Hooray for Hornets

Posted on January 7, 2013 by j futrell

P1000645I confess to being a textbook male shopper: In as much as nine times out of ten I will put off buying clothes until the last minute, and then walk away with the first the thing I try on, in the first store I visit; it probably explains why my cupboards are full of unworn clothes, still in their cellophane wrappers, with their tags and labels:

Trophies of a guilt ridden consumer who doesn’t like to look as though he’s just stepped out of a changing cubicle.

Three Hornets are better than one.

Three Hornets are better than one.

Kim, on the other hand, is in her new togs within seconds of returning home. Wearing them so frequently over the ensuing days and weeks that I have to ask her to change.

But that was old was me, before I’d stepped inside Hornets, on the ‘S’ bend, half way up (or down, depending on how you look at it) Kensington Church Street, and discovered the joy of genuinely good, elegant, and above all seductively affordable – vintage clothes. Secondhand if you are old school.

I can still recall that first time, as vividly as my debut Cuban cigar. It was like – coming home. So this is what life and shopping and sensual joy are all about. Described by the effusive owner Bill Hornets, as the Ascot/Wedding/Clearance Shop, I was confronted by rails of frock coats and dinner suits, tweed suits, ties, cravats, and a personal indulgence of mine, waistcoats (aka vests). I remember buying two waistcoats; one in apple green, and quite fitted, and another in Lincoln green, with acetate buttons and lapels. I think I got the two for the price of one, and even that wasn’t very much. I returned a few months later for another, in tweed, that had been made, bespoke, for an army major.

P1000646

P1000648

Patrick, the tall Portuguese assistant, dressed for a day in the country, was more like a butler crossed with a stylist, suggesting colours and fits, enjoying the task of matching the clothes to the man.

At the back of the shop, some pinned at awkward angles on the walls, were battered wax cotton raincoats, that looked as through they’d been pulled through the gorse backwards a few times. Bill (aka The Guvnor) explains that they sell a good many used Barbours (£79-£129) to young army officers who, are attending their first shoots, but don’t want to look as though they are new to ancient outdoors pursuits.

Therein lies the key to vintage wear; it doesn’t look new. Good clothes, well made clothes, that radiate the discreet taste of a man desirous neither to flaunt some ghastly label, nor appear to have succumbed to another whim of fashion. Hornets exists for men such as these.

And it gets better, because there isn’t just one Hornets – there are three, each one different from the next. The other two side by side in Kensington Church Walk, a peaceful pedestrian lane between Holland Street and the High Street. In one there are suits, some off the peg and others Savile Row bespoke ((£90-£450 – the top price for a Huntsman that new would set you back several thousands), shoes, ties, scarves, and a range of new top hats (from from £49 to £229). The other shop is in some ways the more eccentric, specialising in sporting clothes, casual jackets, knitwear, and that great misunderstood garment the car coat.

It’s where I found my 1970s double breasted Yves Saint Laurent blazer, with brass naval buttons, twin flaps, and lapels you could launch jets off. I seem to recall paying about £100. Recently, with a view to knocking them dead at Christmas parties, I was to have bought a three button bespoke Balmain velvet jacket, in burgundy, for about the same price. But I remain one who hesitates, and while I obfuscated between a Mille Feuille and a Frangipan at Patisserie Valerie, the jacket was snapped up.

There are mansion flats opposite the two Hornets, in Kensington Church Walk, with a low wall upon which Bill and his small, and sartorially cognitive team, place cushions, come rain or shine. This is their office, a sort of al fresco style surgery, where friends and customers chat about anything from smoking jackets, to the way the country is going to the dogs. There were Spanish tourists buying cricket sweaters, a woman with very red lips and a theatrical manner, and a local sculptor on my last visit.

Bill, resplendent as ever in a voluminous tan 1930s leather driving coat, cuts an impressive figure. Today, beneath a battered trilby, he is operatic, and he can fashion a good quote as fast as snapping a hat brim.

“Hornets sells clothes to men and boys who are turning into men. Anything from 16 to 76 is our range.

“This is a classic masculine look. Simple but very strong, maintaining that the lady on your arm must shine, not you.

“I sell style – not fashion.”

Hornets, 36b Kensington Church Street, London W8 4BX & 2&4 Kensington Church Walk, London, W8 4NB. 0102 9937 2627/1515. www.hornetskensington.couk

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The Man From Whitton

Posted on December 8, 2012 by j futrell

I met a man from Whitton the other day. “Where,” you say. Well just hang on moment. He didn’t actually say he was from Whitton, at first. Initially, he only confided that he was from somewhere near Twickenham, whereupon noticing an imperceptible shift in my demeanor (a slight inquisitive tilt of my head perhaps) he confessed to hailing from the next stop down the track; Whitton.

