Oh we do like to be beside the seaside.....

One of the delights of Poland, one that never gets the recognition it deserves in my view, is the quality of its Baltic Sea coastal resorts. Personally, I love them. Here is why.

First and foremost, the beaches are superb along the entire length of the coast from the German border to that of the Russian enclave at Kaliningrad. They have a character like no other I have come across elsewhere – kilometre after kilometre of golden sands, with hardly any pebbles or stones anywhere, backed up by forests that vary in width between a hundred metres to perhaps a kilometre before you come to a road. Between the trees, that give a welcome shade from what can be a surprisingly hot summer sun, there are sandy dunes criss-crossed by networks of foot- and cycle-paths winding in and out of the trees making for a pleasant walk before and after your beach lounging. There is plenty of grass and heathers and forest flowers as well. Lovely.

Where the beaches are close to a town or resort village, every 50 metres or so in the sand there are blue refuse sacks, which people use to keep the beach pristine (unlike other places I’ve been to where you have to pick your way through the trash on your way to and from the beach). It’s rare to find junk just dumped and left in the sand, buried cigarette butts notwithstanding, and even they seem to be less common these days. In these areas too there are usually two or three beach bars scattered around the beach entrances, serving a variety of hot and cold food and the local beers, always cold and cheap in comparison with the price you would pay elsewhere. There are also squads of vendors traipsing along the sands selling bags of popcorn and nachos and corn-on-the-cob, and usually soft drinks. They do good business, but I don’t envy them – it must be hard work, especially on the hotter summer days, slogging along acres of sand for little reward.

The beaches all have steps or paths leading in from the adjoining woods every half kilometre or so, so access is safe and easy. For town beaches there are generally plenty of free parking spaces in the streets, as well as secure and paid car parks. The beaches here tend to be quite crowded, with acres of colourful windbreaks marking your section of precious sand, and as the tide line never seems to vary by more than a couple of feet per tide, you can park yourself right on the surf line. Out of town beaches tend to be emptier, though rarely deserted, and lack the beach bars and hawkers (though often there are still trash bags). I’m not a fan of crowded beaches, so we tend to drive perhaps three or four kilometres (say half a dozen beach entrances – most are numbered and all clearly signed), park at the side of the road and just under the shade of the forest, then walk to find a bit more elbow room. Well worth the effort.

The Baltic has a deserved reputation as one of the coldest seas in the world, but in the summer, especially the hotter and sunnier ones that we are blessed with in these days of global warming (and I know that in itself is a curse) it’s still fine for bathing. I would suggest it is no colder than the English Channel or North Sea that I was used to for most of my life, and I’m happy to go in for a dip. It can be quite rough, with big waves and strong currents, so care has to be taken, but for all that, great fun. The busier or more dangerous beaches are well known and well patrolled by lifeguards, but that still does not prevent regular drowning tragedies. But I don’t think any more than elsewhere.

Second, the resorts themselves, whether the stolid Germanic and well paved towns and villages in the far west of the coast, in what was once part of Prussia, or the shabbier places to the east where a Communist influence and poorer roads and footpaths prevail, are full of cheap and cheerful restaurants offering a huge variety of fresh fish dishes and traditional, filling Polish fare like pierogi, zapikanki, chicken and pork cutlets with potatoes in various styles (chips, of course, boiled, or ground up and fried as pancakes), fresh vegetables and salads alongside the ubiquitous pizzas, burgers (but not McDonalds) and kebabs.

And then there are the ice-creams. Forget the good old Walls’ 99s with their Cadbury’s chocolate flakes stuffed into the ice cream, or the Magnum lollies and other British favourites, and enjoy delicious cornets stuffed full of spiralled ice cream three or four inches high, maybe more if you’re a regular customer at a particular stall, in vanilla, chocolate or a mix of both, or lovely soft Italian style cornets in the same flavour mixes. Then there are Polish family brands like Grycan offering a huge range of flavoured ice-creams and sorbets. Every one delicious – and that’s without adding a selection of toppings like ground nuts, chocolate chips, and coloured chips (in England, hundreds-and-thousands) or sauces (strawberry and chocolate are favourites).

Let’s not forget the Polish speciality – gofry (it’s pronounced go-free), which is a sweet waffle topped with powdered sugar, or Nutella chocolate sauce, or whipped squirty cream smothered in fresh fruits (finely chopped strawberries, raspberries, blackcurrants, blueberries, pineapples and peaches) with again a dousing in fruit sauces. With food of this quality and value it’s no wonder I regularly put on a few kilos each trip!

Finally, there is the shopping.   Again common to any resort is the huge numbers of gift shops and jewellery stalls, and clothing stalls typically run or sponsored by major Polish brands like 4F, or internationals like cropp, house and adidas. The goods in these are the same as you would find in one of their city mall locations but cheaper – they have kept me in shorts and tee-shirts for years. In the gift shops there are the usual fridge magnets, invariably tailored for the resort you’re in, and coffee mugs, similarly decorated, a variety of ornaments made from glass, seashells and stuff, all with a distinctly nautical flavour as you would expect. There are also earrings and necklaces made from locally sourced amber (the Baltic coast is world famous for it) and again small seashells, plus a huge range of bracelets and hippy beads. There are even stalls selling proper gold and silver stuff. All sensibly priced and decent quality.

Much as I have enjoyed (and will hopefully continue to enjoy) my overseas trips to places like Croatia and Spain, Portugal and the Greek islands, where I can usually rely on a couple of weeks’ decent weather and a sea as warm as bathwater, I find something comforting in coming back to the coast here. Whether westerly Mrzeżyno (where we have stayed this last couple of weeks), centrally located Rowy, Ustka and our old favourite Jastrębia Góra, or easterly Sztutowo and Krynica Morska, within a few kilometres of the border with Russian Kaliningrad, they are lovely places well worth a visit – and visit them I will!

A trip back

Right, the dust has settled from my latest English visit.  I've been home a week and had time to reflect.  So, a few thoughts - not all of them palatable, I'm sure.



First up, I had a great time, as usual.  My daughter and I travelled on a LOT rewards flight  so the cost was minimal, and both flights between Heathrow and Warsaw were pleasant enough.  As usual with the airline (a flag carrier increasingly masquerading as a slightly posher RyanAir) the outgoing Embraer 190 and returning Boeing 737-800 flights were comfortable, even if Economy Class catering only runs to a coffee or tea and a chocolate wafer biscuit - poor fare for a flight of over 2 hours.  But outbound we managed to get access to the Business Lounge on my Star Alliance Frequent Traveller Silver Card, so we had a decent fill of hot food, pastries and drinks before boarding.  The privilege wasn't returned at Heathrow, where I was brusquely informed I could go in the Lounge but my 11 year old travelling companion would have to wait outside as "the lounge was very busy".  From where we were standing at the reception desk it looked half empty, but there you go - no room at the inn, so Boots sandwiches (for budget reasons) it was.  Coming on top of a close to an hour check in delay because the entire Terminal 2 baggage handling system broke down as we arrived, meaning we had to wait for harassed handlers to turn up with trolleys to manually collect our bags (one of which did not arrive in Warsaw until the Thursday - we flew on Tuesday), it kind of took the gloss off both the shiny new Queens Terminal and the entire trip.

