Seychelles island 4: Bird Island, by land, sea and air

Of all the islands, it was one just a single square kilometre in size and a half-hour flight north of the capital which stole our heart.  Without doubt, this was one of the most fantastic twenty-four hours we’ve ever had.

You can reach the island by air or sea, but as this was a special, short-stay treat, we flew - perhaps an appropriate way to reach Bird Island.

But this was no Airbus: just four of us wedged into the tiny plane, feeling every gust and bump of the air-current.  It was fun, though - if a little unusual - to just lean forward and have a little chat with the pilot in his cockpit.

Arrival was similarly personal – the owner wandered over to welcome us on the grass airstrip, and her assistant smilingly explained “no aircon, no windows… and this  is your tv”, gesturing to the view of the island!  We loved it - not least as we were greeted in our room with a bottle of fizz and a lovely note from Zia & Madeleine (whose hugely generous treat this was), on the back of one of his fantastic photographs of the island.

We were here primarily for the birds, but first we admired an amazing specimen of land animal:  the giant tortoise.

When sailors first started landing on the Seychelles in the eighteenth century, they blithely killed and ate them.  Luckily a few were also taken as pets, and over the decades – centuries – there was a gradual appreciation that these are incredibly special, long-living animals.  Sadly, by then they had nearly all been butchered, and this gentle, peaceful creature was completely wiped out from all of the Indian Ocean – except, fortunately, for one remote island of the Seychelles.

Happily we now live in different times.  Today there are several giant tortoises on Bird - they’re not easy to tell apart, but we were reliably informed that Esmeralda is the world’s oldest at 170 years.   She gently lumbered around, ignoring us as if she had all the time in the world, which I suppose she does.  Or maybe she was just unimpressed with humans – it took us an awful long time to realise, only recently, that Esmeralda is in fact a male!

If the tortoise was adorable on land, its relative was just beautiful in the water.  I steered clear of the stingray, but was immensely privileged to float directly above a hawkbill turtle for what seemed like an eternity, as she grazed peacefully on seagrass, as gently oblivious as her landlubbing cousin earlier.  She (or he) was utterly beautiful.

A word about snorkelling, as it was my first time. “You see and experience things… in a way that is completely different from any other.  You are in nature, part and parcel of it, in a far more complete and intense way than on dry land, and your sense of the present is overwhelming”. 

Roger Deakin’s description in his remarkable book ‘Warterlog’ is true of swimming, and even more so of snorkelling.  I was amazed by the experience:  the mask means you see and breathe as normal, and the buoyancy of your body lets you totally relax, flinding an equilibrium which leaves you floating in the perfect position, just below the surface.  I’m no swimmer, but with the simplest of snorkelling gear I could glide like a fish, changing direction with the merest wave of a hand or tweak of a foot.  Now I think I understand TS White when he said “there is practically no difference between flying in the water and flying in the air”.

Which brings us to the main residents of the island - those who swoop through the skies.  I've always envied birds, as they often seem to have the best of everything - happy waddling over land, diving into the sea, and mastering the skies.

And the bird-life here was truly exceptional:  the vibrant red Madagascan fody was the brightest, the white-tailed tropicbirds the most elegant – and their chicks, safely hatched at the base of treetrunks, easily the cutest!

I was particularly struck by the high-flying frigates, who bore a strong and slightly sinister resemblance to prehistoric pterodactyls.

But the stars are the sooty terns.  Hundreds of thousands crammed into a colony at the far end of the island, the sheer numbers amazing and ultimately hard to comprehend.  I was dazed – and hugely impressed.

Best of all, the island is now an official nature reserve, so there is no threat to these birds – and they respond by flying, swimming or walking all around you.

On land, sea, and particularly in the air – Bird Island really was an experience of a lifetime.

Seychelles island 3: The riches of Silhouette

Our final island stay on the Seychelles is Silhouette, which boasts a veritable abundance of riches.  True to its name, it cuts a dramatic shape as the shiny catamaran slips into the executive harbour, opening up the Indian Ocean’s most densely vegetated island. 

