Satnav and vinyl

 

It’s been a week of contradictions; I have both spurned and embraced modern technology.
I spent the weekend listening to my old vinyl records after having obtained what used to be called a gramophone, but which I believe is now called a turntable. Back in about 1991, I boxed up my LPs for a house move, and these by-now classic albums have languished in various attics ever since. I couldn’t wait to literally dust-off Dark Side of the Moon, even though I regularly listen to it on CD. As I sat on the floor of the lounge surrounded by album covers, protective sleeves and soft dusters, Any Colour You Like blaring, my wife came in.

‘I didn’t know you liked harpsichord music, darling. I have some lovely choral CDs in my bureau if you want to listen to some more.’

‘It’s not a harpsichord. Actually it might be a harpsichord. But it’s certainly a classic, especially on the original vinyl,’ I added, nodding sagely.

‘It doesn’t matter how you listen to your music, it’s not going to make it sound any better. You have to accept that it’s simply too old fashioned.’

‘It’s The Pink Floyd,’ I explained, giving the band their definite article as befits a true enthusiast.

 ‘Darling, Pink Floyd’s time has come, and gone – thank goodness. And please don’t indoctrinate our daughter into early-seventies, psychedelic rock groups.’

Our daughter moved gracefully around the room, impressively finding a rhythm to dance to in The Great Gig in the Sky.

‘You let her watch Mamma Mia,’ I countered, ‘ABBA are a seventies group.’

‘ABBA is timeless in a way that neither Supertramp nor Led Zeppelin will ever be.’ She smiled as if there was nothing further to say.

Led Zeppelin.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ she said as I reached for the Song Remains the Same.

I’d bought the turntable on a whim during a trip to Currys earlier in the week. We’d just had a voluble discussion about the route home from a clock auction near Bath. It was no good; Google maps were simply not getting us closer to our mutual destination. In the same way that the mobile phone has supplanted the two pence piece as a means of facilitating telephone calls, so SatNav has replaced my AA route master maps.

 

As we left Currys, I tore open the packaging of my TomTom, and entered our home address into the keypad. Leaving the car park, I ignored the instruction to go left at the roundabout.

‘Darling, she said to turn left.’

‘I know; but that’s not the best way. It’s better to go straight on here, and right at the next junction,’ I explained.

My wife sighed, and although I know that the female voice inside the box on my dashboard has no emotions, I felt sure that her tone changed as I continued blatantly to ignore her advice, muttering to myself as she attempted to correct my deviation from her planned route.

And just as a homecoming is made so much sweeter when you navigate yourself there, even if accompanied by shrill instructions to turn round as soon as possible, so Money sounds far superior on vinyl, clicks and all. The only downside is that you have to get up and turn the record over after The Great Gig in the Sky if you want to hear it; you don’t have that problem with MP3.

Breaking the Trasimene Line on the forgotten front

British troops in close combat, Italy 1944

The Trasimene Line was a German defensive line during the Italian Campaign of World War II. The commander of German forces in Italy, Field Marshal Albert Kesselring, used the line to delay the Allied northward advance in Italy in mid June 1944 to buy time to withdraw troops to the Gothic Line and finalise the preparation of its defence.

After the Allied capture of Rome on 4 June 1944 following successful breakthrough at Cassino and Anzio during Operation Diadem in May 1944, the German Fourteenth and Tenth Armies fell back: the Fourteenth along the Tyrrhenian front and Tenth through central Italy and the Adriatic coast. There was a huge gap between the armies and with the Allies advancing some 10 km per day, the flanks of both armies were exposed and encirclement was threatened.

Two days after Rome fell, General Sir Harold Alexander, commander of Allied Armies in Italy, received orders from General Sir Henry Maitland Wilson, the supreme Allied commander Allied forces Mediterranean theatre to push the Germans 170 miles north to a line running from Pisa to Rimini (i.e. the Gothic Line) as quickly as possible to prevent the establishment of any sort of coherent enemy defence in central Italy.

Between 4 June and 16 June, whilst maintaining contact with the advancing Allies, Albert Kesselring executed a remarkable and unorthodox manoeuvre with his depleted divisions, resulting in his two armies aligning and uniting their wings on the defensive positions on the Trasimene Line.

By the last week of June the Allies were facing the Trasimene positions. The toughest defences were around the lake itself with fierce fighting on 17 June at Città della Pieve and 21 June at San Fatucchio. But by 24 June, the Allies had worked their way round to the north shore and linked and the German defenders withdrew towards Arezzo.

Gone in an instant

It’s a sickening moment when you realise that your lifetime partner, your kindred spirit, your one true love is not who you thought she was.

