Paddington Bear

Most children have possessed a teddy bear, as I have (my lifelong companion Teddy Tinkoes). But what about bears in children's fiction? Well, they seem to loom large. 

There's Rupert Bear, whose adventures with his chums and well-meaning grown-ups in and around pleasant Nutwood - a fictional village with a 1930s look, set in a rural paradise and completely safe for little bears to wander about in - appeared in the Daily Express for decades, with an Annual at Christmastime that was always eagerly anticipated. I was a Rupert Bear fan, and love him still. 

Then there were two others. Winnie the Pooh was the earlier, a bumbling brainless creature with toylike pals straight out of the Toy Story movies, associated with leafy Ashdown Forest and daft games like Poohsticks. I was unaware of him in childhood, and became aware only when Disney made a blockbuster cartoon about him. Even then I wasn't a fan. I can see that he might be lovable to some, but I found him too late to be a convert to his mystique.

Then there is a more modern creation, super-polite Paddington Bear from Darkest Peru, who lands up in Paddington Station, is adopted by a human family, and lives a London life with variable success, although the outcome of his actions always ends happily. I might add that Paddington's debut was roughly contemporary with the indigenous Wombles of Wimbledon Common, who of course were not bears (what were they?).

All three of these bears are likeable characters, full of honesty, curiosity and good intentions, and respectful of the old and wise, and appreciative of good behaviour. Much as you would like any child to be, but rather different from real children. Or real bears, come to that, as they can all speak English and think things out as a human would. Rupert is the least 'bearlike': he could easily be a small boy with an animal head, as could be his friends. Pooh exults in his particular kind of intellectually-challenged happy-go-lucky bearness, but is not 'human' in the way Rupert is. He seems the least relatable to me. Paddington, despite his humanoid abilities, remains a proper bear in many ways. And one with an unhappy past, as he is an orphan. It's lucky that he did quickly attach himself to a nice family and found a home. He might easily have ended up destitute and drugged-up in the bear equivalent of Cardboard City, under some dank road bridge in Darkest London.

Who is currently the best known? I'd say Paddington, especially as we have not only the original books, but a film, and now a musical. 

And if you happen to be in Paddington station or the vicinity, as I was last week, you can't avoid bumping into him. I had two encounters without trying; there must be more to experience if you search about assiduously.

The first encounter was under the Westway next to Paddington canal basin. This wasn't the half-drab bohemian quarter I'd imagined. It was bright and modern and artistic, on the edge of a modern development. There he was, a rhapsody in blue: 

I liked the all-blue interpretation. I was pleased to share a photo with him, and admired the rainbow-coloured backdrop (without which the underpass would have been a touch drab).

I've no idea why that table-tennis table was there. Was it also an artwork? Or was it a real table, for people to play on if the fit took them?

Close by was a different and more serious artwork, instantly recognisable as the work of sculptor Sean Henry, whose statues I've encountered in such places as Glyndebourne, Salisbury, Ely and Newbiggin-by-the-Sea. Apparently one man looking at another - the same person at different stages of life?

On to Paddington station itself, and on Platform 1 there were two Paddington Bear objects: a plaque with a painted seat beneath it and, nearby, a bronze statue of the Bear himself, sitting on a suitcase, complete with his hat and 'Please look after this bear' label. I was hard-pressed to get my shots, as adults and children alike were crowding around.

So: is my curiosity piqued sufficiently to at least read the first Paddington book and get to know this bear as his creator intended? Maybe, if I see a second-hand copy somewhere. Or rather, if I do see a second-hand copy, I will take that as a directive from the gods, which I would ignore at my peril, to read and learn. So be it. I don't want to be struck down by a thunderbolt. 

Big guns and birds of prey

Last week I made one of my infrequent visits to London. The place isn't far away really, and I only need to get to a station on the Brighton to London main line - simple to do in mid-Sussex. Even so, I don't often make the journey. I last went in September 2024. 

