Observations from a Hill

I read an amusing take on the Gentlemen's Club scene in this weekends FT. Pretty much all of which one could concur with. The underlying reasons for the institutions and such social groupings themselves make a lot of sense, given the tribal nature of the human race. Even the pathologically un-clubbable, such as myself - who refused point-blank to entertain the notion of joining any youth group that had a uniform and swore allegiance to anything whatsoever - find ways of group-forming. In my case it was 'The Lads', an umbrella term that encompassed a motley group of school-friends and their partners. Many years, nay decades, ago, my mate Pete [Powerful Pierre]'s dad used to work at the Birmingham & Midlands Institute on Margaret Street in the centre of Birmingham, which was, to me, a kind of cross between a seat of learning and a club. It had, and still has, a great library, and a programme of arts, music and science events throughout the calendar year, all of which ...

Just a diary post again, tonight, as I'm still knackered from yesterday's exertions, which precipitated - along with a sharp shaft of sunlight - a migraine which has left me with a day-long headache. It didn't stop us heading for The Bull at Biwmares for lunch, though, and one of the finest pints of Bass [blog posts passim] anywhere on the planet. It is also a very rare specimen of this surely endangered species, which, once extinct, will be gone forever, never to be revived. Please visit this place, and please, please ask for a pint of the wondrous nectar: but be sure to ask for it to be served without the heinous sparklet device, which produces a head on the beer. You will definitely appreciate the difference in both taste and your pocket.  Bass should appear almost flat when served, with just a spider's web of foam announcing it's alive and in good condition. It also ensures that you will get a full - legally so - pint of the product you're paying all that mo...

The day before last, I cooked a new-to-me Duck Vindaloo recipe, which I posted about that evening. I left it overnight to mature and because I'd got something else lined up to eat. I ate a portion last night with poppadums, chappatis (rice is more traditional with this dish, but I love chappati) and some nice sour pickles. I finished the reheated dish with lemon juice, fresh coriander and chaat masala. It was de-licious, and I'm having more for dinner tonight. That's all for now, as we're both knackered after spending several hours today cleaning the cottage for our first guests of the year, after the long winter shutdown. Talk later...

So, Thames Water's investors have thrown their toys out of the pram, and are refusing any further investment unless water prices are hiked into the stratosphere, despite their woeful performance, and caning an already over-pressed population in an area of these islands where already nothing is affordable except by the rich bastards who don't live there but own most of it. Of course, the vast majority of these 'investors' are not individuals at all, but hedge-funds and pension-funds, all playing a very high stakes game of chance. But this current show of corporate petulance shows them up for what they are: self-entitled [non-] businesspeople who simply imagine that the normal rules of business and society just don't apply to them, and that their acquisition of enormous profits out of wagering other people's money is their's by right, and bugger the economy and the rest of society in the process: an attitude that exemplifies our Government, comprised as it i...

Pictured, tonight's repast - at least for me, as Jane's already eaten - Duck Vindaloo. I decided at the last minute to try a version of the Goan delicacy new to me, as I'd bought a couple of duck breasts which I thought I might roast off with a few potatoes and serve with a gravy. But we'd only two potatoes left and Jane had some of her Thai Green Curry left over from last night to finish off. I'm not entirely sure about this one yet, as the amount of sauce is meant for a whole, jointed duck: also the amount of spice in it is fearsome. Still, the recipe came from a book by Madhur Jaffrey, so I don't think I need fear too much for the taste of the thing when finished. As to the after-effects that might ensue... Keep you posted.

Here's another of my rescued cameras, this time the one that belonged to Jane's uncle Mac [blog posts passim]. As can be seen, this one is a Chinon CE4 from the early 1980's, a brand that when I was a photographic salesman for Photomarkets in the late seventies, we were particularly scathing about, as our rival stores stocked them either by name or rebranded, as Dixons did [as Prinzflex]. We of course, had our our cheaper range of cameras, which we were also - privately - equally scathing about, the name of which escapes at the distance of time. I found this camera when were clearing Mac & Louie's house in Chester, after Louie died, a couple of years ago, and put it away with all my other 'to-do' camera projects. I was rooting about in a case of such stuff [for something else entirely] when I came across this one again. Looking at it with fresh eyes and less prejudice, I realised that it was a perfectly decent Japanese 35mm camera from that era, with the sam...

