For all you fans of Borgen out there, here's me on the steps of Christiansborg Palce in Copenhagen, doing my best to channel Birgitte Nyborg (should I have gone for the crinkled-nose smile?)
Showing posts with label pilgrimage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pilgrimage. Show all posts
Wednesday 20 August 2014
Thursday 6 March 2014
Istanbul (and Constantinople and Byzantium too)
I've just come back from a glorious weekend in Istanbul (well, I say 'just' - this post is slightly delayed owing to my having to dash to Amsterdam as soon as I got back.) So many people had raved about the city that I was a little bit worried I would be disappointed. I wasn't. It's every bit as beautiful and interesting as I had imagined: the sense of being at the crossroads of East and West is palpable. Not just that, but the convergence of so many cultural ideas - Islamic, Christian, European, Middle Eastern, Central Asian, Ottoman, Turk, Byzantine, secular, religious - is fascinating.
I wished, oh how I wished, I could have arrived on the Orient Express, alighting at Sirkeci Station, taken in a litter to the Pera Palace Hotel (where we had drinks and admired aforementioned litter). I wished to jump back in time to the pre-Ataturk city (before he banned the wearing of the fez) and also to the heyday of the Ottoman Empire and the Byzantine Empire before that (especially I would like to have met the Empress Theodora, former showgirl, daughter of a bear-tamer). But then, much of the charm of Istanbul today lies in the glimpses of all of these times and people that are still there, layered into the fabric of the city.
And if I settled for transportation via Turkish Airlines, rather than the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits (I do love that name), our trip across to the Asian side of the city on Sunday afternoon meant that we did experience arriving in Istanbul by sea, having crossed the Bosphorus and watched the crescent moon rise over the city.
Tuesday 27 August 2013
Derek Hill, His House
Imagine a brick red Georgian house, ringed by dripping greenery, set in a sodden valley under a rainwashed Donegal sky. Imagine walking into the front hall, walls the blue of billiard cue chalk (walls covered, in fact, with billiard cue chalk) and paintings as far as the eye can see: Augustus John, Jack Yeats, Louis LeBrocquy, Oskar Kokoschka. Welcome to the home of Derek Hill, English portrait painter, Irish landscape painter, founder of the 'Tory School' (yes, that Tory), resident of Churchill, Co. Donegal.
Derek Hill in a series of vignettes:
Hill's friend Henry McIlhenny (of the Tabasco McIlhennies), connoisseur, philanthropist, who bought nearby Glenveagh Castle and later left it to the Irish State, didn't care for Hill's style of decorating. When asked his opinion of a Tiffany lamp in the dining room, McIlhenny sniffed, 'it's vulgar. But it goes with the rest of the house.'
Hill painted the great and good and many of them came to Donegal for their sittings. One visitor was Greta Garbo, who graced the tapestry chair by the fire in the sitting room with her presence. She had a perfect profile, but for some reason Hill never painted her.
He did paint Yehudi Menuhin and it's said that Menuhin treated the people of Gartan to a performance. The legend goes that Hill's housekeeper Gracie was asked by one of the locals who the grand fiddler was. She wasn't exactly sure of the name, but Hiúdí McMenamin sounded about right.
The pipes in the kitchen are painted in different primary colours. On a shelf of the red dresser is a ceramic platter designed by Picasso. There's also a portrait of Gracie, by Hill, hanging above Gracie's chair.
His bathroom - still with his toothbrush in its holder - is papered in rose-spattered wallpaper and has a pile of Country Life magazines within handy reach of the bath.
He liked bright silk ties and embroidered slippers.
The walls, and more interestingly the ceiling of his study, are papered in original William Morris 'Blackthorn' wallpaper to create an illusion of lying under a woodland canopy.
The house is preserved more or less as it was left in 1981 when Hill donated it, its contents and his art collection to the Irish people. Every surface is adorned, every wall covered; every room a story, a work of art in its own right.
*
Glebe House and Gallery, Churchill, Letterkenny, Co. Donegal.
Derek Hill in a series of vignettes:
Hill's friend Henry McIlhenny (of the Tabasco McIlhennies), connoisseur, philanthropist, who bought nearby Glenveagh Castle and later left it to the Irish State, didn't care for Hill's style of decorating. When asked his opinion of a Tiffany lamp in the dining room, McIlhenny sniffed, 'it's vulgar. But it goes with the rest of the house.'
Hill painted the great and good and many of them came to Donegal for their sittings. One visitor was Greta Garbo, who graced the tapestry chair by the fire in the sitting room with her presence. She had a perfect profile, but for some reason Hill never painted her.
He did paint Yehudi Menuhin and it's said that Menuhin treated the people of Gartan to a performance. The legend goes that Hill's housekeeper Gracie was asked by one of the locals who the grand fiddler was. She wasn't exactly sure of the name, but Hiúdí McMenamin sounded about right.
The pipes in the kitchen are painted in different primary colours. On a shelf of the red dresser is a ceramic platter designed by Picasso. There's also a portrait of Gracie, by Hill, hanging above Gracie's chair.
His bathroom - still with his toothbrush in its holder - is papered in rose-spattered wallpaper and has a pile of Country Life magazines within handy reach of the bath.
He liked bright silk ties and embroidered slippers.
The walls, and more interestingly the ceiling of his study, are papered in original William Morris 'Blackthorn' wallpaper to create an illusion of lying under a woodland canopy.
The house is preserved more or less as it was left in 1981 when Hill donated it, its contents and his art collection to the Irish people. Every surface is adorned, every wall covered; every room a story, a work of art in its own right.
*
Glebe House and Gallery, Churchill, Letterkenny, Co. Donegal.
Friday 5 July 2013
La Dame de la Garde et la Dame Blanche
When I revisit a city, I like to do something new - and go back to somewhere I loved the first time. In Marseille, the choice for revisit was a toss up between Le Corbusier's Cite Radieuse apartment block or the church of Notre Dame de la Garde. The church won, perhaps because it was on my mind as soon as I left Marseille-St Charles train station. You can see it from almost everywhere in the city, perched on top of the highest hill, the gold statue of the Madonna like a beacon.
Notre Dame de la Garde is a very clear example of the psychology of faith. In a city that was founded by sea-farers, build a beacon that can be seen from way out to sea. (The French word for lighthouse, 'phare', and the nickname for Marseille, 'la cite Phoceenne', are tangled in my head, so that I want to call Marseille 'la cite Phareenne', the city of lighthouses.) When you come safely back to shore, pay your respects - and in cases of near-escape from death, leave a token of gratitude for your delivery.
The ex-votos hanging in the church - models of ships, paintings of ships, plaques with names and dates - are endlessly fascinating to me.
Be warned, it is a long walk up the hill and this time, rather than cycle, I got the bus. I did walk back down though and, in what has become something of a birthday tradition, ordered a Dame Blanche to replenish my strength.
Vanilla ice cream, creme chantilly, hot chocolate sauce. Oh la la. One bite and I was twelve years old again.
From Notre Dame de la Garde to la Dame Blanche. Two forms of spiritual pilgrimage, you might say.
Monday 17 June 2013
Anne Frank House
Though I mostly bookmarked places in Amsterdam to return to another time, I did find time to visit the Anne Frank House - which is, as most people will know, the preserved building where Anne, her family, the van Pels family and a man called Fritz Pfeffer hid during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands. The heart of the museum is the suite of rooms (the 'secret annex') where the eight hid.
One practical hint: though the line outside appears very long, it did move swiftly. The ticket office is actually in a neighbouring building (you pay a small admission charge) and there's also an orientation area with a short film about the events leading up to the occupation and the impact it had on Dutch Jews. Then you move through into the building proper.
Photography is not allowed (not that it felt particularly appropriate to take photos) and, in any case, you don't need photos if you've ever read Anne Frank's Diary. What I had both expected and dreaded turned out to be true: the house is exactly as Anne describes it.
Walking through the offices of Otto Frank's business helps to prepare you a little bit for what's to come: there are interviews with his employees who undertook to help the families hide. There's also the surreal experience of looking out the window at the canal - the epitome of gracious, ordered Amsterdam and hearing about people being hunted like vermin. But then, it must have seemed surreal to the Jewish citizens of Amsterdam, too.
From the offices you go upstairs and encounter one of the famous secret doors of literature. Except that there are no friendly fauns or Turkish delight on the other side of this one: just six small rooms (if you can even call all of them rooms) and a cubby hole under the staircase. My memory from reading the book as a teenager was an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia. Now that I've been in the space I think I should multiply that by a thousand. It is almost inconceivable that people stayed in this small space for so long with only the briefest glimpses of the outside world. The attic (used for storing potatoes) where Anne spent much of her time is like a kind of heaven above the other rooms - at least there was a window in it.
Visiting the Secret Annex reminded me of the other strong feeling I had on reading the book - that sense of grief that the hiding, the claustrophobia, the heroic efforts of the 'helpers' were, ultimately, in vain. Of the eight people who hid, only one, Otto Frank, survived the Holocaust. There are heartbreaking stories of his search for his daughters after the war and of his decision to publish Anne's book. Anne was in fact a prolific writer and several copy books and manuscripts of diaries, stories and other writings are on display, including one of 'the' diaries.
When I said that I dreaded discovering the house and the annex were just as Anne described, this is why: reading a book, you can sometimes pretend to yourself that it's just a story ... details are changed ... facts embellished. But when I visited the Anne Frank House I had to accept that, in the words of one of my favourite poems*, 'the story is true'.
*Robert Creeley, 'Bresson's Movies'
One practical hint: though the line outside appears very long, it did move swiftly. The ticket office is actually in a neighbouring building (you pay a small admission charge) and there's also an orientation area with a short film about the events leading up to the occupation and the impact it had on Dutch Jews. Then you move through into the building proper.
Photography is not allowed (not that it felt particularly appropriate to take photos) and, in any case, you don't need photos if you've ever read Anne Frank's Diary. What I had both expected and dreaded turned out to be true: the house is exactly as Anne describes it.
Walking through the offices of Otto Frank's business helps to prepare you a little bit for what's to come: there are interviews with his employees who undertook to help the families hide. There's also the surreal experience of looking out the window at the canal - the epitome of gracious, ordered Amsterdam and hearing about people being hunted like vermin. But then, it must have seemed surreal to the Jewish citizens of Amsterdam, too.
From the offices you go upstairs and encounter one of the famous secret doors of literature. Except that there are no friendly fauns or Turkish delight on the other side of this one: just six small rooms (if you can even call all of them rooms) and a cubby hole under the staircase. My memory from reading the book as a teenager was an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia. Now that I've been in the space I think I should multiply that by a thousand. It is almost inconceivable that people stayed in this small space for so long with only the briefest glimpses of the outside world. The attic (used for storing potatoes) where Anne spent much of her time is like a kind of heaven above the other rooms - at least there was a window in it.
Visiting the Secret Annex reminded me of the other strong feeling I had on reading the book - that sense of grief that the hiding, the claustrophobia, the heroic efforts of the 'helpers' were, ultimately, in vain. Of the eight people who hid, only one, Otto Frank, survived the Holocaust. There are heartbreaking stories of his search for his daughters after the war and of his decision to publish Anne's book. Anne was in fact a prolific writer and several copy books and manuscripts of diaries, stories and other writings are on display, including one of 'the' diaries.
When I said that I dreaded discovering the house and the annex were just as Anne described, this is why: reading a book, you can sometimes pretend to yourself that it's just a story ... details are changed ... facts embellished. But when I visited the Anne Frank House I had to accept that, in the words of one of my favourite poems*, 'the story is true'.
*Robert Creeley, 'Bresson's Movies'
Monday 8 April 2013
The Red Rock
Here's my confession. Sometime during the five-hour drive from Alice Springs to Uluru, I became thoroughly grumpy. I decided that the rock was probably overrated - I mean, it was just a rock, right? (It's true that my grumpiness may have had something to do with lack of sleep, but I was still very disinclined to be impressed by anything.) And my first sighting did nothing to disspell that thought: yep, there it is, a big red rock in the middle of lots of red desert and scrub.
It is in fact an inselberg, an isolated sandstone rock formation standing in the middle of a flat plain. Its fame comes not from its height (it's not particularly high - 348m) but from the fact that it is, literally, monolithic.
Still, picture me looking out the bus window, unimpressed. And then, THEN, we got off the bus and up close and personal. Despite the 40 degree heat, this is when I started to understand why the traditional owners refer to Uluru as a living thing. Because it isn't just a big hunk of rock - it's full of life. And it isn't just monolithic - all its nooks and crannies and crack and crevices are full of interest and colour and delight.
From the long black tunnels carved by rainwater (which, during the rainy season, is supposed to pour down the rock in sheets),
to the cave paintings adorning its multiple surfaces,
Uluru has many stories to share. One of my favourite of all the things I learned was that the rock art is virtually undatable because it has been continually added to over hundreds of years.
One of the most surprising things about this legendary red rock is that it's actually quite green, in places.
Tjukurpa is what the traditional Anangu owners call the creation period, but it also refers to the spiritual and cultural laws they use to guide their lives. One of the creation stories relates to Kuniya, the sand python, who did a ritual dance across the rock. You can see her eye at the top of the ridge here, and her body moving across the rock.
