How I came to be married

There were 4 or 5 of us doing Physics at Oriel in my year. If you had asked any of them who was the least likely to get married it would have been me. After we graduated I think they laid a bet on my being the last. And so it came as a surprise when in fact I was the first - it surprised me too!

I have recorded else-where some of my earlier would-be sweethearts. It didn't take very long for the penny to drop and thus I vowed never again to try to make a relationship happen. If God wanted me married I figured He could arrange it.

Cheam Baptist Church

There was a girl, a blonde, who played guitar in our Young People's meetings at NFC. She was several years older and thus out of my reach but I respected and looked up to her. I liked her guitar playing. When I started working for the BBC I found lodgings in Sutton and started going to CBC which happened to be where this girl went. So it was natural that I should look out for her and renew acquaintance. Being a nervous newbie I sat at the back - and saw a head of hair I thought might be her. When, after the meeting, this person turned around to leave I saw my mistake but also saw love at first sight. So I slyly followed her to the car park and found she drove a white Triumph Spitfire. I was duly impressed.

1960's Triumph Spitfire

I decided to find out where she lived so the following week after church I tailed her - me in my 600 cc two-cylinder horizontally-opposed Ami 8. It was some chase and I have to admit she got the better of me, but by driving up and down every street in the area I tracked the car down and thus narrowed the search to a couple of houses either side of where it was parked.

1971 Citroen Ami 8

Fervent in prayer and cognisant of my vow I allowed myself to go no further than as follows. I had a friendly yellow bicycle with 3-speed Sturmey Archer gears (sadly it was later stolen) and it was in the habit of going for rides at weekends. I dooned old clothes and, since in those days bell-bottom trousers could easily get caught in the chain, bicycle clips, and set out on an arduous ride planning my return to go past her lodging. I knocked on what I judged to be the correct house and, wonder of wonders, she came to the door to behold me in all my sweaty and bicycle-clippy glory.  My party piece was to invite her to "Sunday afternoon tea" (what else for a first date?). She declined. Then, being polite, conceded - perhaps another time? But I rejoiced - I had purposely made myself unattractive and yet had made first contact.

I do not think the afternoon tea ever happened but from then on we started a friendship. We had both started going to the church at about the same time and because our work took us to the area. We both had an interest in working with young people and ended up "teaching" in the JBF (Junior Bible Fellowship) for young teens. We sometimes prayed together for these youngsters. And many such sometimes later I blurted out that I loved her and asked her to marry me. She declined. She said she had never thought of me in that way and could we be "just good friends". I considered this to be impossible and so we started seeing less of each other.  I told her that if ever she changed her mind she could write me a postcard.

The postcard idea came from one of my father's much repeated stock of jokes. "If you get left behind just send us a postcard and we'll come and pick you up".

I had done what I allowed myself to do. The ball was now firmly in the court of Providence. All I could do was to wait. I do not know how long it was - it seemed an age but I doubt if it was more than a couple of months - before the postcard came. And so we were engaged and the rest, as they say, is history.

One of the things one has to do is to meet the parents. I rang my mother to say I was coming home for the weekend and could I bring a friend? Wisely she asked if it was a special friend... and later observed that she had always reckoned it would be like this - one moment unattached, the next moment a serious relationship and I'd come home with the girl of my dreams on my shoulder. As soon as they met Ali they approved of her, so that was the first hurdle crossed.

Came the time to ask her father for her hand in marriage. Her parents were then living in a rather grandiose house near Brockam, Surrey. We arranged to come for a meal and I did the necessary and in reply he asked if I "had the means to provide for her in the way in which she was accustomed" - to which I said I thought that I did, having a better than average job in the BBC. Doubtless to calm my nerves he then invited me to a drink. Not being used to being presented with a well stocked drinks cabinet I blurted out the only thing I thought was at all appropriate - a shot of Bénédictine - which was duly served and consumed. I think he had sherry and, whilst sipping mine, I wished I had chosen his.

I could (but will not) talk about the intense pleasure of even the slightest physical contact at Leith hill or how, once married, I solved the problem of which way up, and so forth.  Which makes me wonder - why is the older (at least British) generation so bad at communicating with the younger generation, or vice versa, about such things?

