In the last days of September, we went on a five day voyage of discovery to see aeroplanes at Duxford,  Sutton Hoo, Ely cathedral, Wicken Fen, the Tide Mill at Woodbridge and the castle and oysterage at Orford.  Fen country. Somewhere we had never explored.  And I forgot to take my camera. Bof … but the quinces made up for it.

Sutton Hoo has wonderful circular walks, a 1930s house just as Edith Pretty left it – even with graffiti (bad!), carved into the mantelpiece by the Land Girls during the war.  That day,  as we walked through into the sitting room, a very cultured lady was playing the grand piano, (as to the manor born) …

Don’t forget to visit the potting shed  –  the nostalgia is palpable. Enter and jot down your memories (if you’re old enough!). Otherwise, you have a time capsule to wonder at, which was not so long ago. But a very different world from today.

Sutton Hoo is a delightful site, with a much recommended museum,  and a well run National Trust shop. I was hurried on past the café, so can’t report on that … but bought damson jam – tart and fruity. Many of the treasures found here now fill a room in the British Museum but there remains a small bejewelled room, full of especially exquisite objects.

The magnificence of Ely cathedral is not to be missed. The fabulous Toppings independent bookshop is nearby, where we were offered  coffee and biscuits, and later lugged a weighty Taschen tome of Dali’s work back to the car.  Also couldn’t leave without a Woody Allen retrospective by Tom Shone and published by Thames and Hudson. Ely, Dali, Woody and later on at our very upmarket B&B, a welcome by Cindy and Snowy, the dog.

Two rather knowledgeable and enthusiastic gentlemen accompanied us around Woodbridge Tide Mill – and then we sat by the railway, which follows the shoreline, eating malted ice creams.  The train, extraordinarily, chugs along regularly –  all the way from Liverpool Street!

There’s something out on a limb about this part of the world.  We saw a signpost to Wicken Fen.  It was almost five o’clock but we drove on just in case it was still open to visitors.  The National Trust shop closes at 5.30pm but we were told the fen is open 24 hours.  Boardwalks snake mysteriously through the reeds and as the sky began to flush pink at the end of the day I felt we might encounter a medieval peasant with his scythe as we struck deeper and deeper into the marshy fen  –  we didn’t.  Small birds flittered here and there, frogs lurked in the watery depths, and goodness knows what would have emerged if we had stayed until dark. My head was filled with the peace of solitude and evening birdsong.

On our way back, we passed by a pub called ‘The Unruly Pig’, which was undergoing alterations.  “Back on our trotters late November” it read …

We found our night’s sojourn through the Alastair Sawday site  – Melton Hall is somewhere to return to.  Cindy had bucketloads of beautiful, lumpy, yellow, giant quinces and packed me a bag  to take home. These are my only photos of our trip. Quinces are truly magical. They are woody and jolie-laide but their perfume, even without cooking, fills the kitchen.  I want to grow quince trees. It could become an obsession – something that is both lumpy and beautiful … irresistible!

Then it was the castle tower at Orford and a lunch of plump oysters at Orford’s famous Butley Oysterage, followed by a walk along a banked up path bordering the estuary opposite Orford Ness.  Old, creaky fishing boats tugged at their moorings, the tang of salty waves slapping at their sides, grizzled old men immersed over their pots and ship’s tools, meditatively, joyously, pottering. I jotted down some of the names of the boats. Sea Pearl, Moonbeam, Lady Mildred, Riverbird,  Mary Ann, Jitterbug.

It could have been the 1950s. We spotted an Agatha Christie character  in tweed skirt and beret, walking her black and white dog purposefully across the field below us. ‘Oh, why do you walk through the fields in gloves …’ …  and all the while that melancholy feel of the last of summer,  seeping, like the incoming tide, through the landscape. A cool evening draught catching at your neck, the possible need for a warm scarf – still in the drawer at home.

Yellows  –  fragrant quinces, bottles of mead at Orford castle, reeds at Wicken Fen,  malted ice cream, yellow painted bi-planes and sunshine still radiating through the trees as we broke out of the slow pace of a dream filled landscape onto the motorway. Heavy duty lorries in convoy were grinding remorselessly on towards  the city lights. I shut my eyes and breathed in the fragrance of the quinces as John continued to drive westwards.

If somebody asked me what Hammersmith is like, I would probably say I don’t spend much time there but it’s a great place from where to get to anyplace else. There’s the Piccadilly and District lines and across the road the Hammersmith and City and Circle lines (with new, spacious walk-through trains). And there is a large bus station, taking you every which way  –  Kensington, Chiswick,  Fulham, Brompton, Barnes, Putney, Richmond, Shepherd’s Bush and ever onwards to distant, hazy pastures …

The bus station used to be outside and we got used to putting up with icy blasts and driving rain.  Then a new one was built under cover.  I expect it wasn’t big enough because some of us, having been welcomed into the warm, were subsequently driven outside once again – to an updated version, it must be said – but still with the same weather…

After a period of grumpiness, I decided braving the weather was preferable to the sickly smell of fat and sugar frying which percolates Hammersmith Mall and leads me to feel anxious about the obese percentage of users.  I don’t know what diesel fumes are doing to me in the centre of the gyratory system …  but buses are fairly frequent.

Hammersmith doesn’t do glamour – it’s very workaday – but there did used to be a Palais de Danse, whose faded memory is for all to see as you board the Hammersmith and City line.

