Autumn Cottage Diarist

Back from the Future

No video today, but what now seems like an ‘old fashioned’ blog post. I was  reading a lovely article last week (see link below*) in the Guardian newspaper, entitled ‘Postcard From the Future’; the author of the article, Katherine Rundell, is imagining what she will do when this Coronavirus lockdown is  eased. She fantasises returning to the souks of Marrakech, and it set me to thinking ‘where are the places to which *I* long to return?' the special places, in which I have had special experiences. This may be an entertaining and revealing pursuit to carry out in your journals during this enclosed and restricted time, and in a way, it doesn't even matter if you don't get there again; just the pleasure of revisiting in your mind the places and experiences you have loved and reflecting on why you did and do so maybe enough.

Here are my favourite 5 places (the first five of many!) - do tell me some of yours.

As always top of the list (I am so predictable!) has to be Venice, where I've had some of the most delicious, beautiful and interesting experiences of my life. When I was teaching a Travel Journal writing course some years ago, I used an example of ‘50 things I remember about my visit to Venice’ – just one or two word ‘captures’, to illustrate the value of making lists when travelling. I'll share those in another post, but just five of the special things about Venice to me were…the experience of savouring texture in all its forms - from the ancient, decaying, crumbling surfaces all around, on buildings, doors, windows, canal sides, to the hard, transparent, brilliant colours and sheen of glassware (from the mass manufactured, cheap Oriental imports to be sold to us gullible tourists, to the exquisite and oh, so expensive chandeliers that we watched being made on the ‘glass island’ of Murano.

The luscious, tempting, again also extremely expensive fabrics – both antique and modern, on display in enticing little boutique shops such as Bevilaqua . Even now, 14 years after I last visited Venice, I pull out swatches and lengths of fabric that I brought back with me then. I miss the seafood, bought fresh from the market 2 minutes from our door in Cannaregio and cooked up on a tiny little stove in our apartment.

I miss the unutterable beauty of the paintings in the Accademia Gallery - the exquisite, jewel-like images of the medieval  Madonnas and the huge canvases showing the magnificent sumptuousness of the grand religious and civic ceremonial processions. I miss the water lapping outside our window, and the bargees, unloading sand and other materials for the mosaic factory across the canal, who didn't just whistla, but sang full operatic arias while they worked. (Now that’s the way to wake up from a water-lapped, good night’s sleep!) I miss the incomparable light… I miss the sunsets… I miss the mystery. (There you are - I told you it was to be ‘5 memories’, but Venice always encourages excess!)

I long to return to the Highlands of Scotland, to stand on the banks of Loch Sunart, off Ardnamurchan, with Dolphins swimming before me, Red Deer at the boundary fence to the cottage in which I stayed, and a Golden Eagle soaring above me. Not the imaginary fantasy scene of a film script writer, but a moment in time that I actually experienced; a time when I felt so insignificant amongst the Majesty and wildness of the scenery. I was a mere Ant on the surface of the planet. But I was also at one with the other Beings and part of the scenery, not in Dominion over it - and all was well with that.

I miss visiting the charming little town of Llandeilo in Carmarthenshire, where faces are always friendly and the voices and accents familiar. I miss poking around in the rambling, rabbit warren of an Antiques Emporium there; I miss wandering around the beautiful restored gardens of Aberglasney, nearby and reading the poetry of Gillian Clark out loud to the yew trees!

I miss sultry afternoons around the pool in my dear friend’s house in France. In my fantasy future visit, it would be as it was in the past - extremely hot - far too hot to do anything other than paint in my sketchbook, muse in my journal, dabble my feet in the water or wander back into the cool, cool house with bare feet on refreshingly cold tiles, throw myself onto the day-bed, browse through a book (perhaps a guide to the old churches of the area?), drift off to sleep for an hour, then wake to prepare some wonderful food bought at a local market and wash it down with one of an endless choice of rather good wines, of which said friend is very much a connoisseur.

