It’s just about the end of the Christmas/New Yearfest again, and I’m sitting by the tree I stubbornly refuse to throw out until twelfth night, surrounded by the leftover chocolates and drink we haven’t been able to manage to cram down our throats in the last couple of weeks despite courageous attempts, and I’m strangely calm and at peace.
Because unlike so many people who seem to be stir crazy or sick of the sight of baubles and Chocolate Oranges, I am still enjoying Christmas.
At this point I have to concede that I am very lucky in so many respects: I have family and friends to celebrate with; I don’t work in an industry that forced the season on you at unseasonable times –I have never had to record a quintessentially English Christmas pop song in the heat of a New York July, nor, like a dear friend who works in retail, have I had to spend June planning the festive advertising campaign and October onwards listening to an unrelenting tinselled chain of said pop songs force fed through the PA system at work.
Anyone familiar with the work of Tim Minchin will recognise the reference in this blog’s title to one of his songs, ‘White Wine in the Sun’, which is a favourite of mine, and the sentiments expressed in it: objecting to the use of a religion I don’t believe in anyway as an excuse to sell stuff, yet enjoying the chance to spend time with those you care about, sum up my attitude to the festive season.
My parents made Christmas magical for us as children – my father in particular was himself a big kid at Christmas, decking the halls with boughs of holly, hiding presents around the house and making his own recipe rum sauce to grace the pudding – which ensured my aunt fell into a tipsy doze in front of the Queen’s Speech. I have recreated this atmosphere (with a little less alcohol!) for my children and even now they are grown, Christmas for us is a time of – yes, tricks and japes and larks of all kinds, but also family traditions. Making Christmas biscuits for the children to decorate then hanging them on the tree; playing and singing Christmas songs, whether on CDs, piano or just singing in the kitchen; making mountains of mince pies; ….
Once trick is to limit the season: in our house Christmas is not mentioned until December and the house is not decorated until a week or so before the day. The other trick is to enjoy the ritual of what has to be done – the gift wrapping, buying and preparing the food etc – and to reward yourself with treats which are linked in your mind to the season.
For me this means Christmas is the one time of year I drink Baileys – usually slouching on the sofa watching a Christmassy DVD (again there are certain ‘must watch’ films and programmes), the only time I can sit in the armchair at 11am drinking coffee and reading a novel feeling totally guilt-free about the pile of washing that needs to be done. Tomorrow it is back to work and real life, but essentially for me Christmas is a few weeks in which goodwill and peace to all men takes over, we can enjoy the company of family and friends and forget the little worries – or indeed bigger problems - that grind us down in our everyday life.
And to return to White Wine in the Sun (I guess Baileys on the sofa is the English version) my blue eyed baby daughter has just celebrated her twenty-first birthday and I am very grateful that when Christmas comes around she still makes her way back home to find her brothers, her nan, her dad and me waiting for her. Yes, I really like Christmas…. It’s sentimental I know….
Monday, 3 January 2011
Monday, 19 July 2010
On Inns, Operating Theatres, Cemeteries and Gaols
I’ve just enjoyed a short holiday in London with a like-minded friend. I’m well aware that holiday to most people implies lounging on a sun-soaked beach, delicately sipping cocktails while reading the latest Twilight blockbuster, followed by indelicately necking lager in sweaty nightclubs. Ugh! For us, Victorian obstetric instruments and dead poets are far more alluring.
The catalyst for the trip was the chance to see ‘The London Perambulator’ which is such a remarkable film that it deserves – and will have - its own blog. But sharing a few days with someone whose reaction to ‘Can we go to the only surviving Georgian operating theatre, based in Keats’ old training hospital?’ was actually enthusiastic agreement, was not an opportunity to be wasted.
So off we went, south of the river, to this place: http://www.thegarret.org.uk/ to wince at delivery forceps and enema syringes, marvel at herbal remedies that may or may not have proved efficacious and to try to imagine what it would have been like to have your arm amputated with no anaesthetic, save possibly a shot of brandy.
Fortuitously, Keats himself had lodgings the other side of the street while training, so I was able to pay homage to one of my heroes, as well as visiting his statue, situated in its own stone shelter, in the grounds of Guys Hospital just down the road. My plan to have my photograph taken with him was thwarted, since he was surrounded by giggling schoolgirls eating their lunch. I’m sure, while the giggling might have been annoying, Keats would have loved being surrounded by pretty young ladies.
