Thames Path – Windsor to Maidenhead

A school for Prime Ministers and a school for rowdy girls are passed on this section of the Thames Path.

Thursday 2nd January, 2014


It’s always difficult timing walks at this time of year. I had a fairly long drive to Maidenhead, but didn’t want to leave early and sit in rush hour traffic. On the other hand, without an early start, there aren’t many walking hours before dusk. However, I think I got my timing right and had an easy drive to a multi-storey car park in Maidenhead town centre. I popped into a bakery to buy a pasty and ask for directions to the train station. Ticket bought, I was soon on the train to Windsor. 


I’ve been to Windsor several times in the past and so didn’t feel the need to spend time poking around. I took a few photos of the castle and headed for the bridge across to Eton. I did digress from the Thames Path to take a quick walk up to the top of Eton High Street and back and took a few photos of the school. 


Formally known as Eton College this is the posh public school Princes William and Harry attended. Apart from the princes, it has also been responsible for the education of nineteen British Prime Ministers including current PM David Cameron. Oh, and Bear Grylls was a pupil here too. Does that mean he’ll be Prime Minister one day? As it’s the Christmas holidays, if there were any future prime ministers wandering around, I couldn’t tell because they were not in the long-tailed jackets and pin-striped trousers that comprise the school uniform.

Back at the river, I turned right and continued along the path. Walking over a grassy meadow along the bank I passed under the railway bridge and over a footbridge on to a small island. The path skirts the edge of the island, alongside the main river before leading another over another footbridge back to the ‘mainland’.

Continuing, I soon came to Athens. No, I hadn’t taken a wrong turn, this Athens was an Eton College bathing place. Rules stated that boys who were ‘undressed’ when any boating ladies passed by must either get immediately into the water or else hide behind screens. These days there are no screens, but there is a nice bench to sit on.

Leading past Boveney Lock and Dorney Lake, the path passes under the M4 motorway. Before reaching the M4 I stopped to peer across the river at Oakley Court. The house was built in 1859 by an Englishman for his French Wife. The French connections continue with General de Gaulle who is known to have stayed there. In 1950 Hammer Films bought the house, possibly swayed by its Gothic style, and used it to film St Trinian’s and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. The house looked very sedate and peaceful when I passed by. Maybe because it’s been a luxury hotel for the past 40 years? 


Once on the other side of the M4 more people start to appear as the path draws closer to Maidenhead. I passed under the railway bridge before reaching Maidenhead road bridge over which I crossed the river and headed back into town. 

Thames Path – Staines to Windsor

Who’d have thought walking the Thames Path could be so hard-core? I could’ve done with a snorkel and machete.

Tuesday 31st December, 2013


First view of Windsor Castle

Leaving friends in Kent, I drove to Windsor and parked in the long-stay park and ride car park. At only £3 a day including the shuttle bus into town it was a bargain. I didn’t need to take the shuttle bus as I walked a short way along the Thames Path from the car park to the Windsor and Eton Riverside train station where I caught a train to Staines.

Staines was a major linoleum producer

I was a little confused exiting the station and so used the GPS on my new smartphone to guide me in the right direction for the river. One of my objectives on this trip is to learn how to use my phone and to figure out all the different things I can do with it. I’ve brought my big camera, but want to use my phone as much as possible to take photos to check out its ability.


I soon found the path where I’d left it last new year and crossed the road bridge to follow the continuation of the path on the other bank. The weather forecast hadn’t been good and there have been more flood warnings on the radio, though not for the part of the Thames I was walking alongside. It was a dry start to the day though, but as soon as I started walking on the path proper the heavens opened. I sheltered by some trees and struggled to get my waterproof trousers on and put the cover over my daypack. That was the rain set in for the rest of the day. It did ease a bit but never really stopped. I struggled with my waterproof pants all day. As it is a flat walk I wanted to take big strides, but each time I tried, the lack of flexibility in my trousers acted as a barrier my legs were pushing against. I felt like I was getting an extra workout and could feel my legs getting quite tired towards the end.

