Notes from a 72-year-old first-time bushcrafter

Image: Mark Haddon

I went on a bushcraft beginners weekend a few weeks ago. Lots of reasons why: rage against the dying of the light; a wish to break out of a comfortable and much-too-sedentary routine; finding London noisy, dirty, claustrophobic and too urban. Enough anyway to feel that I needed something entirely different, natural, unfamiliar, both as a goal and a challenge. A bushcraft weekend, run by Woodland Ways in their Haddon Hall woodland in Derbyshire, was the eventual decision, one received with enthusiasm by my daughter (who lives a shortish drive from Haddon Hall) and a mix of “are you mad?” bewilderment and hilarity by my wife.

The weekend certainly gave me just what I needed – two nights’ sleeping out, fresh air, hard work practising new skills and techniques, lots of instruction and information, and a friendly group with a shared interest in trying bushcraft out for real rather than watching someone else do it on YouTube. However you take in information, there’s no substitute for actually doing the things you’re learning. I came away knackered and invigorated, determined to do more of the same, which I guess is the whole idea of basic introductory courses such as this one. I certainly felt I’d had my money’s-worth.

Course dates were 1^st to 3^rd of October. But not three full days, unfortunately, not really even two. The course began at 19.00 on the Friday (it was basically after dark by the time we’d all arrived and set out from the assembly point) and ended at midday on the Sunday. Into that time a lot of activity is packed, for sure, and there are probably many sound reasons why it’s difficult to start earlier on the Friday or leave later on the Sunday, but I’d suggest that a full 48 hours would just feel more like a proper “weekend”.

The dates coincided with the worst of the petrol shortage in London, and with little fuel left in the car’s tank and nowhere nearby to top up I decided that the wisest course was to take the train to Chesterfield where daughter and boyfriend would pick me up and get me to the weekend assembly point. What this meant was that rather than just carrying a pack a short walk from the car to the WW site in the woods I would have to lug the pack the whole journey, so keeping the weight down mattered. And it meant I’d have to pack just what I would need, and not bring a car boot full of “just in case” or Plan B extras that I could swap out or add once I arrived. And given a weather forecast of heavy rain for the Saturday, keeping everything dry would be important.

The group was fourteen people, twelve men and two women, a thoroughly nice bunch. Some had come as singletons, others as pairs. I suspect I was the oldest by a margin; I’d hate to guess at anyone else’s age.. There were three instructors, Richard, Mark and Asa, sharing the various tasks between them.

After a walk to the main site, Friday evening was spent on general introductions to each other and the course; scoping out the site layout; pairing up for sharing a tarp for that night; preparing wood pigeon for dinner; and a demonstration of how to build the shelters we would spend Saturday night in. Then dinner itself (pigeon stir-fry which was delicious), general chat, unpacking sleeping bags and crashing out for the night.

Day 2 was breakfast (porridge); shelter building in pairs (this was hard work! took most of the morning); a knifework session on how to split/cut/clean the sticks we’d later use to hold our trout to the fire; a session on filleting the trout and then cooking it over the fire for lunch. Then rain; foraging; direction-finding; preparing rabbit for dinner; fire-starting; and a session on knives (types, uses and maintenance) and UK knife law. And finally getting ourselves sorted out for a night in our DIY shelters.

Day 3 was a breakfast class on how to make damper bread; deconstructing the shelters (more hard work); locating and purifying water; and finally trapping techniques and UK law on that. Then back to the assembly point and farewells.

It’s an intense, challenging, eye-opening couple of days, packed with interest, and weather-wise you realise that whatever nature throws your way you have to take it and make the most of it on a weekend like this. It’s a great and rewarding feeling to look back and say “I did that”, to try new things, experience new sensations, to know you’ve gained a load of practical new bushcraft skills and knowledge - even built and slept in a shelter that kept the rain out - and experienced all that the course has to offer (bar preparing the rabbit – my hands were just too cold!).

Woodland Ways do make it all pretty simple. It’s fun and fulfilling. The food is good and there’s lots of it. You won’t need to buy or bring any specialised kit, just what’s on their checklist. And the instructors know their stuff. You don’t have to be Tarzan. If it’s something you’re interested in doing, even in your seventies or maybe beyond, you won’t regret giving it a go.

So besides all the various skills, here are some of the things I learned about going on a bushcraft weekend.

On this course a lot of learning and new experience is crammed into a short time, and it’s a real challenge to keep track of it all if you plan on taking it seriously. Taking notes is difficult when you’re closely concentrating on what an instructor is doing or trying to do it yourself, or when it’s dark, pouring with rain or cold enough to want to keep your hands in your pockets. There aren’t that many opportunities for processing what you’ve just learned – it’s straight onto the next activity. I wrote down some notes after the course was over of points I didn’t want to forget, but wished I’d used some of the late-night sessions round the fire to take more notes at the time while stuff was fresh in my mind.

And if weather permits and your batteries last, take pictures!

On the first evening you’re invited to pair up if you haven’t come as a twosome. Which is practical (the option to stay as a singleton is offered, but given the limited number of tarps obviously not encouraged) but if you’re not used to sharing a double shelter you may find it cramps your movement more than you expect. For example I found my (essential luxury) inflatable mat stole too much floor space in the shelter Rory and I built; room, especially foot-room, is at a real premium down at the sharp end – build bigger than you think you’ll need! Only shelter building was demonstrated and tarps for the first night were already set up when we arrived. In one way this was very welcome (slightly drier ground under them), but a quick demo of the final tarp going up would have been useful. If only to try it out I’d have also liked to see a hammock being slung.

As said, heavy rain was forecast for the Saturday and for once the BBC was right; we got it in full, from late morning through till around midnight. Check the weather for your weekend. It makes a huge difference to what you should bring (such as outer layers that really are waterproof, a groundsheet, and so on) and so how heavy your pack will be, and what you should be prepared for (damp everything). Rain and damp are bushcraft facts of life in the UK and there’s a lot to learn about how they change things: for example, how impractical or much more difficult many fire-lighting techniques (such as a bow-drill) are unless you have proper shelter from the wet and thoroughly dry materials to work with. How damp a sleeping bag can get just from being left unpacked. And also recognising the core attitude you have to bring to bushcraft (deal with what’s there), for example, the value of keeping a fire/ember going in wet/damp conditions – overnight or when away from site – and the skill of fire-pit building.

