'm not commenting here on whether this is right - just observing that the capitalist model is for now so common currency as to be seldom questioned. If that sounds obvious, contrast it to the Thirties and the days of the Popular Front, or the 1968 protests in Paris.

Perhaps the operative words in that last paragraph are 'for now'. The epithet is also used in Ian Morris's brilliant book Why the West Rules - for now which suggest there will be other models and cultural norms in time. More pessimistic, but equally brilliant, is Straw Dogs from the philosopher John Gray, who challenges not so much capitalism, but the hubris of humanism - we're all doomed!

But returning to the century view I began with - we should view the progress of Capitalism in relation to other societal pillars I've discussed in recent posts. Capitalism has succeeded because it's developed in tandem with democracy, meritocracy and rule of law - arguably, these parallel institutions have saved it from its own excesses.

Will Capitalism be so dominant in another 100 years?  Who knows, but it's interesting that the investments we are making for the pension funds of the future have almost (not quite, to be strictly accurate) that horizon in mind.

Knowledge vs information

Dai's Shed, Pembrokeshire - windy Sunday, cold fingers as I drew.

Last week on BBC's Autumnwatch a viewer sent in a photograph of some moth eggs. The presenters couldn't identify them, so they asked for experts to email the answer.  As this was happening, one of the crew suggested that years ago they'd have let the eggs hatch, reared the caterpillars, and arrived at the answer the hard way.

At which point Chris Packham made an aside which struck me as interesting. Yes, he asserted, and that's the difference between acquiring knowledge and simply finding information!

My first response was negative.

I'm suspicious of the rather Protestant notion that information which isn't hard-won is somehow less valuable than that which comes more easily.  In the early days of the Internet this view was especially rife - but who would want to go back to the days when Encyclopaedia Britannica was the oracle?  And how many of us went along to the library every week to turn its dusty pages?

But as I reflected I softened a little.

Not least because I was one of the nerds who actually raised the caterpillars. I also drew and photographed them, wrote details of their development, and ingrained on my brain, details of their lifecycle and physiology that I'd have long forgotten if acquired in seconds from a website.

Drawing is a particularly apt analogy.  John Ruskin said that its purpose was to train the eye and not the hand - and he's right. I know of no better way to understand at an object than to render it on paper - photography doesn't come close. Interestingly, almost any book on amateur astronomy will recommend that the enthusiast draws what they see through the telescope.

The point about drawing is that it requires intense concentration - as does philosophy, and writing..  any activity which fully absorbs us. I'd bet musicians and mathematicians and athletes experience something similar.  And it seems to me that there's something about that process of immersion which allows 'information' to transcend into what Packham calls ' acquired knowledge'.

Before writing this post I looked at some of my old sketchbooks. They still arouse vivid memories, not only of the subjects but of when and where I drew them; how I felt at the time.

That is knowledge of the deepest kind and something which Google - or Autumnwatch for that matter - can never begin to equal.

Straws in the wind

Straw and a bluebell by Dylan

I've been troubled this last week, my thoughts not connecting in the usual way; loose strands I want to spin together, but can't quite find the means. They hint at issues we'd rather forget, or at least not examine too closely, preferring cliche to analysis, and if we must have latter, then let it be at a remove. 

You get what you pay for, began a conversation I overheard in the gym. Aye, came the reply, but you have to pay for what you get.  I was on the rowing machine and couldn't see who was talking. The woman who'd spoken first and sounded younger than I think she must have been, said, they'll pay us back when they're settled, to which her other half grunted, we'll be dead by then.  I rowed faster to my target of 2,000 meters - by the time I reached it, they'd gone.

On Tuesday it was reported that the UK had one trillion pounds of debt - more than sixteen thousand for every person. And that's evidently not a true reflection, because it omits the mortgages and credit cards and pension black holes and corporate debts and unfunded future commitments that we're all going to pay for - and some, like my children's generation, a lot more than others.

That evening I’m discussing family finances with my parents in law. I say the idea of my boys leaving university owing forty thousand pounds appals me. Partly I fear for their future, but I’m horrified too at the message it sends about debt as a norm.

On Wednesday Bill Gates says he doesn't pay enough tax. I'm sceptical of this mantra, wondering why those who chant it don't simply write a check to their local hospital. To be fair, Mr Gates has endowed thirty billion dollars to eradicate polio and other killer diseases. Back at the gym I watch the British TV awards on the overhead screens, uneasy with the juxtaposition of jungle celebrities followed by a short clip reminding us that one million children die every year of malaria.

