uncharacteristic outburst (sorry)

The current behaviour of those that we elected to represent us is as shameful now as it was before the fresh wound opened up by the rare exercise of direct democracy. For many years the political classes have avoided all attempts at communication with the populace on the subject of membership of the European Union. For many years they have been confident of the answer, confident that the people that they represented would happily take back control of all of the aspects of our daily lives that had been ceded to Brussels. Only in the last ten years has there been any chance that our leaders could ask us this question and have a hope of receiving the answer they wanted.

I know, though I was too young at the time to take an active part, that an impression has been given that the people of Britain had already been asked the question in 1975. The impression is mistaken because the question that was then asked was about staying in an institution that, not only had we only joined a mere two years earlier, but had only managed to join at the third attempt, thanks to veto powers of the French government. Our own government at the time, though reasonably popular after surviving 1974 and the three-day-week and associated industrial strife, was probably seen as a little weak and in need of the help of our cross-channel cousins. Moreover the club to which we had gained membership was clearly thought of at the time as purely a free trade body; a premium club for the thought-leaders of a Europe that much of the population alive and voting had seen in much worse times.

Since the federalising fetish of the EU's leadership has become known, the overall desire of the wider population of Britain has been to leave, or at least to maintain trade links whilst avoiding the other side of the "ever closer union" coin. Populations and their opinions obviously change. The older generation, with their memories of the world wars inevitably gave way to younger generations and, in the case of Britain, there have been powerful demographic shifts resulting from what can only be described as mass migration. Only in these conditions and through a promise made by a party leader who never expected to be in a position to keep his promise, could a referendum be contemplated, and only then in a climate of political fear engendered by the apparently unstoppable popularity of a minor new political party with a European separation agenda.

These thoughts must be borne in mind when we come later to the first major event of the new order of things, the untimely resignation of the minister responsible for the promise and for misjudging the importance of the new party and the mood of the population.

A few more words must be wasted on the appalling campaigns run by both sides of the remarkably bitter divide. I'm sure that there were some moderate voices on both sides of the debate, for example some of the remain side who were against the release of intensely distorted predictions of the personal cost of Brexit (as the desire to leave became known) and those for Brexit who wanted to present the freedoms (particularly financial) and control we could gain from leaving the union. Unfortunately such moderate voices were shouted down by an orchestrated campaign from the remain side (why not Bremain I wonder) whose chosen strategy was a steady torrent of scary predictions from prominent bankers, industrialists, foreign heads of state, etc. and the contrasting indignant cries about levels of uncontrolled immigration and the lack of democratic accountability in Brussels from the Brexiteers.

Worse was the knowledge that the Tory leaders of the two campaigns were engaged in using the vote as a proxy for their own leadership race, along with the pathetic claims of the Labour party to be solidly behind one outcome when it was plain that their leader hadn't got his heart in it. And loudly, ostensibly on the side of Brexit, but I suspect recruiting as much support for remain, was Mr Farage who we can always think of fondly as the thorn that pricked Cameron to his leap in the dark in the first place, but only if he will now shut up, completely.

Whether the Brexit campaign actually had a plan is an open question. They discovered with about three weeks to go that the immigration flag would fly wherever they waved it and just ran with that. I really believe that the more moderate messages I suggested earlier would have been sufficient without the need to imply that all supporters of the leave message were at best, mildly racist.

There were some notable moments leading up to the vote. The regrettable and tragic death of Jo Cox being one. Some pundits had this as a boost to the remain campaign, since the suspect was a member of a right-wing organisation whose views are aligned with the more extreme beliefs of the Brexiteers wishing to halt immigration. The second event, which I haven't heard analysed in great detail as a factor in the outcome, was the very recent celebration of our Queens' official 90th Birthday, with all the attendant flag waving and patriotic singing (and drinking).

As several pundits have pointed out, the fact that the expected outcome by the polsters, financial institutions and bookmakers was a remain vote only goes to show that the banks and betmakers are as far removed from the general populace (to which description we can safely refine to "those outside London") as the politicians. The outcome is entirely this story. I do not believe that the majority of those who voted for exit did so based on the stupid arguments about immigration, neither do I believe they were powerfully influenced by the fantasy finance of remain. The factors that swayed those I spoke to, and many who were interviewed well in the media were certainly swayed by personal factors: Many of those expressing a view for remain were close to someone who worked or lived on the continent, or had jobs that relied on the continued relationship with a European partner. On the leave side there seemed to be a bunch of sceptics, about Cameron's newly negotiated deal (meaningless since it was not supported by legal treaty changes), about the possibility of any future controls on immigration, about the likelihood and effect of the accession of Turkey to the club and, generally, about the trustworthiness of political elites here and on the continent.

