WEEKEND BREAK (8)

BUCKING THE TREND . . . AND RECALLING A POP STAR’S GREAT ESCAPE

 

I had a delightful coffee morning catch-up the other day with Francesca Peterson (nee Hanikova), a trainee reporter under me on the Falmouth Packet in the early 1980s and who, like several others, then left me standing by carving out a stellar career in journalism and PR.

 

We chose the Falmouth Hotel – where word had clearly spread that the hotel is very much BACK, under its new ownership, after too many years of dull stagnation.

 

It’s now just one of four hotels left on the seafront and it was so good to see this grand old lady coming alive again and bucking the closure trend.

 

The lounges were pretty much full well before 11 and the whole place was absolutely buzzing.

 

All we need now is just a little fine-tuning with the background music, which was a tad inconsistent and occasionally just too loud.  

 

Oh, and we were mortified to learn that they didn’t do CAKES with their coffee (which was excellent)! 

 

Overall, though – also based on an earlier lunch I had there plus word of mouth from friends who stayed overnight – it deserves top marks for a great resurrection.

 

Among Francesca’s Packet trainee memories, meanwhile, there was the unscheduled visit to this same hotel by pop superstar Simon Le Bon in 1985.

 

It led to extraordinary scenes – and to Francesca being caught up in it all and mistaken for Le Bon’s “girl.”

 

Le Bon, leader of top group Duran Duran, had ended up at the Falmouth after his £1 million yacht had overturned in the Fastnet Race. Consequently, more than 40 national press and TV folk descended on the hotel – as did scores of excited young fans.

 

Children waving autograph books besieged Francesca when she arrived, shouting: “Are you Simon’s girl?”  And when she laughed and said “yes” sarcastically, the books were thrust into her face for signing. 

 

Le Bon decided he just had to get away from it all  – he was locked up in a private lounge – and so he dramatically leapt out of a window to flee to a more peaceful destination.

 

Waiting cannily outside that very window, though, was Falmouth freelance photographer David Brenchley.  His picture of Le Bon’s “vanishing act” was published in several national newspapers the next day! 

 

BETTER JUST TO STICK YOUR FINGER IN THE AIR!

 

Just as you can go off people (see Clare Balding, Weekend Break No 6), so you can lose faith in things.

 

Such as weather forecasts. 

 

Last Friday teatime, the heavens opened and there was the mother and father of a prolonged thunderstorm over Falmouth and beyond.  

 

As I took shelter and waited for it to pass, I checked the BBC forecast, which until then had offered no hint of this.

 

It had been “updated” all of half an hour earlier, it said, and still there was not so much as a hint of heavy rain, let alone any lightning symbol. 

 

At that point, I lost all faith in the forecast. 

 

(Except that, strangely, I still keep looking at it.  Regularly . . . )

 

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLDER WHEN . . . 

 

. . . you eagerly accept an offer of a blanket over your legs at a cold football ground!

 

There I was, sitting in the new Truro City Stadium last Saturday at the start of the second half, when Wendy Anear, beside me, asked if I would like to share hers.

 

It suddenly seemed like a cracking good idea, but I checked first: “Doesn’t Ian want it?”

 

Hubby didn’t, apparently, so half of it was all mine for the duration.

 

It was (warm) icing on the cake in an afternoon which saw another win for City, keeping them second in their league table and ripe for promotion, and a bumper crowd of 33 short of 2,000.  The club, in fact, is absolutely buzzing.

 

So I’ll be back – especially if I know there’s a cosy blanket on offer!  

 

SAFETY IN NUMBERS

 

Three weeks into the new refuse collection system (see Weekend Break No 6) and not everyone, it seems, has quite yet grasped it.

 

On my way home mid-morning on Wednesday, I noticed a neighbour looking up and down the road and then placing his wheelie bin and food caddy outside his gates.

 

“I always put my stuff out later than everyone else,” he explained, “just so I can see first what they’ve all done; then I can be sure I’ve got it right!” 

 

COULDN’T HAVE PUT IT BETTER MYSELF!

 

Jack Russell, ex-England wicketkeeper (think floppy sun hat) turned artist reflected in a Telegraph interview: “The world disappears when you paint.  (The  canvas) is your world. It’s like going to the moon, which means it is somewhere where there is nobody else. 

