Lost and found in cyberspace.

I had a bit of a techno-nightmare last night. After spending several hours writing the previous post, I hit "Publish". Then, with an idea in my head, I set about starting another post - who knows whether it will materialise now. The previous post had been open in more than one tab in Firefox, in draft form. I closed the one in which I'd completed it and switched to the other tab, which was presumably no longer necessary. I cut the text from the input box leaving it apparently a pristine input page and started putting down some ideas. It was time for bed by this time, so with a few notes written, I hit save and returned to the front page to admire my work. The post that I'd seen only minutes previously had gone, replaced by my new notes. I was fairly pleased with my post and it had taken several hours over three days to write, it couldn't be repeated.

Frantically, I searched for some kind of archive on Blogger but found that my post had been erased from history. Not quite panicking yet, I thought "Google caches everything". There's no getting away from it, when you put something online it's there forever. My post had only been online for a couple of minutes though, so this would test that hypothesis.

I could remember the title and certain snippets of the text so I googled on or other of them. I must admit, I felt pretty pleased with myself when Google graciously threw up a hit. Great. Follow the link and I'll get a nice copy of the page from which to rebuild the original.

"The page you requested no longer exists"

"Shit!"

But it existed somewhere even though Google didn't seem to be offering me the option of a cached version. So I copied and pasted the end of the excerpt presented by the search engine into the search pane to see what I'd get. I got slightly more of the same sentence. I was encouraged. It must all be out there, but it was going to take time.

Slowly, bit by bit, I added different search terms and keywords, and bolted sentences and paragraphs together like a jigsaw puzzle. By running directly from one sentence to the next, within quotes, I could be sure that I'd got the order right and eventually I had what I think is the whole original text, possibly with one sentence missing. I'm sorry, you'll have to put up with that.

All in, it took me about two and a half hours to recover the 800 word document. Frustrating since it must all be out there somewhere in one piece, but my priority was to get it back quickly in case it could somehow disappear entirely, not to investigate further ways of working the web.

So, I worked for that post and didn't get to bed until 2.30am. But I exercised my problem solving brain to get it back which I have to admit I quite enjoyed. So read it, and hopefully appreciate it.

My journey, diverted.

Spring is well and truly here and it is good. It is my first real spring in 10 years. Nothing compares to an English spring, certainly nothing in the tropics where temperature variations are less extreme and the trees hold their leaves year round. The sight of bright green leaves fresh from their buds, unsullied by life's travails never fails to inspire me, as does ancient woodland carpeted with bluebells for a few short weeks in April and May. Visiting as I did in the summers, I had not seen daffodils or bluebells in ten years.

Spring is not the only thing that is here. Rosey is here now too. For the first three weeks she was here, the weather was consistently warm and sunny - with the occasional fog to be burnt off in the morning. So England chose to give her an unrealistic first impression. This has been put right since, at least as far as temperature is concerned, but there have still been few April showers. I hope the weather holds out and gives us a glorious summer, whatever the effect on the lawns and gardens of England.

I cycled home from Shoreham today, taking the Old Shoreham Road around the back of Portslade and Hove to where Dyke Road intersects the bypass. There, I had the choice of whether to go down Mill Road and come straight home up the A23, or to take a longer route via Saddlescombe and Poynings. It's an area that has significant meaning for me, having spent a lot of my formative years building camps in the woods, drinking illicit beers and lighting fires on which we exploded full cans of WD40 (highly flammable aerosol lubricant) and second world war era machine gun bullets we'd found in The Dyke, which was then a military firing range. I occasionally return there, not just because of its personal meaning, but because it is an area of outstanding natural beauty with commanding views across the Weald of Sussex.

So, by the time I reached the junction the decision had already been made subconsciously, regardless of going through the motions. I was going the long route (neurological research suggests that the brain has made decisions before people are consciously aware of it). A few hundred metres later, I had the second decision of whether to ride to the top of the Dyke, or continue straight along the road leading through The Downs to Saddlescombe and Poynings on the far side. There was no going back at this point and I decided to ride on to the top, further diverting from the direct route home. It was a good day for it and when I reached the ridge from where the escarpment drops away to The Weald below, I was not disappointed by what John Constable described as "the grandest view in the world".

