There is a gap in my summer posts. In July I went for a walk along the Avon Kennet canal. I was going to write about it after I got back but forgot. Only to be reminded of it a few days ago when I found the shaky film footage of the trip on my camera. Prising the half rusted memory card out of it, I ruthlessly edited it down in a vain attempt to make it look exciting. Which was hard, as nothing happened during the entire four days. Except for a brief run in with a canal boat owner over a dog, sheltering under a bridge from the rain for two hours, and visiting a Long Barrow. The rest of the time I walked, ate, drank a few beers, and slept. Below is a short film of this epic trip.
This week I find myself in Marrakech teaching English to engineers at a phosphate mine 10kms north of the city. It’s hot. About 35 degrees, but it doesn’t seem to bother me too much. I’ve camped out in enough shitty English weather to appreciate searing heat, even if I have to work in it.
When I got back to my apartment at the end of my first day, there was a selection of dried fruit and nuts laid out for me that I wolfed down in seconds. This was despite eating a massive plate of salad, grilled lamb, steamed chicken, poached fish, gratin dauphinois and crepes for lunch.
My apartment has two floors, three bathrooms, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a lounge, a courtyard, and 41 lights switches. Which is insane, and is like having a small hotel to myself. When the security guard showed me in on the first night I asked him who else I was sharing with. Thinking of course that I would be sharing with other students or teachers.
He looked at me. ‘It’s just for you, Sir?
‘But,’ I said pointing at the stone steps. ‘Where do the stairs go?’
‘That’s your lounge, kitchen and veranda.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I replied trying to look unimpressed as though I stayed in luxury Arabic villas every week.
He left smiling and I ventured upstairs stepping out onto the veranda area which was bigger than the flat I had in Lyon. I then wondered if they had got me mixed up with a company executive, the teachers’ quarters being in a ditch in the desert where the camels live. But clearly not. This was all mine.
However, I didn’t have time to admire my bedrooms, or lounge, or the ludicrously thick cotton bathrobe. It was nearly half past two in the morning and breakfast was at 7.30. Teaching started at 9 and I hadn’t prepared a thing. I showered, dived into bed, set the alarm and then dived out again five hours later shaking the clock.
‘Are you serious?’ I said to it. ‘Morning already? I’ve only just gone to bed.’
It was a tiring day, but nothing fifteen espressos couldn’t fix. And a swim afterwards in the pool was a nice reward for arguing with 15 Moroccan engineers for six hours over minuscule (and irrelevant in my view) elements of the English language. Back in my apartment I was looking forward to dinner.
The food at the residential teaching college in Wiltshire where I work is good, but this is a step up. It’s the top of the ladder, the bit where you reach the roof and are knocked to your death by a sudden gust of wind. It’s that good. Fine Moroccan lamb, beef, chicken, fish, salads, cakes, sweets, plus hot soup for breakfast.
Yes, hot soup for breakfast, when the temperature is already 27. Great idea. The same concept as drinking tea in hot weather and not cold drinks. The body starts cooling itself down when the soup hits your stomach, so when you go to work you’re feeling cool. And if you’re wearing beige chinos and light brown slip on shoes like me, very cool. In fact if I got lost in the desert, I would never be seen or found again. Just effortlessly blend into the scenery like a camel. Found four years later, the sun dried remains of an Englishman still holding a folder marked English for Mining Engineers.
The city of Marrakech itself is hard to comment on at this point. I had two hours free one evening and was driven there by one of the company chauffeurs and had exactly one hour to look around. I pelted it round the old Medina ignoring the snake charmers, spice sellers, tour guide pushers, watch makers, jewelry vendors, English Premiership replica kit sellers, and took in as much as I could. Then I waited by the main Mosque for the driver to pull up and drive me back to the compound. I’m leading an odd life at the moment, I admit.
Tomorrow I return to England. To Bath. Where I’m told it’s cloudy and rainy. Great.
Remember the first blog post I ever wrote. Blogley in Lyon. I’ve come a long way since then. To Wingerworth in fact. A place that to my knowledge has never had a blog post written about it. Certainly not a Blogley blog post anyway.
Where is Wingerworth and why is it here? Wingerworth’s Wikipedia entry tells me that it’s three miles south of Chesterfield and 150 miles north of London. Why London has anything to do with it is probably not that baffling when you consider that the capital is ‘only’ two hours away by train for those unfortunate souls who choose to commute every day. There are lots.
Nothing has ever happened in Wingerworth – or in Chesterfield for that matter, apart from that FA Cup semi final against Middlesbrough in 1997 (lost!). But it’s peaceful enough and reminds me of Horsforth in Leeds where I grew up. Both once separate villages that were gradually enveloped by the expansion of their larger neighbours in the post war years. The 1950s, 60s and 70s housing estates slowly forming a concrete corridor between the rural farming villages and the town and city whose wealth and success were derived from mining, steel, textiles, farming and warfare – Chesterfield was once a Roman garrison. If I sound too much like a geography or history teacher, I’ll go and shoot myself immediately.
But before I do that, just let me tell you that the old lanes and paths that once connected the old farms are still here. And provide an idyllic counterpoint to the endless modern estates. Estates that are incidentally still being built. Tetra-Pak shaped houses complete with ten pence sized lawns and bedrooms as big as Ryanair toilets.
Wingerworth was mentioned in the Doomsday book of 1086 as Wingreurde meaning King’s Land, and was a community of fourteen freemen. Now it has a Spar, a Chinese take away and a hair dresser. That classic retail recipe for anybody wanting to replicate modern England in their own country. Saying that, I’m actually quite enamoured with the place and the Chinese takeaway isn’t that bad either, considering it looks about as inviting as Trowell Services near Nottingham on the M1.
(I should know, I once had to wait there for five hours trying to hitch a ride to Exeter, finally getting picked up by a guy who took me as far as East Midlands Airport. Which if you know the East Midlands (i.e. Nottingham and Derby) is a distance of about five miles. I said ‘Thanks’ when he dropped me off, but it wasn’t very sincere. I got to Exeter Cathedral Square two days later and two stone lighter: I remember walking most of it.)
So have I fallen in love with Wingreurde? Probably not. Enamoured is probably too strong a word. But it’s a nice place and the countryside south of the village is lovely and within ten minutes you can be on the wilds of Beeley Moor where I used to roam as a teenager, sneaking cans of Fosters from my father’s beer supply, wandering across the purple heather moors wondering if there was any place as beautiful as here.
Since then I’ve travelled a lot and seen many marvellous places. However, even though I’m not from Chesterfield, and have little connection with the area apart from it’s where my folks happen to live (the reason I’m here at the moment), there is something special about the moors that surround it. Whether it’s pure nostalgia from my younger years, or the natural bleakness of the place that I like, I do sometimes think that there are a lot worse places to live than Chesterfield. London for one.
*My fee from Chesterfield City Council tourist board can be paid into the following Swiss bank account. Geneva Bank, Monsieur Blogley, A/C number: 0000001. Thank you.