Bragging

Boastful people are so annoying - I am sure you will agree.  Consequently, it is with some trepidation that in this post I have decided to join the ranks of braggers and boasters, displaying the self-satisfaction of an old windbag. After all, I don't want to put people off visiting Yorkshire Pudding.

Anyway. As some of you will recall, I regularly contribute pictures to the geograph website, It is a British mapping project in which contributors submit photographs taken within Ordnance Survey 1km squares. 

Each week there is a photo of the week competition which begins with the top fifty nominated pictures from the week before. In some weeks over 5,000 images are submitted so to even make the weekly shortlist of fifty is a great honour.

At the end of last year, one of the website's administrators counted up how many nominations each contributor had received in the course of 2017. Then he drew up a kind of league table. I was elated to discover that my name was top of the pile! In fifty two weeks I had had seventy five nominations - way out in front of my closest geograph rival. Here's the proof:-

Top section of the nominations list for 2017

Hip hip hooray! I think of all photo walks I undertook last year and the way my roving eye was constantly on the look out for great images. It's  very gratifying to have this year long enthusiasm recognised in this way. I guess that with every picture I take I learn a little more about what makes a good image.

More bragging from Mr Boasty McBoastface... On Saturday, our son Ian was interviewed in the business section of BBC TV World News with his Bosh! chum Henry. The interviewer was a jumpy Australian fellow called Aaron Heslehurst,  The interview lasted for over five minutes and a member of the production team told our son that it would be seen worldwide by at least 100 million people!

In other Bosh! news, the cover of the recipe book has been revealed. It is due out in April but it is possible to pre-order a copy via Amazon. I am keeping my fingers crossed that nothing unpredictable interrupts the momentum of Bosh! Ian has been working so hard to make it successful...

Vegas

Continuing my account of our American west coast holiday in 2005...

The Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas

It is almost three hundred miles from Santa Monica to Las Vegas. You traverse greater Los Angeles on wide concrete highways till you reach Route 15 and then at last you are out in the countryside. But it's not like Derbyshire. No green fields, quaint cottages or grazing sheep. Instead you are in a dusty desert landscape where cacti thrive and occasional joshua trees suggest you might have arrived on a different planet.

Across the Mojave Desert to the Nevada border. The traffic is light and there are sun baked mountains in the colourless distance.  Our black jeep is in cruise control and the road is as straight as an arrow. 

Then shimmering in the distance we see a city where no city should exist. Is it perhaps Oxford with its dreaming spires or the new Jerusalem? Palmyra or possibly The Emerald City itself? No. It's Las Vegas which in English means "The Meadows" but as we get closer we see no meadows - only a sprawling concrete settlement that owes its existence to gambling and entertainment.

Imagine that! Not a city built on steel or fishing or ship-building or banking but a city built on card games and sequins! Incredible. In 1905 the population of Las Vegas was just 25. Now it's home to 600,000 souls and always a temporary home for thousands of visitors. It is to the western world what Mecca is to Islam.

Vegas has its famous neon strip and north of that there's the old downtown area. Our budget hotel was between the two - the tastefully named Econolodge. We had two large connecting rooms and a kitchenette. Cheap and perfect for our needs. 

Though I was happy enough to accompany Shirley and the kids as we wandered around Sin City, our prime reason for going there  was to use it as a base for visiting the nearby Grand Canyon.

There are lots of different ways in which tourists can experience The Grand Canyon. We had chosen to fly to it, landing on a remote airstrip near the Bar Ten Ranch. There I met a real life cowboy called, I kid you not, Hank - a lovely man in his eighties who had worked cattle all his life in the rugged hills of Arizona. He was now part of the Bar Ten furniture and enjoyed chatting with visitors from all across the world.

After a rustic cowboy lunch, we climbed aboard a rough terrain vehicle and headed down to the canyon along a dusty desert track. Then we wandered around the rim of it, high above the Colorado River and marvelled at one of the planet's greatest natural wonders. 