But my sons and my elder sister were as ever very welcoming, and I really enjoyed playing
Grandad Bob while my daughter revelled in being Auntie Ally looking after 3 lovely and energetic 2 year olds.  We split our time between north Kent, where my boys live, and my sister's country cottage a couple of miles inland from the north Norfolk coast close to Wells-next-Sea and Hunstanton.  By and large, while typical for July in England - that is to say warm to hot with a mix of sunshine and cloud with the odd shower - the weather meant we only managed a couple of beach trips.  It was a marked contrast to the three or four weeks of clear skies and 30C plus we had been basking in in Warsaw before the trip.

We had a good day trip around the Norfolk coast from Hunstanton to Great Yarmouth, along the coast road, and managed a paddle or two along the way, then the next day a shopping trip to Kings Lynn and Hunstanton gave further paddling opportunities that my daughter happily took.  I've been to the area many times over the years - my sister has lived at Docking more than 20 - and remarkably neither Lynn nor Sunny Hunny have changed much in all that time (except to get more shabby and run down looking, especially Lynn), and the road between them past Sandringham plagued with more traffic.

Then on the following weekend, we all piled into my son's pick up truck and headed off to Dymchurch on the Kent coast, in a more continental 27C and sunshine.   I've driven through it a couple times years ago but never stopped, and it was a very nice surprise.  The tide was fully in to the steps leading onto the beach so we had to wait a couple of hours before there was sand enough to leave the promenade, but it was worth the wait.  The beach was beautiful, clean and sandy, and pretty much empty, and excellent for sand-castles,  The sea was surprisingly warm, but having forgotten swimsuits we had to settle again for paddles.  We had a good time with the only down side being the travel, particularly homeward, which was a nightmare - of which more in a minute.

The final excursion we had was to my birth town, Edenbridge, close to the Kent-Sussex border.  My mum and dad are buried together there, and I always make a pilgrimage to put fresh flowers on the grave.  The town has changed tremendously since I last lived there, way back in 1978, and now boasts a set of traffic lights at the top of the High Street.  But the police station is now a block of flats, the secondary modern (sorry, comprehensive) school has closed, its extensive playing fields now modern hosing estates.  At the Primary school, the open air swimming pool my parents scrimped and saved and laboured to help build is gone, filled in, concreted over and turned into a netball court.   The White Horse Hotel, a fine pub in my youth, is now just another Costa Coffee outlet, and many of the High Street shops have either closed down or changed into antique shops.  In the Square, where my old residence Church Street meets the High Street, there used to be a ladies' hairdressers, a small bookshop, a toy and fishing tackle shop, a tobacconist and sweetshop and a grocery store   They are all now antique stores, as is the tobacconists across the road where I used to go every Saturday night as a child to buy my dad ten cigarettes and the classified edition of the Evening News that he used to check his football pools.

The character of the town has gone, but that I guess is the price of progress.  However, I did discover some compensation, with the Eden Valley Museum, now open for business in the old Church House, where in my youngest days I used to go to bible class (and right next door to the Crown Inn, where my sister worked the bar for many years and my cousin Sam and his group the Croppers used to host the Edenbridge Folk Club in an upstairs room.  I remember seeing the Strawbs live there, just before they recruited Rick Wakeman, went electric and had a top ten hit with Part of the Union - I preferred their acoustic set, it was brilliant).    We had a lovely hour wandering around, looking at the old pictures and exhibits and chatting to the two ladies running it - and all for free.  There were so many memories: a picture of my auntie, who ran a sweet shop in the High Street and gave me bags of dolly mixtures, pink candy shrimps, lemon bon-bons and all kinds of goodies pretty much every day; a group of people from the well known local builder's merchants with my old football coach prominent (he is still around, a sprightly 85 or so, and a regular contributor to the historical society magazine) and many picture of the epic floods in late 1968 that left our house (a good half mile from the river) with 3 feet or of filthy flood water in the front room, but rewarded me with a week or two off school ("clearing up the mess, sir...").  The museum visit was possibly the highlight of the entire trip (at least for me).



But it was not, I'm afraid, an idyllic trip.  Put simply, England today is not the England I grew up in.  It's not even the England I left in 2000, when I started in earnest my travelling life that led me eventually to making a new life (and family) here in Poland.

Change happens. I understand that.  I've seen many examples, both good and bad, over the years, in many countries.  There is more, much more traffic on the roads, for instance - I remember driving from my sister's place in Norfolk to my then home in North Kent in not much more than an hour and a half in around 1997.  It was a midweek evening, but still - that journey time now would just about get you to the top of the A11 at Barton Mills, with a good 70-80 miles still to go.

Coming back from Dymchurch, the M20 has a contra-flow on the northbound carriageway that stretches from south of Ashford to just north of Maidstone.  We drove it early on a Sunday evening, when you would expect traffic to be at its lightest, but for the entire thirty odd miles we were stuck in slow moving lines of cars, buses and container lorries, inching their way up from the coast.  I don't think we got out of second gear for the entire trip, except when we stopped (again.....) and had to drop down to first.  It was hot, it was boring and incredibly frustrating - especially since there was not a trace of any roadworks going on over the length of the contraflow.  About half way there was a single stupid sign which read "Warning! Road works for at least 6 months.  Delays possible".  We read that as we sat motionless and fuming in the traffic jam.

But it is not actually roadworks.  No: the contraflow is at the forefront of the government's planning for the event (daily more likely) of a No Deal Brexit.  The contraflow will then turn into a lorry park for the ports of Dover and Folkestone, where additional security checks will of course be needed. So to satisfy zealots like Farage, and Johnson, Gove and Rees-Mogg, who between them managed to convince a clear but none the less small majority three years ago to vote to Leave the EU - without a fucking clue what that would actually mean or cost in practice - vast swathes of the Garden of England and its inhabitants are being subjected to increased traffic and pollution.  Good, eh?



Brexit has, of course, opened a veritable Pandora's Box of ills that had perhaps been festering for years (although I have no real recollection of them being as public or widely held in my younger days).  The north-south divide had been there since Thatcher's policies destroyed industries like coal mining, steel and shipbuilding in the north of the country, leaving communities of unemployed and unemployable living in deteriorating housing, whilst simultaneously pushing a free-market, wheeler-dealing, winner take all financial services industry in a de-regulated city of London in the south, where there were more winners than losers (including, I will admit, myself) living in ever bigger more expensive housing.  Council houses were sold off as part of the Tory dream (largely still a fiction) of a property and share owning well to do middle class democracy, and the houses disposed of in this way have never been adequately replaced.

To this already potent mix, the campaign in 2016 added a big smattering of anti - Islamic racism, a dollop of anti - European hatred (an innocent tax paying Polish resident, married with kids of dual Polish - British citizenship - much like mine, in fact - murdered in the lead up to voting by some snotty little Essex boy because "he spoke funny"), and a good wedge of Little Englander hysteria (another tragedy - a well respected Labour politician knifed to death, leaving a husband and two young children, by a maniac yelling "Britain First!").  Lies and misrepresentation was liberally used by both sides of the campaign, and there was a marked absence of reasoned and truthful debate of the issues faced by the entire country.  It split families and relationships and communities on lines other than party political - on the basis of age (Brexiteers tended to be older), on the basis of nationality and religion, on employment (the unemployed or those in manufacturing industry tended to be Brexiteers, whilst those in service industries such as banking and insurance, tended to want to Remain).

