Richard Peters -in the Sai Kung Country Park

An Epistle to Hong Kong – Chapter 1 'In the Beginning'

This is the first of three open epistles intended with the heart in mind. In these I make appeal to that which moves a person, the inner stirrings of awareness, conscience and pity. The intention is that my thoughts should strike a resonating chord and provoke discourse and action.

The subject is Hong Kong, our experience here, our expectations and departure. Having thought on these things for a time and, knowing my days in the city are numbered, I have decided to give them form and to cast them, for good or ill, into the electronic ether. It begins with our entry to this far-eastern metropolis.

Our lives in Hong Kong began by fluke. Just before Christmas 1996, on business I cannot recall, we visited the Royal Bank of Scotland in Sandbach, Cheshire. Waiting for the Memsahib, I completed a simple promotional flyer that required a few ticks and a sentence – the prize being £3000 of Thomas Cook Travel Vouchers. The Mem saw this as a waste of time: I shrugged. A few days into the New Year someone claiming to be with the RBS phoned and congratulated me on winning the first prize in the bank’s national competition. Assuming this to be an elaborate wind-up, I came close to slamming the phone down after a few choice words, but hesitated. Days later, smiling for the cameras, we received an enormous cheque and pondered what to do with all that cash.

We concluded we should go to a place we were unlikely to visit again in our lifetime, the place our dear friend Gethyn had recently emigrated and whose concluding words to us was to be sure to come and see him. Our vouchers became two Cathay flights to Hong Kong with cash to spend...

That Chinese New Year week of 1997 was an incredible novelty. Spectacularly flying in over the streets of Kowloon we arrived at the old Kai Tak airport and filled the week doing the touristy things that all wide-eyed visitors do, the Big Buddha on Lantau, the sweaty market in Stanley, the bouncy Star Ferry to Tsim Sha Tsui. Our gracious host took us to view the night city from Stubbs Road and to view a misty China from the Robin’s Nest helipad.  The first trip to be taken without our little girls, we enjoyed the differences of culture and the ease with which we could get around. It was all so very exciting – a noisy and bright world away from the silent and dark streets of Northwich.

We took time out to visit the special needs Jockey Club Sarah Roe School where the Mem’s ex-colleague and friend, the late Jenny Doke, had recently began working. Limbering out of the taxi I peered down the long drive next door to what clearly appeared to be a long-established educational institution, the King George V^th School, its grand Art Deco frontage with clock tower overseeing a green sports field. As a trainee teacher, I thought at the time, if I could teach anywhere then it would ideally be here.

The night of our departure we spent in a Mexican Restaurant in Times Square with a gaggle of English Schools Foundation teachers – a birthday party. With one eye on the clock, we drank salty margaritas and ate nothing but nachos all evening. The party continued and we politely made excuses for our 11 pm plane. No, don’t go! voices clamored. But we have our kids… we replied. Bring ‘em over – we’ll get you a job! This flippant remark was not without weight in the days leading up to the handover of 1997.

At 10:45, and with a “Fi-dee! Fi-dee!”, our host bundled us into the back of a red taxi. Sliding across the back seat, we sped at the highest of speeds through the Central Harbour Tunnel to Kai Tak to the awaiting return flight, but it was all too much and before immigration hot, orange, sticky nachoey sick splashed over my black jeans. Such was my state, the Mem threatened to fly without me if I was refused on board. I promise I'll never drink another!

Such a world had never existed for us: teachers with money, regularly polishing off bottles of wine in a school staffroom after work, regular international travel to hot, sunny destinations – it would surely remain a sparkly dream, a nice idea, but something we would forever want. Before the end of the year the Mem had applied for a post at the very same Sarah Roe School.

Deciding to move to Hong Kong was easy, although saying our goodbyes to friends and family was painful, but the opportunities that quickly arose in the Pearl of the Orient made our first few months a joyful adaptation. Our apartment began to look like an IKEA showroom and we watched DVDs during typhoon days. We began to go native – the English expat native – taking on a domestic helper and enjoying sausage, mash and a pint of Tetleys at the Railway Tavern in Tai Wai (in those days you could get gravy and mushy peas with your pie and chips). We loved giving Chinese New Year red lai see envelopes containing money to employees and children, but perhaps I over-reacted to the slang term for westerners, gwailo – was I really a foreign devil? On my way to work I could see down the entire length of the MTR train: I was the tallest soul anywhere without westerners, something that just ain’t so anymore.

Our landlady, undoubtedly mindful of her losses in the property price crash that accompanied the Asian financial crisis, tried to keep us happy in our 600 square feet Tai Wai apartment (including lift lobby). With her we experienced our first dim sum and hotpot, but the flat’s size and price was our rude awakening to what may be the most over-heated property market in the world. Hong Kong being such a perfectly placed travel hub, we took ourselves off for holidays in Thailand and Bali, but a few weekends in choky Chinese cities made us think twice about the mainland.

The many islands of the New Territories beckoned with gazetted beaches, clean sand, lifeguards, butterflies and cold beers in the cafés. It proved such a great attraction that we couldn’t help but call our poor friends Rachel and Bob to tell them how wonderful it all was. Unfortunately, they failed to share our enthusiasm on a dreary, dark British five o’clock in the bloody morning...

We frequently took to two or even three nights out each week, clubbing, barhopping and dancing our way through the crowds of Lan Kwai Fong. Competing bars would often give away drinks to attract punters. We even took up Salsa! Regularly quaffing champagne on Wednesday ladies’ nights at Carnegies in Wanchai often meant dancing on the bar until well into the wee small hours... only to get up and go to work at 6 the next day. But we thought nothing of it. We had the cash (and the energy), we lived a mere HK$100 taxi ride from Central and we loved it!

It became quickly obvious that Hong Kong was all about money. Any Hong Konger becomes conspicuous only by his or her spending. There’s little else this town takes seriously. Having disposable income can bring a level of transient happiness only dreamed of by the rest: the power to walk into a shop and buy anything – ANYTHING! (well, almost)

The vast majority of people are still relatively poor by comparison, particularly older people and women and trends indicate that the numbers of poor have increased. Only the very richest (and very poorest) have had their lot improved.

But as for us, we spent it all. There couldn't be a better place to live than Hong Kong. Outside work, our lives were almost entirely devoted to pleasures: electronic gadgetry, cinema, clothes, holidays, restaurants and nights out. We must have helped many-an entrepreneur on their way to their current fortunes, and lost ours in the process, but at the time we just didn't care.

And this is where I pause. The next epistle is concerned with day-to-day life in Hong Kong and of Hong Kong people in particular.

Pak Sha O

It may be that you've visited a beautiful place or two on your holidays. It may be that you've had to struggle a little to get there, by road or by foot. It may be that you've spent a little time wandering and wondering -who lived here, when was it built, what was life like for them back then? It may be that these questions remain and re-emerge when your photos of this beautiful place are seen again. If this is so, then you've experienced what can only be termed a romantic association with a place and, as with all romances, it's something about which you fondly care –even if you're no longer together.

Such is the case with the hidden village Pak Sha O (白沙澳). Peacefully nestled in the bountiful and verdant hills of the Sai Kung Country Park under the watchful gaze of Mount Hallowes (柦柴山), the sleepy village is hidden from most eyes. Many visitors to the park head on down for a mooch upon the soft sandy beaches of Hoi Ha (海下), grab a quick ice cream and whiz back to fishy fleshpots of Sai Kung without even knowing they have passed an architectural jewel modestly nestling within an exquisite natural setting. They will not have heard the cacophony of frogs and crickets in the marshy fields, nor seen the abundance of butterflies in the flower gardens, the old tiled roofs, the watchtower and the reinforced wooden-barred courtyard door –for keeping bandits and pirates at bay!

It's not that Pak Sha O is a grand palace of the last Emperors or a cascading monumental Machu-Picchu citadel – there isn't a convenient shop to buy "I ♥ PSO" t-shirts or cups of speciality tea and the nearest public toilet is half-a mile away from the village beside the Hoi Ha Road. Instead, this village is a small, vulnerable and fragile remnant of a past era of simple, somewhat-unassuming Hakka folk that literally forged their lives from the environment. Its unambitious beauty really does mean for some, 'once bitten, forever smitten'!

For centuries the villagers of Pak Sha O deftly farmed their rice from a myriad of tiny fields -some the size of a large room- and ensured that their stream water irrigation was in good working order from year to year. They fished where they could and at low tide would gather at the rocky bays of the peninsula to collect shellfish and the fruits of the sea, returning to the village to feast on their catches.

Each festival was properly celebrated and civic duties undertaken with propriety, if not pride. Certainly the rich decorative motifs that adorn the buildings are symptomatic of residents that held themselves in check by form and convention. They were good Hakka people.