 

“It helped me totally switch off, which is not always easy when your career is on the line every ball.” 

 

I can so relate to those sentiments – and, in my case, with never-ending gratitude to my teacher, Jeanni Grant-Nelson https://www.visual-awareness.com/

 

RICK STEIN’S FAIR COP

 

By my reckoning, it’s now 50 years, give or take a few months, since the birth of the Rick Stein empire (make that phenomenon). 

 

Talk about little acorns and mighty oaks.  It all began with the launch of his Seafood Restaurant as a small harbourside bistro in Padstow with his then wife Jill.  

 

The “phenomenon” might never have come to pass, though, but for a brush with the law the year before – as this dip into my archive, for a piece first published here in 2015, shows:--

 

. . . .  In a previous life, I handled PR for Cornwall Association of Tourist Attractions (CATA), which involved working with its popular long-serving secretary Graham Hooper.  

 

Graham told me how, back in 1974, as a police inspector, he led a raid on Rick’s premises, leading to his prosecution for not having the proper liquor licences.  

 

Rick had begun his business life with a mobile quayside nightclub in Padstow, which unfortunately was linked to frequent brawls with local fishermen.

 

In 1997, with his CATA cap on, Graham said in a letter to Rick: “Having watched a number of your programmes, it is as plain as the nose on my face that you are ‘selling’ the county in a way which we, the ‘experts,’ have been striving so hard to do but, in the main, have failed to achieve.  . . . . 

 

“Hearty congratulations from my members and myself.  We will, together with numerous other businesses involved in our industry, benefit from your efforts.”

 

The second reason for writing, Graham explained, was “entirely different and long overdue.”  One of his first tasks as a Bodmin-based police inspector, he recalled, was to lead the police raid on Rick’s premises and to prosecute him in court for not having the proper liquor licences.

 

Graham wrote: “You were, of course, found guilty, and I well recall your comment to the magistrates.  You said something like ‘I’m sorry, but I simply cannot run my business without selling my clients drinks.’  

 

“It was not, of course, what they wanted to hear you say, preferring a forelock-tugging grovel, and I only hope it didn’t increase the penalty they imposed to any extent.  

 

“The matter is now off my chest and I only hope that your businesses, which I have watched go from strength to strength (despite my efforts all those years ago) continue to thrive and, by so doing, continue to show those from elsewhere just how much beauty and mystery, plus quality, Cornwall has to offer.”

 

Rick replied that he was “extremely pleased” to hear from Graham, adding: “I remember you well and remember that extremely low point in my life when we had that dreadful club.  

 

“I used to try and hide the fact that the restaurant began as a rather badly-run disco because it didn’t seem to fit in with the right image for a chef, but I then realised that everybody was so interested in it that I have done very well out of it.

 

“The police did me a lasting favour in taking away the club licences because it forced me to go into cooking and open the restaurant.  Everything has stemmed from that.”  

 

He concluded: “It was so nice of you to write to me.  I always thought you were a very reasonable and decent person and never felt you were doing anything but your job and, as I said, you did me a great favour!” 

WEEKEND BREAK (7)

OUR GEOFFREY: POLITICIAN ‘FOR ALL THE RIGHT REASONS’

 

If ever a fellow deserved the Freedom of Falmouth - recently granted to him - it would surely be Councillor Geoffrey Evans, currently the town’s longest-serving public figure and mayor a record 12 times during his 51 years and counting on the town council.

 

Unless my powers of judgement are seriously questionable, Geoffrey has repeatedly demonstrated that he, more than most, has been in politics “for all the right reasons.”

 

His record of public service, both openly and behind the scenes, has been genuinely outstanding and truly exceptional. Okay, I’ll go a step further and say it:  he is the very antithesis of most people’s idea of a politician. 

 

It was a fact royally recognised with his award of the MBE in 2018 by the late Queen Elizabeth II.

 

He met Her Majesty in Falmouth on several occasions, perhaps most notably during her visit in 1977 as part of her Silver Jubilee.

 

Certainly, that visit left Geoffrey – who represents my own Arwenack ward - with one of his fondest royal memories of them all.

 

It was the day the Queen gave royal approval to our national dish!

 

As she left the Prince of Wales Pier, having come ashore from the Royal Yacht Britannia, she said to Geoffrey: “I wonder what I’m going to receive today.” He replied:  You never know, it might be a Cornish pasty.”