Thankfully Silhouette has no cars, and only one hotel – though it alone displays richness in the way only a high-end Hilton knows how.  My first (and likely only) stay in such luxury delighted and embarrassed me in equal measure – but after all, this was our honeymoon.

Turning to me with her priceless smile, my new wife simpered “oh schatz, isn’t it just divine? – though what if we were hit by a giant tiramisu?” Tidal waves are unlikely here, but we were inundated with heart-attacking waves of the most delicious cuisine.  And if the rich food didn’t give you a cardiac, the hefty prices would ($12 for a small bag of minibar nuts, anyone?).

In fairness, the island has a history of enrichment.  The first recorded landowner, Fancis Hodoun reportedly buried treasure deep in the forest – though this is said of most islands here.  The well-healed Dauban family then bought Silhouette – part of it, allegedly, in exchange for a violin – and went on to make a fortune from their plantations.  Their success is still visible in the lavish wooden house, now home to the deluxe creole restaurant Gran Kaz – and by the simple rusting slave bell down the road.  

So perhaps the Hiltons are just the new colonial masters?  Yet I couldn’t help noticing that there was a shiny new health centre for less than a hundred locals, and I’m sure the brightly-painted school could cope with far more than the present five pupils.  In fact, the only music and laughter we heard came from the staff quarters, us five-star guests seemingly weighed down by our richesse.

Yet there was so much to relish.  The wealth of biodiversity was stunning:  this tiny island  is a trove of over 2,000 species, including the rarest mammal on earth, the critically-endangered sheath-tailed bat.  Most of the land is mountainous forest, with mangrove, takamaka and endemic palm trees mixed with plantation cinnamon, coconut and breadfruit, plus a plentiful sprinkling of perfumed frangipani and flamboyant flame trees.

As if the land didn’t hold treasures enough, the marine life was equally stunning.  Swimming with dartingly-inquisitive snappers and dazzling Picasso fish was a huge privilege, whilst their shy, silver cousins the Milk fish coyly peaked from banks of seagrass beyond.  Ignoring guests’ inflated boasts of hunting or eating these prized creatures, the perfect combination of snorkel and seawater allowed us to bathe in a vast aquarium teaming with tropical fish.

My lasting impression of the island was one of wealth:  the lush, verdant forest; the abundance of valuable fish; the dull, monied guests; and the lingering taste of deliciously decadent, heart-stoppingly rich tiramisu.

And so, as the now-familiar silhouette faded behind us, I faced a final irony:  the island’s name turns out to owe nothing to its dramatic shape – nor to Air Seychelles in-flight magazine – but rather  to Etienne de Silhouette, an eighteenth century French nobleman and Controller General of Finances for Louis XV. 

Which I found to be just a bit rich.

Seychelles island 2: No compromise on La Digue

So where would you go for your holiday of a lifetime?

For me, I want cultural heritage, fresh and tasty food, an interesting language – the stimulations of a new civilisation.  But I’m also looking to walk and ride through beautiful, unspoiled landscapes, away from the stresses of work, the noise and pollution of cars, the persistent drizzle of our north European  island.

For her, it’s rather more simple: hot sun, clear sea, golden sand. 

Who said it’s women who are complicated?

As we were going to north-east Germany to be married, I hatched a cunning plan:  no need for the expense, stress and pollution of a flight; from here we could explore the castles and Hanseatic towns of the north, indulge in as much Kaffe und Kuchen as we could stomach, and gently brush up my language skills. 

And how about his for genius:  Katti’s hometown is on the main Berlin to Copenhagen cycle route, so our holiday of a lifetime would be a gentle tandem ride, far from work, cars and the vexations of daily life.

All this, and no compromise for her:  our ride in the August sunshine would take us to the wonderful, underrated coastline of northern Germany and Denmark.  Sun, sea and sand - perfekt!

However marriage, I am learning – as with any relationship - needs negotiation, cooperation, even concessions – without compromise. 

So we went to the Seychelles.

