Portent – The end of festivals August 2011

Portent – The end of festivals August 2011 -

I think I was writing to tell you that the weather here has been pretty poor. We are inundated with music and other festivals here in Cumbria which I think is the main reason for the poor weather. Hardly a week goes by without a festival of some sort. Last weekend saw a Fake-Fest in the most cynical of our local towns - Maryport – it was meant to be some sort of anti-festival event with cover bands the Killerz and the Antarctic Monkeys and the Ever So Grateful to be Alive Band; but it is now in its second year and the marquee blew down twice and the bar closed early on the Sunday when a fight broke out in the Chill Out Zone just after morning communion There are already plans for the rematch next year.

Our alternative incarnation bands - Mouldy Metal and the Above Average White Band did a mini folk festival near Whitehaven the same weekend – the marquee also blew down and we lost a couple of folding chairs. There were a few stressful moments when the big pork pie was served – the vegans showing signs of turning nasty. There were at least 3 other festivals on that weekend and we also have the 2 week Cockermouth Festival coming up.  We are in danger of being festivalled out.

I digress – which reminds me of an ex work colleague – let’s call him Barry.

Barry could digress for Africa. He also felt obliged, at every possible opportunity to make a speech or a point. I’m sure that there is syndrome for it. At weddings, business meetings, retirement events, opening of shops, birthday parties, funerals  – Barry would make a speech – he would stand-up or clear his throat loudly if people were already standing up and launch forth into a series of digressionary stories totally unrelated to the event. He didn’t need to know the person whose funeral it was or the subject of the meeting – Barry would just sort of refer to the subject and then digress a number of times into stories of his life. He had 20 stories which were quite interesting (the first time) but paled (I used to tick them off on a check list I made for the meetings I attended with him). 85 minutes is the shortest I’ve seen him drone, and that was at a retirement cocktail party he gate crashed. He said, and I will paraphrase here for the sake of our friendship, that he didn’t know the person who was retiring but he couldn’t help overhearing that it was a retirement party and that it reminded him of his (Barry’s) first day at work – and so it went on … his kid’s first day at school – (she’s a Doctor now – you know)…… when he met the Queen (story nr 11) … his divorce (tears)…

His great skill though is that he doesn’t actually finish a story without digressing to the next one; but he can hold the whole thing together by digressing in a serial fashion so that he can digress from 1 to 2 then 3 to 4. He will sort of finish 4 and re-digress back to 3 then to 2 then back to 1 and finish somewhere back on the subject – summing up what happened at 4 for the ones who had fallen asleep. Unless you have heard the stories previously there is no point in following. OH and never feel tempted to ask a question. His trick for dealing with questions is to say ‘ I know nothing about that question but that reminds me about my first day at work…….’

In business meetings, first timers are convinced that there were wise words linking last month’s accounts to Barry meeting the Queen in 1984 - but us old timers know different. I did try to stop him once when I was chairing, but he is deaf to any voice but his own – he just waits for a gap in proceedings and he’s off.

At least there wasn’t any Morris Dancing.  It’s the law that at any cultural event in England (not Scotland or Wales or Ireland) there must be Morris Dancers. I just don’t get it - sorry. Look – I cannot dance – but I cannot see the skill in walking out of time wearing ribbons and bells and funny hats and beards (must shave mine off for fear of being mistaken for a MD). Irish, Zulu, Scottish, Tap, Ballet, Rugby League, – I see the skill and athleticism (do the Welsh dance?) but Morris?

I’m told that Morris is derived from Moorish – described as Rhythmic Stepping – dating back to the 15^th Century and introduced to drive out the Moor and Blackamoor travellers and slaves across Europe. There’s pages and pages of the history of WoMD  (Weapons of Morris Dancing) – just google if you are really interested.

If I did not offend any Morris Dancers in the writing of this blog – I apologise.

Julie at The Devonshire Arms

West Coast musings

During August we made one of the 2 or 3 trips we make each year to the SA West Coast.

Anywhere that is West in the world seems to be hippy/anarchic/uncultured. Anywhere actually on a West Coast even more so. Don’t get me wrong  but we actually enjoyed our trip to the coast. As we all know, South Africa isn’t like the rest of Africa and The West Coast is… well….even less like.