And if you look up, the old pub building on the Broadway gives a clue to a more picturesque past.

I’m not sure about the modern Ark but at least it is upliftingly innovative and doesn’t look like a cheap and nasty concrete office block – there is something of an individual soul here – but it did come to rest by the Hammersmith gyratory system rather than on Mount Ararat.  Probably more useful here.

The Hammersmith gyratory system, spider like, traps the traffic in a super jam from time to time, causing much frustration.  When it’s moving freely it does get people from A to B. It’s not somewhere you would want to linger but one day I took this picture from the bus.  Some unknown, sporty person at traffic lights bringing the glamour of Monte Carlo to Hammersmith Broadway – an almost impossible task!

Hammersmith wasn’t always dominated by the gyratory system and the arching flyover, leading to the M4.  Even now, along the river, there are quiet spots with beautiful houses (and some nice pubs), which look out onto barges and rowers – and sometimes get flooded at high tides. The views from Hammersmith Bridge, both up and down the Thames, are quite lovely.  And here, it’s herons that dominate both banks. The Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race, amongst many others, pass underneath the bridge.

In his book, “London Under”, Peter Ackroyd talks about ‘lost’ rivers, one of which is Stamford Brook, which makes its way via Wormwood Scrubs underneath the streets and pavements to fall into the Thames at Hammersmith.

But all things taken into account, the hub of Hammersmith today remains a useful rather than an attractive or romantic venue.

Here’s a picture done by Eric Ravilious in 1933 called “River Thames at Hammersmith”.  So there did used to be some kind of poetry in the air … bucolic, romantic … and a little of it remains.

Times change!

POSTSCRIPT

Current news.  Hammersmith Bridge is to be closed to traffic from January 2016 for at least six months.  Pedestrians will be able to use it – we can enjoy the river views, come rain or shine!  Probably best to have a spare umbrella.  My last one collapsed spectacularly while crossing the bridge on foot, battling driving rain and wind. Even the handle fell off. I bought a new one, covered in red roses, which keeps my spirits up.

POSTSCRIPT 2

This is a photo of the flower shop, still in driving rain, on the Barnes side of the bridge.  I thought it looked rather like an abstract painting with a mix of colours that appealed to me.  Somebody said I should put it in for the Turner  prize.  ‘Art in Transit’ – ‘Transitory Art’ – ‘Flowers from the Bus’? I didn’t expect anything to come from pressing the button on my camera but even though I say it myself – ‘It’s really quite impressive’?! The camera is old but serves me well.

END

This small reservoir lies close to the Thames and sometimes you can count up to twelve herons as you walk around it.  It is quite hidden from the main towpath and you can be quite alone in your ramble. stopping from time to time to look at birds and surprise the occasional water rat. This time we met a man –   twice  –  he was walking twice as fast ! – and he told us he did this most days.

Besides the herons on the water, there is also a mass of their large, untidy nests in a giant tree, which overhangs the reservoir.

 

In Autumn, some hardy souls come and manoeuvre the old Victorian machinery that lets more water from the Thames fill up the reservoir after the summer. There’s a mossy wheel, a bit rusty, which presumably connects to an underground pipe from the river.  The reservoir would no doubt act as a useful receptacle for excess water during a flood.

This Autumn the leaves are particularly colourful.

One of the top pests in London dwellings is the small but deadly clothes moth, whose larvae are at this very moment chomping happily through your or a near neighbour’s cashmere jumper.  All wool garments spell ‘feast’,  the banqueting parlour being your wardrobe or wherever you may leave your jumper – hanging on the back of a door, over the back of a chair – nowhere is safe!

The moths are very good at evading capture – and there are no foolproof methods of eradicating them 100%.  At the moment I am trying pheromones  –  male moths being attracted to sticky sheets of cardboard, which mimic the smell of female moths.  Quite effective … if somewhat gruesome. Reminiscent of ‘pinned’ butterflies …

I have a friend called Isobel, who is very creative and makes clothes. When she found her husband’s cardigan languishing in the cupboard full of moth holes, she turned it into what could pass muster for a ‘designer’ garment.  How clever was that??!!

Boho, ‘distressed’, shabby-chic  –  she should patent it!

END

I’m a member of the Cloud Appreciation Society which was started up by Gavin Pretor-Pinney in 2005.  As a child I was entranced by the vastness of the sky.  I loved it best in summer, when it was blue with teased out, white, wispy, cirrus clouds. Lying in the grass on a hillside, lazily tracking the clouds across the sky as they changed into mythical monsters or blown thistledown, listening to a small aircraft buzzing in the far distance was heaven on earth.  A bottle of dandelion and burdock and a Cadbury’s milk chocolate bar of ‘fruit and nut’ made it total paradise.

How grim it would be if the sky was just black all the time.  But I suppose we wouldn’t be here because we need light to survive.  Here’s an experiment capturing light and colour together with physics, geometry and mathematics.  I did this with a glass – somehow … no, I don’t know how …

Sometimes at school the heavy greyish-white clouds reminded me of goosedown, softly protecting me from having to play hockey as they began to weep.  I didn’t altogether get away with it but I did prefer long distance running in the rain.