Of course, thinking back, I’d seen the evidence of her perversion, but chose to turn a blind eye imagining it was because the builders were in. I’d even caught faint traces of her other life on her breath as we kissed when I returned from work at the end of a long day scribbling.

But it’s one thing to suspect your wife, and it’s quite another to have your suspicions confirmed.  Yesterday, I caught her in flagrante delicto, cup to her lips, as she sat secretly in the kitchen, Western Gazette on her knee, and her paraphernalia surrounding her on the table.

‘Darling, don’t get carried away. It’s just milky coffee. I haven’t been having an affair.’

‘What are you doing?’ I asked as I stared incredulously at the tin on the table.

‘I’m having a coffee,’ she replied, making no attempt to deny it.

‘No you’re not, you’re drinking instant.’

‘What of it,’ she replied, ‘I prefer it.’

‘Prefer it? How can you prefer it to actual coffee?’

‘I don’t like that shivery feeling I get when I drink one of your espressos, darling. It makes me feel like I’ve got the flu; they’re too strong.’

‘How long has this been going on?’ I said as I sank into the Windsor chair by the Aga.

‘Darling, don’t get carried away. It’s just milky coffee. I haven’t been having an affair.’

‘How long?’ I demanded.

‘Since you got that wretched Gaggia.’

I’d had my beloved espresso maker for over six years before moving to Hornblotton when it finally gave up the ghost. All that time my wife had been sneaking into the kitchen, boiling milk in a pan, and secretly adding … granules.

‘I could have made you a cappuccino,’ I whispered pathetically.

‘Yes, but it would still have been too strong – and anyway, I don’t much like the froth; it spoils my lipstick.’

Was there no end? Did she have no shame?

‘Latte?’ I squeaked plaintively.

She shook her head, and took another gulp of her revolting beverage, turning her attention once more to the local paper. I could smell the milk from the other side of the kitchen; it turned my stomach.

Decline of the machines

Since moving to Somerset, I have had to manage without some of my favourite kitchen appliances: the dishwasher stayed in Scotland; the microwave is also absent, currently languishing in a cupboard because there are insufficient electrical sockets in our somewhat out-dated kitchen; and the Gaggia died when asked to produce coffee in an area where the water is basically made of limestone.

As my household chores revolve around making coffee and providing clean crockery to drink it from, I have had to seek manual alternatives. My morning regimen used to involve  pressing a button on the Gaggia. Once I had consumed my espresso, I simply placed my cup into the dishwasher, and went about my business, secure in the knowledge that my chores were complete until elevenses.  

‘My household chores revolve around making coffee and providing clean crockery to drink it from’

Now I must come downstairs, blurry-eyed and dry-mouthed, locate the coffee percolator and empty yesterday’s coffee grounds. Next, I need to scoop the grounds off the floor with my hand, and place them in the bin. Then I fill the percolator with hot water, add fresh coffee and place it on the Aga. Finally, I need to wipe the coffee grounds from the kettle handle, the Aga door and anything else I’ve recently touched.

 Next, the hunt for a cup commences. I usually find them in my study, lined up like a row of Babushka dolls from the ridiculously large 7am cup to the tiny it’s-my-fifth-of-the-day-and-my-hands-are-shaking cup. They all need to be washed up, so I wait while the water trickles into the bowl through the tap that is so blocked with lime-scale it is almost a stalactite; perhaps in time my sink might become a must-see extension to the Wookey Hole Experience. Then that zingy-lemon-freshness as I add bubbles. A few moments of splashing the cups around, and as I hear the percolator bubbling, we’re ready.

All this without any electricity and no harmful chemicals such as you might find in a dishwasher tab (I am not counting the tank of oil the Aga uses each month); I have unintentionally become an eco-warrior. I also start to wonder how much money I have saved since we moved South and I started doing things manually.

I don’t really miss the appliances; I used to hate unloading the dishwasher anyway, and I quite enjoy making the coffee from scratch. Recently, I have been looking at the other appliances, and considering the manual alternatives; I have bought a scythe and have invited my neighbour to let his sheep tend my lawn whilst I sell the mower, for example.

One morning last week when I was chatting to my wife about the pleasure I got from doing things by hand, I suggested she might like to consider abandoning her washing machine and her noisy vacuum cleaner. I passed her the Western Gazette, open at the free-ads, where I had already circled a washboard and a broom.

There was an awkward silence. Apparently, she is not keen to join my appliance-free revolution.

No such thing as a free lunch

It may be true that there is no such thing as a free lunch, but there is currently the offer of a free breakfast. At a local building supplies store, if you place an order before nine and it’s worth more than thirty quid, they’ll give you a free breakfast.

