Wood Farm Brewery, Warwickshire

'Sunshine on a rainy day' bringing an end to any potential 'irony'.

In the words of Alanis Morissette, the situation was distinctly 'ironic'. The rain was falling from the sky by the bucketload, and a minor gale blowing, as I arrived at Wood Farm, a small brewery outside Rugby in Warwickshire.

It is Saturday 11th May and Page, one of the heroes of January's London-Brighton bike ride, is getting hitched to Siobhan.

Once the clouds had cleared, sometime around 7pm, the sunshine made a brief cameo just long enough to take a couple of lovely pictures. All the better considerings the guests to this wedding party, myself included, were camping! After the tents were pitched, it was into the main marquee for a night of live music, dancing and merriment.

Any comments about Page not being able to organise the proverbial were allayed and the wedding went smoothly.

The Bakiga Window Vol. II: Taufiq Islamic School - Part One

Looking through the window of the mosque, in Kabale.

It is a perennial frustration of mine that during every visit to Uganda, the more involved I become in the organisation of the trip, the less time I actually have to work on projects with people I meet there. With the small dust particles of free time that I have had over the years, I have been starting to build trust and friendship with a few members of Kabale's Muslim community.

It is Tuesday 10th April 2013 and I am sheltering from the heat of the morning sun in the mosque by Taufiq Islamic Primary School. With me I have nearly all of my students and a handful of staff interested in finding out more about a part of Kabale that lies off most kizungu radars.

Having met with the head teacher, Lule, earlier in the week, we had arranged that during my group’s final two mornings in Kabale we would come to Taufiq to find out more about day-to-day life there. We also arranged to do a couple of fun lessons for the pupils as a break from their exam revision.

We scheduled our arrival for the children’s morning break, and as we crossed over the Kabale-Kisoro Road, you could see a ripple of excitement permeating through the schoolyard. As more and more green-hooped jumpers came running from all directions, my students’ hearts seemed to melt at the cuteness of the whole situation. 

A sizeable number of our travelling group this year are Muslims, and indeed some have already become minor celebrities amongst the children and adults of the Muslim community after attending Salat al-Fajr at the mosque – the dawn congregational prayer.

Lule, hearing the excitement and commotion from his pupils outside, appears from the main office and comes to greet us. The breadth of the smile on his face openly reveals his genuine pleasure in having our company. Yusif, the chair of the PTA, who greets us with equal warmth, joins us and we start that typically Ugandan custom of signing the visitors’ book.

After a quick discussion about our programme for the morning, we embark on a tour of the premises. Having only had a brief tour by myself in the past, it was nice to be shown everywhere, meet a number of the teachers, pupils and families, and for other members of my travelling party to see this mysterious school that I am always talking about, but many knew nothing about.

My students were intrigued by two things: firstly, the fact that there were boarding facilities at a primary school with three bunk high beds; and secondly, the fact that there were little or no mosquito nets for the boarders. With this in mind, my students were already beginning to come up with a master plan for the visit in 2013 to deal with this.

A girl spies on the strange visitors outside the dining room.

Those pupils of the school who were brave enough, slowly started to congregate behind our group. Our greetings of, ‘as-salaam alaykum,’ were all met with shy responses of, ‘wa alaykum as-salaam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh’ as they came to investigate their strange bazungu visitors. My Muslim students couldn't contain how cute they found the whole situation. As a result, it was only a matter of minutes before the primary school children had ‘adopted’ my sixth form students and insisted on conducting their own versions of the guided tour of the school, much to the amusement of the Lule and myself.

The school is essentially made up of three parts at present: the main building, a series of rooms that open outwards around a secure central courtyard; a number of wooden classrooms built from the trees that once occupied the space; and the mosque, a large whitewashed hall with a small minaret striped with green.

The educational programme at the school, Lule tells me, follows the Uganda national curriculum for primary schools with the addition of rudimentary Arabic and Qu’ran lesson. This becomes clear as we see many diligent students holding on to various revision books for the mock tests that seem to be going on at all primary schools at the moment.

After tearing my students away from cuteness of the Taufiq children, we have a quick meeting to run over what we were going to do next. Breaking ourselves into groups, we each head to a different class from P4 to P7 and ask the students to create a storyboard of the different parts of their school day. Limiting them to just four frames to explain their whole day caused many a conflict!

The majority of storyboards included Salat al-Fajr or Salat al-Isha, most mentioned reading their Qu’ran or revising for school, a few even mentioned brushing their teeth – before realising this only left a small amount of space to explain everything else they did in their busy little lives.

