Cornish History

For many years I’ve been a keen amateur student of Cornish history. I still enjoy the one-volume summary by Halliday, though it’s long in the tooth and a great deal of work has been carried out since its original publication in the ‘50s. These days there are many excellent books available, from tomes covering wider areas, to micro-histories. The latter are particularly interesting; they are often compiled by dedicated local folk who have intimate, unique knowledge of their subjects. Without their efforts, these small pieces of history would eventually be lost to us.

If you’re interested in carrying out some research of your own, there are some wonderful places to visit. The County Museum in Truro is most helpful and contains many interesting records which, by prior appointment, you are welcome to browse through. Redruth is home to the Cornish Studies Library, again with a most impressive set of archives. The Morrab Library at Penzance is privately run, but for a small charge visitors can access their basement files, which include a great collection of local newspapers going back to the First World War. There are a number of other museums and archives in Cornwall, as well as the public libraries, which also bear searching out. The staff really make these places; despite often being under-resourced they are unfailingly ready to lend a hand.

But beware! There is one danger. It’s easy to be side-tracked, so that you might make a visit with one subject in mind, and then find some very interesting document on quite another area that you simply must read. If this happens your visit starts to lose its shape somewhat, but it’s all there to enjoy – and who says there’s nothing to do in Cornwall on a rainy day?

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My Friend at the Docks

For twenty years I worked for multi-national companies on the commercial and contracts side of life, within the defence electronics industry. But an opportunity arose to change my line of business, and I joined the world of ship repair. The difference is staggering between a blue-chip office, and the more (shall we say) grounded surroundings of a shipyard. I found whole chunks of my experience had become irrelevant.

At the docks, there was little use for my understanding of intellectual property, or for the subtleties of software licensing. However, ship repair has its own skill set, again complex and demanding. The new job required an expertise I had to pick up on Day One.

Of course, this didn't happen. But what did happen was that I made a friend. I palled up with a comical, quick-witted colleague who had bags of experience and showed me the ropes. What I had brought to my new industry was an ingrained business sense, and a safe pair of hands when it came to bidding and negotiating contracts with our customers. But Jez helped me so much with the vital tools of context.

He was a model of patience, and a great trainer. He would sit with me and go over first principles, then more detailed examples. Though he was always very busy, somehow he found the time to do this. He didn't have to bother, he had received no formal instruction to take me under his wing. But as I became more able to play a part we both began to get the benefit, and enjoyed working together in what was often a high-pressure atmosphere. We became firm friends and I was sad to lose contact with him when I left the company to return to education.

So, we managed not to lose contact. Recently we went for a quick pint that turned into an evening. Jez and Sam have become parents to Kate, the dockyard is still beavering away, we both had tales to tell and the time flew by. We're going to make a regular thing of going for a beer, putting our worlds to rights, and laughing.

After all, I do owe him a couple of drinks.

Prisoner Cell Block 2

Here we are then - back in the jug again.

I had a month off between Blocks 1 and 2 of my course, to celebrate the festive season. Oh good. How I detest the commercialism of Christmas. The shops are full of rubbish from August onwards. There is a complete absence of any reference to religeon on television, in advertising, in the shops, and in the spirit of the event (if any). The bills can be stratospheric, as every year the loathsome Megacorp mercilessly horse-whips us toward personal financial disaster. The real concern is that the foregoing has all been said before, countless times, and yet each year the same thing happens. Enough.

So this time, I took a leaf out of my friend Helen's book. Helen refuses to acknowledge or do anything about Christmas until a couple of days before the great day. She then shops sparingly, and goes to someone else's for Christmas dinner. She has a thoroughly good time, gets vaguely pissed among a crowd of friends, and goes to sleep. When she wakes up, it's all over. So that's what I did too - and it works brilliantly.

I managed to get a bit of course work done over the period, which was pleasant. I tinkered with my website and did some reading. I set up some new files for the coming Block 2. I caught up with some old buddies, and missed my friends from Uni. I was glad to get back to UCF for Block 2; it's good to be in the groove again. That said, it took me a couple of days to reconnect with the mindset necessary for careful study, ie attendance, punctuality, deadlines, and filthy fantasies about ...

