Observations from a Hill

Saturday, September 16th. 1944. RAF Brize Norton, Oxfordshire, England. The final briefings for the 1st. Airborne airlifts into Holland for Operation Market Garden were being completed, with the 1st. lift already prepped the day before; the 2nd. lift Orders Group were briefed in an all day general briefing, and at the end of it the CO and IO [Commanding Officer and Intelligence Officer] flew back to RAF Manston. According to the 2nd. Battalion South Staffordshire Regiment's War Diary for the period, the entry for the day reported the bare bones of the days activities, adding that "Everyone was in good spirits." Take off for the first lift was scheduled for 10:30 hours the next day, Sunday, September 17th. By 14:00 that afternoon they were on the ground in Holland, barely aware of what was to face them over the next ten days. The expectation was that the German forces they'd meet in their attempt to take control of the bridges over the Lower Rhine and to push on into G

My take on the subject of the controversy surrounding The Winter Fuel Allowance [UK] issue remains that Gordon Brown’s annual distribution of extra cash sums to pensioners, which was instituted in 1997 [cf my post of September 12th] was less an entitlement or benefit than a regularised ex gratia payment in nature, in the gift and at the whim of a 'benevolent' government. This has over time been subsumed in the minds of the public and media into the now widely accepted view that the State Pension is a benefit. I repeat that it is no such thing . As I frequently am at pains to point out, it is a contributory entitlement , nothing more, nothing less; unlike the Winter Fuel Allowance, which was just an expedient backhander to plug a gap in pensions at the time, which inadvertently changed the narrative surrounding the nature of the entitlements. I understand the internal logic of separating the payment away from the core pension as a wholly means-tested benefit; but unless [and hop

  Well, here we are again in Shropshire, for an early autumn break, and, at least for this afternoon anyway, the sun is out, the sky is blue and the air is moderately warm to boot. The forecast for the next week is none too shabby either, given some of the weather we've had this summer. Eighty years ago today though, my uncle Arthur and his mates from HQ Company Signals Platoon, 2nd South Staffordshire Regiment, were waiting for the go on Operation "Market", having been readied and subsequently stood down several times already. I don't know whether those, such as Arthur, who were stationed at RAF Manston got the reduced 24 hour leave that those at Brize Norton certainly got after a four-day battalion leave was chopped at the last minute; however it would have been a tall order for him to get back to the Midlands and back by 12:00 on the 15th anyway, as Manston was right at the tip of Kent on the Isle of Thanet. This sudden change in plans must have given them all a cl

Pictured, three small purchases that had gone astray in the delivery process, for whatever technologically aggravated reason. At the top, a Koh-i-Noor 5.6mm clutch pencil - my second recent purchase of one of these fine but inexpensive things, as I figure that I can have two different drawing leads available at the same time - in the centre a rather fine - and again inexpensive - pocket fountain pen in wood and brass, which writes surprisingly well, straight out of its bubblewrap [box not included] and has an almost luxurious quality about it for no money. At the bottom is a lovely little Opinel No.4 knife which is absolutely tiny [although not the smallest one they make] with a proper carbon steel blade and the usual Opinel quality and simplicity of construction. Folded, it is literally only 65mm long: it will be an invaluable pencil sharpener, methinks. Anyhow, off to Shropshire for a fortnight's break tomorrow, so I'll keep you posted from there by snail-fi!

Had a slightly frantic round of emails with The Lads That Are Left [blog posts passim]: the last outpost of the boys from The Green who went to Lordswood School for Boys and survived: all of us boomers and all of us now retired to various parts of the UK/globe; curmudgeons all, The Last of The Summer Wine with an edge. The debate was - obviously - about the dropping of the winter fuel payment for us pensioners not on extra benefits. Some were reacting instantly, instinctively and rightly negatively to the ratification in the commons this week of the bill enacting this measure. I agree wholeheartedly and am personally affected by it. But I can't say it will have the same impact on us that it will on many, many others less fortunate than us: it won't. I'm just being honest when I say that: pleading false poverty for political edge is essentially wrong in my book. However, I do think that the new government has on the face of it , screwed the pooch with the decision to take su