From this point, the sensible option for me on my touring bike would be to follow the road that returns to the through route. But I'd already set a precedent for being further distracted and I wasn't going to miss the opportunity to revisit the V shaped cleave in the Downs that is Devil's Dyke.

Devil's Dyke is said to be a trench dug by The Devil with the intention of drowning the God-fearing people of Sussex. God, in his wisdom, gave The Devil one night in which to dig his trench from the sea to The Weald. However an early rising old maid in Poynings lit a candle before dawn, fooling The Devil into thinking his time was up and sending him scuttling off to wherever it is he scuttles off to. So much for the fiendishly clever fallen angel.

In reality, Rick Santorum not withstanding, the Dyke was formed by a combination of thawing snow and running water over 10000 years ago and it is now the longest and deepest dry valley in the UK. More recently, the area around The Dyke has been the site of a funicular railway rising 100m from the village at its foot, a standard gauge railway from Brighton and a cable car crossing the valley.

After the first few metres, the middle of the valley is not enormously steep, but steep and bumpy enough to be riding constantly on my brakes. It would have been a lot of fun on a bike that was designed for that kind of thing.

It took another couple of diversions before I finally made my way home, including a visit to my grandfather's grave for what must be the first time in well over 10 years. It was hard to find the headstone in what is an unfamiliar graveyard and when I did, it was hard to make out the writing beneath the lichen that has colonised it. Life has moved in and moved on in the 25 years it has been there just as the natural processes made the Dyke over time. We return, less frequently over time, but still maintaining the link to our past.

Half way there.

Halfway through the CELTA and it is, as predicted, intensive. It is nice to be challenged, even if being either working or between working (meals, breaks, journeys, semi-productive time) from 7am to past midnight is not really my cup of tea. The people are nice, the group seems to get on well together - who knows whether every group does but I'm glad I've met them - and it's also nice to be working with people with a common aim or interest again.

It's 1am, I've just finished a lesson plan, and I'm getting up in 6 hours. Time for bed. Goodnight.

Getting on with it.

Three days into the CELTA and I'm still alive and less tired than yesterday. Not much time to write but I'll try to knock out one or two posts this month, if only for a little light relief!

Preparing for the off...

I start a CELTA course next Monday. Having initially been cautious about whether the fact that this meant I was no longer looking for full time, permanent work starting ASAP, I'd been coy about letting the jobcentre know until it was all absolutely certain and paid for. It is their job to get you off benefit, not to get you into work - so despite the fact that the course is designed to increase my employability, I was worried they would say I was no longer fulfilling the requirement of being available for work in the run-up to the start of the course. They may have some discretion on this and fortunately, on the day I told them I got the "good cop". I was still available for temporary work so sanity prevailed. Hopefully, by the end of the course, Brighton's language schools will be beating a path to my door wishing to employ me.

I have to admit, I haven't been keeping very conventional hours for the past few months. Our household has always winded down quite late and when my parents go to bed, usually a little after 12, I tend to retreat to my bedroom and enjoy my own private downtime - reading, writing, surfing etc, sometimes not actually sleeping till 2am or later and waking up correspondingly late. With the full time course obligating more regular hours and taking better care of myself, it seemed like a good idea to get into training beforehand.

On Sunday, I went for a bike ride with the cyclist I met on the train the other week. I was a little hesitant to accept his invitation at first. Both my bikes were in bad shape and I was worried they would fail in a way not easily fixable at the side of the road. Of course, there aren't that many things that you can't put right well enough to get you home. I was making excuses. Sometimes you need a kick up the arse to remind you of what you're capable of. Thankfully, I made the right decision.

