Through a glass darkly

Going North

We started at Arisaig, on the Road to the Isles. It is full of memories. Susie and her family camped there each summer for about a decade, on Alasdhair MacDonald’s croft at Port Na Dorn. From what I gather the facilities were a bit primitive in those days, with a separate latrine tent. And George had to get up on wet nights [of which there were plenty] to dig a ditch to drain away the water from the fly-sheet. A decade or so later I rang Oxford University Press from the call-box in the village, on a reverse charge, person-to-person call, to be offered a job with them in Paris. And we celebrated with  a pair of kippers from the smoke-house at Mallaig. A year or three later we rented Johnny MacDonald’s house at Cuillin View on the road towards Traigh Golf Course for a month [it cost £120 for the month]. And Joanna, five months old, was small enough to be bathed in  the washbasin.

We drove up in a car hired from Short’s, a very friendly garage in Dalkeith. It was a gold Suzuki Vitara. Gold in colour, that is. On a sunny morning we stopped for coffee in Callander, at Mhor Bakery, coming away with a large crusty sour-dough loaf. And we stopped again for lunch at The Real Food Cafe in Tyndrum, a jumped up chippy which does excellent fish and chips. The girls taking the order were both Ukrainians, who were amazed to hear that we had been in Kyiv over Christmas 2021-22. After the meal I suggested to Susie that she say ‘Thank you very much’ to them in Ukrainian. So we scratched our heads to come up with the phrase. She said ‘çok tesherkurla’ to them twice  Leaving them looking totally bewildered. I didn’t think Susie’s pronunciation would be that bad. Twenty miles up the road  realised that she had spoken Turkish to them !

It rained a bit after Callander, but that is quite normal. And the road down through Glencoe is usually a bit dark and hostile. At Glenfinnan, where Bonnie Prince Charlie raised his standard on August 19th, 1745, there used to be a small car-park. And a chance to climb a narrow, spiral staircase to the top of a commemorative tower. Now there is an enormous car-park to cater for Harry Potter fans who assemble on the hillside to take photos of the Hogwarts Express on the Glenfinnan Viaduct. I bought a day-return on the train from Glasgow up to Mallaig about fifteen years ago. It is a spectacular journey. But the train windows were too dirty to get good photos. We caught up with the Hogwarts Express in Mallaig the following day; as a couple of hundred tourists disgorged from the train for a three hour stop-over in Mallaig. Time enough to buy fish and chips and to take a couple of photos.

In Arisaig we stayed in The Old Library, in the centre of the village, in a superior room with a glorious view of the sea. [I reflected ruefully that one night there cost exactly twice as much as a two week full-board package holiday, flights included, in Cefalu in the mid-1970s.] In the evening we walked down towards Rhu. In the morning, fortified by the first of several copious Scottish breakfasts, we walked a bit on the beach at Camusdarrach, made famous by the film Local Hero. In the Fishermen’s Mission bookshop in Mallaig, which is by some distance the most chaotic second-hand bookshop that I know, I bought a clean copy of Ben MacIntyre’s book A Foreign Field for £1.00. [This is one of MacIntyre’s early books, written I think when he was Paris correspondent for The Times. If that is true, it supports my contention that for many authors their first or early books are their best. Before they start churning out new books every year.]

And from Mallaig we sailed past Eigg and mountainous Rhum towards South Uist …

September 2023

It is Festival time here once again.Edinburgh has been swarming with tourists for the past month. And it takes ages coming back across town, across Princes Street and The Bridges on the bus. Just writing that makes me sound like a sour-tempered native.

I escaped the crowds one morning to walk down the Water of Leith. There were very few people on the more rural, Balerno stretch of the river.  But the Colinton [former railway] tunnel was closed for repairs, which necessitated a lengthy detour. And then more people closer to town.

We have had visitors here. Louis and Anne passed through on their first visit to Scotland. We braved the crowds to look at the Royal Mile and the statue of John Knox in New College. And we went up Arthur’s Seat to admire the view. They left us for Glasgow, and thence to Mull and Iona before heading north towards the Highlands. The Lyon connection was carried forward by Diana on her annual visit. We went to a fringe event in St Cuthbert’s, a concert by The Really Terrible Orchestra. Largely the creation of Alexander McCall Smith. They are not as terrible as they claim. And they do, Susie tells me, audition prospective musicians these days.

Diana’s visit coincided with a visit from Pete, my oldest school-friend. One day he was asked to write an essay on All art is illusion. Discuss; and in frustration he rode away from school, permanently, on his 1960s scooter, to work on Oz magazine and Melody Maker. After which as a ‘60s entrepreneur he set up The Big O poster company. These days he runs a [very small] business producing art postcards, like the Scottish water colourists, and comes to Scotland a handful of times a year to drum up business with a few discerning bookshops.

We have been to a few Fringe shows. I am extraordinarily conservative about what we see. Many years ago my mother-in-law gave us tickets for a new play, set on a Scottish island, in which the female lead stripped off quite gratuitously after a few minutes and lay on the dining table. I’m not sure if Eileen was aware of this in advance. Other horrors include an unfunny comic from Brighton who did things with beer bottles in a very late night show at the bottom of the High Street. And some enthusiastic, but not very artistic, break dancing. 

This year we took in a Beach Boys tribute band in George Street. They came all the way from Essex. I had forgotten just how repetitive all that surfing stuff is. And Surfin’ USA is a straight steal from Chuck Berry’s Sweet Little Sixteen. And we went with Mike and Wendy to hear Jacqui Dankworth singing in Stockbridge Church, accompanied by a classy pianist [her husband] and a very cool Brazilian bass player. Pete opined that she’s nothing like as good as her mum, Cleo Laine. Who is still singing, Jacqui told us, ate the age of 96.

Also in Stockbridge, but in the church hall, we saw the Soft Shoe Skiffle band; guitar, banjo, bass, and washboard. The band are, I think, even older than me. Much of what they play is from 1959, or thereabouts. I asked them to play at my 75th birthday party a few years back. But the COVID lockdown put an end to that idea, and to any party. Their guitarist and singer had a ‘minor incident’ earlier this year. But it doesn’t really matter as most of the audience know all the words.

Last night Susie’s band No Strings Attached played their inaugural Fringe concert in Broughton St Mary’s. Quite stressful for a novice clarinettist. But the music went down very well with quite a substantial audience. I am going to Murrayfield to watch Scotland v. Georgia tomorrow. We are going to a Salvation Army band concert on Sunday night. And then on Tuesday we head for Arisaig,  just for one night, and then from Mallaig to the Outer Hebrides. Unlike the Ardèche, where Craig and the girls have been holidaying this past fortnight, there is little chance of heat-stroke. Nor of forest fires. Thankfully.

August 2023

Prelude

For reasons that I can’t explain the Vietnam War largely passed me by in real time. Which is very odd. Since it was [by some parameters] the biggest war of my lifetime; and lasted under various names for about three decades. As a crude generalisation it began as a colonial war as France, the colonial power, tried to reassert control of its Indochina empire, from which it had been largely evicted by the Japanese doing the Second World War. And after the defeat of France in 1954 and the division of the country, it became a long struggle between [Communist] North Vietnam under the iconic leader Ho Chi Minh, supported by Russia and by China, and [the Democratic Republic of] South Vietnam, hugely propped up by the United States with some marginal support from other allies, Australia, New Zealand, and South Korea. It is therefore largely regarded as a Cold-War era proxy war. The war spilled over into neighbouring Cambodia and Laos. And ended with the fall of Saigon in April 1975. After which all these countries became communist states.

I am making up for my earlier lack of attention by reading some books about Vietnam. Some of which are extremely good.

