The 40th Glastonbury Festival has just ended and my two sunburnt teenagers are wending their weary way home after the hottest weekend in a very long time. As Glasto virgins, they trundled into the sprawling site laden with wellies and waterproofs in the firm belief that mud was the norm. Watching it on television from the cool of our drawing room, it could have been 'Reggae Sunsplash'. Indeed, seeing the sensational Stevie Wonder performing last night, just as the sun was going down, transported me back down memory lane [a trip I seem to make more and more often these days!] to being at Sunsplash in Montego Bay in Jamaica, in1981, not long after Bob Marley had died from cancer.
Rita Marley, Peter Tosh and the rest of the Wailers were bereft without their leader and we all missed him dreadfully. Sunsplash was not the same without him. Then, on the last night, just as the sun was coming up, the opening chords of 'Master Blaster' rose from the stage. There, to pay his respects and lift us all from our misery, like a vision from the Old Testament in dreadlocks, was the great Stevie Wonder himself. It was one of the greatest musical experiences of my life and I have never forgotten the sheer joy, the camaraderie, the sense of belonging and the feeling of 'one world' that such a great man evokes. It was the closest I've ever been to heaven on earth!
When we texted our daughter around midnight last night, the reply came back immediately. "I have just had the best one hour and forty five minutes of my life!" I knew exactly what she meant. Music on a grand scale is a truly collective experience. Alex Grousset, a good friend of ours, brilliant jazz percussionist and sometime drummer in my husband's old rock and roll band, 'Route 66', used to say, "When people play music together they will not fight each other." He has put this into effect by setting up a charity in Africa which provides second hand instruments to the most volatile places on that war ravaged continent and promotes inter-tribal and inter-religious harmony. Stevie Wonder knows this better than anyone and his gentle call to a better world speaks louder than any self-interested politician. Mind you, as he says, "If I wasn't blind, I'd sure kick some ass!"
I also watched Toots and The Maytals, another Sunsplash veteran, and, as they sang, 'Monkeyman', I remembered vividly Jeremiah Marks' great set at our last Blues at Bardies festival. Glastonbury it wasn't, but in it's own little way, it achieves a similar objective. Everyone dancing and singing along with Jeremiah on the last night was a sight to behold! We run it, with the help of many loyal and very hard-working friends, for everyone, friends, musicians, locals and punters alike. It is a collective, and it shows. Because we include food and booze in the ticket price, everyone shares in meals and music. And, touch wood, the sun has always shone. We are very proud of it, not least because we have had some of the UK's greatest blues players come to us, including the Matt Schofield Trio, Ian Siegal, Sonny Black, Dave Kelly and Jeremiah. It was our kids', and their friends', first experience of a music festival and one of the reasons, I'm sure, that they have all so quickly acquired their parents' music aspirations.
We are so sad not to have run it this year. Seeing Glastonbury, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia for B at B. It wasn't meant to be, I know. We were brimming with great ideas and intentions this time last year, not least in getting Ian Siegal back, but the exchange rate did for us! At, effectively, 1:1, when we emailed our list of supporters no one was prepared to commit at the time that we needed to firm up some contracts. It's totally understandable. To fly out at the most expensive time of the year, probably with children in tow, hire a car and book into the 'Eychenne' or similar is a costly exercise at a time when most people are having to cut back on household expenditure. We have always heavily subsidised the festival but even we had second thoughts about the feasability of financing it this year. We had just wanted to break even, but, sadly, it would have been impossible.
We wouldn't have been able to run it with less than 180 paying punters and, at most, I suspect we would only have made 80 to 100. Flying out all the musicians or paying astronomical French taxes on top of hefty fees, was a fixed cost we would have been committed to regardless of numbers. It was a tough decision and many people, I know, were disappointed. Watching Glasto, now that the exchange rate has improved significantly, I did wish that we had gambled a bit and gone for it. It's a funny thing in life but usually, if you want something enough, you take risks and are rewarded for your fearlessness. Not always, though, it has to be said!
As a result of our procrastination, our summer plans are very much more relaxed. Instead of charging around like a blue-arse fly, booking hotels, flights, cars, marquees, food, booze, helpers etc I am writing blogs, going to summer parties and generally enjoying the best that the sunshine has to offer. It is a strange experience because much as I love peace and quiet, I miss the razzle dazzle of music and sunshine chez nous. We will definitely do a festival in 2012, for Peter's BIG birthday. Next year, for mine, which I don't really want to broadcast too much, we may do something smaller. I've always had a hankering for 'Baroque at Bardies'! Watch this space, double dips, debt crises and potential Greek defaults permitting. We live in uncertain times, for sure, but we musn't give up without a fight. Music makes you feel good beyond the trials and tribulations of everyday life. Music and sunshine remains a heady brew and we intend to keep the alchemy going for a while yet. You can follow our progress by logging into 'bluesatbardies.net'. We hope to see you rocking with us again very soon! A bientot.
Monday, 28 June 2010
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Thirty Five Tons of Gravel and a Solitary Beehive
I cannot believe that so much time has flown by since my last posting - ever thus it was at this time of year. Like everyone living with a garden in a temperate climate, and many in less hospitable environments, the garden currently dominates our time management. Those of us with school age children also have the added anxiety of support for angst- ridden teenagers with school and college exams to contend with. The teapot has certainly taken a hammering, thankfully not the gin bottle. And then, of course, there are all those delightful summer invitations that pour into our email and letter boxes to tempt us away from our labours.
The most enchanting of them all this year was for the opening night of Garsington Opera's magical 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', the most perfect opera for the Lady Ottoline Morrel's stunning garden at Garsington Manor. I know she's been dead for the best part of seventy years but her legacy lives on. The gardens were designed and constucted by Philip and Lady Ottoline Morrel between 1915 and 1926. Everywhere you walk evokes the spirit of the bygone age of the Bloomsbury set. At the entrance to the auditorium you pass Lady Ottoline's ilex tree and a liquidambar planted by King George V1 in 1926, when still Duke of York. Overbearing, pretentious and pompous many of them may have been, but you cannot begrudge them their passions, and gardening was certainly one of them.
The herb juice fuelled trysts of Hermia, Helena, Demetrius and Lysander and the marital contortions of Tytania and Oberon could easily mirror the libidinous activities of that extraordinary group of supremely talented people. There are certainly plenty of hidden niches around the Italian garden to share with statues of Amphora, Venus, Daphne, Cupid, Pluto and Apollo, amongst others. And then there are the borders, filled with the most spectacular array of quintessentially English summer flowers, the wild garden and the lofty regimental box's of the lower garden to admire and covet. Not since Charleston and Sissinghurst have I been so inspired in my plans for Bardies. When the subsidiary barn is finally knocked down I intend to make an Italian garden within the retaining walls. We can but dream....
Sadly, I am no Ottoline, Vita or Vanessa but, fortunately for me, I do not have to be. Our French predecessors at Bardies had their own vision for the garden. Our box hedges are formal and square, unlike the quirky conical specimens at Garsington, but they too define the structure of the garden. All we have to do is work within them. This year, with the help of the wonderfully talented Pascal and Sarah, we began to remove the all-invading 'hypericum' in an attempt to create new summer borders. Poor Sarah has had nightmares over it all because of the vagaries of the weather and because much of the new border has been grown from seed. It has been designed to provide summer flowers for the house, as well to feast the eye whilst dining under the lime tree. We have also begun a new rose and clematis walkway, helped by my darling baby brother who shovelled out all the rocks by hand in the pouring rain. Each year we plan to do a different section until this magical garden is fully restored to its former glory.
Germaine's 'tilleul' [lime tree], planted in 1912 to celebrate her birth, has been brutally battered by the snows and winds of this last, hard winter. The weight of snow in the centre has left it seriously mutilated. Fortunately, Simone's tree, planted the following year in 1913, survived with little structural damage. Monsieur Mangan, who last amputated it in 1995, has his surgeon's instruments at hand to come in July, once the 'florissante' has finished. He assures me that there will still be enough shade below but the surgery, I suspect, will be drastic. We have also lost the eucalyptus by the pool, the price of being a non-native evergreen genetically incapable of dealing with our harsh Ariegois winters. Global warming continues to play its tricks, and never more so than this spring when 30 degree temperatures were immediately followed by heavy snowfalls. The farmers are at their wit's end.
The seasons alter: the spring, the summer,
The chiding autumn, the angry winter change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which;
[from Benjamin Britten's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', libretto adapted from Shakespeare by Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears]
We have laid two new areas of lawn [well, Pascal has!] and we have our fingers crossed. The top one is looking good and the pool area is coming on too [having paid the price in the past for shortcuts with turf around the pool]. It had to be done. Next year we will do the top lawn, not least because the plumber has just ploughed a trench right through the middle of it to re-install the pool's water top-up system, mysteriously cut off many years ago. The wanton destruction of the lawn made me cry, but at least I am now motivated to completely reseed it in the autumn. The pool rockery has been augmented and with the recent rainfall, is now full of flowers. Our experiments with alpines are paying off. A radical new step has been the laying of thirty five tons of gravel along the paths and below the two 'tilleuls'. It has given the garden a completely different, more 'tidy', look but hopefully it will have the additional benefit of retaining much needed moisture. Poor Lawrence and Florian did a stirling job with the wheelbarrow.