We repaired to London’s only surviving galleried inn, The George, so that my friend could indulge her love of the seventeenth century by imagining Charles II and friends doing exactly what we were doing nearly 400 years later – chatting and drinking. Although, admittedly they wouldn’t have been drinking diet Coke and we weren’t eyeing up the women….
A stroll down Borough High Street took in the sites of the Tabard Inn, from where Chaucer’s pilgrims set off to Canterbury – this road was the main route out of London to Kent – as well as the Marshalsea Prison. Thence to Southwark Cathedral and along the south bank taking in Winchester Palace and the Clink Prison Museum: http://www.clink.co.uk/ From gory medical procedures to gory torture and punishment.
The following day we headed north to Highgate Cemetery where we spent a very happy morning among the dead, admiring ornate mausoleums and grave furniture, and visiting the remains of the famous, from George Eliot and Karl Marx to Douglas Adams and Malcolm McLaren. A bus took us to Hampstead Heath from where we walked to Keats’ House: http://www.keatshouse.cityoflondon.gov.uk/. In the few years since I was last there it has been further restored, and the thrill of standing in Keats’ own living area never palls. And I finally got my photograph taken with Keats!
A walk back to the tube station took in the site of Keats’ earlier lodgings as well as one-time homes of Kingsley Amis, DH Lawrence, JB Priestley and Marie Stopes, and then it was back to central London for bookshops, restaurants and cinemas to provide further entertainment. As well as the obligatory visit to our old friends Keats, Byron, John Wilmot et al at the National Portrait Gallery.
Thanks Kate for your marvellous company, shared enthusiasm, stimulating conversation and sheer stamina – a wonderful few days. Here’s to the next time!
The catalyst for the trip was the chance to see ‘The London Perambulator’ which is such a remarkable film that it deserves – and will have - its own blog. But sharing a few days with someone whose reaction to ‘Can we go to the only surviving Georgian operating theatre, based in Keats’ old training hospital?’ was actually enthusiastic agreement, was not an opportunity to be wasted.
So off we went, south of the river, to this place: http://www.thegarret.org.uk/ to wince at delivery forceps and enema syringes, marvel at herbal remedies that may or may not have proved efficacious and to try to imagine what it would have been like to have your arm amputated with no anaesthetic, save possibly a shot of brandy.
Fortuitously, Keats himself had lodgings the other side of the street while training, so I was able to pay homage to one of my heroes, as well as visiting his statue, situated in its own stone shelter, in the grounds of Guys Hospital just down the road. My plan to have my photograph taken with him was thwarted, since he was surrounded by giggling schoolgirls eating their lunch. I’m sure, while the giggling might have been annoying, Keats would have loved being surrounded by pretty young ladies.
We repaired to London’s only surviving galleried inn, The George, so that my friend could indulge her love of the seventeenth century by imagining Charles II and friends doing exactly what we were doing nearly 400 years later – chatting and drinking. Although, admittedly they wouldn’t have been drinking diet Coke and we weren’t eyeing up the women….
A stroll down Borough High Street took in the sites of the Tabard Inn, from where Chaucer’s pilgrims set off to Canterbury – this road was the main route out of London to Kent – as well as the Marshalsea Prison. Thence to Southwark Cathedral and along the south bank taking in Winchester Palace and the Clink Prison Museum: http://www.clink.co.uk/ From gory medical procedures to gory torture and punishment.
The following day we headed north to Highgate Cemetery where we spent a very happy morning among the dead, admiring ornate mausoleums and grave furniture, and visiting the remains of the famous, from George Eliot and Karl Marx to Douglas Adams and Malcolm McLaren. A bus took us to Hampstead Heath from where we walked to Keats’ House: http://www.keatshouse.cityoflondon.gov.uk/. In the few years since I was last there it has been further restored, and the thrill of standing in Keats’ own living area never palls. And I finally got my photograph taken with Keats!
A walk back to the tube station took in the site of Keats’ earlier lodgings as well as one-time homes of Kingsley Amis, DH Lawrence, JB Priestley and Marie Stopes, and then it was back to central London for bookshops, restaurants and cinemas to provide further entertainment. As well as the obligatory visit to our old friends Keats, Byron, John Wilmot et al at the National Portrait Gallery.
Thanks Kate for your marvellous company, shared enthusiasm, stimulating conversation and sheer stamina – a wonderful few days. Here’s to the next time!