Dien Bien Phu

After the fall of Japan in 1945 Ho Chi Minh declared the establishment of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam.. A month later French forces overthrew the DRV and restored French authority in Cochinchina. What began as a low level insurgency against the colonial power turned into a conventional war fought between the Viet Minh, supplied by the Soviet Union, and French forces, largely comprising French colonial troops drawn from North Africa, sub-Saharan Africa, and from Indo-China, supplemented by units of the Foreign Legion. The Viet Minh relied mainly on guerrilla tactics and ambushes, while the French tried unsuccessfully at first to draw the enemy into a major confrontation. Culminating in a decisive [and disastrous] defeat for the French at Dien Bien Phu.

When we were last in Grenoble I found a copy of Martin Windrow’s book The Last Valley in a charity shop. Price 2,00€. It was a good buy. Martin Windrow is a journalist and publisher rather than an academic historian. He has written a magisterial account of Dien Bien Phu, the battle that doomed the French empire and which lured America into Vietnam. In the winter of 1953-54 the French army under the command of General Henri Navarre challenged General Giap’s Viet Mnh to a pitched battle. [Navarre was intellectually brilliant, with background in intelligence work and an air of calm authority. But he had no experience ofAsian warfare, and was referred to by a colleague  as “an air-conditioned general”.] Thousands of French and Vietnamese  paras and légionnaires, with supporting artillery and tanks, were flown to the remote valley of Dien Bien Phu in north-west Vietnam to build a fortress upon which Giap could smash his inexperienced regiments. But fortress is a misleading term; it was no more than a chain of low hills set in a shallow valley surrounded by densely wooded mountains.

The siege began in December. And lasted for three months. As Martin Windrow tells the story it assumes the character of a Greek tragedy. The French were amazed to learn that the Viet Minh besiegers had dragged heavy artillery over five hundred miles of roadless, jungle terrain. And working from bomb-proof caves and excavated tunnels, they could shell the French troops with impunity. General Giap described the siege as grignotage, a constant nibbling away. The French commander at Dien Bien Phu was Colonel Christian de Carries, a dashing cavalryman, aged 51, tall with silver-grey hair, obliged to walk with a shooting stick as a reminder of old wounds. de Carries lacked any gift for inspirational leadership. Which came mainly from his subordinate, Lieut.-Col. Pierre Langlais, a tough 44-year-old paratrooper with a taste for whisky and a sulphurous temper, who had previously served with the Saharan camel companies of the African Army, in Italy, and Alsace and Germany, and was now on his third tour in Indochina. 

The outer forts of Béatrice and Gabrielle were overrun by the Viet Minh in mid-March. Colonel Charles Piroth, de Castries’ popular artillery commander, was severely criticised by Langlais; retreated to his tent and killed himself with a grenade. Garrison morale was now crumbling. Astonishingly [to me] several hundred untrained parachutists dropped into Dien Bien Phu in April. As de Castries observed in a subsequent report, “It’s a bit like Verdun, but Verdun without the depth of defence … … and, above all, without la Voie Sacrée … ”. A relief column of three thousand men set out from Laos, but it was a hopeless venture. On May 7th de Castries formally surrendered to the Viet Minh. Who suddenly found themselves with five thousand prisoners, most of them wounded. More of de Castries’ men died in captivity than died in action. France had lost the will to pursue the struggle. The new French prime minister, Pierre Mendès-France, promised a cease-fire within thirty days. In July at the Geneva Conference it was agreed to partition the country close to the 17th Parallel. The Cease-Fire was signed by France and by North Vietnam. The agreement was endorsed by the French, the British, the Chinese, and the Russians. Ho Chi Minh accepted that hegemony over a united Vietnam would have to wait for another day. No Westerner saw the Geneva agreement as a success. It was rather an exercise in damage limitation. 

The Best and the Brightest

How then did America then get involved ? That question is best answered by David Halberstam’s book The Best and the Brightest. Halberstam was a journalist for the New York Times, who wrote extensively on politics, history, the Civil Rights movement, American culture, the Korean War, and Vietnam. He arrived in Vietnam in 1962 and left again in 1964 aged thirty. He arrived as a confident man, a believer, welcomed by the American Embassy in Saigon. But his two years in Vietnam, during which time he witnessed the self-immolation of the Buddhist monk, Thich Quang Durc, made him increasingly critical of [the South Vietnam] President Diem’s government, and also of the upbeat and misleading utterances of General Paul Harkins and the American military.

I found a copy of The Best and the Brightest, first published in 1969, in Shakespeare’s quirky bookshop in Paris in the mid-1970s. but the copy on my shelves is the twentieth anniversary edition. The genesis of the book, Halberstam says, was a return trip he made to Vietnam in 1967, when he was struck by the stalemate – American military superiority against North Vietnam’s political superiority. And by the self-deception of senior Americans in Saigon that we were on the edge of a final victory. Eventually the Americans would have to go home and so Hanoi controlled the pace of the war. The American generals, like the French generals before them, were not so much in the wrong war as on the wrong planet. His views went down badly with American ambassador, Ellsworth Bunker. Who believed that overwhelming American fire-power made victory inevitable. 

Back in the States Halberstam started work on a book about “how and why we had gone to war in Vietnam, and about the men who were the architects of the war”. His writing began with an article for Harper’s on the iconic figure of McGeorge Bundy; the most luminescent of the Kennedy people,  Dean of Harvard at a ridiculously young age, the most cerebral member of the Kennedy Administration, and the likely leader of the next generation of the American Establishment. The article, The Very Expensive Education of McGeorge Bundy, provoked a stormy response. It was the first time that a [liberal] journalist had suggested  that the decision making of the Kennedy Administration on Vietnam was significantly flawed. How could so many brilliant people have made such bad decisions ? Perhaps because the members of the Administration were given credit for cerebral prowess and academic success rather than accomplishment in government. Halberstam tells a wonderful story about Vice President Lyndon Johnson:

“After attending us first Cabinet meeting he went back to his mentor Sam Rayburn and told him with great enthusiasm how extraordinary they were, each brighter than the last, and the smartest of them all was that fellow with the Staycomb on his hair from the Ford Motor Company, McNamara. “Well, Lyndon, Mister Sam replied, “you may be right and they may be every bit as intelligent as you say, but I’d feel a whole lot better about them if just one of them had run for sheriff once”. “

Back in 1954 the young Democratic senator had opposed intervention in Indochina; “to pour money, men, and materials into the jungles of Indochina would be most unlikely to deliver victory against a guerrilla enemy … which has the sympathy and covert support of the people”. But now, as advised by his favourite general Maxwell Taylor, Kennedy tried to solve the Vietnam problems by sending a steady flow of Americans, Green Berets, military advisors, helicopters and helicopter pilots. By November 1963 there were sixteen thousand Americans on the ground. In the years that followed Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, an enthusiast for slide-rules and systems analysis, egged on by the RAND Corporation, presided over a steady, inexorable increase in numbers. But the Kennedy-Johnson administrations never defined the war, what America’s role or mission was, how many troops would be sent, and, most important of all, what America would do if the North Vietnamese matched American escalation. 

Halberstam offers a fascinating set of pen pictures of the major players, both military and civil. He emphasises the enduring legacy of the McCarthy era, though Joe McCarthy himself had died seven years before Kennedy took office. The Republican party, long out of power, [until Eisenhower “a kind of hired Republican” was elected] accused the Democrats of treason; there were sustained attacks on Truman and Dewey for their policies in Asia which had “lost China”. The fear of being soft on Communism lingered among Democratic leaders. The memory of the fall of China was even more bitter for Lyndon Johnson than for John Kennedy. Johnson vowed that he would not be the president who lost the Great Society because he lost Saigon. 