Not that I begrudged two weeks in the paradise islands of the Indian Ocean.  It was just that, after a week of relaxation on stunning, deserted beaches, I was ready for a change of scenery.  And very specifically, I had developed an idée fixe that, just as I would cycle on my wedding day, so I would have a bike ride on my honeymoon.  I can be a bit obsessive-compulsive, but it’s all about give and take, right?

La Digue was the middle ground we needed:  just off Praslin, the second-largest of the Seychelles, it's tiny gem of an island. 

For her, the beaches were indeed stunning – apparently Anse Source D'Argent is the most photographed in the world.  The sun shone, and waves crashed impressively, if a little too much to get to see much marine life through a snorkelling mask.

For him, a bike ride!  Wonderfully, La Digue has resisted the creeping motorisation of the main islands, and is a haven of cycling, along with walking and the odd oxcart. 

First we headed north, stopping for breadfruit chips and a chat in French to a wizened Creole guy, who advised us against my planned cross-country route.

Locals know best, so we changed course, and struck out on the gently rising path across the middle of the island.  It was bliss – just a gently winding path through palm, almond and takamaka trees, sun on our faces, the tinkle of a bike bell, and some rather large spider webs.

Reaching the far side of the island, we struck out on foot through the hot sand to find Petite Anse.  We had to climb a rocky outcrop to get there, but it was so worth it:  probably the most perfect beach we’d seen, completely to ourselves and stretching way into the distance.  The waves and sun were strong, but this really was a special place.

As we free-wheeled back down towards the picturesque harbour to find our boat in the turquoise water, I had to admit that I was quietly happy to have been persuaded to choose the Indian Ocean and leave the Baltic for another day.

Perhaps I should compromise more often?

Seychelles island 1: Promising Mahé

“There is little doubt that the approaches to Mahé constitute some of the most glorious land-and-sea-scapes possible.  It is one of the very few natural beauties of the world that lives up to its reputation” (William Travis in Beyond The Reefs, 1959).

How about that for a promise?

But these days nearly everyone lands on the Seychelles by plane, at the only international airport on the main island of Mahé.  And with the best will in the world, airports offer function, not glory.

We were certainly underwhelmed by our arrival in paradise.  In fairness, state of mind distorts perspective, and ours wasn’t helped by general exhaustion and the specific incompetence of Air Seychelles in leaving our bags (full of irreplaceable wedding cards) languishing in Abu Dhabi.

The assurance of golden shores got us through, and we certainly felt better after bathing in the sun and sea off Baie Lazare.  I’m no ‘beach person’, but the combination of deserted, pristine sand, warm, turquoise water, and gentle, friendly sunshine may even have exceeded our expectations.

Less impressive was our first hotel - partly our fault for investing the greater part of our budget in the second week.  Nonetheless, we’d been promised tasty creole dishes, served by happy, smiley islanders, but what we got was both uninspiring and expensive.  In truth, agriculture is still underdeveloped, with most fruit and vegetables imported at considerable cost, and maybe it is impossible to guarantee western service culture given the laid-back Seychellois way of life?  It was at best relaxed, at worst surly.  Maybe that’s harsh - but perhaps not, as even local writer Bernard Georges swears there is a “nothing-will-move-me indolence” in the souls of local workers.

We escaped for a day trip to the capital.  The bus ride had a distinctly ‘developing country’ feel (think less ‘wifi as you recline’, more ‘chickens under the seat’!), but at least we couldn’t complain that Victoria has been over-sold:  the guidebook assured us it is pretty much the tiniest capital in the world, a small town with little to detain you.  Is it possible to both under-promise and under-deliver?

Luckily we had the benefit of insider knowledge, by way of Mia, Seychelloise herself and a veteran of the islands’ tourist industry.  A trip to the ‘Jardin du Roi’ spice gardens was a real highlight, this time with delicious food and a great back-story. 

In the times when the spice trade was making the Netherlands one of the richest countries in the world, a patriotic Frenchman named Pierre Poivre undertook to ensure his country got in on the act.  He smuggled saplings out of the East Indies, from under the noses of the Dutch, and sent them to various French overseas dependencies to see how they would grow. 

