Wednesday, 30 December 2020

Zen on the Trail by Christopher Ives

 

A Snyder Primer

In this meditation about the intersection between hiking and zen, Christopher Ives has done an important thing. He has normalised some of the information that has long been seen as important to those interested in Eastern Ideas and wilderness and made it accessible to everyone. He deserves for this book to be a great success and widely read, because it leads the reader through several layers of understanding. Some people who have read more widely can drop in at a deeper level, but for the interested novice it is a good introduction to a whole range of ideas that are a rich starting point.

The meticulous research and marshalling of different sources means that it is easy to put down to look up an idea, and return to when you have read up a little.

In particular it is clear that Christopher Ives is an enthusiastic disciple of Gary Snyder. I go so far as to say that in this area he is well qualified and deserving to take on Snyder’s torch and carry the message on to a whole new generation of readers. He is modest in referencing his own background and credentials.

The range of stopping-off points in the text is impressive and I am tempted to go back through the book more thoroughly and to explore the footnotes and dip into some of the more demanding texts that are referenced. In this sense it is a real primer for the outdoors and how we understand it.

The writer is open to ideas from all cultures and his depth of knowledge is impressive – it’s not all zen, and obviously not all done for soundbites, but rather as a result of a lifetime of careful exploration.

There are several pleasant touches that impressed me. Mr Ives has probably been made aware frequently about how the language of zen is male dominated, and so deliberately describes his pilgrim as female. It is just a little twist to show that he understands and appreciates who might be reading. He is inclusive. He is also generous and understanding about the fact that we are not all privileged and can’t all spend a weekend hiking in the American wilderness. He spends time giving examples of where and when we might all have the opportunity to experience the feeling of detachedness from the normal, even if only for a moment, or in our back yard.

The book was written in 2018, and I read it in 2020, with all the restrictions that entailed. I am glad I did. I felt at the beginning of the year that the chance to return to the open spaces might never happen again. Even though the book is a serious piece of reflection, there was also an escapism in sharing the writer’s experience of packing up and heading out.

If you are the sort of person who has always meant to go out for long walks but never had the time, this book is for you. If you are the kind of person who walks every day but wishes he or she could do more (like me), then this is a book for you. And if you are a person who wants to start the interior journey, this is definitely the book for you.

Thursday, 29 October 2020

Stand By Me by Wendell Berry

 

Wendell Berry, well known in his native Kentucky, is a remarkable writer. I have come to his fiction late, having experienced the precise, logical and beautiful non-fiction already and some of his poetry.

This collection of short stories focuses on the town of Port William, which is a thinly disguised fictionalisation of Berry’s home in Henry County, Kentucky.

The stories span 1888 to 1981 and tie together the stories of families in the area. They are linked by the theme of connectedness to place. All the characters are tied to the soil that they farm, and are loyal to the old ways.

Here are the recollections handed from father to son, mother to daughter, repeated with affection and love. Berry was born in 1934, and his memory extends further having assimilated the lore of his ancestors. His skill is to interpret them, perhaps to rename, and shape the stories in a way that teach the reader about the importance of tradition.

Rural America is often derided. The picture of America that is beamed into our homes is shaped by the literature of the East Coast and the Film Industry of the West. What Berry is keen to make clear is that the centre, the backwoods, the farms and wild places, are as vital and important, and must not be overlooked. He portrays intelligent, fair and peaceful people who resist the creep of large companies into their lives, and the destruction that the greed of an all consuming economy can wreak on those left behind. He is right, of course, that most of do not see where or how the things we consume are grown or produced. What these stories do is give an indication of lives now passed that were just as important and vital as our own. We inhabit a world of technology and instant pleasure. In describing rural life over a hundred year period Berry shows us that the lives we lead are for the most part so disconnected from our origins as to be unbalanced and unhealthy.

It is difficult to describe the simple beauty and wisdom of these stories. They contain insights into rural America that cannot be found elsewhere. The closest comparison is some of the writing of Annie Proulx, a near contemporary from the other end of the country. Certainly some of the names employed have the same strange ring.

America is so divided, and perhaps here are insights into why it has journeyed so far down a difficult road. The past, and the wisdom that it contained, is being ignored.

America needs Wendell Berry now, but it also needs to have people who are willing to read, and to listen.

