BKK – I love you. Budapest is the world’s best public transport city!

Now I’m really not a transit fan or a public transport nerd or a metrophiliac or whatever you call people who like to photograph buses and collect their registration numbers. But I have to tell you that Budapest is turning me into one.
Why? Because it has a wonderful transport system. Hungarians and Budapestis disagree with me on this, they tell me it’s terrible, it’s dirty etc. etc. They’re wrong. If you survived London Transport in the 1980s and have any experience of public transport in, say, Cornwall you will be gobsmacked at how good the system is here.
For a start there are eight (count them, 8!) different forms of public transport you can use here. There are the metro, the trams, the trolleybuses, the buses, the HEV (suburban trains), the funicular railway and the cogwheel railway and the boats. Boats! One of them is 95 years old and still works well, weaving up and down the Danube and providing a timetable service that costs almost nothing compared with the tourist boats (750 HUF or about 2 GBP).
You can buy a monthly berlet (season ticket) for less than the cost of a week’s limited travel on Transport for London. You can sit on a magnificent modern tram that is the longest in the world (4 and 6) or you can sit on a much older tram (19) and try to fathom the workings of the little ticket machines stuck near the doors where you punch your own ticket. Each ticket costs about a pound, by the way, if you don’t feel like getting a berlet. You can admire the super modern stations of the M4 metro line or sit in the cute little carriages on the M1 metro line, historically the second underground line in Europe after the one in London. You can also admire the noisy squealing of the M3 line trains which were built in Soviet times and look it.
By the way, Budapest often seems to check what London does first and then copy and do it better. Budapesti Kozlekedesi Kozpont claim to have modelled themselves on TfL, though they don’t have Oyster cards that continually drain of money, thank the Lord.
Budapestis to the contrary, the vehicles are mostly clean and they seem generally to run to time. Did I mention my berlet? I love my monthly berlet. It costs about 26 GBP and lets me travel on the metro, HEV, buses, trams and trolleybuses anywhere in Budapest, as much as I like, whenever I like. For a month.
Match that, Boris!

Smug and the Stroke

I’m sorry, but I’m smug.
If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you’ll know that last March 20th 2014 I had a haemorrhagic stroke which led to me spending a week in intensive care, two weeks in a hospital ward and three months at home in Torokbalint. (Find the blogs here.)(Or you could if the effing link-thingy was working).
The doctors have got me on meds to control my blood pressure which have some side effects and don’t actually seem to control my blood pressure very well.
So I did a bit of looking around and found that there’s a lot of research that says about 45 minutes of vigorous physical exercise three times a week will control your blood pressure just as well as drugs as well as helping with things like hardened arteries, stress and flab around the belly (though they lied about the flab part).
Aha! I thought, if I have to run for 45 minutes three times a week to come off the bloody pills, I will do that thing because I purely hate to take pills. (Yes, I’m still taking them but if my blood pressure goes down I’ll come off them slowly). Anyway, I’ve always exercised since I found that martial arts made me a much nicer person in my twenties.
I am now running for 45 minutes three times a week – and I just found out that on Sundays when I run for 50 minutes, I’m covering slightly under 8 kilometers – or 5 miles.
So I’m smug.

The Headman and the Churchman

Prologue to A CHORUS OF INNOCENTS, the next Carey novel.

***

It was a small chapel, stone built and once dedicated to some Papist saint. Since then it had been whitewashed, had its superstitious coloured windows broken with stones and the head knocked off the saint, although her cow was left in peace. The old altar had been broken up as the reign of the King’s scandalous mother came to its riotous end, the relics hidden in it levered out and thrown on a bonfire to burn as superstitious trash. By the early 1570s there was a respectably plain altar table, well away from the eastern end so as not to be idolatrous and a very well-made plain and solid high pulpit for preaching. Mostly from visiting preachers though, because who would choose to live in the village so close to the Border with England and the bastard English raiders?

Once, memorably, the Reverend Gilpin came there after the mermaid Queen was safely locked up in England. This was very unusual. The reverend’s summer journeys kept him on the southern side of the Faery Wall, among the God-cursed English, but a laird had heard him there and invited him to come and preach and paid his expenses foreby and the everyone for miles about had gone to listen. They still tutted about it.

