Tea!!

 May 21st is International Tea Day.  On this day the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation leads world wide celebrations in honour of tea.  Which is proof that the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation is scratching to find things to do with its time.  Nevertheless to mark this auspicious occasion this blog has decided to provide its eager readers with a brief history of this famous plant.

Tea was invented in China in the late 11th century for use as a packing material.  Proving useful in the role it wasn't long before every parcel in China was wrapped in tea before dispatch.  Tea was the bubble wrap of its age.  The concept of tea as a beverage was discovered by accident when several parcels of hot water were found on arrival to have been "contaminated" by the tea they were packed in.  A lengthy legal process followed and the subsequent lawsuits were instrumental in bringing down the Later Song Dynasty.

The popularity of tea plunged as bitter wars were fought over water quality and in a desperate attempt to rid themselves of the problem Chinese officials started insisting that every British trading ship had to carry a certain amount of tea away from the troubled empire.  Most of this tea was dumped overboard the minute the ships were out of sight of the Chinese coast but some remained in the nooks and crannies of the vessels on their arrival in England.  Somewhat at a loss officials of the East India Company decided to sell the stuff on the grounds that people will buy anything if it can be marketed as "exotic".  With tea's reputation as a packing material irredeemably ruined the company came up with the bright idea of promoting the stuff as a beverage.

The popularity of tea exploded among an English population which was looking for a easy way to differentiate themselves from the French.  Suddenly England was importing every leaf of tea that China could send.  Even this wasn't enough for the tannin crazed population of Britain and soon tea plantations were springing up everywhere that the British controlled (except Britain which, ironically, was too cold, damp and boring to grow tea).  

Somewhat concerned about their balance of trade with China the East India Company came up with the elegant idea of selling opium to the Chinese in exchange (that is actually true).  Now with two empire's populations hopelessly addicted to their products the Company should have been making out like bandits.  Strangely they went bankrupt but the tea trade (and the opium trade) survived their demise.

Lest the British lose their taste for the fabled green leaf the Chinese attempted to diversify their market by selling tea to the Tibetans and the Russians.  The Tibetans took one look at the tea and promptly dumped yak butter into it which is only my fourth favourite thing to do with yak butter.  Two of them absolutely cannot be mentioned in a family friendly blog like this.  Check out my alternate blog "1001 Things to do With a Yak" on the dark web for more details.  Parental discretion recommended.

After an unsuccessful attempt to burn the tea the Russians decided to drink it anyway and so a third empire fell to the insidious power of tea.  Of course the Russians messed it up by dropping slices of lemon into it and serving it in glasses.  The British meanwhile came up with the deliciously ironic idea of serving it in china.  Neither the Russians or the British were quite mad enough to involve yak butter at any stage of the process. 

The superpower rivalry of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries between Russia and Great Britain can be boiled down to a desire to dominate the world's tea trade.  The British hit on the idea of conquering everywhere whose climate could be even remotely considered appropriate for the growing of tea and soon indigenous populations everywhere were labouring in the drug plantations of their tea addled overlords.  

The Russians on the other hand decided to try and control the trade routes that brought tea to the world by conquering the famed silk road.  This was due to an unfortunate error from one of their earliest traders.  The Russian work "Zschyk" meaning "tea" was confused with the word "Chyszk" which means "silk".  The Russian irritation when they discovered they had spent a fortune conquering some of the lowest rent territory in the world on the basis of a mistranslation had to be seen to be believed.  Still this did mean that their empire now shared a rather long border with China so the Russians smuggled the tea across it and tried to pretend that had been their plan all along.

 In these more civilised times of course former colonies, now proudly independent nations market their tea to the world regardless of the impotent grumbles of both the British and the Russians.  One of them, Sri Lanka, lobbied the UN to get an International Tea Day.  One can only assume the UN owed them a favour.

In honour of this auspicious day I shall make, drink and enjoy a cup of tea and honesty compels me to admit that despite my thoroughly British heritage it shall be Russian Caravan.  Yak butter optional.

Travelling Painfully

I stand before you a physically shattered husk of a man.  Limbs, sinews and muscles groan and whimper as they make a pitiful attempt to do the tasks nature assigned them.  But there's nothing new there so let's just get on with the blog entry.  As may have been mentioned in previous entries I had, in what can only be considered a fit of insanity, agreed to do a 22km race with a couple of friends through some of the more photogenic parts of the Blue Mountains.  It was in preparation for this event that I have been conducting bushwalks of a more than usually strenuous nature.  Despite such preparation three weeks of rain prior to the event meant that training had been curtailed and I felt that I was slightly underprepared going into the big event.  In this if nothing else I was correct.

Since the race started in Katoomba at god awful o'clock in the morning it behooved us to arrive the day before which with varying degrees of efficiency we achieved.  Organising credits go to my friend Jason who arranged the hotel and was the only one of us who managed to turn up before 6.30 in the evening.  I arrived somewhat after that time and my other friend Tony (yes, I have two) arrived while I was checking in for the race.  After signing a waiver of liability form somewhat longer than the average dictionary I was presented with a t-shirt, a race number with my name on it and a collection of safety pins so that i could attach one to the other.  Thus fully prepared we headed off to our modestly priced hotel.

Apparently I snore.  In fact I snored so much that Tony feared for my health.  I was quite touched by this until he pointed out that he had been tempted to murder me.  Fortunately we both survived the night and rose to greet the dawn with a minimum of cursing.  Preparation for my part consisted of taking prophylactic anti inflammatories and pulling constrictive bandages onto both knees and one ankle.  I looked like I was part way through a mummification process.  A brief squabble broke out between Jason and Tony as they vied to be the one to pull my brains out through my nose with a hook.  Fortunately neither had brought a hook with them and we realised that we were going to have to do the race after all.

A bus took us wending through the streets of Katoomba and Leura until it deposited us at Wentworth Falls within walking distance of the race start.  Of course pretty much anywhere is within walking distance if you have enough time and no inconvenient oceans in the way.  Still, a mere seven hundred metres later we were ready to start racing.  We would descend into the Jamison Valley (at least I think it was the Jamison Valley) and make our way roughly in the direction of Katoomba until we reached the escarpment at which point we would ascend said escarpment via some stairs that had been conveniently bolted to the cliffside until we arrive at the top.  Once at the top we would proceed along, descend again (dear Christ!) make our way through a more modest valley and climb yet more steps until we arrived at the Scenic Skyway a location which can be conveniently accessed by bus from Katoomba station.

I said we were ready to start racing.  In actual fact two thirds of us were ready.  Jason had wandered off to find a toilet and Tony and I fretted as the actual time for our cohort to leave approached.  Said time arrived and Jason was nowhere to be seen.  The organisers warned us if we didn't leave now we would have to wait for the next group.  Tony and I consulted, what would Jason do in our place?  We abandoned Jason and headed out onto the track.  Fortunately Jason caught us up having managing to talk his way past the organisers and set off in our wake.

It was semi early morning and we descended into a valley full of mist.  There will not be many photos in this entry as I was too busy trying not to die for most of it but we did manage a couple on the way down.  Going down was reasonably easy but the sheer length of the descent made me rightly concerned about the effort that would be needed to get out again.

A valley full of mist.  We are at the top and going to the bottom

A group photo and the last time I looked even remotely human

The descent was actually the best opportunity to take photos as on the uphill parts I was too busy concentrating on dragging one foot in front of the other.  Still this was in the future and it was with a light heart that I journeyed into the depths.  Once at the depths we descended into depthier depths but we were covering ground and even engaging in light conversation all seemed well.

There is scenery hiding modestly behind the mist

Indeed all was well for the first ten kilometres or so.  We were making good time, that is we were making good time considering we were saddled with me.  Jason and Tony capered around and generally gave the impression of energy to spare while I smiled politely and cursed them under my breath.  I had to curse them under my breath as I didn't have the breath to curse them above my breath.  Then we started to climb.  Of all my preparations the acquisition of a pair of walking poles was absolutely the best.  Without them I would still be down in Jamison Valley.  This wasn't the "proper" climb.  Just some up and down along the way.  I laboured and struggled up the rise gasping and staring at my feet as they slowly dragged me forward.  The descent which followed each rise wasn't a respite as it signaled that I would have to do compensatory climbing once it was over.