Friday, 21 August 2020

These Things I Know

 

THESE THINGS I KNOW

 I have been on Earth for nearly 47 years. There are several things that appear self-evident to me that others might not have thought about. Here are forty-seven things that I have found out.

 1             Blu-tack and carpets are not comfortable bedfellows.

2             Taking an umbrella guarantees that it will not rain.

3             There is no need to rinse rice before or after cooking it.

4             There is no cure for cats using your garden as a toilet.

5             English people really like to talk about the weather more than anything else.

6             Three products that are not replaceable with shops-own brand: Fairy Liquid, Heinz Beans, Beer.

7             Your insight will always be superior to the football commentator.

8             There is time in your life to watch a sunset.

9             Three things not to do: tattoos, motorcycles, cigarettes.

10           There will always be someone who knows more about fixing things than you.

11           Women are adults at 20. Men are adults at 40. That’s the problem.

12           Do not be intimidated by scaffolders.

13           A posi-driv and a Phillips screwdriver are not the same thing, and it’s impossible to distinguish them.

14           There is great beauty to be had by getting up early.

15           Always buy the best wine you can afford.

16           Modern politicians know nothing of history – even recent history.

17           You will reach a point when people younger than you seem to be having more fun. It’s OK, and don’t resent it.

18           If you wait long enough, the sports team you don’t like will lose in the end. Be patient.

19           Sometimes side-stepping political conversations is necessary to maintain friendships.

20           By the time you are forty you will start losing your heroes.

21           Beer or wine, not both.

22           Three things to always have in the car: corkscrew, nail clippers, sweets.

23           Dr Pepper is a good restorative. Works for me.

24           Try to see as much of France as you can.

25           The good people of the United States are foreigners, don’t be misled by the language. We have more in common with the French. Think about it.

26           The music you love the most comes from the year you were fifteen.

27           You need to leave your phone alone.

28           You need to eat something you have grown or killed yourself.

29           Boil eggs from cold.

30           The real name of William the Conqueror was William the Bastard. Not to his face, though.

31           Gary Oldman is younger than Gary Numan.

32           We are all related to each other.

33           Our bones are all the same colour.

34           A horse sweats. A man perspires. A lady glows.

35           A horse has a belly. A man has a stomach. A woman has a tummy. Respect and be accurate with language. Embrace the joy of gender. Accept difference.

36           After forty, you will become ever more emotionally fragile.

37           The people who paid no attention to grammar have already won.

38           Three things to never pay full price for: mobile phones, aeroplane flights, hotels.

39           Read a print newspaper of your choice when you have the time.

40           It’s really good for an understanding of the size of this planet to cover a large distance on foot, then try to find it on a map.

41           Know the rivers where you live. Try to describe where you live without using place names.

42           The stories that your grandparents tell you will be the ones you want to tell your own grandchildren. Listen carefully.

43           Sell-by and use-by dates are for the nervous. Does it smell bad or look bad? If not, eat it.

44           There is no substitute for a new pair of socks.

45           Champagne is just a place.

46           If local people are eating there…

47           You have two ears and one mouth for a reason. 

Friday, 24 July 2020

Conversations with Gary Snyder

Conversations with Gary Snyder, Edited by David Stephen Calonne, University of Mississippi Press, 2017


