A Belated Blog About England...

Indeed, I have titled this week's contribution after writing a week after St George's Day, which was last Saturday. Just as well that I am an avid fan of Tony Blackburn's Sounds of the Sixties, broadcast on the BBC Radio 2 from six in the morning, spanning two hours of nostalgic musical memories that take me back to my school days and the first two years of my working life. It was on this programme that I was reminded that morning was the start of St George's Day.

St George.

Then after the broadcast ended, I totally forgot about it. As I made my way to Starbucks, as I always do on a Saturday morning, not a single bunting adorned any of the houses in our street to remind me, no Cross of St George flags were seen anywhere, the street was quiet, and in both the superstore and the coffee bar, it was just another ordinary day. Indeed, had it not been for the radio, I would have never guessed that it was St George's Day. It all looked quite unlike Scotland's St Andrew's Day or Wales' St David's Day, where such national celebrations take place on a larger scale.

At least St David was a Welsh monk and missionary who played a major role in Christianising Wales. As for St Andrew, he was a Jew, the brother of the apostle Peter. Apparently, in AD 712, King Angus of the Picts saw a vision of St Andrew's Saltire Cross in the sky, a vision that gave him a victory in a battle which set the foundation for Scotland as a nation. It was a very similar vision experienced by the Roman emperor Constantine who succeeded in Christianising his empire in AD 312.

But as for England's St George, Like Andrew was to Scotland, George was never an Englishman, nor had he ever set foot in the UK. Rather, he was born in Turkey. He grew up to be a soldier and then became a guard to the Roman emperor Diocletian, who then ordered him to slay any Christians he might come across. George refused to obey the emperor's order and he was eventually executed on April 23rd, 303 AD. As for slaying the dragon sometime in his life, I believe this to be a true story, as the dragon is now an extinct species that often preyed on livestock. Thus, according to one official video we own, deep in the crypt of the Natural History Museum in London, they say that the remains of a dragon are kept preserved among many other specimens.

And so, as another Bank Holiday approaches, there are some people desperate for a bit of sunshine, flying off to the Mediterranean, others might travel up north to Scotland, still others west to Wales. Yet, England has a beauty of its own. Although its cool temperate climate often leaves much to be desired - mild winters usually free from snow, cool damp summers often under grey skies and gales, especially in August, yet it's throughout August when all the schools are closed for the Summer break, hence not so much enjoying continuous sunshine and warmth without the need to fly south.

Yet our landscape is gentle and undulating, with the rounded chalk ridge of the South Downs just inland from the Sussex coast, and the Weald forming a valley bordered by the North Downs before levelling off into a wide plain on which London is built. As I stood at the Shard lookout, some 300 metres high, all around is the horizon, as flat as a calm ocean, with even Wembley Stadium visible 9.04 miles, 14.56 km away, without any hills to obstruct the view. 

Even Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England at 978 metres, demonstrates how moderate the English landscape is, as this particular peak is by no means the highest in the UK, even though England has the largest land area. Instead, that honour goes to Scotland's Ben Nevis, which peaks at 1,345 metres above sea level. Even Mount Snowdon in Wales is higher than Scafell Pike, at 1,085 metres. Yet, in 1992 a friend and I hiked to the summit of Scafell Pike whilst backpacking and hostelling around the Lake District National Park.

As the summit was covered in cloud, we decided to "risk" it. Risk, that is, it was a gamble whether we would enjoy any views as a reward for our efforts. As we hiked the trail leading to the summit, a disgruntled hiker was approaching us in the opposite direction. He was moaning about the cloud covering the summit, and despite actually hiking to the top several times, he never got around to enjoying the views and even advised us to turn back.

But we kept on. As for me, I could never give up on what I started. We kept climbing. Eventually, we reached the summit - just as the cloud began to lift. The lifting of the cloud produced a dramatic effect. It was almost like pillars of steam rising out of a giant cauldron and in the background below, with Styhead Tarn beginning to appear nestling in a deep valley. Then the whole panorama came into full under a clear sky and sunshine as we sat under the base of the cairn. We must have remained there for up to a couple of hours before making our way back down and taking in a fantastic breathtaking view of Lake Wastwater. 

As cycling goes, one of the memorial feats accomplished was the 302-mile, 490 km Newcastle-Reading charity ride completed in 1989. With this event, I did not plan or organise. The organising of this ride was between some members of Thames Valley Triathletes and members of Reading Lions, to raise funds to buy a vehicle for transporting senior citizens. When the fundraiser asked if anyone else would like to ride with them, I stepped forward. In all, there were a dozen of us and one van driver who monitored our progress. Our first night was spent in a private home of a Newcastle resident whilst all our bikes were loaded in the monitor van parked outside.

As expected, I became "the talk of the town" or at least within the group. I was the only rider to collect two flats, first on the rear wheel and then again, this time on the front, both on the first day of the three-day ride in wet weather. Quite a feat, coming to think of it, as nobody else suffered any punctures on their bikes. Thus, of the twelve men on the road, they all kept a beady eye on me in anticipation of halting the whole group for the third time. However, on the second day, the weather was more in our favour with a strong north-easter blowing, and therefore we rode FAST! We arrived at our second overnight stop, which was in Market Harborough (near Leicester) up to a couple of hours earlier than originally scheduled. (Our first on-route stop was at Thirsk, North Yorkshire, where its Mayor laid on a banqueting table of sumptuous meals before we all slept on the Town Hall floor.)

