I went to Arles and discovered an artist

 As you wander the streets of Arles, echoes of the past are with you always. It's like no other place I've ever been. Like much of France it has a frayed beauty. Everywhere you look there is something interesting. A feast for the eyes. A crinkly smile comes to me as you look up at a quant building.

Van Gogh fell in love with the place; it's not hard to understand why. It's packed full of Roman and mediaeval architecture. So centre ville won't have changed that much since his time. There is a photograph around every corner, and I've probably taken that many. Here are a selection:

This man broadened my horizons

AJS**

This is my maternal grandfather. He was a serious, studious and bigotted man. Born in Sunderland he was a Mackem although he would have never claimed that title, in fact he would have probably disowned it. He was the sort of person that always wanted to better himself, as he saw it. He and his wife, my mother’s parents, hadn’t done too badly for themselves.

Grandad joined the Royal Navy before the first world war, possibly lying about his age, and that was his job until he was invalided out during the second world war. He had been a wireless operator and had served mostly, from what I gather, around the UK*, the Mediteranean and Northern Europe.

I was the first grandchild on both sides of our family, so as you can imagine I was the centre of attention for at least 18 months, and I think if truth be told I remained perhaps a little bit special for the rest of their lives. I was always made a fuss of. I was very lucky to be loved so.

He was a mass of contradictions. Nobody really knew what his politics were although his views were very bigotted. He believed in discipline, the rule of law and the status quo. He would sit in his rocking chair, on one side a pile of Daily Telegraphs on the other his aging wireless. The wireless that only transmitted people that spoke with a frog in their throat, or so I thought. The dial displayed stations and transmitters from far away places; Light, Third, Droitwich, Hilversum, London, North, Athlone, Brussels, Toulouse and Moscow to name but a few. As a little lad everywhere that wasn’t Bury St Edmunds was a strange land filled with strange people.

The Avant Gardener

A name dear to the hearts of music lovers who have been grooving at least since the seventies is Rough Trade. They were a lifeline in 1977 when this spotty Herbert was desperate to acquire hard to come by and much needed punk platters. They put on low key performances in their Rough Trade East shop from time to time and last Saturday they came to my rescue again; a promotional concert by Courtney Barnett. Yay!

We arrived in good time on Saturday lunchtime enabling us to get quite close to the front. It’s an intimate gig in what is a long thin record shop. Courtney Barnett and band took to the stage looking slightly surprised at how many people had turned up. The record shop was packed. She also commented how surprised she was that people had travelled from quite some distance to come and see them. A two hour train ride for us along with walking at either end. But why wouldn’t you to see something that good?

If you’ve never heard of Courtney Barnett then why not? What’s wrong with you? Wake up! Consider David Bowie meets PJ Harvey meets Neil Young and they invite the US Nirvana* along for good measure. She writes clever, witty songs, is a great guitarist and together with the two guy rhythm section forms a really tight and most excellent band. They make a full and round sound; post modern folk grunge. Courtney’s dulcet Australian vocals enhance the lyrics making the sound enchanting with a natural edge. It’s a voice of galvanising honey. Nothing forced or false about the songs she sings.

The three-piece played an exciting, action packed set lasting almost an hour consisting of many of the songs from their ‘double EP’: A Sea Of Split Peas plus a new number possibly called DePreston (?) Great sound quality and a jolly good time seemed to have been had by all!

If you’ve never heard her music then you need to. She is the next big thing! Catch her on tour in the UK in a few months time.

Check these out:

*you probably know them as Nirvana (those of the teen spirit smelling) but they weren’t the original band with that name. That accolade goes to a British band; check out Rainbow Chaser by Nirvana.

No longer playing it safe

It’s possible that I’ve made a very big mistake. I think I may have come very close to getting a new job. A job with more money doing what I know best. Doing what I can sort of do with my eyes closed. I have decided against it!

Am I mental?
Possibly!

