Realpolitik

Thoughts on the death of Gaddhafi?  Criticism of the manner of his death, following the extrajudicial murder of Osama Bin Laden by the Americans, strikes me as a tad hypocritical.  It is also clearly something for the Libyans to decide and the weight of comment from within the country seems to be in broad agreement that his death is a cause of great joy and celebration, followed by an overwhelming feeling of relief and 'now let's get on with the rest of our lives and rebuild our nation from scratch'.  A lot of media comment in the West is decidedly pessimistic about the future for Libya and often cite the spectre of civil war or the establishment of 'an Islamic state ruled by Sharia law'.  However, if that is what the Libyans decide they want then it is clearly nobody's business but their own.  I suspect they won't but even if they do decide on an Islamic state western governments will quickly accommodate themselves to it.  After all, they've done it for years with Saudi Arabia.  And there's all that oil and gas of course to help the Americans and French and British overcome their inhibitions.  All those lucrative business contracts to win.  All those principles to abandon in the interests of realpolitik.  After all, they did it for years with that crackpot dictator Gaddhafi.

Counting calories to no purpose

Great to learn courtesy of Radio Four's Food Programme that too much emphasis is placed on 'counting calories' when people talk about the importance of balanced diets and a healthy lifestyle.  All of this prompted by the surreal comment from the Chief Medical Officer of Health that people in Britain need to eat several billion fewer calories a year in order to combat 'the obesity epidemic', which is itself a questionable concept and shockingly unscientific.  Far more important is the division between those people who cook their own food and those who 'eat out' or buy ready meals and convenience food from supermarkets.  The latter being more likely to develop health issues directly related to their diet.  Interesting discussion too about the meaning of the word calorie, its etymology, and the vagueness and imprecision of much of the language used even by professional nutritionists.

A Kodak moment with trees

I was surprised to discover that my family have a habit of photographing trees.  I have an aunt who lives in Weybridge who photographs nothing else.  I've tried to draw and paint them, but fail miserably due to a basic lack of skill with brush or pencil.  Give me a camera and it's a different story, as the current example hopefully shows.  It's a tree (species unknown) on the road behind our house in Scotland.

Looking back over several years of holiday photographs the number of trees (and rocks) I have photographed is without number.  I just can't work out why.  Is it their shape, their colour, how they appear in the landscape, the texture of the bark?  Is it simply that I like photographing trees?  I'm not sure. I am sure that my wife would know what kind of tree it is.  It's another one of the Mysteries of Maried Life that she knows far more about trees and plants and birds than I do.  And I have tried to learn.  I've watched the David Attenborough opus.  I've bought the Collins Field guides to Birds, Trees, Wild Flowers and Mushrooms.  All to no end.  I can rarely manage to match up one with the other - what I've seen in books and what I come across on my countryside rambles.

Body language in Cordoba

It's a caption competition.  What are the three people in this bar outside the old city walls of Cordoba saying to each other or, more pertinently, thinking? The slick and slightly older waiter is flirting with the pretty young woman while taking their order for cold drinks.  The boyfriend is trying to be serious and authoritative but feels that his machismo is being challenged and doesn't like it.  Just look at his body language. The young woman is delightful and clearly enjoying the banter even if it discomfits her paramour.  A few moments later, with the waiter gone, she takes his hand and leans across to kiss him.  Sweet!

Whitewashing the dead in Olvera

A cemetery in southern Spain in the town of Olvera as seen from the castle next door.  We were the first visitors of the day and the helpful young curator manning the ticket office and souvenir shop unlocked the front door for us and explained how to get out again once we'd had a good look round. It was a hot morning in early October, the sky was a brilliant blue, and we had great fun clambering around the medieval castle taking photographs of this and that.  It was the kind of castle that gives castles a good name with proper crenallations, thick walls, guard towers, arrow slots to peer through, timbered floors, and a stunning view from the rooftop of the keep. There was even the narrowest of spiral staircases with slippery stone steps to corkscrew up and then down again.  But this scene intrigued me.  A team of four women, and all of the civic cleansing and maintenance semed to be done by women in Andalucia, were whitewashing the walls of the tombs in the local town cemetary.

