Connections

‘The more I see, the more I am convinced’ says the creature. ‘History is people with weapons and ships wiping out those who forgot to invent them. Every civilisation begins with a genocide……..The rich will enslave the penniless. The rich will crush the weak’.

The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida Sheehan Karunatilaka.

I’ve been reading Karuntilaka’s book and Christy Lefteri’s’Songbirds.

Karunatilaka’s book is set in the in-between world where Maali is moving through seven moons of understanding at the end of which he may find the Light (or not). The story focusses on Maali as a photographer in life who has taken pictures of atrocities and meetings between some of the corrupt leaders in the 1989 Sri Lankan conflict. ‘1989 was the darkest year in my memory, where there was an ethnic war, a Marxist uprising, a foreign military presence and state counter-terror squads’ the author says.

In the book Maali is trying desperately to make contact with the living in order to retrieve incriminating negatives of the atrocities and meetings.

It’s a complex story rife with symbolism, primarily Buddhist and many references that I don’t recognise.

Songbirds is set in another small island – Cyprus. Events are recent. A Sri Lankan domestic worker goes missing. She’s one of the many, mostly Asian women, who work on the island for rich householders. Police are dismissive when she is reported missing and those around her begin to realise how little they know about her. The title refers to the birds that are captured in the island, as well as the captive domestic workers. There’s also a connection to Sri Lankan Buddhism where birds seem to variously represent freedom and the cycle of life. While searching out the connections I found this image of Budhha and cloned songbirds. Check it out.

I was struck by the similarities between these books. The writing styles are at opposite ends of the spectrum but I found myself finding connections.

These small islands have been colonised by Europeans, and both have both suffered ethnic conflict. The British (after Portuguese and Dutch) left Sri Lanka in 1948 and Cyprus in 1960. Almeida notes: ‘Burma. Israel. North Korea. Apartheid South Africa. Sri Lanka. All born in ‘48’.

While in Cyprus the citizens are constrained by the Green Line that separates Greeks from Turks, the Sinhalese and Tamils are separated by conflict and largely inhabit different zones of Sri Lanka. Almeida is separated from the living world that he frustratingly tries to contact. In Songbirds assumptions internal preoccupations, illegal activities and grief separate the characters. In both, the living authorities are careless and dismissive, those in the in-between world overly bureaucratic. We all move through a world in which we do not know each other.

I realise I’ve drawn a long bow here but these coincidences stayed in my mind as 2023 ended. Both these books offer us and the characters a kind of redemption, and a way forward.

Blinded this world — how few here see clearly! Just as birds who’ve escaped from a net are few, few are the people who make it to heaven. “Lokavagga: Worlds” (Dhp XIII), translated from the Pali by Thanissaro Bhikkhu. Access to Insight (BCBS Edition), 30 November 2013, http://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/kn/dhp/dhp.13.than.htm

Brazil!

Although the suggestion that I might need several vaccinations, particularly Yellow Fever since I was going to Iguazu, led to a lengthy and expensive medical consultation., I left for Brazil with my Yellow Fever exempt-from-vaccination certificate and a promise that I’d avoid all rabid dogs.

When I shared this with my Brazilian friends they were both aghast and offended by the implication that Brazil was third world.

I had a limited idea about what I’d find, and was warned by several people that Sao Paolo, near where I’d be staying was one of the most dangerous cities in the world. And of course I knew about the Amazon, Rio de Janeiro, some architects, Samba and jazz.

I expected the country to be big (it is), but I saw only a tiny corner of it. I expected people to be colourfully dressed (they weren’t), I was wary of snakes and spiders (never saw a snake, and can’t recall any spiders), I hoped to go out dancing (I didn’t, but danced at home with my fabulous hosts), I expected to hear lots of music (I did) and to see wonderful houses and art (I did).

I did see, hear and experience: superb friendliness, food, food, food and a bit more food: much of it I had not seen, nor heard of, all of it was delicious, some of it was a little odd to my Kiwi taste buds, and much of it was eaten at some of the many, cheap restaurants in San Jose de Campos, my ‘home’ town. The Japanese Restaurant Irie was standout, and not, as I had expected, remotely Rastafarian.