 

He subsequently told me: “As we left the Town Hall, a little girl ran up to her and gave her three pasties. The Queen looked at me as if to say ‘Is this planned?’ – it wasn’t – and we had a really good laugh together.

 

“I later asked if she had liked the pasties.  She said she had cut them up and sampled each one of them – and found them very enjoyable.”

 

 

‘OK, GIMME THE FACTS . . . ER, HUBBY’

 

It would be easy to suspect that BBC news “impartiality” has never been under closer scrutiny.

 

Perceived bias in the corporation is not exactly new, though, having been on the go for just about as long as I can remember.

 

One example of potential bias that was not generally “perceived,” however, used to be on the regional airwaves from time to time back in the 1970s.

 

As well as being regularly grilled by intrepid local reporters, Ian Sutherland, then managing director at Falmouth Docks, was also to be heard on BBC Radio’s Morning Sou’ West programme (i.e. long before Radio Cornwall was born).

 

The interviewer would often be announced as Peta Riley. Initially, I knew nothing of her background and wondered who this fearless, investigative journalist, aiming to lift the lid off the affairs at the troubled yard, could possibly be.

 

It was only a little further down the line that I learnt the cosy “truth.” Peta was, in fact, Ian’s wife, using her maiden name.

 

And in local journalistic circles, it was widely understood that such interviews were conducted – wait for it – on the edge of the sofa in the comfort of the Sutherlands’ lounge!  

 

 

The Monster Tale I WAS Prepared To Believe (I Think)

 

I’ve just caught up with BBC2’s Loch Ness: They Created A Monster, which put the spotlight on the hunters who camped out on the shores of the Scottish loch throughout the 1970s and ‘80s.

 

But still the question lingers: was/is Nessie for real?  Ditto, for that matter, Morgawr the legendary Falmouth sea monster, which also captured worldwide media attention during those decades.

 

I’ve often asked myself that question, as in: “C’mon, son, do you really believe in this stuff?”

 

I was always tempted to conclude “Of course not.”

 

But in amongst the many reported “sightings” of Morgawr – which occupied much of my time as a freelance journalist back in the day – I have always remembered one such that truly stood out.

 

The late Falmouth author Sheila Bird, who researched the subject in depth, claimed to have seen the monster off Portscatho in 1985.

 

She described it as some 20 feet long, with a long neck, small head and a large hump protruding high out of the water, with a long muscular tail visible just below the surface.

 

The sighting was shared, she added, by her brother, Dr Eric Bird, an accomplished scientist.

 

She said they watched the creature for several minutes before it submerged. It did not dive, but “dropped vertically like a stone, without leaving a ripple.”

 

 

I knew Sheila very well, both writing about her in my professional capacity and as a  close neighbour . . . 

 

. . . and I simply cannot imagine that she would have made up such a thing, let alone go public with it unless she was certain of what she had seen.  It just wouldn’t have been Sheila.

 

 

A WEE TALE BEST NOT TOLD?

 

(Readers of a sensitive nature may prefer to skip this item.)

 

My newspaper reading last weekend (always so much to wade through – love it!) included this little gem from best-selling author Matt Haig –

 

“I remember having a wee next to Paul McCartney. I’m a nervous wee-er and I always struggle if I’m right next to someone in a urinal.

 

“When I realised who it was, I ended up having to go into one of the cubicles to finish the wee off, because I couldn‘t go.  How can you urinate next to a Beatle? It’s simply impossible.”

 

I’m very grateful to Matt for that info – because for the last 50 years or so I had feared it was just me with that affliction.

 

It gradually became a non-issue, but it was very much alive during my 20s.  And that was when I had a similar experience not with a Beatle but with George Best, no less.

 

When I realised who was standing next to me in the men’s toilets of the Annabel’s night club in Manchester, I duly dried up.  

 

I went through the motions (couldn’t resist that one) alongside him at the wash basins and then walked out, pretty much together but with him just ahead of me.

 

Then it happened. I suddenly realised that one of the world’s greatest-ever footballers was standing there, perfect gentleman, holding the door open for me.

 

In all of a microsecond or two, I found myself frantically pondering: “Do I call him George, or what?”

 

I figured that would be a bit presumptuous, so chickened out with a simple “thank you” and just an ordinary sort of smile, settling for the this-is-an-everyday-occurrence-and-I’m-not-in-awe-of-you approach.

