Of A New Direction In A Third Age

I have a new career! The months of lockdowns, scaremongering, lies, isolation, separation from my partner and barely believeable truths in the news media have taken a toll. I had no idea that I had lost so much of myself during this pandemic. As already reported, all the work I had in the diary disappeared over a three-day period in March 2020. It was not replaced and 2021 has been very bleak professionally. 

I have always been a nervous performer and every gig I have ever played has involved an effort of will. Of course, once on stage some inner monster takes over and, once it's all over, I have been glad to have seen it through. I rather thought that making an effort to perform online like so many others have managed to do might help, but it didn't ... not at all. If anything it compounded my sense of insecurity. Pretending to project to invisible people was frustrating because I made just as many (if not more) mistakes. I tried recording videos to share online, but that hasn't worked either. The same holes in my memory manifest themselves no matter how well I think I know the material. I can lose a word, a whole line, a chord, even a rhythm and the whole edifice wobbles alarmingly. Any improvement has come with the speed at which I can manage to recover. Strangely, these losses are not predictable. They never appear in the same places. I've come to the conclusion that it's not actually having to face the audience that I find difficult, but something much more subtle and I have never really been able to pin it down. This is one of the reasons busking in the street has always seemed a masochistic way to behave. I have always admired people who have the courage to do it and wished I could be one of them, but I'm not ... or so I thought. 

A couple of years ago I was booked to play on a busker's trail for a local festival. I was surprised to find I enjoyed it, but I could never undertake it again without having somebody's "official" permission to set up and play. Then, ten days ago, something snapped. I had a moment of insight and sadness that so much of me that had been invested in working as a musician had been stripped from me. I had also lost what was left of my mojo and creativity. Very few new songs have been completed and only a few new ideas have been started in these lockdown months. I have been becoming even less visible than the singer of "Grey". No new work was being offered and I was slipping into retirement as an ex-musician. 

It was a beautiful Saturday, so I loaded up a guitar, drumkit, harmonicas and guitar-stool and drove the twelve miles into the town where I no longer hold the monthly Songwriters & Poets evenings of the pre-pandemic era. By the time I arrived the market was packing up. I thought I could just set up outside the Bookshop, but when I walked across town, the Town Square was almost empty and, better still, not on a slope. I rolled out my Ghanaian mat, made from recycled plastic bags, set up my drums and stool, slipped on my harmonica harness tuned my guitar and, for the next couple of hours, sang and played to my heart's content. It was such a liberating experience and I was not expecting that. This felt like the start of a new chapter. I cannot believe how much fun I had playing to mostly indifferent people. A few of them took a few minutes to sit on some nearby steps or on a bench just within earshot. Some people stayed for a few songs. Small children danced and jiggled, one was pulled on to the dance floor by a grandfather. A few people dropped coins into my hat and in that couple of hours I earned enough to cover the cost of the fuel for the van to drive there and back again to the boat or nearly enough for my next order of organic vegetables. I had gone over much of my current repertoire and I was thrilled. This was the first time I had played in such a long time that my voice was going and my fingers were sore. When I arrived back at the boat I realised I was also physically very tired. Although most people walked across the Square completely ignoring me that actually felt significant and important. They were completely at liberty to listen or not as they wished. Additionally I was not beholden to any promoter or event orgamiser and had no cause to feel the overwhelming responsibility of trying to ensure that whoever had engaged my services was getting their money's worth. I have always felt this responsibility to be a huge burden over decades of performing and I think it has been a big factor in ensuring I never sleep well the night before any booking. 

In the nine days that followed that experience I have been out busking six times and have loved each experience. I also took up an unexpected offer of a pub garden gig. Each time I've gone out I've met many new and interesting people. Some days have brought unexpected reconnection with old friends. Some people want to come and chat, to discuss my unusual instruments or tell me about themselves (Pink Floyd's lighting engineer, anyone?). Some people walk jauntily through the precinct in time to the music and with a spring in their step; some acknowledge with a nod, a smile, a wave. In addition to some generous coinage from a few passing folk, I have been offered food, stories of incredible adventures, the aforementioned gig (no money, but food and great publicity ... oh right, that old chestnut 😆), an ice lolly to cool me down when it was very warm yesterday and one person even bought some merchandise! Quite by chance one of my oldest friends, who's been living in Eastern Europe for years, happened to walk across the town square in West Norfolk on Saturday while I was singing. We first met some forty-nine years ago when he lived in London and this was the first time he'd been to Downham Market ... 

I'll never make my fortune busking, but it is good the days I break even. Only one day saw no money in the hat. Unfortunately I had to part with all the previous day's earnings to pay for parking. However, with magic like I've experienced so far I shall keep this new gig going while the weather is in my favour. 

Frustratingly, my van has developed a fault, which cannot be addressed until at least the end of the week, so I'm stuck on my mooring at the moment when I want to go out and play in the street. However, at least I can take some time to tell you about it all. For the first time I feel I am able to acknowledge myself as a musician rather than a fraud with musical aspirations and I love being completely independent as a performer. I have also started work on a couple of new songs. They may even get finished ...

Letters To A Kingfisher - 7

 Dear King,

You've eluded me for such a long time, but here you are. 

You were sitting on my stern fender for ten full minutes before I took a chance to reach for my iPhone to take your photograph. I think the rain must have distracted you from seeing me as I slowly, so, so slowly, moved my hand ...

Thanks for letting me snap the photo though. You flew off shortly after, but came back a few minutes later. I've got to know the routine now - fender, tiller, roof and off.

I'm sorry it's not a brilliant picture. It does not do you justice. Maybe I should have cleaned the summer house windows. I've been thinking about saving up to buy a camera for a while. Then I wouldn't have to rely on my obsolete phone or huge tablet for taking photographs. I have two or three friends who take the most extraordinary wildlife photographs and I'll never match their standards, but I'd like to think I could do better. Maybe one day I shall.