 ‘So, you’d drive all the way into town on an empty stomach so that you could get a ‘free’ breakfast by spending thirty pounds which you could then enjoy standing in the rain with a bunch of builders all with their bottoms showing over the tops of their trousers? Cooked, no doubt, by a fat, tattooed man who has probably not washed his hands in some time.’

I noticed the van that provided the free breakfast parked alongside the store entrance as I walked out carrying some wood for a gardening project. I could see the sizzling bacon, sausages, eggs. I love the smell of cholesterol in the morning – smells like…angina.
Sadly, I’d already breakfasted on porridge and toast; a pretty poor substitute, and no match for a plate loaded with fried goodies. I packed my car with the planks and nails, and sadly climbed in. I’d have to make sure that I returned before nine a.m. when I next needed some DIY stuff.
When I got back to Hornblotton, I told my wife that you could get this free breakfast. She looked at me in silence.
‘But you’ve already had breakfast,’ she said.
‘Yes, but next time, I would leave before breakfast – you know – to get my monies-worth,’ I explained.
‘So, you’d drive all the way into town on an empty stomach so that you could get a ‘free’ breakfast by spending thirty pounds which you could then enjoy standing in the rain with a bunch of builders all with their bottoms showing over the tops of their trousers? Cooked, no doubt, by a fat, tattooed man who has probably not washed his hands in some time.’
‘Well, now that you explain it like that it sounds daft. What I should do is get up early and have a small, early breakfast here, and then go into town to arrive at, say, eight forty-five. Then I’d have enough time to get my stuff and still have an appetite for that freebie.’
‘Whatever you think, darling,’ she smiled.
I wandered off to build the raised beds in the garden for next year’s vegetables. It was pouring with rain. When I came back indoors some hours later, covered from head to toe in thick, glutinous mud, and sopping wet, my wife was just leaving the house.
‘I’m off to the hair-dressers in Cary, darling. When you’ve hosed yourself down, remember to stick that casserole in the Aga,’ she said.
‘Why are you going now? I thought your appointment was at three?’
‘It is,’ she explained, ‘but they have a loyalty thing running at the moment. If you get your hair done three times, and buy some beauty products, they’ll give you a free manicure.’
I looked down at my blistered hands with their filthy, broken nails. I looked at my wife’s immaculate hands, with their long, perfect nails.
‘But your nails are fine, darling. Are the nail clippers broken? Couldn’t you find them?’ I asked.
‘No, they’re not broken – and they’re where you left them, on the floor behind the toilet, after you cut your toe-nails last night. Anyway, that’s not the point; this is just too good an offer to pass up.’
I nodded as she walked to the car.

'If you get your hair done three times, and buy some beauty products, they’ll give you a free manicure.’ I looked down at my blistered hands with their filthy, broken nails. I looked at my wife’s immaculate hands, with their long, perfect nails. ‘But your nails are fine, darling. Are the nail clippers broken?

‘Make sure the girl who does it washes her hands first,’ I shouted at the departing vehicle.
Standing on the patio, I could see I didn’t have enough timber to complete the raised beds project. I’d now be obliged to go back to the builders’ merchants in Yeovil. I wonder if I could persuade them to let me have a free lunch after all?

Winged harbingers of destruction

Before moving to sunny Hornblotton, we lived in Galloway, south-west Scotland.  In the years we spent up north, I optimistically tried to grow exotic vegetables (well, herbs mostly). I was never terribly successful, because as anyone knows, the only thing that grows in abundance north of the border is heather, midges, and ginger hair. With the sought-after change in our lifestyles came a change in the weather. Suddenly, the possibility of growing-our-own became a viable option.
However, since I planted-out my cabbages this year, there has been a war raging. Being new to this whole vegetable patch thing, I was a little slow on realising that the pretty, white, winged visitor to my garden was, in fact, one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse – Pestilence; you might know her as the Cabbage White butterfly.

"Because as anyone knows, the only thing that grows in abundance north of the border is ... ginger hair"

She has ridden rough-shod over my raised beds, spreading destruction in her wake. The leaves of my brassicas were soon covered with her tiny eggs, and I have spent my days on my hands and knees indulging in a little inter-species ethnic cleansing.
It is rather ironic that in the week when this war reached its climax, my daughter received a couple of caterpillars through the post as part of a grow-your-own butterfly kit. As she carefully examined the underside of each leaf in search of potential caterpillar friends, I was preceding her, and scraping them off the leaves with my finger nail and smearing them onto my trousers. I don’t know whether Cabbage White’s have folklore, and sit around the fireside telling stories to their children of the fearful shapes that haunt the darkness, but if they do, I imagine I will figure large in those tales. I am not sure what will happen to the butterfly farm when the caterpillars reach maturity, but the odds are long on them surviving beyond the chrysalis stage. All this, and I don’t even like cabbage.

