Monument

In a side chapel at St Peter's Church, Edensor there's an ostentatious carved marble edifice called The Cavendish Monument. It commemorates the lives of two brothers - sons of Sir William Cavendish (1505-1557) and the redoubtable Bess of Hardwick (1527-1608).

Lying in the black box structure is an effigy of William Cavendish, the first Earl of Devonshire  (1552-1626) but beside him, facing the other way is a marble skeleton lying on a bed of woven straw. This represents Henry Cavendish (1550-1616) who by all accounts was an aristocratic scoundrel - a spendthrift who fathered at least eight illegitimate children. He ran up enormous debts and was disowned by his mother. The marble skeleton is both spooky and surprising

The visitor from Virginia asked me about the monument and was impressed that I knew so much about it. I didn't let on that I had checked out that side chapel a few hours earlier and had read up about the monument. The information was fresh in my memory and had not yet leaked away.

Interestingly, the reclining front brother William, an active parliamentarian, had played a significant role in arguing for the colonisation of Virginia in the mid sixteenth century but I didn't tell the American lady that as  I only discovered it later.

The long inscriptions on the tomb are both in Latin and allude to two very different brothers. Henry "indulged in the liberal and sumptuous use of his fortune" but William "was not only the best man of his own age but of every age,

The Cavendish Monument at Edensor

Chatsworth

Late this morning I set off for the Chatsworth estate near Baslow in Derbyshire. On a normal run it takes about half an hour to get there from our house. 

I had picked this destination for two reasons. Firstly, I wanted to see the grave of Frederick Cavendish who was assassinated in Dublin in 1882 - you may remember that I recently saw his marble monument in Cartmel Priory and blogged about it here. Secondly, I wanted to take a nice long walk in Chatsworth Park which boasts a thousand acres of  pretty countryside.

Missions accomplished, I was back at Clint's boot by three o'clock. I took my shoes out and untied my boots then absentmindedly I shut the boot lid before tying my shoelaces. Bad move! My keys were in the boot along with my backpack and wallet and now the boot was locked along with all four doors.

Oh no! What could I do? I was parked in the estate village of Edensor close to St Peter's Church where three hours earlier I had photographed Frederick Cavendish's grave. No money. No phone numbers. No jacket. I needed to phone home in the hope that Shirley would be in and willing to drive out to Chatsworth with Clint's spare key.

The Russian Cottage in Chatsworth Park

I looked over the adjacent garden wall and there was a silver-haired man kneeling on his lawn, weeding one of his borders with his back turned to me.

I called to him and explained my predicament. Did he have a phone I could use? Very kindly he agreed but at first Shirley did not pick up. Maybe she was out. I tried again ten minutes later. Still no success.

Parasol mushroom at Calton Houses

I went back into the church for another look round and there I met a visitor from Virginia, USA. She had primarily come to see the grave of Kathleen Kennedy - sister of JFK. Incidentally, she is buried very close to Frederick Cavendish.

I went back to the elderly man's house to use his phone once again and this time Shirley picked up. She drove into Edensor forty minutes later. In the intervening time I had been chatting with my new friend - Barry. Turns out he had been a greenhouse keeper and gardener at Chatsworth House for over thirty years and as an amateur enthusiast he had developed great knowledge of both bellringing and the maintenance of church bells. 

I will be sending him a "thank you" card and a book of postage stamps in gratitude for his willingness to help me out. He even invited me inside his estate cottage for a cup of tea.

The grave of Lord Frederick Cavendish at Edensor

Bert

This is my friend Bert - short for Albert. He's showing off his new false teeth which he picked up last Friday. They have caused him a degree of discomfort but he's getting used to them. Soon he'll be eating normally once more and hopefully putting on a bit of weight. When you are eighty five years old, losing more than a stone in weight because you are without a bottom set of gnashers is surely not good for your general health.

Bert has never had a mobile phone and has never been on a computer for any reason whatsoever. He lives with one foot in the past and can remember being evacuated from London's East End to rural Northamptonshire when he was just a nipper. He can also remember V.E. Day and has a prized photo of a street party with trestle tables and him sitting there amidst the happy people.