I've said too much.

Happy Shopper

As a kid, I used to visit the Quality Shop. This emporium was owned by a kindly, middle-aged man with half-moon glasses, who wore cardigans. The Quality Shop sold sweets the like of which you rarely see today, stored in big jars. The man didn't mind waiting while careful thought took place over value for money on a limited budget - two shillings pocket-money - and if you bought loose sweets he'd weigh them out then drop a couple of extras in the bag. He always seemed cheerful, and he also sold Airfix aeroplane kits, which elevated him still further in my mind.

But today, things have changed.

I go into a mobile phone store. Behind the counter is a woman who deeply resents the interruption of her prattle with a colleague which my arrival eventually causes. If I ask her any remotely technical question - for example, how much is this phone? - she will either not know the answer, or will not disclose it. Finally, she offers me a manufacturer's brochure she has never read, which perhaps contains the information I require. As I turn to leave the shop she resumes her conversation where she left off. How I wish she could be forced to work on a commission-only basis, but I know this would in some way infringe her human rights. Sorry to have troubled you.

On to the bakery for a cream cake. Firstly I am offered a cake with no cream at all, and then a cake with disgusting synthetic cream supplied by ICI. After a brief staff meeting it is determined that all the real cream cakes have been sold. This information is given to me without the slightest regret.

In the butchers, the teenager runs his hand over the acne around his mouth, and then picks up sausages to sell them to me. His hair is 'styled' to make his head appear flat, like Herman Munster's. I leave the sausages in their pus-coated cage.

What is happening? Where are the ethics of retail upon which I was reared?

Surprisingly perhaps, the answer is, the local Asda; they can't do enough for you. The staff are cheerful and helpful and busy. If I appear confused - sometimes I can't read my own writing on the shopping list - I am swarmed on by concerned employees. If I ask where a product can be found, I am taken directly to it - not merely given vague instructions as to where it is, or might be. The pleasant, matronly lady at the checkout usually has a jolly word or two, and thanks to the badge on her left breast I know her by name. At least, I imagine it's her name.

The badge says, 'Pat'.

Mr Bouz

I've enjoyed playing music for longer than I care to remember. Most of my friends come from the semi-pro live music scene and some of them go back more than twenty years (clue there).

Like so many people, I started learning music on the guitar. I currently play an early Sigma Martin HD-28 dreadnought acoustic with Takamine electrics. That's to say, I occasionally get it out for a short time; otherwise, it sits in its case.

The trouble with the guitar is, most people can play one. Well, not most people, obviously, but you know what I mean. If you're into music and want to learn an instrument, it's probably the guitar you pick up. The piano isn't terribly portable, while learning the violin is agonising (for others), and the recorder is a pointless little stick. These were the choices when I was at school. On the other hand, the guitar is sociable; you can carry it around, and sing along to it, and the girls will want to shag you.

But when I joined my first real band, everyone could play the guitar, we looked like some thirties jazz combo, all strumming away (and all the same chords) with only - bleugh - a melodeon and a bodhran to break up the wall of jangle. What could we do?

One of my favourite bands is Planxty, a wonderful traditional Irish group who performed their music with real fire and astonishing dexterity. One of their number, Andy Irvine, played the bouzouki. Actually, 'played' is a very weak word, for the man is a genius. The sound of the bouzouki hooked me and I bought one, a Fylde - which was promptly named Mr Bouz. I introduced him to the band, and he really helped to vary the sound.

Since then, Mr Bouz and I have travelled the length and breadth of the southern half of England, playing in pubs, clubs, functions, festivals, and the back gardens of rich people. We've had trips to Wales, Ireland, France, Belgium and Germany. Mr Bouz has picked up many scrapes and bashes during his long career but he's still a beautiful instrument to play. He's been through three electrics fits, four sets of frets, and two cases. The edge of his sound hole has been eroded by billions of strums. His table has lifted around the bridge, but thanks to a couple of minor operations his action and intonation is fine.