I come home and they're discussing the Euro-crisis on Newsnight.  I find myself nodding and tutting as if I understood the complexities of global capital, and think suddenly of Dylan who after listening to Just William had earlier asked me what lugubrious meant, and the meaning of utter vacancy.  Jeremy Paxman probes an expert on why the Chinese won't bail us out. She replies: because their average incomes are one tenth of ours - maybe they think we could cut back. 

The comment brought back memories. When I was twenty years old I took what I regard as the only significant debt of my life - I borrowed three hundred pounds from my mother to pay the deposit on a flat. It was equivalent to a month's wages after outgoings and I repaid it in six weeks, preferring to eat soup and rice than purchase non-essentials while in hock. No doubt there was some deeper psychology going on there - but the diet did me no harm and in many ways it has shaped my 'appetite' since. 

Next day, there's an article in the Times confirming we remain the world's sixth largest economy. I wonder why we need any debt, why no politician is suggesting we remove it over, say, a fifteen-year period. In the same edition there are objections to the proposed benefit cuts, to any prospect of scaling back on the NHS, to the unfairness of this or that, the impact on the arts. Overseas aid is a suggested target for reductions.

The philosopher Karl Popper described democracy as the least worst of all the alternatives. He lamented its inefficiency, its disproportionate focus on the immediate and selfish desires of an electorate - it's inability, as it were, to ever eat rice and soup. Every politician I've met has confirmed my sense that he's correct in this. 

Back in my study, I'm confronted by my own contradictions. There’s a letter from our MP responding to my dismay over the increase in student fees. Next to it is another from Medecine Sans Frontier that I’m yet to open – I’m no Bill Gates but my donations are paltry compared to my needs and income.

Is it possible to be too concerned I wonder? Someone told me recently that his partner is so worried about the state of the world that she can lose sight of more immediate ills. It damages those she’s closest too, he said.

Friday, driving into North Wales there are two buzzards, circling above a wood by the Berwyn Mountains. In the mode of that dreadful pseudo-science they call bio-mimicry, I philosophise on nature not doing debt – though it can show altruism, even collective responsibility. Then I notice one bird has a carcass in its talons; the second mobs it and a fight ensues - I’m reminded that nature doesn’t do ethics or charity either.

The rain picks up and the buzzards are lost behind a swish of my wipers. I press on, the thoughts still swirling, unsure if the clouds are lifting or descending. At the farm in Llangynog, there are straws in the wind.

Painting the stove

The artist Paul Cezzane said, 'if you have nothing to paint, then paint the stove.' His point was that to be inspired you need to practice. That the very process of putting pigment on paper will lead you to respond; interest and creativity will follow.

Writers know something of this too. Julia Cameron in her book, The Artists Way, suggests three pages of writing every morning which she calls 'morning pages'.  The process is close to writing as a stream of consciousness; your hand should never stop moving; you are not creating, simply reacting to the flow of your thoughts.

I wrote morning pages for two years, and coincidentally to this blog post, (which is being written with no idea where it is going) they are on top of a box by my desk. In a moment I shall photograph them - but, hold on, you've already seen the photo that I'm about to take ...

That's the sort of puzzle philosophers like, and it's given me an idea for a piece about the illusions words create. So already this post that was going nowhere has opened up some new possibilities.

Another trick I used as a painter was to rip up old pictures, retaining a fragment of the past as a starting point for the new. Frank Auerbach works this way, drawing and erasing, drawing and erasing, drawing and erasing... many of his pictures are patched because he has worn the paper through. I find that using fragments works less well with writing, however, I know others who think the approach is helpful.

But for all the tricks and techniques, sometimes it is serendipity that matters most.

Yesterday, taking some junk to my car, a blackbird took offence at me in 'her' garden. The closer I approached, the more agitated she became. She puffed along a branch, her cries receding as I stood motionless - until we faced each other for a long silent minute.

I'm not sure I've ever looked that closely at a blackbird. She wasn't black at all, but a sparkling umber, with a speckled chest and an orange ochre beak. Her head was cocked to one side, a green eye staring at me, staring at her. Blackbirds are one of our commonest species, I thought; we must pass each other every day. And yet I couldn't say which of us appeared the stranger to the other.

Our postman came ambling up our drive, and the moment was gone.

The fairness legacy

Storm clouds gathering, MC 2003

Yesterday, I overheard a conversation about the Government's tax and spending  proposals. The thrust of the discussion was whether one proposal or another was fair or unfair. Why was the winter fuel allowance applied universally, when child benefits were not? Should the rich pay more, or was it fairer to cut services?

As someone who studied, and is passionate about, ethics, I ought to be pleased. Not long ago all that seemed to matter was your position on the unions or the bosses, the Pound or the Euro, deterrent or disarmament. Fairness wasn't the issue: now everyone, it seems, wants to claim the moral high ground.

