Memories | Now I'm 64

Celebrating World Wetlands Day with the heron family

Last Monday, 2 February, was World Wetlands Day. A wetland is a transitional area between land and water, an area where water covers the soil – or is present at or near the surface – either permanently or seasonally. Mrs P and I love a good wetland: it’s a distinct ecosystem that is a great place for a spot of birdwatching, and is notable as the favoured habitat of the handsome heron family

***Grey Herons were my Mum’s favourite bird. This one has just caught itself a tasty snack.***

When my father died over 30 years ago we bought my mother a set of binoculars and started taking her out on our birdwatching expeditions. She soon declared the heron to be her favourite bird, attracted I suspect by its large size and a distinctive appearance that includes a dagger-like bill, long spindly legs and an improbably bendy neck. I imagine she was also intrigued by the birds’ hunting style, in which they stand motionless for lengthy periods before stabbing explosively at any prey item foolish enough to venture too close to them. Spotting a heron quickly became Mum’s ambition whenever we took her out, and because we chose our birdwatching sites carefully she was rarely disappointed.

The Grey Heron is the UK’s most common species of heron. As these images show, Mrs P’s been photographing them for many years.

The species that Mum got to know and love is the Grey Heron, by a long way the most common member of the heron family in the UK, with over 60,000 birds overwintering here. Standing nearly 1m high and with a wingspan approaching 2m, it is an impressive bird. It feeds primarily on fish, but also eats amphibians, ducklings and other small birds, and tiny mammals such as voles. Interestingly, Grey Herons sometimes temporarily leave their wetland habitats in favour of nearby agricultural fields which they scour for rodents in the immediate aftermath of the harvest.

Little Egret.

The UK boasts several other members of the heron family, although none is very common. The Bittern is vanishingly rare; Mrs P and I have rarely seen one, and have never got a decent photograph. Little Egrets were once common here, but were wiped out over 100 years ago thanks to the insatiable demand of the fashion industry for the birds’ elegant feathers. I wrote about the decline and fall of the Little Egret, and the important consequences this had on bird conservation in the UK, in a post I wrote in 2024.

Great White Egret.

Little Egrets began recolonising the UK in the late 20th century, and these days we see them quite often. Sadly their return came too late for my Mum, as did the more recent arrival of the Great White Egret. She would have been thrilled, I’m sure, to see both egret species, though I suspect neither would have supplanted the Grey Heron in her affections.

Clockwise from Top Left: Green Heron (seen on Tobago in 2006); Great Blue Heron (Canada, 2014); Little Blue Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); White-Faced Heron (Tasmania, 2016); Galapagos Heron (Galapagos Islands, 1989); Bare-Throated Tiger Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); Great Blue Heron (Canada, 2015).

Across the whole world there are reckoned to be 75 separate species within the heron family, although some go under the names of egret or bittern. Herons’ solitary nature and their motionless hunting style have captured the imagination of cultures everywhere, often making them figures of mystery and deep spiritual significance as well as symbols of patience and wisdom. Every continent except Antarctica boasts resident species of heron, and as Mrs P’s photos show we’ve been privileged to see a number of these during our travels.

Clockwise from Top Left: Bare-Throated Tiger Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); Green Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); Bare-Throated Tiger Heron (Costa Rica, 2008); Indian Pond Heron (India, 2013); Little Blue Heron (USA, 2012); Great Blue Heron (Canada, 2012).

Almost all species of heron are closely associated with water, living and feeding as they mostly do on the margins of lakes, rivers, and swamps. They need wetlands, as do so many other species of birds, mammal and invertebrate, and it has been a pleasure to celebrate World Wetlands Day by featuring these magnificent birds here. My Mum, a heron lover until the very end, would definitely have approved!

***Boat-billed Heron, Costa Rica 2008***

Upriver on the Thames

Posted on January 21 by Platypus Man

In a previous post about our 2025 visit to London I described a journey downriver on the Thames from Westminster Bridge to Woolwich. On a different day we took another boat trip, this time heading upriver. The plan had been to visit the historic Hampton Court Palace, once the home of King Henry VIII. Sadly this proved impossible due to repair work being undertaken at Teddington lock, but nevertheless – despite the relentlessly gloomy weather – we decided to take the boat upriver to Kew to view this area of London from an unfamiliar angle.

***The Vertrouwen is a Dutch barge dating from 1929. It is now moored at Dove Pier in Hammersmith.***

In common with most cities, London is a mixture of the good, the bad and the ugly. Mostly ugly, of course, but the river journey did reveal a few interesting bridges, boats and buildings. Although I grew up in the capital, most of the sights were new to me, but a few – such as Hammersmith Bridge – were achingly familiar.

An elegant suspension bridge that opened in 1827, Hammersmith Bridge is etched into my memory. Over half a century ago I attended school in this part of London, and can clearly remember our class being sent on “cross-country” runs – following a route that included crossing the bridge – by a teacher who was clearly allergic to teaching in the conventional sense. These days the bridge is closed to all motor traffic due to the appearance of cracks in its pedestals, but foot traffic (including, I imagine, cross-country runners!) can still cross here.

One of the most recognisable buildings we saw during our trip upriver was Battersea Power Station. Built in two phases between 1929 and 1955, the coal-fired power station once produced a fifth of all the electricity used in London, keeping the lights on in buildings as illustrious as Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament.

Battersea Power Station ceased operations in 1983, when the generating equipment began to wear out and oil, gas and nuclear fuels started to be preferred over coal for the generation of electricity. Demolition would have been the obvious next step, but the building’s iconic appearance on the London skyline resulted in it being given listed status in recognition its heritage value.

For over 20 years the former power station remained unoccupied. It fell into disrepair, before plans were agreed to redevelop the site to include residential accommodation, bars, restaurants, offices, shops and entertainment spaces. When viewed from the Thames there is little indication today of what now lies within, but it’s easy to see why such an imposing structure captured the imagination of several generations of Londoners.