Mr Bouz has become an old friend. He's shared a big chunk of my life, and so many memories. I love the feeling of putting him on, and the eerie modal sound he makes. He's a joy to play live, so easy and comfortable, just when you need it. He's also something of a conversation piece; people are curious and aren't quite sure what he is. I'm unashamedly sentimental about him - can you tell?

I sometimes wonder how long he'll go on. I can see him finally giving up the ghost during a gig, his table lifting, his bridge collapsing, the tension of his strings finally pulling him to pieces. It would be rather a fitting end, suitably memorable and dramatic and poetic.

But not just yet, I hope.

Festivals - I Love 'Em

Folk music festivals generally run from spring until autumn. Most take place over the weekends, and many are open-air; everyone gets very merry and stays up late. Each year, we Slaves look forward to playing at festivals. We take our hats off to the organisers, because there is always a fantastic amount of work to ensure all goes smoothly on the day. For the public there is loads to enjoy in terms of music, dance, shows, parades, stalls and so on, while a shiver of excitement is always experienced by organisers and performers alike, for of course the whole lot is in hoc to the British weather.

Those who go to festivals are a very mixed bunch, and some groups can be dead interesting if you are a people-watcher. Easy to spot are the weekend ‘hippies’, who don a few like er alternative clothes – often newly-acquired at the festival market – and, they believe, suitable characteristics on a Friday night. Nice office haircuts notwithstanding, they get into being chilled and toke a few ‘J’s’, swaying to the music and tenting it overnight (‘Toby, where’s the door in this thing?’), before reverting to Calvin Clones on Monday and scurrying back to the corporate cubicle.

Then again, it’s impossible to say what some festival-goers might do for a living that allows them to look so … well, mad. These are people you just couldn’t put in a suit and tie – or any other form of conventional clothing. It wouldn’t work, their overall appearance is too uncompromising. Characteristics include mental hair, piercings of every imaginable trailing-edge, bizarre body art, demented or menacing clothes, beards to the waist, and rolling crazed little pink eyes. Some perhaps are self-employed, others determinedly unemployed. Then, bingo – it becomes clear. They are, in fact, very senior software engineers, working for blue chip companies that waive every convention of appearance in return for employing their astonishing (though nerd-ish) skills. And good luck to them – enjoy!

Festival house PA (or ‘sound’) systems fall broadly into two groups, really good and truly awful; there isn’t much of a middle ground. Using a house ‘rig’ appeals to the Slaves; it's all set up for you, which is very grand. You don’t have to carry your own PA around, you just turn up, plug in to somebody else’s and off we go. The PA operator – or ‘sound man’ – does all the out-front and stage sound mixing, while you just play away to your heart’s content. On the other hand, you do have to put up with the engaging quirks of those in whom you put your trust, and musical reputation (if any).

One PA guy we encountered regarded the bands he ‘did’ as merely irritating encumbrances to his gloriously huge, powerful, expensive, sophisticated, complex and probably thrusting uh uh uh oh yes yes chimp chimp sound system. Perhaps he was right. Another strutted round dressed all in black, with a great macho set of huge keys clanking on his belt, as if he owned a medieval castle. Perhaps he did. One hopeless old tosser we met at an open-air gig had run the stage power feed through naughty bare wires, and when we lightly enquired as to safety, thought this would ‘probably be OK’. Right, oh look it’s coming on to rain …

Such rare tales aside, most festival PA guys are great. Unflappable, they take in their stride all manner of instruments acoustic and electric. They placidly cope with rapid change-overs of wildly varying ‘artistes’ - a bassoon, Mongolian nose-flute and Hawaiian guitar trio, followed by St Lundy’s Junior School steel band. Try to imagine that. Sound-men deal with drifting time-tables, precious performers, punters' dopey questions, and a vast multiplicity of equipment … so a big round of applause for the PA guys and many thanks for a great job - you know who you are!