Beth Chatto's influence and vision creeps up on all of us as we battle on with weeks, or months, of little rainfall. Things have been so bad in recent years that the water 'citerne' has become redundant in July and August. Water is horrendously expensive here and, in any event, we have a duty to try to preserve it, especially as our neighbouring department, the Aude, regularly has water bans. Being so close to the Pyrenees, we have to date avoided such drastic measures, which not only destroy months of work in the garden but also render swimming pools useless because it is forbidden to top them up.
Meanwhile, tragically, our bees seem to have succumbed to a mystery malaise. In every previous year they have thrived here, pollinating our 'tilleuls' and borders, as well as our wild flowers in the meadows, throughout the summer. Frederic, the bee man, is at a loss as to the reason so many of them have died, scattered in droves in the dormitory. On examination, they appear healthy but they are most definitely deceased. The only explanation seems to be the heatwave that preceded May's unseasonal snowfall. There was a hive under the pantiles, now empty, and he is sure that the heat below the terracotta must have created an environment close to a 'tagine'. Horrifically, they must have been baked to death and swarmed too late to recover. We wait to see if they will return to a new home, in a proper hive placed on top of the tiles on the garage.
We all have a duty to preserve the bee population and I can't bear to think of their permanent demise at Bardies. Like many people, I used to be frightened of them, not least because my sister-in-law and nephew both have to carry 'epi-pens' for fear of being stung and succumbing to encephalitic shock. In reality, bees seldom sting. Now I see them as our friends, part of our future and the future of our delicate world. Our solitary beehive is a beacon to the future. If they return, it will be more than an omen. It will be the start of a new adventure for us, with the help of Frederic. There used to be hives here and our predecessors produced their own honey. There is no reason to suppose that we cannot do the same. Honey from Bardies sounds like nectar from heaven - we await their return with bated breath.
The most enchanting of them all this year was for the opening night of Garsington Opera's magical 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', the most perfect opera for the Lady Ottoline Morrel's stunning garden at Garsington Manor. I know she's been dead for the best part of seventy years but her legacy lives on. The gardens were designed and constucted by Philip and Lady Ottoline Morrel between 1915 and 1926. Everywhere you walk evokes the spirit of the bygone age of the Bloomsbury set. At the entrance to the auditorium you pass Lady Ottoline's ilex tree and a liquidambar planted by King George V1 in 1926, when still Duke of York. Overbearing, pretentious and pompous many of them may have been, but you cannot begrudge them their passions, and gardening was certainly one of them.
The herb juice fuelled trysts of Hermia, Helena, Demetrius and Lysander and the marital contortions of Tytania and Oberon could easily mirror the libidinous activities of that extraordinary group of supremely talented people. There are certainly plenty of hidden niches around the Italian garden to share with statues of Amphora, Venus, Daphne, Cupid, Pluto and Apollo, amongst others. And then there are the borders, filled with the most spectacular array of quintessentially English summer flowers, the wild garden and the lofty regimental box's of the lower garden to admire and covet. Not since Charleston and Sissinghurst have I been so inspired in my plans for Bardies. When the subsidiary barn is finally knocked down I intend to make an Italian garden within the retaining walls. We can but dream....
Sadly, I am no Ottoline, Vita or Vanessa but, fortunately for me, I do not have to be. Our French predecessors at Bardies had their own vision for the garden. Our box hedges are formal and square, unlike the quirky conical specimens at Garsington, but they too define the structure of the garden. All we have to do is work within them. This year, with the help of the wonderfully talented Pascal and Sarah, we began to remove the all-invading 'hypericum' in an attempt to create new summer borders. Poor Sarah has had nightmares over it all because of the vagaries of the weather and because much of the new border has been grown from seed. It has been designed to provide summer flowers for the house, as well to feast the eye whilst dining under the lime tree. We have also begun a new rose and clematis walkway, helped by my darling baby brother who shovelled out all the rocks by hand in the pouring rain. Each year we plan to do a different section until this magical garden is fully restored to its former glory.
Germaine's 'tilleul' [lime tree], planted in 1912 to celebrate her birth, has been brutally battered by the snows and winds of this last, hard winter. The weight of snow in the centre has left it seriously mutilated. Fortunately, Simone's tree, planted the following year in 1913, survived with little structural damage. Monsieur Mangan, who last amputated it in 1995, has his surgeon's instruments at hand to come in July, once the 'florissante' has finished. He assures me that there will still be enough shade below but the surgery, I suspect, will be drastic. We have also lost the eucalyptus by the pool, the price of being a non-native evergreen genetically incapable of dealing with our harsh Ariegois winters. Global warming continues to play its tricks, and never more so than this spring when 30 degree temperatures were immediately followed by heavy snowfalls. The farmers are at their wit's end.
The seasons alter: the spring, the summer,
The chiding autumn, the angry winter change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which;
[from Benjamin Britten's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', libretto adapted from Shakespeare by Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears]
We have laid two new areas of lawn [well, Pascal has!] and we have our fingers crossed. The top one is looking good and the pool area is coming on too [having paid the price in the past for shortcuts with turf around the pool]. It had to be done. Next year we will do the top lawn, not least because the plumber has just ploughed a trench right through the middle of it to re-install the pool's water top-up system, mysteriously cut off many years ago. The wanton destruction of the lawn made me cry, but at least I am now motivated to completely reseed it in the autumn. The pool rockery has been augmented and with the recent rainfall, is now full of flowers. Our experiments with alpines are paying off. A radical new step has been the laying of thirty five tons of gravel along the paths and below the two 'tilleuls'. It has given the garden a completely different, more 'tidy', look but hopefully it will have the additional benefit of retaining much needed moisture. Poor Lawrence and Florian did a stirling job with the wheelbarrow.
Beth Chatto's influence and vision creeps up on all of us as we battle on with weeks, or months, of little rainfall. Things have been so bad in recent years that the water 'citerne' has become redundant in July and August. Water is horrendously expensive here and, in any event, we have a duty to try to preserve it, especially as our neighbouring department, the Aude, regularly has water bans. Being so close to the Pyrenees, we have to date avoided such drastic measures, which not only destroy months of work in the garden but also render swimming pools useless because it is forbidden to top them up.
Meanwhile, tragically, our bees seem to have succumbed to a mystery malaise. In every previous year they have thrived here, pollinating our 'tilleuls' and borders, as well as our wild flowers in the meadows, throughout the summer. Frederic, the bee man, is at a loss as to the reason so many of them have died, scattered in droves in the dormitory. On examination, they appear healthy but they are most definitely deceased. The only explanation seems to be the heatwave that preceded May's unseasonal snowfall. There was a hive under the pantiles, now empty, and he is sure that the heat below the terracotta must have created an environment close to a 'tagine'. Horrifically, they must have been baked to death and swarmed too late to recover. We wait to see if they will return to a new home, in a proper hive placed on top of the tiles on the garage.
We all have a duty to preserve the bee population and I can't bear to think of their permanent demise at Bardies. Like many people, I used to be frightened of them, not least because my sister-in-law and nephew both have to carry 'epi-pens' for fear of being stung and succumbing to encephalitic shock. In reality, bees seldom sting. Now I see them as our friends, part of our future and the future of our delicate world. Our solitary beehive is a beacon to the future. If they return, it will be more than an omen. It will be the start of a new adventure for us, with the help of Frederic. There used to be hives here and our predecessors produced their own honey. There is no reason to suppose that we cannot do the same. Honey from Bardies sounds like nectar from heaven - we await their return with bated breath.
Monday, 19 April 2010
Blog Not At Bardies
Oh well, I suppose it was inevitable that Iceland and Mother Nature would seek revenge for past injustices. I was already feeling slightly guilty about hopping on yet another Easyjet flight to Toulouse from Bristol, 'sans famille' this time, so soon after our Easter sojourn, when the news came through. The glacier topped Mount Unpronounceable, aka Eyjafjallajokull, had decided to wreak havoc on the travelling public just as the Easter vacation was ending. Our lust for exotic holidays and city breaks, with no thought of any consequences other than a delayed take-off slot, left many of us stranded in airport lounges whilst volcanic ash, steam and dust blocked our incoming flightpaths more effectively than any potential terrorist outrage.
I count myself as one of the lucky ones. My journey originated just an hour's train ride from my home and it was easy enough to follow updates on Easyjet's website from the comfort of my study. Friends and family are scattered around the globe wondering how they are going to get back to work, school and important exams. My hairdresser's 9.00 am appointment last Friday had to be cancelled because his client's flight into Heathrow from Vancouver had been turned round half way. No late cancellation fee there then! Some friends are stuck in Val d'Isere [tough?], another on the floor of Bangkok Airport [seriously tough!]. The stories are fast becoming apocryphal and many of us will dine out on them for months.
As I unpacked my packets of seed and summer bulbs this morning, which I had set my heart on planting, and the two metres of crisp blue and white linen with which I was going to make a Roman blind for the kitchen, I felt decidedly uneasy. The weekend papers had been full of doom and gloom, especially the more serious analyses focussing on the likelihood of Mount Katia exploding into life and dwarfing anything we have seen from her little sister. Even these articles, though, seemed tame compared with the predictions of the father of Gaia theory, James Lovelock, shown as part of BBC 4's enlightening 'Beautiful Minds' series.