The first time I was in an aeroplane I saw cumulous clouds that looked like giant vanilla ice cream cones – obviously organic and soooo delicious!   Fluffy white clouds look so inviting  to bed down in. The sky looks pristine – washed clean, and forever fresh –   blue and white stretching out into infinity – a sea of tranquillity before the storm takes over.

and a rainbow to follow … treasure trove in Barnes!

This September we were blessed with an exquisite two week ‘Indian’ summer.  Blue skies,  the sun warm on our faces and backs. Everything stood out – clear as a church bell  – it was as if I had been given new superpower specs.  I felt buoyed up as if all was right with the world.  A pity that it’s not.

I made my way home, a sourdough loaf under my arm.  With a fresh cut slice covered in raspberry jam I balanced a cup of tea and made my way down to the summer house to catch the evening sun.  These photos were taken in that one evening.

In London we don’t often have truly dramatic clouds but I managed to take this one, which reminded me of a five star, squashy, flying saucer.

Next day I had to be up at the crack of dawn as the decorator was arriving.  No time for head in the clouds today but Andy brought sweet peas from his garden …

 

END

 

A cold and damp yet, oddly, humid summer 2015 –  with warm splashes of  reviving sunshine – enough to invigorate the spirits while drinking a glass of wine in the garden.  I’ve been out and about – like a curious cat, investigating and exploring, sniffing out the beauty and the beast in the city.

Unfortunately, I haven’t had much time to record these peripatetic wanderings  over the past year but my library of photos have reminded me of the city’s offerings. So here are  few of them, somewhat randomly captured, making me aware both of happy days but also that  another year has almost passed by.  ‘Crumbs!’, as Boris would say. Better get a move on … before the next holiday season strikes!

WINDOWS ON LONDON

 

LONDON FIELDS

This is quite a new area for me, now full of actors, artists’ ateliers, designers and film people as well as Broadway Market on a Saturday and Columbia Flower market down the road.  The lido has been updated, artisan bread shops and Pop-Up cafés under the arches have furnished me with delicious Swedish sourdough bread to take home.  And Liverpool Street station is within easy reach from London Fields by train.

We came upon an artist, Simon Pemberton, who has a studio by the Fields.  Among other things, he illustrates articles for the FT on Saturday, where we first found him and latterly bought two prints from him.  One is entitled ‘Preparation For The Next Life’, the other, ‘Festival of Insignificance’.  The indigo colours of both are glowing and were one of the reasons which attracted us to searching him out.  Since that time he has won the Editorial Illustration Award 2015 at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

FOXES IN MOORGATE

Foxes prowl around our garden, lounge on the summer house roof in the afternoon sunshine and utter wolverine shrieks at night but the silver foxes of Moorgate are in a class of their own.

and a poppy covered taxi at Ludgate Circus …

 

INTERESTING BUILDINGS – OUT AND ABOUT …

This was set up by Nicholas Saunders in the late 60s.  He wrote a book called ‘Alternative London’, which was published by Wildwood House where I was working –  in Floral Street.  We were right at the heart of it all.

NEAR TEMPLE TUBE STATION

I don’t know whether this is just damp or my imagination but I see three knights in armour with helmets on horseback –  riding through a crowd.  This is by the embankment but on the Temple side.

ART, FASHION + DESIGN in BOND STREET W1

The train westwards from Liverpool Street on the Central line lets me hop off in the West End at the top of Bond Street. At the end of the 1960s I did evening classes here at Lucie Clayton – a school for would-be models.

as she comes to life opposite Tiffany’s window.

Art and fashion still making a great mix here but steep rents are squeezing out all but the top names, which is a pity.

Passing by the Royal Academy …

Coming upon fleeing Santas in Jermyn Street …

THE QUEENHITHE MOSAIC

I came upon this by chance, having arrived early for lunch with a friend at an excellent Spanish restaurant – Zorito’s Kitchen – overlooking the river near the Millennium Bridge.  They also have a delicatessen with high quality wines.

I spied a small alleyway leading from Upper Thames Street to the river’s edge and came upon this extraordinarily wonderful mosaic, which stretches along its whole length.  It was designed by Tessa Hunkin and executed by South Bank Mosaics, with a lot of volunteers to help install it.  There is a film on YouTube on how it was made and more about it at Queenhithe Dock Heritage Timeline Mosaic Project. Here are parts of it but it’s worthwhile going to see the whole mosaic. The amount of thought that has gone into it, the design and its execution is so impressive.  Why don’t we rate things like this far above the lives of so-called celebrities?  The film has had 642 viewings …

I hope I have motivated you to go and see this for yourself!  Wonderful surprise for me to just come upon it by chance!

CAFE LIFE

The choice is immense.  I have my favourites, such as Waterstones in Piccadilly, who have basement and mezzanine cafés as well as a restaurant/café on the 5th floor.  I am particularly drawn to a  fruit scone with an Americano, surrounded by a strongly bookish, comforting ambience.

The upstairs café buzz at Zédel appeals for a short visit – my favourite seat is by the till where you can spread out a bit with your bags.  And The Nordic Bakery in Golden Square does delicious lunchtime sandwiches  –  if you are lucky enough to find a table.  Maison Bertaux in Soho is a good stopping off point with luscious cakes and downstairs at The Courtauld Institute is welcoming and has good food and original recipes for cakes too. It’s possible to sit outside under a sunshade, but be prepared to share your lavender sponge cake with persistent robber pigeons!