I did a fair amount of walking in preparation for the weekend but in the event most of the time was spent close to the main site rather than trekking through woodland. What failed this old man were my knees. I hadn’t appreciated the amount of time I’d spend down at ground level kneeling, crouching, scrambling and crawling. There was lots of it – food preparation, fire-making, shelter-building, foraging, living and bedding down under a tarp. By day 3 the knees were gone. Fitness is one thing, flexibility another, and you’ll probably benefit more from the latter. A gardening-type foam kneeling pad could be useful but either you’ll be carrying it around a lot, or it’s going to be nowhere at hand when you most want it. From now on I’ll be doing a lot more squats and knee-press exercising to get myself in better shape knee-wise.

The other thing is hands. Apart from helping deal with the cold and wet, a pair of tough gloves is essential for shelter making. Branches have to be snapped to size, bracken is rough on your hands, and collecting damp leaf mould or pine branches is much better done with gloves on. Leather gloves may get damp, but it’s possible to dry them out over the fire.

I found my pill regime hard to keep to. As were other everyday things like brushing teeth, taking a dump, etc. There’s just so much stuff going on from start to finish that normal routines can easily be forgotten. If you’re on any critical medication I’d keep your must-take pills somewhere you positively won’t overlook them, like in your coffee mug.

On which note, it helps to have your pack well organised. There's a fair amount of "for our next activity you'll need this..." which sent us regularly scampering off to tarps/shelters to retrieve things like first aid kits or water bottles from wherever we'd stashed them.

Facilities are one basic crapper in a raised shed a short walk from the main site, down which used paper must not be put – it goes into an old cake tin. The instruction given was then to burn the used paper, but the roll supplied was so damp it would barely catch alight, let alone flame, so a lot of matches got used to inadequate effect. I realise now I could have put some (alcohol-based) hand sanitiser on the paper as an accelerant (and very possibly burned the whole structure down!). Bring your own toilet paper as WW advise, keep it dry and use that instead of any provided. I made a loo pouch out of an old pencil case with paper, matches, lighter and hand sanitiser, so I could just grab that and go (so to speak). The advice given not to look down while in residence was spot on!

There’s a very distinct pungent, slightly acidic scent to the woodland floor mulch, which you’ll spend quite a time kneeling on, and even gathering up for shelter-building. It soaks in everywhere when it’s damp, particularly into trousers. Woodsmoke from the camp fire also gets into all your clothes. Be aware of how rich you’ll smell when you get home! If you’re anything like me, you’ll want a really hot bath or shower anyway, but have the washing machine on standby too…

What I brought, and how it performed.

For clothing I wore a lightish Tornado waterproof jacket by Peter Storm, Fjallraven Vidda Pro trousers, an old Regatta fleece pullover, a cotton shirt, an ancient M&S wicking long-sleeve vest, BAM bamboo (good anti-microbial properties) trunks, thick wool socks and Keen Targhee 2 walking boots. In the backpack was a Mil-tec poncho as SHTF back-up, a pair of old leather insulated gloves, waterproof over-trousers (which certainly did come in very handy) a spare pair of pants and socks, a merino wool base layer and a set of  thermals just in case.

Note: WW recommend you don't bring expensive outer stuff because of the risk of sparks from the camp fire burning holes in it. This really does happen to synthetics; one of the group, Kelly, had a hole the size of a halfpenny burned through her jacket by a spark.

Not quite how I planned it, but as it happened I wore the same clothes all through the weekend, just stripping off a couple of outer layers before getting into the sleeping bag. The Peter Storm jacket stood up well to the rain but  when the outer shell finally got wetted out it was quite cold to wear. The Fjallraven trousers – one of the two big items I bought specially for the weekend – were excellent, really tough and cleverly thought out with heaps of pockets, and should serve me for years. Expensive but recommended. Headwear of choice day and night was a wool beanie.

The Keen Targhee boots are comfortable and waterproof but not very warm, and the soles were slippy in the wet and leafy conditions – muddy slopes were a real problem. On several uphill occasions I found myself sliding gracefully back downhill on all fours and several other times losing my footing going downhill. In dry weather most types of boot should be fine, I reckon. I'll be looking for a pair of cheap old army boots over the winter.

The backpack was the other main item I bought for the weekend. I already had an old Savotta 323 rucksack which claims to be 50 litres in size, but really is more like 35 at most. It’s also got simple leather shoulder straps and no waistbelt, so not the greatest for lugging any great weight, and I just couldn’t get everything into it either. My other backpack was a very heavy Osprey 65 litre travel pack (doubling as a wheeled pull-along), which would have been way too much. So I bought a Savotta Jaakari medium backpack being sold off cheap because it was an old model, complete with 3 useful Molle pouches making around 40 litres in all, and this proved exactly what was needed. Very tough, lots of water resistance and easy to carry, while the pockets made it simple to organise stuff.

My sleeping bag was a four-year-old Mountain Hardwear Hyperlamina Spark, synthetic fill rated to 0degC, which is very light and packs down really small. Given the expected rain (and a lack of confidence in my ability to create a rainproof shelter!) I also brought a waterproof Snugpak bivvy bag. Sleeping mat, which I can't do without, was a Robens Highcore 80 with an R value of 2.4. All of these worked really well together, and there was no damp/condensation inside the sleeping bag at all in the mornings. For summer and dry nights I’d probably bring a cooler sleeping bag and leave the Snugpak behind.

The WW kit list mentioned the option of a folding seat but in the end I left mine behind, mainly because of size and weight – the pack was already getting too full and hefty. I’d considered it because of the luxury of having a backrest to lean on after a long day. In the event I didn’t find any need for it at all, there would have been almost nowhere to fit it around the camp fire, and having your own seat isn’t very “groupish”. What I do wish I’d brought is a pillow – my rolled-up-clothes-inside-drybag alternative was not that great.