It wasn't only my bike that was in bad shape, however. I get around on my bike, riding to and from the station at both ends of all my journeys, but I hadn't been on a proper ride for some time. I soon discovered the difference between fit and nearly fit - resistance. It's one thing to be cycling alongside someone at a steady pace on the flat, but it is when you hit a resistance such as a headwind or a light to moderate hill and he carries on regardless leaving you falling behind that you notice the difference. To be fair, I was riding a fundamentally slower bike than his - heavier and with wider tyres - and also carrying my 6kg Kryptonite lock (after having one bike stolen, for the sake of peace of mind it's worth knowing that you've done all that you reasonably can to prevent theft).

We took a pleasant route under the South Downs via the villages of Poynings, Fulking and Edburton, to Shoreham and back to Brighton. We almost stopped at the idyllic Shepherd and Dog pub, nestled in a crook of the downs before deciding after only 7km it was too early for a a pint. Eventually, after around 40km we finished up at The Evening Star, a traditional pub in Brighton where I was introduced to several artisan ales and a couple of Chris's fellow real ale enthusiasts.

Having had my unfitness drawn to my attention, I decided it would be good to get into moderately good shape before starting the course next week, so along with my early nights I decided a little healthy exercise would set me in good stead. Each morning this week, I've been for a short ride (15km, 40 minutes) at around 9am and every day it has been a little easier. It feels good. To top it off, I visited a teacher training open evening at the Falmer campus of the University of Brighton. Falmer is on the outskirts of Brighton to the north east of the centre and, disregarding the bloody great hill in the way, only about two thirds of the distance I'd been cycling in the mornings. Ditchling Beacon is only 1km at an average gradient of about 9%, but it's not inconsiderable when you haven't been getting out much.

Once the thought had entered my mind, there was never really any doubt that I'd choose to cycle over taking the train. Once you reach the top of the hill, it's downhill all the way after all! So with an air temperature of 2 degrees, I set out as yet undecided how I would get home a couple of hours later and a few degrees colder. That said, I did fix a light to my handlebars immediately before leaving home, at a time when there was enough daylight left to get me there safely. So I guess that was never really in any doubt either.

So 40km again, a little tired but generally feeling pretty good. I just have to make sure I've recovered physically before next Monday.

Tomorrow I sign off. I hope the advisor is in a good mood.

Good news.

Rosey has her visa. I will be starting a CELTA (teaching English qualification) course next Monday, and in preparation I'm going to bed before 12, getting up before 8 and going for a 45 bike ride every morning. The last time I went to bed before 12 must have been many years ago. All very positive!

Rosey will still have to do another couple of weeks at work and then, she will be going to India for a further two weeks to do a yoga retreat in the first or second week of March. After 8 months, another 2 weeks won't hurt, particularly when she's coming halfway round the world to start a new life. A couple of weeks contemplation with as much time and space as she needs to herself will be no bad thing. And after all the trepidation regarding the long dark nights of the English winter, there'll barely be any difference in daylight between here and Taipei when she arrives, close to the equinox. It'll still be a little colder though.


Having just received the good news, there's not a lot more to say. It will take a little time to sink in but what I can say is that already it feels as if the future is open again.

A walk, two windmills and three pints of ale.

I'm sitting on the close cropped turf of the South Downs, halfway down the escarpment with Jack and Jill Windmills above me and the village of Clayton just below. The windmills are grade 2 listed buildings dating from the mid 19^th century, though Jill had a prior life in Brighton before she was towed by teams of oxen the 7 miles or so from there to the top of the Downs. They fell out of use in the first decade of the 20^th century but were kept in good repair and appeared in the 1973 film, The Black Windmill featuring Michael Caine and Donald Pleasance. Jill, a wooden post mill, is now restored to working order and is open to the public in the summer, while Jack, a brick built tower mill, is a private home.

Clayton is a typical downland village of no more than around 200 people, built at the foot of the scarp slope where the clay of the Weald of Sussex meets the chalk of the Downs, providing a springline to irrigate the settlements. At the very base of the Downs is a Saxon church of simple design with a squat wooden belfry and steep roof. The Church of St John the Baptist at Clayton is mentioned in the Domesday Book and is a Grade 1 listed building partly due to its great age, but also because of the 12th century frescoes of the Last Judgement which adorn the interior walls and are unique in England.

