The Lowell Courtney Travel Blog

Northern Gales

For the non-golfers amongst you, I apologise if this piece is a lamb in a hyena's clothing (or something of that ilk) but please bear with me. Rather like Sutter's Mill, there's a little more than rock there.

I went "tae the gowf" this morning. Now this doesn't mean that I have been on the pills. Haven't time for them, as you know. Mind you, a UK government drugs adviser was sacked this week for opining that, statistically speaking, ecstasy was less dangerous than horse-riding. I was about to relate this with glee to Mrs C, who had just fallen off a horse for the first time in her nascent equestrian career, when I bethought me that her whip could inflict serious fleshly damage, so I desisted.

No, I went golfing this morning with my oldest buddy, the Doc. Now the Doc and I predate the PreCambrian, so the conversation ranges very far and wide. And as the poor man puts in as many hours as God sends him and as many as his very sensible wife will allow, any golfing rendezvous is treated as sacrosanct.  Which is why the club attendant looked somewhat askance when two aquanauts turned up, ready for the fray.

Now you have to understand: the wind - fresh and direct from the Arctic ice cap, 'cos there's nothing between the north coast of Ireland and the pole - was screaming off the sea at 35 mph, 45 mph in the squalls.  The foam was flying over the first fairway from the whitecaps, all of whom were auditioning for a part as extras in the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie - the one set at Cape Horn, that is - and hitting a ball required X-ray vision if, like me, you wear glasses.

Still, a teetime is a teetime. As Tiger so sagely observed: It is what it is. And, being Ulster Scots, we are what we are.  A recent tragicomic TV documentary about the role of Calvinism in Scottish Presbyterianism does much to explain the gift of guilt which is our birthright. And as for the frivolous concept of having "fun", that's the spiritual equivalent of Oliver Twist daring to say: Please sir, can I have some more?  So we amused ourselves greatly - whilst leaning at 45 degrees into the wind on the first green - with the idea that driving rain and screaming winds were conclusive proof that fun was most definitely not on the divine "Things to do today" postit flapping on the door of the heavenly refrigrerator.

And yet - it was fun. For blindingly obvious reasons, we had the place to ourselves: now you know why there was only one twoball at the Royal Garden of Eden Golf Resort and Country Club. And as we climbed the hill, the rain stopped for a while, the sun lit up the headland and we had an uninterrupted 50 mile panorama from Inishowen in County Donegal to Islay in the Hebrides. Said the Doc: There's loads of people passing by who would think that we're mad to be out here.  Sez I: There's wards full of people who would give every penny to be out here with us.

It is what it is. We are who we are. And thank God for both.

Golf in an Irish Lake

 

 

For those of you familiar with the Arthurian legend, the Lady in the Lake extends her arm with the sword Excalibur attached. For those of you more familiar with the dark potions of Arthur (Guinness), the lady in this particular lake might well appear bearing a finely-crafted 56 degree lob wedge.

 

Now I know it’s the end of the season but we haven’t all gone mad. Yet. And whilst the title of this piece does not refer to skimming balls over water – tho’ that’s an option, folks – what I really mean in golf in, around and beside the spectacular beauty of Lower Lough Erne in county Fermanagh in Northern Ireland.

 

Yes, I know you haven’t a clue where it lies so go on, get out the map of Ireland. Look in the upper left hand corner and you’ll see two lakes near the border between north and south. Yes, that’s the border no-one notices any more, unless you’ve come up for the month’s groceries ‘cos they’re 25% cheaper. Now, on the left hand, or upper lake (that’s why it’s called Lower Lough Erne) you will see a town called Enniskillen. About 5 miles from there lies Ireland’s answer to Sawgrass. Would I lie to you?

 

Now, my three regular readers - plus my fellow Americans who make up the turf-cutting pondlife of our transatlantic golf tourism - all know that, as a true, unimaginative Ulster Scot, I do not do wild enthusiasm.  I do not personalise or eulogise courses or soi disant poseurs (that’s enough culture for today) who raucously proclaim themselves to be the “most exciting development” since Hillary and Tensing laid out the tentative, if slippery, first nine near the Rombok monastery below Everest.

 

But I have been alternately charmed and terrorised by the Faldo championship course at the Lough Erne Golf Resort. Armed only with a half set, an upside down map and ably abetted by my ever faithful spouse who doubles as caddy/coach/psychologist and retriever of flung clubs, I have metaphorically staggered my way (yes, on foot) round this magnificent course.