Our first aid kits had to be with us for all the organised knife work sessions. I have a slim Adventure Medical .5 kit with a few extra contents (such as burn gel) and it slips very easily into a trouser leg pocket. For future courses I’ll just carry the kit with me all the time, and hand gel as well. I think the course could maybe have done with a bit of basic “what if..” instruction on first aid for cuts rather than just “how to avoid..”.  The risk of a tick bite is probably quite low but they are there in the ferns, and deer are present in the woodland, so it’s not something to take too lightly. Tick removal tools are very cheap, and I’d advise everybody to pack one in their FAK and understand how to use it, if only for the peace of mind. There are also plenty of non-DEET insect repellents available which deter ticks. There weren’t many midges or mosquitoes but I was glad to have packed Smidge repellent.

I took a couple of light sources. Most useful was my old and rather heavy Ever Ready head torch for evening walks, talks and mealtimes as well as checking inside shelters, moving around camp, and illuminating the fire-making demonstration in the gathering gloom. I had a rechargeable LED Lenser lantern, the tiny ML-4 model, which was handy for the night inside the shelter, not least as it retained a luminous glow after being switched off so was easy to locate in the dark. Spare batteries are essential, especially for shorter days and longer evenings, don’t forget them. Top tip: standardise on one battery type as far as practical (btw 3 spare AAA batteries fit neatly inside a TicTac box, 6 into an old 35mm film container). 

That's it!

Now, if only I can still remember all this by next Spring!

The lesson of payphones

Many years ago when I worked for British Telecom I was responsible for public relations for public payphones - very much BT's unloved orphan. Payphones in the UK at that time were legendary for being regularly out of service, vandalised, used as urinals, covered with graffiti and robbed of cash. They really were disgraceful, and of course PR on its own could do little or nothing to change that. For BT the red boxes were symbols of a past it wished it could leave behind. The company had recently been privatised, competition was hotting up, BT wanted to be seen as at the cutting edge of new technology, and yet it was obliged to carry with it this old-fashioned, costly and exposed baggage. The company was investing slowly in card (rather than cash) phones to deal with the problems of theft, but management really wished they could be free of the whole embarrassing operation, which of course as the national phone company they were obliged to retain. The approach adopted was therefore to focus on the other stars of the business - big corporate installations, mobile telephony, datacomms, fax (remember when fax was the new thing?) - and leave payphones to slip into obscurity.

Why did that change? What turned management attitudes completely around was the discovery that their dismal treatment of payphones had a significant impact on how their (commercially extremely important) corporate customers viewed BT. Apart from the phone at home and at work, payphones were the bit of BT that everybody saw, and they were BT's own phones. These business buyers - understandably - saw payphones as exemplifying BT's attitude towards all of its operations; payphones made an important and very public brand statement. And by ignoring their own public face BT was sending out a strong "don't care" message to the people it really wanted to impress and do business with. Once management realised this, payphones started getting some much more serious attention and investment.

It's very tempting to see a company's customers from a business-only perspective, and any interaction with them somehow being neatly defined within that same transaction-specific context. But of course it doesn't work like that. Any experience a person has of a company anywhere and in any capacity can influence their attitude towards it, whether it is a company's van driver behaving stupidly on the road, the inconsiderate way a restaurant leaves its rubbish out for collection, the unruly behaviour of a school's pupils on an outing, or - neglected payphones. 

Freelander European trip

In 2002 it seemed like a good idea to vary our usual family trip to France to include a week of touring through Austria. What would be good, I thought, would be to spend one week relaxing in a small village in the Lot district and then to go on the road for the second week. We would cut East across France through the Massif Central, into Italy near Turin, across Italy and up into Austria at Innsbruck. Then we could spend a couple of days looping round the Krimml falls and the Grossglockner pass. Then off home. Of course it didn't work out quite as planned, but more of that later.

X374 GNT was a red Land Rover Freelander TD4 station wagon, which for me, while it may leave some purists lukewarm, represented an excellent balance of competencies.It was relaxing to drive, able to cope with much more than I expected to throw at it, could fit in a multi-storey car park, was spacious, solid and economical. For a one-driver, one-car family which no longer needs the school-bus capacity of a Renault Espace but still loves to be sitting up high, it was hard to beat.

Kate was sorting out a new job so she stayed at home while the rest of us, Jon, Helen and I, set out on our great adventure. I won't bore you with the journey to the Lot - car ferry to Le Havre, overnight at a little hotel, then motorway through Limoges and Brive and turn left at the river and you're there. The Freelander went like a dream, we arrived in scorching heat, and spent our relaxing week in rain, more heat and then extreme thunderstorms. Enough to say we enjoyed ourselves. Then the logistics of the planned tour began to unravel. The friend in whose house we were staying - her late husband helped the Resistance here during the war and the house, in ruins then, was given to him by the village afterwards - arrived hoping we would stay on a bit longer.

So we eventually set out on the second stage of the trip a day later than planned, but still with time enough to avoid the appalling traffic that builds up in South-east France at the start of August. We had not booked anywhere to stay en route. We would see how far we had got by mid-afternoon each day and then look to book a hotel from a number of options we had marked up on the map. Or rather, maps. We took two road atlases for Europe - one A4 hardback 1:800,000 by Freytag & Berndt and one A3 spiral-bound 1:750,000 by Philip's. The bigger Philip's was much easier to read and route plan with, but lacked a lot of detail compared to the F&B. Nor did it provide a simple kilometre scale on each page. Next time, for the complicated parts, we'll take Freytag & Berndt's 1:200,000 road atlases as well. Michelin do a red guide to Italy, but we couldn't find one for Austria, so we took a Lonely Planet guide as well.

We didn't intend to hustle too much, allowing time for lunch and stuff, and sure enough we very quickly fell behind schedule. Our Day One target of Briançon was quickly revised over lunch in a restaurant decorated with stuffed animals. We booked ourselves into what turned out to be a not-great hotel in Luc-en-Diois instead. A huge storm had washed away a nearby campsite the night before and the village was full of bedraggled campers who were being sheltered in the village hall. It was raining heavily the following morning as we headed on through the Ardeche, past and across the Lac de Serre-Ponçon toward Briançon, which turned out to be thoroughly unlikeable and full of coach parties. We headed on towards the Italian border, and decided to try a very unpromising roadhouse - more of a shack, in fact - perched beside the road just before the climb into the mountains. Anyone who has seen the film Once Upon A Time In The West will remember the scene in the cantina. This roadhouse had many of the same ramshackle qualities - filled with pungent woodsmoke, with trees growing through the ceiling, rainwater dripping from various places, a fishtank, a large sign welcoming in the millennium, and a bearded owner/chef/waiter/raconteur serving huge helpings of delicious food. It was wholly unexpected and quite fantastic.