I would have liked to wander longer but after an hour we had to get back in the ranch's open-sided vehicle ahead of our flight back to Vegas over Boulder Dam. Before flying back, we were invited to engage in some skeet shooting or what we English folk refer to as clay pigeon shooting. I have a built-in antipathy towards guns but it would have appeared churlish not to join in. The recoil on my weapon just about dislocated my shoulder and of course I missed all of my skeets by a mile. Even so it had been a magical excursion. It was early evening when we got back to the city where its seductive neon lights were already dancing.

Boulder Dam seen on our flight to The Bar Ten Ranch

That night Ian put a couple of quarters in a one armed bandit and won twenty bucks but I don't like casinos. They seem like alien places to me. Places I don't really understand and I would never waste money in them. After all, it is so startlingly obvious that in the end the casinos always win. Where's the fun in that?

Las Vegas is a vulgar place. I had the same feeling there that I had in Lourdes near the Pyrenees. A feeling of detachment - as if I didn't entirely belong to the race of humans I saw around me. Three nights were enough. I was happy to leave that crazy place and head out of the desert - back to California...

Will you take me as I am? 

Will you?

OZ

Somewhere over the rainbow way up high

There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby

Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue

And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true...

To tell you the truth, if I had been left to my own devices, I probably wouldn't have bothered going to see "The Wizard of Oz" at The Crucible Theatre last night. However, I had my ticket bought for me by some friends from the local pub. We also shared a taxi there and back and ordered interval drinks. This was all paid for through last year's pub quiz winnings.

The show was as enthralling as it was stunning. Everything knitted together so well - from the live music to the stagecraft to the vibrant dancing of the chorus. It was a bouillabaisse of frolicking fantasy with excellent performances from all of the lead players as they took us on a journey to L.Frank Baum's famous 1900 wonderland that would later became the iconic 1939 musical film that starred Judy Garland as Dorothy.

Regarding the current Crucible production I agree with Clare Brennan who said in her "Guardian" review - "The heart of the show is Gabrielle Brooks as Dorothy, expressing the perfect combination of innocence and wonder to carry us off into the shared dream of Oz". 

There's something vaguely perplexing about "The Wizard of Oz" story. I couldn't help wondering what it all really meant. Who do these figures represent? It all feels so allegorical and indeed many commentators have proposed various theories about what L.Frank Baum was really up to when he wrote it.

It certainly contains autobiographical, spiritual and political elements though Baum himself may not have been fully conscious of these forces as the tale emerged from his typewriter. He once said that the story was simply a burst of inspiration that came out of nowhere, inspired by looking at the second drawer of his filing cabinet which read “O–Z.”

Bravo to everybody involved in the Crucible production. Superb... and haunting too!

And...

Continuing with memories of our California trip back in 2005...

I tailored the holiday myself, having done plenty of internet research, booked all the hotels and, for example, even paid in advance for our tickets to the infamous Alcatraz Island in San Francisco Bay and seats in the Staples Arena to see the L.A. Lakers play . The planned itinerary was  like a picture book that simply needed to be coloured in.

After the long flight from England we arrived in Santa Monica, home to one of my musical heroes - Jackson Browne. But we weren't staying in Jackson's mansion - we were in a family room at the humble Travelodge overlooking Santa Monica Pier.

We booked in around midday and then took a sunny stroll along that famous  Pacific Ocean  pier which is at the western end of Route 66. Later, our slightly jet-lagged ambling brought us to Santa Monica's downtown area and its upmarket pedestrianised shopping zone on 3rd Street. Ian and Frances were keen to explore the Abercrombie and Fitch store where they each purchased some branded items and emerged grinning like two cats that had got the cream.

We enjoyed an all-American hamburger meal in an independent cafe and wandered back in the direction of our hotel. This was one of California's prime shopping locations - visited by the rich and famous but it wasn't them I was starting to notice - it was the homeless, the down-and-outs, the hobos.