Round about them the rest of the world moved on so that by the latter quarter of the 20th century the tensions brought about by the conflicting aspirations and opportunities for many Hong Kong villagers were simply too much for their communities. The beginning of Timothy Mo's 1982 novel, Sour Sweet, encapsulates the dilemma of those times: the happy rural village life had become unsustainable and most of the younger people simply had to move away either elsewhere in Hong Kong or to cities in Europe and North America. Year-by-year, the older people also moved out to inhabit urban rest homes or died in-situ to be ceremonially buried up in the hills, sometimes in magnificent horseshoe-shaped graves. Those empty properties that they looked down upon eventually fell apart, collapsed and were buried under the ever-encroaching forest: lifeless and rotting midden mounds are all too often the sum total of the work of generations.

Some villages, however, have had a new life breathed into them by quite a different set heading in the opposite direction, purposefully removing themselves from the stress of the city to live a quieter life closer to nature. These settlers are predominantly westerners who have sought, along with creature comforts and air-conditioning, to incorporate their values into their revitalized abodes. For them the old has an intrinsic beauty, its value matched with age. For them simplicity has clarity and unecessary re-development remains unwelcome: what has simply been left by others is the first and best reason to live 'miles from anywhere' and has stirred in them a need for sympathetic (read expensive) maintenance and preservation of those unique remnants of the past.

It would be naive to suggest that the new tenants' motives are entirely selfless, but they would be in keeping with similar such projects undertaken in remote French or Italian villages -it's just what some westerners do! The fate, however, of other vulnerable and beautiful old Hong Kong buildings springs to mind, such a the King Yin Lei building on Stubbs Road (above) where demolition was reprieved in the nick of time by government intervention only after the press expressed outrage.

 
Pak Sha O today is under immanent threat – the village is set to be purchased piece-meal, evacuated, razed to the ground so that in its place will be new luxury developments. This overall aim, of course, has not been explicitly admitted by the purchaser, Lau Ming-shum of Xinhua Bookstore Xiang Jian Group, the company that has been buying up these recently un-zoned plots. It has put in an application to build two new houses in the village. If they get final approval it means the future of this astonishing village as it stands is uncertain.

The local and international press have investigated further (we attended the recent press briefing by Friends of Sai Kung that explained the plight of village and its environment), but so far the Hong Kong government remains unmoved or unable to move –the village enclave is technically not part of the Sai Kung Country Park and the new landowner is within his rights to do whatever he likes to his land, even if that means irrevocably destroying it! It therefore seems likely more damage will probably be done and bewailed before the security of the village, the residents and the surrounding wildlife can be guaranteed through government action.

To emphasize what has already been reported above, a third of all Hong Kong species are found in the valley; "75 species of butterflies, 11 types of freshwater fish, 38 types of birds, eight species of amphibians and 23 types of insects". One can imagine the devastating impact if the woodland was 'improved' into terraces of tarmac car spaces and concrete box dwellings. It's a story familiar to many in Hong Kong's environmentally-empoverished New Territories villages.

So, what's to do? Plenty – please feel free to share comments on this blog or copy this blog's link or links within. Drop a quick email to the reporters (through the highlighted links above) and let them know you read their stories. Better still, write to the Town Planning Board to remind them of their responsibilities to preserve one of Hong Kong's best-kept Hakka villages. Write an email to the Hong Kong Agriculture, Fisheries and Conservation Department's Sai Kung Country Park office to inform them of your interest in this matter. Ask the Antiquities and Monuments Office Heritage Conservation office what they are going to do about Pak Sha O.

Please don't let this beautiful and remote village disappear because it's too much bother to defend. It could be your next romantic association!

Hong Kong Ferry Disaster is Nothing New

The collision and sinking of the Lamma IV in Hong Kong's harbour is tragic, if that is the right word, because many of the people killed must have assumed they were safe and that this journey, like thousands of others taken daily, would be a fun, event-free way to see the fireworks on National Day. It seems Hong Kong can only make news if there's death, mayhem, disease, corruption, protest, scandals and dirty political intrigue.

If you know anything about Hong Kong, you at least know it is an island. The Kowloon peninsula and the New Territories add the majority of the landmass. The total territory of 1,100 square kilometers has 200 hundred islands, some very large like Lantau and some mere rocks above the water line. With all that territory surrounded by water it is no wonder that people who want to get about use, indeed have to use, ferries and water taxis.

The ferries in Hong Kong are a great way to get about. The most obvious is the Star Ferry, the historical land-/watermark of Victoria Harbour. Since the 1870s ordinary folks have crossed the narrow stretch of water in order to get to work or homes. Until 1972 it was the only means of getting across. Its importance could not be understated -when in 1966 the Star Ferry chose to increase their charges by 50-100%  the infamous Star Ferry riots erupted causing one death injury and and thousands of arrests.

Other ferries from Central regularly connect islands and promontories. At present there are at least four major operators of passenger ferries in Hong Kong waters. Around the Pearl River others operate the lucrative Hong Kong-to-Macau or Hong Kong-to-China routes. Speedboats, many of them licensed, can be privately chartered to get you from point a to point b. Sadly silent, masted and batten-sailed junks in the harbour are no more, the one exception being a floating bar owned by the restaurant chain, Aqua. For most here, the word "junk" means motorised launches that act as glorified luxury cruisers when you want your party to have a constantly changing view or visit a bay for a swim). But along with hundreds of yachts and private launches, there are also thousands of little sampans or kaidos – tiny vessels privately operated by the Mrs Wongs and Mrs Chans who live and work close to the water or even on-board. Previously used for in-shore fishing, these keel-less boats can be found almost anywhere where land meets sea and, depending on your bartering skills and/or mastery of Cantonese numbers and times, can be incredibly cheap to hire.

Although there's many a scary taxi or minibus ride to be had in HK, the most interesting journeys happen when boating. Being a little slower than land transport, it's possible to see more of the world at a relaxed pace. There's also something to be said for being rocked by the motion of the waves. I've never suffered from motion sickness, even in the roughest swells, and so I welcome the rough and the smooth that put fun into nautical journeys.

Everyone must have their own scare stories with regards traveling at sea. I have two to hand:

The first involves the chartering of a junk for the Hong Kong Welsh Male Voice Choir end of season party. Leaving Victoria Harbour and setting out towards Sai Kung, the junk sailed into a bank a fog –an unusual occurence in these waters. This coincided with the tricky bit of navigation in Joss House Bay between the rocky island of Tung Lung Chau and the equally rocky end of the Clearwater Bay peninsula. When the captain was asked about his radar, his charts, his forward lights, he admitted he had none. The best he could do was pull out an A5-sized tourist map of Hong Kong. Shaking his head, Vince, our ex-marine policeman, stood at the front directing the ferry captain's course and speed. Most folks would probably have insisted we turn around, but such is the indomitable spirit of free Hong Kongers (read stupidity) that we'd had sufficient alcohol to feel inured to the danger of crag and wave and insisted we go on –into the dark, foggy night past the jagged, pitiless rocks to continue eating and drinking and partying. With the image of Géricault's Raft of the Medusa in mind, the Memsahib and Meself did not make the return journey and got off at Sai Kung.

The other spectacular journey involved getting to a party on Lamma Island. Arriving at Queens Pier, we found we had missed the boat! We quickly taxied to Aberdeen, the famous southern Hong Kong harbour where the floating Jumbo Restaurant is situated, and commissioned a tiny, wooden kaido, complete with pipe-smoking, coolie-hatted little old lady, to take us across the Lamma Channel to the restaurant where all our friends were now seated and on their second beers. Setting out into one of the busiest shipping channels in the world during the day is interesting enough, but at dusk it is terrifying! The biggest supercargo container ships constantly steam up and down this stretch of coastal water to drop off points near the port: they don't even see a vessel as small as ours. The fearless lady piloted the boat through their courses, bobbing like a cork over the massive washes caused by these intercontinental monsters, zipping here, stopping there, the massive bulk of these dark ships hulls towering above us like insensitive giants. I thought we'd all die. The wrinkled, sea-harden lady captain nonchalantly puffed away...

So, although I'm terribly saddened, I'm not surprised to hear that a Lamma ferry collided with a chartered boat approaching the harbour. Such accidents are narrowly avoided on a regular basis. Each year people die using ferries and boats in Hong Kong, either through accident or negligence (see Youtube clip of Star Ferry vs cruise ship near-thing). Feng Shui enthusiasts may point to another example of poor leadership at the top affecting the forces that govern the lives of ordinary mortals, others may question the professionalism of those that make their living ferrying people or piloting tugs. For the relatives of the 38 people killed and the other passengers that narrowly escaped this event will pose painful questions – I would imagine that over the coming weeks and months many of the answers will not satisfy their anger and sorrow. But until the harbour is totally reclaimed and is over 100 stories high, such events will, sadly, always occur.

The English Abroad

In days of yor it used to be that 'cream-faced loons' and indebted red-faced drunkards would look for an escape route from their hum-drum ordinary existances, take upon themselves a shiny-buttoned red coat, new breeches, puttees, pith helmet and a shillin' from His/Her Majesty and, after some puffing and panting during a few weeks of basic training, would with gun in hand begin to exercise some foreign (mis-) adventure. And, lo and behold, a bloomin' great empire was built upon the backs of those that undertook such foolish and vainglorious exploits.

