Holidays cancelled or changed to the UK only. Some people got away over the summer but testing for Covid-19 brought hassle to airports and a hasty return from places like France to catch the last trains home through the Channel Tunnel before restrictions were put in place. Some of us stayed put – but reluctantly.

We wore masks to go into shops – hand sanitiser awaited us at the door. Some people couldn’t contain themselves when it was still warm and sunny and a photo of sunbathing crowds on Bournemouth beach showed that ‘social distancing’ was being completely ignored.

We preferred the calm and relative solitude of Richmond Park and Kew Gardens on our doorstep.

The warm weather continued as we enjoyed having lunch outside in our own garden. We had planted nettles after watching Chris Packham on television, urging people to leave wild corners to encourage natural habitats – particularly for insects, which aren’t always visible. I remember as a child seeing swarms of midges dancing in the sunlight and was aware that they didn’t seem to be around so much now. Few butterflies this summer, mainly white, a tiny blue, a brimstone, a comma, two peacocks and a lone red admiral – there are industrious bees but less of them – I must plant more bee loving flowers next year.

We watched David Attenborough’s film, ‘Extinction’, telling us that so many species in the wild had declined disastrously since the 1950s. We’re on a downward path … and yet there are good stories too. A great way of keeping up with both the bad and the good is to watch ‘Countryfile’ on Sunday evenings (BBC). It’s a window on what the rest of the country is doing, especially if you live in a city. There are a lot of inspiring projects and people out there …re-wilding is the word of the moment … both in cities and the countryside. ‘Wilding’ by Isabella Tree who talks about the Knepp estate in Surrey where she lives is an inspirational read. What she and her husband continue to do is impressive.

I bought these dried grasses in the hopes that their upsurging habit would cheer me through the next few months. I had a bunch of alstroemeria in the kitchen and when it began dropping its petals I saved the few blossoms left.

These grapes have pips and are small, yet have a great flavour. They cover one wall of our house. We juiced them and the juice freezes well. I’m using it to cook with Bramley apples instead of sugar for an excellent ‘home made’ dessert. Just add cream… and throw in a few sultanas for good measure.

It was time to stretch our legs and enjoy exploring further afield. Close by we have the river, the Common, our ‘village’ pond and its inhabitants – and even a welcoming Côte restaurant.

This clock is shaped like the trays that bring food to the tables in Bordeaux restaurants. I’m missing crossing the Channel, eating French food, immersing myself in the ambience of a country I know well. But at the moment France is out of bounds. However, our local restaurant by the pond serves French food and has the atmosphere of a ‘brasserie’. And it’s still open! * But, as it turns out, not for long, with a second lockdown on the way …

OUT AND ABOUT

The weather is unstable – either fiercely wet and windy with a low grumbling of thunder, followed by flashes of sunlight, and sometimes an unexpected and welcome perfectly clear blue sky day … I have purchased a wonderfully ‘fits in your pocket’ raspberry coloured umbrella from Peter Jones. It weighs hardly anything and can also be used as a sunshade – one of my favourite, successful ‘buys’. It also comes in blue and blows in and out without disaster when assailed by sudden gusts of wind.

The river Thames is five minutes walk away and we cross over Barnes Bridge to the Chiswick side. The tide is going out. It smells of the sea – where it came from.

There’s a small reservoir called ‘The Leg O’ Mutton’ by the Thames in Barnes, which makes for a great forty minute stroll around it – good to fit into a ‘lockdown’ day.

Many herons can be seen perched on wooden rafts in the water. Their nests, in a huge plane tree, are very rough and ready – but enjoy great views over the river and the reservoir. I counted fifteen +.

One end of the reservoir often dries out in summer and has massive reed beds.

The roads in Barnes are quiet and empty of people, except for the High Street and Church Road, where the shops offer almost everything you would need in lockdown. My formidable Scottish aunt said you could survive very happily on porridge, herrings and potatoes – and possibly a secret ‘wee dram’ – mine being red wine … and not so secret …

Strolling over the Common with conkers and chestnuts underfoot …

Although we wear masks in all the shops and on public transport – otherwise, I don’t for the most part – spiky coronavirus lurks even though you can’t see it – I am reading a book about microbes …’I Contain Multitudes – the microbes within us and a grander view of life’ by Ed Yong. It’s fascinating and very readable. Best to know about them as you can’t get away from them. They inhabit everywhere – even inside you! We wouldn’t survive without them but sometimes some of them kill us. Such is life on this planet …

On the way home I buy a pumpkin for Hallowe’en. A small one will do as this year we may not get many visitors – I buy some ‘mad meerkat’ gums for ‘trick or treat’ – just in case and end up eating most of them myself …

I used to buy a swede or a turnip to make the Hallowe’en creepy mask but it’s much easier to carve the pumpkin.

It happened to be a full moon on Hallowe’en and I somehow managed to get this photo, which surprised me – the night sky must have been very clear!

And so we carry on into November and the Trump nightmare we hope against hope to avoid …

We have a chance of three days away as lockdown is lifted – for the moment. Where to go, especially as coronavirus was still ‘out there’ ? It had to be less than two hours drive from home and by a river, where we could walk and take a picnic. If it rained a lot, we needed to stay somewhere with a large enough room, where we could read in comfort.

I spent a couple of hours searching on the internet, getting sidetracked and eventually swooping down on Fyfield Manor in Benson, next to the airfield, outside the town of Wallingford.

This house is the oldest in south Oxfordshire and was once owned by Simon de Montfort in the 1200s. It has been extended over the years but we had breakfast in the oldest part, at a long, polished elm wood table. I’m curious to think of the people who have passed through here – Simon de Montfort probably wouldn’t have been eating avocados, which we had on toast with eggs.