I saw wonderful things like the expanse of wetland outside of the main town of San Jose de Campos, a saxophonist and family serenading their matriarch by the wetland lookout, a toucan flying past the balcony, huge malls, a wonderful house designed by Rino Levi, with the remains of a garden by Roberto Burle Marx, art and art and butterflies and birds. On Ilhabela I swam in the Atlantic and took up smoking on the verandah of a beautiful house, from where in the distance at night I heard sounds I had never heard before – animals (jaguars? ) and birds, perhaps monkeys and was visited in the night by a fire fly. At a nearby beach where I swam in the Atlantic Ocean for the first time I saw small macaw monkeys in the trees, and many locals taking in the winter sunshine on the beach. Thanks to some weekend guests sitting at the house’s gate I was able to peep at the Niemeyer house with the garden by Burle Marx (I’m getting to admire Burle Marx).

In Sao Paolo we roamed around the brilliant Ibirapuera Park, rich with examples of Niemeyer’s buildings, landscapes inspired by Burle Marx’s work, huge trees, the small Sao Paolo Museum of Modern Art and the Museu Afro Brasil which I loved for its large collection and display of immigrants, origins and intersections. We Ubered to the Museum of Modern Art (MASP) raised on beams to preserve the view, and designed by Luna Bo Bardi, and the grand Pinoteca where modern Brazilian art took my attention.

While MASP had a huge collection of Brazilian and International art on open display, it was the art of Yanomami artist Sheroanawe Hakihiiwe that intrigued and impressed me while at the impressively fabulous Museum of Portuguese Language the audio visual poetry event took my breathe

And yes, I did get to Iguazu and loved the falls, the dance performance at Foz do Iguazú, the dance performance in Argentina and, most of all, the Parc des Aves.

And.

I was treated with warmth and love. I had conversations about the Amazon, imperialism, colonisation, history, architecture, music, family. I joined in family events. I met inhabitants of the ‘home’ apartment building. I felt safe. I was over-awed. I was well looked after. I struggled to speak Portuguese.

I saw one mosquito (truly) many many butterflies, a few coca addicts, yachts, magnificent tunnels through mountains, parks, red earth, many cars, skyscrapers, country roads, restored villages, colourful houses and roofs and not one rabid dog.

Tudo estava bom.

Vic Books

It ‘s as if we’ve lost a friend when another bookshop closes down in Wellington. This time it’s Vic Books, formerly Victoria Book Centre. Opened in 1975 it has been the Victoria University of Wellington’s main book store for texts, fiction, chat, information and friendship for nearly 50 years. More recently housed at the university campus and Pipitea where COVID and protest forced a shut down, it was first housed (literally) in an old house on Mount Street just below the university’s campus.

It was here that I worked when I first returned to NZ in 1980.

Like a few universities in NZ Victoria University of Wellington sits on a hill with some steep access routes. I lived, less imposingly, on a hill facing the campus about 3 kms away.

My morning walks took me down Palliser Road where the harbour sat alluringly below me and in 1982 the US Truxton sat less alluringly amidst anti nuclear protest ships and boats.

Then it was down to Courtenay Place where a Greek coffee shop and another Greek general store (Flokati rugs, shoes, icons) stood amongst a Dutch owned second hand shop or two. There was an occasional bar and wineshop and the Paramount Theatre, important to Wellington film goers. Further along Manners Street I’d pass the Dixon Street Deli, at that stage the only place that I was aware of where you got freshly cut salami, European style cakes and other delights . Next door was the Greek cafe (‘Yiassou, kyria’) and before me the climb up the MacDonald Street Steps, where a handy break in the steps afforded me an opportunity to ‘catch the view’.

By this stage I’d be meeting people rushing to work in the city, and I’d slog on up past the (then) small dairy and up the final slog to the shop, where friend Meg was already installed. She’d more than likely be at her desk with a large coffee and a cigarette. At this point my memory fades. Perhaps she was upstairs with the cigarette and downstairs with her peppermints.

Upstairs there was a ‘sunroom’, serving as our tea room. The view over the city was spectacular and since I can only remember sitting there on sunny days, perhaps the sun only ever shone in Wellington. I’m still uncertain about smoking but it was certainly still legal to smoke inside, so perhaps we did smoke up there. Four of six staff smoked

Meg was a poet who died in 2007, a few days before her 70th birthday, as smoking and prescription lithium took their toll on her body. Meg introduced me to so much of NZ culture that I had been ignorant of before I’d left the country and through her and her husband Alistair I learned so much about NZ literature.