Having spilled the beans, he then leant back to get a clearer view of my expression. Like a man who has just admitted to secretly wearing his wife’s clothes he looked to see my reaction, his apprehension, and a hint of embarrassment, writ large.

In fact, I was thrilled by his admission. In over 50 years he is the first person I have met who comes from the town I grew up in. Not one person, in all that time, had heard of Whitton; my town. It was as if Whitton didn’t exist. Until now.

“Whitton? Where? Never heard of it.” It’s like a mantra that you get so sick of hearing you stop dealing with facts and delve into fiction. “Me, oh, I’m from Twickenham, or  really it’s Richmond, not far from Isleworth. You know, near a place called Whitton, that nobody has ever heard of. Then giving a sort of knowing laugh.

Whitton Railway Station

Whitton Railway Station

People from Hammersmith, Portsmouth,  Manhattan, St.Michel, Milan, Katmandu, even Neasden or Little Rock, places with real names and identities, cannot imagine quite how deflating it is to set foot in the world, armed with a rucksack, passport and unbridled enthusiasm, to be universally met with blank puzzlement.

Bending geographical boundaries is not exclusive to Middlesex and the hinterlands of west London. I’ve met those who, in an effort to impress, used to say they came from South Chelsea, when in fact they were from Battersea. I met an artist who claimed to be from Los Angeles, when his home was in Bakersfield. And Shoreham-By-Sea is full of folk who seem to think they live in Brighton. But until that day I’d never met anyone who came from Whitton. I’d begun to think I’d imagined my childhood.

The River Crane at Whitton

The River Crane at Whitton

Nobody beyond the eastern flightpath into Heathrow has ever heard of it. I’ve met people in Richmond, ten minutes by car, or three stops back up the line by train, who haven’t. My father hadn’t heard of it in the 50s when an estate agent called Hammond, to my mother’s eternal shame, insisted they take a look.

That’s the reason why the man, of whom I write, was reluctant to name his town; it was the fear of having to excuse himself, once again, and explain how he hails from an unknown 1930s suburb, just off the A316, that comprises a high street, a modern brick built church, a big white pub called the Winning Post (famous for a concert by Osibisa the Afro/rock band, and lesser so for barring me) and streets of semi-detached homes, many with roof extensions, and nearly all with paved car parking in front of the bay windows where gardens used to be. There is one pub in the high street, The Nelson. The local petrol station and cinema both closed down when television was still black and white.

I lived in Whitton for 20 years, and even I cannot say, with any authority where the town begins and ends. Beyond the high street, with its railway bridge and architecturally underplayed station (see photograph), Whitton dissolves into a patchwork of streets. A thin, and peaceful, nature reserve follows the course of the River Crane, skirting the town’s southern flank on its serpentine course to Isleworth and The Thames. Kneller Hall, the home of the Royal School of Military Music, is a grand mock Tudor confection, on the other side of town, just a few hundred yards from the reason many people come across Whitton in the first place; as somewhere to park their cars if they are attending a rugby match at Twickenham Stadium, the monumental  home of English rugby. The stadium has grown out of all proportion from the municipal green four stand stadium I competed in as a schoolboy. Today it is a looming extraterrestrial inferno of passion.

But that’s Twickenham Stadium. It might be on ‘our’ side of the A316, but it’s named after Whitton’s bigger neighbour, as if the town on which it stands (just) doesn’t exist.

And that’s the rub; I grew up in a town that doesn’t exist. So on behalf all those blighted by hereditary anonymity, cast into the mists of non existence, I want to thank that man, on the Riverside Terrace of Fulham Football Club, for standing tall and proud, and proclaiming – albeit in hushed tones – that like myself, he is from Whitton; a town where ordinariness matters.

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Kim at The Affordable Art Fair Hampstead

Posted on October 28, 2012 by j futrell

Those Londoners who haven’t been down to Cornwall to see Kim’s embroidery/paintings will have the opportunity to enjoy them in the flesh, later this week.

From Thursday to Sunday (November 1-4) a selection of her works will be on sale at Demelza’s Gallery, at the Affordable Art Fair Hampstead; held in a specially erected building on the car park, just across the way from The Freemason’s Arms, a three minute walk from Hampstead Heath London Overground Station.