The apple trees were heavy with fruit. A stream with secret inlets ran through the gardens.

The fading light still held the warmth of a summer evening as we made our way on foot through a small ‘nature reserve’ to our first supper ‘out’ since March – at ‘The Shepherd’s Hut’ in Ewelme. A white egret soared above us.

We explored these watercress beds that run through the village before succumbing to the delights of fish and chips with a long Peroni beer. The warm ambiance of this country pub with cheerful waitresses was such a special treat.

Night fell suddenly as we navigated our way back to the manor. Darkness is quite different in the countryside – it can suddenly surround you, hem you in – making you feel you’re not quite sure of the way home. The trees become witchlike in the wild wood, strange noises of nocturnal creatures break into the cloaked silence. Another treat awaited us in the form of a large and comfortable bed.

Our room was barricaded off with sanitiser but we had both a sofa and wing armchair, with a tray of teas and coffee. Wifi worked well and I had brought with me ‘A Good Man in Africa’ by William Boyd – one of his I hadn’t read. His father was a doctor and he was brought up in Accra for much of his childhood.

The house is owned by a family and next morning the tinkle of the piano somewhere downstairs by the children and their play in the distance reminded me of the film we had recently watched again after a long time. ‘A Room with a View’, based on the book by E.M. Forster. Very enjoyable.

We woke to sunshine. Thinking we should make the most of it, as the weather forecast was for rain, we were soon parked up by the river at Wallingford, a ten minute drive away.

Children were swimming by the bridge, which still includes the vestiges of the original one.

Walking along the river bank, an electric boat came into view. It’s in the middle of the photo with a canopy and can take six to eight people. The cost is about £50 an hour.

There are fields along this part of the Thames path.

On our way to explore the town John saved a bewildered peacock butterfly that had flown into the church. We met a man who said he often found dead ones among the pews.

It was time to find a picnic lunch. We ended up with bread, cheese, mango and water melon. Simply delicious, sitting in an idyllic spot by the river watching boats of all shapes and sizes coming and going. Thinking of Mole and Ratty by the riverbank, and ‘Three Men in a Boat’. Rivers in summertime have a very calming influence. I could sit here all day.

Wallingford is a Saxon fortified town and its earthwork ramparts were built in the late 9th century as part of a defence against Danish attack. By the 11th century it was the most important town in Berkshire and a castle was built by William the Conqueror which became the most important in southern England. Wallingford is one of only four towns mentioned in ‘Magna Carta’ in 1215.

In the 17th century, Wallingford castle was a major Royalist stronghold before surrendering after a twelve week siege in 1646. Cromwell, fearing that it might be used against him in the future, had it demolished and now only the impressive earthworks remain. We spent the afternoon exploring them. From there you can walk down to the river. Today they are known as the Castle Gardens and are a wonderful place to sit, walk and play. We saw some small boys climbing a steep hillock and sliding down the other side with whoops of joy.

It is worthwhile to spend time strolling around the town with its picturesque houses, shopfronts, churches and pubs. The Castle Gardens and the river walks are all close by one another. This is a great way to learn more about our history …

The earthworks are big enough for cows to graze here …

We returned to the river bank to see a narrow boat mooring, which was full of bicycles and young people streaming off the boat into town. This must be a travel company that specialises in ‘boat and bike tours’.

It was now definitely time for tea and biscuits, followed by curling up on the sofa with my book (which is fabulous!), with no other responsibilities that I could think of. Bliss. Slept well.

The weather hadn’t broken although the skies looked as if the predicted storm might be getting closer.

However, next day John wanted to go a little bit upriver to Shillingford, where his parents spent their honeymoon.

We walked past quite a lot of moorings, some very modern, sleek crafts and others, old fashioned, neglected and full of cobwebs, looking as if nobody had visited them for a long time. I now sometimes feel a bit ‘out of the swim’ too. I don’t mind too much because there’s still a lot of enjoyment to be had here and there. There are advantages to being older – and I’m grateful to have even got here, having just read Bill Bryson’s book on ‘The Body’ – but I don’t count it among my favourite things!

Some girls were swimming and loving it – a tempting thought. The river looks very clean and inviting. I should take the plunge …

There’s an enterprise called ‘ The Earth Trust’, which is taking in small parts of the low lying meadows and creating backwaters from the river for wildlife to thrive in.

We passed through groves of Himalayan Balsam, which is pretty in pink but also a massive pest. Not as bad as Japanese Knotweed – but pretty bad, as it spreads like wildfire and suffocates native plants.

Woke up in the night to sheet lightning, followed by rain.

Next morning dawned with a grey drizzle but the sun was struggling to come out. We decided to go to Dorchester as that’s where the river Thame runs into the Thames. There was a chance to visit the Abbey too.

The village was silent and empty. Many shops were closed, including Lily’s Tea Room. We just happened to park outside it and I was disappointed that tea, cakes and gifts were not on offer. The Abbey Museum was closed too. The graveyard was beautiful. Silent except for the welcome buzz of bees. A very English country churchyard.

We wanted to see where the river Thame runs into the Thames. It’s a walk across fields, past an ancient site called Dyke Hills, which is a rare example of a pre-Roman town. Sheep were grazing peacefully as we passed on the way to the confluence of the rivers. The Thames Path joins up here at Thame Stream Bridge. The Thames, having more muscle than the Thame, pushes its flow backwards but the water inexorably floods into the bigger river.

It’s so quiet here – only one or two boats passed by. The Sinodun Hills rise up on the opposite side of the Thames. It looks a steep climb to Wittenham Clumps on the top. Maybe on a summer’s day with the wind in our hair… another time.