Just some random economic fragments from the news today. More than £760m extra defence spending announced by the government this week, [ over the next decade - to be frank £76m/year sounds a tad lame to me in today's money, given that UK MP's annual stationery allowances total nearly 10% of that sum], of which £200m will be 'government-funded'. Two things: from where is the other £560m+ coming, and at what cost(?) and given that this extra money is supposed to strengthen our nuclear deterrent capability, the figures floated for this 'investment' fall woefully short of any credibility whatsoever, given that a single Trident missile costs £17m, and that the annual cost of running the Trident programme is 6% of the total defence budget at £3 billion. All the while, they say this will create 40,000 jobs by 2030. If these salaries averaged out at £36,000 apiece [national UK average], that would equate to an annual wage bill of over £1.4 billion. And while we're ...

I mentioned, just under four years ago, in the post of April 9th 2021 "Lost and Found", that I found myself in Lisbon for about three days, for work. I've written about bar encounters before: March 7th 2023, about my off-the-wall meeting with the Minister for tourism for Zambia in "A Bar in Berlin"; and other random encounters with random, transient people such as myself. Suffice it to say, I've always enjoyed inhabiting the world of the barfly, if only for fleeting hours. People watching is one thing, but setting oneself up as the watched, purposely or no, is another thing altogether. I quite liked the lone travel thing at the time, and there's not many activities that encourage taking the rôle of the barfly quite like being alone in a foreign place and observing one's surroundings whilst introspecting on life and why the hell you've fetched up in a bar somewhere you've never been to before, surrounded by people you don't know, creating ...

I was moved to tears this morning by the utter, transcendent beauty of Maria Callas' voice in the love duet from Puccini's Madame Butterfly, recorded in 1955 at La Scala, conducted by Herbert Von Karajan. I was trying to cut some small beading to make frames for the tiles we use in the cottage that take the washing-up liquid and soap bottles, and to be frank, I had to stop and wipe my eyes before I was about to take a chunk out of myself with the tenon saw. I guess the answer to that one is, don't listen to Italian opera whilst working with sharp things. However, I've finally bought a copy of the recording, which arrives Monday. I'll just avoid listening to it in the workshop. It made me think though, about the blokes in my family before me. Aside from from my dad's father, who was just, well, a tough nut of the first water; most of the men, whilst being hardened working-class blokes themselves, had a finely-tuned sensitivity to art, and music in particular. My ...

OK - after last night's philosophical reflections, it's back to practicalities, the workshop, and dangerous machine-tools. Pictured is my little table saw, much modified from its original form [blog posts passim], and a six by one inch piece of rough-sawn tanalised timber, which after much hacking about will form part of the off-the-wall reconstruction of the semi-rotten wood-shed door, which I posted about a short while ago. I need to rip this piece down its length to form one of the side pieces of the door, but it's a rather long and heavy piece of lumber, which will need support at both ends, as it passes across the table-saw to be sliced by the fearsome blade you can see in the photo. Considering that the thing rotates at 10,000 rpm and with a great deal of torque behind it as well, it demands a severe amount of respect from the operator, i.e. me. And respect it I do, having experienced a kickback from the beast once before. The stand holding up the tail of the lumber i...

A bit of a meta-post tonight, in the absence of anything else that's not springing readily to mind presently. I sit down every day, as I have done since the first Covid lockdown in March 2020, to scribble a little blog post just like this one. This of course is a self-imposed task - a kind of mental auto-flagellation, if you would have it - that very often leaves me at a complete loss as to what to write. And write I must, as I made myself a vow not to miss a day's meanderings until the time comes when I'm physically, mentally or both, unable to do so. So now you know - when this monologue ceases, so will have I. But not just now: I'm in no mood to hang up the proverbial boots just yet, thank you. This is kind of my inverse take on the Zen master sending out his postcards to all he knew announcing that the moment of his ceasing would be on the receipt by all of the cards themselves: I announce my continued presence until my absence is reflected in the absence of these u...

