The Public House

Since arriving in the UK, I have joined Meetup (www.meetup.com/) - see the footnote for an explanation of the organisation (if it can be called that!). My daughter Annie suggested I look it up, and I discovered a whole host of different groups that use Meetup as a sort of hub to suggest interests, and find others who are of similar mind.

I've joined three so far. Some of my friends won't be surprised to know that I've joined a humanist group, a skeptics group, and (actually this might surprise a few!) a non-fiction book group.

Where do these groups meet? Mainly pubs. And since I've attended, I've become reacquainted with just why we call them "pubs". Because they are "public houses".

On Tuesday nine people attended the non-fiction book group, some having read the book all the way through, some about half way through, and some not at all. There was no supercilious attitude towards the non or part readers. They were welcomed for their contribution that fed off other material brought to their to mind by the discussion. 

On reflection, we seemed to spend an equal amount of time discussing the book in question (Daniel Kahneman's "Thinking, fast & slow" - quite fascinating in bits), other books that might be like it or better, miscellaneous subjects, and finally, and perhaps most importantly to some (not me, of course...), the merits of the "malt of the moment". 

Our meeting place is the Blue Blazer pub in Edinburgh. As I half listened to the conversations around me, I glanced around the room we were in. I realised that the previous meeting also featured the same groups of other people in the room. There was a group discussing a European film they had seen at the Filmhouse Theatre down the road; a small group of men were discussing fatherhood; and finally there were a group of young women earnestly discussing gender orientation and implications. 

All of us had chosen to use this "public space" in which to meet together to discuss ideas, support one another, and to develop bonds. The fact that social lubrication was consumed - in apparently responsible quantities judging by the behaviour - perhaps made the discussion flow more freely. 

I had been told that British pubs were different to Aussie pubs, and finally it has dawned on me how important these places are to so many people. Of course there is debate raging in Britain about binge drinking and over-consumption of alcohol, and those problems are evident in some of the local bars around where I live. However, when used in the best spirit (pardon the pun) the pub can be a "public house" for education and friendship, and a place to encourage new ideas. 

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Meetup is the world's largest network of local groups. Meetup makes it easy for anyone to organize a local group or find one of the thousands already meeting up face-to-face. More than 9,000 groups get together in local communities each day, each one with the goal of improving themselves or their communities.

Meetup's mission is to revitalize local community and help people around the world self-organize. Meetup believes that people can change their personal world, or the whole world, by organizing themselves into groups that are powerful enough to make a difference.

Contrasts

Second to the Edinburgh Castle, the Scott Monument dominates the centre of Edinburgh. In the two weeks leading up to Remembrance Day on Sunday 11th November, I noticed that the garden around the monument, was gradually populated with little crosses, each bearing a poppy. Each cross was reverently placed into the soft turf by volunteers, and every now and again there were signs denoting a particular area in memory of the fallen for a region, a battalion or other special group. Visitors wandered around the paths, obviously moved by the display.

For at least a week the air was filled with the sounds of mournful bagpipes as volunteer pipers busked for donations towards the poppy appeal (www.poppyscotland.org.uk). Bus shelters showed pictures of injured soldiers, kilts became commonplace, and even the homeless begging on the streets changed their cardboard signs to indicate they were returned soldiers.

The day culminated in marches, the obligatory minute's silence, and even more proudly-worn kilts and knobbly knees. I was impressed just how the spirit of sacrifice was observed, how seriously it was taken, how reverently people remembered the fallen. I confess I was out on the water at 11am that day, and too busy trying to get the jib trimmed just right...

Imagine my surprise the day after when I alighted the 26 Clerton-bound bus outside the Scott Monument to see cardboard boxes strewn around the grass, with those tenderly placed crosses being unceremoniously rooted out of the ground and dumped into the boxes. I paused in astonishment to confirm that there was definitely no reverence, tenderness or respect. They had done their job and it was time to dispose of them. I was, to say the least, surprised.

The following day, the bus I was on followed into town what appeared to be a fairground truck carrying a carousel. As the bus ground to a halt outside the Scott Monument I realised that the carousel truck was turning into the monument gardens ahead of us. When I looked further I noticed that not only was the carousel truck in the gardens, but that all the garden benches had been collected into a pile, and there were collections of panels, portable toilets, and more machinery all over the gardens. As the next few days progressed a massive Ferris Wheel took shape alongside the monument, as well as various other fairground attractions.


I was quite literally gob-smacked. All the reverence and care leading up to Remembrance Day was wiped out within a few hours and replaced with - frivolity? 

It has taken me a while to get my head around it. At one level it seemed something akin to sacrilege to treat the gardens in such diametrically opposed ways. I have come to resolve it as a powerful demonstration of what has been made possible through the soldiers' sacrifice: peace in this country, and the freedom and safety to enjoy oneself. I'm not sure what you make of this tale. Perhaps others will have perspectives that help me understand it further.

