I’m running down the road feeling overshadowed Got sixty runners on my mind Most of them are faster And those I’ll never master But there are still a few behind
Can’t take it easy, can’t take it easy Can’t let the sound of my own footsteps drive me crazy
I’m running round the corner I’m a long way down the order But what a fine sight to see A water stop my Lord which I can afford And that’s because it’s absolutely free
Can’t take it easy, can’t take it easy Can’t let the sound of my own footsteps drive me crazy
Come on baby legs don’t fail me I wanna know if I can do it when I’m eighty I may lose I may win But I will never be here again And that’s the day I might slow down and Take it easy
Back in the days when football was new The players were honest and blackguards were few The captains decided the rules which were best Third parties weren’t needed they’d just cause unrest
But as time went on the game took a turn Now winning was foremost a living to earn The disputes were many and fretful and long Now umpires were needed to tell right from wrong
So two umpires were chosen the game it began The fouls multiplied upsetting the plan The umpires tried hard as they waved their flags No notice was taken by the player scallywags
The bosses sat down and said what will we do The umpires aren’t working we haven’t a clue Our game is in danger the players run amok Without law and order the game is a crock
Then up spake a quiet man, they listened to him He said there’s a man down in old Birmingham He’ll possibly come up with a great invention That will answer our call and relieve all the tension
Joe Hudson he sat there in Brummagem Town The troubles of football he read with a frown And then it came to him like an epistle I know he said, I’ll invent the whistle
Football was eventually saved at the death By a whistle blown by the referee’s breath The play is now stopped and is brought to a halt And when told the players accept who’s at fault
All hail to Hudson for his invention Is worth more than a mere passing mention Without a whistle to compete Football would be obsolete
The scene is Hamptonne Country Life Museum, Jersey
Visitor at front desk: “We thought you should know, one of your chickens is inside one of the houses, down there.” Visitor Services Assistant (VSA): “A big white cockerel?” Visitor: “Yes! It’s upstairs, in a cupboard.” VSA: “Upstairs in Syvret House? OK, that’s normal. I’ll get the gardien to shoo it out. Thanks.” *Phones gardien* “When you have a minute could you shoo the white cockerel out of Syvret House please?” Gardien: *Sighs* “OK, on my way.”
Cockerel: “Okay, okay I’m going. But I’ll go at my own pace if you please. And if I seem indignant then I have a right to. Yes, I know that I’m a cockerel and, by the customs and protocols of the world, us birds rank below humans and are governed by them. We are subject to the whims and fancies of our human masters. I don’t wish to lodge a formal complaint though, or to appear difficult. It might not end well. Anyway, I am fortunate enough here at Hamptonne. I know only too well that the majority of the world’s chickens never see the light of day. They lead a (fortunately short) life of misery until their throats are cut. Here I can wander more or less where I wish, food and water for nothing and my chicks for free.
“But, you see, I wasn’t always a bird. I was Jack Syvret and that was my family home right there. I was born in 1899, the oldest of seven children, and I was brought up there. It was a working farm then. My father was the farmer and he kept cows and sheep, grew a little grain. Mother kept house and us children did what we could. I went to the new St Lawrence School down the road, next to the church. We knew everyone in the village. Then when the war came, off I went to serve with the Jersey Pals. I didn’t last long. I was shot dead on the second day of the Battle of the Somme. I’ve come back a few times, but never before as a cockerel. See, if I’d have lived, I’d have inherited the property.”
Gardien: “OK, all done.” VSA: “Good. That cockerel thinks he owns the place.”
Where did you go lovely sunshine Just when we got used to you The temperature’s dropped and it’s raining And we’ll all end up with the flu (yes we will)
The visitors all dressed in T-shirts And bright tops with uncovered arms They’re all crowded into our cafes And don’t wish to see Jersey’s charms (no they don’t)
And yesterday down at the cricket It was like April again Sad spectators huddled in corners And peering outside at the rain (yes they were)
But at least Jersey’s farmers are happy And the reservoirs do need the rain So we shiver a while without grumbling And the sun will return once again (yes it will)
For tomorrow the weather is changing And our misery will be forgot We’ll huddle in corners and grumble Cos the weather’s too bloomin’ hot (yes it is)
I’m reading what is turning out to be an intriguing and quietly powerful book right now – The Phone Box at the Edge of the World. And, unusually, I’m bookmarking certain passages. Here’s one:
Takeshi was convinced that it was the survivors, the people left behind, who gave death a face. That without them, death would be nothing more than an ugly word. Ugly but, deep down, harmless.