"I don’t know whether Cabbage White’s have folklore, and sit around the fireside telling stories to their children of the fearful shapes that haunt the darkness, but if they do, I imagine I will figure large in those tales"

Luckily, I had the foresight to plant some vegetables I actually do like. It was a last minute decision before our trip to Spain earlier this year; I stuck some old potatoes in the ground, and then ignored them. I haven’t watered them; I haven’t banked up the earth around them; I certainly haven’t crawled around them on my hands and knees minutely examining their leaves for infestations. The other day, as I turned dejectedly from my decimated cabbages, I caught sight of their verdant foliage and I wondered if there was a hidden crop, just waiting to be lifted.
Putting down my flamethrower, I took up my fork, and within moments I had a handful of perfect tubers. I felt like I used to as a small child when I opened my first present on Christmas morning; I couldn’t wait to tear the wrapping off all my other presents. I scrabbled around in the dirt searching for more of the hidden treasures.

Within a few minutes, I had a fine harvest of large, perfect potatoes. I carried them indoors, and placed them on the kitchen table for the family to admire. I stood there, basking in the reflected glory of the simple spud, secure in the knowledge that my crop was safe from airborne assault.

Graphic designer to artisan baker

It may seem like a big jump from graphic designer to artisan baker, but Phil Nicodem at Lievito Bakery always had too much energy to just sit behind a desk all day. Fair enough, but why bread? Why not gardening, or something else physical? He smiles and then lifts another twenty five kilo bag of flour from the stack by the door. ‘Bread can be physical,’ he says.
We’re talking in his purpose-built bakery, tucked in between a micro-brewery and a dairy farm opposite the river Brue in Lovington. The place is all dusty with flour and I mention the delicious, warm, yeasty smell of newly baked bread for the fourth time in as many minutes. ‘I can’t smell it,’ he says. ‘Too much exposure, I suppose. But everyone comments on it.’
So, how does a graphic designer make the change to artisan baker? ‘My interest in food began early. My parents ran a fruit and veg shop in Wells High Street. Food was in our blood. It’s vital. On the weekends and during the holidays, I’d get up early and go with dad to the market: four or five in the morning. It was great. The banter, the smell – and when no one was looking, the taste.’
‘Dad’s from Abruzzo in central Italy. Food is a big deal, there, and bread especially. He taught me about baking. He started me off with simple pizza bases. Then he shared his other secrets: ciabatta, focaccia. And although I don’t usually like making cakes,’ he adds, ‘I will make a panettone for Christmas.’
I watch him with interest, and he looks up. ‘It’s about love,’ he says, working the dough with a firm hand. We’re interrupted by another customer, and he stands behind his counter and explains what’s on offer. Money changes hands.
‘I never expected the passing trade to be so much a part of what I do,’ he says, returning to his shaping. ‘I thought it would be all wholesale, but I’ve just extended the counter – and I’ve got a proper till, too.’
I look at his counter. It’s made from old boxes and planks of wood he found in a disused dairy. It’s piled high with so many varieties of bread, it’s not feasible to list them in the space available. And while I am there, a whole cross-section of folk come to buy.
‘I don’t advertise,’ he says. ‘Word just seems to have gotten around. Saturday is really busy.’ I know that’s true. I’ve waited in line on a Saturday morning for my warm croissants, served by Genna, his wife.

