Monday, May 29, 2017

Music in Time of Examination

Alas, the feast of Ascension, Oak Apple Day and G. K. Chesterton’s birthday are all probably rather overshadowed in the many minds for which this is a season of examinations.  They are necessary hardships, I suppose, but I must say it would be easier to believe this if it were possible to have confidence that the exam boards knew their subjects and checked their answers…

Anyway, I thought the least I could do in solidarity would be to compile a list of music (‘Desk Island Discs’?) either to lift or calm the spirits.  In one way they are only suggestions for listening in the throes of study or an interlude of relaxation, but I also mean them to show that, in the list of things that matter in life, exams are really quite low down.  Now it is true that a good exam should offer, in the very challenge it set, some promise of the reward of learning: truth, goodness and beauty, but many exams often fail to do this, to say the least, so here are some examples from the third category that I think really are worth knowing about:

Ernest Tomlinson: a general recommendation
The music of Ernest Tomlinson (1924-2015) more or less saved my finals: I wrote to him afterwards to say so, and he was kind enough to reply!  I have written elsewhere about his valiant efforts in defence of British light music since the 1960s.  Two CDs’ worth of his music can he heard here and here, but here are some suggestions for now:

Kielder Water:


Miranda:




Lakeside Idyll:


… the second movements of the Concerto for Five and the Silverthorn Suite, and both Suites of English Folk-Dances.


Then there is Percy Grainger: Zanzibar Boat Song for piano (six hands):




Molly on the Shore:




Along with Mock Morris, Spoon River and the Lincolnshire Posy (about which more here).


Ralph Vaughan Williams: Symphony no. 5, movement III (Romanza)




Ralph Vaughan Williams: Tuba concerto, movement II (also entitled Romanza)



Handel, of course; also jazz; and for those who like both Handel and jazz:



Gerald Finzi: Eclogue for piano and strings.



Herbert Howells’ Three Dances for violin and orchestra, written in 1915 when he was still a student at the Royal College of Music:




Germaine Tailleferre: Suite burlesque.



Any Bach keyboard concerto:




Maurice Duruflé: Quatre motets sur des thèmes grégoriens. For example:





I hope these will help anyone who comes across them, and that they are enough…  I’m probably not meant to put this many videos on a single web-page!  All the same, if anybody has any other suggestions, I’d be glad to hear them.

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Ascension Day

Happy feast of the Ascension!  I think some music is called for: here is Gerald Finzi’s anthem God is gone up (op. 27, no. 2):



Don’t forget that Easter carries on until Pentecost (Whitsun), so if you haven’t been feasting since the Triduum as energetically as you fasted in Lent, you’ve been doing it wrong!

Monday, May 15, 2017

Order at the Oval

What truer proof of peace and order than the arithmetical poetry of cricket on a sunlit afternoon?…

…Surrey vs. Hants. in broad sunshine, 14th May 2017, ten minutes before the match was rained off

Monday, May 08, 2017

Disappointing French Words

Some time ago I sang the praises of the French language (and France generally) and indulged in the compilation of a list of my favourite words in that iridescent chandelier of languages. Veiller, lugubre, orgueilleux … linguistic confectionery which can be rolled around on the tongue at leisure (though perhaps not on the bus).

Yet even as I compiled that list other words occurred to me, words that seemed to me not nearly so delicious as they ought to be, given their meaning or their English translation.  With the resources of the language to which they belong they should have been able to do justice to the former and outgun the latter.  Here are some examples of words that, I submit, fail to fulfil their promise:
  1. puddle: flaque (f)
  2. to sneeze: éternuer
  3. to nod: acquiescer
  4. rambunctious: turbulent
Now it seems to me that it is precisely in cases of damp squibs such as these that the immortels of the Académie française should be called upon for their services.  (It is in the immortels, of which there are only forty at a time and who hold their office for life, that there lies the ultimate authority on the French language).  Could they not come up with something better to describe a puddle?  How about mouillon de pluie or plouffelette or pluviule?  Or se hatchouir or pousser une éplixission for the verb to sneeze?  ‘Je me suis HATCHOUI en pleine bibliothèque’.  If I, a mere Anglo-Saxon upstart, can come up with these, surely the chosen forty can do likewise?

Anyway, perhaps I am being fussy.  English can’t really outdo French all that often: witness for example the sumptuous phrase il avait de quoi sourire — ‘he had something to smile about’ — reported by my uncle in one of Paul Berna’s excellent novels.  Il avait de quoi sourire!  A savourer…

Sunday, April 23, 2017

St George’s Day

I hope nobody will mind, in honour of St. George, patron of England, my use of this picture of Rudgwick in Sussex to represent all of England:
At Rudgwick, W. Sussex (Easter Sunday, 2015)
Also, remembering the words of G. K. Chesterton, who is always right, here is a picture of an English post-box, an English telegraph-pole, an English traffic-cone and an English bicycle in an English fog:
“No one can be good critic of England who does not understand fogs. And no one can be a really patriotic Englishman who does not like fogs.”  Burnt Fen, Suffolk. (Probably).
By the way, there has been a St. George’s day treat for those of us who hold that fine creed that railways are England’s greatest gift to the world (G. K. Chesterton possibly excepted) and also that nobody really minds when they are turned into a big toy.  Four generations of locomotives (one the Flying Scotsman), each in their day the last word in speed on the Great Northern / East Coast main line from London to Edinburgh, have run in parallel from Thirsk to York.  The BBC reports here.  It is admittedly at least partially a publicity stunt for the new trains that are shortly being introduced… but it’s a fun publicity stunt!