I’ve done purchasing type jobs for over thirty years and quite frankly I’ve had enough. I think I’d rather stack shelves in a supermarket than carry on in supply chain solutions. Virtually all my life I’ve played it safe. Safe is no longer an option. Not enough of us take the risky option I fear. Sometimes we have to take risks. Sometimes it’s the only way to get what we want!

When I’m finally made redundant (sometime early in the New Year) I’m going to head north. Well north-ish. I’m no longer a young man so going west is out of the question.

I’m heading north in search of gritty creativity.

Life begins at 58!

My name is Paul and I am a Jeremy Deller addict

Well, possibly...

Is doing two Jeremy Deller exhibitions in two different countries in two weeks a little fanatical?

Who can say?

All I know is that they’ve both been very enjoyable and very inspirational.

We’ve just arrived back from a week in Venice, where for two consecutive days we visited the Biennale. The Biennale is an international art exhibition. Or should that be exposition?

All of the countries taking part in the Biennale have their own pavilion where they mount their own particular exhibition for the season. The ‘curator’ for the British pavilion this year was Jeremy Deller. His show was entitled, rather oddly, English Magic.

I’m not going to offer you a critique or even try and explain what the exhibition is about in any depth as that would just be pretentious nonsense. I will offer you some of my thoughts about my impressions and how I feel towards it, but remember they are just my thoughts. And, also remember that art is only ever in the eye of the beholder. Art has no quality or benchmark; therefore no one can tell you what is good or bad art. Those definitions just don’t exist.

As you walk into the exhibition you are greeted by a huge mural of a giant hen harrier clutching a Range Rover in its talons; nature getting its own back on the bourgeoisie so to speak. A fabulous image, I hope you agree:

I’ve only known of the existence of Jeremy Deller for just under two years. I saw him interviewed on telly prior to his Joy In People exhibition last year (which we subsequently visited). I liked his thoughts and approach to art; they rang true to my beliefs. His art is plebeian (and I don’t use that in an insulting way, I use it as praise), he definitely draws from and connects with the common people, the working classes. He also draws a lot on pop culture, sharing very similar reference point to my own even though he is a younger man than I by some eleven years. And hey, anyone that likes Bowie and Depeche Mode can’t be all that bad!

One of the nicest touches to the exhibition was the tea room where mugs of very nice ‘proper’ tea were handed out gratis. The lady and I availed ourselves of this facility as did so many other visitors, UK and non-UK citizens alike, all seemed glad to receive; British tax payers money very well spent in my humble opinion. When you consider what our country spends on armaments and waging war on others and how it achieves absolutely nothing, then realising that if a fraction of that money was spent on making tea and distributing it to other parts of the world and how that might well make the world a better place by fostering a bit of harmony, you wonder why such a thing isn’t happening; make tea not war should be Britain’s motto!

Included in the exhibition are paintings and drawings by prisoners spending time at ‘Her Majesties Pleasure’. Many of whom had served with the armed forces in Afghanistan and or Iraq. One very poignant picture which moved me greatly was ‘R and R: Soldiers smoking crack before deployment, Wellington Barracks, London’ by Neil, HML Shotts, 2013:

There are no winners in war!

I could go on and on about this exhibition, such was the pleasure it gave me, but I won’t. What I will do though is give you a link to the English Magic website so you can at least try to glean a bit of the flavour. Enjoy!

Two weeks prior to visiting Venice we were in Manchester, and whilst there we took the opportunity to go to the ‘All That Is Solid Melts Into Air’ exhibition at the Manchester Art Gallery. Again a Jeremy Deller curated marvel. The exhibition is a presentation of industrial working life, the people and their culture. It mixes harrowing photos of Victorian working people along side family trees from Bryan Ferry, Neville Holder and Shaun Ryder and written examples of the oppressive nature of capitalist imposed working conditions, paintings and other artefacts. It shows the violence and oppression that has been inflicted on working people over the last few centuries and reminds us how it is still happening today.

The ‘badge’ for the exhibition is this photograph of Adrian Street and his father:

Included in the exhibition is a film about Adrian, his sexuality and how he escaped from working in the pits to seek fame and fortune in the, some would say, murky world of professional wrestling.