The London Perambulator
As referred to in the last blog, I recently attended a screening of this remarkable film, made by John Rogers, about Nick Papadimitriou, who describes himself as a deep topographer, and it proved an intriguing introduction to an interesting, erudite and unconventional man. To the outsider, Nick could appear as an aimless wanderer around the suburbs of London; however, this walking and the observations and knowledge drawn from it make him the repository of a unique understanding of the social landscape.
I have always been drawn to original and independent thinkers, people who see the world from a different angle, who don’t so much defy convention as disregard it; who go beyond rebellion into a place where the rules that constrict most of society actually have little meaning. Nick is one of these people.
My first experience of a unique mind was my English teacher Roger Deakin, who introduced me to Bob Dylan and Keats. Never mind literature – he taught me to think for myself, to question convention and received wisdom and to do what seems right to me. Far more valuable than passing my A Levels – though I did that too thanks to him.
Nick has been able to use his interests for ‘practical’ purposes – notably research for one of my all-time favourite novels, ‘The Book of Dave’ by Will Self – but more importantly, he is able to see the landscape of the liminal areas around London in a way that few people do, and therefore to open the eyes of those he encounters to geographical and social features and history which is there for those who have the time and interest to look.
The film itself is absorbing: empathetic to its subject; sensitively framed and dense with words and ideas – hardly surprising considering that as well as Nick, it features interviews with Iain Sinclair, Will Self and Russell Brand – all eloquent and verbose individuals, and indeed original thinkers themselves. Just as one interesting observation is made, another is just a minute away, which means I need to see this wonderful film again.
Like Nick himself, I learned, I discovered John Rogers’ work via Russell Brand; through John I discovered Iain Sinclair; in Sinclair’s works I found a reference to the writings of my old mentor Roger Deakin, links to my love of poetry and old books, and an interest in deep topography. And through ‘The London Perambulator’ I have discovered Nick Papadimitriou. The world is a richer place for having people like this in it, and I feel privileged to have gained a small insight into his mind.
I have always been drawn to original and independent thinkers, people who see the world from a different angle, who don’t so much defy convention as disregard it; who go beyond rebellion into a place where the rules that constrict most of society actually have little meaning. Nick is one of these people.
My first experience of a unique mind was my English teacher Roger Deakin, who introduced me to Bob Dylan and Keats. Never mind literature – he taught me to think for myself, to question convention and received wisdom and to do what seems right to me. Far more valuable than passing my A Levels – though I did that too thanks to him.
Nick has been able to use his interests for ‘practical’ purposes – notably research for one of my all-time favourite novels, ‘The Book of Dave’ by Will Self – but more importantly, he is able to see the landscape of the liminal areas around London in a way that few people do, and therefore to open the eyes of those he encounters to geographical and social features and history which is there for those who have the time and interest to look.
The film itself is absorbing: empathetic to its subject; sensitively framed and dense with words and ideas – hardly surprising considering that as well as Nick, it features interviews with Iain Sinclair, Will Self and Russell Brand – all eloquent and verbose individuals, and indeed original thinkers themselves. Just as one interesting observation is made, another is just a minute away, which means I need to see this wonderful film again.
Like Nick himself, I learned, I discovered John Rogers’ work via Russell Brand; through John I discovered Iain Sinclair; in Sinclair’s works I found a reference to the writings of my old mentor Roger Deakin, links to my love of poetry and old books, and an interest in deep topography. And through ‘The London Perambulator’ I have discovered Nick Papadimitriou. The world is a richer place for having people like this in it, and I feel privileged to have gained a small insight into his mind.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Who was Jesus - really?
I’ve just celebrated Easter the traditional British way – by eating chocolate and relaxing at home with the family. Not by going to church – although I was brought up in the Anglican faith, I don’t subscribe to its teachings. However, I am fascinated by the way historical – and current – truth is manipulated to ‘tell the story’ so among other things I’m interested in who or what the historical Jesus actually was, and what really happened in those few days that spawned the Christian Easter festival.
There are four basic schools of thought, which can be summarised as follows:
1. Jesus was the divine Son of God who died on the cross and three days later miraculously came back to life.
2. Jesus never actually existed – the story of his life is a fictional mish-mash of elements taken from myths of other dying-and-rising vegetation gods.
