It was the first time I had heard it said this year. Waiting in the opticians, I heard an assistant ask a man if he was ready for it. Oh matron. What interpretation an empty word can carry. Spoken by Barbara Windsor to Kenneth Williams would create huge nostril flaring and a look of total indignation. But this was not a scene from Carry on Oculist. It is just over a week to Christmas - and the empty 'it' in the question is Christmas.
The empty word 'it' can assume some staggering proportion. Are you ready for it? But most people, when asked, may give a kind of thoughtful yes, and perhaps, with a reigned shrug, qualify the yes by saying "I have to get the veg and get a little something for Uncle Stewart but.... yes, I suppose so." Rather like if Eisenhower was asked if he was ready for it as D Day approached, he might have said, "Yes...I've got the troops lined up but not sure if Rommel' s turning up or not. Still, it'll have to do!"
Christmas arrives certainly not overnight. And for some the preparation is immense. Guided by advice from all quarters ranging from how to do it simply to complicated, how to do it extravagantly or cheaply, how to do it like a celebrity or a hassled mum (Iceland apparently) and how to do it in a modern way or be traditional. Or just go their own way, which is what I imagine most people do, because that's what their family did when they were little and they adopt, amend and argue over details and differences.
Strictly speaking, I suppose there are two being ready for its. Firstly, you might realise that you have to get going in the first place, a kind of mental readiness for it and secondly a physical completeness that points out quite clearly that you will do no more.
Now I have to be ready like everybody else, but what triggers the fact that I must are small and idiosyncratic moments and events which over the years have been a delight. Finishing work was one indicator but there had been two December events that stated, without a doubt that Christmas was here. The Varsity Rugby match between Cambridge and Oxford universities and the buying of the Christmas edition of the Radio Times. These were the triggers to get things going, this was the Rubicon to cross and say there's no getting away from it. Christmas is here. It was like when I was a child, and my regular comic, the Beano, was published with the title banner decorated with snow. That was the moment to begin to get excited.
To explain fully why these two things have this effect is, of course, very personal and of very little interest, but they do trigger a feeling of happiness and anticipation and, after all isn't that what winter festivals are about. In the festival compromise that is Christmas, it is appropriate to begin to look forward and turn the back on the past year. it can ll get a little too complicated and involved.
As someone once said, as she struggled through the door from the crowded shops and market, with carrier bags straining with sprouts and spuds some 30 years ago. "Well, that's it. If it's not in the house, then they'll have just have to do without." Now, she was ready for it.
Thursday, 18 December 2008
Monday, 24 November 2008
It's not all hiking...
For a group of late 40 somethings, walking was the ideal way to spend a Saturday and thus the Barnsley Gentleman's Walking Association or BGWA was born.
Determined Saturday stridings were undertaken up to distances of up to twenty miles. Public transport was used allowing us all to have a decent beer or two afterwards. Much rambling of a light hearted cerebral nature was also undertaken, leading to a build up of memories and, more importantly, development of ritual and mutterings of revolution.
You see the BGWA, like many other organisations, exists to serve its members. At the current time, we have a committee of up to twelve and a membership of one. So you can see he is a well served member, a fact that escapes him every year without fail, as the AGM approaches and he becomes excited at the prospect of elevation to a committee post. The only outcome of such a promotion would be the raising of the only member-in-application to become the new member. You can begin to see the nature of much of the rambling.
However this revolution is contained is study in management of possible unrest. A tactic employed recently and successfully is to adopt a kind of French attitude. Let the membership have their say, let them sound off, and when the member absents himself to the gents, rush through the re - election of officials, quite in order and thus the status quo is confirmed.
We began as a small group. The seeds probably sewn by the walks secretary and the member, which soon became a five and from then on, a number rising to its current level. At the outset, none of us hailed from Barnsley, although one was born just outside. Indeed, several have moved away altogether. Whether we were gentlemen is an issue for discussion and the walking too has dropped away for the last few years but the association, although perhaps now only an annual event for some, is still there.
Now, at the AGM, we make a toast to the King of Tonga, make a reading from Sid James' biography whilst wearing a tallit like shawl in which the book is kept, Del MacKee's belt must be worn by the member-in-application, reference is made to the sanity that finally prevailed at an event know as the Aberration of Bramwith and the treasurer makes a report.
In 2008, it was in rhyme. The Treasurer then counts up the found currency (all picked up coinage over the year) and declares if sufficient funds are available from this bounty to buy the Patron's Pint - a pint of the Patron's choosing which the Patron may share. As his choice this year was a pint of Abbeydale's Last Rites at 11%, he made a doubly wise choice. In , 2010, such it is as the recession bites, only £2.02 was collected. Clearly, people are hanging on to their money, or at least they are picking it up again when they don't.
Some traditions are lost on the way. The Banana Boy ( an honour given to the membership) seems not to produce the plastic banana which was once flourished each time a recognised boundary was crossed when either walking or on public transport. This was in remembrance of the imagined joyous celebrations that most certainly would have accompanied the arrival of the first banana in Bolton-on-Dearne.
Like all such organisations, jargon develops. For example, a full Minervois is the term still used to describe the breakfast some still believe is the ideal and only kick start to a day of BGWA activity at the Minerva cafe, although the eponymous cafe has long since disappeared. Or to have an Elsecar. To elsecar or an elsecration is to lose one's footing on slippery ground.
If there was to be any explanation of why this goes on, then it would occur to many an observer as just being plain silly which is exactly what it is. That the people involved are moving more and more to being retired professional people, who no doubt spent there working lives in meetings within organisations rich in procedures and rules, then this behaviour is pure escapism.
And after all, that's what the BGWA set out to provide.........
Determined Saturday stridings were undertaken up to distances of up to twenty miles. Public transport was used allowing us all to have a decent beer or two afterwards. Much rambling of a light hearted cerebral nature was also undertaken, leading to a build up of memories and, more importantly, development of ritual and mutterings of revolution.
You see the BGWA, like many other organisations, exists to serve its members. At the current time, we have a committee of up to twelve and a membership of one. So you can see he is a well served member, a fact that escapes him every year without fail, as the AGM approaches and he becomes excited at the prospect of elevation to a committee post. The only outcome of such a promotion would be the raising of the only member-in-application to become the new member. You can begin to see the nature of much of the rambling.
However this revolution is contained is study in management of possible unrest. A tactic employed recently and successfully is to adopt a kind of French attitude. Let the membership have their say, let them sound off, and when the member absents himself to the gents, rush through the re - election of officials, quite in order and thus the status quo is confirmed.
We began as a small group. The seeds probably sewn by the walks secretary and the member, which soon became a five and from then on, a number rising to its current level. At the outset, none of us hailed from Barnsley, although one was born just outside. Indeed, several have moved away altogether. Whether we were gentlemen is an issue for discussion and the walking too has dropped away for the last few years but the association, although perhaps now only an annual event for some, is still there.