The British Empire came about largely through a succession of fortunate accidents, as have all empires before (a characteristic no doubt also true for the future). Growing from individual, often minor, expeditions that seemed like jolly good ideas at the time, each of the bits of the map that turned pink came about as the result of Whitehall initiative, skill and diplomacy (such that it was), a run of near-run things and good luck (akin, at times, to the fortunate throwing of dice) and the stinking sweat and laboured tobacco-flavoured breaths in the thin red lines of bellicose, filthy-mouthed Tommy Atkins (and his nautical cousin, the syphilitic Jolly Jack Tar).

Capitalising on the weaknesses of others is nothing new, but the skill of the British to get a feel of the situation, divide and conquer, set up new trading posts for the free exchanges of products from the rest of that worldwide empire, to build churches and bungalows, to rule 'somewhat beneficently' (sometimes worse, but oft-times better than the hitherto native landed classes) meant that for more than 100 years the Children of Britannia and Hibernia and Caledonia were able to proudly take charge of these new estates albeit with the grumbling, reticent obedience of thems that looked down the barrels of their loaded Lee Enfields -safety catch off!

Of course, once the wars/arrangements for conquest/administrative oversight were won, those with their paid fingers on the triggers were then expected to man the barracks, keep safe the watch, patrol the borders and, having done some sort of 'duty', return to their homes, their wives and families, their pubs and their precarious futures. In the mean time, training kept them disciplined and to see out their tour a 'nice little earner' on the side could very often be found, be that in sparkly gems or luscious fabrics or in handsome trophies from the battlefield. Many of their fallen red-jacketed pals, of course, still lie all over the world  and on all continents (bar the cold southern one -the Isle of Wight). The last great hurrah of empire, between 1939-1945, produced a magnificent crop of sorry memorials to their kind, the unfortunate 20th-century tommies that gave in to bullet, bugs and cruelty. I have wept deep bitter tears at the sight of the ranks of headstones at the Commonwealth War Cemeteries in Kanchanaburi that commemorates those servicemen killed building the imperial Japanese Army's Burma railway. Politics aside, these blokes all enjoyed a pint down the pub like everyone else, but their loves and dreams, memories and even their bodies are now all gone. All that is left are their names. Some were only 17.

So where are the tommies now? Kipling's wonderful homage to their kind is a museum piece -a bit like this Roger Moore Youtube clip here. Even those currently active in the armed forces know little of the life of these chaps who really left not knowing whence or even if they'd ever again see the White Cliffs of Dover and home. Life's just too precious now and the Health & Safety Executive even extends a forbidding grasp over things done in the name of the Queen. That's not to say that they don't get hurt or killed, but it's a different world out there and technology reigns where once pluck and guile alone may have outwitted the dastardly foe. It's a strange creature now that opts for the army. Guardians of the realm they may be, but the adventurers life is no more -it's a profession. The last time a spot of adventurism was last seen in the British Army was in Operation Palliser in Sierra Leone where instead of merely evacuating British and EU civilians from a war zone, Brigadier Richards took it upon himself to take the fight to the rebels and ended the civil war on behalf of the government.

The tommies are still out there, still pasty white, still drunken and in debt, still doing unspeakable things to poor innocent natives. But their chance for an exciting life away from the shores of Blighty need not involve receiving a uniform and a weapon in order to do so (although the stereotypical stag weekend t-shirt may suggest otherwise). Instead, if they've got the money, their victorious expeditionary exploits are now on the Laotian rafts of the Mekong where they battle the dealer to find the cheapest drugs and overcome three days and nights of red-bull enforced sleeplessness. Their war trophies are the semi-exotic Beer Chang sleeveless t-shirts and over-sized tattoos of Chinese dragons. They're very much still a bellicose and probably syphilitic lot and the air is blue with pointless expletives, but there's little point of their visit other than sheer self-indulgence, the cheap beers and even cheaper lays. These are naughty children without a mummy or daddy, a monarch, a sergeant major or even a God on Sunday to reign their excesses.

Typhoons and Rain Storms

I know, it's topical because for those of you in Asia's World City, it's belting it down out there right now.The wind is knocking the trees about as if it bore a grudge. God knows how the wildlife fares, but there's nothing like a good old typhoon to remind you who's in control!

Having said that, I recall blustery days like this in the UK, damage notwithstanding. When we first moved to Hong Kong I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. A bit of wind and people were running for cover. But then I put my hands on the window of the 16th floor apartment we lived in at the time -it was bowing under the pressure. Suddenly, all those warnings about taping up windows and staying away from the glass became a reality. Stories about air-conditioning units being sucked out of their niches and of yachts being dumped up the Nathan Road were no longer the exaggerated myth of dinner conversation. Staring out of the window it was possible to see branches, rubbish and debris racing about in the mad air currents. Staying in became a necessity.

In the past typhoons have been positively deadly. In the 1870s a typhoon killed more than 2000 people in the territory. Much later in 1937 the Great Hong Kong Typhoon killed 11,000. Wind speeds for that particular beauty topped 150 mph! The innocuous-sounding Typhoon Wanda in 1962 dumped 10 inches of rainfall during a tidal surge of 5 metres. You can only imagine what damage that would do to the mostly wooden shacks on the coastline.

'Typhoon Days' are a wonderful thing for the chattering classes. Like everything in Hong Kong, typhoons are regulated (according to windspeed), so a Typhoon 8 signal generally means a day off work. It meant for us that we could indulge in a late get-up, some cake making and bloating out in front of the TV. The next day involved picking our way through the wreckage on the way to work -such fun!

Rain Storms have, for me, been a little more alarming. I think it's fair to say I've never seen so much of the wet stuff as here in the Far East. The heavens doth open and pour out such quantities of water it is difficult to conceive how it got up there in the first place.

What is also apparent is the enormous damage this gentle rain can do: whole hillsides washed away, mudslides dumped onto roads and suffocating the occupants of ground floor apartments. There are even 3 categories of rainstorm -Amber, Red and Black. Having driven in the latter, it is not something to be recommended. In fact, it's one of those occasions where fear engages the automatic propensity for uncontrollable profanity!

During rainstorms and typhoons most restaurants pack up for the night, but many bars stay open. After all, it's not like there's a problem competing for business with those all too desperate for a lil' drinky. Some alcoholics go out especially to 'take in' the typhoon atmosphere in Lan Kwai Fong and Wanchai: that's a disaster visiting a calamity!

 

So as Typhoon Vicente dumps all the water it has sucked up out of the South China Sea onto our roof, we settle down to a wet and blowy evening: turn on the TV and pass round the cake, please!

Happy Birthday to me!

Thank you all for your birthday wishes, texts, messages and cards. You’re all too kind.

As a child I used to think that nothing very important happened on my birthday. How wrong I was…

April 23^rd is not only mine, but also Shakespeare’s birthday, scientist Max Planck’s, the composer Prokofiev's, child actor Shirley Temple's, crooner Roy Orbison's, the 6 Million Dollar Man Lee Majors', the political activist Bernadette Devlin's, filmmaker Michael Moore's, Spartacus’s John Hannah's and the notorious terrorist Tim McVeigh's to name but a few.

On this day Edmund Ironside succeeded his father Æthelred the Unready (‘unræde’ in Anglo-Saxon for those who know) as king of England, the Order of the Garter was introduced by the incredible King Edward III and good king Charles II was crowned at Westminster. In Europe King George II (of Greece) evacuated Athens before the Nazis arrived –sounds like it was right pain in the arse! Over in China the PLA Navy was apparently established in 1949 and in the USSR Soyuz 1 was launched in 1967 –the very day I was born: I suppose I should have been called Vladimir after the cosmonaut, Vladimir Komarov, except he died when his space capsule crash-landed in a 40 metres-per-second ball of flame on returning to Earth -the first space flight death. In 1985 Coca-Cola released its new formula to a howl of protests and even litigation.

Of course, St George’s Day could not be discussed without mentioning the great Saint George, the patron saint of England… and Russia… and Portugal… in fact, a total of 17 countries, not to mention countless municipalities and metropolitan areas! He slew dragons, freed maidens, served in the Roman army and was finally martyred for his Christian beliefs. In romantic iconography his fight with the dragon symbolizes the fight of the Christian against Satan and it is possible to see the older Greek legends, such as those of Perseus, eclipsed within his fantastic tale. He’s the epitome of the shiny, chivalric ideal and his is one of the few inter-faith shrines.

Many famous types have died on this day: lots of ancient kings and queens, good ole William Shakespeare (again), the poets William Wordsworth and Rupert Brooke, famous physician Carl Ludwig, the mad George Adamski who saw UFOs, Buster Crabbe of Flash Gordon fame, a sozzled Boris Yeltsin and Martin Luther King Jnr’s murderer, James Earl Ray, cor-blimey!

Phew –I suppose it’s a busy old day, after all!

Light into Darkness, Darkness into Light

There are occasions where murky things become crystal clear, others where the truth is obscured behind dark clouds. When both become apparent during one evening, the mind sometimes has difficulty with comprehension.

