While researching Gnosticism on Wikipedia I detoured via the Cathars, as you do, and then to the Troubadors. There's a section in the Wiki page titled Music. It holds a sound file of the most hauntingly beautiful song. One more thing of beauty destroyed by a jealous Inquisition.
Saturday, 3 September 2011
Thursday, 1 September 2011
YOU WOULDN'T WANT TO DIE HERE. . .
Okay, I'm not exactly young any more. Okay, people do need to live somewhere.
But there is nothing so depressing as looking up a main street and seeing nothing but grey or white hair. Oh, and often a blue-rinse because they still do them, at least they do in the country.
Sympathy for the badger, perhaps.
Sherborne has become a retirement town. Aside from the hair, there are the clothes seemingly from the same country catalogue. . . and the sadly frequent lost-looking soul whose partner died within a year of them moving here. There is a desire to recreate a town that never existed except in someone's imagination. There are new habits and rituals developed with new friends, all secretly wondering who will be the next to go. There is a degree of forced jocularity, that pompous false humour the English do when they're feeling socially insecure. There are people beginning to wonder how come the kids don't visit as much as before, it's only a few extra hours or so away. And the best friends they left behind still haven't come to stay like they promised, and e-mails aren't the same as a chat over a cuppa.
Sherborne's not a bad town, if you enjoy snobbery and pretension. But you wouldn't want to die here.
But there is nothing so depressing as looking up a main street and seeing nothing but grey or white hair. Oh, and often a blue-rinse because they still do them, at least they do in the country.
Sympathy for the badger, perhaps.
Sherborne has become a retirement town. Aside from the hair, there are the clothes seemingly from the same country catalogue. . . and the sadly frequent lost-looking soul whose partner died within a year of them moving here. There is a desire to recreate a town that never existed except in someone's imagination. There are new habits and rituals developed with new friends, all secretly wondering who will be the next to go. There is a degree of forced jocularity, that pompous false humour the English do when they're feeling socially insecure. There are people beginning to wonder how come the kids don't visit as much as before, it's only a few extra hours or so away. And the best friends they left behind still haven't come to stay like they promised, and e-mails aren't the same as a chat over a cuppa.
Sherborne's not a bad town, if you enjoy snobbery and pretension. But you wouldn't want to die here.
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