Perspectives

A week ago I was sailing on Sunday. The morning race was a relatively gentle affair with light winds filling our sails. The afternoon saw the winds almost completely die off, and the race became more of a barely controlled drift. We repeatedly sought to sail against the incoming tide, only to lose whatever distance we had gained when we tacked across the river and drifted sideways at an alarming rate. 

As most of the crew sat on the side of the boat chatting among ourselves, one of the crew remarked "This is rubbish, we're going nowhere!".

A little later, as seals were bobbing their heads out of the water to take a look at our unproductive efforts, another crew - a man this time - was heard to say "Where is a club when you need one".

I found it quite ironic that just before the exclamation about "rubbish", I had been sitting on the side of the boat admiring the Forth Rail Bridge that we were unsuccessfully trying to pass underneath, and thinking what a beautiful day it was for being out on the water. I wasn't negative at all about the lack of progress, in fact I was quite entertained by our progress/backwards drift/progress/etc. The sky was blue, I was snug inside my four layers of clothing, and I was on the water. That was my perspective.

On the matter of the seals, I had been thinking moments before I heard the above comment that they were quite cute with their whiskery faces, and were incredibly graceful in their watery element compared to their comical clumsiness on land. I wasn't looking for a club, I wish I had a camera!

There are always more than one way of looking at life. I acknowledge that I don't possess the competitive drive exhibited in the first example - I simply choose to enjoy any opportunity I am given to be on water. I haven't had my fishing bait stolen by seals as I have tried to feed my family. Those that have may look for a club when they see a seal. My experience is purely to marvel at the grace and inquisitive nature of these extraordinary animals. 

That's my brief perspective on perspectives.

The little rough graphic below gives you an idea of our lack of progress until we simply gave up, lowered the sails, fired up the motor and returned to the club for a beer! Oh, by the way, the rounding mark we were heading for was somewhere to the right of the picture, pretty much off the screen!

Boom, bang & whistle

Since arriving in Portobello 10 days ago, most mornings I wander down to the promenade to have my morning coffee. Along the way I noticed a few houses with driftwood piled in the front yard, and assumed they used it for art or a log fire. I didn't think too much about it. I've more concentrated on the coffee awaiting me at my new favourite coffee house, the Beach House(www.thebeachhousecafe.co.uk). 

Over the last few evenings I have heard the thud of fireworks, but not understood their significance. Last evening I went for a walk about 6.30pm, and noticed a lot of booms, bangs and whistles. I followed the sounds and arrived at the promenade, where a surreal sight met my eyes. Dotted along the beach were 20 or 30 bonfires burning, hundreds of families with children playing on the sand and running along the promenade, and groups of parents standing around the bonfires chatting. In the midst of all this there were rockets, roman candles and catherine wheels going off! What a sight! 

Along the shore of the Forth to my right I could see some serious fireworks going off at Mussellburgh, and to my left the bonfires and fireworks extended all the way along to Leith. I could even see them across the other side of the Forth towards Fife. Thousands of people out (in 4 degrees!) having a jolly good time. Families were lighting little burners in miniature hot air balloons and watching as they rose high in the sky, eventually fading from view and, as the fire died, falling back to earth who knows where.

Finally I remembered it was November 5th - Guy Fawkes night. Remember? Something to do with a plot in 1605 to blow up the House of Lords at Westminster in London. We used to celebrate it. Before the nanny state kicked in, and kicked fireworks out. Now, the closest we get to a penny banger is at some festival or another where the organisers pay exorbitant sums to have licenced "professional" fireworks display personnel light the explosives, while we are carefully kept outside the exclusion zone.

I hung around the promenade for several hours, and eventually noticed, a few hundred metres down the beach, the biggest bonfire I've ever seen, as yet unlit. As the temperature fell further to 2 degrees, a gathering crowd waited for the match to be applied. Finally the bonfire, generously dowsed with petrol, roared into life to the cheers of onlookers. People stood around, warming their faces, ears and hands, with a friendly atmosphere pervading the whole scene. Finally, as the fires died down and sleepy children were carried off to bed, people dispersed, leaving behind a hard-core of teenagers determined to make the most of the fires, festivities and fireworks. Even after I was in bed, I could hear the occasional rocket launch after midnight.

I remember bonfires, penny bungers, roman candles, tom-thumbs and catherine wheels from my childhood. On occasion people were injured. On occasion frogs and tuppenny bungers had unfortunate encounters (I admit nothing). The Aussie answer was to ban them altogether. The British answer is to educate children to handle explosives carefully, encourage parents to supervise them properly, and to allow the community an excuse to simply get together and have fun. Perhaps there will be a few burnt fingers and singed eyebrows this morning. Perhaps they are a small price to pay compared to the enjoyment Aussies have lost to to the nanny state.