What a myriad of thoughts, reactions, little side roads of consideration that quote has set off. And how true – we all tend to contemplate our own deaths with apprehension, but with nothing like the alarm we feel when thinking of when our own nearest and dearest will depart and exist only in the past tense. Do we have the capacity to look upon death dispassionately and therefore take the power out of the word? Probably not.
And for some reason I recall Anthony Trollope’s 1882 novel The Fixed Period. This concerns a country whose rulers decide that it would be good for the ongoing health and vitality of the nation that its inhabitants should be gently euthanised with honour at a certain fixed age. Like pruning a bush or deadheading flowers. The logic is embraced and the law unanimously approved. Inevitably doubts creep in as the first of the citizens approach the age decided on. Should there not perhaps be exceptions if, say, the person in question is in perfect health and his continued existence and acquired experience is in fact of benefit to the country? Inevitably the whole thing falls apart. I wonder if Trollope meant it to come across as humorously as it actually did?
But that novel, and one or two others since, imply that death – planned or unplanned – might be accepted as merely an extension of life and thus become merely a harmless word, though perhaps an ugly one.
A new course, out and back from Les Quennevais heading away to the north-west of the island and returning by the coastal route. Yes it looked a promising course but the rather nasty final two miles were to come home to roost.
An 8am start, a good innovation which gives clear roads for the first hour at least. After that time the whole of Jersey becomes awash with Sunday drivers going nowhere in particular. About 400 entries including a notable mainland contingent with a lively bunch from Watford Joggers. Conditions splendid as we set off with a lap of the cycle track to spread the field out before we venture out onto the roads.
As for me, I feel in good shape, hoping to get inside 1:55, so averaging kms of 5.30 mins. We take the lanes which snake around the airport’s west runway and dive down the steep escarpment towards St Ouen’s Bay – here I protect my ageing knees and the younger ones fly by me. Down onto Chemin du Moulin which winds northwards through the rather wild landscape of St Ouen.
I’m way inside my target time, running smoothly, exchanging banter with my fellow runners in the mid pack. It’s a feature of the longer races these days that the gals are as plentiful as the guys which adds to the race day experience. It’s odd to recall the times when women were only grudgingly accepted into road racing with some of the guys being affronted if they were “beaten by a girl”. Those “girls” are plenty tough and not afraid to beat anyone.
At five miles, looking good (it wasn’t to last)
So onto darkest L’Etacq, as far from civilised St Helier as is possible, and we turn for home, heading south via the Five Mile Road. There are fewer groups now, most running solo. It is easy to fall into the mindset of accepting everyone else’s pace as fatigue sets in. A few, me included, make little breaks, overtaking other runners, trying to keep the tempo up. As we approach the south end of the Five Mile Road, at La Pulente, my pace is holding up, assisted now by regular intake of fruit pastilles. But I’m flagging and the hard work is only just starting. There’s an off-road section around the Petit Port headland which slows us considerably – it’s rocky and dangerous. Out on to the roads again and then the long, mean climb at Corbière – a lot of walking going on though I manage to run it, though at much the same pace as the walkers 🙂 Finally, on to the Railway Walk which leads to the finish, just over a mile away. But now I’m bushed, I’ve lost all track of time, only aware that my 1:55 has probably gone. As I drag towards the finish, two legendary oldies – Bernie Arthur and Sue Le Ruez – glide by me. Sparked into whatever life I have left, as we hit the cycle track, finish line in sight, I manage to edge by them both again to finish in 1:57.45.