More recently I found Canela, a Portuguese café/restaurant very close to Seven Dials. There’s an atmospheric chandelier to sit under and some enormous faded gilt mirrors to enhance a sense of history and reflection, while enjoying a celebrated Portuguese ‘nata’ with a hot ginger and honey drink in a long glass.

 

END OF THE DAY

END

 

 

 

 

 

 

Norway! We were invited to celebrate a Norwegian friend and colleague’s 70th birthday – first  of all in Oslo – then to be whisked away to a mysterious and, as it turned out, magical island.

To be honest, I was excited but also slightly fraught. John was flying back to Heathrow from Seoul and there was a short window of time for us to meet up and take the plane to Oslo together.  So it was with a heavy case full of jumpers, hats and waterproof jackets that I arrived at Terminal 5, hoping the plane from Seoul would be on time. It was.

We arrived at the hotel at almost midnight. It was in Nydalen, opposite the Oslo Business School, where the conference was to be held next day. There followed a ‘Festschrift’ for Jørgen, when a special book was presented to him, put together by his colleagues Per Espen Stoknes and Kjell Elisaasen, celebrating Jørgen’s life and work. The focus of the conference was on climate change. We were sitting next to a handsome young couple on the front row. They turned out to be Jørgen’s daughter and her husband.

The day sped by and I learned a lot – the more I learn, the more I worry.  But there’s no point in doing nothing and lots of the people gathered here are doing a lot. These people need all the support we can give them if we are to succeed in dealing with climate change. They know what needs to be done. And it needs to be put into action now. Read John’s blog for more details and also Per Espen’s new book – What We Think About When We Try Not To Think About Global Warning by Per Espen Stoknes.

The evening was bright and clear and we were all driven out to a beautiful house by the water for Jørgen’s birthday dinner. The organisation was very impressive. I think a lot of it was down to Per Espen and to Marie, Jørgen’s partner. There were about 60 people gathered, including our friend Jan-Olaf Willums, who shared an apartment with Jørgen when they were students.

Paul is an ex-CEO of Greenpeace and had travelled from Tasmania with his wife Michelle, also a great activist, to join the party.

We had to be ready by 10am next morning, when a fleet of three cars turned up at the hotel.  The amount of luggage was a small nightmare but we finally set off in Per Espen’s Volvo, along with Nigel – another arrival from Australia.  Norwegians drive fast but there’s less traffic on the roads than in the U.K.  And the roads are well maintained. We noticed that there are a lot of Teslas  –  Elon Musk’s electric car.  They look very streamlined – excellent design.

The island is near an area called Kragerø, which is three hours south of Oslo and on the way to Kristiansand. It’s very picturesque and many Norwegians come here in the summer for holiday. Apparently, the artist, Edvard Munch, was inspired by the unique light he found here. There are 495 islands off the coast.

Once we had all met up, we were treated to a wonderful lunch at a  restaurant built out over the water. The food was delicious and deserved at least one Michelin star. Good luck to the new young chef! I wish I’d taken photos but it was all gone before I even thought of it. Beguiled by the blue sea and the sky, I took an arty picture or two instead.

A small fishing boat arrived to ferry us across the water to the island.  There were one or two other Norwegians to drop off at other islands on the way. We were surrounded by trays of fresh fruit and vegetables and sweet smelling herbs as the sea spray whooshed over us. I felt the coast of Norway beginning to seduce me – I was lucky to be here! Marie was keeping a close eye on the package containing the birthday cake.

There are no roads on Jørgen’s island, so we are living alongside nature. The house is charming and very warm and comfortable – there is electricity and a bathroom! As I’ve never been a ‘happy camper’, this was a great bonus! The first houses built on the islands for summer residents were quite primitive and today nobody is allowed to build a new house unless it is on the site of an old one.

It becomes cool in the evening, but the weather forecast promises sun. It is cosy in the house and I sleep like a rabbit in its burrow.

It’s good to get to know everyone else while relaxing over breakfast.  I am fascinated by the lichen and the flowers which grow so well out of small cracks in the rocks so I make another foray to the islet, over the Japanese looking bridge, held up by old telegraph poles.

I am blown away by the vivid colours. Per Espen has been out in a rowing boat and Mathis suggests to John that they should have a go. I notice Mathis gets the oars! They cut through the water, smooth as silk.   And the sun looks as if it’s here to stay.

There are lots of arctic terns.  These birds travel 40,000 miles a year from the Arctic to the Antarctic and back again.  They are very graceful and acrobatic and extremely efficient predators.

Jørgen’s birthday celebration on the island was an unforgettable evening in which we all got to know one another even better and enjoyed yet another wonderful dinner, including a delicious birthday cake.

John’s blog explains the gift from John and Cindy Sherman, which concerned Jay Forrester, who is now in his nineties.

Next day Jørgen and Marie had organised a trip to another island for a fish soup lunch. The boat wouldn’t take us all at once but Jørgen zoomed off with the first contingent, saying he would be back soon. True to form, he was!

It was warm and sunny – we sat outside the restaurant eating fish soup from enormous bowls after our walk through the forest by the sea.

After lunch, Jørgen took us in convoy around the archipelago of islands dotted with small summer houses – and one or two rather more grand complexes, reminiscent of James Bond villain lairs – perhaps belonging to billionaires.

The Norwegians are a hardy lot it seems! When we got back John decided to show his mettle by diving into the sea which was 10 degrees.    One and a half minutes was enough! Brrrr! We were impressed and next day Per Espen and Jørgen both felt moved to do the same. I did not feel any desire whatsoever – but good for them!