I was also trialling my Sealskinz socks on this walk. I’ve always been dubious about paying nearly 30 quid for a pair of socks, but several people have raved about them to me and I’ve read good reviews online so I’d decided to try a pair. They really got put to the test and failed miserably. As well as the Sealskinz socks, I was wearing gaiters and waterproof trousers and had waxed and sprayed my boots. I’m sure it all would have been fine if it wasn’t for having to wade through water that came halfway to my knees on more than one occasion. As water poured in over the tops of my boots I knew the socks would have no chance and the ‘test’ was probably a bit too extreme.

The river was very deep. Even the boats were underwater


One of the flooded bits I had to wade through

Besides flooded bits of path, there were also a few parts blocked by trees which had fallen in the recent gales. Each time I was able to get around or under though, including one time where I had to force my way through the middle of what had become the equivalent of a very thick hedge across the middle of the path.

Leaving Staines behind, I passed under the busy M25. This is the motorway encircling Greater London and the first sign that I’d really left the city behind. The first bits of it were built in the early 1970s, but it wasn’t completed until 1986. At 117 miles (188km) long, it’s Europe’s second longest orbital road, beaten only by the Berliner Ring which is a mere five miles longer. As one of the UK’s busiest motorways it often seems more like a car park than a high-speed roadway, particularly the stretch near Heathrow Airport. 

Passing under the M25


Passing below, I could hear the hum of traffic above, but felt like I was in a different world. I walked on towards the day’s second landmark: Runnymede.

Runnymede is a flood plain now in the ownership of the National Trust. The name is possibly derived from the Anglo-Saxon ‘runieg’ which means regular meeting and ‘mede’ which today is written as mead or meadow. This meeting meadow is considered to be where the signing of the Magna Carta took place in 1215. This charter was instrumental in the development of the parliament and laws we have today. 





There are several memorials in the area including the Air Forces Memorial commemorating the men and women of the Allied Air Forces who died in the Second World War. Another memorial is that dedicated to former US President John F. Kennedy.

Continuing, the path heads towards Old Windsor and alongside Old Windsor Lock. Old Windsor is the original Windsor and only became ‘Old’ when the newer town of Windsor was built near the castle a few miles away. Elton John apparently lives in Old Windsor. Although I looked, I don’t think he was one of the people I saw out walking their dogs.

Heading back to Windsor


At this point, it’s possible to walk directly to Windsor. But as I was following the Thames Path my walk looped round via the village of Datchet. I crossed the Albert Bridge and had a bit of road walking before joining a riverside path again just before Victoria Bridge. Then it was past Romney Lock before following a lane back to the car park and my van.

Distance: about 8 miles



Nelson Mandela and his effect on my thought processes

The news that Nelson Mandela has died, though sad, was hardly unexpected. What I hadn’t expected however, was how reflective it would make me feel.

The news that Nelson Mandela has died, though sad, was hardly unexpected. What I hadn’t expected however, was how reflective it would make me feel. People all over the world are mourning and/or paying their respects to the life of a man who not only had a profound effect on his own country and people but to others around the world. I’m reflecting on the effects he, and the struggle against apartheid, has had on me.

It was as an A Level student in the mid-1980s that I first became aware of Nelson Mandela, South Africa and apartheid. I was horrified at the injustice of it and refused to buy anything with a ‘Produce of South Africa’ label. This was my first engagement with politics and realisation that the world was an unfair place. Everything was black and white to me (no pun intended): white South Africans were all evil and powerful; black South Africans were downtrodden victims.

Later, living in London, I would frequently walk through Trafalgar Square, stopping to stand with the protesters and sign their petitions outside the South African Embassy. It was whilst I was living in London that Nelson Mandela was freed. Soon afterwards a huge celebratory concert was held at Wembley Stadium and he attended and spoke to the crowds. Even though I can’t remember what he said, I clearly remember the awe, the exuberance and the emotion of the day.