The book doesn’t go beyond the 1968 election. The tormented McNamara has gone, no longer a believer. Johnson stands down as President, destroyed by a war he didn’t want. [Hey, hey, LBJ/How many kids you killed today ?”] Hubert Humphrey becomes the Democratic nominee, but in so doing loses what is left of his reputation. Ironically it is the newly elected President, Richard Nixon, who goes to China and through Henry Kissinger embarks on the lengthy [and thoroughly cynical] process of American withdrawal. “The only political figure who could go to China,” Halberstam notes,  “without being Red-baited by Richard Nixon”. 

Max Hastings: Vietnam

All this and a great deal more is in Max Hastings book, published in 2018, which I began to read in Normandy and have now finished. It is a long [700-plus pages], a balanced, magisterial account of the war[s] in Vietnam. Anthony Beevor calls it “his masterpiece”. Unlike Halberstam, Hastings is primarily concerned with Vietnam rather than with the United States.

The book starts with the post WWII colonial war against the French culminating in Dien Bien Phu and the partition of the country. And continues with a political and military narrative; from Kennedy sending 400 Green Berets in 1961 through the massive expansion of US military and materiel under Johnson and McNamara. Through to the collapse of Saigon in May1975. After which, in Michael Howard’s words, “a grey, totalitarian pall descended on the country”. 

After the Tet offensive of 1968, which provoked Johnson to withdraw from the election race, his spirit broken by Vietnam, Hastings reckons that North Vietnam’s defeat was no longer plausible. But the war had a further seven years to run. With the South ‘losing by instalments’. 

Hastings is good on the ‘on the ground’ experience, ‘Waste deep in the Big Muddy’.  He criticises equally incompetence and corruption in both the North and the South. He believes that America’s military power could never match the North’s political power. As the journalist Neil Sheehan observes, “In the south there was never anything to join up to …”.

The war cost the States $150 billion [less than Iraq two decades later]; and 58,000 lives [proportionally fewer than the Korean War]. But the true price was the trauma that it inflicted on the country. The war was a catastrophe for Vietnam. And, as General Walt Boomer comments, if the States had learned anything from the Vietnam War, they wouldn’t have invaded Iraq.

PS

We should give Harold Wilson belated credit for resolutely keeping British troops out of Vietnam, in spite of American blandishments. Sadly Tony Blair, seduced by the glamour of George W. Bush [difficult to believe, I know] failed to follow his example a generation later on Iraq.

August 2023

Marking time

Time goes faster as you get older. So psychologists tell us. It may be true. Last week was seven months since Joanna left us. [I met some people on the bus yesterday, whose name I couldn’t immediately remember, who were asking me about her. I told them that she is the first thing on our minds when we wake up in the morning. And then at intervals throughout the day.] 

Certainly I’m not sure where the last few weeks have gone. Apart from my wheezing my way through a long-lasting summer cold. After my 24-hour trip to London I met up with Richard Holloway for coffee at the Cafe Grande. During our decade in Duns he was my diocesan bishop, and I wasn’t really very happy about that. [See TaGD – 71] His liberal theology and his enthusiasm for the LGBT+ community and his encouragement to ‘sin boldly’ all played out badly in our rather conservative corner of the Scottish Borders. But he was always very supportive personally, and meeting up with him occasionally is a great pleasure. We talked a lot, and laughed a lot, and cried a bit about Joanna. And he pointed me to a few books that I might look at one of these days.

And then I spoke at the funeral for David Douglas, a friend from Priestfield church. I only got the job because the minister was away on holiday. David was a gently-spoken, courteous man; a retired accountant. He was immensely helpful to me a few years ago when I was being chased for unpaid back taxes on foreign earnings by the Inland Revenue. A firm of accountants in Berwick on Tweed with whom we had historic connections from our time in Duns acted for me. Sadly they turned out to be a bunch of venal clowns. They charged me a substantial fee for submitting a return which HMRC refused to accept. It took two years of patient encouragement by David before the matter was sorted out. And they eventually sent me a large cheque – for which we were grateful.

We then had a few days down south staying with Jem and Anna and their children in Watlington. Which is often said be the smallest town in England. It sits at the foot of the Chilterns, in Vicar of Dibley country; with lots of good walking nearby and easy access to the Ridgeway. And is blessed with the reputed Orange Bakery. And populated by a sizeable colony of red kites which circle constantly above your head.

As ever it was very good to spend time with children and the grand-children. From Watlington Jem drove us up to Birmingham for my brother and sister-in-law’s joint birthday celebrations. Lots of excellent food and drink, and more Anglican clergy than you could shake a thurible at.

Since our return we have had visits from Roy and Shona, a chance to catch up with news from Lyon;  and David and Mary from Perthshire. Interspersed with a couple of visits to the Edinburgh Jazz Festival. First to hear the excellent Pasadena Roof Orchestra playing big band classics from the 1920s and ‘30s at the Queen’s Hall. And then to the Spiegeltent in George Square to hear Hamish Gregor and Colin Steele with their Tribute to Ball, Barber, and Bilk. Acker Bilk used to play at Wandsworth Town Hall back in the dark ages. And a few years later I was happy to hear Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen playing live as the resident band on Brian Matthew’s Easy Beat. Apart from which excitement I have been reading Bevis Hillier’s interminable, three volume biography of John Betjeman, stuffed with anecdotes and gossip; and Rowan Williams on the Benedictines; and a whole platoon of books on the Vietnam War. Of which more another time.

Envoi

We are looking forward to more August visitors; from Berwickshire, and from Lyon, and from the Cotswolds. I have just bought some tickets for Scotland’s rugby World Cup warm-up games at Murrayfield,  against France and against Georgia. Which may be a triumph of hope over experience. And we plan to go to South Uist at the end of next month. Provided that CalMac can find a boat to take us there. Which is unsure. If not, it will be a long swim !

July 2023

A trip to London

Harrison Ford is in London this week. And so is Dolly Parton. Very unusually I was in London too, for 24 hours, but I didn’t see either of them. I went down to London for the 200th anniversary celebration of ICS [the Inter-Continental Church Society] The celebration, followed by lunch and the AGM, were held in St Paul’s, Onslow Square, part of the HTB family of churches.

Finding affordable accommodation in central London is tricky. I stayed in the Hotel Meridiana, in Argyle Square, two minutes from King’s Cross station. It’s probably typical of the large number of small hotels in this area: I stayed in a small room on the second floor with a small en-suite and shower and a [very] small flat-screen tv. Up two flights of carpeted stairs. Which could be tricky if you had much luggage. The hotel doesn’t do breakfast. But the Cappadocia cafe a few minutes walk away in Grays Inn Road is said to be very good. But after a hot, interrupted night I gave the Cappadocia a miss, and had breakfast in South Kensington instead. In a Portuguese cafe.

ICS

ICS, the Intercontinental Church Society, began life in a London coffee house on Ludgate Hill in June 1823. Samuel Codner convened a meeting of like-minded evangelicals to promote Christian work in schools in the colony of Newfoundland. A decade later from the same coffee house a similar group of evangelicals launched the Western Australia Missionary Society, later renamed the Colonial Church Society. Within a few years requests were reaching the Society to support mission work in Italy, France, the Netherlands, Spain, Greece and Switzerland; and then, from further afield, from Canada, China, India, the Azores, the Falklands, and Argentina. A century and a half later, in 1979, what had become the Commonwealth and Continental Church Society [CCCS] was once again renamed and settled into its current name as ICS.

Susie’s and my connection with ICS goes back to the mid-1980s. In my pre-ordination days I was pleased to drop into St Michael’s, Paris, occasionally, on Sunday mornings; and once had an encouraging conversation there with Peter Sertin.  A few years later we were in St George’s, Barcelona, on a hot Sunday in August, and received a gracious welcome from Ben and Anne Eaton. During our decade in the Edinburgh Diocese we and the children were pleased to do a series of ICS summer chaplaincies; first at Messanges, then at Raguènes Plage and at La Baule, both in southern Brittany, and once down at Sarlat-la-Canéda, but most often at Benodet. During the 1990s we were very happy to have a hundred or so people coming to worship in the old Catholic church down by the harbour. One Sunday a Frenchman gestured to me to put the bread directly into his mouth. And when I did he bit my finger ! And it was at Benodet that two men approached the chaplaincy van from different directions, both wanting to talk and pray about the notion that they might be called to ordination.

