PotCXXVIIpouri

 It's the summer and, relatively unusually in the UK, it has been summery. I have therefore been out and about, but, finding myself briefly back in the Casa Epictetus, here's a catch-up.

I have been in Glasgow for the second time this year. I still can't understand a word that the natives say, but they seem friendly enough. I went inside a tenement building for the first time and found it to be disconcertingly up-market. Also for the first time I tried a haggis pakora, these days just as traditionally Scottish as tenements. Probably more noteworthy was that I travelled up via the Settle to Carlisle railway, which I had never been on before. It is every bit as scenic as I had been led to believe it would be.

Two things about that photo. Firstly, you can't really see that view from the train itself; for that you're much better off walking the area, which I have done many times. Secondly, I didn't travel on a steam train. I did do so however when I went to see 'The Railway Children', part of the ongoing Bradford 2025 City of Culture programme. The film, the original with Jenny Agutter rather than the remake, which confusingly also featured Jenny Agutter albeit in a different role (*), was shot on the Keighley and Worth Valley Railway (**) and so the day started with a trip from Keighley to Oxenhope on a train pulled by the very same engine saved from disaster by Jenny's red bloomers. Then, in what I assume is an engine shed with a few tiers of seats installed on either side, the performance took place. The action took place mostly on small platforms being pushed backwards and forwards along the track by stage hands. At the climactic moment a steam locomotive suddenly shot into the theatre. Most impressive.

You won't be able to see that because the entire run is sold out. You may however be able to catch 'The Ceremony', although I don't expect it to get a particularly wide release. In my previous post I observed that I had never been to a première; lo and behold, I now have and a Gala Première at that. The shine was slightly taken off things when we reached the end of the red carpet to be greeted by an officious lady with a clipboard who told us, quite accurately, that we weren't on the guest list and should have used the side entrance with all the other ordinary punters. However, by the time she had finished speaking my companion for the evening had already liberated a glass of fizz from a passing waiter and so it was all a bit moot. I very much enjoyed the film, most of which took place not very far from the Ribblehead viaduct pictured up above. It was extremely well acted, visually striking and quite tense. What is it about? Fair question; possibly the fact that there is good and bad in all of us. If you do go and see it then I'd be interested in your view of what all the quasi-mystical stuff with the goat (***) is about.

*      The sequel to the original was also shot on the KWVR and, inevitably starred Ms Agutter, who apparently thereby claimed the record for the longest gap between playing the same character in films.

**    Both Keighley and the Worth valley are part of Bradford

*** It might actually be a ram, reviewers are divided on the subject. 

Mrs Thurston Kicks the Dog

 “Above all, do not lose your desire to walk: every day I walk myself into a state of well being and walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it.” -  Søren Kierkegaard

I have been away walking. The photo is of me climbing up the Long Mynd, or to be precise of me taking one of quite a few breaks as I climbed up the Long Mynd. I should perhaps have done some practice climbs up Otley Chevin before I went.

Sine my return I've only had time to catch up with the absolutely essential stuff: listening to the cricket, going to the opera, reading Private Eye etc. In the Rotten Boroughs section of the last one I was interested to see a reference to Magister Militum. The specific target of their criticism (you'll have to buy a copy if you want to find out the details) is the Tory leader of Wiltshire council, who it transpires is the owner of what the magazine describe as the toy soldier supplier. I'm normally very happy to use the term 'toy soldiers' in these pages and elsewhere, but I wouldn't give 15mm figures to real children, as opposed to overgrown children.

PotCXXIVpouri

 I've been busy electioneering of course. I'm quietly confident in Leeds North West, not least because no other party seems to be doing any campaigning at all. As for the overall result, who knows? I would, however, like to point readers towards this little 'prediction' I made on the 23rd April 2020, during the first lockdown when the Tories were well ahead in the opinion polls. As I said then: we shall see.

I have found time away from politics to do a few things. Firstly, walking. This is an entry in the very infrequent series of bridges of the Yorkshire Dales. In the Worth Valley, it's not far from the house that the Railway Children lived in.

We also finished the To The Strongest! game, with a win for the Crusaders, but not by much. I then took myself off to see Mississippi McDonald, who was excellent despite clearly not coming from Mississippi. This one's called 'If You Want A Good Cup Of Coffee'. If you do, then take my advice and don't go to McDonalds, whether in Mississippi or anywhere else.

