Heroes – how do we write history?

This is another resurrected draft from the past (last edited in 2020 to be precise). It was originally titled Ten Heroes, but faltered after the first three and started lookin g out of step with modern standards. I try not to upset people, so it sort of faded away.

It is presented here with a few additional notes and a new title.

I could probably list a thousand heroes, and these ten aren’t necessarily the best of the bunch. They are also mainly white, male and violent, because that was how boys were, growing up in the 1960s and 70s. We didn’t grow up wanting to work in a laboratory or sit at a desk writing computer code. We knew about scientists, because Mad Scientists were a staple character of the sort of fiction I used to read, but, I didn’t even use a computer until I was 29. I then didn’t use another one for another five years.

Number one is Edward Wilson. He was part of Scott’s expedition to the South Pole. All polar explorers in those days were heroes. We see people at the Poles these days with modern fabrics, high energy rations, sat-nav and an armada of back-up vehicles. They tell you how cold it is and how hard they are finding it. Wilson and his contemporaries didn’t have all that back-up and technology. The Norwegians knew a bit about snow and dogs, and they were first to the Pole but despite this un-British efficiency (and killing their dogs to feed to the surviving dogs) they were still heroic. The British were bumbling idiots by comparison, but nearly made it despite all their disadvantages (including a leader who was most definitely not in the same class as Amundsen).

-Edward_A._Wilson

It could have been Amundsen here, or Oates, or even Shackleton. In fact, I went straight to Oates as my first pick, but then reconsidered. They would all have been worthy of the place, but Wilson’s mother bred poultry (as many fine people do) and, like me, he’s called Wilson. He was also a naturalist, a doctor and he caught TB whilst working with the poor in London. He’s a much more rounded character than Oates and that’s why he’s here.

Number two is Eric Liddell. Every list of heroes needs a rugby player. You could probably list ten rugby players who were all heroes, but that seems unfair to football. I will be listing one footballer later in the list.

Liddell is probably best known from Ian Charleston’s portrayal of him in Chariots of Fire. He refused to take part in the heats of the 100 metres because they were on Sunday and his religious principles stopped him doing that. The film wasn’t quite accurate about all the details, but that’s film for you. He raced in the 400 metres instead and won it in world record time. It’s difficult to think of a modern athlete doing that.

Eric Liddell

He was also a Scottish Rugby International with seven appearances in what was then the Five Nations Championship.

He turned his back on sporting success and returned to China, the country of his birth, to work as a Christian Missionary. You could argue that this was just the acceptable face of Colonialism and racism, if you want to put a modern interpretation on his life, but you can’t deny that he was a sincere man and that his last years, spent as a prisoner of the Japanese, were appreciated by his colleagues in the camp. One went as far as to say: ‘ It is rare indeed that a person has the good fortune to meet a saint, but he came as close to it as anyone I have ever known.’

In these days of rewriting history it is good to know that the Chinese have a statue to him, and in some of their record books he is claimed as the first Chinese Olympic medallist. As he was born in China, died in China, and spent most of his life in China, you can see their point.

There are of course. other rugby players who could have filled this slot- Edgar Mobbs for one, and  James Peters for another. They were both heroes in their own way. Mobbs is a typical Great War story and Peters is England’s first black player, though much of the interest in his story is also about the clash of cultures between the two codes of rugby. For the sake of completeness I will add that the first non-white rugby union international player was Alfred Clunies-Ross, who played for Scotland in the first ever international match in 1871. Scotland won. However, being the first to do something isn’t necessarily the same as being a hero.

My third hero is Bert Trautman. This is despite him being a footballer and a foreigner. He was a decorated war hero, despite fighting on the wrong side in WW2 and he went on to sporting immortality when he carried on playing in the 1956 FA Cup Final despite breaking his neck. At this point I started to run out of steam on this project.

Part of the problem was that many of my heroes are, as previously noted, white, British and violent. And men. It felt a bit out of step to carry on so I suffered a crisis of conscience and let it drift.

This is a bit unfair on the men of the Shangani Patrol, who deserve to be more widely recognised, but Rhodes was coming in for a lot of criticism at the time and I didn’t want to get involved, particularly as it is also known as Wilson’s Last Stand. Not that too many liberal historians read the blog. Rather than fall into the trap of writing something that can be criticised as being out of step with modern sensibility I will leave it to a Matabele leader called Mjaan to have the last word.