Most pieces on sale are those beach scenes of sailors, and dog walkers, surfers and picnickers, milling about beneath billowy skies, on the Atlantic washed beaches on north Cornwall, close to our home in Padstow. However, there are others at the London show for which Kim has applied the same technique of painted silk taffeta and embroidery in locations that will be familiar to anyone who walks regularly upon Hampstead Heath. Here Kim’s keen eye for everyday detail, the hidden charm of people’s lives, uses Parliament Hill Fields and the London skyline as a backdrop.

Of course, there are dogs – there will always be plenty of happy dogs in Kim pictures – but there are sightseers too. Football players, couples, and my favourites, kite flyers. The more you look the more you see. Hope to see you too.

Kim Bentley, Demelza’s Gallery, Stand D2, The Affordable Art Fair, Hampstead Heath, Lower Fairground Site, East Heath Road, NW3 1TH. Tickets range from £10 to £20. There is a charity private view Wednesday (Oct 31) £25. Cheaper for concessions and if you can get a half price ticket from one of the galleries showing.

For a little more visit here http://kimbentley.me

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Summer at the Serpentine – Thursday nights with my mate Bob

Posted on July 21, 2012 by j futrell

I learnt a lot of things about London and Londoners on Thursday. For example I learn that Michael Caine made his screen debut in the 1961 film The Day The Earth Caught Fire, playing a London bobby ushering members of the public to safety, and that he developed his trademark ponderous and methodical style of speech in order to maximize the time he was on camera. 

I also learnt that the telephone box in Heddon Street, immortalised by David Bowie on the cover of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars, appeared in Michelangelo Antonioni’s Blow Up, with David Hemmings; that the expression ‘falling off the wagon‘ came from condemned convicts being allowed a drink in a saloon on their way to the gallows, and that Chas Hodges, the curly haired one in Chas ‘n Dave, wears plastic Crocs shoes, and used to sing with an American accent with Jerry Lee Lewis. A veritable soiree of learning

That and live music from the cinched and very delightful Segue Sisters (think Andrews Sisters crossed with Cabaret), some comedy, and even a few card tricks and illusions, and all for the princely sum of  £10. Actually I should declare here that Elms is a good friend of mine, meaning that Kim and I didn’t have to pay. But if we’d had to I couldn’t have complained at all at that – and a dry spell in the heart of London’s loveliest park – for the price of a round of drinks.

Cynics might here point to a clear conflict of interest, one that might have impaired my impartiality. Perish the thought. Thursday evening at the Serpentine, was in the words of Steve Marriott at the Fillmore, ‘a gas’, and never less.

This was the second of his Thursday Nights Lives, informal and fascinating events held throughout the summer in Hyde Park’s Serpentine Gallery Pavilion, close to the lake,on the southern side of the park, a stone’s throw from the Albert Memorial. Every year, for the past twelve, a different architect has been commissioned to design and build a new summer pavilion on the site,  from scratch. The current one, resembles a flying saucer hovering just feet above a scoop in the earth and is furnished with benches and what look like giant mushrooms. It is the result of a collaboration between architects Herzog & de Meuron and Ai Weiwei. It’s rather lovely, works extremely well as an open sided summer pavilion, and will be taken down in the autumn.

The events are live versions of Elms’ popular radio show, broadcast six days a week on BBC London. It shares the same a blend of music, events, history, personalities, and the sort of information that goes down well at dinner parties. Except whereas on the radio Elms’ enthusiastic trademark interaction with his audience is channelled through modern digital media, at the Serpentine Gallery the audience is actively encouraged to take part. Questions like, ‘what’s your favourite London film’ was thrown out to the gallery? I offered Donald Pleasance in 1973‘s ‘Death Line’ – vintage British horror in which the crazed zombies that inhabit the tube system mumble “mind the gap”.

Elms show’s ‘rock ‘n roll route master’ Russell Clarke traced the history of live music in Hyde Park, from the first with Pink Floyd playing on two flatbed trucks, while the effusive and always good value, Jason Solomons ran through his top ten of London films. He left us with a thigh slapping excerpt of Dick Van Dyke’s coal stained Chim Chim Cheree from Mary Poppins. Von Majik, a young and softly spoken magician from south London made balloons and ten pound notes disappear, and comedian Barry from Watford was very, very funny, doing for the navy blazer what Berlusconi did for the bandana.

Finally, before a barn storming boogie woogie performance by Chas Hodges (Gertcha and Roll Over Beethoven) Senna director Asif Kapadia talked about Odyssey, a film commission by the BBC for the OIympics, and which was shot entirely from the air. It is being screen this coming Tuesday (July 24).

The first Thursday night featured Elms’ old friend Gary Kemp (you may recall among the host’s many claims to fame was naming Spandau Ballet). Others weeks promise Sir Paul Smith (they’ll probably discuss suits and cycling), Heaven 17, musical arranger and 007 aficionado David Arnold, novelist/journalist, and another Elms spar, Tony Parsons, radio regular Maxwell Hutchinson (architecture), and more from the Segue Sisters and the mightily funny Barry from Watford.