Now, at the AGM, we make a toast to the King of Tonga, make a reading from Sid James' biography whilst wearing a tallit like shawl in which the book is kept, Del MacKee's belt must be worn by the member-in-application, reference is made to the sanity that finally prevailed at an event know as the Aberration of Bramwith and the treasurer makes a report.
In 2008, it was in rhyme. The Treasurer then counts up the found currency (all picked up coinage over the year) and declares if sufficient funds are available from this bounty to buy the Patron's Pint - a pint of the Patron's choosing which the Patron may share. As his choice this year was a pint of Abbeydale's Last Rites at 11%, he made a doubly wise choice. In , 2010, such it is as the recession bites, only £2.02 was collected. Clearly, people are hanging on to their money, or at least they are picking it up again when they don't.
Some traditions are lost on the way. The Banana Boy ( an honour given to the membership) seems not to produce the plastic banana which was once flourished each time a recognised boundary was crossed when either walking or on public transport. This was in remembrance of the imagined joyous celebrations that most certainly would have accompanied the arrival of the first banana in Bolton-on-Dearne.
Like all such organisations, jargon develops. For example, a full Minervois is the term still used to describe the breakfast some still believe is the ideal and only kick start to a day of BGWA activity at the Minerva cafe, although the eponymous cafe has long since disappeared. Or to have an Elsecar. To elsecar or an elsecration is to lose one's footing on slippery ground.
If there was to be any explanation of why this goes on, then it would occur to many an observer as just being plain silly which is exactly what it is. That the people involved are moving more and more to being retired professional people, who no doubt spent there working lives in meetings within organisations rich in procedures and rules, then this behaviour is pure escapism.
And after all, that's what the BGWA set out to provide.........
Friday, 14 November 2008
Pizza the action
Surely not another. Another doorstep pizza parlour posterette dropping in to announce another pizza place with all the attendant deals.
What fascinates me is their helpful nature in explaining the various ways they can top a dough base. Now pizza is an Italian word and pizzas are notably Italian. I learned the other day why the Italian language dominates the coffee world with words like cappuccino, espresso and mocha. Its to do with empire. Italy had a little slice of Africa, mixing it with the big boys in the empire business like Germany, Belgium, France and, of course, the UK. Italy just happened upon the coffee rich bits and indeed mocha comes from Mocha, the Red Sea port out of which the coffee flowed to Italy. Arabica, coffee shrub of Arabia is indigenous to Ethiopia. So no difficulty absorbing the Italian flair for coffee. But not pizza. As solidly Italian as the Trevi Fountain.
So it is natural to have real Italian to explain their toppings just as would happen in the country of origin. And this is were I return to the pizza leaflets. I just like seeing how far they go with the language, before they revert to English. When they do use Italian, they invariably add a translation, though I don't know why. If you are fan of pizza, you know what's what, but helpful the translations may well be. I wonder if is done to put across the feel that you are about to enjoy a continental delicacy, the Italian language serving up images of romantic Rome or sunny Naples even if your pizza comes from a converted newsagents in Barnsley or Huddersfield.
Marguerita is the one many kick off with. Written large, it is followed by a smaller print explanation in English of what constitutes the topping. So far so good. Next are funghi (mushroom), pollo (chicken) and proscuitto (ham). But what happens next is some drift back to English , but they still add the translation. So when ham and mushroom are the topping, it is written large in English, with it repeated, although in a smaller font, still in English. Now this amuses me (get out more?). At which point does each pizza place change? Hence the excitement of each new leaflet( get out more..yes). The sustaining of the Italian might be an indicator of the ethnicity of the cooking, but who is kidded by any such nonsense?
Today's leaflet was the winner. Chico's Pizza. Yes, there is the Margherita(cheese and tomato), but the rest is in bold black block letters HAM followed by the smaller lower case explanation .....yes slices of ham. MUSHROOM? yes, mushroom. So no doubts there then. So no attempt to be ethnic - straight into the full English. Whatever level of Italian is used, because we have adopted the pizza wholeheartedly in to our fast food fare, the toppings soon become un-Italian with meatfeast, chicken tikka, BBQ chicken and Chicago Bear featuring.
Soon it will be all ours. No hint at the Italian, except of course for the word pizza. Another delightful integration of something foreign into our mongrel flavours. I love too the perfect accompaniment for any of the pizzas to make a meal complete. What could be better to go with a large disk of baked dough with the topping of your choice? Well, another one, but with garlic upon it.
"What would you like with your sandwich?"
"A slice of bread butter would make the meal ideal!"
What fascinates me is their helpful nature in explaining the various ways they can top a dough base. Now pizza is an Italian word and pizzas are notably Italian. I learned the other day why the Italian language dominates the coffee world with words like cappuccino, espresso and mocha. Its to do with empire. Italy had a little slice of Africa, mixing it with the big boys in the empire business like Germany, Belgium, France and, of course, the UK. Italy just happened upon the coffee rich bits and indeed mocha comes from Mocha, the Red Sea port out of which the coffee flowed to Italy. Arabica, coffee shrub of Arabia is indigenous to Ethiopia. So no difficulty absorbing the Italian flair for coffee. But not pizza. As solidly Italian as the Trevi Fountain.
So it is natural to have real Italian to explain their toppings just as would happen in the country of origin. And this is were I return to the pizza leaflets. I just like seeing how far they go with the language, before they revert to English. When they do use Italian, they invariably add a translation, though I don't know why. If you are fan of pizza, you know what's what, but helpful the translations may well be. I wonder if is done to put across the feel that you are about to enjoy a continental delicacy, the Italian language serving up images of romantic Rome or sunny Naples even if your pizza comes from a converted newsagents in Barnsley or Huddersfield.
Marguerita is the one many kick off with. Written large, it is followed by a smaller print explanation in English of what constitutes the topping. So far so good. Next are funghi (mushroom), pollo (chicken) and proscuitto (ham). But what happens next is some drift back to English , but they still add the translation. So when ham and mushroom are the topping, it is written large in English, with it repeated, although in a smaller font, still in English. Now this amuses me (get out more?). At which point does each pizza place change? Hence the excitement of each new leaflet( get out more..yes). The sustaining of the Italian might be an indicator of the ethnicity of the cooking, but who is kidded by any such nonsense?
Today's leaflet was the winner. Chico's Pizza. Yes, there is the Margherita(cheese and tomato), but the rest is in bold black block letters HAM followed by the smaller lower case explanation .....yes slices of ham. MUSHROOM? yes, mushroom. So no doubts there then. So no attempt to be ethnic - straight into the full English. Whatever level of Italian is used, because we have adopted the pizza wholeheartedly in to our fast food fare, the toppings soon become un-Italian with meatfeast, chicken tikka, BBQ chicken and Chicago Bear featuring.
Soon it will be all ours. No hint at the Italian, except of course for the word pizza. Another delightful integration of something foreign into our mongrel flavours. I love too the perfect accompaniment for any of the pizzas to make a meal complete. What could be better to go with a large disk of baked dough with the topping of your choice? Well, another one, but with garlic upon it.
"What would you like with your sandwich?"
"A slice of bread butter would make the meal ideal!"
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Bookish thoughts
I like books. Especially new books. The feel, weight and smell of the things all contribute to the general feeling of desire to own. My favourite shop in the local shopping mall is Waterstones. It's where I'll agree to be met above all other places - albeit there is little choice, it being a shopping mall! My problem comes down to reading the things. I am not a good reader. Sitting down with a good book sounds wonderful. A comfortable chair with an ambient light, whether natural or artificial, and sitting lost in a text appears as a cosy fantasy, but one in which I feel I do not or cannot indulge myself.
"Free therapy"* I heard someone say recently and writing this is a kind of therapy for me. I want to be able to indulge the dream of enjoying a good book. What constitutes a good book is academic and wholly subjective and not my concern. I can find plenty of books. I know what I like to read. I have indeed read many enjoyable and consuming books. More than often, however, I cannot draw myself into the process for any reasonably sustained time. I have plenty of acquaintances, who I can call on as practisers of the art, most of them very close to me, who have no problem in losing themselves in the printed word, but I must find out what blocks me.
"Tell me about your childhood" quotes a line from a Bonzo Dog Band song, so I will. To say books were a rarity in my family is like saying there is bacon in a fridge of a Jewish household. I did have books. Guided by a sense of supporting me in my future education and possibly more by the sweet tongued encyclopedia salesman, my parents bought me large bound set of encyclopedias, well seven plus an index volume, which were my only and earliest memory of books that were specifically mine or antibody's for that matter. What is strange is that these tomes, which contained all the world's knowledge of the world and it place in the universe which the editors deemed necessary for children, were bought for little four year old me.
I could read though. Newspapers and comics were available and I do remember being fascinated by newspaper coverage of events of the world as it was revealed as far back as in 1952. Well, the pictures anyway and in January 1954, I spent many an hour at my grand mothers house poring over two quite enormous books about The Great War which were full of sepia photographs of uniformed men and shattered cities, while my mothered entered hospital to await my brothers birth.
I was fortunate to be the beneficiary at about 4 or 5 years old of two retired spinster ladies who lived near my grandmother's house. They bought me books. Well, they were teachers. The two titles I recall where 'Black Beauty' and 'Treasure Island'. I can remember trying to read both, making some progress and then giving up. Oh, these were the real item though, not the Ladybird abridged versions. Perhaps the books were not considered important or treasured by me, thought to be something to look at but not to be absorbed in.
I can honestly say that by the age of twelve, I had read, cover to cover, just two books. A Secret Seven book and a slim volume called The Shetland Bus. Two books! Plus all the captions to all the photographs in my seven volumes of knowledge.
But it was the text that got in the way. Apart from the captions to the many pictures in the War books and my encyclopedias, the text remained mostly uninterpreted. I only read the rhyming couplets that accompanied each illustration in the Rupert books and left the narrative text for others. (What on earth was it for anyway?). Simple comics were no more than illustrations with speech bubbles. I shuddered when faced with comics like the Hotspur. More text than I could want. And I guess that then is the problem. Textual impatience. I want the text to reveal more quickly, so I find myself reading intently and then skimming and then skipping through texts and emerging after a page or two dissatisfied and uninformed. And then I plough through it again. Or don't.
This is not the case with all the books I have picked up. I have been glued and read tenaciously many a book, both fiction and non fiction, but what causes the distraction and lack of adherence to the text is a factor of the time and place. I have realised that there must be nothing to tempt me away or divert me from the process. I must equate reading as much as a diversionary activity, as I find most other things when I am trying to read.
To be fair, those I know and have known to be the readers that can only be described as avid, seem to consider reading to be an activity against which nothing will act as a diversion. They can neglect, deny, postpone and even cancel many other things in their lives for the sake of the book. I am 100% inclined then other way. There, then, is my problem in a nutshell. And to solve it? I must prioritise and give a better rating to reading then staring out of the window, thinking about nothing in particular, leaving the kitchen untidy longer, watching TV, and attempting a crossword. Oh, and just begin enjoying the book beyond the superficial and acquisitive values that attach to books at the moment. After all, I can appreciate the way words can go together.
I have today bought three new books. A biography of Thomas Cromwell is the weightiest. I could have read fifty pages by now if I hadn't decided to do this. The therapy will begin soon, but I now have my mind on the book and on making the evening meal. Normally, the making of the meal will win, but I am going to read the first chapter and make the meal afterwards.
The therapy is working.
*Free therapy? The reply to this was "I thought it was half past four"
"Free therapy"* I heard someone say recently and writing this is a kind of therapy for me. I want to be able to indulge the dream of enjoying a good book. What constitutes a good book is academic and wholly subjective and not my concern. I can find plenty of books. I know what I like to read. I have indeed read many enjoyable and consuming books. More than often, however, I cannot draw myself into the process for any reasonably sustained time. I have plenty of acquaintances, who I can call on as practisers of the art, most of them very close to me, who have no problem in losing themselves in the printed word, but I must find out what blocks me.
"Tell me about your childhood" quotes a line from a Bonzo Dog Band song, so I will. To say books were a rarity in my family is like saying there is bacon in a fridge of a Jewish household. I did have books. Guided by a sense of supporting me in my future education and possibly more by the sweet tongued encyclopedia salesman, my parents bought me large bound set of encyclopedias, well seven plus an index volume, which were my only and earliest memory of books that were specifically mine or antibody's for that matter. What is strange is that these tomes, which contained all the world's knowledge of the world and it place in the universe which the editors deemed necessary for children, were bought for little four year old me.
I could read though. Newspapers and comics were available and I do remember being fascinated by newspaper coverage of events of the world as it was revealed as far back as in 1952. Well, the pictures anyway and in January 1954, I spent many an hour at my grand mothers house poring over two quite enormous books about The Great War which were full of sepia photographs of uniformed men and shattered cities, while my mothered entered hospital to await my brothers birth.
I was fortunate to be the beneficiary at about 4 or 5 years old of two retired spinster ladies who lived near my grandmother's house. They bought me books. Well, they were teachers. The two titles I recall where 'Black Beauty' and 'Treasure Island'. I can remember trying to read both, making some progress and then giving up. Oh, these were the real item though, not the Ladybird abridged versions. Perhaps the books were not considered important or treasured by me, thought to be something to look at but not to be absorbed in.
I can honestly say that by the age of twelve, I had read, cover to cover, just two books. A Secret Seven book and a slim volume called The Shetland Bus. Two books! Plus all the captions to all the photographs in my seven volumes of knowledge.
But it was the text that got in the way. Apart from the captions to the many pictures in the War books and my encyclopedias, the text remained mostly uninterpreted. I only read the rhyming couplets that accompanied each illustration in the Rupert books and left the narrative text for others. (What on earth was it for anyway?). Simple comics were no more than illustrations with speech bubbles. I shuddered when faced with comics like the Hotspur. More text than I could want. And I guess that then is the problem. Textual impatience. I want the text to reveal more quickly, so I find myself reading intently and then skimming and then skipping through texts and emerging after a page or two dissatisfied and uninformed. And then I plough through it again. Or don't.