Berwick

 I've been to the Scottish Borders for a few days. I spent some of that time in Berwick-upon-Tweed, which of course isn't in Scotland and hasn't been since Richard of Gloucester captured it in 1482. I was vaguely aware that ownership of the town had been keenly contested for centuries prior to that, but would have been hard pushed to tell you why, beyond the normal willy waving of medieval monarchs. However, as soon as one sees the place, all becomes obvious. Obviously any wargames blogger worth his salt would have taken plenty of photos to illustrate that, possibly featuring how its Elizabethan bastions allow artillery to dominate the mouth of the Tweed. Unfortunately this blog is written by me and all I've got is a picture of a cunningly disguised secret entrance from which the defenders could launch a surprise attack on unsuspecting besiegers.

The town's museum is in the former barracks, which incidentally may have been designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor, and had some interesting exhibits. We haven't had a photo of a gibbet for a coiuple of weeks, so let's start with this:

For those of you wondering about the fish, don't - it's a red herring. This rather fine diorama was in a case with, as far as I could see, not much in the way of explanation. It could be Berwick Castle, but there's not much left of that, as the stone was robbed to build, amongst other things, the barracks.

In addition to the town museum, there is a large exhibition about the British Army from its formation to the colonial wars at the end of the 19th century, which was rather well done. I was pleased to see that it included some toy soldiers. My photo manages to include the colour party, but at the expense of showing either of the flank companies or the battalion guns, all of which are faithfully replicated. The 25th Regiment of Foot became, I believe, the King's Own Scottish Borderers, hence their being chosen for the display.

I did venture into Scotland, mainly for a spot of walking. This is what's left of  Roxburgh castle, which I include only because it was here that in 1460 James II of Scotland paid the price for playing too active a part in a siege. 'Haveng sik plesure in discharging gret gunis' he was killed when one of them 'brak in the fyring'.

The Howgill Fells

I have been to southern Cumbria for a couple of days, but neglected to take any photos of the Howgills themselves, features which Wainwright described as being like sleeping elephants. However, on my way up there on Monday morning I did take this one of the Ribblehead Viaduct.

An awful lot of people had obviously decided that an unexpected day off would best be spent by climbing Pen-y-ghent, Ingleborough and Whernside one after the other. Your bloggist was not among them. My companion for the trip and I took a much flatter walk for about a third of the 24 miles that the three peaks challenge requires. Then having done the aforementioned photo-free fell walking north of Sedbergh we paused on the way back to walk around Semer Water

One thing that took me north was the opportunity to stop off in Settle and see Maggie Bell and Dave Kelly perform. They have both featured here before: Dave as part of The Blues Band and Maggie as the lead singer with Stone the Crows, whose videos I have posted on several occasions. I have sometimes mentioned acts I wish I had seen forty years ago; in Maggie Bell's case it was actually fifty years ago. Bell didn't hark back to those days much, although she referenced in passing the band's support slot on Joe Cocker's 'Mad Dogs and Englishmen' tour (sadly neither they nor Freddie King feature in the film). One track she and Kelly did perform was this:

It was well worth the long wait. She may be 77, but she can still belt out the blues.

Quinto McFabio

And so to the opera. Your bloggist is in the Peak District for a spot of walking and opera going and has been to see 'Lucio Papirio Dittatore' by Antonio Caldara. Don't waste any time searching your memories for when you last saw it because this was the very first performance for three hundred years. I rather enjoyed it, and who's to say that I wouldn't have enjoyed it at least as much had it been two thirds the length; in other words, it went on a bit. Baroque composers seem to have collectively taken the view that if a thing was worth saying then it was worth saying seven or eight times.

The director had a difficult task, after all what is there left to say about the Second Samnite War that hasn't been said already? Especially on a very low budget for scenery and props. For reasons that probably made sense to him everything was wrapped in the style of Christo and costumes ranged from basically none, through anachronistic Imperial armour to Quintus Fabius in what appeared to be a kilt. Quintus and his father were both countertenors (the former being the pick of the cast) and Cominio was a soprano in a trouser role, except that this being Ancient Rome she didn't actually wear any trousers. The music and singing were excellent and Buxton Opera House is lovely, but it did all rather reinforce the truism that sometimes less is more.

