Carpenter

Who was that rather reluctant American troubadour on the stage of the Floral Hall in Hornsea some time in 1971? Hornsea, halfway down Bridlington Bay on the east coast of Yorkshire. Little more than a large village that once perhaps had pretensions of becoming a seaside resort to rival Scarborough further up the coast.

Inside that North Sea-beaten Floral Hall between the ages of fifteen and eighteen I met my first girlfriends, had a fight that stilled the dance floor, began my one and only LSD trip, shared tales, downed copious amounts of beer and enjoyed some great live music including UFO, Mott the Hoople, Roxy Music and a sad-looking thirty year old from Oregon called Tim Hardin.

Tim Hardin...You don't hear the name much these days. He was born in Eugene in 1941, entered the US marines in 1959 and was subsequently posted to Vietnam where, as well as being a "military advisor", he apparently discovered heroin. Back in the USA he became part of the Greenwich Village scene but somehow never really fitted in. He was on the edge of things but later found a place on the main stage bill at Woodstock in 1969.

In his last ten years, he was often over here in England, eking out a living from folk club appearances and mini-concerts such as the one I witnessed in Hornsea all those years ago. But between appearances he was wrestling with a lonely heroin addiction that ultimately meant he only lived half a life, dying in December 1980. On his simple memorial stone at the Twin Oaks cemetery in Oregon - these true words are inscribed - "He sang from the heart".

Tim Hardin was a talented songwriter who never really followed the crowd. He was his own man. Some songwriters leave little behind as the tide of time washes over their achievements but high up the shingle on Hornsea beach Tim Hardin has left at least two songs that endure - "If I Were A Carpenter" and this one... "Reason to Believe", once memorably re-interpreted by Rod Stewart but covered by several other bigtime artistes. Thank you Tim for at least leaving us this song.

Nearby

Last week I was imprisoned by Mrs Pudding. She insisted that I practised my decorating skills upon our front room - the lounge. Good grief! It was last decorated as recently as 2003. You could still smell the drying paint. Many hours later, the picture rail and skirting boards are satin white, the ceiling is baby white and the walls are ivory. Naturally, I made good use of my favourite DIY product - decorator's caulk - to fill in those irritating little cracks and holes - in my quest to produce a professional finish. Mrs Pudding was not disappointed and as a reward, allowed me to visit the local pub for half a pint of Tetley's bitter and a salted peanut.

But this was not meant to be the reason for this blogpost. Ten days ago, before the decorating sentence, I had one of my rambles in Sheffield's Golden Frame - around the previously grim mining village of Treeton and here are three pictures I snapped for your edification...

Top - St Helen's Church, Treeton - listed in the Domesday Book of 1086

Middle - "Cattails" on the banks of Treeton Dyke

Bottom - Grey horse under electricity pylon

Abuse

As time goes by, it becomes clear that in every single country where the Roman Catholic church has a major foothold there has been sexual abuse of children by priests. These are men who are supposed to have committed their lives to God and all that goes with Christian mythology - meekness, loving one's neighbour, obeying a Christian moral code that extends way beyond the ten commandments. I feel extremely sorry for all those thousands of priests who have lived blameless lives, serving their religion and their congregations with selflessness, humility and exemplary moral standards for they are now tainted by their peers' cruel exploitation of vulnerable kids over very many years.

There are bad men in the world - paedophiles, rapists, men who are out to gratify themselves with little thought for their victims. We know this. And we might expect such men to appear in different guises - lecherous taxi drivers, raincoated stalkers, egoistic businessmen in flash cars but you wouldn't have expected so many of these bad men to appear in the garb of priests - Men of God.

I can hardly imagine what it must be like to be haunted by memories of sexual abuse. To grow up with feelings of self-loathing, guilt, overwhelming anger and mental confusion. The scars will be deep and long-lasting. I don't suppose you ever truly get over something like that.

Thinking about this issue, certain supplementary questions have occurred to me...

1) How much longer will the Italian government collude with the Catholic church in Italy to cover up that country's legacy of abuse by priests?

2) Yes, children have been sexually abused but what about adults? Grown up Catholics - both men and women - have been vulnerable to abuse and exploitation by priests. Will vigorous investigators ever explore this avenue?

3) Sexual abuse is horrifying but there are other forms of abuse that should invite proper review - physical abuse and systematic humiliation for example. Tales of despotic Christian Brothers and cruel nuns are legendary in Catholic schools and other institutions. Just because such abuse wasn't sexual doesn't mean we should wave it by as if it were ultimately tolerable.

4) Shouldn't the Catholic church ditch the requirement that priests should live pious, celibate lives? Why can't they marry or take partners? Very obviously, existing regulations have helped to provide a fertile climate for sexual predation by priests.

5) Why would anyone continue subscribing to a religion that has provided a previously impenetrable veil behind which such terrible things have happened? A church should be a place of peace, comfort, refreshment, enlightenment - not a place of perversion, wandering hands, evil collusion.

(c) Sean Delones New York Times 2002

Top (c) Don Wright Palm Beach Post 2002

Eyjafjallajökull

What does the almost unpronounceable Icelandic name Eyjafjallajokull mean? It is geographically functional and simply means Island-Mountains-Glacier. It lies above coastal mountains that overlook some offshore islands. It is dwarfed by another volcano called Katla (Dragon) whose crater is approximately six miles in diameter. Yes - six miles!

I was lucky enough to visit Iceland in 1991 and saw Eyjafjallajokull with my own eyes as I travelled round that unique country. It is sometimes known as "The Land of Ice and Fire" and I vividly recall a day trip to Viti (Hell) which is another volcano in the north of the island with a vast lake in its sleeping crater. That day in June, a blizzard was blowing snow horizontally as I picked my way across a field of bubbling sulphurous mud pools - like boils bursting out of the planet's troubled core. It was at once enervating and unsettling - to be in the presence of such fundamental forces.