If you are fortunate your life will intersect with that of a person so wise and remarkable that it can have a transformative effect on your own. For me, the writings of Gary Snyder, and the example he has set in the second half of the Twentieth Century, have changed my outlook.
Three years ago a comprehensive collection of interviews with Gary were published by The University Press of Mississippi, curated by David Stephen Calonne. In the absence of a biography, there are already two books that are useful insights into his life: ‘Poets on the Peaks’ by John Suiter, and the earlier ‘Dimensions of a Life’ by Jon Halper. This book adds depth to understanding his writing and the causes that he has championed. The collected interviews stretch from 1961 to 2015.
The value of this collection is that the interviews cover a period of great change. Gary Snyder is remarkably consistent in his outlook and message to the world. Fashions come and go, slang dates some, but for the most part the key ideas are consistent and shine through.
The first interview is from Swank Magazine in 1961. Alfred G Aronowitz begins with a raft of questions that Gary has spent the rest of his life patiently responding to. At the time the questions were quite fresh and relevant – for example, Gary’s fictionalisation as Japhy Ryder in Kerouac’s ‘The Dharma Bums’ was still news. However, Gary was already shunning popular fascination with the Beats and moving away, toward something different. There is some good journalism and a definition of Zen. Snyder was 31. Eastern religion is now something that is better understood in the West, appreciated, and has become a totem for those seeking an alternative. Sixty years ago it was unknown to the point of being quite alien. Snyder was at the front edge of a long-rolling wave. 1961 was almost ten years before Woodstock, the hippies, alternative lifestyles and the need to seek a new way of living.
The interview ends with a telling comment;
“I’m too young to be in a book. I’m just getting warmed up. Wait about twenty-five years.”
By 1964 when he was interviewed by Monique Benoit, momentum was picking up and change was in the air. It would have been easy at this point to slip into the exciting new thinking of the day, but it is clear that Snyder sticks to his guns. The interview is short, and even as a text seems a little bristly, as an able journalist pressed him on his attitudes to women. In hindsight his attitude now seems out of step, but it is a mistake to judge from the perspective of 2020. He seems to simply have been saying, ‘This is my lifestyle, take it or leave it, I’m not forcing any woman to like it.’ I don’t think it applies exclusively to women, but anyone he encountered… by 1964 he knew his path, and there was work to be done.
In an interview with Ananke the following year, he talks in greater depth about sex and family structures, and how sex was becoming more important to people as the other ‘realities’ of life were increasingly eroded. A strand that runs through lots of Snyder’s writing is an understanding of one’s own body, and how it can be used fully to experience the world. He was right in 1965 that many for many people this had already shrunk to their sexual relations. The whole body is an organ of communication with the world, and a way of being in it.
It is ironic that the most dated of the interviews is the most famous. The ‘Houseboat Summit’ of 1967 took place with Alan Watts, Timothy Leary and Allen Ginsberg. It has been frequently reprinted, perhaps because it was one of the few occasions that the four were together. The hippie sensibilities have dated. Snyder comes out of it slightly better than the others, as the consistency of his message is only partially compromised by the fashions of the time. I have always thought that when the hippies had finished, and put on neckties, Snyder continued with his themes of responsibility, respect for the Earth, and digging in. He has never sold out.
By 1970, the conversation had moved on, and population became a hot issue. Gary was interviewed by Dan Kozlovsky for Modine Gunch. How could a world cope with population overload? What impact might it have on the planet? To soundbite Snyder here is dangerous because it is easy to make a phrase sound extreme when out of context. However, he does say at one point, ‘Let the cities die!’ It was the start of the back-to-the-land movement. A far more telling throwaway remark is how the interview ends: ‘The computer is now your guru.’ It was 1970.
Perhaps the least readable interview was conducted by Nathaniel Tarn for Alcheringa in 1972. Snyder’s responses are clear and sparse, but the notes from Tarn, himself a poet, are unclear. Despite that there is some useful biographical information that Gary shares about his parents, and early contact with Amerindians in the 1930s.
Another thing that comes across from Gary’s responses is the rigour with which he began his anthropological studies, and the wide range of connections that he made early on. This really is a conversation between two specialists, though, and you need some anthropological knowledge to get the most from the detail.
The 1970s interviews come in two or three year intervals, and the next is for the California Quarterly in 1975. Lee Bartlett went to meet Snyder at his home late in 1974, and there are some nuggets. Gary is pressed on food supply, meat consumption, controlling population and America’s dependence at the time on beef. ‘…..the people of the United States have to learn to eat lower on the food chain.’
Ever the engaging interviewee, Gary’s responses turn across a range of different examples and ideas, and off on a tangent there are some really interesting ideas about writing in English and the importance of paring down, returning to the clarity of Anglo-Saxon language.
In the charmingly named Unmuzzled Ox in 1977, there is a good source of inspirations as Snyder outlined to Jack Boozer and Bob Yaeger some of the other writers that he had been reading. If you really want to be a student of Snyder, here are the places you need to look. A good writer reads widely.
He is also very generous towards Kerouac, already long gone at the time that they were talking.
