Yesterday Afternoon

So there I was in my lucky white England shirt, flag of St George draped over my shoulders, face painted in red and white, in one hand a vuvuzela, in the other a pint of Wifebeater... Only joshing. In fact, when our brave boys were showing the quaking Hun who's boss (i.e. he is), I was out and about in the hot sun on Ashtead common, catching up with my butterfly friends. I was richly rewarded. Within minutes of walking into the woods, a White Admiral swooped past me and glided off into the trees - and it proved to be the first of many, in fact more than I have ever seen on any one occasion before (when I got into the 20s, I gave up counting). As I might have mentioned before, the White Admiral, with its simple restrained beauty and graceful flight, is just about my favourite butterfly, and last year I saw disappointingly few of them, whereas I encountered Silverwashed Fritillaries galore. This year - so far - the balance seems to be reversed and I was seeing at least two Admirals for every Frit. Yesterday both these beautiful species were flying - flying energetically and with purpose, seldom pausing for a drop of nectar. The Silverwashed has a very fast, no-nonsense flight, brash, aggressive, almost swaggering, whereas the White Admiral's flight, though almost as fast, is an elegant affair of few wingbeats and much gliding. The effect in strong woodland sunlight is extraordinary, as the black-and-white butterfly, passing between bright light and inky shade, seems to disappear and reappear and even to change shape, often appearing a much smaller and more insignificant insect than it is seen to be when it lands. It was a rare joy to see so many of these beautiful creatures in flight, and I fancy I shall remember that magical afternoon long after I've forgotten that there was a football match on too.

Bob Appleyard

As far as is known, the Yorkshire cricketing legend Bob Appleyard is not a kinsman of Bryan of that ilk, nor of myself, though my doubly maternal great grandfather was the gloriously named Hargreave Potter Appleyard, harbourmaster of Scarborough. Discovering by chance that it's Bob Appleyard's 86th birthday today, and remembering him only vaguely (his great days with Yorkshire were over before I was old enough to take an interest), I looked him up in Wikipedia... Read this and learn what greatness is. And, as England's pampered poltroons take to the field this afternoon, reflect on what kind of men sportsmen once were. (See also Verity.)

Alan Plater

I was sorry to see that Alan Plater has died. His version of The Barchester Chronicles was one of the great TV adaptations. The casting was superb - Donald Pleasence as Septimus Harding, Nigel Hawthorne as Archdeacon Grantley, Geraldine McEwan as Mrs Proudie and Alan Rickman as Obadiah Slope were all unforgettable - and the script was sharp, warm and funny, catching the essence of the books perfectly. It was broadcast in 1982, but I still remember it fondly - and I can't say that of very many TV series.

'who found all creatures amusive...'

Two books I have on the go at the moment are Richard Mabey's biography of Gilbert White (as mentioned here) and a selection from Thoreau's Journals. This latter is the Dover Thrift edition, which somehow winnows the 14 mighty volumes of published diaries down to a meagre 55 pages (the jacket is still proudly labelled 'Unabridged' nonetheless). As regular readers of Patrick Kurp's incomparable blog will know, Thoreau's Journals are full of good things - indeed, they even exist in blog form themselves. Gilbert White's The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne is rather less readable than Thoreau. I read it years ago, and have experienced no urgent desire to reread it in its entirety. It's one of those books that is perhaps more revered than actually read, more important for what it stands for - or seems to stand for - than for what is between its covers. White's life and work have been mythologised almost from the time of publication, with White as the simple soul, the artless child of nature, his quiet life emblematic of a very English idyll of village life. Mabey, of course, dismisses the myth and sets about remaking White, literally, from the ground up - from the remarkably complex and diverse, and remarkably unchanged, terroir (only the French word will do) of Selborne. His biography is the work of a naturalist writing about a fellow naturalist, and is the better for it. Here is a poet writing about White and Thoreau together - Auden's relaxed, conversational Posthumous Letter to Gilbert White

It’s rather sad we can only meet people
whose dates overlap with ours, a real shame that
you and Thoreau (we know that he read you)
never shook hands. He was, we hear, a rabid

Anti-Clerical and quick-tempered, you the
quietest of curates, yet I think he might well have
found in you the Ideal Friend he wrote of
with such gusto, but never ran into.

Stationaries, both of you, but keen walkers,
chaste by nature and, it would seem, immune to
the beck of worldly power, kin spirits,
who found all creatures amusive, even

the tortoise in spite of its joyless stupors,
aspected the vagrant moods of the Weather,
from the modest conduct of fogs to
the coarse belch of thunder or the rainbow’s

federal arch, what fun you’d have had surveying
two rival landscapes and their migrants, noting
the pitches owls hoot on, comparing
the echo-response of dactyls and spondees.

Selfishly, I, too, would have plumbed to know you:
I could have learned so much. I’m apt to fancy
myself as a lover of Nature,
but have no right to, really. How many

birds and plants can I spot? At most two dozen.
You might, though, have found such an ignoramus
a pesky bore. Time spared you that: I
have, though, thank God, the right to re-read you.

Enjoy...

My daughter sent me a link to this, which I pass on as something rather beautiful and strange - and packing a nostalgic punch for those of us old enough to remember some of these very posters. It seems we grew up in a golden age of poster design - at least on London Transport.

Le Style 'English Gentleman'

I notice that whenever I'm in France these days, I tend to get taken for a Frenchman. This most definitely isn't down to my grasp of the language, as whoever hails me as a fellow frog-eater very soon discovers; I think it's actually because I look so 'English'. Paradoxical? Not really. My style of dress - along the lines, I suppose, of the style the French resourcefully describe as 'English gentleman' - is now far more commonly seen among Frenchmen than les rosbifs. (In Trouville, for the record, I was wearing a white cotton suit and, much of the time, a zinger of a linen shirt, the gift of Mrs Nige.) So, a style that was quintessentially English has become French, while today's Englishman abroad lets the side down by dressing very badly in ugly 'leisure wear' - shapeless tops, hideous colours, ill-fitting trousers cut off at any point from thigh to ankle. Admittedly the French seem to be heading in that general direction too, but at a far slower rate - and at least those old enough to know better do still dress, for the most part, with dignity and style. I even saw quite a few cravats.

Singing on the Street

This morning, on my way to work, I was walking up a quiet street, my mind pleasantly blank and summery. Coming towards me, I dimly noticed, was a woman of a certain age, dressed in hippyish style, with abundant greying hair and a somewhat ravaged face. As she drew near, she began to sing - as well as she could with a fag in her mouth - Bob Dylan's Sign on the Window. I gave her a smile of recognition, but she was off somewhere far away, with just the song.
Sign on the window says Lonely,
Sign on the door says no company allowed...

My day was suddenly brighter and more strange.