There’s nothing on the telly Thursdays, and it’s all kids films at the cinema this time of year. It’ll be the best tenner you’ve spent in a long while.

Thursday Night Live with Robert Elms, July 26, August 2, 9, 16, 23, and 30, from 7pm.

Tickets available from www.eventim.co.uk/0844 249 1000, or from the Serpentine Gallery Lobby Desk www.serpentinegallery.org

+ all photographs by Christina Wilson +

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A Very Special Dog

Posted on June 27, 2012 by j futrell

Tashi Delek, the most photographed Airedale Terrier in Cornwall, died peacefully on the settee, in the living room of her home in Padstow.Tashi, or Tash, or Snoo as she was known to Kim and myself was born in Grantham. She was the last of a litter of nine puppies to find a home, passed over repeatedly due to the straightness of her coat, that Kim and I were told, would not go down well with dog show judges. Kim and I looked at each other. As if!

On the long drive back to London, Tashi Delek, almost jet black and the size of a shoe, was ill several times on the back seat of the car. Long car journeys were to remain one of her bete noirs until the last, together with cats, squirrels, and postmen.

Tashi’s early years were spent in London’s Regents Park. She was the prettiest of a group of puppies ( among them Billy, Coleman and Carter), who met daily close to Gloucester Gate following the outer perimeter, as far as the tennis courts. It’s when Tashi developed something of a thing for tennis balls, especially new ones. If she couldn’t find one in the grass beyond the courts she’d sit and wait, refusing to budge, until the tennis coach, a thick set man with white hair, had whacked a fresh ball over the link fence, just for her.

Her collection often exceeded three dozen.

It was on these happy walks that Tashi made the first of many lifelong friends, Carter, a handsome chocolate brown Labrador. Carter took an instant shine to the leggy Airedale and would present Tashi with sticks or chewed up balls whenever they met. If Tashi grew tired of the gang, if ‘something in particular caught her attention’ causing her to leave the pack and wonder off, Carter would bark furiously until she fell back into line.

The pair maintained their friendship even after Carter’s owner became ill and was unable to cope with a young dog. He relocated to Kidderminster, taking up residency with Kim’s parents. Tashi and he enjoyed many happy times together there. They played together there just a month ago.

The “lovelies” grew out of those early walks. Such were Tashi’s looks – her jet black saddle, her deep brown eyes, her ‘envelope’ ears and light trot, that bystanders’ were caused to remark “isn’t she lovely”. In fact, it was said so often Kim would  return home daily with The Lovely Count: Tashi’s highest for a single walk was twelve, although that doesn’t include those admiring ‘lovelies’ thought  from a distance.

One of Tashi’s many endearing qualities, aside from her unbridled glee at unwrapping everyone’s gifts on Christmas Day no matter how elaborately wrapped, opening the Bonio cupboard door in the kitchen herself (showboating to impress guests), and never returning home without a ball or toy of some sort, was her gentleness, and willingness to turn the other cheek.

Whenever confronted in a street by the salivating fangs of the hounds from hell Tashi would come to a stop and look the other way, to a point somewhere in the distance, as if she hadn’t seen the predatory hound because she was preoccupied, like a bird watcher or meteorologist, on some faraway object. When this effective distracted indifference  (another example of the ‘something in particular’ trait) had taken the sting out of any potential attack, the other dog or dogs by now too confused to be violent, Tashi would quietly, and very beautifully – tale erect and head held high – silently saunter past, as if nothing had happened.

Tashi’s nature, her gentleness with children, her exuberance, especially on the soft sand at Harbour Cove and upon Hampstead Heath, and her looks soon spread beyond the close circle of family and friends; those who broke their home rules, allowing her to sleep on the furniture and chase their cats into neighbours’ gardens. She lent her name to a series of compilation compact discs, Tashi Toons, culminating with the Christmas collection Santa Paws. She was photographed on the pavement outside her Cornish home by countless numbers of holiday makers. She went on to feature in the book Travel, photographed by Christina Wilson,  The Daily Express’s travel pages, and appear on the cover of the Financial Times’ How To Spend It ‘Travel Unlimited’, in May 2008.

Latterly Tashi had become a fixture of many of Kim’s beach painting/embroidery images. Look around her assembled cast of seaside characters and you’re sure to alight upon a perky Airedale Terrier doing what she did best – having fun on the sand. It goes without saying that Kim’s pictures with Tashi in them have sold the fastest.