I know you all like a wargaming connection, and in this case (assuming the Samnites were insufficient) it is provided by Caldara's patron the Holy Roman Emperor Charles VI. He of course was basically responsible for both the War of the Spanish Succession and the War of the Austrian Succession, fought various other unsuccessful wars against enemies such as the Ottomans and bankrupted his country but that aside wasn't a particularly bad man. In his capacity as patron of the arts he gets a ten minute encomium at the end of the opera, which was performed in full on the night. This was not only rather unnecessary (he's been dead since 1740), but must have been very confusing to anyone who hadn't attended the pre-show talk by the musical director and wasn't expecting it.

As I Walked Out

I have been for a few days' walking in the Cotswolds:

The River Severn in the distance

When one stays in a hotel on a Saturday in the UK there is always the possibility of sharing it with a wedding party, which will inevitably be loud, drunk and raucous. On this occasion our fellow guests turned out to be a submariners' reunion, and they were loud, drunk and raucous. Being the Royal Navy there were plenty of beards, tattoos and hip flasks full of rum. And that was just the wives.

A good time was had by all.

W.G. "Bill" Boorer, 144 squadron

I mentioned earlier in the year that I had hurt my toe, which precluded walking in the Dales. I had been slowly building up the distance I was walking locally and yesterday decided the time was right to go for a longer - in this case ten miles - hike. I walk with a number of different groups, but on this occasion went with the local branch of the Ramblers Association who, inevitably given the fact that they walk on weekdays, are all retired. They are all somewhat older than me, and incidentally are an excellent advert for the benefits of regular walking. Anyway, I was strolling along in the sun - which continues to beat down here - minding my own business when I overheard a name that I thought I recognised. I asked the lady concerned if she had said 'Bill Boorer', and confirming that she had, she told me that he had been her godfather, following which a brief discussion made it clear that this was the same chap that I had known in London some fifty years ago.

I hadn't thought about him in a long, long time and didn't know him well, but he had a wartime experience in which readers may be interested. The following is taken, with no permission whatsoever, from 'A Drop in the Ocean' by Jim Burtt-Smith and John French. The whole book is full of stories like this and is fairly readily available second-hand. These are Bill Boorer's own words:


'After briefing on Thursday, 3 May, 1945 the Dallachy wing of "Torbeau" anti-shipping strike aircraft flew off from Dallachy for a major strike against a large fleet of enemy shipping which was assembling in Kiel Bay. Intelligence had suggested that the Germans were intending to escape to Norway and continue the war from there.

Peter Brett and I were one of the crews on the wing with the longest experience and we were therefore appointed as the "outrider" - the aircraft which would fly ahead of the main strike force, select the best targets and direct the strike force on to those targets.

We flew on ahead on a "flak free" route across Denmark selected by the 2nd Tactical Air Force, and made our landfall at Ringkobing. We were hedge-hopping a full throttle towards the "Little Belt" when we suddenly found ourselves engulfed in flak. We had flown between two batteries of 88 mm anti-aircraft guns.

Our port engine burst into flame immediately, but our speed and low altitude carried us quickly out of the danger area. Peter turned back for home with the intention of flying back on the starboard engine only. It was not to be. A short while after crossing the coast the remaining engine failed and we had to ditch in the North Sea.

At the time of ditching the sea was very calm and we had no problems - or so we thought. The dinghy emerged from the port wing and, as a non-swimmer, I jumped into it as it drifted back. Alas, I found it to be as flat as a pancake, having been peppered with holes from the flak which had shot out the port engine during the attack. Pete swam up, the Beaufighter gave a gurgle and disappeared beneath the waves, and we inflated our Mae Wests. We spent what seemed to be hours finding the various holes and sealing them with the adhesive repair patches. Finally we had to inflate the dinghy with the hand pump and clamber aboard, which was not quite as easy as it sounds. Suddenly we remembered the airtight container carrying the emergency rations, which was attached to the dinghy by a tie-line. we saw it floating a short distance away. As we pulled on the line, however, the container disappeared beneath the waves. Consequently we had no food or water throughout our ditching.