Meg was also a good friend who I visited in their house on the hill over Pukerua Bay. She was good at giving advice, taking me willingly down rabbit holes of thought and theology. She loved genealogy and had produced a huge paper representation of Alistair’s whakapapa. She helped me find my own ancestors and transcribed a recording I had made of my grandmother.

When I last saw her she was in hospital surrounded by her children and grandchildren, before she went home to die.

I made many friends, importantly Dorothee, John, Sharon and Taly and reconnected with Bridie.

There were book launchings galore, usually a bit drunken, fascinating people, quirky people, people who liked to chat, people who didn’t, bibliophiles, anxious students and more often, charming and amusing ones.

Fantastic books to read .So much to learn and absorb.

Lake side

It’s rich this area: birdlife, water, thermal heat, trees and bush, history and more recently cars, boats and houses.

It’s an area you’d want to hang on to if you’d settled here.

I’ve stayed here before, notably visiting Waihi Marae (outside only) with Miria Simpson who told us of its significance. My understanding is that Tāpeka is the house of the Te Heu Heu paramount chiefs of Tu Wharetoa. At nearby Pūkawa Marae Pootatau Te Whero Whero was nominated as the first king of the Kingitanga, thereby sealing an unbreakable bond between Tu Wharetoa and Tainui waka.

Both marae now bear chains and private land signs, a sad indication that visitors to the area demonstrate a lack of understanding and respect.

Over the lake is Hātepe, another area of significance for Tu Wharetoa and further up the island Motutaikao, a hiding place and urupa for many Tu Wharetoa warriors.

Further back from the lake is Roto Pounamu in the slopes of Pihanga – the maunga for whom Taranaki maunga moved. It’s an area rich in bird life and native plants.

While missionary William Williams was in the area it’s Rev Grace whose name, ancestors and mana remain. Unlike many missionaries he encouraged Māori not to sell their land.

Nowadays it’s trout fishing and boating that make the area famous.

A rich area in so many respects.

Post covid cruising

About 15 years ago I visited Rarotonga and Aitutaki on a kind of rest cure.

I was determined to return, and having a pre- COVID voucher, did so recently.

The Aitutaki Lagoon Cruise is almost as I remembered it, but now we walked across a gangplank and sat at tables. While 15 years ago I stood in water with fish nibbling my toes and wondered at the extent of stunning water, this time there are fewer fish. In fact we had to go searching.

The water looked the same – that stunning teal blue stretching seemingly endlessly. The warm, enveloping water, the soft sand. The cheerful invigorating chat and enlightening history ‘presentations’. It occurs to me that these tour leaders are experts in getting the team spirit going, and you can hear the leaders across the waters at Muri, exorting the tour members to yet another ‘Kia orana’.

It truly is a magnificent adventure.

I’m aware this time of the impact our visits have. Locals report that COVID lockdowns were not so bad – fewer people, access to the beach and some work still with locals. “It was ours again” someone said.

Aitutaki means ‘led by god’ – I’m assuming this is the pre-Christian god but it is worth noting that missionary John Williams brought his brand (LMS) to Aitutaki in 1821 before taking it to the other islands in the Cooks. Williams is a common Cook Island surname in Porirua where I live.

It’s a beautiful island, flat like Tarawa in Kiribati with buildings dangerously close to the ever encroaching sea. It was fascinating to watch a ship being unloaded beyond the reef, and a trench being dug nearby so that bigger ships could get through. “The government doesn’t listen”, said a local. “A bigger trench means sharks will get into the lagoon.”

The area in the lagoon is a reserve and you can see attempts at regrowing coral.

“There used to be a lot of clams out there”, said my local friend and when I asked him if he preferred tourists or how it was. His answer was an unequivocal “How it was before”.

It’s tricky. Tourists bring much needed income and Rarotonga is certainly looking richer and the cars smarter, but the lagoon is being polluted due to chlorine, sun screen, sewage and a plethora of other things including run off from spraying fruit and chicken farm effluent.

On another tour – the excellent Koka tour in Rarotonga the group leader talked about the Marine Reserve and how the tour owners pay for flights to Aitutaki to gather coral for growing. I was impressed with his commitment to conservation and the concern the company has for the marine life: done I gather with no government money.

Will I return? I’ll see.

Opera in the time of COVID

Two years of lockdowns, six years since an earthquake in Kaikoura, south of Wellington rocked the city: it was good to get out for the evening in spite of an increase in COVID cases and the threat of bad weather.