I came away from the gallery having much enjoyed the show and wondering why we working classes continue to allow our masters to dazzle us with trinkets whilst letting them shaft us at the same time.

In my opinion anything with Jeremy Deller’s name attached to it is always worth a gawp. Check him out and go along to an exhibition of his as and when you can. If you do I hope you get as much out of it as I have so far from the ones I’ve been to.

Art happens – enjoy – think – and deal with it!

Rotting Christ

We shall be holidaying in Italy this year, quite near to Vicenza. Unfortunately, or not, we will not be there when these chirpy characters are going to be playing at the Sun Valley Metalfest. Curses!

Rotting Christ – I’m sure their mothers love them.

Paul’s floppy

Just before we came back from France on the shuttle just over a week ago we dived into Carrefour in Cite Europe to do a mega shop. You know the sort of thing; essentials; beer, wine, cheese, saucisson, crisps and sweetie things. One of the packs of sweets I brought was made by Haribo and residing under the name of ‘Floppy’. For all I know the Haribo Floppy may well be a big hit in British playgrounds but I’d never heard of them. So I just had to buy them. Haven’t tried them yet. I might just keep them in their virgin state.

Bayeux

Last Saturday we returned home from a wonderful holiday in France:

After a hectic first weekend of our holiday with our friends near Compiegne we made our way down to Bayeux for a relaxing few days. We had rented a Gite right in the town.

We are not very good tourists. Most people seem to like going to places and tick as many tourist 'attraction' boxes as possible. Not us. We like our holidays to be slow and gentle.

For most visitors Bayeux is not a destination. It's just another stop on the relentless ardour that is American coach trip hell. Most visitors seem to come to the area to visit the beaches famous for the D-Day landings. Something that didn't greatly interest us. We had come to Bayeux to see the Tapestry and generally chill.

The Bayeux Tapestry is something quite remarkable even though it is embroidery rather than tapestry. Pictures don't really do it justice. It's not as tall as I expected but much longer than I had imagined. We had decided to visit late in the afternoon in an effort to avoid the crowds. Turning up at 5 o'clock certainly paid off. There were thankfully very few other visitors so we were able to peruse the tapestry at our leisure. You can gauge how busy it must get at peak times by the speed of the commentary on the electronic guide that you are given on entry. We listened and walked at a fairly rapid pace along the almost 70 metres of the tapestry. And then, the commentary dispensed with, we went back to the beginning enjoying the work at our own pace. Studying bits of interest in great detail. And a mighty fine experience it was indeed. It not only tells the story of the Battle of Hastings but events leading up to it. From a Norman perspective obviously. Pro William the Bastard nee Conqueror most certainly.

Bayeux's cathedral is quite a spectacular edifice to behold. Standing head and shoulders above the whole of Bayeux with its spiky twin towers at the entrance, a central domed tower with a spire on top all vying for attention. The medieval equivalent of the Ferrari or Lamborghini and a cudgel all rolled into one; a rich man's penis extension and a vehicle for oppression.

We had no real desire to visit any of the D-Day landing sites. That would seem to be the domain of very narrow minded people. Although we did make a couple of small exceptions. As a pacifist I am so often misunderstood by those that seek to glorify war. I will be accused by those types as being disrespectful to those that fought and died for our freedom but I am most certainly not. We stop on the coast road overlooking the site of some of the landings the skeletons of the mulberry harbours still visible after all this time. I felt sick in my stomach and I welled up inside at the thought of the death and destruction that reigned over that area on people of my grandparents' generation. Nobody should have had to of gone through such unimaginably fearsome times. War is evil. No one ever wins. War serves no purpose.

We had a lovely afternoon in Deauville a rather quirky town on the coast east of Bayeux. It's a seaside town that looks as though it could have been designed in Hollywood. Quintessentially French essence distilled into a concentrated form. Masses of timber framed buildings with towers and conical roofs.

