Wednesday, 4 May 2016

Good Grief: A Start

Image by Molly Line
Words by Wynn Wheldon


A dream of blossoming as a lion
Vivified stone, greeting each new season
With aplomb, with divine resignation

Maybe not the kind of dream we suckle on
When we dream with chin sunk on knuckles
But fanciful beyond mere chucklesome.

One should not steal another’s reverie
Interloping without care, sleeplessly
But because there is always the sky

Which is an infinity of the new
A mess of greys, a glass full of blue
I am pleased to lease what is not my due

Sunday, 24 April 2016


Intrepidly, I set off for 'The Complete Walk' yesterday morning.  This was the installation of 37 large screens beading the South Bank from Westminster to Tower Bridge, each showing a 10 or 15 minute clip of highlights from one of Shakespeare's plays: Number 5, for example was Titus Andronicus.  I stood to watch, with a good crowd, hearing little as the trains trundled across Hungerford bridge above us, but remembering just how extremely unpleasant a play it is.  The worst pie in London...

The South Bank was, as the young so vividly put it, rammed.  This is London's promenade, and it is full of variety and pleasure: galleries, theatres, eateries, markets, battleships, malls, sandcastles, pleasure boats, barges, bridges, musicians, mimes, pleasure gardens, aquariums, prisons, railway stations, and a big wheel... 

Several of the screens appeared to have malfunctioned.  I put this down to the Arctic breeze, which was very nearly the cause of my own malfunctioning as the blood in my uncovered head slowly froze as I made my way eastwards.

Most, though, hadn't, and there were some splendid goes.  Simon Russell Beale did Timon very well.  Here's part of his speech:

Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate 
With thy most operant poison! What is here? 
Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods, 
I am no idle votarist: roots, you clear heavens! 
Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair, 
Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant. 
Ha, you gods! why this? what this, you gods? Why, this 
Will lug your priests and servants from your sides, 
Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads: 
This yellow slave 
Will knit and break religions, bless the accursed, 
Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves 
And give them title, knee and approbation 
With senators on the bench: this is it 
That makes the wappen'd widow wed again; 
She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores 
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices 
To the April day again. Come, damned earth, 
Thou common whore of mankind, that put'st odds 
Among the route of nations, I will make thee 
Do thy right nature. 

Ah, spital houses and ulcerous sores!  Not to mention wappen'd widows!  Just the job. All very Now, eh? There was a big crowd for Lear, contending with a clamorous Antony and Cleopatra, near London Bridge.  The former had a better backdrop though:  

The Tower of London is behind the pergola. You can just see the spikes of the White Tower.  Macbeth was facing the city of London, from Hays Wharf.  I don't think that signified anything. Nothing, in fact. Walkie-Talkie, Cheese-grater and Gherkin all present.

Most unlikely structures however were the sandcastles and scenes being constructed on the beach: 

A good five or six mile walk there and back.  I had planned on a burger at Borough Market, but if the riverside was rammed, the Market was stuffed almost to the point of immobility.  I got stuck behind someone talking at length about his sperm count, and decided that i wasn't that hungry after all.

A last word, on the Bankside Gallery, which was showing the annual exhibition of the Royal Watercolour Society.  It was the last day.  I'm very glad I popped in, because here were paintings full of engagement, in every conceivable style, from extreme realism to abstraction.  I liked a great many of them.  After the dry, humourlessly facetious offerings in the Tate Modern's 'Art and Media' rooms, (even the Sonia Delauney seemed a bit tired and academic) this was refreshing.  I grow old, I grow old...


...seems to be thumping onto mats, though i think D signed for hers.  I have yet to receive mine.

I find that thinking too much about certain passages, omissions, inclusions, infelicities of style makes me feel queasy.  I imagine the ways in which it will disappoint, infuriate and bore.  Nevertheless there ARE good things - mostly Dad's letters.  Well worth reading just for those. Must say that it is very well produced: handsome with a nice big text.  Shame the photos lose their sharpness, but there we are, at least they are there.