The cycling vampire bite

As a child I went to the beach for my holidays but I have no strong memories of building sandcastles or going swimming in the sea.  There are family photographs showing me with donkeys, my sister, a captain's cap, bucket and spade, candy floss, sagging swimming trunks, and other essential seaside regalia.  I suspect I must have enjoyed the seaside back then, even if it was only the North Sea that I was dipping my pre-pubescent toes into.  Since my formative teenage years however I have strong memories of actively disliking the sand (when required to sit and have picnics on it) and the sea (when required to immerse any part of my body in it).  I did once experiment sunbathing on a beach somewhere in southern France when my own children were younger, but this may have been as much to do with the casual nudism on display as anything else.  Nowadays I am more than happy to stroll along any beach, even to paddle in the warmth of the Mediterranean.  I have even paddled in the Volga river of all places.  But a beach holiday is not for me, nor for my wife, and we prefer what I suppose you might call 'activity holidays' to sunbathing or sitting reading on a beach or beside a pool.

The phrase 'activity holiday' is loosely defined however.  We eschew skiing, surfing, horse-riding and the like.  Walking is our thing, cycling too.  Or pottering around towns and cities looking at anything that might be interesting, sitting in cafes, wandering through shops and markets, eating outside, going to music concerts, visiting art galleries, castles, occasionally churches.  Just putzing in other words - and sometimes doing nothing more than sitting and watching the world go by.  My wife will occasionally draw or paint and I will take zillions of photographs.  She will also swim when possible, a form of exercise I have long since abandoned due to the necessity of getting wet and cold and wrinkly.
Our walking can be anything up to 20 km a day, more than long enough for a middle-aged couple, especially since it usually involve hills to ascend and descend, or gorges to descend into and then clamber out of again.  We are great fans of the Spanish system of senderos and the French equivalent of petit and grand randonnees.  The Americans too in their National Park system make it easy for amateur hikers like us to navigate our way around some of the great natural landscapes the US has to offer, as illustrated below in an alpine meadow in Yosemite.  (Holiday tip: avoid Florida and try out the beautiful South-Western states.) 
This is our kind of activity holiday and largely avoids the danger of being eaten by sharks, as sadly has happened recently in Australia.  Or breaking anything coming down the piste on skis.  Or falling off a truculent quadruped and breaking or bruising something valuable if horse-riding.  But I did almost get attacked by a snake in Andalusia recently, saved only by its last-minute decision to slither off into the undergrowth instead.  And I still have two bloodied scars on my shin for all the world looking like a vampire bite, but in reality the result of a minor cycling accident.  I should also mention that our hike through the Yosemite alpine meadow resulted in a string of painful mosquito bites across my back due to my failure to apply any bug repellent.  On the upside, the park cafeteria does excellent hotdogs and French-fries.

The idiot tax

Not so far from the truth these days, although having been to Vegas and gambled (and lost) my entire $5 stake, I'm not sure I have the right temperament for gambling.  I once bought a lottery ticket in the days when our village shop was still open.  I didn't win.  The following week I decided to try again but decided en route to the village shop to put my £1 towards buying a pint of beer in the pub next door.  At least that way I would get something for my money.  Several friends argue that a few pounds a week for the price of a dream is worth the price of a ticket, especially since at least some of the cash goes to 'good causes' (which is questionable in itself).  I prefer an earlier comment by Alan Coren that the National Lottery is in fact 'an idiot tax', a comment that sounds as if it might have come from his daughter Victoria, doyen of Only Connect my new favourite tv quiz show on BBC2 (second only to Judge Judy, ITV2).  These are both good examples of tv shows that depend entirely on their hostess for their success. Victoria Coren has a waspish comic touch that is quietly hilarious.  Highly recommended. As for my retirement plans, which are no longer a distant prospect, perhaps I should consider going part-time, say three days a week.  Strangely I have always fancied working in Tesco as a complete change after retiring professionally but the employees I encounter there are seldom happy with their lot.  But then who is these days?  Living in the south of Spain would be my preferred option - if only I won the lottery.  Therein lies my quandary: I will not buy a ticket and contribute to 'the idiot tax'.  A perfect example of wanting to eat my cake without paying for the ingredients necessary to make it in the first place.