As were the views back over this countryside as we climbed into the hills out of France. We were aiming to take autostradas round Turin and Milan and then cut off into the mountains at Bergamo. For anyone else planning this route - beware, this is Italy. The autostradas were like the M25, jam-packed with short-tempered drivers doing irrational things, frequently at a standstill around the two major cities, completely horrible. We managed to clear Bergamo around five-o'clock to head for Fóppolo, where we had booked for the night, a place high up in the mountains. This was where the Freelander really came into its own, pulling strongly along winding minor roads and up steep hills in fourth or third gear. The car's high driving position had real benefits when spotting chances to overtake, and the strong torque meant that passing could be done quickly and safely.

Fóppolo is effectively a cul-de-sac, and to go on the next day we had to retrace our steps to Piazza Brembana in order to take a different road, very small,very steep and very winding, up to the Passo San Marco. The sun was shining and there was even more spectacular scenery as we climbed above the tree line and over the snow line before reaching the 6,500-ft summit. The sequence of hairpins is taken in second gear, often in first. The biggest danger is from lycra-clad cyclists swooping downhill, cutting corners as they come. Jon acts as spotter, giving advance warning of these and other oncoming hazards which enables me to get a good run at the corners - if you have to stop, your hill-start is a real challenge. It wasn't to be the highest we would climb; the Passo di Stelvio we would encounter the same afternoon reaches some 9,000 feet and took us into cloud. But this certainly was the toughest. Going up really tested the clutch, and going down really tested the brakes. The pads were new at the start of the trip, and by the feel of them they needed replacing again. We reached Morbegno safely in the Adda valley and set off North-east to Merano, down to Bolzano and onto the motorway again to Austria and Innsbruck. There was beautiful mountain scenery on all sides as we went, marred only by occasional industrial sites (I guess they have to go somewhere) and the ubiquitous electric pylons. As we climbed, the fruit trees and vineyards disappeared and forests and farms took their place, then these in turn gave way to barren screed dotted with Alpine flowers. As Helen got out to pick some sprigs of gentian, Jon and I realised that the mountain just beside us must be in Switzerland. A few moments later I managed to go straight on instead of taking a hairpin right (honest, anyone could have done the same, whatever Helen may have said) and found we were almost across the Swiss border. Oops.

Eventually though, we're safely in Innsbruck with the Freelander tucked in an underground car park (you see how handy that is?) and we do a quick reschedule. We've seen a lot of mountains and I've driven a lot of hairpins. Innsbruck is a lovely city. We decide to stay here a whole day and take things easy, drive across Germany the day after and then catch the ferry the day after that. Which is what we do. And that is how we didn't get to see the Grossglockner pass.

2002 hubris

In early 2002, within the UK national museum community, an amount of distinct Schadenfreude could be detected over the ailments being endured by the British Museum (budget deficit, shorter opening hours, staff cuts et al).

Finally faced with the legacy of pompous inefficiency in its management, and burdened with the costs of its grandiose millennium schemes, the British Museum had finally found itself facing the sort of financial hardships most other London museums had had to grapple with twenty years earlier. And like a would-be beneficiary of the Distressed Gentlefolk’s Association it was feebly looking round for someone to help it retain the style to which it had become accustomed. The Schadenfreude amongst museum colleagues was occasioned not by lack of empathy with the BM’s plight – financial stringency was by now commonplace amongst museums – but by its argument that it had been especially harshly treated by circumstances and so deserved special treatment. It’s not fair, went the BM song. Welcome to the party, pal, came back the chorus from others.

The British Museum had been an organisational basket-case for decades, a fact masked by its wealth and worldwide reputation. Some seven years earlier, it had commissioned a management report which it hoped would present a strong case for additional government funding (always the BM’s preferred solution to its ills). Instead, the Edwards Report had presented the BM with a catalogue of its inefficiencies, overstaffing, and financial waste, together with a raft of proposals for the better management of the museum and major cost savings. Astonishingly the BM had published the report anyway, in 1996, and were apparently taken aback to find that it had had exactly the reverse effect to the one they hoped for. The report was swiftly withdrawn.

That was the only rapid action that had happened. Even the placid Chris Smith, then Secretary of State for Culture, eventually became so fed up with the obvious inaction of the BM’s management that he parachuted in Suzanna Taverne to be Managing Director of the BM alongside Robert Anderson the, erm, Director of the BM. Two top dogs (with very different views of what was required) was hardly a recipe for harmony, coherence and focus. Taverne was no soft touch, but had anything but an easy time, her ambition eventually to be put in sole charge being firmly squashed by the museum’s Trustees. Neil MacGregor from the National Gallery was chosen instead as successor to Anderson.

So what did the museum put its current misfortunes down to? Anything but its own ineptitude, that’s for sure. But from outside the Bloomsbury comfort zone the signs had been there to read for some time. The new Great Court was carrying huge ongoing costs with it, £4.5 million a year. The BM complained that it had had to absorb virtually this entire sum, omitting to point out that it was a condition of Lottery project funding that capital projects should impose no added burden on the taxpayer. Presumably the BM had happily agreed to this condition to get the Lottery money in the first place.

Fewer people than expected had visited the museum following the Great Court’s opening. The BM’s risk analysis did not seem to have included the possibility that their new “public space for London” might not attract the necessary additional 1.5 million visitors with their cash. Or that anything like September 11 might happen to reduce the numbers of overseas tourists, even though the lesson from the Gulf War was still fresh.

Or... that it might have based its attendance forecasts on inaccurate data. After years of proclaiming yet more record-breaking attendances – “6.7 million in 1996” – the museum had had to admit that when it installed a proper counting system it found it had been over-counting previously by about 20%. Oops. As noone else in the museum business had believed its previous claims, this didn’t come as a surprise, except of course to the BM.

Nor did the BM appear to have wondered if universal free admission to national museums, for which it had lobbied so hard, might add to its direct competition. Instead it felt it had lost out because DCMS was now compensating the charging museums which had gone free. Even Suzanna Taverne repeated the mantra: “We were penalised twice. First, we lost the revenue we would have earned by charging. Now, to add insult to injury, we are missing out on a pay-off which could be worth some £8 million to us which the DCMS is giving to museums that used to charge. That’s a real double whammy.”