As we made our way back through the fields to the bridge at Dorchester we met a man with a backpack doing a serious hike. I’d like to walk a part of the Thames Path but I’m impressed by the people who take on the whole of it. I must find a book about it instead!

We were homeward bound, stopping off at a herb farm, where I bought a pot of lemon verbena. The map noted a mysterious place called ‘The Maharajah’s Well’ – worth a visit. A strange story. It’s near Nettlebed.

Nettlebed also has an excellent dairy, which was featured in a recent programme on BBC – ‘Countryfile’. If we’d known about it then, we would have dropped by and picked up some of their delicious butter and hay rolled cheese.

Onwards to Henley, where we went out to lunch with a friend. She has a beautiful arbutus (strawberry tree) in her garden. I commented on it and such is her generous nature, one appeared for us on our return home.

This was a welcome three days away. I now want to take one of those electric boats on the river. A return trip to Wallingford is on the cards.

PS Three photos by John as the battery in my camera failed!

I talk about these two men in my biography on this site. However, I recently came upon their obituaries when I was looking through old photos and wanted to celebrate the time I spent with each of them. I loved them both.

I had the good fortune to be personal assistant to John St John at Heinemann in the early 1970s. He had his own list within Heinemann and often allowed me to meet the authors. Some of the stories are in my biography. I felt that finally I had found my niche – Heinemann was in Curzon Street in Mayfair and I was able to walk there from our flat in Ebury Street, Victoria.

I ran past Buckingham Palace, through Green Park and via Shepherd’s Market to work. At lunchtime, I’d rush to Berwick Street market in Soho to buy food for supper – Johnny often went to The Reform Club to meet people for lunch. Publishing was very badly paid but full of interesting people coming and going. I was lucky to have spent time with J St J and I learned a lot along the way.

Our list incorporated Peter Drucker on Economics, an Auguste Escoffier reprint of ‘A Guide to Modern Cookery’, a book on ‘Biofeedback’ (for which I was a guinea pig) and ‘The Thousand Petalled Lotus’ by an Indian monk, which got me into trouble! More on this in my biography …

John St John died suddenly of a heart attack, having recently retired. He had just finished writing a history of Heinemann. By then I had left publishing to have our first daughter. It came as a terrible shock. I still miss him.

As I do Oliver Caldecott, who had been at Penguin. He and a colleague, Dieter Pevsner (son of Nikolaus Pevsner), along with David Harrison, set up a small publishing house in Floral Street, Covent Garden, called Wildwood House. I arrived in 1975 as P.A. to Olly on a salary of £2,300 pounds a year.

We published ‘Alternative London’ written by Nicholas Saunders, who also set up Neal’s Yard in Covent Garden with a wholefood shop. This proved very successful and he then added a dairy, a café and an ‘apothecary’, offering alternative natural remedies. Neal’s Yard continues to survive today – they also have a fabulous cheese shop and the walk-in massage rooms are much recommended by me. Look up more about Nicholas Saunders and Neal’s Yard on Wikipedia.

Other books I remember are ‘The Tao of Physics’ by Fritjof Capra, ‘Radical Technology‘ by Godfrey Boyle, ‘The Drovers’ Roads of Wales’ by Fay Godwin and Shirley Toulson, books by Studs Terkel writing about ordinary working people in America, ‘The Unexpurgated Code’ by J. P. Donleavy and ‘The Tao of Love & Sex’ by Jolan Chang.

Jolan Chang lived in Sweden. He came in one day with some special ‘seeds’ which he offered to us (three women) as he said they were aphrodisiacs. We weren’t too keen on his attentions, so finally he flounced out saying that Swedish girls were better lovers. We did publish the book though.

Whereas John St John enjoyed the Reform Club as his go-to lunch venue – and publishers enjoyed daily lunches in those days – Oliver’s choice was Poons at 41 King Street, Covent Garden – known for such clientele as Mick Jagger and Barbara Streisand.

One uplifting thing about ‘lockdown’ is that I have had time to look back and remember those good times. I hope there will be a few more!

END

These ‘coronavirus’ months at home began with feeling anxious. It settled down into a routine, restful at times, restless at others. Gradually, lockdown started to become tedious and I became desperate to achieve something other than domestic chores – all necessary but many of them repetitive, made worse by not much of a change of scene or social encounters. I don’t like long chats on the phone, Zoom was an alternative but ultimately unsatisfactory, so reading and writing, both of them top of my list in ‘normal’ life, enjoyed more and more of my time.

I read ‘Wolf Hall’ some years ago aboard a Turkish gulet, sailing along the Lycian coast. It took me a while to get into it but something suddenly ‘clicked’ and I was on my way. The second book, ‘Bring Up The Bodies’, didn’t need any support from the first. I was already captivated and rushed straight in.

Instead of adding my own comments here, I ask you to read what the critics said about both those books, which are listed at the front of both ‘Wolf Hall’ and ‘Bring up the Bodies’. Many of them are very insightful and I would be surprised if anyone who reads them doesn’t immediately immerse themselves in the books.

The last part of the trilogy, ‘The Mirror & the Light’, finally arrived and given my own sojourn in the ‘tower’ during lockdown, it seemed to me to be the very best time to attempt the 900 pages confronting me.

Hilary Mantel lists the cast of characters and their connections to one another at the beginning of each book, along with family trees of the Tudors and their rivals. You need to make yourself familiar with all of this before starting to read if you don’t have a good knowledge of English history.

I’ve now finished the trilogy and I feel like a door has closed. The endpapers wrapping around ‘The Mirror & the Light’ show the sinister Traitor’s Gate at the Tower of London. I have survived the blood and guts of the Tudor Court and I realise we have a living genius in our midst. This is literature that will last. I am mesmerised, entranced – it is as if Hilary Mantel has gone back to Tudor times and, as an emissary, reported back to us in 2020. As Rachel Cooke in ‘The Observer’ noted about ‘Wolf Hall’ – ‘I loved ‘Wolf Hall’, but I was spooked by it too. The voice is so true: I have my suspicions that Hilary Mantel actually is Thomas Cromwell’.