Love and respect to you,

Marsh

Of Death Chants, Lockdowns and Military Waltzes Part 3

Finally I made it back to England last night after my unexpectedly long trip to the Venice Carnival. I nearly didn't make it and at no stage of the journey, until I sat on the last train home and we'd pulled out of Ely, was I completely confident that I was going to get back to the boat. The relief of making it by ten o'clock in the evening after twelve hours of travel was very real.

As I have already mentioned I was in two minds as to whether to stick to my original plans and come back a fortnight ago or whether to rebook my rail journeys - all five of them. Because the public were so worried about the publicity surrounding people who had been to Italy, it felt the responsible thing to do would be to isolate myself and rebook my journeys. What I didn't take into account was that there would be a domino stack of countries closing their borders and pretty much all their facilities and services. I guess it is not just the Brexit effect that can do that then! 

Having escaped Venice a week before the Italian borders were closed and everyone told to stay indoors I barely made it out of France before the same thing was due to happen. Schools in France had already been closed and P's brother sent us a warning text message on Monday afternoon that the notice had been issued. France was due to close at mid-day yesterday (Tuesday) and my train from Geneva to Paris was due to leave at 12.29 - half an hour after shutdown. I expected getting over the border into Switzerland to be easy enough if I left in plenty of time, but I had no certainty about what might happen next. I didn't know if I would be stopped from crossing back again on the Geneva to Paris train or whether any of my trains would be cancelled at the last minute.

The new Léman Express train into Switzerland operates about six trains an hour. I arrived at our local French station to be met by the usual posse of helpful functionaries asking what I was hoping to do. The booking desk was closed and shuttered and all the self-service ticket machines had been switched off. I explained I was trying to get to Genève and one uniformed SNCF employee told me, "depêchez-vous à voie F, monsieur". I dépêched for all I was worth, down the steps to the linking tunnel between the platforms lugging my heavy suitcase. As I was to find out at many points throughout the day, very few of the escalators or lifts were working and who wanted to be trapped in a lift with other people exhaling who-knows-what contagions anyway? Still less did I fancy poking at the buttons that had been pressed by who-knows-whom. Despite the rush I was beginning to form in my head more worries about travelling without a ticket. Fines for travelling without a valid ticket can be huge and I've seen people caught out. As I ran I was trying to work out how to say in French that I couldn't buy a ticket before the journey and was told to hurry to catch this train. I managed to board the train, albeit glowing hot and out of breath - really not a good look. Fellow travellers were obviously on the lookout for passengers displaying the symptoms of covid-19. I collapsed in a seat and not for the first time tried to work out if the plan was for this train to head across the border to Geneva. This wonderful new regional rail service has monitors viewable from almost every angle, which, of course, display destinations and the intermediate stops - just not all of them. The suspension points indicating that the story of the impending journey was not being told in full missed out "Genève". The audible announcement only listed the first couple of stops and the final destination which, although normal for this part of the world is always slightly alarming for the traveller more used to the rather more affirming British system of listing every single stop, the number of carriages and where to sit for when the train is divided as it inevitably is at Cambridge. The hurry had been a little pointless too. We missed three timetabled deadlines before the train actually left the station for Switzerland. This turned out to be a feature of the day as I was to see more cancelled train journeys than timetable slots being honoured. Also groundless was my anxiety about travelling sans billet on this occasion. There were no inspectors on this train and there are no automatic barriers in Geneva on the buses or the trains, but the fines are huge. 

Arriving in Switzerland at Gare Cornavin, the main station in Geneva, I had to transfer from platform 1 to platform 8, from where the majority of the long-haul trains through France leave. Before being allowed on to platform 8 one has to pass through a border control station complete with Swiss and French customs points . A few months ago somebody had the bright idea that passengers were no longer to be allowed through border security and customs more than thirty minutes before their train is due to leave. The holding area now is a single bench seat in a small and stuffy area separated from the main station shopping precinct by the inevitable sliding doors. Beyond border control there is a much larger seating space with public toilets. Swiss pragmatism? French bureaucracy? Who knows? The only people who care are the passengers who stand outside by the shops because there is no seating for them in the waiting zone. I don't care much for this arrangement at the best of times so yesterday, I sat outdoors on my suitcase on a paved area outside a café among the smokers and the beggars. It was a nice day and the air tasted much fresher - no hint of virus ... well not much, anyway part from a few people wearing an interesting variety of protective masks and a few others with scarves wrapped around their faces.

From here I had a view of the departure board for Voie 8. Of the five trains listed over the course of the following hour, four carried the dreaded "supprimé" label. Just one train was running, a TER service to Bellegarde. Mine wasn't yet listed; more anxiety.

Everything is listed in the main three languages in Switzerland.
The railway's Italian abbreviation summed the mood perfectly.

Eventually I went up on to the platform and didn't have to wait long for the train to pull in. I had a seat booked on the lower deck in carriage 16 of this double-decker train. I've learned my lesson about nausea-inducing travelling on the upper deck.  As it happened, there weren't many passengers at all, so the next three and a half hours looked to be bearable after all. That was a nice dream until we arrived at the first of two scheduled intermediate stops. At Bellegarde my compartment of about fifty seats filled. There was not enough seating for the luggage being carried. It spilled into the aisle and some people were forced to carry suitcases, but mostly rucksacks, right through the carriage. Before we pulled out of the station a woman started berating another passenger at a volume somewhere north of the threshold of pain. This went on for several minutes, with no apparent pause for an intake of breath despite the wonderfully polite older woman who nobly stood up and implored, "S'il vous plaît, madame, calmez vous." The anger was turned on her with a withering ferocity. A few anonymous jeers were offered by other (mostly male, all seated) voices, but the harangue continued until the agitante was all screamed out. Apart from that the journey was event free until, about an hour later the woman who had implored for quiet began to cough. The young man of student age sitting across the table from her looked all around him in, firstly concern, then helplessness, then mild terror. He wrapped his scarf around his face ... twice.

