The final couple of 1/76 buses for my
non-collection.
This Liverpool Corporation Leyland “Titan”
type PD2 is another common sight from my childhood. For some reason, LCPT is
one of the few bus operators for which I can’t find sensible fleet information on
the internet – I guess this model is of a mid-1950s vehicle.
The Birkenhead Corporation Guy “Arab” is
another personal nostalgia bomb. This is a relative oldie - the original vehicle which this depicts was
supplied to the Birkenhead fleet in 1946, and the old-style municipal paint job was
officially updated in 1951, but in reality a great many of the older buses were
left like this – a bit like military dress regulations, I suppose. Since it
remained in service until 1957, this would still have been trundling along the
New Chester Road and around Rock Ferry when I was a boy. Guy Motors were based in
Wolverhampton, and the wartime utility-style coachwork for this particular
vehicle was by Park Royal, of London. Once again, a bus that looks like a
proper bus – would anyone dream of naming a bus an Arab now, I wonder?
Unless I come across a Wallasey bus from the
right period in this scale, that’s all for now, folks.
I am quietly pleased to observe that the
number of hits on this blog has crept over 200,000 – I wasn’t going to mention
it, but felt it was only polite to thank anyone who has read any of my
ramblings during the last few years for their time and patience! So – thank you.
Even by my standards, this may turn out to
be an unusually pointless post. Starting from nowhere in particular, it is
likely to end somewhere similar, having passed through yet more of the same. If
you wish to read it I’ll be pleased to have your company, and would welcome any
thoughts you may have, but don’t say you haven’t been warned…
Yesterday I was idly reading over a forum thread to which I do not subscribe, and in which I have no special interest, but it got me thinking. Fleur d’Ennui, as Django’s tune is called.
The topic was What is Beauty? – with specific reference to landscapes. For some reason it
reminded me of an occasion, years ago, when I used to visit the Cotswolds on
business. I liked the Cotswolds, and it was not an area I was familiar with.
Though I was, in my own right, exactly the same pipsqueak that I have always
been, I represented a very heavyweight client of the people I was dealing with
at the time, and thus I was lucky enough to be taken out to some very pleasant eating places.
Some village or other - seems nice...
One sunny evening I was taken to a place
near the village of Bradford (which sticks in my mind because it was very
different from the large city with which it shares a name). We parked the car a
little distance from the hostelry we were visiting, and walked along the road to it.
On the way, I stopped and took a photograph (lost years ago), because I thought
the view was so lovely. A country road, curving in a gentle S-bend, over an
ancient bridge and then up a little hill into a wood, with a stone-built
coaching inn on the outside of the bend.
After I’d taken the photo, I started
wondering why this particular view appealed to me. Did it remind me of
somewhere? Was it like the illustrations in some picture book which I loved as
a child? Was there something instinctively attractive about it? Did it conform
to some learned standard of design? Did it seem like a pleasant place to live
(or dine, in this case)? What?
First thing about beauty, I guess, is that
you have to let it wash over you – just enjoy it. If you over-analyse it the
wheels fall off. Still, I was intrigued.
Trin Valley - seems nice...
I am also reminded of Billy Connolly’s fine
tale of taking his then-small children on holiday in the Scottish Highlands,
and trying to get them to be enthusiastic about the scenery. It strikes a chord
with all parents – past and present – but it also gets us back to this idea of
a received concept of beauty.
“This is a mountain”, said Billy, “isn’t it
lovely?”
His kids were unconvinced. A mountain is a
big lump of rock and stuff, folded up and maybe a bit battered, eroded by the
wind and the rain and covered in vegetation. That is the way the above-water
bits of the planet behave – a mountain is just a lump – there are lots of them.
Why should it be lovely? Why should this one be any lovelier than, say, that
one? Billy’s kids thought the whole experience was less lovely, and much less
interesting, than Sesame Street on
their camper van’s portable TV.
Were they wrong? It’s a funny one – some
things please me – some images can almost reduce me to tears, but I don’t
understand why. All right – show me a photo of my own children, especially when
they were little, and my pupils will dilate (or whatever) and I get a lump in
my throat, but that’s largely hormones and things. Why the reaction to pictures
of places? I seem to have a fondness for views with water in them, and there
are probably certain other repeating characteristics, but where does it come
from, especially as a reaction to places which I do not know and which mean
nothing to me? Are we born with these feelings? Is it learned? – for that
matter, and more sinisterly, is it taught?
Verwallsee, Tyrol - seems nice...
If we widen out the topic, we get into all
sorts of consideration of why we all like what we like (scientific overtones),
and the whole issue of “taste” (which introduces less palatable issues like
background and upbringing, and the dreaded whiff of snobbery).