We had been fully expecting and were looking forward to seeing Battersea Power Station, but another nearby building took us totally by surprise. Just a few hundred metres upriver from the power station is the Peace Pagoda, one of around 80 similar structures built across the world since the end of the Second World War. They owe their origin to the Japanese Buddhist monk Nichidatsu Fujii (1885-1985), who devoted his life to promoting non-violence after an inspirational meeting with Mahatma Gandhi in 1931.

***The Peace Pagoda in Battersea Park***

The first Peace Pagoda, which was intended as a focus for people of all races and creeds to help unite them in their search for world peace, was inaugurated in the Japanese city of Kumamoto in 1954. The Battersea Peace Pagoda dates from 1985, and was built by a group of 50 volunteers who were members of the Japanese Nipponzan-Myohoji Buddhist order that had been founded by Fujii.

Journeying through London on the Thames proved to be the perfect way to escape the chaos of the capital’s road network for a while, but travel by boat does not suit everyone. If you’re in a hurry, filthy rich and don’t give a damn about noise pollution, you can travel to and from central London by helicopter. London Heliport’s website proclaims that it offers “ultimate comfort and convenience” by acting as “the vertical gateway to London for VIPs and the business community for over 50 years.” Plainly it’s not for the likes of me and Mrs P, but we were interested to watch a helicopter taking off as our boat passed the heliport. It reminded us – as if we needed reminding! – why we would hate to live in London.

These images show a few of the other sights we witnessed during our upriver excursion. Top Left: “The Powerhouse”, a former power station converted into luxury apartments. Top Right: former Dutch barge the “Amethyst Atoll”, now moored at Dover Pier, Hammersmith. Middle Right (top): Kew Bridge. Middle Right (bottom): Unidentified boat moored at Chiswick. Bottom Right: Lambeth Bridge. Bottom Left: “Houses on the Strand” at Kew. All very interesting, but I definitely wouldn’t want to live here!

Scottish Islands trip abandoned…we need to go back!

Posted on January 7 by Platypus Man

The plan was simple – take a leisurely drive up to the west coast of Scotland, catch the ferry and then spend some quality time on the islands of Islay and Jura. We’d never visited either before, but they promised so much – beautiful scenery, bewitching wildlife, numerous whisky distilleries and, above all, a bit of peace and tranquillity, away from the hurly burly of our daily existence. Only it didn’t quite work out that way…

***Red deer stag at Inverlussa, Jura – Such a handsome chap!***

The drive north was uneventful, but things began to go wrong as soon as we arrived on Islay, the southernmost island of the Inner Hebrides. We had rented a cottage, and it didn’t live up to expectations. I’ll not bother you with the details, just believe me when I say we were not at all happy.

***Kilchoman church, Islay – in the middle of nowhere!***

But things were about to get a whole lot worse. After less than 48 hours on Islay a medical issue forced us to seek urgent advice. Our cottage was in a very remote location; there were no neighbours we could turn to for support, and we ended up speaking by phone to a doctor in Inverness, around 200 miles (320km) away. He diagnosed the problem, and referred us to the local hospital where we could pick up some medication. Up until this point I’d absolutely no idea there was a hospital on the tiny island of Islay!

We set off after midnight, struggling to find our way in pitch darkness along roads that could have been in contention for the national “pothole of the year” award if such a thing existed. Eventually we found the hospital and picked up the medication.

Fortunately the medication soon started to do its job. We took things fairly easy for the next couple of days while recovery was underway, and even managed a day trip to the nearby island of Jura. Islay and Jura were beginning to live up to their reputations, despite our discomfort.

***Isla is famous for its distilleries that produce peaty, single-malt whisky. This is the Ardbeg Distillery***

And then, just as we were picking up the pace again, we got a phone call. A family emergency had arisen, and we were needed back home as soon as possible. Frantic phone calls followed as we sought to cancel the other accommodation we had lined up for later in our trip, and to rearrange our ferry booking in order to get us back to the Scottish mainland as soon as possible. Luckily, everyone we spoke with was sympathetic and helpful. Although we needed to rise from our beds at 4.45am we did get safely back home to Derbyshire the next day, after around 17 hours travelling. What a nightmare!

***Highland Cow at Sanaigmore Bay, Islay***

Needless to say, in many ways it’s a holiday we’d rather forget. But having said that, both Islay and Jura appeared to have a lot to offer. They seemed like “our sort of place”, and in other circumstances our memories would doubtless be overwhelmingly positive. So we have tentatively agreed that we need to go back and to make some new memories, and thereby delete from our minds the nightmare that was Islay and Jura in 2025. Not this year, but probably before too much longer. Watch this space!

Culture shock! Grand Sumo comes to London

Posted on October 29 by Platypus Man

A couple of weeks ago Mrs P and I took ourselves off to London for a few days to attend a sumo tournament. Almost without exception the people we told about our plans thought we’d gone crazy. You could see it in their eyes – “Why?” they wondered, “why would anyone pay good money to watch a load of semi-naked fat guys trying to beat each other up?” To which my response is this: please don’t criticise what you don’t understand.

Our connections with sumo

Mrs P and I first encountered sumo in the mid-1980s, when we were able to watch parts of a tournament on television during a vacation visit to Japan. We were intrigued, quickly spotting that this apparently crude and brutal sport is more subtle than it first appears, being rooted in at least 2,000 years of Japanese history and culture. We realised very quicky that if ever the opportunity arose we would like to get to know more about this unfamiliar, but strangely fascinating activity.

A few years later in 1991 the Japan Festival, which was held in London and across the UK, included the first-ever official sumo tournament to be held outside Japan. We managed to get tickets for one day of that event, which was held at the Royal Albert Hall, and so managed to watch sumo live and in the flesh for the first time.