Is it not strange that it never occurs to the young to benefit from the possible wisdom of older folk who have so obviously gone through the process of growing up, falling in love, getting married, intercourse (hard for a young person to believe) and raising children. Indeed, when young, one imagines that any experiences the last generation might have had would be totally out-dated and not even worth asking about. Or one is too embarrassed. Do they think we have never had sexual feelings? Do they think we would laugh at their immaturity or naivety? Goodness - what do they think? Whereas when those of us who are older see youngsters struggling, we would gladly reach out a hand. But to be the instigator: for me it is once-bitten-twice-shy, I have been the fool and am now too cautious to go where angels fear to tread. If, should be, someone who qualifies as "younger" is reading this post, consider carefully. Folk older than you have had, still have, like passions...

Lies, damned lies and statistics

Mark Twain

The quotation "Lies, damned lies, and statistics" is attributed to Mark Twain.

Doing dishes I overhead A explaining that the chance of my daughter-in-law having had three girls in a row was 1 in 8 and yet, should she be pregnant again, the chance of the next child being a girl was only 50%. Mathematics which I cannot eschew. But J could not believe this logic. The flaws, of course, are that the statements give no credence to providence and that laws of chance are hardly application to isolated events. And thus many folk use statistics to lie.

Even though I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to those with knowledge, but time and chance happen to them all.

How easy it is for me to live a lie. Onlookers call this hypocrisy but I know it is my comfort zone. The story is told, long ago, of a man who chopped down a choice tree: half he used to build a fire to warm himself and cook a meal; the rest he fashioned an idol from to which he prayed saying "Deliver me, for you are my God". The teller observes that the man seems unaware of and cannot deliver himself from the "lie in his right hand". Sure, I couldn't carve an idol if tried - but I know about that lie - not all of what I purport to be is truth. There is too much trash and tinsel.

I'd like to be like Stephen who "looked steadfastly to heaven" whilst his persecutors lobbed rocks at him. But maybe the two things go together and I don't like the idea of the rocks - I'm too much of a coward. To make this point (for those that care to listen) for this Thursday's American themed fancy dress I plan to go as Little Plum:

And as for luck, for which chance is sometimes mistaken - "Daughter," said the Hermit, "I have now lived a hundred and nine winters in this world and have never yet met any such thing as Luck. Them is something about all this that I do not understand: but if ever we need to know it, you may be sure that we shall."

Golden Falls

Last time I ran from Poulaphouca to Ballymore Eustace via the Golden Falls lake I had no camera, so to make amends...

The complete route 20.2 km

Showing the hard incline out of Ballymore

Detail of off-road segment past the Golden Falls dam

From Poulaphouca to Ballymore Eustace is off-road and much more overgrown than the last time I did this route, with stinging nettles and thistles to avoid but hopefully no deer ticks. The two photos below are of the "roadway" I referred to in my last post, along which I ran - as you can see it is artificially raised above the field level, for what purpose I know not but it must have taken someone a lot of effort.

Embankment at 'A' looking towards 'B'

Ruin at 'B'

Embankment at 'C' looking towards 'D'

Golden Falls dam at 'D'

Same

The Golden Falls hydro scheme was commissioned in 1943 and has a 4MW capacity which is not a lot but I suppose is better than nothing.  To get to where I took the photos I had to cross a barb wire fence and accidentally trod on some barb wire that someone had helpfully left concealed in the grass. One got the feeling someone didn't want folk going this way. The puncture didn't draw blood and I have since cleaned and plastered it.  The thing is, sad to say, the world is no longer barefoot friendly. Having said that, issues of this kind are very rare if one is sensible.

Historic photo of same, I was at left-hand end of the dam

Well-worn path from dam to old woolen mill

The Liffey below the dam at 'E'

The Liffey below the dam at 'E'

Pukka footbridge over water treatment outflow at 'F'

In addition to the Poulaphouca and Golden Falls hydro schemes, The Ballymore water treatment plant also takes water from the Blessington Lake and adds all manner of chemicals to make it suitable for Dubliners to drink. Personally I am glad our water comes from a deep well and is not treated at all (well, not wittingly). So the bridge above crosses a small stream which comes from the treatment plant and contains, I suppose, all the stuff the Dubliners didn't want in their water. In spite of that the stream appeared reasonably clear.

Rain at last

This morning it was doing what it said on the forecast tin - it was actually raining! So I set off, a little cold at first. But the water was so warm in comparison!