The Interlochen Review piece from 1979 is charming. Gary is asked a series of questions by students and what comes through is his patience, generosity towards them and his desire to always educate. Once again the concern about world population arises, and Gary’s simple attitude around trying to get to a situation when population naturally decreases is well explained. Sadly hindsight tells a different story, and now more than ever we need fewer billions.
In The Cottonwood Review in 1980 Denise Low and Robin Tawny tease out more insight from Snyder about his views on the things people learn, and the fact that for schoolchildren the teaching of history is about the last three thousand years, not thirty-five to fifty thousand. At the time he was part of the California Arts Council under Jerry Brown and probably at the most visibly political part of his long public life.
By 1980 the idea that remote communication between people could save a whole lot of fuel was starting to dawn on people, and Gary was pressed on this. He explained how the CB radios that he was using to talk to neighbours across the valley made very little energy demands compared to driving a truck twenty miles for a conversation. It was impossible in 1980 to see how communication technology would change before the end of the century. What has remained constant is Gary’s careful assessment of the use of each innovation, whether it be oil lamps in his homestead or an electric typewriter.
In Affinities in 1981 Gary talked to Paul Christiansen about his early poetry, up to Turtle Island. It’s a nice retrospective. He talks about Bob Creeley and Charles Olson. Clear again how well read he is, and how many connections he has made.
By 1987 in Creation, the conversation was biocentric. Since the 1940s when Gary wrote his thesis at Reed, the link he has made between body and surroundings has been fundamental. By the 1980s it became clear to many that the resources of the American continent were not limitless, as the nineteenth-century settlers assumed. The disconnect between settlers and their environment has been Gary’s main concern. The richness of intimate human connection with the earth beneath our feet is frequently celebrated, but the flip side is that the damage that has been done is the result of people not taking responsibility for their surroundings. ‘Bioregionalism is a fancy term for staying put and learning what’s going on’.
The range of different subjects in this book help to give a rounded picture of many different sides to Snyder. In 1990, he spoke to Donald Johns in Writing on the Edge. He talks about his craft, his development and teaching techniques. It is instructive for writers and teachers of writing.
In 1995 the later-period Snyder writings were out there, and there are questions about ‘A Place in Space’. In The Wild Duck Review, Casey Walker asks about the changes that have taken place in Gary’s writing over the last forty years. Here is the nub of everything that Gary Snyder stands for. His response is that there has been a gradual grounding of ideas in practice. It’s all well and good having ideas as a young man, but it takes maturity to use them in a practical way. Is there anyone quite like Gary to have given an example of this practical application? His homestead is the physical reality of his ideas.
The most famous interview in the latter part of the book is titled ‘The Wild Mind of Gary Snyder’, and was conducted by Trevor Carolan in 1996. A simple internet search brings this up again and again. It first appeared in Shambala Sun. He talks about his Zen practice, about politics, and about the West’s addiction to fossil fuels. It’s a great interview because it draws together many different strands. Perhaps that’s why it keeps popping up.
There is a distinct Pacific Rim (which is clearly different to ‘Western’) feel to the interview he gave to John P. O’Grady in 1998 for Western American Literature. Gary talks warmly about his past when it helps to inform a point he is making. It is here that his love of the mountain environment comes across. By the time he was twenty he had already experienced what it was like to climb in the Cascade Mountains, famously so at the age of fifteen when he left his name at the summit of Mount St Helens. He talks about the way his early appreciation of the mountains informed a lifetime of connection to the wilderness. He obviously feels connected to the Pacific Northwest. How many readers, I wonder, have looked on with envy from the lowlands at his achievements? Kerouac certainly sensed it in ‘The Dharma Bums’ and the fictionalised account of their scaling of Matterhorn Peak.
By the time Gary spoke to Anne Greenfield for the Bellingham Review in 2005, his volume ‘Danger on Peaks’ was in print. There is some useful background to the poems in this interview, conducted before he spoke at the school. For me, ‘Danger on Peaks’ is the best of his later writing, and it’s interesting to hear some of the ideas behind the poems.
There follows another interview by students, which Gary made at Montalvo in 2006 to De Anza College students. Snyder speaking to the twenty-first century students whose world is defined by the internet, and not print media. Their questions are ones that he must have had to answer many times over the decades, but he is characteristically generous and explains when he needs to. It’s charming to think, perhaps, that some of these young people have grandparents that read Snyder in the Sixties.
The interview with Junior Burke for not enough night in 2012 is unique in the book because there was an opportunity to talk about Kerouac at some length, which is not common for Snyder. He is warm and describes the person of Kerouac behind the media image. Their face to face friendship was brief – Gary shipped out to Japan – but there is an affection for the kindness Kerouac showed, and respect for his craft.
The final piece with Sean Elder is full of biographical detail, and touches on the fact that John Suiter has been preparing a biography of Gary for a while now. It seems to be a comprehensive study, and there are glimpses here. At ninety, one wonders whether the biography will appear in his lifetime.