It just so happened that at this time I was planning an overland trip though Africa. I was going to fly to Nairobi and head vaguely east, west and south. Any way but north really. Having by this time lived in Israel for a couple of years and met lots of South Africans (it being one of the few countries they could go to without a visa), and found out that most of them, despite being predominantly white, were actually quite nice, I was still horrified by the thought of apartheid but realised that things were maybe not as black and white as I’d originally assumed.

Living in Israel during the first intifada had given me a tremendous insight into how politicians and the media (and anyone else with a self-interest) manipulate situations and distort truths. This is true of all involved sides and my experiences both of the intifada and the Israeli occupation of Palestinian lands, and my conversations with South Africans, including those who were not white, had made me re-assess a lot of my own beliefs. It was realising that the best way to understand a situation is to see it from the inside: be there; talk to the people involved; experience it first-hand, that made me determined to finish my African trip in South Africa. A place a few years before I wouldn’t have dreamt of visiting. The freeing of Mandela and the transition that would have to follow also made a visit at this particular time an exciting prospect.

The majority of African countries at that time, would not allow anyone to enter if they had a South African stamp in their passport. I always carried two passports, a habit I’d got into during my Israeli days as Israeli stamps were equally unwelcome in a lot of other countries, but even so, it seemed easier to make South Africa the end rather than the start of my journey.

As I travelled through the countries of East and Central Africa I’d started by keeping quiet about my plans to finish in South Africa. Yes, Mandela was free and apartheid had been abolished soon afterwards but the country still had white rule and was a hotbed of racism. But although I didn’t mention South Africa, other Africans would bring it up. ‘Are you going to South Africa?’ My cousin lives there. I hear it’s wonderful there’. I was bewildered and confused. Did they not know? Was cousin lying to them?

The more I travelled in Africa the more I understood. Africa is a tribal society and most of the countries I travelled through had their own forms of apartheid. It might not have been as obvious as different entrances and water fountains, but the better jobs, houses and chances in life went to the people of whichever tribe had a member in power. I was travelling at the time of the genocide in Rwanda and Burundi. This was an horrific example of how this tribal mentality had been taken to extremes. Although the minority tribe, the Tutsis had been in power. This power had been misused and after years of discrimination the majority Hutus had overthrown and massacred the minority Tutsis. Once I got my head round the reality of black Africans discriminating against their own countrymen, I could kind of understand the draw of South Africa. Yes, you would be a fourth-class citizen there, but that was nothing new and at least you could make more money than you could in your own country. The realisation of this didn’t sit comfortably with me, but I had to try to adjust my Western, Euro-centric way of thinking and understand things from what was a completely alien perspective.

After a year wandering around Africa I finally arrived in South Africa. I spent over 3 months hitch-hiking the length and breadth of the country, sometimes camping, occasionally staying with friends, but more often than not staying with complete strangers who’d picked me up on the side of the road and couldn’t do enough for me. Most of the people I was picked up by and stayed with were white, but I stayed with an Indian family in Durban for a few days and spent several weeks in Cape Town staying with the family of a coloured friend I knew from Israel. Although things were changing and apartheid had been abolished the white government was still in place and everything was in flux. A year of two before I’d have been breaking the law if I’d stayed with my coloured friend’s family. The husband of the Indian family I stayed with was a late middle-aged psychologist. He had a PhD, worked at the university, drove a Mercedes. The height of respectability. Yet he told me that a couple of years before when a British psychologist had visited the university and he’d given her a lift, he’d been stopped by the police. She had been taken to one side and the police had tried to intimidate her into making allegations against him. She was white, he was Indian.

Most of the people I met accepted that things were changing and were pleased their country would no longer be a pariah state. Of course some saw the whole idea of black people being intelligent and capable of ruling as laughable and made jokes about the stupidity of the black Africans. But these people tended to be the minority and it was easy to see that they were not exactly well-educated or articulate and so were the chip-on-the-shoulder losers that every society has. Once their white superiority was taken from them they’d be even bigger losers and so really did have more to worry about than everyone else.

