I have always felt I knew Alan Bennett, the English playwright, novelist and comic actor, who is eight-seven this year. That is, that I knew him intimately; not in the naked sexual sense but because we both viewed what was about with the same pair of glasses.
In my mind we meet occasionally at one of those rather rundown English seaside holiday towns; probably Morcombe, where as a child he spent the summer holiday week with his parents and elder brother. Except that for us, our meet ups were not in the summer holidays but in rather damp, dreary and deserted mid-November. It was also not by any pre-arrangement but occasional and rather random.
We meet on Sunday afternoons along the windswept sea front, all grey and drizzling. The wind blows spital foam off the whipt up waves that hit the ageing 1960s glass and iron bus shelter where we sit, our raincoats buttoned up against the weather. Its not that going for a walk in the weather on a Sunday afternoon was for the exercise, but rather because getting some fresh air before afternoon tea gave legitimate reason to have a modest slice of lemon cake, taken from a tin where it had spent the past week. While there was always sport for the like-minded, exercise as a pass time had not yet been invented, at least not in the world Alan and I inhabited.
Conversation, when it occurred was ordinary. There was of course the weather to remark upon. The obvious observation that the day trippers and weekly boarding house visitors from the midlands had departed as well as where the latest roadworks was situated along the seafront. Much could also be made of coat buttons and the number buttoned up as a measure of the chill in the air as I recall, but little else.
The encounter was never long, twenty minutes or so and periods of silence a comfortable part of the encounter. But I loved being with him. The ordinariness of human existence became a comfort. Strangely, the mondain and familiar always seemed refreshed when sitting close to Allen. Although, when I say close, we always remained a respectable distance apart, occupying separate benches well out of the wind. I would worry afterwards sometimes that perhaps I was lapping up his way be seeing all too much and that I had offered little. That our encounters were as they say, “all one way”. He is perhaps too shy to express a liking for our Sunday bus shelter encounters. But then, Alan has always been at the shelter on wet and damp winter Sunday afternoons before lemon cake and afternoon tea, these past 50 years.
In my mind we meet occasionally at one of those rather rundown English seaside holiday towns; probably Morcombe, where as a child he spent the summer holiday week with his parents and elder brother. Except that for us, our meet ups were not in the summer holidays but in rather damp, dreary and deserted mid-November. It was also not by any pre-arrangement but occasional and rather random.
We meet on Sunday afternoons along the windswept sea front, all grey and drizzling. The wind blows spital foam off the whipt up waves that hit the ageing 1960s glass and iron bus shelter where we sit, our raincoats buttoned up against the weather. Its not that going for a walk in the weather on a Sunday afternoon was for the exercise, but rather because getting some fresh air before afternoon tea gave legitimate reason to have a modest slice of lemon cake, taken from a tin where it had spent the past week. While there was always sport for the like-minded, exercise as a pass time had not yet been invented, at least not in the world Alan and I inhabited.
Conversation, when it occurred was ordinary. There was of course the weather to remark upon. The obvious observation that the day trippers and weekly boarding house visitors from the midlands had departed as well as where the latest roadworks was situated along the seafront. Much could also be made of coat buttons and the number buttoned up as a measure of the chill in the air as I recall, but little else.
The encounter was never long, twenty minutes or so and periods of silence a comfortable part of the encounter. But I loved being with him. The ordinariness of human existence became a comfort. Strangely, the mondain and familiar always seemed refreshed when sitting close to Allen. Although, when I say close, we always remained a respectable distance apart, occupying separate benches well out of the wind. I would worry afterwards sometimes that perhaps I was lapping up his way be seeing all too much and that I had offered little. That our encounters were as they say, “all one way”. He is perhaps too shy to express a liking for our Sunday bus shelter encounters. But then, Alan has always been at the shelter on wet and damp winter Sunday afternoons before lemon cake and afternoon tea, these past 50 years.
North Atlantic Gannets Nesting on Bass Rock
For as long as anyone can remember Gannets have nested on Bass Rock off the East Lothian coast on the southern side of The Firth of Forth, Scotland. Bird counts in 2017 established there were 77,000 breeding pairs. These days access to the rock is restricted with just a few opportunities to visit the Rock, usually to monitor and research.
Here is two minutes of photographs expressing the wonder of these magnificent ocean flyers. The music is by Capercaillie - 'Oh Mon Dhuthaich.'
Here is two minutes of photographs expressing the wonder of these magnificent ocean flyers. The music is by Capercaillie - 'Oh Mon Dhuthaich.'