In the most recent of my adventures and one I would so love to repeat, I would return to my daughter in law’s Homeland of Romania - another place full of enchantment and mystery - a land where (as I believe I said in an earlier post!), you can still believe in fairy tale, or at least most certainly appreciate the environment from which those stories grew. I was personally entranced by the visits I made to the Romanian Orthodox churches, both in the capital Bucharest, and in the town of Brasov. Spiritually nourished by the music to which was set Orthodox chant, the richness of the frescoes, the intensity of the icons and the unabashed theatricality of it all. It very much spoke to my own spiritually ever-hungry (and theatrical?!) personality.

And most of all, I long to spend another night or two deep in the forest of Transylvania, where we barbecued on the balcony of a family member’s house, gazed out into the sooty blackness of the forest, and heard the mystical, enervating sound of the roar of a female bear, just tens of yards away, who apparently at the time had two cubs with her, warning off another creature across the valley.

What a privilege that experience was and how much I long to enjoy it again. But for now - which places call you back...and why??

(*A Postcard from The Future - I wil lose myself in Marrakech: Katherine Rundell, Guardian, 20 April 2020)

Are You Capturing Memories Right Now?

Interesting times in our lives deserve to be captured...along with the every day.

 

 

Fragments of Life as 'Small Stones'

Silhouettes
in pale sun through mist -
Blue-tits, suspended,
intently mining seedballs.

I've made a new, very simple, very gratifying discovery over the last couple of weeks - 'Small Stones' - the term given by Fiona Robyn and Kaspalita Thompson to the recording of one, intimately engaged and closely observed moment of your life and your interaction with the (inner or outer) world.

I've been enamoured with reading Haiku for a while now, but never felt that I get their creation quite 'right' - that I don't 'follow the rules' accurately enough, get the syllable arrangements all wrong...they just don't seem to come out well. (Who's got a vocal inner critic in this matter, then?!).

'Small Stones', it seems to me, don't have 'rules' as such - therefore freeing me from requirements of form and allowing me to just capture a moment in time. Being an avid journal-keeper myself and encouraging others to do so as well, I cannot think of anything more encouraging than to be able to say 'for just a minute - Stop. Look, listen, think... write'. A minute a day - we can all afford that, can't we?

We can spend many more minutes, afterwards, playing with the words, re-arranging them on the page, but capturing the essence, the fleeting moments of our lives (and what are all our lives but millions of present moments, linked together?) can be done in a minute.

The grave of Oscar Schindler

In Judaism, a stone is often left on a grave as a mark of remembrance, to show that the grave has been visited and that the incumbent is not forgotten. (I can't think that anyone who has seen the last scenes of 'Schindler's List' could be unmoved by this ritual). Having run my own memoir writing workshops, I can see 'Small Stones' utilised in future sessions in the same way. I will be encouraging participants to use them, beautifully employed to capture 'small stones of memory' which can later be further built upon.

Capture in a moment, savour forever. Sounds like a wonderful deal to me.

Thank you for formulating this concept of 'Small Stones', Fiona Robyn, and bringing the gift to my notice, Debora Palmer. I am grateful to you both.

 

Identity: - Who am I? Who are You?

For anyone who still wonders about some of the many values and attractions of keeping and using a journal and/or diary (I use the term diary for a periodic, maybe daily record of events, a journal for deeper, more exploratory writing), can I suggest that you listen to the first part of this most interesting episode of the BBC Radio 4 series  'Midweek' that was broadcast yesterday - then go to the Wellcome Collection's own site describing 'The Identity Project'. Both are totally intriguing and - if you have anything like the interest in the topic that I do, will keep you engaged for ages!
And for anyone who likes a little challenge - would you like to tell me (and yourself!) ten facets of who YOU are - beginning each sentence with 'I am.....??

Into the Dark

The clocks went back overnight, as Greenwich Mean Time was restored for the winter months, and the evenings grow dark an hour earlier than they did yesterday.

My current paper journal is also nearly filled up, and I am ready to begin writing in one of the three case-bound, fabric covered notebooks I bought from the college shop for a bargain price (It's great to be a student!). The covers are a smart black and grey, so I think its appropriate, for all these reasons, to entitle the new journal "Into the Dark".

Into the dark of the winter months, into the dark, plants, while you  rest until spring comes. Into the dark corners of barns and stables, little birds & spiders, into the dark corners of the summerhouse, lacewings. Into the dark of my loft, hibernating bats, hanging, head downwards in the dry and the warmth.

And for us humans lucky enough to also be inside, in the warm and the dry - we can always light a candle. Journals and candles, both to lighten our own dark corners - what more could we want? (No power cuts and an Internet connection, she replies!)

I've got photographs of some rather special dolls to show you today - picked up in the Junk Shop in Hungerford Arcade last week for a pound or two each. Hand made, craftsman fashioned "Highland Character dolls", with individual facial portraits and handmade clothes, created in the 1970's in the Highlands of Scotland by doll artist Sheena Macleod. They remind me very much of the Cornish "Shallowpool" dolls. I think the Macleod dolls are now collectors items, but for me they are just reminders of the history of a beautiful part of the United Kingdom which I have not visited for far too long. I hope you enjoy them as well.

Books of Delights

A feast of reading today for anyone interested in old diaries, journals, or
manuscripts - the so far unpublished papers of the Charles Darwin archive
have gone on line today, to be read completely free - another great gift to
the world via the Internet.
His personal journals are here (including a list of "do I marry? Vs "do I not
marry? - On the pro side, he concludes that it is better to marry than to get
a dog!), but the manuscript that I will be browsing first is his wife,  Emma Darwin's
Recipe Book (ms number DAR 214 if the links play up)

You can reach the whole collection here - but beware - vast quantities of
time may be consumed once you start to browse!

Travel Journal - Lisbon - Part 4

Journal transcript
Saturday 4th June, 2005.
Part B  - Today - AM

9.45 am - Sitting outside the Museo de Azulejos - the Museum of hand
painted tiles, a beautiful and historic craft for which Portugal is
famous. We have reached the Museum by taking the 105 bus from the Placa
de Commercias on the sea front in the city, (the part of the city that
was wiped out in the 1755 earthquake), and are now waiting for the
Museum to open at 10.00.

Now we have been allowed in to the inner, shaded, leafy courtyard, to
wait for the Museum to open. There could be worse places for waiting -
the open roof of the courtyard is shaded by bamboo matting, which
filters the light, while a gardener goes around with a spray hose,
washing down all the lush tropical plants that are planted around the
margin of the courtyard.

Banana trees, Figs, ferns, bougainvillaea, palm trees, Hydrangeas,
strelitzias, Monstera, Lantana. All the plants that grow so delicately
at home, that have to be cosseted and tended as little houseplants, are
here leaping and scrambling over each other as they climb tens of feet
high up to the light and warmth. This museum is sited in the old convent
of Madre de Dios, so the sound of the pigeons coo-ing is also
particularly soothing and appropriate, while we wait under the
sunshades, with the cooling water mist around us.

The Museum is open. To avoid the crush of visitors which always seem to
surge in to a place like this on opening, Alec and I have made our way
to the convent Church, rather than to the series of rooms containing the
museum collection.

I keep on running out of superlatives to describe the places that we are
visiting, but entering the lower part of the church and looking up the
steps into the choir of the church, the enormous, glittering, gilded
reredos behind the figure of the Virgin is one of my "take my breath
away" moments - the first glimpse really did make me gasp. The sense of
theatre in these churches, with the entry at a lo point, and steps
leading ones view upwards, heavenwards, to the focal point of the High
Altar, is superb - but again I am struck by the immensity of riches
concentrated in one place.

In the Chapter room, which looks down into the nave, there are no less
than 24 separate reliquaries, each holding one or more relics, and each
gilded and decorated again with magnificence. Is this what our own
English churches and cathedrals were like before the Reformation, the
Dissolution of the Monasteries by Henry VIII, and later, the iconoclasm
of the English Civil War?

Set in rooms around the cloister rose garden, Our tour around the museum was fascinating.

I have a passion for blue
and white ceramics in any form, so the abundance of hand painted blue
and white tiles here has been a joy. But there have also been exhibits
showing how tiles have been created - some of the most interesting are
the Moorish tiles, with examples showing both how intricate tile
patterns were made using interlocking cut tile shapes, and also embossed
and relief tiles, and tiles with animal shapes outlined in raised clay
which would then have infills in coloured glazes to create the patterns.
(Blog readers - Its much more difficult to explain than to see - you
will just have to visit the Museo if you are fascinated by this topic!)