A great morning, well-organised race, excellent company. A tough old race but running is termed an endurance sport for a reason.
Upon a dreary Sunday morning May be June but hard to tell A chilly wind blows in the drizzle The hour tolled by the mournful bell But we know the skies will brighten If not today tomorrow sure We can allow our hearts to lighten Expectation is the cure
Day 4 at Lords the people gather An England win they hope to cheer But this England team is fragile Talented but plagued by fear Too many times our expectations Turn to dust leave us forlorn The previous night our hopes assemble Resignation come the morn
The farmyard pig is loved by children Playing in its muddy hole The next day they will gaily chatter Eating up their bacon roll And when too soon the van approaches Unsmiling men with kicks and blows Transport the animal to the chamber And as that animal goes it knows
The young man’s sure to get there early Wait at the bus stop as arranged For his date agreed to meet him At eight o’clock and nothing’s changed The eight o’clock bus isn’t stopping The lad’s dismayed but not for long For sure nine was the time agreed on And so he waits his hopes still strong
Us Blues fans sing a merry ditty Of lots of joys and sorrows too For many years we’ve seen the sorrows The joys are very far and few The ghosts of previous generations Sit on the roof and watch the games Though we in turn grow old and weary Our optimism never wanes
The wife stays with her drunkard husband The more he hits the more she stays You have to leave him say the neighbours He’ll go too far one of these days But she remembers those sweet evenings When he was loving full of care She prays that soon he too will recall And things will become as they were
And as the years march quickly forward It seems that they accelerate We turn to thinking of our passing For hopes and dreams it is too late Will it come easy in the night time Or will our end of days come hard There’s only doubts as to the timing The fact we cannot disregard
But in our world of war and famine Of climate change catastrophe Can our children halt the passage Of things which we have failed to see Or at least have failed to conquer We’ve given up without a fight Our selfish hopes inconsequential The knowing clock soon strikes midnight
I did a rare shift at Jersey’s Maritime Museum the other day – front desk, selling entry tickets to (mainly) our overseas visitors. It is, by general consensus, an excellent attraction. The museum is pretty big and showcases the Island’s long maritime history in an imaginative and interactive way. Young and old enjoy it equally.
A major bonus within the building is the Occupation Tapestry Gallery. This was created in 1995 and is a classy and poignant reminder of the unhappy Occupation years and had much input by the survivors.
My 30-minute lunch break came but the usual cubby hole had an electrician working away therein. I was directed instead to the Boat Workshop, accessed through ‘no entry’ doors deep within the museum. Like Alice climbing through the looking glass I found myself in a different world I only vaguely knew existed.
Over two levels lie workshops for carpentry and related works together with a big library of seafaring books and other assorted ephemera all connected to the sea. I found a kettle, made a coffee and sat down. There on the table I glanced at a French language glossy trade magazine which could have been printed yesterday but which, upon inspection, was dated October 1992.
One of Jersey Heritage’s remits is the restoration and maintenance of the ‘Heritage Fleet’, vessels that have a long connection to the Island. This work is done mainly by enthusiastic volunteers.
The boats bob happily in the nearby harbour to be taken out for a spin around the bay when occasion permits.
Shame on me that it took me so long, and a busy electrician, to discover all this.
From the always excellent Roaringwater Journal blog, an entertaining look at the folklore and beliefs surrounding the islands which (might) lie off the Irish mainland.
The fine map, above, was drawn in 1375 and is attributed to Abraham Cresques (courtesy Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division). it is known generally as the Atlas Catalan. What interests us is that it depicts two islands off the west and south-west coasts of Ireland (see detail below): Hy-Brasil and Demar. These landfalls are shown on maps since then through the centuries, the last depiction being in 1865.
We look out to the hundred Carbery Islands in Roaringwater bay. The view (above) is always changing as sun, rain and wind stir up the surface of the sea and the sky and clouds create wonderful panoramas. But, generally, the view is predictable: we know that Horse island will be across from us, and Cape Clear will always be on the distant horizon, while the smaller islets break up the surface of the ocean in-between, and help calm down…
Back On The Rock 