Why not oftener? Well, although London is an impressive and fascinating place, full of iconic sights and events, I am not in love with it. I lived there for eleven years (from 1978 to 1989) and worked there for twenty-seven years (from 1978 to 2005), for most of my working life in fact. I got very tired of the endless urban landscape, even though London has plenty of excellent parks and green spaces. I escaped to rural Sussex in 1989, and from then onwards wild horses wouldn't have been able to drag me back, had a residential return to The Smoke ever been in question. (London's old nickname is completely inappropriate now, of course: you can see for miles, and never choke on smog) Once retired (in 2005) I went there strictly as a tourist, always on day trips, and from 2014 always using my Senior Railcard to keep the travel cost down. Nowadays it's strictly a photographic destination, though a good one - wherever you go, there are an overwhelming number of things to shoot, and passing people to take pictures of, and the vibe of London beats into you all the time, relentlessly. 

Brighton may be London-by-Sea; but the converse is not true. London is not Brighton-on-the-Thames. It is far grander, in a quite different league, with stunning modern architecture as well as all the old-time sights. But life there is lived at a pace and level that I find physically and mentally exhausting, and after three or four hours I have had enough. So when going there I choose my objectives carefully, and stick to that plan: it's impossible to do justice to more than two or three things on one visit of only a few hours. London is just too vast.

By the way, when I say 'London' I am speaking primarily of Central London. The suburbs are full of interesting things too, but they are beyond the scope of a short day trip by rail. So if I wanted a nostalgic trip to Wimbledon, or Stanmore, both away from the centre, I'd probably drive there and hope that the gods who provide parking spaces for Sussex folk are on the job. 

This was last week's plan: a train ride into London Victoria station; then a walk through Belgravia to Hyde Park Corner; then into Hyde Park beyond; then I'd follow the Serpentine into Kensington Gardens, emerging at the Italian Gardens, and make my way to the canal basin at Paddington. After that, a look at London Paddington station, then a return to Victoria and home before the rush hour - or hours - began. If feeling up to it, I'd walk back from Paddington. If too footsore, or running out of time to catch my train home, then I'd ride the Circle Line on the Underground from Paddington to Victoria. (I did run out of time, so I had the bonus experience of the Underground)

This visit would therefore treat me to the elegance of Belgravia, the wide, well-tended paths of Hyde Park, the hotel quarter of Paddington and (I hoped) bohemian Little Venice, plus Brunel's iconic Paddington station (not seen since 1980). I expected to see some changes (and, my goodness, I was right!) and perhaps there would be some unexpected experiences (right there too!). 

The first shock came in Hyde Park. I'd caught the clatter of horse hooves on the South Carriage Drive, a road that runs along the south edge of Hyde Park, and I hurried over to watch brown-uniformed riders pass by in well-disciplined formation.

Well, this was an unexpected sight. Where were they off to, and for what purpose? It was ten minutes to noon. 

I walked on towards the east end of the Serpentine, Hyde Park's long lake. Suddenly I jumped out of my skin as a gun went off with a huge crack. It wasn't a rifle or a handgun. It was a piece of field artillery. It was precisely noon, and a forty-one gun salute had commenced. The police (and army) had cordoned off a big area in the north-east of the park. The gunnery was coming from a dip in that fenced-off area. Nothing was in sight. But you could see the puff of smoke as the gun or guns went off at precise intervals, followed by the actual sound shortly afterwards. 

I learned soon afterwards that it was the third anniversary of King Charles' Coronation, hence the massive forty-one gun salute. I hadn't known beforehand that this was the very day. I asked a group of four women if they knew what it was all about. They didn't either, so I wasn't the only ignorant one. We speculated, of course. The salute went on and on. It was a relief to one's ears when it was over. I would have loved to have seen it close up, but it was surprising how loud the gunfire was, even from half a mile or so, and I wondered whether the participants were wearing hearing-protectors. A real war zone must be a very noisy place indeed!