During the night the weather deteriorated, but on the morning of the second day, 4 May, we were in reasonably good spirits and had every hope of being picked up. For our particular operation Air Sea Rescue Warwick aircraft had been on patrol along the western coast of Denmark and I had managed to send an SOS on my radio set. I learned later, however, that, although my message was actually received, the signal was so weak because of the very low power generated by our one remaining - and failing - engine that the message had been indecipherable. Moreover we were drifting southwards quite rapidly. In fact when we were finally rescued we were some 50 miles south of our original ditching position.

During the second day we heard and caught glimpse of two aircraft and fired off some of our two-star red cartridge signals. But there was no response. In spite of a heavy sea that night, we were still relatively comfortable.

On Saturday, 5 May, the heavy sea continued throughout the day. In the evening the weather worsened into a heavy storm, with waves up to sixty feet high. Sometimes we were at the bottom of these huge waves and sometimes at the top, like a seaside roller-coaster. During the course of the evening we saw a Liberator some distance away. We fired off our last two-star red which they obviously saw, as they turned and flew right above us and a member of the crew waved to us from the rear door. Unfortunately, the sea was so rough that they lost sight of us almost immediately after, and although we watched them as they continued to circle and search, they gradually moved further and further away. And, of course, we had no more two-star reds! During that night we shipped gallons of water. Several of the adhesive repair patches became non-effective and had to be replaced with conical rubber plugs.

The weather eased slightly during the course of Sunday, but became extremely rough once again that night. We both began to feel the torture of thirst and had to resort to moistening our lips with our own urine - not a very encouraging experience. As the holes in the dinghy grew larger, the conical plugs had to be pushed further in and eventually had to be replaced with larger sizes. During the day I felt the need to sustain my spirits with a little hymn singing, but I had the feeling that Peter did not really appreciate my efforts.

By this time, too, my underpants, which were Canadian cotton issue, had shrunk considerably and I was extremely uncomfortable in a very sensitive area. Finally I cast modesty aside and left a certain part of my physical equipment hanging free. Peter described it as looking like the head of a very ancient and wizened tortoise.

By Monday morning the the sea had moderated considerably and by nightfall the wind had dropped. For the first time since our ditching the previous Thursday it was quite calm. Early in the morning we had fixed a piece of chewing gum to a line and thrown it into the sea in the hope of catching a fish. During the afternoon the dinghy gave a heavy lurch, the fishing line went taut and, sure enough, there was a cod on the hook. Despite our best endeavours to get it aboard, however, it eventually broke free and disappeared. In retrospect, I am not sure what we would have done with it had we actually landed it in the dinghy.

We had entered our fifth day aboard the dinghy feeling pretty weak and we again resorted to urine to stave off the demoralising effects of thirst. There was a growing apprehension about our future, particularly as the rubber plugs had now progressed to the largest size available and were now inserted well into the holes in the rubber, so that there was little of the plugs remaining for further insertion. Our spirits reached a low ebb.

As night closed in once more, we became aware of a gradually increasing noise. Eventually a small ship loomed on the horizon. Peter and I discussed whether or not we should attempt to attract its attention, since we had heard reports that Germans were prone to shooting up any British dinghies that they came across. We finally decided that in view of our deteriorating condition we did not have much option, so we blew our whistles, shouted and waved our hands. The ship, which turned out to be the Ella, a fishing boat from Esbjerg, altered course and hove alongside the dinghy.

Someone leaned over and shouted, "British Tommy?" and on hearing our affirmative he then shouted "Germany kaput!" This was the first intimation we had had that Nazi Germany had at last thrown in the towel, in fact on midnight of the day we had ditched.

Once on board the fishing boat I became somewhat delirious and the skipper, Christian Peterson, turned back to Esbjerg.

We arrived in Esbjerg fishing harbour during the morning of Tuesday, 8 May, were offloaded and taken by ambulance to the Central Hospital, arriving at midday on VE Day. One inmate, a victim of Gestapo treatment, sent us in his radio and we listened to the celebrations from Piccadilly.'


Mr Boorer never spoke to me directly about his experiences and the above is pretty much all I know, except that he subsequently sent flowers to his rescuer and his wife every year on the anniversary of them being picked up and that he named his elder son Christian.

To end on a random note, Boorer's younger son played guitar in Morrissey's post-Smiths band. Before that he had been in the Polecats, who had a UK top forty hit with a cover of Bowie's "John, I'm Only Dancing". Astute readers will spot that phrase as having been used as the title of the blog posting on Wednesday, the day before I went on the walk and overheard the conversation which engendered the train of thought which led us to this point. Make of that what you will.