While the St James Theatre was not visibly damaged during the earthquake, there was a need to strengthen it against future damage, and tidy it up a bit. The tidying-up included quite a bit of re-gilding and a new (not very sympathetic) look to the foyer.

Wellingtonians were there for the first night of La Traviata, a good favourite for a re-opening. Those of us who like to people-watch viewed feathers, sequins, dinner jackets and bow ties, lots of lace and mesh, diamantes and a few diamonds I’m sure, fur coats and wraps, velvet, slinky stilettos, suede pumps, glossy boots, drapey skirts and flowing gowns, capes, stoles and scarves. In the stalls fashion items ran to denim hot pants, a few woollen jerseys as well as velvet and sequins.

Costumes on the set were a bit of a mixed bag too: I couldn’t decide if the setting was decadent 1920s or 1940s but it was good to see Emma Pearson as Violetta in wide trousers (1940s?). It was good to see most women in trousers. While the set was floral and the tones beige/cream/pink/green some of the chorus looked uncomfortable in grey suits and Afredo’s beige one didn’t look good. I’d have gone for sage and shades of green for more flattering looks. Attempts to introduce a spot of cross-dressing sort of worked but I wasn’t sure that the decadence was convincing.

La Traviata was a good choice – light, familiar and with catchy tunes. Emma Pearson was a lovely Violetta but the outstanding voices were Phillip Rhodes and Emmanuel Fonoti-Fuimaono – both from Hawkes Bay – one Māori the other Samoan.

COVID had affected Oliver Sewell who was to play Alfredo so the assistant director donned a black mask (COVID type not Venetian type) and acted the role while Fonoti-Fuimaono sang the parts from one of the lower audience boxes. I assume this was because he needed to read the music/lyrics. At first it was truly discombobulating and at the first interval we were all scrabbling for our programmes. An attempt had been made to alert us to the changes but most of the explanation was lost in the cries of “Can’t hear”. Watching a man in a mask pleading with a beautiful woman is really odd when the voice is coming from the shadows, somewhere to his right. The voice was wonderful.

Before COVID this would have been difficult for my brain to accommodate, but these days the brain manages. By Act 2 I think all of the audience had adjusted. If our brains can accommodate people singing of their love or that a woman would forsake love for the honour of a family, if we can suspend our lives in order to stop a virus, if we accept that mask wearing is part of daily life then we can convince ourselves that a disassociated voice is associated with the person on stage. Besides we were all there to enjoy ourselves, and we did love it all. Standing ovations at the end.

Did I enjoy my night out? Hell yes. Even if the weather did turn and the drive home was unpleasant. Good to get out and about. Great to see opera again.

Circular walking

‘If dreams have sole access to a dream specialised memory system, then it should not be surprising that dreams can cumulate content over time that is not related merely to daytime waking consciousness’. Psychology today.com December 2014.

As I’m ageing my sleep patterns change. I’m waking now from a 12 hour stint that I do every now and again to make up for the more restless nights.

The thing that interests me now is that my brain is creating stories for me based on previous dreams rather than real events.

In this particular dream I am travelling with two other women. Sometimes I know them and sometimes I don’t recognise them. But there’s always a part where I want to return to a restaurant where I had a perfect and memorable meal. It’s always the second to last night in wherever we are ( it’s often Greece, the restaurant is Italian and always in a part of London I vaguely recognise.

Sometimes I get there alone, sometimes I don’t and sometimes I am persuaded to go to another restaurant which, although in Greece, turns out to be a very classy Chinese restaurant. I have at least once got to a small Greek cafe because I wanted to taste genuine Greek food.

I was the last to be served and during the meal my two companions explained that they were staying on to do some consultancy work on the local school system, in the same country but on another island.

I was intrigued rather than anything else.

My food arrived but I woke, as I always do, before I ate.

I’m some dreams I am in New York. Once I was in Paris with two recognisable friends ( Paris was never a favourite city).

The consistent theme is that the night before I leave I want to return to this unnamed restaurant, which for me, not being a gourmet ( or a gourmand) is unusual. I can only assume it’s some kind of remembered sustenance. But maybe that’s too obscure. Maybe somewhere in the world there is a restaurant I loved above all others.

I found this draft today, clearly from a few years ago as my dreams and sleep patterns have changed again.

loneliness and a good book

It is a Good Thing to find a great book, even if it has been on your Want To Read list for over a year.

It’s been a serendipitous (if that’s quite the right word) time to read a book as interesting as Olivia Laing’s The Lonely City, written in 2016 before the pandemic that has ruled and may again rule the world.

