Exeter Cathedral exterior in 1962. Photo / Peter Cape
As I pen this column on January 20, it is perhaps fitting, though probably not original, to note significance.
Monuments commemorate civilisations and mark history's milestones. It was not uncommon for the cathedrals of England to be built over generations and hundreds of years.
It was a year ago that the first case of Covid-19 was diagnosed in the USA. Today there are 24 million cases. There are 95 million cases globally. The USA death toll stands at 401,000 – the same as the American toll in World War II - and predictions are that another 100,000 will be added in four weeks' time.
The world map at Johns Hopkins University is turning ever more red as the virus extends its empire. In the two weeks since January 6 when Capitol Hill was assailed by Trump inspired insurrectionists, Washington DC has gone from a city celebrating the Land of the Free to a militarised base camp resembling a film set out of Independence Day or Olympus Has Fallen.
Such American film plots fixate on National Security. This is not a drill, or a film set. This is real. It is stunning and unavoidable.
Biden and Harris are now sworn in to the presidency of the USA. Donald Trump has exited stage left (or is that right? I don't know. He's provocatively unpredictable and a flight risk). I suspect someone, probably Steven Spielberg or his ilk, will produce a musical or film plot based on these last two years and it will become a best seller. But will it be remembered?
Exeter Cathedral was founded around 1050 and its foundation was laid in 1133. Completed around 1400, its exterior is festooned with figures of saints and martyrs. I wonder if the legacies of the 2020s will be commemorated in stone to last 700 years. I suspect cultural memory certainly will.
My family visited Exeter as part of tour of the British Isles in 1962 when my father, Peter, had a brief from the Imperial Relations Trust to commentate on the arts and lifestyle of the Britons. Employed by the NZBC, he trained with the BBC.
We four were travelling with nine white mice in a 1948 Ford Anglia, camping through England, Wales, Scotland and the Continent. I take up my father's diary account near Exeter …
July 23, 1962, Monday
Camped out of Exeter by roadside. Lovely Constable evening. Barbara paints while we listen to Haydn. Creation on radio. Then Traherue on the 3rd over a field of corn.
July 24, 1962, Tuesday
Woke early, and tired. Off to Exeter, where we did the washing in a Bendixerie, shopped, missed each other at the car and were proved by a policeman for parking too long (Exeter policemen carry white gloves: Berkshire ones have chromium plated knobs on their helmets), looked very briefly at the cathedral – carved figures in front. Norman towns and then off to Bovey Tracey.
Saw Bovey Tracey Handloom Weavers and David Leach's Lowerdown Pottery, then up onto the moors. Widecombe in the moors the quaintest village so far – roads narrow.
Got stuck behind a coach in the windingest , hilliest, wall linedest lanes we've ever seen. Down to Plymouth Rd, to discover that the AA had misread Dartmouth for Dartmoor (hence the lanes) and had sent us straight to Plymouth. Got off the main road (a dull road) to camp.
Got stuck on a one in five hill, and had to partly unload to get up. Camped, and then had a couple of Dutch girls camp beside us - lost in the camping at Plymouth and were afraid of mosquitoes. Then, at about 10 a Dormobile full of English came up and camped close at the other side of us!
July 25, 1962, Wednesday
Most disturbed night – wind, mice getting out of cage – very little sleep. Up bad tempered and into Plymouth. Shopped, then went down to the Barbican; saw and photographed Elizabethan house and looked at antiques.
Up to the lake for lunch, then on by way of Devonport ferry and into Cornwall. Down to Looe to see a woodcarver: nowhere to park – lovely spot to see in winter when no tourists around, but too crowded in summer.
Inland to Saint Cleer, to see King Doniert's Cross C.9 (9th century), a bronze-age communal burial chamber, and three rings of standing stones (the Hurlers). A tin mining area, full of dilapidated mines and buildings all in granite. Mist came down and everything was fantastically eerie. Went to the pub to ask questions and stayed to drink beer (pub at Minions). Got lost and went across country. Found lovely high camping spot. Very misty evening.
Far from the madding crowd we found peace and quiet for another evening. As I have said before, world events seemed very distant in 1962 and even recounting this brief excerpt I feel a welcome break from the continuous deluge of news coverage of war, famine and pestilence.
When one can turn away or tune out, the birds are still singing and nature is still living around us and maybe, just maybe, there will be someone close enough to hold your hand and say I love you.
The viral blame game seems to run rife. Trump blamed China. China blames the world. Helen Clark and company blame the WHO. The poor blame the rich. The rich blame the poor. Everybody blames everybody for moving too slow.
Eleven months ago the world was literally brought to a standstill. Nature recovered. Air cleared. Recall that? Now Covid is rearming. The war is not over. This last year has been a learning curve for everyone and vaccines are good but not a cure-all, or an excuse to continue life with a rampaging rape and pillage attitude.
This international spaceship still needs intelligent piloting. Let's not forget that.
'We want to take a very detailed specific look at what Whanganui needs' – Chris Bishop.