Another story recounts how Uluru was formed by two mischievous boys who were playing in the mud. First they piled it high (forming the rock) and then they climbed on it. If you look carefully, you can see a foot- and a handprint in the photo below.
I've subsequently noticed that the patch of blue in this next photo looks like a small boy doubled over while he crows with laughter ...
One story I had heard about Uluru before I visited is that the rock changes colour throughout the day. This proved not to be a myth - and I was so enchanted by the different colours that I regretted I wasn't staying over so I could see the sunrise the next morning. But still, the journey proved to be anything by disappointing. I think the problem with Uluru is that words don't really do it justice; I'm not sure if photographs really do either. But I'm going to finish with three, taken at different times during the day.
Oh, wait - one more thing. It's Ul-ur-ooo (BIG emphasis on the final syllable) or Oo-lu-roo (emphasis on first and last syllables). Any other attempt at pronunciation rendered me unintelligible to Australian listeners.
Thursday 21 March 2013
Alice
A Town Like Alice is one of my favourite books. In it, the town of Alice Springs features as a kind of icon, a vision to cling to in the midst of war (most of the events of the book take place in the Malaysian jungle during World War II). In my head, it was a kind of oasis in the middle of the red desert of the Northern Territory and although I was assured that it had changed a lot since Nevil Shute wrote his book, I was still determined to visit.
I arrived mid-afternoon (me and a few hundred other train travellers), stepping off the Ghan into the dry desert heat. I was lucky: temperatures the previous week were above 40 degrees, but it was only about 37 the day I arrived. Be prepared! Because of the dry heat, you should wear a hat and sunglasses, apply sunscreen liberally and, above all, make sure to carry a bottle of water wherever you go. I myself nearly succumbed to a nice case of sunstroke, so you can't be too careful.
Another thing to be prepared for: Alice, for all that tourism is a major part of the economy, is not your cosmopolitan flat-white-purveying, designer-shop-hosting town that you encounter all along the south/eastern seaboard. Being isolated as it is, I imagine freight costs must be prohibitive - whether this is the main reason or not, I couldn't say, but don't expect to find a wealth gourmet cuisine in the town. I did hear tell of one hipster cafe, but I had to make do with Gloria Jean's where the staff were friendly and the iced coffee hit the spot.
After I checked into my hotel (an Ibis - Alice is not blessed with a great range of accommodation, especially of the independent/boutique type - at any budget, see above) I headed, first, to the HQ of the Royal Flying Doctors.
The RFDS was very much a part of my romantic notion of the Outback (doctors! flying! in shorts and long socks! bringing health to the wilderness!) and visitors to their Alice Springs centre provide them with much needed funds. However, there isn't a huge amount to see: a film about the service (which is certainly inspiring) and a small museum showing changes in medicine since the RFDS was founded. I will add, however, that the film did get me a bit choky as you realise that people literally owe their lives to this service.
I wandered around town, taking photos of some of the original buildings, all of a similar single-story, tin-roofed style.
I then made the slightly less than wise decision to walk out to the old telegraph station which is what Alice owes her existence to - the town was founded around, first, the telegraph and then the railway. The walk was beautiful and not that far (around 4km along the dry Todd River) but I underestimated the toll the heat would take and I found the 40 minute walk pretty challenging - despite hat/sunglasses/sunscreen/water. Hint to future visitors (at least those visiting in summertime) - minimise walking!
One thing I did notice as I walked - the Indigenous population is much bigger (as a proportion of total population) in the Northern Territory than in Victoria and hence you are much more aware of the social inequality they are experiencing. The 'no grog' signs dotted around Alice are testament to the toll alcohol abuse has taken on Aboriginal Australians.
Everywhere I walked I saw groups of Indigenous people, old and young, sitting in the shade. Let me stress that this is not a problem in and of itself but it was a reminder that the wrongs experienced by the Indigenous community are a long way from being addressed.
The telegraph station eventually reached (and duly photographed),
and I fell in with some kind fellow tourists who gave me a lift back into town - via Anzac Hill where we got this great view:
The other place I wanted to visit in Alice - and did, the morning before I left - was the School of the Air. My primary school library randomly had a copy of an old 1960s book about boys and girls in Australia and I remember being fascinated by the notion of doing your lesson by RADIO with no teacher even in the same room to keep an eye on you. The whole thing seemed entirely wackadoo and fantastical.