The children were fully engrossed in their storyboards until it was time for us to head off. Some didn’t want to stop their work despite their teachers telling them they needed to go and eat. Others didn’t want my students to leave them and were only satisfied with our departure when they realised that we’d be back the following morning.

Ma’a salama. We'll be back at 10 o'clock tomorrow.

Beach Huts, Southwold, Suffolk

Sleeping beach huts on Southwold Beach, Suffolk.

Safely back from my annual visit to Rotterdam, my parents invited me to spend a few days with them in a small holiday cottage in Southwold, Suffolk. Give or take driving through Newmarket a few years back when studying at Anglia Ruskin University, I'd never really seen much of the county.

Southwold itself is a beautiful seaside resort which happens to be the home of Adnams, a well known brewery, which means that for a small place there are a healthy number of pubs - suddenly Dad's choice of location made sense.

On the early afternoon of Wednesday 20th February Jeannie and myself took a walk to the Harbour Inn to meet my parents for lunch. The pub was just under two miles away from Grace Cottage, where we were staying. This gave me the opportunity to take some pictures of the sea.

On our way towards the see we also spotted Georgie Glen from Waterloo Road humming happily to herself on the High Street.

Southwold is lovely, photogenic and friendly in the iciness of February, so one can only imagine how nice it is in the warmth of summer.

London to Brighton: Part Three - Countryside nr. Gatwick to Brighton Pier

Heading up Turners Hill

If we were in Uganda, with the sun at the angle it was by around 10am, we would be baking to a crisp. As it was, at 10am, we were crossing the county border into West Sussex and despite the sun beating down on us, it was still pretty cold. 

After a brief flirtation with an A road, we started a three mile decent towards the foot of Turner’s Hill. With the others tailing off into the distance slightly, I tried to build up some decent momentum with which to attack the climb.

The hill is a category 5 climb, but seemed very different to Marlpit Hill earlier on in the day. Maybe it was the fact that the blood was circulating more freely around my body now, but I seemed to make reasonably light work of the half-mile climb. Before I knew it, I was at the village green at the top of the hill and the ‘half-way jitters’ had not even had chance to appear. Maybe I am getting better at climbing.

The sign on the village green in Turners Hill.

Page followed up the hill about three minutes behind, with Jonesy around five minutes further back, creating a healthy traffic jam as he went. At this point, the peloton paused for a few minutes. Jonesy hit the corner shop, and evidently feeling that his luck was in, now that we were only 20 miles from the finish, decided to buy Lucozade, sweets and three lottery tickets.

Time for a Puncture

Back on the road for a few miles, riding through water from melting snow that was running down the road in icy rivers, and reflecting on the good health of our bikes seemed to bring about the inevitable. Just as we were about to begin the descent out of Ardingly, Page, who was at the head of the peloton, shouted and pulled over. He had the dubious honour of having the first puncture of the day.

Of course, any kind of mechanical procedure gives everybody the chance to die laughing at the number of sexual innuendoes that can arise. With Jonesy running around still singing the wrong words to ‘Clique’ and me stood there looking smug because my bike was doing well, Page set about fixing the puncture which, give or take a small issue with his pump, he did quite quickly.

Three miles later, outside Lindfield, Jonesy, who’d fallen to back of the peloton again, shouted. Admittedly, I thought maybe he’d forgotten how to use his pedals again, but he too had got a puncture. Cue five more minutes of bad singing, innuendo and disapproving looks from some elderly locals who were clearly concerned about the proximity of our bikes to a flowerbed.

Moving off once more, with some blatant attempts by Page to jinx my bike and only one incident involving Jonesy falling sideways off his bike in front of a car whilst stationary, we made good progress towards our final challenge; Ditchling Beacon.

Ditchling Beacon to Brighton

Around six miles from our intended finish line of Brighton Pier, Ditchling Beacon poses more than a challenge to most casual cyclists. It is considered a category 4 climb by Strava and MapMyRide and is a climb of around a 1.7 miles (including the road that leads to it), at an average grade of approximately 9%, a maximum grade of 16.4%, and a total elevation gain of around 450 ft.

We gathered at the start of the lead-up road. Our bikes were generally intact, although Sasha’s chain guard was dead so I snapped it off. We had a quick strategic chat about the mound of chalk shrouded in thick woods that sat mockingly in front of us. Taking in the sheer height of the hill momentarily made our hearts sink, but with a few words of mutual encouragement we set off.

Our basic rule: every man for himself, but however many times you had to stop, you must ride the whole hill. I went off ahead, wary of being caught on a narrow road behind slower cyclists. Page, cursing his gears slipped into second place, with Jonesy bouncing along at the back.