Pot77pouri

Happy May Day comrades. Another month has passed I see, with absolutely zippo achieved wargaming wise. There haven't even been many games played; the last action was my ultimately futile dash across the bridge for the village in the game specially designed to show off James' new pontoon train. And that, dear readers, is why I've had to pad out the blog with all sorts of other irrelevant stuff, as I shall now proceed to do again.

I have been to a number of things which have not yet made there way into these pages. Musically, many of the acts I had both seen and written about before (e.g. Feast of Fiddles, the Jar Family, the Ale Marys) but Eric Bibb was new to me. He was rather good as befits a multi award winning artiste, although my abiding memory is actually of his drummer who was simply excellent. I wasn't entirely surprised to find that he had played in Nina Simone's band for many years.

In terms of theatre I think I mentioned in passing a trip to see 'Journey's End', a fine play very well performed. As a commentary on both the reality and the futility of the Great War it is head and shoulders above the lame 'Birdsong' which I saw a few weeks ago; but of course R.C. Sherriff was actually there. I also saw 'If I Say Jump', an amusing and entertaining though completely unbelievable piece about a vicar and a handgun. Speaking of the theatre I continue to research Salomé in the hope of understanding why I don't appear to like it. One fact that I gleaned from the opera programme is that the original German premiere of Wilde's play was as a double bill with 'The Importance of Being Earnest'; a juxtaposition which even allowing for the renowned cultural difference in sense of humour seems a tad odd.

Now to really scrape the barrel, I'm going to blog about the blog itself. The lack of walking reports has been commented on, the implication apparently being that I am a fair weather walker who is hiding from the cold and rain. That is in a very real sense a fair cop, but, as it happens, on top of that I have a problem with one of my toes; the big one on the right foot to be precise. Although minor in itself it is precluding me from walking long distances. Sadly, there will be a hiatus in the popular photographic series 'bridges of the Yorkshire dales'; apologies for that.

When James passed a million hits on his blog he said that his biggest audiences came from the UK and the US almost equally. This prompted me to look at mine and I find that apparently more than half of all the hits (which I can confirm still fall significantly short of a million) have come from France. Bonjour mes amis et bienvenus. While I was at it I also checked on the search terms used to find the blog. 'Gay porn' has sadly disappeared from the top ten, but a notable newcomer is 'fascinating stuff'; having read this far down it will be no surprise at all to you that Google sent them straight here. The most frequent search term directed to the blog is 'Epictetus', and one can only assume that there are an awful lot of disappointed and bemused seekers after enlightenment out there.

The odd uneven time

That was how Sylvia Plath described August, and this year at least she was proved right. It's probably easiest to sum it up by saying that my blogging muse disappeared for a while.

There was some wargaming however: mid-eighteenth century in the legendary wargames room using Black Powder. I continue to enjoy the rules, although the effect of broken battalia seems a bit odd to me. I will no doubt return to this in due course; I bet you can't wait. I have also been trying to work out how I feel about 'Through the Mud and the Blood' now we have had a few games and, finding that I wasn't coming to any conclusion, have decided to put the period on the back burner and do something different next time we are in the annexe.

Your bloggist walks it off

Cultural life always takes a dip at this time of year, but there have been events in places as diverse as Keighley (Ayckbourn) and Salzburg (Mozart funnily enough). Conversely there has been a fair bit of walking and visits have been made to Bracken Ghyll, the Seven Arches and various other places. And I can't leave without alluding to the very funny goings on at the relaunch of river boats on the Wharfe in Otley, although the same political considerations which stopped the local paper printing the photos also preclude me from providing details.

Gudbuy T'June

I know well

That the June rains...

Just fall

- Uejima Onitsura

There has been a fair bit going on in June, a month in which it was first very hot and then very wet, that I have forborne from posting about. For example I went to see the NT production of Salomé, which was visually impressive (notwithstanding the Guardian describing at as looking as if the Last Supper had been held in a branch of Yo Sushi!), but wasn't terribly entertaining. I hung out in pubs watching bands, saw my second production of 'Kiss Me Kate' of the year, went to both Sheffield and Barnsley, took part in the Otley walking festival and still found time for occasional trysts with the big bouncy woman. In honour of one of those items, here's another entry in the occasional series featuring bridges of the Yorkshire Dales; this one is the railway viaduct at Knaresborough as seen from the castle.