Ray Keats - aka Ann Key - local artist & family friend, died this morning. She'd been ill for some years, but never let it get in the way of her work or of tending to the massive network of friends, colleagues and fans she had accumulated over the decades. Her house on the High Street of Rachub, just below where we live - a former cockle factory(!) - bought many years ago when she and her late husband Ronald moved here from Manchester to set up home in Yr Achub, is currently still home to her paintings and drawings, and the front window displays her work, including the last drawing she made in hospital, just days before she died. Her good friend Colin has been a diamond in her latter years, looking out for her and just being there when she needed him. She will be much missed by this tiny community of ageing bohemians up here in the hills, but suffice it to say, George, her cat, will be well looked after now she's gone.

Just a diary post again, tonight; but a kind of special one, as I've spoken to my cousin Rich - if you read this, cuz, hello again! - for the first time since his mom's funeral, a good while back. We were close as little kids, playing together in our Birmingham and Smethwick homes respectively, but he moved with his parents down to Somerset sixty-some years ago; and although we've been in touch sporadically over the years, it has been occasionally to say the least. I've written a couple of times about his dad, Arthur, who, to be frank, was a hell of a bloke. A quieter and more gentle, private individual it's difficult to imagine, but what he went through in WWII - and to emerge unscathed and mentally intact - really does boggle the mind: Sicily, Brindisi and Arnhem in quick succession, North Africa to boot; at all stages placed in compromised positions by the ineptitude of those commanding the forces, either British or American. He nevertheless came out of that mae...

Went over to The Bull at Biwmares for our now customary cheapy lunch of one soup and two chips between us. I settle for one of the portions of chips, supplemented today by two excellent pints of Bass ale. I will say that pretty much every pub - the few that are left to us, anyway - are guilty of short measures, due to the modern preference for a head on everything, rather than just lager or Guinness, but served in pint-to-the-rim glasses. As this actually constitutes a weights and measures offence and considering the price of the ales and beers we consume, I think it is probably time to kick back at the industry's purveyors of booze and demand our due quantities in return for our money. Just like everything else in the last few years, we seem to have allowed ourselves to be gaslighted into submission over just about every aspect of our lives, not least by beer measures alone. I read in the i this morning that - surprise, surprise - consultancy fees over house-building (Homes Engla...

  As I've mentioned before, I live in an almost perfect liminal space between the sea and the mountains here in Rachub, and I've always been drawn to such places and their associated states of mind. There is a psychological and spiritual balance in inhabiting a boundary: in being subsumed into neither one nor the other side of it. Balance. There are also liminal spaces with no actual physical aspect at all, of course, such as that boundary layer between the knowable and the unknowable; a space in which we all exist and in which we conduct our lives as best we can. Mathematical certainty is a concept we all grow up with to varying degrees, and for those without a God in which to be certain, the apparent immutability of numbers offers a veneer of ineffability in which to trust their sanity. How else to cope with the existential trauma of a life without faith? In reality, however, faith offers little but the transubstantiation of self in death as one supposes occurs at Eucharist, ...

Pictured, some stuff Jane unearthed on her visit to her mother's this week. At the top is a postcard sent to family from the field at Christmas 1915, by Thomas Morris,  19209 ,   Pte, 1st Battalion Royal Welch Fusiliers, Machine Gun Corps, British Expeditionary Force; who was subsequently killed the following year on the 29th of August, as commemorated underneath. He was Jane's great uncle, from Chester. Again, some more commonality between our rapidly converging family histories. More later.

  Just a diary post tonight as I'm tatered [where that expression comes from, I've no idea]. The picture is of tonight's sunset over Fairview Heights, looking out towards the far edge of Anglesey. The light on the moss on our patio in the foreground was extraordinary: indeed it looks like I've stuck a 'filter' on it, post hoc. Not the case, I can assure you: that's pretty much the reality of it. Beautiful, innit? I've got stuff to rant about, rave about, etc., etc... but I'll leave that for tomorrow. Meanwhile, I think the government are doing a great job of committing electoral seppuku on their own: they really don't need any assistance from anyone else. The ridiculous irony is that they've been paying out their own rope for the hangman all along. What can one say?