Of ‘Bring Up The Bodies’, Jeremy Clarke of ‘The Spectator’ said ‘I am looking forward to being hideously spellbound once more’.

This is, (I hardly like to call it fiction), based on excellently researched historical fact. It’s like old footage of black and white films suddenly being transformed into colour and life. And then you realise that these people were just like us in their emotions, which often overcame common sense and led to ultimate disaster.

The religious and political bonds with the rest of Western Europe were both intimate and paramount in dictating how Henry VIII behaved both in war and in wives. ‘Catholics and Protestants alike hamstring politics, breed hatred, burn, torture, eviscerate, all in the name of God’ (Peter Green TLS).

Women were bartering tools, often used to gain wealth in land or possessions and not only with the king. If they could not produce a son and heir, they were usually got rid of – sometimes brutally. The Court was a lavish but dangerous place to inhabit – ‘ladies’ did not escape being beheaded too. Cromwell rose to be Henry’s Chief Advisor but he knew he walked a fine line, and would one day probably miss his footing.

When he is investigated for treason you look back in the book and see how threads are woven together to make trumped up charges stick – they are like fine silver and gold chains left to their own devices, hidden in a dark drawer, which tie themselves into knots and cannot be undone. As he became more and more powerful, the Lord Privy Seal failed to keep a sharp eye on his adversaries, some of whom he counted as ‘friends’. But would Cromwell have wanted to take over from Henry as Regent had the right circumstances arisen? I think so.

Cromwell was tough, acquisitive as befitting his position, promoting his family, all the while being aware of his aristocratic enemies who envied him and desired his downfall but he was also thoughtful, with a real eye for the beauty of the natural world and its seasons.

I walk down a street that I now know Thomas Cromwell would have walked down in the mid 1500s in London – and it’s a weird feeling. I’m on the look out for a flash of that orange coat, long gone but orange is still a favourite colour.

Colour, taste and smell infiltrate these characters, these places, the food, the small details of daily life in Tudor times. Hilary Mantel has created both a mega and micro world, which is totally immersive to the reader.

I can’t do better than recommend (again) reading the critics listed quotes at the beginning of the first two books. There is no point in me adding to these brilliant comments. Instead, I’m just going to put down a few descriptions which I found magical in ‘The Mirror & the Light’ and which will, I hope, encourage you to take up the 900 pages!

‘The king wears green velvet: he is a verdant lawn, starred with diamonds.’ He is young, fit and handsome.

Later on, when Henry has become obese and diseased … ‘The king’s beard bristles. He looks like a hog’s pudding about to burst its skin.’

‘In his (Cromwell’s) chamber the air is sharply scented: juniper, cinnamon. He takes off his orange coat’.

In the kitchens …

‘At his feet, eels are swimming in a pail, twisting and gliding; interlacing in their futile efforts, as they wait to be killed and sauced …..

The eels come in, presented in two fashions: salted in an almond sauce, and baked with the juice of an orange. There is a spinach tart, green as the summer evening, flavoured with nutmeg and a splash of rosewater. The silver gleams; the napkins are folded into the shapes of Tudor roses …’

This could also be an image of the Court – the rewards of the flesh, the riches to be gained, the honours to be had but all for a price – some may wriggle out of being beheaded but many will bear the fate of a cruel death before their time … or many years of imprisonment.

‘It is an aromatic custard in a white dish. He saw the gooseberries earlier, tiny bubbles of green glass, sour as a friar on a fast day. For this dish you need fresh hens’ eggs and a pitcher of cream; you need to be a prince of the church to afford the sugar……. The custard quakes in waves of sweetness and spice. ‘Nutmeg,’he says. ‘Mace. Cumin.’ ‘And rosewater.’

And with a final flourish, he freckles the cream with slivers of almonds and a drop or two of elderflower cordial.

Followed by sweet Venetian cakes, often made with ‘syrup of violets’.

Read page 164/5 just for the prose poetry of it.

There are small phrases – ‘a glance rinsed with rage’, ‘eyes like deep ponds on a still day’, ‘striated clouds like bales of silk’, ‘what maggots of ambition might be burrowing into the mind of the Duke of Norfolk’. An exquisite description of plums on page 681, fruits the size of a ‘baby’s heart’.

Cromwell reflecting on his youth, ‘scenting the staleness of soiled straw and stagnant water, the hot grease of the smithy, horse sweat, leather, grass, yeast, tallow, honey, wet dog, spilled beer, the lanes and wharves of his childhood’.

Hans Holbein is the Court painter. ‘In answer to his (Cromwell’s) summons, Master Holbein comes. He trails with him traces of his occupation: the scents of linseed and lavender oil, pine-resin and rabbit-skin glue’.

The Tudor Court is held up as a ‘dark mirror’ to our own world. We haven’t learned enough from mistakes made in the past. Or maybe Mantel’s ‘astonishing insight into human psychology (much of it extremely nasty)’ ( ‘The Spectator’) means we are not able to evolve as we should into a higher understanding of our place on the planet.

Just as the Traitor’s Gate endpapers enfold the book, so does the river Thames contain the city of London in its winding flow, the water reflecting times past and present, storm and calm, rain and sunlight, night and day.

…’so I won’t see August, he (Cromwell) thinks. The hares that flee the harvester, the cold morning dews after St Bartholomew’s Day. Or the leaf fall, the dark blue nights’ …

When Hilary Mantel had finished the final paragraphs of ‘The Mirror & the Light’ she went to bed and after a very disturbed night awoke to find that her print portrait of Henry VIII had fallen off her wall.