Friday, 22 April 2016

Contents of the Larder of the Bush Tavern, Bristol on Christmas-Day last [1788]

One turtle 75lb. British turtle, giblet soup, pea soup, gravy soup, 15 cod, 1 new salmon, 5 turbots, 28 soles, 2 brills, 7 plaice, 144 herrings, sprats, 27 cels. salt fish, venison 3 does, 7 grouse, 11 pheasants, 36 partridges 47 hares, 88 wild ducks, 52 teal, 1 curlew, 27 widgeon, 7 sea pheasants, 11 plovers, 7 wild turkies, 48 woodcocks, 3 snipcs, 2 galenas, 2 pea-hens, 13 pidgeons, 122 larks, 12 stares, 48 small birds, 4 ducklings, 27 turkies, 14 capons, 32 chicken, 3 ducks, 2 geese, 4 rabbits, 1 pig, 2 pork-griskins, veal burrs, 10 hogs-puddings, eggs, tripe, cow heel, Maintcnon chops, Scotch collops, harricoed mutton, veal cutlets, rump steaks, mutton chops, pork chops, stewed and scollop’d oystcrs, 2 house lambs, 5 legs 1 loin veal, 7 rumps 1 sirloin 5 ribs beef, 14 haunches 2 legs 2 necks 2 chines mutton, pork 4 loins. -  COLD. Baron of beef, roasted, 3 cwt. 21lb. of beef, 576 minced pics, 11 tans, 204 jellies, 400 cray-fifh, 24 lobsters, 2 pickled salmons, 88 barrels of Pyfleet and Colchester oysters, pickled oysters, sturgeon.

Reading Mercury - Monday 28 January 1788

Sunday, 17 April 2016

Cal in Bangor

Cal at the entrance to 'Wheldon', at Bangor University, named for his great grandfather, Sir Wynn, who was Registrar between the wars.  Or possibly his great-great grandfather, Thomas Jones Wheldon, one of the founders of the University College of North Wales (as BU was known until pretty darn recently, like about the day before yesterday).

Sunday, 3 April 2016

A Line from Joyce

"But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires".
from 'Araby'

Thursday, 31 March 2016

The War Game

Interesting BBC post about Peter Watkins and Dad.

Richard Cawston, who succeeded Dad as Head of Documentaries compared Watkins to Mozart.  My Mum used to say that Watkins 'was in love with violence'.

Sunday, 27 March 2016

Monday, 14 March 2016


I've lived longer without a father than with.  Odd.  He died thirty years ago today, 14 March.  It is also Meg's birthday.  Here are a couple of photos of the two of them.  In the first Dad is doing one of his mock-cross faces and looking a tad Connery-ish, Meg is looking like, well - Meg.

Tuesday, 1 March 2016

WELSH INCIDENT by Robert Graves

‘But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder'
‘What were they?  Mermaids?  Dragons?  Ghosts?'
' Nothing at all of any things like that.'
' What were they then?'
     ‘All sorts of queer things,
Things never seen or heard or written about,
Very strange, un Welsh, utterly peculiar
Things.  Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,
Had anyone dared it.  Marvellous creation,
All various shapes and sizes and no sizes,
All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,
Though all came moving slowly out together.'
' Describe just one of them.’
 ' I am unable.'
' What were  their colours?'
' Mostly nameless colours,
Colours you would like to see; but one was puce
Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.
Some had no colour.'
  ‘Tell me, had they legs?'
‘Not a leg nor foot among them that I saw.'
' But did these things come out in any order?
What o'clock was it is?  What was the day of the week?
Who else was present?  How was the weather?'
‘I was coming to that.  It was half past three
On Easter Tuesday last.  The sun was shining.
The Harlech Silver band played Marchog Jesu
On thirty seven shimmering instruments,
Collecting for Caernarvon’s (fever) Hospital Fund.
The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,
Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,
Were all assembled.  Criccieth’s mayor addressed them
First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,
Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,
Welcoming the things.  They came out on the sand,
Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward
Silently at a snail's pace.  But at last
The most odd, indescribable thing of all,
Which hardly one man there could see for wonder,
Did something recognisably something.'
' Well, what is?'
                          ' It made a noise.'
‘A frightening noise?'
' No, no.'
    ' A musical noise?  A noise of scuffling?'
‘No, but a very loud, respectable noise --
Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning
In chapel, close before the second psalm.'
' What did the mayor do?'

                            ' I was coming to that.'

Thursday, 18 February 2016


A-ridin' and a-fishin' ...  I have a wide experience of the sporting life. The horse threw me off shortly after the photograph was taken. And the fish didn't bite.

Somewhere in Wales

Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains