In Memoriam G L Webster 09/03/1948 - 12/04/2021

We are glad you passed this way.....

G L Webster, Trajan's Forum, 1981

Sometime last autumn, when we weren't quite locked down, I was in a London street, and my friend Lindsay Webster rang me. He asked how I was, so I burbled on about my aches and pains and how life was tough, etc, and then I asked how he was..... Not so good....  He had been diagnosed with oesophageal cancer.....

The train has left the station....

Last Monday morning, April 12th, he died. He was just 73.

Kirkby Hall

I met Linds in Sheffield, in the late sixties.  He was at University with my older brother, and he was one of a small group of friends sharing a fondness for beer and curries, amongst other things.  

Linds and my bro, Simon, in Howarth.  We had a running joke about the exchange of cash. No idea why....

Over the ensuing years we met regularly, though sometimes in a fog, here, and there.  At our home, where my younger brother fondly remembers his signature raincoat, and in Kettering and environs, where he lived and worked, as a teacher, firstly at Tresham College and latterly at Brook House College, Market Harborough.

We made many trips together, including an early morning drive over the Pennines from Sheffield to Lancaster, empowered by bacon butties and mugs of tea from all-night cafes; and a particularly frenetic visit to Paris in the early seventies, fuelled by absinthe and steak tartare.

During a visit to Palestrina, with another great friend, Antonio, in 1981.  Note the raincoat.....

In 1980 he attended my alma mater in Lancaster for a Master's degree, and I recall waking him there with the snap and fizz of a can of beer - we had a common interest in the intellectual qualities of alcohol - and then subsequently, in '81 he came to visit me in Italy, at Christmas time, where we explored the delights of Ancient Rome and then, with a rented car, the wines and spirits of Siena, where, after a bitterly cold evening in the Campo, he barricaded the hotel door against imaginary pursuers, only to find, in the morning, that the door opened outwards.

After that he was particularly anxious not to miss his flight home, so I accompanied him to Rome Ciampino airport, and he took off in the hope that a beautiful Polish girl would be waiting for him back home.  After taking a taxi from Luton airport, he found that he was indeed in luck, and not long after he and Anna married, to enjoy forty years of life together.

Ten years ago, Linds and I began a series of July excursions, fitting in a few days walking and a few nights beering between the end of term and either a holiday with Anna or one of his many journeys to the Far East or Asia Minor to recruit students for his college.  

Our first such adventure, in 2011, was to Lindisfarne, which I then commemorated in a blog piece which ended thus.....

The Holy Island of Lindisfarne’s name originates as the island of the people from Lindsey or Linnuis (OE Lindesege) which was the name of a small Anglo-Saxon kingdom, which lay between the Humber and the Wash, absorbed into Northumbria in the 7th century.  The name Lindsey itself means the 'island of Lincoln' which derives from the fact that it was surrounded by water and was very wet land and had Lincoln towards its south-west corner.  A fitting name all round. (The picture shows old friend Lindsay thinking about St Aidan, and the dangers of water.)

The following year we stayed in Blakeney, Norfolk, and walked (some of) the Norfolk Coast Path.  It was not the first time we had visited here, as this next photo reveals - a youthful Linds near Wells-next-the-sea - so many years ago now that I don't recall the details, except that he had 'borrowed' a tiny cottage and it was only in the early hours that we discovered that the owners were not entirely aware of the arrangement.....

In 2013 we ventured to Suffolk; in 2014 to the Peak District, where our advancing years began to show ascending Jacob's Ladder, and even more on the subsequent trail down a very rocky gulley. 

 The year after that we stayed in Stratford-upon-Avon, took in Volpone (in a hospital bed) and wandered on the Malvern Hills, checking out Elgar's cottage and his last resting place. In 2016 it was the Cotswolds, where we followed in the feetsteps of Laurie Lee. 

