A pirate washout

Even younger pirates looked a bit puzzled

Hastings has more days in the year than anywhere else when the populace is encouraged to dress up and cavort in the streets of the Old Town.  At the end of July we have Pirates' Day - this year billed as "Unofficial" since nobody wanted to take on the burden of all the health and safety regulations that apply when you have street food, processions etc.  We're not talking about Somali pirates with submachine guns, here, it's Johnny Depp and his swashbuckling comrades that provide the role model.

Molls in the Dragon Bar

The thing about Pirates in the Caribbean, though, is - well, the Caribbean.  Sunlight and palmtrees and rum.  Yesterday it was more like the north of Scotland on the front: rain swept across the tarmac, and dripped off the shopfronts.  There was a distinct lack of swashbucklers in the streets.

For a brief period at the end of the morning, however, the rain stopped and the pirates promptly emerged, in a crowd of three-cornered hats, motheaten greatcoats and topboots.  Men who would normally sneer at make-up as girly appeared in full disguise, with scars, patches and wigs.  And the women - it was as if the full female cast of Poldark had come in on a coach to audition for Moulin Rouge, with bosoms squeezed and pushed out, froths of lace and of course cascades of glittering skulls and crossbones.

Our pirate companions

We have meant each year to get into the spirit of the event, but this year saw a pathetic attempt, where Paul wore an appropriate T-shirt and bandanna and yours truly - well, it was more a case of Noel Coward in the South of France than Johnny Depp leaping aboard.  Even these gestures to the occasion were however hidden underneath raincoats as we toddled into the town with our three more appropriately garbed lady pirates.

The Dragon Bar, normally awash with drinkers, was an empty cavern to begin with, but when a band of pirate drummers appeared things picked up a bit and the regulars of the Anchor Inn in George Street in particular were a sight to behold, with a one-legged gent coming into his own.

We left as the rain came back, but others stayed on, as I realised when I walked the dogs at 10 pm and saw a number of bedraggled pirates and their molls tottering back through the wet streets to their home cabins.  A triumph of fantasy over adversity - which is probably what Pirates of the Caribbean is all about anyway.

Antony Mair

The scandal of Ecclesbourne Glen

View of "the bunker" from East Hill

When we bought our house in Hastings, we had a vague knowledge of the Country Park, which stretches from Hastings along the cliffs to the east.  Its discovery was a revelation to us. 

A long flight of about 180 steps starts opposite our house, climbing up to the top of East Hill, which is the beginning of the Park.  Views from here are spectacular, over Hastings Old Town, out to sea, and, when you climb a little further, across to the adjoining areas of grassland on top of the cliffs.  We weren't aware at the time that the Park is part of the High Weald Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and has been designated a Special Area of Conservation, a Site of Special Scientif Interest and a Local Nature Reserve.

Between the areas of high grassland and heath there are a number of deep gullies, or glens, which are areas of centuries old vegetation - gnarled trees and rare ferns.  It is a wonderful haven for wildlife and a very special area for walkers.  

Earlier this year a building suddenly intruded on the view eastwards from East Hill - an angular projection that is the upper storey of a newly-built edifice for which planning permission was unaccountably given by Hastings Borough Council in 2013.  It has become known as "the bunker", and can be seen in the picture above.  The building as erected was larger than that for which approval had been given, and the owners, who operate a caravan park on the other side of the building, which cannot be seen in the above picture, put in an application for retrospective planning permission.  The outcry in the local community was immense.  An action group was formed, a planning barrister was brought in to oppose the application on its hearing before the Planning Committee, and permission was refused.

There is now paralysis.  The building is illegal as it stands, but no enforcement notice has yet been served for it to be demolished.  Campaigners have formed an association, and matters are being closely monitored.  The Council is under pressure to enforce.  It remains to be seen whether they will have the good sense to do so.  Meanwhile the blot on the landscape continues to wreck the view and the natural beauty of the landscape, supposedly protected, is disfigured.

More information can be found on the campaigners' Facebook page.  You can help by joining the Association!

Antony Mair

Pirates Day - and it's more dressing up

Pirates taking a break over a latte

Dressing-up has never really done it for me.  I usually think of it as the last refuge of the bored, like Marie-Antoinette dressing up as a shepherdess at Versailles.  My heart sinks at the thought of those parties of Vicars and Tarts or invitations accompanied by a note that the theme of the evening is Donald Duck.  

But it's difficult to be curmudgeonly on Pirates Day in Hastings, where all and sundry dress as if they're to be auditioned by Johnny Depp for a starring role beside his swashbuckling persona.  Last year we made a firm resolution to make a bit more of an effort this year, but alas the day came upon us without our having acquired even a bandanna, let alone a parrot on the shoulder.