After the result, the inability of the government to deliver Brexit has led to more and more anger and frustration, with Parliament itself being even more split than the country it claims to represent.  Two Prime Ministers have resigned over the issue (neither will be missed) and the day we flew home Boris Johnson was elected by 150,000 or so Tory members to be the PM for 60 odd million of us who by and large can neither trust nor stand the man, nor believe a word he says.  This is the man at the forefront of the Leave campaign, trundling around in a red bus emblazoned with the slogan "Leave EU - deliver £350million a week extra for the NHS!" - a lie that suckered in thousands of voters.  The man who announced that "Turkey is about to join the EU and open our borders to sixty million Muslim terrorists" - ignoring the facts that a) this means every living Turk, from moments old to aged senility must be a terrorist, since that number was the TOTAL population of Turkey, and b) despite over 20 years of discussions, the country has met only a handful of the 25 or more conditions laid upon it before the country can even be considered for membership, so is unlikely to join the EU at all in our lifetimes.  This little yarn opened the way to even more anti Muslim rhetoric and screams of we want our country back from the British National Party and a host of related hard-right extremist thugs.

I could write at length about this entire shitshow that will take a generation to clear up and heal the wounds in society (never mind the broken economy that will soon be upon us), but frankly it's way too depressing!  What I WILL say is that in my many trips back to England since the vote, I have noticed that the anger and frustration in a divided nation, far from being healed and brought together (as promised ad nauseum by politicians of all parties) has in fact become even more strident and widespread.  Question Time on the BBC is no longer an entertaining chance to allow politicians to explain and debate priorities and the country's needs and has descended into a weekly bearpit of anger with a studio audience baying abuse at a panel of second rate no-mark and wannabe politicians more intent on abusing and blaming each other by soundbite than attempting to answer the questions raised.  Once Must See TV, I never watch it now.  The same goes for the Andrew Marr Show and Sunday Politics - they have been my means of keeping track on what is happening in my homeland for years, but no more.  I find it sad.

Britain is an angry country now.  Two times on this trip I was involved in incidents that even a year or two ago I'm sure would not have happened.  The first was in the car park of a Lidl store in Kings Lynn.  I was reversing out of a parking space, and stopped to allow a camper van to pass behind me.  Then I finished the manoeuvre and headed to the exit.  Within yards I came across the same van backing into a space, and stopped to let him park.  I smiled and waved to him to carry on.  As he  backed in, the passenger door opened and a burly young man leapt out and started gesturing and yelling abuse at me.  No idea why.  I left them to it.  The second was in Bluewater shopping centre at Dartford.  My daughter and I were walking along when my mobile rang.  I pulled it out of my pocket, still strolling slowly along, and glanced at the screen to see who was calling.  A guy walking the opposite direction, shaven headed, overweight, shorts sand trainers, barged past with "Out the fuckin' way!" yelled at me.  I ignored him, mainly because my daughter was with me.



How and when this will change I have no idea, but I suspect it will be many years - perhaps not in my lifetime.  I love England - it has many lovely places and, by and large, lovely people.  With family and grandkids there I have ties that will not be broken, and I will continue to visit them for as long as I can.  But it seems to me there is a sickness there that is blighting society.  I can't blame it all on Brexit, that would be both too easy and simply wrong.  Nor can I guess at how it will heal or how long that process will take.  But sadly it is no longer a place I would be happy to live - even if I could afford to (another issue - everything is so expensive now!  My pension won't stretch that far.).

It will always be my homeland - but no longer my home.

Getting Old....

“Genteel” is a word not much used nowadays. "Growing old gracefully", it usually meant.

It typically describes the elderly, living out their twilight years, sitting quietly at home sipping tea from bone china cups and saucers and munching on small sandwiches and cream cakes and biscuits. The ladies were usually portrayed wearing flower patterned pinafore dresses under soft wool cardigans, with perhaps an apron over that, and slippers. In summer the scene would shift to a sunlit flowery garden, and wide brimmed straw hats would make an appearance. The gentlemen, meanwhile, invariably wore grey flannel trousers neatly pressed and with turn-ups, perhaps with braces and always a shiny black leather belt for support, a tawny checked shirt with a green or brown knitted tie, topped by a grey v-necked pullover. In summer, this might be replaced by a sleeveless grey v-necked pullover and a trilby or cloth cap (dark grey or dark green gingham check and bought from Barbour of course). Both wore slippers: the ladies’ typically were pastel coloured with a kind of off-white sheepskin ruff around the ankle, while the gentlemen's tended to light brown, probably with a thin dark brown check pattern, and fur lined. Outside in summer, the slippers might be replaced by a pair of sensible and highly polished black leather shoes (or perhaps soft brown leather loafers with thin crepe soles).

The ladies would be reading magazines like Woman, or Women's Own, Country Life or The Lady. The men were usually labouring away at The Times crossword puzzle, or harrumphing over the Reader's Letters page. In the background a radio would be playing softly, the BBC Home Service (classical music and current affairs programming) or the BBC Light Programme (popular music). In the summer, live commentary from the Test cricket or Wimbledon tennis would also feature. Conversation might be desultory, often angry or critical, and driven by the content of the press and radio programming.

This is all 1960s and ‘70s stereotyping of course, and anyone familiar with latter day tv sitcoms like One Foot In The Grave or Terry and June will recognise them immediately. I remember both, vividly, and also my nan – who fitted the genteel definition to a T, bless her. My mum had her moments too, but was generally less genteel in her old age. Dad missed out on that, dying at the young age of 56, but the picture painted here fitted him well enough anyway, with the exceptions of the newspaper (he always read either the Daily Sketch or, after its demise, the Daily Mirror – as befitted the proud working class gardener he was) and the packet of cigarettes, Swan Vestas matches and ash-tray on the table next to him.

Of course, not everyone fitted the ideal. Many people were a lot louder and brasher in their retirement, regular visitors to working men’s clubs and local pubs at any time of day or night, especially in bigger towns and cities, for a game of darts or bar-billiards, or a good old political/sport/religious row (delete as required). But still, they were content to do not so much, after a hard working of life of 50-odd years, and able to live off their pensions.

Things have changed.

For a start, pensions have been considerably devalued in the intervening years. Sure, they've gone up, but still not in step with price increases. Living on a pension alone is incredibly difficult now, especially for those who still have some household debt like mortgages and loans and not much in the way of savings. I know this because although I am pretty much debt free and live in a country where goods, food and services are a lot cheaper, my pensions from 50 years' hard work barely cover what I need - and that's with a reasonably favourable exchange rate. This time next year it may well be more difficult, given the Brexit Shit Show is now running hell for leather towards a No Deal with all the devastating effects that will likely mean to Britain's economy and currency. The theft of taxing my income from what are essentially a lifetime's savings accrued through income tax, national insurance contributions and private plans (meaning I'm being taxed twice on the same money!) makes no sense to me. Beyond the old chestnut of "well, that's what the government wants/law says" - which is all the explanation any financial advisor or accountant has ever been prepared or able to give me - means nothing.

Second, people live longer and are healthy longer. This of course means we are expected to work longer with talk of a retirement age of 70 increasing. Physically - fine: I'm sure most people will be fit enough to work another few years, but would most of them really WANT to? I know I had had enough at 65 but did another year anyway. By the time I approached 66 it just seemed enough was enough - it was increasingly hard to raise any enthusiasm and there were other things I wanted to do with my life. Another 4 years' mandatory graft would have driven me nuts (or nuttier, anyway) - not because I am neither strong nor healthy enough to do it but simply because it no longer floats the boat.

But living longer and being healthier, and crucially stronger and fitter, means that people of 60 or so (when traditionally gentility set in) don't actually WANT to vegetate in front of the radio and munch cucumber sandwiches. We still want to be doing things. So we do.