The effect of the gradient started to kick in after around 200 metres. There was a noticeable difference between this an previous hills we'd climbed and the tops of my quads started to burn like crazy. I turned to look behind me and I could no longer see the others. At this point I was still moving forward at a reasonable speed. 

Just when I was into a rhythm, the road hit a bit of a hairpin and switched back on itself. A few hundred metres later and my whole body felt like it was on fire. I had to stop for a minute to remove my woolly hat and bike helmet after which I dug-in and carried on.

Around 1200 metres in, the trees to the side of the road started to thin out and a view over the Sussex countryside unfolded into the distance. Unfortunately, I found that looking at the view caused me to wobble and I chose to keep my head down and carry on with the climb. Finally, I emerged from the trees and the top of the climb came into view. I stood on the pedals to finish and aimed for a small mound of chalk by the side of the road to sit and wait. 

My legs ache. My lungs hurt. I feel so hot that I fear I may combust. I wait for the others whilst taking in the view. Sure enough my iPhone 3GS decides to protest against my taking photos of the view, so I sit and wait. After a few minutes I move to a better vantage point and stand there, cheering like a madman, as first Page and then Jonesy come into view.

We now knew that it was pretty much all downhill from here. Setting off after a brief regroup, past the snow that still adorned the tops of the hills, the edges of Brighton came into view.

A little cold, but a whole lot more smug, on Brighton Pier.

Whizzing downhill, clocking 40 mph in the process, the countryside gave way to houses, buses and cars, and after a brief pause at a final few traffic lights, Brighton Pier came into view. Completely ignoring all road markings, we cut pretty much straight across the roundabout to be greeted by Page’s fiancé Siobhan. We had made it.

Our feat may not have been as epic as a Grand Tour race, but this was my Tour de France, Jonesy's Giro d’Italia and Page's Vuelta a España. We’d endured rain, sleet, icy head winds, a couple of punctures, some cases a distinct lack of preparation and in the process raised around £400 pounds for All Our Children (UK).

A final reason to be smug was that Sasha, by Specialized Allez 2013, had survived unscathed and without a puncture en route.

On a personal note, I’d like to thank: Vassilia, Tavia, Jenny, Fay, Naz, Celia, Reuben, Jana, Phil, Ebunola, Niamh, Tackela, Pia, Minie, Jas, Emma, Siobhan, Zahra, Diane, Page’s workmates and my family for their donations to the cause. Also thanks to the anonymous donors - you know who you are. Your money will make a difference not only to my students, but to children in southwestern Uganda too. In addition to this I’d obviously like to thank the Team Ayohcee members, Simon Page and Chris Jones, for their hard work on the day - there were times I didn't think we'd make it.

⇐ Part Two: Wallington to Countryside near Gatwick ❘

Our route: http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/view/embedded/162190986

The fundraising page: https://mydonate.bt.com/fundraisers/ayohcee

King's Cross Station, London

The roof of the new departures concourse at Kings Cross Station.

You might not think that a railway station would make the most interesting photographic subject, but I can safely say they can. The new departures concourse at King's Cross railway station in London has been completed for nearly a year now, but I very rarely have any reason to be in the area and so this interesting work of architecture had slipped from my mind.

On Saturday 9th February I happened to appear from the Victoria Line straight into the new concourse - more by accident than design. I had seen pictures of it on BBC London News on the opening night, but standing beneath this flow of illuminated ironwork I was awestruck by its beauty. 

Indeed, it is described by Keiran Long as "like some kind of reverse waterfall, a white steel grid that swoops up from the ground and cascades over your head towards 16 perimeter columns in a flurry of 1,200 solid and 1,012 glass triangular panels."

The picture was taken using an iPhone 5, before being cropped and ran through a filter using Instagram. For more information about the redevelopment work around King's Cross, visit: http://www.networkrail.co.uk/aspx/6288.aspx

London to Brighton: Part Two - Wallington to Smallfield Road, nr. Gatwick

Marlpit Hill and a Lady Feeding Ducks

After exiting Wallington and needing to stretch my legs, I decided to head off a little into the distance, before a long decent down to Coulsdon Station. Page zipped along closely behind, with Jonesy beginning to recover from his initial dip in energy.

Just through the viaduct carrying the A23 and the old Southern Railway mainline to Brighton we faced our first major hurdle. It came in the form of Marlpit Hill, a category 5 climb up a silent suburban street. A major challenge that, once overcome, would mean we had finally escaped the clutches of London and would be out in open country.

Sasha waits by the duck pond in Coulsdon, Surrey.

Feeling confident, I set off, once more slightly ahead of the other two. Page, complaining about his gear ratios – he rides a motorbike so knows a little about this technical stuff – decided to hang back a little as he didn’t think he’d be able to go as fast up the hill. Jonesy, still a little befuddled by the gears on a road bike when compared to an MTB held further back.

The hill had nothing by way of a build up, instead it just began and sustained the same gradient for 0.9 miles. After my usual psychological jitters about half-way up, that feeling of doubt where you feel the hill may never end, or worse that you might suddenly stop going up and start rolling uncontrollably backwards, I just put my head down, undid the straps on my bike helmet and dug deep for the remain 500 metres or so. With my legs beginning to feel the burn, I stopped a few metres beyond the summit of the climb and waited by a small pond.

As I dismounted, panting like a madman, a lady appeared and started explaining to me that there was a duck in the pond that shouldn’t be there – subsequent research has failed to find out the identity of the duck. In my slightly knackered stated, I just about managed to mumble something about calling the RSPB which satisfied the lady to the extent that she left me alone and wandered off to feed the ducks.

After a pause of a minute or two, Page appeared over the brow of the hill. We stood and waited, beginning to wonder whether Jonesy had got off and started to push, or whether he’d collapsed in a heap halfway up the hill. 

Just as I was about to walk to the brow of the hill and see where he was, Jonesy appeared, red in the face, bouncing out of the saddle due to riding in his easiest gear, and to a chorus of cheering and support from Page and myself. He managed to roll his increasingly dirty Cannondale CAAD10 to a halt by the pond before hopping off and bouncing around with cramp.

After five minutes of respite, we got moving once more, but not before Jonesy, losing his balance whilst getting back on his bike, had grabbed on to Page bringing the pair of them crashing to the ground. The ducks seemed unimpressed by the commotion and even the sea cadet walking by on the other side of the road seemed unmoved, as I stood there dying of laughter.


Out into Open Country

The next five or six miles simply flew by as we passed through Old Coulsdon, bisected Coulsdon Common avoiding the epic puddles, darted off the main road, along the winding Roffe’s Lane and through Grub’s Wood. 

Once out of the other side of the little woods we started to roll down the sharp decent of Whitehill Lane. My confidence in Sasha – my Specialized Allez 2013 named for Beyoncé’s alter ego Sasha Fierce – meant that after a 100 metres or so of braking, I let go of the brakes, started to pedal, and, with water streaming from my eyes, the Garmin registered around 32 mph. Our reward was to be spat out of the woods at what felt like great speed onto a bridge over the M25 motorway. Free at last.

Page leading the peloton forward, followed by Jonesy, just coming up to half way.

The mood in the peloton had suddenly lifted, as had the threat of imminent rain. The endorphins were clearly kicking in as I decided to start singing ‘Clique’ by Kanye West. A decision that I later regretted as Jonesy, mistaking the lyrics slightly and singing things I couldn’t repeat in the polite company of my dear readers, continued to sing the song for the duration of the ride.

The peloton, with Page keeping good speed and Jonesy revived, snaked its way around the country lanes, passing through Bletchingly and a number of anonymous hamlets, and with the sun rising across the fields as we rolled along a B-road, my Garmin beeped. We had reached the halfway point and suddenly Brighton felt that little bit closer – although the challenge of Turners Hill and the category 4 climb of Ditchling Beacon still lay ahead.

⇐ Part One: The Mall to Wallington ❘ Part Three: Countryside to Brighton Pier ⇒

It's still not quite too late to donate to the cause if you wish. Visit https://mydonate.bt.com/fundraisers/ayohcee to find out more.

London to Brighton: Part One - The Mall to Wallington

Best Laid Schemes...

I have been bitten by the road cycling bug. It is as simple as that. I bought a £600 Specialized Allez 2013 road bike shortly after the Olympics with four simple cycling goals: get fitter, get faster, go longer and stay alive.

The decision to ride my bike from London to Brighton on 19th January arose as a result of needing to lead by example. With my students struggling with inspiration and motivation to start their fundraising projects for this year’s trip to Uganda, I figured I would show them how it was done.

My idea was simple: set up a fundraising page on BT MyDonate supporting All Our Children (UK), say that I am going to ride from The Mall, outside Buckingham Palace, and ride, via the countryside, to Brighton on the south coast, with a fundraising target of £100 for the event.

The snow came, the ride was delayed, but at least it looked pretty.

Before I knew it, I had amassed £300 of sponsorship and had some riding support in the form of two old school mates from my time at Aylesford School, Warwick, namely Simon Page and Chris 'Jonesy' Jones. 

Of course, "the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley" and sure enough on Friday 18th January all of England and Wales was covered in a thick layer of snow. Cue a one-week delay where no training could be done. Our new start time would be 6am on Sunday 27th January.

