Something Worth Celebrating

Bunting out.  Crowds gather.  Brollies at the ready.  Most importantly, brass bands are playing.

Whatever happens elsewhere this weekend regarding our unelected head of state, any true citizen of the republic of Saddleworth – and I regard myself as one, despite my extended and ongoing  exile – will be right here on this, the most important day of the year.  

It’s lovely to come home at any time.  The Christmas Messiah features friendly faces.   The Rushcart offers sozzled morrismen heaving a quickly-sobering mate atop a cart of reeds.  And the morneful factory horn breaking the Remembrance Sunday on Pots and Pans was always as poignant as any Last Post.

But this weekend is when all prodigal sons return come rain or just showers.  As local poet Ammon Wrigley explains:  It’s good to be in Saddleworth, o’er the green miles and the grey, There’s no better earth for roaming, and no better folks I say;  Up and o’er the top of Wharmton, in the keen life-giving air, For whoever tramps in Saddleworth, says good-bye to every care.

Whit Friday starts carefully enough.  By ten in the morning, crowds gather in the larger of the dozen or so Pennine villages.  For one blissful day the streets are reclaimed from brutalising cars.  Led by the band, churches and scouts brandish banners, and the village people tramp after them.  Everyone joins in:  from pram- to daisy-pushers; the lapsed to the happy clappers; residents and returnees.  The band marches past to Hail Smiling Morn; we all know this is where we belong.

After morning walks, children’s sports.  Previously run by churches, my local Village Association and Mountain Rescue now keep the afternoon races alive.  To those of you familiar with my own busy-body tendencies, it’s no surprise to find my parents at the thick of it, along with village stalwart Jill and expert marshals Janet and Morris (who called his first-ever false start!).  This year, the chaotic ‘wheelbarrows’ and three-legged melee were eased by Katja’s teutonic efficiency and my loudly hailed, rapidly-flattening vowels.  Stickers and lollies were presented, adult competitiveness contained, an important tradition sustained.

And so to the evening.  Anyone who knows the north understands the importance of brass bands, the very fabric of many post-industrial communities.  And if you’ve seen Brassed Off you’ll know that the Saddleworth Whit Friday contests are a highlight of the banding calendar.  Brighouse and Rastrick.  Black Dyke Mills.  Grimethorpe Colliery, of course.  Plus bands from as far away as Switzerland and Germany.  As we reach the top of Lark Hill wisps of Senator, Ravenswood  and Knight Templar reach us from three separate villages nestling below.  Nick turns to us and states, without exaggeration, “that experience will always be unique to Saddleworth”.

But not everything has stayed the same:  my brother reminds me of trying to hit the bass drum with black peas, but now there’s not a peashooter in sight.  Not that I’d risk it – on one famous occasion an enthusiastic joker got a little too close to the quickstep and the drummer swiped him out of the way with his stick on the upstroke, without even missing a beat! 

Gone too is the morning after’s Beer Walk – it was good for charity, but more than enough beer is consumed by the audience (and the bands) on the Friday.  These days the weekend proceeds with a more sedate ‘scarecrow trail’ (this year with a royal theme), and Sunday’s school duck race. 

But Whit Friday is the core of the celebrations.   

So pass on the pageant, snub your street-party, jilt the jubilee.

Rather, to almost quote our local bard:  Come out along the hilltops and stretch your legs with me; Where northern winds are longing to blow the dust off thee; Give me the gipsy moorland in ragged heather shawl, And you can keep your pageant and your fancy barge and all!

The Story of the 4 Minute Mile

However ordinary each of us may seem, we are all in some way special and can do things that are extraordinary, perhaps until then even thought impossible. 

Thus starts Roger Bannister’s charmingly modest account of his historic achievement The First Four Minutes, the basis for an unforgettable Oxford Playhouse promenade performance (if that’s the term for such a pacy production).  

And neatly structured to match the four circuits which make a mile run, the setting is the very track where history was made nearly sixty years ago.