On the Seychelles, a plantation was soon established, pledged to the then king. 

Things were going well until a ship sailed into harbour flying the British flag, and the panicky plantation owners burned everything, securing the precious seeds from falling into foreign hands. 

Only too late did they realise it was a French boat, sneakily flying the wrong flag in case the islands had changed hands whilst they were at sea!

Whilst the islands never made the fortune Poivre had dreamed of, he would be happy to see that the garden at least has fulfilled its promise, with rich nutmeg abounding amongst the huge bamboo trees, and delicious cinnamon growing wild across the main island.

 

And yes, he really was called Peter Pepper.

Mia also linked us with a brilliant local group, pledged to protect and enjoy the islands' unique environment.  The next day we joined them on their monthly walk, on this occasion above the southernmost tip of the island, up to a point where rice was first found.  The climb was rocky and overgrown, but we were rewarded with a great view from the summit (though having lived for two years in Cambodia we did find the promised rice plant a little underwhelming!).  

By the end of the first week we were starting to relax and appreciate some of the fantastic qualities of the Seychelles – we had booked trips to outer islands, invested in snorkelling gear, and hired a car for a couple of days to break out from the resort mentality. 

It had been a less than perfect start, but our honeymoon was beginning to look, let us say, ‘promising’.

Why I was right about marriage

1.The 24th, our big day: Suddenly, after months (years) of planning, everyone arrives. But half do not, as un-Germanic taxis can't find the house!

2. Polterabend: Loud smashing of plates deters bad spirits, health & safety not invited. Soon-to-be-happy couple sweep up to prove teamwork credentials.  Evil step-brother Roland empties barrow halfway, to our exasperation and guests’ laughter.  An impromptu speech, where bride-to-be unsubtly produces a crate so I reach her height, to my shame and guests’ hilarity - a theme?

3. Night cap: Enlivened by surreal moment as 'entertainer' from another event joins us in the hotel bar and launches into a complicated German anecdote to our entirely English-speaking group. Eventually he finishes, we pause, then burst into roaring laughter - the joke is definitely on him!

4. Children: No fewer than 32 of our 90 guests, we are delighted at how they make our day playful, informal, and fun - what's a party without kids?

5. Music: We want music in every part of our day. The violin and piano duet from the local music school hit exactly the right notes with Dvořák, Veracini and Elgar (glad I resisted their favourite Shostakovich!).  They play for ages - but everyone said to really savour the moment, so we gaze at friends and family and absorb their presence and love.

6. Ceremony: Our four nieces float in, sprinkling rose petals.  Then here comes my beautiful, blonde bride (though she is now brunette).  Not a dry eye.  Katja breaks the tension with her vows - basically not to obey - whilst I promise to recall, whatever the future may bring, the love I feel for her now.

7. Wise men: Nick gets me out of the lurch on time, backing me to change the layout so we face family and friends, in contrast to traditional back-turning churches.  Zia is cool and reliable with our hand-made rings. And after a little too much German bureaucracy from the registrar, Simon finally signs the register and dryly proclaims, sotto voce, “British Government approves” – a moment of pure class!

8. Line up: Unplanned, but it is lovely to greet every single person. It helps that we position ourselves between the guests and the wine.

9. Tests: Cutting a log with a blunt, bendy, two-person saw (“only pull, don’t push” whispers Markus, repeatedly, until it sinks in that this relates to saw technique). We do better at cutting the huge heart from a sheet using tiny nail-scissors. Our secret? Not teamwork - we treat it as a race!

10. Posey photos: We nearly don't have a photographer at all, as several friends are great behind the lens - but glad we do. Group shots can be interminably boring, so we rush a bit. Photographer even lets Katja tell him how to do his job, then continues as planned - should I copy him?

11. Jazz:  As we walk back to the Kurhaus, the joyful sound of The Marching Saints starts up. Part German oompa, part summer jazz, wholly perfect.