Soon after, I reached the Serpentine, a long, wide artificial lake that I first saw in 1964, when on a school trip to the annual Motor Show at Earl's Court. Being me, I'd taken myself off to see a few other sights while I had the chance. I was only eleven, but as eager to explore as I am now. Indeed it was my first visit to London, a place known to me only from an old pictorial map that my Uncle Des (Mum's bother) had left behind when emigrating to Australia in 1948. Riding the tube trains, and indeed sampling the London Underground as a wonderful exotic experience, was the prime objective in my mind that time. Cars were interesting - of course they were; I was already dreaming of when I could get behind the steering wheel - but I always intended to do my own thing on this school trip. I was aware of the dangers I might encounter while wandering about, although I thought in terms of getting knocked down by a bus, or being robbed in the street. Darker dangers didn't occur to me. In any case, I was tall for my age and therefore confident. Besides, I was already an accomplished map reader: I had no fear whatever of getting lost.

The name 'Serpentine' fascinated me, and I had to see it. So I ended up on the side of it, next to a café. And, as you will have guessed, a man came up to me and asked me whether I would like a cup of coffee. In my innocence, I politely declined and walked on, thinking what an odd thing he had done, as we didn't know each other. Fortunately, he didn't follow me. It was only much, much later that it occurred to me what he might have been after. And looking back on it now, I'm pretty certain that, without realising it at the time, I had deftly dodged a bullet. Back in 1964, child molesters or groomers were not in the news. They were simply regarded as a class of men that included 'flashers', who exposed themselves for some kind of abnormal, unfathomable gratification. They were sad figures to snigger at, or make jokes about. They might end up in a magistrates court and fined, but were otherwise considered harmless wierdos. I dare say the man who approached me was nobody to be afraid of, but nevertheless I somehow felt embarrassed, and I mentioned the episode to no-one, nor have I ever spoken of it until now. I just knew that I was right to walk away. 

That 1964 incident went through my mind as I contemplated the Serpentine and took my pictures. I felt it was one of those peripheral experiences that you don't take harm from, but store away as you develop the awareness and savvy needed to travel safely through life. 

I walked on. It was peaceful and very pleasant. Why hadn't I returned to Hyde Park before? 

Co-operative wading birds posed for me.

I was getting peckish. The first waterside eatery I'd seen was too restaurant-like for a simple lunch. But there would be others, and as I walked along the south bank of the Serpentine, the Lido Café came into view. You could sit outside in the mild sunshine, and by the water.

Those were the four women I'd spoken to earlier, about the guns going off. We'd kept pace with each other, but this is where we parted company. I didn't see them again. Inside, I got myself a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of orange juice. I chose a waterside table. 

Ah, this was the life! It seemed such a relaxing midday pitstop. 

But then I had unexpected and uninvited visitors.

How cheeky! Four starlings: one guarding their rear; two in a more forward position, backing-up the boldest, their leader, who was going to nab my sandwich if he could. He stalked a little closer. 'Oi! Buzz off!' I said, loud enough for the girl in the green top on the next table to look up from her laptop. The protest had no effect: the starlings ignored me and edged closer. I brushed an arm towards them, and they scattered.

But they immediately returned, clearly undeterred and not to be thwarted. They eyed me truculently.

Then one of them flew at my face, brushing it with his wings. Hey! I snatched my sandwich just in time. 

Then another flew at my face. I was being mobbed. They were shooing me away from the food they wanted. 

This was aggressive behaviour. It was impossible to finish my lunch in peace. I got up, and shifted to a table just outside the Café entrance, underneath its colonnade, taking my sandwich with me. It was annoying to be pestered away from a pleasant waterside table, but moving did the trick. They didn't follow me. It seemed that they were keeping strictly to their own 'territory' - probably to defend it from other birds, as well as to plunder whatever was left on tables or could be snatched from the hands of lunchgoers like me. 

I'm not sentimental about wild birds or any wild thing. I don't think them cuddly. They can bite, peck and sting, and are all potentially a source of injury or infection. Nature has equipped them to thrive in their niche, so long as they beat off rivals and are ruthless with their prey. 

I do say they deserve to live unmolested within the ecosystem they inhabit, and require our respect. Literally: if ever civilisation vanished, and you or I were one of the few survivors of that catastrophe, our day to day life would be a battle on equal terms with wild animals, who must feed to stay alive. And they are indifferent to what they consume. Wild animals have no scruples and show no mercy: they see a meal and do what they have to, without any feelings in the matter. 