 

And “stupendous” would be an understatement. At 6,700 yards from the blues – and by God, sir, I now know the meaning of same ‘cos I have paid my dues in full – and a dreadful 7,200 from the blacks, this is one hell of a course. It would be an impertinence to suggest that local millionaire Jim Treacy set out on an R T Jones style quest to create the golf course without equal – and five star hotel with all the accoutrements on the side – but if he and his people can see it through, I can assure you that he will leave a wonderful inland legacy to complement the links jewels in the crown of golf in the north part of this island.

 

From the moment you walk across the narrow neck of Castle Hume Lough to the first tee, you begin to understand that this is a place of biblical proportions. There are more carries across water than Moses in his basket; it takes an epic leap of faith to trust your line and club on many holes and it certainly helps to be able to walk on water in the closing stretch. Three carries into the wind; three tees where humming the chorus of the old Methodist faithful “Trust and Obey” might do more good than David Leadbetter; three silent prayers of deliverance.

 

The first four are merely a warm up: two short fours, a pitch and a straightforward five. Then it’s: “Are you sitting comfortably ? Cos here comes Johnnnny!” A 175 yard, all carry smash to a green exquisitely sited beside the hotel so that the guests can watch you floating or floundering. With pin positions which leave you no get-out from behind.

 

And then it’s up a ski slope to the 6^th tee, where the true, achingly beautiful panorama of the lakes, the hills and the skies disguise the fact that you are about to boldly go into the first of four monstrous par fives (holes 6, 9, 14 and 16) and three more truly devilish par threes (holes 13, 15 and 18). It’s only later that you notice that, unlike many, many courses, the par fours come as a little light relief.

 

I’ll not bore you with the detail – you must come and see this for yourself – but the course jogs back and forward between the lake and the woods.  It may appear tricksy in places but it isn’t – it has been designed to make you think your way round in spades.  You can score with caution – but you can overdo conservatism. You can risk it all – and lose – but if you make the carry, what an achievement!

 

In short, dear people: this is one of those rarest of courses and resorts, in the loveliest and not quite remotest of settings, for good roads link Enniskillen to Belfast and Dublin airports and they will be much better roads in two years’ time.  This is the only new course which has ever put me in mind of Castlerosse’s words to Henry Longhurst in the 1930’s, when he was using his family estate to build the wonderful course that is Killarney: “We could build the loveliest course in the world here.”

 

Lough Erne is a modern Killarney.  The hills are not mountains – but the course is just a wonder and the hotel is genuine five star.  When our present financial troubles are seen for what they are – a cyclical bump – then come, come and see and play it for yourself and enjoy. Oh, do enjoy.

Horse Feathers

As readers of a certain vintage will see, I am indebted to Marx for the title. As a noted trade unionist began at an 80's labour conference: "Comrades, as Marx once said: we started with nothing and worked our way up to extreme poverty. That was Groucho, not Karl." And I allude to this movie because I got on a horse for the first time in 50 years yesterday.

It is all too fashionable these days to talk about "trauma" and its long-term effects. Well yes, ladies and gentlemen, as a fine cook's apron has it: "Shitake Happens". So the fact that I first got on a horse at the age of eight, promptly fell off and decided that this was a mug's game has nothing whatsoever to do with trauma. (Neither has the fact that in the intervening fifty years I have also been orphaned, bullied, shot at, divorced and assaulted by visigoths on a rugby field.) It happened - end of story.

Now one of the vicarious bonusses of having been a teacher in a vocational school is that many of your ex-pupils have gone into a wonderful range of businesses, matters equine being but one of them. And I am deeply indebted to Michelle Smith and her husband Stephen who run a fine stables in deepest county Tyrone. Michelle was in my second ever class and had to suffer my eccentricites whilst I learnt the business of teaching. I am surprised - and deeply grateful - that she does not hold it against me.

Nonetheless, it was with a smidgeon of trepidation that I remounted, though the passing years have diminished my ability to swing my weary bones over anybody or anything. Indeed, "mounting" is a fine way of saying that Stephen threw me up on the horse and I'm very indebted to all parties - and particularly the horse - that I didn't fly straight over and measure my length on the concrete.

