A few days before setting off on our epic journey around New Zealand, Mrs P and I took a trip to the nearby city of Derby to take a look at the Knife Angel. Also known as the National Monument Against Violence and Aggression, the Knife Angel is a public art installation that is currently touring the country to draw attention to the issue of knife crime. The sculpture, which stands 8.2 metres (27 feet) high, has been created from around 100,000 blades surrendered to police during knife amnesties.
The Knife Angel is the brainchild of the British Ironwork Centre, working with sculptor Alfie Bradley. The Centre provided police forces with 200 secure knife banks, free of charge, to support and encourage them to run more knife amnesties.
The knives and other weapons that were surrendered during the amnesties prompted by the knife banks were sent to the Centre’s workshops, where they were disinfected and blunted. Bradley created a basic angel shape from steel, and then proceeded to weld knives to it. The wings were made from knife blades only, to produce a feathery appearance.
The Centre invited families who had lost loved ones due to knife crime and violence to engrave an everlasting message on a blade, which would then be integrated within the monument. Its website explains that “messages of love and remembrance feature on the angel’s wings, messages not only from families but also perpetrators who have seen the error of their ways and now fight knife crime and violence in a bid to stop it happening on our streets.”
We were surprised and pleased that so many people had turned out on a wet morning to view the Knife Angel. According to the Derby Telegraph, by the time the sculpture moved on to the next city on its itinerary more than 90,000 people had been to see it, from within and beyond the city’s boundaries.
It would be fanciful to expect that pieces of public art like this can have a material impact on the current high levels of knife crime in the UK. However, as a vehicle for community solidarity and a catalyst for reflection on what we have become as a society, the Knife Angel is very powerful indeed. It’s also a damned fine piece of public art, and deserves to be appreciated on those terms as well as for the positive messages it promotes.
Museums ain’t what they used to be. When I was a lad, back in the days when the UK had only had two television channels (both black-and-white) and England were good at soccer, museums were vehicles of the establishment. They celebrated the political, military, architectural and cultural achievements of the great and the good. The lives of ordinary folk like me and my family never got a look in, but that was OK because we knew our place.
Trams and buses trundle Beamish’s cobbled streets
All that’s changed now. Society recognises that, regardless of our backgrounds, every one of us has been on a journey and has a story to tell. Beamish Open Air Museum in County Durham reflects this more inclusive approach. It is a “living, working museum that uses its collections to connect with people from all walks of life and tells the story of everyday life in the North East of England.”
Beamish offers snapshots of North-East life in the 1820, 1900s and 1940s, scattered across a 350 acres site. Its latest project, underway at the time of our visit on our way back from Shetland in late June, is to reconstruct a 1950s town.
Traditional apothecary / chemist / pharmacy
This is clearly a good thing. Everything that surrounds us in our lives in 2019 will be history to future generations, and it’s great to see that Beamish Museum is continuing to add to and update its exhibits. In creating its 1950s exhibit it will reflect a period that, for today’s oldest visitors – including the venerable Platypus Man – is still just within living memory.
Beamish is heavy with the atmosphere of another age. Electric trams trundle along the cobbled streets of the 1900s exhibit, past historic buildings with period fittings. Visitors can ride the trams, go into the shops, the dentist’s surgery and the solicitor’s office, and interact with friendly volunteers and staff in period costume.
You can ride the trams around the Beamish site
There were lots of school groups on site at the time, and Beamish gave them a glimpse of an everyday life they have never experienced. The sweet shop proved to be particularly popular, with youngsters able to watch confectionery being made the traditional way, and then to buy the resulting produce.
At the bank they could learn about pounds, shillings and pence, which are part of my DNA but totally alien to today’s young people. At the Co-Op store they were able to see what shopping was like in the era of ‘closed access’, when all the goods were kept behind the counter under the custodianship of the eagle-eyed shopkeeper.
Traditional grocery shop
Beamish offers a brilliant, immersive exploration of living history. Even though some of the youngsters were more interested in their mobile phones than the museum, many more were clearly fascinated by this brief insight into the lost world of their grandparents.