Well, no it wasn't, actually. First, the BM benefited from now being able to reclaim VAT. Second, the £8 million pay-off was never on offer. And third, the BM had chosen (because it could afford to, as well as on principle) not to introduce charges. Up till then the BM had been spared having to consider charging. It’s a very well-endowed museum, with property, bequests, and wealthy donors. Instead of using this money wisely, it had used it to paper over the systemic problems that the Edwards Report revealed. Now those problems had finally got too big, with annual running costs having soared from £65 million in 1998 to over £100 million.

Other museums without the same financial safety net had had to get to grips with similar issues long before. Costs were cut, staff numbers were reduced, activity was scaled down, better systems were put in place, sources of revenue were explored and yes, admission charges were introduced. A wholly unsympathetic government ear was turned to the arguments for increased grant, and various hapless museum directors were labelled as Thatcherite stooges as a result. The British Museum’s stance while this was happening was patronising and critical. When it finally found itself also in need, it should have just bitten the bullet, got its house in order and stopped moaning. It may be a special museum, but there was no case for special pleading.

The Chihuly chandelier

I was in Toronto in the late 1990's scouting the Royal Ontario Museum as a venue for the Grand Design exhibition, when I got a call from Gail Lord, a museum consultant whom I had known for some time, inviting me to visit their office. Along I went, and it soon became clear what was being sought. The new Museum of Glass was being developed at that time, with Gail's involvement, and they were looking to send some of the museum's collection, mainly works by Dale Chihuly, on tour. Would the V&A be interested? I looked through the slides and was bowled over by the sheer bravura of Chihuly's work in glass. It was unlike anything I had seen before - using centuries-old techniques but creating installations and pieces that were completely, dramatically modern.

As it happened, the timing for an exhibition would not fit with our schedule, so that went nowhere. I mentioned Chihuly to the glass curators and was intrigued to find that the V&A actually had a couple of smallish pieces by him. There didn't seem much interest in acquiring anything else. However, not long afterwards, the V&A was having one of its periodic debates with itself about how it could be seen as a thoroughly modern institution, not an old-fashioned attic. And as usual the conversation turned on branding, or at least promotion. I said at a meeting that a large part of the perception of the V&A as old-fashioned derived from first impressions - the immediate effect when a visitor walked in through the front door. It just was old-fashioned, in almost every respect. And writing a memo to director Alan Borg later, I said that a big installation piece by Dale Chihuly in the V&A's main entrance hall could very easily transform that perception and link the old to the present day.

Nothing appeared to happen, I heard nothing back, but then the word started going round that the V&A was going to commission a chandelier piece from Dale Chihuly for its main entrance. People from Chihuly Studio visited. Sketches appeared. A huge team arrived to assemble the piece on site from vast numbers of boxes of glass. The huge chandelier was created. Dale himself arrived, and although the work was done, plainly wasn't very pleased with it. It turned out that (rightly) he felt it was still too small for the space. So, months later the team came back again and almost doubled the size of the chandelier, and it was finally done in 2001.

Dale himself was/is a marvellous one-off. Built a bit like the late Eduardo Paolozzi, a patch over an eye lost in a glass-blowing accident, shoes covered with splatters of paint and hair going every which way, he was a benevolent tyrant, running his studio much as I suppose a Renaissance master's studio must have been run. His team were superb, dedicated, imaginative, charming.

I still have a couple of catalogues given to me by Dale, but so far I still haven't ever been able to afford one of his pieces! So the books will have to do. I'm happy to have played a part in getting a big piece of his into the V&A.

Also at the National Gallery...

A curator colleague who started work well before me had an introductory session on his first day with the rather patrician Deputy Director. "I see your name is Michael" said the DD, "and we already have one Michael on the staff. It will be so confusing - would you mind if we called you John?"

Fortunately, his original identity remained intact, and confusion seemed to be avoided, even though later yet another Michael joined.

Changing room

When friends of mine Richard and Anne got married in the 70s, the ceremony and reception were held in Berwick, where her parents lived, and I decided to drive down from Edinburgh. The challenge was how to do this without rumpling the hired morning suit, so I planned to take the suit with me in its carrier with the necessary shirt, tie, socks and smart shoes, and find somewhere close to Berwick where I could quickly change. As I drove down I was keeping an eye out for suitable spots, and eventually spotted a quiet little side road that looked promising. And so it proved; I drove down it, travelled under a bridge and there in front of me were a couple of grassy fields looking out over the North Sea. Nothing in sight seaward and a high embankment behind, it was totally secluded. Emboldened, I hopped out of the car, got out the clobber and quickly stripped off down to my shorts, before pulling the dress shirt on over my head. This was a bit of a struggle. I had put in the cuff links already, and it took a minute or so to ease my hands through the cuffs. So there I was, with the shirt still over my head, blind to the world and waving my arms about, when I heard a loud hiss behind me. Alarmed, I wriggled more vigorously and eventually got both arms and head outside the shirt, and was able to look round. To find, on top of the grassy embankment, a London to Edinburgh express train, which had coasted to a halt exactly alongside my secluded spot, and from which amused passengers had been watching my struggles with the shirt - for how long I don't know.

With an appropriate mix of dignity and speed I pulled on the trousers, and the train pulled away, leaving me alone again with the sea.

The wedding was a great success.

Red carpet - ah, the glamour

Both at the Science Museum and at the NMFI in Bradford there was an IMAX cinema, and because of this somewhat tenuous connection with the world of film we received one year a couple of invitations to the BAFTA awards, held at the Odeon in Leicester Square. Being without limo and as the evening was wet, we met before the event began at a pub round the corner, and eventually opened our umbrellas and walked round to Leicester Square onto - The Red Carpet. Now, this was a formal event and I was in my dinner jacket, with the best pair of black shoes I had been able to find, an old pair of well-polished Oxfords from the back of the wardrobe. These were outwardly fine, but rather worn as to the soles, with the result that as we walked along the sopping wet red carpet my shoes gradually filled with water. Luckily everyone was squelching along, so apart from the occasional spurt of cold water up my trouser leg, nothing could be noticed. However, the carpet had obviously been recently shampooed, and as the stars walked along it in the rain, the residue of this was churned into a bubbling white foam eventually entirely covering the carpet ankle-deep. It was really not a romantic start.