We strolled down George Street for a coffee on Sunday morning, and there was already a good sprinkling of people in three-cornered hats - if you're being serious about the costume, men are expected to wear a hat, a frock-coat sort of garment, breeches and boots with big floppy tops, and above all a belt adorned with pewter mug and various pieces of weaponry.  Parrots on the shoulder are optional.  Women also go in for the three-cornered hat, but after that it's all bodices and boobs bubbling over the top.  As for accessories - sashes, cummerbunds and a plentiful mixture of skulls and crossbones.

A man with a wooden leg came into his own, and pegged his way up and down George Street very convincingly.  Then the drummers came along - I'm not sure what's piratical about drummers, but there are a number of drumming groups in the town who emerge on most civic occasions, so they have to be included.  Buxom wenches with drums are a tad odd, but then the whole day's pretty odd.  It's best to think of cuddly cinema stars rather than Somali thugs boarding oil tankers and holding people to ransom.  And, of course, dressing-up is only part of the deal.  The other element is alcohol.  After the initial appearance and mutual admiration of costumes the serious drinking gets under way.  We had fled by that point, but our painter, whose hangover the following day was so bad that he failed to appear on site, said that "things got messy".  

We'll make more of an effort next year, folks.  Honest we will.

Antony Mair 

Morris dancing and bikers - yes, it's May Day in Hastings

The Morris dancing started on the Saturday of the Bank Holiday weekend, though this year it was a little more diffuse and chaotic than last, as a result of the usual venue - Butler's Gap in George Street - being closed off because of the possible danger from a house in partial collapse in the street above.  As a result, confused Morris dancers were found here and there round the Old Town, looking for a place to do their bit.  We caught up with the ones above near the boating lake on the front.  They're of the rhythmic stick-bashing variety rather than the waving-handkerchief ones.  I'm hoping that next year Butler's Gap will be open again and we can get a better look.

Monday is the full Monty of folk battiness, with the Jack-in-the-Green procession and all and sundry dressed in green and/or wearing green face-paint.  One gym bunny we encountered in the afternoon had bodypainted the full expanse of his overdeveloped torso with green, but that may just have been an excuse to take his shirt off.  The procession wends its way through the Old Town and finally up to West Hill, where there are more jolly japes in the afternoon - including Morris dancing, of course.  You have to be a folk history expert to understand some of the allusions - go to The Merry Wives of Windsor, for example, to understand the man with the stag's head.  During the whole weekend there were quite a lot of ladies of a certain age wafting around in yards of green muslin and tulle.  They came into their own in the procession, equipped with drums or waving hankies or just mincing along in a nice fantasy world of their own, joined by a host of others, beating drums, eating fire, or wearing other strange costumes involving green.  All good harmless stuff.
 Meanwhile the bikers were assembling on the front - row upon row of gleaming chrome, and a lot of chaps in leather, wandering around, a little displaced once they'd got off their bikes, rather like snails without their shells.  Facial hair and pewter tankards seemed to be points of convergence between the green-painted folk and the motorcycle fraternity, but in fact they inhabit very different worlds, and the buxom lady element seemed remarkably absent among the serried ranks of bikes.  This slightly weird combination of events was entirely good-humoured, and the weather was such that everyone drifted around in the sunshine with a smile on their face.  Perfick, as Pop Larkin would have said.

Antony Mair

Vocal Explosion in St. Clement's Church

 Juliet Russell, of Vocal Explosion - courtesy of their website

We found ourselves last night in St. Clement's Church, in Hastings Old Town, to hear a programme of gypsy music from the community choir Vocal Explosion.  We hadn't ventured inside this fourteenth-century gem before, but had read about its refurbishment (which aroused the usual mix of "they've ruined a lovely church" and "what an improvement on what was there before").  Personally, I quite like a mix of ancient and modern, so was not offended by the renovations.  It makes a good concert venue, and the assembled ladies and gents of the community choir filed in happily to the chancel, for a programme of gypsy music from Spain to Romania.

Community choirs make no pretension to be grand opera, the purpose being to have a good time with the music as much as to produce a decent sound. The men were, as usual, vastly outnumbered by the women - to the point where, from our position half behind a pillar, the former were completely invisible.  But the women - dressed for the occasion in "sunset" colours of orange and red, some with roses in their hair - certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves, swaying and smiling in a Carmen-meets-the-WI fashion.  The choir was led by Juliet Russell, who had two roses in her hair - a little offputting since from the rear they looked like a couple of stick-up ears, and reminded me slightly of Bambi, for some reason.  Our neighbour in the audience, who told us she had sung with the choir for nine years but was taking a break from it at present, said that Juliet Russell composed some of the numbers herself.  If so, she'd done a good job.  Some of the harmonies were powerful - particularly in an opening number called Asla, which sent shivers down my spine.