They were mostly accompanied by supermarket shopping trolleys piled high with all their worldly possessions and not all of these people were men. There were a couple of women too. Later on, I would speak with one of them but I can't remember his name. He was a grizzled veteran of the Vietnam war, haunted by memories of that awful conflict. He had lost his job, then his wife and kids and finally his home. I gave him a ten dollar note, not caring a whit how he might spend it. How can it be that in such a wealthy, resource-rich country homeless people like him can move in the shadows, overlooked, blamed and often despised?

The next day we drove along the coast to Malibu where I saw Bob Dylan's house. Later, we visited Hollywood, cruised around Beverly Hills and strode from Grauman's Chinese Theatre along the Walk of Fame, observing various stars embedded in the pavement. (Perhaps they should embed Harvey Wenstein there too!) It was that evening when we went to see the L.A.Lakers which is something that Ian had specially requested. He got to see the famous Coby Bryant slam dunk a few basketballs and acquired the autographs of every one of  The Laker Girls cheerleading team.

Afterwards, we had a good value meal in the nearby International House of Pancakes (IHOP) before heading back along Santa Monica Boulevard to our hotel.

Frances outside the Chines Theatre in Hollywood

It had been a great day and the next day we got to see Rodeo Drive with its ludicrously expensive and exclusive shops before visiting the wonderful Getty Art Museum which overlooks Route 405 in the north western suburbs of L.A.. The palatial buildings themselves are a magnificent sight to see - anchored to a lofty hilltop and inside there was a treasure house of  magnificent paintings including for example Canaletto's  "The Grand Canal in Venice from Palazzo Flangini" and Claude Monet's "Marine Sunrise".

I asked a barrel-chested black security guard if I could take photos inside the galleries and he said, "Sure! Go ahead - no problem! Take as many as you want!" What a contrast with the majority of  European art galleries in which photography is invariably strictly forbidden!

We drove back to Santa Monica for the final time, looking forward to the next day when we would be driving across the desert to Las Vegas but as I drifted towards the valley of sleep I heard something outside our ground floor room. I edged back the curtains and saw a homeless man with his shopping trolley. He was settling down for the night in the bushes  right under our window in the land of the free.

The Getty Center, Los Angeles

California

"California Here We Come" by Phantom Planet. I heard it on the radio yesterday and it took me right back to Eastertime 2005 and our wonderful family holiday in California - just before this blog first saw the light of day.

We had taken a non-stop Virgin flight all the way from London Heathrow to Los Angeles and in the bright California morning  the first thing we had to do was to pick up our hire car from Hertz  - a brand new black Jeep.

Then we were out of the airport area and heading for our first hotel in nearby Santa Monica. My then fifteen year old daughter - Frances handed me a CD that unbeknownst to me she had prepared especially for that California trip. And the very first track was "California Here We Come".

It became the theme music for our holiday. As I recall the road trip  itinerary went like this - L.A.  to Las Vegas (Nevada)  to Boron to Bakersfield to Four Rivers near the Sequoia National Park to  Lombard Street in San Francisco to Salinas to Santa Maria and back to L.A... It was a great holiday in which we saw marvellous things and had many interesting experiences.

When we returned to Heathrow who should be walking right next to us on our way to baggage claim but Ringo Starr and his wife Barbara Bach. Surprisingly, he didn't ask me for my autograph. I guess the little squirt felt intimidated.

2525

This is my thirteenth year of blogging. So far, including this offering,  I have created 2525 blogposts - hence today's title. When one has been blogging as long as I have it is easy to forget some of the topics that one has already covered.

More than once I have begun typing a new post when a little voice inside my head has asked - "Haven't you dealt with this before?" Then I have gone to the blog search facility and discovered that indeed that subject was addressed a few years back.

Take this morning as an example. I had a bee in my bonnet about TV crime drama. I decided to let off some steam but as I finished composing the post that little voice asked the old check question again. And sure enough I discovered I had composed a similar post in April 2013 entitled Detectives. You might want to check it out.