Now those of you who are regular riders will think nothing of the following - it will be as old hat to you as an NFL helmet.  But what strikes the newcomer is the tremendous feeling of altered perception from horseback. No longer are you the footsoldier but the cavalry; you are the aristocracy when your eyes are suddenly an extra six feet from the ground. And secondly, you are immediately and intensely aware that whatever control you may exercise over any machine with hand and foot and eye, you are most certainly now working with and utterly dependent upon another creature - and woe betide you if he or she decides on a policy of non-cooperation. At best, you will be motionless; at worst, you'll be collecting air miles with surprising speed.

I am reliably informed by my horse-riding spouse that I looked nervous.  So would you, sunshine, if you realised that half a ton of animal could throw you further than a well-tossed six pack.  Not that I had any cause to be nervous, as Michelle led the horse from start to finish. But the whole experience was a wonderful insight into the miracle of man and animal working together. And a gentle reminder of the therapy with which animals unwittingly anoint stressed-out humans.  As a complete novice, I caught only a glimmer of why people like horses. Whether the feeling is mutual is a moot point. I can only imagine the yard conversation last night: "How was today, kid?" "You wouldn't believe it - I had this complete idiot who couldn't have turned a table mat."

Either way, it was a wonderful morning.  Unlike matters mechanical, I did not feel divorced from the workings of my transport of delight.  You knew instantly that you would feel the horse's moves - and vice-versa. It was like a two part harmony, even if one of us was seriously off-key.  It was a terrific reminder of how much we miss by ignoring our oldest friends and of how much we gain by working with them. 

And how many of us can genuinely say that our cars have distinct personalities, whether for better or worse?  I know that horses are expensive to maintain; I know that "dude ranching" is a joke to many but, believe me, this was fun.

If

My ever literate readers will recognise the title of this piece instantly.  It may be fashionable to decry Kipling as the arch-imperialist (funny how we don't hear that being shouted ad nauseam outside US embassies these days) but I was reading a collection of pieces by one of Britain's best commentators    (A A Gill of the Sunday Times) and he was full of admiration that Kipling had spent months working on that killer title: "Just So."

And my sporting - or at least sporty - readers will know that two lines from Kipling adorn the gates of Wimbledon: "If you can meet with triumph and disaster/ And treat those two impostors just the same". This very sentiment could now be fitting for my friends (and they are many, thank God) in the US. To paraphrase: " If you can meet with bull runs and recession/ And deal those two deceivers the same hand".

I have just returned from my annual schmoozefest in parts east of the Mississippi and, whilst I detect an inevitable nervousness re: the economy and an equally unavoidable disillusion with the President, nonetheless I have been at pains to reassure my associates on both sides of the Atlantic that Armageddon can wait for a while yet. The darkest hour is always just before dawn and I sense that, hard as this downturn has hit everyone - from high to low - the bounce back has also begun.

Having the dubious distinction of having survived at least three previous recessions, I can assure you that the end is far from nigh. People will always want to trade - it's in our genes. And the more enterprising amongst us will adapt faster and set off on a new path. And for those of you who think that the years preclude a new departure, let me cheer you with the thought that you are now equipped with a carapace of experience and savoir faire which not even the mightiest of twenty-something geeks can boast.

Oh yes - and one further consolation for my contemporaries: I saved $6 last weekend by buying my first ever senior's ticket to a soccer match. Of course I was annoyed that the nice lady at the turnstile didn't query my eligibility; of course I was disheartened by the onrushing years but, folks, $6 is $6. And in that spirit, my friends, I enjoin you: Onwards and upwards.

The ultimate insult - banks

No, this is not a rant about the self-annointed Jedi who have resumed their lordly ways with our resources.  This morning's press reports that house inquiries emanating from gs.com (Goldman Sachs to you and me, peasant) are rising. No big deal - governments will not regulate the very banks who keep them afloat in a fiscal danse macabre.  No - what I am after are your everyday retail banks who take a week to clear a cheque.

Brushing aside their asinine protestations and hypocritical "customer charters", let us rewrite the true guide to retail banking, which might go something like this:

"Good afternoon, sucker." That piece of courtesy is all you are going to get out of us and we'll add the cost of it to your 'account maintenance fees'. Now that we have established that this is going to be strictly one-way traffic, we're up and running. Don't bother paying attention - we know much more than you. Always and forever.

