Smells like nicotine spirit

In 1751, William Hogarth created an etching entitled Gin Lane, depicting the negative effects of what’s now known as the ‘gin craze’. I like to think he’d choose electronic cigarettes for his satire if he were around today. Whilst walking into a secondhand vapour cloud that smells of fried Ribena doesn’t involve the same health risks as tobacco smoke, it’s not a pleasant sensation. And I really don’t understand why some ‘vapers’ insist on using what looks like a Blue Peter rendition of Dr Who's sonic screwdriver to produce a cloud that’s large enough to be detected by a weather satellite.

At least pubs are smoke-free these days. And, if ever I needed the perfect excuse to pop out to Ringmer’s pubs for a cheering pint, this month's Viva Lewes theme was surely it. But where should I start? And, even more importantly, where should I finish? "Somewhere near home", recommends Mrs B. Wise words indeed.

I plan my route to begin at The Cock Inn, which can trace its history back to the 16th century. Contrary to my expectations, the owners say it isn't named after a male chicken but after the extra horse that was sometimes required to pull a heavy carriage up a hill. Apparently it's the type of additional horsepower necessary for the nursery rhyme journey to Banbury Cross. Next I'll head to The Anchor, established in 1742, which is described online as 'one of only 2 pubs in the village of Ringmer'. The Anchor's webmaster is clearly seeing double - and that's not enough, according to my figures, because I've yet to reach the Green Man. This, the Good Pub Guide tells me, is a 'welcoming 1930s roadside pub'. However, that's not when the name arrived: history books note the presence of a 'Green Man' in the village much earlier. All this is rather confusing, although I suppose that’s hardly surprising when alcohol is involved.

I decide to share my drink-focused journey plan with Mrs B. She looks disappointed. "You've forgotten the cricket club. And you’ve forgotten the football club, too." Indeed I have. Perhaps I could call at the cricket pavilion before crossing the village green to the Anchor, followed by a short walk round the corner to the football club. Except the cricket club bar is usually only open when there's a match - and the lack of spotlights or a pink ball means that'll be daytime. Come to think of it, I've missed the overlap between the cricket and football seasons for 2017. This has become a scheduling nightmare. I don’t even have the right kind of pet to take advantage of any dog-friendliness. Time instead to drink my troubles away with a cappuccino at Café Ringmer. As I approach, I’m sure I can smell coffee in the air. Or is it the residue of an espresso-flavoured e-cigarette?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 133 October 2017

Eel meat again?

There's often a very fine dividing line between ‘enough’, 'plenty' and 'too much'. Some news stories celebrate the diversity of the UK's population while others warn of a cultural invasion. The proverb tells us a single straw can break a camel's back. Tickling stops being funny after a while. My own experience of this tipping point doesn't involve immigration, overloaded dromedaries or physical comedy but the consumption of pizza. Some years ago, there was a trend for restaurants to promote 'all the pizza you can eat' evenings when business would otherwise be quiet. I attended some of these almost-spiritual gatherings in Brighton with my friends, starting with the simple Margherita before moving on to spicy pepperoni for a main course and then something unusual – perhaps chicken and cranberry pizza, if the chef had been feeling creative – for dessert. On occasion, we'd repeat the process before leaving. However, at some point there'd come a time when you realised you'd eaten enough, when your stomach had reached capacity, and you'd vow to call it a day after the current slice. It was usually at this point that a fresh batch of pizza would emerge from the kitchen and you'd spot a previously unsampled flavour. Could it be Hawaiian? Thanks very much. Fortunately those days of stupidity are behind me. Not mine; I mean that pizza restaurants are more responsible these days. And besides, I can't see Ringmer's visiting wood-fired pizza van needing to promote its business with such a deal on Tuesday evenings.