At the Gare de Lyon I found a different way of getting off the platform. A new gate had been opened to the subterranean Hall 3. Why hadn't I noticed this before considering all the times I have used this station? It saved a lot of walking. I recognised where I was and it was a very short walk from the RER platform for the connecting train to Paris Nord. I shall certainly look out for that next time, whenever that turns out to be. The RER was pulling in as I descended the steps to the platform and I didn't have to wait at all.

At the Gare du Nord I had to lug my suitcase up long flights of steps, since no escalators or lifts were operating, to a concourse that would eventually lead to the mainline station (les Grandes Lignes). As usual I stood to get my bearings. I have made so many wrong turns ascending from the Métro or RER at Paris Nord that I no longer know which is the right direction for the familiarity associated with all the wrong directions I have taken. I guess I looked like a newbie because I was approached by a man who wanted to offer help or so he said. He spoke a little English because, I gathered, he had a wife ... there may have been a connection. He showed me where to go and I was in very unfamiliar territory by the time he led me to some more ticket machines and told me I had to buy another ticket to be able get out into the mainline station. This journey had cost me enough extra money already and I was certainly not intending to buy unnecessary tickets. I've never had to buy them before. I am currently still slightly haunted by the fading memory of the hurt look on his face as I thanked him, but took no heed of his advice, rather walking away and trusting my past experience of getting to the upper levels of the main station. I managed that perfectly with no extra payment required although I did have to lug my suitcase up yet more stairs, a lot of stairs. The exit gates to the Métro had all been left open at Paris Nord. Weird, but not the first weird thing I'd experienced during the day.

At least the escalator up to the Eurostar check-in was operating, unlike the biometric gates for French Border Control. My passport is one containing the appropriate data and usually works. Yesterday it didn't. It is claustrophobic enough being hemmed in by closed gates ahead and behind, without waiting for what seems like forever for the gates in front to slide apart after the scanning process has finished, without said gates remaining firmly fermée and the written instruction to "report to the border police" being displayed. Rubber hoses? Latex gloves? Sometimes it is hard to remember that travelling by air is far, far worse and much more dehumanising. The lone border policeman scrutinised my features very slowly and for a very long time. I suppose he is trained to recognise faces that are hidden by bohemian beards that have sprouted since a passport photograph was taken. He seemed quite undecided about me, but eventually let me through. In contrast the UK border control machine round the corner had no difficulty recognising my features as belonging to a long lost son of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The gates slid open to let me through with only the most cursory examination of my irises.  After that it was the metal-detecting archways, scanners and x-ray machines. I pride myself on getting through these without having to spread-eagle for an officer to pat me up and down and I managed that bit. There was, though, a holdup in the queue to retrieve our belongings beyond the magic archway. I was dreading having to open my suitcase and start taking things out. I had packed it very carefully. It was very heavy, very full, though there were hardly any clothes. I'm sure they see a lot stranger items than a computer and a lot of artisanal vegan chocolate. I keep a full wardrobe of clothes at P's apartment although strictly speaking that should be several wardrobes and, apart from the shirts on hangers on a coat stand and a dress rail, my clothes are actually in cardboard boxes. I was relieved that I was not, this time, the cause of the delay. It was a man in front of me whose suitcase needed to be examined in closer detail. I wonder what he was carrying ...

The Eurostar departures lounge was almost deserted. There was one very unkempt man slumped over on a bench looking as though he had been there since the opening of the Channel Tunnel, but very few others. I have never seen this space with so few people in it. Owing to the virus situation none of the food outlets were open either, so I am glad I had salvaged some "breadlets" from P's freezer that morning. There wasn't long to wait until we were called to board the train for Sanponcra Antaernational and it was true, there was hardly anyone else in carriage number twelve. Naturally there was someone sitting in the aisle seat next to my allotted window seat - unbelieveable, or it would have been had this been anyone else's life story. There were plenty of other seats so I told the man there was no need to move. I would find somewhere else to sit. I am so pleased I did. Some time into the journey he began cough constantly and when I looked round he was wearing a surgical mask and looking distinctly sweaty. That was an uncharacteristically lucky escape. Under normal circumstances I would have been trapped up against the window with him in the adjoining seat sharing his germs with extreme generosity.

The train left Paris and arrived in London to time. The evidence of the nearly empty train spread out before me as I strolled along the platform normally tightly packed with passengers jostling to get past security before being allowed out into the Muggle-world of the St Pancras shopping mall. Somewhere close by a man was singing loudly to the accompaniment of one of the free pianos and all the shops, including the food outlets, were open. What a contrast with France. The same was true when I crossed the road to King's Cross for my final train home. The day had one more concern saved up for me. My one-month return rail ticket had expired the day before, so I had to buy another one.

I bought a box of Brazilian black beans and rice from Leon and sat at one of the outside tables to eat it (using the bamboo cutlery I carry with me everywhere) before heading to Platform 0 for the last train of the day home. Is there another railway station anywhere in the world that has a Platform Zero and a Platform Nine-and-three-quarters? There's something about the promises evoked at King's Cross I have liked since I was a child. If anything, it is even better these days.

So today, one day later, I am sitting outside in my outdoor shelter from the rain, next to the boat, typing up this account of my experiences yesterday watching the occasional passing swan, moorhen or kingfisher. I think it's time to go and light the fire.

St Pancras International at 6.30pm on the day France closed down.

Of Death Chants, Lockdowns and Military Waltzes Part 2

The world has gone mad, but who knew the end would come quite so soon?

For some reason the world will be safe if we have enough supplies of toilet paper, which one assumes is the main reason this particular commodity seems to be unavailable in UK supermarkets. I don't know this for sure, because I haven't been home for nearly a month, but it has been in the news, so it must be true. Likewise there is a similar shortage of soap, because of the number of people who have only just realised the importance of washing their hands! I would like to say I can't believe it, but I have used public conveniences and often witnessed what the Gents don't get up to - and occasionally what they do, but that's a different story 😈

You'll know why I have been in Italy and France if you read the first part of this series of posts. I want to write this because I have now been back in France for a fortnight and am on the fourteenth day of what has variously been referred to as "self-isolation", "quarantine" or "distancing".