We've just had a light lunch of Salmon, pate, olives and Portuguese
Pudim in the Museum restaurant, surrounded by more beautifully
handpainted tiled kitchen scenes all around us, and now we are off to
catch the bus back to Lisbon and then the Metro to the Gulbenkian Museum
in the north of the City.

Just a few more examples of the beautiful and the bizarre illustrations on some of the tiles. On the first, a surprised, rather than delighted cat has just caught a very fraught mouse.

One of the more traditional styles of decorative tile patterns is shown in the lovely vine leaf set, and finally, a very humorous depiction of a 17th century medic about to administer a fearsome injection into the gluteus maximus of a young man - or, horrors... is it something even worse?!!! - Definitely NOT for the sensitive of disposition!

Travel Journal - Lisbon - Part 3

Journal transcript
Saturday 4th June, 2005.
Part A - Yesterday evening (June 3rd)

Back to the edge of the Alfama yesterday evening, to the restaurant we
had spotted in the afternoon which was offering Fado from 8.30 pm.
Hearing some Fado in its home city was one of the reasons for
travelling to Lisbon, but we are both still feeling tired from the virus
that hit us during the last couple of weeks, so felt that an earlier
start than those beginning at around 10 pm (the usual time for the music
to begin, apparently) would suit us more right now. By the time we
arrived at 8.45, the first "set" was already finished.

If I had been writing this yesterday evening, I would probably have written
only about the wonderful time we had....and indeed we did. The soulful sound
of Fado in the heat of the evening just wrenches the heart out of me.
But it was at a price. I think they must have seen the neon sign
flashing "Tourist" on both our foreheads! I give them credit, though,
for lifting quite so much money from us quite so easily - our own
gullible fault, not theirs!

The singing was full of raw atmosphere from
a fairly elderly woman, an even more elderly gentleman who eased his way
to the side of the two guitarists by means of crutches, only to sing in
a gentle but very sweet voice, a man in his forties and a younger one in
his mid twenties.

We dined on spit roast squid and prawns, after the automatically-provided proscuitto ham and cheese (which is not inexpensive, and is all discreetly added to
the bill, of course). The wine flowed freely, so much so that Alec became ebulliently full of praise and generosity - we ended up buying all three of their CD's - which magically appeared towards the end of the evening - plus buying "drinks for the guitarists" who Alec expansively felt were being left out of the praise. They (not being fools) chose triple brandies each - ahem, so that by the time we left, we had been relieved
of around 170 Euros, or 120 UK pounds. ($200.00?). As we had dined royally on five courses the night before for 65 Euros, profligacy rather than gastronomy seemed to be the order of the evening for our two course meal (plus rather a lot of wine)..... but it was worth every penny of it to see Alec really letting his hair down!

Most irritatingly, they did not accept any credit cards (unlike
virtually every other restaurant that we visited, big or small) - so
paying for the meal meant cutting into quit a large chunk of disposable
cash. Never mind - ATM's on every corner, so it was no problem to fill
up on the readies once again.

Travel Journal - Lisbon - Part 2

Journal Transcript - Friday 3rd June 2005

"Aubrun! Aubrun!" Aunts?, Mothers? Sisters? All yelling for some
reprobate husband or brother who is not coming out to do their bidding,
here in the Alfama, the winding tangle of alleyways and small squares of
the poorest part of Lisbon. (Whoever Aubrun was, he appeared sheepishly
around a corner when almost all of the women had gone inside again)

This place is genuine, the real thing, not staged for us as tourists. In
these alleyways, under these arches, here is poverty and struggle,
plastic saints amongst the groceries feeding both body and soul,
companionship and community.

The mangy dog with his long-waited-for
bone, the young women, sitting out on the steps of their houses, combing
each other's hair and calling to their sisters in other doorways, the
Mini-Mercado & cafeteria, broken tiles, bougainvillaea, the faint odour
of fish and urine, oleander blossom, cobblestones, falling plasterwork,
washing strung out to dry across alleys, sheets airing on balconies.

