Praia Brava, hill, sea

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Praia Brava, hill, sea, oil on card, 29.5 x 27.5 cm - unavailable

 

 

 

 

Praia Brava, hill, sea, oil on card, 29.5 x 27.5 cm

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's very pleasant here now the tourists have gone.

 

 

 

 

 

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Praia Moçambique, dunes, conifers

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Praia Moçambique, dunes, conifers  SOLD

 oil on card, 26.5 x 29.5 cm

 

 

 

Praia Moçambique,dunes, conifers, oil on card - detail 

 

 

 

 

 

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Parque Estadual do Rio Vermelho, April woodland

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Parque Estadual do Rio Vermelho, April woodland

 oil on card, 25.5 x 28 cm   SOLD

 

 

 

 

 

 

Parque Estadual do Rio Vermelho, April woodland,- detail 

 

 

 

 

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The Animals in our homes, Part 2

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The Animals in our homes, Part 2

 

 

Since the publication of my piece The animals in our homes in the Milton and Chittering Gazette, I have received considerable correspondence.

These have come, generally, in the form of email, via the newspaper, but I also received letters through the postal service, which were then forwarded by the Gazette. 

It should not have surprised me that my piece, published online, of course, might have been read by people outside the north Cambridgeshire area which the paper is primarily intended for, especially given that the article mentions incidents in Paris and in London and on the coast. 

However, that over 1000 readers from as far afield as Brazil, Japan and Western Australia should have troubled to respond did strike me as noteworthy. I had clearly touched upon an underreported or unacknowledged  phenomenon.

Among respondents were a few sceptics.

 One was an outraged Evangelical Christian in Alabama who, in dark red ink, accused me of encouraging devil-worship. He enclosed a copy of his self published title  “How I escaped from the Grasping Hands of Satan”. Alas, I have yet to find time to read it.

The second abusive missive arrived all the way from Salvador, Bahia, in North Eastern Brazil. Unusually, it came straight to my home address - all the other pieces of mail came via the newspapers box number, or in the form of emails.

I opened the padded jiffy bag at my desk: mysteriously it was covered in black crosses- at first I assumed these to be administrative annotations from the postal services. Inside, however, was a zip lock plastic bag, and I could make out some feathers inside. I shook the contents out onto my desk - a cockerel's head, severed at the neck, fell, beak open- as if executed at the moment of crowing. In the throat I could see something white.

 I went to the bathroom and found some tweezers. I caught the white thing and prized it out- a tiny  roll of paper…  and unrolling saw the word “Aviso”, on one side; on the reverse was the image of a knight slaying a hideously pustulated devil.

 “Aviso”? I put it in Google translate. "Warning" "Warning": of what? Was I a cockrell that had crowed too loudly? And would that be my fate, to be executed, my head sent as an example to some other morally errant newspaper columnist somewhere ? Or was the cockrell a sacrifice, an invocation to some Bahian demon,  and would I tomorrow awake, my body covered in yellow sores, each the home of spiny worms, burrowing…?

The thought was too unpleasant to contemplate. But the bird's head lay there on my writing desk, eying me. I wondered whether I should call the police. But what would they do? Send an Interpol task force to North Eastern Brazil? More likely, all that I would achieve would be to provide material for the amusement of officers in the police canteen.  It seemed better to ignore the parcel. But how had the sender had got my home address? Disturbing…

Better not to engage. I put the cockerel head, and the slip of paper in the bin.

However, almost all communications were supportive of the general thesis of the piece, and many expressed considerable gratitude to me for writing it, and I wish to thank everyone who took the trouble to respond positively. And I must express my gratitude to “a well wisher” for the card containing a silver crescent, which he urges me to wear at all times.

Curiously, a large white envelope of unusually stiff paper came, on it an embossed seal- that of The White House.  Could my article really have been read, and responded to by as esteemed a figure as the President of the United States of America?

I unfolded the thick paper-

“Deer riter,

 I love yor articol

 God bles animals everywhere (includin dogis and puddys in the USA god bles USA)

 Bles u 2 

yor pressydint  

jO

It did appear to have been written by an unusually backward seven year old, and I am inclined, therefore, to believe it to be genuine.

 It ended with a postscript-

p.s. Camel help jO rite this

The letters sometimes contain a measure of indignation. They come from people who had often been subjected to disbelief, even ridicule by their own family members for their sincere accounts of mysterious incidents involving animals in their homes, incidents involving, among many other creatures, the presence of hare,  gazelle, a small herd of moose, three elephants, at least a dozen sightings of penguins and an invasion of red widow spiders.