They had heard some very strange things from the pulpit that day. For a start, Gilpin didn’t read the Bible texts they knew and liked, the good ones about smiting the Philistines or the book of Joshua or an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth which was good sense they wholeheartedly agreed with. Nor did he talk about the wickedness of starched ruffs, or vestments, even.

He read them some unfamiliar parts of the Gospels: nothing useful about Jesus bringing a sword, no. Strange unaccustomed things he read them about making peace with your brother before you laid your sacrifice on the altar and some outrageous stuff about loving your enemy.

The men and women shifted their feet where they stood and looked at each other sidelong. Did Christ really say that? Really? Loving your enemy? Was the English reverend sure? It sounded… well, it sounded papistical.

Love everybody? What? The English too? Jesus never said that, did he?

And the Reverend had smiled with a twinkle in his small grey eyes and closed the Bible with a snap, then leaned his arms familiarly on the rail of the pulpit as if he was leaning on a fence.

“Did you ever in all your lives hear anything so mad?” he asked in reasonable Scotch and they all laughed with relief.

He must have been reading one of those wicked papistical bibles the Jesuits spread about, that must be it. Jesus couldn’t have said that about enemies. What you did with enemies was you hunted them down and killed them and all their kin, which made far better sense. Honestly, the idea!

But as the Reverend spoke on, they felt uneasy again. It seemed Jesus had said those mad things. He had actually said, right out, that they must love each other, not just their own surnames which was just about doable, mostly, but everybody. Even the English.

It seemed Jesus had said the thing about enemies too, he really had. There it was, in the Bible, which was as true and good as gold, golden words from God, incorruptible, like blasts of the trumpet against the ungodly. The foolish Papists had hidden the glorious words of Jesus in Latin black as pitch so only priests could know them; now the words were Englished and turned to Scotch as well, so anybody could read them, yes, even women.

So what were they to think? What should they think – that Jesus was mad? Crazy?

Everyone had goggled at such… surely it was blasphemy?

A stout woman spoke up from the back of the church where she was standing with the other women. “That’s blasphemy!” she shouted, “You can’t say Our Lord was mad…”

The English reverend’s long finger stabbed the air as he pointed at her.

“That’s right, goodwife!” he bellowed, “You are the truest Christian here! It’s blasphemy to say or even to think that Jesus Christ was mad because he was the Son of God!”

He was standing up straight now, leaning over the rail. “And if he was the Son of God, then how dare we listen to His words in the Bible and not follow His orders! How dare we hate our enemies? How dare we feud and kill and raid and burn? For if we do, shall we not burn in Hell?”

And from there the sermon had turned both familiar and frightening. Familiar in the loud words and gestures, but frightening in the meaning. For the Reverend was not inveighing against the Papists nor the French nor the courtiers. He was preaching against themselves.

Against any of them that went up against an enemy to fight him, steal his cows and sheep and burn his steadings. Which meant pretty much every man there of fighting age. He bellowed against those that cooked and brewed ale for the fighting men or quilted their jacks in the old surname patterns, which meant every woman and girl there.

He told them that they were wrong and damned, that keeping a boychild’s right hand covered with a cloth at baptism so it was unblessed and could kill without sin was a wicked Papist superstition. That the whole of them, body and soul, was blessed in baptism, so that they could rise up, soul and body both, at the Judgement Day – which might be very soon.

Yet because they had not obeyed their true headman, Jesus Christ, then they would be damned just as infallibly as the Papists or the wicked Anabaptists.

Many of the men were scowling and putting their hands on their knives or swords. The women were gasping with outrage while the children stared in astonishment at the small man’s daring. What was an Anabaptist? Did it have a tail?

He quieted for a while, playing them like a violin. It was all right. Jesus was a just and kindly headman, unlike many of the lairds hereabouts (that got a small titter). They could make things right any time they wanted: all they had to do was love their enemies, make peace with those they were at feud with and…

“Die?” sneered the laird at the front, who had his arms folded across his barrel chest and his henchmen in a tight knot around him. As he was the one who had paid for the reverend to preach he was understandably angry. “That’s what will happen if we make peace with the bastard English. We’ll die and our families with us!”

“You will not die,” said the reverend Gilpin, pointing at the laird, “You will receive eternal life.”