Three somewhat slower kilometres passed until we arrived at a checkpoint which had been set up to provide snacks, toilet facilities and an opportunity to collapse gasping on the ground and pray for death.  Members of the race support team greeted us with such cheerful enthusiasm and words of encouragement that I wanted to ram a walking pole through their heads.  Fortunately I was no longer physically capable of such effort.

Somewhat refreshed or at least with my heartbeat reduced to slightly sub lethal levels we set back off.  The previous climbs had been mere tasters as we now started properly ascending as did my heart rate.  I was struggling now, just plodding one foot in front of another with frequent ten second stops while I contemplated my life choices to date and concluded that I am an idiot.  Most people of my acquaintance have managed to reach that conclusion without getting stuck at the bottom of a valley they need to climb out of.  Meanwhile Jason and Tony continued on with a spring in their step turning back from time to time to offer encouragement and to reassure themselves that I wasn't dead.  It's a funny thing about encouragement, I actually hate it but after the fact I was extremely grateful for it.  They offered to carry various bits of my gear but I proudly (stupidly) refused.  The truth was difficult though the climb was I was nowhere near the end of my resources.  I couldn't do the climbs as fast as they could but I had no doubt about my ability to do it.

Finally we reached the escarpment where it became very obvious that absent the sudden appearance of an elevator the worst was most definitely yet to come.

We are at the bottom and going to the top

The worst duly presented itself for my delectation.  A flight of stairs going pretty much straight up.  The stairs clung to the escarpment and when the escarpment hadn't been cooperative had been bolted to the cliff side.  I quailed, Jason and Tony encouraged and up we went, very slowly in my case.  This really was the end of my resources, we had walked about nineteen kilometres by this time and I gasped and dragged myself up by literally grabbing the handrail and hauling.  The effort so far had also irritated my knee beyond the ability of support bandages and anti inflammatories to compensate.  It is difficult to limp while simultaneously dragging yourself up a near vertical staircase but if it had been possible I would have done it.

Somehow I got to the top with constant encouragement from Jason and Tony who both looked like they could run up and down the damn thing all day.  Once there I gasped in relief, the worst was surely over, a couple of short kilometres would bring an end to my suffering.  We walked along Prince Henry Cliff Walk past tourists who politely manage to avoid recoiling from the gasping, sweaty, limping wreck as it shambled by.  "Almost there," I promised myself.  Jason and Tony promised the same thing.  Technically none of us were lying.  Then we encountered the steps leading down into another valley.

"Oh fuck me," I said at what was now the top of my voice, a ruined whisper.

With further encouragement from Jason and Tony I hobbled painfully down the stairs and then hobbled painfully through a lush, wet valley which I would have loved to look at if I could have mustered even the faintest of craps.  Eventually we reached Furber Steps at the top of which the finish line awaited.  Time was running short.  If we wanted to officially complete the race we had to do it within seven hours.  The seven hour mark was rapidly approaching.  I gasped and whimpered up the stairs and stumbled along the last couple of hundred metres and crossed the line with several minutes to spare.  It later turned out that Tony had understated the amount of time left to "encourage" me forward.

With the race completed mutual congratulations were in order.  We shook each others hand and Jason and Tony started planning for next years race while I looked around for somewhere socially acceptable to throw up.  Huge thanks to Tony and Jason who stayed with me and encouraged me over the last half of the race.  They could got a much better time if they had gone on themselves as I suggested more than once but they stuck with me and we crossed the finish line together.  Now I just had the small matter over covering the hundred or so kilometres that separated me from home.  Fortunately trains presented themselves in good time just for once.

The next day I could hardly move.  Jason got up and played a game of soccer.  He was feeling a little sluggish but he blamed that on the fact that he indulged in McDonalds on the way home.  I exceeded my personal expectations by registering a pulse.

Bring the Kids

Good news for the cattle haters among you.  A bullfighting firm in Seville is planning on giving free tickets to children under the age of eight.  This, announced the firm, will allow children to steep themselves in the rich tradition of the nation while the matador in the middle is steeping himself in something else.  Naturally this excellent means of handing down tradition from father to deeply traumatised son has met with opposition from critics who claim it could psychologically damage young children.  I would hope so!  If the sight of someone apparently dressed like a runner up in Rupaul's Drag Race pirouetting around a sandy arena hacking at a large domestic animal with a sword doesn't psychologically damage an eight year old then they must be pretty badly screwed up already.