This is not the case with all the books I have picked up. I have been glued and read tenaciously many a book, both fiction and non fiction, but what causes the distraction and lack of adherence to the text is a factor of the time and place. I have realised that there must be nothing to tempt me away or divert me from the process. I must equate reading as much as a diversionary activity, as I find most other things when I am trying to read.
To be fair, those I know and have known to be the readers that can only be described as avid, seem to consider reading to be an activity against which nothing will act as a diversion. They can neglect, deny, postpone and even cancel many other things in their lives for the sake of the book. I am 100% inclined then other way. There, then, is my problem in a nutshell. And to solve it? I must prioritise and give a better rating to reading then staring out of the window, thinking about nothing in particular, leaving the kitchen untidy longer, watching TV, and attempting a crossword. Oh, and just begin enjoying the book beyond the superficial and acquisitive values that attach to books at the moment. After all, I can appreciate the way words can go together.
I have today bought three new books. A biography of Thomas Cromwell is the weightiest. I could have read fifty pages by now if I hadn't decided to do this. The therapy will begin soon, but I now have my mind on the book and on making the evening meal. Normally, the making of the meal will win, but I am going to read the first chapter and make the meal afterwards.
The therapy is working.
*Free therapy? The reply to this was "I thought it was half past four"
Sunday, 12 October 2008
A world is a world of Centertainment
It is totally ersatz. A created centre where you can have a good night out. Although the Sheffield tram provides good access, it is, like the out of town shopping malls, hyperstores and supermarkets, able to function because of the motor car.
Sheffield's Centretainment is just up the road from Meadowhall shopping centre and close to the multi function and manty seated Arena. It provides a feeding station for these and other out of town entertainment venues in the post industrial valley of steel.
What amuses me about them is their wonderful kitsch. You are able to dine in the style of a New York bar and grill, enjoy the feel of an Italian restaurant, both classical and modern. Mexican food and other cultures are available. It is a dining experience simulator, but affordable and decent enough for a meal with atmosphere. These bars and eateries are there to serve the multi screen cinema, provided you are not wishing to dine out on huge buckets of popcorn or tortilla chips, which need to be floated down the gullet on a stream of Coke. Not my cuppa at all, but the restaurants are pleasant enough with good service but, unfortunately, with the staff who have been trained to be overhelpful which can become irritating.
It's the way the restaurants makes them ask questions to nudge you to spend more money than you wanted to. Not their fault, I'm sure. But they are trained to serve people who must be incapable of realising if their food is not very good, or that they want another drink, or they could have had a starter. That's the way of everywhere I feel.
It's as if litigation culture has extended to areas where customers could sue if things could become a bad exeperience and not just because something went wrong. Or how people are released from a criminal charge, not because they didn't do it, but because there was a flaw in the process of getting them to court. I can imagine enraged customers refusing to pay because they were not offered the chance to have a drink before their meal or been failed to be asked if there anything else they would like. But I digress. It is quite fun to record which and how many banal questions you can be asked during the course of visiting places where you are expected to pay for what you get.
Don't become irritated by this, or felt partonised and made to feel like some dimwit who has never eaten out before and spent life indoors. Enjoy and acknowledge the questions and play up the dumb image. 'Starter? Are they available? What? Before the main course? It had never occurred.' No that woold be unfair and achieve little.
Simply smile and say no. After all you know what you want, don't you?
Sheffield's Centretainment is just up the road from Meadowhall shopping centre and close to the multi function and manty seated Arena. It provides a feeding station for these and other out of town entertainment venues in the post industrial valley of steel.
What amuses me about them is their wonderful kitsch. You are able to dine in the style of a New York bar and grill, enjoy the feel of an Italian restaurant, both classical and modern. Mexican food and other cultures are available. It is a dining experience simulator, but affordable and decent enough for a meal with atmosphere. These bars and eateries are there to serve the multi screen cinema, provided you are not wishing to dine out on huge buckets of popcorn or tortilla chips, which need to be floated down the gullet on a stream of Coke. Not my cuppa at all, but the restaurants are pleasant enough with good service but, unfortunately, with the staff who have been trained to be overhelpful which can become irritating.
It's the way the restaurants makes them ask questions to nudge you to spend more money than you wanted to. Not their fault, I'm sure. But they are trained to serve people who must be incapable of realising if their food is not very good, or that they want another drink, or they could have had a starter. That's the way of everywhere I feel.
It's as if litigation culture has extended to areas where customers could sue if things could become a bad exeperience and not just because something went wrong. Or how people are released from a criminal charge, not because they didn't do it, but because there was a flaw in the process of getting them to court. I can imagine enraged customers refusing to pay because they were not offered the chance to have a drink before their meal or been failed to be asked if there anything else they would like. But I digress. It is quite fun to record which and how many banal questions you can be asked during the course of visiting places where you are expected to pay for what you get.
Don't become irritated by this, or felt partonised and made to feel like some dimwit who has never eaten out before and spent life indoors. Enjoy and acknowledge the questions and play up the dumb image. 'Starter? Are they available? What? Before the main course? It had never occurred.' No that woold be unfair and achieve little.
Simply smile and say no. After all you know what you want, don't you?
Monday, 15 September 2008
2 down, but not too often.
"If youngsters are not taught how to spell, how will they ever enjoy the pleasure of doing a crossword puzzle?" writes R A Francis of Wimborne , Dorset in the Times of last week.
I have been to Dorset and it is a fine county, with a dramatic coast showing grand geological features like Chesil beach and Durdle Door. It has my favourite seaside town in Swanage. It has an air of mystery with modern military camps, ancient hill forts, and old place names with the word Magna attached to many places. The county gives off an air of old England and has strong literary associations with Thomas Hardy.
Wimbourne is a small market town dominated by the twin towers of the imposing Minster church, but offering a whole lot more. The Minster (mainly Norman and up to l5th century), includes the famous Quarterjack clock, 14th century astronomical clock, tablet recording King Ethelred's burial in 871 and a chained library. The houses are, to the main, thatched and of a style I call English rural desire, of the type featured in competitions to enable the winner to have slice of old England.
The town's shops include many for antiques and curios as well as a modern centre. There is an antiques market on Friday, a flea market on Saturday and a huge combination of the two on Sunday. Its all very racy...what better place to be the home of a crossword enthusiast.
Racy enough for crosswords ? Nothing else beyond the antiques to amuse the correct spellers of Wimborne? A little unfair, but is not quite the real, modern urban Britain, where possible crossword solvers are obviously being lost and un-nurtured in the urban sprawl and what are we going to do about it?
The crossword has been around less than 100 years. It might be a passing fancy. All this is not to slight Wimborne or R A Francis. I agree with him in as far as crosswords are fun. I think he misses the point. Crosswords are fun because they play with the language which I like to do. Spelling is important to enter a correct solution to a clue, but a good use of a dictionary of word checker will help with this. People will discover crosswords and the fun they can provide. I don't think you can force the fun on to people. I wonder how far R A Francis has got on Mass Effect on his x box. What fun!