2017 had us in Leeds and the Yorkshire Dales, on the trail of J B Priestley. In 2018 we stayed in the glory of Tracey Emin's Margate, breathing in the dust of T S Eliot, and then, in 2019 we were in Essex, savouring the salt at Great Maldon but also admiring John Constable's country.

The pandemic blew us off course in 2020 and that, sadly, is that, for now, though in addition to the July sorties there were also meetings in London, Manchester, Sheffield, and in the vicinity of his home town of Kettering. 

 

Kirkstall Abbey, Leeds

Much of all this was informed, subtly, by Lindsay's erudition.  He was well educated - a classmate had been David Hare - and his relationship with professor William Empson was not solely steeped in spilt drinks.  Indeed, on March 9th this year, Linds wrote to me (with reference to something I had written):  Before his annual poetry reading we used to take him out. Me, "Prof. Empson, can I get you another drink?". Him, "Another. You're politely reminding me it is my round."  Double gin and peps for all followed.  Later as he stumbles over the threshold of a Chinese restaurant he puts his hand on the head of a bemused Chinese child saying, "I wish I could tell you something but you know it all already".  Needless to say the reading was always entertaining if at times difficult to follow.  I gave a copy of his poems to someone inscribed with a note.  When she asked him to sign the book, "Someone has already signed it.  Are you sure you need me to do so?"  !  His shadow provides lasting shade.

Linds himself was very well read, though his interest in international affairs and politics was lightly worn.  We would walk and talk, and apart from his engaging relations of adventures in China, Nigeria or Kazakhstan, he would always be ready with a quotation or reference to literature stored accurately for appropriate use.

I should also record that Linds was a proper European. His father was an upstanding Englishman. His mother a resolute Irishwoman.  His wife a native of Poland.  

But behind that Linds was a true cosmopolitan. There were no boundaries. As a youth he had worked on a Kibbutz in Israel, and travelled in North Africa and the Middle East. In later years he went on numerous recruitment trips for his colleges to many countries, from Viet Nam to Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan, often extending his trips at his own expense to explore the culture and history of the region.  (And, quite recently, giving helpful advice to my daughter before she herself went to work in Azerbaijan....)

Sadly this is over now.  His store of knowledge and anecdotes of crazy hospitalities are archived.  

But all is not lost. 

While it is sadness crystallised to lose someone, especially if it is sooner than expected, we must know it will happen to all of us, and what remains is the love we had all along.  We remember the kindnesses, the laughter, and, in some cases.... the drinks.

I was going to see Linds again in London when lockdown eased.  Anna was planning to bring him to see us in Norfolk for some sea air and we would have met again.  We have to accept this cannot now happen, but instead we have to reflect on how much we enjoyed what was allowed to us all.

The process of dying is the difficult part. But, whatever faith one has, death itself shall have no dominion. What is done is done, and everlasting peace is the gift of the deceased.  

{I have tried here to paste in a video of some pictures taken on trips with Linds over the years.  It may well not work for all, if any, so apologies if not....}

I have been privileged to have had good friends. Between us we will suffer individual deaths, but we will forever share the laughter and twinkling memories of lives that have not entirely been wasted....

With apologies to both Luke Kelly and Michaél O'Caoimh, I quote a few lines from Luke, A Tribute, sung by Christy Moore.  I met Luke Kelly in Dublin when I was a very young thing, and heard him sing.  He left a deep impression on me, and when I heard this song, some time after he died (in 1984) I couldn't help but weep.  

The sentiment still applies to Luke, but transfers just as well to my dear friend, Lindsay:

I still can clearly hear your voice

Though your time with us is o'er

For memories are all we have

When we think of you today

Your name we'll always honour, (Linds),

We're glad you passed this way

Somewhere in the Yorkshire Dales.  Pies, mushy peas, and pints of ale.....

You are still kind....

Let it go....

It is a great thing to have friends. Friends bring wealth in their extended network of experience beyond our own.