3. Jesus lived in Palestine around 2000 years ago: he was variously (according to different theories) an itinerant preacher; a Jewish freedom fighter; an Essene / Theraputeae teacher who had inherited knowledge from ancient mystery religions; the recognised true King of the Jews. He was crucified and died.
4. As 3), but by chance or design he survived the crucifixion, either because he was never on the cross, or he was taken down still alive.
1. is of course the traditional church teaching and the core of Christian belief. Any deviation from this would seriously undermine the position of every Christian sect.
2. The evidence for this is the scarcity of references to Jesus in any contemporary documentation outside the Gospels, and the possibility that the few references there are – the most substantial being from the Roman writer Josephus – are of dubious provenance, and could have been inserted into existing text later to ‘prove’ Jesus existed. It is also true that just about all the ‘supernatural’ elements of the Jesus story can be found in the lives of pagan gods.
3. This covers several different, and conflicting, theories, including suggestions that Jesus was part of a dynasty going back to King David, and stretching forward to our own day; that he was married – perhaps to Mary Magdalene – and fathered a family; that his true purpose was freeing Palestine from the Romans; that he was forced into assuming the role of leader by Jewish pressure groups… the truth is the evidence is so scarce, and even within the Bible itself (which only represents a small proportion of the gospels written about Jesus, selected to represent the orthodox church view) contradictory, that is it virtually impossible to prove any one theory.
4. Again, various theories suggest that ‘Team Jesus’ planned a fake crucifixion, doing a deal with the Romans, and either a substitute was crucified in his place or he was allowed to be removed from the cross alive. Evidence for the latter idea is that he died suspiciously rapidly for what we have to assume was a fairly healthy man – most crucifixion victims took days if not weeks to die; Jesus apparently took three hours. Then there is the sponge soaked in ‘vinegar’ held to his mouth shortly before he ‘died’ - possibly some form of coma-inducing drug? The two ‘angels’ seen in his tomb could, it is suggested, have actually been healers who attended his wounds and looked after him as he came round after his ordeal – and this theory also explains how he was able to appear to his followers after his ‘death’. Of course, it opens up room for more ideas about how he might have spent the rest of his life.
All fascinating, and I have an open mind – though I do tend to believe he existed and I rather like the crucifixion survival theory in its different forms. Probably we’ll never know – after 2000 years, however much circumstantial evidence there is, final proof is unlikely to emerge, at least in a public forum. But I would suggest that of all the four basic theories, the most unlikely is No. 1 – the one all Christians are required to believe.
There are four basic schools of thought, which can be summarised as follows:
1. Jesus was the divine Son of God who died on the cross and three days later miraculously came back to life.
2. Jesus never actually existed – the story of his life is a fictional mish-mash of elements taken from myths of other dying-and-rising vegetation gods.
3. Jesus lived in Palestine around 2000 years ago: he was variously (according to different theories) an itinerant preacher; a Jewish freedom fighter; an Essene / Theraputeae teacher who had inherited knowledge from ancient mystery religions; the recognised true King of the Jews. He was crucified and died.
4. As 3), but by chance or design he survived the crucifixion, either because he was never on the cross, or he was taken down still alive.
1. is of course the traditional church teaching and the core of Christian belief. Any deviation from this would seriously undermine the position of every Christian sect.
2. The evidence for this is the scarcity of references to Jesus in any contemporary documentation outside the Gospels, and the possibility that the few references there are – the most substantial being from the Roman writer Josephus – are of dubious provenance, and could have been inserted into existing text later to ‘prove’ Jesus existed. It is also true that just about all the ‘supernatural’ elements of the Jesus story can be found in the lives of pagan gods.
3. This covers several different, and conflicting, theories, including suggestions that Jesus was part of a dynasty going back to King David, and stretching forward to our own day; that he was married – perhaps to Mary Magdalene – and fathered a family; that his true purpose was freeing Palestine from the Romans; that he was forced into assuming the role of leader by Jewish pressure groups… the truth is the evidence is so scarce, and even within the Bible itself (which only represents a small proportion of the gospels written about Jesus, selected to represent the orthodox church view) contradictory, that is it virtually impossible to prove any one theory.
