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Co-operation

29/8/2013

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I find myself naturally inclined towards any organisation that promotes or aims to develop co-operation between human beings. I love everything about that word 'co-operation': the way it looks, way it sounds (for me it's onomatopoeic), but most especially what it means. Just about every war in the history of the world seems to have ended with virtually the same people who couldn't find one darn item to agree upon at the start, sitting round a table and co-operating. The word co-operation is defined as - 'the action or process of working together to the same end'. I recall tears springing to the eyes of my late father in law once when I played him a recording I owned of a Welsh male voice choir. He said that what always moved him was the idea of men working together and raising their voices to produce the most beautiful harmonies. Of course I undersood what he meant, and I hope this doesn't sound patronising to younger folk, but perhaps I hadn't lived long enough at that time to fully 'get it' - but I certainly do now!
PictureGeorge Martin Thomas

The Co-operative Movement has always interested me a great deal too. My grandfather, George Martin Thomas, was manager of the Home Furnishings Department of Aberdare Coop in the 1930s and early 40s. In its heyday it was a department store that the community was immensely proud of. Every town had its Coop branch, and I recall my mother taking her passbook with her each time she shopped, to have her 'dividend' added. We actually lived in Trecynon, one of the villages around Aberdare, but this community too had a small Coop for  groceries.

 
A Welshman, Robert Owen (1771 - 1858), is generally regarded as the father of the co-operative movement, though his early attempts to set-up co-operative communities in both Scotland and the US ultimately failed. However, in 1844, twenty-eight men, inspired and influenced by Owen, started what we recognise as Co-operation today, and became known as the Rochdale Pioneers. We need to reflect on the social conditions of the time to fully appreciate their sense of solidarity and commitment. In the 1840s, life expectancy was approximately twenty-one, bosses could cut wages because unemployment was high, and shops often adulterated foodstuffs and 'doctored' weights and measures. The Rochdale  Pioneers started by each setting aside 2d (two old pence) a week until they had each saved £1 - the sum they set for membership. By my reckoning, with there being 240 pennies in a pre-decimal pound, this would have taken them about two and a half years - impressive to think of their grit and determination. They devised a set of eight principles to work by. These were based on democratic rights and fair dealing, open membership, political and religious tolerance,  and the promotion of education amongst its members. Once they had raised £28  they rented a property, and what was left after repair and renovation was used to purchase their first stock. They were laughed at initially, and mocked by some of the other shopkeepers. However by the end of the first year they had increased their membership to seventy-four and had a surplus of £22. The movement thrived, and by 1860 it had spawned six branch stores and had nearly three and a half thousand members.
 
There's a huge amount of stuff about Co-operatives on Line. If you're interested in further research The National Co-operative Archive site is well worth taking a peek at.


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Riva Del Garda

21/8/2013

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I occasionally do a piece about somewhere I found interesting on a past holiday. A few years back Judith and I took a holiday at Garda, Lake Garda, Italy. There was plenty to do with lots of swimming, some enjoyable walking, several inexpensive day outings on the local service bus to fabulous Verona (about an hour and a quarter away) and a few boat journeys to different towns sited along the lake. We were tired when we arrived as I recall, and unusually for us slept a lot for the first few days, took only the gentlest strolls, a few daily swims in the lake and read our books between periods of dozing off. Slowly we were restored to our normal state of acute interest in the world around us. Occasionally it must be confessed, our enthusiasm has contributed to the evident
annoyance of an occasional couple, who might define 'daily exercise' as a gentle amble to the local patisserie, unfortunate enough to find themselves on the breakfast table alongside us.

One of the many enjoyable days of the holiday as I recall was spent cruising along the lake. By doing so we were following in the watery footsteps of nineteenth-century writers and thinkers like Thomas Mann and Franz Kafka when the spa towns of the lake were amongst the most acclaimed in central Europe. Our destination that day, at the northernmost point of the lake, was the town of Riva Del Garda. Before the end of the 1914-1918 World War, Riva Del Garda was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and something about the look and feel of the town
and its people, suggested to us its Austrian pedigree.
 
As soon as we got off the boat we immediately corrected the fact that we had missed our morning coffee. The coffee (a locally roasted brand previously not heard of), was excellent and we subsequently bought half a kilo to bring home. We bought lunch from the delicatessen counter of a superb local supermarket and dined al fresco in a local park.
The afternoon was spent in the pleasant informative surroundings of the Museo Riva Del Garda. The lake has enjoyed a rich and varied human association, the very oldest split flint artefacts dating back to the mid Palaeolithic period (120,000 - 33,000 BC). There is a very good reconstruction of a lakeside stilt house from the Bronze Age (2,200 - 1,000 BC) which demonstrates the skill and competence of their carpenters, along with an interesting selection of everyday objects made in clay and metal. There was, of course, a large collection of Roman archaeological finds (unfortunately the Romans left us so much to see, I'm ashamed to say we always feel a little blasé in this area! Shame on us!), and some artwork dated between the 15th and 19th centuries that was worth looking at.
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However, the exhibits that excited us most of all were a series of stone statues from around 4000 - 3000 BC. These were discovered at the nearby town of Arco and  represent human-like figures, making clear references to clothing that was worn at the time, ornaments and weaponry. It is speculated that the statues may have  represented high-ranking people who actually existed at the time, ancestors, or divinities to be worshipped.
 