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

It is right and just


All right, one more post for BXVI’s ninetieth birthday!  For it is truly right and just that the Pope Emeritus should have received visitors from his homeland — the (regional) prime minister of Bavaria and Alpine mountain troops — and that they should have brought with them pretzels, beer and music for a party that included his brother.

And he was moved to these words (as transcribed here) when called upon to extemporise a speech:
Mein Herz ist erfüllt von Dankbarkeit für die neunzig Jahre, die der Liebe Gott mir geschenkt hat. Da waren auch Prüfungen und schwere Zeiten, aber in allen hat Er mich immer weiter geführt, herausgeholt, sodass ich weiter gehen konnte und von Dank erfüllt bin, vor allem auch dafür, dass Er mir eine so schöne Heimat geschenkt hat, die jetzt unter euch bei mir präsent ist.

Bayern ist schön von der Schöpfung her. Das Land ist schön durch die Kirchtürme, die da sind, die Häuser mit den Balkons, mit Blumen, die Menschen, die gut sind. Es ist schön, weil man dort um Gott weiß und weiß, dass Er die Welt geschaffen hat und dass dies so richtig ist, wenn wir sie mit Ihm gestalten. So danke ich euch herzlich für diese Gegenwart Bayerns, die ihr mir vermittelt, eines Bayerns, das weltoffen, lebendig, fröhlich ist, aber es deswegen so sein kann, weil es im Glauben seine Wurzeln findet. Euch allen vergelt’s Gott, vom Ministerpräsidenten angefangen bis zu euch allen. Ich freue mich, dass wir uns so schön beim blauen Himmel Roms versammeln konnten, der an den weiß-blauen Himmel der Bayernfahne auch erinnert, und es ist ja der gleiche Himmel.

Ich wünsche euch allen viel Segen Gottes. Bringt meine Grüße mit nach Hause, wie dankbar ich für euch bin und wie gern ich in meinem Herzen immer noch in Bayern herumwandere und lebe und hoffe, dass dies so bleiben wird. Vergelt’s Gott.
My unburnished translation:
My heart is filled with gratitude for the ninety years that God has given me.  There have been trials and hard times, but in all of them He has always led me forwards and called me forth so that I could carry on; and I am filled with gratitude above all that He gave me such a beautiful homeland, which is present to me now through you.

Bavaria has been beautiful ever since its creation.  The country is lent its beauty by the church towers that there are; the houses with their balconies, with flowers; the people who are good.  It is beautiful because God is known to people there, and they know that He created the world and that it will be at rights if we build it with Him.  So I give you heartfelt thanks for this Bavarian presence that you share with me, a Bavaria that is open to the world, alive, joyful — and that can be thus because it has its roots in faith.  Thanks to you all, from the [regional] prime minister to all of you.  I am glad that we have been able to have such a lovely gathering under the blue sky of Rome, which is also a reminder of the blue-white heavens of the Bavarian flag, and indeed it is one and the same Heaven.

To you all I wish God’s blessing.  Take home my greeting: how thankful I am for you and how I still love to wander in Bavaria in my heart, and live and hope that it will always be so.  Vergelt’s Gott.
‘Vergelt’s Gott’ means ‘may God repay it’, or ‘may God reward you for it’.  My translation falls apart at the seams not least when translating ‘Himmel’ which in German means the sky and Heaven alike.

Of course we are all aware of the intelligence of the mind that produced these words, and, indeed, there it is lying just under the surface.  But what strikes me first about this speech is its homeliness.  German has a better word: Gemütlichkeit, which translates as ‘cosiness’ in one sense, and ‘conviviality’ in another, but in yet a third a comfort deeper than comfort.  It derives from the noun Gemüt, meaning ‘disposition’, or ‘mind’, or ‘soul’, so what is gemütlich is homely and comfortable to the very depths, and answers the longings of the very soul.  No wonder the Bavarian guests are addressed in the familiar second person, ihr and euch… He is simply Fr. Ratzinger, a diocesan priest of Munich-Freising, a humble worker in the vineyard of the Lord.

Es ist ja der gleiche Himmel (Wallberg, Bayern).

Monday, April 17, 2017

Farewell to Ruddocks of Lincoln

Ruddocks of Lincoln, stationers, in March, 2014.
Sad news from the city of Lincoln.  The BBC reports that Ruddocks, a stationer’s which has occupied this shop on the High Street continuously since 1904, closed down on Easter Saturday.  The owner, Henry Ruddock, though ‘immensely sad,’ is pragmatic: he cannot, he says, “put sentiment in the till.”  The business itself is actually nearly two hundred years old, having been in operation before 1820 and in the hands of the Ruddock family since 1870. 

I bought some postcards from this shop on a trip to Lincoln a few years ago.  A traveller from afar, I had no idea of its history and distinction then.  But these things must have a way of making themselves felt, since I recognised the establishment when I read the news, two hundred miles away.   I remember being struck by its elegant frontage, and the quiet dignity of the lettering, and I suppose it was also a breath of fresh air to see a family name — one of Philip Larkin’s ‘established names’ — and so I took the (rather inelegant) photograph above.