The number of seniors (a much nicer term than old age pensioners, in my view) taking foreign holidays, camping, hiking, and back packing rather than on Saga all-inclusive coach trips or package holidays, has never been higher, despite the issues we all suffer in terms of pension income described above. The number of grey haired and bearded bikers roaring around on motor bikes is rising. Ditto those in renovated sports cars - or indeed any car. Not all of us are dragging caravans around behind the car - camper vans, self contained and easier to manoeuvre and park are increasing in popularity too and give the freedom to travel on our terms. I quite fancy one myself, actually. And there are tents, lighter and easier to carry and erect than ever before. In a nutshell, we are more adventurous these days.

We want to remain active as well, and this doesn't mean hanging around the local crown green bowling club dressed in immaculate whites. It means getting out and doing things. My 72 year old widowed mother-in-law has been going to university here for a couple of years now, and as well as meeting a whole raft of new friends she gets to go to the opera, to concerts and on various trips to resorts here and overseas with them. I have no idea what course she's taking, but she's enjoying herself for sure. Back in England an old friend and work colleague started a University course (a BA, I think) in European History at London University when he turned 70, and is loving it. Another old friend has recently been elected to represent the Conservative Party on his local council back in the UK at 66. Funds permitting, I would happily enrol in a degree at the Open University – but unfortunately funds do not permit.

Of course, in some areas people quite happily work well beyond pensionable age - the arts being particularly fertile ground. Just because you're over 65 doesn't mean your brain switches off. Writers still write (or, like me, start writing more), painters paint, and musicians - well, what can I say? They go on forever. Bruce Springsteen (age 69) has just released a new and critically acclaimed album, Phil Collins (68) despite arthritis, is touring again - the wonderfully named Not Dead Yet Tour - selling out stadia worldwide (Warsaw last week: some friends went and said it was great). Rod Stewart (74) and Chris de Burgh (70) are playing over here later this year and sold out already. As for the Stones, all of them well over 70, they have just paused their latest World Tour to allow Mick Jagger (75) to have his heart valves replaced. He's now back in the gym and the band back in the rehearsal room with the No Filter Tour set to continue. More power to their elbows, says I - and to their music, too. Heroes all.

And what of myself?

Well, I’ve done the suits, ties and shiny shoes bit, putting on a (perhaps false) impression in the office. I’ve served my time commuting in a variety of places, some easy and some appalling, but most hot and sweaty whatever the climate. I’ve had my fill of early morning and late night flights to and from places I don’t want to be in but have had to go to to satisfy someone else’s demands. Ditto the uncomfortable hotel beds with too soft pillows wrecking my neck and my back.

My suits and shirts and ties are now confined to my wardrobe, gathering dust. At some point I must have a sort out and donate a lot of them to charities – I’m not going to need all of them, just the better ones at Easter, Christmas and, perhaps, family events like weddings and Christenings, First Communions and, at some point, funerals.

Now, all I need are jeans, tee-shirts, sweaters and trainers, plus a parka, waterproof jacket and ski-jacket for winter. In summer substitute shorts and sandals. Some chinos and casual shirts for evenings out. I have a big selection of baseball caps, at least one from everywhere my travels have taken me (apart from Chennai), and two or three cloth caps like dad’s. Plenty to be going on with.

Physically, I’m ok, carrying a bit of weight, but walk and bike a lot to keep it manageable. What’s left of my hair is white, which matches the goatee. I don’t shave every day but trim the goat and shave my head every couple of weeks, or when my wife and daughter tell me to. Unlike a good many seniors these days, I have no body piercings or ear-rings – I don’t understand them. I have a set of tattoos, a 60^th birthday gift from my wife. On one upper arm are my birth sign and those of my eldest sons, and on the other the Chinese horoscope signs for me, my wife and youngest kids. They look cool, now they’ve faded and weathered in a bit, especially when I’ve been out in the sun and worked up a bit of a tan.

Jewellery? My wedding ring on one hand and on the other the signet ring my dad gave me on my 18^th birthday, the year before he passed. I have a silver chain loaded with a small St. Christopher medallion from a market stall outside the Vatican, a tab I bought in Egypt that holds my name in hieroglyphics (including a perfect Lost in Translation spelling mistake), and a very small badge from a leather bracelet, long since rotted away, that bears a likeness of a pre-historic cave painting and is the symbol of the Almeria province in southern Spain, where it was found. Finally, bought at a market stall in small Polish seaside village, a string bracelet carrying seven Ban The Bomb symbols in mock ivory.

In short, if someone described me as “an ageing hippy”, I would be happy with that.

It seems to me that the great thing about growing old(er) in mind and body is that you lose your inhibitions along with the need to keep up appearances (another BBC sitcom from way back when that nicely caricatured gentility). It's certainly the case with me.

I've always had a rebellious streak, and I find it coming out more and more the older I get. I take, and am happy to communicate, strong views on a number of things these days, whether it be politics generally (and Brexit, Trump and populism more specifically), climate change and the environment, history, the future and the role of tech....any number of things. My views are not always in sync with either the popular view or those of whoever I'm talking too, and I admit to stretching them a bit to enliven the debate. But they are honestly held, and while I respect other people's views I reserve the right to strongly disagree with them, whether they like it or not. My late brother-in-law was similar, and I understand better now how and why, I think.

I have no problem wandering around wearing not very much. I'm not embarrassed about the extra weight I'm carrying, nor the bald head, nor any other physical imperfection, real or imagined. I am what I am, and my body is what it is – I can't really change any of it so I'm happy in my own skin. Whether that is an immature position to take or adult, brave or stupid, I neither know nor care.

The fact is I'm growing old Being able to write a piece like this helps me accept and explain the fact. And I intend to make that process last as long as possible - a telegram for the King (or an e-mail or whatever) on my 100th birthday would be good..  

The aim is to do it (dis)gracefully and enjoy the ride.

The Protector.

Jimmy drained his beer as he watched the local weather forecast.

“Today,” said the breathlessly excited forecaster, “was the hottest day of the year so far. Maidstone was our hotspot, with a high of 25.7C – that's nearly 80F! – recorded, and it looks as though it will be even hotter tomorrow. But tonight, there is a possibility of isolated thunder storms, and it will be a muggy night for all of us.....”

Jimmy crushed the empty can, and wandered into the kitchen, dropped it into the bin, then switched off the tv and lights as he headed to bed. He tiptoed quietly into the front bedroom, where Charlie, his 4 month old pride and joy, was snoring peacefully on top of the covers in his cot. He smiled contentedly as he checked the window was properly latched and slightly open, stooped to kiss the boy gently on the forehead, then slipped out leaving the door ajar.

His wife, Sarah, was already in bed, reading the latest Cosmopolitan, her hair still damp from the shower lying across her bare breasts, and she smiled as Jimmy came in and started undressing.

“Charlie ok?” she said.

Jimmy smiled as he dropped the sweat-damp tee-shirt into the laundry basket and peeled off his old football shorts.

“Snoring like a baby,” he chuckled. “I've opened the window a bit – gonna be a sticky night according to the Beeb. Time for a shower – see you in a minute.”

He strolled into the en-suite shower room as Sarah resumed her reading, then showered quickly in lukewarm water, shaved, and cleaned his teeth. Then he joined his wife in the big comfortable bed, puffed his pillows and relaxed. She placed the magazine on the bedside table, turned off the light, and snuggled over, lying with an arm and leg thrown across Jimmy.

