Shakespeare, scooters and Mandarin…

CHRIS BENNETT found some surprising news this week…

A COUPLE of pals have recently acquired motor scooters; that is not surprising, or even interesting. What is, is that they are both around my age.

We tend to associate scooters and motor bikes with young people; this could change.

As you may have immediately surmised, they did this for reasons of economy; petrol has become unrealistically priced, and is likely to become more so.

Johan bought a large-wheel scooter and Fanie a small-wheel scooter. In my youth when I got my first scooter, with large wheels, the terms for those two types of motor bike were moped and scooter.

The two scooters with small wheels then dominating the market were the Lambretta and the Vespa both made in Italy, the home of the motor scooter. The Vespa, so named for the sound it emitted (vespa is the Italian for wasp), became the global image of a motor scooter, and is still highly popular today; but it comes at a price, a high price.

So my friends went Chinese, another indication of the way things have changed.

The Chinese presence in the world of motoring is still small in most countries – China would be an exception I would think.

That presence came to centre stage last week when the Chinese premier, Mr Wen Jiabao, made an official visit to Europe and Britain. In Britain he launched a new car, the MG Magnette, the first new MG in 16 years. The car is designed and built at the Longbridge factory near Birmingham, from parts manufactured in China by the company that owns the Longbridge factory and the MG marque. There is every chance that the car will be good.

Another thing that Mr Wen did was brought to my attention by a delightful Telegraph column by the Mayor of London, the delightful Boris Johnson. Mr Wen visited Shakespeare’s birth place, where he was given a private performance of Hamlet.

As Mr Johnson wrote, “It is, of course, a huge tribute to Mr Wen that he can follow Hamlet as Shakespeare wrote it, picking it all up off the bat in a way that most GCSE English students would struggle to imitate.”

He goes on to wonder if there is a UK politician who could go to Beijing and read the poetry of the Ming dynasty.

William Shakespeare was internationally known in his own lifetime, remarkable though that may sound. The first performance of Hamlet outside England was given in Indonesia in 1609; to save you the arithmetic, that was 402 years ago. According to Mr Johnson, who should know, in China Shakespeare is hailed as the greatest writer who ever lived.

This cooperation between two old societies reminded me of the relationship between the South Coast and its seasonal visitors, who are here this week and for a while to come. We provide the amenities and the accommodation, while they produce the wherewithal to enjoy them.

As I pointed out recently in this column it is good to see the fine new fishing pier in Margate.

Margate was the subject of an interesting section in last week’s Herald. It reprinted adverts and some history of the town half a century ago and made for fascinating reading.

CB

Solace in a solstice…

CHRIS BENNETT ponders the advent of spring.

SOLSTICE is a soothing word; as indeed is solace.

Both words are part of our rich inheritance from the Romans’ speech. The first is, as I am sure you know, derived from the Latin sol meaning sun (and stare, its position) and the second from solari, comfort; and of course a solarium is a glazed room for lying in the sun and in comfort.

There is something that always catches my imagination about the arrival of mid-winter’s day. Maybe it is my liking for the sunshine and warm weather, but there is also something irresistible about the light that comes with it.

The sun has now started its return to the job of bringing spring and summer to our half of the world. This week the sun was overhead at its northernmost point, the ancient Egyptian city of Alexandria; on the twenty first of December it will reach its southernmost point, over the slightly younger fishing village of Port Edward (allowing for a little cartographical license).

A recent stay in Cape Town reminded me sharply that that beautiful city is one hour behind the South Coast in terms of dawn and dusk; cause enough, I would have thought, for two time zones.

At this time of the year it is dark in Cape Town until almost eight o’clock in the morning, whereas here we see sun rise before seven. Similarly the Capetonians enjoy a later sunset than do we, at, in their case, about six thirty in the evening.

In the summer, which is now technically on its way back, we have lovely sunrises at about four thirty in the morning, which strikes me as being a huge waste of daylight. In the Cape it is about an hour later.

Likewise, in the evenings the sun shines on the beaches of Cape Town until around nine at night, while here, on the shores of the balmy Indian Ocean, we lose the sun at around seven; a bit of a double loss in a way, because the beaches of the Cape face the setting sun, whereas ours face the sun’s rise, in my mind rather more desirable as I tend to be an early bird.

The comfortable rhythms of the sea, the sun and the beautiful moon, about which my friend Dave Holt-Biddle writes this week, are iconic factors in the lives of many of us on the South Coast, whether we fish, work, play or manage all three. These soothing presences loom large in our lives.