I suppose it is in part to Ruddocks that I owe my personal impression, hatched at the foot of the hill and consolidated by the time I reached the Cathedral at the summit, that cathedral-crowned Lincoln is nearly the ideal city, and certainly my favourite, though I have only visited it once.  (I’m sure the locals would say there are plenty of faults, too!)  I think this because all the trades and businesses ascend the hill in a single sweep, to be unified under the cathedral that lends the city its unity and purpose. (Tradition holds that it is because of Lincoln’s High Street that we speak of districts or institutions going ‘uphill’ or ‘downhill’).  Thus at the foot is the river Witham, with the rolled-up sleeves of the workaday railway and the wharves of Brayford Pool.  Further up are the market, the cafés and the shops like Ruddocks.  Higher still are the Crown Court and the Council chambers.  All this is consecrated by the Cathedral at the summit: by far the city’s highest and greatest building, as it should be.  That Lincoln’s cathedral is also one of England’s three or four most precious and beautiful (and was for three hundred years the tallest building in the world) is in some ways only a bonus…

Lincoln Cathedral and the Brayford Pool, with all trades in between.
I think that the end of Ruddocks is a twofold cause for sorrow: firstly that such a venerable family business should have been lost, and secondly that it should have been lost to Lincoln of all cities.  If we but knew what we do when we cheat and choose those temples of desolation, the distribution centre, the chain store and the retail outlet.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Alleluia!

Happy Easter!  Having followed the world’s Saviour out into the desert of Lent and along the way of the Cross, now we too may rise as he did.  Yes, we the Church are audacious enough to stake all we stand for on the truth that Jesus Christ, who was man and God, rose wholly and bodily from the dead and, in doing so, defeated death itself.  This is the central belief which we hold and profess with a straight face, and the reason we have firm hope in everlasting life.  Otherwise, to paraphrase St. Paul, we might as well all give up and go home. 

To assent to this truth turns our view of the world upside down and inside out.  But that is what the Church is for.  As G.K. Chesterton says, it is not the tenets of the Church but the world’s dull, secular logic that is the wrong way up.

Now for some music: the Arnold Singers from Rugby School sing Simon Lindley’s arrangement of one of our best Easter hymns at the church of St Mary the Virgin, Hanbury (from the BBC’s Songs of Praise):


Today is also a double cause for celebration, being Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI’s ninetieth birthday…  As I shall never tire of saying again and again and again, I am proud to number among the Benedict generation who came of age in faith under his gently staunch, warmly courageous teaching.  It is largely to Joseph Ratzinger that we owe the Catechism of the Catholic Church, the lucid, intellectual, meticulous compendium of the faith which is the place for anyone, inside or outside the Church, to take their questions.  From his writings the dawn of faith will break in many minds. And, as Pope, his visit to the United Kingdom in 2010, in which he saw hope in this country where we ourselves had forgotten it, and during which he accordingly encouraged us with a challenging, invigorating message, was a milestone in my life and in the history of the Church in Great Britain.  Herzliche Glückwünsche und Gebete, lieber Benedikt, zu diesem herrlichen runden Geburtstag!

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Maundy Thursday

Paradox follows paradox along the path of Holy Week.  This is the evening of the Last Supper, the very institution of the Eucharist.  Yet no sooner is Mass said than the Tabernacle itself is emptied.  The church is already a bare shell, awaiting the only day of the year when there is no Mass: the zero of Good Friday.

Maurice Duruflé’s setting of the Tantum Ergo (one of the Quatre Motets sur des Thèmes Grégoriens):

Sunday, April 09, 2017

Holy Week Begins



  Sometimes they strew His way,
  And His sweet praises sing,
  Resounding all the day
  Hosannas to their king:
  Then “Crucify!”
  Is all their breath,
  And for His death
  They thirst and cry.

With the arrival of Holy Week comes around again one of the best hymns in the English language.  It is also one of the hardest to sing, not at all because it is too technical or too complex, but rather because, in tight, lean verse (see how lightly those flawless rhymes wear their music), it expresses itself rather too simply and starkly for comfort.  It would be one of the finest poems ever written — a beautifully-wrought match of meaning and metre, which John Ireland’s music perfects —  even if it did not also grasp so unflinchingly, so firmly and so painfully the truth at the paradoxical heart of the Christian faith: the ‘love to the loveless shown that they might lovely be.’  This hymn has not lost an iota of its charge since it was set down by Samuel Crossman (1623–1683) nearly four hundred years ago.   It defies a glib rendition: the words grab ungently at the heart.

For anyone who wishes to see the paradox laid bare, who wants to behold a single expression of what the Church is all about, Mass on Palm Sunday is perhaps the occasion when this is keenest.  The Church withdraws physically into itself: the furnishings and decorative aids to prayer are removed or veiled; the altar is stripped, the faith is pared right down to its core.  The stage is set and the soul is prepared for the contemplation of the historical events upon which all our other teachings and doctrines and music and art are founded: the paradoxes of and cusps between Old and New Testaments, the fulfilments of ancient prophecies and instinctive split-second actions of particular people at particular moments, the folly of man and the humility of Christ and (in the end) the Crucifixion and the Resurrection.  This Sunday precipitates the reluctant but faithful commemorations of these events.

As part of the Palm Sunday liturgy, there is the actual dramatisation of Christ’s Passion according to one of the Gospels. The lines given to the congregation to read aloud are those of any plural speaker, which are normally those of the crowds or mobs that accumulated at Gethsemane, the Temple and Golgotha.  That these are in fact different crowds assembling at various points over the course of the Passion becomes increasingly less important as we go on, not only because the crowds’ words and moods are not substantially different from each other’s, but because we must be made to acknowledge that, had we been there, we would (‘to a man’) have been the crowd, and indeed that we continue to be the crowd to this day.  We have to fill our mouths with bile and sarcasm, clamouring to save a murderer and have the Prince of Life slain.  “We want Barabbas!”; “His blood be on us and on our children!”; “If he is the Son of God, let him come down from the cross!”  And so on.  It is a relief to rinse out our mouths with the Creed.