 

In that fleeting face-to-face, I couldn’t help noticing just how bright-eyed our wonder boy from Belfast was.  He was still not so far short of his peak football performance, after all.

 

A decade or so later, he guested for Penryn Athletic in a memorable friendly match at Falmouth Town’s Bickland Park.  

 

I interviewed him before the match and couldn’t help noticing how foggy-eyed he had become.

 

I also winced, later on, when learning of some of the unsporting, not to say ungentlemanly, things he had said and done on the field of play that night.  Local referee Mike Hodges even had to deliver a stern lecture at one stage. 

 

But no sweat, the big crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief when George was allowed to continue playing!

 

WHAT HOPE FOR THE PLANET?

 

One of the curses – or benefits, depending on how you look at it – of getting older is our apparent need for so much less sleep.

 

So, ever keen to try something new - because I just do not want to settle for four hours or so -  I received a pulse point roller ball sleep aid yesterday.  

 

It, and absolutely nothing else, was delivered in an Amazon cardboard envelope measuring 14 x 10ins. 

 

The product, even in its packaging, came to no more than 4 x 1½ x 1½ins! 

STOP PRESS: The bloomin' thing WORKED! Best night's sleep for absolutely ages.  So if you're in the same boat, go onto Amazon, search Tisserand Pulse Point Roller Ball - and buy without delay! 

OUTWARD BOUND

Just like London buses, you wait for ages and then along come several all at once! Here’s the first of my three winter painting projects now completed. 

 

 The Saga cruiseship Spirit Of Adventure sails out of Falmouth, accompanied by the pilot boat Arrow.  From a photo by Miles Carden. Acrylic, 50 x 40cms. Teacher: Jeanni Grant-Nelson, https://www.visual-awareness.com/

 

WEEKEND BREAK (6)

NO, CLARE, NOT CREAM FIRST

 

You can go off people, yer know.  Especially if it’s Clare Balding telling her TV audience to spread jam and cream on scones the WRONG way!

 

There she is, sitting comfortably on the South Devon steam train, about to tuck into her afternoon tea for her Tales From The Riverbank programme, when she comes to the jam and cream bit.

 

If you can bear to, just listen to her: “Because we’re in Devon and not Cornwall, I need to do this the Devon way, with the cream first, lots of it, and I think that makes sense because otherwise if you don’t do cream first you need to do butter as well. You don’t want to do butter as well as cream.” 

 

Exactly.  Sacrilege.  Put out an all ports alert, I say. Guard the borders . . . ban her from entering Kernow . . . 

 

Or maybe she just needs a little more time to get used to the ways we do and say things – as so many “furriners” do.

 

A case in point was a footballer called Norman Ashe, who was a huge signing for Falmouth Town in 1969 when, at just 25 years old, he came west with a track record that included being the youngest player ever, at just 15, to play for Aston Villa in the old First Division.

 

Over a drink in the clubhouse after one of his early Falmouth matches, he pointed to a fan heartily munching what was presumably his tea.   

 

“That’s a nice-looking pie,” he said.

 

“That,” explained club chairman Warren Newell, “is our national dish, the Cornish pasty.”

 

I’m pretty sure Norman went on to consume any number of pasties in his many subsequent years down here.  He just needed a little time to get used to them . . . he was doing so “dreckly,” as we say!  

 

For Clare Balding, though, I fear there is no hope . . .  

 

(PS: She Who Must Be Obeyed comments: “I never butter the scones anyway for jam and cream!”) 

 

PRACTISING WHAT I PREACH (NOT)

 

I’ll swear the first half dozen or so fellow walkers I saw on Falmouth seafront this morning were all head-down-busy on their mobile phones. 

 

I said as much to my mate on his mobility scooter as our paths crossed above Gyllyngvase Beach.

 

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it,” he agreed.

 

“I don’t know why on earth they can’t leave the blessed things at home and just soak up all this,” I said, with a sweep of my hand taking in the bay and the beaches.

 

We resumed our separate ways, only for me to stop again a few seconds later when, er um, my mobile pinged . . .  

 

LOAD OF RUBBISH?  NO, NOT REALLY!

 

So . . . our all-singing, dancing, whistles and bells, planet-saving new refuse collection arrangements finally became a reality this week.