Morris dancers of course form an integral part of many festivals. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they're part of our heritage. It’s just those ankle-bells chink-chink-chinking all the time, you can hear them tripping down the road from miles away. Perhaps it is meant to be a warning. That said, the more alternative sides are growing in number. At the Wimborne festival last year, a set of Turkish-looking gentlemen appeared dressed in fezzes and long striped robes, complete with (pretend) camel; they were good value and danced very spiritedly. Of course, they may have been taking the piss. Another group was bred from punks, who rather than skipping effeminately and tapping their staves, attacked one another with furious ferocity. It was absorbing though bewildering; we wondered which would sustain the most serious injury. But more power to your elbows lads, what’s left of them after the final dance; shout up yours in the face of tradition and let’s tear down those barriers!

Of course, food at festivals is usually disgusting and stratospherically overpriced, and the public health people would have a field day. You may choose, if you wish, to believe the vendors’ astonishing, fraudulent claims regarding nutrition and edibility. Alternatively bring your own grub. Enjoy a fine succulent picnic with cakes and everything, while loftily watching the less fortunate queuing for bloody scraps. This way, you will also have some money left to buy something that won't kill you.

The festival market stalls are much more interesting than the food side, and certainly less harmful. Many sell colourful and attractive clothes at good prices, as well as other nice fun stuff. Russian doll anyone? A hat made from a big leaf? Hand-made jewellery perhaps, some is really beautiful and you won’t see it much outside the festival community. There's always something to look at, haggle over and take home. If you’re after a good deal in the instrument line, the music shop stalls will sometimes negotiate quite generously if you can cough up on the spot.

So you’ve had a great day, a jolly and preferably alcoholic evening, but finally the venues are closing; you may have to tough it out back at the festival camp site. Festival camping facilities are often insanitary, with toilet and washing arrangements that wouldn’t disgrace a farmyard – indeed some sites seem to be positioned in farmyards. Do pack your own personal bog roll. In fact take a few spares; by the second day you should be selling them for £4.00 each.

Among the happy campers, there is always the over-excited nerd who wants to stay up half the night loudly ‘singing’ some dreadful earnest durge, while the sane are desperately trying to sleep. This is known as free expression, and such individuals must not be assaulted. Then there are the many pissed people who stumble over your guy ropes and fall on your tent during their nocturnal wanderings. Sorry mate, they mumble, which makes such clumsiness perfectly acceptable.

Of course, a nearby B & B is always an option, even if occupied by some hard-bitten landlady and her endless list of trivial or mad rules. At the B & B too, there will often be somewhere to park your car. This is much better than driving to the festival car park and arguing with some jobsworth attendant, who directs you into the far distance when there are spaces six feet away. Not driving to the festival – and more significantly, back again – also means you can guzzle booze furiously, which for many is a fundamental consideration.

With a rugged constitution and a bit of planning you can enjoy festivals to the absolute limit. You may go back to work in a semi-coma of fatigue (but where better to have a little rest?), your clothes will have to be incinerated, you may suffer partial memory loss, deafness, or internal ailments too appalling to detail, but miss the next extravaganza at your peril and always hope for sunshine!

Salman Rushdie's Diary

I'm writing this with a feeling of sadness.

Today I completed the lecture sessions for the first third of my MA. The semester (referred to at UCF as a block) has truly raced by. Our course group has proved cohesive and I consider myself very fortunate to have come across such a friendly, positive set of people.

My sadness is because this is the last week we will all be together. Next semester we begin to specialise and split up into different groups. While we will all still get together once a week for a general course meeting, to an extent I will lose contact with some of my new friends. But ever onwards ...

My tutors have shone. Although I haven't encountered problems with the course so far, I know that in the future if anything came up, I would be able to go to any of them. Difficulties would be nipped in the bud. That's a nice feeling.