So here is Gary Snyder in all his different guises – mountain man, anthropologist, poet, Buddhist, ecologist, statesman. The main thing omitted from the book, even though he speaks about his children, are comments about his three wives. Whilst happy to talk about his life if it is relevant to the conversation, it is clear that there is an area of his life that is not public property.
He has had an amazing life so far (‘I’ve read a lot, and done a lot’) and although immortality cannot be expected, I think he may be around a while yet. Until John Suiter gets the biography completed, this is a vital book in understanding a remarkable man.

Saturday, 30 May 2020

Paris Echo by Sebastian Faulks


Imagine for a moment that The Beatles had started their LP career with Abbey Road. Where is there to go from there?
Instead the whole world appreciates the slow build to the dizzying heights of Sgt Pepper and the contemplative beauty of the last couple of records.
I think that Sebastian Faulks, who continues to produce beautiful, fascinating novels, may be a victim of best first legacy.
His second novel ‘Birdsong’ is the most amazing and brilliant book on the 1990s. I have returned to it a couple of times since first reading and it still leaves me feeling overwhelmed and grateful. How can a person so obviously born forty years later have researched so meticulously that it reads just like a contemporary novel?
Life goes on for us all and after the dazzling success of his first trilogy, he had to carry on writing. He has done so for these past thirty years and each new novel is another direction and another area of life meticulously explored.
I have just finished reading ‘Paris Echo’, his book from 2018. It has a dreamlike quality that I have not seen before.
It is clear that the writer has a deep love of Paris and he makes no attempt to do otherwise in this book. The Paris is just pre-internet and less connected than today  - it is the Paris I knew well when I lived nearby at about the same time. I was lucky to have some of 1993 and 94 on the outskirts. Perhaps the last chance to experience Paris as it had been for the previous hundred years – the Paris of daily newspapers, faulty TV reception, creaking plumbing and rattling metro cars. I loved it, and it is painted here in its quirky, original colours. No Uber or KFC here, just Flunch and a cream Mercedes to ferry you from quartier to quartier.
The story revolves around Tariq, a boy seeking adventure from North Africa; and Hannah, an academic from New England. Their lives intertwine but there is pleasingly little that is predictable. There is nothing shocking or nasty, which I found a relief as so many novels today are ruined by the desire to shock.
Instead, there is a meditation about the nature of Paris and its many layers of history and people.
As with anything Sebastian Faulks writes, I am left wit ha feeling of having spent time in an alternative place. I am never sure if the characters are real. I love that, and I love the small glimpses into other lives.
It made me want to return to Paris.

Saturday, 9 May 2020

Carrying the Fire


Carrying the Fire: An Astronaut’s Journeys by Michael Collins, 1974, Reprint 2019