The slight tendency towards a revivalist meeting became more pronounced after the break, when Juliet Russell encouraged the audience to clap rhythmically and access their inner power (I may have got that last bit wrong, but you probably get the drift).  In the last number, where the choir was swaying and the audience standing and clapping I warned Paul that I might soon be speaking in tongues.  The man in the row behind us said he wished the Sunday service was as lively.  

I have my reservations about gypsy music - it can sound a bit same-ish after a while, and I can only take so much of dancing beside bonfires.  But the rhythms were good, Juliet Russell impressed as a husky-voiced Carmen and the lady beside us was whooping with applause like any teenager.  I expect to see her with a rose in her hair next time round. 

Antony Mair

A lull between storms

Storm damage in Hill Street, Hastings Old Town

The past few weeks haven't been much fun, weatherwise.  Those of you living outside the UK may have seen the odd snap of people wading through waist-high waters in their living-rooms.  Or perhaps not - the UK media have given zero coverage to the disappearance of beaches and threats to coastal buildings down France's Atlantic coast.  For those of you ignorant of what's been happening, I can tell you that there are swathes of the British countryside seriously under water.  Hastings being built on largely hilly ground, we haven't had the flood problem.  But my God have we had gales.  The Shoebox and its nextdoor neighbour the Matchbox comprise a building two sides of which are built of a timber frame fronted by tiles.  The south-west facing wall is brick with a cement render.  In the winds - which have reached around 80 mph but who's measuring precisely? - the building moves, particularly noticeably on the top floor.  More importantly, the people who put the cement render on instead of a limestone one, around a century ago, seem to have ignored the fact that cement is inflexible.  So when the building moves, cracks form in the render.  And when the rain is being hurled against the cracked wall at 80 mph it gets in.

Not that we can complain.  We knew there was a problem and it'll get fixed - rather expensively - this summer.  Quite apart from the dire straits of those in Somerset and the Thames Valley, many of our neighbours have far more to grouse about: leaky roofs and crumbling chimneystacks result in soaked attics, boundary walls have been blown down, a landslip behind a row of houses on the front pinned the occupants in their basements.  And the house shown above lost most of its outside wall into a diminutive side garden.   

Today we have had a brief reprieve.  A cloudless sky with a gentle breeze.  We've been told more wind and rain are on their way.  It was terrible to begin with - but do you know?  we're actually getting used to it.  Even so, I'll be glad when it's over.

Antony Mair

More Opera at Hastings Odeon

1899 poster for Puccini's "Tosca"

Attendances for live transmissions of opera in Hastings Odeon are gradually climbing.  Last night there were 24, which is double the number we had last year.  Obviously the message is slowly getting through to the Hastings cognoscenti that these are performances worth going to.

Last week gave us the opportunity of sampling the Royal Opera House's Vêpres Siciliennes as well as the Met's Tosca.  We hadn't seen a transmission from the ROH before, and it was interesting to make the comparison.  It trumped the Met in a number of ways.  First, we were spared the gooey love-ins that pass for interviews with the stars: Kasper Holten, Director of Opera at Covent Garden, acted as guide to the opera, giving a brief synopsis before each act, and at the same time a bit of background to the production itself.  Secondly, I have to say that the production was more challenging and stylish than what we usually see from the Met (I'm excluding the Met's Ring Cycle, which was extraordinary in a number of ways).  I sometimes have the feeling with the Met that they throw a lot of money at a production, with lavish staging and world class singers but at times err a little on the conservative side.  

What let Covent Garden down in the end was, alas, the quality of the sound.  The music seemed to be coming through a fine sheet.  And if I'm to be honest, the director's take on the opera, involving a conceptual overlay of interference with artistic freedom, integrated with the already complex plot, resulted in great style but also an element of the pretentious.  The last act in particular, with conspirator numero uno in a large hooped dress killing people with the end of a flagstaff, tipped into the absurd - and they seemed to have forgotten the final part, when - at the last minute - loyal Sicilians spill onto the stage and slaughter the French.  