The Northern Lights Hong Kong Philharmonic concert at the Cultural Centre was to be a Scandinavian sandwich of the great Sibelius 7th, followed by four of his Finnish songs and three of Grieg's Norwegians to be sung by soprano Inger Dam-Jensen, ending with Nielsen's 4th "Inextinguishable" symphony all performed under the expert guidance of the score-free Thomas Dausgaard (what a feat!). Unfortunately, despite a week of preparation, said soprano's voice succumbed to a cold leaving her free to watch hotel telly all evening.

Jean Sibelius, the fabulous famous Finn, put his 7th symphony together during the early 1920s. Having been born when Finland was a Russian Principality, Sibelius' romantic music eventually became the perfect accompaniment to stirring nationalist sentiment and pride (each year the 8th December, his birthday, is marked as the Day of Finnish Music –an occasion where the Finnish flag is flown). The 7th symphony, however, goes further, deeper than mere flag-waving, just as, in the obverse, the catchy 'Rule Britannia' cannot be said to sum up British national sentiment.

Perhaps the most obvious thing about the 7th symphony is that it is in one movement, or more precisely that the usual divisions between movements have been abandoned. The shackles of classical symphonic form (quick/slow/quick movements) could not contain his ideas. By writing in the key of C, considered passé at the time, Sibelius also demonstrated his compositional brilliance as it actually aided and fully enabled his themes and ideas. Wholeheartedly Wagnerian in form, as you can hear here at the clear dawn-like beginning, it was to be his last symphony: his subsequent symphonic efforts failed to fully realise his vision and perished in the flames of his dining room fireplace.

That he was a virtuoso violinist is apparent in his delivery of form for the strings, ensuring a construction of melody without effort, form without ostentation. In fact, he makes it all sound so easy.

The beautiful and much-loved symphony, despite all the perfected craftsmanship at his disposal, descends into a pessimistic conclusion. Did Sibelius mean to describe how our inevitable human darkness eventually overcomes us? This mature declaration is often compared with olympian scenery –the final all-encompassing view of the glorious mountain in evening light and thence into ultimate, sombre and quiet darkness back in that key of C.

Danish composer Carl Nielsen's Symphony No 4, however, is more optimistically labelled Inextinguishable! It premiered during the middle of the First World War, eight years before the Sibelius 7th. The acrobatic complexity pursues a relentless major/minor battle in which it is not hard to discern the struggle for life. Another one-movement symphony, Nielsen emphasised this struggle with the twin timpani (usually positioned like fortresses on either side of the orchestra) which fire devastating salvos at each other in the final section as can be heard in this section.

Interestingly, Nielsen's title refers not to the music, but to the inextinguishable nature of life itself. In a letter to his wife, Anne Marie, he wrote,

"I have an idea for a new composition, which has no programme but will express what we understand by the spirit of life or manifestations of life, that is: everything that moves, that wants to live ... just life and motion, though varied—very varied—yet connected, and as if constantly on the move, in one big movement or stream. I must have a word or a short title to express this; that will be enough. I cannot quite explain what I want, but what I want is good.

As a result, the symphony delves into all sorts of uncomfortable and moody regions, only fully and finally emerging at the end into the light, the light so dearly longed-for all over war-torn Europe. But is it the unwitting optimistic antithesis of Sibelius' 7th?

It would be wrong to say these two symphonies contrast each other. Although they are both single-movements symphonies, their ideas are completely different, the first composer embracing more Wagnerian sweeping structures, the second rejecting all that the Teutonic giant stood for.

Light into darkness, darkness into light might have been a bit of an overly-simplistic title, but at the end of this concert, having sat through each of the titanic 20-minute symphonies I left feeling somewhat confused. Exactly where is humanity heading –are we rising or falling? The two intellectual perspectives encapsulated in each work are, I'm sure, not completely incompatible, but I'm not sure how the two symphonies would fare in the other order. Would we feel safer with darkness first and then light, or the other way round? Heaven forbid a featureless, grey blend!

Japan One Year Later...

The news pictures here and here that began to flash before our eyes were truly astonishing, catastrophic scenes we found hard to comprehend. Somewhat inured to Hollywood-style doomsday special effects, our eyes searched for truth in what we saw; the dirty, black water tumbling on and on across the fields engulfing farms, glasshouses, roads and cars, ports and ships, people –especially the terrified, panicky people. It was hard to believe.

It is a schoolteacher's job to educate and inform students about the world and ensure they are prepared to face the challenges of life. There is little in the job description that could help make sense of the Japanese tsunami of March 2011. There is little anyone could do to help younger people understand the gravity of such a situation and what response they might make.

Thus, largely in silence did I show students the footage available on YouTube and let them try to comprehend what was happening, the horrifying deaths, the innumerable disasters that unfolded as the waters kept rushing in. 

But it's difficult for children to understand, even with a video such as this, the true devastation of this event –that word is over-used, but it is the most appropriate. 

The exploding Fukushima nuclear reactor added to the trauma and made us all uneasy, as is evident from this article by Simon Parry. It completed the transformation of our understanding of a tsunami from Katsushika Hokusai's iconic, beautiful image of the Kanegawa Tsumani to that of the ugly, truly terrifying and unstoppable force of nature

The memorial video by OnlineSchools.org, Japan One Year Later, uses poetic and poignant visualisation projected onto whitewashed walls to bring to the eyes:

• 15,846 people dead and 3,320 still missing
• The restricted area around the Fukushima plant is larger than Los Angeles
• 25 million tons of trash now in the ocean
• Food is contaminated and people will live shorter lives as a result
• Only Hiroshima was a bigger disaster

It concludes with a last, perhaps more constructive image which transforms the devastation to something new and the words, 'The Sun is Rising'. In another time those words would be ominous –now they are perforated with hope. Japan suffered, but Japan is rebuilding –that is the message.

All the drawings are taken from images found on The Atlantic, that visibly demonstrate the transition one year can make.

Last Sunday was the commemorative anniversary. I forgot all about it –as if it had never happened. I suppose because I didn't see the waters wash away my family and my home I could be forgiven, but I did see the footage in all its horror.

It's never too late to remember.

Karita Mattila, Lieder and 1881

In some concerts it is immediately obvious from the first note that you are in the hands of professionals; that you are about to hear musical precision, understand intellectual excellence, fine artistic nuances. Such was Karita Mattila's recital in the lied tradition last night at the Cultural Centre.

Accompanied by fellow Fin, Ville Matvejeff, the much celebrated opera star poured out the delicacies and exigencies of lieder from Brahms, Debussy, Richard Strauss and Alban Berg from within a sparkly shimmer of an silvery evening gown. Each piece performed with such mastery, the audience instantly responded with great admiration and warmth. Indeed, no-one clapped between the pieces in the cycles (unusual for an HK audience) and only one phone went off during the entire performance -must be something of a record!

 

 

I thought the opening songs from Alban Berg, taken from the Jugendlieder (such as this one), were challenging -the Shoenberg-esque atonal influences forming an incredible, meandering, early 20th-century landscape through which I thought the Hong Kong audience might not have easily travelled thereby becoming alienated. They were, instead, enraptured by Karita's scandinavian hand upon the tiller and Matvejeff's fearless support.

 

The Debussy, Brahms and Strauss were, perhaps, a little more to the liking of the mixed audience -I was sat next to two well-behaved school chaps who had obviously been given tickets as part of the 40th Hong Kong Arts Fest's outreach to the next generation. Not sure what they made of it, but they were back in the 2nd half for more from the Finnish soprano. Perhaps they were waiting for her to get her gear off as she did portraying Salome in New York in 2004 (now available on DVD!).

If I had one criticism, it would not have been with the artist, the choice of lieder, the accompaniment or even the eye-blinding showy one-piece dresses, but rather with the venue. The Cultural Centre is best-suited for big orchestral and choral events -there's even a dirty great organ at the back of the hall! But I would have preferred to hear these songs in the intimacy of a much smaller room, as lieder is wont. One can only suppose that such is Mattila's international operatic fame she must always be brought to such a large hall in order to meet demand.

 

As wonderful as this evening had been, it ended on very high notes indeed with Strauss's Frühlingsfeier (utilizing Heine's poem The Rite of Spring), where Karita's enthralling near-hysterical full throttle finale of "Adonis! Adonis!" teetered on the edge of insanity and could so easily have descended into bizarre spectacle.

 

 

Our evening's entertainment, however, began a little earlier with a little light dinner at The Parlour restaurant at Hullett House. Found within 1881 Heritage, the ex-marine police headquarters, first constructed in 1884 and now turned (at no small expense by those cheeky chappies Cheung Kong Holdings) into Tsim Sha Tsui's finest entertainment complex, the meal, ambiance, music, service and even the website were all excellent. And that got us to finking...

 

 

The Memsahib and meself've bin togevva naah for nigh-on a quarter sentry, cor-blimey! This might just be the place to host a do to celebrate such an event. Keep your eyes open and your ears peeled for more news nearer the time.

 

Happy New Year

 

Here's wishing you a very peaceful and prosperous new year of 2012.

If the last 12 months has taught us anything, it is that we should never take our eye off the ball as far as national and international events are concerned: who could have predicted the seismic changes brought about by the so-called Arab Spring, the deaths of Osama bin Laden and Gaddafi the tyrant, the hope of the new country of South Sudan or the problems caused by the population of the earth reaching 7 billion?