One thing leads to another. After a decade in Christ Church, Duns we were delighted to be invited in 2000 to become the chaplain[s] at the ICS-supported church in Lyon. After the rather conservative monoculture of the Scottish Borders, where change comes slowly if at all, it was a real pleasure to be ministering in the culturally and confessionally diverse, high turnover, high-octane Diocese of Europe. Where we were faithfully supported by ICS, under the leadership successively of John Moore, and Ian Watson, and David Healey. And we were very grateful for the fellowship and the teaching of the annual Family Conferences, which alternated between the UK and mainland Europe. 

Happy Birthday, ICS

The anniversary celebration was held in St Peter’s, Onslow Square, a few minutes from South Ken underground station. [Why were the attractive, tree-filled gardens closed with chains ? And a notice saying PRIVATE: FOR THE USE OF RESIDENTS – RUSSIAN OLIGARCHS, ARAB BUSINESSMEN, ARMS DEALERS, AND TORY PARTY MEMBERS ONLY. Actually that’s not quite what it  said. But I am reading between the lines.]

We were warmly welcomed by Richard Bromley. the Mission Director. Worship was led by Andrew Flanagan, accompanied by a wonderfully gifted flautist from Vevey. There was moving testimony from Sarah Jane King, about mission in Switzerland; and from Mimy Gardner, about the work in Leipzig. Bishop Robert Innes, of the Diocese in Europe, spoke about the wide geographical reach of the society; about the fact of its lay leadership; and [I think] about the support it gave to local churches around the diocese. Bishop Richard Jackson, Chair of the ICS Council, recalled the numerous name changes of the past, and emphasised the need for us to be alert to what God is doing and to be prepared to embark on new things. Richard Bromley made reference to the New Work Initiatives being undertaken to mark the anniversary. We prayed the ICS Prayer. And Bishop Robert cut the impressive cake which had survived a fraught journey on the motorway.

There were many old friends. Some of whom I managed to recognise. [I’m bad with faces.] Gary Wilton was there, taking me back to church in Woodstock. Where he as a young Wycliffe ordinand affronted the young fogeys in the congregation by processing in [with Gregory Page-Turner] wearing an outsized L plate. Mike and Helen Parker were two rows behind me. Mike and I were fellow curates under Denis Lennon at St Thomas’s, Glasgow Road. Roy and Joke Ball were at St Marc’s, Grenoble when Joanna was there as a student. The first person that I met outside the church was [Bishop] Henry Scriven, who installed me in Lyon in 2000.  Folli Olokose, a pillar of the congregation in Lyon, is now serving in the Guildford Diocese, a pillar of the ICS council and of General Synod.  David & Angela Marshall and Michael & Lesley Sanders and Martin Reakes-Williams, now in Addis Ababa, were all familiar faces from past ICS conferences. As was John [and Jane] Dinnen, who kindly came to Lyon to lead a church weekend for us. John Wilkinson, a colleague and friend from a post-retirement spell at Holy Trinity, Brussels, was there; as were David & Anne Fieldsend, and Pam Clements, and David White. And a host of others.

I was sorry not to see Madge Olby, an occasionally reader of this blog. Who got a mention from Bishop Robert. And I was sorry not to see John Moore, another occasional reader, who invited us to go to Lyon. Nor Alyson Lamb, a friend and almost a neighbour these days down the road in Berwick. Nor David Healey, whom I see most Sundays anyway at St Peter’s, Lutton Place. He was planning to come, from Moreton in the Marsh, but was a casualty of train delays.

Envoi

When it ended I took the tube up to Holborn. And had a sentimental stroll through Bloomsbury, taking in Museum Street where I worked for eighteen months in the early 1970s. George Allen and Unwin are long gone, and the street is now dominated by pavement cafes. I sat drinking iced coffee, looking at The Museum Tavern, which is now called something else. And then made my way via Red Lion Square to Kings Cross for the train home. Where I had a long conversation with a Chinese student doing a PhD in Cryptography. He thought there might be a democracy deficit these days in China. Wasn’t sure if there was an Opposition. But poured scorn on the idea that the Confucius Institute may be spying on the activities of Chinese students in the UK. And so to Edinburgh where it was raining heavily.

I was sorry to have missed Dolly Parton.

June 2023

Anniversary

Last month, May 17th, was the 70th anniversary of the Dambusters, the celebrated raid on the German dams in May 1943. To mark the occasions hundreds of people gathered to watch a Lancaster bomber fly over Derwent reservoir, in Derbyshire’s Hope valley, one of the sites used by 617 squadron to practise for this top secret mission. Later in the day there was a second fly-past and a sunset ceremony at RAF Scampton in Lincolnshire, the station from which the nineteen Lancasters took off on their daring mission. Only three of the original squadron personnel are still alive. Les Munro, aged 94, and George ‘Johnny’ Johnson, aged 91, both attended the ceremony. Squadron Leader Munro had travelled from his home in New Zealand to be there.

The Dambusters

The Dams Raid of May 1943 was a celebrated operation. It was a positive demonstration of progress that Bomber Command had made since the beginning of the war. It was carried out by 617 squadron, which had been formed specially for this raid in March under the leadership of Wing Commander Guy Gibson, one of the leading figures in Bomber Command. The main targets were the Möhne, Eder and Sorpe dams, which were the main sources of water for the Ruhr valley, twenty miles away. And thought to be of crucial importance to German industry. The dams were attacked with bouncing bombs, which had been designed by Barnes Wallis, the scientist who had invented the geodetic technique used in the Wellington bomber. In order to be effective the bombs had to be released at the precise height of sixty feet above the ground. This was dangerously low level flying, at night, over water, for a heavy bomber. 

Two of the dams were breached. The destruction of the Mohne dam caused widespread flooding and disruption of railways, roads, and canals; and significantly reduced the electricity supply to the Ruhr. The destruction of the Eder dam caused considerable damage to houses, bridges, and waterways in the Kassel area. But eight of the nineteen aircraft that had been dispatched were lost and fifty-three crew members were killed.

Like many schoolboys in the 1950s I knew all this stuff. The first ‘grown-up’ book I ever read was Guy Gibson’s Enemy Coast Ahead. The book, which was published posthumously in 1946, is a remarkable account of Gibson’s life in Bomber Command; of aircrew living dangerously, and dying, as they sought our their targets in the dark skies over Nazi Germany. Gibson was a great survivor; decorated with a DFC and Bar and a DSO and Bar, he won the Victoria Cross for his leadership of the Dams Raid. Arthur ‘Bomber’ Harris wrote in the introduction “If there ever is a Valhalla, Guy Gibson and his band of pilots will be found there at all the parties, seated far above the salt.”

The myth was given further traction by the making of the 1955 epic war film The Dam Busters, based on the books by Gibson and by Paul Brickhill. The film was warmly received and became the most popular motion picture at British cinemas in 1955. In 1999 the film was voted the 68th greatest British film of the 20th century. [The film supposedly provided the inspiration for the Death Star trench run in Star Wars.]  It starred Richard Todd as Guy Gibson and Michael Redgrave as Barnes Wallis. [Richard Todd incidentally entered Sandhurst in 1939, was commissioned in the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, and later joined the 7th Parachute Battalion with whom he dropped into Normandy on D-Day. He was involved in capturing the Pegasus Bridge.] Barnes Wallis, a gentle scientist, was very upset by the loss of life on the Dams Raid, and used the money he was awarded after the war to create an RAF Foundation at Christ’s Hospital. I saw a lot of him at CH in the 1950s, when he was a school governor; and when he was present at lunch parade, the band often played Eric Coates’ Dambusters March.