Although people tended to have accepted the change, as an outsider it was easy to see how it’s one thing to say ‘oh ok, we’re all equal now’ on a conscious level, but much more difficult to change underlying prejudices on a deeper sub-conscious level. The language of South Africa revolved around colour. People weren’t just people, they were blacks, whites, coloureds, Malays, Indians. There were white buses and black buses, white taxis and black taxis. In my language a white taxi would be a white coloured car, just as the moniker ‘black cab’ refers to the colour of the vehicle and not the passenger. In the language of a South African a white taxi was a yellow car for white passengers and the white coloured car (actually a minibus) was what was called the black taxi because this is what black passengers used.

I would rarely hitchhike for long. In even the worst possible places someone would stop within minutes to pick me up. They would be curious as at this time there were very few foreign tourists in South Africa, so they would want to talk to me, ask me about their country and what I thought at this turbulent time. How did they know I was a foreign tourist? Well because ‘you never see women hitching in South Africa’. Hmm, I’d think, ‘Isn’t that a woman hitching over there? And another one a bit further down? And what about the two down there?’ But of course the other women were black and so that was different. You didn’t even need to say the colour out loud for the implication to be there in your sentence.

Hitching through Transkei I was picked up by an off-duty Afrikaans policeman on his way home from a meeting. He was young, married with two young daughters. He took me home and I ended up staying for a couple of days. The Afrikaaners were known as the more conservative of the white people and the ones least tolerant of change. The police were also not known for their amenability towards black people. As my host was a combination of the two I expected him to spout right-wing drivel at me and I was psyching myself up to bite my tongue. Instead we had a deep and meaningful conversation about how he realises the country has to change, that it was unfair before, that this is a good thing that’s happening, but how hard it is to change your feelings inside when you’ve spent your whole life being brought up in a particular belief system. How do you suddenly change like that? He knew he had to because as he put it, ‘My daughters will grow up in a different world. What happens when they bring home a black friend? Or their first black boyfriend? If I can’t change I could lose my daughters.’ Speaking to him, more than anyone, made it clear to me that it wasn’t a case of ‘bad white people’ and ‘good black people’. It’s the system that is bad, not the people who have been brought up to believe it to be the truth. Of course this doesn’t excuse the people who go to extremes and abuse others because their belief system says they’re sub-human, but this goes some way to explain how the system could have remained in place for so long.

Towards the end of my stay in South Africa I had an experience which completely contrasted with all the positive experiences I’d had and showed just how some people were doing their best not to accept the changing situation. I was taken by friends to a white girl’s birthday party. It was a private party held in her house and the guests were a mix of white and black people. The front door was open as people were coming and going. The party was in full swing when the room began to fill with gas. Eyes streaming, noses burning, everyone ran outside and tried to climb on to things to get higher than the low lying gas. Candles were lit, newspapers were set alight to try to burn the gas off. We’d been tear-gassed. The security police had been noticed sitting in a vehicle a few doors down watching the comings and goings. When the canisters of tear gas had been thrown in through the front door they had disappeared. The girl whose birthday it was and her friends were completely unsurprised by this. Apparently they’d been active supporters of the ANC, hence the black guests at the party, for a long time and were well known to the security police. They were used to harassment of this sort. That it was still going on showed the last desperate measures of a doomed regime to still exert their power. As it happened their show of power that night amounted to nothing because once we’d got rid of the gas, the party continued as if nothing had happened.

Not long after I left South Africa the first elections were held in which everyone, regardless of the colour of their skin, could vote. The ANC got in with a landslide victory and Nelson Mandela, former high-security prisoner, became the country’s first black president. The hurt and remembrance of atrocities which had happened over the years and decades in South Africa wasn’t going to just go away because there was a new government however. If the country was going to descend into anarchy and civil war this is the time it would have happened. It could well have happened too, if the new government decided to exert their newfound power and do unto others as had been done unto them. The more extreme and militant whites would have had no hesitation when it came to fighting back and would have had the perfect excuse to try to take the country back to the bad old days.

