South from Granada, by Gerald Brenan

It isn't as bad as it looks - I finished reading this some time ago, and the delay has been in the writing about it, not the reading. It is true to say, however, that this isn't going to make it up into my top ten books - or even my top 100. Indeed, it may find its way back to a charity bookshop (and I only very very rarely dispose of books).

I bought it because I like the part of the world he is writing about and hoped it would be an antidote to the "Driving over lemons" style of travel writing (DOL is set in the same part of the world and is by no means the worst example of its kind, so it may be unfair to pick on it as a comparison). Gerald Brenan lived in Spain at intervals between 1920 to 1934, going there after being demobbed after the First World War. It quickly becomes clear that Brenan is no "ordinary Joe" - public school, offficer class and a circle of acquaintances which enable him to devote one chapter to a visit from Lytton Strachey and another to a visit from Virginia Woolf.

I found the whole book strangely flat and humourless. I am not sure but that I didn't enjoy DOL more.

Mips

There are lots of special words that families use, and most of them have little application outside the family circle, but in “mips” we have a word which has a meaning genuinely not found elsewhere.

A “mip” is a hard particle of something which you find in your food. Derived from “pip”, it can be exactly that – for example, the blackcurrant or blackberry pips found in jam.  However, it doesn’t have to be derived from fruit, but can be anything, savoury or sweet, which grates between the teeth. Its definition depends upon that sensation. It isn’t the hardness per se, either, but the contrast between the hard bits and the soft food around it.

Whole spices are “mips”, like the coriander seeds we fry with mushrooms or the pumpkin seeds in a coleslaw. At a pinch, it can even be chopped nuts, if these are hard and not incorporated into the meal. On the other hand, poppy seeds on bread are not mips as they are so small they can be eaten without noticing. Equally, larger pieces, such as cinnamon sticks or plum stones, are not “mips” either as they can easily be seen, picked out and discarded.

The word was formed with the children, who disliked (and still dislike) “mips” in their food. “Has it got mips in?” was and is a frequent question. An answer in the affirmative will always guarantee that the offer of that particular food will be declined.

There is an adjectival form, “mippy”.  There is also the noun “mipfest” for one of those gloriously flavoured meals we enjoy immediately before, and immediately after, the children have visited.

Now all roads lead to France: the last years of Edward Thomas, by Matthew Hollis

I only very rarely - hardly ever - give up on a book, but instead keep trudging on, however reluctantly, towards the last page. It took me nearly three months to reach the end of this one, which is a fair indicator of the amount of reluctance.

It isn't that it is a bad book, but on the contrary is very well written and has won both praise and actual awards (H. W. Fisher Best First Biography Award, Costa Book Awards winner). It is more the case that the more I read about Edward Thomas, the less I liked him. And the less persuaded I became that he was a good poet. Yes, he wrote a handful of good poems. Everyone knows "Adlestrop", and deservedly so. But a handful of good poems doesn't make a great poet.

The thing is, I'm not a great lover of English pastoral. When the curfew tolls the knell of parting day, my grateful reflection is only that it must be gin o'clock. And anyway, Gray did English pastoral better than Thomas, as did A. E. Housman, in my view.

Thomas was a brute to his family, whom he treated abominably. And yet the pity in his poetry is mostly self-pity. Maybe if he had lived beyond the war, he would have muscled up a bit, but I doubt it.

So now, what do I read next? I have two travel books put by, both of which I want to read, but first I think I'd like something light, easy and amusing...

Cherubim, seraphim and velociraptors

Coming home from shopping yesterday, I sat on the bus behind a grandmother with a small child. The child had been bought a toy dinosaur, which was the subject of conversation.

Child: The dinosaurs all died...
Grandmother: Yes, that's right, they all died thousands of years ago. [Which betrayed a certain lack of awareness of geological time, but let it pass].
Child: They all died and went (gesturing to the ceiling of the bus - which was a single-decker, by the way) up there.
Grandmother: Yes, they all died and went to heaven.

This gave me an insight into the nature of heaven that makes me wonder whether I want to go there any more. It will be bad enough if it is filled with rosy-cheeked, bare-bottomed cherubim floating winsomely about getting in the way, but what is it going to be like with velociraptors galumphing around as well? And does it not demonstrate a shocking lack of accuracy on the part of the Old Masters who painted the next world, that not one single tyrannosaurus rex is depicted seated in glory around the heavenly throne?