Operation Chastise

Now that the public library in Fountainhall Road has reopened [it was a COVID testing centre for two years], I took the opportunity to read Max Hasting’s 2019 book Chastise: The Dambusters Story 1943. Hastings is a prolific British journalist and military historian, who has edited both the Daily Telegraph and the Evening Standard. [His father MacDonald Hastings was a regular writer for the Eagle comic, also part of my reading in the 1950s.] He is the author of some thirty books, mainly on military history which get longer as he gets older. I found Chastise mercifully short, and for me it is his best book since Bomber Command written some thirty years ago.

Chastise is a more complicated story than the Paul Brickhill  myth. Hastings looks at the chosen targets, suggesting that the Sorpe Dam should have been a priority rather than the Eder. But acknowledging that it was a differently constructed dam which required a different approach. He contrasts Harris’s scepticism about Wallis’s bouncing bomb and about the whole project with his willingness to soak up the credit for it when the raid became a well-publicised [partial] success. He notes that just over half of those killed in the floods were prisoners of war and forced labourers, French, Belgian, Dutch, and Ukrainian. And he poses the question: Why was there no attempt to follow up the raid. No  similar high-precision, low-level raids were attempted. [Harris was fiercely crucial of ‘panacea merchants’; preferring to rely on the crude, sledge-hammer approach of ‘area bombing’. About which serious ethical questions remain.] And no attempt was ever made to bomb the reconstruction work on the dams which began immediately. The Germans certainly rose to the challenge: the dams, which had taken five years to build, were repaired by armies of forced labourers working around the clock in just five months.

Guy Gibson

Hastings also explores the story of Gibson himself. Here he leans [I think] on the 1995 biography by Richard Morris: Guy Gibson: the story of one of Britain’s most celebrated wartime pilots. A book of which I recently tracked down a copy.

Morris offers us a more nuanced picture of the man behind the legend. He notes that Gibson showed little sign of early promise. Although Sir Ralph Cochrane later wrote that Gibson was ‘the kind of boy who would have been head prefect in any school’ , Morris explains that he had a pretty undistinguished time at St Edward’s in Oxford. “He was second XV material and a lance-corporal in the OTC, moderately able, tenacious, but never getting to the top of anything.” After school he applied for a short-term commission in the RAF, and was at first turned down. Possibly because his legs were too short !  Subsequently he learned to fly at Netheravon Flying School, was neither a natural nor an outstanding pilot, but in 1937, aged 19, was commissioned as a Pilot Officer and posted to 83 [Bomber Squadron] at Turnhouse, outside Edinburgh. 

When war broke out Gibson took part in the abortive attack on German warships at Wilhelmshaven. Nine Hampdens from 83 squadron took off in bad weather,  failed to find the target, and returned in the dark. Their experience of night flying was negligible, but miraculously all survived. During the following years Gibson survived an enormous number of operations, initially flying Hampdens, and then Beaufighters during an unhappy eighteen months in Fighter Command.  When Sir Arthur Harris took over as C-inC of Bomber Command in February 1942, he immediately recalled Gibson to command 106 squadron. Flying Avro Manchesters, and then Lancasters.

It was Harris who summoned Gibson a year later to head up the newly created 617 squadron and to lead the Dams Raid. Gibson was a veteran, a survivor, and a known name in Bomber Command.  In January 1943, on a sortie to Berlin, Gibson had taken a young radio-journalist,  Richard Dimbleby, with him as a passenger. The subsequent broadcast was a triumph. But Gibson seems to have had few close friends. His parents had split up. His mother turned to alcohol and died tragically in an accident shortly before the raid. He had contracted a loveless marriage to Eve, a dancer a few years older than himself. Morris interviews his ‘lost love’ in the WAAF, with whom Gibson had an unconsummated, unscheduled, Brief Encounter type relationship. His main companion and source of emotional support seems to have been his dog, a black labrador called Nigger. [I can’t remember if they changed the name in the film. They would now.]

After the raid, Gibson became a celebrity and ‘a professional hero’. He was feted by Harris and adopted by Churchill, who took him on a propaganda tour of North America, ‘all alcohol and endless adulation’. As one of Churchill’s ‘young men’, and with the enthusiastic support of William Garfield Weston, Gibson was adopted as Conservative party candidate for Macclesfield. But Gibson pined for operational flying, and once the book that became Enemy Coast Ahead was completed the RAF didn’t know what to do with him.

In June 1944 Gibson became Base Air Officer at Coningsby in Lincolnshire. Both the squadrons he had commanded, 106 and 617, where part of this group. His arrival there was a bit ostentatious and he was not universally welcomed. On his first visit to the 627 squadron mess, he was ritually debagged before being invited back for a beer. Gibson fretted that the war would be over before he could resume flying. On September 19/20th, 1944, Gibson flew as Controller and Master Bomber on a raid to Mönchengladbach and Rheydt. It is not clear who authorised this. He was flying an unfamiliar Mosquito with Squadron-Leader James Warwick as his navigator. They were both killed when the aircraft flew into a hill in southern Holland on the return leg. [As a child I found this  bald statement unconvincing.] Morris investigates the reports in great detail. But it is still not clear exactly what happened. Gibson was twenty six years old.

Different people saw Gibson differently. He made little attempt to build relationships with non-commissioned men who served under him. He was unpopular with other ranks who saw him as a martinet. [The same accusation is made against Douglas Bader.] And he wasn’t that popular with his fellow pilots. One called him “a bumptious bastard”.  But to one of his patrons he was “the charming boy, just like [I wish] my own son”. As Noble Frankland writes, he was an inspiration to thousands of men who served in Bomber Command. His unparalleled record of ops made him a legend in his own lifetime. Many airmen didn’t want to believe that he was dead. Richard Morris’s book is a careful nuanced portrait of the man. He doesn’t seem any less brave or admirable. But he emerges from the book as more complicated, more human – and a more interesting man.

June 2023

Back to Normandy

We went back to Normandy with the children and grand-children for the half-term holiday. Last year we had a house in Montebourg, on the eastern side of the Cotentin peninsula, a town much knocked about by fighting in 1944. This year we were at Carteret on the west coast of the peninsula. 

Brittany Ferries were heavily booked at half-term weekend, so Susie and I were forced to go a day early We spent Thursday night at the Queen Mary Inn in Poole, a pretty basic room in a pretty basic pub. Its saving grace, for one of us at least, was that it was showing Manchester United v. Chelsea on a very big screen in the bar. We had to leave the pub before breakfast began, so we were able to treat ourselves to breakfast on the boat  as it eased out past Brownsea Island. This is the birthplace of the Boy Scout movement. [I was a boy scout in the far-off 1950s.] Many years ago I remember Willy Rushton doing a wickedly funny sketch on TW3 as Baden-Powell outlining his plans for the scouting movement to a bunch of open-mouthed fellow army officers. 

On Saturday morning Susie and I discovered the small but delightful Jardin de la Roche-Fauconnière, also known as the Jardin Favier, in Cherbourg.  This is a park of some 7 hectares, not far from the city centre, created in the 1870s by the Favier family. It contains some 4,000 trees and plants, many from Latin America, in the garden of what was in origin the family home. In one of the hothouses we found an encephalartos [tree], a South African bread palm. According to the plaque these rare trees have existed since the time of the dinosaurs, a nugget to pass on to the grandchildren.

Carteret

Carteret, strictly Barneville-Carteret as the two towns lying astride the Gerfleur estuary are a single commune, is a small holiday resort with vast beaches, one of which is backed by an iconic row of beach huts.  The tide goes out a long way. Our rented house had 5 bedrooms and 3 bathrooms, and was a few minutes walk from the shops. The large, mature garden contained sufficient sun-beds for the adults and a big trampoline which was a major attraction for the children. Oskar perfected his backward flip through constant practice.

