Observations from a Hill

Anyone who has read these pages for any length of time will know that whilst I was a very early adopter of digital technologies, I also cleave to the analogue world that we seem to be leaving behind us at an ever increasing clip. All well and good - I mentioned last night that the invention of the smartphone has pretty much democratised the possession of enormously powerful tech throughout a large part of the globe - when it's all working smoothly and seamlessly, which to be fair it achieves ninety-odd percent of the time. When it does go wrong, however, which it does, this huge basket of metaphorical eggs we carry in our pockets and rely on for just about everything in modern life, suddenly turns into an unmade omelette without pan or flame to cook it. Reliance on digital-only living is precarious and depends on huge interconnected support structures, power supplies and networks simply to function. It is not a chain that can be broken but a huge net easily shredded given the right...

It's a strange thing, but our understanding of and our relationship to computers has passed from one of distant observation in the sixties and seventies: as in the film "Billion Dollar Brain"; via vague familiarity during the eighties, with a mainly business-based association through work and maybe youthful hobbyist tinkering, to now, when computing has pretty much been subsumed by the 'White Goods' ethos, particularly in the realm of the smartphone, which most users would never consider in the same light as a 'computer'. Despite this lack of regard for the depth and complexity or the rich history of the technology that most folks simply and naively take as 'my internet, my socials, my camera', the fact is that current smartphones have more processing power than the first supercomputers, developed in the 1970s, costing the equivalent of billions of dollars, affordable only by governments and the military. Today's iPhone, costing around a grand,...

It's extraordinary how we are stuck in a doom-loop of political/economic nonsense. There are few who are willing to engage with intelligence the true nature of world politics/economics and the relevance of external forces on our own domestic situation here in this now isolated and benighted archipelago of ours. In last week's New Statesman, the estimable young commentator Will Dunn - a man very much after my own heart in such matters - outlines the very poisoned chalice that is the Chancellor of The Exchequer's rôle in the day-to-day running of the UK's finances. In short [you should just chase down his piece in full as I'm not going to précis his article here] he points out some salient facts about exactly how much or little direct influence a chancellor has on the country's economic progress. The bottom line is that it is a thankless task, as most of the key influences on a country's economy are untouchable from their office, and pretty much all external. ...

  The is the first in an occasional series based on the "Boring Postcards" book I mentioned the other week. Pictured - well I think it's probably self-explanatory - the New Jersey Turnpike around sixty years ago. Now, disclaimer: I've never been to the States in my life, and whilst like most of my generation I grew up on a diet of Americana - movies, comics, music and garish commercial graphics - I've never really wanted to go over the pond to see it first hand. Given my age now, and the current febrile state of the USA's politics under Trump, I'm as unlikely now to go there as I was when I was an impecunious youth back in the era this postcard was first published. However, as the title of this post alludes, this particular bit of US freeway holds a semi-mythical place in my heart, in that as a young teenager I listened to Simon and Garfunkel's album "Bookends" almost daily; usually just side one, with a very occasional foray into the flipsid...

There is much to be exercised about in the news this week, even aside from the continuing military conflicts in Europe and the Middle East. The botched execution of Christa Pike in the state of Tennessee for one. If there was ever an argument for ditching the death penalty - and there always should be, in my opinion - this is it. The Convention against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment, Part 1., Article 1 paragraph 1 . states: '..."torture" means any act by which severe pain or suffering, whether physical or mental, is intentionally inflicted on a person for such [a purpose as] punishing him (sic) for an act he (sic) or a third person has committed or is suspected of having committed...' The end of the paragraph carries an unfortunate apparent caveat in '... It does not include pain or suffering arising only from, inherent in or accidental to lawful sanctions...'. This sufficiently vague statement could be taken to mean, e...

Just a very quick throwaway food post tonight - and not even about anything I've bothered to cook for myself, either. I decided on a whim late this afternoon to just get a takeaway Indian from the Sitar in Bethesda. After much faffing around to find a working cashpoint [the place is still delightfully cash-only after thirty years and several owners], I went for a swift half of estimable Welsh cider at Y Fic [the old Victoria pub], before picking up my simple repast of Chicken Madras and two chapatis. Whereas when Abdul - the original owner of Sitar - was in charge of the place, the Madras had all manner of things in the curry, including loads of green pepper chunks [not complaining], this Madras was a totally Old Skool plain and hot Madras Chicken with a vengeance: a 1970s-style B.I.R [British Indian Curry] in all its glory. Having said that, it wasn't perfection, but pretty damned close enough for rock'n'roll, and it certainly packed a hefty punch of chilli. To be perf...

Funny thing, memory. I had two possible topics in mind for tonight's post, but both now escape me totally: I made the mistake of not making an immediate note of either when they occurred to me in the first place. Note-taking is an essential tool in securing stuff in memory. Failure to not remember things is not simply a feature of growing older, as most would take it [for granted, even], but rather a baked-in feature of who we are as a species; psychologically we are a need to know organism: we retain in minute detail all of the stuff that is necessary for our survival. Have you ever doubted that you would find your way back home or any other important place, for that matter, at least when sober? Until any of us enters a period of physiological and mental decline, we retain all of our internalised geographies and topologies in some form: we learn to map our environment instinctively from birth, as do all creatures on this Earth. Disease aside, we never forget this stuff. But when i...