  Well, another portion of last night's Chicken Handi, a couple of chapatti, a puppadum, with the curry garnished with fresh coriander and chaat masala. Went down well, and as I mentioned last night this now leads me back to my Grail quest of the 1970s Brummie Anglo-Indian Madras curry; a late-night staple amongst our crowd, after a few pints in the pub; and the salve that made many a hangover tolerable at lunchtime the day after a session. It all started at - as I think I've mentioned before - The Light of Bengal on Bearwood Road in Smethwick, back in the mid-seventies, when I was a callow youth of twenty or twenty-one, about to embark on a lifetime's work of attempting to recreate that glorious experience in my own kitchen, one day. Well, yesterday was a major move forward toward that goal; another piece in a very subtle and complex jigsaw that I know I will never solve , as there is no [one] solution, and there are as many great Madras curries eaten over the years as res

OK - as promised, Chicken Handi, or chicken in a pot, although this pot is French and oval, but there you go: it's a good pot, and very Hand[i]y, too. I pretty much followed the recipe/receipt/modus operandi on the spice mix packet, just to see if I could learn anything [new] about cooking South-Asian-style food: you're never too old to learn new tricks; something I firmly believe of dogs, too.  Anyhow, the experiment of actually following instructions in cooking anything- as you'll no doubt know is an unusual state of affairs for me - has actually borne some good fruit in this case. A fine sauce with an authentic consistency, and as I'd surmised, with the natural sweetness of the onion base to the fore and balancing the acidity of the tomatoes to boot; this was as close to my Holy Grail of South Asian sauce-making as I've got in forty-odd years of cooking. I will add that the spice-mix that came in the packet with the recipe is tailored to a spice-loving palate, so

  The astute, and more importantly, observant among you will note, quite rightly, that the above picture is - indeed emphatically - not a pot of Chicken Handi. I floated this micro-project a couple of days ago and I have, in fact cooked the thing, but as we'd been over to The Bull in Biwmaris [Beaumaris] for our usual light lunch, neither of us felt like tucking into a rich curry for supper this evening. So the thing will sit and improve overnight for consumption tomorrow. Pictured is my repast this evening: an open toastie of good ham topped with grilled, melted cheddar, on thick, sliced white bread - which I consider to be the ideal base for such a sandwich, where the meat and cheese are the centrepiece, not the bread. I'll post a pic of the curry and tasting notes tomorrow...

Well, there we are then: another good one down. Herbie Flowers: bassist, tuba-player and creator of some of the most iconic bass-lines ever to grace the airwaves; most memorable for many of my generation being the ineffable backbone to Lou Reed's 'Walk on the Wild Side', which needs no explanation, elucidation or explication, musical triumph that it was. Flowers played on so many studio sessions and supplied the groove to so many bands in his time, but to me the Wild Side bass-line was the apotheosis of cool, treading the fine line of simultaneously being both firmly in, and subtly slightly out of the pocket of the groove; a genius interplay between the double-tracked string and electric bass parts which Flowers himself penned and which elevated a good Lou Reed tune to the truly great piece of work that was released in 1972, from Reed's album of that year, 'Transformer'; produced by David Bowie, with whom Flowers also collaborated on numerous occasions. As a ses

Pictured, the pressure cooker we picked up from a charity shop some time ago - new and unused, by the look of it - and which has languished, unused since purchase, in various locations about Fairview Heights since. Which is just plain weird, as back in our early days here in the parish of Llanllechid, we were avid users of this splendid cooking aid: we used to own a splendid French device that resembled a pressure vessel from some kind of submarine, crafted from aluminium so thick it could have been a deep-sea submersible in its own right. Wonderful piece of kit, which I suspect is currently buried in the Twilight Zone that is our erstwhile garage, down the hill. Must try and rescue and refurbish it some day. Anyway, we made first use of the more modern version shown the other day, to make a chilli. We'd forgotten how easy these things make doing this kind of nosh: you can even - as we used to back in our food-co-op days of the early eighties - cook dried pulses such as chickpeas a

  After last night's brief reflection on inspiration, or the lack of it, I got the idea for tonight's little scribble from messing around with something in the studio earlier today, involving Meccano. I was just mocking up a mechanism to better visualise whether it would suit my purpose - which it didn't, and I should have known better - with some old Meccano parts that I've got lying around the place. These bits came from the clearance of Aunt Lou's place [blog posts passim] and almost certainly belonged to her late son, David, who died in his forties. Now, this led me to reflect on my Meccano set, which Dad gave to me in around 1959 or 60, when I was around five or six years old. I'd got it into my head over the years that the set I had was a number five, but seeing some images of old catalogues online, I realised that it must have been at the very least a number eight set, as, in the illustration above, from a Meccano magazine of the time. The tower crane fea