However, this is a wargaming blog so let's stick to that. There have been a couple of Italian Wars games using Pike & Shotte and about which James has written. I like the rules, although things do fall apart rather quickly once they start to go wrong. On the painting front I have achieved very little. I have completed another dozen WWI British riflemen, but other than that it has all been repair work. When I pack away a Napoleonic game I always do some labelling (on the underneath of the bases) and some rebasing and repairing. Some of the figures are fifteen years old or so and are showing their age. I find doing a few at a time after they have been used is more bearable than thinking about doing everything at once. And I have finally bitten the bullet and thrown away the gloss varnish that has been repeatedly causing problems; just a shame I didn't do it before I used it on the three units of Prussian Hussars. As for next month, I mentioned that I might set up a Great War game and therefore wargamer's logic has determined that I have assembled and primed some chariots.

Stand a little less...

I gave the impression yesterday that I might struggle for subjects to write about. But, of course, I am British and so there is always the weather. And as it happens the weather is absolutely glorious.

I took the opportunity to head off into Upper Wharfedale, a place that, as far as I am aware, has no wargaming epicentre, but does have a suspension bridge.

And here, after a long gap, is a new entry in our series of the bridges of the dales; this one is over Linton Beck.

"All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking" - Nietzsche

Forever Forwards

And so to the theatre. I have been to see 'Dare Devil Rides to Jarama', a play which speaks not just to my love of theatre, but also to my interest in military history, socialism, walking and speedway. I accept that the last of those might not have featured too much in this blog to date. Indeed it is an interest that might accurately be described as dormant, but nevertheless it's there. Despite (or perhaps because of) mon vrai nom it's the only motor sport that I've ever had any time for and I used to go to watch the Wembley Lions during their brief reappearance in the early 1970s.

The play was put on by Townsend Productions whose 'Ragged Trousered Philanthropists' and 'We Will Be Free!' - the latter about the Tolpuddle Martyrs - I had both seen and enjoyed. With only a cast of two they recreated everything from dirt track racing, the wall of death and the mass trespass on Kinder Scout through to Franco's advance on Madrid, with the audience providing appropriate sound effects when required through the use of those rattles that one sees in old film of football matches. The one point where the audience participation fell a little flat was when we were invited to jeer at the leader of the blackshirts; I obviously can't have been the only one to find the portrayal more Spode than Mosley.

The story is that of Clem Beckett, champion rider, union organiser, rambler, and anti-fascist who, as member of the British Battalion of the International Brigades, was killed on the first day of the Battle of Jarama. Sadly the telling of it matches up neither to its inspirational subject matter nor the theatrical verve and skill with which it is presented. The play just isn't particularly well-written and despite the acting and the design - both very good - it fails to engage the emotions. Beckett himself came across as rather selfish, which for a man who gave his life for someone else's cause is a real own goal by the author.

However, I'm glad that I went and look forward to their next production, which will be about Grunwicks, something I saw at first hand.

2016

At the beginning of the year I thought I'd be clever and keep track of things that happened in a draft blog posting, thus making the inevitable - assuming that the Lord spared me - year end review much easier. Obviously it was too clever for me, because at least twice I accidentally published the draft post before hurriedly taking it back down again. Anyway, for those of you who haven't seen it as we've gone along, here are the highlights of the year:

Opera:  I've seen fifteen operas this year, which is possibly some kind of record for me. I'm going to nominate the one that wasn't really an opera as my favourite, namely 'Into the Woods'; it's my list and I shall do what I want. If one wants to be difficult and exclude it then I would go for 'Aida' in the amphitheatre at Verona; quite spectacular. The least effective moment for me was the title character's backside being flaunted in 'Suor Angelica; quite ridiculous.

Theatre: I've seen twenty seven plays, the best being the revival of 'An Inspector Calls', followed by the charming 'Simply Ballroom' and the RSC's 'A Midsummer Nights Dream'. Worst by some way was the execrable science fiction dramatisation of 'Villette'

Film of the year: I've seen ten of these, which is certainly a step up in number on previous years and, apart from the very average 'A Streetcat Named Bob' they were all excellent. I'm going to plump for Tarantino's 'The Hateful Eight' as the best with honourable mentions for Alan Bennett's 'The Lady in the Van' and Jane Austen's 'Love & Friendship'.