You are paying in a cheque.  This is good - we need a laugh this afternoon, after a day of dealing with half wits who think that we can be trusted with their funds. The second you present this cheque - or any other negotiable instrument, for that matter - we will immediately and irrevocably debit the payee's account and transfer the funds to - no, not you, stupid - ourselves.

We will then play with your funds - and those of the other thousands who are stupid enough to do likewise - on the money market. If we win, we keep the profits as bonuses. If we lose, you pay, either as a shareholder, a taxpayer or an unsecured creditor. You don't understand? Oh goody. You are tail-end charlie, pal, back of the line.

After about a week - or as many working days as only we, the masters of the universe, see fit - we may deign to actually credit your account. Yes, I know we can move trillions in a fraction of a second but you, you see, are a pain because we have to waste time actually talking to you and dealing with your petty pennies.  You are really a massive overhead and you cost us a fortune in staff time. This is why we have to charge you 'account maintenance fees''

You don't like it? Try any of our competitors and you'll find that they are just the same.  Still don't like it? Read all 375 closely printed pages of our Customer Charter and we think you'll find that our terms and conditions of business cover everything. Good afternoon."

Now I wouldn't really mind if I got a bank statement like that because at least, for once, they'd be telling the truth, inconceivable as that might be.  And I suspect that there are many, many intelligent and long-suffering customers who feel likewise. The phrase "caveat investor" might well have been invented for us. 

It seems to me that any business which "fronts up" with its clients is destined to do somewhat better than Messrs Lehman & co. The BBC have just run a magnificent three part series on last year's banking crash called "The Love of Money".  Do catch it, if you can.  At one revealing moment, Mervyn King, the Governor of the Bank of England, makes the less than earth-shattering observation that the banking system is built upon the foundation of confidence.

Just a pity that he left out the word "trick".

Ireland's best golf deals

Good morning, fellow addicts of the greensward. This one is strictly for you so would all non-golfers please go back to whatever sensible things you were doing and stop wasting the firm's time - or your own. Thank you.

Ladies and gentlemen, now that the autumn/fall is upon us - the season of various cups and comps -it would be remiss of me if I did not bring to your attention a couple of super deals which I know to be better value for money than any government bonds.

You may have noticed that the number of US visitors to Ireland has plummeted this year.  It is a source of great amusement to those of us both long in the tooth and short in faith in government stats that the Irish Central Statistical Office maintains the fiction that US arrivals have only dropped by 2%. Sure - if you include all the US troops en route to Iraq and Afghanistan.

Anyway, our golf clubs have belatedly woken up to the fact that the party is over and have begun to offer some decent bargains.  For example, you can play Ballybunion, Tralee and Waterville for 290 euros ($430).  With bargain air fares starting at around $450 return - or so we have been informed by some savvy travellers - this is a deal.

But I would draw your attention to a couple of tourneys in these parts which are well worth your consideration. On Oct 7, 8 and 9, Ballyliffin, Portstewart and Royal Portrush are offering a 54 hole amateur tournament - The Great North Links Challenge.  The entry fee of 150 euros ($225) is a bargain. The normal fee for Royal Portrush is £125 ($195) alone and the three links courses are some of the best in Ireland.  If you were to combine this with Royal Co Down and County Louth (Baltray), a flight into Belfast and out of Dublin (Continental have a splendid service) you would be on to a winner.

The other competition is the 40 year old tourney which has been through more incarnations than Exxon.  It has always been sponsored by a drinks company and has been variously known as the Remy Martin and the Black Bush (as in Bushmills Whiskey) and is now sponsored by Tullamore Dew. The format has never changed, however. Played over Portstewart, Castlerock, Rathmore (neighbour to Royal Portrush) and Ballycastle, the competitor plays four out of five days from Monday to Friday of the second week in June.

The Tullamore Dew is one of the oldest and best supported of Ireland's amateur competitions - thank the Lord for Mr Stableford! The entry fee for 2010 is £180 (around $300) and this gives you four practice rounds and four competition rounds on four excellent links courses.  Even allowing for air fares and bed and breakfast accommodation, this is remarkable value.  Entry is limited to 850 and there are no domestic/international quotas. You are free to enter as an individual or as a team and every night brings various social activities, culminating in the Friday night prizegiving.