Over twenty of these included photographs, probably taken with cell phones and subsequently printed on home printers. Sadly, these are rarely of the highest quality. They have often been taken at night, at moments when the photographer was unprepared. The picture takers are obviously not professionals with the best equipment at hand. 

 But two are of sufficient quality to print in a newspaper, and it is to these I wish to draw your attention. 

The first photo is accompanied by an especially clearly written account:

“Further to your article in the MIlton and Chitering Gazette, it occurred to me that you might be interested to know of some events which have taken place on a regular basis here in my flat in Bury Place, WC1A, London.

The letter was from a woman. She does not disclose her age but one can assume from the contents that  she is in her sixties or early seventies. LIke many letters, it contained details of the writer's life.

It states-

I bought this apartment in an auction about 20 years ago. 

The place was perfect for me- a three bedroom apartment in an old red brick block off Bury Place. It has many original features- black marble fireplaces, plaster ceiling decorations and original oak doors.

 My husband had died unexpectedly and the children had long left home, and our Surrey house had become far too large for one. It was obvious that the time had come to return to London from Surrey. Besides, I had always missed the life of the capital, and when this apartment, near the British Museum, came available I put in an offer immediately.

 It came with some furniture - mainly Victorian from the previous tenant who had died. These are handsome pieces, perhaps somewhat heavy for contemporary taste, of mahogany and teak- they included a large glazed bookcase, a handsome oval dining table and a set of dining chairs.

After I had sorted the apartment- I had the wooden floors polished, redecorated the walls,  redid the bathroom and installed a new kitchen-  I moved in. I kept the pieces of furniture that had come with the flat. They had a definite grandeur, and I liked the way they seemed to tell a story, to bring the past into the present, as it were.

 I had studied Archeology in London and was grateful to be back after the long years out in the suburbs with little there in the way of cultural interest and so few others to really talk to about much except cookery and the gossip around the school and the tennis club. Back in Bloomsbury I reconnected easily with the things I used to love and had so missed- visiting galleries, trying different foods, joining book groups and seeing plays and lectures.

The flat was ideal. From time to time, one of my children would come to visit.  We`d have lunch and see a film or a concert. Or I`d meet one of the old friends from the university days for a coffee, or a glass of wine.

 But I began to notice something quite peculiar. I would hear sounds and wake up in the middle of the night- the sound of soft but heavy footsteps, padding across the hall of the flat, causing a creaking now and again on the wooden floor.  

At first I assumed this was simply the sort of noise that you might hear in any apartment more than 120 years old. Perhaps, it was the sound of an insomniac neighbour, unable to sleep, using some sort of exercise machine? I would lie there wondering. Then, one night I thought, Enough! And I went to investigate, following the corridor down to the dining room - there! In front of the oval table, a giant maned lion, lying with its head up. 

It turned to see me - I froze- , then it yawned, before resting its great head on its immense paws, as if I were of no more importance than the new wallpaper I had so recently hung.

With the lion`s indifference, I became bolder, and when I heard the padding as it did it`s nocturnal rounds I would occasionally follow it in my pyjamas.  It had certain favourite spots and these were always linked to the items which had came with the apartment- the oval table, the dining chairs and the glazed bookcase, 

It strode at ease and never roared, or even growled and I've even become quite charmed by its presence.

I`d worked on a few archeological digs during my field work as a student. I`d spent time in mediaeval castles and on Roman sites across the country- freezing weeks on my knees with a sieve and a trowel in muddy fields in Cumbria, rescuing bit of broken pottery, and the occasional coin from the soil, sustained by hot tea and the fun of being with the others from my course. 

It isn't often mentioned in academic journals how common (indeed, I would say, usual) it is for these sites to be visited by the ghosts of those who once dwelt in them- and most archaeologists have had lengthy conversations with Roman legionnaires, mediaeval abbots, viking tradesmen and countless humble serfs from any epoch, though they rarely mention these incidents to others for feel of ridicule.

However, human ghosts are one thing, and their existence is broadly recognised, at least as a possibility in many cultures.

But, when I came across your piece, I felt immediately that you were describing something else, which might be relevant to my lion situation, a sort of animal spirit, representative of a previous resident in someone's home.

I began to do some research. I could find quite a lot on the records. And the presence of the lion started to make sense.

