Epiblog for the Feast of St Aidan of Northumberland

It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley.  A week ago, we arrived back home from holiday, at 8.45pm, to a cold house and a pissed-off cat.  While Debbie unloaded what we needed there and then from the camper van, I busied myself rectifying the situation by laying a fire in the stove, and feeding Matilda.  While she chomped her way through a small mound of Felix, and Misty curled up once again in Zak’s armchair, that had formerly been Tiggy’s armchair, and so on, the flames finally sputtered into life and I was able to leave the stove and start making us something to eat.  Following which, and the raising of a celebratory glass or two to mark our safe return from the annual pilgrimage, we tumbled into bed.  Matilda, however, proceeded to exact her revenge for being left in the tender care of Granny and Katie the doggy nanny for four weeks, and wandered round the house yowling all night, to show just how annoyed she was by the whole thing.

We were both tired out from the journey, though, so it really wouldn’t have mattered if Matilda had been detonating nuclear bombs, by the time I got to sleep, I would have slept through it. In our peregrinations, we’d gone first to Walney, our usual stop-off point en route to Scotland, but instead of spending just one night there, the weather had been so sweltering that we ended up staying four, enjoying the life of beach bums and the unusual feeling, in the UK at any rate, of warm sun on my tired old bones. Eventually, there came a cooler day, when we travelled on, to Dumfries and Galloway, spending a night camped in Juanita’s farmyard at Mossburn. Then, finally, the next day, we drove on through the sleepy Ayrshire countryside and eventually, in the somnolent mid-afternoon, we rumbled into Ardrossan, and on to the Arran ferry.  On our return, we’d been “out there” for 32 nights, 26 of which we’d spent on Arran.

I’m not going to fill this entire blog with a chronicle of "what we did on our holidays": apart from anything else, I now intend to include the story of this trip into the still-unfinished We’ll Take The String Road, because I made enough notes to make between 50 and 100 pages of new material. But generally, you can take it as read that mountains were climbed, by Debbie and Misty at any rate, pictures were painted (by me) words were written (again by me) seals and otters were observed, and stones were rearranged on the beach (by Misty). Debbie did quite a lot of cooking on an open fire under a tarp, so I now know how to get her to cook tea at home, build a fire in the middle of the kitchen floor.  Half of the grass layby where we usually park up appeared to have been washed away by the sea since last year, but it’s an ill wave that bodes no good, because it created a little sandy hollow in the shade and out of the wind, which Misty immediately appropriated as her outdoor “beddies”.

The weather wasn’t so kind to us as the holiday progressed. The days got into a pattern of starting off bright, then clouding up and showering, then fairing up at teatime when it was too late to really do anything, though this did suit Debbie with her penchant for lighting fires and barbecuing corn on the cob.  Other days were complete washouts, though, rainy and windy, and all we could do was sit it out and get on with the necessities of life such as shopping for provisions in the Co-op in Brodick. It has bilingual English/Gaelic aisle signage, and it was there that I learnt the Gaelic for cat food.

We also met with kindness on Arran, from friends and strangers alike. Friends who made sure we were OK for water and gas, and strangers who were kind enough to let us know that the spotlights were on, draining the battery, or who fed Misty shortbread on the bus to Sannox. I should perhaps amplify these remarks by saying that I have never failed to meet friendly and obliging Scots on our travels, and – as I’ve written before – I never feel more Scottish (my mother’s genes thrumming away through the bloodstream like the beat of a muffled bodhrain) than when we’re on Arran.

So I was very saddened to see the many posters and other manifestations promoting the “Yes” campaign for Scottish independence in the referendum on September 18^th. I realise that by saying this, I may well upset some of my friends North of the Border, who have arrived at their position of being in favour of Scottish independence by a long and detailed consideration of the various arguments.  What I have to say about the referendum is not aimed at them, as I know that they will vote with their heads as well as their hearts, and I respect their convictions.