At the later dinner, however, I had the opportunity of shaking Peter Jackson by the hand and congratulating him on LOTR, the first part of which had just won an award. Also drank too much tequila....

D

During my teenage years, one of the regular purgatories was attendance at country dances. The format for these was that individual groups would gather in advance at someone's parents' house and then set out for the dance, which would be at some large establishment and could involve several hundred people. And we would lurch through a sequence of Scottish reels and waltzes, the boys in each group scrupulously taking turns to dance with all the girls. For me, intensely shy and socially inept, with no conversation, these occasions were awful. So it was a relief to meet a quiet girl, D, who seemed about as shy and quiet as I was. Every now and then we would find ourselves in the same group at one of these events, and it was a pleasure dancing (quietly) with her.

This pattern of chance meetings at dances went on for six or seven years. We may have met on occasion at other social events, but that was it. Really. We didn't ever go out together.

Then one day I got a call from her asking if I could come round to her house. I suppose by now I was about nineteen or twenty, and getting a bit hippy and arty in appearance, in fact probably downright shabby. Anyway, I went round as asked, and D very solemnly told me that she had met someone - an Australian sheep farmer - and she was going to marry him and live miles away from civilisation in the Australian outback. I offered my congratulations, as you do, and after some chat she left the room. At which point someone, an uncle of hers I think, leaned over to me and hissed: "she's going to marry a REAL man!" I thought at first that was just a remark about my long-haired appearance. And then with an awful horrifying clarity I realised that what he actually meant was: "... and NOT YOU." D had obviously been carrying a serious torch for me all these years and I guess had assumed that I had felt the same for her, and that our futures were intertwined. It was like being ducked in ice-cold water. I had been rejected without ever realising I was a suitor. I slunk away feeling disgraced and somehow guilty - had I been leading her on?

Putting aside the fact D will have had a far better marriage to the sheep farmer than she could ever have had to me, the answer has to be that I was just too self-centred and stupid to be aware of what might have been going on. But it has brought home to me the corrosively selfish nature of shyness - in concentrating so much on one's own inadequacy, one is blind to the feelings of others. At the very least I should have sensed what she was feeling.

Dell and Della

Dell created a website (originally called Della) to appeal to women buyers. It generated a howl of protest about stereotyping, and they changed it quick. Afterwards, there may have been less pink on the site but all the other advertising stereotypes seemed to still be there in spades. No "real" people - all the models straight from the agency shelf: young, slim, good-looking, no kids, perfect skin, and of course from a full spread of ethnic backgrounds. There was the standard heads-together-on-the-sofa shared-experience shot that seems to be trotted out for everything from fruit juice to panty-liners. The Tech Tips section (since renamed Tips) - presumably to convey serious DIY stuff - was fronted by a model with glasses (now gone)! And although this is apparently a site not aimed only at women, there was not a man to be seen in DellaWorld. Lazy stuff.

Brands

Some of my thoughts from a current online branding discussion.

I look on branding as more akin to PR (what others say about you) than advertising (what you say about yourself). A brand is also (because unless it represents some fundamental truths it is purely cosmetic) essentially stable: it can't be ripped jeans one moment and pin-stripes the next - unless your brand is schizophrenic of course. So I find myself a bit at odds with the notion of a brand story that can quickly and reactively be recalibrated. This sounds to me more like re-casting the product proposition in response to changed market conditions. Your brand is essentially who you are, and if that can suddenly change overnight then either it's not a brand at all, or you have been horribly wrong all along, or customers should perhaps be worried. Right now, I think a lot of people will be looking for certainty as a desirable brand component.

I don't for example believe that the McDonald's brand has very much to do with what is on the menu. To me McDonald's is (or wants to be) about convenience, welcome, cleanliness, dependability, familiarity (or perhaps universality) and various other factors that create the brand wrapper for their product offering (which is a different if connected thing). Maybe I'm making meaningless distinctions.
Yes, brands can and must evolve, but they can't flip-flop about implicitly making one promise one day and a different one the next. Constantly heaving at the brand's tiller as one wave or another hits the boat is to me a sign of brand weakness and irresolution, just when the opposite would seem to be most desirable. It smacks of brand as mask rather than brand as soul.
I think it all depends on what your definition of brand is. For me, the Apple brand is that thing that makes everything "clearly and identifiably Apple", not its environmental activities or its product line-up. These are things that can change rapidly as circumstances demand, can be re-calibrated. But the Apple "thing" is much more deep-rooted than that, way down in culture and ethos, in conversations about what they are and what matters to them most. Apple's brand is the equivalent of its magnetic north. Apple can recalibrate its compass from time to time, and may choose to steer a different course, but north stays north. And Apple's remarkable success is due in large part to its brand consistency throughout its significant changes in product and market. I don't believe Apple has changed its core brand values at all since Jobs got them back on track (they lost sight of their magnetic north a bit while he was away). Nor do they need to. They may well adapt in all sorts of ways to external forces, but Apple are not, and I suspect never will be "about" the environment. The environment is not something that makes Apple what it is. So any responsive moves by them in that area are doubtless smart business, and may be wholly sincere, but they're (in my humble and uninformed opinion) not about the Apple brand.

To Mark Thompson, BBC re Gaza Appeal

Mark Thompson, Director General of the BBC, recently decided not to air a television appeal by a group of UK charities on behalf of the people of Gaza, on the grounds that it would be seen to compromise the BBC's "impartiality". Thompson defended his decision on the BBC website, to which I sent this response:

Sir,
I have little to add but endorsement to the overwhelming view that says you were completely wrong. Your reasons are inadequate and unconvincing, and if you (BBC) are incapable of drawing a clear line between politics and human suffering you are simply incompetent as journalists and inept as a public service. It is completely inadequate for a media organisation to say that the matter is "contentious" when you have the means to distinguish one story from another. This was not about who was right or wrong, but about what people in the UK might do to help the victims - the dying, the wounded, the hungry, the homeless and the terrified. This was a matter of simple humanity. Had all the devastation or similar suffering been on the Israeli side I would have equally expected an appeal for help to be broadcast by the BBC for them. But the situation is in Gaza, and however it has come about, it is one in which ordinary people need help, that is all.