There was no public notification about the seriousness of the covid-19 threat in Italy until some thirty-six hours after our party arrived in Venice. It is no understatement to suggest there was shock and a certain amount of panic in our group of thirty "masks", photographers and supporters. To reiterate, although Carnevale was officially closed two days early Venice was not in lockdown. Visitors were free to come and go as they pleased. However, that didn't prevent two or three members of the group feeling the need to wear surgical masks from that point on. I haven't shown any of the symptoms of the virus although I was confined to quarters after someone bought me two fritelli and promised me they'd made sure these ones were okay for vegans. The same thing happened with some pasta in a restaurant. I haven't eaten dairy or egg products for so long I seem to have lost some of the ability to digest them, but you don't want to read about that! It was nothing to do with any virus and, besides, the symptoms were rather different!

I decided to stay in France rather than risk coming back to England for the best of reasons, but I now realise I didn't think it through thoroughly enough. My thinking now is that I should have gone back as planned, because the situation being reported in the media today seems far worse in Italy, France and the UK than it was a fortnight ago. Today is Friday and I have decided to travel, as planned, on Tuesday in four days' time. At the rate the situation is changing I might find myself having to stay in France for months, specially if I leave it much longer. It really is difficult trying to make the right decision.

On the one hand, I am almost certain I am not carrying the virus. On the other, P went back to school this week and schools can be pretty unsanitary places at the best of times, so nothing is certain. It seems to me that I shall have more control over my own degree of isolation at home. I don't live near other people, so I shall be able to get some fresh air without the risk of meeting anyone. Whilst not exactly stir crazy I haven't been outside the flat for fourteen days except to go downstairs once from our aerie on the fourth floor to fill the recycling bin. I chose a time when I was unlikely to meet anyone else and indeed I guessed correctly.

In deciding not to return to England as planned I had to relinquish three jobs, two gigs and one workshop. One of the gigs was with a band. In my messages to both the band leader and the gig organiser when I was still in Venice I mentioned that I was withdrawing on account of the panic being stirred by the mainstream media in the UK. I made it clear that neither the band nor the organiser should be placed in a position where they would have to account for me being there. I was sorry, and I was probably being overly cautious, but I just knew that someone in the room was likely to make a fuss. After all, the advice in Italy at the time (and even by the time I left) was that self-isolation was not considered necessary in my case. I was just trying to spare my friends from having to go into detailed explanations and to put people's minds at rest. Unfortunately the band leader, one of my closest friends, thought it appropriate to send me a reply chastising me for not taking the dangers seriously enough! That hurt ... a lot.I was already distressed about letting people down. He was one of the last people I would have expected to react so strongly. To his credit I later received a message from him apologising for reacting so strongly, but not exactly retracting the burden of the message. Today, coming to the end of my quarantine I received another message from a member of the same band telling me that home is where I lay my hat and that it is time to put a halt to international travel. Again, quite hurtful. I have had time to think my actions through and I believe I am making the best decisions I can under the circumstances. To the best of my knowledge I am not putting anyone else at risk, but there is a chance that travelling by rail is risky for me. This is why I shall go back into isolation when I return. As for "international travel", is my friend seriously suggesting that British trains are somehow safer than French ones? I suppose having to change trains in, firstly, Paris and then London may carry more risk. I shall follow the usual advice.

As I see it, we don't know how the situation will roll out. Neither do we know how long it is likely to last. The indications are that things are still getting worse. I have responsibilities in the UK that I need to be able to meet, including a family member who may be at risk of not looking after themselves properly. I can't do anything about that from France, but I stand a chance if I am in the right country, even if I isolate myself for a further couple of weeks on arrival. I have gigs for which I need to prepare. I cannot assume they will all be cancelled. In order to be able to prepare I need to have access to the correct instruments. I have a guitar with me in France and my harmonicas (eek! another virus alert?), but not my drums. If I play the gigs the audience can't have me arriving unprepared. That wouldn't be fair on any of us. I have been making good use of the instruments I keep in France.

This is a time of uncertainty. I haven't flown for years, but I still receive regular e-mails from easyJet, presumably in the hope that I shall relent and come back to the fold. Today's e-mail informed me that, for the foreseeable future, they were waiving the fee they charge for changing travel arrangements, the so-called administrative fee. It may not be much, but I applaud them for recognising that many people are being placed in a situation (as I was a fortnight ago) where they are forced to change their travel dates. If one is exposed or suspected of being exposed to the virus  one has to be isolated and it is the socially responsible thing not to travel. Inevitably that means many will be changing travel arrangements at very short notice. Other travel companies need to take note of easyJet's example on this. When I changed my booking on the SNCF train from Geneva to Paris this time I could not simply alter my date. Their system requires me to cancel my train and rebook. Cancelling my train was subjected to an administrative fee - and I'm not at all clear why, because the process is carried out by me on the web using the SNCF app on my phone. I doubt that anyone can tell me that such action costs SNCF anything. The admin fee for cancellation wiped out the fare - oh wait, they refunded €0.30 to my account. This has to stop. We are all in this together ... aren't we?

Of Death Chants, Lockdowns and Military Waltzes Part 1

A Fellini inspired Casanova

Casanova, Trifenia del Fellini-Satyricon & a mad bishop from Roma

"Hi dad, are you ok? Have you been caught up in the lockdown?"

This was the message I received last week the day after arriving in Venice for Carnevale di Venezia 2020. Until that point I knew nothing about the spread of COVID-19 in Italy and had not heard that there were whole towns in the north of the country where people were confined to quarters for most of the time. It was a shock. The previous few days had been much of a whirlwind in France, whizzing up and down the A41 to The Divine Miss M's apartment where she and P had already been working on their masks and costumes for weeks. After I arrived from England, P had still been teaching during the day and we were working on our costumes and masks at night, usually not getting home till three in the morning. Although I had only had one week of this I felt exhausted. Keeping up with the news was not much of a priority.