What actually happened instead though was a policy of reconciliation. People, black or white, told their stories, met and questioned their attackers, atoned and asked for forgiveness from their victims. When crimes so bad have been committed it must be the hardest thing in the world to turn the other cheek and not seek revenge. It’s far easier to burn up with hatred than it is to quash that hatred down and rebuild your life. But under the leadership of Mandela the South Africans managed it. I look at other conflicted countries, countries that have tried to find peace for years but been unable to do so, even with the aid of the world’s best peace negotiators on hand. The only way there will ever be peace if everyone can follow the example of South Africa and accept reconciliation no matter how gutting it may be to see someone ‘get away with it’.

How has all this had an effect on me? I have learnt that no matter how repugnant the other side might seem it’s important to make the effort to understand it if you want to have any chance of ever changing it. I’ve also learnt not to put my euro-centric slant on everything, but rather to stand back and examine each situation from the point of view of the ‘other’. I don’t have to like it, but at least I can look beyond my prejudices and respect that others may have a different worldview to me and that this alternative worldview can be as equally valid as my own and may even make more sense. And of course, I know that there’s no point dwelling on what has been done as that doesn’t change, or help, anything. It’s far better to focus on the future and use what has gone before as part of a learning curve to ensure that that future is a better future.
 

Firearms and Fingertips

Corpses, video games, shoot-outs, manic harbingers of death, desperate surgery and blood and gore galore are the mainstay of the action-packed 70 minutes that is Firearms and Fingertips.

Corpses, video games, shoot-outs, manic harbingers of death, desperate surgery and blood and gore galore are the mainstay of the action-packed 70 minutes that is Firearms and Fingertips. 

A DJ plays in the corner, a corpse with a bloodied torso lies still on a hospital bed. After several minutes we realise that the corpse isn’t quite dead yet and frantic doctors and nurses try to revive him. He’s in pain, screaming, gurgling, swearing and asking for his mum. She’s outside. He’s been shot and she found him by the bins when she arrived home with their takeaway. He’s a good boy; no reason for anyone to shoot him. 

Cue the harbingers of death, they love a good death but it really isn’t the same these days. They lament for the good old days of plague with all the puss, and the times when people died of syphilis. The ’80s were good too; that was the time of AIDS you know.

They are presenting a show: ‘This is Your Death’. They wake almost dead Spencer up to tell him the good news. He doesn’t take it too well. With plenty of macabre pomp and fanfare they introduce a series of guests: Spencer’s mum, his girlfriend, shooter Jordan, and Jordan’s mum. As they are hot-seated in turn we learn more about the background of the incident as well as being introduced to the five stages of grief.

A mock-up of ‘The X-Factor’ (‘The Death Factor’), a killing spree computer game and a re-enactment of a war-zone in which the actors race around the place shooting each other and using members of the audience for cover. Bit by bit the reasons for the shooting are uncovered. Was it bad parenting? Was it a disloyal girlfriend? Or was Spencer not the good boy his mother believed him to be?

The dark themes of teenagers and guns, death and bereavement are dealt with in a way that is chilling and humorous. And loud. And freaky.

In the end Spencer dies. It couldn’t end any other way. We return to the hospital scene with the doctors and nurses realising they can’t save him and his mum coming to his bedside and hugging his bloodied body as she says her final goodbye.

 

Planning for New Year

Making plans to walk more of the Thames path over New Year.

As I don’t have any family planning to stay with me over Christmas this year, this means that right after Christmas Day I can get away. I’ve thought about heading overseas for a week but as I’m spending rather a lot on my van conversion at the moment and as I only came back from Oman a couple of weeks ago, I’ve decided to spend the time catching up with friends in the UK and trying to walk a bit more of the Thames Path.

Last time I walked the Thames Path (which was also at New Year) I finished in Staines. Not the most salubrious of places. I’ve been told by a local that they’re thinking of re-naming it Staines upon Thames to make it sound a bit more upmarket. I think St. Aines would sound even posher, but I’m not sure who to forward my suggestion to officially. And whatever it’s called it’s going to take a bit more than a name change to improve its image.