I seem to remember history lessons suggesting that Henry I - youngest son of favourite Sussex invader William the Conqueror - might have enjoyed unlimited pizza. The king is reputed to have died after eating an excessive amount of eel-like lampreys in December 1135. "He toke a surfet by etynge of a laprey", wrote Robert Fabyan, who could have done with a spell-check and a sub-editor. Lady Callcott's Little Arthur’s History of England adds detail, telling us that Henry ate so many potted lampreys – 'potting' preserved them under a layer of fat – that he became ill and died. It's also been said that the lampreys were probably served in a pie; seasoned with nutmeg and placed on a layer of butter, then covered with bay leaves and some more butter before being baked and, yes, topped up with extra butter. Makes a grande mochaccino with cream look positively healthy.

Yet a little more research suggests that events aren't as clear-cut as they first appear. 12th-century historian Henry of Huntington – writing three hundred years before Robert Fabyan – just tells us the king ate lampreys against the advice of his doctor. No mention of a surfeit whatsoever; a message that seems to have been added later as a warning against overindulgence. If anything, I'd say this story now proves the opposite. There's one thing you can't have too much of - and that's information.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 121 October 2016

Mallets Aforethought

Tradition is a strange thing. Sometimes it leaves us with events that seem ill-suited to the modern age, such as torch-wielding Zulu warriors marching through the streets of Lewes. And sometimes it makes us wonder why circumstances ever changed. The Busy Bee garage in Ringmer falls into the latter category: a place where you can fill up with petrol, get your car fixed and even buy a new one. It seems strange that anybody would want to disconnect those three activities into separate sites, particularly when there's the opportunity of picking up a packet of fruit pastilles at the same time. Yet this type of all-in-one establishment is almost an anachronism in a world where vehicles are now sold in megastores, petrol comes from a supermarket and you're not allowed to open the bonnet of your own car without signing a disclaimer.

Opposite the garage is the Cheyney Field, home to another tradition. It's where Cheyney Croquet Club plays a game that can trace its roots back around 400 years. I really can't see why a mallet-based pastime isn't more popular. It sounds like the kind of sport that should be an integral part of every macho stag weekend, alongside quad-bike racing in Estonia and an impromptu session of British Bulldog at the airport. Anyway, if you're interested in learning more, there's an open day at the club on Sunday 5th June, which just happens to be National Croquet Day.

These two venues on the B2192 have been on my mind recently because I’ve sailed past them on the number 28 bus. I’m a big fan of public transport, even though it seems a little incongruous when double-deckers squeeze through the bottleneck outside Tom Paine’s house. One of the reasons for my fondness is the cost: a £3.40 return from Ringmer to Lewes is less than a couple of hours’ parking on the High Street. It’s more relaxing than the precision-timing required when trying not to exceed the limits of free supermarket parking. And I can claim a complimentary newspaper as part of my bus trip. You may be surprised how long you can sit in Caffe Nero if your empty coffee cup is hidden behind the Metro showbiz section.

But my main reason for not driving into Lewes is self-preservation. Tradition has gifted the town with attractive narrow streets of terraced cottages. Here in Ringmer, we're blessed with new-fangled architectural features, including driveways for almost every house and roads that are wide enough for two vans to pass without snapping off their door mirrors like a pair of rutting stags. What Ringmerite would choose to venture into a place where every car bumper is as scuffed as a child's football boot? Not without a warning sign on their vehicle, anyway. I’d recommend something along the lines of 'Watch out - I play croquet'.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 117 June 2016

Searching for reality in Ringmer

When I was a child, I liked to read comics. They helped make me the person I am today. I learned dog-training from Dennis the Menace and Gnasher, I learned social interaction from the Bash Street Kids and I learned feminism from Pansy Potter, the Strongman's Daughter. But it was The Numskulls that made me question the very fabric of reality. In this cartoon strip, six tiny people lived inside a man's head, controlling his thoughts and his body. It's a concept that was refined by Pixar for last year's animated film Inside Out, which featured five colourful emotions inside the brain of an 11-year-old girl.

