Islands...

Islands are funny places. Somehow the fact of separation - even the narrowest of ditches - creates a difference. Some sort of bloody-mindedness takes over - them folk from the mainland with their fancy, funny ways are despised, rejected as not appreciating the specialness of the island.

I'm not talking about islands so big someone can spend their whole life on them without appreciating the separation. These are small islands - places where you can walk to the edge, look out over the water and see the divide, the water that makes you particular.

The character of the island seeps into the spirit of those living there - always an aloofness, an isolation. But otherwise the island's nature sets the tone. Folk are argumentative, muddy-booted and contrary - ready to defend another islander (albeit a mortal enemy) from mainlander barbs. Some are rugged, windswept and self-reliant while another set seem welcoming but in a way that gives nothing to the visitor beyond bodily needs plus maybe a smile.

Whether it is Sheppey, Wight, the Scillys, Ynys Mon or some rainspattered Hebridean place, the island character will out - that sense of being apart, of being other than grand folk in cities on the mainland. Isolated, cut off, independent.

I like that.

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Random thoughts from a five hour homeward journey...

The snow arrived - or more to point, the really big snow arrived - in Yorkshire. And the result of this is both good and bad. A five hour journey home is part of the bad and the sight of the front door at the end of those five hours is definitely good!

The white blanket covers up all the sharp edges of Yorkshire and heightens the beauty of the place. People go a little slower - sometimes with a little grumble but just as often with a smile as they enjoy the snow. Kids throw snowballs around, build snowmen, sledge and show the excitement we all remember from our own childhood that comes from the sight of snow. No sane 10 year old will be able to stay in the house with the snow around! And because the children are loving the snow....

....we love the snow!

But with this wonder goes 'snowcopolypse' - grid lock on all the roads, a spate of accidents large and small. Every emergency siren in the land seems to be going off as cops and paramedics scuttle across the whitened landscape. People get cold, wet, irritated and angry as the snow disrupts their plans - even plans as mundane as getting home at a reasonable time for once. Trips to the pictures are cancelled, the meal out with the parents-in-law is postponed and the Christmas shopping will have to wait for another day (although heaven knows when that will be given all the other stuff we've to do before the day). It's inconvenient, annoying, cold, disrupting and because those around us are grumbling, griping and moaning about the snow....

....we hate the snow!

But wait one further moment, there's another little bit of this tale to tell. Picture the scenes - real scenes...

Cemetery Road, Bradford with traffic struggling up the hill towards Lidget Green. Sliding around the road, some struggling to get any purchase at all. And folk come to push the cars - first it's people from behind in the queue who, I guess, have an interest in getting the traffic moving! But then people come out of the houses - there's half-a-dozen teenage Asian lads (the sort we more normally associate with less thoughtful acts) all be-hoodied. There are women wielding shovels and scattering salt. I didn't see carpet pieces but it wouldn't surprise me to see those as well.

These people didn't have to do this. They could have stayed snug and warm in their houses with a mug of tea and whatever they fancy on the telly. But they chose not to - instead they stepped out into the cold and helped people. Indeed, they helped people they'd never seen before and will probably never see again.

Some good things come from bad weather.

I really like the snow - even when it takes five hours to get home - it brings out the best in us.

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Thoughts following Remembrance in Wilsden

Each year Wilsden Main Street is closed for an hour so we can hold a remembrance service at the War Memorial. And at that service, the Chairman of the Village Society reads out the names of those listed on the memorial.

In one respect this is just a list of 50 or so names and it’s easy to find the recitation dull. Yet these names are of men who died in those two great 20th Century Wars – wars of survival for our freedom, culture and independence. Remembering their sacrifice is the least we can do.

This year, however, I noticed something else. The familiarity of those names – Firth, Ackroyd, Miles, Robertshaw, Lund, Binns – these are local names. I meet every day with people from those very families and it reminds me of the scale of the sacrifice – the effect of the loss on small communities like Wilsden. It wasn’t just that men died but that the scale of death affected everyone, every family and every street.

It seems to me significant that children in Wilsden can be taken to the memorial and shown the name of someone who died for their freedom. Not just a random name but a real name – maybe someone from their family but certainly a name they will know, a name their neighbour or their school friend shares. A real reminder of the price of freedom.

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