These days, lessons are done via the internet (they have a special Skype-like programme customised for the school's particular needs) and we watched a teacher teaching a class of 4 and 5 year olds who were all learning, not just the usual things 4 and 5 year olds learn, but how to use the equipment. (When they want to raise their hands, they click a hand icon on their screen...) I found the school inspiring but also unexpectedly sad. One of the pupils (though this is at the extreme end of the spectrum) lives 1000km from school. Can you imagine? I'm not sure I can. Once a term, our guide explained, they try to get all the kids into Alice for a week and the kids look forward to this like Christmas.
As well as seeing the lessons (you can see into the broadcasting studios/classrooms where the teachers transmit their classes) there's a film, and a small display of equipment - including the famous pedal radio that enabled services like the School of the Air and the Flying Doctors to keep in touch with their community spread over such a vast distance.
This map - showing the thousands of kilometres covered in the school catchment area - charts all of the children who are enrolled in the school and where they live.
I loved visiting Alice Springs and am glad that I could fulfill the dream of - well, not quite a lifetime but a long time. But if the Ghan really made me appreciate the vastness of Australia, Alice Springs made me question the price paid for trying to inhabit such a fundamentally uninhabitable (or scarcely habitable) place. But it did make me appreciate Nevil Shute's evocation of Alice Springs as an icon and an oasis. To someone who lives on a remote Cattle Station and doesn't see a neighbour - let along a stranger - from one week to the next - a town like Alice must be like heaven.
I arrived mid-afternoon (me and a few hundred other train travellers), stepping off the Ghan into the dry desert heat. I was lucky: temperatures the previous week were above 40 degrees, but it was only about 37 the day I arrived. Be prepared! Because of the dry heat, you should wear a hat and sunglasses, apply sunscreen liberally and, above all, make sure to carry a bottle of water wherever you go. I myself nearly succumbed to a nice case of sunstroke, so you can't be too careful.
Another thing to be prepared for: Alice, for all that tourism is a major part of the economy, is not your cosmopolitan flat-white-purveying, designer-shop-hosting town that you encounter all along the south/eastern seaboard. Being isolated as it is, I imagine freight costs must be prohibitive - whether this is the main reason or not, I couldn't say, but don't expect to find a wealth gourmet cuisine in the town. I did hear tell of one hipster cafe, but I had to make do with Gloria Jean's where the staff were friendly and the iced coffee hit the spot.
After I checked into my hotel (an Ibis - Alice is not blessed with a great range of accommodation, especially of the independent/boutique type - at any budget, see above) I headed, first, to the HQ of the Royal Flying Doctors.
The RFDS was very much a part of my romantic notion of the Outback (doctors! flying! in shorts and long socks! bringing health to the wilderness!) and visitors to their Alice Springs centre provide them with much needed funds. However, there isn't a huge amount to see: a film about the service (which is certainly inspiring) and a small museum showing changes in medicine since the RFDS was founded. I will add, however, that the film did get me a bit choky as you realise that people literally owe their lives to this service.
I wandered around town, taking photos of some of the original buildings, all of a similar single-story, tin-roofed style.
I then made the slightly less than wise decision to walk out to the old telegraph station which is what Alice owes her existence to - the town was founded around, first, the telegraph and then the railway. The walk was beautiful and not that far (around 4km along the dry Todd River) but I underestimated the toll the heat would take and I found the 40 minute walk pretty challenging - despite hat/sunglasses/sunscreen/water. Hint to future visitors (at least those visiting in summertime) - minimise walking!
One thing I did notice as I walked - the Indigenous population is much bigger (as a proportion of total population) in the Northern Territory than in Victoria and hence you are much more aware of the social inequality they are experiencing. The 'no grog' signs dotted around Alice are testament to the toll alcohol abuse has taken on Aboriginal Australians.
Everywhere I walked I saw groups of Indigenous people, old and young, sitting in the shade. Let me stress that this is not a problem in and of itself but it was a reminder that the wrongs experienced by the Indigenous community are a long way from being addressed.
The telegraph station eventually reached (and duly photographed),
and I fell in with some kind fellow tourists who gave me a lift back into town - via Anzac Hill where we got this great view:
The other place I wanted to visit in Alice - and did, the morning before I left - was the School of the Air. My primary school library randomly had a copy of an old 1960s book about boys and girls in Australia and I remember being fascinated by the notion of doing your lesson by RADIO with no teacher even in the same room to keep an eye on you. The whole thing seemed entirely wackadoo and fantastical.