Whilst The Numskulls were never going to win points for biological accuracy, they certainly scored highly when it came to surrealism. Brainy - the leader, naturally - worked in a room with a teleprinter and a suggestion box. In the mouth, Alf and Fred (whose names sounded as old-fashioned to me as 'teleprinter' does today) would break up food with pickaxes. There was a Numskull behind the eyes, one for the ears and another for the nose. Fortunately, everything else seemed to take care of itself. As I grew older, I swapped my comics for science-fiction, where I discovered more simulated reality in the stories of Ray Bradbury and Philip K Dick, and in assorted films, from Tron to The Thirteenth Floor.

All this helps explain why I'll happily argue that time isn't necessarily linear (which means I'll never miss a deadline again) and colours only exist inside your brain (no more mismatched socks). You may disagree with me, of course. But it's unlikely you'd suggest sending me to the Ringmer Asylum. Back in the mid-19th century, that could have been a very real threat.

In 1829, a couple of years after the Royal Horse Artillery had vacated its Ringmer barracks, the buildings were turned into what was described as a lunatic asylum. It was privately owned, charging its patients the equivalent of 75p per week. Records show that 20 patients were there in 1830, with eleven being restrained during the day and six at night. (I’d like to think the night-time restraint was nothing more than a particularly heavy duvet, similar to the 16.5 tog behemoth that Mrs B uses to keep me subdued in the winter.) Over the next 25 years, the Commissioners in Lunacy reported that conditions improved and then declined. Eventually, in 1855, Ringmer Asylum closed when the proprietor died. Today, the cries of patients have been replaced by barking, as some of those former barracks buildings are now kennels for the Southdown & Eridge Hunt. Mind you, I reckon I could probably stop the barking quite easily. If those hounds ever gneed extra training, I have gnumerous tips from a gnotable source.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 114 March 2016

An American doppelganger

As far as I can tell, there's no Ringmer in the USA. Although there is a city of Lewes in Delaware's Sussex County (named by expat William Penn, who may have been feeling a bit homesick), those of us living on the other side of Earwig Corner don't have any transatlantic clones. We Ringmerites are true originals. But what if Mr Penn had gone a step further?

Well, according to every Hollywood B-movie I can remember (and an old copy of the National Enquirer I once saw in my dentist's waiting room), this American interpretation of Ringmer would be located on a crossroads in the desert. Route 66, not the B2192. In my imagination, tumbleweed blows across the petrol station forecourt, where an old man in dungarees is standing by the pumps. Instead of a friendly pub there's a diner - advertised by an intermittently-working neon sign - that's run by a former Marine and an impossibly glamorous waitress. Customers have waffles for breakfast and, much to the confusion of residents in Lewes, order coffee by saying "I'll have a coffee, please" rather than "can I get a skinny decaf cappuccino, a little on the wet side?" Bowling takes place in an alley, not on a green. Oh, and most people shop at the drive-through supermarket where they buy high-fructose corn syrup and shrink-wrapped shotguns.

Somehow I suspect real life isn't much like that. However, Ringmer can (as I mentioned a few months ago) claim a couple of key roles in American history. In 1636, local vicar's daughter Ann Sadler married John Harvard. They moved to America, where Harvard's bequest of £780 helped to found the university that now bears his name. These days you'd be lucky if that money saw you through the first month of a new term. A few years later, Ringmer resident Gulielma Springett married the aforementioned William Penn. As part of a debt repayment, Penn was given a large parcel of land in America. He wanted to call it 'Sylvania' but King Charles II insisted he named it 'Pennsylvania', which duly happened in 1681. All are remembered in our village road names: Harvard Road, Penn Crescent, Sadlers Way and Springett Avenue.

And I can claim my own transatlantic connection. Back in the early days of the world wide web, when Dave Gorman was still learning how to use Google, I was contacted by a man in the USA who shared my name. This other Mark Bridge introduced himself as a singing cowboy. I was delighted; it felt rather like finding a time-travelling relative. And although I've subsequently discovered we both have a more-famous namesake who plays professional football in Australia, it's the folk singer I'm especially pleased to be associated with. But which one of us was the first Mark Bridge? That's a bit of a worry. Surely I'm not a pale imitation of myself?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 106 July 2015.