While the theme is loneliness, and most chapters have at their centre a New York artist, the spectre that was AIDS permeates Laing’s thinking and writing. She quotes David Wojnarowicz, who, dying from AIDS related illnesses says:”I am glass, clear empty glass…..No gesture can touch me…. I feel like a window, maybe a broken window….. I am disappearing.” (Edited quote, p.209). Classic images of loneliness.

For Laing loneliness creates a sense of marginalisation. I wondered how the COVID-19 pandemic and the subsequent lockdowns have affected people and if those who refuse to be vaccinated feel marginalised and thus prompted to show this through protest. I believe that vaccination was/is a social responsibility, but those who view the world through eyes of suspicion clearly do not see it that way.

The AIDS pandemic, in the west (and I’m sure everywhere) enabled ‘right thinking’ and conservative members of society to further stigmatise and ostracise gay men for their supposed sexual habits, and to create communities of ‘lepers’. Those dying became lonelier. Wellington, New Zealand, nowhere near the size of New York, felt the impact of the AIDS virus in the late 1980s.

AIDS features in Laing’s book because some of the artists she talks about fell to the disease: David Wojnarocws, Klaus Nomi, Peter Hajar. Andy Warhol gets a chapter and several mentions, partly because he lived in NYC at the time of AIDS deaths, partly because he was gay and thus knew several men who died, mostly because he was an artist of the time and because he was above all else, lonely.

The chapter on Henry Darger fascinated me the most. A lonely man who created astonishing stories of other realms, using these stories to bargain with God, and who created fascinating collages, a way to recreate and order a world. A man whose ability to survive in an unloving world is astonishing.

Each of the artists Laing focusses on is lonely/isolated mostly due to difficult, and in a couple of cases, terrifying childhoods. Each one deals with his loneliness through art.

Women are mentioned and Valerie Solanas, most famous for shooting Andy Warhol, gets the most coverage, but in many ways is the one who lives the most disconnected life.

Throughout the book Laing talks about her own sense of ‘outsiderness’ while in NYC and refers to a variety of psychologists, therapists and researchers who have different views on what causes and what is, loneliness. One of the fascinating discussions is about a boy who used string to tie things, and at times people, together in an attempt,according to paediatrician D. W. Winnicott to express both ‘a terror of separation and a desire to regain the contact he experienced as imperilled..’ (p. 263).

Laing picks up this theory when she remembers how Henry Darger found and kept bits of string and recorded the untangling in his journal. An obsessive need to connect, to untangle thoughts and to tie ideas/people/ events together.

In this chapter she discusses the work of another woman. Zoe Leonard whose work Strange Fruit (for David) ties pieces of discarded fruit together. Strange fruit (yes, a play upon that word too) that discarded, is found, reused, made beautiful and will wither.

It’s a brilliant book.

two years and counting

I had fun at Slapstick – in the Wellington International Arts Festival, 2020.

Within days the country had closed its borders, and I wondered if our new Dutch friends had got out in time.

For us, in Aotearoa New Zealand it was fine: the sun shone, we believed we could beat this new disease- COVID-19- and that by following our government’s lead we we would have it under control in a couple of, perhaps 3, months. Some of us saw the pandemic as a chance to reboot and reshape our society.

Within two days of our borders closing the government introduced a 4 tier system and we moved quickly through the alert levels. A State of Emergency was declared. We watched news from abroad with horror and tuned in every weekday at 1. 00 p. m. for the Prime Minister’s announcements. She and the Director of Health, Ashley Bloomfield became heroes.

The Prime Minister encouraged us to be kind and most of us were. I relished the days of long walks with no cars about, rode my bicycle with no qualms, delighted in the birds and the sight of entire families on the streets with dogs, tricycles, fathers, mothers, skateboards. We greeted each other, and mask-less, we chatted.

We WERE the team of 5 million.

New variants of COVID arrived, vaccinations became available, vaccination passes the norm, masks obligatory. Overseas Trump lost the presidency and in January 2021 a group of unhappy folk invaded the White House.

Here we heard grumblings from hospitality business owners, money was dished out, ‘not enough’, yet some businesses profited. Accountability, it appears was insufficient. People began losing jobs and things got tougher. New Zealand citizens overseas complained bitterly and publicly about the MIQ (Managed Isolation and Quarantine) system. While Māori and Pasifika make up 30% of the population by October 2021 “49% of Māori were fully vaccinated compared with 72% of the entire eligible population.