But without this, and without the coming desolate, dry-throated liturgies of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, there can be no Easter.  As the liturgy puts it, we are ‘following in his footsteps, / so that being made by his grace partakers of the Cross, / we may have a share also in his Resurrection and in his life.’

Thursday, March 16, 2017

To Tulse Hill by Third Rail

Is it a different world this side of the Thames?  Many of us in south London like to think so.  After all, everything south of the river, even right up to Southwark and Lambeth, has traditionally lain beyond the immediate authority of the Cities of London or Westminster over the water.  Partly this is because, in the old days, the diocese of Winchester once came all the way up to the river, so that the South Bank, though actually directly overlooked by St Paul’s Cathedral across the river, lay under the jurisdiction of a see sixty miles away.  All through the history of London the Thames has made all the difference: for instance, it was to avoid trouble from the authorities that the theatres of Shakespeare’s time decamped to their transpontine position.

These administrative and ecclesiastical boundaries all seem quite faded now. Today, the mass of ‘Greater London’ sprawls greyly to horizons north and south alike, and elects a single Mayor (who is not to be confused with the Lord Mayor of the City of London). Not without considerable hesitation can Vauxhall or the Borough be described as being in Surrey, a name which now calls to mind rural red-tiled gables,  or downs descending into denes.  Indeed, how laughable is the name ‘Surrey Quays’ for those old docklands of Rotherhithe, left stranded as they are by the ebbing of their historical county?  In recent years even the insatiable developers have crossed the river, hungry to thicken the skyline of south London, too, with their towers.

All the same, there are certain ways in which the Thames still constitutes a barrier between central London and its southern suburbs, and which have no counterparts to the north.  The swathe the river cuts through the city tends towards the south; it still has an isolating effect on Lambeth and Southwark even as it leaves the north contiguous with the centre.  South Londoners wishing to reach the city proper still have the river to cross first, and this means, in contrast to north Londoners, that they know the sensation of crossing the river into the city, into the heart of things.  They shoot out onto one of the bridges aboard a bus or train, or even slide into Blackfriars railway station, with its new platforms spanning the water — and the sky widens without warning, a panorama unfolds along the Embankment, the Houses of Parliament sail clear — and then they come to land in the heart of the city.  Even if few will murmur that ‘Earth has not anything to show more fair’; even if the feeling can be dulled by habit, it never vanishes entirely, and will last as long as the river itself.  Those coming to the West End or the City from the north, however, miss it altogether.

The Tube, of course, provides southerners with several ways to sneak into London without acknowledging or noticing the river.  But, as we are keen to point out, most of us are in any case a long way from the nearest Underground station.  There is always some sort of change needed from the world of south London to the world of central London.  The Underground network is heavily biased towards and largely contiguous with north London, whereas it hardly ventures south of the river (apart from the bold, incongruous and ultimately rather ironic adventure of the Northern line, through Britain’s longest railway tunnel, to Morden, the Underground’s most southerly station).

Yes, as well as crossing the Thames, the majority of south Londoners going ‘up to town’ have a definite threshold to cross: there is for us a clear moment of arrival in London.  North Londoners, however, can generally pile straight onto the Tube, and are already in the system when they set off from their home station.  In their tunnels they see nothing, poor souls, and apart from the entry to these tunnels their journey into the city crosses no perceptible boundary.  Perhaps this is why ‘Metroland’ is a phenomenon of North London rather than South.

Christian Wolmar’s enjoyable history of the Underground, The Subterranean Railway, offers several explanations for this imbalance in provision between north and south. [1]  For instance, the geology of south London is notoriously difficult to tunnel through.  Apart from the obvious obstacle posed by the Thames, Tube tunnelling was defied almost until the new millennium by the the deposits of gravel that overlie the typical London clay in this area, sometimes to a depth of ten metres.

South Bermondsey station
Wolmar also explains that, by the time that the Underground had begun to expand beyond central London at the turn of the twentieth century, the city’s south had already gained its dense network of suburban railways.  It was North London that had greater need of transport connections, having been neglected by the builders of the lines out of Euston and King’s Cross.  These companies had bigger fish to fry than Edgware or Barnet: their sights were set on the big prizes — Manchester, Newcastle, Edinburgh or Glasgow — and they needed to send express trains as far afield as they could, and as quickly as possible.  They did not concern themselves with the more trifling places in between, and constructed their lines accordingly, forging northwards with a smattering of intermediate stations and only paltry connections between east and west.  Speed and directness were everything: ‘There we were aimed’ was Philip Larkin’s impression, racing from Hull towards London straight up the East Coast Main Line.  It was the Underground that was to fill in the gaps.

In Kent, Surrey and Sussex, the situation had been different.  Across these counties no siren song floated from any industrial belt; no ‘fields of apparatus’, no ‘furnaces / Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen’ beckoned the top-hatted industrialist.  The only sources of traffic comparable to the likes of Liverpool and Newcastle were Portsmouth, the trans-Atlantic port of Southampton and, further east, Dover or Newhaven, with their Continental connections.  The other main destinations, such as Eastbourne, Brighton and Hastings, generated a different kind of traffic from the northern cities, local and regional rather than heavy goods or long-distance expresses. (Kidner called London and South Western main line ‘from its earliest days a line for farmers, military men, bishops and high class tourists’). [2]  Moreover, because all of these destinations lay within a hundred miles of the capital, there was relatively little to be gained by sustained high speed, and, in turn, less to be lost by stopping in between.