Our first lap takes us to a childhood of bomb-damage and rationing in 1950s Oxford.  But the injury was deeper – we were a limping, fading power, fondly looking back at our colonial peak on the world’s podium.  But for our narrator Michael, glued to dancehall on his new wireless, only one thing mattered – and it sure wasn’t someone trying to die by running a mile in under four minutes.  He went courting in Shotover Park and missed the whole thing!

The second circuit evoked the excitement of the day itself – Jack’s radio commentary breathlessly ran through the ever-tightening race to break the elusive barrier.  But as the Bannister character dipped in and out, it was soon apparent that even such a seemingly personal achievement was actually a team effort, relying heavily on the pace-making skills of fellow runners. 

Our third time round brought us to the present day, with Mara preparing us for this country's greatest ever sporting event, the London Olympics this August (more of which in later blogs!).  An intense contrast with Bannister - new black and female, she also represented the frustrated ambition of most professional athletes, an anathema to the ‘amateur’ Bannister, who wanted to be remembered for his contributions to neurology.

But what of the all-important fourth lap?  A nice twist - we got to run it ourselves!  There was no ash track or hard leather spikes to slow me, but I still took 1 minute 14 seconds to run a single lap.  At least a late sprint gave me the honour of heading the pack (and painful elbows to this day).

I came out buzzing – impassioned by the inspiring story, and the message that if only we try hard enough, we too might achieve what seems impossible.

Yet as I got my breath back in my new house just 4 minutes stroll up Iffley Road, I wondered if the story could be just that - a myth?

Google ‘four minute mile’ and you’ll find beautifully understated BBC archive footage.  Surprisingly though, you won’t find much else on the athletic achievement – today’s appreciation comes from life coaches, management gurus and motivational speakers.  Airports full of self-help books now try to universalize his feat (and feet).

Their theme is that it was Bannister’s power of positive thinking that led him to break his barrier – and you too can achieve your dream, as long as you have faith! 

The story goes that everyone at the time believed a sub-four minute mile was impossible, or at least lethal.  Yet as soon as Bannister did it, others quickly followed.  You see, it was possible all along, it just needed him to show it, and then the barriers tumbled.

Convincing – but actually nonsense.  From his own candid account, it is clear Bannister was no spiritual dreamer.  His efforts owe more to natural physique, hard-headed application of physiology and a specific strategy for training and pacing – plus a dose of good fortune with the weather, with the wind dropping just before the race.

Neither was he alone - Bannister’s rivals were equally convinced the barrier could be broken - this was simply a race to be first. 

The fact that people only succeeded after him is tautological - if he got there first, by definition others could only follow.  What’s more, both minutes and miles are totally arbitrary – if they happened to be defined differently, someone else would have arrived first at whatever alternative but equally artificial record was set. 

So, sadly, I have to conclude that the magic of the four minute mile is something of a fable. 

But even without the mysticism, I don’t doubt the achievement - Bannister’s triumph nearly 60 years ago at the running track I pass every day was truly momentous.  Let’s hope the spirit of this great man will be remembered as the records tumble this summer.

Beer: the perfect ingredient?

The recipe for success is a delicate balance.            


Water is essential, but Harviestoun’s alone filters through the granite Ochil hills.  Quality lowland barley is equally vital, but is only as good as the carefully cultivated yeast for its germination.  



And without beautifully bitter hops, your real ale is just another mediocre lager - which, lacking the magic herb's preservatives, may go off (if you can tell the difference).

We really do appreciate the work and waiting to perfect this subtle combination.  Yet still our eyes glaze over – before we’ve tasted a drop!

In fairness we’re a hard audience:  this is the tenth time we’ve learned the brewing process, grist to the mill of our annual beer weekends. 

And maybe this isn’t ‘purist’ enough: if you add salts to your water, oats to your barley, even lager to your range of ales – and base yourself in a soulless industrial unit - well, for us it’s hard to swallow. 