I have learned so much in these three months. When I say learned, to be truthful I mean I have received so much information. Not all of it has gone in, but I have doggedly typed up my course notes so I'll be able to refer back to them in the future with some degree of understanding, rather than having to pore over my scribbly notebook.

The subjects have been fascinating. I have been made aware of exciting structures and disciplines, and while I could claim to have been a writer in its broadest sense before I joined the course, I feel so much more ... well, educated in the craft. Without such information you can only take this writing business so far, that's for sure. And there's still so much more to learn.

As part of the course I've been required to create this blog, and also a personal website http://petelondon.webnode.com/ . Before I started the syllabus I had no idea how to do either of these things. Now, I am enjoying them.

In fact our course relies heavily on the e-world, and the core of our work is built around a site called The Learning Space, on which we post our assignments, receive updates and so on. Just recently I feel I've been permanently on it, because I've had to complete a hand-in of my submissions for this Block, together with course assessment forms. The Learning Space - a site for sore eyes. Yet it's now in my DNA, and I log on to it as naturally as I used to fire up my PC at work. Funny how things change.

Of course, all this grafting has meant that currently my social life is in free-fall, and now reads like Salman Rushdie's diary:

'Monday: stayed in.' And so on.

However, we hope to improve on this situation over the next few days.

Finally, a reflection on being a mature student. Many of my colleagues are perhaps twenty-five years younger than I, but I haven't been made to feel ancient, or excluded. They sometimes talk about things I don't understand or have no knowledge of, but that's natural and OK. Then again, some are more around my age, or a bit older. But there truly has been an unselfconscious intermingling of the course group. Backgrounds and age mean nothing. I am richer for it. Sounds cheesy? Try it, it's brilliant.

Stick People

One of the real joys of living in Cornwall is the variety and individuality of the scenery. I get out once a week, usually on a Sunday or Monday, to tramp over the countryside and admire the wonderful surroundings. Be it coastline, moorland or the truly atmospheric Cornish antiquities, on goes my walking stuff.

I love my walking boots. A bit odd, you say, but you haven't tried them on. They're a good ten years old, and like butter. I've caked them with dubbin and I'm always amazed at the amount they can swallow up. In a sale a few years ago I bought a second pair, thinking that eventually the old faithfuls would drop to bits, but they are still very much a going concern.

I tend to wear army surplus stuff when walking. There are loads of pockets for all the necessaries, and this stuff is tough. Hacking through brambles on Predannack Down may not be your ideal cup of tea but it would be a jolly sight worse in Marks slacks, let me tell you.

My car is filled with essential equipment. A change of clothes in case it chucks it down. A map is good, as well as food, a small pack, a camera and a book. The last doubles as my toolkit - if I break down, I can read it until the RAC arrives.

Walking isn't a solitary pursuit at all. You meet other, like-minded explorers and people are at pains to say hello and have a chat. Often they are middle-aged, but walking is great exercise and many of them are very fit. Some are knowledgeable about the locality, some have friendly dogs you can make a fuss of. Some know the direction of where you want to go, which is always helpful when the map's wrong (this happens quite a lot). The old campaigners are easy to identify because they have battered but suitable clothing and equipment.

But will someone please explain to me the current fad for walking with the aid of sticks.

We see this particularly among smartly-dressed walkers, couples with new cagouls in bright and (emetically) sometimes matching colours. In addition to their new boots and packs they carry telescopic, carbon-fibre walking sticks, sometimes just one, often two. To some, apparently, such equipment is now considered an indespensible aid to motion.

Why do the stick people have to push off (as it were) on every stride? They could just walk. The terrain is sometimes perfectly flat, and is never likely to reach the severity of the Matterhorn. It's hard to believe they would be unable to totter along without such support. Or is the object to go faster, in which case heaven help us.

No. What we're saying is, even in the simple world of walking about, the uncontrollable necessity has arisen - having been carefully nurtured - to accessorise. Megacorp is snaring even this uncomplicated activity in its loathsome grasp. What further ludicrous embellishments can we expect?