Eight years later we returned for a second visit to Japan. We were staying with a friend who worked at the British Embassy, and through his connections were able to get tickets for one day of the September sumo tournament at the Kokugikan in Tokyo, the country’s foremost sumo arena. It was a wonderful, strangely exotic experience that we have never forgotten.

Although in recent years we have been able to follow sumo on television courtesy of broadcasts by NHK World, we assumed that we would never again get the chance to experience it first-hand. So, when we learned that Grand Sumo was to return to the Royal Albert Hall in October 2025, we were desperate to get tickets.

On the day that tickets went on sale Mrs P logged onto the ticket line the moment it went live, and found that there were already more than 1,000 people in the queue ahead of her! It was evident that the tournament was going to be a big success, and luckily, after a long wait and a lot of anxiety, she was able to bag tickets for the first two days of the five-day event.

Sumo’s history, rituals and rules

Sumo wrestling has an extraordinarily long history. Prehistoric wall paintings suggest that it evolved out of a ritual agricultural dance that was performed to pray for a good harvest. The earliest written references date from the early 8th century, and tell the story of a bout fought between two warlords – in the presence of the Emperor – in 23BCE.

***Before the day’s sumo begins the wrestlers parade in all their finery***

From the 8th century, ritual sumo was carried out at the imperial court to predict the year’s harvest and to pray for abundance and prosperity. Beginning in the 12th century, it evolved into a form of combat training for samurai warriors. A few hundred years later, Japan embarked upon a long period of isolation from the outside world. Peace reigned supreme, and because samurai warriors no longer needed to fight, sumo wrestling began to develop into a form of entertainment, often as a way to raise money for the repair of shrines and temples. Thus was sumo professionalised.

In the mid-nineteenth century Japan opened up again to foreign contacts and sumo was perceived to be old fashioned, a relic of the past that needed to be relegated to the pages of history. However, in 1884 the Emperor organised a tournament which proved to be a turning point for the sport. Instead of appearing old fashioned, sumo was now seen as a national symbol, part of a shared heritage in which all Japanese people could take pride. And so it remains today.

*Grand champion Hoshoryu performs a traditional ring-entering ceremony. He went on to win the tournament (“*basho” in Jananese) .

Rituals and ceremonies abound in sumo, and help make it like no other sport I’ve ever seen. These include (1) the ring-entering ceremonies at the beginning of each tournament day, in which the wrestlers (called rikishi in Japanese) parade into the ring wearing elaborate aprons over their belts (mawashi); (2) the tossing of salt into the ring (dohyo) by the wrestlers to symbolically clean it; (3) the rinsing of the mouth with “power water” (chikara-mizu) before a fight, which is similar to the ritual carried out before entering a Shinto shrine; (4) the stomping of the feet by rikishi before a bout begins, which is a ritual to scare away demons; (5) the bow-twirling ceremony (yumitori-shiki), which is performed at the end of each day’s wrestling. Dating back to the 1700s, it symbolises both the winner’s dance and a spiritual cleansing; (6) the ceremonial clothing worn by the referee (gyoji), which resembles that of a Shinto priest.

***The bow-twirling ceremony marks the end of the day’s sumo***
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The basic rules of sumo are very, very simple: it is a form of wrestling in which a contestant loses if he is forced out of the ring first, or if any part of his body except the soles of his feet touch the ground. Having said that, there are no fewer than 82 recognised techniques (kimarite) that can be deployed to achieve a winning outcome. Sumo is a lot more complex and subtle than it appears at first glance.

Unlike other fighting sports, sumo does not have weight classes; so long as he stands over 167cm tall and weighs over 67kg any man can participate. One of the most exciting aspects of watching sumo is the “David versus Goliath” battles, fights between two wrestlers with vastly different builds. In sumo, strength and power are important, obviously, but so too are technique and speed. The Davids of the sumo world often deploy their own special skills to defeat their Goliath opponents, much to the delight of most neutral onlookers.

The Grand Sumo Tournament, October 2025

Mrs P and I attended the first two days of the Grand Sumo tournament, and had a truly memorable time. The Royal Albert Hall was packed with spectators, and the atmosphere was electric. While some audience members may have attended out of idle curiosity, it was clear that most knew and understood sumo. It was great to finally be able to sit alongside and to speak with a few people who share our interest in a sport that clearly baffles most Brits.

Outside the Royal Albert Hall, traditional Japanese banners advised passers-by that something special is happening inside.

The tournament attracted a good deal of coverage in the media and online. Wrestling took place in the evening, and earlier in the day the wrestlers – 40 of them, in total – got out and about visiting some of London’s tourist hotspots. If media reports are to be believed the wrestlers made quite an impression on the locals, and were widely perceived as “gentle giants”.

Big screens suspended from the roof of the Royal Albert Hall offered close-ups of the action if required.

And the wrestlers could turn up – unannounced, of course – just about anywhere, so you can imagine how thrilled Mrs P and I were when we bumped into two of them one afternoon in the Natural History Museum. Shodai (one of our favourite wrestlers!) and Mitakeumi even agreed for a hastily snapped photo.

***Ura is our #1 favourite sumo wrestler. He seems like a really nice guy! Other sumo fans clearly agree, as he won the “audience favourite” vote that was run for spectators at the tournament!***

Sadly, we couldn’t get tickets for the final three days of the tournament, but fortunately it was televised by the BBC so we managed to see every single match (there were 100 bouts spread across the five days). It was great to be able to watch the conclusion of the tournament on television, but so much better to watch the first two days live and in person in the Royal Albert Hall. It was a surreal experience to be present at an event that is so quintessentially Japanese in a venue that is so very British. Surreal, but wonderful too!

I do understand why, when it is casually viewed without any background knowledge, sumo may be difficult to appreciate. The culture shock must be palpable. But I do wish more Brits would give sumo a chance – they might even get to like it!