I am pleased to say that I have found crosswords at times delightful, but not all of them. Naturally, there are a whole range of these puzzles from the simple word for word substitution, often called 'quick' to those found in the broadsheet papers. These are anything but quick. Their creators take names such as Ximenes and Torquemada. It does not need any more clue to their difficulty when you realise these names are those of inquisitors of the Spanish Inquisition. To me, they might as well be written in Albanian.
The pleasure for me is finding your style of setter, the setter who makes you smile and occasionally groan and who allows you sometimes to complete the entire puzzle. If it involves the help of someone else then that too can be pleasurable.
What is a good clue to me is this example. "It looks like the campanologist is late" (4,6). The solution is dead ringer. Now I think that is neat. It is clever word play. It made me smile when the answer flew to the front of my mind. It gave me pleasure to print the answer, in pencil, placing each letter, in upper case, in the white empty squares. "Fruit and nuts"? Seven letters. Yes. Bananas. Bring it on.
As Forrest Gump might say, unfortunately, clues, like a box of chocolates, come in a variety. Easy and soft to hard and chewy to the ones you want to spit out immediately. And, like chocolates, they are created by many manufacturers.
Its all a matter of finding who makes the best selection.
"Bar of soap" (3,6,6)? The Rover's Return. Lovely stuff.
(With acknowledgments to Rufus)
I have been to Dorset and it is a fine county, with a dramatic coast showing grand geological features like Chesil beach and Durdle Door. It has my favourite seaside town in Swanage. It has an air of mystery with modern military camps, ancient hill forts, and old place names with the word Magna attached to many places. The county gives off an air of old England and has strong literary associations with Thomas Hardy.
Wimbourne is a small market town dominated by the twin towers of the imposing Minster church, but offering a whole lot more. The Minster (mainly Norman and up to l5th century), includes the famous Quarterjack clock, 14th century astronomical clock, tablet recording King Ethelred's burial in 871 and a chained library. The houses are, to the main, thatched and of a style I call English rural desire, of the type featured in competitions to enable the winner to have slice of old England.
The town's shops include many for antiques and curios as well as a modern centre. There is an antiques market on Friday, a flea market on Saturday and a huge combination of the two on Sunday. Its all very racy...what better place to be the home of a crossword enthusiast.
Racy enough for crosswords ? Nothing else beyond the antiques to amuse the correct spellers of Wimborne? A little unfair, but is not quite the real, modern urban Britain, where possible crossword solvers are obviously being lost and un-nurtured in the urban sprawl and what are we going to do about it?
The crossword has been around less than 100 years. It might be a passing fancy. All this is not to slight Wimborne or R A Francis. I agree with him in as far as crosswords are fun. I think he misses the point. Crosswords are fun because they play with the language which I like to do. Spelling is important to enter a correct solution to a clue, but a good use of a dictionary of word checker will help with this. People will discover crosswords and the fun they can provide. I don't think you can force the fun on to people. I wonder how far R A Francis has got on Mass Effect on his x box. What fun!
I am pleased to say that I have found crosswords at times delightful, but not all of them. Naturally, there are a whole range of these puzzles from the simple word for word substitution, often called 'quick' to those found in the broadsheet papers. These are anything but quick. Their creators take names such as Ximenes and Torquemada. It does not need any more clue to their difficulty when you realise these names are those of inquisitors of the Spanish Inquisition. To me, they might as well be written in Albanian.
The pleasure for me is finding your style of setter, the setter who makes you smile and occasionally groan and who allows you sometimes to complete the entire puzzle. If it involves the help of someone else then that too can be pleasurable.
What is a good clue to me is this example. "It looks like the campanologist is late" (4,6). The solution is dead ringer. Now I think that is neat. It is clever word play. It made me smile when the answer flew to the front of my mind. It gave me pleasure to print the answer, in pencil, placing each letter, in upper case, in the white empty squares. "Fruit and nuts"? Seven letters. Yes. Bananas. Bring it on.
As Forrest Gump might say, unfortunately, clues, like a box of chocolates, come in a variety. Easy and soft to hard and chewy to the ones you want to spit out immediately. And, like chocolates, they are created by many manufacturers.
Its all a matter of finding who makes the best selection.
"Bar of soap" (3,6,6)? The Rover's Return. Lovely stuff.
(With acknowledgments to Rufus)
Saturday, 6 September 2008
At the Fringe 2008
If you enjoy a variety of entertainment, entertainment in a very broad sense, are prepared to cue for and sit in a variety of performing areas, some no more than a room in a student union, be prepared to walk a fair a bit and get a little wet then go to the Edinburgh Fringe. What make its more special for me is having a great group of friends who are prepared to to this as well.
It has been our third week in three years, so let us lay out the battle ground which you have to prepared to fight through to select your weeks pleasure. The 2008 Fringe programme featured a record breaking 2088 shows. It runs for three weeks from August 3rd until August 25th. It involves an estimated 18 792 performers from 46 countries presenting 31 320 performances in 247 venues dotted around the city. Quite staggering and for the past three years, we have tried to select a dozen or so shows to fill our week. It generally works well.
This is what Trish and I did this year. We constructed a fairly joint programme and left quite a few gaps to enjoy walks in and trips to the surrounding areas should the weather prove fine. I'll repeat that...should the weather prove fine. And thus we saw a few more shows than we originally planned.
Each day pans out to be at least a twelve hour day. There were daily free shows. Quite handy for getting a random preview of other performers some new and some iconic figures in the world of radio and television. This year featured the spectrum that was Jim Bowen and Clive James via Barry Cryer. These shows were by courtesy of BBC Scotland withe daily MaCaulay and Co and the Guardian podcast hosted by Miles Jupp. These two shows provided the early morning rendezvous for our group, which numbered fourteen and who were living in two apartments on either side of the city, before the daily diaspora following our planned shows for the day. There were joint meals, lunches and dinners and the occasional drink when plans opened up free windows.
I could run through each show but that would be tedious, so I will mention the highs and the lows. Starting at the base were the Tiger Lilies - Seven Deadly Sins. They are supposed to be in bad taste, but this was a tedious attempt to debauch the seven deadly sins. Better left to one's own imaginings really as the world is already full of evil people doing evil things on a range of scale from personal to global, all of which can be categorised under the seven deadly sins. This contribution to the theme was puerile.
But to the delights and highs. Footsbarn's A Midsummer Night's Dream was magical. Set in a big top atop of Calton Hill, you walked in to the sound of birdsong. Brilliant performances with enchanting music played out the familiar play to every bit of fun and silliness.
Barbershopera featured four performers who told the simple tale of barber shop rivalry and the attempt of the British team, who have lost their star tenor, to outsmart the seemingly powerful Swiss team. Up 'n' Under meets close harmony. Great ensemble work by the four singers.