END

I didn’t know that these underground tunnels which spider out from Waterloo station even existed. They have been turned into an arts space, which include an underground theatre. Spooky bars with shadowy characters in dark corners made me feel I would never see daylight again.

Oddly, we came upon a family we knew well, who live outside of London. One of the daughters is at Goldsmiths Art College. We enjoyed a drink together in the expectant gloom.

Making our way to the underground theatre through snaking passages and stairways, we arrived to hear the physicist, Jim al-Khalili, talking about his new science fiction novel, ‘Sunfall’. I love his science programmes on television and radio – he’s an excellent presenter. John bought a copy of his book.

The entrance to The Vaults is on Leake Street, a walk south from Waterloo station. I felt I’d entered a wormhole to the 1960s, given the alternative ‘arty’ welcome. The walls of the tunnels are alive as they suck you into a black hole.

This is my favourite ‘graffito’.

This is what unnerves me about computers …

but at least there’s light at the end of this tunnel.

This was a bizarre experience – a rendezvous with ‘creatures of the night’. Mind expanding is good!

END

Walking up Ludgate Hill from Fleet Street, I was about to cross the road towards St Paul’s Cathedral … when

this stopped me in my tracks … and there were more!

I don’t know what these sculptures represent and so I’ve just put in my own interpretation of the faces. They are magnificent.

‘Emily Young is Britain’s greatest living stone carver’ (Financial Times 2015).

END

Sales of soap have rocketed during ‘coronavirus’. A gift of soap has always been welcome – our forced early return from Greece in March, Covid-19 snapping at our heels, had six bars of orange scented olive soap tucked into my luggage, which were happily received by friends.

I began to think of the origins of soap, the word coming from Latin ‘sapo’. I looked up ‘soap’ in many different languages and nearly all begin with ‘s’ or a soft sound.

The earliest recorded evidence of soap dates back to 2800 BC in ancient Babylon. A formula for soap – water, alkali and cassia oil – was found written on a clay tablet about 2200 BC.

It’s commonly thought that the process of soap making came from Arabic chemists in the Levant region (of which Aleppo is a main city) and to have moved westwards to Europe after the early Crusades.

Both animal fat and olive oil have been used in soap making. There is also a plant called ‘soapwort’ (saponaria officinalis), which when agitated in water makes a foam, and is a mild cleanser of clothes. It’s also called ‘Bouncing Bet’ – which was a nickname for a washerwoman. However, it’s quite poisonous, so shouldn’t be ingested or used for personal hygiene.

Olive oil rather than animal fat was used in making ‘Aleppo’ soap and the addition of aromatic plants like lavender, germander, yarrow and thyme gave it a pleasant smell. It was said the soap was used by Queen Cleopatra of Egypt and Queen Zenobia of Syria. Besides using olive oil and lye, laurel oil was infused.

As soap making developed, coconut, safflower, sunflower, avocado and argan oils were among others substituted.

Laurel oil was in short supply in Europe and so it was finally dropped there. I’m not sure whether this was a good idea, as looking up the properties of laurel oil – laurus nobilis – I find it impressive! It is a natural antiseptic used in aromatherapy and is also antimicrobial, anti fungal and anti itching. Good for beards and shaving? It is also said to clear mental confusion and clarify thought processes – something a number of us seem to need nowadays …

And then there’s the Greek myth of Apollo and Daphne, ‘daphne’ being the Greek name for laurel. It was a fairly extreme decision that the gods took for this poor nymph to help her escape his clutches! To find out more, look up the painting called ‘Apollo and Daphne’, attributed to Piero del Pollaiolo (approx 1441 – 1496), now in The National Gallery in London. Digression … but I like promoting a favourite painting – this one is quite unusual.

A laurel wreath in athletics wrapped around the head symbolises victory and is still used as a symbol in the Olympic Games. Maybe artisanal soapmakers in the West should look into adding laurel oil into their soap once more.

Soap was also made from animal fat. About 1,000 BC there’s a story (unproven) that Roman women were washing clothes in a tributary of the Tiber on Sapo Hill, below a religious site, where animal sacrifice took place. The clothes became very clean because of animal fat soaking through wood ashes and into the clay soil, which was then washed down river. Maybe just a story but soap was on its way for the Romans.

Apparently, the ruins of Pompeii from 79 AD revealed an entire soap factory. I don’t know if archaeologists would be able to tell what ingredients were used. I’d like to know! At least four baths were found there too. The Romans were renowned for their love of bathing. I may have some Roman genes …

The Greeks also knew about soap from the 1st century AD when they used lye and ashes to clean their pots and statues. But personal use of soap came later.

After the Fall of the Roman Empire in the 5th C AD, the tradition of bathing entirely disappeared from Europe – ( how could this be!) The baths they had built, for example in Bath, in England, unused, fell into decay. Poor hygiene helped to bring on a thousand years of uncleanliness, encouraging several waves of deadly plagues – most notably the Black Death in the 14th C. It was only much later that soap raised its sweet smelling head again.

Actually, the original soap made with animal fat smelled very unpleasant and the discovery of ‘Aleppo’ soap from the Middle East was a great improvement all round. This soap is still made there in the same way today and I bought some in the bazaar in Aleppo some years ago. The laurel oil gives it a slightly spicy, medicinal after note. It is muted green in colour, turning to brown with age.

As this soap slipped along the trade routes of the Silk Road and flowed along the Mediterranean by boat to the West, various changes happened. Soaps could then be made specially for bathing, shampooing and laundry.