Most political eras leave a legacy in the public sentiment that can last longer than their more tangible achievements. The Tories under John Major left us with the concept of prudence - so strong was the idea, that even with three consecutive majorities, New Labour never dared to question it. Whether that was good or bad is beside the point - what matters, is that it constrained their ambitions, and particularly the way they positioned their policies.

Of course, that's not how it turned out. We've ended up with the highest ever debt, following one of the longest periods of economic growth - that's not the way most of us understand the term prudent. And even if we allow for factors outside the Government's control you'd still have to question their approach to, say, the housing boom, public debt and the affordability of services.

I don't want to take political sides here (frankly, I suspect the Tories would have done much the same) - my point is that as prudence became a catch phrase that was bandied about so often we forgot what it really meant. And I fear the same over our evangelical conversion to fairness.

Almost every use of the term I read last week was questionable. It isn't necessarily fair that the rich should pay more to reduce the deficit; nor is it necessarily fair that we cut services on a broadly equal basis; nor is necessarily fair to apply a means test for child benefit; and it certainly isn't fair to raise the pension age in an arbitrary way or to change the rules for company carbon taxation.

In truth, I don't envy the Government's task. Personally, I'd have pushed harder in some areas and eased off in others, but then we all have our preferences. The fact is, we face a huge and complex problem and by definition there is no easy answer. As they stand, I think the measures are a reasonably pragmatic solution to what is frankly, a bloody mess.

And you know, I'm fine with that. Sometimes the most appropriate response is to act firmly, even if it is less than perfect. I can't say I'm happy about the cuts and I deeply resent the imprudence that got us to where we are, but I'm prepared to give it a go. All I ask is one little thing.

Don't insult my intelligence by claiming it is fair.

The flight of bats

Photograph from Google Images

The nature writer J A Baker described the flight of bats as 'dry freaking' - a typically casual description that belies the skill of his writing. In two words he captures the experience, and the phrase comes to mind whenever I see them on the wing.

This summer I have been watching the bats in the caves at Newgale. Occasionally, they fly in the day, hunting moths that stray into the ridge lift. On Saturday, one took to the air from a cleft in the sandstone - its lunatic pattern of tumbles and falls (do you see what I mean - dry freaking is so much better) mesmerised me for fifteen minutes.

Bats, more than any other animal, remind me of how extraordinary nature is. We know they are effectively blind, 'seeing' the world though sonic resonance and yet able to pick out a hover-fly in a force six coastal wind. How must the world appear to them, I pondered, pulling up the collar of my fleece and turning to the curved horizon of St Brides Bay.

The idea has long fascinated philosophers. Schopenhaur thought long about the grim and (in his view)  somewhat pointless existence of moles, leading him to his theory of Will and Representation as the ultimate force in life. Others, such as Kant, concluded the world as it is in itself  is unknowable - we are inherently limited by our experience and capacity to understand. (For a practical example of this, try imagining an entirely new colour.)

But my fascination with bats is less to do with philosophical meaning and more about the sheer oddness of the way they exist. It is, I suppose, the recognition of nature as 'other'; of it always being 'beyond' us, no matter how far 'above' it we may think we are. Of course, we are part of nature too, but we should avoid reducing it to our limited perceptions.

Earlier this year I met a former researcher from BBC Spring Watch.  She recognised the dilemma and empathised with my dislike of those wildlife documentaries that give lion cubs names like Sheeba or Shakira. The problem, she explained, was that without the anthropomorphism, the viewing figures plummeted.

That may be so, but I remain sceptical of the merits. The bats I watched on Saturday didn't require a name to be fascinating; still less did they require a narrative. Indeed, I'd argue words of any sort could never do them justice. Though admittedly, and through enviously gritted teeth,  I'd concede 'dry freaking' comes damn close.

The Good Life

Mikey on the chair-plane. M Charlton 2005

Driving to Wales this morning, Dylan asks me, 'What happens if you work too much Dad?'
'You'd have lots of money, but not enough time to spend it.'
'That's tricky,' he replies. 'I think it's best if you just work enough to be happy.'

Having recently despatched the concept of fairness in a single sentence (see here for how), Dylan was applying his uncluttered four-year-old mind to the modern dilemma of the work:life balance.

Cash rich: time poor – or often the opposite – is the lament of many middle class households. But the concept of the work:life balance, so beloved of lifestyle gurus, misses the more interesting question of how best to spend the life part. What is it that constitutes the good life in a modern context, and how are we to attain it? It's another of those ponderings that takes up too much of my time.