James Lovelock is now a gentle, kindly ninety year old with a mind as razor sharp as ever. He talks softly, like a benevolent great uncle dispensing toffee caramels. He is mesmerising. But what he has to say is more terrifying than anything anyone else has said on the subject of climate change. It is, as far as he is concerned, completely irreversible. Nothing any of us chooses to do will make the blindest bit of difference to the inevitable outcome. We are doomed. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding out in full regalia and they are closer to our tails than any one of us is prepared to acknowledge. In short, the great Sir James Lovelock thinks that we have ten years grace, possibly a little longer with a good wind behind us. 'Shock and Awe'? We ain't seen nothin' yet! Famine, water shortages, war, death, there was not a single cheery word in the whole interview. At most, a mere billion of us will survive. How depressing is that?
I looked for some degree of comfort from the fact that he would say that, wouldn't he? After all, he is ninety years old. His life's work is done and he can afford to make a mistake now. But no, he knocked that one on the head by saying that he was a great grandfather who fears dreadfully for the youngest members of his family. Like the rest of us, he fears for his children's children. His life's work has been about the interconnectedness of every aspect of nature. We have been shown the warning signs, the breakdown that has occurred, and now it is too late. We are looking at catastophe beyond our comprehension. Perhaps, methinks, the power and wrath of Eyjafjallajokull is a metaphor for what is to come?
So today, as I took Charlie, our dog, for a walk by the river at Laverstock, I was struck by how beautiful it all was. The ducks and drakes were swimming along with their baby ducklings in tow, with not a care in the world beyond the needs of new parenthood. The sun was shining through the trees, a little too hazily for my liking [was that an ash cloud dispersing above me?] and the birds fluttered overhead, not daring to come any closer because of Charlie's eager presence. Wild daffodil and narcissi were hanging on to their beautiful trumpets for just a little while longer. I wished I'd had a basket for the new nettle shoots, which will make a great spring soup or wild weed pie. Life was beautiful. Everything was beautiful.
And then I thought, 'Bugger Lovelock!' He may well be right. Then again he may not. 'Que sera, sera'. I'm not going to let him spoil my joy in the world. Hope springs eternal and all that. I vowed to live each day as if it were the world's last. We must all strive to do our utmost to preserve what we have, to love, protect and cherish it and to give thanks for the simple joys of life. If each of us changes the way we look at the world, if we stop taking it for granted and try to give back more than we take out, then maybe, just maybe, enough of us will survive to ensure that we will have a future. I must not fly! I must not fly! I must not fly!
I count myself as one of the lucky ones. My journey originated just an hour's train ride from my home and it was easy enough to follow updates on Easyjet's website from the comfort of my study. Friends and family are scattered around the globe wondering how they are going to get back to work, school and important exams. My hairdresser's 9.00 am appointment last Friday had to be cancelled because his client's flight into Heathrow from Vancouver had been turned round half way. No late cancellation fee there then! Some friends are stuck in Val d'Isere [tough?], another on the floor of Bangkok Airport [seriously tough!]. The stories are fast becoming apocryphal and many of us will dine out on them for months.
As I unpacked my packets of seed and summer bulbs this morning, which I had set my heart on planting, and the two metres of crisp blue and white linen with which I was going to make a Roman blind for the kitchen, I felt decidedly uneasy. The weekend papers had been full of doom and gloom, especially the more serious analyses focussing on the likelihood of Mount Katia exploding into life and dwarfing anything we have seen from her little sister. Even these articles, though, seemed tame compared with the predictions of the father of Gaia theory, James Lovelock, shown as part of BBC 4's enlightening 'Beautiful Minds' series.
James Lovelock is now a gentle, kindly ninety year old with a mind as razor sharp as ever. He talks softly, like a benevolent great uncle dispensing toffee caramels. He is mesmerising. But what he has to say is more terrifying than anything anyone else has said on the subject of climate change. It is, as far as he is concerned, completely irreversible. Nothing any of us chooses to do will make the blindest bit of difference to the inevitable outcome. We are doomed. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding out in full regalia and they are closer to our tails than any one of us is prepared to acknowledge. In short, the great Sir James Lovelock thinks that we have ten years grace, possibly a little longer with a good wind behind us. 'Shock and Awe'? We ain't seen nothin' yet! Famine, water shortages, war, death, there was not a single cheery word in the whole interview. At most, a mere billion of us will survive. How depressing is that?
I looked for some degree of comfort from the fact that he would say that, wouldn't he? After all, he is ninety years old. His life's work is done and he can afford to make a mistake now. But no, he knocked that one on the head by saying that he was a great grandfather who fears dreadfully for the youngest members of his family. Like the rest of us, he fears for his children's children. His life's work has been about the interconnectedness of every aspect of nature. We have been shown the warning signs, the breakdown that has occurred, and now it is too late. We are looking at catastophe beyond our comprehension. Perhaps, methinks, the power and wrath of Eyjafjallajokull is a metaphor for what is to come?
So today, as I took Charlie, our dog, for a walk by the river at Laverstock, I was struck by how beautiful it all was. The ducks and drakes were swimming along with their baby ducklings in tow, with not a care in the world beyond the needs of new parenthood. The sun was shining through the trees, a little too hazily for my liking [was that an ash cloud dispersing above me?] and the birds fluttered overhead, not daring to come any closer because of Charlie's eager presence. Wild daffodil and narcissi were hanging on to their beautiful trumpets for just a little while longer. I wished I'd had a basket for the new nettle shoots, which will make a great spring soup or wild weed pie. Life was beautiful. Everything was beautiful.
And then I thought, 'Bugger Lovelock!' He may well be right. Then again he may not. 'Que sera, sera'. I'm not going to let him spoil my joy in the world. Hope springs eternal and all that. I vowed to live each day as if it were the world's last. We must all strive to do our utmost to preserve what we have, to love, protect and cherish it and to give thanks for the simple joys of life. If each of us changes the way we look at the world, if we stop taking it for granted and try to give back more than we take out, then maybe, just maybe, enough of us will survive to ensure that we will have a future. I must not fly! I must not fly! I must not fly!
Sunday, 4 April 2010
A Dance to the Music of Time
Is it really two months since I scribbled my last blog? I cannot quite believe that the snow has come and gone, leaving battered pantiles and a hole in the roof, and that the daffodils and narcissi are now semi-deceased. To be fair, they have hung on to their short spring flowerings for rather longer than usual because it's still pretty nippy around here at night. Our local ski resort, Guzet Neige, has no snow so there are no excuses for not getting on with the all those horrid jobs that the winter's hibernation and closed shutters has hidden from view these past six months. Out of the cupboard have come mops, buckets, brooms, sundry tins of emulsion and oil paints, and a long handled implement 'pour oter les araignees' [grovelling apologies for not having worked out how to accent my typescript, and on a blog about France, too!]. I'm sweeping out the cobwebs in more ways than one!
I have spoken before about the rhythm of life here, which I guess is much the same in the Welsh mountains, or the Highlands of Scotland, as it is in the Jura, the Massif Central or the Pyrenees. The long dark nights of winter, with only moonlight and the stars to guide one, limited both one's desire to venture too far afield and also one's ability to do so. Provisions were laid down for the lean times that followed Christmas. In my case, much of my pantry's contents has come from Intermarche or are left over from my big Waitrose pre-Christmas, pre-family's arrival, festive shop. I did, however, make a pear and ginger chutney, a beetroot and ginger chutney [I love the fire of ginger in winter!], a Christmas chutney, jars of piccalilli, some figs in vodka [more fire in the belly!] a Christmas cake and some chilli jam [Hot! Hot! Hot!]. We are still chomping our way through this eclectic collection of leftovers and, I have to say, there is nothing quite like a small slab of Christmas cake with one's 'cafe au lait' or even a 'tranche' of post prandial Roquefort.
It's a creative leap to find uses for mixed peel and dried fruit long after the Christmas Tree Fairy has been dispatched back to her 350 odd night's annual beauty sleep. But, surprise, surprise, I finally cottoned on to a use for them, courtesy of my old friend, the master baker and Bath cookery school owner, Richard Bertinet. A fortnight before Easter there appeared in my inbox, like manna from heaven, Richard's scrumptious recipe for hot cross buns. I have never been able to find hot cross buns here in the Ariege, so first thing on Good Friday morning, and for the first time in my life, I actually made them, cross and all! I had to change the recipe a little, because I needed to use up some dried cranberries lurking behind a surplus Christmas pudding but, I have to boast, they were rather good straight out of the oven and dripping with 'beurre d'Isigny'.
Then later, like our predecessors here, long before us, we even had a big bonfire to get rid of the garden rubbish, which had lain lost under a weight of snow through most of the winter. Why is it that it always looks as though one's garden has been stolen at this time of year? Bonfires are as much a part of seasonal ritual as food choices, are they not? Historically, bonfires marked the two significant seasonal events of the calendar. In some areas, the fires were lit at Midsummer and at Christmas. In others, they roared into action during Carnival and Lent. All over the countryside, struggling horsemen could find their bearings by following the light from the fires on the hilltops. The fires were a celebration of new life, sprung into being at the solstice, which took on new meaning as the harbinger of fertility; of people and animals, and especially of the fields [I always think of poor Edward Woodward in 'The Wicker Man' at the rather more extreme end of such celebrations!].