On the way back we stopped at the Pegasus Bridge, we just felt we had to do something. I really can’t put into words how it made me feel.

Bayeux is a nice little French town to spend time in. We spent much of our holiday just wandering around and pottering there. We’re not good at the relentless schedules.

Well excuse me!

“We apologise for the late departure of the 8.40 to Cambridge. This was due to the late arrival of the previous train from Cambridge”

I’m not really into excuses, if a train is late, a train is late, and no reason is going to make the pain any better. But at least if an excuse is going to be offered let’s have the real reason. The ‘previous train from Cambridge’ was the same train as the ‘8.40 to Cambridge’. The train goes back and forth between Cambridge and Norwich. At Norwich it turns around almost immediately for that particular service. So why not tell us why the ‘previous train from Cambridge’ was late? Tossers!

Rather than doing a good job or giving a good service rail companies only seem interested in meeting targets. They do this by manipulating phoney targets that supposedly measuring what they do. They fool no one. Trains continue to be late and filthy. Our railways surely are the laughing stock of Europe.

Lundy

At the beginning of June we spent a week on Lundy. It was a holiday that had been planned on a dark winter’s evening over two years ago in February 2009 when staying at The Castle of Park, a Landmark Trust property in Glenluce, Dumfries and Galloway. Lundy is a small island 3 miles long and ½ mile wide that sits in the Bristol Channel 10 miles off the coast of Devon. It is owned by the National Trust who in turn lease to the Landmark Trust. If you don’t know who the Landmark Trust are well they are a wonderful organisation that restores old and interesting buildings and then rents them out as holiday lets. Most of the buildings on Lundy are situated in one small village in the south of the island. For our week we were staying in Government House. With one shop and one pub on the island we were concerned that our stay might seem very long if the fare was mediocre. But we needn’t have worried, the shop was like a mini Waitrose and the pub was a most excellent hostelry.

Lundy is a nature lover’s paradise. It is an emerald in a sea of lapis lazuli. The water around is so clear in various shades of blue and turquoise. With so few people on the island it is a haven for sea birds including the puffin, from which in Old Norse the island gets its name. Goats, Soay sheep, deer and ponies roam wild on the island. One day I wandered down to the small beach close to the harbour. There was nobody around as I stood gazing out to sea. I was suddenly aware that I was being watched. Two heads popped out of the water close to where I stood. They stared at me quizzically then disappeared. Moments later they popped up again ain a slightly different position. Two grey seals with their sad black eyes; a magical moment and I kicked myself for not having my camera with me. Lundy is full of experiences like this. It is essentially a remote theme park for the middle classes, but a place well worth a visit. Here are a few of my holiday snaps:

Northern dream

Iceland was our second choice. We had originally considered a cruise up the side of Norway but had eventually decided against it because it would use up too much of my holiday. Due to the fact that I work for an American owned company I only get 23 days holiday. They really don’t understand the concept of holidays! Every since I was a lad I’ve wanted to see the Northern Lights. I was given a book as a small boy of the seven wonders of the natural world and there was a small chapter on the Aurora Borealis. Iceland offered the prospect of a short-break holiday with a possible chance to witness a great natural phenomenon. Of course there are no guarantees of seeing the lights with this sort of trip but we went in hope, and not much thought to what else we might experience.

Our flight to Keflavik was delayed by three hours. It was dark when finally arrived. We passed through immigration, picked up our luggage and went to collect our hire ‘car’. We had been promised a Hyundai Tucson, not dissimilar to our own beloved Honda CRV we thought. Avis in their wisdom had, generously they no doubt thought, upgraded us “at no extra charge” to a Nissan Patrol. More of a truck than a car we thought. Little did we know we would be glad of it later? Driving on the wrong side of the road in a strange humungous 4x4 in the dark and the rain we set off on the three hour drive to our hotel, just beyond Hella. We were too late for a meal although we could have had room service but at about 10.30pm we felt a large meal might be a bit too much. We sought sustenance in a tub of Pringles (other reconstituted potato-based snacks are available), and promptly toddled off to the bar. I so needed a beer after the challenging drive. Two beers later we decided to retire. We were just about to clamber into bed, well actually the lady was already there, when we got the call “the lights are about to happen”. You tick a box on a list in reception to say you wish to be called if the Northern Lights happen and they call your room whatever the hour. By the time we got there they had sadly faded, although by all account it wasn’t much of a showing at all. The night sky was pretty brilliant though. Because of the minimal light pollution so many more stars are visible than we would normally see at home. So a spectacular sight despite the lack of Northern Lights. We retired again.