I don't think we should worry too much about the psychological damage to the children.  No doubt it will be profound but let's face it, everything psychologically damages children.  It's called growing up.  Children come out of the womb fresh, unblemished and without a care in the world.  They are then promptly subjected to a barrage of abuse which ends, hopefully, many decades later when the gibbering wreck they have become finally falls into what must by now be a much longed for grave.  But what are we to do about that?  Keep children in a state of sensory deprivation until they reach maturity?  Now that would psychologically damage them to say nothing of rendering the hoped for achievement of maturity less likely.  Maturity is basically defined as "functional despite the damage".

But back to the bullfighting.  I have to admit there must be more efficient ways of traumatising children.  Whereas you or I if we wanted to introduce our offspring to gratuitous animal slaughter would simply provide them with a chainsaw and send them to the local petting zoo the Spanish feel the need to arrange free tickets to the bullfighting thus presumably reducing the number of tickets available to paying customers. Here is where tradition rears its ugly head.  If something is old, stupid, at least potentially violent and largely unnecessary the chances are that it is traditional.  Although to be fair that's a pretty good definition of me.  Possibly I am traditional.  It's difficult to find another reason for keeping me around.

Maintaining tradition is generally considered a good thing.  I'm not entirely sure why.  The greatest thing about the past in my opinion it its healthy distance from where we are right now.  Tradition is also subjective.  One person's cherished tradition it another person's atrocity.  To prove that let me demonstrate with that most harmless and sweet of traditions; Father Christmas.  St Nick circles the world bringing presents to all good boys and girls, what could be sweeter?  Now tell me exactly how many of you would actually be comfortable with the idea of an ageing man sneaking into your house to groom your children with presents?

Bullfighting is as Spanish as bullfighting.  Free tickets for the kiddies may encourage them to learn more about their proud nation's rich history and vibrant culture (or possibly vibrant history and rich culture) or it may just turn them into mini psychopaths.  For those of us without a culture of bullfighting we're just going to have to install CCTV in the abattoirs.

Marcher Historical Event #1

 Today marks a significant day in the history of the Marcher Lords or at least it was significant in the opinion of those involved which is surely what matters.  The population of Poland probably couldn't care less.  

For those less steeped in English historical romances than my mother the Welsh Marches were a series of border territories set up along the English/Welsh border by William the Conqueror.  The Welsh had a history of raiding across said border (insofar as it actually existed).  Additionally various of the Welsh princes had frequently had alliances or at least good relationships with some of the Saxon lords in England which made them less than sympathetic when William turned up from Normandy and conquered the place an event which was terrible for the Saxon nobility (although very convenient for Varangian recruitment officers).

Having better things to do (he said) than spend the rest of his life in low level border warfare William selected some of the more obnoxiously violent of his vassals (which to be fair was most of them) and gave them territories along the border along with certain rights that the kings normally kept to themselves.  Thus empowered these "Marcher Lords" were expected to beat in the heads of any Welsh that showed themselves across the border.  If the Welsh didn't cross the border the Marcher Lords were empowered to export the head beating to Wales.

In the fullness of time a fair chunk of Wales wound up under the control of said Marcher Lords although as with the Saxons before them they sometimes discovered advantages in making common cause with their technical enemy (the Welsh) when their technical overlord (the King) got a little too keen about enforcing his authority.  

A typical example of this attitude can be found in the case of one William de Braose who was executed on this day in 1230 AD.  William was a Marcher Lord who had been captured in battle against Llywelyn the Great, Prince of Gwynedd and had to pay a huge ransom to secure his release.  Subsequent to that he entered into an alliance with said Llywelyn which was sealed with a marriage between William's daughter and Llywelyn's son.  What the English king might have thought about one of his vassals forming a marriage alliance with one of his most powerful enemies in Wales went unrecorded.

As it so happened the English King didn't need to worry.  Celebration of the upcoming nuptials was brought to a halt when Llywelyn found William in bed with his wife.  Llywelyn had William dragged out to a nearby tree and hanged him.  The marriage still went ahead though, absent one prominent guest.  This is what passed for politics in the thirteenth century.  I think we can all agree that we are fortunate we live in more civilised and better organised times.