Final curtain calls were given to Pete Postlethwaite, Susannah York, Elizabeth Taylor, Michael Gough and Peter Falk.

No more notes will ensue from Gerry Rafferty, Gary Moore or Amy Winehouse.

We'll never see one more splash of paint from Lucian Freud or Cy Twombly.

The astonishing moves by Joe Frazier, Gary Speed or Sócrates are now things of the past.

The world has lost the much-loved political intellectual Václav Havel and the much-hated mad and bad Kim Jong-il.

Not even an apple a day could keep Steve Jobs here.

Out here in ole Hong Kong, many Chinesey folk hold back and really only celebrate Chinese New Year which officially begins on 23rd January. Our last Year of the Dragon, in 2000, saw many interesting changes -Vladimir Putin and George Bush were elected presidents, Israel left Lebanon after 12 years occupation, the submarine Kursk sunk in the Barents Sea, the International Space Station received its first residents. We had a billion less people.

We'll be sailing into stormy economic waters, particularly with regard to the question of the Euro. If people stop popping to the shops to buy 'stuff' then millions of Chinese will be without work and that will affect the ability of Chinese government to effectively control its people. Eek!

Who is to say where our future lies. It's supposed to be the year that our b'ak'tun cycle ends (according to the Mayan long-count calendar), which could mean the earth ends or that we bump into the planet Nibiru. Hmmm... that might not be so nice. All I can say is that you should make sure you live each day to its fullness.

Oh and I might just pop by from time-to-time with a little comment or two. Cheers!

Looks like we're in the shit!

Greece was always a spectacular location for an excursion; The Roman legions under Mummius, the Ottomans directed by the 15th century Sultans, Mussolini and his Julia Alpine Division (although they didn't get very far) and Hitler's Twelfth Army (who did). Of course, since those times more peaceful invasive forces have set their sights on things hellenic, have taken retsina in the tavernas and have left their towels on loungers all the way from the co-capital of Thessaloniki in the north to the teensy-tiny island of Petrota south of Crete. If anything, Greece has not had any difficulty selling itself -we have all at one time or another wanted to go there. The only problem is that now no-one wants their money to go there!

So why has this economic crisis affected Greece quite so badly? Well, unfortunately it's largely the Greeks themselves -they've spent too much and recovered too little and that's affected everyone else in the Eurozone. Let's blame it on 'Greek Culture'. There's something in the old Greek character which is content to cock a snoot at anyone in authority, particularly the government and the tax man. This may be a residue from left-wing political ebbs and flows during the middle years of the 20th century, but it remains a significant self-satisfying factor which the younger generation must overcome and change. God alone knows what the future will hold for young Greeks...

Perhaps I should tell you what's wrong by means of a little story:

Suppose you were Greece back in the 1990s and you were invited by your neighbours to join a mighty-neighbourly club -and bit of an expensive and exclusive European club at that! This club would bring benefits, such as the opportunity to further your own domestic causes by simply chatting to all your new-found friends in the club house(s). It would also bring financial stability by offering the chance to dip into the club's vast finances -all of a sudden the dreams of upping the kids' pocket money, building that much-needed extension and bbq patio and of buying the wife a fur coat would become a reality. Popularity at home (that irresistible political temptress) would be assured. In fact, the more that would be spent, the better things would get.

But then the unexpected occurred -an economic downturn. Everything suddenly became more expensive, your accounts at the shops became worthless and, when you asked around, everyone else moaned in chorus about feeling the pinch. Oh dear. The neighbours in the club were still able to gain access to yet another club (the Money Club), but you couldn't. And you couldn't because although your popularity came at a price, there was no way it could be maintained (something the Money Club didn't like). Support at home began to wane. Your friends said they could help you out, but only if you began improving your much-cherished domestic arrangements (particularly the ability to pay those pesky shop accounts) and completely gave up on popularity. In fact, if you hadn't begun doing this then you would also get your friends into trouble and your club membership review would be brought forward. Your piggy bank was long-since empty and, besides, now belonged to all the other club members (and even some non-members). Some whispered that even if all your friends came to your aid, paid your bills, helped structure your domestic arrangements and somehow encouraged the 'other club' to cough up enough cash to pay the rent then it would be amount to more money than you could ever pay back. In fact, it would be your fault that all the others lost their piggy banks too...

I know this is a slightly silly and flawed rhetorical device, but I hope it makes the point. Greek membership of the European Club may not have caused the crisis in the first place, but their 'culture' (one familiar to many other southern European countries) has been crucial in directing it's demise -borrow lots and don't pay it back. Instigating painful measures from without to remedy the situation on Terra Grecia within will in the end, I fear, become merely punitive to the young (tax paying) Greeks who never acceded to the decisions that got the country in the mess in the first place. These extreme domestic measures will certainly not stop the international monetary system's blessed freedoms from further wrecking an already crumbling edifice.


Our friends the Greeks have been put on the austerity naughty step before. Even before membership was accepted, difficulties in their economy were observed. According to the BBC on 1 Jan 2001, "To qualify for euro membership, the Greek Government had to adopt a tough austerity programme, making deep cuts in public spending." Sound familiar? It's obvious that they just weren't tough enough. Maybe the 'culture' was deeper than the 2001 cuts could reach.

Even worse, the recent statements notwithstanding, the rest of Europe now seems unable to know exactly what to do or how to do it. Charles Calomiris, the Economist who predicted the fall of Argentina back in 2001, recently described the whole sorry state in Greek Economy Watch thus:

Europe is living in denial. Even after the economic crisis exposed the eurozone's troubled future, its leaders are struggling to sustain the status quo. At this point, several European countries will likely be forced to abandon the euro within the next year or two....The only way out of this conundrum is for countries with insurmountable debt burdens to default on their euro-denominated debts and exit the eurozone so that they can finance their continuing fiscal deficits by printing their own currency. Here's a hint for Europe's politicians: If the math says one thing and the law says something different, it will be the law that ends up changing.

So what's to be done? Bugger all as far as I can see. Setting up an artificial pan-European currency seemed like a good idea at the time -one worthy of investment, cooperation and integration. The Old Europe of international and internecine rivalry and bloodshed evaporated in a blending of economic love and well-being. The trend to allow a ridiculous insouciant market lead all our lives for better or worse must be addressed, but I don't think many chancellors or government  economists could ensure financial health and certainty on the ground where the real people live. Neither could (or would) many of them have admitted foreseeing that continual borrowing, spending and borrowing again would result in eventual ruin for us all, but it all seems so bloody obvious now -with hindsight.

We're in a right mess that is likely to worsen, that's for sure. Are there any solutions? Probably not. Things are dependant upon wiser minds than governments can usually tolerate. Political solutions untenable with current thinking may be required. In the end, we'll all lose money - lots of it. At least we have our friends and family (which brings a measure of happiness to us all). Of course, that does not mean we should give up and if ever a time was needed when pressure could be brought to bear upon our elected representatives it is certainly now. Without it they can only make things even worse.

Maltesers Besieged by Turkish Delight

Sometimes one may hear a book review and instantly hurry out to get a copy only for it to dustily languish on the shelves. At other times an unlikely title may unexpectedly fall into the lap and be voraciously consumed. Such was The Great Siege:Malta 1565 by Ernie Bradford, a fiery tale of the 1565 Ottoman attempt to conquer Malta and defeat the chivalrous Knights of St John. Voltaire may have quipped that "nothing is more well known than the siege of Malta", but I was as ignorant as an ignoramus too stupid to know it was St Ignoramus's Day.


A splendid romp, this little penguin edition was owned by me poor old Ma –Gawd only knows why: perhaps it was her intention, but as far as I know she never visited Malta. The writer, Ernie Bradford (who looked a bit like me Dad), had a bit of an adventurous life himself, seeing action in the Med during the war, then sailing it and completing the odd book now and then. He truly nailed his colours to the mast, on several occasions declaring Muslims 'the enemy' and the Templar Kinghts to be the good stout legendary fellows that saw 'em off! My other gripe is that his sources are all English, French, and Italian. Thus, apart from a few menacing quips from the Sultan (""Janisarries forward!" Mustapha Ordered." is about the limit), we are left deaf to 50% of the story other than by western-orientated proxy.


Leaving all these pragmatics aside, the 1961-written saga follows the extraordinary and quite miraculous defence of the main harbour of the island against a huge seaborne invasionary force of possibly as many as 40,000 Turks, Algerians and Janissaries. The 8,000 defenders that held out for more than three months during the summer of 1565 is as much a testament to religious zealotry as it is to superhuman endurance, for their fanatical adherence to fundamentalist Catholicism combined with spectacular leadership of the ultra-heroic Jean Parisot de Valetta made this encounter truly cosmic in scope –what was a stake was nothing other than the existence of Christendom and the future of the West!