There were also concerns expressed about Britain's place in the world. Whether we would have more control over world affairs on our own or as part of Europe; concerns about the state of the EU (its soft bottom, its expansion plans, the wiff of corruption that on occasion drifts across the channel); the cost of club membership and much more.

I did not watch the vote. I went to bed. I did not listen to the radio and so, it was on arriving at my second desk at work that someone finally let me know the outcome. I admit surprise and cheer, though not the elation that some felt. I realise that the vote was just the start of something; possibly something I had wanted for a long time, but not something I ever really expected.

On reflection (see my earlier comments on the subject) I think Cameron's resignation was inevitable. I do wish he had stayed on and begun the process, since he at least represented a fair and calm voice tha the Tory party could unite behind. I am unsuprised to see the ferment in the Labour party's ranks. I was pleasantly surprised by the resilience of the financial markets, with the exception of the banks. I did not anticipate other European stock markets falling further than our own. I am dismayed that there appear to be a number of legal or political attempts to delay or even reverse the process of leaving. I cannot understand why Nicola Sturgeon wants to gain power in Scotland, to separate it from a largely beneficial relationship it has enjoyed for hundreds of years and give the whole to the European project. I am unsurprised to find that we have a new Irish Question.

On the whole, I remain optimistic. I am not scared of change, even if there is some short-term economic shock. I believe that with the right leadership and if we can find the negotiating skills that we need but have recently given up, Britain can gain the benefits of being easier to trade with, from anywhere in the world. I believe that control of our borders will allow us to keep the great advantages of being able to recruit from around the world, but maintain our cultural identity.

Who knows where this will all go? A broken Europe, an increase in protectionism? All unknown, but we live in a different world to the one that spawned the European project in the first place. Globalisation of industry and capital is going to be hard to stop in an Internet age.

Now if only we can get Farage to shut-up....

feet to automatic

After the drive home on the longer route and cooking for all still present (my eldest two) I felt the need for light exercise and to breathe out the week.

I fancied a short stroll, but unbidden my feet set out on the clockwise walk round the village, out on the Westerly unmetalled track. Waving my feet at the road let my mind clear and I consciously breathed a little slowly and deeply until I could feel the tension start to drain away. As I crossed the green, before the track, the clouds to my right were dark stacks with sun-lit peaks above. The foreground was oak, cedar and larch and below, a lawn of yellow flowers and boggy grass dotted with pigeons.

Not many people about; only a couple of walking dogs. The path was dry, but recent rain (heavy on Thursday) had left pools around on the track and the lawns. The cooling air also left moisture behind as it released the vapour of the day.

As my direction turned to North West the sky was clear above me, but had a ribbon of bubbling marsh-mallow pierced from below by conifer crowns on a more distant horizon and compressed from above by a slate of heavy cloud that built to my right, but slowly lightened to the left until it merged with the ribbon's texture.

Before the end of the track, there were few animals in evidence. The last but one visitor was leaving the car-park as I arrived. My attention was drawn to the temporary pool (at the site of that fallen branch, now removed) where a couple of little gulls were dancing in the shallows finding food. I peered in, but couldn't see what they were taking, unless it was the black flies flying just over the surface. I stopped disturbing the gulls as a couple more arrived, circling cautiously until I crossed the road again and headed into the village core.

A few ponies emerged from the trees, coming the other way. I recognised a grey that I've seen in the mornings, with a chestnut that has a foal, but the foal wasn't with the grey this evening. I walked tall on a raised bank, glancing left to watch the evolving sun-set over a hedge, saw the blind windows of an old stable block looking back. More ponies arrived as I entered the gloom under beech and holly trees; insects began to bump my face.

Rather than take a direct route home from the village edge, I turned left along the North West edge to watch the light a while longer. The near clouds were separating, but the slab still hid the sun. Over oak crowns the layered cloud suddenly looked like scalloped edged lace curtain, but another five yards broke the illusion. Finally the sun dropped below the bottom of the slab and I had to look away from the direct glare to watch the orange sky fire each pane of glass in the houses to my right. The foal was there, with its mare, trying to lean against her legs for comfort.

I passed through a space between these buildings to follow the stream into the village. The stream was flowing swiftly with the rain water, washing the weed straight at its banks and almost clear in the centre, but for a little iron stain and silt. The sky still glowed between the houses; orange-pink with purple brown cloud. The light was ebbing, highlighting pale greens and the house, white frames. Muddying the dark greens into the lurking shadows.

some sail

A duller day than forecast, meteorologically speaking at least. Damp overnight, but warm enough to blow envelopes of balmy air across the supermarket carpark at lunch.