4. Again, various theories suggest that ‘Team Jesus’ planned a fake crucifixion, doing a deal with the Romans, and either a substitute was crucified in his place or he was allowed to be removed from the cross alive. Evidence for the latter idea is that he died suspiciously rapidly for what we have to assume was a fairly healthy man – most crucifixion victims took days if not weeks to die; Jesus apparently took three hours. Then there is the sponge soaked in ‘vinegar’ held to his mouth shortly before he ‘died’ - possibly some form of coma-inducing drug? The two ‘angels’ seen in his tomb could, it is suggested, have actually been healers who attended his wounds and looked after him as he came round after his ordeal – and this theory also explains how he was able to appear to his followers after his ‘death’. Of course, it opens up room for more ideas about how he might have spent the rest of his life.
All fascinating, and I have an open mind – though I do tend to believe he existed and I rather like the crucifixion survival theory in its different forms. Probably we’ll never know – after 2000 years, however much circumstantial evidence there is, final proof is unlikely to emerge, at least in a public forum. But I would suggest that of all the four basic theories, the most unlikely is No. 1 – the one all Christians are required to believe.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Morality vs. honesty
And, cowering in the unfaithful husband corner, we have our latest champion, Mark Owen, supported by Kaye, Woods (X2), and Terry at the head of a line that stretches further than Macbeth’s vision of crowned heads: is that Cecil Parkinson I see attempting (and succeeding) concealment behind John Prescott?
And in the general rogues, rakes, rapscallions – or promiscuous libertines if you prefer – is…? Hmm, I suppose Callum is about the – er – Best we can come up with at present. The catalogue of previous Wild Boys is there, but there seems a dearth around at present, although they have always vied with the above for the most salacious tabloid revelations.
But which is naughtier? As Harry Hill would say, there’s only one way to find out: FIGHT!
Ironically, a hundred years or so ago both groups of men were accepted by polite society, as long as they didn’t actually talk about their escapades. It was almost de rigueur for the Victorian gentleman to have a mistress or six tucked away for his personal use, and many young bucks were given their life coaching by prostitutes. Of course, any woman behaving like that – or even becoming pregnant outside marriage – was a lost cause. But don’t get me started on that one….
Nowadays, when society is in practice secular, it seems anachronistic to preach to either group what the Bible says about extramarital sex – especially when one considers what it also says about homosexuality, menstruating women and food preparation. So surely we should base our condemnation or approval on humanistic logic, and that being so, there is a world of difference between the two groups of tabloid fodder: honesty.
Surely, the single man who chooses not to commit himself to an exclusive relationship with any one woman – or man – can live his life as he wishes. As long as he is open about what he expects – and doesn’t expect – from any liaison, fine.
Once there is a partner, to whom a commitment has been made, then his/her feelings and wishes should be taken into account. And if you happen to be (many men would say lucky enough to be) married to or living with a partner who is happy with an ‘open’ relationship and willingly accepts sexual infidelity as part of the deal, fine. Even more so if it works both ways.
But such relationships are rare: most of humanity seem biologically programmed for exclusive mating. There is a biological argument that females need commitment to support child rearing and males are programmed to spread their seed widely, but in practice, and expectation, in today’s society exclusivity is the normal order of the day.
So we come back to honesty: if the Owen/Kaye/Woods(x2) etc spouses knew all along what their men were doing and who with, and were happy to endorse their lifestyle, there would be no problem – and no scandalous tabloid fall-out. And although no celebrity should need to talk publicly about their private life, all the Tiger Woods of this world would have to do in such circumstances is avoid the hypocritical gushing in interviews about his devotion to his family.
Accepted morality, as history shows, is a moveable feast: honesty is a universal virtue.
And in the general rogues, rakes, rapscallions – or promiscuous libertines if you prefer – is…? Hmm, I suppose Callum is about the – er – Best we can come up with at present. The catalogue of previous Wild Boys is there, but there seems a dearth around at present, although they have always vied with the above for the most salacious tabloid revelations.
But which is naughtier? As Harry Hill would say, there’s only one way to find out: FIGHT!
Ironically, a hundred years or so ago both groups of men were accepted by polite society, as long as they didn’t actually talk about their escapades. It was almost de rigueur for the Victorian gentleman to have a mistress or six tucked away for his personal use, and many young bucks were given their life coaching by prostitutes. Of course, any woman behaving like that – or even becoming pregnant outside marriage – was a lost cause. But don’t get me started on that one….