This dance to the music of time existed in the days when the agricultural calendar consisted of twelve months and two seasons. Whilst the two distinct seasons still exist here deep in the Ariege, much of urban France, like the UK, has surrendered its primitive rituals to fears of pyromaniacal outbreaks in contravention of strict EU health and safety legislation. When you can buy mince pies in September and Easter eggs in January all sense of the rhythm of nature and the seasons disappears. When electric light, admittedly now much dimmer with longer lasting lightbulbs, and television maintain a uniformity of time over an individual's twenty four hour day, it's that much harder to 'go with the flow'. In Salisbury I'm as guilty as the next person, allowing my day to begin with the 'Today' programme and to end with 'Newsnight'.
As long dark, bitterly cold nights give way to light mornings and longer evenings, we look forward to the heat of summer as 'nous otons les araignees'. Today, Easter Day, is the great celebration of new life. Christianity, with its emphasis on the Ressurrection of Christ, may have highjacked much older pagan traditions but the sentiment remains. We all celebrate, well the non-vegetarians amongst us, with a leg of new season's lamb, new potatoes and, here in France, asparagus. As I write this, the meat is slowly roasting in the oven whilst my daughter waits for me to make our family speciality celebration cake, a chocolate almond torte, using up almonds left from Christmas ground fine in the food processor. Tomorrow, we shall have that most traditional meal of 'lundi de Paques', wild asparagus omelettes. And, as my darling husband has just found his father's old classical 'LP's' in a box, we shall listen to a 1960's recording of Scottish Opera's 'Der Rosenkavalier' on the newly installed, old turntable as we toast the new season. Sadly, Peter's father left us long ago, before the children, so as we listen we remember the past as well as look forward to the future. The music of time, though, will continue to play on in our hearts.
I have spoken before about the rhythm of life here, which I guess is much the same in the Welsh mountains, or the Highlands of Scotland, as it is in the Jura, the Massif Central or the Pyrenees. The long dark nights of winter, with only moonlight and the stars to guide one, limited both one's desire to venture too far afield and also one's ability to do so. Provisions were laid down for the lean times that followed Christmas. In my case, much of my pantry's contents has come from Intermarche or are left over from my big Waitrose pre-Christmas, pre-family's arrival, festive shop. I did, however, make a pear and ginger chutney, a beetroot and ginger chutney [I love the fire of ginger in winter!], a Christmas chutney, jars of piccalilli, some figs in vodka [more fire in the belly!] a Christmas cake and some chilli jam [Hot! Hot! Hot!]. We are still chomping our way through this eclectic collection of leftovers and, I have to say, there is nothing quite like a small slab of Christmas cake with one's 'cafe au lait' or even a 'tranche' of post prandial Roquefort.
It's a creative leap to find uses for mixed peel and dried fruit long after the Christmas Tree Fairy has been dispatched back to her 350 odd night's annual beauty sleep. But, surprise, surprise, I finally cottoned on to a use for them, courtesy of my old friend, the master baker and Bath cookery school owner, Richard Bertinet. A fortnight before Easter there appeared in my inbox, like manna from heaven, Richard's scrumptious recipe for hot cross buns. I have never been able to find hot cross buns here in the Ariege, so first thing on Good Friday morning, and for the first time in my life, I actually made them, cross and all! I had to change the recipe a little, because I needed to use up some dried cranberries lurking behind a surplus Christmas pudding but, I have to boast, they were rather good straight out of the oven and dripping with 'beurre d'Isigny'.
Then later, like our predecessors here, long before us, we even had a big bonfire to get rid of the garden rubbish, which had lain lost under a weight of snow through most of the winter. Why is it that it always looks as though one's garden has been stolen at this time of year? Bonfires are as much a part of seasonal ritual as food choices, are they not? Historically, bonfires marked the two significant seasonal events of the calendar. In some areas, the fires were lit at Midsummer and at Christmas. In others, they roared into action during Carnival and Lent. All over the countryside, struggling horsemen could find their bearings by following the light from the fires on the hilltops. The fires were a celebration of new life, sprung into being at the solstice, which took on new meaning as the harbinger of fertility; of people and animals, and especially of the fields [I always think of poor Edward Woodward in 'The Wicker Man' at the rather more extreme end of such celebrations!].
This dance to the music of time existed in the days when the agricultural calendar consisted of twelve months and two seasons. Whilst the two distinct seasons still exist here deep in the Ariege, much of urban France, like the UK, has surrendered its primitive rituals to fears of pyromaniacal outbreaks in contravention of strict EU health and safety legislation. When you can buy mince pies in September and Easter eggs in January all sense of the rhythm of nature and the seasons disappears. When electric light, admittedly now much dimmer with longer lasting lightbulbs, and television maintain a uniformity of time over an individual's twenty four hour day, it's that much harder to 'go with the flow'. In Salisbury I'm as guilty as the next person, allowing my day to begin with the 'Today' programme and to end with 'Newsnight'.
As long dark, bitterly cold nights give way to light mornings and longer evenings, we look forward to the heat of summer as 'nous otons les araignees'. Today, Easter Day, is the great celebration of new life. Christianity, with its emphasis on the Ressurrection of Christ, may have highjacked much older pagan traditions but the sentiment remains. We all celebrate, well the non-vegetarians amongst us, with a leg of new season's lamb, new potatoes and, here in France, asparagus. As I write this, the meat is slowly roasting in the oven whilst my daughter waits for me to make our family speciality celebration cake, a chocolate almond torte, using up almonds left from Christmas ground fine in the food processor. Tomorrow, we shall have that most traditional meal of 'lundi de Paques', wild asparagus omelettes. And, as my darling husband has just found his father's old classical 'LP's' in a box, we shall listen to a 1960's recording of Scottish Opera's 'Der Rosenkavalier' on the newly installed, old turntable as we toast the new season. Sadly, Peter's father left us long ago, before the children, so as we listen we remember the past as well as look forward to the future. The music of time, though, will continue to play on in our hearts.
Friday, 12 February 2010
Snowdrops and Sniffles
Well, the good news is that I finally got to see the wild snowdrops along the lane to Bardies, always an uplifting sight after January's post- Noel plummet into the doldrums. I nearly didn't make it because poor Ellie succumbed to a viscious winter virus that caused her to cough non-stop for over a week. The pain and exhaustion of it all left her sobbing through her sniffles, which no amount of hot chocolate and boiled eggs and soldiers could abate. Why is it that when one's child is ill, there is nothing to be done but come out in sympathy? I should be thankful, I know, that winter bugs are the stuff of normal life but the hypocondriac in me inevitably goes into overdrive. It was with a heavy heart that I left for the airport.
As I looked out of my aeroplane window half an hour or so out of Bristol, I could see that the whole of central France was still blanketed in snow. After the endless grey days of recent weeks, the sheer exhilaration of seeing the Pyrenees sparkling in snow and sunshine was just what the doctor ordered, although Bardies was bloody freezing when I arrived. Just like here, our little part of France has had the coldest 'hiver' for thirty years. I kicked myself for not having replenished the kindling nor made up the woodburners before our rapid post Christmas dash for Blagnac. Scrambling round with a torch in the stable, nervously marvelling at how bats manage to avoid one's clattering presence, is a necessary prerequisite chez nous to firing up the Jotul. I vowed next time to do this before I leave.
The bad news was that there was a huge puddle of water beside the woodburner, and an even bigger one dripping through from the floorboards above. It had even caused the cast iron to begin to rust, so it must have been dripping for a while. The really annoying thing is that we had shelled out almost nine hundred euros, to a building firm which has since gone bankrupt, to finish a re-roofing job that we had already paid for! I try to desist from moaning about French workmen because it's always the same wherever one lives. This time, though, I'm really pissed off. At huge expense, we had the roof completely redone with 'flexi-tuile' beneath the terracotta pantiles, so that if tiles slip off rainwater cannot get in. Clearly, our builders did not do their job and I stupidly paid up in good faith. No wonder they went bankrupt! You can only piss punters like us off so many times before people twig what's going on. Unfortunately, the parcel stopped with us, 'caveat emptor' and all that.
Our insurer, to whom we pay the equivalent of a five star Caribbean winter holiday each year, says that we are not covered for roof damage. To be fair to him, it was pitch dark when he came, so it was impossible to tell whether 'la fuite' was caused by the weight of recent heavy snowfalls or from negligence by our recalcitrant builders. For all I know, it was caused by residual damage from the 'tempete' of last winter, for which we didn't claim either. I am resigned to being stuffed. My big worry is ongoing damage. The water has already flooded through the cupboard in which I store my spare pillows and duvets, and damaged the armoire doors in the process. It all smells disgusting! 'Une catastrophe' indeed, but inevitably part of our peripatetic existence.
Meanwhile, in the garden, the miniature 'tete a tetes' are poking their shoots up already. We only discovered a whole spread of them when we hacked back a mass of hypericum a few years ago. As 'Paques' approaches they are always a thrilling sight, presaging painted, blown Easter eggs, chocolate cake, wild asparagus spears and the new season's lamb. We have always celebrated Easter 'en France' and it remains one of the great joys of the family calendar. I love to fill the house with yellow daffodils and blue hyacinths and enjoy the opportunity to lunch on the terrace, warmly wrapped up, with snow on the mountain tops in the far distance. I know that it is still weeks away, but the anticipation is mounting already. This year, for a change, we may try to fit in some skiing in the high Pyrenees beforehand, one of the upsides of a long, bitterly cold winter here.
