Radio Four

It seemed an appropriate title for this Saturday's blog (given that there have been three other radio blogs earlier in the week). Actually I don't often listen to Radio Four these days, ditto Radio Three. I've never tuned in to Radio Two in my life and avoided 'wonderful' Radio One on principle from 1967 (when the government banned the pirates) until 1977 when punk and John Peel combined to make it worthwhile. My station of choice these days is Radio Five for its mixture of news and sports coverage and I listen to it either in the car or via my laptop computer. 

All that is far removed from the days of beautiful 'wirelesses' in wooden casings that required mains electricity and were full of glowing valves, or bakelite sets with backlit dials that had all the major radio stations marked off according to their frequencies.

vintage glamour

Our family wireless sat on the sideboard in the living-room when we were children and only our parents were allowed to turn it on or off. It was always tuned to the Home Service (precursor of Radio Four) and was our portal into a wider world in the days before our first TV set arrived. Even afterwards I preferred radio to TV and nothing made me happier as a young teenager that when I was given an old valve radio of my own for my bedroom, to listen to music from pirate radio stations Caroline and London, to radio plays, comedy programmes, panel shows and news reviews. It spoke to me. Radio - and the stations it gave access to - had the magical ability to reach outsiders and make them insiders. I loved it for that.

retro chic

I was always fascinated by the names on the dial of our family wireless, especially the continental ones: Cologne, Paris, Monte Carlo, Luxemburg, Hilversum. That latter was the starting point for today's new poem referencing an event that occurred days before I was born, when a heavy storm surge in the North Sea created tidal waves that swept over the sea defences in the Netherlands, Belgium and parts of Eastern England. The Hilversum radio station in the Netherlands broadcast possible flood warnings through the evening of January 31st but then went off-air at midnight before the degree of seriousness was fully understood, and so evacuation orders never reached the thousands of people who were about to be swept away on February 1st 1953 by the storm of the century.

Hilversum, January 31st 1953

Bitter and blasted this winter onslaught

and the damp patches have revisited

my living-room wallpaper like a threat.

The gas fire pops. Another stuiver drops

and with a hot water bottle on my lap

impersonating an indolent if wobbly cat 

I fiddle with the wireless dial in hope of

a friendly voice though wind and static.

Hilversum fades in not with cheery tunes

but in grey voiced seriousness. Imagine a

cigar left to burn down as urgent news is

shared. Flooding imminent. We who live

beneath the sea have always an unspoken

fear that the waves will reclaim the land

our forefathers made with dyke and drain.

It's only just after tea and strong gales rage.

Tonight will be long, inundation threatens.

Rain rattles the window. Transmission fades...    

I'm including a musical bonus this week from the wonderful Dar Williams. Any of you who, like me, used to listen to their radio at might as teenagers should be able to relate to: Are You Out There?

Thanks for tuning in, S ;-)