Our Newcastle-Reading Cycling team, 1989.

On the third day, Whitsun Bank Holiday Monday, the sun was out as we rode through the leafy countryside of Oxfordshire into Berkshire. However, there was a massive incline to get up, the chalk ridge of the Chiltern Hills, but we all rode up before pausing afterwards to enjoy what has become the stable refreshment of the whole ride - a banana. Thus, we made it to the fundraiser's private home in Woodley, near Reading, with 302 miles covered, confirmed by three separate milometers fixed to each of the three of the twelve bicycles.

Whilst the Newcastle-Reading cycle ride was non-touristy and purely for charity, it was quite a contrast to the Hadrian's Wall trail hike, completed in the Spring of 1998 with two Christian friends - Tim, an accountant, and Dan, a financial advisor and me, a window cleaner. Of the three of us, surprisingly enough, I was actually the weakest physically of the three, despite completing a solo hike into the Grand Canyon nearly thirty months earlier. Their higher stamina levels were quite likely borne out of playing both football and squash throughout the year.

After a drive up to Carlisle, we spent the first night at a hostel there before setting off the next morning. We walked along the wall, most of the way just within it (that is, just south of it) but there were a few stretches when the trail actually was over the wall itself. After our first on-route night at a hostel at Greenhead, Cumbria, we came across perhaps what I consider to be the highlight of the entire hike - Chesters, a well preserved Roman fortress, complete with the remains of all comfortable living, including a bathhouse. Most striking were the latrines, all in good condition, and showing us that privacy was non-existent when one wanted to defecate. The remains of a channel running beneath all the latrines ensured safe disposal. Indeed, Chesters is the best-preserved Roman ruins in the whole of the UK.

We eventually arrived at Acomb, Hexham - or at least Dan and I did. Although I might have lacked their stamina, it was the accountant who first had enough, and he decided to hitchhike the last few miles to the hostel. He was remarkably successful. As soon as he raised his thumb, a car stopped. But that was how things were up north. We had already learned that people living up north are more hospitable than us southerners. And that includes an invitation into the home of a complete stranger who owned a farm some distance out of Carlisle. She served us coffee and biscuits as she kept on chatting away.

As we approached Acomb, the two of us found ourselves on an easy, level section of trail for a mile or two. It was actually a railway cutting left behind after this particular line was closed by Lord Beecham. Here is another facet of England. The rapid development of rail travel for both passengers and cargo. Tracks were laid to form an intricate network across the country. It was a marvellous way to get around - by train. Then, during the mid-twentieth Century, Lord Beeching came along. Between 1964 and 1970, hundreds of stations and branch lines were closed to encourage the growth of the private car, as he had shares in the motor industry.

Tim met us as we arrived at Acomb Hostel. The next day entailed a long, rather boring walk along a dead-straight road, the A69 into Newcastle. There was no more Roman wall remaining in that section, instead, just a straight road cutting across open fields. Tim decided not to go any further. But of the three, I was the most determined to complete the walk and Dan felt that he had to oblige. Later that evening, the two of us found relief as we spent the final night at a hotel in the centre of Newcastle.

Such trips - whether on my own or with friends, have revealed the aesthetics of England both in natural beauty and historicity. I can admire the Jurassic Coast of Dorset and Devon, amble over the hills, mountains and lakeside paths of the Lake District National Park, walk through the history-rich cities of Chester and York, walk along a medieval bridge spanning a river, stand at some Roman ruins in both Bath Spa and at Hadrian's Wall, admire the Tower of London, travel around the country by train and enjoy a rich sense of fulfilment.

True enough, I would not find an active volcano anywhere in England, although having said that, at Lake Derwentwater, there is an island that steadily rises and falls. This is the only clue to volcanism here in the UK. As with the rest of the Lake District National Park, when I stood on high ground on one occasion, one of the mountains at a distance looked precisely like an extinct volcano.

On a different subject, one of the great institutions here in England is the National Health Service. Once known as the envy of the world, we live in a country that has led the principle of free healthcare at the point of use. Up till the time of Margaret Thatcher, prescriptions have always been free. But under her administration throughout the 1980s, charges were imposed on prescribed medicine for the first time, with exceptions granted to senior citizens and to patients with special needs and those on certain benefits. At present, Alex my wife could have been caught out with a massive bill if it wasn't for the introduction of a pre-payment certificate at a fixed annual price, which we renew every year. Such a scheme had saved her from a great deal of distress and financial ruin! 

Chesters Roman Fort.

Margaret Thatcher was considered one of the greatest Prime Ministers next to the wartime PM Winston Churchill. But what made her one of the greatest was not her style of administration, but by winning the war against Argentina over the possession of the Falkland Islands. In fact, her privatisation of key public utilities such as water, gas and electricity has proven unpopular, as was John Major's privatisation of British Railways and David Cameron's selling off of the Post Office. As Thatcher's popularity started to decline, she also sold off British Steel and British Coal, whilst her victory over the Falklands had saved her day. As these industries started to decline, many manual jobs were lost, the trade unions had also lost a good deal of their power, and the old Labour Party too was becoming ineffective unless it metamorphosed into New Labour under the leadership of Tony Blair - with much emphasis on education, education, education.

It's my opinion that England still remains a great country to live in. If only the whole of the UK (not just England) would see a spiritual revival, how much difference that would make if the majority acknowledge God and place their faith in His Son, Jesus Christ.