In search of rain

The weather forecasts have been predicting thundery rain storms for the past couple of weeks and I wait in anticipation.  True there has been occasional precipitation but - well take yesterday (from whence come the first three pictures). The forecast was for 21mm of rain to fall mostly in the last afternoon. So I timed my run for as late as feasible hoping to enjoy a shower. True it did rain an eensy weenie bit, but not the considerable downpour 21mm suggested. I was checking the rain radar maps before my run and there were storms all around Blessington lake but none just where I was.

Unusual dog who tailed me all the way from home and then disappeared

Unusual view of storm brewing over Blessington

Unusual vegetation on Blessington lake shore

I repeated the exercise today. The forecast predicted rain early afternoon so that's when I set out. I watched the clouds, tried to predict from the direction they were travelling, then gave up the unequal challenge and decided instead to have a luxurious swim and then lie in the sun to dry before setting off again.

Unusual view (for me, lying on beach enjoying the sun)

Which only goes to show that, in spite of the accolade "Emerald Isle", in fact it does not often rain in Ireland. Well, not when you want it to.  I run four times a week at fairly predictable times and it is unusual to experience rainfall.

Wheels in Motion

The following from the Air France in-flight magazine on the way back from Sweden tickled me...

It should be on sale in a drugstore, available on prescription. The bicycle is without a doubt the best medicine for the city. And for the countryside and mountains as well. It is a universal language. It moves silently, occasionally ringing out or tinkling (the Amsterdam sound), placing a layer of rubber between our calves and the asphalt. It's the ideal synapse (contact between two cells) for understanding the city with its melancholy moods, its utopias and paradoxes. Its odors and aromas. You can cross it without disturbing anyone, stopping within the space of 20 centimeters. You can step off it, and out of its frame, to gain a fresh perspective. Insults aren't necessary, as cyclists are generally people of goodwill. The world may feel fast and furious, a rough and tumble place, but the cyclist is immune to all that, arriving more or less at the same time as those rushing headlong about. So we should all take to two wheels to discover cities, beginning with our own, gliding along like a finger sliding across a misted-up window, gathering the sweet nectar of an endless leisurely ride: gazes exchanged with others, a patch of sky, a new place for coffee. The bike is the voice of freedom, but also of knowledge. You can talk to people on a bike, for speech is within its sphere, not drowned out by engine noise. What I most like is the sensual dimension of cycling, when your body merges with the flow of the air, and you become part of a different cosmos, leaving no trace behind, just a sillage. For the bicycle is akin to the realm of perfumes. Like them, it has a changing, evanescent, silent dimension, verging on essence. It is essential.  François Simon

This edition majored on cycling and there was an article on Japan's Shimanami Kaido bike-way which is a "spectacular 60-kilometer road-and-bridge network connecting Japan's main island of Honshu with Shikoku (the nation's fourth largest island), it spans six smaller islands in the process and features bike and pedestrian lanes for its entire length." Wow, how I would love to do that route! Though on second thoughts I'd have to hire a bike and maybe there'd be too many people...

Japan's Shimanami Kaido

And I found this cartoon which I just about understood the gist of despite the vernacular. Click to enlarge the image.

May blossom

The may blossom (it's late this year) is beautiful this year - it always reminds me of my father, whose birthday was in May.

On my (barefoot) run this morning I went down to the lake hoping to swim but had to abort because the crack under my left big toe was hurting. It's always the left big toe that develops the crack in spite of care I give it. So I have duly administered pink Germolene and Elastoplast.

Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?

Still trying for the perfect selfie...

Three books

Seminary boy is an autobiography of a boy whose father is somewhat dysfunctional who, at age 13, is "called" to the priesthood and endures "arcane masochisms and bizarre prostrations that only a Catholic can fully appreciate". At minor seminary he discovers class mates who are homosexual (though is not himself) and one priest-teacher even tries to seduce him. Graduating to senior seminary it all becomes too much and he renounces his faith, settles down to married life, only to later return to Catholicism. I was surprised at this return after all he had suffered, but he elegantly notes that What we are escaping is not God at all, but false representations, the 'trash and tinsel', as Yeats once put it, that pass for him. So, 'hatred of God may bring the soul to God'.

I well know this "trash and tinsel". Maybe I am becoming too cynical, too judgmental in finding more and more difficulty in singing certain Christian songs with any conviction. The Jesus I read about in the gospels seems distant from some of the slush that we sing.

There has been much and well deserved exposé recently of the sexual abuse of children, examples being made of Catholic priests. A side-effect is that we have become paranoid: youth workers now needing police clearance, parents nervous about ever leaving their children unattended in public places. Characters like Rupert Bear, who has free and often solitary reign of the whole of Nutwood, are clearly no longer PC.