In truth, I suspect that if I understood
more about this I might not be a happier person – I fear that I might not enjoy
what I had learned, especially about myself. It does interest me though, if
only in those safe moments when I know that there is no risk of my finding out any more
about it.
Best strategy is probably just to enjoy
what you enjoy, and don’t worry about it too much. So I’ll just try to do that.
Five new regiments of foot arrived back from Lee's House of Painting Miracles - once again, I am humbled by the quality. Thank you, Lee.
Three units of Lowland Covenanters, to help the Parliamentarian cause. These are the regiments of the Earl of Loudon (Glasgow), Colonel James Rae (Edinburgh) and Viscount Maitland (Midlothian), looking suitably belligerent. Shades of Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night. They will, of course, change their identity as appropriate to fit the scenario.
For the Royalists, there are two new units from the North of England, fighting with the Marquis of Newcastle's whitecoats; here are the regiments of Sir Wm Lambton and Colonel John Lamplugh. Like the Covenanters, these figures are mostly Tumbling Dice, with a few Kennington/SHQ chaps drafted in for a bit of variety. I really like these TD figures, but I have to say I'm getting very fed up with cleaning up and gluing heads, though the results appear worth the effort.
Lastly, here's a fine Puritan preacher, calling down appropriate vengeance (as one does). This is from the old Warrior range - not the present one - and is quite a rarity. I haven't quite decided how to use him yet, but here he is, practising, just in case.
08:19, 21st January, East Lothian, Scotland. Apollo awakes.
I understand that yesterday - 20th January - is generally accepted as the Most Depressing Day of the year in the United Kingdom. I'm not sure who said so, but intuitively that makes some sense - winter fuel bills, a bit of overspend at Christmas, lack of sunshine (and whatever vitamin that means), cold, blustery weather, and nothing much to look forward to but a couple more months of the same.
Well - ever the rebel - I found yesterday splendid. After a few days of pretty severe storms and horizontal rain, suddenly it was dead calm, and it was sunny. I got a lot of tidying up done in the garden - sorted out the woodshed, restacked all the logs. I got rid of the Christmas tree, which had been blowing around the front lawn like an idiot. Refilled all the bird feeders, which were going like a circus all day - I even filled the big seed feeders at the edge of the wood at the bottom of the garden, and one tiny coal tit spent the morning flying backwards and forward between them, unable to believe his good fortune. I know how he felt - the calm and quiet were the biggest surprise; the day before, Sunday, normal conversation in our garden had been very difficult, because of the noise of the waves beating on the east-facing beach at Scoughall - more than a mile away.
Leaves were swept, ivy cut back - I even ventured into the wood to deal with some enormous brambles, which were attempting to push the roof off my garage. If I'd had an elephant, I would have washed it - that is the sort of day it was. This morning I may go for a short walk to inspect my born-again woodshed, to enjoy the clean floor and the faint echo, which hasn't been present since - ooh - maybe this time last year.
Last night had a bright moon, and the owls were in evidence. This morning the sun came up again - that's twice in a row…
My photo (from the upstairs bathroom window) shows Apollo just revving up his chariot somewhere behind the Lammermuirs - the town of Dunbar is about 10 miles away, beyond the left edge of the picture - more like a million miles. OK, it's just the dawn, and I'm normally too preoccupied or too grumpy to pay attention, but I am grateful.
If today is like yesterday, that will be terrific. If this is 2014, then bring it on.
My thanks to Rod, who brightened my morning by drawing my attention to these fellows, who are featured on Uwe's splendid History in 1/72 blog - here. Peninsular War riflemen in 1/72, but such as I have never seen in metal in this scale. Even those of us who already have too many riflemen will be hoping that Hagen Miniatures can get these on the market soon. My compliments and best wishes to Massimo, the sculptor.
There's more pictures on the original blog - if you aren't a regular visitor, get along there and join up - there's links to Hagen's shop and all sorts of goodies.
Another couple of buses have arrived. Again, I am sticking firmly to specimens from dates and places that mean I would have seen them as a kid. Sorry the photos aren't better quality.
Birkenhead Corporation Leyland PD2 with MCW coachwork, early 1950s. This is exactly the kind of bus we used to get from the Mersey Ferry terminal at Woodside to my Uncle Ernie's house in Bromborough.
When I was five we went for a rare holiday in the Lake District. The local buses that took us to places like Cartmel and Pooley Bridge were Ribble single deckers, just like this Leyland Tiger
I like to listen to stuff when I’m driving
– music (a lot), radio (a good bit, though I have to switch off current affairs
phone-ins because they bring on road rage) and increasingly I have a liking for
audio books, which is a fairly new area for me.
My new car will play mp3 files, from CDs or
flash drive cards of any size you like. This is such a boon and such a novelty
that I’m still experimenting with the possibilities. A few months ago I started
downloading promising looking audiobook titles from LibriVox and elsewhere –
sadly, I have found this to be mostly very disappointing.