The flat, it transpires, had been on the market for about a year before being put up for auction. The previous owner and occupant had been someone called Carl Nielsen. He had bought this apartment in 1991 and lived in it thereafter. He was a broker in a small brokerage called NIelsen and Hart, which he`d founded with a former partner in 1988. They`d met at another brokerage called Bernard Stanley in 1985.

 I managed to get hold of James Hart. He was quite old, maybe in his late eighties but he still held a role in Nielsen and Hart, and occasionally appears there to look over things.

He told me about Nielsen. He said that Nielsen was Danish, though he had grown up in Britain. He was a reserved, orderly man. He had been appalled by the management of brokerages and the stock exchanges in the years leading up to the crash of 1987. and that had led him to co-found the brokerage.

It was not just the management he had disliked, with its emphasis on short term gain-  it was also the general culture in the City. Nielsen was a restrained man, a self-contained man. He felt that there was something inherently remiss with the exaggerated bonuses, and the excesses they led to-  the cocaine, the wasting of money in city bars and on oversized Rolex watches and strip clubs and yachts that were never sailed. These made him deeply uncomfortable. 

The Dane that grew up with the austere elegance of Jacobsen chairs and delicate paintings by Købke and Hammershøi or cool, unadorned churches, and plain but wholesome food found himself profoundly ill at ease with the ostentation.

 

  When the brokers went to wine bars on a friday night and competed over which expensive champagne to buy he felt a deep inner discomfort. Hart said Nielsen didn't say anything but would make an excuse to leave these events. 

This feeling led them to co-found the brokerage. Though both were wary of virtue signalling, their brokerage had to be founded on at least some broad ethical principles. These would mean ethics not in a passive acceptance of rules but in an active seeking after investment opportunities which would at least be likely to have some inherently positive outcomes. 

Hart said that Nielsen never married, he did not have “the vocation” - when Hart related this he gave an affectionate smile. No, he wasnt gay, if thats what you are thinking. Actually women were attracted to him, and he to them, but he held back, he did not see himself in the role of husband. 

Hart paused and the way he looked at me when he said again, “he was a very orderly man,”  it almost seemd an accusal, directed to me or my sex! 

Hart then described how Nielsen had devoted his spare time to collecting coins.

 Hart once went to visit him, and he presented his trophies on that big oval table-  they were contained in specially constructed wooden trays lined with red baize. It was an extraordinary array, with gold coins from ancient Greece, from Rome and Byzantium. It became world famous, and Nielsen became instrumental in the London Numismatists Association, and a consultant to Spink and Son. On his death the collection was given to the British Museum.

The letter writer included two photograph: one taken at night clearly shows a lion, head resting on its paws, perhaps napping or perhaps in reflection. The second is of Carl Nielsen- it is from the webpage of the brokerage firm- a handsome man with a strong jaw, a withdrawn expression and a fine head of blonde hair.

The second missive I wish to bring to readers attention to was an email from quite close to Milton- the writer identifies herself simply as Margaret. The letter is long and detailed, and I chose for the sake of concision to summarise some parts of it.

“I came into my drawing room and there was a huge land tortoise on my sofa and at firstI  didn’t know what to think. I thought perhaps it could have escaped from a local zoo. But there is no zoo here nearby, the nearest is in London. I thought it might have wandered over from a neighbor but it seemed unlikely as it would have had to climb over a fence as well as find a way of entering the house, and it does not appear to be very agile !!! (Margarets exclamation marks) 

 “But I came across your article in the Milton and Chittering Gazette, and it opened my eyes. I started to do some research of my own about who lived here before.

“I’ve been living here for some time. In fact, I was born here and my parents bought the house in 1920. My son-in-law helped me do more research. He discovered that the house was built in the 1860s and originally belonged to the church. It was intended for the parish vicar, but then they decided to give him another house which the church had been bequeathed by a parishioner and instead this house was sold to the railway and occupied by one of their employees, a ticket inspector. 

“This man was notoriously sour in character. It seemed to give him considerable pleasure to discover an anomaly in the ticket of any traveller, who would subsequently be forced to pay a hefty fine, or have to go through a complex appeals process. “Only doing my job” he would say, in response to grumbles and complaints, “someone has to, can`t have some pay full fare, others not.”

But other passengers, seeing how he fined a refugee couple escaping violence in the Pale of Settlement, felt outraged.