But I digress. Last year I finished in Staines and so that is where I need to start from this year. If I can get three days’ walking in, I should be able to make it to Marlow. On day 1 I should get as far as Windsor; day 2 should get me to Maidenhead; and then if I have chance to do a day 3 I’ll make it to Marlow. As usual at this time of year daylight hours will seriously impact on how far I can walk. Even with a headtorch I wouldn’t want to be walking along lonely riverside paths in the dark.

I spent a couple hours in the week researching parking and trains and it all seems very easy. I’ve found relatively cheap parking in Windsor, Maidenhead and Marlow and good train connections back to my starting point each day. Hopefully the traffic won’t be too heavy as it’s just after New Year and schools won’t be back in. Big time-eating traffic delays at the start of each day would mean me having to re-assess my plans for that day.  

So, all I need to know now is what’s the weather going to be like?

Bike Expert

I’m feeling a lot more confident about a future long distance cycle tour now that I’ve done this course.

… ok, so maybe I’m not a bike expert yet, but after spending the full day at the Cycle Hub in Manchester learning all about cycle maintenance I know a lot more than I did when I woke up this morning. 

As I have a old and ramshackle bike that I bought for a tenner in a charity shop, I thought it prudent to do a cycle maintenance course so I can at least have half a go at doing it up. I booked an all-day intensive cycle maintenance course with Edinburgh Bicycle Cooperative for £44. Yeah, I know, the maintenance course has cost me nearly five times what the bike cost me, but the idea is that it’ll save me money in the long run because I won’t have to keep paying someone else when it needs fixing.



The course was held in the Cycle Hub which I hadn’t even known existed. It’s situated in the basement of Piccadilly Plaza right in the city centre and is a place that provides secure parking for bikes and has showers, toilets and lockers for cyclists to use. Entry is by swipe card and there’s CCTV coverage. Prices range from £10 for either 10 individual visits or a one month pass up to £200 for an annual premium membership which includes use of the showers and a personal locker. The downside to it seemed to be the early closing times – 8pm on weekdays and 5pm on the weekend. This wouldn’t be much good for anyone wanting to go out after work or working a late shift. Apart from this it did seem impressive and maybe the times will change if there’s the demand for it. 

As I wasn’t sure how safe my bike was and certainly didn’t trust it to be reliable, I chucked it into the back of the van and drove into Manchester. As well as the Cycle Hub there’s also a car park underneath Piccadilly Plaza which has cheap(ish) all day parking on the weekend. 

I was first to arrive, but soon after I was buzzed in the other four students arrived. Their bikes all seemed a lot newer and in much better condition than mine. We hoisted our bikes onto tall stands which meant we could work on them without too much bending and contorting. (Note to self: must get one of these stands if I decide I’m going to get seriously into this bicycle maintenance malarkey.) 

We started at 10am and the course ran through till 5.30pm with about 45 minutes break for lunch. We removed tyres, wheels, brakes, gears, pedals, the chain, and a few other bits as well. We then put them all back on again. Successfully. We found out what tools we needed and, as we all had slightly different styles of bikes, we also found out different ways of doing things. At the end of the day we were each given a booklet showing step-by-step instructions for everything we’d covered. 

I’m sure I won’t remember any of it by the time I come to actually do the work on my bike, but at least I know that it’s actually quite simple and I feel confident that I will soon figure it out. The tutor also told me that I had a pretty good bike and was quite impressed when I told him I’d got it for ten quid. It just needs a bit of TLC and it’ll be as good as any posh bike out there!

Bike Maintenance Course

I’m going to learn how to maintain my bottom bracket.

Before we get on with the post here’s a musical interlude to get you in the mood.

 
On my list of things to do before I’m 60 I have the challenge of completing a long-distance bike ride. I have a bike – it cost me £10 from a charity shop. I even have a couple of panniers – they cost a couple of quid each from Lidl in Germany. So I’m all set to go, right? Well, not quite. I know nothing about bike maintenance and as my bike is old and cheap this could be a problem. I’ve read blogs by long distance cyclists who have experienced all kinds of problems with their top of the range bikes, so I’m sure to experience a few jitters from my super cheap bike.