The idea that you can get a free download
of someone reading a worthwhile book is exciting – the reality is that the actual
reading is done by someone who considers that he has a good speaking voice,
often without very much apparent justification. It’s easy to find fault – if
I’m getting this much entertainment for nothing, you would think, I should just
shut up and make the best of it.
Doesn’t work for me. As a native of Liverpool,
who has lived most of his life in Scotland, I am probably not well placed to
criticize anyone else’s accent, but I am very familiar with the problems of
making myself understood by a (potentially hostile) stranger. A number of these
books are read by someone whose accent I find distracting, and it is
surprisingly common to find mispronounced words; there was one chap whose
speech is punctuated by a strange clicking sound, which I believe may be his
dentures, and it is very common indeed for the reader to demonstrate that he
has little or no understanding of what he is saying – which actually makes it
hard to follow. The funniest audiobook I have is a brave effort by a husband
and wife team who have done a huge job reading one of the better-known 19th
Century works on military strategy; quite a lot of this book makes reference to
French and German place names and people. The couple, between them, do not have
the beginnings of a clue on pronunciation, but compensate enthusiastically by
reading a phonetic English version in a strangulated, “foreign” voice – shades
of Moriarty from the Goon Show – there is a short but distinct pause as they
take a run-up at each fresh challenge.
Reading aloud a text – especially someone
else’s text – so that it is easy to listen to and understand is a tricky
business, and certainly something that I would not attempt – at least not where
anyone could hear me. For a start, a script which is written specifically to be
read out should be written with that in mind – sentences should be reasonably
short and clearly structured, and great swathes of attached clauses,
parentheses and afterthoughts should be avoided. “Fine writing” of the type
promoted at your local night school Creative Writing classes – never use one
adjective if you can use two – is tricky to read aloud. Spoken presentation of a
formal, written piece of prose requires a very great (and rare) skill – that is
why Laurence Olivier and John Gielgud and a few others did such a lot of it. They
were good.
Before I went to visit Chester I downloaded
an excellent podcast about the Siege of Chester, presented by Melvyn Bragg in
his BBC radio series on “Voices of the Powerless” (you can buy it here if you
are interested).
I put it on a CD, for my in-car homework
prior to the Chester trip, and took the opportunity to fill up the rest of the
disc with the mp3 version of an audio CD about the ECW I bought about a year
ago. I hadn’t listened to this before – never got around to it – but it’s
surprising what you can get through on a solo car journey.
Hmmm. I’m not going to spend a lot of time
analysing it, but I did buy the thing so I guess I’m entitled to a view. It
is, again, an enthusiastic, rather amateurish production – well recorded, with
some nice sound effects and some pleasing period music from Packington’s
Pound and others, but heavy going. The producer was also the writer and the
narrator. He pulled out all the stops on the serious writing effort, but left
himself with an almost impossible reading job as a result. The format is a
series of earnest dialogues – mostly with Oliver Cromwell – written in a carefully
hand-polished style and delivered in a clear Luton accent – I found that words
like “troof” and even “nuffink” did little for my listening experience.
Cromwell is asked a load of serious questions, and replies appropriately. It is
not a lot of fun, though the sleeve notes and credits suggest that a fair
amount of fun was had by those recording it. Sir Laurence would have made a
better job of it.
You what, luv?
In a roundabout way, this leads me back to
what might have been a central theme for this post, if I had thought of it
earlier – what did spoken English sound like during the Civil War? If we had
met Lord Goring and his mates, could we chat with them? What about William Brereton? Or Lettuce Gamul? Would the Voices of the
aforementioned Powerless have meant anything to us? I haven’t been reading ECW
material for long, and when I first started I had major problems with the
spelling and wording of 17th Century texts. Somehow, I seem to have
gone some way toward getting the hang of this, since I now find the
contemporary quotes and correspondence very entertaining, and also intriguing.
I realize that people expressed themselves in a different manner in those days,
and the rules of grammar were not what we might expect today. In the absence of
standardised spelling, what we see must be each writer’s attempt to record what he
heard people say – names of places and people show a surprising variety of
spellings, and there must be a lot of clues in there about how people spoke –
what did English sound like in those days, officially and locally?
All I know about the voices of the day is
that Richard Harris stares at the horizon and shouts throughout the movie Cromwell – there must be more to it than
that. I did manage to dig up a lengthy, learned text on the subject of the
changes in English dialects since Tudor times, but that isn’t a lot of fun
either. Unless everyone promises to behave nicely, I may record myself reading
it aloud – preferably when I’m drunk – and release it on LibriVox. It will be a
surefire cure for insomnia.