“What time are you off tomorrow?, she asked. “Usual time?”

Jimmy kissed her gently.

“No, early,” he said. “I have an 8 a.m. conference call with Tokyo, so I need to get the first train. Up at 5, I'm afraid – I'll try not to wake you.”

“I should think Charlie will have done that already!” she chuckled. “Sleep?”

Jimmy slid his hand across her bottom.

“In a bit....”

Sarah woke at 2 to an enormous crash of thunder and a howling wind rattling the window. It was pitch dark outside, and still hot in the bedroom, despite the window left ajar. For a moment, disoriented, she lay still, listening to the rain splattering against the glass, then jumped as a flash of white lightning threw the room and its shadows into life. What was that, in the corner..... She shook Jimmy awake.

“What's that?” she said, her voice tremulous.

The bedspread fell to the floor as he sat up, looking around blearily but seeing nothing.

“It's a storm,” he said. “Forecast it on the telly. Nothing to worry about, love. Sleep.”

He made to settle back down, but another flash of lightning and a simultaneous crash of thunder made Sarah gasp and grab his shoulder. Outside, the wind howled and rain continued to slash the window pane. The curtains were blowing wildly.

“No!” she said, panic in her voice. “There – by the door!”

Jimmy switched on the light and looked at an empty room. More thunder and lightning.....the wind roaring and the rain sounding as though it would break the window any second. He looked across to where Sarah was pointing with a trembling finger

“There's nothing there,” he said, a trifle irritated. “I'll shut the windows. Just go back to sleep.”

“No!” she said. “Something is here, I can feel it.”

Jimmy sighed. He had experienced these “feelings” before, and knew he would get no peace until he had thoroughly checked all the doors and windows. He rose to his feet, and headed towards the door.

“Okay, okay,” he grumbled. “I'll go and check everything.”

Sarah nodded, a pleading look on her face.

“But first, bring Charlie to me. He'll be safe here.”

“Sarah....”

“Just do it,” she snapped.

With another sigh and stifling a yawn, Jimmy trudged naked across the landing to the boy's room. Outside, the storm seemed to be getting worse, with more or less constant thunder and lightning, the rain pouring if anything harder and the wind howling through the telephone wires outside. He went first to the window and closed it securely, and glanced left and right in the road outside. There was no sign of life, despite the storm: he had expected to see other lights on in the surrounding houses, as there were many families with young children, but there were none. He and Sarah seemed to be the only people awake. He shook his head and crossed to the cot.

Charlie was lying as he had been earlier, one arm thrown carelessly above his head, sleeping soundly despite the storm, with not a care in the world. His little chest rose and fell with each breath. With a smile, Jimmy picked him up carefully and held him to his chest, a supporting hand at the back of his head, singing a soft lullaby as he did so. He walked back to his own room, where Sarah was sitting upright in the bed, an anxious look on her face and a rosary wrapped around one hand.

“He's fine,” said Jimmy and passed the boy to her. “Fast asleep, love him.”

Sarah took him, and hugged him tightly to her as she slid back to lay flat with Charlie laying on her stomach, his head snuggled comfortably to her breast.

“There, my sweet prince,” she cooed. “You're safe now, mummy and daddy will look after you, nothing can hurt you now.”

The baby sighed contentedly, and Jimmy closed the window firmly and drew the curtains across, trying to shut out the violence of the storm. It seemed, incredibly, to be getting worse, and every window seemed to be rattling under the violent fusillade of pouring rain.  The thunder, lightning and wind seemed to be roaring angrily. Jimmy went downstairs.   All the doors were securely locked and bolted, and securing all the windows took only a couple of minutes. Satisfied, he padded back upstairs and slid into bed beside Sarah and a still snoring Charlie.

“Right,” he said. “All safe and sound, love. Go back to sleep – the storm will pass soon, I'm sure”

At that moment, as if to contradict him, there came the biggest blast yet. It seemed as though the entire house was shaken, and Jimmy swore under his breath – this is going to be a long night, he thought. Beside him, Sarah continued murmuring quietly, holding Charlie firmly in her arms, one hand playing absently with the Rosary. Jimmy realised she was praying quietly, but whether they were the Stations, Our Father's, Hail Mary's or something quite different he could not make out. He left her to it, and turned on his side. As he did so, another long and ominous deafening rumble of thunder rent the humid air, and lightning flashed again and again. Above the din, Sarah's voice sounded stronger.

“Go away!” she said. “There is nothing for you here. This is God's house! The Angels are protecting us! Go!”

Jimmy looked around but could see nothing, as Sarah cooed comfortingly to Charlie, something about an angel on the end of the bed, but Jimmy might have imagined that. But then, quite suddenly, the rain and wind eased off to no more than a light breeze and a bit of drizzle, the lightning faded and the thunder rolled away in the distance, becoming less distinct with each clap.

With a sigh of relief, Jimmy closed his eyes and fell into a fitful sleep.

The alarm woke him what seemed like moments later, but it was 5 in the morning, a good couple of hours later. He turned his head, and saw Sarah dozing, with Charlie latched on to a nipple and sucking contentedly. Jimmy smiled and slipped from the bed, heading for the bathroom. He used the toilet and had a quick shower and cleaned his teeth, all as quietly as possible, then crept back into the bedroom. Sarah was awake, the baby draped over her left shoulder as she massaged his back, winding him. As Jimmy began dressing, Charlie let out a huge belch, then another, then a messy gurgling as he filled his nappy.

“He's fine, then,” said Jimmy. “Want me to change him?”

Sarah stood up, the baby still over her shoulder hiccuping happily as he drifted back to sleep. She kissed Jimmy briefly and smiled.

“No, it's okay,” she said. “You have a train to catch. Go on, have a good day, and I'll see you tonight. Love you.”

Jimmy ran his hand gently down her bare back and squeezed her buttock.

“Love you, too,” he said, kissed her and left.

He had expected to see a scene of devastation when he stepped out of the door into the warm early morning light, but all looked perfectly normal. He scratched his head, and walked off towards the station half a mile away, and looked all around carefully.. His house was completely undamaged: no tiles off the roof, no broken branches or flowers scattered over the little front lawn, and the birds that nested in the eaves close to Charlie's bedroom window were singing quite cheerily. Despite the torrential rain, there were no puddles on the path or in the gardens, which still looked desrt dry, and the street-side gutters were clean of debris all the way. It seemed all very odd to Jimmy......as if the storm had never happened at all. He resolved to pick up a paper and see what he could find later (it was too early yet). His train was half empty, and he found a window seat, slung his brief case into the rack above him and was asleep in a minute.

By the time he arrived in the City (late as it happened: another train breakdown had delayed it between two stations for three-quarters of an hour and Jimmy had slept blissfully though it all) the night's events were no more than a dim memory, a curiosity forgotten as he had to hurry to his office. The Tokyo call had not gone well, nor the later Frankfurt call, and the less said about the lunchtime New York shouting match the better. It was a typically stressful day, and as usual Jimmy got home closer to 9:30 than the seven o'clock he had planned.  Last night was completely forgotten.

It all came rushing back, however, when with a cheery “I'm home, my loves!” he stepped through the front door. Sarah came rushing across to him, threw her arms around him sobbing desolately.   Charlie, in his bouncy chair, smiling through a gallon of dribble, stared at something invisible close to the ceiling and waved his arms happily.

Jimmy dropped his case, and hugged her tightly, making what he hoped were soothing noises.

“Hey!” he said. “Sarah? What's wrong? Everything's ok!”