Unfortunately of course, the same has to be said of the harsh geometric boundaries of commerce and politics, the two other forces sent to add spark to our lives, lest we should feel too safe and secure.

Before long we shall be very aware of brightening mornings and longer days. The July holidays are around the corner, bringing all the fuss and attention and the squeals and appeals that enliven holidays at the seaside all over the world.

Time and tide…

CHRIS BENNETT reflects on the death of two people who contributed in very different ways to his life.

I WAS glad to return home from an exceptionally happy two weeks in Cape Town recently; but straight away I visited my pal Ingrid Andrews at the High Rock Pub and Grill in Palm Beach. Ingrid’s husband, Keith, the jovial and popular publican had died suddenly of a heart attack during my absence.

During their fairly short tenure of this pleasant watering hole the Andrews’s have affected some serious changes, and I suspect that Keith had more in mind; these may yet come to pass.

Between the bar and the huge swimming pool was a sort of yard, used by patrons on a hot day to sit outside and enjoy their beer. Keith reshaped and rebuilt (which itself involved a fair amount of demolition) the area and created a quiet beer garden, done, unusually for this day and age, with considerable taste.

For a publican to be able to impress his character on the stage on which he and his supporters perform is one of the signs of a mature understanding of the entertainment and hospitality business, possibly the life blood of the South Coast. In our persistent obsession with money, and especially profit, we tend to lose sight of the more profound rewards that await those who put the customer and his peace of mind first.

I have always admired the pub industry and its offspring the licensed restaurant. My mother’s brother (well, one of them; she had three) was involved in the running of hotels in the flat but enchanting fen country of Norfolk in England. My school holidays were always spent watching the comings and goings of the business, and gazing at that enormous sky while birding and fishing with my grandfather. I still do rather a lot of gazing.

Today on the South Coast the hotel is largely a thing of the past, replaced by the highly successful (in some cases) bed and breakfast industry. It is always pleasing to be involved in bringing some respite and maybe even happiness to those who travel a long way to enjoy the delights of this beautiful region. Well nearly always.

Another death which saddened me lately was that of the last of my four twentieth century literary heroes (in fact one was a heroine). The Hellenophile and outstanding travel writer Sir Patrick Leigh-Fermor died last week at his home in Greece. He was 96.

It is curiously interesting, to me, that the four writers, with whom I somehow identify and whose writing I find most inspirational, were all the products of an inquiring mind. Only one of them, Norman Douglas, had a serious tertiary education; the others, Lawrence Durrell, Elizabeth David and Paddy Leigh-Fermor were largely the product of travel and reflection, those two inseparable qualities that reveal to us our own make-up - if we are lucky.

Their lives spanned the years from the end of the nineteenth century to today. For me they are the stars of English travel writing of the twentieth century last century, which seems so appropriate to the nature of this wonderful corner of Africa. They all lived much of their lives away from Britain.

PLF’s books are still in print and are likely to be so for some time to come, as are those of Mr Durrell and Mrs David. The three worked together during WWII in Cairo. Norman Douglas, who died in 1953 in Capri (he was a neighbour and close friend of Gracie Fields), has fallen from fashion these days, but his Old Calabria is worth a read.

Surprised by joy…

Chris Bennett muses on a change of scenery.

STARTLED is a lovely word; I experienced the sensation the other day when I walked into an old fashioned barber's shop.

Music was playing; not music of which I am particularly fond, but music for all that. A crooner was weeping into the microphone about his lurv.

But the startling thing was that he was doing it through the medium of the vinyl long playing record.

As the barber of Sea Point buzzed his way around my somewhat hirsute features I mused about this antique contraption.

For contraption it certainly was, spindly and alarmingly vulnerable; rather reminiscent of a Ronald Searle cartoon.

Having been wired up to broadcasting my entire working life I sat mesmerised by the spinning black, crow black, sloe black*, shining disc, constant in its thirty three and one third revolutions per minute.

I thought about, of all things, copyright. In the days when all music seemed to come from an LP, there was little chance of copying the thing without anyone knowing.

These days, it seems to me, all is fair and fair game. That, of course, is arrant nonsense.

Copyright laws were the bane of our lives in the world of broadcasting. Every detail of a piece of music, composer, publisher, performer and duration had to be recoded in the book, along with the name of the record company and the record’s number: exactly the sort of thing for which I am most ill-equipped. However it served a useful purpose; those who should be paid were paid.

I recently came across an interesting comment on plagiarism by the English writer Christopher Howse.