Despite the media attention Tashi kept a level head wanting nothing more for herself than any bed or settee in the house, and the three ‘Cs’: chocolate, chicken and cheese.

Her gentleness, her fondness for long hugs, and evenings curled up next to you on the settee meant that everyone who spent any time with Tashi fell for her. When our dear friend Pat, stricken with cancer, took to her bed on winter afternoons in Padstow, Tashi joined her. And when Kim and I were away Tashi would occasionally decamp temporarily to Muswell Hill, curling up beneath author Rob Ryan’s desk. “There isn’t a malicious bone in her body,” he remarked.

Some months before her death she was presented with a three wheel Dog Buggy. It raised a few eyebrows in Padstow, but arthritis had taken hold and the short walks to the beach to be with her friends Skye, Rosie, Daisy, Macie, Jo, Matilda, and Rio had become something of a marathon. Reluctant to get in at first, perhaps embarrassed to be perceived as an invalid, she nevertheless grew to appreciate the red canvas buggy, and would clamber in, even as it was being assembled.

Towards the end, when kidney disease had made her anaemic and weak, she’d lay in it outside the house watching the world go by, maybe wondering why life had become so difficult for her, but still enjoying the attention, and the ‘lovelies’.

Her last buggy trip was an hour or so before she died. The scent of wild garlic heavy on the warm spring air. Wispy pink clouds scudded across Bodmin Moor, leaving behind them deep pools of irradiant evening sun.  And the Camel estuary, motionless out of respect,  that indefinable colour between grey and blue.

Tashi saw it all, maybe thinking, after all the effort of the last few days, she was seeing it for the final time.

Tashi Delek, June 5, 2000 – June 26, 2012 

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It’s Good To Talk

Posted on June 13, 2012 by j futrell

When I returned to my desk, after a couple of days in the west country attending the funeral of an old school friend, I booted up my laptop to find 252 emails awaiting me. The subjects therein ranged from outward bound footwear and luxury self-catering cottages in Sweden, to cutting edge mattresses made in the west country, and a children’s clothing range that, the press release assured me, is worn by both Gwyneth Paltrow and Madonna’s offspring.

Turning to the answering machine, aka voice mail, there were two calls from an ambulance chasing firm of solicitors who had called to say I was owed compensation for an accident I cannot remember having. Three others from people who left no messages, and one from myself trying to find Kim.  As for mail there was an issue of the New Yorker, two payments slips, and some vouchers for a supermarket.I mention this because it is illustrative of the way modern PR and marketing is conducted; at a distance, behind a veil of digital technology, that flatters to deceive. Most of my articles, either consumer based or travel, appear in a number of national publications, The Sunday Times, The Financial Times, both The Daily and Sunday Express, and many others over the years, and yet I cannot remember the last time a PR called me to suggest a story. I think it was in the spring of 2011, but I cannot be certain.

Such a statement could invite a tidal wave of cold calls, yet I suspect not. The current paradigm for product placing is a jaunty emailed press release, nine times out of ten beginning “Hi Jonathan, I hope you’re well?”, often followed by some light hearted  reference to the weather, or a contemporaneous sporting event.  Most will be discarded without ever opening.  Others require time, on average a minute, which means, about an hour a day reading unsolicited emails. Multiply that by five for my editors coping with a tsunami of correspondence.

There is a casualness about such emails. Spelling mistakes, factual mistakes and naff jokes aside, how important is the thing being promoted if the limit to the PR’s marketing skill is a computer database and a send button? That’s another ‘hope you’re well’ , a likable aside to the ‘footie’, and back to Facebook.

Responding to emails is rarely easy. If I telephone I am generally rerouted to a voicemail where I am told that the person is away from the office – until last week! Sometimes I get a receptionist asking more questions than the inland revenue who will go on to explain that the PR is in a meeting. So many meetings, probably about databases. The daughter of a friend told me how in their Soho marketing office they would hold all calls once a week for what the head of the company described as a ‘concept fuck fest’.

This reliance upon digital  communication overlooks the ease with which even the most complicated arrangements may be dealt with over the phone. It is not uncommon for there to be eight to ten emails for me and whoever it is to finalise details, or get the correct resolution for a photograph, when everything could be ticked off with a single call, a notebook and pen.

Prior to the advent of smart phones, the must have tool for all modern PRs, I would often do my correspondence in the evenings and weekends, replies coming back during he next working day. Not any more. The new PR, armed with iPhones and Blackberries, and anxious to please and impress friends and colleagues, is often quicker to reply at night than during the day, often at times when every PR worth his or her salt is holed up in a wine bar with a large glass of Sancerre.