I was amazed by how well this photo came out, but the amount of jellyfish and algae in the water is worrying. Jørgen said it had increased a lot. But still, the water is very clear and you can see down to the bottom.

We know so very little about the oceans and seas and yet they cover 71% of our planet. Acidification is destroying sea life but as most people don’t see what is happening underneath the water, we are naively unaware of the wholesale destruction both to maritime life and ultimately to the threat to our own species. Maritime conservation areas are slowly being increased, but not fast enough to keep our oceans healthy. And without healthy oceans, the future is bleak.

Aqua facts from The Oceanic Institute: oceans contain 97% of the Earth’s water. Less than 1% of the Earth’s water is fresh water and 2-3% is contained in glaciers and ice caps. The oceans contain 99% of the living space on the planet, (presumably in 3D). And, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration Office (NOAA): ‘To date, we have explored less than 5% of the ocean’.

I found a recent report by Per-Erik Schulze, who is a marine biologist and environmental advisor for The Norwegian Society for the Conservation of Nature. He focuses on the danger of micro plastics filling our oceans. For example he notes that if the 8,000 tons of micro plastics  generated annually in Norway were dumped in downtown Bergen, its citizens would stand knee deep in plastics. About half of these end up in the ocean and pose a growing hazard to marine life. The report is titled Sources of micro plastic pollution to the marine environment (source: Norwegian Environment Agency).

Our time in this magical place was passing by too quickly, but we still had time to sit in the sun and watch the swallows that have invaded Jørgen’s boathouse.  How wonderfully well we are being looked after!

Another dinner was busily being prepared. We planned to eat outside – and were all issued with blankets to keep us warm as the sun went down. I even put on my furry hat later, which I’d stuffed in my bag as an afterthought. Jørgen and Paul were in charge of the barbecue.

I felt an ever closer bond with all these companions,  some of whom we hadn’t met before. A gathering made up of Australians, Americans, Germans, Swiss, Norwegians and we British. A unique meeting of minds on a tiny island.

Can Jørgen et al manage to pull the rabbit out of the hat on climate change? The talks at the conference were all impressive and the interactive model created by John Sterman had been playing about in my head ever since. It is a privilege to be among this good lot of people with such brainpower –  and to be having such a brilliant time.

I spent a little time taking pictures of things which would remind me of our time here.

But now the last morning has sadly arrived. Ulrich was out at the back of the house, mowing the lawn, while the rest of us were engaged in sorting out our luggage and helping with the domestic clearing up. Next weekend Jørgen’s daughter will be here with her husband and friends.  John and I enjoyed staying in her room with all her books and childhood  memories. I liked her notes on the wall by my bed!

The weather is breaking up and by the time Jørgen returns from ferrying the first contingent back to the mainland, it is starting to rain. But he has a hood for the boat!

Then we pile into Per Espen’s Volvo once more for the return trip to Oslo and on to the airport. The rain is heavy and non-stop but the sea gods have been very kind to us!

Homeward bound

Our trip home goes well, without hold-ups. Jørgen and Marie treat us to delicious prawns at their home in Oslo before taking us to the station. I wanted to buy some of that sweet brown cheese at the airport (albeit something of an acquired taste) but the shop is closed. Next time!

I’m reading Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck about his trip through the U.S. with his dog in the early 1960s. It was published in 1962: his vision of how the world was changing speaks to us warningly and prophetically through the decades (see the back cover). It’s an illuminating travelogue – one of my favourites. An intuitive writer – and a very enjoyable read. And, of course, he was a winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Coming back into London, I have a window seat.

This has been a wonderful and memorable experience. Thank you so much to all involved for the great company and to Jørgen, Marie and Per Espen, especially, for making it all possible.

I met my friend Carolyn for lunch at Casa Brindisa in South Kensington in May. The food is very good and the service friendly and efficient but what I want to say here is that the cappuccino topped the list of my best to date!  A real treat.  I hope they can keep that up.

 

April was packed full of highs and lows – all squashed up together –  just like no buses followed by three,  racing each other round the corner.  At times, I found myself taking on the air of a bull with its head down, deeply frustrated and ready to charge.  But, all in all, it was just the fact of being worn down gradually by a constant run of irritating and repetitive trivial events bunching up and knocking into one another with dreary repetition – not major disasters.  I shouldn’t complain – the highs cancelled out the lows – sort of.  I use too much energy in just feeling furious at being powerless.  First off … I got a monstrous coldy virus  –  I very rarely get lurgies so couldn’t quite believe it … especially since I went to the trouble of  getting a ‘super’ ‘flu jab that was meant to head off most gremlins. I was definitely ‘ill’ –  deeply ‘malade’.

The car needed its MOT  –  the same cheerful man as last year came to collect it after I’d divested the boot of a great deal of ‘stuff’ –  piled up wellingtons and tennis balls, warning triangles and tartan travel rugs (still with my school nametape attached), ice scrapers, rusty spanners, replacement headlight bulbs (for the car before this one), plastic bottles, a first aid kit , an ancient frisbee, a battered cricket bat and Bamber Gascoigne’s quiz book.  This last made me happy, as I thought of Ted Loveday, who shone rather gloriously just recently on TV to win the final of University Challenge for his team at Gonville & Caius College, Cambridge.  He comes from Hammersmith – a five minute bus ride from me, so I was basking in reflected glory.  He was also very likeable and a tad eccentric and will go on to be a brilliant lawyer, I hope.