It is the measure of the achievements of Michael Collins that the foreward to his book was written by Charles Lindbergh, the great American pioneer of aviation from a different age. After reading to the end it is clear that Collins deserves his place alongside Lindbergh in the pantheon of aviators.
So many biographies of great figures in recent history do them a disservice as they are ghost-written. There is nothing wrong with employing a skilled journalist to get the story out there, but this is different. Collins, entirely through his own craft, tells one of the keystone stories of the Twentieth Century and do so with style and grace. Of the wide range of books written about manned spaceflight, this is perhaps the best.
It was written in 1973 ad published in 1974, just as the Apollo programme was winding down and scientists and politicians were looking for new horizons to explore. Collins’ book is imbued with this continuing optimism, and missions to Mars are mentioned on a couple of occasions as the logical next step. Hindsight has taught everyone that Mars is a much larger step than envisaged in the 1970s, when the success of Apollo was still fresh in the minds of the world and a trip to the Moon was commonplace.
You would expect a book written by one of the crew of the first successful trip to the Moon to be mostly centred on the great events of July 1969. Even from the short perspective of the early 1970s Collins did not do that, and instead there is a huge and detailed and carefully crafted account of the sweat, tears and lives that led up to the pinnacle of human achievement. Collins is a generous commentator and credits so many of his contemporaries for their work which led ultimately to his compatriots Armstrong and Aldrin walking on the Moon and returning safely. In the whole account there is not one whiff of jealousy for Armstrong and Aldrin, and in its place is a great satisfaction of him having completed his part of the mission successfully. Without Collins, it is clear, there would have been no Giant Leap for mankind. He is modest enough to make that clear but frame it in a way that pushes the glory back to all the groundworkers, scientists, geologists, rocket engineers and the thousands of others that made the journey possible.
A large part of Collins’ book is devoted to Gemini, the precursor to Apollo. With twenty-first century perspective Gemini seems so much of a seat-of-the-pants endeavour now. The machinery that permitted orbit of the Earth was basic, and not far removed from the 1950s fighter planes in some respects. The space suit he wore when he ventured out of his space vehicle on Gemini X was put together by ladies in a factory in Worcester, Delaware using glue pots and careful stitching.
What comes across in Collins’ account of NASA is how high-achieving everyone was, and how their test pilot background made them largely fearless. Each man selected (and they were all men, something for another conversation) was a skilled pilot, scientist, and a specialist in one field of the space programme. Each was assigned a field to oversee, advise and push forward. For Collins in was EVA (extra-vehicular activity), so when Armstrong stepped out of Eagle, lots of the work that Collins did was put to the test.
Collins is brief on family background, despite the fact that his father was an important figure in the First World War, and that he himself was a product of West Point. He does speak warmly of his wife Pat, and how her support was crucial in his success, especially in the long weeks away in early 1969 as he prepared for Apollo. In fact, the wives of all the Apollo crews make up a large part of the story and he is warm and complementary when he speaks of all of them. It was Collins who drove to the widow of one of the Apollo astronauts who perished on the launchpad in Apollo 1 and broke the news.
So what of Apollo? Michael Collins is a pilot first and a scientist second, so his account is largely of the nuts and bolts of the flight, punctuated with the scientific aspects. He found navigation difficult – Apollo still used a sextant and navigated by fixing position on the stars, which he found preposterous. But for all his technical gifts he is also a talented writer, and the emotion and scale of his enterprise are beautifully and carefully recorded. It is well known that several astronauts had private epiphanies when they viewed Earth from space, and Collins was no different. He was not as evangelical as the others, and shares his insights in a way that helps the reader to appreciate the scale of his achievements.
Collins’ story concludes with the countless messages he received from all over the world when Apollo returned safely. It shows his class as a man that he selected only a few share, and that the one he has valued the most in the intervening years is a handwritten note from Charles Lindbergh, perhaps one of the few other men on the planet that understood the solitude that Collins endured when, totally alone, he orbited the Moon waiting for Armstrong and Aldrin to return.

Saturday, 18 January 2020

A Fine City


A love affair with a Fine City

I first visited Norwich in 1992. I have only realised recently that that is a long time ago – a different century, in fact. There is something about the feeling of returning to a place that you knew so well after a long time, and how some of it is reassuringly similar, but some is completely alien.
1992 was from a pre-internet, pre-techie age.

My thoughts of Norwich have been triggered by the fact that the student accommodation in which I first stayed in currently being bulldozed. No one can complain. It had a good innings. It was oldish when I arrived, and had no en-suite facilities then, iron bath tubs, and a rather jaded sixties feel. I understand that twenty-first century students are more demanding and prefer their own showers and toilets, and plaster on walls. I can’t imagine how the students’ services coped with installing WiFi through the breezeblock walls and other luxuries deemed vital for student survival like washing machines.
What it means for me is that I can no longer walk past with my children and bore them with the story of how I first met their mother there, and anecdotes of long autumn evenings spent trying to eke out fun on a budget of £20 a week.
When a building is pulled down, though, something else goes. It renders my few photographs from the time historically more interesting. Here I was, except now I never can be again because these walls and windows are gone. When I asked her this, I was standing right there – but there is not there anymore.
Romantics will be pleased by the fact that just prior to leaving in 1996 I lay underneath the fixed wooden windowsill and wrote in pencil on the underside ‘Jim and Clare met here and fell in love, 1996’. I thought it would be there forever for some post-historic nerd to uncover.