I fear, though, that there are a lot of people who will be voting “yes” just to give the English a kicking in return for Culloden and the Clearances. Some of my friends who are in favour of the Yes vote have come to their position through a long consideration of the arguments and I respect their position (though I disagree with it) but there is no doubt in my mind whatsoever that Alex Salmond foments and encourages the casual anti-English sentiment that fuels the "anyone but England" comments on football web sites for instance and a lot of people will be voting yes on autopilot for those reasons.  One of my Facebook friends posted a link to a blog the other day where the blogger was talking about his terminally-ill friend who had just voted “Yes” by postal ballot:

As he signed it struck me that this is probably the last thing he’ll ever sign. The last time he’ll ever put his name to anything. Going from this world in the knowledge that his final act was to deliver an almighty kick in the nuts to the British establishment.

This is not to say that both these events aren't worthy of real grievances, but it was after all almost 300 years ago, and Scotland has already come a long way since then and is a lot more independent than Bonnie Prince Charlie could ever have dreamed of. I'm still hacked off about the Diggers being evicted from St George's Hill but I am not looking to make Leatherhead independent. If England was treating Scotland like China treats Tibet, I could understand it more. If manifestations of Scottish culture on the street were arrestable offences, if people were setting themselves on fire for the right to fly the Saltire, I could understand it more.  But that’s what happened after Culloden, it’s moved on since then. These days, you can’t throw half a brick without hitting something tartan or hearing the skirl of the pipes, or Rabbie Burns,  or Eddi Reader singing Ae Fond Kiss or the Proclaimers or … I could go on. I frequently do.

I really don't understand what the SNP think Scotland could gain, over and above what it has now, by jumping out of the current frying pan into the fire of independence, especially as - and I have never seen the SNP rebut this - without a formal currency union, and therefore without control over the money supply, if an independent Scotland continues to use the pound, it will be LESS independent in financial terms than it is now! Then there are the unresolved questions about the membership of the EU and on what terms Scotland would be allowed to join, if any; the disposition of the Scottish MPs at Westminster, and many other thorny issues which Alex Salmond would rather sweep under the tartan rug.  Then there’s the provenance of the vote itself: Scots who live abroad (of which there are many more than remain in Scotland, for regrettable historical reasons) have no say. Scots in England have no say. But my friend who lives in Dumfries has a Polish cleaner who has been in Scotland only a few months, yet whose vote may be the single decisive one in a close-run poll!

One of the main reasons being advanced by the SNP is to be free of the yoke of government from Westminster, but there's little practical difference in being governed from Westminster and being governed from Edinburgh. In any democracy, you can theoretically have up to 49% of the people being governed by someone you didn't vote for. I’ve been “governed” since 2010 by people whose guts I could not hate more if I tried. Same clowns, different circus, if you ask me. And in any case, Scotland is now so devolved anyway, I don't see what's to be gained. It's not as if whoever is in power in Scotland after a Yes vote is going to be able to work miracles. If you devolve border controls, foreign policy and defence to Edinburgh, each of those comes with a massive price tag, which, if Scotland is using a currency where it doesn’t control the money supply, will have to be met out of general taxation. Anyway, that’s enough tub thumping. I will be really sad if Scotland votes for independence, and I will feel less welcome there, but that’s not going to change anything, even though I do think, and have always said, that the whole UK should have a vote in any proposal to break up the UK.

Back home, and once more plugged in to TV news and the internet (the much-vaunted new dongle from Virgin media proved about as much use as a hamster’s surfboard) it appears that the world is still as crazy as ever, if not crazier. People are raising money for charity by tipping buckets of ice over their heads. The Middle East is in flames. Nothing new there.  Here at home, the Junta is considering making “extremism” even more illegal.  Like that will solve it.  I have said many times, and I still hold it to be true, that outlawing and proscribing these loons only adds to their number, gives a veneer of legitimacy to their supposed grievances, and makes them even more self-proclaimed and self-righteous, and likely to strap on a suicide vest. Plus, increasing the “threat level” only serves to foment paranoia and xenophobia in society as a whole.  Obviously, if someone is actually hell-bent on bloody mayhem, and taking real, concrete steps to carry it out, then the security services should arrest them, and they should be charged, and if convicted, given exemplary sentences under the law.  But outlawing whole groups of misguided idiots on spec just gives them the oxygen of publicity, and (pace the late, great Linda Smith) I am not that happy about them having the oxygen of oxygen.