The second is that old favourite, Kim which begins evocatively He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam Zammah on her brick platform... Later Kim, an orphan, is described as a young man, evidently a neophyte, of singular, though unwashen, beauty. And the book ends likewise evocatively with the lama who crossed his hands on his lap and smiled, as a man may who has won salvation for himself and his beloved.

And along the way the horse dealer Mahbub Ali tells: 'Thou art beyond question an unbeliever, and therefore thou wilt be damned. So says my Law--or I think it does. But thou art also my Little Friend of all the World, and I love thee. So says my heart;

and the lama: 'A blessing on thee... I have known many men in my so long life, and disciples not a few. But to none among men, if so be thou art woman-born, has my heart gone out as it has to thee--thoughtful, wise, and courteous; but something of a small imp.';

and Kim himself, who had loved him [the lama] without reason, now loved him for fifty good reasons. So they enjoyed themselves in high felicity, abstaining, as the Rule demands, from evil words, covetous desires; not over-eating, not lying on high beds, nor wearing rich clothes.

Of course, you say, Kipling lived in a different age so would not have written anything sexually explicit. Some say that Kipling was gay. I say that he was an honest man and would have written no differently today.

A man's sexuality cannot be isolated from the rest of him and, so they say, men think about sex once every 7 seconds. I do not mean to imply that Kipling's characters had no feelings but rather that they were very human, just as I am. And that is what endears the book to me. Can it not be that the lama and Mahbub Ali loved Kim, period? As a father loves his son, if you will? A friend of mine, when I suggested that his daughter was dressing provocatively, told me that it was I who had the problem. Is that the only solution to the equation? What marks a "gay" man is that he has chosen to let his sexual feelings manifest in a particular way. I cannot say whether some men may be more inclined in that way or not, but I do know there is at least a degree of personal choice involved.

The third book, which I have not yet finished, is also about a boy whose father is dysfunctional, and it is written from the perspective of a family friend who recognises the boy's plight, loves him and tries to get involved but is met with rejection at every turn and is even accused of homosexuality. And, forever after, he is left wondering who was right.

Around the lake in eighty minutes

The water level in our lake is quite low making shore-line circumnavigation feasible barefoot.  In case anyone should be foolish enough to copy me I must point out that there are stony areas where you have to pick your way, areas where your feet sink to the ankles or more in gooey mud (not good if you are wearing shoes, but wonderfully soothing barefoot), and the Kings River to cross, not to mention small streams. As you can see, in defiance of municipal orders, I swam across the Kings River "estuary". Which of course I cannot condone. The other bits where it looks like I was swimming lie - it is because of the current low water level.

Early Sunday morning, I had the lake to myself, although at other times I have found people fishing and we meet each thinking the other out of their mind.

Total distance 7.53 miles / 11.53km, average speed slow!

Barefoot running in Sweden

My recent trip to Sweden found me in Västerås for one night either side of our two day conference at Kaffala and each day I managed to squeeze in a run. Sweden is a very clean and well appointed country, very barefoot friendly - I could gladly live there if I had the means.

First the Kafalla pictures. Both the roads and forest tracks here are good for barefoot running. The aerial view summarizes the routes I took. Of particular interest is the red route which is a circuit beginning and ending at a primary school. It runs through a sparse forest and is a well made track with street-lighting all the way, and a teepee to boot. I just cannot imagine any entity in Ireland spending that sort of money just to give kids a safe but beautiful route to walk around. I enjoyed running it both days.

As always, click on an image to zoom in.

Kafalla environs

The left-hand map corresponds to the aerial view above

This is part of the red route, note the street-lamps!

More red route

Near bottom of blue route

Small hydro scheme rated 90kW at bottom of blue route

Kafalla lake

Crossing the river at top of yellow route

Bridge at same, heading east

Lichen on red route

Teepee on red route

The school where the red route begins and ends

The next pictures are from my runs in Enhagen-Ekbacken, Västerås which is a port on an extensive inland lake or waterway that links with Stockholm. Our hosts own a boat and sometimes make that trip.

Private jetty near to our hosts' house

A golf course adjacent to the road had no fence so I gladly enjoyed it

I wonder why people bother with golf when they could run barefoot here?

Most of the roads around here have well-kept generous cycle tracks

The lake