Stefan Golaszewski speaks about the girl he loved was another gem. A one man piece of theatre about a young man's journey into that utterly unbelievable first love was superbly enacted by a most talented man. As an older person, it recalled the hope and knife edged moments between utter disappointment and supreme ecstasy of falling in love.
Count Arthur Strong - the man behind the smile presented my current hero of comedy in a surprise, or I should say sursprise, tribute to himself which he is planning to do. I find this shambling character a hoot because he combines so many British comedy characteristics. There are reminders of comedy actors and comedians from the word confusions of Mrs Malaprop mixed with silly syntax and senile mis-associatons to the muddling, mental confusions of Harry Worth, the false pomposity of Tony Hancock combined with applying social values of the 1950's against the social values of today.
Learn to Play the Ukulele in under One hour (How George Formby saved My life) is contender for the longest title but I doubt for one minute it is. The audience all sit with a loaned ukulele and learn whilst listening to the story hinted at in the bracket part of the title. As your chord knowledge builds up from on to four (via the famous three chord trick), practice is encouraged to underscore points of the story. A major chord (C maj) for brighter parts with a minor chord (A min) to add sadness and contrast. So, apart from learning some chords and some songs, we receive a bit of music theory too. After the show you has the opportunity to buy a ukulele, so Trish bought one for me.
The remaining shows were just bubbling under these warm and enjoyable experiences which, all in all, were perfect for the very wet week that Edinburgh was providing outdoors.
It has been our third week in three years, so let us lay out the battle ground which you have to prepared to fight through to select your weeks pleasure. The 2008 Fringe programme featured a record breaking 2088 shows. It runs for three weeks from August 3rd until August 25th. It involves an estimated 18 792 performers from 46 countries presenting 31 320 performances in 247 venues dotted around the city. Quite staggering and for the past three years, we have tried to select a dozen or so shows to fill our week. It generally works well.
This is what Trish and I did this year. We constructed a fairly joint programme and left quite a few gaps to enjoy walks in and trips to the surrounding areas should the weather prove fine. I'll repeat that...should the weather prove fine. And thus we saw a few more shows than we originally planned.
Each day pans out to be at least a twelve hour day. There were daily free shows. Quite handy for getting a random preview of other performers some new and some iconic figures in the world of radio and television. This year featured the spectrum that was Jim Bowen and Clive James via Barry Cryer. These shows were by courtesy of BBC Scotland withe daily MaCaulay and Co and the Guardian podcast hosted by Miles Jupp. These two shows provided the early morning rendezvous for our group, which numbered fourteen and who were living in two apartments on either side of the city, before the daily diaspora following our planned shows for the day. There were joint meals, lunches and dinners and the occasional drink when plans opened up free windows.
I could run through each show but that would be tedious, so I will mention the highs and the lows. Starting at the base were the Tiger Lilies - Seven Deadly Sins. They are supposed to be in bad taste, but this was a tedious attempt to debauch the seven deadly sins. Better left to one's own imaginings really as the world is already full of evil people doing evil things on a range of scale from personal to global, all of which can be categorised under the seven deadly sins. This contribution to the theme was puerile.
But to the delights and highs. Footsbarn's A Midsummer Night's Dream was magical. Set in a big top atop of Calton Hill, you walked in to the sound of birdsong. Brilliant performances with enchanting music played out the familiar play to every bit of fun and silliness.
Barbershopera featured four performers who told the simple tale of barber shop rivalry and the attempt of the British team, who have lost their star tenor, to outsmart the seemingly powerful Swiss team. Up 'n' Under meets close harmony. Great ensemble work by the four singers.
Stefan Golaszewski speaks about the girl he loved was another gem. A one man piece of theatre about a young man's journey into that utterly unbelievable first love was superbly enacted by a most talented man. As an older person, it recalled the hope and knife edged moments between utter disappointment and supreme ecstasy of falling in love.
Count Arthur Strong - the man behind the smile presented my current hero of comedy in a surprise, or I should say sursprise, tribute to himself which he is planning to do. I find this shambling character a hoot because he combines so many British comedy characteristics. There are reminders of comedy actors and comedians from the word confusions of Mrs Malaprop mixed with silly syntax and senile mis-associatons to the muddling, mental confusions of Harry Worth, the false pomposity of Tony Hancock combined with applying social values of the 1950's against the social values of today.
Learn to Play the Ukulele in under One hour (How George Formby saved My life) is contender for the longest title but I doubt for one minute it is. The audience all sit with a loaned ukulele and learn whilst listening to the story hinted at in the bracket part of the title. As your chord knowledge builds up from on to four (via the famous three chord trick), practice is encouraged to underscore points of the story. A major chord (C maj) for brighter parts with a minor chord (A min) to add sadness and contrast. So, apart from learning some chords and some songs, we receive a bit of music theory too. After the show you has the opportunity to buy a ukulele, so Trish bought one for me.
The remaining shows were just bubbling under these warm and enjoyable experiences which, all in all, were perfect for the very wet week that Edinburgh was providing outdoors.
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Port Sunlight delight
I surveyed the remains of a convenient and reasonably cheap breakfast of the kind can be bought in supermarket restaurants, motorway service areas or department store coffee shops. The table was littered with empty paper packets that formerly contained salt, pepper, brown sauce and sugar. There were the empty plastic drums that held the UHT milk, each one holding just less than the milk I require for one cup of tea. There would be occasions when there would be a used tea bag, but at least this time we had an individual, stainless steel tea pot. The table was a heap of litter, all of which was unlikely to be recycled. It appalled me.
No wonder it is cheap. You do all the work apart from cooking of the food and putting the items on the plate. You are even required to clear you own table and place your debris in the appropriate place. People talk about quality of life, but for me with this kind of catering there is little of any life enhancing quality. It represented, I suppose, good value for money as something no doubt very similar was available in our Liverpool hotel, but for nearly three times the amount.
I do not wish to be too downbeat about it, because being in Port Sunlight the day before was a world away in many ways. We had arrived at lunchtime and decided to eat before wandering around Lord Leverhulme's grand soap opus. I sat as Trish queued, but at the moment of being served, a fire alarm sounded. No one moved. In fact there was a moment when all the people in the fairly busy restaurant stopped doing what they were doing before carrying on as before, confidently declaring that it was more than likely a false alarm. Eventually, we were asked to leave the restaurant and assemble on the car park by an assistant from the shop ajoining. We walked past many tables full of abandoned meals and cups of coffee and tea. Like listening to the William tell overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger, it was difficult to look at these tables without hearing the words Marie Celeste forming in the mind.