Despite my best intentions from the outset of every day, I invariably leave the posting of my trivia in these pages until the very last possible minute, which I guess sums up the modus operandi of my life generally: deadlines I feel instinctively are there to be pushed firmly against, in order to gird the loins, put fire in the belly and sweeten the eventual closing of the chase. O! but were life itself were so urgent and so pressing. Oft-times true in usually distressing manner, but for the most part as commonplace and I would hazard, mundanity in itself. Tonight's scribble is no exception. Up against the wire yet again with nary an idea to my name. However, I was reading a piece in my partly-read Summer Edition of The New Statesman about time . Time, of course is something I return to time - ahem - and again here, and I could be accused of being so exercised because of my advancing age and the rapidly contracting reservoir of my personal supply of the stuff; but it's simply n...

Rachub, what a place. Of all the places we've lived, this little burg is wholeheartedly the sentiment encapsulated in its name: Yr Achub; literally 'The Rescue' or perhaps better translated as a refuge or sanctuary. For that is what this place is: a place to find peace and respite from the world beyond, either as refugees from without or as returnees to a lost heritage re-found. To casual visitors, this hodge-podge of narrow streets and tiny terraces can seem mean in the harsher seasons of autumn and winter; grey, slated roofs over blue-grey stone or pebble-dashed walls streaked with rain and moss, uninviting at best at first sight. But the place itself invites and welcomes people: the interiors of the small cottages and terraced dwellings hereabouts; the people that live within their confines, welcome people to come and stay. To make homes and form friendships; to find a welcome bulwark against an increasingly hostile and baffling world. The world here is smaller and gentl...

I may have written at some point about my choices of the best albums of all time for me - a perennial exercise for those of us who actually have experience of the art-form that is the 'album'. I usually cite Van Morrison's 'Astral Weeks' as the absolute apogee, an opinion which I still hold and cleave to: never bettered, impossible to improve upon and simply perfect. I also always include Frank Zappa's 'Hot Rats' in my list - not perfect, but close. My list of favourite albums could fill a book, but tonight we were watching a Netflix documentary on the inception and formation of Led Zeppelin, and I remembered how bloody influential the first [eponymous] Led Zeppelin album was on me and my mates. The first time I heard it was on the John Peel programme on Radio One immediately after its release in the UK; when the estimable Mr. Peel played the entire album, end-to-end, with no break or commentary, so gob-smacked was he - as were we - with the record. A tr...

As promised, a cooking aftermath post. Pictured, tonight's repast of mutton chop, very slow-cooked with potatoes and carrots, etc., finished with some cream, olive oil, more paprika, and parsley. All served with a couple of hunks of halfway decent bread. Not bad, if I say so myself and I have to say the mutton really does have some heck of a flavour to it; and cooked for so long and so slowly - absolutely obligatory - it falls off the bone like chuck steak. The potatoes and carrots are soft but hold their form, and the sauce has most of the flavours I intended it to have. However, I won't finalise this recipe and post it until I've done some tweaking, as there are definite improvements I want to make to it. However, it wasn't a bad meal: the aftertaste of the thing is a good indicator of its potential to enter my roster of staple go-to's. The only thing that would stop me making it regularly is the absolute dearth of mutton available from normal outlets these days. ...

Pictured is today's  expérience culinaire: a sort of Balkan-ish mutton stew, featuring four large mutton chops purchased from the inestimable butchers in Bishops Castle as we were leaving for home yesterday. I browned the [floured] chops in olive oil and butter, then sautéed the potatoes [salted and just brought to the boil and drained], half a dozen whole cloves of garlic, a diced Romaine pepper, one chunked brown onion, one sliced red onion and three carrots cut into decent-sized chunks with hot paprika. Once everything was browned and softened, I transferred it to a suitable pan for the oven; deglazed the skillet with red wine and added that and vegetable stock to the pan with the meat and vegetables. I cooked the lot for around one and a half hours on a very low heat, then let it rest in its own juices. Tomorrow I'll separate the meat and vegetables from the sauce, thicken it and return the solid stuff to it and cook it down for a further hour or two on low. More jazz cooki...

OK, so the final post of the holiday. We drove back from the cottage in Shropshire today, and took it upon ourselves for once to stop at Chirbury. We've always meant to look at this little hamlet, but have invariably hurried through the place. Anyhow, the church interior pictured is of the twelfth century Priory Church of St. Michael the Archangel. From the image I took, it looks as if my choice of very wide angle lens has optically distorted the supporting columns to either side of the aisle. However this is not the case: the columns do indeed lean towards the walls at either side. Disconcerting, but I would guess, given the church's antiquity, not of any immediate concern or threat to visitors in 2026. Worth a visit, as I think it might be to make one to The Herbert Arms, just across the square. Re-opened and refurbished after some considerable time closed, the Grade 2 listed pub was always one which never seemed to be open whenever we passed by. Methinks next visit to Shrops...