She buried her tear-streaked fact in his shirt front, and a muffled “No, it isn't.” came to Jimmy's ears. He pulled away, took both her hands in his and eyed her searchingly, then led her across to the setteee. They sat, and still holding her hands in one of his, he smoothed her hair back with the other and smiled.

“Now tell me,” he said. “What is this all about?”

For a moment, she chewed her bottom lip, looking nervously all around her and especially at Charlie. Then she looked at Jimmy out of red-rimmed but clear blue eyes.

“We have to move,” she said finally. “We have to sell the house and move away. Right away. I don't want to live here any more.”

Jimmy looked at her, baffled.

“What the hell are you on about?” he asked eventually.

She took a deep breath, not taking her eyes off the baby.

“We have to go,” she repeated. She paused, but Jimmy made no comment. “Please, Jimmy. It's not safe here any more.”

Jimmy sat for a moment, looking around the room. He and Sarah had only moved in a year ago, just before Sarah got pregnant, and they had invested a lot of time and money decorating it, furnishing it, modernizing it and making it a perfect home for their little family. He loved it. Then a thought came to him.

“Is this about last night? It was just a storm.”

Sarah shook her head sharply.

“No! I mean – yes!” She took a deep breath. “No, it wasn't a storm. It was.......” Her voice trailed off.

Jimmy stood up, slung his jacket over the arm of the sofa, then went to the kitchen, returning a minute later with a couple of cold beers. He sat, and gave one to Sarah, who he knew rarely if ever drank. She looked at it for a second, then drank deeply. He took a swig of his own.

“Better,” he said. “Now then....”

Composed now, she looked him straight in the eye.

“It wasn't a storm,” she said firmly. “It was....something, I won't say what.....and it came for Charlie. But we saved him, with the help of the angel. And....it....was angry.....” Her voice trailed off again.

Jimmy opened his mouth to speak, but she placed her fingers to his lips to silence him.

“No, listen,” she said. “You know Gemma next door is.....was....expecting?”  He nodded. Quietly, she said, “Last night she miscarried. About 2:30. in the morning.”

She looked at him.

“2:30?” he said. “When the storm....”

“It wasn't a storm!” she said. “It was.....him. He came for Charlie. And when he couldn't get Charlie, because the angel was here, he went next door, and took Gemma's baby. Then he left.” She drained the beer, crushed the can violently in her small hand, and looked steadily at her husband. “So we have to go. I can't stay here, next to door to Gemma, knowing it was our fault that......that.....”

Jimmy stared at her as he took another deep swallow of his beer.

“What angel?” he said finally.

“ Charlie's angel,” said Sarah. “While you were fetching Charlie I dug out my Rosary, and prayed to him. The angel, I mean. And he came. He was sitting on the end of the bed all night, watching us.”

Jimmy continued staring at her. He knew, of course, about Sarah's deep and sometimes – to him at least – odd religious convictions, but this was something else. He didn't know how to react. Finally:

“So when things got really really loud and rough.....”

“That's when....it.....got angry. And went next door to claim Gemma's...... And then it got quiet, remember – that was when it went away.”

Silence. Jimmy could think of nothing to say.

“The angel?” he said eventually.

Sarah brightened.

“He's still here,” she said, and glanced across at Charlie, gurgling happily in his bouncy chair. “That's who Charlie's waving to. But you see why we can't stay here, don't you? I can't stay here after that......”

They sat in silence for a full five minutes, while Sarah watched the baby and Jimmy tried to assimilate all she had said and drank his beer. Then he stood up, and picked up the two empty cans.

“Another?” he said.

Later as they lay quietly in each others' arms, warm in the afterglow, Jimmy kissed her gently on the top of her head. She stirred slightly, her hand gently stroking the hair on his belly.

“It's Friday tomorrow,” he murmured. “The weekend. We'd better pick up the local paper and visit some estate agents.”

She sighed, and kissed his chest.

“I knew you'd understand,” she said, and ignored his shaking head

Odds, Sods and Bits & Bobs

It's been a good week for British football. First up Liverpool played Barcelona, UEFA's favourite team that is expected to win the Champions League every season and boasts some of the best players in the world, led of course by Lionel Messi, considered by some the best player ever. In the first leg, in Barcelona, Liverpool had been humbled 3-0 (and it could have been more). Missing two of their best players through injury for the return leg at Anfield, no-one gave them a chance. But on a special Anfield night – perhaps THE most special, they trounced Barca 4-0 to go through and reach their second successive CL final. Barca had their chances, several in fact, but Liverpool weathered the storm to win. The atmosphere was delirious as their fans continued to serenade them long after the final whistle. Wonderful stuff.

Fast forward a day to Amsterdam, and a vibrant young Ajax side faced Spurs. Ajax took into the match a slender one goal lead, so it was expected to be tight, and anybody's game. By half time, Ajax had added another two, controlled much of the play and at 3-0 looked home and dry. A year or two ago, they would have been, but this Spurs side is different, older and wiser now, despite not having signed a player for 18 months as they focused on financing a brand spanking new 60,000 capacity stadium at a cost of getting on for a billion. They came out, made a couple of changes and bang – the unreal happened. Lucas Moura, their last signing all that time ago, and in and out of the side ever since, branded an expensive misfit, took centre stage and netted his second hat trick of the season (both within the last couple of weeks). The third, that sent Spurs through to their first Final, came deep into added time – 5 minutes had been added, a late substitution gave another 30 seconds – and in those extra extra seconds Spurs scored. Cue tears all round – from shattered Ajax players who had been so close to a first Final in 30 years, and from ecstatic Spurs staff and players. The manager Mauricio Pocchettino was interviewed on live tv, tears still pouring down his face. If anything, even more wonderful than Liverpool's epic.

Fast forward another 24 hours to the Europa League semi finals. A much derided competition, at least in England, but nonetheless one worth winning. Arsenal and Chelsea, London clubs who are serial winners and serial CL qualifiers (through the Premier League top 4) were playing. Both were in good positions from their first leg matches, and duly dispatched their opponents, although Chelsea needed penalties to beat Eintracht Frankfurt on their own turf. So we have an all- London final to look forward to – to be played in - er – Azerbaijan. Unless, of course, UEFA uses a bit of common sense and moves the game closer to home (which is highly unlikely).

But history has been written – no country has ever provided the four finalists for their premier competitions. Predictions? Well, I would like to see Spurs win the Champions League (they are my second club after all) and Arsenal win the Europa. Yes, I know Spurs fans hate Arsenal (or Woolwich Wanderers as we prefer to call them) and I'm no different, but I can't help feeling that both trophies residing for a year in North London, at clubs with such long standing animosity, would take that rivalry to an even higher level (if that's possible). It will also mean Spurs extend their bragging rights even more, as the Arse have never won the CL.

And next season will be epic!

If only our politicians could emulate our football teams, but no, the Brexit shitshow drags on. Britain was scheduled to leave the EU on 29 March, but with breathtaking incompetence and self interest, the Tory Party (hereinafter termed the Nasty Party) were unable to get the required legislation through Parliament. So a couple of days before that deadline, Theresa May begged the remaining EU leaders (the EU27) for an extension, and finally, after two years of broken promises, agreed to enter into discussions with opposition parties (primarily the Labour Party) to try and reach a consensus and get the exit deal finalised. Then they all buggered off for an ill-deserved Easter break

.