These days, lessons are done via the internet (they have a special Skype-like programme customised for the school's particular needs) and we watched a teacher teaching a class of 4 and 5 year olds who were all learning, not just the usual things 4 and 5 year olds learn, but how to use the equipment. (When they want to raise their hands, they click a hand icon on their screen...) I found the school inspiring but also unexpectedly sad. One of the pupils (though this is at the extreme end of the spectrum) lives 1000km from school. Can you imagine? I'm not sure I can. Once a term, our guide explained, they try to get all the kids into Alice for a week and the kids look forward to this like Christmas.
As well as seeing the lessons (you can see into the broadcasting studios/classrooms where the teachers transmit their classes) there's a film, and a small display of equipment - including the famous pedal radio that enabled services like the School of the Air and the Flying Doctors to keep in touch with their community spread over such a vast distance.
This map - showing the thousands of kilometres covered in the school catchment area - charts all of the children who are enrolled in the school and where they live.
Monday 3 September 2012
Le Moulin de Daudet
I keep going through my photo archives and finding photos I'd forgotten about, of trips I'd (almost) forgotten I'd taken. My thought process goes something like (in the words of adorable nephew #1), 'know dat? Oh yeah. France.' Or in the case of these photos, 'know dat? Oh yeah. Moulin.'
The French writer Alphonse Daudet (1840 - 1897) wrote a series of short stories called Lettres de Mon Moulin. Daudet did spend time in a windmill in Provence, but the stories are definitely fiction - and very funny!
In June I went on a literary pilgrimage to Fontvieille, a small town about 8km from Les Baux de Provence. Just outside Fontvieille you can find what's called 'Le Moulin de Daudet' - not the windmill where he lived (that's now a ruin, though you can walk to what's left of it), but a mill he featured in several of his stories.
The mill and the views are gorgeous and, as I discovered, it's a very pleasant place to sit and eat apricots, fresh from the market. The only thing I regretted was not having my copy of Lettres de Mon Moulin with me to read under the pines. I could probably have found it in the town, but it just seemed like too much effort to leave my perch ... however, my hint to you is: go on a sunny day, bring a book, buy a picnic at the market in Fontvieille and bask under the shade of the sails. Repeat as necessary.
The French writer Alphonse Daudet (1840 - 1897) wrote a series of short stories called Lettres de Mon Moulin. Daudet did spend time in a windmill in Provence, but the stories are definitely fiction - and very funny!
In June I went on a literary pilgrimage to Fontvieille, a small town about 8km from Les Baux de Provence. Just outside Fontvieille you can find what's called 'Le Moulin de Daudet' - not the windmill where he lived (that's now a ruin, though you can walk to what's left of it), but a mill he featured in several of his stories.
The mill and the views are gorgeous and, as I discovered, it's a very pleasant place to sit and eat apricots, fresh from the market. The only thing I regretted was not having my copy of Lettres de Mon Moulin with me to read under the pines. I could probably have found it in the town, but it just seemed like too much effort to leave my perch ... however, my hint to you is: go on a sunny day, bring a book, buy a picnic at the market in Fontvieille and bask under the shade of the sails. Repeat as necessary.
Tuesday 10 July 2012
Like a God in France
While I was in Provence a few weeks ago, hanging out with Adorable Nephews #1 and #3, I paid a return visit to St Remy. I went hoping to replace my beloved swallow earrings (emblems for a Lady Traveller) that were taken when my house was burgled. Sadly, they proved to be irreplaceable - but St Remy was just as beautiful as I remembered.
I meandered around for about an hour, admiring the luxurious shops and beautiful nougat coloured buildings. The German idiom for living in the lap of luxury is 'leben wie gott in Frankreich', literally: living like (a) God in France. Certainly, you could be forgiven for thinking that St Remy had been designed expressly as a playground for the rich and/or godlike.
Serendipity took me to this charming cafe where it struck me that, as much as the faux vintage / shabby chic look is getting tiresome because of its ubiquity, it really works here. Perhaps because of the setting of (genuine) aged stone, faded (but original) ads pasted on the sides of buildings and - let's face it - the fact that the bright blue sky makes everything more appealing.
Because the cafe's order of croissants had yet to arrive, they pointed me to the bakery at the top of the square where I could buy my own and bring it back. (It occurs to me that since their name 'Les Filles Du Patissier' translates as 'the baker's daughters' they may have an in with said bakery.) Les filles promised to have my coffee ready by the time I came back and, indeed, they did. This has happened to me often in France and I love how easy cafe-owners are about it.