Message: don't be a victim, don't buy stupid sticks! They aren't cool, they do not help you walk, you have already learned how to do that some time ago.

Shouting Out from The Touchline

Tomorrow I'm going to watch a rugby match. The giants of Redruth are taking on the leviathans of Leeds, so at least they'll all be the same size. Just bigger than the people in the crowd. Rugby is a wonderful game - thirty men determined to win at all costs. Why not give them a ball each, you might ask, this would save them fighting over just the one. You obviously don't know very much about rugby!

I love it. My dad introduced my to the game, he supported Penzance so of course I had to choose a different side, and lucky old Redruth got my vote. At the time I wasn't quite sure where Redruth was (I was seven) but I followed them as best I could through the local paper. I can't remember the two sides ever meeting; Redruth were ineffably superior and played in a much higher league, as I recall.

Years passed, but I always kept an eye on Redruth, even when I lived far away from Cornwall. And now I'm back. The ground is as I remembered it (though smaller) and the same faces - or types of face - populate the crowd. Big men - and women - with veins and funny teeth, shouting instructions to the players, following every move, sometimes mildly at odds with the referee. Huge coats, woolly hats, water-proof leggings, big boots, to ward off cold and rain. Cups of soup, pasties, and thousands of empty plastic pint glasses crunching underfoot.

But who would want to stand on a bank of mud in all weathers, urging mad, violent people to get hold of a bit of pumped-up plastic and run about with it? Well, I would. The thing is with rugby, not only is the game actually absorbing, graceful and satisfying, but going to a match is about more than just what happens on the pitch.

You can stand intermixed with supporters of the opposing team, and not get your head kicked off. Just a bit of friendly banter, and if your lot score, they will clap. Imagine that happening at a 'kiss-ball' match. Rugby supporters are well-behaved; they take a pride in their conduct, perhaps having in mind the contrapuntal antics of those who favour the other-shaped ball.

You can buy a nice hat with Redruth RFC embroidered on it. You can go in the club house and admire the trophies, caps, photos and other memorabilia of past glories. Fancy a sausage roll? They really are OK. You can have a beer before the game, or during it, or afterwards, or all three. It's not dear to get in and the atmosphere is terrific, with the crowd roaring and the Bassett monument lowering over Hellfire Corner.

I have even kicked a penalty there. Exploring the town one weekday, I fetched up at the club's main gate and as it was open I went in. I was walking round the empty ground enjoying happy memories when I found a ball under the stand. I took it onto the pitch, lined it up for a penalty kick and biff - between the posts it went! Sadly though, my achievement was witnessed only by an itinerant dog.

So off we'll go tomorrow, my and my mate Dennis. It's really great fun, particularly so as Redruth are having an exceptional run at the mo. So put your team jersey on, take some money for 'refreshments', and get there nice and early for a good view. You'll love it!

Tap Tap

My flat is cold and damp. Being a student, I am loath to heat it so I'm sat here wearing two coats, a big jumper, football socks (where on earth did they come from?) and a woolly hat. And other clothes, obviously. Why am I obliged to spend so much time in this inhospitable environment? Well, thriftiness plays a part. But how is it that I'm not thawing out at a rich person's house, or in a nice warm pub?

I am nailed to my keyboard. Naturally the MA is to blame.

I seem to take a long time to complete my course assignments. I pick them over before offering them up to my peers for review. I type and retype them. I also like to type my lecture notes out so that I can refer back to them and understand them. I like doing this blog - more keyboard. I'm currently sketching out my project for the summer - more keys again. I also like to visit other blogs. Tap tap.

I should be a natural touch-typist as a result of these labours. I am probably much faster than PC Plod writing up his report on the station typwritr (plink ..... plink......), you'd think with all this practice 500 wpm would be easily achievable. But no. Despite incessant repetition the skill eludes me.

Tomorrow I will once again feel the full force of more assignments, and the tap tap will continue. I've decided the MA should be awarded with a complementary RSA 1 in typing. Two new things to put on your CV for the price of one.

I will make enquiries.