The Alexa Battles

I admit it... I'm an unabashed gizmologist. A strange new object has appeared on our sideboard. Almost inconspicuous in grey and matt white, it sits – not always quietly – and awaits my command.

The blame for this lies squarely with my grandchildren, who really should know better how to care for their susceptible elders. There we all were, enjoying a tasty breakfast meal, when one says, "Alexa, play me some music... whereupon the Amazon Echo thingy on the windowsill burst into life.  Impressed, though not wholly by the choice of music, I called out "Alexa, play 'You never can tell'" (a Ukes 'uv Azzard favourite) and in an instant Chuck Berry was rockin' away for me. Great!

"Alexa," pipes up grandchild #2, "play something else" after Chuck had scarcely sung the first verse — and so commenced the Alexa Battles.  "No Alexa, play 'You never can tell'"... "Alexa, play 'White Christmas'"... "Alexa, what's the weather forecast?"... "Alexa, shut up!" There really was only one possible solution, and before the night was out my modest bank balance had been depleted by £89 and a Smart Speaker was on its way.

Mine is unashamedly a Google house. Google Calendar is my diary, Google Search directs me around the Internet and Google Play looks after all my favourite music, so it made sense to go for Google's own Smart Speaker offering — Google Home.

The initial Set Up went smoothly and within minutes glorious carols from King's College were filling the room. A glutton for 'free' offers, I promptly upgraded my Google Play to a subscription service (3 months free, then £10/month), so now I can also tell Google Home to play my treasured collection of Cornish folk songs.

To get full control of this cybernetic wizz-kid I've taught it my voice. Now, not only do I get personalised greetings but only I can access my own calendar and shopping list. It can be quite good fun; "Hey Google, good morning!" I chirp as I draw the lounge curtains. "Good morning, Angela," it replies. "The weather today in Lydney will be cool and dry with a maximum of 9 degrees...."  Voice control does, though, have its limitations, as you'll know if you've ever tried Google's voice feature on a smartphone. For instance, I just called out "OK Google, tell me about The Ukes 'uv Azzard" and it responded:

The Dukes of Hazzard are just some good old boys, never meaning no harm.

Grrr! Good we are, and old(ish) some of us may be, but we ain't the Dukes and Azzard doesn't start with an 'H'.  All attempts to make Google Home elicit the right answer have so far failed. Perhaps that's good news; screens and keyboards aren't dead yet.

There have been the inevitable security scares about these devices – as reported in the Daily Mail, so they must be true (cough!). But so much of modern life is susceptible to scams and security lapses that I'm resolved to take sensible precautions and not worry too much. I haven't been caught out yet.

Some may say that I should turn it off when not in use, but I'm not keen. After all, it would rather spoil the fun.  So instead, the last thing I do is to quietly say "Hey Google, good night."

Good night, Angela. 

Enjoy your time in Club Duvet

Snow is falling

Snow is falling all around me,

children playing, having fun.

It's the season of love and understanding,

Merry Christmas everyone!

I've sung that one with The Ukes uv Azzard a time or eight over the past few weeks, never imagining that it really might snow. But early yesterday morning it began, and it didn't stop for several hours.

Most 'sensible' grown-ups that I know cancelled their plans to attend church or feast at a pub and stayed indoors, telling themselves how awful it was outside. But this big kid was having none of it. As soon as the Sunday Roast had been devoured I joined the children playing, having fun then drove into the Forest of Dean for some fun of my own. 

It was lovely, but the sky was still grey and a premature darkness was falling. One guy, clearly concerned about this mad woman, warned me that the heavily rutted roads would soon be freezing, so gingerly I made my way down to Parkend and its deserted station, then headed for home...

... but then along came the Santa Special at Whitecroft. Happily, I waved to the passengers.  Merry Christmas everyone!

Today the skies turned blue, the sun shone and the whole forest took on a stunning beauty, the like of which I have truly never seen before. Back into the forest I drove, parked Bluebird just off-road in a moderate-sized snowdrift (what fun!) and set out on foot to record the scene. 

You can just glimpse Bluebird in the distance on the right. Happily, extracting her from her snowdrift posed no serious problems. I simply remembered what I'd learned after (frequently) running aground with a narrowboat – reverse out the way you came in.  Easy.

Tom Bawcock's Eve

Mousehole at it looks on Tom Bawcott's Eve - and on every evening
over Christmas

"Do you miss Cornwall?" is usually the second question folk ask me, after "Why ever did you leave?" It's understandable, of course. Cornwall is a land of golden, sandy beaches, quaint fishing villages, pasties, clotted cream and (if you're lucky) long, warm summer days. It's also a rather nice place to live. Having resided there for the best part of 61 years, I ought to know.

So do I miss it? Yes, of course. But I would miss the Forest of Dean and the Wye Valley every bit as much if ever I had to leave... which I sincerely hope never to do.

In truth, it's not those balmy summer Cornish days that I miss most; it's Christmas.  For 17 of my 61 years I was privileged to live in West Cornwall and there – if you take the trouble to divorce yourself from the nauseating excesses of a world bent on spending as much money as possible between Black Friday and the last New Year Sale – Christmas is very different.

To start with, the carols are different, but I've blogged about them before – Helston 2, maybe 3.

The days of Advent pass in song and merriment. But just before the great day there comes a unique West Cornwall celebration - Tom Bawcock's Eve. Down on the quayside in Mousehole (always pronounced 'Mouzel'), outside the Ship Inn, the crowds gather to sing:

The Ship Inn

A merry place you may believe, 

was Mouzel ‘pon Tom Bawcock’s eve.

To be there then who wud'n wish

to sup on seb'n sorts o’ fish.

When morgy broth had cleared the path,

comed lances for a fry.
And then us had a bit o'scad
and Starry Gazy Pie.

Believe me, what the song may lack in artistic merit is more than compensated for by the enthusiasm of the crowds – and all the more so if you've already warmed yourself with a glass of something alcoholic in the Ship!

Tom Bawcock (not Ballcock, as my friend Steve used to call him!) is a legendary figure who is said to have saved Mousehole from starvation by setting to sea one stormy December night. Brave Tom managed to catch enough fish to feed the entire village. Somewhat improbably he put the whole catch - comprising seven sorts of fish - into an enormous pie, which he baked with the fish heads poking though the pastry. Thus Stargazy Pie was born.  To my shame, I've yet to taste any.

Since moving to England (the Cornish rarely consider their land part of England) I've tried hard to preserve the excitement, warmth and humour of my West Cornwall Christmases, but I sense the magic fading, despite putting up my tree and decs a little earlier each year. The number of cards arriving is gradually diminishing as friends become infirmed or die, and others forget us or choose to save on postage. And when two of my grandchildren asked for shopping vouchers last Christmas I knew that the magic was truly departing. How can you get excited about unwrapping an Amazon voucher?!

Magic... that's it. Christmas needs magic to keep it alive, lest it descend into a meaningless festival to Amazon, Tesco and PC World. For me it needs family and good friends, traditions to revel in, rousing songs to sing and the renewed gift of the Christ Child.