Norwich, too, has changed – but not beyond recognition. Walking around now it seems that the physical structure of the city is playing a personal joke on me. The roads, bridges and churches are unchanged. I navigate, though, by pubs, and knew many. Most have had a name change, and many have been remodelled and gentrified, some beyond recognition. There is an alarming number of coffee shops. I wonder around half-recognising places, and trying to recall if my first kiss was here, or there, or even over there. My wife is quite patient and has a better memory than me. I am beginning to wish that I paid more attention.
This new year I decided to spend some time reacquainting myself with this Fine City. I first knew it on foot – the only other transport was bus – so to re-learn it was straightforward. The more I walked, the easier it became to slot things back into place in my memory. I began to surprise myself with the things that jumped back into my head. The past is a foreign land, but not too foreign. They still speak my language.
In 1992 the city guide boasted more than 52 churches (one for every Sunday of the year) and more than 365 pubs. This has changed remarkably. Without an extensive survey, with which even TripAdvisor cannot assist, it’s impossible to tell how many pubs are left. Many of the churches had already fallen out of use and stood empty in the nineties. There is a whole other debate about whether a church should remain a church or be re-used for another purpose. There are many fine church buildings in the city centre that are well used for other purposes and would otherwise have crumbled and not been saved.
The city centre shops have been through many incarnations in the last twenty-five years. Like everywhere else, the chain record shops have vanished, along with video rental shops, purveyors of baked potatoes and places to develop your camera film. However, many places have moved a few times and, on my walks, I found myself standing outside where Waterstone’s should be, but wasn’t any longer because it had moved twice since.
Do you ever get the feeling of anticipation that you will return to a place after so long and meet an old friend by chance? I have to accept that this will not happen to me in Norwich. Even if I did meet someone I knew, I would struggle to recognise him or her. Buildings age little, but people do. I’d have to be able to see through twenty-five years of extra layers to see the face I once knew.
I know this because the same applies to me.

Having completed a few walks I arrived at a list of places that I miss, and some for which I mourn. If you know Norwich, you’ll understand all of these.
I miss The Scientific Anglian. It was a second-hand bookshop of the greatest eccentricity. The owner was an old communist called Mr Peake. The shop was stocked from floor to ceiling with yellowing books and papers. There was little attempt at order. Repairs were cursory and ineffective, and there was an all-encompassing dampness to the place. I loved it. The proprietor didn’t mind one bit if you did not buy anything, so for poor students it was a way of filling a quiet half hour. I don’t think I really found anything worth buying, but that wasn’t the point. I miss the fact that there was space for such a shop in the city.
Another loss is the cigar shop. On the corner of Bridewell Alley and St Andrew’s Road was a tobacconist and sweet shop that seemed to be from another age entirely. It was called Churchill’s as the former PM had ordered cigars from the establishment at some point and not paid his bill [can’t prove this legend] and when you walked in it had the most amazing smell. At nineteen I was not a cigar smoker, but used to soak up the atmosphere and linger because it was the only place I knew that sold Caramac chocolate bars. In the same way that patrons of The Scientific Anglian simply melted away, I imagine its demise was hastened by the demographic curve and passage of time. How many pipe and cigar smokers are still around?
The famous Norwich market has not changed greatly. About ten years ago more permanent, uniformed stalls were put in place, and it is more weather-proof now. I preferred the random old stalls and awnings. It is the sort of renewal that can go badly wrong, but whoever thought it through did an excellent job. The atmosphere is still the same as it always was. There is also something about the smell of the market that is unchanged. It has a savoury twang that I have never been able to identify.
I do miss certain old stall-holders though, purveyors on unloved music on cassette and CD. I was quite a fan of the CD single. There was also a healthy show of paperback books of varying quality, most of which have been swept away by progress and e-readers.
We have lost the urge to browse, not in the certainty of finding what you are looking for, but in the hope of uncovering something unexpected. It’s not the same to be suggested to by the Amazon algorithm.
I fondly remember a stockist of hats and gloves, who as a sideline had a large selection of foreign football shirts. Quite where he got them I don’t know, but I developed a collection of unwanted and very obscure shirts from Germany and France that would otherwise have been impossible on my budget.