As for me, I had a grand day out and loved every minute of it. In the immortal words of Arnie ‘Terminator’ Schwarzenegger, “I’ll be back.”
The tram shed
Reminiscence is good therapy for old fogeys, so long as we keep a sense of proportion and remember that life back then was, in most ways, much tougher than ours today.
Bring back the shilling, the sixpence and the threepenny bit, that’s what I say!
Like most couples, I suppose, Mrs P and I have a few anchor dates in our diaries, days of fun, feasts and finery that are also milestones marking the passing of the year. Chief amongst them are Christmas, our birthdays – both in March, just a couple of days apart – and of course our wedding anniversary in May. But no less important than any of these is the annual British Birdwatching Fair – or Birdfair as it’s known to its thousands of admirers – held every August on the shores of Rutland Water, by surface area the largest reservoir in England.
Offers abound in one of the Birdfair marquees
Birdfair began in 1989, and Mrs P and I have missed only one since we first decided to give it a try in the mid-1990s. At first, we just went along on a Saturday to see what all the fuss was about. We were so captivated that pretty soon we were making a weekend of it, but eventually we realised even that wasn’t enough. For about the last 15 years we’ve stayed at local hotels and been on site for all three days of Birdfair.
Specialist travel companies and interest groups are thick on the ground
So, just what is Birdfair? In short, it’s a three-day celebration of the natural world, not just birds but wildlife and conservation as a whole, in the UK and beyond. It was the first-ever event of its kind anywhere, and has been the inspiration for countless similar festivals across the world.
At Birdfair you can go to fascinating talks on conservation issues, hear about wildlife travel destinations and maybe buy the holiday of a lifetime. You can browse stalls selling a staggering variety of high-quality wildlife art and top-end optical equipment, and watch a range of media personalities and birding experts making complete fools of themselves in spoofs of TV quizzes.
You can even pop along to the British Trust for Ornithology stand to watch a bird-ringing demonstration, or walk out to the Rutland Water nature reserve for a spot of birdwatching. Finally, you can go home feeling good about yourself, as the money raised from entry tickets goes towards vital conservation projects around the world.
TV personality Mike Dilger hosts a birding quiz
This year’s Birdfair was as good as ever. We were inspired by Isabella Tree’s talk about a farm rewilding project in West Sussex, and excited by Mark Elliott’s account of bringing beavers back to Devon.
We were given food for thought by Ian Carter’s talk on the red kite’s recovery in the UK, and got wildlife photography tips from the master himself, David Tipling.
A chance for some last minute research before our autumn trip to New Zealand
Mark Warren’s presentation on birding breaks in Scotland gave us a chance to reminisce, while Ruary Mackenzie Dodds’ talk on a bizarre New Zealand dragonfly suggested something else we should look out for during our trip Down Under.
Iolo Williams, possibly the funniest wildlife raconteur I’ve ever heard, made us laugh until we cried, and Simon King tried hard to convince us that Shetland has more to offer than rain.
Conservationist and TV presenter Simon King tries to convince us it doesn’t always rain in Shetland
We even found time to buy a new camera, and at a 26% discount on the price I was quoted a few days earlier in our local store. Result!
During the Birdfair we were able to catch up with some friends and family who’d also made the trip. And, just as important, we could spend three days in the company of people who share our interests and values, briefly hanging out with friends we’ve never met. It may sound trite, but Birdfair feels like a family, everyone connected by the shared DNA of a passion for the natural world.
Queueing for a talk on rewilding … with 100s of friends I’ve never met
In an article in the Birdfair programme Lucy McRobert and Rob Lambert touched on this theme when they wrote: “This is the natural history clan coming together, the British wildlife constituency gathering in thousands on the shores of an inland sea.”
Almost three years after his epic journey to Tasmania the Platypus Man is setting off on his greatest adventure, and quite possibly his last great adventure, a trip of around seven weeks to New Zealand. The flights, hotels and rental cars are booked, our itinerary is planned and our bags are packed. Watch out you Kiwis, here we come!