The sort of impartiality the BBC should show is not about scurrying to avoid to offence to "sides" as much as having a clear moral framework of humanity, decency and respect that applies to all. I see your response and action as being those of a time-serving back-watching bureaucrat, not those of the leader of a purportedly authoritative and independent (less alone humanitarian) broadcaster. You have taken the BBC down by yet another notch rather than strengthening it in any way, and you should consider your own position.

Childhood myths

Putting blotting paper in shoes would make you faint, by sucking the blood to your feet. This was a ruse supposed to be a sure-fire way of getting out of exams. Didn't work.

Chewing gum if swallowed would wrap itself round your intestines and kill you. Any accidental swallowing of chewing gum was followed by days of panic in anticipation of a gruesomely painful death. Luckily none of us died.

B&W memories

A regular if infrequent feature of life at Craigflower, my prep school, was the showing of a film.  The stacking chairs, metal tube frames with canvas seats and backs usually fraying at one or more corners, were set out, the projector was spooled up, and the shutters closed.  The films were all black and white, with the most evocative opening effects, as the numbers counted down and the Rank gong-beater or the Gainsborough lady appeared to usher in the main feature. These were predominantly WW2 tales of heroism - Ill Met By Moonlight, Appointment With Venus, Reach For The Sky, The Wooden Horse, and so on - with such suitable male role models as Kenneth More and Dirk Bogarde (well, who knew?).  There was a sprinkling of Ealing comedies - The Lavender Hill Mob, Passport To Pimlico - and other upright fare - A Night To Remember and A Kid For Two Farthings. The last of these made me sob for hours, and many films make me cry to this day.  

The joy of these sessions was partly the escape from the reality of school for a couple of hours, and also the chance to dip a finger-tip into a smuggled-in tin of Cremola foam crystals.  This was a sugary powder which when mixed with water made a completely delicious fizzy fruit-flavoured drink of very synthetic taste and colour.  But for the best effect, it was consumed straight from an indelibly stained finger under the cover of flickering darkness, as the passengers clung to the lifeboats and the band played Abide With Me.

Cars - Renault 14TS

It was a Giant Test in Car magazine that clinched it. By late 1983 the much-loved Citroen Dyane (JES) was in terminal decline mechanically and structurally, and while all that was fixable the recent arrival of our very precious daughter Kate had raised awareness that driving in the Dyane was like being inside a crumple zone - passenger protection in any significant accident was non-existent.

So the hunt was on for something a bit more solid. It had to be French, for the summer holidays, so it was between Citroen, Renault and Peugeot. The Car article was a comparative test between a Renault 14TS, a Fiat Strada and an Alfasud, all mildly tweaked versions of the standard cars. The Alfasud won of course, as it was Car's favourite machine at that time. However, the Renault acquitted itself well performance-wise, had a good 1.4 litre engine, handled much better that the rather spongy standard version, and was well equipped for the time. Car's verdict was something along the lines of "if you like lots of buttons to press, this is the car for you". Well, after the Dyane, the thought of electric windows (front only) and a fifth gear was mouth-watering. I wanted buttons, lots of them, so the 14TS it was.

I tracked one down eventually, in white, at a showroom in St Martin's Lane, now the site of a Pret A Manger sandwich bar. This was NLM 711V, a couple of years old and in very good condition, and as the 14 had just been discontinued it was also going for a reasonable price. The Dyane broke down - electrics - on the drive up from Southampton to effect the part-exchange, but we did the deal and I proudly drove the Renault home.

There was a long hill on the M3 up which the Dyane had always laboured, forcing a change down to third long before the crest, while heavy lorries thundered past. On this first trip I found that not only did the Renault not slow down, it could accelerate in top gear from halfway up! 1.4 whole litres! This was an uplifting moment.

NLM stayed with us for just over three years, and was a delight. Unlike the experience of many others, I found it reliable and dependable. Although the suspension was slightly stiffer than standard it still rode exceptionally smoothly, but could press on along back roads when required. The fifth gear meant that it could cruise comfortably on motorways. It was roomy for four adults, and had a surprisingly large boot under its hatchback.

Its styling had always caused comment, and it had been marketed disastrously on its launch as a "poire", something from which it never recovered. It was rounded, almost plump, with a strong scalloped line on the flanks curving down to the rear wheel arch. I liked it, however, and now feel that it was way ahead of its time in both its design and the marketing campaign. Certainly it was much more characterful than the drab (but no doubt safer) design that Renault brought out to replace it.

A La Recherche..

Getting on for twenty years ago a small French restaurant opened beside Camberwell Green, and disappeared not long after. Helen and I ate there once or twice, when going out for dinner was one of those rare treats. I can't remember the name, or the food, but I have ever since had a piece of music running through my head which was playing on our first visit. I found out recently that it was by Georges Brassens, and called "Putain De Toi", loosely translated as "You Whore". Well worth a listen.

James Robertson Justice

James Robertson Justice was an actor known for playing formidably gruff characters, possibly the best-known of which was Sir Lancelot Spratt in the Doctor film series. He was educated at Marlborough College, where my father had also gone to school. So when we were on holiday in Dornoch in 1964 and my father saw Robertson Justice walking into the local post office, he left us in the car, saying "I'll just go and say hello". He arrived back a few moments later looking somewhat crestfallen. What happened, Dad? "Well, I walked up and stood next to him and said 'Floreat Marlburia'. And without looking round he said 'I detested the place'. And that was that." And that was that.

Hockney - The Artist's Eye

The theme of David Hockney's Artist's Eye exhibition in 1981 was in large part to do with how our perception of any image and its value is altered by the stages of reproduction through which it passes. So a postcard of an Old Master is perceived differently from the original (for Hockney with just as much integrity and intrinsic worth) because of the change in material and scale, and because of the knowledge that it is anything but unique and inaccessible to us - we can own it, hold it in our hand, throw it away. He was exploring how modifications like photocopying and photography allowed new layers of perception to be overlaid on an original work and create new forms.