12. Bicycle made for two: No matter what, I will cycle on my wedding day.  We wave off the boat and horse carriages (thanks to Pippa’s brave dash).  Then twenty of us cycle away, bells a-tinkling, led through the countryside by my wife and I on our wobbly tandem.  Two memories to savour: we hit the road with perfect timing to meet cheers and waves from the horse carriages.  And just before that, as we approach a field, two horses start to run alongside us, out of pure joy.

13. Perfect picnic:  Germans do many things well, none better than Kaffe & Kuchen, perfectly laid out as we arrive at the little bay.  I get my cycle, so Katti gets her swim, in white swimsuit and veil; the water is ‘refreshing’.  More moments: everyone chills on the grass in the sun; the distant sound of jazz approaching over the still lake; we valiantly try to sing Die Vogelhochzeit; nieces Hannah & Naomi storm through The Owl and the Pussycat – and Toby steals the show with his poised ukulele performance, exceptional for a young lad.

14. Unusual reception: Even our wurst critics enjoy the locally-sourced, entirely veggie feast, and the ice-cream cake melts nicely once we’d danced round it a few times - but I hope people still notice the happy sunflowers on the table thanks to Doerte’s mum. And how do I know if my careful table-planning works?

15. Speech! I thank Christine & Rudolf for their generosity, and patience in raising my rebellious wife; and David & Phillida, my wonderful, selfless, under-appreciated parents. If and when we start a family, we will learn much from them. Wider family too: dear uncles and aunts, brilliant cousins – and Jonny & Sasha and Antje & John, not only beloved brothers and sisters, but begetters of four stunning, show-stealing flower-girls!  And friends: when else will we ever see them all together? - perhaps the best remaining argument for weddings.  They are here from Germany and Britain, Denmark and Sweden, Brussels and Switzerland - and as far away as Kenya, Canada and Japan. We really do appreciate their extraordinary efforts to be with us; in their presence we feel truly blessed.  Finally Katja:  “On behalf of my wife and I…” is a safe start, though not accurate, Katja being highly  capable of speaking for herself.  I conclude that whilst she is gorgeous, she is also the most caring, fun and beautiful person I know; tonight I truly am the luckiest man alive!

16. No presents: It takes great effort, and expense, to find this little corner of eastern Germany - this really is the only gift we want.  Yet my mum and dad insist on treating guests to a further meal the next day (and displaying a washing-line of photos from when I am more Tom Cruise than Bruce Willis), while Zia & Madeleine divert our honeymoon for a night on magical Bird Island, and Andrea & Matthias treat us to a picnic on Silhouette. Many guests write moving, personal poems collected by Antje and John, whilst Roland & Kathleen not only arrange for a fantastic book of international recipes, but also for people to send us postcards every week for the next year. (Roland explains this, and corrects Antje’s translation, to which she replies “yes I just made that up, my four-year old was tugging my dress asking for a lolly"!). All we want are cards, which we treasure, and perhaps a book or CD, the library of which will happily see us through the first years of married life, thank you all!

17. Father of the groom: Dad is understated, dryly funny, and deadly accurate. Stretching even Antje’s translation skills, he delivers a withering warning to my new wife: Oly can charm the birds from the tress, but is stubborn as an ox; he can talk the hind legs off a donkey, but like an elephant he never forgets (though is also open, loving, generous and determined).  He is so far ahead of me he even predicts my response: “Blame the parents”.  The conclusion: “Katja, you have been warned!”

18. No best man = no best man’s speech: Genius planning, but completely flawed. I avoid a sordid stag, but a salacious speech is just too tempting. Actually Zia is kind and gently funny, Simon impresses with his best German - and Nick, who knows better than most where my skeletons lie, damns me with faintly praising my over-competitiveness (though it ruins games of pool) and extreme honesty (who else pays full fare, and gives their real address when caught drinking underage?).

19. Wise Women:  I am really touched when Mary-Rose, Suzy and Pree also take the mic - quite right too. And so it’s official – the chocolate animal grudge is officially put to rest.