Carteret is mainly detached holiday homes with a small row of shops, two or three restaurants, and a disused railway station now converted into a food market. The bakery will close at the end of this month if they don’t find two bakers.  The Chapelle St-Louis is a 14th century foundation which served as the parish church until the early 20th century. More recently the Eglise Protestante Unie have held services there. It would be a good venue for ICS summer chaplaincies.

The day after we arrived, Pentecost Sunday, was Amelia’s 12th birthday. In the absence of chocolate cake we made do with an enormous strawberry tart.

The sun shone and the wind blew all the week. We didn’t stray far. One day the family went to the market at Portbail, the resort where my school-friend Clive holidayed for many years. Supposedly he and Ev spent a month each year running on the dunes and eating plateaux de fruits-de-mer. But I can’t imagine that Ev ever did much running. I walked over the footbridge and through the fields to Lindbergh-Plage, named for the pioneer aviator who either landed on or took off from the beach. It looks as if some would-be entrepreneur tried to develop the place between the wars. And  failed. There is no cafe, no shop, no bar.

We ate out one day at one of my favourite places,  l’Auberge de l’Ouve. It is a stone inn screened by mature trees overlooking the slow flowing river Ouve. A hen-harrier [according to Jem] glides across the marsh. The place was closed for several years, but has now re-opened under a local French owner with a Thai wife. There is a limited choice: Susie and I both had effiloché de porc, pulled pork wrapped in breadcrumbs with creamed lentils and a rich jus; Anna had fish; Jem and Craig both had steaks. We drank local cider. The tarte tatin was finished. Dommage ! But the thing with red berries and the deconstructed lemon meringue pie were both good.

Did we miss Joanna ? Yes, of course we did. Every day. And especially in the mornings. And again at Barfleur where was had lunch in a crèperie on the last Saturday before catching the boat. That afternoon the wind died down at last; and the week ended with a smooth crossing with an impressive fiery sunset.

The wider world

Silvio Berlusconi has died. Which leaves the world a better place. [That would be true of many other politicians too. Whom I won’t name.] And Boris is quitting the House of Commons; hopefully for good. Having [we assume] been found guilty of deliberately, or  at least recklessly, misleading the House over parties in Downing Street during lockdown. Like Trump, Boris is a serial adulterer and a serial liar. He seems to believe that the rules that are made for other people don’t apply to him. And that something is true simply because he has said it. The so-called resignation honours list is a further stain on the reputation of public life in this country, with the despicable Rees-Mogg snd all Boris’s Partygate henchmen being rewarded. An honour for Boris’s hairdresser is beyond parody ! It’s not clear who blocked a knighthood for Boris’s Dad and a peerage for the infatuated Mad Nad, but we should be grateful to them. 

Of more consequence in the long run may be the breaching of the dam in Ukraine. Which promises to harm agriculture and food production in that country for many years to come. As the months roll by, it becomes increasingly difficult to pray with real expectation for peace and justice in Ukraine in the forseeable future.

PS 

I got my hair cut yesterday along the road, and had a long conversation with Cyrus, the Iranian, who owns the barber’s. The conversation turned to sex education in schools and the SNP’s ‘flagship’ policy of encouraging gender self-identification. [Gender issues is probably the area where I find myself most open-mouthedly at sea in terms of the current debates.] Cyrus, a Muslim, probably non-practising,  told me that he sends his two children aged 12 and 8 to a Roman Catholic school in order to escape the teaching about sex and relationships in state schools, Often enough franchised out to groups like Stonewall.

Just reporting !

June 2023

This is a list of blogs posted since starting out in March 2020, at the start of lockdown.

It is more for my benefit than anyone else’s; in case I start to write the same thing again. {Elderly vicars have been known to repeat themselves !]

NB  The first five blogs were not numbered.

[00] Getting Started;  Retired vicar [b]logs on March 2020

[00] Gratitude and Desert Places March 2020

[1] Peter Frankopan: The Silk Roads March 2020

[2] Walking round Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh March 2020