And the opportunity to watch this sport here in the UK may arise again quite soon. There is a lot of speculation in the media right now that, following the undoubted success of the October 2025 tournament, sumo may return to London in the near future. I do hope so, I really do.

Derailed!

Posted on July 9 by Platypus Man

I was leafing through Mrs P’s immense back catalogue of photos, looking for something to post on Wordless Wednesday, when I happened across some images of what I like to think of as our Great Train Derailment. Travelling in Ecuador in the late 1980s was always going to be a bit of an adventure, but not for one minute did we expect that a train on which we were passengers would unilaterally decide to jump off the rails and continue its journey by bumping crazily down the track bed.

But first, a spoiler alert. Train derailments are a serious business; when they happen, passengers can get hurt. Sometimes people die. I’m pleased to confirm straight away that this was not the case when we were derailed in deepest, darkest Ecuador. No-one on that train suffered more than mild shock and temporary inconvenience due to the day’s events, and, as an unexpected bonus, passengers of a thoughtful disposition took away an important life lesson!

Our primary reason for visiting Ecuador was to take in the magnificent wildlife of the Galapagos Islands, but having made the effort to get to that distant South American land it would have been rude not to check out other parts of the country too. So we began by spending a few days in the Andean highlands admiring Spanish colonial architecture, visiting historic Inca ruins and wandering through colourful street markets, before taking a train bound for the coastal city of Guayaquil where we were due to catch a flight to the Galapagos.

The Ecuadorian railway system dates back to the latter half on the nineteenth century, and was devised to help unify the country by connecting the Andean highlands with the Pacific coast. This was a challenging project, a single track narrow gauge (1,067mm / 3 ft 6 in) railway covering 965km (600 miles) and reaching a maximum altitude of 3,609m (11,841 feet). The railway passes through huge tracts of wild, largely unpopulated country. As such it’s undoubtedly picturesque, but a long, long way from help if something goes wrong.

Sadly, also, the track was evidently not well maintained. Indeed today, most of the former Ecuadorian railway system is permanently closed due to severe flood damage caused by El Niño in 1997/98, and general neglect over many years as a result of the Pan American Highway attracting passengers away from rail to road. With the benefit of hindsight it’s probably no great surprise that, as our little train trundled through the remote Ecuadorian landscape, it jumped the tracks and ground to a shuddering halt, dragging its hapless coaches towards the same fate.

Having got over the initial shock, we passengers were dismayed. We were stuck in the middle of nowhere. It could be hours before anyone in Guayaquil even knew we had a problem, and getting help out to us would take much longer. It looked like we were in for a miserable few days.

The train crew, however, seemed a good deal less concerned. Indeed it quickly became clear that they were prepared for just such an eventuality as they retrieved various pieces of wood and metal from the cab, and positioned them around the wheels of the stranded locomotive. To these they added branches, sticks, rocks and grass collected from the surrounding area, and when they judged everything to be in place they began the delicate process of edging the locomotive back towards the rails, guided by their makeshift recovery kit. After a few centimetres, the wood, metal and branches needed to be re-positioned, at which point the locomotive was started up again.

This process went on for several hours, the crew displaying immense practical skill and enormous patience as they went about their challenging task. Eventually, astonishingly, without any assistance whatsoever from heavy lifting equipment or a rescue team, the locomotive and coaches were persuaded back onto the rails. The relieved and delighted passengers swiftly re-embarked, and our train continued its journey towards the coast.

What an adventure! And what an amazing bit of work by train’s crew. For me, there is a larger life lesson in the dramatic events of that day: life’s journey is rarely as straightforward as we would wish, and we will all get derailed from time to time. The important thing is not to feel sorry for ourselves and lament our ill luck, but rather to look for creative, practical solutions that will quickly put us back on track. Way to go, those guys!

Postscript – the photos

The photos accompanying this post are scanned from originals taken by Mrs P using a traditional 35mm film camera. You remember those days, the days when photography was a seriously expensive hobby, the days when – after you’d returned from your travels – you sent your precious rolls of film away to be developed and waited anxiously to see if the pictures you’d taken were any good. If our Great Train Derailment had happened yesterday, Mrs P would have taken hundreds of digital images during the recovery process and swiftly discarded 90% of them. But back then, with our financial resources somewhat constrained and the Galapagos still to be visited, she could spare only a few exposures to record this unanticipated episode in the Ecuadorian outback. Hopefully you’ll agree with me that they perfectly capture the drama of what unfolded that day.

Concorde: up close and personal

Posted on February 21, 2024 by Platypus Man

I grew up in West London, within spitting distance of Heathrow Airport, and for 18 years the noise of aircraft taking off and landing was part of the soundtrack of my daily existence. In order to protect our sanity, we all trained ourselves to tune it out. In this way we could reduce the relentless roar of aircraft coming and going to mere muzak, simultaneously there and yet not there. But where Concorde was concerned, such mental gymnastics simply didn’t work. Concorde was SERIOUSLY LOUD.

Compare, if you will, the noise of a tabby cat miaowing and a lion roaring. You can experience only one of those sounds viscerally, as a physical sensation pulsing throughout your whole body. And it ain’t the tabby cat! It was just like that with Concorde, the undisputed roaring lion of the skies round my way, back in the day.

Concorde was, of course, the world’s first supersonic passenger-carrying aircraft, the product of a ground-breaking joint initiative between Great Britain and France. The name “Concorde” means “agreement,” and was an ironic reminder that the partners were in unfamiliar territory – over the centuries, the two nations had agreed on almost nothing, and had spent more time fighting than co-operating.

It all began in 1962 when the Brits and the French signed a treaty to share costs and risks in producing a supersonic passenger plane. Then the hard work started in earnest. Concorde made its maiden flight seven years later, but it was not until 1973 that the first transatlantic journey took place. The world’s first scheduled supersonic passenger services were launched three years later, in 1976.