The garden has been very much on my mind of late, indeed one of the principal reasons for this stolen visit. Pascal et Pascal finally removed the warped and redundant tree and the space below is suddenly full of light. We have an old iron pergola there, over which have sullenly slumped some ancient, pale 'grimpant' roses for many years. I already detect signs of new life and I am looking forward to their renaissance this year. The border, sadly neglected in the shade for so long and strangled with hypericum, is about to be completely rejuvenated with a dashing new planting scheme, worthy of the late, great Christopher Lloyd himself. We are saving the vibrant red/yellow summer hues for the pool planting scheme, complete with ambitious plans for cannas and bananas, and instead concentrating on soothing pinks, blues, creams and lilacs. Our plan is to work on the detail between now and the beginning of March, by which time it will be 'go,go,go!' I can't wait. Watch this space!
The pool area is to be re-planned 'a la Beth Chatto'. We have struggled for years with grass, always unhappy with too much relentless heat and the salt water from the swimming pool. Now, 'finalement', we are going to have a go at a gravel garden. The reality of climate change has impacted even on our little micro climate. We do get significant rain in the summer still, but the unpredictability of it can cause us to lose plants much more quickly than in the past. Now, it is not unknown for it to rain for days on end in July or August, just when all one's relatives have arrived laden with suncream, shorts and sunhats, and then, when they have disappeared off home disgruntled, for it to metamorphose into a mini 'canicule'. Nowadays, we simply never know. If such unpredictability is bad for us, heaven knows what it's like for our struggling flora and fauna. If nothing else, gravel retains moisture, though heaven help us if it gets into the delicate pool filtration system.
The missing water supply to the pool still remains a mystery worthy of Agatha Christie herself. Karl, our extremely able 'plombier', has found all the pipework, which we had always known was there. When the pool was installed ten years ago, there was running water all the way from the house, fed by newly installed pipework channelled below the garden path. By the time we came to use the pool that first summer of operation, it had mysteriously disappeared, cut off somewhere en route. We have never been able to establish the reason, nor could our architect. We are now seriously beginning to believe that it was an act of sabotage by someone with a grudge against our architect, though, for what reason, we cannot begin to hazard a guess. Meanwhile, a hose is our only supply, which is far from ideal. We persevere.
It has been strange being totally alone here, with ghostly echoes of Christmas past at every turn. If I close my eyes, I hear the children's laughter, their music, their TV shows and videos. I see my family around the dining room table, Peter carving at the head. I see Richard and Jasmine at the piano, playing Tchaikovsky and Chopin, Julia and the girls with their guitar and violins, playing and singing carols, Peter on his guitar playing blues, Tessa helping me in the kitchen, Grandma looking benignly on. And behind them are the legions of our predecessors, celebrating Noel in their own unique way, like us but different. We are a small part of a very long chain, like the snowdrops in the hedgerow and the tete a tetes in the garden. Snowdrops and sniffles are just a small part of the continuum of human existence, are they not?
As I looked out of my aeroplane window half an hour or so out of Bristol, I could see that the whole of central France was still blanketed in snow. After the endless grey days of recent weeks, the sheer exhilaration of seeing the Pyrenees sparkling in snow and sunshine was just what the doctor ordered, although Bardies was bloody freezing when I arrived. Just like here, our little part of France has had the coldest 'hiver' for thirty years. I kicked myself for not having replenished the kindling nor made up the woodburners before our rapid post Christmas dash for Blagnac. Scrambling round with a torch in the stable, nervously marvelling at how bats manage to avoid one's clattering presence, is a necessary prerequisite chez nous to firing up the Jotul. I vowed next time to do this before I leave.
The bad news was that there was a huge puddle of water beside the woodburner, and an even bigger one dripping through from the floorboards above. It had even caused the cast iron to begin to rust, so it must have been dripping for a while. The really annoying thing is that we had shelled out almost nine hundred euros, to a building firm which has since gone bankrupt, to finish a re-roofing job that we had already paid for! I try to desist from moaning about French workmen because it's always the same wherever one lives. This time, though, I'm really pissed off. At huge expense, we had the roof completely redone with 'flexi-tuile' beneath the terracotta pantiles, so that if tiles slip off rainwater cannot get in. Clearly, our builders did not do their job and I stupidly paid up in good faith. No wonder they went bankrupt! You can only piss punters like us off so many times before people twig what's going on. Unfortunately, the parcel stopped with us, 'caveat emptor' and all that.
Our insurer, to whom we pay the equivalent of a five star Caribbean winter holiday each year, says that we are not covered for roof damage. To be fair to him, it was pitch dark when he came, so it was impossible to tell whether 'la fuite' was caused by the weight of recent heavy snowfalls or from negligence by our recalcitrant builders. For all I know, it was caused by residual damage from the 'tempete' of last winter, for which we didn't claim either. I am resigned to being stuffed. My big worry is ongoing damage. The water has already flooded through the cupboard in which I store my spare pillows and duvets, and damaged the armoire doors in the process. It all smells disgusting! 'Une catastrophe' indeed, but inevitably part of our peripatetic existence.
Meanwhile, in the garden, the miniature 'tete a tetes' are poking their shoots up already. We only discovered a whole spread of them when we hacked back a mass of hypericum a few years ago. As 'Paques' approaches they are always a thrilling sight, presaging painted, blown Easter eggs, chocolate cake, wild asparagus spears and the new season's lamb. We have always celebrated Easter 'en France' and it remains one of the great joys of the family calendar. I love to fill the house with yellow daffodils and blue hyacinths and enjoy the opportunity to lunch on the terrace, warmly wrapped up, with snow on the mountain tops in the far distance. I know that it is still weeks away, but the anticipation is mounting already. This year, for a change, we may try to fit in some skiing in the high Pyrenees beforehand, one of the upsides of a long, bitterly cold winter here.
The garden has been very much on my mind of late, indeed one of the principal reasons for this stolen visit. Pascal et Pascal finally removed the warped and redundant tree and the space below is suddenly full of light. We have an old iron pergola there, over which have sullenly slumped some ancient, pale 'grimpant' roses for many years. I already detect signs of new life and I am looking forward to their renaissance this year. The border, sadly neglected in the shade for so long and strangled with hypericum, is about to be completely rejuvenated with a dashing new planting scheme, worthy of the late, great Christopher Lloyd himself. We are saving the vibrant red/yellow summer hues for the pool planting scheme, complete with ambitious plans for cannas and bananas, and instead concentrating on soothing pinks, blues, creams and lilacs. Our plan is to work on the detail between now and the beginning of March, by which time it will be 'go,go,go!' I can't wait. Watch this space!
The pool area is to be re-planned 'a la Beth Chatto'. We have struggled for years with grass, always unhappy with too much relentless heat and the salt water from the swimming pool. Now, 'finalement', we are going to have a go at a gravel garden. The reality of climate change has impacted even on our little micro climate. We do get significant rain in the summer still, but the unpredictability of it can cause us to lose plants much more quickly than in the past. Now, it is not unknown for it to rain for days on end in July or August, just when all one's relatives have arrived laden with suncream, shorts and sunhats, and then, when they have disappeared off home disgruntled, for it to metamorphose into a mini 'canicule'. Nowadays, we simply never know. If such unpredictability is bad for us, heaven knows what it's like for our struggling flora and fauna. If nothing else, gravel retains moisture, though heaven help us if it gets into the delicate pool filtration system.
The missing water supply to the pool still remains a mystery worthy of Agatha Christie herself. Karl, our extremely able 'plombier', has found all the pipework, which we had always known was there. When the pool was installed ten years ago, there was running water all the way from the house, fed by newly installed pipework channelled below the garden path. By the time we came to use the pool that first summer of operation, it had mysteriously disappeared, cut off somewhere en route. We have never been able to establish the reason, nor could our architect. We are now seriously beginning to believe that it was an act of sabotage by someone with a grudge against our architect, though, for what reason, we cannot begin to hazard a guess. Meanwhile, a hose is our only supply, which is far from ideal. We persevere.
It has been strange being totally alone here, with ghostly echoes of Christmas past at every turn. If I close my eyes, I hear the children's laughter, their music, their TV shows and videos. I see my family around the dining room table, Peter carving at the head. I see Richard and Jasmine at the piano, playing Tchaikovsky and Chopin, Julia and the girls with their guitar and violins, playing and singing carols, Peter on his guitar playing blues, Tessa helping me in the kitchen, Grandma looking benignly on. And behind them are the legions of our predecessors, celebrating Noel in their own unique way, like us but different. We are a small part of a very long chain, like the snowdrops in the hedgerow and the tete a tetes in the garden. Snowdrops and sniffles are just a small part of the continuum of human existence, are they not?
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Nuns, Niqabs and Nightmares
OK, I know I'm about to wade in where angels fear to tread but those of you that know me knew that I would, didn't you? One of my biggest problems in life is that I just can't keep my mouth shut, especially where issues of justice and fairness are concerned. This week we are observing Holocaust Memorial Day, a very important jolt to the senses every year, I always think, and never more so than today, which is the 65th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau by the Russians. Those of you that read my 'Wilcommen, Bienvenue, Welcome' blog some months ago will know how moved we all were by out trip to Auschwitz in December 2007. I defy anyone to go there and not think 'there but the grace of God'.