It didn’t get light until after 8.00am whilst we were there. So we didn’t stir that early on our first morning. Like most hotels worldwide these days breakfast at the Hotel Ranga was a buffet affair. I tried to avoid being the Englishman abroad and ignored the sausages, eggs and bacon and started off with what might be described as the ‘continental’ meats. This was accompanied by a delicious selection of Icelandic bread. Meat consumed I decided to have seconds. I’d noticed the fish selection and felt that it just could not be ignored. Tuna, sardines and three sorts of pickled herring we on offer; I helped myself to a selection. The pickled herring was heavenly. I particularly liked the one that appeared to have been pickled with juniper berries. It would be pickled herring for breakfast from then on in Iceland.

Breakfast over we headed on out for our first day’s sight-seeing. We headed north to see some geysers. It was a long drive which included a stop off for lunch. The cold makes you hungry. Well, that’s our excused. We stopped off at a lovely little log cabin affair of a restaurant offering home cooked food. We were the only patrons for most of the time we were there. I chose the ubiquitous ‘winter soup’, a sort of lamb stew with hearty meat chunks and vegetables along with caraway seeds, which was most satisfying. The lady had a wild mushroom soup. Both soups we supplemented with more delicious Icelandic bread. Replete we continued our journey north. Apart from the visitor centre the first thing you notice about the landscape when you arrive at the geysers is that the ground leaks. Steam can be seen rising from the ground. And it’s all over the place. In the distance we could see the periodic machinations of Strokkur. We headed in its direction. On the way you pass all manner of pin holes and craterettes oozing steam and sulphurous boiling water. Each outlet very different from the one before. The smell of rotten eggs hangs in the air. But after a while you acclimatise and the smell becomes your friend. We walked up the hill to the centre piece of the show, Strokkur. A spectacular geyser that intermittently shoots boiling water to around 20 or 30 metres in the air. You can tell that it is about to blow by watching it. To begin with it bubbles then a dome of water pulsates over the crater until finally it ejaculates, sometimes once sometimes twice. It is a truly remarkable sight. Also on the site is ‘Geysir’ a dormant geyser that is the grand-daddy of them all. A huge crater of boiling water long since silted up. Most of the time we were at this site we stood and wandered around with our mouths open in awe. We came away thinking that if we didn’t see the Northern Lights it wouldn’t really matter as what we had just witnessed had made the trip worth it. Unfortunately due to a planning error we failed to take the opportunity to go to the waterfalls at Gullfoss. Never mind you can’t win them all. We returned to our hotel as happy bunnies. The weather was pretty atrocious with heavy rain and sleet. Little chance of the lights tonight we thought. We were right.

The next day saw us heading to the coast in the direction of Vik, stopping off on the way to visit a glacier. Getting to the glacier was a truly ‘off-road’ experience across a landscape that could well have doubled for an ersatz lunar environment. You run out of superlatives on Iceland and the glacier didn’t disappoint in that department. You really have to go to experience the shear magic. It’s big and it’s blue and oh so beautiful. Dumb-struck we headed onward to the coast at Vik; an amazing coastline with black sand. See the photo below. We returned to the hotel thinking that if we didn’t see the Northern Lights it wouldn’t really matter as what we had seen today had made the trip worth it. Back at the hotel during twilight we managed to pluck up the courage to take a dip in one of the outdoor hot tubs. Once you are in the hot tub it is wonderful. It is just the getting in and out and the walking barefoot on the snow that is a bit of a shock to the system. But hey, it had to be done. We sat in the tub as it went dark and wondered if the lights would show. Sadly it was another night of uninterrupted sleep.