We were fighting men of men, whose fathers were men before them. They fought and died together. Those who could have saved themselves chose to stay and remain and die with their brothers. Do not forget this. You did not think the white men were as brave as the Matabele: but now you must see that they are men indeed, to whom you are but timid girls.

Not only does this prevent me being racist, but brings sexism into the argument on how we write history.

 

 

Third Post of the Day

Julia’s new bowl – finished with wax so not to be used with food. You will be OK with nuts. Myself, I don’t see a problem but she has been lectured on it. If reports are to be believed, a little wax is not the worst thing I have eaten from shared bowls.

Spoiler Alert! Brace yourselves. This is the third post of the day. Number One is here and Number Two is here. You can probably get the gist of things but you will miss my masterful buildup of suspense. It probably isn’t worth worrying about, just thought I’d warn you.

Number One is an old post resurrected from 2018. I didn’t get on with it but when I cleared out my drafts I could never bring myself to trash it. I even managed to find the photographs to go with it.

Number Two poses a question about whether or not my keyboard change over was trouble free. And here is my answer.

No.

I unplugged the old one, plugged in the new one and . . . my world fell apart. Despite the promises from the manufacturer it was not a trouble free substitution. The screen size kept moving as I scrolled. I made sure that all my keys were set right and tried again. Same thing. When I tried to search for a way to remedy this I kept getting a strange screen coming up.

I was not happy.

So I plugged the old keyboard in to search for a remedy.

But it kept on doing it.

An idea formed. If the new keyboard is playing up and the old one is now playing up when it was OK before, could it be that the computer is at fault?

Switch off. Wait 15 seconds. Switch on. Plug the new keyboard in. It works!

I have no idea what went wrong, but I’m not really bothered as long as the fault doesn’t return. The new one is crisp in action, has no saggy keys and is much quieter in use – something that Julia used to complain about when I stayed up late to type. So far it only has one crumb in it. I needed a sandwich to keep my spirits up and one dropped. I tried to get it out but it disappeared under the “m” key and I don’t feel inclined to start dismantling a brand new keyboard.

And, talking of returns, the woodpecker came back. Well, almost. The one that came back (we missed a photo) had more extensive and more colourful underparts and had a red spot on the back of its neck, meaning that we had a female yesterday and a male today. It had a good time hacking away at the fat balls. We are hoping it will return.

Header picture is Julia’s new bowl. Then a heron and a gannet. They are always good and, being big, are easy to photograph.

Gannets at Bempton

 

 

 

The Keyboard Arrives

Young starlings gather on a neighbour’s TV aerial

Two days ago, I wrote a post, left it and never resumed it until it was past midnight, thus missing a day. Again.

Yesterday, on posting it, I found I had a new badge – for a palindrome post. It was 434 words long. Is this really something worth celebrating? Would it not be better to improve the system rather than develop a fatuous reward system?

As I struggle to keep up with the “improvements” and find the money to pay for them, do I really need to be treated like a child too?

I had another a few days ago – “Got carried Away”  – for writing a comment longer than the post. It was either a six word story or a picture with a short caption. They weren’t specific regarding which post it was (it could have been either) , but either way, it doesn’t take much effort to exceed the length of the post and even if it was worth mentioning, it’s not a significant number of words.

Dunnock on the fence – a study in brown

After writing the words above (using my new, efficient and quiet keyboard) I went to read up on the so-called “achievements”. I found a way of switching them off, or thought I ddi, but, as usual, couldn’t manage the instructions. Then, as you will already know if you are reading in order, I decided to finish a draft from 2018. I was amazed to find I have 75 drafts as I was sure I kept clearing them. Obviously I kept some. I will be culling the rest soon as most of them are going nowhere. Some, in fact, are just titles that I decided to save, but have never used.

It looks like those “achievement” badges have got under my skin and made me do something. Curse you WP!

As for the keyboard, I took it out of the box, removed the plastic bag, thought of waste, and plugged it in.

Female blackbird – nature lies to us again – it’s brown!

Did it all go well?

No, of course not.

Am I going to tell you what happened? Yes . . .

. . . in my next thrilling installment.

Photos are Julia molesting topiary – she can never resist it – and some brown bird photos. Life can’t be all about woodpeckers.

And again . . .

 

 

Cleethorpes Pier – an old draft resurrected

Here we have a post that has been hanging around since September 2018.

