Number Seventy News

Back to Mansfield Park

John — Wed, 16 May 2012 20:54:09 +0000

It’s been nearly 47 years since I did Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park for A-Level and I’ve always felt I hadn’t been fair in my memory of it, seeing how much I like Emma, Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion etc. I re-read it with growing enthusiasm — the utter precision of her use of language, the calculated understatement, the magnificent creation of Mrs Norris. And whereas when I was 18 I wanted to shake Fanny Price for being such a drip, I now see how delicately Jane Austen brings her on to be a young woman with firm opinions which she will at length utter. I still find the portrayal of Maria and Julia rather thin — I never really get a picture of who they are — and the visit to Portsmouth ends up being nearly as tedious and excessively long drawn out to the reader as it is to Fanny. Jane Austen, practitioner of “the medium is the message.” So, it’s worth rehabilitating, all those of you for whom studying “Mansfield Park” at A level was an experience you weren’t ready for.

Malham Meanderings

John — Wed, 16 May 2012 20:05:59 +0000

A somewhat brisk and chilly north-west wind took much of the warmth out of the bright Spring sunshine but at least it wasn’t too hot for a brisk reconnaissance walk around Malham. The village itself nestles delightfully at the head of Airedale, half hidden at this season by the trees rapidly coming into leaf.

It’s peregrine season up at the cove when hardy souls from the RSPB turn up Saturday to Wednesday until the end of July to keep a watch on the peregrine falcons who nest in the cracks of the sheer limestone cliff and, most importantly, allow members of the public to peer through their powerful binoculars and monoculars to see the birds for themselves. I got a back view of a male preening. Meanwhile, the birders were finding themselves distracted by the sighting of a “spotted fly”.

Up onto the high and windy plateau where the short grass is studded with heartsease, and to see the stream running out of Malham Tarn just disappear into the ground over the space of a few yards, though with no obvious hole or giveaway gurgle.

Back on the east side of the cove, keeping well back from the scary edge, and a footpath across to Gordale and the Scar, failing to patronise the “Gordale Refreshments” caravan on the way, though a finer collection of plastic garden chairs in a layby it would be hard to find. I can’t believe that there’s a footpath which goes up the Scar waterfall — it must have been seriously eroded since I clambered up it in the late ‘60s. Nearby, however, is the small but beautiful Janet’s Foss, at the head of a deep valley clothed in wild garlic, the starry flowers positively galactic. Wagtails too, and swallows earlier, and goldfinches, and the song of the lark — a distant curlew — and primroses.

A Seaside Saunter

John — Fri, 11 May 2012 10:54:31 +0000

So, the end of the pedestrian season and time for an extra-mural excursion. By train to Scarborough through a countryside recently washed by really heavy Spring showers and bathed in early evening sunshine bringing out the glory of every sparkling leaf and undulating meadow and hillside. Downtown Scarborough, by contrast, was deserted and gloomy as we made our way to the Angel. The Golden Pippin was not particularly well kept but the pub has a most magnificent framed collection of naughty seaside postcards on every wall. Well worth the detour for serious students of such (and maybe even for frivolous ones too). Just along the way some of our number found the Smallfry Fisheries, which in a town with more chippies than most seemed to be the only one open. It was reported friendly and the fish and chips delicious. We did go down to the seafront, where the waves curled and the seagulls swirled and the clouds piled up in shades of white, grey, pink and orange — just as they all should. Avoiding the Leeds Hotel which looked seedy carried on the few yards uphill to the Leeds Arms. What a treasure chest! Elderly Scarbuggers (is that the word?) lining the bar telling tall tales, a coherent nautical theme throughout(oars, nets photos all tastefully done, no tat), and some well kept ales , Landlord for me. And pork scratchings and Seabrooks crisps. Altogether a cosy experience. Much less cosy was the Scholars Bar, our final call. I can see why the CAMRA folk like it, there was an excellent selection of beers, including Wold Gold and something called White Rat which was pronounced delicious. However, there were far too may large screens showing incomprehensible youth musical activities which didn’t relate to the loud music, and bellowing announcements of an upcoming pub quiz. All this amplified by hard surfaces which created an unwelcome cacophony. But it’s a mere 7 minute walk to the station and so back to York, avoiding the temptation of the York Tap as we set off home.

Love’s Labour’s Almost Lost

John — Mon, 07 May 2012 11:30:09 +0000

Northern Broadsides productions are usually good, sometimes excellent, and occasionally outstanding. Love’s Labours Lost rose to “good” after a slow start, which was as much Will Shakespeare’s fault as the company’s. It’s a pretty static first half, and the bit of the plot which is all about wit and language slows up the action as they move through courtly cleverness and on eventually to Holofernes excruciating latinizing to eventually the Act V recognition of the need for plain speaking. It was good though, to see the relationship between Berowne and Rosaline treated as a sparring match between two equals who are attracted to each other from the start. They were so clearly enjoying playing with words, the flirtation of two people who know where it will end. And Rosaline and Berowne are clearly the most intelligent people there, or perhaps the ones who are most free to cut across protocol and convention and direct the action. Beautifully played by Catherine Kinsella and Matt Connor. But it’s not Shakespeare’s best play.