I've been cooped up in the house for the past few days. It's good to finally get out, relieving my cabin fever and avoiding the otherwise inevitable irritability that would confront my family. As I sit cross legged on the hill with my laptop on my knees and sheep grazing around me, I wonder how this might appear to the passing hiker. Although the computer is now the universal tool of the writer, I can't quite imagine that I look like a modern day romantic poet, composing an ode to the landscape that lies before me. What then? Do I look like a workaholic unable to leave his work at home, let alone the office? Or just completely incongruous? Worse still, maybe no one's noticed me!

Rosey will be with me in about six weeks, assuming the visa goes through without a hitch. Her arrival can't come soon enough. My life has been characterised by distinct phases since coming of age and these have been mediated by periods of stagnation or consolidation as I try to work out the next move. So I have been living in limbo for the past six months. I've made some progress, but it has mostly been of a somewhat intangible nature, buried in my head and difficult to quantify. I have learnt about the areas I may go into without making solid progress into them. That is about to change, but that's another story.

I'd been surprised earlier to find a thick layer of ice in a water trough that lay in a shaded hollow. It hadn't seemed that cold to me as I walked up the hill in the mid afternoon but all that has changed now. The sun is setting beneath the brow of the hill behind me. I have maybe 20 minutes of daylight to play with, and two hours of battery life. The only place I can think of to spend it is at the 19th century coaching inn at the foot of the hill, with its selection of ales and roaring log fire (a cliché maybe, but a fine one). As the breeze begins to bite on my thighs and my necessarily unprotected fingers lose their accuracy upon the keyboard, it is becoming an increasingly attractive option. Time for the pub.

I reach Underhill Lane and must walk past the church to reach the pub. Isn't it traditional to visit both of these places on a Sunday? I like old places, so after pausing under the lychgate, I decide to go in. The path is paved with a rippled stone that was once the floor of a shallow sea. It always amazes me how transient features such as a muddy seabed are petrified, frozen in time. An earthquake suddenly raising the seabed before it is sun-baked before being covered by the sands of time, perhaps?

I have a little difficulty opening the heavy oak door but the cast iron latch eventually slots into place and I make my way into the now darkening church. Using my phone as a flashlight, I look around, imagining myself to look like a burglar until I find the light switches hidden in a wooden box on the wall. I turn them on, lighting up the chancel, nave and vestry in turn and bringing the ancient paintings, only rediscovered in the 20th century, into view. As I look around, I imagine seeing the ghost of a long dead clergyman crossing the chancel or passing through the wall into where a medieval chapel once stood. Nothing so dramatic for me so I mooch around, wondering if there are any rules about where it is appropriate for the hoi poloi to go. I decide the chancel with its benches for the choir is probably ok, but beyond the altar rail is probably best avoided. After reading the tourist information and history of the church, it is time to head to the pub.

A little later, I find myself (as if by accident?) warming up in the Jack and Jill Inn. A couple around my own age are having a Sunday evening meal and another, perhaps twice my age, have booked a room for the night. This is somewhere a stone's throw from home and it is initially difficult to imagine it as a holiday destination, but it is a welcoming place in the shadow of beautiful rolling hills. It is worth making the effort to appreciate the familiar. I would gladly now make my way up to a hotel room after a good meal and a few drinks. After two and a half pints of ale, my creative juices are beginning to flow, however the energy has almost entirely flowed out of my computer. It is time to finish my drink and make the trek home across the fields in the dark.

The sky is clear, and the air is cold. The stars are bright against the dark blue sky and I can see every breath clearly. The route home takes me down The Cinder Path, with the railway line to my left and dark woods to my right. For much of the way, I can see nothing, except by light of my phone. I am aware that when I was younger my imagination would have run riot in these circumstances, but I have an assuredness lacking in my early 20s. I am grateful for the cold. When I turn off the Cinder Path and cross the fields towards home, the ground that was muddy before is now frozen solid. A worthwhile trade.