Naturally, we turned to the web to find out what was going on. One person in our shared apartment on the fifth floor above one of the smaller canals near San Marco switched on the television and turned to the BBC news channel. Looking for real news is where the problems began. Finding hard information was difficult. The reports we found were highly coloured and sensational. It sounded as though we were all about to die. Within the hour the reports came through that the authorities were ending carnevale that evening, two days earlier than planned, stopping all sporting fixtures and concerts and even church services including funerals! The news was apocalyptic.

Would the weeks and months spent toiling away on our beautiful creations be for nothing? Of course, if the emergency turned out to be a real thing, we would have no choice but to comply with whatever we were being told to do. Unfortunately, no one anywhere seemed to be equipped with definitive instructions. Nature abhorring that vacuum, people began preparing their own scenes. Under the circumstances the best we felt able to do was to dress up and go out in our finery for possibly the last time. That was what we did and carnevale closed that night, Sunday. Like ghosts we slipped through the nearly deserted piazzas and along the quayside. The public were staying away in droves. Sunday evening during Carnevale should not look like this. We wafted by little huddles of polizia, carabinieri, esercito and what I took to be private security operators. These latter were the ones who had been issued with some pretty impressive protective face masks. Not one member of any of these armed security forces was interested in us, breaking curfew or not.

As the days went on more information became available, as well as more evidence of misinformation. It was difficult sorting wheat from chaff, sheep from goats. I should have been back in the UK two days ago and preparing hard for gigs coming up tomorrow and Saturday. I had to make a decision so, last week, I contacted the organisers and withdrew from the bookings. I also had to turn away a last minute request to lead a drum workshop yesterday with a group of adults with learning disabilities. Many of them also lived with conditions that would render them an at-risk group if I did turn out to be a carrier of the disease. We had an NHS nurse in our apartment. She is the sister of one of the founder members of our French costume group and works in a hospital on the south coast of England in A&E. She talked a lot of common sense while we were struggling to work it all out. It was very helpful having her with us.

I hate letting people down. If I make a commitment to do something I do it. Of course there has to be a priority made to protect people from contracting a vile contagion, but there is a balance to be struck. I was in Venice. The closest place in lockdown was an hour away on the other side of the region of Veneto. Admittedly an hour is not long as a virus ticks, but far enough away, I would imagine, to be less dangerous than taking five trains back to England - each a sealed tube with hundreds of unknown travel companions. However the level of public concern has been so great that any knowledge that I had been to Italy would soon spread at a gig and someone would be almost certain to make an issue of it. I did not want the rest of Friday's band, or the the organisers of any of the gigs, to come under fire for me being there. That was the reason I pulled out of those bookings. If I had to go into quarantine anyway, I might as well do it in France, where I would at least be warm and where I would have some company. The difficult thing about making the choice I did is that, as time passes, the number of cases in both France and the UK is rising. Who knows how greatly increased my chances of contracting the virus will be in a fortnight's time on the journey home? Who knows how the quarantine instructions will change during the coming fortnight.

The instructions to UK travellers from the end of last week until today have been that anyone who had been in the northern area of Italy does not need to go into self-imposed isolation unless they have the symptoms of Covid-19 namely, a cough, shortness of breath or a temperature. In addition, anyone who has been in any of the locked down towns should also quarantine themselves. What I have chosen to do goes beyond the requirement and is, or was, done with perhaps an over-developed sense of responsibility, but with the best of intentions. Today, the Northern Italy-plus-symptoms area has (according to BBC news) been expanded to include the whole of Italy. Today the first patient in the UK has died. This was an older person in Reading who had been in and out of hospital for some time with other problems. This is, of course, very sad for all who were close to that person. However, in the larger picture it is still fewer deaths than the number who have died from influenza this winter and according to the Department for Work and Pensions, certainly fewer than the sixty disabled people who have died each month after having a personal independence payment (PIP) claim rejected. I know I am not comparing like with like, but I quote those figures for comparison. Which circumstance connected with death is getting all the attention at the moment?

Covid-19 is a new disease in the same way that SARS was once a new disease or, in the 1980s, AIDS. Misinformation breeds hysteria. Hysterical public reaction looks for people to blame. I have seen reports of racist attacks on people perceived to be "Chinese". Wuhan is the city in China where the disease was first identified. I believe that while we do need to make ourselves aware of the issues surrounding Covid-19, we do not need to lose our humanity in order to protect ourselves. In a country that has been split and polarised by an unnecessary political situation since 2016 the United Kingdom does not need another excuse to hurt fellow citizens. I have seen close up how harsh responses from one friend to another can be made when each carries a different perception of how we are responding to this disease. Now is not the time to turn on each other. I want to talk to my friends and make sure they are okay. If I start lecturing them or judging them somebody stop me.

This was supposed to be about carnevale. Here's a picture of how my costume and mask turned out. This is the first time in three carnevales I had made such a large contribution to my mask (which was moulded to my head from plaster) and the crown. Our inspiration this time was the films of Federico Fellini who would have been one hundred this year. P was one of the mad bishops from Roma, the Divine Miss M was a character from Satyricon while I was ... Casanova!

First attempt to get dressed

And ... we did go on another gondola trip before we came back to France.

The English Nurse, The Divine Miss M, Carlos the Gondolier and Marshlander

The Grand Canal from a gondola

Of Strikes And Being Stricken

Many French people are accomplished at finding imaginative ways of expressing dissatisfaction. For the past year or so the gilets jaunes have not only caused delays and blockages (mostly on Saturdays from what I've seen), but they have also been responsible for opening at random the barriers at the toll stations along the autoroutes. A few times P and I have arrived at a barrier to find that the machine won't take the payment card, but just then the barrier magically lifts - all the barriers lift in some kind of bizarre simultaneous salute to the power of the people in yellow jackets who have climbed on to variously constructed or found plinths, so that we may see and marvel. Or else the gilets jaunes congregate round their braziers displaying their drooping banners, slogans and yellow balloons at half-mast. This action is somewhat double-edged. While the strikers cause disruption and loss to the bosses the bosses have set about raising the tolls on the autoroutes, so that in the end they don't lose any money. It is a finely balanced game of chat-et-souris.

