Friday, May 02, 2014
prepare to repel invaders
The English must be getting desperate for new territory.
And that understandable. If Scotland votes to go its own way on 18 September, the not-so-United Kingdom will lose almost one-third of its area.
And who knows where that will leave the Union flag? The one that incorporates the crosses of three national saints: Patrick (Ireland), Andrew (Scotland), and George (England).
Sounds like the start of joke, doesn't it? An Irishman, a Scot, and an Englishman sat down to design a flag.
The result, of course, is one of the most recognizable of national banners. Except for the people who insist on calling it the English flag. British, please.
Even our favorite British blogger boffin, Gary Denness, stuck his pen into an ancillary tussle. Whether good St. George should have his own national holiday. (Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint Willy) With tongue deeply embedded, Gary suggests that Shakespeare would be a better pick for an English patron saint. Me? I would hold out for the Venerable Bede.
I suspect the Scots will come to their senses and see that they have a far greater -- and better --place in the world as a united nation, rather than going it alone. My preference, of course, would be for a United Republic. But, all of the current William-worship, will probably pull the Windsor chestnuts out of the fire.
So, what was I talking about? Oh, yes. The English flag. The real one. The white one with the red cross. The one we usually see being waved by English football hooligans in France just before they trounce some poor Frenchman.
Last November I told you that I had been searching for a way to climb up to an outcropping of rocks at the west end of Melaque's beach. (steve -- sometimes in mexico) Someone climbs up there now and then, and strings up a celebratory memento -- pennants or flags. But I have not figured out where to scale the hill.
When Darrel was here, we noticed something new. A larger flag. And a quite familiar one. Yup. The cross of Saint George. At the top of this post.
It sounded as good as any clue offered by Agatha Christie. So, I rounded up the usual English suspects in our small village. To no avail. They had no idea who dun it. And, as a result, had no idea how to find the rocks.
The flag is still there. But none the better for wear.
The perched turkey vulture adds an appropriate soupçon of foreboding.
Having felt taunted for long enough, I headed up the hill. I laughed when I first read that Theodore Roosevelt scaled Mont Blanc one morning on his honeymoon wearing tweeds and sturdy boots.
My getup was not much better. I was outfitted in my go-to-town outfit. Tommy Bahama shirt. Dockers khakis. Street shoes. Not the usual climbing garb in this weather.
I scrambled up a trail that looked as if it was cut by rainy season streams and a family of coatimundis. Surprisingly, I made it up the hill far enough to realize that the jungle still obscured my goal. I racked it up to a successful reconnaissance in force.
The best aspect of this little encounter is that my goal is still out there. Or, up there. It is something else to do before I end up shuffling my little stack of greeting cards in a rest home.
And if there are any Englishmen hanging around up there, the Mexicans may need to dig up Porfirio Diaz to repel the invaders -- as he did at Puebla.
But that is a story for -- oh, say, three days from now.