'It is a most remarkable thing. I sat down with the intention of writing something clever and original; but for the life of me I can't think of anything clever and original - at least, not at this moment.' Not my words, obviously, but those of the great Jerome K. Jerome; he of 'Three Men in a Boat' fame, in his first observational open epistle in a splendid little book entitled 'The Idle Thoughts of An Idle Fellow: A Book For An Idle Holiday', published in 1890. Now the sentiment of blank page syndrome he expresses so eloquently applies to me most afternoons/evenings as I wonder what the beejesus to scribble for the day's post. Sometimes I've already cooked up a notion for a post in advance, or on rare occasions will have written most or all of it the day before - the ideal situation - but for the most part there's much head-scratching to be done before an idea comes to me. I guess the idle fellow in this case would be me, and tonight the idler

Tasting notes from the lamb steak thing... The meat itself looked decidedly unpromising from the outset: no bone and very little fat. But I persisted until the thing was at last cooked, with a modicum of caramelisation in evidence, and rested the bugger for a good twenty minutes, whilst I deglazed the baking dish with some decent dry white wine to make a crude sauce. I sliced the meat, napped it with the juices and put a dollop of the newly-discovered harissa alongside. Three things. The lamb was actually very good; the deglaze - with more white wine - was brilliant; and the harissa was a marvel. The depth of flavour in the lamb and sauce was one thing, but the complexity of the harissa just kept on developing and revealing more and more layers of taste long after my plate was cleared. It starts with a fairly powerful hit of smokey-ness, and develops into a complex of flavours that will take some time to fathom; ending in a glorious, but not overwhelming chilli hit. An extraordinary co

I decided not to go down the couscous route tonight [cf last night's scribble], as it would produce too much food for a solo diner: Jane being away for a few days; so I've opted for a lamb steak, marinated in lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, oregano and white wine; which I'm going to roast on a high heat and serve as a base to road-test the new harissa I've just bought. Whether or not I include a staple of some kind is moot, as my options are limited due to a depleted larder, and anyway, there's nothing wrong with just eating a simple meal of meat and a condiment, in my book. However, the thing I want to remark on tonight, is pictured above: I was rummaging around some book-boxes - I still have loads so stored, despite having extended my shelving - and came across my copy of 'Portrait of Dylan', Rollie McKenna's excellent photographic memoir of the poet, published in 1982. A friend of Thomas, and an artist whose chosen subjects were often poets, McKenna p

OK, I was going to write about the frankly bonkers revelation in New Scientist this week that at the quantum level it is possible to cool things down by doing absolutely nothing, simply by detecting the absence rather than the presence of a photon. Mind suitably boggled once again. For the curious, the abstract for the paper can be found here . And no, it will not make much sense to the non quantum physicists out there, including me. Interesting, nevertheless. Instead, I report on possibly the most middle-class purchase I've made this year: the above-pictured jar of the spicy Tunisian condiment, Harissa. I've been a fan of the stuff since I first encountered it in France in 1983, in the form of the ubiquitous Le Phare du Cap Bon, which I recall being in just about every small shop and hypermarché at the time. I discovered the above in the ludicrous FT Weekend supplement HTSI [it used to go by its full title 'How to Spend It', but I think a touch of self-aware cringe mig

I decided to pick up a copy of New Scientist from the shop this morning, as the main strap-line was 'Eradicating Dementia', which to one of my advancing years has to be a topic of interest. However the first articles I dipped into threatened to tip me into a state of mental discombobulation anyway, given the nature of their content. First off the bat, a DNA-based computer that has been programmed to solve simple chess and sudoku problems, by Albert Keung and colleagues at North Carolina State University recently. Now, weird as it seems, DNA computing, although still in its infancy, is not a new thing. But what is remarkable about these developments - despite the triviality of their current level of problem-solving: it's still proof-of-concept time, after all - is the sheer, mind-boggling storage data-density of this type of technology [bio-technology?]. 10,000 terabytes of data per cubic centimetre. Ten sodding petabytes. That's approximately 5000 billion pages of print