First of all, I would like to thank the twenty-plus members who have responded with comments regarding the subject of whether or not we should engage speakers who hold strong views on highly controversial topics. Your input will be of tremendous importance when the board is debating this matter at their next meeting on May 3rd.
As to next week's program, we shall be hearing from James Young, who is the director of the Institute for Holocaust, Genocide and Memory Studies at UMass , which opened this spring. There is an article about this new teaching and research center on the web at:
You could be forgiven for assuming that these sombre topics have led me to this morning's train of thought, which has me pondering the importance of rain in my bank of memories. In fact, you would be very much mistaken. I must confess to loving rain, perhaps as a result of being brought up on the west coast of Britain where the water-laden clouds blowing from across the Atlantic Ocean have a tendency to dump their load on the first landfall that they meet. Thus, Ireland and the British west coasts are a gardener's delight where a temperate climate and plenty of rainfall provide ideal growing conditions.
The populations in these areas have mostly grown up knowing nothing but this type of weather pattern so are perfectly accustomed to carrying on with their lives whether there be rain, hail or a heatwave. You must understand, however, that 'heatwave' is a relative term. Some years after moving to the States, we were amused to read a British newspaper headline that said, "Heatwave continues: a third day of temperatures above 70 degrees".
One of my early memories of coping whatever the weather took place during my first experience of camping with the Girl Guides (Girl Scouts in the States). In those days, camping was a wonderfully primitive adventure. We slept in small canvas tents that leaked during the rain at any point where one touched the fabric. This is not an easy thing to avoid when crammed with three others in a space that was hardly tall enough to sit up in and where the groundsheet only barely reached the edge of the tent walls. We dug trenches for latrines; collected tinder and logs from the surrounding woodland for cooking fires; made cooking pot stands out of forked twigs and tripods created from bits of branch and string. Water had to be collected from the farmhouse at the far end of the field. Naturally, all these tasks were accomplished wearing full uniform, but with the addition of black rubber wellington boots, as a concession to the damp ground.
Our tents were pitched on a slight slope, so we were shown how to dig a small drainage trench on the uphill side of each tent, so as to avoid flooding in case of rain.
On our first night there, after a magical evening spent sitting around the campfire singing songs and hearing stories, we curled up in our sleeping bags to sleep the deep sleep of the young. Imagine our consternation when in the inky darkness, such as we never see in our normal world of city lights, we were awoken by rumbles of thunder that intensified in strength and volume as lightening began to crash around us. Then the rain began, first a light pitter patter on the canvas above and around us, gradually increasing as it became a complete downpour. The unfortunate occupants of one tent found themselves lying in mid-stream, as their little, ladylike trench gave way under the force of water rushing down the slope. The rest of us, unaware of their plight, remained in our beds, clutching our sleeping bags tightly around us and shining our flashlights around the tent to illuminate the interior and defy the lighting flashes.
By morning, the storm had passed and a weak sun was beginning to shine. We searched for sturdy branches to make clothes line supports, and the field was soon festooned with sleeping bags and nightgowns, drying merrily in the breeze.
Did this deter us? Not one bit. We were terribly brave once the morning dawned and we exchanged stories of how exciting it had all been for everyone except, of course, the poor flood victims, who had ended up in the Captain's tent huddled together for warmth. Without that special event, I wonder if the trip would have remained so clearly in my memory. I think not.
Many decades later, I spent five days hiking along the site of Hadrian's Wall in northern England. I was studying Classics and had developed a particular interest in Roman Britain, having spent many occasions in the past exploring the remains still in evidence across much of the country, but without the detailed knowledge that allowed me to appreciate fully their significance. I had planned my trip well and done a great deal of background reading beforehand. Although I had organized a daily itinerary, I decided not to book any accommodation in advance, but to take advantage of farmhouse Bed and Breakfast signs whenever my feet told me that they had hiked far enough and needed a rest. At that time the National Trail system had not yet been established, so there was little guidance specifically for hikers. One simply began walking after breakfast and stopped when the day was ending. Following the wall was not always easy, as there were stretches where it had almost disappeared. In some places the tall wall had been dismantled and the carefully dressed stones used to construct farmhouses or strong stone walls to enclose sheep or cattle.
I remember climbing over a wooden stile to cross one of these walls, only to find myself face to face with a very large bull with very small and piercing eyes. I tried to convince myself that no farmer would place a dangerous bull in a field with public access. However, discretion being the better part of valour, I retreated and stumbled through the undergrowth alongside the enclosing wall until I reached the next field.
The particular day that I have in mind included a walk of some eleven miles, mostly along a country road, with little to see in the way of ancient remains. Having first explored an extensive fort with its bath houses and adjoining civilian settlement, I set off along the road as the sky became progressively more overcast until the rain began to fall, becoming ever more heavy.
And so it continued relentlessly, as I trudged along swinging my walking stick and singing to keep up my spirits. Now, if you have ever heard me sing, you would understand that this sound is far more likely to arouse the spirits of the wild, than to appease them. However, I felt that I had to make some sort of defiant gesture against the elements. After some time of walking in the rain, one reaches the point of saturation, where any further soaking is quite immaterial and so one ceases to care. I reached this point in no time at all, after which there was little point in worrying and so I was able to relax and enjoy life. I relived my childhood as I plodged through puddles; I wondered at the former trickling streams that now rushed past their banks at high speed; I pitied the cows huddled miserably against the wall; and I admired the rich green foliage of the wild honeysuckle and its ever changing patterns of light as the rain washed over it. The occasional car drove by and eventually one stopped, lowered its window, and a voice sounded, "Would you like a lift or are you determined to remain wet?". It was at this point that I realised how much I was enjoying myself, so declined the kind offer. Eventually I spotted a farmhouse in the distance and was amused to see that it was named 'Beggar Bog'. Somehow, that curious choice of name seemed completely appropriate to the occasion.
I turned in at the gate and knocked at the door, looking like a drowned rat but the reaction of the owner was one of warm welcome, bearing no relationship at all to the sorry sight that met her eyes. She ushered me in, showed me to a room, invited me to take a hot shower and then to appear in the drawing room with my wet boots in hand. By the time I arrived there, feeling warm and squeaky clean, she had lit a coal fire in the grate and had gathered a supply of newspapers with which to stuff my soggy boots. A pot of tea sat on the side table with a plate of home made scones. I was her only guest on that wet and blustery day, when she might well have been looking forward to a relaxing day of her own. However, she could not have been kinder and I spent a cosy evening by the fire after a hearty dinner of farm fresh meat and vegetables, all locally grown, humanely raised, locally harvested and slaughtered and as fresh as can be. This took place more than twenty years ago, but I still remember both the soaking and the kindness with equal clarity.
There are yet more memories, but now that the sun is shining here, perhaps I should not tempt the fates by continuing. Instead, I shall count the daffodils and my blessings, each present in abundance.
I hope that you can say the same.
Best wishes, Vivienne