[3] Turkey; and some books on Turkey April 2020

4 Easter reflexions; Denise Inge: A Tour of Bones Easter Saturday 2020

5 Bouquets and Brickbats in Lock-Down April 2020

6 Tim Keller: Walking with God through Pain & Suffering May 2020

7 Spotlight on dark happenings; Clerical abuse May 2020

8 The missing centuries; the later Middle Ages May 2020

9 Postcards from Normandy May 2020

10 Life in lock-down; Worrying things June 2020

11 Marion Lochhead: The Episcopal Church in Scotland June 2020

12 Jûrgen Moltmann: Theology of Hope July 2020

13 Venice; and Donna Leon’s Venice July 2020

14 Out to lunch: a wish list in lock-down July 2020

15 Being Seventy Five July 2020

16 Albert Camus: The Plague [La Peste] July 2020

17 E.L.Woodward: History of England July 2020

18 John le Carré August 2020

19 Blustering Boris August 2020

20 Theodore Zeldin: France, 1848-1945 August 2020

21 Going North: looking back at 1974 September 2020

22 Alistair Horne: The Fall of Paris: Siege & Commune September 2020

23 Going North: to Inverness and Sutherland September 2020

24 Why do so many evangelicals vote for Trump ? October 2020

25 Gordon Ogilvie, RIP October 2020

26 David Smith: Stumbling towards Zion October 2020

27 The smell of corruption October 2020

28 General Edward Spears: The Fall of France November 2020

29 Preachers: Colin Bennetts; Denis Lennon November 2020

30 Bruce Clark: Twice a Stranger November 2020

31 Marina Warner: The cult of the Virgin Mary December 2020

32 Mountains; Eric Shipton and Bill Tilman December 2020

33 Philip Jenkins: The lost history of Christianity December 2020

34 Looking Forward, Looking Back January 2021

35 Lamin Sanneh: Whose religion is Christianity ? January 2021

36 James Joll: The Second International January 2021

37 Fifty Years Ago: Pergamon Press and Robert Maxwell January 2021

38 James Joll: The Anarchists February 2021

39 Mike Davis: Planet of Slums February 2021

40 David Abulafia: The Mediterranean February 2021

41 Working for George Allen and Unwin February 2021

42 Home front; Brexit; Levelling up March 2021

43 The Silver Jubilee of King George V March 2021

44 Jürgen Moltmann: The Crucified God March 2021

45 The Christmas Truce 1914 March 2021

46 The Water of Leith April 2021

47 Hans Küng: On being a Christian April 2021

48 Opening Up; out and about from Edinburgh April 2021

49 The great all-rounder – C.B. Fry May 2021

50 The business of safeguarding May 2021

51 Letter from Leurbost; Hans Kung: Why Priests ? June 2021

52 Hebridean Diary June 2021

53 Boris is off; Per Lagerkvist: Barabbas July 2021

54 Abroad; to France in 1961 August 2021

55 Home in Edinburgh; a walk round Loch Leven August 2021

56 Herbert McCabe: Love, Law, and language September 2021

57 Monasteries and Retreat Houses September 2021

58 Sticky wicket in Yorkshire; Owen Paterson, MP December 2021

59 Opening Up; visiting family; Maredsous 2021 December 2021

60 Kiev December 2021

61 Kiev Calling – 2 December 2021

62 Snow comes to Kyiv Christmas Day 2021

63 Christmas in Kyiv January 2022

64 Three days in Lviv January 2022

65 Old St Paul’s; John Cornwell: Seminary Boy January 2022

66 The Searchers February 2022

67 Paul Fussell: The Boys’ Crusade February 2022

68 Anne Applebaum: Red Famine March 2022

69 Walking with Alpacas March 2022

70 Robert MacFarlane: The Old Ways April 2022

71 Richard Holloway April 2022

72 Passion Week; Palm Sunday April 2022

73 Timothy Snyder: Bloodlands April 2022

74 A gloomy few months; Keeping Mum May 2022

75 Family matters; Peter’s funeral May 2022

76 Montebourg; a Normandy holiday June 2022

77 Up the West Coast July 2022

78 Swimming; writers and swimming pools July 2022

79 The Vercors July 2022

80 State of the Nation; Sunak v. Truss August 2022

81 Salut de Chantilly; More bad news September 2022

82 A mini-break in Laon; the Chemin des Dames September 2022

83 East Street, West Street; Silverview October 2022

84 The Briefing; Sid Fox, Bomber Pilot October 2022

85 Joanna McDonald November 2022

86 Maredsous; Remembering the future December 2022

87 A day out in Paris December 2022

88 In-between times;  marking time in Bucks and Oxon January 2023

89 Don McCullin January 2023

90 Joanna McDonald:  funeral address February 2023

91 A day out in Amiens February 2023

92 Coming home; A day out in Berwick February 2023

93 A walk along the Western Way March 2023

94 In black and white  Jesse Owen and Joe Louis April 2023

95 Passion Week;  Ich habe angst Maundy Thursday 2023

96 Ankara April 2023

97 Anitkabir; Election time in Turkey April 2023

98 A day out in Konya April 2023

99 Hitching to Istanbul; the summer of ’64 April 2023

100 Back to Istanbul; Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul May 2023

Confession

Confession is said to be good for the soul. So I must start by confessing that, although Susie and I lived in the 14ème arrondissement in Paris back in the 1970s, I never visited the Musée de la Libération at Denfert-Rochereau. And, more reprehensibly, although Susie and I later lived in Lyon for thirteen years, I never, ever visited Place Castellane up in Caluire. It was here, on the corner of the square, in a house belonging to Dr Frédèric Dugoujon, that ‘Max’ was arrested in June 1943. ‘Max’ was of the cover names of Jean Moulin, a Prefet suspended on half-pay by the Vichy government, who had been named by General de Gaulle as the political head of the Resistance. The circumstances of his arrest are enigmatic. Who was it that betrayed him to the Gestapo ? At the time of his arrest Jean Moulin was a little known figure. But for complex reasons he has been retrospectively anointed as France’s greatest hero of the Second World War.

I have been reading Army of the Night by Patrick Marnham, a gripping and detailed account of the life of Jean Moulin. Marnham himself has a CV of which I am mildly envious: after Oxford he became a reporter on Private Eye, wrote for a variety of newspapers including The Times, and The Guardian, became literary editor of The Spectator, and was the first Paris correspondent of The Independent. He now lives [in retirement] in Woodstock, in Oxfordshire. Where we lived in the 1980s.

The making of Jean Moulin

Moulin was born in 1898, in the very dull town of Beziers, in the south of France. His father, Antonin, was a republican, anti-clerical schoolmaster, who taught French history and literature in the same classroom for fifty years. The young Jean was a rebellious student, but in 1921 took a law degree at Montpellier. He promptly joined the corps préfectoral, and rose swiftly through the ranks becoming in 1925, at the age of twenty-six, the youngest sub-prefect in France, at Albertville in Savoy. The following year he married Marguerite Cerruti, a professional singer from Paris, described by his sister Laure as “pretty but a bit fat”. The marriage lasted a little over a year. In January 1930 Moulin was transferred to Chateaulin in Brittany. It was a dull posting from which he was rescued in 1933 by Pierre Cot, the dynamic and ambitious young government minister. Cot was an excellent public speaker who valued Moulin’s administrative skill and application. Aged thirty-four, Moulin was a successful young administrator, a divorcé with a crowded social life; notionally neutral in party political terms, but anti-monarchist, anti-clerical, and probably a freemason. For the remainder of the 1930s, the careers of Pierre Cot and Jean Moulin ebbed and flowed as successive French governments came and went. In March 1937, at the height of the Spanish Civil War, Moulin was nominated Prefect of the Aveyron, becoming at thirty-seven the youngest prefect in France.

In September 1939, with the signing of the Nazi Soviet Pact, all the hopes of Moulin and Pierre Cot, and of the anti-fascist Front Populaire collapsed. When the Germans invaded France in the summer of 1940, Jean Moulin was behind his desk in Chartres, to where he had transferred the previous year. It was not a promotion, but it was an advantage to be much closer to Paris

The War

In June 1940 Moulin ignored an order to abandon Chartres. When the city was surrendered to the Germans, he was arrested and beaten up for refusing to sign a document that incriminated French troops. He decided he could take no more beatings and cut his throat with a piece of broken glass. But he was rescued by a guard and the wound slowly healed. Was it a suicide bid ? Or an attempt to engineer an escape ? Marnham is happy to sit on the fence on this question.

In November 1940 Moulin was relieved of his post and began to build a new life. He returned to St. Andiol, the family home, in unoccupied France, and busied himself with his two mistresses and with opening an art gallery. It is perhaps surprising that over the coming months Moulin made very little attempt to associate himself with the growing movements of Resistance in the Vichy zone. He lived quietly as Joseph Mercier, holder of a false passport and a false exit permit, for almost a year. And then in September 1941 he left to travel via Spain and Portugal to London. It was only the third time in his life that Jean Moulin had left France. Ski trips to the Tyrol and a weekend in London were his only previous trips abroad. In London he threw in his lot with the head of the Free French, Brigadier-General Charles de Gaulle; a man nine years older than Moulin, but whose rank in the republican hierarchy was inferior [a Prefet counts in rank as a Major-General]. De Gaulle was impressed by Moulin’s rank and by his experience; in 1941 de Gaulle was dangerously isolated and many well qualified French exiles [such as Jean Monet and Raymond Aron] had turned their backs on him

The arrest of Jean Moulin

In January 1942 Moulin was parachuted back into France. Armed with a document from de Gaulle giving him plenipotentiary powers, his task was to unite the disparate strands of the French resistance. His only assets were money [which the resisters needed urgently] and regular liaison with London. There now began a year-long struggle between Moulin and the three principal leaders of the southern resistance groups, Henri Frenay of Combat, Emmanuel d’Astier de la Vigerie of  Libération, and Jean-Pierre Levy of Francs-Tireur. For the last year of his life, Moulin sought to unite and direct their competing interests and explosive personalities, while being pursued by both Vichy and the Gestapo. His mission was both to dissolve the Resistance as it existed in January 1942, and to remould it as an instrument to serve de Gaulle’s project for the liberation of France.

By June 1943 it seems that Jean Moulin had reached the end of his strength. He habitually wore dark glasses, hardly a disguise, a brown trilby, and a scarf to hide the distinctive scar on his throat. By now he was heartily disliked by many resisters in France; seen by some as the agent of a potential Gaullist military dictatorship, by others as a crypto-communist .On June 9th General Delestraint, named as military commander of the Secret Army, was arrested in Paris. On June 21st, Moulin now code-named ‘Max’ was arrested with six other Resistance leaders at the house of Dr Dugoujon in Caluire. One of the seven René Hardy of Combat escaped from custody. [After the war Hardy was twice tried on suspicion of betraying Jean Moulin, and was twice acquitted.] All those who were arrested were interrogated and beaten up in custody. Nobody knows when and where, and how, Jean Moulin died. He was last seen alive in France in June. But his dead body was formally identified in Germany, in Frankfurt, two weeks later. It is widely believed that, having refused to talk to his captors, he was beaten into a coma on the orders of the senior Gestapo officer in Lyon, Klaus Barbie. [Subsequently protected by none other than François Mitterand.] And that he died a hero. 