Plato would have approved; he believed the good life was a one of contemplation, philosophy being the highest form of living. You might argue he would say that wouldn't he, but this school of thought is a common thread amongst the ancient thinkers. They were perhaps the first Westerners to record that the quality of life was about more than material gratification.

In the Judeo-Christian tradition which followed, closeness to God replaced the idea of the philosopher king, the good life defined by strict moral behaviour leading to spiritual redemption. Frederick Nietzsche dismissed this as the morality of slaves, urging us to find meaning in our lives by pursuing our dreams; God is dead, he said, we must find our own salvation.

Nietzsche is a notoriously obscure philosopher with unfortunate fascist connotations, but his prescription that we strive to be an a-moral Ubermensch is closer to most people's concept of good living than is following the Ten Commandments. I have a lot of empathy with the idea that we should chase our dreams and that a successful and happy life consists of catching at least some of them.

In a more modern and liberal context, AC Grayling (who would be horrified to be compared to Nietzsche) has written eloquently of how, in the absence of God, we should strive foremost for a life that is richly filled, rather than simply long-lived. Of course, we would like to have both – but so often we settle for sort of sub-life that wastes time and opportunity. At the recent DO Lectures in Cardiganshire a range of inspirational speakers gave tips for more productive living; ditch the TV, was top of the list.

But chasing our dreams is only part of the solution. God may well be dead, but we still have a need for something deeper than the here and now. Bertrand Russell, in his book The Conquest of Happiness said that we need to feel part of the past, and connected to the future.

This seems to me to be right; intuitively we want our children to have a safe and secure childhood, to be loved and feel wanted – we know too, that those who suffer trauma are often disconnected in adult life. Similar claims can be made about nationality, and religion – to deny people their sense of continuity creates a void that no amount of possessions can fill. And as to a connection with the future, children are again our most obvious salvation, but there are other ways to feel we have contributed beyond ourselves – through work, or art, or the example we show to others.

Russell also hit on a very practical idea that I have held to be true ever since I read it as student. He said we need to have at least one interest that we pursue entirely for its own sake – not because it advances us at work, for social climbing or because of pressure to conform, but because we love it in itself.

As I write these words I am reminded of the Olympic cyclist Rebecca Romero, who switched from rowing to track cycling in pursuit of a gold medal. Her victory in Beijing struck me as hollow, as if all that mattered to her was winning; there was no apparent love of the activity itself. I think also of her haunted face on the podium in 2004 and compare it to the joy of my kayaking friends last weekend, as they returned from paddling at sea – these are world class performers too, but their motivation is different, and I know which I think is the closer to a good life.

Returning to the 'work' side of the equation, many of these ideas apply equally to our jobs. We want our work to be satisfying; it is good to care about what we do and how we do it. Similarly, a sense of heritage can be an important aspect of our personal and community identity (think of the shipyards and coal fields, the recent demise of Woolworth's) and a secure future is fundamental to what the management types call 'employee engagement'.

Most of us rightly consider our work as primarily a means to an end, particularly in the context of the modern limited company, where individual contributions are seldom meaningful in isolation of others. But occasionally we see the work:life values wildly inverted and the result is sort of tragedy.

A previous boss of mine was apt to wax lyrical about the importance of family – in practice he came to the office at 6.00am to avoid the traffic and left at 8.00pm, supposedly to do the same. In reality, he defined himself by work; hitting the numbers was as much a personal challenge as business imperative; by his own admission he saw little of his children growing up and tried to make amends with his grandchildren. Even more tragic, the editor of a newspaper I worked for, so defined himself by his role, that he committed suicide when he was asked to step aside. We were given the news when he failed to show for his leaving party.

Recently, the psychologist Martin Seligman has written about what he calls authentic happiness. His hypothesis is that we each display a tendency to certain 'virtues'. By virtues he means those character traits that are universally regarded as good by societies everywhere and throughout time – examples include courage, a love of learning, care of others, leadership, creativity, sympathy – in all he identifies over twenty. Seligman claims that the truly happy life is the one in which we have the opportunity to pursue those virtues that are closest to our nature. So in my case, I need to finding time to think, and create and be inspired and develop a deep knowledge of certain subjects – ideally I need do these things with my family and at work too. I know that when I mange it, I feel most happy and motivated; most alive. For others, the recipe will different, but the concept is the same.

Seligman's ideas take us full circle – for it was Aristotle, the student of Plato, who said that a life of virtue was the definition of a good life. Much though I hated studying Aristotle, I think I now agree.

But, I'm not so sure about Dylan. 'What makes you most happy?' I asked him as we crossed the river at Carmarthen this morning. 'That's easy,' he said. 'It's trains every time.'