As a history student in the days before colour television was invented [only joking!], I found myself forever pondering how one of the most civilised and cultured nations could have acquiesed to such a load of racist bunkum. We cannot lay the blame on the Wagnerian images of blond, Aryan, blue eyed and supernatural beings of German mythology. No, the road to 'The Final Solution to the Jewish Question' was perpetrated in little more than an hour by Reinhard Heydrich and his fellow Nazi and SS leaders at the Wannsee Conference, held on the outskirts of Berlin, in 1942. Certainly, many horrific atrocities preceded this event but it was only in 1942 that one of the greatest crimes against humanity was validated.
In between the first performance of 'Das Rheingold' in Munich on September 22nd 1869, the prologue to Wagner's vast operatic trilogy, 'Der Ring des Nibelungen', and the Wannsee Conference on January 20th 1942, there was a constant 'drip, drip' of anti-Semitism. It is easy to see with hindsight how miniscule, unattributed stabs gradually cut away at the very fabric that bound German society together. The cuts became tears, and then slashes, until eventually whole swathes of the German population had been torn completely into redundant and disposable pieces. It was not long before the exercise was repeated throughout the rest of Europe. How could it have happened? The question is as pertinent today as it ever was.
But it could not possibly happen again, I hear you say, and please God, you are right. Carly Whyborn, chief executive officer of the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust said this week,"Britain is not Nazi Germany in the 1930's. It is not Pol Pot's Cambodia. But on Holocaust Memorial Day we can pause to look at how we treat those around us. We can all make the choice to challenge exclusion when we see it happening - we can choose to stop using language that dehumanises others and we can stop our friends and family from dehumanising and excluding others." Martin Stern, a Dutch survivor of Theresienstadt, says, "we won't solve the problem by UN resolutions on genocide. The only hope is that in the future every child in the world should be educated to immunise it against the tendency to hate others and to regard others as inferior."
Yet in the same week that we publicly remind ourselves of the lessons from our immediate history, France decides to recommend a total ban on Muslim women wearing the niqab, the full veil, in public places. I may be missing something but, as I understand it, the percentage of women donning such attractive and enticing attire is less than 0.1% of France's total Muslim population. I mean, after all, how many women would voluntarily opt for such incarceration. I may be opening myself to a massive deluge of hate mail but, really, it strikes me that the bulk of these women who say that it is their choice are educated, smart, sassy women, with a chip on their shoulder and the Islamic equivalent of two fingers up to Sarkozy's all -controlling state. Just who is the proponent of free and unfettered choice here?
The niqab is a cultural relic from the middle east. Saudi Arabia, with its Wahabi brand of extreme and anti feminist Islam, is the great perpetrator of such illiberal dress codes. Women do not have a choice there about not wearing it, any more than women in France will soon have a choice about whether they can choose to wear it and keep their jobs or claim their benefits. The big difference is that Saudi women have no choice and are therefore no real threat to the social order. French women do have a choice and, as a consequence, are seen to threaten the status quo. These women, many it has to be said, who are converts, flaunt their veils voluntarily, and that is their crime. Historically, none of us really cared about the veil when women were kept quiet behind closed doors, least of all the likes of men obsessed with beautiful and alluring women, like Nicolas Sarkozy.
Why is it always the women who are made the scapegoats in these power games? And now, as if some great practical joke has been played on the women of Afghanistan, Gordon Brown and Hamid Karzai are talking about making deals with deeply dodgy members of the Taliban, with appalling human rights records, and bringing them into the so-called democratic political process. It beggars belief. We pussyfoot around, making daft and wildly inaccurate speculation about the chosen attire of women in our own privileged communities, whilst we sell out our sisters to help exit a war we never wanted in the first place. With the Taliban back in town, the genie has sure as hell been let out of the bottle now. My heart goes out to the women of that beautiful and beleaguered country.
My own views on the veil are somewhat coloured by my education at the hands of Ursuline nuns. They had a very nice line in wimples, and there is not, as far as I can see, very much difference. They were certainly de-sexualised, permanently, as it happens, because of their vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Not much difference there then. In fact, the headmistress of my school, a six footer in stockinged feet, called Sister Philip, bore a striking resemblance to the late, great Peter Cook in 'Bedazzled'. When you have grown up with women clad from head to toe in black, you do not fear them in the least. In all truthfulness, I can't say that the issue of what women wear, however long or short, high-necked or low cut, black or white has ever really bothered me in the slightest. Surely, after all, that is one of the privileges of living in a free society? Whilst I would not relish my daughter adopting the tattoos and piercings of a Goth, I don't honestly think that it would justify throwing her out of the house.
With my own children I have always worked on the principle that if you say, "Yes, Darling, you look wonderful," and try your very best not to show any emotion in your face, as your eyes widen to the size of saucers, they usually tire of the desire to shock. Often, I found, threatening to adopt a fashion vaguely similar did the trick, particularly when tattoos were being considered. My big fear for the young women of France is that this very cowardly and silly recommendation will encourage droves of young Muslim women to make a stand. It would not be unreasonable, after all, to stand up for one's rights. We've all done it when we've felt we've been cornered. It's a natural human response. When I was young I did things that I'm now ashamed of, purely out of sheer bloody-mindedness. Why do we suppose young Muslim women are any different?
But, I guess, that's the real point. We do think that they are different. We do, somehow, and by proxy, think that we know what's best for them. We think that they are a threat to the very foundation of our liberal state. We think that it is the stuff of nightmares, the beginning of the rolling back of everything that we hold most dear. They, I suspect, think they are the height of edgy chic, the Islamic equivalent of punk or grunge. They strut their stuff with pride, especially on the smartest shopping streets in Paris and London. It identifies and radicalises them. It gives their lives meaning. It empowers them rather than subjugates them. In short, their niqabs are the very antithesis of everything we believe them to be.
I have listened to smart, young, giggling girls, swathed in black from head to toe, in Whiteley's or Selfridge's, and I promise you their conversation is the chat of all young women. I am sure that the same conversations are heard by other women every day in Lafayette and Bon Marche. "Shall I take the red or the black?" is a question about shoes, not cables. They are not a threat to us. I have no doubt that they are much more of a threat to their potentially militant brothers. They have made a choice, and they are proud of it. We should leave them be. We should stop this 'drip, drip' of cultural superiority right now and concentrate on the lessons of Holocaust Memorial Day. We owe it to our children.
As a history student in the days before colour television was invented [only joking!], I found myself forever pondering how one of the most civilised and cultured nations could have acquiesed to such a load of racist bunkum. We cannot lay the blame on the Wagnerian images of blond, Aryan, blue eyed and supernatural beings of German mythology. No, the road to 'The Final Solution to the Jewish Question' was perpetrated in little more than an hour by Reinhard Heydrich and his fellow Nazi and SS leaders at the Wannsee Conference, held on the outskirts of Berlin, in 1942. Certainly, many horrific atrocities preceded this event but it was only in 1942 that one of the greatest crimes against humanity was validated.
In between the first performance of 'Das Rheingold' in Munich on September 22nd 1869, the prologue to Wagner's vast operatic trilogy, 'Der Ring des Nibelungen', and the Wannsee Conference on January 20th 1942, there was a constant 'drip, drip' of anti-Semitism. It is easy to see with hindsight how miniscule, unattributed stabs gradually cut away at the very fabric that bound German society together. The cuts became tears, and then slashes, until eventually whole swathes of the German population had been torn completely into redundant and disposable pieces. It was not long before the exercise was repeated throughout the rest of Europe. How could it have happened? The question is as pertinent today as it ever was.
But it could not possibly happen again, I hear you say, and please God, you are right. Carly Whyborn, chief executive officer of the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust said this week,"Britain is not Nazi Germany in the 1930's. It is not Pol Pot's Cambodia. But on Holocaust Memorial Day we can pause to look at how we treat those around us. We can all make the choice to challenge exclusion when we see it happening - we can choose to stop using language that dehumanises others and we can stop our friends and family from dehumanising and excluding others." Martin Stern, a Dutch survivor of Theresienstadt, says, "we won't solve the problem by UN resolutions on genocide. The only hope is that in the future every child in the world should be educated to immunise it against the tendency to hate others and to regard others as inferior."
Yet in the same week that we publicly remind ourselves of the lessons from our immediate history, France decides to recommend a total ban on Muslim women wearing the niqab, the full veil, in public places. I may be missing something but, as I understand it, the percentage of women donning such attractive and enticing attire is less than 0.1% of France's total Muslim population. I mean, after all, how many women would voluntarily opt for such incarceration. I may be opening myself to a massive deluge of hate mail but, really, it strikes me that the bulk of these women who say that it is their choice are educated, smart, sassy women, with a chip on their shoulder and the Islamic equivalent of two fingers up to Sarkozy's all -controlling state. Just who is the proponent of free and unfettered choice here?
The niqab is a cultural relic from the middle east. Saudi Arabia, with its Wahabi brand of extreme and anti feminist Islam, is the great perpetrator of such illiberal dress codes. Women do not have a choice there about not wearing it, any more than women in France will soon have a choice about whether they can choose to wear it and keep their jobs or claim their benefits. The big difference is that Saudi women have no choice and are therefore no real threat to the social order. French women do have a choice and, as a consequence, are seen to threaten the status quo. These women, many it has to be said, who are converts, flaunt their veils voluntarily, and that is their crime. Historically, none of us really cared about the veil when women were kept quiet behind closed doors, least of all the likes of men obsessed with beautiful and alluring women, like Nicolas Sarkozy.