Nowadays, when society is in practice secular, it seems anachronistic to preach to either group what the Bible says about extramarital sex – especially when one considers what it also says about homosexuality, menstruating women and food preparation. So surely we should base our condemnation or approval on humanistic logic, and that being so, there is a world of difference between the two groups of tabloid fodder: honesty.
Surely, the single man who chooses not to commit himself to an exclusive relationship with any one woman – or man – can live his life as he wishes. As long as he is open about what he expects – and doesn’t expect – from any liaison, fine.
Once there is a partner, to whom a commitment has been made, then his/her feelings and wishes should be taken into account. And if you happen to be (many men would say lucky enough to be) married to or living with a partner who is happy with an ‘open’ relationship and willingly accepts sexual infidelity as part of the deal, fine. Even more so if it works both ways.
But such relationships are rare: most of humanity seem biologically programmed for exclusive mating. There is a biological argument that females need commitment to support child rearing and males are programmed to spread their seed widely, but in practice, and expectation, in today’s society exclusivity is the normal order of the day.
So we come back to honesty: if the Owen/Kaye/Woods(x2) etc spouses knew all along what their men were doing and who with, and were happy to endorse their lifestyle, there would be no problem – and no scandalous tabloid fall-out. And although no celebrity should need to talk publicly about their private life, all the Tiger Woods of this world would have to do in such circumstances is avoid the hypocritical gushing in interviews about his devotion to his family.
Accepted morality, as history shows, is a moveable feast: honesty is a universal virtue.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Anyone for breakfast?
Is it just me, or does everyone change character when they stay in hotels? My attitude to breakfast is a case in point. At home, my idea of dressing for breakfast is dragging on a bathrobe with one hand while putting the kettle on with the other. I wouldn’t bother if it weren’t for my son’s inexplicable distaste for his mother wandering round the kitchen naked. Once the kettle is on I throw a teabag vaguely in the direction of a mug, chuck cereal into a bowl and splash milk around the general vicinity of both. Then consume.
In a hotel I appear for breakfast in full make up (and dressed, of course) with the persona of a 1950’s debutante, and await personal service as if I had been raised in a country mansion where the family select kedgeree, kippers and sausages before a day’s grouse shooting.
Tea? Hmm, perhaps I’ll have lapsang souchong – or possibly Earl Grey. Couldn’t possibly lower myself to drink PG Tips – they advertise it with monkeys you know. How common… And of course you serve it in a pot, n’est-ce pas?
Now, first course: not cornflakes or muesli – can have them at home. All Bran? Would like to spend the day seeing the local sights – not the inside of the local public conveniences thank you. So I settle for fresh fruit compote with a side serving of live yogurt – unless there’s anything that sounds posher of course.
After that, full English breakfast, of course. And I even start to turn my nose up at hotels which ask you to select from a buffet: you mean you expect me to walk all the way over there and put food on my own plate? Oh dear, oh dear, not a very salubrious establishment you’re running here….
Having gorged myself on what is already about five times the amount of food I would have consumed at home, I approach the final course. The only option is toast? Is suppose my disappointment is somewhat assuaged by the offer of honey, even if it isn’t locally produced. But my expectation is the offer of Danish pastries and croissants. Would I consider eating croissants and honey at home for breakfast? No – mainly because I’d have to clean up the sticky, flaky mess. But of course, in a hotel, I can just swan off and leave the minions to do that.
And calories? Everyone knows that food eaten away from home has no calories….. yes, OK, diet starts tomorrow.
Oh - and apologies to anyone reading who works in a hotel restaurant – especially if I’ve stayed at your hotel.
In a hotel I appear for breakfast in full make up (and dressed, of course) with the persona of a 1950’s debutante, and await personal service as if I had been raised in a country mansion where the family select kedgeree, kippers and sausages before a day’s grouse shooting.
Tea? Hmm, perhaps I’ll have lapsang souchong – or possibly Earl Grey. Couldn’t possibly lower myself to drink PG Tips – they advertise it with monkeys you know. How common… And of course you serve it in a pot, n’est-ce pas?
Now, first course: not cornflakes or muesli – can have them at home. All Bran? Would like to spend the day seeing the local sights – not the inside of the local public conveniences thank you. So I settle for fresh fruit compote with a side serving of live yogurt – unless there’s anything that sounds posher of course.
After that, full English breakfast, of course. And I even start to turn my nose up at hotels which ask you to select from a buffet: you mean you expect me to walk all the way over there and put food on my own plate? Oh dear, oh dear, not a very salubrious establishment you’re running here….