The headman spat on the stones. “I didna pay your expenses for ye to preach this shite,” said the headman, “Get on wi’ yer job and curse the ungodly, man!”

“I am,” said Gilpin, seeming blithely unaware that every man there was on the point of drawing steel. Or perhaps he believed God would protect him. Or perhaps he didn’t care. “If you fail to do what our Lord Jesus ordered – love God and love each other – you are the ungodly! You and the English both. All of you, both sides of the Border, are the ungodly.”

The laird drew his sword and shouldered to the front. “I paid ye!” he bellowed, “Now do whit I paid ye to do!”

A purse full of money flew through the air and bounced off the headman’s doublet with a thump.

“I don’t need yer money,” said Gilpin, “Thanks to God and mine own weakness I am a wealthy man. Ye’ve got a free sermon here. Now will ye listen to the Word of God, or not?”

There was a moment of total silence. Then the woman who had spoken before (against all scripture) started laughing.

“Och,” she shouted, “He’s a brave man at least, not an arselicker like the last one. You let him preach, Jock o’ the Coates.”

“So,” said Gilpin after a pause, with a friendly smile to all of them as some hands relaxed from the hilts of their weapons, “We have a problem. If the Lord Jesus wisnae a madman, then ye all are mad for ignoring his orders.”

There was a growl from some of the men and more laughter from the women, sniggers from the children. You had to say this, it was a more exciting sermon than the last one who had had a lot to say about the wickedness of vestments, whatever they were.

Over the next hour the Reverend Gilpin proved that Jesus had actually said they should love their enemies and then He had actually done that very thing when the Romans had nailed Him to a cross, which must have hurt. And then, to show them all what they were dealing with, hadn’t He risen from the dead, come back to life, not like a ghost or the curs’d knight in the ballad, but as a living, breathing man that ate grilled fish and drank with His friends?

There was no possible question that He had said it and meant it and done it.

Now they had to forgive their enemies too and live in peace with them. That was all there was to it. And once they set their minds to it, they would find it easier than they expected for wouldn’t the Lord Jesus be right there at their side, helping them all the way?

By the end of the sermon some of the more impressionable were weeping. One of the Burn grandsons was staring transfixed into space, as if he could see something marvellous there instead of just a smashed papist window.

Gilpin left them all with the blessing, the full blessing from the evening service. “The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.”

Then he went calmly to his horse that was tethered outside and with his servant behind him, mounted up and trotted slowly away so the laird could catch him if he wanted.

It was so memorable a sermon that the laird sent to an Edinburgh minister in case Jesus really had said that about enemies.

He had, apparently. He really had. Though according to the Edinburgh minister that didn’t count for Papists and a number of other people, including, of course, the English.

So that was all right then.

Strangely the laird invited him again and even more strangely, he came, riding a solid ordinary hobby with his silent deacon behind him on a long-legged mare.

However as he came to unlock the wooden chapel door, he found a gauntlet nailed to it with a badly penned paper that said whoever took it down would be the Burns blood enemy for life.

Gilpin looked at it for a moment and then ripped it down. He carried the gauntlet into the church with him where he explained to the assembled people why feud was wrong, challenges to single combat were wrong and the headman who had challenged him was not only wrong but stupid. He was risking not only a lightening bolt, not only the wrath of God but also an eternity in Hell which was no laughing matter.

Foolishly the headman wouldn’t leave it be. He sent to Gilpin to ask where he proposed to meet and what his weapon would be. Gilpin replied that it would be at the tower of his Lord with the sword and shield of God.

The headman arrived at the chapel the next day with his sword and buckler and a crowd of his surname who came to see him beat up the preacher who had defied him – or laugh at him when he didn’t arrive.

They found Gilpin standing there in his plain cassock, holding a large bible.

“Och,” Jock o’ the Coates said disgustedly. That wasn’t fair. The book looked heavy enough to do some damage if he threw it, but what if he made a lightening bolt come out of it?

“Well?” said Gilpin, coming forward with the Bible open and his thumb set in one of the end chapters. “Will you draw and strike, Jock Burn?”

“Ye’re not… ye’re not armed,” growled Jock, horribly suspecting some of his grandsons and nephews were laughing at him inside, which indeed they were.