Here we are, visitors intruding gingerly into this neighbourhood and
just accepted as passers through - nobody taking much notice of us as we
sit and drink a beer in this tiny, hidden square, on the steps opposite
the mini market. We are allowed into this living, pulsating community
and able to sit quietly for an hour and absorb the atmosphere that feels
so real, so day to day, so un-made up for visitors. So ordinary - and
because of that, so extraordinary to me. It's a luxury of the greatest
kind - will it still exist like this in ten years time?

Afternoon - the Castelo Sao Jorge. Exquisite. I am sitting with Alec,
listening to a guitarist in the Castle inner courtyard playing the most
heavenly intricate guitar melodies in the shade of the old castle walls,
(and, bye the bye, selling CD's of his music at an almost indecent
rate!). I'm feeling that there is something so particular about this
combination of heat, silence broken by only an occasional chink of ice
in glasses of water, and the rippling, seductive music which right at
this moment fixes a precious image of what Portugal will come to mean to
me.

Down, down after leaving the Castle at the top of the hill, down the
better known route through the Alfama into the shopping area of Baixa,
the road lined with antique shops selling peculiar male and female
mannequins - the undressed forms which would be dressed in finery to
adorn the many churches as the embodiment of one or other of the
multitude of Saints without which no self respecting church here seems
to exist. It is a pleasure to look into the antique shops, but they are
here for the rich only, and as such are devoid of any real character.

Out of the beating sunlight and into the Cathedral, to watch the ever
present handmaidens cleaning, cleaning - one is right now cleaning the
coronet of stars over the head of Mary (cradling an always extremely
bloodied and battered Christ, descended from the Cross).

I am here to
light candles and hold in my heart many Internet friends who are
struggling with difficulties in their lives right now. Lighted candles
and a moment of quiet contemplation and love for them - right to the
heart of what matters, and this atmosphere is peaceful and right for
that.

Before we leave, we visit the Treasury - an entrance fee charged (one of
the few we paid in any church) but worth every penny, to see the
amassing of finery and jewels of the regalia of some of the past
(Arch?)Bishops of Lisbon. It was breathtaking - especially in the
chapter room where the bishops chair was flanked by ostrich feather
fans.

The room is lined with the blue and white Azulejo handpainted
tiles, with glass cases containing the most bejewelled treasures, the
room opened onto balconies on two sides, looking down over the poverty
ridden Alfama to the Tagus and bringing sweet breezes to the room. The
contrast between the riches of the church and the poverty of its
subjects seemed particularly sharply juxtaposed here, and for a moment,
particularly offensive.

A little walk further down the hill, to the restored church of San
Antonio. I dropped a few coins into the pot of a blind and one armed
beggar at the gate - I know begging is discouraged in most capital
cities, and normally I don't donate - but it seemed to me that beggars
have sat at church gates to ask for alms for two thousand years, and
somehow, it felt right to give to him, whatever the political
correctness of the situation. My motivation may be purely picturesque -
did i enjoy feeling part of a tradition in history? Did the beggar care?

Unlike the Cathedral, this church was full of devout worshipers, amongst
whom I felt it vulgar to take more than one coy photograph. The high
altar was glittering, bejewelled - and awesome - but also a living focus
for people's devotions rather than something for my pictures, so I
listened for a few minutes, absorbed the atmosphere, then quietly
tiptoed out.

It's interesting to see how many of the churches have their work forces
of women, mostly dressed in black, washing and cleaning - floors,
woodwork, cases with mummified holy bodies, bleeding limbs of the
crucifixes, haloes of stars - all get washed and polished. Some of these
women were formidable and forbidding by their very demeanour - though
there were no notices telling visitors what we could or could not do,
one flash from their black steely eyes and we knew for sure!

5 pm. Finally we have made our weary way back through Baixa, (the lower
town wiped out in the 1755 earthquake and rebuilt by the Marquis of
Pombal and in whose "square" (circus) this hotel stands), to search out
the Metro (immaculately clean and welcoming), which whizzed us back here
to base, where Alec now lies fast asleep on his bed!

Travel Journal - Lisbon - Part 1.

Journal transcript - Thursday 2nd June 2005.
12.30 pm - Somewhere over the South Coast of England!