However, waste not want not. Having spent an hour ranting about TV crime drama this morning I am not going to dump that post in the virtual waste bin. If you have bothered to read this far I beg your indulgence:- 

______________________________________________

Crime

I don't know any police officers or detectives. Furthermore, nobody I have ever known has been murdered. Our neighbourhood is pretty peaceful and law-abiding. Though occasionally I contemplate crime, it doesn't really figure in my everyday life.

In such respects, I know that my experience is not out of the ordinary. Though we might read of crimes in our newpapers or watch items about  stabbings, shootings, bombs or bank heists in the TV news, most of us live quiet and fairly uneventful lives.

Okay so far?

Well if all of that is the case, how come so many films and TV dramas focus upon crime, on murders and on the clever or ruthless tactics of the guardians of law and order? Personally, I am sick of it. It is as if the TV schedulers always opt for the lowest common denominator. Crime is traumatic and dramatic so building TV tales around it is relatively easy. It is a tried and tested formula.

How much more challenging it is to create gripping drama that focuses on ordinary lives and ordinary events. But isn't that what drama should do? Shouldn't it reflect real human experience instead of creating the delusion that life is filled with murders and robberies all attended to  by brilliant detectives.

So Lord save me from "Luther", "Broadchurch", "Line of Duty", "McMafia", "Wallander", "Rebus", "Prime Suspect",  "Taggart", "Poirot", "Rosemary and Thyme", "A Touch of Frost", "Dalziel and Pascoe", "Miss Marple",  "Sherlock", "Dexter", "Hill Street Blues", "Cagney and Lacey", "The Wire", "Columbo", "CSI Miami", "Law and Order" and "Murder She Wrote". This list goes on and  on.

Instead give me dramas about Welsh sheep farmers, karaoke singers, disappointment, coping with illness, meeting long lost relatives. And drama about obscure villages where nothing ever happens and about coal miners and young mothers and laughter and natural deaths. Give me drama about the residents of high rise flats and about plumbers and hotel workers. There's the entire gamut of real human experience to choose from. Is that too much to ask or must I continue to gripe about an endless diet of crime and killing and investigation? Quite simply, that's not how life is.

Darwen

I went to the other side of the hills - to Lancashire. The score was Blackburn Rovers 0 Hull City 1. At one point the Hull City end chanted "Yorkshire! Yorkshire! Yorkshire!" and I joined in. We were unashamedly taunting the Lancastrians. The War of the Roses is not yet done.

Rather than driving home in the dark, I booked a night in the Travelodge  at nearby Darwen. Besides, the weekend weather forecast was brilliant so I had decided to factor in a Sunday morning country walk to the west of Darwen. This would bring me to the little milltown's Jubilee Tower which overlooks the valley of The River Darwen. I had hoped that Shirley would join me but she's been slightly unwell the past few days with a head cold and associated frailties so sitting in a cold football stadium, followed by a six or seven mile wintry walk seemed an unwise prescription.

Curry in "The Shapla" Indian restaurant on Blackburn Road. A couple of pints of Thwaites best bitter in "The Anchor Inn" then back to the Travelodge for "Match of the Day" and a good night's sleep. How marvellous for our young Nigerian fullback - Ole Aina. Once again I saw him rise to meet the corner and head the leather orb into Blackburn's net. His very first goal for The Tigers.

In the morning I met a ruddy-faced farmer's wife on Moss Fold Road. Very kindly, she showed me through her farmyard and pointed me to the track I needed to climb in order to reach the hills above Darwen. It was such a bright winter's morning with frost silvering everything in sight.

As a walker, I find that one of life's sweetest delights is to walk in unknown territory and I had never been to either Blackburn or Darwen before. I was entering the unknown. After almost two hours I made it to The Jubilee Tower which was opened in 1898 to celebrate Queen Victoria's jubilee. There were other people up at the tower, including, quite bizarrely, members of the local judo club exhibiting their skills there on the cold moorland.

I met a local man at the very top of the tower and he told me that he had never seen so many people there in all his life. I guess it was because it was a Sunday and the winter's day was so clear and blue. What better day for a country walk? As long as you are suitably wrapped up you don't feel the cold.