Malta as part of the Kingdom of Sicily had at the time been in the care of the Kings of Aragon and thus the majority of concerns were more about protecting growing Imperial Spanish interests than protection from piratical corsairs. As a piece of the European chessboard it may, of itself, have not been a source of power, but it came to be a symbol that enabled much in terms of Iberian expansion and pride. All eyes were raised towards this terrible siege; if Malta fell then the Christians would have no base to raid the rich Ottoman shipping lines across northern Africa, Malta would become the springboard for the inevitable Ottoman re-conquest of Sicily, the Mediterranean would become an Ottoman lake and Western civilization would be doooomed... Even protestant Queen Elizabeth I declared Malta a "bulwark of the faith" (whatever that is).


One has to remember that patriotism, the nation state and all that jingoistic nonsense did not quite exist in the same manner as understood at the end of the 19th century or even today. In retrospect these religious wars, fought for potentate or sultan, appear to us barbaric and pointless –few of us share their world views (thank God! -that's a little jokel, btw). But perhaps under the surface, as evinced by the author, age-old allegiances appear to span the centuries. Should the time come, would we answer the call to man the barricades or storm the castle walls?


de Valette fought with distinction against the Turks when their island paradise of Rhodes was captured. In 1557 he was elected the leader of the Order of St John on their new island fortress of Malta. A dashing polyglot (and there aren't many of them!), he had previously been captured and learned Turkish as a galley slave. In his 70s by the time of the siege, he held the island by careful planning as much as by excellent strategy and his men did not suffer the withering bouts of disease or plague that the encamped Turkish forces fared. Never caught off-guard, he was a cunning leader who clearly knew how to guide men's hearts when the walls were breached and the odds became near-overwhelming. He commanded such respect that he could order men to their deaths and they would willingly go. Thus the isolated fortress of St Elmo held out for many weeks longer than expected and cost thousands of Turkish casualties in its storming, but despite its’ eventual loss significantly turned the tide of the war. Eventually the Turks beheaded the last defenders, tied their bodies to crucifixes and floated them across the bay. In response la Valetta had the Turkish prisoners decapitated and shot their heads back into the captured fortress by cannon. It was that kind of conflict.


The Knights of Malta, who had the distinction of defending the island, came from all over Christendom. Their religious vocation combined with militaristic zeal meant that their origin in defending the pilgrims to Jerusalem was a thing of the medieval past. Answerable only to the pope, by the mid-16th century, many courts of Europe admired their prowess, but also saw them as rich adventurers slightly beyond their grasp and therefore a potential worry. The Order only admitted those of noble birth, although others could join without holding position. From our vantage point it seems ridiculous that such an organisation with such an admission system could ever exist.


The ferocious and fearless Janissaries, the term meant new soldiers ('Yeniçeri' in Turkish), were, as Bradford writes, 'one of the most extraordinary inventions of the Ottoman Empire. It is fair to call them an 'Invention', for they were unlike any type of soldier known to history... none of them were Turkish by birth. All were children of Christian parents who lived within the confines of the Ottoman Empire.' Family prestige, good pay and handsome rewards for loyalty were in the offing. Once converted, these formidable warriors were usually the deciding force of a battle, rushing in to breaches of siege walls, storming battlements and generally doing derring-dos.


I knew very little of this seminal age before picking up this nice little outing. The conflict that it describes is of the Baron Münchhausen-moustaches-and-funny-headgear sort and may have looked more glamorous than anything since.  Certainly before the deafening booms of the first bronze cannons tirade over the richly-coloured pennants and flapping standards, a panoply of eastern musical instruments accompanied the steady and intimidating march of the bejewelled and plumed Turkish troops towards the front. It was a time of clouds of sulphurous black powder, of gleaming billowing robes, of suits of highly-polished armour glinting in the sun, of massive slave-rowed galleys carving their ways through transparent azure waters.


The people of Malta were so thankful to la Valetta for saving their island that in his honour they named the new city built overlooking the harbour. The Knights set themselves up as the protectors of the Christian sea highways in the Med and tried to limit the corsair activity (by becoming piratical themselves). To this day the order of St John is the oldest surviving order of chivalry –the Sovereign Military Order of Malta being recognised by 104 countries and the United Nations. It still has an active role as helpers of the sick, of war and famine and we know it foremost through the St John Ambulance.


Above all, this little book opened the eyes to feats of astonishing bravery on both sides. It left its mark, served as a reminder of the ongoing clash of civilizations and isa jolly good read, to boot!

'Oui!' to 1000 Years of Annoying the French

I have always loved France –close enough to home to be accessible, far enough away to be different, holidays there were fun and full of the nicest things possible; cheeses, wines, meats, restaurants, boulangeries, beaches, interesting and helpful locals –well, maybe not the last one. One year we were holidaying in Languedoc,went to la plage and set about frolicking in the sea, tanning on the sands and trying not to peer too long at the topless French ladies –fwoarr! With a keen eye for a quick franc, the local supermarket had set up a stall in the car park for waffeur-thin steak et frites and we happily queued. Grabbing my newly fried frites, I proceeded to cover them all in lovely French tomato ketchup only to summarily squirt the biggest massive splurge of said red sauce all over the poor seller’s crotch (much to his severe annoyance): the container having just been refilled, the nozzle pointed away from my lovely chips.

Such an unfortunate incident, I think, properly illustrates our trans-marche relationship. More often than not, les anglais have squirted their tomato ketchups (and worse) onto the noble Gallic crotches (and other tender parts) and this has led to war. And just as jobbing steak frites sellers have cursed the holidaying rosbifs, so the kings, emperors and presidents of the nation of franks have cursed their cousins across the water: the last 1000 years have been punctuated with at times incredibly violent international relations. But we are the best of friends now, n’est-ce pas?

Stephen Clarke has made this slightly weighty (517 pages) romp through history about as entertaining as a English-type who lives and works in France could. What’s catchy is the way in which each well-known Franco-British historical scene is set up with the usual accompanying myths and legends only to have them re-examined and re-explained from the perspective of our divergent yet mutual histories. Beginning with the wicked exploits of William the Conqueror (who was not French actually, but Norman –about as French as the next Dane) and concluding at the right royal diplomatic faux pas of 2008 meted out on Nicolas Sarkozy which involved showing him lots of pictures of Waterloo (the battle, not the station), the book is a joy to read. It’s obvious that he’s used up his two years compiling these stories in lots of reading. Each chapter, however, has that I’ve-just-read-a-few-books-about-this-topic-therefore-I-will-write-about-it feel to it and the book occasionally seems a little formulaic.

Here’s a few of Clarke's important historical observations:

·      William the Conqueror died whilst fighting the French

·      Joan of Arc was tried and sentenced by the French

·      The Burghers of Calais were not executed by the English (or even at all)

·      Mary Queen of Scots was, to all intents and purposes, a French princess

·      France lost America because of a cow

·      The English invented champagne

·      The guillotine was invented in Halifax

·      The stormed Bastille contained only 7 prisoners –four forgers, two lunatics and one count accused of helping his sister run away from her husband

·      Napoleon nearly became an English mariner

·      The French did not invent croissants, baguettes or steaks grillés

·      The innocent sounding WWI song, ‘Parley-vouz’, is about patriotic French Mademoiselles who serviced British soldiers hundreds at a time

·      de Gaulle took part in the D-Day landings 8 days later with only 177 French soldiers

In short, the French view the past through Tricolore-tinted glasses, but then don’t we all with our histoires? The English love and admire French style and elegance and early morning hot chocolate croissants from le boulangerie du village, the French love and admire English pop culture, cool Britannia and decent packets of biscuits.

Stephen Clarke’s other book, A Year in the Merde, plods the well-worn track of The Innocents Abroad, a Mark Twain novel, has become an international best-seller, printed in France as God Save La France. He has said of living in Paris, "I love France because here you are working for a living and not vice versa". Ah, the wisdom of it.

We get on now because it’s in our interests. But, as Stephen Clarke says in a France 24 interview, our mutual past has a habit of rearing itself up and interrupting the best of intentions with troublesome recollections. So it is that each Frenchy that descends onto the platform of Waterloo Station is unhappily reminded of Napoleonic defeat and national chagrin.

Ah well –plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose…

Joan, is the Pope a Catholic?

Pope Joan didn't last very long in Hong Kong: December's preview at the Broadway Cinemathéque and a couple of days screening at the IFC Pacific Place then -'puff!!'

Despite unfortunate difficulties, the producers appeared to use their $22 million wisely on good actors (John Goodman as the pope, David Wenham as Count Gerold -Faramir from Lord of the Rings and the lead role of Johanna Wokalek), on lavish sets and on seamless CGI inserts of a post-Roman Rome. But each clichéd scene could have been pulled from a copy of Cinematography for Dummies -smoke on the water as the lonely boat drifts downstream, orangey fire streaming from burning windows as the Vikings rampage the wedding scene...

It must be said I expected just a little more. The acting, particularly of the children, was stilted and the dialogue painfully stiff and wooden -lots of unecessary expansions of ordinary verbal contractions (cannots and will nots) that only make sense if an un-English speaker had closely edited the script. This uneasy small talk falseness simply killed it for me and I found my attention increasingly bothered to the point where I cared little for the development of this girl's unhappy story. On more than one occasion I was itching to leave my seat: Sönke Wortmann's uninspired direction lacked originality and was a german as the Kaiser's cock.