After what seemed like not enough sleep, the 5 o’clock alarm was ringing on my phone playing Bob Marley's 'Sun is Shining'. I got up, staggered to the spare bedroom to wake Jonesy, and looked through the window to see the rain lashing down against the parked cars. So much for Marley's sunshine.

To try and counter the rain, waterproof jackets were dinned and a little invention used to protect our feet. Using a roll of cling-film, we wrapped our footwear and secured the film with sticky tape. I couldn’t imagine Team Sky doing this, and looking a little ramshackle, but with some protection for our toes, we set off, in the driving rain, towards the start point to meet Page.

The Mall to Wallington

With the rain coming down at a seemingly impossible angle, Jonesy and myself arrived having already completed an 8-mile journey from Walthamstow to the Mall. Although warm within our jackets, the rain was already beginning to take its chilly toll upon our not so waterproof cycling trousers.

Flashing in the distance, or rather his bike lights flashing in the distance, Page could be seen doing circuits around the Victoria Memorial, like a hamster in a wheel, presumably to keep warm. With a quick shake of hands, we set off, only a few minutes late, along the vast, wet expanse of the Mall, towards Trafalgar Square.

Stopping at the junction of the Mall and Trafalgar Square, a performance in itself for Jonesy who’d not quite got the hang of using his clip-in cycle shoes, we paused briefly to acknowledge the fact we were passing Uganda House and remember the reason we were even partaking in this cold, rainy madness in the first place – helping my students to get involved in an education partnership with a school in south-western Uganda.

Turning the corner, heading along Whitehall and past Big Ben we encountered what would become our biggest bugbear on this journey: an epic headwind. The ferocity of the wind became apparent the closer we got to the Thames as it battered us intermittently before we turned left onto Chelsea Bridge, crossing the immeasurable body of inky water beneath us, and headed to the relative shelter of Battersea.

Winding through the early morning London streets brought a regular smile to my face as we passed the bemused faces of the walk-of-shamers and Sunday-morning workers waiting at bus stops more in hope than expectation for a bus to arrive. What must they have thought of the sight of this sodden peloton rolling along the hitherto deserted roads?

Instagramming whilst riding, not advised and attempted only when on empty streets.

We rolled on regardless, chatting about funny incidents, and not so funny incidents, at work and home. Stories of being in the wrong part of London at the wrong time. Discussions about how you don’t have to be crazy to ride through central London in rush hour. Life seemed sweet as the relatively flat roads of Clapham, Balham and Tooting came and went.

It was shortly after Mitcham that we had our first real hitch. Jonesy seemed to be struggling, Page had slowed down, and me, being in full-on Tour de France mode, had ridden on unaware. We had a regroup by Mitcham Junction station. Jonesy said his saddle seemed a tad too low and he was taking to much pressure on his quads. A quick adjustment was made and off we went again.

A little further down the road, crossing the rail bridge at Hackbridge, Jonesy yet again disappeared. After a wait of a few minutes, Jonesy reappeared in the distance and caught up. It was clear that he was struggling, not only with energy levels, but also to get used to his brand-new, £1,200 Cannondale CAAD 10 road bike. I handed him an energy gel and figured it was best to keep him rolling to get the gel working.

Ten minutes later, and with the peloton crawling at a somewhat less than Olympic pace of 8 mph up Woodcote Road in Wallington, I was concerned we’d never get to Brighton by nightfall, let alone in less than 5 hours riding. Jonesy was out of energy and we hadn’t even reached our first ‘categorised’ hill climb of Marlpit Lane, Coulsdon.

With our peloton only as strong as its weakest man, and as the rain cleared and the sun rose over the houses, it was all looking like coming to an ignominious end in the sleeping suburbs of south London.

❘ Part Two: Wallington to Smallfield Road ⇒

It's not quite too late to donate to the cause if you wish. Visit https://mydonate.bt.com/fundraisers/ayohcee to find out more.

Borough Market, London

A bright display of tomatoes at Turnips, Borough Market.

Borough Market in Southwark, London, is a fantastic place to visit whether you are buying anything or not. The vast array of fresh produce and foodstuffs from all over the UK and Europe makes for a mouth-watering walk when heading in the direction of Southbank from London Bridge, as I was on Friday 2nd November with my parents and Jeannie.

Borough Market claims to trace its origins as far back as 1014 and has been in its current location and guise since 1755. Nowadays operates as wholesale throughout the week and as a retail market towards the latter half of each week.

Usually I only linger around the stalls with cheese and saucisson sec, but as I headed past a stall called Turnips, I was shocked at the countless different types and colours of tomatoes on display. Other than making a very colourful salad, I'm not sure what one would do with them all, but they looked fantastic on display.