Why is it always the women who are made the scapegoats in these power games? And now, as if some great practical joke has been played on the women of Afghanistan, Gordon Brown and Hamid Karzai are talking about making deals with deeply dodgy members of the Taliban, with appalling human rights records, and bringing them into the so-called democratic political process. It beggars belief. We pussyfoot around, making daft and wildly inaccurate speculation about the chosen attire of women in our own privileged communities, whilst we sell out our sisters to help exit a war we never wanted in the first place. With the Taliban back in town, the genie has sure as hell been let out of the bottle now. My heart goes out to the women of that beautiful and beleaguered country.
My own views on the veil are somewhat coloured by my education at the hands of Ursuline nuns. They had a very nice line in wimples, and there is not, as far as I can see, very much difference. They were certainly de-sexualised, permanently, as it happens, because of their vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Not much difference there then. In fact, the headmistress of my school, a six footer in stockinged feet, called Sister Philip, bore a striking resemblance to the late, great Peter Cook in 'Bedazzled'. When you have grown up with women clad from head to toe in black, you do not fear them in the least. In all truthfulness, I can't say that the issue of what women wear, however long or short, high-necked or low cut, black or white has ever really bothered me in the slightest. Surely, after all, that is one of the privileges of living in a free society? Whilst I would not relish my daughter adopting the tattoos and piercings of a Goth, I don't honestly think that it would justify throwing her out of the house.
With my own children I have always worked on the principle that if you say, "Yes, Darling, you look wonderful," and try your very best not to show any emotion in your face, as your eyes widen to the size of saucers, they usually tire of the desire to shock. Often, I found, threatening to adopt a fashion vaguely similar did the trick, particularly when tattoos were being considered. My big fear for the young women of France is that this very cowardly and silly recommendation will encourage droves of young Muslim women to make a stand. It would not be unreasonable, after all, to stand up for one's rights. We've all done it when we've felt we've been cornered. It's a natural human response. When I was young I did things that I'm now ashamed of, purely out of sheer bloody-mindedness. Why do we suppose young Muslim women are any different?
But, I guess, that's the real point. We do think that they are different. We do, somehow, and by proxy, think that we know what's best for them. We think that they are a threat to the very foundation of our liberal state. We think that it is the stuff of nightmares, the beginning of the rolling back of everything that we hold most dear. They, I suspect, think they are the height of edgy chic, the Islamic equivalent of punk or grunge. They strut their stuff with pride, especially on the smartest shopping streets in Paris and London. It identifies and radicalises them. It gives their lives meaning. It empowers them rather than subjugates them. In short, their niqabs are the very antithesis of everything we believe them to be.
I have listened to smart, young, giggling girls, swathed in black from head to toe, in Whiteley's or Selfridge's, and I promise you their conversation is the chat of all young women. I am sure that the same conversations are heard by other women every day in Lafayette and Bon Marche. "Shall I take the red or the black?" is a question about shoes, not cables. They are not a threat to us. I have no doubt that they are much more of a threat to their potentially militant brothers. They have made a choice, and they are proud of it. We should leave them be. We should stop this 'drip, drip' of cultural superiority right now and concentrate on the lessons of Holocaust Memorial Day. We owe it to our children.
Friday, 22 January 2010
I Love Paris Anytime
Just when I was beginning to feel those winter blues creeping up on me, despite a good effort on the work front, a friend rang to suggest meeting up in Paris for some serious R and R. Well, what can a girl say? Bien-sur! I wouldn't have passed up the opportunity for the patisserie in Paris and a few days indulging my love of art for all the cheap offers on Easyjet. Indeed, it was the best of all possible worlds. I was able to meet up with my darling friend, Caroline, by train - she arriving at Montparnasse from Toulouse, me at Gare du Nord from London. Our little group was complete when Carole flew in from Bristol with her two very beautiful and utterly delightful daughters.
Spending time with young people always lifts the spirits, particularly when they laugh at your jokes and don't treat you like the geriatric that you know you are not that far off becoming. Holly, who is 25, is a History of Art student at Bristol University and passionate about her subject. Rosie, a mere 21, is an art student and loving all that that entails. Their mother owns a fabulous contemporary art gallery in Clifton, which shows Caroline's eclectic work amongst others of the great and the good, including Terry Fost and Patrick Caulfield. I was the joker in the pack, with merely a desire to be an 'artist', but probably rather more of the liquid variety!
We found our 'appartement' through my good friend and Caroline's sister-in-law, Inez Sarramon, who had borrowed it on our behalf from a male friend, who is away from some months in Argentina. It was fabulous, and not just because it was in the Marais, in the 4th Arrondisement, which is one of the most prestigious addresses in Paris. It was a penthouse flat with double patio doors and balconies on three sides, looking out in every direction. To the south-east, to the blue tubes and red and white cubes of the Pompidou Centre, to the east, to the Gothic church of St Gervais, to the north east, to the grande dame of Paris, Notre Dame, lit up in remembrance of its central place in the city's history, and to the north, the blue-white, shimmering dome of Sacre Coeur. It was too muggy and misty to see Montmartre, but through the haze we could just make out the line of the Eifel Tower. Location! Location! Location, indeed!
The owner, like many artistic and cultured gay men, is a man of exquisite and cosmopolitan taste. Everywhere one looked was a feast for the eye. There is a terrace covered in terracotta pots filled with greenery which, even in winter, were luscious and thriving. Amongst them, wherever one's eye alighted, were artefacts from around the world. Heads, masks, lanterns, candleholders and sculptures were displayed in their full glory and it was so very sad that the weather prevented us from sitting out and savouring their presence, alongside the fabulous views. The youngsters, however, made the most of the exterior space in their almost hourly requirement for a nicotine fix.
Inside, the art was to die for! Having detested my mother's penchant for snazzy 50's furniture when I was growing up, chucking out lovely Victorian pieces in the process, I have never understood the collector's obsession with that period. Not now! I am totally and utterly converted, for to see it laid out in minimal style and surrounded by contemporary art and beautiful things, it was a joy to behold. Against a background of plain white walls, the elegant, simple lines of simply curved veneered furniture works perfectly with contemporary style. Hugo's collection, from his multifarious trips abroad, of amazing cosmopolitan pieces, could not possibly have been shown off to better effect. In my bedroom, there was even the most fantastic collection of black and white photographs, mainly of men, engaged in sports ranging from boxing to gymnastics. I could have died a happy woman there and then.
After dinner chez nous, [from an afternoon's food shopping indulgence, prosciutto, a morel fettucine, followed by a walnut, Roquefort and feuille de chene salad, and not one, but two, tartes aux pommes, all washed down with copious quantities of vin rouge], we were ready for bed in anticipation of some serious art observing. The next morning, it really didn't matter that the weather was grey, because in the Rodin Museum on 79 rue de Varenne, Rodin's beautiful chateau home, the natural light from the vast array of windows all around dominated the great man's life's work within. If ever a soul dominated a space, then Rodin pervaded every pore of his grand domestic interior. You could physically feel his strength of will and purpose from beyond the grave. No wonder poor little Camille Claudel, such a talented artist in her own right, was so overwhelmed. It seems to me that she was like a butterfly at the foot of a bear.
When I saw the Rodin exhibition in London, I have to confess that I was underwhelmed, despite the very great talent of his bronze founder, Alexis Rudier. We know his work so well, it is almost too prolific. We have been so saturated by images of 'The Thinker', 'The Kiss' and 'Ugolino' that we take them for granted. Mostly, we have not seen the real thing so our perception is tainted. It is the price we pay for high exposure. As a society we know more about these great men of art and their works, but we have become inured to their true value. Like music downloads, at the flick of a mouse, we can indulge our thirst for knowledge but we cannot experience the real thing. Just as a great concert gives us an insight into the personality of the performer, so the soul of an artist speaks to us through the physicality of his work. There is no substitute for the real thing.
Here, not only can we see 'The Burghers of Calais', 'The Gates of Hell' and 'The Danaid', to name but a few, in the place that he so loved and where he worked from dawn until dusk, we can also see hundreds of smaller and less well known pieces. We can see his maquettes. We can see his portraits and some of his drawings. We can walk in his garden and savour its views. In short, we can walk in the great man's steps. We can see the work of Camille Claudel too, which is beautifully and sympathetically executed and not to be underestimated. We were privileged, for currently in residence is the Rodin/Matisse exhibition. Like the Picasso/Matisse at Tate Modern, I had no idea of the relevance of a contemporaneous showing of their respective works. It is always a revelation, and this week was no exception.
Whilst Caroline favoured Rodin's drawings as far superior to the creator of 'Fauvism', I wasn't so sure. Side by side, Matisse seems much heavier handed, less sensuous [and sensual], and considerably more free with interpretation. Despite her preference, and I greatly respect her superior knowledge, I still love Matisse's drawings and would happily have them on my walls. I said to her that I felt that Matisse was a 'voyeur', looking but not touching, whereas one had the feeling that Rodin had explored every hidden nook and cranny of the models that he depicted so beautifully. This man loved women and he knew what turned them on. The sensuousness and intimacy of lovers whispers hidden sweet nothings from every sketch. He knew his power and he used it ruthlessly.