“This matters because Māori and Pasifika are disproportionately affected by the risk factors for covid-19 including obesity, diabetes, and cardiovascular disease, as well as poor access to health services.” (BMJ 2022; 376 Published 25 January 2022). It became clear that the government was not honouring Te Tiriti o Waitangi in providing care to citizens as well as the right to manage their own affairs.

By August 2021 the State of Emergency had expired and Auckland remained at Level 3 while the rest of us cosied down to alert Level 2. South Auckland, a largely Polynesian area where housing is generally poor, suffered the most in COVID cases. Many of these people were workers at airports, truck drivers, cleaners, factory workers and front-line workers. We had stopped applauding essential workers by 2021.

“With covid-19, in early November, more than 70% of cases and more than 70% of hospital admissions were from Māori and Pasifika communities. By mid-December, following a vaccine drive and a drop in covid-19 cases coinciding with summer, these figures were closer to 50%. The youngest New Zealander to die with covid-19 was a Māori boy under the age of 10.” (BMJ 2022; 376 Published 25 January 2022).

In February 2022 a group of misaligned and largely misinformed people protested in the grounds of Parliament, following a similar protest in Canada, and fuelled by the anger and conspiracies that spread from the 2021 incidents in Washington, U. S. A. but fuelled by rising frustration about the increased inequalities in Aotearoa New Zealand, general mistrust of government, and for some, grievances about mandates in regard to vaccinations.

By now we are no longer a team of 5 million.

My lot

The pandemic has hardly touched me – sure a trip to the Pacific has been postponed, the language school at which I had casual work has finally closed (it lasted an impressively long time – until March 2022), some hours of part time work have been affected and by now I know several people who have had the Omicron version of COVID-19. I am a Pākehā (white woman), a pensioner and able to work part-time.

I am affected, however by the rise in bullying and misogyny I hear and see. By the increase in inequalities and the seeming rise of an uncaring and bullying right wing. I acknowledge these problems of delivery of care but I believe that in general New Zealand’s response has been positive, and that the government is working to solve these issues.

Reading

Hickey, B. (2021). The real impact of New Zealand’s economic response to Covid-19.The Spinoff. December 6, 2021. https://thespinoff.co.nz/money/06-12-2021/the-real-impact-of-new-zealands-economic-response-to-covid-19

Meggett, K. (2022). How New Zealand’s covid-19 strategy failed Māori people BMJ, January 2022; 376:0224 https://doi.org/10.1136/bmj.o180

roading with Riddley

I recently had a craving to re-read Riddley Walker. It was written in 1980 in a time of concern about nuclear war and science gone wrong, not without reason. Survivors in Britain (1975-1977) and The Quiet Earth (NZ 1981) outlined a post apocalyptic world and the unnerving graphic novel When the wind blows told the story of a naive couple in Britain, unprepared by a naive or uncaring government.

Riddley Walker is a 12 year-old boy living in a harsh and violent society in a damaged and broken land. People are living in fenced area, farms or wandering the road, dogs rove in packs and women seem to have a closeted and enclosed life. Many of the men show genetic damage and there is an overriding desire to find the ‘cleverness’ of the past and the way to make the ‘1 Big 1’.

While it’s a harsh view of a future world there’s also some humour and a lot of cleverness in the many puns Hoban creates. It was helpful in this re-reading to have access to Riddley Walker Annotations which explains many of the references and puns and wordplays, for example “a farring seakert from the other side” is a reference to a far off traveller from overseas but also a pun on Foreign Secretary.

The book shows how remnants of idea and language can be reused to create new meaning and new stories. There’s the story of St Eustace and the play of Punch and Judy, biblical references that escape me and language morphs – ‘perweal’, ‘manooring ther arrabl’, ‘Pry Mincer’, ‘Cambry’ and the reused computer words ‘we pult datter and we pirntowt‘.

There are interpretations from their present world view of old stories:

“A Legend that’s a picter what’s depicted which is to say to say picert on a wall its done with some kind of paint callit fidelity. St. is short for sent” (p 120).

There are themes of religious intolerance, human stupidity, mis interpretation, human cruelty, interactions and connections with dogs, leadership and so many more.

And through it all the words and the world view of Riddley, the boy who at twelve begins a physical and perhaps spiritual journey to adulthood.

It’s a fascinating and complex book, and in 5-10 years, I may uncover more layers of meaning.