Years past PRs would call me with suggestions for articles. The conversations relaxed, across a range of products and issues. Among the best practitioners of this patient one-to-one marketing were the legendary Rob Partridge at Island Records, Joanna Burns at Epic (lately with her own company), and Stephanie Briggs at Spring in the west country. Partridge, who passed away some years ago, was masterful. I was a music journalist and after half an hour on the phone with Rob,  I would have a wealth of material, with notes of up and coming events and releases. He knew who I wrote for and tailored items to suit, while subtly planning ahead, tipping me off to future developments.

Partidge’s easy going knowledge of the music business and Joanna Burns’ methodical system of breaking journalists down into lists and subjects and thereafter working the phones, patiently and politely, is how I learnt my craft as a PR in the 1980s; working with Wham! and then subsequently for much longer with Sade.

That generation of PR spoke.  It could be hard work, and monotonous at times, but it was good to talk – and had its rewards.

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Rock ‘n Soil

Posted on May 2, 2012 by j futrell

A long long time ago Crackington Haven, a vertiginous fold on north Cornwall’s north coast, south west of Bude, lay at the foot of a range of mountains. A lot has changed during the 350 million years (or thereabouts) since then; the mountains have gone, the Atlantic Ocean has excavated arches and ‘hanging valleys’, and there are coffee shops as well, including one with a range of excellent apricot flapjacks.

The extent of the telluric shifts that have shaped this tiny area, known as the ‘Crackington Formation’, renowned for its slate, zinc, and wolfram (the principle ore of tungsten), is brought home to me by geologist Jane Anderson, during a short walking tour. She is one of seven geologists employed by the North Cornwall District Council whose remit is to apply lessons learnt from ancient history to land management; her knowledge and experience helped design bridges in both Crackington and Boscastle following major floods.

Jane has strawberry blonde hair, alert eyes, and an easy smile while she talks; think Julia Roberts in an anorak and wellies. A dozen or so of us would-be geologists meet her in the ‘Haven’ car park at coffee time; an assortment of cajoles, walking boots and poles. We follow Jane across the road to the pebbly beach at low tide where she begins her tour.

To our right is a wall of undulating sandstone strata, reaching up to over 700 feet, and to our left what appear to be giant sheets of rock, the dimensions of table tennis boards. These, says Jane, are  actually upside down (although I confess, I’d never thought of rocks being either one up or the other). But, 350 millions years ago, when Crackington Haven was in the middle of the Rheic Ocean, the European and African tectonic plates slammed against each other, pushing upwards and creating the mountains that have long gone, throwing unimaginable amounts of rocks over on to their backs.

At our feet are countless sandstone pebbles, nearly all criss-crossed with thin white lines, our guide explains  are quartz veins created when silica, was forced through fissures in the rocks by heated water at high pressure. The quartz veins are the residue. The small striations caused by tidal water swirling around pebbles.

We are staring at a old master of the carboniferous period (over 300 million years ago), with a scientist for a guide, unearthing its secrets; the tell-tale signs of geological evolution. Every pebble Jane holds up has a story: There are some with tiny indents; goniatites, the fossils of tiny marine animals; shale pebbles, also veined; and nodules, small rock cups, thought to have formed around shells, made from pyrite and frequently mistaken for gold.

The climax of the three hour tour is at the summit of the cliff, at the end of a narrow stepped path of flowering alexanders, gorse and wild garlic.  Gulls hang motionless at our sides, and below even lines of white topped waves wear away at the browny/orange ground beneath the topsoil. An accumulation of stones and rocks from further up the valley swept down during the last ice age. A process called ‘gelifluction’ says Jane.

The rain clouds that had threatened to ruin our walk have drawn back to reveal a clear spring morning, and an uninterrupted vista from Steppers Point, near Padstow, to Widemouth Bay. A line of coves, shingle ridges, fissures and sandstone faults.

Of course it wasn’t always like this. Two million years ago the county was six kilometers wider than it is today.

“This is an erosion coast,” says Jane,  “and we’re in the interstadial period, when the ice is retreating, and the earth is warming, and sea levels are rising. Helped along with the aid of human activity.”

We take a long last look before commencing our descent, reassured that people as level headed as Jane Anderson are looking out for all of this.

 Jane has other walks  at Polzeath, Duckpool to Sandymouth, Pentire Head and Boscastle. For details go to nationaltrust.org.uk – although not the world’s most user friendly site

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A Sporting Chance

Posted on April 14, 2012 by j futrell

A few days ago I had a letter of mine read out on BBC Radio 4, although not for the first time. If it is at all possible I seem to be getting even more unhappy with the way the world is run as I get older, and I have sent several missives Broadcasting House in recent months, jabbing the email send tab with the same self satisfied flourish grumps from another age despatched stamped, hand written envelopes into the gaping mouths of letter boxes. That’ll give them something to think about. Maybe?