20. Kidnap: I make it clear to my German friends: one tradition I really don't want is kidnapping of the bride. They understand, smile nicely… and do it anyway.  At least it's the light version – others swim the lake to rescue their bride.  This near to Hamelin it's great to have a crowd of children helping me climb frames and hunt clues. It takes a good half-hour, but I eventually deliver Katja back to the reception in a wheelbarrow.

21. More music!:  Our first dance is a (deliberate) joke. Katti is irritated when I mess up some Salsa steps, though video evidence shows our guests love it (and it is actually her fault).  Little Sohpie’s enchanting Champs-Élysées stays in our heads all honeymoon, as will the embarrassment of Rhys having dredged up a song from our teen band The Eden Gardeners.  Happily the fabulous Swing for Fun band help me dedicate Somewhere Beyond The Sea to my blushing bride, and I get a front-row seat for an unforgettable can-can - before Christian our delightful DJ pumps up the volume right though to The Final Countdown... 

22. The morning after: No hangover, though a happy weariness. Yet we are greedy to spend more time with our guests, so a lovely breakfast together is followed by a gentle walk to town, lunch by the Town Hall beer & sausage festival, and a tour of Güstrow (which, like its womenfolk, has many charms!). A final get-together in the beer garden - and it really is all over.

23. One last tradition: Not to forget that, on finally getting back to our room, we find it ‘gently rearranged’ - with a trail of petals leading to the bed. So far, so romantic, until we find the alarm clock hidden in the corner, set to go off at 5am. With it, an instructive note: “Time to make a baby!” Ok, watch this space…

24.  The 24th, the best day of our lives? Oh yes, without a doubt!

Time to play fair?

You can tell much about a game from what the commentators discuss over half-time tea. 

Yesterday, the indomitable Alan Green found so little of merit in Aston Villa against Fulham that he spent his cuppa debating Tiger Woods and the concept of ‘fair play’!

My abiding memory of my year as a student in Dijon is the football coach asking for a volunteer to swap teams, to even up the sides.  Everyone studied their boots, so I stepped forward.  “Voila!” he exclaimed, “Le fair play anglais!”

Now I’m not sure this is actually the best example of the genre:  I was trying to do the decent thing, but it was more about teamwork, social behaviour, maybe leadership. 

So what exactly is ‘fair play’?  I was surprised to find no clear definition of the term (no, not even on Wikipedia!). 

Isn’t it just obeying the rules?  That is necessary, it’s true – but not sufficient; it goes beyond the legal and into the moral - you must also act in the spirit of the law. 

Normally I would be scathing about such vague concepts:  surely it’s either allowed or not allowed, and that’s all there is to it?

But in sport (as in life?) it’s just not enough to obey the law - you also have to behave with honesty and integrity.  

Here’s my definition of fair play:  as well as following the rules, you must i) never try to gain an unfair advantage, and ii) admit it if you gain one. 

Thus in cricket, when a ball is slightly ‘edged’, the trajectory is unchanged – it can’t be seen, and can be heard only by the batsman.  He alone has the advantage of knowing if there was contact, and to play fair, he must admit it.  This is well-understood and powerfully important to the game:  you don’t wait for the umpire’s signal, if you know you are out, then you walk.

This explains the outcry when the English team adopted ‘bodyline’ tactics to beat the Aussie’s in the 1932 Ashes series – the aggressive, short-pitched bowling and intimidatory fielding were within the laws of the game at the time, but certainly not the spirit.  More recently, it was the Australians themselves who bowled underarm against New Zealand in 1981 to deny them a chance of hitting a six on the last ball – in the rules, but against the spirit.  Put simply, these were just ‘not cricket’.

But maybe I’m simply an old-fashioned romantic?  Perhaps the concept of fair play is antithetical to the single-minded will to win required to become an elite athlete in the modern age?

I don’t believe so.  For each villain there’s a hero:  for every cold-blooded cheat like Lance Armstrong, there’s Bradley Wiggins, refusing to take advantage of nails being strewn in the path of the 14^th stage of last year’s Tour de France.  For every cynical handball of Suarez or Maradonna, there’s a Miroslav Klose confessing to the referee that his goal was unfair, or Paulo di Caneo (yes him!) catching the ball when he could have volleyed a goal because the keeper was injured.