Granted, Borough Market isn't the kind of place you'd head to in search of a £1 bowl of fruit or veg or a cheap stilton, but you do get the sense you're buying something different and interesting when you shop there.

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

Cover image © Penguin Classics.

My previous attempt to read any Charles Dickens was an abortive one in the autumn of 2005 when I was given four days to read Our Mutual Friend. I’d actively avoided Victorian literature and as a result wasn’t too taken with the prospect of reading 800 pages of it.

With my renewed interest in the history of London, and following on from a rather good BBC adaptation of Great Expectations, I decided to try Dickens again.

First published, in serial form, between December 1860 and August 1861, Great Expectations tells the story of Pip, a young orphaned boy living in the care of his older sister and her blacksmith husband Joe Gargery out in rural Kent.

The story begins on Christmas Eve when Pip comes across a convict who has escaped from the aging hulks moored along the edges of the Kent marshes. In the eerie setting of the churchyard the convict scares Pip into stealing a file from Joe’s forge and some food from his sister's pantry. The prisoner, Magwitch, is recaptured whilst fighting with another escapee and returned to prison before being deported to New South Wales.

Shortly afterwards, a reclusive spinster, Miss Havisham, asks the buffoonish Uncle Pumblechook to find a male playmate for her adopted daughter Estella. Pip is invited to Miss Havisham’s mansion, Satis House, where everything is in a state of disrepair and the hostess still wears the wedding dress she had on when she discovered she was to be jilted at the altar. Pip’s fondness for Estella grows over time and Miss Havisham malevolently encourages this.

In the meantime, Miss Havisham pays for Pip to be apprenticed to Joe as a blacksmith. Here he remains until a lawyer, Jaggers, comes with news that a mystery benefactor wishes to pay for Pip to become a gentleman and that he must leave for London immediately.

These initial happenings set this, at times labyrinthine, story in motion. Pip’s curiosity about his benefactor, his enduring and at times desperate love for Estella, and his occasional pangs of guilt about leaving Joe behind at the forge all drive the story. That said, in truly Victorian style there is so much more to Great Expectations in by way of subplots and subtexts, all leading to a variety of sensational conclusions.

Perhaps most interestingly the storyline, as circuitous as it may at times seem, is tied together by the typically Dickensian themes of poverty, wealth and social class, virtue and corruption, and criminality and the law. Furthermore, to a modern reader, he provides a interesting critique of life in London during the early 19th Century - a place where your family's connections and wealth dictate whether you are destined to succeed or fail.

With this in mind, is the novel worth reading and is it in anyway relevant to modern day life? Yes and yes.

Great Expectations is thought of as a bildungsroman whereby we see Pip growing as a person and coming to the realisation that the money of his benefactor isn’t necessarily going to make him happy. From the outset of his restyling as a gentleman he seemingly has everything, but by the end of the novel he is heartbroken and struggling with debt. Ultimately his oldest and most loyal companion, one who he had as good as forgotten about, will come to his aid. 

All in all, in this age of instant celebrity and desire for instant gratification, Pip’s story could act as a cautionary tale to those who seek far too much and far too fast.

Bow Riverside, River Lee Navigation, East London

The footbridge at Bow Riverside on the River Lee Navigation, near to the Bow Interchange.

It was on Saturday 20th October, a somewhat murky afternoon, that Jeannie, Alison and myself decided to walk the towpath of the Lee Navigation from Hackney Marshes to Limehouse Basin. The Lee Navigation itself is a canalised section of the River Lea and forms a part of a complicated network of rivers, cuttings, overflows channels and streams - one of which runs past the rear of my flat - that dominate the geography of the local area.

About 3½ miles into the walk, with the rain beginning to fall, we reached the point where the Lee Navigation meets Bow Back River. 

I immediately fell in love with the relatively new bridge that crosses the river at this point. I think what fascinated me about it wasn't so much the angular design of it, but more the way in which it blended perfectly into this strange urban-rural hinterland - or 'edgeland' as some have called such landscapes.

The navigable river, with its old trees and foliage on the banks, gives the walker a sense of seclusion from the urban environment around them, yet the warehouses and brownfield sites just a few metres further away on either side of them remind them that they're still in a built-up and industrialised area. A strange feeling indeed.

This crossing of wood and metal, with it's rusted looking fenders that protect not just the bridge, but the planted reed-beds in which wildlife can thrive, seems to bridge the gap between urban and rural perfectly.

The Bakiga Window Vol. II: The New Class

Senior 1D take in the delights of the active and passive voice.

With their distinct lack of formal school clothes, and their inherent naughtiness, the Senior 1 classes stand out against the otherwise uniformity of the student body at Kigezi High School. It is not long into their first year in senior classes and their new uniforms are yet to arrive.