Most of it is self-explanatory. I was obviously having a bad day and enthusiasm was not in great supply – a trip through North Lincolnshire will do that to you. I never did get on with the book on piers (just like I never get on with the book about anything – it’s over 50 years since I formed an ambition to write a book and I still haven’t done it. This is pitiful, I admit. However, I have learnt a lot along the way. As we started visiting piers my arthritis and walking began to get worse, we slowed down a bit and then, the next year, we had lockdown. That’s my excuse. I will now pass you over to the original text of the draft and go to see if I can find photos. If not, it will be published without photos. (I did find the photos – they were in August rather than September 2018).

Freddie Frinton’s Blue Plaque. The term “entertainer” was accurate in the 1960s but I fear it wouldn’t apply in modern times. I’ve seen “Dinner for One” and can only marvel at it’s long-running success.

The reason that I’m resurrecting this? I was reading an article on those “achievements” that keep cropping up, and, after getting annoyed at the manipulation involved, I became immersed in reading about them. Yes, it’s another rabbit hole, be warned. Anyway, it inspired me to look at my drafts, and I thought, that though I hate myself for falling for it, that if I’ve saved this for seven and a half years I really should finish it.

Since saying I was going to write a book about visiting piers I have found it increasingly difficult to actually write about visiting piers. I suspect this is what often happens.  The words below this line were written in 2018 and have not been altered. You will then find some more words from 2026. How time flies.

We went to Cleethorpes a couple of months ago but I haven’t written about it yet. This is probably what writers call writer’s block, but I’m a blogger and we just call it laziness. As I’m going to visit a few more piers next week it’s probably time to get on with some work.

Julia pressing a penny – a fascinating machine.

We approached Cleethorpes through Grimsby, which is not a name that inpires confidence. It’s a throwback to Lincolnshire’s Viking past, the suffix -by is a Viking word meaning homestead. Lincolnshire is full of village names ending in -by. Grim is a name often associated with Odin, the top man in Norse mythology, so may not be a grim as it sounds.. He was also known as Woden, so when we visited Grimsby on a Wednesday we have two Odin references in one trip as Wednesday is Woden’s day. Even after a thousand years the Vikings are still present.

As Kipling said –

That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld
You never get rid of the Dane.

Grimsby and Cleethorpes don’t have a great reputation for affluence and the road through Grimsby, though clean and neat, didn’t look overly prosperous. It had the look of a place stuck in the 1960s with a number of more modern shops offering discount carpets and things of that nature.

Prize Winning Fish and Chips on the pier  – claimed, at the time of our visit, to be the largest fish and chip restaurant in the country. It doesn’t seem to say that these days.

The docks, which we drove past, seemed full of gleaming cars. I’m not sure whether they were coming in or going out, but I assume they were coming in as there are no car factories in this area. That would suggest there’s money somewhere for new cars.

I’ve only been to Cleethorpes once before.

(At that point, on 9 September 2018, the post stopped. I now start it again for a few lines.)

The last visit was for a junior rugby match. I can’t remember the details, but several of us went to Cleethorpes afterwards. It was a bit like Shangri-la for me, if Shangri-La had shops selling buckets, spades and rock. When we lived in Lincolnshire, many years ago, Cleethorpes was always just above the area my parents would visit, so I always had to make do with Skegness and dream of the exotic delights of Cleethorpes.

A sight that is growing less common as time goes on.

In truth, there are none. It’s a decent enough place but no better than Skegness, though the remains of the pier do house an award-winning fish and chip shop. It’s just an accident of geography that It’s a lot easier to get to Skegness rather than Cleethorpes. If it were the other way round, I would be happy to visit Cleethorpes and give Skegness a miss.

The Pier

A Mosaic of a Life

We had a great spotted woodpecker in the garden this morning – Julia saw it and managed to get to a camera before it slipped away. She only managed one shot, but it was good. They are not rare in gardens, but we have been waiting eighteen months to see one.

Not the world’s most impressive bird, particularly for those of you who live in tropical paradises, or even Maine, but it’s quite bright for Britain. I could probably have edited it slightly better, but this way you see less of the fence, which needs painting. It has no red on its head so is probably a mature female. Males have a red nape and juveniles have a red cap.

She washed a yellow happi coat  in what they call a hygiene wash yesterday. It used to be a boil was, even though it only gets up to 60 degrees C. The yellow dye is not colourfast at that temperature and we ended up with a lot of yellowish underwear and tea towels. That doesn’t matter, but she also dyed a favourite t-shirt and is a little downcast by it.

Bouncing back from yesterday’s adversity I have found a poetry magazine that is accepting submissions, and it will suit the five I had returned yesterday. Tonight I will tighten them up and then I will send them. Even if they are returned again, it will be good to show confidence.