The girl done good - so far. Though I was dreading flying, as I always
do, I've managed to keep calm and not cause any problems to anyone. The
changing, constantly changing pressure is not pleasant - my ears are
continually popping as we climb, though not painful. I guess that is
partially a result of the virus still being residually present somewhere
in my head.

A very po-faced flight attendant has handed out earphones which plug
into the arm rest - so I am now very contentedly listening to Fado music
which will keep me very happily occupied for the next couple of hours.
The flight is apparently 2 hours and TEN minutes, not 2 hours and
thirty, which has pleased me even more! Feeling quite zonked by the
Avomine travel pill which I took before leaving - but that suits me as
well :-)

12.35 - Looks as if lunch is on its way. Constant, cakewalk feelings
caused by the pressure changes - not pleasant. Seat backs not too high
and enough leg room - all makes this much more pleasant.

1.00 pm. Well - definitely NOT impressed with that "lunch". A dry roll
with chicken and a horrible yellow sauce, and a tiny little cup cake,
orange juice and the only decent thing was a cup of good coffee. But the
in flight music is just gorgeous - Fado and guitar music on the
earphones and a TV six feet away showing a film about Lisbon and the
wildlife reserves nearby.

Intermittently, a map also comes up which shows us how far we have
travelled - 1.15 now and we are well over the Bay of Biscay. The music
is really soothing me - this is the way to travel.

I have a pressure headache, but nothing serious - I really think I am
keeping on top of this - and writing helps SO much! Every time there is
a pressure change, or a lurch in the plane and I sense my diaphragm
tense, actually deliberately think about it and notice it, I just
remember to "keep breathing" - I focus deliberately on my breathing,
relax, breathe diaphragmatically, fill the lungs from the bottom up.
Writing about it as I do it helps me to focus, and changing my breathing
helps me to relax. It really does make a difference. (I must remember to
bring a small bottle of water next time - I am getting very thirsty and
feeling dehydrated).

In the hotel now and into a HOT climate on the exit from the airport.
The hotel shuttle should have cost 3 Euros, but was free on production
of our boarding passes. Off at the Praca Marquis de Pombal - the whole
place utterly heaving with traffic, and with a monster building site at
the bottom of the park across the road. Not a beautiful sight.

A surly, unfriendly desk clerk has checked us in here at the Best
Western Hotel Florida, but at least we are on a relatively quiet side
street off the main, insanely trafficky M. de Pombal circus. Up to our
room in this so-called 4 star hotel, which I would definitely NOT rate
as four star in any way - though nevertheless seems reasonably adequate.

After a sit down, a foray out, into the still baking sun, and a walk up
through the Park Edward VII opposite the hotel, to look for the Estufas
- the greenhouses at the top of the park containing tropical plants. To
reach them, we walked (up the "wrong" side of the Park!), through the
"75th Lisbon Book Fair" set out in dozens of booths lining the pathways
on both sides. All those books for our delectation, and not one of them
could I read, as they are virtually all in Portuguese - oh, the
frustration of it!

7.40 pm. Now sitting on the Aveneida de Liberdad which runs all the way
down to another Square from M. de Pombal, downing a beer. Too much, too
much traffic this once most exclusive of promenades which is now flanked
by six lanes of roadway, but oh, so beautifully warm! I have just sent a
text message to a friend (Britt-Arnhild) in Norway......."Sitting under
a Catalpa tree drinking cold beer, wondering where to go for a seafood
supper". Her reply...."We are just on our way to Lofoten - just going
through the Arctic Circle, there are reindeer outside!"....to which I
replied "there are Palm trees outside here!". The contrasts so instantly
available to us through the use of technology!

Bedtime.
Back from an ENORMOUS seafood meal in a restaurant we found half way
down the Aveneida - extremely good value at 64 Euros for both of us for
what amounted to a five course meal.....Parma Ham and bread, Seafood
salad, Seafood in rice, Mango mousse and 1.5 bottles of good house wine.

Now to try to sleep in this heat, with the aircon rattling away.
Normally it would be impossible, but I am so tired, that I think it is
not going to take long for me to nod off.....