Come to think of it the SA West Coast is probably nearer to the West Coast of Scotland e.g. Largs, or maybe even my own West Cumbria’s beloved Silloth, in the 50’s. If you factor on top of that what you can imagine a West Coaster thinks of as being hip and stylish then you have it.

We took the dirt road from Elands Bay to Lamberts Bay. The dirt road is a Toll Road. R20 is required to make the 50 kilometre dash alongside the railway line dicing death at crossings with 2 mile long iron ore trains. We cannot directly pay the lady on the toll bar! It turns out that ‘in the new (how long can we be new?) SA’ the general paranoia is that the ‘girl’ will become a target for craam (crime). Her takings from 30 cars a day (R600) will become too much of a temptation for her or her friends. No wonder she looked weary as she stood there in the middle of nowhere. The sowester (surely noreaster?) helmet and the driving rain might have had a little to do with it –aswell.

So, in search of toll dues, we had to make our way to the Elands Bay Hotel (next to the fish factory). (see: website - note the 'old boat' in the restaurant and very neat (just wide enough) curtains and an old tube TV to watch whilst you eat).

The smell of stale lager, fags, floor polish, and dripping rain… overwhelms the fish factory. A man at the bar - a chap in shorts of indeterminate age (the shorts that is) and skin (the chap!) like one of those new grapefruit things, directed me beyond the drip catching buckets, through some sliding doors which had long since stopped sliding (but have a nice appliquéd dolphin on them to indicate the sea theme nature of the establishment) to the sand lopper bar.

It was 9.30 in the morning but the dimly lit bar was already in business. The barman- a dead spit for the lead singer with Dr Hook - except he has 2 eyes (both equally blood shot)..oh and 3 teeth; laboriously wrote me a receipt in quadruplicate. I get 1 copy, he files 1 copy and he puts the remaining 2 in the overflowing ash tray. I thanked him in - and make my way back through the colander of a hotel.

At the other end of the dirt road and many stops for viewings of flamingo, plovers, heron, seals, iron ore trains we presented our receipt to a younger version of the chap in shorts and a few clicks later we arrive at Lamberts Bay.

Lamberts Bay is a lot like Elands Bay with a much bigger fish factory and a very large colony of Cape gannets and a very large pile of gannet guano. The fish factory is now a potato processing plant – needs must?

The viewing of 1000’s of gannets, jack-ass (aka new African) penguins, seals, dolphins and whales took us 2 days interspersed with culture tours. Brunch at the Lambert’s Bay Hotel was uneventful apart from my 2 mile hike to the guest toilet. There was a detour to pick up a key from the chap in shorts again. And while I struggled with the local currency and the add 10% stuff for the R128 worth of coffee, toasties, and chips (chups), the team had found ‘Nanas’!!

How I wish this woman had a web site. Nana is, let me see, a cross between a short biker’s moll and an American west coast hippy. She had a fixed expression and even more fixed painted on eyebrows. Nana’s is a Gift and Curio Shop; Hairdressers; Pet Groomer and - uh - a taxidermist. Actually: a novelty taxidermist. What attracted my immediate attention was the stuffed Blue Crane (the national bird of SA) on the front step of the shop, held upright by a dowel of wood through the eye sockets and strung from the ceiling.

The stuff inside was much more gruesome. Apart from most of the endangered birds of SA, she exhibited fantasy animals made up from the assorted pieces of other animals: Duck feet, porcupine body, and antelope head with the teeth of the Dr Hook guy at Elands Bay. Yes she does dentistry too. There was no getting away, as she explained in a dead pan how she made each of the items in her exhibition.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to buy anything?’

We locked the car doors and floored the accelerator. As I looked back she was fondling a door knocker made from a Springbok’s scrotum. ‘Viree poplar wuth the faarmers waarvs’.

I still wonder which Springbok and how badly he must have played to have his scrotum nailed to a piece of driftwood.

Wind Fantasy

Yesterday was interesting or ‘Hinteresting’ as they tend to say here in West Cumbria. The Haddition of the H is most often used when one of us locals is trying to make him/herself understood to visitors from Hout of county. The most common usage of the capital H is the word egg, whilst eating-out at breakfast time. Just so that the waiteron (what is a waiteron?) understands completely – and not because all waiterons in the UK are from a foreign country, the Cumbrian male (tends not to be a female thing the H syndrome) will ask for ‘Bacon Hand 2 heggs – gasson silver plate’ . Nobody complains when the silver plate is substituted for very ‘ot china. I forgot to mention that Hoften the H is dropped from words that should ‘ave Hit.