This revolutionised personal hygiene in Europe – how did they manage without it all these years? Why did bathing fall out of fashion when the Romans left? It doesn’t bear thinking about!

Soap really was an important lifesaver used regularly. When I was a child, my father (a doctor), always said that washing hands with soap and hot water was a good preventative measure to keep the community healthy. I’ve always been keen on preventative medicine, maybe from listening to him.

Italy (Savona), France and Spain were keen to make their own type of soap, based on the ‘Aleppo’ soap. ‘Castile’ and ‘Marseille’ soap keep these names today from the places where soapmaking started on a major scale in Europe.

Both these soaps are made from pure olive oil and latterly from vegetable oils too in Marseille. They are renowned for their particular mildness. I have bought ‘Marseille’ soap in Provence and visited one of the factories where it’s made – a sight worth seeing. As well as olive oil, it included sea water and alkaline ash from sea plants. Soap for laundry had a different recipe from that for personal use.

Today I buy a soap called ‘Le Petit Olivier’, which has several fragrances and provides both bar and liquid forms. It is natural and completely biodegradable, reasonably priced and very mild.

The region of Castile in Spain has an abundance of olive groves. They made a bar of soap which was also very mild and effective and in addition was pure white. This became extremely popular with the royal houses of Europe. But it took much longer before soap could be afforded by the general populace.

Even now, Castile soap is one of the best natural and biodegradable soaps on the market that can be manufactured by hand. It is used both for the body and laundry and doesn’t lose its potency after time. It is also used to bathe the sensitive skin of babies. Although there is a bar soap, much of it seems to be sold in liquid form today.

Britain was laggardly in offering soap to the general public. It was only made in the UK commercially from the mid 1800s.

The rich were able to buy soap before this but it was a luxury item and a ‘soap tax’ was even introduced between 1666- 1714, which meant it was even more out of reach for the majority of people. Maybe that’s where the phrase ‘the great unwashed’ comes from?

Today we have such a choice of soaps on the market and many types of ‘luxury’ soap are given as gifts. That doesn’t in the least suggest that the recipient needs to wash … !

The soap industry now extends into all sort of ‘health’ and ‘beauty’ products made for bathing and the bathroom.

Andrew Pears started making a high quality transparent soap in 1807 and his son-in-law opened a factory in Isleworth, London in 1862. Pears soap still exists today.

William Hesketh Lever and his brother James bought a small soapworks in Warrington in 1886 and founded what is still one of the largest soap businesses – formerly called Lever Brothers and now called Unilever. They have expanded into many different products. Pears soap is now owned by Unilever.

B J Johnson was a soap company that changed its name to Palmolive because the name of the soap became so popular. However, today palm oil is beginning to be shunned in products for environmental reasons. The growing of palm oil plantations has led to the destruction of ecologically valuable rain forest.

Adding soap to water lowers the water’s surface tension. Making water molecules stick together less is what helps soaps clean clothes and other things more easily. I’m not a scientist but it’s worth exploring this side of soap/detergent.

Liquid soaps became available in the early 1900s, which made cleaning things other than skin, like clothing, floors and bathrooms, easier. This developed further into detergents, used in washing machines and dishwashers.

Most of us now use soap products every day of our lives and I realise how appalling it would be to live as we do now without this indispensable discovery! Of course, some people might argue with that – just keep a safe distance!

And with more and more emphasis on protecting the environment, we want a soap to be natural and biodegradable.

For everyday use, I like the soaps below, which can be bought in ‘Holland & Barrett’. Most organic soaps have paper packaging, which can be recycled – but not all as yet.

There’s a big revival for attractive, ethical, artisanal soaps with a vast choice of fragrances – a gift that doesn’t destroy our environment and is a treat to receive. I am a big fan. Soap lifts my spirits. I feel clean and pampered – and all from just something I can hold in the palm of my hand.

Here’s a short list of eco soaps I have used and can recommend. There are many more of these ‘artisan’ (handmade) soaps to be discovered.

• www.handmadenorfolksoaps.co.uk
• drorganic.co.uk
• ecobeautyshop.com (Eric Renard and Xavier Padovani are founders of ‘Le Petit Oliver’ soaps).
• www.madaboutnature.co.uk

Thank you to Wikipedia and ‘soaphistory.net’ for being ‘soap’ mines of information.

END

PS If you run out of toothpaste, soap is a great alternative!

Working from home during ‘coronavirus’ lockdown has meant that toast and marmalade, which we usually only have for breakfast on Saturdays and Sundays has been added to our normal weekday fare of yoghourt with cereal, fruit and nuts.

Our best choice is ‘Duchy’, organic thick cut but we’ve had to cast around when that wasn’t on the shelves. There’s quite a difference in quality and I became interested in how marmalade came into being in the first place.

It seems that historically marmalade was made of quinces and the word comes from Portuguese – marmelada.

In 1524 Henry VIII received a ‘box’ of marmalade from a Mr. Hull of Exeter. This was probably solid quince paste from Portugal. It was often flavoured with rose water and musk, or ambergris, then cut into squares like Turkish delight and packed into boxes – hence Henry’s ‘box’.

Quince paste is still available – more popular on the continent – it’s an interesting addition to cheese and biscuits. I find it goes particularly well with Manchego cheese.

There’s a note in Samuel Pepys’s diary on 2nd November 1663. ‘Left Mrs Hunt and my wife making marmalett of quinces’. In England in the seventeenth century citrus fruits became more plentiful because of foreign trade.

In James Boswell’s book ‘The Life of Samuel Johnson’,(published 1791), there are various references to marmalade. In a letter he writes to Johnson, Boswell says, ‘My wife is much honoured by what you say of her. She begs you may accept of her best compliments. She is to send you some marmalade of oranges of her own making’.