Once development of Concorde was underway in the mid 1960s, some bright spark decided it would be a good idea to prepare the public for what might be in store for them. I distinctly remember, when I was ten or eleven years old, our teacher taking us out into the school playground one day so we could all experience our first sonic boom, courtesy of an air force jet the authorities brought in for that very purpose.

We all waited, hushed and expectant, for the miracle to happen. The appointed hour duly arrived, and so too did the RAF jet.

BOOM-BOOM went the soundwaves, echoing noisily around the neighbourhood.

“Oooh, aaah” squealed my schoolmates, frolicking excitedly around the playground.

“Enough of this rubbish, go back indoors and get on with some proper work” growled our teacher, trudging grumpily towards the classroom.

And, of course, it was rubbish. Concorde was never going to be breaking the sound barrier anywhere near us. It would be landing and taking off from an airport that was only a few minutes walk away from the school gates, and so would be many, many miles away before supersonic speeds could possibly be reached. It was therefore obvious to anyone with more than a couple of brain cells in working order that the sonic boom demo was totally pointless, but who cared, it got us out of lessons for a few minutes.

These memories of my own brief encounters with Concorde came flooding back last year, when Mrs P and I visited the Brooklands Museum of Motorsport and Aviation in Surrey. Amongst the museum’s collection is a Concorde, grounded of course, but perfect for an up close and personal inspection.

The plane on display still belongs to British Airways, but has been on loan to the museum since 2003. This particular aircraft never flew commercially, but was used in early testing and for certification. Later, from 1974-81, it was flown around the world to test new routes and to drum up sales to international airlines.

It was fascinating to finally get up close and personal with a Concorde. Its sleek, streamlined fuselage, the iconic delta-wing design and a nose that drooped during take-off and landing rendered the aircraft unmistakeable. And beautiful too. From outside you could gaze in wonder at a Concorde and think to yourself wow, if that’s the future of commercial air travel, bring it on NOW!

Inside however, as we discovered when we walked through the narrow cabin, things were rather different. With only around 100 seats – four per row, separated by a central aisle – and a low slung roof, it seems cramped, uncomfortable even. No amount of “free” champagne could disguise the fact that it feels like cattle class. But only the wealthiest of cattle ever got to fly in it.

Concorde’s advertised selling point was its unimaginably quick passage through the air, with a cruising speed that was over twice the speed of sound. A crossing from London or Paris to New York lasted approximately three and a half hours, less than half the time taken by subsonic aircraft. Famously, in summer 1985, Phil Collins was able to perform at Live Aid concerts in both London and Philadelphia on the same day by hopping onto a Concorde after his set at Wembley for a transatlantic flight to the US!

But the other attraction of Concorde was its exclusivity. Tickets were prohibitively expensive, meaning that you could only afford to take a scheduled flight on this iconic aircraft if you were stinking rich. To have flown on Concorde became a badge of honour, an indicator that you’d inherited or otherwise made a fortune.

Ultimately, however, the Concorde project was doomed. Although aesthetically pleasing and technologically ground-breaking, operating costs and serious environmental concerns were its undoing. Astonishingly, given its iconic reputation, only 20 Concordes were ever built, and just 14 of these flew commercially.

***This photo shows the iconic “droop nose” on a plane landing at Farnborough in 1974. IMAGE CREDIT: Steve Fitzgerald (GFDL 1.2 or GFDL 1.2), via Wikimedia Commons***

The final nail was driven into Concorde’s coffin on 24 July, 2000, when Air France Flight 4590 crashed shortly after take-off from Paris. All 109 people on board and four others on the ground were killed. As a result, commercial Concorde services were suspended everywhere until November 2001. Less than two years later the plane was officially retired, 41 years after the Anglo-French treaty was signed and 27 years after commercial operations had begun.

Visiting Concorde at the Brooklands Museum was a fascinating experience. It was also rather nostalgic, oddly so given that although I’ve seen – and heard – it from afar on countless occasions, I’ve never actually flown on this aircraft. Indeed I’m neither that rich nor so environmentally naïve as to have ever contemplated such a thing. And I’ve absolutely no regrets on that score.

I’d like to believe that all thought of commercial supersonic air traffic has been abandoned forever. However in doing research for this post I’ve have read that greener options are currently being explored, including hydrogen-powered planes that could offer the prospect of “near-zero emissions.”

If this is really true I have to ask, why are we bothering? In my humble opinion, commercial supersonic air travel is folly at best, criminal at worst. The world is in big trouble right now. Surely there are better uses of our time, wealth and ingenuity than seeking to shave a few hours off the length of a transatlantic flight, a flight that is probably unnecessary anyway in the modern, digitally-enabled age? Sometimes I despair!

**Our “Boarding Passes” for the Concorde at Brooklands Museum!**

Magpie mythology and internet lies

Posted on January 17, 2024 by Platypus Man

Magpies are unmistakeable. Members of the crow family, seen from a distance they are long-tailed birds with distinctive black and white plumage. Up close, however, the colouration is more subtle. In the right light a Eurasian magpie’s wing feathers take on a purplish-blue iridescent sheen, while the tail bears hints of a subtle glossy green. It’s a handsome bird, and also – in some circles – a controversial one.

Some people dislike magpies because they are noisy, raucous birds that posture and strut around gardens, parkland and fields, apparently believing themselves to be top bird. Others object to their omnivorous lifestyle, which can include raiding the nests of smaller birds and carrying off their eggs and chicks. And their reputation for stealing jewellery and other bright, shiny objects wins magpies few friends amongst their human neighbours.

However, while their fondness for scavenging and their bully-boy tendencies on the bird table make them unpopular with squeamish bird lovers, it is their alleged association with Satan that upsets others. Yes, that’s right, folklore tells us that magpies are in league with the Devil. According to this tradition, magpies refused to join the other birds in mourning at Christ’s crucifixion, thus marking themselves out as the Devil’s own.