With this in mind I went in search of a cycle maintenance course that would at least teach me the basics. I found this course run by Edinburgh Bicycle Cooperative. They hold various courses in various places, including an all-day intensive cycle maintenance course in Manchester for £49.

The course promises to teach:

  • Puncture repair: wheel removal, locating punctures, fixing punctures, wheel refitting.
  • Wheel truing – essential for better braking.
  • Brake adjustment for powerful, silent stopping.
  • Adjusting hub bearings for maximum life and smooth running.
  • Gear adjustment: including fitting new cables and fine tuning front and rear mechanisms.
  • Bottom bracket and headset adjustment.

I don’t even know what most of these things are, but I’ve booked and so hopefully I’ll soon not only know what they are, but will be able to transform my dilapidated ride into a spic and span, smooth-running dream machine.

Wicked – the musical

There’s a lot more to ‘Wicked’ than I’d given it credit for.

Last night I accompanied a group of students to the theatre to see Wicked. I didn’t know anything about it beforehand, but hey, it’s a free theatre ticket, I’m not going to say no. I knew it was a musical and so expected singing, dancing and superficialness. Yes, there was the singing and dancing but I was surprised by some of the challenging themes it addressed. 

The show is basically the backstory to The Wizard of Oz and begins with the Good Witch Glinda announcing the death of Wicked Witch of the West to the people of Oz. They are hesitant to believe the good news at first but once convinced celebrate gladly. One asks Glinda ‘But weren’t you friends with her once?’ Shocked silence. Glinda at first deflects the question, then decides to answer honestly. The show switches to flashback mode and we get the story of the Wicked Witch’s life from her birth to her death.

Born green, her father, the governor, had no time for her and more or less abandoned her. When her wheelchair-bound sister was born she was given the role of looking after her. As teenagers they went off to boarding school together, though Alphaba had been allowed to go only because her sister needed her. She is shunned because of the colour of her skin. Her sister isn’t treated much better due to her disability despite them both being in a supposed position of influence being that they are the governor’s daughters after all. The theme of racism and prejudice continues and develops into a paradigm of how a society, particularly one in hard times, creates its own scapegoats and how easily people buy into the idea. 

The scapegoats in Oz are the animals. All animals can talk and hold down regular jobs such as teaching. One by one, species by species, the animals are silenced and in some cases caged. They are dismissed from their jobs and lose all ‘human’ rights. As people’s minds are poisoned against them, there are few to stand up for them and those that do are seen as subversive. That the scapegoats of choice are so readily turned from upstanding citizens into public enemy number one is reminiscent of 17th century witch hunts, 1930’s and 40’s Nazi Germany, the US’s Reds under the Beds anti-communist frenzy of the 1950s and the present day scaremongering and paranoia about ‘illegal immigrants’ and ‘bogus asylum seekers’ as propagated by the likes of the Daily Mail.

Despite the ill-treatment and disdain, Alphaba is good. Good and righteous she is one of the few to stand up for the animals. When she first arrives at the school she looses her cool and demonstrates her ability at magic. The headmistress, impressed by this ability, takes her under her wing and gives her special lessons in sorcery. Alphaba works hard at these lessons as she wants to attain a standard high enough to warrant an invitation to meet with the Wizard himself. Finally she is able to realise her dream of meeting the Wizard and we find out that her reason for wanting this so badly is because she wants to ask him to do something for the animals. To her dismay, she discovers that the Wizard is not all he seems and his power is due more to clever PR than any real talent for magic. To consolidate his position it is he who is behind the scapegoating of the animals.

Alphaba ends up on the run with her name blackened. She continues to fight for justice in Oz, but the Wizard’s media savvy PR is far more powerful and effective than her magic. 

Other characters from The Wizard of Oz, such as the Tin Man and the Scarecrow are woven into the story and we find out their backstories too. Glinda, the Good Witch, starts out as a spoilt and self-centred airhead whose only interests in life are her looks and getting her own way. For her and Alphaba it is a case of loathe at first sight. Thrown together as roommates they come first to tolerate each other and then to become friends. Through her friendship with Alphaba, Glinda becomes the good person she later becomes renowned for being. 