PHOTO CREDIT: Body of Water from Pixabay via Pexels
There’s loads to see and do in New Zealand: We will marvel at its volcanic landscapes and geothermal wonders, and be inspired by its magnificent mountain and coastal scenery. We will explore the charms of small-town New Zealand, and learn about Maori culture. We will enjoy brilliant views of whales, dolphins and exotic birds. We will see lots of sheep and drink lots of wine. We will fly business class for the only time in our lives. We definitely won’t go bungee jumping!
My New Zealand blog is already live on the Internet. Click here to see what I have to say about the Land of the Long White Cloud.
And while we’re in New Zealand I’ve scheduled weekly posts on this blog covering topics as varied as my love of birdwatching, the magnificence and mud of this year’s British Birdwatching Fair, the dubious pleasure of NHS health checks, the diplomacy of knocking down walls, and the delights of the Beamish Open Air Museum.
Oh, I nearly forgot, there will also be a post on “Keeping the zombies in.” Bet you can’t wait for that one, can you?
Our last day in Cambridge has not gone according to plan. Although the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, built around the year 1130 and generally known as The Round Church lives up to expectations, the Fitzwilliam Museum does not. The museum’s neo-classical exterior is magnificent, but isn’t the real point of a museum to go inside, wander around a bit to take in a few of the exhibits in a cursory sort of way, and then have a large mocha and a monstrous slab of cake in the café?
Church of the Holy Sepulchre, also known as the Round Church
Who in their right mind would close one of the country’s great museums on a Monday at the height of the summer tourist season? Ah, silly me, that would be the management of the Fitzwilliam Museum, I suppose. Disappointed, we decide to leave Cambridge and return to Platypus Towers on an earlier train.
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We’re standing on the platform at Cambridge station. The train is due in about 20 minutes, and we’re both a bit knackered. The weather’s hot and humid, and we’ve spent a good part of the last three days trudging the streets, doing the tourist thing.
Inevitably there are very few seats on the platform, and all but one is taken. I encourage Mrs P to grab it – I’m a proper gentleman, don’t you know – and I’m left standing next to her, looking tired and miserable.
The Fitzwilliam Museum
Time passes. Eventually the guy seated next to Mrs P tears himself away from his mobile phone and looks around him. He’s in early twenties and, unlike me, is appropriately dressed for the weather in sandals, shorts and a lightweight shirt. He spots me and a caring expression crosses his lightly bearded face. He stands, looks me straight in the eye, then smiles encouragingly and politely asks, “Would you like a seat, mate?”
Would I like a seat? I ask myself. WOULD I? Of course I would, pal, only I don’t want you to offer me one, thank you very much! You think I’m old and past it, don’t you? Well I’m not! I’m not old at all, I’ve just got a lived-in kind of face, like Mick Jagger but with regular lips. I’ve had one hell of a life and if you’d done half of what I’ve done you’d look a damned sight older than me!
I don’t say any of this, of course. I just smile sweetly at my new-found knight in shining armour, and say “Thank you, I think I would.”
My saviour returns to his phone, probably fixing a hot hook-up on Tinder, the fit young bastard that he is, leaving me seated next to Mrs P to ponder what has just happened. I’m in my 64th year, having worked over 40 years and travelled the world, and this is the first time anyone has ever stood up to offer me a seat.
What an unwelcome milestone this is, another waymarker on the inevitable journey to decrepitude. God, I feel old.
At last the train arrives. Even though half the population of Cambridge appears to be travelling west today it’s only three carriages long, so I don’t get a seat.
I end up standing in the area where cyclists stow their bikes, next to the disabled persons’ toilet. There are just two seats in this part of the carriage. On one of them sits another young, bearded, shorts-wearing man, but this one won’t meet my eye.