“As every good cook knows, you have to get the recipe from somewhere. Whether it's from Elizabeth David or Hannah Glasse, be sure they had it from somewhere first.

That's the faculty teenagers lack when they copy over chunks of the internet into their homework. The crime is lack of discrimination. Magpies need a good eye for jewels, and plagiarists thrive best when the booty passes through the brain, not just the laptop.”

It is always very pleasing to me to read something as succinct and as well thought out as that comment. It also carries a sombre message; not, methinks, that many young people will take any notice

I am writing this in a friend’s flat in Sea Point. Yesterday we spent the day on the bus. Those South Coasters who are acquainted with Cape Town will appreciate my admiration for the new rapid bus system. We travelled from the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront to the big, very impressive new bus station in the city. From there we travelled to Table View for lunch.

The buses, some of them ‘bendy’ buses, are served by a newly built dedicated bus lane, which has stops at all the main points, at which there is an excellent station. The station is similar to a train station in that the platform is level with the floor of the bus, a great boon to those of us who are a little older and to the mums with prams. This service has elevated Cape Town to the level of a modern European city. This is largely due, I suspect, to good service delivery. The service started about two weeks ago and the fair from the waterfront to Table View was R10.

*From the Prologue to Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood.

Out of patience…

CHRIS BENNETT visits a familiar establishment…

A TIME of jittery anticipation twice a year is the week before my annual appointment with my stethoscopic minder.

I don’t know why because he is a delightful man, as good doctors tend to be, and has a most commendable interest in the origin of languages and especially alphabets.

Maybe the place of our encounters has more to do with my fears: the provincial hospital in Port Shepstone, a place for which, although I have gratitude, I do not have excessive fondness.

As I am only too aware of the patience I shall need I arm myself with a book (in this case Lawrence Durrell’s Prospero’s Cell) and, if possible, a Zulu speaking friend: the latter because I feign deafness when confronted with nightmare English.

The arrival at the hall of eternity, where much, though not all, the waiting is done, is like entering the scene of a comedy written jointly by John Cleese and one of those German chaps whose sense of humour got lost in translation.

It is this point that the coward in me draws itself up to its not inconsiderable height: I leave my friend to occupy a chair and I go out and read Durrell.

After and hour or more I am lost in the fascinating but bewildering history of the Ionian island of Corfu, the island some scholars believe to have been the setting for the turbulent scenes of the Tempest, by Master Shakespeare. Bewildering because no researcher can entirely ignore the myths intertwined with ancient Greek gods and seemingly endless wars.

My phone jerks me back to the awesome reality of my situation. I am required to present myself for blood curdling tests and to be enmeshed in wiring so that greater minds that this may assess my trembling heart.

This time there is no avoiding the waiting so out comes the phone and I retreat into patience, the card game.

When my turn comes round the sun shines, and I am confronted by a small, very smartly uniformed motherly figure.

In no time this delightful woman has unburdened me of enough blood to test for all mentionable maladies and some quite unmentionable.

This is followed by the electro-cardiogram, during the preparation for which we strike up conversation. It soon transpires that this hospital is serious short of nurses. There appears to be a number of reasons, not the list of which is the temptation to work in the private sector where there is, needless to say, more money.

That explained the overcrowded waiting areas. One wonders where the real problem lies.

Next up was the fiddly business of blood pressure and weight and, just for good measure, height. Both of these last operations are carried out on a measuring contraption seemingly borrowed from a museum of medical history.

The encounter with the great man himself was, as always, both efficient and pleasant, which made me wonder if the hospital's woes were not perhaps more to do with management style than anything else.

We are lucky to have staff as hard working and willing as nurses are. They should not have to work, though, under these pressures. They show remarkable strength and patience.

By the way, in case you were wondering, I was at the hospital for nine hours.

Maypoles…

CHRIS BENNETT looks back on an interesting week…

A VERY quiet and rather pleasing election this time round was a healthy commentary on the people of the lower South Coast and, indeed, the rest of South Africa.

I voted at Munster, where all is greenery and large marquees, rather like a church fête or a society wedding (society wedding? Munster?).

I spoke to one charming lady at the steps that lead into the clubhouse of the sports centre who wore an official looking badge; she told me the voting had been steady that morning, and when I put my three ballots into the boxes, at about ten, I saw they were almost full.

There is always something slightly strange about polling day. It has should, I would have thought, have a Sunday feel about it; but it doesn’t. It must have something to do with everybody milling about.

By now we know the final results, but at the time of writing this they were clear but not final.