 

How was it for you?!

 

I checked and double-checked the new collection calendar in the little “Go!” booklet before putting all my stuff out.

 

Yes, very clearly, it was general rubbish and food waste this week, with recycling instead of general next week.

 

Not really that difficult, was it? Not worth all the kerfuffle and negative criticism – controversy, even - that it had attracted in some quarters.

 

Still had fun checking everyone else’s output, though, as I set off on my dawn walk.

 

Most of my neighbours had got it right, but I spotted one with the recycling bags wrongly put out – and another with nothing at all beside the big wheelie bin.

 

Don’t they eat? I wondered.

 

Eventually, back at base, I heard the refuse lorry roaring up my road.

 

When it had gone, I tip-toed furtively out to my front gates, just that tad bit nervous in case I had somehow still managed to get things wrong (bearing in mind that if anyone could, I would).

 

But no, big sigh of relief; all was well.  Mission accomplished! 

 

JUST THREE MORE YEARS NOW . . . 

 

. . . before David Barnicoat, surely, clocks up some sort of record. A quite remarkable landmark is beginning to loom into view for the retired Falmouth master mariner and maritime pilot.

 

As I was reminded by browsing through some old files during a de-clutter, in 2028 he will have been writing the Falmouth Packet’s In Port page for fully 40 years. 

 

When he followed me in that role back in May, 1988, he took it to a whole new, authoritative level.

 

David is that comparatively rare breed, someone who both knows his subject inside out and can also write well (i.e. readably) about it. It’s usually one or the other, but not both.

 

On his Packet debut, i.e. when he was still working as a pilot, he commented: “My hobbies are the sea and ships and everything related to them . . . I am one of those very fortunate people who enjoy every minute of their job.”

 

Those near-four decades of dedicated writing bear ample testimony to his love of the sea.

 

Keep going, David!

 

NEW MOVE REVIVES FOND MEMORIES OF POPULAR PUB

 

How many hearts are freshly broken, I wonder, each time there is a news item about the FORMER Boslowick Inn in Falmouth?

 

The latest headline-winner is a developer’s fresh attempt to build ten homes there.

 

If there are any ghosts on this long-derelict site, some clues to their identity might be found in Nick Castle’s guest chapter for my book Falmouth In The ‘70s. Here are a few of his fond memories:--

 

“As was the case in many pubs, some customers had personal tankards kept behind the bar and one or two had laid claim to a certain bar stool, and woe betide anybody who trespassed.  One chap used to bring his dog, which would lie at the foot of the stool, savouring packets of crisps while its master lingered over his beer and newspaper.

 

“The ambience on non-entertainment nights was like being a guest at a private country manor house, as indeed the building had been.  Stylish wood panelling and solid staircase in the bar and the ornately plastered ceiling and cornices together with the Axminster carpet in the lounge made it a comfortable refuge.  

 

“But, for the unwary, the wood décor held a secret, as one panel was actually the door to the under-stairs cupboard.  I saw, on a couple of occasions, a drinker casually tilting their chair back against the wall until, with a loud click, the wall panel would give way and swallow the surprised and embarrassed punter, who, with all eyes watching, would sheepishly pick up the chair to sit on properly.  

 

“Another place for a potential accident was the entrance door that had a step and low lintel with a sign warning the unwary to ‘Duck or Grouse.’

 

“On summer evenings, holidaymakers packed in with locals at The Bozzie, when the low-ceilinged lounge would be crammed for the live entertainment.  Local musicians, Two’s Company or The Ferry Boaters, played cover versions of a variety of pop and folk songs.  On other nights, one-man-band Mad Mitch kept crowds entertained with easy chorus sing-along songs like ‘Lamorna,’ ‘My Brother Sylvest’ and the ‘Mevagissey Lobster Song,’ interspersed with bawdy jokes that wouldn’t be acceptable in the PC world of today.

 

“It’s not just the acts that remind us of different times.  In the 1970s, most people smoked cigarettes and on evenings like these the filled rooms quickly became a thick fog of blue smoke where barely a few seconds passed without the flicker of a match or lighter followed by the glowing of another fag tip.

 

“ . . . we went out to enjoy a drink or two and sometimes we had enough to get drunk, unlike more recent times where young people ‘pre-load’ on cheap supermarket spirits before going out, with the sole intention of getting smashed.  