Fifteen feet outside the window I work at, a spider had built a model yacht this morning. The hull was a beech leaf stitched underneath its parent branch by strands of sticky rigging. The mast, which was invisible, but evidently attached to the branch straight above, supported a bermudan main sail and either an asymmetric genoa or a spinnaker. This foresail billowed and bulged pleasingly in the breeze, giving a sense of movement that enhanced the mutual rocking of the branches. Sadly, over lunch some time, the ship foundered in a freshening wind.

Solstice gone; tales of Glastonbury already mudding up and thoughts of coming Wimbledon, but I'm yet to see a stag beetle or a slowworm in the garden. One or two days have been warm enough, but the beetles seem to require a week of good heat and drier conditions than of late. Failure to see reptiles may be more indicative of a lack of gardening, but neither did we have amphibians in the ponds.

Sunday we sailed. A drowsy float Eastwards with tide and wind; the tides flood virtually halving the available wind-speed. Onto the first visitors' buoy at Newtown Creek, which we almost caught on sail, but had to run the engine a minute to pass the starboard marks and beat the inflowing tidal race. We pottered on the shingle bank until pub opening time, then took the tender and a walk up to the New Inn at Shalfleet. We ordered a light lunch at noon, ate (paid), walked, took the tender, raised the main, sailed out the river, unfurled the genoa (and then, finding the wind increased, reduced both sails a little). Five nautical miles back to our home mooring buoy and we were tying up by five past two. Quite a change from the morning's conditions. In the lake, the SW wind was just too strong to be balanced by the outflowing tide, so another minute of engine was needed to hold the boat back while we snagged the pick-up buoy.

The voyage back was so soon over that we settled down to another cup of tea before returning to the pontoon. The weather was just turning soft by then and we got home mildly damp.

Summer (official)

Concealed by rain cloud,
The sun tracks it's broadest arc.
Closed by the full moon.

Developing shadows

The may is over, replaced now by buttercup, bramble and foxglove. The rhododendrons have dropped as much flower as they've retained and the early trees are swelling their fruits.

Three weeks ago the blackbird pair were rushing round the lawn, collecting beak-fulls of invertebrates, but then a strange change took place. Instead of having shadows that sat correctly on the ground that moved with the same grace and speed as them, they developed shy shadows that liked to keep to the borders. These shadows would hop two steps behind and slowly, just occasionally catching up to touch beaks as though trying to re-attach themselves. These new, paler shadows slowly spent more and more time out in the open until, last week, I saw one out on its own. Still copying the movements of its original, still slightly hesitant, but looking more and more like the female.

After mowing the lawn last week I noticed a pot of herbs that had been taken over by ants. The soil level was three inches up in the centre and the poor plant was struggling to keep above the surface. This morning I watched the female blackbird take an ant bath in the sun, attacking the mound with her beak and then letting the ants climb her half-open wings to deal with the parasites. She'd knock a few ants off when they tickled too hard and then peck some more to keep a fresh supply coming. In the sun I think I saw she had her proper shadow back.

symmetry should at least be a palindrome.

By the by, I didn't sleep ever so well and woke before my alarm. The tide and guests called us out of bed to gulp breakfast, to collect the necessities of sailing and load the car.

Tender loaded and pausing only briefly to remove a splinter from my wife's hand we set off. The outboard started third attempt as we swung to the centre of the channel and out to our lake, our boat, waiting for us in the soft morning with wisps of mist hiding the detail of the Solent. On the rising tide, off the mooring, up to the harbourmaster's pontoon to collect friends. Wind from the North East pushed us gently onto the boards, starboard to to leave us bow on towards the inrushing flow. A light spring off the stern to depart, during which I raked a finger mildly and drew blood.

Out the river and making good time, up with the flood. A slightly extended drift with the assent of the more nervous of the party. One, two, three tacks and then, becalmed a mile out, the motor to bring us in to anchor for lunch. The flood washed us into the estuary, strong and high enough to drown a starboard mark, but inside was calm, peaceful and full of beauty. We watched birds and fluffed cloud and the mist burning off to reveal mainland features ten miles off.

Up with the anchor, the engine to control the exit with the turned tide and the ebb now caught us and carried us home. Ignoring all forecasts the weather fooled us with a Westerly, which gave us a single tack back to our home. As the cross-tide reduced up the river mouth marks we returned to engine power to the pontoon, where the wind was now softly blowing us away and we moored briefly, port to, into the ebbing flow. Our friends departed and with the main ebb starting we returned to our shrinking lake to moor again, to have a final cup of tea and a rest before, as the mist slowly concealed the Island, we took the tender back. The engine started on the third attempt.

Having enjoyed a lazy afternoon we had the fun of tying up the tender when six feet of mud separated the channel from the pontoon. Soon the car was reloaded for the return and, after some frivolous telly and a light dinner, thoughts return to bed and, a better sleep? Showering, I found a splinter in my knee.