Yet Iain is an enthusiastic and generous host, soothing sharp questions with honesty and pragmatism – and our thirst with generous tastings.  We all adore a beautiful blond, and Bitter & Twisted is a worthy Champion Beer of Britain.  The fruity zing of Wild Hop pale ale makes it my favourite.  And we jump at the chance to sample the dark, rich Old Engine Oil stout – though a few drops are enough!

Tasting continues into the evening, with Stirling’s surprisingly rare supplies of real ale drained by our rapacious thirst for education and enlightenment.  An hour in a sports bar to witness Chelsea’s triumph is 60 minutes of wasted ale-appreciation, but we end on an high note in the comfort of the Porthcullis Hotel, tired but happy after a fulfilling day.

Yet whilst necessary, good beer in itself is not sufficient to make the weekend. 

Location is crucial, and over the years we’ve been fortunate to balance Stirlingshire and the Lothians with Cumbria and North Yorkshire - with Oxfordshire now on our list.  Good accommodation helps, this time in Stirling’s impressively-situated and imposing youth hostel.   

Food, whilst secondary to drink, is also part of the mix - a welcome pizza sets us up for the evening, whilst Sunday begins with an indecisive tour of coffee shops, our selection criteria as shaky as our stomachs - but we finish strongly, with a stonkingly good pub lunch in the sunshine at Sheriffmuir.

This, of course, follows that other key element - the morning-after walk, without which the weekend just isn’t complete.  This time Rick does us proud with a cracking hike giving clear views across the Firth of Forth and ample chance to stretch legs and clear heads.

Yet all this would be for nothing without the most important ingredient of all:  friends. 

And what a cracking collection!  Nick, Dick, Mox and Me may sound like a children’s book, and we do indeed go right back to schooldays, with welcome additions Chris (once, so far), Gareth and our latest rookie Christian.  Nick successfully added Scoff (sadly missed this time), Andy and Mike to the mix – and of course Tim:  sometimes key ingredients just cannot be sourced locally.  

This easy mix generates a relaxed camaraderie – a natural understanding developed through studying our subject together over many years.  Conversation includes love, laughter and livelihoods (what is it you actually do - again?), not to mention the perennial musing on what makes the mix come together so well – and to what extent the elements can be changed (wives and girlfriends next time? - only joking!).

As the gentle haze of the weekend lifts, I see clearly that the ingredients for a good beer weekend are as varied and complex, and sometimes as difficult to define, as those for the brew itself. 

This weekend though, I think we found the perfect recipe.

An Englishman’s Home

I'm not materialistic, nationalistic or sexist - but can you blame me for thinking an Englishman’s home is his castle?

After all, for the last 6 months Katja and I have lived in one small room in East Oxford. 

Our expectations were low after living in wooden shacks, and having been far apart we just craved being together.

Believe me, if you live in just one room, you truly get close!  If I wanted to reach the kettle, bed or desktop without leaving my chair, I was in the right place.  If I wanted an excuse to share bodily warmth, two single-glazed windows and a humble heater helped.  At least it was cosy at Christmas.

We didn’t worry about bills, and it was all seriously cheap – allowing me the luxury of turning down a well-paid but soul-destroying job in London to hold out for something better and nearer to home.  

Nor did we have any ties – we were free to take off around the world if we wanted.   We even got to meet ‘interesting’ people, who generously provided a free and uninterrupted supply of environmental cannabis smoke.

So yes – it was basically a scruffy, cramped bedsit.  

Katja and I love each other deeply, but when one bounces in from work whilst the other is sleeping off a night shift – well, one room is just not enough.

Sharing a bathroom with semi-domesticated tenants isn’t ideal either.   And living a few feet above a sociopathic neighbour from hell can be a little wearing.

It wasn’t so much the shabbiness, as much as the inability to do anything about it.  You’ll probably never get round to it, but isn’t enduring frayed carpets and rotten windows easier if you at least have the freedom to change them?