So we should be disappointed with Tiger Woods:  I don’t understand exactly what he did wrong, but it was clearly against the spirit of the game.  His final ranking in this year’s Masters will be quickly forgotten, but the level of integrity and honour in his response will not:  I hope Tiger Woods shows us he is a true champion, and decides to play fair.

Is it time to end your relationship?

I know what it’s like:  you’ve been in a relationship for a long time, it’s become comfortable, easy, habitual.  You don’t have to think about how things function – most of the time things just flow along as always.

If there’s a sudden betrayal, a collapse – then it’s hard.  But at least then it’s clear what you must do:  the relationship is over, you have to move on.  Hopefully next time you’ll choose better.

But what if things never quite come to a crunch?  There’s no crash, but neither are things as they should be, and when you think about it, they haven’t been right for a while. 

Of course, there have always been problems, irritations.  Perhaps things, easily ignored, but which fundamentally do not chime with your own values.  

Greed for example – could you spend your life with one you regard as fundamentally selfish?  

What if there are questionable investments?  What if behavior isn’t as honourable as you’d like in dealings with others?  Or if your needs are just shrugged off with an insidious, low-level lack of interest?

I know what you think:  it’s not perfect, but it’s comfortable and easy – no need to panic.

No!  Now is exactly the time you need to bail out.  You only live once, and you deserve better than this.  Do you really want to look back on your life and realize that your key decisions, your relationship, was all with the wrong one?  Do you really want to think of your life’s investment as being with an unworthy partner?

Here’s what to do:  if you are still giving everything to the same old *anker, and never getting back what you’d expect, then it’s time to walk away – now!  It’s the best thing you can do for yourself, and indeed for us all.

I know it’s a big step, but I promise you’ll feel so much better for it.  There are even websites which can help.

All I can say is it worked for me:  I believe I will be with my present partner for life.  I’m confident that our relationship is based on a clear, positive choice, not fear or inertia.  My life’s investment is with one who shares my core values.  I’m sure I will be satisfied, happy, even proud. 

In fact, it’s pretty easy to change from your dodgy old bank and transfer to an ethical one instead.  Or would you rather look back on your life knowing you spent it with the wrong one?

Fancy a weekly treat?

Every Tuesday morning, Michael comes to our house.  He often arrives before I’ve put my trousers on.  Sometimes I've left already.  

But it doesn't matter, as he always leaves a box full of goodies. 

It’s all rather exciting!  We have some idea what’s coming, but the exact combination hidden in the reusable cardboard carton is a sweet mystery.  A frisson of excitement rises as we cut the string and reveal the contents.

There’s always something for each of us: 

Katja was overjoyed to get beetroot last week, and is the only person I know to gush at the whiff of garlic.

I’m particularly fond of the deliciously fluffy Romano potatoes and sweetly ripe Williams pears. 

And don’t forget Foxy!  She was unmoved by our bank-crunching ‘feline home entertainment system’ (the balls, posts and whirly things were studiously ignored and returned, unloved).  But she clearly sees Tuesdays as her own treat day:  it’s when Michael delivers her weekly installment of special play-string! 

There are occasional raspberries (not literally, though that would be welcome).  Last autumn we had rather too many plums and put a stop to them (not a problem, just a click on the website); Katja got a bit edgy when the hummus went missing a couple of times; and at the moment we’re stringing up more onions than your average Provançale peasant.

But you get yummy, organic fruit and veg.  And let’s face it, given the choice, why wouldn’t anyone prefer organic?  Do you want your food with our without pesticides? 

The only real downside is that you have to be prepared for the occasional rude shape or beastly bug, though it’s rare.

It’s not entirely local – we order through Abel and Cole, who do make an effort, but I suspect some of boho east Oxford’s community box schemes may have even fewer food miles.  In fairness, nothing is air-freighted, and the only things we get from far away are fruit juice and bananas – surely they must be ok?