The magpie’s supposed indifference to Jesus’ crucifixion is just one of a huge number of tales and superstitions that surround this striking bird. In the UK, one of the first nursery rhymes many children hear is about magpies. The rhyme references the birds’ association with prophecy, and is found in countless variations up and down the country. Here is just one of them:

One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a girl 
Four for a boy 
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret never to be told

So, according to this piece of folklore, the future that awaits you is indicated by the number of magpies you see. It’s a compelling part of our oral tradition, and I must confess that one day a little over a year ago – when a new baby was expected in our family – Mrs P and I happily counted the number of magpies we could see in order to predict the gender of the new-born. On the day in question we spotted three together in a field, and the baby, when born, was indeed a girl. Spooky!

The same nursery rhyme indicates that spotting a single magpie is a harbinger of bad luck. Again, this belief is deeply embedded within our culture. I clearly remember a former work colleague revealing that, when out for a drive in the countryside, he and his wife would wave vigorously to any lone magpies they spotted, because in so doing they were bidding farewell to ill-luck.

Alternatively, to dissipate the impending misfortune associated with seeing a single magpie, you should point it out to someone else, presumably on the basis that bad luck shared is bad luck halved. And if there’s nobody else around to take on the burden, the best course of action is to salute the magpie with a cheery ‘’Good morning Mr Magpie, how is your lady wife today?’ in the hope that he will take pity on you!

How did a single magpie become associated with bad luck? One theory is that, as magpies mate for life, seeing one by itself may suggest that its partner has perished. The surviving magpie has therefore suffered bad luck, and associating with it may cause its bad luck to transfer to the observer. However, by asking after the welfare of the lone magpie’s wife you demonstrate your belief that his partner is alive and well, which, if true, means no bad luck awaits you.

As well as waving to a lone magpie, or asking after the health of his wife, there are other ways in which the bad luck might be avoided. These include raising your hat to the bird, spitting three times over your shoulder, blinking rapidly to fool yourself into thinking you’ve seen two magpies rather than one, and flapping your arms about wildly and cawing loudly to mimic the magpie’s missing mate. But be warned: most of these activities, if undertaken in public, are likely to result in ridicule, arrest or an enforced appointment with a psychiatrist.

This post barely scratches the surface of the superstitions surrounding magpies. Variations on the theme include the following:

In Scotland, a single magpie seen near a window warns of an impending death. However, in the county of Sussex a magpie perched on a house roof is a good sign, indicating that the roof isn’t about to cave in.
In Wales, if you see a magpie moving from left to right when you set off on a journey, that journey will be hazardous.
Yorkshire folk associate magpies with witchcraft, and when seeing one (a magpie that is, not a native of Yorkshire!) you should make the sign of the cross to ward off evil spirits.
According to tradition in the county of Dorset, if a fisherman sees a magpie before he sets sail he won’t catch any fish that day.
In Somerset it is advised that you carry an onion with you at all times to protect you from the bad luck a magpie may bring. (As an aside, while I cannot testify as to the veracity of this advice I will readily admit that during my working life I sometimes kept a bulb of garlic in my office to ward off the accountants. I’m pleased to say it seemed to work!)

Regular readers of my blog will know I have a passion for folk music, and it’s therefore a pleasure to share with you below a link to a song about magpies. The harmonies may be challenging, but the story told is highly relevant to this post. It was written around 50 years ago by a guy called Davey Dodds. The story goes that one day Davey gave an old lady a lift in his new car. Davey was bemused, and probably a little horrified, when the lady insisted on shrieking “Devil, devil, I defy thee”, and spitting on the floor of his Jaguar every time she saw a magpie.

Intrigued, Davey looked into the mythology of magpies, and this song is the result. Its lyrics* reference some of the magpie superstitions I’ve written about in this post, and others that I haven’t had space to include. This version on YouTube was recorded in 2014 by a trio of singers called the BlueBirds.

At first glance, magpie mythology is totally out of place in our rational, comfortable, well ordered 21st century lives. I mean, it’s all a load of nonsense, isn’t it? Of course it is! But on the other hand, the mere fact that humans embraced these stories for millennia tells us a lot about our species. Our ancestors believed that magpies were the Devil’s disciples. Gullible, weren’t they?

Today, large sections of society enthusiastically embrace the conspiracy theories and other vile lies peddled relentlessly on the internet. Their need to feel good about themselves, their quest for certainty and their desperate desire for simple answers to complex questions leads them to believe stuff that is patently ridiculous, often downright dangerous and occasionally evil. Gullible, aren’t we?

* * * * * * *

* The complete lyrics to Davey Dodds’ song are as follows

Chorus (after every other verse)
One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a girl and for for a boy,
Five for silver, six for gold,
Seven for a secret never told,
Devil, devil, I defy thee.
Devil, devil, I defy thee.
Devil, devil, I defy thee.

Oh, the magpie brings us tidings
Of news both fair and foul;
She's more cunning than the raven,
More wise than any owl.

For she brings us news of the harvest
Of the barley, wheat and corn.
And she knows when we'll go to our graves
And how we shall be born.

She brings us joy when from the right,
Grief when from the left.
Of all the news that's in the air
We know to trust her best.

For she sees us at our labour,
And mocks us at our work.
And she steals the egg from out of the nest,
And she can mob the hawk.

The priest, he says we're wicked
To worship the devil's bird.
Ah, but we respect the old ways
And we disregard his word.

For we know they rest uneasy
As we slumber in the night.
And we'll always leave a little bit of meat
For the bird that's black and white.

Chilling out with Nature

Posted on February 1, 2023 by Platypus Man

We’ve booked to go out for lunch, and with a couple of hours to kill before our appointed time, we decide to treat ourselves to a spot of birdwatching. Straw’s Bridge Nature Reserve was once home to a sewage works and an opencast mine. It doesn’t sound promising, but in recent decades the local council has done a good job of restoring it as a wildlife habitat and local amenity. The locals call it Swan Lake, but the Reserve has plenty more besides the eponymous Mute Swan to tempt nature lovers.

