the soundtrack of mid-life

Sozinho na noite
um barco ruma para onde vai.
Uma luz no escuro brilha a direito
ofusca as demais.

E mais que uma onda, mais que uma maré...
Tentaram prendê-lo impor-lhe uma fé...
Mas, vogando à vontade, rompendo a saudade,
vai quem já nada teme, vai o homem do leme...

E uma vontade de rir, nasce do fundo do ser.
E uma vontade de ir, correr o mundo e partir,
a vida é sempre a perder...

No fundo do mar
jazem os outros, os que lá ficaram.
Em dias cinzentos
descanso eterno lá encontraram.

E mais que uma onda, mais que uma maré...
Tentaram prendê-lo, impor-lhe uma fé...
Mas, vogando à vontade, rompendo a saudade,
vai quem já nada teme, vai o homem do leme...

E uma vontade de rir, nasce do fundo do ser.
E uma vontade de ir, correr o mundo e partir,
a vida é sempre a perder...

No fundo horizonte
sopra o murmúrio para onde vai.
No fundo do tempo
foge o futuro, é tarde demais...

E uma vontade de rir nasce do fundo do ser.
E uma vontade de ir, correr o mundo e partir,
a vida é sempre a perder...

Homem do Leme, Xutos e Pontapés

Brilliant song from a great Portuguese band of the 80s. The helmsman. Life is a losing game.

life afloat

A day sail to celebrate the Revolution.

To start the journey off on the right foot, a leisurely scooter drive along the coastal road in the cool morning air, followed by a surprise encounter in the marina with Tioga, a 1988 recreation of L. Francis Herreshoff’s design no. 50, of 1931, itself the inspiration for what would become his most famous boat of all, the legendary 72 ft Ticonderoga (originally also named Tioga, but that’s a story for another day).

The first hint of something unusual was a pair of sharply raked wooden masts amid the usual upright forest of aluminium and carbon fibre. Extremely raked masts being a trademark of many boats by this, my favourite yacht designer of all time, I was immediately on the alert. And, as I looked over the edge of the pier, a set of incomparably graceful lines (in the words of her designer at the time, “not at all tiresome to look at”), the clipper bow and some building details – gilded dolphins on the taffrail, an elegant scroll on the rudderhead – quickly confirmed my suspicions. As my first ever live sighting of a Herreshoff boat, this could only be a good omen. And so it proved to be.

Then, on to our steed for the day, the noble Arquimedes (so named “because she floats”, we say), also a wooden boat – no surprise if you know her owner/designer, the Comrade Skipper. Offshore, it looked like one of those rare gentle days when it’s possible to sail in comfort out to Guincho and Cabo da Roca, so we duly set our course westwards. Soon, however, an increasing chop and vicious whitecaps dispelled any illusions about that.

It was then that, perhaps by way of compensation, the good omen kicked in. A commotion in the distance proved to be a pod of dolphins on the move, and we went out to meet and travel along with them for as long as they deemed it worth their while to slow their progress and gambol with these excited landlubbers and their ponderous vessel – how silly we must look to them, a bunch of ungainly two-legged creatures whistling, and babbling, and jumping around to get a better view.

After they left us behind, we turned back to find shelter for lunch, finally putting the hook down in the lee of a protective lighthouse (Guia) and a cliff of beautiful stratified rock. Here, the Skipper surprised the crew with a light, delicate salad of shrimps, cashew nuts, apples, sultanas, and cherry tomatoes, on a bed of shredded lettuce, which a few in the party deemed “somewhat gay”, but of which all ate seconds and thirds, so he must have done something right. Or we all are hiding something in the closet.

After coffee and dessert, a lazy sail (under jibtop alone) in the freshening breeze, along the shore, to extend the hand of comradeship – waving it from a safe distance – to those less fortunate, taking their swims and their lunches among the crowds, perched on spiky rocks. Our revolutionary consciences thus appeased (we being possessed of easily appeased revolutionary consciences), it was off on a brisk fetch across the bay to the shore on the other side.

To people of a certain age, who knew this coast from the past but may not have sailed off it for a while, the sheer amount of construction is hard to comprehend. Some buildings – a house here and there, a fort or two, a famous sanatorium – are a reminder of more stylish times, but the rest is sad confirmation of what greed and deregulation have been doing to so many shorelines around the world.

And on that revolutionary note, celebrations were brought to a close.

liturgical life

Is it just me or is anyone else slightly irritated by this notion being bandied about that Pope Benedict “retired” a defeated man? 