From there, after an omelette and a glass of wine, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay where, unhappily, the permanent and stunning collection of Impressionist art is temporarily housed on the ground floor whilst its permanent location is being renovated. Had I not been many times before, I would have been disappointed. Then again, maybe not, for just to see this mind-blowing collection is the highlight for me of a trip to Paris. As with the Rodin, after endless birthday cards and Athena posters, there is a danger of saturation because one feels one already knows so many of them intimately. Not so. They are alive and kicking and the biggest high this side of legal! The vibrancy, the life, the light, the colour and the narrative of these paintings is the stuff of legend. We know them because they speak to us. They tell of the lives of ordinary people, 'paysans', painters, ballet dancers, music hall girls and prostitutes, and we know them. There is Oscar Wilde, with his luminous red nose enjoying himself in the dim light of the 'Moulin Rouge', alongside the poor little flat foreheaded bronze ballet dancer, with her real tutu and cream satin ribbon, wishing for the opportunity of a new life in the 'corps de ballet'.
This is Paris. This is life. Many of the paintings depict life in other places, like Rouen, or Arles, or even Tahiti, but they belong to Paris. They are a magnificent part of the history of this great city, and we love them for it. They are its heritage, just as they are ours. Where were they when the Germans rolled in in 1940? Where did they go? What lives have they led? They speak of the resilience of this great city, for they are still here to tell us their story. I could not imagine a life without them. Like a long lost lover, every time I come here I have to run and see them. They look even more enticing in January because the world outside is so grey. And, even better, you don't have to queue to see them. There is hardly a soul around you to encroach on the pure joy of such blissful reunion. As Eurostar is full of lots of £69 special offers at present, probably because people are worried about breakdowns due to fierce weather, I would recommend you jump on a train from St Pancras International and treat yourself to the best and cheapest high in the world. I love Paris anytime, and the great advantage of January is that it's almost all yours. Go on, spoil yourself! You're worth it!
Spending time with young people always lifts the spirits, particularly when they laugh at your jokes and don't treat you like the geriatric that you know you are not that far off becoming. Holly, who is 25, is a History of Art student at Bristol University and passionate about her subject. Rosie, a mere 21, is an art student and loving all that that entails. Their mother owns a fabulous contemporary art gallery in Clifton, which shows Caroline's eclectic work amongst others of the great and the good, including Terry Fost and Patrick Caulfield. I was the joker in the pack, with merely a desire to be an 'artist', but probably rather more of the liquid variety!
We found our 'appartement' through my good friend and Caroline's sister-in-law, Inez Sarramon, who had borrowed it on our behalf from a male friend, who is away from some months in Argentina. It was fabulous, and not just because it was in the Marais, in the 4th Arrondisement, which is one of the most prestigious addresses in Paris. It was a penthouse flat with double patio doors and balconies on three sides, looking out in every direction. To the south-east, to the blue tubes and red and white cubes of the Pompidou Centre, to the east, to the Gothic church of St Gervais, to the north east, to the grande dame of Paris, Notre Dame, lit up in remembrance of its central place in the city's history, and to the north, the blue-white, shimmering dome of Sacre Coeur. It was too muggy and misty to see Montmartre, but through the haze we could just make out the line of the Eifel Tower. Location! Location! Location, indeed!
The owner, like many artistic and cultured gay men, is a man of exquisite and cosmopolitan taste. Everywhere one looked was a feast for the eye. There is a terrace covered in terracotta pots filled with greenery which, even in winter, were luscious and thriving. Amongst them, wherever one's eye alighted, were artefacts from around the world. Heads, masks, lanterns, candleholders and sculptures were displayed in their full glory and it was so very sad that the weather prevented us from sitting out and savouring their presence, alongside the fabulous views. The youngsters, however, made the most of the exterior space in their almost hourly requirement for a nicotine fix.
Inside, the art was to die for! Having detested my mother's penchant for snazzy 50's furniture when I was growing up, chucking out lovely Victorian pieces in the process, I have never understood the collector's obsession with that period. Not now! I am totally and utterly converted, for to see it laid out in minimal style and surrounded by contemporary art and beautiful things, it was a joy to behold. Against a background of plain white walls, the elegant, simple lines of simply curved veneered furniture works perfectly with contemporary style. Hugo's collection, from his multifarious trips abroad, of amazing cosmopolitan pieces, could not possibly have been shown off to better effect. In my bedroom, there was even the most fantastic collection of black and white photographs, mainly of men, engaged in sports ranging from boxing to gymnastics. I could have died a happy woman there and then.
After dinner chez nous, [from an afternoon's food shopping indulgence, prosciutto, a morel fettucine, followed by a walnut, Roquefort and feuille de chene salad, and not one, but two, tartes aux pommes, all washed down with copious quantities of vin rouge], we were ready for bed in anticipation of some serious art observing. The next morning, it really didn't matter that the weather was grey, because in the Rodin Museum on 79 rue de Varenne, Rodin's beautiful chateau home, the natural light from the vast array of windows all around dominated the great man's life's work within. If ever a soul dominated a space, then Rodin pervaded every pore of his grand domestic interior. You could physically feel his strength of will and purpose from beyond the grave. No wonder poor little Camille Claudel, such a talented artist in her own right, was so overwhelmed. It seems to me that she was like a butterfly at the foot of a bear.
When I saw the Rodin exhibition in London, I have to confess that I was underwhelmed, despite the very great talent of his bronze founder, Alexis Rudier. We know his work so well, it is almost too prolific. We have been so saturated by images of 'The Thinker', 'The Kiss' and 'Ugolino' that we take them for granted. Mostly, we have not seen the real thing so our perception is tainted. It is the price we pay for high exposure. As a society we know more about these great men of art and their works, but we have become inured to their true value. Like music downloads, at the flick of a mouse, we can indulge our thirst for knowledge but we cannot experience the real thing. Just as a great concert gives us an insight into the personality of the performer, so the soul of an artist speaks to us through the physicality of his work. There is no substitute for the real thing.
Here, not only can we see 'The Burghers of Calais', 'The Gates of Hell' and 'The Danaid', to name but a few, in the place that he so loved and where he worked from dawn until dusk, we can also see hundreds of smaller and less well known pieces. We can see his maquettes. We can see his portraits and some of his drawings. We can walk in his garden and savour its views. In short, we can walk in the great man's steps. We can see the work of Camille Claudel too, which is beautifully and sympathetically executed and not to be underestimated. We were privileged, for currently in residence is the Rodin/Matisse exhibition. Like the Picasso/Matisse at Tate Modern, I had no idea of the relevance of a contemporaneous showing of their respective works. It is always a revelation, and this week was no exception.
Whilst Caroline favoured Rodin's drawings as far superior to the creator of 'Fauvism', I wasn't so sure. Side by side, Matisse seems much heavier handed, less sensuous [and sensual], and considerably more free with interpretation. Despite her preference, and I greatly respect her superior knowledge, I still love Matisse's drawings and would happily have them on my walls. I said to her that I felt that Matisse was a 'voyeur', looking but not touching, whereas one had the feeling that Rodin had explored every hidden nook and cranny of the models that he depicted so beautifully. This man loved women and he knew what turned them on. The sensuousness and intimacy of lovers whispers hidden sweet nothings from every sketch. He knew his power and he used it ruthlessly.
From there, after an omelette and a glass of wine, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay where, unhappily, the permanent and stunning collection of Impressionist art is temporarily housed on the ground floor whilst its permanent location is being renovated. Had I not been many times before, I would have been disappointed. Then again, maybe not, for just to see this mind-blowing collection is the highlight for me of a trip to Paris. As with the Rodin, after endless birthday cards and Athena posters, there is a danger of saturation because one feels one already knows so many of them intimately. Not so. They are alive and kicking and the biggest high this side of legal! The vibrancy, the life, the light, the colour and the narrative of these paintings is the stuff of legend. We know them because they speak to us. They tell of the lives of ordinary people, 'paysans', painters, ballet dancers, music hall girls and prostitutes, and we know them. There is Oscar Wilde, with his luminous red nose enjoying himself in the dim light of the 'Moulin Rouge', alongside the poor little flat foreheaded bronze ballet dancer, with her real tutu and cream satin ribbon, wishing for the opportunity of a new life in the 'corps de ballet'.
This is Paris. This is life. Many of the paintings depict life in other places, like Rouen, or Arles, or even Tahiti, but they belong to Paris. They are a magnificent part of the history of this great city, and we love them for it. They are its heritage, just as they are ours. Where were they when the Germans rolled in in 1940? Where did they go? What lives have they led? They speak of the resilience of this great city, for they are still here to tell us their story. I could not imagine a life without them. Like a long lost lover, every time I come here I have to run and see them. They look even more enticing in January because the world outside is so grey. And, even better, you don't have to queue to see them. There is hardly a soul around you to encroach on the pure joy of such blissful reunion. As Eurostar is full of lots of £69 special offers at present, probably because people are worried about breakdowns due to fierce weather, I would recommend you jump on a train from St Pancras International and treat yourself to the best and cheapest high in the world. I love Paris anytime, and the great advantage of January is that it's almost all yours. Go on, spoil yourself! You're worth it!
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