Since the beginning of December there has also been an ongoing general strike. The French are truly sorry, but they are still making everything as awkward as possible, as politely as possible - "malheureusement votre train 9*** ne circulera pas en raison de la grève nationale interprofessionnelle en cours. Croyez bien que nous en sommes sincèrement désolés."

For reference my usual monthly journey involves one train to London. Then

St Pancras International to Paris Nord - Eurostar
Paris Nord to Paris Gare de Lyon - TER
Paris Gare de Lyon to Genève Cornavin - Oui SNCF Lyria
Genève Cornavin to my final destination - Léman Express

The route plan above may help unravel the following:
Yesterday I received an e-mail informing me that one of the trains I was expecting to travel on was being cancelled. At least that's the gist of what I got from the message. My French is just about good enough to work that out. However, what to do from then on was simply overwhelming. After four hours of struggling with my SNCF phone app, the website on my computer and extended polite online chats with people bearing the unlikely names of David or Michael I did manage to change my booking from Paris to Geneva at no extra cost. The change would add an extra four hours to a journey and turn it into a twenty-two hour one. The reason for this is that, in order to be able to take advantage of the cheapest fares I have to be at St Pancras International at about 5am. The only way to do this is to leave home the previous evening and sit around St Pancras all night. The only part of the station left open all night is the UK booking hall passage between Midland Road and Pancras Road. It can get drafty. All that achieved I had my new departure organised from Gare de Lyon. 

On arriving in Paris Nord I tried to get to the TER line D (the green one) to discover that the usual TER route was being terminated at Châtelet les Halles, preventing me from getting through to Gare de Lyon. That meant negotiating the Métro, something that is for some reason much more complicated than the Tube in London. I also had to change lines mid journey. I took and deep breath and thought, "I can do this", specially now I had the extra four hours". I did it and climbed out of the Métro into the subterranean Hall 3 at Gare de Lyon before emerging into the glaring sunshine of Hall 2. Out of habit I checked the departure board and guess what ... my original train was apparently running after all! It hadn't been cancelled by the strike or by anything else. I had about an hour to see if I could change my later reservation back to the original time. Another deep breath because this would involve a lot of queuing and speaking a lot of French. In I went. The mission was accomplished even though the man behind the desk didn't appear to believe that I'd received an e-mail since the train clearly hadn't been cancelled. I tried to find the e-mail on my phone, but you know what it's like when in a panic and a fluster. You can never find what you want.

While I was waiting for my platform to be announced I was treated to the sight and sound of a strike march by Parisian railway workers right through the station. For a Tuesday lunchtime it was impressive that not only were trains running (after a fashion), but that the CGT union had mustered about two hundred marchers a month after the strikes began. President Macron has had to climb down on his proposed pension reforms, but is it enough? Action is continuing.

Not quite what I saw, but you get the idea. The Daily Telegraph was the first site to let me steal a photograph.

Of Masked Men, Woodwork And The First Festival Of The Year

Not quite nine o’clock in the morning and Ive been up for three hours. The sun is shining and if it stays like this, today will be hot. I’m in a boggy field near the Lincolnshire coast for this weekend’s Spirit of the Marsh Beltane celebration. Ive been to this festival a couple of times before, but only for half a day at a time. It always coincides with other work. This time it is work.

On the basis that it’s not what you know I contacted one of the organisers, a friend I met through an internet discussion group, and suggested to him that Marshlander would be appropriate entertainment for a festival called “Spirit of the Marsh”. As the keyboard player quipped, “It’s got your name all over it!” I arrived last night, at about eleven o’clock. I decided not to use my phone app to find the place. I went organic. I knew it was in Trustthorpe, which itself is somewhere near Mablethorpe. I knew that Mablethorpe could be reached by first finding the A16. I knew I had a choice of routes to reach the A16. Somehow it worked. More amazing than that I did not feel tired on the two-hour trip.  

For many decades long drives, specially evening ones, have made me feel very weary. Perhaps it is because I have not slept properly for many years that I have found driving soporific. Driving has always involved keeping very aware of my state of alertness and stopping to sleep if I feel potentially dangerous to other drivers. I’ve had mixed messages about this. I always felt that I was being polite by not killing other road users. I have been stopped by the police many times after working at night. After a gig and all the packing up and some obligatory post-performance cameraderie, I’m quite keen to get home to bed. Being stopped because I drive a van is irritating, but they are only doing their job ... I keep telling myself. Perhaps the police get bored or lonely. Perhaps I’m part of a game they play. One might have thought that in a country that outdoes pretty much everywhere else in the degree to which it watches and records the activities of its citizens there would be a record of van registrations where the owner is known to be a gigging musician. I should get Cambridge Analytica on to it. After all, it was coming back home from Cambridge one time in the wee hours that I was pulled by the police after I’d found a safe layby to catch a bit of a sleep. If I’m on the road it would seem I’m suspicious because I’m driving a van, specially a white one apparently (but then black vans were the troublesome ones when I owned one of those). Unfortunately, when I’m being cautious and pull off the road for a nap, I’m still suspicious. 

Where’s this leading? Earlier this year I was diagnosed with OSAS - obstructive sleep apnea syndrome. For years P has told me that he has woken in the night and felt he needed to give me a nudge to see if I were still alive. He has caught me not breathing many times. I don't not-breathe on purpose, but I didn't do anything about it until I finally felt so exhausted I went to see the GP to help me get to the bottom of it. I was convinced that it was the tinnitus roaring in my head that woke me several times a night. My lovely GP admitted we needed specialist advice on counts of both the exhaustion and the tinnitus, and I left his consulting room within five minutes of entering with hospital appointments at two different hospitals. The appointments were to take place within a fortnight. This is the NHS at its very best!