Living on the top floor of a block of flats with only one escape route is worrying enough, without having a dodgy landlord who saves money on little luxuries like working fire alarms.

And all the while I was using up any remaining fraternal love by storing an immodest number of books and other junk in my long-suffering brother’s loft.

So here we are – as of last month, we are the proud owners of a lovely little two-up two-down in Harold Hicks Place, east Oxford – and we just love it.

To be honest I’ve never been that bothered about buying my own house – what’s wrong with renting?  And if Tories espouse a home-owning democracy then I’ll likely lodge out of principle. 

And being a proud owner-occupier is certainly not without its challenges.  For a start, all those bills the landlord used to pay (or dodge) are now our personal responsibility.  When the boiler breaks, roof collapses or – as happened last week –a tree falls in front of your door – it’s now my problem.

Then the monthly repayments kicked in.  Getting a £250k mortgage was hard, so maybe I didn’t scrutinize smiley Santander’s smallprint showing that with interest we’ll eventually pay a total of £365k.  Isn’t that a whopping mark up?  My knowledge of French should have made me question if matching death (mort) and a pledge (gage) is really wise.

It’s a time-consuming business too, even briefly delaying the steady stream of blogs.  Please somebody put me out of my misery if I start Sunday worshipping in home interior stores.

Ah, but it’s actually bliss.  There really is something deeply, atavistically satisfying in coming home from hunting a salary to the comfort of my own home – and hoisting the drawbridge behind me (even if it’s more of a cave than a castle at present).

I’ve even enjoyed some of the mundane homeowner tasks – getting our very own recycling bin from the council was a relished victory, and personal, functioning broadband is bliss.  I particularly enjoyed exercising my right to switch energy suppliers, and now glory in the green glow of Ecotricity.

The little garden is also just wonderful – small and north-facing it may be, but it still houses a couple of budding trees, the odd squirrel, and a testily territorial blackbird and his missus (or should it be brownbird and her mister?).  I regularly stay out there for literally minutes at a time, balancing the risk of hypothermia with the joy of sitting in my own backyard.

Buying a house may sound unexceptional.  But the truth is I feel extraordinarily happy and truly thankful that we have now moved – to a place of our own. 

Why I was wrong about marriage

I owe an apology to my friends and family.  I’m sorry I didn’t celebrate your weddings with sufficient enthusiasm. 

I was happy for you of course.  It’s just that when it comes to marriage, aren’t there more questions than answers?

Maybe I’m just stubborn - or rather, nonconformist?  Certainly, if someone tells me something is normal, and good for me too, my natural contrariness predisposes me to distrust and disobey.

Healthy scepticism perhaps?  On being told (nagged, pushed) to get married, I don’t say ‘Ok’ but rather ask ‘Why?’. ‘It’s about time’ and ‘Everyone else does it’ are pretty weak reasons to do anything.

Why this pressure?  What is it about happy bachelors that people find so threatening?  Maybe unmarried adults somehow remind us that at some level we all remain untamable free spirits who reject the unnatural bonds of wedlock.

Births, marriages, deaths - can you spot the odd one out?  Whilst marriage is an important rite of passage in many societies, it’s not universal: births and deaths are natural, unavoidable events, whilst marriage is different - a choice, a social construct, more akin to a coming of age ceremony, which some societies hold dear - but others don’t.

And from where should we take our moral lead?  Hijacked by organized religion, churches preached the sanctity of marriage and condemned those who lived ‘in sin’ and ‘out of wedlock’.  Thankfully such bigoted attitudes are now disappearing, in the UK at least, but they left me deeply suspicious – particularly when the best reasoning is ‘because I / we / our God says so’.