The dates for 2010 are Monday 7 to Friday 11 June and info will shortly be available at www.causewaycoastgolf.com  I could not recommend this tournament highly enough. It brings together golfers from all over the civilised world and whether you shoot 70 or 120, you will be in good company.

David Gosden

Virtually all of you who happen upon this piece will have no idea who David Gosden was but equally, nearly all of you will understand implicitly that he must have been special to justify this valedictory.

I first met David and Jenny – oh, it must be all of 20 years ago. I was doing my best as a single father but Ian must have been at his granny’s one May evening when I wandered into the caravan park beside our terrace. It was certainly early in the season as there was only one small campervan – it wouldn’t have taken up a bedroom in your average RV – parked there.

 

Being a chatty type, I introduced myself to this charming English couple.  He explained that he had just retired from teaching and that they had begun their travels.

So began a friendship of 84 Charing Cross Road proportions.

David was the quintessential English teacher: well-read, well-mannered, well-spoken and with just a hint of delightful eccentricity which distinguishes the craftsman from the tinkerer.

We exchanged Christmas cards and then letters. But there was nothing anodyne about our correspondence. Oh yes, we detailed our comings and goings but it was only when I revealed that I was studying to be a Local Preacher that we really got into top gear.  David was a lapsed believer and had become a fully paid up atheist, whilst at the same time remaining a member of the Hymn Writers Society of Great Britain to the very end.

This ability to live perfectly at ease with both the devil and the deep blue sea was typical of the wealth of character which is required to reconcile extremes – and David was a millionaire in that regard.  And he always, without fail, expressed his lamentations at my pedestrian faith in the kindest and gentlest of terms, like Socrates gently explaining to one of his pupils that some things were best left in the Attica.

The wonderful thing about our correspondence was that one would fire off one’s intemperate opinions on the latest financial or political or moral folly – and hear nothing for 5 or 6 months. But when you came home from a hard day at the chalk face and found that familiar spidery writing on the mat, you knew it was time to put the lad to bed, open a beer, turn off all distractions and just enjoy the sheer scale of his erudition and the gentle humour of his argument, always couched in pantechnicons of politeness.

And in turn, I think that he liked to receive a good Ulster Scots rant, knowing, as I did, that the rocks were rolling over a  seabed of shared values - values which have stood the trials of many generations.

In our latter years, we both discovered the attractions of email and yet the correspondence continued in its same leisurely pace and tone.  Visits were few and far between. I called once or twice in Southsea; we hooked up the odd time I was examining in Guildford – but we both knew that the next email would have some intellectual twist or abstruse inquiry, often hidden like a solitary seed in the ripe fruit of a dissertation upon Welsh hymnwriters in his case and on German tourists in mine.

And the occasional phone call would be treated with the same delight as an invitation to accept an award.  I will always hear him exclaim: “My dear chap, how very kind of you to call. What can I do for you?”

My good pal David Gosden passed away this June.  His last – typical – email apologised for being unable to join me in Guildford and, in true Captain Oates fashion, regretted that our correspondence was unlikely to continue.

To say that he was a gentleman and a scholar is to devalue both the expression and the man. David was a gentleman in every respect known to mankind – and then some.  His breadth of learning was immense and his careful and disciplined dissemination of that knowledge impeccable.

To Jenny, my deepest condolences. To David: you didn’t waste a second, my man. You thought you had retired from teaching when we first met.  In the intervening 20 years, you shared a treasury with me, and I am forever in your debt.

Go in peace, my friend.

One has misplaced one’s culture

Herself and I were in London recently. Now you may be thinking: London, July, warm weather, floaty dresses and the like – musta got the summons to the Palace.  Sadly – and possibly mercifully, no. Madame was working for that fine institution, the British Council, and your scribe was merely the bag carrier, ice fetcher, taxi hailer and charged with other menial tasks as befits a late middle-aged male in this Amazonian society of ours.

Which brings me to the title of this piece.  I’m sure it’s just the ageing process and a quiescent descent into GOM (Grumpy Old Man) status but I couldn’t help but notice that the world which I once inhabited has somehow slipped away into another time-space dimension whose whereabouts are either only open to initiates of Hogwarts or some whiz internet fraudster in Tajikistan.