Levens Hall and Arnside

I have been wanting to go to Levens Hall for years - literally, years - but it is quite a long way from Grandma's and, crucially, isn't always open, and certainly not at the times we've been likely to be in the area. This time, however, I stamped my little foot and tossed my pretty curls (metaphorically in both cases, as I have neither) and on Monday off we went. I will admit that I have no interest in the house but only in the gardens, where the topiary is the main feature, which is why it is such a shame that the gardens are not open in winter when their structure would be most appreciated.

It wasn't a great day, weather-wise, but it remained dry, and possibly the lack of sunshine deterred others from visiting, so the gardens were fairly empty and it was possible to wander freely. Beyond the topiary, which was amazing, the gardens were laid out in a formal structure within which there was just the amount of wildness and disorder that indicated some very careful and well-considered gardening.

And there was an excellent cafe, which always helps. Not that it stopped us diving straight into the Ramblers Cafe (excellent Brie and walnut sandwich, which please don't mention to Daughter, who is my diet guru and certainly wouldn't allow Brie and possibly wouldn't have allowed sandwich either, especially if she had found out about the lemon drizzle cake at Levens Hall - she is very (and quite rightly) strict) when we went on to Arnside. (Silly question, really, and Husband should have known better - "Would you like some thing to eat now, or after your walk?" Why not both?) Not that Arnside looked exactly like the photos on the tourism website, but it is a nice place, with a long railway bridge across the estuary and fantastic views across Morecambe Bay. The sun came out as well, and we pottered along beside the water and then came back to sit in a sheltered spot, just like all the other old biddies. I'm not sure I would describe it as "holiday resort", as most of the accommodation seemed to be old folks' homes, and there wasn't a lot to do if you wanted more than pottering and grazing. But then, who would?

Maryport

Yesterday we went to Maryport, which is only about 20 miles from Grandma's, on the coast. It is seaside. So there I was, expecting seaside fun. And where was I taken? To the Roman museum. Yes, the Roman museum. We live in St Albans, remember, where we are surrounded 24/7 by the ruins of Verulamium and you can hardly walk through town without finding someone dressed up as a centurion. I've had it up to here with Romans.

Now, to be fair, it was an excellent museum. (Despite the crucial lack of a cafe, so no sustaining cup of tea and wedge of homemade cake). And we did get to go on a guided walk to the current excavation, which was interesting. No, it really was.

And then we went to Allonby - more seaside. Another nice place, but its glory days long gone, as witness the tourist information board.

We had an ice-cream, eaten in true English style, in the street, eyes streaming from the bitter wind and everyone else huddled in fleeces or 4x4's, or both.

And then, after a walk along the new cycle track (Hadrian's cycle track, apparently. And you thought he only built walls?) we tried to find something to eat, which was a lot harder than it should have been, but after finding a fish and chip shop (up for sale) and a recommended pub (closed), we finally settled at the Royal Oak at Curthwaite. Not bad, although their claim that all food was locally sourced was true only if you counted buying the balti sauce at a local supermarket. And the music (a Beatles compilation) was on a tape loop which repeated every hour, so we could play a memory game of trying to remember which song came next... But service was friendly (we were strangers and they didn't try to stone us) and God bless them, they were open and willing to feed us, which made them pretty exceptional in West Cumberland.

The soldier's return, by Melvyn Bragg

Now that there is no second-hand bookshop in St Albans, not since Paton's closed, I am thrown back onto the Oxfam bookshop which, to be fair, isn't bad. However, the stock isn't large and the range isn't great, so any choice is based upon serendipity. I picked up Melvyn Bragg not because I am a special fan of his writing but because we are shortly (tomorrow, in fact) going up to Grandma's, and the nearest town to Grandma is Wigton, which is where Mr Bragg was born and educated (at the same school as Husband, in fact, though not at the same time). This book is based in Wigton, and to such an extent that the town is practically one of the major characters.

Set just after World War 2 (hence the title) it is quite a gripping read and I was genuinely curious to find out how it would end, which wasn't how I expected, but I'm not going to give the plot away. It is well-structured and well-written but I am never sure who books like this are written for - it doesn't have the clever-clever tricks of style of a really literary novel (and not necessarily any the worse for it), but neither is it a rollicking romp, so perhaps it is aimed at Mr Bragg's Radio 4 audience, and I suppose I probably count as one of them.

Knowing that I would finish the book today and wanting another to take away with me, and not being in St Albans, the next book came from the hospice shop in Marshalswick (you do get a better class of cast-offs in Marshalswick, so the charity shops are worth a browse, though precious few books amongst them) and only when I got it home did I realise how similar the two books are in appearance.

This next one is an account of the last five years of the life of the poet Edward Thomas, so we all know how that's going to end.