Or would you rather trust a politician?  In the UK, populist politicos champion marriage, eagerly pandering to Mail-reading middle England.  When a government tells you what’s good for you - even bribes you through the tax system (your money) – aren’t you just a bit reluctant?  A sell-out prime minister offers our health service to his business buddies, taxes pensioners to pay rich friends, and sells meal-tickets to access policy-making - hardly an ethical role model.

(And the last bunch were just as bad – engaging with Bush’s illegal war, Ecclestone to put greed before health, Berlosconi to party – and stridently pro-marriage.  No partnership advice from you lot either, thank you).

Is it any surprise that people increasingly ignore such pro-marriage pleading?  Despite church and state telling us what’s good for us, recent Census data shows the rate of marriage has plummeted by a third since 1981.  Pretty much all couples sleep together, and live together, only then may or may not think about marriage (and quite right too:  you wouldn’t buy a car without getting in and having a test-drive).

Ok, but what could be more charming than an Asian wedding?  I hoped that volunteering abroad might expose me to captivating, exotic ceremonies.  Wrong!  In Cambodia at least, they are both excruciating (bad food, terrible ‘music’, repulsive showiness) and objectionable (couples are pressured to marry too young, often for others’ interests rather than love).

But aren’t weddings back home great fun?  I’ve witnessed nuptials in castles, cliff tops and safari parks and partied with wonderful guests in remarkable places.  How else would two disparate groups of friends and families ever meet and get to know each other?  In fact, when else would we see our own extended families?  Yet it hardly justifies marriage - if the best reason for weddings is the need for proper parties and regular reunions, there must be easier (and cheaper) ways. 

Indeed:  more questions than answers.  In fact, wasn’t this meant to be an apology for being wrong about marriage?

Well, yes. The truth is I have met a girl I love, and she wants to get married.  Why?  It would make her happy.

And that, I have come to realize, is the only thing that matters.  Probing questions and logical arguments are just no match for emotion.

So, as I dropped to one knee and proffered a sparkly ring last weekend, I was thankful that I finally asked the right question - and that the answer was yes.

Media virgins go bananas!

What’s the link between a drive to recruit 130 health volunteers in the next year to share their skills overseas – and bananas?

The first bit is clear:  Katja and I both continue to support VSO, and agreed to lay ourselves bare (metaphorically) to local papers and broadcasters for a bit of publicity.  Our hope: to prompt one or two people to consider volunteering.

Fortunately a slick public relations company generated media interest - we just talk about Cambodia (which we can both do in long, thrilling detail!).

Our first breakthrough was an interview with the Oxford Mail.  Now I’m all for homeworking and family-friendly policies, but I suspect the journalist’s demanding toddler may have distracted her from some of the details of our story.

How else to explain my reported use of the word “helluva” (never once passed my lips).  Or indeed my alleged reference to Katja as “the girlfriend”.  (Our former VSO colleague Sarah likened this to her husband Perry calling her “my first wife”!).

Not to worry - whilst the headline became our unexpected romance, the recruitment message was still there for literally dozens of avid Mail readers last Saturday.

And that was just the start:  this afternoon our burgeoning tour of southern English local media led us to the Banbury Road studios of BBC Oxford.  Perfect - I always knew I had a face for radio!

The presenter, Nick Piercey, was friendly and articulate - and had done far more research (though even he managed to say I was an architect and she was a ‘Katie’!). 

He was also interesting and unpredictable:  we had tried to prepare by swotting up on the countries where VSO place volunteers, and the health issues they tackle.  “So what’s the point of studying philosophy?” came the first question (I paraphrase) – he wasn’t going to allow us to get away with a straightforward advert!

He had clearly read my blog from Cambodia, though I never expected him to home in on a random moment when I found myself watching a boxing match on television with a bunch of soldiers in the house of Ta Mok, the notorious Khmer Rouge butcher.

After stumbling my way through the story he understandably switched to Katja - but again had an unexpected angle, quizzing her on early experiences in East Germany when the wall came down. 