The resurrection of Jean Moulin

In December 1964 the ashes of Jean Moulin were transferred to the Panthéon, the resting place of heroes of the Republic. [And a symbol of republican anti-clericalism.] The move was proposed by the socialist parliamentary opposition, who wanted to underline on the twentieth anniversary of Moulin’s death, under the presidency of Charles de Gaulle, that the left had played an important part in the Resistance. But de Gaulle himself adroitly postponed the ceremony until the twentieth anniversary of the liberation; and, taking his place centre-stage in military uniform. demonstrated his own role as the living embodiment of wartime victory. While enjoying left-wing  support.

Tribute to Moulin was paid by the writer and politician André Malraux. “Crouched over the microphone with wild eyes and a beaky nose”, writes Marnham, “he resembled an elderly vulture”. In a powerful address, Malraux evoked the spirit of what the Resistance [wanted to believe it] had been. “Think of his poor battered face, of those lips which never spoke. That day, his last day, it was the face of France.” It didn’t seem to matter that the coffin was virtually empty. And that Moulin’s body had never been found. Jean Moulin was resurrected from wartime obscurity and became, through Malraux’s oratory, the personification of the Resistance, and the Resistance became the emblem of the whole of France.

It’s a good story. And a good book.

Envoi

We are two weeks back from Ankara. We enjoyed being there, and were warmly greeted by the small but welcoming congregation. On our final Sunday in Lyon, Susie and I were pleased to attend the Coronation Garden Party at the British Embassy. And I had the privilege of being one of the judges of the Scone Baking competition. Something for which theological college never prepared  me. 

Since we have been home we have attended three church fund-raising events: first, St Peter’s [Lutton Place] summer fete last weekend; followed by a garden opening in Murrayfield in support of St Salvador’s, Stenhouse, with music from No Strings Attached, Susie’s band; and then a coffee morning for Christian Aid at Priestfield yesterday. On Tuesday we go south to High Wycombe and Watlington. From next weekend we shall be in Normandy for a week, at Barneville-Carteret, with the children and grand-children. It will be strange being there without Joanna. But she will be much in our thoughts and in our conversations.

May 2023

Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul

My accompaniment in Istanbul was reading Orhan Pamuk’s melancholic, but seductive, memoirs of growing up in the city, Istanbul: memories and the city. He was born in 1952, so the dilapidated Ottoman city which he describes is more-or-less the city that I dimly remember. It was a city of maybe half a million inhabitants, living surrounded by reminders of past imperial glory; everything now broken, worn out, and past its prime. Pamuk writes evocatively of men returning home under street lights carrying plastic bags; of the old Bosphorus ferries moored by deserted stations in the middle of winter; of house facades discoloured by dirt, rust, and soot; of broken seesaws in empty parks; of ships’ horns booming through the fog; of city walls in ruins since the fall of the Byzantine Empire. He writes of seagulls perched on rusty barges caked with moss and mussels; walls covered with frayed and blackened posters; tired old dolmusses, 1950s Chevrolets that would be museum pieces in any Western city, but which here huff and puff up dirty thoroughfares; buses crammed with passengers for the mosques; little children in the street trying to sell a single packet of tissues to passers-by; underpasses and overpasses at crowded intersections where every step is broken in a different way; the man who has been selling postcards in he same spot in the city for forty years. And the packs of dogs, commented on by every Western visitor in the 19th century. [Word is that some of these dogs are now in the habit of taking the metro.]

Hüzün, which apparently has an Arabic root,is the Turkish word for melancholy. Orhan Pamuk insists that hüzün is the key to understanding the city of Istanbul and its inhabitants. He writes of his family, who all lived in the same apartment block: his father, who frequently disappeared on unexplained trips to faraway places; his mother, who embraced her children warmly but was much given to issuing detailed instructions, about what to say and how to behave; his grandmother, who spent half the day in bed and never made herself up, but who had positioned the dressing-table mirror to give her sight of the long corridor, the servants’ quarter, the sitting room, and the windows that gave onto the street; and assorted aunts and uncles who took it in turns to fall out with each other. As he recreates the city of his childhood he evokes four lonely melancholic writers whom he never met. Their common theme was the decline and fall of the great empire into which they had been born; and their great strength, he asserts, was their exploration of the tensions between the past and the present, or between what Westerners like to call the East and the West.

Pamuk, writing in 2008, never left the city of his childhood. And when the book was written he was living fifty years on back in the Pamuk Apartments in which he grew up.

I tell myself that this the city that I first encountered in 1964. It was certainly run down. In those days there was only one bridge, the old Galata bridge across the Golden Horn, which burned down decades ago. [There are now at least four bridges across the Golden Horn and three huge bridges across the Bosphorus.] Noisy trams rattled around the city then, but I chose to walk everywhere. For reasons of economy. I went barefoot part of the time. A sure sign of juvenile madness.

 I visited Hagia [Sancta] Sophia, and the Blue Mosque, and the Topkapi Palace. And I don’t recall any queues or admission prices at any of these tourist attractions. In between I sat and drank glasses of tea in a cafe near the youth hostel. And swopped stories with other travellers and hitch-hikers. Including a trio of students from Edinburgh Art College, whom I later met again in Venice. And with whom I went to camp at Ravenna. To look at the mosaics.

Forty eight hours in Istanbul

It wasn’t like that last week. We went down from Ankara on the very comfortable high-speed train. And stayed in a very comfortable [and budget=breaking] four star hotel in Sultanahmet, the old part of town. The great attraction of the hotel is an amazing buffet breakfast on the sixth floor with magnificent views across the Golden Horn towards the Galata Tower. I think the youth hostel was once there, but there is no sign of it now. The whole area is full of hotels and restaurants. Many with ‘greeters’ on the pavement outside to drum up business. The ‘art shop’ adjacent to the hotel had a novel pitch: ‘Come into my shop and spend some money on something you don’t want !’

The population of the city now is said to be around 17 million. But I’m not sure if anyone really knows. The streets in the centre are jammed with traffic. There are tourist buses, and a lot of yellow taxis,  and a lot of hooting. The day we arrived, May 1st, was a public holiday with crowds of people on the streets and strolling along along by the water of the Golden Horn. And stalls selling simit, [bread rings with sesame seeds], and corn on the cob, and roast chestnuts.

We did what tourists do. We had dinner, lamb and salad, in Güvenç Konyah, a Konya restaurant. We went on an excellent cruise up the Bosphorus, as far as the castle and the second bridge. And paused for coffee at Uskùdar on the Asian shore.. We had dinner in the Tarihi Sultanahmet Köftecisi Seilm Usta, which has been serving meatballs and salad to customers since 1926. But which still doesn’t accept credit cards. We made an early-ish morning visit to the Roman Cistern. Which I had previously only known from a scene in From Russia with Love.

We stopped for tea at Caferaga  Medresesi, a courtyard cafe, a former madrassa turned arts centre, in the shadow of Hagia Sophia. We joined hordes of people to revisit Topkapi Palace. And were disappointed that the wonderfully-sited up-market cafe overlooking the confluence of the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus  has disappeared. [All that remains is a railing with lots of Russians taking photos of themselves.] But in the Court of the Janissaries we had a chance encounter with John and Barbara Drake, who worship at Holy Trinity, Norwich, and who run Boundary Breakers,  an organisation that promotes better Christian-Muslim relations in Jerusalem. 

It was only two days. And it was lively and noisy and hectic and wonderful. But it was tinged with sadness too. Back in 2002, a few months before her wedding, Joanna came here on a Euro-Railing adventure. She and a friend came to visit us in Lyon, and they then trained on to Florence and to Rome. The friend went home, and Joanna continued by boat across to Athens and then up via Thessalonica to Istanbul. I don’t know where she stayed and how she spent her time here. Only that afterwards she flew home with Lauda Airlines to go to [I think] a James Taylor concert in Musselburgh. In a different world we would have rung her up, and enjoyed exchanging e-mails and photos. It’s not exactly Pamuk’s hüzün. But it was a running sadness not to be able to have that contact with her.

May 2023