It's early in December and we have had a series of early morning ground frosts. The gritter lorry was out again this morning, no doubt because there has been a forecast of snow for the east of England. His spinning orange light flashed across my bedroom walls . I have been invited out by some dear friends for lunch at the Swan in Southwold. Perhaps I shouldn't go: my Ancient is very unwell at the moment: he is fearful at demons only he can see, arms thrashing in all directions, his body jerking and tormented, as the Parkinson's Disease and the dementia wreak havoc on his mind and body. However, I know he is in good hands and I decide to go - no doubt such an outing will lift my somewhat low spirits. Interesting conversation and unlimited humour is always there in abundance with this group of lovely friends.
Southwold developed as a major port in the 13th century along with three other towns along the coast of Suffolk - Lowestoft, Dunwich, and Aldeburgh. All have suffered from both the ravages of the North Sea, which wrought havoc on the whole of that coast line and continues to do so, and the virtual demise of the fishing industry which has snatched away livelihoods. Little remains of Dunwich, which was almost entirely gulped down by the sea in a tremendous storm in 1326, and estuaries have been silted up. But Southwold has now taken on a different persona. It has become the Number One coastal resort in East Anglia. It has been reported that the cost of one of the brightly coloured beach huts along the promenade will cost you £40,000. But perhaps the prices have come down since the crisis in the property market. Who knows?
The Swan hotel, which overlooks the little square, was once a coaching inn dating back to the 17th century but it was "grandified" during the Georgian period and remains very elegant and gracious today. As we walk down the High Street, the wind is blowing straight off the North Sea and it is bitter! I feel I am being attacked by a million knives. People scurry hither and thither swathed in scarves, hats pulled well down over ears. Chattering and window-shopping are definitely out! But, once inside the hotel, the warmth embraces us like a long expected friend. For a brief time, this is an escape from the bleakness, not only of the weather but also from the dire economic situation in which this failed little country of ours finds itself, a country which once represented the values and principles of a Christian society, values and principles now under fierce attack. It is interesting that many people see the Credit Crunch as validating those Christian principles, for it all too clearly demonstrates what happens when greed is allowed to run amok without any restraint. "Tightening our belts" could have very positive effects.
In the run up to Christmas the pattern is one of dreary weather - rain, and more rain, and then more rain again. Fierce winds blow under the doors and through any minute gap in the wall of this ancient house. Even the new, heavy curtains at the front and back doors seem unable to keep out the cold: my feet freeze! And then, almost when I am not looking, it is Christmas! Whatever the weather might be doing outside, inside the Paris Church on Christmas Eve, all is warmth and light and welcome. Candles and flowers intermingle, choir members get their music in order, extra chairs are squeezed in to every little space as the pews overflow. The traditional carol service is about to begin. There is a palpable sense of a village community coming together to celebrate the real meaning of Christmas, otherwise, why would they be there? Then, we are off with the rousing "Once in Royal David's city". The Reverend Rosie has the children out to the front to help arrange the figures in the nativity scene. Joseph loses an arm in the process but we are assured that he will be made whole before Christmas Day! Rosie reminds the rest of us that we are here to celebrate the birth of One whose teaching offers us a way through the uncertainties, tragedies and darkness of this mortal life, if only we will listen to His voice. Then it is out into the cold night air, our breath rising up like the smoke from the surrounding chimneys.
Every Christmas Day, I have to read "A child's Christmas in Wales" by Dylan Thomas. I love it. I settle down by the fire in the end sitting-room :
"…………for dinner
we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire,
loosened all buttons, put their large moist
hands over their watch chains, groaned a little
and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled
to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who
had already been frightened, twice, by a
clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard
and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick.
Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins,
But Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in
The middle of the snowbound back yard, singing
Like a big-bosomed thrush."
It seems to me that Dylan Thomas had the most wonderful way with language. He didn't use a strict verse form and had a keen eye for detail. While his images were stimulated by his knowledge of the Bible (his great-uncle was a Unitarian Minister), Welsh folklore, and Freud, he once admitted that the poems which had most influenced him were the "Mother Goose" rhymes which his parents taught him. He did not understand all their contents but loved their sounds, and the acoustic qualities of the English language become the focus in his work later. He claimed that the meanings of a poem were "very secondary nature" to him. At sometime in the late Fifties, I went to see a performance of "Under Milkwood", originally written as a radio play with Richard Burton in the lead. It was an immediate success. It featured the characters of Llareggub, a fictional Welsh fishing village (humourously named, since "Llareggub" is "Bugger all" backwards, no doubt suggesting that there is nothing at all to do there!) I recall that it was the sound of the words, spoken of course in that wonderful Welsh accent, that held me in its power. Here is the opening paragraph. But wait, don't just read it; read it aloud to yourself:
"It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobble streets silent and the hunched, courters' -and- rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine tonight in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now."