 

“Another difference back then was that landlords and barmen took some responsibility, by telling someone they’d had enough, or one more and that’s all.  Opening hours were regulated, too, and the approach of closing time would be rung on a bell.  ‘Last orders,’ then ‘time, gentlemen, please.’”

 

Sadly, time ran out for the Boslowick when it closed in October, 2021. 

WEEKEND BREAK (5)

Two BIG signs that spring is on its way . . . 

 

. . . And I’m not just talking about the lovely weather we’ve had lately.

 

But it was great, wasn’t it? Even though I was well behind with this, that and the other, I couldn’t resist dropping everything the other morning and heading off to Porthtowan for a glorious two hours of clifftop walking. 

 

It was fully 20 years or more since I had last walked thataway, but I needed a mini-break of some sort, and boy, did it do the trick.

 

It was a true “Condor moment” (remember that ad?) when I paused atop one of those great north coast cliffs, all on my ownsome and marvelling at the vast ocean spread all around me. 

 

There’s something uniquely uplifting and invigorating about such a moment, with a cloudless sky, the air still and the sun blazing down. 

 

As bonus, it was good to know I could still do those mega-steep climbs with ease at the age of 75!

 

As for those two signs of spring, one came with my weekly Tesco shop – when, as per usual, I was outside their doors waiting for them to open up at 0700.  Only this time, for the first time since last autumn, it was in broad daylight.  Wow, eh?!

 

Then – something that always gives me a lift – I bought a packet of tomato seeds for sowing in my greenhouse.

 

I’ve been doing that most years for pretty much half a century now, but I still marvel at the wonder of those tiny specs eventually growing into tall, sturdy plants supplying a delicious summertime harvest.

 

To me, even after all this time, it is still INCREDIBLE!

 

And for once, IMO, that word is justified.

 

Unlike its routine trotting out to describe just about everything these days, it seems, that is in any way out of the ordinary.

 

Just as a Match Of The Day commentator did, for instance, at least three times in one match last weekend.  What is genuinely incredible is that so many professional communicators can’t call on a wider vocabulary. 

 

But I digress.  Enough meandering, so let’s really hear it now – roll on SPRING!!

 

BRIEFLY BRILLIANT

 

“Less is more,” it’s often said in writing and broadcasting circles. Rarely can this have been better demonstrated, in amongst the zillions of words expressing anti-Trump outrage this past week, than with this little gem of a reader’s letter in the Telegraph on Sunday: 

“If anyone was disrespected on Friday, it was the Ukrainian president.  A fighter sat and listened to the nonsensical rhetoric of a commander-in-chief who has never served.  George Adams, Isle of Wight”

 

RUN RE-BRAND?

 

It’s “Run Falmouth” next Sunday, the 16^th. Was there ever a more drab title for an event? No doubt there’s a good reason for it (to do with the “hits,” perhaps?), but “The Falmouth Run,” at very least, would have been a whole lot snappier and altogether more appealing, wouldn’t it? 

 

MEETING OF (LUDDITE?) MINDS

 

Seems I’m not quite so alone in my dinosaur status as I feared (see Weekend Break No 2).

 

I got chatting the other day to a fellow dawn coastal walker and topics included our weather (surprise surprise!).

 

We got on to snow and, although he’s been living in Falmouth for a goodly number of years , he struggled to believe my memories of seriously cold winters past.

 

I cited the night of the Ben Asdale tragedy, when, with a massive rescue operation under way, the rain gradually turned to snow, leaving a thick white carpet in place that didn’t start thawing for nearly a week.  

 

From the weather, we went on to the annual “Klondyker” mackerel fishery invasion off Falmouth from 1977-83.

 

That was news to Matey, too.

 

So I told him he would quickly find plenty of info about both, and especially the Ben Asdale, on the internet.

 

“Just search ‘Ben Asdale, Maenporth,’” I advised.

 

“’Search?’” he queried.

 

So I explained, but he still looked puzzled.

 

“Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll send you the links myself.  You’ve got email, right . . . ?”

 

“Well . . . yes, but I don’t look at it very often.”

 

Believe it or not, as I resumed my walking, I actually felt a little envious of him, bearing in mind how much of a worry and a hassle all things modern have been for me, notwithstanding all the big benefits thereof.