Having gorged myself on what is already about five times the amount of food I would have consumed at home, I approach the final course. The only option is toast? Is suppose my disappointment is somewhat assuaged by the offer of honey, even if it isn’t locally produced. But my expectation is the offer of Danish pastries and croissants. Would I consider eating croissants and honey at home for breakfast? No – mainly because I’d have to clean up the sticky, flaky mess. But of course, in a hotel, I can just swan off and leave the minions to do that.
And calories? Everyone knows that food eaten away from home has no calories….. yes, OK, diet starts tomorrow.
Oh - and apologies to anyone reading who works in a hotel restaurant – especially if I’ve stayed at your hotel.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
An (Inadvertent) Romantic Pilgrimage
Whan that aprill with his shoures sooteThe droghte of march hath perced to the roote, …..
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
In Chaucer's day, as he reports above, people went on pilgrimages in the spring. Those were the days when everyone at least professed to believe in God, and went to places like Canterbury to visit the tomb of Thomas A'Becket.
OK, it's March, not April, but spring is still a good time to travel. And I love to go on pilgrimages - though to places of literary rather than religious significance. Though churches do often feature - mainly because that's the usual resting place of the dead.
Last year I dragged my long-suffering husband to the remote church of St Juliot in Cornwall because that's where Thomas Hardy met his wife; to the church of East Coker to visit TS Eliot's last resting place....
But the other week I promise I wasn't deliberately on a pilgrimage, and it was a place I am relatively familiar with: Bournemouth. My elder son spent three years at University there; a close friend lives in the area and I have visited and stayed there on several occasions.
The purpose of our latest visit was younger son's University interview, and having delivered his nervous form into the auspices of academe, hubby and I wandered into town to pass the time before picking him up again.
In the back of my mind was the story of Shelley's death: he was drowned off the shores of Italy and his body washed up on the shore. Because of the risk of infection he was cremated on the beach, and according to tradition, one of his friends grabbed his heart from the funeral pyre and presented it to his wife Mary, who brought it back to England and kept it for the rest of her life. It was then buried with her - in Bournemouth.
I have to say the idea of removing a heart from a burning body left me sceptical until it was pointed out to me that the heart is an extremely strong, tough muscle, and very resistant to burning.
Looking across the road from where we were walking (from the public loos towards the site of the old Bournemouth Bus Station - blame my hubby's bladder and own interests, respectively) I spotted what looked like a church - could this be the one where Mary (and her husband's heart) were buried? Crossing the road, followed by my resigned hubby, I found that not only was this not the church, it wasn't even a church any more - it was a nightclub!
So on we walked: after all, there must be dozens of churches in the Bournemouth area, most of them out of the town centre. Instead we turned our attention to finding somewhere to have a coffee. Hubby was admiring some of the town's architecture, when across the road appeared another church - well, I had to check it out, right?
And outside was a notice announcing that several famous people worshipped or are buried here - including Mary Shelley! In we went, and - apart from narrowly missing leaving permanent footprints on a newly-polished floor (one sort of immortality I suppose!) - had an uneventful wander round the interior of a colourful and rather lovely church.
Out in the churchyard I was now on the trail of the Shelleys - all I had to do was find the actual irst i inspected a small building in the environs, which proved to be an Orthodox church, which was locked. As I walked away from it, I heard a voice say: 'I sleep there sometimes.'
Looking round, I saw a man sitting on a bench outside the church: tall, mid-thirties and warmly but simply dressed. Intrigued, I chatted to him and was delighted when he said: 'Sometimes I go and sleep with Mary Shelley.' We agreed that she was a great writer - and her husband wasn't bed either! He pointed out the relevant tomb, on which he had placed flowers.
On approaching the tomb I discovered that it contained not only Mary's body and Percy's heart, but her parents' bodies, which were moved from their original burial place at St Pancras; also Mary and Percy's son, also called Percy, and his wife are buried there.I spent several minutes at the tomb, taking photos and just looking, and afterwards, as we walked back through the churchyard, I saw the man I had spoken to was still sitting on the bench. As we passed, I thanked him for showing me where Mary rests, and said: 'Look after her.' 'I always do,' he replied.
And strange as it may seem, that lovely man keeping vigil at the tomb of a lady he clearly adores, who died more than 150 years ago, is true to the spirit of the Romantic poets.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