In the last 20 minutes I’ve grown accustomed to the good manners of the younger generation towards their elders, and am therefore incensed by the brazen effrontery of this new guy. He knows I’m standing here and badly need a seat, but he just keeps playing with his phone, swiping right furiously. I hope when you get a date she doesn’t turn up, you ignorant slob, I think to myself.
The other seat is occupied by an older woman, elegant, grey-haired and immaculately dressed, library book on her lap. She glances up and sees me leaning uncomfortably against the side of the carriage. A look of genuine concern crosses her face.
“Would you like this seat?” she asks, oh-so-kindly.
I look at her carefully. In her left hand she’s clutching a Senior Citizen’s Railcard. For god’s sake, she’s as old as me, possibly older, and here she is offering me a seat. Just when you think life can’t get any worse, it bloody well does.
I quickly regain my composure and politely decline her offer. You see, I still have my pride, and in any case as I mentioned earlier I’m a proper gentleman.
But we reach an agreement, that kind lady and me. She’s getting off at Ely, and when she does she’ll make sure I’m able to slide on to her seat before anyone else grabs it, so I can do the rest of the journey sitting down. It’s a good arrangement, and satisfies both parties.
After all, when the going gets tough us old fogeys need to stick together.
My last post bemoaned the hordes of tourists who clogged the narrow streets of Cambridge’s historic centre during our visit a few weeks ago. Most of them appeared to hail from China, and as they came in groups of up to 50 they were impossible to miss or ignore. The days of Japanese mass tourism may be over, but in China the tour companies have found a worthy Far-Eastern successor.
Kings College Chapel: look carefully and you will see at least three tour groups
The new-found wealth of the People’s Republic of China has changed the face of international tourism. We witnessed this first-hand during our trips to Tasmania (2016) and the USA’s Yellowstone National Park (2018).
In both places the bus-loads of phone-wielding, selfie-snapping Chinese tour groups were the dominant feature in the tourist landscape. It was therefore no surprise to see so many Chinese folk in Cambridge, which is, of course, one of the UK’s major tourist destinations.
Punting on the River Cam
What was a surprise was to learn that there is another reason why the Chinese flock there in such large numbers. In November 1928 a Chinese poet who had previously studied at Kings College, Xú Zhìmó, made a return visit to Cambridge and was moved to capture the moment in verse. Xú is considered one of the most important modern Chinese poets, and Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again is his most popular poem.
Xú died in controversial circumstances in a plane crash in 1931. In 2018 he was commemorated through the creation, in the grounds of Kings College, Cambridge, of the China-UK Friendship Garden, also known as the Xú Zhìmó Garden. Four lines of his poem are inscribed on a rock in the Friendship Garden, close to the banks of the River Cam.
Xú’s poem, and the Garden commemorating the poet and his most famous work, appear to be a contributory factor in attracting Chinese tourists to Cambridge.
Lightly I leave, as lightly I came; I lightly wave goodbye, to the sunlit clouds in the western sky.
The golden willows of that riverside, are brides in the setting sun; their glimmering reflections in the water, ripple in the depth of my heart.
The waterlilies in the soft mud, sway splendidly under the water. In the gentle waves of the Cam, I would be a water plant!
That pool in the shade of elm trees, is not springwater, but a heavenly rainbow; crumbling amongst the floating grasses, the settling rainbow seems like a dream.
Looking for dreams? Push a punt to where the grass is greener still upstream; a boat laden with starlight, singing freely in the glorious light of stars.
But I cannot sing freely, silence is the music of my departure, even the summer insects are quiet for me, tonight's Cambridge is silent!
Quietly I leave, as quietly I came; I cast my sleeves a little not taking even a strand of cloud away.
What a beautiful, evocative poem. But the tranquillity it conveys is a million miles away from the febrile tourist trap we visited recently.
I wonder what Xú Zhìmó would make of Cambridge, August 2019?
Last month we spent a few days in Cambridge. So, it seems, did everyone else. Back in the day I was a student at Cambridge University for three years but I was never there in August, the height of the tourist season. And, of course, tourism – both home-grown and international – has expanded massively in the 42 years since I graduated. I was, therefore, totally unprepared for the crowds we encountered during our visit.