We would be the hunted. It would be an existence with a lethal weapon constantly at hand, just in case some old or lame animal, now too old or too slow to catch their normal prey, realised that an apparently weak human being made a good meal. This would soon enough apply to domesticated animals too, such as dogs: they'd turn feral and become dangerous. 

Birds too would become bolder, and might make movement out of doors hazardous. If you have ever seen Alfred Hitchcock's film The Birds, or read the even more disturbing original story by Daphne du Maurier, then you'll know what I mean.

This wasn't the entire story of my trip to London. Next post.

Looking forward to Orkney in 2027

Dear me, no posts in April! I've never missed a month before. But then there was little to write about. I've been in a sort of limbo, waiting for my car and caravan to be repaired, both of them insurance jobs. 

I had a hitching accident back in February. Being unfamiliar with the AL-KO hitch that connects car and caravan for towing - I'd used a Winterhof hitch for twenty years on my old caravan, which worked differently - I'd messed up when getting away from a short break at Winchester. The caravan looked properly hitched for the return journey, but it wasn't. It was merely gripping the car's towball, not locked onto it, and within yards of moving off my pitch, car and caravan parted company. 

I stopped the car at once, but the caravan didn't stop and crunched into the rear of my car. Sophie came out of it with a dented rear end. The Swift caravan fared worse, one corner of its fibreglass front panel splintering. It was a heart-lurching sight. I almost cried. The Winchester trip had been a kind of maiden voyage for the Swift, its first outing in my hands, and it had come to this.

After immediate assistance from astonished onlookers on the Winchester club site, I got going and came home without further trouble. Car and caravan were still completely roadworthy. On the way I stopped off at the caravan dealer, to get a damage assessment and to set the insurance claim procedure in motion. The car also. I wanted both restored to pristine condition, and if doing so doubled my premiums for the next couple of years (which it has) then so be it. 

Now, as I write, the Swift is finally being fixed. And my car Sophie goes in for new rear end panels next week. Then I'll feel happy again. Both will look brand new in the areas that were damaged. In the case of the caravan, fitting a new front panel and sealing it against the weather will actually forestall any water-ingress and dampness problems in the years ahead (which are costly to fix). Psychologically it will feel like a fresh start with the Swift.  

You might well ask, if the accident happened in February and it's now May, then why has this taken so long to deal with? 

Well, in truth the work needed could have gone ahead in early April, a month ago, but I wanted first to go on a three-week trip to the West Country, spending Easter in Cornwall. I didn't mind doing it in a wounded caravan that brazenly flaunted a taped-up front corner, towed by a wounded car that had a bent rear bumper. Getting away in good weather seemed more important. Nobody objected. The insurance companies had agreed that the work could go ahead when convenient to all parties. 

The combined estimates for car and caravan came to over £9,000, well beyond my current cash resources, so all the damage repair has had to be done on insurance. It lets me off the hook as regards that £9,000, but the excesses I must pay are still no joke. £200 on the caravan and £650 on the car. To cover that, I've cancelled a Welsh tour that I'd booked. That's a pity, but £850 is a lot to find. 

So my next long trip is another West Country jaunt, a three-weeker to North Devon and the Cotswolds. But it's nearly three months away, a long time to wait. So in between now and then I'm going back to Winchester club site for five nights, a mini-trip that won't break the bank. Hampshire in the late spring can be delightful. Besides, I need to overcome the negative feelings left by February's accident at the Winchester site. I need to hitch up correctly when I depart for home, and prove to myself that I've learned how to do it right. And of course I will. Considering the dire consequences of not connecting car and caravan properly, I've become paranoid about checking that all is good before driving away!

I haven't decided where to travel to in the second half of 2026, but I've already decided that I'll revisit Orkney in spring 2027, which entails making my way in stages from mid Sussex to Scrabster harbour, where the ferry to Stromness departs from, and then coming all the way home again, seeing friends on the return leg. I haven't booked anything yet, but I have chosen the sites I'll need to stay at, and the dates. This will be a 55-night trip, not far short of two months away from home. But I now have the kind of caravan to make a holiday of that length not only feasible but enjoyable. While on Orkney I intend to do as much as possible. A week won't be enough: it'll be two weeks this time. I may not have the opportunity to return. There are other places that need exploration - Ireland, for instance. 