There are many things in Norwich that are unchanged. It remains un-linked to the rest of the UK by motorway, which is unique.
It is also still very much a market town. Each Saturday Norfolk people travel from miles around to come into the city.

Norwich Cathedral is a jewel of a building. I have visited dozens of cathedrals across Europe and I can be completely honest when I say that none of them hold a candle to Norwich. I prefer it to Köln, Albi and Chartres. The way that the winter light falls on it is mesmerising. Inside it contains many simple treasures. My favourite is a message on a memorial to a freeman of the city called Thomas Gooding. Above it is a grinning skeleton. It reads:
All you that do this Place pass by
 Remember Death for you must die
As you are now, so once was I
As I am now so shall you be,
Thomas Gooding here doth stay,
Waiting for God's Judgement Day
It used to chill my bones on dreary Sundays and does even more today.
There is something about the steeple of Norwich Cathedral that draws the eyes towards it. Even though it is vast, somehow it can all be seen in one look. There is probably a very clever architectural term for that, but I don’t know it.

My favourite bookshop is also still there, facing the Cathedral. It is called the Tombland Bookshop and is probably my favourite shop in Britain. Tombland refers not to the deceased, but to the tomes sold in the area over hundreds of years. Downstairs is a collection of beautiful old books, still out of my price range. Upstairs is a brilliantly curated collection of every kind of quirky book any English eccentric could ever need. I used to spend quiet hours wishing I had the money to buy every Observer’s book, and all the poetry collections. Military histories were always a strongpoint, and I did once spend a rainy Saturday morning (before the internet) unashamedly reading about Bosworth Field, with no intention of buying the book. The owners were patient and helpful, and still are.
The finest chip shop in Christendom is also in Norwich. In the 90s I was very basic, and has since been quite gentrified. The most important element is unchanged: brilliant chips. It is grandly called The Grosvenor Fish Bar. It now has such twenty-first century developments as curry sauce and vegetarian fritters. When I first went you could have fish and chips, or a sausage. Citizens form a long and orderly queue every Saturday lunchtime, and I love it.
I can’t write about what is left of the Norwich I remember without mentioning my favourite pub. Tucked down a lane called Dove Street just a step from the market is The Vine. The old glass above the door proudly proclaims it to be the smallest pub in East Anglia. It is little larger than a front room. I was so fortunate that when I arrived as an awkward eighteen year old I was welcomed by tolerant city people. I made friends with the landlord, the peerless Mike Blackmore. There was a quiz, which they indulgently let us win one week, so we were allowed to set the questions for the next week. On Sunday evenings there were wind-up toy dinosaur races along the bar. There was a resident alcoholic who would dispense wisdom for the price of a drink. And there was a brilliant jukebox. I long for the days when the music in a pub was chosen by the drinkers, and not from an playlist.
The Vine closed down as a pub a dozen years ago and I thought all was lost. However, and enterprising businesswoman called Ms Allen decided to make a go of it and opened a Thai restaurant upstairs, in what had been the landlord’s quarters. Quite where everything fits and how they produce food I don’t know. But her enterprise means that I can still sit in the corner of the pub downstairs and cast myself adrift in nostalgia. The bar is not where it was, and there is very little of the old pub intact, but the walls harbour the stories of what is fast becoming a bygone age. It used to be so smoky that I would need to bath after every visit. Instead I now leave tinged with lemongrass.
Norwich City FC is largely unchanged. I did not realise at the time, but I watched them in the most successful period in their history. I saw them defeat Bayern Munich in 1993 when the Germans had the World Cup winning captain Lotthar Matthäus in the team. I would dearly love to have a season ticket, even today, and love the feeling around the club.

I don’t think it is wrong to give in to nostalgia from time to time. By going back to Norwich I have been able to put my early experiences into context. I didn’t want this to read like a tourist brochure and hopefully it doesn’t. But I did want to summon up a little of the past and record it before the years erase it further. I miss this Fine City and enjoying going back to her. If you have never visited, make the effort, and say Jim sent you. They won’t remember me.