The remarkable thing is it did. The programme, You And Yours, was taking the nation’s temperature in the run up to the Olympic Games. Coming the week some athletes had revealed that they have not been allocated enough tickets for even the closest members of their families to see them in action. Meanwhile a survey discovered that less than half the population is excited by the prospect of the games. Fifty three per cent of respondents said they weren’t interested.

In the light of these, and other controversies, including the much touted post games infrastructure and sporting legacy, and the fact that the capital will be in gridlock for a month, the BBC had thrown the spotlight on what the event actually means to Londoners, and the population beyond the capital, as far flung as Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. The finding here were even gloomier. Ninety eight per cent said it had nothing to do with them, “all it does is spend our money,” chimed several.

“A monstrous vacuum cleaner sucking up resources to spend on real estate in London,” wrote someone from up north.

The other time a letter of mine was read out on air, in full, was when PM’s Eddie Mair, himself a bit of a wag, asked listeners what caused their depression? This is a subject I am becoming something of an expert on and the cause of my own was read out in full, just before the pips at six. 

My gripe this time was about the ticketing. I was pleased when London secured the games. We do big, national events well. And there isn’t much bigger than the olympics.

I still think fondly of Brian May, ten years ago, playing the National Anthem on the roof of the Palace, for the Golden Jubilee: younger readers note he was in a band called, Queen. Tickets would be expensive and the way we were instructed to apply for them beggared belief;  Allocating payment whilst agreeing not to know what events we would be going to until some time after the funds had been removed from our bank accounts. Steering clear of the big ticket events, that would surely be over subscribed, I applied for everything from sailing and rowing to a couple of track events. At what would have been a cost of about £1500, if I’d got them all. Nearly all of my friends pitched in for similar amounts. We didn’t apply for the 100m sprint or the opening ceremony. Our applications were more like each way bets, trusting that something in the lower orders would come good.

Some plan. I didn’t get one ticket, and neither did any of my friends. Out of six London families non of us would be going to the games. In fact, I haven’t met anyone with tickets. Later a number of corporations, Barclays among them, launched competitions with olympic tickets as prizes. The tickets Londoners had applied for were being used as a marketing tool. Next, to compensate for the miss selling of synchronized swimming events,  10,000 tickets, for alternative events, were conjured up and handed over by way of  compensation. Where had those tickets been? At the back of the filing cabinet?

The final slap in the face came with the ‘Test Events’  – events, held in advance of the games to see how the new facilities would shape up? We were asked to pay for these as well. Shouldn’t they have been free to the Londoners who applied, but failed to get to the real things?

It all leaves a bad taste in the mouth. So when You And Yours asked its listeners what they felt about the games a lot of us angrily booted up and hit ‘send’. It’s going to be like having the world’s greatest cocktail party in your own living room – except the door is locked and you can’t get in. Just  another TV event, I wrote.  And I seemed to have caught the pulse of the nation, because except for a few infant school teachers who write to say their little ones were besides themselves with anticipation (which is lovely) a slew of letters were read out extolling a level of detachment that flies in the face of the spirit of the games.

It all makes for entertaining radio, but it’s not got me any tickets for wrestling – Greco Roman, or archery. On the other hand a 54 inch flat screen television to hang on the wall will work out cheaper.

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Me, Cornwall, 13 women and Fulham Football Club

Posted on April 1, 2012 by j futrell

The first Cornish Beach I ever stood upon was Mawgan Porth, on the north coast, roughly mid-way between Padstow and Newquay. It was 1978 or 79, and I remember the tall cliffs at both end and the white tessellated holiday homes crammed into the dark vertiginous cliff walls. There is a photograph of me somewhere with black hair, wearing a red and black checked shirt. I think I may even be sporting a moustache.

These days Mawgan Porth is popular with surfers, and there’s a fashionable new hotel called The Scarlet, boasting a ‘green’ holiday agenda.

I was back there again the other week, for two nights at the low and sprawling Bedruthan Steps Hotel, enrolled on to an embroidery weekend with a group of women who share a passion for Cornwall and sewing. I should add, my stay wasn’t out of choice. It was a commission for a newspaper who wanted a man to spend some time learning girlie stuff. A female writer was handed a more manly assignment.