The Met's "Tosca" was not without its silliness, either.  In the first act the Madonna, who is supposed to be dominating proceedings from her altar, had been banished to somewhere in the wings, and Cavarodossi's portrait of Mary Magdalen was a dreadful piece of soft porn.  In the second act the villainous Scarpia was depicted in his office with three simpering whores clambering over him, which clashed with his singing that he prefers sex where the woman resists.  The concentration of evil that is the essence of his character didn't come across so well as when he's alone.  His office also seemed to be furnished with Ikea sofas, which didn't seem entirely in period.

But the singing and acting were wonderful: the three principals, Roberto Alagna, Patricia Racette and George Gagnidze, were magnificent and even survived the intermission love-ins with Renée Fleming with a degree of dignity.  With such quality down the road, I'm hoping that the Hastings audience will grow.

Antony Mair

Surviving St. Jude

I'd been pretty blasé about the great storm that was forecast for Sunday night.  I'd survived 1987 ok in London (though the awning over a neighbouring building site was blown away and landed on top of my car, successfully flattening it).  We were out to dinner on Sunday evening and the wind was getting up, but I thought we'd been there before.  The wind funnels up our road, so there are often times when it's a bit of a battle walking down it - particularly if you're accompanied by two small dogs that might be transformed into kites at any moment.  It's even worse when there's horizontal rain in your face.

We had all of that for the final dog walk on Sunday evening.  But the scary bit was in the early hours of the next morning.  Wind howl down the chimneys is one thing, but feeling the house rock slightly is another.  Again, we'd experienced this when staying next door in No. 8 when the building works were going on here in No. 7 - that part of the building is timber-framed, so there's a degree of give in it.  When the bedside table starts rocking beside you it's a bit scary.  However, I now know that it's even scarier when you're in No. 7, in the brick-built bit, and that starts moving.  Reminding yourself that the place has stood for 200 years becomes quite difficult when the wind is hitting the side of the house like a giant hooligan.

Today, of course, the sky is clear and sunlit and it's difficult to imagine there was any problem at all.  None of the trees on the other side of the valley seem to have been toppled, and we appear to have got off rather more lightly than other places.  But I'd still like to have a good long time before we have a repeat.

Antony Mair

Hastings Bonfire Night again

I hadn't realised,  until I read the programme issued by the Hastings Borough Bonfire Society, that all this November 5th junketing derives from James I's decree in 1605 that the foiling of Catesby's plot to blow up Parliament was to be celebrated annually for ever after.  Why the good people of Sussex in particular, should have taken it up with such alacrity, and still use the occasion each year for torchlight processions, bonfires and fireworks, still remains a mystery.

Hastings, of course, is not the same as elsewhere, and instead of the November 5th date the townsfolk have chosen to junket at the end of Hastings Week - thus linking the commemoration of the famous battle of 1066 with that of the Gunpowder Plot in 1605.  It's always struck me as a bit curious that the Hastings population should celebrate the 1066 battle - it's rather as if the locals of Waterloo had annual festivities to celebrate a foreign victory.  The Gunpowder Plot was another matter - if you were a Protestant, that is.  And anyway, if the king tells you to have a party, who's going to protest?

So each year at the end of Hastings Week we have the torchlight procession round the town, in which a panoply of bonfire societies parade in full fig to the sound of many drums.  It's an eerie occasion, because of the dark and the torchlight and the strange outfits of the various societies.  Skulls and Victorian undertaker costumes and strange face-paint abounded last night.  Most curious of all were the members of the Burgess Hill Bonfire Society, who were dressed like Aztec Indians.  Not sure what that was about, but it added a touch of the exotic.

We'd been kindly invited to a party in a flat in Pelham Place, right opposite the fireworks on the front.  The display was pretty amazing.   James I would have been proud of it, I'm sure.

Antony Mair

Fireworks seen from Pelham Place

August Bank Holiday - relaxing or exhausting?

The miniature golf course

People talk about relaxing over the bank holiday, but we're both poleaxed after this one.  On Saturday we'd been invited to a sixtieth birthday party by family connections of mine.  It was held in a stunning old barn behind their very beautiful small manor house.  Although the dress code was "smart casual" everyone seemed very glammed up.  The barn was full of flowers and the beams draped with hops.  The 120 or so people present seemed to own most of the land in East Sussex, not to mention some of the neighbouring counties.  Much talk of shooting parties and harvests.  The immaculately-groomed woman sitting beside me at dinner said "I think people are very judgmental", which I only later understood as "I know you're gay but I don't mind even if others do."  The women seemed to specialise in greetings that involved effusions of shrieks.  It took a while for the men to loosen up and indulge in some bluff teasing that your average feminist would have probably found offensive - but then your average feminist would probably have to put up with quite a lot in a farming community.  A good time was had by all.