The movie's 'philosophical' pitch:

Basically, a woman becomes pope! The idea for the movie as a feminist dailectic of womanly involvement in matters ecclesiatical was a rather thick stick to beat a tired old debate. There was little to endear even in the love interest. Although the portrayal of brutal male figures may have properly represented the chauvenistic hegemony in it's true 8th century light, this theme did not move the film into new ground, but merely served to irritate: Brutal (English) father, the priest of the village, returns home to find his pagan-converted wife telling harmless tales of Wodin to the young Johanna. He punishes and rapes his terrified wife whilst instilling good Christian virtues. The children flee and hide. I mean, could it get more dumb?

Of course, through accident and design Johanna becomes a scholarly cleric, meets and falls in love with a handsome young Count Gerold and when forced to flee takes on the monks' cowl. I don't think I'll be spoiling things too much for you if I tell you that she takes an interest in medicine, goes to Rome, cures the Pope of gout, wins his trust and upon his death succeeds to the papal throne. By this time she is firmly esconced in the arms of Count Gerold again (who has just become commander of the papal army) and she becomes pregnant. She is, of course, a sound and thoughtful pope. In her final moments Gerold is cruelly assassinated and she publicly miscarriages and dies on the steps of St Peter's.

This Pope Joan is an adaptation of the 1996 novel of the same name by Diana Woolfock Cross. I will not bore you with a cross-referencing of either. Neither will I discuss the details of the legends of Pope Joan. I think the story has, over the centuries, been so contaminated by those with axes to grind, whether catholic or anti-catholic, that the truth of the matter can no longer be properly determined. It's not a historical story, but many years ago I remember hearing that upon her eventual discovery she was ripped to pieces by an angry mob in Rome.  

Other films, theatre productions and even a musical have been made on this theme, The Devil's Imposter (1972) starring Liv Ullman being perhaps the most famous.

Another problem I have with these blasted historical outings in ancient Rome, Greece or Egypt is the likelihood of filming (with cheap extras) somewhere like Tunisia or Morocco. The actors are obviously American/North European doing their thing in front of a population of cued-up and obviously non-plussed Berbers. I mean, aaaargh!!

So, forgive the rant, but I didn't feel particularly moved by this outing, either in the characterization (Wokalek's fragile portrayal left her quite unbelievable) or even by the story. I think I was looking forward to this a bit too much.

But maybe I'm wrong -other reviews are favourable. At least I've added a few pics to brighten up the blog.

Hallowe’en vs Guy Fawkes

I recall as a kid being asked by a teacher to divide the page into 12 and pictorially represent each month. Some months were easy –February for snow, August for holidays (not any more –we have to be back at school mid-August these days), December for Christmas. I remember that the autumnal months were particularly exciting –October was for Hallowe’en with all the spooky stuff and November Guy Fakwes Night with the accompanying fireworks spectacular, AND both those days were within a week!

My dear old mum was not pleased with my artwork. “Hallowe’en is an American festival. We don’t do that one.”

I fumed and protested: the idea that a festival entirely set up for the kids, for sweets and practical joking was too good to excise on my mother’s mere patriotic say-so. But each year came and went and Hallowe’en remained unobserved: not as much as a “BOO!” as a boo-hoo! I swore that as an adult I would insist that trick-or-treating would be at least as important as Christmas gift-giving and singing stupid old carols.

As parents, Brenda and I welcomed Hallowe’en with the kids. Moving to Hong Kong made it easier to admit foreign customs (even American ones). They saw the fun side of things and made it their own –Hallowe’en’s trashy and crass and all the better for it! Embracing the darker side of life, the aspect of skulls, death and spooks reminds us all the there’s something else out there which we don’t understand and making a joke of it takes the sting out of the tail.

Actually, Hallowe’en has its origins in Ireland. As a custom, it’s perhaps no-more than two centuries old. It’s folklore is steeped in a deep Celtic past and the true origins are lost to common memory. It takes place at the beginning of winter and is associated with end of the all life of one year and heralds the beginning of another. It has been appropriated by neo-pagans as Samhain, the ancient harvest festival. The next day is All Saints Day, the day in which all saints have homage -both the living and dead. It's also our Wedding Anniversary.

Guy Fawkes was a revolutionary English Catholic who plotted to blow up the King, his family and Parliament in the old Palace of Westminster. Dramatically discovered at the last moment on 5^th November, he was gruesomely tortured and confessed to all. Had he succeeded, England would almost certainly have reverted to the old faith and the history of the British Isles and beyond would have been very different.

The celebration of the capture of the traitor Guy Fawkes has always been widely celebrated in England. His effigy has been made into ‘guys’ thereon. His gunpowder treason has never been forgotten and has been a reminder of Popish plots to undermine the Crown or The English Way. Indeed, an Act of Parliament made the celebration of November 5^th an official holiday and was held thus until 1859. The guy is ceremoniously placed on the very top of the bonfire, his burned form captivating children and adults alike.

It is unlikely many of us English burn our guys with an anti-catholic verve. And the stuffed shirts, trousers and balloon heads still dragged around town simply represent the necessity to raise sufficient money for exorbitant Standard fireworks.  This, of course, cannot be done here in Hong Kong where anything gunpowdery is strictly controlled. And that may be a good thing. After all, do we really want to be exporting a custom tied to the torture and execution of Guido Fawkes and his like?

On 31^st January 1606 two of his fellow plotters were hung, drawn and quartered. Guy himself, although weakened from torture, followed them to the scaffold to await his fate.  Having asked King James I and the State for forgiveness, he was helped by the hangman to climb the ladder. He managed to jump and break his neck, so avoiding the excruciating pain and suffering of castration, live disembowelment and dismemberment that would have been his awful lot. The sentence was carried out on his corpse and the parts summarily displayed in the four corners of the kingdom.

Brenda loves the toffee apples, hot potatoes and chestnuts of November 5^th, but I’m more content with bands of happy face-painted kiddies knocking at the door for sweeties and not too bothered about standing about in a muddy November field around a smoky bonfire with dangerous, expensive and disappointing fireworks filling the air. 

Lionheart and Lackland: Richard and John

‘Lionheart and Lackland’, Frank McLynn’s excellent 2006 output, is both a chronological biography and useful comparison of the two kings of England, the brothers Richard I and John. It may at first seem that their crusading medieval epoch is a world so very far removed from ours and their positions so very elevated as to make any analysis of their lives a meaningless exercise. McLynn, however, describes their behaviour as reflective of their humanity and is therefore psychologically perceptive and relevant. As biographies of English kings go, this double outing seeks not only to outline their activities (surely a challenge after so great a time and when much of the documentation takes the form of glowing/withering biographies), but also to identify their behaviours and motives. Despite the centuries, one cannot help cheering on Good King Richard and theatrically booing Bad King John.

Richard I

Richard I was a hero’s hero. Leading quite literally from the front, he carved his will through utilizing the best of the military arts of his day. His father Henry II the fiery red-haired grandson of William the Conqueror was often considered so ill-tempered and an unquiet member of any church congregation that many folk thought him the progeny of Satan and his family the devil’s brood. He had married the exquisitely beautiful Eleanor of Aquitaine: Richard was the third of their eight children. From Henry Richard inherited his extraordinary energy and determination as well as his temper and pugnacious political will. From his mother the love of arts, travel and fine living. The two men collided early on (which is hardly surprising considering that Henry had his beloved mother imprisoned and seduced Richard’s betrothed, Alys) and waged common war with his brothers in the Revolt against King Henry. Finally outmanoeuvred, the young Richard capitulated, being at that time the weaker, and begged for and received forgiveness on his knees.

At the time of his father’s death in 1189 Richard was again at war with his father, this time in cohorts with the Philip II King of France. Now King not only of England but also of vast Angevin Empire that stretched from the Scottish borders to the Pyrenees, Richard took to task with relish and quickly –that is, to raise the considerable finances necessary to organise his Crusade. This activity seems to us quaint at best, barbaric at worst, but to the medieval mind crusading was the pinnacle of all human endeavour, a thoroughly meritorious act –even without fault, seen in much the same way we might view campaigning against racism or working for the United Nations.

On his way he captured Sicily and Cypress (the latter in a week) and arrived in Acre in the nick of time to save from collapse the desperate Christian siege –itself besieged. And now comes his most damning criticism: His allies, realising themselves in his shadow, quickly departed back home leaving him with 2,700 Saracen prisoners. Not able to feed them or secure their release, he beheaded them all. Even by the standards of 1191 that was a war crime.

Over the next year, however, his derring-dos more than proved his mettle as commander and as a supreme strategist leading sorties, organising successful sieges and defeating Saladin. It culminated in the march to the walls of Jerusalem. But the city was a step too far and he wisely withdrew, came to gracious terms with Saladin and set out for his European dominions.

On his way back he was unluckily shipwrecked, continued by foot and was captured and held for ransom by the Austrians. There appears to be no substance behind the famous story about the minstrel Blondel going from castle to castle singing a verse of one of Richard’s songs hoping to hear the second and thereby discovering his imprisoned king’s whereabouts.