 

And then I also remembered a dear 97-year-old aunt of mine, who died a few months ago.

 

She was a school music teacher for something like half a century or more, finally calling it a day well after official retirement age.

 

As they bid her farewell, her colleagues gave her a laptop computer.

 

But it was totally alien to my aunt and she could never bring herself to use it.  She continued to manage perfectly well in life, with that computer gathering an awful lot of dust . . . 

 

 

And this week’s feature from the archive . . . 

 

We are all – that’s right, all – going to be poorer now, it’s reported, after the British economy’s dramatic lurch backwards over the past six months. 

 

Who knows, maybe “austerity” will become the in word again.

 

But even if it does, I’ll safely bet it will still be no match for the 19^th Century version, i.e. the real thing, as recalled in this blog post from nearly ten years ago.

 

POLDARK COUNTRY’S REAL AUSTERITY!

 

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist a sigh and a smile when our politicians, BBC journalists etc etc constantly refer to today’s “austerity” and “poverty.”   

 

All things are relative, as they say, and I can only conclude that they would literally be at a loss for words to describe life for the less well-off even just three or four generations ago.  And then, if they wanted REAL “austerity” and “poverty,” they might usefully take a glimpse at things as they were for a Cornish mining community way back in the 19^th Century – as I just have.

 

Some 20 years ago now, in my penultimate professional life, my PR clients included Poldark Mine near Helston.  Its owner at that time, John McLeod, turned historian, author and publisher with the completion of a fascinating insight into Cornwall’s rich mining heritage.

 

His book – POLDARK PEOPLE – A Mining and Social History of the Wendron District – recalled that back in the 19^th Century the now peaceful valley was a busy industrial landscape, the workplace for nearly a thousand people.  Miners had to live close to their work and their accommodation consisted of low stone buildings with roofs of reed or straw thatch and containing only two rooms.

 

In the early 1800s, a commission on miners’ housing said of one such building:  “There were three beds in the one small upstairs room, which was reached by a rickety ladder;  there was one small window which was unopenable.  In this room was a father who was lying ill in one bed which he shared with his wife and a small child.

 

“A married daughter with a small baby and her sister used the second bed.  The rest of the family of the son-in-law and two sons of 14 and 12 years shared the third bed.  The room was open to the roof.  In none of these cottages was there any drainage or privies.”

 

For long periods, Mr McLeod wrote, Cornish miners endured “starvation wages.”  Their average lifespan was a little over 30 years.  They started work young, with “child’s size” wheelbarrows used by boys of eight to ten to bring ore to the surface.  “Crooked shafts, inadequate safety, worn-out machinery and poor ventilation were common – development work for the future and the search for new reserves of ore being given a very low priority.”

 

When foreign competition hit hard in the 1870s, the inadequacies of the system were clear for all to see.  The “years of penny-pinching and profit-grasping” at once precipitated the demise of many a good mine which, if organised by modern methods, might have survived for many more years.  

 

Candles, dynamite and tools were supplied by the mine owners, but their value was deducted from the men’s wages at the end of a contract – meaning that “men climbed ladders for hundreds of feet in pitch dark rather than waste their precious candles.  Many a tragic mine accident could thus be directly ascribed to such parsimonious arrangements.” 

 

Among produce and labour prices in the mid-1800s, butter was a “luxury the ordinary man could rarely afford” at 6p per pound.  A calf’s head could be bought for seven-and-a-half pence (a day’s wage for a man), which could be boiled in a pot to help make stew that would last for weeks.

 

Education for miners and laboring classes was almost non-existent, but mine captains and wealthier farmers could send their children to private schools.  This usually meant attendance at a private house, where they could obtain the rudiments of education at 10p per quarter year.

 

Mr McLeod’s great great grandfather, Daniel Trevethan, earned around 45 pence a MONTH, with miners being paid only on results, based on the amount of ore extracted.  

 

He would typically spend a week blasting some 500 feet underground, armed with gunpowder and fuses, and then another week collecting the ore in sacks – with just a candle on his helmet to guide him.  He died at the age of 43 from a diseased spine – almost certainly caused by mining – after starting work at the age of ten.

 

Something tells me that Mr Trevethan and his like would have jumped at the chance if they had somehow been invited to fast-forward into today’s age of “austerity” and “poverty!”