Cost is an issue:  money is tight, and good food isn’t cheap - I’m sure you can buy for less in Tesco.  Yet for £24.47 we got all the delicious fruit and veg we needed for this week:  carrots, potatoes, and cauliflower; lettuce, tomatoes, onions and mushrooms; oranges, pears and bananas  – plus our milk, eggs, hummus and orange juice.  All delivered to the door.  I think that’s pretty good value.

If, on the other hand, you choose to buy from Tesco’s, then you’re funding a bullying megabusiness rather than a friendly setup with respectful relationships with its suppliers.  In exchange you’ll likely receive generic, year-round blandness, with less taste and more nasty additives (including an undisclosed percentage of equine DNA).

But this doesn't have to be selfless!  The best thing about the weekly box is that it’s helping me to eat better.  My food is much more seasonal, and I’ve discovered a few more exotic fruits.

What’s more, I’ve also been gently re-introduced to things I just didn’t seem to buy any more – cabbage, turnips, greens – even apples – which can actually be jolly tasty.    

I now get my ‘5 a day’ nearly every day, and it’s surprising how few people can say that.  I can be a bit lazy about food, but when there’s fruit in the bowl and tasty veg in the crisper it’s really not so hard to eat well.

And it's all delivered to the door by Michael as a weekly treat – what’s not to like?

What's your beef?

So your ‘beef’ turns out to be horsemeat.

And you’re surprised? 

Soon they’ll say bears poop in the woods and the pope’s a catholic! 

Everyone agrees this is terrible. 

But why is it such an outrage?

 

It’s about consumer information – meat sold as beef was actually horse!
No, this isn’t just about choosy cheeseburger-chompers being miserably misled.  Nobody likes to be fooled.  But if it’s merely about labelling, it’d be fine for mince to include horse-flesh, just as long as long as it’s labelled so.  Yet the meat industry goes to great lengths to hide what you are eating.  The verbal deceit is to speak of dead cows as ‘beef’, slaughtered pigs as ‘pork'; the visual lie to mince the flesh to disguise your offal, testicles and eyeballs into one lifeless lump.  No, there’s more to explain here.

It’s about public safety – horse meat contains dangerous drugs

No, that's not it either.  Of course it’s not smart to eat meat that contains harmful chemicals – but again, that applies to the antibiotics pumped into your cows and chickens just as much as horse flesh.  The latest scandal elicited a government statement that tacitly admitted as much: this is not so much about public safety as consumer confidence and protecting meat industry profits. 

It’s about criminal activity – horse meat comes from shady, illegal slaughterhouses in Romania

Nice try, but flesh is big business – it’s the powerful multinational meat industry that’s in the dock here, along with the meat departments at your local supermarkets.  A criminal conspiracy scapegoating the tinkering romanies – will we really let them wriggle out of it so easily?

It’s about ethics – it’s wrong to eat horses

At last, we agree!  But why?  For us increasingly smug veggies, there’s a simple and consistent line:  unnecessary pain and death are wrong, so we enjoy a diet of healthy fruit, veg, cereals, pulses and nuts, with or without dairy and eggs – and avoid all meat.  But if you want to pick through the bones of what you have killed, on what basis do you do it?  Why have cows sent to their death but not horses?  Do you draw an arbitrary line at slaughtering pets? (so are rabbits or fish pets or food?).  Do you discriminate on the grounds of ‘usefulness’ to spare horses and dogs the knife?  Or ‘intelligence', conveniently forgetting the clever pigs whilst ripping into a silly chick? 

At least we’ve found the crux of the issue:  this is indeed about ethics.  But you will be looking an awful long time to find a relevant and consistent moral criterion to justify killing animals and not humans, let along killing some animals and not others.

Frankly, if you’re still eating meat, you’re lost in a moral maze. 

You can bury your head in the hedge for as long as you want.  But the only clear way out leads to the green and pleasant land of the veggies.

Maybe now is a good time to come and join us?