Today
I recently attended the wedding of my great Nephew up in the Midlands. We had a lovely time, and the most notably delightful aspect was the sense of family support and love. It was as though they were all holding out their arms to catch each other if needed.
In My Day
I remember a very literal example of this happening when I was younger. It goes back to the great Lake District jaunt of 1967 (or thereabouts). David, Chris, I and a couple of other friends went to the Lakes during the Spring Bank holiday period.
Chris was armed with maps and Wainwright guides and we tramped the hills, regardless of the grim weather. With Chris's help I tackled Jack's Rake ("the easiest climb in the Lake District", he told me "but still a climb, not a walk"). I nerved myself to do striding edge, which was fine so long as I didn't look down and we sensibly avoided going past the snow line.
There's a good rule when you are walking in well-mapped areas: if there isn't a path when it seems obvious there should be, there's probably a good reason.
We took a trip to one of the deeper lakes and, having skirted the higher part of the surrounding hills we took stock of our route home. These walks all had a way of taking longer than we expected and we felt that if we took the official path towards Red Pike we might get caught by darkness. There seemed no logical reason why we couldn't just cut across the front of the slope; it looked straightforward enough.
Once we'd got to the point of no return the reasons why there was no path became clear (see rule above). Firstly, the side of the hill was covered with tiny rills which not only made us wet; they destabilised the ground. Then we encountered a long spit of rock, just about as wide as the span of our arms and legs. One by one the others got across. I was last. By this time their efforts had turned the ground into a mush and as I started to cross, I simply slithered. There was nothing for me to grip.
There I was, spreadeagled on the mountainside. I think there was a moment of dumbfoundedness; then Chris, making his way back below the mush line, found himself some firm footholds, either side of the rock. He spread out his arms, palms upwards. "Walk!" he ordered. And I did, stepping on his hands as though they were made of steel. I can still see his face, concentrating on the effort.
We got back safely and I have always thought that I owed my life to Chris on that occasion.
Whether emotional, spiritual or physical, that's what we are here for; to hold out our hands.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Thursday, November 01, 2012
Unaccompanied
Today
Yesterday saw our first Hallow e'en in Oakhill. Despite the lashing rain we had a couple of visits from children who were excruciatingly polite and one tiny lad who seemed to think he should give Paul his treats!
What we have noticed is that the kids are generally accompanied by parents or responsible adults, even in these little close-knit villages.
In My Day
Of course there was no trick-or-treating when we were small but there were other occasions when you had cause to knock on doors.
We all went carol-singing. We were pretty musical and could hold a tune and, with help from choirboy David, some harmony as well. We lived on a main road in South London but as far as I an tell, were permitted to wander off in the dark evenings before Christmas, singing good cheer at strangers' front doors. Many of the houses were large Victorian piles divided into flats and you couldn't be sure who might open the door. I'm sure we met some Scrooges and got to know which doors produced the best pickings.
I think we gave good value and were rewarded with gifts and money. Beatrice took a dim view of gifts, once saying loudly in earshot as we left one house "What, no money?" We hustled her off. In fact, I think it was from that house that we received a beautiful full-colour geography book which I read again and again.
But the point is that there was no suggestion of being accompanied by parents, however much they kept in the shadows.
Was the world safer then? I doubt it. I think it's some other malaise that makes us more over-protective. And I have no idea whether that is better or worse for our children.
Yesterday saw our first Hallow e'en in Oakhill. Despite the lashing rain we had a couple of visits from children who were excruciatingly polite and one tiny lad who seemed to think he should give Paul his treats!
What we have noticed is that the kids are generally accompanied by parents or responsible adults, even in these little close-knit villages.
In My Day
Of course there was no trick-or-treating when we were small but there were other occasions when you had cause to knock on doors.
We all went carol-singing. We were pretty musical and could hold a tune and, with help from choirboy David, some harmony as well. We lived on a main road in South London but as far as I an tell, were permitted to wander off in the dark evenings before Christmas, singing good cheer at strangers' front doors. Many of the houses were large Victorian piles divided into flats and you couldn't be sure who might open the door. I'm sure we met some Scrooges and got to know which doors produced the best pickings.
I think we gave good value and were rewarded with gifts and money. Beatrice took a dim view of gifts, once saying loudly in earshot as we left one house "What, no money?" We hustled her off. In fact, I think it was from that house that we received a beautiful full-colour geography book which I read again and again.
But the point is that there was no suggestion of being accompanied by parents, however much they kept in the shadows.
Was the world safer then? I doubt it. I think it's some other malaise that makes us more over-protective. And I have no idea whether that is better or worse for our children.
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