On arrival we’re surprised to see that the Straw’s Bridge lakes are frozen in places. Instead of swimming elegantly across wide expanses of open water, the Mute Swans are reduced to an ungainly waddle and appear in mortal danger of ending up flat on their beaks at any moment. Meanwhile, Black-headed Gulls huddle together miserably on the ice, as if bemused by the sudden meteorological change that has turned their familiar surroundings into an unwelcome skating rink.

As we set off to walk a series of trails around the lakes we spy a robin sitting atop a rubbish bin. Like many of his species, our red-breasted friend seems unperturbed by proximity to humans, even as Mrs P creeps ever-closer in pursuit of the perfect, full-frame photo. She snaps away merrily, the robin sings lustily and I take a bit of video footage. Contentment reigns supreme!

A bit further on we watch an unexpected face-off between a Grey Heron and a mob of Mute Swans. The heron has staked its claim to a section of ice, and although they have a whole lake to choose from the swans evidently decide that the ideal place for a family gathering is the precise spot on which it’s standing. They close in on the heron, which eyes them warily. I train my video camera on them all, expecting to see feathers fly. But the heron clearly thinks better of it, and goes slip-sliding away from the mob in search of a swan-free life. Good luck with that at Swan Lake, my friend.

We continue our stroll around the lakes, revelling in the golden colours of the winter reedbeds. Despite the glorious sun beaming down at us from a clear blue sky, it’s a bitterly cold morning. But we’ve come prepared, wearing so many layers of thermal clothing that we feel comfortably toasty. In the leaf litter beneath a small stand of trees, a solitary redwing – a refugee from Scandinavia, where winters are much colder than our own – searches energetically for anything edible. Meanwhile, in the far distance we spot a flotilla of mallards and coots circling in a patch of open water, while a buzzard scans the landscape hopefully from its vantage point at the top of a nearby tree.

And finally, we happen upon the star of this morning’s birding expedition. It’s another Grey Heron, this one sitting amongst the dead vegetation at the edge of an ice-free section of the lake. The bird is indifferent to our presence as we creep ever closer, and looks majestic in the soft midwinter light.

Thoughts inevitably turn to my Mum. After Dad died in the mid-1990s, we started taking her out on birdwatching excursions with us. She got to love it, and the bird she loved most of all was the heron. The tall, long-legged, long-billed wader fascinated and enthralled her, and was her highlight of any outing to a wetland habitat. Such happy memories!

Far too soon, it is time to head back to the car and drive a couple of miles down the road to where we will be taking lunch. There’s one final surprise in store – in the lakeside car park we see a Pied Wagtail cavorting across a car bonnet, presumably in search of its own lunch of splattered insects.

It’s been an uplifting morning. As reserves go, Straw’s Bridge is hardly spectacular, its list of regularly occurring species totally unremarkable, and yet this is a truly wonderful place to chill out with Nature. We’ll be back again very soon, although next time I hope we can manage without the thermal underwear!

Three songs for Ukraine

Posted on March 16, 2022 by Platypus Man

Events in Ukraine continue to dominate the news, and my thoughts inevitably drift to the anti-war movement and the peace songs of my youth. I am, at heart, a child of the 60s, and the anthems of those heady days still resonate with me. In those far off times we were convinced that the world could be a better place, if only those in power would listen to our pleas and give peace a chance.

We were, of course, hopelessly naïve in the belief that our message would be heard by those in a position to make the necessary changes. Fifty years on the world is a very different place, but as recent events demonstrate, not a lot better.

***Photo Credit: by Miha Rekar on Unsplash***

Don’t get me wrong, I believe absolutely that, regardless of ethnicity, nationality, culture, religion, gender or sexuality, the vast majority of human beings are fundamentally decent people. But not everyone, and when bad people get into positions of power, bad things can still happen. The evidence is all around us right now.

Much of the anti-war sentiment that prevailed as I grew up in the 60s and early 70s came from the conflict in far-off Vietnam, but for many Brits memories of WW2 were also raw. I remember my father telling me of the occasion when his unit came under intense aerial bombardment and one of his terrified buddies completely lost his mind, leapt onto the bonnet of his jeep, shook a furious fist at the attacking planes and screamed “Death, where is thy sting?” The poor guy found out soon enough.

And I recall, too, my mother’s horrific account of how the family house was destroyed in one of the first air-raids of the war, and of how she and her parents were forced to flee across London to her auntie’s home with all the possessions they had left in the world bundled up in a single tattered bedsheet.

In the circumstances it is no surprise that, when I first heard Edwin Star‘s rendition of War I immediately felt a connection with his words, including:

 War, I despise
'Cause it means destruction of innocent lives
War means tears to thousands of mother's eyes
When their sons go off to fight
And lose their lives
I said, war, huh (good God, y'all)
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing...
War can't give life
It can only take it away

In fact, the song wasn’t written by Starr himself, but was penned instead for the Motown label by Norman Whitfield and Barret Strong. Although first recorded by The Temptations in March 1970, it was Edwin Starr’s powerful version three months later that took the anti-war movement by storm, reaching #1 for three weeks on the Billboard Pop Singles chart, and #3 on the equivalent UK chart (see note #1 below).

Sadly, War’s lyrics seem just as relevant today as they did when I first heard them half a century ago.

The invasion of Ukraine has brought to mind other anti-war songs from the same era. Bob Dylan‘s Masters of War, for example, an angry attack on those who seek to profit from conflict without any concern for the suffering of those caught up in it (see note #2 below). Can you spot the connection with recent events in Ukraine? No? Then look harder!

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly...

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

And finally, my mind turns to John Lennon, who told the world in 1969 that we should Give Peace a Chance. A couple of nights ago we changed television channels a little early to watch the evening news, and caught some tail end coverage of a Rugby Union match. The game itself was over and the studio pundits were raking over the embers, as they always do. And in the background was John Lennon with his Plastic Ono Band, belting out his anthem for peace across the stadium’s sound system.