Nose is dripping constantly, like a leaky tap, but heavily armed with comforting pocket handkerchiefs  I made a necessary visit to the bank.  It was worth the hassle –  came home and made myself lemon, honey and ginger drink with a slug of whisky and took to my bed.

Car has sadly not passed its MOT and needs new headlights at huge expense.  There are also other improvements to be made.  I tell the mechanic to go ahead.  Sink into many pillows thinking that car expenses could be better spent on a week by the shores of an Italian lake.  Ah well ….. must resign myself to the fact that I am not Mrs. George Clooney.

Next day, in which John disappeared to Dubai, I stayed in bed, reading  ‘The Black Eyed Blonde’ by Benjamin Black (aka John Banville), inbetween periods of being dead to the world.  Felt I was buried in soft cotton wool or in the centre of a cumulous cloud  –  rather warm and blissful but suffocating at the same time.  Nobody called all day, I didn’t have any dealings with the computer and before long night had returned.  I made myself have a hot bath, inhaled with a bowl of steaming ‘Vick’ in the kitchen, which brought back memories of childhood and consigned myself once more to the river of Lethe.

Awoke to find the boiler literally ‘on the blink’, so very little hot water.  Its blue light is flicking on and off in a malevolent fashion – hypnotic –  like a snake.  It’s still under guarantee. Somebody does arrive within hours to put it through its paces.  The man who tests the house alarm arrives at the same time, despite saying he would come in the afternoon.  Noises off,  while I run up and down stairs, answering questions about timers and thermostats, as the two men investigate multiple problems. We are all in danger of becoming deaf from massive alarm testing on our ears! I am constantly sneezing.

Next morning boiler has reverted again to breakdown state and another man arrives to check things out.  He does show me how to reset it and this works.  But it’s not acceptable for me to do the work of the timer.  The  ‘refusenik’ par excellence sulks  –  however,  I can now force it to do what I want.  But that’s not good enough!

The grim virus is being slowly vanquished and next day brings three musketeers. The boiler engineer, somebody to sort out my computer problems and the arrival of a new washing machine. My old one was fourteen years old and gave up the ghost, howling out in ‘spin’ mode like a banshee.

Firstly, success still eludes us on the boiler front.  My ‘help’ lesson with the computer was at 4pm for one hour.  The washing machine was scheduled to arrive between 2pm and 9pm.  It arrived at 4pm, just as I’d opened the door to Mr. Computer Whizz.  BOF!!

Mr. Computer was kind and intelligent but not whizz enough to solve the problem. This wasn’t helped by me having to break off –  running up and down stairs, scrubbing the spider infested floor under the old washing machine until it sparkled and was ready for the new one.  It’s a pity I’m so good at cleaning floors (compliment from the washing machine installers!)  and not a technical genius.  I expect it won’t be long before the computer is top dog and we are all its slaves. Had no money to pay IT chap, so will have to drop it into his office next week, even though he hasn’t sorted things out.  Frustrata is my middle name. The men have all now disappeared.

Utterly exhausted, I take to my bed with a cup of hot tea and a rather louche and seedy but irresistible Philip Marlowe. He is ‘cool’ and my equilibrium is finally restored.  A computer could never learn to write like this because it doesn’t understand the human spirit.

‘It was one of those Tuesday afternoons  in summer when you wonder if the earth has stopped revolving.  The telephone on my desk had the air of something that knows it’s being watched’.  Later on Marlowe describes  how the nasal whine of the telephone operator made it seem as if he had a wasp trapped in his ear.  Yes, I’d seemingly spent days ‘on hold’,  unrevolving and unresolved – waiting in limbo for people to turn up and mend or deliver things.  ‘They also serve who only stand and wait’ – that’s me, but I wish it wasn’t!  Thank you, Milton, for noticing! (‘On His Blindness’ by John Milton, died 1674).

Later, after the house was blissfully empty and silent, I tiptoed downstairs to get introduced to my new aide.  The washing machine instructed me to have a clear ‘clothes barred’ run through before it started its new life.  I managed this successfully and went back to bed. Tomorrow I’m going to meet my cousin, Isobel, at Dulwich Picture Gallery to see the Eric Ravilious exhibition.  This is something I’m looking forward to!

London Bridge station is apparently still ‘up the creek’ and not returning to normal any time soon.  Isobel  had suggested I take the bus.  I should have taken the overland train to Vauxhall and picked up the 176 bus all the way to Dulwich.  Somehow, I found myself on the 12 going all the way to Dulwich Library,  settled in with my book for the duration (‘London Under’ by Peter Ackroyd), which is utterly fascinating.  Spring Gardens, Well Walk, Stockwell, Shadwell, Clerkenwell, Camberwell.  As the author says, ‘It would be weary work to enumerate all the buried wells of London.  It is enough to know that they all existed’.

At Camberwell I was reminded of a butterfly with the same name – ‘Camberwell Beauty’.  It is the colour of dark chocolate with a lacy cream coloured edging and small luminous blue spots inbetween, marking out the wing shapes. Did not see this or any butterfly in Camberwell but did watch a programme on the history of Camberwell Grove that night on TV, which was an eye-opening tale of rags to riches repeating itself.