 Glacier

 Coast at Vik

Our last full day saw us driving off to Reykjavik. Iceland is a brilliant country that I’d love to return to. The Icelanders appear to get almost everything right. Apart from, that is, beer in supermarkets and road signage. The road sign situation leaves a lot to be desired; in fact it’s even worse than in America which I’ve often felt left too much to be desired. Anyway, because of the poor signage (that’s our excuse) we ended up going the pretty way to Reykjavik. It was a scary drive up and up through the mountains and the snow and the ice and the low cloud. By the time we got to our destination, finding the centre of the city is not easy either, we had time for a meal and a brief wander around. So in the main the capital city, home to well over a third of the population, remains a mystery to us. Oh well, yet another reason to want to go back. The journey back to the hotel was much more direct and we made it back in good time. A sampling the local beer session had been planned by us for that evening. This consisted of us going to the bar and working our way through as many beers as we dared. One beer in and our session was interrupted, “the lights are showing” went up the cry. Drinks in the bar were abandoned; meals in the restaurant were treated with equal nonchalance. We got our coats. This time it was for real. On the last night of our holiday the gods had finally relented and given us the most fantastic experience. I lost count of the amount of times I heard the word ‘wow’, including from myself. If you’ve not seen the Northern Lights then it is very hard to explain how they make you feel. They appeared as white cloud like objects that twisted and undulated changing to a glowing green and then back to white. Afterwards I heard someone describe them as awesome. For once this word was used correctly. It is a particular irritation when people use the word awesome about everyday occurrences, because it never is. The Northern Lights are awesome!

We returned to the bar, keeping coats and cameras to hand, just in case, and continued with the beer drinking. With smiles on our faces and warm glows in our hearts we were happy, and it had nothing to do with the beer. Our holiday had delivered more than we could have hoped for. We went off to bed feeling very pleased with ourselves. We just nodded of when the phone rang. “The lights are about to show”, said the voice at the other end. Dazed and confused we slung clothes on and headed outside. They were much fainter this time, but they were there. A very short display this time, but we didn’t care, what we’d seen earlier had been so good.

The next morning we paid up, looked good, and bid our farewells to the Hotel Ranga. We climbed into the Nissan Patrol and set off for the airport. We had a detour planned. Quite close to the airport is the Blue Lagoon, a geothermal spa of note. On the journey the temperature went down to minus 9°. We sat, walked and swam outside in the lagoon while snow and ice lay around. The water is beautifully warm and the rising steam affords a measure of heat to the head. Around your feet the pools bottom varies between craggy lava pieces, smooth rock, soft silica mud and lava sand. You come out feeling soft, shiny and very relaxed. The Blue Lagoon is another must on any trip to Iceland.

We didn’t want to leave. Iceland is a truly magical country that gave us the best holiday that we’ve ever had. Nice people, nice environment, despite the cold. Icelandair does a good job as well, and despite being in economy class they actually give someone like me that isn’t vertically challenged enough leg-room. 

Iceland could well be described as a 'through the looking glass’ equivalent of Cyprus (destination of our holiday in September last year) both quite barren islands superficially appearing to offer limited flora and plain architecture. One’s hot, whilst the other is plainly rather chilly to say the least. We loved Iceland. We never wish to return to Cyprus. We want to go back to Iceland.