Neither did the geography of south London and England encourage fast railways.  Instead of straightforward natural courses, such as the Thames presented to Brunel as he went westwards, the builders of railways to the south met almost immediately with long dissuading barriers of high ground.  The first is the ridge rising eastwards from southern Battersea towards Norwood and Sydenham, but beyond lie the North Downs, the Weald, and the South Downs, which can be punched through only with difficulty.  For example, the line from Tonbridge to Hastings passes through eight tunnels in the thirty-two miles of its length.

Thus the companies in the south laid speed aside in favour of a different goal: comprehensiveness of coverage, and not only for the passengers’ sake.  The railway barons were competing with each other for territory as much as for traffic, and often proved themselves willing to build new lines simply to pre-empt their rivals.  What was more, the fewer pickings south of London meant that there was less to be squabbled over, and this was how the suburbs, considered an obstacle north of London, came to be seen in the south as a market in their own right.

All this produced in this part of England a distinctive railway map, the unsung tangle of surface railways on which we have relied ever since.  A dense and wayward network it is, particularly those lines in London’s immediate suburbs and leading directly southwards towards Sussex that were known under British Rail as the ‘South Central Division’.

Geographical map of suburban south London railways, created with use of information © OpenStreetMap contributors
Here in the south is the realm of the ‘rolling English rail’, to paraphrase Chesterton: none of the self-containedness or single-mindedness of the north.  The southern suburban lines criss-cross each other like a board game, before sneaking alongside the main lines to run into startlingly grand termini (Waterloo, Victoria, Charing Cross, London Bridge).  They are inclined to diversions, to duplicating each other merrily and to winding circuitously around obstacles.  Who could blame London-bound travellers on the Tattenham Corner branch for being rather more doubtful than Philip Larkin about where precisely they are ‘aimed’?  Another difference with the North is that physical rail connections between lines are more common than on the Underground, so that trains can in theory be sent along a greater variety of routes.  All around the network it is possible to glimpse chords and spurs and sidings leading off round bends, curving away to who knows where?

This game of joining-the-dots has plenty of practical advantages.  One is the relative ease of travel eastwards and westwards, which can usually be done without having to go via central London.   This perspective of North London shows how all the railways (even the Tube) run quite independently of each other along north-south axes, so that the most practical route from (say) Mill Hill Broadway to Winchmore Hill involves either going all the way into London and out again, or resorting to the bus.  Their unrelenting linearity also restricts north Londoners to a single terminus.  Meanwhile, South London railway stations often enjoy direct services to two or sometimes three different London termini.  It is unusual to have to change trains more than once or twice between any two given south London stations.

And there are quirks and curiosities to match any of the Underground’s.  We have unusual and historic stations such as Peckham Rye or Crystal Palace, both of which see the phenomenon of London-bound trains departing in completely opposite directions.  Then there is Vauxhall, from whose name the Russian word for railway station comes, and Clapham Junction, the busiest station in Britain by the number of trains passing through.  And there is no shortage of memorable names: Gipsy Hill, or Penge West, or Elephant and Castle, or Tooting.  After staring for long enough at a map of the network, patterns loom forth and swirl around, such as the symmetry between Battersea in the west and Bermondsey in the east, echoed neatly by the nearby stations of Queens Road Peckham and Queenstown Road Battersea.
Clapham Junction, unusually quiet
Yet amid these uncritical remarks of mine must be heard another voice, as of a great multitude of passengers, wailing and gnashing their teeth, and saying, ‘But these trains are always late!  And slow!  And overcrowded!  And expensive!  And unreliable!  And late!’  And lo, their lament is far from groundless.  The same layouts that open up the variety of destinations and connections also produce conflicts in movements.  A case in point are the flat junctions, which send trains right across each others’ paths, hamper acceleration and constrain the timetable.  At most stations, the price to pay for the choice of routes is a frequency of trains far sparser than on the Underground.  The guiding principle in south London is this: everything is possible, but only once every half-hour.

The system’s complexity also displays its weaknesses by falling to pieces whenever anything goes wrong.  Disruption is rarely contained along one line or in one area, but spreads like wildfire across the congested network.  The failure of a single set of points can cause chaos in an apparently unrelated part of the network; spectacular delays can be accumulated over only a few miles.  And of course there is the South London trundle: first the hopeful acceleration to about 15mph, then the application of the brakes, slowly but surely gnawing away at the speedometer, slowing and slowing the pace nearer and nearer to a crawl, drawing closer and closer the inevitable red signal and yet always in denial: the signal refuses to change until progress has juddered to an emphatic 0.  And so on and so forth, all the way home. 

Since all railways, representing a noble ideal as they do, are difficult to construct, maintain and improve, most of these problems will remain unresolved for many years to come.  In the meantime, one radical way of surviving commuting, I have found, is to become interested in it.  After all, there is often plenty of time to sit and contemplate the network, even if that time is seldom set aside voluntarily.  Who knows, the long meditative silence of a signal failure might lead some fellow-passengers, not yet thoroughly hardened, to acknowledge that South London’s railways have a certain distinctive atmosphere.  Could it even be said that South London is made distinctive by its railways?  If the best way to see any landscape is by rail, in South London the railways themselves form some of the best aspects of the landscape.  For one thing, they maintain corridors of woodland that ought to be unthinkable this far into London, bringing the countryside deep into the city (just as roads, conversely, are take the town out into the country).  Someone unfamiliar with the area might reasonably think that from Streatham to Peckham Rye stretches a kind of wild garden, populated by occasional gables and chimneys.  Who knows: maybe the last boughs and branches of the old Norwood or Forest Hill are hidden away the in railway cuttings.
North Dulwich station
The suggestion of the rural is enhanced by a feature of the infrastructure: the system of electrification, which supplies power not via bristling overhead catenary but through a discreet ‘third rail’ at ground level.  This arrangement is relatively unusual for main line railways and has practical disadvantages of its own, but it does leave branches and sky unencumbered.  As a matter of fact the electrification programme, undertaken by the Southern Railway in the 1920s and 1930s, was really the only marketing campaign successful enough to mark out these railways as a rival to the Underground.  The Art Deco promise of refuge in suburbia,  brought within comfortable reach by the ‘Southern Electric’, did for the south what ‘Metroland’ had done for the north, and the slogan’s euphony even earned it a footnote in (north-Londoner) Betjeman’s poem ‘Love in a Valley’.  (Betjeman even mentions the third rail in that poem: ‘White down the valley curves the living rail’, he declares from his Coulsdon perch.)