So, the price of morality is set at a lower limit of twenty percent of the take. Ten million quid: one fifth of the Tory war-chest, donated by one man: Frank Hester, he of the now infamous, frankly unforgivable racist and misogynist tirade. Apparently a bridge too far for Sunak to give up on: 'He's apologised [for his "rude" comments about Diane Abbott] so that should be an end to it' - I paraphrase - but really? Money trumps decency in this world: in my father's favourite phrase 'it was ever thus'. Mammon shrieks ever louder above the cries and moans of the depleted, dying populace; drowning out the creaking of the timbers of society as it sinks beneath the foetid waters of greed and mendacity; to lie rotting and forgotten below, as the gala of riches waltzes gaily on above, regardless. Thirty pieces of silver is all we are worth, apparently. Even Judas tried to give his bribe back: the Tories? Beyond all redemption, temporal or spiritual.

  Tonight's repast for one. Jane is at her mum's in Lancashire and so I guess I've cooked myself four dinner's-worth of food: Chicken Karahai. The empty pan to the left is soon to be populated by breads for dry-frying. I've got poppadums and pickle to accompany. I've been somewhat sub-par for the last couple of days due to sinus issues, so I'm quite gratified that I've dragged myself into the kitchen to cook this, despite feeling like a wet sock. I'll let you know whether the meal turned out OK, despite the malaise! 

Ubuntu. Not just a Debian Linux computer-operating-system variant of the same name, but a Bantu word which can be translated as 'I am because we are' or 'I am because you are', or 'humanity towards others'. In short, humanity. Says something, don't it? " No man is an island,  Entire of itself,  Every man is a piece of the continent,  A part of the main ."  [John Donne, 1624].  That's all for now, folks... 

I've always believed that economic theory - particularly macroeconomic theory - and economic forecasting are not theoretical tools for the analysis and exposition of economic realities to the better of societies, but rather the disease that is the underlying cause of the seemingly endless cycle of economic failure that has beset the 'Modern World' since the onset of The Industrial Revolution. Historically, economic vicissitudes were trammelled by regulation and state intervention if things got too far out of hand: the lie of the 'free markets' was laid bare centuries ago, but here we are, in the age of the greatest quantity of information we've ever had widespread access to, and the markets - now simply practically unregulated global capital - aided and abetted by the wealthy, laissez faire politicians we deem fit to govern us, are allowed to run free to the benefit of an increasingly tiny minority of the world's population, at the expense of the rest of us....

I'll keep my powder dry on the latest family tree findings until I've heard from my cousin just how much information he has on his dad's war (WWII, European theatre). Suffice it say, there's anyone's lifetime on steroids packed into just two years of his young life at the time, and it's a wonder he survived any of it, let alone to go on and live a happy, long and normal life and raise a family in the process. Given the travails that have befallen most of my ancestors, it's frankly a wonder that any of us were born in the first place. We must be gifted with an extraordinarily stubborn genetic resilience. Bouncing back from adversity of one kind or another, and without being too badly scarred in the process, seems to be a family trait. We certainly haven't had too many silver spoons to ease our paths in life, so I count it an honour and a privilege to have benefited from this tough old gene pool. I'll expand on the family tree allusions as soon as poss...

I just thought that I'd give ChatGPT a run on the meta-philosophy of its own existence by referencing Roger Penrose's 1989 book - see the chat below - which basically concludes, as far as AI is concerned, that there can be no meaningful machine 'consciousness' to speak of. I balanced the question with an oblique reference to the 'strange loops' concept of emerging consciousness, propounded by Douglas Hofstadter. Make of the chat what you will... You Are you aware of the Roger Penrose book, "The Emperor's New Mind"? ChatGPT ChatGPT Yes, I'm familiar with "The Emperor's New Mind." It is a book written by Sir Roger Penrose, a renowned physicist and mathematician. The book, published in 1989, explores the relationship between the human mind, consciousness, and the nature of artificial intelligence. Penrose argues against the idea that the mind can be completely replicated by a computer and questions the feasibility of strong artificia...