It can’t have been a coincidence: whoever chose to play that track at the end of that rugby match must have had Ukraine on his mind. And my overwhelming reaction was one of immense sadness, sadness that, nearly 50 years after Lennon laid the track down, we still feel the need to play it.

All we are saying is "Give Peace a Chance"
All we are saying is "Give Peace a Chance"

___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

Note #1: Other notable covers of War include recordings by Frankie Goes to Hollywood (1984: YouTube link here) and Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band (1986: YouTube link here). YouTube also boasts compelling amateur footage of the Boss performing the song live alongside Edwin Starr: enjoy it here).

Note #2: Notable covers of Masters of War include a recording by The Flying Pickets (1984: YouTube link here) and this acoustic YouTube version by Ed Sheeran (c.2013).

The Burghley sculpture garden

Posted on March 2, 2022 by Platypus Man

Back when I was a lad, if you wanted to see sculptures you had to go to an art gallery, or maybe a museum. True, if your interest extended no further than humanoid figures you could reasonably expect to see statues of former monarchs, politicians and sundry other ne’er-do-wells in civic spaces scattered throughout the urban landscape. But if your tastes ran to something less formulaic and more creative you were pretty much confined to museums, galleries and similar indoor areas.

And then, thankfully, some bright spark came up with the idea of sculpture gardens.

A sculpture garden, and its big brother the sculpture park, is an outdoor space dedicated to the presentation of durable, three dimensional works of art in landscaped surroundings. In galleries and museums sculpture is contained, hemmed in by walls and ceilings, often difficult to fully appreciate.

In sculpture gardens and parks however, sculpture sits comfortably within a spacious, natural environment, with room to breathe. And the sculptures and the landscape in which they sit enhance one another: the gardens and parks frame the sculptures, while the sculptures become visual anchors within their surroundings.

Sculpture parks can now be found throughout the length and breadth of the UK, and visiting one can be an uplifting experience. Last week I wrote about our visit to Burghley House, a grand mansion dating from the late 16th century. In total contrast to the baroque excesses of the house itself, one of the joys of the parkland at Burghley is an excellent sculpture garden featuring a variety of contemporary and modern pieces.

Burghley’s sculpture garden dates back only a couple of decades, but is situated in an area of the grounds originally fashioned by the famed late 18th century landscape designer Lancelot “Capability” Brown. It combines a scattering of works on permanent display with an annual themed exhibition. The theme when we visited in 2021 (carried over from 2020, due to Covid) was ‘House‘, originally conceived to honour the 500^th anniversary of the birth in 1520 of Burghley House’s founder William Cecil.

One of the most striking pieces on permanent display in the sculpture garden is Vertical Face II by English sculptor Rick Kirby. Works by Kirby are on display in various parts of the UK, and if Vertical Face II is typical I can see just why: it’s a haunting, enigmatic creation.

Equally serious – or, to be blunt, downright spooky – is Held by Anne Gillespie. The body of a man, folded into a foetal position and entombed in a rock wall, is not an easy piece to view, and is laden with hidden meaning. But what, exactly? I know what it means to me, but your interpretation may be totally different. And in the end that doesn’t really matter, the point is that we are required to exercise our brains and think about it…which, after all, is surely one of the purposes of art?

But art, and sculpture, doesn’t always have to be deep and meaningful: it can also, quite simply, be fun. The colourful sculpture of a snail, Cornu Cecilium by Pete Rogers, plainly fits into that category. However there is more to this piece than initially meets the eye. Commissioned for Burghley’s 2021 themed exhibition House, the shape of the snail’s shell echoes the grand octagonal towers of Burghley House.

I was also taken with the Trojan Horse. Fashioned from logs and standing several metres high it’s a quaintly rustic piece, and seems to be completely at ease in the lightly wooded landscape in which is stands.

Talking of wooded landscapes, if you go down to Burghley’s woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise: a family of whimsical bears enjoying a picnic, including mama bear in a faded blue dress. Again, there’s no great depth of meaning here, but it’s fun, isn’t it.

Also at home in the wooded landscape are the snowdrops of Everlasting Spring, another Pete Rogers creation. Snowdrops are “here and gone again” in the blink of an eye every spring, but thanks to Rogers they last all year long in Burghley’s sculpture garden.

Italian artist Michele Ciribifera’s Elicoide BG is definitely eye-catching. Elicoide translates from the Italian as “spiral” or “helical”, and this gleaming metallic piece stands out boldly in the verdant landscape of grass and trees. Maybe there is a hidden meaning here? Or is it simply intended to please the eye? Personally I’m inclined not to overthink it: the latter explanation works just fine for me.

And finally, in this whistle-stop tour of a few of the sculptures we saw at Burghley last year, is City Cuts by sculptor Paul Cox. Inspired by the 2007/08 world financial crisis, a handsaw is seen slicing into a swanky city skyscraper. This one is rather poignant for me. At the time of that economic meltdown I was working as a senior public service manager, and found myself forced to make massive cuts to stay within my greatly reduced budget. I was compelled to wield not just a saw, but an axe too.

Several of my staff, including friends whom I respected and admired deeply, sadly lost their jobs in the dark days and months that followed. Seeing this stark piece at Burghley certainly gave me cause to think about my own very small, local role in dealing with the impact of the global financial crisis all those years ago. It was not a particularly happy part of my life, but life’s not meant to be easy all the time, is it?

Thankfully those days are over, and because I’m retired I don’t have to worry about how to navigate my service through the new financial crisis brought about by Covid. So, while my unfortunate successor wrestles with that impenetrable problem, I have time on my hands to visit some more wonderful sculpture gardens, like the one at Burghley. Don’t they say that good things will eventually come to he (or she) that waits?