The question now arises, does next spring's blockbuster caravan holiday warrant buying a new camera? I've been using my ever-faithful Leica D-Lux 4 (of 2009 vintage) full-time since June last year, and (assisted by my phone) it would certainly be up to the job. But I may buy a new camera - or a nearly new one - to get extra-nice pictures. Unless ambushed by some big unforeseen household expense, I ought to have built up the cash to do this by early next year. What would I consider? A used Leica Q2 or Q3 might be within reach. Or any new high-end compact camera from another maker. 

I don't want to lug around a mirrorless camera body plus two or three lenses. Too much bulk and weight. So I'm rather hoping that several new and appealing compact cameras for serious photographers will come to the market in the next ten months. This kind of camera is back in fashion, so I have reason to think that my wish will be granted.

A little frustrated by the unfamiliar

I'm writing about a subject everyone might know a lot about - getting up to speed with something very different from what you have been used to! 

This is about my 'new' caravan, the pre-owned Swift Corniche 15/2 that I bought in January from the Sussex dealer I've used for a very long time. They've known me for years, and I think they have sold me a pretty good caravan, one that won't go wrong and lose them a longstanding customer. They want me to bring the caravan back next year for a service, and then every year, and sell me caravan consumables in between. But given its age, little things are bound to crop up as it ages further. Wear and tear will certainly take its toll - I go on holidays a lot! The initial snagging issues presently coming to light, all minor so far but needing a dealer's attention, will be dealt with under the guarantee they gave me, and I'm easy in my mind about that. This post is going to discuss how slow I'm being in getting to grips with it, as a place to lounge, cook, eat, sleep and wash in, and of course to tow from place to place. It's almost like starting caravanning all over again, despite doing it for twenty-four years. (I started in 2002)

After two months of ownership, I am still impressed with the Swift, but everything about it remains unfamiliar and only half-known. I'm still peering into manuals to find out how this or that works, or why it doesn't seem to. It hasn't been straightforward to transfer the knowledge I'd garnered over my twenty years with the old caravan - an Elddis Avanté 362 - to the newer Swift. 

Both are two-berth caravans, but that's where the similarity ends. Really they are different animals. 

For instance, the Swift is longer, and catches the wind more when being towed. It's also heavier. So Sophie my car - a diesel-engined Volvo XC60 - has more work to do, although it's in no danger at all of running out of puff. But I've had to slightly change the way I tow. And until I'm really used to the different handling, I can't insist that I'm totally relaxed and confident with the Swift out on the roads. I'm being unnaturally careful. Experience in the coming months will of course turn towing the Swift into second nature. 

Strangely, when I've reached my destination I'm finding it easier to reverse onto a pitch, or onto my drive at home. The Swift is noticeably less likely to jack-knife when going backwards, pushed by the car, than was the shorter, lighter and more skittish Elddis. Is it the extra weight? Or because the caravan's wheels are further from the back of the car? Whatever, I seem to have more fine control - provided I back up slowly. 

The Swift's internal layout aft of the two front beds (my seating in daytime) is completely different from the Elddis. It's taking me time to work out where to put things so that I'm not constantly walking the length of the caravan. The Elddis was so small that it took only three paces to walk end to end, and almost everything was only an arm's-length away. Now it's five paces in the Swift. Or seven pigeon steps. Well, I've gained a lot of space! I can swing cats. But despite all the extra cupboard space thriughout the caravan, it isn't easy to work out the best way to store things so that I'm not endlessly moving to and fro. And I'm still finding it hard to remember what exactly is stowed away in each cupboard. 

There isn't a single routine task that has survived from the Elddis intact, just as it was. Even hitching up to the car when moving on. I'm having to learn how to do everything that little bit differently. My various daily tasks - once well-practiced and slick - are presently stilted, and frustrating because of it. It takes time to invent and fine-tune new habits.