Our last day in Shropshire today; John left for home in Aberystwyth this morning and we drove over to Ludlow to have a mooch around. After coffee and croissants we perused the market's offerings and I bought the above-pictured volume from the Oxfam shop. A splendid volume of prosaic US postcards collated into a collection by the late English photographer, Martin Parr [1952-2025], whose whimsical takes on ordinary life always tickled and amused whilst being quite barbed, in a very genteel, English way.  The beauty of this splendid little tome is that it offers no qualifying or explanatory textual context, reminding me of the splendid BBC2 TV programme from around 1968 - which I'm sure I've alluded to before - which without fanfare or announcement would simply start; no title sequence, no graphics, no context. It would then present an apparently random and quite surreal series of art and socially referenced mini pieces [visual articles?], with the only faces to camera being ...

Sometimes one has to stand back and observe events from a higher viewpoint in order to gain true insight into any complex confluence of events: seeing the whole rather than the components enables deeper understanding of just what is happening at component level. Nowhere is this more true than where our natural environment is concerned, and particularly in the case of the aquatic environment, currently in sharp focus in the media here in the UK. Yes, individual pollution events can be investigated at the micro level, although enforcement appears to be practically non-existent due to under resourcing, lack of funding and poorly or cynically drafted legislative tools. But whilst each incident, however serious its characterisation, is a cause for concern, very often it passes by little-remarked and un-dealt with until it fades from public view and concern. It's only when we pull back and take a systemic overview that the overall impact of pollution can be seen for what it is: a pressin...

Pictured - a tiny visitor to the conservatory here in our temporary home in Shropshire - a Wren, somewhat bemused and disorientated, having flown into a structure that it obviously couldn't quite fathom the without from the within. We left it to its own devices with both doors open and eventually it figured out an exit strategy and joined the rest of the throng of small birds feeding around the small wooden arch nearby. Aside from the usual garden birds and the small squadron of Wood Pigeons that all feed there, we had a couple of spectacular visits by a Woodpecker which obviously resides quite close by: a flash - literally - of colour and movement that reminded me of the occasional, exotic and glorious visits made by Jays to our garden back at home in Fairview Heights... 

  Powis Castle today: a visit to the gardens, museum and café only, as the castle itself is currently closed for rewiring and general refurbishments. We first joined the National Trust on our initial visit to the place thirty years ago, and the gardens are always a joy to see, more sculpture than landscape: Land Art initiated centuries before the late twentieth century term was coined. The upkeep of the gardens alone must cost an absolute fortune, but I guess that's part of the point of being a member of the Trust in the first place. At least these days the hoi polloi get to see and appreciate the artistry of their peers from former times, and not just the landed and monied who started the project in the first place. However one views these grandiose statements of wealth and privilege in terms of historical social inequality and injustice, the wanton abandonment or active destruction of such places would deny the part that the far less privileged artisans and labourers, who actuall...

Coffee and cake this morning at Berry's Café in Church Stretton, and very nice it was too. We had a good mooch around the antiques emporium in the town, looking for one of those very large Willow pattern meat dishes with the juice/gravy/sauce well at one end, for next Christmas Day's lunch, at which we aim to either repeat the haunch of hogget extravaganza, or maybe even push the boat out for slow-cooked beef ribs. We haven't decided on the meat yet, but have our sights on the right and proper receptacle from which to serve it. Unfortunately, this time we struck out in our search. I remember one such dish in the family, growing up, but in those days the only size cuts of meat we could afford would all have fitted in the sauce well of the thing, and so it was always consigned to decorative rather than practical usage...  

Our first visit of the week to The White Horse in Clun [blog posts passim] this lunchtime. Eschewing a full Sunday roast, having already had coffee and cake at the newly-reopened Poppy House Café in Bishop's Castle - very good espresso and a slice of cherry Bakewell - we opted instead for our continuing favourites from the pub's Light Bites menu: in my case the above sausage and chips; good honest pub grub, well cooked from great produce and in a portion small enough not to render one speechless with bloat. As always, their locally-sourced sausages were great and the chips homemade, not frozen. I washed mine down with a pint of the inestimable Clun Pale, brewed on the premises: a beer without equal by my measure, and one of the cheapest pints you'll find anywhere. The pub is open at all proper pub hours, has a great landlord in Jack, and most importantly has that particular comradely atmosphere found only in a pukka British public house. And as I've mentioned once or tw...

  Just a brief throwaway diary post tonight, as is my usual custom when relocating to Shropshire for a short break. The blue remembered hills are still here, and for the time-being at least, so is our little bolt-hole off the beaten track down here. How much longer the place will be available to rent, we can't be sure, as the owner is ten years older than us, and we ain't young ourselves, folks. Still, here we are again for a few days, so I'll keep you posted as we do and see stuff at the epicentre of my family's origins and their travels to and from the greater part of the Midlands over the last centuries: the Marches straddle the border between England and Wales, with Welsh speaking Oswestry in England and English speaking Welshpool in Wales. From Gloucestershire to Denbighshire via Shropshire; my lot certainly got around a bit in the old days...