It is Tuesday 3rd April 2012 and I am sat at the back of class S1D as they embark on an English language lesson. The subject that Penninah, their teacher, has chosen for today’s class is ‘the active and passive voice’.

The topic itself may not be fascinating, but to observe these students taking their first tentative steps into senior education is amazing. In the UK, I am often amazed at my students forgetting the basics of English language, so to see group of twelve-year-olds getting their teeth into such a subject is strikes me as being an admirable undertaking.

Casting your eyes about the classroom it is clear to see who is already assuming which role within the class. To the front of the class a short boy, with comparatively long hair, seems to be staking his claim to the title of 'class boffin'. For every question that Teacher Penninah asks, his hand shoots up into the air, often to be followed with a look of disappointment when he is overlooked in favour of someone else to provide the answer.

Learning objectives on the board.

Towards the left hand side of the room, a slender girl with a bright yellow blouse, drifts, mentally at least, into and out of the room. She appears to be nominating herself for the position of class daydreamer. It is barely past break time, but already she seems to be dreaming of lunchtime, dreaming of a cold Coke, or thinking about almost anything else.

The extent of her daydreaming is evident when I stroll over to her desk midway through the lesson and see that she hasn’t written down a single thing that the teacher has said.

The nearer to the back your eyes move, the cheekier the students become. Two girls, seemingly interviewing for the job of class gossips, spend the majority of the time that the teacher has her back turned looking over their shoulders at a boy sat on the opposite side of the room. They look, whisper into each other’s ears, point at something and then giggle almost silently.

Usually being the person at the front of the class, armed with the board marker, I miss this small pantomime. I'd like to think of myself as a reasonably attentive teacher, but, unless you have those fabled eyes in the back of your head, how could ever bear witness to all these shenanigans? 

Regardless of the disappointment, in spite of the daydreamers and the apathy of the gossips, the teacher ploughs on with active and passive voices in a cloud of chalk dust. Did the fire destroy the house, or was the house destroyed by the fire? Most take a wild guess, some scratch their heads, one puts his hand up.

Even though I have visited Kigezi High School four times now, this is my first time in S1. From the amount of time that I have spent with S5 and S6 classes, it is clear to see that this ragtag bunch of children, in their brightly coloured clothes, have got a long way to go before they are the finished Kigezi product. 

When I return in a year, those who remain will be turned out in pristine uniforms and the cheekiness will have started to ebb away from the classroom, but hopefully not so the enthusiasm. For now, there is a fair amount of growing up for these young boarders and day scholars to do.

The Bakiga Window Vol. II: Splinters in the Air

A timber merchant in Kabale, not far from the Kisoro Road.

Walking to the bottom of hill on Johnstone Road, turning into the area off Bugongi Road, past the bar advertising Pork and Beer in simple painted letters, and away from the tarmac of the main streets used to fill me with a little fear. Now, in the morning mist, I see a hive of activity and get a glimpse of different facet of Ugandan life. 

It is Thursday 5th April 2012 and I have taken a stroll with my colleague Jas through an area of Kabale that I have often passed by and seldom explored over the years. Indeed, in my first visit to Kabale in 2009, in the best traditions of bazungu in Africa for the first time, I labelled the area somewhat ignorantly the ‘Poor Quarter’. Although many of my reflections from that time are generally accurate, if under-informed, there is a lot more to this district than my over-simplification of these streets as being ‘Poor’ – this mzungu has learnt and is still learning at least.

Away from the dawn chorus of boda-bodas, and the chanting of the children from Taufiq Islamic School who vaguely recognise the mzungu in the straw hat and his muhindi friend, an abundance of carpenters’ workshops and timber merchants begin to appear from the sides of the roads, and from between the shops and houses. 

Momentarily, the ubiquity of the red earth on the roads is muted by the fine shavings of freshly planed wood and the steamy morning air is punctured by the scent of splinters newly separated from sawn trees. The town takes on a different beat here as the music of man-made tools taming the products of mother earth resounds around the narrow streets.

Without any sign of a plan to an outsider passing by, the men cut, trim and shape the fresh supplies of timber into furniture that seems to far surpass the love and quality of the flat-packed furniture that I am so reliant upon at home. Perhaps in our rush to have everything in an instant in the UK, we haven’t got the time to wait a day or two for someone to make it from scratch. If we did, it would be labelled as ‘bespoke’ and an extra £250 would surely go on the price tag.