I really enjoyed the exploration of so many different issues reflective of contemporary life (there are more than I’ve touched on here), and also enjoyed the way the story was so cleverly linked to the original to become a ‘believable’ prequel. I can now understand why it is so popular and why so many people rave about it.

Introduction to BELA

The first step towards learning to be an expedition leader.

I was up early this morning to drive to a primary school in St Helens for the first day of my BELA course. I got there early and sat sipping a coffee as the other delegates arrived. There are 21 of us in all. Most of the trainers we’ll be meeting over the next few months were there too to introduce themselves. 

BELA stands for Basic Expedition Leaders’ Award and will qualify me to lead bronze and silver expeditions for Duke of Edinburgh Award students. It’s only one step down from the walking group leaders’ qualification and so should stand me in good stead to achieve that whenever I get round to going for it.

It’s quite a time commitment as between now and November I have to attend three residential weekends. They start on the Friday evening and finish on the Sunday. I have to do another one in March for my assessment. In between finishing the third residential weekend and the assessment I have to fit in 30 hours of leading kids on walks. This concerns me a bit as it’ll be in the winter when daylight is short and the weather may be bad. Although this wouldn’t stop me from going out on a walk myself I won’t be able to take students out in the dark or in torrential storms and heavy snow drifts. I thought I’d be able to backdate these 30 hours to the spring and early summer when I spent, what seemed like, most of my weekends out with kids on practice and assessed bronze and silver expedition weekends. But, unfortunately not. I have to somehow fit it in between the end of the course’s practice weekends and the assessment weekend.

What I can backdate is my own walking experience. I have to fill in a log of walks I’ve done myself. Easy-peasy – I’ve got lots of them logged on here so I just have to flip back through my blog and copy the details over. 

Throughout the day we went over the expectations of the course and got a lot of the admin and form-filling done. Then we looked at equipment and did quite an interesting exercise in which we were given an equipment list, a total cost spent and lots of pictures of equipment from which we had to choose items to fit the cost we’d been given. It really showed how little you can spend to get the basics on a low budget and how much you can spend if you want to splash out on the best of everything and/or go for named brands. 

We looked at some actual equipment and were advised on how to tell if something is good or not and which items it’s worth spending a bit more on to get something decent (basically the things that can hurt you – boots and rucksack and also jacket because being soaking wet and cold is the equivalent of being ‘hurt’). 

All in all it was a good day and I’m feeling excited about my first residential the weekend after next. 

What’s the best way to learn drumming?

I’m hoping that teaching drumming will help me actually learn to play the drums myself.

What’s the best way to learn drumming? Well, according to research the best way to learn anything is to teach it.

I got my new timetable just before we broke up for summer and SHOCK! HORROR! I’m going to be teaching two year 7 classes music. As I am the least musical person I know this is going to be quite a challenge. I’m convinced I’m tone deaf, I have no sense of rhythm, I can’t hold a tune, when I sing even cats cover their ears. 

Luckily I have a very understanding Head of Music. Before we broke up she asked me what I would like to teach and as I would like to learn drums myself of course this is what I said. I put it on my list of challenges as I think learning a musical instrument will help make me become a more rounded person (at the moment I’m relying on cake to do this) and drums are my instrument of choice because hitting something seems a really good way of dealing with stress at the end of a bad day and this would be a legitimate way of doing this.

The Head of Music spent some time teaching me the basics before we broke up for summer. I got excited, she despaired. We’re going to do some work on beats and rhythm and then, a few weeks in, we’ll get the samba drums out and start proper drumming. I have a lot to learn before then as at the moment I can’t even say the names of the various drums let alone play them. 

Just to help me along (and because I’m enthusiastic) I ordered myself some drums over the summer. I’ve got a set of bongos and a bodhran. I’ve got these because they were the cheapest out of all the different types of drums and at the moment I just need to something to practice my rhythm and beats on. 

As I don’t know anything about levels or stages of drumming I don’t know what to aim for to be able to say I’ve completed this challenge. At the moment I’ll just say it’s in progress and decide later what my actual goal is.