Open Writing

Lost Pleasures

Jean Cowgill suggests that recalling lost pleasures is in itself a pleasure.

On a trivial level I thought about ‘raindrops on hosepipes…and flea bites on kittens.’ I also wondered about defining ‘lost’ or indeed ‘pleasure’. Some other ideas came to mind.

* Pleasures locked into early childhood are pre memory and by definition lost to us: recognising a parent’s smile, having a full belly, or a feeling of ‘cot comfort’ is within this category. We know nothing of the period. Without language or memory this is a time of pre Cambrian mystery common to us all.

* Lost pleasures naturally wane as we reach adulthood: The need to fit in with the herd makes us ‘put away childish things’ as the Bible admonishes. There are occasional transgressions when we are allowed to play football in the park for example (the joys of grandchildren I am told). Pooh sticks, dam building and sand sculptures may also come within this category; although eccentric adults may well indulge in these activities without the cover of children. Some hobbies develop into adult interests: playing in the beck may turn into more academic stream studies in geography or biology. Caddis larvae, water boat men and shingle beds motivate the scientists of the future. Other pursuits do not transfer as easily: a game of cowboys and Indians would seem an odd activity in adults unless they were to be adapted to the armed forces or paint-balling.

* Pleasures lost through physical degeneration: I include walking in this category. I can walk across the room, or to the bus stop I can even manage of six or seven miles on a reasonable terrain. But proper hill-walking is a memory. The joy of reaching a summit is lost to me. Long distance walks are pleasures of yester year, mere notches on my walking sticks (or they might be if the sticks were not metal.) However, I must add a rider to these thoughts. I am not sure the Pennine Way was ever a pleasure. Peat bogs and moor are my overwhelming memories along with aching limbs, wet clothes and the knowledge we were locked into the PW for almost three weeks.

* Pleasures which no longer enthral: A need to meet ‘the love of your life’ often necessitates activities which are boring, loud or go on far too long into the night. The pleasure occurs on the rare occasion one ‘clicks’. Is the game worth the candle? Lucky are the people who can meet their heart’s desire away from discos.

Folk clubs have changed beyond recognition. Today even traditional singing is often accompanied by electronic gadgetry. Long, long ago in a far off land ‘The Stamp’, a public house in Holmfirth, was a fortnightly treat. The upstairs bar resounded to many traditional songs culminating in the local anthem: ‘Where the pratty, pratty Flowers grow.’ Of course in those days I could last the pace.

On retirement we may have responsibilities but we are in general on an even plateau. The highs and lows of life are not as apparent. The sheer joy of Friday at six pm disappears; as does the pleasure of mid July when September seems a million light years away.

After watching the giddy heights of a Huddersfield Town Terriers’ live football match I have no desire to descend to Barrow and the Blue Square so called Premier League. Similarly Yorkshire County Cricket Club spoiled me for the Furness League where arthritic wicket keeper and ancient third man are on display.

* The ultimate lost pleasure would be the inability to remember lost pleasures.