Thursday, the next day, saw me embark (that should be embus; I was not sailing) for the journey to King Shaka International Airport, my first visit.

I had been told that the new airport, opened as you probably know in time for the 2010 association football World Cup, was a little to the north of Durban. The old one had been almost in the city centre.

Now the bus journey from Margate to Durban was a most pleasant experience; it was comfortable, for a bus, and it was a pleasure to drive on an old road with an experienced driver. Hats off to Margate Coaches.

At my age I have no interest in speed, and so the R62/N2 holds little attraction, perhaps beyond the fact that it makes for a comfortable and reasonably quick journey to Durban, should you choose to obey the speed limit. Travelling on the old road is a delight; but back to the bus.

The Durban coach terminus, dispatching magnificent coaches of enormous aspect, intensely glazed and highly polished like spanking new cruise liners to all points of the South African compass, was a bit of a let down. It could do with a coat of paint and a bit of a spit and polish; as we have next to no rail services this terminus is of some importance.

From there to the airport seemed never ending; I had visions of Kosi Bay…

King Shaka International Airport is a wonder to behold; and it is largely empty. At least it was on that Thursday morning; perhaps everybody was celebrating a peaceful and highly successful election, the turnout for which is a huge compliment to the people of this country.

Like all modern airports this one is on an almost cosmic scale. Unfortunately, as a pilot friend pointed out not long ago, there is nowhere from which visitors can see the planes landing and taking off. This is a pity; it deprives children of one of life’s delights.

I presume this is a security measure, given that the airport must have been designed about ten years ago.

Something I found conspicuous by its absence was a travelator, one of those moving footpaths that get passengers and their hand luggage quite quickly from one side of the airport to another. The one in OR Tambo is a godsend.

No doubt, should KwaZulu-Natal ever opt for independence there will be no problem about modern airliners coming into the banana republic.

But what, I wonder, is the future of Margate airport?

Leisure bays…

CHRIS BENNETT indulges in a little light blessing counting.

LEISURE is the main industry of most of the hardworking people of the lower South Coast of this lovely province. It is also the main preoccupation, along with sport, of those of us who rejoice in, or maybe regret, having seen out our three score years and ten.

Periodically it is my lot to go to Port Shepstone, a confused stepchild if ever there was one, and I have a preferred method of getting there by car.

Taking the old main road, in the middle of a weekday, out-of-season or in, is one of those pleasures in life that never ceases to surprise me.

I have just returned from a couple of weeks in Kalk Bay and Sea Point, two of Cape Town’s charming suburbs, of which there be many.

It is a funny thing; whenever I spend time in that enchanting part of the world, to some the most enchanting in the world, I wonder why I don’t live there. Once I get home I cease to wonder and am mildly glad I don’t.

It all has something to do with that milestone (kilometres don’t have stones; they have pegs) three score years and ten.

To digress for a moment, the word score in this sense has a lovely woolly origin. The word was first used to mark a stick. Centuries ago the all-important shepherds of mediaeval England would count their sheep (England was then the world’s principle supplier of wool) in groups of twenty, marking each group with a notch on the stick. Hence three score is sixty. Most other meanings of the word also go back to marking a stick according to the SOED.

There is something most agreeable about the lack of need to rush anything on the South Coast. Some call it South Coast fever, which I find a rather distasteful and silly expression which is nonetheless graphic. Life here tends to be carried on at a gentle pace.

The meandering road from Ramsgate to Izotsha winds its pretty way through the valleys and hills of rural KwaZulu-Natal in a bucolic feast of streams and cane and bananas. It is remarkably beautiful and worth the effort; but you will need patience.

The speed of the traffic, such as it is, on this road is determined by the road itself. You can’t go fast because there are too many twists, turns and blind corners and rises.

For some that would mean eye-watering frustration; for the others it means a silent, relaxing toll-free drive through the sheer beauty of our rural farmlands. Take your choice.

I usually turn seawards at the school in Izotsha, relishing the moment when the delightful little Lutheran church, albeit a bit incongruous these days, comes into view.

I can’t decide whether or not there is any real financial saving in taking this route, and if there is it is likely to be negligible, but the other rewards are worth the time, should you have time. And remember, time is not used, it is made. Those of us who are retired from the slings and arrows of the desktop computer make quite a lot of our time.

Recently in this column I referred to advice given to me by my father a very long time ago, which, if you will forgive me, I shall repeat. You should, he told me, find yourself so busy with other interests by the time you retire that your job has become a hindrance.

Cape Town will always be my favourite place to visit; and like most places that are worth visiting they are just that: worth visiting.