Gonville and Caius College
Cambridge has a lot to offer the tourist. Here’s what Lonely Planet has to say about its attractions:
Abounding with exquisite architecture, exuding history and tradition, and renowned for its quirky rituals, Cambridge is a university town extraordinaire. The tightly packed core of ancient colleges, the picturesque riverside ‘Backs’ (college gardens) and the leafy green meadows surrounding the city give it a more tranquil appeal than its historic rival Oxford … The buildings here seem unchanged for centuries, and it’s possible to wander around the college buildings and experience them as countless prime ministers, poets, writers and scientists have done.
Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it?
I’ve got a lot of time for Lonely Planet. Their guidebooks are invariably well-written, and often encourage the more intrepid visitor to get off the beaten track and walk roads less travelled, which is the best way to get under the skin of a country or a city. But, based on what we experienced a few weeks ago, the words “tranquil appeal” seem sadly out of place in any description of Cambridge in August 2019.
Peterhouse College
We had a lot to pack into our visit, and so were out and about by 9am. At first all seemed well, the streets lively but not uncomfortably busy. Then, around 10am, the coach parties began to arrive.
Long crocodiles of visitors, up to 50 in a single group, descended on the historic city centre from all directions, following obediently behind their flag-waving guides. Soon the narrow medieval streets were crazily crowded, visitors jostling one another to get a view of – or even better, a selfie in front of – one of the city’s architectural gems.
St John’s College, and bicycles galore
“Tranquil appeal?” I don’t think so!
Lonely Planet is also unrealistic in suggesting that the average tourist can “wander around the college buildings.” Many of the colleges are doing whatever they can to keep the hordes at bay, barring their doors and placing stern messages outside warning the masses that THIS COLLEGE IS CLOSED TO VISITORS.
Others, Kings for example, take a different view and charge a pretty penny for admission. Of course, everyone wants to see Kings College Chapel up close and personal, so the college bursar must be raking it in.
Interior of Kings College Chapel
I will confess that these attempts to deny or charge for admission don’t worry me personally. As a graduate of the university I can get in pretty much anywhere, and without spending a dime, so long as I flash my alumni card and behave myself.
But I’ve a lot of sympathy for the serious tourist, who maybe has travelled a long way and spent a small fortune to visit Cambridge, only to find that lots of the places he wants to see won’t let him in or will only do so in return for a fistful of dollars.
Kings College Chapel, viewed from “the Backs”
Tourism is hugely controversial in Cambridge. In 2017 over eight million tourist visits were recorded, in a city of just 146,000 people. The city is creaking at the seams. Tourists keep some shopkeepers afloat with their purchases, but other business owners complain that these are the “wrong tourists,” visitors who just don’t spend enough or buy the right stuff.
For Cambridge residents going about their normal daily business the crowded streets must be distressing. But tourism reportedly accounts for 22% of jobs in the local economy, and only the most hard-line critics would seriously consider killing the goose that lays the golden egg.
The Mathematical Bridge, Queen’s College
Mass tourism is a mind-bending conundrum, but not one that is unique to Cambridge.
In another blog I wrote at length about the impact of tourist numbers on the wildlife of Yellowstone National Park in the USA. There, as in Cambridge, the scale of tourism is in danger of destroying the very thing that tourists want to see.
As an habitual tourist I was, and am, part of the problem. I cherish the prospect of being a tourist again, in Cambridge, in Yellowstone, or elsewhere, but what will be the cost to the places I want to visit and those who live in them?
I don’t have the answer, but it seems plain to me that things can’t go on as they are.
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In case you’re wondering why, despite my protestations about the Cambridge crowds, there are so few people in the photos that illustrate this post the answer is simple: Mrs P hates anyone getting between her camera lens and the focus of her interest. She’s been known to wait a long, long time for a clear shot, and when she can’t get one she gets very cross indeed. You have been warned!
Now I'm 64 