The atmosphere in the plush barn could not have been more different from a barbecue we attended on Sunday, given by a couple of ladies in Saint Leonard's, and largely attended by representatives of Saint Leonard's LGBT community - quite a lot of Ls, a certain amount of Gs, one T and some apparent heterosexuals who could have been Bs but you never want to ask.  The ladies were heavy drinkers and very self-confident, somewhat eclipsing the men.  There was enough muscle power for them to erect a marquee without outside assistance but the sun shone on the festivities and we basked in their spacious garden.  

Friends stayed overnight on the Sunday and we engaged in seaside pleasures today: ice-creams at the Italian ice cream parlour, a game of miniature golf and then a burger at the Pelican Diner, before the friends departed and we could regain our sleepy existence.  Socialising's fun, but it's nice when it stops!

Antony Mair  

Hastings - deprived?

View of Hastings Old Town from East Hill, with the pier in the background

Shortly after news came through that funding had been obtained for the renovation of Hastings Pier, a report was published by the Office for National Statistics last week, which concluded that Hastings is high on the list of the most impoverished coastal towns in the UK.  There are a number of problems with this.  First and foremost, the conclusions are based on figures for 2010.  Everyone locally agrees that immense progress has been made since then.  There is an increasing influx of new residents, particularly in the arts and media sectors.  This usually means that an area is on the up.  Call me biassed, but my impression has always been that artists and the gay community are often the first to spot potential, and precede the subsequent arrival of the middle class.  That certainly seems to be happening in Hastings Old Town and parts of Saint Leonard's.  

On the other hand, it's impossible to deny the existence of deprivation.  There's a shortage of local employment possibilities, which is in part due to a lack of investment by businesses.  This in turn is partly due to poor road and rail access.  Local difficulties are compounded by London boroughs sending benefits claimants down to cheaper lodgings in Hastings, which increases the ratio of people in the town on benefits together with the attendant social problems involved.      

We know all of this.  There's no quick-fix solution - Luddites lamenting the building of the Jerwood Gallery and pleading for extended amusement parks fail to appreciate the changes in visitors' tastes, and the increased diversity of their demands.  Improved road and rail access requires enormous investment and is not going to happen in the short term.  The town's council is probably doing its best, in difficult circumstances, but is bound to make mistakes along the way. 

However, there are a number of major plus points that nobody seems to be mentioning.  The town has a wonderful community spirit.  The voluntary sector seems to be thriving, even if more helpers are always needed.  There is a vibrant social life in the pubs and clubs.  Festivals and celebrations abound.  The fishing industry, historic core of the Old Town, looks set to benefit from changes in the quota system.  The diversity of people and interests, combined with a highly egalitarian attitude, makes for a very special place.  I can't speak for Blackpool, Margate and Clacton, also high on the list.  But I know that in Hastings a historic figure for deprivation only tells part of the story.  

Antony Mair 

Beachy Head from Saint Leonard's

Pirates' Day in Hastings

I have slightly mixed feelings about Pirates' Day.  One of our neighbours, Andy Hemsley, a reporter on the Rye Observer, said he would be clearing out for the weekend.  "It's phoney," he said.  I know what he means.  Not only is there no local tradition backing up the day, but pirates are not particularly nice people - think of the thugs operating off Somalia, for instance, or the cybernasties who are after your identity.

I suppose that pirates started getting a better reputation with Long John Silver and Captain Hook.  The late Victorians have a lot to answer for when it comes to sentimentalising.  Then of course there's Hollywood, which outdoes the nineteenth century when it comes to kitsch.  Johnny Depp is merely the icing on the cake.  So now we have infants prancing around on stage singing "Yo ho ho, a pirate's life for me" while their doting parents smile away at their offspring embarking on a life of crime.  I wondered whether I was the only onlooker who had misgivings. 

The trouble is, though, that you can't stay curmudgeonly for very long on Pirates' Day in Hastings.  If there's one thing the locals like doing, it's dressing up.  When you combine dressing up with drinking they're in heaven.  So a large proportion of the population enters fully into the spirit of the occasion: not just with a cardboard three-cornered hat or a plastic sword, but in full fig with make-up to match - and what goes for the parents goes for the children.  Of course there're times when the result is a tad incongruous - I'm not sure that Long John Silver wore Raybans, for example, and one character enjoyed some rhyming slang with a carrot on his shoulder (carrot=parrot, geddit?).  But you have to admire people for taking part.  We were, I'm afraid, partypoopers on this occasion.  We learnt from our neighbour Polo Piatti and his wife Martina that the secret is to keep a selection of costumes in the attic to cover the different occasions in the year.  They were just strolling round as if in an urban fancy-dress party.  Which is I suppose what it's about.  Oh, and the drinking, of course.