Cyprus

I'm sure that there must be some good parts to Cyprus, but halfway through our September week there and we hadn’t found it. Cyprus is hot, arid and underwhelming. In its favour they drive on the proper side of the road, the electricity is British three pin plug style, and at British strength. The pillar boxes and phone boxes are also from a British mould but yellow and green respectively. Unfortunately much of the plumbing is Greek. You can understand why a certain sort of brit loves to holiday and retire here as it is a sort of little England in the sun. You've got household names here like Marks & Spencer and Debenhams plus US fast food establishments like KFC, Starbucks and the ubiquitous MacDonald’s. If you are a lager drinking Sun reader or a wine drinking Daily Mail reader you could live a 'normal' lifestyle here without ever having to subject yourself to "foreign muck" or be in danger of exposing yourself to any meaningful culture. Large proportions of the leather-skinned ‘ex pats’ seem to live in ghettos; reasonably specified ghettos admittedly, but ghettos all the same. Many of them will be the bigoted twats that will have criticised and felt threatened by immigrant communities when they lived in the UK. Personally I care not for isolationist ethnic communities wherever they exist. I understand why it happens and depending in which country you are in it can often be born out of necessity but segregation can never be right whether it be forced or voluntary. To get the most out of where you live you need to be part of a wider society.

Later on in the week we went up to Nicosia and crossed over to the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. The Turkish part is stuck in time (early 1970s really) and quite charming as well as being somewhat dilapidated in parts. A certain rough around the edges charm. We had a wonderful lunch sitting under the trees between a mosque and a church.

I am assured that during the winter Cyprus greens up nicely, and I can quite believe it. No doubt during the winter it must be a reasonably pleasant place to be, but not so the rest of the year. If your idea of heaven is a hot dusty rock of an island, four and a half hours away by plane, where most of the buildings are boring concrete blocks and the beer is classically bland lager, then Cyprus could well be the place for you. As far as I’m concerned I have no plans to ever go there again.

Bastard!

Got back last night from a few days in Edinburgh. Will be blogging about it soon but in the meantime here’s a photo I took in the High Street. Why the Scots want to commemorate one of their ain folk that has caused much pain in the world god only knows.

This bastard has got a lot to answer for!

Thank goodness there is an antidote – shame no one in power wants to use it.

Oh folly, folly

I was recently described, by someone who doesn’t know me, as an aesthete. The pseudo-libertarian blogger concerned, who shall remain nameless, meant it as a term of abuse, but I consider it a badge of honour. It would seem that someone who likes art, cinema, music, theatre and other ‘cultural’ activities is to be despised.

I was brought up on a council estate, when such things existed, and I have always considered myself to be working class. I take the Marxist view that if I don’t own the means of production then I must be working class. Simplistic some might argue, particularly as the ‘the middle-class’ doesn’t really figure heavily in the writings of Marx. Petty bourgeoisie, yes middle-class, no. In truth the middle-class wasn’t invented until after the First World War, so how could it feature in Marxist thinking? Despite considering myself to be working class I do come from middle-class stock and therefore have inherited a certain love of fine things, and fine experiences. I feel very fortunate that at this particular point in my life I am able, and have been able, to experience quite a number of what might be described as ‘aesthetic pleasures’. And so it was last weekend.

It was a nice bright evening when we arrived at the Prospect Tower just south of Faversham. The Prospect Tower was built as a ‘whim’ (a folly really) in the grounds of Belmont House. It seems to have become a glorified cricket pavilion, to which the many pictures that adorn the walls affirm. It is now owned by the Landmark Trust, an organisation that restores old usually quirky buildings and then rents them out as holiday ‘cottages’. As we sat in the main room drinking our tea, with the lady reading from ‘The Log’ (an upmarket guest book), it suddenly struck me how middle-class this all was. Oh dear!

We had a need for a long weekend away, a weekend somewhere where we could relax, not do too much on the tourist front, read books, write and feed our faces without having to worry about doing chores and other stuff. It was to be a weekend to recharge our batteries hence we plumped for somewhere to stay that was aesthetically interesting. A place to enjoy being in rather than just a dormitory. Somewhere to stay in. Having said that we did venture out a couple of times, once to Faversham and once to Whitstable, both nice places. Faversham is probably the most spread out market town that I have ever been to, giving the impression of being sparsely populated, although I’m sure it isn’t. There were people were about shopping, and the two pubs we drank in were reasonably busy. Whitstable proved to be a different kind of seaside experience. A long winding sea wall to walk along with a largely uncommercialised seafront which made a refreshing change. The south east is always portrayed as a bed of affluence, but this part of Kent doesn’t know it. I was amazed at how non-affluent it appeared to be. House prices seem most reasonable, virtually on a par with rural Norfolk, and the inhabitants are very salt of the earth.