These are the small things that make up my day.

Poppies growing from cracks in concrete – I really must try to get some established around here.

And, of course, naps.

We also prepared a box of stuff that No 1 son left behind on his visit, and presents for the grandson’s first birthday. International postage has got more complicated over the years, and more expensive.  I cut the box down to make sure it passed as a small parcel in both height and weight, then arranged for the Royal Mail to collect it tomorrow. It is considerably cheaper if you book it via the internet rather than taking it into a Post Office. About £11 in this case, which seems wrong. The Royal mail and the Post Office should work together. Soon all post offices will be closed down, I expect, through lack of business, and people won’t have anywhere local to conduct business as the internet will have taken over.

Puffins at Bempton – they are lovely birds, but always seem a bit glum. This one appears to be contemplating throwing himself off a cliff. However, along with that mournful expression his creator gave him wings, which will prevent any unfortunate events.

 

 

 

For Want of a Keyboard . . .

 

Yet another post that was started one day then ignored until the next . . .

I sent a poetry submission off last night. This morning, just nine hours later, I had a swift rejection. One of the problems was that I’d said, in the covering letter, that I had used AI. What I meant to say was that I had not used AI. Editors like you to say that these days. I can’t really blame this on my age or tiredness as I wasn’t tired and am the same age, to within a few days, to when I sent off several properly worded submissions. Unfortunately, as my fingers dance over the clapped out keys of my keyboard, they seem to miss things out. Sometimes a letter, sometimes a pair of letters, sometimes an entire short word. When it’s a complete word I often wonder if it’s my brain or the typing, or the keyboard which should take the blame. I’ve decided to invest £12 in  a new keyboard and find out.

Unfortunately, he then followed up by telling me the poetry was “safe” and gave the feeling that I was “ticking boxes”. Whether this view was informed by his unfortunate belief that I had used AI, or it really is so bland, I don’t really know.

I suggested that I could maybe make the poetry more “raw” as requested by making the old man in the cafe swear a bit more, mention his PTSD in verse two and add a fith verse that shows him vaulting across table to disembowel an annoying child with a plastic butter knife.

Julia said she wasn’t quite sure it was the right thing to suggest as it might be seen as sarcasm rather than a serious attempt to regain my artistic integrity.

That’s what she meant anyway.  What she actually said was “No. Don’t.”

So I wrote, explained the typos and told him I would take his comments on board.

I won’t, as they are all decent poems, but it doesn’t pay to upset editors.

Photos are from yesterday when a nestful of blue tit fledglings descended on the feeders. Current RSPB advice is that we shouldn’t feed birds in summer as it spreads disease. However, we wash the feeders regularly and are feeding several families of fledglings – blue tits, great tits and starlings. It’s difficult to know what to do for the best.

Of course, the pictures never come out as well as they could do, as the birds are all greyish instead of blue, white and yellow and I never manage to get more than three in one shot.

Continuing My Education

We saw an interesting story on Digging For Britain last night. I can provide little detail because I was discussing tea with Julia and thinking about writing. It was Series 7 from 2018, detailing The North, if you want to look it up. The North, in this case, starts in Lincolnshire and ends up with a crashed Spitfire in Norway.  The pilot, Flight Lieutenant Alastair Gunn, bailed out and ended up in the real life Great Escape from Stalag Luft III in 1944, being one of the 50 men selected to be murdered on Hitler’s orders.

The Great Escape is a lesson for modern life. It featured cooperation between nations – Britain, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Poland, Norway, France, Greece, Czechoslovakia, Lithuania, Belgium, Rhodesia, Holland and Argentina _ and is a lesson in what can be done with organisation and a common purpose. There were probably more nationalities in volved, as I have only been able to find the origins of the escapers. My apologies to any who have been missed out.

However, I really meant to talk about wood turning.

Basically, digging in  an Iron Age floor covering of a Scottish Iron Age village, the archaeologists discovered a turned wooden pole (possibly part of a loom) and a turned wooden bowl. They were about 2,500 years old. I had to look it up. There were various sorts of lathe available, and the pole lathe is still in use today – I have seen them in action. The continuous rotation lathe was possibly  a Roman invention. The Egyptians and Etruscans used lathes at this time. I may have got the date slightly wrong as we didn’t usually adopt things as early as the Egyptians and Etruscans.

However, the dates are Iron Age, which was worrying me, as I couldn’t see lathes and flint tools going together. It was interesting, because it was a whole technology I’d never thought about in an historical context.