Antony Mair

 Polo and Martina

Mist, murk and conspiracy theories

Cliffs to the east of Hastings, in the mist

This summer is decidedly strange.  We've had hardly any warm weather to speak of.  Hastings' much-vaunted record as the sunniest place in the UK, achieved against Eastbourne in 2011, has little chance of survival.  It's been made worse by repeated forecasts of sunshine elsewhere in the UK.  Meanwhile we seem to be trapped under overcast skies, with the odd flash of sunlight just to show us what we're missing.

There was a recent day that started in brilliant sunshine only to cloud over later.  We found ourselves in a local shop as the transition was happening.  When we commented on it to the shopkeeper she related how she had seen aircraft high in the sky in the early hours of the morning, spraying some sort of chemicals into the atmosphere.  She had noticed how, later, the weather had become overcast and murky.  It was, apparently, covert action on the part of government to combat climate change.

We displayed polite interest.  When we returned home, through the invading sea-mist, I couldn't resist going to the website she told us about, which is devoted to chemtrail activity.  The Wikipedia coverage doesn't seem to give it much credence, but then a conspiracy theorist would claim that the Wikipedia article is probably written by government agents anyway.  For a taste of the real thing you have to look at the Chemtrail Central site - a sort of Grand Central Station for chemtrail conspiracy theorists. 

The lunchtime news today spoke about France's equivalent to the US government's Prism operations.  In today's Guardian there was a story about bugging in the Ecuadorean embassy.  It's difficult not to be paranoid, these days.  But I find it difficult to believe that our governments would be spending a lot of secret money on chemtrails to combat climate change.  If they are, the present weather in Hastings appears to indicate that they are as incompetent in this area as in many others.

Antony Mair 

New challenges in gardening

Not exactly spreading acres...

When we acquired the Shoebox the two obvious disadvantages for one who loved cooking and gardening were the minute kitchen and the diminutive back yard garden.  The kitchen problem has been resolved by replanning, and I now revel in it.  The garden has proved a little more problematic.  

We're talking of a space about four or five metres long and about three or four metres wide - a little wider if you take in the space at the bottom of the flight of steps that come down from the rear door on the ground floor.  We have a couple of flower beds, but the major part of the area is paved in brick.  It faces west, and gets a lot of light.  The views between neighbouring houses to the sea, to the south, and the open view of the Old Town to the west, are stunning.

All of this is fine.  The real problem, though, which I hadn't bargained for, is the wind.  It howls off the sea, bringing an abundance of salt.  All those delightful plants you see in cosy Sussex gardens simply shrivel and die with us.  Add to this a rigourous winter such as we have just had, and it's a miracle that anything at all has survived.  Last year we planted phormiums, which have staggered through but are looking a bit sorry for themselves; lavender, which has somehow been able to cope; and sedum and artemisia.  The sedums would have coped had it not been for another hazard - snails.  They've more or less survived but aren't exactly flourishing.  

This year we've taken a more restricted approach, and filled a number of gaps - it's quite surprising how many gaps there can be even in a space as small as this.  I'm not sure we'll ever create something with that Amazon jungle look, but we're gradually learning.  

Antony Mair

Paul becomes a Winkler

Winkle Island, with Winkle sculpture by local resident Leigh Dyer

On the other side of the street from the new Jerwood Gallery there is a paved area known as "Winkle Island", with a somewhat baroque sculpture in what appears to be stainless steel, of a giant winkle with a base of mackerel and rock.  The metal winkle serves as a collecting box for donations to the Winkle Club, formed in 1900 by the Hastings fishermen as a charitable vehicle for donations to the poor.

Membership of the Winkle Club is by invitation, and Paul was flattered recently to be asked to join, by our neighbour, the composer Polo Piatti.   He was admitted to membership at a ceremony in the Fishermen's Club, in the course of a social evening attended by other Winklers (as members are known) and presented with the small winkle shell that he now has to keep with him at all times - failure making him liable to a fine if he is unable to produce the shell on being challenged by another member with the formula "Winkle up".  

Good-humoured bonhomie was the characteristic of the evening, with music from the Goodall Brothers (a duo not in the first flush of youth but no less accomplished performers for that) singing a selection of golden oldies from the fifties and sixties.  As in all local events, you recognise faces, and it's like pieces of a jigsaw slotting into place - Keith Goodall works in our fishmonger's, and another Winkler present was Arthur Read, whom I pass regularly at his fish-stall behind the Jerwood.  