A friend of mine had the fortune to be taught by William Empson, at the University of Sheffield. Empson had his 'foibles', shall we say?  One moment he could be in the lecture theatre fumbling with his copy of King Lear, before mumbling, Well what can one say about King Lear? and leaving the stage.  Another moment he could be in the Star and Garter, decorating the bar with a technicolour yawn.

I interpose a picture of a male Stonechat, just to clear the air.....

To return, refreshed, to my theme....  I never encountered the aforesaid Empson, but through my friend I live in his shadow.  Just recently, when recounting the effects of aggressive chemotherapy, he reminded me of the Professor's poetry, in particular indicating his translation of the Buddha's Fire Sermon as introduction to his Collected Poems..... (See below for Land Art, on Courtyard Farm, Ringstead, nothing to do with the Fire Sermon, except that......)

As everyone understands, these are unusual times.  Everyone has their particular difficulties - whether it is isolation and loneliness, or the weight of coping with poverty and children, or the agony of fatal disease....

And there is no guarantee that things will get better for everyone.....

Once upon a time a person could rely upon their church, such as this lovely building in Ringstead:

With its quiet Madonna and child contemplating an unusually large glass of patent remedy....

Though nowadays things are not so straightforward.  Here a Knot seems to chase a Ringed Plover...... Why?

And here a stew of Oystercatchers seem relatively unmoved by the furious flight of a tangle of Knot.....

Each to his own.

Let it go

 

It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.

The more things happen to you the more you can’t

Tell or remember even what they were.

 

The contradictions cover such a range.

The talk would talk and go so far aslant.

You don’t want madhouse and the whole thing there.

William Empson

Across the Wash murmurations of waders blur into the greyness:

While above Dersingham Bog I spy four buzzards in courtship (though here you can only distinguish two as dots.....)

It is the pain, it is the pain endures. 

Your chemic beauty burned my muscles through. 

Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

Overhead a Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor burns money as if it has no meaning, decimating peace both here and beyond....

The infection slept (custom or changes inures) 

And when pain’s secondary phase was due 

Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

And Amanda and I walk quietly through the woods of Wild Ken Hill:

And walk until the muddy waters become impassable.....

My stare drank deep beauty that still allures. 

My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you. 

Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

As I keep telling myself, we all have our crosses to bear.  There will always be someone whose suffering is worse than mine.....  But what does that tell us?  Dukkha, the noble truth of suffering, afflicts us all, unless we achieve Nirvana.....  And to reach that is not a stroll on the beach.....

And while there are signposts on the way,

The way can be long, and lonely, and empty......

And confused......

You are still kind whom the same shape immures. 

Kind and beyond adieu. We miss our cue. 

It is the pain, it is the pain endures. 

Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

Villanelle

Missing Dates

William Empson

When he is free he knows that he is free, that rebirth is at an end, that virtue is accomplished, that duty is done, and that there is no more returning to this world; thus he knows.

William Empson

The Fire Sermon

From Aubade

But as to risings, I can tell you why.

It is on contradiction that they grow.

It seemed the best thing to be up and go.

Up was the heartening and strong reply.

The heart of standing is we cannot fly.

William Empson

Little Gidding - Zero summer?

Midwinter spring is its own season…..

In 1942 the St Louis born (but after 1927 British subject) poet T S Eliot published his last major poem, Little Gidding, later to be collected as the fourth of his Four Quartets.  

T S Eliot was, I am reminded by one of William Empson's better students (or so G L Webster will have it) A nicer man than you would think....

The title of the poem is the name of a tiny Huntingdonshire (now Cambridgeshire) hamlet acquired by failed Hedge-Fund manager (aka City Banker, investor in the Virginia Company, living in luxury in London) Nicholas Ferrar, in 1626.

Having lost next to everything, Ferrar sought a cheap country property for himself and his family, and founded something like a hippy commune, with his wife and children, mother, brother, and various tabla players and yoga experts.

They restored the diminutive church, created the first Anglican Community, and lived such exemplary lives that no lesser churl than King Charles the First dropped in three times - the third being when fleeing from defeat at the battle of Naseby: those were tricky days.  The government was in disarray; there were divergent factions, powerful men failed to understand the needs of the nations and personalities carried more weight than the public good.  