He is unfailingly upbeat and positive with a sunny philosophy of life - smile and the world smiles with you...  if you have ailments don't moan about them just try to battle through.... try to look on the bright side of life. He is also a staunch Labour Party supporter and like me he has never voted for any other political party.

Bert worked from the age of thirteen to seventy - always in manual jobs from the tanning industry in Northampton to concrete casting and railway carriage refurbishments in Sheffield . He also recalls with some affection his two years of National Service at Warcop in Cumberland in the 1950's. In fact it's amazing how vivid some of those memories are.

Bert likes to sing songs from long ago such as "Bringing My Baby Back Home", "We'll Meet Again" and "Have You Got a Light Boy?" - a novelty song by The Singing Postman from 1966.

Everybody likes Bert. He's just one of those people who radiates goodwill.

He still manages to trudge up to the pub three nights a week even though he will be 86 years old in November. I suppose there will come a day when his pub visits come to a halt and on that day I shall miss him.

Last night he said:-

"You really like me don't you?"

"Yes I do."

"Is it because I'm an old twat?"

"No. Your age doesn't mean anything to me Bert. I like you because of the man you are and because of your sunny character".

He smiled contentedly at that.

I reckon that I have known Bert for thirty three years. I met him in the pub soon after we moved to this suburb of the city, south of Endcliffe Park by the main road to The Peak District National Park. I am glad  he gave me permission to snap these pictures last night. They were the best of the bunch.

Sikinos

Chora, Sikinos today

Life happened before The Internet and before blogging.

In my early to mid-twenties I travelled to Greece several times. It was almost wholly about the isles of Greece - not the mainland.

Once I travelled to Greece aboard a bus - The Magic Bus - from London  but otherwise I managed to muster enough money for the airfares.  When I got there, I mostly slept on beaches with occasional nights in cheap "pensions" or  rented rooms as I didn't have much spare money.

In those days it was amazingly cheap to eat and drink in Greece so most nights were spent in tavernas eating authentic Greek food and drinking Greek beer, retsina and  occasional ouzos which could be deadly - causing severe memory loss if you had too many.

In the daytime I swam in crystal clear bays, walked for miles, read books  or hooked up with other travellers. Then I might board another boat to travel to a different island.

Since joining The European Union, Greece has changed a lot. It  has lost some of its simplicity and its mystical connections with Ancient Greece seem less obvious, less melodic. There are more tourists and more "international" food. A once proud and unhurried country has become one of the poor men of Europe, judged more commonly in economic terms.

Sitting down to write this blogpost, I had not predicted such a long preamble. A simple Grecian memory had resurfaced and I just wanted to share it.

The year was probably 1978. July or August. I had disembarked  with a handful of others from a ferry at the port of the little-visited island of Sikinos in the heart of the Aegean Sea.

Up above the small ferry port  was the main settlement on the island  - the little town of Chora which was more like a village, less populous than it had once been. A cluster of white building blocks arranged randomly at the top of the hill - probably for historical defensive reasons. You reached it via a track that wound its way up from the port.

It was the middle of the day and scorchingly hot. The sun bore down like a giant laser beam as I trudged along, bearing my purple rucksack like a tortoise. Halfway up the hill, a minor disaster happened.  The front strap on my left sandal tore away from the sole. I had no other footwear so I limped into the town square with the strap flapping.

I unleashed my rucksack and sat on a wall feeling rather sorry for myself as I inspected my broken sandal. I don't know quite where he came from but just then an old man appeared. He took my sandal from me and turned it over a couple of times. He chattered away in Greek and gesticulated before scurrying away with the sandal.  I was hoping he had said he was going to fix the sandal but I didn't know for sure.

Half an hour later he had still not come back and I was starting to wonder if he had simply been playing a practical joke. But then he reappeared  - grinning a toothy smile and bearing the sandal triumphantly. He had riveted and re-sown the broken strap. I put it back on and it was perfect. He uttered joyous words in Greek and I uttered words of thanks in English as well as a few "efcharistós". I was very grateful.

He indicated that he was going to the cafe on the other side of the square. I followed him and in there I tried to buy him a drink to show my gratitude but he was having none of that. He was there to play backgammon with his old friends.  What he had done was to simply help another human being - a complete stranger- and he wanted no reward. 