With all this going on in the background, I found myself plunged into a morass of everything I’ve been neglecting for the last four weeks. Not least of which was a request from the DWP to attend an interview on Thursday at their local offices to discuss my disability benefit claim. Since being diagnosed in November 2010, I have claimed for this, and apparently I could have claimed for years previous to my illness, but I didn’t, because we didn’t “do” benefits.  Anyway, in March 2011, I submitted a claim, and my circumstances haven’t changed since then. Well, they have changed, but only for the worse, as I get more decrepit. No one has invented a cure for Muscular Dystrophy, or I would have heard, I’m sure. So I was quite puzzled by the request, and the DWP standard letter didn’t make it clear what it was about. In circumstances like this, you start to think of things that you’ve done that don’t actually exist. Had I opened another bank account in my sleep? Had they discovered the diamond mine in the garden?

In reality, the only thing I could think of was that they had once more queried Debbie’s earnings. Although these are known unto them, and declared, I have had endless trouble trying to explain to them that she only gets paid in term time, and her earnings are extremely variable (especially when the clunky and inefficient payroll system at Kirklees College means that she gets paid for the work she did in September, the following March). I didn’t sleep well the night before, although I was sure in one respect I had nothing to hide and nothing to worry about, in the wee small hours, your mind drifts to all sorts of possibilities. I fell asleep and dreamed I was in an open prison, helping Rolf Harris re-catalogue the library.

The interview itself was intimidating, as no doubt it was intended to be, and yes, the query was over Debbie’s supposed wealth. I signed a statement about my own income, once again affirming how meagre it is, and left their office with a long list of things that I needed to provide them with, to do with Debbie’s earnings.  I came home in a very dispirited mood. In the worst case scenario, they might ask for every payment since March 2011 to be refunded to them. Argh.  I was just in the middle of explaining all this to Debbie when my mobile rang. It was the lady from the DWP who had interviewed me. She was ringing to say that she’d looked into it further, and had actually taken it upon herself to phone their centre in Sunderland on my behalf, and it turns out that the benefit I had been receiving is based entirely on my NI contributions while I was working full time between 1976 and 2010, and is unaffected by any earnings which Debbie may accrue. My file had been flagged up wrongly as being in receipt of income-related benefit. It was a mistake, and she apologised for dragging me in.

On the one hand, I could have been steaming and incandescent about being dragged back for an appointment that, as it turned out, was a waste of dog-farts. However, credit where credit’s due. I’ve written some pretty hard things about the DWP in these blogs, and deservedly so, with their neo-fascist policies aimed at killing off troublesome people on incapacity benefit, but in this case, give the woman her due, she used common sense, saw what was wrong, and rectified it quickly for me and with the minimum of fuss.  So well done, her.  Pity we can’t get rid of old IDS Irritable Bowel Smith and replace him with someone more like her.

Other than that, I’ve been grinding out the words this week, doing a bit of painting for light relief, and somehow we’ve got to Sunday, the feast day of St Aidan of Lindisfarne.  Quite appropriate, as saints go, in view of my previous paragraphs about Scotland.  St Aidan was an Irish monk, known chiefly for his role in the conversion of England. This was back in the days when Ireland was known as Scotland, which makes it even more confusing.  Aidan studied under St Senan, at Iniscathay, known these days as Scattery Island, which sounds a bit like something out of Father Ted.  Aidan resigned his original placement and became a monk at Iona about 630AD.  By 635AD he had been selected as the first bishop of Lindisfarne, eventually becoming known as the Apostle of Northumbria.  During his lifetime, he was known for his knowledge of the Bible, his preaching, his personal holiness, his simple life, his scholarship, and his charity. On top of all that, he also possessed the reputed ability to work miracles. A handy chap to have on the team.  He also, inevitably, was involved with the Royal House of Northumbria, particularly King Oswald, with whom his destiny became strangely entwined: they died within twelve days of each other.