Ploughing onwards in heavy traffic through the maze of winding streets, which is Peckham, I was beginning to feel slightly disorientated.  Lots of fruit and vegetable shops passed by, jostling each other for attention, containing many things I didn’t know the names of.  A smell of highly scented soap invaded the bus from time to time.  Better that than the smell of drains.  The innards of Peckham were finally reconnoitred and soon we were bowling out along Peckham Rye into bright sunlight, with a large green space on one side and a heartening signpost to East Dulwich in view.

At the terminus, Dulwich Library, I was the only person left on the bus.  I’m pretty good at mixing up North and South, left and right and was soon surrounded by three lovely ladies with good intentions, pointing out the way.  Two young men outside a pub helped me further on and I finally arrived at Isobel’s, only ten minutes late.  In retrospect, I should really have picked up that 176 bus at Vauxhall (which starts off at Tottenham Court Road) and stops a few minutes from her front door.  But I enjoyed my journey and people were so helpful when I got a bit lost, which restored my liking of the human race. This had been at a critically low ebb for some days now as I padded about like the minotaur in its lair with sinister intent.

Dulwich is awash with green sward, elegant lawns rolling forth in front of  enormous and beautiful architectural buildings of great note and private Georgian houses, of which I am envious.  The gallery and its sculpture gardens are well worth a visit even if just for the permanent collection.

Inside, the answer to the competition to guess which painting in the gallery was a fake had just been unveiled  –  so I missed having a guess.  In fact, only 300 people out of 13,000 had guessed correctly.  The two paintings (portraits) were now hanging side by side and looked very different. A Chinese company that specialised in commercial art had made the fake. The original portrait itself was of slightly obscure origin –  let’s say not the sort of painting to stand out in a crowd. But I liked the idea of ‘guessing the fake’. There are many of them masquerading as originals in the art world today. I would love to be a fake detector … so many paths untrodden …

I didn’t know a lot about Eric Ravilious.  I’d bought a couple of cards of his illustrations in the past to send to people but I wasn’t hopping with excitement as I had been for the Durand-Ruel Impressionists exhibition at The National Gallery, which is, by the way, wonderfully presented. It’s just fabulous that this man took on the Impressionists, who, but for him, might never have seen the light of day. As we might have said in the sixties – Durand-Ruel rocks!

This portrait on the front of the delightful book about him which I bought at The National Gallery is by Renoir in 1910.  Renoir said of him ‘This well-mannered man –  good husband, good father, loyal monarchist and practising Christian –  was a gambler.  But he was gambling for a good cause.  His name shall endure!’ Monet said of him ‘Without Durand, we would have starved …  We owe him everything.  He was stubborn, tenacious, he faced bankruptcy twenty times to support us.’ I love him! I wished we could have met.

I was about to find out that Ravilious is special too –  in a different way.  He very much appeals on home ground – being British. He captures the years before and during WW2 in a way that is often architectural and draughtsmanlike in execution,  yet at the same time evokes a romanticism and nostalgia.  There is a stillness, even in his illustrations as a war artist, which sinks into your psyche and gives space for quiet contemplation.  There is something of that feeling in Seurat’s work but Ravilious is so much his own person that his pictures couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else’s.

He can take on big subjects like the ‘Ark Royal’ and at the same time ducks on a pond or a teapot on a table.

All of these things are perfectly portrayed but with a modesty, which is a social trait we have maybe lost in our rage for consumerism today. Ravilious is brilliant but you feel he is not thinking of himself except as a ‘reporter’ of social history.

Our relationship and connection with machines of all kinds gives pause for thought when you look at these pictures. Even a watercolour and pencil picture of a ship’s screw on a railway truck in winter time is so romantic and elegant – when at the same time you can see the footprints in the snow of the labourers working on the railway in the freezing weather. The curves of the ship’s screw are exquisite, yet at the same time this was a machine invaluable for the war effort, doing a workmanlike job and probably sticky with oil and creating a terrible noise as it contributed to the deaths of the enemy.

 

Perhaps I should revise my view of the boiler and see romance in its flashing blue light – perhaps not!   Everything like that works digitally now but does take over those grim, backbreaking jobs of fire grates and washboards and mangles.  Comfort, once gained, is something not to be lost again.

 

Ravilious encompasses large subjects and small day to day happenings with equal genius and perfection.  All is important.  But he is not shouting for attention  –   he is diligently recording life in his understated way –  yet when you look at these pictures they are magical and enriching and they sink into your memory and remain there.   They tell a visual story of a time which is now past for ever.

Ravilious’s work makes a wonderful addition to the history of this country.  And yet he died aged thirty-nine.  The paintings have stood the test of time and are ‘top drawer’ – such an important contribution.  And they give enormous pleasure to the viewer.  Please go.   Don’t delay.  You have until the 31st August.

‘Belair’ is a lovely Georgian House nearby in Gallery Road. It serves good ‘bar food’ in quiet surroundings should you find the restaurant at the gallery too busy.

Isobel and I walked back across the park where she comes with the dog every day.  It is quite idyllic and at the moment showered with blossom.  The ‘greens’ of Dulwich are both a feast and a relief for the eyes.   I came home on the 176 bus – only a 3 minute wait at the stop – and soon found myself trundling back into central London with a copy of the Ravilious catalogue in my bag to show John.  As I thought he would, he loved the pictures.