Marmalade, as we know it today, is a sort of jelly consistency, containing the juice, pulp and citrus peel of oranges, lemons, limes or grapefruit – or a combination of two or three. I remember my mother making ‘three fruit marmalade’ for the RNLI every year – maybe 200 pots of it – sitting in serried ranks on the dining room table, ready for the stall on ‘Lifeboat Day’. She also made apricot jam, adding fresh apricot kernels, which was delicious.

The best marmalade is made with bitter oranges from Seville. Cooked with sugar, the taste is both sweet and sharp. The favoured ‘Duchy’ marmalade has a robust taste and the peel is satisfyingly thick, with lots of it.

Marmalade got its jelly quality rather than solid ‘paste’ by pulling it from the heat earlier. Using whole oranges, lemons and sugar with the acid of the lemons helping to create pectin, ‘sets’ the jelly. Nowadays, you can just add ‘pectin’.

The peel should be evenly distributed throughout the jar. To achieve this at home, you should leave the marmalade after its setting point to cool and thicken for fifteen minutes before pouring into the jars.

If you want to look further into marmalade, there are stories, (which are unproven), like the one of Keiller’s Dundee marmalade, which was the result of oranges taken from a shipwreck and made into marmalade, no doubt laced with sea water – or search for the (unproven) link with Mary Queen of Scots, ‘Marie est malade’. Go to Wikipedia, which is a mine of information.

Edmund Hillary took a jar of marmalade up Everest in 1953. Captain Scott took jars of it to the Antarctic in 1910. A solitary jar was found, buried in the ice, years later.

Fortnum and Mason used to sell marmalade in tins, rather than jars. Today they offer a wide range of flavours, including ‘kumquat’ and ‘rose petal’.

English and Scottish migrants took marmalade to Canada, where it remains popular – but it didn’t hit the spot in the U.S.

Paddington Bear always had a pot of marmalade in his brief case and sometimes a marmalade sandwich tucked under his hat to keep him going. Sadly, his creator, Michael Bond, died last year but the books and films survive – to the delight of both children and adults worldwide.

This photo might tempt you to sit down with toast and marmalade at breakfast time. Funnily enough, I never want to eat it at any other time of day.

The weather in mid-April seemed to range from one extreme to another – damp and cloudy to bright, hot and sunny, still and serene, to windy, gusty and sometimes stormy grey, with raindrops obliterating themselves, almost like machine gun fire, at the window. ‘Coronavirus’ keeps me ‘safe’ at home and I watch these weather patterns, with a cup of black coffee for company.

You notice changes in the weather much more when you’re looking out at your garden all day, sitting at your desk watching the aeroplanes being substituted for flocks of crying seagulls, cooing pigeons, cawing crows, chittering magpies swooping here and there instead of the regular flow of heavy machines on course for Heathrow. One afternoon I looked up and as a member of the Cloud Appreciation Society, it made my day …

And then came a fierce gust of wind, followed by a flinging of raindrops in my direction, hitting the window with full force – and I caught them, reflected against the cloud.

Maybe I should be sending this on to The Cloud Appreciation Society! Anyway, it brought inspiration to my next writing project.

We’re meant to be in Lisbon now, with trips to Sintra and Porto but all is lost, owing to ‘coronavirus’. My first ever visit to Lisbon wasn’t so long ago – so I’m re-engaging virtually.

This is a beautiful city on the River Tagus – which is very wide and rolls down into the Atlantic Ocean. We had a long weekend planned at the last minute, staying in a hotel just off the spectacular Avenida da Liberdade. My first impression of the city is of elegant, tree lined streets, extraordinary, tiled pavements and traditonally picturesque trams.

We arrive in mid-afternoon – in time to do some exploring – and find supper along the way. Lisbon has steep hills but also a vast, flat square down by riverfront, where people gather in companionable groups. It’s a stupendous sight … full of light … a wonderful introduction to what lies ahead …

I’m besotted by all the tiled pavements, although they can be a menace if you’re wearing high heels – but I’m not. There’s also something seductive about a city by the sea and I’m being happily seduced.

Roaming around has made us hungry. Behind the main streets are steep, stepped alleys. My eyes are drawn to this blossom, which, by chance, stands outside a restaurant.

Night is now drawing in and a comfortable bed hovers like a mirage as we make our way back to the hotel.

Our bedroom is spacious, with a separate sitting area and a small balcony. There’s both a bath and a shower. Joy!

Downstairs, in the semi basement, is a beautiful pool – a glass wall opens out onto a terraced, tropical garden. I want to come here and swim every day. It’s very tranquil – only a couple of other people in evidence. The hotel is called PortoBay Liberdade.

We are awake early next morning and decide to take the metro out to the Aquarium, which is part of a huge modern complex, designed by Peter Chermayeff, on the bank of the Tagus. Blue skies, racing white clouds and ozone fresh air.

It’s fiendishly difficult to get a good photo inside an aquarium unless you have the right paraphernalia – not just a small camera. Below is my best shot. The aquarium is incredibly well looked after and used for a lot of ocean research too.

There’s an astonishing amount of ‘street art’ in Lisbon, some of it really brilliant, some feral, some gruesome, some just bad. We even come upon a blocked off ‘graffiti’ street. It reminds me a bit of ‘The Vaults’ near Waterloo station in London, except that it’s not underground. If you like that sort of thing, it’s worth exploring…

The melodic and melancholic tones of ‘fado’ music entice us out for the evening, followed by a fish supper. ‘Fado’ enters my psyche. We buy some CDs before leaving.

Exhausted … I embrace bed … slept like a log …

The Botanical Gardens are near the hotel and we make a quick tour. Our goal is to get to ‘Castelo de São Jorge’ today …

Then it’s ever onwards – across town to Alfama.