And that the Church is in need of nothing less than wholesale reformation – or redemption, as I’ve also heard it described – and that Francis, by dint of a pair of brown shoes and his wish to eschew living in the normal Papal quarters, is about to tear asunder two thousand years of teachings and tradition, in order to make it more “relevant” to the joys of the 21^st century?

Really?

life lessons that are priceless – the well-rounded personality: minimum requirements

A human being should be able to 

change a diaper, 

plan an invasion, 

butcher a hog, 

conn a ship, 

design a building, 

write a sonnet, 

balance accounts, 

build a wall, 

set a bone, 

comfort the dying, 

take orders, 

give orders, 

cooperate, 

act alone, 

solve equations, 

analyze a new problem, 

pitch manure, 

program a computer, 

cook a tasty meal, 

fight efficiently, 

die gallantly. 

Specialization is for insects.

Time Enough For Love, Robert A. Heinlein

the soundtrack of mid-life

What'll you do when you get lonely

And nobody's waiting by your side?

You've been running and hiding much too long.

You know it's just your foolish pride.

[Chorus:]

Layla, you've got me on my knees.

Layla, I'm begging, darling please.

Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind.

I tried to give you consolation

When your old man had let you down.

Like a fool, I fell in love with you,

Turned my whole world upside down.

[Chorus]

Let's make the best of the situation

Before I finally go insane.

Please don't say we'll never find a way

And tell me all my love's in vain

Layla, Eric Clapton

wild life (5)

Here be dragons.

One of the gorgeous creatures patrolling my basement for undesirable bugs and insects. Though they live in the patio mainly, sheltering under buckets, I always leave the door slightly ajar, should they wish to come inside when it’s either too wet even for them or, in summer, too hot.

As far as I’m concerned, in fact, they’re welcome up on the ground floor, too, to say hello and to catch an extra fly or spider for their supper.

But the women of the House, surprisingly, don’t seem to share my love of them. Another instance of little boys and dinosaurs, perhaps?

life on the hill (V)

A sample of wildflowers up on the Hill, and a troika of tame ones for good measure, all taking advantage of the overnight change in conditions typical of this fickle season.

I’m ashamed to say I can’t identify them at all (must try to find some reliable field guide). 

Later on there will be one I can identify – a poppy, always appearing in the same place on the plot. But just the one, alas, so not enough to make a start on any kind of profitable industry. For the moment, Afghan warlords can sleep easy in the knowledge that no competition for their honest livelihood is about to come from the Hill.

But one lives in hope.

Camellia

Nightshade

Climbing rose

the soundtrack of contemporary life

Does it feel like religion
Does it crush your old ideas?
Well fold me in paper
I've got some here
And show me the warrant
To which I will attest
put me in handcuffs or give it a rest

The light through he windows
Casts doubt on the mermaids
And they sing at the bottom of the sea

You've run out of business
In light of what you want
You've come wielding plastic
And gone straight to the front
You've rejigged and counted, it's a mountain, not too much
I'll give you my credence if that's not enough

The light through the windows
Casts down on the mermaids
And they sink to the bottom of the sea

You're reading the letters that no-one ever wrote
I'm moving through something
I travel in hope
So read me the warrant, to which i will attest
Put me in handcuffs or give it a rest

The light through he window
Casts down on the mermaids

And they sing at the bottom of the sea

Mermaids, I Am Kloot

life afloat

Dragon European Championship 2013. Last race. Classically beautiful boats, not fast but reasonably sophisticated, making for excellent, close racing. Wind at 8-10 knots from the west (after boxing around the compass for a while in the morning), sunshine finally out, short chop over a long swell, perfect conditions. POR 55 winner, subject to confirmation.

White wings, bunched start

Shimmering beauty

Le bleu et le jaune

Now you see them …

… now you don't

Last run

Spinnaker ballet

Tight finish

Happy winners

life lessons that are priceless – managing expectations (but never giving up hope)

«Sir: Would your readers care to join me in complaining to the Office of Fair Trading about the iniquitously high price of Rolls Royce cars? I have long fancied a Rolls but cannot afford one.»

Peter M. Bassett, Letters to the Editor, The Spectator, 29 May 1993

You and me both, Peter, you and me both. Specifically, I fancy the Ghost, perhaps less representative of absolute Rollsdom than the fabulous Phantom, but more of a driver’s car (as opposed to one to be driven in) – not sporting by any means  (if I wanted sporting, I’d go for “one of those red Italian things” – a 330 GTC, since you ask), but quick (nought-to-62mph in less than 5 seconds), with good handling and a comfortable ride. Just the sort of gentleman’s carriage to go a-gipsying round Europe in (to paraphrase someone or other).