In the centre of the island, it felt as if I was travelling across the surface of the moon - vast lava fields coloured pathetically by tundra lichen. With a guide and half a dozen other visitors, I came to an escarpment that ranged from the northern horizon to the south. Here you could see very clearly where two continental plates are ripping themselves apart - the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. We crept into a huge cavern under that escarpment and saw a lake of steaming hot water. I remember the guide telling us that when he was a boy he used to swim in this lake but by 1991 swimming would have been impossible - boiling vegetables would have been easy.

European aviation authorities have revised their attitude to Eyjafjallajokull's belching of volcanic dust. All of a sudden, caution has been thrown to the wind and aeroplanes may fly following a week of cancellations. Money has spoken. But if we see just one death, one aeroplane brought down then those authorities will have hell to pay.

Historically, when Eyjafjallajokull grumbles, Katla roars a short while later. This would be like jumping on a chair because a mouse is on the loose, only to discover that a herd of wilderbeest are preparing to thunder through the neighbourhood.

We arrogant human beings with our certainties and and our logic sometime imagine that we are masters of this planet as we plunder the forests and the oceans, destroy other creatures, dig minerals from the crust, dam rivers, build skyscrapers, jabber on TV screens - but we are not masters - we are servants, serfs, simpletons. Eyjafjallajokull reminds us that Nature with its elemental forces is the true Master of the Universe.

Cleggs

Theirs was a love that defied international boundaries. He was a Cambridge graduate who dabbled in Conservative politics. She was a flamenco dancer from the peasant flavellas of Valladolid. One steamy night in Benidorm, she entranced him, her heels clicking to the plaintive strumming of a Spanish guitar. She said her name was Miriam. He said he was called Nick and that he was sunburnt.

Just below the "Lord Nelson" beach bar, their bottles of "San Miguel" clinked under a sultry Mediterranean moon. He said his mother was Dutch and that his father was half-Russian. She said she was falling in love.

A veritable Casanova with thirty notches on his John Lewis reversible belt, Nick whispered huskily, "We shall have babies Miriam... three boys and we will give them solid English names as would befit a future prime minister. Arthur Clegg after our mythical king. William Clegg after my liberal hero - William Ewart Gladstone. And Jeremy Clegg after the great Paxman of the BBC!"

"No effing way!" screeched Miriam. "We will name them after the fiercest captains of the Spanish Armada - Antonio, Alberto and Miguel!"

"But my little Iberian paella. Those names will not sound right if followed by the solid English surname Clegg... I mean Alberto Clegg? It sounds like a stand up comedian!"

"Well senor unctuous academic with only five years as an MP behind you," leered Miriam. "You either accept my name choices or I'll be making a play for Uncle Vince Cable, the noxioius Labour renegade."

Unable to press his point home, Nick quickly caved in. They were married the following springtime - he in medieval garb and she in a flame red flamenco frock with white spots and puffed sleeves. Instead of "The Wedding March", a David Bowie number was played - "All The Young Dudes" and guests included the investigative broadcaster Louis Theroux who remembered his 80's USA road trip with Mr Clegg when the aspiring politician would sometimes disappear for hours on end for sessions of transcendental meditation. Quite unusual for "Rodeway Inn" guests and often a nasty surprise for Puerto Rican room cleaners.

Vote Liberal Democrat

If you want to look like this!

Truce

A truce has been called in the transatlantic blogging war between yours truly and Mr Brague. On his blog, a recent post that I found quite hypnotic was a video clip of a tramcar ride through San Francisco in, I think, 1906. Over here in England some of the best pre-First World War film footage was created by northern movie entrepreneurs Mitchell and Kenyon. Search via YouTube and you will find several examples of their work that allow us to look in on a bygone age. It's fascinating. Below there's an example - taken a mile and a half from this keyboard at the Bramall Lane Sports Ground one hundred and eight years ago...

Quest

Occasionally, I find myself being cruelly ribbed by a gentleman who lives in Georgia, USA. He is an urbane and erudite blogger of mature years. His blog is titled "Rhymes With Plague" because I imagine that on many occasions he has used this remark to clarify the spelling of his surname. He is Robert H Brague who last year won my coveted "American Blogger of The Year" award.

Very recently he posted a YouTube clip of an ancient Londoner singing along to his ukulele and declared that this was me! I can assure you it was not. Furthermore, he implied that my saintly daughter was only "pretending" to study in Birmingham, Alabama where in fact she has been working like a coalminer at the face of knowledge - demonstrating to the lazy burger-munching Yankee extras from "Grease" what it means to be a proper student.

So who is my tormentor - this Robert H Brague? The only picture we see of him in his blog is of when he was a small child - shortly after photography was invented. I decided to do a little investigation via an obscure and little-known search engine called "Google". I clicked on "Images" and then carefully typed in Robert H Brague expecting to see several pictures of the old rogue but the results were confusing. Is this him?

No, it's Pope Johannes XXII....So was this him?

No it's a writer and intellectual called Remi Brague so it couldn't possibly be the man I was after.

Finally, I thought I had struck upon him - Robert Brague! (see above) A Catholic priest who allegedly died in Venice, Florida in 1997 but could so easily have faked his own demise and fled to Georgia. I was disturbed to read of the guy's rather unsavoury past which led me to think I was definitely on the right track until I spotted his middle initial - J not H. It wasn't him after all so the hunt for Robert H Brague continued. I went on to the second page of the search results and I knew I had my man...