Let There Be Bluebells

John — Mon, 07 May 2012 11:03:32 +0000

And there were, but not quite. Castle Howard woods above Welburn where there were primroses and water avens and red and white campion and stitchwort etc, and masses of bluebells on the cusp of producing their full display. A cold, overcast day didn’t help, nor did the remains of forestry in the bluebell areas, but sunshine and another few days should do the trick. We adjourned to the Crown and Cushion in Welburn, where there was a very nice pint of Wharfebank Brewery’s Tether Blonde, as well as Black Sheep (and something else I forget). The hot sandwiches with proper chips were good too.

Delicacy

John — Wed, 02 May 2012 19:43:54 +0000

A sweet French film of the sort they do so well starring the delightfully (still) gamine Audrey Tautou and the bulky but amusing Francois Damiens who fall in love most implausibly. There is a pantomime villain too and Paris, as … Continue reading →

A Rainy Night Out

John — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 19:33:11 +0000

I missed the rendezvous at The Three Tuns, due to having to eat a large meal in a posh hotel, but caught the others just as they were leaving to tiptoe around the puddles to the Phoenix. In the back bar this time, but very warm and homely shelter from the incessant rain. Because of the latter we lingered, so I managed a modest half of each of the Golden Pippin (Copper Dragon, Skipton) and Wold Top bitter. Others said the Timothy Taylors Landlord was on top form too. Seabrooks crisps available — much the best ! So on rather later than anticipated, missing out the Red Lion on grounds of recent experience of a lack of choice, and into the Golden Fleece. I’d never before been further into the building than the front bar so the sheer extent of the ancient narrow plot, the internal corridor running downhill to another large bar and beyond that a large back yard. Plot boundaries well over 1000 years old. A couple of decorative skeletons hung around but didn’t detract from the excellent draught Old Peculier ( Theakstons). Pity about the (always disappointing) Walkers Crisps. Time was called at 11.30, which prevented giving in to further temptation. Home in light rain.

North Korea

John — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 19:18:51 +0000

Actually, this isn’t about North Korea at all, except to the extent that a re-reading of George Orwell’s “1984” makes me think of that country, about which we knew nothing at all when I first read it (1966) and not a lot more now, but what we do know sounds a lot like the society Orwell depicts. Not that we don’t have significant elements of it here: the falsification of news by governments, the distortions of language, the povertification of the masses due to the fighting of distant wars, the surveillance society etc etc. As with most things I read in 1966 which weren’t on an exam syllabus, I’d forgotten an awful lot but as a description of the destruction of individuality in the interests of the state, and the justification any state might make for that, it remains incredibly powerful. North Korea seems to have Little Brother instead of Big — but otherwise the place seems to have taken “1984” as a sort of blueprint, if we can trust what we are being told by our own media and politicians.

More to it than Adlestrop

John — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 20:03:58 +0000

For all that Edward Thomas’ poems were was widely cited as an influence by Auden, Hughes, Larkin and C Day Lewis, and were mentioned by no less a critical heavyweight than F R Leavis, his enduring poetic memorial is “Adlestrop”, which is a lovely poem, but there is more to Thomas than that. Matthew Hollis’ biography, covering Thomas’ last years before he was killed near Arras in 1917, is a useful reminder of how prolific a poet he was over an incredibly short period. It’s fascinating tale, not least because of all the major and minor poets of the era whom Thomas knew, Robert Frost chief among them. But for all Hollis assertions that Thomas had a fine ear and a mastery of rhythm I find a number of his poems prosaic, as opposed to poetic, and am slightly depressed to discover yet another writer who seems to have needed to be thoroughly unpleasant to his wife and family in order to come up with the written word. In spite of the slightly too starry-eyed and breathless tone in parts, well worth reading.

Butterbur and Lambs

John — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 20:57:24 +0000

A weekend in Clapham (North Yorkshire). There’s a station, which actually used to be a junction, on the Leeds to Morecambe line, just over a mile from the village (paved footpath all the way and a pedestrian underpass to deal with the A65). And the village is a delight. A broad, shallow, rippling stream runs through the middle, flanked by the New Inn, cottages, a couple of cafes, an absolutely wonderful wool shop, a post office/general store/secondhand bookshop/rock shop. Impressive, if 19th century, church at the head of the village beside a waterfall — a dedicated team of local bellringers making a joyful noise.

All around, the usual Dales delights: lambs, curlews, stone walls, limestone, butterbur, wood anemone, bluebells, primroses.

And the molecatcher had been by.

The New Inn at Clapham did a very respectable pub food menu and some local beers. At Austwick, the Game Cock had a friendly atmosphere and Thwaites beers. I had the bitter but there was also a strong Titanic centenary ale. (Usual jokes apply).