Gig of the Year : I've lost count of the gigs that I've been to, and can only say with any certainty that it's more than thirty five. Van Morrison was the best with a shout out for the Jon Palmer Acoustic Band supported by Yan Tan Tether (the night they recorded their live album not the night they sang all the Christmas songs) and also the Jar Family. On a less happy note, for the second year in succession I had a ticket to see Graham Parker and didn't make it.

Book of the Year: The least surprising category of the lot. If you hadn't worked out that it was going to be Heretic Dawn, the third volume of Robert Merle's Fortunes of France series, then you haven't been paying attention.

Walk of the Year: As the big bouncy woman and I didn't get to walk anywhere this year - and how sad is that? - I'm going for a visit to Buckden, Cray and Hubberholme that the elder Miss Epictetus and I made shortly before the onset of adult life proper took her away from me. A Ramblers walk to Crummockdale also sticks in the memory.

Event of the Year: There were many candidates, quite a few revolving around ambulance trips to A&E; the first CT scan that I had was a very odd experience as well. The great base fire deserves a mention as does the time that the kettle exploded; nothing much resulted on either occasion, but they were very disconcerting. The training day before May half term was a real highlight, not least because the rest of the year was crammed with things getting in the way. However, I'm going to choose my 60th birthday when my daughters took me to Whitby for the day, and didn't we have a lovely time.

Paths are made...

 "Walking is man's best medicine." - Hippocrates

I promised that my next blog posting would be about wargaming; a promise that I never really had any intention of keeping. Maybe tomorrow. I haven't mentioned my illness for a while because all that has been happening is that I have been steadily getting stronger. Although I have to have a follow-up scan in a couple of weeks, in my mind at least I am recovered. To check this out I have been out for my first walk in the Dales for some months. Both my fitness and my thermal base layer passed the test.

Winter is here

Malham Tarn - the highest lake in England

Pot55pouri

Adventitious apricity has precluded blogging for a couple of days, although life has been full in many other ways. There hasn't been much painting and the only progress on the Great War project has been that the re-released British Heavy Weapons set is apparently on its way to me. It's accompanied by the also re-released Gallic Command, which due to some oversight doesn't seem to contain any chariots. It does however include druids, which has surely got to be a good thing despite me having no current use for them. Perhaps the Romans in Britain rip-off of Pony Wars could use a human sacrifice or two.

There has been some real life gaming, with the first night of Lobositz proving to be good fun and reasonably balanced. I like the varied terrain, with the vineyards on the lower slopes of the extinct volcano making for an interesting challenge for both sides. Like all of James' scenarios destined for conventions this one involves a mandatory attack that no commander in their right mind would make, with Frederick the Great here joining Rommel in the ranks of the guilty.

I have been to the Wharfedale Wool Fair, which was like a more fragrant version of a wargames convention, but with even more ridiculous prices being asked. According to the big, bouncy woman the Leeds Wool Fair features real alpacas, which sound a whole lot more fun.

Walking this week took me to the Pennines by way of a change. I took a picture showing the view from the foot of Lund's Tower on Earl Crag back across Lothersdale, with Ingleborough, Whernside and Pen-y-ghent in the far distance, but it wasn't very good so here's one of a random bit of moor instead.

You can just see Wainman's Pinnacle, the other of the Salt and Pepper Pots, towards the right of the picture.

Pot54pouri

There has been music. Firstly the Blues Band, who basically do what the name suggests and have been doing it for a long, long time. They are fronted by Paul Jones, famous for having presented Radio 2's Rhythm & Blues show for the last thirty odd years and, less impressively, for once having sung 'Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do'. Still, we all have the odd skeleton in the cupboard and they are immensely professional and well worth catching.

I reported here on the Jon Palmer Acoustic Band when they recently recorded a live album - my copy of which has just arrived and is both very good and very faithful to my memory of the night - and, in short order, I've seen them again. This time it was at a fundraiser for the junior doctors' strike fund, which gave them plenty of excuses to be rude about Jeremy Hunt; not that there has ever been a shortage.

