On Saturday Saying farewell to some fascinating folk

THEY don’t make ‘em like that any more. It’s a phrase we hear a lot nowadays, especially when some fascinating character has passed-on leaving a very noticeable hole where they once lived and breathed

I’ve come across it dozens of times recently since I penned newspaper tributes after the passing of a couple of well known and interesting Westcountrymen – namely mud-horse fisherman Brendan Sellick and potter John Leach.

It was a privilege to be asked by their families to write something partly because of who they were and partly because I’d been friends with both men for many years.

After the articles appeared, my social media accounts became busy as friends and strangers alike shared fond memories of these two outstanding gentlemen. And time and again I saw that phrase: they don’t make ‘em like that any more.

A few people added the question… Why don’t they make ‘em like that any more? Well… Is it really true there aren’t so many wonderful, colourful or fascinating characters around nowadays? I’m sure some would argue it’s nonsense – that people have always uttered the phrase about not “making ‘em like that any more” – whether it’s human characters, cars, old fashioned types of carrot, or just about any form of collectable item from Cliff Richard’s vinyl to canvas canoes.

We are a species hard-wired to feel attracted to what has been – which is why the “nostalgia industry” is such a fast-booming multi-million pound entity.

But, thinking about it, maybe there’s a clue right there. Why has our interest in nostalgia increased so much in recent times? Is it because the modern world has become so bland that we yearn for the more interesting vagaries, caprices, foibles and oddities of yesteryear?

Anyone aged over 50 need only look back to something as prosaic as the high streets of their youth to know there might be something in this. When we were young all high streets were different – now most are exactly the same. Same socks, same underwear, from Truro to Irkutsk. Same shops, same coffee, same burgers, same beer. The vastness of the global-corporate market-place has overtaken our lives to such an extent, we look alike, sound alike (what happened to regional accents?), and all too many tend to operate in the same unified smartphone-connected way.

In a smart Devon restaurant this week I witnessed a neighbouring table of four 20-somethings enjoying some kind of celebratory lunch. After the first 10 minutes of greeting, chatting and laughing, those four spent 90% of the next two hours in silence, gazing intently at their phone screens.

What chance of character-growth or individualism is there in that kind of social get-together?

So when it comes to people, I really do think that there’s a case for saying “they don’t make ‘em like that any more…”

Looking back at the two old friends already mentioned – both were famous for what they did – and they pursued what they did all their lives. Neither Brendan or John ever “dabbled” in their chosen careers. Mud-horse fishing never was a weekend pastime for Brendan Sellick; sitting at the potter’s wheel was never a hobby for Johnny Leach. Both worked hard at their highly individual callings for over half a century.

In the case of the former, I would argue that the utter loneliness of being out there on the great empty dangerous mudflats of Bridgwater Bay, week-in week-out for well over 50 years, must have helped shape the man Brendan was. And I refer to his deep seated sense of humanity, his keen interest in other people and his always quick and ready sense of humour.

Likewise, countless thousands of thoughtful hours spent at the potter’s wheel must have helped mould Johnny’s gentle and philosophical nature in exactly the same way as his fingers shaped those wonderful pots.

One character-trait both men shared was that they were as keen to listen to your stories as they were to tell theirs.

They had, long ago in their separate lives, established the perfect balance which lies between talking and listening – a happy equilibrium so few people ever seem to reach… An enriching achievement in life which is, perhaps, influenced by having a mastery of the labours which dominate one’s days.

I have noticed that people who know exactly what they are doing professionally often have a blend of humility and humbleness that is strongly anchored to a sense of selfconfidence and self-worth.

It’s almost as if the mantra of such people is… “I know my world. I am a master of it. I know why I do what I do and that gives me a grounding in the greater scheme of things. Now I want you to share some of the things you know so that we might laugh or cry, or experience some kind of moment together…” People who think like that are good to be around.

But how many youngsters nowadays are embarking upon jobs they’ll do all their lives?

How many boys or girls will one day become absolute masters of whatever it is they’ve chosen to do? Not many.

That alone could help answer the riddle as to why they don’t make ‘em like that any more.