We made a trip to Leek to look at the William Morris and Bourne Jones windows in the church and other architectural remains of a once prosperous silk industry. On the way home we made a detour to Rudyard Lake. Now best known as the place Kipling was named after. Luckily people did not travel far on holiday in those days or he might have ended up being called Titicaca Kiipling, Superior Kipling or Tanganyika Kipling. But had they visited Central Asia instead of Staffordshire, as any sane person would, I'm sure they would have settled on Caspian Kipling, if only for the ring of it.
The lake itself is actually a reservoir to top up the canal system. I don't know the details as I find them particularly dull as history. What I found interesting was the social significance of the lake as a place for the people of the Potteries to go for a day out. A railway line connected the lake to the six towns and thousands of people would attend union rallies and galas on the lakeside.
There is still a sailing club, a large hotel and a sprinkling of huge Victorian houses but the place now gives the impression of being somewhat decayed and largely forgotten except by the yachtsmen and those who can afford to live by the lake and commute into the city and those who made it their retirement home. Probably there are plenty of weekend picnickers in the summer and a miniature railway still runs the length of the lake, but I'm sure the huge crowds that once flocked there now fly off to Spain or somewhere else where the sun always shines.
Last night I left Bob with a bottle of wine and a book and had to go off to see the members of my poetry class reading at The Leopard in Burslem. The Leopard is another example of a relict - or even a relic - of the Victorian age. A once grand inn, the Savoy of the Midlands it still manages to survive by a very different class of people, like the local poetry group. Needless to say my lot did me proud.
Bob left this morning and I went off to get some Seroxat from the doctors. Needless to say it turned it was sad and depressing affair, and I had to tell him 'Not to be so bloody patronising.' when he started spout the usual health drivel.
There seems to be default attitude of enforcing a particular concept of 'health' on one whether one wants it or not. Stepping into a health centre has become rather like walking into a police station. Even in childhood there is probably no state of complete health and certainly as one gets older some degree of ill health affects everyone, if only the wear and tear on joints and bones. But with a Swiftian absurdity this is seen as an unacceptable state of affairs.
It is an attitude that means that if one has anything seriously wrong there is little point in seeing a doctor unless you can afford to pay. The sociopolitical agenda gets in the way of any meaningful communication, at least at a lower level.
Plus ca change, Archy.
I found the Delmore Schwartz poem below when searching for materials for the writing classes. Reading it you can see why he was so respected by other poets, and as he is still not that well known here I thought it worth an entry on its own.