The poster for the exhibition, therefore, contained much of this multi-layered perspective. The image is a photographed re-staging of an original Hockney painting Looking At Pictures On A Screen, in which Hockney himself replaces the original figure of Henry Geldzahler. The posters of the original paintings from the National Gallery - which then appeared in the exhibition - hang on the screen, and close-ups of Hockney's original painted versions of them run along the bottom of the poster. And of course the whole thing was then produced as a four-colour litho print run. Of which I have a copy inscribed and signed by Hockney, which changes the value yet again.

It is one of life's great pleasures to work with someone with this sort of mind.

Things that have come up to expectation - 1. Virgin Atlantic

While at the V&A I had what in retrospect seems like an amazing hit-rate in blagging upgrades from airlines for overseas trips. The absolute best of these was for a trip to the USA with Tracy, the V&A press officer, when I managed to persuade Virgin Atlantic to upgrade us both to Upper Class. This was without exception the best transatlantic flight I have ever experienced. Virgin Upper Class was extremely stylish, comfortable, and - with the option of a neck-and-shoulder massage - pampered and relaxed its passengers in just the right way. Nothing in-flight since then has come close to matching that flight, and I look at Virgin with immense fondness for proving that air travel can indeed be magical.

Robert Crumb

The cartoons and characters of Robert Crumb helped to define an age for me. Fritz the Cat, Mr Natural, Big Brother's Cheap Thrills LP cover, all became part of the crazy visual language of the late 60s and early 70s.

St Mary's Street

In 1970 I moved into a small and insanitary flat at the bottom of St Mary's Steet, Edinburgh, with friends Simon and Janie. I seem to remember that on arrival between us we had four LPs, all Simon's. They were The Yes Album, Layla, It's A Beautiful Day, and Messaien's Turangalila Suite.

Janie, who moved out to live with her future husband shortly afterwards, had the only real bedroom. I had a room with a small window out onto the common stair (which as it was regularly used as overnight living quarters by rejects from the Salvation Army hostel opposite smelt strongly of many unpleasant things) while Simon basically slept in a cupboard.

In a search for stylish living I acquired a small white spherical television, which I suspended on a long chain from the living room ceiling. And which never quite stopped revolving thereafter, meaning that a lot of shifting was required to watch a programme all the way through. However, as the reception was terrible anyway, the sacrifice was not too great.

At an early stage Simon taught me to make chilli con carne, a valuable skill.

Not telling stories

I had a much-loved aunt, to whom it was almost impossible to tell a story, particularly a funny story, because of her habit of asking literal questions. "So, there was this man in a pub..." someone would begin. "Why was he there?" she would ask, intent to know the answer. "Well, he'd just gone in to have a drink or something. It doesn't really matter, you know. He was just in the pub. Anyway, another man walks in with an alligator under one arm..." "Good Heavens, would that be safe? Are alligators allowed in pubs? Was it a live one?" "Yes, it was a live alligator. And he puts it down on the bar..." "Didn't the barman object to that? I'm sure an alligator on the bar wouldn't be very hygienic." "He was a very tolerant barman apparently. So, the man puts down the alligator..." "And he wasn't worried about it falling off?" "No, it was a very sensible alligator" "... and turns to the crowd in the pub..." "So there were lots of people in there, then?" "Yes, a lot of people. And he unzips his fly..." "Good heavens! Did he really?" "Yes, he really did, and then he..."

And so the story would lurch on, from one interjection to the next, often coming to a complete stop before the end as the complexity of explaining the logic became too much. I loved it and miss her greatly.

Scrambled eggs

The secret to really good scrambled eggs, as told me by my dear father, is to cook them really slowly. It takes time, of course, and attention, but the main aim is to avoid the eggs cooking too fast at the base of the pan and creating the dried-out bubbled eggs layer which you have to scrape out. So turn the heat down to the absolute lowest and be prepared to stir carefully at regular intervals for some time. Then drop a hefty knob of butter into the pan; if it bubbles on contact you still have too much heat under there. Break in the eggs and stir them together. Add some salt and pepper to taste, and a tiny amount of milk. Too much milk and the eggs are ruined. Then stir, or rather occasionally scrape the base of the pan. The point when you need to pay attention is when the eggs start to solidify and you can feel the mixture gradually, gradually starting to turn. At that point you need to ensure that nothing sticks to the base of the pan for too long - you want to keep the heat working through the whole mix evenly. But at the same time you don't want to create a paste with no texture, so just keep scraping the thicker stuff up and letting the more liquid stuff take its place until you have just the right consistency - not too wet and sloppy, but not too dry and solid either.

Then serve onto the buttered toast you have prepared with your other two hands. It may all seem an effort, but it's completely worth it. Variations on this theme are Marmite or Gentlemen's Relish on the toast (not everyone's taste) or smoked salmon pieces mixed into the eggs as they cook. I prefer this to the more traditional way of serving scrambled eggs on sliced smoked salmon, not least because it's possible to buy smoked salmon offcuts much more cheaply than slices.

Conways

I think it would have been in 1969 or 1970 that I was driving in Edinburgh's New Town during the Festival and saw an elderly couple looking stranded beside an obviously damaged car on Queen Street. So I pulled over and asked if I could help. It turned out they were American tourists, passing through Edinburgh en route to somewhere further north when they had been involved in a traffic accident in their hired car. Their car was being taken away for repair but they had not planned to be in Edinburgh that night and so had made no arrangements for somewhere to stay. And as it was Festival time, there wasn't a spare room to be had. So I invited them to stay at the family's home where I was still living. My parents were away on holiday, so there was plenty of room. It must have been a bit strange for this couple to trust a complete stranger but eventually we all drove back home and they stayed the night and all went charmingly.

Their name was Conway, and I'm sorry to say that I never kept in touch with them afterwards. I would love to have found out what they really thought was going on - were they worried about being kidnapped, or ending up in a drug den, or what? I guess now I will never know.

Taste of Italy

When I worked as Head of Design at the National Gallery in London in the 1980s we staged a small exhibition comparing two works by Canaletto and Guardi, both views of the Piazza San Marco in Venice. As usual I arranged for large sign-written boards to be produced to promote this exhibition, which were made up in sections and then mounted on the front facade of the gallery. On the day of the exhibition itself I was called out to see the boards being put in place, only to realise that the signwriters had missed out a crucial "A" between two sections, and the National Gallery was now proudly advertising the PIZZA San Marco to the tourists in Trafalgar Square. Ah, what memories...