Come on in, the water’s fine

There's something rather compelling about a large body of water. The ebb and flow of the river Ouse captivates me whenever I cross the bridge at the end of Cliffe High Street. Swans swim past when the tide comes in, large chunks of Barcombe float by when the tide goes out. I'm equally intrigued by the harbour at Newhaven, the shingle at Saltdean and the pier-and-a-half in Brighton. This is probably because my childhood was punctuated with family walks along the seafront at Worthing, often featuring one of my father's weather forecasts. "If you can see Brighton, it's going to rain", he'd say. "If you can't see Brighton, it's already raining." Eventually I got the joke, although I spent many years marvelling at dad's meteorological accuracy.

Here in land-locked Ringmer, we have nothing bigger than a pond. This is a relatively static body of water, disturbed only by the occasional misplaced cricket ball or empty can of extra-strength cider. I once saw a heron there. It looked disappointed.

We can also rustle up a couple of old water pumps, which are fascinating historical artefacts but don't work. We even have a few half-hearted tributaries from the Ouse making their way into the village. But we just don't have the volume of water that has inspired poets and artists through the ages. There is, quite frankly, very little romance to be found in a shallow ditch.

My first thought is to mount a campaign. Plans to allow Cuckmere Haven to flood have proved contentious... so let's move the focus inland. Maybe the football club would trade their pitch for an artificial lake. Better still, perhaps the controversial plans to develop Clay Hill reservoir could be revived and refocused on the village green. Ringmer would become the windsurfing capital of Sussex.

As I search the internet for inspiration, my mission takes on new urgency. I learn that a research study last year found people living in 'marine and coastal environments' were happier than those further inland. This means my quest for some kind of aquatic feature is an issue that should concern everyone. Not only do we like to be beside the seaside, our well-being actually depends on it.

And, dear Ringmer resident, I have finally found success. I have tracked down a large body of moving water on the edge of our village. Not the swimming pool. Not a dew pond. No, I've found something with considerably more volume and more movement.

In fact, it's full of movements. So forget about the river. Ignore the sea. Bring your deck chairs to Ringmer's sewage treatment plant. The air is undoubtedly bracing and it's not too crowded. Some might even say you'll be flushed with happiness.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine August 2014 and on VivaLewes.com 31st July 2014

The son has got his hat on

Time once again for a cross-border adventure to see mum in West Sussex. It's a beautiful sunny day with a postcard-blue sky, so we head to a cafe on the seafront for lunch. I fancy a salad and a glass of water but I know this change from my usual routine would cause concern - apparently no man's wife can feed him as well as his mother - so I choose a toasted sandwich and a cappuccino. My usual fare. Well, I don't want her thinking the sun has gone to my head.

By the time our food arrives, the top of my scalp is beginning to feel as crispy as the bacon in the sandwich. The brie, which was supposed to remain with the bacon inside the bread, resembles volcanic lava on the plate. And my coffee is, as I feared, undrinkably hot.

I reach for my emergency hat, which is actually a paisley bandana. I imagine it makes me look rather like Johnny Depp. Mother’s expression suggests she agrees... but not in a good way. While we wait for our meals to become more temperate, we watch someone borrow one of the cafe's chairs from an adjacent table and move it next to a seafront bench. This is done with neither subterfuge nor speed, although it seems a bit like 'Taking Without Owner's Consent' to me. That's either a criminal record or bonus points depending on whether you're playing in real life or online.

Like a scene from a disaster movie, molten brie is now threatening the garnish at the edge of my plate. I wonder if Pierce Brosnan will arrive to divert the cheese before it reaches the slice of cucumber. Bubbles rise from the coffee.

After a few minutes a burly chef appears on the scene. Dressing in white wouldn't be my first choice if I wanted to look intimidating but this chap carries it off. Mind you, dressing in white wouldn't be my choice for working in a kitchen either. The person who originally thought that was a good idea clearly didn't do the washing. Anyway, chef glances around, spots his errant chair and strides across to its borrower - who much to my surprise hasn't also snaffled a couple of coffee cups and a handful of sugar cubes. There's much forced smiling. The word 'just' is used a lot. Chef returns triumphant with his chair, conjuring the spirit of Indiana Jones.

Meanwhile mum is bringing me up to speed with the major events in her life. Or, to be more accurate, the big events in her friends' lives. I nod knowingly and check my drink, wondering if the hot weather has got to everyone.

The cup is empty. My coffee has evaporated. Perhaps I need a glass of water to rehydrate it.