Although I was unlucky in my earring quest, I was more fortunate in my attempt to locate Joel Durand, the amazing chocolatier I discovered on my first trip to St Remy. The 'P' for Provence chocolates (with a salty-sweet olive filling) were just as good as I remembered. Truly fit for the gods.
I meandered around for about an hour, admiring the luxurious shops and beautiful nougat coloured buildings. The German idiom for living in the lap of luxury is 'leben wie gott in Frankreich', literally: living like (a) God in France. Certainly, you could be forgiven for thinking that St Remy had been designed expressly as a playground for the rich and/or godlike.
Serendipity took me to this charming cafe where it struck me that, as much as the faux vintage / shabby chic look is getting tiresome because of its ubiquity, it really works here. Perhaps because of the setting of (genuine) aged stone, faded (but original) ads pasted on the sides of buildings and - let's face it - the fact that the bright blue sky makes everything more appealing.
Because the cafe's order of croissants had yet to arrive, they pointed me to the bakery at the top of the square where I could buy my own and bring it back. (It occurs to me that since their name 'Les Filles Du Patissier' translates as 'the baker's daughters' they may have an in with said bakery.) Les filles promised to have my coffee ready by the time I came back and, indeed, they did. This has happened to me often in France and I love how easy cafe-owners are about it.
Thursday 25 November 2010
Are Comparisons Odious?
Several writers observed that they were (Christopher Marlowe, John Donne and a few others, which is very ironic or else perhaps they planned it as a practical joke?) and I’ve been trying to stop myself from comparing place A with Place B … But without any prompting from my conscious mind, my brain goes through a mental catalogue flip-flip-flip until it finds the stored image that most tallies with whatever it’s seeing.
Which is why I’m going to tell you that Wellington makes me think of Switzerland. Not worse, not better, just redolent of things that (before now) have said ‘Switzerland’ to me. This may have been helped along by my pilgrimage to Katherine Mansfield’s birthplace. In my head she’s stored under New Zealand – Short Stories – Garden Parties – Switzerland – Square Face. (By the way, on the off chance anyone reading this is passing the Salvos’ Shop in Richmond, Melbourne, they might find my copy of Uncommon Arrangements - an excellent group biography looking at the self-consciously modern approach to marriage taken by some literary types in the 1920s, including Mansfield and her husband John Middleton Murry.)
Wellington is charming: small (population less than 150,000), clean, ringed by green mountains and with streets that all seem to lead to the waterfront. (Arguably, that’s where the Swiss comparison breaks down, Switzerland not being known for its coastline, but I would counter that many of the big lakes in Switzerland look almost like little seas…)
There are pretty wooden Victorian villas, of which the house where Kathleen Beauchamp (aka Katherine Mansfield) was born is a good example:
I arrived here this morning and spent the day walking the city from end to end (takes about, oh, 45 minutes). Apart from a visit to the Beauchamp/Mansfield house and a pilgrimage of another sort to Te Papa (the Museum of New Zealand, guided tour to follow) I enjoyed winding along the streets, having a coffee here, a crepe there and poking into some of the interesting looking shops. If my bag weren’t so heavy, I’d be tempted to buy, but it is, so I’m not.
When I finish posting, I’m planning to take a ride on the cable car to have a drink and admire the view. Yes, the cable car. See, it’s obviously not just me who looks at Wellington and thinks Switzerland.
***
Edited to say:
I decided that I didn't really provide enough photographic evidence to do my theory justice. So here's another photo of Wellington, this one taken from the top of the hill:
And here is the cable car (more of funicular, really):
Tuesday 2 November 2010
And In The End …
(Me at the end of the hike.)
What did it all mean, Eithne?
I wrote last week that reaching the summit of Mount Kosi wasn’t the big climax I might have expected. In fact the hike (or pilgrimage, for that is what it was) was lacking in big, dramatic, revelatory moments. The road to Tharwa did not turn out to be my road to Damascus. But looking back, I have realised that the small, quiet moments were just as important.
Take one girl and drop her in the countryside. Take away books, music, television, radio, work, shops, cafés. Take away some physical comforts like plumbed toilets, mattresses. Take away her regular intake of caffeine. That’s a lot of stimulation taken away. Result? Rather than having the deep thoughts and the important conclusions, I found my brain going still. It was quiet in there. Sure, there was some thinking. I thought about my feet – until I decided it was better not to. I thought about food and water. I thought about sleep. I talked to the other hikers. I looked and I listened. But if I had to point to a ‘big’ moment on the hike it would be the night we spent at Gungarlin River. Dinner at four, bed at seven. Asleep by a quarter past. Listening to the wind and rain that night and getting up at dawn to see wild brumbies. Not thinking about things, just being there.