A Ghost, then, but what colour?

Midnight Blue?

Peacock Blue?

Brooklands Green?

Woodland Green?

Gunmetal?

Decisions, decisions …

the soundtrack of mid-life

My love is in league with the freeway

Its passion will ride, as the cities fly by
And the tail-lights dissolve, in the coming of night
And the questions in thousands take flight
My love is a-miles in the waiting
The eyes that just stare, and the glance at the clock
And the secret that burns, and the pain that grows dark
And it's you once again
Leading me on - leading me down the road
Driving me on - driving me down the road

My love is exceedingly vivid
Red-eyed and fevered with the hum of the miles
Distance and longing, my thoughts do provide
Should I rest for a while at the side
Your love is cradled in knowing
Eyes in the mirror, still expecting they'll come
Sensing too well when the journey is done
There is no turning back - no
There is no turning back - on the run

My love is in league with the freeway
Oh the freeway, and the coming of night-time
My love is in league with the freeway

Big Log, Robert Plant

I was never a fan of Led Zeppelin, but discovered Robert Plant solo a few years later. Groovy (as we used to say).

life on the hill (IV)

Beauty and the beasts: camellia bloom and dirty gardener’s fingers – the flower, struck down by cruel seasonable winds, and rusty from violent useasonable rains before it had time to blossom; the fingers, long past their unlined, flexible, un-arthritic best.

Like spring, flowers for the most part leave me cold. It’s not that I don’t find them attractive (excepting some pet hates, like orchids and bird-of-paradise flowers), but the pleasure-to-labour ratio of keeping flowers doesn’t work for me.

Perhaps it’s just ignorance, but a successful flowerbed seems to involve a cycle of buying, planting, enjoying for a short period; then discarding and starting da capo – endlessly – that is not to my taste. Different species for different months, different exposures, different kinds of soil. That, plus pest control, feeding, deadheading, pruning, all adds up to a kind of chequebook-gardening cum full-time dedication that is out of my league in more ways than one. Some will say that it is this very evanescence that makes a flower’s charm. I say, give me permanence – the concept of planting something now to last for a century. Trees, in other words. Lovely, stately, uncomplicated trees – dig a hole, fill with dirt, stick in a sapling, enjoy.

So I’m a reluctant gardener at best. My buzz is forestry.

To date, 84 trees have been planted on the Hill (a round seven dozen which, though fortuitous, appeals to my sense of order):

Lemon tree colonised by bougainvillea
in the kitchen garden

9 poplars (one “born” spontaneously in a vase of pelllargonium, then transplanted to the ground)

9 umbrella pines

8 oaks

1 magnolia

1 judas tree

1 chestnut
13 plane trees (in fact 15, but two were double-planted, meaning two saplings into the same hole so they’ll grow as double-trunked trees)

19 fruit trees (4 pear, 4 peach, 2 cherry, 2 loquat – “poor man’s trees”, a friend calls them, but I love loquats –, 2 orange, 1 lemon, 2 tangerine, 1 lime, 1 plum)

2 cedars

3 ashes

15 cypresses

1 crape myrtle

1 cork oak

1 tulip tree

In addition, there is a maritime pine and another cork oak, already growing wild on the plot when we bought it, and a jacaranda recently uprooted and put back in a vase (after 7 years of failing to develop properly), in a protected space, to see if it survives to go back into the ground in a year or two.

Ash and tangerine trees

The main surprise to me – and my main delight – has been the way the oaks have thrived (despite warnings against trying to grow northern trees and bushes in "these southern lands"). All were harvested as minuscule saplings from the undergrowth at Grandmother's woods and brought South in plastic bags, then nursed and planted on the Hill. A couple are now up to 20 feet high, and all are thriving. In fact, Oakland (or perhaps Oak Park, in homage to FLW) might be yet another candidate in our unfinished quest for a name for the House.

Just a thought.

The orchard. There is a plan to make it into a walled garden at some point,
with benches for reading in the shade and a fish pond.

Umbrella pines and poplars

Plane trees in their winter garb (or no-garb, rather), and a cedar in the background by the firewood shed,
striving to win the race for sunlight against the wild reeds bordering the plot.

A young oak (about 7 feet), and a maritime pine (12 feet) in the background at right.