Alfama is the oldest part of the city with narrow, crooked streets winding their way steeply up towards the citadel.

The hill up to ‘Castelo de São Jorge’ gets higher and higher. I’m not a mountaineer! I come upon a wall, showing photos of past denizens of Alfama, which I find very touching. This is the real old heart of the city.

DENIZENS of ALFAMA

A historic past brought to life by pictures of ordinary people who lived here … it’s a great idea to do this.

The view of the city is panoramic. I feel so happy to be here, high up, in the fresh air. I now see why mountaineers need to reach the top!

I don’t know what this musical instrument is but it’s sweet and deeply sonorous. There’s also some arresting street art near the entrance to the citadel. See below.

I notice an old outdoor urinal. Waited to see if anyone would use it – it brings back memories of 1960s Paris. Along with the palpable smell of garlic suffusing the metro.

On my first visit to Paris alone, when I was sixteen, I was intrigued and a little shocked to see the patterned metal, outdoor urinals, with heads and feet (only) in view.

My mother sent me to a lycée in the summer holidays, which led to a lot of exciting experiences – and did help me learn French. And I’ve loved going to France ever since.

She didn’t like ‘abroad’ so I’m forever grateful to her for sending me there. I think it was because she had a friend, who taught French at the local school.

Frenchmen seem to be less reserved than most Englishmen in this department. Over many years driving through France, we used to count the Frenchmen insouciantly ‘baring all’ at the side of the road, when the need arose.

Starting the long trek downhill. A concatenation of brilliant colours …

We eventually find ourselves at the ‘Museu de Artes Decorativas’, which includes an 18th century backgammon and chess table in rosewood.

Lisbon is a wonderful city to explore by walking. We make our way parallel to the Tagus through small streets and alley ways. I am curious by nature and this is one of my favourite things to do in a city.

I don’t know what the picture below signifies but Lisbon cuisine is very much about fish – which seems plentiful and is tasty.

When I hear the word, Lisbon, I do see/think ‘yellow’. The days of the week I see in colour too. Some people have synaesthesia – a syndrome which means that words and numbers strongly conjure up the same colours/tastes all the time. You can take a test to see if you have this syndrome.

There are quite a lot of these picturesque ‘kiosks’, which sell ‘take away’ fish dishes in the centre of Lisbon – often with a few tables and chairs outside. I like the look of them.

We’re almost back at Praço do Comércia. John reluctantly agrees to a photoshoot! I have to take it by reflection …

We’ve been walking for seemingly hours now (not complaining!) and I’m famished.

We could have a very late lunch but I am sidetracked by looking into the window of a bakery – immediate gratification! I wouldn’t pass the ‘marshmallow test’ at this moment …

Recovery …

You can tell how fascinated I am by Lisbon’s pavements!

I look at the European flag and I want to weep that my birthright of being European may be taken away from me. Brexit was the main topic last year, like ‘coronavirus’ is now … so … to drown my sorrows …

I went swimming in the hotel’s gorgeous pool, which I had all to myself. The air smells like the ocean. I am revived – for the moment… and the warm night draws in …

‘To sleep, perchance to dream …’

It’s already our last day, so we make an early start after breakfast. There’s an art gallery close by, opposite a statue of Fernando Pessoa, ( 1888 – 1935), a famous Portuguese poet and writer, translator, publisher and philosopher.

A well known painter, illustrator, cartoonist and humorist, born in Lisbon.

Final decision made, after wavering as to where to go next. We’re taking the metro out to the Gulbenkian Museum, stopping en route at a patisserie, as it’s almost time for elevenses …

Emerging from the metro we can see the Gulbenkian Museum, but it means crossing innumerable roads and roundabouts to get there. It’s worth it!

Calouste Gulbenkian was born in Istanbul in 1869 – his family roots were Armenian. He became one of the richest men in the world as an oil magnate but he was also an avid art collector and philanthropist, living all over the world. His life story is fascinating. A lot of his private art collection is on show here. The building also houses contemporary exhibitions. It’s surrounded by lovely gardens, which are dotted with cafés and is a great place to visit. You can easily spend all day here.

There’s also a contemporary exhibition about mysteries of the brain, robots and language.

I couldn’t help feeling that the tentacles of the octopus and the spread of the language map had similarities. Our brain travels in various different routes from birth, depending on who we are as an individual, where we came from, what we do and what happens to us in life.

And then there’s this astonishing individual, Calouste Sarkis Gulbenkian, who made the most extraordinary connections. He had a brilliant financial brain and made a lot of money, he loved art and collected more than 6,000 pieces and he also used the huge amounts of money he made to help others, funding schools and hospitals and scholarships. His international reach in the world is also somewhat like the tentacles of an octopus. Octopuses are known to be super intelligent …

In London, Gulbenkian built St. Sarkis Armenian church as a memorial to his parents and is buried there. In doing this, he wanted also to provide a place of ‘spiritual comfort’ and a gathering place for ‘dispersed’ Armenians. (Wikipedia).

I’m so glad to have visited this place and to have learned more about this man.

Portugal has always been a seafaring nation. Every morning we passed this nautical floor sculpture but I’m not sure of its provenance.

It gives me a chance to put in the pirate, who we also pass every day.

But the fire engine is tempting … I know a little boy who would love that …

Time’s running out. We’re now waiting at the hotel for a taxi to the airport…

I just had time to race down to the bakery to get the best ‘pastéis de nata’ in town … I hope I get them home in one piece.

Our short stay has been super enjoyable. I wasn’t to know then that ‘coronavirus’ would delay our return to Lisbon but at least there’s something to look forward to in the hope that the state we find ourselves in will be overcome in the not too distant future and we will be free to travel once again.

END