Nothing like today, then....

When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,

The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches, 

In windless cold that is the heart’s heat,

Reflecting in a watery mirror

A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.

If you came this way,

Taking any route, starting from anywhere,

At any time or at any season,

It would always be the same…..

I rolled up, parking deep in snowdrops and silence.  The Ferrars were long gone; Eliot had taken his leave; but the place smouldered with the permafrost of intellect and the light of organic faith.

This is off the beaten track for me: Eliot would not be my first choice best man, nor my funeral orator, though his distinctive voice still rings clear, 

Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake

Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an’ forsaked,

Tolling for the outcast, burnin’ constantly at stake

Or maybe not....

St John's church, Little Gidding, is a beautiful, spiritual place, and everyone should go there, one by one, silently, queuing without hurry, testing their interests, imagining St Peter was at the door....

Here, the intersection of the timeless moment

Is England and nowhere. Never and always.

Eliot visited here from Cambridge in 1936, then went on his way, never to return.  He was unwell.  He was writing the other poems that later became The Four Quartets, standing on the roof of Faber and Faber with a bucket of sand, hoping to extinguish the flames of the Blitz.....  

Second, the conscious impotence of rage

At human folly, and the laceration

Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.

As an American, he must have felt that somehow it wasn't his quarrel, but he went beyond nationalism, and hoped for regeneration, the phoenix from the fire, the retracing of the paths that had once been acceptable.

Thus, love of a country

Begins as attachment to our own field of action

And comes to find that action of little importance

Though never indifferent.

George Herbert, Prebend, at the time of Ferrar, of the church just down the road, chips in his pennyworth here, 

(All my sour sweet days 

I will lament, and love), 

And somehow I am driven to comtemporalise the issues:

We cannot revive old factions

We cannot restore old policies

Or follow an antique drum.

These men, and those who opposed them

And those whom they opposed

Accept the constitution of silence

And are folded in a single party.

What we call the beginning is often the end

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

The end is where we start from.

75 years after the publication of this poem it still makes sense, though perhaps not absolutely the sense intended.  Eliot cannot dictate from beyond the fringes of the years.  The artist is dead.  We have our own experience to superimpose.

And for me, the words impart a message essentially of hope.  Hope that we can survive, and that the rain/reign of fire will not be the end.  Even if we have to migrate to Holland to escape the plague.... Or if we have to deflect a royal fugitive for his and our sake.... There is some virtue in perseverance.  And there may be virtue too in simplification, in reducing our emotional (and other) waste, and retreating into a more spiritual, less material world.

So, while the light fails

On a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel

History is now and England.

And England is not confined to the History of the here and now.  Those who prefer themselves to be historians, are no more statuesque than dust....

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring 

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

The road....  Whoever we are, our paths lead nowhere.  But the treading of the path has got to be worthwhile....

An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

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The Windhover

Walking with the birds....

The Windhover

To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-

dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding 

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air,

and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

      As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

      Rebuffed the big wind. 

My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing. 

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

Buckle!

AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! 

      No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

      Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Written May 1877

Published 1918

And then the Stonechat says:

What about me?  I'm beautiful too!

And the Yellowhammer in the thicket trills:

I would like a little bit of bread and no cheese.....

And the Robin on the barbed wire asks:

Who did kill Cock Robin?

And the Mute Swan, with her cygnets, says....

Nothing.....

Even in the quiet woods and fields around our home there are sights to amaze, and the fleeting world of birds, so quick, so fluid, so dynamic, puts our self-consciousness into perspective.

Common Kestrel - Falco tinnunculus

An example of the use of poetry to convey an indecision, and its reverberation in the mind.....

William Empson

Seven Types of Ambiguity

1930

All the birds of the air

fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,

when they heard the bell toll

for poor Cock Robin.

English Nursery Rhyme

c.1744