The first appointment brought me to the attention of an audiologist who diagnosed moderate hearing loss over 2kHz. This was, as it happens, a bit of a shock. I had been under the impression that I could hear okay up to about 6kHz, and hopefully more. The tinnitus is my brain making up for what it can’t hear, so hearing aids were prescribed. They have made a huge difference. I still have the tinnitus, but it is nowhere near as disruptive as it was. Taking them out at night leaves room for the noises to come whooshing back.  The second appontment, at a sleep clinic, has resulted in me being diagnosed with "a chronic disorder of his breathing for which he requires treatment every night with a CPAP machine through a face mask" - a declaration I have to carry with me when I pass through security at airports and railway stations. Once again, the CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure) device is a life-changing experience. Bits of my life have started to return, most gratifying when I thought some of those bits were gone forever. From an AHI of nearly 15.9 (ie 16 breathing stoppages every hour when entering deep sleep) my last reading was 6.3. I have not exactly been waking up completely refreshed, but it is wonderful not feeling completely drained. I am now, though, a man in a mask. I am plugged, via a corrugated hose and a mask that covers my nose and mouth, into the machine which forces filtered air into my nose and keeps me breathing at night. It is a bit of a rigmarole, but there are benefits to be had.  There are also challenges. Using a CPAP machine does require electricity. Here I am in the middle of a field with no mains power so I have had to find a means of powering my device off-grid. For the past few nights I have drawn power from deep-cycle leisure batteries in the boat via a (very expensive) DC-DC kit designed for the machine. This was a trial for when sleeping in the van. Now all I need is a means of recharging the batteries. Undoubtedly more of this later. 

View from Camp Marsh before the crowds arrive.

Camp Marsh

Woodwork, it's something I never had a chance to do a school. Other boys did, but I was one of those who had to do Latin instead. I didn't get very far with Latin (show me a teenaged boy who hasn't sniggered at an ablative or genitive case) although I suppose I have found what I managed to understand quite useful on occasions. Knowing something about wood and its workings, though, would have come in so handy so many times. When I left school I went to work for a firm of builders in London. My lack of knowledge was ripe for humorous episodes amongst the "blokes". I ended up driving the firm's flatbed Transit truck, keeping the tradesmen supplied with the bits they needed to bring in the money and clearing away the mess after they had finished. My first trip to the timber yard prompted an embarrassment I shall probably never forget. I had to buy some 8'x4' sheets of blockboard. As I was waiting to be served I had seen men carrying piles of timber and several sheets of various boards to their vehicles. Asked if I needed any help I assured the man in the yard I'd manage. I approached the stack of boards leaning against the racking ready for me to carry to the truck. I stretched my arms wide and clutched the outermost board as I attempted to get the balance right. I over-compensated and the first board nearly turned me into Flat Stanley. I simply could not lift a single board off the ground and ended up having to go back and ask for help. Within a fortnight though I had a technique of sorts and the next visit was not quite so embarrassing ... apart from the ribbing I got in the yard.

I didn't know anything about joinery, but my first job in every house I lived in was to put up some shelves. I developed an idiosyncratic shelving style which was pretty bomb proof and held my huge collection of books and vinyl. Whenever I have lived in the van for a few days I have used a camp bed in the back. It has never been very comfortable, or particularly warm on colder nights, and it has used up precious floor space. I decided that for Spirit of the Marsh I would attempt to emulate some of my nomadic friends and erect a sleeping shelf upon which I could lay a proper mattress, although this time an airbed would have to suffice. On the morning I was due to leave for the festival (i.e. yesterday) I went to the timber yard in the neighbouring village and bought some wood that would enable me to knock something together according to a plan I scribbled on the back of a bank statement envelope the previous evening. I got back to the farm. I measured everything twice and nearly got it right. I had to cut some bits out of some of the lengths to make joints that wouldn't twist and it took me a while to get my head round where and how much to cut. I even had to shape some cross-pieces that I planned to lay across the panelled-in wheel arches, because the sides of my van converge from the rear awards the sliding doors. Amazingly everything fits, more or less, apart from a frame for the foot end of the ply board bed support. I bodged that up by blocking it up with some of the wood I'd cut to make the frame; job done! It may make a chippy blush, but it's my own work and I had the best night's sleep I'd ever had in the van. I shall consider my sleeping shelf a work in progress, a bit like the leisure battery recharging operation, but I'm very happy with the results so far.

The gates don't open for festival business for another three hours, so, when I arrived last night, I had a pick of places to set up. Some of the going seemed a little soft, but I found my place and backed the van into it. I decided I would erect my shelter and "kitchen" in the dark. This also turned out better than the first time I tried to erect the shelter when I was still trying to work it out after the light had faded and it became very dark a couple of years ago. This time I was all set up in under an hour and in bed by midnight, CPAP hissing gently beside me.

Of Masked Men, Women, Children And Dogs

Some of the fabric bought for the costumes

The last couple of weeks have continued in their extraordinary way. If my life is this rich I cannot imagine what everyone else’s must be like. I’m writing this sitting on Platform 8 at Geneva-Cornavin, the city’s main railway station. I arrived here a fortnight ago and, while so much has happened, it seems to have gone by so quickly. When I arrived at Cornavin I left the station for the 61 bus to France. On arrival at the end of that journey I walked the fifteen minutes journey to P’s apartment. As I turned the key in the lock there were no suprises. P and The Divine Miss M were in full sweatshop mode preparing our costumes for the coming Venice carnival. As always P had been overwhelmed at work and had very little time available for working on costumes. We only went out to buy the fabric four weeks ago and he's done an extraordinary job.