Dancing for the fifth

There's one important thing I've learned since moving to Ringmer: 'bonfire' is a verb and an adjective as well as a noun. But this isn't the kind of linguistic error sometimes heard when over-enthusiastic broadcasters predict Olympic athletes may 'medal' and racing drivers could 'podium'. Instead, it shows how strong the bonfire tradition is in this part of the world. I imagine some bonfire society members are capable of holding entire conversations by using the single word ‘bonfire’ with varying intonation.

To be honest, I've always had a slightly strange relationship with bonfire traditions. As a child growing up in West Sussex, I'd often be taken to Littlehampton bonfire night. This took place on the Saturday before November 5th, which seemed inappropriately premature, although the presence of men in blackface makeup and African warrior costumes puzzled me even more. Why weren't they singing Al Jolson songs?

Sometimes, as an alternative, we’d attend the celebrations of Clapham and Patching bonfire club. These took place on the weekend after Guy Fawkes Night, which was no less confusing. However, eventually I understood these were all secondary to the fiery festivity that took place in Lewes.

I have vivid memories of one family trip when we snuck over the county border into Lewes for Bonfire night. The air was thick with smoke and paraffin fumes from the torches. But despite my imagining that the entire crowd could spontaneously combust, there was no real-life drama. Even as a youngster I was aware of 'volenti non fit injuria'; a concept my family tended to refer to as 'it's your own stupid fault'.

Finally, after all the societies had paraded, all the brass bands had marched and a few people in the crowd had tried to chuck a rookie into a passing tuba, there was time for one last mysterious tradition. This was the Going Home Dance, which wasn't just conducted by our family but by the entire conglomeration of visitors. It starts with a child standing on the kerb next to their parent's car. They lift their left leg, usually holding it by the ankle, while the parent shines a light on the sole of the child's left shoe. When the parent nods, the child hops to their right leg, taking care not to topple onto the verge. Sometimes this is when the dance ends. Yet if the parent issues the command "wipe!", there's a completely new set of moves as the child shuffles vigorously on any nearby grass. Only when the all-clear is given does the journey home begin.

Today, as an adult, I understand much more about the origins of bonfire. I’m proud to live near Lewes. And I’m planning to be in the bonfire crowd with my torch. Battery, not paraffin. Just in case I need to dance.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 98 November 2014.

Focussing on the future

There's no escaping the past. It trails behind each of us like a scarf that's just about to fall out of your coat pocket into a puddle. Excuse me a moment while I pick up my soggy woollen snake and wrap it nonchalantly around my shoulders. No-one noticed, did they?

As far as I'm concerned, the recent past contains too many mince pies and not enough exercise. Yet distant events can leave an even longer-lasting impression. Taking a pastry-fuelled walk round the streets of Ringmer reveals much of the village's history through its street names. There's Springett Avenue, which carries the family name of Gulielma Springett. She married William Penn, who founded the state of Pennsylvania in the USA. Another American link can be seen in Harvard Road and Sadlers Way, celebrating the husband and wife (John and Ann) who established Harvard University. I am literally following the path of history. Maybe generations in the future will talk of Scarfpuddle Lane, where I once trod.

Yes, I'm in a philosophical mood… but I don’t think it’s just me. At this time of year we all tend to spend more time than usual thinking about events that have happened in the previous 12 months. Reviews of 2013, news quizzes, anniversaries, that kind of thing. Many of us then start to regret what we've done and make plans to be better people. These resolutions tend to fall into two nonsensical categories: giving up things we enjoy (for example, starting a diet) or doing things we don't enjoy (such as visiting the gym). And we wonder why most resolutions fail. I've done a little bit of research and have found that most advice for keeping resolutions can be boiled down to two simple tips. If we expect our resolutions to work, we need to set specific goals and tell other people what they are. Not simply "get fit" but "do a 40-minute workout twice a week". That kind of thing. And so I've decided on my own unambiguous, timely and public-facing resolution for 2014. I'm giving up mince pies until November.

First published on vivalewes.com 9th January 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/focussing-on-the-future/