Thinking about listening to poetry being read aloud reminds me that, during the Christmas period I listened to a reading of all ten "books" of Milton's "Paradise Lost" on Radio 4. It was a complete revelation! I was mesmerised! It was partly due to the way that Anton Lesser read the text, endowing it with an extraordinary range of emotion and the sense of total understanding of what he was reading, and in part due to the richness of the language and the sonority of its sound. I immediately ordered a paper-back copy from the Oxford University Press to read it for myself. The introduction to this edition is written by Philip Pullman, author of "His Dark Materials" trilogy, a phrase taken incidentally from Book ll. This is how he describes his initial enchantment with this mammoth work:
"I was lucky enough to study Books l and ll for A level many years ago, and to do so in a small class whose teacher, Miss Enid Jones, had the clear-eyed and old-fashioned idea that we would get a good sense of the poem if, before we did anything else to it, we read it aloud. So we took it in turns, in that little Sixth Form classroom in Ysgol Ardudwy, on the flat land below the great rock of Harlech Castle, to tumble and mutter and gabble our way through it all, while Miss Jones sat with arms comfortably folded on her desk, patiently helping us with pronunciation, but not encumbering us with meaning…..The experience of reading poetry aloud when you don't fully understand it is a curious and complicated one. It's like suddenly discovering that you can play the organ. Rolling swells and peals of sound, powerful rhythms and rich harmonies are at your command; and as you utter them you begin to realize that the sound you're releasing from the words as you speak is part of the reason that they are there. The sound is part of the meaning, and that part only comes alive when you speak it."
Pulman and Dylan Thomas would have immediately understood each other. Mind you, I am not quite sure that I understand what is happening in the world of education these days, other than there is a general sense of everything being "dummed" down. Certainly if I happen to listen to some of the children's programmes on the television I am disheartened by the poverty of the presenters' language and I notice that some of the traditional nursery rhymes have been made "easier" and fairy stories made less frightening. As to whether children are encouraged to read poetry aloud these days, I don't know, but if not, something very valuable is being lost for ever. As for a sense of mystery, and awe, and a something greater than ourselves, which great literature almost always expresses, will that too be lost, from a "Health and Safety" point of view? Oh dear!
With all this going on in my mind, I was getting quite despondent, never mind the Credit Crunch and how much further Glib Gordon was taking the country down the path of disaster. Despair was really beginning to entwine me like the coils of Milton's serpent. When, thank goodness! I noticed that the greengrocer's shop was selling Seville oranges! Now, marmalade making is what I always do in January, in that rather flat period after Christmas. I have been doing so for the last forty years and it is such a joy, when the task is finished, to see the jars of glistening deliciousness there on the shelf. This year, beloved daughter had requested a Master Class in the subject as her husband had just bought her a shiney new preserving pan. No excuses now! We get the most important news out of the way first and then off we go! Slicing and de-pipping, preparation of jars, warming of sugar, then the final boiling, as we breathed in the rich syrupy depth of orange-ness, the vapours enveloping us in steamy swathes. But wait, had we got a "set"? Had we got a steady hand to pour the sticky mass into the jars without spilling it? The recipe itself is quite straightforward but I had forgotten the tiny details that ensure success, details which daughter endeavoured to write down on her copy of the recipe. The eventual result was deemed excellent, and needless to say, her company and vivacity had a very positive effect on one who is a bit "doom 'n' gloom" at the moment.
Seville Orange Marmalade.
Ingredients:
1 ½ lb Seville oranges
1 lemon
2 pints water
3 ½ lb sugar.
Method:
Wash fruit. From each end remove piece where fruit joins stem and make a small hole. Put fruit and water in preserving pan, cover ( pastry board or large plate). Boil gently until fruit is soft. Test with skewer. When all are soft, cover pan again and leave over-night (allowing the pectin to soak into liquid.) Next day, cut fruit into quarters, remove pips and put these into a strainer or cotton bag. Slice fruit thinly and put back into liquid. Scrape pips free of pulp, squeeze out all juice and put into pan with the fruit. Have sugar warming in oven (100 C.) Bring contents of pan to the boil, add sugar off the heat and stir until completely dissolved. Then boil hard. ( May take 15 mins. or more) Test a little on a cold saucer and if the surface wrinkles, you know you have got a "set". (Or test with a sugar thermometer) Cool for a few minutes and then pour into heated jars.
Yield: 5 lb approx.
After Liz has gone, I listen again, this time to the rain lashing against the windows but then I notice that it is no longer dark at half-past four so perhaps winter is passing?