Some more rolls of fabric ready to be turned into costumes

Since then I think Miss M had come up from Annecy every time he had minutes at home. She moved in for the weekends too. The family consider we have a strange relationship. When they gather at family events the three of us - P, Me and The Divine Miss M, become “Les Savoyards”, chiefly on account that we don’t live in Isere, Grenoble being the place of P’s birth and upbringing until he left for his national service in the army. Progress on the costumes had been faster than I expected. P and Miss M work well together. P is the designer and artist who creates his costumes in the most organic of ways. All he required from me were my measurements. He didn’t trust that I had stayed the same over the past four years. He was probably right. What I hadn’t expected was that the costumes were going to be quite so ornate. I should really have known better. I barely had time to shower off the anguish of the journey and consume a bowl of warming soup than I was set to work on my own mask. This time we were using a Columbina design as the basis. Then I had to cut out the shape of the mask from fabric left over from my chemise and sleeves and carefully glue it to the mask. Matching the contours was tricky, but once that was done I could edge the mask with ornate gold trims and start adding shiny gems of costume jewelry. The final addition was to add two layers of fabic to veil my lower face. Once completed I was childishly delighted with the result. While the three costumes were substantially the same they were distingushed mainly by colour. We all had a different main colour. Mine was green.

My mask in progress.

Because I am writing (from his point on) several weeks (no, wait a minute, it's actually months) after the event I am not going to attempt to give a full account. I'll try a share a few pictures to give a flavour of the trip to Venezia and the 2018 carnevale. I shall back date this entry though so that it it falls within a sensible timeline within the context of the blog.

I have so many photographs of the other costumes, but this was a family from Switzerland. Their costumes were beautiful and the children were brilliant and very patient posing for hundreds of photographs, but the little one was SO cold, poor mite!

This gentleman, Philip Von Reutter, is a carnival veteran and well into his seventies. He borrowed the little masked dog from a passing visitor and posed for a few photographs. (edit: Very sadly, Philip passed away in May 2018. For many he characterised the spirit of carnival and will be missed. His costumes were incredibly inventive. I recommend you look for a photograph of his Van Gogh! Oh, okay I'll post one at the end of this essay.)

Philip Von Reuter

These were our day costumes, the ones created by P for this year's carnival. I think Miss M's arms may have been tired by this point. We each had starry, psychedelic banners to hold behind us. The original concept was that they be the walls of a music box out of which we would emerge to do a special dance. I could have predicted we'd be so tight for time on the costumes we'd have no chance to realise the concept properly. As it was, people thought we were celestial beings, and the music box walls became starry banners, not representations of sounds and music! I'd probably have thought the same, so I can't argue.

l-r Marsh, P, The Divine Miss M.

Marsh and P share an intimate moment near the Ponte dei Sospiri.

Nowadays one can only stay costumed and masked for four days. After Shrove Tuesday masks may no longer be worn. In times gone by, though, Venetians stayed masked for six months of the year and got up to all sorts of mischief. Venice had thriving red light areas and customers flocked into the city to take advantage of the city's charms. It was, however, a destination or home for so many gay men that prostitutes complained about the lack of business! In the 1400s the city council was so shocked to discover there were so many gay men not using the facilities provided they paid women to stand on the bridge displaying their breasts as a means of converting these errant souls. Old Whore Street and Tits Bridge are remnants of this unusual municipal facility.  There are no records as to the success of this somewhat inventive plan!

The Tits Bridge end of Old Whore Street

Copping a feel on Tits Bridge

As last time we were able to spend a few days seeing the sights. David took us to see many places we had not seen before including the rooftop terrace of the second largest building in Venice that dates from 1285. Now it is a luxury goods megastore, but it was originally a centre for trade. From the terrace much of Venice is visible.

Kings (or Queens?) on the rooftop terrace of the 800 year old Fondaco dei Tedeschi, the second largest building in Venice.

Given our interests in the mask and costume traditions of the city it was amazing to spend time in the workshop of a traditional family business making papier maché masks. Having made my mask for my carnival costume on a Columbina base in a modern style I wanted to try and decorate a traditionally made mask in a traditional pattern. Taking a plain papier maché Bauta mask as my starting point I borrowed a traditionally decorated mask  and copied the pattern and the colours as best I could. Had we more time it would have been fun to try and incorporate a torn off section of musical notation. I asked about this and there is a story, but I forgot the reason. I'm sure P or David will remember.

Seeing Venice from the water is definitely the best

Last time we came to Venice the only travel on water we did was one trip across the Grand Canal by man-powered traghetto, but mostly we travelled by the motorised vaporetto, the water bus. This time five of us pooled our resources one afternoon and took a trip in a gondola. The skill of the gondolier is staggering. No wonder the training takes five years before one can apply for a licence to trade. Buying a gondola is not cheap either. Got a spare €30k, guv'nor?

Traghetto across the Grand Canal 

Of course Venice has a massive cultural history. Listed in many travel guides as one of the world's "must-see" bookshops the Alta Acqua Libreria fulfils and confounds every expectation and is crowded with visitors. It is stacked from floor to ceiling with (mostly) second-hand books. They are stored according to subject. It also lives up to its name. In case of high water, many of the books are ready piled in a gondola and there are some in enamel bath-tubs too. At the back of the shop is a tiny courtyard and the shop owner has created a staircase from old books. Of course we all had to climb it to see over the wall to the adjacent canal.

The visit was over far too quickly. Eight days is not enough to see everything. It is barely enough to realise that Venice is truly unique in the world and that it is the only city in the world to which I am determined to return. There never has been, nor ever will be again, a place like Venice. Climate change is a very real threat. A month after our visit the Piazza San Marco was nearly waist-deep in water during the Alta Acqua (high tide).

In addition to lots of walking and visits to all kinds of buildings we had seen the works of Titian and and attended a concert of music by Vivaldi. I gave two short performances in the hotel on different evenings. On one of the evenings I sang Referendum Rag. When I got to the harmonica solo, the "Ode To Joy" part, the whole audience sang along - funny, moving and most unexpected. That has never happened when I've sung the song in the UK!

Ciao Venezia

One of Matteo Chinellato's photographs of Philip Von Reuter's Van Gogh