“I am armed,” said the mad preacher, “I am armed with the sword of God’s truth and the shield of God’s word. Will ye not strike? Perhaps yer sword will not wither like a twig in the fire nor your whole surname go to dust and ashes with you left alone until your enemies catch ye. For those who live by the sword shall die by it.”

Jock Burn backed off, paling. No more was ever said about the challenge and the gauntlet.

That was the Reverend Gilpin. He helped broker the deal between the Dodds and the Elliots in the late 1570s which calmed upper Tynedale no end and saw to it that the worst offenders left the area. He kept coming every summer, at first with his quiet young manservant and then, after the man died of a fever, he kept coming on his own, sadder, gentler now. He preached at several Warden Days, on the invitation of Sir John Forster, the English Middle March Warden. He carried no more than an eating knife and a Bible, he slept wherever he could find shelter and he ate whatever the poor people he usually lodged with could give him. He preached from his Bible whenever anyone asked him to and always on Sundays.

Nobody had ever seen or heard of such a strong minister, such a mad churchman, who had said publicly that he gave not a feather for vestments and as for the Papists – well, hadn’t he been a Papist himself once, before he read the Bible and understood God’s Word better, and surely most of them were good men misguided with only a few actively serving the Evil One.

What was more he never laid a hand on girl or boy though he had no wife either. Many were the snares and traps set for him by cunning mothers with girls who would have liked to be mistress of his rumoured large and comfortable living in the south. When a gentlewoman twitted him on his wifeless state across her dinnertable, with her daughters on either side of him, he smiled and toasted her and her daughters.

“You see,” he told her, “I swore before the altar of God to keep chastity and although I was certainly a sinner when I was young and hot-blooded, now I am old and tired and no use whatever to a woman.” He smiled and bowed to both the girls who blushed. The mother found herself wondering about his deacon who had died of the fever but she said nothing and nor did he. All the girls who had hopes of his rumoured magnificent house at Houghton le Spring were sadly disappointed.

He only came to the Borders in summer – for the rest of the year he kept a school at Houghton le Spring, boarded likely boys at his own expense and paid for some of them to go to Oxford where he himself had studied Divinity and sung the Masses with the rest of the young men before Henry VIII’s divorce.

Slowly, little by little, some of the men of the surnames came to like him, the women too despite his obstinate refusal to wed any of them. The children had loved him from the start and the lads ran to meet him when they saw his solitary silhouette with his soft flat churchman’s cap and warm cloak over a ridge along the Faery Wall.

Then in 1583 sad word came. He had been trampled by an excaped ox in Houghton market, lay wounded for a month and died of lungfever on the 4th of March. Both sides of the Border were stricken at the news and Jock o’ the Coates Burn and some of the headmen from south of the Border as well went to pay their respects in the south at Houghton le Spring. Jock died a few months later, leaving his grown son Ralph as headman and the grandsons grown as well, a lucky life Jock never admitted he attributed to not cutting Gilpin’s head off when they had met at the chapel in the early 1570s.

And the seeds that Gilpin had sown, dangerous and revolutionary seeds that they were, lay in the soil of the people’s minds and here and there they set down their roots.

***

I wrote this early in 2014 and then decided to completely change the way I wrote Carey 7, which became A CHORUS OF INNOCENTS and my next book in the series. I forgot about it until I found it last week. I think this bit of it can go into A CHORUS OF INNOCENTS as the Prologue.

The story of the Reverend Bernard Gilpin is true, including the bit with the gauntlet. He is now forgotten but he was a remarkable man who did a thankless hard job on the Borders for no better reason than he believed they needed it and God wanted him to. I have used a little artistic license in my story about him, but not much.

New Year’s resolutions etc. blah blah

I only ever make one New Year’s Resolution at a time because I’m pathetically weak-willed and need to concentrate willpower on one object.
This is it. I will blog at least every Sunday about whatever I want.
I know you’re supposed to specialise but I don’t know how: this will be a non-specialist blog and you can check it out for interesting surprises.
Maybe there will be recipes, or political discussions, or loony stuff or things about my sufferings trying to learn Hungarian or… whatever.
That’s what it’s been up to now and I might as well carry on with that.
Thank you for reading this – next week’s will be much more interesting!