The extension has led to further complications. As part of it, the EU27 made it crystal clear that should we fail to pass the Brexit bill, then we would have to take part in the EU Parliamentary Election on 23 May, or be kicked out without a deal in place – the “Hard Brexit” that so many misinformed people and dogmatic Brexiteer zealots across all parties actually want, no matter the harm it will do to the country for years to come. But all has been quiet in Westminster, no real dramas, and cross-party talks have limped on.

Until last weekend. Mrs. May leaked details of the proposals under discussion, in a self penned article in the Sunday Times, despite previously insisting that the discussions must be held in secret until an acceptable compromise was reached and signed off – terms which the Opposition parties both accepted and adhered to. Labour was understandably furious, accused her of showing bad faith, stating they no longer trusted her an inch and called for her resignation while agreeing to stand by their side of the bargain and continue the discussions. Amid that furore, and in a typical Nasty Party tactic, the PM's Deputy announced quietly that as agreement had not been reached we would therefore take part in the Euro elections after all – a full two months after the Government had promised, times without number, the country would have left the Union.

So we have now the additional comedy of parties scrambling to find candidates to participate in an electoral process that nobody actually wants, to take positions as MEPs for what could conceivably be only a few weeks, at a cost of millions of pounds. In addition, the electorate will be expected to vote in a process they had been promised three years ago they would never have to take part in again. You really couldn't make it up.

I would be very surprised if the Nasty Party (and for that matter Labour) do not suffer a bloodbath as a country (at least those who can be bothered to vote) turn to alternatives no matter how unappealing they might be. In the local council elections last week, the Nasty Party and Labour both suffered heavy defeats (in the Nasty Party's case the worst for 30-odd years), with the LibDems and Greens the main beneficiaries. I suspect they will do even worse in the Euros. About the only person happy with this state of affairs is the odious Nigel Farage, whose new Brexit Party (no prizes for guessing what their policies, such as they are, might be all about) fully expect to gain most votes and most seats, enabling them to “make the people's voice heard loud and clear in Brussels”. I'm sure the EU27 are deeply impressed at that prospect!

In the long run, it's possible some good may come of all this. If the Nasty Party and Labour do take extreme kickings, then May and perhaps Corbyn will be forced from office. The problem then would be who takes up the reins. There is a real risk a Brexit zealot like Jacob Rees-Mogg or (God forbid!) Boris Johnson might take over the Nasty Party, in which case expect a hard Brexit by the end of the summer. Unless the the LibDems and the Greens, the new pro-Remain Change UK (aka the Independent Group) that broke away from the two main parties, do well enough to enable them to form a Remain coalition of some kind to force at least a second referendum – an idea that is anathema to most of the Nasty Party and Farage supporting Brexiteers but gaining traction everywhere else. If this happens, I expect the people will now vote to Remain in the EU. I might be wrong of course, I'm not a political analyst, but it seems clear that now the ramifications of leaving are becoming clearer by the day, an Exit is becoming less attractive. We will see.

But it does seem clear that Britain's political landscape is shifting away from the old first past the post, winner take all system that has led us to this mess, towards a more fragmented system with more smaller parties demanding a say. I suspect the result of all this will be a move, probably at the next Election (whenever that might be!), towards a more consensual coalition government system that is common throughout Europe, but that the events of the last 10 years have shown we really don't do very well. But if the divisions in society are ever to be healed and this whole Brexit mess to be resolved (either way, In or Out) then we, as a nation, are going to have learn it pretty quickly.

Interesting times.

But summer is just around the corner, so let's try to forget all this crap and enjoy ourselves. I'm sitting in the cottage at my działka writing this and waiting for the light drizzle to stop so that I can get back to my gardening. It's like a big allotment and covers I think 400 square metres (it's actually two plots, one is ours and the other my sister-in-law's with the dividing fence pulled down), laid to grass with fourapple tress and a couple of walnut trees, all productive, a patio area outside the little cottage and flower beds around three sides. The fences need a bit of attention, to improve the privacy a bit, and there are some issues with running water that need addressing so we can install a toilet, but all in all it's great, and I love it.

When the sun comes out it's a bit of a sun trap, and an excellent place to relax and catch a few rays. We can string a hammock between two of the apple trees and we have an old wicker sofa with soft and deep cushions to relax in, and of a course a picnic table to seat six, comfortable chairs and a couple of barbecues (one an electric hot plate, the other a battered old coal one that came with the plot). In summer we're here most weekends, eating, drinking and enjoying ourselves, and as it's part of a sizeable estate of similar plots it can get quite lively with friends visiting and chatting to the neighbours and so on. But during the week, the place is largely empty – as people are working – so for me now it's a bit of bolt hole.

All writers need somewhere to work, somewhere quiet to concentrate and get the ideas down and polished. Mostly, I've done my writing at desks in hotel rooms across the world, or in whatever office I happen to be based at any given time. At home, typically it's been perching the laptop uncomfortably on my knees, sprawled out on my bed with the door closed. I've used coffee shops too, at airports and shopping malls. None of these are ideal.

But the garden shed is a popular solution. Tom Sharpe wrote some of the funniest books I've ever read in an old shed at the bottom of his garden. C.S.Lewis wrote much of the Chronicles of Narnia in similar conditions, and J.K.Rowling famously penned much of the first couple of Harry Potter yarns in coffee bars around Edinburgh, as a single mum with baby asleep in the pushchair. David Cameron, the fool who kicked off the entire Brexit farce with that ill-conceived and poorly executed Referendum before walking away from the mess he had created the very next day, is currently holed up in an expensively modernised gypsy caravan in his back garden scribbling his memoirs for a seven figure advance. I sincerely hope nobody buys the bloody thing and he's forced to return the money.

So my cottage is kind of ideal for me. It's within easy reach of home, quiet (apart from regular departures and arrivals at Warsaw airport a couple of hundred metres away – you soon get used to it!), has electric light and power and behind where I'm sitting two bookcases that contain most of my library in case I get fed up or bored or blocked and need a break. It's not quite the study I always longed for (and frankly still do!) but it's good enough.

Plots like this are actually very common around Europe I've noticed. There are several similar estates scattered around Warsaw, and I understand every city in the country has them too. It's a great idea – people are hard wired I think to want a plot of land, no matter how big or small, and in most cities, certainly here in Warsaw, apartment complexes far outweigh the number of houses, so the balcony replaces the garden. Not good enough for most people, although admittedly much easier to maintain. I'm happy to own both.

People of course grow flowers and in many cases fruit and vegetables, like my dad did on the little allotment that he had back in my home town of Edenbridge in my 1950s childhood. His allotment has gone, like all of them, sold for building land and now replaced by a couple of housing estates. I think most of the people who live in my old road, and certainly those that live on the estates, are unaware the allotments ever existed, but as my dad rebuilt his life after spending four or five years fighting the Japanese in the jungles of Burma, his provided an oasis of calm to forget those horrors and heal mind and body – and provided the best fruit and veg I have ever eaten.

I've also seen działkas in Holland and in Germany, close to the railway lines in and out of Amsterdam and Frankfurt and Cologne. The one there was particularly notable – it was the third I had spotted on my way through the city approaching the Hauptbahnhof, and comprised perhaps six plots of similar size to mine, all sandwiched in the small area that comprised the triangular junction where three busy mainlines merged perhaps a kilometre from the station. I'm not sure how people got in and out of the plots (there did not appear to be any access roads), but there were sun loungers propped against walls, people pruning flowers and bedding plants, in shorts and vests and floppy sunhats, seemingly oblivious to the intercity expresses rumbling away on the other side of their boundary fences.