When a pagan (probably Viking) army attacked Bamburgh and attempted to set its walls ablaze, according to legend, Aidan saw the black smoke from his cell at Lindisfarne Abbey, immediately recognized its cause, and knelt in prayer for the fate of the city. Miraculously, the winds abruptly reversed their course, blowing the conflagration towards the marauding Vikings, which convinced them that the location was defended by potent spiritual forces.

Aidan died in 651AD, after falling ill during one of his many evangelising and church-building expeditions. He actually expired while leaning against the wall of Lindisfarne Priory, and was buried at Bamburgh. In the 10^th century, the monks of Glastonbury Abbey (never slow at recognising a commercial opportunity) somehow obtained some supposed relics of St Aidan, and through this influence, his feast day began to appear in the early calendars of Wessex saints, helping to perpetuate his name and his cult, alongside the writings of the Venerable Bede, which remain the main source document for his life and times.  Because of his Irish origins, his Scottish monasticism, and his ministry to the English, he has often been promulgated as a suitable patron saint for the entire United Kingdom. As it is, currently he is the patron saint of Northumberland, and, reflecting his propensity for scorching invading Vikings with their own flames, no doubt, firefighters. A supposed actual quotation from St Aidan’s own lips is:

"How can you turn away when Christ calls you back with mercy? Come home - come home to Christ, for the day is short; the night is coming on; the accepted time for repenting and receiving God's mercy is now."

Which sort of takes us back to where we came in, this week, coming home as the night is drawing on, at the end of summer, and lighting a fire, in anticipation of the long, cold, dark days and nights yet to come.  However, summer is not quite spent; as I sit here typing this, the conservatory door is slightly ajar, and through the glass I can see the Buddhist prayer flags that we bought from the Arran Asia shop in Brodick, fluttering gaily on the handrails of the decking. The sun is more or less shining, and the weather is set to improve even further next week.

One thing that being on Arran brought home to me once again, as it always does, though it took slightly longer this trip, because of the physical discomfort and lack of sleep caused by my deteriorating condition, and because I was missing Matilda, was that the simple life is more conducive to a spiritual outlook. When you look at the eternal rocks and stones and trees and mountains, and watch the tides coming and going, and the sun setting and the moon rising, and the lazy heron wading through the rock pools, you start to realise your place in all these things. You start to realise that it is possible to live for the day, within the day, and not to worry about what might or might not happen.  In the words of Henry David Thoreau, who lived in the woods in a shack not much bigger than a camper van:

However mean your life is, meet it and live it: do not shun it and call it hard names. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Things do not change, we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.

One of my aims, I think, in the coming busy time, will be to simplify my own life. Concentrate on the task at hand, and do it with all my might, then go on to the next, and so on.  As I look around me, as well, I see much clutter that I will never use or have need of again, and I think it’s time for the great quadripartite division into ditch, keep, send to charity or put on Ebay. If I managed to live for 32 days in a camper van without it, clearly it’s not absolutely necessary to my existence.  Conversely, if there was some way of incorporating the stove, a more comfortable bed, and Matilda the cat into the camper van, I don’t think I would even have come back!

There’s no denying, however, that, despite my Utopian aspirations, in the background, the wheels of the dark Satanic mills are starting to grind again. Come next week, I’ll be plunged back into it all again (though this time, without having the damfool poodlefaking nonsense of an unnecessary DWP interview to worry about) and also College is waking from its summer slumbers with things like inset days and assessments for Deb.  Inevitably, one day soon, the mornings will turn crisp and bright and the leaves will start to tinge with brown, and that will be it. But for the time being, at least with half my mind, I’m still gazing out over Kilbrannan Sound, nursing a glass of wine, watching the sun set over the Kintyre Peninsula, and the red can buoy at Carradale Point twinkling through the gloaming.