When I was a child, a trip to London was the journey to the centre of the earth: you were in a place of power, influence and men in pinstripe suits who greeted you courteously by lifting their bowlers.  Unlike their financial grandchildren, if they fleeced you, at least they did it with impressive courtesy – and certainly not to excess, leaving you feeling both materially and emotionally impoverished.

Now the only propriety you will find is an orthographically challenged developer – and they are pretty thin on the ground at the moment.  But lest you think that this is an anti-immigrant diatribe (and we know all about tribes in these parts, believe me), let me reassure you that it is nothing of the sort.

London has worked its wonderful magic – as it always has, as maybe all metropolises do – on the latest waves of incomers.  Stand on Waterloo Bridge of a morning and watch the tsunami of office workers, cleaners, plumbers, receptionists and all the other folk who keep the city afloat.  Almost without exception and regardless of colour, creed or culture, they will step quietly around you, offer helpful directions and be the embodiment of courtesy.

Then take yourself the short distance down the Strand to Trafalgar Square and observe the maelstrom of tourists who scream jocular greetings to one another; flagrantly toss litter aside like a failed marriage and who will mow you down like a squadron of Tiger tanks.  These tourist Taleban feel that it is their god-given right – nay, god-given duty – to impose their culture upon yours.

Not for them any thought of others. No burdensome consideration that the rest of patient humanity might be scrabbling to earn a crust – or even in these recessionary times – a crumb.  Free from the constraints which keep lewd behaviour in check at home, they are free as the pigeons to fly where they want, land where they wish and generally foul the pavements to their hearts’ content.

But woe betide you if you assume reciprocatory rights in Rome, to pluck an example from the air.  The scooters may be whizzing to the left and the right of you but as far as culture is concerned, it’s one way traffic.  Step on their patch at your peril and you become the pigeon waiting to be plucked. 

The stats guys will tell you that Britain has a surplus in the tourism balance of trade – not on the streets it doesn’t, gentlemen.  Perhaps it’s history’s revenge for a century of soi disant English superiority but I fear for the long-term resentment which is accruing on the debit side of the ledger.  To presume upon the patience of Middle England would be the cultural equivalent of a bungee leap supported by a chain of knotted sheets and a couple of old rubber bands.

The title of this piece probably lies in Michael Moore’s “Hey dude, where’s my country?”  Clearly, I am far from being that species of political animal but there is a connecting thread, even if, to return to the garden party, one has to imagine Her Majesty inquiring plaintively about the location of one’s way of life.

It just seems to me that trying to smother the quintessential English staple fare of “musn’t grumble” and “muddling through, old boy” with an exotic and spicy sauce which only works in its own climate is to create an unpalatable and most unappetising stew.  A concoction which will revisit sooner, rather than later.

After all, one does not venture into the United States and demand that every one of one’s hosts speaks one’s English, does one?

The world's great Tinkers

I'm afraid you'll have to pronounce the title stage Oirish if the rest is going to make sense but, working on the safer than the Titanic hypothesis that my five educated readers have done so, we're off and running.

Re-reading my previous paean of praise to the industry in our garden, it occurred to me that I was about to wax (ah! the pun is mightier than the swearword) lyrical about "my" bees.  Clearly, any notion of possession is mad - but then it's no madder than some of the beliefs which have either ruined man's behaviour or, more likely, provided a Godiva-like cloak for his greed and violence. No madder than the average mullah, certainly.

And so I began to ruminate on the various theories and philosophies which have grown, flourished and withered in their turn, though the blood which they have spilled can ne'er be rebottled. Now, I would not have you think that I am a total utilitarian, dear reader (if such there be). But it does need to be asked: did "Cogito, ergo sum" improve the lot of your average medieval peasant - or did the Black Death do a much better job of driving up wages?

Did Kant's "Critique of pure reason", fun read as it may be, actually produce a better road surface or did the unlettered James Mcadam deliver the goods, after a fashion?  We all "know" the many blessings and welfare which Marx and his crazed disciples brought to their fellow man but does post-modernism feed the kids when you are unemployed and in negative equity?

And it occurred to me in another reflective monent that the more "powers and principalities", as the AV neatly puts it, laud and lard themselves with vainglorious titles, the more sure is their demise.  For example - purely at random, you understand - let us take those two fine bastions of liberty and excellent welfare: the Democratic Republic of Korea and the Islamic Republic of Iran.