The ransom paid, Richard returned to duty. His first act was to bring his errant rebellious brother John to heel, fight King Philip of France and build a massive impregnable castle to prevent him from invading Normandy. This he encompassed within two years, but he was not to enjoy the fruit of his labours for long. Whilst besieging a minor castle in 1199 he was famously shot in the shoulder by a crossbow and died within days from gangrene. A rather ignominious end: had he lived, Richard would no doubt have made an even bigger impact on European history than he did.

 

 

 

 

 

John

The youngest of the devil’s brood, John was rather spoilt by his father Henry. On reaching maturity he viewed almost every occasion as an opportunity for rebellion, treachery, lying, cheating, murdering, raping and pillaging. He was subject to bouts of hyperactivity and then, usually at the most critical juncture, to mournful incapacity. In modern parlance, he was bi-polar. Without any of his brother’s charms or leadership qualities, he sought to govern by force, threats, blackmail and obfuscation.

Once Richard was dead John took over and enjoyed all the trappings of kingship without responsibility and failed to demonstrate any of the necessary leadership qualities that would have drawn his kinsmen to his illustrious brother. He expected fealty and respect as a matter of course, unquestioning obedience and forbearing when he was clearly in error. His largess was always spiked and his ever-greedy hands were constantly turning the fiscal screws on his subjects tighter and tighter.

His most infamous action was to murder his nephew and pretender to the Continental part of the Angevin empire, Arthur of Brittany –some said by his own hands. It was rumoured he threw his weighted body into the Seine.

Despite Richard’s consolidation in terms of strategic castle building, John ineptly lost Normandy to Philip. He spent the rest of his reign seeking ways to get back at the king, building confederacies and pacts with the enemies that surrounded France’s . But no matter how hard he struggled, his inadequacy came to the fore. He clearly wasn’t the great general his brother was.

He disputed with both church and barons and when he couldn’t get his way took it out on both institutions, stripping churches of all their possessions or removing individual barons from their estates, setting up and selling sinecures. The Pope appeared to listen to John’s poisoned letters and forgave him. The English barons, however, were less magnanimous. When John’s war with France began to falter they rebelled and his response was to quit the Continent. He famously met them at Runnymede, but as he signed the Magna Carta which set out their demands for universal justice and peace he was simultaneously writing to the Pope pleading that his signature be considered done under duress.  He further rampaged across the rebellious baronial lands killing and murdering all who offered resistance and setting fire to anything.

It was during this time that the barons pleaded with King Philip to allow his son Louis to become King of England. He landed and John fled, believing in the might of his many castles. Preferring to hide rather than fight, John thought to wait it out. Indeed, support for Louis was on the wane. But on his way around the marshland called The Wash that separated Norfolk and Lincolnshire John’s baggage train was lost to the high tide and quicksand: within were the Crown Jewels and much of his wealth. This so upset an already ill monarch (he had dysentery) that he became worse. He could barely move and within days he was dead. John, however, did nothing in his life better than the leaving of it. His young son Henry became one of the strongest, most long-lived and ablest kings England had.

If one can criticize the book, it is that within there are few maps included (and we are discussing an empire, crusades and civil wars here) are those given are so lacking in detail as to be practically useless: it might be better to read this book with an eye on a good website to fill the gaps. McLynn’s imaginative and loquacious narrative certainly had me wanting to know more about these characters, but I do wonder about some of his more telling personal insights. As a body of work it certainly holds good comparison with other works on the subject. His other book '1066: The Year of Three Battles' is also an excellent account of the events before and after the most momentous date, taking a broader sweep of the usually neglected Norwegian side of that story. One might also be drawn to Alison Weir's 'Eleanor Of Aquitaine: By the Wrath of God, Queen of England' which made me fall in love with this subject in the first place.

People from Hull (Hullites?)

"Err nerr, doo ya nerr..?"

Some years ago I had the great pleasure of living in Hull. I say that, of course, with a little satirical inflection. Hull was, quite simply, an experience. Perhaps it's all about self-awareness and the remote location -a deliberate focus on the idea of social solitude and meditation. What is 'Hull'?

 

Maybe we should begin with the pronunciation. Most think it should be said in much the same way as 'a ship's hull'. But I remember hitch-hiking to Hull one wintry night on th'M62 Motorway and was getting no-where. At a transport caff, uncomfortably looking for a lift from truckers in the car park, I came upon a Dutch/German trucker poring over an enormous map. He looked puzzled at the name, then his face changed and he let out a loud "HÜÜL!!"

 

The Memsahib was in her second year of her degree at the lovely Hull College of Higher Education. I had just begun a two year catering course at North Devon College and was desperately missing her by the week/day/hour/minute. I put in for a transfer and was grateful that I got it. Grateful to leave North Devon College on Sticklepath Hill. Grateful to leave home in Lynton. Grateful, I tell you..! At last we could be together.

 

You have to understand I was young, deeply in love, my head full of nothing but the Memsahib, Memsahib, Memsahib. I would have stoically gone through fire and water merely to be with her. It was in her second year that she shared college digs with three other young 80s females a full 1 1/2 miles from the Howarth Arms on the lovely Cottingham Road (pronounced "rerr'd") . I hitched up there sometime in the summer and stayed for a few days. So loved up, I thought it all charming and the heady cloud of female pheromones made my stay one massive non-stop-24-hour-turn-on! 

 

For her first year the Memsahib and her friend Jackie shared a room in a little terrace house, 10 Ash Grove, just off the Beverley Road, complete with a marvellously stocky and widowed Hull landlady, Joan (pronounced "Jern") . In her third year the situation changed. Her new flatmates in Cottingham Road were unsocial misfits. So she and her flatmate Jackie moved back in with Joan. In January 1986 I rolled up from Devon to be near the Memsahib. Joan had an adult daughter, Suzie, brain damaged at birth. She was often sat upon the floor of the dining room enjoying "What Kind of an Animal are You?" by Burl Ives. Meanwhile, the Memsahib and meself had to make sure we weren't caught kissing and canoodling in the bedrooms. So we went out a lot in the car

 

Let me say now that Hull was a cheap place to live. I think my rent with Joan was ten quid per week and that included dinner and breakfast! Joan obviously enjoyed having young people around. For her last year the Memsahib was promised her own college flat, but it was not ready in time. I found a free flat in the centre of Hull (which I shared with a couple of Botswanans!) and the Memsahib lived again with Joan for a short while. I remember traipsing through the snow to her house and throwing little stones at her window so she would let me in...

We also both lived for a while with the Memsahib's aunt on the 18th floor in the lovely Sutton Park. Then we looked for and found a one-bedroom hovel in Ella Street which cost us £11 per week. It was freezing, had a big draughty bay window and holes in the skirting through which one of our poor hamsters departed -never to be seen again. The 50p slot for heating the bath water in the shared bathroom devoured all our cash, so I only remember quick tepid dunks (Brenda first, of course). We bought a telly and sofa bed and spent our evenings shivering under the duvet. Before it all became too much the Memsahib's brand-new flat was ready: Bliss!

Up until my move to Hull, my only exposure to anything remotely Yorkshire-like had been a part in a school play Thunder, which first surfaced at the Ilkley Lit Fest and Edinburgh festival in 1973. I played the Parson Patrick Brontë, the Brontë sisters' thundery father. Some of the dialogue mentioned place names like Cleckheaton and Heckmondwyke:

"4 villager: T'whole congregation quit service -

1 villager: -wi' clatterin' and clumpin' o' clogs!"

Quite unintelligible to a schoolboy in Harrow!

The first thing to strike me was that these Hull people were like no other. Yes, it was in 'Humberside', whatever that was, but there was clearly a distance thing from the rest of the world. There were a lot of red-haired folk -a remnant from happy Viking days? The Housemartins had just made it big time and were keen on still popping back for a bit of local kudos. London 0 Hull 4 had just come out and everyone was humming along to Happy Hour and the video on Top of the Pops was essential viewing. Hull had, and still has, it's own telephone system with white phone boxes and local calls that cost 5p for all day. It snowed a lot (being a bit closer to Scandinavia) and there was not much to do unless you had a bob or two for a beer (which we didn't). When we did go out it was to the local student union bar, The Oasis (pronounced "o-wear-sis") and seemed to get trolleyed for about £2. Local people had a sense of humour that took me a little while to get used to and then adopt: It seems to revolve around personal insults and ridicule. 

Hull's most famous son, William Wilberforce, the abolitionist, is the reason I am writing all this Hull-based tosh. At work I am showing the recently-made film of his life, Amazing Grace, with the growling Ioan Gruffudd as lead, to year 8 students. This is all part of an attempt to inculcate the kids that religion is something not all that bad, citing the religious Wilberforce as a positive agent of change. Peering out over the entire city of Hull from the rooftop library at the Hull College of Further Education I was not to know that Wilberforce on his magnificent columned statue in front of the massive and decaying, wind-beaten 1960s building would later feature in my career.

 

Which brings me to my point: did William Wilberforce have a "Hull" accent?