I have wondered if this south London atmosphere exists most completely at Tulse Hill station, a place whose position can only be described as the very middle of deep south London.  The area it serves is much like the rest of the city, except for having served as an unlikely poet’s paradise for Jason Strugnell, Wendy Cope’s spoof 1980s alter ego.  The station itself is in many ways the South London station par excellence: it is a complete muddle.  It has the word ‘Hill’ in its name, for one thing; it has direct but distinctly unhurried services to two different London terminals, Blackfriars and London Bridge; it lies at the convergence of several different routes, and its capacity is constrained irredeemably by two overbridges at each end of its platforms.  (One of these, which crosses the South Circular, was the country’s second most collided-with overbridge last year).  Once a day at mid-morning Tulse Hill even has the quirk of a single Parliamentary train to Streatham Hill (no return).  Finally, after standing on the platform, having stared for long enough at the maps during the aeons of bleak winter-evening delays, there is some satisfaction to be gained in observing that from Tulse Hill the points can theoretically be set so that trains might set off in opposite directions, along quite different routes, and yet be able to reach either London Bridge or Victoria stations without having to reverse.  When the station was first opened, which will be 150 years ago next year, I doubt there seemed any particular reason for it to have been placed where it was.  Now the passenger whose train rounds the excruciatingly tight bends and lumbers at last into Tulse Hill has at least the assurance of being completely lost.

Here then in one place — and Tulse Hill, of all places — is a collection of features that are South London’s own.  On life goes, without anybody noticing; on the railway clunks.  Nobody notices that in north London there is nothing quite like it to be found.  Whether that is a shame or a relief is not necessarily the most pressing matter of the day, but it is enough, I think, to justify my claim that there is something special about the world this side of the Thames.
Tulse Hill station: a two-pronged approach from the south
References:
[1] Christian Wolmar, The Subterranean Railway (London: Atlantic, 2004), p. 14
[2]  R. W. Kidner, The Waterloo – Southampton Line (Oakwood, 1983), p.7.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

St David’s Ash Wednesday

Aberystwyth, St. David’s Day, 2016
Happy St David’s Day, even though it is also Ash Wednesday!  Let the people of Wales, and all who love Wales, turn to their patron in song.  Song is what the Welsh are best at: after all, there is no distinction in Welsh between poetry and music; there is only cerdd.  If Ireland is the land of saints and scholars, Wales is the home of monks and musicians.

May the Welsh people, who know better than most that anything that is not firm rock is deep water, never cease to mark St. David’s Day.

Dewi Sant, gweddia drosom ni!

Parêd Gŵyl Dewi Sant, Aberystwyth, 5 Mawrth 2016

Monday, February 20, 2017

Ruth Gipps Again

Today has brought us to the ninety-sixth anniversary of the birth of the composer Ruth Gipps; Thursday will be the eighteenth of her death.  So it is time for my annual lament about how little-known her music seems to be for a musician of her stature.  The list I have compiled here shows how few readily-available recordings there are.  Of her five symphonies, her proudest achievements, only the second has a decent recording.  Spirited performances of the third, fourth and fifth can only be heard through the fuzz of digitised tape recordings of varying quality, though much gratitude is due to those who have dug them out.

Anniversaries tend to spur things on in music, so I am hoping that her centenary, which is fast approaching, will be marked in some way.  I think she would be an ideal candidate for the Proms, for example.  Imagine how a live performance or even a decent recording of this, the climax of her fifth symphony’s first movement, would sound:

Ruth Gipps: Fifth Symphony. 
(The uploader has chosen a photograph of the Ribblehead Viaduct in the Pennines)

I know I am not alone in enjoying Ruth Gipps’ music. The second movement of her piano concerto was requested and broadcast on the BBC’s excellent Breakfast programme last week, and her neglect has been noted elsewhere on the Internet.  Her personality, which many found rather forthright, and her principles, which included an unashamed rejection of musical or cultural fashion and a readiness to express it, may not have helped her cause during her lifetime — nobody on whose life and works the only scholarly work is sub-titled ‘Anti-modernism, Nationalism and Difference’  can expect thunderous acclaim in the present age — but this is precisely what makes her character interesting, not least because, I think, it is  borne out in the spiky liveliness of her compositions (the third movements of  her fifth symphony or her piano concerto), as is a keen appetite and ear for the lyrical and the beautiful.  Ruth Gipps should be far better known!

Tuesday, February 07, 2017

Press On Wards

This blog does not usually venture into politics, but I think I can say that last June’s referendum on our membership of the European Union transcended politics: it was History (capital H!).  Since I wrote the flurry of posts at the time (on the eve of the vote, the following morning and the day after), it has all given me plenty to think about.