One day, the day I walked 40km and things started to hurt, yes – that day I thought about some things. That day I did think about women walking to collect water, at least as far as I was walking, if not further. There was no great revelation, but perhaps for the first time in my life I understood a little of what that might feel like. Not wanting to walk, but walking anyway.
On the last day, on my way back down the mountain, a few thoughts ‘about’ the experience started to creep in. The phrase that kept repeating in my head as I sat in the chairlift was ‘the kindness of strangers’. I’ve thought about this a lot in the last three weeks (my brain isn’t particularly quiet now that I’m back to the caffeine and the work and the music) and this is what I’ve come up with: the bigger pilgrimage I’m on, of travelling the world and opening up my life, has made me appreciate the kindness of strangers as never before. Friends of friends who welcomed me everywhere from Harare to Tokyo; passers-by who pointed me in the right direction; new workmates who showed the new girl (with the funny accent) the ropes; fellow hikers who shared their blister plasters and their life stories.
The kindness I have experienced has given me new resolve to be the kind stranger. I will give you directions; I will give you a bed for the night; I will show you the best place to have coffee, a drink, buy a souvenir. I will offer you friendship, whether you’re in town for a night or a year. I will walk 240km and ask my friends and family to sponsor me. The money will contribute to the building of food banks in Malawi so people can better save and share their harvests with others.
So that’s three things:
1. Taking myself away from it all (really and truly away from it all) was refreshing.
2. 240km is a long way to walk.
3. The kindness of strangers is what keeps the world turning.
*
Thanks to everyone who has supported hike4hunger and me. It means a great deal.
If there's anyone out there who has thought of sponsoring me but not got round to it yet, you can still sponsor me at www.everydayhero.com.au/eithne
Thursday 28 October 2010
Hike Day 8 - Mount Kosciuszko
So here we were – the last day. Breakfast was followed by a briefing from our guide, and a reminder of the gear we needed: gloves, hats, snowshoes, poles. Feeling weirdly nervous (maybe having stuck it out and walked every day, I thought it might be my turn to be felled by injury) I got my things and headed out.
The Thredbo Lift Company had kindly provided us with free passes, so back in the bus we went to drive to the bottom of the mountain. Gear on and into the chairlift. The day was beautiful: bright sun, bright sky. Not much snow on the trails visible from the lift.
But at the top there was thick snow as far as the eye could see. (So much for my assumption that a) the highest mountain in Australia wasn’t that high and b) wouldn’t have much snow. Hey - do you think maybe there is a reason they call ‘em the Snowy Mountains?)
Snowshoes on – obligatory photo opp – trudged over to the path just visible in the snow. This metal grid made easier walking but the snowshoes were a bit of a liability whether worn (clunky) or carried (heavy). It was 6km to the summit and relatively slow going because of the snow.
We had a quick break for water with a view of the summit, looking like a perfect boule of vanilla ice cream.
Trudge, trudge, trudge. Some clouds coming down ahead of us. Singing hristmas songs to keep myself going: Sleighbells ring – pant – are you - pant pant - listening?
We stopped again at the base of the summit – more cloud but no snow falling so all clear to go to the top.
The boule was hard work. Steep, slippery, using snowshoes to carve steps. Every breath burned. Two thirds of the way up we came to a vertical section. With no purchase, people were slipping backwards. Using the points of my showshoes, poles, fingers (teeth, even?) I went up on all fours. Once over the hump we could see the top. We waited until everyone was together then walked the last 20m or so.
And how did it feel when we made it to the summit? Unreal. Surreal. Not quite the feeling of accomplishment I expected. But perhaps it hadn’t sunk in. That, or I was subdued by the knowledge that we still had to walk back down. It was beautiful up there, though.
Photos. Picnic. Then, after one last look around, turned to face the descent. The only logical way over the hump was seated. Obviously. Coat-tail tobogganing is excellent fun.
Trudge, trudge, trudge through the snow. Beautiful views of the valley. Thinking about how I felt now that the hiking was nearly over.
Almost before I realised it, we were back at the chairlift. On the way down I took photos of my feet and thanked the stars that I wouldn’t have to put the boots on ever again.
*
That’s the end of the nuts-and-bolts (blisters and porridge?) story. I have been thinking a lot more about what the hike has meant to me and will post about that next week. But this interpretative panel we passed on the way up may have a clue: everything is connected.
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