Do I miss the simplicity of the Elddis? Even though it was cramped and strapped for storage? I'm a little wistful, yes. But the Elddis has gone. And despire its unfamiliarity, I so much prefer the Swift for its comfort, its warmth, and its many luxury touches: it is truly a home from home, a nice place to be. 

And once I get fully used to it, the Swift will take me through the next ten years - my final ten years of caravanning - in some style. The Elddis wouldn't have been able to survive that long: it was coming apart, and might have become unroadworthy. This one won't. 

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Jane Austen rides again, courtesy of Copilot

Years ago now, my niece Jenny remarked that my name, Lucy Melford, sounded like someone out of a Jane Austen novel. I hadn't thought of it that way before, but of course I agreed. 

I have never forgotten what she said. It seemed a rather nice thing to say, even if it suggested that Lucy Melford wasn't an everyday name, but one invented for a romantic plot. In which case, it didn't fit reality: long-term readers of this blog will know that I'm far from being governed by my emotions. My head definitely speaks louder than my heart where love and attraction - and indeed most other matters - are concerned. Still, I have always cherished what she said, because I like to be associated with Jane Austen's heroines. 

In fact I do rather like the Regency Period, or at least the social aspects of it for a person of means and standing, and if time travel were ever possible, it's one of the eras I'd like to visit - subject, of course to certain safeguards, such as a way to instantly return to 2026 if something awful might otherwise occur! The Regency Period was a time when women of good family were highly respected, and not merely assets in men's ruthless power games. Even so, women had only limited control over their lives in the early nineteenth century - for example, being voteless and shut out of professions - so that I would need to be a lady of some standing, with property and adequate independent means. Only thus could I remain respectable, and able to resist the pressing attentions of mercenary men seeking to marry money. 

It occurred to me to ask an AI chatbot - Copilot in this instance - whether it shared my niece's opinion that my name would be a good fit for Regency society. Well, it did, going into what the general reaction might be in plenty of detail. Here are the screenshots:

Ah! I like that 'comfortably gentry' bit. Bring on that manor house. I picture it as old and mellow, with warm and comfortable rooms, tasteful furniture, and faithful servants who feel very much part of the household.

This is now where Copilot, having volunteered to do so, launches into a scene that Jane Austen might have penned herself.

O that the real Lucy Melford were the same!

Of course you can continue the scene, Copilot! I'm hooked now.

He's got a couple of good lines, hasn't he? Whatever next? 

Oh Lucy, Lucy, be careful! This is a slippery slope that you have just stepped onto. Where might it lead? At any rate, you can forget your Elizabeth Bennets and Emma Woodhouses. They cannot match Miss Lucy Melford for personal presence and a zest for dangerous adventure! 

Like myself, the reader must been impressed as to how easily Copilot put that little vignette together. It seems quite surprising, given that a chatbot like that is designed for practical use, and especially for productivity in commercial life. 

In fact it seems distinctly out of character. Copilot condensing the long and tedious minutes of some board meeting, yes. Copilot suggesting ways to redesign one's cluttered back garden, yes. Copilot sketching out an itinerary for a blockbuster holiday, yes. But Copilot the subtle reader of human motives, and a close observer of the human heart? Upon my word, it is hard to credit it with talent of that kind.

Be that as it may, I am compelled to admit that Copilot would have written eloquently, enticingly, but tantalisingly of how the rest of the evening progressed. I fear however that Miss Melford might well have retired late to bed feeling that she had made a conquest that came with too high a price. 

How on earth is she going to escape the gentle clutches of Mr James Ashcombe? For even though he is incontestably a gentleman of quiet manners, charm, sensibility and perception, she will wish to retain her freedom to navigate the world independently. I can see her having to be forthright. Meanwhile the rest of the company at the ball will be talking of nothing else next day, and expecting to hear of a betrothal within the month! How can she release herself from that trap? (Ideally she'd press the 'back to 2026' button without delay, but that's not an option in Jane Austen's world)

Here's another thought, surely expressed hundreds of thousands of times already: if 'creative writing' can be conjured up so fluently by an AI chatbot - especially romantic fiction of the potboiler type - does it mean the death of the novelist? How would you tell the difference?

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