When I set out from home six hours ago, I was frustrated, grumpy, unable to say much that was positive. This was not good, particularly since my sister had been visiting. I'd rather she didn't take away the impression that that was how I was at the moment (hi Sophie, hope you're reading). In short, I needed to get out, to do something and I felt much better for it. Exercise, countryside, history, culture and ale, washed down with the brightest stars I've seen in some time. Can't beat it. 

And as a postscript, Stephen Moffat's contemporary interpretation of Sherlock, enjoyed with my parents in the warmth of our living room with a cup of tea (I phoned my dad as I walked across the fields and said it was really cold and a cuppa cha would be very much appreciated). A good day (and three late nights to write it up!)

The Presidential Election

As I write, the polls are opening in Taiwan's 5th popular elections for President.

I've belatedly been watching a few videos about the election including this one of the election eve rallies for CNN iReport and this one, a rap in Chinese subtitled "Keep Taiwan Free", which can only really be interpreted in one way regarding Taiwan-China relations and the respective positions of the political parties. Having said that, the lyrics in Chinese could be mean anything for all I know. I think I caught something about haircuts in amongst pictures of Tienanmen Square and crowds of activists turning out in all weathers dressed in disposable plastic raincoats and traditional rice farmers' hats.

The final rallies for the pro independence Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) and the pro China Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) transform their respective areas of Taipei into a street party populated by people of all ages and walks of life. The energy and enthusiasm is palpable with a 75-80% turnout expected, and this in a country where most people retain their household registration (and thus vote) in their hometowns until they get married, leading to a mass migration on the night before the election. Some expats even fly back from the United States just to cast their ballots or take part in the campaign. Given the voter registration system mentioned above, the tribal nature of Taiwanese politics and the authority held by the senior family member, it is also a good opportunity for overseas Taiwanese to catch up with their extended families.

Seeing Taiwanese people demonstrating such passion for their respective causes, albeit in a political environment with tribal undercurrents and dominated by a single political issue, makes me want to be there among them more than ever. Elections in Taiwan, at least some of the time, have an innocence missing in the west. With 1500 Chinese missiles pointed at Taiwan, an economy increasingly intertwined with China's and few diplomatic allies, the issues at stake could not be more serious. However, there is an endearing quality to Taiwanese election campaigning, in part due to the Japanese influenced ke-ai (cute) culture as demonstrated in fluffy dolls or cartoon representations of contemporary and past leaders (Mao, Chiang Kai-Shek, Sun Yat-Sen). What could be more adorable than a figurine of a psychopath responsible for the death of 70 million people?

That's not to say there are not fist fights in the legislature or outbreaks of hysteria in the street. But this is because politics matters in Taiwan. Taiwanese people do believe in their causes, even if making money takes precedence over lofty ideals in their day to day lives. The way that politicians demonstrate their dedication to their cause is to fight for it, just as the way a doctor demonstrates his competence is by prescribing multiple drugs.

During what was the longest period of martial law in modern history (1949 to 1987), opposition and independence activists were imprisoned by the KMT government, including some members of the previous generation of leaders of the DPP. The former President Chen Shui-Bian was among those imprisoned in the 1980s and he is in jail again now, convicted of corruption.While it is likely there is an element of truth in the charge of embezzlement  (as much as for any Taiwanese politician and perhaps no more than he could reasonably expect to be considered normal in that culture), his conviction and the length of his sentence are widely believed to be politically motivated under pressure from Beijing.

So, politics matters in Taiwan. Despite the apparently superficial lives of many young Taiwanese who are blissfully unaware of how hard won their freedoms were, despite the preoccupation with making money, despite the absence of any great differences in socio-economic ideology between the technically liberal/social democratic DPP and slightly more conservative (though in its early days in China, socialist) KMT, and despite the sometimes juvenile appearance of its discourse, there is optimism to be found in the politics of Taiwan, one of the freest countries in Asia and the only example of a culturally Chinese democracy. So long as the election is clean, I wish its winner well, on the one proviso that they do not sell out the people who elected them either by directly negotiating unification with China without consulting the people, or by engineering the economy such that in the long term there is no realistic choice.