There was an interesting article yesterday from the BBC, which has been going through the details of the votes by electoral ward, every pocket of country, and finding trends and quirks in the result.  I find this fascinating —  it is proof of the variety and character of the country that has always been there.  To think of this result as a revolt by the English and Welsh ‘regions’ against the London ‘metropolitan elite’, with Scotland and Northern Ireland going their own way, was always rather a simplification.  The BBC finds all sorts of patterns — islands of one result isolated by swathes of the other, sharp contrasts between wards in similar regions — and so on.  The article asserts that the factor that correlated most strikingly with the results was the level of formal education.  The lower this was per ward, the more strongly that ward tended to vote to Leave.  Thus 82.5% of the people of Brambles and Thorntree in Middlesbrough, where 5% of people have a degree, voted to Leave; Market ward in Cambridge, which includes most of the colleges, voted 87.8% to Remain.  Rural areas and more deprived parts of England, on the fringes — places people never visit, which are the places I am interested in — were more likely to want to Leave.

Perhaps this goes some way towards explaining why I dithered so much about my vote.  On paper, it seems I ought to be a staunch Remainer.  I am in my twenties, have grown up in London and have a degree — come to that, a degree in French and German.  I am very fond of European cultures.  Yet I fall wholeheartedly, even gratefully, into the category of the ‘Left Behind’.  Perhaps the very interest I have in the particularity of the wards, even the delight I take in their names (Milkstone and Deeplish!  I had never heard of either) betrays this.   Globalisation, or at least globalised culture, makes me dizzy.  I feel much of the time as if I am living in the future, not the present.  I have never taken an international flight in my life; my instinctive idea of a holiday is not to go abroad but to plunge into the narrow hollows or intricate coastline of my own country.  It isn’t at all that I’m not curious and deeply interested in the whole world.  But I can only enjoy it in tiny mouthfuls, because everything I find I must savour.  (But how much does this have to do with the European Union?  I’m not sure).  I think, too, that I shared with Leave voters a feeling that sovereignty was the crux of the whole affair.  The nation is far looser and less important than the family (and the British have lost sight of this in the past) but there is the crucial similarity that we are, to a greater or lesser extent, rooted in both.  These feelings did not make me a Brexiteer any more than the others made me a Remainer, but I have more of an idea now why, almost alone it seems, I felt sympathy in such stubbornly equal parts towards ordinary voters (as opposed to campaigners) in both camps.  

In fact I don’t, incidentally, really think there ought to be a contradiction between these two feelings.  My studies and ventures into Europe made me more fiercely fond of my own country even as I came to know and understand French- and German-speaking cultures better.  It did not, however, stop me from dithering over my vote to the point of its hardly seeming to count…

I would be dithering still, if I allowed myself to.  But I have decided not to.  Now that we have a result, there is no reason why we should not all set to and try and make a success of it.
One way of seeing the result: A view northwards from Leith Hill, the highest point in south-eastern England, down across the Holmwoods ward (57% Leave) in the foreground, over Dorking South (63% Remain) in the dip this side of Box Hill in the middle distance, and then London, world city, practically its own nation and most certainly Remain, in the far distance.  All this variation in the landscape of Meredith and Vaughan Williams and the Lark Ascending.
Of course, I would be a lot happier about it all if I had more faith in the country.  It is often tempting to despair at the scale of the decline of civility, the collapse of marriage and the family, the unthinking public swearing, the callous behaviour on the roads, the ugliness in both popular and high culture, the characterlessness of architecture, the dry tonelessness of language, the dictatorship of relativism, the moral uncertitude, the unhappiness of so many people — especially among young people of my generation, where it might least be expected — the materialism it is such an effort to resist, the crush of fashion, the burdens that people have to shoulder, often alone.  

But then I take myself in hand.  There are many people trying, and indeed succeeding, in doing good, all over the place.  Often they are not seen, which is the proof of the goodness of their actions.  And there are all sorts of movements, ideas, societies, choirs, clubs, even traditions, that carry on unobtrusively without making a spectacle of themselves.  One of the things I was wholeheartedly pleased to see in the referendum was the quiet but firm subversion of celebrity culture, which I would once cynically have supposed held us all in a glitzy grip.  And there are legions of good and just people — I could reel off the names of a hundred people, known to me, many my friends, who number among them — who will not let civilisation crumble on their watch.

Postscript: By the way, I think we should resist the drawing of comparisons between our own referendum and events trans-Atlantic.  It may be that both represent an apparently-unexpected popular uprising, but what has happened in America is the triumph of a brand, whereas the British referendum went the way it did precisely because it was unbranded.  The question was put to us with few bearings, and without the attachments of the main parties, so people voted more freely.  So in my opinion it is unwise to speak of the two events in the same breath, and certainly not allow our feelings about one to affect our opinion of the other.  Right, enough politics!

Friday, January 06, 2017

On a Wise Queen



One among many Christmas Day traditions in our family is ‘the Queen’ — assembling in front of the telly just in time for H.M.’s Christmas broadcast at three in the afternoon.  This annual broadcast of under ten minutes’ length might be easy to take for granted.  The National Anthem is played at the beginning, the Queen delivers her message, and there is another piece of music at the end.  Its simplicity, dignity and reassuring mood are often thrown into relief by the B.B.C.’s tendency to sandwich it between frenetic adverts for the usual televisual fare.  Yet while the Queen speaks, all is calm. 