Over the course of twenty minutes, drawers, desks, beds, sofa frames and bookshelves emerge from the flurries of activity beneath the ramshackle shelter of tin roofs. Customers come and go, arguing and haggling a more favourable deal, going through a ritual of becoming the carpenters’ enemy for a moment, before parting like brothers.

Meanwhile, a man – a youth really – whom we recognise as being part of a group of bazungu missionaries working in the schools run by the Diocese of Kigezi, spots us and stops to chat. 

If we thought that we looked incongruous, this fellow with his pale skin slowly roasting under the sun, neatly ironed shirt, pressed trousers, tie and polished shoes really stands out. He shares a few tips with us as to where to eat in the area – apparently if you compliment this one guy’s chips he’ll give you a free coke. It being a bit early, we decide to not to test this theory for now and he heads off on his way, realising that he is running a bit behind schedule to take the P3 class out for PE.

Walking along a little further, heading towards the Kigezi High School playing fields, we pass more workshops and rarely pass a building where there is no activity. There is seemingly a business everywhere you turn; ranging from the relatively grand scale of the carpentry workshops to sole women, babies on their backs, frying freshly prepared food outside the front of their buildings to be sold to hungry workers.

Far from being a place to fear, this is a place to live and to explore further.

The Austerity Olympics by Janie Hampton

Cover image © Aurum Press.

Having moved to one of London’s Olympic boroughs during the 2012 Olympics, it has been hard to escape London 2012 fever. Indeed, it has even affected me and I am now the proud owner of a road bike in my vain attempt to be like Bradley Wiggins. 

With the infection still coursing through my veins, I stumbled upon Janie Hampton’s The Austerity Olympics: When the Games Came to London in 1948 whilst wandering through a Waterstones in Cardiff. 

The book tells a tale of striking contrasts and remarkable similarities with the 2012 games. Sebastian Coe, who was seemingly everywhere before, during and after London 2012, sets the tone in his foreword to the book, stating, “That London managed to stage the 1948 Olympic Games so soon after the Second World War is remarkable enough.” 

The most heart-warming thing about this book is in its tales of a much simpler time. A time where amongst the bomb damage of the WWII, young boys would sit looking wistful outside a stadium in the hope that someone would get them in. A time when the athletes had to bring their own towels and British men’s team got a pair of complimentary underpants. Despite this the press then were just as cynical and prone to a spot of doom-mongering before the event started as their modern counterparts!

From the annals of Olympic history, Janie Hampton brings to life a world getting back on its feet and rejecting the fascist fervour and the failed Aryan idealism of the previous games in Berlin, 1936. This was a time where amateurism meant just that (in most cases) and consequently the world trained its eyes on athletic ‘housewives’ such as The Netherlands’ Fanny Blankers-Koen – although only 10% of the athletes competing in 1948 were women. 

A good deal of the book is given over to the behind the scenes action as well as the action on the track and field, in the pool, ring or velodrome. We hear about the athletes' rations of a cheese sandwich, apple and a boiled egg, amusingly accompanied by a photo of two female athletes, one Argentinean, one Austrian, inspecting their lunch with bemused expressions. It is perhaps not surprising then to read that different nations brought extra food with them.

Also interesting is the politicking that went on behind the scenes. The world after WWII looked a lot different and some nations were notable in their absence. Germany was one of these nations, along with Japan, who were diplomatically not included. There is a poignant reminder that many athletes who competed in 1936 were no not longer around to compete in 1948, some having died in Nazi concentration camps. Add to this that Israel didn’t get an invite, as they didn’t yet have an Olympic committee, and Ireland kept falling out over the insistence of the Organising Committee of referring to them as Éire.

Overall, prhaps the best thing about Austerity Olympics is that it manages to piece together a very complex tapestry of divergent individuals’ narratives, and a mountain of factual information, and make it genuinely engaging at the same time. Switching between microscopic focus and looking at the bigger picture means that the tales are never boring. 

A great read for the post-Olympic hangover.

Iglesia de San Pedro, Gijón, Spain

The church of San Pedro, overlooking Gijón's long bay, in the Asturias region of Spain. 

On the last Saturday of September, I was fortunate enough to be strolling along the long sweeping sands of Gijón's largest beach. My friend was getting married in the Iglesia de San Pedro later in the day and consequently an area of Spain I had perviously no knowledge of was opened up to me.

The wedding was simply fantastic. The ceremony started at around 8pm and the festivities, for me at least, finished around 4.30am. There was great food, great wine and even better company, all from the beautiful art deco setting of the yacht club on Avenue de La Salle that overlooks the bay.

Gijón is a gem of a place, with its sidrería's, fantastic and reasonably-priced seafood, and generally laid-back vibe. On the strength of this short three-day visit I am sure to be returning there - frankly I think I could happily live there!