“Bananas!” she exclaimed - that was her enduring memory.  Driving an old Trabant over the border people would throw fruit through the windows, sharing the unknown luxury with their deprived Eastern countrymen.

He clearly loved the story - though, as with the newspaper article, it didn’t have much to do with recruiting volunteers for overseas development! 

But maybe that’s the deal (as we are learning, now we are no longer local media virgins).  What we have to give is an interesting story.  If recruiting volunteers didn’t end up as the main focus, that’s not a problem. 

Because the message is still there; it’s just partially obscured by the girlfriend’s bananas. 

Bath: city of milk and honey

Bath is famous for many things:  warm stone, hot springs, sizzling Mr Darcy.  Less so for cool food and chilled music – but this weekend it changed!

Rachel Demuth isn’t your average celebrity chef.  True, after 25 years her eponymous restaurant is an institution.  Now her cooking school has expanded to purpose-built kitchens and recently welcomed my all-time culinary hero, Yotam Ottolenghi.  If he likes it, it must be good.

Along with her head chef Richard, she is thoughtful, unshowy and lets her food do the talking.  Their latest project is to write about how cooking has evolved over the last quarter century.

Cynically, I asked if this just meant half the portion size for double the price.  Gently ignoring my provocation, they noted that availability of ingredients has grown exponentially, technology for transporting, storing, preparing and cooking has transformed, information and education are revolutionised by television shows and the web, and disposable income for buying food and eating out has rocketed. 

But how will this affect how, say, a cheese soufflé would be made now as opposed to the late 80s?  This is the angle they intend to take – again, they’ll let the food do the talking.

And it was actually the fancy soufflé-type stuff we were learning to do – partly to celebrate Katja's birthday weekend, and also as we hoped the one-day ‘cook to impress’ course would prepare us for a deluge of hungry guests when we move to our new house next week.

The concept makes a lot of sense:  when you have friends to dinner you want to spend time with them, not hours in the kitchen – and this is essentially the same challenge as restaurants have with customers arriving and expecting sophisticated food in just 20 minutes. 

The answer:  do it in advance.  Not just preparation, but also most of the cooking; and then heat, assemble and spend time with your friends – simple!

We also learned loads of top tips.  Blanche everything green, urged Richard, to fix the chlorophyll and retain the vibrant colours.  Smoke vegetables (in a smoking dish not a pipe!), which we did with potatoes to delicious effect.  If you don't have honey, make caramel simply by heating sugar in a pan – no need for water, just keep stirring and it magically melts.  And serve everything in threes.

The best tips were for milk products.  Butter featured highly, hopefully allowed in the context of occasional treats for friends.  Used to grease tins (not oil as I use, as it runs down the side), to coat pasta or gnocchi (the fat keeps it hot much longer than water), and to fry (rather than olive oil, which boils at too low a temperature).

Cream also arose, being added to a reduction of wine and stock to produce an intensely powerful sauce.  Mascarpone, I discovered, is also just cream with lemon juice added.  And I am seriously considering replacing all parmesan with the rich, crumbly Old Winchester.

And one last dairy tip – boiling mustard seeds with vinegar, sugar and water made a wonderful pickle – and even more so if the seeds are first soaked in (you guessed it), milk.

After fun in the kitchen we threw ourselves into Bath – mansions of delicious honey-coloured stone, quirky independent shops (especially B’s Booksellers), the impressive and relaxing Thermae spa, even a literature festival and half marathon to keep us amused.

Our most surprising find was Moles.  Buried minutes away from the Georgian splendour of the Royal Crescent, this is a proper, no-nonsense music venue.  Saturday’s band, The Milk, were a highlight of our trip - a funky mix of sca and pop, performed with confidence and an infectious sense of fun. 

And again, the guys from the band are not your average wannabe popstars – chatting afterwards they were friendly, modest and normal – they let their music do the talking. 

It’s the definition of a successful weekend:  we came to Bath expecting waters, and left having discovered milk and honey.