I know I’ve written plenty already in praise of monarchy in principle and the person of our present monarch.  But it needs repeating: Queen Elizabeth is a tower of strength, strength that she has proved in endurance and constancy.  And I think in the Christmas broadcasts of recent years she has become — to me — noticeably franker about her understanding of the source of this strength.  I thought this year’s (the whole text of which can be read here) was remarkable in several ways.  Here are the last paragraphs:
When people face a challenge they sometimes talk about taking a deep breath to find courage or strength.  In fact, the word ‘inspire’ literally means ‘to breathe in’.  But even with the inspiration of others, it’s understandable that we sometimes think the world’s problems are so big that we can do little to help.  On our own, we cannot end wars or wipe out injustice, but the cumulative impact of thousands of small acts of goodness can be bigger than we imagine.

At Christmas, our attention is drawn to the birth of a baby some two thousand years ago.  It was the humblest of beginnings, and his parents, Joseph and Mary, did not think they were important. 


Jesus Christ lived obscurely for most of his life, and never travelled far.  He was maligned and rejected by many, though he had done no wrong.  And yet, billions of people now follow his teaching and find in him the guiding light for their lives.  I am one of them because Christ’s example helps me see the value of doing small things with great love, whoever does them and whatever they themselves believe.
This is, as any of Elizabeth’s churchgoing subjects will know, strong stuff by the standards of modern Britain — not least since these words follow a quotation from St Teresa of Calcutta and a reference to her canonisation.  It is well-known, I suppose, that the Queen takes her faith very seriously, but here it is expressed with an ear-catching boldness.  The media hunger for the slightest morsel of the Queen’s personal opinions, but here is one that she has chosen carefully to make known.  There can be no mistake about the bell-clear words, "I am one of them."  And she is speaking not only to viewers who share her faith but, as always, to "you all".  It can fairly be called evangelistic.

There must over the years have been no shortage of advisors wringing their hands at this aspect of the Queen’s person, urging her to water it down lest she appear ‘out-of-touch’, that gravest of modern sins.   But the vows she once made, and has unfailingly kept, were to God as much as to her people.  She has known that she could not be just to the latter without being faithful to the former.  Her faith is the foundation of her understanding of the dramatic, fulfilling idea of vocation (largely neglected by our unhappy, rudderless age) which, in turn, underpins her life and reign.  She has received a calling, and having answered it, has not faltered. 

And there is a remarkable humility and saneness in that sentence, “I am one of them.”  With these piercing monosyllables the Queen punches through the distraction of her extraordinary situation: we should all have the same attitude, she is saying, since we all have our vocations to ‘some definite service’, and this makes us equal.  She has answered hers; we each should answer ours.  It is the proof of her level-headedness that she, one of the greatest women on earth, who has always had to be great, has seen and is able to assure us if we only ‘do small things with great love’, we will have done our part.  I submit, of course, that she has also done a great thing with great love.

People on television often praise the Queen for her ‘service’, which irritates me since I sometimes suspect they are trying to avoid using the word ‘reign’.  Of course she has served, but it is more complicated than that.  She has served us by reigning over us, and in doing so also served God.  And the humble acceptance of a great office is a humbler, worthier thing than even the television personalities are hoping for.

Thus on this feast of the Epiphany I record my gratitude for a living monarch who kneels with the three Kings, and who has been rewarded with a wisdom that makes her worthy not only of her subjects’ loyalty to her office, but of their trust in her person.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

‘Pax hominibus bonae voluntatis…’

This atmospheric Christmas poem was written just over a century ago by Robert Bridges, in his first year as Poet Laureate:
Noel: Christmas Eve, 1913 — Robert Bridges.
Pax hominibus bonae voluntatis.

A frosty Christmas Eve
   when the stars were shining
Fared I forth alone
   where westward falls the hill,
And from many a village
   in the water’d valley
Distant music reach’d me
   peals of bells a-ringing:
The constellated sounds
   ran sprinking on earth’s floor
As the dark vault above
   with stars was spangled o’er.

Then sped my thoughts to keep
   that first Christmas of all
When the shepherds watching
   by their folds ere the dawn
Heard music in the fields
   and marvelling could not tell
Whether it were angels
   or the bright stars singing.

Now blessed be the tow’rs
   that crown England so fair
That stand up strong in prayer
   unto God for our souls:
Blessed be their founders
   (said I) an’ our country folk
Who are ringing for Christ
   in the belfries to-night
With arms lifted to clutch
   the rattling ropes that race
Into the dark above
   and the mad romping din.

But to me heard afar
   it was starry music
Angels’ song, comforting
   as the comfort of Christ
When he spake tenderly
   to his sorrowful flock:
The old words came to me
   by the riches of time
Mellow’d and transfigured
   as I stood on the hill
Heark’ning in the aspect
   of th’ eternal silence.
Gerald Finzi used these very English words in his Christmas cantata In Terra Pax, though the third stanza is replaced by words from the second chapter of Luke’s Gospel:
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.  And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.  And the angel said unto them,

Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.   For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.  And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
Luke 2: 8–14 (KJV)

Finzi’s decision to quote Luke where he does leaves the identity of ‘the same country’ satisfyingly ambiguous.  For Bridges’ words are set unmistakeably in England — perhaps Oxfordshire, known to both Finzi and Bridges — and the words from Scripture seem to follow the poem seamlessly, as if it had been on the same hill that both poet and the shepherds had stood.  Thus the composer leaves undisturbed that unspoken myth, once wished-for and half-believed by everyone in England, and perpetuated by such carols as ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ or Warlock’s Bethlehem Down, that Christ must have been born somewhere in England, preferably in the Home Counties, perhaps enfolded by a chalky Sussex woodland or a wooded Surrey dene.  After all, where else could He have been born?

Ah, what shall we do with the incorrigible English?  Well, today’s not the day to worry about that.  Glory to God in the highest, peace to people of goodwill, and a merry Christmas to all readers.