The women in the group all came with ideas of what they wanted to make. Most planned cushion covers, bags, or wall hangings, that they planned to embellish them with machine embroidered – motifs; furry animals, flowers, toadstools and the like. Pressed on what I would do with my time I suggested something more practical – a camera case with a hand sewn Fulham Football Club badge on the flap.

The course is run by Poppy Treffry, the surname pronounced with an emphasis on ‘fry’ as in fish fry. She’s very Cornish. She grew up in a two up two down on Bodmin Moor, but got herself through art school and now runs an embroidery/textile business in Penzance.  I knew she was true Cornish when she told me she’d ordered steak at the hotel’s seafood restaurant. I’ve never met a Cornish person yet who eats fish.

Poppy has boundless enthusiasm. She taught me how to thread and use a sewing machine in the time it takes me to press a pair of trousers. While keeping an eye on what the others were doing she showed me free-hand embroidery: it’s not easy. I found the first day difficult. I kept snagging the machine. I broke two needles and cut myself.

The second day was better, and by late afternoon I’d embroidered an FFC badge in red, white and black, and following Poppy’s instructions, sewn a bag, also in team colours.

Take a look and see what you think? 

The Bedruthan Steps Hotel has a range of courses, from sewing to bread making and basket weaving, throughout the year. They’re good value too. Mine was £324 for the course, accommodation, all meals and some of the best views in Cornwall.

Bedruthan Steps Hotel, Mawgan Porth, Cornwall/www.bedruthan.com

Poppy Treffry’s work can be found at www.poppeytreffry.co.uk and there is more about my weekend at the Bedruthan Steps Hotel on her blog http://poppytreffry.wordpress.com/

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Dinner In Drummond Street

Posted on April 1, 2012 by j futrell

I am not a vegetarian, and I can take or leave Indian food – much of it in London seems indifferent, even a bit samey – but once in a while I like to pass by Drummond Street, just off the Hampstead Road, for a bag of mixed pakoras from the Ambala Sweet Centre, or for an inexpensive, meat free meal. There are a few places to choose from, but Kim and I tend to use the Diwana Bhel Poori House, beneath a fancy brown awning at the eastern end of the street.

I think if were to live more centrally I’d like to be on or just off Drummond Street. Like the eye of a storm there is calmness to the place, and unlike the West End where the air is muggy with the scent of overused fat, the air in Drummond Street is lightly spiced. And because few buildings are higher than three storeys, the sky is big, and at night, speckled with the lights of nearby office blocks.

Drummond Street is a world within a world. Another London, turning at its own speed on a different calendar. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. All of which will change, and maybe not for the better, if proposals for the High Speed 2 (HS2) go ahead.

If you don’t already know the £33 million HS2 project, that will, boast its proponents, snip 30 minutes off the journey time by train between Euston and Birmingham, will cut a swathe of destruction through Camden Town. It looks certain to cause the demolition of over 250 homes in the Regents Park Estate, mostly on the western side of the Hampstead Road, and to accommodate an expanded Euston Station the London terminus of HS2 will devour all, or most, of Cardington Street, and crucially about 20 per cent of Drummond Street.

The scale of the project was described by the local Member of Parliament, Frank Dobson, as of another St.Pancras International.

 Many, who have lived along the proposed route, and will have to be rehoused, are traumatised.  Especially those who bought their council flats and who are faced with having to leave the area altogether owing to the value of their property, if compulsorily purchased, not being enough to pay for alternative accommodation in Camden Town. The council is fighting the proposals, and there is a long way to go.

Being mindful of the plans gave my trip there a different perspective. Some of the street will go forever, and the Diwana Bhel Poorie House will find itself cheek-by-jowl with a new mainline railway station.

You wouldn’t know of any of this to judge from the smiling faces within the restaurant. Boasting on its Facebook page that it is open 364 days of the year it is always packed with an assortment of office workers, hippie families with noisy children, student types, and the sort of old school fourth age leftie who would probably knit their own footwear given half a chance. Kim, Rob, Debs and I shared two plates of Bhel Poori, the spicy, crunchy starter made with puffed rice and chutney. For their main courses they each ordered those vast dosa pancakes, rolled into tubes that hang off the edges of plates, and stuffed with spicy potatoes. I went for a thali, which is a selection of rice, vegetable curry, dhal and chapattis.

Diwana isn’t licensed and so most people nip next door to the spice shop and off licence. It’s where Kim buys her spices for our curries, at a fraction of supermarket prices.

What did the man with the heavy bottom lip and the wavy white hair at the till think of the HS2 plans? “If it happens, it happens,” he said with a resigned shrug.

Was he worried? Are people in the street worried? “Yes, they are,” he said looking me in the eye, perhaps forlorn with all the talk. “We’ll have to see.”

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