That was often the old Greek way.  True civilisation and that memory has stayed with me for well over forty years.  The nameless old man will have passed away long ago but in my memory something of his loveliness remains like a lesson.

Comedian

The ability to make other people laugh is a precious gift. Laughter is indeed the best medicine and a day without laughter is a sorry one.

Lord knows why but my ability to retain jokes is on a par with that of a dead tree stump. In my life, I have known several people whose brains seem to be filled with remembered jokes. My late brother Paul was an excellent joker and so are my friends Tony and Mike. I guess that as time passes by, jokers gradually hone their skills and learn where and how to insert jokes or funny stories.

But last night at "The Hanmmer and Pincers" quiz, it was my turn to bask fleetingly  in the limelight like Ken Dodd or Les Dawson (deceased British comedians).

As James the quizmaster went through the questions the pub was hushed as quiz teams checked their answers. He reached question four and repeated: "What is said to be the lowest form of wit?....The answer is sarcasm. Sarcasm."

Immediately I chuntered, "You must be kidding!" igniting peals of laughter around the room. I guess you would have had to have been there to get it.

I was quite surprised  by the mirthful reaction and said to my quizmates, "It could be the start of my stand-up career!"

Overhearing me from an adjacent table, a woman piped up with "More like a sit-down career!" which made me chuckle too.

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In other "Yorkshire Pudding" news, I found out this morning that my photo of a beached jellyfish was chosen as the picture of the week over at the Geograph website. Selected from 3376 contenders I am of course delighted. It is the first overall winner I have had in twelve months...

RBG

The Internet can be like a maze that swallows you up. You go this way and that. Turn here and turn there. There's always something of interest to draw you in or catch your eye. Even after thirty years of regular use, I am still enthralled.

How did I get there yesterday? I wound up looking at paintings by Joan Baez. It's funny how many well-known  song-makers of recent decades have also shown genuine talent as painters. They include Bob Dylan, Ronnie Wood and Joni Mitchell.

Joan Baez has specialised in portrait painting. It seems to be the human face that has magnetised her creativity. She has painted pictures of many well-known celebrities such as Greta Thunberg, Tony Fauci, The Rolling Stones and her old boyfriend - Bob Dylan.

Joan Baez is now eighty one years old. She has lived a hell of a life of music, art, friendship and political struggle for just causes. Back in the sixties she would only perform at all-black campuses in America's southern states because of the lingering racism that polluted the college selection system. She was seriously involved in protests against the wars in Vietnam and Iraq and she supported environmental protests as well as the struggle for improved  LGBT rights. 

For sixty years she has been a thorn in the side of America's establishment, reminding doubters that protestation matters and it can change things for the better. Without protest and fightback we are little more than sheep. It is easy to sit comfortably on the sidelines doing nothing - much harder to raise your head above the parapet and speak out as Joan has always done.

Here's Joan Baez's portrait of another battler for justice and fairness  - Ruth Bader-Ginsburg, completed in 2018, two years before her untimely death:-

This is what Joan Baez said of her: “RBG spoke truth to power, and gave teeth to truth. She could be counted on for her non-partisanship and fairness, things that are now so scantily present in the offices of the highest law of the land.”

I think Joan caught Ruth Bader-Ginsburg's penetrating stare so brilliantly. It was a look that scanned the darkness like a lighthouse beam, searching for truth. No wonder Trump was quick to replace her in The US Supreme Court with another  unqualified puppet. Tragically, his spiteful  legacy lives on.

October

 

I'll sing you this October song,

Oh, there is no song before it.

The words and tune are none of my own,

for my joys and sorrows bore it.

Beside the sea

The brambly briars in the still of evening,

Birds fly out behind the sun,

and with them I'll be leaving.

The fallen leaves that jewel the ground,

They know the art of dying,

And leave with joy their glad gold hearts,

In the scarlet shadows lying.

"October Song" was written by Robin Williamson of The Incredible String Band but here it  is performed by the Scottish folk duo - The Corries. They were active between the mid sixties and 1989 when the death of Roy Williamson occurred. Though they were friends on the Edinburgh folk scene, Robin and Roy were not related. It is thirty four years since The Corries last appeared on stage. Roy Williamson was the author of the unofficial Scottish national anthem "Flower of Scotland".