Where was I? 

Ah Yes – yesterday I attended a community meeting in the village hall to discuss what could be done to prevent yet another wind farm being built in West Cumbria. I have found a place where the road dips between Pica and Moresby (2 ex mining villages more about some other time) where windmills cannot be seen – but apart from that Cumbria looks like a porcupine viewed from space. The meeting was attended by the developer; local councillors; a couple of ‘experts’ – who had read up on the subject the night before and were arguing about ‘how many bells in a decibel – was it 10 or 12 (December being the 12^th month)? There were also community members from the village and farming fraternity and some Morris Dancers and a lady selling dream catchers. Not a single person under the age of 60. I have a feeling that the young people (those under the age of 60) are too busy paying tax to allow over 60s the time to attend meetings and sell dreams.

One of the local councillors – the biggest and hairiest – let’s call him ….‘oward - appointed himself Chair of the meeting. I think that this means he can claim expenses for attending (it’s the same the world over).

Then we all did that thing where we introduced ourselves and said why we were there and why we wanted to save the world/get our expenses paid. At this point the Morris Dancers formation stepped out of the meeting (jingling of bells) – as they thought that they were there for practice night or some satanic ceremony involving sheep and bells  (must have been the decibel talk that got them wrong footed) – technically speaking – can you actually wrong foot a Morris Dancer?

Councillor ‘oward – who had been on an expenses paid ‘meeting running’ course – outlined the agenda setting and the timetable for future meetings and that ‘with all due respect to the dream catcher lady, people shouldn’t treat the meeting as an opportunity to sell … err.. err dream catchers’ At this point the lady dressed in buckskins pointed out that she’d only come because she thought ‘it was a design work shop and that the windmills would look nice if they were fashioned to look like giant rainbow colour dream catchers with flowers and ban the bomb signs stencilled on the masts’ and ‘BESIDES she’d only sold 2 and that had been to the Morris Dancers who technically had not attended the meeting’

One of the other councillors – Barry – calmed things down under some point of order rule. Barry seemed unable to speak without saying ‘Point of Horder Mr Chairperson…’ and we moved on to ‘any other business; ‘date of next meeting’ and ‘would there be refreshments in future?’

Apart from dream catcher lady’s design strategic aim there had not been any mention of windmills – so I asked if we could perhaps talk about the subject at some time before the next scheduled meeting in 3 months’ time. ‘Ha said Councillor Barry – I mean .. point of Horder, through the Chair, I think that this could be the subject of one of them Haddock meetings that the Chairperson could call Hif there was a need to ..  point of Horder.. with respect?’

 After a reasonable pause to collect my thoughts and compute all possible meanings – I cleared my throat and said

‘Haddock meeting?’

‘Yes – HAD DOCK – a meeting called from time to time’ Barry explained with a look and tone usually reserved for conversing with a person of the public or petulant child.

I said not a word more. The councillors and farmers nodded sagely; the village people looked puzzled; dream catcher lady smiled – obviously a Latin scholar at some point or an ex solicitor.

The Roman Empire abandoned West Cumbria some 1,700 years back, having failed to introduce central heating and flushing toilets (and law) to the natives.  They left behind some buildings; a wall; some roads and place names and quite a lot of their genes and a lot of words still in use.

As I walked home I fantasised how Councillor Barry would order his (expenses paid) fish and chip supper from The Fryer Tuck Chippery in Aspatria.

‘Good Hevening Mister Tuck  - my point of Horder tonight Hif Hi may – Aduck and chips please with a carton Hof your finest mushy peas- silver plate… Just been to a very Hinteresting meeting tonight concerning giant dream catchers – Hit’s the future. Could I have a receipt? Thanks ….urr ..  Stick a tenner on the Hamount – it’s for my Hexpenses you Hunderstand.’

I’ll keep you posted on our ‘ban the giant dream catcher’ campaign’ I am working on the logo for it but find that it keeps looking like the ‘ban the bomb’ sign. If you have any ideas please He-mail me