Next day another boiler visit was scheduled, as the beast continues sullen and truculent.  I am trying to keep my cool, helped by my oldest friend – we were introduced to one another aged four.  He arrived for coffee to recount his latest adventures in Barcelona and Madrid.  After he’d gone I got to grips with the  washing machine and was successful. I washed 30 handkerchiefs – inherited from my aunt. Preferable to tissues and have now come in incredibly useful with this lurgy.  I think the washing machine will be my new robotic friend. Fingers crossed!

Apparently, the boiler  (yawn) now needs the diagnostic techniques of the Worcester company as it still refuses to recover its ‘status quo’.  An engineer is coming on Bank Holiday Monday.  I continue ‘resetting’ it with some success but I am now losing patience and at some level totally ‘pissed off’.  I am also behind with all domestic stuff but have a day ahead to put things right.

I have said farewell to Philip Marlowe and am now starting a book by the Pulitzer prize winning journalist, Michael Moss, called ‘Salt, Sugar, Fat – How the Food Giants Hooked Us’. It’s a pretty damning report into the secretive world of the processed food industry and why you can’t resist a crisp, or a coke. I really must get to grips with the 5:2 diet, which basically is just eating less – of the right things! Am against weird diets in general  –  eating a half of what you usually do seems to be logical and easy to follow. I seem to remember that was Muriel Spark’s suggestion.

I work fiendishly at the chores given the motivation of tea at 4pm with a friend at The Olympic Cinema, followed by watching the film ‘Woman in Gold’ with Helen Mirren as Maria Altmann.  This is based on a true history of a Jewish family in Vienna who were stripped of all their property by the Nazis. Watching this film shows how trivial my woes of the moment are.

I am sitting in a plush scarlet, luxuriously appointed chair in the cinema, totally immersed, as the story unfolds.  It hangs on Adele, Maria’s aunt, who was painted by a then unknown Klimt and whose golden portrait hung above the mantelpiece in their house in Vienna before it was stolen by the Nazis.  The family had to flee. Maria wants the painting back but it is now, many years later, hanging in the Belvedere Art Gallery in Vienna, who lay claim to owning it today.

It is a riveting story, with sad and happy times –  and is well cast.  Helen Mirren, true to form, plays ‘Maria’ and Ryan Reynolds, playing her nephew, is a perfect foil for her eccentricities and her highs and lows.  The film is very sensitively portrayed.  Much recommended.  A friend said that the reviews were not good.  Ignore them and go.

The boiler is now working.  My cabin fever has abated and we have bought a lovely print from Simon Pemberton, an illustration for a book review which we saw in the FT.   It was a treat to visit him in his studio in London Fields.

So it’s onwards and upwards but also remembering things past.  Our memories are what make us ourselves. I wish they could be automatically boxed up when we die for future reference. History of all kinds serves as our memory and I’m afraid we are losing some of that today. I hope to be more exuberant in May and June  …

Things are looking up!

I’m not really satisfied with this blog.  In many ways it seems to be a muddle of too many different  things and the saga of the boiler takes up far too much of it.  But it did take up a lot of my life this month.  Maybe after all I have reported things as they are  –  life is often a great muddle which needs constantly sorting out.  So it’s a blog recording ‘life in general’.   The jewels being Durand-Ruel, Ravilious and springtime. Thanks for reading!

 

 

Alex Catto is my chiropodist and podiatrist who came up with a new form of insole, which he learned about while attending a conference in Italy.  It was lucky for me that he was my chiropodist.

I had tried orthotic insoles from the hospital but they hadn’t helped the pain in my feet.  I only realised that the pain in my feet connects with the pain in my neck and shoulders and back when Alex Catto suggested I try his insoles.

WALK TALL!

The insoles fit easily into any shoe, even high heels. You might wonder that they can do anything  they seem so slim and modest but they correct your balance as you walk and you begin to feel liberated and younger immediately.  They may not suit everyone but I have benefited enormously from them.  If this interests you, look at Alex Catto’s website for more detailed information and how to buy a pair for yourself. They are reasonably priced.

The website:  www.Back2Feet.net

In the book ‘Dandelion Wine’ Ray Bradbury describes a young boy’s feelings when he buys a new pair of sneakers (tennis shoes) for summer.   This is way before Nike et al came on the scene.  And this extract describes the way I felt about Alex Catto’s insoles when I walked out of his consulting rooms and along the street.

‘But, Mr. Sanderson, but – soon as I get those shoes on, you know what happens?’  ‘What?’ ‘Bang!  I deliver your packages, pick up packages, bring you coffee, burn your trash, run to the post office, telegraph office, library!  You’ll see twelve of me in and out, every minute.  Feel those shoes, Mr. Sanderson, feel how fast they’d take me?  All those springs inside?  Feel all the running inside?  Feel how they kind of grab hold and can’t let you alone and don’t like you just standing there?  Feel how quick I’d be doing the things you’d rather not bother with?  You stay in the nice cool store while I’m jumping all around town!  But it’s not me really, it’s the shoes.  They’re going like mad down alleys, cutting corners, and back!  There they go!

‘LIKE MENTHOL ON YOUR FEET!’

Then there was this pair of ‘fairy footsteps’ which I saw in San Francisco.  Maybe not the best for your feet but I rather regret that I didn’t feel able to buy them.  But the second best thing to do was to capture them in a photograph.