First published on vivalewes.com 25th July 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/the-son-has-got-his-hat-on/

Spring in the air

Spring in the air, there's magic everywhere. So say the lyrics of the remarkably musical and sadly departed Van McCoy. They came to mind this week because we're finally getting some warmish spring weather. It seems to have been preceded by much grumbling, most of which appears to be based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the way our planet's climate works. Mind you, that lack of understanding isn't helped by the Met Office weather app on our resident teenager's mobile phone, which informs him there'll be cloud from 9am until noon, at which point the sun will come out for three hours - as though it's waiting with a stopwatch before donning its hat.

Anyway, I have seen the first true sign of spring. No, it's not the lambs in the fields around Ringmer. In fact this initial sign is to be found in Lewes, although it's neither the goods at the Farmers' Market nor the appearance of swallows. You'll find it alongside the Tesco supermarket... but I'm not talking about the may blossom, despite my lovely wife pointing to the hawthorn and telling me it's safe to remove my vest. (I still reckon the rhyme about casting clouts refers to the month, not the tree). No, the earliest sign of spring is the sight of stage 1 picnicking.

Yes, stage 1 picnicking. You see, I believe there are three formal levels of picnic, which - in homage to WarGames, a sci-fi film from my formative teenage years - I shall describe in terms of PicCon: Picnic Readiness Condition.

PicCon 3: the full picnic. Only for warm, sunny days. There'll be home-made food packed in a wicker hamper. Expect pies made with industrial-strength pastry, usually served with milky tea, strong black coffee or orange squash that tastes of its plastic bottle. On special occasions some may prefer to substitute warm Chardonnay for the squash, although they'll need to open the wine with the handle of a teaspoon unless they remembered to pack a corkscrew.

PicCon 2: a self-assembled but supermarket-bought picnic, often prepared when the weather forecast has been uncertain. Scotch eggs, quiche, a tub of cherry tomatoes and maybe even a layered salad with a tiny plastic fork clipped semi-permanently inside the lid. This is frequently purchased in advance of festivals or trips to the seaside/countryside. You may wish to add a can of ready-mixed gin & tonic for instant luxury.

But before all this comes PicCon 1: the instant picnic, consumed at the first glimpse of sunshine regardless of the outside temperature. This is barely a picnic at all but is simply ready-prepared food eaten outside. A sandwich in a triangular cardboard packet shared on a bench by the river. Two muffins and a can of energy drink. A pot of yoghurt with an iced doughnut. That's not much of a picnic, I hear you say. Very true. But it's not much of a spring so far, either.

First published on vivalewes.com 25th April 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

The snow man

Ask when a boy becomes a man and you're likely to receive a variety of answers that involve driving, voting, responsibility and drinking beer. We've identified a new indicator in our household... and it's come from the heavens. Cold weather had been predicted all week, so it was no surprise when the snow finally arrived last Friday. Our resident teenager provided regular forecasts from the internet as soon as he was home from college, then swaddled himself in scarves on Saturday and cheerfully walked through the snow to his part-time job. By Sunday night he was much less happy. "I'm bored with the snow", he moaned. "There's nothing to do". And so adulthood begins. On a personal note, it's the cold rather than the boredom that troubles me. My fingers turn blue, my face goes white and I need to stamp my feet to improve the circulation as I walk, which means I look rather like a tap-dancing zombie on ice.

I'm doing my best to stay warm, of course. I've heard you can lose 45% of your body heat through your head so I located my knitted bobble hat and wore it as I wandered up to the shops. Not only did I discover the 45% figure is an urban myth, I also learned you can lose 90% of your credibility through your hat. After a while I stopped answering people who either told me they'd found Wally or asked me where Big Ears was.

However, the snow reminded me about two major benefits of living in Ringmer. Firstly, our local butcher has a stockpile of frozen rabbits. Mind you, I imagine there isn't much extra freezing needed if they're caught at this time of year. Yes, I'll get by without my rabbit pie... but that's not necessary in these parts.

Then there are the grit lorries. Although no-one's ever discovered how a gritter driver gets to work in the snow, they always seem to manage. We’re lucky enough to have a colony of gritters (or is it a pride?) nestled in the centre of Ringmer. These magnificent beasts hide during daylight hours and only emerge at night to mark their territory with a glistening salty trail. "The gritters were out again today", announces the teenager with a level of enthusiasm usually only heard when David Attenborough is talking about gorillas. "Do the drivers take them home? That looks like a good job."

Perhaps snow isn't so boring after all.

First published on vivalewes.com 24th January 2013: http://vivalewes.com/