Famous Winklers include Winston Churchill in the past and the Duke of Kent and the Queen in the present.  Paul is now added to their number, and has the task of raising funds for the Club coffers.  Hastings people being fond of dressing up in costume, this may involve him donning some strange outfits.  Pictures will follow!

Antony Mair

One year back in the UK

We left France a year ago yesterday, arriving off the Channel tunnel train with the dogs and trundling along the coast road to our new quarters in Hastings.  Much has happened since that time, with extensive building works, getting used to a country that we had half-forgotten, coping with new doctors, vets, tradesmen etc. 

A return to the UK was necessary for Paul, who felt isolated in a country where he couldn't master the language to his satisfaction.  Had we stayed, the effects of exile would have worked their way through into depression.  Nor was I an unwilling passenger: having left the legal profession to spend time writing, our time in France had diverted me into estate agency, which was not what had been intended, so the chance to get back on track in the UK was welcome.

And those primary objectives have been achieved.  Paul is back in a country where, although different from his native Ireland, he can blend into local life.  I've been able to get back to writing, and am due to start my MA in Creative Writing in October. 

But at the same time, there is quite a lot in this country that I heartily detest, and quite a lot in France that I miss.  I find the insularity of the British more irritating than the nationalism of the French.  The climate is pretty awful, and unlikely to get better.  British politics seem largely governed by ad hoc policies rather than an overall view of rights and duties, and the French concept of "solidarité", however defective in practice, is vastly preferable to the hideous divisions of the British social structure.  Intellectual life in the UK seems to have retired into obscure places, leaving us with television of the Berlusconi bread-and-circuses type, Radio 4 a tedious series of pontificating drones, and Radio 3 dumbed down.  The National Health service appears to be falling apart, and the poor increasing in number.

Had we remained in France there would have been other things to lament: the sad decline of rural life; the corruption of local authorities; the inexorable rise in taxation - all of which goes to show that everything's a compromise in the end.  What has tipped the balance for me is the ability to meet other writers again and get back into the literary world in some form.  But I'd sometimes kill for a decent local market, and a blaze of sunshine. 

Antony Mair

In praise of the Jerwood

There's a tendency for Hastings residents to carp about the Jerwood Gallery.  Letters still appear in the local paper lamenting the disappearance of the old coach park.  But as a regeneration project it's been a quiet success.

Still Life by Duncan Grant

The building itself is beautiful, though arguably a tad neo-brutalist.  The exterior is clad in black ceramic tiles, which succeed in being contemporary as well as blending in with the black clapboard of the fishing huts next door.  Inside there is a sequence of light and airy spaces, with two galleries on the ground floor being devoted to temporary exhibitions.  Upstairs is a selection from the Jerwood Foundation's permanent collection of 20th and 21st century British art, with paintings by such luminaries as Keith Vaughan and Duncan Grant - the latter represented by a particularly beautiful still life.  We've got so used to the shock tactics of the Young British Artists that the quieter palettes of the mid-20th century painters take a bit of getting used to - but after a few minutes they start working their magic.  
 

Locals also complain that it's not possible to visit the Gallery's café without paying the admission fee for the Gallery itself - which means that the caff is probably missing out on custom, since entrance is £7 for adults from outside Hastings - £2 if you're a local.  The café is worth a visit since you have the best view of the fishing beach in town - though sunning on the terrace is subject to the local hazard of passing seagulls with their projectile habits.  I have mixed feelings about this particular moan: you can't adjust the design to allow people to visit the café in any other way, and if the owners of the café concession are happy with the arrangements I think that on balance it's probably right to oblige people to view the art as well as indulging in a capuccino.


This new gallery space, with its accompanying events - talks about exhibitions and one-offs such as the impending evening with the Chapman brothers - adds a new dimension to the eclectic mix of this seaside town, aligning it with similar developments in Eastbourne and Bexhill along the coast.  Visitor figures for the first year have been more than satisfactory, which arguably means that the town is attracting people who might not have considered visiting it before.  And at weekends I see no sign of shortage on the tripper front elsewhere.  But I suspect that the letters to the Hastings Observer will continue for a while yet.

Antony Mair

Bank Holiday bikers

 

You would be excused for thinking that the Bank Holiday Jack in the Green weekend in Hastings is all about folklore and Morris dancing.  But no - the other side to the day is the arrival of literally thousands of motorcycles, which are then parked for the day on the seafront while their leatherclad owners wander around in the sun.  It's a tribal occasion, completely devoid of aggression, and happily coexisting with the crowds of people dressed in green and watching Morris dancers.  