We returned to our hotel in the town of Garda on the service bus in time for a quick shower before dinner, after a long but satisfying day.


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Tortilla Flat by John Steinbeck

14/8/2013

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There's nothing too complex about the way I choose my books. I read the way I have always read: basically, books that for some reason catch my eye or come my way (often by word of mouth, or gifts received at Christmas or birthdays). I am probably naturally inclined towards and possibly better acquainted with writers from the past than contemporary authors. However, I try to balance this up. Sometimes, I'll stick with a particular genre for a short time but for me the same rule applies to reading as it does to diet - variety is always best! The
copy of Tortilla Flat I've been reading was a birthday gift from my son dated 2012. He is a massive Steinbeck fan and has read all of his books - he has good
taste in literature, I think.

 
Tortilla Flat (1935) was Steinbeck's fourth published novel and with it he achieved his first taste of real literary success. His first three books had received unimpressive advances from their (three different) publishers, each of which subsequently went bankrupt during the Depression. It is the first of his books that was set in Monterey Bay, California. I had already read two others with similar themes, Cannery Row (1945) and Sweet Thursday (1954), which I enjoyed
immensely and certainly plan to revisit some day.
 
The novel is set amongst the paisanos, who are in Steinbeck's words "... a mixture of Spanish, Indian, Mexican and assorted Caucasian bloods". It follows the exploits of Danny and a small band of paisano 'brothers' who live by a strange philosophical code, shun work of any kind and live their lives tactically, with the application of a certain amount of guile and by their wits. Any money that falls into their hands by fair means or foul they invariably translate into gallons of wine, courtesy of the local tolerated,despised, long-suffering bootlegger Torelli. At the start of the novel, Danny returns home from completing military service in World War One. He is dismayed to discover himself, following the death of his grandfather, the reluctant owner of two
properties in Tortilla Flat, an area in the hills behind Monterey. Danny finds the responsibility of owning property almost too great a burden. His friends move in; Danny knows they will never pay him any rent, which is fine by him.
 
The language of the group of friends, generally in total contrast to the mundane monotony of their lives, is always heroic, as are the short explanatory introductions that head each chapter. Steinbeck was a lifelong admirer of Mallory, Arthurian Legend, Camelot and its Knights of the Round Table, which parallels those bonds of brotherhood formed between Danny and his comrades in their shared accommodation in Tortilla Flat. This is pleasurable reading at its
best.


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Birthday Cache!

7/8/2013

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All my birthday presents were spot on this year, all well considered items I truly liked. I'm pleased to say, there wasn't even one dreadful tie, despicable pair of socks, or that most feared pressie of all, the 'thing' that has literally 'done the rounds' until its packaging is too bashed and no longer presentable enough to be offered as a 'first-hand gift'. Undoubtedly it is doomed to end up back in the Charity Shop where it probably began its life - who knows, perhaps they can refit it with a new box there and send it back out on the road again for another few thousand miles!. You know those films that never manage a cinema release and are labelled 'straight to  DVD' - well I reckon there are probably gifts like that too, things like Foot Spas; Bread Makers; Odourless Deep-Fat Fryers; Golf Ball Shaped Digital Alarm Clocks; Crepe Making Machines; Fat Free Grills; Fizzy Drink Dispensers - it would be far easier for all concerned if they were stamped on their box at the time of manufacture 'Straight to Charity'.
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Anyway, I didn't get any of these (he says gloatingly)! Apart from a few items of clothing I really liked, I received a bumper stack of books (that were already on my wish-list) and DVDs - either things people already knew I loved and would like to own, or things they knew I hadn't seen yet but definitely wanted to watch. I was particularly delighted to receive a copy of the 1953 film Valley of Song. It starred Clifford Evans, Mervyn Johns, John Fraser, Maureen Swanson and was directed by Gilbert Gunn. The film itself was based on a stage play called Choir Practice by Cliff Gordon. I kicked myself each time this film was dusted off and shown on British Television over the years - not because of the film itself, but because my grandfather George Martin Thomas, who ran a tiny  General Stores just a little way up Alan Road from Llandeilo railway station (which became the station of the fictional village Cwmpant in the story), is an extra in one of the railway scenes. The film itself is whimsical and rather charming, a comedy drama that belongs to a far gentler age than our own.  However, it is still very entertaining and engaging - marvellous to see some great British character actors like Rachel Thomas and a young Rachel Roberts in action. The story is simple and revolves around a feud that is unwittingly started by the recently returned to the village new choir master (Clifford Evans) when he gives a coveted role in the annual oratorio to someone
unexpectedly. The film is relatively short, just 70 minutes long, and is very amusing.
 
It was fun also to see a very young Kenneth Williams delivering just one line, and an equally youthful Ronald Lewis who plays the part of a non-speaking youthful miner, part of a singing foursome. As a young actor recently out of drama school, I had the great pleasure of working on a stage production of Alan Bennett's Habeas Corpus with Ronnie at Plymouth Theatre Company nearly thirty years later.
 
And did I spot my 'Dadcu' you'll be asking? Not sure. My wife shouted out, "That's him!" - unfortunately she did this in every railway scene (approx 5 or 6) and I firmly believe he's only in the one! I think I'll have to run the thing again, slow it down and use the recently discovered zoom button on my remote.
 
Couldn't have done that on VHS! Aren't DVDs great?


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