I wonder what his bestselling loaf is. ‘It varies,’ he says. ‘Some days I can’t make enough milk loaf, and others the sesame and semolina loaf flies off the counter. But probably, my Somerset Sour Dough is the most popular.’
‘You don’t add yeast to a sour dough. Instead, the dough draws from the naturally occurring bacteria in the atmosphere – so it’s influenced by the local area.’ Standing outside, you can smell the beer, the cut grass and the fresh breeze off the river. Plenty of influences here, then.
I watch as he begins to slice the top of his baguettes using a homemade implement based around a razor blade. ‘It’s the French style. Each baker signs his loaves this way,’ he explains.
I confess that I bake my own bread from time to time and I ask what his top tip would be for a home baker. ‘Patience,’ he says without hesitation. ‘Bread takes time, and the more time you give it, the better it’s going to be.’ I nod and promise myself that I’ll try and slow down. ‘And keep the salt and yeast separate for as long as possible,’ he adds.
‘Do you know?’ he says. ‘I do get people coming in and asking what’s gone wrong with their sour dough. I always offer them some advice, so maybe I could run a clinic. In fact, I’d like to run courses,’ he says. ‘Perhaps a beginners’ course on making pizzas or simple loaves. And then maybe an advanced course for people that want to take it further.’
Things are going in and coming out of the ovens all the time. Did I mention the delicious, warm, yeasty smell? I am amazed at how easily he is able to remember what’s in where and how long it’s been in there. I frequently burn the single loaf I’m baking.
We talk about a typical working week. ‘Most days, I’m here by three a.m. and work until around six p.m. Saturdays, I have to be here at midnight to get it all done. Croissants are a real labour of love, and we make all our own almond paste for the almond ones which takes more time. But it’s not just me; there’s Fin, my new baker. She’s just so creative with pastries. And on Saturdays, I also have Jake. And of course, Genna helps at the weekends whenever she can, despite having a fulltime job.’
I wonder about his social life, his other commitments. ‘This is my life – and I love it. I’d rather be doing this than anything else.’
The baguettes are coming out, and I know I mentioned the delicious, warm, yeasty smell before, but it’s still working its magic. They go into a basket on the counter. He starts to work on a sweet dough onto which he spreads melted butter, local apples and sultanas. This he rolls up and then slices for baking. ‘It’s a Lovington Bun,’ he tells me, and later, unable to resist, I take one home; I can recommend it with a strong espresso. Delicious.
If you fancy one yourself, or want to try something more continental, pop in and see Phil. The Lievito bakery is located left off the B3153 about two miles east of the A37.

Taken from an article published in Somerset Life, January 2014: http://www.somerset-life.co.uk/people/graphic_designer_to_artisan_baker_1_3206251 

Tantric espresso

Some things in life are meant to be fast: burgers; putting up camp beds; taking a shower; sex. Other things are meant to be slow: a massage; a bath; espresso coffee. I've been complaining to my wife recently about how I no longer get time to enjoy my morning coffee; I’m always being interrupted to deal with school clothes, the washing up, or the dog’s bottom (long fur, short attention span; you do the maths).
‘An espresso is meant to be sipped slowly and it’s heavenly aroma and taste savoured,’ I shouted over James Naughtie as I pulled my daughter’s school jersey down over her head, and scraped breakfast cereal into the bin from her bowl, ‘and I’m gulping mine down like a camel at an oasis’.
‘It’s called espresso, darling,’ she responded as she shoved the dinner into lower oven of the Aga and began vacuuming the stairs, ‘because it means quick – express!’
I thought about this all day and I determined that the pressure of life was not going to spoil my caffeine intake any longer; from now on, I would take things more slowly – starting with my coffee. The problem is that the amount of coffee you get in an espresso is pretty small. It’s hard to see how you can make 25ml of liquid last a long time (although my daughter manages to stretch 5ml of cough mixture out for hours, so it’s clearly possible). That’s when it hit me. It’s not just about the drinking; it’s about the whole process.

"Like any good junky, you have your drug-taking paraphernalia: spoon, demitasse, sugar and coffee, and whatever it is you make it in"

Anticipate your coffee; think of the aroma; the deep, dark depths of the coffee; the contrast with the crema. Titillate yourself a little by sniffing at an open can of your favourite beans; imagine the moment when the coffee touches your lip, slips down your throat. At first you might find this is all too much; perhaps your partner can help? When she sees you with that look in your eyes that says you’re about to grab your Gaggia, she can try to divert you with unrelated conversation such as ‘Darling, I thought you were going to drop the car in Castle Cary today for its service?’ or, ‘That lawn won’t mow itself, Darling’.
Now make the coffee. Like any good junky, you have your drug-taking paraphernalia; spoon, demitasse, sugar and coffee, and whatever it is you make it in. Lay them out on the work surface before you. Warm the cup; spoon the coffee into the percolator; place the percolator on the hob. Enjoy the bubbling sound as the coffee rises into the top of the percolator; spoon in the sugar. There’s no rush; pace yourself.

"Titillate yourself a little by sniffing at an open can of your favourite beans"

Finally, drink it. I like to sit outside on the patio; kids at school; wife at work; me busily scribbling away at the computer all morning, and now ready for an indulgent break. If you have no patio, stand at the window and watch the rest of the world rush by in their pell-mell stampede to their early graves. Tip the cup slowly to your lips and sip.
While the warm after-glow of coffee is still on you, wash your cup; put away the coffee can; start anticipating your next coffee.
Tantric espresso is elusive, but worth striving for.