I remember something similar on the outskirts of Frankfurt, many years ago. It was a hot July day and we had finished work a little early, so with some free time I decided to pay a quick visit to the spa town of Bad Homburg, a 30 minute S-bahn ride north of the city. The train was heading out of town and quite close to the city limits, as we passed an estate similar to the one I'm on now. As we passed one particular plot, right beside the tracks and slowing to come into another station, I saw through the window a family enjoying their particular plot. The husband was using a hand mower to cut the grass, the wife a hosepipe to water the plants along one side of the garden, and two kids, perhaps five or six years old, a boy and girl, fair haired and probably blue eyed, splashing happily in a small inflatable paddling pool. It was the quintessential German Aryan family. And all were happily naked. They waved cheerily to the passengers on the train as we passed by, and by and large were ignored. I was probably the only one who responded, and I politely waved back. It was my introduction to the German Freikorpkultur (FKK) movement, naturism as we Brits call it, Clothing Optional to the Americans.  It's a lifestyle that is clearly spreading worldwide, and perhaps now has lost its niche status and become mainstream, with dedicated resorts and beaches pretty much everywhere.   

I confess I found it then quite natural and appealing. I still do.

The clock is ticking.....

Another day, another dire warning about the future of our planet and everything on it.  The latest is again UN sponsored and this time is to do with the effect we humans are having on the biosphere - the natural world.  In a nutshell, it states that 1,000,000 species are threatened with extinction sooner rather than later - plants, birds, animals, insects, marine life: you name it, it's affected.  And it is all down to human driven factors like pollution, deforestation, over-building (i.e. agricultural land swallowed up by housing, roads, industrial complexes and so on) - and of course everyone's favourite bogey man Global Warming/Climate Change. (I know most people would have them as two different things, but they are not: the effects of CO2 emissions and other atmospheric pollutants are causing real changes to our weather patterns, leading to rising temperatures and hence changes to global weather patterns which in turn are changing our planet's climate, whether hotter or colder depending on whereabouts you are.)

I won't go into details because the report is of course available on line but the headlines are well presented on the BBC News website here:

https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-48169783 

There will inevitably be naysayers: for instance that Orange Oaf currently occupying the White House in Washington, who has stated categorically that it's "all a hoax, folks, part of a Chinese plot to destabilise and damage the American economy".   The fact sufficient people believed that tosh and a long list of other lies and Fake News (his phrase) to win him the Presidency says more about America and Americans than it does about him (and that is saying a lot).

The British government hasn't commented yet (or at least I haven't seen anything as I write) but will no doubt trumpet its recent pledge to cut all carbon emissions in the UK to zero by 2050.  Pardon my scepticism, but given the Prime Minister cannot get her own Cabinet to agree her agenda (I'm talking about you, Brexit) how is she intending to get the entire country, every man, woman and child, to make significant lifestyle changes to help achieve that target (for it will need precisely that kind of commitment, as well as massive Government and private sector investment to even get close)?  A simple example: suggesting we should all convert to electric cars next time we trade in is all very well, and there are some excellent vehicles out there nowadays with battery life (and hence travel ranges) improving all the time, but where is the infrastructure to support this?  In The Netherlands, where I worked for a couple of years ending three years ago, every office block, every city street and parking area in Amsterdam, was equipped with several charging points, enabling you to give your battery a boost while you were at work, or shopping, or whatever.  In the UK, in London, in  the south-east, in East Anglia, over the course of several trips back and journeys around in those years, I have not seen a single charge point.  Not one.  Anywhere.  The infrastructure simply does not exist.

 Recent studies and David Attenborough's BBC Climate Change special a month or so back make it clear that unless all of us, every government, every industry, every individual starts making such huge changes to the way we live, the way we travel, even the way we eat, and seriously tackle this issue of climate change - and by extension step up conservation efforts to put a brake on deforestation, fracking and other biosphere wrecking activities - we will be faced with permanent irreversible climate change in 11 years.  That's ELEVEN YEARS.  My daughter will be 22, my son 24.  My grandkids just 13.   That is a truly horrific prospect - and yet still there are no visible indicators (beyond the Tory party's fatuous pledge - 11 years takes us to 2030, so the government target is already 20 years too late!) that anyone is doing anything serious to even get us all to change our ways.

Vested interests get in the way every time.  No government, whether democratic or autocratic, seems willing to force or coerce its people to make the investment in time and money needed.  Groups like Extinction Rebellion, the Green Party and others are doing their best to keep the topic at the top of the news agenda, and more importantly the political agenda, but there is only so much they can do.  It is up to us as individuals to take up the gauntlet and run with it.  There is plenty pf material in the public domain that we can use to self-educate ourselves and change the way we live, the way we travel and so on, without government's insistence.

When I was kid I used to read a lot science-fiction (I still do actually), and a popular idea was that at some point there would be a World Government.  Individual countries would still exist and take care of their own particular needs, but for what we now term big ticket items, such as taxation, health care, environmental protection and security, then the World Government would call the shots, make all the laws and directives, and everyone else would have to fall into line.  Often that World Government would either be, or derive from, the United Nations.  Today's UN tries to do some of that, through agencies like UNESCO, the UN Security Council, and other related agencies like the WHO.  The problem is there is no enforcement process - no matter how many Resolutions are passed by the UN they are frequently ignored (case in point: there have been many Resolutions relating to Israel's treatment of Palestinians in Gaza and the Occupied West Bank that are simply ignored by Israel and its allies like - er - the USA, and the UN can apparently do absolutely nothing about it).  So as idyllic as a World Government might be, and no matter how helpful it might be in addressing these very real environmental issues the UN warns of, I think we missed our chance to do something about 50 or 60 years ago.  That boat has left the harbour.

When I retired recently, I figured I would do fewer trips, but ones I wanted to do rather than ones I had to do for work (and write about them here of course).  I fancied seeing some Wonders of the World - so far only Niagara Falls 40 odd years ago is ticked off (they were magnificent with Canada's Horseshoe Falls far more impressive than the American Falls across the gorge), I've flown over Greenland a few times on trans-Atlantic flights (and noticed the retreating ice cap), and spent an interesting few days exploring the (small) jungles and mangrove swamps in Trinidad.  I'd love to visit Ayer's Rock in Australia, Yellowstone Park in the States, take the train alongside the Rockies between Seattle and Vancouver (allegedly one of the most scenic railway lines in the world).  A safari in Africa would be fun, as would visiting places like Iceland, Norway (epic scenery in both), driving the west coast road to Inverness in Scotland and trailing through the Białołenka Forest in Eastern Poland on the trail of the only wild buffalo herd in Europe.  Don't expect to do any of it now, unless I come up on the Euro-Millions lottery.

Having spent 20 years doing probably 2 flights a week on average, I must have had a fairly dodgy carbon footprint (even if for part of that time at least my employer was making carbon offsets to mitigate (I have no real idea how that works, but still.....) so reducing my travels should make a difference.  Crunching numbers since then suggests I will be doing even less trips than I want......even my trips back to England will be reduced.  Shame, but there you go.  I walk and cycle a lot, for fitness primarily, but that too is doing a tiny bit to help.  I try to re-cycle where I can - difficult because right now Poland is not too big on that - and we use energy efficient bulbs and appliances at home as much as possible.  I'm just one person......negligible effects.  But there are 8billion of us.....if we all did a few little things like that it will all add up.  Eventually.

Whether it will be enough, only time will tell.  And beyond any doubt, the clock is ticking.