God knows what Kim Jong Il or Him Wrong Will or whatever calls himself but I'll bet it's something along the lines of Dear Blessed Leader. Sounds like the form of address found in emails promising untold riches from a sadly deceased west African finance minster (if we could just have your bank account details, please.)  And I note with interest that the Ayatollah (Tollah than whom - your average jockey?) modestly calls himself The Supreme Leader. No, really.

History is littered with idiots whose linguistic excess perfectly matched their capacity for destruction. One thinks with fondness of Mao, The Great Helmsman, whose pursuit of power steered over 25 million (give or take a million) to a premature death. And it just niggles me that many of these "leaders"  base their claim to authority upon an unholy wedlock of soon-outdated speculation and never in short suppy evil.  As the recent scandal about the ludicrous expenses claimed by British MPs of all parties has neatly demonstrated, letting people decide for themselves, in fact forcing people to think for themselves is the rock on which demagogues founder, as will be evidenced in due course.

In contrast, there is the rock of ages, in which you can chose to believe - or not. It's your choice. And perhaps one should be mightily grateful for same. Allowing the self-appointed "elite" to tinker with your desire to live your life in the manner of The Great Commandment just strikes me as plain reckless.

Good beehaviour

Yes, I know that I am one of many orthographically challenged. My feeble excuse is that it is the mark of an experienced teacher when your spelling goes to hell. I should know - lifting my 1976 Chambers dictionary from floor to laptop provides my daily workout. But read on.

Like my regular readership of 4 - now 5, I am reliably informed - I have been toiling away at keeping the greying head above the flood waters of recession.  I have been touring Ireland, visiting golf courses as remote as Ballyliffin and Waterville - just God's little joke to put the best courses at the ends of the earth.  I have been trying to inform, educate and entertain some bemused visitors in various languages and I have been marking ("grading" to you, ma'am) some senior tourism papers, the highlight of which was the information that "the Channel Tunnel runs directly from London to Paris."

And I have been delighted and immensely cheered these past two days by  three things: a group of senior citizens, a couple from Tennessee and the bees in our back garden. To wit: I had the undiluted pleasure of touring with 50 senior citizens - "recycled teenagers" as one wag put it - from the north east of Scotland, Peterhead direction, to be precise.  In contrast to the surliness of youth and the temperament of middle age, these good folk were a pure pleasure to accompany.

Not only did they have the good sense to stay on the north coast, thereby saving me a 120 mile round trip every day, they did not attempt to see the entire country in 48 hours.  They left me to plan their days out in such a way that I could bring them to the nooks and crannies of three counties which most tourists never see because they will not dedicate the necessary time and besides, Rick Steves doesn't mention it, so it's not worth seeing. Really.

Thus I was able to patronise (hence the crooks and nannies) the delightful Ulster American Folk Park and the Glenariff Tea House and was able to show off the best of counties Antrim, Derry and Tyrone to our guests. But what really made my days was their attitude.  None of the foot-stomping, tongue wagging and clockwatching petulance of their younger counterparts but a care and concern for one another and the God-given ability to laugh at themselves - in spades. People, I thank you. If the me-generation begat the I-pod generation then the "may I?" generation beats you hands down every time.

And on that score, another thank you to a couple from Knoxville who are much too modest to be named. I played Portrush and Portstewart with himself - at least I did till my calf muscle exploded 6 holes out - and he was southern manners exemplified, as was his good lady, who not only took the time and trouble to arrange very personal and appropriate gifts for my wife but who wrote the nicest possible "thank you" note.  Consideration personified.

And finally, to the bees. We have been having a great spell of weather recently and it has been my pleasure, after a long day looking after others, to indulge myself with a beer and a leisurely contemplation of the wonderful purple-headed shrubs (hebes?) which Carol has produced in our back yard. And I have been watching the bees working away.  I am told that there is great concern in GB that the bee population may suddenly drop dramatically and pollination may do likewise.

Well, I can assure you that our bees are alive and well and beeavering away in these recessionary times. And what cheers me up is that they quietly get on with it; they don't interrupt another at work, they don't swarm round the photocopier; they return again and again to each flowerhead until they are done and they leave me alone as I leave them alone.

I can hear my readership buzzing ahead of me as I write - if homo sapiens could manage even the half of that, we'd all be flying, wouldn't we?