The bikers themselves are not in the first flush of youth - which is scarcely surprising, given the value of many of the bikes.  Harley-Davidsons are there in droves.  The trend seems to be in the direction of customised motor-trikes, such as the one pictured above.  I'm assuming that these give added comfort to the aging posterior, as well as some back support, while preserving the essential experience of wind gusting in your face at sixty miles an hour.  

The rumble of motorbike engines down the roads to the front and along the shoreline was something to hear.  It seemed to be largely a bloke thing.  But I did manage to get a picture of a group of bikettes in high heels and skin tight leathers, seen below.  I'm not quite sure what the man on the right is looking at, but I don't fancy his chances.

Antony Mair

 

Jack in the Green - Hastings dresses up again!

More jollity took place in Hastings this Bank Holiday Monday, with Jack in the Green - a celebration of the arrival of summer.  Fortunately, after weeks of dire weather the sun kindly burnt off the morning sea mist and shone on the crowds.

Hastings Mad Jack Morris dancers

According to the website devoted to Hastings' annual Jack in the Green event, the festival goes back to May Day celebrations in the eighteenth century and before, when trade guilds vied with each other in parades with garlands.  The chimney-sweeps took the matter furthest, with a garland that covered the entire man, known as a Jack.  Hastings revived the custom in 1983, and it is now a major event in the town's calendar, with a procession full of Morris dancers, papier mâché giants, drumming groups and anyone who is prepared to put on a costume that is elaborately green.

One of the "giants" in the procession

The procession starts at the Fishermen's Museum and winds its way through the Old Town until it finally arrives on the top of West Hill.  This year a stage had been erected for the participants to strut their stuff.  It was impossible not to enjoy the spectacle of Morris dancers - at least half a dozen groups (or sides, as they call them) - waving their handkerchiefs or knocking their sticks together, joining up with dramatic drummers and a variety of people dressed from head to foot in elaborate green costumes worthy in some cases of the Venice Carnival.  On West Hill, with its breathtaking view over the sea, happy crowds sprawled on the grass listening to the music and watching the spectacle - all in temperatures that we had virtually forgotten since last summer.

The particular virtue of this event is that it has arisen entirely from local initiatives, and although there is a degree of sponsorship from the town council it is insignificant by comparison with the huge local effort put in by volunteers.  The result is a win-win situation - local traders benefit from the visiting crowds, volunteer activity strengthens the sense of community, and everyone has a good time.  And when the sun shines on the whole event, it is - to quote Pop Larkin - just perfick.

Antony Mair

     

Reinventing Morris dancing

Clerical Error in action

 Morris dancing has always been linked in my mind to village greens, half-timbered pubs selling real ale, cricket matches - the general rural idyll that is now largely preserved in the stockbroker belt.  As a result, it has acquired a sort of UKIP tinge in my mind - red-cheeked men singing Rule Britannia and waving Union Jacks.  Then there's all that handkerchief waving and general fol-de-rol.  It's a bit like buying free range eggs in Waitrose - being in touch with the earth without getting your hands dirty.

But I've had to change my mind as a result of the Morris dancing today in Hastings - part of the Jack-in-the-Green weekend, which is a generally pagan celebration of Spring.  A variety of troupes were performing outside Saint Clement's church in the High Street and subsequently in a space known as Butler's Gap in George Street.  We had the usual costumes of white shirts and trousers and bell-hung gaiters, plus waving handkerchiefs.  But we also had two troupes that were seriously different.  Clerical Error had come all the way from North Wales.  Wearing dog collars and tail-coats with daffodils wound round their hats and their faces blacked up, they were like African natives mimicking missionary clergy.  Although their dancing was much the same as the others, they knocked sticks together instead of waving handkerchiefs.

Musician and dancer from Steam Punk Morris

What I liked about this was the ironic take on Morris dancing - it brought in a new dimension of fantasy.  Taking the process a step further was Steampunk Morris from Rochester, whose costumes were a surreal vision of how the Victorian period might have been or might be in the future - at least that's what they told me..  And although they had similar musical instrument to the others, they danced to the tune of "We will Rock You".  The steps seemed to be much the same, but the experience was different - a wacky combination of Gothic Horror and Monty Python.  

What was stimulating about both groups was the way they had subverted the genre to create something entirely new but good fun.  I'll never be able to see Morris dancing in quite the same way again.

Antony Mair