The Prospect Tower is essentially made up of three cylindrical parts. The first houses the spiral staircase, the larger central cylinder houses the bedroom and above that the sitting room and at the other end you have the shower-room with the kitchen above rooms in the round, with period furniture.

The sitting room

The view from the battlements

One wonderful discovery that we made during our weekend away was a gem of a farm shop turned sizeable food retailer Macknades. When we visited their web site before going we thought, “This is too good to be true”. Thankfully it wasn’t, it was everything we’d hope for and more. We made three visits there. Oh why haven’t we got a place like it where we live?

I don’t know Kent that well but the little I’ve seen has left me hungry for more. We’ll be back!

Grounded

If The Lady hadn’t broken her ankle we would have been looking forward to flying off to Cyprus tonight. Well actually we wouldn’t. Guess who we’d booked to fly with?

Yes, you guessed it. XL.COM.

I feel for the poor sods that have had their holiday dreams shattered or are stranded in some foreign land. I also feel for the poor sods that will no doubt lose their jobs. You do kind of think that this will not be the last airline to go down due to the current economic climate.

Shit most certainly does happen.

Last Friday

I’d never travelled first class by train until last Friday. I liked the experience. Mustard City is at the end of the line. So a visit to London is great you get on at the start and get off at the end. Fantastic!

We were heading down to London to experience a Christmas present. It was a Thames lunch cruise. When we arrived at the pier where the boat was moored it seems that our worst fears were recognised a conservatory on top of a barge containing regimented tables. As it turned out it wasn’t too bad. We chugged down and then back up the Thames, eat a passable meal considering that it was mass catering and saw some interesting sites on the way. The only real naff thing was the classical music with a disco backbeat background music which was a bit too loud and rather nauseating.

After our lunchtime excursion we made our way to Borough, and the market there in particular. What an interesting and exciting place. A mass of wonderful food stalls all vying for you custom. It’s a shame that it was a hot day and we still had lots more to do as this prevented us making any purchases, but it was good to wander around drooling over the wonderful food. Edible erotica, you can’t beat it! As I’m no longer a vegetarian my world has been reopened to the delights of meat in all its forms. For me pork products, sausages hams etc are a joy to behold. That coupled with cheese and I’m in heaven. We plan to return to Borough market at a later date. If you’ve not been it is most definitely worth a visit. Being in Borough was a good excuse to visit a pub that I’d wanted to go to for a while. So we made for Tabard Street, home of a Harvey’s pub, the Royal Oak. I’ve blogged about it here.

Refreshed by ale we then headed to Tate Modern. I was keen to see the ‘Street Art’ adorning its walls before it is removed at the end of August. Great pictures, all quite different styles. My favourite, as I suspected it would be is this black and white one.

Even though it’s starting to peel it still looks good. At first you think that it is a man looking down the barrel of a gun until you see that it is really a video camera.

Here are some more pictures of the ‘graffiti’:

 

Unfortunate gonads!

Inside we went to one of the exhibitions. ‘Cy Twombly is regarded as one of the foremost painters in the world today,’ the introduction in the exhibition booklet tells us. Bollocks! I felt like the little boy in the Emperor’s New Clothes. The pictures are awful. Apart from some vaguely pleasing green efforts in Room 10 the rest is self-obsessed nonsense. Cy Twombly could well become a synonym for a mess. ‘It’s all gone Cy Twombly’, I can hear people crying in frustration as a culinary or diy creation goes tits up. My suggestion to you dear readers is avoid Cy Twombly like the plague!

We left the Tate feeling glad that we didn’t have to pay to enter the exhibition. As members we get in for ‘free’.

We had just enough time to pop into a Tiffinbites for a quick and jolly tasty bite to eat before catching the train home.

An exhausting but interesting day.