This event made up our minds to find elsewhere for refreshment. The Port Sunlight garden centre was clearly another debris style eatery which we left and went on the tea rooms close to the railway station. And it was here that we had a good old fashioned afternoon tea, ordered by talking to a waiter, who began by explaining apologetically that unfortunately that there was only one slice of Victoria sponge cake left. I looked towards it as it sat on its plate in the cake cabinet. As a slice, it was a very generous one. We were asked to select two kinds of sandwich to precede the cake and what kind of tea we would prefer. All ready, we were relaxed and anticipating a delight. There was no disappointment. Tea arrived in a pot pot, covered with a tea cosy. The presence of the tea strainer told us the tea was loose leaf - not the bagged version. The sandwiches and cakes turned up on a pot tiered cake stand, sandwiches on the lower plate with the cakes above. Butter, cream and jam were in a little open pot container. Sugar of course was in its own bowl, made of pot of course. The milk was fresh and jugged - this is not a contradiction.
The sandwiches were finger style, made of sliced bread with the crusts removed. In all we could share four varieties of freshly made sandwiches.
I know that this kind of service and preparation is still to be found in many places, but I suspect, until I research such places, at a price and certainly not in any abundance. But the quality this experience had added to the enjoyment of our visit to Port Sunlight has made me want to shun plastic packet, debris ridden self service forever.
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Rumpies,stumpies and knobs
Queen's promenade does impose itself on the sweeping bay. Rising 4 to 5 storeys high, the edge to edge hotels and boarding houses present a quite forbidding wall. They have names that give off status and class. The Savoy, the Empress, Claremont, Sefton and Ascot. They are splendidly iced cake edifices projecting from the promenade like a row of teeth. Part of the facade is called grandly the Empire Terrace.There are no concessions to it being near the seaside. No arcades flash, fast food is restricted to one fish and chip shop and where one buys a bucket and spade on this extensive sweep of coast is not obvious. To say Douglas is behind the times is an insult to this insular gem. It does remind many of some aspects Britain of the 1950s, but it is the nicer aspects and they were probably wished for again if readers of the Daily Express and Daily Mail are to be believed.
The place is clean, free of graffiti and the drivers are courteous to a point they stop as you even consider crossing at a pedestrian crossing. Although there is a MacDonalds, I cannot tell you where, but there are several mainland high street chains such as M&S, Next and TK Maxx.
The island is not time locked but showing that it can change.
It is not without its grimmer side. Ramsay, the island's second largest town has much run down property but is about to have a spanking new swimming pool. It already has one, but there is to be another one. It is being built along side some very crumbly buildings, much in the style of Douglas' seafront, but very downmarket. Seeded shrubs and weeds have established themselves in the crannies and gaps in the crumbling walls. Above the door of a former hotel cum pub, someone has placed a temporary sign calling the decaying shell of a structure "Bleak House". Perhaps its about to go, to be replaced by a further sporting and recreational structure. The town's rugby club is further along; this leads to a skateboard park and BMX circuit. Youth is clearly catered for. Its all between the coast and the pride of Ramsay - Mooragh Park.
The park reminds me immediately of parks from my child hood. Everything is there and everything is clean and orderly. There is a large boating lake surrounded by neat lawns and planted borders. A novelty putting course, complete with windmills and castles is being played on by families. Eight or nine youths are playing tennis; a round robin affair with half of them on one side of the net with the opposition the other side. Each takes it in turn to keep the rally going.
Further on, there is is a jumpers for goal posts football game, which has been temporarily stopped for a ball in the boating lake moment. One boy, possibly the culprit of the errant kick which resulted in the ball bobbing in the water, is gingerly edging himself into the water. What was heard next sums up for me the tenor of the island. The onshore discussion, by his dry friends, centred around the need for something to throw and hook over the ball. One of them ran towards the lifebuoy station. As he drew the others attention to the possibility of using this life saving equipment, his friend politely reminded him against using it by saying, "You can't use that. Its not allowed." The lifebuoy was left alone. That there were lifebuoys available was enough for me, but clearly this was a moment of faith in the younger generation, at large in public.
Apart from Ramsay, which had its charms, there is Peel. A seaside place of bliss. A castle to explore, a great sandy beach, a busy harbour landing langosutine and squat lobster, a possibility of seeing whales and dolphins and the best ice cream on the island. Port Erin has much the same, but openings to the north and south of great coast walks. Castletown, the ancient capital....... I will go again.
The islanders appear proud of their heritage and independence. The population of just over 80,000 contains only about 50% Manx born citizens. But in the the Matcham gem of a theatre, they play the anthem at the end of the performance and the audience stand and the audience sing, though not lustily, their own national anthem. In my child hood, I recall the mad dash by my parents and many of the audience from the cinema at the opening note of our national anthem.
A few years ago I went to the Isle of Arran in the waters off the Firth of Clyde. It was my first holiday in Scotland, chosen due to its claim that it was advertised as Scotland in miniature. The Isle of Man is England in miniature. Rolling lake land fells, dramatic Cornish coasts, midshires rolling farmland, villages and seaside towns and harbours. But that is where the comparison stops. Inside my head. The independent Manx mind would not have it. They are part of the British Isles only. Separate to the United Kingdom and the Great Britain, they would not allow such a comparison to be made or used to promote itself. They are Manx.
Oh , yes. Rumpies and stumpies are Manx cats. Knobs are Manx humbug.
Sunday, 3 August 2008
End game - Fin de Jeu Pyrenean
A day by the sea at Collioure gave some of us the opportunity to have moules et frites , unless you were the carnivore who only considered a source of protein as viable if the animal had four legs and had hair. The town has moved on since 1905, when Henri Matisse arrived, painted pictures pulsating with light and colour this giving birth to Fauvism. It still is an artists town, a bit like St Ives here in the UK. There are streets given over to small studios and the around the harbour artists are offering their take on the landscape and culture. It is now very much keen on tourism.
Given over from a fishing port, mainly anchovies, to a port of call for tourists, it was busy, doubly so as it was market day. So much was the decision taken to harbour tourists and not fish that the fishing fleet was told to virtually pack up.
After lunch, we took our own route around this picturesque and popular place. We were clearly on the homeward leg of the walking trip, but feeling we had achieved a worthwhile thing and would love to do more, perhaps next year. We assembled as arranged at the railway station to return for the last night at Hotel des Elmes.
Another dinner back at Banyuls sur Mer was not being looked forward too. The reservation about lack of volume of food, recorded in an earlier blog, was joined by another one because the previous evening meal was on an open air terrace, though with a canvas roofing. This delightful setting was spoiled by being us surrounded by smokers. Only when smokers eat, they tend to have a cigarette between courses. At least that's what I did when I was addicted. Smokers seem to have taken over the outdoor terraces, so much so that it is more pleasant, as a non smoker, to sit indoors, despite the weather being inductive to being outdoors.
We asked to sit indoors and, with the acceptance, all the formality of the previous night seemed to go. Why there was even an alternative for David. he had no more than began to give the slightest hint of disapproval to the fish, when the maitre eagerly offered him a meaty alternative.
And so the meal went well. Tomorrow afternoon we would set of for home
Thursday, 17 July 2008
Beside the seaside beside the sea - Pyrenees 6
At last there were no trees to fight you or hide the views of where you were going. True, there was some steep scrambling but the views were always going to be worth it, even though they only told us how far we had come and how nearer we were to the destination. Why, we even passed people with toddlers, walking up from a car park.