“Why don’t you give these poor people a break, they can’t pay that fine! And how could they be expected to know the exact terms and conditions of tickets in Liverpool street station?” asked the woman who ran a small grocery shop in the village and happened to be in the carriage. “I’m doing my job for what I'm paid and that's what keeps England’s railway lines going and if he doesn't like it he can write to the company and state his case. Or go back to the continent where they do things in their continental ways.” 

“On hearing this, another passenger put down his newspaper. “Write a letter of appeal! Why, these people can hardly speak English, have a heart.” “You mind your own business,” replied the inspector. “They want to come here, they have the same obligations as everyone. That makes sense and that's the law of the land.”

Or he might say, in a condescending tone, “She may have her rights but I have my duties and I’m honour bound by my contract to give her a fine and it's up to them to pay or contest it in Her Majesty's Courts of  Justice.” He loved such phrases, and he flourished them as he handed out a penalty fare notice to a pregnant woman who had obviously become confused having travelled on the second class carriage instead of the third. 

“There were few locals who had not seen one incident or another, and often the victims were confused, elderly or foreign individuals. He greeted all with a high handedness which sat badly with the residents of what was an unpresumptuous settlement of market gardens and small farms.

 Word gets around quickly in little country communities, and it is rare that a man who has made himself disliked, can ever recover his reputation.

 A letter in an old parish newsletter, which Margaret had uncovered, reflected general sentiment: “Sirs, I wish to draw attention to readers to the iniquitous fines and uncharitable treatment that is being meted out on our local railway line. The inspector in question refuses to be drawn into discussion and in a manner most offensive to our local consensual ways disdains to discuss his rigid and unsympathetic manner which I take the view is most unchristian and inconsistent with the ways of this parish”

And so, when he attended the local parish church, he found himself alone at the pew. Only the parish priest, linked distantly through the common history of the house, and in keeping with his role as a community leader, would make conversation. 

The man who had interjected in favour of the Jewish refugees would not turn and shake the inspector`s hand at the close of the service. The grocer, too, had spread word of the inspector's behaviour to everyone who had entered the shop.

Thus the village rapidly became a friendless place ….and the railway inspector  would return from church on Sundays to eat a roast lunch in silence, bitterly alone. 

Seeing how the inspector was ostracised the vicar made a sermon one week, reading directly from Matthew 7-1-

Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgement ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? 

The congregation seemed unable or unwilling to grasp the relevance of this sermon.  

The vicar tried a month later, this time quoting from Luke 19-1-

Zacchaeus, make haste, and come down; for today I must abide at thy house. And he made haste, and came down, and received him joyfully. And when they saw it, they all murmured, saying, That he was gone to be a guest with a man that is a sinner. And Zacchaeus stood, and said unto the Lord; Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor; and if I have taken any thing from any man by false accusation, I restore him fourfold. And Jesus said unto him, This day is salvation come to this house, forsomuch as he also is a son of Abraham.

This too, was to no avail, even though, with obvious symbolism, the vicar invited himself to lunch at the inspector's house.

The villagers had reached their conclusions and the railway inspector continued alone- shunned, embittered, misunderstood.

He held his anger within. Was he not simply doing his job, a job that in it’s humble way ensured that all were treated equally and the railways could raise the revenues necessary to maintain a decent service? Was society so taken with sentimental foolishness that it could not see the sense in maintaining rules and ensuring their strict adherence?

Margaret continued: “so, ever since I lived here I have had this presence, and it has appeared and then as soon as it appeared gone, as if a vision. But I enclose a photograph herewith which I managed to take. Sorry if it is a little blurry as I hope it might be of interest to you and your readers.”

The photograph is in colour. Margaret`s sofa is in a country chintz with yellow and green flowers on a cream background.

 And in the middle, the tortoise, a big dark brown oval, withdrawn.

Illustration- St Jerome in his Study, monotype, c. 2005

 

 

 

 

 

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Praia Moçambique, paths, heathland, sky

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Praia Moçambique, paths, heathland, sky, oil on card, 26.5 x 29.5 cm unavailable

 

 

 

 

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Praia Moçambique, sea, April 1, 2022, oil on card, 26 x 27.5 cm

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 Praia Moçambique, sea, April 1, 2022, oil on card, 26 x 27.5 cm unavailable

 

 

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The John o' Groats Trail

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The John o`Groats Trail

The John o' Groats Trail

This is a another, perhaps more ambitious walk, which has 14 stages. 

Perhaps I could do half of the walk, beginning at Dunbeath?

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