Finally, I saw the Gum Trio, a name which I assume is a pun. I'm not sure if there is a particular point to it because they didn't compromise much in pursuit of popularity. Two of their first three songs were sung in French. One was zydeco and had about fifty verses; the other was a paean to a Congolese accordion player and the lyrics, as far as I could establish, mainly consisted of assertions that the chap involved did indeed play the accordion. I must pick out as a highlight their excellent ska version of "Lara's Theme", which is as good an excuse to post a picture of Julie Christie as one could wish for.

And, even more finally, I've been out and about with the new, nearly-new camera. I am thinking hard about the sort of photos that I'd really like to take, but for now here's one looking back down Crummack Dale from Beggars Stile; that's obviously Pendle Hill in the far distance.

And here's a limestone pavement on Moughton Scar; the peak on the left is Ingleborough.

The rigorous organization of visually perceived forms

   "The camera makes everyone a tourist in other people's reality, and eventually in one's own. "  

- Susan Sontag

I think I mentioned that I had bought a pre-loved camera. I duly took it out and about in the Washburn Valley to try it out. I now find, perhaps inevitably, that I don't have the correct cable to upload these to my computer. Instead therefore please accept the inferior work of another photographer, albeit that this one shows your bloggist in cross-country action.

I will hopefully sort out the cable issue before writing up tomorrow's game. I am also planning to take some interesting photos this coming weekend; as long as I can avoid being distracted by whatever else is going on at the time.

In other news, I have bought a coping saw and am about to attempt to cut up some 3mm hardboard into 10cm hexes. This will not end well.

We ourselves must walk the path

So, what happened this year then? I should first apologise for the content of the blog, which was consistently neither relevant nor interesting. If it's any consolation, the comments that I have left on other people's blogs have generally been even worse; bloggers must wince when they see my username appear. All I can do is quote Rudyard Kipling: "You must learn to forgive a man when he's in love. He's always a nuisance."

Anyway, on to the much sought after Epictetus annual awards:

• Opera of the year:  'The Flying Dutchman' with an honourable mention for  'Tales of Hoffman'
• Theatre of the year: 'Beryl' with an honourable mention for 'The History Boys'.
• Gig of the year: I've seen an awful lot of excellent gigs, but it's a toss up between  Nils Lofgren and Tom Russell with an honourable mention for Gigspanner (which good as it was I don't seem to have posted about before), plus of course the Ilkley Blues Festival for sheer value for money.
• Film of the year: 'Lunchbox' with a dishonourable mention for 'Spectre'; once again I haven't actually been to see that many films.
• Book of the year: City of Wisdom and Blood, the second in the Fortune of War series by Robert Merle, the first volume of which was my book of the year for 2014. There's a pattern developing.
• Wargame of the year: There's been a lot of Seven Years War this year and I'm going to go for the large game in the summer where James got all his Prussians and Russians out on the table.
• Boardgame of the year: Quartermaster General, no doubt at all, but there have been a lot of very good ones among the 265 plays of 134 different games that I've managed this year.
• Cake of the year: I think pear and chocolate although the elder Miss Epictetus is a firm champion of the spiced fruit loaf.
• Event of the year: I'm tempted to cheat and choose every time that the big, bouncy woman came and sat on my lap; or possibly the Otley Wool Fair (I really enjoyed that day); or perhaps a truly memorable afternoon in the Victoria Hotel (definitely my pub of the year). However, instead I'm opting for a walk up to Top Withens that I took at the end of August, during which we got wet, the past was laid to rest and the future mapped out. As Christina Rossetti wrote in the poem of the year:

I loved you first: but afterwards your love 

Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song

Soapy opera

And so to the opera. Opera North's revived production of Jenůfa by Janáček is very good, but the story is just horrible. It's well worth seeing, but the content isn't something to sit around and dwell on afterwards. I think I am pretty unshockable (in a moral sense - I'm a complete wuss when it comes to blood and gore), but the crime at the heart of this drama is one for which I simply cannot conceive there ever being a motivation.

The Guardian's review sums the whole thing up nicely: 'So she gets married to the one who slashes her face, not the alcoholic who left her pregnant? Indeed she does – though not before her stepmother has murdered the baby.' I've always scoffed at those who tritely claim that were Dickens alive today then he would be writing for Eastenders; perhaps they actually have a point.

In other news, I have been to Hebden Bridge (I told you that I was morally unshockable), but there was no bread and the wool shop doesn't open on Mondays. A good time was had by all.