It was not so easy to find a soft spot for a picnic. Trees, whilst being awkward things along a trail with their roots ready to trip you, their branches ready to lash you, their fallen brethren causing you to bend under or climb over, do at least give shade from the sun. The problem was there were so few trees today. This was a short walk but the day was quite warm and Banyuls provided immediate refreshment, after a short visit to two station buildings. The first one was closed and used for alternative business, but along the line was a new structure had been built, but still in the SNCF style of rural stations.
Going via the railway station for information to travel the next day to Coulliours, we found the Hotel les Elmes, a proper seaside place, small and almost on the beach. That was enough for Ray and David who swam around the bay at least as far as the diving platform. Not me or Bob, though. Warm baths and a change of clothes were as refreshing as it needed to be. There was a reminder of how dangerous bathing can be. While the sea swimmers splashed and dived in the mellow and mild Mediterranean Sea unaware and unaffected by any undertow and cross currents, powerful forces were at work to make dangerous the safest of bathing experiences. Bob was gripped by a strong vacuum that held his back against the smooth porcelain of the bath in which he was relaxing. He could be there now but for some frantic wriggling.
Before dinner, a stroll over the hill to Banyuls itself. A busy seaside resort and the start of the GR10 which inspires the Iron Man to put forward a proposal to walk its entire length. Mmm.
Once more the food was an issue with a wine list pricey as well. The style was quite formal, with the dishes presented by the waiter announcing the name as it was served to table. There was not enough food, delicious and tasty as it was. The problem was ameliorated by the interjection of a cheese course, at our request and for which we had to pay extra, but it completed a very pleasant meal. The main course was fish, and not meat, so both Dave and Bob were a little disappointed. And we had another night to survive.
The following day we visit Coulliours with a prospect of moules et frites.
Pyrenees 5 - Ceret
Leaving Amelie les Bains on a hot Sunday morning was made better by having a good breakfast in the buffet style.
However, we were soon wandering around, cursing the trees while trying to find the correct path. Familiar territory in unfamiliar territory. The promise of a village with a bar which was approximately half way and at which we would arrive around lunchtime was a clear fillip to our progress. The guide notes warned of dogs on the outskirts of the village, but each of us has a weapon to deal with most canine nuisances. We were primed for the worst. It didn’t happen. I mean both expectations. The dogs were big and noisy but well fenced. The bar was shut.
Madame, who appeared at an upstairs window, was not to be moved to open up for us.
To say we were downhearted would be absolutely on the mark. A picnic was taken in the shade and the Sunday papers were available. There was a little further track-searching in quite an open area. Tractors and caterpillar tracked vehicles had been re-arranging things, but the markers and the road were found and Ceret beckoned on a hot afternoon.
The bar of choice was spread out under big plane trees and the rugby on the wide screen was being enjoyed by the locals.
The hotel immediately upset the more carnivorous members as it was to be eaten away from the hotel at an Italian restaurant, which was in a busyish square. So we turned up with our voucher and we were fed quite well. There was wine of course.
Now Dave had cracked the secrets of the technical tee- shirt there was no holding him. The shirt came with an instruction leaflet which he had lost or left. It could be worn cool side in side on hot days outside or alternatively warm side inside on cool days outside. We finally discovered that the labels were of different colours depending which way around it went.
With apologies to Longfellow, this summed up his quandary:
He had brought the shirt of Paramo.
On the walk he chose to wear it,
Wore it with the smooth side inside,
Wore it with the rough side outside.
He, to get the cool side inside,
Dave eventually joined us for lunch in the place below where further technology was explained and tried.
Ceret has a history of being associated with artists. In particular Pablo Picasso, who lived there for a part of his life. The walls of the hotel were covered with prints and posters which reflected the artistic influences in the town. The museum had an exhibition of Hungarian fauvist paintings as well as featuring several of the ceramics of Picasso. Each of us in turn made our way around the cultural gem of Ceret. Art and modern art are challenges and I know little about it to feel safe when confronted by some of it. I suppose feeling insecure and challenged is a fair response to some of it. A common reaction that I am happy with is that I can find some art amusing. I enjoyed the use of colour and close examination of the surfces of the paintings showed greens and blues used in painting faces which on distance created blends in the eye. I enjoyed the simplicity and use of colour which being colour blind is some what ironic.
A fete awaits you - a diversion
“The whole of
So said a staff member to a group of English guests at the hotel.
Although I didn’t see any opera stars unless they were underplaying themselves, there was some sharing, diversity and creativity. Stages were erected in almost every square we encountered but it was on the 21st June that we came across the music.
In Amelie les Bains where we were staying, it was at first a bit of a disappointment. Two bars had singers but only with club style multitrack accompaniments - a kind of karaoke. Both bars were close to each other and so it was possible at a point equidistant between both bars to hear the worst of both worlds.
But then just as it could not get worse, it got better. Outside the third bar was a live band comprising three saxophones, two trumpets, a trombone, a lady and a drummer. It was the drummer which caught my fascination. His kit was set upon a unique home built trolley, the five wheels of which came from a child’s pushchair (two), a porter’s trolley (two) and a child’s bicycle (one). Once he had arrived at the next pitch, he chocked the child’s bike wheel with a block of wood. He removed a folding bar stool from the left hand side of the kit and placed it behind the drum kit. He extracted his sticks from a basket at the right hand side and he was ready. The exact role of the lady, dressed in gold, as opposed to the red and black of the musicians, was not clear. She contributed some percussion support for the drummer whether he was in need of it or not.
They played a rare mixture from what sounded like local folk tunes and they finished their first set with Randy Newman’s “You Can Keep Your Hat On”. A young man in the small crowd gave an impromptu and energetic strip, with his shorts ending up above him on the bar's sun awning. Not wearing a hat, however, he kept his pants on.
The band moved on. Their progress was now being barred by a dozen or so older people who clearly wanted none of the pop stuff they had just heard. The band was stopped and they old gang of band hi jackers wanted cha cha. A quick chat amongst the band while the drummer set out his kit, a brief consultation of their A6 note books, and the band were off. The dancers shimmied and shuffled, the watchers tapped and swayed to the music.
After this initial opening and being aware of the dancing intent of the crowd, the band continued. The dance this time was for individuals. It reminded me a little of the Lambeth walk. It was led by a dapper man with black shiny shoes and neat clothes. His seemingly weightless feet slipped and stepped while his arms and dainty hands with fingers pointing kept the upper body balanced. Others joined him but they ensured he kept the centre of the stage. The others were of lesser degrees of elegance and style. Next to him was a large man dressed in shorts and a sky blue vest. He wore chunky sandals. He was the sartorial opposite of Monsieur Dapper. Needless to say the sartorial spectrum was not as wide as the terpsichorean one.
But he was en fete. He had captured the moment.
The band remained in their spot and played on. It was a treat to be a witness to such exuberance which was as good humoured as it was entertaining. I returned to the hotel.
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