Sometimes you hear discussions about how did anyone think about inventing the wheel or milking a cow, but seriously, what thought process led to wood turning? It’s quite a leap.

 

Work?

It’s 11.09 now and I sat at the computer at 07.04 this morning. That’s half a day, and what I have achieved? Well, I’ve eaten breakfast, washed up and made coffee. And I’ve checked emails, answered comments, including reading articles on atomic testing and reforestation. I’m afraid reading will have to wait for later.  We also had a visit from the conservatory man. He is ill and is having heart exams at Addenbrooke’s and Papworth. They are both 40 miles away, Papworth having relocated to the same science campus as Addenbrooke’s, and he has to be there for 8.00. They won’t change his appointment or the distance he has to travel. It makes my quibble about travelling to Stamford (15 miles) or being at the City Hospital for 7.40 (2 miles away) seem trivial.

Apple Blossom

I’m not approaching “work” as I cakll it, with any degree of enthusiasm today. I sent off eight submissions in the last three days – a total of 32 poems. As three of the submissions are competitions or new magazines I’m predicting a rather gloomy three or four successes. Fortunately, this month comprises a number of old favourites, so I should do better, although with all the added journals my percentage acceptance will still be lower than I am used to. It’s probably a good thing, as becoming comfortable is not a good thing for creativity.

I just re-read that last sentence. Am I sounding like “a poet”. I’ve always tried to avoid that. That seems like a good place to stop as this last sentence will take me over the 250 word mark.

I w

Blossom at Wilford

ill prepare the worksheet to show the submissions this month (and the numbers of each thing I need) and a progress chart. I need about 55 poems for this month in 14 groups, and it’s easy to make a mistake, as I think I’ve described before.

The Science of Submissions

 

Heron

For years, I used to have enough poetry available to make my submissions in the first week of a submission window opening – which generally means the first week of the month, sometimes the first day. My thoughts were three-fold.

It’s good, if possible to be ready in plenty of time, as it keeps things relaxed. I like being relaxed, and am trying to get back to that, as there is little point in writing if it isn’t fun. It also has practical benefits – I sent out six poems (two submissions of three poems each) this month and got five of them back before the end of the month – allowing me to re-edit and send them out again instead of using five new ones. A few years ago, the system went wrong as I had Covid twice, whooping cough and some things I forget, which meant I used up my surplus poems and have not yet been able to get back to my original position. Some months I do better than others, this month, for instance, I was able to start early, miss just over a week with wedding, sunburn and general heat-induced fatigue, and still finish in a reasonably civilised manner. I feel I write better when I have more time and can relax.  Other months it has been more hectic.

Heron in a tree

Another advantage is that if an editor gets two poems of similar subject and quality, it’s good to be in first as the second one will have to be better than mine to displace me. If it’s not better, there’s a good chance that mine will keep its place.

And finally, editors often talk about “fit” and “shape” of issues, as in a poems isn’t the right fit for the shape of the issue. If you get in first, according to my theory, you help set the shape and it’s other people who are rejected rather than me.

All small points, but I have been rejected for such reasons before and every little helps.

So far, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find a way of overcoming things like writing badly _ I suppose I will just have to keep trying.

Heron in a pond

 

 

The Throwback Button

This was quite political in its day, until we realised we haven’t moved on as far as we would like to think

It’s tempting, here, to make a joke about it being a new voting system where you can vote for one of our new parties that wants to return to better times. There are currently  393 parties registered with the Electoral Commission in Great Britain and Northern Ireland. These include 15 parties with MPs in Parliament. Twelve of them have eight members or less, with five of them having only one MP. As you go down through the levels we eventually arrive at the parties that are registered but have no members in any elected position.

These include Alliance for Workers’ Liberty (Opposing Capitalism and Stalinism), British First Party (against non-white immigration, abortion, communism, foreign aid and homosexuality) and the Cornish Nationalist Party, which wants Cornish devolution and pan-Celtism.

These are just three of our many choices. It surprises me that there are actually 79 such parties, the final two being the Yorkshire Party and the Yoruba Party.

It’s quite a range of lunacy and lost causes.

However, that wasn’t the road I meant to take. I was going to point out that I just had a tour through some other posts I published on this day in different years – ones about Julia’s neck injury and me being in hospital. Neither were things I really wanted to revisit, so I stopped reading.

There is a reblog button, which tempted me, but pressing it doesn’t seem to reblog anything, so it’s not the easy way of catching up I though it might be. I will try it again later and see if it saves me writing another post, as I am close to missing deadlines now.